#Aegon ii Targaryen x ofc

[lady-morrigen]

more allaegon prompts, because i'm insatiable

❛ i would let you rip me apart if it meant loving you. ❜ & ❛ worship me. until i tell you to stop. ❜

laskjdhflkjasdf thank you for loving them with such ferocity 🥺

and thank you for turning this into something worthy of sharing (and the banner)

RATING: M (fade to black sexual themes)

Allana's fingers trembled, struggling to undo the tightly knotted laces that held the bust of her dress in place. Though she tried to slow it, her breath came in sharp pants, her ribs expanding and contracting painfully beneath the whalebone that bit at her sides. Her exhale was shaky, exasperated, and she fisted her hands in frustration.

Aegon stepped forward, as if the shadows themselves melted around him, parting for him, his voice low with desire as he watched her struggle. "Here, let me take care of that."

His fingertips were rough against the silk as he effortlessly untangled the knot, letting the strings dangle as he met her gaze. She was overwhelmed by his closeness, by the way the candlelight danced over his soft features, the faintest hint of honeyed wine on his breath enticing her, her knees threatening to give out. His touch was surprisingly delicate as he traced his knuckles along her cheek, placing a lingering kiss to the corner of her lips. As he trailed from her mouth to her neck, a soft sigh escaped her, and her eyes drifted shut. She tangled a shaky hand in his hair, anchoring herself in the moment. 

"I suppose I'm a bit nervous," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly, and for once she did not resent the nerves that bubbled to the surface. His breath was hot as it danced across her shoulder, his lips leaving tingles in their wake.

“We don’t have to do anything you aren’t ready for.” He kissed her again, long and deep, catching her bottom lip between his teeth and pulling softly, his teeth gently worrying at her flesh. “I’m happy just to kiss you until your ladies send a search party.”

With a laugh, Allana melted into his touch, her body responding with a sense of ease, the nerves dissipating like smoke through a sieve. She couldn't resist playfully tugging at his silver locks, pulling him to meet her gaze. 

He was a sight to behold. To Allana, he was the most beautiful man in the realm. Though the dark circles gave him years beyond his own, his lilac eyes still held a mischievous glint, a reminder of the boy he once was.

"Am I mistaken, or is Aegon Targaryen attempting to portray himself as a chaste gentleman?" She pretended to swoon, placing her hand over her heart in mock disbelief. His own hands gripped her hip and pulled her against him, so close that she could feel the unmistakable hardness of his length against her thigh.

“You said yourself, the maids talk.” He twisted a scarlet curl between his fingers, his nose playfully bumping against hers. Then, his tone serious, he whispered, “I don’t want to ruin you.”

“I would let you rip me apart if it meant loving you,” Allana said, catching his gaze in earnest, brushing the tip of her nose against his. “In truth, you ruined me for anyone else a long time ago.”

Aegon kissed her then, their mouths colliding with little finesse in a passionate tangle of tongues and teeth, and he effortlessly guided her backward toward the bed. He pressed her against the soft sheets, his arms creating a protective cage around her head, and he kissed her again. She felt like she was floating, lightning dancing across her skin as if to chase after his touch before settling in her core. She whimpered, her lips pressed to his, and arched her hips to meet him. 

Without breaking their kiss, Aegon gently pulled at her skirts, exposing her soft, creamy thighs, and laid his body against hers. With a determined pull, he unraveled the laces of her bodice, freeing her from her corset and revealing the delicate fabric of her chemise hiding the supple skin beneath. Hooking a leg over his hip, he pressed himself against her, his hands gliding over her body, squeezing gently as he went. His mouth was hot and wet, sucking bruises into the skin of her collarbone, trailing down, down, and stopping at the swell of her breast. 

He looked up at her, pupils blown black with lust. “Tell me what you would have me do, Allana.” Closing the distance between them without waiting for an answer, he pressed his lips to hers once more, his hand reaching up to brush her hair from her forehead as he gazed down at her.

“Worship me,” she whispered, barely able to speak around the emotion and the magnitude of the moment, her heart fluttering, a bird trapped beneath her ribs. “Until I tell you to stop.”

The grin that pulled at his face was feral. “Gladly.”

taglist: @acrossthesestars, @dragonsbone, @emilykaldwen, @arrthurpendragon, @lightblindingme

other: @ocappreciation, @fyeahhotdocs

[mysticalprincesskitten]

Aegon II Targaryen x OFC // Part One

REWRITE OF OLD FANFIC

Trigger warnings: MDNI, smut, kink, kinda darkish aegon in this part but not really, Season 2 non-compliant, canon misogyny, possessive Aegon, Targcest, OC is Viserys and Aemma's daughter, OC is named Daenerys bc <3, OC looks like Elizabeth Olsen.

Queen Daenerys Targaryen was the second daughter of King Viserys I Targaryen and Queen Aemma Arryn. She was sister-wife to King Aegon II Targaryen, and the pair famously fought together during the civil war between House Targaryen known as the Dance of the Dragons. She was a dragonrider who rode the wild dragon Grey Ghost. -- Archmaester Gyldayn, The Dying of the Dragons

Fresh, cold air enlivened her, the pale fingers of dawn beckoning as the princess rose early seeking her dragon. Daenerys Targaryen, daughter of King Viserys and the late Queen Aemma, felt anxious to return to Dragonstone's skies atop Grey Ghost's back. It may well be their final flight. Today, she returned to King’s Landing, bidding farewell to her ancestral home, the island fortress where she had lived with her sister, Rhaenyra, and her sister's family for years.

In three moons, she would be a woman wed.

A restless beast within the princess longed to leave. But something else wanted to remain; she sensed that in common with Grey Ghost, the wild dragon native to Dragonstone. He did not want to leave. Her dragon was shy, avoidant of people and other dragons. He did not care for the Dragonpit. She could not blame him. Neither of them shared any fondness for the capital. Daenerys lacked the taste for politics and pretense, the ever-present demand to portray perfection, perfectly navigating the societal expectations that came with being a princess of House Targaryen. Today she was leaving the relative safety of Dragonstone, where she had supped on freedom unbeholden to the responsibilities that awaited her in King's Landing. She was leaving her home, re-entering a hive of snakes set on twisting her to their will, bleeding her dry from a thousand tiny bites. Who knows what the city is like now? They could all be different. Even Helaena. They could be ... crueler.

Were it not for Aegon, she would refuse to leave Dragonstone.

Father would forgive her. Father always forgave her, even when he wouldn't overlook Aegon's transgressions, or Aemond or Helaena. Daenerys was Aemma’s daughter. The king's favor had not gone unnoticed. Many nights she had comforted Aegon as he cried drunkenly on her lap, feeling guilt churning her stomach. She couldn't help it. She resented Father's preferential treatment; all of her siblings were worthy of adoration, from Helaena and her sweet temperance to Aemond's unwavering sense of duty. She barely remembered her mother, the long-dead Aemma Arryn. Daenerys ached for her all the same.

Another painful pang shot through her, making her wince. She was saying goodbye to Rhaenyra today as well. Another mother taken from her, to be replaced with Alicent Hightower In three moons, the green queen would be Daenerys' good-mother; she did not relish the thought.

Grey Ghost nuzzled his maw into her chest as she descended the Dragonmont, passing the Dragonkeepers with their long poles and lithely climbing across a grey-white wing to strap herself into the wild dragon’s lightweight saddle. The dragon roared, a trill similar to Syrax's call, then spread his wings. A hit of wind as she was thrust airborne, and another as the dragon gained momentum.

And then they were truly flying.

Every woe fell away, every fear and worry and secret. On dragonback, Princess Daenerys felt truly powerful. Her stomach lurched as Grey Ghost swooped from the mouth of the Dragonmont, a steep incline that plummeted them both to the sea. Unfurling his wings, Grey Ghost caught the wind and coasted, claws scraping the ocean's surface, before pumping his wings and taking them straight up into the sky. Clouds caressed her cheeks, the wayward tendrils of her silver curls wild as her dragon. She pressed her hands to Grey Ghost’s scales, abandoning the saddle handles, her dragon’s touch a molten comfort. Grey Ghost looped around the cliffs of Dragonstone, across the fields where the dragons sometimes landed after flights, ducking over the small port villages where fishermen were steering their nets; she heard them cry a greeting, remembering how the smallfolk of Dragonstone were said to view Grey Ghost as a fortunate omen. One glimpse of the Grey Ghost, and a man's net will never go empty. She flew as far as she ever had — further, even, — until she had to steer back lest she arrive at King’s Landing prematurely. Grey Ghost dipped and banked, scraping his claws in the sea again, before taking them higher back into the clouds, where the shy dragon’s pale scales concealed them both.

The sun had fully risen by the time Daenerys heard a familiar whistling shriek calling to her. Daemon. She must have been gone longer than she thought. The rogue prince himself had mounted Caraxes the Blood Wyrm to bring her home.

Sighing, Daenerys guided Grey Ghost back to the Dragonmont with the lightest nudge of her thigh. Caraxes soared to greet her, a crimson serpent among the clouds. Both dragons descended simultaneously, landing inside the Dragonmont at the plinth of Meraxes' skull.

“Nyke naejot chase ao,” Daemon remarked. (I thought to chase you) “Gōntan ao forget īlon issi lodaor, niece? Ao isse particular." (Did you forget we are otherwise engaged, niece? You in particular)

“Nyke emagon daor forgot.” (I have not forgotten) How could she? Everyday she’d thought of Aegon. His lips. His eyes. What does he look like now? Her soon-to-be husband. Daenerys herself had undergone a rapid growth spurt in the years they’d been apart, hips widening under her skirt, her bodice growing tighter.

“Then perhaps you ought be mindful of your timekeeping. We do not want to keep your sister waiting.”

“Indeed we do not.” Daenerys rolled her eyes, running her hands along Grey Ghost’s flank soothingly. Soon. She would remount her dragon before the day was done and return to King’s Landing — to Aegon — at last.

She shivered. In fear or excitement, she could not say.

“You do not have to do this.”

Daenerys smiled at her sister. “I knew you would attempt one last effort to change my mind.”

“It is not too late, Daenerys. We can betroth you to Jacaerys, you would be the future queen—“

“The Hightowers would never accept such an insult,” said Daenerys. “Aegon and I have been promised since birth. It is time we honor the oaths taken for us.”

"I cannot bear to see you shipped off to that drunken sot," Rhaenyra said coldly.

Daenerys glared at her sister. "Rhaenyra--"

"I know."

Rhaenyra didn’t say it, but Daenerys knew her sister sensed the truth. Daenerys had been promised to Aegon the moment he was born, at the urging of Ser Otto Hightower, Hand to their father, King Viserys. Aegon and Daenerys marrying would bring the two branches of his family together, said the Hand, Aemma's daughter and Alicent's continuing House Targaryen's customs, wedding brother to sister, dragonrider to dragonrider. All her life, Daenerys had known Aegon would be her husband. At first it meant little to her. Aegon was her baby brother, a doll to dress up, and then a playmate who followed her lead -- followed her anywhere, really -- as the prince and princess tore through the Red Keep, playing monsters and maidens and come-into-my-castle. They claimed their dragons together. Did everything together, even things they were not supposed to do until they were married. He was hers, and she was his.

But that had been before Driftmark. What if the Aegon that awaited her in King’s Landing was unrecognizable?

Rhaenyra took Daenerys’ face in her hands. “Sister,” she breathed. “You look much like our mother today.” In her ivory riding coat trimmed with silver and white fur, beaded with moonstone and opal, Daenerys unintentionally wore the colors of House Arryn. In truth, she had been avoiding the debacle of wearing black or green, opting to honor her dragon instead.

But for once Aemma’s ghost felt soothing. Daenerys closed her hands over Rhaenyra’s, their foreheads touching, both sisters sharing an intimate mother in honor of their late mother, the woman who connected them through life and death.

“I am proud of you, sister,” said Rhaenyra.

“As I am you.”

The sisters parted, mounting their dragons as they prepared to make the destined flight to King’s Landing. Syrax’s wings brushed Grey Ghost’s as the Targaryen sisters departed Dragonstone, together for a little while longer.

Thump thump. Thump thump. Thump thump. Thump thump. Thump thump--

Her heart was a caged beast throwing itself again the bars of her ribs. Shivers plagued her hands. Grey Ghost shared her nerves; as King’s Landing rose on the horizon — the Red Keep atop Aegon’s Hill first, then the Dragonpit on the Hill of Rhaenys, a sprawl of buildings and brothels and taverns and crooked keeps stacked on top of each other in between — the grey dragon trilled mournfully, shying away from the city. She soothed him, murmuring in High Valyrian, all while battling her own nerves.

This was it. She was finally going to marry Aegon.

They would share each other’s bed and be expected to sire new Targaryen princes and princesses to fill the Red Keep's halls. Heat rushed to her face. As children, Aegon and Daenerys shared clumsy kisses, fumbling hands hidden from her septa. Once they were married there would be more need for secrecy. He would take her to bed and claim her maidenhead, this stranger prince who bore her brother’s name.

Grey Ghost dismounted in the Dragonpit in between Syrax and Caraxes. As the Dragonkeepers led them away, Rhaenyra squeezed her hand, both of them following Daemon as he climbed into the ornate carriage escorting them from the Dragonpit to the Red Keep.

Aegon.

His name was a litany in her mind. As the carriage crawled across cobblestone streets, Daenerys tried to think of something else, anything else, but it was impossible. Her stomach churned. She caught Daemon’s eye and the rogue prince chuckled, amused by her distress. Rhaenyra looked at him reproachfully, squeezing Daenerys’ hand once more. She held onto it, grateful for her sister’s comfort, eager to drink up all of it before she was married and bound to the Red Keep while Rhaenyra returned to Dragonstone.

She remembered the Red Keep well. But it looked different; more somber, the tapestries of House Targaryen replaced with various religious heraldry honoring the Faith of the Seven, and an air of mourning clinging to the castle like maudlin perfume.

Do not let them see you frightened. You are the blood of the dragon. A dragon does not cower. A herald announced their coming as Daenerys and her family entered the gates to the main hall and approached the Iron Throne. Father. He smiled, frail and gaunt on his seat of swords. At the foot of the throne stood Queen Alicent, resplendent in a green gown, and the Hand, Ser Otto Hightower.

Flanking them were three silver-haired strangers.

Aemond was easily distinguished by his eye patch. He has changed. He is taller, more dangerous. He stood protectively next to Helaena, clad in a cloth-of-gold dress with her eyes elsewhere, the only one of Alicent’s brood not wearing green.

And then there was the comely silver-haired youth watching her with an intensity that made the dragon within Daenerys purr.

Time had been kind to Aegon. The boy she knew had grown into his features, hair shorter than she remembered. He is beautiful. His violet eyes were fixed on her. The weight of their history crushed her; every moment together in this castle... The moments soon to follow... The wedding... The bedding...

Daenerys trembled, suddenly flushed with new fire.

Aegon had waited for this moment for so very long.

Ever since Rhaenyra had taken his Nerys from him, he had waited, yearning, for the day she would finally come back to him. She had to. Aegon could not let her leave him forever. His Nerys. His she-dragon. The only person in his accursed family who truly meant a damn to him, his sweet sister with her large lavender eyes and kind words and soft lips.

He hated her.

She was his only good thing, and she had left him, absconding to Dragonstone with Rhaenyra after Lucerys took Aemond's eye on Driftmark. How could she leave him? Didn’t she know how much he needed her, craved her? Had he not told her every fucking day? Everyday without her felt excruciating. Aegon drowned himself in wine and whores and slowly lost parts of himself, chipped away by Mother and Father and their endless disappointment in him. Nothing he did was ever good enough.

And now the moment was here. He had imagined it a thousand ways, a thousand possibilities. What did she look like now? She’d always been a beauty, the pinnacle of Valyrian radiance with her silver curls and haunting lavender eyes. Aegon remembered the child she had been, but now she was a maiden grown. His soon-to-be wife. Seven Hells, don’t let her be ugly, he thought selfishly.

Rhaenyra entered first. His half-sister’s cool gaze passed over him like he wasn’t there. Smug bitch. Mother’s words chimed in his head; “You are the challenge, Aegon! Simply by living and breathing!”

It wasn’t enough for Rhaenyra to be their father’s favorite child, to flaunt her transgressions blatantly by masquerading those bastards of hers as true Targaryens. She had to steal Nerys from him too. They had always played a silent game of tug when it came to their sister; Aegon would pries Daenerys away from Rhaenyra, and Rhaenyra would snatch her back. He seethed silently. Today you lose, sister. Even you could not prevent this marriage.

Daemon entered alongside Rhaenyra, his uncle’s countenance imposing as ever. Aegon felt Aemond watching him with something akin to admiration. Rhaenyra’s brood of bastards came next, along with the rogue prince’s twin daughters sired on Laena Velaryon.

Aegon saw none of them truly. He was transfixed by the exquisite creature clad in ivory gliding towards him, lavender eyes already searching.

She was taller, leaner. Years of dragon-riding had honed her figure; she looked somewhat like her dragon, the wild Grey Ghost, with her ivory riding coat. With a jolt, he recognized that familiar mane of silver curls, remembered burying his nose in them and inhaling her scent. His eyes roved every curve hungrily; the swell of her hips, larger than they had been last time they were together, the curve of her breasts, her plush lips...

She was a woman now. His woman.

Aegon thrashed internally as he fought the urge to cross the hall and claim her in front of every lord in the court.

Her lavender eyes were hard to read. He recalled their power vividly, those wide, beseeching eyes, impossible and inescapable. She was inspecting him, too. Did he disappoint her? Bone-deep insecurities gnawed at him. His hands shook in want of a drink.

Aegon barely heard their father’s words.

“ … an honor to finally unite the two branches of my family, and to strengthen the dynasty of House Targaryen for another hundred years … “

A firm jab of Mother's elbow roused Aegon from his lustful thoughts. At her urging, he stepped forward; Daenerys did the same.

Aegon took her hand, as was custom, while King Viserys decreed, “Let the royal festivities commence! Prince Aegon and Princess Daenerys will be wed in three moons. May the gods bless the royal couple!”

Cheers erupted in the court.

Her skin burned in his. He felt the trembling of her hand, sensed her distress.

I love you. You left me. I need you. You are mine.

Aegon squeezed her hand tightly, pressing his lips to her skin, desperate to taste her, to consume.

The feast held in the Red Keep that night was more splendid an affair than any Daenerys had ever attended, a grand celebration fit for a royal couple. Bards sang ballads of Targaryen greatness, from Aegon the Conqueror's war for Westeros to her uncle Daemon's deeds in the Stepstones, while nobles devoured course after course of food. The Red Keep was a cacophony of sound. She was seated beside Aegon, of course. After their initial meeting, Daenerys had gladly been given leave to bathe and prepare for the approaching festivities. It felt strange, returning to the bedchambers of her youth. Had it always been so droll? Dragonstone was dank and draughty, true, but there was a familiarity to it that felt like home, the Dragonmont flushing the castle with heat like blood in a brick and mortar body.

The castle had changed. As the handmaidens scrubbed the scent of dragon from her skin in a copper tub filled with steaming water and scented oils, untangling the snares in her silver curls, the princess pondered the changes made to the castle, from the religious decor to the somber ghosts haunting the halls. Poor Father. He looks so ill.

And Aegon…

Thoughts of her betrothed made Daenerys dizzy as the handmaidens smoothed her dry and dressed her in a dazzling gown of silver silk embellished with opal and obsidian, her shoulders bare and anointed with perfumed oils beneath sweeping sleeves of Myrish lace. He is angry with me. No, not angry. Aegon never felt any emotion with anything less than its most intense potential; when he was joyful he lit up a castle, and his fury could scorch kingdoms to the ground. She felt his fury now.

He believes I abandoned him. Does he not see that I was always certain to return? Could he not grant me a few more years of freedom before the Hightowers ensured I was wed and bred to their would-be king?

No. Of course he did not understand. Aegon was a man, ignorant to the fears every woman faced in the birthing bed.

Men knew lust, however, and Daenerys had seen the lust in Aegon’s eyes. He wanted her. He hated her, but he wanted her. She’d been a fool to expect a less hostile welcome. He was no longer her sweet prince, the brother she loved and cherished, her partner in play. He was … different.

What if Rhaenyra was right? What if Aegon's heart had become as blackened as the towers of Harrenhal, a cruel drunkard replacing the precious boy she'd known?

And so the princess sat beside Aegon on the raised dais in the seat of high honor, steadfastly ignoring her betrothed as her hands silently shook beneath the table. Father retired early, too weary to endure the celebration, leaving Queen Alicent and Ser Otto to steer the pompous speeches plaguing the night. Daenerys poked at her food, wishing she' could talk to Rhaenyra and Daemon, sat on the far end of the table away from Alicent's children, and helped herself to wine. Aegon did the same. As she finished her first cup, her hands moved to signal one of the servants, only for Aegon to beat her to it. He filled her cup himself, eyes never meeting hers. She glanced at him, then away. She could scarcely look at him for shivering anew with nerves. What was happening to her?

Steel your nerves. You are the blood of the dragon.

Tyland Lannister disturbed the tension, thankfully, as he approached the dais.

“My prince,” he addressed Aegon first, “my princess. Please accept my sincere well wishes for your union. I am sure it will be fruitful.” He grinned. “You are truly a lucky man, my prince. To have such a beauty by your side.”

Aegon’s hand suddenly cupped her thigh possessively. She froze as he leaned forward.

“You are most kind, Lord Tyland. I assure you, nobody shall enjoy my beautiful wife quite like I.”

Lord Tyland laughed. “A babe in her belly within the year!”

Daenerys tensed. Aegon’s laugh grated her. Her own fury flamed beneath her skin, boiling her blood.

“That is most generous, Lord Lannister,” she drawled in a sickly sweet tone. “Perhaps you would join me in a dance to celebrate this joyful occasion? I fear my betrothed has neither the taste nor talent.”

