#「 house of the dragon 」 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ewanmitchellcrumbs · 23 hours ago

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Heart Without a Home

Pairing: Modern!Aegon II Targaryen x f!reader, Modern!Aemond Targaryen x reader Warnings: Angst, emotional infidelity. Word count: ~9k

Summary: Her and Aegon have been an item for three years, and she couldn't be happier, though she has grown to dread special occasions spent with his overbearing family, particularly his moody younger brother. A Christmas week with the Targtowers gets to the root of all of the ill feeling.

Author's note: Day twelve of Smuffmas - home videos and voyeurism. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

The dull morning light of late December winter filtered through the curtains that they never remembered to close, the room silent save for the sounds of their quiet breathing. Aegon laid naked in her bed, sprawled on his front across her body, his head rested upon her bare chest with his eyes closed as she cradled him. Her fingertips gently massaged his scalp in soothing circles. She could feel from the oil within the roots that he was a few days past the need for his hair to be washed. Ordinarily she wouldn’t care; she loved it when Aegon’s fluffy platinum hair was a little on the dirtier side, it sat flatter to his head and looked less unruly, retaining the scent of peppercorn and bergamot that seemed to cling to him, that she had grown to love.

Yet she knew she would have to tell him to wash it, if only to save him from the disapproving comments from the woman from whom he had inherited his wild mop of curls, though hers were a vibrant auburn. It was Christmas Eve, and they were due to travel back to Aegon’s family home for three days; the shortest possible amount of time that his mother, Alicent, would allow and the longest that he would agree to. His younger siblings, Aemond and Helaena, usually always arrived the day before and stayed right through until New Year’s Day. That would have felt like a prison sentence to Aegon, so a compromise had been settled upon, and she intended to ensure it was as painless for him as it possibly could be. That included pre-empting his mother’s criticism of his hygiene and encouraging him to wash his hair.

“Come on, sleeping beauty,” she urged softly, shifting slightly beneath him as she stroked her hands down his back, “you need to jump in the shower.”

“Mmmm…don’t want to,” he groused sleepily, clinging tighter to her, nuzzling further into her body.

She chuckled, attempting to push the dead weight of him from her but failed miserably. “We have to leave soon. If we aren’t there by lunchtime then we’ll never hear the end of it from your mum.”

“Oh, god forbid we aren’t there for her horrible smoked salmon and cream cheese bagels,” he bemoaned, rising slowly up on his elbows to look at her, his brow furrowed in an expression that she was sure was intended to convey his annoyance, but just appeared adorably tired and grumpy to her. God, how she loved that face.

“But,” she countered, tapping his nose lightly with her index finger, “you get to be warm under all that nice, hot water while muggins here has to coax your dopey mutt outside in the freezing cold and try to convince him to go for a piss. I’d say you’ve got the better end of the deal.”

Aegon smirked, rolling off of her and onto his own side of the bed, nearest the wall, where Sunfyre’s bed was. He peered over the edge, watching as the large golden retriever laid on his back, all four paws in the air, snoring quietly. “You know, if you and the hound wanted to head back for a few days, I’d be happy to stay here,” Aegon muttered quietly, giving Sunfyre’s paw a playful shake, which caused the dog’s eyes to open, his tail wagging enthusiastically as he saw who loomed above him.

She rolled her eyes, disentangling herself from the sheets and rising from the bed, beginning to rummage through her chest of drawers for something suitable to wear to take the dog outside in. “Very funny. Shower. Now.”

“Ugh, fine,” Aegon huffed, pulling himself from the mattress. He paused, still utterly naked as he stood in the doorway. “Will you at least have a bacon sandwich ready for me when I’m finished?”

She turned to him, a black hoodie clutched in her hands, and tilted her head, her tone one of mock confusion. “And spoil your appetite for your mum’s lovely smoked salmon?”

“Oh, fuck off,” he grinned before heading across the hallway and into the bathroom.

She laughed, turning her attention back to getting dressed.

Aegon’s playfulness had been what had first drawn her to him when they had met three years prior. There was a shitty, little live music venue that she frequented most weekends – The Blue Pearl – the sort of place that’s dingy, smelly, with damp in the walls, and toilets that are always blocked, yet somehow the bar still feels justified in charging the better part of six pounds for a pint that’s more line cleaner than it is beer. The night they had met there had been a local indie band playing there, which had drawn a crowd of less than twenty people. Aegon had burst through the doors, already half drunk, with three friends in tow and offered to buy drinks for every person in the place. That was how she knew he was different – nobody could afford to do that – this was the sort of place where if you were going to buy a drink from the bar, it would likely be a coke that you’d then add the vodka to that you’d snuck in inside a hip flask. His thousand watt smile had charmed her and, at the end of the night, when he’d insisted that he couldn’t possibly leave without a kiss and her phone number, she had known she was in trouble.

In the beginning, things hadn’t been that serious. Aegon was a party boy, and she knew she wasn’t the only girl he was seeing. She didn’t mind, and was happy to keep things casual, because he was fun to spend time with. But as time had passed, and feelings developed, she found herself the sole recipient of his affection and, therefore, was pulled deeper into his world, able to understand the full extent of the wealth he was born into and the trauma that that brought with it. Aegon rebelled against the status of his family, choosing to live in a rented house share with his friends, Martyn, Leon and Ed. The few times she had visited she had been disgusted by the squalor the four men had allowed the house to fall into. Once, Leon had bought everyone in the house a Cadbury’s Creme Egg as an Easter gift and Martyn had accidentally sat on his and squashed it into the sofa cushions. She had been horrified to find it still there when she’d visited again a few weeks later. There was also the crusty, old assortment of boxers and socks that covered the surface of the white, plastic picnic table that stood in the back garden; Ed had laid them out there to dry one sunny summer’s day, having done a rare load of laundry, and then just never bothered to bring them back inside. They were still there by Halloween.

She had been pleased when Aegon and Sunfyre had begun spending more and more time at her place, not just because it meant she didn’t have to endure the hovel that they lived in, but because the two of them made her cosy, little flat feel like a home. Now, she and Aegon basically lived together in all but name. He only ever returned to his place when he needed clean clothes or to cool off if they had argued.

Aside from coming from old money and, therefore, leading a lifestyle that was so extravagant it made her uneasy, Aegon’s family maintained a dynamic that was strained at best and volatile at worst. Thankfully, Aegon kept his visits limited to special occasions only, meaning they only spent time with the family for birthdays and Christmases. His mother was an anxious woman and, though it was clear she loved her children dearly, she was often overbearing, not knowing how to properly express her care for them all, so it often came across as needless fussing and nagging. Their father had passed away, and Alicent had remarried to a man named Criston. He was harmless enough, though so broodingly quiet that she went out of her way to avoid being left alone with him. Otto, their grandfather and Alicent’s father, was a stern man who reserved the harshest of his criticisms for Aegon. He disapproved of his decision not to join the family’s investment banking firm, regularly reminding his grandson that there was no stability in the events marketing startup that he had founded with his father’s inheritance money. Aegon’s brother, Aemond, was indifferent to the point of being cold, he offered little in the way of conversation, only speaking when spoken to, and seemed content enough to keep to himself. Besides Aegon, Helaena was her favourite of all the family. She wasn’t particularly warm, but her nature was gentle and if you engaged with her regarding a topic she found interesting, she would animate in a way that made her features light up as she talked excitedly.

Their father had a daughter, Rhaenyra, from a previous marriage. Though she had never met her, and she was never present at any of the gatherings she attended, her influence hung over them all like a shadow, creating contention and bitter resentment. Aegon liked a drink, but she hated how paralytic he allowed himself to become when visiting his family. A means to cope with the ill feeling, a way to make the time pass quicker, perhaps both, she couldn’t tell, but seeing him in that state broke her heart. He was damaging himself, but also reaffirming his family’s opinion that he was a waste of space. She knew he was anything but.

They just had to get through tonight and then Christmas Day, and then they’d be driving back home again by Boxing Day lunchtime. And if there was nothing else to look forward to, at least she could console herself with the abundance of gifts. Alicent always ensured that each of them had a huge pile to open. Hers were always fairly generic; high end skincare, an expensive bottle of bubbly, artisanal chocolates and designer label accessories, but each year there was also one that was so personal, so thoughtful, that it made her feel guilty for ever hesitating to come in the first place. The first year she had spent Christmas with them all, she had received a platinum bracelet inlaid with glittering sapphires, and last year she had been given a first edition of her favourite book, signed by the author. As dysfunctional as the Targaryens were, they were insanely generous to those closest to them.

***

The tyres of her little Fiat 500 crunched over the gravel of the driveway leading up to the property, the lengthy track was flanked by rows of perfectly sculpted hedges, beyond which sat acres of immaculately manicured lawn on either side. The drive from the gates at the roadside all the way to the house felt almost as long as the journey from her flat.

“Got enough petrol to make it up the drive?” Aegon asked, casting her a smirk from where he sat in the passenger seat, fingers drumming restlessly upon his knees.

“You make that joke every time we visit,” she sighed, turning the steering wheel to maneuver the vehicle as the gravel track curved around the large, circular fountain that stood at the front of the massive house.

“And I’ll keep making it until it gets a laugh out of you,” he quipped, turning to unclip his seatbelt.

Ordinarily, his earnest intent to make her smile would have made her heart melt, however, this time the sentiment fell upon deaf ears. She stiffened as the familiar feeling of inadequacy settled upon her like a stone as the faded red brick building, encased in trailing ivy leaves, came into view. As she had predicted, everyone was there already; outside was Alicent’s sleek, forest green Mercedes AMG GT, with Otto’s Rolls Royce Phantom and Criston’s Porsche Cayenne parallel parked at either end. She drove around to where Helaena’s sky blue VW Beetle was situated, with Aemond’s Triumph chopper propped precariously behind it, and pulled to a stop in front. It was the least intimidating of all the vehicles present, so she felt more comfortable leaving her beaten up little car there.

She turned the engine off and, as though sensing her discomfort, Aegon’s hand grabbed hers, intercepting her as she reached to unfasten her seatbelt.

“It’s just three days and two nights,” he reassured her, giving her hand a gentle squeeze, “we’ve got this.”

No sooner were they out of the car and unloading Sunfyre and the bags from their respective places on the back seat and the boot, than Alicent was hurrying from the house, her long auburn curls flowing behind her.

“We were starting to think you weren’t coming,” she said, kissing them both on their cheeks in greeting. She paused, looking intently at Aegon as her hands smoothed his hair, before calling over her shoulder to her husband, who was already making his way towards them. “Criston, fetch the bags!”

“Hello, you two,” he greeted softly, divesting them of their luggage, “safe journey?”

Sunfyre’s excited bark came in place of an answer. The large, golden dog bounded across the drive and into the house, wagging his tail.

“Oh god,” Alicent said, frowning in concern, “I don’t think Aemond has locked Vhagar away.”

“Right then, shall we?” Criston asked with a raise of his eyebrows, as Alicent chased after the golden retriever.

Once inside, she caught a quick glimpse of a fluffy, black cat racing up the grand, wooden staircase in the foyer, with Sunfyre in hot pursuit.

“I’ll take these to your room,” Criston gestured with their bags, following the same way the animals had gone.

“Shouldn’t we go and get the dog back?” she asked, turning to Aegon.

He shrugged. “He’ll come back when he’s ready. If Aemond didn’t want Vhagar used as a chew toy, then he’d have kept her shut away.”

Placing a hand at the small of her back, he moved her further into the house. No matter how many times she visited she would never stop being awed by the sheer opulence of it. The floors were polished hardwood, a dark mahogany hue that matched the panelling of the walls, which stopped three quarters of the way up to make way for dark bottle green paint and brass sconces. Alicent had decorated for Christmas, in an understated and tasteful manner as always. A garland wrapped around the bannister of the stairs, complete with crimson bows, and sprigs of holly had been hung from each fixture on the wall.

“I couldn’t find the cat, but I’m sure Aemond will sort her out,” Alicent announced, appearing from the kitchen with an open bottle of champagne in her hand, “we’re just through here.”

She ushered them through to the dining room. A large, oval table sat in the centre of the room, draped in a green and gold table cloth, with candles in the middle and places set for seven people. A spread of bagels, cream cheese and smoked salmon was plated and ready for serving. The head of the table nearest the fireplace set into the far wall had been left empty as always, a mark of respect for Viserys, the deceased patriarch of the family.

Otto was seated beside the empty space, with Helaena opposite him. Her large African grey parrot, Dreamfyre, perched upon her shoulder. Helaena was busy tearing pieces off of a bagel and offering them to the bird, watching intently as her large black beak pecked indelicately at them.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that at the table,” Alicent complained, placing the champagne into an ice bucket as Otto rose from his seat to greet his grandson with a clapped hand on the shoulder, and his girlfriend with a chaste kiss on the cheek, before taking his seat again, and gesturing for them to do the same. She sat next to Otto, with Aegon on her other side.

“I’m not keeping her in a cage,” Helaena protested, looking up at her mother with a slight frown as she continued to feed Dreamfyre from her upturned palm. “Vhagar and Sunfyre get to roam freely.”

Alicent rolled her eyes, taking her own chair at the opposite head of the table, next to Aegon. Her fingers automatically moved to straighten her cutlery. “Well, this is the last time any of you bring your wretched beasts with you.”

“You say that every time,” Aemond said quietly, slipping into the room with Criston trailing behind.

“Well, this time I mean it,” she said frustratedly, rubbing her temples.

Aemond sat between Helaena and Criston, which meant he was directly opposite her. It was as though the cloudiness of his left eye somehow intensified the stare of his right, and she squirmed beneath the intensity of his piercing blue gaze, suddenly grateful when Criston reached across to offer her a flute of champagne, giving her an excuse to look away.

“It wouldn’t be a problem if Aegon would keep that fucking mutt of his under control,” Aemond snapped, shooting an accusatory glance towards his brother.

“Enough,” Alicent commanded, forking a slice of salmon onto Criston’s empty plate, “have you and Helaena even bothered to greet either of them yet?”

“Hello,” Helaena offered with a soft smile, “when did you get here?”

“Literally just arrived,” she replied, giving a quiet thanks to Aegon as he passed the salmon plate to her.

“That’s nice,” Helaena nodded.

“Not the word I’d use,” Aegon muttered under his breath, earning himself a stern look from Alicent.

She served herself, before passing the plate to Otto. He paused as Helaena held her hand out, refusing his attempt to dish out food for her.

“I’m vegetarian, Grandad, remember?”

Otto bristled, eyes moving from the salmon and then back to his granddaughter. “Oh…right. Well, I’m sure your mother can find you some ham in the kitchen.”

“Can’t eat that either,” she said apologetically as he sighed in exasperation. She finally relieved him of the serving platter and passed it to Aemond, who promptly set it back in the centre of the table.

“Are you not eating?” Alicent asked, leaning forward to look at him with large, imploring eyes.

“Had a protein shake after my run,” he explained curtly, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Right,” Alicent responded, her tone clipped with annoyance. She raised her glass in mock toast, “merry Christmas, everyone,” then took a swig before setting it heavily back upon the tabletop and beginning to spread cream cheese across a bagel in hurried, angry movements.

“Maybe you could set some salmon aside for Vhagar?” she suggested to Aemond with a slight smile, attempting to ease the tension.

“It’s smoked, it’s bad for her,” Aemond replied irritably, causing her to shrink once again under the weight of his scrutinising stare.

Looking to her side, dread formed like a stone in her stomach as she watched Aegon drain his flute of champagne – doubtless, the first of many. The rest of the meal passed in tense silence, until they were finally all excused.

The rest of the evening was awkward and uncomfortable, as Criston and Alicent busied themselves in the kitchen with meal preparation for Christmas dinner the next day, Aemond disappeared upstairs to his room, and Otto engaged Helaena in a game of Jenga that she seemed to be more interested in encouraging Dreamfyre to perch upon than actually play. That just left her with Aegon, and ordinarily she would love that, except for the fact that he had polished off most of bottle of champagne to himself at lunch, and had since demolished a bottle of red wine, so was now barely lucid as he sat next to her on the plush sofa, leaving her to watch Home Alone on the plasma screen TV by herself.

As the evening wore on, and everyone in the house slowly started making their way to bed, she decided it would probably be a good idea to attempt to relocate Aegon to his own room, instead of leaving him on the sofa where he was currently sprawled with his mouth open.

She leaned over him, gently shaking him. “Come on, Aeg, let’s go upstairs.”

He groaned softly in his sleep but didn’t move or wake up. She sighed in frustration, tucking her arm around him and attempting to lift him. His dead weight was too much for her and he flopped heavily back against the cushions after she’d only managed to raise his torso by a few inches.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she hissed in annoyance, raking a hand through her hair.

“Problem?” Aemond’s voice asked softly from behind her.

She turned, seeing Aemond holding an unlit cigarette in one hand and a lighter in the other, clearly on his way through the living room to the French doors that opened out onto the patio of the back garden.

“He’s passed out and I can’t lift him,” she responded, her voice tired and resigned.

“Of course he is,” Aemond muttered with a roll of his eye. He pocketed his lighter and slipped his cigarette behind his ear, before moving towards the sofa. “Here, let me.”

She watched as Aemond crouched, tugged Aegon by his armpits into a seated position, and then hoisted him over his shoulder – his older brother's torso hung ragdoll down his back, while his legs draped across his front.

“Where do you want him?” he asked, his usually measured voice slightly strained under the weight of Aegon.

“Just in his room, need to put him to bed.”

She followed behind Aemond as he walked slowly through the living room, down the hallway and then up the stairs. It felt awkward to walk behind him in silence, but she supposed if there were ever a time for the pair of them to have their first proper conversation then it wouldn’t be when he was carrying her blind drunk boyfriend to bed.

Walking down the landing, he stopped at the third door on the left, gently pushed the door open with his foot before flicking the light on, then unceremoniously dumped Aegon onto the bed. His body bounced slightly as the mattress dipped and then righted with the force, but he remained fast asleep.

She looked around the room, seeing how neatly their bags had been left at the end of the bed. It was a shrine to Aegon’s adolescence; Blink 182 and glamour model posters were plastered across the walls, while lads’ mags and old beer mats were strewn across every surface. There was a framed photo that sat upon the bedside table, of a teenage Aegon grinning from ear to ear as he held Sunfyre as a puppy. Her gaze fell upon the dog bed in the corner, where he was sleeping.

“Shit, I forgot to take him outside for a piss before bed…”

“I’ll do it,” Aemond offered, leaning against the doorframe, “I was going out for a smoke anyway.”

“Thank you,” she smiled softly, turning back to face him as he whistled to get Sunfyre’s attention.

The dog stretched slowly out of his bed, his tail wagging lazily as he padded towards Aemond. “You know, you could use this as your get out of jail free card,” Aemond told her, his hand absentmindedly ruffling the dog’s ears.

“What do you mean?”

“Leave. While he’s still passed out. No one would blame you.”

She huffed in amusement, shaking her head. “I’m not ditching Aegon just because he’s had a bit too much to drink.”

Aemond eyed her appraisingly for a moment, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Hm. Lucky Aegon.” He turned away, patting his thigh as he walked, calling out to Sunfyre, “come, hound!”

She laid there feeling restless and irritated for ten minutes; Aegon’s snores made it impossible to even entertain the idea of falling asleep. She climbed out of bed, pulling the curtain back a fraction as she watched Sunfyre amble around the lawn of the back garden, illuminated by the security floodlight, cocking his leg against Alicent’s rose bushes.

As her gaze fell upon the patio she made eye contact with Aemond, his face turned up towards the window as smoke rose in a delicate spiral from the lit end of the cigarette he held between two fingers. She hadn’t expected him to be watching her and the sight made her heart skip a beat, a shocked gasp escaping her as she let go of the curtain, allowing it to fall closed again.

“Fucking hell,” she whispered to herself as she climbed back into bed, waiting for her pulse to stop racing in panic, “I hate it here.”

***

“Are there any coconut ones?” Helaena asked, kneeling on the carpet in front of where Aegon sat on the sofa, pawing through a tin of Quality Street.

“Disgusting choice, and all yours,” he responded, plucking out a few of the blue foil wrapped chocolates and dropping them into her upturned palms.

Helaena smiled happily, turning away and crossing her legs as she began to unwrap one of them.

It was Christmas morning, and Aegon had woken up surprisingly early and blissfully hangover free. She attributed it to how early in the evening he had passed out, though she didn’t feel so fresh herself, having been kept awake half the night by his snoring and her own anxiety over her encounter with Aemond.

He had said nothing to her that morning, simply sat at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, sipping coffee and reading the news on his iPad. Aegon was not so serene, he had dragged Helaena out of bed and insisted she show him where their mother had hidden the Christmas chocolates.

“Oh, horrible children!” Alicent scolded, knotting her dressing gown at the waist as she entered the lounge and caught sight of the half empty tin of sweets. “What about breakfast?”

“It’s alright, Mum, I’ve got that covered. Here,” he plucked a Green Triangle from the container and carelessly sent it sailing towards her.

Criston stepped from behind her, reaching up and plucking it from the air before it could make contact with her temple.

