#AND MORE VISERYS TO TORMENT DAEMON PLEASE!

[ragnarssons]

me @ alys, hi darling, less milly and more paddy pls in your little fever dreams, ✨

[ireneispunk]

Teach Me

Aemond Targaryen x female reader smut (Rhaenyra & Harwin Laenor Velaryon's daughter)

After your family gathers in King's Landing for Maelor's name day celebrations, tensions build between in more ways than expected. A lesson in High Valryian from your uncle Aemond causes a mutual infatuation to bubble over.

w.c: 9,398 (i know)

c.w: SMUT 18+ , targcest (uncle & niece), NO use of Y/N, oral (m & f receiving), afab reader, foreplay, unprotected p in v sex, the slowest of slowburns to ever exist, mild aemond angst, but also kinda soft aemond(?), fluff to finish ofc, small implied age gap, reader is briefly mentioned to have Srong features, pet names (in high valyrian), use of High Valyrian all translations in text as it is spoken (E.G "Rytsa Skorkydoso glaesā?" (Hi how are you?)) (i didn't translate these everytime bc i used them a lot so: mandianna = niece (child of your older sister), iāpa = uncle), pls let me know if i've missed any

a.n: so this came from a post i did the other day, and @sinistersnakey9419 gave me the idea for this fic and it had me giggling and kicking my feet fr. also, this took me like a week to write because i kept adding more plot teehee.

dividers: @saradika ♡

It was a week into your families stay at King’s Landing. The Red Keep was a familiar place, but it was no Dragonstone. Your Grandsire, King Viserys, had made it his wish of his for his family to be together to celebrate Maelor’s name day which was to be a multiple day affair. And he meant all of his family, regardless of the fabricated tensions that divided you. As Rhaenyra’s second eldest and only surviving daughter, you felt an unspoken pressure to help maintain the peace between the brothers of the family. One side couldn’t help but torment whilst the other was quick to defend his family by any means. You missed being back on Dragonstone, but this was an exciting place to be. Days were filled with activities befitting of a young lady, and you enjoyed spending time with your Aunt Helaena – both of you appreciated a sisterly figure from within each other. There was one presence you couldn’t quite understand. Aemond. Your uncle had watched you closely since you first arrived, it had been a time since you had both seen each other. He had grown into a very tall and incredibly handsome man; he was more pleasing to the eye than he should be. His large frame and equanimous demeanour loomed over you, even from the other side of a room. His gaze stuck upon you like a hound tracking game. You couldn’t help but assume, like most other members of his side of the family, he held nothing but judgemental distain for you and your brown-haired brothers.

The mornings were always the same, Viserys had wished for you all to break your fast together daily. That had started to dwindle until the King had heard of it and demanded you eat together regardless of his presence. It was going about as well as it had the past week, Aegon’s head in a cup, Alicent on edge at every second.

“The maesters have been helping us with our Valyrian.” Spouted Lucerys, he was sweet, too sweet and sensed a smog of tension over the room. Rhaenyra smiled, appreciating your brother’s attempt.

“Let us hear it then.” Daemon announced leaning back in his seat.

“Rēbagon se gerpa kostilus.” (Pass the fruit please). Lucerys seemed impressed with his statement, Daemon seems confused for a moment before leaning forward and sliding the dish of grapes over towards Luke. A short scoff was heard from across the table, Aemond sat casually, smirk laden on his lips.

“Something the matter, Uncle?” Jacaerys spoke through slight gritted teeth. Aemond raised a hand in a defensive motion, smile still playing at his lips.

“What my brother wants to say,” Aegon peeled his face up from the tablecloth and took a swig of whatever was in his cup at this hour, “Is that your ‘High Valyrian’ sounded more like Old Ghiscari.” Lucerys smile faded as he looked to your mother for reassurance. You sighed, looking down at you half-finished plate as yet another verbal disagreement erupted between the men in your life. You rose to your feet with more haste than you anticipated causing your chair to wobble and crash onto the stone floor behind you. The room fell silent, and you felt everyone’s eyes burning into your skin.

Your gaze remained vacant, lingering on the table, “May I please be excused.” You were embarrassed: of your outburst, your family’s inability to get along, your uncles’ comments. Mostly due to the fact they were right, Lucerys’ nor Jacaerys High Valyrian was perfect, and it just added to the rumours that spread about your family. Your mother had barely spoke an ‘of course’ before you took your leave, nails digging crescents into your palms.

Leaves rustled beneath your feet as you paced the grass of the Godswood, it was always a small sanctuary of peace for it’s quiet and empty nature. You closed your eyes and let the sun beam down on your face, if you imagined hard enough you could feel the cold breeze from your balcony at Dragonstone. A harsh snapping of a twig pulled you from your thoughts, your head shooting up towards the direction of the disturbance. Aemond stood a few paces away from you, palm raised in a surrendering motion. You released a breath you had been holding onto, bringing your hands together to fiddle with the clasp of your bracelet. “I did not mean to startle you, Mandianna,” He took a stride closer towards you, hands clasped behind his back. “You caused quite a scene. For a princess.” Your eyes stayed fixated on the ground beneath the two of you. This was the first time you had ever been alone with Aemond, and he was being agreeable? It was hard to deny how beautiful he was, even just from the stolen glances towards him. You knew about sex, parts of what it entailed. From a few detailed paintings to the small snippets you overheard from the younger handmaidens. You hadn’t spent an awful lot of time thinking about it apart from when conversations of finding you a match came around. That was until this week, something about being around Aemond meant fighting away thoughts of him a regular occurrence.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you picked up your chin to meet Aemond’s stare. It was softer, and more inquisitive than his usual piercing gaze. Your stomach dropped as thoughts of him bending you over and fucking you right here in the Godswood clouded your mind, how his hands would feel over your body, his tongue across your neck and between your thighs, how it would feel him sliding – “Keli jiōraton aōha ēngos byka genes?” (Cat got your tongue little mouse?). You felt heat rising towards cheeks and across your chest as you tried to mask your raised heart rate. You were pretty sure Aemond couldn’t read your thoughts, but the small smile that played at his lips made you feel otherwise. Something about your close proximity, the way you could make out each detail of his face, and his intoxicating smell had muzzled you. Lips parted to respond but nothing came out. You felt helpless in the best way possible. “A Velaryon princess who can’t hold a High Valyrian conversation, you disappoint me Mandianna.” Aemond turned on his heel, briskly walking towards the wood’s exit.

Maybe it was the need to please, the burning between your thighs, or the fact he was no longer facing you, but the words escaped your lips before you could even process what you had said, “Teach me.” The small wave of confidence dwindled when he turned his head back to face you.

“Teach you?”

“Teach me what you think I should know, Iāpa.” You didn’t know how he would respond, nor did you know how you wished for him to respond. Aemond raised a brow and smiled to himself, your small use of High Valyrian and how your statement could be interpreted in many different made him intrigued to see where this would lead.

“Tomorrow evening, after supper. Meet me in the library’s reading room.” Without needing a response, he once again made his way out of the wood, leaving you flustered and equally excited, yet dread filled.

As supper slowly began to drew to a close, your excitement manifested in a small bobbing of your leg. Actual conversation rang out between small groups on the table, Lucerys and Helaena had included you in there’s but all you could focus on was keeping your thoughts clear. Everything about Aemond drew you further in his lips softly against his cup, the way his index and middle finger tapped along to the quiet music that had been played, but most of all the way he would catch you watching with a satisfied smile. You partially walked back to your chambers, before feigning forgetting a ring behind at the table, and insisting to your mother and Daemon that it couldn’t wait until morning. Part of you wondered if you shouldn’t have lied, there was a simple explanation: getting lessons in High Valyrian from your uncle Aemond. Except this would not go over well with your immediate family. For you could hold a conversation in High Valyrian, it was Aemond you couldn’t speak to specifically. You were actually quite proficient in High Valyrian, not as much as you’d hoped to be but a whole lot better than your brothers. Whether it was common tongue or Valyrian Aemond rendered you speechless, and now you were willingly walking into a situation where he had complete control. You knew for certain how much you longed for him, but other than glances you couldn’t figure out what he truly felt. Part of you wanted to be under him at every moment possible but if he didn’t feel the same, if his glances were all a trick, you’d be ruined.

After stepping through the library, you took one final breath before opening the heavy oak door to the reading room. It pushed open with a small creak to reveal Aemond sat at the desk, tattered book in hand. “I thought you might’ve gotten cold feet,” he closed the book and softly placed it on the table, “Come take a seat.” He arose, pulling the wooden chair beside him out from the table, allowing you to sit down. You nodded your head slightly before taking a seat, smoothing out any creases in your dress. Taking a moment to examine the reading room in the dark, you noticed the two brass cups and a wine jug, along with numerous High Valyrian scriptures and books with plain parchment and a fresh quill. Aemond himself was wearing his usual attire, except his black coat had been unbuckled a few straps, and the sleeves rolled up to his elbow. You swallowed, eyeing the wine. Everything seemed real of a sudden. You weren’t used to drinking wine, especially alone at night. Sensing your nervousness, Aemond picked up a cup and placed it in front of you, “Just because it is my drink of choice for the evening,” he poured a small amount into his own cup, “Doesn’t mean I expect you to partake, Mandianna.” You paused for a moment before shaking your head ‘no’ and sliding your cup away. “Very well, read this out for me, I want to hear what you can do already.” He relished in how you squirmed when he was close to you. You looked down at the papers in front of you, ‘Aegon the Conqueror, The High Valyrian Scriptures’. You knew all about Aegon the Dragon, but the words escaped you as Aemond stood behind you, left hand atop your chair, right hand holding up his weight on the table. You felt a few strands of his long hair tickle your shoulder, the closeness of him made you feel as if you could burst. “Go on then, read it.” He said, almost a whisper. His lips were so close yet still too far, you could feel the warmth of his breath when he spoke but not the softness of his lips on your skin. This is the type of torture that scribes should mention.

“Aegon I Targaryen iksin se ēlī āeksio hen sīkuda Dārȳti se-“ (Aegon I Targaryen was the first Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and-). You paused as Aemond moved from behind you to stand beside the table.

“I didn’t say stop.” His firm tone excited you more than you wanted it to.

“se dārys va se Dēmalion Āegenko.” (and king on the Iron Throne). You continued, looking up to Aemond for approval. He nodded before gathering up the papers from in front of you and holding them in his hands. Puzzled, you turned to face him “But-“

“Too easy, you know how the story goes, tell it to me in High Valyrian.” Aemond looked pleased with himself as he sat back into his own chair that now faced yours.

You looked down at the floor for a moment, before continuing “Ziry kithsair bȳre hen sīkuda Dārȳti se-ziry se-“ (He conquered six of the seven kingdoms and-he a-nd-). Yet again, your words escaped your lips as Aemond’s gaze wandered over your body, free to visually devour your form now you were not in the company of others.

He inhaled sharply and rose to his feet, “Valyrio Eglie iksis iā kostōba udrir, se ēdruta sagon spoken hae mēre.  Aōha udra issi nākostōbā, ao ȳdragon tolī rāpa. Eman daor drīve geptot naejot dohaeragon ao byka genes.” (High Valyrian is a powerful language and must be spoken as one. Your words are weak, you speak too softly. I cannot help you little mouse.) His words came at you fast and rather harshly, you hated the effect he had on you, and you hated how he judged you for it. You searched his face for something more, surely all of this was not over, the yearning looks, the candlelight, the wine, did it not mean something more? As your mind raced you looked towards the floor and wished it would envelop you. Aemond sighed, and placed the scriptures that you had read from under your chin and used them to lift you face up towards his. Your brows furrowed slightly as you looked up at him standing over you. “You don’t understand do you Mandianna,” He chuckled softly, tilting you head to his will. “Nyke would qogralbar ao ēva ao could gaomagon daorun yn ilagon isse ñuha baer mirre tubis byka genes.” (I would fuck you until you could do nothing but lay in my bed all day little mouse.) He dropped the scriptures onto the table, taking his leave with such haste that you felt he air pass by through your hair. Once his footsteps dissipated you felt as your jaw went slack. The wetness grew between your legs as you squeezed your thighs together, attempting to relieve some of the mounding pressure.

Your heart thudded in your chest like a drum, you swiftly shut the door to your chambers and tried to steady your shaky breathing. After shedding yourself of your dress you made your way to the vanity and undid your hairstyle of the day. As your fingers worked between your hair you imagined Aemond’s large hands making their way through it, your fingers delicately glided across the crook of your neck before resting upon the warmth of your chest. If Aemond wanted to play games then you would gladly oblige, except this time you knew he wanted to play.

Your reading was interrupted by the ever-persistent King’s Landing ladies in waiting, you’d usually grumble except it was the first day of Maelor’s name day celebrations and you were taught the importance of good first impressions. Today would be important as Lords and Ladies of every great house would be there and you were yet to find a betrothed who was approved by the heir to the iron throne, your brothers, and Daemon, who once sent a young lord away teary eyed with embarrassment. You smiled to yourself as the ladies working on you bickered between what way to style your hair for the occasion. “What about something mostly up, with a few small braids, and the red gem hairpins? I think that’ll match the dress I picked out for tonight.” They glanced between each other, smiled, and got to work on your dark hair. Part of you was filled with excitement, it had been a while since you had an excuse to dress up, and it was even more thrilling at the thought of catching Aemond’s attention over all the other Ladies present. As the late afternoon rolled around you were finally considered presentable to the guests in the great hall. You eyed your reflection, your hair lifted to expose your neck and clavicle, dark fabric fitted to your shape with delicate blood red beading sewn into the neckline and down the sleeves finished with your gold jewellery pieces. Just as the ladies were about to leave you had an idea, “Wait! Do you have any of the rose perfume oil?” You spoke with a smile. A few knowing glances were shared between the two eldest ladies as a younger one brought over the small crystal bottle before dabbing a small amount on each wrist and on either side of your neck.

The rest of your family waited beside the towering doors of the great hall, “Finally, I thought we’d all starve.” Joffrey spouted with a huff earning a short laugh from Lucerys, a half shove from Jacaerys and a raised brow from Daemon. Your mother waved them off and placed her hands either side of your upper arms, “What a beautiful young woman you have become, my sweet child.” Rhaenyra looked upon you with great admiration as always. You smiled and squeezed her hand as you all stood together as the doors were slowly pulled open. You could feel your heart beating in your ears as the chittering in the room slowly dissipated and all heads turned to face you all. You bore a brave face following after your parent’s movements down the steps and towards the King’s table. After greeting the king, you were all seated, the family had grown rather exponentially since Rhaenyra’s wedding to your father Laenor which you had heard many stories about. You sat towards the outer curve to one side of the table, and out of the corner of your eye you saw Aemond, already watching you. So not to give him the pleasure of your gaze, you made conversations with your family next to you.

A short clearing of a throat pulled you from your conversation with Jacaerys, “I am Jorick Lannister, your graces,” He bowed his head towards you, “I was wondering if I may have the honour to ask the Princess to a dance?” He flashed his best smile at you.

You looked expectantly to your mother and Daemon, “If you wish to, then go dance.” Rhaenyra grinned, she gently touched her own elbow against Daemon’s, and he muttered something about there ‘being worse choices in the room’. You stood up from your seat, perhaps a bit too eagerly and walked around to the side of the table where the Lannister stood. He extended his hand, palm up towards you and lead you down the few steps to the crowd of dancers. You stood a pace apart and looked at the man in front of you, he was certainly handsome, dark blonde hair that waved towards the nape of his neck, gentle grey eyes. As you looked into them something caught your eye behind them. Aemond was alert, not sat in his usual laid-back posture with his cup resting in his hand on the arm of his chair. He was sat forward, stiff as a statue and boring daggers into the back of your dance partner. You swallowed as you saw the grip he had around his cup; it was solid metal but from the look on his face alone it could crumble. The music swelled as Jorick took your hand in his and placed his other upon your waist.

As you both moved across the floor, he leaned in to speak to you “How are you enjoying the capital princess.” Jorick spoke above the music.

“There’s a certain beauty to it, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss Dragonstone.” You spoke with truth.

Jorick chuckled, “Ah yes, it is the perfect home for a dragon. I do believe you would grow to like Catserly Rock your grace. It’s no island but the coastline is just as harsh, I miss the sound of it when I try to sleep somewhere new.”

You heartily laughed at his statement as he twirled you in a circle. “I have said that ever since we got here! But no one else seems to understand it.” While he laughed and agreed in return.

Meanwhile at the King’s table, Aemond’s jealousy bubbled harshly. Already did he have a hard time resisting taking you into his arms and treating you as you deserved, but watching another man, a Lannister at that, hold you the way he wanted to, enraged him. He counted the guards in the room to simmer his anger, but then imagined fighting them off as he cut down every person between you and him and taking you into an embrace. He was completely and utterly enamoured with you, ever since he watched you climb off of your dragon from a tower of the Red Keep. Gone had the child he knew as a babe himself and was now replaced with a woman who plagued his thoughts. Your darker hair that framed your face, eyes that crinkled when you laughed and held so much emotion, the way you smile brought him an unmanageable amount of joy. He couldn’t hate you, no matter if he tried. At this moment, he wished for it to be simple. That he wasn’t your mother’s brother, that he was just a Lord of some other house, dancing with you and holding you close. A world in which he could have you, touch you, without bearing the reprehensible disappointment of his mother or the feeling of his heart being crushed right in front of him. He had once and for all had enough after the 6th eager meek had hovered around you after each song had finished to ask for your hand. Aemond rose to his feet and made his way to you on the floor with large strides dipping in between the guests. Queen Alicent watched him with worry, he wasn’t known to dance or partake in many festivities like these.

You parted ways with your last dance partner and smiled as you were approached by yet another Lord, “My princess, I am Erich Baratheon and I would love the honour of-“ He started before being cut off by the sudden appearance of Aemond: he’d brushed past the suitor on his was to you, not harsh in any sense but it definitely took you both off guard.

The broad Baratheon was dwarfed by not only the Targaryen’s height, but his mere presence also. “Perhaps is it my turn for a dance, Mandianna.” The request seemed so lewd and intimate coming from him, despite it being what would otherwise be an innocent dance between family.

“I was just asking the Princess for a dance. Perhaps you may dance with her after?” The Baratheon mustered his bravest voice, a touch deeper than it had been a moment ago. Aemond’s gaze lingered on you a moment longer before he turned his head round and down with a rather dramatic tilt to amplify the inches between the pair. From this angle you could fully admire his jawline and neck. You imagined kissing across his sharp jawline, travelling down to his throat. At this moment you were so overcome with lust you imagine grazing your teeth against it and biting gently just to release some tension. After a very short stare off on the Baratheon’s end, “Perhaps not, uh- goodnight, Princess.” He had turned to walk away before even finishing his sentence, leaving you and Aemond face to face on the floor.

“That wasn’t very proper of you, uncle.” You spoke above a whisper, struggling to hold back a small laugh.

“Luckily it’s not so expected of me.” His face bore a small smile. An actual smile instead of a sly all-knowing smirk.

“I didn’t take you for a dancer either.”

“Well, someone had to put a stop to the herd of sheep begging to stomp on your feet all evening.” You couldn’t help but chuckle in agreement. Some of the Lords had been nice, decent dancers, with something to say. Others spent their time ogling your exposed skin or asking about your inheritance. You could not deny as conversations lulled between some of them, you imagined you were in the arms of Aemond instead. As the music began to swell, he offered you his hand which you gladly accepted whilst his other hand tentatively made its way to your upper waist. As he led the dance, he never looked away from you, it felt as if you were slowly melting into him. Able to ignore the few judgemental looks and quiet whispers from the people around you and just focussing on the man in front of you.

Back at the King’s table, your interaction had not gone unnoticed. Alicent’s worry had faded, she knew you had always been a sweet girl. She looked over to Rhaenyra who had already been watching her to gage a reaction and the two exchanged a small smile each. “Mother, are sister and Uncle Aemond going to get married?” Joffrey asked in matter-of-fact way, causing Rhaenyra to cough on the wine that she had sipped whilst Daemon chuckled and ruffled his dark curls.

You’d made a mental note to thank the gods for the current song choice, a slower one. Your hands flush together as the two of you rotated and eyes never leaving each other’s. As the end of the song drew close Aemond’s body moved behind you, left hand upon your waist and right taking your hand in his and intertwining your fingers. The latter part was not a usual for this particular dance. Your breath hitched in your throat as you could feel the strength of his torso behind you. “You know uncle, I have been wanting more lessons in High Valyrian, I think a few more and we could really make some progress.” It wasn’t 100% a lie, Aemond definitely could teach you some High Valyrian, but it was mostly an excuse to be in private with him again.

“Really? Because you did so well last time?” You could practically feel the smirk on his face from behind you. “I know you can ask a lot nicer than that Mandianna.” You shuddered softly at the sensation of his voice so quiet, whispering into your ear. The music pace picked up as you glided across the floor, heart beating within your ears. As the instruments came to a halt, you felt a sense of weightlessness as Aemond dipped you and held you there, so low to the ground you felt the ends of your hair touch against it. You eyed him, brows raised and chest rising and falling, feeling fully in his hands.

“Kostilus, Aemond.” (Please, Aemond) The words left your lips in a soft way that travelled straight down his spine. You could not identify the emotion that swept his face as he swiftly brought you to your feet and ripped his hands from yours. His eyes shut briefly, his hands flexing into tight fist, you were not sure what had happened. As you reached out for his hand he stepped back and kept his eyes to the ground before making his way to the exit of the great hall. You called out to him softly, but he soon disappeared in between the crowds.

Confused and a little hurt, you made your way back to your seat and looked at the remainder of your meal that had surely gone cold. You felt your mother’s hand rest upon yours, and you looked to her and smiled weakly. “Where did your uncle go sweet girl?” She spoke softly and quietly, as to avoid bringing your brothers into it.

“He mentioned that he had to go for something.” Your lie wouldn’t have fooled a stranger, let alone your own mother, but she did not pry. She gave your hand a small squeeze and gave you the mother’s look of ‘I’m here if you need me’.

Aemond briskly made his way down the corridors of the Red Keep. His hands met the roughened wooden doors to a balcony as he pushed them open and felt the chill of the night air cover him. It was not enough as he felt is blood burn hot, coursing through his veins and the sight of you in his arms. Your hair cascading down past you, exposing your neck, the way your breasts filled out your corset and raised with your breathing. That damned perfume you wore and how it mixed with your scent had been a drug to him this night. Your eyes that stared up at him like a doe and looked at him like he was a god. He couldn’t help but remember your soft plump lips, the way they parted slightly when he looked your way, how you bit your lip whilst saddling your dragon and worst of all: how deliciously his name sounded coming out of them. He had not yet heard you say his name, but it being paired with such a submissive plead made it all the more torturous. He slowly breathed through his nose; head tilted back resting on the bricks. Aemond was too infatuated with you to ever hate your effect on him. His frustrations only grew greater the more he knew you. He was at a grand dinner, filled with every food and treat he could ever imagine, yet all he wished to taste was between your legs. He decided then and there on that balcony that his affections for you must go. ‘It should not be so painful’ He thought to himself, after all, you only had a few short days left in the capital.