Dancing with Tyland Lannister was not a welcome prospect, but making Aegon jealous was. Twice the buffonish lord trod on her feet. She bore it as long as she could, smiling sweetly and accepting his ludicrous comments about her nuptials to Aegon with courtesy fit for a princess. As the tempo of the music urged more people to dance, she took advantage of the opportunity to twirl away from Lord Tyland into Daemon's arms, who chuckled at her fortune. She glanced at the dais. Aegon was gone.

Daenerys excused herself, seeking refuge in the only place she truly enjoyed in the Red Keep -- the godswood. The weirwood tree was as beautiful as she remembered, it's bone branches illuminated by the full moon.

“I knew I would find you here. Your fascination with this tree remains bewildering.”

Aegon. He appeared as if from the wind, standing closer to her than courtesy deemed appropriate.

“I enjoy its peace." She turned to face him. "Peace is hard to come by in this place.”

“Would you have rather remained at Dragonstone?”

“My freedom was mine own at Dragonstone. Here we dance to the rhythm beat for us, pulled by invisible strings.”

“You sound like Helaena.”

“Helaena is smarter than you know. You should listen to her.”

He scoffed. “What would you know?” His fingers found her arms, digging into her. The heat of his breath tickled her face. “You chose to flaunt about Dragonstone at Rhaenyra’s side when we needed you most. You left us. I waited for you, Nerys. I waited and waited for you to come back to me, all while you hid beneath our sister’s skirts on that godsforsaken island. You abandoned me!”

Suddenly he shoved her into the weirwood tree, rough bark biting through her silver gown. His hands grasped her face hard enough to bruise. Fear gripped her … and something else, something that had lain dormant until Aegon roused it, a monster of fire and blood thrashing against its chains, demanding desire, passion, Aegon’s hands holding her tighter, tighter…

The blood of the dragon.

“Still all you think about is yourself,” she hissed, “your own welfare, how much you must suffer. Have you considered my choice to leave King’s Landing did not involve you?”

“It fucking should have,” he growled. “You were mine. You still are. I fucking needed you. Does that please you to hear? I needed you, Nerys. I always needed you, you know that. Father abhors me, and my mother…” Tears glistened his eyes. “Nothing I do shall ever be enough for her. You were all I had. And you fucking left me.”

The bloody leaves of the weirwood tree shielded them from view. Daenerys wondered hazily if she should scream. A guard might hear and come to her aid. Of course, there was no surety a royal guard would dare to touch Aegon, a prince of the realm, but they might alert Alicent or Rhaenyra…

The scream would not come. “I did not want to leave you.”

Aegon scoffed, unkind. “You are a liar.”

“By the gods, Aegon, must you be so dense? Did you ever listen to my words? I confided in you all those times how I feared I was doomed to meet my mother's fate. She was locked in a castle and forced to bear heirs for the crown until it killed her. Our father did that to her. The man who claimed to love her, to the detriment of his wife and family. I was … I am scared. You know there are those in this castle who believe to be Father’s true heir. Those same people will inflict on me what our father did to my mother. They would use me as a broodmare for your heirs. Even if it kills me.”

Aegon frowned, somewhat diminished. “I do not understand.”

“How could you? You are a man. Your life is your own.”

“Do not be so sure,” he snapped. “You are not the only one beholden to the expectations of others.”

Daenerys held his stare for a long time. “I have missed you,” she whispered.

His eyes devoured her. Hungry, he tugged at her silver curls as his lips captured hers.

Daenerys resisted, pushing against him, but Aegon was unyielding, warm and firm and familiar, and so perfect, hot and solid, silver locks entwining her fingers as she growled and scratched at his scalp, suddenly filled with his hunger… The dragon inside her thrashing, gouging, needing more more more…

It was not how she envisioned her first real kiss with Aegon. Their stolen, forbidden kisses of childhood had been chaste, unsure. There was nothing unsure about this. Their tongues met in a battle of dragonfire, hands clawing and pulling and pawing.

Aegon’s thigh slotted between her legs. A moan left her, swallowed by the star-filled night.

“That’s it,” he crooned. “Let your betrothed take care of you. That’s my good girl.”

“We cannot…”

“I don’t care.” His hand gripped her chin, forcing her to look at him. “You are mine. I will never let you leave me again. If I must, I shall chain to my bed and collar you like an animal, so nobody can steal you ever again. Would you like that, darling? To warm my bed and drain my cock whenever I fancy?”

His words repulsed her. So why was she soaking wet and throbbing where his thigh pressed against her? This was wrong, she was a princess, not a common whore to be despoiled before her wedding night… And Aegon… His passion terrified her. It thrilled her.

“You frighten me.” Her voice was small, barely a hush.

Aegon pressed his forehead to hers. “Good. Perhaps if I frighten you enough, you will know not to desert me again.”

She trembled.

“I can make you happy,” he said hastily. “I do not know how but I … I want to make you happy, Nerys. I love you.”

Burying his face in her curls, he kissed and nipped at her throat, eliciting breathy gasps and moans from her, the liquid pressure in her lower stomach growing and growing.

“Aegon… I don’t… I don’t know…”

“Shhh, sweet sister. I have you. Let go for me.”

And she did, a thousand stars swimming in her head, lost to pleasure and all thoughts of Aegon, Aegon, Aegon...

A/N: So I decided to rewrite my Aegon x OC fanfic. Enjoy, I'm very tired.

[shesjustanothergeek]

The Gods We Can Touch

Chapter One: My Dream

|Aemond Targaryen x Strong!Reader|

Masterlist of Series

Summary: The older twin of Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, you were a picture of the maiden, untouched and untainted by man's sins. At least, that was what Alicent Hightower believed when she held you in her arms moments after her old friend's labors. You were her shining light, her dream. Though you were never hers, she believed you were meant to be.

What will become of you as time passes and the Queen's shining light grows within the blackened darkness? Will her eldest son's morbid fascination with the light burn the realm? Or will her second son's obsession with the only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen change the course of the Seven Kingdoms as we know it?

Author's Note: Let's celebrate the first episode of season 2 with a new story! I'm publishing this before the show airs, so let's say a tentative prayer in case the first episode is Blood & Cheese. Thank you for reading! (⁠*⁠＾⁠3⁠＾⁠)⁠/⁠～⁠♡

Chapter Warnings: sexism (it's a patriarchal feudalistic society), brief descriptions of childbirth and death related to it, Alicent being delulu.

When Viserys Targaryen's wife, Aemma of House Arryn, had failed pregnancy after failed pregnancy, a girl was a welcomed result. It proved not only to Aemma herself and her King Husband that she could produce a child but to the realm that there was hope for a son, a much-preferred result.

“My dreams, my dreams! What has become of their sweetness? What indeed has become of my youth?” - Eugene Onegin by Alexander Pushkin

If a daughter were to be born seconds before a brother, it did not matter. He was the heir. If she was born decades before a boy, it did not matter. He was the heir. Or so the realm believed until the reign of Viserys of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, Son of Baelon and Alyssa Targaryen, Grandson to the Old King Jaehaerys.

Queen Consort Aemma Arryn died in pursuit of something she could not control, screaming, wailing, begging her husband not to cut her open, but he did not listen, for the birth of a son was more important than the life of a woman.

The infant Baelon Targaryen died a day later, leaving King Viserys a widower with only a daughter with the same fair skin and hair as the woman he murdered. The woman who laid slain on her birthing bed, bright blue irises now glassy, blood pooling from her womb, was given a Targaryen funeral along with the Heir for a Day, as her good brother called him, her last surviving child whispering, “dragon fire” through tears, with the encouragement of the same man who lusted after her and the throne.

The result of a mother’s and son’s death gave way to grief and anger. Viserys, blinded by the insults levied against his dead child, broke centuries of tradition and named Westeros’ first female heir Rhaenyra Targaryen.

Daemon Targaryen was furious at the abuse of being cast aside for a girl of ten and four and took to Dragonstone, the rightful seat of the Iron Throne's successor, with his whore, Lady Misery, an enslaved Lysene sold into the sex trade that became the Prince's favorite mistress.

Daemon did not hate his niece. He loved his family far more than anyone believed, so he surrendered when the Realm's Delight flew on her dragon to confront her uncle.

Less than a year later, not nearly long enough to mourn the death of two people, Viserys Targaryen married Alicent of House Hightower, daughter of the Hand and dearest friend to his daughter. The King saw the union as an act of fortunate duty and desire instead of love. On that much, the young Alicent Hightower could agree. Perhaps, he thought, it was a way to ensure his daughter would always have her closest Lady around, but Viserys was a fool . He could not see past his blinding grief and selfish lust that he tore the two girls apart.

Rhaenyra Targaryen's mother was a girl her age, a girl she longed to have to accompany her on Syrax, explore the East, and eat cake, but that was never meant to be. The Gods provided as quickly as they took, and her lifelong confidant viewed her with such hate and distaste that Rhaenyra soon began to consider her the same.

“Stepdaughter,” Alicent called her at the Princess's wedding feast to Ser Laenor of House Velaryon. Her voice laced with enough venom, and her dress so green you would mistake her for a snake. This gave Rhaenyra a sickening feeling in her gut, which soon hardened into one of cool indifference.

And that was how they lived.

Silent and icy indifference as Queen Alicent walked through the Targaryen halls of the Red Keep in Hightower Green, birthing the King his first surviving sons and second daughter.

However, there was a moment of repreave in the Queen's and the Princess's glacial flippancy when her forgotten ally fell pregnant for the first time.

Alicent could not help herself from caring for her old friend during her first pregnancy. She quickly fell back into the role of her Lady, supplying Rhaenyra with food, oils, clothing, and occasionally companionship during the quarrelsome nine moons.

The Queen had almost found it within her heart to forgive Rhaenyra for her lies and false swearing beneath the Heart Tree all those years ago, and she did until the labors when she saw the brown tuft of hair atop a young babe's head.

At the time, Alicent did not have a moment to contemplate what that meant before her friend screamed, holding on so tightly to her hand that she thought it might break as the rest of the infant emerged. The babe's face was so purple and cord wrapped around their neck that Alicent nearly cried, fearing life had repeated itself. The nursemaids quickly cut the blue and pink veiny line that connected the child to its mother, turning the babe upside down and spanking it on the back until its cries rang out throughout Maegor’s Holdfast.

A girl.

There, screaming and curling their once lifeless fist, were you , the firstborn child of Rhaenyra Targaryen, only by a mere moment, finally breathing and wailing as they swaddled you in an embroidered black and red cloth, a boy soon following.

“What shall you name them, your highness?” the eldest midwife asked, nearly as out of air as Rhaenyra.

“We…” the princess breathed heavily, positioning herself in the birthing chair. “We had only thought of a boy with the help of Lord Corlys. Jacaerys,” she panted, her cheeks tinged pink, either from exertion or embarrassment from being so thoughtless. Alicent did not know.

The nurse holding Rhaenyra’s son passed him to her, all eyes lingering on that same flattened-down dark hair. “Shall we wait for the Prince, your highness?” another question, holding the unnamed girl.

“I think,” Rhaenyra groans, shifting her weight to account for the new one, “we shall be waiting for a while should my husband suddenly return from his travels.” She glanced at Alicent, watching her once closest friend pick at the skin of her nails. She grinned, a brilliant idea coming to mind as she ordered the maid to give her daughter to the Queen. 

Alicent's doe eyes widened as she accepted. She peered down at the tiny bundle before her, still crying, purple face now a deep red and full of life. The Queen did not know what came over her as she leaned, bringing the child’s blotchy forehead to her lips, inhaling the unique scent only a newborn has. She noticed the muscles around where the babe's brows should be twitching, opening her eyes to reveal a mirror of Alicent’s own looking at her.

The Queen forgot for a moment that she was not her own and that she should be alarmed that the child's eyes bore no resemblance to their parents. Yet the Queen continued to smile down at the small fidgeting bundle in her grasp, her arms wiggling themselves out of their confines to clench and unclench. The cries now became softer but still there. Sounds that used to cause Alicent great distress now soothe her uneasy soul like a salve to a wound. 

“What shall we call her, my Queen?” Rhaenyra questioned, a crooked smile on her face as Alicent broke from her revere. Her plush lips parted in surprise, looking as if a deer caught grazing alone in a field.

The Queen appeared bewildered, unprepared for such a monumental task; all faces turned to her. “I… I am unsure, Princess. I did not come prepared for such an honor.”

Rhaenyra kept the same lopsided grin on her lips, showing the tips of her white teeth. “Tis all mine. It's an honor to have the Queen Consort of the Seven Kingdoms name my first born daughter.”

“An honor I accept gladly,” Alicent rushed, worried that her refusal would shatter their peace.

She paused, pursing her lips in thought. Despite having three and another on the way, she had never named a child. Helaena was the closest she had ever gotten, a familiar name within the Reach but made to fit the traditional Targaryen spelling. Alicent would have something to herself, one tiny sliver of something that belonged to her, and she was unsure what to do with it. She was confident that Rhaenyra would be content with any name she chose, but she wanted it to be unique, to mean something more than just a word.

Alicent thought of her mother then—her darling mother, whom she barely had a chance to spend life with before a fever took her. A mother that her father said she looked like an extension of, and suddenly, only one name felt right.

The Queen was constantly conflicted about every choice she made, every move. From the food she ate to the clothes she wore, Alicent always worried herself over it, wondering if she had made the correct decision, but in this, she was sure. No man, woman, or God could sway her from this choice. It was right. The Queen could feel it in the marrow of her bones that it was so.

“Aelora.”

Aelora, my light.

The King came bursting moments later, a servant dressed in a crimson gown, white apron, and cap standing anxiously beside him. He immediately went straight into the room, brushing past his wife in favor of his daughter. Alicent felt a sour taste in her mouth at the notion, pulling the quiet lump tighter to her chest.

“A boy and a girl!” Viserys excitedly hollered, Rhaenyra passing Jacaerys to him. Anxiousness settled over the birthing chamber, the midwives and maids observing with worrisome eyes at the head of brown hair. “ Ah! And I see they have inherited my favorite cousin's hair.”

He held the newborn with a reverence Alicent had never seen with her own, and she stepped back into the shadows of the onlookers. She peered down, catching the babe's eyes shut and face slack, still with the fresh scent of birth. She brought you to her forehead again as she took in this brief moment of joy, nose nuzzling the infant’s as she grunted at the intrusion.

“Aelora, the Gods’ Light. My shining light,” she whispered so softly against the babe's satin-smooth skin that it drifted into the air like dust, lost in the wind. 

“Oh, and her eyes, too!” Viserys beamed, hoisting Jacaerys into the air as the wetnurses squealed in terror. “She will make a fine queen one day, and should the Gods allow it, you, a king.” Rhaenyra laughed at her father's antics, already planning the children’s marriage. She was too high on the feeling of birthing not one but two healthy babes, a boy and a girl, no less to care. Alicent's amber eyes flicked to her husband and then to your plump face, a frown pulling her lips.

Aegon had come quickly and without fuss. Though Alicent was merely a girl of ten and six when it happened, the moments leading up to it frightened her thoroughly. She worried her nails down to the quick, the pink fleshy beds exposed and bleeding whenever she would use too harsh of a grip.

She knew of what happened to Aemma Arryn, that the babe was stuck and couldn't turn to leave the womb, at least to the Maester’s belief. He gave the King a choice, not the woman who was writhing in pain as her body contracted, to either let the process play out with the chance that the child and his wife could perish or have him slice her open from hip to hip, dig through her guts and blood to pry the child out. Aemma Arryn had no voice in the matter from what she heard from the midwives, as her husband allowed a man to pull Prince Baelon straight from her womb.

Alicent did not want to face the same fate and prayed to the Mother day after day, night after night, until her knees were yellow and blue, and even then, she continued her efforts. She was alone in all this, with no one to confide in. Her father had told her to do her duty when she expressed concern. He assured her the King would allow no such thing if she did everything correctly. He offered no comfort, and Alicent longed for her dearest Princess. Her prayers were answered when that fateful day came, and the labors lasted no more than an hour.

She birthed a healthy boy with blonde hair and purple eyes, but even then, Viserys did not act the way he was now with Rhaenyra's children. A means to end all the uncertainty of an heir, her father said in words of solace. She hadn't understood what he meant then. Rhaenyra was the heir, crowned Princess of Dragonstone, and Lords swore allegiance to her across the realm. To Alicent, there was no uncertainty until there was.

Until Otto Hightower planted the rot that festered and spread in her mind that the girl she grew up alongside, the girl she spent so many days and nights with, the girl that had said she would forget her duty and fly off across the world eating nothing but cake with her friend by her side, would murder Alicent's children so they could not depose her reign.

She did not believe Rhaenyra was capable of cruelty, but then again, she had once considered her incapable of lying to her and was proven wrong.

She began to fuss as if the infant in her embrace could sense the Queen's unrest. Her delicate little face scrunched up as Alicent bounced her softly, cooing soothingly. She smiled despite her unpleasantness within, unfazed by the sudden outburst, unlike when Helaena had her fits as a child. Her daughter would have to meet her niece and nephew, along with Aegon. Aemond was too young. She wouldn't be able to keep a close eye on him.

Though he was half the size of Aegon when he was born, he had grown twice as fierce. At barely three years old, his nursemaids had to ceaselessly follow the moonlight-haired boy less than a step away lest he jump down a flight of stairs just to see if he could. Once, when Alicent dismissed the servants from Aemond's chambers as he readied for bed, she turned her back on him for a singular blink, and he opened his balcony doors and climbed over the railing to get a better view of the night sky. Alicent remembered how he kicked and screamed as she yanked him from the ledge, saying words and phrases she never knew, even at the age she was now.

“My Queen,” the wetnurse called like she had repeated herself as Alicent looked at the girl. “The young Princess needs her first feeding.” The woman held out her arms for her to hand over the fussing bundle, a calm but concerned expression on her face.

Alicent refused, curling her limbs as the babe squirmed, her cries becoming ear-piercing screams. She knew the child needed to eat but could not force her body to release the girl. It was as if her very bones denied the movement that was not keeping the hungry infant close to her. The fleeting thought that Alicent could feed the girl herself crossed her mind, but she shook it away, realizing the ludacrisy of it. It was improper for a woman of nobility to nurse their child. That's what the maids were for, the Queen told herself.

The wetnurse peered at her curiously, walking a pace closer, but Alicent stepped back as if she attempted to harm her. “The King has not held her yet,” she protested, looking towards her King-Husband in an attempt to prolong her time.

“All is well, Alicent. What kind of King refuses to let their babe grandchild eat?” he jested, tilting his head to the side playfully and exposing a gaping smile. It made Alicent want to vomit.

When she doesn't move to listen, the Queen stared at her husband like her silence could serve as a rejection of his words. Viserys sighed as Rhaenyra watched with piqued interest, wordlessly handing Jacaerys to another maid.

“Alicent, give her the child.”

She hesitated again, her brown eyes flickering to Rhaenyra when she did not offer for Alicent to stay while the maids worked. Once again, she mused bitterly, watching the infant intently as she relented. I give my dream away to you. A dream that was never indeed mine.

The Queen bowed to the Princess, congratulating her on the success as she took her leave, hand splaying over the swollen stomach of her emerald green gown. It felt too tight, the once smooth fabric now itching at her skin, the fine hairs on her arms catching between the threads.

How stupid she was to believe in Rhaenyra’s kindness. She felt like a girl again, the same girl who stood beneath the Weirwood, listening to her friend swear on her mother’s memory that she had not lain with a man, only to find out there was moontea delivered to her chambers.

A sudden kick was sent to the Queen's abdomen, halting her brisk pace as she doubled over within the pale redstone hall. Ser Criston Cole arrived moments later, helping her rise to her feet. She soothed the afflicted area with her palm, no doubt the cause being her own making. Despite the growing life inside of her, the Queen has now done it four times. Alicent believed the moment she laid her wide amber eyes on yours was the closest she had ever felt to being whole with someone in her life. It’s as if the child's very being was now a part of her, and every moment she was away, it felt as if she was missing a piece of her soul.

Rhaenyra flaunts and does as she pleases, lies, and tricks all she pleases. It made Alicent furious with a rage she had not felt for nearly a decade. Aelora will not become like her mother. The Green Queen will not allow it, even if she has to twist and shape the clay of Aelora's mind into something of her own. Aelora is her dream. She is the Gods' shining light, and Alicent will be damned if she allows Rhaenyra to blacken her glow.

Septon Eustace's Recount of Princess Aelora I Targaryen's Early Life

The young Velaryon princess, later taking her mother’s namesake, grew into a spritely and mischievous child, playing jests on her Septa and Prince Aemond with the aid of her brothers and the eldest of the Queen’s children, Prince Aegon. She did not develop into a traditional Targaryen beauty with blonde hair and violet eyes; instead, she had a golden chestnut crown with eyes to match. Many said she resembled Queen Alicent, though if anyone made the error of voicing it, they faced Princess Rhaenyra’s wrath.

Though her features were plain by Targaryen standards, the realm rejoiced in her beauty. Lords and ladies commissioned portraits of her countenance throughout the kingdom, proudly displaying a halcyon halo of red rubies adorning the top of her divine facade. The common folk coined the name “The Gods' Light” for the sweet girl. A glimpse of her was as close as one would get to the Maiden, and they cherished it whenever Princess Rhaenyra's faction made rare journeys to the Grand Sept.

Masterlist of Series

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I'm excited to write for my favorite war criminal, Visenya Incarnate, Aemond Targaryen. I'm just super happy to write Aemond smut! I'm also taking a different approach to this story because it will solely be based on the show (to the best of my ability), not the book, and will be released with the same progression. It will have accounts of the reader's life through the eyes of the Maester's. Of course, there will be some cannon divergence and whatnot, considering we're introducing a new character into the fray. This fic will also be a lot darker than what I've written in the past, including content such as childhood sexual assault and the after-effects of it, self-harm, depression, suicide, and unhealthy sibling dynamics/relationships.

