#‹ IC. › ;; Dark && Fire.

[wickedcircle]

The Queen and her Scarlet Shadow

[luv-lock]

⸻ ʟ ɪ ᴛ ᴛ ʟ ᴇ ꜱ ɪ ꜱ ᴛ ᴇ ʀ ⸻

Pairing: Poly Aemon, Baelon and Alyssa x Targaryen Reader

Summary: They were your siblings. They loved you to their bones. They always been there, watching, protecting you, caring for you. It's only fair if they take you first, don't you think?

Warning: +18 contact, Minors DNA, Foursome, Fem on Fem, Targcest.

Notes: English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

The heat of the room was stifling, your skin glistening with sweat as you were trapped between your siblings’ bodies. The heady scent of arousal filled the air, a mixture of sweat and sex that made your mind spin. Baelon lay beneath you, his hands gripping your waist, as he thrust his hips between your legs. You were already so stretched and sore, your inner walls fluttering around him as you tried to adjust to the thick length inside of you.

“B-Baelon, it’s... t-too much,” you whimpered, your voice breaking with each desperate breath. Your words were met with a low, guttural laugh from him as he thrust up into you, filling you to the hilt.

Alyssa’s soft, comforting voice was the only tether you had in the whirlwind of sensation. “It’s alright, sweet sister,” she murmured, her fingers gently brushing away the tears that streaked your flushed cheeks. Her mouth was hot against yours, tongue coaxing you into a kiss that was both tender and all-consuming. “We’re here for you... we’ll take such good care of you.”

Your whimpers were muffled as Alyssa’s fingers tangled in your hair, pulling your mouth to her chest. Pinned between them, you were barely able to catch your breath. Alyssa, straddling Baelon’s face, let out soft moans as she ground her hips down, her eyes half-lidded with pleasure. “Don’t worry, darling,” she purred. “Just focus on me. Let them do all the hard work.” She guided your lips to her nipple, her voice soft and soothing as if she were trying to comfort you. “That’s it, good girl… suck on my tits while our brothers take care of you.”

You obediently took her breast into your mouth, your lips closing around the stiff peak as tears welled in your eyes. The sensation of Aemon slowly pushing into your other entrance sent shivers up your spine. His cock was thick, and every inch felt like it was splitting you apart. You gasped against Alyssa’s skin, your muffled cries vibrating through her chest.

Alyssa smiled down at you, cupping your cheek as she looked into your teary eyes. “You’re doing so well for your first time, my sweet,” she whispered. “I know it’s a lot, but you can handle it. We’re all here to take care of you, aren’t we?” Her words were soft, but the glint in her eyes was anything but gentle.

Aemon’s hands tightened around your hips, pressing you further down onto him until he was buried to the hilt inside your tightest hole. “Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight,” he groaned, his voice thick with lust. “Relax, little one… just breathe. I want to feel you loosen up around me.” He reached around to play with your swollen clit, the overstimulation making your back arch and your mouth pull away from Alyssa’s breast as you cried out.

“N-no more,” you sobbed, overwhelmed by the sensations flooding through you. Your entire body was trembling, the pleasure almost too much to bear. “Please… I c-can’t—”

“Hush now,” Baelon interrupted, his voice a low growl as he thrust up into you, his cock hitting that sweet spot that made your vision blur. “You can and you will. We’ve only just started, sweet sister. We’ve waited so long for this… for you.” He punctuated his words with deep, steady thrusts, making you mewl pathetically.

Alyssa’s lips were on yours again, her kiss fervent and possessive as she swallowed your desperate moans. “You’re ours, my love,” she cooed against your mouth, her voice a soft murmur of sweet poison. “Just let go… let us have you.”

Pinned between the relentless thrusts of Baelon beneath you and Aemon behind you, you were utterly helpless. Alyssa’s hands caressed your body, her fingers gently tracing the marks left by her brothers. The sight of you, so thoroughly debauched, sent shivers of delight through her. “Look at you,” she whispered, pressing soft kisses along your jaw. “So beautiful, so perfect for us.”

Aemon’s movements became more urgent, his fingers digging into your hips as he pounded into you from behind. “Gods, you’re so tight… you’re squeezing me like you don’t want to let go,” he groaned, his voice rough with barely contained need. “Do you hear how wet you are? How much you love this?”

Your moans turned to broken sobs as your body betrayed you, every nerve on fire. “I-I can’t… I’m so full, please… I can’t take anymore,” you whimpered, tears streaming down your cheeks. But even as you begged, your body was clamping down on them, your walls spasming around Baelon and Aemon as if desperate to keep them inside.

Alyssa’s fingers gripped your chin, forcing you to look at her through your teary eyes. “Oh, but you can,” she whispered with a smile, her eyes gleaming with delight. “You’re doing so well, little sister… just a bit more. You’ll take everything we give you, won’t you?”

“Yes, y-yes… just please…” Your voice was barely a whisper, broken and pleading as you tried to catch your breath.

Baelon’s thrusts became more erratic, his cock pulsing inside you as he chased his release. “That’s it, take it, take all of it,” he grunted, his grip on your hips bruising as he held you down.

Aemon’s hips slammed into you one last time as he spilled deep inside you, his hot seed filling your already overwhelmed body. You could feel it leaking out even as Baelon followed, his own release flooding your core. Alyssa held you close, her lips brushing your ear as she whispered sweet nothings, her fingers tenderly wiping away your tears.

“There now,” Alyssa cooed, her voice soft and soothing as your trembling body tried to recover from the onslaught. “See? You did it, my sweet. You were perfect.”

@ʀᴏᴛᴛᴇɴꜰʏʀᴇ 2024. ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ, ᴛʀᴀɴꜱʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴏʀ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡᴇʙꜱɪᴛᴇꜱ

[debustee]

The religious procession in Old Valyria💙

[novaursa]

https://www.tumblr.com/novaursa/763433066909810688/hello-dear-how-are-you-i-hope-im-not-bothering?source=share

Thank you for your answer. I would like to send a request for Maegor. I hope he has no problem. Dark Maegor Targaryen and second wife reader. (Reader can be Tyrell or Dayne. Or nobel lady from another house.) When Maegor starts looking for a woman to have an heir (37 Ac/earlier than the year he started in the original story) he meets the reader. When he gets , he is determined to make the reader his wife. He gets rid of Ceryse (maybe by poison or by accident) and marries the reader. The reader immediately becomes pregnant and gives birth to three babies. This causes Maegor's obsession to increase. Because the reader gave him three babies like the three-headed dragon in the symbol of his house. The reader is fertile enough to get pregnant every year.

Crimson Fate

- Summary: Maegor takes you as his bride after Ceryse fails to give him an heir.

- Pairing: dayne!reader/dark!Maegor I Targaryen

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (just to be safe)

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

Maegor’s eyes settle on you the moment he arrives at Starfall, and from that moment, there is no mistaking his intentions. You hear the whispers from the courtiers, the rumors of Maegor’s insatiable ambition to secure an heir, to further his line and strength. His first wife, Ceryse, has yet to bear him a child, and many speculate he has come south seeking a new wife—one capable of giving him what the Hightower woman could not.

The first time Maegor speaks to you, his presence is overwhelming. His tall, imposing figure clad in black and crimson, his eyes burning with something far more dangerous than mere desire. It is as if he has already decided your fate without consulting you, as though the idea of refusal is inconceivable.

“You are Dayne,” he says, his voice low and commanding, the words wrapping around you like chains. “From the blood of the stars.”

Your throat tightens, a shiver of unease sliding down your spine. You manage a nod, keeping your gaze lowered, though you feel the weight of his stare, lingering on you like a predator studying its prey.

“Tell me,” Maegor continues, stepping closer, “how many sons does your house expect from you?”

There is no answer you can give that will change your fate. In that moment, Maegor has already chosen you to bear his heirs, to fulfill the destiny of House Targaryen. You are no longer a daughter of the stars, but a piece in his game.

Weeks later, news comes from Oldtown—Ceryse has died. There are whispers, dark ones, that she and Maegor had quarreled, that the fight escalated, and her death, though unexplained, was no accident. The dread among the court is palpable, as many know Maegor is quick to wrath, but none dare speak it aloud in his presence. The timing is too convenient to be coincidental. Ceryse's death clears the way for what Maegor desires.

