#House Targaryen

[unicoo]

To say a history book written by the Author is all propaganda really pisses me off 😭

Every event that is written in F&B HAPPENED!!! We just don’t know peoples inner thoughts. GRRM isn’t the type to just throw shit in the books that don’t have any importance.

F&B can’t be propaganda just because y’all don’t like what you read lmao.

I’m gonna say this slow for all the slow people……not every Targaryen is a good person and that is okay, because they are not supposed to be perfect goody two shoe people. Daenerys is the ONLY exception to the Targaryenism ideology. Meaning everything on F&B is in there for a reason. What reason you ask? TO SHOW DAENERYS IS THE BEST TARGARYEN. She is better than all who came before her, because they were extremely flawed & not very good people!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The maester propaganda thing has gone too far let it go I beg you because why the hell did I just see a video that claimed Maegor actually was loyal to his family and all the bad things written about him were lies by biased maesters

[aeralux]

"Anytime, anywhere" - Aemond Targaryen

Summary: It's never a good idea to anger the Prince of the Real, yet that's exactly what you did. And now you must face the consequences...

Warnings: 18+; smut; public sex acts (exhibitionsim); blowjob; degrading names (slut, whore); pet names (dove etc); feeling of shame/humiliation; typical targcest; targaryen!reader

Words: 4.4k (omfg what is wroNG WITH ME)

Notes: Reader is female but no other descriptive language is used. Implied that Reader is Daemon's daughter.

-- aera xx

Provoking Aemond was always a risky endeavour. His temper was notorious, and the consequences of angering him could be severe. Those who dared to cross him often faced fierce and relentless wrath, leaving them to regret their choices. So you couldn't quite understand why you made that decision this morning.

You woke slowly, your bare skin tingling with the memory of Aemond's touch. Bruises bloomed across your flesh, the aftermath of last night. As you stretched, a dull ache throbbed between your thighs, a sweet reminder of the prince's possession.

You sighed softly, a whimper escaping your lips. Aemond had council today. That much you knew. His mood was sure to be foul. You didn't dare disturb him, simply laying your head on his chest, your fingers tracing idle patterns across his toned torso.

The silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken desire. You knew you should rise, dress, and attend to your duties as a court lady and a princess. But here, in the sanctuary of Aemond's bed, you were his, a fact that filled you with deep, primal satisfaction.

Aemond stirred from his slumber, the feel of your soft, naked body pressed against his own bringing a smile to his lips. His eye fluttered open, taking in the sight of you sprawled across his chest, your fingers tracing languid patterns along his skin.

He reached up, his hand cupping your cheek as he pulled you close for a lingering kiss. "Good morning, my dove," he murmured, his voice still rough with sleep. "How did you sleep?"

You hummed contentedly, nuzzling into his neck as you savoured the warmth of his embrace. "Good," you replied, your voice muffled against his skin. "Though I may be a bit sore."

Aemond's smile turned wicked, a glint of mischief in his eye as he recalled the roughness of your lovemaking from the night before. "I can think of a way to soothe those aches," he teased, his hand sliding down your back to cup the curve of your ass.

You giggled, as you rolled off him and onto the bed beside him. "As tempting as that offer is, I fear we must resist. You have council duties to attend to, after all."

Aemond groaned in mock frustration, his head falling back against the pillows as he stared up at the ceiling. "Must we?" he groaned, though there was no real regret in his tone. "Very well, I suppose duty calls. But tonight…"

He rolled towards you, his hand sliding up your thigh, his touch igniting sparks beneath your skin. "Tonight, you are mine again. And I intend to take my time with you until you are screaming my name in ecstasy and every man in Westeros knows who’s pretty little slut you are.”

A sinister plan began to form in your mind as Aemond spoke of his duties and his plan for later. You tried to hide your devious smirk, not wanting him to suspect what you had in store.

"I suppose I could make you feel good right now… I'll be quick, my prince," you purred, trailing kisses down his chiselled abs towards his manhood.

You knew the guards would soon come calling, requesting Aemond's presence in the council chambers. Your plan was simple yet deliciously cruel - to bring him right to the very edge of pleasure, his cock throbbing and aching for release, only to leave him high and dry.

With a wicked gleam in your eye, you wrapped your lips around him, determined to give your prince a taste of his own medicine.

Aemond's breath caught in his throat as your lips wrapped around him, your tongue swirling skillfully around his length. His hand fisted in your hair, his fingers tugging gently as he guided your movements.

The sensation was exquisite, the heat of your mouth, the wetness of your tongue, the suction of your lips - it was almost enough to make him forget about his duties, to lose himself entirely in the pleasure you were giving him.

"Fuck," he groaned, his head falling back against the pillows as he surrendered to the sensations. "You wicked, wicked thing. If you keep this up, I'll never make it to the council."

You merely hummed in response, your movements becoming more frenzied, more urgent. You could feel him growing harder, could taste the saltiness of his arousal on your tongue.

You bobbed your head faster, your hand wrapping around the base of his shaft as you took him deeper into your throat with each movement. Aemond's hips bucked, his breath coming in short gasps. Your saliva dripped and ran down his shaft, coating his length in your spit.

You pushed yourself to relax your throat, allowing him to thrust deeper. When he hit the back of your throat, you felt your eyes roll back in pleasure. The heavy weight of his cock feels amazing on your tongue.

You held him there for a moment, relishing how he stretched and filled your mouth. As you pulled back to breathe, you let out a loud, wanton moan, making sure Aemond could hear how much you loved pleasuring him.

Drool spilt down your chin as you went back to work, bobbing your head up and down his cock. You took him as deep as you could each time, letting him slide into your throat again and again. Your arousal dampened your thighs, already dripping onto the sheets below, but all you cared about at that moment was worshipping Aemond's cock with your mouth and throat.

Aemond's harsh groans filled the chamber, his hips thrusting upwards as he lost himself in the decadent pleasure of your mouth. Your lips and tongue worked magic on his hardened length, bringing him closer and closer to the brink of ecstasy with each bob of your head.

"Fuck," he growled, his grip tightening in your hair. "That's it… Use that pretty mouth of yours. Make me come."

You moaned around him, the sound sending shivers down his spine. You could feel him pulsing against your tongue, could taste his salty arousal.

Suddenly, there was a sharp knock at the door, startling you both. "Prince Aemond!" came a stern voice. "The king commands your presence in the council chambers. Immediately!"

Aemond cursed under his breath, his frustration clear. He was so close, so tantalizingly close to release. But duty called, as it always did.

You released him with a lewd pop, your lips and chin glistening with saliva and his precum. A wicked grin spread across your face as you gazed up at him, your eyes gleaming.

Suddenly, realization dawned on him, a flash of anger flickering in his eye. Without warning, his hand shot out, gripping your hair tightly as he yanked your head back.

At that moment, you knew you had pushed Aemond to the limits of his control. And you couldn't wait to see what punishment he had in store for you.

Aemond's chest heaved with pent-up frustration, his teeth clenched as he fought to maintain his composure. The interruption had come at the worst possible moment, leaving him painfully aroused and desperate for release.

With a low growl, he released his grip on your hair, his hand moving instead to wrap around your throat. "You wicked whore," he rasped, his voice rough with desire. "You'll pay for this. I'll make sure of it."

Your eyes widened, a thrill of fear and anticipation coursing through you at his words. You knew you had crossed a line, and knew that your actions would have consequences.

But even as your pulse raced beneath his fingers, you couldn't bring yourself to regret it. The fire in Aemond's eye, the raw hunger in his gaze - it set your blood ablaze with a need that only he could satisfy.

Aemond's grip on your throat tightens, sending shivers down your spine. You're equal parts terrified and thrilled by the promise of punishment in his voice. A moan threatens to escape your lips as your core clenches around nothing with need. You know you should feel ashamed, but you can't bring yourself to regret your actions.

The way Aemond looks at you, the hunger in his eyes - it ignites a fire within you that you can't control. You crave his dominance, his rough treatment. At this moment, you know you would do anything he asks of you.

Aemond's grip loosened, his hand trailing down your neck, over your collarbone, and down to your breasts. He squeezed roughly, eliciting a gasp from your lips.

"You want it rough, do you?" he growled, his thumb brushing over your nipple. "Want me to use you like the filthy little slut you are?"

You nodded frantically, your hips arching up into his touch. "Yes, my prince," you breathed, your voice trembling with need. "Please… Punish me. Claim me. Make me yours."

Aemond's lips curled into a sinister smile, his hand moving lower, over your stomach, hips, thighs. He parted your legs, his fingers brushing over your slick folds.

"Such a needy little thing," he purred, his finger circling your clit. "So desperate for my cock. But you don't deserve it. Not yet."

With a final teasing stroke, he withdrew his hand, ignoring your whimper of protest. He rose from the bed, his naked body glorious in the morning light.

"Get dressed," he commanded, his voice brooking no argument. "And be quick about it. You’re coming to council."

With that, he turned and strode towards the bathing chamber, leaving you alone on the bed, your body aching with unfulfilled desire.

You looked at him dumbfounded, your lips parted in utter confusion. “Wh-what?” you asked him, unsure if you misheard him.

Aemond paused at the threshold of the bathing chamber, glancing over his shoulder at you with a wicked grin. "Did you think I would let you off so easily?" he asked, his voice low and teasing. "Oh no, my sweet dove. You'll come to council with me, where you'll sit at my feet like the obedient pet you are. And when I'm done with my duties, I'll take you back to my chambers and fuck you senseless. Again and again, until you can't walk straight."

You shifted on the bed, heat pooling between your thighs at his bold promise. The thought of sitting at Aemond's feet, his gaze on you as he discussed matters of state, his touch a constant reminder of what was to come.

"Yes, my prince," you whispered, rising from the bed on shaky legs. "I'll do whatever you command."

Your hands trembled as you rushed to dress, the anticipation of what lay ahead both terrifying and extremely arousing. Aemond's words echoed in my mind, his promise of punishment and pleasure sending shivers down my spine.

Aemond stood by the chamber door, his posture commanding as he waited. The sight of you flushed and trembling, only fueled his desire. He reached out, his fingers grazing her cheek, tilting her face up to meet his gaze.

"Remember," he murmured, his voice low and intense. "You belong to me now. Every inch of you, every thought, every desire. If anyone looks at you or touches you, they'll have to answer to me. Understood?"

You shivered at his possessive words, a flush spreading across your cheeks. "Yes, my prince," you breathed, eyes locked on his. "I'm yours, completely."

Aemond's lips curved into a satisfied smirk. He threaded his fingers through your hair, tugging gently to expose your neck. Leaning in, he placed a searing kiss on the sensitive skin, marking you as his own.

"Then come," he commanded, releasing you and turning towards the door. "Let's go, my little slut. And when we return, I'll show you just how thoroughly I plan to claim you. But you’ll have to make it up to me first.”

Your breath hitched as you realised the implications of his words, eyes trembling with shame.

Aemond's laughter echoed through the chambers, a dark and foreboding sound that sent shivers down your spine. He revelled in the power he held over you, in the way your body trembled at his touch, your eyes wide with a mix of fear and desire.

"Oh, I'll enjoy making you make it up to me," he purred, his hand trailing down your back, stopping just above the curve of your ass. "I'll have you crawling on your knees, begging for my cock. I'll fuck you in front of the entire court, make you scream my name so everyone knows who you belong to."

Selaesa whimpered, your core clenching at the thought. You knew it was wrong, knew that you should be ashamed of your desires. But in that moment, all you could think of was the promise of Aemond's touch, the burning need to submit to his every whim.

"Yes, my prince," you breathed, your voice trembling with need. "I'll do anything, be anything you want me to be. Your slut, your whore, your toy. Just please… Don't stop touching me."

Aemond grinned, his hand squeezing your ass roughly. "Such a good girl," he praised, his voice dripping with condescension. "Now come, let's not keep the council waiting. They'll learn soon enough who owns you, body and soul."

With a final possessive squeeze, he released her and strode towards the door, expecting you to follow. You hurried after him, your heart pounding in your chest, your core aching with unfulfilled desire.

As you made your way to the council, Aemond sat down at one end of the long table. "Kneel," came his command, leaving no room for questions.

Aemond's eyes gleamed with amusement as he caught your pleading gaze. He drank in the desperate longing in your expression. With a slow, deliberate motion, he reached out and cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing over your lower lip.

"Patience, my sweet," he murmured, his voice low and husky. You leaned into his hand, your eyes fluttering closed as you savoured his warmth. You nipped lightly at his thumb, your tongue darting out to wet your lips.

"Please, my prince," you breathed, your voice thick with need. "Just a taste."

Aemond's grip tightened, his fingers tangling in your hair. He pulled you closer, his lips hovering mere inches from yours.

"Careful what you wish for, little slut," he growled, his breath hot against your skin. "I may just decide to bend you over the council table and fuck you in front of everyone. Is that what you want? To be claimed as my whore in front of the entire realm?"

Your eyes widened at his words, a fresh wave of desire coursing through you. You knew it was madness, knew that you should be horrified by the thought. But at that moment, all you could think of was the burning need to be taken, to be possessed entirely by Aemond.

"Yes," you whispered, your voice trembling with want. "I want it. I want everyone to know that I'm yours and that no one else can touch me. I want you to claim me, ruin me, make me yours forever."

Aemond's eyes darkened with lust, his grip tightening in your hair. But just as quickly, he released you, leaning back with a wicked grin.

"Later," he promised, his voice dripping with promise.

You quietly crawled between his legs as Aegon was speaking and began to slowly rub Aemonds thighs. Your touch was feather-light, sending shivers down his spine.

Aemond's breath hitched as he felt your delicate touch on his thighs, your fingers tracing slow, teasing patterns on his skin. He fought to maintain his composure, his gaze fixed on Aegon as the king droned on about matters of state. But his mind was elsewhere, focused solely on the sensation of your hands on him.

He shifted slightly in his seat, his leg parting slightly to give you better access. You took the invitation, your hands sliding higher, your nails scraping lightly over the fabric of his trousers. Aemond bit back a groan, his cock stirring to life beneath his clothes.

As Aegon continued his speech, Aemond's hand moved from the armrest to your head, his fingers tangling in your hair. He applied gentle pressure, guiding your mouth towards his growing erection. You obeyed without hesitation, your lips brushing over the hardening bulge.

Aemond's grip tightened, his eyes never leaving Aegon's face as he fought to keep his expression neutral. Your tongue darted out, tracing the outline of his cock through the fabric, your warm breath seeping through the material.

Around you, the council members continued their discussion, blissfully unaware of the depravity happening mere feet away. Aemond revelled in the taboo nature of the act, in the power of taking what he wanted, when he wanted it.

As you knelt at Aemond's feet, you couldn't resist the urge to worship his cock through the fabric of his trousers. Breathing in his intoxicating scent, you pressed open-mouthed kisses along his shaft, your saliva dampening the cloth. Lost in your desire, you nuzzled your cheek against his hardness like a common whore, a needy whine escaping your throat. Your hips rocked instinctively, grinding your aching core against the pointed toe of his leather boot as you surrendered to the all-consuming hunger only he could satisfy.

Aemond gritted his teeth, fighting back a groan as your hot breath seeped through the fabric of his trousers. Your open-mouthed kisses sent jolts of pleasure shooting through his cock, your scent of arousal mingling with his musk. The feel of your cheek rubbing against his cock like a bitch in heat had his shaft throbbing, straining against the confines of his clothing. He tightened his grip on your hair, pulling you flush against him.

Aemond leaned back slightly, just enough to catch your eye. His gaze held a silent warning, a reminder of who held the power here. You looked up at him, your eyes glazed with lust, your lips parted in a silent plea.

With a slight tilt of his head, Aemond indicated his desire. Selaesa wasted no time, your fingers deftly undoing the laces of his trousers. Aemond's cock sprang free, hard and throbbing, the tip already glistening with pre-cum.

Your eyes widened at the sight, your tongue darting out to wet your lips. Aemond's grip on your hair tightened a silent command.

You obeyed without hesitation, your lips wrapping around his cock with a soft moan.

You tried to desperately stifle any sound as you felt Aemond's thick cock fill my mouth once more. But a soft, muffled moan escaped despite your best efforts. Your tongue swirled around his shaft, tracing the sensitive vein on the underside, applying gentle suction. You cupped his heavy balls, rolling them gently in your palm, feeling their weight against your skin.

Aemond's eyes nearly rolled back as he felt your tongue swirl around his shaft, your hand cupping his heavy balls. He fought to keep his breathing steady, his gaze still fixed on Aegon, who droned on about matters of state. But his focus was elsewhere, tuned into every flick of your tongue, every gentle roll of your fingers.

He tightened his grip on your hair, a silent warning to keep your ministrations quiet. The last thing he needed was to draw attention to your illicit affair. But gods, the feel of your mouth on him, the scent of your arousal mingling with his musk, it was driving him mad with need.

Aemond shifted slightly in his seat, his hips canting forward, seeking more of your wet heat. You obliged, your lips sliding down his shaft, taking him deeper. Aemond bit back a groan, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment.

When he opened them again, his gaze locked with yours. In your eyes, he saw a mix of lust and love, a devotion that both thrilled and terrified him. He knew you belonged to him, body and soul. But a part of him wondered if you truly understood the depths of his darkness, the lengths he would go to secure his power.

In that moment you can't help but wonder if the Lords have gone deaf, or if they truly don't hear you as you drool all over the Prince's cock. The spit runs down your chin as you clean it up and spit it back onto his shaft, swallowing around him. You can only pray that your sounds of pleasure remain unnoticed and that no one catches on to the depravity happening right under their noses.

But a part of you thrills at the thought of being caught, of having your submission to Aemond laid bare for all to see. You know you should be ashamed, should feel dirty and used. But instead, you felt empowered by the knowledge that you hold such sway over your Prince, that you can bring him to the brink of madness with just your mouth and hands.

Aemond's breath hitched as he felt you swallow around his cock, your throat fluttering deliciously around his shaft. The sight of your spit running down your chin, the sound of it as you spit it back onto him, it was almost too much to bear.

He tightened his grip on your hair, his nails digging into your scalp as he fought to maintain control. Around you, the council members continued their debate, their voices a dull roar in his ears. But none of that mattered, not when your mouth was wrapped around him, not when your tongue was driving him to the brink of madness.

Aemond's hips bucked slightly, thrusting deeper into your throat. You happily obliged, taking him deeper, your nose pressed against the wiry hairs at the base of his cock. Aemond's eyes rolled back, a low groan escaping his lips.

He caught himself just in time, his gaze snapping back to Aegon, who was still humming on regarding matters of the Realm. Aemond forced a neutral expression onto his face, nodding along as if he were paying attention. But his mind was elsewhere, focused solely on the sensation of your tongue swirling around the throbbing head of his cock.

As you bobbed your head up and down his shaft, Aemond's thoughts drifted to the taboo nature of your affair. You were his cousin, his uncle’s daughter. Taking you, claiming you, went against everything society deemed proper. And yet, the thrill of it, the knowledge that he was defiling his own blood, only added to his arousal, fueling his desire.

You gagged as he thrust up into your mouth, tears welling in your eyes, but you loved every second of it. The salty taste of your tears mingled with the taste of his cock on your tongue, flooding your senses. His thick shaft hit the back of your throat, stretching your jaw painfully, but you revelled in the exquisite burn. Each brutal thrust sent shockwaves of pleasure-pain through your core, body trembling with a mix of submission and desire. You knew you should feel degraded, but all you could focus on was the intoxicating power of pleasing him, of being used for his depraved needs. In that moment, you were his.

Aemond let out a low, guttural groan as he thrust up into your mouth, his cock hitting the back of your throat repeatedly. He watched, transfixed, as your eyes watered, as your throat tried to adjust to his girth. The sight of you gagging on his cock, of your tears streaming down your cheeks, it only served to heighten his pleasure.

He gripped your hair tighter, holding you in place as he fucked your face, setting a brutal pace. Around you, the council members continued their debate, their voices blending into a meaningless drone. All that mattered was the feeling of your mouth around him, the knowledge that he was using you, defiling you, in front of all these noble lords.

Aemond could feel his orgasm building, his balls tightening, his shaft pulsing against your tongue. He was close, so close to spilling his seed down your throat. But a part of him held back, wanting to prolong this moment, to savour the sensation of her submission.

He slowed his thrusts, allowing you to catch your breath, to regain your composure. You looked up at him, your eyes glazed with lust and adoration, your lips swollen from his use. Aemond felt a surge of power, of possession. You belonged to him, body and soul. And he would make sure you never forgot it.

With a final, brutal thrust, Aemond buried himself to the hilt in your throat, his cock pulsing as he came. He held you in place, forcing you to swallow every last drop of his seed, to taste his power, his dominance.

You moan softly as you swallow every last drop of Aemond's seed, your tongue lapping at his softening cock to clean him of your mixed fluids. The salty taste of him fills your mouth and sends shivers down your spine. You love pleasing him like this, craving the feeling of his cum sliding down your throat.

As he pulls away, you gaze up at him adoringly, your eyes shining with devotion. You lick your lips, savouring the lingering flavour of him. "Was that to your liking, my prince?" you ask softly, your voice husky with desire. You ache to feel him inside you again, to be filled and claimed by him.

As he pulled out of your mouth, Aemond caught a glimpse of the council members, their eyes wide with shock and embarrassment. But he didn't care. Let them look, let them whisper behind their hands. He had claimed you, had marked her as his own, and nothing could change that.

Aemond watched with satisfaction as you dutifully swallowed every drop of his seed. The sight of you on her knees, his cum glistening on your lips, sent a thrill of power and possession through him.

