#IRON WOMAN AUNT

[lizzyiii]

His Mother's Sister

pairing | aemond x aunt!reader word count | 4.7k words summary | aemond becomes instantly captivated by his alluring and enigmatic aunt upon her arrival in King’s Landing, his fascination growing into a consuming obsession. one night, he sneaks into her chambers intending to claim her, only to find himself ensnared and wholly claimed by her instead. tags | 18+ MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, obsession, incest, oral (f), aemond being a simp, aemond being obsessed, older woman/younger man, reader is in her early 30s a/n | haven't written smut in a while, so here's my smut piece before I continue with my normal angst and fluff

likes, comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

“I have summoned your sister to King’s Landing.”

Aemond’s attention sharpened, his gaze lingering on his mother’s face as Otto spoke. He watched as the blood seemed to drain from her cheeks, her knuckles whitening as she gripped the edge of the table.

“For what purpose?” Alicent’s voice held a strained note, attempting to maintain a composure that clearly wavered.

Aegon, lounging at the head of the table, raised his head, intrigued. A faint smirk tugged at his lips, eyes flicking between his mother and grandsire.

“Marq Ambrose commands one of the most powerful armies in the Reach,” Otto stated with an offhand shrug, his eyes giving nothing away.

“And he would serve us best by keeping that power in the Reach, where it may be summoned at need,” Alicent interjected, her tone unyielding, her eyes locked on Otto’s. There was no mistaking the tension in her voice, a chill that crept through the words.

Aemond’s brow furrowed slightly as he observed his mother. His aunt had always been something of a mystery—whispered about in brief conversations that faded when he entered the room. A few years after his birth, she had been wedded to Lord Ambrose of the Reach, her presence a vague shadow on his life, a name he had heard only in passing. And now, with her impending arrival, he sensed a thread of something forbidden—a story that remained carefully locked away, just out of reach.

Aegon chuckled, breaking the taut silence. “Let Lord Ambrose come, then, if he so wishes to make merry in our halls. He is but my uncle by marriage; surely, we ought to welcome such kin to the capital.” His gaze gleamed as he spoke, and his smile widened. “And I would be most pleased to meet my aunt, at last.”

But Aemond’s mind lingered elsewhere. His mother’s discomfort stirred his curiosity, yes—but something deeper, a whisper of anticipation he could scarcely name, took root.

A week had passed since that conversation, and now the family gathered in the throne room, awaiting Lord Ambrose’s arrival. Aegon sat with careless authority upon the Iron Throne, his gaze sharp with the amusement of expectation, while the rest of them stood beneath the shadow of the dais.

The heavy oak doors creaked open, and a knight’s voice rang out through the hall. “May I present Lord Marq Ambrose and his Lady Wife.”

A stocky figure stepped forward, his hair streaked with white and black, his girth almost comical in its fullness. Aemond cast but a cursory glance at the man, unimpressed by this swollen lord from the Reach, before his gaze shifted past him.

And then, Aemond stilled. His eye widened, his brows lifting as he fought to contain his reaction. His heart gave an unbidden jolt, nearly betraying him. If he had chanced a glance at Aegon, he would have seen his brother’s mouth agape, struck silent.

Beside Lord Ambrose stood his lady—a woman of such beauty that she seemed almost ethereal in her presence, like some creature of starlight veiled in fine silks. You could have been Lord Ambrose’s granddaughter, and yet here you were, his lawful wife. Aemond’s mind spun.

From what he understood, this aunt of his was five summers younger than his mother, yet you bore not a trace of age. Your beauty held a captivating allure, tempered with a regal composure that only added to your mystique. You appeared no older than five-and-twenty, though your presence held the calm authority of a queen.

"Lord and Lady Ambrose," Aegon declared with a broad grin as he rose from the Iron Throne and descended the dais, his eyes gleaming with curiosity. "Welcome."

Lord Ambrose, with a thick and lumbering step, inclined his head and spoke in a voice as stout as his frame. “We thank you for your welcome, Your Grace, and pledge our loyalty to the one true king.”

Aegon waved a dismissive hand, barely seeming to heed the man’s words. “Yes, yes, the crown is grateful for your loyalty and your… soldiers,” he said, his tone absent, as though the promise of men-at-arms meant little to him in the face of his aunt.

Then Aegon turned his attention to you, his expression shifting to one of eager charm. He stepped closer and took your hand, lifting it to his lips. "My aunt," he said, his voice thick with pleasure, “it is an honor to finally make your acquaintance.” He kissed your hand, his gaze lingering on you as he released it.

Your lips curled into a slight, knowing smile, your sharp eyes gleaming with a trace of amusement as though you found the entire display mildly amusing. “The honor is mine, my king,” you replied, your voice soft but rich, laced with an elegance and confidence that defied your role as the wife of a lesser lord.

Aemond, standing nearby, felt his pulse quicken at the sound of your voice. It was smooth, sultry, and held an unspoken promise, a warmth that washed over him and stirred something deep within. His gaze lingered on her, captivated, as if drawn to some unnameable force.

Otto cleared his throat, a subtle warning in his gaze as he stepped forward, sensing the direction of Aegon’s attentions. He inclined his head politely. “Lord Ambrose,” he greeted, then turned to the lady beside him, his tone softening. “Daughter.”

Aemond watched with surprise as she stepped away from Lord Ambrose without hesitation, her face alight with joy. “Father!” she exclaimed, her voice warm and bright. She crossed the floor with graceful steps, her skirts sweeping behind her as she embraced her father.

Otto’s usually stoic expression softened, his arms enveloping her with an affection rare to see from the Hand of the King. “How I’ve missed you,” he murmured.

Aemond, along with Aegon and Helaena, exchanged startled glances, astonished by the depth of feeling Otto revealed.

She broke away, casting a radiant smile at Otto before her gaze shifted, and she found Alicent. Aemond watched as his mother’s expression flickered, caught between awkwardness and reluctance, her shoulders tense. But his aunt moved toward her with the same confident warmth. “Sister,” she greeted, wrapping her arms around Alicent in a sincere embrace.

Alicent seemed to steel herself, managing a strained smile as she endured the hug. When they pulled apart, her expression remained stiff as she forced a cordial tone. “Sister,” she said carefully, “you look… as though no time has passed at all.”

The amusement in your eyes deepened, a subtle spark of mischief that curled your lips into a nearly smug smile. “And yet,” you replied, voice gentle but pointed, “it seems that time has left its mark on you."

The words were soft, yet they carried an edge that struck the air between them. Alicent’s face faltered, her polite mask slipping for an instant. Aemond watched the exchange, captivated by the intricate web of tensions and histories unfolding before him. He had thought his mother impervious, yet here she was, visibly discomforted under the gaze of her younger sister.

“Well,” Aegon’s voice broke in, strangely lively, “this calls for a celebration.” He clapped his hands, grinning widely. “A family supper, to welcome Lord… and Lady Ambrose to King’s Landing.” He glanced between his aunt and mother with a glint in his eye, as if relishing the simmering tension.

Aemond glanced toward his aunt, your eyes alight with a confidence that drew him in, entangled with memories he could only guess at. You seemed utterly unperturbed by the uneasy reception, holding yourself with an assurance that only deepened the fascination you stirred within him.

The supper was, in truth, a strained affair. Lord Ambrose quickly drank himself into a state of merriment, his voice growing louder with each goblet of wine he downed. He boasted endlessly of Ambrosia, their ancestral castle in the Reach, extolling the grandeur of its halls, the strength of its walls, and the might of his armies.

It was painfully clear that neither Aegon nor Otto paid him much heed; Aegon’s eyes glazed over with feigned interest, while Otto offered only the occasional nod, his mind elsewhere.

Aegon, however, deftly steered the conversation back to you at every opportunity. “But tell us, Aunt,” he said with a sly smile, “what tales do you bring from the Reach? Surely there are more interesting things than castle stones and soldiers.”

Across the table, Aemond found his brother’s persistent attempts at flirtation grating, yet he could not fault Aegon for giving you the attention. Your voice, like a song in his ear, drew him in each time you spoke, its smooth cadence addictive.

You spoke easily, your words painting scenes of courtly life in the Reach, of feasts and tournaments, your radiant smile outshining your husband’s drunken ramblings. Every eye at the table seemed drawn to you, but none with the quiet intensity of Aemond’s single, focused gaze.

He was captivated by the way you commanded the room, with a poise that cast Lord Ambrose’s bluster into the shadows. And when you looked his way, even for a fleeting moment, he felt as though the world quieted around him.

“And what of you and my mother in your younger days?” Aegon asked, a mischievous, drunken grin on his lips, his words slurring slightly as he leaned forward in his chair.

Alicent shot him a pointed look, her expression tightening as she cleared her throat. “Aegon,” she murmured, her voice gently chastising, ��perhaps my sister would appreciate a moment to enjoy her meal.”

But you merely laughed, dismissing her concern with a wave of your hand. “Oh, it’s quite all right, Alicent,” you said warmly. Turning to Aegon, your eyes sparkled with a hint of nostalgia. “You see, in our younger years, your mother could barely stand to be near me.”

Alicent’s discomfort grew visible as she shifted in her seat, her voice soft but strained. “That is not true, sister.”

“Oh, but it is,” you replied with a soft, almost wistful laugh. “Not that I hold it against you, Alicent. I was terribly fond of her then; I looked up to her as one might look to a mother. But every time I tried to spend time with her, she would run off with Princess Rhaenyra, laughing at my expense.”

“Those were mere childish games,” Alicent interjected, her voice taut as she worked to maintain her composure.

“Indeed, they were,” you agreed with an unbothered smile. “Children can be so prone to envy and jealousy. You see,” your tone lightened, yet held a playful undertone as your eyes drifted back to Aegon, “I was often called the ‘Diamond of Oldtown,’ and perhaps such adoration left its mark on dear Alicent.”

The words were spoken with an air of casual jest, yet there was no mistaking the edge beneath them. Aemond watched as Alicent’s mask slipped, her cheeks flushing as she struggled to keep her voice steady. It was clear you were savoring Alicent’s discomfort, a faint glimmer of amusement lighting your eyes as they traveled slowly down the length of the table.

And then, your gaze found him.

“And what of you, dear nephew?” you inquired, your voice as smooth as wine poured in darkened halls. “I’ve heard many tales of you in the Reach.”

Aemond felt his heart thud within his chest, a warmth rising unbidden to his face as he fought to maintain his poise. “Tales of what, Aunt?” he asked, his voice low, striving for calm.

A smile curved upon your lips, one that was as inviting as it was knowing. “A great warrior, fierce and unmatched across the Seven Kingdoms. The rider of Vhagar, queen of all dragons,” you murmured, your words laced with a hint of admiration.

“That’s all, my lady,” Aemond replied softly, his gaze never wavering from yours.

And in return, you tilted your head ever so slightly, an amused glint in your eyes as though you were looking beyond the surface, into the very marrow of him. It was a gaze both alluring and unsettling, one that sent a shiver down his spine.

Before you could speak again, however, your husband’s voice cut through the charged silence. His tone was slurred and irritated, clearly displeased by the lack of attention on him as he clumsily launched into yet another tale of his supposed valor. Aemond noted how you sighed softly, a look of resignation crossing your features as you turned your gaze away from him.

But then, as though unable to resist, your eyes drifted back to Aemond. You held his gaze for a heartbeat longer than propriety allowed and, with a barely concealed smirk, you winked.

Aemond’s heart skipped a beat, his lone eye widening ever so slightly as he blinked, wondering if he had imagined it. He looked back, only to find you now watching your husband with a look of faint distaste, a grimace twisting your otherwise perfect features. It was a small, subtle gesture, but one that spoke volumes, and Aemond felt a surge of something dark and possessive stirring within him.

In that moment, he realized that this supper was not simply an introduction; it was an invitation, a challenge, and a temptation all at once.

These thoughts lingered long after, spiraling in his mind with an intensity he couldn’t quiet. Later, as he passed through the halls, he overheard a quiet murmur from a maid: Lord and Lady Ambrose had chosen to sleep in separate chambers. Aemond’s pulse quickened.

The knowledge seemed a silent invitation, a doorway left just ajar. He recalled the way you had spoken to him, your voice holding layers meant only for him. The look in your eyes—hungry, as though you sought to devour his very soul—left him craving to be consumed by that gaze again. No, this was not his imagination. He was certain of it.

And it was this certainty that drove him through the darkened halls of the Red Keep, slipping past drowsy guards, cloaked in shadow, his steps muffled by the silence of the sleeping castle.

When he reached your door, he eased it open, careful to make no sound, and stepped inside with the stealth of a shadow. Yet he halted at once, caught off guard by the sight that greeted him.

There you sat, reclining on a velvet chaise, a goblet of deep red wine in hand, eyes cast down at a leather-bound book resting in your lap. The faint candlelight painted your skin in warm gold, and your attire—a red nightgown, translucent and clinging to every curve—left little hidden, casting a spell of allure around you.

Aemond’s throat tightened as he took in the sight, the image searing itself into his mind. But the quiet gulp betrayed him, and your gaze lifted, pinning him where he stood.

“Your Highness,” you murmured, your voice laced with a seductive warmth. “What a surprise.” The knowing smile on your lips told him this was no surprise at all.

Feeling the weight of your gaze, he steeled himself, adopting the guise of confidence. “I could not find sleep, my lady,” he replied, his voice steady. “And it would appear you are in the same predicament.”

You set down your goblet and closed the book in your lap, your every movement deliberate. Rising from your seat, you let the robe slide from your shoulders, the fabric pooling at your feet. “You know,” you murmured, teasingly, “it is most improper for a man to visit a married woman at such an hour.”

Aemond took a step closer, his gaze never leaving you. “But you are my aunt—my family.”

A small, knowing laugh escaped your lips as you slipped past him, your arm brushing his, a soft touch that sent a jolt through him. He closed his eye briefly, savoring the warmth, and when he opened it again, you had moved toward the bed, your smile one of invitation.

“The Targaryens are known for their peculiar customs when it comes to family.” You glanced back at him with an amused, daring gleam in your eye. “Tell me, what is it that you desire?”

He took another step forward, drawn like a moth to flame. “I think you know what I desire.”

“And if I were to say yes,” you purred, sitting upon the edge of the bed, “what would you do?”

He moved closer, his voice low with reverence. “I would do whatever you asked of me.”

Your lips curled, eyes glinting with a barely concealed command. “Then kneel for me,” you whispered.

For a brief moment, his brow furrowed, but any hesitation vanished. He lowered himself to his knees before you, his head tilted upward, gaze reverent. “As you wish, my lady.”

You studied him, a look of satisfaction crossing your face as you gathered your skirts, parting your legs with a languid grace. Tilting your chin, you gave a single, soft nod. “Then go on, my sweet prince,” you murmured, your voice a quiet command, heavy with promise.

He hesitated for a moment, then slowly leaned forward, pressing a tender kiss to your inner thigh. His hands came to rest on your hips as he began to place soft kisses along your skin, working his way higher.

When he finally reached the apex of your thighs, he paused, looking up at you, his eye hooded.

"Are you certain about this, Aunt?" Despite his words, his body language betrayed his eagerness - his breathing quickened and his fingers tightened their grip on your hips ever so slightly.

You let out a soft moan as he kissed your thighs, your fingers tangled in his hair, urging him on, "Yes I am certain, now continue before I change my mind."

With a low growl, he surged forward, burying his face between your thighs. He wasted no time in finding your sensitive bud with his tongue, flicking and circling it expertly.

One hand slid up to cup your breast through your thin nightgown, kneading the soft flesh as he continued his ministrations below. He alternated between long, slow licks and quick flicks of his tongue, gauging your reactions to find what felt best.

The other hand gripped your hip more firmly, holding you in place as he devoured you like a starving man at a feast. Wet sounds filled the room as he worked tirelessly to bring you pleasure, lost in the taste and scent of your arousal. Your back arched as he licked your cunt, a loud moan escaped your lips, "Oh gods, yes."

Your fingers tightened in his hair, as you bucked your hips against his face, seeking more of his skilled touch, "Yes, feast on me."

Spurred on by your moans and the encouragement in your voice, Aemond redoubled his efforts. He sealed his lips around your bud and sucked hard, his tongue lashing over the sensitive nub in rapid circles.

Two fingers slid deep inside your slick heat, curling to stroke along your inner walls as they thrusted in and out. The obscene wet sounds of his fingers pumping into your dripping core mingled with your increasingly desperate cries of pleasure.

Aemond could feel you tensing and shuddering beneath his touch, teetering on the brink of release. He doubled down, sucking harder and fucking you faster with his fingers, determined to push you over the edge into blissful oblivion.

Your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, screaming out in ecstasy as your body shook violently, juices gushing out and soaking his face, "Oh fuck! Aemond!"

You clutched at his head, grinding your cunt against his mouth as you rode out the waves of pleasure, your skin glistening with sweat, "Don't you dare stop until I tell you to!"

Feeling your body quake and spasm around his invading fingers, Aemond drank in every drop of your sweet release, lapping at your pulsing sex greedily. He prolonged your climax with relentless strokes of his tongue, coaxing out every last tremor of pleasure.

Only when your spasms subsided does he finally pull back, his chin dripping with your essence. He gazed up at you with a triumphant, almost feral glint in his eye, his own arousal straining against the confines of his breeches, "Have I pleased you, Aunt?"

"Yes, yes you have," you said breathlessly.

Without a word, he rose to his feet and began to strip off his clothes, revealing a lean, muscular physique honed by years of training. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed with blood, the tip already glistening with pre-cum.

"You have such a pretty cock, nephew," you said, taking in the sight of him, as your hand reached out for his cock.

Aemond's breath hitched as your hand wrapped around his throbbing length, his hips instinctively bucking into the touch. He watched, transfixed, as your fingers traced the ridged veins and delicate skin, marveling at how small yet firm your hand looked compared to his engorged member.

"It's yours," he rasped, his voice strained with need. "Do whatever you want with it."

He stepped closer, pressing the heavy weight of his erection against your palm, the heat of his skin seeping into your touch. Leaning down, he captured your lips in a hungry kiss, his tongue delving deep to tangle with yours as he grinded against you.

You broke the kiss, panting heavily, as you pulled him onto the bed. Then you straddled him, rubbing your dripping cunt along his cock, coating it with your juices, "I've never ridden a dragon before. Tell me, do you want me to claim you?"

Aemond's single eye blazed with lust and something deeper, darker, as he gazed up at you poised above him. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, the muscles flexing beneath his pale skin.

"Yes, Aunt," he growled, his voice thick with desire. "Claim me. Make me yours."

His hands came up to grasp your hips, guiding you to position yourself over his straining cock. His head nudged at your entrance, smearing your slickness across it.

"Do it," he urged, his gaze intense and unblinking. "Take me deep."

So slowly you sank down onto his cock, letting out a loud moan as you stretched around his girth. You took him inch by delicious inch until you were fully seated on him, "Fuck, your cock was made for my cunt."

Aemond threw his head back with a guttural groan as you sheathed him completely, your tight heat enveloping his throbbing length. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, nipping and sucking at the tender skin as he reveled in the feeling of being utterly filled in you.

"So tight," he panted against your throat.

His hands squeezed your hips, holding you steady as he began to thrust up into you, meeting each downward plunge of your own hips. The bed creaked beneath you, the sound mingling with your mingled moans of pleasure. And feeling a tinge of frustration, his hands met the top of your nightgown as he pulled hard, ripping it in half completely, making you gasp.

You rode him hard and fast, your breasts bouncing with each powerful thrust. the sound of skin slapping against skin echoed through the room, mixed with your high pitched moans, "Yes, yes, fuck me harder Aemond!"

Aemond leaned forward, sucking on your breast as if he was a babe desperately seeking milk. He suckled greedily at your breast, his tongue swirling around the hardened peak as he drew the sensitive flesh into his mouth. His hands roamed your curves possessively, one sliding down to grip your ass while the other tweaked and tugged at your neglected nipple.

He met your wild riding with equal fervor, pistoning his hips up to meet your downward thrusts. The force of his movements drove you upward, impaling you again and again on his thick cock. Your cries of ecstasy spurred him on, his own groans of pleasure growing louder and more desperate.

Suddenly, he flipped you over onto your back, looming over you with a predatory gleam in his eye. He pinned your wrists above your head, holding you captive as he pounded into you with renewed vigor, the new angle allowing him to penetrate even deeper.

You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist, locking him in place as you grinded your hips upwards to match his frenzied pace. Your nails dug into his shoulders as you clung to him, urging him on, "Fuck! Right there!"

Aemond let go of your wrists, leaning down to capture your lips in a bruising kiss as he continued to ravage your cunt. He swallowed all your screams and moans, relishing in the taste and feel of you.

"Cum in me aemond! Fill me with your seed!" You screamed into his mouth as another orgasm ripped through you.

The sensation of your inner walls clenching and rippling around him sent Aemond careening over the edge. With a hoarse shout, he buried himself to the hilt and erupted, his hot seed flooding your womb in powerful jets.

"Ahh, gods," he gasped, his body shuddering with the intensity of his climax. He continued to pulse and twitch within you, ensuring every drop is deposited deep inside your welcoming heat.

As the aftershocks subsided, Aemond collapsed onto you, his weight a comforting press against your satiated form. He nuzzled into the crook of your neck, his breath coming in ragged pants as he struggled to regain his composure.

"That was...incredible," he murmured, his voice low and husky with satisfaction. “You are truly remarkable.”

You wrapped your arms around him, holding him close, reveling in the warmth of his body against yours as you both sought to catch your breath. A delicate shiver coursed through you, remnants of your shared ecstasy still fluttering within.

“There, there,” you purred softly, running your fingers through his silken hair, enjoying the feel of his softness against your skin. Aemond lay on your chest, his face buried in the crook of your neck, the intoxicating scent of you mingling with the fading heat of your shared intimacy.

Once Aemond had calmed his breathing, he lifted his head to meet your lips in a searing kiss, his tongue dancing with yours in a fervent exploration, igniting a spark that flickered between you. His hand traveled down your body, the warmth of his touch setting your skin alight.

When his hand paused on your stomach, he broke the kiss, a frown creasing his brow as curiosity flickered in his violet eye. It was well known that you had been wed to Lord Ambrose for fifteen years without bearing a child. Whispers of your barrenness had circulated through the halls of the Red Keep, and Aemond could not suppress the question that hung in the air between you.

"Is it true you are barren?" he asked, his tone laced with concern.

You regarded him with a playful smirk, the corners of your lips lifting. “No,” you murmured softly, your fingers gently caressing his long silver hair.

There was amusement in your voice, and as you laughed lightly, the sound was like music in the dimly lit chamber. “Do you truly think I had ever wished to be filled with a child by that fat cunt?”

Aemond’s single violet eye widened in surprise at your boldness. You continued, your tone shifting to one of quiet confidence. “Each time I’ve lain with him, I’ve taken moon tea the morning after.”

You leaned closer, your hand reaching out to caress his cheek with a gentle, deliberate stroke. Your fingers traced the sharp line of his jaw, igniting a spark that sent a wave of absolute pleasure down Aemond's spine. “Yet I don’t think I’d mind bearing your child.”

The very thought of your bearing his child sent shivers of exhilaration coursing through him. The idea that at this very moment, his seed might have taken root within you filled him with a sense of possessiveness that was both intoxicating and primal. In that instant, it became clear: you were his, and he was yours, bound together by an unspoken promise.

Aemond’s mind raced with possibilities. He would need to find a way to rid you of Lord Ambrose, but that task seemed deceptively simple in the face of what awaited him. Once the obstacle was removed, he would claim you as his wife, securing a future that felt destined.

You were made for him, and in his heart, he knew you had been waiting all this time—patiently, silently—for him to come to you.

HOPE YOU ENJOYED!

[cherryheairt]

Hidden Truths

Cregan x Wife!reader

pt. 1

named reader (aye-leese) no description, from house Glover.

summary - Cregan comes home from war with a scandalous surprise, much to the horror of his wife. Though, it is not all that she expected when she heard of her husband's infidelity.

Inspired by Ned and Catelyn Stark (obviously lol)

It had been four moons since Cregan Stark returned from King's Landing, ending the war and placing Aegon iii on the Iron Throne. Four moons since he presented his bastard for all to see, declaring to his wife that they would raise the boy as a legitimized Stark.

Aelys Glover, now Stark, had never thought her husband would betray her in such a brutal way. To bed another woman down in the South, in a time of war, to father a bastard. To give the bastard his Stark name.

She hadn't even had her first babe yet, due to the young couple deciding to spend their first few years of marriage having each other all to themselves. Had it all been a lie from Cregan? A masterful deceit to make his mistress' son his heir? Perhaps he had regretted their marriage and chosen to disregard any of her future children, thinking her genetics undesirable. Whatever dull excuse he had, it would never be enough to balm her heart.

People whispered about which mother's son might be Cregan's heir apparent.

It was not yet decided, and would not be until years ahead when Aelys showed if she could bear him more sons or not. Until she did, Brandon Stark would be Cregan's unofficially heir as his eldest son.

Aelys had refused to share a bed with Cregan since the night he returned. She would not perform her marital duties anymore, not until she was either dead or he forced her, which she knew he at least had the honor to not. Aelys would give him no children of her own, spitefully intending to leave the Stark line to a bastard who would forever be known to the world as such.

She would make it clear that her husband's stupidity would end the Stark's honorable history streak. The babe would be legit, yes, but never trueborn. It was said that bastards were born nasty and cruel, and Aelys had not believed such rumors until she met the babe herself. Her spite grew in spite of her previous kind and understanding nature, driven to hate the babe without knowing him.

Even with the same House name as his father, the boy was nothing like him. He seemed to carry his mother's traits, instead, whoever she was. Dark black hair and even darker eyes to match, though the Northern pale skin Cregan carried had stayed through the genetic battle.

At least Cregan did not bring her home, too. If he had, Aelys would have thrown herself from The Wall in shame and disgrace. She would not be the other woman in her own marriage.

His words when he returned burned at her heart, even now the dust had not settled nor had the fire quelled.

"It was a one-time tryst, I swear this to you. A night of vulnerability, when it got rough in King's Landing." He said, voice strained and undereyes dark with the heavy weight of guilt and responsibility. She'd never felt such an intense urge to hit a man before.

His bastard sister, Sara Snow, a woman whom Aelys had grown to see as her own sister and close confidante, returned from King's Landing a month after her brother.

She looked even worse than her elder brother, who still could barely hold Aelys' eyes when she wordlessly passed him in the halls. She looked gaunt and exhausted, though she claimed that the journey back was tiring. Sighing, Aelys could only welcome her back into the Great Keep to catch up over all that she had missed. Apparently, Sara had stayed in the Riverlands for most of the moons Cregan had hosted in the Crownlands. She was housed by the Blackwoods, becoming fast friends with Alysanne Blackwood and Davos Blackwood, the fierce aunt and nephew who fought together against the Greens.

No useful information about the whore that Cregan had bedded that night, Aelys bitterly thought for a moment. Then, a wave of guilt and regret hit her. It was not Sara's fault for her brother's mistakes. She was truly glad to have the conpany back, seeing as Winterfell had felt cold and emptier now that Cregan was back than it ever had before. She had been avoiding his for these four moons, leaving only a few rooms accessible for her privacy and peace of mind.

She never entered the nursery room's entire hallway. Even when needing something past it, she chose to go the longest possible route to avoid it. She didn't wish to think about the boy more than she already did. She saw him during dinners, being presented to Cregan by his wet nurse before being put down to sleep for the night. Those mere glimpses were plenty to feed her anxious mind.

Today, the adjacent hall towards the Keep's hotsprings was closed. "A few cobblestone in the wall have cracked, m'Lady. You mustn't enter for one might accidentally fall on you." A young servant boy had informed her, thoroughly apologetic as she sighed and headed him. The nursery's hall was the only one that also held the door outside, lest she chose to go all the way around the outside of the keep in this blizzard.

The thought was tempting but childish. Steeling her courage up, Aelys had fixed herself to stride past the door. She could not help the subconscious glance inside, seeing the glimpse of curly black hair laying alone in his crib, but wide awake and almost flailing around in a fuss.

Looking around, Aelys was surprised to see not one attendant or wet nurse. From her experience with babes, they were rarely left alone unless they were sleeping. Even then, some mothers and nurses liked to hover to ensure its safety while unconscious. Aelys stepped into the dim room, finding that Brandon's attention immediately focused on her. He whined out, reaching out grabbing hands toward her. Grimacing, she reached into the crib to lift him up, holding him at a safe distance from her face.

Up close, she could reluctantly admit that the babe was cute. He was well-doted on in the Keep by all the maids and even visiting Lords. Though his parentage was questionable and whispered about, none actually had the courage to ask why the boy had been legitimized so quickly. Aelys guessed it had been the circumstances. Aegon, the new King, was young and suseptible to influence, so legitimizing a bastard like Brandon was done without question.

"What are you fussing on about, you spoiled thing?" She asked, though her tone was soft and gentle. Brandon smiled a gummy smile, face lifting as he reached out again for her. This time, she allowed him to rest on her shoulder as she supported him, gently rocking back and forth as she stood. The faster he was asleep, the faster she could leave without feeling like a monster.

She already had that feeling nagging at her mind too much. Hating a babe took a lot of energy. She knew it was wrongfully placed, but Brandon's very nature and sire had wronged her more. The physical reminder that his father had not loved her.

Soft snores filled the room as she hummed lowly, the vibrations and comforting sound putting the fussy tot to sleep quicker than she had anticipated. Gently placing him back in the cot, she hands gripped the wooden edges harshly, a sharp contrast to her previous touch. Was she betraying herself for not demanding that the babe be taken away? Warded with another great House until she finally had a son? No. Cregan would never allow it, even as Lady of the House she held no true power over the Warden.

Turning, Aelys was met with her husband in the doorway. Silent as a stalking wolf, he leaned against the doorway and looked upon his son and wife with pools of affection. There was a slight gloss to them as she looked closer that she opted to ignore. "Cregan." She greeted curtly, moving to slide past him and speak no more of her presence in the nursery.

"He has a way of melting one's heart, does he not?" He asked, tilting his chin to look down at her. A branch, left out and hanging by Cregan's strong arms. Too bad that she did not need it.

"He disgusts me." She said instead, shouldering past him and continuing back to her rooms. She changed her mind in the few minutes that she spent with the bastard Stark boy. She could stay here no longer, could not bear for her own husband to bring this embodied lie to live in the very home that she did. Wouldn't raise any children to be in their older brother's shadow.

Ignoring the hushed plea from Cregan, Aelys went straight to the Maester's tower. Maester Parek had been a helpful and understanding ear for Aelys to rant to when dealing with arisen problems, whether with her moon blood, achy bones from the cold, or questioning if any ravens had come from mysterious women. None had, as far as she had been told. That is, if Parek had been entirely truthful to his Lady.

Hurriedly knocking on the man's door, it was soon opened after a grunt of physical labor had been heard from the other side. The Maester had always complained about his bad knees and how they were made worse in the winters.

"Lady Stark?" He asked, shocked to see her at midday. It was a rarity, as she usually made her visits in the morning after she broke her fast.

"Maester." She greeted, shifting on her feet. "I need to send a letter, urgently."

"May I ask to whom?" He inquired, earning a solemn nod from the young Lady.

"I'm sorry, Parek. It is private."

"Of course, my Lady. The room is yours." He bowed and left the chambers to occupy himself while she busied herself as well. She immediately made for the small attached room in the tower, made into a raven nest hundreds of years ago. A few perched black birds squaked or raised her heads at the unfamiliar sight curiously, but they were well-trained and did not spook.

Bending over the crickity desk, she quickly drafted a messily-writen yet vague letter.

Father,

Some troubles have come up in Winterfell, and Cregan Stark has advised me to return to House Glover's protection while he deals with matters here. I will be returning swiftly, though the snow will hinder the horse a few days.

See you soon,

your dearest Aelys.

As soon as she finished, she hastily melted the powder blue wax and sealed the direwolf sigil onto the rolled paper. Tying the scroll to a raven's foot, Aelys sent it off. The bird would reach House Glover's Maester quickly, and in the meantime she would ready herself for departure.

As she was shoving clothes and pelts into various bags, the very ones that carried her belongings to Winterfell over two years ago, Aelys could not stop the hot, angry tears that fell to her cheeks. Wiping away at her face with scruffy sleeve fur, gifted to her by Cregan himself, Aelys felt the frustration and loneliness sting at her soul. The loneliness was a choice on her part, most would say. That she was dramatic and most Lords sired bastards. She should be grateful he did not bring the mother back, too, and house her in his home next to his Lady Wife. All whispers she heard from her ladies-in-waiting, whom she immediately dismissed from service upon hearing such impudent things.

She would not be subjected to the humiliation. She wanted love, and she once had it. Oh, she had it. Cregan treated her like a goddess walking amongst humans for the moons they spent together before his leave to King's Landing. If she could not have Cregan's loyalty or love, she would at least find a man who she did not have high expectations for. An older Lord, perhaps, one who just wanted a young and pretty woman to give him final heirs during his last years of life. Aelys would know her role, then, and would live contently knowing she did not love foolishly while expecting faithfulness in return.

First, this marriage had to be annuled. In Lord Glover's home, she could easily ask for such a thing. The marriage had been commsumated, but there were no witnesses and no babes to confirm this to outsiders. Aelys would simply have to claim that she and Lord Stark never once bedded before he left to find another woman, and then she'd be an unmarried Lady once more. A Glover, not a Stark.

She realized she'd been quite fastidious in her packing. Unlike her carriage ride to Winterfell, her luggage could not be carried easily on one horse. She picked only one of her bags, with the thickest dresses and warmest pelts she had, rushing out of the room while clipping a cloak over her shoulders. Dark blue in color, Aelys almost cursed at the thought that almost all of her wardrobe and fine things had been gifts from Cregan. Her pelts, gloves, and even the horse that she would take home.

Cobalt, she had named the steed, noticing how his pure black coat almost gleamed blue in certain lights. Cregan had a wide and cherishing smile on his face as he walked the young stallion out of the stables a few days after their wedding. They often took walks on trails in the Wolfswood together on horseback, just their muffled conversations filling the still air. She remembered every moment with her husband fondly before he tarnished everything. Now, she knew all of it to be a facade, just like any other Lord in Westeros might have done. At least other men had the decency to be nasty plain to your face, unlike the Stark.

Aelys sneaked into the armory to pick up a few extra things, knowing no one would occupy the room when the whether was so unfortunate.

Striding towards the stables with squinted eyes, Aelys shivered at the temperature change. Luckily, the journey would be quick, with only a few days to walk on horseback. Cobalt was a resilient horse built for such harsh weather, and she was a Northern woman through and through.

She attached the bag and waterskin to Cobalt's saddle after she tacked him up. His long and unruly made quivered in the breeze as the light blizzard raged on as it had been for two days now. It did not deter her. She attached her bow and quiver to the other side to keep weight even, knowing she'd have to hunt for herself during the journey.

Steadying herself on the saddle, Aelys glanced once more at Winterfell's Great Keep, where Cregan was surely in his study or councilroom. She squeezed Colbalt's side lightly to urge the percheron onwards, giving herself no room for second guessing her choices.

At the wall's gate, the two snow-covered men regarded her with weary looks. "My Lady, there is a blizzard—" Ron Frasel told her, ginger brow upturned in question.

"I have eyes, Ron. I will return soon, I have buisness in Winter Town." She said tiredly, not wanting to be interrupted by the men at such an important time. It would not be long before a maid reported her missing.

Ernest, the guard's most frequent partner, inquired gently. "Will you require any assistance, Lady Stark? I'm sure Lord Stark would feel more at ease knowing you are escorted."

"He is fine with me going on my own, it is a short ride." She said curtly, anxious for Cregan to find out about her plan.

Ernest nodded and gestured for the iron gate to be lifted. "Safe travels, my Lady." Before bowing his head politely.

As Aelys walked through the opened gate, she urged Cobalt to a faster trot to create quick distance between her and Winterfell before she set up camp.

Ron shared an uneasy look with Ernest as the woman passed. "Lord Stark has never allowed her out without a guard before." He whispered.

His friend nodded, eyes glancing between her fading figure in the snow and the Keep. "Perhaps we should go see Lord Stark himself, just to be safe."