“Unbelievable,” Alicent said in annoyance, throwing up her hands in resignation, “I don’t know why I bother.”

She looked guiltily at the pile of empty wrappers in her lap, then at Aegon, as Alicent stomped away with Criston in tow. “Maybe we should put them away.”

“Why would she buy them if she didn’t want us to eat them?” he argued, unwrapping a caramel swirl. “They aren’t just there for us to admire.”

“You aren’t supposed to sit and eat them all to yourself either, you greedy little shit,” Otto glowered, stepping into the doorway.

“Not to worry, grandad,” Aegon grinned, “I’ve got a toffee penny here with your name on it.”

“If you even think about throwing a chocolate at me, my boy, I will make sure you live to regret it.”

Helaena whipped around, wide eyed, and snatched the tin from Aegon, placing it on the carpet before slamming the lid back on. “We shouldn’t have these out if they’re going to upset people.”

“Good,” Otto conceded with a nod, “I trust the three of you plan on changing out of your pyjamas at some point today?”

“Would it be okay if I jumped in the shower?” she asked sheepishly, embarrassed to ask as she tried to ball up the sweet wrappers in her lap as discreetly as possible.

“There are four bathrooms in the house, dear, you don’t need to ask,” Otto responded with a curt nod, before ducking back out of the room.

She raked her hands through her hair, her mind feeling foggy with fatigue and her insides churning with a combination of too much early morning chocolate and dense unease. Aegon gripped her arm gently as she rose from the sofa, and she paused, turning to look at him.

“You’re in a mood.”

It was a statement, not a question. Aegon knew her too well, of course she was, but what was she supposed to say?

You got so fucking drunk last night that you passed out and basically left me alone on Christmas Eve, then kept me awake all night with your snoring.

Despite knowing what a tense situation this is, you’re not making it any better for yourself or anyone else by deliberately going out of your way to be antagonistic.

She said neither of those things. Now wasn’t the time to reprimand him or start an unnecessary argument; there’d be enough of those today.

“Just tired, missing our bed,” she replied quietly, offering him a small smile of reassurance.

“Course you are,” he grinned, releasing her arm with a wink, “I’ll make sure to tire you out properly tonight.”

Helaena made a noise of disgust, clapping her hands over her ears, and she used that as her excuse to leave the living room, and head upstairs to one of the bathrooms.

Just today to get through, then we can go home tomorrow, she thought as she sat on the edge of Aegon’s bed, wrapped in a towel, skin still damp from the shower.

She had left the door ajar, and as it creaked open she expected to see Aegon walk through. She jumped slightly as Aemond appeared in the doorway instead.

His seeing eye widened momentarily, before he cast his gaze towards his feet. “Fuck, sorry, door wasn’t closed, so I thought–”

“Aegon’s downstairs, if you’re looking for him,” she interrupted, not wanting to suffer through any further awkward apologies.

“I was looking for you, actually,” he replied, his eye darting quickly away again as it landed upon her once more. “Mum wants to do presents, and I was coming upstairs to grab this anyway—” he lifted his silver camcorder in explanation, “so she asked me to get you.”

She was grateful that they had both seemingly reached a silent agreement not to address the accidental eye contact through the window from the night before – the more she thought about it, the more she realised there wasn’t really anything to talk about anyway.

“Be there in a minute,” she said.

He nodded, stepping out of the room and closing the door fully behind him.

Every time she visited, Aemond had his video camera out at some point. Alicent had gushed to her once about all of the videos he had captured over the years of special occasions, how talented he was at framing shots perfectly and then editing the footage into something that captured the mood of those precious memories. In the three years she had been a part of their lives, she had seen him filming plenty of times but never actually gotten to see the finished product.

Once dressed and back downstairs, everyone was already gathered in the living room, It’s a Wonderful Life playing quietly on the TV. Otto sat in the armchair, while Helaena sat crossed legged at his feet, with Dreamfyre perched upon her shoulder. On the sofa on one side of the coffee table, Criston and Aemond sat at opposite ends, Criston slowly sipping a coffee while Aemond fiddled with his camcorder. Aegon reclined with his feet up, stretched out across the sofa on the other side, a hand lolling down onto the floor, absentmindedly stroking Sunfyre. Alicent knelt beside the huge Norwegian fir tree in the far corner of the room, its red and gold ornaments twinkling as she sorted gifts into piles.

She patted Aegon’s legs gently, and he lifted them enough for her to sit before resting them across her lap.

“Aegon…” she began, quietly enough for only him to hear.

“Mmm?” he jutted his chin upwards slightly, regarding her with a gentle raise of his eyebrows.

“You know Aemond’s video camera?” she ventured, plucking invisible fluff from the leg of his jogging bottoms.

“What about it?” he asked, furrowing his eyebrows.

“Why don’t we ever see the videos he makes?”

“We do.”

She shook her head, keeping her tone hushed. “I never have.”

Aegon shrugged dismissively. “I guess not, but why does it matter? We don’t need to watch them, we were there, we know what happened.”

It wasn’t enough to sate her curiosity, but before she had the opportunity to press the issue further, Alicent ushered them over to the tree to grab their respective gifts.

Her and Aegon had exchanged presents at her flat the day before Christmas Eve, a means to preserve a piece of the festive period that was just for them, but also to ensure that the significance of their gifts for each other weren’t lost in the overwhelming abundance that his mother delivered on Christmas morning.

It was strange to her that everyone tore into their pile at the same time, rather than taking turns so everyone could see what everyone else had gotten, but as she watched Alicent perching on the arm of the sofa next to Criston, looking on with a soft smile as her children unwrapped their presents, she could understand why it was this way. Amidst the buzz of the sounds of tearing paper and gushing thank yous, it was the closest she had ever seen the family come to genuine happiness.

Alicent had gone way overboard for her as usual. She unwrapped Chanel No.5 perfume, a cashmere jumper, an Elemis skincare gift set and a pair of white gold hoop earrings. It was a large, flat present that piqued her curiosity the most though; it was heavy and solid, and as she pulled the wrapping paper away it took a moment for her to understand properly what it was; a map of the exact layout of the constellations in the sky on the day of her birth. Her lips parted slightly as she stared at it in awe, trailing her fingertips down the coolness of its smooth surface. Upon closer inspection, she could see that it was made of marble; a thin indigo slab which represented the night sky, with gold inlay mapping out the constellations. Tiny diamonds sparkled at each appropriate juncture, serving as the stars. Her breath caught in her throat, tears welling in her eyes at the thoughtful gesture.

It felt almost too personal, too intimate to be a gift from her boyfriend’s mother, and she wondered if perhaps Aegon had snuck another gift here for her. She patted at his leg gently, discreetly trying to get his attention as he was busy tugging the cap off a bottle of aftershave and giving it a sniff.

She turned the plaque towards him, tilting her head in silent question, but he simply shrugged, his bottom lip protruding slightly as he slightly shook his head to feign ignorance before turning his attention back to his own gifts.

“Wow…thank you, Alicent.” she said, looking across the room to where Alicent was sitting, watching as Helaena encouraged Dreamfyre to tear open a present with her beak.

“Oh, you’re welcome, love,” she replied, glancing up quickly with a bright smile, “I’m glad you like them.” Her attention then immediately went back to Helaena.

At Alicent’s quick dismissal, she looked around the room, everyone was preoccupied with their gifts or someone else’s, except for Aemond, who was filming – she hadn’t even noticed him start.

As the morning bled into early afternoon, Otto dozed in the armchair, while Helaena helped Criston and Alicent to cook Christmas lunch. The majority of her gifts had been put away upstairs, except for the plaque. She sat admiring it, unable to believe how beautiful it was, while Aegon sprawled out on the sofa, drinking Buck’s Fizz, with Sunfyre snoozing on his legs.

“I’m bored,” Aegon complained, causing her to look up from where she was sitting cross legged on the floor.

“Put something on the TV then.”

He wrinkled his nose, clearly unhappy with the suggestion. “There’s not anything good on. I think Aemond brought his Switch, we could play Mario Kart?”

“Guess you’ll have to ask him.”

“He’s always ages when he’s having a fag, just go and grab it from his room, he won’t mind.”

“You go and get it,” she retorted defensively, horrified by the idea as her voice raised an octave, “I’m not letting myself into your brother’s room and taking his belongings.”

“But look how sleepy Sunfyre is,” Aegon said, pouting his lip, “would you really be so cruel and make him move?”

“You’re so fucking lazy!” she scoffed, rolling her eyes.

Aegon laughed, dragging a hand through his hair. “Seriously, Aemond won’t care. But if he comes back in before you’re back down here, I’ll tell him what you’re doing, so he knows it was my idea. Sound good?”

She sighed, knowing he wouldn’t drop it until he got his way. She didn’t have the patience to listen to him pester her until Aemond came back inside, so she rose to her feet, placing her plaque on the coffee table as she stood. “So fucking lazy,” she muttered with a shake of her head as she left the room.

Nerves fluttered in her stomach as she climbed the stairs. She’d never been in Aemond’s bedroom before – she supposed it wasn’t really his room anymore, just the place he slept when he visited, but it was still his space and the idea of intruding upon it made her incredibly uncomfortable.

She paused as she reached his door, her hand hovering over the door handle, before drawing in a steadying breath and pushing it open.

The space was more orderly than Aegon’s was. One wall was simply book shelves, filled with rows and rows of hardbacks, there was a Deftones and a Tool poster stuck neatly upon the other walls, and Aemond’s computer desk and chair were tucked away in the far corner. At the centre of the room was Aemond’s neatly made bed. Vhagar lay curled up in the middle of the duvet. The fluffy black cat’s amber eyes cracked open to look at her inquisitively as she stood looking around the room, trying to figure out where Aemond would have put his Switch.

Bloody Aegon, she thought, until her eyes fell back upon the computer desk. Aemond’s camcorder sat upon the desktop, plugged into his open laptop. The case for his Switch lay next to it.

She walked over to the desk, fully intending to simply grab the Switch and then go straight back downstairs, but as she moved closer, the sight of her own face on the laptop screen captured her attention. It was a thumbnail of the video that Aemond had taken that morning within an open folder of multiple video files. She knew she shouldn’t snoop, it wasn’t her business, but seeing such a close up shot of herself made the urge to click irresistible.

The video started with a slow pan around the room, Alicent watching on as everyone else opened gifts. It lingered on Aegon for a moment, zooming in as he unknowingly leaned his face back at an unflattering angle, creating a double chin – she laughed at seeing this – then the shot moved to her, zooming out to capture her unwrapping the plaque, then zooming back in on her face, capturing her eyes welling up and the touched smile that tugged at her lips. The shot remained on her until the video eventually cut to black.

Her brow furrowed, a mixture of confusion and bewilderment stirring within her. Why was nearly the entire video of her? If Aemond was intending to create videos of happy family memories, then why focus solely on his brother’s girlfriend and not the people he was actually related to?

Unable to stop herself, she closed out of the video and clicked onto the next. This was one from back in the late summer, when Alicent had hosted a barbecue for Criston’s birthday. The camera panned around the back garden, with a brief zoom in of the meat sizzling on the grill, before zooming out again. When the camera fell upon her, it lingered, a full body shot at first, before gradually moving in upon her face, catching each sip of her drink, every time she touched her hair, or laughed.

“You looked beautiful that day.”

“FUCK!” she yelped, jumping as she turned wide eyed with fright to see Aemond standing behind her.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said calmly, “but you are in my room after all.”

She watched in disbelief at how unbothered he was as he moved to sit on the bed, ruffling a hand through Vhagar’s fur. The cat chirruped happily, the noise an obscenely cute contrast to the clawing dread in the pit of her stomach and the wild pounding of her heart against her ribcage. An acrid taste filled her mouth, sour and unpleasant, as she struggled to get the words out, wanting to understand why he’d been filming her.

“What the fuck?!” was all she was able to choke out.

“It’s not anything perverted, don’t worry,” he reassured her.

That was what worried her. She knew Aemond wasn’t being a creep, the videos hadn’t lingered on her breasts or anywhere that wasn’t her face. It would be easy to deal with, easier to shrug off if she could just explain it away as Aegon’s younger brother being a pervert, but this seemed like something deeper than that, and that scared her.

“Are…are they all like that?” she asked quietly, her voice trembling.

“All the ones since I met you, yeah,” he admitted.

“Jesus christ,” she whispered, putting her head in her hands. A dozen different questions raced through her mind, none of them she was certain she wanted the honest answer to. She wanted to be out of this room, away from Aemond, to forget what she’d seen and everything he’d told her.

“I know how it must seem, but–”

“I don’t care how it seems, I don’t want to hear it,” she cried, grabbing the Switch case and bolting from his room. She took the stairs two at a time, her face burning hot and a lump forming rapidly in her throat.

Alicent and Criston had made a tremendous effort for Christmas lunch; an enormous turkey sat in the centre of the dining table, alongside a nut roast for Helaena, with side dishes of roasted chestnuts, potatoes, brussels sprouts, stuffing, carrots, gravy and cranberry sauce all in abundance.

Despite how delicious it all looked, she couldn’t begin to fathom eating any of it. Her stomach churned, she felt shaky and nauseated, her mind unable to focus on anything besides the videos she’d seen on Aemond’s laptop. The calmness of his reaction had unnerved her. Regardless of her lack of appetite, she kept her focus fixed upon her plate, determined not to look up and see him as he sat opposite her. She poked aimlessly at a carrot, pushing it around on her plate.

“You okay?” Aegon whispered, leaning across to her, “You’ve not eaten anything.”

“Oh no, do you not like the food?” Alicent asked with concern, having overheard.

She raised her head, immediately feeling guilty as she saw her mother in law’s brow furrowed in worry. The last thing she wanted to do was insult her cooking when she’d gone to all this effort.

“It’s lovely,” she said, forcing a polite smile, “just feeling a bit hot. I might pop out for some fresh air before I finish my plate.”

“I can make you something else, if you’d prefer?” Alicent offered.

She hated the silence that had fallen around the table, hated the eyes she could feel upon her.

“Really, this is delicious,” she reassured, slowly rising from her seat, “just need some air.”

She gently brushed off Aegon’s hand as he reached for her, offering him a tight smile as he looked up at her with a puzzled look upon his face. “Back in a sec.”

The cold air against her skin felt like the prick of a thousand tiny needles as she stepped outside, wrapping her arms around herself. She huffed out a shaky breath, sending a plume of white billowing outwards in front of her. She tried to keep her focus on the rose bushes that framed the perimeter of the lawn, a means to ground herself and draw her focus elsewhere, to anything but Aemond. She wanted to go home. She hadn’t done anything wrong, and yet she couldn’t shake the feeling of guilt, of the fact that she had unearthed something that now couldn’t be undone.

Hearing the French doors to the patio open and then close gently from behind her, she sighed, her shoulders sagging as she rolled her eyes, not bothering to turn around. “Honestly, I’m fine, Aegon, just go back inside.”

“It’s not Aegon, it’s me.”

She froze, the sound of Aemond’s voice made her heart lurch, but her initial shock quickly morphed into anger and she whipped around to face him. She watched as he cupped his hand around his lighter, the brief flicker of the flame casting an orange glow over his sharp features as he lit his cigarette.

“You shouldn’t have followed me out here.”

He narrowed his eye, observing her silently as he blew a tight line of smoke out through pursed lips. “Bold of you to assume that. I always have a cigarette after I’ve eaten.”

“If Aegon catches us–”

“If Aegon catches us, then what? What is there to tell him?”

“I don’t know, but something about this feels wrong.”

“You’ve done nothing wrong, so there’s nothing to tell him.”

“And what about you?”

“I’ve managed to say nothing for three years,” he replied with a shrug, taking another pull on his cigarette.

“Christ, Aemond, what does that even mean?!” she demanded, losing all patience, as she threw her hands up in irritation.

“It’s better that you don’t know,” he admitted, averting his gaze and exhaling smoke slowly through his nose.

“If it concerns me then I have a right to.” She folded her arms across her chest, staring at him defiantly.

His head snapped up, nostrils flaring as he advanced upon her, causing her to take a step back. “You want to know? Fine. Being around you is fucking torturous.”

“I—I’m sorry…” she stammered, as her heart hammered wildly in her chest, tendrils of fear creeping along her spine.

“No, I am,” he laughed bitterly, shaking his head, “because I’m so irrevocably, incomprehensibly, driven to the brink of insanity, in love with you that every moment I’m with you I spend cursing my luck that Aegon met you first.”

Her breath hitched, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes as her lips parted in shock. She stared at him in wide eyed disbelief, as he gazed back in saddened resignation, his cigarette burning to ash between his fingers.

“You can’t…we can’t,” she stammered, “I’m with Aegon, I can’t…”

“I’m not asking you to,” he whispered sadly.

“So now what?”she asked, her voice trembling as a tear slipped down her cheek.

“You go back inside,” he replied, reaching up with his free hand to wipe her tear away with the pad of his thumb. The gentle touch made her skin tingle. “And you say nothing, and I continue to love you from afar, just as it’s always been.”

Her feet carried her on autopilot, she felt numb, but paused in the living room to wipe her eyes and compose herself before heading back to the dining room. She grabbed for her wine glass as she took her seat once more, downing its contents in a single gulp and relishing in the way the burn in her throat and chest gave her something else to focus on.

Aegon grinned, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and tugging her close. “Glad someone’s found their Christmas spirit!”

God, how she wished that were true.

She felt like a spectator in her own body for the rest of the day, going through the motions but not really participating, simply acting on autopilot. She barely registered the arguments over post Christmas lunch board games, for once grateful that Aegon was so plastered he hadn’t noticed how far into herself she’d retreated. She kept stealing glances at Aemond, unable to believe his confession to her in the garden earlier. He was never someone she would ever have considered as a romantic prospect, because he was just so closed off. Now she found herself studying the way his snowy hair fell across his forehead, the sharp angles of his side profile, the gentle curve of his lips. She hated herself for it, as though on some level she was being unfaithful, even though she hadn’t asked for any of this.

Not even Aegon’s snoring was enough to penetrate through her wall of thought as she lay in bed with him that night. Aemond didn’t know her, not really, so he couldn’t love her. It was a silly crush, he’d get over it, and everything would be back to normal the next time they descended upon Alicent’s house for a visit. She kept the reassurance on a loop in her mind, allowing it to lull her into an uneasy sleep.

She didn’t think she had ever been so glad to pack a bag the following morning, as her and Aegon readied themselves to leave. She couldn’t wait to see the back of this place, to forget about all of this and just get back to the cosy life that she and Aegon shared together.

“Gonna have one last hurrah in mum’s rain shower,” Aegon told her, grabbing a pair of socks from his bag and giving them a sniff to make sure they were clean, “see how much of a dent I can put in the hot water before we set off.”

“Alright, but don’t be too long, I wanna get on the road soon.”

“You’re even more desperate to leave than I am,” he said, studying her carefully, “what’s going on?”

“Nothing,” she reassured him, stepping towards him and winding her arms around his neck, “just keen to get the drive over with, you know how much I hate it.”

He smiled, giving her a gentle kiss on the tip of her nose. “How could you hate it with me as your passenger princess? I’ll think up a playlist while I’m showering.”

She was zipping her bag up, looking around Aegon’s bedroom to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything, when there was a gentle knock on the partially open door.

“Come in,” she uttered distractedly, grabbing Sunfyre’s tennis ball from under the bed.

She righted herself, stiffening when she saw it was Aemond. He hovered in the doorway, his posture one of awkward uncertainty as he held the plaque she’d unwrapped the day before in his hands. “You left this on the coffee table downstairs. Just wanted to make sure you didn’t forget it.”

“Oh, right…thanks,” she said quietly, taking it from him and wrapping it in a jumper before placing it in one of the bags.

“I just wanted to–”

“Listen, I–”

Both of them smiled coyly, before Aemond gestured towards her. “You go.”

She gave a nod, stepping closer to him. “Look, I just wanted to apologise for overreacting yesterday. It’s just a silly crush, and I’m sure with time it’ll fade.”

“Don’t do that,” he said with a frown.

“Do what?”

“Diminish my feelings.”

“I’m not, but you don’t even know me…”

“Did you like my gift?”

“What?”

“The plaque, you seemed quite choked up by it yesterday. And the book the year before that, and the bracelet the year before that.”

“Those were all from you?” she asked, her chest suddenly feeling too tight as her stomach churned with shock and unease.

“Yes, so I’d say I know you rather well. What did Aegon get you?”

“Headphones.”

Aemond cocked an eyebrow. “Very thoughtful.”

“Don’t do that,” she said, mirroring his stern tone from earlier.

He sighed. “Sorry, I’m not trying to mess things up for you guys.”

“Then what are you trying to do?”

“I just want you to be happy, and if it’s Aegon that makes you happy then I’m content with that. I know my love is wasted, but if you’ll allow it, let’s just carry on as we have been. It seems to have worked for us so far.”

She softened at his words, and he reached for her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. She found herself squeezing back, committing to memory how his palm sculpted to her own, his fingers covering hers.

“In another lifetime,” she whispered sadly, drawing back.

“In another lifetime we’d be fucking great together,” he smirked, “until next time.”

She watched as he disappeared from the room, fighting the urge to cry, knowing that Aegon would be out of the shower any minute.