As you gracefully rose to your feet, Aemond's gaze flicked to the stunned council members, their faces etched with shock and barely concealed astonishment. He met their eyes, his stare challenging them to speak out against him. No one dared utter a word, their tongues tied by fear of incurring his wrath.

Aemond turned his attention back to you, his eye dark with desire and a hint of cruelty. "Come," he commanded, his voice low and authoritative. Without waiting for a response, he grabbed your wrist and led you out of the council chamber, leaving the gawking nobles in his wake.

[novembermorgon]

septa rhaena & baelor inspired by st. catherine of siena at the wound of christ

[daenysthedreamer101]

Targaryen women wearing blue

[hauntedfictionland]

❝Euphoria❞

☾︎✰❛❀ Jacaerys Velaryon x Fem! Reader!

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Jacaerys loves you. But he cannot have you. And it is killing him slowly.

𝐈𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐬/𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Heartbreak, one sided feelings and lots of tears.

🪐𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: In this timeline, Rhaenyra never moves to dragonstone so reader and Jacaerys grow together because I didn't really know how to fit it otherwise. It's something shorter than what I would usually write.

Jacaerys significantly remembers the first moment he fell in love with you. You, Aegon and Aemond's sister, younger than the eldest but older than Daeron. Kind of in the middle really but you fell in the youngest ones. After Criston had urged Aegon to spar with him, and ser Harwin Strong saved him, you came. He had been sitting in the garden with an oak tree above, a frown on his lips and a cut on his left cheek by one of Aegon's kicks. And you walked up to him. That same glow on your face and a light that didn't seem to be there until you arrived.

He never really noticed you until that moment. Jacaerys was the first born son of his mother. The heir after heir. While you were the fourth child, after Haelena and of course, Aemond. You weren't a son. Or a first born daughter. He didn't seem to have any particular reason to talk to you. But that evening changed it forever.

You bend down towards him, a comforting smile on your lips. He watches as you ruffle his hair, so gently it sends shivers down his skin. You were called the pink doe, because of how kind you were. And you wore pink and white most of the time. And of course, very beautiful. He never noticed it until that moment. How? he didn't know. Jacaerys was a child, but he could feel love. You pull out a white flower from behind you, tucking it behind his ear.

Jacaerys closed his eyes when you pressed your lips to his ear, right where the cut was. And suddenly he can't even feel the pain anymore. Not when there was you. And there was euphoria.

He started paying a lot more attention to you afterwards. In fact, you, were all that he had on his mind. How you laughed, the blushes on your cheeks when someone—especially Aemond, complimented you, or when your embroidery got noticed by your mother. The queen Alicent. He noticed it all. And Jacaerys couldn't get it out of his head. He figured it was a phase, that he'd eventually grow out of it, yet years passed by, you both turned ten and three and he was speechless when you would show up in a golden and red dress at some family dinner, then fourteen came and your scent, vanilla and rosemary, stuck in his nose when air blew and your gorgeously blonde hair waved in his face.

And then fifteen came, when he finally accepted the fact he was oh so inevitably and irreversibly in love with you. Everything about you, he would accept. That you were a green, that your brothers were Aegon and Aemond. And even if you were like them, like the hightowers—which you weren't, you were the kindest and most gentle heart he had ever met, but even if you were, he would accept it with open arms. Because you, to him, were his great love. His euphoria. A feeling he always felt with you.

A dream. Because one day becoming king, and you, to rule by his side? to be his queen? it was a dream. And it was the best and most beautiful one he wished for. However little did he know, it would only stay a dream.

Because one windy day, right when he wanted to ask you to marry him, right under that same oak tree, you told him something that broke him in two.

You were betrothed to Aemond.

“What?” his heart falls, throat swelling dry. He can barely speak.

“Our mother arranged it. She thought he and I made good company and...” you sigh, your eyes closed as you smiled, “I've loved him for so long. It finally feels a dream come true.”

Oh. He watched as you look so in love, just with the thought of him. Just like how he looks thinking of you. He watched as a feast was thrown in the celebration of both your betrothal, he watched as you dance with each other, his hands on your waist and a gleaming smile on your lips, he watched as you take your wedding vows, and share a kiss. He watched Aemond claim his euphoria and love it like he was the one meant to be with you. Not him.

Jacaerys never imagined himself crying under that same oak tree after your wedding was over. He also never thought he would cry himself sleep, pillow soaking in tears you caused. He never thought he would get betrothed to any other that wasn't you. Well, Baela now, looked joyed to be his future wife. And the future queen. Yet he can't stop thinking about the crowns you both would have worn. The children you both could have had. The love you both could have shared. He can't stop thinking about his euphoria.

And he doubts he ever would stop.

𝐸𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 ℎ𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑓𝑢𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑡, 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑘 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑚:) 𝐼 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑎𝑙𝑠𝑜 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑖𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑟𝑒𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑔𝑒𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑎𝑠 𝑖𝑡 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑔𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑚𝑒 𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑡𝑖𝑣𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛! 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝐼 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑟𝑒𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑠 𝑠𝑜 𝑑𝑜 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙 𝑓𝑟𝑒𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑚𝑒 𝑖𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑜𝑛𝑒.

[novaursa]

To Save Us Both

- Summary: Aegon was your shadow ever since you were a child. And once you come of age and Viserys gives your hand to Lord Tyrell's son, Aegon makes a decision that would save you both—and ruin you all the same.

- Paring: sister!reader/Aegon II Targaryen

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

You had always been the quiet one, the shadow lingering just outside the gilded glow of your family’s attention. As the second daughter of King Viserys and Queen Alicent, you lived in the space between your mother’s careful plans and your father’s indulgent dismissiveness. Helaena had her dreams and riddles, and Aegon—your elder brother—had his bravado and recklessness. And then there was you.

From the earliest days, Aegon sought your attention with a peculiar intensity. At first, it was innocent enough. He would seek you out during lessons, deliberately sit beside you at the long table in the Red Keep’s library, or tug on your sleeve when you were absorbed in your Valyrian texts.

“Y/N, look at this!” he exclaimed one day, barely past eight, holding a wooden dragon he had carved—or at least claimed to have carved. It was crude, the wings uneven, but you smiled at him regardless.

“It’s… unique,” you replied, your voice soft, careful not to wound his pride.

“Unique?” His face fell slightly before he puffed up with exaggerated bravado. “I think it’s better than that. It looks like Vhagar, doesn’t it?”

“It’s a little smaller than Vhagar,” you teased gently, a rare flicker of mirth dancing in your eyes. Aegon’s pout faded into a grin, and he sat beside you, his body leaning just a little too close.

It was always like this with Aegon. He thrived on your smiles, craved your laughter, and seemed to falter when you turned away from him. When Helaena pulled you into her world of strange, whispered riddles or Aemond showed off his knowledge of dragons to impress you, Aegon’s mood would darken.

One afternoon, the court gathered in the gardens for a brief reprieve from the heat of the Red Keep. You had found a shaded spot beneath a weeping willow, a book of High Valyrian poetry resting in your lap. Aemond stood beside you, his expression serious as he recited lines from memory, his voice low and earnest.

“Se perzys ipradagon ziry ry,” he said, his pale gaze fixed on you. “The flame consumes it all.”

You nodded thoughtfully, your lips curving in approval. “You’ve improved,” you said, your voice warm, and Aemond’s face lit up with quiet pride.

From across the garden, Aegon watched, his jaw tightening. He drained his goblet of wine in one swift motion and made his way toward you, his steps purposeful.

“What’s this?” Aegon interrupted, his tone light but sharp around the edges. He flopped down beside you, ignoring Aemond entirely. “High Valyrian poetry? How dull.”

“It’s not dull,” you said, looking up at him with a small frown. “Aemond has been practicing.”

“Oh, Aemond’s been practicing,” Aegon mocked, his voice dripping with exaggerated awe. “How impressive.” He reached over and plucked the book from your lap, flipping through it carelessly. “You should do something more fun, Y/N. We could go riding or—”

“She doesn’t have time for your games,” Aemond said coldly, stepping closer.

“And you don’t have time for your lessons, apparently,” Aegon snapped back, his smile sharp. “Run along, little brother.”

“Aegon,” you said, a note of warning in your voice. He turned to you, the sharpness in his expression softening instantly.

“What? I’m just saying we could have more fun.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “You’d rather spend time with me, wouldn’t you?”

Your brows knit together, and you glanced between your brothers, torn. “Aemond and I were having a conversation.”

“But I’m more interesting,” Aegon pressed, his grin widening as he tilted his head, his violet eyes searching yours.

You sighed, a reluctant smile tugging at your lips. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“Only for you, dear sister,” he replied, the words carrying a weight you didn’t fully grasp.

As you grew older, Aegon’s attempts to claim your attention became bolder. When suitors began to glance your way at feasts, he was quick to position himself between you and them, his arm draped casually over the back of your chair, his voice louder, his laugh more boisterous.

One evening, a young lord from the Reach had spent far too long at your side, his compliments earning your shy smiles. Aegon, seated nearby, clenched his goblet so tightly that the metal bent under his grip.

When the lord finally excused himself, Aegon slid into his place, his eyes narrowing as he looked after the retreating figure. “Do you actually enjoy listening to that drivel?” he asked, his tone laced with disdain.

“He was kind,” you said simply, glancing at him.

“Kind? He was duller than a broken sword,” Aegon retorted, his gaze fixed on you. “You deserve better.”

“And who would that be?” you asked, your voice carrying a note of challenge.

His smirk faltered for a moment, his expression turning uncharacteristically earnest. “Someone who knows you. Someone who’s been by your side all along.”

Your breath caught, his words lingering in the space between you. But before you could respond, he laughed, the moment breaking as quickly as it had come. “But not him,” he added, his usual arrogance slipping back into place. “You’re mine, little sister.”

You blinked, unsure whether to laugh or scold him, but the possessiveness in his tone left an unspoken promise lingering in the air. Aegon would always vie for your attention, no matter who tried to steal it away.

The announcement had been made during a routine gathering of the family, with King Viserys seated at the head of the table, Alicent by his side. His words were spoken with the offhandedness of someone making a trivial decision, though the weight of them crashed into Aegon like a hammer.

“It’s time we secure another alliance,” Viserys had said, his gaze landing on you. “Lord Tyrell has expressed interest in a match between his eldest son and our daughter.”

You sat frozen in your seat, your wineglass trembling slightly in your hand. Across the table, Aegon’s face darkened. His lips parted as if to protest, but no words came. Instead, he stared at Viserys, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the edge of the table.

The conversation moved on, Viserys discussing trade agreements and naval concerns, but Aegon heard none of it. His mind was a whirl of chaos, his heart pounding so fiercely it drowned out the voices around him.

Later that evening, he stormed into Alicent’s chambers, his face pale and his violet eyes wild. She was seated by the hearth, embroidering a handkerchief with practiced precision. When she saw him, her calm expression shifted to one of concern.

“Aegon?” she asked, setting the embroidery aside. “What’s the matter?”

“I need to speak with you,” he said, his voice strained. He paced the room, running a hand through his hair, the usual air of arrogance stripped away. “It’s about Y/N.”

Alicent’s brow furrowed, her motherly instincts kicking in. “What about her?”

“They can’t marry her off,” he blurted, turning to face her. “Not to the Tyrell boy. Not to anyone.”

“Aegon,” she said softly, rising from her chair. “It’s a good match. Lord Tyrell is powerful, and his son—”

“I don’t care about his son!” Aegon interrupted, his voice rising. “I don’t care about alliances or power or any of it. She belongs here, with us. With me.”

Alicent froze, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studied her eldest son. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I can’t let this happen.” He took a step closer, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions. “Mother, you have to stop it. You’re the only one he listens to.”

She reached out, placing a hand on his arm to steady him. “Aegon, you’re being irrational. Y/N’s future—”

“My future doesn’t exist without her!” he cried, his voice desperate. “Don’t you see? She’s the only thing in this world that matters to me.”

Alicent’s lips parted, her expression shifting from concern to something more conflicted. “Aegon…” she began, but he cut her off.

“She’s everything to me,” he said, his voice softer now, trembling with vulnerability. “When she laughs, it’s like the sun breaks through the clouds. When she looks at me, I feel like I’m someone worth being. And the thought of her—of her with someone else—” His voice broke entirely, and he turned away, his shoulders shaking.

Alicent watched him for a long moment, her mind racing. Finally, she spoke, her tone measured. “You care for her deeply.”

Aegon let out a bitter laugh. “Care for her? Mother, I love her. I’ve always loved her. And if they take her from me, if they marry her off to that Tyrell boy or anyone else…” He turned back to her, his face etched with anguish. “I’ll die. Do you hear me? I’ll die.”

The rawness of his words struck Alicent to her core. She had always known Aegon’s feelings for you went beyond brotherly affection, though she had hoped it was a passing infatuation. But the desperation in his voice, the tears brimming in his eyes—it was undeniable. This wasn’t a childish crush. This was a man willing to set the world aflame for the one he loved.

“You must speak to Father,” he pleaded, his voice barely above a whisper. “Convince him. Tell him it’s not the right match, that she’s too young, that the Tyrells aren’t trustworthy—anything. Just stop it.”

Alicent hesitated, torn between her role as a mother and her duty as queen. Finally, she nodded, her voice firm. “I will speak with him. But, Aegon…” She stepped closer, placing a hand on his cheek. “You must tread carefully. This path you’re walking—it’s dangerous.”

“I don’t care,” he said, his voice resolute. “I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her by my side.”

Alicent sighed, pulling him into a brief embrace. “Then let us hope the gods are merciful.”

As Aegon left her chambers, a flicker of determination replaced the despair in his eyes. If his mother couldn’t stop the betrothal, he would find another way. He would fight, scheme, beg—whatever it took. Because losing you wasn’t an option. Not now. Not ever.

The candles burned low in Aegon’s chambers as he paced the floor. The wine on his table sat untouched, an unusual sight for him. Tonight, Aegon’s mind was too sharp, too focused, to indulge in his usual vices. The Tyrell betrothal still loomed like a sword over his head, and every moment that passed without a resolution tightened the noose around his heart.

He had spoken to Alicent, begged her to intervene, but her assurances felt fragile against Viserys’s iron will. His father had grown increasingly indifferent to the pleas of his children, too consumed by his own decaying health and dream of uniting the realm. If Alicent couldn’t sway him, Aegon knew he needed to act. He needed to ensure that there was no choice but to keep you by his side.

The idea had taken root in his mind slowly, twisting and growing until it consumed him entirely. It wasn’t honorable, nor was it kind, but Aegon was neither of those things. He was desperate. And desperation made monsters of men.

That night, as the Red Keep grew silent and the court retired to their chambers, Aegon found you in the library. You were alone, the firelight illuminating your soft features as you poured over a book. It was a scene he had seen a hundred times, but tonight it struck him differently. Tonight, he couldn’t afford to wait, to hope that things would somehow fall in his favor.

“Still reading?” he asked, leaning casually against the doorway.

You glanced up, startled but not displeased to see him. “I could say the same to you. It’s unusual to find you here without a cup of wine in hand.”

He smirked, though the humor didn’t reach his eyes. “I suppose even I have my moments of sobriety.”

You smiled faintly and returned your attention to the page, but Aegon didn’t move. He stepped closer, his boots soft against the stone floor, and you glanced up again, your brows knitting in confusion.

“Is something wrong?” you asked.

“Why would you think that?”

“Because you’re hovering,” you said plainly, though there was no malice in your tone.

Aegon chuckled, but it sounded hollow even to his ears. He sat beside you, closer than usual, his knee brushing yours. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“About what?”

He hesitated, his fingers tracing the edge of the table. “About the Tyrell boy.”

You stiffened slightly, your gaze dropping back to the book. “Father has made his decision. There’s little point in discussing it.”

“Do you want to marry him?” Aegon pressed, his voice low and urgent.

“It doesn’t matter what I want,” you said, your tone soft but resigned. “My duty is to the family, to the realm.”

“That’s not an answer,” he said, leaning closer. “Do you want him, Y/N? Do you want to leave the Red Keep, leave me, and go to Highgarden?”

You turned to him, your eyes wide with surprise and something else—confusion, perhaps. “Why does it matter to you?”

Aegon swallowed hard, his throat dry. “Because I can’t lose you. You’re mine.”

“Aegon—”

“Listen to me,” he said, his hand reaching out to grasp yours. “You don’t belong with him. You belong here, with your family, with me.”

You tried to pull your hand away, but his grip tightened. “Aegon, you’re not making any sense.”

“I love you,” he blurted, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “I’ve always loved you, Y/N. And I can’t let them take you from me.”

Your lips parted, shock evident on your face. “You’re my brother.”

“And that makes it wrong?” he challenged, his voice trembling. “Our blood of the dragon is the same, our bond stronger than any lord or knight could ever offer you. Don’t you see? We were meant to be together.”

You stared at him, your mind racing, but before you could respond, Aegon leaned in, his lips brushing against yours. The kiss was soft at first, tentative, as if he were testing the boundaries of what you would allow. When you didn’t pull away, he deepened it, his hand moving to cup your cheek.

You pushed him back abruptly, your eyes wide with a mix of confusion and anger. “Aegon, this is madness.”

“It’s the truth,” he said, his voice raw. “And I’ll prove it to you. If they try to marry you off, I’ll stop them. I’ll make sure you stay here, with me.”

“How?” you demanded, your voice rising. “What are you planning?”

He hesitated, the weight of his scheme hanging heavily between you. “If Father won’t listen, then I’ll give him no choice. If you’re mine, truly mine, he can’t send you away.”

The implication of his words hit you like a blow, and you took a step back, your chest heaving. “You mean to ruin me,” you whispered, horrified.

“To save you,” he countered, his expression desperate. “To save us.”

You shook your head, tears brimming in your eyes. “Aegon, this isn’t the way.”

“It’s the only way,” he said, reaching for you again. “Don’t you see? I’d burn the whole world to keep you.”

You turned away, your heart pounding, and fled the library, leaving Aegon alone in the flickering firelight. He stood there for a long moment, his hands clenched into fists, his mind racing.

If you wouldn’t accept his love willingly, then he would ensure there was no other path for you to take.

Whatever it cost, whatever it took, you would be his.

[cynicalclassicist]

It's odd to think that she's still a teenager in the books.

mother of dragons but teenager posture

[idkyetxoxo]

Aegon Targaryen - A King, Kneeling

Summary - Atop the Iron Throne, the King and Queen surrender to their desires, intertwining passion with the weight of power. As their reckless love ignites in public, the boundaries of duty and devotion blur, revealing the tantalizing thrill of both conquest and intimacy.

Pairing - Aegon Targaryen x reader

Warnings - Sexual content (smut!), strong language

Word count - 2731

Masterlist for Aegon • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

The king adored his queen.

It wasn't just whispered gossip or idle courtly chatter—it was a truth so palpable that even those who lived on intrigue couldn't ignore it. But they did try. 

They preferred to pretend, to look away from the rare sight that defied their expectations. After all, kings weren't supposed to love their queens with the kind of devotion Aegon had for me.

But he did. Oh, how he did. Fiercely. Brazenly.

"Aegon," I warned, trying to sound firm, but my voice quivered under the weight of his attention. His arm stretched out, beckoning me closer with an unspoken command, the kind only a king could give. 

I hesitated, my eyes narrowing in suspicion, but the slow curl of a smirk tugging at his lips was enough to break my resistance.

"What are you up to?" I asked, a mix of curiosity and caution in my voice, as I took a step toward him.

"Come here," he murmured again, his tone low and dripping with mischief.

I barely had time to blink before he seized me, pulling me onto his lap with an effortless motion. 

His hands were on me instantly, seeking the familiar warmth of my skin as if they had every right to it—because in his mind, they did.

"Aegon!" I scolded, but the heat in my cheeks betrayed the effect his touch had on me. I glanced around the grand hall, the Iron Throne looming under us. 

The Kingsguard were at their posts, their eyes dutifully trained on the stone walls, but I knew better. They weren't blind, though they pretended to be. 

How could they not see their king lavishing such affection on his queen in the open like this?

His fingers trailed down my spine, his grin growing as he felt me shiver under his touch.

"What?" he asked, voice dripping with false innocence as though he had no idea what he was doing.

I turned to face him fully, a sharp retort on my lips, but his gaze—smouldering and full of playful hunger—caught me off, guard. 

"Don't play coy with me, Aegon," I muttered, though the breathless hitch in my voice betrayed my intent.

"I missed my wife," he said, so simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, as though his absence was unbearable even when we were in the same room.

I rolled my eyes, though a reluctant smile tugged at my lips. "You can miss her in our chambers, Aegon. Privately. You're sitting on the Iron Throne, for the gods' sake."

He tilted his head, feigning thoughtfulness, before leaning closer to whisper in my ear, "I want to miss her right here." 

His breath sent a ripple of heat through me, and before I could protest, he shifted, positioning me so that I was now sitting atop the throne, while he knelt before me—a king, kneeling.

My heart pounded in my chest. "Aegon, stop!" I hissed, but my words fell soft as his hands crept higher, tangling in the folds of my skirts. 

The sensation of the metal throne behind me, cold and rigid, contrasted with the warmth of his touch, driving me mad.

"Why would I stop?" he teased, his voice full of wicked amusement, eyes dark with intent. 

He tugged my skirts higher, his fingers inching dangerously close to places they shouldn't be, not here. Not now.

I shot a panicked glance toward the room, my heart racing. The guards stood within view, pretending to be statues, but I could feel their presence like a heavy weight. 

