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queers-gambit · 4 months ago

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The Black Dread part one

prompt: after word is sent for Dragonseeds to raise up, you shockingly claim The Black Dread. knowing your stance would all but determine the war, both Alicent and Rhaenyra send emissaries to persuade your allegiance through means of marriage. when tragedy strikes, you fly to war. -> in this part - you claim Balerion and emissaries are sent.

pairing: Jacaerys 'Jace' Velaryon x female!Tyrell!reader pairing: Aemond Targaryen x female!Tyrell!reader -> hair color specified reader -> technically Targaryen!reader -> ALL characters aged 18+

fandom masterlist: House of the Dragon

series masterlist: The Black Dread > > > next part, part two: read here

word count: 4.9k+

note: ALL characters are aged up - they are NOT minors

warnings: hair color specified reader but it's paramount to the story. Dance of the Dragons AU, Balerion lives AU - kinda heavy introduction. political manipulation, i guess no Baela, Rhaena or Alys romantic interests, ALL characters are aged 18 or older, Muses aren't in this part much, stolen Olenna Tyrell quote(s), Dylan Thomas quote.

though Balerion is not shown in the shows [HOTD or GOT], these are some of author's personal favorite fan art pieces: this this one, but maybe this color

Considering the climate, environment, elements, and location of each region with no true diverse distinction or transition between seasons, summers varied in each corner of the Seven Kingdoms. Notably, the mainland experienced vastly different summers in comparison to the constantly humid Westerosi islands.

This was expected.

Where the weather endured in King’s Landing is dry and stale - lacking cloud coverage, baking all forms of life under the unforgiving sun - Dorne was ideal: temperate, tropical, the temperature usually consistently comfortable.

Northwest of the continent, off the Westerlands coast in water of Ironman's Bay so dark, secrets remain hidden, summers on the ratified Iron Islands were cold due to the winds blowing from the North. The rocky region wet and slippery from rain; never humid, usually biting.

The Reach boasted pleasant summers; lush and green with fully bloomed gardens, perfectly balmy. The Stormlands lived up to its name and was plagued with frequent storms. These were usually warm rains - opposite the Iron Islands. The Crownland's annually hosted hordes of tourists at their ever popular summer attraction: temperate beaches. And why wouldn't they? The Crownlands's usually kept moderate temperatures and plenty of vast coastline to offer reprieve in the surf.

However, the only exception to sweltering, stereotypical climate that ransacks the Realm is the North - an expansive outlier. You see, in the North, summers are cold but winters are REALLY cold. From Bear Island to White Harbor, the dreary, overcast summer sky reflects on year-round, bright, pristine summer snow, making it glitter and blindingly glow. This results in the curation of a blue-grey filter naturally exclusive in the North.

However, tonight - You weren't ankle-deep in North summer snows. You weren't wheezing in King's Landing. You weren't vacationing in Dorne. You weren't sloshing through the Stormlands.

Tonight, you weren't on the mainland.

Tonight, you were on Dragonstone - ancestral home of your distant, estranged family.

Bullfrogs belted their croaky song, loud and incessant; as if trying to individually greet each twinkling star in the inky sky - the ever faithful audience; intrigued by this reckless and dangerous suicidal showdown you embarked on. Crickets chirped in a soprano choir; dotting around the maze of tide pools - cratered by the same porous, jagged, volcanic rock that defines the unpredictable, natural coastline. Frothing alto waves of dark navy, violent, salty sea brutally crashed against rock - the booming baseline of the frog's and cricket's private duet sang in perfect harmony.

All that was missing was a little red crab with a Jamaican accent encouraging you "kiss the girl".

Night had fallen. The winds were cold as a storm rumbled overhead. Rain fell sideways. Lightning streaked the skies.

You navigated through the dark - a slippery, dangerous feat.

Few windows of the castle gave a subtle, dim light; indicating the residents were more than likely turned in for the night. Still, despite the lack of patrolling guards and other witnesses, you remained in stealth mode. Only fools allowed themselves to feel cocky when their guards go down. When someone allowed their defenses to go down, mistakes are made, capture is imminent, the mission is a failure, and surrender to the enemy's mercy is forced.

Your presence on Dragonstone wasn't for romance - no girls (or boys) for you to kiss. This wasn't a social visit to recreationally mingle with the Velaryon Prince or Targaryen Princess Twins. You're not conducting research curriculum - no time to study flora, fauna, volcanic activity.

To the winged terrors, Dragonstone Island is a recognizable safe haven that promotes healing - the one place these miraculous beasts could relax, ease their defenses; be vulnerable with lowered guards. This sense of safety gives freedom away from the confines of Dragon Riders - simply allowed to be true, authentic, and animalistic.

Currently, a couple dragons sought refuge on the island, nesting, minding their own business; others sought rest, retirement, peaceful isolation. Several took advantage of the heat and loitered around the volcano, the Dragonmont.

They weren't just any dragons, some were rogue, wild; some released after captivity; all unclaimed, riderless. This tempted several persons to rely on arrogant luck and try their hand at harnessing the terrible beasties - but they never returned.

Summer days stretched long, giving limited time to move under the cover of darkness, and the nights progressively shortened each day leading up to the solstice. Your journey was miraculous, having never navigated open water before yet somehow arriving at Dragonstone after setting sail from King's Landing by yourself. Perhaps you had a hidden talent, a subconscious sailor mentality; maybe you were just lucky, or maybe your boiling emotions made you defiantly determined - running on pure spite to stay alive, unharmed, and without capsizing in an effort to complete your mission.

Most of the time, you relied more on logic than emotion, something that helped keep you balanced, grateful, rational. Leading with logic arguably "made" someone intelligent; solution oriented, stubborn, hardheaded, unwilling to compromise (a common foundation when leading with emotion).

Yet logic made you very black and white - no grey area. Logic is cut and dry. Logic is sometimes sophisticated. Logic is also stubborn. Logic abandoned empathy. Logic could be explained. Logic identified applicable reasonings and explanations. Logic is hard to argue against. Logic sustained battles of wit. Logic is sometimes discriminatory. Logic always tells the truth. Logic has limited loopholes.

Logic is fact driven, and when paired with your own rooted moral and religious beliefs, made you subconsciously judgmental.

There's a well-known proverb, quote, "it's not the destination, but the journey." Yet some philosophers think the destination is mundane, anticlimactic, boring, sometimes disappointing and unfulfilling while the journey is much more fulfilling. The journey is what's worth; an adventure, where development inflates, where a story worth telling lies.

Logic is the destination. Leading with emotion is the journey.

