#Hotd

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Winter (Cregan Stark x Reader)

Summary: As a Princess, you aren’t used to rejection. But Cregan, your husband, has vowed to only ever love one woman, and it isn't you. Right?

Warnings: Mature language. Grief. Toddlers. Unreliable narrators. Miscommunication.

A/N: I was so excited about this chapter! These scenes are the ones I wrote first. Also, the biggest hug to anyone who is reading this. I had not expected the amount of love my first chapter got, and I am so grateful!

THERE WAS AN old northern superstition —more like an old wives’ tale, really— that said if there was snow on the wedding day, the marriage was doomed to be a cold one.

It hadn’t been snowing the day Cregan had married you, but his marriage was proving to be icier than the lands beyond the wall. You weren’t interested in spending time with him at all, and you actively tried to avoid him. He had tried to convince you to share rooms, trying to foster some intimacy, to no avail.

Cregan had hoped that if not a loving wife, he would get a caring mother to Rickon. The boy was too small to grow without one, not yet having reached his third nameday. But you hadn’t shown interest in that either. Instead, you pretended the two of them didn’t exist.

He would like to say that the days went on the same way they did before he wed you, but it would be a lie. Winterfell ran much better now there was a lady present. Cregan had been wrong about you. It seemed like you could run a keep, and you did so with ruthless efficiency.

The castle had never been warmer, the meals so well planned. Even the servants seemed happy, now that they didn’t have to follow Cregan’s too broad instructions. It seemed that asking them to clean and cook was a little too vague for their tastes.

As for you, grief still followed you around, like a too long shadow that refused to budge even in the face of Winterfell’s brightest light. Sara had befriended you, with little success. While you had been far more welcoming to her, you still looked constantly tired and sad.

The lack of sunlight had made you lose your southron tan, leaving you with a look of quiet frailty that made Cregan want to wrap you in a thousand blankets and keep you safe. He just was unsure of the execution.

You scared him. He was man enough to admit it. People were often afraid of things they didn’t understand, and Cregan was no exception. You were made of absolute ice. There was no better description. Cold, but as fragile as glass.

He was running out of ideas on how to bond with you. Invitations to tea were denied, nor did you want to ride with him to see his tenants. You seemed at ease enough around Sara, and some other northern ladies, so social interaction wasn’t what you disliked. It was him.

Never had Winterfell’s corridors been filled with so many women. The northern lords already called you Queen Alysanne’s second coming, with your all female court. The only thing missing was your husband. You didn’t have Cregan’s ear, simply because you didn’t wish to. He would support your endeavors if you asked him to. He had offered his help with your attempts to establish a charity, since the North didn’t have Septas to take care of it, but you had proudly rebuffed him.

There was no pleasing you. He was at his wits’ end. Hence, the awful choice he had made that day.

To try to force you to be in his company.

“Why are you ordering my servants around?” You complain, barging into his chambers. While usually the kitchens were the domain of the Lady of the household, Cregan didn’t know you took it so seriously. “Do you not think me capable enough?”

“I do!” Cregan sits up in his bed, bewildered. He had given the orders around lunchtime, hoping you would not find out, yet here you were, less than half a day later. Far more soon than he had expected. “I just want to throw a feast to honor you.”

“You intend to honor me by giving me more work?” You place your hands on your hips, highlighting your figure, and Cregan is but a man. He cannot help himself, his eyes lingering for a second too long, and his brain coming with no response to your statement.

You seem to take his silence for affirmation.

“Seriously? Do you at least have a guest list?”

And your tone is so haughty, your words betraying you believe Cregan to be an absolute imbecile, he cannot help but give a heated retort.

“Of course I have. Truly, I am more than capable of organizing it on my own. Arra let me do it a few times, and I was unmarried for quite a while. I am experienced enough to…”

It is the wrong thing to say. You bare your fangs then, and Cregan has a moment of absolute and utter clarity. You are not a seahorse. Such a puny creature could never hope to deliver the utter destruction that you cause with your next words.

“Yes, and your precious Arra is dead! She is gone! Why can’t you understand it?” You turn on your heel, face absolutely thunderous, and go to rush out of his chambers.

Cregan loses his head fully, then. He grabs you by the arm, hard enough to hurt, and forces you to face him. For a frightening moment, he fears himself. Fears the wolf, the one screaming for him to strike you and remind you of your place.

How dare you come in his chambers, uninvited, after rejecting all his offers of companionship, to lecture him on grief? As if he could forget Arra was dead. It wasn’t so long ago that Rickon cried for his mother still, unable to understand why he didn’t have one. It wasn’t so long ago that Sara had to take over the role of Lady of the House, and suffered mockery from it. And it wasn’t so long ago, Cregan woke with a scream choked in his throat, reliving that awful morning in every dream he had.

He still did, sometimes. Less, now that he had more urgent matters to occupy himself with. Cregan was ashamed to admit it, but before Jacaerys and your arrival here, Winterfell had been far too empty to keep the ghosts away.

Now, with the war, and the flurry of activities that seemed to follow you, Cregan had little time to dwell much in his dark thoughts. Throwing himself into his work had allowed him to begin healing a wound he wasn’t even aware existed.

And wasn’t that a terrible thought? That Cregan was a man who thrived on war and hunger? Winter was coming, after all. It wouldn’t catch him unprepared.

He had sworn a vow to protect you. As long as Jacaerys had no children, you were third in line to the Iron Throne. To think of hurting you was not only to think of staining his honor, but to think of treason.

Cregan holds you there for a second longer, curious about your reaction. His grip must be bruising on your arm, he can feel the delicate bones under your flesh shift with how hard he is holding you. Yet, you show no fear. Your hands are balled into fists.

Were he to strike, you would strike back. Your face is the very picture of anger, your body coiled and ready to tear him apart.

He throws the feast. You sit next to him in icy silence and somehow manage to speak and dance with all the guests but him.

Cregan does no longer dream of trying to hunt a seahorse. Instead, he sees the world at a much lower angle than usual, and runs for his life. Somehow, in the dream, he knows a dragon is hunting him.

OF COURSE IT is today. The only day you actually wish your Lord Husband to be in the castle, and he is not.

You had spent many of your days fervently praying for him to leave on an errand, and yet, the day he does, you cannot even enjoy it.

Because the boy has gotten sick. And look, you have visited the nursery before, it is a part of your duties. You also cannot deny that you had been curious about the tiny version of your husband that will inherit everything.

The boy is cute, you suppose. In the manner all babes are. He is well-behaved, and quiet, and takes well to his teachings, even if they involve only naming things aloud.

Had you not hardened your heart to it already, you would want one of your own. You know, though, that their only inheritance will be tears and petty squabbles over land, so it’s best they are not born at all. It had been so between your husband’s father and uncle, and it was being so between your mother and your uncle Aegon.

The only assurance a woman has in a life spent as little more than property is her children. They are to inherit their father’s lands, and that is supposed to be enough. But for the second sons, said promise is always broken.

You had never, not once, thought you would come to understand Alicent, yet here you were.

You reflect on this as you hurry to the nursery, worried the damn boy will die before you reach it. When you get there, you feel the urge to scream. There is not one, but three serving girls hovering by the door, and the Maester is mixing some herbs in a chalice.

The child sleeps peacefully, unaware the surrounding turmoil. He looks impossibly small in his bed of furs, shirt open and chest covered in strange poultices. The boy… No, Rickon, had taken ill after the first snow. Perhaps he had been spending too much time playing outside, or he lingered too much in his wet clothes. You wouldn't know. You tried to avoid him as much as you could.

After this was over, you would have a stern talk with his maids. They shouldn’t be this careless. This was your husband’s heir. Someone had to care about him.

Not you. Never you.

“Will he be alright?” You ask, as the Maester places a wet cloth on his forehead. You have never liked children, never having had the chance to be one yourself. Your mother’s constant quest for the Iron Throne and her love for Daemon had often left you in the hands of the help. And when you were old enough, you had to take the role of the mature sibling alongside Jacaerys, helping raise your brothers.

Jacaerys. You hoped that wherever he was, he was suffering. You despised this place, and he had dared plot with your mother behind your back to get you here. With your beast of a husband, and this child of a previous marriage, whose existence would forever ensure your future children would inherit nothing.

You weren’t going to have children. Despite loving children, you despise your husband too much to ever lay with him. But most of all, you are beginning to fear you will become a damn Hightower. You feared that if you had children and faced the prospect of them only being second sons, you might be tempted to start a war too.

“He will, Princess.” The Maester, unaware of your inner turmoil, places a reassuring hand on your arm. He surely believes in the gentle hearts of women, or some nonsense like that. “The fever will lower with the tea we gave him, and the cool cloth on his forehead. His lungs are strong. He will breathe normally soon.”

The boy’s chest flutters oddly. His ribs show with each inhale, depicting his trouble breathing. You cast a dubious look at the cool cloth. If this was all they could do, it was no wonder your grandfather had been rotting alive.

“Is that all you have to say? Why do his ribs show?” You do your best to channel your mother, tone imperious. “If this is truly…” Before you can insult him by calling him the worst the Citadel has to offer, a boy comes in. You let out a sigh of relief, your desire to berate the Maester subsiding. It’s the same boy you had sent to Castle Cerwyn to retrieve your husband.