You know what is coming, yet you are powerless to stop it. When Maegor asks for your hand in marriage, there is no question of refusal. He does not ask out of love, nor does he seek your opinion. It is a demand cloaked in formality. And so, you are wed to the King’s half-brother, the man who would soon rule with fire and blood.

Your wedding is a display of power, of domination. Maegor does not look at you as a man looks at his bride, but as a conqueror looks at new territory. That night, you feel the true weight of what it means to be his wife. His touch is possessive, harsh, as if he is claiming you in both body and spirit. You are not just a woman to him—you are a vessel, the key to his legacy, the bearer of his children.

And soon, that is exactly what you become.

Your belly swells with the evidence of Maegor’s claim, and the court watches in awe as the rumors begin to swirl. You are carrying not one, but three babes. It is as if the gods themselves have blessed your union, gifting Maegor with a legacy befitting his house—the three-headed dragon of Targaryen. His obsession grows with each passing day as your pregnancy progresses. He watches you constantly, his hands never far from your stomach, his gaze intense, possessive, and burning with an unspoken madness.

When you finally give birth, it is as if the entire realm holds its breath. Three babes—two boys and a girl, each as perfect as the dragons their blood rides—are born to you. The court hails it as a miracle, and Maegor’s obsession deepens, solidifying into something far darker. He sees you not just as his wife but as the mother of his dynasty, the woman who gave him three heirs, who brought the Targaryen sigil to life in flesh and blood.

“You have given me what no other could,” he says to you, his hand resting possessively over your belly, even as you cradle your newborns in your arms. His voice is thick with pride, but there is something else there—something darker. “Three-headed, like the dragon. You are my wife, my queen. You will give me more.”

The weight of his words hangs in the air like a threat, and though your body is still weak from the birthing, you know Maegor will not wait long. He is not a patient man, and now that you have proven yourself capable of giving him heirs, he will want more. His hunger is insatiable, and his obsession with you—his vessel, his wife—has grown into something that feels like madness.

It is not long before you are with child again, your belly growing heavy with Maegor’s next heir. The court watches with a mixture of awe and fear, for they know that you are the key to Maegor’s power, the woman who can provide him the legacy he so desperately craves. He watches over you like a dragon guards its hoard, his eyes always on you, his hand always tracing the swell of your belly as if ensuring that his claim remains intact.

But there is no love in Maegor’s gaze—only possession. You are his, body and soul, and you know that you will never escape him. He is the dragon, and you are his queen, bound to him by fire and blood.

[grandkhan221b]

ADWD Tyrion chapters

[cdragons]

No Hope - Robb Stark x Lady-in-Waiting!Reader

Summary: You ended it. It killed you to do so, but you had to do it. Soon, it won't matter anyway - you were set to travel with Lord Stark and Lady Sansa as her lady-in-waiting to King's Landing. It's not as if you two will ever meet again. How wrong you were...

Warning(s): Hard Dom Robb, OC is cold, Robb is dark AND delulu, Canon divergence, hard smut, slight BDSM, KIng's Landing criminal justice system, etc.

Note: HAPPY BIRTHDAY DIPPY!!! I know I'm three days late, and I swear I meant to finish this on your actual birthday, but I ended up overwriting, and then I had to be at the DMV for about 7 hours and then had to pack up my house yesterday 🫠. ANYWAY, thank you so much for being such an amazing friend! It really has been such an honor to see how much you, your writing, and your blog have grown! Here's to another year of friendship and great writing!

The siege against King’s Landing was a success, resulting in an overwhelming victory for Stannis’ campaign as the new King of the Seven Kingdoms.

House Lannister, despite the arrival of reinforcements from House Tyrell, led by Ser Loras, was no more. While it was a clever ruse on House Tyrell’s part, neither house would have expected men from the Riverlands to join Stannis in his fight, resulting in an overwhelming victory. As a result, the futures of two of the ancient Seven Great Houses of Westeros now rest in the hands of a new ruler—King Stannis of House Baratheon, a figure whose emergence will undoubtedly shape the course of Westeros.

Despite being a wheelhouse dozens of miles away from King’s Landing at this point, the shouts and cheers of Stannis’ men rang clear in your ears. Inside were three young women transported to the Westerlands—to Robb Stark, the Young Wolf and King of the newly independent North.

The thought of seeing him again after the way the two of you left things off made the ride all the more unpleasant.

You remained silent and softly stroked your lady’s head as she rested her head on your lap. Tried as she could to stay lucid and awake, but it seemed that the stress and terror from being trapped as King Joffery’s former betrothed before being sold to his dwarf of an uncle had taken its toll. As she slept, you took in her features and noted the changes from the child you knew in Winterfell to the young woman trapped in King’s Landing. Her gorgeous red Tully hair lost some of its splendorous luster, appearing more matted and unkempt than you had ever seen it after years of being in Lady Sansa’s lady-in-waiting. Despite being in the South for over a year, her ivory skin seemed to pale until it was translucent. While the court believed her pale fairness to result from her Northern birth, only you and Shay knew that it was from Sansa’s inability to stomach more than a few meager bites off her plate during her mealtimes.

“The circles under her eyes have darkened further,” you thought as Sansa gripped your skirt – tightly clenching her fist as if she were a small child still terrified of the dark. “She’s grown too thin – she’s barely improved since I’ve returned by her side.”

It terrified you when Shae, who took your place as her handmaiden, informed you that her mood had improved tremendously since Lord Tyrion’s success in releasing you as a wedding gift to his new wife. Knowing that Sansa, to which your previous liege lord entrusted her care to you, was in such a state for months broke your heart. The bright and cheerful smiles you adored had become so rare since you returned to her side. But you hoped that due to recent events, your red-haired wolf would soon smile as brightly with all the more radiance as she did as a child.

“Do you think Lord Tyrion will be alright?”

You looked up to see Shae sitting across from you on the other side of the carriage. Her expression, while usually impassive and unreadable, was fraught with unease about the uncertainty of the future—hers and her lover’s.

“Stannis Baratheon is not one who shows mercy,” you answered truthfully. “It is likely that he will face the same fate as his nephew, as well as his sister and father.”

Perhaps your tone was too blunt, judging by the slight flinch Shay gave when you referred to Joffery Lannister. But, it would not help anyone, much less her, if you spoke anything less than the truth – that was what Ned Stark taught you since you were a child, and it was by that faith you would remain steadfast no matter what. She deserved nothing less than the truth; it was what you owed her. After all, from what Sansa spoke to you, she helped protect her however she could when you were not by her side.

And for that, you were most grateful.

“However,” you continued, “perhaps Lord Varys will vouch for him. The Master of Whispers holds Lord Tyrion in high regard, and out of all his family, your lover is admittedly the best of them. If nothing else, maybe he’ll pledge loyalty to Stannis and convince Tommen to do the same.”

 She grew flustered, “He is not…we are not–”

“You will not find judgment from me,” you assured her with a bitter chuckle. You looked down at Sansa, her sleeping figure sparking a twinge of guilt in your heart. “Believe me, I am the last one to preach about the sins of an affair between a lord and his servant.”

It was a joyful reunion between mother and child. Before the wheelhouse fully stopped, Sansa flung open the doors and leaped out, racing into her mother's arms. Lady Stark was just as eager to hold her daughter – forgetting all forms of propriety and etiquette when she picked up her skirts to run. Both were a mess of wide smiles and joyful tears, and you don’t believe you’ve ever seen Lady Stark act so young. Seeing the two embrace – one who lost a husband and two sons and the other who lost a father and two brothers –made for such a beautiful scene that it made you weep in relief.

“I did it, my lord,” you silently prayed out, “I’ve kept my promise.”

You swore you felt your liege's gratitude by the gentle breeze that blew through the field. But unfortunately, the joy you felt would only further load the weight of the shackles of your guilt and self-loathing that refused to release you. Even if someone as good and honorable as Ned Stark could find it in his heart to forgive you – you couldn’t help but feel you don’t deserve his forgiveness.

…No…you knew you didn’t deserve it, and knowing that made the shackles heavier than you’ve ever felt.