Leading with emotion develops thoughtful decisions. Emotions sharpen empathetic abilities. Emotions sometimes changes perspectives, broadens horizons. Emotions allow for differences in opinions. Emotions curates safety. Emotions heightens generosity. Emotions expands willingness to help. Emotions softens situations with compassion. Emotions often strides towards peace. Emotions structures harmony. Emotions accepts all. Emotions could be overwhelming. Emotions don't always have one, single, clear victor.

Leading with emotion makes you easily reactive, being why you made a conscious effort to engage logic; keeping yourself in check.

You often never lost your cool; always having a handle on things, but sometimes, it was a challenge. Emotions demand to be felt, and no matter how hard you train yourself and practice relying on logic, you were still human.

Both leading with logic and emotion made you passionate, sometimes synonymous with stubborn. Either way, you ended up here - on Dragonstone - slinking around in the dead of night as if a criminal on the run, trying to avoid the Rogue Prince's nefarious, outlandishly violent City Watch.

You were dedicated to the truth, hence your willingness to embark on this suicide mission. You know it's out there, becoming desperate to find it; never settling, fed the fuck up of mindless gossip the court whispered and hissed about. Enduring years of scrutiny and unfiltered rudeness made you confident, wanting, and energized to justify your claims, prove self-worth, assign relief, terminate turmoil, tension, and assumption.

Yeah, yeah, yeah - but what truth are you dedicated to? Your family's lineage and heritage, your birthrights, your position in society. Your contributing livelihood. They only thought you a young lady boasting the Tyrell surname - a broodmare to sell off. After Queen Rhaenyra proclaimed herself, you became incessant to prove you were so much more than a pretty fragile rose to be set in a vase.

Truth became your Eighth God; being a dedicated, loyal, trusting, worshipping follower. And the truth was, you're a Targaryen as much as a Tyrell, and by all means, had as much of a right to claim a dragon as any of the rest of them.

You refuse to take detours, cut corners, violate, or cheat to obtain your goal(s); arriving at your desired end result with integrity, completing your mission by barreling through obstacles with laser focus - like a predator stalking prey.

Boots slapped and clicked on wet rock, splashing in puddles, splattering mud up your legs to soak into your breeches. Heavy humidity - thick and muggy air - coated lungs and stuck in nostrils, being suffocatingly stuffy; breathing becoming difficult. You could physically feel the condensation in the air - hair adopting a mind of its own; beaded, clammy skin becoming uncomfortably sticky, palms slick with sweat. You missed the dry heat of the capital.

Dark hood of your cloak hid your vibrant hair; the material swishing, swirling airy fog low to the ground around your creeping form, creating an ominous energy. You half expected a ghost to appear at your flank.

The clanking of the night patrol's armor was heard first, alerting you to a diminishing window; sliding into the mouth of one of the dragon caves in time for the White Cloaks to stalk around the castle's perimeter walkway.

Even with thick rock cocooning your form, the rumbling of the nested dragon's slumber was heard; loose pebbles, dust and other debris showered from the cave ceiling. Despite the heat of the Dragonmont, you heard the slow echo of dripping water.

Your choice to come to Dragonstone, was it a logical decision? Or driven by emotions - fed up with the rumors, sneers, disrespect, critical judgement from everyone in King's Landing? ...yes.

Navigating a dragon lair was dangerous, but navigating a dragon lair with ZERO experience was an anticipated disaster. Surely, you must've lost your mind because no mentally stable person would dare step foot in this cave - let alone scale the depths in search of an ancient beast that could (and possibly wound) treat your charred body as a BBQ appetizer. With a gasp, you slipped on the rocks, hissing when the heels of your palms took the brunt end of impact and slit open; tiny pebbles sticking to your open flesh. You whimpered gently, jagged rocks digging into your knees as you cleared your hands and slowly found your feet.

Even with knowledge of your heritage, you hadn't grown around the scaly Targaryen counterparts like any and every other legitimate offspring. You were long divided from that side of your family, missing out on fascinating Valyrian traditional customs. It made you a slightly bitter.

No dragon egg in your crib. No hours-long practice in the Dragon Pit. No reptilian anatomy studies. No personalized leather saddle embellished with a three-headed dragon. No claim to ancestral privilege or birthright. No unique morality, nor holier than thou complex. No generational beast to inherit.

Skin free from the lingering, invasive, embedded stench of dragon hide.

You used to think learning Ancient Valyrian was a redundant waste of time, education, and resources. You were raised in the ancestral keep in the Reach's capital, Highgarden, under your father, Lord Tyrell, and his beloved wife - the Vanished Princess - which made this secret sleuthing harder to rationalize or explain, given no Targaryen ever lived in Highgarden. Never before were dragons hosted in The Reach, and therefor, a Dragon Pit was never erected.

So, you know how when you're a kid and see something at the store that you really want but your parent says no because you already have too much shit? They might've made their point by saying something, like, "Where do you think you're gonna put all that?"

Well, Highgarden is the toy box and you intend on bringing home one of those enormous stuffed animals won at a carnival / festival.

If anyone knew of this plan, they might've sent you to the medical institute the Citadel in Oldtown operates; involuntarily commit you to the structured research program that studies different mental and physical medical phenomenons.

Truth was, this wasn't even your idea. Your grandmother, who definitely either spent time in one of the Citadel's cells or should, encouraged you. Perhaps that should've been a red flag, but it was too late now, her words echoing in your mind ―

Be a dragon.

The gardens you walked through were in fragrant, full bloom; providing a sweet air to combat the foul words you admitted with your arm looped in your grandmother's. You paced evenly through the overgrown foliage, the bees buzzing to drown your words.

"Perhaps, something is wrong with me," you sulked, "because surely, it cannot be this difficult to find a match. It seems I need to lower my standards, I could not attract a decent man if I were covered in honey and he were a fly."

"Perhaps try covering yourself in shit, then," she advised with a knowing smirk.

"Grandmother."

"Well, it's curious, isn't it?" Celia asked.

"What is?"

"All your life, you've always been more Targaryen than Tyrell; fierce, loyal, impulsive, strong, enduring. Yet now, you return nothing more than a rose wilted from King's Landing's stench, moping about failed relations. Have you ever considered that simple men are incapable of supporting the love and marriage of a dragon?"

"Half blooded does not make me a dragon."

"No, but the spirit, wit, intelligence, spunk, ferocity, cunningness, and determination you display proves it." She paused your stroll, secluded canopy shroud by foliage to provide a moment of privacy.

"Not all would think so," you let your eyes roll.

"Who do you speak of?"