The following day started even earlier, with the second day of the celebrations taking place in the gardens. You yawned into the palm of your hand and watched as the front side pieces of your hair were brought back and weaved into a delicate braid. “You mustn’t stay up so late princess!” The handmaiden fretted as she pulled out the dress you had chosen yesterday. You eyed it, before glancing towards the window to see the sun breaking out through the clouds, giving you an idea.

“It looks like it could really warm up in the garden under the sun, I was thinking of wearing this dress instead.” You lifted the dark berry coloured dress up in front of your handmaidens.

“I think you may get cold your grace.” One of the younger handmaidens spoke eyeing the dress, after a harsh glare from the eldest maiden she continued, “But you will look perfect no matter what!” She clarified with a nervous chuckle. You smiled at her in reassurance and allowed the cluster of ladies to dress you. Once they had finished arguing over minor details you stood back to look at your reflection. This was a dress you had never worn before, meant for particularly warm weather. It was an off the shoulder cut, that capped your upper arms with a tie. The dark coloured material was thinner than your regular dresses and the skirt flowed with any movement you made. After trying to sound as nonchalant as possible you once again asked for the rose perfume oil. After a few dots were dabbed on your wrists and neck, you thanked your ladies and placed the delicate bottle on the vanity. Once they had filed out you reapplied a few extra drops to your skin before dropping a small amount onto your fingertips and ran it through the ends of your hair. You looked beautiful, and hoped this would gain Aemond’s affections once more.

The garden party was a success from the get-go. Conversations bubbled, drinks were poured, and the food spread was something to marvel at. You were walking through the flowerbeds, arms linked with Baela, both of your laughs travelling from reminiscing on moments from your shared childhoods. “I heard you and Aemond caused quite the stir last night.” Baela giggled, nudging her elbow into yours.

“Word does travel fast in the capital,” You laughed. “And it was not a shared commotion, he was the one who left in a rush after we danced!” You reasoned with her; slight frustration apparent in your tone.

“And what a dance it appears to have been, they’d be able to smell you from Pentos.” You frowned slightly, wondering if you had overdone it today. She turned to face you, placing her hand over yours. “I jest of course, anyone would be lucky to catch your eye.” Baela’s smile was genuine and reassured your worries. You looked around the crowds of people once more, eyes fleeting from face to face. “He’s still not arrived yet.” Your eyes met hers once again as you both burst into loud laughter.

After much convincing from Alicent and a more silent encouragement from approach from Helaena, Aemond was finally making an appearance at the garden party. He thought to himself ‘What could a child so young possibly want with such celebrations?’ He justified his annoyance for his affections for you by dismissing the whole day, but being Maelor’s uncle he was expected to be there at some point. He was mere seconds into his arrival at the party before he overheard a distinct sound that made his heart sting. The familiar song of your laughter rang out from across the gardens. Every fibre of his being urged him to look for you, just to turn his head and see your face once more. Against all odds he kept his eyes trained on the floor and made his way to a quieter corner of the event in an attempt to go against his instincts and hide from you. He stood with his cup, fingers tracing across the details, a few feet away from the largely untouched array of desserts.

You grew frustrated as you looked around once more for your uncle’s presence. “Drink this, it’ll relax your nerves.” Baela handed you a cup with a dark red liquid in the bottom of it. “I know, wine isn’t for you, but this one is sweet! I think you’ll like it.” You nodded and took a sip, there was a slight burn as you swallowed it, but the fruity taste overtook it, and you nodded in agreement with her. As Baela and Jacaerys began talking intently you decided to have a look the foods on offer. You took another sip of your wine, the sweetness made you crave the sugared fruits the cooks always put out after dinner. After glancing over each table filled with every animal you could think of, cooked in every way. Your eyes made contact with a cake that was almost the size of you. Peering round the corner of the tent your eyes spotted something even more tempting. Aemond stood to himself, brows furrowed and finger lightly tapping against his cup in slight sync with the distant music that played.

“Uncle! I thought you were not going to make an appearance.” You tried to hide your excitement as you stepped into the tent and faced him. He seemed taken aback by the sudden presence of someone. His gaze shot up from the floor and lingered on your body, fleeting from your face to the way your dress fitted your figure. Just as he thought he’d mustered the strength to speak a light breeze rustled through the gardens and cascaded through your hair. ‘That damned floral perfume’ he thought to himself as he tried to hold his composure. After taking in her appearance once more, he noticed something unusual.

“I didn’t think you to be a wine drinker.” He spoke to you, his jaw clenched stiff.

You giggled slightly, “Me neither! But this one is Dornish, it’s a lot sweeter.” You took a step closer to him and held up your cup to him. “Would you like to taste?” You looked up at him through your lashes.

‘Yes’, He thought. “No.” He answered bluntly, “Thank you, no thank you.” His Adams apple bobbed in his throat as he answered, and you tilted your head slightly.

“Well, there’s plenty if you change your mind.” You smiled at him and turned towards the desserts table, various cakes, fruit pies, candied treats, decorated the large table.

You placed your cup and traced your finger across the end of the table eyeing the selection, you spotted your favourite sugared fruits. “I love these!” You exclaimed as you made your way over to the selection: cherries, berries of all kinds, plums, and peaches. You selected one of the peach slices and looked towards Aemond to find him watching intently. You popped the slice in your mouth and closed your eyes and exhaled a small ‘mmm’. You eyed the remaining sugar on your thumb and index finger. You looked into Aemond’s eye and popped the tip of your finger into your mouth and sucked the crystals off and releasing your finger with a pop.  He muttered a short ‘gods’ to himself as he watched you round the table, another piece of fruit in hand. You faced him and held out the small piece of fruit. “You should taste it for yourself Aemond.” Something changed on his face, he looked down at you and slapped the fruit out of your hand and grabbed you by your wrist and led you out of the tent into the empty corridor nearby. “Uncle, Uncle!” You protested quietly once you were led far enough away to not be heard by guests.

“Let go,” you demanded, pushing his hand away. You eyed him as he turned away from you, breathing steadily, hands balled into fits. “Why have you dragged me out here?” You exclaimed in a hushed tone.

“Why have I?” He turned to face you, “Why have I?” He roared, stepping a pace towards you. Stepping backwards you felt the stone walls hit your shoulders. “It is you, you who has poisoned my thoughts ever since you got here, you who has made even existing in the same room as you arduous yet being away from you nearly impossible. You danced with every fool this side of The Narrow Sea and even then, you could not keep your eyes on them and not me. Calling me by my name. Now today-“, He furrowed his brows, remembering the sight of you in that tent. “Gods.” He whispered, running a hand over his face. “Do you really wish to torture me so?” He looked up at you, fragments of defeat washing over his face.

You pushed yourself away from the wall, taking a step towards him leaving an impossibly small gap between the two of you. “Nyke pendagon bisa iksin skoros ao jeldan hen nyke, Iāpa.” (I thought this was what you wanted from me, uncle.) His jaw remained tense, as slight confusion washed over him. You rose to the tips of your toes to whisper to him, “Hen aōha byka genes.” (From your little mouse.)

Without hesitation you felt his large hand cup the side of your face, his other snaking around your waist, the force of it pinning you towards the wall. His fingers brushed down your face, resting beneath your chin. His thumb tentatively ran across your bottom lip. Aemond leaned down to the side of your face, “Tell me to stop, tell me to stop and I will walk away.” His breath fanned over you; lips grazing against your neck. It took all of your efforts to not crumble beneath him.

“Ȳdra daor keligon.” (Don’t stop.) Your breath was shaky as Aemond brought his face to yours. You placed a hand against his chest and leaned up to kiss him before a rumble of distant laughter reminded you both of your current location.

He grabbed your hand from upon his chest and led you down the winding corridors of the Red Keep, your slippers tapping twice as fast on the floor to keep up with his long strides. As you both climbed the spiral staircase towards the chambers, voices rang out on the floor in front of you. Aemond brought you both to a halt, keeping his back against the wall and pulled your back towards him to avoid detection. “Why did we st-“ You started before feeling his large hand covering your mouth. He whispered a small shush into your ear. A heat spread across you face feeling a large bulge in his trousers, just above your ass. Once the footsteps had completely disappeared, he climbed the rest of the stairs, hand still firmly gripping yours. His spare hand pushed open the heavy door with such urgency, crashed against the wall beside it. He pulled you into his chambers, almost pulling you off your feet before only breaking eye contact to close and lock the door behind him.

He stepped towards you, unbuckling his jacket from the top. “Tell me to stop.” He once again commanded.

“No.” You spoke so quietly you weren’t even sure it had left your lips, but Aemond had definitely heard it. He pulled you close, keeping your bodies flush and brought a hand to your hair, pulling you closer. Your eyes fluttered closed as you felt his lips graze yours slightly before delving into a deep kiss. You struggled to keep up with his desperate pace at first, feeling overwhelmed a gasp left your lips in an attempt to catch your breath. Aemond pulled away ever so slightly before planting a small kiss to the side of your mouth and kissing across your jaw.

“Turn around,” He whispered. You did as he instructed and turned your back to him. His hands gathered your hair and looped it over your shoulder. His hands traced down your back to the satin ties of your dress, before undoing the bow. You felt as his pulled your dress down your arms, down your torso and heard it drop to the floor in a light whoosh. You felt exposed, this was your first time in just your undergarments around anyone other than your handmaidens, and a man at that. His hands moved to the lacings of your corset, undoing each loop as his eyes consumed every inch of new flesh he saw. He tossed your corset to the side and pulled the rest of your undergarments off, and your arms instinctively crossed your chest. Grabbing a hold of your hand, he pulled you around to face him once more. A low groan escaped his lips at the sight of you before bringing your face to his in a deep kiss. His body led you to the foot of his bed, your back hitting one of the towering bedposts.

You let out a small gasp as his lips left yours and latched onto your neck. His hand came to your jaw and tilted your head back to look up at him. “Ivestragon nyke skoros jaelā.” (Tell me what you want.) His voice sent a heat that spread across your body.

“I want you to-“ You started before he cut you off, fingers gripping your hair slightly.

“Daor.” (No.) He eyed you, thumb tracing your jawline.

You realised what he was requesting. Your brain sped through thousands of scenarios you could’ve imagined before settling on one. “Obūljagon.” (Kneel.) You spoke with all the confidence you could gather. His typical smirk returned to his lips as he scanned your face. He was not sure what he had expected you to say, but it certainly wasn’t that. A welcomed surprise, he sank to his knees in front of you. You watched as his lips peppered small kisses across your hips, running his hands up your thighs. He parted your legs and lifted your leg up and over his shoulder by the back of your knee. You gripped the footboard of the bed to steady yourself. An almost growl left his lips at the sight of your pussy mere inches away from his face. A sharp gasp left your lips at the feeling of his large fingers spreading your wetness from your core to your clit.

He brought one of his fingers to his lips and sucked the tip of it, watching your face intently. “Mmm, all this for me?” He grumbled rubbing the inside of your thigh at a painfully slow pace.

“Yes- Kessa, syt ao.” (Yes, for you.) You felt your pussy clenching, aching to be touched. His fingers moved to your pussy, teasing your folds before starting to slowly rub circles across your clit. You let out a moan, desperate for more. A smirk painted his lips, watching you in this state. Surrounded by the plush of your thighs, your small moans filling his ears, watching your nails dig into the footboard just to cope with the sensation. His middle and third finger slid down from your clit to the entrance of your pussy.

Your eyes opened and mouth parted to question the lack of contact before you felt his two fingers slide inside of you. You let out a loud moan at the foreign sensation. He worked his fingers in and out of you at slow pace, admiring as he watched them disappear into you, stretching you out and covering them in your slick. He left small kisses on your inner thigh, keeping his eye on your face. “More,” You pleaded in between moans. Aemond considered teasing you further, before giving into your request. His sped up his fingers pumping inside of you, increasing the tightening in your lower stomach. He admired your face screwed up in pleasure for one more moment before latching his lips upon your clit. A loud ‘fuck’ left your lips, and even you were partially surprised by the vulgarity of your language before all you could think about was Aemond’s tongue. He alternated between furiously licking and sucking your clit as his fingers pumped at a rapid pace inside of you. Your other hand moved up the bed post, gripping it for dear life as the man beneath you pleasured you. Your hips involuntarily bucked into his tongue as your moans grew louder and more frequent. A moan that left Aemond’s lips vibrated across your clit pushed you over the edge. You cried out his name and felt your pussy clench around his quick fingers. He continued to thrust them inside of you and delivered a few final licks to your clit, only stopping when your legs began to quiver. He slowly removed his fingers from your pussy and planted a final kiss on your clit, earning a shiver from you. He wiped the wetness from his chin with his cotton shirt before moving your leg off from his shoulder and rose to his feet and held his hand upon your waist sensing your wobbliness. He raised his fingers towards you admiring the wetness that coated them. He brought them up to your lips and you opened your mouth, feeling them run over your tongue towards the back of your throat. You sucked them clean, watching his expression from beneath your eyelashes.

Despite how hungrily he had attended to you, he looked at you like he was starved. “Better than any of the sugared fruits down there.” He gestured towards the window, and you blushed at his remark. Never had you been filled with such desire; you had just reached your peak on Aemond’s tongue, yet you needed more. His hand collected yours, as he led you over to his bed. His lips once again found yours as he pushed you towards the edge of the bed. The backs of your knees hit the bed and you plopped down. His lips left yours and you looked up at him expectantly. His fingers gripped the ends of his shirt before lifting it off of his head and tossing it with the rest of the discarded clothes. You eyed the definition of his chest, down his stomach and his arms that landed either side of your head, pushing you down onto the bed until your head hit the pillows. His lips latched onto your neck and eagerly kissed down your chest between the valley of your breasts.

“You do not know how much I have dreamt of this,” His large hand travelled up your side to cup your breast, his hand playing with the plumpness of it before his thumb ran over your nipple. “Moaning my name, naked in my bed, all needy for me.” His tongue traced the perimeter of your nipple before taking it into his mouth, massaging it with his tongue and earning another moan from you. Those moans that could sustain him for the rest of his life he was pretty sure.

“I also dreamt of you.” You spoke meekly, almost hoping he wouldn’t hear. He raised his head from your breast, brow raised.

“And what did you think about little mouse.” His smirk radiated off of him. You dreamt of him. The tightness in his trousers had become almost unbearable, but he needed to hear your sweet voice talking about him.

“I was touching you, a-and you were enjoying it.” You spoke, interrupted by a moan or two from his touch stimulating your nipples. He hummed a small ‘mmm’ in response before he moving off you and laying beside you, back propped up against the headboard. You turned to your side and looked and him inquisitively, his hand rubbed slowly over the bulge in his trousers and your mouth fell into an ‘o’ shape. He patted the bed next to his hips and you knelt facing him, unsure of what to expect. His hands reached for the tie of his trousers before you reached out and placed a hand over his. “Wait!” He looked at you with a hint of concern before you continued, “Can I try? And you tell me what you like along the way?” His jaw stiffened for a moment before he moved his hand to tangle in your hair and bring your lips to his.

You pulled your lips away from kiss and moved to kiss his neck. You started tenderly, mirroring how he had kissed yours as your hand slid down his chest towards his trousers. His breathing became more uneven as your hands touched him. Your hand fumbled with the tie of his trousers, struggling to undo it before you removed your lips from his collarbone to concentrate on the tie. He watched as your brows furrowed together, he felt as if he could finish at the sight of you. Beautiful and naked, trying so desperately to get into his pants. You finally undid the tie and looked up to Aemond with a sheepish smile, “I am not used to trousers it seems.” You giggled, and it seemed by reflex he planted a kiss on your lips.

“Dōna.” (Sweet) Your cheeks burned with his affection.

Your fingers looped over the hem of his trousers, and you pulled them down along with his undergarments as he lifted his hips slightly. Your stomach dropped at the sight of him, his cock was large and red at the tip. You froze for a second – the paintings and stories had not prepared you as well as you’d thought. You watched as his hand came to his cock and pumped it slowly a few times. His free hand reached for yours and replaced it with his own, “Just like this.” You followed the movements he had previously made, concentrating on trying to make him feel good. A small hiss brought your gaze back to his face to see his eye squeezed shut and hands gripping the sheets beneath him. You slowly increased your movements, enjoying the feeling of his cock in your hands, as you noticed a bead of precum spill his tip. Working on instinct you leant your head down and licked your tongue in a broad stroke across the tip of his cock, tasting him in your mouth. His eye immediately snapped open, “Don’t-“ He groaned.

“Sorry I-, I thought it would feel good like it did for me when you…” You trailed off searching his face. He panted, bringing your face to his. He placed his hand over yours and continued pumping his cock indicating for you to continue. He rested your forehead against his and inhaled deeply.

“It does feel good, great even, much too good.” You watched him confused, if it felt so good, why couldn’t you do it? “The difference between you and I, men and women, you may finish as many times as you please.” His voice travelled over you like honey, his free hand sliding down your stomach and rubbed his two middle fingers over your clit. “I may only once, for now, and I intend to do it in your sweet pussy.” His fingers ran small circles over your clit causing a flurry of moans to leave your lips. Your hand continued to run up and down the length of his cock, but it was hard to think straight when Aemond touched you.

“Can I feel your cock inside of me too?” Your question was genuine, if not laden with lust. It was all Aemond needed to hear before his hand reached your hip pushing you onto your back. He kissed you, hungrier than ever, barely giving you chance to keep up.

“Mirros syt ao.” (Anything for you.) He said in between kisses. He spread your legs apart, eyeing your soaking cunt, and stroked himself a couple of times before leaning over you, elbow resting beside your head. You felt as he ran his cock up and down from your clit to your core, a low groan leaving his lips. “Remember to breathe deeply, Dōna.” (Sweet). You nodded, unsure of what to expect. Aemond’s weight shifted, and you gasped as his cock slowly slid into you. Your brows furrowed as the slight discomfort slid away and was replaced with a new pleasure. His cock bottomed out, and you reached your hand to his cheek, pulling him in for a desperate kiss. He slowly started thrusting, the pace was painfully slow, but he was determined to make you feel good. As his pace picked up, his cock continuously hit a spot in your pussy that his fingers did not, causing a rather loud moan to escape your lips. “Mazemā ziry sīr sȳrī.” (You take it so well.) His praise caused a familiar tightening to start to form in your stomach.

“I love the way you feel.” Your moans filled his ears, fuelling him to go faster. His hand free hand snaked between your bodies and found your clit once more. His thrusts pounded into you, as his fingers diligently worked at your sensitive clit. The headboard begun to crack against the wall with each movement, not that either of you noticed. The quiet but delicious moans that left Aemond’s mouth were enough to ride towards your peak, the coil in your stomach tightening as you gripped your nails into his back. “Fuck! Aemond!” You exclaimed. His large cock filling you up and his fingers playing with your clit caused your orgasm to wash over you, feeling yourself tighten around his cock. His thrusts became quick and erratic as you rode out your high and his groans growing louder and more animalistic as he finished inside of you.

He panted, dropping to his elbow, and planting a small kiss upon your cheek, before pulling out of you slowly. You groaned at the loss of the fullness, missing the feeling of him already. Aemond lay beside you, pulling you by your hips to have your back against his chest. As both of your breathing slowly returned to normal you felt a small shiver run across your body, now aware of the breeze through the window. Aemond’s hand came up and ran up and down the length of your arm and pulled you close. “Is it possible to remain here all day.” You sighed, cuddling the blankets in front of you.

Aemond chuckled, “It is not our name day.” He planted a small kiss upon your shoulder. “But I do think people may notice both of our absences.” He spoke softly, with a small amount of his serious tone peeking through. You groaned, liking the feeling of being in Aemond’s arm, in his bed.

“Aemond?” You questioned, turning slightly to face him. He hummed a ��hmm?’ in response, opening his eye. “Kessa gaomā bona run lēda aōha ēngos arlī gō īlon return naejot se rūklun?” (Will you do that thing with your tongue again before we return to the party?). A playful smirk returned to his face as he shifted above you on the bed.

“Va moriot” (Always).

[ophelieverse]

This is the first time that i send in a request,but I’ve been your fan for quite a while now🥰🥰I love your blog and your content,especially your writing,so can I please ask you to write something about Daemon x niece!reader where she is the daughter of Aemma and Viserys and he’s obsessed with her?It can be whatever you want!Thank you so much!🫶🏻

⋆ ˚｡⋆little bird

Daemon Targaryen x fem!reader

-Summary:Daemon is in Harrenhal and he’s tormented by the memories of the only woman that he had ever loved:his niece,the long gone princess Y/n.

-Warnings:death of character,incest,age gap,Daemon never married Laena,reader has valyrian features,reader died of childbirth,reader is mother of twin girls(you can decide if Baela and Rhaena),mental torture(?)sexual thoughts,Daemon being himself,Alys tormenting Daemon and him losing his mind.

•-aww thank you so much for your words and support,also thank you for requesting and let me know what you guys think,sending love🩷🫶🏻

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The palate is a treacherous bastard,a vile traitor.The palate,the tongue,the teeth,the throat:damned monsters,damned stabs in the shoulders.

They rebelled and tortured Daemon intimately,as well as the strawled murmurs of soaking whispers in the dark and lonely castle,as well as the murmurs of that nameless woman.Everything bothered him,in that world built by the blood-stained hands of false and courteous murderers,and the raw truths of the tormented men were no exception.

After all,he should have known - and he knew it, he knew it and he had not stopped,he had become crazy! -that once he tasted the most precious wine of the Seven Kingdoms his mouth would detest any other drink.His primordial instinct and his spirit of survival had tried to warn him,to make him understand,to make him glimpse the inexorable fate in which there would be a before and there would of course be an after.

Because any other flavor would never have been as sweet as the taste of her.

And nothing more would have been the same, nothing would make sense anymore.Daemon had only really understood it after kissing her:it had become impossible to even look at another woman.

He could still remember the first time that he had kissed her,before going to win the war in the Narrow Sea in her father’s name.He had only kissed her once and it had been like savoring the mouth of a fucking divine gift that fell down from heaven,kissing a promise of grace and eternal damnation.An inexperienced,sweet,innocent mouth.

His,Y/n was all his.

She was still a girl at the time,two years younger than her older sister Rhaenyra,just a naive girl that stug with two skinny legs and without even a woman's shape,the silver-haired doll,the trained King's Landing little bird that squeakes and chirps in the shade of her father's words and actions:Y/n, stupid and spoiled princess,daughter of the Long Summer,had let herself be kissed by him and had not stopped him,she had not pushed him away.

Crazy him and crazy her.Or maybe just him, or maybe just her.Who went crazy first,who did? Who had it been?Daemom didn't remember the fucking way those damn events that had folded him in two,disintegrated his entire soul.Killed him not once but a hundred,a thousand,a thousand and again a thousand times.

Who went crazy first?Who?Daemon has started to believe it was him.

It’s been years since the last time he had kissed Y/n,years since he last touched her warm skin,looked into her bright lilac eyes,that he had saw her with their daughters in her arms.

Yet,that night,in the dark and anguish halls of Harrenhal,his little bird had shown up to him.The ghost of Y/n imagine had suddenly appeared in a corridor in the west wing yard like an evanescent appearance,like his worst nightmare and had resumed chirping the same nauseating and tormenting phrases she cunningly gave to all her lords,to all her knights.