Sansa was absent since Lady Catelyn insisted that her daughter remain by her side for the night. Shae accompanied her, and you remained alone as you lay on the cot set for you. A squire announced himself before entering the tent the men had set up for you and Shae. He called out your name and informed you that you were expected to wait in His Grace’s tent.

“His Grace requested a moment with you,” he explained, “he wishes to thank you for your service and loyalty to Princess Sansa.”

“Well, you can tell ‘His Grace’ that he can thank me here,” you scoffed. “Because I’m not fucking moving.”

You dismissed the young man without a second thought. Seriously? Did he genuinely expect you to come so quickly to him? Honestly, the nerve of that man.

It was not long before the squire returned.

“H-his Grace insists that you meet him,” he stammered.

The poor boy looked terrified, like a little puppy caught by its master for doing something it wasn’t supposed to. Seeing his discomfort was almost adorable – it nearly made you smile.

“And I insist that he let me rest,” you raised your brow and cocked your head to the side. “Or is he, in fact, ordering me to meet him? Ahh, and after such a long journey – honestly, he acts so spoiled sometimes, such a typical highborn born with everything.”

“Please, my lady,” he pleaded.

You impassively stared at the poor fellow briefly. His cheeks were flushed bright red underneath the dirt and grime, and his eyes looked close to crying. Gods, Robb – what in the Seven Hells kind of tongue lashing did you give the poor boy? Surely, he wasn’t so desperate to see you, especially considering how the two of you left things off.

“Fine,” you sighed, “I suppose I could spare him a moment. But it won’t be before I’ve had a bath – I’ve already called for hot water; it won’t be long.”

“Oh, thank you, my lady,” he sighed in relief. “His Grace will be most grateful to see you once he is finished speaking with his council in the war tent.”

Fuckin’ son of a–

You swore you felt a vein on your forehead pop. Did that idiot really summon you to his tent while he was in a council meeting?

The walk from your tent to Robb’s was a battle in itself - your mind dreaded what your heart longed for.

You had just finished your bath and changed into a simple linen dress (plain but clean) when you decided you kept His Majesty waiting long enough (two hours, give or take). You were just about to enter when a particularly irritatingly slow clap stopped you in your tracks. There was only one person who could bring out your ire in such a short amount of time. You turned around to see Theon Greyjoy – standing and smirking like the arrogant bitch you fought and played with since you were just a girl.

“Well, aren’t you a vision?” he smirked. “Makes you wonder how the men of King’s Landing kept their hands to themselves when they saw you.”

“Wouldn’t know,” you wryly replied, “after all, I spent most of my time there in a dark, damp cell. I barely had enough food and water to survive, let alone to be a vision.”

Although Theon still joked and teased like he always had, you could see the war had taken its toll on him. He grew thinner. His body had lost weight, and his muscles appeared leaner and more taut. His shaggy curls were more closely trimmed and no longer tickled his shoulders. But his eyes—how they looked so haunted and tired—made your heartbreak.

“He’s missed you,” he whispered. There was no need to state a name – you both knew who he was referring to.

“He got married,” you replied while looking away. To a Frey, no less.

“She's dead, and he never loved her.”

“That makes it better?”

“It does when you were the one who broke his heart,” he retorted.

You sharply turned back, “That is not–”

Light poured out of the tent behind you as the front flap opened. You heard your name being called out in that tone that always made your knees buckle—revering and filled with longing with an undertone of authority. It beckoned you to look at him, and when you did, you swore you felt your heart leap into your throat by him.

“You’re late,” he grunted.

Robb Stark, with his crystalline blue eyes not once looking away from you, shifted to the side and let you in. His gaze moved to Theon and narrowed when he noticed the lack of distance between the two of you. Saying nothing, you silently bowed your head before heading inside the warm tent. However, you remained close enough to hear the brief exchange between the Greyjoy and Stark. But after being away from Robb for so long, you couldn’t focus on any words between the two men.

Taking a deep breath, your body tingled as you took the familiar notes of fine leather and freshly burned smoke. You glanced at his bed and longed to lie in its furs without the hindrance of clothes. Your mouth watered at the idea of wrapping yourself in them. The idea of pressing your nose against the furs made your center throb and grow wet, as the idea of the scent of his hot sweat mixed with his musk trapped in those hides was almost too much to bear.

You were so lost in your thoughts that you nearly missed Robb calling out your name. You responded by regaining your composure as quickly as possible so as not to betray any lustful thoughts swimming in your mind.

“What did you and Theon talk about?” he bluntly asked, standing impassively as you remained silent.

“Was the journey smooth?” he tried again. Nothing.

“I hope my men–”

“Idle prattle doesn’t suit you,” you tiredly sighed. “Just tell me whatever you waited so long for, and then I can return to my tent and finally rest.”

Robb clenched his fists and stared at the ground. How cruel, how unfair – one word from you, just hearing your voice, struck every word on his tongue dead. War made him lax. He, of all people, should know how you could drive good men to insanity.

Yes – it felt like he was going mad.

He looked up from the ground and wanted to weep. There you stood – looking as beautiful as a fresh layer of snow and just as cold. It took everything in him not to reach out and pull you close. He wanted to feel your body close to his, to revel in the softness of your hidden warmth. He wanted to go back to Winterfell – to simpler times with his father and brothers alive and laughing, to when Jon was by his side and his brother and best friend, and to when you would look at him like he was your world.

How you used to look at him – how he still looked at you.

Robb tried to start a conversation to loosen the tense atmosphere, but it was clear you weren’t having it. You even cut him off on his third attempt. Your voice was so cold that it burned him like ice. He wasn’t even sure if you were looking at him or just at a corner of the tent so you could maintain that cold, domineering façade you had perfected since childhood. It was obvious to him that you were trying to goad him into losing his temper – giving you the perfect excuse to leave and ignore him again.

Why else had you sent his squire back to him after he requested your presence to wait for him at his tent? Furthermore, why else did you make him wait two hours for your bath?

“I wish to thank you for your loyalty towards my sister during her time as the Lannisters’ hostage,” Robb calmly said, keeping his voice steady but firm. “You acted bravely.”

“No,” you shook your head. “I acted as anyone else would have in my position. My loyalty to your sister and family is not something to be admired or coveted.”

“That’s not true,” Robb argued. “Your loyalty to my family is nothing short of admirable. It’s only right that–”

“Robb.”

It was infuriating how regal you looked, carrying the air of a queen.

“My loyalty will always belong to House Stark, that’s true – but,” you stared deep into his gaze, “all I cared about in that damp, rotting cell, where I was given barely enough water and food to survive, was whether my lady was well.”

Please stop it.

“I didn’t endure because my lady was a Stark,” you continued, “I endured because it was Sansa.”

He couldn’t bear it any longer.

“Is it only for Sansa that you’ve suffered?” he rasped in anger.

This wasn’t good; he just got you back. If he doesn’t properly utilize this chance, you’ll be gone from him forever. He knew you’d never leave Sansa’s side. Your loyalty to her, even when she still acted like the spoiled little princess of the North, drew him to you. As the eldest daughter, Sansa was the one closest to their mother. However, as the second eldest child, it also meant that she had to understand she could not always have their parents’ attention. Before Jeyne Poole, before Septa Mordane – you were Sansa’s first and constant companion. You were someone whose loyalty ran deep and remained unwavering in the worst times.

He collected himself enough to apologize for his outburst when your voice returned – regal and imposing, cold and distant.

“Not just Sansa,” you stated. “…I also made a promise to Lord Stark.”

Something in him snapped. Robb considered himself a good man, an honorable man. One whose father instilled lessons of honor and duty in him since he was old enough to walk. A father who he missed, whose absence was painful. But hearing you speak of him, of his father, it was like a bucket of ice water was poured over him, and it awoke a bitter memory he had long forgotten.

