#HOTD S2

[hisfavegirl]

Held Only in Dreams - Aegon Targaryen x Wife!Reader.

Summary : There was a time when your halls rang with laughter. When your chambers were filled with the soft shuffle of tiny feet and the scent of lemon cakes cooling on the windowsill. A time when your husband’s hand curled possessively over the swell of your stomach, whispering prayers to gods he claimed not to believe in. A time when you were not only queen—but mother, wife, sister, daughter, beloved. That time is gone. Now, the Red Keep feels like a tomb. Your son is dead—burned before your eyes in the dragonpit, his small body offered to flame while your screams echoed through stone and fire. And with him, the future you built crumbled to ash.

Warning : Reader is Rhaenyra's Daughter, Angst, Mentions Of Bloods, Fluff, Child Loss, Stillbirth, Grief, Death Of a Loved One, Trauma, War-related Violence.

Aegon II Targaryen Masterlist.

House Of The Dragon Masterlist.

Tom Glynn-Carney Masterlist.

Dividers by @zaldritzosrose

The scent of death was a bitter perfume in the Dragonpit that day. Smoke, old stone, and blood clung to the air, heavy and unmoving, as though the world itself had paused to mourn. You stood still, the silk of your black mourning gown whispering around your legs in the thick silence. The wind toyed with the ends of your dark hair, but you barely felt it.

Your eyes—wide, bloodshot—were locked on the small, shrouded body of your son, Jaehaerys. He looked too small to be dead. Too light. Too still. The pyre of wood beneath him crackled faintly, waiting for flame. And yet all you could hear was the memory of his last breath.

“Mother—”

That broken whisper. That tremble in his lips. The way his little hand clutched yours like he still believed you could save him. It played again and again in your mind like a cruel curse. You couldn’t stop it. Wouldn’t. Didn’t want to forget.

You did not weep. Not until it started.

Aegon moved before you even registered it.

He stepped forward, his white hair untamed in the wind, shadows etched deep under his violet eyes. He didn’t look like a king—he looked like a man stripped bare. The grief in his jaw was rigid, his throat moving as he swallowed it down, over and over again. His gaze flicked up to Sunfyre, who waited just beyond the pyre, golden and restless.

Aegon voice hoarse and unsteady.

“Dracarys.”

The word echoed.

And then Sunfyre unleashed.

The fire roared, gold and white, greedy and all-consuming as it swallowed the wood, the silk, the body. Your baby. The heat slammed into your face and that was when the sob tore free, unbidden and raw, and you collapsed.

Your knees hit the stone with a crack, hands shaking, teeth clenched so hard your jaw hurt. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think. The flames danced in your eyes but all you saw was his smile—his first steps—his tiny fingers playing with your hair. Gone. Burned. Turned to ash.

You didn’t notice Aegon move until he was there—kneeling beside you, wrapping his arms around your trembling form like he was holding himself together by holding you. His grip was desperate, his chest shaking against your back.

“I should’ve protected him,” he said against your hair, his voice a whisper turned to splinters. “Gods, I should’ve protected him.”

You turned, slowly, painfully, looking at him through your tears. “We’re his parents. We both should have.”

He cupped your face, and for a moment, the firelight turned his eyes to molten amethyst. “You blame me,” he said, barely audible.

“I blame the war. I blame the greed. I blame the fucking throne,” you whispered, gripping the front of his coat. “I don’t have room to hate you, Aegon. I’m too full of hurt.”

He nodded, a slow, devastated motion, pressing his forehead against yours. His breath was hot with whiskey and regret.

“I wake up hearing his voice,” he said. “Every godsdamned night. And I pray for the morning when it doesn’t break me.”

Your lips parted, your breath catching. “Then let it break you. Let it destroy everything, but not us. Not now.”

Aegon’s thumb brushed your cheek as if memorizing the shape of your sadness. “Then burn with me,” he said, voice cracking. “We burn together.”

You kissed him—not for passion, not for want, but for grief. A kiss that trembled with loss, mouths crushed together in silence, tasting salt and ashes. It was an anchor. A promise. A shared ruin.

Behind you, your son’s pyre roared louder. And as the sky darkened and the smell of smoke soaked into your skin, you held each other there on the cold stone floor—two parents grieving a child lost to the madness of dragons and crowns.

The fire ate everything but the pain.

The hearth crackled, low and unrelenting, casting flickering shadows against the stone walls of your shared chambers. It was late, though you couldn’t say what hour. Time had lost its meaning somewhere between the scream that tore from your lips the day Jaehaerys died, and the silence that followed.

You sat curled in front of the fire, your nightgown wrinkled and damp with old tears, legs drawn up tightly to your chest. Your bare feet were cold against the floor, but you didn’t move. The warmth from the hearth touched your skin, but could not reach the frost that settled inside you. That hollow ache had rooted deep, twisting through your ribs like a knife left in place.

The door creaked open.

You didn’t look. You didn’t have to.

Alicent Hightower.

Her steps were soft, deliberate—like one might approach a wounded animal. You felt her presence like a shadow behind you. A ghost that lingered long after the spirit had gone.

“Child,” she called gently, the same tone she might’ve used before you married Aegon—before the world became red and burning and ash. “Please. Look at me.”

You didn’t.

Your gaze remained fixed on the fire. The flames were mesmerizing. They didn’t care who they consumed. Perhaps that’s why you liked them now.

“I did not come to fight,” Alicent continued after a moment. “I only came to see if you—”

“If I what?” you whispered, not turning your head. “If I still bleed? If I still have a voice to scream your name into the void of loss? If your grandson still lies in ash while you walk freely in silks?”

Silence. Her breath caught, but she didn’t move.

“I came to grieve with you,” she said quietly.

You laughed, a low, humorless sound that scraped from your throat like gravel. “You came to ease your guilt. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

“I loved Jaehaerys.”

At that, you turned your head—slowly. Your brown eyes, hollow and rimmed with shadow, met hers with a weight that made Alicent physically recoil.

“Not enough to stop this,” you said. “Not enough to stop your father. Not enough to stop Aegon from being forced into a crown soaked in blood. You stood there. You chose it.”

“I was protecting my family.”

“And I lost mine.”

The words hung in the air, thick and furious, trembling on the edge of sobs. You pressed your forehead against your knees, voice muffled when you spoke again.

“The gods are cruel,” you whispered. “To take my grandsire. To make Aegon a king he never wanted to be. And now… now our boy. My son.”

Alicent stepped closer, but you raised your hand without looking.

“Do not touch me.”

She froze, her hands curling into her skirts.

“My son died because your house could not bear to see mine rule,” you continued, your voice low, steady, like the calm eye of a storm. “Because your father—your ambition—demanded Hightower blood on the throne.”

Alicent flinched. “You think I wanted this?”

“I think you let it happen,” you hissed, turning back to the fire. “And now I sit in a palace of rot, raising ashes to my lips and pretending they are food. I sleep in a bed soaked with the screams of a child who will never wake.”

“You are not alone in this—”

“I am!” you snapped, finally standing. “Do you think Aegon can even look at me without falling apart? Do you know what it’s like to feel your husband’s hands shake every time he touches your stomach, as if terrified he might find it growing again, and lose another child? Your grief is guilt. Mine is emptiness.”

Alicent’s face crumpled, but no tears fell. She swallowed her sorrow like she had done her whole life—one bitter cup after another.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

You shook your head, stepping closer to her, voice trembling now. “I was his mother. I should have died before he did. And instead, I live—watching my world fall to pieces while the people who shattered it come to me offering apologies wrapped in silence.”

Alicent reached out again, but this time you didn’t move away. You let her fingers brush your arm, light and uncertain.

“You don’t have to forgive me,” she said.

“I won’t.”

Her hand dropped.

“But,” you added softly, “if you want to honor Jaehaerys… if you want to be more than a puppet in your father’s hand, then fight for peace. Fight for something besides thrones and dragons and gods.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“You have to.” You looked into her eyes, firm now. “Because I have nothing left to fight with.”

The fire behind you flared, its glow bleeding through your silhouette like a halo of grief. And Alicent, for the first time in years, said nothing. She just bowed her head and left you alone—again—with the flames.

The echo of your footsteps carried down the long, cold corridor of the Red Keep like a ghost haunting its own halls. You hadn’t walked them in days—not since the fire, not since the world bled your son from your arms and left behind the hollow shell of motherhood.

But today, the silence in your chambers had felt too loud. The walls too suffocating. The hearth too cold.

And so, wrapped in black, with your hair braided back like a warrior in mourning, you walked.

You reached the heavy doors of the council chamber and paused. Fingers curled at your sides. The guards opened them without a word, heads bowed—not as subjects to a queen, but as men who had seen death too close.

Inside, the chamber was dim despite the daylight. Clouds smothered the sun beyond the high windows. Around the long table, the council murmured—quiet, uncertain—but they stopped when they saw you.

And you saw him.

Aegon sat slouched in the throne-like seat at the head of the table, his shoulders curved forward as if the crown itself weighed too much to bear. His tunic hung open at the chest, the buttons undone and forgotten. There were dark circles under his eyes and stubble lining his jaw, as though days had passed without sleep, without care.

But worst of all—he wasn’t listening. He wasn’t even there. He stared blankly at the tabletop, unmoving, like a man carved from grief. Your heart clenched so tightly in your chest it hurt.

His head turned slowly when he felt your presence. His breath hitched the moment his eyes landed on you—as if you had appeared from a dream, or worse, a memory he wasn’t ready to see in the flesh.

You stepped forward, your voice soft but commanding.

“Leave us.”

The lords hesitated. One of them opened his mouth to protest—perhaps to speak of duties or strategy—but your gaze flicked to him, and the sharp grief in your eyes struck him dumb.

