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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 month ago

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Cannibals [Chapter 5: Sapphires and Cinnamon]

Series summary: You are his sister, his lover, his betrothed despite everyone else’s protests; you have always belonged to Aemond and believe you always will. But on the night he returns from Storm’s End with horrifying news, the trajectories of your lives are irrevocably changed. Will the war of succession make your bond permanent, or destroy the twisted and fanatical love you share?

Chapter warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), references to war-related violence, Targ chaos terrorizes poor innocent House Corbray, Red and Jace have a lovers' quarrel, interesting news arrives from the Riverlands, bats!!!

Word count: 7.4k

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Like game pieces on a board, he moves the coins he’s using as tokens around the ink-and-parchment Westeros that is rolled open across the table. He’s been underwater for weeks, but now he can breathe again. Aegon is starting to heal, through the worst of the danger and unlikely to die, and he has been tucked away someplace no enemy will find him: an unassuming farm in the countryside surrounding Rook’s Rest, under the protection of the knights of his Kingsguard and tended to by requisitioned maesters. Criston’s infantrymen and cavalry have rested and healed and reorganized to fill the gaps in their ranks following the battles to subdue the turncoat houses of the Crownlands. Yesterday, Aemond rode Vhagar to the stone gates of Claw Isle and accepted a tremulous, tearful surrender from Bartimos Celtigar’s lady wife, in whose care the castle was left. Rhaenyra will receive no further gold from the region, and she will find the treasury of King’s Landing empty, the wealth once stored there split and hidden at Tyland Lannister’s suggestion in Braavos, Casterly Rock, and Oldtown. She will try to tax the smallfolk to fund her war effort, and they will rise up and murder her. That, at least, is Aemond’s hope.

Criston walks into the room. He’s just come from the rookery, where ravens arrive carrying news from Green spies and allies throughout the Seven Kingdoms: the Triarchy will send ships to combat the Sea Snake’s fleet; the Hightower army in the Reach has won battles at the Honeywine, Tumbleton, and Bitterbridge; the Lannister army in the Riverlands triumphed at the Red Fork and Acorn Hall; Cregan Stark is marching south from Winterfell with ten thousand men to fight for Rhaenyra, and they will need to be dealt with.

This will all be over soon, and I can go home. Home to my family, home to her.

“Daemon is restless,” Aemond says, repositioning his coins. “He will tire of enduring Rhaenyra’s orders in the capital, and he will fly elsewhere on Caraxes. He yearns for battle, I know him. A hero’s glory, perhaps even a hero’s death. When he leaves King’s Landing, I will go there on Vhagar and kill Syrax, Vermax, and this new dragon Sheepstealer. I will retake the capital and then leave Daeron as its protector in my stead while I hunt Daemon. Daeron has proven himself in the Reach. He’s growing up.”

Faintly, fondly, Aemond smiles. But Criston appears stricken.

“Bad news,” Aemond says for him. “From where?”

“The Red Keep.”

“Mother?” He fears that Rhaenyra will have her executed like Grandsire, though this would be a grievous mistake. The people love the queen dowager, who has lived among them nearly all her life and selflessly nursed King Viserys while Rhaenyra seduced her uncle, plotted Laenor Velaryon’s death, and secluded herself and her vile nest of bastards and villains on Dragonstone.

Criston is hesitant to begin. Perhaps he isn’t sure if Aemond should know this. “No, your mother and Helaena are still held in the dungeon, captive but in relative safety. Jaehaera and Maelor are wards of Rhaenyra. I would assume she’s trying to win their affection and then arrange politically advantageous betrothals.”

There has been a name left out. Aemond stares up from his map, waiting.

“She’s been taken out of the city,” Criston says.

An impossibility, an irrationality. “What?”

“I don’t know where to, or for what purpose. But she’s not in King’s Landing.”

Aemond says nothing for long, cold, grey minutes. The sky outside beckons in the coming winter like a nefarious houseguest, one who shares your dinner table and then slits your throat while you’re asleep. When he finally speaks, his voice is low but fierce. “She’s no threat to them.”

