#House Lannister

[novaursa]

The Second Daughter (what is stolen)

- Summary: You were born as a second daughter under the watchful eye of a full moon. And just like the moon you were beautiful—and cursed to exist only in the dark.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Jason Lannister

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (for blood, gore and violence)

- Previous part: what is given

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @l3thal-l0lita @alkadri-layal @ninihrtss @barnes70stark @scarletdfox @idenyimimdenial

The War Turns West: The March of the Lion

As chronicled by various sources, including the recollections of Mushroom, the letters of Grand Maester Orwyle, and the records of Maester Halford of Casterly Rock

The Arrival of Aelina in Dragonstone

(From the accounts of Grand Maester Gerardys, Dragonstone)

"The young Lady Aelina Lannister arrived on the shores of Dragonstone beneath an overcast sky, her hair damp with sea spray as she was received by Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Jacaerys Velaryon. Though but a girl, she carried herself with the poise of her lineage, neither weeping nor trembling before the grim and towering fortress that was to be her home.

The princess greeted her with warmth, speaking of family and destiny, yet the girl did not seem soothed. She clung to the words of her father, Lord Jason, who had sworn to come for her, and when she asked if her mother would soon arrive, no one had the heart to answer her plainly.

She was housed in chambers prepared for her long before her arrival, and as was custom for those of her blood, she was taken to the Dragonmont soon after, where the wild dragons dwelled. Seasmoke, left without a rider since the death of Laenor Velaryon, prowled among them, but the girl, despite the urgings of the dragonkeepers, showed no immediate desire to claim him.

It was Prince Daemon who later remarked, 'She is her father’s daughter. She will not be rushed by anyone but herself.'"

The March of the Lion

(From the accounts of Maester Halford, Casterly Rock)

"It was in the waning days of that fateful year that the West rose in full. Though Lord Jason Lannister had for long remained uncommitted to the cause of either prince, the crown’s continued attempts to seize his wife had been the final insult that could not be ignored.

Leaving the governance of the Rock in the hands of his mother, Lady Leonella, Jason Lannister gathered his forces and rode eastward. No fewer than ten thousand marched beneath his banners, knights clad in red and gold, the sound of their drums echoing across the hills as they made their way toward the Crownlands.

With him rode his son and heir, Ser Aemerys Lannister, though the young man was soon dispatched once more to the seas, where the Greyjoy fleets had begun their attacks anew. Aemerys had by then gained great renown as a commander of the western fleets, and his return to the waters was a decisive move to hold the Ironborn at bay.

Yet the sight most spoken of was not of Jason nor his army but of the dragons that accompanied them—Silverwing, the ancient mount of Queen Alysanne, and Vermithor, the Bronze Fury, bound now to Lady Alysera Lannister. Though Jason had resisted his daughter’s bond to the great beast, it was undeniable that the presence of dragons within his host made him a power unlike any Lord of the West before him."

Daemon Moves from the Riverlands

(From a lost letter, Prince Daemon to Queen Rhaenyra, recovered in the ruins of Harrenhal years later)

_"The lion has set his eyes upon the Crown, and I would be a fool not to meet him there. I ride east from the Riverlands, for my men grow restless with waiting. Aemond and his whoresons will soon see that they have awakened the wrong beast.

Lord Jason plays his hand carefully, but do not mistake him for cautious. His fury is measured, his vengeance patient. I have seen him rage in private and know this—he will not rest until the insult against his wife has been repaid in kind.

If Aegon thought to break him by demanding her return, he has instead given the Lion the reason he needed to unsheathe his claws.

We will meet him on the fields of fire._"

The Fall of the Greyjoy Raids

(From the journals of Ser Harwin Saltcliffe, an Ironborn warrior who survived the battles on the sea)

"The Lannister boy and his dragon came for us again. He flies swift, the beast of silver and gold, and wherever his shadow passes, our men flee. No spear can strike him, no arrow can find its mark.

We thought the sea belonged to us, that the storm was ours to command, but he brought a storm of his own. His ships struck at us like hammer against stone, and the waters ran red with our dead.

We do not speak his name as men do others. We call him the Dragon of the West, and we pray to the Drowned God that we do not see his wings again."

The Green Council’s Alarm

(From the recollections of Mushroom, the court fool of King’s Landing)

"Ah, what a joy it was to see them squirm! The old man, Hightower, paced so much in the Tower of the Hand that I thought he might wear a hole through the floor!

'The West marches,' they whispered, 'The Lion has roared.' But it was not just the Lion, was it? It was the dragons that came with him. And with Daemon riding to meet him? Ah, it was enough to make our sweet King Aegon furious!

‘Find my sister,’ he said, ‘Bring her to me.’ But she was beyond his grasp now, and he knew it. The Queen Dowager wrung her hands as she did whenever the world did not go as she wished, and our dear Ser Criston spoke of strategies, of battle lines and counter-movements, but I saw it in his eyes.

They were afraid.

The game had shifted, and the West had finally declared its hand."

The banners of House Lannister rippled in the crisp morning air as the western host advanced toward the borders of the Crownlands. The sound of hooves against dirt, the clatter of steel and chain, and the rhythmic pounding of war drums echoed across the hills, announcing the arrival of the Westerlands' might. Jason Lannister rode at the head of his army, clad in his battle armor of gold-etched steel, a crimson cloak billowing behind him. His expression was set in stone, a visage of unwavering resolve as his forces moved eastward like an unrelenting tide.

At his side, riding a destrier, was Alysera, his daughter, adorned in finely wrought leather, her lilac eyes fierce as they followed their course toward the enemy's lands. High above, the skies bore witness to their march, shadowed by the vast, gleaming form of Vermithor, the Bronze Fury, whose golden-tinged wings eclipsed the sun. Beside him flew Silverwing, the ancient and regal mount of Queen Alysanne, her silver scales glinting like polished moonlight. Their presence was as much a message as their advancing banners—House Lannister did not march alone.

Jason had made it clear before they departed the Rock: the dragons were to serve as a deterrent, nothing more. He had no desire to unleash them in battle unless absolutely necessary. "You will not act without my command," he had warned his wife and daughter. "If the Greens send their dragons, then, and only then, do you meet them in the skies."

But he knew war had its own way of defying the best-laid plans.

The land before them grew familiar as they neared the edge of the Crownlands. The rich fields of the Riverlands behind them faded into the harsher, more contested terrain where royal forces had already clashed in the past moons. They would not enter the Crownlands fully, not yet. Jason was no fool—he did not seek to rush into the heart of Aegon's power without understanding the battlefield first.

"Scouts report movement ahead," came the voice of Damon Lannister, riding up alongside Jason. His uncle, ever keen-eyed and vigilant, was dressed in full plate, his blade sheathed but his hand resting lightly against the pommel. "A force moves along the road from the south. Not large—perhaps a thousand strong."

"Not enough to challenge us openly," Jason remarked, keeping his eyes forward. "A probing force, perhaps. Sent to gauge our strength."

"Or to lure us into a false sense of security," Damon added grimly.

Jason exhaled through his nose, his gaze flickering to the horizon where a thin column of smoke curled into the sky. A village, perhaps. One of many that would bear witness to the passage of war. He turned in his saddle, glancing toward the rear ranks, where his wife rode with her guards. Even from this distance, he could feel her presence as surely as he felt the weight of his sword at his side.

He guided his horse toward you, the clamor of the marching host muffling as he reached you. "We are nearing the enemy's reach," he said in a low voice. "Remember what I said."

"I have not forgotten," you replied evenly, as your face turned toward the sky, where Silverwing soared in patient watchfulness. "But if Aemond is out there, do not expect me to stand idle."

Jason gritted his teeth. "If Aemond shows himself, it will not be you who faces him," he said sharply. "He is mine."

Alysera, riding a few paces away, heard his words and smirked faintly. "And if he does not come alone?" she asked, her tone edged with something dangerously close to amusement.

"Then you do as I commanded and let them make the first move," Jason snapped. "Do not mistake me, girl—I will not risk my family’s lives on the first battle of this war."

His daughter did not flinch, but neither did she bow her head in submission. She had her mother’s spirit, and Jason could see it burning in her expression, that same unshakable will.

From above, Vermithor let out a deep, rumbling growl, a sound that sent shivers through even the most seasoned knights below. The beast was restless, eager for the call of battle. Jason could only pray that he would not have to give it.

Damon Lannister rode up again, his expression hard. "The scouts return," he announced. "They say the force ahead carries banners of House Rosby and House Stokeworth. Loyalists to the Greens."

Jason gave a short nod. "Good. Let them know that the West has arrived."

The battle began before the sun had fully climbed above the horizon, a dawn drenched in crimson and steel. Jason Lannister had seen war before, had commanded men and witnessed the clash of banners under a hundred different skies, but this battle was different. This was not the defense of Westerland borders, nor the burning of traitors beneath his son's dragon. This was the march of lions into the Crownlands, a bold challenge to the usurper's forces, a warning to any who still believed the West would remain idle.

The first wave struck like a hammer upon an anvil, the Lannister cavalry thundering forward in a golden tide, their lances gleaming as they crashed into the Green banners of Rosby and Stokeworth. The cries of men and the shrieks of wounded horses filled the air, blending with the metallic clang of steel meeting steel.

Jason rode at the forefront, his crimson cloak flowing like blood behind him, his warhorse kicking up mud and gore as he led the charge. His blade, gilded but deadly, bit through chainmail and flesh with the practiced ease of a man who had long made peace with the brutality of war. His knights flanked him, cutting through the enemy ranks like a sharpened dagger through silk, the weight of Westerland steel pressing against the Greens with relentless force.

To his right, Lord Damon Lannister rode with some of the bannermen, his sword arm steady, his presence a bastion of experience in the chaos. “They’re wavering!” Damon shouted over the din of battle, his voice cutting through the cacophony. “Press forward! Break them before their reinforcements arrive!”

Jason did not need to be told twice. He turned his steed sharply, bringing his sword down upon a Rosby knight’s shoulder, cleaving through his armor. Blood sprayed, and the man crumpled, his horse rearing wildly before galloping away without its rider.

“Lions, with me!” Jason roared, his voice rising above the fray. His bannermen surged forward, pushing into the faltering Green lines, cutting them down as they fell back step by step.