"Those who think I am lying about my own Targaryen parentage, citing the color of my hair as evidence. You would think I'm one of the Queen's sons, the way they whisper."

"Do not listen to busy mouths, sweet child, hair cannot be a sole indication of parentage. I know it's easy to cite, but not all descendants of Valyria have silver locks, and should anyone have anything to say, know they are merely bitter and jealous for your hair is the perfect blend of Tyrell auburn and Targaryen silver. A color that is hard to ignore."

"Yet it's not enough to prove myself to them, Grandmother."

Now Celia sounded determined but angry, "You are every bit Tyrell as you are Targaryen. While you might not appear to their biased eye, there's never been denial that you are made in your mother's fire. Pure blooded or not, you're a dragon, my sweet petal."

"So?"

"Oh, for the love of the Gods - so, be a dragon! Dragons do not fret because men don't blink twice at them, they eat those men! Don't beg for approval; maintain your dignity, instill a new opinion, demand respect! Prove your strength, skill, and capabilities - everything the courts would deliberately overlook. Prove everyone wrong, offer contribution to this war, become a valuable asset who would be foolish to send away. Establish your seat at the table and never let anyone talk down on you again," your grandmother snarled with passion. "There's more than one way to prove you have the blood of the dragon."

"Such as? What would you have me do?"

"I hear rumor there remains a host of unclaimed dragons on Dragonstone. The Queen's son and heir, Prince Jacaerys, has called for dragonseeds to try their hand - they need more dragonriders for their war. Claiming your birthright might be the fastest, easiest way to earn the Realm's approval; doubling as undisputed evidence of who you are."

"What a terrifying thought."

"But what a statement it would make," Celia's lips pulled in a smirk, wrinkles deeper, more prominent on sun-soaked, wrinkled skin. "Tyrells might be flowery, we might sigil a rose - but we are resilient and refuse to wilt; even in the heat of dragon fire. The Realm thinks Tyrells are only pretty faces; pretty flowers meant to be seen and never heard, whose sole purpose is to be left on display. Preconceived as uselessly inexperienced during wartimes; criminally green, pure, innocent - judgement that makes them shockingly unprepared for how deep our thorns prick." Both of Celia's hands grabbed yours, squeezing, advising, "Do not go quietly, my petal, make those who doubted you be haunted by their foolish choice to challenge the wrong woman. Let them seep in humiliation and regret their judgement. Allow your successful conquest to be the biggest 'fuck you' to prejudice, the final nail in any coffin of doubt. Toss your wilted rose of fear aside, petal, embrace the fire that burns in your veins; you are Lady Y/N Tyrell of Highgarden, daughter of The Forgotten Princess, and you will not go gentle into that good night. You will be a dragon."

You were ensuring passage by morning light, intent to deliver yourself to Dragonstone.

Parts of the cave glittered with unharvested gems; a lost collection of rarities nobody dared pursue out of fear of the ancient, terrible Valyrian beasties that dwell in those caves. The walls sweat from combined dragon and volcanic heat, tunnels jagged and uneven; zero holes, cracks, or slits the sun could leak through (if it were up); everything terribly dark. At least there was a scattered pile of preprepared torches to light the way. A permanent odor of limestone and fractioned corpses assaulted your sinuses, dried puddles of blood seeped into rock, the scurrying critters who used dragons as hosts echoed with a twinkling charm - the least menacing reminder that you were not alone.

Claimed dragon chambers varied in size; pitstops along the winding pathways that ended at the largest chamber - a dead end. While other chambers were large enough for sometimes several dragons, this final stop could only be described as a jarring, stomach churning, hauntingly pitched ebony abyss of incalculable depth that played tricks on the mind. An abyss. It was like you were staring Death in the face and anxiety was dredged forth from white hot fear.

With a flickering torch alight in a trembling hand, you slowly stalked down the chiseled causeway that ended several lengths into the expansive, bleak nothingness. Pitch black shadows danced; the air felt electric, seemingly vibrating - alive and judgmental.

The glaring cavern besmirched your family name, hauntingly reminding that your disinheritance resulted in your late dragon bloom. The ebony airy sea identifies and heightens fearful insecurity about your estranged family's rejection, their lack of interest and care for your side of the family stinging; their rejection of familial relationships. The darkness predicted your failure, inability, and humiliation.

The cavern challenged your confidence and determination, your staked ownership and proclaimed lineage; labeling your bravery, beliefs and ambition as arrogant. It sneered about your stupidity, weakness, fear, and anxiety; belittled applied effort and desired goals; questioned your true desires and needs; tested your loyalty.

The cavern rejects any and all attempts before you could even try; unraveling your logic, shunning your emotions; proclaims reactive decisions as immature and lacking control, crowning you as dangerously naïve.

The cavern mocked your desperately pathetic need for station and acceptance; revoking and nullifying public (and private) ladyship, dubbing you unladylike - which, in itself, was insulting to your womanhood. Why do men get all the exciting adventure, but when a woman tries, she's crucified for being irresponsible? Smooth ebony waves reflected your maddening, constant effort and want for acknowledged contributions.

To the naked eye, the cavern appeared uninhabited, assuming the habitat was abandoned. The silence was eery; air buzzing with alarm, deceiving humans that attempted to see through the waves of darkness.

To a "true" Targaryen, this was just a sheet of camouflage the fire breathers wield for their privacy.

No wonder the Red Sowing was so... Bloody and devastating.

A growl was heard, something gravely and deep, intimidating and impressive. You frozen, eyes wide as if it would give you night vision, torch flickering, hands starting to shake. Then you saw prominent movement, lungs stalling and heart hammering. Slowly, a large, scaly, stained snout emerged at a sail's pace.

The more the beast stepped into your sight, your mind could only scream one thing - was coming face to face with a dragon logical or emotional? Because whether logical or emotional, this was a dumb fucking idea there was no turning back from.

So, you steeled yourself in position, dewy sweat lining your forehead to soak your hairline.

112 years After Conquest, dragons flew to war at the behest of the Targaryen family over Rhaenyra and her half-brother's claim to Aegon the Conqueror's Iron Throne. Sister-wife, Queen Visenya, rode Vhagar - said to have been the smallest dragon with bronze hide, yet, as rumor had it, still large enough that a horse could ride down her gullet. Sister-wife, Queen Rhaenys, rode Meraxes - who was larger; big enough to swallow horses whole with silver scales and golden eyes.