She had chirped her thanks,the beautiful words she used to tear from the verses of her beloved romantic ballads,which she used to steal from the fairy tales narrated with placid fervor from the endless rows of her old and decrepit Septas.

She had chirped and chirped and chirped.

Daemon hadn't listened to any of her melancholic sentences and hadn't even paid the slightest attention to her,nothing at all.So the deities and that witch then must have decided to punish him and mock him.They had taken their revenge on all his blasphemies and on all the lives he had snatched with joy.

The pale light of the moon had begun to inflame Y/n long silver braids,braids knotted in a bushy tangle,shaped into circles of blood rays that made her hairstyle look like the one of a small child.The young and innocent girl she once was before Daemon had touched her.A stupid hairstyle that she persided - with a pout - to make her maidens intertwine just like her mother did when she was just a small child.

The red dress that wrapped perfectly around her body,the one that she had wore at the tourney for her last Name Day as a maiden,seemed made of pure liquid blood.Daemon was lost.The red had become fire,it had turned into copper,it had melted into wine.A crown of thorns and autumn leaves in the cold wind of the godswood.

Y/n rosy mouth had stretched out in a brief,false smile,yet what was really false about her?And her elusive purple eyes had reminded him of reality.

The reality where she no longer existed,the one where now he was married to his older sister.He just wants to use her.Everyone uses everyone.He remind himself,he could never love her,not in the way he still loves Y/n.

Suddenly Daemon had realized the existence of his foolish thoughts,he had awakened by the torpor in which her sweet and familiar scent had induced him,and he had understood that he was behaving like a little child that had just woken up from a bed dream,an inexperienced young boy,he looked at her hair,looked at her ephelids,and didn't focus on those small stall tits and her flat,tight belly,and then he thought he had to fix it,that he had to prove to himself that he was a man.

Not the silly man who secretly watched the tears entangled in the eyelashes of a little girl who still slept with the dolls,squeezed in his little embrace,but the real man who fucked women in brothels and got rid of all his most itchy desires. Not the man who trembled in front of a little girl's gaze,but the man who fucked the women quickly and impatiently,without even looking them in the face,fulfilling his needs and his morbid needs.

The man that Daemon was before devoting his life,heart and soul to Y/n.

These thoughts had clouded his soaky mind with vulgar images,they had made his body drunk and frenny.Then he had stretched out towards Y/n, almost staggering,and had devoured her face. Mouth to mouth,he had eaten her lies and her breath.Was it really her,the spectral and little figure that had hunted him since he had step in Harrenhal?Was it really her,the cold and young body he was holding in his arms?He didn’t cared,he needed to feel what he once called love.

His little girl still tasted good,just like he remembered,something sweet,extremely pure. Snow and honey together,what an absurd madness of the senses.Y/n had closed her mouth,her lips soft and eyelids tight,but she had done nothing else.She hadn't disappeared from his touch just like the night before,his rough hands that had begun to mess up her hair and squeeze her thin throat like they used to.

They had kept both eyes closed and he had thought that she was beautiful even in the dark of the dull and worn lights,even in the black of the lowered eyelashes,under the Sun or under the Moon.

Y/n was still as beautiful as the day he had lost her.

And now that she was there,real or not,Daemon had kissed her with a disturbing need and Y/n mouth had moved on his without opening,without granting him anything more.Nothing more of what he already had when she was flourishing with life.

In that moment a cold wind had crept all over his back,until it even caressed his neck and wet cheeks.When did he started crying?Too late he had realized that it had not been a cold wind that had appeased his burns.

«Y/n,my Y/n.»Daemon had murmured«My little bird of the summer,my frightened little bird.»he kept talking on her lips.

«Uncle.»even her voice sounded like she was still that young girl he used to watch run to him,blushing when he would bring her a gift from one of the cities he had visited.

She had caressed his pained face and kissed him like a little girl who can't even imagine that there is anything else after a kiss on the lips.Like a sweet child that still dreamed and hoped for a bright and long future ahead of her.

Maybe at that moment Daemon must have said her name again,because the figure in his arms smiled«Y/n,my little girl,Y/n.»like a prayer.

«Do you still desire me,uncle?Do you still think about me?»her voice,a soft whisper,that cut into his heart.

How naive and stupid,stupid little woman.

He could have turned her like a worn sock,lifted her skirt and possessed it in any dark corner of the castle,stretched her on the floor and forced her to open her legs for him.For him,only for him. First the knees,then the thighs,until he devour her with his hands and tongue,until he fuck her all.

That little creature who didn't even know the thoughts that animated the minds of the men around her,the minds of all animal men just like him.He could have done anything to her,anything unimaginable and unpronounceable,and continued to devour her for whole hours,years and centurie, millennia and other millennia,to the point of satisfying her every repressed need and even more.

And Daemon did it,fulfilling his duties as a husband that resulted in the living love that took form in their twin daughters and son.

He enjoyed her,eat her,mark her at every possible point.He could have done anything for her even now.But Y/n had placed a hand on his heart and more snow had fallen into his chest,appeasing his every pain,every craving.

«Or is my sister crown that you lust over now?»Y/n sharp tongue managed to open another cut in his chest.

Yes,he wanted Rhaenyra crown but it was her he wanted to make his Queen.It’s always been like that,in his deepest dreams,to rule by her side,to pass the throne to their son and be with her forever to the end of his days.

«It’s always ever been you and i’m sorry that this has costed your life.»Daemon words were half stuck in his throat.

Stupid little girl,stupid.She was too good for him.She was pathetically pure.She will never be able to survive in this world,she would become food donated to dogs and worms.Another dead flesh left danging on the spades of this rotten and corrupt castle from the slimy foundation.Another head detached from one's body and turned into a trophy to show to enemies.

Another life that he had ruined.

The images of these elucubrations of his had scared him so much was he afraid?Was the burning in the pupils and ribs fear of seeing her dead or desire to kill or even a fever to possess her?To push her away from his arms,from his belly outstretched towards her.

Daemon had already lost Y/n once,in their old shared chambers of the Red Keep,drenched in sweat and blood.Screaming in fear and pain,just like her mother,as she gave birth to their son.A life for a life,the child survived and the mother died without being able to meet each other.

And now she was there,after so many years,Daemon had only glimpsed at her wet lips and red cheeks,then started yelling at her to leave.It wasn’t real,nothing of this was,his wife,his Y/n was dead,ashes in the wind.

«Go away.Get away right away or you'll regret it.I'll make you regret it,I swear to you.I'll make you regret anything you've ever done or thought if you don't leave now.Go away!»Daemon was screaming like a mad man,but his words were not directed towards Y/n.

His crude and harsh words were echoed only for the silent witch that lived in that old and empty castle.

He must have insulted her,or he had cursed the bastard witch back.He didn’t cared because now Y/n had escaped from his head and eyes with every new sip of wine that he took once he walked back into the dark halls.

Her ethereal figure disappeared at each red bottom of a cup he had swallowed in an attempt to forget the circles of her damn braids.A new cup of wine at every turn of the silver locks and then a hysterical laugh every moment he saw the lilac eyes of that damn girl in the accusatory ones of the witch who sat next to him.

«You are rather unrequited tonight,your grace.What’s bothering you?»Alys Rivers was her name and her voice was as enchanting as her looks.

A punch against the table at every drop of watered down flavor,at every cup of all those lousy drinks that she had given him to help him sleep.A mediocre taste that made him miss better flavors - the taste of him.

Almost as she could read his mind«In love?You?»Alys sound surprised.

And a thud in the heart as every second passes,at the stroke of the hours,at the slow formation of a nebulous wall of chaos inside him.Honey,snow,sweet salt of tears never shed. What was happening to him?What was going on in his head,in his sternum,between his legs?Had Alys poisoned him?

«Y/n.»she spoke again«The little girl that you used to bounce on your knees,the woman that died to give you an heir.»she taunted him,the ghost of a smile on her lips.

Daemon felt his heart shatter in his chest,pain at every breath.His hands burning like the rest of his body,the wine down his throat ready to choke him with all his guilt.

«Where is she?»he asked then,turning to look at the woman next to him.

Where is Y/n?

He had screamed at her out in the gardens and she was gone,she had flown away.

«Where is she?Tell me.Tell me where she is!»the cups on the wooden table crushed on the floor,the cold stones now painted of red wine.

«Where is Y/n?»Alys asked calmly,not even getting up from her chair as his grace thrown everything around«The little girl is far away.But she’s not unreachable,you will see her again soon.»she answered him.

Daemon had was spinning,he felt the nausea coming up from his stomach.He tried to walk and a gag forced him to kneel on the ground,to throw his head against the floor.

«Y/n,my little bird,Y/n.Y/n where are you?»he choked out.

She was there,he had seen her just a few moments before and the other previous nights that he had spent in Harrenhal.He held her,kissed her and it felt so real.She didn't run away,she didn't cry,she didn't even lower her head.Nothing,nothing of nothing.She just looked at him for a second and then she left.

Now she was gone,again.She was gone,Y/n,was gone and Daemon wanted her back,like he had always wanted her,he couldn’t breathe,Y/n come back to him.

Come back,stupid little girl,come back here right away.One moment,he needed to touch her,to kiss her,to have her,just another moment to share with her.His little girl,his little bird.His,his,his,she had always been his.Come back,he needed to hold her and protect her.He would protect her from anyone,even himself if she was so afraid.He was scared too.

«Your grace?»Alys voice was distant,loosing itself in the air.

Daemon crawled on the wet floor,getting up«The little bird.I have to find,I have to find...»the world became dark and dyed of red.There was laughter around his body and someone sneering his name.

«I have to find...»he repeated.

He had to look for her.He hadn't been able to resist her,he hadn't slept even a minute.He had walked around the castle like a mad man,reaching his chambers only to find her inside.

The room looked like the one they lived in the Red Keep,warm and familiar.A small figure appeared,wearing a old white nightgown drenched in blood,pale hair wild on her head in the same that she had died in.

Y/n was there,holding to her chest a child wrapped into a blue blanket like a present.Their son,the joyful and smart boy that looked exactly like his mother and that she had never even seen before closing her eyes forever.She was sitting and crying .He had felt like he was dying and had taken a few uncertain steps.His eyes had moved frantically and they had glimpsed the blood-stained sheets,the stained dress on her thighs, the hands holding the child.

As soon as Y/n had seen him,with shiny eyes, huge tears on that small face she had brought her red fingers on her lips,as if to ask him to be silent as she rocked her baby.The smell of iron had never disgusted him,never shaken him,not until that moment.The little girl's legs had continued to drip and form spots on slippery spots on the floor.

«You always wanted a son.»Y/n voice was paralyzing«I should have know that this would have been my end.You can never surrender to your desires.»she didn’t looked at him,calmly holding the cloth in her arms but he knew she was accusing him of the same sin his brother had committed.

He had never hated blood with such despair,never hesitated before his duties,never thought of spitting acid on his oldest loyalty«I should have…i should have saved you.»he breathed.

Y/n smiled softly«No,this is the price you have to pay for taking what isn’t yours.The throne,the crown…me.»her empty eyes burned his flesh«You will die here,uncle,and you will loose everything.»she warned him.

Daemon vomited until he almost fainted,almost suffocated in his own vomit.Tears mixed with the pain and guilt on his face and his arms suddenly gave in.He felt hands on his neck and lips near his ear.He hit his head against the floor again and rocky voices pronounced his name more times.

He tried to crawl but threw up again,and then again and again.He couldn't stop anymore.He tried to grab a the chair next to door,but the world began swirling to turn and he lost himself in meaningless images.Before closing his eyes Daemon only saw pale silver birds with broken necks and torn wings.

[mmogurl]

In The Shadow of Dragons Chapter 8: Betrothal

18+ | 6.9k | Daemon Targaryen X Female OC | possessive, protective, objectifying, simping, raunchy Daemon | Uncle / niece incest, Targcest, Courtship, Mega smut, Don't read the rest of these tags if you don't want spoilers: Dubious consent, sleep groping, first time blow job, rough oral sex, forceful, dirty talk, deep throat. Probably missed some tags, but you get the idea, it's some filth.

The time has finally come for things to move forward! Have Daemon and Ryna actually managed to make it through their courtship without getting caught for all their improprieties? And how is the family going to react to the news? Find out in this thrilling installment of... IN THE SHADOW OF DRAGONS :) Told from Ryna's POV.

CH 1 | CH 2 | CH 3 | CH 4 | CH 5 | CH 6 | CH 7 | CH 8 | CH 9 Also on AO3

A fortnight had passed since the first time Daemon came to visit Ryna in her chambers and he had come several more times since. They had participated in every manner of foreplay imaginable and somehow the infamous Rogue Prince had managed to restrain himself from deflowering her. There had been times it had come close, where he had groaned so loudly in frustration that she worried someone might hear, but thankfully, they had managed to abstain without getting caught.

Ryna was still vexed by the tease of never being able to consummate their relationship. It was a nice relief to peak at his hands or for her to help alleviate his own torment in much the same way, but it always left her wanting more. She was desperate to know what it would feel like to have him inside of her and considering she’d remained a virgin well into sexual maturity, the curiosity was a powerful lure as well as the intense attraction she felt for Daemon.

So, it was a welcome release when one evening at dinner with the entire family gathered, her father finally spoke on the progress of their courtship. She was seated beside Daemon at the table as was typical, his hand rested on her lap possessively as they looked towards Viserys expectantly.

"Brother..." the king said authoritatively. "I did not think you capable of restraint, of comporting yourself with decency for even a short courtship, but I am most impressed with your efforts and it seems my daughter is quite satisfied as well." His gaze shifted to Ryna, regarding her with a soft smile before returning his attention to Daemon.

“I will admit that she has been an incredible temptation,” the prince replied with a smug countenance, preening with the recognition of his endeavors. “But the princess is worth waiting for, even if the delay has been excruciating.”

Ryna glanced at Daemon, his eyes meeting hers for a moment as his hand gripped her thigh with a mutually understood anticipation. This was what they had been waiting so urgently for, the sweet deliverance from imposed wooing into wedded bliss.

“That being said,” her father continued, his silent judgment flickering back and forth between Ryna and Daemon before finally settling into a good-natured grin. “I have deemed your courtship a success. You two are clearly fond of each other and your union will solidify our bloodline. My congratulations.”

Daemon’s fingers were practically digging into the soft flesh of her thigh even through the thick fabric of her dress. He was obviously excited by the king’s announcement, in knowing that they would finally be allowed to be together in a legally binding way, attaining access to all the physical intimacy that came with it.

“Thank you so much, Father,” Ryna offered with a pleased smile, beaming with delight.

He nodded as he took a draw from his wine, “And I will make a point to announce the betrothal tomorrow at council,” Viserys added, finally putting a timetable to their plans. “We’ll make arrangements for the wedding immediately. A sennight long celebration will do nicely. I wish for the entire realm to take notice… To participate in our family’s good fortune.”

There was a warble of discussion around the table as everyone reacted to the news. Ryna was sure most of her relatives hadn’t expected them to make it through their courtship without scandal, did not think Daemon capable of behaving himself. While he had not been a total gentleman when they were alone together, he’d made every effort to appear upstanding in public.

She couldn’t help but notice how disturbed Rhaenyra appeared, wearing an expression of confused scorn. Ryna wondered if her sister would cause another outburst as she had the first time her betrothal to Daemon had been discussed. She was surprised when it was Alicent who spoke up first.

“Why not hold a tourny, Your Grace?” she suggested with a level of enthusiasm that sounded unnatural. “Let the lords and knights of the realm congregate for the wedding.”

The king nodded slightly, mulling over the idea before replying. “A tourny… That is an excellent idea, my love. A week of games, drinking and carousing! What better way to bring the realm together to celebrate my daughter’s wedding?”

Rhaenyra appeared completely affronted, likely wondering how Ryna, the poorly second daughter had somehow afforded the same lavish celebration she and Laenor had been given. Ryna tried to repress the grin tugging at the corners of her lips, imagining how her eldest sister would be forced to endure an entire seven days of Daemon and she being the center of attention. It would be insufferable for the heir and Ryna would enjoy every moment of it.

She looked to her newly betrothed and could see the excitement dancing in his features. “Perhaps I’ll have to show everyone that I am still the greatest warrior in the Seven Kingdoms, hm?” Daemon smirked, unable to keep from gloating about his combat prowess.

“Yes, I thought Daemon might enjoy participating,” Alicent replied with an all too sweet smile. It was not a genuine notion, but laced with ill intent. Ryna found she didn’t like the possible implications of it.

Viserys happily nodded along, his excitement palpable. “Yes! We’ll have a royal tournament,” he said decidedly. “And I’ll invite the most famed warriors in the realm to make it a proper challenge for you, Brother.”

Daemon chuckled softly in response, “In truth, I would relish the chance to demonstrate my superior skills once more. It has been too long since I’ve had a good joust.” He turned to gaze at Ryna, his eyes sparkling with mischief and his tone low and flirtatious. “What say you, sweetling? Will you be my little princess cheering me on from the stands?”

Ryna felt her cheeks get heated at the smooth intonation of his voice. It was ridiculous what an effect he still had on her after all of this time. “Y-yes,” she finally managed to utter, trying to ignore the sting of embarrassment. “I shall be your staunchest supporter, Uncle.”

“What an obedient wife you’ll make, riñitsos,” his countenance became more predatory in nature, his hand firmly traveling up her thigh as he spoke. “Imagine having such a charming girl cheering for me. I have no doubt that your encouragement will carry me to victory.” He flashed a cocky smile at her, his arrogance plain for all to see.

Viserys let out a deep bellow of laughter, shaking his head as Daemon fawned over Ryna. “Your wife will no doubt have her work cut out for her in trying to keep you humble.”

“I don’t think I shall try, Father,” Ryna offered up playfully with a small laugh. “I rather like that about him.”

“No doubt you’ll spoil him, Daughter,” he said almost regretfully as he took another swig of his chalice. “And make him all the more intolerable for the rest of us.”

Alicent chimed in next, taking the opportunity to make a well-aimed jab at the prince. “I don’t know if it’s even feasibly possible for Daemon to become any more insufferable than he already is.” She smiled brightly when she was done, but let it be said that the queen always made her feelings known in one way or another. Aegon snickered to himself in amusement at his mother’s comment, but did not add anything to the discussion.

“Please, Good-mother,” Ryna interjected before Daemon could snap back at her. She could already see the sneer twisting his features at Alicent’s nasty little quip. “The prince can most assuredly back up his claims, being one of the few men to know war during Father’s historic reign of peace.”

“Oh yes, one of the few,” the queen replied smugly, clearly unimpressed by Daemon’s achievements in the Stepstones.

Daemon’s eyes rolled before he schooled his expression to one of of stoicism. He was just about to open his mouth when Viserys interrupted him, no doubt sensing the growing tension.

“Now, now,” the king attempted to placate the two of them. “This is no time for arguing. We should be celebrating. I’ll have no more of these petty japes.”

“I agree with Father,” Ryna insisted in an upbeat manner. “After all, we shall be wed soon and have all that we had hoped for. Right, Daemon?” she looked to him, the message written in between the lines to not fall for such baited tactics.

The prince gave her a half-smile, reaching to take her hand in his. “Yes, sweetling,” he agreed with a kiss to the back of her knuckles. “No need to spoil the mood with needless bickering.”

“Very well,” Viserys declared as he stood, signaling the end of supper. “I’m off to my chambers now. I have much to consider for the preparations,” he mumbled more to himself than to anyone else.

Daemon joined him in standing, pulling out Ryna’s chair and helping her to her feet. “We shall take our leave as well, Brother. Good night.”

Viserys nodded cheerfully and then added with a note of surprise, as if just remembering something. “Oh, and Ryna, my dear, tomorrow you will be fitted for your dress. I want to make sure it’s prepared in time for the wedding, so we must get an early start.”

“As you wish, Father. Thank you,” Ryna bowed graciously in appreciation. She watched on as the queen joined him in retiring from the dining hall and the rest of the family began to stroll out at a leisurely pace from the table. All was orderly, aside from the children who shuffled this way and that, some chasing each other on their way out.

As the last of the stragglers cleared the room, Daemon wrapped his arm around Ryna’s waist and pulled her roughly against him. His lips lingered closely to her own as his eyes roved over her face. The prince’s other hand lifted to her chin, tilting it up so her eyes were fixed on his. “Alone at least, sweetling,” he murmured, his gaze hungry and full of promise.

Ryna’s cheeks flushed pink at the feel of his hot breath against her lips, tempting her will to resist him in such an open space. She wondered if anyone would even mind a mild impropriety now that they were officially engaged to wed. Would a stolen kiss be that horrible?

She looked around briefly, noticing only two of the serving staff busy at clearing the table. “Kiss me then,” she whispered coquettishly as she looked into his amethyst eyes.

Daemon smirked as he leaned in, “As you wish, Princess.” He moved to cover her lips, kissing her firmly. Parting her lips with his tongue, he delved into her mouth quickly turning up the heat of their embrace. He held her close to him, his grasp on her greedy and protective all at once.

When they finally parted for air, he gazed down at Ryna, his tone huskier than usual, “You taste so bloody good…” His nose grazed the soft skin of her neck as he began to press kisses down the column of her throat. “I can’t believe you will soon be mine. Finally. It has been such a fucking tortuously long wait.”

“We’ve made due,” she said almost teasingly as her hand slid around his waist and they began to walk from the dining hall, out through the side doors.

“Hardly,” the prince countered with a huff, his hand still fastened to her hip. “But that will all change once we are finally wed. I will have you all to myself whenever the mood strikes me. I fear I won’t let you out of my bed for a fortnight.”

“I will hold you to that,” Ryna giggled, imagining what it might be like to retire to their newly shared chambers and make all the noise they wished. How wonderful it would be to not have to sneak around, always worrying that they might be caught and their wedding called off.

It would be a pleasant change, but something was still bothering her about Alicent. She kept thinking of that maliciously, happy smile and how she even went as far as to insult the her affianced at the very announcement of his wedding. She made it no secret that she loathed Daemon, but the queen usually presented herself with more decorum, especially in the presence of Ryna’s father.

“I don’t trust Alicent,” she voiced her concerns out loud. “Why would she suggest a tourny, something you’d so obviously enjoy, when she despises you and the thought of us being wed? I feel as though she’s up to something, but I’m not sure what.”

Daemon gave a snort of derisive laugher as the queen’s name fell from Ryna’s lips. “She is a snake, my sweet. One who hides her fangs quite well, but when it comes to me, she has always made her distaste known openly.”

“What if she plans to have you harmed at the tourny?” It suddenly made sense. Alicent would never do the dirty work herself, but she might hire someone else to do it for her. What better way to get rid of Daemon than at a tourny where violence and strife already ran amok. “Would she really be willing to go that far?” she mused anxiously.

“Perhaps,” Daemon considered it for a moment, a playful smirk dancing on his lips. “I wouldn’t put it past her, but I can handle myself. It would not be the first time someone has tried to take my life.” He pulled Ryna to a halt mid-step, peering at her with his keen violet eyes.

“Are you worried for me, riñītsos?” he teased with an arched eyebrow. “Or is there something else on your mind? Why the sudden concern on my behalf?”