As she settled into the driver’s seat, the car packed up and goodbyes exchanged, Aegon turned to her. “Told you we’d got it,” he said with a proud smile.

Yet as his hand reached for hers, squeezing it in reassurance, she could only think of how different it felt to Aemond’s.

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therogueflame · 2 days ago

Text

Twins Plus One

Hi friends,

Here is the final version of The Twins Plus One, a fic I started off as an example text for my good friend Aera, and then it was suddenly 8.2k words, oops. Enjoy!

✨My Masterlist✨

Warnings: 18+, sex (p in v), oral (m!recieving), targcest (targaryen incest, mentioned regularly), threesome, multiple orgasm, cuckholding, no use of y/n, light descriptions of fem!reader

Cregan Stark x Wife!Reader x FraternalTwin!Jacaerys

MDNI!!!

You sat beside your new lord husband in the meal hall, the warmth of the hearth fighting the chill that had gripped your southerly bones. The table was laden with hearty northern fare—stewed meats, dark bread, and spiced porridge—each bite a balm against the frosty morning. Comfortable silence stretched between you and Cregan, his steady presence grounding you as the castle slowly came to life around you.

The creak of the door interrupted your thoughts, drawing your attention as a young steward entered hesitantly. He walked forward with measured steps, his voice steady despite his youth. “My Lord Stark,” he began, “Prince Jacaerys has been spotted atop his dragon less than a mile away.”

Your heart fluttered at the words, anticipation surging through your veins like wildfire. You turned to Cregan, struggling to keep the smile threatening to break through the stoic mask you’d carefully crafted since arriving in the North.

Cregan, however, remained calm, barely glancing up from his plate. “Thank you, Steward Falk. We will be there to greet him shortly,” he replied evenly, his tone unhurried, as though the arrival of a dragon and its prince was a common occurrence.

The steward hesitated for a moment, then bowed and retreated, leaving you alone once more. The fire crackled softly in the background, the only sound as you rose from your seat. “I shall go and prepare myself, then. I will meet you in the courtyard,” you said, your voice steady despite the excitement swirling within you.

Cregan looked up at you, his lips curving into a small, knowing smile. He nodded, taking a slow swig of his morning ale. “Very well, my lady,” he said simply, his deep voice carrying a quiet warmth.

You left the hall with deliberate steps that soon gave way to a quicker pace, your anticipation driving you forward. It had been nearly six months since you last saw Jace, and the ache of his absence had lingered every day since. Neither of you had ever grown accustomed to the silence that came with separation. You had spent your entire lives side by side, and now, for the first time, duty had driven a wedge between you.

Your mother, Queen Rhaenyra, had bestowed your hand in marriage to Cregan Stark as a royal favor, securing his unwavering loyalty amidst the war against the Greens. It had been a shock, to you and to Jace, for you had always assumed you would one day wed each other—as was the tradition of House Targaryen. But war had a way of reshaping plans, and the need for alliances outweighed sentiment.

And so, you had come to the North, leaving behind the warmth of Dragonstone and the brother who had been your other half. Yet, despite your initial fears, you had found a kind of solace here. Cregan Stark was a man of unshakable honor, his rugged charm and steady presence offering a different kind of warmth. His towering frame and wolfish features complemented your fiery blood, a balance of North and South, ice and fire. He had become your home in a way you hadn’t expected, his strength and tenderness creating a bond you cherished.

Not only was he kind and loyal, but his passion burned as fiercely as yours. The nights you spent together in your marriage bed had opened a door to desires you had never known. While you had not denied yourself pleasures as a maiden on Dragonstone, Cregan’s touch brought an intimacy and rawness that surpassed anything you had experienced before. He made you feel wanted, worshipped, alive.

Yet, as you climbed the steps to your chambers, your thoughts drifted to Jace. Memories of your childhood together flooded your mind with a bittersweet clarity. He had a dragon; you did not. He teased you for your lack of effort, while you claimed you wanted no such responsibility. His hair was a warm brown and his eyes dark, while your hair shimmered like moonlight, and your eyes were the palest shade of lilac. He was measured and composed, while you spoke without restraint, always saying the first thing that came to mind.

Growing up, you had been inseparable, exploring not only the world around you but each other. “One soul, two bodies,” they had whispered on Dragonstone, a remark often meant to discourage the time you spent together. But it was true. You were his confidant, his sister, the bold flame to his tempered one. You were his lover.

The thought made you pause as you reached your dressing table. You smoothed the fabric of your black gown, your fingers brushing over the intricate red and white embroidery—a design that symbolized your Targaryen blood and the house you now represented. The striking contrast of the dark fabric with the vibrant stitching felt like a bridge between your two worlds, and it gave you a quiet strength.

Your hands trembled slightly as you swept your hair into a simple side braid, the anticipation thrumming through you too much to allow for anything more elaborate. The reflection staring back at you in the mirror was a mixture of composed elegance and barely contained excitement. Taking a deep breath, you draped the thick white fur coat over your shoulders—the one Cregan had gifted you on your wedding day. It was impossibly soft and warm, and you couldn’t help but love how its stark brightness contrasted with Cregan’s dark, commanding black cloak.

With one last glance at your reflection, you squared your shoulders, the weight of the moment settling over you. The castle felt alive, the air buzzing with the knowledge of who was arriving. And you—ready or not—would greet him, as both sister and the Lady of Winterfell.

You made your way down to the courtyard, where Cregan stood flanked by his courtiers, awaiting Jacaerys’s arrival. The fresh snow crunched softly beneath your boots, the chill in the air sharp but invigorating as you approached. The crisp northern wind carried with it the faint scent of pine and smoke from the castle’s hearths.

Cregan was deep in conversation with one of his men, his broad shoulders framed by the dark fur of his cloak. Without hesitation, you stepped to his side and slipped your hand into his, the simple gesture announcing your presence. The warmth of his palm against yours was grounding, a silent reassurance in the excitement swirling within you.

At the touch of your hand, Cregan turned toward you, his sharp gray eyes softening as they met yours. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he waved the man off with a curt nod, his full attention now devoted to you.

“My lady wife,” he said with a smile that reached his eyes, his voice rich with warmth. “I will never grow tired of seeing you in this cloak.” His gaze swept over you, lingering with quiet admiration before his hands rose to cradle your face. He leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, his lips warm against your skin.

Your eyes fluttered closed at the touch, a gentle sigh escaping you as you melted into the familiar comfort of his affection. His hands lingered for a moment longer, steady and grounding, before one slipped to take yours. “And this dress, my love,” he murmured, stepping back just enough to take in the full sight of you. “What a choice you’ve made.”

With a slight tug, he beckoned you to spin, the embroidery catching the light as the fabric flowed gracefully. The intricate patterns told a story of unity, weaving together the symbols of the two great houses as seamlessly as your lives had been joined.

“Do you like it?” you asked, your voice soft as a blush warmed your cheeks.

“I love it,” he growled, his voice low and full of conviction. Before you could respond, his hands found your waist, pulling you close as his lips claimed yours in a deep, unrestrained kiss. His affection was unabashed, displayed boldly for the entire courtyard to see. The kiss lingered, warm and consuming, until a piercing shriek shattered the moment.

You broke away, breathless, your cheeks flushed and your lips tingling. Your head snapped upward, your heart leaping as you caught sight of Vermax circling above. The dragon’s shriek echoed through the courtyard, and your eyes lit with excitement, the sight of your brother’s dragon bringing a rush of memories and emotions.

Your hand tightened instinctively around Cregan’s, your heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst. As Vermax descended, his powerful wings stirring the snow-dusted ground, you could just make out Jace atop the saddle. He was still too far to see clearly, but you didn’t need to. You felt his presence like a flame reigniting something dormant within you.

Every fiber of your being ached to run to him, to throw yourself into his arms as you had so many times before. But duty—and propriety—rooted you in place. Instead, you turned to Cregan, your excitement uncontainable, your grin as bright as a child’s on their name day.

As Jace strides forward, your eyes remain fixed on him, drinking in the sight as if he is the most beautiful vision the gods have ever blessed you with. He is slim, like you, but there is a quiet strength in the way he carries himself. His dark curls frame his face, and you realize with a pang just how much you’ve missed every detail—the way his eyes glint with warmth, the faint curve of his lips when he smiles.

Vermax lets out a low, rumbling complaint, his golden-green scales glinting faintly in the northern light as he shifts restlessly. Jace glances back at his dragon with an easy smile, the kind that speaks of an unbreakable bond. The ill-tempered beast’s antics earn a quiet chuckle from his rider before Jace turns his attention forward again.

Cregan releases your hand, his fingers brushing yours in a subtle farewell, and strides toward Jace with measured steps. The two men meet halfway, the wind stirring the snow around them as the moment hangs heavy with warmth and welcome.

“My Prince,” Cregan bows his head, “What an honor to have you back at Winterfell.” Cregan clasps Jace’s forearm in greeting, his grip firm and warm despite the chill in the air. “I trust your flight was well?”

“My Lord Stark, the honor is all mine,” Jace replies, his voice cordial but tinged with fatigue. He flashes that smile that had always lit up even the darkest of days on Dragonstone. “The flight was well enough, though long. Dare I say I grow weary of being on dragonback for what feels like endless days. Vermax, too, was eager to find solid ground and rest his wings. The North's skies, beautiful as they are, stretch farther than I had remembered.”

Cregan chuckles lightly. “Aye, our skies are vast, and our winters endless, or so it sometimes feels. I hope the warmth of Winterfell can offer some comfort to you and your dragon after such a journey.”

Jace inclines his head with a faint smile. “A hearth to sit by and a meal to share with good company will do much to lift my spirits—and Vermax, I trust, will be content with a quiet perch and a hearty meal of his own.”

You try to stay still, to hold onto some semblance of decorum, but your heart feels like it might burst. Jace’s presence fills the courtyard, commanding attention as he exchanges words with Cregan, but your focus narrows solely to him. His voice—so familiar yet matured by time and distance—pulls at something deep within you. You barely hear their conversation, your excitement drowning out the words.

The moment Cregan releases his grip on Jace’s forearm and takes a step back, you can’t contain yourself any longer. You lift your skirts slightly and rush forward, your laughter spilling into the crisp northern air. “Jace!”

He turns toward you just in time, his expression shifting from surprise to unrestrained joy. The fatigue in his eyes fades as you throw yourself into his arms, your momentum making him stagger slightly before he catches you effortlessly. His arms wrap around you, warm and strong, as he lifts you off the ground and spins you, just as he used to when you were children.

“You haven’t changed a bit,” he says, his voice filled with laughter as he holds you tightly. Your skirts billow in the wind, catching the snow-dusted breeze, but you don’t care who’s watching. All that matters is this moment—having your twin back in your arms.

“And you’re still late,” you tease breathlessly, pulling back just enough to look at his face. “I’ve been waiting for ages.”

“I missed you too, sister,” he replies, his voice quieter now, his dark curls framing his face in a way that softens his usual sharpness. His eyes glint with warmth, the bond between you as unbreakable as ever.

From the corner of your eye, you catch Cregan standing with his arms crossed, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “I should have known I’d be second to greet you, Prince Jacaerys.”

Jace sets you back on your feet, his hands lingering on your shoulders as he grins at your husband. “Forgive me, my lord, but she’s never been good at waiting.”

“And I never will be,” you add, lacing your arm through Jace’s, refusing to let him go just yet. “Not for you.”

Cregan chuckles, his deep voice warm. “I see there’s no competing with twins.”

Jace looks down at you, his smile softening. “Not when you’ve been apart for this long.”

Cregan steps back with a knowing smile, his hands clasped behind his back. “I’ll leave you to your reunion,” he says, his deep voice warm and steady. His gaze lingers on you for a moment, soft with understanding, before he nods to Jace and turns toward the gathered onlookers, giving you both the privacy he knows you need.

You glance back at Jace, your arm still looped through his, but your eyes flicker to the towering form of Vermax. The great dragon shifts restlessly, his tail swishing through the snow, sending up puffs of frost. His golden-green scales glint faintly even in the muted northern light, and his sharp, intelligent eyes seem to search for you.

With a grin tugging at your lips, you release Jace’s arm and take a step toward the beast that looms like a mountain of muscle and fire. Vermax watches you approach, his head lowering slightly, nostrils flaring as his hot breath puffs against the cold air. The warmth he radiates is almost tangible, a stark contrast to the biting chill around you.

“Hi, old friend,” you say softly, your voice carrying just enough to reach him. Your hand rises instinctively, and Vermax lets out a low, rumbling croon, the sound vibrating through the air and your chest. He leans his massive head closer, his jeweled eyes fixed on you with an almost affectionate curiosity.

You press your palm to the smooth scales of his snout, marveling at the familiar warmth beneath your fingers. “It’s been too long,” you whisper, your voice tender. “You’ve grown even more magnificent.”

Behind you, Jace chuckles softly, his voice rich with amusement. “I think he missed you nearly as much as I did.”

“You’ve always had a way with him,” Jace says, his voice quieter now, a note of admiration slipping through the weariness.

You meet his gaze, holding it for a heartbeat longer than you should. “And I always will,” you reply softly, your lips curving into a small smile. There’s a warmth in his eyes, something deeper than his words, but you push it aside as you step closer and slip your hand into his. “Come. Winterfell isn’t as forgiving as Dragonstone, and I’d rather not have you freezing out here.”

Jace doesn’t resist, his hand fitting into yours as though it had never let go. As you guide him toward the keep, the snow crunching under your boots, the quiet settles between you—not uncomfortable, but charged, as if the air holds the weight of every memory you’ve shared.

“Things have changed,” he says suddenly, breaking the silence. His voice is measured, but there’s something wistful beneath it. “You. Me. Everything.”

You glance back at him, your brow arching slightly. “We’re not children anymore, Jace,” you say lightly, though your heart twists at the reminder. “Life changes. That’s what it does.”

“And yet,” he murmurs, his gaze fixed on you, “some things don’t.”

You falter for just a moment, your steps slowing as his words hang between you. You don’t turn to face him, afraid of what you might see in his eyes—or worse, what he might see in yours. “Don’t, Jace,” you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “Not here. Not now.”

The warmth of his hand tightens ever so slightly, and you hate how much you notice it, how much you miss it when you let go to push open the heavy doors to the keep. The firelight spills out into the corridor, bathing you both in its golden glow, but it does little to ease the ache building in your chest.

As you step inside, Jace’s presence feels both too close and too far. You know the walls of Winterfell are not kind to secrets, and you know that your love for Cregan is true. But Jace—Jace was your first love, the other half of your soul, the person who knew every piece of you before you even understood it yourself. That part of you will always belong to him, no matter where life’s currents have carried you.

“I’ve missed this,” he says, his voice soft and raw, as he follows you down the torch-lit corridor. “Not just being here. You. Us.”

You glance over your shoulder, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “It’s good to have you here, Jace,” you say, sidestepping the words he wants to hear, the words you can’t bring yourself to say. “Winterfell’s been quieter without you.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, though it carries a hollow edge. “Quiet isn’t always a good thing.”

You lead him toward the great hall, the scent of pinewood smoke and roasted meat growing stronger with each step. For a moment, you let yourself imagine a different life—one where the traditions of your house hadn’t demanded so much of you, one where duty hadn’t been placed above love. But it’s a fleeting thought, one that you bury as quickly as it surfaces.

As you pause just outside the hall, Jace reaches for your hand again, his touch as familiar as the way your name sounds on his lips. “We were supposed to end up together,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. There’s no accusation in it, just a quiet truth that neither of you can deny.

You don’t pull away this time. Instead, you meet his gaze, your heart breaking a little under the weight of everything you can’t say. “I know,” you whisper. “But life had other plans.”

For a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you, the unspoken past and the impossible future colliding in the space between. Then, from within the hall, you hear Cregan’s voice, steady and commanding, calling your name. The sound pulls you back to the present, grounding you.

You step away from Jace, your hand slipping from his as you turn toward the hall. “Come,” you say softly, glancing back at him one last time. “Winterfell is yours for as long as you’re here.”

He follows, his steps quiet, but the way his gaze lingers on you tells you he’s already counting the days until he must leave again.

The great hall of Winterfell was alive with warmth and merriment, the crackling of the hearth mixing with the hum of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter. The busy day had given way to a night of comfort, the excitement of Prince Jacaerys’s arrival lingering in the air like a shared secret. The North’s famous hospitality was on full display—platters of roasted meats, thick stews, and hearty bread lined the tables, while goblets brimmed with mulled wine and ale.

The hours since Jace’s arrival had passed in a blur of formal greetings and quiet reunions. You had spent much of the day guiding him through Winterfell, showing him the changes to your new home while reminiscing about the past. His presence brought a warmth to the cold halls, but now, as the feast began, the formalities melted into the simple joy of being together.

You sat between Jace and Cregan, the firelight dancing across the three of you as the evening wore on. Jace, for all his charm and easy smiles, was quieter than usual. He laughed when prompted, offered polite responses to Cregan’s stories, but you could see the fatigue etched into the lines of his face.

As the hour grew late, Jace leaned back in his chair, his goblet nearly untouched. He stretched slightly, the movement subtle, but enough for you to catch it. He was holding himself together out of courtesy, but you knew him too well to miss the signs of exhaustion.

Cregan, mid-sentence in a tale about a hunt from earlier in the season, paused as Jace set his goblet down and rose to his feet. “My lord, my sister,” Jace began, inclining his head toward the two of you. “Forgive me, but the journey has taken more out of me than I realized. I must excuse myself and retire for the night.”

Cregan nodded, his expression understanding. “Of course, Prince Jacaerys. You’ve earned your rest. We’ll see you at the breaking of the fast.”

Jace turned his gaze to you, his dark eyes warm despite the weariness in them. “Goodnight, sister,” he said, his voice soft but steady.

You offered him a small smile. “Goodnight, brother. Rest well.”

He inclined his head once more and strode out of the hall, his steps steady but slower than usual. The door closed behind him with a faint creak, leaving the warmth and revelry of the hall behind.

The walk back to your chambers was quiet but charged, the air between you and Cregan warm despite the chill of Winterfell’s stone halls. His hand lingered at the small of your back, steady and sure, guiding you through the dimly lit corridors. The firelight from your chambers spilled into the hallway as he pushed the door open, allowing you both to step into the inviting glow.

Cregan moved to pour himself another goblet of wine, watching you as you leaned casually against the mantle. The firelight played across your features, casting soft shadows over your skin. He studied you for a moment before speaking, his voice low and smooth. “You and Jace… you’ve always had a bond. It’s different. Stronger.”

You met his gaze, your lips curving slightly, but there was a flicker of something in your eyes—nostalgia, maybe, or something deeper. “We are twins,” you said simply, though the words carried weight. “But more than that. Growing up, there was no one else like him. He was mine, and I was his.”

Cregan raised an eyebrow, swirling the wine in his goblet. “Yours,” he echoed, his tone curious. “How so?”

You let out a soft laugh, stepping away from the hearth and crossing the room to sit on the edge of the bed. “Jace and I had what we called ‘twin time.’ An hour, every day, just for us. No lessons, no court, no responsibilities. No one else allowed.”

He leaned back against the table, his goblet forgotten in his hand. “And what did this ‘twin time’ entail?”

A slow smile spread across your lips, the memory heating your cheeks slightly. “Whatever we wanted. Sometimes, we’d talk. Other times, we’d sneak out to the cliffs and just sit there, watching the sea.” You paused, your gaze drifting toward the fire. “But as we got older… things changed. Twin time became something… more.”

Cregan’s gray eyes darkened slightly, his interest unmistakable as he stepped closer. “More,” he repeated, his voice dipping lower. “How much more?”

You glanced up at him, your pulse quickening under his steady gaze. “Enough that people began to notice,” you admitted, your voice softer now, tinged with something you couldn’t quite name. “We shared everything. Not just secrets, or dreams, but… everything.”

Cregan set his goblet down on the table, his hands resting on either side as he leaned toward you slightly. “And now?” he asked, his voice rougher, more deliberate. “Does he still hold that part of you?”

Your lips curved again, though this time the smile was slower, more intimate. “Jace will always be a part of me,” you said, your tone light but charged. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not exactly where I want to be.”

He straightened slightly, his eyes locked on yours, his interest piqued but his expression unreadable. “You’re an intriguing woman,” he said finally, his voice carrying a faint edge of amusement. “I’m starting to think I’ll never fully unravel you.”

You tilted your head, your smile widening as you rose to your feet, closing the space between you. “Good,” you said softly, your voice taking on a playful lilt. “Where would the fun be in that?”

Cregan reached out, his hand brushing against your waist, his touch deliberate but teasing. “Fair enough,” he murmured, his gaze dipping for just a moment before returning to yours. “But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious about how far this ‘twin time’ went.”

You let out a low laugh, tilting your head up slightly as your fingers toyed with the edge of his tunic. “Some things are better left to the imagination, my lord,” you teased, your voice warm and laced with suggestion.

His hand tightened slightly on your waist, a soft hum escaping his lips. “You’re a cruel woman,” he said, though the faint smirk tugging at his lips betrayed his amusement.