“Princess!” He says, extending a hand to you. Much to your astonishment, he hands back the message you had sent to Lord Cregan. “I have grievous news. The road to Castle Cerwyn is fully blocked. I couldn’t get past the river. I cannot go over it either and avoid the forest, for it is not fully frozen.”

“This cannot be!” You say, crossing your arms over your chest. Cursed your husband, and his plans to visit the Cerwyns’ tenants today, of all days. “You have to get Lord Cregan. Send a more experienced rider.”

“My lady, I would advise not to.” The Maester says, meekly. “Even if the rider does manage to get past, it is very likely Lord Stark is in the village, snowed in.”

“Well, then send a damn search party!” You yell, uncaring your language is unbecoming of a Princess. You cannot be here while the child… While Rickon dies. The child has a parent, and it is your husband, you do not even care for him!

“It is not as simple.” The Maester cringes when you turn on him.

“Of course it isn’t. The only simple thing is the cure for the child’s malady, isn’t it?” You growl. “Do something useful, if you think a rider cannot reach my husband. Get me someone who can, and fix the boy.”

It would be easier for you if the boy died. You could have the children you so craved. The obstacle would have removed itself. Relationships between half brothers are never as strong as between full ones. At the very least, this child could cast out you and any children you birth when Lord Cregan passes. At the very worst, he might have them killed, as your mother intended with her usurper brother.

But you are not so craven as to let an innocent die. He is still a boy, no older than three namedays. He is vulnerable, and his father is not here.

You sit next to the bed, eyes fixed on his chest. Rickon will not die on your watch.

THE SOUND OF a door opening jerks you awake. Disoriented, you sit up on your chair, and check that Rickon still breathes.

He does. He has awakened with the sound of the door opening, just as you did. But unlike you, he has begun wailing. You get him. You would like to cry too.

“What is it?” You snarl at the serving girl who dared enter in such a manner. The sound of Rickon’s cries grate in your ears, shrill and loud, awakening you fully. You try to coax him into laying back down to no avail.

“Milady…” She stammers, holding a breakfast tray. The reason for her interruption becomes clear. Had it been so long already? You remembered standing vigil over Rickon until sundown, and changing the cool compress a few times after, but no further. By the Seven, you were a terrible caretaker. “I… There are…”

Rickon wails harder.

“Father! Father, want father!” He cries. He then attempts to remove the cool cloth from his forehead, and get up, escaping the furs laid over him.

The serving girl stares at the boy. You stare at her. Rickon continues to squirm. When it is clear she is expecting you to soothe him, you sigh and turn to the child.

“Rickon, you have to lay down again.”

“Father! Father!” He wails, face beginning to turn red, his breathing labored. You are unsure if it is his distress or the sickness, but it worries you nonetheless. The child cannot die. You are not prepared to deal with it.

“Shh, Rickon, I know you are hurting.” You tell him, as you pick him up. “Father is not here. He is trapped by the snow.”

At this, he cries harder. You can hear him gasping for air as he squirms in your arms and kicks at you. His snot is getting everywhere. Good Gods, what if he dies? Would your husband actually force you consummate the marriage if he loses his heir? The thought alone is enough to force you into action.

“He is not trapped. He is snowed in, just as when you cannot go out and play. Happens all the time.” You reassure him, rubbing his back. You know your words to be a lie, but the boy doesn’t. The weather has been especially rough this season. The snow storm is unusual in its fierceness. “He will be back soon.”

Rickon perks up at that.

“He will?”

“As soon as he can.” You promise, hoping it is the case. In truth, you do not know. Your husband is unaware Rickon is ill, and holds no fondness for you. You doubt he will be rushing once the road clears. In fact, you think he might be celebrating the weather and praising his northern gods for the excuse to get a respite from you.

Well, too bad. You would send men each hour to check if the storm waned and the road was accessible once more. He would have to come and tend to his child.

“Where is father?” Rickon asks you, a suspicious look in his little face. He is eerily similar to your husband. His sobs have turned more subdued.

“With Lord Cerwyn.”

“Why? Hurts! Father!” The boy demands, petulantly. He is clearly feeling better if his lungs allow him to shriek like that. You are no healer, but his agitation is worrying you. What if he has a fit because he overexerted himself and then dies?

“I want your father too.” You mutter under your breath. “You do not see me wailing.”

“I love father.” He sobs. “Want him.”

And you are not made of stone. You have never been, no matter how hard you pretend. He is still a babe, hands chubby, face round. He still smells like one, a mix of the nursery, and sweet innocence.

Without even realizing it, you have cradled him into your arms and begun rocking the two of you. He keeps wailing, so you begin singing.

“I loved a maid…” There is no need to be a good singer to soothe babies. You are unsure of what they like about it, but you know it works. It had worked for Aegon and Viserys, why not for Rickon? “As fair as summer, who had sunlight in her hair….”

You begin to rock him as you pace through the room. As his tears begin to subside, and he begins to grow curious about the soft song, you realize he is not the threat to your future children you had envisioned. Rickon is beautiful in the manner all babes are, soft and sweet. His little fists cling to your wool cloak, gray eyes meeting yours with fascination.

Charmed by him, you keep singing. Seasons of my love is enlarged and repeated ten times over, and now includes verses about northern babies who look exactly like their father.

“I loved a boy…” You hum, softly. It feels like hours have passed when Rickon’s eyes finally begin to drop. Of course he would enjoy the verses about winter the most. “As white as winter, with moonglow in his hair.”

The door opens, slowly. You hear the wood groan as it does, but Rickon takes no notice. He burrows his head next to your heart, yawning.

You turn to look at the newcomer, pleased that having put the fear of the gods into the maid who had dared enter before had proven fruitful. The pleased smile drops from your face when you realize it is your husband.

Lord Stark is drenched to the bone. His hair is stuck to his head and shoulders, dripping water onto his furs. The cloak he had worn is wet, and he is quick to remove it, leaving him in simple breeches and a jerkin. His face is the picture of worry.

“I rode as hard as I dared.” His voice is low, pleasantly so. You had never considered the northern accent he sported attractive, but when his voice is gruff, and pitched low, you might see the appeal. “How is he?”

He shouldn’t have bothered with the low tone. Rickon would recognize his voice everywhere because he perks up considerably.

“Father! Father!” Rickon claps. He attempts turning in your grip to look at your husband, which makes you fear he might fall, so you perch him on your hip so he can do so.

“The fever has broken.” You hand Rickon back to him, feeling a hint of embarrassment when his eyes linger on the way you had been holding him. “He’ll live.”

“Thank you.” And his voice is earnest and soft, and it makes you wonder what he sees when he looks at you. Is it her still? Does Arra Norrey stand in this room with you, too?

The embarrassment from earlier, and the anger at the thought of your husband being soft because you remind him of her make you snap at him.

“It’s fine. I missed my siblings.” You cross your arms over your chest, awkward. Why does he keep staring at you? Is he… Oh, by the Seven, he is smiling at you? So softly? You cannot stand it. “I will send for a bath for you and Rickon, after washing myself. Less I catch a cold too.”

Look, princesses do not flee. They simply walk hurriedly. Very hurriedly.

[thatmarygirl93]

I’ve been screaming this shit from day 1.

🚫NOBODY🚫 is a good person in this world. Just pick your favorite ✨horrible✨ one and get on with it 💋

Yes.

[heathersapples]

OLIVIA COOKE & EMMA D'ARCY House Of The Dragon Season 2 Premiere, June 3rd, 2024

[yandereunsolved]

— ✦ Yandere Targaryens w/ parental reader ✦ —

You do not blame the faults of their foremothers, for they were subjected to prejudice and soul-crushing torment by their forefathers. And for their forefathers you do not weep. You seek to change the damage done to this family—curse from the gods or not. No coin will be flipped. You have it now. 

If you knew the consequences of that, then perhaps you would have changed course. Stopped before you started. Never have stepped foot within the palace. But, alas, the gods have a cruel way of punishing you for your well-intended hubris.

Alicent and Rhaenyra, bless their injured souls, cling to you like molasses on the bark of a tree. They drink in your presence like Arbor red. And get just as intoxicated from it. You keep them together, soothe their woes, and tame the growing division inside the family.

It's exhausting. You don't get paid nearly enough. But bringing comfort to the scared children hidden inside every one of them brings you a nearly indescribable joy. They care for you in their odd way. A bit obsessive, perhaps. That is to be expected.

They are so cute with their queerness.

Aegon and Aemond vie for your attention like quarreling dragons. They shove each other and bicker. They undermine the other's authority. All for your love.

Aegon lays in your lap and sobs about his troubles. You tamp his hair down, tamping down his promiscuous habits. He visits whores less often. He's more attentive to his responsibilities. And he, honest to the gods, smiles. A genuine smile. It nearly made you burst into tears the first time you saw it.

Aemond is less demanding, more broody. He is used to being under Aegon's shadow. The child who listens, acts right, and never asks for anything more than he gets. He prefers reading with and/or to you. He stalks you, as if you can't tell. (You always assume you are being followed or watched at one time or another. It's the nature of the job.) By far his favorite pastime is you tending to him in such a tender manner, almost motherly. 

Brush his hair. Help him choose his clothes. Compliment his face and coo at how pretty he is.

"A missing eye is nothing of shame. You lived through it. You survived. And you have Vhagar. That proves how strong you are. But even without her, you are worthy. You have worth, more than any gold or gem."

