#Daemon Targaryen being Daemon Targaryen | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

toomanydrafts · 2 years ago

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Betrothed.

Summary: You, a northerner of House Glover with some distant Valyrian ancestry, are betrothed to Daemon Targaryen. When your childhood companion Cregan Stark visits, seemingly saving you from the southron court you detest, you become his amicable guide. How could Daemon’s jealousy not be sparked by you taking such pleasure in another man’s company — after all, who else can have you, but him?

Notes: My first time; heavily edited recently.

Warnings: canon-typical misogyny, coarse language, sexual references, implied age gap, Daemon Targaryen

In Deepwood Motte, the home of your house, you detested late summer snows. They ate away at the first summer of your youth, when you were not yet out of leading strings. You had always envied Winterfell for the boiling hot water that ran through the castle walls, the blood of the castle’s gargantuan body, and rejoiced each time your family stayed there. What you had envied most as a child, however, was the warmth of the south. Now that a quick winter had come and gone, and you were well a woman grown, arrived in those sweltering southron lands, you missed the late summers snows of the north.

King’s Landing had felt unbearably hot the first moon’s turn you spent, but now that detestable feeling had simmer down into discomfort. Still, servants brought you iced milk each day, sweetened far beyond your liking with honey. Worse than heat and sugar were the ladies of the court. There was much frivolity in the south. The north had always been a more somber place. Your family were not exceedingly wealthy, and nor did they, as it was the southron fashion to do, attempt to imitate the exceedingly wealthy. You were educated by your septa in all ladylike things, even becoming accomplished in song and dance, as well as achieving proficiency in the lute. Your life was surmounted on how well of a match you could make, and so you had learned the necessary skills. It was, in small part, how you came to betrothed to Daemon Targaryen. Yet, you always suspected your betrothal was due in far larger part to your Valyrian ancestry.

The southron ladies of court, whom you were obliged to accompany, often and loudly bragged of their luxuries, their silks, their sweets, and all other forms of careless grandeur. To hear about it endlessly was draining — sickening, even. The young, new Queen Alicent, though modest and austere, in her silent complacence endorsed the ladies of court.

Your only true respite in this blasted place was your betrothed, Daemon Targaryen. He was not overbearing as the ladies of court, though certainly assured and arrogant, you rather found common aspects in your values. Often you would take strolls together, or stand linked by the arms amidst the court in the Great Hall, whispering and smiling about each pompous lord and his presumptuous wife. Once, he convinced you to ride with him atop his great Blood Wyrm, Caraxes; he flew you across Blackwater Bay, as far as Dragonstone, and you even spent a brief moment on the island’s stony expanse.

This day was no different. The summer sun bore down over King’s Landing, and despite the shade provided by the expansive leaves of the garden plants, sandy canopies and parasols, you were hot. Cupbearers poured chilled wines, iced milks, and sugared lemon juice to all the ladies that were attended this outdoor luncheon, servants fanned us all excessively, and a slender fool in feathered motley danced atop the table.

“These cakes are rather nice,” a southron lady, rather large in stature, commented as she slid a plate full of thick, layered cakes that smelt so strongly of sugar you might’ve smelt them beyond the Neck, across the table. You wished, suddenly, that Daemon was here to rescue you, to hold you close as you walked or gossiped far away from all these ladies — and yet, you remained trapped between a rock and several smothering southerners.

“Thank you, my lady,” you smiled politely, nibbling only the slightest bite of one with a false smile, but convincing enough to satisfy your companions.

The conversation never lulled, but did halt momentarily when another large lady loudly declared, “my word! I have forgotten to share the most interesting of news with you all!” She was old and heavily powdered, with too much colouring on her cheeks and lips, with her hair covered even in the heat by a traditional hood. “I did hear that House Stark was coming down to the south for a visit. I believe they shall spend a week’s time in King’s Landing. For what, I cannot say. A most unusual occurrence. I cannot recall but the names of the Starks.”

All the negativity of the day evaporated from you; how could you help but be excited at the thought of seeing the Starks once more? In your childhood you had become closely acquainted with the lot of them, and had spent many of your first years as a proper woman in their company.

Speaking more than needs be for once, you ask, “do you know when they are to arrive?”