The air was thick with the stench of blood and churned earth, the morning dew now mingling with the lifeblood of the fallen. Jason’s mind was honed to the moment—parry, strike, wheel back, attack. He did not think beyond the immediate clash, did not allow himself to consider the greater stakes, not yet.

Until he heard the horns.

A low, rumbling blast echoed across the battlefield, rolling over the hills like a storm tide. Jason turned in his saddle, his keen eyes catching the distant glint of reinforcements approaching from the south. More banners, more spears, more men.

“They have fresh troops,” Damon growled, pulling his horse alongside Jason’s. “If they hold us here long enough, we’ll be trapped between two forces.”

Jason’s jaw tightened. He had suspected the enemy was attempting to draw them into a prolonged engagement, and now it seemed confirmed. The Greens had been waiting for them, baiting them forward with a force not meant to hold, but to stall. And now the trap was closing.

“Pull back the left flank,” Jason commanded swiftly. “We can’t let them surround us. Reform the cavalry—we’ll hit them before they can fully reinforce.”

Damon nodded, turning to relay the orders.

Jason scanned the battlefield, his mind racing. His forces still held the advantage for now, but the longer they remained locked in melee, the more ground they lost tactically. His gaze flickered toward the distant ridgeline, where Silverwing and Vermithor remained perched, unmoving, their riders watching from afar. As much as he loathed the thought, he knew that should Aemond or any Green dragon make an appearance, his own would need to engage.

And Aemond was not here yet.

Not yet.

Jason turned his warhorse sharply and raised his sword. “Lannisters, fall back in formation! We break them on the second charge!”

His men obeyed, their discipline honed from years of service to the lion of the West. The battlefield shifted as his forces withdrew slightly, reforming their ranks with precision. The Green forces hesitated, uncertain whether to pursue or brace for the renewed attack.

Jason exhaled, glancing once more toward the ridgeline where his wife and daughter waited. Then, gripping his reins tightly, he spurred his horse forward.

The wind roared in your ears as you tightened your grip on Silverwing’s reins, the great she-dragon coiling beneath you, muscles tensed like a bowstring. The distant cries of men on the battlefield below blurred into a single, indistinct roar, but your focus had narrowed to the sky above, where the monstrous shape of Vhagar loomed against the sun.

Aemond had come. You could sense him.

The sound of her wings was a deafening clap, the air trembling with each slow, deliberate beat. Vhagar was a creature of war, ancient and immense, her wings blotting out the sky as she descended upon the battlefield like an executioner’s blade.

Alysera’s voice cut through the wind, urgent and pleading. “Mother, no! Let me fight with you—Vermithor and I—”

“No,” you commanded sharply, turning your head toward her, your blind eyes unseeing but your voice unwavering. “You will stay back. Keep your father and his men safe.”

Alysera hesitated, frustration laced in her voice. “But—”

“This is not a request,” you snapped, steel creeping into your tone. “Stay back, Alysera. That is an order.”

For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then, reluctantly, you heard your daughter rein in Vermithor, the elder dragon growling low in displeasure. But she obeyed.

You exhaled, steadying yourself, before leaning into Silverwing’s back. “Sōvēs.”

Silverwing launched into the air, her powerful wings carrying you up, higher, closer toward the oncoming storm.

Aemond’s laughter echoed across the sky, cruel and triumphant. “Back again, dear sister? You must have missed me.”

You ignored him, instead focusing on your ascent, feeling the shift in the air currents as Silverwing climbed higher, preparing to strike.

Aemond continued, his voice laced with mockery. “Did you think I would not return? That I would not come for you, for Jason, to erase the humiliation?”

Silverwing roared, and you felt the heat of her breath surge forward, a challenge thrown into the sky. She knew her foe. She had faced Vhagar once before, and though the great beast dwarfed her, Silverwing was faster, more agile.

Vhagar’s roar was deafening, shaking the air itself as she banked to meet you.

The two dragons collided in the sky like gods waging war.

Silverwing struck first, darting beneath Vhagar’s belly, her claws raking across the ancient dragon’s scales, drawing deep gouges that sent shreds of hide and crimson blood raining down upon the battlefield. Vhagar bellowed in fury, twisting with shocking speed for her size, snapping her monstrous jaws at Silverwing’s tail.

You pulled on the reins, guiding Silverwing into a spiraling dive, barely avoiding Vhagar’s gaping maw.

Aemond snarled. “You’re faster, but speed won’t save you forever.”

You gritted your teeth, urging Silverwing higher again, keeping to Vhagar’s flanks, never staying in one place too long. You could not match her strength, but you could outmaneuver her.

Vhagar lunged again, and this time, her jaws found their mark.

Silverwing let out a shriek of agony as Vhagar’s teeth clamped down on her wing, the ancient dragon wrenching her to the side, trying to drag her from the sky. You felt the violent jolt of impact ripple through your body, your saddle straps straining as you clung desperately to your seat.

You had to get free.

“Dracarys!” you commanded.

Silverwing’s head snapped around, her maw opening wide, and a torrent of blazing fire erupted toward Vhagar’s face.

The fire scorched the old dragon’s eyes, and she reeled back with a pained bellow, releasing her grip. Silverwing twisted, wrenching herself free, her injured wing trailing smoke as she flapped desperately to regain altitude.

But Aemond was not finished.

“I told you, I will have you, in whatever state I can bring you,” Aemond called. “Even if I have to break you from the sky!”

Vhagar surged forward, her jaws opening wide for a final, crushing blow.

But you were ready.

You wrenched Silverwing to the side at the last second, sending her into a sharp barrel roll. Vhagar’s jaws snapped shut on empty air.

And then Silverwing struck.

She raked her claws across Vhagar’s face, tearing at the already-weakened flesh from her burns, and Vhagar roared in agony. Blood dripped from her ruined eye socket, mingling with the fresh wounds Silverwing had opened.

Aemond cursed, yanking on his reins to steady the great beast.

You did not wait.

“Ropagon!”

Silverwing folded her wings and plummeted.

Wind screamed past your ears as you fell, leaving Vhagar reeling behind. You knew you could not kill her—not alone—but you had done what you needed to.

You had kept Aemond away from Jason.

As you neared the ground, you pulled back abruptly, and Silverwing’s wings snapped open, catching the wind, turning your deadly fall into a low glide above the battlefield.

But Aemond did not flee.

“Do you think this is over?” he roared, and with a furious command, Vhagar dived after you.

Silverwing banked hard, avoiding the first lunge, but Vhagar was relentless. She tore through the sky with monstrous speed, closing the distance between you.

Aemond grinned, his voice carrying through the wind. “This ends with you in chains, sister. One way or another.”

You did not answer. Instead, you pulled Silverwing into a sharp ascent, trying to lure Vhagar higher, away from the battlefield, away from Jason and his men.

You had kept Aemond away from Jason.

But now he had turned toward you.

The battlefield stretched before Jason like a sea of chaos, the clash of steel, the cries of men, and the roar of warhorses filling his ears. Yet all of it dulled beneath the terrible, unmistakable sound of dragons above. He felt it before he saw it—a tremor in the air, the shadow stretching across the battlefield like the wings of death itself.

His head snapped up, his heart clenching painfully in his chest as his worst fear unfolded before his eyes.

There, high above the carnage, two mighty beasts danced a deadly waltz through the storm-tossed skies. Silverwing, her shimmering scales catching the light, twisted and darted, a creature of swift, elegant fury. And towering above her like a nightmare given flesh, Vhagar, old and monstrous, her size alone making her presence overwhelming. The sky trembled with their struggle, fire and blood clouding the heavens as they snapped and clawed at each other.

His wife was up there.

Jason's grip tightened on his sword hilt until his knuckles turned white, his breath frozen in his throat. "No," he rasped under his breath, his body rigid with helpless rage.

A hand grabbed his arm—Lord Damon Lannister, his uncle, battle-worn and grim. "Jason, look at me!" he barked, forcing his nephew’s gaze away from the skies for a fraction of a second. "There's nothing you can do up there!"

Jason wrenched free of his uncle’s grasp, his eyes wild. "That’s my wife, Damon! She’s fighting Aemond fucking Targaryen, and if she falls—" His voice broke before he could finish.

Aemond. That godsdamned boy with his smug arrogance, his thirst for war, his stolen dragon, his family’s curse running thick in his veins. Jason had seen the way he looked at his wife, as if she was a prize, a possession to be reclaimed by his damnable bloodline. Aemond had wanted her gone from his grasp since the day they wed just as much as Aegon, and now, in the middle of war, he had come to finish what he started and bring her to his broken brother.

Above them, Vhagar roared, her massive jaws snapping at empty air as Silverwing veered sharply to the side. Jason flinched, his entire body rigid as his mind screamed at him to do something—anything. But there was no battle here that he could fight. His sword was useless against dragons. His commands meant nothing in the sky.

The battlefield was watching now, thousands of eyes turned upward in fearful awe. Even the men, locked in mortal combat, had slowed, their swords hesitating as the monsters above determined their fate.

Jason's throat burned as he swallowed the bile rising within him. He could not bear this. He could not stand here, powerless, while she fought for her life.

Then, suddenly, Silverwing struck.

A collective gasp rippled through the men around him as Silverwing raked her talons across Vhagar’s burned face, right where the reader had scorched her with dragonfire in their last battle. The old beast let out a terrible, ear-splitting shriek, jerking back in pain.

Jason's heart leapt—relief, hope, desperation tangled into something unrecognizable. "That’s it," he whispered hoarsely. "Burn the bastard’s eye out, love."

But Aemond was no fool.

Jason saw it before it happened—the slight shift in Vhagar’s stance, the calculated spread of her wings. Aemond wasn’t going to fight her head-on. No, he was going to use Vhagar’s sheer weight, her ancient strength, and crush her.

"Pull away!" Jason shouted, as if his voice could reach the heavens. "Damn you, pull away!"

The dragons collided.

A thunderous impact shook the skies, and Jason felt the ground tremble beneath his feet as Silverwing was caught in Vhagar’s monstrous grip.

Jason’s vision went red.

"Move," he snarled, pushing through his men, through his uncle, shoving aside anyone who dared block his path. His blood roared in his ears, drowning out everything but the sickening sound of dragons tearing into each other.

