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novaursa · 5 months ago

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A Dragon's Claim

- Summary: Daemon returns from his exile during the celebrations of Rhaenyra’s and Leanor’s wedding, with only one thing in mind: to claim you.

- Paring: niece!reader/Daemon Targaryen

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is younger sister of Rhaenyra and is bonded with Grey Ghost. These events happen before and lead to The Blood of the Dragon. The list of all my works in chronological order is on my blog, pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mature 16+ (there is no adult content in this one)

- Word count: 4 538

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

The air in the great hall is thick with tension and mirth as lords and ladies gather beneath the towering pillars of the Red Keep. The glow of a thousand candles casts a golden hue over the faces of the realm’s most powerful, yet the flickering light cannot reach the shadows where whispers thrive.

You sit at the high table, a smile frozen on your lips as you watch Rhaenyra and Laenor share a dance, their steps polished but strained. Your elder sister’s gown is woven with gold and red thread, a stark contrast to Laenor’s pale silks. The match is political, a necessity, and everyone knows it. But the feast continues on, with music and wine flowing freely to disguise the uneasy undercurrents.

Your father, King Viserys, is content for now, raising his cup with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. You know how deeply he misses your mother, and how hard he’s tried to keep the family together since her death. Beside him, Queen Alicent's gaze flickers between you and your siblings, always watchful, as if measuring the distance between you all.

Yet the evening shifts suddenly when a presence enters the hall, one that sends a murmur rippling through the gathered guests. Heads turn, voices hush. You feel the change in the air before you even see him.

Daemon.

Your Uncle strides in as if the years and the disgrace of his exile mean nothing. His long silver hair is swept back, and his black leather doublet clings to him like shadow. The greenish glow of dragon glass at his throat only sharpens the edges of his smile. He's dressed in dark finery, as if mourning—and you recall, with a bitter twist in your gut, that Lady Rhea Royce has just died. A hunting accident, they say. But few believe it was an accident at all.

Your breath catches as his violet eyes sweep across the hall before landing on you. There's a dangerous glint there, something raw and unsettling, something that reminds you why you’ve kept him at arm’s length all these years. You feel it like a caress, lingering too long, too close.

He moves with purpose, winding through the throng of courtiers until he’s at your side. Your fingers tighten around your goblet as he dips into an elegant bow, just deep enough to mock propriety. The room buzzes with speculation, but Daemon pays it no mind. His attention is wholly on you.

"Little Niece," he purrs, voice smooth as silk, yet laced with something darker. "It’s been too long."

You tilt your head, eyes narrowing as you regard him. "Not long enough," you reply, keeping your tone cool, distant.

He laughs—a low, rich sound that curls in your stomach, unsettling in its familiarity. "Such sharp words. You wound me, Y/N."

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, instead taking a sip from your cup. "What do you want, Uncle? Surely you did not come all this way just to attend a wedding."

"Why would I not?" He shifts closer, the scent of leather, smoke, and something distinctly Daemon filling the air around you. "After all, it’s a family affair. And I’ve missed our little talks."

You can feel the heat of his gaze, the way it lingers on your face before dipping lower, as if taking you in inch by inch. It’s almost predatory. You’ve seen how other women melt under that stare, but it’s never had that effect on you. If anything, it’s only ever put you on edge.

"Missed?" you echo with a scoff. "You were banished, or did you forget?"

Daemon’s smile doesn’t falter, but it sharpens. "Exile is a state of mind, Niece. It changes nothing of who I am—or what I want."

Your jaw tightens. He’s always been this way—playing at power, testing limits. When you were younger, you found it thrilling, the way he flirted with danger, the way he seemed to live without consequence. But now, all you see is a man who’s always hungered for more than what is his.

"And what is it that you want now, Daemon?" you ask, holding his gaze. You don’t flinch, even when his smile widens.

His voice drops, low and intimate, a whisper meant for your ears alone. "The same thing I’ve always wanted. You."

The words are a knife, sharp and precise. They cut through the haze of laughter and music that surrounds you. You know what he’s asking, what he’s offering—and you also know you’d be a fool to accept.

You set down your goblet with deliberate care, your expression hardening. "You’re wasting your time. Whatever game you’re playing, find another piece for it."

His amusement doesn’t fade, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes—something darker, more frustrated. For a moment, the mask slips, and you see the hunger beneath, the yearning he’s kept at bay since you last rejected him.

"You think you’re above this, above me," he murmurs, his voice laced with challenge. "But we’re more alike than you care to admit, Y/N. Fire runs in our veins, and it will burn until we claim what’s ours."

You feel a shiver crawl up your spine, but you refuse to let it show. "Perhaps," you say coolly, standing from your seat and stepping back, putting distance between you. "But that fire will not consume me. Not for you. Not ever."

His gaze follows you as you move away, back into the crowd where the music drowns out the tension of your exchange. You feel his eyes on you, a burning brand that lingers even when you force yourself to focus on the dancing couples and the revelry. But Daemon Targaryen is not so easily dismissed.

You know this won’t be the last time he tries. He’s always been relentless in his pursuits. But you’ve held him off before—and you’ll do it again, no matter how many times he attempts to draw you into his web.

Yet in the depths of your mind, a small voice wonders how long you can keep resisting before the fire spreads.

The hall is alive with music and movement, swirling skirts and polished boots creating a dance of color and grace. You find yourself swept into the rhythm, partnered with Lord Tyland Lannister—a golden lion of the Westerlands, resplendent in his crimson and gold. He’s handsome enough, with a confident smile and courteous manners, but he lacks the edge of danger that seems to follow Targaryens like a shadow.

Still, you laugh politely as he makes some jest about the boisterous nature of the court. Tyland is careful, measured in his charm, his hand respectfully placed at your waist as you twirl together across the floor. Yet your mind is only half on the conversation, aware that a pair of intense violet eyes is tracking your every move.

Daemon watches from where he leans against a pillar, his posture deceptively relaxed. He appears disinterested to those who don’t know him well, one hand holding a goblet of wine, the other idly tapping against his leg. But beneath that mask of ease is a tightly coiled tension, a hungry beast waiting for the right moment to strike. His gaze is riveted to you, sharp and possessive, a wolf studying its prey from afar.

Beside him, King Viserys attempts to draw his brother into conversation, oblivious to Daemon’s distraction.

“It’s good to see you back, brother,” Viserys begins, his tone amiable as he turns to face Daemon. “We’ve missed you here. It’s been far too long since the family was whole.”

Daemon barely acknowledges the words, his focus entirely elsewhere. His eyes flick over the way you laugh at something Tyland says, the way your lips curve in amusement. A flicker of annoyance passes through him, a subtle tightening of his jaw. He’s always despised the Lannisters—their arrogance, their ambition, their sense of entitlement. And seeing you in Tyland’s arms only fuels the simmering irritation.

Viserys, oblivious to his brother’s dark thoughts, continues, raising his goblet to Daemon. “Rhaenyra is happy tonight, isn’t she? It’s a good match for her, one that will strengthen the realm. Laenor is—”

“A distraction,” Daemon mutters, cutting him off, his tone sharp enough to draw Viserys’ attention.

Viserys frowns, looking at him more closely. “What’s on your mind, Daemon? You’ve barely said a word since you arrived. If it’s about Rhea—”

Daemon lets out a dry chuckle, finally turning his gaze to Viserys, but it’s laced with disdain. “Rhea is long dead, brother. Her bones are cold and buried. Let us not pretend we mourn her now.”

Viserys shifts uncomfortably, clearly unsure of how to respond. “Still, it’s no easy thing to lose a wife, even one you didn’t—”

Daemon cuts him off again, this time with a flick of his hand. “Enough, Viserys. I didn’t come here to talk about the past.”

“What did you come here for, then?” Viserys asks, voice softening as he tries to reach out to his brother. “We can put things right between us. There’s no need for more distance. We’re family—”

Daemon’s gaze snaps back to you, watching as you spin gracefully in Tyland’s arms, your dress swirling around you like flames licking at the air. His lips curve into a faint, humorless smile. “Family…” he repeats, the word bitter on his tongue. “Yes, it’s always about family.”

He doesn’t bother hiding the way his eyes track your every movement. Viserys follows his line of sight, finally understanding where Daemon’s attention lies. He clears his throat, his expression hardening. “Y/N is not for you, Daemon. She’s my daughter, and I’ll not have her tangled in whatever schemes you’re plotting.”

Daemon’s smile widens, but there’s no warmth in it. “Schemes? You wound me, brother. I only have your daughter’s best interests at heart.”

“Do you?” Viserys’ voice takes on a warning edge. “You’ve already caused enough trouble tonight with your sudden appearance. If you truly care for her, you’ll leave her be.”

But Daemon doesn’t answer. His thoughts are locked elsewhere, watching how you move with such effortless grace, the way your eyes spark with life as you dance, seemingly carefree. He knows you’re aware of his presence, can sense it in the way you avoid looking in his direction, how you keep Tyland between you and the shadows where Daemon lurks. It’s a clever tactic—one that both frustrates and excites him.

“She’s stubborn,” he murmurs, almost to himself, as his eyes narrow. “But that’s what makes the chase worthwhile.”