“She isn’t.”

“She can’t travel by dragon.”

“No,” Criston agrees. “So they must have transported her by land or sea.”

Aemond shakes his head. “Why would Rhaenyra do that?”

Criston’s dark eyes are afraid. “I don’t know.”

“Where might they have sent her? Where could she be?”

“Anywhere, Aemond,” Criston says helplessly. “Anywhere.”

And it rises in him like magma through the earth: a scorching venom that pools in the capillary beds of his lungs, a fatal heat that burns away flesh and bones and reason.

~~~~~~~~~~

Rain falls from the sky, sea spray erupts from the waves, stinging eyes and the abrasions on your skin from falling on the rocks over and over again. You are a child, and you are tracking Vermithor on Dragonstone. The mist is so thick that Criston and the guards have lost sight of you, and you can hear them shouting for you to wait for them, but you can’t, you can’t, you’ve wanted this for years and now it’s about to happen. You can feel the volcanic stones, black and serrated, quaking as the Bronze Fury stomps in his hovel. The cave is shrouded in fog, but you know he’s in there. He is growling, a sound like thunder. You can see the glinting gold of his eyes.

“Vermithor!”you command him in High Valyrian, holding out your hands, your maroon gown billowing around you in the vicious wind. Strands of long silver hair are torn from your braid. Blood runs in thin rivulets from your ravaged palms down your wrists and forearms. Saltwater burns like fire in the gashes on your feet; you’ve lost your shoes while scrambling over the rocks. “All my life I’ve dreamed of you, and now we will fly together at last. We will be bonded to one another until death. We will preserve the realm and burn our enemies. Serve me, Vermithor! Serve me!”

He emerges from his cave: a colossal skull covered in scales and spines, steam rising from his nostrils, jagged fangs bared, eyes that are at once reptilian and mindless and wrathful and sage. He is a century old and unfathomably mighty; he is an inheritor of the sacred magic of Old Valyria. He judges you with eyes like kindling flames.

“Red, step back!” Aemond yells from where he watches, his black cloak like a banner in the wind, closed at the neck with a silver chain and with a constellation of silver buttons in the shape of Vhagar’s wings across his shoulders. He is the only person who has kept pace with you. “Give him room! Let him approach you!”

But Vermithor is yours, there is no other possibility, in your heart he has always been yours, he has been the beast you claimed in your soul when you first heard his legends as Aemond read them aloud to you, Aegon, Helaena, Daeron under the heart tree in the Godswood of the Red Keep, and now you will climb onto his back and fly with him and meet Aemond and Vhagar in the mist-grey sky. From deep in his throat, the Bronze Fury snarls.

“Vermithor, be calm! Don’t you recognize me? We are meant for each other. We belong to each other. The dragon egg I was given in the cradle didn’t hatch so I could come here and find you instead. I am not afraid of you. I will not flee from you. Serve me! Serve me!”

“It’s not working,” Aemond tells you with dawning horror. “Get away from him! Red, get away!”

“Serve me, Vermithor!” you scream, and now you’re terrified, because his jaws are opening and dragonfire is boiling up into his mouth, crimson and glowing. “No, no!”

You try to run but the heat is already everywhere, and the air is suddenly too hot to breathe, and when you touch your face with your bloody hands you can feel your cheeks blistering. And then something collides with you like a lance striking a jousting knight, and you are thrown to the ground. It’s Aemond, and he is shoving you down into a crevice between two slabs of black basalt, and when instinctively you try to push him away—you’re always fighting him, something wild to be tamed—Aemond pins your wrists to your chest and shields your body with his, shrinking from the lethal heat of the world outside and burying his face in the velvet of your gown.

Then Criston and the guards and the Dragonkeepers are here, and with their ancient spells the Dragonkeepers convince Vermithor to retreat into his cave. When Aemond helps you out of the crevice, you see that the buttons on the back of his cloak have melted, and if the attack had lasted even a moment longer he’d be dead.