“I just… I know Alicent had hoped I might wed Aegon instead,” she bit at the nail of her index finger nervously. “What if she plans to kill you so that she might see her son’s claim to the throne solidified.”

The prince gave an amused smirk, his hand lifting to caress her cheek. “Why sweetling,” he whispered, his voice dripping with affectionate mockery. “You truly care for me, hm? I’m touched.”

He leaned in closely, his lips brushing down the curve of her ear. “But don’t worry your pretty little head,” he reassured her softly, before pausing to nip at her lobe. “I’ve survived much worse than that green bitch’s scheming.”

A shiver ran down her neck, causing her skin to erupt into fresh goosebumps. It was true that Daemon had likely been through much worse, but had anyone actually tried to kill him in an underhanded way before? Or had it always been a direct bout of brutality and violence?

She sighed, knowing she must relent the fear lest it absorb her completely. Ryna had to have faith in what she knew to be true. She’d seen it in her mind’s eye so many years ago, that she and Daemon would end up together no matter what. And what if her very fretting somehow caused harm to befall him.

“You’re right,” she finally acquiesced, leaning against him affectionately.

Daemon hummed against her skin, his hand pushing her long silvery gold curls aside to expose her neck. “Of course I am,” he said, sounding pleased with himself for allaying her fears. He pulled back, observing her as if to make sure she had no second guesses about it.

“I have to retire to my chambers soon,” she sighed, running her fingers along the scratchy fabric of his doublet. My handmaid will be waiting to start my bath. But perhaps we can meet up tomorrow since it is already so late?”

“Nonsense,” he rebuffed her immediately. “I would spend this night with you. I can come to your room again,” his voice low and seductive once more. “Or you can meet me in the Godswood in our usual spot.”

She smiled, recalling the many times they’d settled on the backside of the heart tree, milling away the hours just kissing. “I wouldn’t mind getting a look at the stars tonight.”

He laughed darkly, twisting a ringlet of her hair around his fingers. “You just want to see the stars?” he teased, the lust already stirring in his eyes. “Or are you using it as an excuse to get your hands on me, sweetling?”

Ryna rolled her eyes, but could not control the blush in her cheeks that seemed to always rear up whenever he toyed with her like this. “I will slip away if possible. Ser Erryk has not been at watch beside my door come nightfall as of late. I think maybe Father has given up the ghost.”

“If you aren’t in my arms by the hour of the bat, then I will come and fetch you myself,” he tilted down, pressing his lips against her forehead as his hand raked up the nape of her neck. “Don’t tarry,” he added for good measure as he relinquished his hold on Ryna.

“I’ll be with you as soon as I can be, Uncle,” she smiled sweetly as she turned to head back to her room.

The worry of her Good-mother’s plottings was already fading as she considered a reprieve from prying eyes, alone with her husband-to-be. She couldn’t help but squeal a happy sound of delight as she made for the stairs. Everything was going so perfectly and within a time frame quicker than she had imagined possible. Ryna grinned from ear to ear thinking of the coming celebration and how everyone in the realms would gather to wish her and Daemon well on their wedding. It was a dream come true.

She entered her room in a lovesick haze, her feet light as though in step to a dance and not merely to move from one place to another. Her handmaid struggled to untie the laces on her gown as she swayed from side to side, humming a merry tune she remembered her wet nurse singing to her when she was just a child.

Even as she settled into the warm water of the bath, the divinity of love and untasted passions welled in her chest, heavy like the very meaning of life itself.

Read Chapter 9

[soyboywenzie]

i think we as a fandom need to talk about the fact that the targtower children’s resentment and disdain for rhaenyra is not just the work of viserys lack of parenting but due to everyone else too.

it’s from otto doing everything in his power to stop rhaenyra from getting the throne so his blood can get it, not because he thinks aegon is or would be a good king, not because he thinks his grandson deserves it, but because his blood would take the throne, not rhaenyra’s, not daemon’s. HIS.

it’s from alicent’s every conversation on screen with aegon revolving around rhaenyra. how, in ep.6, his mother stops his session to tell him he needs to be better to his brother in public so we can be a united family against her, how if rhaenyra takes the throne, she’ll have no choice but to kill them to keep her throne, how in ep.8, alicent is mad at his continuous behaviors but only this mad because rhaenyra is about to be in town.

the talk before his coronation is explicitly about how much his father wanted rhaenyra on the throne, how he had twenty years to change it and never did. it’s about alicent telling him not to not be swayed by judgements to kill rhaenyra, how above all the terrible she’s done, she still his sister. yet no one has ever acted like she is.

it’s from aemond’s eye being taken out and it ending with his mother yelling at rhaenyra about duty and sacrifices, how she can do all and never get in trouble, how she does as she pleases and is happy, yet she, the queen, is dutiful and isn’t. aemond’s eye is used to get back at rhaenyra, his mother is mad that his eye is gone but it’s more because RHAENYRA’S sons took it then it being taken at all. how he has to soothe his mother even if he’s the one bleeding.

it’s from criston cole bullying and tormenting rhaenyra’s sons because they are rhaenyra’s sons. It’s about them being lesser because they came from her indecency, them being worse because they came from her. her sons being lower than them because of them being a direct connection to rhaenyra and him feeling mad about not being the one she choose.

the targtower children entire world revolved around rhaenyra. it wasn’t just viserys who preferred her, everyone did! rhaenyra’s stepmother would rather fight her than love them! their mother’s sworn sword would rather mess with her children as an act of vengeance than genuinely be interested in them, their grandfather’s every political move was to stop her husband from being near power. love or hate, those children never had a chance to see rhaenyra on their own before or after Driftmark.

their father, her father, loved her more. their mother, her stepmother, hated her more than she cared for them. their grandfather, who has no connection to her, would rather deal with politics through them against her than for them. their mother’s sworn sword, who was rhaenyra’s sworn sword first, hates her more than he likes them.

these kids, again, never stood a damn chance!!

[kazz-brekker]

hotd episode 6 thoughts

boy oh boy this episode was so full of many delicious character moments, i feel very well fed

aemond really was in his best goth villain era tonight, honestly good for him!

i have never seen tyland lannister look more uncomfortable than he did with aemond looming over him lmao

i enjoyed the scene where aemond is firing alicent from the council while also simultaneously holding her hand in place so she'll keep touching his face…tasty tasty family issues

loved that song that the dragonkeepers were singing while summoning seasmoke, it was a very cool detail

also, it was really fun seeing seasmoke again, especially since he's grown bigger since we last saw laenor riding him

man, aegon and rhaenyra really need to put out an ad in the paper for new members of the kingsguard and the queensguard, those guys are dropping like flies

ever since daemon's visions at harrenhal started i really hoped that we would get to see viserys since so many of daemon's issues stem from being cast aside as heir by his brother so i'm SO pleased we got those scenes, it was a present Just For Me

daemon bro stop threatening simon strong he's a nice old man who's done literally nothing bad to you

greatly enjoying this dynamic of daemon and his new bestie the weird witch who may or may not be psychologically tormenting him with visions of his past mistakes and issues

genuinely alys is my favorite new character this season, she's so fun and i just adore her scenes

madam sylvi, dyana, and ulf getting together to bitch about the food shortages…the greens better look out the smallfolk are unionizing

i am getting the sense that aemond and madame sylvi had a…less than amicable end to their working relationship

aemond tormenting aegon in his sickbed really made me go c'mon dude haven't you made him suffer enough, leave him ALONE!

from rhaena's scenes in the vale it appears that they've cut the character of nettles and give rhaena her storyline instead. not sure how i feel about this…i'm all for rhaena getting more to do but nettles is also an interesting character in her own right

knowing alyn and addam's parentage going into the show i suspected that alyn shaves his head because he inherited the velaryon white hair and i was pleased to see i was right

baby stormcloud is so cute! but holy shit my the pit of my stomach really dropped when jeyne arryn mentioned the ship the gay abandon. my fellow book readers, i am full of dread!

i really liked the scene between gwayne and alicent, since he wasn't in the first season it's interesting to see how their relationship with each other and otto has been affected by that huge distance

i kind of miss otto, i hope he comes back by the end of the season

daeron mention! facts about daeron! a personality! never thought i'd see the day!

one of my favorite hobbies is being emo about scenes of alicent physically putting herself between her children and physical harm so i liked her and helaena fleeing from the riot together

that scene with larys and aegon was sooooooo interesting, there's definitely some manipulation/attempts to curry favor coming from larys, but i also hadn't considered that he might now feel some genuine solidarity with aegon after his injuries and can speak frankly about his disability and offer advice

i have been waiting since daemon got to harrenhal and began being tormented for him to have a breakdown and start crying so i was quite pleased when that happened :)

knowing that seasmoke is chasing after addam because he wants him to be his rider made that whole sequence really funny to me

i have often blogged about how daemon and rhaenyra each have what the other one wants (freedom and patriarchal status vs. viserys's love and position as his heir) so it was super fun for me to hear rhaenyra actually verbalize that

i have been super into queer readings of this show since the beginning and all season whenever rhaenyra and mysaria interact i've been like "hmm…are they flirting…" but i truly did not expect them to actually kiss. rhaenyra targaryen canonically queer! on my tv screen! never thought i would see the day!

crazy to think that we only have 2 episodes of this season left after this, can't wait to see what unhinged drama still awaits us

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 91

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 91: The Favor of the Smallfolk

AO3 - Masterlist

The wind whirled around Daemon as he stood on one of the hillsides of the Dragonmont, gazing at the ancient altar where, mere days ago, they had burned the remains of their daughter. The memory of the tiny, twisted form haunted him–a child more dragon than human, a daughter who had never even taken a breath. He supposed it was a mercy, as the child would not have survived long either way. Yet, Daemon couldn’t help but have loved the child, even as it was. 

It had been his and Rhaenyra’s daughter–it was their blood in her veins, their love that had created her. 

The cold air tugged at his doublet, the mournful howls of the wind mingling with his own internal torment. His gaze lingered on the altar, where dried wax marred its surface—some streaks dark and trailing like spilled blood from a sacrifice, others as pale and white as bleached bone. The ashes of their daughter, what little remained, had been scattered, riding the wind as befitted the blood of the dragon. He approached the altar slowly, his hand reaching out to trace the contours of the ancient glyphs carved in the middle of the stone. 

As he pressed his finger into the groves of the carvings, he felt a connection to the distant past, to the solemn rituals that had consecrated this place long before his time–the same rituals that had tied his soul to Rhaenyras, and now, had seen their daughter return to ashes. 

The wind picked up, stirring the grass around his boots and whispering through the air with the ghost of wings.  Daemon stood silently, absorbing the sense of eternity that the altar commanded, his heart heavy with loss yet burning with a quiet fury. 

Viserys, Visenya, Lucerys.

If there was anything to be said about grief, Daemon wouldn’t know it. He swallowed his sorrow, shouldered the burden of leadership, and did what was needed of him. Grief was a luxury for peacetime, and they were entrenched in war. He only wished Rhaenyra understood that–understood that they stood to lose so much more if she did not pull back from the precipice of despair. 

Daemon’s fingers traced the carvings absentmindedly, grounding himself in the cold, unyielding stone. His heart ached with unspoken sorrow, but he buried it deep, knowing that showing weakness now could be their undoing. He could not afford to grieve–he didn’t know how to grieve. He had to remain strong, steadfast and unyielding as the Valyrian steel at his hip–for their family, for Rhaenyra.

“My Prince,” Ser Brandon Piper's voice came. 

Daemon remained by the altar, the chill of the rough stone seeping into his fingertips as he traced over another glyph, this one almost worn off by time. The wind whipped around him, his hair tickling against the nape of his neck as his gaze remained on the altar.

“A raven has flown in from King’s Landing,” Ser Brandon continued, his footsteps approaching from behind. The Captain of the Guard, his red cloak billowing in the wind, came to a halt beside Daemon. “You’ll want to read this.” He held out the rolled piece of parchment for him to take. 

Apprehension gnawed at Daemon as he finally turned from the altar, taking the note in hand and unfurling it–dreading what it might contain; his wife’s capture and execution, his stepdaughter's execution. The wind continued to howl around him, the distant rush of waves becoming muted as the blood rushed in his ears, boiling as it coursed through his body. His rage ignited within his chest as his eyes scanned the parchment once, twice–then he crushed it tightly in his fist, abandoning the hillside of the Dragonmont and his reflections. 

“My prince?” Ser Brandon Piper called after him, but Daemon did not answer. 

The path back was treacherous, the ground slick with rain and mud, but Daemon moved with determined fury. Each step was fueled by the need for retribution, his thoughts consumed by the affronts from King’s Landing. The message seemed to burn within the palm of his hand as though he clutched an ember.

Ser Brandon hurried to keep pace, his red cloak billowing in the fierce wind.

As they approached the castle gates, the torches flickered, casting long shadows on the stone walls. Daemon’s fury was palpable, radiating off of him like the heat of a pyre. The guards at the gates stood a little straighter, sensing the storm that was his wrath. 

Inside the castle, the halls were dimly lit, the flickering torchlight doing little to dispel the heavy atmosphere. Daemon’s footsteps echoed loudly, his presence commanding attention as he moved through the castle and up the steps towards his chambers. The servants that lingered in the halls got out of his way, pressing themselves against the walls and casting their gazes downward as he passed.

“Has Rhaenys returned?”

“No, my prince,” Ser Brandon replied, trailing him up the steps.

“Prepare my armor,” Daemon commanded, his voice sharp and unforgiving, sending a servant running ahead to carry out the order. 

The castle’s cold stone walls seemed to close in around him as he strode through the halls, each step echoing with his mounting rage. Reaching his chambers, Daemon pushed through the doors, almost sending them colliding with the walls, tossing the crumbled up parchment on the bed. 

“My prince, what are your orders?” Ser Brandon asked, standing at the threshold. 

“Alert the Dragonkeepers to prepare for Rhaenys return, and have the men at the walls keep an eye out for Meleys.”

Ser Brandon nodded and left to carry out the orders.

Daemon stood resolute as the servants bustled around him, gathering and preparing his armor. Each piece was handed over with a mixture of reverence and urgency, the servants’ hands trembling slightly as they worked. The armor was familiar, a second skin that he had donned countless times before.

As they strapped the breastplate to his torso, Daemon could feel the weight of the cold metal against him–the intricate details carved into the metal mirrored the scales of a dragon, each line and curve accentuated with the gleam of copper. Just below his armored collarbones, two dragons were etched into the steel, their serpentine forms locked in an eternal battle. 

The clang of metal against metal echoed in the chamber as the servants secured the pauldrons to his shoulders, the weight settling in with a sense of grim finality. The gauntlets came next, encasing his hands in steel, the fingers flexing to test their fit. Each piece seemed to absorb and amplify his rage, becoming an extension of his anger. 

Finally, they brought Dark Sister to him. As they strapped the sword to his hip, Daemon’s hand immediately found the pommel, his grip tight and unwavering. The sword offered a sense of comfort, its weight a reminder of his strength and purpose. 

The armor, now fully assembled, gleamed in the torchlight. The servants stepped back, their task complete, and Daemon took a moment to adjust to the weight, rolling his shoulders and flexing his arms before grabbing his helmet. 

Leaving his chamber, each step felt burdened not only by the weight of the armor but also by the leaden sensation in his stomach–it felt like molten rock, churning and settling heavily within him, something angry and resentful. 

Daemon's steps were brisk as he ascended the winding stairs, his path taking him deeper into the castle's bowels. He descended into the ancient library, its rows of bookshelves towering around him, the scent of aged parchment and candle wax filling the air. With each step, the darkness thickened, and the familiar smell of sulfur and heat began to replace the library's musty aroma.

As he moved through the labyrinthine halls, the echoes of distant dragon calls reverberated faintly around him, a haunting reminder of the beasts that dwelled below. Daemon pressed on, his destination clear—the cavern beneath the castle, where the true heart of Dragonmont was.

Daemon paced the hall that led to the dragon landing, the shadows flickering against the walls, writhing and clawing against the torchlight. His footsteps echoed in the vast, dimly lit space, each step fueled by his simmering rage, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides as he walked back and forth, his patience wearing thin.

The usurpers had not only honored that one-eyed cunt for murdering Luke but they had also made a mockery of his death. They celebrated his death with wine and music, toasting to the supposed victor–as though it had been a great victory. But it wasn’t a great victory, it was the slaughter of a boy of four-and-ten in an act of vengeance. 

Daemon felt as though every word of the letter had seared themselves into his skin–into his mind. It had detailed the vile speech given during the feast, where the usurper cunt of a king had made a mockery of Lucerys’s death, insulting the boy and calling his mother a whore. They had called him a bastard and a coward–a bastard in life, a Velaryon in death. 

Yet, Lucerys had been more Velaryon and Targaryen than any of those who so arrogantly claimed their Targaryen ancestry. He had been better and more worthy than any of them–Hightower cunts. Daemon had loved the boy as his own, and each insult levied against the boy seemed to burrow itself under his skin. It mattered little to Daemon that Lucerys was Ser Harwin’s son. Harwin had been a good man, present when Daemon wasn’t. 

Lucerys had his mother’s blood flowing through his veins, a true dragonrider with the same protective fire that burned within Rhaenyra. And each cruel word said against him, Daemon would return in kind.

‘He fed him to your dragon, and he will feed the rest of them to Vhagar as well now that she has gotten a taste for bastards,’ echoed relentlessly in Daemon's mind. He could almost hear the laughter, the jeering, the clinking of glasses in toasts to that despised one-eyed cunt, all ringing mockingly in his ears. 

Daemon turned on his heel once more, his pace restless and impatient. His gaze swept over the cavernous expanse, searching for any sign of movement. The Dragonkeepers stood by, their patience a stark contrast to his own–impatience prickled beneath his skin, agitation coiling within him like a serpent ready to strike. The darkness of the cave remained undisturbed, with no hint of Rhaenys’s return. 

The letter had not only detailed the vile insults hurled during the feast but also mentioned Daenera’s attendance–Daemon struggled to understand her presence there. Had she been forced to sit through each degrading word, to endure the mockery, seated beside the one-eyed cunt? Or had she chosen to attend of her own accord? He leaned towards the former, suspecting that the Hightowers had compelled her to be there as a grotesque show of support. 

Daemon let out a frustrated growl and pivoted to pace the opposite direction. His grip tightened around the hilt of his sword, the cold metal grounding him even as his emotions threatened to boil over. His armor rustled with each movement, and his long hair brushed against his neck as he turned again, retracing his steps in an agitated rhythm. 

Yet, there was a detail that gnawed at him–she had worn red. The Hightowers would never have permitted that; they would have forced her into their own colors, the green of their house. 

This act of defiance, however subtle, hinted at her true intentions and gave Daemon a sliver of hope for her. 

One thing was certain: her reaction to her brother’s death. The letter described her screams, the raw agony that had driven her to lay waste to her chambers. The depths of her despair was evident in the destruction she had wrought. Yet, despite her anguish, she had not killed Aemond for it. 

He might have doubted her loyalties before, but if she continued to show her defiance against the Hightowers, his doubts would be laid to rest. He couldn't imagine that she would ever forgive Aemond for what he did to her brother–she had loved Luke, doted on him as only a sister could.

As he paced the dragon landing, the heat of the nests and sulfurous air seemed to stroke the fire within him. He would not let the insults go unanswered–he would see that justice would be brought for the murder of Lucerys. 

A weary growl pierced the air, a low rumble that reverberated through the cavern. The rhythmic beating of wings followed, a prelude to the dragon’s arrival. From the opening in the rock wall, the great beast emerged, the light from the outside cleaving through the darkness that seemed to thrive within the pit of the cavern. 

Daemon stepped to the threshold leading to the landing, his eyes locked on the dragon as it swept through the air and landed with a loud thud on the stone. Its crimson scales caught the light, gleaming like droplets of blood as the beast clawed its way to the landing, rising up the structure to settle itself against it so that its rider could dismount. Meleys emitted a weary breath as its rider murmured indistinct commands. 

The Dragonkeepers barked commands at Meleys, instructing the dragon to stay put as Rhaenys dismounted. She climbed down from the saddle and set foot on the ground, her movements stiff and weary. He didn’t know how long she’d been flying, and it didn’t matter. 

“Take your mount again,” Daemon commanded, striding down the length of the landing. His grip tightened around the pommel of his sword, his other hand clutching his helmet. “We’re flying out.”

His voice was resolute, leaving no room for arguments. The very air around them thickened as Rhaenys cast a withering glance his way as she unfastened the leather straps to her armguards. 

As Daemon approached Rhaenys, Meleys turned away, her whistle echoing through the cavern as she clawed over the wet stone at the bottom of the pit, the sound of stone scraping together beneath her weight, skittering down into some valley between the rocks. The dragon made her way down toward the lower tunnels where her nest awaited. Rhaenys remained standing, her posture weary as she removed the final armguard and shoved them into the hands of a nearby Dragonkeeper. 

“I alone patrol over a hundred miles of open sea, endlessly, to hold the blockade,” Rhaenys responded, tone fraught and scratchy with exhaustion. She turned to face Daemon, walking towards him with an exasperated expression. Her hair was windswept and tangled, a nest of knots falling down her back. Sod and grime clung to her skin, accentuating the lines etched by fatigue. As she approached, she began removing her gloves, tugging at one finger at a time.

“Meleys must gorge and rest, as must I.” 

Daemon extended his arm, effectively blocking her path. “We’re going to King’s Landing.”

“To what end?”

“Killing Vhagar,” Daemon answered, dropping his hand now that she stood still. Her eyes flashed with incredulity, and he pressed on, “I cannot face that hoardy old bitch alone. With my dragon and yours together, we can kill Vhagar and her rider. Make it a son for a son.”

Rhaenys measured him for a moment, eyes narrowing. “Was this the Queen’s command?”

The cavern seemed to hold its breath, the distant echoes of dragons fading into silence. Daemon met her gaze steadily–coldly. The question needled under his skin, frayed his patience or what remained of it. It seemed to press into the bruise left by his wife’s absence. He felt incomplete, a part of him missing that he couldn’t quite articulate. In its place, frustration and irritation seemed to thrive, growing into every part of him. 

“The Queen remains absent,” he answered curtly, his voice edged with annoyance. “I should be at Harrenhal, bending knees, but instead, I must remain here to wage her war.”

“Or perhaps, more simply, to await her return,” Rhaenys chided, cautioning him.

It frustrated him that Rhaenyra wasn’t here, that she had left him to lead in her place without granting him the final authority to enforce his commands. He felt hamstrung, unable to lead effectively as though his hands were tied behind his back. How could he make a difference under such constraints? He was a dragon in chains, forced to wait when he should be out there, fighting for her.

The weight of his predicament gnawed at him, each passing moment intensifying his sense of powerlessness–his sense of hopelessness. Rhaenyra was gone, and there was no way of knowing when she’d be back. He longed for action, for the freedom to unleash his fury upon their enemies. Yet, here he was, bound by duty and the absence of the person who could grant him the power he needed the most.

Daemon spun on his heels, glaring at Rhaenys’s back. “She has been gone for days–too long. She is exposed–”

Rhaenys whirled back around to face him, angrily pulling off her other glove as her expression twisted with a mix of frustration and empathy. “She is grieving.”