Viserys stiffens, his grip tightening around his cup. “I’m warning you, Daemon. You’ll not drag her into your games. If you truly have any regard for her, you’ll stop this.”

Daemon turns to face his brother fully now, his expression unreadable, but his tone is laced with cold mockery. “And what if she doesn’t want your protection, Viserys? What if she wants something… else?”

“That’s enough.” The king’s voice is steel now, but it wavers slightly, betraying the deep undercurrent of worry. “I won’t allow it. You’ll stay away from her.”

Daemon holds his brother’s gaze for a long, tense moment before he breaks into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Of course, brother. I live to serve.”

But as Viserys takes his words at face value and turns away, relief evident in his posture, Daemon’s eyes drift back to you. A storm brews within them, filled with unresolved hunger and an unyielding determination. He watches as you end the dance with a gracious curtsy, Lord Tyland offering a courtly bow in return, and his fingers curl tighter around his goblet.

You may think you’ve pushed him away, that you’ve built walls high enough to keep him out. But Daemon Targaryen has never been one to accept defeat—not when there’s something he desires as fiercely as he desires you.

No, the game is far from over. If anything, it’s only just begun. And as you catch his gaze from across the hall, your eyes locking for the briefest of moments before you look away, you feel it too—the inevitability of the fire that threatens to consume you both.

For now, you dance with Lannisters and play your part as the dutiful daughter. But Daemon’s patience, like all things about him, is dangerous. And sooner or later, he knows, you’ll find yourself face-to-face with the truth neither of you can deny—no matter how much you might try to resist it.

The music softens, allowing the hum of conversation to fill the hall. You’re surrounded by a cluster of courtiers, each eager to share a word or a compliment with the princess of the realm. They shower you with flowery flattery, and you respond with practiced grace, a polite smile that never quite reaches your eyes.

You’re keenly aware of Daemon lurking at the edge of your periphery, a shadow just waiting to slip into the light. He’s watching, waiting for an opening—and when your father becomes occupied by the arrival of Lord Beesbury, Daemon seizes his chance.

The courtiers around you stiffen as Daemon approaches, the atmosphere shifting subtly as they sense the tension that follows him. He cuts through the crowd with the grace of a dragon circling its prey, a dark smile curling on his lips as he stops just beside you. The air crackles with his presence, drawing every eye in the circle toward him.

“Y/N,” he says smoothly, his voice warm honey over cold steel. “I hope you’re not allowing these dullards to bore you.” There’s an undercurrent of possessiveness in the way he says your name, a familiar, disconcerting tone that sends a shiver down your spine.

You keep your expression composed, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of seeing any discomfort. The eyes of the court are upon you, watching for any reaction, any hint of scandal. You cannot afford to make a scene—not tonight, not at Rhaenyra’s wedding. So you take a slow breath and incline your head, allowing him to join the conversation if only to avoid drawing unwanted attention.

“Uncle,” you greet him, your tone carefully neutral. “I find the company quite agreeable, actually.”

A flicker of amusement dances in his eyes as he takes a step closer, deliberately brushing the edge of your skirts with his boot. “Do you? Well, perhaps it’s simply my own poor luck that I’ve yet to find anyone in this hall nearly as fascinating as you.”

The compliment is a blade, sharp and glittering with intent. The courtiers exchange nervous glances, unsure of where to place themselves in this verbal dance between the two of you. They sense the tension, the unspoken challenge in Daemon’s words, but they dare not intervene. Instead, they hang back, listening closely while pretending otherwise.

You give a tight smile, deflecting his advance with ease. “How fortunate for you, then, to have found me amidst so many ‘dullards,’ as you so kindly put it.”

He laughs, a low, throaty sound that sends gooseflesh prickling across your skin. “Indeed. But then, I’ve always known where to find the rarest of treasures.”

His eyes lock onto yours, the weight of his gaze heavy with suggestion. You feel the noose of his presence tightening around you, making it harder to keep up the pretense of polite conversation. Every word he speaks is laced with a deeper meaning, a challenge you’re unwilling to meet, yet can’t entirely ignore.

One of the courtiers, a nervous young man from House Florent, clears his throat and tries to steer the conversation back to safer waters. “Princess Y/N, Lord Daemon, I heard the finest fabrics for tonight’s event were imported directly from Qarth. Perhaps you’d care to share your thoughts on—”

Daemon silences him with a glance, his attention never fully leaving you. “I think the princess and I have far more interesting matters to discuss, don’t we, Niece?” He leans in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, just loud enough for the others to hear the edge in it. “Or perhaps you’d prefer we step outside, where we might speak more privately?”

You stiffen slightly at his audacity, feeling your control slipping under the intensity of his advance. But you refuse to let him see how he rattles you. “That won’t be necessary,” you reply, your voice steady despite the tightness in your chest. “We’re perfectly fine where we are.”

Daemon’s smile widens, but it’s not the charming smile of a courtier. It’s something darker, edged with hunger and frustration. He’s testing your boundaries, trying to see how far he can push before you break. And you know that refusing him outright, especially in public, might only embolden him further.

He takes another step closer, his arm brushing against yours as he speaks in a tone meant for your ears alone. “You’ve always been so careful, Y/N. So proper, so well-behaved. But there’s fire in you—I’ve seen it. You can pretend all you like, but you can’t deny what’s in our blood, what we’re meant for.”

You force yourself to meet his gaze, your heart thudding in your chest. “You mistake me, Daemon. Whatever you think we share, you’re wrong. I am not like you.”

“Not yet, perhaps,” he murmurs, his lips barely moving as his breath ghosts across your ear. “But you will be, in time. The fire consumes us all eventually. Why fight what you can’t escape?”

Before you can answer, one of the other courtiers—a lady from House Frey—interjects with a forced laugh, clearly sensing the rising tension. “Lord Daemon, you speak of fire as though it’s something to be embraced. But surely even dragons know better than to be burned alive.”

Daemon doesn’t bother responding to her, his gaze still locked on you. “Perhaps some of us would rather burn than live half-alive.”

The weight of his words lingers in the air, a challenge wrapped in seduction. You can feel the eyes of everyone around you, waiting to see how you’ll respond. Every nerve in your body screams at you to walk away, to extricate yourself from this perilous game he’s playing, but the chains of decorum hold you in place.

“Not everyone fears the flame,” you reply, your voice a delicate balance between defiance and diplomacy. “But not everyone is foolish enough to be consumed by it either.”

For a moment, Daemon’s expression softens, a flicker of admiration passing through his eyes. He’s always liked your spirit, the way you push back when others would cower. It’s one of the reasons he’s so drawn to you—you’re a challenge, not easily won. But that only makes him more determined.

He steps back slightly, giving you room to breathe, though his presence still lingers like smoke in the air. “We shall see, Niece,” he says, his tone softer now, but no less intense. “We shall see.”

The conversation shifts awkwardly back to safer topics as the courtiers nervously chatter to fill the silence, but the damage is done. The undercurrents of tension remain, swirling just beneath the surface, unseen by most but keenly felt by you.

You make your excuses and step away from the circle, moving toward the safety of the crowd. But you can feel Daemon’s eyes on you, tracking your every movement, a predator biding its time.

You take a deep breath, willing yourself to focus on the revelry, the laughter, the music. But no matter how hard you try, you can’t shake the feeling that tonight was only the beginning. Daemon has set his sights on you once more, and though you’ve pushed him away before, you know this time he’s more determined than ever.

The fire is closing in, and you’re not sure how much longer you can keep it at bay.

The days in King’s Landing have grown longer, shadows stretching thin as the sun’s heat begins to wane with autumn’s approach. It has been weeks since the feast, since Daemon first rekindled his pursuit of you, and those weeks have been filled with nothing but frustration. You’ve become as elusive as a wisp of smoke, always slipping from his grasp just when he thinks he’s closed the distance.

He’s been searching for you throughout the Red Keep, stalking through the corridors like a restless lion. Servants avert their eyes when he passes, knowing better than to cross him when his temper is barely leashed. He checks the gardens where you sometimes take afternoon strolls, the library where you immerse yourself in history, even the secluded balcony where you once sat to watch the sun dip beneath the horizon. But you’re nowhere to be found.

His patience, already thin, frays with each passing moment. Where are you?

Eventually, he strides into the inner courtyard, his boots striking the cobblestones with purpose. He spots Rhaenyra, her golden hair spilling like liquid sunlight as she leans casually against a column. She’s watching a pair of knights spar in the yard, but when she catches sight of Daemon, she lifts a brow in amusement.

“Uncle,” she greets, her tone warm but laced with curiosity. “You seem troubled. Should I be concerned for my safety?”

Daemon barely slows his approach, his eyes narrowed and searching. “Where is she, Rhaenyra?”

Rhaenyra’s smirk widens, enjoying the tension radiating from him. She has always seen through him, understood the games he plays. But right now, her amusement only fuels his growing irritation.

“She?” she asks, feigning ignorance. “You’ll have to be more specific, Uncle. There are quite a few women within the Keep.”