"Aegon, not in front of them," I whispered, my voice trembling, urgent.

He paused, his fingers stilling just enough for his eyes to meet mine, mock surprise written across his face as though he'd just now remembered they existed.

Then, with a sudden change, he stood, his voice rising, all command, all king. "Everyone. Out."

The guards exchanged nervous glances, armour clinking as they hesitated, unsure if they had heard him correctly. 

Aegon's gaze sharpened, his voice carrying the authority of a ruler unchallenged. "Now!"

They moved quickly, their footsteps echoing in the vast hall as they shuffled out, casting anxious looks over their shoulders.

The room was empty now—silent, save for the distant echo of armour clanking as the last of the Kingsguard left. 

My heart hammered in my chest, every beat echoing in the sudden stillness. The heavy door closed with a resounding thud, sealing us in the throne room. 

Just Aegon, me, and the Iron Throne.

Aegon turned back to me, his devilish grin wider than before, his eyes full of sinful promise. 

"Now," Aegon breathed, his voice dipping into a dark, husky tone that sent shivers down my spine. His eyes gleamed with that wickedness I knew all too well, and yet, each time, it caught me off guard. 

"It's just you, me, and the throne," he whispered, his hands roaming, fingers trailing slowly, deliberately, up my thighs beneath the fabric of my skirts.

"Aegon," I whispered, my voice wavering between warning and longing. 

My back pressed harder into the cold, jagged metal of the throne, a sharp reminder of where we were—what this symbolized. I tried to stay grounded, to keep my senses, but his hands... gods, his hands had a way of making me forget.

"Shh," he murmured, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, just a ghost of a touch, but enough to make my breath catch. 

He looked up at me from beneath those dark lashes, a devilish glint in his eyes, as he slowly knelt before me once more.

A king, kneeling.

I tried to push him back, hands on his shoulders, but the moment I made contact with his skin, the heat between us flared. His hands gripped my hips, pulling me forward with a gentle insistence, and I melted into the sensation, the fight leaving me in a sigh.

"Stop it," I whispered, though it came out more like a plea than a command. "Not here, Aegon, we can't—"

But before I could finish, his lips were against me, his mouth tracing a line of fire over my skin. 

My protests died on my tongue, replaced by a sharp gasp. His hands were firm but tender, spreading my legs as he settled between them, his fingers curling into the soft flesh of my thighs, holding me open for him as though the throne itself were a bed built for this very moment.

"You deserve to be worshipped," he murmured, his voice sending vibrations through me. "And I intend to do just that."

The cool bite of the Iron Throne's metal was a contrast to the heat building inside me, the jagged edges digging into my back, but I barely noticed. 

All I could feel was him—his mouth, his tongue, the deliberate, tantalizing way he took his time as if savouring every taste, every sound he drew from me.

"Aegon..." I moaned, his name slipping past my lips, a breathless prayer. 

My hands gripped the throne, knuckles white as I tried to anchor myself to something, anything, but he was relentless. 

His tongue swirled, teasing, flicking against me in just the right way, and my body responded helplessly to his touch, every nerve alight with pleasure.

The throne room, the court, the world—all of it faded away. There was only Aegon, his mouth working its magic, his hands guiding me toward the edge. 

His every move was deliberate, calculated—he knew me too well, knew exactly how to drive me to madness.

"Do you know how beautiful you look?" he whispered against me, his breath hot, making my skin tingle. "Up here, on the Iron Throne, all mine."

His words sent a jolt of electricity through me, the weight of them mingling with the sensation of his tongue. 

I squirmed, trying to muffle the sounds escaping me, but he growled in response, the vibration reverberating through my body.

"Don't hide from me," he commanded, lifting his head just enough to lock eyes with me, his lips glistening with the evidence of my desire. "I want to hear you."

I swallowed hard, trembling under the intensity of his gaze. 

My hands tangled in his hair, pulling him back to me, needing him to continue, to finish what he started. He obliged, his tongue diving deeper, stroking me with a renewed fervour that sent waves of heat crashing through me.

The room spun, and I bit my lip hard, trying to keep control, but he wasn't having it. 

Aegon's hands gripped me tighter, pulling me closer to his mouth as he pushed me closer to the brink, his tongue working me with an almost agonizing skill.

And then, just when I thought I couldn't take it anymore, he pressed his lips to the most sensitive part of me and sucked.

The world shattered. Pleasure tore through me, violent and uncontrollable, and I cried out, my hands clutching at him, nails digging into his shoulders as I tumbled over the edge. 

Aegon didn't let up, drawing out every last tremor until I was left breathless, limp, slumped against the throne, the cold metal biting into my skin in sharp contrast to the molten heat still pulsing through my body.

He rose slowly, licking his lips with a satisfied smirk as he loomed over me, his eyes dark with triumph. "Still want to send me to our chambers?" he teased, voice thick with amusement.

I could barely find my voice, my body still trembling from the aftershocks of his attention. "You're impossible," I whispered, my heart racing, my body both sated and longing for more.

His grin widened, predatory. "Only for you, my queen."

My breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, but Aegon—he was far from finished.

His eyes locked onto mine, dark with hunger, satisfaction gleaming in them like firelight. His mouth, still glistening from the sinful worship he'd lavished on me, curved into a wicked grin. 

The power in that gaze sent another jolt of heat coursing through me, even as my body ached from the intensity of what he'd already done.

"Impossible," I muttered again, my voice weak but defiant. A flicker of a smile tugged at my lips, even though my body was still recovering from the waves of pleasure he'd brought me.

Aegon leaned in close, one hand gripping the arm of the throne beside my head, the other trailing down my body, claiming me like I was his throne—his alone to possess. 

"I haven't even begun, my queen," he whispered, his voice rough with desire.

Before I could respond, his lips were on mine, and this kiss—gods, this kiss—wasn't sweet or soft. It was urgent, devouring. 

He kissed me like a man starved like he was tasting his favorite sin and couldn't get enough. 

I could taste myself on him, and it only fueled the fire burning between us.

I groaned against his mouth, my hands instinctively gripping the folds of his tunic, pulling him closer. His body pressed into mine, his hard length straining against the fabric of his breeches, leaving no doubt about what he wanted next.

"Aegon," I gasped as he broke the kiss, his lips moving to my neck, his teeth grazing my skin, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. 

My hands roamed his back, pulling him closer, desperate to feel him—all of him.

His mouth worked lower, biting, sucking at the sensitive skin just beneath my ear, making me shiver. 

"You're my queen," he murmured, the words a low growl against my neck, "and I intend to make sure you feel it."

Without warning, he pulled me up with him, his hands tugging at my skirts, yanking them up over my hips, exposing me fully. 

The cold air of the throne room hit my bare skin, making me gasp, but it was nothing compared to the heat radiating from him. 

He pulled me to him, and I could feel the hardness of his arousal pressing against me through his clothes, a tantalizing promise of what was to come.

I barely had time to react before his hands were at his waist, unfastening his belt, his movements swift and practised. 

In one smooth motion, he freed himself, and my breath hitched at the sight of him—ready, eager, and gloriously bare in the soft light of the throne room.

"Aegon," I whispered, my voice trembling with anticipation, my body already aching for him.

He met my gaze, his eyes smouldering with a mixture of love and raw lust. 

"I want to take you right here," he said, his voice low, a dangerous promise laced within it. "I want to fuck you on the Iron Throne, where you belong."

My breath caught in my throat, the thrill of his words sending a rush of heat through me. 

The audacity of it—the sheer madness of what we were about to do—made my pulse race, and yet, I couldn't stop the surge of desire that overtook me.

I glanced at the throne beneath me, the cold metal, the jagged edges. 

It was a symbol of power, a symbol of rule, but tonight... tonight, it was going to be the stage for something far more primal.

Without waiting for my answer, Aegon lifted me effortlessly, his hands gripping my thighs as he positioned me over him. 

My legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, and I felt the head of his cock press against my entrance, teasing, taunting.

"Look at me," he ordered, his voice husky, commanding, and when my eyes met his, the raw desire in them nearly undid me. 

"I want to watch you fall apart on my cock, right here, on my throne."

Before I could respond, he thrust into me, filling me in one deep, powerful stroke. I gasped, my hands clutching at his shoulders as my back arched, pressing me harder into the cold spikes of the Iron Throne behind me. 

The contrast of the cold metal against my heated skin only intensified the sensation, and I let out a low moan as he began to move.

Aegon's hands gripped my hips, holding me steady as he set a relentless pace, each thrust driving me harder against the throne. 

The room spun around me, the world narrowing to just the two of us—his cock buried deep inside me, his breath hot against my neck, his grunts of pleasure mixing with my own ragged moans.

I tried to find my voice, to say something—anything—but all I could do was cling to him, my nails digging into his back as he drove me closer to the edge. 

"Aegon... gods..." I whimpered, my head falling back as he angled his hips just right, hitting a spot that made stars explode behind my eyes.

"That's it," he growled, his grip on me tightening as he pounded into me harder, faster. "Take it. Take all of me."

The throne pressed into my back, the jagged edges digging into my skin, but I barely noticed the pain—it only heightened the intensity of what was happening, grounding me in the reality of it all. 

We were fucking on the Iron Throne, claiming each other in the most reckless, forbidden way imaginable, and gods, it felt incredible.

I could feel myself unravelling, the pleasure building to an unbearable peak. My body tightened around him, and he groaned, his rhythm faltering as he felt it too.

"Cum for me," he demanded, his voice raw, desperate. "Cum for your king."

His words sent me spiralling over the edge. I cried out, my body shuddering around him as I came, the pleasure crashing through me in violent waves. 

Aegon followed me into oblivion, his thrusts becoming erratic as he spilt into me with a low, guttural moan, his forehead resting against mine as we rode out the aftershocks together.

For a moment, we stayed like that, our bodies intertwined, breath mingling in the heavy air of the throne room. The world was silent around us, save for the sound of our laboured breathing.

Finally, Aegon pulled back, his eyes still dark with satisfaction as he gazed down at me. His lips curved into a lazy, contented grin, and he brushed a stray lock of hair from my face. 

"You're mine," he whispered, his voice soft but filled with certainty. "Here, on the throne, in our chambers—everywhere. You're mine."

I smiled, my body still trembling, my heart full of both love and lust. "And you," I murmured, my fingers tracing the strong line of his jaw, "are mine."

He chuckled, the sound low and rich, before kissing me again—this time slow, sweet, a promise of everything yet to come. "Always."

A/n - 'I want to watch you fall apart on my cock, right here, on my throne'... anyways one wrong move and you're speared xx

[damneddamsy]

second sight | cregan stark x oc (bonus i)

a/n: on this sweet episode of Stark-fluff, Cregan and Co. visit King's Landing. And boy, does he fucking hate it. Meanwhile, Bran's eager to connect with his Targaryen kin.

The heat pressed against Cregan Stark’s skin like a second tunic, heavy and cloying. The air in King’s Landing was thick, and damp with the scents of sweat, perfume, and the shit stench of the streets below. The Red Keep loomed above, gleaming red stone under a sun far too bright for his liking. He glanced at the bustling courtyards, the laughter and chatter of nobles weaving past him, their brightly dyed garments flaring like banners. The yellows, greens, and silks of every hue were so garish compared to the quiet greys and dark furs of Winterfell. Everything here screamed of excess, even how people spoke—words spilling out like wine, too much, too sweet, too fast.

The so-called wine he’d been served during the midday meal still churned in his stomach. It was red, but not like the rich Dornish vintages he’d had once at White Harbor. This was sharp and sour, cloying at the back of his throat. The food hadn’t fared much better: dry bread, over-salted meat, and sauces thick with spices he couldn’t name. Cregan clenched his fists. How did Claere stomach this place? She’d lived here once, grown up here. And now they were back, summoned to the capital for some political matter too tedious to justify enduring this heat.

The worst of it, though, wasn’t the heat or the food or even the absurdity of the southern finery—it was sleeping without her. Some ancient southern tradition dictated they take separate chambers while they were guests of the crown. He hadn’t asked why. He didn’t care to know. All he knew was that the empty bed in his room felt colder than any winter night, and the fact that she wasn’t beside him had gnawed at his nerves all day.

It didn’t take him long to track her down.

He found her in her chambers, standing on a dais, surrounded by an army of handmaidens. It was different from Winterfell, where her attendants numbered only two or three, and they worked in quiet efficiency, more like sisters than servants. These women buzzed like a hive, fixing the smallest fold of fabric, pinning her hair with jeweled combs.

And there she was—Claere.

He froze in the doorway, his breath caught in his chest. The sight of her stole every thought from his head. She stood tall and graceful, her hair woven into an intricate crown of braids, strands gleaming in the candlelight. The gown she wore was like nothing he’d ever seen: deep blue silk that shimmered with silver undertones, its sleeves draping like pendants to reveal her arms, pale and smooth. The neckline framed her collarbones, dipping just enough to tease. The bodice cinched her waist so perfectly that it might have been poured onto her, and the slit down the front laced delicately, offering a whisper of the skin beneath.

She turned slightly, catching his reflection in the mirror. For a moment, her expression was still, unreadable, her violet eyes flicking to meet his. Then, she smiled, soft and shy, and lifted her fingers in a small wave.

Cregan chest went tight. His heart pounded so loud he thought the handmaidens might hear it. For a moment, he forgot the heat, the food, the city he despised. He forgot to hate it all because there was only her in that instant.

One of the handmaidens giggled. He blinked, realizing he’d been staring. Claere’s smile deepened, faintly amused, though she said nothing. A woman pressed the last pin into her hair and curtsied before filing out. Claere remained where she was, poised on the dais like she belonged on top of the world entirely.

Cregan shut the door behind them with a deliberate click, the bolt sliding into place with a satisfying thud. The warmth of the chamber surrounded them, faintly scented with the oils and perfumes of the South. His eyes were on her, drinking her in as she stood before the tall mirror, her figure framed by the golden light of a dozen flickering candles.

“C’mere,” he said, his voice low and rough, thick with hunger.

She didn’t move, her posture as calm and composed as ever. But her lips parted slightly, the barest quirk of curiosity in her brow.

Cregan crossed the room in three strides, his boots heavy against the ornate tiled floor. When he reached her, his hands found her waist, the fine silk of her gown slipping easily beneath his calloused fingers. He pulled her close, the warmth of her body anchoring him, the air suddenly still around them.

His head dipped low, pressing a firm, deliberate kiss against the slit of fabric that curved down toward her belly.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his breath warm against her skin, his voice a soft rumble. “All this skin. Why can’t you dress like this at home?”

Claere tilted her head, her violet eyes meeting his in the reflection of the mirror. A faint, knowing smile touched her lips. “I’d freeze in moments.”

He laughed, a deep, wolfish sound that rolled out of him unbidden. “Then I’d keep you warm.”

Her hand brushed over his damp hair, her fingers grazing the sweat gathered at his temple. “Not while you reek of sweat.”

He leaned into her touch, undeterred by her observation. “I’m not wearing those ridiculous coats they want me in,” he grumbled, his Northern pride rising.

“But you are sweating,” she repeated, a ghost of amusement flickering across her otherwise serene expression.

Cregan groaned, wrapping his fingers around hers and guiding her carefully down from the dais.

“It’s just a bit of water, love.”

Her gown whispered against the floor as she stepped down. She cast a glance at him, the faintest quirk of mischief in her eyes. “You would look rather noble in an overcoat,” she murmured, brushing her thumb over his knuckles.

He snorted, shaking his head with a mockery of disbelief. “Would. Will never.”

Her lips curved into something soft and understanding, the expression only she could manage. “It's alright,” she said simply. Her fingers tightened in his, her voice a quiet promise. “We can leave first thing tomorrow.”

He laughed, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly as he lowered her forehead to hers. “We got here yesterday,” he said, his tone light with affection.

Her eyes fluttered closed momentarily, her breath soft against his cheek. “I know,” she whispered.

His chest tightened at the words, an ache blooming there that wasn’t unfamiliar, but tonight, it felt sharper. He lingered in the warmth of her presence, the silk of her gown brushing against the coarse leather of his tunic. The scent of her was maddening—some southern concoction that mingled with the subtle lavender she always carried. He hated how it suited her, hated how this place seemed to mould itself around her. But Gods, how she looked here, how she belonged.

“I suppose some fresh air should help with the heat,” she drawled thoughtfully.

Her steps were deliberate, and graceful, as if she had walked these halls all her life. For a moment, Cregan’s eyes softened, and the corner of his mouth twitched into something between awe and defiance.

"Arm?" she asked, glancing at him.

“Aye, my lady, always,” he replied, his voice gruff.

His hand found the crook of her elbow. They stepped out of the chambers together, her delicate hand on his forearm.

The corridor of Maegor’s Holdfast stretched before them, its vaulted ceilings casting long shadows that flickered with torchlight. Claere’s gaze wandered from door to door, deep in recollections, her violet eyes tracing the intricate carvings and golden inlays that adorned every arch.

Cregan, meanwhile, scowled away his frustration. "All this gold and they can’t even serve a proper roast. That pheasant at supper—dry as bone. And what’s that sauce they drown everything in?"

"Spiced honey," Claere replied, though she kept her eyes forward, lips curving faintly.

He snorted. “Spiced, indeed. Tasted like it came straight out of a septon’s tight arse.”

Claere stifled a laugh, her lips pressing together as they walked.

“You’re quite the guest,” Claere murmured, her voice as smooth as silk.

“Guest,” he echoed bitterly, his jaw tightening. “A guest in a city that couldn’t be farther from the North. Look at this place—all gilded stone and false smiles. Give me the cold and honest halls of Winterfell any day.”

His words came rough, unfiltered, the kind he rarely let slip outside the privacy of their chambers. But the South clawed at his patience, and his discomfort had no place to hide.

Claere didn’t answer at once. Her gaze drifted upward, catching the way the golden sunlight angled through an open archway, illuminating the intricacies of the tapestries along the walls. She lingered in the quiet, as she often did, before finally glancing at him, her expression soft and thoughtful.

“Would you like to walk by the sea?” she asked, her voice carrying the faintest lilting warmth, as though the memory of it lived in her words. “I used to love watching the ships when I was small. Perhaps you'd feel more at ease there.”

Cregan paused mid-step, her words surprising him. He opened his mouth, but the immediate retort died on his tongue. He realized, too late, how his words had landed—disdain aimed not only at the South but at the place where she had once lived, once laughed, once grown into the woman who now stood beside him. A pang of shame gripped him. She had never uttered a word against Winterfell, though the North had been slow to accept her. Yet here he was, spitting curses at her childhood home like a petulant boy.

“I’d like that very much,” he said finally, his tone softening, almost contrite.

She gave a slight nod, her lips twitching faintly—not quite a smile, but something close. She said nothing more, but he could feel her watching him as they moved through the Red Keep’s curving corridors, his silence now more reflective.

The air shifted as they descended through the castle gardens, the sharp floral perfume of the South mingling with the faint salt tang carried on the breeze. They passed fountains of carved marble and hedges trimmed into unnatural shapes, the paths too clean and the sunlight too bright for Cregan to feel at ease. Yet as they rounded a final corner, the horizon opened up to them.

The lush gardens gave way to a stone balcony overlooking Blackwater Bay, the fountain at its centre singing softly in the breeze. Beyond, the water stretched endlessly, its surface shimmering like molten gold under the afternoon sun. The wind picked up, cool and bracing against the heat, carrying with it the scent of salt and something untamed.

Cregan stopped at the edge, his hands resting on the warm stone railing. For the first time since their arrival, his shoulders eased, the weight of the city loosening its grip. As he drew a long breath, letting the salty air fill his lungs, he thought, for the first time, that perhaps the South wasn’t entirely without its charms. Not when she was here.

“It’s not so bad,” he admitted grudgingly, his voice quieter now, more grounded.

Claere stood beside him, her violet eyes fixed on the horizon, the endless expanse of Blackwater Bay glimmering under the sun. The breeze toyed with the loose tendrils of her silver hair, brushing them against her cheek, and she seemed lost in thought, her silence as soft and vast as the sea itself. When she finally spoke, her voice was peaceful, a quiet anchor in the weight of the day.

“Forgive me. I didn’t think you had to come all this way.” She turned to him, her gaze meeting his, sincere and unyielding. “It’s only Jace’s coronation. It’d be improper for me not to show my support.”

Cregan held her gaze for a long moment, the words settling between them like stones dropped into deep water. He reached for her hand, his calloused fingers brushing against hers, and for a moment, the warmth of her touch quieted the turmoil inside him.

“Wherever you go, I follow,” he said simply, his voice softer now, more certain.

Her eyes flickered a subtle acknowledgment of his loyalty, before narrowing slightly, playful yet questioning. “Do you truly hate this place that much?”

He let out a low, sardonic laugh, leaning his elbows against the stone railing. “Hate might be too soft a word. It’s too hot, too bright, and the food’s about as satisfying as eating sawdust.” He turned his head, meeting her gaze. “And don’t even get me started on that tart red piss they call wine.”

A small smile curved her lips, faint but unmistakable. “You’ve been drinking it.”

“Because Lucerys poured it himself,” Cregan shot back. “And if I’d refused, I’m certain it would’ve become some grave insult to the Targaryen name.” He smirked, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Can’t have Lord Stark burned to a crisp, can we?”

Her smile lingered, and she tilted her head, considering him with quiet amusement. “You’re still sweating.”

“It’s the heat,” he grumbled, wiping his brow with his sleeve. “And this gods-forsaken leather. What would you have me do? Strip down and sit bare-chested in the middle of court?”