They stood, slowly. Chairs scraped the floor. Cloaks brushed the stone. No one dared speak. They filed out with silent bows, the doors clicking shut behind them, sealing you inside with him.

Aegon didn’t speak. Just looked at you like you were the last star in a dying sky.

You approached him slowly, your skirts rustling, your steps measured. Each one toward him felt like a step through fire. You stopped just before him, not touching, not breathing.

“I’ve missed you,” you said softly, your voice a cracked whisper.

His eyes brimmed, but no tears fell. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

“You didn’t come to me either.”

“I couldn’t,” he rasped. “Every time I looked at the bed, I saw him. Every time I touched your pillow, I felt your sobs in my hands. Gods, I didn’t know how to be with you without falling apart.”

You dropped to your knees before him, your hands resting gently on his thighs, fingers curling into the fabric of his trousers.

“You’re supposed to fall apart with me, Aegon. We’re not meant to carry this alone.”

His chest heaved, and he looked away, ashamed. “I’m the king. I don’t get to grieve. I sit in this chair, I listen to them speak of banners and blood, and all I want is to scream his name until the gods bring him back to me.”

You leaned your forehead against his knee, eyes shutting. “I died with him too.”

His hand moved—tentative, trembling—and threaded into your hair.

“I keep waking up expecting him to run into our chambers,” he whispered. “Asking me to carry him on my shoulders again. And then I remember… what they did to him. What they took.”

He choked, his voice cracking with guilt. “He was only a boy. And I was supposed to protect him.”

You lifted your head and looked up at him, eyes glistening. “He died because they wanted your throne. Because we were born of fire, and they would rather burn the world than see it ruled by dragon blood not of their making.”

Aegon looked down at you—really looked—and his face crumpled. You stood, then, sliding into his lap, your arms around his neck. His hands grabbed at your back, desperate and tight, like he was trying to fuse you to him. His lips found your neck—not in lust, but in need—and he buried himself there, breathing you in like he was drowning and you were the only air.

“I need you,” he murmured against your skin. “I can’t do this without you.”

“You don’t have to.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, your hand cupping his face.

“You’re not a king right now. You’re just my husband. Our son is gone, and all we have left is each other. If we don’t hold on to that, we’ll drown.”

He kissed you then—messy, wet, raw with grief and love and desperation. Not to forget, but to remember. To feel. His hands curled into your sides, pulling you closer, and your tears mixed between your mouths.

“I love you,” he whispered brokenly. “Even in this ruin, I love you.”

You pressed your forehead to his, breath mingling. “Then don’t leave me alone again.”

“I won’t.”

Outside, the war still burned. The court still whispered. The gods still played their cruel games.

But inside the council chamber, on a throne of sorrow, a king and queen clung to one another in the only kind of power that mattered now.

You stayed in Aegon’s arms long after the storm of sobs had passed, held together not by strength but by shared ruin. Your face was buried in the hollow of his neck, his hands splayed across your back as though if he stopped touching you, even for a moment, you’d vanish again. The air in the council chamber was heavy with salt and smoke, with grief and something older—like the lingering scent of burnt flesh and broken oaths.

It was the first time in days that you’d felt him. Truly felt him. And then the doors opened, Aegon’s arms tightened around you, instinctive and bracing.

You didn’t lift your head.

You didn’t need to.

You knew who it was the moment the sharp footfall struck the stone. Measured. Unflinching. Proud.

Aemond.

You remained perfectly still.

“My king,” his voice rang out, calm and cold, like the blade that had started this war. “The man who murdered your son—he is in the black cells. He awaits your judgment.”

Silence.

Aegon’s hand moved slowly, brushing over your hair, down your spine. You could feel his throat work against your cheek as he swallowed. You could feel the way his chest tensed beneath your palm, the way his rage and sorrow warred against each other like wildfire.

You didn’t move. You couldn’t.

Not when he was standing there. Not when his voice was in the air you had to breathe.

“You should go,” you said quietly, not lifting your head. Aegon looked down at you, confused.

“I can’t—” Your voice cracked. “I won’t see him.”

“My love…”

You pulled away from Aegon’s embrace just enough to sit back, your eyes glistening but firm. You stared at the stone floor, not at the door.

“I can’t look at the man who tore my brother from the sky. I can’t see the face of the one who turned dragons into monsters and blood into war.”

Aemond shifted near the doorway, but said nothing.

“Everything began with him,” you whispered. “With his arrogance. With his wrath. With his need to claim victory over a child.”

There was silence, heavy and thick, like smoke pressing against your lungs.

Aemond stepped forward. “You think I do not carry the weight of Lucerys’s death every day? You think I sleep easily knowing what I did? It was not meant to be—”

“Don’t,” you snapped, lifting your head for the first time, your brown eyes blazing with sorrow and fury. “Do not stand there and speak of regret while my brother is bones in the sea and my son is ash in the wind.”

Aemond faltered, just for a moment, his mouth tightening.

You turned away again, facing the fire like it could shield you. “You want forgiveness. You want understanding. But you don’t get to ask that of me. Not when your sword carved a wound into my family that will never heal.”

Aegon stood, moving beside you. His hand rested on your shoulder, grounding you. He looked at Aemond then—his brother, his kin—and for the first time in weeks, his voice held something sharp beneath the grief.

“You should have never been there, Aemond. You were supposed to be my sword, not my firestarter. Look at her,” he motioned to you gently. “Look at what’s left of us.”

Aemond’s eye burned with some emotion too complex to name—remorse, shame, defiance.

“She is my family too,” he said. “I did not come to ask her pardon. I came because I thought she deserved to know that the man who took Jaehaerys’s life will suffer. That justice, at the very least, is within our grasp.”

You stood slowly, your voice quiet, trembling with tightly caged fury. “Justice?” you echoed. “Justice would be turning back time. Justice would be undoing what you did to Luke. What your mother and grandsire did to this realm. What you—all of you—burned in your hunger for a crown.”

“I never wanted it,” Aemond snapped.

“But you never stopped it either,” you said, each word like a brand pressed to skin. “And now you speak of justice while the blood of children—mine and my mother’s—stains the stones beneath our feet.”

Aemond stepped back then, just once.

And it was enough.

You turned to Aegon, your face softening only for him.

“I want to see Jaehaerys avenged,” you said quietly. “But I will not find that peace in a cell or on a blade. I will find it when the realm stops bleeding. When the gods no longer feast on our young. When men like your brother stop pretending their violence was fate.”

You didn’t stay to hear Aemond’s reply. You walked past him without looking, the scent of ash and steel trailing you like a cloak. Your steps were sure now. You didn’t need fire in your lungs or vengeance on your tongue.

You had something sharper.

Truth.

And the weight of all that had been lost. Behind you, the council chamber remained still—just two broken brothers and the memory of everything they’d ruined.

The hearthfire crackled low in the corner of your chambers, casting long shadows across the walls—shadows that looked like dragons, or monsters, or memories. You didn’t know which anymore. You sat in the center of the bed with your legs folded beneath you, a soft woolen blanket clutched tightly in your arms. It was small—barely large enough to cover a toddler. Faded in color now, worn from use. But every thread was familiar. Every stitch had been made by your own hand.

It had taken you weeks to embroider the blanket for Jaehaerys. Tiny stars in silver thread danced along the edges, encircling a golden dragon stitched in the center—just as you had once whispered to your son, You are my little star. My little dragon.

You brought the fabric to your nose and inhaled deeply. His scent was still there. Faint, barely clinging to the threads, but there.

It was lavender soap and sunshine and the warmth of his tiny skin after a nap against your chest. You let out a trembling breath, and then a soft, broken laugh slipped from your lips.

You smiled.

For a moment, it felt like you were holding him again.

And then the moment passed.

Your chest tightened. Your heart clenched so violently it knocked the air from your lungs. The smile faded as your throat caught, and then your shoulders began to shake.

You curled tighter around the blanket.

“I held you,” you whispered, voice shaking as you rocked gently. “I held you as you were born… and I held you again as you—”

You couldn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t say the word. Died. It tasted like blood and iron and grief on your tongue.

Your arms loosened as the sob slipped from your lips, quiet and sharp.

You knew where Aegon was—down in the black cells. You hadn’t spoken a word when he left. His hand had lingered on your shoulder, his eyes searching yours. But there had been nothing left to give him. Not in that moment. Only silence. And your son’s blanket.

He had gone to face the man who’d taken your baby’s life.

But you… you could not face the world.

You pressed your palm to your lower stomach, gently stroking the place where you had once felt life flutter. Jaehaerys had kicked there. He had hiccupped there. He had grown in your womb like a flame.

And now…

A sharp twist clawed through your belly. So sudden, so vicious it knocked the breath from your lungs. You gasped, your body lurching forward.

Your fingers clutched at the sheets as the pain lanced through you, deep and low. You tried to move, tried to rise—but your knees buckled beneath you before your feet even touched the floor. You collapsed sideways on the bed, one arm tangled in the blanket, the other pressing desperately to your stomach.

“No—no, no, no,” you panted, the pain doubling you. “Not now…”

You could barely think. The agony twisted and pulled like a vengeful spirit inside you, wringing every nerve. Your vision blurred. You tried to breathe, but your chest was tight with something worse than pain—terror.

Had grief broken you that deeply? Had loss hollowed you so fully that your body was now unraveling from the inside out?

You moaned, biting your lip to keep from screaming. You didn’t want the guards to hear. You didn’t want the maids or the servants or the court to see you like this.

You just wanted Aegon.

Your hand scrambled across the bed, reaching for anything—blankets, pillows—something to anchor you. Your fingers found the soft cloth again, the one with stars and the golden dragon.

You clutched it to your chest like it could save you. And then, through the fog of pain, you felt something. Something warm trickling down your thigh.

Your eyes widened. You looked down—and the dread that washed over you was cold, like seawater stealing the last embers of a fire.