He reached the horses, frantically yanking the reins from a startled soldier. "Get me a bow—now!" he barked, but before anyone could respond, a new horror unfolded.

Vhagar, with all her terrible might, wrenched Silverwing into a forced descent.

Jason's breath caught in his throat, a silent, choked sound of pure agony. No. No. No.

"She’s taking her down!" someone shouted.

Jason didn’t think. He acted.

He was in the saddle before his mind could process it, digging his heels into the flanks of the stallion. The beast lurched forward, tearing across the battlefield at a reckless speed. "Come on, come on!" he urged, his grip like iron on the reins as he pushed through the chaos, his only thought to reach her before—

A deafening roar.

Fire.

A massive jet of flame erupted from the sky, scorching the earth behind him. Jason’s horse reared in terror, nearly throwing him, but he held firm, forcing the beast forward.

Then, a second roar—higher, sharper.

Silverwing was still fighting.

Jason’s head snapped upward, his heart hammering against his ribs.

She was alive.

Not only alive—she was winning.

Somehow, against all odds, Silverwing twisted in Vhagar’s grip, her jaws snapping toward the old dragon’s neck, her claws raking deep. Jason saw it then—the shift, the moment Aemond realized he had underestimated his opponent.

"You cocky little shit," Jason muttered, his lips curling into something vicious. "That’s my wife."

And then, the tide turned.

Silverwing wrenched herself free, her wings flaring wide, and in a burst of impossible speed, she was above Vhagar, pressing the attack.

Jason barely breathed as his wife maneuvered the sky like she was born for it. Vhagar, old and heavy, struggled to match her pace.

Aemond had come here thinking he could win. That he could break her, as he had threatened moons ago.

But Jason knew better.

She was not his to break.

She was a storm, a force, a queen of the skies.

And by the gods, she would see this battle through.

The battle in the sky had become a hurricane of blood and fire, a tempest of roars and screams, the clash of ancient titans shaking the very heavens. You could feel Silverwing's exhaustion, the labor of her wings as she tried to keep pace with Vhagar, the old she-dragon’s sheer size and power making every strike you landed feel like nothing more than the bite of a gnat. But still, you pressed on, urging Silverwing forward, lashing at the beast with every ounce of fury in your veins.

Vhagar snarled as Silverwing's claws raked across her side, carving deep into the aged scales. Aemond, ever the cruel strategist, yanked his reins hard, twisting Vhagar's great body in midair, her tail swinging like a battering ram—

You barely had time to react before it slammed into Silverwing.

The impact was devastating.

You felt it before your mind could even register what had happened—the world spinning, your body lurching sideways as Silverwing let out a shriek of pain and lost control. You could hear Jason’s voice—though you couldn’t see him, you heard him, screaming your name from the battlefield below, raw and hoarse with desperation.

Then, you were falling.

The saddle slipped from beneath you, the world turning weightless as the winds howled past your ears. You reached blindly, wildly, but there was nothing to grasp, no reigns, no horn of the saddle, only empty sky.

And then—

A claw.

Massive, ancient, curling around you like a steel cage.

Vhagar.

The beast's talons gripped you tight, the sudden stop so jarring that you barely gasped before the wind was stolen from your lungs again. The stench of dragon filled your nose—smoke and death, blood and sulfur. The aged monster beat her wings hard, carrying you away, her massive body blocking out the sun.

"AEMOND!" Jason’s voice was a raw, tortured sound from below. "YOU BASTARD!"

You twisted in Vhagar's grip, your own breath coming in shallow gasps. Below, Silverwing was plummeting, wings struggling to regain control, her pained roar lost in the distance as the ground rushed toward her.

"NO!" Your cry was hoarse, breaking from your throat, but Silverwing was already too far to hear.

The battlefield became a blur beneath you, the cries of men and the clash of steel lost beneath the terrible sound of Vhagar’s wings carrying you higher, further, away from everything—away from Jason, from your children, from the war you had fought so hard to stay out of.

Panic surged through you, your struggles wild and useless against the iron grip of Vhagar's talons. You felt Aemond's gaze on you, his presence above you as he guided the dragon toward the capital.

"You will learn, sister," his voice called through the winds, cruel and triumphant. "You will finally learn."

Back on the battlefield, Alysera screamed.

She had seen everything—watched her mother thrown, watched Vhagar snatch her up like a plaything and take off toward the horizon. She tightened her grip on Vermithor’s saddle, her breaths coming in sharp, ragged gasps, her entire body trembling as rage and horror battled inside her.

She wanted to go after him.

Her hands clenched on the reins, her body already leaning forward to command Vermithor into the air—but then she saw it.

The enemy was moving again.

A second wave of Green forces, a fresh wave of soldiers and cavalry, storming forward toward Jason’s already battle-worn men. She could hear her father still screaming after her mother, could hear the grief, the rage in his voice, the way it broke with it.

She knew what her mother would want.

Alysera let out a breath, choking down her fury, swallowing the pain, and turned Vermithor’s head downward toward the battlefield.

Vermithor answered without hesitation.

The great bronze beast let out a thunderous roar, his wings folding as he dove toward the enemy below. The Green soldiers barely had time to register what was happening before fire consumed them.

Alysera did not hold back.

She did not stop to think, did not hesitate.

She burned them all.

The heat from Vermithor’s flames was blistering, the screams of men shrill and terrified as the battlefield became a sea of fire. The very earth trembled beneath the dragon's might, the weight of his rage matching her own.

Jason had barely torn his eyes from the sky when he saw the destruction his daughter was raining down upon their enemies.

His heart should have clenched with fear, should have ached for the girl who should never have had to learn war this way, but he could not feel anything beyond the pain splitting him apart from the inside.

His wife was gone.

Aemond had taken her.

He felt himself break.

The battle raged on, but Jason no longer fought with the mind of a man who wanted to win. He fought like a man who had nothing left to lose.

The battlefield lay still. The last screams had faded, the last swords had fallen from lifeless hands, and the air was thick with the scent of burning flesh, smoke curling toward the heavens like the breath of a dying god. Jason stood in the wreckage, blood streaking his armor, his sword still clenched tight in his grip, but there was nothing left to cut down. His men moved around him in slow, exhausted motions, some tending to the wounded, others scavenging through the remains of what had once been an army.

But Jason felt none of it.

His body ached, his mind a storm of rage and grief, but his heart—his heart was a hollowed-out cavern, an open wound that bled with every beat. He could still hear the roar of Vhagar in his skull, the laughter in Aemond’s voice as he took her, as if it were nothing. As if she were nothing.

A sharp voice called his name, cutting through the haze of his thoughts.

"Jason!"

His uncle stood a few paces away, his expression tight with urgency. Behind him, several knights were gathered, their faces grim, their eyes turned toward the distant hills.

Jason's feet moved before his mind could catch up, his body driven by sheer force of will, by the desperate need to do something. As he neared his uncle, he caught sight of the great form sprawled upon the earth, silver scales dulled with soot and blood, the rise and fall of heavy, labored breaths shaking the ground.

Silverwing.

His wife’s dragon had fallen.

For one horrible moment, his mind convinced him the beast was dead, but then Silverwing shifted, one of her wings trembling as she tried to move, tried to stand.

Jason swallowed the bile that rose in his throat.

“She’s alive,” Damon confirmed, stepping closer. “But wounded. She won’t be flying anytime soon.”

Jason let out a slow, measured breath, staring at the injured dragon. The great silver beast who had carried his wife across the skies, who had fought for her, bled for her—and now, like him, she had been left behind.

Damon turned to him. “What do you want to do?”

Jason didn’t hesitate.

“We station a garrison here,” he ordered, his voice sharp, leaving no room for argument. “Silverwing will not be left vulnerable. I want a hundred men here, more if needed. I don’t care what it takes, she stays safe until she’s strong enough to fly again.”

Damon nodded, approving of the decision. “And the rest of our forces?”

Jason turned his head toward the distant horizon, where the capital lay waiting.

The city that had stolen his wife.

He clenched his fists, his voice low, cold, unrelenting.

"We regroup. We move forward." His green eyes burned with unbridled fury. "Daemon’s forces from the Riverlands will join us. We take the capital."

His uncle studied him for a long moment before giving a slow nod. “So be it.”

A gust of wind rippled through the battlefield, and Jason turned just in time to see a massive shadow descending from the sky. The earth trembled beneath Vermithor’s landing, his golden-bronze wings sending loose dirt and ash into the air. The beast lowered his great head, nostrils flaring, smoke curling from his jaws as he observed the devastation.

Alysera dismounted swiftly, her feet hitting the ground with a staggered step, but she did not collapse.

Jason watched her, his heart clenching at the sight of his daughter—his fierce, stubborn, strong daughter, standing before him with blood still staining her armor, her face pale, her eyes wild.

She had been forced to become a warrior today. She had burned men alive today. She had watched her mother taken today.

Jason moved before he could stop himself.

In an instant, he had crossed the distance between them, his arms wrapping around her, pulling her against his chest in a crushing embrace.

Alysera made a broken sound in her throat, her body trembling against his.

And then she sobbed.

The dam broke, and Jason felt his own grief crack through his ribs as his arms tightened around her.

They cried together.

Not as lord and heir, not as warrior and commander, but as father and daughter. As two people who had just lost the most precious thing in their world.

Jason pressed a kiss to the top of her head, his hand cupping the back of her skull, his fingers shaking.

“I swear to you,” his voice was raw, heavy with unspoken oaths, “I will get her back.”

Alysera clung to him, her fists gripping his cloak like a lifeline.

Jason closed his eyes.

This was not over.

Not by a long shot.

[polysucks]

Oh also yeah, Jaime definitely is a bottom. He deserves to be lovingly fucked in the ass.

Arya "I'm not a boy!!!!" Stark vs Brienne "doesn't correct a stranger who misgenders her" of Tarth. One of these characters is trans and gee whizz I wonder which it could be.

(Additionally jaime is a gay bottom who just wants to be tenderly pegged by Brienne)

Cw for a cis-woman talking about gender lol

I want to touch on the idea that Brienne might be an egg, but I have to disagree. I want to preface by saying don’t inherently oppose anyone who thinks otherwise. Art can be interpreted subjectively, especially in ASOIAF. Everyone can have their views, and I love that.