“Don’t play coy with me,” he snaps, his voice a low growl. “You know who I mean. Where is Y/N?”

Rhaenyra’s amusement falters slightly as she studies him more closely. She sees the fire in his eyes, the barely contained storm that brews beneath his calm exterior. She knows Daemon well enough to recognize when he’s truly agitated.

“And why would you assume I’d know her whereabouts?” she asks, though her tone is more measured now, less teasing. “She doesn’t confide everything in me.”

Daemon steps closer, his frustration bleeding into impatience. “She’s your sister. You know where she’s gone. Stop wasting time and tell me.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze flickers with something unreadable before she sighs, realizing he won’t relent. “You’re relentless, aren’t you?” She shakes her head as if in disbelief, then lowers her voice conspiratorially. “Fine. I’ll tell you, but only because it’ll keep you from stalking around the Keep like a shadowed ghost.”

She pauses, savoring the way Daemon’s impatience makes him lean in closer. “She’s gone to ride Grey Ghost.”

Daemon’s reaction is instant. The blood drains from his face as his eyes sharpen, and without another word, he turns on his heel, already planning his next move. The mention of the dragon’s name—Grey Ghost, the elusive and wild creature—ignites something dangerous within him.

Rhaenyra watches with a slight frown, sensing his sudden intensity. “Daemon—wait. She knows what she’s doing; she’s always had a bond with that dragon—”

But he’s not listening. His mind is racing, the image of you alone on the back of such a wild, unpredictable creature flashing before his eyes. Grey Ghost is no docile mount like Syrax or Caraxes. The dragon is known for being elusive, rarely seen and even more rarely approached. For you to go after such a beast alone—Daemon feels a surge of possessive protectiveness he can’t tamp down.

He strides swiftly toward the stables, barking orders at the stablehands to ready his horse. The urgency in his tone leaves no room for argument. “Saddle it quickly!” he snaps, every muscle tense with the need to move, to reach the Dragonpit before it’s too late.

In the back of his mind, he knows he’s not only worried about your safety. This chase, this pursuit, has become something more to him—an obsession, a need to prove that you can’t slip away from him, not when he’s decided you’re his. And riding Grey Ghost? That’s an act of defiance, a clear signal that you’re not afraid to dance on the edge of danger.

He mounts his horse in one smooth motion and urges the animal into a gallop. The wind rushes past him as he rides through the streets of King’s Landing, his mind singularly focused on getting to the Dragonpit. He doesn’t care who watches or what whispers will follow in the wake of his urgency. Let them talk; let them wonder. All that matters is reaching you.

By the time he arrives at the Dragonpit, he’s barely winded, though his blood roars in his veins like wildfire. The keepers bow hastily as he storms past them, heading straight for the chamber where Caraxes, his own dragon, resides. The Blood Wyrm growls low as Daemon approaches, sensing the tension in his rider.

Daemon doesn’t waste a moment, clambering onto Caraxes’ back with practiced ease. The bond between dragon and rider is instinctual, and with a sharp command, Caraxes unfurls his wings and takes to the skies with a powerful beat. They soar upward, climbing higher into the heavens as Daemon scans the horizon, searching for the faint silhouette of a dragon in flight.

He knows the general area where Grey Ghost roams—often among the mist-shrouded cliffs near the coast, far from the reach of men. If you’ve truly gone there alone, then you’ve either misjudged your own courage or you’re challenging him in your own quiet, stubborn way.

Either way, he intends to catch you.

The thrill of the chase pulses through him, his heart racing as Caraxes cuts through the clouds, flying faster and faster toward where he hopes to find you. There’s a primal satisfaction in the pursuit, the idea of tracking you down, claiming what he believes should be his. He imagines what you’ll say when he catches you, what you’ll do—if you’ll continue to resist, or if you’ll finally realize there’s no escaping the inevitable.

As they fly over the rugged cliffs, he finally spots a shadow moving below—grey scales glinting in the fading light. There you are, astride Grey Ghost, your figure small but unmistakable. The sight sends a surge of possessive relief through him. You’re safe, unharmed, but you’ve ventured too far for his liking.

He urges Caraxes lower, drawing closer until the two dragons are flying side by side, their wings slicing through the air in tandem. The sound of Caraxes’ approach makes you turn, your eyes widening as you realize who’s followed you. Even from a distance, Daemon can see the defiance in your gaze, the way you straighten your back and tighten your grip on the reins.

You’re not pleased to see him. But that’s too bad.

Daemon grins, his eyes flashing with determination as he closes the distance, ready to confront you, to remind you that running—or flying—won’t keep him at bay. He’s always known where to find you, and now that he’s caught up, he has no intention of letting you slip away again.

The chase may be thrilling, but Daemon Targaryen has never been content to chase forever. At some point, even the most elusive prey must be caught. And when he finally corners you in the sky, he’ll make sure you know exactly what it means to be his.

#house of the dragon #viserys targaryen #alicent hightower #daemon targaryen #rhaenyra targeryan #grey ghost #daemon x you #daemon x y/n #hotd daemon #daemon targeryen x reader #daemon x reader #hotd x reader #hotd

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baelarys · 5 months ago

Text

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐞

Aemond targaryen X reader niece

word count : 2887

Warning : Incest , smut

Your entire body itched, feeling the corset squeeze your ribcage to the point of almost fainting. Your ladies hurriedly arranged your hair, while two others smoothed the blue and silver silk dress you had chosen for the ceremony.

You wondered if a wedding dress really needed to look so impeccable, feeling the weight of expectation and tradition. You were about to marry, and to your dismay, a man as callous as your uncle Aemond. You knew this moment would come, but still, the surprise hit you hard. You had been engaged since childhood, but you hadn't believed the proposal would still stand after the accident at your aunt's funeral.

Your mother and siblings would not attend. Your mother had recently given birth to your two new younger brothers, and Jace and Luke were still too young to travel alone. So, you found yourself alone in the Red Keep, the ancient castle you once considered home.

As you prepared, a feeling of loneliness enveloped you. The absence of your family weighed on your spirit, making the moment feel even more difficult to face.

Your ladies continued to work diligently, trying to make every detail perfect. Her skillful hands masterfully braided your hair, adorning it with fine silver threads. The blue and silver silk dress fell elegantly, reflecting the light of the candles that illuminated the room.

You took a deep breath, trying to calm your mind and heart. Then, you heard a knock on the door. It was time, you thought. One of your ladies opened the door, letting in Queen Alicent, who would escort you to your future husband. You would have preferred it to be your grandfather instead of her, but dear King Viserys was in a deplorable situation regarding his health.

Alicent looked at you for a few seconds, perhaps remembering a similar moment from her own youth. “You look beautiful,” she said, trying to make you feel better.

You nodded gratefully, although the anxiety was still present. The queen offered you her arm and, with one last look in the mirror, you headed towards the destiny that awaited you. It was a small celebration, but without taking away from the prestige of a royal wedding. Lords from all over the kingdom were present.

The great hall was adorned with banners and flowers, the glow of the candelabras illuminating the faces of the guests. As you walked down the hallway, the murmurs faded, leaving only the echo of your footsteps and the rapid beat of your heart.

Aemond was waiting for you at the end of the hallway, his expression as impenetrable as ever. His violet eyes watched you with a mixture of intensity and coldness. Beside him, the septon waited, ready to officiate the ceremony. Alicent led you to your spot, and then discreetly retreated, letting the solemnity of the moment take over.

The septon began to recite the ritual words, and although your thoughts wandered between anxiety and resignation, you maintained your composure. Aemond took your hand firmly, his grip a reminder of both the strength and severity of your future husband.

When it was time to exchange vows, the words left your lips almost mechanically. You promised fidelity and loyalty, although inside you, a voice whispered doubts and fears. Aemond, for his part, pronounced his vows with the same determination he used on the battlefield.

It was time for the banquet, an event filled with flowers and music designed to liven up the festive atmosphere. You responded with a courteous smile to the lords and ladies who approached your table to shower you with gifts and congratulations.

The large banquet table was adorned with exquisite floral arrangements and silver candelabras, illuminating the opulence of the hall. You and Aemond presided over the head table, and although music and the hum of conversation filled the air, a feeling of unreality enveloped you.

Lord Tyrell's son approached the table, a charming young man who had caught the attention of many ladies at court. His distinguished bearing and easy smile made him a welcome guest at any social event.

You bowed slightly in respect as he approached, returning his smile with a courtesy befitting your status. "Princess," he began with an elegant bow, "allow me to congratulate you on your marriage. The beauty of this celebration is surpassed only by yours."

"Lord Tyrell," you replied with a smile, "I appreciate your kind words. The presence of your house is always an honor to our family."

"It's a pleasure to be here," he said, his eyes shining with an interest that went beyond mere politeness. "I must confess that I have been waiting for an opportunity to speak with you. Stories about your grace and charm do not do the reality justice."

You laughed softly, grateful for the distraction his gallantry offered. "I thank you, my lord. However, I do not believe I am worthy of such praise."

"Not at all, my lady, I am being completely honest." Your smile spread wider, feeling a light blush on your cheeks. The young Tyrell then looked at Aemond. "The prince is lucky to now have a lady as beautiful as you."