The lady shrugged, sipping her wine, “would that Queen Alicent were here. She is awfully little, almost ridiculous with her belly so round, but I would wager that it is soon. Perhaps by the morrow there will be wolves amongst us.” Her haughty tone was not lost on your ears, but you ignored it, and ignored the laughs — some raucous and some polite — of the other ladies.

The day the Starks were set to arrive you dressed in northern fashions; a gown of grey over white, lined with a thin trimming of fur. The south favoured silks and samites in rich colours, the north had always been simpler. On your collar you pinned the silver gauntlet of Glover.

Excitement had overcome you, and you ate nary a bite of your morning meal, which for once you took in the company of other ladies of court, almost enjoyably. Before noon the Starks had arrived, and all the world (or so it seemed) had assembled in the Great Hall to witness the procession. For it you stood by Daemon, your sweet betrothed, awaiting eagerly the party of Starks. It had been nearly two years since you had last seen the Lord of Winterfell, the youthful Cregan Stark, never finding cause to visit before your betrothal, and finding it impossible to do so after.

“Eager, are we?” Daemon hums, noting your excitement. It is not a particularly keen observation — you’re practically jumping up and down in anticipation.

You look up at him with an abashed smile, saying, “I’m afraid so,” before turning your gaze to look down the length of the throne room, disappointed when there are no northerners marching down the hall. “Whilst the south has it's certain... qualities,” you add on, and you are sure Daemon knows you are speaking as generously as you might, “it has been difficult not to miss the north.”

Daemon only chuckles in response, and you take it for his amusement at your desire to be polite, even in his company.

When the Starks first enter the hall, everything suddenly hushes, and the silence is deafening. But once they have knelt before their King and Queen, and have been as warmly welcomed as they deserve by both, talk and applause spreads like wildfire through the crowd. You are not afforded a chance at a proper conversation with Lord Stark nor any of his accompanying, only a kind smile from beside your betrothed.

A reception of the Starks is hosted in the garden passage that leads to the expansive godswood, and it is there you finally make conversation with Lord Stark.

“How good of you to make the trip, my lord,” you smile as you speak, genuinely though you are surrounded by court, “I must confess, I have been missing the north terribly. It is a relief to see such a familiar face.”

Cregan laughs, lightly so, at my comment, and with all the charisma the two years since you last saw him seemed to afford, spoke, “and the north has been missing you, my lady. Your house is morose with out you, and your family seems terribly small when you are not there to accompany them. It is a shame, indeed, for you would make a fine lady of the north.”

“You are too kind, my lord,” You laugh, almost bashfully, “and I am sure my brothers and sisters are still perfectly capable of becoming a nuisance without my added assistance.”

“Hm,” he hums in agreement, a smile that you cannot quite read on his face. “If you ever feel inclined to visit, Winterfell would be glad to have you — but, until then, it would be good to have a northern lady accustomed with southron ways to keep me company.” He extends his arm for you to take. “If you would be so kind, my lady?”

You have always been too kind to decline any request, even one that you most certainly would detest doing (such as indulging the southron ladies of court), but one from a northerner you care for? You give him your prettiest smile and take his arm.

“Of course, my lord. I’d be honoured.”

Perhaps it was the way he spoke to you, how he made remarks about your closeness in youth, how he incessantly spoke of what a fine lady of the north you would make, how he constantly sang your praise and his gratitude for you playing the guide. Perhaps it was the light touches he gave you, never more than friendly, but friendly touches often led to more than friendly places. Or, perhaps, it was the fact that for the last two days he had spent within the Red Keep, you had been subsumed by him, that made Cregan Stark not sit quite right with Daemon Targaryen.

He knew it gave you great joy to keep company with a northerner — how could it not? You had spent your entire time in the south discomforted by the customs, by the people, by the very earthly nature of the place itself. So, he had taken to clenching his fists and gritting his jaw, ignoring the way the two of you laughed together, the obscenity of time you spent together. He knew, or had convinced himself, that you would not look twice at the slobbering wolf if he did not remind you of home... and yet, he could not help but be pushed to the brink of criminality at the fact that it was not he who reminded you of home.

His patience was wavering thin through all the festivities his elder brother had, for some godforsaken reason, thought the Starks deserved. It had come to it’s breaking point by the time night fell and the feasting was finished, and the dancing had begun. He watched with narrow eyes as the Stark boy asked you, ever so coy, for your hand in a dance. Daemon knew that you were too kind to ever refuse, too polite to risk being rude, and it came as not surprise but disappointment when you took to the floor with Stark.

