#Aemma Targaryen x reader

[tamayakii]

Their Angel. Yan!HOTD x Reader

I've been having so many thoughts about yandere house of the dragon x reader, how the 3 big houses (Targaryen, Velaryon & Hightower) would fight for the darlings' affection. Platonic, Familial or romantic. I feel like they would, of course, all fight over what colours you would wear, what house you represent until a very annoyed and exhausted council member suggested white.

"like an angel," Viserys adds, it was said that the gods had sent you down to bless them so dressing you in white seemed the best option... but that didn't stop them from gifting you jewellery that had the colours of their house.

The Hightower jewellery had the most expensive Jade and Emerald on top of gold, these pieces can range from delicate rings to big statement necklaces that encompass your neck. Alicent prefers to give you these gifts in person, alone, perhaps in her or your chambers. Presenting you with the beautifully engraved box as she opens it, showing you a new necklace with a beautiful dark green emerald. Otto's gifts never cease to awe you in how quiet that man is in his actions, a small indiscreet box upon your pillow when you ready for bed. Inside lays a note, upon which Otto describes the moment he found this beautiful ring and knew he must get it for you, the handwriting almost as beautiful as the peridot ring you now proudly wear on your pinkie.

The Targaryen jewellery is almost always extravagant, having connections to get you the best out of everything. Viserys gifts you capes, crowns and veils but unlike the others, he almost always keeps them in white, unless they have jewels. His favourite thing to see you in is crown veils, the jewellery hanging down and framing your face makes you seem like you stepped down from heaven's gate. When Aemma was still around, she gifted you rings and earrings, she wasn't able to give you much before she passed in childbirth. So you hold these gifts quite dearly to your heart, always sporting the dark ruby red ring on your thumb, twisting it when you get nervous. Rhaenrya, oh dear Rhaenrya, she wanted everyone to know that you belong to the Targaryens. To the Blood of The Dragons, her first gift to you was a cloak clasp that show two dragons on each side, her second gift was a crystal bracelet that had a chain connecting to a ring, it was a simple design but by the gods it made you feel exquisite. There was one gift that set the nail in the coffin, it was a gift from Rhaenrya and Aemma, a dragon that wrapped around your neck. Signifying the hold that House Targaryen has on you.

The Velaryon jewellery is often pearls or other sea gemstones as they sit on driftmark and have a hand over the trading routes, Rhaenys upon her second meeting of you, gifting you a pearl ring slipping upon your finger herself. Corlys gifted you a relic that was been with the Veleryons for ages on your first birthday with them, the beautiful necklace made with blue topaz, moonstones and blue chalcedony, wrapped beautifully with Valeryon silver. Vaemond... never was quite as fond as you as his brother and sister-in-law were, you were no Targaryen or Velaryon but for small moments he forgot that and adored your sweet smile.

I would love to draw male and female outfits of what this au's darling would look like, i can also do a part two of the other things the other characters would give you as i excluded a lot as to not make this any longer than it is. Should i make a fic with this idea? pls send me an ask if you're interested in this au

[bumblesimagines]

Burning Love

Request: Yes or No

Summary: As the eldest son and heir to the Iron Throne, Prince (Y/N) Targaryen has many responsibilities; most of which his darling sister hopes to share with him one day.

Pronouns: He/Him/His, M!Reader

TW/CW: Targcest/Incest (Full-blooded Brother-Sister), Aemma lives!! and Alicent is not a childbride, mentions of stillbirths and miscarriages (Aemma's pregnancies)