Then, The Conqueror, King Aegon Targaryen I, rode Balerion - the fiercest and largest, who’s wingspan could shadow entire towns, swords-long teeth assisting his ability to swallow mammoths whole, and who’s scales, wings, and fire were pitch black. Balerion was called the Black Dread and was so powerful, he could melt steel, stone, and fuse sand into glass. He never lost a battle - against human or dragon.

Balerion was also the dragon responsible for the Burning of Harrenhal, largest castle in Westeros.

In the year 2 BC, Aegon began his Conquest and engaged King Harren Hoare the Black in his keep, Harrenhal, who refused the Conqueror and was met with Balerion’s flames. In fire so hot, it melts stone like candles, the entire House Hoare was extinguished when Harren and his sons perished in the largest tower - later named Kingspyre Tower - though it’s said they haunt the Wailing Tower.

Since then, of Aegon's Three Dragons, only Meraxes boasted a single rider, but to be fair, in 10 AC, during the First Dornish War, allegedly, both Queen Rhaenys and Meraxes met their demise. Vhagar knew Prince Baelon Targaryen, Lady Laena Velaryon, and Prince Aemond as riders. Balerion knew Maegor the Cruel, Princess Aerea, and King Viserys, who, in the year 94, retired The Black Dread - thinking the beast was nearing his end. The dragon outlived every single rider.

In the year 129, Viserys died and The Black Dread stared you in the eye; curating a vibrating rumble deep within his chest that made the darkness dance. It'd been decades since anyone dared face this terrible beastie, thinking he wasn't long for this world; the pair of you curious about the other, no moves made yet.

There was no backing down, there was no turning away. This is what you wanted, for Aegon the Conqueror's mount to see you as you are - worthy of your of blood. You refused to be told you did not deserve your lineage, the Targaryen name, you would not endure disrespect any longer! You would earn your place in this Godsforsaken family, earn station in this Godsforsaken world, or die trying...

That night, Balerion took to the skies again, doing several laps in the air, soaring over King's Landing to let the residents of the Realm know - he flew again.

Your father's family hailed from The Reach, specifically Highgarden; colorful, temperate, lush, bountiful, and abundant. Your family oversaw 75% of the country's sole wheat, barley, grain, and corn production, even germinating the country's most grand gardens - which decorated a rather generous estate.

Despite the vast, open lands, there had never been need for a dragonpit before, so, when you landed your mount, he was left exposed on the outskirts of the Keep. Considering he was the largest thing, you know, ever, Balerion seemed content out there - so, you didn't worry.

It was strange, however, to see anyone without white hair on dragonback. Even stranger to the Realm to learn of your accomplishment; adding fuel to several fires.

The Green King Aegon asked lazily, a hand waving in the air, "Who?"

His mother, Dowager Queen Alicent Hightower, reminded, "She is of Targaryen seed on her mother's side, but was raised under the Tyrells. She sits to inherit all of The Reach, she will be Lady of Highgarden - "

"Until," Grand Maester Orwyle interjected softly, "her young brother, the Young Lord Tyrell, comes of age."

Aegon waved their words off, complaining, "Yes, yes, but why do we caaaaare about some red headed bitch?"

See, where the Targaryens had trademark white locks, the Lannisters had golden strands. The Starks had deep umber brunette color hair, and while both the Tully's and Tyrell's erred more on the reddish side, the Tully's had darker overtones, like an auburn, and the Tyrell's had lighter, coppery-amber waves. North of the Wall, they say "kissed by fire".

"Because Lady Tyrell has laid successful claim to The Black Dread! To Balerion!" Alicent snapped, quickly adding the snarky punctuation, "Your Grace."

"Well, we have Vhagar - "

"With respect, Your Grace, Balerion could give a singular chomp to any living dragon as Vhagar did Arrax and it would prove fatal," Otto Hightower, the King's grandfather and Hand, quickly stepped in to save his daughter from losing her temper.

"Well, she doesn't even speak High Valyrian," Aegon scoffed, rolling his eyes; lip curled, slouched in his chair.

"Neither do you," Aemond quipped in his Father's Tongue.

Otto continued loudly to prevent Aegon's response, "With The Black Dread now officially out of retirement and in play, the only choice we have is risk facing him in open battle, or..." His eyes shifted to Alicent, pausing, sighing and revealing, "Send an emissary to negotiate terms of an alliance."

"Meaning...?" Aegon drawled.

"Meaning a marriage pact, Your Grace," Otto supplied sternly.

"With respect?" Larys Strong spoke up, "But the Crown is lacking in their eligible bachelors for such terms."

"Or perhaps, what of someone outside the family? Marry two strong allies of the Crowns? Alliances henceforth might not have to include Targaryen marriages," Jason Lannister threw in quickly, but every Small Council member denied him just as swift.

It was reminded, "There's Prince Daeron."

"Lady Tyrell is actually the same age as Prince Aemond, I do not think she is looking for a husband so many years younger than her."

"Didn't Prince Aemond already secure the Baratheons through a marriage alliance?"

"Technically," Otto agreed slowly, "but given the circumstances and turning of tides, Lord Borros can be treated with in other ways should we need to offer Aemond for Lady Tyrell's willing support."

"Rhaenyra will send terms, as well," Alicent reminded. "Lady Tyrell is Prince Jacaerys' age, she might consider breaking his engagement, too."

The Small Council continued their plotting. Prince Aemond remained silent. Nobody so much as threw him a glance.

When the Black Queen Rhaenyra was informed of your heroics and your identity was questioned, her uncle-husband, Daemon, informed, "Daughter of the Forgotten Princess."

And Rhaenys affirmed, "My sister's daughter... Do not mistake her lineage for guaranteed alliance; her mother and I are long estranged, she's lived in The Reach her whole life - she does not know us. Nor owes us any loyalty."

"Perhaps she could be persuaded," Corlys wondered. "The Lady Tyrell is unwed, is she not?"

"As far as accounts go, yes," his wife reported.

"Perhaps a marriage alliance?" Corlys glanced around the table.

"To whom would you propose?" Queen Rhaenyra asked, all sat around the Painted Table.

"If I may be so bold...?"

"Please."

"Given your marriage to Daemon and his daughter's are shared with our own daughter, Laena... Is there truly need for a marriage pact between the children?"

Rhaenyra cocked her head, "You mean to... Disengage my son from his intended, and engage him again...? Like a pawn in chess? My son, Heir to the Iron Throne, married to Lady Tyrell?"

"Why do you sound displeased by the prospect, Your Grace?" Corlys wondered. "I hear the Lady Tyrell is most beautiful, and we need the Tyrell's wealth like we need their dragon, Balerion. If used properly, he can melt castles alone, Your Grace; burn towns, extinguish entire bloodlines, torch this country, melt the bloody Wall. No living dragon rivals him in size, in ferocity, in age nor experience. He's been at rest for decades now... Something tells me there's a reason he's come out of his nest."