Blood.

Not much. But enough.

You choked out a sound that wasn’t quite a sob. Or maybe it was. Maybe it was all sobs now. Maybe that was all you would ever be—a woman made of cries and ashes.

The door was too far.

Aegon was too far.

And you… you were crumbling.

Not from a sword or a war.

But from the ache that only mothers could know.

Still, even as the pain swallowed you whole, you did not let go of the blanket. Your fingers curled tighter around the scent of your son. Your dragon. Your little star. If this was death coming for you, it would have to pry it from your hands.

The corridors were silent as Aegon walked them, save for the fading echo of his boots across stone. He was numb.

The black cells had given him no satisfaction. No vengeance. Only the stench of rot and the hollow sound of a man begging for mercy that Jaehaerys had never been granted.

The crown on his head felt heavier than ever, like it had fused to his skull. He didn’t remember when he’d last eaten. He didn’t care. His hands were still smeared with dirt from gripping the iron bars too tightly, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. There was only one place he wanted to be now.

With you.

He reached your shared chambers and paused briefly before opening the door—bracing himself for your silence, for your back turned to him again, for the distance between you both that grief had carved like a canyon.

But when the door opened—

He froze.

The blood drained from his face.

You were on the floor. On your knees.

Your nightgown was soaked in blood from the waist down, the dark stain spreading fast across the silk. Your hands were pressed between your thighs, trembling as you clutched at yourself, and your face—gods, your face—was contorted in pain so raw, so violent it turned his bones to ice.

You didn’t even look at him. You just groaned, your voice low and ragged, like something was ripping you apart from the inside.

“No,” Aegon whispered, then louder—sharper. “NO.”

He bolted across the chamber, nearly slipping on the rug as he dropped to his knees beside you.

“Guards!” he bellowed, voice breaking with panic. “Get the maester—NOW! MOVE!”

You whimpered, your head lolling toward him as tears streaked your cheeks.

“Aegon,” you croaked. “I—it hurts—I can’t—”

“I know, I know,” he rasped, cradling you into his arms with a gentleness that defied the tremble in his hands. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, love. You’re safe. Just breathe, alright? Just—just breathe.”

But how could you breathe with your body betraying you like this?

You writhed against him, crying out again, your fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic. Blood soaked into his lap as he held you, thick and hot and terrifyingly real. His mind raced—was this a miscarriage? Had he not known? Were you pregnant again after Jaehaerys?

Had the gods given him another child… only to tear it away again?

His throat closed. He pressed a shaking kiss to your temple.

“Stay with me,” he begged in a whisper. “Don’t—don’t leave me too. Please.”

You whimpered again, collapsing into his chest. “I’m sorry,” you cried. “I didn’t know—I didn’t even know—”

“Shhh, no.” He cupped your cheek, forcing you to look at him through your haze. “Don’t say that. Don’t you dare apologize. This is not your fault.”

The door burst open again, and he shouted over his shoulder, “Maester! She’s bleeding! Get over here, now!”

The elderly man rushed in with his apprentice and a flurry of linen and herbs. But Aegon wouldn’t let go of you.

Not until the maester forced him to.

“Your Grace, please—she needs to be laid down—”

“I said I’m not letting her go!” he snapped, eyes wild, voice cracking.

“Then help me,” the maester said firmly. “We may still save her.”

Those words snapped Aegon into motion. He helped lift you onto the bed, whispering soothing things even as you screamed again, your body arching from another wrenching spasm. The blood kept coming. The pain did not relent. And your eyes—

They found his. Desperate. Distant. Frightened.

“Don’t go,” you gasped. “Don’t leave me.”

“Never,” he swore. “Never, do you hear me?”

He sat at your side, gripping your hand so tightly his knuckles whitened, his other hand stroking your hair back from your damp forehead as the maester worked below the sheets, murmuring instructions and prayers.

The minutes passed like lifetimes.

You faded in and out, whimpering his name between cries of agony. He didn’t dare move. Didn’t breathe unless you did.

The worst kind of helplessness crawled beneath his skin. He was the king. He commanded armies. He held the lives of lords in his palm. And yet here—here, watching the only thing that mattered to him scream in pain—he was useless.

Useless and broken.

The chamber was dim, the fire in the hearth reduced to a low, wavering glow that painted the stone walls in the color of dying embers. The smell of herbs and blood still lingered in the air, clinging to everything like a shroud.

You didn’t speak.

You couldn’t.

You just lay there, in the cradle of Aegon’s arms, your face pressed into the hollow of his chest, and wept.

The sound was low at first—shaky, broken gasps that caught in your throat like glass. But then they deepened, became guttural, as though your soul had been carved open and all it could do now was ache.

And Aegon… said nothing.

He simply held you.

One hand curved protectively around the back of your head, stroking your hair in slow, aimless motions—like he might soothe the storm if only he kept his hand moving, if only he could pretend hard enough that he had the power to keep you from shattering completely.

His other arm circled you tightly, pulling your trembling body closer to his chest until you were clinging to him like a lifeline. Your fists curled in the fabric of his tunic, knuckles white, your nails digging in, but he didn’t flinch. He didn’t move.

The only part of him that did was his jaw, clenched so tight it ached.

And his eyes—closed now—because he couldn’t bear to see you this way.

The maester’s words still echoed in his skull like a curse: The babe did not survive.

It should’ve been another whisper in the whirlwind of this war. Another quiet death among too many. But it wasn’t. This wasn’t a piece in the game. This wasn’t strategy. This wasn’t duty.

This was you. His wife. The only person left who touched the parts of him that were still human.

And that babe—

That had been the flicker of hope. The thing you both hadn’t dared to speak aloud after Jaehaerys. The balm that might’ve softened the open wound in your chests. Something small and warm and yours. Something that wasn’t built of blood and betrayal.

Now gone.

A future unmade in silence, in blood, on the cold stone floor of your chambers.

Your cries twisted into something smaller now—hiccuping gasps, hoarse whimpers, the sound of someone trying to breathe through grief that refused to loosen its grip.

You pulled back for just a moment, and Aegon looked down, eyes red-rimmed, haunted.

Your face was streaked with tears, lips parted as though you wanted to speak—but no words came. Only a soft, trembling shake of your head before you buried your face into his neck again, another wave of sobs wracking through you.

“I know,” he whispered finally, his voice low and ruined. “I know, love.” It was all he could say. Because there were no words that could unmake what had happened.

No king’s decree could call your baby back.

No dragonfire could burn the pain away.

Aegon held you tighter.

And for the first time in weeks, he let his own tears fall—silent and steady, slipping down his cheeks and into your hair as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

“We should’ve had peace,” he murmured, not sure if you could hear him, not sure if he was speaking to the gods or cursing them. “We should’ve had a life. A family.”

His hand kept moving, slow and reverent. He didn’t move even when your sobs quieted into nothing, when sleep finally took you from exhaustion, from pain.

He just held you there, with his arms locked around the one thing he still had and prayed the gods wouldn’t take you too.

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting amber shadows on the walls, but the warmth didn’t reach you. It couldn’t. Not when your insides had frozen over with grief.

You sat curled in on yourself, knees tucked tight against your chest, your arms wrapped around your shins like armor, your forehead resting lightly on your kneecaps. The clean nightgown clung to you loosely, the scent of the bathwater—lavender and lemon—already fading. You didn’t feel clean. You felt hollow.

Behind you, the chamber was quiet save for the soft rustle of silk and the hesitant approach of footsteps.

“Sweetling…” Aegon’s voice was barely above a whisper, thick with helplessness. “Please… talk to me.”

You didn’t move. Your eyes remained locked on the flames, as if there was something there you could decode—some hidden meaning in the dance of embers, some sign that might make sense of all this pain.

He stepped closer. “I can’t fix this. But I need you to let me try—”

You flinched when you felt his hand. Not because it startled you, but because it hurt—the gentleness of it. His fingers slid carefully through your hair, brushing it back from your face. He crouched behind you, resting on his knees. He was always taller, stronger, the dragon who carried fire in his blood… but right now, he seemed so small behind you. So unsure.

You said nothing. Just let him stroke your hair as your lips moved with a whisper that grew heavier with each repetition.

“The gods are cruel…” you murmured. “So cruel.”

Aegon exhaled shakily, pressing his forehead to the back of your shoulder. “I know.”

“No, you don’t.” Your voice cracked, your eyes never leaving the fire. “They don’t punish you. They punish me. They take my children. Our children. Over and over and over again.”

“I lost them too,” he whispered, and the pain in his voice made your spine stiffen. “I lost them with you. Every time.”

“But I carried them,” you whispered, and your voice caught. “I felt their hearts. I held them inside me. I gave them names in my sleep. I dreamed of what they’d look like—if they’d have my eyes or yours. I sang to them when you weren’t there.”

You turned your head just slightly, your profile catching the firelight. The tears had started again, sliding down your cheeks silently now, no longer wild or loud. Just endless.

“And what did I get for it?” Your voice shook. “Jaehaerys… murdered in his own bed. Our babe gone before they could take a breath.”

Aegon didn’t speak. He just rested his palm against your back, rubbing slow circles as if he could soothe the wound beneath your skin.

You inhaled shakily, your voice so soft now, it barely survived the air.

“This is my punishment.”

His hand paused.

You blinked, still not looking at him. “For choosing you. For choosing you over my mother.”

“Don’t,” he said quickly, voice rising. “Don’t you say that.”

“She warned me,” you went on, like in a trance. “She said loving you would destroy me. That war would follow you, pain would follow you. And I didn’t care. I chose you. I married you. I stood by you.” You finally turned your head toward him, your eyes bloodshot and wet. “And now… my children are dead. One by one, stripped from my arms.”

He looked like he’d been stabbed. “You think I don’t carry that guilt every time I look at you? That I don’t wonder if you would’ve been safer without me?”