This story is told from the second person's perspective. The reader only has a name for the sake of a title and the description of Strong features.

Y'all have no idea how fulfilling writing has been for me. It's given me purpose when I've felt like I had none. It's helped my mental health by giving me an outlet for self-expression and a good source of distraction from all the worries I have in life. I wish I could get paid for this!

I hope y'all will enjoy the story as much as I will writing it, and of course, thank you so much for taking the time to read this. You genuinely have no idea how much your support means to me, but I will continue to express it in the best way I know how. ♡⁠(⁠˃͈⁠ ⁠દ⁠ ⁠˂͈⁠ ⁠༶⁠ ⁠)

Ps. Alicent's mom's name is unknown in the show and the book, so I'm creating a name that combines my original idea with traditional Targaryen spelling.

Pronunciation: Uh-lore-uh, Ae-lore-uh

Origin: Latin

Meaning: dream, dreamer, shining light.

Biblical Meaning: God is light, God's light.

Tagged Peeps: @millies0bsimp, @britt-mf

[rhaegonthinker]

“do you see him when you look at me, sister? do you see our father?” aegon licks his chapped lips, looking into her bright violet eyes, wanting to see into her mind, know every waking that crosses her mind—of him. “tell me, rhaenyra, is that what you see? all you see?” aegon says a bit more desperately, gritting his teeth in pain, his flesh still burning, skin scorched. he wants to kill aemond for ruining him, taking what will to live he had left. he wants to take revenge on him like he wanted to on his sister for murdering his son, until he found out the truth. that she had no part in it. a son for a son is what she wanted, but when she found him—her half-brother—half burned, half broken like their father, she took pity on him, sparing his life, putting a price on aemond’s instead—the other brother who they both want revenge on now. something else in common they share besides their dragon blood.

rhaenyra looks at him with more softness in her eyes than she ever has and aegon wishes she would say something.

“tell me, nyra,” he rasps, tears falling down his face, stinging his burns. tell me you see me, your brother, your blood, your equal. tell me you see someone besides a replica of our father, half dead, half decayed. he clenches his hands into fists, his whole body going rigid and aegon wants milk of the poppy, needs it to dull the pain, the suffering of her silence.

because aegon wants her. his heart. his soul. his spirit. even his body, his belly rippling with a river of feverish desire. desire he hasn’t felt in many moons. not since it was torn away from him, like sunfyre.

but rhaenyra has awakened the dormant dragon within him. and it roars to life, demanding attention, her touch, her affection, her love. he’s about to beg her, say please, when her clear voice breaks through his all consuming thoughts.

”yes,” she answers honestly, truly, and aegon’s heart skips a beat, because at least it’s the truth, but she isn’t finished, giving him a smile. “but i see the good parts of him in you,” she runs her fingers over the side of his scarred cheek, caressing it lightly, wiping away his tears, careful of her sharp nails. aegon gulps, imagining her running them down his naked chest, where the flesh isn’t ruined, where she could inflict pleasured pain born of passion. “you have a good heart, little brother. i see it now.” rhaenyra places her right hand against his hammering heart, gentle as a mother’s kiss upon her babe’s brow. “some parts that are our father, your mother…even me.” rhaenyra leans in close, breathing deep and placing her left hand on the other side of his chest, leveraging her weight against him now. and it makes his breath hitch, wishing her warmth, her body would burden his always, for he’d always carry her with him—always will from now on.

“but, sweet brother,” the affectionate words roll off of rhaenyra’s tongue like an aphrodisiac and aegon’s already drunk off them, his lips barely brushing hers and he whines low in the back of his throat, wanting to taste the saccharine sweetness. “i see all of you, only you, my aegon—wholly.”

wholly. the word rings inside aegon like glorious bells awakening, tolling victoriously. because his sister, his queen, sees him for who he is, has always been, not a ghost haunting them both. not just parts and pieces of a whole.

aegon kisses her hungrily, tasting no bitterness or poison, but pure honey; initiating and igniting the war their mouths wage on one another’s, their tongues battling for dominance. a dance of dragons that both of them deem to win, until rhaenyra’s the first to bite his bottom lip, draw his blood, tasting his coppery crimson for herself.

“sister,” aegon hisses, his hands grabbing onto her for dear life, groaning when she sucks his lip desperately, for it’s not painful, but blissful to bleed for his sister. for every piece of himself attaches to her, every part, aches for her eternally.

[bronzefuryfic]

Rhae Targaryen

When the only child of Daemon Targaryen and Rhea Royce is brought to King's Landing to meet with the rest of her family, she finds herself caught in a crisis of succession. The Greens battle for her support... and her affections.

Fic Highlights

Bronze Fury is a heavily green-centric fic from the perspective of my OC, Rhae, as she struggles with identity, love, and loss over the course of the canon events in House of the Dragon!

Canon-compliant, but greatly expanded!

This fic aims to enhance what I love most about the show! Rhae is used to add to the themes already present- providing additional motivation for the Greens, and facilitating more opportunities for them to talk and develop. HotD is the outline, and Bronze Fury stuffs it full with...

'Missing' scenes! Have you ever wondered what happened between the time skips? Who were these characters ~before~ tragedy strikes? And when it does... what do their transformations look like up close?

New storylines! Rhae has her own characterization, and her own goals, unique to her experience as Daemon's forgotten daughter by Rhea Royce. See her grapple with her legacy as Daemon's daughter and Lady of Runestone, as well as navigate her role amongst her new found family, the Greens.

Rhae has unique romantic storylines with both Aegon and Aemond!

If you are a fan of jealous!Aegon or jealous!Aemond, you will find it here in spades. This fic explores the jealousy between the brothers on all levels- not just as it pertains to their romantic rivalry! See them bicker, fight, make-up, then do it all over again. And again. And again.

Childhood friends to lovers! (And occasional enemies). This fic begins with the younger version of the green kids and follows them into adulthood. See how it all began. See how it all falls apart.

Pining! Lots and lots of pining. And co-dependency. And betrayal.

Rhae proves herself to be worthy of their infatuation. Their respective connections are heavily grounded in shared experiences (parental neglect, grievous injuries) and genuine feeling. You won't be left wondering why they're both attracted to her, or her to them- It's all very earned!

Rhae and Helaena are best friends!

We need more female friendships! And the one between Rhae and Helaena is tooth-achingly sweet, with an equal amount of time dedicated to their bond as with either brother. They have tea-time, they play with bugs, they pray at the Sept. They have sleepovers and talk about their freaky dreams...

Rhae gives Helaena the space to freely voice her own opinions- learn how she feels about her family, her future, and more!

Alicent and Criston as complicated parental figures!

Watch Alicent lure a motherless girl to King's Landing to secure her allegiance to their cause- by any means necessary. Private communications, private dinners... does Alicent truly care for the teenager she's brought into her home? Or is she merely a means to an end- fodder for the war, meant only to protect her children?

When your father is Daemon Targaryen, pretty much anyone looks better in comparison- and Criston Cole is no exception! Once fearful of the knight, Rhae quickly comes to appreciate his strength... and his tutelage. He's a tough instructor, but Rhae will put up with anything if it means learning to fight from the best of the best.

Dreams of patricide

Sometimes it feels that Rhae can trace all her problems back to a singular cause- that being none other than her father, Daemon. The Rogue Prince killed her mother and abandoned his daughter for fifteen years. Rhae thinks she ought to kill him for that... but not before understanding one thing: Why?

How is Rhae - a young, disabled, dragonless girl - ever going to face her father? Work. Hard, long years of it. Will her efforts to learn combat and claim a dragon be enough? Can she protect her new family from his wrath? Will she be able to avenge those who have already fallen victim to it?

Interested in reading? Check out the BRONZE FURY DIRECTORY!

Still not sure if it's for you? Feel free to send any questions you have! My anons are always on- let me know what you're looking for (characterization, plot, specific character dynamics etc), and I'll let you know if you'll find it in my fic!

[buttercup--bee]

Salt in the Wound

Summary: Aemond's eye has been taken. Saera must come terms with it.

Pairing(s): Aemond Targaryen/Saera Velaryon; Future Aegon Targaryen/Saera Velaryon;

Warning(s): Mentions of Child Abuse; Non-descriptive Violence; Emotional Trauma; Saera Velaryon is Lucerys;

Main Masterlist ~ Series Masterlist ~ Ao3 ~ Playlist ~ Next

Blind fury clouds what injustice simmers within the air. 

A tension so taut that no one dares move a muscle. Saera is pinned beneath its current, held below to wither under its duress. 

She hadn’t meant to. Not really. If she could take back her actions, sheath the knife, never join her family in their search, she would. 

The princess had only meant to protect her brother, her cousins, she never anticipated that her unpracticed swing would take an eye. Perhaps give him a slant scar, or take some of his hair, but not an essential piece of the boy–as important as an arm or leg. 

A gods forsaken eye. 

Saera’s mind drifts to Aemond, his half-hearted attempts to comfort her and Jace for the loss of Laena–and perhaps, in his own sordid concern, the loss of Harwin Strong. He never said it aloud, and while Jace had denied any hurt feelings, Aemond had been sent away in a fit of fury by her older sibling just for being present with that knowing glimpse in his eyes.

She didn’t believe he was being cruel, simply making an attempt to reach out to family he hadn’t seen in years. Unlike Aegon, who had avoided them like the plague, and Helaena, who was far more interested in the spiders she had found on the pavilion. 

A small piece of her believed that mayhaps, if the future were kind, they may mend their qualms and try anew. Thinking back on it now, her wistful thinking had done nothing but encourage the hate. Playing peacemaker had never helped, and so she avoided the urge to do so, only for her defensible action to permanently ruin her own family. Her own uncle. 

Rhaenyra, as ferocious as any dragon, keeps Saera behind her. Clenching her arm with such strength, Saera almost mistook it for anger. But worry in her twin lavender hue, matched only by the sneer across her lips, had exclaimed otherwise. 

She was worried. Afraid. She shook even while holding her children, a furrow between her brows that dared someone to try and do anything else but throw insults.

Queen Alicent is very much the same, having gathered Aegon and Helaena close to her side, while examining her son. Cripple, for all the terms they could use, is what his condition ascribes. And Saera is at fault. 

That is what she must be finally realizing, Saera thinks when the two of them meet each other's gaze. Alicent’s is fueled by vexation and wretched despair, her hand reaching round to keep Aemond close to her while she questions the maester.

Said uncle will not keep eye contact, let alone allow her to believe he knows she is there. Tears cloud her vision, as she thinks of what could have been. Why hadn’t she simply put the knife down and soothed her cousins and brother? Aemond had claimed a dragon, and while the timing had been distasteful, that didn’t change the fact that Vhagar had claimed him in return. The old beast had found the boy worthy. 

Who were a few children to determine if it was right or wrong? If the oldest, largest dragon alive was only for a predetermined child–who may have burned or been denied? Dragons cannot be tamed, merely led away from the slaughter. 

The tension snaps only when Viserys hobbles within the chamber they all share, the entrance doors slamming against stone. It practically vibrates across their space, wiggling between shared apprehension. His cane echo’s as heavy footsteps might in place of his own, his grace gone, his youth weathered beyond repair, but his frustration is sprite and easy. 

No one speaks, they barely breathe, especially as the King halts upon finding his son bloodied, bruised, and without an integral piece of his Targaryen ancestry. They were lilac, Saera recalls mournfully, almost transparent in sunlight. His frown falls, and in its place a glare that sharpens across the crowd. 

“Who?” he demands, for he needn’t express his distaste past a simple word. Saera had only witnessed her grandsire's displeasure twice. A third time, it would seem, is meant for her. Not that he is aware of it yet, she hopes; though she doubts, even as a princess, as his granddaughter, that she will go unpunished. 

A sting, a throb, it slithers behind her own eye. A match for Aemond’s lack thereof. If only she could see the damage as Alicent and his family have. If only she could meet his attention forthright, and give him the apology he deserves. 

It was an accident, but that didn’t mean she should go unacknowledged. Even Saera could recognize that. It is an injury the boy will never recover from. Not as a whole.

“I will have answers!” the old King hobbles closer to Aemond, who preens for attention, even if the source is his pain.

Ser Westerling rolls his shoulders, as stiff as he is, “The princes and princess were meant to be abed, your grace.”

“Who?” The King articulates sharply, once more. It is all the warning the Kingsguard needs to stop making an attempt to go about this ordeal gently.

“The young prince was attacked by his own cousins, your grace.” Ser Westerling sighs, though Saera can find no fault in it. He is correct. 

Viserys trembles, whether due to his failing age or anger, the little princess cannot decipher. “You swore oaths,”outrage pours from his lips as venom does from a vipers fang, brutal and unforgiving, “to protect my blood!”

Ser Criston Cole, the only man in pearlescent plate that her mother has shown distrust towards, speaks up. “The Kingsguard have never had to defend princes from princes,” Cole spares her a quick, knowing glance, “nor a princess. My apologies, your grace.”

“That is no answer!” 

Jace opens his mouth, regretfully, the moment Rhaenys and Corlys waltz through the doors not long after the King. 

“He attacked me!” Jace shouts, “he attacked Baela and Rhaena and my own sister!” 

Aemond twists his torso, capturing Jacaerys with a scowl so fierce, even she shrinks in size because of it. Hencewith, chaos breaks loose. It’s a heap of accusations and frustrations. Saera can make out only bits of the fight, wiping softly at her leaking nose. 

Crimson stains the sleeve of her nightgown. The sight gains Rhaenyra’s apt aggression. Not towards her, no, but towards those who would do and say whatever it took to gain some semblance of revenge.

Rhaenyra makes to move forward, only to be held down by Saera’s extreme grip. She smiles down at her with all the comfort she can muster, pulls her daughter to her hip, and says with determination, “My children are in line to inherit the Iron throne, your grace” Viserys looks to her, frown steep, and his stance slumping, “insults were levied against them. Horrendous lies that can jeopardize their ascent if it were to become truth among lords and smallfolk alike.”

A moment passes, where even the singing of crickets could be heard as a low hum outside the stone castle. 

“Are you to say Aemond,” his head tilts towards his second son, “called them–what–what could possibly have been said to cause such chaos?” 

The crown princess sighs, “They were called bastards, your grace”, and without pause, Saera can sense the power struggle slipping as she speaks, the confusion and horror ripe on the Queen's face. Was it truly a winning hand to use her and her brother's blood as an escape? Saera has been told she is Targaryen, and that is all that matters. And while Aemond has called them Strong bastards, she cannot help but think this will not work, for it is true. 

Saera will never say it aloud. Certainly not around others. But Jace has confirmed who their father is. And it is not Laenor Velaryon. 

However, her mother is adamant that it be declared a lie. 

It is a small thing to insult another over purity, especially amongst family; it is another to take someone's sight. 

And yet–

“It is the highest of treasons.” Rhaenyra holds her head high, determination coursing through her very being. Another squeeze, tighter than the others, and Saera is closer than she has any reason to be, “prince Aemond must be sharply questioned, so we might learn where he heard such slanders.”

Aemonds expression morphs from one of annoyance to shock, which slowly fades into incredulity. Even Saera, for all her love, gasps at what her mother has insinuated. In return, Rhaenyra grapples at her palm all the more for it, her other hand smoothing her tousled hair.

The Queen lifts her brows, her mannerisms calm, despite what her mother had just suggested. “Over an insult?” her voice is just above a whisper, harsh, critical, “my son has lost an eye.” Desperation coats her as oil does a torch or lamp or lighthouse, turbulent and blinding.

Rhaenyra does not falter, whatever her true emotions may be are hidden beneath a mask of indifference. Saera finds it…uncomfortable. Would she truly have Aemond tortured? Over an insult? Even Jacaerys flinches at Alicent’s disbelief, as he seems to be of the same mind. 

The King maintains his daughter's eye, and without a word leans to meet Aemond face to face. 

“You tell me boy,” his tone has lost its affection, the worriment he once displayed for his boy all but vanished, “where did you hear this lie?” 

Apprehension coalesces where space breathes between warm bodies, thick as molasses, and as fearsome as any congregation held in the throne room. Saera must admit, she is shocked that Viserys would turn so cold towards his own blood–his seed–as easily as he had. It confounds the young princess, though her mother seems expectant. 

Before Aemond can speak a word, Alicent dangles an answer with a soft, velvet intonation. 

“The insult was training yard bluster,” despite the distance and the heavy frock of her mother, Saera lays witness to Alicent pick at her fingers, the entirety of her being rigid, “it was nothing.” 

His wife's conclusion doesn’t sway Viserys even a little, his focus solely on his second son. His bloodied, beaten boy. Saera feels awful. Her very being aches at the procession, as if the sea has pulled her into its depths, the salty liquid forcing its way down into her lungs, its ice stabbing at her insides. How is any of this disaster fair? Aemond has lost an eye.

Viserys glowers, “Aemond…I asked you a question.” 

Aemond does not bend, his jaw set, and has little to no shame staring his own father head on. Nothing wasps past his lips, their set defiance one of indignation. Saera imagines she might have done the same. 

A brisk step, then another, “Where is Ser Laenor, I wonder?” The Queen mother bristles in accusation, “the children's father? Perhaps he might have something to say on the matter.”

It is Rhaenyra’s turn to stiffen, her poise lessening by the second. Viserys never turns his leer from his son when he pipes in, “Yes, where is Ser Laenor?” 

“Entertaining one of his young squires, I’d venture.” 

Saera frowns, her heart pittering at a rabbit's hymn; as a young girl, a child, she is unaware of what truly happens behind closed doors. Especially with her parents. All she knew is her father was someone else. A man without a trace of Valerian blood. A knight and guardsman. So close yet so very, very far away. 

A man who was not Laenor Velearyon. Pity used to encase Saera, once she had pieced it together one fateful morning. Those at court had nothing to say on the matter but cruel, thoughtless pieces that rummaged her mind for weeks. Mother so fiercely objected to the mere audacity to call them bastards, that Saera never thought more on the subject until then. She had been wholly unprepared for the sting of it all. 

Saera still made the attempt to pretend she didn’t know, in the hopes that she could play the part and come across as a true daughter of salt and sea. That Laenor, in all his affections, and lack of, was her father. It was easier. And he appeared grateful to be of service to her whims and whimsy. 

He’d taught her to tie knots aboard his ship, to navigate the sea using the stars, and had taken her sailing more than once; it had almost been easy to turn a blind eye, a stiff nose, and a deaf ear to the rumors that sprang about her in every direction.

Then she’d seen them, in the early dawn, whispering sweet nothings before Harwin was to leave for Harrenhall. Saera always slipped from bed before everyone else woke, to spend the early hours nestled against her mothers chest. She was warm, safe, and comfortable. Where else was a young princess to spend her waking hours? 

In a way, it broke her heart. How many times had she asked her mother for the truth, and was denied even that part of herself? The rest of that day had been quiet. Mother spoke to her, but often found that her daughter was unwilling to answer more than a sentence's worth. Saera hated who she was. What she is. And mother had lied to her about it. Over and over and over. 

Rhaenyra stalls, shaking her head only to speak with confusion sprinkled amidst her tone, while Viserys looks to her for an answer; “I do not know your, your grace,” she almost stutters, and Saera is unsure if she would have noticed if she weren’t joined to her mothers hip, “I…could not find sleep and had gone out on a walk.”

Viserys weighs the details, sighs, and returns with a look so cold she would have confused Aemond for anyone but the King's son; an enemy seemed more apt. Saera has never seen her grandsire appear so callous. Especially towards his own children.

“Look at me,” he demands, all the more furious despite his calm reproach, “your King demands an answer. Who told these lies to you?”

Her uncle cranes his neck away from the man's lurid venom, his last eye, his only eye, focused entirely on his mother. Saera subconsciously leans forward, to make room and see the spectacle for herself. Worry clambers over her frail frame, and it takes much effort (not her own, but her mothers strenuous grip) not to run over and declare this all foolish. That she did it; she took her uncle's eye and should she be punished so this will all be put to rest, so be it.

A tense beat passes, then another, the question gone unanswered long enough that when he does, Saera startles. 

“It was Aegon.” 

“Me?” 

Her eldest uncle appears eerily unphased, as though he has already accepted his brother's confession. She recognizes the expression; dull, lost, and most prevalent, gone from the present. 

A constant state her cousin-uncle thrives upon. Viserys makes what haste he can towards his eldest son, ensuring that in the process, he is as close to the poor sod as possible. They share the same breath, Viserys’ rancid hiss curling at Aegon’s ear. 

“Where did you hear such calumnies?” the prince says nothing, just as his brother did, his chest stuttering, flinching, and he physically shrinks when Viserys roars, “Aegon! Tell me the truth of it!”

They fear him. Viserys’ own children’s love dissipates in his presence, the same she and her mother cherish. At this moment, all Saera can comprehend is the thrum of her blood, the empty pit in her stomach; it rolls and trashes until the nausea peaks at the back of her throat. Why must he be so vicious? 

Aegon pouts, his brows drawn down in a tight furrow the same time he proffers one, singular glance she and Jacaerys’ way. It is one of remorse. Gone quicker than a shooting star–its light absent before she could truly examine the glow.

“We know, father.” He declares, straightening his shoulders and flexing his free hand, “Everyone knows. Just look at them.”

Her heart sinks. Despite her mother's reassuring grip–her other arm winding about Jace tightly–it does nothing to stop the plummet she experiences. 

The absence of noise this time around is a thunderous, monstrous tidal wave that burns Saera alive. It nips at her heels with no remorse, claws down her humid spine only to dig at her abdomen. The night life can be heard once more; a monet for liars and their broken hearts. 

Saera manages a weak gape, her hold loosening the longer the claim goes undefended. For even Viserys, her mothers greatest protector, glares at the floor without utterance. He had winced at first, dared to make eye contact with Rhaenyra before retreating to the marbled stone.