The dance was jovial, and the floor had become so crowded that he lost sight of you half the time, and glowered at the way the pair of you danced together the rest. Westerosi dances were never very intimate, for fear of a woman’s virtue, but there were enough brushes between you both that he was very nearly enraged.

But when Cregan Stark dipped his head down and whispered something to you, too close to your ear for his liking, making you through your head back in laughter, Daemon had enough. In a quick swallow he emptied his cups and stood up, movements too sharp, sending his chair scraping behind him. Forcing his way through the crowd, pushing over a drunken fool grasping at a serving girl, sending the carafe in her hands to the ground, till his hand was on your shoulder, tighter than it ought to be.

“Lord Stark,” he addressed, entirely unkind, “you would not mind if I shared a dance with my betrothed?”

“Of course, my prince,” Cregan conceded, though to Daemon it was clear he was disappointed to go, but before he did, he had the nerve to lift up your hand and place a delicate kiss at your knuckles. “I do hope you enjoy your time together.”

“Thank you,” you murmur, ever the sweetheart, as he took his leave, and Daemon understood you to be too young and naive to properly understand Stark’s foul intentions.

When you dance again, he is relieved at last. It is he who gets to be your partner, to share brushes and smiles with you, and it is almost enough to make him forget about Stark... but not quite.

“You seemed to be enjoying your time together,” Daemon crooned, looking down at your face with his devilish eyes. His voice is sweet for you, but even you can tell that he is not entirely pleased.

“I suppose I was,” you say, meeting his gaze with a shy smile, and though you did not intend to share more than a polite answer as you often did, you cannot help but concede, “It was nice to have a touch of the north again.”

Daemon’s eyes narrow, and he lets out a short hum, his head tilting to a side as he watches you. “Did you not find the little lordling to be overly affectionate? Overbearing?”

Your soft expression furrows into one of confusion, and you let out a slight scoff — not so much angry at Daemon for the jealousy that has suddenly become apparent to you, but at disbelief that such a thing would ever be thought; “Lord Cregan is merely a friend, Daemon, he has no improper intentions.”

“My sweet thing, you should not be so naive. Surely you’ve seen the dog eyes he gives you — needy, desperate. It is disgusting.”

“Lord Stark is respectful and kind,” you argue, “as are his intentions towards me, a woman who is already betrothed.”

Daemon cannot blame you for how quickly you jump to his defence; you cannot see the world the way he does. The ladies of Westeros are often too sheltered, made to think that every lord is genteel, and are struck by the harsh realities of the world so suddenly. He wanted to protect you from those realities, truly he did, but how could he let you walk around with another man who desires you? You were his intended. By the law of this world, you were his.

He ran a hand gently down your cheek and offered you a smile in part kind, and in part condescending. You come to realise that the dance has stopped, and the celebration does not feel quite as festive as moments ago.

“My little princess, your betrothal only makes him want you more. Strays sniff for food they will never receive too often — and it does not matter how pleasant they may otherwise seem.” He tilts up your chin.

“Even if what you say is true,” you pause for a moment, contemplating that there might well be truth in his words, “I would never entertain his desire.”

“Of course not,” he says, voice soft but eyes dark, and picks up your hands to dance once more, “why walk a bitch when you could ride a dragon?”

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j-k-writes · 4 months ago

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The Bronze Targaryen - 6

Summary - The year 115 AC brings about many changes in Westeros.

Warnings - character death, childbirth, general HOTD warnings

The bed was cold when (Y/N) awoke. He reached out to where Rhaenyra was laying, only to find empty sheets. He groaned, burying his face in the pillow.

“I’m over here.” Rhaenyra said, hearing his movements. He mumbled into the pillow in response. “What was that?”

(Y/N) turned onto his back, “It is too early for you to be up.”

Rhaenyra stood, walking over to the bed. “It is nearly midday.”

“Oh.”

Rhaenyra sat down next to him on the bed, “Oh.”

He sat up on his elbows. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

She reached out, running her fingers through his messy hair. “You looked like you needed sleep.”