You swallowed hard, your voice breaking again. “Maybe I would have.”

Aegon’s hand dropped from your back. He sat down beside you slowly, legs folding beneath him. The fire danced between your bodies, painting both of you in gold and shadow. You stared at each other in silence for a long moment—broken, tired, grieving in different ways.

“I know you hate me right now,” he said finally, his voice tight, like he was forcing it out past a wall in his throat. “And maybe you should. Maybe I deserve it. But gods be damned, I love you. I love you so much it hurts. And if I could take this pain from you—if I could give my own blood to bring him back—I would.”

You dropped your head again, your forehead brushing your knees. “I just want to be a mother again,” you whispered. “I want to hold my child. I want to feel life in my arms, not death.”

He reached out again, pulling you into his arms this time. The gesture was quiet, small… and yet full of the weight of a man who was watching the woman he loved drown.

You didn’t speak again, and neither did he. You simply melted into his arms in front of the fire, surrounded by the warmth you couldn’t feel, and the ghosts you couldn’t escape.

The scent of lemon cake still lingered in the corners of the chamber. You hadn’t touched it.

Aegon had left it for you on the small side table three days ago, a quiet offering, accompanied by a soft kiss to your temple and a promise you hadn’t answered. It had been your favorite once. Now, the sight of it only twisted your stomach into knots.

You hadn’t spoken more than a few words since the babe died. The pain clung to your skin like ash—so heavy, so absolute, it felt like you’d been buried with your child.

You hadn’t left the bed, either. The silken covers had long since twisted around your limbs, heavy and wrinkled with the days you’d spent curled in their cocoon. The hearth had gone cold, the fire long since died. You hadn’t asked anyone to tend it. What was the point?

Grief did not need warmth.

Your eyes were half-lidded, dry and red-rimmed, when the familiar creak of the chamber doors caught your attention. You didn’t look right away.

You expected the maid. Or perhaps Aegon again—come to coax, to plead, to wrap his arms around you and whisper that he was still here, even as you drifted further from everything.

But then—small footsteps.

You turned your head.

And the moment you saw them, your breath caught like a dagger in your throat.

Aegon stood in the doorway, his hand resting gently on the shoulder of your little daughter, and cradled in the other arm was your youngest—Maelor, still small enough to be carried.

But it was Jaehaera who shattered you. The soft golden hair. The pale, thoughtful face. The shape of her nose, the curve of her lips—so much like her twin brother.

So much like Jaehaerys.

Your body tensed, your arms shaking where they gripped the edge of the blankets, and your eyes stung before the tears even came. But they did come.

Not like before—not silent, not restrained. These tears broke through like a storm, sudden and unstoppable. You pressed a hand over your mouth as your shoulders crumpled forward. A sob tore from your throat.

Jaehaera stared at you, wide-eyed, not quite understanding why her presence had sparked such pain. She looked up at Aegon, confused, but said nothing—just held the small wooden doll in her hand tighter, as if for comfort.

You barely noticed Aegon’s steps as he crossed the room. Only when he knelt beside the bed and placed Maelor gently in the crook of your arm did your breath hitch again.

You turned your face away, overwhelmed, but then Jaehaera’s small hand touched your wrist.

“Mother?” Her voice was quiet. “Are you sad because my brother is with the gods?”

Your throat closed. You couldn’t speak.

You nodded, a slow, shuddering movement.

Jaehaera crawled up beside you carefully, climbing into the bed without hesitation. She tucked herself under your arm and laid her head on your chest.

“I’m sad too,” she whispered. “But Maelor still laughs when I tickle him. And I still remember when Jaehaerys told me stories about dragons flying backwards just to make me laugh. So maybe that means he’s not all gone. Maybe he’s still in the stories.”

That did it.

The sob that came out of you wasn’t just pain—it was a letting go, a surrender to everything you’d been trying to hold back. You held both your children tightly to your chest, one in each arm, and buried your face in Jaehaera’s soft hair.

Aegon sat on the edge of the bed beside you, not saying a word. But his hand covered yours, grounding you, as your grief spilled out in waves.

Your fingers clung to Jaehaera’s nightgown, the fabric soft and worn. You pressed a kiss to the top of Maelor’s head, his tiny hand patting your arm as though he, too, knew you needed to be brought back.

And for the first time since your womb had gone quiet, you felt something else break through the ache.

Not peace.

But presence.

The pieces of your heart that still remained—fragile, bruised, and alive—curled up in your arms. And for now, they were enough.

The chamber, once dim and heavy with mourning, now glowed soft with the orange flicker of candlelight. The hearth had been rekindled, its warmth reaching out in golden threads across the stone floor, weaving through your limbs, curling around your fingers.

You were still in bed, propped against the headboard with pillows stacked behind you, your hair loose, your gown wrinkled. But today—tonight—there was a softness on your face that hadn’t been there in weeks. Not a full peace. But something like… a pause in the sorrow. A breath of stillness.

Maelor was curled in your lap, warm and heavy against your stomach, his little legs splayed carelessly over the folds of your blanket. You had one hand around his back, supporting him, while your other arm held Jaehaera tucked beneath it. She was gently brushing the edge of your sleeve with her fingertips, lost in some private world of thought and comfort.

Maelor looked up at you, eyes wide and bright, those chubby cheeks pink with firelight. He babbled something incoherent—a string of sounds only a mother could recognize as a question. You blinked at him and tilted your head playfully.

“What is it, my sweet boy?”

He stared at your mouth like it held some grand secret. Then, with the solemn focus only a toddler could muster, he raised his tiny hands—soft, still sticky from honeyed bread—and cupped your face.

You barely had time to react before his thumb pressed into your cheek and his other hand reached down and grabbed your lower lip between two fingers.

It wasn’t painful—just surprising. The sudden tug made your mouth part in shock, and a small puff of laughter escaped you.

“Maelor!” you gasped through a breathless laugh.

Aegon, seated at the foot of the bed now, let out a playful huff, leaning back on his hands. “Gods,” he said with a smirk. “He’s already got your mouth. Now he’s claiming it.”

Your laughter grew, the sound light and trembling, like a song you hadn’t sung in far too long.

Jaehaera squealed with laughter beside you, her arms wrapping tighter around your waist as she buried her face against your side. “He always pulls mine too, mama!” she giggled. “He’s a silly dragon.”

“Silly indeed,” you murmured fondly, as Maelor, apparently satisfied with your lip, released it and let out a triumphant coo. Then, just as suddenly, he dropped forward and nuzzled into your neck, his little nose smushing into your skin, warm and soft and so achingly present.

Your breath hitched.

It wasn’t the sadness this time.

It was the ache of feeling, of realizing how much you’d missed this—how long you’d been drowning beneath the weight of your loss, barely able to register the blessings that still clung to you like lifelines.

Your arms wrapped more tightly around them both—your daughter and your son, your little lights in the long night—and you glanced toward Aegon.

He was watching you, his eyes softer now, the playful smile dimmed into something reverent.

Something aching.

“I missed you,” he said quietly. “We missed you.”

You swallowed, the knot in your throat tight but not suffocating. You leaned your cheek against Maelor’s curls, inhaling the faint scent of milk and lemons and the clean linen of his sleep tunic.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I was trying to hold it together… but I forgot how to reach for anything else.”

Aegon shifted closer, reaching out to touch your knee gently. “You don’t need to hold it together,” he murmured. “Not here. Not with us. You just need to be. Let them carry the rest.”

You looked at him, tears shining in your lashes, and nodded.

For a moment, the four of you were wrapped in something sacred—flawed, fraying, but still holy in its own quiet way.

Your son tugged your lip again, giggling now, proud of his new trick. Jaehaera shrieked with laughter, her head thrown back against your chest.

And you—you laughed too.

Real, full, and trembling.

Aegon closed his eyes as the sound filled the chamber, and when he opened them again, his gaze rested not on the shadows of your pain, but on the living proof of everything you still were.

Still whole.

Still mother.

Still here.

©2025 hisfavegirl. No part of this story may be copied, stored, transmitted, or shared in other apps.

Tag list : @danytar @hangmanscoming @julessworldd @yazzzmints @giirlinblack @searatarg @vaelry @callsignwidow @ceoofglytchell @ashblooddragons @hayleythecannibal @laedeviour @venusbyline

[idkyetxoxo]

Cregan Stark - Love and Loyalty

Summary - The last of the Velaryons, a grieving princess, sets out for vengeance after her mother's brutal death, with only her fierce husband, Cregan, at her side. Will love and loyalty be enough to keep her from breaking in the face of insurmountable grief?

Pairing - Cregan Stark x Velaryon reader

Warnings - None

Word count - 2223

Masterlist for Cregan • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

Rhaenyra Targaryen was dead. My mother—my fierce, unyielding, rightful Queen—was gone.

Slain by the hand of her own half-brother, the usurper, that treacherous pretender who dared to call himself king.

For one fleeting week, she held King's Landing. For one fleeting week, the Iron Throne was hers, as it always should have been. 

And then it was taken from her, not in a battle of equals, but through betrayal, through cruelty.

My horse moved with a soft rhythm beneath me, the steady beat of hooves on dirt accompanied only by the distant murmur of men and the cries of birds overhead. 

High above us, my dragon's occasional screech cut through the stillness, a sharp reminder of the fury I could barely contain.

But my fury was buried beneath an ocean of grief. My heart was a heavy stone in my chest, my mind a hollow void. Tears blurred my vision and streaked my swollen cheeks, refusing to cease. They were endless, as endless as my loss.

My mother. My brothers. My family. Gone.

Burned away like kindling. As though they were nothing. As though they meant nothing.

I still recalled when my mother spoke, it was like dragonfire itself had taken form—blazing, unyielding, and awe-inspiring. I remember standing beside her once as she held court, her silver hair gleaming in the sunlight, her voice commanding the room like the queen she was. 