Collecting HOTD oneshots like pokemon cards at this point

~~~

It was known that Targaryens had... questionable traditions. Traditions those with outsider perspective could only force themself to understand.

There was the act of putting a dragon egg in the cradle of a babe and hoping the egg would hatch sometime soon after to ensure the babe was bonded to a loyal protector they'd grow up alongside of; a tradition started by Rhaena Targaryen, eldest daughter of King Aenys I and Queen Alyssa Velaryon. Targaryens were Dragonriders, bonded with the very beasts they used to conquer the lands and pull them all into one kingdom (with the exception of Dorne, of course). They cremated their dead, a custom from Old Valyria, often with the help of a dragon belonging to their closest kin. 

And of course, the most infamous and often looked down upon custom, wedding kin to kin. Another custom from Old Valyria that many followers of the Seven turned their cheek upon, for they found the act of wedding siblings to siblings and so forth (apart from cousin to cousin) a sin. Faithful followers could voice their complaints as much as they wished, but Targaryens were kings, queens, princes, and princesses. Nobody could or would stop them from keeping their bloodline pure if they so wished. 

Descending from a long, historic, and proud family, Rhaenyra grew up listening and learning the tales of those who'd come before her. Aegon the Conquer and his faithful sister-wives, Rhaenys and Visenya; the many rebellions and fighting brought on during the lives of King Aenys I and King Maegor the Cruel; The Old King Jaehaerys who'd chosen her father, Viserys, as heir over his own late heir's daughter, Rhaenys; and of course, the histories written during the early stages of her father's reign. 

Her beloved older brother had been two when King Jaehaerys named their father heir and three when their father ascended the throne whilst their beautiful mother, Aemma Arryn, carried her in the womb. The fourth person to ever hold little Rhaenyra in their arms had been her brother, closely supervised by their parents and the maester attending the birth, of course. With a healthy son and daughter, Viserys and Aemma hardly needed for more children, but they tried anyway. Their attempts never carried to term, however, and any little ones that did were either stillborn or died mere hours or days after birth. 

Still, Rhaenyra never needed for any more siblings. Her brother was enough, in her humble opinion. He cared for her diligently, especially during their younger years when he eagerly wished to play with her, even if it meant the two of them being gently scolded at the end of the day for dirting Rhaenyra's dresses with mud and dirt. (Y/N) treated her as his equal, even showing her how to use a wooden sword when he began his training and helping prepare her for dragon-riding on Syrax. His own mount hardly needed much training in the Dragonpit, for the mighty Vermithor's first rider had been the Old King.

As time passed, the siblings were forced apart more often than Rhaenyra enjoyed. She'd made up her mind long ago that she and (Y/N) would one day be wed, and she'd be his formidable sister-wife. Their parents merely chuckled about it when she'd first told them at the age of seven, her squeaky voice and flushed cheeks only drawing cooing from Aemma and sweet smiles from Viserys. The absence of her brother had been stark, his time taken up by training, studying, and spending time with the Small Council, but Alicent Hightower had quickly taken his spot as Rhaenyra's companion. 

However, in due time, (Y/N) became man-grown, and while Rhaenyra quickly followed with her flowering, as heir and prince, (Y/N) became the most eligible bachelor in all of Westeros. It took time for it to become apparent to Rhaenyra but her eyes and ears opened when she heard their parents speaking of it. Many families, highborn and lowborn, offered their daughters through letters or visits to Kings Landing. Lannisters, Baratheons, Starks, Brackens, Blackwoods, Tullys, and plenty more came forth. Even Otto Hightower made a passing comment about wedding Alicent to him. It was infuriating.

"In truth, I do not understand your irritation, Rhaenyra," Alicent spoke gently, her slender fingers working on embroidery. A flower she'd seen in the gardens, or something along those lines. Rhaenyra hadn't truly been paying attention to her dear friend. She'd been too focused on silently fuming at the sight of her brother showing one of the highborn ladies around the Red Keep. Every giggle, every blush, every bat of her eyelashes made Rhaenyra tick. "It's wonderful to watch one's brother fall in love."

"You wouldn't understand, Alicent." Rhaenyra sighed. "It is like the love King Jaeherys and the Good Queen Alysanne had."

Alicent faltered at her words, her head lifting to eye her friend with a small grimace. "You do remember our lessons, correct? King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne had to wed in secret, for they knew that not even their mother approved in fear of another uprising from the Faith. Nobody has made a fuss over your parents since they are cousins, but who knows what may happen if you wed (Y/N)."

"(Y/N) is everything King Jaehaerys was, Alicent. He is beloved by the Realm." Rhaenyra reminded her friend with a small smile, pushing herself off the cushioned seats and smoothing her hands over the front of her dress. Her earrings swung slightly when she tilted her head slightly to the side, the ends of them brushing against her shoulders. Her eyes tracked (Y/N) as he lifted the lady's hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles before departing. "He will be a good king, and if I could prove it, I would be a good queen. His queen." Her feet began moving automatically. 

"Rhaenyra," The name tumbled out of Alicent's mouth, her hands fumbling with the items in hand. "Where are you going?"

Bunching up the skirt of her dress in her hands, Rhaenyra grinned over her shoulder and chuckled at the concerned look on Alicent's features that only grew at the sight of her mischievous glint. "To speak with my brother!" 

With a goal in mind, Rhaenyra entered the castle and followed the distant figure of her brother as he cut down hallways with long strides until he reached his bedchambers. Rhaenyra took a moment to herself to catch her breath and rake her fingers through her long silver locks before she approached the doors and nodded for the guards to open them. She stepped inside, a smile appearing across her lips when (Y/N) turned to look at her. 

"My favorite sister," (Y/N) cooed, taking a seat at his desk and unrolling a letter. Rhaenyra rolled her eyes in return, clasping her hands together behind her back and taking small steps toward him. He skimmed the contents of the letter, his face giving away nothing of what it spoke of. "Is there something you require, Nyra, or are you suffering from boredom? I have plenty of lords and ladies who'd be happy to keep you busy." 

Rhaenyra scoffed quietly and (Y/N) gave a small grin. "I hear Father is urging you to find a wife."

"The Small Council is urging him to urge me, more like. They believe it is time to begin having children. Seeing as Father and Mother had great difficulty, they wish for me to have an heir by the time I ascend the throne to ensure there won't be issues later on." (Y/N) explained, coiling the letter back up and pulling out a blank paper. He dipped his quill in ink and began writing. "Otto has been... more friendly as of recently. He speaks incredibly highly of Lady Alicent." 

"You'd tell me if you were interested in someone, wouldn't you?" Rhaenyra reached over the desk to pluck the quill from his fingers, setting it aside and raising her brows at him. (Y/N) slumped back in his seat and laced his fingers over his midsection, a hint of amusement twinkling in his eyes. Rhaenyra rounded the table and without thinking twice, she plopped down on his thigh. 

"Nyra,"

"You know as well as I do who you should wed, (Y/N). I know what a good queen should be, and I do not care about status or riches like the families of those ladies do. We have the blood of the dragon in our veins. Nobody would truly understand us." Rhaenyra spoke softly, her bottom lip slightly jutting out as she placed her palm over his cheek. His own hands unlaced, one moving to press against her back. 

"The Small Council-"

"Fuck the Small Council." Rhaenyra huffed, earning a quiet chuckle from her brother. "You are the prince, the heir. Whatever it is you choose, they must deal with it. It is their job to counsel, to offer their advice and opinions, not to dictate what you do. We could mount Syrax and Vermithor and fly elsewhere to wed in the customs of Old Valyria." 

A gentle sigh escaped (Y/N), and he leaned forward to press a delicate kiss to Rhaenyra's shoulder. The princess relaxed at the action, her hand moving past his cheek to the back of his head. (Y/N)'s lips curled up. "You are insufferable." He told her with a gentle laugh before leaning in to press their mouths together. He drew back too quickly for Rhaenyra's liking. "But a good ruler is a patient one, Nyra. If you wish for us to wed, or to lay together-" He brushed their lips together teasingly. "-you must wait. Father and Mother will be easy to convince." 

"Does it matter if we wait?" Rhaenyra tilted her head and batted her lashes coyly, the feigned innocence prompting (Y/N) to roll his eyes. She rose from his lap and dropped her hands to his, tugging on them until he stood up from the chair. She smiled widely, devilishly even, and slung her arms around his shoulders. "We will be wed, regardless. It will not matter." 

"I have things I must do, Nyra." (Y/N) gave a heavy sigh and shrugged his shoulders, his hands coming to rest on her waist. "As I said, you must be patient. If you wish to speed things along, you should speak with Mother. She'll always be the key to winning Father over." He told her and planted a kiss on her temple before settling back down on the chair. 

"Will we be like that someday?" Rhaenyra asked softly, stepping out of the way so he could resume his letter. She toyed with the rings along her fingers, the thought of becoming one of those couples who genuinely cared for each other bringing a smile to herself. It was a desire all ladies had. While sons could marry whichever woman of age they desired, ladies had to hope the husbands their fathers or elder brothers chose were good men. She'd seen far too many times the faces of girls her age married and chained to men old enough to be their grandfathers. 

(Y/N) paused his writing and lifted his head to look at her, offering a reassuring smile. "Someday." He nodded. 

"I look forward to it, then."

[hisfavegirl]

The Rouge Prince - Daemon Targaryen x Reader.

summary : As the only daughter in your family, you are required to marry someone with dignity and honor, that's what your father thinks and when he heard that the king wanted to find a bride for his grandson, your father and mother did something that required you to sacrifice your future.

You sit in the carriage, your eyes fixed on your parents, who are deep in conversation. The rhythmic sound of the horses’ hooves on the road fills the air, but your mind is elsewhere. You glance at your father, his brow furrowed in thought, and your mother, her eyes scanning the horizon as if lost in her own plans.

“Why are we going to King’s Landing, Mother?” you ask again, trying to break through their focused discussion.

Your father, glances at you briefly before returning his attention to your mother. “You’ll find out when we arrive, child. It’s not something for you to worry about right now.”

“But I want to know now!” you protest, frustration bubbling up inside you. “Why do you keep talking in secrets? What are you planning?”

your mother, turns her head slightly toward you, her face calm but distant. “Enough questions, dear. It’s for your own good.”

You cross your arms, narrowing your eyes in suspicion. You look out the window, trying to ignore their conversation, but curiosity gnaws at you. What are they planning? What could be so important that they won’t share with you?

“Mother,” you ask quietly, your tone softer now. “Please. I just want to understand.”

Your mother sighs, her gaze softening for a moment. “In time, you will, my love. But for now, you must trust that we are doing what is best.”

You turn back to the window, still not entirely convinced. The trees pass by in a blur as your mind races with possibilities. What is waiting for you in King’s Landing? What role do you play in this unknown plan?

The carriage rumbles to a stop, and the clatter of hooves fades into the bustling noise of the Red Keep’s courtyard. Your eyes scan the scene before you — guards marching in tight formations, their armor clinking with every step, and servants rushing about, their arms full of crates and baskets of food, wine, and decorations. The air hums with activity, the scent of fresh bread and sweet fruits mixing with the sharp tang of metal.

“Out,” your father’s voice cuts through the noise as he steps down from the carriage, offering a hand to your mother. You follow after them, your eyes darting around, taking in every detail.

“What’s all this for?” you ask, noticing the banners being unfurled from the high towers. The sigil of House Targaryen — the three-headed dragon — looms over the courtyard like a watchful beast.

“The feast,” your mother replies, her gaze sharp as she glances at a group of servants struggling with a large cask of wine. “There will be many important guests tonight. You will behave accordingly.” Her tone is gentle but firm, the kind that leaves little room for argument.

“A feast for whom?” you press, stepping closer to her. “What’s the occasion?”

A flicker of something — hesitation, perhaps — crosses her face. She looks at your father, who gives her a short nod. “The King has decided it is time to strengthen bonds between houses,” your mother says carefully. “There will be dancing, music, and… alliances to be made.”

“Alliances,” you mutter under your breath, frowning. The meaning behind that word is never as simple as it sounds.

The three of you walk into the Red Keep, and the warmth of the sun is quickly replaced by the cool, shadowed halls. The once-quiet corridors are now alive with movement. Servants hang garlands of flowers along the walls, and tables are being set with silver plates and goblets of polished gold. You have to step aside as a pair of kitchen boys hurry past, balancing platters of fruit and roasted meats.

“Stay close,” your father says, glancing back at you. “The halls are crowded, and I will not have you wandering off.”

You nod but your eyes remain on the scene before you. The smell of spiced wine drifts past your nose, and the distant sound of musicians tuning their instruments echoes through the stone corridors. Everywhere you look, people are moving with purpose, as if the whole keep is holding its breath for something grand to begin.

You glance up at your mother, your brow furrowed in suspicion. “Are you sure this is just a feast, Mother? It feels like something more.”

Your mother doesn’t answer immediately. Her gaze is fixed straight ahead, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Keep your eyes open tonight, my dear,” she finally says, her tone low but pointed. “There is more to see than what is being shown.”

Her words stay with you as you walk deeper into the Red Keep, the echoes of footsteps and distant music filling your ears. The air feels heavier now, like a storm about to break.

You walk through the grand corridors of the Red Keep, the distant hum of preparations for the feast slowly fading behind you. The air grows colder, heavier with the weight of expectation. The echo of footsteps bounces off the high stone walls, each step feeling louder than the last.

As you approach the large, looming doors of the throne room, two guards push them open with a low, rumbling creak. The chamber beyond is vast and dimly lit, the narrow beams of sunlight streaming through high windows casting sharp rays upon the stone floor.

At the far end of the room, atop the Iron Throne, sits King Jaehaerys I Targaryen, his presence as commanding as the throne itself. His silver hair gleams in the fractured light, and his sharp, thoughtful eyes watch every movement like a dragon surveying its domain. Beside him stands Prince Baelon Targaryen, his son, tall and broad-shouldered, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword. His gaze is sharper, more direct, and it lingers on you just a moment too long.

“Lady Tyrell, Lord Tyrell,” King Jaehaerys’s voice echoes across the hall, steady but worn with age. His gaze shifts to you, eyes narrowing with faint curiosity. “And you have brought another with you.”

“This is my daughter,” your mother replies with a polite bow of her head. “She has come to learn, as all must in time.” Her voice is steady, but there is a careful calculation in her words, as if each syllable has been weighed before it was spoken.

“Ah, the young one,” Baelon says, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. “She looks sharper than most. I wonder if she listens as well as she watches.” His eyes meet yours, a spark of challenge in them.

You lift your chin, refusing to look away. “I listen when there’s something worth hearing,” you reply, your voice cool but clear.

Baelon raises an eyebrow, his grin widening. “A tongue as sharp as her gaze. She’ll need both if she means to walk these halls.”

Jaehaerys raises a hand, and the room falls silent. His eyes settle on you, more curious now than before. “Tell me, child,” he says slowly, his voice like distant thunder, “what do you see when you look upon this throne room?”

You glance around the room, your gaze moving from the cold stone walls to the guards stationed along the edges, to the light catching on the jagged edges of the Iron Throne. Your eyes linger on the throne itself — a twisted mass of blades, swords of conquered kings melted together. You feel a weight in the air, not just from the presence of those before you, but from the very history embedded in the metal.

“I see power,” you answer carefully, your voice unwavering. “But power that cuts as easily as it commands.”

For a moment, there is only silence. Jaehaerys’s eyes remain on you, and you can feel him weighing your words. Slowly, a faint smile touches his lips.

“Wise beyond your years,” he says, leaning back on the throne. “Perhaps too wise.” His gaze flicks to your father, then to your mother, his eyes sharp with meaning. “Keep her close, my child. Wisdom is both a gift and a danger in these halls.”

Your mother dips her head in acknowledgment. “She will be guided well, Your Grace.”

Baelon chuckles softly, his eyes still on you. “If she’s as clever as she seems, I doubt she’ll need much guidance.”

You glance at him again, your heart steady despite the weight of so many eyes upon you. The Iron Throne looms larger than ever, and in this moment, you realize that every gaze in this room carries its own weight of expectation. Something about this meeting feels heavier than it should.

As the king begins speaking with your mother and father, you remain silent, but your mind is far from still. What had your mother said before? “There is more to see than what is being shown.”

You watch them all — the king, the prince, the guards, even the way the light falls on the Iron Throne — and you wonder what lies beneath their words.

The heavy groan of the great doors behind you draws your attention. Slowly, they swing open, and for a moment, the light from the corridor frames the figure in the doorway like a portrait.

Prince Daemon Targaryen steps inside with the confidence of a man who has never questioned his place in the world. His silver hair, so much like his father’s and grandfather’s, falls just past his waist, but it is the sharpness in his eyes that catches your attention. Mischief and danger swirl in his gaze like fire and smoke. His lips curve into a crooked grin, as if he already knows something no one else does.

“The Rogue Prince arrives,” Baelon mutters, glancing toward his son with a mix of pride and exasperation. “Late, as usual.”

“Better to arrive late than to wait on others, Father,” Daemon replies smoothly, his voice rich with amusement. His boots echo as he strides forward, his cloak swishing behind him like a dragon’s tail. He spares a glance at his grandfather, King Jaehaerys, and gives a short, almost lazy bow. “Your Grace.”

“Daemon,” Jaehaerys says his name like a warning, though his gaze is steady. “You walk these halls like they belong to you.”

“Do they not, grandfather?” Daemon’s grin widens, his eyes flicking briefly to the Iron Throne. “One day, they will.”

A strained silence falls over the room, heavy as storm clouds. You glance at your mother, and see her eyes narrow, her lips pressed tightly together. Your father, shifts his stance, his gaze fixed on Daemon like a hawk watching prey.

“Ambition is a dangerous thing, nephew,” your mother says softly, her voice calm but pointed. “It burns hot but fades quickly if not tempered.”

Daemon’s eyes flick to her, his grin unfaltering. “Then it’s a good thing I prefer wildfire, my lady. Burns hotter, lasts longer.” His gaze moves to you next, his eyes sharp and assessing. “And who do we have here?”

You meet his stare without flinching, your eyes steady on his. “Someone who knows better than to be charmed by wildfire, Prince Daemon.”

Baelon barks a laugh, his eyes lighting up with surprise. “She has your tongue, Daemon. Careful, or she’ll cut you with it.”

Daemon’s grin only widens, his eyes gleaming with interest now. He takes a step closer, tilting his head as he examines you like one might examine a puzzle with missing pieces. “A sharp tongue, a sharp gaze. Dangerous tools for one so young.”

“And yet,” you reply smoothly, “dangerous tools tend to be the most useful.”

His eyes narrow, but there’s no malice in them — only curiosity and something else you can’t quite name. He chuckles softly, his eyes flicking to your mother. “This one’s yours, I take it?”

“She is mine,” your mother replies firmly, stepping slightly forward, as if to place herself between you and Daemon. Her tone leaves no room for doubt. “And she is not a tool for anyone to use.”

“Everyone’s a tool, my lady,” Daemon replies with mock sweetness, stepping back with his hands raised in mock surrender. “Some just don’t know it yet.”

“That will be enough, Daemon,” King Jaehaerys’s voice cuts through the room like a blade, sharp and absolute. “We are here to prepare for the feast, not to play games of wit and pride.”

Daemon lowers his head slightly, his grin fading but not disappearing. “Of course, Your Grace.” He steps aside, letting his gaze linger on you for a moment longer before turning toward his father, Baelon.

You release a slow breath, realizing only then how tense you’d been. Your gaze flicks to your mother, who places a hand on your shoulder, her fingers firm but reassuring.

“Remember what I told you,” she says quietly, her eyes locked on Daemon as he walks away. “There is more to see than what is being shown.”

Her words echo in your mind as you watch the Rogue Prince disappear deeper into the throne room, his laughter still hanging in the air like smoke after a fire.

The king rises from his throne, and the room falls into a hushed silence. His presence alone commands attention, but as he begins to speak, the weight of his words settles over the room like a heavy fog.

“Now that Prince Daemon has arrived,” King Jaehaerys’s voice rings clear and firm, “I am pleased to announce the engagement of my grandson, Prince Daemon, to Lady Tyrell, the daughter of Lord and Lady Tyrell. The marriage will take place in one month’s time.”

The room seems to hold its breath. You feel your heart stop in your chest, and for a moment, the world around you seems to blur. Your eyes flick to your parents, and everything falls into place.

You had wondered why your father had so stubbornly rejected every suitor you had been offered, why he had pushed back against every potential match, no matter how prestigious. It wasn’t that they didn’t care for your happiness—no, it was something far more intricate, far more political. The realization strikes you like a thunderclap.

The match with Daemon. This is what your father had been maneuvering toward all along. A marriage that would tie your House to the Targaryens in a way that could not be undone. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? This is a power play—a way to gain influence in the court, to strengthen your family’s position, to secure your place among the highest powers in the realm.

You feel a cold shiver run down your spine as you look at Daemon. His eyes meet yours across the room, his expression unreadable, but there’s a glint of something in his gaze. Recognition? Amusement? Or something far more dangerous?

Daemon, the Rogue Prince—the one who had walked into the room with such defiance and charm. The one who had stirred the pot, who had pushed every boundary. And now, he is your fiancé. Your blood runs cold, and yet, you can’t tear your eyes away from him.

“Is this truly necessary?” you hear yourself ask, the words slipping from your mouth before you can stop them. Your voice rings out in the room, breaking the silence like glass shattering.

King Jaehaerys’s eyes flick to you, sharp and unyielding. “It is done, child. The decision has been made.”

Your mother, Lady Tyrell, steps forward, her expression neutral but tight with control. “It is for the good of House Tyrell,” she says, her voice calm but with an edge. “A union with House Targaryen will strengthen our position. We must all think beyond our desires, for the future of the realm.”

The weight of her words crashes down on you, and for a moment, you feel as if the room is closing in. You glance at your father, Lord Tyrell, who watches the exchange with a cold, calculating gaze.

“So this is why,” you say softly, more to yourself than to anyone else. “This was the reason behind all the rejections… All those men who came to court me, only to be sent away with little more than a polite refusal. You had this planned all along.”

Your father does not deny it. “Sometimes, the right choice is not the one that makes us happy,” he says quietly. “But it is the one that secures our future.”

Daemon’s voice cuts through the tension. “Don’t look so disappointed, Lady Tyrell. You may find our union more… thrilling than you think.” His grin is sly, but there’s something behind it that you can’t quite place.

You take a steadying breath. You don’t have to like this arrangement, but it seems you have little choice in the matter now. Daemon is your fiancé, and the course has already been set.

As the room shifts back into its previous rhythm, the whispers of the courtiers beginning again, you feel a chill settle in your bones. The power dynamics have shifted in ways you couldn’t have predicted, and now you are at the center of it all.

Your life, and your future, are no longer entirely your own.

You stand in the newly prepared chamber, its walls draped in fine silks and the soft glow of candlelight flickering across the polished stone floor. The room feels both grand and foreign to you, filled with the weight of the Targaryen legacy, yet it is still undeniably your own—at least for now. The heavy, regal scent of incense fills the air, and everything in the room seems meticulously arranged for your new life.

Your mother, Lady Tyrell, stands near the window, her gaze fixed on the far-off horizon, as if she is contemplating something far beyond the stone walls of this keep. The silence between you is thick with unspoken words, but you can feel her eyes shift toward you, sensing your presence without turning.

“Mother,” you begin, your voice steady but tinged with a mixture of confusion and something deeper. “You are part of House Targaryen by blood, yet now you’re asking me to bind myself to them through marriage. Is this truly the best course for our House?”

She finally turns to face you, her expression unreadable but her eyes sharp. For a moment, there’s a flicker of something, a vulnerability, before it is quickly masked.

“It is not just about bloodlines, my dear,” she says softly, her voice carrying the weight of experience. “The strength of our House is not in our name alone but in the alliances we forge. House Targaryen is the most powerful in the realm. A marriage to Daemon… well, it solidifies our position in ways that words alone cannot.”

You stare at her, trying to make sense of her cold pragmatism, yet beneath it, there is something you almost cannot place. She speaks with such certainty, such authority, as if her entire life has been leading up to this moment.

“But what of me?” you ask, a thread of frustration slipping into your tone. “What of my future? My happiness?”

Lady Tyrell steps closer to you, her gaze softening just slightly, though her resolve remains strong. “You are not the first woman to be wed for the good of her family. And you will not be the last. But remember this, child: House Tyrell will endure, and so will you. You are not just a pawn, but a queen in the making. Your sacrifices will carry our name far and wide, and that is something that will outlast any personal longing.”

You want to argue, to voice the doubts and fears that have been swirling in your mind ever since the announcement. But there’s something in her voice—something both comforting and chilling—that silences you.

You look down at the fine silks draped over the bed, the delicate embroidery woven with care, and for the first time, you realize the cost of this union. It’s not just about power. It’s about the future of House Tyrell. And you, whether you like it or not, have become its instrument.

“Will I ever truly have a choice in any of this?” you ask, the words barely escaping your lips before you can stop them.

Your mother steps forward and places a hand on your shoulder, her grip firm, almost too firm. “You always have a choice,” she says quietly. “But know this: sometimes the right choice isn’t the one that will bring you immediate joy. It’s the one that will ensure survival, legacy, and honor.”

You nod slowly, feeling the weight of her words settle into your bones. There is no turning back now. You are bound to this marriage, to Daemon, to a future that will not be of your choosing.

But as you meet your mother’s gaze, something inside you stirs—determination, perhaps, or the beginning of a plan of your own. This life might not be the one you imagined, but that doesn’t mean you have to accept it without shaping it in your own way.

And with that thought, you look at your mother one last time. “I will make sure House Tyrell does not just survive, but thrives,” you say, your voice quiet but resolute.

She gives you a nod, the faintest hint of a smile on her lips. “I know you will.”

Your words hang in the air, heavy with doubt and defiance. “Becoming a queen? Even Daemon is just the second son,” you say, your voice tinged with frustration. You didn’t mean to speak so openly, but the realization of your situation is too much to bear. How could you possibly be married to someone like Daemon, the second son of House Targaryen, whose ambitions and wild nature are known across the realm?

At the sound of your words, a sharp silence fills the room, and in an instant, you feel the change in the atmosphere. Your father, Lord Tyrell, who had been so composed, now stands rigid, his eyes narrowed with a cold, burning fury.

“Do not question my decisions,” he says, his voice low but firm, each word biting through the air like a blade. The heat of his anger is palpable, and his gaze hardens as he steps closer, his presence towering over you. “Daemon is not just any second son. He is a Targaryen. And his blood is powerful enough to change the course of this realm.”

You can feel your heart pounding in your chest as his words sink in. This is no longer a family discussion; it’s an assertion of power, of authority. Your father’s hand tightens into a fist, and you know that questioning him now is not a luxury you can afford.

“I have done what is necessary,” he continues, his voice steady, though there is an edge to it now. “House Tyrell’s future is secured by this union. It is not a matter of titles or birth order. It is a matter of survival, of influence. And you will marry Daemon, whether you like it or not.”

You swallow hard, the tension in the room thickening. The implications of his words are clear—there is no room for rebellion in this decision. Your personal desires, your future hopes, they mean nothing in the face of what your father believes is best for the family. You can see the finality in his eyes.

“But father,” you protest, your voice trembling slightly despite your best efforts to remain strong. “This is not the life I wanted. This is not the future I dreamed of.”

Your father’s expression softens only slightly, but there is no trace of remorse in his eyes. “Dreams are for children,” he replies, his tone hardening again. “The realm is ruled by power, not dreams. You will adapt. And in time, you will understand.”

Your mother, Lady Tyrell, steps forward now, her presence steady and calm as always, but her eyes meet yours with an expression that speaks volumes. She says nothing at first, allowing your father’s words to settle. Then, her gaze softens, and she places a hand gently on your arm, her touch warm but firm.

“I know this is difficult,” she says quietly, her voice carrying the weight of years of experience. “But your father is right. This is not just a marriage. It is the future of our House. And your role in this is not one to be taken lightly. You must think beyond yourself for the good of everyone you love.”

You want to fight back, to argue that your happiness should matter, but the reality of your situation presses in. This is the life you will have now—the life your parents have chosen for you.

With a heavy sigh, you turn away from them, facing the window, your eyes tracing the distant horizon, where the sun is setting. You are trapped in a life you didn’t choose, and for the first time, you feel the full weight of that reality.

You freeze as you hear the soft rustling of fabric and the faint sound of footsteps. Turning swiftly, you spot Daemon emerging from the shadows at the far end of your chamber, his presence as commanding as ever. He moves with a fluid grace, almost as if he’s accustomed to walking unnoticed, and before you can fully react, he’s already standing close, his piercing eyes fixed on you with an intensity that makes your heart race.

Daemon reaches out, his fingers brushing lightly against your cheek, and you can feel the warmth of his touch, despite the coldness in the room. The gesture is unexpected, and for a moment, you’re caught off guard—unsure of whether to push him away or allow the contact.

“Did you think I wouldn’t come?” he asks, his voice low, his smirk barely concealed. There’s something almost mocking in the way he says it, as if the idea of you being alone, contemplating your future, amuses him. “You are not the first bride-to-be to feel lost in this place, but don’t worry, I’ll make sure you aren’t alone for long.”

You pull back slightly, trying to regain your composure. His presence fills the room in a way that’s both unsettling and undeniably magnetic. He seems to relish the power he holds over the situation, over you. It’s clear that he’s not here just for casual conversation.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” you say, your voice sharp despite the uncertainty creeping in. “This is my room, not a place for you to wander in whenever you please.”

Daemon’s smile widens, though there’s a darkness lurking beneath it. He leans closer, his breath warm against your skin. “Expectations can be… limiting,” he murmurs, his hand still lingering on your cheek. “I’m here because I want to be. And I’m not known for following the rules.”

The way he speaks, the confident, almost predatory manner in which he carries himself, unsettles you. Yet there’s an undeniable pull—his presence is commanding, and you can’t help but feel as though you’re caught in his web, whether you like it or not.

“Why are you here?” you ask, your voice quieter now, more cautious. “Is this another game to you, Daemon?”

He tilts his head, studying you as if trying to read the very thoughts behind your eyes. “Games?” His voice is low, almost a whisper. “Perhaps. But I’m not a fool, and neither are you. We both know what this marriage is about. It’s not about love, or even companionship. It’s about power, survival, and what we can make of it.”

His fingers trace your jawline, sending a shiver through your body, but this time, you don’t flinch. “So, yes,” he continues, his voice a little softer, though the intensity still lingers. “It’s a game. But it’s also something more. And you… you have a role to play, whether you accept it or not.”

You stand still, caught between the impulse to push him away and the dawning realization that you must, somehow, find a way to navigate this union, this game, in a way that serves you. Daemon Targaryen may be a powerful figure, but that doesn’t mean you have to submit to him blindly.

“Don’t think you can control me,” you say, your voice firmer now, your eyes locking with his.

Daemon’s smile doesn’t falter, but there’s a flicker of approval in his eyes. “Control?” he repeats, as if savoring the word. “I never said anything about control. But don’t mistake me for a man who will be ignored, either.”

He steps back slightly, his hand falling from your face, but his gaze remains fixed on you—intense, unreadable, and as unpredictable as the storm clouds gathering in the distance. You can feel the tension thick in the air between you, the unspoken challenge hanging heavy.

“Remember,” Daemon adds softly, “this marriage may not be of your choosing, but it will be a union of power, of influence. And how you wield it will be up to you.”

With that, he turns, his cloak swirling behind him as he disappears back into the shadows from where he came, leaving you alone once more, the weight of his words settling in your mind.

You remain standing there for a long moment, your heart still racing, trying to make sense of the encounter. Daemon’s touch, his words, his presence—they all felt like a warning, a challenge, and a promise wrapped into one.

This marriage, this union… it will not be as simple as they want you to believe.

You watch as Daemon slowly fades into the shadows, his presence still lingering in the room, as if he has left behind more than just his physical form. A cold shiver runs down your spine, a mix of unease and something deeper—something you can’t quite name. You remain rooted in place for a long moment, trying to shake off the lingering feeling of his touch, his words, but they refuse to leave you.

With a deep, steadying breath, you turn away from the dark corner of the room, trying to collect your thoughts. You had expected your life to change, but not like this. Not with Daemon, not with the weight of House Targaryen looming over you. Yet, here you are, standing at the precipice of a future you never asked for, and there’s no turning back now.

Just as you’re lost in thought, the door creaks open, and several servants step inside, moving briskly toward you. They are efficient and polite, with no hint of judgment or curiosity in their eyes—just the practiced grace of those accustomed to serving in the Red Keep.

“My lady, it is time to prepare for the evening’s festivities,” one of them announces softly, her voice respectful but gentle. “your father requests that you be ready soon.”

You nod, taking a deep breath, and allow yourself to be guided toward the preparations. The weight of your thoughts shifts to the evening ahead. The grand dance, the ceremonial waltz of power and politics that you are now an integral part of. It’s strange to think of yourself as a player in this grand court, a mere pawn in a game that stretches far beyond your reach.

The servants begin to undress you with practiced care, replacing your simple clothes with the intricate, heavy gown that has been prepared for you. The fabric feels foreign against your skin—rich, cold, and undeniably royal. They twist your hair into an elegant updo, tucking every strand into place as if to remind you that tonight, you are not just yourself—you are a symbol of House Tyrell’s power, a future princess.

As they work, you find your mind drifting back to Daemon. His words replay in your head, his touch lingering on your skin. Despite everything, despite the storm of thoughts in your mind, you know one thing for certain: this night is only the beginning. The beginning of a journey you cannot avoid, no matter how hard you try.

Once they finish, the final touches are made, and you look at your reflection in the mirror. You are ready—at least, outwardly. Inside, the battle between your duty and your desires rages on. But there’s no time to dwell on that now. The evening awaits, and your role in it is clear.

As the final servant leaves, you take a deep breath and turn toward the door. Tonight, you will step into the world of the Targaryens, the world that Daemon has invited you into, and you will have to play the part. There will be no room for hesitation or doubt.

With one last glance at your reflection, you leave the room, walking toward the unknown that awaits you in the grand hall.

You gaze at your reflection in the mirror, the red gown clinging to your body in all the right places, the intricate design and fabric of the dress making you look like something both regal and untouchable. The deep crimson hue mirrors the fiery determination and turmoil churning inside you. Your hair is styled flawlessly, and you feel a strange mixture of power and vulnerability in the reflection staring back at you.

Just as you’re about to turn away, one of the servants steps forward, holding a small, velvet-lined box in her hands. She approaches quietly, her eyes respectful as she presents it to you. “My lady,” she says softly, “Prince Daemon has sent this for you to wear tonight.”

Your heart skips a beat at the mention of Daemon, and a wave of unease floods over you. The box is opened, revealing the most beautiful piece of jewelry you’ve ever seen. Nestled within the box is a stunning ruby necklace, its deep red color rich and intense, like the blood of kings. It glistens in the light, its intricate design made of gold and delicate filigree, catching the light in such a way that it almost seems to pulse with life.

“His Grace requested that you wear this tonight,” the servant continues, her voice barely above a whisper, as if she knows the weight this piece of jewelry carries. “It is a gift for the evening’s festivities.”

Your fingers hover over the necklace, and for a moment, you feel the weight of Daemon’s gaze upon you. His presence, his influence, it is all around you now—through his words, through his gift. The necklace, while beautiful, feels more like a symbol than an ornament. It feels like a chain, a reminder of the role you’re about to play in the world of Targaryen politics.

You take the necklace from the box, and the servant helps you place it around your neck, fastening the clasp with careful hands. The cool weight of the ruby against your skin sends a shiver through you, but you force yourself to remain still, to remain composed. You are no longer just a Tyrell. You are now something more, something that belongs to the Targaryens—whether you like it or not.

As the servant steps back, you take a deep breath and adjust the necklace, staring at your reflection once more. You look every bit the part of a princess, of someone who belongs in the Targaryen court. But inside, the questions still linger. What does Daemon want from you with this gift? What does it mean? Is this a sign of favor—or something more insidious?

With a final glance at the servant, you nod to yourself. This night is inevitable, and you will walk into it with your head held high, no matter what Daemon’s intentions may be. The game is on, and whether you like it or not, you are a player now.

You leave your chamber, stepping into the hallway where the sound of music and laughter grows louder, and you move toward your fate. The ruby around your neck feels heavier with each step, as if it carries the weight of a thousand unspoken words.

As you approach the grand doors of the throne room, your parents stand waiting, the regal elegance of their presence undeniable. Your father, Lord Tyrell, stands tall, his face a mask of calm authority, while your mother, Lady Tyrell, gazes at you with an expression of quiet admiration. Her eyes soften as they trace the delicate ruby necklace around your neck, and for a brief moment, you feel the weight of her approval. It’s a look that says so much more than words ever could, as if she understands the path you are being forced to walk, and yet, she is proud of how you carry yourself.

Your heart races as you take a deep breath, steeling yourself for the moment ahead. This is it. This is the night where everything changes, and you step into a new world—a world of power, influence, and uncertainty. The weight of your new reality presses down on you like a mantle, but you hold your head high as you walk toward the doors.

The sound of the guards’ footsteps echoes in the hall, and as you reach the entrance, the heavy doors swing open. The loud voice of a herald announces your arrival.

“Presenting Lord and Lady Tyrell, and their daughter, Lady Tyrell, betrothed to Prince Daemon Targaryen!”

The words ring out across the vast chamber, and the eyes of everyone in the room fall on you. The grand hall of the Red Keep is filled with nobles, courtiers, and various dignitaries, all gathered for the night’s festivities. But it feels as if all eyes are on you now, studying you, measuring you. Your pulse quickens as you step forward, every movement deliberate and graceful, despite the storm of emotions swirling within.

The throne room is resplendent, with golden chandeliers casting a soft light over the gathered crowd. The walls are adorned with tapestries depicting the history of House Targaryen, their dragons roaring and flying in intricate detail. The air is thick with the scent of fine wine, rich perfumes, and the soft murmurs of conversation. But in this moment, everything seems to slow down as you walk toward the center of the room, where the royal family awaits.

As you approach the royal table, your gaze meets King Jaehaerys, who is seated with an air of quiet power. His eyes flicker over you, an unreadable expression crossing his features before he nods in acknowledgment. Beside him, Prince Baelon stands with his usual stern demeanor, his gaze cool but respectful. And then, of course, there is Daemon. His eyes catch yours the moment you enter, and despite the crowd around him, it feels as though the rest of the world disappears for just a second. His lips curve into a knowing smile, one that sends a mix of unease and curiosity rippling through you.

The moment feels charged, as if everything is hanging in the balance. You are no longer just a Tyrell; you are now a part of the Targaryen story, and tonight will set the stage for everything that follows.

Your parents move to the side, and you step forward, your heart pounding in your chest. This is the moment you must embrace the future, no matter how uncertain it may be. You lower your gaze to the floor, curtsying in respect, before raising your head to meet the eyes of King Jaehaerys, Daemon, and the others.

The crowd watches in silence, the tension thick as the evening unfolds, and the weight of your decision, of this engagement, settles over you like a cloak you cannot cast off.

As you stand before the royal family, your eyes catch a glimpse of the serene and graceful figure of Princess Aemma, the wife of Prince Viserys. Her gentle smile is directed towards you, a silent acknowledgment that, despite everything, you are not alone in this court. Her delicate hand rests on her round belly, the life within her a reminder of the future of House Targaryen. You return her smile with a nod, feeling the weight of the moment settle over you like a heavy cloak.

But your attention is swiftly drawn back to Daemon as he rises from his seat, his movements fluid and confident. The eyes of the room seem to follow him, but he pays them no mind, his gaze fixed entirely on you. His presence is overwhelming, and for a brief moment, the air seems to thicken between you both, the tension palpable.

Daemon approaches you with that same predatory grace, and before you can react, he takes your hand in his. The coolness of his fingers against your skin sends an unexpected chill through you, but you don’t pull away. His touch is firm, commanding, as he raises your hand to his lips, brushing them against your skin in a manner both intimate and public.

The soft rustling of the crowd falls away, and his voice, low and almost a whisper, reaches your ear. “You wear it well,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear. “The ruby. You used it… just as I intended.”

You freeze for a moment, his words striking a chord deep within you. You hadn’t expected him to notice, to connect the necklace to something more than just a simple gift. But there is something in his voice—something that hints at a deeper understanding of the game you are now both playing.

Daemon pulls away slightly, his eyes locking onto yours with a flicker of something unreadable. “The Targaryen blood runs thick, but your Tyrell strength… I can see it in you,” he says, his words both a compliment and a challenge. “Tonight, we show them who we are.”

Before you can fully process what he means, Daemon straightens up, his hand still lingering for just a moment before he releases yours. The world around you feels suddenly more real, the weight of this engagement, this court, this night—everything—is no longer just a distant concept. It is here, in this room, in this moment, and Daemon has just marked you in a way that you can’t ignore.

As he steps back, the music in the hall swells, and the courtiers begin to resume their conversations, the tension in the room slowly dissipating. But you are left with the echo of Daemon’s words in your mind, and the unsettling realization that this night is only the beginning of a journey you have little control over. You straighten your posture, your thoughts racing, but your gaze remains steady.

Daemon may have whispered those words, but you know that the game has just begun, and you will have to play it carefully, whether you’re ready or not.

The music swells, and Daemon steps closer, his gaze never leaving yours. The moment feels charged, the entire room seemingly holding its breath as he places a hand firmly on your waist. You can feel the warmth of his touch through the fabric of your gown, his fingers pressing gently but assertively. The dance has begun.

He leads you onto the floor with the grace of a man who has danced this many times before. His movements are confident, his body guiding you effortlessly through the steps. Despite the eyes of the entire room on you both, the closeness of your bodies feels intimate, almost private, and for a fleeting moment, you wonder if anyone else can see the tension building between you and Daemon.

As you move in rhythm with the music, the world around you blurs, the noise of the court fading into the background. Your focus narrows to Daemon—his steady hand at your waist, the slight tension in his jaw, the way his gaze occasionally flickers to yours, as though testing you. The red ruby around your neck glints under the soft candlelight, and you can’t help but feel the weight of both the necklace and his gaze.

He leans in slightly, his lips just inches from your ear. “You dance beautifully,” he whispers, his voice a velvet caress against your skin, but there’s something dark behind the compliment. “But this… this is just the beginning.”

You meet his gaze, a mix of defiance and uncertainty bubbling inside you. “What do you mean?” you ask, the words slipping from your lips before you can stop them.

Daemon smiles, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Everything here is a dance, my dear. You’ve only just started learning the steps. But we will both master it in time.”

The sound of the courtiers around you begins to fade back in as they join the dance, filling the floor with elegant figures twirling in harmony. Your moment with Daemon becomes a shared performance—everyone around you moving, their eyes trained on you both as you sway together. The music is sweet and slow, but beneath the surface, there’s an undercurrent of something far more dangerous, something unspoken that pulses between you and him.

Your movements grow more synchronized as the dance continues, and soon, the entire room is swept up in the rhythm, the energy of the event building. You can feel the weight of the room’s attention on you, but your thoughts remain fixated on Daemon, his hand never leaving your waist, his presence never wavering.

The dance floor becomes a stage, and in this moment, you and Daemon are the stars of the show, bound by an invisible thread that neither of you can fully unravel.