~~~~~~~~~~

When you wake in your bedchamber at the top of a tower of Heart’s Home, Jace is already gone. You peer through the window and see him strolling in the castle courtyard with Lord Leowyn Corbray, both of them bundled up in heavy furs; there is a layer of powdery snow on the ground, just as high as the ankles. The pine trees of the surrounding forest sway in the cold mountain wind. Servants lead horses in and out of the stable. And you wonder randomly: Do they have bats in the Vale?

Maids hear you walking around and file into the room to show you the clothes your closet has been stocked with through House Corbray’s generosity and help you dress. They try to distract you, but you notice anyway: one of them strips the bed and takes the sheets away, blotted with a watery, pale pink stain of blood. You’re sore, but not terribly so, just enough pain to remind you—when you move in certain ways—that you are wed to Jace, and that he took you last night as any husband would, and that now you could be carrying his dark-haired heir. The thought stuns you; you’ve never been more than ambivalent to the prospect of bearing children. Your dreams were of Vermithor, and marrying Aemond, and being possessed by him in every sense possible. Motherhood would come later, and you had always assumed you would one day begin to dream of that too.

Do I dream of it now?

No, you feel in your bones. Not now. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

The colors of the Vale are chilly and weak like the sky. The maids show you velvet gowns of dusky rose, icy blue, moss green, dove grey. After some consideration, you choose the blue. Then you wander the castle, your drafty stone prison, your new home. There are no tapestries of the Hightower or wrathful dragons or lovers ensnared like knotted threads, no familiar faces. Heart’s Home is austere, its primary embellishments being candlelit chandeliers and rugs made from dead animals, and the loudest sound you hear is the whistling of wind through cracks in the walls, frigid air that howls in from the Mountains of the Moon.

After much exploration you find the rookery, where ravens squawk in their cages and bed down in mounds of straw, and through the window is a view of snowcapped mountains that stretch on endlessly like a sea. There is no table to write on, and you see no parchment or ink or quills, and you don’t know which raven (if any of them) is trained to fly to Rook’s Rest. It doesn’t matter; you can’t write to Aemond without endangering your family held hostage in King’s Landing. And even if you could, what would you say to him?

Aemond, I’ve married Jace and I did it to save you. But don’t fear for my safety. I am protected here, I am content enough. I have no dragon, but I can help fight the war in my own way. Jace seems to like me. I might even be beginning to like him too.

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” someone says, and you whirl to see Lord Corbray’s wife filling up the doorway.

You do not bow or curtsey. As a princess, you outrank her. “Lady Caroline.” No. Not quite. “Lady Carolyn. Lady Carolina.” Then you remember. “I am so sorry, Lady Carolei. Forgive me.”

She laughs boisterously. “Carolei is a common name in the Vale, but not elsewhere, I’ve been told. My closest friends here call me Lady Caro, you can feel welcome to do the same.”

“Lady Caro. Please allow me to apologize again.”

“Oh no, that won’t be necessary. I’m sure you had a late night.” Her eyes—large and round, almost bulging, and a very pale blue—sweep from your feet to your face. “But you didn’t have too bad of a time with it, I think.”

“The maids took the sheets,” you say like an accusation.

She smiles, perhaps a little guiltily. “As High As Honor,” she replies. “They are the words of House Arryn, but all the great families of the Vale aspire to be above reproach.”

“And you are a great family.” It’s more of a question.

“We are not grand or wealthy, that’s true,” Lady Caro concedes. “And I can imagine our little castle cannot compare to King’s Landing or the Hightower of your Mother’s house. But we are dependable and honest. What Queen Rhaenyra has entrusted us with is a tremendous privilege. We will abide by her instructions, and endeavor to satisfy her every request.”

“So she wanted to know that I bled.”

Lady Caro shrugs—I can’t tell you that—and then signals for you to follow her. “Join me in the Great Hall. We’ll have some cinnamon tea.”