“And yet, you married me anyway,” you quipped, leaning closer as the firelight danced between you.

The rest of the night stretched ahead, the warmth of the fire and the charged air between you promising no shortage of intrigue and intimacy.

It was the Hour of the Wolf, the darkest and stillest time of night. Jace wandered the cold halls of Winterfell, missing the warmth of the south and the closeness of his family. He was wrapped in a borrowed wolf-fur coat—one of Cregan’s—which hung loosely on his frame, nearly two sizes too large. His sword rested at his hip, his hand gripping the hilt tightly as though it could offer some reassurance against the chill that seeped into his bones.

His mind was restless, caught in an endless cycle of thoughts. The looming war dominated most of his worries, but beneath that weight was you—always you. For the first time in his life, he had spent more than a moon’s turn away from his beloved twin. Six months had passed since Jace had escorted you north for your wedding to Cregan Stark. He had known this day would come eventually—duty demanded it—but he hadn’t expected it to arrive so shortly after your twentieth nameday.

Cregan was a good man, steadfast and loyal, and one of the crown’s closest allies. Jace and Cregan were like brothers, and yet, Jace couldn’t shake the thought that he should have been the one by your side. Your husband. The way it had always been meant to be.

As he walks, his thoughts run wild over the last time he saw you in front of him. The way your hair, the pale silver of your mother’s lineage, cascaded down your back. The soft curve of your waist that complimented the curve of your breasts, and the pale violet of your eyes that reflected your undeniable Targaryen heritage.

You were his. And he was yours.

For a moment, the thought settled over him like a weight, but then a sound drew him from his reverie. Passing your chambers, he stilled, his ears catching faint noises from within. Muffled voices, sharp and low, and then a series of sounds—furniture creaking, a soft gasp, followed by something that almost sounded like a stifled cry. The noise carried through the heavy wooden door, unmistakable in the quiet of the castle.

Weary and restless, his mind leapt to the worst. Panic surged through him as his grip on his sword tightened. What if you were in danger? What if someone had crept into your chambers while Winterfell slept? He didn’t think. He acted.

Jace pushed the heavy door open swiftly, the sound of it echoing through the hall. His sword was in his hand in an instant, the blade glinting in the faint firelight as he prepared to strike down whoever dared to harm you.

And then he saw you.

You were mid-struggle, but not for your life. The man pinning you was no enemy, no intruder. It was Cregan, his bare shoulders broad and familiar, his dark hair tousled as he pressed against you with an intensity Jace couldn’t ignore. The noises he’d heard—your gasps, the creaking of the bed—suddenly made sense, and the realization hit him like a blow.

Cregan looked up at the sudden interruption, his expression calm, almost amused, despite the clear intrusion. His large frame hovered over you, his palms pressed firmly against the bed on either side of your head, poised with an authority that seemed unshaken by the scene unfolding.

You tilted your head back toward the door, your view of the world upside down as you murmured, “Jace?”

Cregan leaned back onto his knees, his broad chest rising and falling steadily, but he made no move to cover either of you. “Are you going to stand there like a frail pup,” he drawled, his northern accent thick, “or are you going to join us?”

Your eyes flew open wide as you shot a look at him, heat rushing to your cheeks. “Cregan!” you hissed, but he continued undeterred, the corner of his mouth lifting in a small smirk.

“Your dear sister told me about what it was like growing up with you,” he said, his voice steady and low, as though he were commenting on the weather. “Targaryens and their queer customs,” he said, his tone calm but edged with dry amusement. “Still, traditions run deep, don’t they? Even here in the North.”

Jace stood frozen in the doorway, his sword still drawn, his mouth slightly open as he tried to process what he was seeing—and hearing. The confident, unshakable Prince of Dragonstone looked utterly lost for words, his dark eyes wide with shock.

“Jace,” you said, your voice softer now, though tinged with exasperation. “If you’re going to stand and watch, could you at least shut the door?”

Snapped from his stupor, Jace scurried to shut the door behind him, the heavy wood groaning on its hinges. His sword found its way back to its scabbard as he turned to face the room, his expression still a mixture of confusion and disbelief.

“Come, my young prince,” Cregan said, rising from the bed with a deliberate slowness that made his towering frame all the more imposing. “I want to see how you pleasured her in the south. She is always saying how much she misses you.”

“Cregan!” you said again, though there was no denying the flush spreading across your cheeks—or the way your lips curved into a faint, playful smile.

Rolling onto your stomach, you propped yourself up on your elbows, your gaze flicking between your husband and your twin. “My dear brother,” you teased, your voice light and warm despite the tension in the room. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so speechless.”

Jace’s mouth opened and closed as he looked between you and Cregan, his confusion giving way to nervousness. He shifted uncomfortably, as though unsure whether to move forward or retreat. “Are you… sure?” he asked, his voice quieter than usual, laced with hesitation.

You tilted your head, studying him with a fond smile. “It’ll be just like old times, brother,” you purred. “You always did have your way with me.”

Cregan moved toward Jace, clapping a firm hand on his shoulder, the weight of it steady and grounding. “Relax, lad,” he said with a chuckle. “The North is colder than the South, but we know how to make things warm.”

You rise gracefully from the bed, the firelight casting a golden glow over your bare skin as you cross the room toward where Cregan and Jace stand. The flickering flames seem to dance across your body, enhancing every smooth curve with an almost ethereal brilliance. Basking in the warmth, the blood of the dragon within you seems to stir, igniting a presence that is both commanding and effortless.

Your movements are unhurried, deliberate, each step carrying the confidence born of your lineage. There is no shame in your nudity; the fire of Old Valyria burns bright within you, and it demands to be seen.

Jace’s gaze is fixed on you, his dark eyes tracing every inch of your form as though committing you to memory. He hasn’t seen you like this in months—not since Dragonstone, where the two of you had shared moments of intimacy so profound that time itself seemed to stand still. Now, he is frozen in place, his tension palpable, his breath uneven. Yet beneath the restraint, there is something else: a mix of longing, reverence, and the faintest hint of disbelief, as though you are a vision he never thought he’d behold again.

You reach for him, your fingers brushing his cheek in a familiar, tender gesture. Leaning closer, your lips graze the curve of his neck, a breathy kiss that makes him shiver under your touch. His borrowed wolf-fur cloak slides from his shoulders with ease as your hands find the fastening of his tunic, the fabric parting beneath your deft fingers.

Behind you, Cregan moves silently, retreating to the foot of the bed. His presence lingers, calm and watchful, his steady gaze drinking in the scene as though it were a rare hunt unfolding before him.

You smile against Jace’s neck, your touch soothing and guiding, coaxing the tension from his frame. Gently, you take his hands and place them at the small of your back, encouraging him to hold you as he once did, to let the moment bridge the space that had grown between you.

Jace's hands trembled slightly as they settled on your skin, but the familiar warmth of your body against his seemed to awaken something within him. His touch grew more confident, fingers tracing the curve of your spine as he pulled you closer.

"I've missed you," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. His lips found yours, the kiss tentative at first but quickly deepening with months of longing and separation.

You melted into his embrace, your body remembering his touch as if no time had passed. Your fingers tangled in his dark curls, tugging gently as the kiss intensified. The taste of him, the scent of him - it was all achingly familiar, like coming home after a long journey.

"That's it," Cregan murmured, his deep voice carrying across the room. "Show me how you used to please her, Prince Jacaerys."

Jace broke the kiss, his breath coming in short pants as he glanced over your shoulder at Cregan. There was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, but it was quickly overwhelmed by the desire burning within him. His hands tightened on your waist, pulling you flush against him as his lips found the curve of your neck.

You tilted your head, giving him better access as a soft moan escaped your lips. Your fingers worked at the laces of his breeches, eager to feel more of him. "Jace," you breathed, your voice husky with want.

Jace's teeth grazed your skin, sending shivers down your spine. "Gods, I've dreamed of this," he murmured against your neck, his hands roaming your body with growing confidence.

You arched into his touch, relishing the familiar feel of his hands on your skin. With deft fingers, you finished unlacing his breeches, pushing them down his hips along with his smallclothes. Jace stepped out of them, kicking them aside as he pulled you closer

His arousal pressed against your stomach, hot and insistent. You wrapped your hand around him, stroking slowly as you captured his lips in another searing kiss. Jace groaned into your mouth, his hips bucking involuntarily into your touch.

You guided Jace backwards towards the bed, your lips never leaving his as you moved together in a familiar dance. The back of his knees hit the edge of the mattress and he sat, pulling you down to straddle his lap. His hands cupped your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples as you ground against him.

"Show me," Cregan's deep voice rumbled from beside the bed. "Show me how you used to take your pleasure from each other."

You broke the kiss, gazing into Jace's dark eyes as you lifted your hips. He gripped himself, positioning at your entrance as you slowly sank down onto him. Twin gasps escaped your lips as you were joined once more, the feeling of completeness overwhelming after so many months apart.

You began to move, rolling your hips in a slow, sensual rhythm as Jace filled you completely. His hands gripped your waist, guiding your movements as he thrust up to meet you. The familiar stretch and fullness of him inside you sent waves of pleasure coursing through your body.

"Gods, you feel incredible," Jace groaned, his head falling back as you rode him. His eyes were heavy-lidded with desire, drinking in the sight of you above him.

You leaned forward, capturing his lips in a deep, passionate kiss. Your tongues danced as you moved together, rediscovering the perfect synchronicity you'd always shared. Jace's hands roamed your body, caressing and kneading as if trying to memorize every curve and plane.

From the side of the bed, Cregan watched intently, his gray eyes dark with arousal.

As you and Jace became lost in each other, you glanced over your shoulder at Cregan, who stood there, unmoving yet fully aroused. His heated gaze sent a thrill through you, only adding to the mounting fire within. You lifted your hips higher, grinding against Jace with a newfound urgency, your breath hitching in your throat as the sensations intensified.

You bit your lip to stifle a moan, your eyes locked with Cregan's. He knew what you wanted without a word being spoken. Slowly, he approached the bed, his steps measured and deliberate.

Cregan joined you on the bed, his large frame dwarfing both you and Jace. His rough hands caressed your back as you continued to ride Jace, sending shivers down your spine. You leaned back slightly, pressing against Cregan's broad chest.

Jace's eyes widened as he took in the sight of you sandwiched between them. His hips stuttered in their rhythm for a moment before he regained his composure, thrusting up into you with renewed vigor.

Cregan's lips found the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder, sucking and nipping as one hand snaked around to cup your breast. His other hand trailed lower, fingers circling your most sensitive spot as Jace continued to fill you.

The dual stimulation was almost too much. You cried out, your back arching as waves of pleasure washed over you.

The sensations overwhelmed you as Cregan and Jace worked in tandem, their touches igniting every nerve ending. Cregan's skilled fingers circled your sensitive bud as Jace thrust deeply inside you, the combination bringing you to dizzying heights of pleasure.

You threw your head back against Cregan's broad shoulder, a breathless moan escaping your lips. "Gods, yes," you gasped, your body trembling between them.

Jace's dark eyes were fixed on your face, drinking in every expression of ecstasy. His hands gripped your hips tightly, guiding your movements as he drove up into you with increasing urgency.

"That's it, love," Cregan murmured in your ear, his deep voice rough with desire. "Let go for us. Show us how good it feels."

His words pushed you over the edge.

Your climax crashed over you in waves of searing pleasure, your body trembling between them as you cried out. Your inner walls clenched around Jace, drawing a deep groan from him as his thrusts became erratic.

"Gods, I'm close," Jace gasped, his fingers digging into your hips.

Cregan's hand left your sensitive bud, and you let out a exasperated whine as the sensation ceased. "Not yet, lad," he growled. "She can take more."

With surprising strength, Cregan lifted you off Jace, eliciting whimpers of protest from both of you at the loss of contact. But before you could voice any complaints, Cregan had you on your hands and knees on the bed.

"Take her from behind," Cregan commanded Jace, his tone brooking no argument.

Jace didn't hesitate, moving behind you and entering you once more with a low groan. His hands gripped your hips as he set a punishing pace, driving into you with renewed vigor. Each thrust sent waves of pleasure coursing through you, your oversensitive body trembling.

Cregan knelt in front of you, his large hand cupping your chin and tilting your face up to meet his gaze. His gray eyes were dark with lust as he looked down at you. "Open," he commanded, his voice husky.

You parted your lips obediently, watching as Cregan freed himself from his breeches. He was impressively large, and your mouth watered at the sight. Slowly, he guided himself between your lips, letting out a deep groan as you took him in.

Cregan's impressive length filled your mouth as Jace continued to thrust into you from behind. The dual sensations were overwhelming, pleasure coursing through your body with each movement. You moaned around Cregan, the vibrations making him groan deeply.

Jace's fingers dug into your hips as he pounded into you relentlessly. "Gods, you feel amazing," he gasped, his voice strained with pleasure.

Cregan's hand tangled in your hair, guiding your movements as you took him deeper. His other hand cupped your cheek tenderly, a stark contrast to the intensity of his thrusts.

The room was filled with the heady scent of sex and sweat as the three of you moved together in a primal rhythm. Jace's thrusts grew more erratic as he neared his peak, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to leave marks. Cregan guided your movements with a firm hand tangled in your hair, his impressive length sliding between your lips.

Every inch of your body trembled with pleasure, caught between the passionate thrusts of Jace behind you and the powerful presence of Cregan in front of you. Your senses were overwhelmed as Jace's deep and forceful movements sent waves of ecstasy through your core, igniting every nerve ending in your body. The weight of Cregan on your tongue added an extra layer of intensity, his taste and scent filling your mouth as he moved with a controlled rhythm. You were consumed by the intense sensations, lost in a world of pure pleasure that seemed to have no end.

Jace's movements grew more desperate as he chased his release. His fingers dug into your hips, sure to leave marks, as he pounded into you relentlessly. "I'm close," he gasped, his voice strained.

Cregan's hand tightened in your hair, guiding your movements as you took him deeper. "That's it," he growled. "Show us how well you can please us both, little dragon."

The overwhelming intensity of their combined attentions sent you spiraling towards another climax. Waves of pleasure surged through your body as Jace's firm thrusts found and stimulated just the right spot. With each movement, a low moan escaped your lips and traveled along Cregan's length, causing him to let out a deep groan in response. The air was thick with the scent of desire and the sounds of passion as you surrendered to the pleasure they were giving you. It was like being caught in a whirlwind of sensation, unable to control your own body as it responded to their skilled touch. And in that moment, nothing else mattered except the pure ecstasy that consumed every inch of your being.

Jace's movements grew frantic as he neared his peak. "I can't hold back much longer," he gasped, his fingers digging into your hips.

Cregan released his grip on your hair, allowing you to pull back. "Let go, lad," he commanded. "Fill her up."

With a few final, powerful thrusts, Jace let out a deep, guttural moan as he found his release. The sensation of him pulsing inside you sent sparks of pleasure shooting through your body. Your muscles clenched and released in perfect rhythm with his, amplifying the intensity of your second climax. As you shuddered between them, pleasure crashed over you like a tidal wave, consuming your senses and leaving you breathless. Even as Jace continued to move through his own orgasm, you were lost in the blissful aftermath of yours, feeling completely surrendered to the pleasure coursing through every inch of your being.

Now it was Cregan's turn to fulfill your deepest desires and fill your womb with his potent seed. Where Jace's touch was gentle yet intense, Cregan possessed a raw, untamed energy that ignited a fire within you. His primal nature and unbridled passion were like a wild winter storm, sweeping you away in a frenzy of pleasure.

As you came down from your climax, Jace slowly withdrew, collapsing onto the bed beside you. Your body trembled with aftershocks as Cregan gently guided you to lie back.

"My turn," Cregan growled, his gray eyes dark with desire as he positioned himself between your thighs. He entered you in one smooth thrust, filling you completely. You gasped at the sensation, still sensitive from your previous orgasms.

Cregan set a relentless pace, his powerful hips driving into you. Where Jace had been passionate yet gentle, Cregan was raw power and primal need. His large hands gripped your thighs, spreading you wider as he pounded into you.

"Gods, you're so tight," he groaned, his voice rough with pleasure. "So wet for me. So wet for your brother,” he praised, each word punctuated with the thrust of his hips.

Your cries of pleasure echoed through the chamber as Cregan drove into you with powerful thrusts. His large hands gripped your thighs, spreading you wide as he pounded relentlessly. The bed creaked beneath you with the force of his movements.

"That's it, love," Cregan growled, his gray eyes dark with lust as he gazed down at you. "Take all of me."

Beside you, Jace watched with hooded eyes, his hand lazily stroking himself back to hardness. The sight of you writhing in pleasure beneath Cregan seemed to awaken something primal in him.

Cregan's relentless pace drove you higher, building the pressure within you once more. Your hands clutched at his broad shoulders, nails digging into his skin as you cried out in pleasure. The room was filled with the sounds of flesh meeting flesh and your breathless moans.

"So beautiful," Cregan growled, his voice rough with desire. "Taking us both so well."

Jace moved closer, his hand trailing down your body to where you and Cregan were joined. His fingers found your sensitive bud, circling it in time with Cregan's thrusts. The dual stimulation was overwhelming, pushing you rapidly towards another peak.

"That's it, sister," Jace murmured, his dark eyes fixed on your face. "Let go for us again."

Your body arched off the bed as another intense climax crashed over you, waves of pleasure radiating through every nerve. You cried out, inner walls clenching around Cregan as your release washed over you.

Cregan growled deeply, his thrusts becoming erratic as your tightening pushed him over the edge. With a final powerful thrust, he buried himself to the hilt inside you, his seed spilling deep within your womb. The feeling of his hot release triggered aftershocks of pleasure that had you trembling beneath him.

As you both came down from your highs, Cregan carefully withdrew and collapsed beside you on the bed. You lay there panting, sandwiched between your husband and your twin, your body still tingling from the intense pleasure.

Jace's hand trailed lazily up and down your side as Cregan pulled you close against his chest.

The three of you lay tangled together on the bed, your bodies glistening with a thin sheen of sweat in the firelight. The room was heavy with the scent of sex and the lingering echoes of pleasure. For a long moment, the only sound was your collective heavy breathing as you all came down from the intense high.

Cregan's large hand splayed possessively across your stomach, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your skin. Jace's fingers intertwined with yours, a familiar comfort that sent a pang of bittersweet longing through your chest.

"Well," Cregan rumbled, his deep voice tinged with satisfaction, "I'd say that was a successful reunion."

You couldn't help the soft laugh that escaped your lips, turning your head to press a kiss to Cregan's bearded jaw. "Indeed it was, my lord," you murmur.

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asoiafpalestine · 12 hours ago

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comradekarin · 1 hour ago

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@mirabellemoira absolutely insane we’re waiting two years for another predictably shitty season of hotd. why the hell does it come out when I graduate fucking COLLEGE DAWG 😕😕

genuinely being a tv enjoyer in this current time sucks balls because tv is trying to do what movies do and it makes it WORSE. the best part about tv is that you spend time with it consistently week after week year after year and now because tv shows are fractured and have the budget of major movies they're becoming shorter with way longer time between seasons and it hurts the one (at least to me) best thing about tv!! which is that it's reliable and consistent and has longevity because tv is a long form format!!! But it's being pushed into being made more short term like movies because of all these economic pressures and bonkers expectations. I'm sick of it!!! I'm sick of tv shows being acclaimed when they don't feel like tv shows as if that's a bad thing!!! I'm sick of waiting 2-4 years for 4-8 episodes. I'm sick of reading about the best writers in the business not being able to make a living. I'm sick of it!!!! I want tv back!!! I miss my friend tv!

#absolutely diabolical #and which it be like six episodes too #house of the dragon

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novaursa · 2 days ago

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A Lion's Folly (the brave)

- Summary: A story where a lion falls for the eldest daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, you.

- Pairing: stark!reader/Jaime Lannister

- Note: Keep in mind how the canon timeline and plot may be altered to suit this story.

- Rating: Explicit 18 + (for blood, gore, death, violence and suggestive themes)

- Previous part: sins

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

The days bleed into one another as the small group travels deeper into the wilderness, avoiding the main roads to evade prying eyes. The terrain grows rougher, with thick forests and uneven paths that force them to move slower. Jaime feels every ache in his body, but he keeps his complaints to himself. For once, his sharp tongue is tempered—not by fear, but by something far more unsettling: you.

You walk ahead of him, leading the way with Winter at your side. The direwolf pads silently, his coat blending into the pale underbrush. Every so often, Winter glances back at Jaime, his icy blue eyes filled with suspicion, as if he’s waiting for the slightest excuse to tear him apart. Jaime smirks faintly at the thought but knows better than to provoke the beast.

You’ve grown quieter as the days pass, your icy demeanor softening slightly into something more tolerable. You still don’t speak to him unless necessary, but the edge of your anger has dulled. Jaime doesn’t know if it’s because of exhaustion or sheer indifference, but he finds himself craving any scrap of interaction with you, no matter how small.

Brienne, ever the vigilant guardian, remains stoic and watchful, her eyes constantly scanning the woods. She speaks little, her focus unwavering as she ensures their path is safe.

The sun begins to set, casting long shadows across the forest floor, when you finally call for a stop.