You make your way toward the royal table, offering a polite but hurried excuse to the courtiers around you. “I’m afraid I’m not feeling well,” you say, your voice laced with just enough feigned fatigue to seem believable. “The journey has left me rather drained.” Your gaze flickers to your parents, who, though surprised, offer a brief nod of understanding. The polite murmurs of the crowd fade as you slip away from the bustling celebration.

The corridors of the Red Keep are quieter now, a welcome contrast to the din of the ballroom. Your steps echo as you move through the familiar halls, each footfall a reminder of the weight on your shoulders, of the whispers and the secrets that hang heavy in the air.

You reach your room, the door creaking softly as you push it open. The room is dimly lit by the flickering glow of the candlelight, and the comforting solitude washes over you. You close the door behind you with a soft click, the world outside suddenly feeling distant and muted.

The weight of the evening’s events settles upon you like a physical burden. You approach the mirror, taking a deep breath. The reflection staring back at you seems foreign, like someone you barely recognize. Slowly, you begin to undo the intricate braids that hold your hair, the strands slipping free with each gentle tug. The weight of the ruby necklace feels heavier now, its once dazzling allure now a symbol of the very thing that has begun to change everything for you. You set it down on the vanity with a quiet finality.

Next, you begin to unlace the tight corset beneath your gown, the fabric finally loosening around your body, allowing you to breathe more freely. The delicate layers of your dress slip away, leaving you in the simpler, more comforting layers of your undergarments. You stand for a moment, letting your body relax, the tension of the evening melting away.

But as the final layer of your gown falls to the floor, leaving you standing in the solitude of your room, the silence feels oppressive. The weight of the words Daemon spoke earlier, the whispers of the court, the uncertainty of your future—all of it feels like a storm waiting to break.

You sit down on the edge of the bed, your mind racing. What had Daemon meant by his words? The future? Power? Survival? Did he truly see this marriage as a partnership, or was it merely another chess piece in a game neither of you had fully agreed to play?

The questions linger, unanswered, as you finally lean back against the pillows. The soft rustling of the fabric around you offers no comfort, no answer to the storm swirling inside you. With a deep breath, you close your eyes, knowing that the days ahead will only grow more complicated.

But for now, at least, you are alone with your thoughts. And that, for just this moment, is all you can bear.

The days have slipped by faster than you could have imagined. One moment, you were standing in the great hall, Daemon’s hand in yours, and now, it feels as though time has run away from you. Tomorrow marks the day that will change everything—the day you will marry Daemon. The realization is both exhilarating and terrifying, and as you sit in your room, your heart beats with a mixture of anticipation and dread.

You stand before a large mirror, the soft candlelight casting gentle shadows on your face. Your mother stands beside you, her hands gently smoothing the fabric of the wedding gown that rests over your body. The dress is a masterpiece, elegant and simple, with intricate lace and delicate pearls woven into the fabric, creating an aura of timeless beauty. The gown feels heavy, as if it carries the weight of the future with it.

“How does it feel, my dear?” your mother asks, her voice soft and warm. There’s a tenderness in her eyes, but also a flicker of something else—concern, perhaps, or fear. She’s seen the way you’ve carried yourself these past few days, the quiet distance in your eyes, the hesitation that lingers in your every movement. She knows how you’re feeling, even if you haven’t spoken the words aloud.

You take a deep breath, looking at your reflection. “It’s… beautiful,” you say, your voice tinged with a hint of uncertainty. “But I can’t help but wonder if I’m ready for this.”

Your mother steps closer, her hands resting gently on your shoulders as she looks at you in the mirror. “You are more than ready, my darling. You’ve always been strong—just like your father, just like me. And tomorrow, you will take the next step in ensuring the future of our house. Daemon… he is a man of power. You know that.”

Her words hang in the air, a reminder of the path that you’ve been set upon. Your mind drifts to Daemon—his presence, his words, the way he made you feel both desired and distant. You still don’t fully understand what he wants from this marriage, or what your role will truly be. But one thing is certain: this union will define your future, for better or worse.

“You know, you don’t have to go through with this if you truly feel it’s not right,” your mother continues, her voice soft, as if sensing the turmoil inside you. “But remember, sometimes the choices we make are for the greater good. For our family. For our legacy.”

You look up at her then, meeting her gaze in the mirror. “I know,” you say quietly, the weight of her words sinking in. “I just wish I knew what I was getting myself into.”

Your mother smiles gently, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. “No one ever truly knows what lies ahead. But you’re not alone in this. You have the strength of the Tyrells and the wisdom of the Targaryens in your blood. You will find your way.”

Her reassurance brings you a measure of comfort, but a knot of uncertainty still lingers in your chest. As you stand there in the gown, the future seems both distant and frighteningly close. Tomorrow, you will walk down the aisle, and your life with Daemon will begin.

You glance at your reflection once more, your heart heavy but resolute. No matter what comes next, you will face it with the strength and grace that your family expects of you. The time for hesitation is over. Tomorrow, you will step into your new life, whatever that may bring.

You freeze for a moment, the sudden sound of Daemon’s voice breaking the quiet of your room. You hadn’t heard him approach, but the smooth, confident tone of his voice tells you he’s been there for longer than you realize. A feeling of both surprise and tension rises in your chest as you glance toward the direction of the sound, your gaze following the faint rustling of the curtains.

Daemon steps into the soft moonlight, his presence as commanding as ever, even in the stillness of your chamber. In his hand, he holds a glass of wine, the ruby liquid catching the light as he approaches you. His gaze is steady, watching you with that same intensity that both unnerves and draws you in.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. You just stand there, silently observing each other. His eyes travel over you—the gown you wear, the way the moonlight seems to soften your features, but it’s hard to tell what’s in his mind. You can feel the weight of the unspoken words hanging in the air between you, a sense of anticipation that seems to fill the room.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Daemon finally says, his voice low, almost amused. “But I thought you might need something to help ease your nerves.” He holds out the glass toward you, the offering an unexpected gesture. The deep red wine glows softly in the dim light, tempting you with its warmth.

You study him for a moment, wondering why he’s here, why he’s come so late. Is it simply to check on you before tomorrow, or is there something more? A flicker of uncertainty tugs at your chest, but you quickly push it away. You’ve already made your choice.

You walk toward him, your steps quiet on the stone floor, and reach for the glass. His fingers brush yours briefly, sending an unexpected jolt through your body. His touch lingers for just a heartbeat longer than necessary before he releases the glass into your hand.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice a little softer than you intended, your eyes briefly meeting his. For a moment, you think you see a flash of something deeper in his gaze—an unreadable emotion that quickly disappears behind his usual guarded expression.

Daemon leans against the wall, his posture relaxed but his eyes never leaving you. “Tomorrow,” he begins, his voice now lower, “changes everything. You know that, don’t you?"

You nod, your fingers tightening around the stem of the glass as the weight of his words settles in. “I do,” you reply quietly, unsure of how much more to say.

“Good,” he murmurs, the hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Because it’s not just the kingdom that will change tomorrow. You will, too. And there’s no turning back.”

The finality of his words hangs in the air, a reminder that once you step into tomorrow, there is no going back to the life you once knew. You can feel the tension rising between you both, a complex mix of emotions that neither of you has fully expressed yet.

Daemon steps closer again, his presence filling the space between you. His voice drops to a whisper, just low enough that it feels like an intimate confession. “But I think you already know that. And perhaps… you’re ready for it.”

You hold his gaze for a moment longer, wondering what he truly means by that.

Your breath catches in your throat as you feel Daemon’s lips brush against yours. The kiss is brief but electric, sending a shiver through your entire body. It’s soft, almost tender, yet laced with an undeniable intensity. Before you can fully process what’s happening, Daemon pulls back, his lips curling into that familiar, enigmatic smile.

Without saying a word, he turns, his movements graceful and confident, and steps back into the shadows. The room seems to grow even quieter as he fades into the darkness, leaving you alone with a lingering warmth on your lips and a rush of confusion swirling in your chest.

You stand frozen for a moment, the kiss echoing in your mind, its meaning elusive. You lift a trembling hand to your lips, feeling the faint trace of his touch still there. What was that? What did it mean? And why did he leave without another word?

The silence in the room feels deafening now. The wine in your hand, once a source of comfort, suddenly feels heavy. You don’t know if you’re ready for the emotional storm that’s brewing inside you, the mixture of desire, fear, and uncertainty that Daemon has stirred within you with a single, fleeting kiss.

Your mind races, and for a long moment, you just stand there, trying to collect yourself. His words, his actions—they’re a mystery you don’t yet have the answers to. And as the last traces of his presence fade into the night, you’re left with more questions than before.

What do you truly want from this marriage? From him? And how much of yourself are you willing to give away in the pursuit of a future that is no longer entirely yours to shape?

The night feels heavier now, the weight of everything pressing down on you as you stand alone, still feeling the warmth of his touch on your lips.

The day has finally arrived. The weight of it presses down on you as you sit in front of the large mirror in your chamber. The room is alive with movement—your mother directing the servants, Aemma offering quiet words of encouragement, and your handmaidens working carefully to perfect every detail of your appearance.

Your wedding gown is a masterpiece. The fabric shimmers faintly with every movement, a blend of white and pale gold, symbolizing both your Tyrell roots and the union with House Targaryen. The lacework is intricate, delicate flowers and vines winding along the sleeves and bodice. Around your waist, a small belt of golden roses serves as a subtle nod to your house. The long, flowing train trails behind you like a river of silk, and the soft veil drapes over your head, light as air, yet it feels heavier with each passing second.

Your hair has been braided in the traditional Targaryen style, an acknowledgment of the house you will now be tied to. The braids are adorned with tiny pearl pins that catch the light as you move, and strands of your hair frame your face softly. One of your handmaidens carefully places the final flower—a pale blue lily—among the braids, a finishing touch that makes you look almost ethereal.

“Look at you,” your mother says, her voice filled with pride as she stands behind you. Her hands rest gently on your shoulders, and you see her reflection in the mirror. Her gaze is soft, though there’s something more in her eyes—a mixture of pride, sadness, and perhaps a hint of worry. “You look every bit the queen you were always meant to be.”

“Not a queen,” you reply softly, your gaze fixed on your reflection. “A princess, a wife.”

“A princess today,” Aemma interjects gently, stepping forward. She places a hand on your cheek, her smile kind and knowing. “But tomorrow, who knows what fate will bring? Queens are not born, child. They are made.” Her words linger, filling you with something you can’t quite name—hope, perhaps, or warning.

You take a slow breath, glancing at your reflection. For a moment, you barely recognize yourself. You look regal, untouchable, like one of the porcelain figures you used to play with as a child. But beneath all the silk, pearls, and flowers, it is still you—just a girl about to face something far greater than she ever imagined.

“Does it feel right?” Aemma asks, tilting her head as she studies you closely. “The gown, the flowers, all of it?”

You glance at your mother, who looks at you with quiet encouragement, and then back at Aemma. “It feels… heavier than I expected,” you admit, your fingers brushing the fabric of your dress. “But I suppose that’s how it’s meant to be, isn’t it? Every choice we make feels heavier when it becomes permanent.”

“Wise words,” Aemma says with a soft smile. “But know this—you may feel bound by duty, by house and family, but you are not without power. Do not forget that.”

Her words offer you a brief sense of reassurance, though they also stir something deeper inside you. Power. It is a word that has followed you like a shadow ever since your betrothal was announced.

The servants step back, their work complete. One of them hands you your bouquet—a carefully arranged bundle of white roses, blue lilies, and soft green leaves. The floral scent is fresh, clean, and grounding.

“Take one last look,” your mother says as she steps aside. “Because the next time you see yourself like this, you’ll be walking down that aisle.”

You glance once more at your reflection, taking in every detail. The girl you see is no longer the same person she was yesterday. She is poised, elegant, and strong. But beneath it all, she is still you.

With a deep breath, you rise from your seat, the weight of the gown settling around you like armor. Your mother adjusts your veil one last time, letting it fall perfectly behind you. Aemma offers you a reassuring smile, her gaze firm and steady.

“It’s time,” your mother says softly, her voice filled with emotion she tries to hide. “Are you ready?”

Your heart beats steadily in your chest, a steady rhythm that echoes through your entire being. You grip the bouquet tightly, feeling its thorns pressing faintly against your fingers.

“I am,” you say, your voice clear and certain. “I’m ready.”

With that, you turn toward the door, your veil trailing behind you like a river of light. The world outside awaits—the noble houses, the court, and Daemon himself. Each step you take will lead you closer to a future you can no longer escape, but one that, perhaps, you can still shape.

The rhythmic creaking of the carriage wheels fills the air as you sit beside your mother and father, the weight of the moment pressing heavily on your chest. Your fingers twist anxiously around the fabric of your gown, the silk smooth and cool beneath your fingertips. Despite the grandeur of the occasion, your heart beats loudly in your ears, drowning out the soft murmurs of your parents.

Your mother notices your fidgeting and places a gentle hand over yours. Her touch is warm, grounding you as she gazes at you with that calm, steady look she always gives you in moments of doubt. “Breathe, sweetling,” she says softly, her voice barely audible over the clatter of the carriage. “You look perfect. Every eye will be on you, but they will see only your grace and beauty.”

Her words are meant to reassure you, but they only make the weight in your chest feel heavier. Every eye will be on you. Not as yourself, but as a symbol of something greater — a marriage that would bind House Tyrell and House Targaryen forever.

Your father sits across from you, his hands resting on the head of his cane, his gaze fixed firmly out the window. He has been unusually quiet since you left the Red Keep, his expression unreadable. His sharp eyes flicker toward you for a brief moment, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

“You’re doing what’s expected of you,” he says suddenly, his tone firm but not unkind. “This marriage is your duty, and you will fulfill it with dignity and strength.” His words are as sharp as ever, but there is a strange sort of pride beneath them. He has always spoken to you this way, as if molding you into something unbreakable. Today is no different.

You nod, though his words leave a hollow ache in your chest. Duty. Dignity. Strength. You’ve heard them all your life. They have guided you, shaped you, and now, they are about to define you.

The light filtering through the carriage window shifts as the carriage begins to slow. You glance out and feel your breath catch in your throat. The Great Sept of Baelor rises before you, its grand domes and stained glass windows glistening in the morning sun like a crown of jewels. People line the streets, their voices a mixture of cheers, gasps, and murmured prayers. Flowers are scattered on the ground, a soft path of white petals leading to the steps of the Sept.

The sight is breathtaking — and overwhelming. You feel the full weight of every gaze upon you. They are here for the spectacle, to witness history in the making. They do not see you. They see a bride, a symbol, a promise of power and legacy.

The carriage comes to a slow stop, the clattering of wheels replaced by the distant hum of the crowd. Your heart beats faster. This is it. No turning back. No running away.

“Stand tall,” your father says as he steps down from the carriage first, offering his hand to help you descend. “Show them who you are.”

Your mother exits next, giving you one last glance filled with quiet encouragement. Her eyes glisten, though she blinks away whatever emotion threatens to show.

Finally, it is your turn. The carriage door swings open, and the soft breeze of the open air greets you. Your eyes catch the first glimmers of sunlight reflecting off the stained glass of the Sept, casting colors of blue, red, and green across the stone steps. You take a breath, slow and steady, letting it fill your lungs. Show them who you are.

You place your hand in your father’s, his grip strong and steady, and step out of the carriage. The crowd erupts into cheers. The air is filled with the scent of flowers and incense, the warmth of the sun on your skin making everything feel surreal. Every eye is on you. Just as your mother said.

Your gaze remains forward as you ascend the steps, the long train of your gown flowing behind you like a river of silk and lace. The Great Sept’s bells ring in the distance, their deep, resounding chimes echoing across King’s Landing. It is a sound that makes the air feel heavier, more sacred.

At the top of the steps, waiting for you at the grand entrance, is Daemon. His silver hair gleams like molten silver in the sun, his armor polished to perfection, but it’s his eyes that catch you. He is watching you with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe. His gaze is not like the crowd’s. It is sharper, more deliberate, like he sees you and no one else.

He stands tall in his Targaryen armor, the three-headed dragon emblazoned on his chest. There is no crown on his head, but he looks every bit a prince. His smirk is subtle, barely there, but you see it. That quiet confidence, that knowing look that tells you he is fully aware of the spectacle before him — and he enjoys it.

As you approach, his eyes remain on you, unwavering, unreadable. The steps seem longer than they should be, each one a reminder of how far you’ve come. Finally, you reach him, and for a brief moment, it is just the two of you. The world fades away — the crowd, the bells, the weight of duty — and all that remains is him.

Daemon steps forward, his gaze never leaving yours. He extends a hand to you, and for a heartbeat, you hesitate. Is this truly what you want? you wonder. But then you remember Aemma’s words. Queens are not born. They are made.

With steady resolve, you place your hand in his. His fingers curl around yours, firm and warm. He leans in, close enough that only you can hear him.

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs, his voice laced with amusement. “Nervous, little flower?”

You lift your head slightly, meeting his gaze with all the strength you can summon. “No,” you reply firmly, though your heart betrays you with its quickened pace. “I am simply ready.”

His smirk widens just a fraction, a glimmer of something playful, perhaps even impressed. He turns, leading you inside the Great Sept. The light from the stained glass windows paints the stone floor in brilliant hues of red, blue, and green. Each step echoes softly as you walk together, hand in hand, toward the altar where the High Septon awaits.

The nobles of Westeros line the aisles, all eyes on you once more. You see familiar faces among them—lords and ladies from noble houses, your family, and even Aemma, watching you with quiet pride. Whispers follow your every move, but you do not falter.

As you approach the altar, the High Septon raises his hands, calling for silence. The Sept grows still. You can hear every breath, every faint shift of cloth. Daemon stands beside you, his hand still holding yours. You glance at him briefly, and for the first time, he is not looking at the crowd, the Septon, or the nobles. He is looking at you.

“Let us begin,” the High Septon declares, his voice echoing through the hall.

The ceremony is a blur of words, oaths, and promises. You speak them all clearly, every vow falling from your lips with certainty. Daemon’s voice is steady as he repeats the words, his eyes never leaving yours. The world feels smaller now, like it’s only the two of you standing there.

When it is done, the High Septon raises his hands. “By the light of the Seven, I declare them husband and wife. May their union be strong, their line unbroken, and their love enduring.”

The Sept erupts in applause. The sound crashes over you like a wave, and for a moment, you are breathless. The High Septon turns to Daemon with a nod.

“You may kiss your bride, Prince Daemon.”

Daemon steps closer, his eyes narrowing in that familiar, wicked way. Slowly, he lifts your veil, his fingers brushing your cheek as he pushes it back. The crowd fades once more, the sound of their cheers dull and distant.

He tilts his head slightly, eyes locked on yours, as if daring you to look away. But you don’t. You meet his gaze, unwavering, unafraid.

“Here we are,” he murmurs, his voice just for you.

“Here we are,” you reply, and before you can say anything more, his lips are on yours.

The kiss is firm, claiming, and yet somehow soft. The world seems to hold its breath as Daemon Targaryen, your husband, pulls you closer. His hand rests at the small of your back, grounding you, anchoring you to this moment. The cheers of the crowd grow louder, but you hardly hear them.

The cheers of the crowd still echo in your ears as you sit beside Daemon in the carriage. The air is thick with the sweet scent of flowers from the Great Sept, and the faint clattering of hooves on cobblestone fills the silence between you. Your gown feels heavier than it did before, the weight of everything — the vows, the kiss, the future — pressing down on you.

Daemon sits beside you, one leg crossed over the other, his arm draped casually along the edge of the seat. His silver hair catches the faint glow of sunlight that seeps through the window, making him look like something out of legend. He tilts his head toward you, his eyes sharp, watchful, and filled with something you can’t quite name.

“You’re quiet,” he says, his voice smooth as silk. His gaze flickers to your hands, which rest neatly in your lap, fingers still clutching the edge of your gown. “Nervous, little flower?”

You turn your head to meet his gaze, your expression calm despite the storm of thoughts in your mind. “I have no reason to be,” you reply, your voice steady, though a hint of weariness slips through. “I did as was expected of me. And now, so have you.”

His eyes narrow, amusement tugging at the corner of his lips. “Expected of me?” He shifts, leaning forward, his face closer to yours now. His voice drops to a low murmur, carrying the weight of something more dangerous. “You think I wed you out of duty alone?”

You hold his gaze, refusing to look away. “Isn’t that what marriage is for people like us? Duty and power. Nothing more.”

There is a pause — a flicker of something that could be surprise or intrigue in his eyes. Then, he lets out a soft, short laugh, leaning back into his seat. “Perhaps. But power comes in many forms, little wife. And duty… well, it tastes sweeter when shared with someone clever.”

His words linger in the air like smoke, curling around your thoughts. You glance at him, studying his face for any sign of sincerity or mockery, but, as always, he is impossible to read.

“You sound as though you plan to enjoy it,” you say cautiously, tilting your head ever so slightly.

His grin widens, wicked and knowing. “I always enjoy what is mine.”

His words send a shiver down your spine, though you do not show it. What is mine. There it is again — that sense of possession, of control. You are his now, by law, by faith, and by the eyes of every noble in Westeros. But just as he has claimed you, you have claimed him.

The carriage jostles slightly as it moves over uneven ground, and the sound of the crowd begins to fade into the distance. Your gaze shifts to the window, watching as the familiar towers of the Red Keep draw closer. The sun glints off the red stone walls, and you feel a strange mix of relief and dread.

The feast awaits. Another spectacle, another performance. More eyes, more whispers, more judgment. It would not end, not today, not ever.

“Are you afraid of them?” Daemon asks suddenly, his eyes still fixed on you. “The nobles. The lords and ladies who will watch your every move tonight.”

You glance at him, your brows furrowing just slightly. “Should I be?”

He hums thoughtfully, his eyes dancing with mischief. “No. They are like hounds, sniffing for weakness. But if you show them none, they will kneel.” He leans closer, his voice soft but sharp as a blade. “Show them the rose, but never the thorn. That is how you win.”

His words echo something your father once told you. It is a lesson you have heard all your life, but hearing it from Daemon makes it feel different. He is not like your father. He is wild flame, not tempered steel.

“Wise words, husband,” you reply, turning to face him fully. Your eyes meet his, unwavering. “But I am not just a rose. I have thorns, and I know when to use them.”

His eyes darken with something you can’t name. Amusement? Respect? Perhaps both. He leans back once more, his grin widening as he taps a finger against his knee.

“Good,” he says, his voice like a purr. “I would hate to have a boring wife.”

Silence settles over the carriage once more, but it is different now. The tension is still there, but it has shifted — no longer suffocating, but sharp and aware. You feel it in the way Daemon watches you, like a cat watching a bird just out of reach. He is testing you, just as you are testing him.

The gates of the Red Keep loom ahead. The sun dips lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the courtyard. The clatter of the carriage wheels begins to slow, the gentle pull of momentum drawing to a stop. Outside, you hear the distant calls of guards and the sound of footsteps.

Your heart tightens for a moment, knowing what comes next. Another performance, another step toward a future you cannot escape.

Daemon is already on his feet before the carriage door is even opened. The guards outside pull it wide, and the light spills in, illuminating his figure as he steps out first, his black and red cloak sweeping behind him like wings. He turns back, his hand outstretched toward you.

You hesitate, but only for a heartbeat. With a deep breath, you place your hand in his, letting him guide you down from the carriage. The crowd within the Red Keep courtyard is smaller but no less watchful. Nobles, servants, and guards alike pause in their tasks to turn and watch. You feel their stares like pinpricks on your skin.

Daemon’s grip on your hand tightens just slightly as you walk together, side by side. His head is held high, his posture that of a dragon who knows he is feared. You mirror him, lifting your chin as you walk with steady grace, every step measured, deliberate, queenly.

The nobles bow as you pass, some low, some shallow, but all respectful. Whispers follow you like the rustle of leaves in the wind. You catch snatches of their words — “beautiful,” “Tyrell,” “Targaryen bride.” The names of houses swirl around you like a storm, but you do not react. You are stone, unyielding, unbreakable.

As you approach the entrance to the Keep, Daemon leans in, his voice low and teasing by your ear. “They’ll be watching you all night, little flower. Waiting to see if you wilt.”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Then let them watch. A rose does not wilt in the eyes of lesser flowers.”

Daemon laughs, a genuine, full laugh that echoes off the stone walls. The sound draws more stares, but neither of you care. His eyes gleam with something dangerous and delighted as he gazes at you, his bride, his wife.

“I knew it would be you,” he says softly, just for you. “From the moment I saw you in the Sept. No one else would have suited me.”

You glance up at him, brow raised. “I wonder, husband, if that is meant as a compliment or a warning.”

“Both,” he says, his grin sharp as a blade.

He guides you inside the Red Keep, where the torches burn brighter than the sun outside. The air is filled with the distant hum of music, the clinking of goblets, and the scent of roasted meat and sweetwine. The wedding feast awaits. Lords and ladies will gather, faces hidden behind smiles and masks of courtesy. There will be toasts, jests, and glances filled with envy and doubt.

But you are not afraid.

Daemon’s words echo in your mind. Show them the rose, but never the thorn.

No. You will show them both.

With each step deeper into the Red Keep, you feel the weight of your new role settle on your shoulders. You glance once more at Daemon, his eyes forward, his confidence as unshakable as the stones of Dragonstone itself.

Your grip on his hand tightens.

He glances down at you, eyes sharp and curious.

“You and I,” you murmur, low and certain, “will be more than they ever expected.”

Daemon tilts his head, his eyes narrowing with interest, his smirk returning in full force. “Yes,” he says, his voice filled with dangerous promise. “We will.”

And as you enter the grand hall where your wedding feast awaits, you feel it — the power in every glance, every step, every breath. This is your night. Your house may have offered you up as a rose, but you will bloom as something far more dangerous.

They will see your beauty.

But soon, they will know your thorns.

The grand doors to the throne room swing open with a low, resonating creak. The light of a hundred flickering torches dances on the polished stone floor, illuminating the space with a warm, golden glow. The cold, commanding aura of the Iron Throne is softened by the vibrant colors of the decorations. Rich red and gold banners hang from the high ceilings, sigils of House Targaryen and House Tyrell displayed side by side. Flower arrangements — red roses for your house, and dragonfire lilies for his — fill the room with a heady, sweet fragrance.

Daemon’s hand rests firmly on yours as he guides you inside, his grip steady and possessive. Your gown sweeps behind you like a river of white and gold, the delicate embroidery shimmering with every step. The room is filled with nobles from every corner of Westeros, their eyes fixed on you. Lords and ladies bow their heads as you pass, their gazes sharp with curiosity, envy, and judgment.

“All eyes on us, little flower,” Daemon murmurs lowly, his voice laced with amusement. “They’ll be watching to see if the rose wilts under the weight of the dragon.”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, tilting your head slightly as you whisper back, “Let them watch. I’ll show them how a rose blooms under fire.”

His grin widens, sharp and wolfish, and his grip on your hand tightens for a moment in approval.

At the far end of the hall, King Jaehaerys sits on the Iron Throne, regal as ever despite his years. His white beard flows down his chest, and his eyes, though kind, are watchful. At his side stands Prince Baelon, his posture straight and proud, and next to him is Princess Alyssa, who offers you a warm smile. Beside them, Prince Viserys stands with his pregnant wife, Aemma, her hands gently cradling her growing belly.

As you and Daemon approach the royal table, the herald steps forward, his voice booming across the hall.

“Prince Daemon Targaryen and Lady Tyrell, now husband and wife!”

Applause erupts from the crowd, a sea of clapping hands and murmurs of approval. You feel the weight of the moment settle on your shoulders, but you do not falter. With your head held high, you meet the gaze of every noble brave enough to stare for too long.

Daemon leads you to the head table, where two seats have been prepared beside the king. The chair feels larger than it should, its grandeur meant to emphasize the significance of the place you now hold. Daemon sits beside you, his posture relaxed, as though this is where he was always meant to be. He leans back in his chair, his gaze sweeping over the crowd like a dragon surveying its domain.

King Jaehaerys rises from his seat, his golden cloak draped heavily over his shoulders. The room falls silent at once. All eyes turn to the king, and even the faintest whisper dies in the air. He raises a hand, his voice clear and commanding despite his age.

“Today, we bear witness to a union of fire and bloom,” he proclaims, his voice echoing through the hall. “House Targaryen and House Tyrell, bound together in strength, in unity, and in purpose.” He turns his gaze to you and Daemon, his eyes filled with wisdom and authority. “May this marriage be as enduring as the roots of Highgarden and as unyielding as the flames of our dragons.”

Another round of applause fills the hall, and you bow your head in respect. Jaehaerys raises his goblet, and the hall follows, their goblets raised high in the air. “To Prince Daemon and his bride!” he declares.

“To Prince Daemon and his bride!” the crowd echoes, their voices like a chorus of thunder.

Daemon raises his own goblet, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. He leans toward you, his eyes flickering with mischief as he murmurs, “Drink, little flower. They’re watching.”

You glance at him, your eyes narrowing slightly in defiance, but you do as he says. Lifting your goblet, you meet his gaze as you drink, letting the sweet tang of wine linger on your tongue. He watches you closely, his eyes never leaving yours, and for a moment, it feels as though there are only the two of you in the hall, locked in a silent battle of wills.

The music begins to play, the gentle strumming of lutes and the deep hum of drums filling the air. All eyes shift toward the center of the room, where the space has been cleared for the first dance. Daemon rises from his chair, offering his hand to you once more.

“Shall we, wife?” he says with a teasing grin, tilting his head just slightly.

You glance at his hand, then meet his gaze with quiet resolve. Slowly, you place your hand in his, letting him pull you to your feet. The hall watches with anticipation as you step onto the dance floor together. The music shifts, growing louder and more rhythmic, the steady beat of the drums like the thundering of a heartbeat.

Daemon’s hand rests lightly on your waist, his fingers curling ever so slightly as he draws you closer. His other hand takes yours, his grip firm but not forceful. Your free hand settles on his shoulder, fingers lightly grazing the fabric of his tunic. For a moment, the world narrows down to the space between you and him. His eyes lock onto yours, sharp as Valyrian steel, and you feel the hum of energy between you.

“Don’t look down,” he says softly, his voice so close to your ear that it sends a shiver down your spine. “They’re watching.”

You tilt your head, lips curving into a faint smile. “Then let them watch.”

The dance begins.

The two of you move with the music, each step practiced but not without grace. Your movements are precise, every turn and spin guided by his hands. The room blurs around you, faces melding into indistinct shapes as you focus on Daemon — on his eyes, his smirk, the way he moves with the confidence of a man who has never doubted himself.

He twirls you, and your gown flares out like petals in bloom. Gasps and murmurs of admiration rise from the crowd. When he pulls you back to him, his hand presses firmly against your back, his eyes dark with something more intense than pride.

“You’re doing well,” he murmurs, his voice low and smooth. “But I expected no less from you.”

“Careful, husband,” you reply, your breath even despite the pace of the dance. “Compliments from you sound dangerously close to affection.”

His grin is quick, wicked. “Perhaps I’m feeling generous tonight.”

The final note of the music echoes through the hall, and the two of you come to a stop. You’re so close that you can see every flicker of firelight reflected in his violet eyes. Your heart pounds in your chest, but not from the dance alone. His gaze holds you in place, unrelenting and unwavering.

The room erupts into applause, loud and thunderous. Lords and ladies rise from their seats, clapping and cheering. Daemon releases you slowly, his fingers trailing down your arm as if reluctant to let you go. His eyes linger on you for just a moment longer before he turns to the crowd, his grin sharper than ever.

He raises a hand, silencing the applause. “Eat, drink, and be merry,” he calls out, his voice cutting through the noise. “For tonight, we celebrate not just a union, but a conquest.” His eyes flick to you, his grin curling into something more dangerous. “A victory for us both.”

The lords cheer, raising their goblets high, and the servants begin to bring forth trays of food and pitchers of wine. The hall fills with music, laughter, and the clinking of goblets.

Daemon turns back to you, offering his arm. “Shall we, little flower?”

You place your hand on his arm, your gaze steady, your chin lifted high. “Yes, husband,” you say softly, your voice carrying all the quiet power you’ve kept hidden. “Let them see what victory looks like.”

The two of you return to your place at the head table, side by side, facing the hall of nobles and onlookers. You feel the weight of their stares, their whispers, but none of it matters. Not tonight.

Daemon sits with the ease of a man born to rule, his hand idly resting on the arm of his chair. You sit beside him, as regal and steady as the roots of Highgarden.

The feast continues, but you know one thing for certain.

They may call you a rose, but tonight, they will see your thorns.

As the feast continues, the lively clamor of laughter, music, and the clinking of goblets fills the grand hall. Despite the noise, your world feels quieter as you turn to face Daemon. His gaze is sharp as ever, his features carved with the confidence of a man who knows his worth. Yet, tonight, you notice something different — a subtle shift in his eyes when he looks at you, something softer than the sharp edge he shows the world.

You sip your wine, letting the warmth settle in your chest before speaking. “You’re not what I expected, Daemon.”

He raises a brow, his smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “And what did you expect, little flower? A monster with sharp teeth and claws?”

“Perhaps,” you reply, tilting your head as you study him. “They call you the Rogue Prince, after all. A man ruled by impulse, driven by chaos and ambition.”

He chuckles, low and rich like a purr. “Ah, titles are like cloaks. Useful when worn, but beneath them, we’re all just flesh and bone.” He leans in slightly, his violet eyes fixed on yours. “Tell me, do you think I’m a monster?”

You meet his gaze, unflinching. “No. Monsters don’t get nervous.”

His grin falters for just a heartbeat — so quick that most would miss it. But you see it. His eyes flicker briefly, a crack in the mask he wears so well. He leans back in his chair, swirling the wine in his goblet as if to distract himself.

“I didn’t think you’d notice,” he admits, his eyes still on the wine.

“You’re better at hiding it than most,” you reply, a small smile playing on your lips. “But not from me.”

He glances at you then, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. Silence stretches between you for a moment, comfortable but charged with unspoken meaning. Finally, you decide to ask the question that has lingered in your mind since the day you learned of the betrothal.

“Why did you agree to this marriage, Daemon?” you ask, your voice quiet but firm. “You could have refused. You have always been known to defy expectations.”

He goes still, his fingers pausing on the stem of his goblet. His eyes shift to yours, and for a moment, he seems to weigh his answer. His smirk is gone, replaced by something far more genuine — something raw.

“I agreed,” he says slowly, his voice quieter now, “because I wanted it.” His eyes hold yours, steady and unwavering. “Years ago, when I accompanied my grandfather to Highgarden, I saw you in the gardens.” He exhales through his nose, his gaze distant as if seeing the memory play out before him. “You were surrounded by roses, and you were laughing with your maids. You had dirt on your hands from planting flowers, but you didn’t care. You looked… free.”

You blink, surprise washing over you like a sudden breeze. “You remember that?”

“Of course, I do,” he replies, his voice steady but his eyes carrying a weight of something long kept hidden. “I stood there longer than I should have, watching you laugh. It was the first time I’d seen something so simple yet so… whole.” He breathes deeply and turns to you, his eyes piercing. “I told myself then that if I ever had to marry, I would marry you.”

His words hit you harder than you expect. You feel the warmth rise to your cheeks, but you keep your composure. “And yet, you said nothing until now,” you say softly, tilting your head. “Why not speak of it before?”

“Because I’m a fool,” he admits, his grin returning, but it’s smaller, softer. “Or maybe because I didn’t think fate would be so kind to me.” His gaze shifts, watching you closely. “And now here you are, seated beside me, not as a dream, but as my wife.”

You don’t look away, and for the first time, the weight of the feast, the eyes of the lords and ladies, and the whispers of onlookers all seem to fade into nothing. The only thing that matters is this moment.

“I suppose fate can be cruel,” you murmur, lips curling into a knowing smile, “but tonight, it seems she has been kind.”

Daemon’s gaze narrows slightly, his grin returning in full force. “Careful, little flower. Say too many sweet things, and I might think you’ve fallen for me.”

You arch a brow, lifting your goblet to your lips as you take a slow, deliberate sip of wine. “Maybe I have,” you say lightly, setting the goblet down and looking at him from beneath your lashes. “But I suppose you’ll have to wait and see.”

His eyes darken with that familiar fire, and his grin becomes something more — a promise of trouble and devotion all at once. “I can be patient, wife,” he says, his voice low and rough like a storm brewing on the horizon. “But not for too long.”

The music shifts, another lively tune filling the hall, but the two of you remain still, locked in a silent understanding that words could never fully capture.

Tonight, fate has been kind indeed.

You laugh softly at Daemon’s story, his wit sharper than any blade. But your laughter fades as the sound of approaching footsteps echoes behind you. You glance over your shoulder and see Otto Hightower, your father’s kin and the Hand of the King. His face is as composed as ever, a mask of politeness with eyes that see far too much.

“Congratulations on your union,” Otto says smoothly, his voice calm yet purposeful. His gaze shifts between you and Daemon, lingering on your husband for a moment too long. “A fine match, one that will no doubt strengthen the ties between our houses.”

You nod politely, offering a small smile. “Thank you, Lord Hightower. Your words are most kind.”

But you can feel the shift in the air. Daemon stiffens beside you, his grip tightening ever so slightly on his goblet. His eyes narrow, fixed on Otto like a predator watching prey. The playful warmth he had while speaking with you is gone, replaced by a sharp, simmering edge.

“How gracious of you to offer your blessing, Otto,” Daemon drawls, his tone dripping with mockery. He tilts his head, his smile sharp like the edge of a dagger. “Though I wonder if it pains you to see me gain something you could not control.”

Otto’s jaw tightens, but his smile remains. “I only seek the prosperity of the realm, Prince Daemon. Your marriage serves that purpose well enough.” His gaze flickers to you for the briefest moment. “It is always wise to guide wild flames before they burn out of control.”

Daemon lets out a low, humorless laugh. “Careful, Otto. You speak as though you’ve forgotten who commands fire in this realm.” His voice drops lower, more dangerous. “And who is merely ash beneath it.”

The tension coils tight between them, sharp and ready to snap. You place a hand lightly on Daemon’s arm, feeling the taut muscle beneath his sleeve. He glances at you, his hard gaze softening just enough to acknowledge your presence.

“Perhaps tonight is not the time for old rivalries,” you say firmly, looking between them both. “It is a night of celebration, not division.”

Otto’s eyes meet yours, calculating and assessing. For a moment, he says nothing, then bows his head. “Of course, Lady Tyrell. Forgive me. I meant no offense.”

You can feel the tension between them, as sharp and volatile as wildfire. For a moment, it seems as though Otto might push back, but he only tilts his head in mock understanding. “She is no longer ‘Lady Tyrell’ to you.”

Otto’s brows lift just a fraction, his eyes flicking briefly to you before settling back on Daemon. “My apologies, Prince Daemon,” he says, his tone polite but firm. “Old habits, you understand.”

Daemon’s lips curve into a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Old habits can be broken,” he replies coldly, his eyes narrowing. He gestures toward you with a sweeping motion, his gaze never leaving Otto. “She is Princess now. Best you remember it, lest your tongue slip again.”

“Of course,” Otto says slowly, folding his hands behind his back. His eyes meet yours for a brief moment, calculating and watchful. “Princess,” he adds with an exaggerated formality, bowing just enough to follow decorum but not a step further.

Daemon’s eyes follow him like a hawk tracking prey. His jaw is set, his fingers tapping the rim of his goblet with restless precision. “That man poisons every room he enters,” he mutters, his eyes still locked on Otto.

You lean in just a little, tilting your head toward him. “Then let him choke on his own venom, husband,” you whisper, your voice laced with quiet defiance.

Daemon blinks, then slowly turns his gaze back to you. A grin spreads across his face, wild and dangerous, but there’s pride in it too. He raises his goblet toward you in a silent toast. “To clever wives,” he says, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

“And to husbands who know when to listen,” you reply, clinking your goblet lightly against his.

The fire in his eyes burns brighter. “You and I, little flower,” he says softly, his voice low like a secret shared in the dark, “will burn this world brighter than they can ever imagine.”

The joyful hum of music and clinking goblets fills the hall, but all you can hear is the rapid beat of your heart. The bedding ceremony. The very mention of it had lingered in your mind all night, and now, as the hour draws near, a subtle unease creeps in.

Your gaze flickers to Daemon, who is seated beside you. His posture is as relaxed as ever, leaning back in his chair like a king on his throne. His sharp eyes scan the room, half-lidded with boredom, but there’s a flicker of awareness in them. He knows. He always knows.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the edge of your goblet, your knuckles pale beneath the soft glow of the firelight. You feel your mother’s gaze on you, steady and supportive, but even she cannot help you now. Tradition is tradition, and the eyes of the realm are watching.

A loud voice echoes through the hall — one of the lords, his cheeks flushed from too much wine. “It is time for the bedding!” he shouts, his voice met with a chorus of drunken laughter and cheers. The call is picked up by others, nobles and knights alike, their voices chanting in unison.

“To the bedding! To the bedding!”

You glance at Daemon, unsure of what to expect. He turns to you, his gaze steady and unyielding. Slowly, he reaches for your hand, his touch firm and warm. His thumb brushes lightly against your knuckles, a silent reassurance.

“They will not touch you,” he says softly, his voice low enough that only you can hear. His eyes, sharp as dragonfire, meet yours with unwavering certainty. “Not if I am standing here.”

Your breath catches in your chest, surprise flickering in your eyes. It is a small promise, but it feels like the weight of the world has been lifted from your shoulders.

The chants continue, louder now, as the guests begin to rise from their seats, some already moving toward you. Daemon stands first, his presence commanding enough to make even the most brazen of lords hesitate. He extends a hand toward you, his expression one of quiet defiance.

“Shall we, wife?” he asks, his lips curving into a sly, knowing smile.

You take his hand, your heart still racing, but the panic that once clawed at you has dulled. You rise with him, head held high, and the crowd erupts into a sea of laughter, cheers, and jeering calls. Lords and ladies step forward, but before any of them can reach you, Daemon’s gaze turns to them — hard as dragonstone, sharp as steel.

“Touch her,” Daemon says coldly, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade. “And I’ll take your hand as payment.”

The hall stills. The drunken grins falter, the more sensible lords stepping back as if scalded. The boldest of them mutter curses under their breath but make no further move.

“That’s what I thought,” Daemon mutters, his grin returning, sharp and predatory. With his hand on the small of your back, he guides you toward the doors leading to your chambers. The crowd follows, but from a distance now, the earlier fervor tempered by Daemon’s words.

Your steps are slow but steady, each one more certain than the last. You are not alone. Your hand is held firmly in Daemon’s grasp, his presence at your side a shield stronger than any wall.

When you finally reach the heavy wooden doors of your chamber, the crowd begins to cheer again, but none dare approach. Daemon opens the door himself, holding it for you like a king for his queen.

“Inside, Princess,” he says, his voice softer now, meant only for you.

You step in, glancing over your shoulder at the crowd one last time. Their eyes are filled with expectation, mischief, and far too much wine. But none of them matter now. The door closes behind you with a resounding thud, silencing the world beyond.

The chamber is warm, lit by the soft glow of the hearth. The distant sounds of revelry echo faintly through the stone walls, but here, it is quiet. Your heart is still racing, but it is not from fear.

Daemon turns to face you, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. His smirk is gone, replaced by something far more honest. He steps toward you slowly, his movements deliberate, giving you time to step back if you choose. But you don’t.

“You handled that well,” he says, his gaze flickering with approval. “They expected you to shrink. But you didn’t.”

“Should I have?” you ask, your voice quiet but steady.

Daemon tilts his head, his eyes filled with something akin to admiration. “Never.”