To him you are worth more than his own life. His sword is coated in so much blood he can hardly see the metallic shine. Avenging you from people's grievances. It's the one time where Aegon and he agree. Protect you. Love you. Fight each other about you.

All Helaena asks is to have a modicum of your attention. Your praise. Your approval. You don't see her as some strange, otherworldly cook. You see her as her. You allow her to talk about her special interest, bugs. You don't shame her for stimming or getting overstimulated. You make sure the cooks get her food right every time. 

You are truly a godsend. And she does her best to keep you with her at all times. Manipulation, coercion, blackmailing. Those are such vile words. Love is the true word. The only word that describes why and what she does for you.

You, undoubtedly, are the steadfast parental figure Baela and Rhaena have been searching for. Cast out into the seas of life with a ship but no crew, they had not the faintest clue of where to sail. You are their crew, their second mate, their maester. They hang onto your every word as if it is a divine prophecy destined to be true.

You learn how to take care of their hair, similar to Aemond. You show them what little you know about the world. You are their anchor to normalcy. They can brave their storms while you are around. Be themselves. Not nobles or Targaryens, and all the baggage that comes with that.

You do it with Jacaerys and Lucerys. Bastards or not, they are worthy of love and respect. They'll always be Targaryens to you. It runs through their veins. You can tell. As they have the same overprotective and slightly frightening tendencies that the rest of their family has. You watch them spar. You learn the language of their ancestors along with them. You take care of their scrapes and mend their clothes.

You are theirs.

Anyone be damned who tries to take you from them. 

˙ . ꒷ 🔪 . 𖦹˙— ˙ . ꒷ 🔪 . 𖦹˙

tags — @bloodytea

[valyriansource]

Hello everyone!

We're happy to announce that we're collaborating with @thenorthsource to support refugees and victims of the genocides in Palestine, Lebanon & the Sudan.

We're offering to fulfil any gif request, graphic or art request, just as long as you make a donation to the vetted families and charities listed below:

PALESTINE

Dina Maliha (€36,656 raised €50K goal) Google Doc of vetted fundraisers; Dina is 160 on the list

Mohamed Hamad (£12,661 raised of £50,000 goal) Mohamed is 145 on the list

Mahmoud Qassas (€15,265 raised of €100,000 goal) Mahmoud is 62 on the list

SUDAN

Eman Abdulrahman (GFM CHF37,325 raised of CHF50,000 goal, Chuffed $2,548 raised of $30,000) Eman is 213 on the list

Khartoum Kitchen

LEBANON

Lebanese Red Cross

Prices:

- graphics: 5$

- gifsets: 5$

- lineart sketch - 10$

- simple coloring - 15$

- complex coloring - 20$

- halfbody portrait - 50$

- fullbody portrait - 100$

ARTISTS

@adharaphoenix

@cappucosmic

@sofikiii

@asparklethatisblue

@martelldragon

@aemondtargaryen

@amuelia

@snoozingfae

Please consider donating, and if you are unable to participate, please reblog this post!

Thank you ❤️

[aias-fxtns]

LMAOOOO😭😭😭

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

[enviedear]

“i’m 5’8!!” … “nah.”

lmao not them both being absolutely peeved google has their heights wrong

[vitaray]

You can disagree with me, but I fucking hate what hotd did to Aegon as a character and how fandom (and his fans too) treats him.

The show has not only made him a comedic figure, but it has also made fun of him (every time they had the chance), humiliating and diminishing him as a secondary character. It's only due to TGC's performance that Aegon has been saved to some extent.

At this point I don't agree with most people on how they view him. Even his own fans by making him pathetic, stupid, good for nothing, just a pretty face little mew mew. He can be that sometimes for fun, but no. You miss the whole point of Aegon's character if that's how you view him.

When I think of Aegon, strength is the first word that comes to mind. Internal strength to overcome everything of what happened to him. To stand up, to accept his fate, to do whatever is needed: marry his sister, take the throne, fight for the throne and take revenge. Many others would gave up, run away or die in his place, but he didn't.

Aegon didn't want any of this, but he accepted it out of a sense of duty. Despite not being perfectly suited for the role, he takes responsibility and listens to those who are more knowledgeable. He wants to end the war swiftly, desires to be loved and make an impact as a ruler.

And let's not forget that he surges to every battle without fearing for his life (it might not be the best decision for a monarch), but it's also admirable.

He loves his family. And trusts them completely.

Aegon is not a fool to laugh at or someone who simply craves violence. He is a complex character (I know people like to laught at that for some reason) and, instead of constantly fighting for sides on who's more right or wrong, or "who's pretty/who's not", I wish fans would rather analyze and understand the nuances of his character and what he could have become with better writing.

[calirph]

𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐀 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐋 as 𝐋𝐀𝐃𝐘 𝐋𝐀𝐄𝐍𝐀 𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐍

Laena's white nightgown and golden tunic. HOUSE OF THE DRAGON S01E06.

[dohaeris-lykir-soves]

Couldn’t agree more!

Those aren't red flags those are little fun facts about him <3

[novaursa]

A Lion's Folly (the price)

- Summary: A story where a lion falls for the eldest daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, you.

- Pairing: stark!reader/Jaime Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: to break

- Next part: duty

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @butterflygxril @lordofthunderthr @mrsnms

The air in Tywin Lannister’s private study was cold and heavy, the weight of the room’s grandeur pressing down on Jaime as he stepped inside. The fire in the hearth crackled softly, casting a low light over the polished wood and gold accents that adorned the space. Tywin sat behind his massive desk, his posture as straight and imposing as ever. He didn’t look up as Jaime entered, his eyes focused on a letter he was penning.

Jaime closed the door behind him, the soft thud sounding louder in the quiet room. He drew a deep breath, steeling himself. What he was about to say would either change everything—or destroy the last shred of his father’s respect for him.

“Father,” Jaime began, his voice steady despite the turmoil in his chest.

Tywin didn’t look up, his quill moving smoothly across the parchment. “What is it, Jaime? I trust you’re not here to waste my time.”

Jaime stepped closer, his good hand resting on the back of a chair in front of the desk. “I have something to say, and I’d appreciate it if you’d listen.”

Tywin paused, his quill hovering mid-air. Slowly, he looked up, his cold green eyes locking onto Jaime’s. “Speak, then.”

Jaime straightened, meeting his father’s gaze head-on. “You’ve always wanted me to leave the Kingsguard. To return to Casterly Rock and be the heir you need.”

Tywin’s expression didn’t change, though Jaime caught the faintest flicker of interest in his eyes.

“Well,” Jaime continued, his tone growing firmer, “I’m ready to do that.”

The quill was placed carefully on the desk, Tywin leaning back in his chair. “You’re prepared to abandon the vows you so adamantly defended for years?”

Jaime smirked faintly, though there was no humor in it. “Aerys is dead. Robert is dead. The Kingsguard isn’t what it used to be. You were right, as much as I hate to admit it. It isn't my place anymore to wear a white cloak, Father. It’s at Casterly Rock, as your heir.”

For a moment, the room was silent, the fire’s crackling the only sound. Then Tywin nodded, his lips pressing into a thin line. “A wise decision. It’s long overdue.”

But before Tywin could say more, Jaime raised his hand, cutting him off. “There’s a condition.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed, his gaze sharpening. “A condition?”

Jaime’s jaw tightened, but he held his ground. “The Stark girl. She stays here, in King’s Landing. You don’t send her back to Roose Bolton.”

Tywin’s brow furrowed, his expression darkening. “And why, exactly, should I agree to that?”

Jaime leaned forward, his voice lowering. “Because she marries me.”

The words hung in the air like a thunderclap. Tywin’s face betrayed nothing, though the tension in his jaw was unmistakable.

“You would marry her,” Tywin said slowly, his tone measured but laced with disbelief. “A Stark.”

Jaime nodded, his gaze unwavering. “Yes.”

Tywin leaned back in his chair, studying Jaime with a calculating intensity. “Explain yourself,” he demanded.

Jaime exhaled, his good hand clenching into a fist. “You want me to leave the Kingsguard and take my place as your heir. To marry and continue the Lannister name. I’ll do all of it—everything you’ve ever wanted—but only if she’s my wife.”

Tywin’s silence was heavy, his eyes narrowing further. “Tyrion is already married to Sansa Stark,” he said finally. “We’ve secured the North through their union. This would be a waste of resources and a complication we do not need.”

Jaime smirked faintly, though it was brittle. “Tyrion’s marriage secures Sansa, but what about the North’s future? Roose Bolton is unpredictable at best. You said it yourself: alliances are strengthened through strategy. Marrying her to me would solidify our hold. A Stark allied with a Lannister, publicly and undeniably.”

Tywin’s gaze didn’t waver, though his fingers drummed lightly on the desk. “And what of Roose? He will not take this slight lightly.”

“Roose wants power,” Jaime said quickly, pressing his point. “Give him something else. Titles, lands—something to pacify him. But sending her back to him? It’s a mistake. You know what he’ll do to her, and it will do nothing to strengthen our position.”

Tywin studied Jaime with an unreadable expression, the silence between them growing thicker by the second.

“And what of Cersei?” Tywin asked finally, his voice cold.