Before you could respond, you felt a strong squeeze on your thigh that made you stop. Aemond, who until then had watched the interaction with an impassive expression, clenched his jaw at Tyrell's words. "Lord Tyrell," he interrupted, his voice firm and cold, "I appreciate your congratulations, but I would like to remember that my wife is not a possession, but a companion worthy of respect."

The young Tyrell, without losing his composure, bowed his head slightly. "Of course, Prince Aemond. My apologies if my words have been misinterpreted. I only intended to express my admiration."

Aemond gave a brief, strained smile. "Your admiration is noted, but I would appreciate it if you expressed it with greater caution."

"I understand," the young Tyrell replied before returning to his table. Aemond hadn't taken his hand off your thigh since then, and you could feel his nails slowly digging into your skin.

"What is your problem?" you said with an annoyed tone, trying to remain discreet in the curious eyes of the court. You tried to push his hand away, but you felt him move it higher, sending a shiver through your body.

Aemond leaned his head towards you, whispering in your ear with a voice thick with possessiveness. "My problem, dear wife, is seeing other men thinking they can approach you so blatantly."

"It's just courtesy," you responded defensively, feeling Aemond's hand move up and down your thigh, brushing carelessly near that area. "And stop doing that."

Aemond, with an expression of apparent innocence, raised an eyebrow. "Do what?"

“That,” you replied, trying to stay calm as the chill continued to run through you. "Your hand is too close."

Finally, Aemond withdrew his hand with an expression of disdain. "Very well," he said with a tone that obscured the brightness of his gaze. "If this makes you uncomfortable, I will stop."

It was almost midnight, and the reality of the wedding night was beginning to weigh on you. It was mandatory that the marriage be consummated that same night, and although you knew that this moment was imminent, you couldn't help but feel a knot in your stomach.

Alicent, with her usual foresight, had advised you to retire to your room first to prepare. Following his recommendations, you headed to your chambers, where the ladies-in-waiting were waiting for you with the usual diligence. With speed and precision, they stripped away your dress, letting the intricate layers of silk and lace fall to the floor. Then, they let down your hair, which fell in loose waves around your figure. Finally, they wrapped you in a thin robe that covered your body, trying to offer you as much comfort as possible in that tense moment.

You walked over to the table to pour yourself some wine, hoping the drink would calm your nerves. As you raised the glass, the ruby liquid reflected the dim light of the candles, and you took a sip, feeling the warm relief it provided. As you savored the wine, you heard the door open. You froze, too embarrassed to turn around and look.

The sounds of Aemond removing his suit filled the room. The rustle of the fabric sliding over his body and the soft jingling of the clasps on his vest mixed with the rapid beat of your heart. You tried to focus on the wine, but your husband's presence behind you was impossible to ignore.

Aemond approached you, grabbing you by the waist and forcing you to turn around. You were now face to face, and you noticed that the patch he always wore to cover his eye was no longer there. In its place, a beautiful sapphire shined in the hole where he had lost his eye. His appearance was intimidating and fascinating at the same time.

He caressed your cheek with a gentleness so unlike him, his touch was surprisingly soft and comforting. "Fear not," he murmured, his voice low and reassuring.

Before you could respond, Aemond planted a kiss on your lips. A new feeling blossomed in your stomach, a whirlwind of nervousness and anticipation. Guiding your inexperienced lips, he led you to explore the rhythm and flavor of his own. Deftly, he gently bit your bottom lip, silently asking you to make way for him.

Your heart was pounding as you felt the caress of his tongue, exploring firmly but slowly. You responded timidly at first, but little by little, you began to reciprocate with more confidence. His hands, strong but tender, held you carefully, slowly tracing lines of fire on your skin.

They broke apart, You took a deep breath, trying to calm the whirlwind of emotions inside you. Aemond slowly guided you towards the bed.

Aemond took a seat first, gently pulling you to sit on his lap. Your cheeks were adorned with a deep red color, a mix of shyness and anticipation. Wasting no time, he captured your lips again, this time with more urgency and desire.

He laid you down slowly, making you lie on your back on the mattress. His body hovered over yours, creating a feeling of warmth and security. His lips moved in a passionate dance with yours.

With fluid movements, Aemond began to leave a trail of kisses from your cheek to your neck. His lips lingered there, sucking gently and leaving little marks of love. The touch of his lips and teeth against your skin sent waves of pleasure through your body, and you couldn't help but let out small sounds of satisfaction.

Aemond carefully stripped you of the thin robe that still covered your body, taking a moment to admire your figure. His eyes roamed every line and curve, filled with a mix of wonder and desire. The intensity of his gaze made your cheeks blush even more, a warm current of anticipation running through your body.

With unexpected softness, he approached again, his lips tracing a path of wet, burning kisses from your neck to your collarbone. Each kiss was a point of fire that lit your skin, creating a path of pleasure that spread with each caress.

His hands, strong and sure, explored your body with an expert touch, discovering your every reaction. "You're beautiful," he murmured against your skin, his voice husky and heavy with desire. "Every part of you."

Suddenly, Aemond cupped one of your breasts in his hand, squeezing it with a firmness that drew a small gasp from you. He played with your sensitive nipple, his skillful fingers causing waves of pleasure that made you arch your back.

Without warning, he lowered his head and devoured the other breast with his mouth, sucking and nibbling with overwhelming passion. You felt like you were in heaven, each touch and kiss lifting you to new heights of pleasure. You thrashed around on the bed, your hands gripping the sheets as you tried to take in the intensity of the sensations.

He continued his attention, alternating between his hands and his mouth, making sure every part of you received his devotion. His lips moved with precision, tracing circles around your nipple before sucking it hard. At the same time, his other hand massaged your other breast, his fingers causing spasms of pleasure with each touch.

Aemond continued his descent, his lips leaving a trail of burning kisses along your stomach and belly. He stopped for a moment, admiring your intimacy already wet from his previous caresses. The vulnerability of the moment made you try to close your legs, a gesture of modesty that Aemond gently prevented.

“Let me show you how much I want you,” he murmured hoarsely, his words sending a new wave of pleasure through your body.

You nodded, feeling the heat inside you intensify. Aemond settled between your legs, his solid, confident presence providing you with a strange mix of calm. With slow deliberation, he left a long lick over your lower lips, eliciting an involuntary moan from your lips.

His hands rested on your thighs, holding them open while his lips and tongue continued to explore your intimacy with a skill and attention that left you breathless. Every caress, every lick, seemed designed to take you to new heights of pleasure. You felt the tension inside you growing, a delicious pressure that threatened to overflow at any moment.

He didn't stop, his tongue moving with a precision that made you arch your back and clutch the sheets. His fingers joined the dance, exploring and teasing, taking you beyond your limits. The mix of his mouth and hands was almost too much, every movement a promise of ecstasy.

Aemond introduced another finger inside you, eliciting a deeper, pleasure-laden moan from you. His movements were slow and deliberate, moving in and out with a precision that seemed designed to explore every corner of your being. The sensation was overwhelming, each thrust of his fingers sending waves of heat through your body.

Your moans intensified, and your body instinctively responded to his attentions, arching into him in a desperate search for more contact. Aemond increased the speed of his movements, his fingers delving deeper, exploring and teasing with a skill that left you breathless.

Aemond withdrew his fingers suddenly, drawing a moan of protest from you at the abrupt absence of his touch. He leaned over you, capturing your lips in a deep, passionate kiss as he expertly removed his pants. You felt the warmth and firmness of his erection brush against your entrance, eliciting an involuntary moan of anticipation.

Aemond eased into you slowly, his erection pushing through with deliberate precision. A burning sensation washed over you, and you tensed at the invasion, but he stayed still for a moment, allowing you to get used to the new sensation. You breathed deeply, trying to relax as your body adjusted to his presence inside you.

After a few moments, he began to move with slow, measured thrusts. Every movement was calculated, designed to maximize pleasure while minimizing pain. The intensity of the sensation increased with each thrust, and soon, the initial burning transformed into a wave of pleasure that ran through you from head to toe.

Your moans joined his, a chorus of sounds that filled the room. Your throbbing insides clenched around him, each contraction eliciting moans of pleasure from both of you. Aemond gradually increased the pace, his thrusts becoming faster and deeper.

You felt the tension inside you grow, a delicious pressure that built with each movement. Your moans became louder, and your body arched towards him, seeking more contact, more intensity. A knot was forming in your belly, a buildup of pleasure that grew with each thrust. Finally, Aemond reached a specific spot inside you, causing you to come immediately.

Your muscles clenched and you overflowed, the overwhelming pleasure enveloping your body. Aemond continued to move inside you, his own moans of pleasure echoing through the room. A few seconds later, he reached his own climax, spilling his seed inside you.

Both were left breathing heavily, their bodies intertwined as the intensity of the moment began to dissipate. Carefully, Aemond eased himself out of you and settled next to you, wrapping his arms around you in a protective gesture.

You laid your head on his chest, feeling how tiredness gradually invaded you. Aemond covered you both with a soft blanket, his large hands running over your back in a calming and protective gesture. The warmth of his body and the constant rhythm of his breathing provided a feeling of security that enveloped you completely.