(Y/N) smirked, sitting up further and grabbing Rhaenyra, pulling her onto his lap. She yelped indignantly, smacking him lightly on his chest as he laughed. He pressed a kiss to her lips, and she smiled against his mouth. “I think we both need sleep.”

“That is not what I meant and you know it.”

He pulled back, “I am fine.”

“You have not been sleeping well,” Rhaenyra said. “You have been stressed since your cousins left.”

“I am just worried about my grandsire. He is not well.”

“And Gunthor.”

(Y/N) shook his head, “Do not worry about him.” Rhaenyra frowned, opening her mouth but before she could speak (Y/N) captured her lips in his. He pulled away, resting his forehead against Rhaenyra’s. “If you worry about him, I must worry about him. And I do not wish to, I want to just be here with you.”

Rhaneyra frowned, but nodded nonetheless. She untangled their legs, standing up and grabbing (Y/N)’s hand. “You should eat.”

He broke his fast as Rhaenyra’s handmaidens moved in and out of the room, helping Rhaenyra properly dress and leaving clothes out for (Y/N). Rhaenyra helped (Y/N) dress when she was finished. They did not leave the room after they were finished, they had not been asked to court since their wedding. (Y/N) did not mind the break from the court, allowing him to spend his days in the yard and with Harwin, checking on the knight’s wounds. Rhaenyra did not share his indifference, feeling like once again her father was neglecting her role as heir. She refused to listen to (Y/N) when he tried to soothe her worries, but (Y/N) could not blame her. The two heirs were in different situations and (Y/N) had only words to offer in ways of comfort.

Ser Erryk entered the room, drawing the attention of the two teens. “Prince Daemon is here to see you both.”

Rhaenrya looked to (Y/N) who nodded, before speaking, “Let him in.”

(Y/N) frowned at his father’s demeanor as he entered the room, waiting for the door to close behind him before opening his mouth to speak. “A raven came for you, (Y/N).”

(Y/N) gestured for his father to hand it over, and as his father placed the letter in his hand he said, “You must leave for Runestone at once.”

(Y/N)’s heart dropped, and he opened the parchment.

Prince (Y/N),

It is with a heavy heart that I write to you. Your grandsire, Lord Yorbert, Lord of Runestone, passed during the hour of the owl. He went peacefully, and he is with your ancestors now. I am aware you are in the first days of marriage, but with your grandsire’s passing you are now the Lord of Runestone.

Maester Pate

“Your cousins have not yet reached the Vale.” Daemon spoke. “If you take Vermithor you will get there to claim your seat before they even cross The Trident.”

“Claim your seat?” Rhaenyra looked between the two men, and (Y/N) handed her the letter. She read it quickly, eyes widening as she took in the words.

“You must claim your seat.”

“Uncle his grandsire has just died,” Rhaenyra objected. “Let him mourn, the politics of the realm-”

“This is not about the politics of the realm.” Daemon spat, turning to (Y/N). “This is about taking your rightful place before Gunthor learns about your grandsire’s death.”

Rhaenyra frowned, “(Y/N) is the rightful heir, Gunthor would not be so bold as to try to undermine that.”

Daemon gave his son a pointed look, and (Y/N) sighed letting his hand fall into his hands. He did not know his cousin’s intentions, he did not trust him, but a simple feeling did not prove anything. In fact he barely knew his cousin, having only met him half a dozen times in his youth, but the unfamiliarity only fuled his distrust.

He rubbed his face, groaning, “I cannot take that chance. I must leave for Runestone.”

Daemon nodded, “I will make sure your things are packed.”

Daemon turned on his heel, walking out of the room. Rhaenyra turned to her husband as soon as the doors were shut. “I am coming with you.”

“You must stay here-”

“You are my husband.” Rhaenyra stood, standing directly in front of where (Y/N) was sitting. “I should be at your side.”

(Y/N) sighed, reaching his hand out and Rhaenyra gently grasped it. He looked at Rhaenyra, “You are the heir to the Iron Throne. You are already uncertain of your place in this court. I do not know how long I will be at Runestone, but you cannot afford to be away from court for too long, not now.”

Rhaenyra scoffed, and (Y/N) continued, standing up from his seat, “I will fly to Runestone on Vermithor. I will secure my seat, our future child’s seat, and then when that business is done I will return to you.”