How could anyone not see her for what she was? How could they follow him instead?

The sun had begun to dip below the horizon when I felt my husband's presence shift beside me. Cregan slowed his mount, his gaze flickering toward mine, before reaching out to take the reins of my horse.

"We'll stop here for the night," he said gently, his voice low and steady, the way it always was when I was on the verge of breaking.

I couldn't even muster the strength to argue, though the fire in my chest demanded we keep moving. 

I didn't care if I was sore if I was exhausted. I wanted only to reach the city, to face the ones responsible for my mother's death, and make them feel every ounce of the pain that now consumed me.

A part of me screamed to act now, to storm King's Landing and unleash every ounce of fury I held. 

Another part—the one that had been my mother's voice of reason—whispered that patience was a weapon too, sharper than any sword. 

But how could I wait when every moment felt like a betrayal of their memory? Every breath I took was a breath they could not.

Cregan guided me off my horse with ease, his arms unyielding as he lifted me down. "Come, my sweet," he murmured, his words a soft balm against the ache of my soul.

Inside the small, dimly lit inn, the warmth of the hearth seemed to mock me, its cheerfulness an affront to the darkness I carried. 

Cregan followed behind me, his large hand resting on the small of my back, a steadying presence as the young innkeeper led us to our room.

"A bath?" he asked once we were alone, unfastening the clasp of my cloak with practised ease.

I gave a small shrug, unable to summon the will to decide, my gaze fixed on the tiny window that framed the world beyond. 

How could everything outside look so normal when my own world had been so utterly destroyed?

"A hot bath it is," he murmured, his voice kind but firm.

With tender hands, he undressed me, his touch careful and deliberate. I flinched when his fingers brushed against the tender skin of my thighs, raw from the long hours of riding.

"Sore?" he asked, his brow furrowing in concern.

I nodded weakly, my voice barely a whisper. "Yes."

His hands moved to my arms, rubbing soothingly as if he could knead the ache from my very soul. "Come," he said softly, leading me toward the small bathing chamber.

The water was warm against my skin, a brief comfort as Cregan lowered me into it with a gentleness that almost broke me further.

"I'm sorry," I murmured after a long silence, my voice cracking as I curled in on myself, drawing my knees to my chest.

"For what?" he asked, dipping a cloth into the water and running it along my arm with care.

"For being upset. For slowing us down. For dragging your men into my fight," I said, guilt swelling in my chest like a storm.

He stilled for a moment, then set the cloth aside and cupped my cheek, his palm rough but warm. 

"Do not apologize," he said firmly. "You have every right to grieve. Every right to feel this pain. And as for the men? These are not just my men—they are our men. You are not just the Princess of the Realm. You are the Lady of Winterfell. The North is yours."

His words, steady and sure, were like a shield against the self-loathing that threatened to consume me. 

But it wasn't enough to hold back the tears. They spilt over, hot and unrelenting.

"But do they truly march for her?" I choked out, my voice trembling. "For my mother? Or do they march because their lord commands it?"

Cregan's gaze softened, and he leaned closer, brushing a tear from my cheek with his thumb. 

"They march for her," he said, his voice filled with quiet conviction. "They march because what has been done is an abomination. They march because they believe in you, in your right to justice. And they march because Rhaenyra Targaryen—our queen—deserves to be avenged."

His words undid me completely. The sobs that wracked my body came like a flood, and Cregan pulled me into his arms, holding me tightly as though he could shield me from my own grief.

The bathwater had begun to cool, but I didn't care. 

My knees were still tucked against my chest, my arms wrapped around them as though holding myself together would stop me from unravelling completely. 

But Cregan stayed by my side, his presence steady and unwavering.

He wrung out the cloth in his hand and ran it gently along my shoulder, then down my back, his movements slow and unhurried. He was giving me space, letting me grieve without forcing words or actions I wasn't ready for. 

Yet, even in the silence, I could feel his love, his care, wrapping around me like a shield.

After a moment, I heard him speak, his deep voice low and quiet. "You know," he began, "when I first met your brother, I never imagined we would be here."

I turned my head slightly, curious despite the weight of my sorrow. "You mean Jace?"

Cregan nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "He came to Winterfell full of fire and confidence, that boy. He had this air about him—like he could charm anything if he set his mind to it. He had the same way of carrying himself as you do."

The memory must have been bittersweet for him too because his expression softened into something wistful. 

"I remember thinking that he was everything a prince should be. A leader, but with a heart. When he spoke of his family—of you, especially—his pride was unshakable. He told me stories of his little sister who would outfly every dragon rider in the realm one day."

A sob caught in my throat, sharp and sudden. "Jace..." I whispered, the name breaking as it left my lips. 

The memory of my brother's bright smile, his endless determination, his love for me—it was too much.

Cregan moved closer, his hand finding my cheek as he brushed a tear away. "I never thought," he said softly, "that I would marry his sister. That I would love her with all my heart. That I would fight for her and her family with every ounce of strength I have."

The weight of his words hit me like a storm, overwhelming and consuming. I closed my eyes, tears streaming freely. 

"He didn't deserve this," I whispered. "None of them did. My mother. Joffrey. Lucerys. All gone. I can't even..." My voice cracked, and I buried my face in my hands.

Cregan didn't say anything at first. 

Instead, he slipped his arms beneath me, lifting me out of the cooling water as though I weighed nothing. He held me against his chest, the damp fabric of his shirt sticking to my skin, and carried me toward the bed.

"I will tell you something, my sweet," he said as he sat me gently on the edge of the mattress, reaching for a towel to dry me. 

"As long as I live and breathe, I will not stop until your family is avenged. Do you hear me? The North remembers. I remember. And those who have wronged you will face justice. That, I swear."

He paused, his gaze fixed on mine, the firelight reflecting in his dark eyes. 

"The North does not forget its oaths," he said, his voice steady and firm. "We swore fealty to your house, to your mother, and that vow remains. But this isn't just about honour. It's about you. The woman I love. The mother of my future children. I fight for them, yes—but more than that, I fight for you."

His words left me breathless, their weight settling over me like a vow, a promise as unbreakable as Valyrian steel. 

For a moment, I could only watch him as he carefully wrung out my hair, then helped me into a soft linen shift. 

Every movement was so tender, so patient, as though he understood that I had nothing left to give.

When he finally laid me down on the bed, he climbed in beside me, pulling the furs over both of us. I rested my head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. 

His hand found my hair, his fingers running through the damp strands in a soothing rhythm.

The room was quiet, save for the crackle of the fire in the hearth and the faint murmur of voices from the inn below. His warmth, his steady presence, were all that kept me tethered to reality. 

My tears had slowed, but the hollow ache in my chest remained, an endless, gnawing void.

"You need to eat, my sweet," Cregan said softly after a moment, his hand pausing briefly against my hair. "It's been three days."

I didn't answer right away. I couldn't. My stomach turned at the mere thought of food, my grief so all-encompassing it left no room for hunger. 

Instead, I shifted slightly against him, burying my face deeper into his chest.

"I'm not hungry," I murmured, my voice barely audible.

He let out a soft sigh, his hand resuming its slow, comforting rhythm. "Tomorrow, then?" he asked, and I could hear the quiet plea in his voice, the gentle insistence masked in care.

I hesitated, then nodded weakly. "Tomorrow. I promise."

His arms tightened around me as though he could shield me from the grief clawing at my soul. 

I pressed my cheek against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. "I feel...broken. Like nothing will ever be whole again" I admitted, my voice trembling.

He tilted his head down, brushing his lips against my temple. "You are not broken," he said firmly, his voice low and steady. "You are grieving. You are hurting. But you are not broken. And even if you were, I would gather every piece of you and hold them together myself."

His words unravelled something in me, another layer of my sorrow breaking free. A fresh wave of tears spilt from my eyes as I clung to him, my hands fisting in the fabric of his tunic.

"I don't know how to do this," I whispered through the sobs. "I don't know how to keep going without them."

"You don't have to carry this alone," he murmured, his voice a gentle rumble in the quiet of the room. "I am here. I am always here."

I swallowed hard, thinking of Jace again—of his laughter, his determination, the way he would have fought tooth and nail to protect me if our positions were reversed.

"I miss him," I whispered, my voice trembling. "I miss them all so much."

Cregan's arms tightened around me, his hand still stroking my hair. "I know," he said, his voice heavy with his own grief. "I know, my love. And I promise you, with everything that I am, we will make this right. We will make them remember who your mother was, who your family is."

His words didn't erase the pain, but they gave me something I hadn't felt in weeks: a sliver of hope. 

I clung to him, my tears soaking the fabric of his shirt, as he held me like I was the most precious thing in the world.

"I don't deserve you," I whispered, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

His brow furrowed, and he pressed a kiss to my forehead, lingering there for a moment before pulling back to look into my eyes. 

"You deserve the world," he said simply. "And I will spend the rest of my life proving it to you if I have to."

For the first time since my world had shattered, I let myself believe that I wasn't alone. 

As long as Cregan stood beside me, as long as his strength was there to support me, I could keep moving forward.

I could endure.

A/n - I wish he was real 😩

Cregan tag list - @veesuguru @thorins-queen-of-erebor

[nyrasvoid]

In the Heat of Battle ⚔︎

♡ Gwayne Hightower x Fem!Reader

���� Summary: Lady Caswell joins the war in the Stepstones as a healer, tending to the wounded. Amid bloodshed and war, she finds herself drawn to Ser Gwayne Hightower.

𖤐Warnings: violence, minor character death, emotional distress, and that’s it (for this part only).