"An omen," Rhaenyra agreed, straightening her spine.

"Precisely - the portents are cast, Your Grace."

"Lord Corlys makes a point," Daemon chimed in, "if by marriage, we secure The Reach and take back the Iron Throne with little to no carnage. Should the Greens fight, not even Vhagar could stand against Balerion."

"Prince Jacaerys is a handsome match to offer," another lord agreed, "which should help sway Lady Tyrell to our side."

"Which also frees both Lady Baela and Rhaena for other pacts - if need be."

"But if we have had this thought, I promise so has Alicent," Rhaenyra stood from the table, staring at the triangle of King's Landing, Dragonstone, and Highgarden. "Who would they offer? Who do they have, unwed, unpromised?"

"Well," Rhaenys stood to meet her Queen, "if we had the thought of a marriage alliance, and the thought to break off one engagement in favor of another, who is to say the Greens would not consider the same?"

It was quiet, a shiver shooting down the Queen's spine. "Vhagar and Balerion are familiar with one another," she grit her teeth, "and Aemond is the False King's brother. He's an attractive match, too."

"I think it's worth making the Tyrell's an offer," Corlys sat back in his seat. "They will receive us both and decide their allegiance - just as the Baratheons did, just as the rest of the Realm has or must do as well."

"Let it be done - if Prince Jacaerys agrees," Rhaenyra nodded, looking to her son - wanting his consent and participation in his own fate. Jace proudly lifted his chin and puffed his chest, nodding while nobody noted the looks of near relief on Lady Baela and Rhaena's faces. In a moment, they had been engaged to Jace and Luke without their thought, input, nor consent. In another moment, they were single young women with the tantalizing prospect to marry outside the family.

"I consider Her Grace's offer an honor."

> > > next part, part two: read here

requesting rules and masterlist

HOTD masterlist

The Black Dread masterlist

i'm already writing it, but, poll for the end ―

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madamealys · 5 months ago

Text

Imagine Aemond and Aegon Targaryen take you as their wife. (+21)

***

The king is on the throne room, listening to the babbling of his nobles. Today’s topic concerns the marriage of his sons. Since the queen only delivered him boys, Viserys is not inclined to search for a bride that is not a Targaryen. And despite the strong protests of his wife, there is a good solution for it that might also appeal to his brother, Daemon, as well as that follows the Targaryen tradition: betrothing his daughter to Aegon.

In the meantime this occurs, whilst the solution is agreed between the king and the council, no one can foretell what a simple arrangement might result. And so whilst they are leaving in discussions concerning Aemond’s betrothal, let us take a look at what is happening outside these quarters.

Notwithstanding the fact that you are the daughter of the feared and powerful Daemon Targaryen, who took residence at Dragonstone with his sister-wife Rhaenyra Targaryen, you are everything he is not.

Sweet tempered, gentle, kindhearted and good. Your wit is as sharp as any sword, your tongue, when provoked, cut as hard as any iron. You are patient, often tolerant to others flaws. This makes you a great companion to all.

As the only daughter of Prince Daemon and Princess Rhaenyra, it does surprise to those who know them for a long while that you came up with a different personality. Regardless, they spoil you and only want the best for you. And Daemon knows that by the time of your marriage age, he is not marrying you to anyone. Perhaps your father is aiming higher than you know.

You’ve grown close to your brothers: Jace being close to you in age has always been your twin. But you were also close to Luce, a sort of mother to Joffrey, Viserys and Aegon. Being the only lady amidst these men also meant that you were very protective by them.

Now years went by and you are a well formed women, whose uncle requested you to spend some time at court—probably in ignorance of the plans arranged for you between him and your parents.

Your oldest brother, Jacaerys, is already married to his cousin Baela Velaryon, all the whilst Lucerys is married to her sister, Rhaena. Joffrey is betrothed to Sara Stark, and even Viserys and Aegon are about to be betrothed to some good noble lady. You remain unmarried, though.

This idea does not occupy your thoughts for many times since you prefer to spend your time helping your mother, with whom you are very close, and flying your dragon, Dreamfyre. Due to your introspective and intense nature, it is in the air where you feel mostly… free and wild, a side you like to keep to yourself.

But ever since you’ve been summoned by the king, you suspect your liberty and wilderness are about to be end. Resigned to your sense of duty—for duty means to sacrifice who you are, or part of it anyways—, you speak nothing of the matter.

“Remember, my daughter, who you truly are”, your mother, who is carrying another child in her belly, speaks to you in the day you are departing to King’s Landing next to your father. “A Targaryen, no more, no less. Equal to all.”

You understand that she and the Queen Alicent do not always see eye to eye. The subtle warning is there, but you too have your share of pride. You smile.

“I shall not disappoint you, mother.”

“I know you won’t. You are my daughter, every bit of me is in you.”

That saying, Rhaenyra kisses your forehead and you are finally ready to leave.

***

Aegon is waiting impatiently for his betrothal. With Aemond by his side, both brothers can only conjecture about the cousin whom they last saw when everyone was a toddler. Both recollect you differently: Aegon judged you as a child who had weird interests; but Aemond understood you as someone who had a very interesting side underneath a gentle demeanor.

“I hope you do your duty well, Aegon”, muses Aemond thoughtfully.

“How else should I do? I am the heir to the Iron Throne. I am not allowed to forget that”, and then Aegon shoots an amusing glance to his younger brother. “What a shame the crown cannot be shared with you, though.”

Aemond limits himself to a roll of eyes, but Aegon knows he agrees with his sarcastic remark. But soon they are distracted of their small talk for the heavy iron doors of the Red Keep are about to open, with the King’s herald announcing your name and your father’s.

Every sound dies before such announcement, but what matters is how you are seen by your betrothed. Aegon looks astonished by the woman you’ve blossomed to. Your silver locks tied in perfectly braid seem to reinforce your heart-shaped face, whose intent lilac eyes mirror innocence.

Your rosy lips open shyly in an inviting smile, and Aegon cannot help wonder what it would be like to kiss you. It doesn’t really help that your black gown reinforces your curves.

Aemond too cannot help lingering his gaze on you. A damsel in every sense of the word, you are like a character of the novels he used to read as a child. Fond memories of the time spent together in this period rush in the back of his mind.

Lovely as always, he thinks to himself, suddenly aching for the idea of never having you. But… he cannot help himself either, can he? Must Aemond be the second in everything, a shadow of his brother?