Silence hangs between you, but it is not uncomfortable. Slowly, he reaches for you, his fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from your face, tucking it gently behind your ear. His touch is careful, deliberate — nothing like the wild prince the songs describe.

“If you wish to rest,” he says quietly, his eyes never leaving yours, “then rest. I’ll stay if you want me to, or I’ll leave if you don’t.”

For a moment, you are stunned. All the stories, all the rumors of Daemon Targaryen — bold, brash, uncontrollable — and here he is, offering you control in a world that rarely grants it.

“What do you want, Daemon?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper.

He smiles at that, a slow, wolfish grin. “I want what’s already mine,” he says, his eyes dark but steady. “But I am not so foolish as to take it by force. A king can command fear, but only a fool ignores respect.”

His words linger in the air, carrying more weight than any vow spoken at the sept. You search his face, looking for deception, but all you find is truth — a truth that you had not expected.

“You think me wise enough to be respected, then?” you ask, one brow raised.

“I think you’re wise enough to be feared,” he replies, stepping closer until there is only a breath between you. His eyes lower to your lips, but he doesn’t move, letting you decide. “And that, wife, is far more dangerous.”

The choice is yours now. In a world where choice is often stolen, he offers it freely. No songs will be sung of this moment. No maester will write it down. But this moment is yours.

The warmth of the firelight flickers softly against the stone walls of your chamber, casting long, shifting shadows. The air is thick with unspoken tension—not the kind born of fear, but of expectation. The weight of tradition presses down on you like an invisible cloak, suffocating in its silence.

Daemon stands before you, his violet eyes sharp but calm, as if this moment is nothing more than another game he’s mastered. His fingers reach for the intricate braids woven into your hair, undoing them with slow, deliberate care. He works in silence, never rushing, never fumbling. His fingertips brush against your scalp, and the warmth of his touch is startling in its tenderness.

You feel the weight of your hair slowly falling free, the braids unraveling strand by strand, until your hair spills over your shoulders like a golden cascade. Daemon steps back for a moment, his eyes meeting yours with quiet intensity. There is no mockery in his gaze. No jest or smirk. Only focus.

“Still with me, Princess?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nod, your throat too dry to answer aloud. His lips twitch into the faintest smile before he steps closer once more. His fingers move to the clasps at your shoulders, the ones holding the delicate fabric of your wedding gown in place. For a moment, he hesitates, his fingers brushing against the embroidered flowers that line the edge of the fabric.

“You are beautiful,” he says suddenly, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. There is something raw in his voice — not a compliment to charm you, but a statement of fact.

“Flattery, husband?” you reply softly, your eyes narrowing in playful suspicion.

He chuckles under his breath, his gaze never leaving yours. “No, just truth. I may lie to kings and councils, but not to you.”

His hands resume their task, and slowly, he unclasps the gown, letting it loosen around your shoulders. The fabric slips, slow as silk, pooling at your feet in a sea of red and white. You stand before him, vulnerable but unafraid.

But then — a sound.

A rustle. A shift of fabric behind the heavy curtain at the far end of the room. You freeze, your eyes darting toward it. The faintest outline of movement is visible through the dim light. Your heart tightens in your chest, heat rising to your face.

“They’re watching, aren’t they?” you murmur, your voice laced with unease.

Daemon doesn’t even glance at the curtain. His gaze remains fixed on you. “Yes,” he replies bluntly, his tone neither ashamed nor apologetic. “The king. The council. They’ll want to see it done properly.” His eyes flicker with a glint of something darker. “Fools with nothing better to do than spy on a husband and wife.”

You clench your jaw, your hands balling into fists at your sides. “It’s humiliating,” you mutter, your eyes narrowing at the veil of fabric separating you from them.

“It is tradition,” he replies, his tone sharp but not unkind. He steps closer, so close that you can feel the warmth radiating from him. His voice softens, the fire in him dimming to embers. “But they are only men, little flower. Let them watch.” He tilts your chin up with a single finger, his gaze hard but reassuring. “Let them see that you belong to no one but me.”

His words linger in the air like a spark set to kindling. The fire of it spreads, steady and slow, filling the hollow space that doubt had left behind. Daemon is not afraid. He stands as if he is untouchable, unbothered by their eyes, and for a moment, you think perhaps you can do the same.

“Do they always watch like this?” you ask, your voice quieter now, but steadier.

“Not always,” he replies with a small grin. “But sometimes. They call it ‘assurance of consummation.’ As if it matters to the realm what happens between husband and wife.” He leans in, his breath warm against your ear. “If it bothers you, I can send them away.”

You glance at him, your eyes searching his for any sign of deceit. But he looks at you like you are his equal, his partner in all things. Not a pawn to be used. Not a flower to be plucked.

“You would?” you ask, testing him.

He nods slowly. “One word from you, and they’ll leave. I promise you that.” His hand rests lightly on your waist, his touch grounding you, steady as stone. “But if you wish to see this through, I will make it quick.”

The choice is yours. His words echo in your mind, and you think of all the choices you’ve never been allowed to make before this. But this one is yours.

You take a slow, steady breath, glancing at the curtain once more. You see them there, shadows behind fabric. Fools. Spies. Men who think they have power. But none of them are in this room with you. None of them are Daemon.

You turn back to him, lifting your chin. “Let them watch,” you say, your voice sharp as a blade. Your heart still races, but there is a new resolve in it now. “If they want proof, they’ll have it.”

Daemon’s eyes widen just slightly, his grin returning in full force. He laughs softly, the sound like the low rumble of thunder. “That’s my wife,” he says, his voice filled with pride and something far more dangerous — affection.

“Then let’s give them something to remember.”

He reaches for the laces of his tunic, pulling them loose with practiced ease. His eyes remain on yours the entire time, a silent promise in his gaze. No mockery. No cruelty. Only certainty.

The fabric of his tunic falls away, revealing the pale expanse of his chest, littered with faint scars like constellations across his skin. His silver hair gleams faintly in the firelight, a halo of shadow and flame.

You take a step forward, your breath steady now. The weight of their eyes no longer feels so heavy. Let them watch, you think. Let them see that you are not afraid.

Daemon sees it too. He sees the shift in you. A dragon recognizing another dragon. His grin fades into something more solemn, more reverent. His hand cups the side of your face, his thumb brushing the curve of your cheek.

“You are more than they deserve to see,” he says quietly, his voice so soft that it feels like a secret. His eyes lower to your lips, then back up to your eyes. “But let them see you anyway.”

And so you do.

The air grows warmer as the fire crackles behind you. Daemon moves with purpose, each gesture slow but sure, as if you are something sacred. There is no rush, no frenzy. Only patience. Only reverence.

The sounds of the council behind the curtain fade from your mind. You barely hear them anymore. It is only you and him now.

Daemon’s hands move over you, each touch as careful as a man handling dragon eggs. The weight of tradition still hangs in the air, but it no longer feels suffocating. You have claimed it. Turned it into something of your own making.

Daemon led you towards the bed and laid you down there, you stared at his face as he started to climb on top of you. "Are you ready little flower?" you just nodded and that's when he started kissing you, his kiss was very gentle and also demanding.

Your hands moved to his neck, you played with his long hair and heard him moan softly in between your kisses. he then started kissing your neck. You heard the voice behind the curtain again, "don't mind them, just focus on me" the daemon whispered in your neck, you moan softly as a result.

Daemon's hands didn't stay still, he traced the curves of your body which made you close your eyes. when his fingers touched your core which was starting to get wet you moaned. He started by inserting one finger and looking at you, your body started to heat up. he then added another finger and his rhythm became faster, you moaned because of his treatment. "i have to prepare you first little flower"

After Daemon felt enough, Daemon started to take off his pants. He looked back at you and kissed your forehead, "This might hurt."

You looked at his face and smiled, "i'll hold it in" he smiled and started kissing you. you felt his cock start to enter your core slowly. You squeezed his hair as you felt him start to enter and fill you, you both moaned and after that daemon slammed his cock hard which made you scream in pain in the kiss.

You could feel your blood rushing out, he growled softly as he felt you squeeze him tightly. He wiped away the tears that were in the corner of your eyes, he didn't move yet to make sure you were enjoying and accepting his size.

"Are you comfortable?" he whispered and stroked your cheek gently, you nodded and that's when he started to move his hips slowly. The pain you felt begore slowly turned into a pleasure you had never felt before.

"like that, oh god. you're so tight" he growled and started to speed up the rhythm of his hips. you could only moan under him,

He doesn’t hold back, his hand found yours and he intertwined his fingers with yours. Something hot and heavy settles on the pit of your guts then rises from every thrust of Daemon’ hips, a spark flowing down from the top of your head to toes. Back arches up when the head of his member prods against your sensitive spot.

“You take me so well, sweetling.” You let go of his grip and pulled his face to kiss him again, your legs automatically wrapped around his waist making him go deeper inside you.

Daemons can go crazy because the way your walls are clenching tightly around his length. He then splays his palm on one of your boobs and squeezes the flesh there, keenly studying as the skin turns pink. he broke the kiss and pressed your foreheads together, your breaths mingled and he continued to growl.

"Daemon please g-go faster, please.." you mumbled. He smirked, before going fast and hard. You gasped at the sudden change of pace, holding down at the bed to get some sort of grounding. You threw your head back as he kept on pounding into her.

You shut your eyes as the knot inside your stomach grew tighter, signaling that you was about to come. he chuckled. "Is my little flower about to come?" He teased. you nodded. "P-please let me come..." you rasped. He groaned, he was near his orgasm too. "Shit love, I'm close too.." He said. He thrusted a few more times before finally coming inside you, filling you with his seed, he growled softly before kissing you and lying down next to you.

And when it is done — when the silence behind the curtain is replaced by the rustle of cloaks and the soft, satisfied murmurs of councilmen walking away — you do not feel shame. You do not feel small.

Daemon lies beside you, his eyes on the ceiling for a moment, his breathing steady. Then he turns his head to look at you, his silver hair tangled, his expression calm but sharp with awareness.

“You did well,” he says softly, his eyes watching you with quiet pride. “They’ll remember this night, but not for the reason they think.”

You glance at him, raising a brow. “And what reason will they remember it for?”

Daemon’s eyes narrow slightly, a glint of mischief in them as he tilts his head to look at you fully. “Because they’ll realize they made the mistake of thinking you could be broken.”

His words hit you harder than any vow spoken before the sept. You breathe in deeply, letting them settle in your chest like a flame that will never burn out.

“Let them remember,” you say, your voice stronger than it has ever been. “Let them remember I am not so easily broken.”

Daemon’s grin widens, his eyes glowing like embers in the dark. “No, you are not.”

The warmth of the fire has dimmed to a soft glow, shadows dancing gently across the chamber walls. The weight of exhaustion presses down on you, your limbs heavy and your breathing slow. Without thinking, you turn toward Daemon, seeking the warmth of another presence.

You rest your head against his chest, your arms wrapping around him. His skin is warm, the slow rise and fall of his breath lulling you into calm. For a moment, everything feels still. The noise of the world outside — the lords, the council, the weight of duty — fades into the background.

Daemon doesn’t move at first, his body tense like he isn’t used to this kind of closeness. But then, slowly, you feel his arms come around you, his hands settling on your back. One hand moves up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers threading gently through your hair.

His chin rests lightly atop your head, and you hear him sigh — a long, quiet breath as if releasing something he’d been holding for too long. His lips press softly against your forehead, warm and deliberate. No words are spoken, but the meaning is clear. You feel it in the tenderness of his touch, the weight of his hand holding you steady.

Your eyes grow heavier with each heartbeat, the steady thump of his heart beneath your ear a rhythm you cannot resist. Your breathing evens out, matching his, and before long, sleep pulls you under. Your last thought is that, for the first time in a long while, you feel safe.

Daemon tilts his head slightly, gazing down at you. His sharp eyes, so often filled with mischief or calculation, have softened into something quieter, something unguarded. He watches you in silence, as if memorizing every line of your face. His thumb traces a small circle against your back, a motion so subtle it might as well be instinct.

He watches you for a moment longer, eyes narrowing slightly as if puzzled by the depth of his own thoughts. Then, with a quiet huff of breath — not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh — he rests his head back on the pillow. His eyes remain on you until, slowly, his lashes lower, and sleep takes him too.

In the quiet of the chamber, there is no crown, no council, no eyes watching. Only two people, entwined in warmth and stillness, finding peace in the comfort of each other.

tag list : @danytar @hangmanscoming @yazzzmints @julessworldd

[the20thangel]

The Dragon and Raven Masterlist

Note: Hello, wonderful people. I created a master list of my series, The Dragon and Raven. Linking the ongoing chapters will make it much easier for you all to follow and keep track of the story. I hope you enjoy it!

Story Summary: After the Battle of BurningMill, Samwell and Davos Blackwood are gone, leaving Davos' twin Benjicot, the new lord of House Blackwood. Queen Rhaenyra and her council decided to show sympathy and gratitude to House Blackwood for their stance on the Black Faction of the War. Crown Princess Aemma, Rhaenyra's oldest daughter and supposedly Ser Leanor's only child, volunteers to fly to Raventree Hall to show the Crown's Respect and Support to House Blackwood and their newly appointed Lord.

Tags: Fluff, Smut, and angst.

Chapter One: Aemma Velayron

Chapter Two: Benjicot Blackwood

Chapter 3: Raventree Hall to Harenhall

Chapter 4: The Duel

Chapter 5: The Dragon Princess and her Raven Lord

Chapter 6: The Wedding

Chapter 7: The Battle of Rook's Rest

Chapter 8: The Cursed Gift

Chapter 9: Seasmoke

Chapter 10: Dragon seeds

Chapter 11: The Dragon Prince

Chapter12: Funeral Pyre and New Beginnings

Chapter 13: The Dragon Princess

Chapter 14: Warging Lessons

Chapter 15: Luring the Beast

Chapter 16: The Vale (Current Chapter) (Newest Update)

One Shot: The Pearl of The Realm

[princesssmars]

thinking about princess reader and royal knight rhaenyra…

as the young princess of dorne, tourneys were nothing new to you. you’d never really cared for them, finding the blood and violence unnecessary and borderline barbaric. when you could you would beg your mother to come up with an excuse to your father to let you stay at the palace, citing sickness, weariness, anything.

but this time you had no choice. because as your family entered into the royal watching booth, politely greeting the members of your father court, your father stops before extending his hand to your guest - king viserys of westeros himself.

you’d heard many things about him, partially from overhearing your mothers gossip and from the workers talking a little too loudly when you’d sneak in the kitchens. you obviously knew he was a targaryen, his long silver gold hair and peculiar eyes telling anyone with a short distance of his heritage.

but more importantly you’d heard that he was a mostly kind and generous king, with a large portion of his people happy under his reign. there was no better option for your father to invite to his event.

you gracefully presented yourself to him, smiling when he kissed the back of your hand and gave you a polite compliment. he introduced his wife, the beautiful queen aemma, and his vibrant young son baelon who excitedly shook his hand at you and everyone else in the booth.

after the introductions everyone say down to let the people know the tourney could commence, cheers ringing as you settled into place in front of your father and next to rosalei, one of the fellow younger ladies in court who was your closest friend ever since she snuck some sugared treats to your room when the head cook had banned you from them for a week.

the even was like any other : knights got in their horses, they picked up giant sticks, then ran at each other on said horses with said sticks and tried to knock the other man down. yet again the event did nothing to entertain you, focusing on the small conversation you were keeping up with rosalei while paying attention to the ones around you. for now, your father and his guest had discovered their shared love for the histories and had veered to the animosity but occasional generosity between their people.

your father is close to getting on to the topic of a equally beneficial trade deal when whispers from the small folk take over the crowd, some standing up and pointing at a contender who had entered the fighting area. you bend over the edge of the booth to catch a look, ignoring your mother chastising your posture and manners.

it’s a knight everyone’s looking at, that’s true, but a knight unlike you’ve ever seen before. their armor is black and scarily imposing, a beautiful construction of steel with strong pleats and swoops. their horse is somehow darker than the armor, black as knight with a bright sun medallion around its neck. its only then you notice the flag in their hand, along with the dragon emblems on their armor.

"you have a competing knight, your grace?" you ask, turning your head around when you are only met with silence. the visiting kings face is red, smile so forced it looks like he’s going to quickly gain a cramp in his jaw. the queen is resting a hand on his shoulder, subtly trying to comfort him while they exchange hushed whispers.

“said…show strength…not what i meant-“

the queen tries to comfort him more before they look in your direction, along with every one else in your booth. your body goes rigid for a second before you realize they’re looking behind you, turning your body to see what was so intriguing.

the targaryen knight, poised right beneath the opening of the booth, helmeted head and joust sword tipped towards you. and even without being able to see their face you know their eyes are trained on you.

you can also tell that everyone is waiting for you to do something. so with all the farce you can muster you gently pick up your favor, raising it high enough for the people to see, and let it slide down onto the joust.

no further words are shared, the warrior staying in place for a few more seconds before goading their horse back into position. as you watch you plop back into your seat, breathing slightly stuttering at the encounter while your friend pokes and prods for an explanation for whatever that was.

even if you had the time you wouldn’t be able to say much, feeling like a warm thick jelly has suddenly made its home inside your throat. put of the corner of your you can see one of the kings guards looking at you, but before you can turn to look back at him the sudden roars of the crowd snap your attention to the game.

almost like a bolt of lighting does the warrior speed down the jousting lane, sword aimed steady at the burly man who had bested most of the other men in the contest. just when his sword is aimed inches away from the knight, then bend their body dangerously close to falling off of their horse before thrusting at just the right moment to knock the man down, the sound of galloping hooves and crunching metal all you can hear.

the cheers from the commoners is near deafening, but all you can focus on is the knight, who instead of basking in the success and praise is yet again looking in your direction. but looking back at the aghast king viserys, you can’t exactly tell who they are trying to impress.

after congratulating and thanking the people for coming and competing, and giving a personal thanks to the king for making his way down to your kingdom, your father dismisses everyone to enjoy the other tourney activities while the royal families go to prepare for later celebrations. after giving the royal family of westeros a quick goodbye, you grab rosealai’s hand and hurry out of the booth to grab a quick bite from one of the fair booths and to try to talk all you can about what just happened.

but right before you ca leave the booth you’re stopped in your tracks, no one other than the black knight standing in front of you. you blink up at them, waiting for them to speak before their hands raise to take off their helmet to reveal themselves . it’s almost in slow motion that you take in every part of their face - a soft angled jaw, pink lips, a broad nose, short silver hair -

“rhaenyra! finally, please show a bit of grace to our hosts and introduce yourself.” king viserys comes up beside you, gently scooting beside you to wrap an arm around the armored shoulders of the knight. “the last impression i’ll have my daughter making is that she’s yet another rude and british knight.”

neither of you move however, gazes locked and bodies still. only about a thousand thoughts are running through your head at the current moment.

the knight is a woman. the knight is an attractive woman. the knight is princess rhaenyra. princess rhaenyra who came up to your booth and quietly asked for your favor.

without a word spoken or breaking ye contact, the heavy hand of the princess grabs yours, physically strong but gently soft, bringing it up slowly before pressing a kiss to the back of your hand.

you’ve always been able to keep your composure in the face of extreme emotions, a necessary trait as a royal who had to make quick and harsh decisions. sadly that all seems to be going out the window as you feel your cheeks warm and your breathing get faster.

“it is an honor to meet you, princess. and even greater an honor to win a competition with your favor. i hope similar opportunities make themselves available in the future.”

her voice is melodic yet curt, no room for doubt or wrongful interpretation. you break her gaze to look down at her lips, looking back up to see her doing the same before a sly smile appears on her face.

clearly the moment goes on a little too long for comfort, the king further ushering his daughter to greet your father and mother after giving the two of you a worried look. when her body passes yours you can feel her hand discreetly brush against your side, shivering slightly at the cold of the steel even through the fabrics of your dress.

your father quickly motions for one of his guard to guide you back to the castle before turning to your guests with a welcoming but greedy smile. you can feel rosalei’s barey contained excitement as you rush out of the entryway, not before looking back one last time and seeing purple eyes already trained on your body.

maybe tourneys weren’t so boring after all.

can you tell i don’t really know shit about tourneys. sorry if some things are inaccurate i’m getting everything through hotd, asoiaf wiki, and tiktok’s 💔

[miiroki]

𝘿𝙖𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙣 𝙏𝙖𝙧𝙜𝙖𝙧𝙮𝙚𝙣 & 𝙣𝙞𝙚𝙘𝙚! 𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧/𝙤𝙘

𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘶𝘭𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘯𝘪𝘦𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢 𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦, 𝘢 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘦𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥'𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘴𝘩 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘩𝘦, 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯?

Warning: targcest, (niece and uncle) 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

one: ✶ two: ✶

It was in the wee mornings on a warm day that Prince Daemon Targaryen, Prince of the City, had been forced to partake in breaking fast with his family.

Consisting of his father Prince Baelon the Brave, his mother Alyssa Targaryen, his elder brother Prince Viserys, and his lady-wife, Aemma Arryn.

For a young prince of merely 16 name days old, Daemons world was small, and only consisted of his family, sword fighting, and Caraxes. His thoughts of marriage and husbandly duties were of no importance to him, and held no precedence in his mind.

Daemon walked the bustling halls of the Red Keep, his head held high as the servants, guards, and common men alike showed respect by bowing slightly to the young boy.

Reaching the dining room, he was welcomed with the smell of warm food, his mother calling out to him and patting the seat next to her.

Daemon quickly situated himself, readying his stomach for the food and quickly pounced on the meat pies across the table, slightly splashing Viserys’ beige tunic.

—

The day seemed to drag on for far to long. It was late into the afternoon that Daemon was made aware that he was now an uncle to two Targaryen babes.

The news had him running to the birthing chambers, where his brother and his wife sat, cooing at the whining twin girls.

Feeling awkward, Daemon stood rigid near the entrance of the large room.

“Brother, come. Would you like to see them” Viserys had hollered. If Daemon didn’t know any better he would have guessed that Viserys himself birthed the babes, he looked even more elated than Aemma did, which was hard to achieve.

Daemon shuffled quietly near the couple, and peered down at the babes. He couldn’t help but poke the cheek of the one in Viserys’ arms.

“Be gentle Daemon” Viserys somewhat scolded him.

Before Daemon could retreat his finger, the babe had grasped it with both her tiny hands, babbling quietly.

When Daemon broke free from her grasp, she started to wail, and wail she did. So he quickly extended his finger to satiate the crying newborn.

Viserys and Aemma let out a shared chuckle, before offering the babe for Daemon to hold.

“What if I drop it” He whispered.

“It is not an ‘it’ brother, her name will be Rhaella” Viserys stated while softly stroking the girls head, “and the youngest will be Rhaenyra”

Daemon reluctantly held the babe awkwardly in his arms, adjusting to fit to the curve of the squirming girl.

Once settled Rhaella quickly found comfort in her uncles arms, and fell asleep, chest slowly falling up and down. Daemon kept his eyes on her, and his gaze never faltered. He wasn’t much for babies and children, but he knew he’d adore his new niece.

Aemma giggled from her position of the bed, “Rhaella seems to be quite fond of her uncle already” she rocked the sleeping Rhaenyra calmly. “Let’s hope young Rhaenyra will feel the same way”

—

“Rhaella, come out!” A man’s voice had echoed in the gardens of the Red Keep, situated behind the throne room.

Daemon was now 1 and 20, while his darling niece was only a mere 5 name days old. She was currently playing with him by hiding in the palace bushes, that littered the gardens of the Red Keep.

“I’m coming to get you…” Daemon said tauntingly, knowing that Rhaella can hear him well thanks to her frenzied giggles, that bounced off the stone walls.

Daemon slowly stalked deeper into the garden, while his eyes followed a girl shaped shadow that darted from bush to bush.

He sighed and stopped in the middle of the grassy area, hands on his hips. “Where is that little girl? When I find her I'm going to gobble her up” he dramatically stated to himself, making sure he’s heard.

Rhaella had wanted to move to the bush to his far right but before she could leave her spot she was caught and lifted into the air.

“I got you now!” Daemon declared, lifting her by her arms and bringing her closer to his chest while he pretend to eat her dramatically like a dragon.

Rhaella’s giggles and laughter could be heard all throughout the halls of the Keep, as she flailed her arms and legs out, trying to escape the dragons grasp. “Not fair uncle” she whined, when Daemon finally settled her on his arms.

He grinned and laughed slightly, brushing parts of Rhaella’s hair away from her face. “Don’t you think your uncle is mighty and clever enough to find you wherever you are?”

Rhaella huffed and flopped into Daemons chest admitting defeat.

Daemon laughed louder as he held onto her tightly, bundling her up in his arms even as she giggled and squirmed.

[ashblooddragons]

The Red Queen Chapters

(summarry: the second daughter of king Viserys caught the hearts of many, but none more than her dear uncle. and daemon will do everything in his power to make sure no one takes his sweet niece.)

this is my first fic and I have dylexia so do be kind and give constructive criticism! thank you!

The Red Queen Kids

The Red Quenn Kids (cause I could fit them all in the first one)

The Red Queen Kids (Laenas daughters and Jaehaerys, Jaehaera, and Maelor)

Dragons

Dragons 2 (for the rest of Daemona and Readers kids)

Dragons 3 (for Laena, Jaehaerys, Jaehaera, and Maelor)

Dragons 4 (Laenas daughters)

prolouge Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13

Moonboards Daemons and Readers Moonboard the kids moonboards

@baybaybear1 @ilikefelines @sugutoad @fallenxjas @themoonlitquill @thelastemzy @athzhowakar @sachaa-ff @mmogurl @classicsimpforaaronwarner

Special thanks to my amazing friend @sugutoad for making the header! I hope you all love it as much as I do!

[lya-dustin]

The Bedding

Cw: awkward sex, uncle/niece incest, superstitions regarding sex, lack of privacy slightly smutty

Westrosi bedding ceremony meets irl medieval ceremony

Aemond x Laenor’s Daughter!reader

@the-common-cowgirl

It had seemed like a perfectly good idea then.

With Rhaenyra’s eldest and only trueborn daughter as his betrothed and he now king after the disastrous battle of Rook’s Rest, it would remind everyone your remaining brothers were not true Velaryons and erase any doubt that whatever child he sires on you are legitimate.

The unlikely king had not accounted for the other traditions that went beyond undressing the bride and groom and having the High Septon bless the bridal bed.

He assumed the worst would be you flinching when he touches you while being forced into marrying him after he killed your brother and yet that pales to this.

“You must not ejaculate until you have reached a hundred thrusts, her grace must reach her climax within that time and your grace must make sure to remain standing during intercourse or else the babe will be female.” The maester who specializes in fertility orders him after having him inspect his manhood for any abnormalities.

It is a small comfort to know a midwife and his mother are merely giving you advice on the matter.

“I don’t think that is a proven thing, maester.” Cole looks almost as puzzled as Aemond at the strange orders he is being given.

“And how would you know, Lord Commander, did you receive a better education on the Dornish Marches?” the maester, a reach lord with a visceral disgust at anything Dornish throws back thinking the Lord Hand and Lord Commander of the Kingsguard would cower before him.

Most in court cannot accept the son of a Dornish Steward and a servant girl could take the place of Ser Otto Hightower, and yet Aemond refused to give him back his pin and office.

“Because unlike you, he has bedded women.” Aemond retorted in annoyance. “Let’s get this over with.”

He can hardly compliment you or even remove your shift to give you a proper wedding night with his mother, his grandsire, Criston and the Maesters hovering just over his shoulder.

His mother is brought some tea and sits behind a screen with the witnesses. Well, all except for the Maester who is kept from interfering by Criston.

Criston who had tried to impart his wisdom in the carnal arts by bringing in a whore yesterday evening and having her educate Aemond.

It wasn’t the same thing as this and no matter how much Aemond tries to make this pleasurable for you, you look uncomfortable, as if this was an unwanted chore.

“You may touch me, if you like.” You say and turn to look elsewhere and ignore his grandsire and his mother talking about the weather behind the screen.

He has done this before, touched you without spoiling your virtue and but then you showed some animation. The memory of how you used to sigh with pleasure as he lets a hand roam under your shift is a stark contrast to how you just lie there looking bored.

But the way your warm skin react to his touch, as awkward this all is, manages to betray you.

He’s lost count of his thrusting as you bite your lip when he begins to toy with your button like he’d done that last time before it all went to the seventh hell.

You try, and yet the tell tale signs of your enjoyment begin to peak out from your cool façade.

“Increase pressure in your thrusts after 70.” The Maester says and Aemond almost ignores it as he focused on making you come undone.

You shut your eyes and a low moan escapes you when he goes deeper into you and repeating the action until your fist bunched up the linen sheets you lay on.

His own pleasure builds up knowing he’s gotten you to forget your newfound loathing for him even for this moment.

He wants to lay in the bed with you, to take off your clothes and kick off his trousers and tell everyone else to fuck off and leave the room. Just the idea of fucking you in peace has him going mad.

“Gods, Aemond.” You almost cry as your body surrenders itself to the pleasure and he grows bold enough to ignore the audience behind him.

It doesn’t take long for him to climax even as the maester tries to stop him from coming before the final ten thrusts.

“My only consolation is that you too didn’t follow their advice.” You say as he rolls off you to lie beside you in bed.

“What was yours?” he asks reaching out to hold your hand, this time you don’t flinch.

“To lie back and think of Westeros.”

[gulnarsultan]

Yandere mother-in-law Aemma Arryn /Targaryen and daughter-in-law reader and yandere husband Rhaegel Targaryen.

~ Rhaegel Targaryen, the first and only son of King Viserys and Queen Aemma. He is the Crown Prince and heir to the throne. Prince Rhaegel has managed to win the love and approval of the people of Westeros. After King Viserys, everyone wants to see Prince Rhaegel on the throne. Prince Rhaegel has silvery hair, pale skin and Targaryen color eyes. Prince Rhaegel is the rider of the dragon Ancalagon the Black. Prince Rhaegel speaks perfectly high valyrian. He is also very skilled in warfare and diplomacy. Everyone says he will be the second Aegon the Conqueror.

~ You are a Lady from the noble house. In fact, your social status and financial situation do not matter at all. You are being sent to the Palace to be the queen's bridesmaid. When the queen sees you, her maternal instincts kick in. Maybe Rhaenyra doesn't exist. Or Rhaenyra doesn't spend much time with him. Moreover, you are more calm, gentle and dignified.

~ The prince sees you for the first time when you come to his mother's room. Love at first sight and inclinations begin. He talks about this issue with his mother without wasting any time. The Queen supports and will encourage her son.

~ Most of your time is spent with the Queen or Prince. Queen Aemma insists on combing and styling your hair. Activities such as chatting together and walking in the garden become an integral part of your life. The prince is always trying to impress you. You spend time together in the library or traveling with his dragon. The prince's dragon loves you and is like a guard dog against you.

~ The King and Princess are noticing their tendencies. The king will support his wife and son. Maybe the Princess sees you as a sister and supports them. Or she may not support you because she's jealous.

~ You will no longer spend much time with your family. It will be difficult for your letters to reach you or for the letters to reach you. They really don't want to share you with your family. Especially Aemma can't bear to spend time with your real mother.

~ Aemma will be matchmaker between the two of you. She gives her son tips to help her win your heart. Aemma is planting seeds that will enter your mind and heart and cause love for her son.

~ They will soon arrange marriage between you and the Prince using positions. I would like to remind you that your wedding will be flashy and expensive. There will be no bedtime ceremony. Rhaenyra is warned never to do anything wrong against you. On the face of the Queen and her brother, Rhaenyra has to treat you with respect and kindness. Rhaenyra shudders with fear, especially as she remembers her brother's threats.

~ You are not allowed to leave the Palace after marriage. There will always be guards with you. Queen Aemma will be your only companion to accompany you. No one can disrespect or harm you.

~ They will ask you for a baby after the marriage is completed. They are very happy when they find out that you are pregnant. Aemma is always by your side during pregnancy and childbirth. Aemma always supports and helps you with her grandchildren. Your children will be loved, protected and pampered by them.

~ You will have the most beautiful dresses and jewellery. You will have everything you want. They will never stop giving you gifts. Rhaegel's controlling behavior on you increases after you become king. You have to play the role of obedient wife and obedient daughter for the sake of all.

[green-watcher]

Rhaenyra and Alicent preparing for Alicent's wedding, complete with a moment in which Rhaenyra helps Alicent dress.

[just-some-random-blogger]

Truly, Madly, Deeply

Daemon Targaryen, Viserys Targaryen, Otto Hightower x Targ!Reader + with a hint of Aemma x Reader

Summary: This follows the five (and a half) accounts you, the princess, get ravished by your immensely loyal subjects.

Word Count: 20k+

Warnings: fem!reader, twin!reader, targcest (brother fucker), aged up!everyone, pwp that spiraled out of control, so much smut (masturbation [fic literally opens w it], voyeurism, threesome [f/f/m, f/m/m], vaginal penetration, dom/sub dynamic, anal penetration, double penetration, oral (f receiving), marking, cock warming, breeding kink, degradation kink, praise kink, public sex, hair pulling, edging, biting, spanking, choking/breath play, cream pie, overstimulation), internet translated high valyrian, slow burn, fuck boy!Viserys, stupid puppy!Daemon, church boy!Otto, baby girl!Aemma, city girl!reader, angst, fluff, jealousy, possessiveness, typos, etc.

A/N: you guys imma be so for real this shit is nasty like NASTY 🥲 DD/DNE MINORS DNI btw i did the math for their ages during this time and 💀💀💀💀 i aged them up cos viserys is canonically 16 when he and aemma were wed which means daemon is 14. We're all going to agree everyone is in at least their 20s cos aint NO fucking way im writing about children fucking. Also the fact i almost made her fuck otto twice but i got too tired to write it HAHAAH. title is a 1d song btw, or a savage garden one, depends on who you are Tagging: @pinksirensong @aralezinspace @deniixlovezelda @targaryenmoony @risefallrise @slavyanskiyahui @sloanexx @esquivelbianca

"Though Prince Baelon and Princess Alyssa had one set of twins and, sequentially, a son, it was not uncommon for many to think or mistake their children as triplets, moreover when they reached a certain point of maturity. It was almost ascertain that where one of the three was found, the two would not be far off, especially during the fires of their youth. Though eventually, both Viserys and Daemon would outgrow their sister in height and weight, neither would outgrow her wit and command over them, leaving her apparent as the head, and the two as her shoulders." --Excerpt from 'The Songs in the Dance of Dragons' by Grand Maester Hamish, circa 500 A.C.

Daemon laid on his back. There was a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead and chest. He had gone to bed in the clothes he was dressed in the night before, though it was drenched in all sorts of fluids. He could not be bothered to change then, he could not be bothered to change now, not even as the hour passes swiftly.

His sister would soon return from Citadel for their brother's wedding.

And he loathed it.

He loathed to know his sister, that you would shine your face upon him, only because Viserys asked you to come.

Viserys asked.

Viserys asked you to come.

Daemon's breath strains in his neck.

"Come, sister... come on my cock."

Daemon grits his teeth at the words, willing that sour memory away, cursing his brother's existence.

It was not helping him get what he needed from his hand right now.

Damn you. Damn you and the fact he had woken with an uncomfortable hard on, for he had dreamt of you.

He dreamt of your cheeks, of your shoulders, of your waist. He dreamt of how you embraced him tenderly against your breasts, and how snuggly he fit against you, for he was still at an age where you were taller than him. He belonged against your ribs then.

He pants as he strokes himself rapidly up and down.

He belongs against your ribs now still.

He tricks his senses with the memory of you. He recalls the way you smelled, the way you caressed his cheek, and the way you furiously defended him against Viserys' coarseness.

Daemon remembers a moment wherein he wept against you, there against your ribs. His tears that day were sweet, for he had you on his side.

He imagined that moment as he touched himself. He willed the memory of your scent and your voice into existence as he tightly pleasured his pulsing manhood. He recalled the softness of your palm as you brushed his chin affectionately. He pretended his working hand was yours.

Daemon's heart pounded as he chased after the feeling growing in his loins. He further quickens his actions.

The next part of the memory plays in his head against his will. Viserys barks at him and you, pointing out that he too was injured by their argument-turned-brawl.

Daemon heaves heavily.

Fucking Viserys.

He screws his eyes shut as he curls on the cushion, shifting on his spot as his arm began to tire.

He tries to freeze the memory in his mind, wanting to think only of your feel, your fragrance, but his mind is not on his side. He watches with his subconscious how you break away from him to go to Viserys, to go to your twin, your wretched half, to him he could never compete with. Yes, he too was injured, though, in Daemon's opinion, he was undeserving of your attention, for Viserys had inflicted a much larger wound on him.

Daemon's nostrils flare as his eyes rip open.

Where the pattern of the ceiling should be, he sees how you kissed Viserys to calm him down.

He heaves heavily, body straining even more as he fucks himself with hand, a growing bitterness in his mouth. It was not the morning breath that tasted so.

And again, he remembers it; the sour memory.

"Viserys," you moaned.

Daemon shakes his head furiously.

"Come, sister," Viserys panted as he thrust roughly into you, "come on my cock," he sighs, "be a good girl and come for your beloved twin, my pretty."

Daemon feels tears build in the corner of his eyes as he seals his lids tightly together. He relives the sounds his older siblings made that horrid afternoon.

He chokes on his spit as he thinks of your oh-face through the small crack in the door you idiots carelessly left open. He remembers how Viserys stuffed himself into you while on your knees on the guestroom bed, how he yanked your silver locks back and slapped his hand on your mouth to shut you up.

It didn't work; Daemon could still hear your lewd sounds slip through his fingers. He heard them clearly, even now.

Daemon comes to the thought of Viserys spilling into you. He comes to the remembrance of how his brother pummeled forward into you and how his sister plummeted down because of him. Daemon thinks about the strain on Viserys' neck as he spasmed into you and how your spine arched as you screamed into the cushions.

Daemon feels his heat shoot out and sputter hotly into his hand. He catches his breath and feels his heart race. His length softens.

He catches his breath as he cranes his neck and checks the mess he's made. He clenches his jaw, irritated by how much of himself he spilled on to his breeches at the thought of his older siblings coupling.

He grunts and angrily sits up. He growls as he stands and rips his clothing off, throwing them onto the floor. His long, light hair bounces by the ends of his shoulder blades as he heads for his bath.

It had been a few years when he caught you and Viserys, and yet the memory was still vivid. It was forever seared into his mind. He was boiling with an unnamable emotion. He was unsure if it was rage, hurt, or envy, but it was burning true.

That day, Daemon he had been looking for you, wanting to gift you a necklace as a remembrance of him for your departure to Essos. It would be one of the many solo travels you'd have since then. And it would be the first time the three of you would be apart, the first time you would be away from Daemon. He wanted so badly to see you that day, and instead he saw treachery in its truest form.

That same day, later that afternoon, as Daemon recounted against himself the unspeakable acts he bore witness to while staring blankly into space in the gardens, the twins came looking for him.

He was repulsed by how you two acted so nonchalant, like everything was normal, like you two hadn't just been fucking in secret, like you had not just been sharing each other's spit and slick. He then hit him like a boulder, that this nonchalance was present because you two had most definitely been going at it long before today.

He is immediately hostile when you reach out for him. Daemon slaps your hand off and threatens. Viserys immediately steps forward as you reel back, and puts Daemon in his place.

Daemon remembers all of this as he washed himself in with a sweet smelling water in his tub.

The smell was reminiscent of you.

He hates it.

He hates that Viserys soiled you. He hates that had taken your maidenhead. He hates that he no inclination to tell their parents that he intended to marry you. He hates that because he wouldn't have done the same. He hates that you seemingly enjoyed being taken advantage of, by your twin, no less. He hates that you touched him with the same hands you used to touch Viserys.

Yet, he hates that he had shoved you away in his disgust. He hates that you had fallen into Viserys' arms because of it. He hates how he had gotten berated by his older brother for hurting you. He hates that he had stormed off after. He hates that he had never given you the necklace. He hates that you had still left on dragon back that day although he was upset with you. He hates that you had incessantly sent him letters, although he never responded.

He hates that you arrive with late today. He hates that he's been so agitated because of how late you were. He hates that Viserys sees through him. He hates that his older brother tries to calm him down. He hates that his words help.

He hates that he comes alive when you emerge. He hates that you cut through the festivities. He hates that your holy halo steals everyone's attention.

He hates that you immediately greet Viserys. He hates that your beloved half drops what he is doing for you. He hates that you embrace Aemma as well. He hates that you so eagerly dote on her.

He hates that you reach your arms out to him, like everything was fine between the two of you. He hates that you pull him for a kiss. He hates that he goes weak. He hates that he nuzzles his face into your neck. He hates that he feels himself twitch in his trousers at the scent of your perfume.

He hates that he missed you. He hates you so much.

Daemon braces you against his chest. He feels you rub your cheek against him. He releases a sigh. You belonged there, against his ribs.

Your long silver hair was wound in curls and braids pinned with shining metals and jewels. The back cut of your red dress went past your shoulder blades, the front was deliciously right above your cleavage. His hand rubbed the curve of your waist, familiar yet so foreign against him. By your nape dangled baby hairs that tickled your skin. He finds jealousy of it. He tickles his nose and lips against your milky neck, making you curl at the feel and giggle in response.

He missed you... so much.

You pull back. Daemon doesn't want you to, but he is powerless against your wishes. You slip from his fingers and he finds it mildly bearable only because you smile at him. You kiss him on the cheek again and tuck his hair behind his ear.

"Skorkydoso ēza ñuha valonqar issare?" you coo as you caress his cheek, "ēza Visērȳs issare sȳz naejot ao?" How has my baby brother been? Has Viserys been good to you?

Daemon licks his lips as he watches yours curve into a bigger smile. His violet eyes meet your own as you rub his chin with your thumb. He is a child in your clutch all over again.

"Oh, damn him," Viserys calls from his seat. You and Daemon were standing across him.

With an eye roll, Viserys grabs his chalice of wine and mutters, "he's no better than when he was four, sissy."

Aemma beside him chuckles but says the name of her betrothed in a scolding manner.

Daemon watches as you turn to your twin, "do not insult my darling, you imbecile."

Your twin turns to you, "pah! I will say what I want about the fucker. It is my day, you brat!" He points a finger, "kessa daor sagon pryjata ondoso ñuha idaña." It will not be ruined by my twin.

Daemon turns to Viserys as you scoff.

"And pray tell, what will you do about your bratty twin, Viserys?" you raise a brow in challenge.

Viserys smirks and leans back on his seat, "I'll have her over knee and discipline her like when we were younger."

Daemon clenches his jaw so tightly his teeth could break.

Aemma laughs and slaps his shoulder, "hush, love. You will do no such thing. Much less on our wedding day."

Daemon thought Aemma looked none the wiser as she said that. He looks at Viserys, catching a darkness behind his eyes, then back to you, finding the same shadow. You roll your eyes at him. It takes everything in Daemon not to burst at the seams. If only Aemma knew. Gods be good, his tongue itched to finally be granted retaliation.

But he couldn't do that. He couldn't do that to his dear cousin, Aemma, at her wedding. Seven hells, he couldn't even do that to Viserys, though he loathed him so. But most of all, he couldn't do that to you.

So he kept his mouth shut.

You release a sigh and click your tongue at Viserys.

"Ahh, my love," you turn to Aemma, "how joyous yet tragic that you will deal with him for the rest of your life."

Aemma holds back her giggles, "well, it's not like you will be able to rid of him entirely either, my princess."

You grin form ear to ear as your eyes dart back to Viserys, "an unfortunate truth."

Your twin takes his turn to roll his eyes.

Suddenly, you grab Daemon's hand and reach out the other to Viserys, "might my brothers indulge their favorite sister to a dance?"

Daemon's ears perk. He quickly pulls you into him, but you repel him slightly, wanting the eldest to join in. He eyes Viserys, mentally telling him to decline the offer.

Viserys raises his brows, "you're our only sister."

"Precisely," you purse your lips.

"And you're quite irritating," he adds, earning another scold from Aemma.