"Rest, my love," he said softly, his voice filled with an unexpected tenderness. You let sleep guide you, your heavy eyelids closing as you snuggled closer to him. In the tranquility of that moment, with the sound of his heart beating beneath your ear, you fell into a deep, restful sleep.

#house of the dragon season 2 #rhaenyra targaryen #aegon targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #hotd season 2 #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen #fanfic #aemond one eye #prince aemond #angst #asoif/got #game of thrones #aemond x reader #hotd aemond #medieval #fantasy #house of the dragon

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bookwormjust · 3 months ago

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The best Auntie (established relationship, Cassian’s mate, Nyx obsessed with you)

It was one of those nights—the Inner Circle gathered around the large, wooden dining table in the House of Wind, laughter and conversation filling the air as plates of food were passed around. You sat comfortably between Cassian and Feyre, the soft flicker of candlelight casting a warm glow over everyone’s faces. Nyx, the lively five-year-old son of Rhysand and Feyre, was buzzing with energy as usual, but tonight he seemed especially eager to be near you.

“Auntie!” Nyx's voice rang out as he clambered onto your lap, completely ignoring the chair that had been set for him. He wrapped his tiny arms around your neck, his mischievous violet eyes sparkling with joy. “Can you help me eat? Please?”

You smiled down at him, your heart warming as you reached for his spoon. “Of course, little star,” you said softly, ruffling his dark hair. He always wanted to be near you during these dinners, much to the amusement of his parents. Feyre shot you a playful smile, her eyes glowing with warmth, while Rhys chuckled under his breath, his hand resting affectionately on Feyre’s.

“He’s obsessed with you,” Feyre teased. “I swear, he’d move in with you if we let him.”

Cassian, sitting beside you, leaned in and placed his hand on your thigh, his touch warm and grounding. He grinned, clearly enjoying the sight of you and Nyx together. “He has good taste,” he said, his voice laced with pride. “You’re his favorite, after all.”

You blushed a little at Cassian’s words, feeling the warmth of his affection settle over you. Nyx wiggled happily in your lap, clearly loving the attention as you spooned some food into his mouth. Every bite was a game to him, giggling as you made silly faces to get him to eat his vegetables.

Rhys watched the interaction with a soft smile, leaning back in his chair. “We’re going to have to fight Cassian for your attention soon, you know,” he said, half-joking. “Nyx barely lets you breathe when you’re here.”

Cassian smirked, his thumb tracing idle circles on your leg. “He knows who the best auntie is,” he said with a wink, making you laugh.

Nyx, oblivious to the conversation, rested his head against your chest, settling into the comfort of your arms as you continued to help him eat. His little fingers wrapped around your free hand, clinging to you as if you were the most important person in the room.

You glanced over at Cassian, his hazel eyes filled with affection as he watched you with Nyx. He always had to be touching you in some way, whether it was a hand on your knee or a soft brush of his arm against yours. The bond between you was a constant presence, a comforting thread that kept you connected.

As the night went on, Nyx eventually grew sleepier, his body growing heavy in your arms. Feyre gave you a knowing look, silently thanking you for how much love and attention you gave her son. And with Cassian’s hand still resting on your thigh, the world felt perfect—warm, filled with laughter, love, and family.

I'm sorry, I know that Nyx don't have Violet eyes (and have the same as his mom, Feyre), but I like the idea of it. Imagining that he is totally a mini version of Rhys (a version who don't have to suffer, an innocent version of him). AND maybe it's my tendency of traumatic and painful event who make me think that Rhys will always see throught his own son his deceased little sister, same eyes, same energy...

Just my opinion.

KISS ❤️❤️❤️

#acotar reader imagine #acotar x reader #acotar #cassian x you #cassian x fem!reader #cassian x reader #cassian #cassian x y/n #little nyx #Spotify

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n8-shaw · 5 months ago

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Liam raised an eyebrow in Nate's direction, a smirk playing on his lips as he met his brother's eyes - he was well aware of Nate's history with mothers. Though the flirtation wasn't exactly new territory for him, either, he inevitably got some enjoyment out of it being in front of his younger brother. The infallible rivalry between two brothers who had only had competition fostered between them.

Before Nate - or Liam - could retort, Genevieve did, neither brother having noticed her at first. Liam, because he was distracted by her mother and infuriating Nate, and Nate, because he hadn't stopped glaring at Liam for a millisecond since his brother had arrived. Nate gave her a sideways look, his irritation on his face clear - unfortunate, perhaps, considering none of it was directed at her (for once, maybe). "Don't let us interrupt," Nate muttered in response to the invitation, eyes flickering between the pair before returning to his brother, knowing Liam would accept it if only to further piss him off.

Her mom had been talking and to Gen it sounded like the adults from the Peanuts cartoons, she took in absolutely not of it and made occasionally sounds like she was listening. Her father had drifted away from the pair of them, talking what sounded like money with...someone's parents? Some big shot donor? Honestly Gen had no idea and she wasn't about to ask.

"Genevieve, dearest. Are you listening to me?"

"Mhm."

Gen was going to dump her mother on whoever might distract her and probably make a beeline for the food. She was going to absolutely have to whine to her dad about her allowance after this, Gen needed a higher payout for the emotional damage this was wrecking her. Her mouth was half open, an icy excuse us about to fall from her mouth when -

Violet Upton-Crane sensing the slightest hint of a flirtation put on that mega watt smile and flirted (she might have been married but she was still herself) "I have some idea where if you're looking for some company,"

Gen glanced between her mother and realising that god he had to be at least half her age or something. "Mom." She said immediately, the words spilling out before she had a chance to stop them.

#thread: gen #gen01 #event: thanksgiving #feat. liam #feat. violet

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nxttheendxfthestxry · 1 year ago

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Closed Group Starter: The Idiots (yeah)

Sylvia’s the one closest to the door at the knock, going over and opening up. She has a pen and a pad of sticky notes in her hand and safety pins sticking out of a pocket, a sticky note safety pinned to her shirt that says “Sylvia Dinkley” on it, explaining of it. “Joe said he’s color-coding his doubles that have arrived. I didn’t have that, so I just started making sticky notes. Welcome to the shitshow. Damn, I’m glad to see yo-- NO!” She says the last part as she looks back in the door, pointing to the prince who’d shifted to get up. “You and that corner are now besties.”

“This is bullshit,” he whines, pouting and crossing his arms.

“This is saving my sanity,” she answers, pulling back to let Violet and Daniel in.

Daniel raises an eyebrow as they walk in, chuckling softly. “Having fun yet?”

“You have no idea,” Laurian remarks dryly from where he’s sitting, getting up to greet Violet.

@storystartsanew

#my grand plan is that i will be remembered || sylvia #if it breaks my bones and beats me down i'm gonna get back off the ground || laurian #no shred of evidence cuz i don't bleed || daniel #switch au || laurian #&violet.#event: apocalypse #askstorykidshqapocalypse #askstorykidshqevent #thread: the idiots #shadow code || anything i can do she can do better #codename ghost protocol || my name is something very frightening #ashamed like i'm sleeping with the enemy || enemy protocol #don't you know you stop the room and all that i can see is you || royal secret

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bullet-prooflove · 1 month ago

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Haunted: Leroy Jethro Gibbs x Reader (feat: Mike Franks)

Tagging: @kmc1989 @riley-kore @ilovemark1951 @love-affair-with-fandoms @mishkatelwarriorgoddess

Companion piece to:

The Ice Queen - Gibbs meets The Ice Queen for the first time.

Break The Ice - A act of decency helps Gibbs to break the ice.

Grave - You and Gibbs bump into each other in an unexpected place.

Safe - You and Gibbs work through your grief in different ways.

Check In - Gibbs checks in with you after the night before.

Wait It Out - You and Gibbs wait out a threat to your saftey.

All Dressed Up - You and Gibbs have a frank conversation about an office event.

Right Here - You come home to find Gibbs waiting for you on your doorstep.

Revelations - Gibbs is surprised to discover a connection between you and Mike Franks.

There are three cases that haunt Mike Franks.

The Gibbs case, the Larsen case and your sister’s case, the one that was never his to begin with. After all they don’t let special agents investigate the death of someone close to them, especially not the woman that was about to become your spouse.

It hadn’t stopped Mike from hounding the agents that were working the case, sifting through their files or surveying their interviews from the opposite side of the interrogation room window.

It had earned him a suspension, forced bereavement leave they called it.

He’d checked out for a while after that, booze, fights, the whole nine yards. You’d bailed him out more than a handful of times because you couldn’t let the man who had loved your sister throw away his life or his career.

He gets his shit together just in time for the funeral, then spirals again right after.

“She wouldn’t want this for you.” You tell him one night as the two of you sit in your living room trying to regroup. He’s clasping an ice pack to his knuckles from another fight and you’re stitching up the cut above his eye from some asshole’s class ring. “It’s time to put on your big boy pants and start doing the shit she fell in love with you for instead of this nonsense.”