“Is it true?” Robb demanded unannounced after storming into his father’s private study. His father sat at his desk, appearing as tired and weary as the day of his departure from home to the vicious South treads closer with each passing day. Ned set down his quill and sighed deeply. He knew it would not be long before Robb would come in to demand an explanation. He supposed that, as his boy’s father, he owed his eldest son that much… if for not his own sake, then for the sake of closure. “…What may you be referring to, Robb?” he asked, despite already knowing what this was about. Robb furiously shook his head, “Do not pretend with me, Father. Did you or did you not plant the idea of a future engagement between her and me as treason against you?” “…Before I answer that,” Ned began carefully, not wanting to upset his son further, “am I to understand that when you mean ‘her,’ you are referring to a particular lady-in-waiting favored by your sister?” It frightened Ned how quickly Robb’s anger was snuffed out. He whispered your name with reverence and veneration fit for the Maiden. But just as soon as his heir’s fury went away, it came back at a speed and quantity tenfold. Ned could see it in his eyes. Robb may have inherited his Tully mother’s eyes, but the cold storm raging in them could only belong to one whose blood belongs to the Old Gods of the North. “Sansa requested her to accompany us while she learns to be Prince Joffrey's future queen,” Ned explained. “Robb… your sisters need people they can trust – now more than ever with Bran’s accident.” “And she’s agreed to this?” Robb interrogated. “You expect me to believe that?” “Yes,” Ned solemnly nodded, “because it was brought up to me by her…”

Robb didn’t believe it then, and he still didn’t believe it now. He refused to entertain the idea of you, of all people, who would propose to his father that you leave him. You, who Robb loved with a love more fervent and true than any fanciful tale sung by the bards in Southern courts. You, who listened to all of Robb’s deepest fears and worries since you and him were still small children. You, who whispered promises of love and devotion to Robb night after night since he first warmed your bed.

You, who cried tears of joy when he secretly proposed to you underneath the blood-red leaves and snow-painted branches of the weirwood tree, swearing his love to you before the Old Gods and New.

…No…no, no, no—it wasn’t true. It couldn’t be…but what other explanation was left?

“Robb…?” your voice gently called out to him. “If that’s all you wish to say to me… then I must be heading back to my–”

He walked forward and tightly grasped your arms, making you unable to escape. Robb felt your feeble attempts to pry his fingers off with your delicate hands. But it was to no avail.

“Why…?” Robb rasped, letting out all the pain and longing he had been keeping locked inside since you dissolved you and his affair. “Why did you leave? …Why did you leave me?”

“Damn you,” you thought. “Damn you, Robb Stark.”

It was pathetic… how easily this man broke down your walls. One word… one word from him was enough to make you want to surrender everything.  

“I…I-I… only did what I thought was best,” you stammered. “For us…and for you…”

Robb scoffed because why wouldn’t he?

“For me…?” he rhetorically repeated. “Leaving me – no, abandoning me… that was for my benefit? Do you really expect me to believe that?”

You shook your head, “Belief is secondary to truth,” you explained. “And I am telling you the truth. I’ve never lied to you.”

“Right, of course – that’s why you ran off to King’s Landing with my sister,” Robb raged. “Yes, certainly that for my well-being. You, being paraded and courted by knights and nobles with their pretty words and fine silks – what a relief to know that you endured all that for me…”

Oh, this son of a – gods, how could one man be so beautiful, yet so infuriating?!

“Did you ever love me?” he asked, his voice a little rough from choking back tears. “Was it ever real? Any of it? Or was it all a lie?”

“I believe I told you I was expected to wake your sister for her early celebration…” you looked out the window, “…right now…? It would seem…?” It was the morning of Sansa’s eleventh birthday. Lady Stark planned to surprise her daughter with a splendid spread of leek pottage, freshly baked bread, slices of smoked meat, and a cup of sweet Dornish wine. She entrusted the duty of waking the little princess of the day to you, Sansa’s most entrusted companion. It was expected that you would take the role. After all, everyone in the castle knew what an absolute nightmare Lord Stark’s eldest daughter was in the early mornings. …But…it would seem that Lord Stark’s eldest son and heir did not understand the gravity of your role today…considering he remained insistent that you spend your morning with him… in his bed… without any clothes on your person. While usually, you’d be much more cross at his insistence… you couldn’t deny how delicious it felt waking up in his arms after a night of gloriously intense lovemaking. And the way he further convinced you by tracing feather-light kisses down your neck and collarbone was downright sinful. “I believe…” he momentarily nuzzles his nose into the crook of your neck, causing you to softly shriek and giggle. “…I told you never to speak of my sister or any member of my family while in bed with me.” His lips trailed further down to the valley of your breasts. “Stay here…with me…and let’s forget the world this morning.” Gods, it’d be so easy to give in …to remain hidden from the world within the arms of your beloved…but life was hardly so easy. “You know I – can’t…!” you sharply gasped at the feel of his lips around your teat. You pitifully whined his name. “Robb, please…” “Shhh—careful, my love,” he huskily whispered, “unless you want all of Winterfell to know how even one of its coldest women is powerless against her wolf…” You held his chin to press a soft kiss against his lips. Gazing into his deep pools of sapphire, you knew this was the only man you could ever give your heart to. “My wolf…” you corrected, “and only mine…” “Yours…” Robb agreed as the two of you got lost in each other all over again.

Instinct and fury blinded rationality and composure as a sharp crack rang within the tent as your palm made contact with Robb’s cheek. Hot tears spilled from your eyes as the wet trails streamed down your cheeks.

“Fuck you, Robb…” you grit out.

Did he not think you haven’t craved him and his love as much, if not more, since your separation? Was he so obtusely… thick in the skull to think that you hadn’t cursed yourself for plunging you both into the cruel depths of a life without the other? Had he not realized that what saved you from falling into despair… from the moment you were thrown into the Red Keep’s dungeons… was your sweet memories of him?

You angrily swiped away your tears on the back of your hand before shoving him aside so you could make your way out of the tent. You couldn’t stand to be so close to him, not anymore, not when it cut you so deeply.

What was the point? Of being so close to one when they cannot have the other?

But it seemed your king did not agree with your sentiments as he grabbed your wrist and pulled you back toward him. Your chest collided against his, and you felt the hard planes of his muscles and wanted to sink to your knees while stripping him of all barriers that blocked his glorious body.

Robb growled as he felt the tremulous rhythm of your beating heart, effectively giving away all your true feelings and desires toward him – the same he felt to you.

“You’re a cruel woman…” he growled as he forced you to look into his deep, blue eyes by holding your chin, “but you’re my woman.”

Without another word, he seized you by the arm and threw you onto his bed. He tore off his tunic before gripping your ankles with both hands and forcing them wide open before he forcefully pulled your body to the end of the bed. Not wasting another moment, he clutched the neckline of your nightdress and tore it open, leaving you exposed and defenseless against him. You felt the peaks of your breasts harden against the cold air and tried to cover them with your arms, but Robb slapped your hands away and pinned your hands above your head.

“And I’ll make sure you learn your place by the time I’m done with you…”

Time meant nothing inside that tent. The only things that mattered were Robb Stark, young King of the North and recently widowed, and you, his precious whore he loved so dearly. It could have been an hour, it could have been five –you couldn’t tell. All you knew was that your former lover was currently cementing his claim on you as his bitch-in-heat by making you cum twice with his fingers and thrice more from his cock.

“You *huff* …really…expe- fuck…!” The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the air, interrupted by the squelch of your juices mixed with his as he moved in and out of you. He loudly groaned when he felt your walls clamp down on his still-hard shaft. “Fuck – how are you still so fucking tight…?”

You didn’t answer him; you couldn’t – at least not with words. Each of Robb’s thrusts hit that spot inside you that made you lose all sense of logic and rational thought. All you could offer was broken garbles and moans of your ecstasy as your insatiable wolf continued to feast on your pleasure. And this only seemed to further incense Robb into driving himself deeper inside you, as if he had not already caused you to peak three times since he first pushed into you. Your vision became blurry as your eyes crossed, but he brought you back by delivering a hard slap against your bottom, the stinging pain quickly shifting to ebbing pleasure.

“Well?” he tauntingly jeered, thoroughly enjoying your sharp tongue could only be quieted by him fucking you dumb. “I expect an answer…!”

“Ah-ah-ah – FUCK…!” you cried out after he delivered another harsh slap on your bottom’s other cheek, making you sharply gasp and continue to slather your drool and tears into his bed’s furs. “I don’t know…!”