Aemma leans into him, "come now, my love. Your sister has traveled far to attend to our day. The least you can do is share a dance with her."

Viserys turns to Aemma, face softening at her lilac doe eyes. He sighs then stands, turning to you and Daemon, "fine. But I shall make it a point to step on your toes."

You cock your head to the side, "funny. You're acting as though you are capable of anything but."

Daemon sizes up to Viserys as he approaches and takes your hand. The eldest catches his expression and scoffs, "oh, bugger, I will not steal your sister from you, Daemon. She's all yours."

Daemon seethes, and yet before he can bark anything back, you yank both of them to the dance floor and eye both of them hotly, "I will not have my brothers quarrel on such a lovely morn."

"When have we never not quarreled for your attention, sister," Daemon finds himself retorting with little thought, with little emotion.

"Oh, Daemon," you mutter, leaning into him, "emā dōrī ēdas naejot vīlībagon Visērȳs syt bona." You have never had to fight Viserys for that.

Viserys scoffs out a chuckle, "aye. She would rather feed me to her mount before she ever ignores you."

Daemon begins to bristle at the thought, at the lies his older siblings were shoving down his throat.

The three of you dance to the upbeat music. The two men alternate between steps to fill in as your partner.

As quickly as he was made furious by the words he was just told, he was struck with awe at your form. You danced between them, expertly spinning towards Daemon and Viserys at every other down beat. It was a sight to behold. It was so mesmerizing everyone began to watch.

He had forgotten how good you were at this. How easy it came to you to entertain them because you had always made it a point to dance with both brothers at every occasion. He had forgotten how happy it was to dance with you and Viserys.

Daemon missed you so damn much.

Viserys catches you as you twirl toward him. He places his hands on your waist and glides with you for a whole 8 counts. Afterwards, you continue the steps and move towards Daemon. You and him circle around each other, smiling fondly as you did.

Aemma, from her seat, feels her heart soar at the sight of the siblings making merry in the middle of the room. She was overjoyed that you had caused this shift, that you had made the occasion, and the princes, as sparkle in a way only you could.

Her breath hitches when you catch her gaze as you danced with the two men, both unwilling to avert their eyes from you. They very evidently missed you greatly. She was glad her wedding was a good enough cause for your return. Aemma shifts in her seat when she sees you bite your lips. She missed her beloved cousin as well.

"It was known that Queen Aemma and her good sister were incredibly fond of each other. Their sisterly bond would never be bruised or broken by any issue. Most notably, the princess attended to Queen Aemma whenever she was with child. She would treat the queen's only heir, Rhaenyra, as though she was her own, would mourn the passing of each of the queen's stillborn children, and would be greatly changed after Queen Aemma's sequential death from labors. Her death was a source of strife between the princess and her twin brother, King Viserys." --Excerpt from 'The Blood of the Dragons' by unnamed maester, circa 350 A.C.

Aemma moaned as you kissed her and reached your fingers into her soaking thighs. She grabbed at your hair and you instantly pulled back, swatting her hand away, giving her a stern look, "you'll ruin my braids, lovie."

She sighs as you crawl down body, peppering kisses all over her skin as you did. The fabric of your dress rubbed against her naked form and the bed dipped where you propped your hands and knees as you continued your descent.

Aemma could not help herself and reached out to you again as you sucked on her skin. She rubbed the sleeves of your dress and felt goosebumps form on her chest where your cold necklace dragged down her hot skin.

When her hands involuntarily clawed into your scalp, you pull away, shifting on your knees. You hiss and grab her wrists, giving her a stern look, "filthy bitch. I warned you once before. Don't be naughty or I won't let you come."

Aemma takes in the sight of your swollen lips and licks her own, feeling a pit form in her belly at your beauty.

Viserys, who was lying beside Aemma, feels himself get hard as his sister looks down on his wife.

I tilt my head at her, "I taught you how to be a good girl, didn't I? Hmm?"

Aemma nods slowly.

"Then be a good girl," you slap her wet folds, making her yelp, "and hold up my hair while I feast on your pretty cunny," you purr, kissing Aemma's left breast as you gathered your long hair up.

Aemma shudders and takes your hair in her hands, curling up slightly as you travelled south.

The sound Aemma makes when you kiss her tenderness makes Viserys' cock twitch. He heaves as he watches you rub your nose into her pearl and grab her supple thighs, willingly squeezing your cheeks between them.

Aemma calls out your name hoarsly. Viserys calms himself, remembering he promised to only watch as you gave your good sister her wedding gift.

Aemma's back arches as you work your tongue into her. She cannot help but rip at your hair though she tries her best not to.

"So sweet, and all mine," you purr, "isn't that right, Aemma?"

Aemma coils in her spot and screws her eyes shut. She knows she will be in trouble if agrees, she knows she will be in trouble if she doesn't, and she knows she will be in trouble if she keeps her silence. So, she responds with what is best for her in that moment, "yes."

You lift your eyes, feeling yourself grow damp at the sight of her wantonness, "yes what?"

"Kessa, ñuha dāria, Iksan aōhon," Aemma sighs. Yes, my queen, I am yours.

You moan, wild for the sound of High Valyrian, and chuckle darkly, eating her out more eagerly, "sȳz riña." Good girl.

Aemma screams when she feels your teeth nip at her.

Viserys had had enough at that point.

He climbs off the bed and walks behind you with his raging erection. Neither of you seem to notice, but you finally do when he rips your skirt up and rubs his tip into your pulsing heat.

Aemma's eyes break open as you pull away from her to look behind, "you filthy fuck, I s--"

You do not continue because your words are sliced in half by the lewd moan that rips out of your mouth when Viserys thrusts into you. You feel two pulses in you, your own and his. He grunts when he feels you clench around him.

He feels different, snugger inside you somehow. You brush it off to the fact it has been a while since you've had him.

"I promised to only watch my beloved as you tongue fuck her--" Viserys leans down and takes your hair from Aemma. She gratefully releases it and reaches out for your cheeks, wordlessly begging you to attend to her again.

"--but I did not say I wouldn't touch you, pretty whore," he smiles as he begins to thrust a rough pace.

You squirm and tighten your grip onto Aemma's thighs as he does this.

"Jikagon va, rene" he pants, "kesā daor gaomagon ñuha ābrazȳrys isse jaelagon." Go on, slut. You will not keep my wife in want.

Aemma licks her lips at the sight of her husband fucking you in front of her. She feels her core flutter at the familiarity. She feels her pulse in her core more prominently now. She places the back of her knee onto your shoulder, breathily begging, "please."

You whimper as you turn back to Aemma and huff hotly onto her flesh.

And so as you feasted on Aemma's weeping womanhood, you were battered by Viserys' angry manhood.

The sounds in the air were obscene, squelching, delirious, and as you all slowly rode toward your highs, Viserys made it a point to make it difficult for you.

He yanks at your hair and makes eye contact with Aemma, "you will come when I do, but this bitch between us will not."

You lift your head upon hearing that, but Viserys pushes you down, making Aemma yelp at the way your face digs into her. You pull up to catch a breath, lest you suffocate on princess cunt. It wouldn't be the worst way to die.

"Did you not say that I shouldn't waste my seed, sister," Viserys taunts as he quickens his pace, "I will throw you to the side and come in Aemma's pretty cunny, as I should-- as you said I should," his hands reach between your thighs and begins to rub you there, "līvi ȳdra daor māzigon." Whores don't come.

Aemma whines when you begin to slow your pace and desperately lifts her hips up for more friction.

The sound of her helpless whines send a spiral through your belly. You would not dare leave your darling girl unsatisfied. Aemma is grateful that you begin lapping eagerly at her again.

"What say you, come slut?" Viserys hisses, "you have quarrels with your king?"

You groan when Viserys begins to rub your sensitive nub harsly, making Aemma, in turn, squeak.

You're in no place to pick a fight with him and so you breath against Aemma, "inside."

Viserys' ego inflates, "skoros iksin bona?" What was that?

"Iemnȳ, Visērȳs, kostilus." Inside, Viserys, please.

He smirks, "Iemnȳ qilōni?" Inside who?

"Iemnȳ nyke." Inside me.

Aemma's breath strains as she opens her eyes. She does not want to miss this.

Viserys laughs, "greedy little stupid whore," he slaps your ass, "maybe I should fuck a babe into you too. Maybe then you'd cease with your slutty urges."

You take out your frustrations on Aemma. She loves it.

"Aemma wouldn't mind, wouldn't you darling?" Viserys says, "you want to grow a babe the same time as your good sister?"

Aemma whines and nods, "yes! Yes."

Viserys imagines the sight of his two girls filled with his seed, carrying his children, "mmm, fuck."

Suddenly you're all coming.

It was unintended, but the gods made it be. The three of you shiver and spill into each other. The room is heated with your breath and your voices echo through the chamber. Aemma is the loudest, a high pitched squeal ripping through her throat. You shake and squirm, glad to have gotten Aemma spasming beneath you as you spasm above her yourself. Viserys grunts as he digs his fingers into your hips as he bottoms out.

The white noise that plays is one of pure bliss.

When Viserys pulls out, he carelessly drops your hair onto your right shoulder and then jumps beside Aemma as he catches his breath.

You lift your head and look at Aemma who is staring at you with blown eyes. You smile at her and kiss her navel, "like my gift, pretty girl?"

Aemma nods as she heaves, "yesyes," she sighs, "thank you, my love."

You feel your skirt fall down your legs as you crawl over Aemma to kiss her on her lips. Her tongue darts out onto your wet ones, relishing the taste of her on you.

When you pull away, you wipe your lips then slap your damp hand onto Viserys chest with a fury, "stupid fuck."

Viserys yelps and recoils at the harsh assault but breaks into a laugh. He pulls Aemma into his chest as your crawl off the bed, "what?" he asks innocently as he kisses Aemma's temple, eyes not leaving you at all, "I did what you begged me to, darling."

You stand and walk over to dresser, grabbing yourself a damp piece of cloth stationed there, wiping yourself down, "you'll fuck a babe into me, will you?"

Viserys laughs. You roll your eyes as you look at your reflection on the vanity.

"What?" he says again, "Aemma truly wouldn't mind, wouldn't you, lover?" Viserys turns to her as Aemma turns to him.

Aemma, no longer drunk with lust, makes a face.

You answer for her, "you would let me mother a bastard like a true whore, brother?" You eye him as you lift your skirt and wipe the evidence Viserys left in you, "that's not very prince-like of you." You chuck the towel at him after cleaning yourself, "but then again, you've always been the bigger whore between the two of us."

Viserys tires to dodge the towel, but he does not.

Aemma turns to you and offers a smile, "she is right, Viserys. As much as I would love to have children with her, I would not have her be ostracized for it."

You smile back at Aemma and walk over to her, pushing your hair back as you lean in to give her another kiss.

Viserys watches as you do this then mutters, "then I would make her my second wife."

You pull away from Aemma and roll your eyes yet again, "I will be no ones second."

The married couple watches as you walk away. The man calls out, "you're my second! Second in birth, second in life, my sweet half."

"No, I was your first," you correct sternly, heading for the door, "you married your second." You turn over your shoulder to add, "no offence, Aemma."

Aemma shakes her head, "I am honored to be both your seconds."

With that, you give them one last look and open the door, "enjoy your marriage."

Aemma leans into Viserys shoulder and smile. The latter answers, "there is talk that I will ascend grandfather's throne. I will wed you then, sister."

You roll your eyes and close the door, loudly calling out, "goodbye, brother."

You begin to venture down the halls and find yourself strolling down the gardens. You feel of the breeze on your skin and breathe in deeply the fragrance of the flowers. You smile to yourself, shutting your eyes as you basked in he sunlight.

You had gone a great many places, yet still, there was no place like home.

"There you are," a voice calls. Soon after a hand comes to your back. It doesn't take long for your to figure out who it its. "I have been looking for you everywhere."

You open your eyes and smile at Daemon, "and I was just looking for you."

You watch as Daemon's lips curl into a smile. You catch how he tries to hide how pleased he is by the sentiment. You push his hair away as the wind blows it to his face, "I thought you would be off on dragonback."

Daemon purses his lips. How could you possibly know that was his plans?

You chuckle at his expression and link your arms with his, "you've forgotten I'm always right."

"Well, I was about to," he leans into you, a grin playing on his lips, "but then I thought it would be better if I had you to accompany me."

"Dōna valītsos," sweet boy. You smile and nod, "I would love to ride with you."

Your younger brother and you begin to leisurely stroll down the area, savoring the weather as well as each other's presence.

You press your cheek upon Daemon's shoulder, "I am certain Alaerion will enjoy riding with you and Caraxes again. She hates being bound or caged, but she was excited to go back to the pit after being away for long."

Daemon feels his chest swell with joy upon hearing that. "I am excited to see her too. It's been a while since red and indigo graced the skies together."

As you make your way to the dragon pit, you are intercepted by an unexpected face. You halt in your tracks, stopping Daemon along with you, upon seeing the man in green across us.

The man stops as well and immediately greets you with a reverent bow, "your majesties."

"Otto," you mutter with a surprised smile. Daemon eyes this Otto persona as he rises, violet eyes immediately poking daggers into his form.

You break away from your brother and push your hair behind you, "what brings you to King's Landing?" you tilt my head to the side, "it's an awful long way from Old Town."

Daemon clenches his jaw tightly as Otto steps forward. It was all to clear to him that the cunt was smitten by you.

"I have been offered a position to represent my house in the small council," he presses his lips into the faintest of smiles, "I have merely accepted the honor."

"Ah," you lift your nose, "I see."

Daemon comes to your side and pulls you into him. His stare does not leave Otto, and soon enough his violet eyes lock with his green ones.

You topple into Daemon due to the force of his action, but you do not mind. You enjoy how you are roughly handled by your brothers, more often than not. You bring your arm around Daemon as he rubs your side.

Otto blankly stares. Daemon notices the clench of his jaw. You notice the building tension and break it.

"May I present Prince Daemon Targaryen," you announce, though you do not turn away from Otto, "rider of Caraxes, and my darling baby brother."

"It is an honor to meet your acquaintance, prince Daemon," Otto bows in regard.

Daemon turns to you just as you turn to him and offer a mischievous expression.

Daemon's eye twitches. Him? Really?

"Darling, this is Lord Otto Hightower," you speak to your brother, though your eyes go back to the said man. You finally notice how Otto clenches his jaw as he smiles and nods at the prince.

You turn back to Daemon. Your brows furrowing at the sight of the lines on his forehead. Hmm. Odd.

"He was a friend I made during my tours in Citadel," you reach out to his face and rub on the creases forming on his skin.

Daemon breaks his hard gaze from Otto, and softens when he turns to you.

"He was kind to me, and even spoke on my behalf to see the place, though he was actually sent to escort me away. He, himself, is adamant a woman had no business at the place," you turn back to Otto, "but I think I have become the exception."

Otto turns to you and instantly croaks out, "not an exception, princess. I would much rather lose my honor than subject a woman like you to the life lead by a maester--"

You laugh.

"--but I am not a man without reason," he shifts on his spot, "you told me your stance and I was moved by your case. I merely spoke what you told me to the Grand Maesters, thus allowing you to tour Citadel freely."

"And I am thankful for your services," you give a lopsided smirk, "I was beginning to think my travels would have been for naught had you not..." you trail off, "come."

Daemon's ears clap. He grinds his teeth as he watches Otto's reactions closely. The prince's nostrils flare at his poker face. The fuck does not betray himself at all, and it makes Daemon's insides boil. He will kill him the moment he does betray himself, and Dark Sister will enjoy the blood bath.

Otto is nonchalant even as he to turns to your brother. And when he does, you speak again, "I look forward to seeing you around, Otto," you smile, making the brown haired man turn back to you.

"My brother and I will be taking our dragons for a ride," you raise a brow, "perhaps you would like to join us."

Daemon face falls as he hears your offer. He look to you in betrayal and disbelief.

You feel the hot gaze of your brother.

Otto as he pipes up, "I would not like to intrude upon you and your brother, your grace."

"Come now," you speak to him, though you tilt your head at Daemon, "I'm sure my beloved brother can find it in his heart to bring you along."

Daemon stiffens as he stares at you.

You hold back a laugh and point to Otto, "surely Caraxes wouldn't mind if he dangled beneath his belly, Daemon."

Daemon pulls his head back.

Otto does so too, then his eyes widen at the insinuation.

The prince suddenly breaks into a toothy grin and laughs with his whole chest. You follow suit.

Daemon turns back to the lord, "sissy's right," he raises a hand jovially, "my boy would appreciate a live necklace. And I think you would make quite an amusing one."

Otto grunts where the Targaryens giggle.

Daemon leans into you as he laughs and you shake your head at his exaggerated movements. You sigh and turn back to Otto, "I jest, Lord Hightower. Very truly, I agree that anyone who wishes to squeeze between Daemon and I would be intruding."

Daemon catches his breath and finds himself kissing your cheek. You turn to him, smiling at his affection. He pulls you in close.

"We must away," you turn to Otto, offering a final smile, "I look forward to seeing you around, my lord."

Daemon's smile flattens when he hears Otto's oily response, "as do I, my princess."

"It was no secret that Lord Otto Hightower was repelled by Prince Daemon Targaryen, just as he repelled the latter. When the prince's brother ascended as king and announced Lord Otto as his Lord Hand, tensions grew between all of the mentioned parties. Though many could attribute their dislike for another to the Rogue Prince's uncouth tendencies and the Lord Hand's disapproval of it, there are a great many rumors that say their conflict was borne out of their mutual desire for Lone Woman of Citadel, The Fanged Beauty, the Princess-" --Excerpt from 'The Histories of the Hightowers' by Lord Baelor Hightower & Maester Lucien, 209 A.C.

You had been in the middle of getting ready for the day when there was a knock on the door. You were sat on a chair in front of your vanity in nothing but your shift dress, combing your silver tresses. You pulled up the neckline of your soft, thin dress as you awaited whoever wanted to seek entrance. A moment later, it was clear it was not your a servant because they did not immediately announce themselves.

You turned from the reflection of the door to the door itself from over your bare shoulder. You continue to brush your silver hair and smooth it out with fragrant oils.

"Who is it?"

"Who would dare intrude on the princess as she dressed?"

You smile upon hearing the voice. You turn back to your reflection and call out, "go away then, Dae-dae."

The doors break open and in comes a grinning Daemon, "I will do no such thing, sissy."

You snort as you watch him walk over from the mirror. You set your brush down and turn to him as he leans down and brushes your hair to the side. He kisses your neck then takes your hand and kisses the visible blue veins there. You chuckle and roll your eyes, "alright, what have you done?"

Daemon smirks and pulls away, walking over to your bed, "I have no idea what you mean."

Your eyes follow him as he sits at the side of your bed, crossing his arms, looking out to you with a rascal look.

You take in his attire, the sharply cut leather of his top that complimented his figure, his shiny black boots and his snug pants. He has grown to be a dashing man, you think. You smile fondly at him and lean your head into your hand, "you nary show me affection simply because you want to, Daemy."

He cringes at the nickname; that being the one he really did not like. You enjoy it so precisely because of the fact. You bubble in amusement of his face.

Daemon leans on the headboard, "is it a crime to want a change of pace then?"

You shake your head and roll your eyes, "not at all, my love."

His stomach rolls at the pet name.

Daemon does nothing but watch you after that.

He watches as you throw your hair behind your shoulders, as you lather your skin with lotions, as you paint your skin with rouge. He jumps off the bed when you grab a necklace and attempt to put it on. He eagerly mutters, "let me."

You turn to him as he circles behind you, handing him the gold chain with blue jewels. You gather your hair up, looking at his reflection as he fixed the necklace upon your throat.

Daemon makes it a point to brush the back of his hand against your jaw and nape as he hooks the piece of jewelry around you. Once it is fastened he takes your hair and smooths it down, "gevie." Beautiful.

His attention is focused solely on stroking your hair so he does not see that you smile at his reflection as you say, "hae issi ao, lēkia." As are you, brother.

He ceases his actions upon hearing that. He stills in his spot for a long moment. Your smile fades when he remains rigid too many seconds too long. You straighten up and blink rapidly a few times. You decide to break into smile and tease, "I should ready myself for the flock of ladies that will throw themselves at you."

Daemon finally turns to you, or rather your reflection.

You tease further, grin growing, "and perhaps I should ready potential matches for you, my prince."

You reach out for your earrings and begin to put them on. You offer him a playful look as you do so. You freeze at his response.

"What about you?"

You furrow your brows and hook your golden earrings to your ear, "what about me?"

Daemon watches as you put on your other earring then turn on your chair to face him. He looks down on you and shifts on his leg. He links his hands in front of him, "you are four years my senior. You are a woman," he reaches out to your cheek, "my woman."

You raise a brow at his words.

"If anything tis I that should be fussing over your matches, princess."

You close your eyes as you chuckle softly. You take his hand and look back at him, "oh, my baby. You needn't fuss. You needn't ever fuss about me at all," you shake your head, "ever."

Daemon's gaze is locked upon you as you stand and kiss his knuckles. You tilt your head at him and bring your hands down. You pout softly, "or have you forgotten how formidable your sissy is? Lest you forget, I will remind I broke your baby teeth because you wanted to steal the pony father gifted me."

Daemon cannot help the snort that leaves him and looks away from you. You find yourself smiling at his reaction.

"I will fuss over you. I will care for you. You are my responsibility, Daemon. Twas I that promised mother-" you suck in a breath, "that you would not be without one when she-"

"But I am not your baby!" Daemon snaps at you, "I am not a child and I have no need of your coddling anymore!" he quips, yanking his hands out your own.

The action, though not physically painful, hurt you deeply. You immediately feel your chest tighten as he walks away from you. He head to your bed again but does not sit and just stands by its side, back turned to you, "you overcompensate your mollifying for the time you've spent away from me. I despise it." He turns back to you, eyes very suddenly red with hurt and anger, "you say you care for me, but you leave me for many moons and stay for but a few days!"

You feel your throat constrict at his accusing tone, "I send ravens for you every--"

"YOU THINK I WANT YOUR FUCKING LETTERS?!" Daemon bursts as he marches over to you, gripping your shoulders tightly.

You look at him in bewilderment, and soon enough, your eyes begin to glass. Daemon watches your tears spill and your lips quiver.

"So... that is why you never respond to me."

Daemon's forehead wrinkles and he releases your shoulders. He drops his head and huffs, "that's not what I meant."

You release a deep breath, "then what do you mean?"

"I-" he lifts his face slowly, reluctantly looking at you, "I do not want this from you."

His words stab at you deeper. You shake your head and clutch your chest, "you no longer want me to care for you? Is that what you want?!"

"No," he weakly retorts, grabbing your hands, squeezing them tightly. His knees buckle, "that's not what I want."

"Then tell me what you want!" you cry out, "do not speak hurtful things to me like you did once before then never explain why."

Daemon recalls that day. That day he meant to give you a necklace but never did. He looks at the one on your neck now then remembers where he stashed away the object that reminded him of you and Viserys' treachery. He blinks as he brings your hands to his face, "I want you to love me the way I love you."

You caress his cheeks and shake your head, unsure of what to say, "I love you so much, Daemon."

Daemon furrows his brows and straightens, rubbing your arms back and forth. "I want you to love me like you love Viserys," he heaves heavily and takes your pulse to kiss it, "but I want you to love me more."

"Oh, Daemon," you rub his cheeks with your thumb, "I already love you more than I love Viserys. I always have loved you more, since the day you were born."

Daemon heaves heavily upon hearing that, anger and frustration building within him.

When you pull him in to kiss him, he leans towards your mouth, but so swiftly bring his head down and kiss his forehead instead.

It destroys him.

He shoves you away and you look at him like a deer that's just gotten shot. He gives you one last look before storming away.

You call out to him in hopes of stopping him. You so badly wanted to chase after him, but you were too afraid that he would shove off all over again, and things would end the same way the ended the first time you got into such argument. You did not want to go through all of that for the second time. So you let him leave.

Daemon looks over his shoulder as he storms off, laughing bitterly at the lack of calls. So, you don't care enough to follow after, huh?

After you got dressed, you quickly look for Viserys, eager to spill speak your woes, but when you found him, you see a great many Lords discussing many things with him. Undoubtedly they were trying to get into his good graces for he was now unofficially the heir to the Iron Throne.

You would not interrupt him at this time. You did not want all of those Lords to see you in this state anyway.

So instead, you find yourself seeking solitude in the small shrine room for the Seven. There you knelt before the bust of the Mother and wept to her, praying for comfort.

You do not realize someone knelt next to you until he speaks.

You gasp and turn to your right. Otto Hightower mutters a prayer, "I pray the Mother will give comfort for our sorrows and wipe away our tears."

You release a breath and you take in his closed eyes. You turn to the statue.

"I pray that she guide us through our heartache, that we may find peace."

You sniffle and look to your linked fingers, "will you pray for me as well, Otto?"

Otto turns to you and responds, "I am praying for you, my princess."

You hold back your tears as you meet his gaze. Otto's solemn expression falls even more grave when he sees the tears streak your cheeks.

You whimper and give him a sad smile, "thank you, my lord."

Otto continues to pray for you, pacing his prayers to your breathing. By the time you've calmed down, he ends his supplication to the gods. His heart is heavy as he looks at you. So badly, he wishes to dry your tears.

Otto clenches his jaw, "we can continue to pray, or, if you'd like," he turns to the statue of the Mother, "you can vent your sorrows to me. Perhaps I could do something to... remedy your issue."

You release a soft chuckle. You turn to him with a soft smile and nod your head, "I would be grateful if you listened as I spoke my troubles."

Otto looks back upon you, taking in your undone hair and your pink face. Whichever fool dare wronged you will not rest easy.

"I only need you to listen," you nod quicker, "that is all. I would not require you to do anything for me, Otto."

Otto thinks he would do anything for you. He would kill for you. He does not say that though and only shifts on his spot, turning his whole attention to you. He offers you his hand in comfort.

You gratefully take it and shift closer to him.

Otto wishes to wipe your soft cheeks but he knows that if he does so, he will not be able to hold himself back from doing his other urges, ones that were far less noble and descent. After all, he sneaks a look to his side, the Mother is watching.

"My brother and I got into an argument," you sigh as you look at him through tear laced eyes.

Otto knows exactly which brother you were referring to and yet he still asks, "your twin, or your... baby brother?"

You wipe your face roughly, "I argued with Daemon."

"Mmm," he hums, "prince Daemon is a rather rugged character. I cannot say I am surprised by his actions."

You feel a protective anger surge through you. You glare at him and pull your hand away.

The sentiment strikes through him.

"You are supposed to be listening, are you not?"

Otto does not respond.

"I do not need you to weigh in on my brother's character. I know his far tendencies better than anyone else."

Otto submits and bow his head, "forgive me for my crassness, your grace."

You turn away from him and look up to the face of the Mother before you.

He watches the tears continue to fall from your violet eyes. Fucking Daemon Targaryen. He takes in how silver strands of your precious silver hair cascade over your face and shoulders and thinks you are Mother incarnate. He draws in a deep breath to calm himself and to rip of all the unholy thoughts that were building in his head.

"He cuts me so deeply, Otto," you mumble, "I love him dearly," your lips quiver, "I only want the best for him, but it's like... it's like-- it's never enough. It's like my love is not enough. It's like I am not enough. I cannot be me. I cannot want the best for me..." you turn back to him, "I want to see the world with Alaerion. I want to feel the wind in my hair. I want-" you choke, "... he spurns me for my want."

You shake your head and try to hold back a fiercer wave of tears that threaten to spill out of you. You cannot help that you break and crumble into your hands.

The lord cannot help himself any longer either, and pulls you into him as you weep in sadness. You clutch him tightly and pour your heart out into his chest. He shushes you, strokes your hair, and pats your back.

You both end up sitting on the floor to better accommodate your shared embrace. It was still pretty uncomfortable, but both your knees were grateful for the change of position.

He feels the way you shake your head against him.

You sigh, "I'm sure you scoff at my ideas," you pull away from him. Your hands go to his shoulders, "you do not agree that mere women are meant to do such things."

"But you are not a mere woman," Otto clutches your cheeks, "you are a Targaryen princess," he wipes your tears away, "you are closer to the gods than men," he shakes his head, "you do not crumble, you conquer."

Your lips part at his words. No more tears fall from your eyes after.

"Do not waste your energy on a boy who does not recognize you as what you are," he says, hands slowly going down your neck.

You take in a deep breath. You shift on your spot, "and what exactly am I?"

Otto swallows a lump in his throat as you crawl onto him and straddle his lap. Immediately, he feels his pulse in his trousers, and though his eyes momentarily flick to the Mother behind you, he does not make any attempt to push you off. You were the Mother. He nearly tells you this, but manages not to. Instead he speaks as he swipes the pad of his thumb to your pink lips, moist with tears, "a queen."

You place take his hands in yours and lift your nose, "you would make me your queen?"

"You are already my queen," he mutters under his breath. He sits up straighter and brings his hands to the swell of your hips, adjusting you atop him. Your own hands go back to his shoulders again. Otto adds, "I would make you whatever you desire."

You lean into him until your foreheads were pressed together. He makes a sound when your hot breath hits his face.

"And what would you do to be able to give me my desires?" you say this in slightly amused tone. You say this to taunt him.

Otto knows this, but he doesn't care. He answers seriously regardless, "whatever it takes."

His soul nearly leaves him when you whimper.

Right after you make that sound, he traps your mouth against his. You instantly lean into him and moan at his warmth. Your fingers scratch up to his collar, then they dig into the roots of his dark hair. He, himself, moans when you tug firmly.

Otto wastes no more time and quickly digs into your skirts, ripping them up until he had access to the softness between your thighs. Sweet mother, he's missed you. He eagerly touches your core and it makes you break away from him, in lieu of groaning as you leaned into his shoulder.

He's gotten practice since the last time you've met. You being his first, he quite clumsy with his touch. You did not get to teach him much in Citadel, for your escapades were always rushed and unplanned, not unlike what it was this very moment. He made it a point to get better though, knowing he'd see you again once he got to King's Landing.

"Seven fucking hells," you mutter against his ear as your one hand squeezes his bicep.

Otto rubs his cheek into yours and whispers, "feels good, doesn't it? I've practiced for you."

You squeal as rubs his fingers in purposeful circles and maneuvers according to your reaction. He feels you pull his arm closer, so teases a finger into you. Instantly, you let out a sharp moan and whimper. The sound of his name echoes through the shrine and it was the holiest thing he had ever heard.

His other arm hand goes around your torso and secures you in place, "I will make you feel better, my queen."

You moan against his neck and suckle on his skin there. You begin to rock your hips into him as you begin to weep from your cunt.

When he feels you dripping, he finally slips a fingers into you, and you groan at the feel of. He nips at your earlobe and works into you in a similar pace that you buck yourself to.

"More," you mewl.

He adds another finger.

He feels himself grow harder than he already was. It begins to feel uncomfortable, but he rather liked hearing you make the noises you were making.

You push his arm off, making him grow rigid. You shake your head and kiss his lips. You did like the way he was stretching you out, but that was not enough.

Otto's actions slowly grow reluctant because of your head shake. You dive your hands into your skirts and sigh softly, "need you now, Otto."

He immediately perks, in more ways than one, and helps you as you grab onto his pants.

The moment he is free, you feel your cunt clench and your mouth water at the sight of his throbbing cock.

You waste no time and quickly lift yourself up and mount him through a strangled breath.

He spirals with a string of veneration, praising the Mother for the glorious feeling of your soaking heat. He grips your hips for dear life as you slowly begin to fuck yourself on him. Holy, holy, holy.

"Do I feel good, Otto?"

Otto grunts and tightens his old on him, helping you with your bouncing, "so good, my queen. So good, my love."

You whimper at the sound of his endearment. You bite your lip and grab his face, forcing him to look at you. You heavily pant, "you going to fuck me good in front of Mother?"

His eyes widen then dart away from your momentarily. He does not respond.

You do not like that.

You clench your jaw and bring your thumbs to his parted mouth. You dig your fingers into his teeth and push his jaw down, "I asked you a question, boy," you heave, "will dare ignore your queen?"

Otto lets out a guttural noise at the sound of your words and chokes when he feels clenching around him. He breathlessly responds the moment you pull your thumbs out of his mouth, "no, my queen."

You let out a grunt when he begins to match your movements with upward thrusts. You drag out a prolonged exhale and rub your nose against his, "then what, you sycophant?"

He heaves.

"What will you do to me, church boy?"

Otto growls and digs his fingers into your waist. He digs his heels into the floor, allowing him to ram himself into you with more ease and viciousness. The squeaks and yelps that leave your throat adds further fuel to the flames into his body. He attaches his teeth to your neck and bites down. He hotly speaks against you, "I'm going to fuck you good in front of Mother."

You moan and throw your head back as his movements begin to grow more erratic that your own. Otto yanks at the neckline of your dress and claws at your breasts that threaten to spill out. He hungrily stuffs his face into that spot. As he does so, he unintentionally breaks off the gold chain on your neck and the thing trickles down your cleavage.

Otto pull away tp stick his fingers into your top and fishes for the thing. You you take his face and push him back into your chest. He brings his hands underneath your skirt and squeezes your bare thighs.

"I'm close, Otto," you whine, finally finding his tempo as you maneuvered over him.

Otto licks the skin from your sternum up to your collarbone, then kisses all the way up to your jaw, " 'm fucking you good enough then."

You groan and dig your hands into his hair . You pull at his brown locks as you sigh, "so good."

When he comes, he says a rough prayer of thanks to the Seven under his breath. The feel of his spilling into you and the sight of his rolled eyes, paired with the sound of his prayer was so twistedly delicious that you come a few second later.

"Vaogenka līve," you whimper as you continue to ride your high, "ao rattan bisa tolī olvie." Dirty whore, you liked this too much.

Otto does not stop in his movements, as the overachiever he was, though it was quickly beginning to be painful for him. He literally pushes through it and only stops until you begin to squirm. Even then he makes it a point to roughly flick his hips before finally stopping to catch his breath.

You go jelly against him and defeatedly lean into his chest as you even your heavy pants.

Otto rubs your thighs and nestles his face against yours, relishing the feel of your heartbeat.

You brush his hair away and kiss his ear, "what would your gods say about the sinful acts you've been doing in their temple with the princess?"

Otto kneads at your thighs and it is only then that you feel there is something in his clutch. He huffs, "my faithful servant is a man of duty," he looks upon your face, "he is most loyal to the crown and has gone to great lengths to assure it's... contentment."

Your lips curve into a smile, "great lengths, you say."

Otto leans in and nips at your lip, "a humble length."

You giggle, and as does he. He cannot help but moan at the feel of your clenching around him because of it. He then pulls his hands out of your skirt and wraps his arms around you.

"I broke off your necklace, princess," he mutters through a kiss on your neck.

You hum, "I think that is treason."

Otto bites at your neck, "and what is your sentence?"

You moan at the feel of his tongue on your pulse. You comb through his hair, "mmm, fuck me good in front of the Father."

His laugh echoes across the room. The feel of his amusement vibrating into your core begins to excite you all over again.

"Filthy girl," he whispers.

"You're worse than I," you retort.

"Mmm," he pushes your hair back and takes in the shimmer of your face, "then I ought to replace your necklace only to be able to rip it off you again when I make you come in the shrine of the Father."

You give him a wicked smile and shake your head, "see... you're worse than me."

"Well, I learned from the worst," he kisses your shoulder.

"One of the first issues King Viserys took up when he ascended was that his twin sister. Many frowned upon the fact she was inching past the age where a well-bred lady ought to be married, and yet still went off on tours with her dragon mount. It was no secret the princess was a free spirit. Beyond her renowned and well-documented travels across Westeros and beyond, it is said she left trails of broken hearts and longing lovers, all willing to offer their inheritance and very souls in exchange for her hand. Many a man came to contend for the honor of being her husband, but there were less than a few that were even considered. In the end, her only real prospects were Otto Hightower, the hand of the king, Daemon Targaryen, the brother of the king, and Viserys Targaryen, the king himself." --Excerpt from 'Chapter 3: The Fanged Beauty' of 'The Lone Woman of Citadel' by Grand Maester Mateos, 354 A.C.

Daemon was ignoring you.

He was choosing to ignore you.

It was not a coincidence, it was an active choice.

Perhaps it was believable the first few times that, when you walked in a room, he was leaving, but then the days passed and you made attempts to seek your brother out. You called to him only to be shunned.

You were set to leave again, soon. Daemon knew this. He found no point in facing you if you would leave him all over again.

Yet things after this would happen so quickly. Your grandfather would order you to stay for the proclamation of his heir, he would pass come days later, and your twin would then be named king, your younger brother, his heir.

You thought that the rift between you and Daemon would ultimately repair itself as it did before, but he was difficult with everyone, with you especially. Now it's come to a point where you no longer speak, you only argue.

And now, there was a storm between you, both real and not.

The hour grows late and the rain has become more brutal. You waited by the keep's entrance for your younger brother that had left early morning and yet still has not arrived. With every roll of thunder, you grew increasingly worried.

"We will bring him back, your grace," Ser Harrold Westerling assures you for the hundredth time, ceaselessly patient with you.

You clench your jaw and nod as you pace around, "Caraxes would be in more unrest if something had happened to his rider, but he is calm in his pit, so I am calm."

Ser Harrols sighs at your words. A disingenous and unconvincing sentiment.

You say this mostly for yourself but still, the commander of the kingsguard nods, "aye."

You huff and nod as you pace around some more. A crack of lightening makes you begin to worry now for the guards that have been deployed to look for the heir apparent. You suck in a breath and take Ser Harrold's arm, "what if something happened to your men? Dear gods, I wou-"

"My men are capable of caring for themselves, princess," he speaks calmly, placing a hand atop on your own. You nod rapidly at his words and pull away from him. He catches your arm before you do, "your grace."

You turn back to him.

"Pardon me, but it has been hours since you've been pacing."

You give him a guilty expression, "yes... Forgive me, ser Harrold. You may leave if--"

"Perhaps you ought to sit-"

His words are cut off by the sound of the gates opening. You both look to the door in anticipation. In comes a wet prince, dripping in rain water from head to toe.

"Gods be good," Ser Harrold speaks as you pull away from him and rush towards Daemon.

Expecting him to come in soaking, you grab the towel you had prepared and immediately wipe his face, "skoriot se qogralbar emagon ao issare?" Where the fuck have you been?

Daemon stills as he looks you. He lets you wipe his soaked face and hair for a few seconds before he rips the towel away from you and throws it off to a distance.

You turn to where he discards the item and Daemon walks away from you.

"Ȳdra daor geron qrīdrughagon hen nyke," you seethe under your breath. He does not stop. You snap, repeating much louder, "DON'T WALK AWAY FROM ME!"

Ser Harrold watches as the prince stops in his tracks. He watches as Daemon heaves heavily as his sister walks up from behind him. He knows this will be a long and brutal sermon.

"Emā daor paktot naejot gaomagon bisa, valītsos," you hiss as you march in front of him, "ao daor gaomagon daor sytilībagon naejot aōla. Iksā dārilaros naejot se Dēmalion Āegenko."

You have no right to do this, boy. You no do not belong to yourself. You are heir to the Iron Throne

Daemon's soaked hair sticks to the side of his face. Rain water drips to the floor as he laughs at your words. He steps forward and snatches your arms, yanking you into him.

Your clothes immediately absorb the water in his. His angry breath fans against your face, "pār gaomagon daor vēdros nyke, iā eminna ao ilzitan hen."

Then do not anger me, or I will have you thrown out.

Your expression drops upon hearing this. You are at a loss for words at his blazing admission.

Daemon shoves you off and walks past you; your shoulders collide with each other as he storms off. You gulp heavily as you watch him leave puddles of murky water behind. There is an ominous crack of thunder.

"Then I'll save you the trouble and leave on the morrow," you call out as your eyes begin to mimic the weather. "It is clear now that any effort on my part to make peace with you will be put to shit."

Daemon halts. His boots skin as he turns, "you've made no such effort."

You laugh loudly and throw your arms out, "then what the fuck am I doing now?!"

"You are caring for the heir to the throne," Daemon barks and raises an accusing finger, marching back to you.

Your face twists at his words and you scream through a hurt expression, "AND WHO IS THE HEIR, BROTHER?!" You meet him halfway and grab him by the collar "is it not you, Daemon Targaryen?" you shove him off, "does it appear as though I care not for you?!"

"I don't WANT your mothering!" he blares, grabbing your cheeks, "I do not want you to look at me with those-" he drops his head, "those eyes that scorch my--" he catches sight of the jewel on your neck. He clenches his jaw tightly at the wretched emerald and rips it off you, casting it off to the end of the hall.

At this point, Ser Harrold cannot keep still nor silent. He steps forward and warns, "Prince Daemon!"

You recoil at his actions, hands coming to your now bare décolletage.

Daemon fumes, "that lecherous cunt is pushing his luck," he shakes with anger, "I will have his head on a spike if he deigns your form with cheap bribes again."

You hate that he is evading the real argument all over again, "do not change-"

"I do not know why you enjoy his company. He is a spineless, ugly fuck that-"

"Is that all you have to say to me, Daemon?!" you seethe, shaking your head in disbelief, "you only want to pick a fight over a man who has been kind to me while you have been cruel?"

Daemon takes those words like a stake to the heart.

"Don't you want to get whatever it is that has gotten your cock so far up your arse out?" you shudder as anger spills out of you in a form of tears.

The prince vibrates in anger.

"Hen rhinka ao gīmigon skoros ziry iksos hae naejot emagon someone's orvorta bē aōha gundja," Daemon retaliates, "ao ivestragī mirre vaoreznuni qogralbar emagon iā jikagon rȳ aōha orvorta

Of course you know what it's like to have someone's cock up your ass. You would let any sorry fuck have a go at your cunt.

You release a dry chuckle. Tears of hate burn down your eyes, "so you resolve to framing me into whore? When you and Viserys have been whoring around in brothels sinc-"

"You are a whore," he quips loudly.

You pull your head back and your expression drops. There were suddenly no more tears left for him. "Then very well, my prince. I am a whore," you agree, "but I will no longer be fucked over by you."

Needless to say, the rift between you two was greater now more than ever.

Otto, who had been watching you from the mezzanine near the gates the whole time you waited for your boorish brother, heads for your chambers as you walk away from your brother.

You freeze when you see him standing by your door. Immediately, you run into arms and crumble into his chest.

He grunts and strokes your hair, leading you into your room, sitting you on your bed.

Otto cannot help himself and says, "the king is being pressured by the council to remedy your brother's disruptive behavior as of late. Hear me when I say I will have him relocated somewhere out of sight and out of mind."

You pull away from him and look at him through teary eyes. He wipes your cheeks, "I'll have him married off to someone in the farthest corner of the realm. The burden of him will no longer be your own."

You sigh and lean into his touch, "save yourself the bother. I will leave come day break and continue my travels across the realm."

You bring his hands to your lap, "I only stayed because the late king asked me to. I stayed to witness the anointment of my beloved half as ruler. I stayed to make things better with Daemon. And, now, I have done all that I must and could, so... I will away."

Otto does not like this. He does not like this idea at all.

He tightens his grip on your hands when you make an attempt to stand, "I cannot stomach the thought of you leaving and myself doing nothing about your insolent brother."

You watch how his face hardens, how he is unable to withhold the lines that tighten around his features. You release a sigh and shake your head, "cast your concerns for my brother aside. I do not need you to avenge me."

His brows furrow furiously, "he is an insipid man-child who enjoys spitting on his older sister that does more for him than he will ever know. I will not let him go unpunished."

You tick at his words.

You release his hands. Your expression goes blank as you stand and peer down upon him, "hear me when I say this, Otto Hightower. If you harm a single a hair on my brother's head, I will never forget it," you mutter as you take his chin between your fingers.

Your words are soft spoken and monotonous, yet Otto feels his body grow rigid with uneasiness.

"A confidant can be quickly chosen, a suitor can be found in the streets, a lover can be made in an evening. I may well be wed to many different men in my lifetime, should they meet tragic ends, and, yes, I will never cease to mourn the death of any of my children," you release your grip on him, "but, the truth is, they too can all be replaced."

Otto watches as you raise your brows, "who then, however, can grow me another brother?"

You clench you jaw and await his response.

He does say anything or move.

You've made your point crystal clear.

"So, I say even plainly, my lord," you articulate, "you will not harm my brother for my sake."

He rises to his feet and nods in respect, "as you command, my princess."

You nod once. He turns back to you, watching the fire in you cool.

You take his face, brush his hair back, and offer a small smile, "the hour is late. I must rise early tomorrow if I wish to leave with no further troubles." You give his cheek one last touch before pulling away.

Otto does not let you. He pulls you towards him, hands coming to your sides. He breathes heavily as he surveys your face. You knit your brows at him in concern.

"I do not wish to see you off."

You release a chuckle, "then you do not have to. Sleep in and-"

"Do not leave," he sighs.