The Great Hall of Heart’s Home is about the same size as your bedchamber in the Red Keep, with two rows of wooden tables and a crackling fire in the hearth. When you look into the glowing embers, you are reminded of Vermithor’s flames. Cool overcast light falls like snow in through the windows. Lady Caro gestures for you to sit with her at the table closest to the fire, and maids bring you fried eggs and bacon, fresh bread, butter, blackberry jam, and cinnamon tea, milky and aromatic and very sweet.

“It must be difficult for you,” Lady Caro says thoughtfully as she slurps her tea, steam wafting into the air. “Being so very far from your family. Even if they are traitors.”

She seems to be testing you for a reaction. You gaze into your tea and try not to let tears well up in your eyes as you think of them: Mother and Helaena in a dungeon, Jaehaera and Maelor with strangers, Jaehaerys and Grandsire dead, Daeron at war, Aegon burned, Aemond hating me once he learns of my betrayal. None of us are in the same place. That’s not how it’s supposed to be. “But you must be far from home too. Women get married off and sent across the world, it’s nothing new.”

“This is true,” Lady Caro muses. “I am originally of House Coldwater, and if you think Heart’s Home is plain and remote, I hope you never see Coldwater Burn. You’ve probably never even heard of it.”

“It’s up near the Fingers,” you say softly, remembering Aemond showing you dots littering the Vale on one of his maps, warm firelight, teasing hands, his lips murmuring against the shell of your ear. “The colors of its banner are blue, red, and white.”

She gasps and presses a palm to her chest, delighted. Her already ruddy cheeks flush pinker. “Mother have mercy, they teach that in the capital?”

“I have an interest in geography.” No, you don’t; but Aemond does.

“Do you embroider or sing?”

“Neither. Not well, anyway. Helaena works miracles with a needle and thread.” Absently, you touch your gown where beneath the pale blue velvet a scar runs from your left collarbone down to the top of your breast. So does Aemond.

Lady Caro observes this curiously, peering at you over the rim of her mug. “How did you occupy yourself before you came here? I do want to make you feel as comfortable as possible.”

Because you are kind? Because Rhaenyra told you to? Or because I might be the queen myself someday? “I spent a lot of time with my brothers and sister,” you answer honestly, dolefully. And I kept bats. You decide to omit this. “We all had our crafts. I made mosaics out of seashells.”

Lady Caro titters. “Seashells? Well, they aren’t exactly abundant, but there are some out near where the river meets the Narrow Sea. I’ll see if I can have a bucketful brought to you.”

“I can collect them.”

“The water is very cold, and the current powerful.”

“I like to choose my own shells. You can send knights to watch over me, I’m not hoping to drown myself or anything.”

Now Lady Caro laughs loudly. “Drown yourself! The things you say, princess…”

You decide to try to make conversation to encourage her affection, as Mother would want you to. “Do you have children, Lady Caro?”

“Oh yes, five of them. Four died though. Awful luck, isn’t it?” She goes somber, staring blankly out the nearest window for a long while, leaving you unsure of what to do or say. Eventually, she returns to the Great Hall and is cheerful again. “My daughter Jessamyn was married into House Mallister of Seagard. I get to see her and the children once every few years. And she’s nothing like you.”

You smirk cautiously. “What does that mean?”

“It means she’s very sweet and agreeable and naïve.” And then Lady Caro winks at you, and you realize you might be becoming friends. “Not like a Targaryen.”

You drink your cinnamon tea and think of last night, feeling a strange brew of fondness and shame and relief and loss. “Sounds a bit like Jace though.”

“Yes, well,” Lady Caro says, then wisely leaves the rest unspoken. He’s more of a Strong, isn’t he?

One of the Great Hall’s heavy wooden doors creaks open and Jace strides inside, wearing black accented with red and a bear fur coat overtop, speckled with snowflakes. More flurries are melting in his hair. You stand to meet him and he takes both of your hands. You smile uneasily, not knowing what to expect; then Jace playfully kisses the knuckles of your right hand, and after that your left, and he beams at you.

Instead of a greeting, he says: “We have a few more days together, then I have to go away.”

It’s the second time a man has told you this. “Go where?”