Jaime’s chest tightened, but he forced himself to remain composed. “Cersei has no say in this,” he said firmly. “You’ve always said family comes first. Well, this is me putting family first. I’ll be the heir you want, Father. But only if she stays.”

The room fell into silence again, the fire’s crackling the only sound. Tywin leaned forward slightly, his steepled fingers resting under his chin as he studied his son.

Finally, he spoke, his tone as cutting as a blade. “I’ll consider it.”

Jaime’s shoulders relaxed slightly, though he knew better than to celebrate. Nothing with Tywin Lannister was ever certain.

“You’ll have your answer soon enough,” Tywin said, his gaze cutting through Jaime like ice. “But understand this: if I agree to this arrangement, you will not falter. You will take your place as my heir, and you will do whatever is necessary to secure the Lannister name.”

Jaime nodded, his smirk faint but resolute. “Understood.”

Tywin didn’t respond, his gaze dropping back to the papers on his desk. Jaime took that as his cue to leave, turning and walking out of the study with a strange mix of relief and dread.

The die was cast, and now, all he could do was wait.

The courtyard of the Red Keep buzzed with activity as servants bustled about, arranging tables, floral garlands, and golden decorations for the upcoming wedding of King Joffrey and Margaery Tyrell. The air was filled with the scent of freshly cut roses, mingling with the sharp tang of sea air drifting from Blackwater Bay. The opulence of the preparations was overwhelming, even by Lannister standards.

Tyrion stood near the center of the chaos, barking orders at a hapless steward who was struggling to adjust a garland that hung unevenly across one of the high tables. “No, no, you idiot,” Tyrion snapped. “The flowers go up, not down. Do you want the Queen of Thorns to have my head on a platter?”

The steward stammered an apology, quickly fixing the garland while Tyrion muttered something about incompetence and the sheer agony of dealing with fools. Jaime approached from behind, his good hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword.

“Busy, little brother?” Jaime asked, his voice light but tinged with sarcasm.

Tyrion turned, his gaze narrowing as he took in Jaime’s presence. “Ah, the Kingslayer graces us with his company. Shouldn’t you be practicing swordplay with your left hand? Or has father decided you’re no longer fit for such activities?”

Jaime smirked faintly, though his expression carried a weight that didn’t go unnoticed by Tyrion. “I thought I’d check in on you,” Jaime said, ignoring the jab. “And share some news.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow, gesturing for Jaime to follow him as he moved toward a quieter corner of the courtyard. “News? From you? This should be good.”

As they stepped away from the noise and activity, Jaime leaned against a low stone wall, his gaze drifting briefly over the bustling scene before settling on Tyrion.

“I spoke with Father,” Jaime began, his tone uncharacteristically serious.

Tyrion tilted his head, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “I assume it went about as well as your conversations with him usually do?”

Jaime exhaled slowly. “This one was… different. I made him an offer.”

Tyrion’s brow furrowed slightly, though he remained silent, waiting for Jaime to continue.

“I told him I’d leave the Kingsguard,” Jaime said, his voice steady. “I’d go back to Casterly Rock. Be the heir he’s always wanted. Do everything he’s asked of me.”

Tyrion blinked, his usually quick wit momentarily failing him. “You? Giving up the Kingsguard? Returning to Casterly Rock? I’m impressed, brother. It seems losing a hand has also cost you your stubbornness.”

Jaime smirked faintly but didn’t respond to the quip. Instead, he pressed on. “But there’s a condition.”

Tyrion leaned forward slightly, his curiosity piqued. “A condition? Do tell.”

Jaime hesitated for a fraction of a second, then met Tyrion’s gaze head-on. “I told him I’d do it, but only if Y/N Stark isn’t sent back to Roose Bolton.”

Tyrion’s expression shifted from amusement to mild surprise. “Well, I suppose that’s noble of you. But I don’t see Father agreeing to spare her life out of the goodness of his heart.”

“She wouldn’t just stay here,” Jaime said, his voice lowering. “She’d marry me.”

For the first time in their long history as brothers, Jaime Lannister left Tyrion speechless.

Tyrion stared at Jaime, his mouth slightly agape, before he shook his head as if trying to clear it. “Marry her?” he echoed, his tone disbelieving. “You’re serious?”

“As serious as I’ve ever been,” Jaime replied, his smirk faint but steady.

Tyrion let out a low whistle, running a hand through his hair. “Seven hells, Jaime. I thought I’d heard everything. And here you are, proposing marriage to a Stark. Did you hit your head on the way back to King’s Landing?”

Jaime crossed his arms, his gaze unwavering. “I know what I’m doing, Tyrion.”

“Do you?” Tyrion asked sharply, his tone incredulous. “You’ve just told our father, the most pragmatic and ruthless man in the Seven Kingdoms, that you’ll leave the Kingsguard and return to his fold on the condition that you marry the daughter of our enemy. And you think this will end well?”

“It’s not just about her,” Jaime said, his voice firmer now. “It’s about the North. About securing alliances. About making sure Roose Bolton doesn’t destroy everything in his path. She’s leverage, Tyrion. You know how important that is.”

Tyrion narrowed his eyes, studying Jaime carefully. “Leverage, is it?” he asked quietly. “You’ve always been a terrible liar, Jaime. What’s this really about?”

Jaime’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away. “I won’t let her be sent back to Roose,” he said simply. “Whatever else happens, I won’t let that happen.”

Tyrion sighed, shaking his head. “You’ve surprised me, Jaime. Truly. I’m not sure whether to call this bravery or madness.”

Jaime smirked faintly, though his eyes were dark with determination. “Maybe it’s both.”

Tyrion exhaled slowly, his expression softening slightly. “Well, whatever it is, I hope you know what you’re doing. Because once Father makes his decision, there’s no going back.”

Jaime nodded, his gaze drifting back to the bustling courtyard. “I know.”

And for the first time in a long while, Jaime Lannister felt the weight of his choices—choices that, for better or worse, were his alone.

The soft knock at your chamber door drew your attention away from the fire that crackled faintly in the hearth. You had been staring into the flames, lost in thought, trying to make sense of the tangled web that had ensnared you. At the sound, you straightened, your heart briefly tightening.

“Come in,” you said, your voice steady despite the turmoil churning inside.

The door creaked open to reveal Brienne. She stepped inside cautiously, her tall frame stiff with tension. Her usual stoicism was absent; instead, her face was lined with agitation, her lips pressed into a thin line as if she were holding back an onslaught of words.

“Brienne,” you greeted, standing. “What is it?”

She closed the door behind her and hesitated, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. Finally, she let out a sharp breath. “I failed you,” she said, her voice heavy with guilt.

You frowned, crossing your arms. “What are you talking about?”

Brienne’s blue eyes met yours, her jaw tight. “I made a vow to your mother—to bring your sisters back to her. To keep you safe. And now…” She looked away, her fists clenching. “Sansa is married to Tyrion Lannister. Arya hasn’t been seen since your father…” Her voice faltered, and she took a moment to collect herself. “And now they’re talking about sending you to Roose Bolton. I’ve failed you all.”

You felt a pang of sympathy at the anguish in her voice, but it was quickly replaced by the bitterness that had taken root since your arrival in King’s Landing. “This isn’t your fault,” you said softly. “You’ve done more for us than most would. But some things are beyond even you, Brienne.”

Her gaze snapped back to yours, her expression fierce. “I won’t let them send you back to him,” she said firmly. “I’ll stop them. Whatever it takes.”

A bitter laugh escaped you, and you shook your head. “You think you can stop Tywin Lannister? The man who orchestrates kingdoms with a quill and a few words? Roose Bolton is his ally. A tool to keep the North in line. I’m just a piece of that puzzle.”

“You’re more than a piece,” Brienne said sharply. “You’re a Stark. And I will not allow them to throw you to that man. Not while I draw breath.”

Her conviction was admirable, but it only deepened the ache in your chest. You turned away, moving back to the fire, the warmth doing little to chase away the chill inside you.

“I was a fool,” you said quietly. “A fool to think the Lannisters would do anything honorable. They don’t care about honor. They care about power. I should have known better.”

Brienne took a step closer, her voice softening. “You trusted them because you hoped for something better. That isn’t foolish. It’s… brave.”

You let out a hollow laugh, shaking your head. “Brave? No, Brienne. Hope isn’t brave. It’s dangerous. And look where it’s gotten me.”

The room fell into a heavy silence, the crackling fire the only sound between you. Finally, you turned back to her, your expression softening slightly.

“Have you seen Sansa?” you asked, your voice quieter now. “I haven’t seen her since that brief visit.”

Brienne’s jaw tightened, and she shook her head. “I’ve only heard whispers. They say she’s kept under close watch. Protected, but… isolated. Tyrion seems to treat her well, from what I’ve heard.”

You nodded, though the knot in your chest tightened. “At least she’s alive,” you said softly, more to yourself than to Brienne.

“She is,” Brienne said, her voice firm. “And I will do everything I can to make sure you stay safe, too. You have my word.”

You looked at her, seeing the determination in her eyes. Despite everything, despite the odds stacked against you, you couldn’t deny the small flicker of hope her presence brought.

“Thank you, Brienne,” you said quietly. “For everything. But be careful. Tywin Lannister isn’t a man to cross lightly.”

Brienne nodded, her expression grim. “I don’t fear Tywin,” she said. “But I’ll tread carefully. For your sake.”

With that, she turned and left, the door closing softly behind her.