Ron shivered. "If he finds out we let his wife go into the blizzard without him knowin', who knows what'd happen to us."

"Quickly, then." They were both skidding off towards the Keep with no time to waste.

[venusbyline]

Prince ࿐ྂ Kinktober. 08, oct.

— pairing: Aemond Targaryen x aunt!reader

— type: smut, dark, Kinktober (House of the Dragon Edition)

— kink: somnophilia

— summary: Aemond needs an heir if Aegon finally dies. Gwayne Hightower's wife is too drunk to notice his manipulation.

— word count: 1.7k

— tags/warnings: kinktober 8th day, Targcest (aunt/nephew), female!reader, Gwayne Hightower's wife!reader, dark!Aemond, somnophilia, dubcon/non-con, age gap (older woman/younger man), breeding kink, drunk sex, creampie, sexism, manipulation, fingering, infidelity & mistaken infidelity, curse words, marriage issues, dom!Aemond, sub!reader, baby fever, Aegon II Targaryen mentioned, Helaena Targaryen mentioned, Alicent Hightower mentioned, mentioned Jaehaera Targaryen, minor Gwayne Hightower x reader, porn with plot. no use of y/n. english is not my first language.

— tagging list: @baybaybear1 @blessedbymoon @p45510n4f4shi0n @lina-lovebug @moonnicole

— crossposting: AO3

At the moment, Aemond Targaryen possessed everything he desires. All the power he had envied his entire childhood was now no longer just a pure stupid illusion and becoming reality. With each passing hour, he became more powerful and also more ambitious.

The hunger for power was consuming him from head to toe.

As the Prince Regent, he practically had the throne to himself. He commanded and dismantled whoever he wanted. He made the main decisions. He could demand anything, and no matter how much the Small Council questioned and irritated him, it was Aemond who had the last word. He was running the war now.

Aemond had the commoners and Lords at his feet and was also and the fear that his family felt of him. Nothing was missing in his life for now. But his brilliant mind thought far ahead of the present time. Aemond Targaryen was not just cunning and greedy. He had an incredible sense of strategy and an incredible ability to manipulate all situations.

Now that part of his revenge against Aegon was already done, he needed to focus on the present and the future, leaving the outrages of his childhood aside for a few moments.

He was the Prince Regent, perhaps the future Lord of the Seven Kingdoms if Aegon's body finally decided to give in to suffering after the severe burns.

Aemond could be the new successor to the Iron Throne very soon. And a King was nothing without an heir.

Aemond had not known you for a long time. When his uncle, Gwayne Hightower, came to King's Landing to join Aegon's army in battle, you came along with him. Aemond did not like the idea of having another noble Lady in the castle. Alicent was already a pain in the ass since he kicked her out of the Council, Helaena was being useless since Jaehaerys' murder and little Jaehaera was just a silly child. He was afraid that you would irritate his patience just like his family's women did.

However, you were too focused on worrying about your husband's safety and praying for him in the Sept along with Alicent. Aemond often found himself thinking about you more than he wanted to. The way you sighed by frustration every time Gwayne left to solve some problem with the Royal Guard... Aemond could barely hide his smirk when he realized how neglected you felt.

If it was about someone else, Aemond would say that you were just spoiled needy whore and that his uncle was right to put the safety of his family first. If it was about anyone else, Aemond would never consider giving you what you seemed to want so much when you looked at Helaena playing with Jaehaera.

He needed an heir and you wanted a child to distract yourself from the neglected marriage. There would be no better deal than that.

That night, when Ser Gwayne Hightower left your chambers early because of a random emergency, the Prince Regent could not miss the opportunity to offer you a glass of wine to drown your suffering. At first, he started a brief and respectful conversation with you, noticing how your cheeks flushed as you drank the wine.

You were not used to drinking with any man other than Gwayne, much less your own nephew. Making criticisms about Gwayne to Aemond seemed too bitter and cruel. Gwayne did not deserve all that. He was a good husband, even if the focus of his life was not on your marriage.

When Aemond brought up the conversation about the absence of children in your lives, you immediately tried to change the subject, just saying that Gwayne did not want to have babies.

Aemond noticed how the subject bothered you. He noticed the way you curled up on the edge of the bed and tightened your grip on the glass. Before you could think of something less uncomfortable to talk about, Aemond took control of the situation, lying about Gwayne meeting a prostitute in one of the brothels on Street of Silk.

At first, you thought he was just joking. Afterwards, you thought the Prince was lying to mock you. But when Aemond kept coming up with false explanations, you finally gave in and believed what he was saying.

He served you another five glasses of wine, putting up with your crying and drunken outbursts. Until your body finally gives up and you fall asleep.

Aemond checked more than three times to see if your chamber's door was indeed locked. When he was sure that no one would come to interrupt anytime soon, Aemond moved to the edge of his bed, kneeling down and observing your drunk and sleepy figure. He looked at your rosy face from so much wine, as well as your reddish burgundy-stained lips.

He smirked as he ran his thumb over your cheek, the soft texture of your skin being one of the most delicious things his calloused fingers had the pleasure of touching. It was so different from the brothels prostitutes. It felt innocent and pure, even though you were married and no longer a maiden.

You still had enough innocence to be worthy of carrying the possible heir to the Iron Throne.

Aemond lifted your nightgown, hearing your confused and sleepy whimper as the soft satin fabric came off and exposed your skin to the light night breeze that came through the windows.

Your face moved to the side, your sleep becoming disturbed when Aemond ripped off your underwear. The sight of your bare thighs made him growl lowly, placing his large palms around your legs, spreading them apart so he could get a better look at your cunt, already so wet that it made your pubic hairs gleam even in the dark room, lit only by the candle flames.

The prince ran his thumb between your folds to collect your essence that was leaking from the little hole, moving his hand up so he could rub your bud. You contorted your body, your drunken state preventing you from waking up for now, but your legs still shook as Aemond's finger increased the pressure applied to your clit.

When your cunt was prepared enough to at least avoid so much pain, Aemond allowed himself to waste considerable time so he could take off all the pieces of clothing he was wearing, his cock already well marked in his braies. He swallowed hard for a moment, undoing the tie and lowering the fabric. After throwing it in any corner of the room, Aemond brought his hand to his mouth to spit on the palm and rub it on his own cock, sighing at the sensation and paying special attention to the pink glans.

He rubbed himself a few times until he was hard enough, then used his free hand to spread your legs even wider. His thumb made gentle circles on your clit again, as he slowly leaned in, entering your tight cunt and letting out a growl at the overwhelming sensation.

"Fuck..." He bit his lip, arching his head up and with his eye closed, resting one hand on your waist and the other remaining caressing your bud.

It took his thick cock a few seconds to fully enter your tight walls, blood dripping from his bottom lip as he bit down to avoid too many sounds, even though your confused whimpers were starting to fill the chambers. “A-Aemond…” You opened your eyes, your vision blurred when you tried to sit up, but too weak to do anything as he thrust into you.

"Shhh, dear aunt..." He opened his one eye, giving you a breathless smirk, rubbing your pearl roughly enough to make you moan with a mixture of fear and pleasure. Gwayne had not given you enough attention during the past months, your body was desperate for any good feeling now. "Am I not making you feel good?"

You fell silent, pathetic whimpers escaping your mouth. You wanted to lie that it was not good, that you were hating it and feeling violated. That he should not do these things. That you loved your husband more than anything in the world. But what would be the point? Aemond had given you absolute certainty that Gwayne was having affairs with random women. That would explain a lot of things, including the lack of sex in your marriage since then.

Your brain was too drunk to reason what made sense and what did not, so you just nodded, affirming the pleasure he was giving you.

"Good girl... Tightening my cock with that pretty tight cunt of yours." The prince smiled with an almost sweet and affectionate way and you blushed innocently, vulnerable from the alcohol. "Do you want to continue, darling?"

You should say no. You should scream with panic for the guards to come and save you, even if no one would go against the Prince Regent's wishes. However, you should try anything to get him out of you, try anything to stop him from contaminating you. You should try to say no, but you don't want to.

"Please, nephew. Keep going..." You whimpered, your hands shaking from the drink going to his muscular shoulders and bringing him closer to you, the head of his cock hitting you deep.

Aemond chuckled at how easily you gave in, every glass of wine being worth it. You moaned beneath him like a dirty whore, but you were still as beautiful and pure like a Goddess, your cheeks flushed, your eyes rolling back in pleasure, your legs shaking... "Oh, my dear... It looks like you really want to keep going." He scoffed and you nodded silently, closing your eyes as the rhythm of his hips began to become more violent. "How about if I give you a little baby? Did you want that, aunt? To carry my heir? To finally be a mother?"

Watching you nodding with confusion and moaning his name was all Aemond needed to fill you with his seed, his cum staining your thighs as he continued fucking you even after his orgasm. He would deal with Gwayne Hightower's fate later. He was the Prince Regent, he could fake an accidental death for his uncle and marry his wife before your belly started to get big and swollen with his baby. Aemond had time to think about what to do. At the moment, all he needed was to make sure your cunt did not waste a single drop of his seed. All he needed was to make sure you were pregnant that night.

HOTD Edition - Masterlist

Criminal Minds Edition - Masterlist

Venusbyline's Kinktober 2024 - Masterlist

[thebadboyfanclub]

I Will Never Leave You (Daemon x Reader)

I think this more a love letter to Rhaenyra than anything but I’m really proud of this one cause I adore writing characters like this, I hope you guys enjoy it

Rhaenyra adored her mother since she drew her first breath, yet the woman she admired the most and desperately seemed her nod of approval was her beloved aunt (y/n) Targaryen, the middle child of prince Baelon and princess Alyssa, the seat between the brothers suited her, (y/n) had the good heart and the bright mind of her older brother that went hand in hand with the wild spirit and the constant need to protect the ones she called her own that she passed down to Daemon.

(Y/n) had been by Rhaenyras side when she needed her the most, wrapping her arms around the shaking frame of the young princess burying her face at the crook of (y/n)s neck.

“Dracarys”

Even though the dragon was not (y/n)s, beautiful Syrax complied whilst Rhaenyra broke down at the arms of her aunt, (y/n) ran her fingers through Rhaenyras long hair to offer her comfort as she whispered the lullaby she would sing to her when she was little.

She had also been the one to almost harass her beloved brother and king to name Rhaenyra his heir.

“As much as I love my lord husband, he is not fit to lead, the weight of the realm will crush him until he bursts into flames, we can prevent this, you can prevent this”

“And name Rhaenyra my heir? A queen has not sat the iron throne”

“Why not name the princess your heir? She is the second born”

Otto had questioned, (y/n) side eyed the man before she looked down to collect her thoughts, the wound of her brothers digging their claws on that piece of metal had brought such mental combat between them, turning blood against one another, if she had taken a go at them then all efforts for a harmonious family would have gone to war ages ago.

“I am afraid it is too late for me to claim what could have been or some could argue “should have been” but the time is just right for my niece, Rhaenyra is the result of the love you shared with the late queen Aemma, you have already wronged her, do not turn your back on the only thing you have left of her”

(Y/n) and Daemon had wed a fortnight after Viserys and Aemma, their wedlock’s were as similar as the sun with the moon, Daemon and (y/n) mirrored one another, their fire burned bright and their thick skulls could cause the the strongest storm to lash, still at the end of the day they ended up in each others arms, holding each other tight and whispering words of love and admiration.

(Y/n) was the only one that could keep Daemon on a leash, staying by his side as he raged for the “disrespect” their brother had shown, in a delicate manner (y/n) would always grab his hand and bring it up to her cheek to ground him.

“I love you and your bravery, however I do despise when you let your rage overtake everything that’s good in you, let me fix this for you”

Daemon would always take her in his arms and kiss her lips with all the might he could master. (Y/n) was his life line, her eyes were like a much needed breath after a deep dive, her smile resembled the feeling of the brisk air on the early hours of a summer day, her hair was as soft as a birds feather as it brushed on his skin, and her touch, oh that touch of hers…like a soothing balm on Daemons wounded heart.

“What is the matter, my love?”

“We must fly to kings landing by the morrow”

“Has something happened?”

“Lucerys’s claim is at question by Vaemond, Lord Corlys has not even passed and they are already circling around Rhaenyra like crows”

(Y/n) half mumbled half explained whilst her fingers rubbed circles on her temples, (y/n) had never voiced it still a pang of guilt ate her soul as slow as the carnivores ate their dead prey whenever she exchanged letters with Rhaenyra, she gave up on her, she left her alone to fight against those Hightowers, withering away as the bastards started to tighten the rope around the heiress’s neck.

Daemon puffed out a breath, the conversation had always been the same, (y/n) would often bring up her concerns over Rhaenyras well being, asking Daemon if mayhaps they made a mistake by leaving her, fabricating elaborate scenarios of how things could have been different.

With caution Daemon approached his lady wife and once he reached her he placed his hands on her shoulders, his thumbs rubbing circles on her aching shoulders as she slouched back and a grunt of pleasure left her, the flames from the fireplace licking her face in such a complimenting light, had he not touched her he could assume she was just an extremely accurate portrait from the hands of an exceptionally gifted artist.

“Rhaenyra is strong, she will overcome this”

“Rhaenyra is alone, our brother is barely able to make a sentence, she cannot stand alone at court”

“And what do you think our presence will do? We have been cast away for far too long, no one will pay attention to what we have to say on the matter, besides, driftmark is none of our responsibility”

After the birth of their first born daughter Enora Daemon and (y/n) decided to leave kings landing and reside in Pentos, granting protection with their dragons they were gifted with land and lived like the Targaryens only knew how to live.

“It is under the Targaryen rule, our closests bond to old Valyria”

“Dragons are our bond, which we have our own”

(Y/n) stood up from her chair to face her lord husband, fury that intertwined with confusion painted across her face as her eyebrows furrowed and her lips half open from the shock that his dismiss had caused.

Daemon resented when they fought, he did not enjoy his love being cross with him, though he loved a battle he would hang on dear life on anything and say whatever to make her curl up in his arms with content.

“You do not want to come with me” (y/n) stated

“I do not believe we will change anything”

“You believe that? Out of all I thought you would be the one to get on your dragon the fastest”

“You are with child, our other children are happy here, must we indulge in that mess?”

“That mess? Our brother has been crippled, our niece tortured by the Hightower and now she asks for our aid and you think I will just ignore it”

“You are emotional”

“I am, and proud of it, I will fly to kings landing with my children, you can choose to stay and hide behind our thick and tall walls of this castle. I will not leave our legacy, our blood, to slowly perish. It is your decision at the end of the day”

Daemon puffed out of breath before he reached for (y/n)s arms to which (y/n) stepped back to avoid, her eyes that spewed fire starring right into his soul.

(Y/n) was the diplomat out of the pair, one can imagine the surprise of her stubbornness when it came to this, which also revealed how important this was for (y/n).

“You mustn’t get upset in your condition”

“That is something you should remember, I was fine until I saw that the years turned you into a coward”

(Y/n) spat inches away from his face, with hurried and swift motions she intentionally bumped his shoulder as she made her exit of their chamber, Daemon did not catch a wink of sleep, (y/n) had never slept at another chamber separately since they had wed.

As the sun started to shyly make its descent (y/n) was assisting her three children on their dragons for their journey to kings landing.

“Hold on”

(Y/n) looked over her shoulder to find her husband with his dragon walking towards them, she had to admit that leaving without him would have costed her a great deal, she wanted him by her side, to help her, to hold her, to have her.

“What made you change your mind?”

“My astonishing devotion to you and your stubbornness, I won’t leave you alone with the wolves”

Daemon reassured her before he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, a smile making its way to (y/n)s lips as she gazed at him with love, that sparkle of joy was what kept Daemon alive, he would risk anything to see her well.

A giggle that came from their youngest children interrupted their sweet moment, Daemon and (y/n) looked up as the twins sat on their dragons, admiring the deep affection that oozed out of their parents, Daemon only winked at his children in response and turned back to his lady wife.

“Allow me dearest”

A shriek was heard when Daemon swiped the princess off her feet and lifted her up at her green dragon Zephyr. The family landed unexpectedly since they had not given any information to their visit, Otto and Alicent were fuming upon their arrival, the pair would stir the pot and cause chaos all in the princesses name, Otto was certain of it.

However no one could expect the ever defiant (y/n) holding Viserys by his right arm and the stoic prince Daemon holding the king by the left.

“King Viserys of house Targaryen, first of his name, king of the andals, and the rhoynar and the first men, Lord of the seven kingdoms and protector of the realm, with princess (y/n) Targaryen and Prince Daemon Targaryen”

Time stood still as they entered the throne room, (y/n) had persisted on visiting her brother, encouraging him to stand and back Rhaenyras claim, begging him to find his strength and sit on the iron throne.

“I will sit the throne today”

Viserys was able to say to Otto who only bowed his head and stepped aside. When (y/n) gently assisted her brother to sit comfortably his crown managed to move and fall, Daemon was the one that caught it and placed it back on Viserys head. As the pair took a step back (y/n) was the first to curtsy in front of him.

“My king”

She whispered before she smiled, Viserys managed to get a hold of her hand and bring it up to his deformed lips, as cold and slimy the weird texture of his lips left on her hand (y/n) looked back on that memory until the end of her days, as many times as they fought (y/n) held a spot for Viserys, one of loyalty and respect.

Daemon snaked his arm around her waist as they went down the steps and took their place next to a baffled and ecstatic Rhaenyra, (y/n) subtly nodded and side eyed Rhaenyra letting her know she is her for her.

As Viserys reaffirmed Lucerys claim and Rhaenys announced the betrothal of Baela and Rhaena (y/n) was ready to turn and hug her dear niece when Vaemond stepped in front of the king, interrupting the glorious moment.

“You break law and centuries of tradition to install your daughter as heir, don’t you dare tell me who deserves to inherit the name Velaryon, No, I will not allow it”

“Allow it? I do not think anyone hear asked for your opinion Ser…. Apologies I haven’t been at court in so long, what is your name?”

(Y/n)s words sliced through Vaemond like Valyrian steel and Rhaenyra struggled to hide her chuckle, Daemon stood proudly by her side though his grip tightened around her waist when Vaemonds eyes fell on her for a brief moment before he pointed to Lucerys.

“THAT! is no true Velaryon and certainly not a nephew of mine”

Rhaenyra as the mother that she is took a step forward to stand closer to Vaemond and in front of Lucerys, what no one had seen was an important question that (y/n) had whispered at her husband.

“Which side is your sword on today?”

“Go to your chambers, you’ve said enough”

“Lucerys is my true born grandson and you are no more than the second son of drift mark”

“You may run your house as you see fit, but you will not decide the future of mine, my house survived the doom”

“To which you owe it to much greater men than you Vaemond, men that knew their place and played their part in history, something that you refuse to do”

“And you think that you can tell me what my place is? Your brother skipped over you and gave the name of heir to your niece, the gods know what you have done to make him skip over you and your… husband, my name survived and gods be damned I will not see it ended on the account of this”

“Say it, say it”

Daemon antagonised the man, (y/n) assumed her position and slipped away from Daemons grip, her hand gliding from his back all the way down to his sword, dark sister, and pulled it out the sound of metal brushing against its scabbard was enough to make (y/n) grind her teeth in annoyance, thankfully no one seemed to pay attention to what she was up to.

Except Daemon whom had already a mischievous grin tugging at his lips as he internally thanked whoever blessed him to change his mind and was now going to be a witness on this wonderful event and as he viewed it “important milestone” in his lady wife’s life.

Vaemond was caught in his own fury and sense of entitlement to see his end coming, even if he had seen (y/n) with a sword he would pay her no mind, a man of such ignorance wouldn’t feel threaten by a woman with a swollen belly or any woman for that matter.

“Her children are BASTARDS and she.is.a.whore”

“I will have your tongue for that”

Daemon watched with pride as his wife lifted the sword and with one clean slice Vaemonds head was cut right above his tongue. Enora was taken aback by her mothers acts while her two siblings Alastor and Aelia hid behind their fathers legs to avoid witnessing the gruesome sight of the corpse at such a young age.

(Y/n) stood still as the sword touched the ground to support her, glaring down at the man that had so much to say, a man that thought himself as indestructible and yet he laid on the cold floor as his blood gushed out of him and pooled on the ground.

“He can keep his tongue, to explain his treachery to the gods”

“Disarm her”

Otto commanded as his voice boomed through the throne room like a proper king that would command his kings guards to obviously attack (y/n), though the real king -Viserys- had just opened his mouth to stop this when Daemon took only a step forward.

“Don’t you dare”

Daemon warned them, in a rather surprisingly composed way for the situation Daemon approached her and took the sword from her, wiping it away at his clothes lazily before he placed it back on its original spot, his hand brushed a few strands of hair that had moved and let it glide behind her shoulder, he preferred it when her hair was out of her face, so he can fully take in her beauty.

(Y/n) was seen smiling brightly, basking in her accomplishment that was so grotesque that some reported that a numerous ladies that had been witnesses had fainted or vomited at the sight.

“You must rest, my love”

“Before that”

(Y/n) proclaimed, she left her husbands side momentarily only to stand before Rhaenyra, her hands going up to cup her nieces cheeks and place a kiss on top of the heiress head, a gesture that held such affection and compassion, (y/n) had Rhaenyra in her heart and her mind as her own daughter, images of the princess running careless on the grass and finding refuge in (y/n)s hug flashed before (y/n)s eyes.

“My dear niece”

“(Y/n)” Rhaenyra breathed out

“I will never leave you, ever”

Requests are open!

[ellecdc]

part II - Pretty Woman

slow burn poly!wolfstar Pretty Woman (1990) au: established wolfstar, escort!reader, side jegulily, eventual dorlene, political heist-type situation, depictions and descriptions of sex-work

I // II

CW: financial insecurity, Sirius money-is-no-object Black, sugar babe vibes, brief mention of Black family [3.1k words]

link to series masterlist

The words on the page before you began to blur and melt as you watched the way the shadows of the leaves danced across them; the canopy of trees above your fire-escape-turned-balcony swaying in the gentle breeze and providing you with broken bits of shade. 

You almost laughed that out of the two documents Sirius had sent you home with, the legal NDA was rather easy to read through and already signed, sitting safely on your bedside table for your next meeting. 

You were having a harder time with the second document; one that you were supposed to replicate for him.

‘About Me’ it read. And it was - about Sirius, that is. Everything that a long-term girlfriend soon-to-be fiance hopefully one day wife should know.

His favourite colour is black, but there was someone else's font beside it that read “this doesn’t count, Sirius”, to which what you could only assume was Sirius’ scrawl wrote “bloody hell, fine, blue then.” His birthday is November 3rd. He’s a dog person, but Remus likes cats so he thinks he’ll likely have to cave one day and get him a cat. That note made you smile. He wanted to study art history (someone wrote the word ‘nerd’ beside that) but his parents didn’t approve, so he studied architectural design instead. He listed the Godfather as his favourite movie, but when someone wrote ‘liar’ he wrote ‘FINE. It's the 1999 made for TV version of Annie with Kathy Bates’. He’s afraid of spiders, he drinks both his coffee and tea sickly sweet - his favourite drink being a salted caramel latte, he played rugby with James growing up but quit when he decided he didn’t actually like being beaten about for sport. He left out the ‘when I was already being beaten about at home’, but you read it for what it was anyway. He can play piano but hates it, he can play the guitar less well but loves it. He’s littered in tattoos, most can be hidden under dress shirts and such, but there’s one that trails just a little too high up on his neck and a few on his hands. His favourite meal is Remus’ mum’s shepherd's pie, but the Ritz room service always made a really good baked mac and cheese.

You snorted as you threw your head back against the railing behind you - your bum growing numb from sitting on the wrought-iron bars of the fire escape - at the thought of Sirius Black sitting in a premium suite in one of the world’s poshest hotels and ordering macaroni and cheese to his room from a michelin star restaurant. 

What the fuck have I gotten myself into? You wondered wryly as you stood and forced the jammed window to your bedroom back open and crawled through. 

Sirius had offered to pick you up, but you had insisted you would meet him at the mall. Well, actually, Sirius had first offered to transfer you some money to buy a cocktail dress for dinner at his Uncle Alphard’s tomorrow night, but when you’d gone so quiet on the phone that Sirius actually pulled it away from his face to ensure the two of you were still connected, he’d offered to take you instead. 

The dinner at Alphard’s would be a good segway into the Black family nonsense; Alphard’s house would be neutral territory, his parents and other aunts and uncles would be there, but it wouldn’t be their domain. And there would also be Andromeda, her husband Ted, and of course Uncle Alphard to act as buffers.

But that’s not what had Sirius feeling so uncharacteristically nervous right now. He felt silly, sitting here at the Starbucks with sweaty hands as he considered buying a second latte. 

Yeah, he thought wryly, that’s exactly what you need - more caffeine, as if you aren’t already shaky enough. 

Sirius hadn’t felt this anxious since he’d asked Remus out on an actual date back in school. He supposed in many ways, this was a first date of sorts. A first date with the woman who was going to help him bring down his family and all the hate they stood for, with the woman who was going to be accompanying him to events with some of the worst people he knew, the woman who he was going to propose to, who he’d have to bloody marry at some point; blimey what did he get himself into? 

Thankfully you chose that moment to show up, saving Sirius from any further spiralling as he stood so quickly that he almost knocked the small bistro table clean over. 

“Hullo! Fuckin’ hell. Hi!” He stuttered awkwardly as he caught the table and righted his nearly finished coffee.

“Hi.” You murmured softly with a matching smile.

“Hi.” Sirius said again, wiping his hands on his trousers and smiling back at you. 

“Hi.” You repeated; smile growing into a cheekier smirk as you watched him botch this. 

“Great, awesome.” Sirius said with a smile. “You’re laughing at me.”

“I’m not laughing at you.” You laughed.

“Oh, and now you’re lying to me.”

You shook your head and looked down at your feet. Sirius wasn’t quite sure what he was expecting when he hired an escort, but he found he was surprised by how plain a lot of your wardrobe seemed to be. Granted he had only met you twice, but from those two times it had become clear to him that when you weren’t working, you preferred to be nondescript. Classic tees, shirts, and blouses, and denim or, in today’s case, corduroys; you looked vintage and casual, put together in a way without looking like you tried too hard. Though, once again, you were only as nondescript as any pretty woman could be, and he was sure that anyone even remotely attracted to women would absolutely spare you a second glance - corduroys or otherwise. 

But he couldn’t help but admit - at least to himself -  that he was a little bit excited at the prospect of getting to dress you up. 

“Are you- do you want a drink?” Sirius asked as he gestured towards the Starbucks behind him, nearly taking out an errant shopper with his hand causing him to have to call out a hasty apology. 

“Oh, uhm, no, no. I’m good, thank you though.” You declined quickly as you hiked your purse further up on your shoulder, though you were eyeing the store with intrigue.

Ah, Sirius thought to himself, allergic to spending money - I know a thing or two about your type. 

“Listen, gorgeous, we’re going to be spending a lot of money today, so you’d be better to start with something small to ease yourself into it.” He quipped.

He’d been going for light and breezy - even shooting you a cheeky wink - but you seemed to blanche at that. 

“I’m… I don’t have much on me, Sirius…” You started, and Sirius fought the urge to wince at his faux pas.

“My money, doll; we’re going to be spending a lot of my money.” 

“I-”

“It’s number six.”

You turned away from the coffee shop to look at him in bemusement. “What?”

“Number six, how you take your tea and coffee; your favourite drink.” He explained. “Mine’s a salted caramel latte. What’s yours?” 

You took a deep breath as you searched his eyes for a few moments before turning back towards the drink menu. “Are you getting something?”

“I was considering getting a second.” Sirius allowed as he nodded towards his forgotten cup.

“I’ll get it, then.” You offered, and made your way into the shop before Sirius could even respond, returning a few moments later with a salted caramel latte for Sirius and some kind of sweet looking cold brew for yourself. 

“Thank you.” He offered as he accepted the drink from your grasp; your name scrawled prettily on the side of the cup. 

“Don’t mention it.” You whispered back as you took a sip of your own.

*ೃ༄.ೃ࿐

“What about this one?” Sirius asked for what had to have been the thirteenth time in this store alone as he held up a garment for you to consider. 

You barely spared the dress a half a glance before you were reaching to the sleeve - not coincidentally where the price tag was.

“Would you stop checking the price?” He hissed as he gently swatted your hand away. “Do you like this dress?” 

You made a helpless sound in the back of your throat as you looked between him and the dress again. “I don’t know, Sirius, I- it’s not something I’d ever buy for myself.”

Sirius sighed as he returned the dress to the rack and gave you a Look™. “I do not mean any offence, doll, but I think that’s sort of the point.” He offered softly.

You groaned miserably and cradled your face in your hands. “I’m sorry - I’m being terribly difficult.” 

“You’re not being terribly difficult.” Sirius appeased, waiting for you to peek at him through your fingers. “Only mildly.”

You groaned again but allowed your hands to fall away from your face to land on your hips as you considered the rack in front of you. Your bottom lip dimpled as if you were chewing on the inside of your lip as you turned to a rack behind you that the two of you (read: Sirius) had been looking through moments ago and sifted through it again.  

“That would be a nice colour on you.” He offered as you paused on a dress. You kept your face pointed towards the dress but looked up at him through your eyelashes before pulling the dress out and holding it up against him.

“Now, I don’t know what you think you know about my family, but generally, I save my dress wearing for when I’m in the privacy of my own home or at a very specific bar.”

Sirius watched as your nose crinkled before you were dropping the garment and lowering your chin to your chest in an attempt to hide your snickering; Sirius momentarily wished you wouldn’t. 

“I didn’t mean for you,” you chided through a giggle as you held the dress back up against him; he didn’t argue this time, “I was checking to see if the colour looks good on you as well.”

Sirius found his cheeks flaming hot as the question ‘and does it?’ settled on the tip of his tongue. But, like the fucking prat he is, all he managed to spit out was “of course it does, I look good in everything.” 

You rolled your eyes good naturedly and muttered something that sounded an awful lot like ‘git’  under your breath before nodding once. “I think I’ll get this one, then.”

“Great job.” He said as he swiped the dress from you and folded it over his arm. “Now pick three more and then we can head to the next store.”

“Thre- next store? Sirius, I-”

“I told you we were spending a lot of money today, Y/N, I meant it.” He said simply as he encouraged you forward by the small of your back. You sounded as though you were going to say something but acquiesced when he patted your hip twice before pulling his hand away from you. 

“You don’t wear a lot of colour, I’ve noticed.” Sirius offered, swinging the bags he was carrying casually in his hands as the two of you slowly made your way through the mall after purchasing shoes ‘to go with the dresses, doll’ and even some sodding bags ‘think of it as an investment, gorgeous; you’re an employee, and working for me comes with a uniform. I’m providing you with a uniform’. 

You looked at him sideways as you continued walking, trying to ignore the feeling of everyone doing double takes to see a girl looking so plain with designer bags in her hands and a certified adonis by her side. If he hadn’t told you his favourite colour was black, you would have guessed as much just from the sheer amount of it he wore. But whereas you wore a fair amount of black in an attempt to disappear - to blend in - he seemed to do it to make his own statement; it stood out in stark contrast against his fair skin, and depending on what he was wearing, complimented his many (visible) tattoos nicely. It also left his eyes - a grey blue - appearing that much more brilliantly bright and striking.

All this to say, he wasn’t one to talk.

“No…” You allowed. “Neither do you, though.”

“Touche.” He offered you with a wink - or, what you were sure was a wink - behind his sunglasses as the window-pane roof let in an unusual amount of sunlight for this time of year in the UK. “Why don’t you, though?”

You sighed as you stepped onto the escalator going down and redistributed your bags in your hands instead of answering right away. “I get looked at more than I’d like to already.” You admitted quietly. “I… I get enough attention, I don’t need to garner any more.”

You weren’t looking at Sirius but you could feel his gaze on you before he nodded his head in your periphery. “I get that, I think. Growing up in a political family came with a lot of attention. Then being the runaway, then playing the poster child again.”

You hummed an acknowledgement. “You seem to lean into it, though?” You hadn’t meant it to be offensive, but when Sirius’ mouth opened in a disbelieving laugh, your stomach dropped. “Not- no, I’m- that’s not what I-”

“Relax, babe. I get it.” He waved you off as the two of you stepped off the escalator. “It’s true; I always sort of figured, they’re looking at me anyways, you know? Might as well give them something to talk about.”

The two of you fell into a comfortable silence after that, only breaking it to apologise when one of you brushed against the other with one of the many bags adorning your hands.

“Where’d you park?” Sirius asked as the two of you stepped out into the daylight. Fuck, you hadn’t thought this through.

You were expecting to shop for maybe one dress for tomorrow’s dinner, and you were planning to shove the garment into your purse for the train ride back home. There was simply no way you could manage public transport with this many bags, and the chances of you being mugged on your way increased significantly for every designer bag you had. 

You wondered if the clothes would even be safe in your flat at all, knowing the only locks that you trusted were the chain bolted to the front door that you installed yourself, and the piece of wood you jammed in your window at the fire escape so no one could open it from the outside. 

“Y/N?”

“No. Uhm, sorry.” You started, looking towards Sirius but not necessarily at him. “Actually, I’m- well, do you think I could keep them at your place? I…I don’t- I don’t necessarily want my neighbours knowing I have this kind of stuff in my flat.”

Sirius’ eyes softened and you felt a little guilty at the half truth, but soldiered on. “I’d just hate to come home from work one day to find it all missing, you know?” You tried to joke. 

You swore Sirius’ mouth pinched slightly before he schooled his expression and redistributed the bags he was currently holding into one hand and held out his free one to take yours. 

“Oh! I could help-”

“That’s alright, doll, I’ve got it.” He said as he relinquished your bags from you. “Tomorrow, then? I assume you’ll be getting ready at my place? Do you want a ride?”

“No! No, that’s alright, I’ll meet you there if you just want to send me your address.” 

The two of you said goodbye and you watched Sirius walk through the car park until he disappeared behind a row of vehicles, and you stepped back into the mall to wait for the next train that didn’t come for another 45 minutes. 

Sirius let out a breath as he closed the door to his and Remus’ townhouse behind him; the sounds of the London streets melting away to the odd honk or occasional car door closing as he began searching their home.

He needn’t search long, however, finding Remus exactly where he knew he would be.

”Did’ya have a good day?” Remus asked without looking up from the potatoes he was peeling, though he did turn his face slightly to reciprocate the kiss Sirius pressed to his cheek. 

“Yeah, not bad.” Sirius agreed in an exhale as he disposed of the many shopping bags onto the kitchen island.

Remus opened his mouth as he turned - no doubt about to scold Sirius for messing up his clean kitchen - when his face pinched in confusion.

”I thought you were going shopping for Y/N?” 

“We did.”

”Sirius!”

”Remus.” Sirius shot back as he made himself comfortable on one of the high stools.

”You’re going to scare her away.” Remus muttered as he washed and dried his hands before coming over to peek inside of the bags, pulling the documents you had returned to Sirius out of one of them. 

“She was much more tolerable than you were when I first took you shopping.” 

Remus shot him an unimpressed glare though he didn’t bother gracing him with a response as he leaned back against the counter and flipped through the pages in his hands. “Why didn’t she take any of this with her?” He asked as he motioned to the bags now littering his kitchen island.

Sirius felt his own mouth pinch in displeasure as he recounted your reasoning. “She said she was worried her neighbours would see - didn’t want anyone to know she had anything of value in her flat.”

Remus made a sympathetic hum as Sirius pondered what it was exactly about that sentiment that left such a bad taste in his mouth. 

“Sounds like my flat back on 31st.” 

Sirius groaned at the memory of Remus’ flat he had back in university. Sirius had spent the first eight months of his and Remus’ relationship begging him to move in with him and James; he’d already spent most nights there in Sirius’ bed anyways! But Remus was proud and argued with Sirius when he said as much.

”I hated when you lived there.” He grumbled, and Sirius pretended not to notice Remus’ eyebrow lift as he considered him. 

“Yeah?” He asked as he turned back towards his potatoes with a muted grin. “So did I.” 