“Greetings, niece!”, King Viserys smiles down at his brother’a child. He leaves the table to greet you properly, and Daemon is smirking proudly in response. The rogue prince is more than aware of the attentions you caught, specially of two royal princes, which only fuels his ego.

His ambitions will fruit, he knows.

“Your Grace, my uncle”, you dip to a curtsy. “I appreciate your warm welcome.”

“Soon we will be united as one once again. Tradition shall follow like has always been dictated since the days of Old Valyria”, boasts King Viserys. “Y/N is such a pearl, brother. How on earth did you manage to produce a lovely daughter?”

“A question I often ask myself, brother”, says Daemon, proudly. “She is my only girl, very precious to us. We don’t expect a marriage that is below of the prize she is.”

“Father!”, you protest shyly.

“Don’t be too humble, daughter. It’s the true”, he smirks at you, gently ruffling your hair. “We must always be aware of who we are.”

“Then let us celebrate this union. I notice our sister hasn’t come. What happened?”

“Rhaenyra is heavily pregnant, in due time to labor now.”

Whilst they exchange amenities, you are heading to your seat when Aegon comes to greet you. This tall, handsome man, whose looks mirror yours, astonishes you with such a charm that your knees go weak.

It doesn’t really help your case that Aemond is promptly joined by his side. You blush.

“My lords”, you curtsy graciously. “I appreciate the warm welcome.”

“My lady”, greets Aegon, pompously. “How different you look.”

“Forgive my brother”, subtly Aemond meddles in the conversation. “He lacks gallantry when it comes to words. You have grown to a beautiful woman, cousin.”

You detest how the presence of these two men affect you. Worse, that not only your betrothed allures you, but so does his brother.

Aegon flushes, irritated with how poetic Aemond is towards you.

“How could I when a beauty like our dear Y/N stands before us? A mortal could not voice out the most proper form to express such an awe.”

“Oh, please. I am unworthy of these praises though I deeply appreciate them. Shall we enjoy the rest of the evening together? I have missed the company of you both for a while.”

You smile. And soon subtle rivalries dissolve. How could they deny you anything?

***

It’s been a curious, unspoken agreement that you arranged with Aegon and Aemond. The mornings are spent with the latter and the evenings with the former. The evening you spend by your soon to be mother-in-law, whom you manage to charm.

Today, you are flying with Aemond. You come to figure out how you two have lots in common: the same taste for history, philosophy, art and even politics. Not to mention, dragons, of course.

“You are nothing like your father”, muses the quiet prince, once you two land the dragons somewhere nearby a lake, out of the people’s sight.

“This is something I hear often”, you smile at him, eyeing his handsomeness even though part of you admonishes for desiring a man who is not going to be your husband. “But we have some traits we share. Like the taste for wilderness. We are not easily tamed.”

“I’ve always sensed you had something of the sorts in you, Y/N. You pose as the good lady, but are you?”

“I am dutiful”, you say. “I do my duties. Never claimed or aimed to be perfect.”

“Neither have I, even though my dutiful performances have been somewhat misinterpreted”, he snorts.

Before you know, you take his hand in yours. Unconsciously, fingers are laced.

“I think you’ve been misunderstood for a very long time, dear Aem. And I wish so many of us saw that.”

Silence hangs for a while. You and him share a long gaze. You find yourself wishing he kissed you, but Aemond knows his place. He looks away and withdraws his hand. Never before you felt so cold. So you sigh.

***

All the whilst you engage in conversations with the Queen, learning queenship from Lady Alicent herself, Aegon finds Aemond in the corner of the court, observing you with a mix of admiration and distrust.

“If this was about to any other man, I’d have him hanged for looking at such a manner to my wife”, says Aegon, amused.

Aemond has the decency of blush and look away.

“Pardon me for prying, brother.”

“What is there to be pardoned? She is a handsome woman, I give you that. Like honey, too sweet to avert the gaze away”, says Aegon, encouraging his brother to share. “Rumour has it that Aegon shared Visenya with his Baratheon brother.”

Aemond scoffs.

“Visenya wouldn’t play this part, surely. You must be mistaking to Rhaenys.”

“Either one, they shared her, didn’t they? And like my namesake, Aegon was no jealous man.”

The one-eyed prince turns his head to his older brother, intrigued by the subtle suggestion.

“What the fuck are you trying to say, Aegon? Straight to the point if you may.”

Aegon smirks at him.

“I think that, since she likes you too, we should both take Y/N as our wife.”

***

Aegon awaits you this evening in his privy chambers. He’s been anxious for this moment, even though with his mother’s strong presence at court, he didn’t have any moment alone with you aside of public courtship.

A knock of the door is heart, taking away of his thoughts. The prince of Dragonstone stands, concealing his unusual insecurity. When he opens it, he is struck at the thought of you.

So beautiful in the green color, your full breasts almost out of the tight gown you purposely chose to reinforce your curves. The desire alight in Aegon’s eyes makes you dripping wet in your legs, but you know this is the farthest you go to tease him.

Right?

“My prince”, you dip to a curtsy as you walk inside the door, shivering when hearing the click that locks it behind you.

“My princess”, he then takes the chair for you to sit and makes sure to pour red wine in your glass before serving you himself.

When earning you a smile, Aegon forgets that he one day was the charmer, never the charmed.

“You look gorgeous, cousin.”

“I could say the same about you, lord. Thank you. I’ve been looking forward to hearing more of you, out of the prickly ears of the court”, you tell him.

“Indeed. Formalities are not my thing, I’m afraid. But at least the king has been noticing me”, Aegon doesn’t usually open himself this way and when noticing what bursted out of his tongue, he prefers to occupy himself with wine.

You do notice, though, and try to captivate him by sharing something about you.

“Despite being close to my family, I was raised to be somebody else’s wife. I know I was not allowed to choose my heart, even if my parents did.”

Aegon reads you, you spot some early distrust despite the mutual attraction. You feel eager to please him, but you hold back yourself. Eventually he settles.

“I do lament that I am your groom and not Aemond.”

You blush, but do not fly away of the subtle accusation.

“Well, I was always closer to Aemond in age and in interests, my dear, but this does not mean I regret that you are the one I will espouse.”

His slander fingers play on top of the table, and you find yourself holding your breath. When does this tension suddenly come up?

The stare he gives you pierces your soul and you know that, if he wanted you to, you’d be on his knees before him, pledging innocence. But why does the mere image of you in this position arouse you?

“I am hard to love”, muses Aegon, resented. “I am by no means jealous of you and Aemond, but…”

And your anxiety takes your best, of course. You rush to his side and take his hands into yours, surprising him by the urge of your usual composed manners.