As you sat by the fire once more, your thoughts turned to your sisters, to your mother, and to the man who held your fate in his hands. The bitterness in your chest remained, but so did the faintest glimmer of resolve.

You would endure. You had to. For them.

The solar of the Red Keep was unusually quiet, a rarity given the company gathered within. Tywin Lannister sat at the head of a long table, his posture as commanding as ever, his piercing green eyes sweeping over his children as they took their places. Jaime leaned back in his chair. Tyrion, perched on a chair that had been slightly adjusted for his stature, sipped his wine with a faint smirk. Cersei, however, radiated impatience, her gaze fixed on her father.

"Well?" she asked, her tone clipped. "Why the summons, Father? I have more important matters to attend to than these family meetings."

Tywin’s expression didn’t change as he folded his hands atop the table. "I summoned you because there are decisions to be made—ones that affect the future of this house."

Cersei scoffed. "What else is new?"

Jaime exchanged a glance with Tyrion, who simply raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued but content to wait for Tywin to elaborate.

"Jaime," Tywin began, his voice steady and authoritative. "You will be leaving the Kingsguard."

The room went utterly still. Cersei’s eyes widened in disbelief, and even Tyrion’s smirk faltered for a moment as he looked to his brother, despite knowing the topic of this meeting.

"I’ve already agreed," Jaime said, his tone calm but firm.

Cersei’s voice rose sharply. "Agreed? Jaime, what are you talking about? You can’t leave the Kingsguard—it’s who you are!"

Jaime met her gaze, his expression unreadable. "It’s who I was. Things change, Cersei."

"They don’t!" she snapped, slamming a hand on the table. "Father, you can’t force him—"

"Cersei," Tywin interrupted coldly, his tone enough to make her stop mid-sentence. "This is not a matter up for debate. Jaime’s position as my heir is paramount to the survival of this house. The Kingsguard is a relic. Jaime is needed at Casterly Rock."

Cersei shook her head, her golden curls bouncing as her disbelief turned to fury. "And what about me? I’ve been the one holding everything together here. I should be—"

"Enough," Tywin said, his voice cutting through her protests like a blade. "You are needed here. Jaime is the eldest son, and his duty is clear. That is not the only matter at hand."

Tyrion leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing with knowledge what their father would declare next. "Oh, this should be good," he murmured, earning a brief glare from Cersei.

Tywin ignored him, his gaze shifting back to Jaime. "To secure this house’s future, Jaime will marry Y/N Stark."

Cersei froze, her anger giving way to stunned silence. Jaime tensed, though he had expected the announcement. Tyrion, however, raised his goblet in mock salute, his smirk returning full force.

"Well, I must admit, Father," Tyrion said, his tone dripping with amusement. "You’ve outdone yourself this time. Jaime, the heir to Casterly Rock, wedded to a Stark. Poetic, really."

Cersei’s shock melted into fury. "A Stark?!" she hissed. "You’re marrying Jaime to Y/N Stark? That traitor’s daughter—"

"Watch your words," Jaime said suddenly, cutting her off. His voice carried a rare edge, and Cersei stared at him, momentarily taken aback.

"Enough of this hysteria," Tywin said, his tone brooking no argument. "Y/N Stark is a valuable piece in this game. Marrying her to Jaime solidifies our position in the North. Roose Bolton’s allegiance is tenuous at best, and while Tyrion’s marriage to Sansa has been useful, it is not enough. Y/N’s alliance will ensure the North remains fractured and manageable."

Cersei turned on Jaime, her green eyes blazing. "You agreed to this?" she demanded.

Jaime met her gaze evenly. "I did."

"Why?" she nearly shouted, her voice trembling with anger and disbelief. "Why would you lower yourself to this? To her?"

Jaime’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t flinch under her scrutiny. "Because it’s the right move," he said simply. "For the house. For the future."

Cersei glared at Tyrion. "This is a mistake. She’ll never be one of us."

"She doesn’t need to be one of us," Tywin said coldly. "She only needs to serve her purpose. This is not about sentiment, Cersei. It’s about power. And Jaime understands that."

Jaime leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting to the window. The thought of marrying you stirred a maelstrom of emotions he hadn’t fully confronted. But the alternative—seeing you sent back to Roose Bolton—was unbearable. If this was the price he had to pay to ensure your safety, he would pay it.

Cersei stood abruptly, her chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. "You’ve lost your mind," she spat, her voice shaking. "Both of you." She stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Tyrion sighed dramatically, raising his goblet. "Well, that went better than expected."

Tywin ignored him, his gaze fixed on Jaime. "You’ll announce the engagement after Joffrey’s wedding," he said. "Until then, I expect you to conduct yourself with the dignity befitting your station."

Jaime nodded, though his mind was already racing. The pieces were falling into place, but the road ahead was far from clear.

As Tyrion refilled his goblet, he glanced at Jaime, his smirk softening slightly. "You’re playing a dangerous game, brother. Let’s hope you know what you’re doing."

Jaime met his gaze, his smirk faint but resolute. "So do I."

The sunlight slanted through the small, barred windows of your chambers. You sat by the fire, your hands folded tightly in your lap, your jaw clenched as you stared into the flickering flames. The silence of your confinement pressed heavily around you, each passing hour a reminder of how far you were from home.

The door creaked open behind you, and you didn’t bother turning. You’d already guessed who it was.

"Have you come to tell me it’s time?" you asked bitterly, your voice filled with anger and resignation. "To hand me over to Bolton’s men like the obedient pawn you are?"

Jaime stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him. His golden hair caught the light, but his expression was unusually somber. He moved closer, his boots clicking faintly against the stone floor, and stopped a few feet away.

"No," he said quietly. "I’m not here to take you to Roose Bolton."

That caught your attention. You turned, your eyes narrowing as you studied him. "Then why are you here?"

Jaime exhaled slowly, his good hand resting on the back of a chair. He hesitated for a moment, as if searching for the right words. "I spoke to my father," he began. "I convinced him not to send you back to Bolton."

Your heart leapt momentarily, but the guarded look in his eyes snuffed out the flicker of hope before it could take root. "What did you do?" you demanded, standing now, your voice hard.

Jaime met your gaze, his jaw tightening. "You’re not being sent to Roose Bolton," he repeated carefully. "Instead… you’ll marry me."

The words hit you like a blow. For a moment, you could only stare at him, your mind struggling to process what he’d said. Then the fury erupted, hot and biting.

"You’re joking," you spat. "You think this is better? That this is a solution?"

"It’s the only way to keep you safe," Jaime said firmly, though his voice carried a tinge of weariness. "If I didn’t—"

"Safe?" you interrupted, your voice rising. "You think I’d be safe with you? An oathbreaker? A man who threw my brother out of a window, who has sired bastards with his sister? You disgust me, Jaime Lannister."

He flinched at your words, the sharpness of your tone cutting through him. But he held his ground. "You think I don’t know that?" he said quietly, his voice strained. "You think I don’t know what I’ve done? I didn’t come here to defend myself, Y/N. I came here because this was the only way to stop Bolton from taking you. If he got his hands on you—"

"I would rather die," you declared, your eyes blazing. "I would rather face whatever horrors Bolton has planned than marry a man like you."

Jaime’s face darkened, his good hand clenching into a fist. "Don’t say that," he snapped. "Don’t throw your life away out of spite."

"This isn’t spite," you retorted, stepping closer, your voice shaking with rage. "This is about honor. Something you wouldn’t understand."

Jaime’s jaw tightened, his smirk nowhere to be seen. For a moment, he simply stared at you, his hair falling into his eyes, his expression a mix of frustration and something else—something softer.

"You don’t have to like me," he said finally, his voice low. "You don’t even have to forgive me. But if marrying me means you’ll survive, then I’ll bear your hatred gladly."

Your breath caught at the unexpected vulnerability in his tone, but you refused to let it sway you. "You think this is noble?" you said coldly. "It’s not. It’s selfish. You want to ease your guilt by tying me to you. But I won’t let you."

Jaime exhaled, his shoulders slumping slightly as if the weight of your words had pressed down on him. "Believe what you want," he said softly. "But the alternative is worse. You know that as well as I do."

You turned away from him, your chest heaving with the effort to keep your emotions in check. The anger, the frustration, the helplessness—they churned inside you, threatening to overwhelm. "Get out," you said finally, your voice trembling.

Jaime hesitated, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer. Then he turned and left, the door closing behind him with a heavy thud.

As the silence returned, you clenched your fists, your nails biting into your palms. You had never felt more trapped, more furious, or more determined to find a way out of this nightmare.

Jaime stepped out of your chambers, letting the heavy door close behind him with a dull thud. He lingered in the corridor, his back resting against the cold stone wall, his chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths. His hand—his only hand—gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, the leather-wrapped pommel creaking faintly under the strain. He knew your reaction was inevitable. He knew you would rage against the idea, against him. But knowing hadn’t softened the blow.

Your words replayed in his mind, each one more cutting than the last.

"I would rather die."

He pushed away from the wall and began walking aimlessly, the echo of his boots on the stone floor punctuating the silence. The halls of the Red Keep were familiar, but tonight they felt like a labyrinth, each corner leading him further into his own thoughts.