“The mother grieves while the Queen shirks her duty,” Daemon retorted harshly. The longer Rhaenyra remained away, the weaker she appeared in the eyes of the realm–allies and enemies alike. They would see her as vulnerable, and they could not afford that perception. 

Rhaenys’s eyes flashed with intensity as she drew in an exasperated breath, straining with her composure. She stepped slowly towards him, her voice softening but remaining firm. “It was… a raven that brought me the news of Laena’s death.”

Daemon’s eyes snapped towards her angrily, feeling as if a dagger had been wedged between his ribs.The weight of her words hung heavily in the air between them. His anger simmering, tempered only slightly by the mention of his second wife. 

A thread of unending grief wove through Rhaenys’s voice as she continued. “I existed for weeks in torment…” Her footsteps echoed through the cavern as she approached him. “Refusing to believe what I’d been told.” She stopped before him, her gaze cool and reproachful. “It was only when I saw my daughter’s mortal remains that I could begin to mourn her.”

Daemon swallowed hard and averted his gaze. 

“A raven has told Rhaenyra that her son is dead,” Rhaenys said softly. “She needs to know for certain.”

“She was a fool to go alone,” Daemon snapped. She shouldn’t have gone without him–without any sort of protection save for Syrax. There was nothing for her to find, and perhaps that was for the better–he didn’t want her to find the torn remains of her son. He had seen what a dragon did to the human body, he didn’t want her to have that as the last image of Lucerys. And he didn’t want to receive the news that she had joined Lucerys in death. “What if Aemond were to happen upon her?”

“Then I would pity Aemond,” Rhaenys answered, her voice assured in Rhaenyra’s capability to protect herself. 

A twist of amusement and pride swirled in Daemon’s stomach at that. He knew Rhaenyra would fight her son’s murderer as fiercely as any dragon, but it didn’t ease the apprehension gnawing at him. She shouldn’t have gone alone–the realm and her family needed her here, at the helm. 

Vhagar was thrice the size of Syrax, if not more, and battle-hardened. Syrax might be faster and more agile, but she was still smaller and untested in war. If they faced Vhagar together, there might be a chance–yet he could not discount his wife’s fury. 

“The Queen was wise to recuse herself,” Rhaenys intoned. “She has not acted on the vengeful impulses that others might have.”

The sliver of amusement and pride Daemon had felt moments before festered into something resentful. His tone darkened, eyes burning with judgment as he lashed out, “If you’d acted when you had the chance… Aegon’s line would be extinguished. And Luke would be alive.”

Rhaenys faced him more fully, regarding him for a moment before answering, “Had I acted then, Daenera would not have escaped the fire. Would you rather I had robbed Rhaenyra of her daughter?”

Gritting his teeth, Daemon felt his frustration burn within him as he averted his gaze, a scornful curl to his lips, “Were that you’d taken her with you.”

“I tried–”

“Evidently not hard enough.” 

Rhaenys held his gaze unflinchingly. “Aemond restrained her–he refused to let her go. His grip was so tight… She–” Rhaenys shook her head, her voice trailing off. “She screamed for me to burn them all…”

“Then you ought to have obliged her,” Daemon snapped, the words escaping before he could stop them. Immediately, he felt a twist of regret between his ribs as Rhaenys glared at him coolly. Dragonfire would have indeed ended their troubles, and the pragmatic part of him recognized that Daenera being collateral damage was a sacrifice. He did not want her dead; he did not wish to inflict that pain upon his wife. And yet still, there was a part of him that would accept that sacrifice for the greater good.

“I was robbed of my daughter,” Rhaenys said, her voice cold with scorn. “I would not wish that upon Rhaenyra. I will not carry that blame–the fault is not mine alone. Were that you had not sent her there in the first place. Were that you had brought her back with you when you left King’s Landing.”

Daemon felt the words burrow beneath his skin and twist inside of him. He stared at her angrily as she turned to walk away from him, seemingly done with the conversation. He called out, his voice as unforgiving as the steel he carried, “We received a raven from King’s Landing. The drunken usurper-cunt of a king threw a feast in honor of his brother.”

Rhaenys halted abruptly, her expression fraught with tension as she turned back to face him. She clutched her riding gloves tightly, knuckles whitening as she processed his words. 

 “That one-eyed cunt killed him and they celebrate him for it,” Daemon continued, clutching the pommel of his sword tightly, the steel warming beneath his touch. “And now, that one-eyed mongrel is set to marry Daenera–he is set to put his cock in her every night.”

Rhaenys’s eyes flashed with anger–something cold, hard and unforgiving. 

“We can end this, now,” Daemon asserted, his grip on his sword tightening until his knuckles turned white with the intensity of his rage. “I’ll draw Aemond out–he is young and arrogant, he’ll see me as a challenge. I cannot take them alone, but with Caraxes and Meleys together, we have a chance. Without Vhagar there to protect the city, King’s Landing is ours for the taking.”

“They have other dragons–”

“Young and untested in battle.” Aegon and Sunfyre would be the only true threats left after Vhagar, and the Hightowers were not likely to send their drunkard king into battle–let alone risk sending their queen. 

Rhaenys stared at him, her eyes cold and displeased. “Meleys and I are exhausted, and in no condition to engage in any battle. Should misfortune claim one or both of us, who will patrol the Gullet? Without you or I at the helm of the council, how long until they run us aground? Who is left to protect Dragonstone–Baela and Moondancer? Rhaenyra needs us here–she needs us to stand fast and hold positions–”

“She should be here!” Daemon snapped, shifting on his feet, his armor clanking noisily. “She has gone to grief, and in her absence, our enemies laugh at us–mock us. Her position weakens the longer she remains gone, but if we kill Vhagar, the path to victory is open–”

“If we kill Vhagar and her rider, the Hightowers will kill Daenera,” Rhaenys interjected sharply, her voice echoing in the hollowness of the cave, reverberating off the stone walls and rising into an indistinguishable throng. 

"If we do nothing, she'll be forced to marry that one-eyed mongrel, enduring his assaults night after night!" 

“We cannot afford reckless actions that could cost us more than we’ve already lost,” Rhaenys cautioned him, her voice steady but firm. “The Hightowers may be many things, but they aren’t fools. They wouldn’t dare mistreat or abuse Daenera for fear of retribution and the realm’s response. Their position has weakened after Storm’s End. They wouldn’t want to appear crueler than they have already made themselves out to be.” Her gaze hardened. “If they hurt her then the Hightowers will feel our wrath.”

Daemon’s jaw tightened, his eyes flickering with frustration

“We must wait for Rhaenyra to return–it is her decision.”

Daemon's scoff echoed in the cavernous chamber, his gaze lifting to the darkness clinging to the rock ceiling above. It seemed alive, a shadowy entity writhing and pulsing like a living, breathing creature against the stark, jagged stone.  “We could have this done by the time she returns—we could have her son avenged. Rhaenyra would sit on her rightful throne, and the usurpers' heads would be mounted above the Traitors' Walk.”

He considered this thought, wondering if such an outcome might bring her some solace amidst her grief.

Rhaenys turned and began to walk away, “She has already endured the loss of both a son and a daughter—do not allow your desire for revenge to cause her further grief.”

“Fly with me,” Daemon demanded. “It is a command.”

“Would that you were the king.”

“In the eyes of the Seven, the bond of marriage is a sacred covenant, a solemn promise made in the sight of the gods and men,” Mertha intoned, her voice carrying a note of piety as she read from the book of The Seven-Pointed Star. “From the moment vows are exchanged before the Father, the Mother, and the Crone, a married couple is bound by duty and devotion, one to the other, until death severs their earthly ties.”

Daenera’s fingers trembled slightly as she struggled with the needle, her tongue poking out between her lips as she scowled in concentration, finally managing to weave the thread through the eye of the needle–this was perhaps the most tedious task of embroidery, the constant need to thread it. She glanced up at Mertha, who sat across from her, the book resting heavily in her lap. Her expression was stern, her eyes unwavering as she continued to read. 

“Faithfulness is the cornerstone of this sacred union,” Mertha continued. “Just as the Smith forges iron with fire, so too must husband and wife forge their bond with unwavering loyalty. The Father, who sits in judgment, sees all that transpires in secret–sees all what is held within our hearts. To stray from one’s marriage bed is to invite the Father’s wrath and to bring shame upon oneself and one’s house.” 

Mertha glanced reproachfully at Daenera, as if to emphasize the sin she was describing—as though Daenera was already guilty of it.

The soft rustle of parchment sounded as Mertha turned the page. Her disapproving look lingered, eyes narrowing as she continued to read. “The Mother, whose love and compassion are boundless, blesses those who honor their vows. A husband must protect and provide for his wife, while a wife must offer her consulate and companionship, sharing the burdens and joys of life together.”

It was often said that needlepoint would ease the mind but Daenera found no such reprieve. Her fingers moved methodically, stitching the fabric in her lap, pushing the needle through the fabric, adding another stitch to what was meant to be a branch of myrtle, its white flowers blooming against the light green background. Instead, it was a haphazard gathering of disinterested stitches, barely resembling the intended design. She couldn’t really be bothered to put any effort into it, even as boredom clung to her, making each stitch impatient and careless. 

The fire crackled loudly as the monotony of Mertha’s voice continued. “The duties of a wife are manifold, reflecting the virtues of the Seven. She is to be a pillar of strength within the household, embodying the wisdom of the Crone and the nurturing spirit of the Mother. It is her sacred duty to manage the hearth, ensuring that her home is a haven of warmth and comfort.”

If it was a wife’s sacred duty to manage the hearth, Daenera mused, then surely the old hag wouldn’t mind if she fed the flames with that dreadful book. The thought brought a fleeting, bitter smile to her lips, and then, a sharp pang twisted in her gut as she considered her impending marriage. There would be no haven of warmth or comfort; only coldness and resentment awaited her. 

Her eyes drifted to the fire, imagining the pages curling and blackening in the heat, the words that bound her to a life of duty and submission consumed by the flames. The very idea of rebellion was a small solace in the face of the bleak future she saw before her. 

If it hadn’t been for Fenrick and Patrick languishing in the dungeons, Daenera would have continued her rebellion–she would have offered no compliance for the sake of their freedom; she would have been a thorn in the Hightowers’ side. They would have had to drag her to the altar and force her into submission. The only solace Daenera found was the promise of Fenrick’s release–a small comfort against the choice she made. Her gaze returned to the needlework in her lap, each stitch a mockery of the serene life expected of her. 

“A wife must be steadward of her husband’s household, overseeing the daily affairs with diligence and care,” Mertha continued, her tone heavy with solemnity. “She tends to the needs of her family, ensuring that all are fed, clothed, and cared for, just as the Seven tend to the needs of their faithful.”

“If a wife is to tend to her family as the gods tends to the needs of their faithful,” Daenera mused, stabbing the needle through the fabric and tugging roughly at the threat. “Does she then become a godly figure to her family?”

Mertha looked up sharply, eyes full of reproach, her lips twisting into a scornful sneer. “We may bear the image of the gods, but we are not their equals. The gods are the gods, and we are but their subjects. It is the duty of a wife to care for her family, but that does not make her godly.”

“It is said that Targaryens are closer to gods than man,” Daenera hummed, meeting Mertha’s gaze with a challenging glint in her eye. The firelight flickered, casting a warm glow on her face as she lifted a brow expectantly.

The room grew tense with Mertha’s disapproval. It was as palpable as the shifting light from the clouds outside, and she straightened in her seat, fingers tightening around the book. “Perhaps they were closer to the gods of Old Valyria, but they are not close to the true gods,” she answered tersely. “And while they may have divine favor, you are not a true Targaryen–you are but a bastard.”

Daenera rolled her eyes, her patience wearing thin. 

“I cannot fathom why the Queen Mother would allow this marriage,” Mertha muttered, shifting in her seat. “To taint the royal blood further with that of a bastard. But I suppose it is the gods’ will to offer you a path to save your wicked soul.”

"You should take care of your words, Lady Mertha," Daenera warned, her tone icy and deliberate. "Lest the wrong ears catch them and your insults be met with retribution." She knew well that Aemond would not tolerate his wife being called a 'bastard.'

With a deepening frown, Daenera muttered, “And trust me, Lady Mertha, this marriage is not my choice.”

Mertha hummed with displeasure, her eyes narrowing. “You should consider yourself lucky. Many would envy your position.”

“And what position is that? A hostage? A prisoner? A pawn used against my own family?” Daenera's voice trembled with barely contained anger.

“Whether legitimate or otherwise, as a princess and wife to the prince it is your responsibility to uphold the position the gods have bestowed upon you,” Mertha replied, her tone unwavering and stern. “Defiance will only lead to suffering, Princess. Accept your duty, and you may find peace.”

Mertha huffted, tugging at the bottom of her bodice before continuing to read, seemingly dismissing Daenera’s glower. “In matters of counsel, a wife is to be her husband’s most trusted advisor. Her insight, shaped by the wisdom of the Crone, can guide her husband through the trials and tribulations of life. Together, they must navigate the challenges that come their way, their hearts and minds united in purpose. And yet, a wife must defer to her husband’s will, for he is the protector of the family.”

Daenera’s eyes narrowed, her annoyance simmering beneath the surface. She stabbed the needle through the fabric with more force than necessary, each stitch a silent protest against the words that sought to bind her. 

“Above all, a wife must be a beacon of faithfulness and piety. Just as the stars remain steadfast in the night sky, she too must remain true to her vows, her love for her husband unwavering. In this way, she honors the gods and upholds the sanctity of her marriage, ensuring that her union remains blessed and strong until the end of her days,” Mertha read aloud.

Daenera pricked her finger with the needle for the third time, a small bloom of blood welling from the puncture. She hissed and drew her finger to her lips, licking off the blood and brushing her thumb against the wound. The prick was almost invisible, but the sting lingered, a reminder of her frustration.

Mertha continued, seemingly oblivious to Daenera’s discomfort. “In the sight of the Seven, let every husband and wife cherish their bond, for in their faithfulness, they reflect the divine harmony of the gods themselves–”

A sharp knock echoed through the chamber, abruptly halting Mertha’s sermon. Both women turned towards the sound, their gazes drawn to the doors. The heavy oak panels swung open, revealing Finan, who stood aside with a respectful nod, allowing a servant to step into the room. 

“The Hand of the King requests your presence at the King’s first petition with the people,” he declared, his voice firm, conveying the urgency of command rather than a true request. 

“Inform the Lord Hand that she will attend,” Mertha responded briskly, her tone leaving no room for further discussion. With a dismissive gesture, she added, “Allow us a few moments to prepare her appropriately.”

Acknowledging the instruction, the servant bowed slightly and withdrew, the doors closing softly behind him. 

With a deep breath, Daenera set aside her needlework and rose from the chair. Mertha ushered her into her bedchamber, where her plain robe was removed and replaced with more formal attire. First, she donned a deep blue underdress, its fabric thick and shimmery, followed by a deep forest green overdress. The overdress featured a modest neckline with sheer fabric covering the area beneath her collarbones, adding a touch of elegance to the otherwise simple design. And around her waist hung a golden chain, each link a flower intertwined with another. 

As the chain was placed around her waist, Mertha glanced up at Daenera and muttered, “Remember the precarious position you are in, princess, and the role you must play.”

“You needn’t remind me,” Daenera replied, smoothing her hand down the bodice of her dress. The fabric felt soft against her palms. She was acutely aware of the reasons for her summons; it was meant to show the people that she stood in support of the king. Her presence was a calculated move by Otto Hightower to reassure the public that she was alive, well, and seemingly acting on her own volition. 

Suddenly, Mertha’s fingers dug into the soft flesh of her hips, pinching with enough force to cause a sharp pain that threatened to leave a bruise in its wake, emphasizing her words. “Good, it wouldn’t do well for both of us, should you forget yourself.”

Daenera scowled at Mertha, recognizing the subtle punishment. The woman had taken to pinching her, often hard enough to leave bruises, though the intensity had lessened as the wedding approached. Mertha couldn’t risk her displaying a concerning amount of bruises on her wedding day–and much less on the wedding night. For the same reason, she had refrained from slapping Daenera on the few occasions when she did not hold her tongue. 

With each slap, each pinch, and each insult, Daenera mentally tallied the offenses, biding her time until she was free to make Mertha’s days as miserable as her own–until she could make herself worthy of such punishments. 

Once she was dressed, Daenera and Mertha departed her chambers, with Finan trailing behind them. They walked through the winding corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast, making their way towards the Keep. The previous days of relentless rain had left the ground saturated, but today’s weather offered a much needed reprieve. The sun hung high in the sky, unchallenged by clouds, and the air retained a warmth that evoked memories of summer.

As they ascended the steps to the Red Keep and approached the tall doors leading to the great hall outside the throne room, a voice rang out, “All hail King Aegon!”

Daenera’s eyes lifted to see the white cloaks of the Kingsguard swishing behind them as they walked, following their king inside. The clank of their armor made their footsteps echo more heavily than the others who followed their King–a gaggle of friends and lickspittles. Mertha placed a hand on Daenera’s arm, halting her. Her reproachful look was a silent command to wait, to allow the king to enter and take his seat before they proceeded. 

“‘Aegon the Magnanimous,’” Ser Leon Estermont intoned, his voice filling the vast hall. “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.”

“Hail King Aegon!” Ser Martyn Reyne shouted, his voice carrying a note of fervent loyalty. 

Daenera lingered at the entrance of the throne room, her gaze tracking Aegon’s progression through the throng of petitioners, each one lowering their eyes in both reverence and trepidation. As he climbed the dias, his cape fluttered behind him, his hands delicately adjusting it to avoid any discomfort upon seating himself on the throne–Daenera did not believe the cape a choice of his own. Once seated, Aegon’s eyes briefly met Otto Hightower, who stood rigidly to his right at the base of the steps. His glance then swept over the assembly, capturing the attention of everyone present. 

Mertha nudged Daenera forward, “Now.”

As Daenera reached the center of the threshold, poised at the top of the steps leading into the throne room, she became the focus of attention when Aegon's gaze shifted toward her, drawing with it the attention of the assembly. She could feel their collective gazes on her, their curious gazes measuring. With poise, she stepped into the throne room, her head held high as she ascended the steps. Mertha and Finan trailed behind her.

Sunlight poured through the lofty windows, cutting sharp lines of shadow and light across the floor. One of the columns was surrounded by wooden scaffolding, where a nascent statue of Viserys was beginning to take shape. The sculpture was still rudimentary, with rough edges and an only partially formed head–work had evidently been halted for the day’s proceedings. Soon, Viserys would join the other kings of the past to watch over their descendants. 

Daenera moved down the aisle lined with petitioners awaiting their turn to present their requests to the king. The soft murmur of her name rippled through the crowd, peppered with whispers of sympathy and well-wishes. As she approached the throne,the innocent shout of a child cut through the murmurs. 

“Princess! Flowers! Princess–princess!” Echoed a little girl’s voice, tugging eagerly at her mother’s hand, her gaze flickering back at the adult, “It’s for her! I told you she’d be here.”

Daenera paused and turned towards the source of the voice. A little girl with wide brown eyes looked up at her, admiration and excitement sparkling in her gaze, a small branch of white flowers resting by her ear as it had been tucked into her hair–baby’s breath. 

“For the princess of flowers!” The girl declared, her voice cheerful yet shy, her cheeks flushed a soft red as she held out the bouquet of flowers. 

Daenera crouched down to meet the girl eye-to-eye, accepting the bouquet with a warm, gentle smile. Overcome with timidity, the girl quickly retreated behind her mother, peering out from behind her as she gripped her skirts. Her mother smiled softly, brushing a hand against her daughter's head, attempting to offer the girl some reassurance. 

“Thank you, they’re beautiful,” Daenera responded, gently inhaling the delicate fragrance of the flowers–a mix of feverfew, yellow daisies, chamomile, and dandelions. These were simple yet charming flowers, likely gathered from the fields outside the city walls or nestled in the crevices of the cobblestone streets and gardens of King’s Landing. “And as sweet as you are.”

The girl’s cheeks turned an even deeper shade of red at the compliment.

“But I cannot accept these,” Daenera said, straightening up. “They are too beautiful and arranged with such care. Let me offer you a silver dragon for them.”

“Princess, please, that is too much,” the mother interjected, her eyes widening with surprise and hopeful gratitude. “It's meant to be a gift.”

“I insist,” Daenera responded firmly, yet her tone was softened by the reassuring smile she offered the child and her mother. Turning to her aid, she continued, “Finan, please ensure they receive the payment promised and see them safely out of the Keep.”

Finan nodded in acknowledgement and stepped aside, motioning for the mother and child to follow him. The mother glanced back at her husband–a tall, broad-shouldered man with pale ashen hair and a full beard–who nodded encouragingly. With that assurance, she stepped forward, her daughter’s hand in hers, and offered Daenera a heartfelt expression of gratitude. “May the gods bless you, Princess.”

Daenera watched the mother and daughter retreat, guided by Finan, whom she trusted to deliver the silver dragon that was promised and escort them safely out of the Keep. It was a cautious measure–better to have them paid at the gates, away from the prying eyes and potentially grasping hands of the onlookers in the throne room. A silver dragon was generous for a bundle of common flowers, and uncertainty bred desperation.

Redirecting her attention away from the departing mother and child, Daenera resumed her approach towards the throne, each step measured and deliberate. She could feel the weight of Aegon's gaze upon her, tinged with both curiosity and caution. He adjusted uneasily in his throne, seemingly uncertain about her next move–perhaps recalling her previous defiance in refusing to bow to him. The cruelty he had displayed during the recent feast seemed absent now, replaced by a visible apprehensiveness that flickered across his expression as he watched her approach the foot of the steps leading to his throne.

To one side, Otto Hightower’s eyes followed her, his look heavy with scrutiny, and on the opposite side stood Aegon’s friends–Ser Leon Estermont, Ser Martyn Reyne, and Eddard Waters. They watched her with undisguised amusement, smirking and exchanging low chuckles, seemingly sharing a private joke at her expense. 

“Your Grace,” Daenera intoned, bowing deeply and tilting her head forward in a gesture of respect. 

“Princess Daenera,” Aegon responded, a smile spreading across his lips and a glint of amusement in his eyes. “You look well. It seems you’ve regained your strength–and your balance.”

“Thank you, Your Grace. Yes, I am well cared for,” Daenera replied, her tone measured. 

His head tilted slightly in interest as he inquired, “And what brings you here today?”

With a slight smile, Daenera answered, “I wished to see how our magnanimous king would respond to the pleas of his people. Given your deep familiarity with the city and its citizens, I am confident you will show both generosity and understanding in your judgments.”

A flicker of surprise crossed Aegon’s face, his eyebrows arching as his initial smile momentarily faltered before growing into something more genuine–a rarity. 

Daenera stood resolute, her gaze unwavering as she addressed Aegon with measured words. Her grip on the bouquet of flowers tightened as she felt the weight of eyes bear down on her. “Which is why I, too, have a petition to bring before Your Grace. It is my humble request that any remaining food from the wedding be distributed to the orphanages of King’s Landing.”