“You don’t understand.” He finds himself saying, his voice raw as the thread tugs tightly, pulling the edges of the wound together. “It’s like I have all this rage, all this emotion but there’s no where for it to go, no one to blame…”

Because they haven’t found the man that brutalised Violet and that case, it just gets colder every day.

“And you Maeve, you just don’t seem to feel a damn thing.”

“That’s because I don’t.” You tell him frankly, sniping the tail off the stitches before sitting down on the coffee table so you can meet his gaze. “I’ve been empty ever since the day they’d found her dead.”

And that’s when he realises you’re depressed.

You’ve spent all this time looking out for him…

And he’s done jack shit for you.

He makes you a promise that night, while he’s sprawled out on your couch. He’ll do whatever he can to pull you out of this fog because he knows where that numbness leads.

You don’t have a gun so he guesses it’ll be slit wrists in a bathtub or a handful of pills down your throat. They’re usually ladies choice.

So he gets his shit together, goes back to work, starts making an effort. He makes sure to check in on you, get you out of the house, dinner, drinks, walks with Gary. You start to come back to the world again and so does he.

It’s when he starts to date again that things hit a speed bump. The moment you see him with another woman, it’s like a flip switches inside you because you realise Mike can just move on, find someone else to take up the position that Violet filled in his life but you can’t, you can’t replace your sister.

The fight you have that night, it’s the first time you’ve exhibited any emotion about Violet’s death. You scream, you shout, you throw crockery and Mike, he just takes it because this is what he’s been waiting for, the moment you admit to yourself that Violet’s gone, that she’s never coming back.

You get distant after that, colder. When he approaches you a few weeks later you make it clear that you don’t want anything to do with him. As far as you’re concerned any personal connection between the two of you died with your sister.

It wounds him in a way he doesn’t care to admit but he respects your wishes because he understands that this, this is how you move on.

Now he’s sitting in your office, on the opposite side of your desk because the probie, he’s been digging through your sister’s case and he thinks he’s found something, and Mike kinda thinks he has too. He just needs you to make sure.

“They never found her engagement ring.” Mike tells you, his elbows coming to rest upon your desk as he leans forward, his hands clasped together on top of the blue folder he’s placed there. “I was too fucked up to notice at the time. Is there any chance you have it?”

It’s a distinctive piece. An aquamarine stone set amongst a couple of diamonds in a silver band. It had cost him a couple of months salary but it had been worth it at the time because that gem, it had been the exact colour of Violet’s eyes.

“No.” You say softly, your eyebrows furrowing into a frown. “I thought you’d kept it afterwards as a keepsake.”

He sees the realisation hit you, about what must have happened to that ring. He knows it’s like a gut punch because that’s exactly the way that he felt when Gibbs asked him the question. The other man had spent hours trawling through those evidence logs trying to locate it. Mike has to give him his due diligence, he’s spotted something nobody else did, even though he wasn’t supposed to be working the case.

“You think that son of a bitch took it?” You ask him. There’s a dangerous lilt in your voice, one he recognises from the last time the two of you were in the same proximity.

“I do.” He says and he watches you literally bite your tongue in order to stop yourself from cursing out the assholes who clearly dropped the fucking ball with Violet’s case. They’ve moved on now, retired, he’d had Gibbs and Lala check in because he didn’t trust himself not to tear them a new one.

“What does that mean?” You ask him, agitated. “That she was a victim of a serial? Those guys like to take trophies right?”

“Actually, we’re thinking a little more close to home.” He says as he pushes the blue folder towards you with his fingertips. “I got Strickland to put together a profile. I wanted to see if it fit anyone from back then, someone that was in her life, maybe someone I didn’t know…”

There’s a reluctance in you, he sees it. The thing is this folder, it’s a grenade. It has the power to tear your whole life apart and you’re just getting back on your feet, you’re just starting to climb out of that hole you’ve been trapped in for so fucking long.

“I still dream about her Maeve,” He tells you with a tremor in his voice. “I’m with someone else, in love with her but Violet’s ghost, it still haunts me.”

Your hands are shaking when you open the folder, you swallow hard against the ache in your chest as you study the words written in Strickland’s neat scrawl. Age, behaviours, job description. It’s like you’re seeing him clear as day, leaping up at you from between the pages.

“Maeve…” Mike says as he studies the expression on your face. “Do you know him?”

There’s an agony in you, it’s excruciating because this son of a bitch, he still visits your sister’s grave. He puts white lilies against the headstone, every birthday and Christmas because they were friends, such good fucking friends.

“Yea.” You say, your voice devoid of emotion as your gaze sweeps up to meet Mike’s. “I fucking do.”

Love Gibbs? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

#leroy jethro gibbs #leroy jethro gibbs x reader #ncis origins #gibbs #gibbs x reader #austin stowell #mike franks

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asterius-of-crete · 1 year ago

Note

The King snorts, a soft and affectionate sound, and he nuzzles Merrick. He's become more tolerant of things like that. Small gestures of affection, almost casual touch.

Sighing deeply, he pulls her close, one hand covering her entire back as he does. "My dearest... how tired are you?"

He's asking for... reasons.

Merrick smiles against him, glad to hear that he agrees. As much as she loves being doted on and taken care of, she also wanted to show that she could be relied on if needed. 'Damsel in distress' was never a mantle she wished to carry, in this life or previous.

Not only just hearing the praise, but feeling it in the rumble of his chest as she's pulled in closer pushes a pleased hum out of her that gradually turns into a soft moan. Utterly surrounded by his warmth and strength, pressed close while relief and some adrenaline from the events course through her veins. "If you think so, then it must be true, my King. I am always happy to please you..."

#thread;;#event (eternal kingdom);;#merrick of violet

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novaursa · 1 month ago

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Legacy (dragon in the garden)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Paring: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Note: Once more, be aware of time jumps and how canon events and the timeline don't match the plot of the story.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: the dawn

- Next part: future of the realm

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

The memory came to Tywin Lannister unbidden, like a faint whisper carried on the wind as he rode through Highgarden’s fragrant gardens. The sights and scents of the Reach stirred something deep within him, a reminder of another time, long before the crown’s descent into chaos and ruin.

It was a warm day, the kind that Highgarden seemed to conjure effortlessly. The castle was alive with color, the gardens bursting with blooms of every hue. Tywin had ridden at the head of King Aerys II’s grand procession, the gold of House Lannister glittering beside the red and black banners of the Targaryens. At the time, Tywin had still been the Hand of the King, and though his duties weighed heavily on him, there was a quiet pride in his station.

He remembered the moment he first saw her during that visit. She was only a girl then, with her silver-gold hair glinting in the sunlight like threads of moonlight. She moved with an elegance beyond her years, a natural grace that captivated everyone who saw her. Lords and ladies alike were drawn to her like moths to a flame.

Tywin had stood on a shaded terrace, observing the gathering below. King Aerys, resplendent in his black and red robes, sat on a dais, his expression a mask of smug satisfaction as his courtiers fawned over him. Beside him stood his daughter, the Princess Y/N, who charmed the assembled lords with her sharp wit and radiant smile.

Tywin’s memory sharpened, focusing on a specific moment. Lord Mace Tyrell, younger and more eager then, had approached the princess with a bouquet of roses, his cheeks flushed with youthful enthusiasm.

“For you, Princess,” Mace had said, bowing deeply as he presented the flowers. “The most beautiful roses in all the Reach, for the most beautiful lady in the realm.”

Tywin had watched as the princess accepted the gesture with a polite smile, though there was a flicker of amusement in her violet eyes. “Thank you, Lord Tyrell,” she said graciously. “The roses are lovely, but I suspect the gardeners deserve more credit than you.”

The gathered nobles had laughed politely, and Mace had flushed even deeper, stammering a reply that Tywin couldn’t recall. What he did remember, however, was the way her gaze had briefly lifted to meet his own, her smile faltering for the briefest of moments. It was as though she had sensed his presence, even from across the crowd.

Later that evening, during the banquet held in Highgarden’s great hall, Tywin had found himself seated near her. Aerys, in one of his rare moments of lucidity, had boasted of his daughter’s intelligence and charm, praising her as the jewel of House Targaryen. Tywin had offered a measured response, careful not to provoke the king’s volatile temper.

“You must be very proud, Your Grace,” Tywin had said. “The princess embodies the strength and beauty of her house.”

Aerys had preened at the compliment, though his attention quickly shifted elsewhere. The princess, however, had glanced at Tywin, her expression thoughtful.

“You flatter me, Lord Lannister,” she had said softly, her voice steady and composed. “But I suspect you do not offer such praise lightly.”

Tywin had inclined his head, acknowledging her perceptiveness. “No, I do not,” he had replied simply.

The memory shifted again, to a quieter moment in the gardens the next day. He had found her there, surrounded by a cluster of children from noble houses, all vying for her attention. When she saw him, she had risen gracefully and dismissed the others with a kind word, leaving them to scamper off among the flowers.

“Lord Hand,” she had greeted him, her tone polite but curious. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“I came to see the gardens,” Tywin had replied, though they both knew it was a lie. He had no interest in flowers or idle strolls. He had wanted to see her, to understand the unique blend of strength and warmth that set her apart from the rest of her family.