What had he expected? Gratitude? Understanding? He had done this for you, hadn’t he? To keep you safe from Roose Bolton, to protect you from the horrors waiting in the North. But now, with your fury still ringing in his ears, Jaime wasn’t so sure.

You had looked at him with such fire, such loathing, that it had made him feel small—less than the man he had once been. You hadn’t even hesitated to remind him of the things he hated most about himself: the boy he pushed from a window, the truths about Cersei he never spoke aloud. Each accusation hit its mark, and Jaime couldn’t deny that he deserved it.

Perhaps you were right. Perhaps this wasn’t about saving you at all. Perhaps it was about saving himself, about finding some sliver of redemption in a world that had long since stripped him of it.

He reached a small alcove overlooking the courtyard, where the moon cast a pale glow over the city beyond. He leaned against the ledge, the cool night air brushing against his face as he tried to steady his thoughts.

He had always been so certain of himself, so confident in his choices, no matter how others judged him. But now? Now he felt untethered, lost in a sea of doubt and regret.

Was this what honor felt like? This hollow, aching thing that clawed at his chest?

Jaime’s hand moved instinctively to his empty sleeve, his fingers brushing against the fabric where his hand used to be. He had always thought of himself as the best—a warrior, a knight, someone to be admired. But standing here now, stripped of his skill, his pride, and your respect, he felt like nothing.

Your face flashed in his mind again, not with the fire of anger but with the quiet resolve he had seen during the journey to King’s Landing. You had carried yourself with such strength, even in the face of everything. It was maddening, the way you occupied his thoughts.

He let out a low, bitter laugh, shaking his head. What a fool he was. The Kingslayer, the golden son of Tywin Lannister, reduced to this—a man desperate to protect someone who wanted nothing to do with him.

But he couldn’t stop.

You might never forgive him. You might hate him for the rest of your life. But Jaime would bear that hatred if it meant keeping you safe. He would endure your scorn, your cold words, and the way your eyes burned with loathing every time they met his.

Because the alternative was unthinkable.

Jaime turned away from the window, his jaw tightening as he straightened his shoulders. He couldn’t afford to dwell on what might have been. There was only the path ahead, the choices he had made, and the consequences he would face.

Even if it tore him apart.

As he made his way back through the dimly lit halls, Jaime resolved himself to the truth he had been avoiding since this whole mess began: he wasn’t doing this for honor, or redemption, or even for his father’s approval.

He was doing this for you. And that terrified him more than anything else.

[daemonbrain]

Little Viper

Prologue | Chapter 1

(Daemon Targaryen x Dornish!Reader)

Summary: The sun could not reach you here, not in this city of rain and stink. (Un)fortunately, you found yourself at the mercy of a dragon's fire.

You've missed the heat, you supposed.

3k, CW: arranged marriage, canon divergent, canon-typical violence, canon-typical misogyny, reader is homesick, smut, little bit angsty, will update as I post.

a/n: if your new the prologue isn't necessary to read, just some extra insights. tbh i like the writing on this better bc its nice and angsty 🥰 comments are always extra appreciated, happy reading!!

100 A.C.

It was too hot here.

You allowed the maids who had come into your washing chambers to scrub at your skin vigorously. The one to your right rubbing your arm near raw, it did not matter.

It felt healing to sink into the sweltering hot water, the humidity almost unbearable with the lack of circulation. The room was full of maids brought from Dorne tasked with tending to you hand and foot, to have you the very image of a Princess on your special day.

You dared not utter a word; you feared what you did not know. With your volatile state of mind, you did not know what would come out of your mouth. There was no feeling. Just the scrubbing, the heat, the incessant tugging at your hair.

…

The hours of diligent work upon your appearance made the sight you were. Your white gown embroidered with great care to detail, suns speckled about harmoniously with the textures of the fabric. The corset drawn so tight you could feign fainting halfway up the aisle.

As you stood outside of the great wooden doors to the throne room, the cloak of yellow and orange lay heavy on your shoulders. The burden of peace thrust to you and for the love you bore your people you would do your duty.

“Princess,” A voice interrupted. Shaking yourself from your stupor, you turn to heed the man’s words. “Are you ready?”

Nodding, you willed your quaking body to arrest the futile show of fear.

The absence of both your father Prince Mors and brother Prince Qoren left you lacking accompaniment to the altar where your promised would stand.

May the gods grant you many a more moons, father. Reap the harvest of peace sown through your abandonment.

Imprisoned in your brooding, it is unclear to know anything beyond that of your own body. The sound of the heavy doors being pushed, your title being heralded resonating through the room. Your body moving faster than your mind, possessing you to move forward.

May they grant your future reign stillness and calm, beloved brother. May they bless you with the choice of a joyful union when the time comes, built upon this peace.

In spite of the pace your heart raced, the in-style shoes popular among ladies of the capital forced a slow walk. You would not be fearful, not of a Targaryen. A Martell does not stoop their head down to the blood of the dragon. To be as stubborn as a mule was not to let the tears prickle at your eyes, nor allow the fury which claws at your throat like a bound beast rise to the surface.

Step after step, every noise previously present went quiet at the approaching bride.

Raising your head, you are met with a sight which triggers your urges to turn heel and run south until you felt the grainy sand of the Dornish desert beneath your feet again.

He was beautiful.

Your gaze is met with his own violet one. His mouth an unashamed and harsh line, as if there was nothing he loathed more than standing at the end of this oh so blessed procession. Like two furious crashing waves in a storm tossed sea, your own discontentment intensified as you pushed forward.

It felt like your lifetime had passed you by when you took your place in front of the silver-haired Prince. Though his imposing frame carried a noble bearing, his stance was loose, his garb and hair revealing a hurried dressing.

Did he too fight such a deplorable match?

Briefly bowing your head to the septon, he returns the gesture and makes a subtle motion at the yellow and orange cloak which rests on your shoulders. It was meant to be Qoren walking down with you, him to remove the symbolism of your house’s protection and surrendered to Targaryen mercy.

But Qoren was not here. Nor your sickly father

Just a Prince with an expression of fiery wrath, chilling your bones. Refusing to acknowledge the humiliation that came with a lack of kin to give you away, you would help yourself.

So be it you relented. Taking the fabric between your fingers you tug it off in a swift motion and allow it to drop to the floor. Though your dress was befitting of a winter bride, covering every bit of your scented and oiled skin, you had never felt so vulnerable before.

“You may cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.”

Daemon’s anger was temporarily subdued as a hint of unhidden pleasure came over him. He basked in the moment with twisted satisfaction, sensing your delicacy to the act. Taking the cloak of his house- a black and red fabric- and placing it over your shoulders. Keeping his eyes on yours at the tense and silent refusal to look away. Though all he could see was a Princess draped in the colours of his own noble house, surely.

So wicked it felt as though the Stranger itself had cloaked you.

Praise the strength of your near-wobbling legs for not giving out as Daemon stepped back.

“Father,” Your father idles, sick and feeble in Sunspear or mayhaps just too cowardly to see the cost of his peace.

“Mother,” Your mother lay in the ground, gods rest her soul.

“Warrior,” May he grant you courage to face this fate without fear.

“Maiden, Crone, Stranger,”

The room faded as you looked to Daemon who remained unmoving, continuing to leer. The gesture caused you discomfort, your already delicate insides ready to spill themselves. How could one so ethereal debase himself to such lack of grace.

Beauty touched by the gods they say of dragon's blood… It is a shame the statement carries weight.

“Bear witness to their vows.” The septon gestures to Prince Daemon. With an irate expression Daemon casts a glance to his right, tearing his eyes away from you to look to his father, Crown-Prince Baelon. You caught what was unsaid between the two, brief as it was. His stare is one of finality, not dissimilar to your own father’s as he threw you on to the sea bound for King’s Landing.

With a roughness certainly not unnoticed by the crowd, Prince Daemon hastily grabs your hand into his own. Calloused against your softer skin that causes a shiver to creep down your spine. As if sensing… relating with the feeling, his hand gives an involuntary squeeze. The septon ties your joint had together and bids Daemon to repeat after him.

“I am yours,” His teeth practically almost shattered from the way he gritted through his words, his heart having no truth in his words. “And you are mine. Whatever may come.” Daemon glowered as if he wanted to rip you to shreds himself.

His breath stunk of wine.

You had a duty. You had a duty and for all that you held dear you would do it. You had a duty… surely…

Surely the gods would grant mercy unto your soul for such a willing act of forfeit?

“Hurry up.” Daemon pigheadedly interrupted.

Coming back to your current affairs, you see that the septon was in fact waiting for you to repeat the vows back.

Taking a deep breath in, your mouth opened yet no words emerged. The revulsion seated deep within your soul infecting the rest of your body with denial. You withhold the want to pull away, You are sure your betrothed would not stop you if you ran. He held you just as he was expected, the now loosened grip preparing to separate already.

“We all have duties to uphold.” The great Prince Mors -your father’s- voice echoed.

Paying no mind to the judging stares, you force your feelings aside. “I am yours, and you are mine… Whatever may come.” Your eyes round and brimming with the emotion which swirls behind them.

…

The feast was just as miserable of an affair. Daemon had left you almost immediately, seeking refuge in a bottle paired with idle talk with his brother and a Lord whose name you did not know or care for, rather than be by your side. Not that you had any objections. You ripped the cloak of black and red off the moment your vows had been done feeling as suffocated as one could be, and to the surprise of none. Had you been paying closer attention you would have noticed the exasperated expression that dawned on Daemon's face.