Aegon’s head tilted slightly, his eyes narrowing as he assessed her with an almost palpable scrutiny. His gaze then drifted above her head, taking in the shifting crowd. As Daenera’s words settled in, murmurs began to ripple through the assembly, punctuated by expressions of approval and murmured blessings. Whispers of gratitude for her generosity wove through the crowd, mingling with the rustling of fabric and the shuffle of feet, a testament to the impact of her request. 

“It is my thought that we should be mindful of the abundance we are graced with, and to understand the plight of those less fortunate,” Daenera continued, her gaze locked firmly on Aegon’s, a surge of confidence bolstering her resolve. “This act of generosity would not only honor my union with your brother but also strengthen the bonds between the crown and its people. It shows that even in our times of celebration, we remain committed to our duty to the people…”

As she spoke, Daenera noted Aegon’s expression shift to one of thoughtfulness, tinged with caution. She pressed on, “The people of King’s Landing will surely appreciate their king’s consideration and his thoughts of them during these uncertain times. They will thank their king for his generosity.”

“That seems just, as befits my nature, for I am as you say, a generous soul,” Aegon agreed, pressing his hand against his chest–just above his heart–as his features softened into a genuine smile. “The Lord Hand will take charge of the arrangements, distributing the wedding's excess to the orphanages. After all, I am ever conscious of the plight of my people.”

Daenera responded with a subtle appreciative nod, her own smile more restrained. 

“The orphans shall partake in their own grand banquet!” Aegon declared, his face lighting up with a wide grin. “In celebration of my brother and the princess of flowers’ wedding!”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Daenera responded, her tone gracious. With a deferential bow, she began to step away, her gesture marking both respect and the close of their conversation. She turned and caught sight of Aegon’s friends leering at her. Their eyes roamed over her with a mixture of salaciousness and amusement, the attention making her skin crawl. Unwilling to suffer their proximity and whatever that might bring, she swiftly pivoted and made her way to Otto’s side.

 As she reached him, Otto glanced at her with a look of reproach. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“You summoned me.”

“At my side,” Otto corrected, his gaze flickering pointedly towards the other side of the room where Aegon’s companions stood, their eyes still fixed on her. Leon Estermont leaned towards Martyn Reyne, whispering something into his ear with a smirk playing on his lips as his gaze settled back on Daenera. Martyn Reyne let out a low snicker, his blue eyes lingering on her, scanning her from face to body and back again.

Daenera felt a wave of discomfort wash over her as she endured their unsettling scrutiny. “Please, do not make me stand with them. It’s bad enough they are already leering at me from a distance; do not make me endure their closeness.”

A flicker of amusement softened Otto’s usually stern expression as he shared a glance with Daenera, reaching a silent consensus. He made no move to ask her to change her position, and for that, Daenera was silently grateful. 

“Let’s have the first petition, my good Lord Hand,” Aegon declared, his voice booming through the hushed room. Otto nodded in acknowledgement and gestured towards the assembly, signaling the first petitioner to step forward. 

The atmosphere in the throne room was thick with tension as the assembled crowd shifted uneasily on their feet. A sea of faces–some etched with lines of worry, others bright with a hopeful gleam–their eyes searching for signs of mercy or justice in their new, untested king. Each of them brought with them their own pleas and grievances, hoping that their king would grant them whatever they sought. 

A man hesitated, his eyes darting to the sides to gauge if anyone else would precede him. Seeing no volunteers, he gathered his courage and stepped forward, his hands nervously twisting his hat. With a voice filled with apprehension, he stammered, “Good morrow, my–uh, Your Grace…”

From where Aegon’s friends stood, a chorus of snickers broke out, their amusement plain as they exchanged mocking glances at the man’s evident fear. Daenera found their behavior utterly reprehensible. She shot them a pointed glare, silently chastising their laughter–and Eddard Waters seemed to catch this glare as their eyes met and his smile faltered, the bastard shifting on his feet as he averted his gaze. This petitioner was the first to brave the unknown temperament of their new king–a ruler whose stance on issues remained a mystery, whose disposition could be as benevolent as his father’s or as stern as Jaehaerys’s.

To Daenera, the man’s initiative to seek justice was not a matter of ridicule but of respect. 

Aegon offered the nervous petitioner a reassuring smile, attempting to instill some confidence. “It’s alright. There’s no reason to be nervous. What is your name?”

The man stumbled over his response, his discomfort evident as he briefly shook his head in self-reproach. “Gr–ah,” he started, then corrected himself, “Uh, Jerard, Your Grace.”

“Good morrow, Jerard,” Aegon replied, his eyes alight with an eager gleam–seemingly excited to demonstrate his benevolence. “And how might your king be of service?”

Jerard’s voice faltered as he began, “‘Tis my flock, Your grace,” stammering through his explanation. “Uh, a-a-a tenth of them taken by…” His gaze shifted uneasily, darting away from the king’s intent, fear weaving its way into his expression. For a moment he stared down at his feet, gathering the courage to continue. “…The Crown on–” His discomfort mounted as murmurs rippled through the crowd, “On the cusp of winter…”

Ser Leon Estermont and Ser Martyn Reyne exchanged glances, their faces twisting into smirks of amusement as Jerard’s predicament unfolded–a jest to them but a grave matter to the petitioner. Their expressions aries a mocking tone, enjoying the discomfort of the man as he broached a topic that bordered on an accusation against the crown. 

“If I had time to plan–”

“We should return them,” Aegon declared decisively.

Daenera didn’t need to look at Otto Hightower to sense his exasperation. She could almost hear his deep breath of annoyance at Aegon’s simplistic solution. A flicker of amusement arose within her, and she quickly composed her expression, glancing down at the bouquet in her hands. She understood all too well why the crown had seized a tenth of Jerard’s flock–they were at war and the dragons needed to be fed. War demanded sacrifices from everyone, and perhaps, most of all the smallfolk. It seemed, however, that Aegon had yet to grasp the full weight of these necessities. 

“Y-Your Grace?” Jerard stuttered, his astonishment mirrored by the rest of the assembly as they reacted to Aegon’s unexpected decree. 

“Well, you need your goats for the winter, don’t you?”

At Daenera’s side, Otto shifted uncomfortably, his gaze flickering to meet hers. His eyes conveyed a mix of exasperation and concern at the king’s naive generosity. She watched him as he turned and ascended the steps to the throne, intent on advising his grandson–setting him upon the right path, whether he wanted to or not.  

“Sheep, Your-Your Grace,” Jerard corrected hesitantly, a bewildered look upon his face.

“Sheep, even better,” Aegon responded, leaning forward to maintain eye contact with Jerard as Otto positioned himself between them. “I shall make your flock of sheep whole.”

A laugh tinged with bewildered relief left the sheepherder. He stared in astonishment, seemingly unable to fully grasp the king’s promise and yet relieved all the same. Daenera, however, was well aware that this relief would be short-lived, and watched with the rest of the assembly as Otto approached the king to provide counsel. 

Otto Hightower’s voice, though low, carried with an urgency that seemed to spill down the steps of the throne, reaching Daenera’s ears amidst the murmuring and buzzing of the crowd. His words were delivered with a careful blend of caution and firmness as he reminded the young king of the broader implications of his decisions. “We already made a promise to call the Crownlands that a tithing of livestock would be necessary to sustain the dragons for their increased activity and, pray not, eventual fighting.”

“Right… Right…” Aegon murmured, leaning forward with an almost childlike earnestness. “Perhaps we could just return his sheep. He came all this way.”

“If you return one herder’s sheep, Your Grace, you will soon find them all at the foot of your throne expecting the same.”

Aegon’s face twisted into a grimace as he looked down briefly before meeting his grandsire’s gaze again, muttering, “They won’t know.”

The frustration seemed to radiate from Otto like heat from a fire as he stood resolutely before the king. His gaze seemed to bear down on Aegon, as if trying to will some sense into him. “When the king speaks, Your Grace, all hear it.”

With a final, authoritative glare, Otto Hightower concluded his counsel and began to descend the steps from the throne. His footsteps echoed in the quiet that had descended upon the throne room, punctuating the tense atmosphere. Aegon’s face fell, his earlier enthusiasm visibly drained by the firm guidance of the Lord Hand. He shifted in his seat, drawing in a deep breath and straightening up as he prepared to address the man whose hopes he had momentarily lifted, only to dash them once again. His eyes followed Otto’s retreat as he began to speak.

“After further thought, I have decided that I cannot restore your sheep.” Aegon announced, his voice firm yet tinged with reluctance. “If war were to break out, my dragons will require feed.”

Otto Hightower resumed his position at the base of the steps next to Daenera, his stature as imposing and steadfast as the columns supporting the roof of the throne room.

“Bring the next,” Aegon commanded, effectively dismissing the sheepherder. A squire stepped forward, guiding the reluctant and visibly disheartened man away, his eyes casting a silent, final plea that went unanswered.

A new petitioner stepped up, urgency lacing his voice, “Salts always run scarce on the road to winter, Your Grace. We rely on ships from Essos for our supply. But now, with a blockade in place and war threatening–”

“That treasonous blockade won’t last long,” Aegon cut in, his tone tinged with growing impatience and irritation. “I plan to send Vhagar to burn it to ash. Bring the next.” 

Daenera exchanged a glance with Otto, understanding implicitly that Aegon's declaration was far from the actual plan for dealing with the blockade. Despite this, she couldn't help but entertain the idea. If Vhagar were to leave the city to attack the blockade, King's Landing would be left vulnerable, relying solely on the city guards and the king's dragon for protection. The Hightowers would never risk sending Aegon to defend the city on a dragon that had never seen battle, especially with a rider equally untested.

The absence of Vhagar would leave the city defenseless, making it an opportune target for her mother. Furthermore, should Vhagar indeed engage the blockade, word would quickly reach Dragonstone. Daemon was as likely to mount Caraxes and confront Vhagar as he was to take advantage of the situation and descend upon King's Landing. And Caraxes was not the only dragon at their disposal.

Sending Vhagar to incinerate the blockade would be a grievous mistake–one Daenera was certain Otto Hightower would not allow. Thus, despite the king's promises, the merchants of King’s Landing would likely endure hardship.

As the current petitioner approached, Daenera’s attention was drawn to a man with a bruised and swollen eye, a deep gash across his brow. He shifted nervously on his feet, his discomfort evident as he began to speak.

“Your Grace,” he stammered, glancing nervously at Aegon. Then he turned to Otto Hightower, adding, “My Lord Hand,” before his gaze fell upon Daenera. His voice faltered slightly as he continued, “Princess… Might I offer my congratulations on your upcoming wedding?”

Daenera mustered a polite smile and nodded in acknowledgment. "Thank you, good ser. I am indeed looking forward to it." 

The man shifted his focus back to the king, attempting to proceed with his concerns. "With the realm on the cusp of war, and the blockade still in place–"

"For now," Aegon interjected briskly.

"F–for now," the petitioner echoed, adjusting to the king's interruption before he continued, "the city is heavily dependent on the goods that arrive via the roads..."

While attentively listening to the ongoing dialogue, Daenera subtly shifted her stance and lowered her voice to a confidential murmur as she addressed the Lord Hand, “I assume the wedding preparations are proceeding well.”

“My daughter is overseeing the preparations, not I. If you have any issues or concerns, bring the matter up to her,” Otto responded, his focus remaining intently on the petitioner. 

As the petitioner continued, his voice grew more anxious, reflecting the gravity of the issue at hand. “Bandits and thieves have seen an opportunity in this turmoil and are now lying in ambush within the Kingswood,” he explained, his gaze darting nervously. “They–they came out of the trees…”

“Indeed, and I am certain the Dowager has invested considerable thought into the arrangements–it is bound to be a splendid affair,” Daenera noted thoughtfully, her fingers absently tracing the stem of one of the flowers she held, peeling away bits of the stalk with her nail. “Though, I would have thought you, of all people, would appreciate the symbolic value of holding the ceremony in the Great Sept, where it would be witnessed by the people of King’s Landing, rather than the more reserved ceremony the Royal Sept offers…”

Daenera continued, her tone measured yet pointed, meeting Otto’s gaze directly. “Is it not more aligned with the narrative of love and forgiveness that you are so diligently crafting? Hosting this grand spectacle of a wedding at the Great Sept offers us an opportunity to fortify the people’s faith in us. They would be able to witness with their own eyes that the royal family remains steadfast and fearless…” She mused thoughtfully–words laced with subtle influence. “Especially now, when your grandson has sullied that image by murdering my brother…”

She knew Otto was astute enough to recognize the layers of her suggestion, the strands of manipulations interwoven subtly into her reasoning. “I would have raised this matter with your daughter, but I hesitate, fearing she might dismiss it out of hand without proper consideration–simply to refuse me.”

“Is there a particular reason you wish for the wedding to be held at the Great Sept?” Otto questioned, his eyebrow arching slightly in challenge, yet a trace of amusement colored his tone, as if he found some humor in her strategic maneuvers–or the attempt of. He reminded her of his son then–seriousness tinged with the amusement of knowing that he held all the power. 

“I want the people to see me,” Daenera responded sincerely, her voice carrying a gentle but firm undertone as a sharp pang stabbed at her heart. I want my mother to hear of me. I want her to know that I am alive and well, that she has not lost another child. 

There was no bigger scheme behind the request. She was not orchestrating a means of escape; rather, she sought visibility among the people. She hoped that being seen and remembered by the smallfolk would grant her a measure of security in her precarious position with the Hightowers. 

As Otto’s attention shifted back to the ongoing issue, while the petitioner continued his tale, his voice filled with a tangible sense of desperation and sorrow. “…My men fought valiantly, but they were outnumbered–they killed my brother and three of my men, and stole the grain we were transporting.”

“There is no escaping it,” Daenera admitted, her voice carrying a trace of resignation–she felt it settle in her stomach like lead, a constant heaviness that seemed to weigh her down. “And I have no intention of trying, Lord Hand. It hardly seems reasonable for me to go through the trouble of saving my men only to betray them by breaking my word–and in doing so, condemning them.” She swallowed, resting her hand on her stomach, cradling the bouquet of flowers against her. “However much I might wish to sprout wings and fly away, I cannot. And surrounded by guards as I will be, disappearing in a wedding dress is hardly feasible.”

Even if she somehow managed to elude the guards on the way to the Great Sept, she would still find herself running through the streets of King’s Landing in a wedding dress. Such an act would not only lead to her swift capture but might also incite riots among the smallfolk. Yet, the real consequence would be severe: Fenrick and Patrick’s condemnation, along with her own. Any power or freedom she might have gained would vanish, and her word would be seen as worthless. They might as well confine her to a tower and bar the windows. 

No, fleeing was not an option–this path was hers to walk, however much it was forced upon her. 

“…The cost of this is immeasurable, Your Grace,” the petitioner said in a shaky voice, shifting on his feet as he spoke and gesturing with his hands. “And I am not the only one who has suffered.”

The group of men behind him hummed in agreement, their nods indicating they shared similar hardships. A hum of voices rose as people murmured to one another, the crowd stirring. 

Otto responded thoughtfully, a slight hum in his voice as he seemed to contemplate her words. “You seek to secure your position through the smallfolk.” 

“The love the smallfolk hold for me will extend to you,” Daenera observed, locking eyes with the Lord Hand, whose expression was marked by careful calculation. “That is why I am marrying my brother’s murderer. It is also why you want me here,” she glanced towards the court, “I thought we might become allies in this–or at the very least, see the mutual benefit in it.”

Otto regarded her for a moment, emitting a hum before turning his gaze to the proceedings–and yet, there was a note of agreement in it. 

“If things continue like this we will not be able to supply King’s Landing with the grain and wares it needs–the cost of transport has increased, and the risks are too great,” the petitioner expressed. His words triggered a wave of anxious murmurs throughout the crowd, as people began to mutter to each other more fervently, their voices tinged with trepidation. 

Aegon issued a contemplative hum, his eyebrows knitting together as he considered the situation. “And what do you expect me to do about it?” 

“Y-Your Grace.”

“I mean,” Aegon quickly clarified, shifting uncomfortably in his seat–as though he could not find a spot that was not uncomfortable. “We must send soldiers to hunt down the outlaws who dare pilfer from the crown and its subjects.”

“Indeed,” Otto swiftly concurred, stepping forward to position himself between the petitioner and the throne, his authoritative presence filling the space. He turned his keen gaze back on Aegon, asserting, “Our soldiers are needed here, Your Grace, to defend the city should the false queen advance.”

Otto then addressed the petitioner again, his voice resolute. “We will send ravens to Houses Meadows, Buckler, and Errol, alerting them to the bandit threat, and we will also inform their liege lord, Borros Baratheon, urging them to dispatch men to secure the roads through the Kingswoods.”

“Thank you, my Lord Hand–and–and His–Your Grace,” the petitioner stuttered, tripping over his words in gratitude. He nodded respectfully as he was gently ushered away by an attendant. 

Otto resumed his position beside Daenera as she shifted her attention towards Aegon. He appeared increasingly deflated on his throne, irritably twisting the ring on his finger as he barked out, “Bring the next.”

“You should take care not to cut him down so decisively,” Daenera muttered, catching a pointed glare from the Lord Hand. “If he cannot find support in you, he will seek it elsewhere.”

“I’ve been Hand to two kings before him,” Otto retorted quietly, aligning himself beside her and turning to face the crowd once more. “He needs to learn and heed my counsel–”

“Indeed, you’ve served two kings before him, and they were both wise rulers–but they were older when they accepted your guidance,” Daenera warned and she felt his gaze on her, heavy with reproach and a hint of condescension.  “Aegon is young and eager to please–tug at his strings too hard and you may inspire a desire to cut them altogether.”

“I needn't your advice on how to counsel my grandson,” Otto stated firmly, his tone reflecting his conviction. He glanced at her sharply, adding, “If I recall, you once warned me about what would happen once he realized the extent of his power. And now, you presume to teach me how to guide his hand?”

“That warning still stands," Daenera responded evenly, holding his gaze. “What happens once he realizes he needn't heed or obey your counsel?”

Daenera's gaze swept over the crowd before returning to Otto. “You are good counsel, Lord Hand. Better than many,” she acknowledged, her tone sincere. “And I, for one, would much prefer the king to continue heeding your advice rather than rebelling against it, for then I fear we shall all suffer for it.”

A man with pale ashen hair tied back with a leather knot stepped forward. His thick beard, matching the color of his hair and interspersed with strands of steely gray, covered the lower half of his face. He stood tall with broad shoulders, bowing humbly before the king, his eyes conveying a softness as he straightened back up. “Hugh, Your Grace.”

As he faced the king, a slight furrow appeared between his brows. He licked his lips nervously before continuing, “The smiths are all proud supporters of Your Grace against Rhaenyra…” 

As Hugh hesitated, a silence filled the room. Daenera turned towards Aegon, noting the growing annoyance on his features as he prodded, “But?”

“But…” Hugh resumed cautiously, shifting uneasily on his feet. His eyes darted quickly to the Lord Hand and then to Daenera before settling on the stony steps leading to the throne. He nodded slightly, as if to reassure himself, and then forced his gaze to meet the king’s. “Iron costs have grown. A lone scorpion takes weeks to build–the one we’ve managed is nearly finished, but… to put it simply, we are struggling. If we could receive the Crown’s coin in advance of our work, it would bring great relief–not just to me, but to all the smiths committed to your cause.”

Aegon adjusted in his throne, subtly lifting himself to rearrange the cape tucked beneath him, ensuring it did not constrict him yet still provided a cushion against the uncomfortable edge of his seat. The ruby set into his crown caught the light, sparkling as he refocused his attention on the blacksmith standing before him.

“You shall be paid, and paid well,” Aegon declared, offering a grand promise. At these words, Otto drew in a sharp, exasperated breath and started his approach toward the throne. “My army cannot win a war without any weapons. You should continue their making,” Aegon commanded, his tone imbued with a sense of urgency.

As he noticed Otto nearing, Aegon's gaze sharpened, his voice acquiring a cutting edge as he addressed the Lord Hand. “Our victory depends on the efforts of the smallfolk,” he stated, a clear note of reproach aimed at any hint of dissent from his adviser.

Otto paused mid-stride, absorbing the king's words. With a slow, deliberate turn, he retraced his steps, his footsteps echoing against the stone as he descended the steps of the throne once more.

“And as the princess remarked, I am a generous and considerate man,” Aegon continued, locking eyes with Daenera. “I appreciate the efforts of the smiths, and I will ensure you are compensated for your hard work.”

Daenera nodded slightly, a subtle smile curling the corners of her lips–she hadn't anticipated such a display of leadership from him. Aegon appeared genuinely committed to proving himself a good king, actively engaging with the needs of the smallfolk. Perhaps he was not the puppet she had initially thought him to be. And with the slight, triumphant twist of his smile–both appreciative and proud–it was clear he harbored a deep desire to be admired and loved by his subjects.

“You have my most sincere gratitude, Your Grace,” Hugh said, bowing to his king, his expression relieved as he stepped away. 

“I’ll hear the next petition.”

The petitions continued, each one making the tedious affair feel even longer. People brought forth grievances, ranging from minor land disputes, insults, and accusations of adultery, to more significant issues like the brewing turmoil in King’s Landing and the crownlands. Despite the variety, the petitions largely remained predictable. As each petitioner stepped forward, those behind them anxiously awaited their turn, whispering urgent prayers and rehearsing their pleas one last time before facing the king. 

Ser Leon Estermont and Ser Martyn Reyne had settled at the foot of the steps, seemingly finding standing too burdensome, much to the glower of the Lord Hand. Eddard Waters remained on his feet, leaning against the column bearing the stony figure of Maegor, his gaze fixed on his nails as he continued to bite them in boredom.

Aegon, though more engaged than his friends, showed signs of waning patience. He shifted constantly in his seat, his attention drifting until he forced himself to concentrate again, attempting to offer the petitioners his undivided attention–a valiant effort Daenera hadn’t thought him capable of. 

As the proceedings dragged on, a persistent ache settled in Daenera’s lower spine, matching the throbbing pain in her feet. She shifted her weight, her muscles growing weary and stiff from standing so long. Somewhere around the fourth hour, she leaned slightly towards Otto and muttered, “I commend you, my Lord Hand, for your ability to remain on your feet this long. I must confess, my own are causing me considerable discomfort..”

The grand hall was filled with the murmurs of petitioners and the occasional sharp commands of the guards. The air was heavy with the scent of burning torches and the faint odor of sweat from the gathered crowd. Otto, standing tall and resolute beside her, turned his head slightly as he answered, “It is a skill acquired over many years… But even the most seasoned among us feel the strain.”

A weary smile tugged at her lips as she caught his gaze for a brief moment before they fell into silence again. The continuous shuffle of feet and the drone of voices created a monotonous backdrop, broken only by the occasional raised voice or impassioned plea. Despite the discomfort, Daenera maintained her composure as the proceedings continued. 

The sun outside waned, casting a golden and warm light through the windows as the sky turned a deep orange. The throne room, with its high vaulted ceilings and columns depicting the history of the conquest, seemed almost otherworldly in the changing light. Servants bustled about, lighting candles and torches as the daylight outside faded. A small group of them wrestled with a heavy metal chandelier, carefully lowering it from the vaulted ceiling. They lit the candles one by one, their faces illuminated by the flickering flames, before struggling to hoist the fixture back into place.