Robb cruelly smirked, “Don’t know…?” He grabbed the front of your neck and pulled you until your sensitive back was pressed flush against his hard chest. “Don’t lie to me… you know… don’t pretend that you don’t – but do you want me to tell anyway?”

Fervently nodding, you felt him grin as his hot breath panted against your neck, causing goosebumps to prick across your skin covered in bite marks.

“It’s because…” Robb quickened his pace from rough to erratic as your mind nearly blanks from feeling more and more of him hitting the entrance to your womb, “we both know that cunt belonging to such a cold whore like yourself…could only be thawed with cock like mine and only mine.”

The war changed him. The Robb you knew and loved would never dream of speaking to you in such a filthy and vulgar manner. Before, your Robb always made love to you sweetly with the gentlest touches, and as far as you could tell and feel, he was gone. In his place was a wolf with a voracious appetite who could only seem satisfied with your humiliation from his rough squeezes and unforgiving pace. The evidence was plain to see by how he littered your body with purple love bites down your neck, red bite marks over your breasts and inner thighs, and deep indents of his nails from gripping your hips too hard and too long.

And the worst part of it? You loved it. Every bit of his ministrations was a piece of heaven. If this were torture, then you would only crave pain for the rest of your existence. Everything hurts so good, from the way his thick, throbbing cock stretches your walls to the way his rough, calloused hands manhandle your body with his bruising grip. You weren’t sure if there was anything left of you that Robb didn’t already possess. Your eyes glazed over the veins in his arms bulge as you barely register the rasped grunts and growls leaving his lips. If you looked down, you were sure to see the outline of his cock bulging from inside you as he continued to split you open.

He stilled for a moment and whispered in your ear as you cried out your frustration and begged him not to stop.

“I’m going to cum in you,” he rasped with perverse glee, “and afterward, I’m going to make sure my seed takes root in your womb.” He pushed your face down to the furs and forced your hips to meet his thrusts without mercy. “You tried to… escape your fate by leaving. Well, *huff* let me tell you right now… that’s never going to happen – I’ll lock you… in the tallest tower in Winterfell and chain you to the bed if I have to…”

One of his hands left your hips and went below you as his fingers deftly sought out the sensitive bundle of nerves between your legs that was your clit. You tried to protest, not sure if your body could take even more pleasure, but all that came out was a warbled cry as he pressed down and circled your bud. The overstimulation was proving to be too much as your body started shaking. You felt a cord tightening more and more until it just *snapped*, and you screamed out your release as your entire body trembled.

Robb refused to let up his pace, and he continued to thrust in and out of you as you felt him stiffen and – gods, how did he get even bigger? Before he released his seed inside you, he bottomed out – making sure that there was nothing of him that was not inside your sopping cunt. Your vision went white as he let out a loud and powerful groan from his release, and you could feel his hot seed painting your inner walls with his essence.

His peak seemed to drain him of all his energy as he gathered you in his arms without pulling out and resolved himself to finally rest. His sweaty forehead rested against your shoulder as he panted. Between each labored breath, he planted a kiss across your shoulders – your body still twitching from the intensity it endured as you, too, tried to catch your breath.

All was silent until you found yourself speaking, “…There was no hope, was there…?”

Robb lifted his upper body on one arm to hover over you. You repeated your question, to which he gave you a relaxed smile and tucked a stray piece of hair stuck to your temple behind your ear.

“No, love…” he confirmed. “But you must have known that from the beginning…I would have never let you go.”

…How does one respond to that?

You tried to search for the answer in his eyes, but all you saw was love… love, and madness. It was always there inside him; you’ve known that from the beginning… only you were blinded by his beauty and your love for him. But your lord knew the truth; he saw that obsessive love from the start; after all, Robb was his son. He warned you, but you didn’t listen. It wasn’t until you saw him beat a poor knight bloody and broken on the ice-covered ground – all because you made the mistake of smiling at him.

That’s why you ended your secret engagement. You had hoped that time and distance would ebb away the insanity flowing in his blood, or perhaps he would find someone else and eventually forget you – whichever came first.

But that was a fool’s dream; you knew that now.

Wordlessly, you nodded, to which Robb gently pressed his lips to yours, just as he had back in Winterfell. With each second, you began to respond more and more to the kiss. You wrapped your arms over his neck as his lips trailed down your next again, and you felt your sore body humming for more despite its sensitivity. Your fingers gripped his unruly, dark auburn curls as a tear trailed your cheek.

Forgive me, my lord…I’ve failed.

But you know you were secretly glad of it. After all, how could you not be? Life was growing inside you at that very moment.

Tagging: @dipperscavern, @ethereal-athalia, @axelsagewrites, @rise-my-angel, @anewpersonthatexists, @sublimepenguinpeach-blog, @lenasdmns, @justmymindandstuff, @aoi-targaryen, @vyctorya, @metalblindbitch, @h34rts-4uu, @aphroditesmoon, @dreaming-for-an-escape, @sylasthegrim

[thewatcher0nthewall]

Cold Gods

[0bsessiv3s0ul]

I will mourn you longer than I knew you.

[ritikajyala]

I know the sunset will not last longer than a few minutes, I know the leaves of summer fall but today I gather the fleeting moments and wear them like a choker around my neck, today I capture all the smiles, all the rays of the sun and swallow them whole. I know all things end but today I breathe in all of the beginnings and wait for another sunrise.

-Ritika Jyala, excerpt from The world is a sphere of ice and our hands are made of fire

[whereisowl]

full odds shiny jon snow after 674,005 encounters in pokemon castle black version

[dailydccomics]

Justice League Dark movie poster cover by Joe Quinones

[luv-lock]

⸻ ʟ ᴏ ᴠ ᴇ ᴍ ᴇ ⸻

Pairing: Dark Aegon I Targaryen x Fem Reader

Summary: Aegon spends his life desperately trying to win the love of his sister. And yet he's never enough.

Warning: Non-Con (rape), targcest, physical violence, murder, obsessive and delusional behavior, child loss/grief.

Notes: English is not my first language. Art belong to Denis Maznev. Hope you enjoy!

She was always there.

From his earliest memories, her face is etched in his mind like a cold, pale moon. She never smiled, never laughed. Never cried. Just looked. Always watching, always silent. Even as children, while Rhaenys played with him, she was a shadow in the background. A constant presence that gnawed at him, her cold eyes watching him with that empty gaze. It was as if nothing could move her, nothing could please her. But he tried. Gods, how he tried.

He was barely seven, still small but proud of the sword his father had given him. He had trained for hours, his arms aching, his legs sore, but he didn’t care. He just wanted to show her. He wanted her to see him—really see him—for once.

He had run to her, his little chest puffed out with pride, holding his wooden practice sword like it was Blackfyre itself. "Look! Look what I can do!" he had said, his voice bright with excitement. He swung the sword in wide arcs, spinning and thrusting as best as his small body could manage. "Did you see that? I’m going to be a great warrior! You’ll see!"

But she just stood there. Watching. Her face expressionless, her eyes cold, as if she hadn’t seen anything at all. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t even blink. It was like he wasn’t there, like his efforts were meaningless.

He had felt something tighten in his chest then, a feeling he didn’t understand. A hollow ache that made his hands shake as he gripped the sword tighter. He tried again, swinging harder, faster. "Are you watching?!" he had shouted, frustration leaking into his voice.

But she didn’t move. Didn’t smile. Didn’t say anything.

She never did.

And that’s how it always was. Every time he tried, every time he showed her something—his victories in the yard, his skills in battle—she just watched. Her cold eyes always on him but never giving him what he craved. Never giving him anything.

But then, that day came. The day that broke something inside him.

He remembers the sound first. The sound of her laughing. It was so foreign, so unexpected that he almost didn’t believe it at first. He had stopped in his tracks, heart racing, the sound of her laughter echoing in his ears like the sweetest music he’d ever heard. For a moment, just a moment, he thought it was meant for him. Finally, he thought, she was laughing. She was happy. Maybe, just maybe, he had done something to make her feel.

But then he saw it.

She wasn’t laughing with him. She wasn’t laughing for him.