“My prince, my liege, you are no hard to love. Your smile enchants me, your eyes read my soul like no other. Your jokes bring a smile to my lips, your good manners give me the certainty that I am not marrying a monster.”

“How can you be certain of this?”, Aegon inquires, puzzled.

“We are lights and shadows. I saw both of them in you and I still choose you.”

He knows you speak the truth, so he lifts you and pinning against the wall, Aegon kisses you. You realize you’ve been longing for this kiss, wishing to feel the taste of his mouth, to pair your tongue with his.

Your husband to be is as sinful as you are a saint. And yet you let him have his way with you. Soon, his mouth is on your neck and sounds start to leave yours.

“My beautiful princess”, Aegon works to kiss your chest, almost ripping your gown with his teeth to get into your breasts.

“Calm down, lord. I need to get to my chambers in whole state”, you smirk at him.

And it’s when you are surprised by how easily he slips to his knees, his lustful eyes wiping off your smirk.

“L-Lord…”

“I want to hear you call my name, Y/N”, he lifts the skirts of your gown, caressing your paled thighs. “I want you to sleep thinking of me doing this to you. Rewarding for being such a good princess.”

And he at first inserts his finger in you, getting you aroused. You are surprised to find yourself so wet, as well as he.

“Never before untouched?”, Aegon asks you, sounding too anxious.

“Never”, you moan, eyelashes barely lift as you search support in the wall. Your hips begin to follow his finger, and you get scandalously louder as his finger finds deeper ways to get to your core.

Aegon watches you in awe and lust, ignoring the bone he has for being the reason you are coming undone—and not Aemond. Though he wills to share with his brother, he knows that ultimately the prize of having you like this is his.

“Let me ruin you”, he groans before replacing his fingers with his mouth.

His tongue dives into your womanhood, twirling around your clot before sucking it skillfully. You are breathless, burning, aching for this prince. Your mind goes blank and all you can think is of this blissful experience of being ruined by this man to whom you are expected to marry.

He drinks every juice he can of you, not stopping until you are about to release. And when you think you do, he removes his face away and stands in absolutely composed.

“Aegon!”, you protest, vexed to be left this way.

“You don’t think I’ve noticed how you teased me?”, he smirks, approaching to you. “We will fuck you, my lady. My brother and I. You wait and you will see.”

Never before you got so pink before.

And when Aegon smiles devilish to you, you are surprised by your own thoughts of wishing this to be true.

***

Aemond is practicing his sword this day when he spots you at a corner, unaccompanied. The one-eyed prince, who happens to be shirtless in this lonely practice, tosses away the sword to greet you in a gentleman like manner.

“My lady Y/N”, he doesn’t mind to get a shirt and dress when you stare at his perfect abs, which makes him smirk. “To what do I get the honor of your presence?”

“Aegon has departed to Citadel to visit Daeron”, you tell him, trying to control your impulses. “The queen forbade me to follow him. She said I’m under your charge, lord.”

Aemond moves from the yard to get to you. You find yourself holding your breath at the proximity of him. Suddenly both arms lock you against the wall.

“Are you now?”, and here he lifts your chin, forcing you to look at him. “Are you playing with us, my lady? Have you been instructed to turn me against my brother?”

Though he sees he’s offended you by the suggestion, Aemond does not take back what he said. And even though you are annoyed by these unflattering words, you don’t run from a fight either.

“You may call me many things, my prince, even though I judged you to know me better than this. But I am no home wrecker.”

And here he pins you against the wall, much to your dismay. He begins to unlace your gown, completely not fearful of being caught. And you barely protest, already dripping wet by how he presses his knee against your womanhood.

“Who am I to judge?”, he lowers his gaze to your mouth, your neck and your breasts. “These are lovely nipples, Y/N.”

You’d have decency covered them, but guessing your moves have Aemond hold your wrists above your head. You are at his mercy and he knows it.

“My brother told me about the gowns you wear, aware of how they reinforce each. But he did let me take a look at them before him.”

A sensible person would have been horrified for being in this position, but you feel aroused by this. To know they wish you like you wish them makes you warm.

As if he reads your mind, Aemond starts to caressing your right nipple, pleased to see you horny.

“Aemond…”, you moan.

Naughty that he is, underneath that dutiful demeanor he puts so well to the public, it’s this prince who speaks dirty to your ear.

“You will be fucked so well, my love, that you shall not have to choose, I promise you. Aegon and I have always shared what we loved the most”, and saying so he bites down your ear. “I will fuck your pussy until you burn and you will feel it with my being. The first born son will be mine, though. I know it.”

And then his indecent tongue paces around your lips only to get to your neck and then…

“Aemond!!”

Like a thirsty prince, he sucks each nipple, biting it, craving it desperately. You want more, you are doomed, you know well. Your pious conscience accuses you of whoring, but nothing is stronger than giving yourself to this prince.

But of course Aemond has to interrupt it.

“We best not get caught”, he whispers, smirking victorious before the protest you shoot him in a gaze. “I thought you liked it, no?”

You pull him for one long kiss, though, and every lust is carefully put aside as Aemond, albeit hesitantly, kisses you back.

Not long after that, the rogue prince realizes that he left more than lust in the taste of your tongue.

***

The marriage, albeit scandalous, happens. Fortune rises underneath tradition. Some might say this is Aegon and his wives in other forms, back to the flesh in another version… certainly a good omen for those who believe in old stories.

Feasts and tournaments are thrown by the king and his brother to celebrate this unique union, never before seen until the day Aegon espoused his two sister wives.

“I hope that you know what you are doing”, says Rhaenyra at this day of your marriage. “These are wayward boys, one of whom nearly got into a fight with Lucerys.”

“I remember that night well, mother”, you try not to sound so irritating at your mother’s grudge. “This is not the time to speak of what has long been buried in the past. If I recall well, they have amended their relationship and all is well, as it should be.”

“I only worry over you, my daughter.”

You gently place a kiss over your mother’s face and smile at her.

“I aim as high as any Targaryen would in my position.”

“As ambitious as your father”, so chuckles Rhaenyra.

“I am his daughter too, after all.”

And you two smile in confidence.

***

Later that evening, bedding ceremony begins. You want both of your husbands there in your chamber. And when they show up, you cannot believe your eyes.

“Lady Y/N, you are beautiful”, says Aegon, already partially naked. He’s the one to pull you, making sure you stand between him and Aemond.

You feel Aemond’s cold hands rest in your hips, giving you shivers.