As the crowd began to thin, only a small group remained to witness the final petitioner. Once his concerns had been addressed, Aegon rose from his throne and scanned the room. “Any last petitions?”

“It seems that is all for today, Your Grace.”

Aegon rose from his seat and stretched, descending the steps with quick, purposeful strides, seemingly ready to move on. As he reached the final step, his entourage of friends sprang to their feet, eagerly converging around their king with praises and adulations. A tight, weary smile tugged at his lips as his friends ushered him on. The group bustled out of the throne room, a wave of motion and energy. All they passed gracefully lowered themselves into respectful bows as Aegon, surrounded by his companions, walked by. The air was filled with a mix of admiration and reverence for the young king.

Daenera stood back, observing the scene with a keen eye. She watched as Aegon and his retinue proceeded out of the throne room, their laughter and chatter fading into the distance. 

Maegor’s Holdfast was abuzz with activity as Daenera, accompanied by Mertha and Finan, entered through its imposing doors. They traversed the lengthy path that cut across the inner courtyard towards the great hall. The hall itself buzzed with the hum of conversations as small groups of people gathered, engaging in lively discussions. Meanwhile, servants darted about, their hands busy lighting candles and torches to illuminate the space as the sun began its slow descent behind the walls of the Keep.

Daenera gripped the skirts of her dress tightly, ascending the grand staircase only to encounter a blockade of people chatting idly on the landing between the levels. Ser Martyn Reyne was the first to notice her approach, his eyes brightening as he hurriedly excused himself and nudged Eddard Waters aside to clear the way with a, “Move for the princess you bastard.”

“I am not the only one,” Eddard Waters responded under his breath, arm swinging out to strike Martyn on the shoulder for the jape.  

Continuing her ascent, Daenera moved through the lingering group, her expression one of mild irritation as she chided them for obstructing the path, to which Ser Martyn scrambled to offer profuse apologies, while Ser Leon and Eddard could barely suppress their snickers, amused at Martyn’s flustered state–his ears flushed red with embarrassment, a sight Daenera scarcely noticed as her focus shifted beyond them.

Her gaze was drawn to the small balcony overlooking the inner courtyard, where Aegon stood in quiet conference with Lord Larys Strong. Daenera briefly halted, observing the interaction on the balcony with a flicker of unease. Before she could linger long enough to catch the conversation, Lady Mertha placed a hand on the small of her back, urging her forward to continue ascending the stairs.  

A knot of apprehension tightened in Daenera’s stomach as she watched the King converse with the Lord Confessor. She cast a final glance over her shoulder, noting that their discussion had ended, just as Aegon also began to ascend the steps. Their eyes met briefly, before she withdrew and made towards the hall. 

“Princess,” Aegon called out, meeting her at the top of the stairs, a heaviness to his expression. 

“Your Grace,” Daenera responded with formal reserve, bowing her head slightly. She intended to keep the exchange brief, already moving to step past him and continue on her way. 

“It is good to see that you are in… better spirits,” Aegon said, effectively halting her departure as his entourage awkwardly milled around them, seemingly unsure of their role without their king at the center to shower with their usual praises and accolades. 

Aegon shifted uneasily, then placed a hand on her arm, subtly guiding her aside for a more private word while dismissing his followers with a wave–Ser Leon hummed a long ‘o’ as though she was in trouble, a grin on his face. 

From her periphery, Daenera caught Mertha’s sharp, cautioning glance. 

“You did well–you are generous, I mean, to think of the smallfolk” Aegon began, his words halting as he seemed to struggle for the right way to express himself. His brows furrowed in concentration. “They love you…”

Daenera watched him warily, her gaze fixed on him as she tried to gauge the meaning of this conversation. His expression deepened into a frown, eyes darting away from her for a moment. When he met her gaze again it was with a look of genuine curiosity–if not vulnerability, his blue eyes reflecting an earnest desire for understanding. There was none of the usual cruel edge she had come to expect from him; instead he appeared almost childlike, weighed down by the burdens of his crown, seeking to be seen as good. 

“How… It comes so naturally to you, how do you do it?” He asked, his voice tinged with both sincere curiosity and a hint of desperation.

Daenera stepped out of his reach, her posture defensive as she folded her hands in front of her, gripping the bouquet of flowers tight. They stood in the dim light of a shadowed alcove, distanced from the King’s entourage. The courtiers around them had either averted their eyes to the floor, the ceiling, or each other, seemingly unsure what to do with their attention, though Martyn Reyne’s gaze frequently darted back to Daenera.

“How do I do what?” She inquired carefully, unsure of what he was asking. 

“The smallfolk admire and love you,” Aegon replied, his voice softening with a genuine note of envy. He searched her face as though hoping to uncover the secret behind her connection with the common people. 

“Why does it matter to you?” Daenera asked, her tone pointed, cutting through the air between them with a sharpness that seemed to needle at him. 

Aegon’s expression shifted, a blend of frustration and resolve playing across his features. “I am their king now. The people loved my father, and they loved Jaehaerys before him. I wish to be a good king.”

“You are not your father.” “No,” Aegon agreed, a thread of something dark weaving into his tone. “I am not. I will not be weak and pliable like him. But I wish to be a good and righteous king.”

“Be that as it may, Your Grace, the mere desire to rule well does not a good king make,” Daenera answered coolly.

“But I gave them what they wanted,” Aegon countered, his brows furrowing in evident frustration as he shook his head, “I listened to their pleas, considered their words, and rendered favorable judgments. I showed them kindness and generosity. What more do they expect of me?”

“You think that is all there is to be a good king?” Daenera asked incredulously, staring at him. “The love of the smallfolk is easy to gain and even easier to lose–their respect is harder to earn. Your father knew this and had he desired for you to succeed him, he would have taught you this. I would have thought the Lord Hand might have prepared you–”

“My father chose me as his successor,” Aegon cut in, his eyes flaring with that familiar anger–the blue turning steely. “And the Lord Hand…” He tore his gaze away from her, gritting his teeth in frustration as he seemed to try to contain his frustration. “The Lord Hand seeks to control me–thinks be pliable, a puppet–”

“You are a puppet,” Daenera whispered sharply, ensuring that only Aegon could hear her words. “Why else do you think they placed the crown on your head?” She asserted him critically, her gaze then shifting down the steps where Larys Strong stood, his eyes fixed on her. As their gazes met, a chill ran down her spine, an unsettling sensation crawling over her skin, causing the hairs at the nape of her neck to stand. 

She returned her focus to Aegon, her expression serious as she swallowed any additional scorn and instead forced her voice to even out. “Otto Hightower is your Hand, Your Grace. He serves you, and he serves you well. There are many who will fill your cup and your ears with what you wish to hear, but the Lord Hand has the experience and wisdom to tell you what you need to hear.”

Aegon’s frown deepened as he absorbed her words. 

“Everyone will seek to control you,” Daenera continued, her tone pragmatic as she attempted to make Aegon understand. “It’s better to understand a man's intentions and ambition than to fall for falsehoods simply because they stroke your ego.” She gave him an incredulous look, emphasizing her point. “Your grandfather has plotted and schemed to put you on this throne–and he will do the same to keep you on it. That you can trust.”

“I thought you would have condemned him,” Aegon mused, a hint of surprise coloring his tone, “Along with the rest of us.”

“I do.”

“Then why do you advise in favor of the Hand?”

“Because I can trust his pragmatism,” she responded simply, her gaze steady. 

“You give surprisingly good advice,” Aegon remarked with a grimace, his tone carrying a note of begrudging respect. He half-shrugged and casually draped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her to his side as they began to step away from the alcove. “Why are we not better friends?”

“Because you've sought to make my life utterly miserable and you tried to assault me,” Daenera replied sharply, her discomfort apparent as she attempted to shrug off his arm. “I fear I wouldn't make a good friend, Your Grace. I am neither willing to stroke your ego nor to be your lickspittle.”

"Perhaps you’re willing to stroke something else, wait–" Aegon began, his tone shifting inappropriately. Daenera immediately turned on her heel and walked away, her steps brisk, leaving no room for further conversation.

“I should think you’d think me better company than my brother!”

I'm starting the wedding chapter and hopefully it will be done in time for it to be posted, next chapter is prepared, but I know that the wedding chapter will be a long one that will take some time because I want it to be perfect. It will include SEVERAL scenes and switch between Aemond and Daenera's pov. Fingers crossed that it will be done in time and I won't burn myself out writing it lol

[strawberrycarat]

I think, if we're being impartial about Viserys' children, Aemond is actually more prepared to rule (not that I consider he would be the best ruler of all Westeros - just more prepared than his siblings).

Rhaenyra. Yes, she's Viserys' heir, but why ? I think it was mostly because of guilt (Viserys killed Aemma to get a son and that haunted him a lot - and he was angry at Daemon for celebrating his son's death) so he named her the heir - not because she was the wisest option in that point, to be honest... But, is there any scene where she can actually prove her knowledge in ruling ? At least, before the war, she didn't show a lot of political strategy (she suggested fighting with dragons against the triarchy and that's all - which actually worked when Daemon and Laenor fought with Corlys)... And it's not actually her fault (the council didn't took her opinions because she was a woman - and how was she supposed to get experience if no one taught her or take her serious ?) Also, she spent many years away in Dragonstone (and, for the hesitation of so many houses to follow her immediately - and her trying to make them remember their vows or their fathers vows when she was named heir, it seems like she didn't care a lot for politics in Westeros while she was there - unlike the greens, that took the capital until most part of the council was loyal to Aegon's succession - like, if I was on her place, I would've befriended every lord, lady and house I could to ensure their support in case of war). THIS IS MY OPINION - I LIKE RHAENYRA - DON'T COME FOR ME, OK?

Baelon - RIP

Aegon. I think we all know he wasn't one for rule. He doesn't know how politics work, as Otto pointed him when he hanged the catch ratters. There is a lot of strategy in politics and Aegon definitely doesn't know how to act in those situations - because he didn't care all his life so how is he going to learn in a few weeks all he didn't in a lifetime (I mean, if it was the plan all along to put him in the throne, why not prepare him? Alicent was very insistent in many scenes with young Aegon, even telling him he was Rhaenyra's biggest menace for the throne and that could cost his life - why not making him more involved in the world of schemes and politics then?)

Helaena. Poor soul is already tormented with her visions and doesn't seem to really control it. She was more worried about it and her bugs to even care about politics.

Aemond. As he said, he was very disciplined in his studies (philosophy, history, etc.,) also, he was a dragon rider with an actual war dragon (which gives an extra when it comes to war or menaces) and he's a good swordsman. We can also see that he's respected and people listen to him in the council - even if he has this bad temper (the one that made him lose control over Vhagar and made him burn his brother) he seems to understands the schemes that involves ruling a kingdom. It seems like, amongst all Viserys' children, he did got involved in that world and he is not one to waste time with small things like Aegon nor has the need to actually get involved in I-need-people-to-like-me politics (like Rhaenyra needed) since he can be more like Daemon (from Season 1, obviously) and being a threat with Vhagar to those who dare to face him.

Daeron. We don't know much about him, but him being away from King's Landing didn't gave the chance to learn politics inside the capital. Perhaps he can know more about people (he's said to be Alicent's most popular child) and that can give him points (like Renly Baratheon), but it doesn't grant him the wisdom to rule - we know he's also a good fighter, but no more, unfortunately. Let's see how the show will portray him.

Anyways, this is my opinion. In general, I like them all (I started to empathize a bit with Aegon this season in a couple of scenes - Tom does an excellent work) so don't hate me, please.

[lunarflux]

my dark companion (9/9)

aemond targaryen x fem!reader

genre—smut, dark romance song inspo—bad omens - death of peace of mind, billie eilish - my boy, halsey - young god, isabel larosa - i'm yours, florence & the machine - seven devils, 070 shake & christine and the queens - you can't kill me, breakk.away - outside, aurora - runaway, sleep token - take me back to eden summary— Aemond indulges in his twisted desires with a woman who knows his every need. They meet in secret, their passion driven by his anger and her willingness to submit to his painful advances. Aemond craves her, yet despises the intimacy that follows. He questions why she always returned to him, knowing that she did not love or care for him. The cycle of desire and anger persists, leaving him yearning for more, caught in a tormented state until their next encounter.

In the skies above the God’s Eye, Aemond fell. Vhagar could not save him this time, trapped in the furious grip of Caraxes with Daemon grasping Dark Sister at the forefront.

Death found him. He always knew this was his fate. Of the many foolish things he’d done, it was to wish fate had waited a little longer. Aemond wondered if his farewell was enough. He wondered if he loved Adiel enough. He wondered if the moon goddess would truly bring him home to her side once more.

Would he awaken in death to her face?

As Dark Sister plunged deep through the sapphire, Aemond reached up to the sky past his uncle’s grin where the faint glow of the daylight moon lay high above him.

His vision faded, but as Vhagar dragged him down, he opened his eyes, seeing clearly with the sight he’d lost so long ago. Further and further, the sun was high above him and out of reach. This is death, he accepted. The cold, dark depths of the sea engulfed him, but he could see so clearly. Not the sun or the moon, he saw her. Her raven hair was the darkness, and he held his arm outstretched, beckoning for her one last time.

--

“Adiel.”

Alicent held her chest, not knowing what was to follow. When the guards delivered news of Aemond’s death, she didn’t know how to react at first. To mourn for her son, her Prince, her youngest… Or to mourn for the inevitable death that would soon follow—that of his grieving widow. Their bond was very different than that of Alicent’s with Viserys and a far cry from whatever she felt for Criston Cole. Her son had found a lover in a time when love was a rarity, and he had the strength to claim it in spite of all who challenged the depth of the bond.

Adiel turned with her hands resting over her belly, rhythmically stroking it with her thumb as if the growing child beneath could feel her.

“Aemond,” Alicent’s voice trembled, “Adiel, I’m so—”

“Do you know why I resisted for so long, my Queen? Resisted returning his affection and only toying with him,” Adiel responded with somber undertones in her speech, yet the devastation beneath she kept concealed if only for a moment longer, “It would not have hurt this much had I not loved him. I would have happily accepted his pain, but now that pain is mine. It was only ever his pain that called me. I kept my distance, only ever relishing in his company when he called and never because it was I who craved it so terribly. Solitude is such a selfish decision made for the sake of self-preservation.”

Alicent tried to contain her heartache, knowing that Adiel’s suffering took precedence.

“I will deliver your grandchild, my Queen. But I do not think this pain will allow me to live comfortably as a mother.”

“A mother knows pain differently than any other.”

“But it is a mother’s duty to protect her child from pain,” a solitary tear dripped down Adiel’s cheek, “I cannot do so, not in good conscience.”

“Adiel, I beg of you,” Alicent took her hands and held onto them desperately, praying that she felt the sincerity of her pleas.

“My Queen, I am of no consequence, you need not beg—”

“Adiel—Please—Stay here with your child. Son, daughter—it does not matter. Time will relieve you of your pain, and in time… You will find other reasons to live.”

“There is no other life I wish to lead,” Adiel whispered, “Aemond’s claim on me does not end in death, nor does mine of him. I swore to it that night when we joined bloodlines. Even in death, I shall linger, and I intend to keep that oath until I see him again. Whenever that may be.”

Alicent drew back her hands. She didn’t know how far to push the grieving widow, and she feared that if she’d done so more fervently, Adiel might make a decision that would jeopardize more than that of a child, still growing.

“Raise the child however you see fit,” Adiel tinkered with Vhagar’s scale around her neck, “All I ask is to let my child return to House Gardener if they will take them. My father and I did not agree on many subjects, but I do believe he would have liked to see his lineage return to Highgarden even as a Targaryen.”

Adiel composed herself, patting away the tears so that she may deliver her message clearly.

“I know you have suffered much loss, Alicent.”

This was the first throughout the many years that Adiel had ever called upon her with her name.

“I cannot recall the joy you once felt, if you ever felt it at all, but this child will be a final gift—a grandchild to care for,” Adiel took Alicent’s hand tenderly, “For Aemond’s sake, love our child if nothing else.”

--

Alicent walked through the castle holding the delicate hand of a small child, a little girl with bright silver hair and a single, thick black streak above her left eye. The child, named Adira by her mother Adiel, was a curious, precious creature. She asked many questions and found joy in the company of all those who inhabited the Red Keep. Around her neck sat an invaluable necklace encrusted with emeralds and a single dragon scale.

Every morning, Alicent brought Adira to different parts of the Keep, halls she’d never seen before and rooms once occupied.

Such as her birthright on the morning of her ninth nameday, Alicent summoned a small fleet of ships to bring them to Dragonstone, now a fortress controlled by the greens. The curious child took delicate steps up to the stone castle and relished at its magnificence. Alicent, on the other hand, choked down the eerie feeling in her chest, knowing all who lay within its chambers.

They reached a massive door, and Adira ran her fingers across the intricate details carved into the metal.

Alicent pushed the door open, letting the young girl run inside to gaze upon the crypts of the Targaryen lineage. Names were etched into each tomb with poems in High Valyrian wrapped around the declarations of their legacy.

Adira looked up at her grandmother. With a small voice, she asked, “Are they here?”

“Soon, sweet girl,” Alicent shook her head, “One day, they will be.”

“Where are they now?” The innocence of the question made Alicent feel sick. The answer would not provide solace.

“They are together,” the elder lifted Adira in her arms, and they left the crypt to descend back into silence.

--

Down in the waters of the God’s Eye, Aemond's body lay attached to his faithful dragon’s bones. Much of his former beauty had been withered away by the sea and the cruel ushering of time. The remnants of his arm no longer reached towards the sky, positioned much differently than when he’d first met the abyss. He remained there for years with his head propped upward as if yearning for the moonlight.

There was another, unlike the other bodies that littered the sea floor, that appeared to embrace him, not yet in the full state of decay as he was. A sturdy chain wrapped around its throat, keeping it to the depths—chained to Vhagar deep where the sun no longer reached the water. Even in the darkness, the glimmer of the green dress refracted new colors in the blue.

Adiel’s cheeks no longer held the glow she once paraded around King’s Landing as Aemond’s faithful companion. Her eyes were empty, long lost to the creatures that traipsed around the dead to claim the what was left of lives lost below. And yet, where there was emptiness in both their eyes, they sat towards each other as if one had expected the other to arrive—regardless of how long it took.

She held Dark Sister, torn from Aemond’s face. Posed so perfectly as they did the night they chose to relinquish their pain in exchange for an eternity together, Adiel faced him, caressing Aemond's sapphire eye just as she always loved to do.

[inthehoneymoonwithconnorrk800]

one

Note: English isn´t my first language, so sorry for the probably mistakes here. Also timeline alterations.

"You used to love me…" he repeated in a broken whisper, as the breeze softly moved the cloth of the curtains. Helaena didn't turn around, she simply continued to knit. Knitting had become her escape, from her father's injustice, Aemond's snarls and Aegon's torments. As long as she knitted, everything could be tarnished. Except her children, with her calloused hands and fingers she continued to weave a lovely design of her two little ones and her in the middle, as they had been all their lives, with the absence of the father who now seemed to be looking at her for the first time. "Helaena, look at me." Commanded her brother husband Aegon. She riveted her eyes on him. Dirty platinum hair, dark circles under his eyes, scrapes on his face, and the look that had always been at the mercy of wine and poppy milk. "I am your husband." Seeing that he made little impression on her, he stalked angrily over and lifted her chin so that sight focused on him. "Do you understand what I mean?" Helaena felt lost again, she tried to make herself invisible like when she was a teenager, but it didn't work. "If I ever hear another damned rumor that you're sleeping with some lowlife again, I swear I'll hang you for being unfaithful." "I have been loyal to you always." Aegon couldn't bear to see the truth in her violet eyes. It was true. Helaena had taken her vows very seriously, a quality she shared with her mother Alicent. She never laid eyes more than told on any man or woman and emphasized that she was already married. Aegon, on the other hand, never did. He slept with women when he could understand the pleasure he could get with his body, he stalked the nobles, the worldly girls and with the poor servant girls, who seemed to understand her suffering as a woman. Aegon absorbed everything; the happiness, the hope, the smile. Her husband was a damned fly that vomited sickly lust and came back for more. She hated him. "So be it, then." In a show of masculinity, Aegon turned the chair he was sitting in and walked out the door, taking one last look. It never cost him to leave. His interest in her was like the life of a dragonfly, fleeting. She turned her focus back to her weaving, she was a spider, she told herself and sewed the threads that bound her to her twins. Always together, always united. She spent the entire remaining afternoon sewing and knitting, she wasn't worried. Her children were spending some time with their uncles Aemond and Daeron, before evening meal they would return and dine while Daeron would tell tales for her children, when their mother was not with her grandfather or some informant, she would join in the conversation as well, she would narrate to them about the early days of her marriage to King Viserys, who was pleased to hear his wife's voice despite his horrible state. Aemond ate in silence fixing his eye on everyone present, but he lasted a little longer on her, he did so even before he lost his eye, often following her, she was not afraid of him because he was the only one who defended her. Helaena had devised a nickname for all of them: Aegon was a mosquito; her mother, an ant; her father, a collembolan; Daeron was a cricket; Jaehaerys, a tiny moth; Jaehaera, a small caterpillar; Aemond, a tarantula; and she liked to think of herself as a spider. And the others…, well, Helaena hadn't spent much time naming them. She knew that her uncle Daemon married for the third time to her sister Rhaenyra, had adopted the bastards, but only one twin of his blood. Helaena wasn't fond of her uncle, she feared him for one simple reason: he was a wasp chasing silkworms.

[lya-dustin]

Someone will remember us

Chapter 59

Cw: childbirth

Gif by @notsosecretlyalesbian

Taglist: @stargaryenx @mercedesdecorazon

He dreams of her.

In most of them, his father is alive and healthy, all is good and everything was just a bad dream.

In some she is pregnant, in others she is curled up against him holding their little son between them.

Aemon is a mass of thick silvery white curls and skin as wonderfully golden-brown hue reminiscent of his mother’s. He is warm, alive and a cruel fantasy that reminds him that he will never meet his only child.

“He will be born today.” Helaena prophesied as he escorts her back to her chambers and carries Jaehaera who’s screams had alerted some dragon keepers at the Dragonpit. “He is all you even if he has her coloring.”

“Oh joy, I will torment her from beyond my watery grave then.” He said sarcastically.

It would have been best for all if Aemon looks like Laenor. To look like the only man who didn’t disappoint her in his lifetime.

“Did you dream of her last night?” his sister asked quietly.

She claims she can tell when he did, says there is always something that hints to it in his demeanor.

Last night, Aemma, his Aemee, was nursing their son and seated on the Iron Throne, wearing a soft blue gown and Viserys’ crown.

She had smiled upon him and asked him to come hold his son, but when he had reached the foot of the Iron Throne, he fell to his knees as his own mother drove father’s dagger into his back.

“That terrible, gods, and I thought mine were bad.” Helaena made note of his silence.

It had been two days since he learned his brother had sent Arryk to kill his wife and that Cole had been the one to suggest it.

He no longer trusts his mother, not her not Aegon and certainly not Cole.

They all only cared about one thing: keeping Aegon on the Throne at whatever cost.

“Where will you go?” he asks Hel to avoid speaking about it.

“Quiet Isle, just until the war is over and I can find a place for my children and I.” she answered. A fantasy, like the ones he has of getting to be a father to his child.