Rhaenyra cupped his cheek, bringing their foreheads together. “Take what is yours, and then return to me.”

“Lord Royce.”

(Y/N) looked up from the books he was looking over, placing down his quill. The boy standing at the door looked between (Y/N) and Maester Pate nervously, holding a piece of parchment in his hand.(Y/N) recognized him as the young page that had been attending to Maester Pate in the rookery.

Maester Pate cleared his throat, “Well, what is it?”

“There is a raven for Lord Royce.”

“Give it here.” (Y/N) waved the boy over. The boy placed the rolled up parchment on the desk. “What is your name?”

“Jasper, my lord. I mean- my prince.”

(Y/N) chuckled, “My lord is fine, thank you, Jasper.”

Jasper bowed, practically tripping over himself to run out of the room. (Y/N) picked the parchment up between two fingers, it bore the seal of House Targaryen. He’d received many ravens from Kingslanding in his absence, many from his father, the most from Rhaenyra.

He kept them both updated on the situation in Runestone. Not that there was much to update, Gunthor was still playing an active role in the governance of the keep, much to (Y/N)’s frustration. He had no real proof that the man was up to anything, other than his odd actions during his grandsire’s final months and the queasy feeling that settled in (Y/N)’s gut anytime the man opened his mouth.

He picked his dagger up off the table, carefully prying off the wax seal before unrolling the parchment and reading the letter.

Valzȳrys,

I hope you are well, and that Runestone is prospering.

I have been quite ill these past few weeks, the maesters could determine no cause. Until last week.

My maids were dressing me when Elinda pointed out that my dress did not lace as tightly as it had before, and that I had not bled since before the wedding. Immediately the maester was called, and it is Grand Maester Mellos opinion that I am with child. He estimates that I am in my second moon of pregnancy, and my father already suspects the babe will be a boy.

I apologize for not writing of the news sooner, but to tell the truth when I first heard the news, and even now, I am not sure how I feel. I am overjoyed at the idea of a child with the best features of us both, a future dragonrider, and the future heir to The Iron Throne. But my mother died on the birthing bed, and suffered long before then through countless unsuccessful births. I do not wish to die in a puddle of my own blood as she did. But despite my fears, I am happy with the news, as surprising as it is, and I hope that you share my feelings.

I think of you every night, and miss your presence by my side.

Olvie jorrāelagon,

Rhaenyra

(Y/N) read the parchment three times, dissecting every word written by his wife. He looked up at where Maester Pate was still standing. “Bring me my cousin.”

“Gunthor?”

“Gerold, Pate.”

The maester bowed, exiting the room, and (Y/N) sighed leaning back in his chair. He resigned himself to getting no more work done today, and started to put the books away. When Gerold entered (Y/N) did not speak, he simply handed him the letter and watched his cousin’s face as he took in its contents.

“I wish to return to Kingslanding.” (Y/N) said when it was clear his cousin was finished.

“Of course.” Gerold said. “I do not blame you.”

(Y/N) bit his lip, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Will you not be returning?” Gerold asked, taking in his younger cousin’s tense posture.

“What do you think of Gunthor?” (Y/N) asked, deciding it was better to be blunt than to beat around the bush. Especially if he wanted to make his decision.

Gerold paused, opening his mouth and closing it multiple times as if he was struggling to articulate his answer.

“Speak honestly, cousin. I will not fault you for your opinions.”

His cousin took a deep breath, “I do not know what to think.”

(Y/N) motioned for him to elaborate.

“I had not seen him in years until your grandsire fell ill. I wanted to write to you to tell you of his illness, since as his chosen heir it would’ve been your place to take over the responsibilities of Runestone. But your cousin Gunthor urged me not to disturb you.”

(Y/N) nodded, “Can I trust you, Gerold?”

“Of course.”

“I fear Gunthor may have ambitions above his station. I cannot prove it but-” He paused, unsure of how to continue.

“You do not feel comfortable leaving Runestone unsure of his intentions.” His cousin finished, and (Y/N) nodded.

“You must understand,” (Y/N) said. “I wish to see my wife, and help her through these times but I cannot in good conscience leave Runestone when my position is not yet secure.”

Gunthor frowned, “What will you do then?”

(Y/N) groaned, dropping his head in his hands. “Can I not send him away and be done with it all?”