Jace shrugs evasively. No one is allowed to tell you anything. “Do you like horses?”

“Sure.” Aemond used to take you to visit his war horses, all towering and temperamental: Rusty, Apple, Fox, Ladybug, Pomegranate. Then he would watch as you stroked their forelocks and their downy muzzles, his remaining eye fixed on you, imagining sins that never felt like damnation but rather searing, tumultuous waves like an ocean of blood.

“Good. I’ll show you the stable.” Jace kisses you, a quick peck for modesty’s sake since you aren’t alone. He grins and licks his lips. “Mm. You taste like cinnamon.” Something warm, something red. He turns to Lady Caro. “Thank you for making us feel so welcome. The queen will be pleased to hear of your devoted service to the crown. We know that this is an imposition, and we appreciate your generous sacrifice.”

“Nonsense,” Lady Caro replies, and she seems to mean it. “It’s no imposition. It’s an honor.” Then she rises to her feet. “Let me find some boots and a fur coat for the princess.”

Once you are properly guarded against the cold—wrapped in a thick coat of fox pelts—Jace links his arm through yours and leads you outside, and you tread together through the shallow snowfall toward the stable.

“You’ve probably never even seen snow before,” Jace says, and you agree even though this isn’t true. You saw snow here in the Vale when you were very young—you don’t even remember which castle Mother and Father had been visiting on their royal progress—and that was the trip when Aemond pushed you into a frozen river and you caught a chill that almost killed you.

“Jace?” you ask, cutting him off mid-sentence. You hadn’t meant to interrupt him; your mind had been wandering.

He looks at you with some trepidation, as if he’s worried you might have a complaint. “Yes?”

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

He blinks at you, then exhales in a relieved chuckle. “You’re asking why I’m nice?”

“You never liked me before. And you had no reason to.” In your eyes, I was a traitor. If you could tell what I’m feeling, you’d know I still am.

He ponders how to answer as you walk. Now his expression is serious. “I always knew that when I married—to whoever it was, although for most of my life I believed it would be someone else—that would be it for me, and I would never be estranged from her or take another lover. There are so many families with…” He pauses, and you watch him closely. “There are so many children who suffer from the indiscretions of their parents.” There is a bloom of ashamed, gory pink in his cheeks, and you know he is speaking of himself, and of all the bastards anywhere in the world who have ever been made to feel lied to, less than, disgraced, disavowed. “I swore to myself that I would be a good husband and father, and that my own household would be…wholly uncomplicated.”

“So you would act this way with anyone. With whoever you were wed to.”

“Well…” He smiles softly. “As it turns out, there are things I like about you.”

“Really?” you tease, grinning, and when you reach the stable you shove the door open and step inside onto a straw-strewn floor. There’s no biting mountain breeze here in the shadows, and the body heat radiating off the horses makes the air more hospitable. Jace seems surprised you didn’t wait for him to open the door for you. “What things?”

“Several things,” Jace says, then—now that you are alone aside from the horses nickering and chomping on hay in their stalls—wraps his arms around your waist and holds you from behind, kissing the side of your neck. You have to resist the reflex to fight him off so he can overpower you, pin you to the floor, fuck you as you hiss and claw at him and tell him to stop. Jace wouldn’t understand it. Jace would be horrified by it. “Here,” Jace whispers, skimming a hand over your gown where he made you bleed last night. Then his palms travel up to your breasts. “And here.” Then he nuzzles your silver hair as he gently unfastens your braid and inhales deeply. “And I like this too. Although I’d be interested to see you wear it in a style that is a little…softer.”

“Softer?” you echo doubtfully.

“You’re not a warrior,” Jace says as if he thinks you will want to hear this, as if it will comfort you. It doesn’t. “And that’s alright. You can be soft. You can be ladylike.”

You don’t feel very much like a lady. You feel like a kettle full of boiling water, like lava bursting up through the cracks in the earth, like dragonfire hemorrhaging from a beast’s gaping throat. Now you and Jace are on the wooden floor of the stable, displacing straw as you kiss hungrily and pull off each other’s coats. Jace climbs on top of you, and you think: I can’t do this again, not like last night. I want to be fed too.