Her eyes glimmered with something close to mischief. “I’m sure that would make an impression.”

Cregan turned to face her fully, his brow arching. “And what impression would that be?”

“That the Northmen are as wild as they’re rumoured to be,” she said lightly, a faint tease threading her tone. “They might start calling you the Bear of Winterfell.”

He let out a short bark of laughter, the sound startling even himself. “The Bear? Better than most things they’ve called me today.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping. “Though I’d wager they’re far more interested in you.”

Her gaze softened, but she said nothing. She simply looked at him, her quiet demeanour grounding him in a way the chaos of the Red Keep never could. Slowly, she lifted their joined hands and pressed her fingers to his wrist, her touch light yet deliberate.

“I don’t care what they think,” she said at last, her voice almost a whisper.

The warmth in her words tugged at his guilt, a pang sharp enough to silence his earlier complaints. He turned his hand to cradle hers properly, rough fingers grazing the fine lines of her palm.

“You grew up here,” he said after a moment, his tone quieter now, tinged with regret. “And I’ve done nothing but condemn it since we arrived. That wasn’t fair of me.”

Her lips parted to speak, but she didn’t rush to fill the silence. Instead, she gave his hand the faintest squeeze, grounding him.

“The North is your home. You don’t have to love it here,” she said, her tone as steady as ever. “But it’s part of me, just as Winterfell is a part of you.”

He sighed, dipping his head closer to hers. “You’re too forgiving,” he murmured.

“And you’re too hard on yourself,” she countered softly.

The tension between them broke like ice under spring sunlight. She leaned closer, resting her head against his shoulder, her movements so natural it was as though they were alone on some frozen expanse instead of standing in the open gardens of the Red Keep. Cregan stiffened briefly, the ever-present sense of propriety tugging at his instincts, but her warmth quickly dispelled it. Let them look, he thought.

“I don’t like this place,” he admitted after a moment, his voice low. “But I like you in it.”

Her head tilted slightly, her breath ghosting against his neck as she spoke, barely above a murmur. “I only like that you're here.”

His chest tightened at the simplicity of her words, their truth unadorned and cutting. He turned his head, pressing a kiss to her temple, uncaring of who might be watching. His hand slid to her lower back as he eased her against the balustrade, the coarse material of his leather brushing against her softer silks. The faintest smirk tugged at his lips as his gaze dropped to hers, his large hands bracketing either side of her, blocking any escape. A flicker of surprise crossed her face, but she didn’t retreat—she never did.

“I’ve made my peace with it now.”

Claere arched a delicate brow, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Have you?”

Before she could say another word, he leaned in, his intent clear.

“Aye. I should think,” he said, his voice low and wanting, “that I’m owed a proper kiss for enduring this place without setting half of it ablaze.”

She arched a brow, raising her palm to his lips, halting his advance any further.

“Might I remind you,” she said, her tone lilting with amusement, “that we share four children? If I want to make another child in the Red Keep, I should think I’m owed the courtesy of seclusion.”

Cregan barked a laugh, the sound rolling through the gardens like a wolf’s howl. “The courtesy, is it?” He grinned, unrepentant. “Perhaps I like the idea of giving the South a show.”

Her laughter bubbled again, only to turn into a surprised gasp as he suddenly swept her off her feet, hoisting her into his arms with ease.

“Cregan!” she squeaked, her hands clutching his shoulders as he carried her toward the ornate fountain.

With a mischievous gleam in his eyes, he perched her precariously on the edge of the stone basin, her balance wobbling as she grasped at his shoulder for support. The water behind her sparkled in the sunlight, a picturesque backdrop for her indignant glare.

“Get me down this instant!” she protested.

He grinned up at her, the glint in his eyes sharp and mischievous. “I thought you didn’t care what they think,” he drawled, tilting his head toward the guards, who were now openly staring at them.

Claere’s frown deepened, though it was betrayed by the twitch of a smile. “Cregan,” she warned, her tone sharp but losing its edge.

“Will you let me kiss you?” he asked, voice full of mock gravity.

She cocked a brow, folding her arms even as her dangerous perch forced her to lean on him. “After this? Not likely.”

He clicked his tongue and then, with a sharp whistle, called out to the guards. “Oy, lads!” His voice boomed with bravado, loud enough to echo off the garden walls. “Lady Stark’s making an effort to get in my breeches, and you’re just going to stand around and watch? You sick fucks.”

The guards, flustered and wide-eyed, shuffled and stammered before hastily retreating around the nearest corner.

“Cregan!” Claere’s voice was sharp, but the laughter bubbling beneath it betrayed her outrage.

“There we go,” he said, turning back to her with a smug grin, utterly satisfied. “No one’s watching us. Where's that kiss?”

“You’re insufferable,” she muttered, though she couldn’t keep the laughter from spilling out.

“And you’re beautiful,” he shot back, leaning in again.

She sighed, letting him haul her down from the fountain and into his arms. Her fingers curled into the thickness of his jacket, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered, “Kiss me then.”

The kiss was brief but searing, noses stroking, smiles wide, a moment of stolen fire in the gardens of a place neither of them belonged. Claere pulled back first, her cheeks tinged with colour, though whether it was from the kiss or the embarrassment of being manhandled in full view of fleeing guards, Cregan couldn’t say.

“Do you have to make a spectacle of us every time?” she asked, her voice laced with exasperated fondness as she stepped back to smooth the fabric of her gown.

“Only when it’s worth watching,” Cregan replied, his grin unapologetic. He reached out to tug a strand of silver hair that had come loose from her braid. “And you, my love, are always worth watching.”

Her lips quirked in a reluctant smile, her eyes flicking toward the open path where the guards had retreated moments before. “You’re lucky they didn’t faint from sheer humiliation. I thought Northerners valued their dignity.”

“If there’s no fun to be had, I cannot refuse,” he quipped, his hands settling on his hips as he glanced around the gardens. The wind carried the brine of the sea, and the faint murmur of distant voices reached them, though the path remained deserted.

Claere shook her head, turning toward the fountain, her fingers idly brushing along the stone’s intricate carvings. “You’ll make the septas gossip for months. ‘The Wolf and his wild displays.’”

“Good,” he said, stepping up behind her and wrapping his arms loosely around her waist. She felt cold, from the chilly satin. “Maybe they’ll finally stop whispering about the Valyrian witch.”

Her posture stiffened briefly before she relaxed, leaning back into him. She tilted her head slightly, her voice quiet but edged. “They’ve never mattered to me.”

He frowned, his chin resting atop her head. “They’d matter to me if they ever dared say it to your face.”

“And what would you do?” she asked, her tone lighter now, teasing. “Bash a septa’s head in with your precious Northern honour?”

He smirked. “If I have to.”

Her laugh broke through the tension like sunlight through clouds, soft and sudden. She turned in his arms, her hands resting against his chest. “There are days I don’t know what to do with you, Lord Stark.”

“Love me,” he said simply, the grin slipping from his face as he met her gaze with earnest warmth.

“I already do,” she murmured, her thumb brushing absently against his cheek. “'Tis a nuisance.”

For a moment, they stood there, the world beyond the gardens blurring into nothing. It was only them, as it always seemed to be, no matter the distance or the trials they endured.

Then, of course, Cregan broke the moment.

“Shall we give them something else to talk about?” Cregan’s grin widened, a boyish gleam of mischief lighting his features.

Claere narrowed her eyes suspiciously, her lips parting to question him, but before she could speak, he swept her off her feet again. A gasp escaped her, followed by half-hearted protests muffled by her laughter as he spun her around in a wide arc.

“Put me down!” she cried, clutching his shoulders as the world tilted around her.

Her protests only seemed to encourage him. “Put you down?” he mused, his tone teasing as he held her aloft. He glanced at the fountain ahead, where the sunlight danced on the water’s surface. “Down in the fountain? Or perhaps in the sea?”

Her skirts brushed against the cool spray of the fountain, making her squirm in his hold. “Cregan Stark, don’t you dare!” she warned, though her laughter betrayed her delight.

He laughed along with her, the sound deep and rich. “Promise me something first,” he said, his voice mock-serious, though his eyes danced with amusement.

“And what is that?” she asked, tilting her head, her silver hair catching the light like spun moonlight.

“That you’ll drink the red piss wine with me the next time we’re here.”

Claere groaned dramatically, her head falling against his shoulder as she dissolved into laughter. “I’d rather face a dragon.”

Cregan chuckled, lowering her just enough that her feet skimmed the ground but keeping her firmly in his hold. “Lucky for you,” he said with a playful smirk, “you’ve already got the White Dread on your side.”

“And you,” she murmured, her laughter softening into a smile as her hand settled on his chest.

“Always me,” he promised, finally setting her down, though his hand lingered at her waist. The moment her feet touched the ground, she slipped her hand into his, their fingers lacing together as naturally as the tide meeting the shore.

They walked toward the garden’s edge, where the sound of waves whispered promises of freedom and escape. The sea breeze played at their hair, carrying their laughter over the walls of the keep.

Guards stationed nearby exchanged knowing glances, smirking behind their helms. Their love was a subject of quiet admiration, a rare warmth in Winterfell’s stoic halls. And though the couple walked on, seemingly alone, their bond was never unnoticed.

As the waves beckoned them onward, Claere glanced up at him, her violet eyes alight with mirth. “Even in this wretched place,” she said softly.

Cregan’s thumb brushed over her knuckles, grounding her in his steady presence. “Especially in this place,” he corrected with a gentle smile. "Where else would I want to be but at your side?"

X

The Great Hall of the Red Keep had been transformed into a grand stage for celebration, though the ever-present shadow of the Iron Throne loomed at the far end of the room, casting jagged shapes across the banners of red and black, each adorned with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. Long tables stretched beneath the vaulted ceiling, groaning under the weight of golden platters, roasted meats, and goblets brimming with Dornish wine. Laughter and music filled the air, but the undercurrent of tension was as thick as the scent of spiced lamb and honeyed ham. This was King’s Landing—where alliances and betrayals were decided with a glance, and no gaze lingered without meaning.

The great doors creaked open, a low groan that silenced the hum of conversation in the hall. Heads turned, drawn as much by the sound as by the imposing figure that entered. Lord Cregan Stark strode into the chamber, his presence commanding in its stark simplicity. Draped in heavy northern velvet, the deep grey of his cloak was clasped at the shoulders with snarling wolf-heads wrought in polished iron. Against the opulence of the Crownlands’ finery—silks that shimmered like water, gold heavy as ambition—he stood out like the first shadow before a storm.

At his side, Lady Claere moved with an ethereal calm, a quiet dignity that seemed to still the air around her. Her expression, serene but distant, gave away nothing, and yet it drew every gaze like a whispered challenge. She was not garbed in the colours of flame and pageantry that adorned the court but in a pale gown that shimmered faintly, its simplicity outshining the artifice around her.

They were the North embodied: stark, unyielding, and undeniably present. The southern courtiers shifted uneasily, some bowing, others murmuring among themselves, as the Lord of Winterfell and the silver-haired first daughter of House Targaryen walked past them.

Brandon Stark, only eleven but every bit his father’s son in spirit, too tall for his age, perched at Cregan’s side. His silver hair caught the torchlight like polished steel, strikingly contrasting the dusky, layered northern doublet he wore. Brimming with youthful excitement, the boy’s wolfish grey eyes flitted around the hall as if trying to absorb every detail. From the golden chandeliers to the opulent silks draped over the high table, it was a world far removed from the rugged stone of Winterfell.

The feast was meant to honour Jacaerys Velaryon’s coronation on the morrow, yet as the Starks passed, the hall rippled with murmurs. All eyes seemed drawn not to Cregan or even young Brandon who bore the close hallmarks of Old Valyria but to Claere—the woman who, by birthright, could claim the Iron Throne if she so chose.

The Targaryen banners overhead seemed to shift uneasily, the dancing flames making the three-headed dragon appear alive. Whispers chased the Starks down the aisle, tugging at the edges of the great hall's jubilant façade.

“Princess Claere Velaryon...”

“The Queen Who Never Was.”

“Nay, her blood holds more fire than Jacaerys’s...”

“If she had wanted the throne—”

“But she married the Wolf.”

“She's the Winter's Queen now.”

The low hum of speculation reached even the dais, where Rhaenyra and Daemon sat flanking Jacaerys. Rhaenyra’s lips pressed into a thin line, her violet gaze narrowing ever so slightly as it followed her daughter’s steady progress. Daemon’s smirk widened, his hand idly spinning the stem of his goblet, watching as though the feast had taken an unexpected and delightful turn.

But Claere moved with an ethereal calm, her head held high, her hands folded before her. The train of her pale blue gown, embroidered with white-gold leaves and stitched dragons, trailed behind her like freshly fallen snow. She did not look left or right, though she was acutely aware of the eyes fixed on her.

They reached the dais, where the heart of the family sat like the sun at the centre of its orbit. At its centre sat Jacaerys Velaryon, his crown a fiery band of gold wrought into dragon wings. He exuded easy authority, his smile warm yet edged with caution like a blade sheathed but not forgotten. Beside him was Baela, her silver hair catching the light like a polished jets, her sharp gaze sweeping the hall with a quiet pride that spoke of a warrior's vigilance. Their children flanked them: Laena and Daeron, poised and princely, speaking in hushed tones between delicate bites.

To their left, Lucerys and Rhaena whispered and laughed like co-conspirators, their bond evident in every stolen glance and shared smirk, while Joffrey charmed his betrothed with exaggerated gestures, his joviality a balm to the tension that lingered in the air. At the table's edge sat Rhaenyra and Daemon, aged but undiminished. Rhaenyra’s presence commanded respect, her violet eyes sharp as steel. Beside her, Daemon lounged like a coiled dragon, his pale hair falling loose over one shoulder, his sharp gaze roving the hall as though he were cataloguing its players.

Jacaerys rose first, unbefitting his position, the movement subtle yet commanding. Silence fell over the hall like the turning of a tide, his authority palpable. His gaze swept over the trio approaching him, pausing briefly on Brandon before settling firmly on Claere.

“Sweet sister,” he said, his voice carrying enough warmth to veil the undertone of command. “It pleases me to see you here after so long. You look well.”

Claere curtseyed, her movement graceful, her voice soft but steady. “Brother,” she greeted, the single word weighted with a thousand unspoken meanings.

It was Joffrey who broke the formality, rounding the table to embrace his sister as if no years had passed since their last meeting. Where he had once been a mere boy of ten, burying his face in her waist, now he held her tightly, the man he had become pressing a familial kiss to her cheek.

“Lord Stark,” Jacaerys continued, his tone shifting as his gaze turned to Cregan. Joffrey lingered beside his sister, still holding her hand as if reluctant to let her go.

“The North honors us with your presence,” Jacaerys said.

Cregan inclined his head, his words measured, his tone neutral. “The honor is ours, my king.”

Jacaerys’s gaze shifted again, his smile breaking into something warmer, easier. “And you must be Brandon Stark,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “It’s good to finally meet you, nephew. The blood of the dragon burns bright in you.”

Cregan’s hand fisted briefly at his side, but his expression remained impassive.

Before the moment could stretch into tension, Rhaenyra’s voice carried over the hum of the feast. Though time had etched its mark upon her, her presence was no less commanding. Her tone, measured and regal, filled the space between them.

“Lord Stark,” she began, her violet eyes resting on Cregan, “you’ve brought your eldest, but what of my other grandchildren? I hear you have a fine brood at Winterfell.”

Cregan’s jaw tightened slightly, his discomfort evident in the subtle shift of his posture. “They are too young to travel the Kingsroad,” he replied curtly, his voice a low rumble.

The stark simplicity of his response brought a ripple of quiet across the table. Rhaenyra’s expression wavered, the faintest edge of offence flickering like a shadow.

Before the unease could settle, Claere stepped forward, her voice calm and steady as a winter wind. “They are quite well, Mother,” she said, her serene smile meeting Rhaenyra’s gaze. “Rickon already dreams of commanding the vanguard like his father. Edric”—her lips quirked slightly—“has taken to sneaking pastries from the kitchen. And little Luce…” Her tone softened, and warmth crept into her expression. “She’s discovered archery from her brothers. A proper little warrior, though she insists on naming every sparrow she meets.”

The tension broke as faint laughter rippled among those listening, and even Rhaenyra’s gaze softened. “It seems they thrive under your care,” she said warmly. “Winterfell is fortunate to have such a lady.”

“You flatter me, Mother,” Claere replied, bowing her head with a grace that seemed instinctual.

Cregan exhaled quietly, his shoulders loosening as the moment passed. The interlude was interrupted by Jacaerys, his voice warm yet commanding as it carried over the table.

“The White Wolf, is it?” he called, leaning forward from his gilded seat. His dark hair framed his sharp smile, confidence radiating like the glow of a dragon’s flame.

Brandon straightened instinctively, his cheeks reddening as all eyes turned to him. “The North heralds me too much too soon, Your Grace,” he said quickly, his voice clear and earnest.

Jacaerys chuckled, raising his goblet in a mock salute. “A Stark with humility? A rare breed indeed.” The jest drew a ripple of laughter. “But no need for titles, nephew. Call me uncle.”

The boy’s face lit up, his youthful nervousness melting into a smile. “Uncle,” he repeated, the word sitting comfortably on his tongue.

“And tell me, Brandon,” Jacaerys continued, leaning slightly closer, “is it true you’ve been training with a sword? Daemon tells me you’ve a good arm for your age.”

Brandon brightened, his excitement spilling over. “I have! Father says I’m stronger than most boys my age. I practice every day in the yard with the master-at-arms.”

“Oh, has he now?” Jacaerys grinned, casting a glance at Cregan. “Sounds like you’ll make a fine squire soon enough. What do you say, White Wolf? Would you squire for me, come winter?”

Brandon’s breath hitched, his grey eyes wide with awe. “Aye, my king. I would, absolutely!”

The table erupted in laughter and good-natured cheers from the Velaryon and Targaryen kin. Rhaena, seated beside Lucerys, smiled warmly at the boy, and even Joffrey offered a nod of approval. The boy’s enthusiasm was infectious, and soon Brandon found himself swept into the fold, his questions and stories met with encouragement and kindness.

From further down the table, Daemon’s sharp, cutting voice reached them, unmistakable even amidst the lively din of the feast.

“So, lad,” he began, leaning forward with his goblet in hand, his pale hair falling loose over one shoulder. His gaze rested on Brandon with a predator's curiosity. “What’s your dragon called? I imagine it's speed and size akin to your mother's White Dread.”

The question froze the boy in place. His youthful confidence faltered, replaced by hesitation. He looked to his mother, then to his father, but neither answered for him. Claere’s serene expression didn’t shift, though her brows lifted subtly, a small gesture of encouragement.

Brandon swallowed. “I don’t have a dragon, Your Grace. Neither do my brothers and sister.” His voice was steady, though the words were clearly an effort to say.

The silence that followed wasn’t oppressive, but it lingered long enough for Cregan to bristle. His jaw tightened, and his hand flexed once before he leaned a step closer, his steely gaze fixed on Daemon.

Daemon’s smirk widened, his goblet tilting lazily in his hand. “No dragon, eh?” he drawled, eyeing his silver hair and features. “That’s unusual for one with so much Targaryen blood.” His gaze flicked to Claere, then back to the boy. “Surely your mother would have gifted you an egg.”

Brandon’s face reddened, and he opened his mouth to speak, but Cregan cut in, his voice low and firm. “The Starks have no need for dragons and wyverns,” he said, each word deliberate. “We are wolves.”

Daemon raised a brow, his smirk undiminished. “Wolves may run well in snow, but they don’t fly. Am I right, Claere?”

Claere managed a shaky smile.

“The North stands without wings,” Cregan retorted, his tone growing colder. “We always have. We always will.”

Claere’s hand on his forearm stilled him. Her touch was light, but the look she gave him—calm, steady, and unreadable—silenced the retort building in his throat. She turned her attention to Daemon, her expression serene.

“Dragons are not all that are a measure of man,” she said softly. Her violet eyes settled on Brandon, a quiet pride shining in them. “And wolves do not need to fly to command respect.”

Brandon straightened, emboldened by her words. “I shall squire for the King,” he said suddenly, his voice firm and sure. “Dragon or no dragon, I’ll serve with honour. My sword is yours.”

The table chuckled, the tension breaking like a wave receding from the shore. Daemon gave a low laugh, tilting his goblet toward Brandon. “We’ll see if the little wolf can keep up,” he said, though the words lacked the earlier bite.

Brandon grinned, his earlier unease gone. He turned back to his grandfather, his grey eyes bright with excitement. “You will see, Your Grace.”

A moment of pride swelled within Cregan. His eldest son, holding himself up before the family he had driven to keep at arm's length. Soon, the Stark trio were ushered away from the dais, away from the chaos.

Cregan and Claere were seated farthest away, though their most immediate family, their presence a clear demarcation of their difference from the Targaryens’ inner circle. The distance may have been political, a subtle reminder that while Cregan was a king in his own right, the North was far removed from the intrigues of the South. Or perhaps it was a kindness—to keep them from the full extent of Southern eyes and whispers.

Cregan, sitting as still as the mountains he ruled, seemed carved from the same stone. The velvet black overcoat he wore—tailored in the southern style—sat awkwardly on his broad frame, but he bore it with stoic determination. He tugged once at the stiff collar, a prison of its own, his discomfort as plain as the wine in his untouched goblet, but when Claere’s hand brushed his under the table, he relented.

He glanced her way, catching the soft curve of her lips, and sighed. She had asked him to wear it, after all. And for her, he would.