“Sending him away will not stop him,” Gerold said. “It may just incentivise him further. It is easier to keep him close where you can watch him and those who may support him than to send him away to move in secret.”

(Y/N) sighed, looking up at his cousin and taking in his expression. Defeated, he leaned back in his chair, “I cannot leave can I?”

“I cannot tell you what to do, (Y/N).”

“Just-” (Y/N) closed his eyes, frustrated with the entire situation. He longed for Rhaenyra, wishing to be there to see her through her pregnancy. “Just be honest, Gerold.”

“No, you cannot leave.”

(Y/N) nodded, reaching for a blank piece of parchment and his quill. “Thank you for your counsel, cousin. Tell Maester Pate I wish to send a raven to Kingslanding with my decision.”

Rhaenyra would have to understand, securing his position was for the good of their future family. Their second child will inherit Runestone after him, and (Y/N) would stay for as long as he needed to ensure that.

Rhaenyra’s labor had begun only hours after (Y/N) had set foot in Kingslanding. Viserys and Daemon had been thrilled at the news, but Rhaenyra’s fears of the birthing bed had not at all ebbed throughout the many moons of her pregnancy. (Y/N)’s absence from court during those moons had not helped her trepidation, but as the labors started (Y/N) assured her he would pick her over any babe.

(Y/N) was not allowed in the birthing room despite his protests, after a particularly rough scream tore itself from Rhaenyra’s throat (Y/N) had pulled his dagger on one of the guards, which subsequently caused his father to drag him even further away from the room.

His father and Ser Harwin were watching the young Lord of Runestone as Rhaenyra’s screams and curses echoed throughout the halls. Daemon was silent, wincing at his nieces wails every so often, while Harwin had taken to whispering words of comfort to (Y/N).

“She is strong.” Harwin said, hand resting softly yet reassuringly on (Y/N)’s shoulder.

“Cunt!” (Y/N) chuckled softly at Rhaenyra’s words, and Harwin smiled.

“See.” Harwin said, “She is doing well.”

Footsteps sounded down the hallway, (Y/N) looked over to see King Viserys and Queen Alicent approaching the group of men. Alicent was holding her own swollen stomach as she approached and (Y/N) was reminded that she too was soon headed toward the birthing bed once again. Alicent frowned at Harwin, and (Y/N) narrowed his eyes at the young queen.

“Ser Harwin,” Alicent addressed the knight, “Does Rhaenyra need her sworn protector-”

“I wished him to be here.” (Y/N) cut her off, and she looked at him, frowning.

“Of course.”

Viserys paid the three of them no mind, he looked exhausted. (Y/N) had heard from both Rhaenyra and Daemon about the king’s deteriorating health these past moons. The letter had given no justice to truly how bad Viserys looked, although he still insisted on acting as if he was alright.

“How is she?”

“Well,” (Y/N) replied, “I think. They would not let me in.”

Viserys gave him a sympathetic look, as the cry of a babe captured all of their attention. (Y/N) pushed himself quickly off the wall rushing into the room, Daemon and Viserys following closely behind him.

Rhaenyra lied in bed, face pale and covered in sweat, her normally perfectly styled hair was messy and sticking to her skin. She lifted her head at the sound of people entering the room, smiling and relaxing at the sight of her husband. The maester handed the babe, wrapped in a deep brown cloth, with a mop of dark curls peeking out, to (Y/N).

“A boy, your grace.”

(Y/N) stared silently at the babe, still crying although slowly but surely calming, (Y/N) looked up to Rhaenyra, who the midwife was attending to. He traced his son's features gently, fearful of hurting the precious bundle. He had not understood the fear his father spoke of until the babe had been placed into his arms, and he remembered that Daemon had been no older than he was now when (Y/N) was born.

“He’s perfect.”

Viserys and Daemon came up next to him, and (Y/N) remembered he was holding the future heir to the Iron Throne. He gently handed the babe to his uncle, and he smiled, allowing his brother to peer at their grandson over his shoulder. “What is his name?”

(Y/N) looked to Rhaenyra, “Whatever you wish.”

Viserys handed the babe off to Alicent, whose frown deepened. Daemon spoke before Rhaenyra, “He should have a name fit for a king.”

(Y/N) shot his father a dirty look, already knowing that his father was implying his son should not have a Vale-like name. “Rhaenyra labored to bring our son into this world, she shall pick whatever name she wishes.”