She was laughing with a man. Some nobody. A fool. A good-for-nothing who could never even begin to understand her, let alone deserve her. And yet, there she was, her eyes shining, her lips curved into a smile—something Aegon had never seen in all his life. She was radiant, her laughter like music, but it wasn’t for him.

The rage came fast, burning through his veins like fire. How dare this man, this insignificant speck, be the one to bring her joy? How dare she smile for him, laugh for him, when she had never once given Aegon anything but that cold, dead stare? He could hardly see through the fury as he drew his sword, his heart pounding in his ears, and with one swift strike, he cut the man’s head clean off.

The blood sprayed across the floor as the man's body crumpled to the ground, lifeless, useless. And Aegon, triumphant, stood there holding the severed head, his heart racing with the thought that maybe now—now—she would see how much he loved her.

He brought the head to her, a smile tugging at his lips, presenting it like a gift, like an offering to a goddess.

But then, for the first time, he saw her cry.

Tears streamed down her cheeks, silent, like everything else about her. She didn’t wail or scream, just wept, her cold, distant eyes filled with sorrow. But not for him. Never for him. The realization hit him like a dagger to the chest. She wasn’t crying for him. She was mourning the other man, that worthless fool.

Could she not see? Could she not understand what he had done? He had killed for her. For her. To prove his love. Why couldn’t she see that?

It was worse now. So much worse.

He stands in the room, their child’s room, staring at the small bed where their son had once slept. His heart is heavy, his chest tight with grief that he can’t seem to swallow. Tears burn in his eyes, but he doesn’t care. Their child is dead. Gone. And he can barely breathe from the weight of it.

But when he looks at her, she’s standing by the window, her back to him, staring out into the night as if nothing had happened. As if their son wasn’t lying cold and still in the crypts below.

She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t scream. She doesn’t even move.

His son, their child, lay lifeless, and yet...she didn’t care. She couldn’t care. The realization gnawed at him, twisting in his chest like a knife. If it had been another man’s child, would she be mourning now? Would she cry for that child, like she had cried for that worthless fool?

"Do you...do you not care?" His voice cracks, the words barely a whisper. He feels like he’s choking on the silence. "He was our child. Our son." His hands tremble, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Why… why?"

She doesn’t answer. Of course, she doesn’t.

She never answers.

The hollow ache that had plagued him since childhood is back, sharper than ever. He stares at her, at her still, cold form, and something inside him snaps. He can feel it, like a tether breaking, a dam bursting inside his mind.

"Why?" he growls, his voice low, trembling with fury. "Why can’t you love me? Is it really so hard?!" He steps toward her, fists clenched, his heart hammering in his chest. "I’ve done everything for you. Everything!"

His hands shake as he grabs her by the shoulders, spinning her around to face him. She looks at him with that same blank, emotionless expression, her eyes cold and distant, as if she’s not even here. As if she’s not even alive.

"I killed for you!" His voice is rising, desperate, wild. "I’ve fought for you, bled for you! I’ve done everything you could ever want, but you—" He pauses, his breath coming in harsh gasps as a dark, twisted thought coils in his mind. "Is this because of him? Because I killed that servant? Did you really think he could love you more than I do? That he deserved you? Him?"

His grip tightens, fingers digging into her flesh. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest, the rage coursing through his veins. "I am the one who loves you. I’m the one who’s always loved you!"

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react. Just stares at him with those empty, cold eyes.

The silence is unbearable. It breaks him.

With a roar, he grabs her dress, tearing at the fabric, ripping it apart in his hands. He’s rough, vicious, his fingers leaving bruises on her pale skin as he forces himself onto her.

She doesn’t fight back. Doesn’t scream. She just lies there, blank, her body cold and still beneath his. The more she doesn’t react, the harder he thrusts, the rougher he becomes, as if he can force her to feel something—anything. He can feel the blood, can see the bruises forming on her skin, but she just keeps staring at him, those empty eyes boring into him, cold and unfeeling.

But it didn’t matter.

She will love me. She will.

"You will love me," he growls, his voice low and savage, each thrust more brutal than the last. "You will love me. You’ll see. I’ll make you."

But she doesn’t change. She never changes.

Even as her body bleeds, even as he takes her in the most violent, twisted way, she just looks at him with that same cold, distant stare. As if he’s nothing. As if nothing will ever be enough.

Her eyes stayed cold.

Her eyes stayed empty.

And still, he kept going.

@ʀᴏᴛᴛᴇɴꜰʏʀᴇ 2024. ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ, ᴛʀᴀɴꜱʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴏʀ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡᴇʙꜱɪᴛᴇꜱ

[amoratearte]

“Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.”

—Macbeth (Act II, Sc. II)

Daemon and Rhaenyra, the sword and the crown

[mournfulroses]

Laura van den Berg, from xo Orpheus Fifty New Myths; "Anthropogenesis: Or How to Make A Family,"

[novaursa]

Fire Never Forgets

- Summary: Daemon swears to have you. No matter the cost.

- Pairing: sister!reader/dark!Daemon I Blackfyre

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (blood, gore, violence and all the other fluffy stuff)

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround

The halls of the Red Keep were always alive with whispers, faint and elusive, as if the very stones had ears. You heard the rumors, of course—the ones that slithered into your chambers like serpents in the night. The court buzzed about Daemon Waters, the king’s unruly bastard son, the rogue boy who roamed the training yard with a smirk and a blade that sang like a lover’s sigh.

You were young then, barely past the threshold of maidenhood. Your world was still golden and unmarred, a delicate tapestry woven with tales of dragons and the dreams of kings. You had seen Daemon before, always from a distance—his pale hair gleaming under the sun, his violet eyes like shards of amethyst, sharp and cutting. There was something about him that unsettled you, a feral energy that prowled just beneath his skin.

It was not long before he noticed you.

The first time he truly saw you was during one of the king’s lavish feasts. You sat quietly at the high table, your hands folded neatly in your lap, eyes cast downward as the lords and ladies roared with laughter around you. Daemon was seated at the far end of the hall, amongst the lesser-born nobles and the bastards, his place at court as unsteady as his name. But his gaze found you nonetheless, cutting through the noise and the distance as if drawn by an invisible thread.

You felt it before you saw it—the weight of his stare, heavy and unrelenting. When you glanced up, your eyes locked with his across the room. A chill danced along your spine, though the air was warm and thick with the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine. Daemon tilted his head, a wolfish grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

It was the beginning of everything.

The next morning, you found him waiting in the gardens.

"Princess," he greeted, his voice low and smooth, a serpent’s hiss wrapped in honey. "I thought I might find you here."

You hesitated, your fingers clutching the edges of your silk cloak. "Ser Daemon," you replied, though he bore no knightly title. "What brings you here?"

He stepped closer, his movements languid and deliberate, like a predator circling its prey. "You."

The single word hung in the air between you, heavy and undeniable. You swallowed hard, your heart fluttering in your chest like a caged bird.

"You flatter me, my lord," you said, forcing your voice to remain steady. "Surely there are more interesting pursuits for someone like you."

Daemon chuckled, the sound dark and rich. "Perhaps. But none as captivating."

His eyes roved over you, unabashed and possessive. You felt exposed under his gaze, as though he could see every hidden part of you. The court had warned you of Daemon Waters—his ambition, his cunning, his charm that could melt steel. But standing before him now, you realized they had not warned you enough.

"I should go," you murmured, taking a step back.

"Why?" he asked, his tone almost playful. "Afraid of me?"

You hesitated, unsure how to answer. He took the opportunity to close the distance between you, his fingers brushing against your hand. His touch was cool, sending a shiver up your arm.

"You shouldn’t be," he whispered, his voice a caress. "I would never harm you."

The way he said it, soft and almost reverent, made you feel both comforted and unnerved. You pulled your hand away, your cheeks flushed.

"My father would not approve of this," you said, your voice firmer now.

Daemon’s grin widened, and for the first time, you saw the glint of ambition in his eyes—the fire that burned brighter than any dragon’s flame.

"Your father underestimates me," he said. "But you won’t. Will you, sister?"

The way he said the word sister made it sound like a claim, a bond that could not be severed. You took another step back, your mind racing.

"I must go," you said again, turning quickly and fleeing the garden.