“We’ll camp here tonight,” you say simply, gesturing to a small clearing nestled between thick trees.

Brienne nods and begins unpacking their limited supplies. Winter circles the clearing once before settling near you, his menacing gaze never leaving Jaime.

As the fire crackles to life, the three of you sit in a loose triangle around it, the silence thick and oppressive. Jaime leans back against a tree, his hands still bound but resting in his lap, his smirk faint as he watches you tend to Winter.

“You’re remarkably silent tonight, my lady,” he says after a moment, his tone light but tinged with genuine curiosity.

You glance at him briefly, your expression unreadable. “Maybe you should follow my example,” you reply coolly.

Jaime chuckles softly, shaking his head. “Ah, but silence doesn’t suit me. You should know that by now.”

Brienne sighs heavily, clearly tired of his antics, but doesn’t intervene.

“Tell me,” Jaime continues, his gaze lingering on you, “does it ever get easier? The grief?”

Your hand stills on Winter’s fur, and for a moment, the firelight reflects something raw in your eyes. “Why do you care?” you ask, your voice quieter now, though still guarded.

“I don’t,” Jaime admits, his smirk faltering slightly. “But I’ve seen enough grief to know it doesn’t fade. It just�� changes shape.”

You don’t respond immediately, your fingers brushing absently through Winter’s fur as the firelight dances across your face. Finally, you speak, your voice low but steady. “It’s not something you’d understand, Lannister.”

“Maybe not,” Jaime replies, leaning forward slightly. “But I do know something about loss. About guilt.”

You meet his gaze then, your eyes cold and piercing. “Don’t talk to me about guilt. Not after what you’ve done.”

Jaime exhales, leaning back against the tree. “Fair enough,” he says quietly.

The silence stretches again, broken only by the crackling fire and the distant rustle of leaves. It’s Brienne who finally breaks it, her tone calm but firm. “We should rest. We’ll need to cover more ground tomorrow.”

You nod, rising to your feet and moving to check your gear. Winter follows, his presence a constant shadow at your side. Jaime watches you go, his chest tightening with something he can’t quite name.

As Brienne begins to settle in for the night, Jaime speaks again, his voice softer now. “You know, I always respected your father.”

Brienne looks up abruptly, but it’s you who turns first, your gaze hard and unforgiving.

“Don’t,” you say, your voice like steel.

Jaime doesn’t stop. “Ned Stark,” he continues, ignoring the warning in your eyes. “He was… honorable, to a fault. A rarity in men like us. He didn’t deserve what happened to him.”

Your fists clench at your sides, but you don’t respond, your jaw tight.

“Do you think he’d approve of this?” Jaime asks, gesturing faintly to the group. “Of you traveling with the likes of me?”

Your voice is cold when you finally reply. “My father’s approval doesn’t matter anymore. He’s dead. Because of men like you.”

Jaime swallows hard, your words cutting deeper than he expected. “You’re right,” he says after a long pause, his tone quieter now. “And if I could change it, I—”

“You can’t,” you snap, cutting him off. “So stop pretending like you care.”

The camp falls silent again, the animosity thick enough to choke. Jaime doesn’t speak after that, his gaze fixed on the fire as his own guilt festers inside him.

As the night deepens and the fire burns low, Jaime lays back against the tree, his eyes on the stars above. Your words echo in his mind, a constant reminder of the weight he carries.

And though he doesn’t say it aloud, he knows you’re right. He doesn’t deserve your forgiveness. But that doesn’t stop him from wanting it.

The air is crisp, carrying the faint scent of pine and damp earth. Jaime sits near the smoldering remains of their morning fire, his hands still bound but his posture relaxed, watching Brienne as she meticulously checks her gear. You had left earlier with Winter to hunt, leaving the two of them behind.

Jaime finds the silence unbearable.

“Do you ever take that armor off, Brienne?” he drawls, tilting his head as he studies her. “Or is it part of you now? Perhaps it’s hiding something you’d rather keep a mystery.”

Brienne stiffens but doesn’t look at him. “You’ll find no amusement here, Lannister. Keep your mouth shut.”

“But where’s the fun in that?” Jaime presses, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re so stern all the time. Doesn’t it get exhausting? Or is that how you woo the men of Tarth? With that charming scowl?”

Brienne finally looks at him, her blue eyes cold as ice. “You’ve made it clear you have no honor, Kingslayer. I see no need to engage with you further.”

Jaime chuckles softly, leaning back against the tree. “Ah, but you already have. That’s the thing about you, Brienne—you care. Even when you shouldn’t. It’s admirable, really. Foolish, but admirable.”

Before Brienne can respond, a sound cuts through the stillness—a faint rustle in the underbrush. Brienne’s hand immediately moves to her sword, her keen gaze scanning the forest. Jaime stiffens, his smirk slipping as the noise grows louder.

Then they appear.

The Brave Companions emerge from the trees, their mismatched armor and cruel faces unmistakable. Vargo Hoat leads them, his twisted smile revealing his rotting teeth. The sight of him sends a chill down Jaime’s spine, though he hides it well.

“Well, well,” Vargo says, his voice grating as he steps forward. “What have we here? The Kingslayer himself, traveling with a lady knight. A curious pairing, no?”

Brienne rises to her full height, her sword drawn in an instant. “Leave, now. You’ll find no easy prey here.”

Vargo laughs, a sound that sends a ripple of unease through the forest. His men spread out, circling the clearing like wolves. Jaime counts at least a dozen, all armed and dangerous.

“You’re outnumbered,” Vargo says, his grin widening. “Put down your sword, woman, or we’ll take it—and your head—with it.”

Jaime watches the scene unfold, his mind racing. Brienne’s grip tightens on her sword, her stance unwavering, but even he knows the odds are against her.

“Brienne,” Jaime says quietly, his voice devoid of mockery for once. “Don’t be stupid.”

She doesn’t respond, her focus entirely on the men before her.

Jaime’s heart pounds in his chest, but not for himself. His thoughts turn to you, somewhere out in the forest with Winter. For the first time in a long while, Jaime finds himself praying—not to the gods, but to fate itself.

Stay away. Don’t come back. Don’t let them find you.

“Take him,” Vargo orders suddenly, gesturing toward Jaime. Two of his men step forward, their weapons drawn.

Jaime doesn’t resist as they grab him, though his smirk returns faintly. “You’ll regret this, goat,” he says, his voice dripping with disdain.

“We’ll see,” Vargo replies, his grin never faltering.

Brienne moves to intercept them, her sword flashing in the fading light. She takes down one man with ease, her movements precise and deadly. But the others close in quickly, overwhelming her with sheer numbers.

Jaime struggles against his captors, his chest tightening as Brienne is forced to her knees.

“Stop!” Vargo commands, and his men freeze. He steps closer to Brienne, his twisted grin widening. “You’ll fetch a fine price, woman. Perhaps even more than the Kingslayer.”

Jaime spits at Vargo’s feet, his voice sharp. “Touch her, and I’ll make sure your death is slow.”

Vargo laughs, clearly unfazed. “You’re in no position to make threats, Lannister.”

As the Brave Companions begin binding Brienne, Jaime’s thoughts return to you. He can only hope you’ve gone far enough into the forest to escape their notice.

Stay away, he thinks again, the words almost a plea. Don’t let them find you.

But the forest is silent, offering no assurances.

Jaime stumbles slightly as they march, his wrists raw and unsteady now that his hands are free from the chains that had bound them. His steps are slow and measured, but his gaze keeps darting to the dense tree line, scanning for any sign of you—or worse, Winter.

He doesn’t want you here. The thought of you stumbling into this chaos, of seeing you captured or worse, is unbearable. The sharp bite of fear twists in his chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome.

Behind him, Brienne trudges silently, her hands bound tightly, her face bruised but unbroken. The set of her jaw and the fire in her eyes tell Jaime that she hasn’t given up. Yet the odds are stacked against them, and even her famed strength feels like little more than a flickering candle against the storm that is Vargo Hoat and his band of butchers.

Vargo rides alongside them, his crooked smile ever-present. The sound of his grating voice breaks through the crunch of boots and hooves on the forest floor.

“Kingslayer,” Vargo calls, his tone mocking. “You look troubled. Perhaps you miss your father’s castle, eh?”

Jaime keeps his expression neutral, though his gaze remains fixed on the trees. “And what of it, goat? Are you taking me to him? I imagine Tywin Lannister would pay handsomely for his son’s safe return.”

Vargo lets out a harsh laugh, the sound as unpleasant as nails on stone. “Safe return? No, no, no. That is not our plan. Your father’s gold may be great, but there are others who will pay more for you—and her.”

Jaime glances over his shoulder at Brienne, who glares at Vargo with pure hatred.

“And who might that be?” Jaime asks, his voice tight.

“Lord Bolton,” Vargo replies, his grin widening. “He is very interested in the Kingslayer and his lady knight. He will reward us greatly for delivering you both to Harrenhal.”

Jaime’s jaw tightens. Roose Bolton—a man whose reputation for cruelty and cunning rivaled even his father’s worst enemies. The news twists the knot in his stomach even tighter.

“Ah,” Jaime says, forcing a faint smirk despite the unease coursing through him. “So I’m to be handed over to a man who skins his enemies alive. Charming. I suppose this is my lucky day.”

Vargo chuckles again, clearly enjoying Jaime’s discomfort. “Lucky, yes. You will see what Lord Bolton has in store for you soon enough.”

Jaime doesn’t respond, his mind racing as he considers their fate. The chances of escape seem slimmer with every step, and his thoughts inevitably circle back to you. Were you far enough away when the Brave Companions attacked? Did Winter sense the danger and keep you from returning?

“Kingslayer,” Vargo snaps suddenly, his gaze locking onto Jaime. “You keep looking at the trees. What are you so distracted by? Hoping for rescue?”

Jaime forces a laugh, though it rings hollow even to his own ears. “Rescue? Hardly. I’m just admiring the scenery. It’s not often I get to see the wilderness in all its… muddy glory.”

Vargo narrows his eyes, unconvinced. He leans forward in his saddle, studying Jaime with a calculating look. “You’re hiding something,” he says slowly, his grin fading into suspicion.

“I’m hiding nothing,” Jaime replies smoothly, though his hands clench involuntarily at his sides. “But if it keeps you entertained, feel free to keep guessing, goat.”

Vargo sneers, his gaze lingering on Jaime for a moment longer before he turns his attention back to the path ahead.

Behind him, Brienne speaks for the first time since their capture, her voice low but firm. “If you have a plan, Lannister, now would be the time to share it.”

Jaime glances back at her, his smirk returning faintly. “A plan? Do you think I’m hiding an army in these woods, waiting to spring us free?”

“You’re always scheming,” Brienne retorts, her blue eyes blazing. “Don’t play coy with me.”

Jaime exhales sharply, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. “The only plan I have,” he says quietly, his gaze drifting back to the trees, “is hoping she stays far away from this.”

Brienne frowns. “Don’t speak of her aloud.”

Jaime spoke no more. Instead, he focuses on the path ahead, the rhythmic crunch of their steps blending with the rustling of leaves.

As they march deeper into the forest, Jaime’s mind refuses to quiet. He can’t shake the image of you standing with your bow drawn, Winter at your side, ready to face down anyone who threatened you. The thought should bring him comfort, but instead, it fills him with dread.

Because if you came back, if you appeared now, Jaime knows there’s nothing he could do to protect you. And the thought of losing you—of watching you suffer because of him—feels like a fate worse than death.

The camp is eerily quiet, the only sounds the crackling of a meager fire and the occasional rustle of the trees in the cold night breeze. Vargo’s men lounge around the clearing, their mismatched armor shining faintly in the firelight. Jaime sits to one side, his hands resting on his knees, Brienne not far behind him. His body aches from the forced march, but his mind is clearer than ever, his senses heightened by the dread that hangs in the air.

Something feels wrong.

The first scream shatters the stillness.

It’s a guttural, panicked sound, cutting through the night like a blade. Everyone freezes, heads snapping toward the trees where the noise originated. The firelight dances on the faces of Vargo’s men, their expressions shifting from irritation to alarm.

“What was that?” one of them mutters, his hand already on his sword.

Before anyone can respond, a figure is dragged into the shadows with terrifying speed. The man lets out a blood-curdling scream, his body thrashing wildly as he disappears into the dark.

“Get up!” Vargo shouts, his voice alarmed as he jumps to his feet. “To arms!”

The camp erupts into chaos as the men scramble for their weapons, their movements frantic and uncoordinated. Jaime watches, his heart pounding as he catches a fleeting glimpse of pale fur and glowing blue eyes in the shadows.

Winter.

“Seven hells,” Jaime breathes, his chest tightening.

Another scream pierces the night as a second man is attacked, his cries abruptly silenced by the sound of tearing flesh. The Brave Companions draw their weapons, but their fear is palpable, their movements clumsy.

“It’s a wolf!” one of them shouts, his voice trembling.

“No wolf is that big!” another yells back, his eyes wide with terror.

Winter moves like a ghost through the trees, his white and silver coat blending into the shadows as he strikes with lethal precision. Jaime can barely keep track of him, the direwolf’s speed and ferocity unlike anything he’s ever seen.

Vargo snarls, drawing his curved sword as he scans the darkness. “Kill it! Kill the beast!”

Before anyone can act, an arrow whistles through the air, striking one of the men in the throat. He gurgles, collapsing to the ground as blood pools beneath him.

“Archer!” someone shouts, pointing wildly toward the trees.

Another arrow flies, finding its mark in a second man’s chest. He stumbles backward, clutching at the shaft before crumpling to the ground.

Jaime’s breath catches as he realizes what’s happening. It’s not just Winter—it’s you.

A third arrow claims another victim, the chaos escalating as the Brave Companions break formation, rushing blindly into the woods in search of their unseen attacker.

“Stay together, you fools!” Vargo roars, his voice barely audible over the chaos.

Jaime’s eyes dart to the treeline, his heart racing. He knows you’re out there, somewhere in the shadows, and the thought both thrills and terrifies him.

Another scream echoes through the forest as Winter attacks again, his massive form taking down another man with ruthless efficiency. The clearing is now a mess of blood, bodies, and panicked shouting, the Brave Companions falling apart under the assault.

And then he sees you.

You step into the clearing, your bow in hand, your face illuminated by the flickering firelight. There’s a fierce determination in your eyes, your movements swift and precise as you draw another arrow.

“Y/N!” Jaime calls out before he can stop himself, his voice cutting through the noise.

Your gaze flicks to him for the briefest moment, your expression unreadable. But it’s enough of a distraction for Vargo to strike.

He lunges forward, grabbing you by the arm and yanking you back with surprising speed. Your bow clatters to the ground as you struggle against his grip, your face twisting in anger.

“Let me go!” you shout, your voice raw with fury.

Winter lets out a deep, guttural growl, his eyes locked on you as he moves to attack.

“No!” you scream, your voice desperate. “Run, Winter! Go!”

The direwolf hesitates, his massive form still and tense as he watches you.

“Run!” you shout again, tears glinting in your eyes as you thrash against Vargo’s hold.

Winter snarls once more, his gaze flicking between you and the Brave Companions before he turns and disappears into the trees, his silver form vanishing like a ghost.

“No,” Jaime mutters under his breath, his fists clenching at his sides. He steps forward, but two of Vargo’s men grab him, holding him back.

“Enough!” Vargo snaps, his grip on you tightening. “The wolf is gone. And now we have her.”

Your breathing is ragged, your face pale but defiant as you glare up at him. “You won’t get away with this,” you say through gritted teeth.

Vargo laughs, the sound cruel and grating. “Oh, my dear, I already have.”

Jaime’s chest burns with fury and frustration as he watches you struggle, his mind racing for a way to intervene. But with his hands unbound and his guards distracted, he knows his moment will come.

For now, all he can do is watch as Vargo drags you with him.

The clearing is chaos. The fire crackles weakly, casting jagged specters over the carnage of bodies and blood. Vargo Hoat holds you firmly by the arm, his sickly grin widening as his men begin to realize just who he has captured. You continue to struggle against him, your breath ragged, but the defiance in your eyes burns brighter than the flames.

“Well, well,” Vargo sneers, his voice grating like steel on stone. “We’ve caught ourselves a Stark. A fine prize indeed. Imagine the price your brother will pay to get you back.”

Your struggles intensify, and in one sudden, vicious movement, you lunge forward and sink your teeth into the side of Vargo’s neck. The sickening crunch of flesh giving way is followed by a howl of pain as blood pours from the wound.

“You little bitch!” Vargo roars, shoving you back with such force that you stumble. He lifts his hand and strikes you across the face with a brutal slap that echoes through the clearing.

Jaime’s breath catches, his body going numb as you fall to your knees, clutching your cheek. Fury surges through him, hot and unrelenting.

“Get her in line!” Vargo snarls, his eyes wild as he presses a hand to the bleeding wound on his neck. “Or I’ll do it myself!” His next words drip with malice, his voice lowering. “Maybe a night in my tent will teach her some manners.”

Brienne struggles against the two men holding her, her teeth bared in a feral snarl. “You dare harm her, and I will kill you, goat!”

Vargo laughs, a twisted sound filled with cruelty. “You’re in no position to make threats, wench. But perhaps you’d like to join her. I hear the women of Tarth are… sturdy.”

Jaime’s patience snaps.

“That,” Jaime says suddenly, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade, “would be a very bad idea.”

Vargo turns to him, his eyes narrowing. “And why is that, Kingslayer?”

Jaime steps forward, his posture deceptively relaxed, though his smirk carries a dangerous edge. “Because she’s a Stark, you imbecile. Do you have any idea what Robb Stark will do if he hears you’ve so much as touched her? Let me enlighten you: he’ll behead every single one of your men. And you? He’ll save you for last. Maybe he’ll even let his direwolf eat you piece by piece.”

Vargo’s expression falters for a moment, uncertainty flickering in his eyes before he sneers. “You think I fear the boy king in the North?”

“You should,” Jaime replies coldly. “The Starks are known for their vengeance. And trust me, you don’t want to find out just how far they’ll go for one of their own.”

The men around Vargo exchange uneasy glances, the weight of Jaime’s words sinking in. Even the most hardened among them seem to hesitate, their weapons lowering slightly.

Vargo hesitates, his eyes darting between Jaime and you. Finally, he lets out a growl of frustration, shoving you roughly to the ground.

“Fine,” he snarls, spitting blood onto the ground. “But keep her quiet. And if she causes any more trouble, she’ll regret it.”

Jaime moves to your side, kneeling as he places himself between you and Vargo. He doesn’t reach out to you—he knows you wouldn’t welcome it—but his presence is a silent reassurance.

“You’ll regret it if you touch her again,” Jaime says evenly, his voice low but filled with venom.

Vargo sneers but doesn’t reply, turning away to bark orders at his men. The tension in the clearing lessens slightly, though the atmosphere remains charged.

Jaime glances at you, your face pale but your eyes still burning with defiance. Blood trickles from your lip where Vargo’s slap split the skin, but you refuse to show weakness.

“You’re insane,” Jaime mutters, his tone somewhere between admiration and frustration.

“And you’re pathetic,” you snap back, your voice steady despite the trembling in your hands. “Don’t think this changes anything, Lannister.”

Jaime smirks faintly, though the expression doesn’t reach his eyes. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Brienne is finally released, her captors stepping back as she moves to stand beside Jaime and you. Her gaze flicks between you, Jaime, and the others, her grip on her sword tight.

“We need a plan,” she says quietly, her voice calm but urgent.

Jaime nods, his mind already racing. He doesn’t know how they’ll escape this mess, but one thing is certain: he’ll ensure you make it out alive, no matter the cost.

Because for the first time in years, Jaime Lannister feels something he thought he’d lost—a flicker of honor. And he’s not about to let it die here.

The camp has grown quiet, the earlier chaos fading into an uneasy stillness. The Brave Companions, though brutal, are not fools; they’ve doubled their watch, their muttered conversations filled with unease as they huddle around the dying fire. The woods seem to press closer, the shadows deep and impenetrable, a eerie reminder of the blood spilled earlier.

Jaime sits near the edge of the clearing, his back against a tree, his body aching but unbroken. His hands, though unbound, rest loosely on his knees, and he watches as Brienne, bruised but defiant, is seated under close guard across from him. Her eyes flick toward him briefly before returning to her captors, her posture one of quiet vigilance.

And then there’s you.

You sit a short distance away, your arms wrapped around your knees as if trying to keep yourself steady. Your face is pale, the faint bruise from Vargo’s slap barely visible in the dim firelight. Winter is nowhere to be seen, and Jaime wonders if the direwolf is still close, lurking just beyond the camp’s edge.

When you glance toward Brienne, your expression tightens, your gaze lingering on the bonds that hold her before finally shifting to Jaime. For a moment, you simply study him, your eyes narrowed in thought. Then you speak, your voice quiet but firm.

“Are you unharmed?”

Jaime raises an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “I didn’t know you cared, my lady.”

You scoff, the sound cold and unimpressed. “I don’t. But you need to remain intact. If you’re not returned to the capital, my sisters won’t be returned safely. That’s the only reason I asked.”