Lashing, cornered, Viserys near growls his words, “This interminable infighting must cease!” He stabs his cane into the floor. His face grows ruby red, the shade uneven and patchy, “All of you!” Viserys is mournfully wounded, his voice cracking as he shouts it across the expanse of the chamber. “We are family! Now make your apologies and show good will to one another!” 

It does not escape Saera’s notice; Alicent’s flinch, the sudden shake of her head; big, brown eyes glossier than Dragonstones waters. The miserable awe in his open conclusion has visibly shaken the Queen. 

“Your father, your grandsire-” another furious jab to the stone echos against her sternum-”your King demands it!”

A progressive, steady thump is all that follows his decree. For one, two ,three more jabs, another dares to voice their reason.

“That is insufficient.”   

He halts, turning towards Alicent with little emotion behind his eyes. All besides annoyance. 

Alicent continues regardless. “Aemond has been damaged permanently, my King. ‘Good Will’ cannot make him whole.”

“I know, Alicent, but I cannot restore his eye.”

“No, because it has been taken.”

“What would you have me do?” He urges, frustration creasing at his forehead. 

“There is a debt to be paid.” Rhaenyra braces herself, shielding Saera from Alicents point of view. The princess is unable to escape despite her morbid curiosity, her other arm easily overpowered and held firmly to Jace’s chest. “I shall have one of her son’s eyes in return.”

Joffrey, behind herself and Jace, whimpers in horror when Alicent’s ultimatum sets in. A son for a son. An eye for an eye. 

It seems not that whomever scarred her son personally mattered to her; only that an heir paid the price for an heir’s disfigurement. Saera did not meet those requirements. Her heart seizes, her figure a fit of tremors when the ordeal she faces cements her lungs in smoking charcoal. A brother would pay the price of her own fault. 

Viserys glowers down at Alicent when he inches forward, his octave dipping lower in warning. “My dear wife–”

“He is your son, Viserys, your blood!” She stresses, her shoulders shaking, her body practically lurching. Distress drapes the Queen in a heavy cloak–one thicker than anyone had anticipated. The King must lower himself, even at his current age, to meet Alicent directly. 

She leers backwards, as if burnt, his presence snapping the atmosphere between them in two. 

“Do not allow your temper to guide your judgment.” Do not ask me to choose, for I will not. His being emulates the very essence of his verdict, and the lack of action he intended to take. 

It’s not enough. Saera can sense it. The whole room can sense it–its current choppy, disorganized, and abhorrently strong. 

Her demeanor, as small as it’d been, eclipses Viserys agitation as if it were an ant, an errant little bug that had managed to get in her way–enraged, she is, her lip curling in disgust–all birthed in retribution.

“If the King will not seek justice, the Queen will.” Alicent broaches the Kingsguard, demanding an accomplice, “Ser Cole, bring me the eye of Jacaerys Velaryon.”

The man turns to stone, steadying himself under her command. His stare is one of cold apprehension. 

Saera is numb–the mere image of her brother scarred as Aemond rips a needle through her sternum. Her muscles contract, her throat constricts around nothing–and still, she chokes. Suffocating on dread, on the inevitable. 

It’s a blur then, movement jarring to her tear-swollen eyes, conversation and argument alike a low vibration in the back of her skull. All she can focus on is Alicent, the ever-blooming vermillion that spreads across her cheeks. The lack of true resolution has the Queen teetering forward, and grasping for what does not belong to her. 

The blade is whetted and polished, a steep silver that casts a long shadow. A King's weapon.

Rhaenyra rears both boys beside herself, her grasp leaving Saera, her complexion glistening in fright. In preparation.

She’s going to take one of their eyes, Saera’s whole world caves, her vision whittled down to a narrow stream; edged in shadow, pulsing and blurred, her body moves on its own with a strength and speed she didn’t know she possessed, she’ll take one from Jace and it will be my fault–

“Saera!” 

A heartbeat.

“Princess–”

Another.

“Someone grab he–”

Saera’s destination is met without resistance.

The Queen is softer than she looks; always so prim and stern. Her pointed stars of the Seven adorn any gown she styled, enhancing her rigid design. Emerald silk pets at Saera’s tiny frame, wafting of honeyed lilac and cinnamon. It doesn’t remind Saera of love, of home, as her mothers scent does, but she is certain that this aroma is what her uncles and aunt look forward to at the end of a difficult day.

In that, they remain the same. Both have loving mothers, in their own coarse nature, and that is enough. Is it not? She burrows her head further, cheek delving at Alicent’s abdomen. 

“I’m sorry!” she heaves, voice quivering amidst the tremors of her own body, “I’m sorry, so sorry, it was an accident–” Saera nestles further when she senses Alicents attempt to gently push her away, “I didn’t want to hurt him! With my whole heart, I swear it, I never wanted to take anything!”

“Saera,” Rhaenyra urges, her voice low, bereft of anger, flooded–drowning in worry, “please, my dear girl, return to me.”

She ignores her. For the first time in her life, Saera ignores her mother. 

“Take my eye,” she is steadfast, her heavy offer offset by her watery tone, and Alicent’s lip curls more than Saera thought was possible for the woman. “My brothers didn’t damage Aemond, it's unfair to hurt them.”

As if to prove how serious her intent may be, she pulls away from Alicent, showcasing the eye she’d chosen. Even as her heart pounds, the noise outside that steady beat miles away, she shakes. Terror courses through her bloodstream, her legs itch to kick and run. 

But she holds herself to the Queen mother, bares her all in the hopes it might end this travesty with some semblance of equality. 

“Enough!” The King shouts, “Saera, go back to your mother.”

She dispels the command easily enough, her attention as it is swallowed whole by russet eyes. Her arm rises, the outline of their twin shadows drip down the back wall, oozing alongside her movement. Logs crackle and snap, the low, steady rumble of the fireplace gleaming against the King's blade. 

When it moves forward, emerald brocade glittering as it does, Saera flinches, squeezing her eyes shut tight.

She waits, and waits, and waits–peeking an eye open to find the tip just an inch away. Gooseflesh scrambles over her flesh, eyes stinging, her stomach raucous with nausea. 

The blade clambers to the rocky floor before discernable reason can fill Saera’s confusion. A thimble of trepidation that grows and grows, until it is no longer a thimble, but a puddle. A pond. A vast sea. 

Saera is opening her mouth, speaking without truly understanding what is exiting her. “You’re not taking it?” 

Her soft utterance trembles with the rest of her. Alicent holds back a sob, eyes wide open, tear-stained cheeks losing their color. She stresses, slowly stepping away from the small princess so she may place a hand on Aemonds shoulder, shame present beneath the mania. 

She didn’t notice it, not until now. Aemond’s singular, ever-present gaze is on her. Firm. Far more aware for a boy who should be lucid. 

Kingsguard Westerling is quick to lift Saera when the opening presents itself, and whisks her away back to her mother. Her attention never leaves Aemond. Something akin to pride, to melancholy, settles in his features. Recognition, and leaden beneath it, amity.

“It’s fine mother,” he finally declares, not just to Alicent, but to any ear that may listen. Even as Saera is placed at her mothers feet, the woman's righteous, manic disposition curls over Saera, and lifts her into her arms. 

“I may have lost an eye, but I have gained a dragon.”

The dour mood retches over his person, encasing him eternally as the boy who lost his sight for the might of house Tragaryen’s signia. She could only wonder if it truly was worth it? To lose something innate to their nature in place of a creature.

She supposes, as someone who has always had a dragon, would not understand what it means to be riderless. If the worth for him is relevant, Saera could only stand by and agree. It’s all she could ever do now. 

A debt is to be paid, and she doubts this night has ended its curse. 

[emilykaldwen]

THE MAIDEN AND THE DROWNING BOY is a House of the Dragon canon divergent fix-it trilogy with a HEA. Meshing both show and book canon, the story asks the question: How do you stop the cycles of abuse and generational trauma? In this universe, Aegon marries the youngest daughter of Lyonel Strong, the Lady Abrogail, who has grown up alongside him and his siblings. The story begins with the run up to their marriage in 125 AC, and follows Aegon and Abrogail as they figure out who they are and who they are together in the Riverlands, along with Aemond and Helaena in King's Landing, and to the dawn of the Dance of Dragons. Except the ending of the song is different this time.

pairings: aegon ii targaryen x oc, eventual jacaerys x helaena, other canon ships mentioned, other pairings to be announced warnings: child physical abuse, religious trauma, sexual shame and purity pushing, canon typical violence, canon typical attitudes, unpacking of previously stated sexual shame/purity for both male and female characters

This is not an anti/pro team black or green fic. I continue to do my best to approach all sides with nuance. There will be no bashing, nor will I accept any in the comments.

[this fic series will have three separate parts and maintains an 'at least once a month' posting schedule (due to life reasons)]

No Tag List. Follow @emkald-fic and turn on post notifications or subscribe on AO3.

Tumblr: Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve | Chapter Thirteen | Chapter Fourteen | Chapter Fifteen | Chapter Sixteen | Chapter Seventeen | Chapter Eighteen | Chapter Nineteen | Chapter Twenty | Chapter Twenty-One | Chapter Twenty-Two | Chapter Twenty-Three | Twenty-Four | Twenty-Five

AO3: Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve | Chapter Thirteen | Chapter Fourteen | Chapter Fifteen | Chapter Sixteen | Chapter Seventeen | Chapter Eighteen | Chapter Nineteen | Chapter Twenty | Chapter Twenty-One | Chapter Twenty-Two | Chapter Twenty-Three | Twenty-Four | Twenty-Five

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Fic Tag

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Abrogail Tag

Spoiler Free Family Tree

Timeline of Events (please note the adjusted ages from the source material)

Abrogail Epithet Gif Set

Arc One Promo Set

Aegon and Abby - A Soft Evening Commission by @winterofherdiscontent

Aegon and Abby - A Lazy Morning by @debustee

Abrogail Commission by @astarionbae

Fanart/Content by others - If you made something for this fic, please @ me and tag #useremka

Abrogail Fanart by @selfproclaimedunicorn

Abrogail Fanart by @murmel-malt

Sunlight Gif Set by @dragonsbone

Vampire!Abby x Aegon fanart by @murmel-malt

Aegon and Abby Dancing by @murmel-malt

Abby Dress designs by @chic-beyond-the-wall-oc-acct

Transformative Works Policy below the cut

Transformative Works Policy: I do not give my permission to have this work put into generative AI or cross-posted somewhere else under your name. If you are looking to translate my work, please contact me first. Translations are ONLY allowed on AO3 following their translation policy, or Ficbook. Podfic is also allowed as long as I am contacted first to discuss.

As of right now, @vampire-exgirlfriend, @selfproclaimedunicorn, and @queen--kenobi only have permission to utilize Abrogail Strong in their works. If you want to write something inspired by or utilize my OCs in any way, please reach out to me first.

[ficsbyuzi]

I fOunD yOu Part 3

MEET ALYNA MARTELL

Alyna, a twenty six year-old educator, hails from the prestigious, prosperous Martell family of Sunspear, Dorne. She is the eldest child, and was raised with the inevitable truth that one day she'd inherit the vast Martell business empire - a predesigned fate she consciously rejects while growing up.

Despite her family's countless attempts to persuade her otherwise, she decides to relinquish her birthright and steps away in the favor of younger brother - Alaric Martell. To her, pursuing her passions and living life on her own terms holds far greater value and reward, than having everything served on a silver platter or being fed with a silver spoon. 

After completing her education, with a major in History from the University of King's Landing, she ventured into teaching the subject to high school students. Beyond her teaching duties, Alyna dedicated herself to training youngsters in self-defense. Her mornings on 

weekends commenced with martial arts classes, and in the evenings, she took on a part-time role as an Uber driver.

Her fate took a profound twist when she encountered and subsequently began dating Jason Lannister, the son of Tymond Lannister, owner and chairperson of the Golden Lion Industries in Casterly Rock. Jason occasionally visited the office branch in King's Landing, where his married sister resided. Their paths first crossed during Alyna's self-defense classes when he came to pick up his ten-year-old niece. Unable to stop thinking about her, he mustered the courage to ask her out a few weeks later.

Two years, several dates, and numerous trips later, Jason surprised her by proposing marriage. She accepts it, making a conscious decision, something she has never had trouble with. 

However, sometimes when she sat with her solitude or drove around the city at night, she would find herself contemplating. A tiny fragment of her soul often wished that she hadn’t agreed to the marriage. 

Alyna once read in one of her favorite self-help books that the soul attracts what it secretly harbors - likes and fears alike. 

She often doubted if she had chosen precisely what she had been running away from.

She loved Jason, he loved her.

 Isn't love enough? Does it not conquer all?

PART 3

Read part 2

Characters : Aegon Targaryen, Aemond Targaryen and Alyna Martell (Dornish OFC) in modern Westeros (modern AU)

Warnings : No Aemond or Aegon in this one 🙂

A loud, sonorous clunk of metal pulled Alyna out of her trance. An intense pulse throbbed in her body. She checked the time on her phone; ten past five in the evening, almost dusk. The clean-up crew had arrived to dismantle the canopies and remove the decorations. The expansive grounds surrounding the Highgarden estate were to be restored to their verdant tranquility after the event. 

An event that never took place. 

She rolled over and met herself in the mirror adjacent to her bed. Disheveled, unkempt, all over the place, sans the glow of a bride, sans the glow her trips to the expensive salon had promised. The sheen of her freshly dyed burgundy hair now dimmed. 

Groaning, she rolled back to her previous position, only to board the train of her thoughts.

She had spent the last twenty four hours scrolling apps on her phone or dozing off every few hours. Her body stayed in a dismal inertia, the gears of her mind ground to a halt.

Her stomach made an unavoidable rumbling, threatening to start eating itself and impelling her to pick up a box of assorted, handmade chocolates kept on the side table. She devoured the first piece -  dark and mint. And before she knew it, she was on her third piece, flavored with sea salt. All were coated with edible gold foil.

Gold. 

The colour the whole Lannister clan had a penchant for. The golden hour wedding,  gold decor,  marigold flowers,  gold drapes. 

She flung the box away as if she touched a bare, live wire, wanting to regurgitate what she just had eaten. Her gaze followed the tiny chocolate balls rolling across the floor, one of them reaching the bottom of the mannequin stand. The sight of an exquisite, bespoke wedding dress caught her attention. Again. 

Alyna despised the long-standing family custom of the groom's family giving the wedding dress to the bride. The dress was not only modest and traditional but also way too laced and embellished for her bold yet minimalistic preference.

But Jason loved it, especially its full tulle sleeves and a stifling neckline. She would have opted for that solid, strapless number in satin with a high side slit and pockets.

"You are going to be a Lannister bride, not Dornish" 

She remembered red flags flapping in her mind at his flippant remark. 

But she agreed to his choice anyway - the things one does for love.

A mere dress didn't matter much to her then. Hell, she could carry a potato sack effortlessly.

But the same dress now stood before her in all her unworn glory, as a rankling sore in her eyes because she was denied the very reason she agreed to wear it in the first place.

 The dress unnerved her as it hung unworn and unused on that stupid mannequin stand when its bodice should have hugged her svelte torso, a day before. 

Her long, burgundy hair was supposed to cascade in soft waves and be pinned at the back with a band of pearls to hold her veil. 

Her "no make-up" make-up would have been all glorifying, kissed by the magical golden hour. Her bridesmaids in their dresses of the sunset yellow hue she chose for them, would have blended in the soft glow of the dusk. And she would have looked like a floating angel.

She let out a wan, shuddering chuckle, mocking her reveries as a few tears fell out of her brown, almond eyes.

When did she let all the conventional, materialistic things occupy her mind?

When did her free, untameable soul get tied up by frills, lace and fancy ribbons?

When did she start losing herself?

All the self-help books she perused and the podcasts she listened to, seeking guidance on how to be herself, seemed nonsensical when he blinded her with his golden charm.

 In an attempt to fit into his world, she had almost lost sight of her worth and neglected the importance of remaining true to herself.

Maybe Jason Lannister didn't call the wedding off merely because he got cold feet. Maybe he called it off because he recognised and acted on the dissonance within himself, within the relationship while Alyna couldn't.  

Maybe he realized that he was tricking himself into loving someone, who was not herself. 

The vicious irony was that the fallacy in her thought process convinced her to mold herself into someone, she thought, he desired. 

They were a wrong fit from the very beginning, trying to build a house of cards destined to crumble under the weight of pretense.

Repeated knocks at her bridal suite's door broke the chain of her thoughts. It was her father's third attempt since morning to coax her out of the room. 

"Please come and talk to us, honey. We are with you,” he insisted, carrying her favorite mozzarella and tomato sandwiches and orange juice in a tray.

It was the last day of their stay at the estate. The suite room that was meant to mark the beginning of her life as a married woman now served as a constant reminder that her wedding had been called off.

But she needed to pull herself out of the self-sabotaging thoughts. 

She had to come out of that miserable room, which was deluding her mind into believing that her life was over.

She would find the fragments that she had torn apart from herself and lost along the way in the last two years.

Her family was supposed to be back in Dorne by the late-night flight. And she was supposed to be on a flight for her honeymoon..

She lunged towards her handbag in a desperate determination, as though it contained an elixir that held the key to her very existence.

 "I will be out in a minute, Dad." She assured her father. 

-

As the family gathered to dine before departing, she keenly sensed their collective effort to appear nonchalant, each of them willing their faces into cheerful expressions.

"Sweetheart, you know, I had a boyfriend once and oh, how handsome he was!" Her grandmother's eyes twinkled as she went down her memory lane, oblivious to everyone in the family either rolling their eyes playfully or chuckling silently. 

"He was a soldier. While he was stationed far away from our village during the war, my father betrothed me to your grandpa. I cried a lot, begging my father not to marry me off to him. But after marriage, your grandpa and I became great friends, and love happened eventually."

She affectionately caressed her granddaughter's hair, pecked her cheek and placed her head gently on her bosom.

"Today, everything may seem dark, as if the worst has happened. But tomorrow, the sun will rise again, and everything will be okay. Don’t worry about anything, child. Whatever is yours will find its way to you. Just live your life to the fullest from now on."

Her grandmother's words of wisdom soothed the frazzled state of her mind. In her embrace, it dawned upon her that she had indeed been saved from a disastrous marriage. And she had been saved from the 'self', she wrongly assumed, was hers.

-

On her way out of the estate, Alyna briefly contemplated tossing the engagement ring into the garden fountains, but out of reverence for a family heirloom diamond it was studded with, she decided to simply relinquish it to a trusted common friend for its safe return to the Lannisters. 

The dress, however, could not escape the wrath that was simmering in her guts for two days. 

She severed its sleeves, altered the neckline and slashed its hem to fashion a long slit resembling the dress she had wanted to buy. Then she packed it to be dispatched to Casterly Rock.

A strong feeling of self-renewal and liberation washed over her. She had begun to feel her authentic self again.

Upon reaching the airport, she retrieved the ticket from her bag, nestled within the pages of her passport. It was stamped with the visa that would grant her entry to the Summer Islands and Essos. 

 "I am going on my honeymoon trip," Alyna announced, "Alone"

[littlemissmoodswings]

hotd modern fic idea based off hbo's succession (i say as if a modern au wouldn't automatically have succession vibes)

four kids (rhaenyra, aegon, aemond, and daemon [yes he's getting looped in with the "kids" for purposes of the example]) who are trying to beat each other (sometimes proverbially, sometimes physically) for the spot as successor to the targaryen business and fortune and along the way learn tough lessons. like, you can't depend on anyone but yourself, sometimes to do good you have to do bad, and family can be so overrated. who learns what? who's to say?

aka – two adults fight two people who think they are adults for the sake of money, power, and viserys' love.

this au would be worth it for no other reason than for me to change "L to the OG" to "V to the IP" i've been laughing at that thought alone for a solid minute. aegon doing the song maybe?

fans of both succession and hotd RISE UP!!

edit: adding on the fact that i fear aegon and kendall roy may just an a teeny tiny bit in common

[lady-morrigen]

i know you didn't reblog this prompt list, but i'm sending it anyway because this just screams allaegon to me

❝ i’ve been fighting far longer than you. ❞ & ❝ the more people you love, the weaker you are. ❞

i... you... you really got me to come out of retirement for this! here's a little blurb (1200 words) for my favorite couple in all of Westeros. please be nice, i'm rusty

your support of Allana means the world to me. thank you for all that you do. i love you 🖤

(banner by the ever talented @acrossthesestars)

“No, Allana, you don’t understand. There is no winning here. I’ve been fighting far longer than you. I must do my duty.” 

King Aegon paced, back and forth, from his grand bed to the fireplace. He ran a hand through his disheveled, silver hair, turning her with exasperation. She leaned against the bedpost, her arms crossed over her chest, her fingers twisting in a lock of wine-red hair, and raised a brow.

“Poor little princeling. It must have been so hard for you to grow up here,” Allana gestured vaguely around the room. “Surrounded by people who loved you, supported you, who understood you. To have your siblings…” It may have been a stretching of the truth, for she knew that Alicent had never understood him, nor had Otto. But his siblings, they had at least tried. 

If Aegon understood the weight of those words, it did not register on his face. He continued pacing. A white silk shirt lay haphazardly across his broad shoulders, his doublet cast aside and forgotten, the untied neck exposing a swath of his chest, glistening with sweat. 

“You think any of these people actually love me? I am a pawn, a means to an end. Nothing more.”

His voice was louder now. Allana knew it to be from the wine, but she couldn’t help a slight wince. He would never hurt her, of that she was sure, but the memories of her father’s rage were hard to forget completely.

“Oh Aegon, don’t be such a child.” She ignored his wince at this, refusing to go easy on him, not now. “Helaena adores you. Aemond, he just… isn’t good at expressing his feelings. He loves you in his own way.”