You purse your lips at his words then place your hands on his chest. A small smirk places on your face, "and who are you to order me?"

"Lord Hand," he mutters, "I outrank you."

I break into a laugh, "do you now? You are but a lewd little church boy to me, Otto."

"Then I will outrank you," he whispers as he leans closer, "I will ask the king for your hand and make you a Hightower..." he runs the back of his hand down my neck, "my Lady Hightower"

You snort loudly, "oh, he's gotten it twisted," you coo, "I would still not be outranked if you managed that, you candlestick."

Otto feels the corner of his lips twitch into a soft smile as youbreak into a fit of giggles. He leans down to kiss you jaw, "but then you would no longer find it in you to leave your poor husband by himself, now would you?"

Your stomach flutters as he begins to kiss your neck.

When you begin to undo his buttons, he pulls away, "we will not continue if you do not swear to me you'll stay."

Your expression slips into shock. You break into a breathy laugh. "Iksā iā vaogenka valītsos." You are a dirty boy. You pull at his belt, forcing him into you, "a scheming viper in the grass."

Otto peers down as you undo his collar. He brings his hands to your back begins to work on the laces of your dress. He kisses your shoulder, "I take this as agreement." His lips travel to the base of your neck where he realizes that you were bare of any of the jewels he gifted you.

He bites down on you and speaks hotly, "my hands will make a pretty necklace, don't you think?"

You let out a lewd noise, "you better make my stay here worthwhile."

Otto shoves you onto your bed. Your heart races at the sight of his rabid expression.

Later that day, during the council meeting, the issue of your courtship was brought up, as it has been since the moment Viserys was crowned king.

The king made it known once before that he was set on allowing you to chose your match; he owed it to you, as his beloved sister. It was a sweet sentiment no one at all cared for. Still, Viserys said that if he was allowed to wed who he wanted, then he would assure the same for his twin. At least this is what he told the council members.

None but he, and mayhap Queen Aemma, knew his true intentions. He was waiting upon your decision to become his second wife. True, you had turned him down many times over, but he knew that no one could match the flame of a Targaryen better than another Targaryen.

Daemon knew this too.

Daemon knew that no man could survive the ferocity of your fire. And he understood suddenly ,as an old fuck on the council droned over potential matches, why you never wanted to marry Viserys though you gave him so much.

He was weak.

Daemon watched as Viserys smiled pleasantly at the sagging fuck through his horrible attempt at selling his son to him as a potential match for you. If it were him, he wouldn't have let him speak as long as he did.

And even now, Viserys heard out the qualms of another Lord, because this was his nature. He went through at the politicking because he lacked the balls to exercise his soverignity.

The prince was certain you recognized this in your twin. This was why you let him have your maidenhead but not your hand. Rest assured, you will recognize nothing of the sort in him.

Daemon slams his hand on the table, making the room go silent as all eyes turned to him.

Viserys looks darkly upon his brother.

Otto turns to him, wanting nothing more than to press his boot upon his throat and put him in his place. So he does the latter, "have you lost all sense of decorum and self, prince Daemon?"

Daemon whips his head to Otto and narrows his eyes as they twitch, "the fuck did you just say to me?"

"Not only did you interrupt Lord Awyen, but you have, yet again, disrespected the king with your thoughtlessness."

Daemon jolts out of his chair and angrily growls, "you fucking cunt-"

Viserys barks, "Daemon!"

The kingsguard begin to press forward.

Daemon slams his hand on the table again and points at the Hightower cunt, "I am saving him the seconds he will never get again," he turns to his brother, "we all know that you will not consider any of these fucks' dimwitted sons," he looks out to the rest of the men, "nor will the princess even spare them a moment's glance."

It became quite apparent quite quickly to Otto where Daemon was taking this conversation. He will not let him have the final say.

"I am her only real match, brother," Daemon says, confirming Otto's thoughts, making the other men at the table mumble under their breaths. He turns to Viserys. "I am the only one who can honor her in a way that is-"

"Honor her?" Otto scoffs, shoulders stiffened with ire, "my prince, are you not the same man who has ceaselessly been coaxing your sister into tears whenever you have the misfortune to cross paths?"

Steam nearly whistles out of Daemon's ears. He lets out high pitched chuckle, "and you really think that all the fancy collars you've given her has made her into your bitch?"

"DAEMON!" Viserys fumes.

"If you think for a second, mutt," Daemon begins to circle around the room, "that I would let my sister end up with a slobbering-" the kingsguard come upon him, holding back before he can come close enough to strike Otto, "-pathetic excuse for a m-"

"Fucking get him out of here!" Viserys barks.

Daemon fights out of the arms of two guards' who have him apprehended, "fucking LET ME GO!"

They do not and hauls him out of the room.

Otto looks out in as Daemon wrangles and growls. Viserys releases a deep breath and thinks about how he would really rather not have to tell you this happened.

And he doesn't, because before Daemon is even released by the kingsguard back to his chambers, the servants have already whispered about the incident each other and your trusted handmaiden informed you promptly what happened as you visited Alaerion in the pit.

You didn't even need to seek Daemon out this time, because the next thing you knew, he was marching over to you as you brought your dragon back in. Alaerion's screech is what makes you realize he was here.

You turn away from her and see your distraught brother marching over.

"Daemon, wh-"

"Iksan ēdrugī hen umbagon. Kesā dōrī ūndegon, sīr kesan urnēptre ao nykēla," he heaves as he walks over. You pull away from your large mount and walk towards the prince as he continues, "tolvie ñāqatubis ao zālagon nyke lēda aōha laehurlion. Ao jurnegon rȳ nyke yn gaomā daor ūndegon nyke."

I'm tired of the wait. You will never see, so I will show you myself. Every morning you burn me with your face. You look at me but you do not see me.

Daemon grabs your wrists and pulls you toward him, "I have not been a boy for years. You will no longer treat me like one."

Alaerion begins to circle around the two of you. She roars for attention, but neither of you give it to her. She shakes her head and cranes her dark hued neck up, looking down upon you both.

His hard gaze dig into the internal wounds that he had just inflicted. You suck in a breath and yank out of his grip, "then do not act like a child around me."

Alaerion goes on the defensive when you shove Daemon back. She may be fond of him, but she would not hesitate to protect her rider.

You raise a hand at your dragon as she hisses, "arlī bē." Back up.

Alaerion begrudgingly obeys.

You watch as she lies down but keeps a close watch on the two of you. You turn back to your brother, who looks like he had suffered horrible whiplash, "ziry iksos iā doru-borto hen ao naejot vīlībagon nyke isse naejon hen Alaerion."

It's a stupid of you to fight me in front of Alaerion.

Daemon shakes his head, "I'm not trying to fight-"

"Then WHAT do you want from me?!" you throw your hands out in question.

"I WANT YOU!" Daemon bursts with frustration.

You freeze in your spot as he steps forward and grabs your face. His breath hitches, "I want you to see me for what I am!" His hands drag down to your neck, "and I am a man with needs," your hands grab onto his top, "with wants," he heaves, "with desires."

"Daemon-"

He shuts you up with a kiss. He is done wasting time. The time is now. He has to have you.

You are shocked by the kiss. You are shocked by how hungry it is. You are shocked how wonderfully his lips fit against yours. You are shocked by how easily you mold against him.

Daemon feels his stomach flurry as he brings his hands to your side and digs his fingers into your dress. Your own hands come to his nape and tug at the roots of his long hair.

He breaks away from you to whisper against your cheek, "you will no longer scorn me. And you will not refuse me."

You let out a yelp when Daemon bends and pulls your skirt up. He drops on his knees and scratches up your legs, nails intent on leaving their mark, "I have made it known to the old fucks at the council that no man is worthy of you."

He brings himself under your and sinks his teeth to your thigh, "none but me, sweet sister."

You moan out his name, as you feel his hands slowly knead their way up to your hips. You snap out of the rabid trance you were being pulled into because of Alaerion's loud huff.

"My love, the doors are wide open, someone could-"

"Ivestragī zirȳ ūndegon," Daemon cuts you off and suddenly rises to his feet. He looks out of breath and starved. He takes your shoulders and shudders, "ivestragī zirȳ ūndegon bona ao sytilībagon naejot nyke."

Let them see. Let them see that you belong to me.

Daemon shoves you down, bringing you to your hands and knees. You look back at him as he undoes his breeches. You turn away and gulp. You try to calm yourself but the thought of someone walking in on you, added to the fact you could hear the prince ripping at his trousers, was making your insides burn.

He gets on his knees, rips your skirt up, and hisses at the sight before him. He immediately grabs your thighs and rips you apart. He wanted nothing but to taste your sweet building slick, but he has to claim you now. His fingers find your entrance. He lets out a grunt as he toys with you with two fingers while his other hand continues to free his steadily hardening cock.

You let out a shaky moan as Daemon circles his thick fingers around your tender flesh. Your jaw drops and you shoes dig into the floor when two digits shallowly enter you.

"I've gotten much practice," Daemon mutters, "learned everything for you," he mutters, "want to touch you better than Viserys."

Your heart drops at his words. Your head whips over your shoulder. Just then, Daemon pulls his hand away from your core and looks at you. His eyes darken and he grabs your hair, effectively ruining your braids. He brings his glimmering fingers to your lips. You have no shame, or at least not in that moment, and you instantly suck on him, tasting yourself on him.

""Nyke pendagon nūmāzma bona tubis nyke ūndan ao lanta mirre se jēda," he huffs as he ruts against you, "sesīr skori nyke ȳdra daor jaelagon naejot."

I think about the day I saw you two all the time. Even when I don't want to.

Your let out a loud sound when he unceremoniously thrusts into you and yet he does do anything beyond gripping your hips tightly.

Daemon rubs at your fleshy backside and releases a string of High Valyrian curses as you feel yourself clench around him. He acts in retaliation of his hated sour memory, shoving into you only once out of spite, making you release a cry that echoes across the room.

A few more moments pass and, still, he does nothing, you bring one hand to your side and place it atop of his knuckles. You arch your back and begin to maneuver against him faintly, "my love," you speak in a wanton manner, "please move."

Daemon's face contorts.

You squeak when he slaps into you once more then stops again. Without another warning, he further ruins your hair with his careless grip and then begins to fuck into you like there's no tomorrow. In truth, they may well not be one for him if someone catches you and Viserys' anger is inspired.

You feel your neck crack as Daemon yanks your hair. At the same time, you let out a guttural cry that bounces across the room. This is finally enough to rouse your dragon with concern.

Alaerion stirs and lifts her long neck, looking down upon her rider as she is mounted from behind. The creature knew well enough what was happening, and she happened to like Daemon, which was why she watched for a second before letting out a bleat, along with smoke through her nostrils.

You really don't have the sense to speak to your ride, much less make any sound that was remotely intelligible, so you effectively ignore her as you feel a pressure in your belly build.

Daemon releases your hair, making your head drop and shake in relation to the his ministrations.

Gathering his strength, he hoists your hips up slightly, making your shift your weight on your fidgeting toes. This allows him to rip into upward and in doing so, hits a needy little nerve in you that makes you release a helpless cry every moment it is hit.

You call out Daemon's name in response, arms shaking through its attempts to keep you up.

"You like being fucked by your brothers, don't you?" he sighs through his brutish actions, "you wanted to be filled up so bad that you couldn't wait for me to take my place in you."

You don't respond with anything coherent. You feel dribble slip down through your open mouth.

Your limbs begin to tire, and your belly begins to grow tighter and hotter. You focus on the feeling building in your stomach and make yourself go wild at the thought of the prince filling you up with his seed. You release a moan but it rips into a yelp when he slaps your ass then yanks at your hair again.

You nearly choke on your spit. You begin to beg to him in High Valyrian.

Alaerion catches this and finds no more tolerance. She begins to growl.

Daemon chuckles as he leans in to you, "your dragon has issue with her master being bred roughly," he nips at your lobe, "tell her off."

You whine.

Rather desperately and unconvincingly, you order Alaerion to back up and calm down. You know for a fact that the sound she made was one that was dissatisfied with the order, and yet she forces herself to calm and decides to curl into herself.

Daemon reaches his breaking point, and moves as ruggedly and as quickly as he possibly could. He elicits another yelp out of you when he slaps you again, "udligon ñuha másino." Answer my question.

You're lucky to even know what the hell he is talking about, so with a loud gulp you let out a strangled answer, "kessa." Yes.

Daemon growls, "which brother?"

You whine, "ao, Daemon," you sigh as he pummels into you, "sīr sȳz." You, Daemon. So good.

And as though that was the trigger, you bounce against him some more and then you come so good around him that it squeezes the air out of you and makes your eyes roll back.

You continuously call out his name as he sequentially spurts out with burning ripples of him. He makes sure you are shivering and overstimulated, and that he, himself, was fully done for before slowing and eventually stopping.

Daemon catches his breath as he rubs the fleshy part of your backside. You can feel yourself twitch around him as he does so, and you so badly wanted nothing more than to hold him right now.

"I've imagine doing this so many times, my princess," he mutters through a breath and stops his rubbing motions, "I've imagined making you mine more times than I can count."

You hiss when you feel him slide out of you. Sequentially, you feel his orgasm drip for your convulsing womanhood. Daemon uses a gentle touch as he brings your skirt down and slowly gets to his knees. He quickly puts his softened self away but makes sure to help you to your feet before doing anything more. You sluggishly move to stand and take his hand as he reaches out to you.

Daemon tugs you into him and looks upon you with solemn eyes. He brushes your hair back and you look at him then his undone laces. You find yourself smiling as you reach for his pants whilst feeling a hot bead burn down the inner part of your legs.

You happily tug at the string of his trousers and tie them up for him. You cannot help the playful expression that spreads across your faces as he makes attempts at smoothing your hair out.

You look at his face once, catching the concerned line between his brows. You turn back to his waist as you finish tying the strings, "do I look utter ruined, sweet boy?"

Daemon releases a breath. His hands come to your neck, his thumbs rub at your collarbones. You lean into his touch as your lips curl into a brighter smile.

"Ao jurnegon hae ñuha māzīlarion," he retorts, taking one step forward, face leaning close to yours, "nyke zālagon syt ao." You look like my future. I burn for you.

Your breath hitches when he places a gracious kiss upon. Daemon is warm and gentle as he leads your lips through this dance. You reach out for his torso and let yourself drift through the feel of his warm mouth.

"Nyke ānogrosa nehugon syt ao," Daemon whispers as he pulls away and rests his forehead against yours. He takes your hands and places it upon his chest, "iksā mirre nyke jeldan, mandia." I bleed for you. You are all I ever wanted, sister.

You feel your stomach roll, "ñuha Daemon." My Daemon.

"Take me as your husband," he retorts, pulling away to look you straight in the eyes, "I would honor you better than any man could. I would smite all that wrong you. I would fly across the realms with you. I would clear the way of anything that hinder you. I would father your dragonlings. I would teach them the pride of our house," he shakes his head, "I would have you till my dying breath... if you'll have me."

You cannot help the tears that begin to fog your vision. You pull you hands from him to clutch his jaw and rub it lovingly, "oh, Daemon," you let out a soft chuckle, "you have always been the most important person in my life. I would give you the world if you asked it of me," you curl your lips into a smirk, "and now I can put to rest all my worries for your betrothal."

Daemon breaks into a smile. He chuckles softly. He wraps his arms around you and presses you tightly against him, "not all your worries. You will still need to plan it."

You laugh as he kisses your neck. You relax against him and dig your fingers into his nape, massaging the area gently, "you would let me fuss about it all by myself?"

"I nary care for the formalities," he mutters against you, "I'd wed you in the gutters and still be the happiest man alive."

You snort and push him away. You give him a look as he tucks hair behind your ear, "we are not going to be wed in the gutters, Daemon."

"Of course not," he raises his brows, "I will not allow such offence be made to my bride."

You find your stomach fluttering at his words, "your bride."

Daemon's face grows solemn all over again. He rubs your lips, "my bride."

You smile at him and nod decidedly, "I will speak with Viserys about this and promptly begin preparations."

Though the words should have made him overjoyed, the prince felt a pang of dread rip through him as he heard them. Daemon clenches his jaw, "I should speak to him. It is only right I implore brother for you hand."

You take in his expression and find yourself chuckling softly, "you fought with him, didn't you?"

Daemon does not retort.

You laugh louder and shake your head, "then do not further inspire his fury, my love," you smooth out his hair, "let me do the talking. After all, he will not refuse me."

Daemon places his hands atop yours, causing you to still your actions, "he may not refuse you but he may want to spite me."

"Daemon," you sigh, "Viserys may be difficult, with you especially, but he means be out of love," you kiss his nose, "leave your worries to sissy."

Daemon sighs then nods. He sinks his head do your shoulder and you pull him close. He kisses your skin and thinks he belongs here. He belongs against your ribs.

Alaerion rolls over.

"Prince Daemon, though adopted many infamous names, would notably be remembered for overcoming what would be known as the Four Horrid Tasks, issued by his older brother in exchange for their sister's hand. King Viserys' had always been extremely fond and protective of his twin. He made clear many times over that she would wed whom she chose. Yet through constant pressure, in the end, he made a proclamation for all those interested in her: 'He who be daring and gallant enough to accomplish but four tasks for the king, Viserys of House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, will be allowed to take the princess, the King's twin and younger sister, as his wife.' It is heavily debated whether or not the decision was made to silence the voices of the council from further pestering him with the matter of the princess' hand, or to dissuade his younger brother into pursuing their beloved sister any further."--Excerpt from 'Daemon Targaryen: A Prince Larger Than Life' by unknown author, circa 100-120 A.C.

Daemon took deep breathes and sure strides on his way to his brother's chambers.

Yes, you told him to leave it up to you, but he could not find it in him not to speak to Viserys about the matter.

The events at the dragon pit yesterday were clear in his mind. He could still hear your cries, feel your soft flesh, taste the tenderness of your words.

He knew, truly, that if it was the issue was of your hand, you were the only one who the king would ever listen to its regards. And yet even after hearing from both guards and servants alike that King Viserys made it known he would not be interrupted in his room or bothered with any royal matters for today, he pressed forward still and now stood before his brother's chamber doors.

The prince decided to knock and announce himself, which was honestly not his nature.

He waited for a few moments, listening in for a response, before raising his knuckles to rap on the door again. He does not though, as he hears the sound of a whimper seep through the crevice before him. Daemon straightens as a high pitched voice continues to whine. It was very obviously not Viserys making that sound, and somehow, he was certain that was not Aemma either.

He clenches his jaw, it was you.

"Enter," the king barks.

Daemon wastes no time and pushes the door open. He makes it a point to keep his eyes down and only look up once the door was closed behind him. When he does, he feels his insides gurgle at the sight of his twin siblings.

Lo and behold, there sat the King at the edge of his bed, chest bare, hands rested upon on his lap, or rather, the lap rested upon him. You were sat on Viserys, lips parted as you heaved heavily, clad in nothing but your shift. To make matters worse, your clothes were bunched up by your hips and Viserys' hand was unabashedly in between your thighs.

Daemon wouldn't know that your fluttering cunt was filled up with his brother's seed and your ass with filled up by his cock up until later.

He could clearly see how his brother was touching you with his fingers, evident by the strain in his arm and how you would slightly flinch intermittently.

"So, baby brother," he starts, "you caught me fucking sissy once before, huh?"

Daemon neither moves nor responds.

Viserys keeps his eyes on him as he nuzzles his face into your neck and makes you whimper by shoving his fingers into your leaking entrance with little regard, merely keeping them there. You grip on his arm and mutter his name out in a plea.

The king does not like that and looks at you as he thrusts upward, making you squeak helplessly, "funny that now you remember my name now, whore."

Daemon's nostrils flare at the crude name you're given.

Viserys turns back to Daemon as he sinks his teeth into your shoulder. He enjoys watching his brother's face tick at the sight of him sullying the woman he wants to make his wife. He pulls his mouth off you and speaks to the prince, "you remember when I first took you to a whorehouse, Daemon?"

In truth, Daemon doesn't want to reply, but he decides that he probably should, "yes."

"If the princess wasn't born a princess, she would've be the best whore in the Street of Silk," Viserys turns back to you, "iksis bona daor paktot?" Is that not right?"

"Paktot," Right, you reply like clockwork.

Viserys releases a groan that bubbles into a laugh, "my poor girl is so desperate to come, isn't she?"

You let out a needy sound and arch your back against him when he begins to move his fingers inside you. One of your hands go to the side of his face and another goes atop of his working hand, urging him with gentle stroke to continue pleasuring you.

Gods be good, the sight of you coiling up against Viserys was a torturous sight. It was making Daemon's breath shorten and his insides churn. And yet, at the same time, he could feel his pulse in his pants thud strongly in reaction to what he saw.

"Do you deserve to come, byka rene?" Little slut.

You readily nod at your king's words, "kostilus." Please.

Viserys begins to feel your folds tighten against his fingers. He promptly pulls away and grabs your neck with the hand he just used to fuck you with, "I don't think you're sorry enough."

You whimper as he presses down on your airways.

Viserys then turns back to Daemon, "you know why she's here?"

Daemon watches as you let out a choking sound. He shifts uncomfortably in his spot but does not get to reply as the king answers himself.

"My pretty twin is here to convince me to give her to you," he sighs deeply, releasing his chokehold to grab one of your breasts and knead them roughly, "the gods made her the same day they made me. They molded her next to me in our mother's womb, and I molded my cock into her with a vengeance," he eyes Daemon hotly, "she belongs to me. Why would I give her to you?"

Hearing those words make you momentarily slip out of your lustful trance. You turn to Viserys and rub your nose against his cheek, "brother, please-"

"If the fuck says he wants my throne and you'd kill me in cold blood and give it to him, wouldn't you," the king seethes, flicking his hips upward, making you screech, "all he does is complain like the little boy he is and calls you cruel if you ignore him for even a second, yet you think he's worthy? Worthy to be king? Worthy of my prized half's cunny?

"He doesn't even know how much you favor him," Viserys continues through a growl and slowly stops his vicious movements. You let out a tired cry as he rubs your belly and turns to Daemon, "when he first shared a whore, brother, I immediately thought of sissy. I so badly wanted to share her with you."

Daemon watches as Viserys hands come between your thighs again. The latter explains further, "I thought she would look so pretty leaking from both holes after her brothers fuck her like the slut she was made to be-- made for us."

The prince swallows heavily.

"But no," Viserys pulls his hand away from your thighs, "she said she did not want to taint you," he scoffs out a chuckle, "as if she was unaware of the fact you were a bigger whore than both of us combined."

Daemon shifts in his spot again.

"Why don't you tell our sweet sister how much of a whore you are, Daemon," the king announces, "tell her how you made your painted whores swallow your seed and not waste a drop, for it was an honor to even have a Targaryen load in them. Tell her how you spit between their arse cheeks and made them weep as you tore through them with your cock," he turns to Daemon, "tell her how you touched yourself to the thought of us-"

He lets out a strangled breath.

"Tell her how badly you want to be me," Viserys gives a wolfish grin as he begins to rock his hips upward, making your whine, "how badly you want to fuck her with me right now."

For some reason, Daemon finds his brother's words as a trigger to step forward. He manages two steps before he realizes what he is doing and stops in his tracks.

Viserys face darkens as he stills. You whine again. He tilts his head in a beckoning manner, "take her dress off, brother."

Daemon does not know why he hesitates, but he makes up for the seconds with eager steps towards you.

Before he reaches you two, the eldest speaks up again, "you ought to know that she rather readily gave herself up to me as she mused about the idea of your marriage."

Daemon stops when he is before you. He feels himself stiffen further at the sight of your sweaty face as you turn to him.

Viserys looks up as well, "and while we were fucking, the bitch called out your name instead of mine."

Daemon cannot help the way his eyes widen at that.

"Syt sīr bōsa, nyke mirre ao kreni, se syt skoros?" he yanks you by your hair, "naejot emagon ao isse jaelagon hen orvorta hen ñuha lēkia." For so long, I kept you pleased, and for what? To have you in want of the cock of my brother?

"That's enough," Daemon rebuts.

Viserys releases your tangled hair upon hearing this and laughs. He turns to Daemon and shakes his head, "enough? Pull her dress off and you'll see how whorish she is. You'll see her leaking with me because I fucked her and didn't make her peak. You'll see her grinding down subtly cause I have her ass impaled."

So he does just that.

He pulls your dress off and sees your wet curls and thighs, painted white with the with sticky remnants of the king. You lift you hands so Daemon can rid your clothing altogether, and he quickly chucks it to the side. He licks his lips as he finally notices the miniscule circular motions you were doing on top of Viserys' lap.

The said man raises a brow, "you still want your hussy?"

Daemon does not get to respond as you are pulled back onto the bed. Viserys falls onto the sheets and drags you up, all while keeping himself snug inside you. He pushes you to your side and grabs your leg, bringing it behind you, over his hip.

You whimper as you feel come spill out of you. Your sounds intensify when Viserys grabs your breast and begins to thrust into you. He twists you carelessly as he fucks into you with little regard.

Daemon's mouth nearly foams when you raise a hand and call out for him, "jorrāelagon ao sīr olvie." Need you so much.

Viserys pants, "come one, little brother. Your come slut awaits."

Daemon can feel his hands trembling as he strips himself naked. He works as fast as he can but when he hears your cry, he decides to climb over to you although his dress shirt remained on him.

You whimper as tears prick in the corner of your eyes, reaching out to Daemon as he takes his place next to you. The said man rubs your hips and grabs his hardened length, easily slipping into your soaking folds.

You release a loud cry when you feel him enter. You scratch at his clothed back and tug at his shirt, "off, please, off-"

Daemon does not dare deny you this, and though he struggles, he eventually rids himself of his final piece of clothing. After this, he finally begins to move into you. He pumps in and out at a much slower pace than Viserys, but matches the same ferocity.

You let out quick and shallow pants at the delicious feel of fullness in you. As you were denied and teased for so long, you could feel yourself quickly reaching your peak. You arch your back and pull Daemon into you as you clench around them

Viserys, knowing your body well, grabs your neck and whispers into your ear, pushing your further to your edge, "greedy minx. Coming already? Daemon's just getting started."

You can't help that you come right after that, shuddering and shaking as you feel heat spill all over you. You feel your lungs wring out all the air inside it. It only intensifies as Viserys keeps his hands secured around your neck. Needless to say, you're seeing stars at this point.

Daemon releases a groan as he feels your cunt convulse around him. It makes him increase his tempo to a point where he's moving about as fast as his brother.

With the added roughness, your high is surely lived out up until there was nothing left. Soon enough you were squeaking helplessly, twitching at the overstimulation.

Neither of the two could keep themselves from chasing after their own need even as you very clearly began to grow tense in discomfort.

At one point, everything became all too much that you choked out a soft sob.

It was at this point that Daemon begins to relent in his ways, slowing down to offer your brief repose.

Viserys, however, was not letting you have any of that, "don't stop, don't you dare fucking stop," he grunts. "She can take it," he leans into you, "can't you pretty girl? Can't you pathetic whore?"

Daemon watches as you choke out a yes through tears and a strangled breath.

You lift your leg off Viserys and prop it atop of his hip, "want to make you feel good," your grab at Viserys' neck, "want to make both my boys feel so good."

The king loses himself after that. With merely a few more thrusts, he bursts into you and releases a hot load that has you yelping.

He tightens his grip on your neck before he releases you abruptly, grabbing onto your shoulder as he uses you to satisfy his remaining needs.

He calls out your name and tilts your head back to kiss you. You catch a quick breath before he connects your lips together. Your mouths mingle against each other's sloppily, up until you're only breathing and grunting against the other, no longer kissing.

When Viserys stills behind you, he watches as Daemon pummels into you like a man on a mission, and, to be fair, he was.

Daemon takes his turn, bringing your face to him and kisses you much tenderly than Viserys did. He grabs at your leg and pulls you closer to him as he chases the building fire in his belly.

Part of the king knows his brother was probably being held back by the position you were in, and as much as he wanted to see him suffer and to keep himself buried in your plush tush, he decides to be a magnanimous king and pulls out of you, causing you to whimper as you swollen hole oozes with his creamy delight.

Viserys rolls to his side and takes a moment before standing up and grabbing his ever ready wash cloth on his cabinet, wiping himself down as he turns to watch his brother break into his twin sister.

Immediately, Daemon has you pushed on your back, sprawled out beneath him. He wraps your legs around him and fucks into you with more vigor now that he had you all to himself.

"D-Daemon," you whimper as you wrap your arms around him, clinging onto him for dear life.

He nuzzles into your neck and mutters sweetly, "need me so badly, sweetheart?" he groans and whispers, "need me to fuck you better than Viserys?"

You whimper in response as the bed creaks at his movements.

Daemon pushes your legs down your sides and licks your tear stained cheeks, "you want to come again, love?"

You shake your head in disagreement as your poor cunny was still very much reeling from being teased too much.

He whines, "what if I want you to come, pretty girl, will you come for me?"

You sob at the idea, "Daemon please-"

"Shhh," he sneaks a finger between you, "you can do it, can't you?"

You digs your nails into his back and you scream out when he begins to rub at your sensitive pearl.

"Gōntan ñuha dārilaros daor ivestragon ziry kessa tepagon nyke mirros?" he mutters against you, "kessa ao daor tepagon nyke iā byka run hae bisa?" Did my princess not say she shall give me anything? Will you not give me a small thing like this?

Tears rush out of your eyes as you hear this, "Daemon kostilus." Daemon please.

Viserys lets out a heavy breath as he hears your whimpers. He finds himself smirking, "where's the Fanged Beauty's teeth? You can take it can't you?"

Damon groans and answer for you, "she can take it," he grunts, "take it like a good girl. Sissy's always been good at taking care of us."

You whine and let out a long breath. You allow yourself to relax against him and eventually, with all of Daemon's ministrations, you calm and feel yourself begin to tighten around him all over again.

"Gaomagon sȳrī, riñītsos, tolī mirre, iksā doing bisa syt zirȳla, daor?" Viserys speaks as he walks off to get himself a cup of wine.

Do well, little girl, after all, you are doing this for him, no?

The king sips on his drink as he watches the obscenities playing out on his bed.

Daemon feels himself fall closer to his limit. Sequentially, he no longer actually gives a shit whether or not your come with him or not, though he really wanted to feel your cunt choke him as he pushed into you.

It was a good thing that you suddenly began to pant out his name and dig your fingers into his hair, "I'm close, Daemon."

He smirks and nods, "like a good girl."

You whimper and rapidly feel yourself inching towards your undoing. The final blow is delivered after Daemon sputters out curses as he unravels above you. He releases into you with his nails digging into your sides. He twitches and shudders with the intense bolt of pleasure. It surges hot, molten, and thick. It fills you up until you're overflowing.

The sound you make is piercing. It rips through Viserys' ears, inspiring him to call you a string of vulgar names in your shared mother tongue. On the other hand, it makes Daemon hiss hotly against your neck as his ego soars while he concludes his fuck. His stiff body slowly begins to grow limp and your own terse one spasms until its putty.

By the time the prince is a melted sky above you, you catch your breath and hold onto him, as though he was your deliverer, as though he was your beloved; both of which were true after all.

Daemon buries his face next to your own and whispers sweet nothings to your ear.

You nuzzle your face against him. Slowly, your heart began to calm.

"Hen rȳ istin," Viserys pipes up, cutting through your tender moment, "ivestragī īlva ūndegon se mess emā vēttan." Off at once. Let us see the mess you have made.

The king walks over to the side of his bed and motions his head at Daemon, who barely wanted to roll off you as it was, now it was the last thing he wanted to do. Still, he looked at his brother, thinking that he had a withering cock, and gave you a quick kiss before separating from you.

Though Daemon did so in a gentle manner, you still could not help but curl your toes tightly and whimper as the weight above you shifts off. Immediately, your pulverized holes began to weep out the lustful load the two dragons left in you.

The two men cannot help the fascination and the enthrallment they feel upon seeing the way your swollenness flutters, nor, frankly, can they turn away.

Daemon does not move too far from you and, in fact, lies by your side, nuzzling his face between your breast, wrapping an arm over your side, pulling you close to him. He rubs his cheek on your skin and plays with your pert nipple.

"Filthy whore," Viserys smirks, "to think you could have had us both long ago had you not been so persistent in babying your precious baby brother."

You do not respond to him but you do begin to lightly brush through Daemon's hair. You breathe through your lips as you slowly bring your head down to look upon the youngest, "I do not regret it."

Daemon looks up at you as you mutter through a smile, "I prefer knowing him like this."

Viserys' eye twitches at this. He clenches his jaw at the sight of you both and downs the drink in his hand. He walks off to set it down and then finds himself scoffing. He feels a bitterness settle in his stomach and as he turns over his shoulder. Suddenly, a smirk spreads on his lips.

"Dirty girl," he mutters, "if you were to fall with child," he turns around, "no one would be able to tell if it was me or Daemon that fathered it."

Daemon turns to Viserys as he walks over.

"Maybe you'll bare twins like mother and then Daemon and I can share a child."

You turn to him and sit up slightly when he says this. You notice that, though his tone was mischievous, there was a serious glint in his eyes. You raise a brow at him, "don't be ridiculous."

"I am not ridiculous," he shrugs, "I am king."

Daemon immediately sits up.

Viserys raises a finger.

The two brothers stare at each other for a moment before the latter speaks, "I have heard your pleas. I will consider them kindly at the council tomorrow."

[tamayakii]

The Devil watches.

Warnings: Not connected to any episodes of HOTD, but is set after Daemon & Laena marry after Rhaenrya & Laenor do. My timing may be off by a tad, Pairings: No Pairings, it's pretty much Darling on her own. notes: I chose the flowers with purpose, anyone who can guess will get a cookie. Also thank you to my friends for being my beta-readers. Also part two IS in the works!

The Belladonna swayed in the wind, dancing with the butterfly weeds. They were a beautiful sight. A change from the rainy scenery on Dragonstone, it rained like hell on the island. The colder season was here. Your family wrapped themselves in furs and thick leather. 

The Velaryons and Targaryens frequently met on Dragonstone because of the marriages between Rhaenrya and Laenor, as well as Daemon and Laena, with Dragonstone and Driftmark being sister islands. 

At a slow pace, you traversed the halls of the stone castle, the one that had held many of Targaryen's heirs and ancestors. Since your entrance into the royal family, you dug yourself into research- you wanted them to know you truly did not look down at this chance of a better life. 

You learned the history of Old Valyria with your father, Viserys. He believed himself a dreamer, you found, like Daenys the Dreamer- perhaps the reason the Targaryens survived the destruction of Valyria. 

With Aemma, you learned of Rhaena Targaryen, Queen of the East and West. Daughter of Alyssa Velaryon and sister to Queen Alysanne, sister-wife to the King Jaehaerys the First. Aemma wanted you to know about her mother, Daella Targaryen.

And you knew, you discovered her meek nature, her fear of gardens, bees, and cats. You acquired all knowledge that could be learned, all knowledge that the Maesters wrote. Even once at a dinner, you asked Ser Corlys what he thought of Daella, who was 3 and 10 at the time of their meeting.  

They quickly escorted you to your chambers, with Rhaenrya following closely behind you. It seemed you had upset Aemma and changed the mood of the dinner. Queen Aemma miscarried that night, something that you would place blame on yourself. 

Outside, the wind blew through the paneless windows of the halls. The salty taste of the sea sat upon your lips. The thoughts of your late-queen mother made your eyes water, the pain of her death still ever present in your soul. Your veil billowed behind you as the wind blew harder, pulling your fur robes tighter as you descended the staircase. These were the nights when you felt the need to be under the shrouded night, humming the Mother's Hymn, as the darkness seemed endless and the stars never shined. The castle was as silent as ever. Besides nature's song, everyone tucked into their warm beds. Protected by the guards that you’ve come to know as background ambience. 

“Gentle mother..” You sang under your breath, letting your fingers feel every grout of the walls that followed the staircase, “font of mercy…” you dragged your voice out as you reached the bottom of the tower, pushing the thick oak doors open. 

“Save our sons..” Closing your eyes as you felt the wind caress your face like Mother herself as you sang her hymn, “from war…” stepping into the courtyard, you looked up at the looming castle of Dragonmont. 

“We pray.” Your feet step slowly across the gravel, mimicking a dance you once saw. Slowly, you step from the left before taking a long graceful one to the right. “Stay the swords,” you dance yourself through the protective gates of Dragonstone, skipping from one step to the next. 

“And stay the arrows.” Your voice trails off as you walk onto the shore, the waves lapping at the sand. You stopped to admire the dark sea, your veil waving in its wind with force. It was as if the sea’s wind washed away your sins. 

“Let them know a be-” A large gust of air comes from above, nearly knocking you on your arse. It punches the air out of your lungs. Gasping for air as you looked to the heavens above, but nothing was there except the night sky. 

“Better day..” whispering, eyes wide as you stare into the abyss night. You rack your brain for answers. Perhaps it was Ceraxes. If left alone for too long, the blood wyrm was known for its lonely flights. The thought comforted you. 

Looking down the long rocky beach, you begin your trek again with caution. You listen to any sound in the night but all there is howling of the wind, trying to comfort yourself with a sigh; you sing once more,

“Gentle mother..” you pause, waiting for an interruption that never comes. “Strength of women,” pulling your robe against you tighter as you round a tight bend in the beach, skipping over rocks to dodge the waves licking your feet. 

The sound of rocks tumbling catches your attention, watching as small rocks fall down the cliff side. Looking up to find that the rocks seemed moved on their own, not a lively shape to be seen up top. 

‘The wind, perhaps.’ you think to yourself before moving onward.

“Help our daughters through this fray.” You lost yourself in thought as you walked. The Mothers Hymn was of comfort to you. Aemma sang it every time she tucked you in, unable to ignore your pleas to sing it just once more. 

The first night you sang the Mother's Hymn without Aemma was after her funeral, Rhaenrya would not sleep, her grief too much for her to bear on her own. You hummed as you brushed the girl's hair with your fingers, whispering the lyrics.

It took an hour until she fell asleep- your voice raw from repeating the Hymn with no breaks. 

A cove sat in your path, the sandy path too thin for you to walk, the water becoming more shallow as it flowed into a cave. Finding yourself upon a high rock, enjoying the sea breeze, you were ignorant to the eyes that stared from the cavern. 

“Soothe the wrath and tame the fury,” You wondered about Laena’s adventure to Vhagar, the woman had her eyes set upon the dragon since she learned of its history and location. Vhagar, the last of the conquerors' dragons, was a mighty green beast, but her song was as beautiful as a gentle maiden. 

“Teach us all a kinder way.” 

The air gets warmer, almost too warm. You start to wonder as you pant about the change of weather. Turning around and looking into the cavern's mouth; you realize why.

A dragon, as dark as the night and as sharp as a blade. Its horns curled around its face, green eyes glowing in the dark. It begins to climb out of the cave, its body seeming never ending. It  towers over you with his horrifying size. 

Fear gripped your frail heart. You were going to die. 

Smoke billows out of the beast's nostrils. Its chest glows with the heat of a thousand fires. Flames tickle your legs as you throw yourself off the rock, gasping as the freezing water below you flee for your life, forgetting the sharp rocks and barnacles tearing at your hands.

Thunderous booms follow you, a song that told you your fate, but the song was not comforting. It was dreadful. It screeched and wavered unceremoniously, and that was the song you would die to.

There was no escape. The breath of the fearsome dragon was hot on your back. Did the beast enjoy this? It could end this chase with one snap of its giant teeth, but it did not. 

A light at the end of the tunnel appeared.

A crack within the cliff side, just big enough to hold you. 

Tripping over your feet as you dash for it, shoving your body between the jagged stones, it hurts. The sharp edges tore at the front and back of your dress, crying as it dug into your skin. What were you to do? 

The dragon paces back and forth, a cry that sounds too much like a chortle leaves its throat. It was laughing.. It was laughing at you.

“Gentle Mother” You sang with fear, trying to comfort yourself, a bit of solace as you sat at death's door. “Font of mercy” voice wavering as you sobbed, you wanted your mother. You wanted Aemma. 

“Save our sons from war, we pray- oh gods!!” you sobbed against the stone, begging the gods- all of them, the old and new, for Mercy,. 

The dragon had stopped, listening to your voice. 

“Stay the swords and stay the arrows-” you realize the dragon has stopped. You look at the opening and see its green eyes watching you as it slowly lays its large body against the sand. Its lips curled once you stopped singing, 

“Let them know a better day..” 

It snorted, laying its head down. Perhaps it once heard the Mothers Hymn, or maybe it was the own Mother's hand coming down to save you. 

“Gentle Mother, strength of women..” Slowly, you begin to sidestep out of the crack. “Help our daughters through this fray.” you can feel its hot breath once more. Fear makes you stop, but memory reminds you of your family.

“Will I have a dragon, Papa?” Viserys held you tight on his lap, the book open wide on your thighs. The man hums with thought before he smiles, kissing your temple. 

“A girl as brave as you? Of course you shall have a dragon., I will make sure of it if I must.” His hands rub your sides with love. The thought of him forcing the gods to give you a dragon made you more happy. 

Looking up at him with a toothy grin, “Thank you, Papa!!” The rest of the night you discussed dragons. Viserys suggested that once Dreamfyre laid a new hatch, he would give you a dragon egg, but each egg he gave you failed to hatch.

“Soothe the wrath and tame the fury,” 

The dragon chirps softly, a weird noise coming from such a devilish beast. 

“Teach us all a kinder way…” The Hymn ends and soothes the dragon., "Do you like that? It's my favorite... is it yours too?" with cautious steps, you finally emerge out of the rocks. The dragon huffs, and the clouds split and the moon shines upon you two. 

If you tamed this dragon… perhaps you would feel more Targaryen, maybe you could fly in the skies with Rhaenrya and Daemon. 

The dragon sniffs you as you step closer. Your hands touch the scales of its snout and it rips its head back with a grunt. It was still a wild dragon. You almost laughed at yourself. It had tricked you. You were no Targaryen, and it would kill you.

Awaiting the flames hotter than the hells to blanket your body, you waited for the never ending pain with your eyes closed, but it never came. When the wind picked up again, you found yourself opening your eyes once more.

There it was, spreading its wings and taking off with a mighty roar. You watched as the dragon flew further into the mountains, 

You had walked along the devil's hand and came unscathed. 

With the speed of a hare, you picked your soaked and ripped dress up and ran. Feet ripping up the sand, leaving spits of rocks behind you. Desperate to reach the safety of your chambers within the safety of the castle.

You reached the castle gates, heaving for air, but it did not stop you. Brushing past the confused guards as you blazingly push the doors open to the side tower and running up the stairs, 

Your mind came back to the wild dragon, the way it had multiple sets of horns, but its biggest curled in towards his face like a ram. Its eyes were more green than the richest jade, scales so deep black that it could rival Balerion’s skull that resides under the Red Keep. 

Shoving your body against your chamber doors, they slam shut. You wheeze for air, the pain pinching your throat as you try to breathe normally. You should’ve been dead ten times over. Slowly, you walk to your bed, shaking as you collapse. 

The silk sheets are warm against your slick skin, fingers stretching as they tremble from the cold. Your eyes fall heavy, the distant roar of a dragon seems ever faint as you slip into a deep slumber.

That night, you dream of dragons. It is you who is the dragon. You see flashes of broken eggs and the bodies of baby dragons ripped apart, oddly; you feel no remorse for the creatures but only satiated hunger. 

You see the rough choppy waters of the Narrow Sea below as you fly through the dark nights, ships cross in many numbers- You destroy them, roaring with a laugh but you hunger for your own brethren, for the taste and feel of fire and talons.

No longer a dragon, you’re a human once more. A baby within a cradle, your mother Aemma above you, or was she Aemma? Her long white hair and purple eyes entranced you, but as you studied her further; It was not Aemma, but another woman.

Her eyelids were gently dusted with a purple hue, and her lips were glossed to match the same shade of purple. She seemed tired, but she still smiled. Above her was a painted tapestry of dragons, but among the many, only one caught your attention. There it was. The beast swirled and its jaws were wide open with a flurry of green fire escaping its mouth. 

The eyes seem so alive and penetrating, as if they're boring into your very being. The green-eyed devil had been watching you for a long time. 

Your dreams end before you can look at the woman once more, but you hear her voice, 

“Gentle Mother, font of mercy…”

Let me know what you guys think!! Reblogs over likes!!!

[bumblesimagines]

Obsessions and Cruelty

Request: Yes or No

Summary: Despite the love Princess Alyssa and Prince Baelon had for their twins, Prince (Y/N) and Prince Aegon, Daemon never truly forgave (Y/N) for causing the death of their mother; but he'll never genuinely hate him either.

Pronouns: He/Him/His, M!Reader

CW/TW: Typical HOTD warnings, Targcest/Incest (Brother-Brother), mention of childbirth caused death, mentioned death of a sibling (Lil Aegon), toxic behavior?, Daemon stop insulting women challenge (impossible)