“Da,” Brandon’s voice broke the lull, soft but curious. The boy leaned closer, his grey eyes darting toward the high table. “Why aren’t we sitting up there?”

Cregan followed his son’s gaze to the gleaming dais, where the Targaryens sat cloaked in splendour and formidable grace.

“That’s my uncle, the king. And my grandmother, the queen mother?” Brandon pressed, his young face shadowed with confusion.

Cregan’s gaze flicked back to his son, sharp as the frost beyond the Wall. “Aye,” he said after a pause. “They’re your kin.”

“Then why are we here?” Brandon gestured at the low table, where the Starks had been placed, as though set apart by invisible walls. “At home, Luce and all of us sit together at the table. So why not here? We’re family, aren’t we?”

Cregan let out a low, humourless chuckle. “Family by blood, maybe. But blood means little in this hall. The North is our seat, not this nest of vipers.”

Brandon frowned, unsatisfied. “But you are a king too,” he pointed out. “The King in the North.”

“King,” Cregan admitted, his voice gruff. “But here? Dragonblood casts a longer shadow.” His tone softened as he leaned closer, his words meant only for Brandon. “Did you know, little wolf? Your mother could sit on the Iron Throne if she willed it. She could walk up there and claim the throne as her own, not a tongue would raise against her. Not even her own brother.”

Brandon blinked, stunned. “Ma?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “She could rule the Seven Kingdoms?”

“And you,” Cregan said, his expression thoughtful, “would be her heir. A prince of the realm.” He reached out, ruffling his son’s unruly curls. “But it was not in your mother's interest.”

The boy’s gaze flickered to his mother, who sat serene and unyielding, as timeless as winter itself. Her quiet smile, so untouched by the pomp and grandeur around her. She seemed apart from it all—rooted in some deeper, colder truth that made the gilded splendour of the hall feel hollow.

Brandon’s attention followed his line of sight, drawn inevitably to the Iron Throne. That jagged, monstrous seat of swords loomed above the hall, its sharp edges whispering of blood spilt and secrets kept. It was no mere throne—it was a warning, a legacy forged in fire and fear.

“It doesn’t suit her,” Brandon murmured, as if speaking a truth he’d only just realized.

“No,” Cregan agreed, his voice low and steady. “It does not.”

Brandon tilted his head, his youthful curiosity breaking through the moment. “But why? Why did she refuse?”

Cregan’s eyes lingered on Claere beside him, silently playing with her spoon, a soft murmur under her breath, her soft profile catching the flicker of firelight. There was a reverence in his voice as he answered, low and intended.

“Because she does not rule with swords and fear. The Iron Throne demands both—and she would not let it make her cruel.”

Brandon furrowed his brow, his gaze flicking between his father and the twisted enormity at the heart of the hall. “So... she chose you instead?”

Cregan turned to his son, a rare softness in his expression. “She chose herself—and the family we built together.”

The words hung in the air, wrapping around the three of them like a protective shield. Claere paused her quiet humming, her violet eyes flicking up to meet Cregan’s for a brief moment. There was no need for words between them.

Brandon, however, found his attention drifting elsewhere. His gaze wandered to a cluster of figures seated at a smaller table on the far side of the hall, shadowed but unmistakable. There was something about them—an air of detachment, of belonging to a different story entirely. One of them caught his eye, a tall, lean figure with long silver hair and an eyepatch glinting in the candlelight.

Brandon’s breath hitched, his chest tightening with something he couldn’t quite name. He knew the man, though he’d never met him. Knew him from tales that Maester had painted of him, of his mount, Vhagar. Of how he'd claimed such a dragon, so young. Aemond One-Eye. The rogue prince whose name carried both dread and fascination.

He turned back to his father, keeping his voice low. “Da,” he asked cautiously, his words edged with unease. “How come they’re here?”

Cregan followed his son’s gaze, his posture stiffening as his eyes landed on the table. Aemond sat with a languid confidence, his single eye gleaming with sharp amusement as though he could sense the Stark lord’s scrutiny. Nearby sat Alicent, her posture rigid, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Helaena sat, twisting a strand of her hair and shot Brandon a small smile, while Aegon, glassy-eyed and dishevelled, picked at his plate without interest.

“They, too, are your mother’s kin,” Cregan said after a moment, his voice clipped. “Her uncles and aunt. They’re not well-loved here, even now.”

Brandon’s brow furrowed again, but his eyes remained fixed on Aemond. “Aemond One-Eye is a skilled swordsman,” he said in a hushed voice, almost in awe. “Father, you must let me—”

“Bran.” Cregan’s tone was sharp, cutting his son off before he could finish. “That is where we draw the line.”

The boy flinched slightly at the firmness in his father’s voice. He glanced at Claere, hoping for some reprieve, but she didn’t look at him. Her gaze was steady, locked on the silver-haired prince across the hall.

Aemond, as if sensing their attention, smirked. It was a cruel, knowing expression, one that seemed to challenge the very air between them. His single eye glinted as it flicked from Claere to Cregan, lingering just long enough to feel like a deliberate taunt.

Cregan’s hand tightened into a fist, though he didn’t rise or speak. His jaw worked as he stared back, his wolf’s eyes cold and unyielding.

The tension in the hall crackled like frost underfoot. Brandon, though young, could feel it as he watched his father’s jaw tighten and his gaze narrow at the far table. Aemond’s smirk had only deepened as he leaned back lazily, his long fingers curling around the stem of his goblet. It was the posture of a man who feared no consequence, and it made Brandon’s stomach twist.

Cregan’s voice, when it came, was low but carried the weight of ice. “You’re a bold man, Prince Aemond,” he said, the title clipped, bitter on his tongue. “To sit there smirking like a cat in a coop, after the damage your house has done.”

Aemond tilted his head slightly, the firelight glinting off the edge of his eyepatch. His smirk widened, sharper now, more deliberate. “Damage?” he echoed, the word soft but dripping with mockery. “Surely you’ve seen your share of bloodshed, Stark. Or do Northerners keep their hands so clean they can point fingers without guilt?”

Cregan rose slowly, his chair scraping against the stone floor, the sound grating enough to make Claere glance up from her quiet contemplation. “If my hands were unclean, prince,” Cregan said, his voice a low growl, “you’d feel it across your jaw.”

“Father, don't,” Brandon whispered, alarmed, tugging at his sleeve.

Aemond leaned forward slightly, as though entertained by the rising tension. “Yes, listen to your pup, Stark. Threats have a way of turning into invitations. And I accept such things readily.”

“Aemond,” Alicent interjected, her voice sharp, though it wavered at the edges. “Enough. You shame yourself—and us.” She placed a hand on his arm, as though to stay him, but he brushed it off gently without looking at her.

Brandon, encouraged by his father’s stance, couldn’t hold back his question. “Why do you act like this?” he asked, his young voice cutting through the room like an unexpected breeze. His words were unpolished, direct. “You’re supposed to be our kin.”

Aemond turned his head sharply, his single eye locking onto the boy. The smirk faded, replaced by something colder, though not entirely without amusement.

“And what would a boy like you know of kinship?” he asked, his voice soft and biting. “The White Wolf—even the name leaves my tongue feeling sour. When a direwolf lays with a bastard dragon, do you call that kinship? Or depravity?”

Cregan’s fist slammed onto the table, the sound reverberating through the hall. “Speak those words before my family again, and I’ll make sure your other eye matches the first.”

“Enough. Both of you,” Claere said, her voice cutting through the room like a whip crack. She stood, her hands calm, but her eyes burned with a quiet fury as they fixed on Aemond. “Aemond, you’ve proven your wit. Cregan, your son has his eyes on you.”

Cregan hesitated, his grey eyes lingering on Aemond for a moment longer before he exhaled sharply and sat back down. Brandon clung to his father's shoulder as if restraining him.

Aemond met her gaze for a moment, his smirk threatening to return, but when he saw the set of her jaw and the icy stillness of her expression, he gave a slight incline of his head.

“As you wish, sweet niece,” he murmured, though the mockery lingered in his tone.

Alicent, looking harried, finally pulled at Aemond’s sleeve with more force. “Come,” she said firmly. “We’ve lingered long enough.”

With a shrug, Aemond rose, draining the last of his wine before setting the goblet down with deliberate care. He glanced at Cregan one last time, the faintest glimmer of amusement in his eye. Then, with a flick of his violet eye, he turned and strode out, Alicent following close behind.

The doors groaned shut behind them, leaving a silence that was more deafening than the clamor of conversation earlier.

Brandon sat stiffly, his small hands clutching the edge of the table. His gaze darted to his father, wide-eyed, searching for answers he could not yet articulate. “Da,” he began, his voice unsure.

Cregan’s sharp look silenced him. “The world doesn’t fight fair, Bran,” he said, his voice low, like the growl of a wolf. “Men like him thrive on your weakness. Remember that.”

Brandon nodded but said nothing, his lips pressed into a firm line.

Claere’s hand brushed against Cregan’s arm, the touch light but insistent. He turned his head slightly, his storm-grey eyes softening only for her. She leaned closer, her voice a whisper barely louder than the crackle of the torches.

“Nothing about this place feels right. I feel sick,” she murmured, her gaze flicking past Cregan’s shoulder to where Helaena sat at her table. The Targaryen princess’s pale eyes were fixed on Claere, her expression unreadable but laced with a quiet sorrow.

Cregan followed her gaze briefly before nodding. His hand closed over hers, rough and grounding, before he rose. “Let's have you rested, my love.”

Bran watched his parents, deploring.

“We’re leaving,” Cregan said firmly, his voice cutting through the lingering unease in the hall. He placed a hand on Brandon’s shoulder, urging the boy to his feet. Claere stood as well, taking Bran into the arch of her side.

As they moved toward the exit, the sound of their steps echoed in the cavernous room, every eye tracking their departure. The doors closed behind them with a dull thud, the sound resonating like the closing of some unseen door in fate’s design.

X

Cregan paced the chambers, the soft candlelight casting flickering shadows over his bare chest. There was a sheen to him, like he'd returned from a swim out at sea when really the heat was too warm by half. His tunic and coat lay strewn across the floor, casualties of his brooding temper. His hair was mussed from the constant drag of his hand through it, his jaw set like stone, holding back the sharper edge of his fury.

Claere lay on her stomach, nestled in the grand canopy bed, the silk covers draped loosely over her shoulders, her chin resting lightly on her folded hands. Her violet eyes followed him in silence, tracking his every movement. She said nothing, but the flicker of golden light over his broad shoulders, the fire in his grey eyes, and the tension in his frame—it pleased her more than she cared to admit.

“I will not allow it,” Cregan growled, his voice low and rough, vibrating with barely restrained anger. “My son, raised in the shadow of Targaryens? Bowing to them, serving their whims?” He stopped mid-step, turning on his heel to glare into the distance. His hand raked through his hair again, tugging at the strands. “What kind of Northerner bends the knee to fire?”

“A bold one,” Claere said, her voice soft, like a blade sheathed in velvet.

Cregan’s head snapped to her, his storm-grey eyes narrowing. Her calm demeanour seemed only to fuel the fire in him. “Bold?” he spat, incredulous. “No. Foolish. He’s too young to know what they’ll demand of him, what they’ll strip away. They’ll keep him here, chain him with loyalty, make him their sword—and he’s meant to rule the North, not waste his blood in service to their crown.”

Claere tilted her head slightly, the soft silver of her hair catching the faint breeze from the window. “They are his blood as much as they are mine,” she said evenly. “Is it so wrong for him to want to know them?”

Cregan let out a sharp breath, his hands bracing on his hips. “He doesn't need their approval. We're Starks,” he said, his voice cold and final as if the truth of the North was enough to silence any argument.

“And he's a Targaryen,” Claere countered, her voice quiet but unyielding. “You knew that the moment he was born.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Cregan muttered, resuming his restless pacing.

With every step, his frustration deepened, and with every sharp motion, another layer fell away, another furious mutter about the heat. His belt hit the floor first, then his boots. By the time he reached the hearth, he was stripped down to his breeches, his chest heaving with the effort of holding his temper.

“You’ll wear a trench into the stone,” Claere remarked, her tone edged with amusement.

Cregan turned, his lips twitching despite himself. “You find this amusing?”

“Not at all,” she said, though a faint smile tugged at her lips. “But you’re very… lively when you’re infuriated.”

He froze, staring at her, his expression torn between irritation and something warmer. “Lively?”

“Passionate,” she corrected, her gaze holding his.

The word struck him harder than he cared to admit, and for a moment, his temper wavered and a small smile bloomed. She reclined against the pillows, the golden light painting her features in soft relief. Her hair, loose and unbound, spilt across her shoulders like molten silver. There was a knowing look in her violet eyes that stilled him more effectively than any word could.

He crossed the room in a few strides, looming over the edge of the bed.

“You’re enjoying this,” he accused, though the fire in his voice had dimmed to an ember, flickering weakly beneath his frustration.

Claere blinked up at him, her lips curving into a faint smile. “Enjoying you sulking? Fuming? Growling at shadows? Jealous that your son looks up to someone who isn't you?” Her voice was soft, laced with mirth. “Perhaps.”

Cregan huffed, leaning closer until their faces were inches apart. His voice dropped, low and rough. “Impossible woman.”

“Stubborn man,” she replied, her tone calm, her gaze steady.

For a moment, her words hung in the air, heavy as snow on ancient pine boughs. Cregan exhaled deeply, his shoulders sinking under her quiet truth. He sat heavily on the edge of the bed, scrubbing a hand over his jaw and face. It almost felt like the world's tonnage was hanging off his neck.

“Come,” Claere murmured, shifting to make space. She reached for him, her touch gentle as she guided his head to rest in her lap.

He barely hesitated before letting himself fall into her care, his weight sinking heavily onto her thighs, as though he carried the weight of every storm in Winterfell. Her fingers slipped into his dark hair, cool and soft, brushing through the strands with ease that unravelled the knot of tension coiled at the base of his neck. The quiet rhythm of her touch was soothing, a balm for the raw edges of his frustration.

“Let him be,” Claere whispered, her voice a gentle command, soft yet unyielding. “Let him find himself, make mistakes, learn. This is what he wants.”

Cregan closed his eyes, drawing in a shuddering breath. He lifted a hand, weary and slow, to rub at his face as though trying to scrub away the ache in his chest.

“He’s our son,” he said. “I can’t simply let him go. He’s but a boy.”

“Nearly eleven. A man grown,” Claere chuckled softly. It wasn’t dismissive, but tender, carrying an affection that could pierce through his storm-clouded thoughts.

His lips twitched faintly at her laughter, the corner of his mouth lifting as if to meet her warmth, but the heaviness remained, pressing against him like an unrelenting tide. He swallowed hard, his throat working against the swell of words lodged there.

“Ever since…” His voice wavered, the syllables slipping from his mouth like broken shards. “Her.”

Her hand stilled, her fingers resting gently against his temple. A shared silence fell between them, heavy with the unspoken. She didn’t need to ask who. The memory of their firstborn, the one they lost before they even knew her face, lingered between them like a shadow cast by a distant flame.

“I’ve felt this unquenching need,” Cregan said at last, his voice rough and low, as if every word cost him. “To shield everyone. I'm the one who stands between my family and the rest of the world.” His breath hitched, and his fingers clenched briefly against the fabric of her skirts. “I can’t… I cannot lose another. Cannot afford to now. Not when grief is so far behind us I dare to believe we’ve escaped it.”

The vulnerability in his voice was a rare thing, raw and unguarded, and it made Claere’s heart ache for him. She bent her head toward his, her silver hair spilling down to mingle with his dark locks. The contrast was striking, a tangle of moonlight and shadow, wolf and dragon bound together by shared pain and quiet resilience.

“You won’t lose him, Cregan,” she whispered, her lips brushing the shell of his ear, her voice threading softly through the cracks in his armour. “But you have to trust him and let him grow. No matter how far he roams, he’ll always find his way back to the pack.”

His breath shuddered against her lap, the words sinking deep into the ache in his chest. Slowly, as though the weight of her assurance began to ease the crushing guilt he carried, he nodded. His head pressed against her, seeking the solace only she could offer, a stillness he could find nowhere else.

X

The garden of the Red Keep was alive with the gentle hum of crickets and the muted rustle of leaves stirred by the evening breeze. The scent of jasmine hung in the air, mingling with the faint tang of salt from Blackwater Bay. The sun had begun its slow descent, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson that reflected off the polished stone of the courtyard fountain.

Seated at a table draped in white linen, amidst the sprawling garden, Rhaenyra Targaryen watched her grandson with a quiet awe she had not felt in years. The boy was a Stark through and through, with his storm-grey eyes and the faintest dusting of freckles across his pale cheeks, but there was something unmistakable about him that spoke of his mother. His hair, pale as Luna's wing, caught the light with the faintest sheen of white, a gift from the dragonblood running through his veins.

Brandon tore a piece of warm bread from the loaf between them, his fingers deft and sure.

“You should have seen Rickon last week,” he said, his voice animated. “He was trying to teach Eddric to shoot. They’re both useless, of course. I keep telling Rickon to stop puffing his chest and aim properly, but he’s as stubborn as a mule.”

Rhaenyra chuckled softly, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she reached for a cup of spiced wine. “And you, darling? Were you the one to show them how it’s done?”

Brandon grinned, a flash of teeth that was all wolf. “Of course I was. Someone has to keep them in line.” His face softened as he leaned back, folding his arms behind his head. “Though Luce is worse than both of them combined. Did you know she refuses to sleep anywhere but on my shoulder these days? If I so much as move, she howls loud enough to wake the gods.”

The mention of her granddaughter brought a rare, genuine smile to Rhaenyra’s lips. “She sounds as demanding as her namesake,” she said, her voice touched with both fondness and melancholy.

“She’s a little terror,” Brandon agreed with a dramatic sigh, though his tone betrayed nothing but affection. “But I love her the most.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze lingered on him, her mind slipping into memories of Claere as a child—how her daughter would sit by the fire, pouring over flowers in a soft mumble, her silver hair glowing in the firelight. Brandon had that same intensity, that same spark of life. Yet where Claere had always carried an air of distant melancholy, Brandon seemed unburdened, his laughter bright and unguarded.

“You’re a breath of fresh air, Brandon,” Rhaenyra said softly, her words catching the boy’s attention. “I don’t know that I’ve laughed this much in years.”

Brandon tilted his head, his sharp features softening. “You should come North more often, Grandmother. You’d find plenty to laugh at with my brothers around. And Luce. She’s probably tormenting her septa as we speak.”

Rhaenyra laughed again, a sound that surprised even herself. Her hands reached for the bread, breaking off a piece and toying with it absentmindedly.

“Perhaps I will,” she murmured, though her heart clenched at the thought. The North was Claere’s world now, a place she had only touched briefly, where Rhaenyra’s legacy seemed small against the towering walls of Winterfell.

Brandon, as if sensing the shift in her mood, leaned forward, his tone light. “Tell me about Syrax,” he said, his grey eyes gleaming with curiosity. “Mother told me she was a golden dragon. Is she as fierce as she sounds?”

Rhaenyra’s expression softened further, her thoughts turning to the dragon she had not ridden in years. “Syrax is a queen in her own right,” she said, her voice reverent. “Golden as the sun, proud as the first flame. She was my companion through the best and worst of times.”

Brandon’s eyes lit up. “Do you still ride her?”

A shadow passed over her face, though her smile remained. “No, sweetling. My time as her rider has passed. But she’s still mine, and she would not turn away the blood of my blood.”

Brandon tilted his head, curious. “What do you mean?”

Rhaenyra reached out, her hand cupping his cheek, her thumb brushing over his hair. “You should try and claim her,” she said softly, her words carried beyond their simplicity. “You’re of her blood, of her fire. She would accept you. I know it.”

Brandon blinked, startled. “Me?” he breathed, his voice tinged with awe.

“You, my brave boy,” Rhaenyra said, her tone firm. “You’ve got the blood of kings and queens in you, just as much as the wolves. You’re meant for something greater.”

For a moment, he seemed speechless, his grey eyes searching hers. Then, with a grin that was as wild and free as the North, he leaned back and said, “Maybe I will.”

X

The midday sun poured through the windows of the Red Keep’s solar, gilding the stone floor in rippling light. Outside, the distant din of King’s Landing played like a faraway melody: the clang of market bells, the chatter of traders, the call of gulls drifting from Blackwater Bay.

Inside, Claere lounged on a cushioned bench, her legs stretched out lazily across Cregan’s lap. One foot was bare, her silken slipper dangling precariously from her other toes as she shifted, wriggling to catch the light. Her fingers danced in the air, casting fleeting shadows against the high, arched walls. A butterfly flapped its wings, morphing into a crocodile that snapped its jaws before melting into a sparrow.

Cregan sat at ease, a knife in one hand, an orange in the other. He peeled it with the care of a man sharpening a blade, the rind coming away in one long spiral. His head was bowed slightly, but his eyes flicked up to her now and then, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

“You’ve gotten better at that,” he muttered, gesturing toward her shadow play. “Not as dreadful as the last butterfly you tried.”

Claere scoffed, her toes pressing lightly into his thigh. “I had two children hanging off my arms when I made that butterfly. I should like to see you do better with little Luce clawing at your hair.”

“I’d make a proper direwolf,” he said, leaning back as he flicked the orange peel onto the table. His grey eyes glinted with quiet challenge.

She raised an eyebrow, her hands pausing midair. “A direwolf, you say? Go on, show me.”