Jace stops to marvel at your face, his thumb skating over the curve of your cheekbone. “I want to make it as good for you as it is for me,” he says solemnly. “Last night it was over so quickly, and…I didn’t…I feel like I could have done more, but I don’t know…I’m not sure if…”

You grab his right hand and lace your fingers through his. “Can I show you how I touch myself?”

Jace’s eyebrows go up. “You touch yourself?”

“Don’t you?”

“Well, yes,” he admits bashfully, blushing. He does this a lot, you are learning. “But I’m a man.”

You smile. “Women experience longing too, Jace.”

“Yes,” he says, and now he’s breathing quickly and it sounds less like he’s merely intrigued and more like he’s begging for it. “Show me. Please show me.”

You take his hand and guide it beneath your gown, up the length of your legs, stopping where you are slick and needful, an ache so deep it hurts like the cramps when your blood arrives each month. You place two of Jace’s fingers on the right spot—he keeps inadvertently moving his hand just off the mark, and each time you put it back where it belongs—and lead him into a rhythm, a tight swift circling and pressure that makes your thighs open wider for him and your spine arch.

Jace murmurs as you pant on the stable floor, shadows on your face and straw in your hair: “Is this okay, am I hurting you at all?”

“You can press down pretty hard,” you assure him. “You won’t break me. I’m not glass.”

He’s trying not to lose his focus. “Okay…okay…”

“Jace,” you gasp as you sling your arms around the back of his neck and cling to him, your hips rocking, and he moans and kisses you—deeply, passionately, gluttonously—and under your dress his hand suddenly strokes you so forcefully it’s almost painful and then it’s on you, that feeling better than anything else on earth, being opened, being dragged under, being ignited, being devoured until you go weak and limp and boneless, aftershocks throbbing and your lips smiling drowsily. “Jace, Jace, Jace,” you breathe dizzily, still holding him.

He is gazing down at you, awestruck. “When can I watch you do that again?”

“Soon,” you purr through Jace’s dark curls. “Now…your turn.”

You are barely aware of it as he pushes the hem of your gown up to your waist and frees himself from his trousers, and you only come back to Jace when he enters you—your flesh still tender from last night, but wet and wanting him—and he is careful as he slowly pushes himself all the way inside, trying not to hurt you again. Then he thrusts and you are stunned by how good it feels, like your climax made everything more sensitive, more ready, more flawlessly tailored to fit with him. Jace doesn’t last much longer than the first night, and yet just before it’s over there is the ghost of something, a vague desire that is building, and you think next time (or the time after that, or the time after that) you will be able to finish again, and you will be drained like a slaughtered animal with its throat cut and its body hung by the feet, every last blood drop purged and collected in a bucket to be used for fertilizer or pig feed.

Lying together exhausted on the stable floor, you twirl one of Jace’s curls around your finger and—purely by instinct, because it’s what you and Aemond used to do—whisper to him in High Valyrian: “I love how you touch me, thank you, I needed this, I needed you.” But you can tell by the way Jace turns to you, startled and a little self-conscious, that he doesn’t understand what you said.

“I know some High Valyrian, of course,” he explains quickly. “But I’m…I’m still learning.”

“Oh.” It doesn’t come easily to him. Because he’s a Strong, and the Strongs have nothing to do with Old Valyria. And then, to temper the blow: “I can help you practice.”

“Who taught it to you?” Jace asks. He is suspicious, then hopeful. “Helaena?”

You should lie to him, but you don’t. At some point you have to start letting raindrops of the truth seep in. You are going to share a household with Jace, your bodies, your futures, your children. You want him to understand who you really are. You can’t pretend forever; already, it is stifling, a constant and trudging effort, a vanishing until you are transluscent like clear water. You are reminded of all the times when you’ve tried to hide pieces of yourself to please Mother, whose Hightower blood was washed away by the grim, intoxicating magic of the Targaryens. “No, Helaena doesn’t speak High Valyrian except when giving commands to Dreamfyre. She can understand it fairly well, though.”