[darlingofvalyria]

❝Dragons do not seek permission, niece of mine. Dragons take.❞

[ Betrayal clouds your judgement, for when Jacaerys' indiscretion takes the form of a child, your anger lands in the palm of the Rogue Prince. ]

[ +18 MDNI ] [ 3,412 ] | Daemon Targaryen x Targaryen Niece!Reader, Jacaerys Velaryon x Manipulative Aunt!Reader | this set in an au inside of in hightower green. | this is able to be read as a oneshot.

contains— canon divergence to the second power - an au of an au - targcest, use of 'bastard', infidelity, profanity, revenge, violence, pureblood Valyrian bullshit - thinking about death as a revenge but no suicide/suicidal ideation- angst, smut - two wrongs apparently make a right - mentions of children, pregnancy, childbirth - nsfw: rough sex, biting, degradation, breeding kink, smidge dacryphilia, creampie - no kinslayers, no kings, no betas.

a/n— special thanks to @ahristata and @hiraethrhapsody for kicking my pursuit of this thread!! i woke up (almost literally) to this line of inquiry, & though writing for daemon is difficult, i had a way, way too much fun with this one m'fraid. Ihad so much fun I started laughing at the absurdity. + comment, reblog & like at will, mi luvs, mwa!

You can't breathe.

You stand there, your daughters by your sides, no more than five or so name days, dutiful as ever, the princess of the realm— the heir's wife, blindsided. Betrayed. Lied to. And you can't show them your grief, your anger, your shock— you smile, not betrayed, not realised, stupid.

Your act of stupidity protects you, for you can just tell that others, sharp-eyed as they are owning of sharper tongues, calculate the similarities between your husband and the child he is cooing at, at the arms of the Warden of the North's sister.

His bastard fucking sister.

You can't blink away as the facts, the threads, make a beautiful web in front of you. The conclusion is unmistakable. Jacaerys' consistent travels to the North, despite the campaigning for his mother's seat had not required the frequent stretches of long travels. How Aemond had remarked that the bastard is doing twice as much work in doing so, "as he should," Aemond murmurs darkly. "He casts a disgusting shadow on the Iron Throne, 'tis the least he can do."

The insistent of personally greeting the delegates from the North, you thinking it is just his wondrously formed friendship with the Lord Stark, had you dressing up and bringing your girls with him. So that your daughters can meet their father's fucking friend, one that occupied his time when he could have been at home, tending to his duties, his heirs.

And the woman who follows after the Wolf, the bastard Snow, his beloved sister. Dyanna had told you beforehand, as Lord Stark adores his only sibling. Their parenthood is unmistakable, dark hair and sharp chins. A Northern Beauty.

And then you stop, as there is a babe in her arms, no more than two name days at least.

And you see Jacaerys in his gaze.

His beautiful, warm brown eyes in the child in her arms, and as he stands there, your Prince of the Realm, too close for comfort, too close for platonic friendship, a familiarity one cannot deny— and that fucking, sweet-edged, tender smile on his face...

The same one he wore when you had given birth to his daughters. Soiled sheets, bloodied babes— it didn't matter. He held them to his arms with the very same smile, thanking you for birthing his babes.

A gut punch, a sharp inhale, an anger that coils and burns and roars.

Your bastard of a husband had fucked another bastard, and made himself a bastard little fucking family.

Life can ever be so cruel as it is humorous.

Daemon could have laughed at the prediction you found yourself in.

He sits to the left of his wife, the Queen who— in enough of itself, the evidence of the turmoil the court is about to get under, amusingly is talking quick with her Lord Hand; Corlys and Rhaenyra had not stopped pointedly looking at her heir, words too fast but unmistakable what the topic is if their gestures, the knot between their eyebrows, and unmistakable sighs and determined noises.

He, on the other hand, is pointedly staring at you.

You, who tries so hard to piece together an armour of stupidity, an air of nonchalance. As if there is no anger in your visage at your husband's attention completely stolen by Wolf's little sister and her son... who looked completely like him. Dark colouring, the First Men blood thick in his nose, his hair, at the curled edges of his baby-cheeked giggles.

When standing so close, faces to each other, there can be no doubt a mirror.

Or the lovesick smile on the mother's face, watching the Prince of the Realm interact with her son.

Together, the trio of them don't hint as much as a bead of Targaryen blood. One is able to pretend they are nothing more than a small... brown haired family.

Daemon presses his lips, trying desperately not to laugh so loudly.

He admired the boy, truly. Rhaenyra loved each child from her bosom with equal fervor, and Daemon was prepared take him as purely one of his own... but after he broke the betrothal with his daughter (though Baela could give lesser of a shit, though mildly dissatisfied as she was to become Queen, and the girl held her duties between canines) to marry a Hightower cunt... he had distanced himself from the boy.

Daemon viewed it as a sign of weakness, for he knew you. You were just like your mother, prodding into softened parts of his family— that green whore with his brother, young as she had been, his good sister Aemma had not been cold in their memories before she had found herself weightily pregnant with new heirs, and then Jacaerys, new to womanly spells, new to cunt, and you had him making vows in the ways of the dragonlords.

Though he can surmise that much of your mother's movements had not entirely been her own... Daemon knew that calculative look you got in your eye. Blink and it's gone, but your gaze sharpens, your mouth curls in a winning, prideful little smirk.

You were Otto Hightower's granddaughter alright, and you had wanted the Heir's Heir.

But now, it seems like, once a vow broken, it didn't really matter if it was a betrothal or a marriage to Jacaerys.

It brings a sick pull of satisfaction in him, that tugs him to look at you. Every time.

You laugh, tither, still evermore the gem of the feast— a feast you organised with the Lord Hand for your husband's absolutely exceptional diplomatic achievements in the North, truly, Daemon is laughing in the sidelines as the jests and songs make themselves — but Daemon is overtly familiar with dragons. And anger. And you simply stink of it. The way your eye twitches, the occasional grind of your jaw to how your fingers dig crescent moons into your palm. He catches blood in one blink then smeared, then gone, in another.

Your hold onto your armour— the Darling of the Realm, curated so painfully by a young, sly girl moving about the cesspit they call a crown's court — is breaking in pieces and tatters at each hour the feast went on.

It snarls. Like a dragon locked in the pits, tugging at reins, wishing to burn cities.

Maybe you aren't just another Hightower cunt after all.

Not purely at least, he thinks in distaste, staring at the dark green of your gown.

It is a childish tantrum, more than anything, for what is your Hightower green will do now? A bastard has been made, worse, a son. And though Jacaerys himself has muddied blood, he is still a Targaryen. His mother is Queen, prepared to make him an Heir to the Iron Throne as he had been legitimised as Laenor's son. A Velaryon. He bears the name, the crest, and the support of its house.

What is stopping him from marrying the Snow Bastard, legitimising the boy as his own, surpassing your own daughters?

Targaryens marry siblings, they also marry multiple wives.

It is a thought that he can see it dancing in your head— raw, enticing rage and bloodlust that tightens his breeches.

It is an interesting thing.

The green is disgusting, but Daemon can appreciate a young, fertile, Valyrian beauty.

Something your mother had ingeniously provided you and your siblings with, reining in her muddied blood to produce unmistakable Valyrian children. And as a smart little tart, you understood what to do with it.

When Daemon first met you, you were just one of the Hightower spawns that his brother had made to further his line. His brother's daughters—apart from Rhaenyra — were quiet things as babes and children. Odd the two of you were, but not really hostile. When you were introduced to him, your fat babe of a twin brother was teary-eyed and clinging to you, a quiet child with round eyes, staring at him inquisitively, as if challenging.

Then and there, Daemon disliked you so.

Even as you grew, the little of what he could see as he paid no mind of Viserys' other children, you grew up a fine royal, a princess of every word and sung note. Mentions of your progressive fight for the small folk, your charitable heart, your sweet nature that even his brother had made a note once or twice—

He thought it had been Otto Hightower who put you up to such machinations. Wouldn't be below him.

The night you bedded Jacaerys Velaryon, he was pleasantly surprised to find out it had been you all along.

And now here you are, betrayed as you had betrayed his daughter, delicious in your righteous anger and ripe (two babes before the year ended, Jace is an inglorious fool) for the taking. And youthful still. Smooth, soft skin, pretty lips and bright-eyed.

All your scheming, going as far as throwing your grandsire to Oldtown, it is obvious no one has wrangled the clever, spoiled little brat out of you.

As he sips his wine, amused and pleasantly hungry, he muses he might do a job or two of being the strong arm to do so.

He snorts, eyes straying back to the little First Men family.

There it is again. The jest that keeps on giving.

It was pride, truly, that kept you for most of the feast. That kept your gritted teeth to yourself, ducking into corners whenever your anger burned at your eyelids, stubbornly brushing stray tears away.

All is not lost, you stubbornly thought. You just had to plot.

But when Jace had taken your daughters, your Daenera and Aemma, gently tugging them to his bastard whore and his actual bastard to meet— finding your eyes, at that very moment as Daenera's precious, pureblooded hand shyly took the hand of her bastard brother, a fool's tender fucking simpleton of a smile on your husband's face —

Something in your head had snapped. A clean break.

And your armour had fallen. Like limestone from a fortress. Caved in ruins at the pool of your feet. Dark, furious loathe unfurled in your chest. Unable to handle it anymore, you had taken your dress and got out of the feast, for you could feel the urge of unsheathing a sword and going on a bloodied massacre, crowns and titles be damned.

You may not have a dragon, but you have its bloodlust.

Just as you are rushing to your chambers, you stop and make a different turn, knowing that if your husband had caught wind of such an ugly expression on your face, he would try and find you, talk to you, and you don't have the patience to cater to him at the moment— you find what you know of is an empty chamber, reserved for guests at the Keep.

It is a simple room with all the usual accruements. Most of the fanfare, the sheets, are in storage.

You start with a candelabra.

Raise it high before you are violently smashing it against the dresser, shrieks and guttural screams out of your mouth as you tear through the room like a typhoon, cursing Jacaerys, the North, and bastards to the Seven Hells.

None will be the wiser, for you had built your network well. Your spiders will pivot guards and strangers from this area, ensuring you a reprieve where your anger and grief can unfurl and manifest.

So you lose yourself, a dragon untethered. You get so into your rage, quiet in your thoughts, that you don't hear an intruder entering until there is a low, amused laugh too close for comfort.

You whirl around, tear-stained and rage-filled, and though the Rogue Prince expects you to fall into stutters, your eyes slit and you grip— when had you picked up a tome? — the tome tighter to your chest, snarling, "Get out."

Instead of surprise, or even offense, Daemon laughs as if you are the most amusing thing to him all night. Jesters and whores alike.

"I shall not." He makes a noncommittal hum around the dark room. "I rather like it here. It seems this chamber holds a much better entertainment than anything beheld at the feast."

You let out a dark, incredulous laughter. "I have no time for your toying, uncle, get out!" You toss the tome with fervour, but he's a warrior and he anticipates your anger, sidestepping easily before he's back to casual prowling.

"I do not have time to play jester for your entertainment," you hiss, unable to stop the hateful tears from spilling, brushing them away harshly as you watch him watch you.

He raises an eyebrow. "I am not asking you to."

"Are you here then for my humiliation? Press a bitter wound while it's still bleeding, is that it? Is that what would make the glory of your night?"

He snorts. "What would make the glory of my night is a warm body and a tight cunt."

Your face scrunches. "You are disgusting."

He barks out a laugh. "Not as disgusting as your brother."

"Aegon is no longer—"

"— or as stupidly naive as your husband."

A sharp intake of breath before you're once more cracking in broken rage and ghastly pain.

"Of course you would notice, who would not, he looks so much like his fucking bastard."

"Watch yourself, girl," he barks. "You are still talking about the Queen's heir."

A beautiful guard dog, you think, you snort. You push past him, gasping into the crisp, cool air, holding onto the balcony for dear life.

"His already diluted blood makes this conversation entirely hilarious to me I'm afraid." You look down and wonder how fast you will fall. How messy would such a death be? How much care there is left in your wake? Will your husband even care, now that he has his heir? Borne out of true love no doubt, despite such bastardly blood— or is that what makes it thrilling for them?

Mangled bone, spread thin blood— if you die such a way, it should be pretty. You hope it haunts the Keep of so many before you.

But if you die now, you will be replaced so easily. So prettily.

And your daughters—who will care for them? Will Jacaerys even care, if his bastards soon no doubt fill your once home, your mother, your brothers— your daughters pushed aside to make way for fucking dogs.

There is no satisfaction in such a plan.

There are many others.

The Rogue Prince makes his presence known by standing close to your back, close enough that you can smell him, that his heat is your own, as he hums, peering below as you have.

"Have you been drinking, zaldrītsos little dragon?" he whispers, tangling his fingers through your hair, running a lone finger down your neck, up and down in a tantalising movement. You can't help it, it feels comforting, leaning close to it despite such a breathy huff out of your lips.

"Since when am I dragon, kepus uncle? Haven't you always likened us muddied blood, filthier than dragonseeds?"

"I see that I am wrong," he says, almost idle as if he isn't devouring you in his gaze. How you feel soft, pliant under one finger after weighted in wine and the ruins of your anger, how you're almost purring and sweet like this, your fire alive but consistent. "Aōha perzys burns jehikagrī. Nyke hae ziry. Your flames burn bright. I like it."

"Hm. You've had sons, don't you uncle?"

"I have," he replies, amused.

"And many a children." You reach for his chin, your thumb rubbing his bottom lip. He's old, sure, but men don't have the same bodily issues as women. You know he could reach your father's age and be able to produce five more brats.

But his shoulders are strong, spry only as a swordsman can be.

And he isn't like he's loyal to Nyra, turning fully to you with a hand caressing your side.

His hand comes for your neck, halting your movement as he tests a squeeze. There is only much hatred as there is lust. And his cock is winning over his mind, for when your free hand, watching him intently, reaches for the hardness straining against his breeches, giving it a stroke, his breath stutters into a groan whilst his hips push into your hand.

"Dragons do not seek permission, niece of mine," he hums darkly. "Dragons take, or do you have too much of your Hightower cunt of a mother that you—"

You curl your hand over his cock until his breath hitches.

"I want a son. Surely you'd rather want for your true blood to sit on the Iron Throne? Your wife would remain Queen, her and her heir none the wiser. Any son of mine would be King regardless." Your voice is barely above whisper, stroking him as your squirm in his hold, his breath heavy by each promise, each tale you spin so tall. "Wouldn't you like that better? I am a Targaryen, as are you. Our blood would be pure."

"I have pureblooded sons, riñītsos little girl."

"But will they be king? With my husband as your wife's heir?" When his hold softens on your throat, you push yourself forward, pressing yourself against him. "Wouldn't you want your family's legacy, your legacy, unsullied with prettier blood?

"I want a son, uncle," you whimper, thickened with need and desire, willing him to bend and fold because men like Daemon are easy, because a loving marriage is one thing, a man who holds his house as his pride in another fist is another. "I want your seed to take root in me."

And it isn't like you're asking him to betray his Queen.

Daemon is surprisingly a soft lover, prone in a way to worshipping you even as you had gotten impatient and tried to get your way. His punishments are quick and precise, a hit on your thigh, a tighter squeeze in your throat, a firm bite in your breast enough to draw blood. He's soft but by choice, almost as if he is amusing you in each caress while one hand is holding you by your hair, fucking you down into the sheets.

His words aren't better, spun in hisses and spits, mocking laughter and groans.

"Do you want my seed, you little whore?"

"What would your husband say now, his pretty wife mewling for another? Or would he even care?"

"Your tears are pretty, if you want my seed, I think you need to be sobbing, hm?"

When he finally spills inside of you with nothing less of a broken, guttural roar, hips chasing the high, meeting your sensitivity once, twice, again— you are shattered in pieces and contradictions, floating and wide awake, pleasured and in pain.

He slaps your face gently after he's cleaned himself up, tucked his flaccid cock back in his breeches as he comes to your eye line. "Come to me again when you want my seed, hm? I shall prioritise your wants for the good of the realm but I dare say—"

He cocks his head with a smirk, feeling stirrings at the sight of your fucked out state, his seed spilling from your pretty hole that he can't help himself as he chases it with a finger, forcefully pushing it back in while your body trembles and twitches.

"— you may be with child soon enough, niece. I shall congratulate you and my son with the happy news."

Your eyes flutter close at the echoes of his disappearing footsteps.

Nine moons later, through a hearty, blood-soaked birth that rocked the keep with your wails of pure pain— much more painful than when your girls had come into the world — a baby boy is born of pure Valyrian colouring.

A fat babe who cried murder in his first seconds of life, and it is Caraxes who snarls and screeches into the high noon sky.

"I shall name him Daemon," you say to your husband beside you as you beheld the babe with a wondrous smile and a full heart.

"After your brother and my father," Jace says, smiling. "That is wonderful, my wife. He does look much like them."

Your smile curls, a finger rubbing your babe's fat cheek. "He does. And he will be strong swordsman." Your lashes flutter to Jace, poisoned vowels in each word that he blinks, startled. "Just like his father."

TAGGED @inkareds @marihoneywk @caterina-caterina @ahristata @xxvelvetxxxx @but-i-write-so-i-must-count @bunbunbl0gs @yazzzmints @bellstwd @hiraethrhapsody @watercolorskyy @fulla02 @menaosama @cookielovesbook-akie

[yoonguurt]

Summary: Spring brings with it the need for a change. You're in a writing rut and that just can't happen right now. You decided to spend a few months with your aunt at her massive garden estate. for the first time in 10 years. Dreams of a boy you don't remember become a nightly thing. Who is this boy?

Pairing: Hongjoong x fem!reader

Genre: fluff, angst, smut, fantasy

AU/Trope: long lost friends to lovers, a twist on The Secret Garden

Word count: 12,295

Warnings: parental death, themes of curses, talks of insanity, mentions of kidnapping, a horrible old woman, threats. I think that's all but it's also 2 am so brain a little fuzzy. NSFW warnings under the cut

A/N: This is for the Language of Flowers event for @cultofdionysusnet I really did put everything I have into this fic. It has taken me a while and I will probably revisit this later since I didn't get everything I wanted in here. Thank you to @kwanisms for making the title banner and reading bits and pieces of this. @anyamaris @pyeonghongrie @justhere4kpop @stardragongalaxy also helped me with reading some of this. Thank you guys for putting up with the screenshots and eye emojis.

Smut warnings: unprotected sex (do not do, I will hunt you down), fingering, dry humping, so much kissing, Hongjoong is king of aftercare, virgin Hongjoong, there's no power dynamic here, they’re just soft

Walking into the courtyard of your aunt’s estate was like walking back into a long lost memory. You spent many summers here as a child and while it had been some of the best times of your life, as you had gotten older, the trips stopped. Once you began to transcend into your older teen years, the allure of the massive mansion and grounds lost its appeal. You stopped coming when you were 15. You remember that there was a specific reason why, you just couldn’t remember what that reason was. 

You closed the large iron gate behind you, listening as it made a loud creak. The gate was covered in rust, which was unusual since your aunt was a very meticulous woman. She had to have everything in perfect condition at all times. At least, that was how she was the last time you had seen her 10 years ago. From the phone call you shared, she seemed to still be the same woman she had always been. She may be older, but she still has the same fiery spirit she’s always had. You guess that was where you got it from. 

In all honesty, you have never been overly close with your aunt. You loved her, sure, but she was kind of a mean woman. She was quite a few years younger than your father, 11 to be exact, so she wasn’t elderly when you were a child. She seemed to be a little miserable your entire life, though you were too young to realize that at the time. Thinking back on it now, you realized that your aunt had any possession she could ever want, but you had never seen her have a companion of any sort. No women from the nearby town ever came to visit, and you had never seen a man, other than Steven the gardener, ever pass through the gates. You knew that no one needed anyone of the opposite sex to make their lives better, but you also knew that she must live a lonely life.

The real reason you fell in love with coming to stay the summers was the grounds. The estate was massive. Many times you had spent all day wandering around the grounds, just exploring everything your heart yearned for. You knew you had a favorite spot when you were younger, but its location was another thing slipping your mind. You’d have to make a mental note to try and find your special spot.

The old door is silent as you open in and step inside. That’s one thing that hasn’t changed. A quick glance around the foyer lets you know that not much inside the house has changed either. There are still the same two blue and white flowered vases standing on either side of the door, holding the same kind of lilies they had always held. The small table that held the rotary phone was still in the same place at the base of the stairs, rotary phone still sat atop. Even the curtains were the same. A light sage in color, small embroidered flowers running down the fabric. 

Flowers were always a large part of the decor of your aunt’s home. Each guest room in the house was themed with a different flower. There were numerous gardens spread throughout the grounds, some with mixed plants and some that only grew a particular plant. You knew flowers were really important to your aunt, though every time your curious child tendencies come forward, she would only give a stiff smile and tell you that flowers were beautiful and a woman of her standing deserved to have beauty all around her. Looking back, you can see how forced her smile had been.

“Aunt Helen!” Your voice rang throughout the empty home, surprising even yourself at just how loud your voice carried. You had been told to come right in and make yourself at home, but it didn’t feel right. Not only had you not been here in ten years after abruptly deciding that you didn’t want to return for the summer of your 16th year, but you had also called her out of nowhere to ask if you could spend some time there. Her side of the line had been silent for a few moments before she told you that there shouldn’t be an issue with you coming, but it still felt like she wasn’t sure about her decision. 

You hear footsteps coming from the top of the stairs and you turn to face the stairway with a smile. Helen comes around the corner, her face showing no emotion as she looks down at you. “Y/N. How nice to see you, dear.” Her voice is pleasant enough, though her face is still blank. You guess you must have hurt her by your sudden refusal to come back during your teen years, and then surprised her with an equally sudden request to return. You try to shake the thought from your head, making sure to keep your smile. “Thank you so much for letting me spend the next few months here. I know it was a sudden request, but I think it will really do me some good.”

The last year of your life had been hectic to say the least. You moved from your home on the outskirts of the city to the city proper to be closer to publishers. You had always wanted to be a writer. You could remember always having notebooks full of stories as a child. You had hid them away in any room you could find. By the time you turned 16, you had probably filled 50 notebooks. Like many children, the stories were fantastical and some were nonsense, but it was the process of writing that you enjoyed. Bringing whatever idea that had popped into your head to life was an addiction to you. 

Helen’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts, making you focus your attention back on the aging lady who was now making her way down the stairs. “It’s no problem at all, dear. There’s no one here but me and Steven, so there’s plenty of room.” Her feet stop in front of you as she lifts her arms toward you for a hug. You quickly drop your bags, scrambling to return her gesture as quickly as you can. The hug is an awkward one. Arms are around middles, but there is a gap between bodies. To anyone looking from a distance, it would seem as if you two don’t even know each other. But, at this time in your life, that’s essentially true. The hug breaks apart almost as soon as it begins, both of you taking a step back to put some distance between you. 

“I’m sure you’ve had a long trip. Go ahead and choose your room and get settled. Though, I’m sure you’ll choose the gardenia room. It always was your favorite.” A smile creeps to your lips at the mention of your childhood choice of room. She was right about it. That room had been your favorite. “Do you still have the gardenia garden, Aunt Helen?” The look on her face takes you aback a little. For a split second, she looks angry. She quickly changes her expression to one of confusion. “Oh dear, there’s never been a garden dedicated solely to gardenias. However, there are some planted in one of the rose gardens. Maybe that is what you’re thinking of.” It’s your turn to be confused. You distinctly remember playing in a garden full of nothing but gardenias. 

You don’t want to argue, there is a chance that you created that memory as one of your stories, so you give her a nod as you tell her that you’re going to go get settled. You grab your bags, though you didn’t bring many, the three that you do have are large and filled to the brim. Making your way up the stairs is a little tricky since there are 20 of them in total, but you manage. Turning left at the top of the stairs, you pick up your pace a little, excited to get to your room. It sits at the end of the hall on the right side. You take a deep breath as you set your bags down to open the door, making sure to open it slowly so you get the wave of nostalgia that you know will come with seeing the room for the first time in years. 

Seeing the room is like a breath of fresh air. It feels like coming home after a long day of work, knowing that relaxation and happiness are waiting for you. It almost makes you want to cry. You leave your bags at the door for a moment, you just need to feel the room first. There are fresh gardenias in a small, white vase on the bedside table. That has always been one of your favorite smells and it makes your heart flutter when it hits your nose. The king size bed has the same white and green bed set it’s always had. The handmade quilt, certainly not made by your aunt, is the color of grass and has gardenias sewn into the fabric. You run your hand over the top of the quilt, memories of spending nights completely enveloped in the warmth of the fabric as you write in one of the many notebooks you always brought with you.

There’s an oak writing table that stands in front of the large bay window that overlooks an area that looks different than the rest of the estate. It looks more run down, like it hadn’t been taken care of in years. You could have sworn that it was once a beautiful garden that you had spent much of your time in. It hits you that you seem to remember that patch of land being your favorite spot, but it doesn’t seem like that is true. 

You turn your attention to the wallpaper. It gives a little more color to the room. The background of the paper is a soft yellow while images of gardenia bushes cover the rest. All perfectly spaced out, just like you know Helen had wanted. You finally decided to grab your bags and start to put your things away, a little more pep in your step. You’re more than excited to be back in this room, where it seems like all of your story ideas seemed to have formed. You feel as if you had the greatest idea for a story while staying here over those summers, but it’s just another thing you can’t remember. Perhaps it will come back with time. You certainly need it to come back.

After all of your things are put away, you make your way back down the stairs to familiarize yourself with the house again. You’re sure that it will all come flooding back, but you’d rather get the learning process over now to prevent any future issues. The sitting room is off to the left of the stairs, through a doorway, the dining room is off to the right. Deciding to look through the left side of the house first, you make your way into the sitting room. The same old couches and chairs adorn the room, though they still look like they’ve never been used. You guess that there’s a chance that they haven’t. The fireplace stands tall and clean, another thing you’re sure Helen has never used. There are multiple tables placed around the room, all made with dark, polished wood. 

To the left there’s another doorway, this one leading into the sunroom. Wicker chairs are placed a few feet from each other, a small table in between each chair. You remember spending your time here when the rain prevented you from your outdoor adventures. You’d sit on the floor since the chairs were always uncomfortable, writing your heart out. You sure wish you could find where those notebooks had gone. The back half of the first floor is Steven’s quarters. He’s always been a nice man, but he keeps to himself and you respect that.

Making your way back through the sitting room, you take a second to look out of the small window that sits on the front of the house. Gardens fill your field of view. More gardens than you ever thought a person could have. You feel certain that Helen has a garden for every flower she could possibly grow. 

The dining room houses a table long enough to sit around 14 people, though you know nowhere near that many people have even been in the house. Like everything else, it’s a dark, polished wood. Helen is nothing but consistent in her design choices. The kitchen sits behind a set of double doors, which are painted a pristine white, no doubt kept clean by the lack of traffic. Helen has to have a maid that comes and cleans at some point, there’s no way she’d ever stoop so low as to clean herself. You already know what the kitchen will look like, large stoves and ovens that could cook meals for an obscene amount of people. Your watch tells you that it will be dark soon so you put off your plan of going out to the gardens until tomorrow. 

Helen is nowhere to be seen, though you aren’t surprised. She’s always been a mysterious woman, keeping to herself much like Steven. A rumbling from your stomach lets you know that you should probably eat, which means that you have to actually venture into the kitchen. Opening the doors, you’re surprised to find a portly woman rummaging through some pans. “Oh. I didn’t realize someone was in here. Usually Steven is the only staff that stays here at the mansion.” Your voice seems to startle the woman, causing her to hit her head on the cabinet she was looking in. She lets out a groan as she rubs the back of her head. “Fuck! Shit! Damn! I am so sorry!” You aren’t sure if you mean to curse, but it happens anyway. The lady turns to face you, a bright smile on her face. “It’s ok, really. I probably would have done that even if you hadn’t startled me.” The giggle she lets out after speaking is infectious, making you giggle along with her. “I’m Julia.” You take her outstretched hand and give it a firm shake. “I’m Y/N. Helen is my aunt.” 

You watch as Julia’s expression sours and you’re half expecting it to bounce back, but it doesn’t. “Didn’t know that mean, old broad had family.” She immediately seems to realize what she said since her eyes go wide and she looks a little panicked. “Oh, shoot! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean that. Ms. Helen is lovely.” Her nervous giggle and her flustered state makes you smile. “Hey, you’re the one that works here and spends more time here than I do. Your opinion of her is probably more accurate than mine. I haven’t seen her since I was 15.” She heaves a sigh of relief at your blatant uncaring attitude towards her unkind words about your aunt. “Whew. Thought I really made a mess of things there. Can I get you something to eat?” You give her a shake of your head, telling her that you were just refamiliarizing yourself with the house before you head up to your room. She gives you a little nod and a smile, telling you that she’ll be heading home soon, but she’ll be back the next morning for breakfast. 

The bed in the gardenia room looks like heaven as you walk through the door. Maybe the trip hit you harder than you expected or maybe it’s just being back here, but your eyes are suddenly heavy and all you want is to sleep. No alarm, no designated time to wake up, just sleep as long as your body needs. You take your time changing into your pajamas and washing your face and brushing your teeth before climbing between the sheets and stretching out. It hits you that you haven’t let your mother know that you arrived safely, so you pull out your phone to type out a quick text. Annoyance comes over you as you look at the screen. No service, of course. You should have known, you are in the middle of nowhere after all. You make the decision to call her from Helen’s phone tomorrow. You wiggle a little, making yourself comfortable and set your phone back on the bedside table, not even bothering to charge it. Flicking the lamp off, you quickly fall into a sleep filled with dreams of a boy with a dazzling smile. 

You wake up feeling more rested than you have felt in years. The sun is already high in the sky when you crawl out of bed and shuffle to the bathroom. You settle for a simple sundress to wear for the day, grabbing a cardigan just in case you get a chill. Today, you explore the gardens. Breakfast is being put away when you make your way into the dining room. Luckily, Julia spots you and greets you with a smile and a wave. “Morning, sunshine. I saved you a plate. I put it in the microwave for you.” You release a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, your stomach growling at the mention of food. You follow her into the kitchen, reaching into the microwave to grab the plate of blueberry pancakes and bacon and involuntarily let out a moan. “These are my favorite. How did you know?” Julia gives you a sly smile. “A certain gardener told me.” Steven? There’s no way he remembered that. You haven’t seen him in years. The look on your face must give your thoughts away. “That man remembers everything. It’s insane, really. So, what are your plans for the day?”

The sundress was a great choice. The weather is wonderful. It’s not too hot, not too cold, the perfect balance fornthe spring. There’s a light breeze blowing, enough to keep you cool, but not make you cold. It’s the perfect day for exploring. You stand by the steps, looking around trying to figure out where to go first. After some thought, you decided to start with the daisy garden. It took some time for you to orient yourself, but you managed more quickly than you thought you would, though most of the layout seemed like muscle memory to you. 

The daisies were off to the left of the grounds, tall hedges sounding the garden. That was something universal with the gardens. Every garden had hedges all the way around it, Helen’s way of making sure that to be able to fully see the garden, you had to actually enter the garden. Every hedge was neatly trimmed, Steven’s doing you’re sure. Taking your time, you slowly maneuvered your way through the garden. Daisies of every color surrounded you, some you were sure were some sort of hybrid or something. Helen seemed to have flowers in colors you had never seen before. There was a patch of what looked like a peach color, and it honestly took your breath away.

In the center of the garden, there was a stone bench that gave a good view of the hedge lion that stood in front of you. You weren’t sure you’d ever not be amazed by Steven’s gardening skills. Every garden seemed to be like it came right out of a fairy tale. The thought of why Helen never opened the grounds to onlookers crossed your mind as you stared at the beauty of the daisy garden, but you quickly dismissed it. Helen was a selfish woman, you wouldn’t dream of denying that. There was no way she would share the possession most dear to her with anyone that she wasn’t related to. You also weren’t sure anyone would come. Your aunt had a bit of a reputation for being a rude woman. 

A memory of going to town on your last summer here came to the forefront of your mind. Helen had taken you to town with her for some reason or another. She rarely made trips into town so you had been excited for the journey. Everyone seemed to move out of the way as Helen walked by. At the time, you hadn’t thought much of it, assuming that they were just being polite. Thinking back on it now, it seemed like they had been afraid of her. It was like they were living in fear of even being perceived by her. 

You had heard them whispering, and if Helen had heard she hadn’t let on. You hadn’t been able to make out much of what they had been saying, mostly just ‘witch’ and ‘old Mrs. Kim.’ That brought back another memory. On your rare trips into town, you had heard old Mrs. Kim mentioned numerous times. Mostly when mothers were disciplining their children for being out late. “I told you to be back here by dusk! Do you want me to end up like old Mrs. Kim?” You hadn’t been, and still weren’t, sure what that meant. Other times, it had been when two women were talking, usually one insinuating that the other was crazy. “You’re acting like old Mrs. Kim, you need to get your head on straight.” You made a mental note to ask Helen who Mrs. Kim had been.

The sun was starting to be a bit much for you, though it wasn’t unbearably hot, you were starting to get a bit uncomfortable. Heaving yourself off of the bench, you made your way back through the garden, still taking your time. The entrance to the garden gave you another flash of memory. A vision of you running as fast as you could, white dress flowing with each step you made. You couldn’t have been more than 9. There was a smile on your face, and it made you smile just seeing the memory. Past you ran towards the run down part of the grounds, but the memory faded as you reached your destination. You shook your head as the image of yourself disappeared, your feet automatically carrying you back to the house. You’d make it to investigate the dilapidated garden. Eventually.

Climbing the stairs to the front porch, the urge to sit in one of the rocking chairs hit you. You smiled to yourself before making your way inside and to the kitchen. You were sure Julia must have made some tea or lemonade, maybe both. Pushing the doors to the kitchen open, the smell of food invaded your nostrils and you gave a pleased hum. “You took longer than I thought you would. It's been about 3 hours.” That explains the sun. You gave her a toothy grin as you made your way to the fridge. “Any chance you have tea or lemonade in here?” The woman gave you a smirk before she spoke. “Both.” You knew it.

Planting yourself in one of the rocking chairs, you sipped your drink. The mix of tea and lemonade was as refreshing and you had hoped. Your thoughts wandered without control. Who had you been running to? Your mind drifted back to the dream you had the night before. The boy with the dazzling smile. Who was he? He seemed so familiar to you, but you couldn't quite place where you knew him from. Maybe he had been a playmate from town. But then again, that didn't make any sense. You were barely in town as a child and even when you were, you never spoke to anyone.

The creaking of the door brought you out of your thoughts. You turned, expecting Julia to walk through, perhaps taking a small break while the food was in the oven. Instead, Steven's form greeted you. “Steven! It's been a long time, how have you been?” Your voice seemed to startle the man since his head whipped in your direction, eyes a little wide. He relaxed once he realized that you were the one speaking. “It's good to see you again, Miss Y/N.” Your face scrunched at the title. He had always called you that and you had always hated it.

“I've told you a thousand times, just call me Y/N. Miss Y/N makes me feel old and like you're below me or something. Helen may like that, but I'm not Helen.” Steven gave you a soft smile as he made his way to sit in the chair to your left. “No can do, Miss Y/N. I'm a gentleman with manners.” The statement made you laugh and give him a playful swat on the arm. “The most gentleman to ever gentleman, Steven.”

The two of you sat in silence for a while, enjoying each other's presence. Steven had never been the most talkative, but he had always been comforting. He listened to your childish ramblings all those years ago, nodding his head and gasping when you said something dramatic. He was a friend to you and you loved him for that. 

It was Steven who finally broke the silence, surprisingly. “It sure has been quite lonely without having your visits, Miss Y/N. Glad to have you back. The gardens need you.” You gave him a bright smile, though you were sure that the gardens were thriving in his perfectly capable hands. “Steven, these gardens need no one but you. They're only this beautiful because of the time and care you put into them.” The look on his face was a little somber as he spoke again. “I appreciate it, Miss Y/N, but you and your heart are more needed than you realize. But you will remember in time.” With that, he stood and walked off into the grounds, leaving you rather confused.

The sun was starting to set by the time you went back into the house. Your stomach was starting to growl, and you were sure dinner was close to being ready, if it wasn't already finished. Helen was descending the stairs as you made your way through the front door. “Dear, dinner is ready and you look a bit of a mess.” She glanced down at your hands and legs, which prompted you to look as well. You did have a bit of dirt on your skin. “Go wash up before you join me.” 