“You don’t strike me as a man who enjoys gardens,” she had said, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “They require patience.”

Tywin had allowed a rare smile of his own, though it was brief. “Patience is not a virtue I cultivate easily,” he had admitted. “But even I can recognize beauty when I see it.”

The memory faded as Tywin’s horse came to a stop before Highgarden’s grand gates. He blinked, the present rushing back to him with the murmur of his guards and the rustling of banners in the wind. His gaze shifted to the carriage behind him, where she now sat with their son, a living testament to the choices and sacrifices that had brought them here.

Highgarden had been the site of many memories, but this visit was different. It was no longer about the past or the ambitions of a mad king. Now, it was about legacy—his legacy. And for the first time in years, Tywin felt a flicker of something unfamiliar: hope.

Mace Tyrell rode alongside Tywin at the head of the procession, his green and gold attire vibrant in the sunlight. He gestured animatedly as he spoke, his voice carrying over the steady clatter of hooves. Tywin, as always, remained composed, offering only curt nods and the occasional word in response to Mace’s enthusiastic chatter. Beside them, Ser Barristan rode in quiet vigilance, his sharp eyes scanning the path ahead.

Behind them, the carriage carrying you, Damon, and Lady Olenna followed. The crowds lining the road murmured in anticipation, their curiosity piqued by the sight of the Lannister-Targaryen union and the young heir.

Inside the carriage, you adjusted Damon in your arms, his tiny hands reaching for the folds of your gown. He gurgled softly, oblivious to the spectacle outside. Olenna, seated across from you, smirked as she peered out the window. “The Reach loves a good show,” she remarked dryly. “And this one promises to be quite the spectacle.”

You glanced out the window, your expression composed despite the flutter of nerves in your chest. The sight of so many eyes fixed on the carriage was both unsettling and humbling. “Let them look,” you said softly. “If they wish to see a Targaryen, they may.”

The carriage rolled to a stop, and moments later, a footman opened the door. Tywin dismounted from his horse, his movements precise as he stepped forward to offer you his hand. Taking it, you descended gracefully, holding Damon close to your chest. The whispers among the crowd grew louder at the sight of you, their admiration and curiosity palpable.

Mace stepped forward, his arms outstretched in a gesture of welcome. “Lord Tywin! Lady Y/N! What an honor it is to have you here in Highgarden!” His gaze flickered briefly to Damon, and his smile widened. “And the young heir to Casterly Rock—what a fine boy!”

“Lord Tyrell,” Tywin said, his voice steady and polite as he inclined his head. “Your hospitality is appreciated.”

Mace’s attention shifted to you, his expression one of exaggerated delight. “My lady, you grace Highgarden with your presence. Truly, it is a sight to behold—a Targaryen among us!”

You inclined your head gracefully, a faint smile on your lips. “Highgarden is as beautiful as I have always heard, Lord Tyrell. It is an honor to be your guest.”

Olenna descended from the carriage next, her sharp gaze taking in the scene with thinly veiled amusement. “Mace, don’t stand there gawking like a fool. Let the lady and her child breathe.”

Mace chuckled nervously but stepped aside, gesturing toward the entrance. “Of course, of course! Please, come inside. The finest rooms have been prepared for your stay.”

As you walked beside Tywin, Damon nestled securely in your arms, you couldn’t help but notice the way the crowd’s eyes followed you. Murmurs of admiration and curiosity rippled through them, their gazes lingering on Damon’s silver-gold hair and violet eyes. You caught snippets of their whispers—"A true dragon,” “How beautiful,” “Lannister and Targaryen blood united.”

Once inside the grand hall, Mace continued to prattle about the preparations made in your honor. “We’ve spared no expense! The feast tonight will be one to remember. And the gardens, my lady—you simply must see them. They are in full bloom.”

You nodded politely, though your attention was divided between Mace’s words and the quiet exchange of glances between Tywin and Olenna. Both were masters of subtlety, their unspoken calculations nearly palpable as they sized up one another.

As you reached the rooms prepared for you, Mace gestured grandly. “Here we are! I trust you’ll find everything to your liking.”

Tywin offered a curt nod. “Thank you, Lord Tyrell.”

Mace lingered for a moment longer, as if hoping for further praise, but Olenna’s pointed clearing of her throat sent him scurrying off to oversee the feast preparations. Once the door closed behind him, you turned to Tywin, your expression unreadable.

“They are eager to please,” you remarked softly, adjusting Damon as he began to fuss.

“They’re eager to gain favor,” Tywin replied, his voice cool. “Do not mistake hospitality for selflessness.”

Olenna chuckled, settling into a nearby chair. “Oh, Tywin, you’re as charming as ever. But he’s right, my dear,” she said, looking at you. “Highgarden is a lovely cage, but a cage nonetheless.”

You met Olenna’s gaze and then Tywin’s, your resolve firm. “Perhaps. But even a cage can offer opportunities.”

Tywin studied you for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “You’ve been planning something.”

You didn’t deny it, offering only a faint smile. “I will let you know when the time is right.”

As the evening approached, the promise of a feast loomed large, but your thoughts lingered on the whispers of High Heart and the call that refused to be ignored. Highgarden was only the beginning, and you were determined to uncover the truths that awaited you.

The room assigned to you in Highgarden was as opulent as one would expect from the seat of House Tyrell. The walls were adorned with rich tapestries depicting scenes of bountiful harvests and the famed roses of the Reach, while the windows offered a stunning view of the lush gardens below. The scent of blooming flowers drifted in through the open window, mingling with the faint sound of birdsong.

You sat on a plush chaise near the window, Damon cradled in your arms. The boy was content, his hair catching the late afternoon sunlight as he cooed and gurgled softly. Tywin stood nearby, his gaze distant as he surveyed the room. He had removed his armor and donned simpler, yet still impeccably tailored, attire, the weight of command momentarily lifted from his shoulders.

“It hasn’t changed much,” he said after a long silence, his voice carrying a rare softness. He stepped closer, his sharp green eyes meeting yours briefly before flicking to the gardens beyond the window. “Highgarden looks as it did the last time we were here.”

You looked up, curious. “The last time?”

He nodded, a faint shadow of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “It was many years ago, during the height of your father’s reign. I accompanied him on a royal progress to the Reach. You were there, a young princess, adored by everyone.”

You tilted your head slightly, surprised by the memory. “I barely recall ever visiting Highgarden with my father.”

Tywin’s expression shifted, a touch of amusement glinting in his eyes. “That’s because you spent most of your time in the gardens, surrounded by admirers. Lord Mace was barely more than a boy himself then, but he and his sisters followed you around like devoted attendants.”

A small laugh escaped you, the image vivid despite your lack of recollection. “I can imagine. Mace still carries that same eagerness, though now he directs it toward his endless attempts to curry favor.”

Tywin’s gaze softened further as he continued, his voice tinged with nostalgia. “You were the centerpiece of every gathering. Even your father seemed proud in those moments, though he scarcely showed it. The lords and ladies were enamored with you, charmed by your wit and grace. I remember thinking then…” He paused, his words trailing off.

“What did you think?” you prompted gently, your eyes searching his face.

He met your gaze, the weight of unspoken thoughts evident in his expression. “I thought that your father did not deserve you as a daughter. That you were too bright, too capable to be overshadowed by his madness.”

The sincerity in his words left you momentarily speechless. Damon squirmed in your arms, breaking the silence, and you smiled down at him before replying. “I never knew you thought that way. Back then, I was just a girl, oblivious to much of what was happening around me.”

“You were a girl,” Tywin acknowledged. “But even then, you carried yourself with a dignity far beyond your years. It was why the lords adored you—and why your father sought to keep you close.”

You looked away, the bittersweet memories of your father stirring uneasily within you. “He kept me close because I was useful to him,” you said quietly. “A tool to be married off, just like Rhaegar.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, his gaze hardening. “You were no tool. Not to me.”

The weight of his words hung in the air, heavy with implications. You met his gaze once more, searching for the deeper meaning behind them. “And yet, here we are,” you said softly. “Bound by necessity, much like those days.”

Tywin stepped closer, his hand resting on the back of the chaise. “Necessity, perhaps,” he said, his voice low, “but not without purpose. What we have built is more than circumstance. It is strength, and it is enduring.”

Damon let out a soft coo, his tiny hand reaching upward. Tywin’s expression shifted slightly, the faintest trace of warmth softening his features as he leaned down to brush his fingers over the boy’s hair. “He is proof of that.”

You smiled faintly, watching as Damon’s small hand grasped Tywin’s finger. “He is our future,” you agreed, your voice steady. “And I will do everything in my power to protect him.”

“As will I,” Tywin said firmly, his tone leaving no room for doubt.

For a moment, the three of you remained in quiet companionship, the past blending seamlessly with the present. Highgarden’s beauty and the memories it evoked were undeniable, but the strength of your family, forged in the fires of adversity, was what truly grounded you.

Tywin straightened, his commanding presence reasserting itself. “Rest while you can. The feast tonight will demand much of your energy.”