That being said, I'm approaching this discussion about Brienne and Arya and their gender identities from the perspective of a cis-woman, so trans and gender non-conforming people, feel free to weigh in! I just have one perspective, and how else do we learn about others' experiences if we don't make time and space for others to share theirs?

Also, this might sound a bit TERF-y on a surface level, so let me say upfront: TERFs, get lost. We can discuss femininity and gender without TERF opinions, because TERF opinions don’t matter. Trans women are real women. Trans men are real men.

It’s easy to understand why some might believe that their struggles are rooted in gender identity—but that doesn’t necessarily mean the argument holds water.

I personally feel like it's dismissive of exploring gender identity as a deeply personal experience and reductive to assume that anyone who doesn’t fit neatly into gender norms must actually be trans. gender-non-comforming cis people exist because gender is a social construct.

It makes total and complete sense why someone might perceive Brienne and Arya as struggling with their gender identity, and I am not here to deny that! They do not fit into traditional femininity, they are often mistaken for boys, and they are both deeply frustrated by the roles imposed on them.

But assigning transness or gender dysphoria to them without deeper critical thinking feels like a reach that flattens their very real struggles as cis-women in such a strict society. Their battle is not one of personal identity—it’s one of a rigid community refusing to acknowledge them as women on their own terms.

That being said, there is beauty in seeing oneself in them. If a trans or gender-nonconforming person finds kinship in their struggles, that is valid and meaningful. The power of storytelling is that we see ourselves in narratives, even when the struggles and experiences depicted do not perfectly align with our own.

I feel the same way about the Northmen and the Starks being NDN/Indigenous-coded—it is not explicit canon, but the cultural parallels are undeniable. Westerosi gender roles are stricter in the South, while Northern culture—like many Indigenous cultures—allows for a broader understanding of strength, womanhood, and survival.

Brienne and Arya’s journeys are universal in that way. They do not have to be trans or gender-nonconforming to be relatable to those who are. But at their core, their stories are about expanding the definition of womanhood, not escaping it.

That being said, let's fuckin YAP!!

Brienne and Arya: Women on Their Own Terms

They Are Women Rejected by Society—Not by Themselves

Brienne and Arya defy Westerosi femininity, but their conflict is not with their own gender—it’s with a world that refuses to accept women who do not conform.

They do not reject being women. They reject the restrictions placed on them as women.

Their struggles are external, not internal—it is society that refuses to acknowledge their strength, not themselves.

Brienne's silence on misgendering is not gender dysphoria—it is indifference to the opinions of those who diminish her. She does not waste energy correcting people who already dismiss her. As for Podrick, he is not questioning her gender, only how to respectfully refer to her.

Arya, similarly, never expresses a desire to be a boy—only frustration that being a girl limits her. She says it herself in ACOK

“I don’t want to be a lady,” Arya flared. “I want to learn to fight.”

Wanting to fight does not mean she is not a girl—it means she resents that Westeros restricts girls. When she disguises herself as “Arry,” it is not because she feels like a boy but because it keeps her alive.

Being Mistaken for a Man Does Not Mean They Identify as One

Neither Brienne nor Arya (i mean, she does generally, but not whole-heartedly) corrects misgendering because it serves a purpose in their survival—but it does not define them.

Brienne is called "Ser" because she is a knight. She does not correct it because she knows Westeros will never see her as a proper lady anyway. But she never expresses a desire to be a man—only to be respected.

Arya disguises herself as a boy out of necessity. The moment she no longer needs the disguise, she drops it. She never claims she feels like a boy—only that Westeros treats girls as weak.

At no point do either of them wish to stop being women. Their struggle is not about escaping womanhood—it’s about expanding what womanhood can be.

Brienne, in particular, wants to be both a knight and a woman. Her inner conflict is not about identity, but about a world that refuses to allow her to be both.

They Do Not Seek to Escape Womanhood—They Seek to Redefine It

Brienne and Arya challenge Westerosi femininity without discarding it. They prove that womanhood is not fragile—it can be strong, honorable, and defiant.

Brienne does not wish to be a man—she wishes knighthood wasn’t exclusive to them. She embodies the ideals of knighthood more than most men, proving that a woman can live by the same code.

Arya does not wish to be a boy—she wishes being a girl didn’t mean powerlessness. She does not reject her gender; she rejects society’s expectations of it.

Their fight is not against being women—it is against a world that refuses to acknowledge that women can be more than one thing.

The Stark and Northern Perspective: Strength and Womanhood Can Coexist

Westerosi gender roles are stricter in the South, where women like Sansa are expected to conform to delicate, ornamental femininity. The North, however, values survival, strength, and practicality—traits Arya naturally embodies.

Among Indigenous-coded Northern families like House Mormont, warrior women are not questioned:

Maege Mormont and her daughters fight without forfeiting their womanhood. They are warriors, leaders, and mothers, all at once.

Arya fits into this tradition. She does not need to abandon her gender to be a warrior—she simply needs a culture that recognizes warrior women exist.

In many Indigenous cultures, gender roles exist but are flexible—some women are suited for battle, others for domestic life, and both are necessary. This aligns with Arya's arc: she does not need to be a boy to fight. She only needs a world where warrior women are possible.

Survival Shapes How They Are Perceived—Not How They See Themselves

Both Arya and Brienne are mistaken for boys, but their responses are pragmatic, not existential.

Brienne does not correct people who call her “Ser” because she knows it won’t change how they see her. She is resigned to being seen as "unnatural," so she leans into her strength rather than fighting a losing battle over perception. She wants respect, not pity.

Arya actively disguises herself as a boy because it keeps her alive. She knows that if people recognize her as a highborn girl, she will be kidnapped, sold, or killed. The disguise is a survival tactic, not a reflection of her identity.

Neither of them struggles with who they are—they struggle with how the world treats them.

They Are Women Who Break Barriers, Not Women Who Break Away from Womanhood

Brienne and Arya are not trans, nor are they struggling with gender identity. They are women who refuse to conform to narrow standards.

Brienne does not wish to be a man—she wishes men would accept that women are more than single-minded expectations

Arya does not wish to be a boy—she wishes Westeros would stop treating girls as helpless and with only one lot in life

Their battle is not with their own gender but with a world that refuses to see them as full people based on their identified gender. That is what makes them powerful.

And if trans or GNC individuals see themselves in them? That is a testament to their strength and their pride in their existence as it is.

Representation in fiction can be deeply personal, even when it isn’t literal.

That is the beauty of storytelling—there is room for all of us in it.

[visenya-targarye]

it's always a lannister beefing with a child

(honorable mention)

[quixoticclown]

Yes, these Muppets have taken Manhattan. The question now is can they HOLD it

[lmaowh-at]

They put the slay in kin(g)slaying

[kudriaken]

House Lannister. My fanart series for the Great Houses from the ASOIAF. I wanted to make this for the longest time.

[hylora]

Still a work in progress but I will post the timelapse one day, even if I never finished the piece

[barbieaemond]

GAME OF THRONES S2E7 "A Man Without Honor"

[irlplasticlamb]

she dreamt she sat the iron throne, high above them all.

prints + merch + commission info pinned to profile :)

[maiapoetica]

[novaursa]

The Golden Court (to build an empire)

- Summary: You were taken from the royal court by your father when you were a child. Now you return as a woman grown from exile. A woman that ignites fires in her wake.

- Pairing: Jason Lannister/targ!reader/Tyland Lannister

- Note: This is the last chapter. Thank you for sticking with me and this totally self-indulgent story. 😉

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Previous part: where we stand

- Tag(s): @scarletdfox @princesstiti14 @idenyimimdenial

The sky over Oldtown burned.

Fire rolled through the heavens, casting a hellish glow upon the ancient spires and the maze of winding streets below. What had once been a city of faith, of prayer, of devotion to the Seven, now lay beneath the shadow of dragons, beneath the wrath of fire and blood.

From the clouds, the view was magnificent—if one had the heart to revel in destruction. The rooftops of Oldtown, white stone and weathered slate, stretched beneath you in perfect vulnerability, waiting to be claimed, to be swallowed whole by the inferno that had come for them.

And you had come.

At your back, Haelle beat her massive wings, each downward thrust sending ripples of turbulence through the sky, the wound from the scorpion bolt now a scar, a memory, a lesson she had learned in blood and fury.

Ahead, Caraxes soared, his sinuous, serpentine form weaving through the thick plumes of smoke, his red scales flashing in the chaotic glow of the city burning beneath them.

Daemon was beside you, his laughter rolling through the night, loud and triumphant, a sound that matched the destruction unfolding below.

"Look at them scatter!" he called, his voice carrying through the crackling heat, through the howling winds. "Like ants fleeing before the boot."

You smirked, gripping the saddle straps tighter, the wind whipping at your hair, at your cloak, at the armor beneath it. "Ants have more sense than these fools," you replied, your voice a breathless thing, laced with exhilaration, with purpose. "They chose this fate when they marched against us."

Daemon turned his head just slightly, his grin wild, his dark violet eyes gleaming with the firelight reflecting off the carnage below. "Then let us give them what they are owed."

He turned, leaning forward against Caraxes’ saddle, his hand tightening against the reins. "Dracarys!"

The command was barely given before Caraxes twisted midair, his maw opening wide—

And the Starry Sept erupted in flame.

The fire rained down in yellow and orange, consuming the great structure in moments, searing its white walls to blackened ruin. The great stained-glass windows shattered, raining down molten shards upon the priests and warriors who had tried to take shelter within.

Screams echoed.

You could hear them from above, rising through the heat, through the smoke, through the despair that had settled over the city like a death shroud.

And yet—

You felt nothing.

No remorse. No hesitation.

Only the certainty that this had to be done.

Haelle shrieked beneath you, her massive, golden eyes locked onto the panicked soldiers attempting to flee from the burning sept, from the dying city, from their crumbling faith.

You exhaled, raising a hand. "Dracarys."

The Nightmare Queen obeyed.

Her fire was different from Caraxes’. It was darker, heavier, black tinged with streaks of gold, thick as oil and just as consuming. Where Caraxes burned in quick, consuming waves, Haelle’s flames lingered, clinging to stone and flesh alike, refusing to be snuffed out.