“Mhm, how would you explain Dreamfyre and Morghul?” it could work, if they had enough time and a big enough diversion.

They would be leaving for Rook’s Rest tonight, perhaps Hel can make her escape then.

“We leave without them. If there’s no dragons, there’s no trace of us anywhere.”

If she thought pregnancy gross, childbirth soon disabused her of that notion.

The twinging at her lower back last night had turned to an agony as old as the world itself by the time she had waved Rhaena and Joffrey goodbye.

By the time the page came with the latest ravens from Rook’s Rest, Aemma was being carried to her rooms by Daemon of all people.

“It’s a trap, I know it. Aegon is going to kill you!” Aemma bit her lip bloody as another contraction came and went and clutched her grandmother’s arm with all the strength she could muster. “Don’t go, grandmother, please, don’t go!”

Aemma knew what childbirth was and how it looked like, never did it occur to her that one thing was seeing it happen to mother and the other ladies and it was a different beast all together to have it happen to you.

“Someone must go, if someone must die, it has to be me.” Rhaenys said resolutely.

Mother looks at her with tears in her eyes and pleaded for her to stay. “At least, wait until the babe is born, Rhaenys.”

“If I do not go, Jace and Baela will answer the next raven.” The queen who never was looked back at them sadly. “We cannot lose more children, Rhaenyra.”

“They can hold off for a day. We must have a strategy in place, they cannot succeed in killing more of us.” Her mother argued and this time Rhaenys had nothing to counter with.

Its evening when the birth finally ends.

The babe had not wanted to come, and then when he did, he came feet first needing Gerardys to turn him with the help of the midwife who once delivered Laenor and Laena.

“Aemon, my Aemon.” Her daughter weeps from exhaustion and joy and sorrow because her baby will never know his father.

She hides it, but there were moments when she cried for her husband.

But her husband had killed her brother and under no circumstance could he be allowed to live when her sweet little Luke was dead.

“Prince Aemon Targaryen, first of his name.” Rhaenyra calls her grandson by his name and cuts the umbilical cord at Gerardys’ suggestion. “The Prince Who Was Promised.”

“Do you plan to send a raven to your goodson?” Corlys, her Lord Hand, asked once the Small Council convened to discuss the birth of her daughter’s heir.

“Not a raven, Maester Mathis did an excellent job with Ser Arryk’s head, dear husband. We mean to make it a gift to the Usurper and his new Hand.” Rhaenys said with a smirk.

Woe to all who forgot Rhaenys Targaryen is still a dragon.

“Now with that out of the way, we must discuss the situation at Rook’s Rest.” The queen turned to her council, composed of men and women who would rather kill themselves than accept defeat.

“We need to send two dragon riders. They want you and won’t hesitate to kill whoever we send. Send me.” Anyone who goes will die, no one could face Vhagar and Sunfyre and live.

Not unless you send two.

And who better than the man who knows Vhagar almost as well as he knows Caraxes and the woman who could override Aemond’s control of his dragon because she was the one who taught Laena everything she knew.

Staunton demands a dragon to fight the dragons his outriders and scouts have seen, demands ‘Our Queen to come and fight for her throne’ and save them from the Greens.

The man who took her maidenhead now wants her other head, you would have thought one would be enough, the queen thinks as she waits for Corlys’ abject refusal.

Its too risky, like all of Laenor’s and Daemon’s strategies.

If there was another way, Rhaenyra would take it, but there isn’t.

No matter what she does, blood is shed. This time it is shed on their terms.

“And if you die just as Helaena foresaw?” Corlys asked his wife, his voice strangely soft making her feel she is intruding in a private moment.

“Then I will take as many as I can with me.”

[sesikudadaryti]

@abeautifulmencgerie asked daemon targaryen: ❛The Stranger has visited me more times than I can count. I assure you, he cares little whether my eyes are open or closed.❜

Was this really what his brother had become? A man so complacent with his own demise that he wouldn't fight for his family? For his daughters who needed him? He held his tongue for the most part, being compassionate to his brother. But he didn't ignore how his children spoke about Rhaenyra's children, how the Queen had treated his own daughter, Daemon's wife. He had come to see him in private, rather than a formal meeting with him, hoping that might go over better.

"Fuck the Stranger." He challenged, practically spitting out though not at Viserys. "You must act, Viserys. Your wife knows you've given up. She allows her children to say and do as they please, to the torment of your grandchildren."

[quccninchains]

{☾} The tears were still wet on her cheeks, hands still trembled at her side. She was mortified, beyond embarrassed that she had lost control. It was bad enough that she had let her RAGE out, had let everyone in the court see how depraved she had the potential to be. But her children were everything to her. Regardless of what the world thought, she loved her babes more than her own life.

She could handle the dismissal of her own person...but her children? Her SON? Rhaenyra's children (and Aegon--she was not so BLIND as to deny his role) had tormented Aemond for years. Had made him feel less because he had yet to be claimed by a dragon. How many nights had she held him while he wept? While he asked about what he could do to be BETTER? Aemond, the babe she almost died bringing to this world for. Her sweet boy who still craved his mother's adoration.

They had stolen something precious from his youth--and to his eye, they now felt entitled.

Alicent blinked, her gaze torn from the fire as she sensed Jon move from his spot. She hadn't given him leave to move, nor to drink the wine prepared for her. But she hadn't chastised him for it. Married to his father and he sworn to chastity hadn't dulled their feelings for one another.

But this? This...BETRAYAL?

Her lower lip quivered, eyes wide with incredulous irritation. "A child who stole my boy's eye!" She gives a disbelieving little laugh, there was no humor. A careful step towards him, her hands balled at her side. "My boy will never be whole again. Never," she hisses, meeting his gaze with all the fury of a WRONGED mother.

"And you do not have the leave to use my name."

Never had she enforced the strict code of protocol deserved for their stations. Never had she required him attend to her as her rank befit. But he was casting her aside now. He, who had been her confidant, who had seen how the Targaryens treated her and her babes. Had been her dearest friend and the only man to hold her heart. Once again. Rhaenyra takes and takes and TAKES.

"She bats her eyes and simpers and you all fall over yourselves to tend to her--never once minding my children or my feelings," Alicent scowled, cheeks turning pink in anger. Her eyes flicker over his form and she looks disgusted, turning away from him, folding her arms over her chest. She shakes her head, chest heaving in the dim light of the fire. "You have made your choice known, Ser Jon. I see it now. Clear as day. You are just like your father. Just like Daemon. Just like everyone else."

Silence hangs over them for a few moments before she strides to the door, throwing it open to see her handmaiden. "Talya...please bring me Ser Criston Cole," she murmurs, trying to stifle the emotions waxing and waning in her chest. Shutting the door behind her, cool eyes return to Jon.

It kills her to think of what she must do. But she cannot look at him. Perhaps never again. He who had been a balm in her misery, had been the image she clung to while in Viserys' bed.

"...I do not want someone who puts the interest of others above my children, above me. You are DISMISSED. Do not darken my doorway, do not hover near me. I do not wish to see you. Ser Criston will train my boys. Perhaps Princess Rhaenyra has need of a SHIELD." She bites her lip and shakes her head. She stays firm.

"Get out of my rooms and go cling to Rhaenyra. I will not suffer your presence anymore. You will protect me no longer. You have made your choice, Ser Jon. Live with it just as I must DIE with it."

the door closes behind them , the queen consort and her sworn protector ALONE in her bedchamber. jon's hands are clasped together behind his back , his posture that of a SOLDIER as he stares at the wall ahead. it was a tragedy , what had befallen aemond. to lose an eye , and at such a young age , to none other than his own kin was unfathomable. lord commander westerling had discovered the boys shortly after the attack upon jon's half - brother , prompting jon and other members of his father's guard to step in. while he had not seen the quarrel as it had played out , jon had an inclination to BELIEVE daemon's daughters and rhaenyra's sons as they recounted what had occurred.

alicent , however , had not seen it that way.

an eye for an eye , she'd demanded. equal payment due of lucerys for the life - altering injury he had dealt his uncle. it was jon who had been given the order , though his father had forbade it. his queen , however , promptly reminded those in attendance that he was SWORN to her , not his father , not his king. an order was an order , jon knew , despite the words of his king , despite the pleas of his nephew , despite the worry in the eyes of his sister , despite the silent threat from daemon across the room. jon would bow his head , uttering " as my queen demands , " despite everything in his mind URGING him to defy orders , to remain where he stood.

nothing had come of it , for his father had stepped in , ordering his wife to mind her place , to not harm a single hair on the head of prince lucerys.

but everything had happened in a flash. alicent had taken the dagger from the king's hip , intent on digging out the eye of the one who had harmed her boy. jon had acted , then , hoping to reach his queen before she had taken such a drastic action. rhaenyra , however , had been the one to meet the queen , to hold her at bay , whereas prince daemon had grabbed jon by the shoulders , perhaps believing that he was making a move to assist the queen. he did not meet his uncle's gaze , kept his eyes solely on alicent , even as lucerys' screams of terror filled the room.

now , in the queen's bedchamber , jon's chest expands beneath his armor as he breathes deeply , filling his lungs to capacity. he holds his breath , the BURNING of his lungs grounding him , and then releases it. the trained soldier leaves with the air from his lungs , replaced by the king's bastard , by the brother of the princess , by the friend of the queen he serves. he unclasps his hands , arms moving to dangle at his sides , and stalks deeper within the bedchamber. he stops at the table , taking the handle of a flagon of wine in his grasp , fills a cup , and downs it. QUICKLY.

" how DARE you , " are the words that fly from his mouth , his eyes narrowed as he glares at the queen. a PUNISHABLE offense , if she deems it so , but jon is beyond caring. " prince lucerys is a child , alicent ! a child ! who acted in defense of himself and his brother ! how could you DEMAND his eye for that ? "

a discussed starter for @quccninchains <3

[visd3stele]

So,I just saw ep 5 and i’m also a fan of princess reader and Ser Criston.I loved your last fic,you are so talented and you can feel the love you put in to writing.Can you please,please write an happy ending for them?Like in the last episode he asked Rhaenyra lo flee with him,but with princess y/n?He asks her to escape to Essos,she says yes and there they get married and live together forever like they deserve 😤

//you can feel the love you put into writing// thank you so much! this is one of the best things a writer can hear ☺😍🥺

oh, boy, am i sucker for rebellious princesses.

a/n: alright, so this is an aleternative ending for this fic [X]. You can read it separately, though, it's up to you

tw: spoilers

Dread bounced from your veins against you bones. You haven't felt this nervous since the first time you snuck around the sleeping halls of the palace to find your sweet Attor, the dragon you favored since you watched him hatch from the big egg and took off flying in the depths of nigh.

But that was freeing. And you always came back as if nothing has happened. This, you couldn't brush it off, pretending to not exist.

One hand fled to your hectic heart as the other laid atop of your belly, rubbing up and down as you ran. It scared you, the motherly gesture. As if your body has already shifted for the instincts needed to the changes inside you. Too fast so. Your mind was left behind by miles.

You pushed gently on your belly. Still soft with only skin, fat and flesh to wobble under your palm. But your monthly bleeding missed the timing two times in a raw. So you have finally convinced yourself to come see the maestress. Conjuring up all your courage, you knocked on the healing quarters' door.

"Princess y/n. What brings you so unexpectedly in our company? Are you unwell?"

"Perhaps the restlessness before the wedding. Worry not, princess, I will prepare you a calming tea. You shall sleep like a babe."

A babe, you almost laughed. Fitting wording. "It's not my sleep that bothers me. It's... something else." Teeth grazed the chipped skin of your lips. They suffered the torment of your worries in the past few days since the realization of your condition dawned on you.

"What is it? Out with it, your grace. We can't help you unless we know what the matter is."

The words struggled to leave your mouth. They couldn't even take shape in your mind, much less find the voice to form them out loud. You haven't told a soul of your presumptions. Not even Criston, the father of the child you were more than sure now grew in your womb.

You couldn't have told anyone even if you wanted. Your sister, maybe, but her love for the man who was about to imprison you irked your ire. It would be a while until you could embrace your older sister again. Daemon or Viserys were obviously off limits. Unpredictable. What would they do? You knew there were special drinks - teas - to make a pregnancy disappear. Would they make you take one? Or would they rush the wedding and pretend it's your uncle's child? You didn't know which hurt you more.

As for Criston, the knight that stole your heart and possessed your body... ever since the last night you shared after finding about your father's political plans for your future, he kept his distance. Solemn bows of his head when you passed him in the halls, stiffened straight back as you waved at him, formal salutes when he draw the shorter hay and had to guard your room.

You understood the distance. If not for the baby, you would have encouraged it. It was better for both of you, perhaps. A way to pretend your marriage to be less painful than it was. Criston even wanted to leave, you heard the maids gossip. Enrole as a knight in the Watch Guard. But the king forbade it.

"My bleeding missed the due this past two months." You finally puked the words to the stunned maestress.

"Have you- have you had any... intercourses with prince Daemon?"

The inside of your bottom lip puffed to cover your teeth in thought. Should you lie? It'd make no difference if the healers thing the baby is your future husband's. But such a lie would lay heavier on your heart than the burden of shame filled looks and sharp words thrown at you for bearing a bastard. About that you were sure.

"No." You said, a feeling of pride blooming like a late flower in spring. "I haven't laid with Daemon. But I have - had - a lover."

After they confirmed you were, indeed, pregnant, you expected them to rat you out to your father. For days you waited anxiously for Viserys or Daemon or both to storm inside your chambers and demand an explanation. You wouldn't have told them the truth, knowing it'll cost Ser Cole his life. But you would have had such a surge of petty, vengeful joy to watch their plans chipped by your love.

Every day you woke up and watched your body in the mirror. Too early yet for visible changes, you caressed your stomach in awe, a broad smile gracing your features. The product of a real love you were lucky enough to live, even if it ended. Something that could never be taken from you, nor lost or forgotten in the fog of time.

You hoped the baby, boy or girl, it didn't matter, would look like Ser Cole. That they'd have his brown curls, thick brows, long lashes and eyes as dark and precious as the night sky that brought you so much happiness. Not only would it remind you of the love denied to you, but it'd also be clear whom the baby is. Not the forced husband's, but the chosen knight's.

Days passed by and you entered your third month. The maestress assured you, at the weekly meeting you had with them in the dead of night, the nausea should become a rare occurance. Which washed a wave of relief over you. As much as you already loved your child, the sickness was an annoying effect to bear.

The time for your sister and cousin's wedding came. You had to cut through the gowns made for you and sew them larger yourself as your waist thickened and you didn't want your maids to suspect a thing.

You were to meet with your betrothed at the doors of the festive hall. To enter together, posing the merry couple. You paced around your room, practicing your walk. In the past months you have gotten so used to lean back, holding your womb, as you kept mostly to your chambers. But now that you were forced to join the celebration, you couldn't risk disclosing your secret.

Before you could take the turn around the corner, however, an arm curled around your elbow, a hand covering your mouth as you were pulled inside a crammed room.

"Don't yell. It's me." Criston whispered in a hurry. His palm tasted like cinnamon and oranges and so did the air around him smell like.

You nodded and as he loosened his grip on you, you turned to face him. That bubble laugh Criston loved so much ringed through the confinement of the small chamber he brought you to. The large smile he aodored adorning your face for the first time in months.

Criston traced his fingers over your lips as you immediately circled his neck with your arms. "I missed you so much," was the only thing that made sense in your mind. All the rest of your thoughts were bits and pieces you couldn't put together in a coherent speech.

Your lover smiled, rolling his shoulder backwards and puffing his chest out if your sight hadn't begin to lie to you. "I missed you too, my y/n." He said, lowering his head to catch your lips in his.

The kiss felt like magic of old was born anew in your blood. A fire so true, so powerful it could ignite the world in a whim. You lost yourself in his touch, feeling him through every way you could.

Criston almost forgot why he was there in the first place. Your mouth tasted like honey, your hands in his hair like a breeze of fresh air on a bruised, wounded body.

Then, as if you both thought of the same thing, you abruptly pulled apart.

"I have something to tell you," your voices mixed in the same sentence, one desperate, one pleading.

"You first," you nudged him. As much as you wanted to make him aware of your child, the fluttering of your nervous heart tighten your throat, locking the words in.

Besides, it appeared he needed to say what he had to as soon as possible.

"Run with me." Criston blurted out. "Let's go to Esos, take life from scratches, build a home together." And before you had a chance to comprehend his words, he detangled your hands from him and placed a gift in your palms.

Cinnamon and oranges. Everlasting divine (as poets sing love is) and loyalty. A teary smile played on your lips, trying to conceal sobs of gratefulness. "You remembered."

Once, in another lifetime, it seemed like, you had told Ser Cole jewels or gowns did not move you. But sincere and thoughtful gifts that carry meaning did. You used to read him from herbology books the little legends scribbled on the edges of the pages. Another poetic soul has written what knowledge cannot suffice: the meaning and symbols behind each herb, plant and tree described.

"How can I forget when it's you that have spoken it?"

You bit your lip. The decision was clear as day in your mind. A plan even forming to offer Criston in case his would be ruined somehow. But you felt a pang of guilt clawing in your heart. Your sister was getting married to someone she didn't love. She would cheat with Daemon and become queen all on her own. How selfish could you be to leave Rhaenyra?

"Criston, I'm not sure I can. My sister..."

"Knows."

"What?"

"She, uh, she suspected we spent the night together since the brothel. I guess she trully can read you. She said it was obvious you liked me. And gave us her blessing. We can't be together here, but in Esos..."

"Yes!" You all but shouted. "Yes, yes, yes! Take me, Criston Cole. Take me far away and wed me to you. Give me your love. You have mine."

The knight huffed balls of incredulous laugh after laugh. When he finally convinced he heard you right, Criston sqeezed your cheeks in his hands and devoured your moutg. You returned the kiss with the same passionate eagerness.

"I thought we can take Attor with us. Flying will be easier. And faster. Then hide him in the mountains near a small village. A city, or even a town would be too risky."

You nodded at everything he said, only half listening. All you cared about was build a home with him. The how or where mattered too little.

"Before we go," you stopped him when he twisted the door's handle, "there's something you need to know." One deep breath and: "I'm pregnant. Yours." You added quickly, pushing the words into each other as you spoke hurriedly.

A variety of emitions passed over his face in such a short time, you thought you imagined it: shock, pain, anger, fear, disbelief. Only to settle on the purest felicity you have ever seen.

Criston picked you up and twirled you around (as much as the room allowed), dropping to his knees in front of you and taking your stomach in his hands. With a look of reverence in his eyes, Ser Cole touched his forehead to it. "Hello, little one. I'm your father, if you can imagine something like this. So wonderful," he said, kissing the barely showing bump.

Your hands tucked at his hair, sniffing a watery eyed laugh. In no time, you were on Attor's back, flying towards Esos, towards a future you never dare hope to have, hands locked with your knight, the love of your life, laced together on top of your growing baby.

[nightsister-juisid]

HBO, Don’t mess this up

I have the feeling HBO tried to sell us this problematic ship by playing the “soulmates” card. And it did work. As much as Lannister incest made me sick, I’m actually in love with Daemon and Rhaenyra’s relationship and how they developed it through the chapters. But, as they presented both characters as “meant to be together” while they chased after the other and always gravitated back to them, I believe Daemon and his “affair issues” during the war would be anti climatic and leave a bad taste in the audience. Which, except for some groups, are really invested in this couple. Even if they are fans of GOT or just casual spectators.

For that reason, I believe the best way to achieve the eventual rupture of Daemon’s and Rhae’s relationship is not the typical and boring cheating way, but the lack of trust and communication from both of them. (Which would further explain how the house of the dragon cannot be defeated but can fall if their own people tear it down)

As the book is based on rumors, and is stated on the series already that Daemon and Rhaenyra were a powerful match the greens needed to dissipate somehow, I think Mysaria and the greens creating rumors about Daemon having another lover, to abuse and improve Rhae’s fall into insanity, would be a smart move in the series (for the greens) and for HBO to start this couple downfall without breaking the “true love” narrative.

I can imagine Rhaenyra completely paranoid, wiping out her last dragonriders, vital to the war, out of her fear of more traitors and fear that Nettles was her husband's lover. She was already broken with the lost of her children and mentally unstable with her gain of weight, the war, the poverty, etc. So, her being completely afraid of losing her best warrior and love of her life is pretty understandable from a human perspective (who wants to be left alone in such critic moments?). But instead of talking about it, or search for another way for them both to understand the situation, she forces her husband to kill Nettles which would offend Daemon to the core that she just thinks somehow he isn’t loyal to her, and prefers to trust Mysaria rather than him. And as he appreciated Nettles as his own daughter (as stated in the books in which narrators keeps open the question if Daemon fucked or only appreciated Nettles as a daughter), he would let the young girl go out in spite. Because the girl never did anything wrong as to deserve that.

But he wouldn’t disobey and wouldn’t be mad because he doesn’t love Rhae. He would be mad because he does love her and she doesn’t trust him. As much as Viserys never trusted him. After all he did for her (being the one who faced most of the battles to give her the victory). He killed many for her, he avenged her son, he even let go Nettles and most of their dragonriders for her and she doesn’t trusts him. So, Daemon, being the toxic shit he is, would not go back and instead wait for Aemond to kill him and end that nonsense soon. Because that will prove to Rhae his loyalty to her.

And If he died, what else he had to lose? He lost Laena, Viserys, his warriors, his step sons, his wife’s mind. If he died fighting against Aemond, it didn’t mattered. At least he would have taken with him, one of the most feared warriors AND the biggest dragon the greens had.

However, this word never reaches Rhae and she stays depressed thinking her husband betrayed her with another woman. Having no prove of his body, as a way to torment her and think he fleed away (But instead Daemon DOES die epically against Aemond because DAMN THAT BATTLE IS SUCH A HONORING WAY TO DIE. Like, damn, Daemon killing Aemond and dying aten/cremated by Aemond’s dragon or crashed by Aemond is just tragic medieval stuff and a warrior’s death).

So 1. That would prove NO MATTER HOW MUCH SOMEONE LOVES A PERSON, and if you die for that person. IT WOULD NEVER WORK IF ONE DOESN’T COMMUNICATE (And please, we know Rhae and Daemon are more actions than stopping to think first).

2. House Targaryen can not be defeated unless they defeat themselves.

3. It would be really angsty and depressing having the two lovers dying thinking the other didn’t loved them anymore. But Rhae did love Daemon and Daemon died sacrificing himself in a crazy way to regain her love.

I just think it being a plot of the greens and Mysaria, and Daemon dying gloriously in the middle of battle against Aemond, is thousands times better than the lazy storyline of him, giving up Rhae for other women, and then running away with Nettles as a coward. Having him after all the propaganda of their love and relationship, being infidel because he can, sounds like the crappy end GOT gave us with season 8.

No way. Daemon deserves a warrior’s death to Aemond.

Also, I really want to believe their lack of communication being the reason that tore their relationship apart. I can picture Rhae becoming way more shy about having sex with Daemon because everyone points out her gain of weight and mocks her, and she’s afraid of him not wanting her anymore, while he just keeps thinking she’s the most beautiful woman he has seen in his whole life.