You inclined your head, watching as he moved toward the door. Before he left, he glanced back, his expression unreadable. “The lords of the Reach may admire roses,” he said, his voice quiet but firm, “but even they know the value of a dragon.”

As the door closed behind him, you looked down at Damon, his eyes staring up at you with innocent curiosity. The weight of Tywin’s words settled over you, a reminder of your purpose and the strength you would need to navigate the challenges ahead.

The gardens of Highgarden were a masterpiece of design and nature, a testament to the wealth and refinement of House Tyrell. Lush greenery stretched as far as the eye could see, interspersed with vibrant flowers in every hue imaginable. Fountains burbled softly, and the air was rich with the scent of roses and lavender.

You sat beneath the shade of a sprawling oak, Damon cradled in your arms the next day. His tiny hands reaching for the petals of a rose you held just out of his grasp. His silver-gold hair gleamed in the dappled sunlight, and his violet eyes, flecked with pale green, seemed to captivate everyone who looked at him.

Lady Olenna Tyrell sat beside you, her sharp gaze surveying the small crowd of noblewomen who had gathered nearby. They hovered at a respectful distance, their murmurs and admiring glances directed at Damon.

“He’s a handsome boy,” one of the ladies said softly, her voice carrying just enough for you to hear. “A true Targaryen, isn’t he?”

“And a Lannister,” another added, her tone tinged with awe. “Such a combination… it’s no wonder he’s destined for greatness.”

Olenna smirked, leaning slightly on her walking stick as she addressed you. “It seems your son is already causing a stir, my dear. Not that I’m surprised.”

You adjusted Damon in your arms, your gaze sweeping over the ladies before returning to Olenna. “It’s as you said—symbols and pawns. They see him as both.”

“They see him as a future king,” Olenna corrected, her voice low and pointed. “Even if that’s not what your husband has in mind. The boy’s blood is enough to set tongues wagging from here to King’s Landing.”

You didn’t respond immediately, your focus shifting to Damon, who was now giggling at the rose in your hand. His laughter was light and innocent, a stark contrast to the weight of the expectations already being placed upon him.

One of the braver ladies stepped forward, curtseying deeply before addressing you. “My lady, your son is truly a wonder. May we approach to offer our congratulations?”

You inclined your head gracefully, your expression composed. “Of course.”

The small group of women moved closer, their eyes fixed on Damon with a mixture of admiration and reverence. One of them, a young lady with dark hair, smiled as she spoke. “He has the look of both his houses. The strength of the lion and the beauty of the dragon.”

Olenna chuckled softly, her sharp wit laced with amusement. “A fine compliment, though I doubt the boy is concerned with such things. He’s more interested in that rose, it seems.”

The ladies laughed politely, their attention still on Damon as he cooed and reached for the flower again. You allowed yourself a small smile, though your mind remained guarded.

Another lady, older and more forthright, leaned in slightly. “My lady, may I ask… does Lord Tywin often dote upon the boy? It is rare to see him so taken with anyone, even his own blood.”

Olenna raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained by the question. You glanced at her briefly before replying. “Lord Tywin values legacy above all else. Damon represents that legacy, as well as the unity of our houses. He is proud, as any father would be.”

“And you, my lady?” the older woman pressed. “Are you content?”

Before you could respond, Olenna intervened with a sly smile. “Contentment is a luxury few of us can afford, wouldn’t you agree?”

The ladies chuckled nervously, unsure how to interpret Olenna’s remark. You took the opportunity to shift the conversation, your tone calm but firm. “I am fortunate to have a healthy son and a husband who values family. That is enough for me.”

The group murmured their agreement, though you could sense their curiosity lingered. Damon squirmed in your arms, drawing your attention back to him. His tiny hand brushed against the rose, and you finally relented, letting him grasp it carefully.

Olenna watched the scene with a softening expression, though her sharp tongue wasn’t far behind. “If only the rest of us could quiet a crowd with a single smile,” she said dryly. “You and your son have quite the effect on people.”

You looked at her, your lips curving into a faint smile. “It’s not the first time I’ve been surrounded by admirers in a garden.”

Olenna chuckled, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “Touché, my dear. Touché.”

The ladies eventually drifted away, leaving you and Olenna in relative peace. Damon, still clutching the rose, began to drift off to sleep in your arms. The sight of his tiny form, so vulnerable and full of promise, filled you with a fierce determination.

“He’s the future, you know,” Olenna said quietly, her tone unusually gentle. “Not just for your house, but for all of us. Make sure he’s ready.”

“I will,” you replied, your voice steady. “No matter what it takes.”

Olenna nodded, satisfied.

The forest was quiet except for the rustling of leaves and the crackling of the small fire at the center of their camp. Arya Stark sat cross-legged on the ground, sharpening Needle with slow, deliberate strokes. The Brotherhood Without Banners moved about the clearing, preparing for the night. Hot Pie was stirring a pot of stew, its savory scent wafting through the crisp evening air, while Gendry was busy repairing a dent in his helm.

The chatter among the men was subdued until one of them, Tom of Sevenstreams, leaned closer to the fire, his voice carrying a note of curiosity. “Have you heard the latest from the Reach? Highgarden’s been bustling with nobles, all of them clamoring for a glimpse of the dragon babe.”

Arya’s hand froze mid-stroke. Her sharp gray eyes flicked to Tom, her heart skipping a beat. She forced herself to keep her expression neutral as she asked, “What dragon babe?”

Tom glanced at her, surprised by her sudden interest. “The Targaryen princess,” he said, as though it were common knowledge. “Or should I say, Lady Lannister now. She’s Tywin’s wife, isn’t she? Gave him a son not long ago—silver hair, violet eyes, the whole dragon’s brood look.”

Gendry looked up from his work, frowning. “A Targaryen? Married to Tywin Lannister? That’s mad.”

“Mad, maybe,” Tom said with a shrug, “but true. They say the boy’s got both lion and dragon in him. The nobles are calling him the future of the realm.”

Arya’s grip tightened on Needle. Her chest felt tight, her mind racing as memories of the reader flooded her thoughts. The woman who had been like a second mother to her, who had taught her to wield a needle of a different kind, who had comforted her during her worst moments in Winterfell—and later, the woman she had tried to save at Harrenhal, only to watch Tywin take her to King’s Landing.

Hot Pie, oblivious to Arya’s inner turmoil, ladled some stew into a wooden bowl and handed it to Gendry. “Didn’t think dragons and lions could make a cub together,” he said, his brow furrowed in confusion.

Gendry smirked. “Guess they can now.”

Tom continued, his tone conspiratorial. “They say she’s still as regal as ever, even with all that’s happened. And Tywin—well, he dotes on her, or so the rumors go. But the boy, now he’s the real talk of the realm. The lords and ladies are already whispering about alliances.”

Arya couldn’t stay silent any longer. “What else have you heard about her?” she asked, her voice sharper than she intended.

Tom raised an eyebrow at her intensity. “Not much beyond that. She’s at Highgarden now, with Tywin and the boy. They say she keeps to herself, but when she does speak, people listen. Why? You know her or something?”

Gendry glanced at Arya curiously, noting the way her jaw tightened and her eyes darted back to her blade. “The lady from Harrenhal.”

Arya hesitated, then nodded. “She lived in Winterfell,” she said quietly, her voice tinged with emotion she couldn’t quite suppress. “She’s… like family.”

Hot Pie’s spoon froze mid-air, stew dripping back into the pot. “Wait, you’re saying there is more to that Targaryen lady. Like, you know her know her?.”

Arya glared at him. “She’s not just a Targaryen. She’s a Stark, too. She raised Jon, taught me and Sansa things… She was there when my brothers were born. She’s family. I’ve told you that already.”

Hot Pie blinked, trying to process the information once more. “That’s why you were so worked up at Harrenhal, wasn’t it? When Tywin took her?”

Arya’s expression darkened. “Yes,” she said simply. “I tried to save her. I thought I could get her out before they took her to King’s Landing, but Tywin had too many guards, and she…” Her voice trailed off, the frustration of that memory still fresh in her mind.

Gendry frowned, his brows furrowing. “And now she’s married to Tywin Lannister,” he said softly. “That must be… hard to hear.”

Arya’s grip on Needle tightened until her knuckles turned white. “It doesn’t matter,” she said, though her voice trembled slightly. “She’s doing what she has to, just like all of us.”

Tom, sensing the tension, shifted uncomfortably. “Well, from what I’ve heard, she’s doing all right for herself. She’s protected, and her son—”

“She doesn’t need Tywin to protect her,” Arya snapped, cutting him off. “She’s stronger than any of them.”

Hot Pie cleared his throat, trying to lighten the mood. “Well, maybe she’ll get away, like you did. Maybe she’ll come back to us.”

Arya didn’t answer. She stared into the fire, her mind racing with possibilities. She thought of Y/N, of Damon, of the tangled web of alliances and betrayals that now surrounded them. Deep down, she knew that nothing would ever be the same—but she also knew that the woman she remembered was still in there somewhere, fighting her own battles in the heart of the enemy’s lair.

“I hope so,” Arya mutterted under her breath, her resolve hardening as she returned to sharpening Needle. She would find a way to make things right, no matter how long it took.

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