Helen had always been this way, a bit rude. You flashed her a tight smile, nodding as you made your way to your room. Stepping through the door of your special sanctuary, you heaved a sigh of relief. The room just felt lighter than the rest of the house. You made quick work of undressing and showering, a bit eager to get food into your body. Once you were bathed and dressed, you stepped out into the hall, not noticing the notebook sitting on your bedside table.

Dinner passed slowly. There wasn't much conversation, though the food was amazing. Julia had made roast and potatoes with a side salad, and you were sure you had never tasted a roast so tender and full of flavor. Voices from the kitchen could barely be heard, Julia and Steven no doubt. You wished you could retreat through the doors and eat with them, their company would be much more welcome than Helen’s. She had finished her food already, but had always been adamant that everyone be finished before anyone left the table.

“Dear.” Her voice caused you to meet her gaze, which was hardened. “While I am pleased to have you back, I must ask why the sudden wish to return.” You knew this would come up eventually. You took a deep breath, thinking through your words carefully. “I needed a break from city life. I have hit a wall with my writing. Being here always gave me new and wonderful ideas. I thought it might help.” Your aunt gave you a curt nod, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin even though she hadn't eaten anything. “Well, if you're done, I'll retire to my room now.” The sliding of her chair filled the quiet room as she turned and made her way to the stairs.

The bed was comfortable as you fell onto it. You weren't particularly tired, but it felt nice to lay down. Steven’s words from earlier swirled through your head. He obviously knew something you didn't, but you also knew that trying to pry would get you nowhere. Out of habit, you turned to grab your phone, mentally cursing yourself when you remembered you had no service and you had forgotten to call your mother. Your attention was immediately diverted to the notebook sitting neatly by your phone, puzzling you.

You hadn't taken a notebook out of your bag, that you knew for certain. Your hand changed direction to reach for the notebook. Shuffling down under your blanket, you brought the book in front you, flipping through the pages. You stopped at a page that was dated just after your 9th birthday. 

The gardens here are so cool. There's so many of them. It'll take me weeks to go through them all.

You chuckled at the thoughts of your past self and flipped a few more pages. This entry was set a few days later.

I found a new garden! I was exploring around the old, gross part of the grounds and I looked through some vines and found it. Aunt Helen called me back before I could get a good look, but I'm gonna go back tomorrow. 

This gave you pause. You didn't remember ever exploring the old part of the grounds. Helen had always told you to stay away from that part of the estate, stating it was dangerous. Deciding to read the next entry, you quickly flipped to the next page.

The new garden is so pretty! It's already my favorite. It has some of every flower and it's huge. And there's a house in there! I didn't see anyone, but maybe tomorrow. 

This had to be some of your childhood stories. There was no way that there was another house on the property. With a sigh, you set the book back on the table and clicked your light off. Giving your pillow a fluff, you laid down and drifted into a dream. 

“Hongjoong that wasn't funny!” The young boy stood in front of you holding his belly and laughing. “You should have seen your face!” He flailed his arms around and made an exaggerated scared face while you pouted. “You shouldn't scare me like that. It's not nice.” One look at your face let him know that he had really messed up, you looked like you were about to cry. “I'm sorry Y/N. I didn't mean to make you sad. I never want to make you sad.” You perked up after his apology, telling him that it was ok and reaching for his hand. He took your hand in his and you both ran off into the garden. 

You awoke with a startle, a little disoriented. The dream was still fresh on your mind, and it left so many questions. Was that the garden you had written about in the notebook? Why did the dream seem so real? It had been like a distant memory. And who the fuck was Hongjoong? Your immediate reaction was to grab the notebook again and try to search for the name, but a knock on the bedroom door made you put that off. “Y/N dear, I’m going into town today and I would like for you to join me. Do hurry and get ready, please. I’d rather not have to wait much longer.”

The ride to town with Helen was silent, just as it always had been. Why she wanted you to join was beyond you, but you could use the time to go over your thoughts. Despite being confused,  you couldn’t help but feel a tinge of sadness at having woken up from your dream. The boy, Hongjoong it seemed, had already created a home in your mind. He seemed so familiar, like an old friend. But you were sure you had never met him. So, why was he invading your dreams? And why did you have such a vivid picture of this new garden? Was it something your mind had conjured on its own? It had to be. There had never been a garden in the dilapidated part of the grounds, and there certainly had never been another house. 

The abrupt stop of the car brought you out of your deep thoughts. Swiveling your head, you noticed that Helen had parked at the town market. It was a small building for a small town, nothing fancy, but it had all the essentials. The market was set in a shopping center of sorts, again just a small little gathering of buildings. There was a clothing store, a barbershop and the library all huddled around one parking lot. An idea sprung to the forefront of your mind. “Aunt Helen, I think I’d like to visit the library, if that’s ok. I could use a good book to read.” You aren’t entirely sure why you decided to lie to your aunt, something just told you that you probably shouldn’t tell her your actual plans. Helen heaved a heavy sigh from the driver’s seat. “I was hoping you would actually help me, but do as you wish, dear.” Turning your head and rolling your eyes, you stepped out of the car and made your way to the library doors.

The library was like any other library, you weren’t really sure why you expected anything else. Like everything in the town, it was small, but it seemed to be bigger than it looked from the outside. Rows of bookshelves spanned down each side of the building and behind the librarian’s desk. Stepping forward, you stopped at the desk where an older lady with thin glasses and a tight bun looked up at you. You held in a giggle at the stereotypical librarian look. “Good afternoon, how can I help you?” She had a friendly smile, a genuine smile rather than the customer service smile many people wore when they were working. “Good afternoon, ma’am. Does this library have newspaper archives?”

Surprisingly, the library had a basement. It was a bit drafty, letting the cool, spring air run through the room. It obviously wasn’t used much, boxes stacked up in one corner. The librarian led you to a single computer that sat on a desk in the very back of the basement. “Sorry that you have to come all the way down here for the archives.” She gave you a kind, somewhat sad smile. “Pretty much everything has transferred to tablets or whatever new fangled technology the kids are using these days. But the newspaper archives haven’t been switched over yet, they’re still on this computer, aside from much older ones that are still on floppy disks.” You gave her a nod of your head with a reassurance that this was fine. “What year are you looking for, sweetie?” It took a moment for you to answer. “I don’t know.”

The blinking cursor on the screen was a bit daunting. The kind librarian had been patient with you, letting you know that it was ok to not know a year and that a name could be used as well. All you had to do was type it into the search bar. If the name couldn't be found, always check the floppies. You didn't think you'd have to go back that far. Were you crazy? You didn't even have a full name. Just Hongjoong. There had to be more than just one Hongjoong, how would you know what you were looking for? Pushing the doubts aside, you typed in Hongjoong's name and pressed enter.

Unlike what you expected, only a couple of articles popped up. The headlines were vastly different from each other, and you were sure the two couldn't be related. After looking over the words for a moment, you chose to click on the first link.

Father takes son and runs.

Kim Jae-seok and Kim Hongjoong have been missing for 3 weeks at this point. While it was first suspected that the father and son had had an unfortunate accident, the running theory now is that Jae-seok has kidnapped his son and left his wife, Kim Eunbi. Mrs. Kim has adamantly argued against this theory, blaming a local woman for the disappearances, but there is no evidence at this time to substantiate her claims.

You stared at the screen with a baffled expression. At the bottom of the article there was a picture of a young boy and an older man, both wearing giant grins. The boy sat on the man’s shoulders, arms wrapped around the man’s forehead. The caption at the bottom of the picture gave the pair’s names. Kim Jae-seok and Kim Hongjoong. The article was dated around the time you would have been 9, and the boy looked to be around your age. He was also the Hongjoong from your dream.

It took you a few minutes to gather the gumption to click on the next article. After a few deep breaths, you moved the mouse, ready for what came next.

Mother of missing boy ostracized: grief or insanity?

2 years after the disappearance of her son and husband, Kim Eunbi has been shunned by the community. She has stuck to her initial claims that a local woman is responsible for the disappearances. Her claims that the owner of the large garden estate has her family hidden away have remained consistent throughout the investigation. Searches were done, but no trace of Kim Jae-seok and Kim Hongjoong were found. The woman is quoted saying “I feel for the poor woman, losing her family, but I certainly have nothing to do with her misfortune.” At this time, the case has been cold. It is still thought that Jae-seok had kidnapped their son.

As you read the words, your mind swirled. Mrs. Kim seemed to believe that Helen had something to do with the disappearances. But to your knowledge, Helen hadn't really spoken to anyone from town. Her visits were always quick, with as little interaction as possible. Looking at you watch let you know that you didn't have much time left before your aunt was done with her errands. On a whim, you erased Hongjoong's name from the search bar, typing in his mother's name instead.

The same articles popped up, only there was one thing added. An obituary. Your heart panged as you read it. She died without knowing what became of her husband and son. You quickly closed out of the tab, rushing back upstairs, thanking the librarian again on your way out. Helen was just getting back to her car as you stepped through the library doors.

You helped her put her groceries into her car, silent the entire time. You definitely had some things to think about. There was no way your hermit of an aunt could have anything to do with the case of the missing men. Mrs. Kim had to have had some sort of mental break due to her grief. Once the bags were neatly placed in the trunk, you took your place in the passenger seat once more.

“Where's your book, dear?” Helen was quick to notice that you came back from the library empty handed and you quickly came up with a believable excuse. “Nothing really interested me. I didn't want to keep you waiting.” That seemed to satisfy her, giving you a nod and a hum. Your thoughts drifted again. Sure Helen was rude, but she wasn't dangerous. Was she?

Steven came to help bring the groceries inside, Julia following soon after. With their blessing, you decided to tour another garden. Maybe that would help you clear your head. You started walking, not really having a particular garden in mind, stopping at the first one you came to. Camillas. Though the camilla garden was one of the smaller gardens, it was still large. 

Rather than hedges surrounding it, there was a tall fence, dark wood of course. Helen did have a theme after all. Despite your thoughts, you tried to pay attention to the beauty surrounding you. Once again, there were flowers of every color. How Helen managed to find so many colors baffled you, but you guessed that when you had that much money, things were more possible for you.  

At the center of the garden stood another statue. Every garden had one, or some sort of hedge animal, if you remembered correctly. This particular statue was of a man with a young boy peeking from behind the man's leg. The base of the statue had no plaque, but was surrounded by yellow camillas. The man's face was rather somber looking, which was odd for such a beautiful garden. 

Helen watched you from the window, a scowl on her face. You were hiding something and she could tell. She could always tell. Except when it came to her oaf of a gardener. She had never been able to get a good read on the man, despite years of experience and practice. She would have done away with Steven if she were able, but she knew the deal and she couldn't go against that. She didn't know what or how, but she knew something had to be done about your nosey tendencies.

You sat amongst the camillas until the sun began to set and a chill started biting at your skin. You still hadn't made sense of the information you had found in the library. Nothing made sense. You wanted to ask someone if they had heard of Hongjoong and his father, but Helen wasn't an option. You doubt Julia knew anything, which only left Steven. Even if he knew anything, you doubted he would say. He'd been working for your aunt for years, he had a loyalty to her.

“Hey mom. Sorry for not calling sooner. My phone has no service here and it kept slipping my mind.” Your mother’s voice was pleasant as she told you that it was ok. She was sure Helen would have called if you had never arrived. A thought passed through your mind and you considering asking your mother if she knew anything about the Kims. Your voice made the decision for you. “Mom, do you know anything about a missing boy and his father?” Silence. It felt like 5 minutes of silence before your mother spoke again. 

“Jae-seok was a friend of your father's. They had gone to school together and had been close ever since. Your dad had always joked about him becoming his brother in law one day.” Your mother left out a breathy chuckle and you kept your attention steady, wanting to know more. 

“When Jae-Seok met Eunbi, the jokes stopped. It was clear that the two of them were meant to be together. They had been so in love. It didn't take long for them to marry, your father was the best man. After Hongjoong was born, Helen gave Jae-Seok the job as her gardener. He made those gardens what they are.” 

You knew that Jae-Seok had been the gardener, but just how close he was to your family was new information. Your mother continued, giving you everything you knew.

“When Jae-Seok left with Hongjoong, both Eunbi and your father had been insistent that there was no way Jae-Seok would do that. He loved his life and he worshiped Eunbi and treated her like a queen. Your father searched for him as much as he could, but after a while he had to give up. The disappearances were the reason we moved. He just couldn't handle staying in a town with so many memories.”

You didn't know what to say. Your head was spinning a little. You had gotten so much information in such a short period of time. Despite all of the thinking you had done today, you still had more to do. You thanked your mother and talked a bit more before you said your goodbyes. Deciding that you weren't particularly hungry, you let Helen know that you would be skipping dinner. The woman looked far from pleased, but you paid her no mind. You were also unaware of the man standing not too far off with a smile on his face.

Laying on your bed, you felt exhausted. You hadn’t really done anything extensive, but your mind hadn't stopped running in circles since your trip to the library. You went through the facts one more time.

1. You had dreams and journal entries about a boy named Hongjoong. 

2. Your father knew the boy's father.

3. Your aunt had been accused of being involved. 

4. Hongjoong was missing.

Turning to your bedside table, you reached to grab the journal you had found the night before. You paused. There was another journal sitting on top. Where were these coming from? A knock on your door took your attention away from the journals. Giving a deep sigh, you prepared yourself to face Helen. 

Opening the door, you were a little surprised to find Steven. “Thought you should probably eat.” He extended his arm, a plate of the dinner Julia had made in his hand. You couldn't help but smile. Steven was a really nice guy. As you took the plate, you gathered enough courage to ask him a question. “Steven, do you remember me ever mentioning a boy named Hongjoong when I was a child?”

The man stiffed a little before relaxing, as if he was trying to hide his reaction. “I'm sure I can't say, Miss Y/N.” Not the answer you were expecting. Steven remembered everything. “It's getting to be a little past my bedtime. Gotta be up early. You should do some reading, Miss Y/N. Goodnight.”

His mentioning reading struck you as a little odd. He had seen you come back from town, he had to have known you hadn't brought a book back and there weren't any books in your room. Sure, he could have assumed you had brought some with you. That was the most logical explanation, but something was still bothering you.

Shrugging the odd conversation off, you took your food to your bed, planning to nibble on it as you read the journals. You chose the new one, flipping through the pages. Your browsing stop and a page that was dated when you would have been 13.

“Hongjoong and I read today, it was pretty relaxing. I like that I can have someone that doesn't feel the need to always fill the silence. Sometimes that's just what I need, to be in someone's presence but still enjoy the quiet. We did talk a little, though. He's such a great listener. He did get a little sad when I asked him to come look at the gardens with me tomorrow. He said something about not being able to leave. I'm not sure what he meant. I'll try again tomorrow.”

There was a large break in the page before a sentence placed at the very bottom.

“I'm gonna marry him one day.”

You almost closed the book immediately. Your 13 year old self was thinking of marrying her imaginary friend. It just seemed silly. You grabbed the other journal, finding a page before the last one you had read.

“I'm writing this in case I forget, the new garden can be hard to find. All you have to do is find the part of the fence with two missing boards. There's a few spots like that, but the one to the garden has vines all over it and an H carved into the board next to it.”

You finished your food, setting the plate and journal back on the table. Looks like you had some exploring to do tomorrow. 

“Don't do this, Y/N. Please. You know I can't come with you, please don't just stop coming. The look on Hongjoong's face broke your heart. He was your best friend, but you were starting to think this was all in your mind. Some imaginary world you had created in your mind. “Joong, I'm getting too old to play make believe with people who aren't there.” His face changed from sadness to anger. “You know damn well that I'm not an imaginary friend. You know what, go. Leave and don't come back. I'm fine here with my dad anyway.” You couldn't help the tear that fell from your eye as you watched him walk away.”

Waking up in a sweat was becoming normal. You groaned as you climbed out of bed to brush your teeth and change your clothes. Choosing to forego a shower, you'd be getting dirty today anyway, you picked out some jeans and an old shirt that you had turned into a night shirt. You sat and ate breakfast with Helen, choosing to ignore her comments about your outfit. She asked what your plans for the day were and you kept your cool, simply telling her you would be visiting the lilies today. She said nothing as she gathered her dirty dishes and took them to the kitchen.

Steven watched as you walked out of the door and headed to the old part of the estate. He couldn't help the sigh of relief that escaped him and the smile that came to his face. He watched your form disappear before he spoke. “Finally.”

The vines were far overgrown. Steven must not worry about this section because there was nothing here. You felt a little ridiculous. Looking around for some garden that probably didn't exist. After an hour of searching, you were ready to give up. You could barely see any of the fence, there was a slim chance you'd be able to find missing boards and a carving. Moving to turn around and head back, you saw a sliver of a missing board. Stepping over to it, you pulled the vines to the side. Two missing boards. You searched around the boards around the gap. On the left board, a small H. 

You took a deep breath, preparing yourself for the incoming feeling of feeling like a silly little girl. Crouching down, you stepped through the gap. It took a little bit of wiggling, but you made it to the other side. When you lifted your head, you were in awe. The most beautiful garden you had ever seen was before you. Gardenias. Gardenias everywhere.

You stood still for a moment, just taking in the beauty. The shock subsided a little and you took your first steps further into the new majestic place you had found. Your feet seemed to know where to go, weaving you through the bushes. You stopped when you came upon a house. Just like the house from your dreams. You studied the house for a few seconds. It wasn't run down at all. In fact, it looked like it had been well taken care of. You watched the door open and a man step out. He stood there looking at you for what felt like forever. A smile slowly creeped across his face. “You're back.”

Your mind went blank. Suddenly a rush of memories came back to you. Meeting Hongjoong for the first time when you were 9, daily visits to the garden, meeting his dad, kissing him when you were 14. Everything hit you like a wave. You took a small step forward, barely moving. “Hongjoong.” The two of you slowly made your way to each other, both of you a little cautious. Once you were right in front of each other, you took a moment to just take him in.

He was handsome, he had grown into one of the most handsome men you had ever seen, if not the most handsome. He tentatively brought his hand to your cheek as if he was worried you'd back away from him. His thumb made soft movements against your face, his eyes boring into yours. “I thought I'd never see you again. I've waited. Every day I come out and take care of the flowers I planted for you, hoping I'll see you walk up. I've missed you so much. I'm sorry for the last conversation we had.”

You felt tears forming and you did your best to blink them away. You leaned into his touch, relishing in his warmth. You had so many questions for him, but you couldn't bring yourself to ask yet. Your brain was screaming at you to touch him. You quickly reached for him, wrapping your arms around him in a hug. He took no time in hugging you back, squeezing a little tighter. “I'm sorry it took so long for me to come back.” Your words were spoken into his chest, coming out a bit muffled. He must have heard you because he responded immediately. “You're here now. That's all that matters.”

Hongjoong pulled you inside, asking you to tell him about the 10 years he had missed. You told him about your high school and college graduations, moving to the city, becoming a writer. His gaze never wavered from you, fully enthralled in what you had to say. Every now and then he would give your thigh a squeeze. Once you had filled him in on your life, you asked him the same. He could see you looking around the house, obviously wondering where his father was. He let his head fall forward a little.

“Dad died about 3 years ago, it's just me now.” Your heart sank. He had lost the only person he had. He had been completely alone for 3 years. Guilt ran through your body. As if he knew what you were thinking, he grabbed your hand. “Please don't feel guilty. You had a life to live and death is natural.” Your questions finally made their way back to the forefront of your mind. Taking a deep breath, you squeezed his hand. “Joong. Why can't you leave the garden?”

He was silent for a while, gathering his words. “Dad explained everything to me before he died. There was a woman who was in love with him. She had asked him to be with her multiple times, but he always turned her down. When he met my mom, things got bad. He was the gardener here and we lived on the property. In this house, actually.” He paused, taking a deep breath before he continued. 

“She continued to try to change Dad's mind even after he married Mom and I was born, but he still refused. Mom had left to go to town one day and Dad and I were playing in the garden, it was pansies then.” He gave a sad chuckle and met your eyes, gaging your reaction as he continued. 

“Your aunt came to the garden, looking for Dad. She started talking, but she wasn't making any sense. Next thing Dad knew, she was gone. He went looking for her, but when he got to the gate, he couldn't leave. The gate would open, but he couldn't step out. We were trapped.” You could feel the tears running down your face. You were filled with sadness, but also rage. How could Helen do this? Mrs. Kim had been right all along.

“The last thing Dad heard was your aunt telling him that he would stay here until he realized that they weren't meant to be. She said until true love was realized. She said we wouldn't be able to be found, especially by my mother. So, I'm stuck here. I don't even know anything about Mom.” The tears were falling harder now. You knew you had to tell him, but it was so hard.

“I found news articles about your disappearance. Your mother never stopped looking. She looked until she died.” Hongjoong looked broken. He had lost everyone, and he had lost you for years. Every bit of emotion you had ever had for Hongjoong had hit you full force. You had forgotten him, yes, but your heart had apparently not. You decided right then that even though you weren’t sure how, you’d figure out how to get him out of the garden.

You kept returning to see Hongjoong every day for weeks. You were sure that Helen was getting suspicious, but you did your best to keep her from figuring out where you were going. The two of you talked like old times, sometimes even playing tag and hide and seek like you had when you were kids. Hongjoong still had the books the two of you would read all those years ago, and it became a routine of reading together. You had even taken trips to the library to bring him new books to read, which he was immensely grateful for. 

After a month of daily visits, you were sure that you were in love with Hongjoong. You suspected that some part of you always had been, but you were old enough to understand the things you were feeling. You wanted to tell him, but you were nervous. You knew that he would never treat you badly for telling him that you had fallen in love with him, but the fear was still there. The sight of his house made you forget about your worry immediately. He was standing outside, just like he always was. His back was turned to you while he was bent down watering the gardenias that bloomed around the house. With a smirk, you quietly walked up behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist. He jumped with a small shriek and turned to face you with a pout. 

“That wasn’t funny. You scared the hell out of me.” You couldn’t help but laugh, remembering how you had said those words to him so many years ago. “Consider that payback for scaring me when we were 9.” The pout disappeared from his face and was replaced with the bright smile you loved to see him wear. Looking at him now, you were definitely in love with him. Without giving it a second thought, you pushed forward, lips meeting his. 

It took him a moment to react, obviously surprised. As soon as he realized what was happening, his lips started to move against yours. Your heart was soaring, you were absolutely sure that you could kiss him every second of the day and never get tired of the feeling. One of his arms wrapped around your middle, pulling you closer, the other making it up to your cheek. Time seemed to stop as the two of you kissed until you had to separate for air. The two of you stared at each other, just taking everything in. “I love you, Joong.” 

Your eyes widened as you heard your own voice. That was definitely not planned. You dropped your gaze, feeling a bit embarrassed. Hongjoong’s fingers found your chin, tilting your face up. “Do you know what gardenias mean?” The question caused you a little confusion, but you shook your head. “Gardenias mean secret love. I planted these because it was my way of telling you that I loved you.  I’ve been in love with you since I was 15. I didn’t realize it until after you left. At first I thought it was just that I missed the only friend I had ever had, but that wasn’t it.” You smiled at him softly, letting him speak until he had said all he needed to say. “I knew it wasn’t that when I would go to the gate every day and just read and wait. I would hear voices on the other side every now and then and I always hoped that it was you. I stopped caring about whether or not I would ever leave the garden, as long as I had you here with me.” He ended his thoughts with a peck to your forehead. 

The tears came again, damn him for being so sweet. “Hongjoong? Will you make love to me?” He took a step back from you and you were sure that you had fucked up. He lowered his head to hide the blush that decorated his cheeks. “I don’t know how.” His voice was only a whisper, and you mentally kicked yourself for not thinking about that. “It’s ok. I’m sorry. We don’t have t-” Your voice was cut short as he stepped forward to grab your hand. “But I want to. Is that ok?” 

Hongjoong laid you onto his bed with shaking hands. Your lips had been pushed against each other since he had told you that he wanted to make love to you. Your heart was so full. You could tell he was nervous. “Joong. Take as long as you need. We don't have to do this now.” Your reassurance seemed to relax the man. “I want to do this now. I'm just nervous.” He gave an embarrassed chuckle and rubbed the back of his neck. 

You reached down, rubbing him over his pants. His hips bucked into your hand and he let out a sigh at the contact. He buried his face in your neck, leaving small kisses along your skin. One of his hands slid up your body to your breast, giving it a cautious squeeze. You let out a small moan, letting him know he was doing the right thing. 

The sound seemed to relieve him of some of his nervousness, causing him to nibble on your neck and slide his hand further down your body, stopping over your clothed core. Due to the dress you were wearing, he was able to feel your damp panties, moaning at the feeling. “So wet.” His lips were back on yours immediately. His movements weren't completely on target, but you let him experiment until he found what made you moan the loudest. 

He leaned back, slipping his pants off, leaving him only in his boxers. Looking over him, you could tell that he had made them himself. You could also tell that he was very well endowed. Hongjoong moved to hover over you, resting on his arm beside your head. An idea popped in your head and you hoped it would help with his nerves.

You pulled back from his lips just long enough to speak. “Thrust your hips forward. We can start over our clothes.” His face relaxed a bit as he thrust into your core. His cock hit your clit on the first try and you moaned as your lips found his again. Hongjoong kept a slow pace and you assumed it was an attempt to not cum early. You would have been fine if he had, just having him like this at all was enough. 

He was obviously a natural, hitting the right spot every time he moved his hips. Your hands found their place on his back, nails digging in slightly. He groaned into the kiss and you made a note to push a little further next time. His breathing began to quicken. He pulled back from your body, a little flush on his cheeks. “I don't want to cum yet and I was getting close.” 

You let him know that it was ok if he came, but he shook his head. “You first. You just may have to help me.” You pecked his lips with a nod. Grabbing his hand, you slipped it under the hem of your panties, placing it directly on your clit. “Rub in slow circles, only a little bit of pressure.” He immediately got to work and again, he was a natural. 

His lips found yours yet again, his tongue rubbing at the seam of your lips. Giving him entry to your mouth, your tongues tangled in a perfect dance. You let him lead the kiss, knowing he would do it right. His playing with your clit felt good, but you needed a little more. You pulled away again to give a few more instructions. “Keep your thumb on my clit and slide your fingers down. I need you to finger me.” The circles on your clit stopped for barely a second before he moved into action.

Sliding his index and middle fingers down your pussy to your entrance, he groaned. He suddenly stopped, eyes meeting yours. “Can I see you? All of you?” You gave him a soft smile and a nod reaching to take your dress off. He grabbed the edges of your panties and slide them down your legs. And then he stared. Just stared.

You started to get a little self conscious, squirming. “Beautiful.” His voice was barely audible, but it made your heart flutter. He admired you a little longer before he moved his hand back into position. This thumb found your clit as if he had been doing this for years. His fingers circled your entrance and he smirked at the whine you let out as your hips bucked into his hand. 

He leaned down to kiss you as he slipped his index finger inside of you. You moaned against his lips, wrapping your arms back around him. Just like with his thrusts earlier, he kept his pace slow. After a few slides of his finger, his middle finger joined his index. The feeling of being slightly more full than only a second ago had your head spinning. You were about to pull away to tell him to curl his fingers when he did that on his own. Your nails dug into his back again, causing him to pick up his pace.

You were getting close and you couldn't tell if it was because he was a quick learner, or if it was just him. You didn't care. Hongjoong whined as you began to squeeze his fingers, picking up his pace again. He was the one to pull away this time, moving his face back to your neck. His lips found your ear, biting your lobe slightly. “Cum for me, my love.” And that was all it took for you to cum around his fingers.

He kept his pace until you were pushing his arm away. “Sensitive.” He pulled his hand away from you, looking at your wetness on his fingers. He looked like he was thinking about something, then slowly lifted his hand to his mouth, pushing his fingers into his mouth. The moan he let out was obscene and it made you clench around nothing. You were still a bit winded when you reached for his boxers, letting him know you wanted them off.

He was big, but not too big. His cock was perfect. He positioned himself over you again, giving you another small peck to your lips. He reached down to wrap his hand around his member, placing it at your entrance. He looked up at you. “Ready?” You gave him a nod and he pushed into you slowly, causing you both to moan in unison. Once he was fully seated inside of you, he paused, letting himself get used to the feeling. 

You rubbed his back, trying to help him relax. After a few moments, he pulled his hips back, leaving only the tip of his cock inside of you before he pushed himself back in. He sped up a little, relishing in the feeling of your walls wrapped tightly around him. You could tell by the look on his face that he wouldn't last much longer, and all you wanted was to see him cum. To fill you completely. “It's ok, baby. Cum whenever you're ready. Don't hold back.” 

He sped his hips again, his moans getting louder. His thrusts were getting sloppy and you dug your nails into his back. “I love you, Hongjoong.” He shivered and let out the loudest moan yet as his hips stopped and his seed began to fill you. “I love you. I love you so much.” His words were shaky, but full of emotion. Once he calmed down, he pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Thank you for coming back to me.”

It took two months for your aunt to finally say something to you about the garden. You had woken up, brushed your teeth and changed, and had breakfast before you walked out to go see Hongjoong. This had become such a routine that you could do it without thought. Just as you were approaching the missing boards, a voice came from behind you. “And just where are you going, dear niece?” Your body stiffened as you turned to face her. 

Her face was full of rage. You stood your ground, she had hurt so many people already. You wouldn't let her hurt anyone else. “I'm going to the garden you trapped two innocent people in.” Her face twisted into absolute hatred. “You ungrateful brat. I let you into my home and you disrespect me. How dare you?” It was your turn to feel rage.

“How dare I? How dare YOU? You couldn't accept that you weren't wanted and you cursed an entire family. You took a son and husband away from a woman who did nothing but love a man. You're disgusting.” 

You turned your back to Helen, intent on continuing your trek to see Hongjoong. Your aunt took the opportunity to grab your arm and pull you back towards her. “You will not go back there. I forbid it. If you continue to disobey you can go back to your life in the city.” You tried to pull your arm back, but Helen was stronger than she looked. “Let go of me you wretched woman!”

Hongjoong heard you yell from the garden and his feet moved faster than his brain. He ran to the garden gate, pulling on it, not even thinking twice when it opened for the first time in his life. When he stepped onto the other side, he noticed you with an older woman's hand wrapped around your arm. He saw red. He ran forward, wrapping his arms around the older woman and doing his best to pull her off of you. He managed to get her away, but she quickly broke free from his grip.

“Helen, that is enough!” Steven's voice drew everyone's attention. He was standing a few feet away, Julia by his side. He held a large book in his hand, which he handed to Julia. “This has gone on for too long, it's time to let it go. The boy has done nothing to you.” Helen made eye contact with Julia, noticing the book she held tight to her chest. 

“Yes, I found your book, not that you really hid it.” Steven's voice brought her attention back to him. “You. I don't know how you did it, but this reeks of your doing.” Her words were filled with venom, but Steven looked unbothered. He straightened his back, standing tall and proud.

“You may have forced me into silence about this situation, but I'm a crafty man. You never noticed Miss Y/N's notebooks, but I did.” Everything clicked into place. The sudden appearance of the notebooks, Steven's cryptic words. Everything made sense now.

Hongjoong stepped next to you, both of you still not realizing he had left the garden. His hand reached for yours, intertwining your fingers. You both focused on Steven, waiting for his next words.

“For years I have been forced into this sham of a marriage, into silence about how awful you are. And now it's over. The boy has made it out of the garden, Helen. True love has been realized. Your curse is broken.” 

Everyone seemed to realize that Hongjoong was free at the same time. Heads whipped to face him. Helen’s expression full of anger, yours of awe, and Hongjoong's of confusion. You wrapped your arms around him immediately, bringing him into a hug. It took him a moment to catch up to your enthusiasm, but it wasn't long before he held you tight against him.

“Now, if Miss Julia will help me, we have something planned for you. See, you're not the only one that read this little magic book of yours. We've waited for the day the boy could leave the garden. Now, he's made that garden into a home and I see no reason to take that from him. But a little garden of your own seems appropriate.”

With that, Julia began to read from the book. Her words were quick, not giving Helen enough time to make it to her to stop her. In a flash, Helen was gone. You looked at Julia, confused. You had thought that Helen's new home would appear in front of you. “I never said the garden would be here” 

It didn't take much consideration to decide to stay with Hongjoong in the house he grew up in. The garden was covered in the flowers that he planted for you. It was where your love story began, and it would be where your love story would end. 

Steven reported Helen missing and as her legal husband, that you still didn't understand, he got ownership of the estate. He had tried to give it to you, but you refused. You didn't need the big house, you just needed Hongjoong. 

You received a call from your publisher, letting you know the good news. The draft of your novel had been approved. “You still haven't told me the name of this book, my love.” You smiled at your husband, giving him a sweet kiss. Leaning to place your lips next to his ear, you whispered lowly. “The Secret Garden.”

[phoenixeclipse-lmkau]

So, I have a thought about Spirit;

Spirit: This is my fabulous sister, Queen of Flower Fruit Mountain.

Reader: (waves)

Spirit: and these are her lame, don't deserve her, pathetic husbands.

Wukong & Macaque: hey now-

Like, Spirit taking advantage of being Reader's sister to be the most annoying in-law she can

Yaasss!! If and when the dust settles and if Reader actually accepts them. Yes this would totally happen, heck I can see so many scenarios where she would be like this.

Spirit does NOT like the two monkey demons who stole her sister away. The sheer number of times she will try to get her sister back is astounding.

Heck, she'd be like this even with MK. Since Reader is PROBABLY going to adopt him. Spirit would be the cool aunt who gives him anything he wants. Especially since she is not good with knowing what they actually need.

Anyways I love this idea sooo-

.....

The room was filled with demons and celestials alike, many coming to Flower Fruit Mountain in hopes of becoming allies or at least making sure they wouldn't be harmed by the Monkey King and his Warrior. Others simply came to meet the new Queen they have taken.

Sun Wukong and The Six Eared Macaque were very well known to keep everyone they can away from their new mate. News had spread like wildfire at the news of the two taking on a mortal human woman as their mate. A few didn’t believe it others believed that this would be a great way to finding a weakness between the monkey king and his warrior. Some even speculated that one of them had cheated on the other, however none of that was true.

The room was filled with demons and celestials alike, many coming to Flower Fruit Mountain in hopes of becoming allies or at least making sure they wouldn't be harmed by the Monkey King and his Warrior. Others simply came to meet the new Queen they have taken.

Many glanced around trying to locate the only human within the midst and finally they did. A young maiden, dressed in a long dark red hanfu with vibrant gold embroidered throughout the fabric. Roses decorated your hair along with jewels that dangled beautifully around your head and through your hair.

Some attempted to approach you but all were sent away by the small monkey demoness that accompanied you. A dark furred one with floating hair and light grey eyes. The one known as Spirit, the daughter of one of the Monkey Kings generals. The only ones able to get closer were your husbands who were willing to just scoop you up into their arms.

Both monkey kings had increased their size while the festivities were taking place.

“Brother!” Sun Wukong loudly called out when none other than the Demon Bull King walked into the ballroom.

You felt a shiver run down your spine at the sheer sight of the mighty and huge demon before you. It was absolutely terrifying to see someone so huge. Your attention however was turned away to someone else. A woman with long black hair and deep black eyes, she was watching the Demon Bull King like a hawk. But then turned her attention to you.

“Hello, you must be the woman everyone has been speaking of,” She spoke elegantly as she walked up to you gracefully.

Spirit immediately bared her teeth and growled at her, “What do you want?”

“I merely wished to speak with the new Queen of the Mountian. My name is Princess Iron Fan, and yours?” Her eyes watched you calmly though they narrowed slightly as she waited for a response.

You didn’t know why she approached you, she was a celestial who had nothing to do with you. And if she was anything like they show which you weren’t sure if you should trust her. In fact based on everything you knew, you shouldn’t trust her.

“Reader, her name is Reader MY Fabulous and wonderful SISTER, The Queen of Flower Fruit Mountain,” Spirit answered for you, emphasizing the fact that you were siblings, sworn siblings but details. You also noticed how she spoke about you being Queen rather bitterly which wasn’t really surprising.