“We have all been longing for this, haven’t we?”, he murmurs in turn.

You turn your head at him, barely blinking as he is about to kiss you but this moment is stolen by Aegon, who plants his lips against yours. It’s a slow kiss, peppering for what’s coming all the whilst Aemond slowly lifts your nightgown, caressing gently your tits before removing it over your head.

“I am too fortunate, I’m afraid”, you whisper before stroking Aegon’s face. “Such handsome men.”

You kiss him back before breaking it to do the same with Aemond. Now Aegon leans to kiss your neck, whilst his brother plays with your tits.

You get hornier and naughtier, moaning softly before these teasings.

“There’s no need to play the good girl anymore, Y/N”, says Aemond, biting down your lip.

“Indeed”, and here Aegon pulls back your hair as his brother inserts his finger in your womanhood. “We will ruin you, won’t we, Aemond?”

You gasp as Aemond fucks you with his finger, trying not to lose control as Aegon kisses your neck and plays with your tits again.

“We will, indeed. But I need a reward for all this waiting…”

“We both need it”, agrees Aegon. “Show us what you are capable of, Y/N.”

So indecently you go down to your knees. Your eyes spark bright when looking at each erected manhood, unsure what to choose first until you start to caress Aemond’s all the whilst giving the privilege to Aegon’s.

You come to agree with both of them. You are hardly a saint, or divine by any means. You lust after each, and you devour these cocks with devotion. Pausing in between, you let them guide you.

It’s indecent, it’s sinful, but you like this. And so do they.

“Let us treat our princess kindly”, says Aegon, leading you to bed. “Not sparing my seed in these red lips…”

And here he uses his two fingers to play with your mouth, which you promptly devour. Only then he inserts them into your womanhood. Oh, how condemned you are. Such is the price for loving these wayward brothers.

“You may go, brother. I will watch”, says Aemond.

His voice purrs something in you and you find yourself a beggar. Where has your pride gone to? Oh, nowhere to be found.

“My lord!”, you push Aegon to your lips, so you kiss him fiercely and passionately. “Please!”

Aegon smiles like a lion, aware that he has the prey he wants under his power. Thus it is he finally makes way to penetrate you, deflowering his beautiful flower after years of repressing his desire for you.

In the meantime you and Aegon consume this flame, Aemond burns alone, touching his manhood before the scene he watches, which in turn wakes in him darkest desires. He wants to possess you, to make you his, to dispute over your flesh, to hear you call his name.

But there is something powerful in delegating this to Aegon, submitting to his brother’s will even here.

As Aegon collapses over you, he doesn’t let his brother to waste his seed. Though your womanhood is sensitive, you ache for more. They know you are as hungry as they are.

Aemond doesn’t need to be summoned. He crawls over your body, and here with no eyepatch to cover his eye, you stare at old wounds, at his taunted gaze covered by a beautiful sapphire.

“Fuck me”, you mewl under his powerful stare. “Aemond…”

He is gentle at first. Slow is his touch over your curves, taking his time in holding your face, drinking on your pleading eyes as he cups your nipples, touching each until they are hardened enough to make you beg. Only then he bends over you, kissing you passionately, prompted to release his fire.

It’s indeed a very wild evening. Soon Aegon comes to dispute you. Suddenly all of the three are sitting in bed, and you are in heaven. Standing in between them, your husbands’ mouth devour your exposed skin, and new levels of pleasure are disclosed as you are under their power.

Neither part dares to stop what’s been doing however until you throw your head back at Aemond’s shoulder and let a cry out.

“The dragon lady has burnt”, so whispers Aegon in your ear, watching as Aemond kisses you softly.

What a night. Oh what a night indeed. And you couldn’t have been happily married, could you?

***

Epilogue.

What has started as a lustful game between the three parts soon results in a successful partnership. You do love each brother and they love you in turn.

To a general astonishment, this works like in Aegon I’s days. You rule court, playing your part well. Welcoming guests with your smile and good manners, much of which you’ve learned from the former Queen, who actually cares for you like a daughter she never had.

All is well. You are Daemon Targaryen’s daughter after all. Peace is established successfully and familial relationships are restored. Soon, your brothers are back to frequent court with their wives whom you delight to call sisters.

In due time, you prove to be as fertile as your lady mother. You produce fifteen children, not many of which come to adulthood. These are:

1. Jaehaerys II, who takes as his wife his sister; had offspring of their own.

2. Rhaenyra, wife of Jaehaerys.

3. Maegor, lord of Harrenhal; he first took as espouse his sister, Daella, but she died in childbirth; then he contracted a new marriage to Minisa Tully.

4. Maekar, lord of Summerhall: took as wife his sister, Rhaena.

5. Rhaegar, died in infancy, known as Prince of Winter.

6. Rhaena, Lady of Summerhall; wife to Maekar.

7. Baela, lady of High Garden.

8. Daeron, became a Maester at Citadel.

9. Aerys, lord Hightower; married lady Gaena Tyrell.

10. Helaena, lady of Winterfell.

11. Mariah, died in infancy.

12. Visenya, lady of Casterly Rock.

13. Daenys, lady Arryn.

14. Viserys, ward of the West.

15. Alys, Viserys’s twin and wife.

***

“You are still as gorgeous as ever”, whispers Aegon in your ear.

It’s late evening and both of your husbands are found in your arms. You still shiver at how King Aegon speaks to you, how he plays with your tits. You purr lightly.

“Oh Egg, you know not what you speak”, you giggle quietly. “Despite my efforts in looking elegant to you and Aemond, I gave birth to fifteen children.”

He plants a kiss over your forehead, careful in not waking Aemond, who sleeps against your left breast. From certain perspective, you three are engulfed in one another.

“I maintain my word. When did I ever look out of our bed, wife?”, says he, once very familiar amidst brothels before marrying you.

You turn at him with malice in your eyes as you speak.

“No whore does what you taught me to do to you”, you smirk.

Aegon sighs heavily, sinking into your lips again.

“Always restless.”

You chuckle.

“Not always”, you lean against his chest. “But I have been blessed, that is for sure.”

As you stroke Aemond’s hair, you slowly drift to sleep, glad that Aegon is looking after you.

“Haven’t we all?”

Chroniclers maliciously say you’ve married Aegon out of duty and Aemond out of pleasure, but what do men know of a woman’s heart? You love them both, with no difference of affections. And you are more than pleased to know they are not jealous when it’s about you.

It’s how it works. Tradition, power, yes. But love and confidence too.

You sleep this evening like you slept many others in the former twenty moons: as the luckiest woman of the Seven Realms.

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