Jaime chuckles softly, leaning back against the tree. “Ah, of course. My worth as a bargaining chip. Good to know where I stand.”

Your expression hardens, and you look away, your focus shifting to the forest beyond. “Just answer the question, Lannister.”

“I’m fine,” Jaime replies, his tone more serious now. “Though I can’t say the same for your goat friend. You left quite the impression on him.”

You don’t smile, though there’s a flicker of satisfaction in your eyes. “He deserved worse.”

Jaime nods slightly, his gaze steady on you. “That he did.”

For a moment, the two of you sit in silence, the crackle of the fire filling the space between you. Then Jaime speaks again, his voice quieter now.

“They’re taking us to Harrenhal,” he says, his smirk fading. “By any luck, Tywin will be there. Along with your dear friend Roose Bolton.”

Your head snaps toward him, alarm flashing across your face. “Bolton?”

Jaime tilts his head, watching you carefully. “Yes. Apparently, Vargo thinks Lord Bolton has some interest in us. I suppose he sees an opportunity to curry favor with both sides.”

Your brow furrows, your mind clearly racing. “Bolton is my brother’s bannerman,” you say, your voice tinged with confusion and disbelief. “What business would he have with Tywin Lannister?”

Jaime shrugs, though his eyes don’t leave you. “That’s the question, isn’t it? But if I were you, I’d start asking why one of Robb’s trusted men is even speaking to my father in the first place.”

The realization hits you like a physical blow, your eyes widening as the pieces begin to fall into place. You mutter something under your breath, too quiet for Jaime to hear, before clenching your fists at your sides.

“I have to warn Robb,” you say suddenly, your voice low but urgent.

Jaime watches you carefully, his smirk returning faintly. “And how do you plan to do that, my lady? You’re a prisoner now, in case you’ve forgotten.”

You glare at him, your jaw tight. “I’ll find a way.”

Brienne, who has been listening silently, finally speaks, her voice steady. “If what he says is true, your brother must be told. The Boltons have always been… different. But this would be treason of the highest order.”

“Treason?” Jaime interjects, his tone almost amused. “Such a quaint word. Let’s call it what it is: survival. Roose Bolton knows how this war will end. He’s simply choosing the winning side.”

You rise to your feet abruptly, pacing a short distance away as your thoughts churn. Jaime watches you closely, noting the hesitation in your movements, the fire in your eyes.

“I won’t let him betray my family,” you say finally, your voice firm.

Jaime leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “And what exactly will you do, Stark? You’re in no position to stop him. Neither am I, for that matter.”

You stop pacing, turning to face him with a glare that could cut through steel. “That’s where you’re wrong, Lannister. You might not care about honor or loyalty, but I do. And I’ll do whatever it takes to protect my family.”

Jaime holds your gaze, his smirk fading as he sees the resolve burning in your eyes. He feels a flicker of something unfamiliar—respect.

“Well,” he says quietly, leaning back against the tree once more, “then I suppose you’d better start planning, my lady. Because if we reach Harrenhal, it might already be too late.”

Your jaw tightens, but you don’t respond. Instead, you return to your place by the fire, your eyes fixed on the flames as your mind works tirelessly.

Jaime watches you in silence, the weight of your determination settling over him like a storm cloud. And he finds himself wondering if perhaps there’s still a way out of this mess—if not for him, then for you.

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s-brant · 2 days ago

Text

Downburst

Trapped in King’s Landing with the Greens as they plot the usurpation after Viserys’s death, Y/N must navigate the fragile line between her loyalty to her husband and her contempt for his family. (or judas part six).

13k (18+)

Warnings: sexual content, strong language, fluff, angst, and death.

Y/N has been trapped in her and Aemond's bedchamber for hours.

No one has come to see her except for Nyla, her favorite handmaiden. Despite her pleas to the guard stationed outside her door, she is met with outright refusal to see her weeks-old daughter. There isn't much for her to do except pace around the room and nervously ramble to Nyla about what may be happening. In the past six hours, she has bathed, dressed, styled her hair, finished the blanket she was making for the babe before her labors began, and read a few pages of the book Aemond left on the table.

The braids secured to her head in complicated patterns keep her hair half-up, half-down and out of the way as she leans down to pick up a box of old letters from her parents. In this time of uncertainty, she seeks comfort in the love of those who brought her into the world. The letters date as far back as the first day she spent without them in King's Landing as a wife. The first one is from Rhaenyra, ever the attentive mother no matter how old her first and only daughter becomes.

She rifles through them until she finds the most recent one from Daemon. It is dated a fortnight before she gave birth and, as always, written in the family's native tongue to keep it from being read if it ended up in the wrong hands.

"Ñuha dōna riña,

Aōha muña vestās bona kesā rhaenagon sikagon aderī. Lo jaelā īlva naejot sagon paktot ao syt bisa, ao jorrāelagon mērī epagon. Aōha valzȳrys sȳrkta jurnegon tolī ao. Lo ziry gaomas daor, jikagon udir naejot Zaldrīzesdōron se kesan sōvegon bē Caraxes gō se vēzos ropagon ezīmagon se embar. Ao gīmigon iksan daor hae sacchārine hae Rhaenyra, yn gaoman bōsa naejot ūndegon ao arlī. Nyke krenyikhé umbagon syt se māzigon hen ñuha ēlī—"

"My sweet girl,

Your mother told me that you will begin your labors soon. If you want us to be beside you for this, you need only ask. Your husband best look after you. If he does not, send word to Dragonstone, and I will fly upon Caraxes before the sun falls into the sea. You know I am not as sentimental as Rhaenyra, but I do long to see you again. I gladly await the arrival of my first—"

The doors to their chambers are flung open, but the person who walks in is not the one she had hoped to see all day.

Seeing Alicent stride into their chambers, with the doors closing quickly behind her to prevent escape, makes her heart sink into her abdomen. Still, she refuses to accept this as defeat. She rises from her chair, holds her shoulders back with her chin high, and clenches her hands into fists at her sides. As far as she is concerned, this is an act of war. To imprison her in her own home...it is unthinkable.

Before the Queen can get a word in, Y/N asks in a sharp tone, "Where is my daughter?"

The sigh that Alicent lets out threatens to boil her blood.

"Please, you know that I of all people would never allow anything to happen to one of my grandchildren. So, if you fear she's been mistreated in any way—"

"She has been mistreated," the younger royal counters, taking a couple of steps forward to confront her face-to-face. "She is a weeks-old babe being kept from her mother against her will. Every pleading request I screamed through this door for her to be brought to me was met with silence and inaction. So, I beg of you, abandon the pretense. You are usurping my mother's throne and keeping my daughter as leverage for your cause."

This makes Alicent to stop for a moment.

The red-haired beauty takes this as an opportunity to steel herself for the arduous conversation ahead. Her palm flattens against the side of her green dress to soak up some sweat before she brings her hands together in front of herself, picking at her cuticles in a repetitive, compulsive manner.

"I know you will likely not believe what I have to say, but I have love for you. You are your mother's daughter. In a way, you are now my daughter too, I suppose. As you know, Rhaenyra and I were once the closest of friends. I myself said she'd make a fine queen the night my husband betrothed you to Aemond..." She trails off, looking down at the floor for a second before looking back up. "But I spoke with Viserys last night before he died in his sleep, and he spoke Aegon's name. He wanted him to be king, and I see no other choice but to honor his dying wish."

Y/N's face twists into an expression of bewilderment.

"You cannot believe that," she says. "My grandsire dragged himself, wheezing and weak on his deathbed, to his throne to declare for my mother as heir."

The two women stand across from one another, bisected by the window on the wall opposite the entrance that overlooks the courtyard, and neither wavers. Despite the turbulent emotions that dwell within them, they manage to stand strong against the tide of change cresting over them. With her pale hair styled as it is, the younger Targaryen princess reminds Alicent of her dear friend from many years ago. Time has changed both her and Rhaenyra, physically and spiritually, so she accepted that she would never have her closest companion back. Not in the way she had her as a girl. But when she looks at Rhaenyra's daughter, she almost sees her again. Almost.

It is for this reason alone that her demeanor softens as she walks forward to take Y/N's hand and speak to her once more.

"You may believe what you wish. I cannot take that from you, but whether you think it is right or not, Aegon will be crowned." There is a hesitant pause. "And you should consider yourself lucky I will not let my father get to him first. He'll advise Aegon to commit horrific acts of violence to protect his claim to the throne...Once he is found and brought to me, however, I will urge him to be merciful toward your mother, father, and brothers. They will be offered generous terms and need only bend the knee."

For a moment, she thinks she may have gotten through to Y/N. There is no discernible expression on her face other than shock, and she does not smack Alicent's hand where it squeezes hers.

Then, her features sour. Although she does not drop the hand entwined in hers, she does not hold it either. Her fingers turn lifeless and limp in Alicent's grasp.

"My father will never bend the knee to Aegon, and I do not know if Jacaerys will either. There is no such thing as mercy when dragons battle dragons. It is proven in Valyrian history, yet it seems that will become inevitable."

Unable to deny what she has said, too far gone in a mess of her father's making, Alicent lets loose a soft, tired sigh and gently releases her hands.

"Perhaps your father could be persuaded if he were under the assumption that you declare for Aegon as the true king at his coronation for the sake of keeping the peace. It will be witnessed by hundreds of the smallfolk on the morrow."

"And if I refuse? I would wager that I am worth more to you as a prisoner than I am hanged for so-called treason."

"You are my son's wife, a princess; you will not be a prisoner—"

Y/N cuts her off, her voice raising to a shout, "Then let me out!"

The moment of quiet that follows is charged with an energy too powerful for either of them to ignore. As Y/N's purple irises flare with a temper reminiscent of Rhaenyra's unyielding passion and Daemon's cold, seething rage, Alicent stands still before her. It is now that both women realize that nothing they say will change the other's mind. Despite the fondness they have genuinely formed through the marriage to Aemond, they now find themselves on opposite sides of the coming battle.

Picking at her nails again, Alicent speaks, and a sense of finality can be heard in her tone.

"My father would have me keep your babe from you until you agree to bend the knee. I, however, being a mother, find that too harsh. She will be brought to you within the hour, but you are not free to leave yet."

She turns on her heels and strides for the ornately carved doors, knocking to get the attention of the guard on the other side.

At the last moment, she cranes her neck to meet Y/N's eyes once more and says, "You will be at Aegon's coronation, standing beside your husband without protest."

A second later, the doors close behind her and lock the princess inside.

The babe has yet to stop crying.

All that can be heard in the bedchamber are the shrill wails of the infant girl brought to her hours ago by Nyla. It is bound to drive her insane. It does not matter what she does—feeding her, changing her, rocking or shushing her—nothing will suffice. Her head throbs from the mixture of stress and irritation. With one arm, she bounces Daenaera. With the other, she rubs the side of her head with her fingertips to keep the ache at bay. It doesn't work, however, and she is left with a pounding sensation in her skull that refuses to relent.

"Please, my love," she whispers in a soothing tone, "Muña iksis kesīr." Mother is here. "I may be frightened, but nothing will harm you under my watch."

The moment the last word escapes her lips, they are both surprised by the sound of the doors opening for a second time today.

Y/N, having just sworn to protect her daughter, quickly stands from the couch she had been sitting on uncomfortably to prepare herself. But there is no need. A glance at his face is all it takes for her to start walking across the room with tears flooding her eyes and the babe cradled against her chest.

"Aemond!" she calls out to him.

His eye hesitates for a second to raise and meet her gaze, but it does. Regardless of the emotions running rampant through him, the sight of her in tears is one he cannot ignore. Swiftly, they meet one another across the middle of the room, and he takes her into his arms without uttering a word. When she settles into his embrace, he can feel her trembling. All of that bravado his mother spoke of when she pulled him aside to inform him of their conversation is nowhere to be found. It only took one glance at him for her to let herself break apart.

And now, gently pressed between her parents, Daenaera's cries start to dwindle into a soft sniffling. For the first time in hours, both of his girls have found a moment of peace in his arms.

"I woke up, and you were gone!" Y/N exclaims between sobs. "They locked me in here and refused to let me see her."

"My mother said—"

"Your mother has gotten what she has always wanted, it seems." The words are harsh, but when she pulls away to look up at his face, her teary-eyed stare does not match them. "Even so, if it wasn't for her, Otto would have ensured that I be kept prisoner from our daughter until I bent the knee to Aegon and sent a raven urging my family to do the same."

His body turns stiff and still at this, and his face, as softened with emotion as he is capable of expressing, displays an unhinged ferocity that could frighten even the bravest of men.

"She did not tell me that."

Every word is said carefully, as if he fears speaking his mind too freely in front of her after all that has transpired since they last saw each other. It is clear that his grandsire has committed a grave error in holding their daughter against her will to sway Y/N's mind, but that is all she can gather, and it unsettles her. It took a long time, but he has become accustomed to sharing his thoughts and feelings with her. Since she found out she was with child, their relationship has blossomed into something neither of them could have seen coming. Something beautiful and rare in a realm where most noble women are content to be sold off by their fathers for the sake of survival.

Pushing this aside for now, she speaks in a quiet, eerily calm tone he recognizes well.

"If she is ever taken from me again, I will kill them all. I swear this to you." The look in her eye is crazed and wild, the reaction of a mother lashing out to protect her child. Not once does she let him escape her stare. "I'll leave with her on dragonback if I must."

"You will not leave with her."

It is an order, not a request. In any other moment, she would protest the notion that he has any authority over her, but she is too perplexed to speak right now. Thankfully, she does not need to. Instead, she watches him closely and tries to read him as he mulls it over in his head. After a moment, he shakes his head and tightens the grip of the hand resting on her waist.

"There will be no reason to...Leave Otto to me."

He is already pulling back to leave and confront his grandsire for what he has done, but the feeling of her hand around his wrist halts him before any distance can be made. With his back to her, he intends to yank himself out of her grasp, but then she yells at him. Somehow, her words manage to melt through his cold exterior and bring him back from the precipice of madness.

"No, don't leave us! She needs you!"

After a moment, the sound of Daenaera's slowed cries finally outmatches the ringing in his ears. Another couple of seconds pass, and he takes a heavy breath to steady himself before turning to face them. What he sees causes him to let loose a heavy breath. Tears shine in his dear wife's eyes as she holds their babe flush against her body with trembling hands. Her arms are so sore from bouncing and rocking the child all day that she can hardly stand it any longer.

Knowing this, Aemond reaches out and takes their daughter from her arms without hesitation. She squirms and coos at first, startled by the sudden movement, but calms down the second she realizes who is holding her. Still, he mutters sweet nothings against her head in Valyrian, inhaling the distinct, clean scent that somehow only infants have.

When his eye finds hers again, the first tear has fallen off her chin.

"And so do I," she says.

The hand hanging at his side raises to cup her face and wipe away the tracks of tears sliding down her rosy cheeks with his thumb. His touch is ever so slight, like a feather brushing against her skin. It is contrary to how he typically handles her with confidence and bold familiarity but welcome nonetheless.

"You have me," he responds, and he says it so softly, so gently, that she starts to believe it. In the face of everything that has happened and now will happen, she remains blinded by her devotion to him. "Kesā va moriot emagon nyke." You will always have me.

Y/N smiles through her tears, and Aemond is once again stunned by the fact that there is nothing that can make her appear less than perfect for him. She is pretty even when she cries. Yet, the tender moment is soon interrupted by her need for answers.

"Where did you go today? If you didn't know what was going on here, you must have been elsewhere."

In lieu of answering her question, he first decides to find a place to sit before starting this conversation. It would be awkward, he thinks, to stand here holding the babe while he debriefs her on the mission his mother sent him on this morning. He decides that the couch will do just fine, turning and walking toward it with one arm holding Daenaera and the other hand guiding Y/N.

After settling down on the couch, Aemond's hand finds its way to her waist. He pulls her close until she is pressed up to his side. The touch of his rough hand against her body is both comforting and familiar, his grasp on her almost desperate...as if he cannot bear to let her go. In one arm, he holds his wife. In the other, he holds his daughter.

There's a tense moment of silence, then he speaks. His voice is low, tinged with a hint of frustration.

"Mother sent me on an errand," he explains. "I left you to train with Cole as I do every day, but she had the guards intercept me on my walk to the yard. Father died, and, of course, Aegon was nowhere to be found. If anything can be counted upon, it is his appetite for fucking disease-ridden whores in Fleabottom rather than remaining with his wife and children for any longer than he's required."

She swallows thickly as he speaks, her hand braced against her chest. What she is bracing for, she does not know, but with all that has transpired today, she refuses to lower her guard. As much as she wants to have hope, to look on the bright side of things, she knows she must prepare herself for the cold bite of reality.

Aemond can feel her tension secondhand—a coiled rope ready to snap at the slightest pull of the thread that holds it together. He is painfully aware of how much he mislikes seeing her in distress. To see her bright, lively eyes dimmed by worry does little to mollify the anger that still roils within him from the thought of their babe being kept from her all day. To imagine the sound of Daenaera crying, her shrill wails piercing the ears of the handmaidens when all she wanted was to be with her mother...

"Go on," she says.

The expression on her face is unable to be read despite his best efforts. Yet, even as she forces a neutral expression, her body language tells a different story. Her shoulders are taut, her back straight, and her hands tightly clenched in her lap.

"I was sent to find Aegon," he says, his voice soft yet somehow firm. "Mother feared that Otto might find him first and urge him to put Rhaenyra and all of her heirs to the sword without offering a chance to bend the knee." As he emphasizes the word "all," he looks into her eyes, and for the first time in years, she sees fear when she meets his gaze. "I know it was not easy for you to stay here, alone, but if I did not find him first..."

One of the hands clenched into a fist on her lap reaches out to touch him, offering a sense of comfort as she rubs his back in a repetitive, soothing motion.

"Your grandsire would have me killed?" she finishes for him. "So he can hold our daughter hostage her entire life and indoctrinate her into supporting Aegon's claim?"

His eye is overflowing with a storm of emotions, a tumultuous mix of fear and madness. But when her hand finds its way to his back, his muscles involuntarily start to relax, the tension unknotting under her healing touch.

He nods carefully, and the act of doing so makes the words all the more real. "Yes," he says. "Now that my mother has gotten to Aegon first, it seems he intends to use our girl to ensure your compliance rather than strike you down outright."

"That much I gathered myself," she says sharply, then shakes her head in disbelief. A second later, she continues to prod him for answers. "So you found Aegon, then?"

"Yes," he replies. His hand clutches at the soft fabric of the couch as he speaks, his knuckles turning white with the force of his grip. He found his brother, but what good is that when the fate of his wife and daughter hangs in the balance? "I did. Otto sent Erryk and Arryk to find him. Find him, they did. Before they could bring him back, we saw Aegon running from the Sept. It took little effort to catch him while Cole kept the guards busy."

There's nothing she can do to soothe herself but take Daenaera from his arms and hold on tightly. Her tiny head is supported in the bend of her arm, and the little girl does not protest. Her father is still close enough for her to remain calm and satisfied.

He opens his eye and looks at her, his gaze intense beneath his brow.

"We brought him back to Alicent. She's having him locked in his chambers till morning," he explains, his eye boring into hers. "It will happen, ābrazȳrys." Wife. "Any chance of stopping it is gone...Aegon will be king. The best you can do is comply."

The words make her sick to her stomach.

Everything she has always feared is coming to fruition, and here she is, powerless in every conceivable way. Every word, every breath, every move she makes will be watched as long as she remains in the Keep. There will be no freedom, she realizes. Soon, this room will be her prison for the rest of her life. Never again will she soar the skies on dragonback and savor the cold wind against her face. Never again will she return to Dragonstone to kiss her mother and embrace her father. Her heart breaks at the thought of not being able to see her brothers again. If she had known what would happen, she would have spent far more time with them when they visited.

Her eyes glaze over at this point, her gaze far away and hazy. She is looking right through him.

His gaze softens when he catches sight of the discomfort on her pretty face. He reaches out and takes her hand in his, his fingers wrapping around hers with a tenderness that is so unlike him when it comes to anyone but her. He lifts her hand to his mouth and brushes a kiss over each of her knuckles. Then, he brings her hand against him, her palm over his chest, to feel the heavy beat of his heart in the hope that it may snap her out of her thoughts.

"It will be alright," he says even though he does not know if it's true.

Aemond brings his other hand up to cup her face, his thumb tracing over her cheek. If he could, he would take her away from all of this. To a world where it is just the three of them—him, her, and the babe. But he can't. For now, all he can do is offer her the comfort of her husband's presence. At least she knows that no harm will befall her as long as she remains by his side.

"Listen to me," he whispers, his voice stern in a way that instinctively compels her to hear him out. "You will attend the coronation at my side. You will do so not out of loyalty to Aegon but out of loyalty to me."

Tears well up in her eyes at the mere thought of betraying her mother, even if the support she will be showing is feigned, and she starts to shake her head as she cries.

"No." She tries to scoot away from him with the babe still cradled in her arm. "My love, I cannot. I cannot! Please, I want to go home! To Dragonstone! I want my mother—"

"Enough!"