You waved awkwardly unsure of what to do when you felt two familiar presences behind you. Turning slightly you noticed your two husbands arrive, Wukong wearing his usual smirk and Macaque narrowing his eyes at the woman before them.

“And these are Readers completely useless, lame, and don’t deserve her pathetic husbands,” Spirit said smugly.

“Excuse me what did you just say?” Wukong growled but before attacking he was held back by his husband as Reader pulled Spirit to her side and sending him a stern look. Even while she shook with some fear.

So in tern yes Spirit will be the most annoying sister-in-law that these two monkey demons will ever have. Especially because she is the only in-law that they currently have. The reason for this is simple too, Sun Wukong and The Six Eared Macaque don’t have any ‘real’ family other than the monkeys on the mountain. All of which were all for them getting together and they all knew both of them before they got together. So they weren’t trying to learn about new people.

Thank you so much for this ask!! I greatly enjoy seeing people liking my content!

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Three-headed dragon (Rhaenyra Targaryen x reader)

Summary: Three times Rhaenyra marked you, and one time you did too. Or snippets of the love story I so wanted to tell but didn’t feel confident enough to write.

Warnings: Implied smut. Dance of the dragons. Canon character death (Not Rhaenyra)

Rquested: Yes!

A/N: I have not read the books, and I have only gotten one hickey in my life. I hope my ability to describe it's alright. Ignore the bra and the hegemonic body in the first picture, it's for the vibes.

“How many years have you spent by my side?” Rhaenyra asks, as you fix her hair in the mirror. It’s an important day, even if none of you know it at the time. It’s early. Her husband is off somewhere, no longer sleeping in the same bed as her. She is too pregnant, she jokes. You doubt it. You have long wondered what her relationship with Prince Daemon is. Are they star crossed lovers, who finally get their happy ending? Are they Uncle and Niece, married out of political convenience? You can’t tell.

You know which one you prefer, though. It must be kept secret, this deep-seated, long-lasting admiration for your Princess. You have been through it all, together. Youth, marriages, motherhood, widowhood. Ruining it now, with your feelings, would be foolish.

“Since we were sixteen.” You place different ribbons over her hair, testing, draping. It’s not your job, technically. You are a noblewoman in your own right, not supposed to be here on Dragonstone, but back in the North, where your long deceased husband’s bones rest.

Not meant for marriage, and ready to start your career as a Septa, you had found yourself as a companion to a much younger Rhaenyra. She had secured, in an admirable move, a marriage by proxy with some old lord. You had not even managed to reach the North when he had passed, leaving you as the sole heir to a small castle close to the Boltons.

With such undesirable neighbors, and the news that your Lord Husband was dead, you had decided to come back into Rhaenyra’s service. Her companion through childhood, now by her side during the trials of adulthood.

“Sixteen. Such a long time.” Rhaenyra squeezed your hand, eyes meeting yours in the mirror. “Served loyally and never asking for anything in return.”

“Only your friendship.” Your love, you wanted to scream. Your love, for you to see me, since I am still here and I want you. Don’t you see how much it has hurt me, when I am yours, yours, and you were Criston’s, then- -

But you say nothing of the sort. Not wanting to ever risk what you had. Love is selfless, you remind yourself. You can’t have her, nor can you own her. Rhaenyra is the Seven Kingdoms, Aegon’s Crown. You cannot hope to own her or rule her. The Iron Throne, as everyone knows, was not made for a woman.

“You are not my friend,” Rhaenyra says, and the shock must show on your face because she laughs. Silver bells filling the room, the laughter of a golden Princess. “You are family, by this point. Haven’t you cared for the boys as if they were yours?”

And it’s true. You have loved those children because they are half her. You have been the preferred aunt, the accomplice, and the one to teach them things as important as the proper way to hold a quill. As the saying goes, it takes a village. The children are your combined efforts, alongside hers, Daemon’s and Harwin’s.

“You are as much a mother to them as I am.” Yours. Rhaenyra is saying the boys are as much hers as they are yours. “I have been thinking.”

You are so grateful for it, you could cry. But that’s not why Rhaenyra likes you.

“Oh? You are capable of it? We must inform the Maesters.”

Rhaenyra laughs.

“More respect for your future Queen.” She tries putting on a scolding expression, but is unable to keep her face straight.

“Oh, your majesty! I never meant to offend?” You give her a mock curtsy, and she giggles a bit more. You love her like this, you have come to realize. Rhaenyra is a woman of many flaws, even as a mother. She has grown into something larger than life, a presence that commands rooms yet manages to remain full of love to give.

“Stop it, you,” Rhaenyra complains. “I’m trying to do something here. Have a gesture.”

You sober up, a smile still tugging at your lips.

“I was thinking perhaps you should start wearing my house colors. And before you say anything, I mean it as an order. I already had you made three new gowns.”

You open and close your mouth a few times.

“Dragon got your tongue?” She teases, cradling her belly.

“Rhaenyra… I… Too much?” Because you are not sure what she is saying, but definitely she is not calling you sister. She would say it plainly, your Rhaenyra. That she is telling you to wear her house colors… That’s what men do. To their wives.

“It’s what you deserve.”

She is informed of her father’s death that day. The only person she allows in the room with her, as she loses baby Visenya, is you. From woman to woman. No one else gets to glimpse the fragile human who lives inside the dragon, not even Daemon.

You declare war dressed in black and red.

The Black Council is filled with fools, despite the support they show to Rhaenyra. You know it. She knows it. That’s why it doesn’t come as a surprise to you when you go to step inside the war room, and a guard bars the entrance with his lance. You have been expecting this moment. Dreading it, even. It was bound to happen.

“I am sorry, my Lady, but you are not allowed inside. Orders of the Prince consort.” Of course. Of course it's Daemon. Despite expecting it, you can’t help but be surprised at his boldness.

You don’t wish to make a scene. You truly don’t. But it scares you more than you thought it would. First, you will be banned from rooms. Then, dismissed, if not outright executed. This day had to come, you knew. Everyone had family on the other side of the war, with all the noble houses having intermarried at least once.

In the years to come, the conflict will be known as one that teared brother from brother. You don’t know this, you will not live to see it. Yet, it rattles in your bones.

“What? Prince Daemon?” You ask a little too loud. It attracts the attention of some other people in the hallway, including Rhaenyra who is just arriving. She looks more regal than ever in a black gown that compliments her pale skin.

Whispers start to break out among the gathered, surely reminding your heritage. Everyone is waiting to enter the war room, and the lance the guard has extended across the doorway is certainly drawing attention.

“What’s going on here?” Rhaenyra asks, placing a hand on your lower back and eyeing the guard with suspicion. The man lowers his head.

“My Queen, Prince Daemon has said…” He starts to explain, but Rhaenyra silences him with a dismissive wave of the hand. Ashamed, you lower your eyes.

“I do not care what he has said.”

“He has prohibited the Lady from entering…” The guard argues. Next to you, Rhaenyra tenses. You know he has already angered her, daring to speak above her like that.

“Is Prince Daemon King? Does he wear the crown?” She asks him, fiercely. The guard, wisely, keeps quiet. “She is my right hand. I will not suffer to see her disrespected.”

And with that, Rhaenyra moves the lance aside with a brush of her hand, leading you inside by the small of your back.

At the table, Daemon stands, moving some pieces along the map of Westeros. His back is to you, but he turns as he hears the commotion that precedes your arrival. A smug little smirk is on his lips, as he sees your discomfort.

“What are you…?” Daemon says, when he processes that you are, in fact, inside the room he had banned you from. Then, he notices Rhaenyra. “Ah.”

He squares his shoulders, getting ready for a fight. You try to pull away from Rhaenyra, but the hand on your back turns into claws, grasping at your dress to keep you right where you are.

“Why did you order the guards to not let her inside?” Rhaenyra speaks in a tone that leaves no room for argument. Daemon has to answer her or else. It’s a tone you had heard frequently when she tries to reign her sons in.

“Because I thought she didn’t belong in the war room, my Queen.” Daemon saunters towards you, no doubt trying to intimidate you. You lift your chin defiantly. Usually, you two avoid each other’s path. He resents your position in Rhaenyra's life, as her most trusted council. You resent that he gets to share her bed.

“You gave a ridiculous order.” Rhaenyra argues, rubbing your lower back in soothing circles, as if you were a spooked horse.

“Not so ridiculous. We have known for a long time there is a spy. Why should it not be your pet?”

“I am not! You truly think I would do something as vile?” Desperate and feeling powerless, you turn towards Rhaenyra. For a second, you truly think she might believe him. It’s the scariest second of your life. Losing her in a trap set up by Daemon? You hope she can see how genuine the next words you speak are. “I would never endanger the children, never endanger you!”

“I know.” Rhaenyra says, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I know.”

“Come on. Her family is as green as they come.” Daemon raises his hands in the air, as if asking for patience to the Seven Heavens.

“My family is here.” You say, firmly. “Jace, Luke, Joffrey, Viserys, Aegon…”

“So you say. But they are not your family, are they?” It feels as if Daemon has burned you. Nothing has hurt you more. Not even the accusations about you being a spy, or the time you thought you would have to leave Rhaenyra to marry some Lord in the North.

You have spent all your life next to her. All your best years. Now, you are an old spinster, despite being barely thirty. You have always wanted children, like any noble lady in Westeros. It was too late for it now. No lord would want a widow past her prime.

Yet, you have always thought that the void the lack of children of your own had left could be filled by Rhaenyra’s boys. Secretly, you thought yourself a mother already. What else could you be, when your name had been Jace’s first word? When you were the one holding Luke’s hands as he learned to walk?

Daemon wasn’t saying it openly, but it was clear that was what he meant. Rhaenyra’s children were not yours. As they had not been Harwin’s.

“They are!” Rhaenyra insists, but you are barely hearing it. The thought of it has left you too distraught to care about whatever you are discussing. It feels as if your heart is being carved out of your chest. Were Daemon about to suggest executing you for treason, you doubt you would worry. How could you, when it feels as if he has gutted you already? “We are. She is family. And I will hear no more of this matter.”

Her hand curves possessively around your waist. A claim, for everyone to see. You lean into her, shell shocked by it all.

But Daemon isn’t about to let this go. He pulls out a crumpled piece of parchment from his pocket, one you recognize too well. You slump in defeat, despite Rhaenyra’s hands urging you to stay upright.

Daemon clears his throat, dramatically.

“And I fear your time with the Princess.” He stresses the last word, making a long pause. You close your eyes, and keep them closed tight. “Has come to an end. I urge you to come back to the Stormlands, where no harm shall befall you. For King Aegon is the most merciful when the misguided sheep comes back to the herd.” Daemon crumples the paper, and throws it to the floor. You wince. “Nothing to say?”

You shake your head.

“Daemon…” Rhaenyra warns, arm around your waist turning into a vice-like grip. You do not understand it, then. It will be a long time before you do.

“Did or did not your father write that?” He whispers, dangerously.

“He did.” You answer, in a voice so small it’s nearly inaudible. Daemon slams his hand on the table, making you jump, and struts out of the room.

You start to sob, quietly. This is it. Rhaenyra is going to dismiss you from her service. It’s true that your father has been urging you to come back home, stating that you would be protected. Begging you, even. Promising all sorts of things, from freedom, to riches, to a husband, to becoming the wife of a Prince. That’s his level of desperation.

It’s unlike him, to worry so much. But you know part of it is not just fatherly affection and genuine concern for your well-being. No. Taking you from Rhaenyra’s side would be the greatest hit the Blacks could take. Lately, you are one of the few things keeping the Queen calm and tethered to reality. You love her, but ever since Luke passed, Rhaenyra has turned almost unrecognizable. She is paranoid and harsh in ways you had never seen before. Crueler. More Targaryen than usual.

And not only that. You hold an unusual amount of information inside your head. Battle plans, supply chains, locations. Everything that has been the key to the Black’s success so far, you know. The information is too valuable to pass on. If you were to turn to the Greens, you would have to share it, be it voluntarily or forcibly. You are not foolish enough to not know it.

“Breathe, darling.” Rhaenyra cradles your face between her hands. “It's alright. I know you would never betray me. Breathe.” She exaggerates her breathing, placing your hand on her chest. It’s only then you realize you have started to hyperventilate. She pulls you into her, hugging you. On the doorstep, Daemon watches.

You don’t know what has gotten into her. Never has she touched you like this. It’s not the first time you kissed. You had both been sixteen and curious, once. But it had not gone further than learning how to kiss another person without it being gross. Because that was what friends were for. Obviously.

She smells like soot and blood. It’s clear she has rushed to your side, not even taking time to change after the battle. You wonder who she killed, this time. What city has she burned, how many of the small folk she and Daemon have doomed?

“I thought… When they said there were revolts on the road….” And her mouth is yours, and you can’t think because you want her so bad you aren't concerned about the consequences. Half the Kingdom is against you, already. You are considered traitors on one side, she is the Queen on the other. What does it matter, really, that it’s called a sin? You will die anyway.

“You are mine. Please. Say it to me, love.” Rhaenyra pleads, kissing your jaw. She looks so gorgeous in armor, you feel like you might die any time you glance her way. And now, you get to have her. It’s intoxicating, having all that power at your fingertips. A goddess come to life, set on claiming you, you and only you.

“I am yours.” You say, kissing her brow. You won’t question it. Not when you are so close to getting your darkest fantasies come true. “I have always been.”

“Mine.” Rhaenyra kisses the hollow of your throat. “You are mine.”

She grabs your hand, pulling you towards a chair. The room you are in is not yours, nor hers. Neither of you care, too desperate for each other. Rhaenyra doesn’t care that her blood soaked armor is staining someone’s chair. You don’t care that your dress is getting thrown around someone's room. Just in your chemise, she pulls you into her lap.

It will have to be burned, after this. There is no way you will be able to salvage the white cotton shift after straddling her lap. The blood sticks the two of you together, but you are too joyous to care.

“I love you.” You say to her, as she bites down on the column of your throat, harshly. Still a little bloodthirsty.

A beat of silence. Have you ruined things before they truly began?

“I love you too.” Rhaenyra says, as she kisses your collarbones. “I love you, and you are mine.”

“All yours.” You answer, breathlessly. Purple flowers blooming across your collarbones, a red angry rose right by your ear. Her bloodstained hands leaving marks upon your arms.

“Yours, yours, yours.” You moan as someone clinging to a lifeline.

“All mine, all mine, all mine.” She answers back.

A bite where your shoulder meets your neck. It’s painful, stinging, your vision blurring into soft flashes of orange and red.

“Just take it for me, please. Please, sweet girl.” Rhaenyra sucks another bruise on your skin. Deep lilac that will bloom into soft green. “I need this. I need them to know you are mine, even if we can’t tell them.”

You pant. There is a certain pleasure to it, being kissed with the barest hint of teeth. But it’s more than just the kisses, what has you panting in arousal. It’s the way she treats your body as her own personal canvas. As if you were a precious artwork Rhaenyra is bringing to life with her kisses.

A maroon chrysanthemum, just over your collarbones. Front and center, the bruise blooms. Her hand, holding your jaw still for the softest torture.

You are uncertain if she is doing it out of fear, trying to make sure you are still there. If she is a bit sadistic, in the way Targaryens are. Or if this is simple, raw reassurance that you are willing to do anything she asks. You save the wondering for later, though. At the moment, you are too busy breaking down under the talented mouth of your Princess.

You don’t want to be separated from her. You know, you know, that something bad is about to happen. Some nights, you wake up, choked up in a bad feeling. You barely recognize her anymore.

Luke’s death had devastated everyone. You thought, after that, never again would you know such pain. You were mistaken. In the months to come, it was as if the children were falling as flies. Everywhere you looked. Jace, Joffrey, Viserys. And through it all, you had been by her side.

Rhaenyra has transformed into something that’s equally beautiful and terrifying. Far more determined and possessive, love harsher and unwilling to let go. Desperation does funny things to women.

As children, your love had been more pure. Untainted but also untested. Your innocence had been lost long ago. But a love that was not pure didn’t mean a love that meant less. it just meant it had grown and changed, as things often did.

Rhaenyra’s heart was not what it used to be when you two were younger. No longer filled with dreams of cake and laughter. But you weren’t the same girl, either.

Before, you had felt the urge to mark her and settled for being marked instead. You had told yourself you were not allowed to have her, that she was Laenor’s, Harwin’s, Daemon’s. And each and each time, you pulled back, curling into yourself. No more. It was not enough, to be hers. No. It was not enough to be owned. You had so little now, you wanted everyone to know she was yours as you were hers.

“Rhaenyra.” You ask her, as she pushes you down to your knees, tossing and turning in the sheets. “Rhaenyra.” As your teeth bruise her thighs, as you bring her over the edge over and over again.

“Darling. Love. Come here.” And you want to sob because it’s not enough. You want her to be yours. You want her to be yours, so you can drag her and the kids away from this madness, far away to a land where the war won’t touch you. Where there is no Iron Throne to destroy the family you have built little by little.

She will never go. Not even after all the boys die. Not even after Daemon is dead, in an incident that’s half an attempt to escape her, half a suicide mission. You have no other choice but to remain by her side, too far in to do otherwise.

Leaving is giving up. Leaving is losing. Leaving is renouncing the Iron Throne, her birthright. She will never go. Rhaenyra would rather tear the realm apart than save herself, and it terrifies you.

What terrifies you more is the fact that despite all the grief, all the pain, you do not regret loving her. You just regret not loving her in the way she deserves, in the way she has been asking for. The clothes, the hands, the bruises. Only now do you realize Rhaenyra has been trying to mark you, claim you. And it’s like you two are finally speaking the same language.

“Promise me.” You whisper against her hair, as you lay in bed together. “Promise you will never take this off.” And you are slipping her a silly thing, a medal of the Mother you always carry with you for protection. It’s not exactly your house’s jewelry, or your cloak, as a man would give to a wife.

Rhaenyra laughs. She finds your devotion to the Faith of the Seven silly. But she gets it, anyway. She puts the medal on, close to her heart.

You loved her differently now. No longer your silver Princess, your childhood companion. In your chest, curling around your heart, a dark possessive thread rests, tying you to her. Finally, you meet her in the middle.

Rhaenyra has always loved you like certain things are meant to be loved. In secrecy. In the dark. Not of her own will, but yours. Rhaenyra didn’t care what others thought. She had been so bold before, trying to get you to step in the light for once. You had not realized it at the time, you had not been ready. You had worried too much.

And now, with no time to worry left, with death threatening your doorstep, you realize exactly what you were missing out on. Every time she walks away, chain glistening between her breasts, you get a secret thrill. She is yours. You know it. It’s your mark Rhaenyra wears close to her heart.

[lady-pug]

Written Between the Lines

Chapter II - We Shall Find Our Answers

Summary: You and your family return to King’s Landing after several years, and you are dreading having to face your uncle again. While you cannot change the past, maybe the lines on his palm can show some insight into your future. And maybe, just maybe, the future might be bright for the two of you.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Word count: 5,5k

Warnings: canon-typical incest (uncle-niece)

Notes: Pssst. Hey, you. I’m back. And I bring thee the continuation of this story, which I had a lot of fun writing. I intend on writing more for this little universe, so if you've liked this story so far, please consider staying tuned for more parts to come!

Just for clarification, I don’t understand much about the rules and laws of monarchy, but since this is my story and I’m already saying ‘screw canon’, we’re also gonna say ‘fuck tradition’ (and if any of the characters, especially Aemond, seem a bit ooc I deeply apologize, I’m just trying very hard to Bob-The-Builder the events of the show)

Also, I have purposefully left the question of the reader’s father somewhat ambiguous so there can be more leeway for the reader’s appearance to be undescribed.

Thank you so so much for reading and I hope you have enjoyed this story! <3

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It had been several years since you had last stepped foot in King’s Landing. Not since the death of your aunt and father. Or fathers. Which meant you hadn’t seen Aemond since that fateful night in Driftmark. You’d been by his side in an instant once Luke had shaken you awake wailing like a babe that he had done something terrible. You had held his hand as the maester tended to his wound, much to his mother’s grief. She had even tried pushing you away from her son, but his hand held tightly around yours prevented you from going too far. He had wanted, no, needed the comfort of your presence. But that all changed when Jace explained what had transpired, what he had called your younger brothers and, by extension, yourself. You had dropped his hand as if it burned, feeling more betrayed than ever, not missing the way your hurt was reflected in his own eyes. Well, eye. He had tried to talk to you after everyone had been excused but you fled from him, not wanting to face him just yet. Perhaps never again, you had thought at the time.

Now a grown woman, you returned to King’s Landing once more, summoned by the court for a hearing in which Ser Vaemond Velaryon intended to question Lucerys legitimacy as heir to Driftmark (which he was in for a surprise as your mother did not intend to pass Driftmark down to Luke, but to Jacaerys instead, as previously discussed and agreed with your grandparents, Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys, while she would name you, her firstborn,   as heir to the Iron Throne after her). So it’s no surprise you were not looking forward to this visit at all. 

While you had kept in contact with Helaena through exchanged ravens, you hadn’t once written to Aemond, nor had he done so to you. You were dreading the moment you had to see him again, as you didn’t know how he would react to seeing you after the way you left things off in the past. In reality… you missed him. You missed having someone to talk to, someone who truly cared about what you had to say, who shared similar interests to you and enjoyed the diverging ones all the same. You missed your study partner, as Jace’s high valyrian was incredibly subpar, leaving him far behind you in his studies. You simply missed having him. 

The first moment you had laid eyes on him had been, unsurprisingly, in the courtyard. You’d been following after your brothers as they explored what had changed and what hadn’t around the Keep, trying to ensure they didn’t get into any trouble, when you noticed a small crowd forming around two men engaged in a heated training match. One was none other than Ser Criston Cole, who hadn’t aged a single day but looked like the stick up his ass had slipped even further in, and the other… 

You couldn’t help but stare, oblivious to anything else around you. He had grown quite a lot in the years you’d been apart. He was taller, his shoulders pulled back and his head held high, no longer the timid, self-conscious boy you’d once known. Where Ser Criston was strong Aemond was fast, his tall frame and lithe shape allowing for a more fast paced combat, his movements sharp yet swift and even somewhat… graceful. 

“You should clean up, right there.” you snapped out of your reverie, brought back to focus by your brother Jace, who motioned to the corner of his own mouth with a smirk hanging from his lips “You’re drooling.”

Feeling a warm flush on your cheeks you swiped the back of your hand across your mouth, finding nothing there, as Jace chuckled at your naivety and moved to join the crowd along with Luke.

Little cunt.

You followed after your brothers just as Aemond had his sword pointed right at Ser Criston’s neck. You couldn’t quite hear what they were saying, only catching the tail end of their conversation.

“Have you come to train?” he had been saying, his eye trained on Luke, some underlying darkness swirling in it, before his gaze finally met you and something shifted in it almost imperceptibly “Little niece.” 

The way he said it, the use of the once mocking title, left you reeling. The tone he used made it so you couldn’t quite tell if he had been sneering at you or in awe at your presence, if he was jesting or quite serious, mocking or sincere.

But your musings were interrupted by the gates opening, Ser Vaemond walking in as if he owned the place. Or like he was owed something from this place. It seemed your dreaded reunion with your uncle would have to wait.

As much as you hated being back in King’s Landing you couldn’t deny this place did manage to keep you entertained. The hearing had gone as well as one could expect, with Ser Vaemond hurling one insult after another at both you, your brothers and your mother and ultimately losing his head for it. All was well with your family, Jace’s claim to Driftmark and his status as future Lord of the Tides and your own as heir to the Iron Throne after your mother had been reaffirmed by the King himself, backed by your grandmother. 

During the whole hearing you couldn’t help but glance at Aemond from the corner of your eye every once in a while. He had a self-satisfied smirk plastered on his face all throughout Vaemond’s speech, the bastard, but once your mother mentioned her desire to establish you as her heir to the Throne something changed. His gaze met yours and his face softened, the smugness disappearing all together from his features. 

It was the last you saw of him, having taken off to the courtyard to relish in the diminishing sun as it lowered in the sky by sitting under the weirwood tree. Jace and Luke were enjoying a stroll around the Keep with their respective betrotheds, occasionally passing by your peripheral vision.

“I thought I’d find you here.” a voice cut through the air, souring your mood.

“Have you come to question my legitimacy as well, uncle?” you asked Aemond, who stood in front of you with his hands behind his back, before nodding in your brother’s direction as they skirted the edge of the courtyard “Be careful not to speak too loudly, we wouldn’t want you to lose yet another eye, now, would we?”

The smallest twitch of his eye was the only indication that he was bothered by what you said. You knew it was low, and you did feel a twinge of guilt about it, but the hurt you’d been cultivating for him since that night was festering in your heart.

“Always the jester, little niece.” he smirked, taking a seat next to you, keeping you on his good eye’s side.

“Only for you.” 

You both fell silent, the air around charged with years of tension built between the two of you.

“I haven’t heard from you in ages.” he spoke softly, facing forward.

“You didn’t write.” you jabbed.

“You didn’t either.” 

He had you there. 

“Helaena’s told me of your travels.” he tried again “You’ve visited quite a lot of places.”

“I wanted to see the realm.” you explained, feeling some of the tension dissipating as he extended an opportunity for you opened up “To learn the ways of the people we are to rule.”

He only hummed in response.

“And what about you?” you turned to him, noticing how his body seemed to instinctively turn towards you as well “How have you been faring?”

“Oh, you know.” he shrugged, nonchalantly “I have been busy, studying, training with a sword, as you’ve very well seen,” the smirk that formed on his face was enough to bring heat to your cheeks “and trying to stop Aegon from drowning in his cups every night.”

A giggle escaped from your lips, which in turn prompted a small grin from him. This moment, right here with him, felt like before; it felt freeing. The full weight of how much you had missed him hit you like a Vhagar-sized carriage. 

A moment of silence passed before he turned somber again.

“My mother has deemed it time for me to find a wife.” he spoke slowly, his words making something twist painfully in your chest “She’s been trying to find matches for me in some of the noble houses. But none of the ladies in court will even look at me.”

He cast his gaze down and away from you, his stoic demeanor cracking for a moment and giving way to a forlorn expression. It seemed… awfully familiar to you.

“I frighten them. Not just them, the maids too.” his voice was soft, resignation dripping from his words, the prideful man you saw earlier in the yard taking a step back to allow the shy and insecure boy you once knew to make a reappearance “I think your lines have lied to you. No lady would ever want a one-eyed husband.”

“Aemond-”

“I told you once before, I don’t appreciate your pity, niece.” his tone hardened, but it lacked venom, meaning he wasn’t angry with you, rather upset at himself.

You could only wonder how much the events of that night had changed him, for better and worse. He might argue that he had claimed a dragon, the biggest in the world, so that made things even but you could only imagine the kind of pain, both physical and emotional, he had gone through since then.

“For what is worth” you started, raising a hand to his face very slowly, giving him more than enough time to halt your movements. He flinched at first but eventually relaxed, allowing you to lay your hand on his cheek, your thumb rubbing softly against the end of his scar “I am truly sorry for what happened that night. You didn’t deserve any of it.”  

His hand raised, grasping your wrist and running his own thumb on the skin at the edge of your sleeve.

“What I said that night,” he closed his eye for a moment then looked at you again “it was unbefitting. I never meant to hurt you.” he paused, inhaling deeply before exhaling slowly, as if he was letting go of a lifetime of weight he’d been carrying “No more than I believe Lucerys meant to hurt me as badly as he did.”

It was an olive branch, you realized. Given how he now carried himself it was the closest thing to an apology you’d get. While he might not simply ever forgive your brother, he was willing to try and put it behind him, to let go of the pain, for you. And for that you’d forever be grateful to him. He tilted his head to the side, letting his lips linger on your palm for just a moment, before pulling your hand away from his face and carefully placing it on your lap again, both of you facing forward once more.

The silence that fell was not an uncomfortable one. It reminisced of the days you’d sit together in this same spot and wait for the servants to come fetch you when it was time for supper. But every nice moment had to be broken at some point.

“My grandsire and mother believe Aegon should be named my father’s heir.” he spoke after a moment, your head quickly snapping to look at him.

“What?”

“They believe that, as his firstborn son, he would have a better claim to the throne.” he glanced at you “That most lords would support him if it came to it.”

You were baffled by this revelation, even though you shouldn’t really be all that surprised. Otto Hightower was a cunt who would do anything in his power to have his own blood sit on the Iron Throne. As much as your mother resented her former friend you’d come to the conclusion that Otto had been the one responsible to sway Alicent against her. It shouldn’t come as a surprise he would be plotting against her. That’s why the man was smug about today’s hearing, and why his face promptly fell once Rhaenys made her support of Jacaerys, and by extension your mother, known. But…

“Why are you telling me this?” you questioned, confused as to why Aemond, the dutiful son, would tell on his family like that.

An amused grin, almost resembling a smirk, took over his features, his eye turned away from you.

“New information has come to light regarding the line of succession.”

Your heart clenched, a smile of your own appearing on your face. He recognized you as heir to the Throne, as a future queen. 

His smile, however, slowly slipped from his face, leaving a sad look in its wake.

“What troubles you, uncle?” you asked.

“I just-” he sighed, almost exasperated “I just do not understand how they could possibly believe Aegon of all people fit to be king. He, who disappears every fortnight for the Street of Silk, who’s barely ever sober during the day. He, who has his way with the servants while his own wife exists silently, he who, dare I say, barely understands a word of high valyrian and the importance of our family to the realm.”

His rant left him slightly breathless, as if he had been suppressing those feelings for a very long time. And although he had not dared say it, you heard the hidden meaning behind his words. If he, now a grown man, was anything like he was as a boy, he was much more suited to be king than his brother was. He was probably well studied in both history and philosophy, he knew his way quite well around a sword, as you’d seen, and he’d kept up with his lessons in high valyrian, like you had. He would make for a fine king, if it weren’t for your mother and, eventually, you.

And then it hit you.

Otto Hightower would do anything in his power to have his own blood sit on the Iron Throne.

“Give me your hand.” you spoke firmly. 

Aemond looked at you quizzically, taking too slow to comply so you forcefully grabbed his hand in yours, his palm facing upwards.

“Not this again.” he said, bemused.

As you ran your finger delicately over his palm, you took your time noticing the way calluses adorned the skin, once soft under your touch, probably from years of dragon riding and intense sword training. 

“Your line of life is still quite long, good.” you heard his scoff, although it sounded quite like a barely contained laugh “It means the Stranger will not come for you for quite a while still.”

His eye was trained on you as traced another line on his hand.

“And your line of heart still tilts upwards, so you will marry a woman who loves you dearly.”

You spoke with so much conviction, squeezing his hand, your eyes finally glancing up, locked firmly onto his own as you said it. 

“She’ll love and cherish you for everything that you are, unwaveringly and unapologetically. You’ll be hers as much as she’ll be yours.”

His eyes shone with barely contained hope, before you averted your gaze back to his palm.  

“And here,” you pointed to a small line near the bottom of his palm “is the line of the king. It appears only on the hands of those who are destined to rule over the realm.”

His smile wavered, but didn’t falter.

“You are jesting again, niece.” 

“I am not.” you shook your head, determined “The lines have never lied before, remember?” you mentioned, and he couldn’t argue with that, as the prediction you’d spoke of last time you found yourselves in this exact situation came true barely a few weeks afterwards “You will be king, Aemond.” 

You stood up quickly, barely brushing the skirts of your dress as you did.

“I’ll make sure of it.”

You took off before he could question you, rushing out of the courtyard in search of your mother. You had a matter most important you needed to discuss with her, one you’d already brought up with her many moons ago, but which at the time felt more like a distant childish dream.

Aemond hadn’t spoken to you again until it was time for supper. He had caught a quick glimpse of you sometime after you left the courtyard, speaking in hushed whispers with your mother while Daemon looked thoroughly vexed. But before he could approach you and inquire about your sudden departure earlier, both you and your mother took off to one of your chambers, he assumed, leaving his uncle to stare murderously at him. While Aemond wasn’t frightened by Daemon, he would even go as far as to say he admired the man, something about the way he was staring at him deeply unsettled him, so he decided to leave and wait for a better opportunity to speak to you, alone.

Now, during what surely was to be one awkward meal, he could see you from the other side of the table where you sat next to Baela. You looked positively radiant, smiling with your step-sisters and occasionally jesting with your brothers. From time to time you’d catch his eye, your smile turning mirthful, as if you knew something he didn’t. More than once throughout the night he caught you and Rhaenyra sharing a small, quick nod to one another, and Daemon rolling his eyes whenever he also noticed it.

After King Viserys congratulated Jacaerys and Lucerys on their betrothals, Jace leaned over Baela and whispered something to you. While he looked sullen, Baela had a small understanding smile as you tried to sooth him. His face softened as you grasped his hands, trying to reassure him of something, Baela supporting you quietly. The overjoyed smile that took over your features as Jace nodded lit something in Aemond’s chest, his heart skipping a beat.

At a certain point, after the King’s speech and Rhaenyra and Alicent’s toasts, Aegon got up and leaned over to “whisper” something to Baela, catching the attention of all those around her. Aemond couldn’t hear what his brother said all the way from his side of the table, but whatever it was Jacaerys looked like he was about to drive a dagger through him. But you and your sharp words were quicker.

“At least he can stay sober long enough to get it up.” you spoke, your voice loud enough for the entire room to hear “Can Helaena say the same about you, uncle?”

Several reactions could be heard around the table. Helaena herself snorted into the wine she had been sipping, Daemon laughed loudly from his place at Rhaenyra’s side and even a small, tired chuckle could be heard leaving the King’s mouth. Aemond couldn’t help but smirk as his brother all but crumbled back in his seat, a frown unveiling his embarrassment. 

Jace took his time toasting both his uncles but there was something… different in the way he addressed each of them. Whereas Aegon’s name was said with mocking admiration and contempt, Jace’s tone as he said Aemond’s name was laced with quiet resignation. And the tiny grin he directed at Aemond took him by surprise.

Helaena, a little bit tipsy at this hour, also took the opportunity to congratulate Rhaena and Baela in their betrothals, also taking a jab at Aegon’s already wounded pride. While he felt his chest fill with pride for his sister, Aemond couldn’t help but notice the moment you shared with your mother once again, the questioning look on her face and the determined nod you gave as answer to whatever question you found in the depth of her eyes.

“Speaking of marriage,” Rhaenyra started as she stood up and turned to face the seats of his father, mother and grandsire “my only daughter is now of marrying age as well.”

Aemond felt something twist painfully in his chest at the thought, turning his eye to glance at you and was surprised to find you already looking at him, the corners of your lips turned up in a soft grin.

“I would like to make a proposition.” your mother continued, turning to look at him, bringing his attention back to her. He felt his heartbeat increase as she stared at him for a moment longer, some heat climbing to his cheeks, before she turned to address his family once again, her eyes locked onto Alicent “I would like to propose we wed her to your second son, Prince Aemond.”

He barely registered anything else over the thunderous flow of blood against his eardrums, reflecting on the speed at which his traitorous heart was beating in his chest. He glanced back at you, watching as you smiled warmly at him. Something in him just felt right. He felt as if everything was falling into place within his life.

Aemond had never let himself want. He realized quite early in his life that he would only ever be the second son, and considering how much his father favored Rhaenyra over any other of his other children, he didn’t really matter much in comparison to his siblings. So he had learned never to wish for anything for himself, he had never dared hope that good things would come to him. And now here you were, the only one who has ever truly cared for him, offering something he never allowed himself to dream of.  

“And” Rhaenyra continued, drawing his attention back to her. There was more? What else could she possibly offer that could be worth more than that? He allowed himself a quick glimpse at Daemon, who once again looked bothered by what she was about to say “once I have come to pass and it is time for her to take over as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, he would be crowned king alongside with her. He would be not a prince, nor king consort, but a true king. They would rule as equals, and eventually their children would sit in the Iron Throne after them.”

What?

As soon as the words were out of her mouth his mind simply ceased to work. They were thinking of… what? His head quickly snapped to look at his family, wanting to gauge their reactions as well and assess if they were just as confused as he felt.