It was true. Helaena loved her family unconditionally. There was no arguing that she was the best of them. She was tender, and delicate, and incredibly passionate. She gave her love freely and without stipulation, from her family to a stranger. Aemond, however, kept his feelings close to the vest. He hardly knew how to make sense of the tangle of emotions in his brain, much less how to articulate them. Yet he would be the first to mount up and fly off in a rage to avenge a perceived slight to anyone he held dear.

“Aemond resents me, because he knows that he deserves the crown, but he’s a second son forced to watch his idiot brother fuck everything up,” he scoffed. “Helaena doesn’t know me. Not really. She wouldn’t be able to handle it.” 

She rolled her eyes. “Which part? The constant drunkenness or the alleged horde of bastards fathered in the beds of  every brothel in Flea Bottom? Helaena knows far more than you’d imagine, and she loves you despite it all.” 

“I-  how did you- That’s not true!” His face blanched, the color gathering in the fists clenched tightly by his sides. Allana wielded knowledge like a knife, always holding on to it until the very moment she knew that the blow would be lethal.

“Oh isn’t it? You’re the king, Aegon. All you need do is wish for a woman in your bed and you shall have it. If you need someone to clean your ass, simply snap your fingers. But if it’s secrecy you’re looking for, my lord, not even you can buy that. The servants will always talk.” 

“There’s no proof…” 

She had always known things, absorbing the whispers and gossip like a sponge, and knowing when to observe and interpret things left unsaid. When she wasn’t using the Tyrell charm to her benefit, Allana was quiet, yet attentive, a chest of knowledge tucked away in case of emergency. 

“You’re right, there isn’t. Though I think a sudden increase in silver-haired babes might have tipped a few people off.”

He deflated at that, the bravado of his anger leaving him. “What am I going to do?”

He had stopped pacing, landing in front of the fireplace, gazing at the flames as if the answer could be found within them. Allana almost felt bad for him. Aegon never asked for the responsibility that rested on his shoulders. When his father died, he had snuck away with the intention of catching a ship to one of the free cities before the news had even left the keep. He was willing to give it all up, to let Aemond rule, yet duty reigned supreme. 

“You’re going to stop feeling sorry for yourself, for one. Despite what you say, I know we can fight this. They won’t win this time.”Allana pushed off of the bedpost, crossing the room to stand beside him, her hand on his shoulder in an attempt to ground him. He was warm beneath her fingers, warm and familiar.

“There’s too much at risk, Allana! I am the king! The king does not show weakness.” He straightened, pushing past her to slump on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.

“And what weakness would that be? There isn’t a single person in Westeros that would dare challenge a Targaryen. Not a single person in Essos or the Great Grass Sea. The only one brave enough to do so is your own blood.”

“Love,” he choked; the sound hoarse, as if it pained him. “The more people you love, the weaker you are. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Wouldn’t I? You don’t know all that I lost to be here, to do my duty.” She clasped her hands in front of her, so tightly that her knuckles turned white. She made no effort to stop the tears as they fell, hot against her skin. “I loved my brother endlessly and his death cleaved my heart in two. Then Rowan left without even a letter to soothe my pain and I swore that I would never allow myself to love again. I loved my parents, Aegon. Despite everything they’ve done, I still do. Yet they sent me here to grieve alone, a scared girl in a strange place who needed comfort and found none. I’ll never forgive them for that.”

Aegon looked at her then, an expression on his face that she could not place, not unlike one of fear. Fear that she may not love him as she claimed. She crossed the room, standing in front of him, her delicate hands cradling his face as she continued, tilting his face up toward hers so that he may see the honesty in her eyes.

“Love has brought me nothing but pain, again and again, heartbreak after heartbreak, and I’m afraid that my heart will not be able to bear another.” She stood taller now, letting go of him, her chin lifting defiantly. “But I risked it all, Your Grace. I risked my reputation, my safety, and my heart… for you.”

His arms circled her waist, pulling her tight and resting his head against the smooth fabric that covered her stomach. Instinctively, her hand tangled in the shaggy silver hair atop his head, the other stroking soothingly over his back. She held him tight, her tempestuous king, clinging to him, ivy to a mouldering wall.

“I will make this right,” he breathed. “I will find a way. For you.”

taglist: @acrossthesestars, @dragonsbone, @emilykaldwen, @arrthurpendragon, @lightblindingme

[mysticalprincesskitten]

Aegon II Targaryen X OFC // Part 2

Disclaimer/Trigger warnings: MDNI, smut, oral sex (m), Season 2 non-compliant, dragonriding as foreplay, canon misogyny, aegon is pretty possessive in this fic, Targcest, OC is Viserys and Aemma's daughter, OC is named Daenerys because I love my OC being the second Daenerys in ASOIAF after Alysanne's daughter, OC looks like Elizabeth Olsen.

Part One here:

The singers would go on to craft ballads about the great love of King Aegon and Queen Daenerys long after the Dance of the Dragons. There is little doubt the queen loved her husband, though in truth her true love may well have been her dragon. Princess Daenerys bonded with the Grey Ghost shortly after her ninth nameday during a visit Dragonstone with the rest of the royal family. King Viserys decreed that his children could attempt to claim one of the dragons from the Dragonmont — provided they were “bold enough.” Prince Aegon claimed the young dragon Sunfyre, a splendid beast with golden scales and pale-pink wing membranes. Many expected Princess Daenerys to choose one of the hatchlings, or perhaps Silverwing, former mount of the Good Queen Alysanne, as the princess had been named for Queen Alysanne's eldest daughter who tragically died in infancy. But it was the Grey Ghost, a shy and reclusive dragon by all accounts, who bore the princess into the sky that day, to the delight of her father, the king.

-- Archmaester Gyldayn, The Dying of the Dragons

Though she rested in the comfortable bedchambers of her childhood, Princess Daenerys felt anything but a child as she fought to find sleep that night.

Aegon’s touch had branded her. Her blood felt impossibly hot, boiling beneath her skin. And the pleasure… What had happened as he ground his thigh against her, that indescribable ascent to liquefying ecstasy…

What was that?

Daenerys wondered dimly if only Aegon was capable of making her body do that, if he knew some secret trick from his frequent visits to the brothels of Flea Bottom. Could any other man in the realm make her see stars like Aegon could?

No. She only wanted Aegon. Her betrothed, her blood. We are the blood of the dragon, like Rhaenyra and Daemon. We are meant for each other.

He hated her, he scared her, and yet…

And yet…

Daenerys lay awake long into the night, until the stars were her only companions.

Her stepmother wasted little time the following morning establishing control of the wedding celebrations and, by proxy, Daenerys herself.

The Hightower queen invited Daenerys and Aegon to break their fast together in the royal chambers. Father would not be joining them. The king was still too weary to leave his bed. Daenerys felt her heart ache. He is wasting into nothing more and more as the days pass.

“Lords from across the Seven Kingdoms will be in attendance,” Alicent explained to her, “all of whom will rejoice to see yourself and Aegon wed at last.”

At last. Daenerys didn’t miss the snipe in her stepmother’s tone. I am here now, am I not?

Just then, Aegon graced them with his presence, strolling into the hall and slumping in his seat with nary a word to either of them. He stunk of wine and misery. He sank into his cups last night. Wine had always been Aegon's undoing. Daemon hadn't lied, it seemed, when he told her the prince's drunkard ways had only worsened.

“I was just informing Princess Daenerys of the current arrangements for your wedding day,” Alicent greeted.

Aegon grunted.

Alicent sniffed disapprovingly.

And because Daenerys fell into old rhythms easily, she intervened before Alicent could scold Aegon and send him him further sinking into his black mood.

“I wish to ride Grey Ghost to the Great Sept on the day of our wedding.”

Alicent frowned. “I appreciate your honor of Targaryen tradition, though I worry it will only cause disturbance to the day.”

“I am sure any such disturbances would be minor.”

“The festivities have been arranged long in advance, princess,” the queen said firmly. “Perhaps if you had joined us in King’s Landing sooner we could have accommodated your request.”

Daenerys steeled herself. “I am a dragonrider of House Targaryen and I wish to meet my husband on dragonback.”

Alicent regarded her coldly. “I will present your case to the king.”

Daenerys deflated. Father was too frail to contest Alicent’s will. If the queen insisted Daenerys attend her wedding by carriage instead of dragon, the king would acquiesce.

“I mean to ride today,” she announced, suddenly renounced of her appetite.

“So soon after your arrival?”

“Grey Ghost is unaccustomed to King’s Landing. I would see he settles.”

“Indeed,” said Alicent. “Aegon shall accompany you.”

“What?”

“What?”

They spoke simultaneously, awkwardly avoiding the other’s eye.

“The city can be dangerous, even for a dragon. I am sure my son wishes to ensure his betrothed remains unspoiled.”

“Your concern moves me, Your Grace, though I fear it is misgiven. My dragon is the greatest guardian I could ask for.”

“Two dragons are safer than one,” Alicent insisted. “I am sure the time together will do you both well.”

Already the spider had spun its trap, caging her in its web. Was this her life from now on? Ruled by the whims of the scheming Hightower queen?

Daenerys said nothing as they finished their meal, lost to fear as her future under Alicent Hightower’s command waved before her, a bleak sea with black waves.

Even Alicent Hightower could not sap the joy from her morning ride, thank the gods.

Grey Ghost was unsettled when she attended him in the Dragonpit, roaring and thrashing, daunting even the Dragonkeepers, who had tended to the Targaryen dragons since the days of Old Valyria. Daenerys barely had time to strap herself into the saddle before her dragon was moving, scrabbling from the cavernous Dragonpit and hastily taking wing. She faintly heard Sunfyre’s lilting cry behind them.

Instinct bade Grey Ghost to head for Dragonstone. Daenerys urged him gently away from Blackwater Bay and back towards the city. Sunlight glinted against the rooftops as they wheeled across King’s Landing a few times, before she guided him inland and south towards the kingswood.

Another melodic cry rang out; Daenerys turned in the saddle and saw a familiar golden beast rising in the sky, scales a jeweled hide that caught the sun and scattered its rays like nectar. Sunfyre called out again. To her mild surprise, Grey Ghost rumbled a greeting in return.

With Aegon and Sunfyre tailing them, Daenerys flew Grey Ghost at rapid speed away from the city and towards the kingswood, eager for respite from the city. Sunfyre caught up with her beneath a veil of clouds; she glimpsed Aegon’s grin, felt the silent invitation. Dare to race? It had been one of their favorite activities as children.

She was exhilarated by the thrill of flight, the dragon within her purring — or was that Grey Ghost? Sometimes it felt as though they were one. She felt his contentment now. Sunfyre’s presence emboldened him.

She leaned forward, gripping the saddle handles. “Selagon, Grey Ghost!”

The wild dragon screeched and lurched forward, wings beating the air, a thunderstorm come to life.

Grey Ghost and Sunfyre were equal in size, strength and speed. The maesters suspected both dragons were of the same age, although nobody was quite sure when exactly Grey Ghost hatched -- the wild dragon was born outside of the Targaryen hatcheries somewhere in the cliffs of Dragonstone. Sunfyre gained on them, keeping pace with Grey Ghost as they raced through the sky.

But Daenerys was the more experienced rider. She’d flown everyday on Dragonstone, thrice as much as Rhaenyra and her nephews. Using the clouds as cover, Daenerys urged Grey Ghost higher, looping over Sunfyre and disappearing into the clouds with Grey Ghost’s pale scales a shroud concealing them both. She heard Sunfyre call out again, this time mournful and questioning. Where did you go? Then another, a petulant growl this time. Come back!

She let Aegon worry for a heartbeat, then dove from the clouds behind Sunfyre; Grey Ghost gently lashed the golden dragon’s hind with his tail, trilling a greeting, then wheeled and took off again with more thunderous flaps of his great grey wings.

She laughed, wild and unbidden. Sunfyre and Grey Ghost sang to each other as the dragons looped together in the sky, gold and grey streaks of movement, like the sun had shattered and birthed a rainfall of stars. Both of them hurtled to reach the finishing line — a hillside in the midst of the kingswood, just large enough for both dragons to land.

Everything felt right; Grey Ghost beneath her, Sunfyre ahead, Aegon’s laugh in the wind...

I have been asleep. Only now have I awoken.

So focused on her destination, Daenerys didn’t notice Sunfyre slip away. Suddenly she was painfully aware of the lack of gold in the sky, the empty cold of Aegon’s absence. Grey Ghost called out. She looked around quickly.

Where have you gone?

Something collided with them. Daenerys cursed herself as Sunfyre soared past them, descending at the finish line first.

“That was not fair!” She yelled at Aegon, unbuckling herself from the saddle as soon as Grey Ghost landed and marching towards her grinning betrothed. “You used my own maneuver against me!”

“What can I say? You are a proficient teacher.” He caught her waist and pulled her to him. “I won. What is my prize?”

She glared. “You cheated.”

“I did no such thing! You said it yourself, I merely used your own tricks against you. Bested by your own methods. How does it feel, sweet sister?”

She grumbled.

Aegon laughed. “You always were a sore loser.” He nuzzled into her neck. “Maybe I will let you win on the way back.”

“Let me win,” she scoffed. “I do not need your sympathy, dear brother. We both know I am the better rider.”

“You still lost though, didn’t you?”

She stamped her foot, feeling childish but too frustrated to contain herself.

Aegon laughed again and gazed at her adoringly. “Very well. You are the superior rider, sweet sister. Does that please you to hear?”

He was so warm against her, so firm and unyielding. My husband. Blood of the dragon.

“It does please me,” she said softly. “You please me.”

Aegon softened, eyes shining wetly.

A daring she’d never known before possessed Daenerys. Exhilarated by their race, and the blissful absence of anyone else besides them and their dragons, Daenerys palmed Aegon’s breeches and withdrew his hot, hard length.

Aegon hissed. “Nerys…”

“Let me please you,” she whispered.

She had never see a man’s parts before. Such lewd sights were inappropriate for an unwed princess, according to her septa. She did not know what she’d expected — if indeed she had expected anything. He was hot in her palm. He fits perfectly. Like we were made for each other. Indulging a newfound curiosity, Daenerys stroked the reddened tip, feeling soft skin beneath her questioning fingers.

Aegon let out a moan that was pure music.

The dragon within her purred. Or was that Grey Ghost again? She could not tell. Fire boiled her blood, desire overtaking her senses; desire to make her beloved feel good, to incite another musical moan.

She sank softly to her knees and cautiously tasted him with a flick of her tongue.

Aegon growled, fingers tangling in her curls. “Fucking hell,” he groaned, “where, sweet sister, did you learn to do that?”

He pulled her further onto him until his cock was sheathed in her mouth.

“Did you let some filthy peasant or lesser lord spoil you for me?”

She looked up at him through wet eyes that still somehow conveyed her annoyance, digging her nails into his bare thighs for good measure.

Aegon only laughed at the pain. He gazed at her like she was the most precious thing he’d ever seen. Finally, the layers of resentment peeled away, leaving the boy she remembered, her Aegon, who adored her and would never harm her.

“Fuck… You are a dream… Mine…”

He thrust inside her mouth again and again, making her gag and choke. She refused to break eye contact the whole time, however. Her nails left gouges in his skin. Good. Then he shall know he is mine as well.

Aegon tightened his grip in her silver curls. “Ah… My perfect girl... A gift from the gods themselves..."

Experimentally, she hollowed her cheeks and sucked, welcoming his onslaught. Aegon gasped. "I'm almost there, sweet sister. Do not waste a drop."

His thrusts grow wilder, more erratic. He spilled inside her mouth just as Sunfyre gives a shuddering roar. Instinctively she swallowed.

"I cannot wait to fuck you." Aegon scooped her in his arms and clasped her tightly.

"Save yourself for our wedding night," she said playfully.

His hand cupped her face gently, and he looked at her with such wonder it snatched the air from her lungs. "I am dreaming. You are too perfect to be real."

She smiled, turning to nip at his hand mischievously. "Is that real enough for you?"

Aegon kissed them. Behind them, Sunfyre and Grey Ghost sang to each other, reunited at last.

[queen--kenobi]

OC: Tymon Lannister

(Art by @sleazyjanet)

GENERAL

Name: Tymon Lannister

Age: 19

Gender: Male

Sexuality: Straight

Faceclaim: Brandon Sklenar

BASICS

House: Lannister

Other names: N/A

Family: Jason and Tyland Lannister (Brothers), Regina Lannister (Wife)

Tag for additional info about Tymon is “OC: Tymon Lannister”

I would also recommend reading Elayna Reyne's page as well since their stories are so intertwined.

(Also, want a fun AU? Check out the Western AU I’ve started)

HISTORY

Tymon Lannister, the third son of Ceira Lannister, was born in 110 AC on the 3rd day of the 8th moon. He is much younger than his older brothers, twins Jason and Tyland Lannister.

In 121 AC, Tymon met Elayna Reyne when she was Warded to the Lannisters. He was instantly smitten with her. Over the course of three years, Tymon attempted to court Elayna. At first his efforts were successful but due to unknown reasons, they stopped working. However, this did not deter Tymon, who was convinced he was going to marry Elayna.

In 123, Tymon begged for his older brother, Jason, to write Alon Reyne, Elayna's father, and convince him to betroth him and Elayna. Alon refused the betrothal, much to Jason and Tymon's surprise. No one knows what was said between Jason and Alon. Tymon, angry at being denied what he wanted, began a campaign of convincing Elayna he was her only option and that no one else would love her like he did. This psychological warfare lasted over a year until Elayna was called back to Castamere to be with Alon in his presumed final days.

When Alon recovered, instead of sending Elayna back to Casterly Rock, Alon sent Elayna to the Red Keep to be one of Princess Helaena Targaryen's ladies-in-waiting. Tymon was not informed of this until Elayna had completed the trip to the Red Keep. His older brother Tyland, the then Master of Ships, sent word back to Tymon. It is said in his rage, Tymon made all sorts of threats to House Reyne. It was only when Jason read aloud the final words of Tyland's letter, which encouraged Tymon to come to Court, that Tymon began to calm down.

Tymon Lannister arrived at the Red Keep three months after Elayna. Many noted that Elayna had an air of nervousness about her as soon as Tymon arrived. The nerves only seemed to disappear when she was with Prince Aemond.

Tymon managed to charm most of the people at Court. Most did not believe the rumors of his cruelty to Elayna. It must be noted Tymon often found himself in disagreements with those he deemed to close to Elayna. He even accused his own brother, Tyland, of attempting to seduce Elayna and take her as his own bride. While many dismiss these as Tymon's protective, perhaps obsessive, nature, several accounts do seem to suggest Tymon may not have been wrong.

In 126, Tymon received word from Jason Alon had fallen ill once more. Tymon went back to Casterly Rock with a plan. He would wait until Alon died then ride to Castamere to comfort Elayna. While there, he would ask Seban to betroth him to Elayna. Seban was a good friend of Jason's so he would not think ill of Tymon.

A fortnight after Alon died, Tymon and Elayna were betrothed. Two days after the betrothal, Elayna disappeared. Tymon insisted that Elayna accompany them back to Casterly Rock. While at Casterly Rock, Elayna attempted to escape and get back to the Red Keep. This caused Tymon to move the wedding date up.

On the 12th day of the 6th moon in 126 AC, three days before Tymon and Elayna were to be wed, Prince Aemond arrived at Casterly Rock. Tymon was clearly displeased. He made multiple attempts to find out who told Aemond. Before Princs Aemond left to see Elayna, he informed Tymon that Tyland was the one who him of the upcoming wedding.

The same night, Prince Aemond and Elayna flew from Casterly Rock to the Red Keep where they eloped. Tymon did not need the letter from his brother to figure out what happened. In the field where Vhagar had waited, Tymon found a hair comb made of gold with rubies and pearls on it, a traditional Westerland gift given to brides when they accepted a courtship or betrothal. It was the clip he had given Elayna.

In 127 AC, Tymon attended the wedding festivities of Prince Aemond and Princess Elayna. He took part in the tournament in their honor. Tymon made it to the final round of the tournament where he faced Prince Daemon Targaryen. During the joust, the Rogue Prince not only knocked Tymon Lannister off of his horse, he stabbed Tymon in the shoulder, missing his neck by an inch. Thoroughly embarrassed, Tymon retreated to Casterly Rock until 130 AC

In 128 AC, Tymon married Regina Reyne, Seban Reyne's daughter and Elayna's Targaryen's niece. While it was never acknowledged, it was understood Tymon only married Regina due to her resemblance to Elayna. Many suspect this also played a role in her death. In 130 AC, after the news of Prince Aemond's death reached Casterly Rock, Regina Lannister was found dead in a burnt field. This same field was the one in which Aemond and Elayna left on Vhagar and rumored to be the field they shared their first kiss.

Tymon made his way back to the Red Keep in 130 AC, two months after Regina's death. It is believed he left due to the rumors surrounding his former wife's death. When Tymon reached the Red Keep, King Aegon II and Queen Elayna were there. Tymon was just in time to celebrate the coronation of Queen Elayna and the celebration of their wedding, despite it happening on Dragonston a mere month prior.

Tymon stayed at the Red Keep. After the death of Aegon II, Lord Lannister became more antagonistic of the Dowager Queen Elayna. She would not stay alone with him in a room, often using the new Lord Hand, Tyland Lannister, as a buffer. This did nothing to dissuade the rumors that Tyland had wished to marry Elayna.

In 133 AC, a hired sword attempted to take the eye of Prince Reynard Targaryen. Dowager Queen Elayna blinded the man instead and had him tortured and killed. While she never outright stated it, everyone knew she suspected Tymon of hiring the man.

As the years went on, Lord Tymon Lannister began to sew doubt into people's minds. Oftentimes he used the Dowager Queen's now open history of violence and the actions of her first husband, namely his burning of the Riverlands, to turn people against her. Many stayed loyal to Elayna, but the rumors could not be quelled. Some even accused Elayna of killing Witch Queen Alys Rivers, a supposed mistress of Aemond Targaryen.