Behind you, Daemon watched your retreating form, a smile curling on his lips. He had set his sights on you, and Daemon Waters was not a man who let go of what he wanted.

Not ever.

The throne room of the Red Keep was silent, save for the rustle of courtiers shifting in anticipation. King Aegon IV sat upon the Iron Throne, a mountain of swords forged in fire and blood, and the weight of his presence was suffocating. His indulgent grin held the promise of spectacle, for today, his bastard son, Daemon Waters, would be legitimized.

You stood among the lords and ladies, your place at court dutifully observed, though you wished to be anywhere but here. Your eyes darted to Daemon, who stood at the foot of the dais, head high, shoulders squared, a predator cloaked in finery. His hair gleamed like a crown beneath the sunlight streaming through the stained-glass windows, and his eyes burned with a fire that had always unnerved you.

The king raised a hand, silencing the murmurs that rippled through the court.

"Today," Aegon began, his voice booming, "I honor my blood. Daemon Waters, my son, I hereby legitimize you. From this day forward, you shall bear the name Blackfyre, a name as fierce and enduring as the blade I bestow upon you."

Gasps echoed through the chamber as a knight stepped forward, holding the famed blade Blackfyre in his hands. The sword, a symbol of Targaryen power, shone in the light, its Valyrian steel etched with dark ripples that seemed alive.

Daemon stepped forward, but instead of taking the blade, he turned his gaze to you. The intensity of his stare rooted you in place, and your breath caught in your throat. The court grew restless as Daemon spoke.

"I am honored by the name and the sword," he said, his voice smooth yet laced with danger. "But there is something I desire more."

The hall fell deathly silent, every eye shifting between Daemon and the king. Aegon’s brow furrowed, his indulgent smile slipping into something harder.

"And what is it you desire, Daemon?" Aegon asked, his tone wary.

Daemon’s lips curled into a smile, predatory and triumphant. He gestured toward you, his hand outstretched as if he already owned you.

"I want her," he said simply. "Your daughter. My sister."

The air left your lungs as gasps and murmurs erupted around the chamber. Your heart raced, your hands trembling as you felt the weight of hundreds of stares boring into you. Aegon leaned forward on his throne, his face darkening with rage.

"You dare?" Aegon’s voice was sharp, cutting through the noise like a blade. "You speak of your own sister, my daughter, as if she is a prize to be claimed?"

Daemon did not falter. "She is more than a prize. She is mine. Always has been."

The court erupted into chaos, but Aegon raised his hand, silencing them once more. His expression was a mix of fury and disbelief as he addressed his son.

“Daemon!” The king’s voice thundered through the hall. “You will take the sword and hold your tongue, or you will leave here with nothing!”

For the first time, Daemon faltered, his eyes narrowing, his jaw tightening. He looked up at the throne, his defiance unyielding.

"So be it," Daemon said softly, his voice carrying the promise of violence. He turned back to the knight holding Blackfyre and seized the sword in one fluid motion. The Valyrian steel hissed as he swung it through the air, testing its weight. He smiled, though it did not reach his eyes.

"If I must bloody my way to her, so be it," Daemon declared, his voice ringing through the hall. "I will carve a path through this world until she is mine, no matter who stands in my way."

The weight of his words hung heavy in the air, and you felt your knees weaken beneath you. He turned his gaze back to you, his expression softening into something almost tender, though it only made your skin crawl.

"Wait for me, sweet sister," he said, his voice dripping with possession. "This is not the end."

Before anyone could react, Daemon spun on his heel and strode out of the throne room, the sword gleaming in his hand, his silver hair streaming behind him like a banner of war.

The silence that followed was deafening. Aegon slumped back in his throne, his face ashen. The lords and ladies whispered among themselves, casting furtive glances in your direction. You stood frozen, your heart pounding in your chest.

Daemon’s promise echoed in your mind, a dark and terrible vow that you knew he would keep.

Daemon Blackfyre stood atop the battlements of his newly-claimed stronghold, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the Red Keep loomed in the distance. The sun dipped low, but the fire in his chest burned brighter than the dying light. Blood stained the earth beneath his boots—Targaryen blood, Velaryon blood, noble blood—all spilled in his name, all spilled for her.

The sword in his hand, Blackfyre, felt like an extension of his will. The weight of it was a comfort, a promise, a whisper in the dark that urged him onward. The blade, black as night and sharp enough to carve destiny itself, gleamed faintly in the twilight. It had tasted blood that day, and it craved more.

But no amount of blood would satisfy him until he had her.

She haunted him, her image as vivid in his mind as the first time he had seen her. The delicate curve of her neck, the soft sway of her silken gown as she walked, the light in her violet eyes that burned like dragonfire. She was everything he wanted—everything he deserved—and she was denied to him by a man who called himself king. His father had dared to refuse him, dared to speak as if she was some prize to be withheld.

“Mine,” Daemon growled under his breath, the word a low, guttural snarl that escaped without thought. She was his. She had always been his, from the moment he first laid eyes on her. The rest of the world just hadn’t realized it yet.

His tent that night was a place of solitude and chaos, mirroring the storm within him. Maps and letters lay strewn across a wooden table, inked with the names of those who had pledged to his cause. Lords who whispered of justice, of a bastard’s right to the throne, of their disdain for the Targaryens who ruled. Fools, all of them. They thought this rebellion was about a crown, about power.

They didn’t understand. None of them did.

This war wasn’t about the Iron Throne. It wasn’t about Aegon IV’s rejection, or the legacy of the sword he now carried. It was about her. Every step, every stroke of his blade, every castle he burned and every knight he cut down—each was a step closer to her.

He paced the tent, his blood singing with the madness of his obsession. Visions of her filled his mind. He could see her now, standing on the steps of the Red Keep, her hands clasped nervously, her lips trembling as she spoke his name. Not with disdain, not with fear—but with reverence. With love.

He paused, his hands tightening on the edge of the table. Love. The thought of it twisted in his gut, raw and consuming. Did she love him? Could she? Or was she as blind as the rest of them? Did she see him only as a bastard, a rogue prince, a usurper?

No. She would love him. She had to. He would make her see.

Daemon's laughter filled the tent, low and dark and unhinged. It echoed off the canvas walls, a sound that would have sent shivers down the spines of lesser men. He reached for Blackfyre, lifting the sword and examining its edge, still stained crimson. His reflection stared back at him from the blade, wild and fierce.

“If she won’t come willingly,” he murmured, his voice soft yet brimming with malice, “then I will take her.”

The thought ignited something feral within him. He imagined storming the Red Keep, the doors splintering beneath his strength, the court scattering like frightened sheep as he strode through their midst. He would find her, wherever she was hidden, and she would look at him the way he dreamed. She would finally see the man who had razed kingdom for her, who had spilled oceans of blood for her name.

They will write songs about me, he thought, a twisted grin curling his lips. Daemon Blackfyre, the bastard who burned the world for love.

A knock at the tent's entrance pole pulled him from his thoughts. One of his captains, bloodied and battered, stepped inside. “My lord,” he began, bowing low. “The forces from House Peake are prepared to march. We await your orders.”

Daemon turned, the grin fading from his face as he fixed the man with a piercing gaze. “We march at dawn,” he said, his tone calm but laced with menace. “And we do not stop until the Red Keep falls. Tell the men that anyone who stands between me and what is mine will die screaming.”

The captain nodded, a flicker of fear crossing his face, and quickly left the tent. Daemon stood alone once more, the weight of his obsession settling over him like a cloak.

He stepped outside, the cool night air washing over him as he gazed toward the distant capital. “Soon,” he whispered, gripping the hilt of Blackfyre so tightly that his knuckles turned white. “Soon you’ll be mine, my sweet sister. I’ll paint the streets of King’s Landing with blood if I must. But you’ll come to me. You’ll see there’s no escaping me.”

The stars above were cold and distant, their light pale and indifferent to the madness unfolding below. But Daemon didn’t care. The world could burn, the heavens could fall, and the gods themselves could descend to stop him—it wouldn’t matter.

He would have her. And nothing, not man nor trueborn dragon, would stand in his way.