His father was positively delighted at the prospect of uniting his fractured family once more. His mother, on the other hand, looked irked at Rhaenyra for having sprung this proposition in front of Viserys, as he’d obviously agree, and she wasn’t looking forward to having a possible bastard as her son’s wife (even if she knew he once cared deeply for you). And his grandsire… he looked conflicted. Otto Hightower wasn’t an easy man to read, but he had been so caught by surprise that he was wearing all his emotions on his sleeve. While he, like Alicent, seemed bothered by the timing of this proposal, he also looked… intrigued?

“We were thinking of passing Dragonstone down to Aegon and keeping both Aemond and my daughter here in King’s Landing so they can learn with me and the council the ways of ruling, so they are well prepared when it comes their time to rule.” 

“And what of Lucerys?” Alicent questioned warily.

“He would live in Driftmark with Jace, learning the ways of salt and sea, in hopes of one day becoming my, and later his sister’s, Master of Ships.” Rhaenyra completed.

Silence ruled over the room for a moment, nobody daring to utter a word. Not even the servants, watching from the corners, made a single sound.

“And who was the one” Viserys spoke slowly, getting more tired as the night progressed “behind such a wonderful idea?” 

“I-” your mother started, but Daemon quickly cut her off.

“The girl did.” he nodded his head towards you, a smug smile growing on his lips at the prospect of possibly throwing you under the carriage. 

Aemond’s head snapped towards you, your smile never wavering. So that’s what you had been speaking to Rhaenyra all day. After your talk in the courtyard, you’d gone off to find your mother, to express your wishes not only to marry Aemond, but to also make him king. Just like the lines on his palm told you. But… why?

“And just what” Otto questioned, as if reading his grandson’s mind “has led the princess to decide to break hundreds of centuries of tradition and wish to share the Throne?”

Rhaenyra turned back to you, sending a silent question in your direction yet again. You shook your head and stood up, as if deciding to face the judgment of the Hightowers all by yourself.

“While my family has resided in Dragonstone for the past few years, my lord,” you started, an eloquence that indicated you’d been preparing, and maybe even rehearsing, this speech in your mind for a while “I have taken to flying around the realm on dragonback, visiting all of the Seven Kingdoms. I’d wished to see for myself and understand the people I’d one day rule over. However, being away from King’s Landing for so long also means I am not versed in the matters of court. Prince Aemond, on the other hand,” oh, how sweet your voice sounded when you said his name accompanied by his title “has lived his entire life here in the Red Keep. He’s been in these halls, around the lords and ladies of court, for quite a while and knows how such matters are supposed to work. I believe our knowledge combined will give us the strength, as a unity, required to rule over the realm together and establish a peaceful and prosperous reign.”

A sigh escaped your lips as you paused, your expression souring.

“And” you chuckled mirthlessly, your previously warm smile falling to a resigned one “I am a woman. The lords of the noble houses of Westeros may support my mother’s claim as they have sworn an oath to his grace, the King, but many of them are already of advanced age and may soon come to perish, some have already died even. While most of these houses are righteous and their sons and grandsons will likely honor their ancestors' wishes and support me as my mothers heir, there is no telling what will happen. They might not take kindly to yet another woman ruling over the realm, and especially one they didn’t technically agree on. So as much as I loathe to admit it, having a man by my side, supporting me as an equal, would strengthen my claim and prevent anyone from questioning me as queen.”

It made sense, all of it. Change as impactful as this tends to happen over time, not all at once, and it was known the men of the realm would not so easily accept a woman on the Iron Throne, something Aemond knew his grandsire was counting on to bring Aegon to power eventually, so it was a smart move to have a husband at your side. Your arguing was solid, and Otto Hightower seemed to agree as he reclined back on his seat, somewhat impressed.

Alicent, however, looked like she still wasn’t satisfied with your answer.

“And why would you wish to marry my son?” she questioned, her tone stern.

Your smile faltered briefly, betraying your confusion.

“Why, your grace, I believe I have already explained-”

“No,” she cut you off “you’ve explained why this union would be beneficial for you as a representative of the Crown. I want to know why you wish to marry him. You could have any man in the realm, hells, there have been rumors that Cregan Stark himself has requested an audience in Dragonstone, possibly to request a courtship for your hand.” That was before anyone knew Rhaenyra planned on making you her heir and it was believed you’d inherit nothing at all, Aemond caught himself thinking “So why do you want to marry Aemond?”

That had him leaning forward in his seat. He knew, logically, this marriage stemmed from convenience. He knew he, and you as well, were mere pawns in your family’s schemes. But he couldn’t help but wonder if there was something more behind your proposal. Even if it was just a political move, he would have accepted in a heartbeat but he dared to wish, no, hope that you actually wanted this, that you wanted him.

“I…” you fumbled for a moment, averting your gaze before steeling yourself, eyes locking with his mother’s once more “My uncle and I were close once, many years ago. We used to share a connection that has since been lost to time.” 

You took a deep breath, as if preparing to reveal your deepest secrets to the whole family.

“I would like for us to get to know one another once more and go back to the way things were. Maybe even strengthen our bond.” you then turned to him, your eyes soft and warm and with the slightest of glimmer to them, as if you were willing yourself not to shed any tears “And I believe, with time, I could learn to love him dearly. I would love and cherish him for everything that he is, unwaveringly and unapologetically.” your lips trembled almost imperceptibly, so much so that had he not been paying close attention to you he’d have missed it “I’d be his as much as he’d be mine.”

Aemond felt his breath hitch, his heart hammering in his chest once more. He didn’t know what to think. This, right here, seemed so unreal. Deep down he knew this might just be the solution to everyone’s problems, it could be the very thing that mended the divide that had been growing inside of House Targaryen, but… could it be possible? Would his family agree?

“I believe this to be an amazing occasion.” the King spoke, looking happier than he’d been in a long while, before turning to his wife “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Alicent in turn looked to her father for answers and Aemond waited with bated breath for his response. Otto’s word was law in her eyes, Aemond  knew, so he was the one who had final say in the matter. His answer came as a tiny nod and in that moment, as Aemond barely registered his mother’s next words, he had never been more grateful for his grandsire.  

“I am inclined to agree that this will be a most blessed union.” Alicent said, her smile, always cold when it came to you, warming considerably.

“It’s settled then. Looks like we’ll have a wedding even sooner than expected.” Viserys then tapped his cane on the ground “Let us have some music.” 

As the musicians started playing an animated melody, Aemond felt lighter than he had in years. He could hardly care for everyone around him, not even noticing anyone’s reaction to the news other than your own. With his eye focused solely on you he could see the relief settling in at his mother’s words as you beamed at him, more radiant than ever.

“Aemond, dear, why don’t you take your betrothed for a dance?” 

He was out of his seat before Alicent could even finish her sentence, crossing the space between you in wide strides and extending a hand to you. You accepted gracefully. As you positioned yourselves to dance, you smiled bashfully at him, looking down at your feet, slightly embarrassed.

“I hope you can find it in you to forgive me for bringing this up all of a sudden, uncle.” you explained, looking back at him “I didn’t want to waste another moment and risk losing my chance.” 

It was his turn to smile, not a smirk or a smug grin, a genuine smile. 

“There is nothing to forgive, little niece.” the way he said the moniker this time, once used to mock you, was so filled with only affection and care that it almost brought tears to your eyes once again.

You danced for a few moments in silence, simply enjoying each other’s company. Then you leaned closer to him, as if wanting to share something privy to his ears alone.

“I told you once before, Aemond.” your smile turned into the tiniest of smirks “The lines don’t lie.” 

His heart clenched at the memory, which seemed so distant yet so fresh in his mind. He tightened his grip around you, bringing your body even closer to his own, wanting to feel you close to him, genuinely happy for the first time in a long time.

“Indeed,” he whispered softly back to you, leaning his head against your own “I guess they truly don’t.”

And then everyone is happy, Rhaenyra and her family don’t leave for Dragonstone before dawn, meaning she’s there when Viserys goes to sleep forever, meaning she’s crowned Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, meaning the Greens don’t usurp the Throne, meaning the Dance never happened, meaning no one dies and everyone lives happily ever after, hurray!

(About Daemon's behavior, he’s not mad at reader or Rhaenyra, nor does he dislike reader in any way. He’s just resentful Rhaenyra hasn’t thought nor has she offered to what she does to Aemond in this story. And as we know, when these Targaryen boys are frustrated, they tend to lash out. Hope this clarifies some things!)

Tag List:

@callsignwidow

[pearl-nouveau]

A Woman's Purpose - Cregan Stark x Reader [chapter two]

summary: After your grandsire's death, you fly to Winterfell with Jacaerys and find yourself nervous to treat with Cregan years after your heated moment together.

warnings: none i think

a/n: short chapter, just felt like a good stopping point. anyone want part three,,,?🤗

The actions of Alicent and her eldest son did not shock me, but they deeply wounded a sense of hope that I hadn't realized was still deep within my soul. I would always remember Cregan praising my kind heart, but sometimes it felt like a curse. I had believed at my core that our family could find it within themselves to forgive, to come together, to support my grandsire's wishes and put a woman on the Iron Throne... I had believed that Alicent had a spine, that Aemond had humility, that Aegon had a heart. And Heleana, my poor, dear aunt whom I considered a close friend - it pained me to think of her caught in the center of such a mess. I longed to see her and I longed to see my mother on her throne. 

I thought back to the dinner we had before leaving for Dragonstone again. We had been merry, since Jaecerys and Lucerys were newly engaged. I was happy for Jace especially since we had talked so often of hoping for happy marriages, and Baela was a wonderful girl who he already adored. It pleased me that there was a possibility for love between the two of them. 

Aegon had drunkenly wandered to my seat and leaned towards my ear. 

"Poor niece... Your only purpose to be married off and still yet to be engaged. You'll be running out of options soon." 

His amusement sickened me and I continued to pick at my food, trying to ignore him, but he continued. 

"If you don't pick you'll end up with some elderly lord with a thumb for a pecker. Best swallow your pride and pick someone to claim you. Can't be your own woman forever, girl." His breath reeked of alcohol. 

Jacaerys had noticed his advances and stood to intervene, only for Aegon to direct his attention towards Baela, which began a whole other mess leading to the night quickly unraveling. 

It had made you think about marriage, not only as a duty, but as a tool. It had always been an important fixture in politics, but after everything that has happened with the throne, I knew that it would be even more urgent for me to take a husband. I lay in my bed at Dragonstone, resting my eyes, considering the current predicament of betrothal.

When it came down to it, there was no one I wanted to imagine myself marrying except for the Northern man who had captured my heart so many years ago. I feared, however, that it was too late. I had already refused him, in a way, one time. In addition, I had humiliated myself with his advances and then fled. He very well may hate me; find me to be a tease, a whore. I shuddered to think about it. 

At that moment, Jacaerys barged into my room. 

"Sister," breathlessly he addressed me, "mother has requested us to go to Winterfell and treat with Cregan Stark." 

There was a hint of a smile on his face, although we both knew the task was serious. I had no immediate response to him, so he elaborated.

"I suggested that you come. I believe you should see him. Besides, it is the perfect excuse to go."

I turned away, suddenly emotional. I wiped at my face. "Perhaps he has already taken a new wife," I shook my head. "We only need one representative of the crown."

"You're coming," He said finally. I realized it was no longer a request, but an order.

"Does mother know?"

He shook his head. "This is for you to figure out. No interferences." I raised an eyebrow at him. "Except for mine, right now. I would hope that if we are to enter the Hell of war we can find at least some happiness within the chaos."

His words made me want to weep, realizing how much he has grown and how much more he will have to in the coming years. How much all my siblings would grow. I feared for the lives of my loved ones. Instinctively, I reached for my brother and pulled him to me. He hugged me back tightly. 

"It'll all be okay, little dragon," his old nickname for me made me chuckle into his shoulder, "tomorrow, we ride for Winterfell."

That night, I dreamt of Cregan. Brief, hazy glimpses of moments we shared in the past. Moments that made me fall in love with him. 

I saw him poised in front of Vermithor, no fear in those stormy eyes, his hand outstretched to stroke my beautiful dragon's scaled face. He had respected the authority of my beast, and Vemithor in turn had leaned into the Lord's touch. That moment had brought heat to my stomach and tugged at my insides. The Bronze Fury was not easy to befriend. 

I saw him across the altar in the sept where I took him on a tour, his head bent in prayer, dark hair framing his face. He had caught my eye and held it, unblinking, keeping it until I looked away.

I saw in the golden hour in the training yard, his gaze finding me between every attack. He moved like ice against his sparring partners: cold, calculated, hardened. No one bested him. When we walked to dinner together afterward, he walked behind me, and I had suddenly felt a tug at my hair. He gently pulled the ribbon holding my braid together - a braid commanded by my mother - letting my hair fall down my back. I like it down like this, he told me, wild and free, like you. 

Morning was unwelcome because it ripped me from the warmth of my dreams with him, but the realization that I was soon to be headed for Winterfell thrilled me. I quickly dressed and packed with my handmaidens before finding Jacaerys in the hallway. He said nothing, grasping my hand and nodding solemnly. We moved to the dragon pit together and prepared Vermax and Vermithor. When we exited the cave, I saw my mother and younger siblings watching on from above. 

"We should say our goodbyes," I told Jacaerys, "the Gods only know when the next time we will all be together is."

Jace nodded, and we joined with the rest of our family. I kissed each of the little ones on the forehead, pinched their cheeks, sniffed their baby skin, making every attempt to remember them as they were in case I was struck from the back of my dragon. Lucerys stood tall when I came to him, like the proud little fighter he was, and I gave him a tight hug and a squeeze of luck for his own journey. I worried for him dearly, but Lucerys was perhaps the most smart and capable of us Valeryen children, even at his young age.

"Good luck, raqiarzy," I spoke into his hair. He was nearly as tall as me at that point. "I shall see you soon."

My mother gazed at me with that look she always wore as I moved to stand in front of her. So diplomatic, so very regal. Sometimes I wished she would soften and just be my mother for a moment. But now, finally involved in diplomacy, who was I to her? Still her daughter, or some cancerous growth jeopardizing her claim?

I felt her arms around me. "Be safe," she whispered into my ear, "I love you, my daughter."

Tears filled my eyes and I hugged her back. I thought about all of our fights about my marriage. Who was I truly fighting? We were both shackled by tradition, still, I realized. Her claim had been an abstract future and now it had all come crashing down. She was still fighting the same battles against men that she believed to have won as a girl my own age. None of our past disagreements mattered now. Happiness and freedom were no longer mine to take for myself; they may be ripped from us all at any moment. 

My mother and I separated and she placed a kiss to my brow. Her stoic demeanor had faded and I could see wetness in her eyes. Jace offered me his arm and I reluctantly took it, turning away from my family and trying not to think about our uncertain future. 

The journey to Winterfell was long and cold, as many journeys on dragonback are, but I was comforted by the presence of Vermax and Jacaerys gliding back and forth below me. Our dragons, very different in size, flew quite differently. Vermax was nimble and slight, disappearing between clouds and darting in and out of sight easily. A formidable stealth opponent. Vermithor, on the other hand, was enormous and flew with simple, powerful strokes of his golden wings. He was fearsome, and I found him to be the most beautiful creature in the world. As terrifying as he was, our bond was strong. He never raised a tone at me; he grumbled and purred in my presence only, and awaited orders with undying loyalty. He had been my dragon since the time I was ten and four, and our relationship only strengthened by the day. 

The sky greyed as we flew further North and the air began to chill. I shivered not only from the cold but the impending reunion I was to have with Cregan. I had no idea what to expect. I had considered opening his letter but it was still too frightening to me. It left me even more unprepared for a conversation with him. 

When we reached Winterfell, Jacaerys and I circled Vermax and Vermithor a few times to signal our landing. We made no sudden moves towards the castle and its surrounding fortress, and landed in an isolated field. The wind whipped my long hair out from the veil I had tied around my head. It floated around my head like a halo as I squinted in the heatless sunlight. 

"Someone rides this way," Jacaerys called from the back of Vermax. He began to disembark and I glanced over to where he looked. A rider on a black horse, eighteen hands tall, came galloping towards our dragons. Vermithor let out a roar of distaste. He didn't like people coming near him - or me. I calmed him with coos in High Valerian and began to slide down his wing. The rider had stopped next to Jace and gotten off the horse.

As I crept closer, I knew it was Cregan. His stature was unmistakable. Tall and dominating against the bleak horizon in his furs. Gods, I had never seen him in his heavy Northern furs. It made me want to crawl within them, to feel the heat of his body around me. Coming closer, I saw him clap Jace on the shoulder with familiarity, and then turn his gaze to me. With no hesitation, he came towards me. I saw behind him Jace getting onto his horse, the ghost of a brotherly smirk on his face, and kicking the horse forward towards Winterfell. 

"What-" I began to question as Cregan came within arm's length of me, unable to finish as he pulled me to his chest in a tight hug. The furs were just as warm as they looked, and I melted into his arms. It had been so long since I smelled him. Like sap and smoke and ale and somehow roses. My arms snaked under the cloak and I could feel the hardened muscle of his body through his shirt. And then I realized - he was hugging me, as if he missed me, as if...

"I've missed you, my princess." He spoke into my hair. 

"You aren't angry with me?" I breathed into his cloak. He pulled back and took my chin in his calloused fingers, his face laced with confusion.

"How could I ever, my girl? You didn't read my letter?"

I flushed. "I was embarrassed. I thought you would have wanted me to keep quiet after I... lost control like that." He barked out a laugh, which would have made her feel ashamed had he not paired it with a gentle kiss to her cheekbone.

"I'll show you what losing control really is, someday," he kissed her cheek again and hummed. "Darling, I wrote you that letter and apologized for leaving so quickly... had it been up to me I would have stayed until you chose to see me again and asked for your hand right there. I had to get home to my son and my duties here but you have never left my head." Now it was his turn to flush as he recounted the contents of his letter. "I... I had begged you to someday consider me to be your husband if you ever found that marriage was something you wanted. None of my advisors could convince me to take another wife until I knew that there was no chance. I have held out hope for years, I have taken no other lover, and I beg you to end my agony and provide an answer," he dropped to his knee as if his body were giving out on him. "Is there a chance? Someday, that you would allow me to love you as I already do?"

It all became clear to me that my world was soon to fall apart, and standing in front of me was a man who was promising to stand by my side in the worst of times. As my family is torn apart and our power in the realm shattered. A smile crossed my face.

"You mean to tell me that the most eligible Northern Lord has been withholding his services from the ladies of the North, all because a faraway dragon rider was stuck in his dreams?" 

My teasing lilt was enough for him to look up at me and grin, standing to his full height towering over me. He grasped at my waist with one hand and cupped my face with the other. 

"They've been left wanting, I suppose." My Lord Stark said contemplatively. 

"As have ladies in the South." I told him, surprised by my own boldness and pleased by the delivery. 

He wasted no more time in capturing my lips, kissing me as if he were starved. He kept taking breaths to stare at me before continuing. His lips moved lovingly across my neck, my jaw, my throat, hungry to taste every inch of skin. After a while, I pressed against his chest and examined his face. It was even more beautiful up close than I remembered. His face an oval with hardened edges. Strong brows and thick pink lips that I was free to kiss. His hair pulled back haphazardly to keep from blowing in the wind. He kissed me one more time, this one softer than baby's breath, and held my head in one of his strong hands before nodding towards Winterfell in the distance.

"I let Jacaerys take my steed so we might walk together." He gestured back to the dragons. "Whatever they eat I will have brought to them."

"They'll eat anything. Even you," I poked his chest. 

"You just tell me if Vermithor ever starts feeling jealous. I shall begin to steer clear." 

We walked together, slowly, catching up after the last couple of years. I asked of his son and he told me that Rickon was nearly three years old. He stopped me for a moment. "I've already an heir. If we wed, I shall not force you to bear my children. You will never be just the mother of my children. You will be my wife." 

I smiled at that, saying nothing. Children hadn't crossed my mind. I supposed I was not ready to think about it. The way he spoke so definitely about our marriage gave me pause. 

"Cregan, I-" my words faltered, but I persisted. "I think you ought to know that I didn't come here just to see you." 

He chuckled. "I figured as such when you brought your brother and two dragons."

I blushed. "We need you and your army to stand by my mother. My uncle has taken her throne. My grandsire's crown was scarcely off his head before Aegon took it. My mother raises an army to stand against him. I am not a bargaining tool, I will not marry you for an army-"

"-I would never presume to trade you like an animal. The North will see your mother, the rightful queen, on her throne, you have my word. I want to marry you because I fell in love with you in King's Landing those years ago, and I wish for you to be free as you want to be. If marrying me is not how you will find your freedom, I will accept your answer." The concept seemed to pain him. 

Would marriage truly shackle me? Being with Cregan felt like being on dragonback for the first time. It felt like gliding over a lake of glass water, your arms outstretched. I had fought and fought for so many years to be free, but free from what? I now saw in front of me a new kind of freedom, away from the clawing hands that surrounded the crown always. I saw a man who chose me and respected my happiness. I looked around at the rolling hills and distant mountains. The cool wind on my face. Bustling people entering and exiting the gates of Winterfell. Perhaps I imagined it, but I heard laughter. Children. I closed my eyes for a moment and felt peace.

I opened them again to see the hopeful face of Cregan Stark awaiting my words. If what he said was true, would he remain here in front of me for the rest of my life, always waiting to grant my next wish?

I smiled. Reached out to him. Snaked my hands around his neck, brought his face close to mine. 

"I choose me," I told him quietly. "So, I choose you."

We sealed the betrothal with a kiss. 

[isabeauwolf]

Dabi x reader: As you Wish (Period Comfort)

It was back.

Mother nature's curse, Aunt Flo, Jason, whatever the hell you wanna call it.

Your period had come.

Dammit.

You'd think I'd learn by now, but noooo. You sighed, covering your eyes with the back of your hand.

All of the signs were there: you was overly horny all week, then you wanted to cry out of nowhere and over the must dumbest shit, or was extremely moody and pissed off. You were so sleepy yesterday, even after oversleeping past your usual nap time and your breasts ached and were sensitive. Seriously, your nipples just barely grazing against your shirt made them tender and stiffen up, cut fucking diamonds.

All of this drama, only for your body to punish you for not being pregnant.

For the next seven days.

Seven days of hell.

To make things worse, Dabi was dropping by tonight.

Not that you weren't happy for your boyfriend to be coming over.

You loved seeing him. The thrill of a villain sneaking into your house without any of your neighbors noticing, or they didn't care as long as the couple wasn't too loud or disturbing the peace. It was great, one of the many perks to living in this neighborhood that was under the protection of the Shie Hassaikai, the yakuza. You paid your rent on time and were never late. Never asked questions and kept your head down whenever Mimic or one of Overhaul's eight bullets collected the months payment.

Of course, your period had to strike as you were about to take your early morning nap, as you rose to your feet you felt it.

The pool of blood staining your underwear and favorite pajama pants, dripping down your thighs, the uncomfortable dampness and stickiness.

The painful cramps in your abdomen hit, making you close your eyes harder, and focus on your breathing, simple breathing exorcises, deep inhale and exhale. In and out.

Who would have thought working as a nurses aid in training in a nursing home worked. All of the older woman teaching you tricks of the trade from their time as midwives or nurses at the local hospitals in their youth.

"Fuck," you cursed underneath your breath, making your way awkwardly towards your bathroom, waddling and shuffling without straining the floor. You felt gross already, yuck. Striping from your dirty and soiled, blood covered underwear and pants, throwing them into the hamper with a heated glare.

Opening your period drawer and checking on your supplies. Lips thinned into a firm line, clicking your tongue, and grumbling bitterly, "Of fucking course."

Your period supplies and stash was running low.

Damn near out of almost everything.

Groaning in frustration, you opened the drawer wider. Pulling out your period panties, placing a pad into it on top of the rest of your stack of clean clothes, you placed on the counter earlier after getting home. Bulky hoodie, check. Navy colored sweatpants, check. Pad and period underwear, check. Tank top and socks, check. Lazy girl outfit all here.

Turning on the shower head as hot as you could stand it, then removing the rest of your clothes as you waited, Need to wash these before they stain. thinking to yourself, inwardly sighing.

Hoping onto the shower, frowning as the water, blood and blood clots went down the drain. The heavy smell of blood and iron hit your nose making you wrinkle your nose in disgust. Closing your eyes once more, letting the warm water hit your now aching lower back as a thought came to mind. I need to tell him.

It's not the first time he's come over while you were on your period, and hopefully not the last. It's funny. You'd think that having a villain for a boyfriend, he would be a major asshole most of the time. He kept surprising you, awkwardly being kind and sweet. He grew up with a mother who birthed his dickhead of a father four kids and he had a younger sister, of course, he knows about women having their periods.

Chuckling, washing all of the iciness away with your favorite shampoo and body wash, rinsing and turning the water off.

Stepping out of the shower. Feeling like a drowned rat, slowly and still soaking wet, hesitantly and quickly, stepping down on the green furry rug, shoving your new underwear with a pad over your hips, then grabbed a blue towel, drying the rest of your body while checking to make sure bloody drops weren't running down your legs.

Sniffing and frowning, you finished getting dressed, grabbing the bottle of midol and shoved it into the front pocket of your hoodie, opening the bathroom door wearing a separate towel on your head, and walking back towards the living room. Retracing yours steps, eyes glued to the floor, thank god, there was no mess.

Standing in front of your favorite chair, opening the matching ottoman beside it, placed down a hidden pillow and red towel down as you sat back down, reaching for your favorite large fluffy blanket and phone.

Swiping your thumb over the screen, finger hovering over the message button, pushing it and waiting for it to load, then pressed Dabi's name, "alleycat" - he still snickered at the fucked up nickname you picked for him in case any dumbass tried to steal your smartphone.

"What?" You replied, giggling. "I can't put your villain name, or blue flame. That's amateur bullshit, 101." Rolling your eyes and snickered, adding, "Besides it's true, isn't it?" You teased lightly, "You are my chill and lazy alleycat." You reached over and lightly caressed and pet the top of his soft raven locks through yours fingers.

Dabi rolled his eyes, a light grin on his scarred lips. "Whatever works for you, princess."

A small smile graced your lips.

You: I'm on my cycle again, yay..... not. -_- If it's not too much trouble do you mind picking up some supplies for me?

He replied immediately.

Alleycat: Yeah, whatcha need? Send pics, I'm already at the store getting snacks anyways.

Your smile widened, you were lucky to have such an understanding boyfriend.

You: Thanks, babe~ U R the best! ;) See you soon and be safe.

Scrolling through your camera roll at the last time you forgot to write down your period shopping list, you sent them to him: pads, midol and chocolate.

Your good mood soured as another wave of cramps hit, forcing you to suck in a hissed breath. Closing yours eyes once more, trying to blink away tears spilling from the corner of your eyes, rubbing them away, burying yourself deeper into the chair, turning and laying your head against your arms, phone in your lap and spacing out.

You passed out in a matter on seconds it.

Or at least, that's what it felt like.

Your door bell ranged twice, letting you know that he was here.

Blinking and rubbing your eyes, groaning and yawning.

I don't wanna get up. You thought, blinking as a wave of tiredness and an incoming headache coming on. "I'm coming," you raised your voice slightly, licking your dry lips and rubbing the ball of your hand across your temple. The bell rang again, he must not have heard you, trying again, "hang on, hold your horses," rising once more from your comfy nest, "impatient, kitty, I swear," dragging the blanket along, unlocking it and opening the door.

As soon as you saw your villainous boyfriend, his sexy deep, heavily lidded ocean blues. Something in your overly hormonal brain flipped, like a switch: to overly painful cramps to overly horny, your drowsy eyes widened and your breath hitched. This isn't fucking fair! Down in between your legs, your traitorous clit ached, throbbed hard and painful.

Why the fuck can't your body make up its damned mind?!

Dabi leaned against the threshold of your doorjam. He titled his head, a playful smirk on his scarred face. "Special delivery." Hold two large grocery bags in his hand. "Your butt napkins and sugary snacks, my lady."

You should be pissed off, but instead a giggle slips past your lips. "My dark knight to the rescue." Rolling your eyes, opening the door wider and letting him in. "Take-out's on the way. I hope you don't mind Chinese." You mentally recomposed yourself as your cheeks heated and body grew more flushed and overly excited, "I don't feel like cooking tonight."

He walked in and waved, slipping off his boots, "Yeah, that's fine."

You watched him as you closed the door.

Dabi placed the snacks down on the coffee table. "Might have went overboard. Whatever we don't eat tonight, you can eat whenever." He shoved his hands into his pockets, watching and observing, then slowly, shrugging off his coat and lazily laying it on the side of the armrest of the couch, and beside his spot for easy access whenever he wanted his smokes.

"You didn't have to, you know." You smiled sheepishly, pulling the bottle of midol out from the pocket of your hoodie, opening it and popping two of the white and blue pills into your mouth as he opened a bottle of your favorite soda, sipping it and swallowing it down. "Thanks."

"Hush and let me spoil you a bit, yeah?" He replies, lightly pulling you into his warm chest, knowing you would enjoy the comfort of his body heat against your body. He loved whenever you were super clingy, it didn't bother him. Must be the touched-starved part of him that craved affection and attention he was denied growing up, he never said it, but somehow you knew, and you couldn't say no to him.

Closing your eyes and smiling, nuzzling into his chest and sighing in content, hugging him. "I've missed this, I've missed you," you admitted, enjoying and indulging both him and yourself.

This was nice. You needed this, your sweet and caring boyfriend.

Dabi smirking, lightly rubbing your back, and lazily trailing his hands down to your hips, and cooed gently into her neck. "Ah, my poor little ketchup packet."

And there was the asshole part of him, you didn't like that.

Mother always said every man is an asshole. Your boyfriend was no different.

Leaning away from him and gawking. "You are supposed to comfort your girlfriend, not be an asshole, jackass." Smacking his arm with tears prickling the corner of your eyes. It's stupid. You knew he was joking to try and make you laugh, but instead he had done the opposite.

Dabi's eyes widened. "Shit, sorry, m'sorry," he pulled you into a hug, holding you against him again. Resting his head against the top of your head as you buried your face into the his chest. "Please, don't cry." His voice was soft and genuine. "You know, if I didn't tease ya a little bit, then you'd think I was mad at ya."

You sniffed and muttered a soft and quiet, "I know, baby, I know." Nuzzling more into his chest, inhaling his cologne and the smell of smoke from both his flames and nicotine.

"What crappy, cheesy, romance movie do you wanna watch tonight?" He asks, picking you up, making you squeal cutely and giggle, swinging you around like a princess before plopping down on the couch and laying you sideways in his lap. He tilts your chin up, meeting his gaze as his thumb wipes your tears away. "What does my princess want?"

You hummed in though, smiling as the perfect movie came to mind. "How about The Princess Bride?"

Rising an eyebrow in amusement, "Again?"

You laughed, "C'mon you know you love it whenever Wesley beats Prince Humperdick and steals Buttercup away on their wedding night."

"Yeah, that spoiled dickhead deserved it." he agreed, smirking and nodding. "Alright, alright," He winked and kissing the top of your head. "As you wish."

Smiling you put on The Princess Bride, nibbling on some chocolate to hold you until food arrived. It didn't matter, if it was the first time or the thousand time, this movie never got old for you. A true childhood classic.

When Princess Buttercup and Wesley were entering the Fire Swamp, the food arrived as Dabi was reaching for a bag of chips.

"Perfect timing." You muttered, slipping more of your soda and paused the movie, "Gotta go to the bathroom."

"I got it, babe." He gave a small smile.

You stood up and winced, the ache in your lower back and hips were back as you slowly made your way into the bathroom, "I'll be right back, ouch."

Dabi's smile dropped, standing, walking towards the door and opened it, and looked completely bored at the young kid, holding there take-out, grabbing it and muttered, "thanks" as he lightly slammed the door in their shocked and scared face. "Punk ass," he grumbled underneath his breath, peaking into the bags, his scowl curled upward as he saw his favorite meal sitting on top.

Seriously, you spoiled him. How he was lucky enough, a bastard like him got a great girl like you he never knew, and didn't bother asking.

Grabbing some napkins from the kitchen he placed the takeout spread out onto the coffee table: dumplings, fried rice, chicken on a stick, chicken lo mein with extra chicken(his favorite), and donuts.

You came back, watching as he set everything up all nice and neatly. "Think we can eat it all?"

He turned his head, smiling smugly, "Hell yeah, we can. It's gonna get messy cuz I'm hungry."

You blinked and sat down. "Did you not eat again before you came over?"

He shrugged his shoulders, pulling you into his side. "I'm fine. We've got food, you've taken your magic pain away pills. Now, let's eat. I'm starving." Dabi hit play on the tv, then handed you a plate and chopsticks without looking away.

Complain all he wants, but you are certain that he loves this movie just as much. What's there not to like? Revenge, fighting, true love and miracles.

By the time, the movie was almost over most of the food and snacks were eaten, and what was left Dabi was sweet enough to put everything away and wash the dishes.

Of course, you cried when Prince Humperdinck pulled a jealous dick move and had the machine suck 50 years of Wesley's life away, the actors anguish cry of pain had you choked up and in tears. As Dabi pulled you into his side, pouting as he offered you comfort.

When the movie was over, both of you were quiet.

Dabi spoke first. This question had been on his mind, the whole time.

"Why do you love this movie so much?" he asks, watching the credits roll and listening to the song playing at the end, but its was just background noise. "It makes you cry every time and yet, you still watch it over and over again."

"I watched it plenty of times with my mom growing up." You said smiling, pressing into his side with your head underneath his chin. "No matter how many times, we would both laugh and cry together. I miss her and this movie like many of her favorites brings me a strange form of comfort." Blinking back more tears, you straighten and face him. "I know you haven't had the best life at home, but know that no matter... what happens you will always be my home, and I hope that I am yours, Touya."

"Of course, you are, Y/n." He whispered, cupping your face. His touch and eyes were gentle, warm and you trusted him completely. "You are my light in this fucked up world." Dabi swallows the lump in his throat as he tries to calm his breathing, bloody tears prickling his eyes, and falling. "You see the man behind the burns and the scars, a broken and insane bastard who loves you. Would burn the fucking world for you. I love you, my princess." He pulls you into a slow and tender kiss which you kiss back, holding him against you and crawling into his lap, and straddling his waist.

Panting you break the kiss first. A breathless string of giggles slips between your kiss swollen lips. "Come on, let's go to bed, my dark prince."

Dabi sniff and laughed, grinning. His turquoise gaze bright in the dark room and the moonlight. "As you wish, princess buttercup." He picks you up again into his arms, a soft smirk appearing on his red tears streaked, burned, and stapled face.

You laugh, wrapping your arms tighter around his neck. "Whatever am I going to do with you? My dark prince? More like a bratty king."

"Yes, as you are my Queen." He whispers into your ear and gently places you onto the bed with care, stealing your lips again. "Your King of hell will take no refusal, my love." He purrs, lightly nipping into the crook of your neck as you squirm against him and cackle.

"Alright, alright, you win, dammit." You pant in between fits of giggles, lightly trying to shove him away. "You Mister need to wash your face before you stain my sheets." You give a light glare, watching as Dabi pulls back, dramatically grabbing his chest.

"My Queen Buttercup, you wound me so deeply." He gasps, raising an eyebrow and smirking. "Such a heartless woman I have for a lover."

"Oh, go on you big baby, shoo, shoo," You wave him away, getting up and heading towards the bathroom, feeling his gaze on you as he follows close behind. "Besides you need to brush yours teeth."

"I'm going, I'm following." He chuckled, pulling his white shirt over his head and dropping it into the laundry basket beside yours and the rest of his clothes follow. He doesn't care that he's walking around buck naked in your place, he's confident and has no shame. Finding a pair of black sweatpants in your hall closet and puts them on, tying the drawstring around his waist, then heads back into the bathroom, washing his face and brushing his teeth with your toothpaste.

Dabi turns the lights off in the house as he makes his way back into your bedroom, where you are already in bed, and waiting for him. "The castle is safe and your king is tired."

You snicker and pat the space beside you. "Well come on, King Touya. It's rude to keep a maiden waiting."

Without a word, he turns the light off, slowly stalking his way towards the bed and on his side. Dabi's strong hands pulled your body closer, your back against his chest, he rested an hand on your lower abdomen caressing it. "It's getting colder at night, let me help warm you up." He whispers into your ear, purring and his voice growing low and husky, dripping with dark promise. "I'll behave tonight, but no mercy tomorrow, baby."