In 141 AC, after an argument in the Throne Room, Tymon Lannister stabbed Queen Elayna to death. He stabbed her three times in the gut in rapid succession. Queen Elayna placed her hand upon the wound. She covered her hand in blood and placed it upon his face. She is rumored to have said "Thank you. For proving me right."

After the death of Queen Elayna, Lord Lannister was forced to go into hiding. His family was able to use their gold and influence to hide him. They also attempted to turn the tides against Elayna, even after her death. The common folk were swayed, but many of the lesser and Greater Houses remember both their names.

[shesjustanothergeek]

The Gods We Can Touch Chapter Five: The Princess and the Queen

|Aemond Targaryen x Strong!Reader|

Masterlist of Series

Summary: The older twin of Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, you were a picture of the maiden, untouched and untainted by man's sins. At least, that was what Alicent Hightower believed when she held you in her arms moments after her old friend's labors. You were her shining light, her dream. Though you were never hers, she believed you were meant to be.

What will become of you as time passes and the Queen's shining light grows within the blackened darkness? Will her eldest son's morbid fascination with the light burn the realm? Or will her second son's obsession with the only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen change the course of the Seven Kingdoms as we know it?

Author's Note: Hello, besties! How about that finale... I wanted to thank everyone who has left lovely comments and support about the story. It really makes me smile. I hope I continue to write y'all a story you like as it progresses. Thanks again!

Chapter Warnings: mentions rape, trauma, and symptoms related to childhood SA, mentions self-harm, emotional abuse.

The halls of the Red Keep were a vast expanse filled with candelabras, torches, paintings, and tapestries. If it was night, one could pass by a person and not notice them. The tremendous shadows held many secrets, causing you only to venture alone if there was no choice. 

But in the day, with the help of the warm sun shining through archways and open windows, it was a magnificent sight. It made you feel deeply grateful and amazed that your ancestors built a place like this and stood the test of time with its beauty. 

A tapestry, in particular, caught your eyes as you walked the grand halls to your lessons with the old crone Septa Marlow. It was woven with the finest colored wool with shiny red, green, brown, and white silk threads, depicting a scene between men, women, and dragons. Studying it with furrowed brows, you felt perplexed as you tilted your head, trying to understand the story told through the fabric. It looked like the people were naked, enjoying a festive party filled with wine, smiles, and dragons that devoured each other, mouths of men, women, and beasts on bodies in odd places.

The artist showed one man with his head buried between a lady’s thighs and a dragon pressed closely behind him. Another was a woman and a dragon resting between her legs, leaning over the top of her with its pointed tongue touching her chest. The memory of what Aegon did to you on the ramparts that night came to the forefront of your mind, and it sent a hot, nauseating wave to your stomach and privy parts. It was such a bewildering piece of art that you never noticed until now, making you wonder if it had always been there and if there were more of them.

“Do you like it?” A voice asked beside you, causing you to release a shriek as you jumped out of your skin. 

As you tried to calm your nerves, Aegon suddenly stood beside you, touching your chest. Every fiber of your being told you to run. To scream, kick, or hurt your uncle after what he did, but instead, your body betrayed you, anxiety filling your shoes with rocks.

“Personally, it’s one of my favorites. It shows how our dragon blood came to be,” he continued, jutting his narrow hip to the side as he flicked his frizzy mane. 

You couldn’t think, breathe, or scratch at the prickling hair on your arms. You were mad—that is what you were feeling. You were upset because your uncle stole you from your thoughts and didn’t listen when you told him to stop. 

“You hurt me, Aegon!” The words echoed against the pale redstone as he flinched like you had struck him. He briefly stared at your scowl as you did with the tapestry, thin lips pursed as he tried wrapping his mind around what you could be referencing. 

“Oh! You mean the other night?” Aegon chortled and shrugged his hands in the pockets of his trousers as if this was the most basic of revelations. “Twas nothing, niece. You know it. We cuff each other about all the time and think nothing of it. This was no different.” 

Fire filled your veins at his passivity, digging your nails into your skin until they left crescents in their wake. “No, this was different. You hurt me, uncle. It still hurts there,” you confessed, attempting to keep your anger instead of the gradual wetness that itched your nose. 

Worry flashed in Aegon’s amethyst eyes as he fully faced you, taking a step closer as you took one back in return. He pretended not to feel the slight at your wordless rejection and held out a sinewy hand. This was how it always was when Aegon did something you didn’t like. You would pout for a few days until he begrudgingly apologized without the words, and then you and your brothers would tease Aemond. He believed this time would be no different.

“Come on,” he sighed with a slight roll of his eyes. “Let’s skip your lessons today and go to the Godswood. You can pick those pretty flowers you like. It’ll be like nothing ever happened,” your uncle offered with his typical lopsided grin.

The action startled you, causing your muscles to tense and your spine to go rigid as you hugged your stomach for comfort. Fear replaced any anger you felt at the notion that you would be alone with Aegon and have no one to help you if he didn’t listen to you again. Without knowing it, your skirt became damp, a dark spot slowly forming on the sky-blue fabric between your legs as you soiled yourself. 

Your face heated in shame as your uncle waited for your answer, too stunned by the involuntary action to think of running away when he abruptly noticed the liquid flowing into the cracks of the stone floor. He jumped away with a disgusted yelp like it would burn him if he touched it as you covered your eyes in embarrassment. Tears leaked from them, unable to stop the thick droplets as they ran down your cheeks like rivers and stained your sleeves. Your uncle would surely use this against you for the rest of your life.

This was all Aemond’s fault, Aegon thought. It’s not enough that he is their mother’s favorite. He had to take the one thing that was his—the only person who was solely at his side and his side only. Now, his being in his niece’s presence caused her to wet herself out of fright. He didn’t mean to hurt you. You both were having a bit of fun. The serving girls never seemed to act the way you were.

Aegon stared at you. Unsure of what to do and if you would still avoid his touch, he took another step forward, preventing the urine from touching his shoes, and reached out to extend tense words of comfort. 

“All is well, niece,” he awkwardly consoled and patted your shoulder like you would a rabid dog. “Tis nothing-”

“Princess!”

The title was screamed down from the end of the hall, interrupting your uncle and distracting you from your shame. Both you and Aegon turned to the commotion and saw Septa Marlow storming towards you at a speed faster than a woman her age should travel. You were severely late to your lessons, and per your mother’s orders, Marlow was allowed to search for and punish you as she saw fit for your misbehaviors. 

Releasing a defeated groan, you hung your head and mentally prepared for the tongue lashing you would receive from her and your mother later as she stood before you, huffing with her bony hands on the waist of her grey skirt. You attempted to hide the damp spot on your dress and covered it with your hands.

“Little Miss, I’ve been waiting for you in the lesson room for half an hour! Your mother told you what would happen if you skipped them again,” the old maid sighed exasperatedly, shaking her habit-covered head in disappointment. “You are a woman of the crown, and yet you toss your duties aside as if they are no more than rotten fruit. When will you learn?” 

Your eyes focused on the pool that glistened in the daylight as it reflected your face. A countenance puffy with tears and wet with snot, plump, moist lips pursed into a deep frown framed by a head of dark waves. At this angle, you could see the small patch of hair you plucked out of your scalp, the urge to touch it coming over you. You wondered if others could see it, too.

“Look me in the eyes when I’m speaking to you, Princess,” Marlow ordered with a strict tone. You gradually lifted your gaze to match hers, fighting back another onslaught of tears. 

You were tired of getting in trouble. You wanted to be the good girl your mother said you were, but it was hard. It seemed as if everything you did was wrong, and you began to believe you deserved harsher punishment because of your continued failure. The urge to feel the sting of hair pulled from its follicle was too strong. You needed to be alone, away from irate Septas and parents, and with your brothers or Aemond—people who understood your sadness and would listen to it.

Your Septa observed you with calculating eyes, flicking from the sorrowful arch of your brows to the downward bow of your lips to your stained skirt. You tried to obscure it more from her view, twisting your body to the side, but it was for naught as she pulled at your wrist, displaying your disgrace for all to see. Marlow’s gaze was piercing, trying to pull puzzle pieces together as she looked from you to Aegon. 

Without warning, she yanked you behind her by your arm, feeling as if she wanted to pull it from the socket and put her body between yours and your uncle’s. 

“What did you do?” she interrogated sharply, her thin lips becoming even thinner with her jaw set. Aegon stared at her, stunned, and you began to weep in horror. “What did you do to her?” 

The question sent chills down your limbs, making the hairs stand on end. What did he do to you? All you could comprehend was that Aegon hurt you with a part that was supposed to be covered, like when you would get into fights that developed into blows. You knew it was wrong, but how Marlow shielded you with her body like a soldier on the battlefield made you think it was more than what a simple scuffle would be.

Aegon stared at Septa Marlow, shocked. His mouth agape as he stuttered to explain, his hands gesturing when he couldn’t get the words out. “Nothing!” he shouted in defense and stepped back from the elderly woman. 

“Liar,” she staunchly declared as she grabbed your uncle by his ear, bringing him closer to her seething gaze.

“Unhand me wench! I am a prince!” He screeched like a kicked dog, yelping and hollering in astonishment. You never thought Septa Marlow was so hearty or bold enough to scream in the crown prince’s face, and it scared you to no end as you hid in the fabric of her scratchy wool dress.

“People respond to pain according to where they were hurt, my Prince,” she spat as you listened with surprise. 

Did she know?

Aegon was awful. He felt slighted and would upset everyone just because he was. You worried Marlow would get into trouble with the Queen for touching her son and tried to lead her away, but your little arms were useless as she spoke through gritted teeth. 

“She isn’t one of your toys you can use as you see fit. When Rhaenyra hears of what you’ve done to her daughter, you’re mother won’t be able to protect you.” 

With that, Septa Marlow released Aegon as he whined, rubbing the afflicted area like she had ripped his ear from his head. You didn’t want her to get reprimanded on behalf of defending you, so you tugged at her sleeve again, begging with your eyes for her to leave. 

“Please, Septa, I want to go to my lessons now,” you implored, the words hiccuped.

She faced you then as if she suddenly recalled your presence beside her and stroked a comforting hand down your loose hair, coming to cup your cheek with a tenderness she had never given you before. It startled you into silence. Anguish glistened in Marlow’s blue eyes, as light as the sapphire bedsheets you slept on every night as she took your balled fist into her cold one. 

“Let us get you cleaned first,” she kindly replied, disregarding Aegon as if he didn’t matter. 

Septa Marlow seemed almost mournful like she suddenly discovered that she had lost a loved one as she led you down the many halls to your chambers in silence.

Your ladies-in-waiting greeted you with startled expressions as they tended to their duties, surprised to see you and Septa Marlow at an odd time. The first one to bow was Edwina of House Karstark, the youngest of Lord Rolan Karstark and his Lady wife. She was a few years older than you and was stout, standing on tall, sturdy legs and hips. Her shoulders were broad underneath her crimson servant gown, which featured wide blue-gray eyes and long brown hair styled underneath her cap. 

“Princess,” she politely greeted with a curtsy as the others followed. 

Septa Marlow wasted no time ordering your ladies to draw you a bath, the women ceasing their actions as they hastily ran to the kitchens to gather hot water. Staring at the older woman with a wary expression, you played with your fingers as you felt the overwhelming fluttering sensation of nerves bubble in your stomach. You hadn’t bathed since before that night, and the idea of multiple people seeing you in a vulnerable state made you want to run away. This wasn’t something you had experienced before. 

Typically, you loved baths, even bathing with your brothers on occasion as you played with toys and the servants scrubbed your bodies, but now, it seemed as if an abrupt aversion deep within you spawned, and you were powerless to stop it.

The maids finished with their last pail of water, dumping it into the metal tub and sprinkling in slices of oranges and nectarines, which were your favorites. Yet you still looked at the steaming water with reluctance. You didn’t want to bathe. It would take too much time, and having your body bare, feeling the hands of people gripping, scrubbing your flesh, water sloshing… 

It was too much. 

“Come, princess, let’s undress,” Enith, another of your ladies from House Blackbar, kindly ordered you with a wave of her dainty hands. 

Without warning, you ran to your bed, resting on your knees as you shook your head vehemently. “No! I don’t want to take a bath. I want to go to my lessons with Septa Marlow!”

The women exchanged confused glances, multiple pairs of colored eyes waiting for the other to do something about your out-of-character disobedience. They knew something must be wrong. You were never one to tolerate having the slightest bit of dirt underneath your fingernails, and not only did you deny cleaning yourself despite being covered in urine, but you wanted to go to spend time with Septa Marlow. You despised your lessons. You would kick and scream until your voice gave out, saying you didn’t want to go. Now you were doing the same.

“Princess,” Marlow called her gaze disbelieving and holding a look of challenge. “You must bathe before you can be seen. Your skirt reeks of piss.” You comprehended her reasoning, but something inside you refused to listen as you shouted disagreements.

Your Septa, the boldest of the women, came forward to grab you, but you swiftly dodged her, sliding across your wrinkled sheets. She dealt with your mother before you and knew how to handle troublesome young girls, though the years weighed heavily on her parchment-thin skin and brittle bones, and she was unable to get a hold of you. 

“I don’t want to take a bath!” You shouted as Edwina took a step forward, attempting to help Marlow undress you. They managed to snatch your leg and remove your dress as you wiggled and squirmed in their grasp, the fabric catching on your ears.

You quickly scampered away after they let go and flung open the adjoining door to your brother’s room, running over each of the neatly made beds as Septa Marlow and your ladies chased you. Swiftly, you ran to the exit, attempting to run out and down the hall. To where they couldn’t find you but were hastily stopped by Enith in front of you.

“Get, Princess Rhaenyra,” Marlow ordered Enith as she and Edwina restrained you, kicking and screaming in their grasp. “What is wrong with you? Does this have something to do with Prince Aegon?” Marlow pointedly questioned, on the verge of coughing with exertion.

Refusing to answer, you continued to thrash against them. You didn’t want to hurt your Septa despite disliking her, but if she told your mother about Aegon being the cause of your accident and she started asking questions, you would have no choice but to tell her about that night. Perhaps you could try to lie and say your uncle startled you in the corridor, which is why you wet yourself. You prayed to the Gods that she would believe you.

What felt like hours of struggling against a girl a few years older than you and an ancient Septa was moments as your mother emerged, a startled, wide-eyed look on her face as she watched you bite Edwina’s dress sleeve. 

“Enough!” your mother shouted over your dispute, ceasing all three of you as you panted.

Without hesitation, you ripped your arms away from the women, stomping to your room and curling face-first into a maroon settee. They were powerless to stop you now that your mother was here. You could hear their mumblings through the wall as a new wave of tears crashed over you, burying your cries into the soft cushions. 

You were uncertain what the reason for your sobs was. It could be that you had just experienced a rush of emotions you weren’t ready to handle or the guilt of making your ladies and Septa Marlow chase you around your shared quarters like a mouse, yet you knew the real reason. You tried denying it briefly, but the conscience your mother instilled in you made you see the truth. 

You were terrified about what she would do if she discovered you snuck out with Aegon, drank stolen wine, and ate desserts from the kitchens when you were supposed to be asleep.

The door to Jace and Luke’s room clicked shut, and you briskly raised your head at the sound, seeing your mother. You swiftly buried your face back into the cushions as you heard the delicate tapping of her shoes come closer. She said nothing for a long moment, sitting beside you and rubbing a gentle hand in soothing circles on your back. 

Rhaenyra wasn’t upset with your behavior; she was more concerned than anything. Like Septa Marlow said, this was unlike you. Your nursemaids taught you how to use the privy, and you hadn’t wet the bed since you were four. For Seven’s sake, it was everything your mother could do to get you out of the tub! 

She knew something had happened, something terrible.

“Little love?” Rhaenyra tenderly spoke your name as she leaned closer. “Will you tell me the cause of this?” 

You merely sniffled in response, rendered into tearful silence. 

Rhaenyra gave you a pitying unseen smile and released a sigh through her nose. She hadn’t seen you this worked up since Aemond pushed you into the garden fountain, smacking your mouth against the stone and knocking out your front tooth. With the tooth, it was an easy fix. All she needed to do was explain that another would grow back since you were young. With this, she was unsure of the cause and did not know how to get the reason out of you. 

“I can see this is hurting you, and it pains me deeply. You must know that whatever transpired will never make me love you less,” your mother confessed, her free hand clasping yours. “Whatever has you feeling in such torment is far more harsh of a punishment than I could ever give you. I could not bear to do more.” 

Slowly, you removed your face from the pillow, turning to rest your plump cheek on it. “You won’t be mad at me if I tell you?” you asked with a childish softness to your voice. 

“You know that I won’t ever lie to you. I cannot guarantee I won’t be upset, but the inner torment you currently face suffices any consequence I could give you,” your mother replied honestly, sighing and scrunching her brows.

While the words didn’t make you feel better, you did feel a lightness in your soul. You fully faced her then, tearful eyes glistening in the natural light like polished mahogany obsidian. Hiccuping your breaths, you leaned on your mother’s shoulder as she wrapped her long arm around you, uncaring about the foul-smelling gown. 

“Aegon, he sn-snuck up on me while I went to my lessons. He scared me,” you explained, thoughts and memories all mumbled together as you began to twist your hair to soothe your nerves. 

“Is that all?” she inquired in disbelief. “Your uncle scared you, and that caused you to…” Your mother didn’t finish the thought before you shook your head, impulsively tugging at your dark locks. 

“No, Mama. It happened before then. A few-a few nights ago, Aegon left me a note underneath my pillow and said he had something to tell me. He told me to follow a secret passage and that he was waiting for me.” 

You saw the color drain from your mother’s face, her violet eyes widening in horror as she swallowed nervously. “We went into the kitchens and wine cellars, helping ourselves to food and drink. A scullery maid caught us, and then he took me outside to the battlements of the Holdfast. We sat, ate, and drank, and he told me about Queen Alicent’s plan to arrange a marriage between us.”

Your mother clenched her jaw, clutching your shoulder and forcing you to face her, gaze searching for something. “Is that all?” You swiftly nodded your head. “Nothing else happened? Your uncle didn’t take you anywhere? He didn’t touch you?”

You stared at her, confused, examining the delicate slope of her nose and the intensity of her eyes. “No. Aegon didn’t take me anywhere. We stayed in the castle,” you answered hastily, trying to appease her unrest. “But he did hurt me. That’s why I don’t want to bathe; it still hurts.”

“What do you mean? How did he hurt you?” The severity of her gaze didn’t lessen, her strong fingers digging into the meat of your shoulders as she said your name. 

“He put his privy part inside-” 

You were unable to complete your sentence as your mother suddenly let out a heart-wrenching cry, pulling you close to her chest as she sobbed. Her outburst took you aback, but instinctively wrapped your arms around her, trying to offer comfort.

“Tis alright, Mama. It’s like when I lost my front tooth,” you said calmly, but she shook her head. 

“No, no, it’s not. Aegon did something to you, something you are far too young to comprehend. Does Alicent’s bitterness for our youth blind her from decency and honor?” 

And with that, you learned what Aegon did to you. 

Rape. 

Your eldest uncle raped you before you knew the meaning of the word—before you inquired where children came from. The tapestry you saw in the hall made sense now, except they were experiencing pleasure while you experienced pain. Your mother told you that what Aegon did was something that should only happen between two people who understood the consequences of sex. 

Your uncle took advantage of your innocence and abused his power over you. He knew you would allow him to do whatever he wanted because you sought his approval like nothing else. 

Your mother told you she also experienced something similar with her Uncle Daemon when she was much older and comprehended what sex was. She recounted how he left a note for her that led to a passage in her chambers just like you did, though he led her out of the safety of the Red Keep to the Streets of Loom and Silk to see her people where he abandoned your mother. You decided then that you didn’t like your Great Uncle Daemon. 

“Did he…” Rhaenyra couldn’t finish her question, tears choking her. “Did he reach completion? Did his… his seed…” 

You stared at her in confusion, still grappling with all she had explained. “Aemond caught us and took me back to his room. I didn’t see any of his seed afterward,” you answered plainly as your mother grimaced at the words. “He hasn’t told anyone. He promised not to. We’ve spent time together reading, and I think he’s becoming my friend.” 

Rhaenyra wiped the water from her face and gave you a forced smile, her mouth wet as she bobbed in acknowledgment. 

“Wonderful. I’m happy for you. You’ve always been a kind girl,” she thickly said, swallowing the excess moisture and smoothing your loose strands of hair. “Now, let’s get you cleaned up, hmm? I can show you how so you don’t have to become bear with anyone you don’t want to.”

“But it’s going to hurt, mama,” you whined, tugging on her satin gray dress sleeve.

“I know, sweetheart, but you must,” she sighed, stroking you in a gesture of comfort for you or her; you didn’t know. “How about we bring Jace here? He’s due for a scrub.”

Rhaenyra would do anything to control this uncontrollable situation. 

Fidgeting with your hair nervously, you nodded in acquiescence, allowing her to undress and lower you into the water. The warm liquid burned you between your legs like you thought it would as you clawed at your mother’s arms, releasing whimpers with tensed muscles until you adjusted. She comforted you with sweet nothings until you calmed, kissing your forehead and calling for a servant to fetch your brother. 

Jace arrived begrudgingly moments later from his lessons and stripped himself bare. You couldn’t help how your gaze drifted below his waistline as you unwillingly compared it to the memory of Aegon’s. You wondered what it would look like, “aroused,” as your mother called it. It sent an unwelcomed yet not entirely unpleasant tickle into your stomach as he got in with a huff. 

As Rhaenyra declined the assistance of your attendants and Jace’s manservants in bathing her children, she deftly took the supplies from them and dismissed them with a swift gesture. Guiding you on scrubbing your body and washing your hair, she momentarily paused as she came upon the small patches of missing hair. A sense of anxiety gripped you as you felt her fingers inspecting the area, but to your relief, she made no comment and continued as if nothing occurred. 

You appreciated her kindness and understanding more than ever at that moment as Jace mischievously splashed you with soapy liquid, and a water fight between giggling siblings ensued.