♜ A/N: Read part 1 here before you read this part. Btw I’m sorry for taking so long but I can only write when I dont have exams and I always have exams 🙁

♜✦♜✦♜✦♜✦ ♜✦♜✦♜✦♜✦ ♜✦♜✦♜✦♜✦ ♜✦♜✦♜✦♜✦♜

You wake just before dawn, the light barely entering through the mouth of the cave. The rock beneath your back is hard, and the air is cold.

You sit beside Ser Gwayne, his head resting on your lap while he sleeps peacefully.

Your heart pounds, not from fear, not from adrenaline, but from everything that happened hours before.

You slip out gently, trying not to wake him. There’s still too much to do.

♜✦♜✦♜✦♜✦ ♜✦♜✦♜✦♜✦ ♜✦♜✦♜✦♜✦ ♜✦♜✦♜✦♜✦♜

You’re sitting near the fire when Lysa sits down right beside you, holding out a mug filled with watery wine.

“So,” she says, her smile all too knowing. “You disappeared for quite a while last night.”

You look away, trying to hide your embarrassment, but she just grins wider.

“I was tending to Gwayne. He had a fever.”

Lysa raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “A fever, huh? And did tending to him involve… intimate remedies?”

You look around. “Lysa, please,” you mutter, glancing over your shoulder. “Keep your voice down.”

“Oh, come on.” She nudges you playfully. “You look like someone who didn’t sleep… but in a good way.”

You sigh, cheeks heating up. “We were talking.”

“Mhm. That must’ve been a long conversation.”

You glance around, only a few are awake yet. “Fine,” you admit, lowering your voice. “We kissed. Then… more.”

Her eyes widen. “More? As in—”

“Yes,” you cut her off. “More.”

Lysa chuckles. “Was it good?”

You hesitate, and then let yourself smile. “It was… intense. He was gentle and careful.”

“Oh gods,” she breathes, sipping from her mug. “You’re in love.”

You shake your head. “Of course not! It cannot be. We’re at war.”

But even as you say it, the smile on your face betrays you.

♜✦♜✦♜✦♜✦ ♜✦♜✦♜✦♜✦ ♜✦♜✦♜✦♜✦ ♜✦♜✦♜✦♜✦♜

Later that morning, you find yourself kneeling beside one of the older wounded, Edwyn.

He’s been slipping in and out of consciousness for most of the morning, the fever consuming him.

His leg is swollen and red, the skin around the wound mottled with black. You already know what that means. You’ve seen it too many times before, and it rarely ends well.

You wipe the sweat from his forehead with a damp cloth, whispering his name gently. “Edwyn. Can you hear me?”

His eyes slowly open. When he sees you, some clarity returns—just for a moment. His hand, cold and trembling, grabs your wrist.

“Please, Lady Caswell…” His voice is filled with pain. “Write to my wife. Her name is Merien. Tell her… tell her I was thinking of her. That I loved her. Right up to the end.”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “Of course,” you say softly. “I will.”

You reach for parchment and quill with one hand. He watches you as you write, his eyes wet and distant, like he’s already halfway gone.

He trembles slightly. “Tell her I remember her singing by the river. That song she used to hum when she thought I wasn’t listening…”

You pause, looking at him. “Do you remember the words?”

He shakes his head weakly. “Just the sound of it… that was enough to make it feel like home.”

You nod. “I’ll tell her,” your eyes starting to fill with tears.

When you finish, you place the letter into his hands. His fingers tremble violently, barely able to hold the letter.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

“I’ll stay with you,” you promise.

And you do. You sit by his side as his breathing slows, each breath shorter than the last, until finally, it stops. His eyes remain open for a moment after he stops breathing.

You close them gently.

But when you look down again, it isn’t Edwyn lying there.

It’s Gwayne.

You blink rapidly and shake your head, pressing your palms hard against your eyes as if you could scrub the image away.

No. No, no.

Stupid.

You rise quickly to your feet—too quickly—and stumble back. You feel sick.

Stupid. Letting yourself get close to a knight. You’ve been foolish. Naive. This, whatever it was with Gwayne, it can’t continue.

You fold Edwyn’s letter and slip it into your pocket to deliver when the war allows you the chance.

Later that day, you’re boiling medicinal herbs when Gwayne approaches. He’s limping less today, though you can tell the wound still causes him pain.

“Lady Caswell,” he pauses briefly, “have you been avoiding me?”

You glance up at him, your expression neutral. “No more than anyone else.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I came to see how your day’s been.”

You look back down at the herbs in your hands. “Busy. Men are dying.”

He’s quiet for a moment, watching you. “Are you alright?”

You nod. “Fine.”

Finally, he corners you by the fire.

“What did I do?” he asks quietly.

You don’t look at him. “Nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me. You’re avoiding me.”

You close your eyes. “This was a mistake.”

He steps back. “What was?”

“That night. Us. It can not happen again.”

Gwayne’s jaw clenches. “Why?”

“Because this is war,” you snap. “Because you’re a knight, and knights die. Because I won’t sit waiting to receive a letter saying that you loved me to the end.”

“…So it’s easier to pretend it meant nothing?” he asks, voice low.

You don’t answer. You don’t meet his eyes.

And when he reaches for your arm, you step away.

♜✦♜✦♜✦♜✦ ♜✦♜✦♜✦♜✦ ♜✦♜✦♜✦♜✦ ♜✦♜✦♜✦♜✦♜

The day after, there’s a heavy silence in the cave.

You’re kneeling by a small fire, trying to warm yourself, when the silence breaks.

“We can’t stay here much longer,” says Ser Gwayne. He’s sitting near the cave’s mouth, “We’ll run out of clean water by tomorrow.”

“And food,” adds Harwin, rubbing his hands near the flames. “We’ve only got dry roots and two wheels of cheese left.”

Samwell, the youngest of the soldiers, stands forward. “Let me go. I can check the old camp. See if anything’s left.”

You lift your head. “You’d go alone?”

“I’ll go with him,” says Thom. “We’ll move fast. Take nothing but what we can carry.”

Gwayne doesn’t like it. You can tell by the way his jaw tightens, but he nods. “Be quick. And careful. If you see anything, any sign of enemy banners, you turn back.”

Thom and Samwell disappear at morning time and all you can do is wait. You keep yourself busy, checking bandages, offering sips of water to the feverish. You pass Lysa once or twice, she meets your eyes briefly, neither of you saying much.

Hours pass before the two men return with their hands full.

“Blankets,” Thom huffs, dropping to his knees. “Found a stack in the main tent.”

“And wine, bread and salted meat. Enough for a few more days,” Samwell adds, smiling despite the mud on his face. “Even more bandages.”

That night, as you and Lysa wrap bandages around a wounded man’s chest, a figure appears in the cave entrance.

Lysa gasps, rising to her feet. “Where in the seven hells have you been?”

“I scouted north,” he pants, barely standing. “Followed the river. I found something. An old watchtower. Abandoned. Intact. Might be shelter for the rest of winter, if we fix it up.”

“How far?” Gwayne asks.

“A day trip. Maybe more with the wounded. The path is narrow, steep. Ice on the stone. One wrong step…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence.

Harwin frowns. “Too dangerous for men who can barely walk.”

“So we just rot in this hole?” Lysa snaps. “You’d rather die slowly than try?”

“You think carrying six half-dead men up a cliff path is better?” Harwin shoots back.

“They’re not dead yet,” you say, standing. “We don’t get to decide that.”

“They’ll slow us down,” mutters another man, “If we’re ambushed out there…”

“No one said we’d abandon them,” Gwayne cuts in sharply. “But we have to be realistic. The road’s hard enough for the healthy.”

“And what’s the alternative?” Lysa demands. “Leave them here to die in the dark?”

Gwayne turns to you. “You know what this is. You’ve seen it. Most of them won’t survive the journey.”

You meet his gaze, your jaw tightening. “So we don’t try?”

“If they slow us and we fall behind—”

“Then we fall behind,” you snap. “We find another way. We take shifts. We make stretchers, we rotate the load.”

“That’s easy to say when you’re not the one carrying them,” Harwin grumbles.

“We all carry something,” Lysa says, stepping up beside you. “And you’ll damn well carry your share.”

There’s a pause-long and heavy.

Then Gwayne speaks again. “And if they die anyway? If we kill four trying to save two?”

“Then they’ll die knowing we didn’t give up on them,” you say. “That has to count for something.”

No one speaks after that. Just the sound of the fire crackling.

Finally, Gwayne lets out a breath through his nose, rubs a hand over his face. “We’ll leave at first light. Everyone helps carry. No one gets left behind unless they say the words themselves.”

Lysa touches your hand, she doesn’t say anything, just squeezes your hand once.

♜✦♜✦♜✦♜✦ ♜✦♜✦♜✦♜✦ ♜✦♜✦♜✦♜✦ ♜✦♜✦♜✦♜✦♜

By the time the remaining of your group finally reach the watchtower, you were all exhausted and had no energy to speak.

You made it. Most of you.

Osric had passed just after midday, coughing blood and whispering for a sister no one knew about. Robert’s heart gave out about an hour before you arrived to the watchtower.

Lysa hadn’t said a word after that. Just walked in silence. There’s no time to grieve.

You move quick through the ruins—laying out blankets, helping to build a fire with Harwin and Thom and helping Lysa get water from an old well.

You check on each injured soldier, one by one. Bandages. Water. Warmth. A hand on the shoulder, a few kind words whispered.

But something itches at the back of your mind. A name.

And then you remember Gwayne.

Your stomach drops.

“Where is Ser Gwayne?” you ask, looking up.

Lysa blinks, “Near the eastern wall…he was half-conscious when we got here.”

You grab a chunk of bread, a wool blanket, and head to where he was laid, near the far wall, away from anyone else.

When you see him, he’s trembling violently, curled. His cloak is soaked through, sticking to his skin, and his lips have lost all color.

“Gwayne?” You rush to him, kneeling beside him. “Seven hells…why didn’t anyone tell me?”