Your breath hitches and you gasp, when he trails his over hand underneath your shirt, caressing the skin and travels upwards, lightly cupping your swollen and sensitive breast. "Touya, you horn dog. Cheater." You moan and pant as you pull him into a kiss.

He smirks against your lips, chuckling. "I am behaving, honest. I've been a good boy all night," Dabi pulls his hand away as if he did nothing, and placed it behind his head underneath the pillow. "This is my reward for pampering you all day." The heat of his body hitting your lower back, leaving his other hand over your abdomen, heating up and drawing patterns with his fingers.

Calming your breathing, shifting onto your side, you close your eyes, reaching behind you, finding his free hand and squeezed it lightly, whispering. "Thank you. Good night, Touya." Sighing in content and falling asleep.

He hummed, watching as the discomfort disappeared from his girlfriends usually happy and cheerful face. He wished he could do more to help. If he needed to use his quirk to help ease his baby's suffering, then he'd do it.

For once, he was happy to be cursed with his fathers quirk. Only during times like this was he genuinely happy, holding his lover in his arms, all his, no one else's.

He decided that in the morning, he would make a light breakfast knowing that chocolate pancakes and hot chocolate always made you smile.

Scooting closer, tangling their legs together and pulling the blanket over them, he laid back down and closed his eyes. Listening to the steady breathing and light snores below him as a small smile curled against his scarred lips, kissing the top of yours head, and whispered, "Feel better soon, baby."

He fell asleep.

He didn't care, if no one in the else in the world loved him, or hated him. As long as he had you, his baby, his whole world.... his reason for living, he could live with himself, with these scars, burns and broken body.

A little period blood wasn't going to keep him away.

Not now, not ever.

Even while moody, pissy, tired and grumpy, you were still the most beautiful.

You were their for his bad days, so why shouldn't he be there for yours?

💙----------🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥-----💙

I did it! Took a minute, since I'm not used to writing in canon x reader, so please excuse the cringe! ^^

To all my fellow period buddies experiencing there cycles with me or after me! I made this for you! Wanted to spoil my peeps! I hope it showed?

Love ya'll! Plus, I wanted to throw in more Dabi fluff! He would be the sweet, but still teasing boyfriend, well, in my eyes anyways ;)

[yohanseyebrowmole]

Nepenthes

Link to Wattpad

(n.) Nepenthes is defined as a medicine for great sorrow. It is a place, person, or thing that can aid in forgetting one's pain and suffering. Aelora Targaryen was doomed. She was doomed from the moment she was born, for the mere fact that she was born a woman.

✧ Pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x Fem!aunt!Targaryen

✧ Warnings: Abuse, Canon typical incest, Pregnancy, Childbirth, Misogyny, Mental Illness, Blood, Gore, Descriptions of miscarriages, Religious fanatics (the faith militant), Slightly OOC aegon (he isn't a complete ass), Death, Bodily and Eating disorders, Psychological Abuse, Imprisonment, Sexual assault, non-con/dub-con (not between main pairing), marital r@pe (she is literally 13 when she gets married), familial violence, Suicidal thoughts, Sexual content, etc.

Sexual content will be marked! Chaps with any potential triggers will be marked!

✧ Status: Incomplete

Character aesthetics

Aelora 'Ella' Targaryen

'I find myself lost in the precipice of my own mind.'

22. A motherless child. The Realm's joy. The people's princess. The broken. The young mother. The docile. The child bride. The pawn. The mad. The dreamer. The beloved sister of golden.

⛧°. ⋆༺♱༻⋆. °⛧

Jacaerys 'Jace' Velaryon

'Then allow me to guide you to safety.'

18. The eldest child. The heir. The black prince. The worthy. The dutiful. The faithful. The loyal. The devoted. The beloved son of delight.

⛧°. ⋆༺♱༻⋆. °⛧

Excerpts from History:

History recounts how the marriage between the young yet ever dutiful black prince and the late wife of the Lord of the iron lands was arranged by the princess's elder brother, Prince Aegon Targaryen. It is that that the prince had learnt of his mother's plans to have his sister wed off to another lord, and was firmly against the notion. He approached his elder sister and the heir to the throne, Rhaenyra Targaryen.

The Lady regent of the Iron Lands was originally against the thought of remarriage at first, however, Prince Aegon was quick to persuade her to agree to the match stating that the black prince would be a better match than any other lord that their mother, Alicent Hightower, would place in front of her.

⛧°. ⋆༺♱༻⋆. °⛧

[venusbyline]

Greedy ࿐ྂ Kinktober. 04, oct.

— pairing: Aemond Targaryen x female!reader x Aegon II Targaryen

— type: smut, Kinktober (House of the Dragon Edition)

— kink: threesome FMM

— summary: Aegon is The Lord of the Seven Kingdoms during the day, but at night he is just a needy man for you and Aemond.

— word count: 1.8k

— tags/warnings: kinktober 4th day, Targcest (aunt/nephews, older brother/younger brother), Hightower!reader, husband!Aemond, threesome (female/male/male), dubcon, Aegond, age gap (older woman/younger men), degradation, creampie, sexism, overstimulation, slapping, sadism, fingering, oral (female receiving), masturbation (male receiving), finger sucking, curse words, dom!Aemond, switch!Aegon, sub!reader, Gwayne Hightower mentioned, implied Hightower Incest (older brother/younger sister), porn with plot. no use of y/n. english is not my first language.

— tagging list: @baybaybear1 @blessedbymoon @p45510n4f4shi0n

— crossposting: AO3

With each passing week, all your years dreaming about marry a kind and charming man were going down the drain since Aemond fulfilled the duty his mother and his grandfather forced upon him. He did not expect that. He did not expect to get married so soon, much less with his aunt, the woman he even despised a little, always complaining about you being annoying and having difficult to deal with your behavior, constantly needing to teach you some lesson.

Throughout your life, you supposed the types of men who might propose to you. Alicent obtained a good matrimony, even though King Viserys was old, he had enough power to take away the sweet and soft version of your sister and turn her into an ambitious woman. Even if it cost her and her children a lot of suffering.

Anyway, your older sister had married a King and you knew you would not meet the same greedy fate, so you at least dreamed about a future husband who would be lovely, even if that was as impossible as longing for a grand marriage like Alicent's.

You dreamed that you could marry some considerably rich Lord who would be kind to you. You even dreamed that you could marry Gwayne, your older brother. It would be a very unusual thing for a Hightower, but you had already heard about your nephew Aegon II's marriage to his younger sister, Helaena, and everyone knew that incest was not uncommon for the Targaryen family. Perhaps your father Otto was already perfectly used to the new mores to the point of betrothing you to your rother. Either way, Gwayne would be an incredible husband, even though you only see him as your big brother and he only sees you as his little sister.

It was not possible to make demands when you were a woman born in Westeros.

However, no matter how much you had considered several hypotheses, nothing prepared you for the terrible and intense feeling at the same time of being married to your own nephew. You never had a good relationship with him. You could not tell if it was because of the age difference or because he simply hated you since he stopped being a cute little boy and became an impassive man.

All you knew was that Aemond hated you, but he did not really hate being married to you. It was fun for him to be in charge of your life. Hating you or not, you belonged to him from the second Otto declared your betrothal, after realizing he dedicated himself so well for years to manipulating Alicent's marriage and his grandson's ascension to the Iron Throne that he even forgot that he had one more daughter to marry. A daughter who, despite being very beautiful, was already at an age considered almost impossible to find a husband.

Aemond scoffed about having made a sacrifice by allowing himself to be with you. But deep down, you knew who the sacrificial lamb really was in that relationship.

Your life no longer belonged to yourself. Now, Aemond Targaryen owned your body, your mind and your soul. You were your husband's property and there was no one who could free you from this torment.

"Be quiet, damn it." Aemond grunted behind you, gripping your wrists tighter as you squirmed trying to free yourself from his grip. "Fuck, you're so annoying."

You arched your back again, this time so you could look directly at your husband behind you. His naked sweaty body, his eye patch still hiding the only vulnerability of his being...

Your eyes dropped to his lips for a moment, seeing how they looked swollen and red from eating you out so much earlier. You tried to say something, anything to refute his curse, but all that came out was a tearful moan.

"Seven Hells, her cunt tastes divine." Aegon's voice sounded muffled between your legs, his tongue working hungrily as his strong arms held your legs open in an almost painful way. You moaned when he began to lick your clit, before lifting his head from there for a few seconds so he could rub it with his thumb.

Aemond scoffed, moving one of his hands to your breast, tightening. "That's because I filled her with my seed."

Aegon chuckled, nodding as he moved his finger a little harder on your pleasure point, running his tongue through your folds again, collecting the little bit of Aemond's cum that he had not finished licking yet. Aemond growled at the sight of his brother with his eyes closed, savoring the mix of tastes inside his wife's cunt.

Without thinking twice, Aemond kept the hand that was squeezing the flesh of your breast and moved the other to the back of Aegon's head, grabbing his hair and forcing him to arch his neck.

"Look at you, lēkia... With your pretty face between our aunt's legs, my wife... Licking her pussy, your face dripping with my cum..." Aemond mocked, tightening his grip on the blonde strands, causing an embarrassed whimper from both Aegon and you. "I thought you were the King."

"I-I am... I am the King.." Aegon whispered, cheeks burning with embarrassment. He looked down at your cunt already red from all the stimulation, before looking at your face again, noticing that you were still shy due the whole situation, but also seemed to want them to continue that.

Aegon did not know how you could have agreed to Aemond's proposal to let them both fuck you. Now, he was starting to realize that you would have no choice if you tried to refuse. Even he was falling victim to Aemond's humiliation.

"A King delights in his sister-in-law's cunt?" Your husband's words made you squirm again. Gods, he needed to shut up and let Aegon finish what they started.

"A-Aemond... Please..." You whimpered to your husband, before being silenced by a slap on the cheek.

"You stupid whore. Did I let you talk?" He growled, enjoying the sight of your eyes filling with tears as your skin began to ache after the impact. Aemond removed his fingers from your breast and brought them to your hair too, pulling it a little more roughly than Aegon's. The feeling of power was addictive, burning through his veins like wine.

Aemond looked at his wife and then at his brother, both of you trying to hold back your whimpers due to the pain you felt in your scalps. "Pathetic. Both of you."

"S-shut up, little brother. I am your King and-" Aegon's attempt to look strong and superior was met with a slap, his face turning to the side as you gasped by automatic empathy.

Aemond smirked mischievously seeing Aegon widening his eyes and placing his hand on his own painful face, indignant at his younger brother's aggressive action. Aegon looked at you and then at Aemond.

"You are nothing but a little slut, Aegon." Aemond said, finally letting go of your heads, grabbing your neck and bending himself down enough to capture your lips in an aggressive kiss, his teeth biting your mouth, not caring about the metallic taste of blood in his tongue every time your tongues met.

You concentrated, not wanting to divert your focus to your lungs begging for air or the realization that Aegon was watching everything while he rubbed his own cock. Aemond did not kiss you very often, even during sex. He found that something very intimate, even more than having his cock buried inside you. So you needed to enjoy every second.

When Aemond pulled away, he looked at you with the ghost of a soft smile, noticing how your lips were swollen from the kiss and your face was flushed from lust and lack of air. "Is not our aunt a beautiful woman?"

Aemond's provocation made you bite your lip and look away, feeling his fingers still around your neck. "Oh, sure... Very beautiful. You are a lucky man, little brother." Aegon whispered, looking horny at the two of you.

"And I bet you are eager to fuck her..." Aemond teased him and Aegon nodded with a smirk.

You noticed Aemond's gaze shifting from you to Aegon. He sucked his own thumb before bringing it to his brother's lips. Aegon was shocked for a few moments, feeling Aemond wiping away the drops of his own cum that Aegon did not even know were there. Before his older brother could joke about anything, Aemond stuck his thumb inside his mouth.

"A-Aemond..." You sighed in surprise, but Aemond gave your neck a light grip, his other hand now very busy.

"Shhh, wife... Watch how your nephew likes to suck my finger." Aemond scoffed and you frowned, looking at Aegon's closed eyes, his tongue moving slowly around Aemond's thumb, soft muffled moans escaping his pouty lips as his own fist began to move faster around his cock. "He is licking my finger like it is the head of my cock... he always wanted to do this. Both."

You widened your eyes at the discovery, noticing how Aegon moaned slyly, opening his eyes for a few moments so he could look at you two, but without stopping licking Aemond's skin, rubbing himself faster after the humiliation of having his dirty thoughts about his own brother exposed in front of you.

It didn't take long for Aegon to cum, Aemond's name sounding muffled by his brother's finger. You whimpered at how the sheets on your bed were now soaked with your brother-in-law's seed.

Aemond's evil laugh echoed through the rooms, his arousal getting harder when he removed his thumb from Aegon's mouth, the older brother now extremely panting and his body trembling. He gripped your neck once again, keeping your face firmly so you could see the pathetic mess that Aegon had become. "Can you see now, wife? Our King is just a greedy whore for his own brother's cock and his sister-in-law's cunt..."

Aegon whimpered with frustration, trying to hide the embarrassment that was clear on his cheeks and his violet eyes full of tears. However, any effort to free himself from that submissive behavior was brutally negated when Aemond grabbed his hair again with his free hand, pushing the young man's flushed face until he was pressed into your aching cunt once again, your loud moan filling the brothers ears as you squirmed from the sudden and sharp return of pleasure.

Aemond loosened his grip on your neck, caressing the skin as he looked at your body trembling each time Aegon licked your clit faster. "Just like this, brother. Being a good boy for the first time..." Aemond praised and also mocked Aegon, still gripping his blonde hair. The King's eyes were wide open as he licked you, looking at your flushed face and then at his brother's mischievous smirk, his mouth too busy to answer anything. "Keep it up and I will let you fuck her needy cunt while I fuck your ass. Perhaps I will even let you put a bastard inside her after I cum inside you..."

HOTD Edition - Masterlist

Criminal Minds Edition - Masterlist

Venusbyline's Kinktober 2024 - Masterlist

[the20thangel]

The Pearl of the Realm

Summary: This is a one-shot connected to my series, The Dragon and The Raven. Little Princess Aemma has been born, and many celebrate her entrance into the world. Calling her the Pearl of the Realm. Looking into a glance of a House receiving the news of the birth of the little princess.

Word Count: 1.4k

Masterlist

Ravens flew across the seven kingdoms. All brought the glorious news of the Heir to the Iron Throne, Princess Rhaenyra, giving birth to a new princess—a new realm’s delight to grace the whole of Westeros and the Houses Targargeyn and Velayron. The Princess named Aemma in honor of the Crown Princess’s late mother, Good Queen Aemma. Her mother and father eagerly greeted little Aemma. 

As one raven descended towards the Riverlands, it was met by a weirwood tree teeming with crows and ravens. The Blackbird found its way into an open window, greeted by the sight of a striking lady with raven hair and piercing grey eyes. She was a Northern beauty, her tall stature and profound cheekbones accentuating her grace and beauty. Her smile, more of a permanent smirk, hinted at her fierce nature, making her the epitome of a Northern woman. 

The lady named Erena Reed, now Blackwood, was the Current Lady of House Blackwood; noticing the raven, she raised her arms to welcome the bird to land. Cooing at the creature dear to her family, she caressed its wings momentarily before taking the scroll from the raven’s legs. Erena thanked the raven before releasing it back to the outside, watching the raven circle twice before landing on the weriwood tree. Smiling, Erena walks back to her chair, asking for a maid to bring her husband, Samwell Blackwood, and to let him know that a raven had arrived from Kingslanding. 

Erena opened the letter, grinning at its contents. She chuckled as Samwell walked in tow with his younger sister, Alysanne Blackwood, and two maids carrying two babies. Samwell smiled at his wife. Walking towards her, he grasped her hands and kissed them. 

“My Love, what news does the Dragon King bring?” pondered Samwell. 

Erena smiled, greeting Alysanne before answering her husband, “There were two letters, one from King Viserys and the other from my cousin, who is part of the Golden Cloaks. Both bring marvelous news: Our Princess has safely given birth to her second child.” 

Samwell raised an eyebrow as Alysanne clapped in delight.

“Oh, what news indeed… perhaps the spare heir for the princess or the new heir for lord of tides?” Samwell pressed on as he took a seat, accepting a babe from the maid.

Erena hummed, allowing the second maid to place a twin in her arms. Smiling, Erena kissed the child’s chubby cheeks. Feeling his mother's kiss, little Benjicot opened his eyes, staring at his mother before yawning, snuggling into her embrace, and returning to sleep. 

“No, Sam, a little princess has been graced to the realm. A beauty from the accounts of her grandsire and my cousin. Kingslanding is celebrating the little pearl of the realm.” 

“Oh, another dragon princess, how wonderful. Do you think she will have a dragon?” asked Alysanne as she wiggled her finger to the babe in Samwell’s arms. 

Little Davos followed his aunt’s finger momentarily before growing bored and fussing. Samwell hushed his son, rocking him back to sleep.  Chuckling himself, Samwell thought Davos was always the fussiest twin. 

Erena shook her head, “No, according to my cousin, when the little Princess was born, she quickly bonded to Good Queen Alyssane Targaryen’s dragon, Sliverwing. The smallfolk have started praising the little Princess, claiming she will be like her grandmothers, Queens Alysanne and Aemma. Of course, not all are singing praises.” 

Samwell snorted, “Let me guess, The Green Hightower queen and her snakes of allies?” 

The Blackwoods did not love the Hightowers, for that family believed higher than others, especially those who still followed the Old gods. Blackwoods also had enough blood of the first men to follow the ways of the first men in fulfilling their pledges, and they swore loyalty to Princess Rhaenyra and her family. 

Erena laughed tauntingly, making little Benjicot jump in his sleep, “apparently, she was green like her horrid dresses, filled with envy that the little Princess is a beauty of actual Valyrian descent and bonding with a glorious dragon. Mainly because none of her four children have had a dragon as a babe.”

The Blackwood family laughed at the Green Queen’s jealousy. The childish act of being jealous of little children for being born into genetics made them bond to dragons. As the Blackwoods came down from their laughter, Alysanne remembered King Visery’s letter. 

“Good sister, was the letter from King Visery just the announcement of the birth of Princess Aemma?” 

“Ah, no, the King is also hosting a week-long celebration for Princess Aemma’s birth, causing more strife for the Hightower queen.”

“A week's worth? Are the celebrations soon?” inquired Samwell. 

Erena said, “In about two moons, rumors that the King wanted them to take place earlier, but Princess Rhaenyra expressed two moons of peace for her and her family before the realm comes to celebrate.” 

“That's perfect; two moons will allow enough time to prepare everything for the journey to Kingslanding,” explained Samwell, standing. 

The Lord of Raventree Hall kissed his Heir, Davos, and placed him back in the arms of the maid before leaving to call his council to prepare for the journey. 

Erena smiled at her husband’s excitement, glancing at Benjicot. Who knows, she thought, perhaps you both will meet the little Princess when you are older, Ben, maybe you can become a squire in her mother’s household. She smiled as she continued to rock the babe in her arms. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Princess Rhaenyra collapsed in her birthing bed, tired, and she shed happy tears at hearing the sounds of her new baby’s cries. Allowing the midwife to place her child in her arms, the Princess began to sob as she stared at her daughter’s face. Her daughter, although tanner, had the same face as her late mother. She was beautiful; her hair was white like snow and curlier than hers. She was perfect, thought Rhaenyra, glancing up to see Leanor walk nervously into the room. Both were still awkward with each other in their marriage. 

Rhaenyra placed her daughter into Laenor’s awaiting arms. As the Sea Dragon stared at the little Princess, he began to cry, still not being used to the idea of ever having children. Laenor knew he would gladly double down and give his life for his daughter…and his son. Just then, Prince Jacaerys walked in with his grandparents, who all eagerly wanted to see the Princess. Queen Alicent sniffed dryly, staying towards the back and watching the family crowding the parents from a distance. 

Viserys took the little Princess into his arms, with Rhaenys and Corlys standing at either side, shedding tears at the little beauty, who briefly opened her eyes to show the same purple eyes as her mother. Laenor raised little Jace, who was awed by his little sister, and the family was all happy. 

Unfortunately, the happy moment was broken when Alicent walked forward and glanced at the Princess. 

“Interesting how the little princess doesn't share many similarities to her father or Grandsire?” questioned Alicent, staring cooly at Rhaenyra. 

Rhaenyra glared but did not need to speak because Princess Rhaenys spoke faster. 

“Nonsense, your grace. My granddaughter has a mix of her parents' skin tone and the famous white Velayron hair and curls, unlike us Targarygens' waves or straight hair. She happens to hold the face of her late grandmother Aemma,” explained Rhaenys, turning her purple eyes coolly to Alicent’s green, who flushed at being called out. 

Alicent’s face only grew redder when Visery’s cried out. 

“My Aemma has returned to me, daughter, if I may, no more tremendous honor you would grace me if you named our little princess after your late mother.” cried Viserys as he stared at his sweet daughter. 

Rhaenyra smiled tiredly, nodding in agreement that her daughter would be named after her beloved mother, the true queen of her father. 

Laenor praised, “Princess Aemma, the pearl of the realm!” 

Viserys cried more as he exclaimed, “A true pearl; as princess of the realm, we need a week of celebrations to welcome her…”

Alicent gasped, “My love, surely that is too extreme, a week for a princess; we should not need to be excessive-”

“Aemma is worthy of that and more Alicent; she is the realm's Princess and the daughter of the Lady of Dragonstone. All must come and celebrate our newest family member!” countered Viserys. 

Alicent grew green with envy as she hurriedly curtsied and walked out of the room, not wanting to spend another minute in the room. She was upset that everyone was swooning over a bastard princess when her daughter was only given a small feast. 

Rhaenyra followed the retreating green gown before returning to her family. She giggled as Jacaerys waved at his little sister, growing annoyed that little Aemma did not wave back. Yes, little Aemma was indeed a pearl in her mother’s eyes.

[eldrith]

ғʀᴏᴍ ᴇᴅᴇɴ ; ᴘᴀʀᴛ ғᴏᴜʀ.

ɪɴɴᴏᴄᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴅɪᴇᴅ sᴄʀᴇᴀᴍɪɴɢ ;

jacaerys velaryon x fem!reader words: 9k synopsis: jacaerys falls for a woman in aegon's garden. notes: sorry abt the delay but here is part four! def an introspective chapter but things are ramping up for the last part chapter warnings: freaky ass dreams — death. allusions to smut, finger sucking, making out. lore. religious imagery/symbolism, slight suicidal themes surrounding death as a concept (message me if u have questions), manipulation, tarrgaryen slander(my fav), arguments, creepy imagery, blood & gore. food as allegory. basically everything as allegory atp.

THE VOICE FINDS HIM IN THE SHADOWS OF SIGHT. 

“Jacaerys?” 

It lurks; not unlike those looming memories which throb in the back of his mind with each passing day, eyes sullenly cast out the casement of his window upon the breathing garden below – it lurks within some hidden recess of his mind, waiting for him to stumble so unwillingly into its notched crosshairs. 

“Jacaerys,” the voice calls. It is a voice he knows well. 

Blanketed by a sky of bruises, Jacaerys looks up to those thundering blemishes which impede low into the air; He is here for something. 

Returning his gaze to the earth, he stalks with burning muscles, lungs cinched by the brutal kiss of iced wind. 

There is a sharp snap to his left; a twig, some withered old limb of a growth long past felled – it echoes sharply along the field, into the empty bones of those which litter upon the wildgrass. The gasp falls from his lips and plumes out, trickling into the cold night air.

With a spin of his gaze, the garden lurches – no – the battlefield; no, indeed some apprised paralyzation of both. 

Jace stares incredulously at the scorched earth, smoldering shards of burnt stakes and wrought iron – and the smell, some decaying rejection of earth, some burnt and putrid soil which still squelches when he drags his boots over mangled fallen vines. 

Crimson leaks from wounds within the thickened tendrils of vined earth; bloody gashes which ooze with some putrid ichor, thick with the unmoving wind as they glaze over the sharpened blades of fallen soldiers, bearing black or verdant sigils. 

Bodies lie, mummified in overturned black – matted with rotten leaves, blooms kiss the corpses which twitch with the final rattle of esse. 

A yelp from a skeletal mass below the curving hedges, and Jace lurches in fear: Hair of silver, a gown of gold, a third eye between her brow; the familiar shadow of his youth is petrified under the curling grasp of blackthorne before his very eyes, a malicious whisper in the unmoving gloom as her eyes glaze with some ancient kismet. And with a sickening turn of her head, paled lips move, beetles crawling and scuttling into the shadows. “The fruit is poisoned from the tree of kings,” his aunt whispers to him from lifeless lips; her third eye blinking, bloodshot, pained. 

He staggers back, though quickly schools himself, ignoring the sharp pain in his head and the clench of fear twisting his gut. He is here for something. 

A thick dread curls in his stomach when he eyes the smaller shapes of three boys – two pure of hair, and one with the very same mopped curls which sprout tangled with the vines of earth; and a young woman, slumped and scorched, her hands outstretched in protection of them. He does not allow himself to glance any longer at the bodies. 

Jacaerys’s heart thunders, his shoulder catching on a sharp thorne as he bursts through a corner, gasping for breath as it chokes him. You await him, somewhere in the depths of this battlefield, and Jacaerys fights his own mind from conjuring visions of you, slumped and decaying just as the rest of them – just like each of the spoilt veins which spill and fertilize the soil below. 

Your voice comes to him as clear as a whisper in the corner of his mind. Boots sink into the soft black soil – vines, dark and sharp things, wrap around the weary leather of his boots; crimson armor disappears beneath the decay, swallowed in the yawning gluttony of fate, whispers whistling through the hedges which tower around him. “… And what you made, what we’ve made… look at it all. It is art. A stroke of brush upon my kind, used soul.” 

The hair upon his nape stands once more; the voice, curling around each bend of his mind, leaking hunger, enticement. An unnatural rhythm in the shadows; serpents, scales emerald and venomous, within in the depths – they blink with a single eye, gaze mocking in a glint of cobalt sapphire; and he runs.

The garden stirs with his dreading heart; littered bodies scalded and ashed, billowing in irrecoverable bursts below his footfall when he staggers past. Daisies sprout, jagged and thorned, from scorched wildgrass; peeking their shy petals through slats of disintegrated armor, singed by death. 

The voice follows him, though when his gaze snaps to the statue, The Thorned Dragon looms larger than he’d recalled. A ragged gasp escapes his throat. 

There, its spiny throngs are curved rather unnatural – bent into a labored revolve, the dragon swallows its own tail; horns jagged and unforgiving, piercing into its own soft underbelly with a silent, deafening roar. “Your blood – come in fire, leave in ash.”

The words scrape within the pounding agitation within his mind – and, unable to cast out such unpropitious omens, Jacaerys staggers towards the iron casting, eyes widening in a thickened breath. 

And it is then that he discovers a lump of darkness curled upon the base of the Thorned Dragon; with a jagged lurch towards the fineries which litter the vines below, a crawling horror builds within his throat. 

Pale skin, finer than his own – a necklace of Valyrian steel, a gown fine and black with scorched marks of death – and that very crown, swallowed and corroded below a stiffened grasp, stilled marks of clawing fingers through the earth. 

Ravens black as the night peck at the flesh of the very body he once came from.

It is sickening – bone splinters beneath such scrutiny, a terrifying crack which leaves Jacaerys with a drop of dread spreading through his body. “You breathed life into my breast…”  

The Thorned Dragon watches the Prince stumble away; the end of the garden nears, its fallen horses singed with banners of the very beast which brought about their end. Jacaerys retches, but is met with a river of red, blue, green; pouring in a sickening slip from his lips unto such a pale palm – with a panicked gasp, he sputters. 

Slithers of white flicker in the shadow; a cleansed breath, as his heart leaps – some safety from the poisoned earth, from the poisoned resolution of the very blood running in his veins. 

 “And I bleed because you feel the pulse within my veins, within the roots below.” 

And then, after a moment of frozen muscle, a familiar laugh from the depths behind him – he knows better than to turn, instead leaping with a gasping panic, lurching towards the gates which slink away from his fingers with a sickening leer. 

“They await your lead. Go to them, choose them…” Dread tugs his gut, shaking as he chances a glance behind his shoulder – but it is no longer Aegon’s Garden. 

Flashes of mountains, of sprawling moors, of valleys and seas and Keeps of red and hearths dying out; of stony cliffs, of the frigid, withered talons of death from afar – “Jacaerys Targaryen. The King Who Will Be.”  

It is not a name he has been called before you – and it is a name which now splinters into shards of glass within his lungs, piercing his heart and seizing him with some lick of doom. 

Sick, Jacaerys stumbles away – the circle turns, some ominous and self-abhorrent whisper within his mind reminds him; The circle turns, yes – 

 Limbs above him, bowing low in a weep; and those very fine fruits, glistening and blushing in the moonlight. Their scent, heavenly even in such a fuzzy state – and a memory of lips, salaciously pressed to the flesh, tongue darting out… 

His hand shakes as he reaches towards it, heart thundering as he hears footsteps approaching; a panic within him, knowing he has not enough time. 

Not enough time. 

But he stops short: 

From the blossoms come something thick – blood, no, ink – no, something which stains the earth with sin. Emerald and crimson, staining upon the blooms which wilt and curl away as if struck by a bout of chilling breath. 

The footsteps arrive behind him. 

JACAERYS JOLTS WITH A SHARP, DRIED GASP. 

Tallowed wax has weeped hours in wait of his silenced patience; a slumber rather calm in exterior, though when he awakes he drives a kneecap into the bottom of the table, gasping in a sharp, drowned way.

Syrupy, gasped blinks – Jacaerys inhales the breath of a man submerged in some iced seas, alone and choked of any respite from the final wink of existence.

“Taking a catnap, are we?” 

He jolts once more; and a laugh, hearty and trickling, echoes in the stone drum – it is not a haunting sound, nor is it in any notion a fetching one – but rather one as familiar as his own kin. It is his own kin. 

Baela rounds the stone table, regarding Jacaerys’ stirred frame; he, with tired and rather disturbed eyes, glances with a fainting stare of vexed provocation. “Gods,” He finally breathes, the whispers of dreams far too present in his sharply pained mind. “I can’t even recall falling asleep.” 

She wears her dragonriding gown – an invitation to accompany her of which he’d turned down earlier this morn. 

The days grow on and so does, it seems, Jacaerys’ blistering headaches; indeed, Vermax has taken ill as of recent, and it would be a poor choice to try and take him flying under such circumstances. Scale rot, they’d said – a quite rare instance, recorded only one other time by a maester many, many years before and ruled farce by account of him turning mad and taking the black not a moon after. 

Jacaerys fights quite hard to avoid her stare. 

There is a worry in Baela’s gaze that has long since befallen the faces of many who walk such halls; but Jacaerys knows well, it is a superficial concern; it is the worry of a soldier falling ranks, of a lady retaining her favor as a knight mounts for jest, of a stableman watching a horse with a limp. 

And still, she says nothing of it. 

“Well,” She mutters instead with a light smirk; Jacaerys meets her stare with a blink. “You act as though you saw a spectre.” 

It is only with her words of innocent jest which he recalls the depths of his dreaming torment; Perhaps I have, he reminds himself – in a flash of Lucerys, curls shining against hedges of bursting green and pink, of slithering vines. Or, perhaps, he sees it each day – in gowns snagged around branches, in the glinting hunger of a gaze, in a sharp smile curling around the juices of a ripe fig. 

He clears his throat, eyes returning to the parchment softened with age– tracing over the mark indented where his cheek had rested in a fitful slumber moments ago. His mind has grown numb in the battle against the aching pains; he has rendered himself, in the days since that fateful night under the fig tree, rather recluse and solitary. And with time came confusion, then acceptance, then bewitchment, and now… some paranoid, brewing anger. 

“I suppose I grew weary with Maester Layn’s prose,” Jacaerys attempts for a joke; yet when his gaze reclaims the handscript scrawled in increasingly maddened flutters, droning on and on for pages until the final third of the journal is left blank, there is a deep unsettling stir within his stomach. 

“-Layn?” Baela repeats – she truly is a well-studied girl, Lady Laena made sure of such a thing with both her daughters – and her brow furrows. “The Mad Maester?” 

Jacaerys nods absently, closing the leather rather abruptly in a flash of wariness, thumbing the page he’d earmarked in haste. “Apparently so.” He affirms rather distractedly. There is a paranoia which rises from its dirt grave within his chest – grasping with hands unseen, his stomach and throat begin to tighten. 

With a gentle nod, Jacaerys stands once more; bones tired and weary, he grasps the Old Maester’s journal with a jolt and excuses himself from Lady Baela. “I should retire. Such reading has rendered me spent.” 

It is clear that she is unused to his curt discussions as of late – though never quite close, the cousins have spent considerable time together in the days of their siblings’ absence, and Jacaerys has never been one for much recluse. Times change, perhaps. 

Jacaerys minds to not brush her as he walks past, though her words stop him. 

“– And?”

He slows to a halt, blood churning and words of confession dancing on his tongue; the journal is heavy underarm – it pulls him towards the sinking stone floor, below it, down to where the beasts, ancient and warm, stir underfoot. 

Half-turn of head when he glances her way – Baela needs not elaborate; He has known her a good part of this life to understand the words which lie unsaid within her throat. 

The words burn through the parchment within his arms; Truth, they whisper – but he merely clenches the journal closer to his chest. “And… It was as they say.” He lies through his teeth, and is surprised to find no remorse within his heart. 

Jacaerys can only think of one thing; one laugh, one smile, one voice which tells him of love and devotion – of the voice which lives in the very garden Maester Layne studied and then lost his mind over those many years ago – and so Jacaerys nods towards the wall of stone, unable to face his cousin behind him: 

“He went mad.” 

THERE WAS ONCE A TIME JACAERYS WALKED THE HALLS OF HIS HOME. 

Halls of warmth, where any such whispers of doubt or dishonor would slide off the backs of boys much younger than Jacaerys is today; where he and his brothers, dark of hair and high of chin, would spar in yards, would laugh at feasts, would bow to their grandsire, would toss small bits of venison to their maturing mounts. 

And it is not necessarily the shift of land beneath feet – of bay harbors of blackened water shifting to sliding dark sand and island-whipped wind; for no matter where he rests his head to slumber, the scent of ancient smoldering smoke lies intrinsically tied to his bloodline – eternally. 

No matter the name he bears, nor the blood pulsing in his veins, nor the castle he walks; Jacaerys cannot any longer find that home. 

Halls long and empty; cold, unbearingly so in those moments he sees a flash of his brother – the face carved from his own –  in the mirror, in passing hedges, in the shut of eyelids. 

And long past are days where glory was within reach – what gods so austere would allow for a bastard to follow her place, now that any with a drop of Valyrian blood might stake a claim? These days, it has grown quite clear: unreal are the dreams once so very tangible – when the throne was occupied by a rather lively grandsire, when Jacaerys was placed upon his knee, was told whispers of glory and fate; when he watched dragons dance over the horizon of King’s Landing no larger than the nail of his last finger, patiently awaiting the day Vermax might grow fierce enough to carry him into those very clouds. 

Dragonstone is his birthright, just as much as King’s Landing is; and he has long watched over this small dominion, long wondered how it could be that such a place of blood and ash could yield any other result than just that. The circle turns, after all; The dragon eats its tail. 

And just as such, Jacaerys sits with Aegon’s Garden in the periphery of his vision. 

A stray breeze blows curls to tangle in the curve of his lashes – a sweep of shaking fingers, and the words of Maester Layn seem to dance upon the parchment below. 

In some desperate fear a few nights past, Jacaerys had ripped and scoured Dragonstone’s histories for any mention of the Garden; and such search has yielded merely the ramblings of a maester to the second of Targaryen kings, a maester who went mad and took the Black not a year into his time upon the Island. 

And yet remains his personal accounts in the library – easily left out of such gilded Valyrian histories – a dusted old tome, one which likely has not seen the light of day since Aenys I was a young boy. Some old crone’s ramblings; though Jacaerys feels his skin crawl as the words worm their way into his mind and whisper into his memory. 