His voice is sharper than the swift crack of a whip. The forcefulness of it makes her freeze, her body running cold as her instincts tell her to obey. He has commanded her with that same tone a few other times throughout their marriage, but never has it felt so chilling. If she didn't know any better, she would mistake that feeling in the pit of her abdomen for fear. Not of the unimaginable situation at hand but of him.

For all she talks, she crumbles beneath the pressure behind closed doors and calls for her mother like a frightened little girl.

"You will not leave my side," he all but growls the words.

His hand still grasps her face, his fingers digging deep into her skin. Of course, he never wants to hurt her, not if he can help it, but he refuses to let her withdraw.

"Cry if you must," he tells her. "I will not leave you here alone. Mourn tonight. On the morrow, you must pretend. You cannot let anyone other than myself see you this way. Do you understand?"

"No! I most certainly do not understand, Aemond! How can you ask this of me? How can you ask me to stand there and do nothing as they place my mother's crown—my birthright—upon his head?"

She continues to try and pull away from him, her body caving in on itself with sobs, but he holds her tighter the more she resists.

"Calm yourself," he warns her.

He has never seen her like this—broken and weeping and weak. It is jarring to see her so far removed from the willful woman he married. The woman who held a knife to his throat with a promise to kill the last time he laid a hand on her younger brother. He has never seen her this way and prays he never will again, not only for her sake but for his. To see her suffer is utter agony. It's not something he thinks he can endure more than this one time.

He threads his fingers through the overgrown strands of her silver hair, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. He lowers his voice, speaking as softly as he can to her now that he has taken a moment to compose himself.

"You have to think about Daenaera," he says, his mouth against her hair. "You are her mother. She comes before all else. She is your duty."

The sudden reminder of their daughter has the effect he intended. Her body goes still, the sobs that were tearing through her beginning to quiet. His fingers run through her hair repeatedly in an attempt to soothe her, and it seems to work. At least for the time being.

She goes silent for a long time, her breath ragged and uneven against his chest. When she finally speaks, her voice breaks from the endless sobs that have plagued her since she woke this morning.

"I don't know if I can..."

Aemond simply says, "You must."

For the duration of the jolting carriage ride to the Dragonpit, Y/N sits in silence with Aemond on her right side and Helaena to her left.

The only indicator of her emotions that he can pick up on is how she nervously twists her wedding band around her left ring finger, toying with it incessantly to give herself something to do in a moment where she is powerless. If not for her unwavering faith in Nyla, he would not have been able to convince her to leave their daughter behind for the sake of attending the coronation.

Not even his best attempts at placating her worked. It was only when the plain-featured, frail servant girl walked up to her, took her hands in hers, and promised her the babe would never leave her arms that she allowed the others to help her dress. And that was another battle entirely—the dress.

As he looks her up and down out of the corner of his eye, he must clench his jaw in frustration.

The only gown she would wear is, unsurprisingly, black. The neckline is embroidered with threads of red and gold hues, and the bodice covered in pieces of fabric fashioned to appear as dragon scales. The same unflinching tenacity that allowed him to fall for her now smacks him across the face, and he cannot be mad at her for it. In some twisted fashion, it endears her to him further. To see that she is not so easily conquered, not willing to go down without a fight, makes his stomach flutter like it had the night of their wedding. Even when it is he and his family that she opposes, he cannot help but admire her refusal to surrender.

Out of the blue, as though she has read his mind, Helaena speaks in her typical soft and whimsical tone.

"I quite like your dress. Dragon scales..." A small smile crosses her face, then she says a bit more resolutely than before, "Beware the beast beneath the boards."

Unsure of how to respond, especially seeing that most of the family ignores the strange things Helaena says from time to time, Y/N simply nods and reaches to entwine their hands.

"Thank you, sister," she whispers. "And I shall."

Before Aemond can warn her not to do so, to tell Y/N that she does not like to be touched and often flinches from physical contact, Helaena's smile widens a little as she allows her hand to be held. If he hadn't found his wife's existence confounding already, this would do the trick. He may never come to understand how, but she has a way with people and things that he does not. Mayhaps it is a blessing from the Gods. As if her beauty, wit, and strong heart were not blessings enough.

Before he knows it, the carriage comes to a gentle halt, and he is brought back from his thoughts by the sound of the smallfolk chattering within and beyond the walls of the Dragonpit.

As Helaena is aided in stepping out of the carriage, Y/N turns to him and says quietly, "I will comply. Not because I believe Aegon to be the true heir. Not because I want to. Not because I am not angry with your mother for supplanting mine own as heir. But because I love you."

This vulnerable admission makes him falter for a second, his frustration melting and his harsh features softening. It's the first time she has said it like that. She has called him "my love" many times, but this is the first time she has said those three words.

"I know..." he whispers, not quite ready to say it back.

All she can manage is a nod in his direction before she is ushered from the safety of the carriage by members of the Kingsguard.

Aemond follows closely behind her, his hand hovering over the pommel of his sword like a hound ready to attack as they are escorted into the Dragonpit. While they make their way through the room, following behind the rest of his family, he notes how the smallfolk stare at his wife with expressions of shock and awe. Their gazes linger, and whispers fill the air as they watch her walk through the parted crowd, the sun shining against her from behind to set her silver hair aflame.

The second he stares back at them, their eyes avert to the floor in what most would assume is a display of respect for the Gods that walk among men. A sign that years of propaganda intended to keep those with the blood of the dragon on a pedestal above the rest has worked. In truth, Aemond in particular falls victim to the illusion of Targaryen exceptionalism more so than his wife, but it does not blind him to the fact that these people in particular are not avoiding his gaze out of respect. They do it out of fear, and he cannot deny the sick sense of pleasure it gives him to witness that.

Quicker than she anticipated, they reach the platform where Otto, Alicent, Cole, and Helaena await their arrival, and Aemond silently offers his hand to her once they reach the small set of stairs leading up. She takes his hand gratefully and prays it may steady her for the nauseating turn of events that have come to pass. At the last step, his grip on her hand loosens like he intends to let go, but she does not let him. Her fingers, adorned with rings in a fashion reminiscent of her mother, close tightly around his as their hands fall back to their sides.

Even after they fall into place, standing in a line alongside his family, she does not let go of his hand.

Aemond's eye flits down to their joined hands, fighting the urge to raise his brows in surprise at the display she is giving everyone. Yet he does not pull his hand away. Instead, he gives hers a comforting squeeze.

As his gaze moves from their hands to her face, he notices the tightness in her clenched jaw and the tension in her stiff posture. He knows she is struggling to maintain her composure, to keep herself in one piece in the face of what might as well be the end of the world as she knows it. But he also knows that she is strong, fiercely so, and not so easily defeated.

Otto begins a speech to the people once they've all settled, his voice echoing in the wide-open walls of the room.

"Today is the saddest of days!" he shouts. "Our beloved king, Viserys the Peaceful, is dead!"

The sounds of shock and sorrow that reverberate through the room in the second after it is announced are surprisingly filled with emotion—as if these people knew him personally.

"But it is also the most joyous of days. For as his spirit left us, he whispered his final wish that his firstborn son, Aegon, should succeed him."

Otto's last few words act as a cue for the fanfare to begin and the guards to raise their swords together as they part the crowd, clearing a path for the soon-to-be king. Across the wide-open interior of the Dragonpit, sudden movement catches her eye from where she stands atop the platform. True to her word, she does not balk at the sight of Aegon appearing at the entrance to the room. Passing beneath the raised swords, he looks ahead with a blank expression in his eyes.

"It is your great good fortune and privilege to be here to witness this. A new day for our city. A new day for our realm. A new king to lead us."

Her hand does not grip Aemond's tighter, nor does it let go as they watch her eldest uncle make his way through the crowd acting like he is walking to his death. One would think he's to meet the hangman's noose atop this platform. It takes everything in her not to scoff at his attitude. Grandsire and mother dearest have placed him upon the Iron Throne, and he can't even pretend to care. Beside her, she knows that her husband is tense with anticipation of her doing or saying something, but she minds herself. She tries her best to be an obedient little wife, a puppet dancing on strings held tightly in the grasp of Ser Otto Hightower, and it is difficult.

Finally, Aegon has ascended the stairs to join them.

He comes to a natural stop before his mother, and she gently takes his face in her soft hands, guiding his head down until she places a kiss on the top of it. Once they have parted, all it takes is a firm look from Otto for him to sink to his knees with his back facing the crowd.

Septon Eunace is, of course, waiting for this moment. A moment that will surely go down in history, not as one of joy or triumph but of defeat. It signifies the end of a peaceful time. The reigns of both Jaehaerys and Viserys were without war and widespread destruction. The same cannot be said for what is to come.

Under her breath, she whispers, "Kostagon ñuha muña gūrogon arlī skoros iksis zȳhon lēda Perzys Ānogār." May my mother take back what is hers with fire and blood.

Aemond's posture stiffens at the sound of her quiet voice.

No one around them, save for Helaena, shall know what she just uttered except for him. Everyone else standing around them could not speak or understand the native language of their ancestors, and the crowd before them would not hear her even if she spoke in the common tongue. Few may have witnessed her moving lips, but only he hears her. Is it a threat or prayer? He does not know.

"May the Warrior give him courage," the Septon speaks aloud as he anoints Aegon with oil. "May the Smith lend strength to his sword and shield. May the Father defend him in his need. May the Crone lift her shining lamp and light his way to wisdom."

He then hands the bowl off to another in exchange for the crown. Not the crown of the conciliator. The crown of the Conqueror. Valyrian steel, fitted with a ruby at the center, gleams beneath the light as Septon Eunace takes the crown into his hands and turns to give it to Ser Criston Cole.

No doubt smug with the sweet taste of victory over her mother, Criston thrusts it into the air and declares, "The crown of the Conqueror, passed down through generations."

At the last moment, Y/N allows her hand to slip from her husband's clutches.

"Let the Seven bear witness," Criston proclaims as he lowers it onto Aegon's head. "Aegon Targaryen is the true heir to the Iron Throne."

With that, the young king, born anew beneath the weight of the steel sitting upon his brow, rises.

"All hail his Grace, Aegon, Second of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm!"

The bells toll so loudly it threatens to rattle their teeth.

"Aegon the King!"

At first, there is silence, and everyone is unsure what to make of it. But then, most of the spectators packed too tightly into the room begin to applaud him. When he draws Blackfyre from its sheath, there is nothing Y/N can do but look ahead at those who cheer with tears shining in her eyes. To her left, she sees Alicent looking at her from the corner of her eye with a face of disappointment. Her stifled cries must have drawn her proud gaze away from her eldest son, now anointed before his subjects and crowned king.

"Worry not, child, he will spare your mother," Alicent whispers under her breath.

Before she can turn to watch her son raise his sword in triumph, Y/N says softly, but not weakly, "It is you who ought worry."

A look of horror flashes across Alicent's face.

The sound of the crowd roaring, chanting, and clapping for her son does little to distract her from the conviction with which those words were spoken. But she doesn't have the chance to respond. No, because the floor beneath the crowd explodes with a cloud of debris that hangs in the air and causes Y/N to stumble back in surprise.

She almost trips over her own feet, but a pair of strong hands quickly snatch up her waist to keep her upright. Her back hits his chest, a solid wall behind her that does not flinch at what she now realizes is a dragon bursting through the floor of the pit.

Aemond stands stock-still, his grip on her waist tight as the dust and debris settle. For a moment, his heart is in his throat, his mind fighting to process what just happened. And then, as the dust clears, he sees it—a dragon with crimson scales and copper horns. The beast shakes off the dirt and rubble, gazing around with a glare that promises violence should anyone dare to approach.

Before the rest of them can catch a glimpse of the woman perched in the saddle atop the she-dragon's back, his wife says with a wavering tone of shock, "Rhaenys..."

"Seize her!" Otto commands, pointing at Y/N.

Not willing to risk it, he has Ser Criston Cole haul her from her husband's arms and drag her up before Meleys—a shield to protect Alicent and King Aegon's fear-stricken forms from the threat of dragonflame. It is a stroke of genius that infuriates her equally as much as it impresses her. The only people left to keep Aemond from rushing after her are Septon Eunace and Otto himself, who manages well enough on his own to block him by ordering him to protect Queen Helaena.

Meleys advances until she is far too close and unleashes a furious roar that blows Y/N's hair off her shoulders. Still, she doesn't look away. She knows Rhaenys well enough to know that she will not slaughter them outright, especially not with her standing front and center.

The Queen Who Never Was remains silent when their gazes meet. She does not have to utter a word. Even with the smallfolk fleeing in terror for the doors to the Dragonpit and Otto screaming for them to be let out, everything is understood. Everything left unspoken can be felt like a current of energy buzzing between them, and the tears streaming down Y/N's cheeks are more powerful than words could ever be.

Then, as quickly as she burst through the floor, Meleys retreats, claws digging into the ground beneath her to help her turn around and take flight.

All they can hear over the sound of the injured and dying scattered across the broken floor is the sound of wings flapping in the sky.

Y/N picks at her lip as she sits outside the small council chamber six days after Aegon's coronation. It's easy to hear the muffled sound of voices within, but hearing what exactly they're saying proves to be a great deal more difficult.

The aftermath of what happened in the Dragonpit was chaotic. As soon as Meleys flew off, Aemond rushed from Helaena's side to where his wife stood before them all. Seeing that there were still people watching, he couldn't grab her face in his hands and pull her to him. Public displays of affection have never been his forte. At most, they hold hands or he keeps his hand on the small of her back as they walk. Ignoring the eyes that followed him with every step he took, he held both of her hands in his and looked her over to see if she was alright.

Knowing him too well, she said before he had the chance to ask, "I am unharmed." Her hands squeezed his. "Lykiri, ñuha zaldrīzes." Calm, my dragon.

The entire carriage ride back to the Keep, he did not let go of her. Sweet reassurances were whispered in her ear—in Valyrian, of course, to prevent Aegon from overhearing and taunting him for it later—and she managed to stop crying after a few moments.

Once they arrived, Aemond made sure to help Y/N down, keeping her close to him, not wanting to let go for fear of what may happen if he did. He saw his brother lingering nearby, and they shared a knowing look. Aegon nodded toward him in a silent expression of concern.

"Come," Aemond said, his grip on her tightening as they trailed after Alicent and Otto.

The very second they crossed the threshold into the Keep, he pulled Ser Criston aside to entrust him with the task of escorting her to their chambers.

"No," she retorted and pulled on her husband's arm, "I want to go with you."

"I do not want you to hear what I have to say to my grandsire, ñuha dōna ābrazȳrys." My sweet wife.

A look toward Criston showed he shared the prince's opinion as he nodded and said, "Such words are not fit for the ears of a highborn lady with delicate sensibilities."

It took all the strength she had not to roll her eyes at the implication of his words, and she simply ignored the knight in favor of looking up at her husband.

Aemond said, "I simply wish to settle this matter myself."

And she obliged.

Even now, as she sits and awaits the end of the meeting when her husband will finally be free to leave with her, she does not know what happened after Criston escorted her to Maegor's Holdfast. Whatever he said, it must have been enough to put Otto in his place regarding his treatment of her since Viserys died. The older man made it clear in his expression that it isn't something he goes along with happily, but Alicent is now the one who oversees his wife when Aemond is not present.

The freedom she was once afforded has been ripped away in the blink of an eye. Being the daughter of the enemy, she is under constant supervision. Alicent's orders appointed Criston Cole as her "sworn protector"—prison guard, more like—and he stands beside her now.

With a glance at him out of her peripheral vision, she gathers that he cannot hear what is being said in the small council room either, and it leaves him visibly irritated.

"Do you think Otto has reached Dragonstone yet?" she asks suddenly. "He left three days ago. Surely he must be there by now..."

There's a moment of hesitation, but he eventually responds.

"You know as much as I do, Princess. We can only pray for his safe return. There's no telling what Daemon may do."

To this, she cannot help but chuckle in amusement, and it becomes apparent now more than ever that she is, in fact, the daughter of the rogue prince.

"Mind your tongue, Ser Criston," she says with a haughty air of authority much like her father. "Prince Daemon."

The knight can do none else but swallow his pride. She is, after all, his superior, and she is right. Only in the privacy of his conversations with Aemond and Alicent can he speak freely.

"Apologies, my lady, for my lack of...formality."

The doors are flung open.

Aemond steps out of the small council room, his face set in a cold expression. His hands are clasped behind his back, but they are clenched tightly. The meeting had gone just as he knew it would.

He turns his gaze to Y/N, and a slight relaxation settles within him. Seeing her waiting for him is like taking a breath of fresh air or feeling the wind against his face when he rides the skies atop Vhagar, and it doesn't come a moment too soon.

"You are dismissed, Cole," he says as he walks past.

The act itself is a silent command for her to follow, and she does. His presence is a vast step up from that of her sworn sword. At least her husband is smart enough not to taunt her at a stressful time like this by speaking ill of her father.

They remain quiet on the walk to their chambers. It has become routine for them to make this walk in silence after he leaves meetings with the small council, to wait until nobody can overhear to speak about what may happen next as they wait for word from Otto and his men. It's a sense of structure she cannot help but cling to amidst the constant uncertainty. And, at the very least, she is thankful that Aemond trusts her enough to confide in her still. Even though everyone else regards her as a spy behind enemy lines, he doesn't. Not yet.

When the doors to their chambers close behind them, his emotionless facade disappears. With only her to witness it, the anger and frustration he feels come to the surface.

"What happened in there?"

Just as he opens his mouth to speak Nyla makes her presence known before she can be found out by the prince and accused of trying to eavesdrop.

"I am sorry, your Grace," she announces her presence with a dip of her head and moves away from where she'd been warming bathwater by the fire. "I will leave at once."

Aemond considers this, then decides against it.

"No. Finish your duties, girl." A sharp look from his wife, a reminder to treat her more kindly, makes him pause for a moment before finishing a touch softer. "You may leave once the bath is filled for my wife."

"Thank you," Y/N adds.

Aemond takes his time to undo his leather doublet, the tension in his shoulders visible under the fabric before he unceremoniously yanks it from his body. He rolls his shoulders a couple of times to relieve some of the stiffness, craning his neck until he hears a slight cracking sound that is swiftly followed by a sigh of relief. His annoyance is plain to see when he tosses the doublet on the couch.

Her eyes track his every movement, and the sound of Nyla's humming in the background filling the gaps of silence during which they don't speak.

He tells her, "Iksan issare jittan naejot jelmāzma mōris naejot mazverdagon iā dīnilūks rȳ Daeron se mēre hen Barāthēon riñi." I am being sent to Storm's End to arrange a marriage between Daeron and one of the Baratheon girls.

"Sīr skoro syt issi ao ribazmoqitta?" So why are you frustrated?

The only part she leaves out is a taunting reminder that Borros Baratheon's father swore fealty when her mother was named heir all those years ago. Hopefully a marriage pact with a third son is not incentive enough for oaths to be broken. But, still, in another language or not, she'd rather not argue in front of Nyla.

"Kesrio syt issa doru-borto, se ziry gaomas daor gūrogon ziry." Because he is stupid, and he does not deserve it.

"Nūmāzma jēda ao ūndegon va." About time you caught on. She says the next sentence in the common tongue, not caring since Nyla has no context for it, "You speak of something we already know."

Y/N comes up behind him and slides her hands up his back, feeling the warmth of his skin through his clothing. The sensation of her touch makes his eye flutter shut in appreciation, and his mouth tilts up at each end in a slight smile. Slowly, her hands descend until they reach the hem of the plain shirt that sits at his hips. It would be inappropriate to undress him in front of a servant, so she opts for slipping her fingers underneath his shirt to massage his back. It's easy to tell just from an exploratory touch that his muscles are tense from the stress of the week since Viserys died.

"Naenie kessa sagon mundagon skori pōja kepa morghūljagon." Many would be sad when their father dies. A pause. "Nyke āryon daorun." I feel nothing.

It is no secret that King Viserys favored his firstborn daughter over the rest of his children. She always knew this. She saw it in how he cared for her mother—or, perhaps, the glimpses of Aemma he saw in her mother—but to see the impact it had on the rest of his children firsthand colors all of those fond memories of him in a bad light. Flaws and all, if her father were to die today, she would weep and mourn him as most would someone so close to them. But her husband does not mourn his father. Not in any way she recognizes as being normal.

Her thumbs dig into the muscles on either side of his spine at the southernmost point of his back.

"Tis understandable," she says softly. "Ziry gōntan daor ivestragī ao gīmigon zirȳla sȳrī." He did not let you know him well.

For a while, they remain this way, standing in silence as she massages his back for him and he lets out little sighs of relief to show his gratitude. They are so focused on this, trapped in their own world, that they don't notice Nyla preparing to leave until she is standing at the door with one hand on the handle and the other holding the empty bucket brought to warm the bathwater.

It is Y/N who sees her. All she needs to do is nod once to dismiss the girl, and she is gone before Aemond can open his eye. The only thing that alerts him to this is the sound of the door closing in her wake.

The hands massaging him stop in their tracks.

"Come with me," she instructs. "Let's clean up before you leave."