The sun casts its faint glow from behind the gray clouds of King’s Landing, rays of light shining as if from the heavens above. Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen stood atop her high balcony with her newborn in her sturdy arms, swaying him gently as she hummed a tune and looked over all the splendor the city offered. It was a land she would one day rule over and her children after her as she smiled at the sleeping bundle near her heart. 

The Princess loved her children dearly, especially the man she had them with. Despite having a name that would strike fear into his foes, he had a gentle heart. She felt her allies severely dwindle when he left. In a place Rhaenyra called home, she began to feel like an outcast. Suppose Alicent’s elaborate charade of parading a newborn child and its mother around the Red Keep was any say. The lengths her old friend would go to humiliate Rhaenyra were limitless. 

She recalled balking at her husband Laenor abandoning his post at the Red Keep to escape the rumors of the court and martial unhappiness to fight in the Stepstones with his father. But as time passed, the idea of leaving became more and more reasonable to Rhaenyra. On the chance that she would leave her home, it would not be for her, but for her children, for her only daughter whose innocence was taken before she knew what it was. It made her ill to understand that a child who was far too young to wonder where children came from would experience such depravity. 

Now more than ever, Rhaenyra questioned her children’s safety.

The Princess didn’t care about the concept of purity in this situation. No one knew what occurred other than the two involved, her and Aemond. If word happened to get out, she would fight for her daughter’s name. She was sure her half-brothers would not tell anyone, as it would be death to Alicent’s and her family’s pious image. It was mutually assured destruction. 

The door to Rhaenyra’s bed chambers opened, and a guard bowed and announced the unexpected visitor. She didn’t invite anyone. At the thought, her heart began to race, and she worried it could have something to do with you as she put Joffrey down. 

“Queen Alicent of House Hightower,” he boomed, bowing his helmeted head as the woman entered. 

Rhaenyra had half a mind to send her away. How dare she come into her quarters after everything that happened? After decades of torment and snide comments, she approaches her old friend with an air of ignorant, entitled kindness. 

“My Queen,” Rhaenyra acknowledged, refusing to extend a bow as she clasped her hand behind her back. “What do I owe the pleasure?” 

Alicent smiled briefly, encircling her fingers over her olive and gold waist as she stepped closer. The pointed star of the Seven glistened around her dainty neck. She swallowed as the Princess studied her with calculating eyes, sensing an unusual aura of hostility.

“Excuse my intrusion, Princess. I needed to speak to you. I know that we’ve had our share of differences as of late,” she began with a deep breath, wringing her digits, “but I believe that we agree on the decency of the realm and the future of our Houses.” 

Rhaenyra raised a manicured brow at the woman before her, and her peony lips curled into a snarl of disgust. She knew the next words that would undoubtedly follow.

“I know you are not blind to the rumors about the plainness of your children-”

“Vile accusations fueled by those lusting for my ruination,” the Princess interrupted, standing behind the golden-colored settee that separated her from the Queen.

Alicent sighed and pursed her lips, refusing to admit her part in the gossip. She knew it was fact, but that didn’t matter now. She could sense a change in the air, could feel the future in which her light slipped away into the darkness. It was a desperate proposition, seeing as Rhaenyra had already made one. 

“I recall in the days prior that you proposed a marriage between your son Jace and my only daughter Helaena. I wish to offer a compromise, your eldest daughter and my eldest son. They would make a fine match. No one would seek to undermine your inheritance if our Houses were united if we allied ourselves,” she rushed, worried that Rhaenyra would interrupt her like before and spoil her dream. 

She desperately wanted to call you her own, to turn things into how they were meant to be. Alicent itched to tear at the skin of her nails as the Princess stewed in the silence. 

Rhaenyra was insulted at Alicent’s desperation and audacity in countering a marriage alliance that her father told her she vehemently refused. One didn’t do these things. Alicent, the woman who spouted about decency and propriety, dared propose a marriage after the atrocity her son committed before the eyes of the Gods.

A scornful laugh erupted in Rhaenyra’s chest as she traced the wooden engravings of the furniture. “Do you truly think me so desperate?” she challenged bitterly, shaking her loosely tied hair. “You approached my negotiations with such repugnance, and now you come asking me if I will sell my only daughter to that wastrel you call a son. No. You’ve already taken too much.” 

Hurt and confusion laced the wrinkles of Alicent’s face, her doe eyes wide with a helplessness Rhaenyra hadn’t seen since they were girls. She felt as if the Queen pierced her heart with her amber orbs, but she swiftly pushed it aside as she recalled the swollen patches of missing hair on your scalp. Distress was not the expectation Rhaenyra had in mind when she denied Alicent, and it briefly perplexed her before the realization dawned. 

“You don’t know,” she enunciated more to herself than the woman in the room. “Of course, he wouldn’t tell you, but why not Aemond?” 

The Queen became distressed at Rhaenyra’s ambiguity and finally began to pull at her cuticles, attempting to distract her from the anxiety and turn it into pain. She wanted to ask what Aemond and Aegon didn’t tell her, but the words stuck in her parched throat.

Rhaenyra let out a sharp breath through her nose as she walked around an armchair and became face-to-face with her forgotten friend. A sense of superiority came over the Princess at finally having the upper hand after years of pining for Alicent’s kindness. At the moment, she had no desire to end the strife between them. 

“Aegon stole my daughter into the night and led her to the ramparts of the Holdfast, where he raped her,” Rhaenyra described with a pointed fury. “Do you know what it’s like to hear your child cry in your arms because someone debased her? She didn’t know the name of what happened to her.” 

Gasping in horror, Alicent covered her lips in shock, bracing one hand on her stomach as if she would vomit. Her son, her firstborn, the child that she loved dearly but also doomed her to eternal suffering, had raped his young niece. Aegon raped the Gods’ Light. If anyone got word of the atrocity committed on the small folk’s favorite Princess, the realm would turn on House Hightower. No one would support Aegon’s claim despite him being a son.

“Who else knows of this?” Alicent hastily asked, her face pale with fear. A small, desperate part of her still wished to continue with the proposal. Maidens were forced into unhappy marriages as a part of life, and this one would be no different. 

With a dismissive snort, Rhaenyra pivoted away from the Queen and strode back to Joffrey’s cradle. It was no shock to her that the Queen had made such a request. Her preoccupation with appearances and how she was perceived always seemed to overshadow genuine empathy, a characteristic that she appeared to have inherited from her father.

“Aemond, and now, you,” Rhaenyra answered as she stroked the button nose of her newborn. “That is the boy you want my child to wed. Her rapist. What do you think my father would do should he find out?” 

Alicent inhaled sharply, nerves winding themselves into a ball as blood trickled into her nail beds. “There is no need to get the King involved. His health is far too precarious. I shall see to it.” 

The Princess stood in the dimly lit chamber, her emotions simmering beneath the surface as she gazed down at Joffrey, nestled amidst the soft white linens that cradled him. It was nearly time for his feeding, and she didn’t want to continue discussing with the wetnurse present, knowing that any whispers or speculation about her daughter would spread like fleas.

“Good. Out of our shared blood, I will spare Aegon from his fate at the Wall. Know that I will be the one to decide where my daughter’s hand goes. You may take your leave,” Rhaenyra dismissed with a flick. 

Alicent stood frozen in place, her wide brown eyes shimmering with tears as her hand instinctively reached for the delicate Seven-Pointed Star pendant resting at the base of her neck. This object symbolized her unwavering devotion to Faith, virtue, and sacred things. However, in this moment of distress, it felt as though the points of the star were searing into her flesh, cutting into her tender palm like a mark of condemnation. The Queen’s fury, initially directed inward at herself for the perceived failure of raising a son she deemed unworthy, swiftly turned towards her eldest child. 

One thing remained unanswered as Alicent swallowed the lump in her throat, inhaling a deep breath before the question came from her plump lips. 

“How does Aemond know? Did he…” She couldn’t finish the sentence, choked at the idea that both her sons were the wickedest men. 

Rhaenyra shook her head scornfully, sneered, and took Joffrey into her arms, refraining from the bitter laugh that threatened to erupt. “He stopped Aegon from reaching completion inside her, but there was no point. He’d already damaged my daughter beyond comprehension. She wets herself at the sight of him and refuses to bathe without her brother.” 

The Princess’s gaze traveled to the floor, a scowl on her face. The recollection of you whimpering as you lowered into the tub played in her mind’s eye. She sat on the lavish settee that separated her from the Queen, exhausted, the effort of standing still too precarious after her labors. 

“That is your decency,” Rhaenyra jeered as Alicent stood with her back ramrod straight. 

The wetnurse entered the Princess’s chambers before she could respond, wordlessly understanding that this was not a subject to discuss in front of the staff.

The act of Aegon fraternizing with maids and indulging in excess was already troubling, but he deliberately destroyed one of the few things that brought Alicent joy. It felt like a personal attack. He shattered your innocence and the light that used to brighten Alicent’s dreams. Although conflicted about the fact that it was her son who committed this act, she couldn’t help but feel a surge of rage inside her, causing her to drop her arms to her sides swiftly.

Sins such as these will not go unpunished, she thought.

“I thank you for your time, Princess. I will see that the matter is duly handled.” With a heavy heart, the Queen bid farewell to her old friend, lingering momentarily at the chambers’ door before leaving. Little did she know that it would be many years before she would set foot in that place again.

As Rhaenyra observed the Green Queen’s departure, her auburn locks cascading gracefully with each subtle movement of her hips, she resolved to assume dominion over Dragonstone. Despite the perils of her leaving, her children’s safety took precedence over her own. The Red Keep was no longer a secure place for any of them. 

Alicent waited until twilight blanketed the castle as she tentatively nursed a goblet of wine, candles flickering in the darkness. She rarely indulged in this vice, but this day required such comfort. She didn’t think one’s world could end in mere moments, yet for her, it did. The future that helped lay Alicent to rest atop her silk pillows was no more. 

After years of tolerating Rhaenyra’s and Viserys’ arrogance, upholding duty, the kingdom, and the law, she felt she was due this one thing. It was not so much to ask. If her old friend were a better ruler, she would understand that marriage to the one who took advantage of you would be a minuscule sacrifice to make for the good of the realm. But Rhaenyra was a good mother, not a ruler—something which Alicent both envied and disliked. 

Downing the last contents of her cup, Alicent stood still in the day’s attire as she nodded to Ser Criston, who returned one in kind. He knew her destination without her speaking it into existence, escorting her the few rooms to her eldest son’s. She didn’t bother the courtesy of knocking as she shoved open the sturdy oak door to reveal her son resting on the mattress near his window, sheets at his thighs and prick in his hand. Bile briefly burned the Queen’s throat, covering her sneered lips to prevent it from spilling.

It wasn’t the first time she caught Aegon pleasuring himself, nor did she think it would be the last as she witnessed him with a pocket portrait of you in his grasp, stroking his glistening member. Alicent felt sick, turning away from the blasphemous sight before her and into Ser Cristion’s armored chest. This is not her son. 

“Fuck!”

The commotion alerted Aegon to their presence as he shouted obscenities, swiftly covering his hips with the discolored sheets. Was he not afforded the same privacy as others? The Keep was his home, too.

“You are in the presence of your Queen Mother. Act as such,” Criston ordered, the whisper of his hand gliding over Alicent’s back. She stepped away from her sworn protector, brown curls loose as she swallowed her tears.

“What have you done now?” she interrogated with a resentful shake of her head, a scowl on her plump lips.

Aegon peered at her confused, mouth opened as he craned his neck upwards. It was hard to tell what his mother implied, seeing as he got into his fair share of mischief alone and with his nephews and niece. “I don’t know what you mean,” he answered honestly, and Alicent believed him. 

She knew her son would survive daily with nothing but firewater and was unsurprised by his dispassionate attitude. This was another one of his jokes, she realized. Aegon was so ignorant of his bullying that it became his nature. He was incapable of understanding the magnitude of how his actions affected others. 

“What you did to the Princess, how you lured her from her bed at some unholy hour and raped a child! She is a child, Aegon!” Alicent roared, her velvet voice rattling in her throat with anger, arms trembling at her sides. “She does not understand the relationship between man and woman, and you took advantage of her. She trusted you!”

Tears pooled in Aegon’s amethyst eyes, his mouth pouting from his mother’s tirade. “She told me I could do it. I didn’t mean to hurt her!” he protested, recoiling. Aegon felt like a child who destroyed a precious vase after his parent told him not to touch it. “Did Aemond tell you? You know he’s lying. He’s still upset about the pig.”

“Another depiction of your cruelty,” the Queen snidely retorted, face curled in disgust. “Rhaenyra will never agree to a union of our Houses after what you’ve done. You’ve ruined all prospects of my happiness. How does it make you feel to treat your mother this way?” 

When her son did not answer, choosing to lower his head and cower, she stormed towards him, causing Aegon to scamper upright in fear and clutch the sheets in his trembling fingers. Without warning, Alicent struck her son across his cheek, pink blooming across his pale skin. Her son cradled his face as tears began to fall, but she roughly yanked Aegon’s hand away, hitting him like before and causing his lip to split as she screamed.

“How does it feel to have destroyed a child’s life? To have effectively decimated all chances of peace with your repulsive desires? She would have solidified your claim. No one would have thought to raise their banners otherwise,” she fumed as her arms gestured wildly, Aegon flinching with her move. “The realm’s blood is on your hands.”

He hiccuped, unevenly breathing as snot dripped into his mouth, stinging his bloodied lip. Aegon rubbed his swollen cheek that would no doubt bear the mark of his mother’s rage the next morn, swallowing his tears, spit, and mucus. 

“I’m sorry, mummy,” he remorsefully expressed, looking down in shame. 

He was only sorry because Alicent found out. Had it not been for her proposition to Rhaenyra, his mother would have never found out.

She sneered, glaring at her son as Alicent abruptly recalled a quote from a book about motherhood she read as a young girl. It stated how deeply a mother’s love for their child went. It was like nothing else and knew no law or pity. How its mere existence dares all things and remorselessly crushes down all that stood in its path.

Alicent could find evidence of herself in her children, no matter their Targaryen queerness or the silver hair and violet sparkle in their eyes. She saw herself in Helaena’s gently sloped nose, Aegon’s round and sleepless eyes, Aemond’s straight-backed bearing, and how his expressive brow always gave away his genuine emotions.

On the worst of days, she reminded herself that she left a legacy—that Viserys didn’t devour every evidence of her girlhood with his cursed blood. She clung to these shards of herself, reflected at her from her children, and it felt like trying to pick up splinters of colored glass from a broken Sept window with her delicate fingers.

The Queen loved Aegon but could not do so as she did for Helaena, Aemond, Daeron, and you. She would drink poison for her eldest but couldn’t embrace him. Alicent would step into dragon fire for him yet refused to say the words he desperately longed to hear. She tried to tell Aegon that she would love him no matter what he did, that he could not stop her from doing so, but the confession refused to roll off her tongue.

“You are no son of mine,” she declared, inhaling a shuddering breath. There was nothing more for her to say, and she left her son, whimpering and sniveling in the confines of his bedroom. 

Aegon stood alone in the dimly lit chamber, his eyes fixated on seeing his mother’s departure. Overwhelming agony and disgrace filled his being, and he found himself utterly wounded beyond words. It cut him deeply to the core that the person who was meant to love and protect him unconditionally could cause him such anguish. He couldn’t fathom how the one stable relationship he had hoped for in a tumultuous life had turned out to be the source of his deepest pain. It seemed as though his mother’s love was limited, only granted to those who could fulfill her expectations.

It seemed as if taking the place of his mother’s favorite wasn’t enough. Aemond also had to take his only true friend. 

Aegon concluded that Aemond must have made the situation far worse than it was in an attempt to direct Alicent’s wrath onto him. No doubt his younger brother did something to displease her. Without Aemond’s interruption, none of this would have happened. His mother wouldn’t be upset with him, Aegon would still have his pride, and you would still be his friend. After all, you were his first.

You were not naive. You comprehended why your mother chose to depart from the Red Keep, and you felt responsible for it all. It wasn’t that you didn’t appreciate the idea of residing on Dragonstone. In the summer, it was a magnificent place. Aegon the Conqueror’s garden was a breathtaking sight that could rival the Keeps, and the perpetual breeze that swept across the island made the high temperatures quite bearable. Nevertheless, you were apprehensive about living there.

It wasn’t your home. 

You were born and grew up here, surrounded by companions and starting a new beginning with your Uncle Aemond. The Keep was all you knew, but it wasn’t all joyful memories. You often faced relentless teasing from your uncles for not having Valyrian features and simply because you were a girl. Despite the challenges, you wanted things to stay the same, even after what Aegon did. When your mother revealed important news during supper, you didn’t complain about your shared feelings, unlike your brothers. 

As the sun dipped below the western horizon, casting a warm yellow-orange glow across the sky, your mother gently reassured you that Aegon would never trouble you again as she tucked you snugly into bed. Rhaenyra, taking no chances, commissioned the palace locksmith to forge a sturdy iron bolt for the tunnel door and generously compensated him for his secrecy. She doubled the guard outside your chambers also to further ensure your safety. 

Knowing that your eldest uncle could not breach your defenses brought you immense relief, finally allowing you to rest your head. However, that sense of peace shattered as you awoke suddenly, a flutter of anxiety gripping your chest.

Your mother arranged to leave King’s Landing within a fortnight, and with your guards becoming more of a presence than before, you worried when you would see Aemond to tell him goodbye. Your mother had expressed her displeasure at you spending time with any of the Queen’s children, and you didn’t want him to think you abandoned him. 

Laying in your soft bed, surrounded by your plush pillows and fluffy duvet, you tossed and turned, battling the idea of if you should do what started this in the first place and sneak through the tunnels of Maegor’s Holdfast. You were scared about becoming lost in the vast passages, but you inhaled an encouraging breath and threw your covers off. A shiver ran through your body, whether from the sudden lack of warmth or anxiety; you were unsure as you snatched the lit candle from your bedside table. 

You planned to go into the first door you saw and take yourself from there, which proved problematic when it didn’t budge, no matter how hard you pushed. It sent a surge of panic into your soul as you glanced around the dark hallways, the sounds of rats squeaking and water dripping adding to the storm of fear that formed. You felt helpless, afraid that from the blackness, a monster would emerge and devour you whole, leaving nothing but bones for your parents to find. 

Exhale. Inhale.

The steady breathing of your lungs calmed your nerves enough to think clearly. All you needed to do was find the next exit. Eventually, the tunnels would end. 

As you went to step forward, a rock rolled under your shoe, causing you to stumble briefly before an idea came to mind. You recalled days when you spent outside with Helaena or your brothers drawing on the stone walkways of the Keep, creating pictures of your family, dragons, and all sorts of animals before they were washed away by rain. There was no rain in here. You could use it to mark your path and retrace your steps if lost. 

Dragging the stone along the walls created a line lighter than the rock as you felt it vibrate along uneven surfaces. Finally, you found another door. You moved the indentation with the shove of your shoulder, and it opened, revealing a dark room lit by only the silver moon glow shining through the windows. 

You realized it was the library as you saw the towers of bookcases lining the room and felt a surge of victory. Quickly, you scribbled the word onto the passage wall as you shut the portal, a painting depicting a fierce battle between men and dragons hanging on it. You could navigate yourself from here and stealthily walk the torchlit corridors of the Red Keep until you find Aemond’s quarters and enter as you did before. 

He wasn’t startled this time and only sleeplessly turned on his side to face you, opening his covers, which you crawled in greedily. You stuck yourself to Aemond’s side, pinning his arm uncomfortably between your bodies until he unwedged it with a sigh and put it under your neck. You were silent for a long moment with your hands tucked near your chin, unsure how to tell him you were leaving.

Aemond realized as he stared at the top of his canopy bed, violet eyes focused on the fabric that swirled in the night. The more he got to know you, the more your presence stopped irritating him. He liked that you respected his boundaries despite having different ones. You knew that Aemond preferred silence and hated it when someone took his things or disrupted whatever plans he made for the day, which was why he was so affronted when you decided to make a regular appearance in his life. 

“My mother is taking us to Dragonstone,” you blurted, unable to express yourself otherwise. 

Aemond blinked at you in the darkness and unhurriedly turned, his brows arched. “For how long?” he questioned. 

“I’m not sure,” you softly soughed, gazing downcast. “I think forever. Mother doesn’t think we’re safe after what Aegon did and the rumors that we’re…” You couldn’t finish your thought. It was as if the word bastard was something you could not say aloud. 

Aemond knew what you meant and pursed his thin lips as resentment swirled in his stomach. It felt like he couldn’t have anything that made him happy. Born without a dragon, he was forced to be the odd one out, and now he was losing the only person his age who seemed to care for him. Something or someone would permanently ruin his happiness. In this case, it was his brother. Hatred burned in his heart for Aegon. 

“I don’t think Mama will allow me to visit the Keep. She doesn’t want us to be around Queen Alicent or any of you,” you sullenly confided, melancholy tugging your eyes. “A part of me wants to leave because of Aegon, but the other wants to stay with you.” 

“I don’t need you to be my friend. I don’t need your pity,” Aemond barked, causing you to flinch. It was the only way he knew to be when he was uncomfortable with the notion of vulnerability. 

You sighed, squirming closer to him and putting your palm on his chest. “I don’t feel bad for you, Aemond. You’re my only friend besides my brothers. Why would I want to leave you behind?” 

He didn’t know how to respond, unused to someone other than his mother speaking with candid emotions. 

“I enjoy spending time with you, uncle. You’re the first person I told that I wanted to be like Nymeria and find my Mors Martell,” you confessed, playing with the fabric of his nightshirt between your fingers. He didn’t know why the idea that you needed to find your prince consort vexed him. 

“We all must make sacrifices for family,” Aemond stiffly explained. 

You could only get Aemond to offer you comfort by explicitly telling him. He was locked within his mind’s fortress, refusing to let anything or anyone in. 