A sorry sight you were. The Princess of Dorne atop the royal dais, unshed tears and anger held solely by your pride. As the few of your fathers advisors here on his behalf engaged in small talks with the King’s courtiers, you were left to fend for your own. After all, no one else dares approach the viper on such a high pedestal.

Looking on at the festivities, the music being played grows louder in your ears while courtiers spun about. All dutifully ignoring the ever present tension within the room as their Prince sinks into his cups with a loose tongue dripping of bravado on one side of the room, and the foreigner sulking in the other.

You gripped your cup tighter as you observed your betrotheds- your husband’s hands grab at yet another yet another goblet of wine -one of many he’s had upon arrival- there is a slight sway to his stance. With luck, perhaps he will choke on his own stomach contents in a drunken stupor by the end of the night.

Even so, fortune's favor never does seem to smile upon you. You found no favor when you were subjugated to this.

The familiar figure of Princess Aemma approaches, ending your isolation. Sitting up straight, you nod your head to the Arryn.

“Princess Aemma. I trust you are enjoying your evening.” With a mouth pressed far too tight and eyes widened a bit too wide to hide the weariness which tingled with every blink. “Princess.” She gestures to the chair next to your own.

“You may sit wherever you please. I am hardly in any position to refuse company.” It was the moment you heard the chair shuffle closer that you found the cutlery far more interesting.

“It would be audacious to presume I may sit anywhere… I would not want to make my good-sister uncomfortable.” You gulped at the word “sister”, maintaining a steadfast gaze forward. You were sure she meant it in good spirits. No matter the intention, the stabbing feeling to your aching heart remained.

With a bitter chuckle you return your focus to the woman seated beside you. “You are most gracious Princess.”

Biting your lip you lock on to the sight behind her. Daemon’s eyes unnervingly on yours while his father takes hold of his arm, leaning close to speak discreet words. His brother Viserys to his right, a blissfully ignorant expression listening to the lecture.

Aemma notices the Prince’s withering gaze. Gently smiling she moves her head to the side, blocking your sightline.

“I must say em- I am certain you’ve heard a plethora of congratulations, I wished to give you mine. May the gods bless you with a joyous and fruitful union.”

“Many congratulations, though I am not sure as to why the sentiment for this plain day.” She afforded you kindness, but your mood was too far soured to repay it in full. You’ve no need for a sister, you have a brother already. Perhaps. It is unclear whether his abandonment of you while you waited on the shores of the Blackwater Bay for his arrival was his way of wiping his hands clean of you.

All the same, you were no longer of his house.

The Princess moved to continue, but was quickly interrupted by the heavy footfalls and subsequent hand landing roughly on your shoulder. Your body jolted away from the touch instinctually, only eliciting a loud and mirthless laugh from the figure behind you. Pivoting your body towards the brazen soul, dreading what you surmised. For there is only one in this hall who could presume to lay hold of you in such a way.

Grasping for your wrist, Daemon’s hand clenched around like a wolf’s maw to its prey. “It seems my father grows displeased at your solitude, Princess.” Using his leverage he begins to pull you in his direction. “You can cease your dawdling and spare me your excuses.”

Reeling your shock at his blatant handling, you firmly planted yourself into your chair. Digging your heels in as you look at him incredulously. “I am quite fine as I am Prince Daemon.”

His eyes narrowed with ire, the mark of his vexation stretching his mouth into a frown as he attempted another stronger tug. “I’ve no patience for your refusal, join me-”

Abruptly, Aemma interjects Daemon’s demands, “You need not worry Daemon. She is far from lonely, I am here with her. Viserys busies himself with others so i’ve no intention on leaving for some time.”

Fixing his attention to Aemma, Daemon’s expression is one of apathy as he finally manages to bring you stumbling to your feet. “A shame you are not the one she is meant to cling to then.”

You barely had the time to recompose yourself before you are whisked away. “Easy!” You hissed while dragged by Daemon’s persistent hand, long strides forcing you further and further from the table you resigned yourself to acceptingly moments ago.

With a chuckle, he continues on to the dance floor. “I’m to spend time with you wife. I’m to dance with my bride on such an evening, my father says.” His words drenched with resentment as his fingers dig harder into the fabric of your sleeves. Too far gone from your secluded (and missed) seat, you are helpless but to let Daemon weave you through the crowd. People part way for the Prince as he centers himself.

“You offer such kindness allowing me to ‘cling’ to you!”

Prying free from his clutches, the two of you stopped in the middle of the throng. He prowled about your dress-clad form. The thunder outside clapped as if it tried to help his unwelcomed scare tactics. Tracking the movement with your eyes, you respond.

“But how disappointing, here I thought my dear husband wished to parade me around this grand hall of his own volition.”

He scoffed as the tempo of the music quickened. He grabs onto your hand with an iron-like-hold, forcing you to follow his (sloppy) lead. “Ah, so I married a fool. Many things i‘ve heard of your family, but stupid? Did I get the rotten apple from the poisonous tree?”

Married or made to marry you wanted to quip. Though, it was unwise to speak plainly to a man whose side you would be made to stay by for the foreseeable future.

“I’m glad you have heard so much of my family then, my prince.” You must avoid disgrace when in the company of these unknown people however much it pains you to treat the man who forcefully whirls your body about like a sack of potatoes.

The moment the words left your mouth you regretted it. Daemon’s mouth quirked up into a sneer when he leans in far too close to your indifferent facade. If you turned your face your nose would brush against his, more prone to the dangerous glint which sparked within him.

“I’ve heard a great deal… Dorne seems to be such an interesting place, yes?”

Yank after yank after yank you look less that you are being danced with and more of a likeness to the training dummies you used to watch the house guard jostle in practice.

“Dorne boasts a great many things not found North of its border.” You grit. Your brain clanged around your skull from the movement as you attempted to find your footing. All the while, you spot the blurred faces of the onlookers this “dance” attracts.

Digging your fingers into Daemon’s forearm, he either does not acknowledge or understand the silent request to seize his brusque movements. His purposeful embarrassment garnering murmurs of those who witness it.

Snickering, he attempts -and somewhat fails- to lower his voice. “More free. Is it true? Do I have a wicked woman to tame?” Daemon’s breath hot on your cheek compared to your blood which runs cold at the accusation.

What else would you expect from a vulgar young prince to imagine of your reputation besides rumors meant to make Dornish less “refined” than the other kingdoms. Not pious as a Hightower, nor familial like a Tully. Lustful like a scoundrel.

Your cold countenance formed like steel, a knight's shield around your displeasure. “I assure you I am as unspoilt as any other maiden.” Your voice sounded prickly as you finally managed to rip your hands away from Daemon’s. Rolling his eyes he makes another attempt to grab at you, stating some unpleasantness of the song not being finished. Moving your arm farther out of his reach you send a glare that would ward off your most persistent suitors, “I’ve no wish to dance anymore Prince Daemon.”

Before any other protests could come out, you fled. Slipping through the crowds, your ears caught the murmurs which rippled by. Your cheeks flooded with the heat indignity. Each time you braved a glance upwards you were met with eerily hollow glances.

You believed yourself to be much more skilled at concealing your true feelings of Daemon. After all, you did not begin weeping the moment he opened his depraved mouth like you wished to. In spite of what you thought to be a masterful act, the odd glances cast your way seemed to say otherwise.

Sick you made out.

The cascade of whispers continued as you pushed through, noticing a few of the Dornish courtiers present with the same bereaved visage.

In sleep you managed to catch.

As the seconds passed by, you found yourself more closely surrounded. Bombarded by small frowns and pitying gazes. Turning your head back you see the head of silver-hair bounding closer again.

You did not feel the closeness Daemon imposed when he made his way to the back you. He did not notice the way your face went slack, stripped of the will to move. It was not your union they looked on with pity for.

He took your silence as trepidation. “That was quite rude Princess… you should learn to use a more revering tone with me. It may do you some good, you know.” He took your silence for trepidation as he smirked, looming over you. He was mistaken.

The ground felt as if it crumbled beneath you. Your breath coming in short huffs as the overwhelming grief threatens to crush you under its weight.

“Prince Mors dead” the veil of secrecy lifted to reveal your father had passed on.

Had Daemon not been behind you, your body would have collapsed onto the cold stone of the floor.

[moonlight-joy]

Wolves Mate for Life

Fandom: House of Dragon

Summary: You and Cregan have been married for years, ruling Winterfell together. On your anniversary, he surprises you with a rare display of affection, proving that even the stern Lord of Winterfell can be a romantic at heart.

Pairing: Reader/Cregan Stark

Winterfell’s stone walls stood tall and unwavering, a fortress of strength against the harsh northern winds. Snowflakes drifted gently from the sky, settling on the castle’s towers and battlements, blanketing the world in a quiet, serene stillness. But within those ancient walls, warmth and love thrived—a testament to the bond you shared with Cregan Stark.

You had ruled Winterfell by his side for years, enduring both harsh winters and fleeting summers. Your marriage, like the North itself, was built on resilience and loyalty. Though Cregan was known to the realm as a stern and formidable lord, to you, he was something more. He was your partner, your love, your home.

Tonight marked your anniversary—another year spent together as husband and wife, as Lord and Lady of Winterfell. The day had passed quietly, as most days in Winterfell did. But as evening fell, you noticed Cregan’s absence from the hall, a rare occurrence given his unwavering sense of duty.