~~~

Princess Alyssa and Prince Baelon had been overjoyed when (after a long and excruciatingly painful childbirth) the Mother bestowed them with the gift of twin boys whom they happily named Prince Aegon and Prince (Y/N). Their two older brothers, Viserys and Daemon, welcomed them into the family with ease, making plans of all the things they'd teach the boys.

All had been well, until six months later when Alyssa passed after being unable to fully recover from having the twins, her body too weakened from the hours of pain and blood loss. Tragedy struck again with the weaker of the twins, Prince Aegon, passed just shy of his first nameday, leaving the family in distress and an ocean of grief.

Prince (Y/N) had been born sickly as well, and the boy had hardly cried or fussed when he'd been born; so much so that the midwife and maester present feared he'd been stillborn until Baelon took his boy into his arms and the little one finally kicked off with some wails. His health fluctuated throughout his first few years of life, having its highs when he raced down the hall with his little legs and a flurry of maids following as well as its lows when he could hardly get out of bed. 

While his father deeply grieved the loss of his beloved sister-wife and child, he refused to allow it to push him away from his youngest boy. He ensured to assign (Y/N) a personal maester, one who'd only tend to the boy when asked and would give him all the attention he needed.

Others assumed (Y/N) would pass before becoming man-grown, but the prince proved them all wrong, much to the relief and glee of his father and eldest brother, Viserys. His second eldest brother, Daemon, stewed in his grief and growing resentment. 

Daemon had loved their mother wholeheartedly. Alyssa had been a fierce, determined, daring princess who taught Daemon much of what he knew. He loved her, from her blonde hair to her mismatched eyes to the fact she rode the beautiful Red Queen, Meleys, because she'd been denied of riding Balerion. Alyssa's wild spirit had passed down to her son but she'd been stolen from him before she'd ever get to see him in action.

He despised it, despised how much they coddled him, how much they fretted over a weak little thing. Daemon spent much of his time avoiding the boy, for the sight of him alone reminded him of the night he learned of his mother's passing. Perhaps it was guilt too, that made him ignore his brother, for he also reminded him of the thought that he screamed in his mind during the funeral.

I wish they'd died instead.

Daemon hadn't looked anyone in the eye when little Aegon had been pronounced dead from a harsh fever; an inevitable death, the maester had claimed, for the boy had been weak for months. But Daemon believed the Gods had done it to remind him they were always listening. 

(Y/N) had been around four when Daemon's resentment first spilled over into actions. The younger prince had been left without a playmate after their brother left for training lessons, and (Y/N) had refused to play with the willing maids in favor of stumbling out of his room in his stubby toddler legs to search for his other brother.

When he approached the seven-year-old in his bedchambers, Daemon snatched the wooden toy wolf and snapped its head clean off with the threat of doing the same to the rest of his toys if he ever approached him again. (Y/N), of course, bursted into tears and Daemon awkwardly watched until their father arrived to scoop the little one into his arms and give Daemon a scolding. 

Baelon attempted to get the two to reconcile a few days later with a hug. When Daemon extended his arms out toward (Y/N), the little boy made a face and ran right back to their older brother who immediately gathered him up into his arms. It'd been then that Daemon felt a twinge of bitterness, not at (Y/N) for having Visery's attention but at Viserys for being chosen over him. He forced it away and told himself it was what he wanted. He hated him after all. Or so, it was what he told himself in the years that followed. 

Without fail, the weeks leading up to each of (Y/N)'s namedays seemed to set something off in Daemon and he'd make it his life's mission to bother the boy into tears. The first few years resulted in many wails and scoldings from their father, brother, and eventually even their new sister, Lady Aemma. His life had resulted in the death of the woman Daemon loved most, and he'd never forget it. But, Daemon soon learned everyone, even sickly weaklings, had their limits. 