He set the orange down, wiped his hands on a cloth, and raised them. The shadows twisted into something vaguely lupine—more of a blob with pointed ears.

Claere giggled, her laughter soft but unrestrained. “Is that supposed to frighten me? It looks more like a sheep with horns.”

The golden light softened the sharp edges of his face, his Northern ruggedness somehow at odds with the languid peace of the moment. Claere traced his profile with her eyes—the set of his jaw, the faint curve of his smirk—and felt a pang of gratitude for this rare interlude.

“What's going on in your head?” he asked, not looking at her, his hands now occupied with dividing the orange into sections.

“How much you remind me of a bear every now and then,” she said with mock seriousness. “Big, grumpy, growling at anyone who comes too close.”

He chuckled, low and rumbling. “I’ll remember that the next time you call me wolf.”

She smiled, her hand reaching out to take a slice of the orange he offered her. The sweetness burst on her tongue, and she closed her eyes briefly, savouring it. The Red Keep, for all its burdens and shadows, had afforded them a rare reprieve, a pocket of time carved from the relentless press of duty.

But the peace shattered like glass underfoot when the door to the solar burst open. Two guards stumbled in, dragging a soot-covered figure between them. The acrid scent of smoke and singed hair preceded them, and Claere and Cregan froze, their shared moment breaking apart as reality surged in.

The boy's tunic was torn, his face smeared with soot and ash. A gash marred his cheek, sluggishly oozing blood. The acrid stench of smoke clung to him, mingling with the scent of charred leather. Beneath the grime, his sharp grey eyes were unmistakable.

“Brandon.”

It was Cregan who moved first, surging from his chair, the knife and orange clattering to the ground. His heavy boots echoed against the stone floor as he closed the distance, his towering frame lowering to kneel before the boy. His hands, rough and calloused, reached out instinctively, gripping Brandon’s shoulders, scanning his son for injuries.

“Who did this?” His voice was low, cold, edged with barely contained fury.

The guards, though hardened men of the Keep, faltered under the Warden of the North’s glare. One cleared his throat nervously. “He—he snuck into the Dragonpit, my lord.”

A tense silence followed as the words sank in.

“He tried to claim the Queen’s mount, Syrax.”

“Bran,” Claere sighed, her voice tinged with exasperation as she rubbed her temple, though the faint tremor in her hand betrayed her fear.

“Out,” Cregan growled, cutting her off. His voice was thunderous, and the guards didn’t wait for a second command. They dropped their hold on the boy and backed out of the room with hurried bows, the door slamming shut behind them.

Cregan rose to his full height, looming over his son. His face, lined with the weight of leadership and fatherhood, was dark with anger.

“Did you fall on your head one too many times, boy?” His voice was sharp with the ferocity of a father's fear, his Northern accent biting. “Do you want death so much you have to go find it? You thought to claim a dragon—dragon! Alone! Do you think yourself fireproof, huh?”

Brandon stood his ground, his chin lifting defiantly, shoulders squared, the faintest hint of his father’s stubbornness mirrored in his young face. He said nothing, his jaw tight, and with a deliberate step, he brushed past Cregan and toward his mother.

“I’m talking to you, Bran!” Cregan’s voice thundered again, but the boy didn’t falter. “You’re scrubbing the stables when we get back, do you hear me? The filthiest ones. I don't care how long. Every day until your arms give out!”

Brandon didn’t so much as flinch. He quietly moved to Claere’s side, his head bowing as he settled beside her.

“Sit,” Claere commanded softly, her tone holding none of Cregan’s fury but all of its authority. She reached to dampen a cloth from a jug, her movements calm and deliberate as she began to dab at the soot and grime streaking her son’s face.

“Hold still,” she murmured, her voice softer now, almost a whisper.

Brandon obeyed, though his eyes flicked to his father’s looming form across the table.

“Don’t coddle him, Claere,” Cregan growled, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “He needs discipline, not mothering. Look at him; there's no remorse in his eyes. Ungrateful little... He could have—” He cut himself off, the words sticking in his throat.

“He did not. It's alright, Cregan,” Claere said quietly, her tone cutting through the tension like a blade.

Her husband’s jaw tightened, but when she glanced up at him, her steady gaze held him in place. It wasn’t reproachful, but neither was it yielding. Slowly, his shoulders eased, though the storm still lingered in his grey eyes.

“What happened, Bran?” Claere asked again, her focus returning to Brandon. Her voice was soft, coaxing.

“They were all going to the dragonpit,” Brandon mumbled, his voice barely audible. “Laena, Daeron. All of them left me behind, Ma.” He sniffled, his small chest hitching with restrained tears. “I wanted to go, too.”

Claere sighed, her hand pausing as she rubbed at the soot on his neck. She leaned forward slightly, her silver hair cascading like a curtain around them, creating a small, private world.

“And you thought claiming a dragon would make them see you differently?” she asked, her tone free of judgment.

Brandon hesitated, then nodded, his gaze flicking up to meet hers. “I just wanted to be... like them. Like you.”

Claere’s breath caught at his words, but she schooled her expression, her thumb brushing his cheek as she cupped his face. “Oh, my sweet boy,” she whispered. “You don’t need to prove yourself to anyone—not to them, not to me. You’re already enough.”

Cregan shifted behind her, the sound of his boots against the stone floor filling the quiet. His anger had ebbed now, replaced by something deeper—guilt, perhaps, or worry.

“Bran,” Cregan said, his voice quieter but no less firm. “We don’t need dragons to make us strong. What makes you a man isn’t fire or glory—it’s honour, and knowing how to protect those you love.”

Brandon glanced at his father, his small face torn between shame and defiance. “But they think I’m weak because I don't have a dragon.”

“They don’t know you,” Cregan said sharply, stepping closer. “Not like me or your mother does. Not like your people do. You’ve got more fire in you than you know, son. You don’t need to risk your life to prove it.”

Claere glanced back at Cregan, her eyes softening at the rough edge in his tone. She reached out, resting her free hand on his arm.

“He’s young,” she said gently, reminding them of the earlier conversation they shared. “He’s learning.”

Cregan nodded, though he didn’t look at her. His focus remained on Brandon, the lines of his face softening at last. “A month in the stables,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “You’ll think twice next time before putting yourself in danger.”

Brandon’s shoulders slumped, but he nodded. “Fine.”

Claere smiled faintly, dabbing at one last streak of soot. “There,” she said, brushing her hand over his hair. She placed a deep, long kiss on his cheek. “Clean enough to sit at the table again.”

The boy managed a small smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He slid off the bench and stood uncertainly between them, looking from his mother to his father.

Cregan let out a long breath and crouched to his son’s level, resting a broad hand on his shoulder. “Next time you feel left out,” he said quietly, “talk to me. We’ll find something worth your bravery—but not this. Not dragons.”

Brandon’s lips parted, his defiance flickering for a moment as if he might argue. But then, seeing the unyielding lines of his father’s face, he relented. His shoulders sagged, and his voice was smaller than before.

“Yes, Da.”

Cregan’s hand squeezed his shoulder once, a silent acknowledgement of the promise before he released him. He smacked the back of his head lightly, ushering him away.

“Get out of here and get cleaned,” Cregan told him. “You look like pigshit.”

Brandon lingered for a moment longer, then turned and padded toward the doorway.

Claere’s gaze followed her son as he disappeared into the corridor beyond. Her hand, resting on the table, tightened briefly into a fist before she relaxed her fingers.

“You were harder on him than usual,” she said softly, her voice carrying none of the reproach it might have.

Cregan didn’t answer immediately. He straightened with a groan, his exhaustion evident in the slump of his broad shoulders. Dragging a hand through his dark hair, he looked at her, his jaw tight.

“One of us had to be,” he replied, his voice low and heavy with something unspoken. “Taming dragons. Tsk. Foolish fuckin' lad.”

X

The air was crisp with the bite of late autumn, the scent of hay and manure thick in the stables back in Winterfell as Brandon Stark worked the rake over the uneven floor. His arms ached, his back stung from leaning too long, and his frustration simmered just beneath his skin. Scrubbing the stables wasn’t the worst punishment his father had ever doled out, but the indignity of it gnawed at him.

His brothers, as always, were more hindrance than help. Eight-year-old Rickon had armed himself with a brush and was vigorously sweeping, though his efforts did little more than stir the hay into scattered piles. Five-year-old Ed trailed behind him, copying his every move, while Luce, the youngest and the most spirited, darted about the stalls, her voice rising in an off-key rendition of "Foxy’s Hole." She seemed utterly oblivious to the tension simmering in her elder brother.

“What’s the capital like?” Ed asked suddenly, his small hands smudged with dirt as he crouched to pick through the straw. “Are there dragons everywhere?”

“And the Kingsguard,” Rickon added, pausing his dramatic sweeps to look up. “Is King Daemon as strong as they say? Did you see Caraxes?”

Bran froze for a moment, the rake still in his hands. The images came unbidden: the Red Keep with its high walls and colder shadows, the whispers in court that hissed behind every smile, the weight of Targaryen eyes on him. The songs had lied, just like the stories of dragons made for little boys’ dreams.

“It’s not what you’d think,” he muttered, his voice low as he looked away.

Ed wrinkled his nose, his face scrunching with confusion. “But it’s the Red Keep!” he insisted. “Mummy grew up there. It must be grand.”

Rickon elbowed him and leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Bran’s just mad because Da made him clean out horse dung.”

Bran’s jaw tightened, his fingers gripping the rake handle until his knuckles whitened. He wanted to snap back but forced himself to take a breath instead. Straightening, he raked his fingers through his hair and spoke before he could think better of it.

“I’m going back next winter,” he said flatly. “To squire for the king. For Uncle Jace.”

The words dropped into the stillness like a stone into a frozen lake, shattering the moment. Rickon stilled mid-sweep, and Ed’s mouth fell open in stunned disbelief. Even Luce, who had been twirling in circles, stopped and turned her wide violet eyes on him, her expression unreadable.

“You’re leaving Winterfell?” Rickon blurted, aghast.

A sharp whistle sliced through the crisp air, cutting through the chatter and the rustling of hay. All four siblings froze, their heads snapping toward the gates where Cregan Stark stood, his broad frame outlined against the slate-grey sky. His weathered face carried a familiar authority and warmth, and with two fingers, he beckoned them forward. Rickon and Ed bolted instantly, eager to obey, their boots thudding against the frozen earth.

Bran lingered, his hands tightening around the rake. He cast a sidelong glance at Luce, who clutched his hand, her small fingers curling tightly around his. She wasn’t moving.

“Go on, then,” he muttered, sighing. “Don’t make him wait.”

Luce shook her head stubbornly, her violet eyes wide with mischief. “I don’t want to.”

Bran rolled his eyes, kicking the rake aside with frustration. “Fine. Let’s go.” He extended his finger to her, and with her tiny hand wrapped around his, he trudged toward their father, his steps heavy with reluctance.

When they reached the gates, Rickon and Ed were already beaming under Cregan’s rough hands as he tousled their hair. His gaze shifted, landing on Luce as she hovered behind Bran, half-hidden. He arched a brow, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Snuck away from your septa again, have you?” His voice was a low rumble, laced with gentle reproach.

Luce’s grip on Bran’s leg tightened as she tried to disappear behind him entirely. Cregan’s brow lifted higher.

“Rickon, Ed,” he said, his tone turning firm, though there was still warmth beneath it. “Take your sister back to her lessons. She’s not to be running loose.”

“But—” Luce began, her protest dying on her lips as Rickon swooped in, his grin wolfish. With a quick motion, he wrapped his arms around her waist and hoisted her over his shoulder.

“No use arguing, Luce,” Rickon teased, cackling as she squirmed and kicked her little legs. “You’re outmatched.”

“Bran!” she wailed, reaching for him as Rickon carried her off. Ed trailed after them, giggling at her indignation.

Bran watched them go, his arms crossing over his chest, his jaw tightening as he turned his gaze to the ground. The heat of his frustration simmered again, bubbling up beneath the surface. The stables were punishment enough; he didn’t need another lecture.

“You’re sulking,” Cregan observed, his deep voice cutting through Bran’s thoughts. There was a faint teasing edge to his tone, but it was undercut by quiet understanding.

“I’m not,” Bran snapped, though the words sounded half-hearted even to his own ears.

Cregan stepped closer, towering over his son with that familiar weight of presence. He reached out and nudged Bran’s shoulder lightly, forcing him a step forward. “Come on, lad,” he said, his voice softer now. “I’ve something to show you.”

Bran frowned, his arms tightening across his chest. “If this is another punishment—”

“Far from it,” Cregan interrupted, his lips quirking into a faint smile. “But keep dragging your feet, and I might change my mind.”

Bran sighed heavily but relented, falling into step behind his father. Together, they crossed the courtyard toward the kennels, the air alive with the low growls and soft whines of the direwolves housed within. The sharp scent of pine and frost hung thick around them, mingling with the earthy musk of the animals.

At the edge of the enclosure, Cregan stopped before a small pen. The low growls and soft whines of the wolves fell away as Bran followed his gaze. Inside, a lone wolf paced nervously, its coat a deep, glossy black that seemed to drink in the pale light. Its sharp yellow eyes darted toward them, wary and unblinking, its every movement tense with distrust.

Cregan crouched by the pen, his hands steady as he unlatched it. “Come closer,” he said, his voice low but gentle.

Bran hesitated, his eyes fixed on the wolf. Its wiry frame was all sharp angles, a creature of feral instincts and quiet resilience. Yet something in its gaze—something untamed and fierce—stirred something deep in Bran, a strange pull he didn’t quite understand.

Cregan slipped inside first, his movements deliberate as he reached for the wolf.

“Found him in the woods,” he said, his tone soft but resonant. “All alone. Half-starved, snarling at shadows.” He chuckled quietly, scratching behind the wolf’s ears. The creature flinched at first but gradually stilled under his touch. “Sniveling little fighter,” Cregan added, glancing back at Bran with a small, knowing smile. “Reminded me of someone.”

Bran bristled, though he stepped closer, his curiosity outweighing his indignation.

Cregan cradled the wolf with surprising gentleness, lifting it from the pen and holding it against his broad chest. The wolf let out a low, hesitant growl, but Cregan’s steady hands quieted it. “Go on,” he said, extending the wolf toward Bran.

Bran’s breath caught as the creature’s sharp gaze locked onto his. For a moment, he froze, unsure. Then, carefully, he reached out, taking the wolf into his arms. Its warmth was startling, a living, breathing contrast to the biting cold of the air. It wriggled slightly, testing his grip, but Bran held firm.

Cregan watched him, his expression softening. “What would you have named your dragon?” he asked suddenly, his tone light but pointed.

The question hit harder than Bran expected, and his grip on the wolf tightened. He frowned, his shoulders tensing.

“You don’t have to rub salt in the wound, Da,” he muttered. “I know what I don’t have.”

“Humor me,” Cregan pressed, his voice steady, his eyes holding Bran’s. There was no teasing now, just quiet patience.

Bran hesitated, his face heating with embarrassment. “Frostbane,” he mumbled, barely above a whisper.

Cregan’s laugh rang out, a warm, rich sound that echoed through the kennel. Bran scowled, turning away, but his father’s hand was quick to catch his shoulder, holding him in place.

“Don’t turn your back on me, boy,” Cregan said, his voice softening. He reached out, his large hand brushing the wolf’s sleek black fur. “Frostbane’s a damn fine name. Look at him—sharp, fierce, a survivor. Just like you.”

Bran blinked, startled by the words. He glanced down at the wolf in his arms, its yellow eyes watching him with an intensity that mirrored his own.

“He’s yours,” Cregan said, his tone leaving no room for doubt. “Not just any wolf, Bran. A direwolf for a Stark who’s more than he thinks he is. Who doesn’t need dragons to be great.”

Bran’s throat tightened. The weight of his father’s words settled over him, heavy and warm, easing the sting of the day’s frustrations. “Mine?” he asked, his voice quiet, almost disbelieving.

Cregan nodded, ruffling the pup’s ears. “Yours. He’ll grow to match you—strong, proud. A king of the wilds, like his friend.”

Bran’s chest swelled with a mixture of pride and relief. For the first time in what felt like weeks, he grinned, the corners of his mouth lifting as the wolf squirmed in his arms.

“Frostbane,” he said again, testing the name aloud.

“A Stark name,” Cregan said, watching his son with a faint smile. “And one that’ll make the whole of Winterfell remember who you are.”

X

it's humbling when your inbox is as empty as your soul :') This feature was just something off the top of my head lmao I don't even know if it's that good but worth a shot!

[ taglist: @pearldaisy , @thatkindofgurl , @theadharablack , @cherryheairt , @beingalive1 , @oxymakestheworldgoround , @tigolebittiez , @cosmosnkaz , @lv7867 , @piper570 , @danikasthings , @acsc8 , @justdazzling ] -> thank you for your endless support everyone!

[dedicatednotobsessed]

Man of the Year [Ewan Mitchell x Wife!Reader]

Other HOTD stories

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Summary: Although I’m not taking actor requests anymore, I am so proud of Ewan for being an honoree for British GQ’s Man of the Year. So please enjoy this 574 word lil drabble. 💚

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You ran a brush through your hair as you stood in the hotel bathroom, makeup-free and already wearing one of your husband’s t-shirts, ready for bed. A small smile filled your features, hearing your four-year-old daughter’s voice through the phone, talking about how much she missed you and Ewan.

You were staying in a hotel, having traveled to London for GQ’s Man of the Year event at the Roof Gardens. You were proud of Ewan, having watched his career grow and how hard he worked to get where he is today. You first met him on the set of Netflix’s The Last Kingdom, playing his opposite, Fianna*. The two of you stayed close friends. Ewan helped you through your pregnancy with Evelyn when your boyfriend left, and he helped you get the role of his wife, Adryana Targaryen*, in HBO’s House of the Dragon.

In between seasons, you and Ewan became a couple. Nearly a year later, the two of you became husband and wife, and Ewan adopted Evie as his own; she was already his father more than her biological father was. 

“Am I going to see you and Mommy tomorrow?” You heard Evie whine as you walked out, leaning against the bathroom doorway, a giggle passing your lips.

Ewan chuckled. “Of course, princess. Now tell your grandmother to stop giving you sugar and head to bed, okay? Mommy and I love you and miss you and Ellie very much.”

You walked closer after he blew kisses and hung up, relaxing in his lap as he threw his phone to the side. “As much as I love our girls, I’m glad we had this night alone,” you said softly, fingers running through his blonde hair that still had some bleach from June. It felt like you hadn’t had a night alone in over a year, having given birth a couple of months ago to your second daughter, Eleanor.

Ewan hummed, his hands instinctively going to your waist, rubbing your sides gently while he looked up at you with his shining blue eyes. “We do deserve a night to ourselves, don’t we?” He asked with furrowed brows.

You moved your hands to his cheek, nodding, your smile widening. “Did I already tell you how proud I am of you?”

“About a hundred times,” he replied teasingly.

You leaned your head against his. “Well, make it a hundred and one. Being an honoree is an accomplishment,” you whispered. “But you will always be the man of the year to me.” You pulled back with a hum. “And we should celebrate.”

Ewan raised his brows in curiosity. “Oh?”

You nodded. “With a giant pizza from room service,” you replied with a smirk.

He returned your smirk, pinching your side lightly. “Such a tease,” he whispered, pulling you close for a kiss.

You returned his kiss, placing your hands on Ewan’s chest to pull away. “We have two different definitions of celebrating, but I’m hungry,” you told him with a pout.

He chuckled, keeping one arm around you as he reached to pick up the hotel phone. “Fine, we can do both celebrations then.”

You smiled wide, leaning down to pepper his face with kisses. “Thank you, man of the year.”

Ewan only gave you a charming smile and leaned up, giving you one more soft kiss before he called the downstairs restaurant, ordering a bottle of champagne and a large pepperoni pizza to begin the celebrations.

*Fianna and Adryana are my OCs for Osferth and Aemond, respectfully. 💚

[sophiemariepl]

Yep, also in the books, Jorah is less of a knight trying to redeem himself after his crime and in love with his lady/senior. He is just a creep who can’t forget about his ex-wife (the Hightower one) and keeps presenting his feelings for his wife on Dany. Which ultimately leads him to m*lesting her in one scene, I forgot in which book exactly it was - but a kind reminder, Dany is still a teenager.

I will NEVER understand why Dany didn't snatch Ser Jorah Mormont right up. It's all I think about every time this man is on screen.

[ashblooddragons]

The Red Queen (Chapter 8/?)

112 ac

Your Pov

It's the day of Mama's funeral. I try not to cry again as I sit in the bath as my maid wash hair. 

“What oils would you like today, Princess? Your usual jasmine?” Orchid asks already reaching for the oil bottle ready to pour it in the tub and my hair.

But instead, I stop her and think about Mama's calming scent and Ali's vanilla scent, or at least that's what she calls it.

“What was Mama's oil?” I ask and I see the flash of sadness cross Orchid's face before she smiles and grabs another bottle. 

“Lavender, the late Queen loved Lavender.” She says filling the dropper before letting the oil drip into my bath and hair.

“Can I have vanilla too? Or would that smell bad?” I ask curiously before biting my lip nervously.

“Lavender and vanilla would be lovely together, Princess.” Orchid says before reaching for the small vial of vanilla oils.

Once she has them both in the bath and my hair I feel safe, like a warm hug, like I can breathe again. I start to cry again but Orchid acts like she doesn't notice, most of the maids act like they don't notice. I don't understand why, why can't they wipe my tears like Kepus and Ali do? Why can't they hold me so close like Kepus and Ali do? They hold me so tight it's hard to breathe but I can feel their hearts beating feel they're alive feel they're here.