The fire spread rapidly, licking up the walls of the grand sept, engulfing the once-pristine halls where the High Septon had sat in judgment over kings and lords.

There was no judgment here now.

Only fire.

The streets below had become a scene of chaos.

Men, women, and children ran in every direction, their cries drowned out by the roar of the inferno, by the deep, guttural growls of dragons circling the city, claiming it for their own.

"They will curse our names for centuries," Daemon said, his voice half-lost to the wind, but filled with something dark, something victorious. "The day fire came to Oldtown."

You did not look at him, your gaze still locked on the burning ruins below, on the death throes of a city that had called upon war and found war waiting for them.

"Let them curse us," you murmured. "It will not unburn their gods."

Daemon laughed, throwing his head back, his delight in destruction unmatched. "No, it will not."

Another pass.

Another wave of fire.

Another piece of Oldtown lost to the flames.

And above it all, you and Daemon soared, dragons of ruin, gods of the sky, delivering justice in fire and blood.

The ruins of Oldtown smoldered beneath the ashen sky, the once-grand city now reduced to blackened husks of stone, the air thick with the stench of charred flesh, burnt wood, and the acrid remnants of dragonfire. Smoke still coiled from the ruins, winding its way into the heavens as if carrying the whispers of the dead, a final offering to whatever gods remained in this forsaken place.

Jason rode at the head of the Lannister host, his warhorse stepping cautiously over the debris, hooves sending up small plumes of ash with every slow, deliberate movement. The weight of silence pressed down upon them all—no cries of the dying, no wails of survivors, only the distant, guttural snarls of dragons stalking through the remains.

Beside him, Tyland was eerily quiet, his gaze shifting methodically over what was left of the city, taking in the destruction, the utter annihilation left in the wake of fire and blood. There was no rebuilding this. Oldtown had been cleansed, burned to its bones, its legacy reduced to embers floating on the wind.

And standing in the center of the devastation, amidst the wreckage of what had once been the beating heart of the Faith, were Daemon and you.

Jason saw you first.

You stood tall, your blackened armor still smeared with soot, your silver hair streaked with ash, your face unreadable as you gazed over the ruins. Haelle prowled nearby, her golden-marked tail sweeping lazily through the rubble, her nostrils flaring with the lingering scent of scorched flesh.

Daemon stood beside you, his black cloak shifting in the wind, his eyes shining with cruel satisfaction as he turned at the sound of approaching horses. Caraxes lay coiled further down the avenue, his long, sinuous body draped over the ruins of the Starry Sept, his red scales gleaming dully beneath the haze of smoke.

Jason reined his horse to a stop, his green eyes sweeping over the destruction, the madness, the sheer scope of what had been done.

"By the gods," he muttered, his tone more awe than horror. "You really did it."

You did not move at first.

Your fingers flexed slightly at your sides, your gaze locked on the ashen bones of a once-mighty city, your expression unreadable.

Daemon, however, smirked, stepping forward with all the ease of a man who had just overseen the fall of one of the greatest cities in Westeros and had not a single regret.

"They never saw it coming," he said simply, his tone light, amused even, as if discussing nothing more than a well-played game of cyvasse. "The sept was the first to fall. The rest… well, you can see the rest."

Jason exhaled slowly, his gaze sweeping over the still-burning wreckage, before settling on you once more.

"And the Hightowers?" His voice was measured, careful, despite the glint of curiosity beneath it. "Where are they?"

You finally turned to him then, your eyes meeting his, something unreadable flickering behind them.

"Gone," you said simply.

Jason’s brow lifted. "Gone?"

Daemon huffed a low, knowing laugh, turning his attention back toward the ruins, the skeletal remains of the Hightower that had once loomed over Oldtown’s skyline, now nothing more than a collapsed wreck.

"Some burned," Daemon said, his voice casual, detached. "Some fled before the flames reached them."

Tyland, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke. "And Prince Daeron?" His voice was even, measured, but laced with something darker beneath the calm. "Was he here?"

You hesitated. Only for a moment.

Daemon, however, did not.

"If he was, he’s nothing more than cinders now," Daemon said smoothly, his lips curving into something that was not quite a smile, but not far from it either. "His dragon, however, was not seen. Which means one of two things—either the boy never returned, or he fled like a rat when he saw the flames coming."

Jason tilted his head, studying Daemon’s face, his expression unreadable. "So, we don’t know if he’s dead or alive."

Daemon’s smirk widened slightly. "Does it matter?"

Jason let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head as he dismounted from his horse, his boots kicking up small clouds of ash as he stepped forward. "It does if he comes back with a dragon to make us answer for this."

Daemon only chuckled. "Then we burn him too."

Tyland remained on his horse, his fingers tight around the reins, his eyes flickering toward you once more. "And you?" His voice was quieter, more searching. "Do you think this war is over?"

You looked at him, then at Jason, then back at the ruins of Oldtown, at the smoke curling against the sky, at the devastation wrought by fire and vengeance.

Finally, you spoke.

"No," you murmured, voice quiet but certain. "Not yet."

The Red Keep was silent as Daemon Targaryen stalked through its halls, his black cloak billowing behind him, his boots striking the polished stone floors with deliberate purpose. The weight of his presence was palpable, the air charged with tension, as if the very walls of the castle could sense the tempest he carried with him.

The news of Oldtown’s fall had reached King’s Landing swiftly—the whispers had spread like wildfire, slipping through the streets, through the halls of the court, until the very air of the Keep was thick with fear, with speculation, with the uneasy knowledge that war had crossed into something far more dangerous.

Daemon knew exactly what he was walking into.

And he welcomed it.

The doors to the throne room were thrown open before him, the great chamber bathed in the muted glow of torches and stained-glass light. At the far end, seated upon the Iron Throne, was Viserys.

His brother looked weary, the sickness that had begun to eat away at him more visible now than ever. His cheeks were gaunt, his hair thinner, his robes slightly too heavy for his frame. But his eyes—

His eyes were clear as they locked onto Daemon.

Beside him, standing in rigid, barely restrained fury, was Otto Hightower.

The Hand’s green-and-gold robes rustled as he stepped forward, his face twisted with barely concealed rage, his voice ringing out the moment Daemon’s boots crossed the threshold.

"Seize him!" Otto bellowed, his voice thunderous, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. "Seize him for the slaughter he has wrought!"*

The Kingsguard hesitated, their hands on the hilts of their swords, eyes flickering toward the throne, waiting for the command to be given.

But it did not come.

Because Viserys did not speak it.

Instead, the King lifted a tired hand, his expression cold, unreadable.

"No," he said simply.

Otto’s breath hitched, his face flushing with disbelief, with fury, with something perilously close to desperation. "Your Grace—"

"You do not command in this hall, Otto," Viserys interrupted, his voice low but edged with steel. "I am the King. And I have summoned my brother here to answer for his actions—not to be seized like some common criminal."

Daemon smirked, his eyes brilliant with dark amusement as he strode further into the chamber, the weight of the stares upon him only feeding his arrogance.

"Well, well," he drawled, his tone infuriatingly casual. "I had feared my welcome would be... less warm."

Otto turned on him, his face twisted with fury. "You burned Oldtown to the ground!"

Daemon tilted his head. "I did."

"You slaughtered the Faith! You set fire to the Citadel! You have wiped out centuries of knowledge, of history, of—" Otto’s voice choked off, his rage rendering him momentarily breathless.

Daemon only smiled. "And?"

"And?" Otto spat, his fury boiling over. "You have committed an atrocity! You have reduced one of the great seats of Westeros to ash! My family is dead because of you!"

Daemon’s smirk widened, his teeth glinting like a wolf baring its fangs. "Good."

Otto lunged forward, his rage unchecked, but the Kingsguard stepped between them, halting him before he could do something foolish.

Viserys finally rose from his throne, his fingers gripping the armrest, his voice carrying over the chamber. "Enough."

The unease stilled, the air heavy, the rage simmering beneath the surface of the throne room like a coiled serpent.

Daemon merely arched a brow, waiting.

Viserys exhaled slowly, his eyes hardening as he looked at his younger brother. "Tell me why."

Daemon tilted his head slightly, his smirk never quite fading, but his voice carrying an edge that had not been there before.

"They marched against us first," he said, his tone smooth, unwavering. "They came for my daughter. They came for my grandchildren. The Faith raised arms against the Crown, against House Lannister, against Targaryens with dragons. What did you think would happen, brother? That we would kneel? That we would beg for mercy?"

Viserys’ jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

Daemon stepped closer, his boots echoing in the silence. "I have burned our enemies before, Viserys. I have made them kneel in blood and fire. You have never had the stomach for it—but do not ask me to pretend that this is anything different. This war started the moment they thought themselves above us. I simply finished what they began."

Otto’s breath came shallow, fast, his entire body vibrating with fury. "You finished nothing," he hissed. "You have ensured that war will consume us whole."

Daemon rolled his eyes. "Oh, spare me your dramatics, Otto. If anything, I have done you a favor—no more scheming, no more whispers from the maesters, no more messages being carried from the Starry Sept to undermine the Crown." He grinned. "No more Hightowers to plot from their tall, ugly tower."

Otto took a step forward, voice low, shaking with fury. "You will answer for this."

Daemon held his gaze.

And then—

He laughed.

A sharp, rich sound, one that echoed through the chamber, dripping with mockery, with amusement, with utter contempt.

"I just did," he said simply.

Viserys exhaled sharply, his hand coming to rub at his temple, his exhaustion plain, his frustration evident. "What of Daeron?" he asked, his voice quieter now. "Was he there?"

Daemon shrugged. "Perhaps. If he was, he’s gone now."

Viserys’ expression darkened. "Did you kill him?"

Daemon’s grin was slow, deliberate. "You tell me, brother. Have you received a raven with his head in a box yet?"

Viserys closed his eyes briefly, exhaling a breath that spoke of deep exhaustion, of the burdens pressing against him like an iron yoke.

"You have started a fire that cannot be put out," he murmured. "You understand this, do you not?"

Daemon stepped forward, his smirk fading, his expression turning sharp, dangerous. "I understand that if you do not choose a side, you will be buried between them, brother."