Curiosity piqued, you wrapped yourself in a thick cloak and ventured through the winding corridors of the castle. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of pine and snow. The flickering torchlight cast shadows on the stone walls as you made your way to the courtyard, where you finally found him.

Cregan stood near the training yard, his broad shoulders dusted with snow. He turned at the sound of your footsteps, a rare smile tugging at the corners of his lips as his eyes met yours.

“You’re supposed to be inside,” you chided gently, stepping closer. “It’s freezing out here.”

“And yet you came looking for me,” he teased, his voice low and warm. “Couldn’t bear to be without me for long, could you?”

You rolled your eyes, though a smile tugged at your lips. “Someone has to make sure you don’t catch your death out here.”

Cregan chuckled, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. He closed the distance between you, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close. His cloak smelled of woodsmoke and the wild northern air, a scent that had become as comforting to you as the warmth of a hearth.

“Do you know what today is?” he asked softly, his breath misting in the cold air.

“Of course,” you replied, resting your head against his chest. “How could I forget?”

“I’ve been thinking about something,” he murmured, his voice thoughtful. “About wolves.”

You pulled back slightly to look up at him, curiosity shining in your eyes. “Wolves?”

He nodded, his gaze steady and intense. “Do you know why wolves mate for life?”

The question caught you off guard, but you shook your head. “Tell me.”

Cregan’s hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing softly against your skin. “Because they know that loyalty is the foundation of everything. They find their mate, and they never let go. They fight for each other, protect each other, and build a future together. It’s in their nature.”

Your heart swelled at his words, warmth spreading through you despite the cold night air. “Do wolves mate for life?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

“Aye,” Cregan said, his gaze never wavering. “And so do I.”

Tears pricked at your eyes, and you reached up to press a kiss to his lips. “Then you’re stuck with me forever,” you whispered against his mouth.

“Gladly,” he murmured, kissing you deeply, his arms tightening around you as though he never wanted to let go.

When you finally pulled away, breathless and flushed, Cregan took your hand and led you toward the kennels. “Come. There’s something I want to show you.”

Your curiosity grew with each step, and when he opened the door to the kennels, you were met with the soft sounds of pups yipping and the scent of fresh straw. But it was one pup in particular that caught your eye.

A small direwolf, its fur as white as freshly fallen snow, padded toward you on unsteady legs. Its bright, intelligent eyes locked onto yours, and you knelt down, your heart melting at the sight.

“She’s beautiful,” you breathed, reaching out to let the pup sniff your hand. The little wolf nuzzled your fingers, her tail wagging happily.

“She’s yours,” Cregan said softly. “A symbol of our future. Of the family we’re building together. She’ll grow alongside us, protect us, just as we protect each other.”

Tears filled your eyes as you scooped the pup into your arms, cradling her against your chest. “She’s perfect.”

Cregan smiled, his expression softening as he watched you with the pup. “I thought it was time to show you that I can be more than the stern lord everyone sees. You’ve always seen the man behind the title. I wanted to give you something to show how much you mean to me.”

“You do, every day,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “But this… this means everything.”

He stepped closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You’ve given me everything. You’ve given me love, a home, a family. This is just a small way of showing you that I’ll spend the rest of my life giving that back to you.”

You smiled through your tears, leaning into his embrace. “I love you, Cregan.”

“And I love you,” he replied, his voice steady and sure. “Always.”

The next morning, you woke to find the little direwolf pup curled at your feet, her soft fur blending in with the blankets. Cregan was already up, standing by the window as he gazed out at the snow-covered lands of the North. The sight of him bathed in the morning light made your heart swell with love.

“You’re awake,” he said, turning to you with a soft smile.

“I am,” you replied, stretching your arms above your head. “And so is she.”

Cregan chuckled as the pup yawned and padded over to him, her tiny paws making soft sounds against the floor. He bent down to scoop her up, holding her close to his chest. “She’s a fighter, just like you.”

You got out of bed and walked over to them, wrapping your arms around Cregan from behind. “We’ll raise her well. She’ll be strong and loyal, just like her pack.”

He turned in your embrace, his gaze locking onto yours. “Our pack.”

The words sent a shiver down your spine, not from the cold, but from the sheer intensity of his love. In that moment, you knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, you would face them together. You and Cregan were bound by something stronger than any vow or promise. You were bound by the same loyalty that wolves carried in their blood.

Days turned into weeks, and the little direwolf grew quickly. She followed you everywhere, her bright eyes always alert, her presence a constant reminder of the bond you shared with Cregan. The people of Winterfell took notice, murmuring about the direwolf pup that never left the side of her lady.

One evening, as you sat by the hearth with Cregan, the pup curled at your feet, he took your hand in his. “I’ve been thinking about our future.”

You tilted your head, curiosity lighting your gaze. “Oh?”

Cregan nodded, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I want to ensure that Winterfell thrives long after we’re gone. Our legacy, our children—they’ll carry on our name and our strength.”

Your heart swelled at his words. “And they’ll have the loyalty of a wolf’s pack.”

“Aye,” Cregan said with a smile. “Wolves mate for life, and so do we.”

As the years passed, your love only grew stronger. The direwolf pup became a fierce protector, a symbol of your enduring bond. And no matter what storms came your way, you faced them together, knowing that your love was as unbreakable as the pack you had built.

Because like the wolves of the North, you and Cregan were meant to be together forever. Wolves mate for life—and so did you.

Please support my work with like and comment

[dohaeris-lykir-soves]

🤤

12 DAYS OF AEMOND TARGARYEN-MAS

Day Seven: Aemond's slutty walk

[myladysapphire]

House of the dragon masterlist

Aemond targaryen

His sapphire princess (slow updates )

After the night in the brothel Rhaenyra finds her self with child, A girl who will forever change the history of westeros

My lady strong (slow updates )

The second born, A bastard, a dreamer with fire in her veins, and a girl forced into the dance of dragons

two halves of a whole - one shot

Aemond had always understood you in ways others could not, your bond so deep nothing could severe it. A bond so deep that they would do anything to save the other, even if it meant being trapped with the enemy.

Aegon Targaryen II

The spoils of war - one shot

Being a woman on the loosing side of a war was never a good thing. And when you are the only daughter of the looser it can mean one of two things, either death or marriage, and for lucky for y/n, Aegon was in need of a wife.

Agape - one shot

Agape love is defined as being unconcerned with the self and concerned with the greatest good of another. Agape love isn't born just out of emotions, feelings, familiarity, or attraction but from the will and as a choice. Agape requires faithfulness, commitment, and sacrifice without expecting anything in return

Jacaerys Veleryon

Solace - one shot

As the daughter of Alicent Hightower you had been fed stories of your older sister and her children, so when you are bethrothed to Jacaerys you arent too sure as to what to expect, and go into your courtship expecting the worse, only to find out you couldn't have been more wrong.

Why don’t i show you - one shot

when you come to westeros to arrange your sisters marriage in an alliance with westeros you find there customs to be anything but acceptable and start to question the need for an alliance, it takes jace to show you why an alliance is needed.

you belong with me - one shot

you and jace were childhood friends, you never left eachothers side growing up, but that all changed once you both went off to university.

seduction - one shot

you had always longed to be queen but with your brother Aegon married to your twin sister you had lost hope, but upon your nephews return to the keep you realise all hope of being queen isn't lost. there was just one problem: your mother would never agree to marriage between you and Jace. So you set in motion a plan of seduction.

red - one shot

you are a priestess of R'hollor, sent to dragonstone to assure the bloodline of the prince who was promised. And though you are welcomed by the queen, prince Jacaerys only looks at you with trempidation, seeing your place at his mothers side to be some ploy. But luckily for you there is always a way for the red priesstes to sawy others to their cause.

My sweet pathetic prince- one shot

Jace had always had a pathetic obsession with is aunt, but she was never afraid to show her dislike for him and his heritage, even when his head was between her thighs.

his - one shot

when a rumour reaches Jace that you are to marry another man, he makes sure to show you that your are his.

Heleana Targaryen

Butterfly Kisses - one shot

Heleana has always had a special bond with her maid.

Cregan Stark

The Dragon and the Wolf (complete)

You had been betrothed to Cregan stark at the start of the war. He was the noble and honourable stark that he was he supported your mother claim without restraint. So much so your mother saw it fit to betroth the two of you. So when disaster strikes and you and your younger brother are the only two survivors, you a shipped of north in your grief, leaving only Cregan to heal your wounds.

Gwayne Hightower

High Infidelity - one shot

scorned and betrayed by your husband, you find solace in the arms of his uncle.

To Gwayne, with love - one shot

tired of being ingored and undervalued, you take your dragon and leave to find the one person who sees you for who you really are; your uncle, Gwayne Hightower.

Bittersweet- one shot

married to Gwayne Hightower in some deludied attempt to resolve tensions between your family, when his loyalty is made clear you flee to your mother, feeling only bittersweet as you think of your husband.

Benjicot Blackwood (fan!cast)

forbidden - one shot

With a feud older than history, the Blackwoods and Brackens have long been enemies, but now, you, a daughter of lord Bracken, finds yourself in the arms of Benjicot Blackwood, and he will do everyhting it takes to make you his.

navigation