He doesn’t respond.

You feel his forehead and flinch. “Gods, you’re burning.”

“Lysa!” you shout over your shoulder. “I need water and clothes, anything dry. Quickly!”

“I’m on it!” she calls from across the building.

You turn back to him. “Gwayne. Can you hear me?”

His eyes crack open for a heartbeat. “You’re… here,” he murmurs.

“I’m here,” you say, brushing damp strands of hair from his forehead. “I’ve got you.”

Lysa returns with a bucket of lukewarm water, a cloth, and a spare tunic. “That’s all I could find,” she says breathlessly. “Do you need—?”

“I’ll take care of him,” you say softly. “Thank you.”

She hesitates for a second, then nods and walks away.

You dip the clean cloth into the water and begin wiping the sweat from his chest and neck.

He shivers violently beneath your touch. “So cold,” he mumbles. “So cold…”

“I know. I know, just hold on.”

You work quickly, unfastening his soaked shirt. His body is flushed red with fever, his muscles twitching with each breath.

“You’re going to be alright,” you whisper, pulling the dry tunic over his head and wrapping the blanket around his shoulders.

“…don’t leave,” he mumbles.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper.

“…was dreaming about you…” he breathes, eyes fluttering. “Your voice...”

Your throat tightens.

“You’re delirious,” you murmur, trying to smile.

“…can’t lose you,” he pauses, “I love you.”

“Gwayne?”

He doesn’t seem to hear you.

“I love you,” he repeats.

Your heart skips a beat.

“What?”

“I tried not to,” he murmurs, his hand twitching against the blanket. “Didn’t want to. It’s wrong.”

“Gwayne, stop” you whisper, stunned.

Tears sting your eyes.

“You’re not thinking clearly,” you say softly. “You’re sick…delirious.” But even as you speak the words, your hand caresses his cheek.

“I’d die for you,” he breathes.

“Stop it,” you whisper, but your voice breaks. “Don’t say things like that.”

“I mean it.”

You lower your forehead to his, your palm still resting on his cheek.

“Then live for me instead.”

He doesn’t respond.

You sit there for hours. He drifts in and out, murmuring nonsense. But his trembling slows., the fever is still there, but for the first time, it seems like something you might be able to fight.

♜✦♜✦♜✦♜✦ ♜✦♜✦♜✦♜✦ ♜✦♜✦♜✦♜✦ ♜✦♜✦♜✦♜✦♜

[immi-immi]

The best Aemond ship does not involve Aegon, nor Helaena, nor Jacaerys, nor Lucerys, and it definitely does not involve Alys Rivers....

The best Aemond ship is him and that fucking lake.

[soldierpoetconqueror]

If I were book! or show! rhaenyra there are several things I would've done differently-

Give my father a piece of my mind and have a fucking back bone.

2. Show my half-siblings some love because, why not? they are literally babies.

3. Have some sort of respect towards my stepmother besides her having a vendetta against me once her son is born. (If anything this would've made Book! Alicent look even more shitty and turn the odds in Rhaenyra's favor even more because, everyone else would see that Alicent was the issue)

4. Keep my legs closed till I'm actually on throne (sorry but no bastards, why not marry ser harwin? The targaryens are obsessed with blood purity but who gives a fuck, the targtowers look stunning, Aemond got maimed and still looks hot. I'd marry one of my children into house velaryon to keep strong political ties.)

5. Do right by people in general (Most of the targaryen kings were absolutely fucking idiotic in some way and Rhaenyra did the most stupid things as well, I would've worried about the smallfolk because, that's truly where my reputation is sprouting from. Then, I'd take into consideration what the council and lords in every region would have to say.)

6. None the less, I still think the house of the dragons would've happened but differently because, of the hightowers motives. Otto is still a cunt at the end of the day and Alicent well...she's Alicent. It's a doomed narrative no matter what path.

rhaenyra stans accusing alicent of turning her children against rhaenyra like nobody can possibly decide to dislike her without some evil manipulation at play. like no have you consider they hate her ass because she treated them like shit and offered to have one of them tortured?

[sugurugetos]

DAEMON & RHAENYRA TARGARYEN HOUSE OF THE DRAGON: 2x04

[lauraneedstochill]

[every action has consequences]

🔪 inspired by this tweet:

[barbieaemond]

Genetics, chico. They never lie.

[ophelieverse]

“Visenya why aren’t we burning the dornishmen?”

[polartss]

the house with the gay dragons??

[nonbinarylesbianherb]

[gameofthronesdaily]

ALICENT holding her daughter, HELAENA (1.04) HELAENA holding her daughter, JAEHAERA (2.01)

[idkyetxoxo]

Tyland Lannister - Into You

Summary - A princess engages in a teasing, provocative game of cat and mouse with the shy, honourable Lord Tyland, pushing his composure to the brink. Their flirtation reaches a boiling point in a heated private encounter, where desire and restraint collide.

Pairing - Tyland Lannister x Targaryen reader

Warnings - Sexual content (smut!)

Word count - 2686

Masterlist for Tyland • House of the Dragon General Masterlist

I'm so into you I can barely breathe and all I wanna do is to fall in deep but close ain't close enough 'til we cross the line, so name a game to play and I'll roll the dice.

"Lord Tyland," I greeted with a teasing lilt, rocking slightly on my heels as I approached. He stood stiffly, startled by my sudden presence, his eyes darting to mine before he quickly looked away, clearly flustered.

"Princess," he replied, his voice composed but quiet. He inclined his head, a gesture of polite acknowledgement, then turned his gaze back toward the tourney grounds. 

His effort to seem unaffected was almost charming.

I rolled my eyes, exasperated but amused. Men like Tyland—so carefully proper, so endlessly cautious—needed a bit of nudging to move at all. 

Still, I wasn't deterred. I lowered myself gracefully onto the bench beside him, the hem of my gown pooling like silk at my feet. He shifted slightly, uncertain, his rigid posture softening just enough to make space for me.

"Do you enjoy watching?" he asked hesitantly, his voice low and edged with nerves. His attempt at small talk brought a knowing smile to my lips. 

I tilted my head, my hair cascading over my shoulder as I leaned back, the picture of relaxed confidence.

"What do you think, my lord?" I replied, my tone layered with playful challenge.

He glanced at me then, his gaze flickering downward to the neckline of my gown—too fast for subtlety—before darting back up to meet my eyes. The slightest flush crept up his neck, and I couldn't suppress the smirk that curved my lips. 

I'd caught him, and he knew it.

"I—I suppose you must," he stammered, fumbling to regain composure. "That is... it would be reasonable to assume, given your presence here." 

He cleared his throat, resolutely fixing his eyes back on the jousting below, though I doubted he could see much past his own embarrassment.

I chuckled softly, letting the sound linger between us. 

Poor Tyland. So careful, so utterly shy. Yet there was something undeniably endearing about his unease, the way it betrayed the feelings he so clearly tried to suppress.

"Perhaps I have other reasons for attending," I murmured, letting my words hang in the air as I let my hand trail lightly down his arm. 

His breath hitched, and I felt a small thrill of triumph as I withdrew my touch, letting it rest demurely in my lap. His sharp intake of breath and the way his fingers twitched against his thigh told me all I needed to know.

He turned toward me then, his lips parting as if to speak, but no words came. 

Instead, his eyes met mine, wide and searching, as though trying to decipher the game I was playing. I tilted my head, offering him a slow, deliberate smile.

Let him wonder.

Tyland swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing as he struggled to compose himself.

"I see," he said, his voice tight. "Then I hope the spectacle does not disappoint."

"Spectacle?" I mused, leaning toward him slightly. The warmth of my shoulder brushed against his arm, and he stiffened as though I'd set him ablaze. "My lord, do you mean the jousting? Or something else entirely?"

His mouth opened, but no sound came out, his cheeks reddening as though I'd uncovered some secret he wasn't ready to share. 

I chuckled softly, letting the moment stretch, savouring his discomposure.

"You know," I continued, my tone light but laced with meaning, "I've always admired men of honour—strong, silent types who carry themselves with dignity. But sometimes, I wonder..." 

I paused, letting my fingers graze the edge of his sleeve, barely a touch, but enough to make his eyes widen. "I wonder if they ever allow themselves to loosen their armour. Just a little."

He turned to me fully then, his expression caught between panic and something he didn't dare name. 

"I—I suppose..." he began, fumbling over his words like a man trying to climb a sheer cliff. "That is—such restraint is necessary. At times."

"Oh, of course," I agreed, leaning back again, letting the fabric of my gown shift subtly with the movement. 

His gaze flickered down, then back up, his face crimson now. "But don't you think it's tiring, my lord? To always be so... composed?"

He looked at me as though I'd spoken a foreign language, his hands tightening into fists on his lap. 

"It is... proper," he managed, his voice cracking slightly.

"Proper," I repeated, savouring the word as if tasting fine wine. I tilted my head, letting my hair fall over one shoulder, exposing the curve of my neck. "Such a rigid little word. Do you ever tire of it, Tyland?"

He inhaled sharply, his name falling from my lips like a secret whispered in the dark. He shifted uncomfortably, his knuckles white against his thighs, and I could feel the battle waging within him—desire warring with decorum. 

It was delicious.

"Princess," he stammered, his voice hoarse. "I fear I—"

"You fear?" I interrupted, leaning closer once more, close enough that I could see the faint sheen of sweat on his brow. "What could a man like you possibly fear?"

"I..." His words faltered again, and he tore his gaze away, fixing it desperately on the tourney grounds as though they might save him.

I decided to show mercy. For now.

Rising to my feet with deliberate grace, I let my skirts brush against his leg as I stood. His head whipped toward me, startled, and I gave him a slow, knowing smile, letting the corners of my lips curl just enough to make his heart skip.