The Dragonlords settled these lands when the bailey was merely a plot of saplings; and Aegon’s Garden not yet a Thing but a overturned burial plot of the old gods, volcanic ash and sprouts of wildgrass. 

And their own gods, heavy with the weight of wings which crumble towers and burn ships – things meant to remain untouched by hands so human and tainted with sin. 

It matters not what I might try to guide in the ears of men who believe themselves more than such; From the first, they have been marked for suffering. 

And what greater curse is there than to eternally live and yet still to die? They leave the lands to take more; and yet with each victory, their souls wither. 

This garden watches; it sows, reaps, sows. 

Their fate, I fear, is that of slow decay. 

Philosophies of men long before his own time is something Jacaerys has studied twice over in his preparations for the crown – and yet a most unsure settling feeling, the offense which simmers in his Valyrian veins cools only with the uneasy sense of verity through words so sharp. 

The handscript, from moons after the last entry in the journal; scribbled, uneven – written in maladies and interspersed with recipes for tinctures, and cures for maddening headaches. 

An inkling of fear worries down his spine at the observation; and though the words instill some ominous cognizance in the back of his mind, his hungry eyes continue on. Ravens call shrilly from above; a short breeze gusts the scent of fruit from beyond the wall to the east. 

…And as the star reminds us, it was through the Stranger's envy which death and decay entered the realms of the Andals; still, perhaps, that hatred lingers in the soil foreign and familial, growing within veins of those who dare believe themselves any step above others.

That is to say, those who pulled themselves unto the backs of ancient beings, who deem themselves of the very same molten flesh – and who will, in circle’s turn, eat the flesh of their very own to stay upon the helm. 

The fruit of their seed, oh that cursed fruit – it falls, and will always fall, from that tree of kings; will always bloom rot across the lands. 

Yes, each drop of spilled blood from the wombs of dragonlords bear the mark of fate. A curse, yes — yet what is a curse but the gods’ way of shaping fate into flesh? 

Jacaerys startles as a raven lands upon the stone bench beside him, watching with beady eyes of black; when he glances back to the parchment, the words seem to tremble and pulse with his own heartbeat. Unease drips through his mind, the iced shock of the mad words written before him dousing him entirely. 

Targaryens. Gods among men, they say to themselves – but gods do not bleed. 

Gods do not rot.

The words swirl, their tendrils dragging down the parchment and staining Jacaerys’s fingers; they spin, they bloom, they whittle, they die and are reborn in his mind; a circle forever turning as he looks up towards the open casement of his chambers high, swallowed in half by the storming of clouds which gather above. 

Is he going mad? 

There are naught but a plethora more questions he must ask now; but to whom, he wonders – the raven beside him wails, fluttering before taking flight, towards the garden to the east. Dread welcomes him, a sharp friend. 

Jacaerys watches the bird’s dark shadow become swallowed by the mass of overgrowth which curls and climbs atop the gate ahead; it is clear, now, where he must go. 

There are no more people left here to answer his questions; his mother, too locked upon in her own horizon – Baela, measuring her own squared shoulders to fit into the mould of their Queen; Daemon, far away in the riverlands doing whatever he may please; Maester Gerardys, too enraptured by the foolish beliefs of an aged past. You are no more affected by this than the blooms are affected by a blink of clouds over the sun; you, in your slinking shadows and wild words, your beckoning laughter and spinstry dreams. 

Jacaerys knows in a corner of his mind; as a sower knows when it is to snow, Jacaerys knows it is you who has sent him mad, who spins your web of death and life and whatever monstrous thing lies between. You understand, this taunting limbo which suspends him between a life long-dead and a life unreachable. 

The journal is abandoned upon the bench. 

Crows screech; the gates to Aegon’s garden creak. 

THE ANCIENT ROT SEEPS IN.

It curls in a way he’s never quite taken note of; dirt paths which twist and gnarl, vines which ooze with a sweet scent once so enticing – Jacaerys stalks warily through the strangely thick air, ignoring the prickle on the nape of his neck as he walks. 

A familiar waltz, this has become – though he is not, as it seems, in the mood for a dance. 

It is not long before the garden settles with him. A slow breath, an exhale as he passes the entrance and comes across the Thorned Dragon; a beautiful thing – as beautiful perhaps as you are, in that odd way. 

Your name upon his lips, he wonders if you hear the way his voice trembles, how the fear and worry and resentment leak through his tone. 

He sees first a snag of your hem; slinking around a corner, a snap in the twigs that sends his heart thundering. 

A faint memory of hunting in the woods with his grandsire when he was just old enough to hold a bow; the final look within the gaze of a stag before it was taken from the realm. Its heart, faster and faster until it slowed and, finally, stopped. 

He follows the sound of swishing fabric, of footprints long lost in the rotted earth; blinks within his mind, words written in a panic unto parchment a hundred year’s past. What greater curse is there than to eternally live and yet still to die?

He calls your name. Once, twice – on and on, but still you evade him, disappearing just as he catches a glimpse of you, snapping twigs and slithering past vines as he stumbles blindly, seeking answers to questions not yet formed upon his tongue. 

Anger pulses in such a pathetic chase; though still he gives in, desperate to hear it from your lips, just if only to confirm the truth: That he has no one. That you are no one. 

The rot finds itself within his bones – and, when he brushes his hand against the leaves of a passing vine clung around a woman half-devoured by the sun, a soft giggle floats through the shrubbery. 

A delicate, almost musical rot – a giggle he knows so well by now, one which sends a pang of anticipation and some deep horror through him. He remembers that stag, the way its eyes watched, unmoving down the point of the arrow; and the fluid snap on its neck when it crashed into the wood with an arrow through its throat. 

His grandsire’s laugh, delighted, amused. A life, once more rotted away by that tree of kings. 

Joints within his neck pop once more when he whirls to the sound, unease drifting into his bones when the laugh finds his ears again – but brighter, much more familiar; his stomach drops. 

Luke. A laugh once more, as if they were once more lost in that youthful catch-and-seek game, a rustle from a hedge, the drowning cough of lungs long since failed. But Jacaerys is no longer a young boy – and neither is Lucerys. 

Rage, that long-hidden beast, stirs. It is a cruel, cruel twist for you to play such tricks upon him. It is one thing to plague his mind with silly visions, to haunt his lips or his fist or his heart; though it is not the same to taunt such grief over his head. 

Enough of it; just ahead, the wisp of a shadow moves, and he sees you dart into the brush. 

Rage – that sharp, sudden, ancient rot; it pulses through him, just as harsh and true as his own heartbeat. He’s upon your trail in a moment; though the twists and turns grow confounding, and Jacaerys feels an ache of worry grow within his chest. 

Another glimpse of shadow; you, arm-in-arm with a boy; Lucerys is before him. 

Lucerys walks with you – he is tangible, as fleshed, as smiling as you. 

It is then that he stumbles into the clearing. 

The olive tree, once more; and there, looming above his heaving chest, are the watchful eyes of the woman in the statue, her lover torn and dying within her arms – an arrow through the shoulder, one splintered and rotting from his throat. 

And yet there, at the roots of that very tree, you alone repose – eyes closed as if in a dream, bathed by the light of day broken through the looming branches twisted and gnarled. 

Anger surges at the sight of you, calm with a near smile upon your lips; yet still you have it, he thinks. You still carry the resentment, sorrow, that loneliness which seeps through your visage, which plagues even a face as brilliantly haunting as your own. 

“This is how low you might go, then?” He calls out into the garden, fuming. “You lure me here with memories of the dead? Playing your little tricks, to bring me here?” 

You stir at his sharp voice, a whip in the calm of the day; the crows have long since flown, and only you remain. 

You sigh into the tree above you, eyes opening in that pearled absence before returning to your lovely hues; he is struck with your raw beauty, how you seem to coax his footsteps towards you even in his ire. “Life, death…” 

Your voice is faraway once more, as though pulling the petals from a flower and watching them flutter to the earth. “Sometimes I wonder if they’re truly so different.” 

“You’re cruel,” He spits; pain, grief, anger swirling raw in his heart - you’ve heard the tales - of course you have. Everyone on the island knows of his brother’s fate at the hands of the Kinslayer. It is a cruel thing, to play tricks on him in the way you do. 

You do not flinch at his outburst; a shifting shadow, you stir somewhere beneath the tree. “Jace,” you nearly purr, the pity in your tone stoking the fire within him further. He shakes his head. 

“I did not come to be led through this wretched maze like a fool.” He snaps, and his voice nearly echoes in the eerie calm of greenery. 

Your eyes snap to him, nearly shocked; as if you were not the figure leading him through the hedges and rows of wilting anemones. “Jace-” you begin once more, as if retrying for your first attempt to console him, rising upon your bared feet; a memory past of nights ago, that poisoned sweet of your lips, the kind stutter of breath as he’d pulled you closer to him, felt that heart beat – however falsely – against his palm. 

“–Enough.” He snaps, taking a step back as you float to him, blinking your doe-like eyes at him, tilting your head. A predatory thing, he realizes with an ache of his gut – your mimicked, shy pose so perfected from hours of standing alone in such a garden – a perfect view of his casement from here, perhaps lying in wait for his company, just as he does yours. “What cruel jest is this?” He spits, eyes searching the pits of your own, watching your face slide from disoriented to distressed. 

“What do you mean, Jacaerys?” You wonder – that sweet, worried way you bite your lip, sickly hands outstretched towards him; it broils the anger which festers sharp within him. It is incredulous that he stares at you, rage knotting in his chest at your soft, unassuming tilt of head – a practiced innocence gleaming in the daylight. 

The stuttering heart, the barely-present touch; all which once sent his heart thundering, which now sets his jaw rigid and tense. 

“No,” He hisses, stepping back from your outstretched palm, “I am not some foolish boy, fresh and untested, to be swayed by the honey-sweet looks of some– some serpent.” He spits, voice breaking as the wound beneath his anger slips. 

There is such pressure; that sharp ache which has festered in his inconsolable worries of the Dragonseeds and word of their claimed dragons; the dooming presence of fate which grasps at his collar, which threatens to drag his mother and their line into the depths with it. In circle's turn, they will eat the flesh of their very own to stay upon the wheel. 

The voice jolts him from his thoughts to find you, wide-eyes, and parted lips. A falter, some falling from that delicate mask to something raw, something glinting between a dark hunger and a maliciously deceiving kindness. 

“You should not dare call me such vile things.” You utter, face downturned, dark. And your hand drops; a murmur from you, cold and sweet as winter’s breath. “You’re being cruel. Serpents should be the least of your worries, my Prince.” You whisper. 

It is ominous, the words you mutter; as though you know some ancient thing, some thing which breathes with the pulse of life below soil. A flare of disbelief, his mind numbing and muddling by the moment as he stands, staggered under the olive tree, sweet blooms lulling through the afternoon air. 

"I, the cruel one?” he trembles; words spilling, half-strangled in his throat. “Do you think me blind? That I don’t see what you do — how you laugh in the shadows, whisper in my dreams? That I don’t feel your hands, each night, when I-” He shakes his head, “I…” He trails off, watching as you sway before him, defeated, head low as a chastised child. 

And that faint voice he does not yet seem to have known – yet fervent, insistent: it was through the Stranger's envy which death and decay entered the realms of the Andals. 

In his grief torn mind, he wonders. Is it his name? Is it the legacy of his House, so tall it scrapes the heavens; the stories of old, of Valyrian magic which pulses somewhere faintly in his muddied veins? Do you bewitch him simply for the chance at the riches piling upon the throne, of his future seat – of the fine fabrics, the reach beyond even the kingdoms? Do you, after all he’s told you of his mother, of his father – of the realms; do you truly wish for anything other than to take what he has, all that he has? And that name – that blood, that lineage so cursed; Is that truly all he is? 

“What is it you want from me?” 

What do you want, he pleads – though his mind whispers, soft and sullen, do you want me? 

“I care not for any such things you carry to offer,” Your voice, melodic and haunting as you bite away at beading tears that slide down your smooth cheeks; a faint inkling of alarm in the back of his mind, straining to recall if he’d even spoken any of it aloud – but as you wipe a heavy tear from your lashline, the thought dissipates.

“I want to…I wish to have you.” Your voice warbles, lip wavered; it is a glassy thing, such a gaze, and his heart begins to soften wearily with the small sniff you allow yourself in your wilting figure. 

And gods above strike him, Jacaerys’ heart skips; a warmth of want, of love – the thing he’s yearned after for the better of his young life.  It is with effort that he swallows down the anger which has bubbled up with fear and foreboding; Because you are still a slight, sweet thing – a kind being, a sprouted blossom in a field of ashes. There is no fear here, he understands. There is just loneliness. 

And, always so willing; your lips press together in wait as he gathers his thoughts with a shaky sigh, knowing such anger misplaced will be a burden to all. It’s only a fig, Jace.

But it can’t be; in his heart, a twisting truth – you could not love such a broken man; nameless, unwanted by his own kin, untrusted to fight the war being waged for his own birthright. Forgotten and lonely. He inhales shakily, nodding in some dreadful acceptance. 

“I am not yours to torment.” His heart still thunders with the agony of glimpsing Luke just moments ago; some heavy acceptance lifts from his chest, a burst free from unknowing. An acceptance warm and chilling alike. He sniffs, clenching his fists so they do not begin to tremble.

 “If you’ve lured me here to bury me in specters and shadows, then… you may do as you please.” He levels you with his own watery gaze; in which you swim, haunted and despairing. Perhaps his words are a final leap, some grasp of hope that perhaps you will confirm what he knows in his very heart to be true: that you have love, and that you hold it only for him. 

“-But do not come to me with lies dressed as love.” He whispers.

And your face falls; softness in your eyes growing fragile as the petals upon the flowers which wither near your feet. Your shoulders, slumped as you let out a shaky breath, some dejected misery which sprouts from your frame and blossoms into a pitiful shutter. 

A moment until you straighten, eyes meeting his wetly and trickled with a spark of disbelief. 

“You truly believe such lies spun by men long since in the past?” Your voice shakes – each word, a draw of blood that seems to spill from your raw, tender heart. “That I would bring you pain, that I– that I would wish such suffering upon you? All you’ve done, I-” you lip trembles in that awfully disheartening way; Jacaerys represses such urge to gather you in his arms under the midday sun, to press his lips to the soft glint of your hair. 

You shake your head, leaning upon tipped toes as if to tell him a secret, your hands clenched by your side until they rise to wipe the tears from your wettened eyes. “I do nothing by means of envy or greed – I just – I wish to be with you.” 

Pain, that icy sting; it cowers him, breaks him until a tear slips from his lidded gaze and skids over his cheekbones, fertilizing the rotted earth below his feet.

 And though he believes your very truthful words, there is a sapling which was planted those many years ago when he stepped foot unto the island; that very warning whisper that has tried to break free from the recess of denial and ignorance, that has danced on the tip of Maester’s tongues and perhaps anybody else who dare open their eyes enough to see. 

The truth is that there is something unnatural about Aegon’s Garden; there is something unnatural about you. 

“This place… it’s rotten.” He finally speaks it, and it is as if the word goes silent; away are the crashing of waves, merely the rattling of your bones when you inhale sharply, blinking at Jacaerys with wide, piercing eyes. 

And in that fear, that germinating sapling which turns upon itself under the watchful glare of the outside world, Jacaerys continues. The words fall from his tongue; leaves of a felled oak. 

“The garden, the tree – even you, hiding, lurking in the shadows – It’s…” He shakes his head, unwilling to continue such cursed words; but still it lingers in the back of his mind, pressing at his tongue and stirring the dread in his gut. 

 And that journal, so hastily concealed for generations of Dragonlords rising from the earth and leaving to the capital; years upon years of upturned earth, of that circle which eats its own tail – that hatred lingers in the soil, growing within veins of those who dare believe themselves any step above others. 

Jacaerys faintly begins to wonder when he started having thoughts which were not his own; and, indeed, when these vines began to slither overtop his boots, piercing their thorns into the leather worn with time. Have I gone mad? he wonders – not for the first time. 

“Say it.” You snap. “If you mistrust me so, then say it.” 

He is brought back to the garden by your icy, venomous glare – bristled, perhaps, by his such accusations in the disturbation of your day; and he, in a strike of defiance, in the last grasp of honor towards his duty, his life, his destiny – says it. 

“You are rotten.” He finishes, chest light at the heavy drop of his words. 

Whatever snarl you’d worn drops immediately in a sickening slate of blank visage. 

The world stills once again; he is sharply aware of your stare, eyes gleaming – and the air so stagnant, so earthy, of the fact that you’ve not drawn a single breath since; and a dread slowly creeps into his gut as you level your own gaze upon him.  

“Am I?” You whisper, the faintest twitch of fury within your sharp gaze. “Does the decay not spread from its roots, Jacaerys?” 

You take a step forward, and Jacaerys finds himself suddenly pressed against the statue behind him; a glance and a sharp, startled fear that pierces him as two pairs of lovers’ eyes meet him, stony and cruel. 

You press on towards him, stalking with a viciousness that begins to cloud his rationality. “Tell me, where is your mother? Where is your father? Where is that Kinslayer uncle of yours? Where is the Queen Who Never Was?” 

His throat is thick with a lodged breath; dread stirs within him, that sickening truth as you continue, slinking towards him with the practiced pace of a huntsman with a bow. “You spread like disease – all of you. Children burn, homes crumble – the world a crushed flea under your boot, a decaying whisper of power they all quarrel to grasp.” Your words are a whip in the wind that has gathered – and the stormy roll of sky has plagued the shoreline, boasting of a disastrous storm upon nightfall. “And all for what? For some fate that was written long before even this garden had a name?” 

Jacaerys stares at you; the way your fingers twist – gnarled and as thorned as the vines themselves – around his forearm; when, exactly, had you grasped him? 

“And Jacaerys… you, sweet Jace. You will be a fine king. The finest of them all, perhaps.” You promise and the words are golden and gilded in glory; your eyes shine with the reflection of a throne leagues away, of a life after this island, forgotten under layers of rotting overturned earth. 

He lurches, fighting the bile within his throat at the thought of the word – the word he’s known to one day inherit for his whole life: King. 

He shifts, pulling away from the trancelike gaze that spills from your visage and begins to infect his mind. Fuzzy, he swears he sees figs growing fat and juicy from the olive tree behind you; that he spots a shadow lingering high above the hill in the distance, watching from a windowscape. 

A conscious return of that very hunger, that salacious, depraved craving for the sharp pain of the words you leverage; that same desire which curls and licks its maw at the thought of the figs, of you.  

“They see you for what whispers have rumored behind your shadow all your life, don’t they?” Your words are treasonous; Jacaerys’ jaw clenches. “And is it true – you do not let the words taint and disrobe you, do not let the truth unravel you until all that is left is your kind, used soul?” 

His throat is thick with fear, with dejection; what inkling of truth, what window into his mind have you struck that lets his own thoughts spill from your beautiful lips? “You do not know of what you speak,” He fights meagerly; though he is weak, and your words are as harsh as they are soothing to his lonely heart. 

“Dragonlords,” You spit ruefully, and Jacaerys is struck in a hazy trance of fear and hunger. “Rotting this world from the inside out – and the people are left to wither in the ruins.” 

An image in his mind’s eye – Sharp Pointe, smoldering and dusted in ruins. A garden, a battlefield; all, desecrated. And that hissing sharp from your lips, that aching pulse which triples when you level him with a stare so very hateful. “I am free from all of that here. Here, it is sacred – names matter not. It is only peace, and sweet blooms of eternal summer. Here, the earth feeds itself, the circle turns, the blood comes in fire but leaves in ash-” 

Stopped dead-cold, Jacaerys starts. “-What did you just say?” 

You blink up at him, as if gone from some odd trance – and plush lips flounder, some flickering amusement dying in your gaze under his stare. 

“Repeat it,” He urges, mind swimming in fear. 

And in a horrifying moment, you smile – too wide, too sweet, too hungry. 

You smile, and a burst of crows scream through the sky; you smile, a sinister lurking glint within; you smile, and the roses surrounding you begin to wilt away. You smile and his heart stops cold. 

But just as it came, it drops – and with a blink, that filmy haze that had overtaken your rigid muscles melts, and you’re left; the delicate petals of a flowered girl, shaking your head slightly up to him as the sun beams down a chilly breath of light unto your face. 

 “I don’t… I can’t recall.” 

With a blink, your eyes meet his and they are pure, free from any such emotion, nor turmoil; instead, you float before him in your sweet sway. 

Jacaerys feels the shift within the air, watches as you slip on some masque that you hope he does not detect – but his hair stands on end. 

You smile ever so kindly, eternally; his hands tremble, though still, after it all: Still, he wishes to remain there with you, in that smile. 

“Forgive me, my Prince, I- I seemed to have lost myself. I’m so terribly sorry.” 

The sun has clambered its way out from the sheets of clouds above; in a ray upon you, your hair glows – and despite the dread, the dubiety which swarms his mind, Jacaerys cannot help the small smile which crawls upon his lips, weary and hesitant as it is. 

A cursed girl, you are – this, he cannot deny; but, a voice whispers in his mind, what is a curse but the gods’ way of shaping fate into flesh? 

And gods, your flesh, so alive and shivering under his touch; you, your cursed smile and that flickering laughter that follows through the garden. That tantalizing fear, the unease which grips him and makes him feel alive – which makes him bloom. 

With that slip, fades the memory of why indeed he was so upset in the first place; scared, perhaps, of some small spook? Your eyelashes flutter atop your cheeks, you breathe the fresh air as a painter does to canvas, your fingers playing with his own – and he dares chastise you for it? Guilt swirls in his chest, and he knows that he must gather himself lest he do something unbecoming. 

The thought of such strikes him. He must return to the castle, it is much past the hour. The council waits. 

“I must go,” He murmurs, jaw tensing as your eyes flash in that possessive jump; though you meekly nod, eyes casting towards the earth, where vines have retreated to the statue behind him. “I’ve to go to council.” 

The breeze carries the floral scent of your hair. “Come back later.” You ask – though it is more of a command, one which sends a chill down his spine. And perhaps it is simply that; being wanted, to be loved or cared for simply because he is himself – it causes him to nod gently, caressing your icy cheek with the back of his fingers. 

Jacaerys shivers at the devotion in your eyes, that swimming, searching gaze of eager affection. His palms find your own, and that distinct hunger – for the fruits which linger throughout the garden’s smells – reclaims him. 

“I wish not to frighten you, Jacaerys.” You whisper – and it is in this sentence that he finds some kind of understanding – for you, nor he, wish to speak aloud what harrowing things he knows to be true; this garden rots, and somewhere within it, so do you. 

“I only wish for some company.” 

A pang of regret echoes within his chest – what sharp tone and tongue he’d taken with you today, when all you wished for was a hand to hold and a voice to speak with. When all you wished for was him, as he wishes for you. 

“You do not frighten me,” He lies through his teeth, and perhaps he looks away intentionally when he sees that sinister grin flash over you in a shadow of a moment; though when he returns to your visage, it is clear and sweet as the day is bright. “If I could…” A swallow, biting his lip in knowledge of what he is about to admit. “If I could, my love, I’d stay with you.” 

You shake your head with a slight desperation. “You can,” You whisper, a sudden, light pressure of something held up towards his chest – and Jacaerys needs not look into your palm to see the handful of fruits within your grasp, held out in offering. 

Still a hunger, a desire courses through him – here, it is only peace – but he instead shakes his head once more. “My mother needs me,” He whispers, chest burning with a decision; though gods ruin him if he dares leave you alone again. A clench in his heart at your rejected nod, though you smile smally.

Your palm, cool as winter’s kiss, cups his jaw; with a sweet kiss to the corner of his lips, you whisper to him. “You are quite wonderfully made, Jacaerys. Your mother is lucky to have such a son.” You whisper dreamily; a faint memory tugging in his mind as some daze settles the ache of his mind. “I am truly quite fond of you.” 

His eyes flicker, and when you press up to kiss him upon the lips, he feels a torn longing to remain with you, just a moment longer. 

There is a war to be fought, he reminds himself – and he chooses his family; he chooses his mother, as she would choose him. 

And he leaves you in the garden. 

IT IS UNNATURAL, JACAERYS THINKS, TO LEAVE HIS MOTHER’S CHAMBERS SO OFTEN WITH TEARS IN HIS EYES. 

Perhaps, any other night, he’d have remained to continue his plea; though now, his hands tremble and his throat burns with unshed emotion, legs carrying him quick through the suffocating walls of the Queen’s apartment. 

There is no true beauty to the end of the day – not now, not after he’d left each bruised, battered word within his mind upon the cold stone floor before her. There is nothing left for him now. 

Perhaps on a sunnier eve, Jacaerys would think with a smile wry and amused, how he seems to find the garden when there is nowhere else to go; yet tonight, he knows. 

You are the place to go – and the garden, with its whispers and watching eyes, with its churning familiarity; that is what he so seeks as he stumbles once more through the gates, too beside himself to brother with pretense. 

The sharp gathering of his mother’s visage after his watery plea; a choice, one which twists a rusty dagger and pulls the final thread of sanity which he’d so foolishly clung to. 

He calls your name for only a few moments before you appear.

Just as the day he met you, at the end of the hedgeway, lingering in that odd, half-standing lilt you oft regain when you suspect nobody is looking; and your hair wild and loose, covering your visage as you hide. 

A relief it is to see such a face, even as you slither from the shadows with a breath of his name. 

A relief it is to finally be where he wants to be. Where he is wanted. 

His knees crumble to the earth before you, and you go down once more with him. 

Your hands fall to his arms, pulling you to him; and in that motion, in the lack of breath he takes in pressing himself into you, he wonders if you know. Somehow, you know what he is feeling – for you wipe his tears with an anguished expression, as if you’d been within those walls when he’d begged his mother not to pursue it. 

A beg, delivered as some grasp for what once was, what may now never be - a gaping anxiety, one which has festered and built his entire existence - and has just spilled over and bled onto the thin tapestry of life stitched and remaining between him and his mother. 

And his mother - the Queen - staring back at him, face hardening with each breath he took, trying to repress the sting of choice. She’s made her choice, he thinks - she has chosen herself.

He has chosen her time and time again, forsaken everything for her; and she has made her decision. 

It is with barely a few words Jacaerys chokes out, whimpered and anguished, any semblance of explanation; though you sit with him through it, brushing his curls back and letting him gather his thoughts in the quiet dying light of the peaceful garden. 

The fiery death of the sun lingers even as night sky begins its flirting tease; streaks of fading plum which kiss into the ocean far away. 

Time passes with quiet peace. 

Jacaerys’ breathing is calm. A numbing tranquility seeps through him, his breaths falling from his lips with your own, humming a gentle lull under the statue. The vines have fallen to their sleepy, weeping ways; the night comes, and after some time, you rise in your white gown and offer a hand for him. 

The sun sinks its bloody bite into the coastline when you lead Jacaerys into the winding path; a mournful glow, with leaning flowers and wilting willows of vines which weep with his own sullen emptiness. 

His hand shakes within yours – but your grasp is strong and sure, squeezing just once as he lingers past the maiden statue, the serpent coiling up her leg. 

She is so very tragic in the waking moon’s light. His voice is raw when it comes, wistful, absent. “It always seemed as though she was made in your eyes.” 

Your gaze slides from the statue – a serene visage with a lilt of envy – and your grip tightens upon his own. 

“Men see what they wish to see.” 

Your words, a distant echo of a long-forgotten conversation – you pull him along the path with a small glance back at the statue, as if wary it follows behind him. “If I may speak truthfully,” Your tone wilts with the betrayal of envy, “I would find it rather lonely, lying there moon after moon.” 

Jacaerys is rather accustomed by this time to your odd words; and though he registers the odd resentment with which you spit the sentiment, he only watches you – perhaps concerned that, in a way, you might be fading to the clutch of time as well. 

And so he leaves your words in the floral air of the garden; a stronger smell than most at this hour; and the blaring ache within his mind eases when you finally lead him to the clearing he’s dreamt of ceaselessly since his first visit. 

The fig tree blossoms as if it is the first spry wink of spring.

Flowers blooming, dripping leaves of ambrosial scent which yield to plump fruits, even in the mooned night; divine, he thinks with a slow churn of pleasure within his veins. This place is divine. 

 A cloak of warmth over his shoulders – the weeping branches as he ducks below, staggering fuzzily under the alluring hunger which churns within his gut. 

And in some miserable way, perhaps Jacaerys clings to the promise you’d laid: He comes here, you’d said, to the fig tree. Lucerys. Though his brother does not appear before his eyes, nor does the pain of fate – instead, a pleasant calm which placates his edged nerves. 

A place rather tucked away from the harshness of fate, the fig tree seems to keen into his frame; and though his grief has spilled over, in your gaze he finds a warmth, a patience.

Your hand, slow as if approaching a wounded stag, brushes away a strand of hair which tangles within his lashes – a pang in his chest at such unknowing kindness, at such genuine, aloof acceptance. The proof is there for all to see – and yet, you, seeing; you do not mind. You never have. 

Whatever composure he’d managed to hold is shattered within the raw affection he now feels; and with a shaky breath, he slumps against the trunk. 

“What troubles you, my love?” Your voice a melody, the vision behind his closed eyes of a sickeningly hungry smile unmatched by the sweet tone of voice. It clutches him; to be wanted. 

And what if one of your baseborn, silver-haired dragonriders decide that he wants to rule the Seven Kingdoms? 

“My mother,” he confesses in a whisper, voice tight; wounded flesh of heart bleeding raw from his lips. “She willingly strips my claim to legitimacy in search of her own war.” 

Your brows furrow in that way he has etched to memory – and with a shaky lift, he soothes away the furrow with his thumb, swiping his fingers gently across your visage. 

It is with the blossom of nightshade with which you keen into his touch; a bloom of affection, desperate as you sigh. Just as so, your fingers press gently into his scalp, carding through his curls; the ache in his mind is eased, a fuzzy hunger, some euphoria washing through him. 

“Jace,” you murmur, voice incredibly distant, “She is blinded by the fate of… distant songs, of distant omens. But I see you. I’ve always seen you.” 

There is something odd about your tone; some revel, an ancient knowledge that brings hairs to end upon his nape – but he closes his eyes, leaning into your touch for some comfort. 

A shaky breath as his lips press to your palm, fighting the sting of emotion. “Vermax has fallen ill inexplicably. Joff is gone. Luke…” His voice fractures at his brother’s name, the memory so sharp; some laden innocence he’d clung on to in his grief. A life, slipping thinner than sand through his fingers. 

A familiar urge, one he cannot tamp as tears fall unbidden from his eyes; and you, with a soft gasp as he presses his forehead to your own cold one. 

There is an itch low in his mind; a humming, a distant hunger which leaks through the cracks splintered in the remnants of his headache. The fig tree branches sway – above your head grows a beautiful purple fruit, heavy and bursting with rich life, with the churning cycle of soil, with earth, gods, fruit. Your skin freezes his own. 

“I’ll do it.” 

An unsettling urge within him – one not entirely his own, perhaps. Your eyes widen larger than the narrow sea.

A slow wettening of your lips as you shake your head, plush lips glistening and pinkened; Jacaerys yearns to see such pure sweetness dripping with the juices of those fruits once more, to feel your body writhe with his own, pleasure and hunger and you, you, you. You and him. 

“Jacaerys,” your voice, gentle, wary; though your eyes scream otherwise, a sickening smile crawling across your faint features under the moon. 

Your fingers, icicles upon his feverish skin, a balm over the hatred which coils dejected in his gut. Your lips part again, and he must resist the urge to bite upon such soft flesh, some monstrous hunger growing and spurting and whispering to eat, eat. Eat. 

“You should not act so brash. Not when–” 

“Just a taste, my love.” He interrupts, trembling yet unconvicted – desperate in his plea, as though a drop of the fruit’s nectar might heal the gaping misery that has spread at the harsh of the world’s truths. 

Trembling palms slither around his shoulders, grasping him as you gather an untainted inhale, unspoiled. 

And his eyes, glued upon your worried lips, your eyes blown wide in hunger, in that stirring way he felt last time he reposed under this very fig tree. 

A sin, perhaps – but the most delicious, the most innocent of sin in a world so rotted and decaying. 

There is a moment long suspended in air, in which your gaze burns into Jacaerys’ own. His heart races, growing more hungry by the moment, fingertips aching as he lets his hands explore your pliant flesh – over each soft fold of fabric, over each frigid expanse of skin. A divine touch; otherworldly. 

Otherworldly. 

He does not see you reach above you for the fruit – he does, though, see the flickering gleam in your eyes as you split apart the dusting blush of flesh; and he, forever enraptured with his desire for you, with your beauty, blinks as you hold up half the fruit. 

Earthy, rich, forbidden – a sweet scent that lulls him forward, binding him with you as his eyes trace the glisten of the fruit’s nectar down your soft, sweet hand. 

In a blink, he sees that horrid vision once more; shrouded silver in the moonlight, dark streaks blossom and spread upon your pristine dress with each breath you take; from your breast and stomach, it leaks out and begins to tremble your fingers. Blood, his mind whispers – no, dirt. 

But your hand is held out, and in a blink the vision is gone; you’re before him with hopeful, hungry eyes and a bitten lip, unbreathing, unblinking. 

Coiled, lying in wait. 

He takes the fruit into his own grasp, marveling at the soft sensation, how hungry your eyes cling to his grasp. 

Fingers milky pale in the moonlight glisten with the blood of the fruit; and he raises it, slowly until he can feel the chill of your breath kiss along his knuckles, see your tongue dart out in salacious hunger as you gaze moltenly between the fruit’s flesh and his own. 

That hunger, that longing devours him whole as he stares. It is all he can do to swallow a thick rise of arousal as he desperately presses the flesh of the fig to your mouth, fingers lingering; firm. 

You part your lips easily – so easy – and taste the sweetness; a cold sensation shivers down his spine, mind fuzzier with each moment as the juice drips and runs over his knuckles, chasing the tributaries of veins which split and run down his forearm. 

Your hand catches upon his wrist, chilling as you moan at the taste. 

His lips part, a burst of desire spiraling as his mind clouds, a ravenous hunger as you slowly slide into his lap with slithering skirts. 

 Jacaerys groans into the silence of the garden, unable to maintain his composure as you lean forward, pressing his fingers further into your mouth. Upon your tongue is the kiss of winter; and he watches, helplessly entranced as your tongue catches the last traces from his fingers – a simmering invitation when your eyes meet his own hungering gaze. 

The rind of the fruit falls forgotten into the soil.

Your lips glisten so dark, he almost believes it is blood. 

Your lips find his own. 

A burst of pleasure, unbidden within his groin when your tongue presses to his – familiar, yes, euphoric; but satiating that hunger, yet multiplying it. 

Jacaerys pulls you closer by your hips, fingers sticky with the remnants of the fig, his mind reeling with ecstasy at the taste of you, the taste of the fruit; the taste of the Garden. 

In the heartbeat of silence when you pull away, his chest rises sharply – your breath kisses his own and he makes one final decision; with a glance back towards the castle, Jacaerys leans towards you once more. 

His breath fans in a plume of fog – it is cold in the garden, with you so precariously in his lap, yet Jacaerys burns. 

You wait for him with bated breath, the fruit hovering just before his parted, covetous lips. 

Jace’s gaze does not leave yours when he leans forward and slowly takes the fruit against his lips, bursts of heat flickering with stabs of ice as you gasp, watching with eyes maliciously ravenous, glistened lips parted. 

He breathes you in, gaze half-lidded as his tongue presses gently against the fruit within your grasp. 

Your whimper is soft and yet it sets him ablaze; an ambrosial taste, one which leaves his mind spinning, any anguish previously thought melts away – it is difficult, he realizes, to determine where you end and the fig begins. 

Softly, at first; grazing his teeth along your skin, shivering through his very spine when you shift your hips, sucking in an inhale of pleasure yourself – and the juices which slip down your own hand, which flood his mouth unlike anything he’s before felt. 

Though it is not enough to break the skin of the fruit, and you grow impatient; if his eyes were any less lidded, perhaps he’d have seen the malicious hunger swimming in your sweet gaze. 

You press the fruit into his mouth. 

He bites. 

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