“Jacaerys.” Rhaenyra said, motioning for the babe to be brought to her. (Y/N) took the babe from Alicent, her expression making the Lord of Runestone uneasy. He handed him to Rhaenyra, pressing an affectionate kiss to the top of her head, and Rhaenyra laid down head resting on (Y/N)’s side. “His name will be Jacaerys Royce.”

Alicent did not linger around any longer than she needed to, exiting the room as soon as attention was on Rhaenyra. Viserys gave his daughter a kiss on the forehead before following after his wife. Daemon lingered the longest, looking adoringly at his grandson. (Y/N) had feared his father’s reaction to his son’s more Vale-like features, but Daemon did not seem to mind.

“Congratulations.” Daemon smiled, pressing a soft kiss to both of their cheeks before taking his own leave. “I will fetch someone to clean the sheets and help you dress.”

Rhaenyra nodded her thanks before the two new parents were left on their lonesome. Rhaenyra, wincing, sat up further, handing the bundle off to (Y/N). (Y/N) smiled down at Jacaerys, tensing when the babe opened his eyes, big and brown, but instead of breaking back into sobs he just stared up at his father. (Y/N) reached down, smiling softly as the babe grabbed his finger placing it in his mouth.

“I think he is hungry.” (Y/N) chuckled. “Shall I fetch a wet nurse?”

Rhaenyra nodded, and (Y/N) handed the babe back to her. He opened the door, looking at Ser Harwin who was still waiting outside the door.

“Would you like to meet him?”

“Him?” Harwin asked, and (Y/N) nodded.

“It is a boy.” (Y/N) smiled, “I am going to fetch a wetnurse, but I am sure Rhaenyra would be delighted to introduce him to you.”

As Harwin gingerly stepped into the room, (Y/N) tracked down a wetnurse. As he returned to the chambers, he took a seat by Harwin and Rhaenyra’s side as Jacaerys was handed off to the nurse. As soon as the nurse was out of earshot Rhaenyra turned to her husband.

“How long are you staying?”

(Y/N) frowned, “Nyra-”

“I will not beg you to stay, (Y/N). I know you will not.” Rhaenyra said.

“That is not fair. You know-”

“The complexities of politics are not lost on me, (Y/N).” She was obviously tired from her labors, but (Y/N) could tell he was not getting out of this conversation. “But what of our son? Will he grow up without you because you were too busy infighting with your cousin?”

“I am doing this for our son.”

Rhaenyra sighed, the fight going out of her at his comment. “Yes, I know- I just- I want Jace to grow up with a father.”

“He will.” (Y/N) promised. “But not until I am sure Gunthor will not undermine me at the first opportunity. I will return to you, I promise. And Harwin will be here watching over you both to make up for what I am missing.”

He turned to Harwin, who nodded a silent promise to the prince. (Y/N) took his hand in thanks.

“Did you see Alicent’s face when she held him?” Rhaenyra looked across the room longingly at where their son was now asleep in a cradle, the wetnurse long gone. “I am sure she is already spreading her poison.”

“Fuck Alicent.” (Y/N) spat, causing both Rhaenyra and Harwin to laugh. “She can spread whatever rumors she wishes, they will go nowhere. Our son is a Royce, he has Vale-blood, that fact alone will be enough to quell her whisperings.”

Harwin squeezed his hand in reassurance, bringing it up to press a soft kiss to its back. “I have missed you, (Y/N).”

(Y/N) smiled at the knight, before turning to his wife. “I do wish I could stay with you three.”

Rhaenyra reached for (Y/N). “We will pray for your success, ñuha jorrāelagon, and await your triumphiant return to us."

---

Translations -

Valzȳrys - Husband

Olvie jorrāelagon - Much love

Ñuha jorrāelagon - My love

#titles are so hard #like yes he's now lord royce of runestone but also he's still a prince? And then when Rhaenyra ascends the thorne he'd be king consort #god royals are complicated #leaving the idea of Jace Luke and Joff being bastards up to interpertation of the reader however I do have plans #x male reader #house of the dragon #house of the dragon x male reader #x reader #x y/n #daemon targaryen #house of the dragon x y/n #rhaenyra targaryen #rhaenyra targaryen x male reader #hotd x reader

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