"Enjoy the spectacle, my lord," I murmured, my voice a sultry purr. I reached out one final time, letting my fingers trail along his shoulder as I passed him, feeling the tension ripple beneath his tunic.

I didn't need to look back to know he was watching me go, his pulse racing, his mind undoubtedly a whirlwind of thoughts he'd never dare voice aloud. 

It pleased me to know I'd left him there, shy and flustered, his heart in turmoil.

For now.

Night had fallen over the Keep, the halls cloaked in shadows and silence. Rhaenyra had retreated to her chambers with Alicent for the evening, leaving me alone, restless, and painfully bored. 

The flickering candlelight in my room cast dancing shadows on the walls, but it did little to ease the gnawing itch of solitude.

I sat up from my bed, letting the cool air nip at my skin as I shrugged on a thin robe over my nightgown. 

The soft rustle of fabric broke the stillness, and I padded to my chamber door, curiosity sparking where lethargy had settled. 

I cracked the door open, peeking outside, though I didn't truly expect to see anything but empty corridors.

Yet, fate had other plans.

There he was. A lone figure moving quietly through the dimly lit hallway, his golden hair catching the faint light like a beacon. 

My breath hitched as my eyes traced the familiar sharp lines of his face, his blue eyes focused ahead with that usual look of quiet resolve. Lord Tyland. 

The man whose presence had begun to haunt my thoughts more than I cared to admit.

"Lord Tyland," I called softly, my voice carrying just enough to make him stop.

He froze, his back stiffening before he turned toward me. His eyes found mine, and I saw the flicker of surprise there before his gaze dipped, trailing over my robed figure. 

The heat of his attention sent a thrill down my spine.

"Princess," he said, his voice tight, his hand rising instinctively to tug at the collar of his tunic as if it had suddenly grown too snug. 

The gesture was endearing, almost boyish, and I couldn't help the smile that curved my lips.

"How was the tourney?" I asked, leaning casually against the doorframe, my arms folding loosely across my chest. 

The pose was calculated, casual yet intimate, designed to draw his eye without appearing too eager.

He cleared his throat, his gaze flickering to the ground before darting back to me. 

"Quite entertaining," he replied, though his tone betrayed the tension coiled in his chest. His eyes shifted nervously, scanning the hall as if we were caught in some illicit act.

I arched a brow, enjoying the way he squirmed under my attention. 

"Come inside," I said, my voice soft but insistent. I stepped back, opening the door wider and gesturing to the space within. "Tell me about it."

His lips parted as if to protest, but no words came. He hesitated, torn between propriety and temptation. 

"I—I do not think that is wise," he managed, though his body betrayed him, his weight shifting subtly toward me, his resolve wavering.

I took a step closer, letting my fingers brush his hand lightly, sending a shiver through his frame. 

"I won't tell," I whispered, my voice a conspiratorial murmur that hung in the air like a promise. "If you don't."

His breath caught, and for a moment, he simply stared at me, his hesitation palpable.

But then, as though compelled by some unseen force, he let me take his hand. His fingers were warm, trembling slightly as I led him across the threshold. 

The door closed behind him with a soft click, sealing us in.

The room felt suddenly smaller, the air heavier, as he stood there awkwardly, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. 

His eyes flicked around the room, trying to find something—anything—other than me to focus on. I stepped closer, the faint scent of his soap and leather catching my senses, intoxicating in its simplicity.

"Sit," I said, gesturing toward the small seating area near the window. My tone was light, inviting, but there was no mistaking the command beneath it.

"I... suppose I could, for a moment," he relented, his voice unsteady. He moved toward the chair but didn't sit until I took my own place across from him, the candlelight casting soft shadows across his features.

"You were saying," I prompted, resting my chin on my hand, my elbow propped on the armrest. "The tourney?"

"Yes," he said quickly, latching onto the topic like a lifeline. "It was... exhilarating. The knights performed well. A spectacle, truly."

I tilted my head, my hair falling over one shoulder as I regarded him. 

"A spectacle," I repeated, my voice low and almost teasing. "And yet you don't seem particularly thrilled. Did something—or someone—distract you, my lord?"

His jaw tightened, his fingers gripping the armrest of the chair as though anchoring himself. "Not at all," he lied, his gaze darting toward the floor.

I leaned forward slightly, letting the neckline of my gown shift just enough to catch his eye. His breath hitched audibly, his cheeks flushing a deep crimson as his eyes snapped back to mine, guilt written all over his face.

"Are you certain?" I asked, a smirk tugging at my lips. "You seem rather... uneasy."

"I assure you, I am fine," he said, though the strain in his voice betrayed him.

"Hmm," I murmured, sitting back and crossing one leg over the other, the movement deliberate, languid. I let the silence stretch, watching him squirm under my gaze, his discomfort as delightful as it was telling.

He was trying not to look at me—or rather, trying not to be caught looking.

"Perhaps I've kept you too long," I said at last, rising slowly to my feet. I stepped closer, leaning down just enough to brush my fingers over his shoulder. "Thank you for indulging me, my lord."

He stood abruptly, the chair screeching against the floor as he nearly toppled it. 

"Not at all, it—it was my honour, Princess," he stammered, his words tripping over themselves as he bowed his head too quickly. The poor man was unravelling before my very eyes.

"Oh?" I murmured, a hint of playfulness in my tone as I stepped forward, my fingers curling around his bicep, firm and unyielding. 

He barely had time to react before I pressed against him, guiding him back down into the plush confines of the chair. His breath hitched, his wide eyes darting to mine, questioning.

"Perhaps," I whispered, leaning in, my lips a breath away from his ear, "we could allow for... another kind of indulgence." 

My voice dropped with the suggestion, the words laced with enough heat to melt away any pretence of propriety.

His gaze snapped to mine, startled yet captivated. "What do you mean?" he managed, his voice cracking at the edges.

Instead of answering, I smiled, a slow, wicked curve of my lips as I reached for the tie of my robe. 

With deliberate precision, I loosened it, letting the fabric fall to the floor in a liquid pool of silk. His breath faltered as my nightgown followed, inch by inch, sliding over my skin until it joined the robe on the floor.

I stood before him, bare and unashamed, my body illuminated by the flickering firelight. His jaw slackened, his gaze darkening as it roved over me. 

I took a step closer, my fingers reaching for the waistband of his trousers, toying with the fabric as he froze. 

Then, almost instinctively, he began to assist, his trembling hands fumbling to help me tug them down.

His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. I leaned forward, climbing into his lap with feline grace, my thighs straddling his hips. 

"What do you think, my lord?" I asked, my voice sultry, threading my fingers through his hair as I leaned in just close enough for our noses to brush.

He swallowed thickly, his hands hovering uncertainly before finally settling on my waist. "I think... I would rather appreciate it," he admitted, the confession ragged, raw with desire.

"Good," I breathed, my lips brushing against his, teasing him with the promise of a kiss before claiming his mouth in a deep, searing press. His hesitation melted away, his hands tightening their grip as his lips moved against mine, tentative but eager.

Without breaking the kiss, I lifted my hips, positioning myself before sinking down onto him in one smooth motion. 

His gasp against my lips sent a shiver of satisfaction down my spine, his hands clutching me tighter as he processed the sudden rush of sensation.

This was the moment I'd craved, the chase finally giving way to the catch, and gods, how sweet it was.

I leaned forward, my lips brushing his ear as I whispered, "I've wanted this... for so long."

I began to move, slow at first, savouring the exquisite stretch and the way his head fell back against the chair, his eyes fluttering shut. 

His lips parted, a groan escaping him as my pace quickened, my movements fluid and confident, driven by the heady pleasure coursing through me.

"Gods," he murmured, the word barely audible as I arched my back, my hands gripping his shoulders for balance. 

My head fell back, a moan spilling from my lips as I surrendered to the intoxicating rhythm. The firelight painted shadows across the room, flickering in time with our movements.

Emboldened by my abandon, he began to explore, his hands tracing the curves of my body with growing confidence. 

His lips found my collarbone, then my shoulder, then lower, pressing kisses that left sparks in their wake. 

The heat between us was a roaring flame now, consuming us both.

Each touch, each kiss, sent sparks through me, driving me higher, faster, until I was moving with abandon, chasing the release I'd been craving for far too long.

I allowed myself to surrender fully, the pleasure too raw, too consuming to resist. And when I finally shattered, it was with his name on my lips, the crescendo of pleasure a symphony that echoed between us, binding us in its aftermath.

For the first time, he didn't look away, his gaze steady and intent, filled with something that left me breathless in a way I hadn't anticipated. 

The chase had been thrilling, yes, but the catch? Far more satisfying than I'd dared to dream.

So, baby, come light me up and maybe I'll let you on it a little bit dangerous but, baby, that's how I want it a little less conversation and a little more touch my body 'cause I'm so into you, into you, into you.

A/n - love writing me a woman who knows exactly what she wants and does anything to get it x

[ladydreamfyyreee]

𝐀𝐥𝐲𝐬 & 𝐀𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐝’𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐧, 𝐕𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐬 𝐈𝐈, 𝐉𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐬, 𝐃𝐚𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐞𝐫𝐚, 𝐉𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐫𝐚, 𝐀𝐞𝐠𝐨𝐧 𝐈𝐈𝐈, 𝐕𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐲𝐚, 𝐌𝐚𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐫, & 𝐑𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐧𝐚’𝐬 𝟔 𝐝𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬.

𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 : ( @𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐳𝐲𝐭𝐨𝐦𝟎𝟕𝟏𝟐 )

[nijigasakilove]

SEASMOKE CHOSE ADDAM 😭 he really had a type, first laenor and now it’s addam, all the prettiest velaryon men is HIS 😭

[aeonsbug]

if rhaenyra and alicent aren’t in love then why do they always look like they’re getting married and exchanging vows