But what confuses me the most is why Mama had to leave me? She promised after this baby was born she would play with me finally, that she would come to my leasons and see how smart I'm getting. But now she can't do that, because she's gone forever. 

Everyone keeps saying that, but they won't tell me how long forever is, only that it is forever. It doesn't make sense, I just want to know when I can see my Mama again when she'll be back to play and see how smart I am. 

“All done, Princess.” Orchid says wiping my face of the water from the bath, but from her frown I can tell she was also wiping my tears. 

I stand in the bath and use my step stool to get out so she can wrap me in a warm towel that always feels warm against my skin because she rests it next to the fire, and smells of something woodsy. 

I'm quickly dried and dressed in a black dress. Put on thick wool stockings as it's chilly today and my hair braided so it's a crown upon my head. Orchid helps me put on my bracelet and necklace from Kepus like always before someone knocks on the door.

“Come!” I call out rubbing my already raw and painful eyes. I then look down in case it's Papa, he seems to not be able to look at me anymore. I don't understand why though I haven’t done anything wrong. 

“Ñuha riña, it's time to go.” I hear Kepus say.

Not Papa, I don't have to hide my face. 

I turn and look up and see him frown at how bloody my lips and how red my eyes are. 

“Can't I wear red, it's a much prettier color than black.” I say frowning

This seems to make him happy as he chuckles with a shake of his head before he kneels down so he can hold my hands in his. My hands always seem so small when he holds them, not like the big girl hands I like to think they are. “No, I'm afraid not ñuha riña. Black, is traditional mourning colors you will be wearing them for a while yet.” He says inspecting my hair to see how well done it is.

“I did it today, M'lord.” Orchid says from her spot behind me with her head down.

Kepus made sure to tell Orchid only she and him can do my hair now, maybe the ‘little Hightower’ but I don't know who that would be. 

“I figured as much, it's not in her eyes.” He responds with a nod to my maids before picking me up and walking out of my room.

Once in the carriage I see Nyra who is glaring at me as usual but this time it sends chills down my spine. Had I done something? And then I see Papa next to her and he won't look at me, as if doing so brings him pain. I must have done something bad, but what?

The ride is quiet, almost suffocatingly so, so I feel I need to break it. 

“When will me and Nyra know when to tell Syrax and Stromchaser to dracarys?” I ask Papa but when he doesn’t answer I turn to look up at Kepus instead.

“I’ll count down from five, once I say zero you two command them to light the pyre.” He says glaring at Papa or some reason.

I only nod and look out the window watching as the smallfolk cry for Mama. They miss her too, hopefully their Mama’s aren’t goen too. 

When we make it to Rhaeny’s hill Kepus picks me up again and whispers to me “it’s quite steep, ñuha riña, don’t you tripping and getting hurt.” 

I feel the wind against my back, it makes me shiver as I cling to Kepus hoping he'll keep the cold away. Once we make it to the top of the hill he sets me down on my feet. He lets me cling to his leg as the Valyrian priest chants.

I try and ignore them as I look at Mama and baby Baelon, they're wrapped in a brown cloth so tight I can see the outline of Mama's arms, legs, and belly. Her belly looks weird but I ignore it as it's probably because she's dead. 

Once the priest is done and walks away I let go of Kepus and walk forward with Nyra. 

“It's time girls, are you ready ñuha riña?” Kepus says standing between us.

I want to scream ‘NO’ but I know that I must, that Mama and Baelon must be ‘put to rest’ or at least that's what Ali said. So instead I nod my head as I wipe my tears.

Kepus looks between us one last time before sighing and nodding his head, a lmost like he's defeated. 

“Five.”

I gasp realizing I'm never going to be ready this, to let Mama go. At least before I had to turn her to ash in the wind I could pretend she was just on a long trip, that she wasn't gone that she was only seeing her family in the Vale.

“Four.”

I feel my heart clench, feel it about beat out of my chest. It's painful, it hurts, but not as much as when I burn Mama away.

“Three.”

I can't breathe, why can't I breathe? I can feel my heart practically beat out of my chest. I feel my lungs constrict so I can only take in small gasps of air.

“Two.” 

I feel Kepus rest his hand on my shoulder giving it a squeeze. I still can't breathe, still feel my heart beating out of my chest, but for some reason, it's all getting easier to deal with.

“One.” 

I hear Stromchaser let out a cry of pain, Kepus says they feel our emotions, our pain, I have to stay calm for Stromchaser. But I can't I can't calm down, I'm losing Mama forever.

“Now.” 

I figured out what forever means, and all it took was me screaming with Nyra, commanding our dragons to make Mama and Baelon ash in the wind. Make them gone forever.

Once Stromchaser and Syrax stop their flames I turn to Kepus leaping into his arms and sobbing. Sobbing that I'll never get to see Mama again and play in the gardens with her. Sobbing because I'll never get to meet my baby brother. Sobbing that Mama and Baelon are gone forever.

Daemons Pov

I stand leaning against the Weirwood tree waiting for that blasted Dornish man, Cole. 

I knew after that fucking Sarwyck lost in the first round you needed a better guard. Though my pride was hurt I can't deny that Cole proved himself, that he would be the perfect guard for you. 

I remember the look of hos face when I grabbed him after, it was a look of horror, of fear of what the Prince of the city would do to him. Instead I only whispered one thing.

“Meet me at the Weorwood tree in a week's time at the hour of the wolf.” 

He quickly agreed of course but now I'm wondering if I should have threatened him instead of letting him go on his merry way. 

I hear a twig snap under someone's foot and turn to see him. He seems to have rushed here if the sweat on his brow is any indicator.

Must have realized he was almost late. I think with a cruel smirk. 

“You wished to see me, my Prince?” He says winded and bent over with his hands on his knees catching his breath.

“I have an offer for you, though if you take it you'll answer to me and no one else.” I say standing straight and walking towards him.

“Wh-what do you mean?” 

“You took down one of my Gold Cloaks, he was in charge of the care and well-being of the youngest Princess. Can't have someone who can't even beat a stewards son protect my sweet little niece, now can I?” I say in a calm voice that has always led men to do as I please, even my brother, the King. 

“And what does that have to do with me?” He asks standing straight again hands behind his back.

I know that stance, I know it well. 

“You're a soldier aren't you.” I say but it was rhetorical

“Yes, my Prince.” He responds curtly but I catch the scowl that he was read so easily.

Oh just you wait, Ser Cole, you'll learn to hide everything in this pit of vipers soon.

“If I could make it where you have a very high chance of becoming a Kingsguard, would you?” 

He seems shocked from the way his mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. I can't fight the chuckle that leaves me, nor would I want to. 

“It would be an honor, my Prince. But why would they choose a stewards son over a lord's son who has also been to war?” He asks, curious and skeptical to this offer.

“And what I'd I said they wouldn't be others who have gone to war?” 

He freezes for all of ten seconds before a smile comes to his face. “And what would you need from me? Of course after you give me such a high ranking at court you will want something in return?” 

I stop and look at him surprised. Most who are not from Kingslanding would have taken this chance by now, I can't tell if I'm proud, annoyed, or impressed. I think before responding.

“You see, I noticed something about our match. I had my blade to your throat, I let you live, and yet at the first chance you got back up and made sure I'd be the one to yield.” I say smiling when he starts to shift uncomfortably.

“It was a fair fight, you know it just as much as I.”

“Never said it wasn't, you never said you yielded, so by all rights you could, and did get back up to continue to fight.” I say smirking when I see the tension leave his shoulders.

“That still doesn't explain why you need me.” He says obviously getting annoyed.

“It's simple, I want- no I need a man who will use suck ‘dirty’ tactics when defending my niece. If I was to help you, you will defend the youngest, the Realms Darling they call her.”  

“Why her and not the eldest?” He asks confused.

“Rhaenyra has at least three guards at her demand, none are truly hers but they may as well be. The youngest…well she has only had the spares or the ones I give to her. I wish for her to have one I know I can trust. One that will give me the information I desire, when I desire it.” 

He seems to contemplate his options, though before he even says it, I know what he'll do.

“I'll do it.” 

I can't fight the smirk that comes to my face as I shake his hand, a symbol of a good deal. 

Once he's out of my sight I look down at the gold cloak against my back.

Fuck I could use a drink and a whore. I think before walking towards the most depraved parts of the city looking for a night to forget all I've lost, if only for one night.

Viserys Pov

After that ‘talk’ with my small council and the very long day I've had I knew when my head hit my pillow I'd be asleep. 

All I saw for a while was darkness, I figured it was because I was still awake but then I saw a light far away and knew what was going on.

Not this blasted dream again! I thought as I stormed forward knowing what I'd find.

The throne room was dark, not a candle lit on the walls, but there was fourteen candles lit in front of the iron throne. They always seemed to dance, I swore if I moved closer I would hear the sounds of childlike giggles. Most are on their own, standing on their own candle sticks, but three have two prongs with two candles on the stand. 

It's all the same, even those damned faces are still blurry! I think ready to turn around until I hear the booming voice of my Grandsire.

“You will stay, boy!” I feel my bones rattle just from the sheer force my Grandsire has spoken to me.

I now don't feel like a King, I feel like a little boy again being scolded for trying to steal a sweet…again.

“Why do you bring me here Grandsire? You have made me come to this room with its candles every night ever since my dear wife has passed! Well before that I was having this dream once a moon!” I cried out looking up and around me searching for my Grandsire.

“It is not our fault you are not Brave son. That you will not face what you already know.” I then hear my Father, the one man I always wished I could be, but Daemon has always been more like him than I'll ever be.

“What is there to see? Fourteen candles, two blurry faces on the throne? I've seen it! I understand I must have a son to put on the throne!” I sob out feeling their disappointment, their regret, knowing I'm far from the monarch they wished from me.

“Have you thought that perhaps if you moved closer the faces would be clear? Or are you that daft Viserys?” I hear their voice now combine, hear my fathers furious tone mixed with my Grandsires disappointment.

I shake my head but still listen to their advice. As I move forward I begin to hear the sounds of a woman giggling at something a man had said. Another step, and I can make out the woman's curls and theans long straight hair. One more and I see a gorgeous woman on my brother's lap, though it is not him that wears my crown but her.

The two of them stop their chatter, my brother is the first to turn to look at me.

“How lovely for you to finally join us dear brother, I was beginning to wonder if you ever would.” I teases with that smirk of hos that always make me want to punch him right in the lip. 

That'll show him who's older still. I think with a smile before I leaves me and a pained gasp leaves me.

The woman has turned her head to look at me, I would have never recognized her if it weren't for those eyes. One of Lavender and one of Ice Blue, the ones I can not look at, the ones who only bring me pain.

“You know what you must do, Father. You always have.” You say but it is not your little voice, it is a woman's voice.

I wake with a gasp before turning and letting my dinner meet my chambers floor.

“You know what you must do, Father. You always have.” Those words keep running through my head as I try to catch my breath.

I have, haven't I?

Special thanks to @sugutoad for making the header for this fic, I swear I'd be lost without you girly!

TAGLIST: @sugutoad @ilikefelines @classicsimpforaaronwarner @mmogurl @sachaa-ff

[highgardenart]

the dragon has three heads.

[the-fiction-witch]

BabyDoll

Media - House Of The Dragon Character - Daemon Targaryen Couple - Daemon X Reader Reader - Y/n Targaryen (Wife) Rating - 18 + cockwarming/ fullsex/ pinv/ rawsex/eating out/ squirting/interupted sex Word Count - 2273

Daemon yawned as he began to wake he shifted and slightly squirmed before he turned over in bed and wrapped his arms around his wife. His hands stroking slowly over her nightgown tugging at the cotton.

"ummm..." Y/n grumbled squirming in bed a little,

“mornin', beautiful,” Daemon whispered grinning as he nuzzled into her neck “rise and shine,” he began trailing soft kisses along her shoulder

"noooo not today..." She grumbled,

Daemon chuckled darkly pulling her closer “oh but it is, my love. and I'm gonna make sure you never forget it.” he growled against her ear before nibbling her lobe “now come here and kiss me already,” Daemon demanded playfully tugging on her hair

"Daemon... I'm sleeping..." She whimpers turning on her back to look up at him with half open eyes.

Daemon climbed on top of her, pinning her arms above her head with one hand while the other began to roam her body “no more excuses, babygirl. it's time for you to wake up,” he purred into her ear, his voice dripping with lust and mischief “I'm gonna make you feel so good.” Daemon purred as he kissed down her neck and stomach. His hands trailing up her thighs pushing up her nightgown,

"Daemon..." Y/n gasped too fight and too awake to ignore him

Daemon grinned wickedly as he spread her legs wider, exposing her fully to his hungry gaze

“fuck yeah,” he groaned appreciatively. “look at that pretty little pussy.” then he dove in like a man starved, lapping and sucking at her clit as if his life depended on it “mmmmm, how sweet you are,” he mumbled against her sensitive flesh, his words vibrating against her most sensitive spot and sending shivers through her body

Y/n screamed and squealed like she was being eaten alive by wolf's too early out of sleep to limit her pleasurable sounds, No doubt most of kings landing could hear her... But that's just how Daemon liked it.

Daemon revelled in her cries, taking them as personal validation of his skill. He ate at her like a man possessed, lost in the sensation of her wetness coating his tongue. “fuck yes, make all the noise you want babygirl,” he mumbled around her pussy, his voice all but indecipherable from the vibrations he was creating. “let everyone hear how good I'm making you feel.” Daemon focused on her clit, flicking and circling it with his tongue as he shoved two fingers inside her dripping heat. He pumped them in and out, curling them to hit that perfect spot inside her.

“oh Daemon!” Y/n moaned loudly, her hips bucking against his mouth. “don't stop…”

Daemon increased his pace, fucking her with his fingers as his tongue continued to work her clit relentlessly. “I've got you,” he promised, his voice muffled by her pussy. “I'm gonna make you cum so hard.”

Y/n was almost mindless now, her cries constant as she neared her peak. Y/n hit her orgasm squirting across his face and letting out a loud string of animalistic moans and groans she had no hope of holding back. Her back arched her now aroused nipples poking through her nightgown

Daemon lapped and sucked at her pussy, drinking in every last drop of her sweet nectar as she came on his face. “Fuck,” he growled approvingly, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “that's it babygirl, ride my face.” he urged her on as she bucked and thrashed through her orgasm, her juices coating his chin and splashing onto his chest. Daemon never broke contact, continuing to eat her out even after the initial waves of her orgasm subsided, drawing out her pleasure for as long as possible.

Y/n screamed trying to push Daemon's head away as he drove her into overstimulation,

But Daemon didn't budge, persisting in his ministrations even as she struggled against him. “shhh, let me take care of you,” he whispered, his breath hot against her oversensitive flesh. “don't fight it, just let go.” his fingers continued to pump in and out of her, never relenting in their pace or pressure.

“Daemon!” Y/n cried out, her hips rocking against his face of their own accord now, bucking and thrusting to meet his tongue and fingers.

Daemon worked Y/n' pussy with renewed fervor, determined to push her past the brink of pleasure once more. “come on baby, take it,” he grunted, his face buried between her thighs as he ate at her mercilessly. “i want to hear you scream my name.” his fingers curled deep inside her, hitting that perfect spot over and over again as his tongue circled her clit insatiably.

"Daemon!" She screamed Inna loud moan squirting all over his face and their bed as she came again,

Daemon drank down every last drop of her nectar, lapping and sucking at her pussy until she was nothing but a quivering, spent mess beneath him. “that's it babygirl,” he praised, his voice dripping with satisfaction as he finally lifted his head to look at her with a triumphant smirk. Daemon pulled Y/n into his arms, cradling her against his chest as she panted and trembled in the afterglow. “you're cute,” he murmured, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead. “I could get used to waking up to you like this every morning.”

Y/n giggled softly, nestling closer to him. “mhm, same here,” she replied dreamily before yawning and snuggling deeper into his embrace, her eyelids growing heavy as sleep began to claim her once more.

"ah ah ah." Daemon told her off rubbing her clit to make sure she listened and didn't sleep "it's morning, not sleep time babydoll... And daddy wants your mouth a little while" he growled, Daemon took hold of Y/n’s head as he positioned her between his spread thighs.

Y/n even in her half sleepy state nodded and began to kiss his hard cock,

“that's a good girl,” he praised as she willingly obliged, her tongue already flicking out to lick and taste him appreciatively. “such a hungry little babygirl aren't you?” his fingers tangled in her hair, tugging lightly as he began to thrust into her warm, wet mouth. “Ahh!” he groaned, his other hand fisting in the sheets as she worked him over. “fuck yeah, just like that,” he grunted, fucking her mouth harder and faster now as his release built to a crescendo. “you're gonna make me cum so hard in this pretty little mouth,” he warned, his words punctuated by heavy breaths and groans of pleasure.

she released his cock with a pop and laid herself on her back unlacing her nightie to expose her breasts,

Daemon watched with ravenous hunger as Y/n bared herself to him, her full breasts spilling out from the edges of her nightie. “Fuck,” he breathed, his cock twitching as he took in the sight of her bare chest. “you're fucking beautiful.” he crawled over her, capturing one pert nipple between his lips and sucking hard enough to earn a yelp of surprise from her sweet lips. Daemon continued his work, alternating between the two sensitive peaks as Y/n squirmed and moaned beneath him. His hands roamed her body, caressing and exploring every curve as he kissed and licked his way down her torso. “Now babygirl spread your legs nice and wide for daddy,” he demanded gruffly, hooking his arms under her thighs and pulling her to the edge of the bed.

Y/n playfully squealed opening her legs as wide as possible completely spread for him "This okay daddy?" She cooed rubbing her clit

Daemon's eyes darkened with lust as he took in the sight of her, completely vulnerable and exposed before him. He growled low in his chest, reaching out to slap her hand off and rub her slick folds. “fuck yes, you're dripping wet for me,” he hissed, rubbing circles around her clit that had her writhing and panting beneath him. “you love getting fucked by daddy don't you babygirl?”

“Yes!” she cried out, her hips bucking against his hand.

Daemon grinned wickedly, loving how responsive she was to his touch. He lined his cock up, rubbing the head against her wetness,“beg for it,” he commanded gruffly, thrusting just the tip inside her tight heat, pulling back to the brink before surging forward again, sinking deeper into her welcoming warmth.

"please daddy." She begged rubbing her slit against his cock

Daemon groaned at her sweet pleading, his hips snapping as he began to piston in and out of her, fucking her hard and fast with primal ferocity. He leaned down, capturing her mouth in a possessive kiss as he continued to pound into her from above, their tongues tangling together as desperately as their bodies. “Good Girl,” he growled against her lips, his thrusts turning frantic as he chased his impending release.

Y/n screamed and groaned with every single thrust

Daemon could feel her tight pussy clenching around his cock, her walls rippling as she approached her peak. He reached between their bodies, rubbing hard circles on her clit as he continued to pound into her with ruthless abandon. “cum for daddy,” he demanded gruffly, wanting to feel her shatter around him.

Her body went rigid beneath his, a keening wail tearing from her throat as she came undone in his arms. The feeling of her pulsing around him sent Daemon hurtling over the edge and with a guttural roar, he spilled himself deep inside her quivering sheath.

Daemon collapsed on top of her, gently pulling out and rolling to the side, keeping her close as he caught his breath. He brushed a strand of hair from her face, cupping her cheek tenderly. “you're so beautiful,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “always so willing to please daddy.”

"ummm... Can I go back to sleep now Daemon?" She yawned exhausted from their session

Daemon chuckled softly, gently pulling the covers up over them as he pulled her close to his side. “of course baby, get some rest,” he whispered, brushing a tender kiss against her temple as he settled in behind her, wrapping his arms around her protectively as they both drifted off to sleep.Daemon waited until he knew she was just about to go to sleep. And he cuddled up behind her and slipped himself in her still drenched pussy

"Daemon!" She whimpers in exhaustion half asleep

"Don't worry baby... You don't mind Daddy sleeps here so you. You know how much love sleeping inside your spent little cunt" Daemon growled purposely letting her wait. Not moving and just letting himself throb inside her. How she clenches around him desperate to feel pleasure even in her sleepy state

Y/n was so damn sensitive from their earlier activities that the feeling of his thick cock still throbbing inside her was almost too much to bear. She could feel another orgasm building up deep within her core, her body reacting to his presence even in her sleepy state. “uuhh... I love when daddy fills me up so completely…” she whimpered softly, her walls clamping down on him as she started to come undone around him once more. Her breathing became shallow and erratic, small whimpers falling from her lips as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her.

Daemon could feel her pussy milking him for all he was worth, and it only spurred him on. He began to slowly thrust into her, savoring the feeling of her tight little cunt gripping him like a vice. he grabbed her breasts. Daemon's grip was firm as he pinched and tugged at her sensitive nipples, causing her to gasp and moan beneath him. He continued to thrust into her slowly, savoring the feeling of her dripping wet pussy clenching around his cock with every agonizingly slow stroke. “fuck yes... dripping all over daddy's cock…” he growled, speeding up his thrusts slightly as he felt another orgasm building up inside him.

a loud knock came from there door "Prince Daemon! Prince Daemon!" A lord called

"Ughh what!" Daemon yelled as he thrusts

"There is an important matter in the throne room, The king demands you!"

"Ughh fuck off!"

"Pardon?"