Viserys met his gaze, his expression unreadable.

And in that moment, the fate of the realm teetered on a knife’s edge.

The private chambers of King Viserys I Targaryen were thick with the scent of burning candles and aged parchment, the heavy drapes drawn tight to keep the whispers of the court from slithering through the cracks in the walls.

Alicent Hightower stood in the center of the chamber, her breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts, her face flushed with the force of her barely restrained fury. Her green silks clung to her form, the fabric wrinkled from the way her fists had clenched at her sides as she had stormed into the room, her anger barely contained within the fragile bones of her body.

Viserys sat in his chair, his weary gaze fixed on the fire, his fingers drumming idly against the armrest. He looked tired, worn thin by the weight of a kingdom tearing itself apart beneath him. But he did not look surprised.

Alicent’s voice shook the room when she finally spoke. "You let him leave."*

Viserys sighed, tilting his head slightly but not yet meeting her gaze. "What would you have had me do, Alicent?" His voice was low, tired, but edged with something firmer beneath the exhaustion. "Chain him in the dungeons? Have him executed?"

Alicent’s hands trembled, her nails biting into her palms, her fury bubbling over like a cauldron left too long over flame. "Yes!" she snapped, her voice rising, raw with grief and rage. "I would have you do something! You sit there, pretending to be a king, while my House—my family—" her voice caught, her throat tightening before she forced the words out, "—burns to ash."

Viserys finally turned to look at her then, his violet eyes shadowed with something unreadable. "Your family raised an army against the Crown." His voice was quieter now, but no less weighted, no less biting. "Did you truly think there would be no consequences?"

Alicent let out a disbelieving laugh, one laced with venom. "Consequences?" She took a step closer, her emerald eyes blazing with fury. "He did not just defeat them, Viserys. He did not just put down their rebellion. He destroyed them. He reduced Oldtown to rubble, he slaughtered my kin like cattle, he sent dragons to devour every man, woman, and child who bore the name Hightower!"

Viserys held her gaze, his expression unreadable, but his silence was an answer in itself.

Alicent’s breath came short, ragged, her fingers curling into the fabric of her skirts as she shook her head, as if the very weight of this betrayal was suffocating her. "And my son?" Her voice was quieter now, more dangerous. "Did Daemon kill him, too? Did he send his daughter and her bastard Lannister husbands to do it for him?"

Viserys exhaled slowly, pressing his fingers to his temple. "We do not know Daeron’s fate."

"Because no one has seen him since Oldtown burned!" Alicent shouted, her fury laced with something rawer now, something on the verge of breaking. "Do you not care, Viserys? Do you not care that our son may be dead?"

Viserys' expression twisted, his lips pressing into a thin line, his hands gripping the armrests of his chair. "Of course I care," he said, his voice low, edged with the rare sharpness of a man who had spent his life avoiding war, only to find it spilling over his feet regardless. "But what would you have me do, Alicent? Would you have me call for war against my own blood? Would you have me send men to die for a battle that has already been lost?"

Alicent let out a breath, stepping closer, her green eyes dark with something dangerous. "They must answer for this," she hissed. "Daemon, his daughter, and her Lannister husbands. They cannot be allowed to walk free after what they have done!"

Viserys shook his head, leaning back in his chair, his fingers curling around the edge of the armrest as if bracing for what was to come. "Daemon does not answer to chains, Alicent." His gaze flickered, his expression hardening. "And neither does my niece."

Alicent stilled, her chest rising and falling sharply, her lips pressing into a thin line.

Viserys continued, his voice quieter now, but no less firm. "Would you have me call the banners against the Westlands? Would you have me send an army to Casterly Rock to seize Y/N and her Lannister husbands like criminals?"

Alicent’s jaw tightened, but she did not speak.

Viserys' gaze bore into hers, searching, waiting. "Tell me, Alicent. Do you think House Lannister will let her be taken? Do you think Jason Lannister, who now has dragons of his own at his side, will let you have her?"

Alicent’s fingers curled tighter, her nails biting into her skin as rage warred with something colder—reality.

Viserys leaned forward slightly, his expression grim. "You would be calling for a war you cannot win."*

Alicent’s breath hitched, her anger trembling beneath the weight of her grief, her loss, her helplessness.

For the first time in her life, she felt truly powerless.

Her uncle was dead.

Her House was scattered, ruined, burned from history with dragonfire.

Her son was missing, perhaps dead.

And the man she had sworn to stand beside—her husband, her King—

Would do nothing.

The silence dragged between them, thick, suffocating, until at last—

Alicent let out a shuddering breath, her hands trembling at her sides, her fury momentarily stilled but never gone.

She turned toward the door, her movements stiff, her head held high.

But before she left, she spoke.

Her voice was quiet.

But it was cold.

"You are not the King I thought you were, Viserys."

Then, without another word, she turned and walked away, leaving him alone in the dim firelight, the weight of his choices pressing heavier than ever before.

The moon hung heavy over Dragonstone, its silver light casting shadows through the high-arched windows of the great keep. The sea beyond was restless, waves crashing against the black stone cliffs, their rhythm a steady, unrelenting song that had sung for thousands of years.

Inside the chamber, the air was thick with candle smoke and the scent of parchment, of ink and salt, of something heavier that had settled between them like an unspoken weight.

Rhaenyra sat near the open hearth, her gaze fixed on the parchment in her hands, though she had read the words a dozen times already. The message from King’s Landing was brief, cold, and heavy with the weight of war.

Oldtown was gone.

The Faith had fallen.

Daemon and her cousin had burned it to the ground.

Across from her, Laenor sat, one arm draped over the back of his chair, his brow furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line. He had been quiet since she had shown him the letter, his usual ease absent, replaced by something more thoughtful, something heavier.

"Say something," Rhaenyra finally murmured, her voice softer than she intended, laced with something almost hesitant. "You have been silent since you read it."

Laenor let out a slow breath, tilting his head back slightly, his gaze flickering toward the dimly lit ceiling before settling back on her. "What would you have me say, Rhaenyra? That I am surprised?"

She exhaled, setting the parchment aside, her fingers drumming against the armrest of her chair. "No. I suppose not."

Laenor shook his head, shifting slightly, his expression unreadable. "Your cousin has always been…bold." There was no mockery in his voice, only a quiet understanding. "And Daemon? Well, we both know he has never needed an excuse to burn his enemies to ash."

Rhaenyra let out a humorless laugh, shaking her head. "No, he has not."

A silence stretched between them, the crackling of the fire the only sound that remained.

Laenor watched her for a moment before leaning forward, resting his elbows against his knees. "What troubles you more?" he asked. "That they did this—or that they succeeded?"

Rhaenyra hesitated.

Because she knew the answer.

She had always admired her cousin. Even as children, they had been drawn to each other—not just by blood, but by something stronger, something unspoken. They had both been heirs to great things, both bound by duty and expectation, both raised knowing that the world would never be kind to them.

And now?

Now, her cousin had taken what was theirs, what was meant for them, and had burned it all to the ground.

And she had won.

The world had watched as Oldtown crumbled beneath dragonfire, as the High Septon and the great halls of the Faith turned to ash.

And no one had stopped her.

Even the King, their King—her father—had done nothing.

"The war is changing, Laenor," she said finally, her voice quiet but sure. "This is no longer just a rebellion. This is something else."

Laenor studied her, his expression unreadable. "You are afraid."

Rhaenyra lifted her chin, but did not deny it. "I am wary."

Laenor exhaled through his nose, leaning back against his chair, his fingers tapping lightly against the wooden armrest. "And you should be," he murmured. "Because you are not the only one who sees it. Westeros is watching, and not just from the Crownlands or the Reach."

Rhaenyra’s brows furrowed slightly. "What do you mean?"

Laenor hesitated for a moment, his lips parting, then pressing back into a thin line before he finally spoke. "There is a rumor," he said carefully, "that Jason Lannister is making his own court in the Westerlands."

Rhaenyra stilled. "His own court?"

Laenor nodded. "Lannisport is swelling with nobles from all across the West. Some say that he means to break the Westerlands from the rest of the realm, that he seeks to rule from Casterly Rock as something more than just Warden of the West."

Rhaenyra’s fingers tightened against the arm of her chair, her mind turning over the implications, the weight of what this could mean.

The Lannisters were powerful—wealthier than any house in Westeros, with an army to rival even the Crown’s. And now, with dragons of their own at their side? With her cousin bound to Jason and Tyland, with Haelle and the other dragons that had been born from her clutch?

The balance of power was shifting.

And Jason Lannister knew it.

Laenor watched her carefully, his fingers steepling together. "If he declares himself separate from the Iron Throne," he murmured, "how do you think the realm will respond?"

Rhaenyra exhaled slowly. "That depends on who stands with him."

Laenor tilted his head slightly. "And if it is your cousin?"

She met his gaze, her expression unreadable, but her mind already racing ahead, already calculating what this meant, what came next.

"Then the realm will burn."

The Year of Fire and Gold (129 AC – 130 AC)

(As recorded in the accounts of Maester Aelric, the letters of Lord Tybolt Marbrand, and the writings of the fool Mushroom, as compiled by Archmaester Vaegon in his later years.)

The Burning of Oldtown and Its Consequences

In the aftermath of the fall of Oldtown, the realm found itself at a crossroads, divided not only by the scars of war but by the ever-growing rift between King Viserys I Targaryen and the noble houses that once called themselves his vassals. It is said that when the first reports of the city’s destruction reached King’s Landing, there was horror and silence in equal measure. The great seat of House Hightower, the Starry Sept—the center of the Faith of the Seven—and the famed Citadel, home to the Maesters of Westeros, had all been reduced to smoldering ruin.

According to Mushroom, who ever thrived on the gossip of the court, it was not Daemon Targaryen alone who took pleasure in the destruction. The Rogue Prince and his daughter, the Princess of the West, had left Oldtown a corpse of a city, its once-great white towers blackened by dragonfire, its streets lined with charred bones and melted steel. When Queen Alicent Hightower heard of her family’s ruin, Mushroom claims she collapsed upon the floor of her chambers, clawing at her throat as if the very air refused to be drawn into her lungs.

Yet, the King did nothing.