“When Gaelithox is big enough, I’ll ride him and visit you. I promised that we would fly together.” Aemond’s purple orbs flicked to you at the reminder of your oath, and after a long stretch of speechlessness, he took your hand. 

“Very well,” he nodded, and you nestled closer to your uncle, resting your temple in the crook of his neck. That was good enough for you. You could rest easy now, but your uncle’s mind still whirred, stuck on one thought. 

“Do you think you’ll ever find your Mors Martell?” he asked, stirring you from your slumber. “I heard my mother talking one day, and she said that there was no place for a woman to have expectations for her husband. She must accept whatever match her father deems necessary.”

You hushed for a long moment, and Aemond thought you might have fallen asleep before you rose in your arms, looking down at him in the darkness. “I’m a Targaryen princess, not some regular noblewoman. My mother said I may choose who I want to marry, whether he be a knight, a dragon rider, or a second son—so long as he’s worthy.”

Seeing the hesitancy in his gaze, his silver-blonde hair loose and draped over the green satin pillows, you leaned down, bestowing a short yet sweet kiss to the top of his sun-spotted nose with a grin. He lay there, shocked, unable to speak or move, his cheeks blooming a vibrant pink that you could see in the darkness as you lay back down, feeling satisfied in your gut. 

“All I ask of him is that he has a good heart, cares for me as I do him, is someone with whom I can trust my secrets, and protects me from my enemies. That is the type of man who’s worthy. Dragon or not, it doesn’t matter,” you sighed contentedly, feeling the claws of sleep overtake you.

You stirred with a blink when Aemond’s hand rose slowly and tentatively touched your cheek, your brown eyes wide and glimmering in the moonlight. He swallowed hard, feeling how pleasant, soft, and warm your skin felt under his fingers.  He pressed his forehead against yours, feeling your breath quicken. Your uncle was hesitant about expressing what he wanted so as not to frighten you. Aegon was experienced with this sort of thing, not Aemond, and understood that you would see him the same way if he went about it like his brother did. 

As unworthy. 

A monster.

As he leaned in closer, he gently ran his thumb across your skin, his touch sending a shiver down your spine. His fingers traced the curve of your neck, causing your breath to catch in your throat. Even in the dimly lit room, he could feel the heat of your blush.

“May I?” he asked, voice mumbled as you nodded quickly, a giddy feeling in your heart.

You gently traced your fingers along his chiseled jawline, savoring the unfamiliar intimacy of Aemond’s proximity. It sent a surge of warmth through his stomach, and his heart raced as he tenderly cupped your cheek in his hand. 

When your uncle’s lips finally pressed against yours, he was surprised by how soft and moist they were, pulling swiftly in slight embarrassment with a noiseless click of flesh. He turned away with hot ears and abruptly shut his eyes, feeling like he was about to die simultaneously from bashfulness and excitement.

“Let us sleep,” he tenderly ordered, settling back into his former position. It was too much emotion for one time, and you didn’t want to push him further. Aemond felt ashamed that he was sharing the same bed as his bastard niece, yet her presence had a calming effect on him.

You answered nothing, settling beside him like before as he put his arms around you, sending a flutter in your heart. It was his first kiss, just like yours, and for the first time in many years, he felt proud, fulfilled, happy, and worthy. For the time being, he didn’t worry about what a life without you and your brothers meant for him, focused only on your comforting warmth and scent that reminded him of a cool, bright summer day as you both fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.

Masterlist of Series

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I hope y'all enjoyed that last scene because it'll be the last sweet one for a long time! XD

Bedwetting, refusing to take baths/showers, and uncontrollable bladder and bowel movements are all common signs of childhood SA. I didn't add that scene in there just for the shock factor. While I didn't experience those symptoms, they are textbook signs.

Some of you shared your experiences in the comments and said what happened to the OC was validating. I wanted to give y'all a public thank you for sharing your experiences even when you didn't have to, and FUCK YOU to whoever did those things to you. Still, there are so many different ways people react to trauma that there isn't a "right" or "acceptable" way to cope with it. Just remember to get professional help if you're able and find ways to channel those feelings that will benefit you positively. It's a lifelong process that can be exhausting at times, but what I like to tell myself (even if it's morbid) is that if I'm dead, then I can't be anything, and if I'm not anything, then the wrong that person did to me is nothing. I don't recommend that line of thinking to everyone, tho. XD

Thank you again for reading!

Tagged Peeps: @millies0bsimp , @britt-mf , @marvelescvpe , @haikyuusboringassmanager , @discofairysworld , @lottiemsgf, @nessjo , @fiction-fanfic-reader , @qvnthesia , @hotvillianapologist , @p45510n4f4shi0n, @theendlessvoidofdarkest , @readerselegance , @gothamgurl2024, @aleemendoza2425-blog

[murmel-malt]

had @emilykaldwen's vampire!abby stuck in my brain the entire day. please accept this humble doodle as tribute.

[alavestineneas]

King’s will

pairing: Aegon II Targaryen x OFC

summary: In the game of chess, the queen has more freedom on the chessboard. In that sense, the queen is the most powerful piece. On the other hand, the king has more value. Because if you lose the king, you lose the game. 

warnings: arranged marriage, medieval violence, slow burn

chapter 1 -> chapter 2 -> chapter 3 -> chapter 4 -> chapter 5

Spring of the year 111 AC, 

Highgarden

Otto took a sip out of the goblet, feeling a pleasant taste of Abor gold travel to his throat. It is how Gods intended the drink to be taken—slowly, under the warm rays of the morning sun. It was easy to forget oneself in those beautiful Highgarden gardens, surrounded by the sweet scent of blooming flowers and the gentle hum of bees. It was broadly different to King's Landing. The Westeros' cloak was nothing but dirt compared to those glorious hills. Even now, two years after his time as a King's Hand has ended, Otto felt the foul smell on his palms. 

''Enjoying our wine, Otto?'' 

 A brawny, strong figure appeared from the cool shadows of the trees. The small, prominent wrinkles covered the man's tan face, and his dark beard bore a few strands of grey. Although age and grief seemed to make a mark in his gaze, his brown, almost black eyes shone with a somewhat youthful, mischievous glimpse. 

 ''Fillis Tyrell in his full glory!'' Hightower smiled, standing up from the comfort of his chair to embrace the man in a hug. ''Beware, I may empty your cellar by the end of my stay.''

 ''You are more than welcome to, and you know it. I apologize for not greeting you earlier.'' 

 ''Don't, don't.'' Otto waved around, dismissing Tyrell like an annoying fly. ''I know how hard it is to manage without a wife.''

The man chuckled, ''Well, I'm doing my best. But I must say, it's not easy with two daughters.''

They stood in silence for a moment before Tyrell spoke up again. ''So, what do we owe the pleasure?''

"I decided to visit my friend in his magnificent castle and look at his mountains of gold myself.'' Otto raised his eyebrows, gesturing at the man's attire—black mourning cloth embroidered with golden threads. Heavy, shining jewels covered the large, noble hands and wrapped around the neck, hidden under the velvet collar. 

 ''Don't try to fool me, old fox.'' The man sat, taking a piece of fruit from the golden plate. ''The trading goes well; it always did. You are not here because of that.''

Otto raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. ''You know me too well.'' He took a sip of wine before continuing. ''I am to ask for your support.'' 

Tyrell leaned in, his eyes narrowing with interest. ''Go on.'' 

''The Realm stands at peace, but we are preparing for war, my friend.''

The man sat back in his chair, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. ''You are asking a lot of me, Otto. Going against the King's will is the highest treason.'' 

 ''The King's will doesn't take away the birthright of the firstborn son.'' Otto followed the man's gaze. Two young children played near the fountain, with a maid struggling to keep them away from the water. 

 ''I have two daughters growing. Gods know how long I am yet to live and rule here before they are alone. They can't even hold a sword, and you want me to put them at war without any protection?''

It was not just his father's love that spoke; it was the lack of gain for his house that Tyrell voiced. Not even a life-long friendship could change the man's prudent nature; although sometimes wearying, it served him well.

''What do you want in return, Fillis?'' 

 Tyrell looked at him, a playful glimpse long gone. ''Wed them. Take my daughter to Oldtown, raise her in your traditions, and make her Aegon's wife.'' 

 Otto shook his head ''I can't do that. The prince is only four; your daughter is seven.'' 

 ''I have two. Elize is an heir. She will be the Lady Paramount of the Mander, first to support your grandson's claim when the time comes. Marcella is five.'' 

 Otto looked at his friend, entertaining the proposal. The price for Tyrell's support is immense; marrying his grandson to a pig in a poke was treacherous. However, the army and gold of the Reach could hold a deadly advantage if used by an enemy. Aegon had to marry sooner or later; no other noble house would agree to send their daughter to Oldtown to be raised as his wife. Tyrells were always trusted allies of Hightowers, sharing similar goals and values. A marriage alliance with them would not only secure Hightower's position in court but also strengthen Aegon's claim to the Iron Throne. ''It is a decision we can't rush.'' He finally answered. 

 ''I am not rushing you, Otto. You are welcome to stay as long as you like.'' Tyrell raised his hand, waving. ''Marcella, come!''

A shorter girl in a blue dress turned around. She was plump, with healthy fat on her cheeks and legs. Her hair, plaited in two heavy braids, jumped when she ran over to her father, a wide smile on her face. ''Father, who is this guest?'' she asked, looking up at him with curious eyes.

 ''Ser Otto Hightower, darling.'' 

The child curtsied rather clumsily, trying her best not to fall. Fillis chuckled, ruffling her hair affectionately.

''Tell me, Marcella, do you want to be a princess?" Hightower asked, his careful eyes studying the girl as if she were some rare bird. The child looked at her father, who also watched her, and thought for a moment. 

 ''No.'' She shook her head. ''I want to be the Queen.'' 

 Of course, the girl assumed it was a new game her father came up with; she was too young to understand the weight those words held. The men were silent for a moment until Tyrell spoke. 

 ''I'll be your brave knight then.'' He scooped Marcella up in his arms and spun her around, causing her to giggle with delight.

Otto watched them for a while, his thoughts far from the happy laughter. He will think about the offer later, careful not to make a mistake. For now, he can put it aside and finally speak to Fillis as a trusted friend, not as a strategic recourse. 

-

Otto stayed at the Highgarden for two more weeks, wandering through the gardens and walls of the city. He spent a lot of restless nights in the guest room, thinking about the proposal. It was not the girl that concerned him; the child was clever and vibrant, running around the castle, much to the dismay of the hoard of maids that followed her around. What kept him up at night was the possibility of a better deal that could come later. 

Tyrell was a patient man, although every patience has its limit, so as soon as the decision was made, Otto knocked at the door of his friend's chambers. Fillis was not alone, as usual; his daughters sat near the window, writing as he worked.

''Ser Otto!'' The older girl, Elize, stood up from her seat and nudged the younger one to move. Marcella waved a piece of paper with smudged ink all over it at him. 

 ''We are writing, Ser Otto," she chirped, an accusing intonation evident, as if Otto had disrupted them from a very important task. 

''I see.'' He tried to catch a glimpse of the words on the page, but the ink was too smudged to make out anything coherent.

 ''Girls, we will dine together later. Now run along, my dear. We have important matters to discuss with Ser Otto.'' 

 The older girl nodded obediently and scampered off, grabbing her sister and leaving the two men alone in the quiet room. Otto cleared his throat. 

 ''We accept your offer. Aegon will marry your younger daughter once they are of age.'' 

 ''Good.'' Fillis nodded, a wrinkle on his forehead disappearing. ''What about the King?'' 

 ''Alicent has her ways.'' Otto paused. ''The girl will study in Oldtown from the age of eleven. She will eat and live as my house's guest and receive the best education the Citadel can offer. I already sent a letter home.'' 

 Fillis nodded again. ''It seems like a definite plan,'' he said. ''When will we make an announcement?'' 

 ''No need to hurry with that; the children are still young. We have time.'' 

 The two men delved into a deep discussion about politics and economics, their voices hushed as they strategized for the future of the Realm. Hours passed before they finally emerged from the room, tired but satisfied with their progress. By the time they parted ways, Otto felt confident that he had made the right decision. He couldn't help but feel a sense of relief wash over him as he made his way back to his chambers. 

 -

Summer of the year 118 AC, 

Highgarden

The castle's residents all stood in the courtyard, ready to say their goodbyes to the second daughter of Lord Fillis. Horses huffed under the burning sun, stablemen manoeuvring around them with buckles of water. What seemed like dozens of chests filled a few carriages. Everything seemed familiar, except for one man. With his finer armour and the confidence of a skilled fighter, he stood out the most. 

 Ser Ywain was one of the Fillis's most trusted knights, serving House Tyrell for more than ten years. He had swarthy, rough skin and thick black braids with golden rings braided in them. A massive scar was evident on his neck, and he wore it like a glorious prize. House Ambrose was small but was famous for its deadly fighters; their motto ''Never Resting'' was not an exaggeration; Ywain trained more than anyone here did, despite not needing to. For now, the man resorted to giving occasional orders to soldiers around him, his voice calm but laced with authority.

The man of the house found himself once again growing impatient. Was it from worry or the hot sun above his head? The whole thing started to get on his nerves. Fillis didn't want to lose sight of his children even for a minute since his wife's death, let alone send one to a city he held no control over. But Tyrells weren't the one to break their agreements. ''For the love of Gods, where's your sister?'' he asked his older daughter, who was waiting beside him. 

Elize shrugged her shoulders, unsure of where her younger sister had gone. ''She said she was almost ready to leave.'' She, too, was getting tired of waiting. 

 Fillis sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. Just as he wanted to fetch someone to find his child, she came running.

 ''I'm here, I'm here!'' Marcella shouted, her voice breathy. ''I'm ready now.'' 

 ''You better be," her sister scoffed. 

''Darling, it's time we say our goodbyes.'' Fillis started, the irritation in his voice long gone. His daughter's eyes reminded him so much of his childhood. The same curiosity and spirit sparkled in them. While her sister, Elize, took a lot after him, Marcella looked like her mother. Tyrell could only hope they shared only good qualities. ''Be good. You will bring great honour to our house. And remember - I and Elize will wait for your letters here. Okay?''

Marcella nodded, tears streaming down her face. Fillis wiped them away gently, his heart heavy with the weight of their impending departure. 

''Come here,'' Elize mumbled, tears staining her face as well. As much as she didn't want to admit it, she did love her younger sister.

''I read your letters to that Tully. Gross.'' Marcella whispered to her sister before running to the carriage with a speed only an eleven-year-old could possess. 

 ''Marcella!'' Elize shouted, her sentiments long forgotten. The younger girl only laughed. 

As Elize watched her sister disappear into the carriage, she couldn't help but feel a pang of envy. Marcella was always so carefree and full of life. It was as if nothing could ever bring her down. Elize, on the other hand, felt weighed down by the responsibilities that came with being the eldest. Despite being the one to inherit the Highgarden, she always lost the race for her father's love. 

 As the procession started to move, she felt her father's heavy arm on her shoulder. 

 ''I guess it's just two of us from now on, darling. So, tell me about that Tully.''

 Elize felt her cheeks redden. It's going to be a long day. 

-

To the Lord of Highgarden and his daughter, Lady Elize Tyrell, greetings and deepest love.

The oldest city greeted me well. Lord Ormund Hightower and his family are the kindest of people. Their hospitality has been unmatched, and I am grateful for their warm welcome. The grand feast was held in honour of our house upon my arrival. 

Politics and economics fascinate me, but I also enjoy more lighthearted pursuits, such as dancing and horse riding. There is something so freeing about moving your body to music or feeling the wind in your hair as you ride through the countryside. And yet, despite all of these activities, I always make time for writing. So when I write to you, know that it comes from a place of deep sincerity and affection.

To my pity, I haven't been able to see much of the city yet, but one building caught my eye. If I am not mistaken, it is a new Sept. I hope to visit it one day, for I am sure it is even more stunning from the inside. 

These things, about which I write to you, are only a few of the many that I have done here. May the Seven watch over you, and may your lands prosper and your people thrive under your wise leadership.

Written in the summer of the year 118 AC

Your loving sister and daughter, 

Lady Marcella of Noble House Tyrell 

[lya-dustin]

All is bliss

Chapter 3

Cw:mentions of std, description of syphilis, medieval punishments

Gif by @merlinaddams

Taglist: @mercedesdecorazon @darylandbethfanforever9 @aemondx

The Aemma that comes back is jubilant.

Not because of love, but because she is free of him.

Alicent recognizes that look in her because she once had it herself.

After that one last time that resulted in Daeron, the disease had eaten away at Viserys’ desire and his once mighty dragon had become a most pathetic worm.

Until the maesters say he is cured, Aegon is to abstain from all carnal acts.

A whore in the Riverlands had given him the pox and when they find her, her cunt will be scrubbed with lye soap and she will be put to death for spreading such a deadly disease to the future king of the realm.

The only issue, there had been too many given he had ---thank the gods--- a row with his bride and decided not to visit her bed.

“There is a problem, your grace.” The Maester begins and she knows it is bad news. Only bad news has been given to her these days.

“What sort of problem, Grand Maester?” she asks knowing he will have to repeat it to the Small Council soon enough.

“If the treatments work, Prince Aegon may become impotent. Lord Frey has not had a child since he recovered and neither has your lord uncle, Lord Ormund.”

Oh, do the gods love their japes.

They would need a Harwin Strong to sire and heir. A man to cuckold Aegon with in order to secure the succession.

A bastard will be king after all.

“Mention this to no one, do you hear me, Orwyle.” She ordered with a hiss.

No one can know Aegon’s sins have caught up to him.

Aemma is laughing on the swings she and Helaena loved as children.

“Aegon’s glory will die with him.” Helaena said beside her with a chuckle.

She spoke in riddles just as she did when they were children, on occasion Aemma understood her.

This time Aemma knows she is free of Aegon. Who will die with no legitimate issue.

The cures for this pox always leave the man unable to perform, or so her Septa had gleaned off the young acolyte that flusters when she speaks to him.

She may even become a widow, what joy!

“And how wonderful is that!” Aemma giggles trying not to be so loud.

She must play the loving wife, or at least tolerant wife in public.

But as long as he does not get into her bed ever again, she will be the devoted wife with a heart full of love.

Especially when she visits him in his sickroom while her goodmother, grandsire by marriage and other people who are allowed to know about his condition are there.

His illness has been kept a secret, well, the true nature of it anyways.

It is not chicken pox that he caught at an inn they stayed in.

It is syphilis, the Great Pox, the Lyseni Disease.

Not many survive it without losing their noses, or being disfigured, but Orwyle claims his colleague can cure him without such side effects.

“Are you with child?” he asks, remembering it has been nearly three moons since they wed.

“No.” her monthlies had come last week, and she had never been so excited to bleed.

“Shame. I suppose once I am cured, I can get back to sowing.” He said with a wink, trying to keep himself optimistic.

The look on the Maesters and the Queen says it all.

He will have no real heirs.

Aegon’s Glory will die with him.

Gods bless Alys Rivers and her magical cunt.

It takes another moon for Aegon to be cured.

Every day he was given strange teas, given a strange metallic ointment and made to sweat so the disease would not advance and destroy his face, genitals and drive him to madness.

Eventually, it went away, and he resumed his visits.

Visits she no longer cares for because she knows her belly will never swell with this seed.

She even smiles and pretends to enjoy it.

And the moment it is over she calls for a bath and goes back to her business.

Court did not lack for entertainment nor spiritual resources, but there were no topics beyond fashion, housekeeping, gossip and the gods here.

Even the card games became dull when all there was to talk about was things with little substance.

Some ladies did not read novels because their parents or husbands prohibited them.

Some don’t read histories because it wasn’t their place to learn anything beyond the basics.

Said it filled their heads with nonsense and all they needed to know was how to be dutiful wives and daughters.

Some ladies were not told about current events nor asked their opinions on such topics because it was unladylike.

“Have you finished reading Hardhome yet?” Aemond asked laying on the couch with his legs hanging over the edge.

Once they used fit there with knees bent and one on one end and the other on the other end.

Now she sits almost six feet away as it was proper.

No one here reads as much as they do.

Helaena could match them, but Daemion Velaryon never returned from his voyage and now Old Castle Driftmark passed to Daeron.

Besides people where whispering such horrible things now that she was with child again.

“Couldn’t put it down, if Maester Wyllis hadn’t run back to the lands beyond the Wall, I think I would have invited him here to ask him personally about his time there.” Aemma answers.

One of the great powers they had was that no one could refuse an invitation.

And if an author or a poet or inventor intrigued them, they could always summon them to learn first hand from them.

Just before she left Dragonstone, mother had the man who invented the printing press come and give a demonstration.

The first book made with it was a compilation of the few remaining pages of Signs and Portents, a book of prophecies hand written by Daenys the Dreamer herself.

Of course, then someone used the machine to write how Aemma’s brothers were bastards and mother a whore so she had Syrax burn it while Daemon cut the man’s tongue out for slander.

“You look happier now than you have been in days, has Aegon improved on acquaintance?” Aemond pretends his own question doesn’t bother him.

They got along like a house on fire despite the occasional butting of heads.

If only this were as easy as that with Aegon.

“Oh no, he is much worse. Orwyle should have humbled him a little by letting some of it scar.” Should she tell him?

He wouldn’t tell, he is not like that. Or so she thinks.

“Then what has you in such a good mood these days, you glow with joy so much I don’t think you need candles during the evening.” He is rather poetic in private, the woman he marries will be very lucky.

“Can you keep a secret?” she asks with a voice barely above a whisper and he swings his legs off the edge and sits on his couch.

Aemma almost leaps over the low table and takes up the space beside him. She is so excited to share this news she is practically on his lap.

“Aegon’s been left infertile.” She says with a squeal. Says it with as much joy a pregnant woman or soon-to-be bride has with their good news.