"I said fuck off! I'm busy..." He barked

"But the matters of the-"

"fuck off! I'm fucking my lady wife now kindly piss off!" Daemon yelled

He hesitated for a moment before finally responding. “Of course my lord... I'll inform them to wait.” The footsteps faded away as the lord retreated, leaving Daemon and Y/n alone once more.

Daemon let out a frustrated sigh before continuing where he left off, thrusting deeper into Y/n' still quivering pussy. “fuck that was close... we better finish quick before anyone else interrupts us again.”

"ummm I don't think the king would be too happy your late..."

Daemon grinned mischievously, pulling out of her quickly before thrusting back in hard, making her gasp in surprise. “He can wait. I’m busy… Or maybe I should just take you with me and bounce you on my cock on the throne, let them fucking watch baby…” he growled, gripping her hips tightly as he began to fuck her harder and faster now, the wooden throne creaking ominously beneath them. Daemon's thrusts became erratic and frenzied as he felt his orgasmapproaching. He reached around to rub Y/n' sensitive clit in time with his pumping hips, causing her to cry out in ecstasy. “fuck yes daddy's gonna fill your tight little cunt with his cum…” he grunted, his balls drawing up tightly against his body as he exploded inside her. Daemon collapsed on top of Y/n, panting heavily as he tried to catch his breath. He gently pulled out of her and rolled over to the side, pulling her close to him. “I’ll go see what he wants... But… keep those legs open babydoll Daddy will be back later.”

“Yes daddy,” she giggled,

“Good girl.” He cooed kissing her again before getting out of bed to see his brother, 

[novaursa]

To Win a Princess (driftmark)

- Summary: Once you come of age, the realm seeks to curry the King's favor once more by seeking a hand of his younger daughter. You. 

- Paring: targ!reader/Tyland Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: heirs of the dragon

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The air on Driftmark was heavy with salt and sorrow, the sea’s mournful roar underscoring the solemn atmosphere. The sky above was a pale gray, the sun hidden behind thick clouds that seemed to share in the day’s mourning. The courtyard overlooking the restless waters of the Narrow Sea was filled with black-clad figures, their faces somber as they paid their respects to Lady Laena Velaryon.

You stood beside Tyland, your hand resting lightly on his arm, drawing strength from his steady presence. His crimson and gold cloak, dulled in its design for the occasion, marked him unmistakably as a Lannister, though he wore it with solemn dignity. Your children were gathered close—Loren, Rhaelle, Kevan, and Alysanne—all dressed in mourning attire, their usual energy subdued by the weight of the occasion.

To your left, Rhaenyra stood with her sons, Jacaerys and Lucerys, and her husband, Laenor. Laenor’s grief was evident, his shoulders hunched as his gaze remained fixed on the coffin, his face pale and drawn. Rhaenyra’s expression was calm, but you knew your sister well enough to see the truth. She grieved not just for Laena but for another loss—the death of Harwin Strong. The fire at Harrenhal had claimed both Harwin and his father, leaving her without the man who had fathered her sons.

Her grief was a private one, unacknowledged by the court, but you could see it in the way her hands trembled as she clutched her cloak and the way her gaze lingered on her boys. She could never publicly mourn Harwin, and the weight of that silence was etched into every line of her face.

Your eyes drifted to Daemon, standing apart yet not alone. He was with his twin daughters, Rhaena and Baela, their young faces pale and tear-streaked as they clung to his arms. Daemon’s expression was unreadable, his usual smirk replaced by a solemnity that seemed foreign to his features. He stood in stark contrast to the man who had once sought your hand, his confidence tempered by the loss of his wife. The memory of his proposal flickered in your mind briefly before you turned your attention back to the present.

Farther away, Alicent stood with Otto at her side, her children—Aegon, Helaena, and Aemond—clustered around her. Alicent’s posture was straight, her expression composed, but her sharp gaze missed nothing, flitting across the gathering as if taking stock of every mourner. Otto, ever the calculating Hand, stood with his hands clasped, his face a mask of quiet observation.

As Vaemond Velaryon began his funeral dirge, his voice carrying across the courtyard, you couldn’t help but notice the tension in the group. Corlys and Rhaenys stood at the forefront, their grief palpable, though expressed differently. Corlys’s stoic demeanor was belied by the tightness in his jaw, while Rhaenys’s tears fell freely, her hand clutching her husband’s for support.

The dirge was somber, filled with reverence for the sea and the Velaryon bloodline. It spoke of the strength of their House, of Laena’s beauty and courage, and of the inevitable return to the waters that gave them life.

“She deserved more time,” Tyland murmured beside you, his voice low so only you could hear.

You glanced up at him, his usually confident features softened by the solemnity of the moment. “She did,” you agreed quietly, your voice tinged with sorrow. “But fate doesn’t care for what we deserve.”

His hand covered yours briefly, a silent gesture of comfort. Your gaze shifted back to Rhaenyra, whose attention had turned to her boys. Jace looked up at her, concern flickering in his dark eyes as he clutched her hand tightly. Rhaenyra gave him a faint smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes, and whispered something you couldn’t hear.

“You’re watching her,” Tyland observed softly, his voice tinged with curiosity.

“She’s grieving,” you replied, glancing back at him. “Not just for Laena. There’s more she can’t say.”

He nodded, understanding without prying further. His gaze flickered to Daemon, who now watched you from across the courtyard, his piercing eyes meeting yours briefly before shifting away.

“And he’s watching you,” Tyland murmured, a hint of displeasure in his tone.

You sighed softly. “Let him. His gaze holds no power here.”

Tyland’s lips twitched, not quite a smile, but enough to soften his stern expression. “I doubt he sees it that way.”

Before you could reply, the dirge ended, and Vaemond stepped back, his voice falling silent as the sound of the waves filled the void. Corlys stepped forward then, his voice steady as he spoke briefly of Laena’s strength, her love for her family, and her unyielding spirit. When he finished, Rhaenys placed a hand over her heart, her gaze fixed on her daughter’s coffin as it was prepared for its final journey into the sea.

The gathering remained silent, the weight of loss pressing down on everyone. You tightened your grip on Tyland’s arm, grateful for his steady presence as you stood among the mourners. Whatever grief the day held, you knew you could weather it together, just as you always had.

The hall at High Tide is quieter than one might expect after a funeral, the muted hum of conversations filling the air. The gathering, though somber, serves as a moment for family and allies to come together, to share in grief and strengthen bonds. Servants move unobtrusively, offering goblets of wine and trays of modest refreshments. The atmosphere is heavy with a mix of sorrow and the subtle currents of unspoken tensions.

You stand with Tyland near the far side of the room, your children gathered close. Loren and Rhaelle, always poised and observant, stand with Kevan, who fidgets slightly under the weight of the solemn occasion. Alysanne clings to your skirts, her wide violet eyes scanning the room with quiet curiosity.

You crouch down to her level, smoothing a strand of her silvery hair. “Alysanne,” you say gently, “why don’t you go with your brothers and sister? Jace and Luke are just over there.”

She hesitates, her small hands clutching your gown. “Will you come too, Mama?”

You smile softly, brushing a hand over her cheek. “Soon, my love. I need to speak with someone first.”

Tyland steps forward, placing a hand on Loren’s shoulder. “Take your siblings, Loren. Stay close to your cousins and keep an eye on them.”

Loren nods, his golden hair catching the light as he straightens. “Yes, Father.”

“Good,” Tyland replies, his tone firm but kind. “Go on now.”

The children move as instructed, Loren guiding Rhaelle, Kevan, and Alysanne toward the cluster of their Velaryon cousins. Jace notices them immediately, his face brightening as he waves them over, while Luke grins and begins speaking animatedly.

With the children settled, you turn your attention back to the task at hand. Your gaze drifts across the room, searching for Daemon. He is easy to find, his silver-gold hair catching the candlelight as he stands near the edge of the gathering, flanked by his daughters, Rhaena and Baela. His posture is relaxed, almost nonchalant, but there’s a tension in his expression that belies his usual bravado.

Tyland follows your gaze, his hand resting lightly on your arm. “It’s best to approach him carefully,” he murmurs. “He’s not one for empty gestures.”

You nod, glancing up at him. “I know. But it’s important. He lost his wife, and whatever animosity exist between us, we must show respect.”

He hesitates for a moment, then inclines his head. “Very well. Let’s go.”

Together, you cross the room, weaving through the clusters of lords and ladies. Tyland’s presence at your side is a steadying force, his calm composure a stark contrast to the undercurrent of unease that ripples through the gathering. As you near Daemon, his sharp eyes flicker toward you, his expression unreadable.

“Uncle,” you begin, your voice soft but steady. “Our condolences for your loss. Lady Laena was a remarkable woman.”

Daemon’s gaze shifts from you to Tyland, his lips curling into a faint, humorless smile. “Condolences,” he repeats, his tone dry. “A kind gesture. But words do little to ease the sting of loss.”

Tyland, ever diplomatic, inclines his head slightly. “True, but they remind us that we are not alone in our grief. Your daughters are fortunate to have you to guide them through this.”

Daemon’s expression softens slightly at the mention of Rhaena and Baela. He glances toward them, watching as they stand with Rhaenys and Corlys, their small figures dwarfed by the crowd. “They’ve lost their mother,” he says quietly, more to himself than to you. “And the world offers no comfort for that.”

You take a small step closer, your voice gentle. “But they have you, and each other. And they will find strength in that, even if it takes time.”

His eyes flicker back to you, and for a moment, something unreadable passes over his face. “You’ve always had a way with words, niece,” he murmurs, his tone almost wistful. “Perhaps that’s why Viserys let you marry a Lannister instead of pushing you into a match closer to home.”

Tyland stiffens slightly beside you, but you place a hand on his arm, a subtle gesture to keep the peace. “The decisions of the past are behind us, Uncle,” you reply, your tone even. “Today is about honoring Laena and supporting those she left behind.”

Daemon regards you for a moment longer before nodding, his usual smirk returning. “Very well. Your words are appreciated, even if they change nothing.”

Before he can say more, Rhaena tugs on his sleeve, her tear-streaked face tilted up to him. “Father,” she whispers, “can we leave soon?”

Daemon’s expression softens as he looks down at her, his hand resting on her shoulder. “Soon,” he murmurs, his voice gentler than you’ve ever heard it.

You step back slightly, offering a small nod. “If there’s anything we can do, you need only ask.”

Daemon doesn’t respond directly, but his gaze lingers on you and Tyland for a moment before he turns back to his daughters. Taking that as your cue, you step away, Tyland’s hand returning to the small of your back as you walk toward the center of the room.

“That went better than expected,” Tyland remarks under his breath, his tone dry.

You glance at him, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “Daemon is… complicated. But even he knows when to accept kindness, no matter how reluctantly.”

As the two of you rejoin the gathering, you feel the weight of the moment settle over you. The tides of grief and politics are shifting, and you can only hope to navigate them with care—for your family, your children, and the legacy you are building.

The salty breeze from the sea filters through the slightly ajar window, carrying the sound of distant waves crashing against the Driftmark cliffs. In the chambers provided for you and Tyland, the air is thick with warmth, intimacy, and the scent of the ocean.

Tyland's hands roam your body with practiced ease, his lips tracing a fiery path along your neck. Your fingers tangle in his golden hair, pulling him closer as you lose yourself in the fervent passion of the moment. His voice, deep and husky, murmurs your name against your skin, a low growl of desire punctuating his movements.

“Y/N,” he breathes, his hands tightening on your hips as he draws you closer. “You drive me mad.”

You smile against his lips, your voice teasing. “Good. It’s only fair after all the chaos you bring to my life.”

He chuckles, his laugh vibrating through you as he lowers you back onto the bed, his weight grounding you in the moment. His lips capture yours again, urgent and consuming, as the outside world fades into nothingness.

Just as his hands move to the ties of your gown, an abrupt, loud knock shatters the moment. The sound echoes through the chamber, jarring you both from your haze. Tyland freezes, his forehead resting against yours as his breath hitches, a low growl escaping him.

“Seven hells,” he mutters under his breath, his voice rough with frustration. “If that’s someone asking about council matters at this hour…”

The knock comes again, more insistent this time. “My lord, princess,” a familiar voice calls through the door. It’s Ser Harrold Westerling, his tone urgent. “You are needed at once. There has been an incident.”

You exchange a glance with Tyland, the heat of the moment giving way to concern. He sighs heavily, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before pulling away. “Stay here,” he murmurs, reaching for his tunic. “I’ll handle this.”

“No,” you reply, sitting up and adjusting your gown. “If it’s urgent enough to send Ser Harrold, I should come too.”

Tyland pauses, his brow furrowing slightly, but he nods after a moment. “Fine. But stay close to me.”

You both rise quickly, the intimacy of moments before now replaced by a shared sense of urgency. Tyland helps you secure your gown, his hands lingering briefly on your shoulders before he moves to open the door.

Harrold stands just outside, his expression grave. He bows his head briefly. “Apologies for disturbing you, my lord, princess, but you are needed urgently in the throne room.”

“What’s happened?” Tyland asks, his voice calm but firm.

Harrold hesitates, his jaw tightening. “I am not at liberty to say, but I suggest haste. The situation is… delicate.”

You step forward, your heart quickening at the weight of his words. “Very well. Lead the way.”

As you and Tyland step into the corridor, the cool air a stark contrast to the warmth of your chambers, you feel a knot of apprehension tightening in your chest. Tyland’s hand brushes against yours briefly, a silent reassurance as you follow Ser Harrold through the dimly lit halls of High Tide.

The sound of your footsteps echoes against the stone, each step bringing you closer to whatever awaits in the throne room. Though you exchange no words, the shared glances between you and Tyland speaks volumes.

The night, once filled with the promise of passion and respite, now held only questions and foreboding.

The moment you and Tyland step into the throne room, the air hits you like a wall—filled with dread, anger, and the coppery scent of blood. Voices rise and fall in a cacophony of chaos, and the scene before you stops you in your tracks.

At the center of it all stands Aemond Targaryen, his face pale, blood staining the side of his head where his right eye used to be. Alicent is at his side, her expression a storm of fury and desperation as she clutches his uninjured shoulder. Next to her, King Viserys sits slumped in his chair, his face ashen with shock, his cane trembling in his grip.

Not far from them, Luke stands with blood trickling from his nose, his small frame trembling as he clutches Jace’s arm for support. Jace himself is battered, his lip split and his cheek swollen. Baela and Rhaena are nearby, their dresses torn, their faces streaked with tears and grime. And there—your heart drops—your twins, Loren and Rhaelle, stand amidst the chaos, their faces pale, their clothes bloodied and torn, with visible cuts and bruises on their arms and faces.

“Loren! Rhaelle!” you cry, rushing forward with Tyland close behind. They turn at the sound of your voice, relief flashing across their faces as you kneel before them, your hands trembling as you check their injuries.

“We’re fine, Mama,” Loren says quickly, though his voice shakes. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

Rhaelle nods, her lower lip quivering. “We tried to stop it, but…”

“Stop what?” Tyland demands, his voice sharp as his gaze sweeps over the room, taking in the chaos. “What in the Seven Hells happened here?”

Before anyone can answer, the doors burst open again, and Rhaenyra strides in, her expression frantic as her gaze immediately lands on her sons. “Jace! Luke!” she exclaims, rushing to their side. She drops to her knees, pulling them into her arms despite their injuries. “What happened? Who did this?”

Daemon follows her in, his steps slower but no less deliberate, his piercing gaze taking in every detail of the room. His eyes narrow when they land on Aemond, and then on Alicent, whose fury seems to ignite further at Rhaenyra’s arrival.

“This,” Alicent hisses, her voice sharp enough to cut through the noise, “is what happens when your bastards think they can act without consequence!”

Rhaenyra stiffens, her arms tightening around her sons as she rises to her full height. “How dare you!” she spits, her voice trembling with rage. “You will not speak of my children that way!”

“They’ve maimed my son!” Alicent screams, pointing a trembling finger at Aemond. “He has lost an eye because of them—because of your lack of discipline!”

“Enough!” Viserys’s voice booms, though it lacks its usual strength. He struggles to rise from his chair, his cane shaking as he leans heavily on it. “You will not bring your grievances before the court like this! What is the meaning of this madness?”

Jace steps forward, his voice shaking but defiant. “He—he called us bastards,” he says, glaring at Aemond. “He called my mother a whore.”

Luke, still clutching his nose, nods vehemently. “He started it! We were defending our family.”

“That doesn’t justify this,” Alicent snaps, her gaze flickering to Loren and Rhaelle. “And what were your children doing, Princess? Joining in this chaos?”

“We were trying to stop it!” Loren interjects, his voice breaking as he steps forward. “We didn’t want anyone to get hurt.”

“Silance!” Viserys shouts again, his face red with exertion. “I will have order in my court! Explain yourselves, now!”

The children hesitate, exchanging glances, before Baela steps forward, her hands clenched into fists. “It was Aemond,” she says, her voice strong despite the tears streaming down her face. “He took Vhagar. He claimed her without asking.”

The room erupts into another wave of shouting—Corlys and Rhaenys have entered silently, and Corlys’s booming voice demands answers. Daemon, now standing beside Rhaenyra, smirks faintly, though his gaze remains cold as he surveys Aemond.

“She was my mother’s dragon!” Rhaena shouts, stepping forward. “You had no right!”

“She’s mine now,” Aemond says, his voice low but steady despite the pain etched across his face. “Find another.”

“You dare?” Rhaenyra snarls, her fists clenching as she steps toward him. “You steal what belongs to my family and then insult my children?”

“He’s the one maimed!” Alicent snaps, pulling Aemond closer to her. “You’ll protect your bastards over the truth!”

The word hangs in the air like a weapon, sharp and deadly. Tyland’s hand tightens on your arm, his voice low and steady as he murmurs, “Stay calm. This will only get worse before it gets better.”

You nod, though your heart pounds in your chest. Your gaze flickers to your children, their wide eyes filled with fear and uncertainty. Whatever had happened tonight, the repercussions would ripple far beyond this room.

The room was quiet, save for the occasional hiss of pain from Rhaenyra as you carefully worked a needle through the torn flesh on her arm. The cut was shallow but angry, a souvenir from Alicent’s unhinged lunge during the chaos a few nights ago. You worked with steady hands, though your heart was heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid between you and your sister.

Rhaenyra sat stiffly on a chair near the window, the light streaming through and catching the silver in her hair. Her face was pale but resolute, her jaw tight as she bore the sting without complaint. She had endured worse, after all.

“You’re lucky it wasn’t deeper,” you murmured, knotting the thread before snipping it clean. “A fraction closer, and she might have hit the vein.”

Rhaenyra’s lips twisted into a humorless smile. “Alicent always did have impeccable aim. Whether it’s with words or daggers.”

You set the needle and thread aside, wiping your hands on a clean cloth before sitting opposite her. “Alicent has always been precise, yes. But this… this was beyond even her. I can’t believe she actually—”

“Lost control?” Rhaenyra finished for you, raising an eyebrow. “I can. Years of swallowing her resentment, of feeling overshadowed, of watching her sons take second place to mine—it was bound to happen. She’s not as perfect as she pretends to be.”

You sighed, leaning back as you regarded her. “And yet, she’s still trying to sway Father. Even after everything, she’s pushing now for Aemond to marry Rhaelle.”

Rhaenyra’s brow furrowed, her gaze hardening. “I know. I’ve heard the whispers. She’s trying to strengthen her hold, using marriage to bind everyone to her cause.”

“She won’t stop,” you said softly, your voice tinged with frustration. “And now, with Aegon betrothed to Helaena, she has even more reason to push.”

Rhaenyra’s lips pressed into a thin line, her fingers brushing absently against the stitched wound on her arm. “It won’t matter. Aemond won’t marry Rhaelle. Not while I have a say in it.”

You hesitated, your gaze dropping to your hands. “Rhaenyra…” you began, your voice soft, “I’m sorry. About Harwin. I—I know you can’t grieve him openly, but I wanted you to know that I’m here for you. If you ever need to talk.”

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, the mask of strength she wore cracked. Her eyes glistened, but she blinked back the tears, shaking her head. “Thank you,” she murmured. “But there’s nothing to say. He’s gone, and there’s no bringing him back.”

You reached across the table, your hand covering hers. “I’m still sorry. For everything you’ve had to bear.”

Rhaenyra squeezed your hand briefly before pulling away, her composure returning. “It’s not just me who bears things,” she said after a moment, her tone shifting. “Daemon still speaks of you, you know.”

Your entire body stiffened at her words, your eyes snapping to hers. “I don’t care,” you said quickly, your voice sharper than you intended. “Whatever he says, it doesn’t matter. I have Tyland. I’ve always had Tyland.”

Rhaenyra tilted her head, studying you with a faint smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Of course you do. But Daemon… he’s not one to let things go. Be careful, sister.”

You exhaled, forcing yourself to relax as you leaned back in your chair. “Daemon can think and say whatever he likes. My life is with Tyland, my children, my family. Nothing will change that.”

Rhaenyra nodded, though her expression remained unreadable. She glanced out the window, her gaze distant. “It’s strange, isn’t it? How quickly everything can change. One moment, you think you have time, and the next…”

She trailed off, and you knew her thoughts had turned to Harwin again. You reached for her hand once more, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

The two of you sat in silence for a long moment, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air. Outside, the waves crashed against the cliffs, a reminder of the relentless march of time.

Neither of you knew it then, but in a few short months, Laenor Velaryon would be found dead, and the fragile balance of your family’s world would shift once more.

[st4rlexx]

Daenerys and her dragons.

I made this one during a weekend when I was having a lot of creative block. And in the end I liked the result.