On (Y/N)'s tenth nameday, Baelon had settled (Y/N) on his knee after the celebration and began recalling stories of Alyssa, starting with the fact she'd always followed him around in their youth like a shadow. (Y/N) had been enthralled, eyes big and wide and head eagerly nodding for more tales of the woman he'd never get to meet. Grief made Daemon's chest constrict, and without thinking, he'd blurted out: "There'd be more stories if you and Aegon hadn't killed her." 

The room had fallen deathly silent afterward, only family members lingering around who all turned to stare at the boy wide-eyed. His grandparents and father seemed on the verge of lecturing him when (Y/N) slipped off Baelon's knees, walked right up to the spot on the floor Daemon was sitting on, and landed one good punch to his nose that left a heavy flow of blood. Some in the room laughed, others shook their heads but Viserys had ensured to swoop in and separate the two until the maesters arrived. 

And while Daemon had a maester tend to his bleeding nose (luckily dismissing the possibility of it being broken), (Y/N) sent him a triumphant grin from across the room that made Daemon seethe. Still, he couldn't deny the hint of pride that swelled in him, as well as a new bubbling feeling. 

From then on, fighting and bickering were the only thing the boys seemed to do together, mostly because picking on (Y/N) was the only way to get him to pay Daemon any sort of attention. His accusation had been enough to permanently cement him as the enemy, even with all the coaxings and reminders of blood being thicker than water. He leaned into it, even if it meant having to sit back and grumpily watch (Y/N) happily cozy up to Viserys and sometimes even Lady Aemma. 

The Gods had cursed him for wishing the Stranger on (Y/N), he was certain of it. Why else would he care so much?

By the time the two were in their teens, Queen Alysanne had wed Daemon to Lady Rhea Royce of Runestone. He'd been sent off to live with her in the Vale, perhaps the most boring place in Westeros and annoyingly far from home. When he'd returned home for a visit, he'd learned from Viserys that the soon-to-be seventeen-year-old (Y/N) had many marriage prospects. Daemon had hoped to find himself thrilled at the idea of (Y/N) moving far away to become the new lord of some noble house but it only soured his mood whenever someone brought it up.

"I hear Lady Lusia is quite beautiful." Lady Aemma told (Y/N) one afternoon, a cup of sweetened milk in hand and a gentle smile on her face. Daemon scoffed quietly at her words, a bitter taste forming in his mouth that made him angrily swallow the piece of apple he'd been chewing. Lady Aemma seemingly ignored him. "I hear she has a fascination for dragons. I'm certain she'll love Sōna." 

"Or Sōna will eat her in a single bite the moment she lays eyes on her." Daemon piped in, pushing himself up from the couch he'd sprawled himself across and smirking at the eye-roll (Y/N) sent his way. Truthfully, Sōna was exactly like her rider in more ways than one: spoilt, easily annoyed, and downright bratty at times. The pretty beast had certain food preferences, for Gods' sake. Lady Aemma merely shook her head and sipped on her drink whilst Viserys finally tore his attention away from the book in hand. 

"Perhaps you have someone in mind then, Brother. You seemed against Lady Katherine and Lady Breyna as well." Viserys's finger dragged along the edge of the book, an amused twinkle in his eyes as he regarded his brother in a way that seemed to say I know. Daemon scowled at him, unable to resist the heat creeping up along his neck. 

"I'm saving those ladies from a lifetime of misery, more like. (Y/N) would probably drop dead if he saw a woman naked." 

At that, (Y/N) whirled around to look at him with a sneer. "It wouldn't be my first time!" He snapped at him, and irritation rolled over Daemon like a crashing wave. He'd been gone from court for a little less than a year and had already missed so much. His new wife's family had insisted he stay in Runestone with her despite her indifference, but he hardly cared for her or the Vale of Arryn. She was plain-faced, boring, and never bothered to converse with him. He much preferred the bustle and hustle of the Red Keep.

But nobody mentioning his little brother had bedded someone while he was away? It shouldn't have annoyed him as much as it did but the thought of some lousy little lady - or anyone, truly - laying hands on his brother in a less-than-friendly way made his blood boil. Had she even done it right? Had she even kissed him with passion or just with the desire to boast about lying with a Targaryen prince? 

"Who?" Daemon demanded, springing up to his feet and chucking the apple aside so hard it slammed into the wall and broke apart. Lady Aemma flinched at the noise and gave her husband a bewildered look that was met with a quiet sigh. Daemon's long silver hair spilled over his shoulders as he grasped the back of (Y/N)'s chair and leaned down to glower at him. "What dumb bitch decided you were worth laying with?" 

(Y/N) bristled like an enraged stray cat and shot up from his seat, planting his hands on Daemon's chest and shoving him back. Daemon stumbled backward, nearly tripping over his boots, and scowling immediately but before he could cut the distance, Viserys planted himself firmly between the two. At twenty-four, Viserys had no business being forced to stop fights between the two, but he believed it to be his job as eldest much to their annoyance. Daemon opened his mouth to spout some more things but he bit his tongue when he noticed the way (Y/N)'s eyes glistened. 

"Nyke vēdros ao." (Y/N) spat venomously, and Daemon's shoulders sagged, his body reeling back as if he'd been struck. (Y/N) stormed past the two of them, the doors shaking violently when he slammed them close behind him. Lady Aemma frowned at him, shaking her head with a soft sigh of disappointment. 

I hate you. 

He'd meant it, Daemon was sure of it. He'd been a bother since (Y/N) had been born, just a baby prone to illness who had no memories of their beautiful mother. The birth had impacted Alyssa severely, sure, but the twins had never asked to be born. Daemon had realized that early in his teenhood, but most of the damage had been done and he'd never been one to apologize or admit wrongdoing, to begin with. But as he stood there, staring into nothingness while the words replayed over and over in his head, he swore he felt his heart cracking. 

"Go apologize," Viserys told him softly, placing a hand on his shoulder and giving it an encouraging squeeze. "Make things right before it's too late. Father intends on having him wed before the winter."

Silently, Daemon turned on his heel and left the couple alone in their room to make his way down the hall. He'd upset (Y/N) enough to make him cry, something he hadn't done in years, so he felt certain the teen had rushed off to his bedroom before he could be seen. The servants and guards he encountered along the way were quick to step out of his way, and the ones stationed at (Y/N)'s bedchambers opened the doors for him without having to be asked. 

(Y/N) sat at the edge of his bed, legs crossed and lips pouting like a child but Daemon could only wince at the tear stains on his cheeks. His hands messed with his boots, undoing the laces of one and throwing it onto the floor. When he spotted Daemon lingering by the doors, he threw the other one at him, nearly hitting him in the thigh. "Go away," He demanded. 

"Your aim's better." Daemon simply told him, slipping off the holster holding Dark Sister to his waist, and leaning the sword against the wall. (Y/N) reached down for the boot he'd tossed on the floor, scooping it back into his hand and throwing it at Daemon. His brother caught it with ease before it could slam into his chest, causing (Y/N)'s cheeks to puff out in annoyance and Daemon to smirk.

"Come to laugh at me some more?" (Y/N) asked bitterly, his eyes following Daemon as he made his way further into the room. With nothing else within grabbing distance to throw, he remained seated on the bed with a glare and curled hands ready to hit him. Daemon eyed his tense form and took a seat beside him, scoffing when (Y/N) scooted away.

"You act like a child." Daemon sighed, snatching (Y/N)'s wrist into his hand and squeezing the skin exposed when his sleeve rode up. (Y/N) struggled at first, angered muttering falling from his lips, but he slowly relented and gave in with a heavy sigh. Daemon gave him a hard tug that forced (Y/N) to fall onto his side, a grin gracing his lips at (Y/N)'s narrowed eyes. 

"And you act like an arse." He replied, shifting around to sit up straight again. 

"I didn't..." Daemon pursed his lips. Viserys knew how to apologise, knew all the right things to say to make things better. Daemon only knew how to hurt and break things. "I didn't mean to-... to make you cry." 

"Liar." (Y/N) huffed and Daemon's jaw clenched, his temper flaring up with ease. "You like seeing me cry. You probably get off on it." 

Daemon bit his tongue, this time literally, so he could fight the wicked smirk from spreading on his face. "Yes," Daemon exhaled, the breathy, amused tone making (Y/N) grow still with suspicion. "I get off on the thought of you crying from how much you desire me." He said lowly, moving an inch closer so their noses would bump together. He relished the quiet hitch of (Y/N)'s breath.

"I- I- You- I would never- What-" (Y/N) sputtered, tongue twisting so violently he almost choked on his words. Daemon's free hand rose to grab his jaws, fingers digging into the heated skin of his cheeks. He delighted in the heat, for he believed it meant there was a chance of his feelings being mutual. 

"Who did you lay with?" Daemon questioned, his fingertips digging into the skin of (Y/N)'s cheeks and pulling his face ever so closer. He dragged his lips over his cheekbones, trailing them over his little brother's nose and brows and any part of his face he could reach. (Y/N) squirmed in his grip, his closed hand pressing against Daemon's chest in a half-hearted attempt at pushing him back. "Tell me."

"No." (Y/N) grumbled, ever the disobedient one. 

"Was she worth it?" Daemon prodded, pushing his brother back onto the bed until his back was flat against the covers. He swung one leg over (Y/N)'s hips to straddle him, laying his weight down on the prince's thighs to prevent him from getting up. (Y/N) glared up at him, lips forming a deeper, more pronounced pout. He pinned the wrist in his hand beside his head, ensuring to keep a steady grip on him. 

"Better than you'll ever be!" (Y/N) spat, the challenging tone in his voice only making Daemon's desire flourish, the overwhelming feeling pumping through his veins. He swooped down and slammed their lips together, swallowing the squeak that escaped (Y/N) and shoveling his tongue into his mouth when (Y/N)'s lips parted. He suckled his bottom lip into his mouth, biting down on it until he tasted a hint of metallic. 

"You should've come to me, sweet brother." Daemon sighed, tongue lapping up the small trickle of blood that stained both their lips red. (Y/N)'s fingers curled around the collar of Daemon's tunic, battling between pushing him back and drawing him closer. "You need not for anyone else. I will take care of you, regardless of what anyone else dares to say." He cooed, pressing a sloppy, bloody kiss to his cheek. 

"You hate me." (Y/N) murmured, his nose crinkling at the taste of blood dancing on his taste buds. Daemon frowned at him, hands harshly squeezing (Y/N)'s jaw and wrist for his words. When (Y/N) grimaced, he released his jaw and instead tenderly stroked his knuckles over his cheek. 

"I do not." He assured, nuzzling their nose together and kissing him again, savoring the shudder that went through (Y/N) when he pressed down on the small cut. "I care for you. More than you'll ever know, little brother."

[fulltacoparadise]

Anyone know this fanfic, I can’t find itttt

It’s about Arryn reader, she’s the second daughter of viserys and Aemma.

She was raised along aegon so Alicent and rhaenyra both both genuinely care for her. The story mainly is about how reader is falling inlove with cregan stark who came to a tourney made by viserys so that she could find a husband

They fall inlove and he writes letters to her ones in high valeryan which aegon finds and gets mad about.

That’s as far as I got but I wanna read the story again and it’s killiinnng me cus I know I found it here 😭

[the20thangel]

The Dragon and The Raven Chapter 8 (The Cursed Gift)

Chapter Summary: Aemma tries to explain the situation about Aegon and her to Benjicot. Benjicot feels betrayed and doesn't know how he should be feeling. Will Aemma lose her husband?

Tags: angst, illness, cw: talks of potential miscarriage.

taglist: @callsignwidow @whimsicalmystic02

word count: 3319

Keep track of the story: masterlist

A long beat resounded between Benjicot, looking at his wife, while Aemma glared at the cursed gift. 

After another short beat, Aemma turned to Benji with a pleading eye, “Ben, I-” 

“What does it mean, ‘You know my heart is yours as your eye mine,’ Aemma?” interrupted Benji, increasingly upset. 

Aemma breathed as she tried to reach her husband, who slowly backed away from her, “The ‘gift’ was from Aegon, who has a delusion that I’m in love with him, but-” 

“Why would the usurper ever think you love him?” Benjicot asked, looking at her, eyes storming. 

Aemma closed her eyes and exhaled through her nose, “When we were children, we made a stupid promise to marry each other, but it was a silly child game… it-” 

“It was real enough for him to send a blasted gift for OUR wedding, claiming that he loves you and you love him back!” shouted Benjicot angrily. 

Aemma's eyes widened in shock at his response, and she grew slightly upset. 

“It's his delusions. He is like a spoiled toddler who throws tantrums when he doesn’t get his way! I don’t love him; we were kids! Ben, you need to understand that!” exclaimed Aemma; she just wanted her husband to understand and let her explain the story calmly. 

Benjicot angrily shook his head and started walking towards the tent exit with Aemma following him, “Were you never going to tell me? Hoping that his delusions would just fade or that I am left unaware that a certain false king thinks he has a claim to MY wife?!” 

“No! I was going to tell you, but I was going to tell you after the wedding, but then the battle happened, and I didn’t think he was that crazy to send that stupid box!” Aemma explained as she tried to touch his shoulder, but Benji shoved it off. 

“I don’t know, Aemma. You told me our courtship shouldn’t start with lies, but here you start our marriage with one…” Turned Benji with tears streaming down his face. 

“I would never lie to you, Ben. I don’t love him. I don’t love any other man but you! You are my husband. I don’t want any other man but you!” Aemma started, her heart breaking into pieces, tears streaming down her face. 

Benjicot shook his head. “I don’t know; I just need time to think…. I think we should sleep in separate beds for the time being… I just need to not be with you,” he said as he walked out. 

“No! Ben… Benji… BENJICOT BLACKWOOD!” Shouted Aemma, gasping as she collapsed to the ground sobbing. 

Aemma sobbed for a few minutes before angrily turning to the cursed gift. She grabbed it with the note and threw it into the hearth of the tent. She despised Aegon; she wished Sliverwing had bitten off his head rather than his leg. All she wanted to do was be in her husband's arms, but now he wouldn’t even look at her. 

After cleaning herself up and checking that she didn’t look like she was sobbing, she had a few trusted handmaidens take a few of her things and the wedding gifts back to her tent. As she sat on her bed, Aemma stared at the fire. She couldn’t believe her marriage was going to estrangement barely a few days in… As she remembered her grandmother’s words, Aemma wondered if she should have just married for duty and not love.  For love, it hurts too much. Oh, how she wished this was a nightmare she could wake from. 

As Benjicot returned to his tent, he was muddy and sweaty. He scanned the room, and there was no sign of Aemma. He knew he had asked her to leave, but he hoped she would have disobeyed and stayed. But would he have stayed if she had? Would he have listened to her? He didn’t know; he sighed as he sat on his bed, placing his head in his hands. After a quick bath, he lay in bed, missing his wife’s warmth. 

Over the next few weeks, everyone started to notice something going on with the princess and lord, but when they were asked about it, Aemma responded that she was just tense from her grandmother’s injuries and the death of Meleys. Benjicot stated he just wanted to prepare his men for the next battle and needed to perform his mundane lordly duties. Jace and Baela were worried. Aemma was getting skinnier and had dark eye circles, but she always shook them off. 

As Rhaenyra prepared to return to Dragonstone with Jacaerys, Baela, Rhaenys, and Corlys, she worried for her daughter and good-son. She called on Aemma, and as she arrived, her daughter smiled at her, but Rhaenyra knew it was forced. 

“How are you doing, my sweet girl? I see you have been distant from your husband lately?” asked the queen. 

Aemma froze for a second. " We are doing fine, Muna . He is busy with his lordly duties, and I have been too worried about Grandmother… Kepa has also worried me, stating that we are at a considerable disadvantage now that we have lost Meleys.” 

Rhaenyra hummed but was still unsure. “Don’t worry. We discussed how we will look for … dragon seeds, those who have the blood of the dragon outside our family.” 

“I guess, but I just worry how loyal they will stay with us after they claim a dragon,” explained Aemma, hoping her mother would buy into her worries and not ask more questions.

“We would have to wait and see… but are you sure you are doing okay?” Rhaenyra asked, trying to see through her daughter's shell. 

Aemma bit her lip; she had been emotional these past few weeks but didn’t need to worry her mother. Her mother has a war to win against Aegon. 

Aemma gave her a small smile and decided to lie again: “I have just been having some nightmares lately. They… they are of grandmother dying …and of Luke.” Technically, Aemma was not lying to her mother. Even though she tried to sleep, she couldn’t. Those nightmares, along with others, made her afraid to sleep. She hated feeling helpless. 

Rhaenyra’s heart broke, “Oh, my pearl, have you told your husband? Maybe he-” 

“He knows, and he does his best… but I also don’t want to exhaust him… don’t worry, I am drinking some tea to help.” Aemma quickly lied, not wanting to talk about Benjicot; it was still too raw. 

Rhaenyra nodded but couldn’t help but think there was something else. She wouldn’t pry, though, knowing how much she hated in her youth to be constantly bothered to speak when you didn’t. 

Aemma said, “I will see you at this evening’s feast, Mother.” 

Rhaenyra smiled as she saw her daughter leave, feeling helpless. 

As Aemma walked towards her tent, she bumped into Aly. Who stated how much she missed her; Alysanne gasped at seeing Aemma’s appearance. She looked like a wilting flower. Aemma tried to ease Aly’s worries, and when she asked if Benji knew, she had to use all her might not to cry. Aemma tried to soothe Alysanne’s concerns as she excused herself, not seeing Alysanne tracking, watching her enter her tent and not into Benji’s. Aly's eyes creased with worry for her good-niece. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Even though Aemma and Benjicot sat beside each other at the feast, they ignored each other. Aemma wanted to eat her meal quickly to excuse herself, but when she tried the Mutton, she wanted to gag. It tasted horrible to her, and the smell was overpowering. She glanced at the feast and saw everyone enjoying and joking around; no one seemed to mind the food like she did. Once another wave of nausea hit her, she told one of the maids to tell her mother she needed to be excused. She quietly stood and quickly walked out of the feast. 

Unbeknownst to her, Benjicot was staring as she left. He sighed and turned back to his food, not feeling the mood of the feast, when two lads jumped him from behind. Oscar and Kermit Tully had arrived and jostled him around, causing the lord to chuckle a bit. Oscar and Kermit began pestering him about his wedding and asking where his lovely princess was. 

Kermit jokingly stated, “With a princess that beautiful, he probably has her locked up so no other men can stare at her!” 

Causing Benjicot to grow cold, his hands tightening around his spoon. Oscar noticed his friend's mood and stated it was only a jest. Benjicot nodded before he stood tensely, walking out of the feast. Alysanne soon followed, but she took a different route, not wanting to let him know of her presence yet. When she passed the princess’s tent, she heard the sounds of throwing up, and the handmaidens asking the princess to call a healer. Aly, worried, rushed in and saw the princess on the floor throwing up in a bucket. Alysanne ran to the princess, telling the maid to get a healer as she helped Aemma. Aemma tried to push her away, but Aly would not budge. 

As the healer arrived, she began accessing the princess and asking her numerous questions. Aemma gave her symptoms and how she couldn’t sleep, worrying Aly more. Aly asked the healer if she knew what was causing this. 

The healer wondered, “When was your last moon blood, my princess?” 

Aemma and Aly gasped, Aemma feeling her heart drop as she remembered it was three weeks before her wedding. The Healer nodded and announced that the princess was expecting, but before Aly could rejoice, the healer told the princess that because she was frail right now, her body was at high risk of losing the babe. Aemma closed her eyes in despair; she was failing at her duty… 

Aly asked what could help the princess, making the healer respond. 

“Whatever is causing you heartache or deep unrest, princess, I suggest you fix it soon, not only for your own health but that of your babe’s, my princess.” The healer excused herself, leaving the room. 

Alysanne looked at Aemma, who started fidgeting with her rings. Aly sat beside her and pleaded with her about what was happening and why she was so stressed. Aemma finally broke down in tears, explaining the green box, the note, the argument, and the explanation she wanted to give her nephew, but he always tried to evade her. So she had given up trying to speak to him; now she needed to worry about her baby, making sure she could at least perform her duty to her husband. Alysanne embraced the princess as she grew angry; yes, the princess should have told Benjicot sooner, but for her nephew to just push away his wife, not only was he risking his relationship with their allies but with the health of his wife and unborn child. Alysanne stayed with Aemma until the princess tired herself out. Once she saw her sleeping, Aly left to scold her nephew. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Why am I finding out that you have pushed your wife away from you?” shouted Alysanne, scaring Benjicort from his place. 

“What?” he asked confused. 

Aly’s nose flared as she repeated her question. Benjicot frowned and told his aunt she didn’t fully understand. This made Alysanne more upset. She stated that she knew everything, and while she could understand the betrayal, it was not severe to just push the princess away. Benjicot sighed, saying that they just needed time away from each other to think about what they wanted their marriage to be. Alysanne became furious. 

“Now I know, this isn’t about her not telling you; this is about you being self-conscious about your position as her husband. Knowing that other men find her attractive makes you scared you are going to lose her. Well, my nephew, if you were going to be one of those paranoid men, then maybe you shouldn’t have married a beautiful Valyrian princess. There will always be men lusting over her. Do you not think Ser Leanor or Prince Daemon knew about that with the Queen? But they understood their wife’s beauty and didn’t let that stop them from loving their wife. But the second you find out, a stupid man holds delusions of a stupid childhood. You give up on your marriage! Have you seen your wife, she…. She’s struggling, Ben, and you… you don’t see her fading away.” ranted Aly, tears streaming down her face, remembering what Aemma looked like. 

Benjicot was shocked; he knew his aunt was right about why he and Aemma fought. He wasn’t truly upset at Aemma for not telling him but more concerned that she would one day realize he wasn’t the best husband for her and leave. But hearing that she was struggling made Benji want to wallow in guilt. Was he genuinely ignoring her that he did not notice? 

Alysanne knew that she had finally made a breakthrough: " Please at least talk to her… let her explain fully…she’s … sick, Benjicot and your strained relationship with her is only harming her more.” Lying about being sick and not telling him about the pregnancy was princess news to bear. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next day, Benjicot walked to Aemma’s tent. Going in, he saw her face. Her cheekbones started showing sunken, and she had dark undereye circles. His heart broke; he was the cause of this; as much as he wanted to lay in bed with her, fully acknowledging how much he missed her, he couldn’t. Walking out, he left to train, feeling the need to blow away some steam, imagining all the practice dummies to be a certain green king. 

As Aemma woke up, she noticed her breakfast was laid out but already cold. A maid told her mother had just left, not wishing to disturb the princess from sleeping. Aemma nodded as she remembered the healer’s and Aly’s words from last night. Reignited with fire, she decided: after spending time with Sliverwing, she would find her husband, make him listen, and, for their babe’s sake, have a cordial marriage if they could not have a fierce love one. 

Walking to her dragon, she could hear steel hitting something with intensity. As she turned, she saw her husband hitting the dummies with vicious and precise force. Aemma sharply inhaled; he looked handsome, fully acknowledging how much she had missed him. She walked towards him, stopping a few feet away and waiting a second before speaking. 

“Good morrow, my lord,” she spoke lightly, watching as he tensed up before turning to meet her gaze. His eyes were storming as he breathed heavily from the intense training. 

There was a moment of silence as both stared, watching the other, with only the sound of a breeze. 

“Be- My lord, I was hoping you could spare a few minutes for an audience with me?” asked Aemma. 

Benjicot cringed internally; they had not used their proper titles since the first night they met. Nodding, he walked down a path away from prying eyes as he sat on the grass, seeing how she struggled to sit down, causing a new wave of guilt to come over him. 

Aemma sat beside her husband as she asked for her fire to return to her. She could do this… for her babe. 

“I want to explain everything; I’m asking you to please listen until the very end…” pleaded Aemma, waiting until Benjicot nodded to continue. 

“When my family and I still lived in the red keep, this was when I was eight name days old, Aegon and I were watching our brothers train; he was talking about how his mother was talking about future marriages with him and how he did not want that. I took pity on him and joked about how we could marry each other, to which he agreed. He asked for a kiss to seal, and I was a naive girl, so I gave him a chaste kiss. I would have no idea if he actually took this as a promise. As I grew older and heard how he was treating the servant girls and my aunt Heleana, I decided to withdraw from him and Aemond, who is another whole situation. I have never really loved him; I will never love him. How could I love a man like him who takes things that don’t belong to him, who ruins someone's happiness? Who would gladly celebrate kin slaying? How can he compare to you, a brave fighter who takes responsibility for his family and people? Someone who has a kind heart hidden in layers of a solider. I have never had someone make me feel safe and loved like you have. You are easy to fall in love with, and I will gladly rip my heart for you to prove how much my heart belongs to you and not Aegon. I will gladly die for you. I know I broke your trust and may never win it back, and if you feel you cannot love me back, then I ask… I ask that we may be cordial with each other… for the sake of the babe.” ranted Aemma, looking down, not wanting to see his reactions. 

Benjicot gasped and stared at his wife's still flat belly… a babe… a child was growing in her body. This filled him with more guilt; he left her alone. She found out by herself and was willing to not have a loving relationship, in her thoughts, all for the babe. Benji shakenly reached out and raised her chin, pressing his forehead to hers. 

“A babe…” We are going to have a babe?” asked Benjicot as Aemma looked into his eyes and nodded. Benji took a second before he continued, “ I—I just hate that he thinks you belong to him…” Benji whispered to her. 

Aemma reached out and caressed his cheek. “I will never belong to him. I pledged my love to you before the Old Gods and the Fourteen Flames. My heart and soul belong to you and you alone. We made a blood bond; no other person will exist for me.” 

Benjicot kissed her hand, “How is the babe?” 

Once Aemma heard the question, she faltered and turned away. Benjicot turned her back to him, reminding him of when she had done the same to him. “Aemma, we promised not to lie to each other…please”. Benjicot pleaded with her as he noticed her taking a shaken breath. 

Aemma turned with tears in her eyes, “I’m at risk of losing the babe…. But I promise I will do my best to do my duty as your wife. House Blackwood will have a-” 

Benji kissed her, cutting her off, “Fuck duty, I will not lose you over a babe. If the gods wish to bless us, they will provide another babe, but they cannot give me another Aemma.” 

Aemma sobbed as she kissed him back; she had missed him so much. After sharing a sweet kiss, they stood, Benji, leading his princess to their tent. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

From the tent, there were faint gasps, moans, and grunts… with whispers of ‘I love you’s. Aemma lay in the arms of her husband, sleeping soundly, as Benji stared at his wife's naked and flat stomach. Their babe was growing inside there, and he almost lost them both to Aegon's fault. He now understood Rhaenyra’s and Aemma’s reasoning; in their delusions, the Greens will always hurt others to get what they deem theirs. They don’t love; they just take and ruin. They nearly destroyed his marriage, but Benjicot now knew better. He would fight for his love and family as his Aemma did. Then as Benji pulled his dragon princess closer to him, kissing her, he made a promise the next time he saw that green drunken whoremonger king, there will be a sword slicing through his fat stomach.

[lunaerys-archeron]

THE SHADOW QUEEN

Mainlist | Prologue | Chapter I

(This is based on my book on wattpad)

Daemon Targaryen x OC!(Lunaerys Novak)

For caution, most of this is fictional not included in the books or show!! So there will be more than a few of my original characters that have last names of main characters.

When Aegon the Conqueror and his three sisters came to Conquer what was known as, Westeros, the Seven Kingdoms. There was another Kingdom that was not part of neither of these realms, it was its own entire world. The Kingdom of Adrithe, an own realm built of gold and black steel. The capital was known as Morruk, in which House Novak, the royal family of Adrithe had ruled over their sacred realm. It was said that the people of Adrithe had prayed and worshiped the Gods of the Old Flame, five gods in which created the very first fire, Aellos known as the almighty of all of the Old Flame souls, and sacred oaths. Rhemeros, the goddess of fertility and life. Moruku, the goddess of Seas and Darkness. Orkos, the God of War and Protector of warriors and children, and lastly Lunaeros, the goddess of mischief and eternal death. The legend states that they were siblings, born of the skies, their duty was to create the first fire. The first eternal life.

When the four had came forth to the earth's grounds, they had presented a large land of people their gift, in exchange for their worship and their fair treaties the four gods would present them with fire and protection. During this encounter the gods had chosen a woman to be their sole messenger, she was named, Amaris Novak. The first Queen of Adrithe, the lady of Morruk.

As centuries passed Queen's and King's had came and went, all proudly honoring House Novak.

When Aegon Targaryen, known as the Conqueror of his realms had traveled to Adrithe with his three sisters he had threatened their Kingdom to bend the knee, or they'd face the consequences with the fire of their dragons.

Adrithe's then ruler, King Silas Novak refused to bend the knee to a man who called himself a King for forcing with fear and death.

But Aegon was desperate to have control over what could become a threat to his new Kingdom, the Dragon King offered his only sister he was not wedded, Aelara Targaryen, as Aegon had been married to his other two sisters Visenya and Rhaenys.

However, King Silas refused. For he did not wish to marry a girl ten years his younger, she was only ten and six, and himself twenty and six. He did not want to break the innocence of a young girl who was used as a pawn for her brothers gain, nor did he wish to be stuck in a loveless marriage.

Though King Silas made a deal with Aegon, if he truly wished to go to war then not only would Adrithe go to war but so would Dorne. For Adrithe and Dorne were bound eternally by blood from Silas, as he was of both old flame and dornish blood. Both would gladly go to war for their people. Or, if Aegon never called war against Adrithe, House Targaryen would be welcomed to make trades within their Kingdom.

It was that day, one in which the sun bled blood over its light.

A treaty was sealed in written blood. Adrithe and Westeros would never be at war with one another.

A moons term celebration was thrown, House Novak and House Targaryen joined together as one for days and nights. But twas' on the last night, King Silas had asked Queen Visenya to join him for a dance after he asked her husband. The Dragon and Wolf of the East danced as if they were old lovers.

And that is what they were. Just for one night. Forbidden lovers.

It was three years later, when Silas had sent word for Aegon as they had grown to close friends over their peaceful years since their treaty, Silas Novak was to be married to Alysara Stark. A woman of the cold North, someone he grew to love wholeheartedly. Two wolves of different claims.

It was said that on the night of Silas Novak' wedding to his consort, Queen Alysara Stark. That Visenya had revealed to Silas that her son, Maegor Targaryen, was of blood of both his and her own. Silas did not believe her words, until he saw the young boy run with is brother. Maegor Targaryen was his son. A child born from no marriage. A bastard.

Silas wished to claim Maegor as his own, but Visenya refused. Stating that the Iron Throne was to be his once Aegon passed, and the Iron Throne costed more than a throne made of bones.

More years passed and Silas Novak and Alysara Stark created four children, all boys who resembled their father and mother. For they had their mothers norther hair and sharp features, but wore the golden eyes of their father. News had been shared throughout every single realm known, and when it reached the ears of House Targaryen. Visenya had seethed in anger.

Now that her old lover had children of his own, four, son's at that, and another on the way. Her son Maegor went down the line of Adrithe's succession. For she wanted her son to be King to both Kingdoms.

War breeched when Maegor Targaryen came of age and his brother Aenys had died. He wage war against Adrithe, destroying the treaty his father had once created.

The histories based on this war had stated many different outcomes, but one thing that stayed the same. Visenya Targaryen was the reason for both of her sisters and her sons death. Adrithe and Dorne joined together, their forces to harsh against their dragons, for scorpion blood and viper venom with nightshade killed them painfully but quickly. Aelara and Rhaenys Targaryen died with their dragons. And Maegor died by the hands of his five half-brothers, not knowing they were his blood.

When Jaehaerys Targaryen came to the succeed his uncle as King to the Iron Throne, he tried to make amends with Adrithe once again, to fix what Maegor broke. But Adrithe would no longer find themselves agreeing to another treaty that would one day be broken by a Targaryens' ambition.

Thus, Adrithe and House Targaryen never once again saw eye to eye.

So when King Aelor Novak, the great-grandson of King Silas, received raven from King Jaehaerys Targaryen, in the year 97 a.c. He was shortly surprised and angered at the offer.

For, Jaehaerys had offered his second born grandson, Prince Daemon Targaryen to marry his daughter and heir, Princess Lunaerys Novak.

Would House Novak and House Targaryen finally be joined together as one, as the gods of both the Old Flame and Old Valyria had once intended? Or would they end in another war.

Only Princess Lunaerys and Prince Daemon would decide.

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