King Viserys, ever reluctant to move against his own kin, refused to raise arms against Daemon or his niece. He did not call for war against the West, nor did he punish House Lannister for standing with the princess. Instead, he attempted to mend the wounds with empty words, urging peace where peace had already been consumed by fire.

Otto Hightower, the King’s Hand, was not so forgiving. The Hand, now old and weary, was said to have railed against his king, demanding that Daemon and his daughter be seized and brought to the capital in chains. But Viserys would hear none of it. Some accounts claim that Otto threatened to step down from his position, but the King merely let him, and in his place named Lord Lyonel Strong as Hand once more.

Not all in King’s Landing remained idle, however. Prince Aemond Targaryen, Alicent’s second son, was said to have sworn vengeance for what had been done to his mother’s house. He was seen more frequently in the company of the City Watch, training relentlessly with sword and lance, while his great dragon Vhagar remained a looming shadow above the capital.

But it was not Aemond who would shape the coming year. It was Jason Lannister.

The Formation of the Golden Court

With the destruction of Oldtown, the balance of power in the realm shifted westward. It was not long after that Jason Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, declared what would later be known as the Golden Court.

It is said that atop the ruined battlements of Oldtown, Jason first spoke of the need for the Westerlands to rule itself, to answer to no crown but their own. Though he did not openly declare independence from the Iron Throne, he refused to kneel, stating that House Lannister had paid for its loyalty in blood and that he would no longer be commanded by a king who could not even stop Faith before it was too late.

With his wife, the Princess of the West, at his side, Jason returned to Casterly Rock, and there, under the great banners of his house, he began to forge his own court.

The Golden Court, as it would come to be known, became a gathering place for the powerful lords of the Westerlands—Marbrand, Lefford, Brax, Crakehall, and Reyne all swore their loyalty, declaring that they would rule their own lands as they saw fit, answering to the King in name only. Even Lord Farman of Fair Isle, long a loyal vassal of the Crown, turned his banners to Jason’s cause, offering his fleet to guard the western coast.

And, most notably, dragons now resided within the Rock.

Haelle, the Nightmare Queen, and the hatchlings born of her clutch, now rested within the bowels of the Rock itself, deep in caverns where no scorpion or spear could reach them. It was the first time in history that dragons had made their home in Lannister lands, and with them, Jason Lannister had something no other lord of Westeros could claim—a deterrent even against the Iron Throne itself.

A Realm Fractured

The reactions to the rise of the Golden Court were swift and divided.

In King’s Landing, Queen Alicent raged, demanding that Jason, Tyland and their Targaryen wife be named traitors, that their dragons be put to the sword, their court torn apart. But King Viserys, ever slow to act, remained indecisive. He did not wish to lose the wealth of the Westerlands, nor did he wish to march against his niece, a move that could very well ignite the war he had long sought to prevent.

Meanwhile, in the Vale, Lady Jeyne Arryn watched cautiously, wary of the power growing in the west. The Arryns had long been staunch supporters of Rhaenyra, yet even they could not ignore the strength of House Lannister’s defiance.

At Dragonstone, Rhaenyra received word of the Golden Court with both caution and curiosity. Though she still considered her cousin an ally, it was clear that Jason Lannister’s ambitions stretched further than mere loyalty to her cause. Some of her advisors urged her to seek an alliance with him before he turned his back on the Iron Throne entirely.

And in Dorne, where the Martells had long watched the realm tear itself apart from afar, murmurs spread that perhaps the time had come to seize their own independence further, following the Westerlands in defying the Throne and giving them support.

A year had passed since the fires of Oldtown, and in that time, Westeros had begun to shift.

The war had not yet begun in earnest.

But it would.

It was only a matter of when.

The Years of Gold and Fire (130 AC – 140 AC)

(As recorded in the writings of Archmaester Halys, the letters of Ser Adrian Lannister, and the bawdy recollections of the fool Mushroom, as compiled by Maester Tomas in his later years.)

The Death of a King and the War That Followed

King Viserys I Targaryen died in the year 130 AC, and with him, the last fragile hope of peace that had held the realm together for more than two decades. His death was kept secret by the Queen Dowager, Alicent Hightower, and her allies in the Red Keep for a day and a night, long enough for them to secure their positions before announcing what should have been a seamless succession.

Instead, war erupted.

Though Rhaenyra had long been named heir, the Green faction moved swiftly, crowning Aegon II as King before the Princess could make her claim from Dragonstone. Alicent, ever the dutiful mother, had seen in her son not only a king but also a weapon to wield against those who had wronged her. With Viserys gone, the long-awaited reckoning for Oldtown's destruction had finally come—or so she thought.

It is said that upon learning of his coronation, Aegon II was unmoved by talk of the Faith or the ruins of his mother’s House. Unlike Alicent, who had long seethed over the loss of her uncle, her kin, and her seat of power, Aegon saw greater threats before him—Rhaenyra and her Black Council, Daemon and his growing strength in the Westerlands.

Yet Alicent persisted, demanding justice, demanding that her husband’s bastard niece—as she had taken to calling her in the privacy of her chambers—and her Lannister husbands be punished for their crimes. Aegon was said to have waved a hand and muttered, "If you want her dead, mother, go kill her yourself."

The Dowager Queen did not lead an army herself, but the war she had long desired finally came to pass.

The Westerlands and the Dance of Dragons

The Lannisters did not move at the onset of the war. Jason Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West in all but name, had declared the Golden Court separate from the rule of the Iron Throne, answering to neither Aegon nor Rhaenyra. Some thought he would bend the knee to Aegon when the time came, yet the Lord of the Rock remained unmoved, his loyalty, as ever, tied only to gold, family, and power.

It was his wife, the Targaryen Princess, who shaped the course of the Westerlands in the years to come.

By 130 AC, she had already borne two children, Seraphina and Daemon, yet over the next ten years, her brood swelled to fourteen.

Mushroom, ever crude in his observations, noted that "For every year of war, the Princess of the West birthed two more lions, and if it had lasted longer, we might all have been Lannisters by the end of it."

Five of her pregnancies were twin births, and it remained unknown which of the golden twins sired which children. Some whispered that Tyland fathered the more cunning ones, while Jason fathered the ones who roared the loudest. The only certainty was that none of them were weak.

Though Westerlands remained independent, the war did not pass without its touch. Daemon Targaryen did not return to Rhaenyra’s side in the Crownlands as many had expected. He remained in the West, at the Golden Court, where he had found a place at his daughter’s side, wielding his sword and influence to maintain their power. It was whispered that he had grown fond of his grandchildren, even if he claimed no patience for them.

But where Daemon remained, Haelle reigned.

Haelle, the Nightmare Queen

The Nightmare Queen earned her name thrice over during the war.

Unlike her fellow dragons, who engaged in aerial duels or scorched castles upon command, Haelle answered to no banner but her own. She circled battlefields like a vulture, descending only when the screams had faded, tearing through the corpses with gleaming black fangs.

At the Battle of Tumbleton, where betrayal and slaughter turned the tide of war, it was said that Haelle came upon the field after the carnage had ended. While dragons had battled dragons, and men had torn each other apart, the Nightmare Queen descended from the sky and feasted upon what remained.

According to Lord Unwin Peake, she devoured the carcass of Seasmoke, leaving only scorched bones and splintered ribs as proof that the dragon had ever existed.

It was not only dead men that burned beneath her. Haelle became infamous for attacking ships, seemingly without command, disrupting military operations for both the Greens and the Blacks. She was said to have burned an entire fleet near the Arbor, forcing them to retreat before they could reinforce Aegon's forces in the Riverlands.

"She has no master," Mushroom wrote. "Not her rider, not the Rock, not the throne. She is a beast of her own making, and she has decided she likes the taste of war."

It is uncertain whether the Princess of the West ever attempted to rein in Haelle’s growing hunger. Some believed that she allowed it, knowing that fear of her dragon alone kept the Westerlands unchallenged. Others claimed that she never had control over Haelle to begin with.

The truth, as always, lay somewhere between.

The Fate of the Hightowers and the Fall of the Faith

After the war, when Aegon II lay dead and Aegon III sat upon the throne, the surviving Hightowers attempted to seek justice for their kin.

It was a quiet effort, made not through war but through the courts of King’s Landing, where the last remnants of their house pleaded for vengeance against the Targaryen woman and the Lannisters who had burned Oldtown to ash.

Nothing came of it.

The war had reshaped Westeros, and no man in power wished to reopen old wounds.

The Faith never recovered.

With the Starry Sept destroyed, and its leaders dead or scattered, the power of the High Septon waned. Though the Faith would remain, it would never again hold the same strength.

The Citadel, once the seat of knowledge in Westeros, became a shadow of its former self. Many of the great maesters had perished in the fire, their archives lost, their influence shattered.

What knowledge they attempted to restore was done under the watchful eye of the new order of lords and kings, who did not forget the lessons of the past.

The End of a Decade

By 140 AC, the realm had changed.

The Iron Throne was ruled by a child king, Joffrey I, whose reign was shaped by mourning and shadows. The Riverlands, the Reach, and the Crownlands struggled to rebuild. The North and the Vale remained distant, ever watchful.

And in the West?

The Golden Court still stood, separate from the throne, untouched by the war that had torn the rest of the realm apart.

Its princess was a mother of fourteen, a ruler with two husbands, and a dragon whose very name sent shudders through those who had seen her fly.

And House Lannister?

House Lannister still stood apart from Westeros, standing upon its mountain of gold, a kingdom in all but name.

The chambers within Casterly Rock were grand, carved into the very heart of the mountain itself, where the walls bore the weight of history, of power, of an empire built not by conquest, but by gold. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and candlewax, of perfumed oils spilled across silken sheets, and of the deep, musky fragrance of passion. The warmth of flickering firelight bathed the great bed in amber glow, casting shadows against the carved stone, where two lions had claimed their prize between them.

Jason Lannister’s hands roamed your body with possessive reverence, fingers pressing into the softness of your hips, dragging you down onto him as his golden mane spilled wildly across the pillows. His lips were hot against your throat, teeth grazing against flushed skin, his breath heavy with the satisfaction of a man who took what was his, and knew it was his. His body was still strong, built for war, but here in the confines of your chambers, he wielded himself not as a lord of battle, but as something more primal—a beast, indulgent and unrestrained, gluttonous in his desire for you.