Their footfalls are quiet as she leads him from the couch to the large, copper tub filled with hot water. A familiar aromatic scent invades her nostrils, bringing a smile to her face because Nyla remembered her favorite bathing oil and mixed it into the water before she left. Soon, their clothes are left in a messy pile on the floor that another servant will have to collect after dinner, his eyepatch discarded next to them, and they sink into the steaming water together.

Aemond settles with his back against the tub, one hand still holding hers as she steps in and sits in front of him. Her hair falls down her back with the ends soaking in the water. There's no sign of her typical braided hairstyle today, so he wastes little time in grabbing the small pitcher set aside for them and using it to pour water over her head. One hand guides her head into a tilted-back position until her hair is fully saturated and ready to wash with her precious lemon and lavender soap from Lys.

One time, as a small girl, Daemon gifted her a bar of it after he visited with Laena from Essos. She may not have known for certain that he was her father at that age, but she cherished the gift regardless. For the years since, the soap has been delivered to her by ship every moon.

"You were right," she says.

His hands work the soap through her hair and rub her scalp the same way she did to his back.

"About?"

"About Aegon. He is unfit for the role that has been thrust upon him."

There's an obvious tone of resentment to what she says, and it's a sentiment he shares, although the cause of it is different. For him, he resents Aegon for being born first. For having everything he has ever wanted handed to him and turning his nose up at it. For her, she resents Aegon for the actions of his scheming grandsire and his mother who happily played along. For letting them use him to steal his sister's birthright. For Aegon, all he ever wanted was someone to love him, and if that love couldn't be found within his family, he would seek it elsewhere.

"You should see him in the council meetings," Aemond says. "He hasn't a clue what to do. Just sits there like a confused child while the rest of us talk."

She hesitates for a second before pointing out, "Perhaps that isn't such a bad thing..."

His silence is a signal for her to elaborate.

"If he is as unfit to rule as we think, it may be a good thing to let him sit aside while those better suited for the job do the heavy lifting. That is if you consider any of the traitorous fools on that council to be fit for the job."

He goes still.

"We have been through this, ābrazȳrys. I had no hand in what my mother and grandsire did..." Wife.

"But you do not care. If anything, you curse the Gods for not making you the firstborn son so you could have been the one they crowned in her stead."

In response to this, he just sighs and reaches for the pitcher to get the soap out of her hair. It takes a couple of rinses for it to sit in the form of bubbles at the surface of the water, but it eventually washes out.

"Wash my hair?" he asks, not wanting to acknowledge what she said if it means quarreling with her before he leaves. "Do not worry, I wouldn't dream of stealing your special soap. You may use the other one on me."

Wordlessly, she reaches to take her favorite soap from his hand and moves to crawl onto his lap.

The water sloshes with her movements, and when she straddles his hips, she can feel his cock half-hard against her. With the changes that have wreaked havoc on her body in the aftermath of pregnancy and childbirth, she questioned whether or not he would find her as attractive as he once did. Needless to say, it pleases her to know that he still cannot resist the sight of her bare body before him.

Those strong, callused hands find purchase on her plush hips to keep her in place and prevent her from leaving now that she has gotten so close to him. He closes his eye, breathing in deep, and allows himself to relax against the hard wall of the bathtub. He listens as his wife washes his hair, the small splashes and the soft scent filling the air. Her hands are gentle as she works. Her touch is tender and reverent. In truth, Aemond finds her touch to be soothing. Any anger that sparked from what she said is softened by the feeling of her body pressed against his.

"Ao jurnegon sīr gevie hae bisa," Y/N whispers. You look so beautiful like this. "Lēda daorun naejot ruaragon aōha laehurlion hen nyke." With nothing to hide your face from me.

She dunks the pitcher into the bath to collect enough water to rinse the soap out. Her fingers run through his hair with every pitcher she carefully pours over his head. It isn't until she puts it to the side and wipes the water from his face that he opens his eye to look at her. When he does, she is staring at him longingly—as if he is not a cold, disfigured man who most women turn away from. It is not lost on him that he isn't the easiest person to love. If anything, he has always been painfully aware.

"Se ra jaelan naejot gaomagon naejot ao..." he trails off. The things I want to do to you right now...

Their faces inch closer and closer with each passing second, and before they meet in the middle, she murmurs, "Tōma tolī tubissa." Five more days.

His lips are soft against hers. The instant they touch, she can feel the hands on her hips squeeze to absentmindedly pull her closer. She presses a palm to his chest and feels the hard pounding of his heart as they deepen the desperate kiss. He follows her lead, chasing her whenever she pulls away with a hunger that sets his blood aflame.

"So sensitive," she croons and grinds against him.

The feeling of his cock sliding against her wet folds elicits a soft moan from the back of his throat. It takes a few seconds, but he manages to control himself and uses the hands on her hips to keep her from moving again.

"No. We have waited this long."

"Five days might as well be an eternity, Aemond, I want you now..."

If he were standing, he's certain what she just said would make him weak in the knees, but it won't make him throw caution to the wind and fuck her when her body is not ready for it. He shakes his head and lifts one of his hands to grab her chin, forcing her to pull away enough to let him see her face.

Gods, he looks handsome right now, she thinks. With his hair wet and unbound, it falls around his face in a way she only sees in the privacy of their bedchamber. Then, there's that sapphire gleaming in his scarred eye socket. There's something about his beauty that is so haunting, so unusual, so statuesque. The very image of ethereal Valyrian beauty.

He looks into her eyes as he says, "It will pass quicker than you expect. The very moment those days are up, I will do everything I've dreamt of doing these past five weeks."

She wraps her arms around his shoulders and warns him with an exaggerated pout, "Do not tease me."

His response is immediate.

"Not a tease, a promise."

As he says this, the door to their room creaks open, and a nursemaid stands in the entryway. The babe's cries are enough to capture the attention of both parents, who abruptly cease their playful banter to look at the servant standing with her eyes averted from their naked bodies. Her face is flushed a deep shade of scarlet. As soon as she realized what they were doing, she turned her face away.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Your Graces, but she keeps crying and we are running out of ways to soothe her. I was told to ask if you would like to try."

Sighing, she scoots off of his lap.

"Bring her, then. I shall take her."

The girl nods, trying to summon the nerve to intrude on their private affair, then walks from the door to the bath. Y/N reaches out to take the babe into her arms, shushing her as she cries and cradling her little body to her chest. The servant does not dare to look at Aemond One-Eye. No, her gaze remains fixed on the floor where his eyepatch sits. What might he do if she looks at him in this state? She does not wish to stay and push her luck.

"May I please be dismissed, Princess?"

"You may."

The speed with which she scurries off has Y/N fighting the urge to laugh, but she maintains enough self-control to wait until the door shuts before erupting into an uncontrollable bout of giggles.

"Stop it," Aemond says, his mouth twitching as he stifles his laughter. "Quit laughing at me, woman."

"Skoros gōntan gaomā naejot mazverdagon zirȳla sīr zūgagon hen ao?" What did you do to make her so scared of you?

Seeing her like this—laughing with her hair wet and their babe nestled into her chest, little hands grasping at her skin—is how he imagines the smallfolk feel witnessing the otherworldly presence and power of the dragons when they fly over the city.

"Mayhaps it is because of this"—a gesture to his face—"Most ladies, noble and common alike, are frightened of me," he muses, stating it like it is an unavoidable fact of life because it is. Ever since that day at Driftmark, people have treated him differently. He adds the next part with a soft smile, a rare sight for most who know him, "Excluding you."

"Those ladies are fools. What happened with your eye makes you no different than any other man, not where it matters," she states. "You are a Targaryen prince, Vhagar's rider no less, and what are they?" A scoff escapes her. "Frightened hens, that's what they all are."

The mere sound of their voices going back and forth lulls Daenaera into a calm, sleepy state. Her mouth hangs open, and drool coats the shoulder her face is smushed against. His girls truly are a sight to behold. He leans back against the bathtub, his eye still fixed on them with a look of disbelief.

How did this happen? How did the arranged marriage that he dreaded blossom into the overwhelming feeling tugging at his heart right now? It's such a foreign feeling. He only ever felt it as a child, when his mother fought for justice on his behalf after his eye was so brutally taken, yet even that was different. The type of love he felt for his mother that day does not hold a candle to what he feels for his wife every waking moment.

The prince cannot help but smile, watching in awe as she rocks their little girl in her arms, careful to keep her above the surface of the hot water.

He reaches out to gently stroke the soft wisps of silver hair growing from Daenaera's head. Slowly, the hand touching the babe's head moves up the length of Y/N's arm and keeps moving until he cups her cheek. Seeing that he cannot make himself say it any other way, he says it in Valyrian. The words that have remained on the tip of his tongue since he first saw her holding their child finally break free.

"Avy jorrāelan."

The words have an instant effect. She falters and almost loses her breath, her gaze fixed on him as her heart hammers in her chest.

"Say it again," she whispers, each breath coming in quick succession.

The distance between them wanes little by little until all that stands between them is their newborn daughter, and she can feel the heat of his exhales clouding against her face.

Softly, he tells her, "I love you."

She cannot tell if it's the heat from the water in the tub, the warmth of his body, or the passion in his words that makes her press her thighs together to satisfy the ache between them.

"Again," is her one-word plea, whispered against his lips only a second before they converge in a kiss.

It's nothing too passionate. Of course, they know that she is holding their babe between them, so it is a sweet, slow kiss. One that does not rouse the child from her half-asleep haze but still contains all of the affection and feeling a more heated kiss would have. After the better half of a moment, she pulls away to hear him say it again.

He is reluctant to part from the kiss, but when he does, he moves to whisper in her ear.

"Avy jorrāelan," he repeats. In the heat of the moment, he lets his lips graze her earlobe before drifting down her neck, planting a trail of chaste kisses against her skin. But before he can advance any further, he stops at the feeling of the babe's head brushing the side of his face. He then tilts his face down to plant a sweet kiss on her as well. "Se Avy jorrāelan, zaldrītsos." And I love you, little dragon.

Y/N lets out a breathless chuckle, her chest still heaving from the rush of adrenaline his confession and the subsequent kiss brought her.

"I never would have taken you for a man that swoons over an infant."

Aemond chuckles softly at her questioning his affection for their daughter. He runs the bar of soap over his chest, lathering his skin with it and scrubbing until he feels sufficiently clean. The sweet scent of it hangs in the air. It reminds him of all the times he has smelled it on her in intimate moments much like this, and it warms his heart to think that this will be another fond memory for him to look back on the next time he smells it on her.

He hums in response to her question, rubbing the soap down his arm.

"What do you expect me to do? Hate her?"

As she passes the child, squirming at the sudden disturbance of being moved from one parent's arms to the other's, she rolls her eyes at him.

"No, of course not. I always knew you would make a fine father one day. At least, better than Viserys was." As she coats her skin with the soap, he follows the movement of her hands cupping her breasts and caressing down her soft stomach. "I just...I did not expect you to fall in love or care for us the way you do. Tis a rare thing for people of our station."

He is quiet for a second or two before answering her.

"I did not expect it either."

Once they are both rinsed off and clean from any stubborn suds that wish to cling to them, she gets out first to lay the babe down on their bed. Knowing her parents are near and fed with a tummy full of milk, Daenaera does not cry as she had with the nursemaids. She finds enough comfort in the soft feather mattress to drift off into a light sleep while her mother dries herself. The linen cloths were left folded beside the bathtub for her, courtesy of Nyla, and after they are done, she hangs them out by the open window to dry in the sun.

With her help, he dresses in his typical leather ensemble in preparation for the journey to Storm's End.

Fortunately for the both of them, flying is far quicker than traveling by land or sea, so it should not be long before he returns to her. He fastens the buckles that hold his doublet together as she wraps the belt around his slim waist, checking to ensure it is secured before attaching his sheathed sword. This is a practiced routine they have gone over countless times. Day after day, she helps lace his boots and buckle his belt. Not because she is his wife and it is expected of her to serve him, but because she wants to. It's a small act of service, but it shows him how much she truly cares.

Next, he sits on the couch and lets her help him with his hair.

They told the servants not to bother them until dinner, but she could manage his simple half-up style herself. On days when she feels particularly lethargic, she forgoes her intricate braids for something quite similar that only takes a few minutes. But, she decides without asking him, she will braid the hair pulled back from his face rather than tie it off. It's nothing compared to the magic Nyla works when weaving her hair into complex patterns each morning, but the simple braid holds more securely than it would be tied back. Seeing that he will be flying for hours, she thinks it best to prevent it from becoming a mess.

When he leaves, she is there to walk him to the stairs—with Ser Criston following her every step like a shadow.

"Sagon ȳgha, ñuha jorrāelagon," Y/N says softly, touching her forehead to his for a moment. Be safe, my love. "Kesi sagon umbagon syt ao." We will be waiting for you.

In her dreams, Y/N floats in a churning swell, abandoned and left to the mercy of the open sea with a storm overhead. Saltwater burns in her throat with every dip she takes beneath the surface. When the waves crash, she is sent tumbling beneath the surface with nothing but dark water surrounding her. It isn't until the current calms, only for a second, that she may kick her way back up. Strands of hair stick to her face as she tilts it toward the sky and sucks down breath after frantic breath of air. No matter how hard she heaves, it isn't enough to get her through the next wave that pulls her under.

Beneath the surface of the water, she cannot help but try to breathe once the pressure from holding her breath becomes too great, which causes her to inhale a mouthful of water into her lungs. Her legs and arms flail in a desperate bid to save what will be inevitably lost.

But, as she struggles, she sees something crashing into the water not far from where she is.

At first, the bubbles in the water obscure her vision and keep her from squinting to see with the salt of the sea burning her eyes, but it isn't long before she can make out the shape of a body. A man—no—a boy. Now that she sees him, she no longer wants to make it to the open air. Her lust for survival is dimmed by the confounding sight of a young boy with no visible injuries sinking into the depths. Those flailing limbs now move her in his direction, desperate to save him before he disappears into the dark that lingers below like the ever-present shadow of death.

It feels as though her chest may burst as she swims for him, and she knows she is running out of time, but she cannot bring herself to abandon him. He looks no older than her brother. It's a thought that propels her through the water faster. She can't stop thinking...I must reach him. I must save the boy and give him the very last bit of air in my lungs. The harder she tries, the further he drifts away, and there isn't anything she can do but scream into the yawning void of the open ocean.

She wakes from the nightmare with a gasping inhale. Her hands claw at her throat and chest like they had beneath the surface of the water, but when she opens her eyes, she is sitting upright in her bed. The hand clutching her throat instinctively reaches for the other side of the bed, for Aemond, yet no one is there. It takes another few seconds of panicked searching before she remembers when and where she is. Before she remembers that her husband left to fly to Storm's End.

She glances at the position of the moon visible through the opened window and deduces that it is the hour of the wolf. Morning is coming soon, but the moon is still high, and it will be another few hours before Nyla comes to wake her.

Every breath she takes is labored and heaving, but she slowly begins to feel better. Being grounded to reality by the scent of the dying flames in the hearth, the pressure in her chest and throat eases. In another moment, she will forget the suffocating sensation of drowning that startled her so deeply, and knowing this helps calm her even more. It is strange to navigate these frightening feelings without Aemond, though. It used to be her mother whose arms she crawled into after a nightmare, but then she became a wife. He would always be there to wrap his arms around her and shush her as she cried. Now, she is a mother with a child of her own, and there is no one around to soothe her but herself.

To her left, Daenaera rests in her cradle.

Ever since the incident after Viserys died, Y/N has refused to allow her to sleep anywhere other than beside their bed. Her sleep is interrupted as a result, but there's no amount of sleep worth more than knowing her daughter is near.

The sound of Y/N's footfalls on the floor is near-silent. It is precisely what she needs to check on the babe without waking her. Daenaera is swaddled in a blanket made for her by her mother, and she appears to be in a deep slumber. A cauldron sits on the floor beneath the cradle. Although plain and unassuming, it holds the dragon egg Rhaenyra sent when news broke of her only daughter's pregnancy. One of Syrax's clutches, she assumes. It has yet to hatch, which has worried her husband sick. After what he endured as a child, he is quite fearful of what her life may be like as a Targaryen without a dragon. But having been born without hatching a dragon of her own, having to risk her life in claiming hers, she does not worry. There is no way a child of hers and Aemond's blood, even if she is unlucky in hatching her egg, does not claim a dragon one day.

For some strange reason, she feels drawn to the egg tonight. So, she kneels down as quietly as possible and reaches for the handle of the heated cauldron. Just as she sets the lid down, the sound of someone knocking—banging, actually—on the doors to their chambers draws her attention away.

"Hello?" she calls into the darkness. "Whoever you are, quit making such a racket. You'll wake my daughter."

The door creaks open only enough to allow the same nursemaid who interrupted her and Aemond in the bath to peek her head in. Freckles smatter her pale face like splotches of brown paint, and her red hair is pulled back from her face, hidden beneath a head covering all of the servant girls wear as part of their uniform.

"What is it, Edyth?" Y/N asks with an exaggerated sigh.

"I apologize for disturbing you, Your Grace, but it is a matter of great urgency. Ser Criston Cole is here with me. I feared your modesty may not be protected at this time of night, so he has permitted me to speak for him."

This piques her interest enough to make her stand from where she knelt beside the cradle. Her stomach churns with anxiety as her mind runs through every possible reason she could be summoned at such a late hour. If Daenaera weren't here with her, she would assume something happened to her, but that clearly is not the case. That only leaves...

"Aemond," she thinks out loud, looking to the servant girl to confirm her suspicions. "Something has happened with my husband, hasn't there?"

All Edyth can offer in response is a frantic nod, and it takes less than a minute for Y/N to throw her robe on to meet her at the door.

"Stay and watch after Daenaera until I return. Do not take her from this room. Do you understand?" The nursemaid nods once more in response. "Good."

With that, the princess is gone.

Ser Criston walks alongside her, his armor abandoned in favor of the comfortable clothing he sleeps in at night. It seems that he too was roused from sleep to respond to what she can only assume is a terrible emergency involving her husband. She soon realizes, though, that she does not know where they are going and turns to Cole for guidance with a look of confusion. Part of her still feels as though she's trapped in the nightmare with the storm, sea, and the drowning boy. Trapped in the place between being asleep and awake, her body sways with exhaustion with every stumbling step forward.

After they have traversed enough halls for her to recognize where they're going, she realizes they are heading to the small council chamber...in the dead of night.

As he opens the door, her view of the room is blocked by him walking in front of her with one hand on the pommel of his sword. Her heart nearly bursts from her chest from the anticipation that has built within her since Edyth first poked her head into her room, mind racing with every outlandish possibility regarding why she has been called here.

Yet, there Aemond is.

There everyone is—Alicent, Aegon, and the rest of the council excluding the Hand. Since he is delivering terms to her mother at Dragonstone, it would be impossible for him to return in time to deal with whatever issue has arisen. Her husband stands next to his brother's seat at the table with his head down and his hands behind his back. The closer she gets, the more unnerved she becomes at the sight of him. His hair is wild—obviously, he flew through a storm, and it dried in the wind as he made the journey home—and his utter refusal to look at her...

She hurries across the room to him, with each pair of eyes around them following her there.

"You aren't hurt?" Y/N asks as she cups his face between her hands and lifts his head so she may look at him.

There's a drawn-out beat of silence that follows her question, and it feels like everyone in the room watches the pair with bated breath.

It is Alicent who speaks first.

"No, sweet girl," she says, though it sounds as though she may weep. "He is not hurt."

"Then what is the matter? Edyth made it sound like..."

Taking a look around the room for reassurance only makes her stomach sink even more than it already has.

Aegon sits at the head of the table with a vacant expression, likely exhausted and heavily drunk given the time of night. Alicent stares at her with such guilt present in her wide, doe eyes. Grand Maester Orwyle and the others, who were no doubt woken from a night of good rest like the royal family, all look varying degrees of horrified. It seems that she is the only one who does not know what has happened, and she can't stand it.

She turns to her husband, her hands sliding from his face to hold onto him by his shoulders.

"Aemond?"

Aemond tenses up at the touch of her hands, and the tension in the room has become palpable and thick. So much so that she doesn't look away from him until he tells her what is wrong.

"What is it? Tell me, please."

He slowly looks up to meet her eyes.

"Your brother..." he starts, then stops for a second to take in a deep breath.

No matter how difficult this may be, he doesn't avert his gaze from hers. He holds it, hoping that she may be able to see the shame he has locked away inside of himself to avoid being seen as weak in front of the others, and keeps talking even though he knows the truth will damn him to a fate worse than death. A fate wherein he is the object of her hatred from this point forward.

"Lucerys is dead."

Her eyes well up with tears at the thought, her head shaking erratically as if doing so will make the news any less true. Suddenly, images from the nightmare flash inside her head, and she realizes that she was being warned of this as she slept. By who or what, she does not know, but the image of the sea dragging him under was not one she conjured. The faceless boy now has the familiar face of her little brother. In a way, he felt like a child of her own with how she always doted on him and let him sleep in her bed when he had his own nightmare.

Just when she opens her mouth with the intent of asking how it happened, as well as how they all discovered this before her, Aemond confesses.

"I killed him."

omg omg it’s so fun to be back with this story it’s getting so dramatic! please let me know your thoughts on this chapter and show it some love if you enjoyed it!

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