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was eerily silent, its grandeur overshadowed by the chaos and death that lingered just outside its walls. The banners of House Targaryen still hung, but they were no longer symbols of your family’s strength. They were torn and bloodstained, fluttering weakly in the ash-laden breeze that seeped in through shattered windows.

You stood at the foot of the Iron Throne, your hands trembling as you clutched the fabric of your gown. Your heart was a hollow ache, a wound that bled for the family you had lost. Your father, your brothers, the loyal men who had sworn to protect you—they were all gone. Their screams echoed in your mind, drowned by the roar of Daemon Blackfyre’s armies as they stormed the capital.

Now, the victor was coming to claim his spoils.

The doors to the hall groaned open, and the sound of boots against stone shattered the stillness. Your head snapped up, and there he was. Daemon Blackfyre. His armor was stained with blood, his black and red cloak torn at the edges, but his posture was as commanding as ever. Blackfyre, the ancestral blade, hung at his hip. His violet eyes locked onto yours the moment he entered, and the air seemed to grow colder.

Behind him, his allies flanked him like wolves circling their leader. They carried the weight of victory on their shoulders, but it was Daemon who held the room in his grasp. He strode forward with purpose, his gaze never leaving yours.

“Leave us,” he commanded, his voice sharp and unyielding.

The men hesitated for a moment, glancing at each other before filing out of the hall. The heavy doors closed behind them, and the silence returned, thicker and more suffocating than before.

“You’ve taken everything from me,” you whispered, your voice cracking. Tears brimmed in your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. “My family, my home… everything.”

Daemon stopped a few paces away, his lips curling into a smirk that made your blood run cold. “Not everything, my sweet,” he said, his tone soft but laced with menace. “Not yet.”

He stepped closer, and you instinctively backed away, your heels hitting the edge of the steps that led to the Iron Throne. You had nowhere left to run. Daemon noticed and chuckled, the sound low and predatory.

“I told you, didn’t I?” he said, his voice a dark caress. “I warned them. I warned you. I would spill oceans of blood to have you. And now, here you are.”

You shook your head, your throat tightening as panic clawed at your chest. “Please… don’t do this.”

His expression softened, but it only made him more terrifying. He reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek. “Oh, sweet sister,” he murmured, his touch sending a shiver down your spine. “This is what was always meant to be. You and I, ruling together. Fire and blood, united.”

Before you could respond, his hand moved to the back of your neck, pulling you toward him. His lips crashed against yours, demanding and unyielding. You froze, every muscle in your body screaming in protest, but Daemon was relentless. His kiss was a claim, a branding, a promise that you belonged to him and no one else.

When he finally pulled away, you gasped for air, your chest heaving as tears streamed down your face. Daemon’s thumb wiped one away, his smile dark and triumphant.

“Bring the Septon,” he called, his voice echoing through the empty hall.

The doors opened, and the trembling figure of a Septon was ushered in by two of Daemon’s men. The holy man clutched his robes tightly, his face pale as he took in the scene before him.

“We will be married,” Daemon announced, his tone leaving no room for argument. “And then I will be crowned. The throne is mine, and so is she.”

“No,” you whispered, shaking your head. “You can’t—”

Daemon turned to you, his hand gripping your chin firmly as he forced you to meet his gaze. “I can, and I will. You are mine, now and forever. You can fight me if you wish, but it will change nothing.”

The Septon hesitated, his voice trembling as he began the rites. You barely heard the words, your mind spinning with the weight of what was happening. When the time came for Daemon to speak his vows, his voice was strong and sure, each word dripping with obsession.

“I take you as mine, in fire and blood, now and always,” he said, his gaze burning into yours. “And I swear, before gods and men, that we will make this world kneel before us.”

When it was your turn to respond, you hesitated, your voice caught in your throat. Daemon’s hand tightened on yours, a silent warning. You forced the words out, each one feeling like a blade to your heart.

As the ceremony ended, Daemon turned to the Septon and dismissed him with a wave. The poor man fled the hall as quickly as his legs would carry him. Daemon’s attention shifted back to you, his smile returning as he gestured toward the Iron Throne.

“Come, wife,” he said, the word thick with satisfaction. “Our union is not yet complete.”

Your eyes widened in horror as his meaning became clear. You shook your head, backing away, but Daemon’s hand shot out, gripping your wrist like iron.

“Do not fight me,” he warned, his voice low and dangerous. “I promised myself this moment, and I will have it. We will make love on the Iron Throne, and the realm will remember it as the night House Blackfyre truly began.”

Tears streamed down your face as he pulled you toward the throne, his grip unyielding. The jagged steel of the throne loomed before you, a monument to power, cruelty, and now, the dark desires of the man who had taken everything from you.

Each step up its dais felt like a climb toward your doom, a spiral into the depths of Daemon's madness. His hand never left yours, his grip unrelenting as he guided you to the seat that had claimed the lives of kings. The steel beneath you was cold and unforgiving, a perfect mirror to the man who now stood before you.

Daemon's eyes were brilliant with triumph, his lips curling into a wicked smile as he towered over you. He had everything he had fought for—the Red Keep, the realm, and you. The fire in his gaze burned hotter than the dragons of old, and you realized then that there was no escape.

He lowered himself to his knees before you, though there was no reverence in his act, only possession. His hands found your waist, his touch firm and commanding as he pulled you to him. The kiss he pressed to your lips was fevered and insistent, a claim written in fire and blood.

"Mine," he murmured against your skin, his voice thick with desire. "Always mine."

You closed your eyes, tears slipping free as you endured his touch. The throne cut into your back, its cruel edges biting through the delicate fabric of your gown, but Daemon seemed unbothered. He was relentless, his obsession driving him to take what he believed was rightfully his.

Time blurred, the world narrowing to the cold steel beneath you and the scorching heat of Daemon's presence. His whispers filled your ears, promises of love and power tangled with threats of what would happen if you ever tried to leave him. When it was over, the throne room was silent once more, save for the sound of your ragged breathing.

Daemon rose, his expression one of dark satisfaction. He reached down and pulled you to your feet, his hands lingering on your waist as he steadied you. The throne stood behind you, its cutting edges now marked with the blood of your union.

He stepped away briefly, retrieving something from a nearby table. When he returned, your breath caught in your throat. In his hands was a crown—a twisted masterpiece of Valyrian steel and black diamonds, its design sharp and imposing. It was a thing of dark beauty, as haunting and unyielding as the man who had commissioned it.

"This," he said, his voice reverent, "is yours. A queen must have her crown."

You shook your head, your lips trembling. "Daemon, please—"

"Silence," he interrupted, his tone firm but not cruel. "You are my queen, my wife, my equal by blood. This crown was forged for you, and you will wear it."

He placed the crown upon your head, his fingers brushing against your hair as he adjusted it. When he stepped back to admire his work, his expression softened, a rare glimmer of tenderness breaking through his dark obsession.

"Beautiful," he murmured, his voice almost a whisper. "You are everything I dreamed of and more."

You stood frozen, the weight of the crown pressing down on you like the weight of the world. Daemon extended his hand, his smile widening as he awaited your response. When you hesitated, his gaze hardened.

"Take my hand," he commanded. "Stand beside me, and let the realm see its king and queen united."

Slowly, reluctantly, you placed your hand in his. His grip tightened immediately, a silent reminder of his control. Together, you descended the steps of the Iron Throne, Daemon leading you toward the hall’s open doors where his allies and soldiers awaited.

As the doors swung open, the crowd erupted into cheers. They hailed Daemon as the king who had taken what was rightfully his, and you as the queen who would rule at his side. But you saw the truth in their eyes—the fear, the uncertainty, the unspoken acknowledgment that their loyalty was born of necessity, not love.

Daemon raised your joined hands high, his voice booming over the crowd. "Behold your queen!" he declared, his tone filled with triumph. "She is mine, as this throne is mine, and together we shall forge a new world—one ruled by House Blackfyre."

The crowd roared its approval, but you felt none of their enthusiasm. Your heart ached for what had been lost, for the family and the life that had been torn from you. But as Daemon’s hand gripped yours, unyielding and possessive, you realized there was no escaping him.

This was your life now—a crown of blood and ash, a throne forged in obsession, and a king who would stop at nothing to keep you by his side.