And yet, above you, another presence loomed—one not so easily consumed by reckless pleasure. Tyland was behind you, his chest pressed flush against your back, his fingers tangled in your hair as his breath ghosted along the shell of your ear. Unlike Jason, whose touches were searing, who demanded devotion with each kiss, each bruising grip, Tyland remained forever calculating, a man who played the long game in both love and war. His lips traced along your shoulder, softer, teasing, as though he reveled in the slow unraveling of your composure.

For all their differences, they were the same in this. You had them both, and they had you.

And yet, even in the throes of pleasure, their natures could not be denied.

Jason gripped your thighs tighter, rolling his hips up into yours with a deep, satisfied groan. "You see, brother," he murmured, a smirk curling at the corner of his lips as his gaze flickered toward Tyland. "She was made for this. For us."

Tyland scoffed, his fingers tightening in your hair, tilting your head just enough to force your gaze toward him. "And yet you indulge yourself like a man who has never known restraint after all these years," he mused, voice rich with amusement, but edged with something sharper. "Perhaps you forget that you are not the only one who shares her bed."

Jason laughed, though his grip on you remained firm, unrelenting. "Oh, is that what this is about?" His green eyes gleamed with mischief as his hand trailed up your spine, slow, teasing. "Feeling neglected, dear brother?"

Tyland's lips curled into something between a sneer and a smirk. "I do not squander what I have," he retorted smoothly. "Unlike you."

Jason let out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head before thrusting up into you once more, pulling a strangled gasp from your lips. "Squander?" he mused, his voice thick with satisfaction. "Is that what you call it? Then tell me, Tyland—why do you hold back? Do you fear you might break her?" He leaned in, his teeth nipping at your throat, dragging a moan from your lips. "She is stronger than you think."

Tyland’s grip on your hair tightened, a quiet warning. "I do not need to break her to claim her," he murmured against your skin, his free hand sliding down to your waist, holding you firm. "Unlike you, I do not have to prove my worth through excess."

Jason smirked, though his movements did not slow. "Ah, so that’s what this is," he murmured, his lips ghosting over your jaw, pressing a kiss there. "Jealousy."

Tyland let out a sharp breath, his fingers flexing against your skin. "I think not."

Jason chuckled, low and rich, his grip shifting as he leaned up, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. "You always were too measured," he mused against your lips, his breath hot. "And yet, here you are, with your hands on her, your cock buried in her, just as mine is." His smirk widened. "So tell me, brother—who is the indulgent one now?"

Tyland's patience was thinning. "At least I am not a boor about it."

You let out a sigh, rolling your head back against Tyland’s shoulder, your fingers tangling in Jason’s golden hair, tugging sharply to force his gaze to yours. "If you two are going to bicker like children," you murmured, your voice laced with both amusement and frustration, "I will get up and take a bath alone."

Jason's smirk faltered, his grip on you tightening. "That would be a shame," he mused, his eyes darkening.

Tyland let out a slow breath, shaking his head. "Unacceptable."

You hummed, amusement curling at your lips. "Then move and use me properly, and stop wasting my time."

A sharp grin split Jason’s lips, his eyes gleaming. "Now that, my love, is an order I am happy to obey."

And just like that, their argument was forgotten.

The heat between your bodies was unbearable, the slickness of sweat and passion mingling between where your skin met theirs. The tension of their argument had only added to the fevered urgency in the way they moved now—Jason’s hands gripping your hips, guiding your movements with firm, practiced control, while Tyland’s lips traced the back of your neck, his breath hot, his fingers splayed across your stomach, holding you in place between them. You were caught between fire and steel, between indulgence and precision, between the two men who had claimed you, who had made you theirs in every way that mattered.

Jason drove into you with relentless hunger, his pace unyielding, his hair damp with sweat, his jaw clenched with the effort to hold himself back until he could feel you unravel around him. Tyland, ever measured, matched him stroke for stroke, his grip tightening against you, his movements coaxing, teasing, pulling you further into that unbearable edge where pleasure and agony met in a violent collision.

You felt it building, the tension tightening in your core, spreading like wildfire through your veins, leaving you gasping, trembling, clinging to Jason’s shoulders as your nails raked across his skin, leaving faint red marks against the tanned flesh. Your body arched, muscles coiling, and then—

"Yes," Jason groaned, his voice thick with satisfaction as he felt the first tremors of your release begin to seize you. "That’s it, my love—come apart for us."

Tyland let out a quiet hum of approval, his fingers sliding lower, stroking the most sensitive part of you, pushing you over. "Let go," he murmured against your ear, his voice low, reverent, commanding. "Now."

The pleasure crashed over you like a tidal wave, stealing your breath, leaving you shuddering and moaning, your body clenching around them both as the waves of ecstasy surged through you, consuming you whole. Jason groaned, his hands tightening on your hips as your release pulled him into his own, his pace faltering, breaking apart as he buried himself deep, spilling inside you with a guttural moan of your name.

"Gods, woman," he breathed, his forehead resting against yours, his body still trembling from the force of it. "You’ll be the death of me."

Tyland followed soon after, his own release more controlled, but no less intense. His breath shuddered against your skin, his grip tightening as he buried himself one final time, releasing deep within you, his lips ghosting along the shell of your ear. "Perfect," he murmured, almost to himself, his fingers skimming down your body as if memorizing the way you felt beneath him in this moment.

The three of you remained tangled together, breathless, spent, your bodies slick with sweat, the scent of sex thick in the air. Jason, ever indulgent, nipped at your collarbone lazily, his hands still splayed possessively across your hips, as if unwilling to part from you just yet. Tyland, ever calculating, brushed his fingers over your stomach, smearing the mixture of their release against your skin with slow, deliberate strokes, his eyes dark with something unreadable.

"A sight to behold," he mused, his voice rich with amusement. "A woman truly claimed."

Jason let out a satisfied hum, smirking as he ran a hand through his damp hair. "And yet," he murmured, his lips curling into something wicked, "we still have a bath to attend to, lest the water grows cold."

You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head. "Then perhaps we should move," you teased, though your body still felt heavy with exhaustion, your limbs unwilling to part from their warmth.

Jason grinned, his hands sliding under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly from the bed. "Oh no, my love," he purred, carrying you toward the bath. "Let us see if we can tempt you again before the water cools."

And you had no doubt that they would.

The warm water had long since cooled, and the three of you had finally emerged from the bath, skin flushed and softened from the heat. The dampness of steam still clung to the air, perfumed with the oils Jason had insisted upon, the lingering scent of jasmine wrapping around your senses like a second skin. Your hair hung loose, still drying in the open air as you stood upon the balcony, wrapped in a silken robe, gazing out over the gardens of Casterly Rock.

Jason and Tyland flanked you, each holding a goblet of wine, their hair gleaming under the soft afternoon sun. They had been in rare agreement today—both indulgent, both languid, content to simply stand at your side, watching the world below.

And there, in the lush gardens of the Rock, was Daemon.

The Rogue Prince, your father, the man who had once burned Oldtown to the ground at your side, now sat beneath the shade of a sprawling oak, surrounded by a flurry of golden-haired children. The younger ones climbed over him as if he were a great dragon of flesh and bone rather than fire and scale, tugging at his sleeves, chattering excitedly as he bore their weight with the practiced indifference of a man who had known far worse.

Your eldest son, Daemon—named for his grandsire, though he carried more of Jason in his features than the name would suggest—stood beside the tree, watching the younger ones with a smirk, arms crossed over his chest. Seraphina, your firstborn daughter, had draped herself along one of the higher branches, her curls spilling over her shoulder as she peered down at the chaos below with an amused glint in her eyes.

One of the youngest twins, barely more than a babe, had all but climbed onto Daemon’s shoulders, yanking at the strands of silver hair that had begun to show streaks of white with age. He merely grunted, adjusting the child’s weight, his free hand reaching out to steady another grandson who had nearly lost his footing in his rush to clamber into his lap.

Jason let out a low chuckle beside you, swirling the wine in his goblet. "He endures it well enough," he mused, tilting his head slightly as he watched the spectacle unfold below. "One would think he resents the swarm of them, but I suspect he enjoys it more than he lets on."

Tyland scoffed softly, sipping his own wine. "Of course he does," he murmured. "Daemon Targaryen does nothing he does not wish to do. If he truly hated it, he would have tossed them off him long ago."

You smiled faintly, watching as Daemon grumbled something under his breath, only for the children to laugh, unafraid, unbothered by the sharpness of his tone.

"He’s softened," you murmured, tilting your head slightly. "Age has not tamed him, but the children have."

Jason smirked, his arm brushing against yours as he leaned in, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple. "Or perhaps you have," he mused. "He never left after the war. He stayed—for you."

Your eyes flickered to him, your expression unreadable. "For us," you corrected. "For our family."

Tyland hummed, tilting his goblet slightly. "For the Golden Court," he added.

Daemon shifted below, his gaze flickering upward as if he had felt the weight of your eyes upon him. His keen, knowing gaze met yours, and for a brief moment, there was something unreadable in his expression. Then, with the slow ease of a man who had never once bent to another’s will, he smirked.

"Don’t just stand up there like ghosts," he called out, his voice carrying easily through the garden. "Come down before they start climbing up to get you."

Jason let out a bark of laughter, his free hand coming to rest at your lower back. "A fair warning," he murmured, his breath warm against your ear. "We do have too many of them to keep track of."

You smiled, tipping your goblet against your lips as you gazed down at the sight below.

Yes, perhaps you did.

But you would not have had it any other way.

[oananovicov]

Jaimie of House Lannister - The Kingslayer.

[quiddling]

gay son OR thot daughter? i thought you said gay son AND thot daughter 😟

[kameishanps]

Genna Lannister 🦁

adding her to my "asoiaf plus size characters who were erased or made thin" folder 🥰

[lmaowh-at]

Lanns n Starks lineups/costumes sketches that I will probably add other houses to. Tywin and Joff & the rest aren't here because I was lazy and Cerseis dress took all of my energy. Don't ask me about inspiration or historical basis for these

[wodania]

round three of my six fanarts!!! thank you so much to everyone who participated and funded by elden ring addiction. keep an eye out for round four!