Jace nods, studying you, but he doesn’t say anything else. The phantom of Aemond stands in the far corner of the stable. You think: I am a traitor to both of them, I am a house of no banners. After a moment, you ask Jace for your very first favor.

“I want Helaena freed from the dungeon in the Red Keep,” you say. “I understand Rhaenyra’s distrust of Mother, but Helaena is innocent. She should be confined to her chambers and permitted to see her children. And allowed to walk in the garden sometimes too.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Jace says distractedly.

“You know Helaena. She is gentle, she is fragile. She deserves compassionate treatment.”

“So did Luke,” Jace replies; and though he takes your hands and helps you to your feet as horses snort and paw at the straw-covered floors of their stalls, he averts his dark gaze—an inheritance from his bloodline, the indomitable lineage of the First Men—and doesn’t meet your eyes.

Two days later he departs Heart’s Home for a destination that Lord and Lady Corbray know, surely, but you don’t. Jace bids you farewell at the edge of the field beyond the castle walls as Vermax waits impatiently for him across the clearing, not liking the mountain cold, not liking you. Jace wears black and red as he almost always does, the colors of his mother’s house. His curls are ruffled by the breeze, his red cloak flowing down from his shoulders like a trail of blood.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Jace touches your cheek, then your chin. “I’ll miss you and all those things I’ve discovered I like so much.”

You smile back. You have the beginning of a headache—a throbbing above your left eye, a fuzziness in your thoughts—but you’re trying not to show it. “I’ll be here.” Where else could I go?

“I love you,” Jace says, and then looks at you expectantly. It takes you a minute to realize he’s waiting for you to say it too.

You open your mouth, but your pulsing skull is clamoring with prayers you cannot voice. Please protect the family I have left. Please don’t find a way to kill Aemond. At last you manage: “I love you,” but it sounds hollow and unnatural and cold, like stark snowcapped peaks and the gales that shriek through them.

Nonetheless, Jace is satisfied. He tilts up your face to bring his lips to yours and then treks across the field towards Vermax, leaving footprints in the fresh snow. His sword hangs from his belt. He practices with knights in the castle courtyard each day, and he’s not bad, you’ve observed anxiously. Not as good as Aemond, but not bad.

That night you see the shadow of something interrupting the moonlight that floods in through the window of your bedchamber, and when you push open the glass a bat lands clumsily on the sill and then scrabbles inside. You squeal with delight and scoop it into your arms. It’s a male and a different sort of bat than the ones in King’s Landing, larger in size, black and white in color and with long fanlike ears. He sniffs at you and gazes up with small but intelligent inky eyes. Then, as a mark of friendship, he begins to lick at your fingertips.

“And what do you eat, huh?” you coo as you pet him. “Probably not honey or fruit if you live way up here in the mountains. Probably just bugs. Should I try to catch you some spiders tomorrow? This decrepit old castle must be full of them.”

You have to name him. And this is an opportunity to break all your old patterns. You could call him Seahorse for Jace’s false house, or Dragon for his true one. You could call him the High Valyrian word for bat or wings. You could name him after something black, the color that Jace favors. And yet as you hold him, old memories come screaming back to you, Aemond helping you tend to your bats, Aemond protecting them, moments of kindness and understanding that you now fear were illusions.

He never said he loves me. Not once in eighteen years.

You keep waiting for a glimpse into Aemond’s mind, a stabbing pang of loss and longing when he realizes you’ve been taken away, but it never happens. You keep waiting for him to find you and descend upon House Corbray with fire and blood.

Aemond, where are you? Aemond, have you forgotten me?

“Sapphire,” you whisper to your new bat—your only bat—and he looks up at you as if he knows his name.

~~~~~~~~~~

Jace is gone for weeks, and in his absence you try to learn how to be his wife. You ask Lady Caro to teach you how to wear your hair like the ladies of the Vale: soft waves, sedate buns knotted at the nape of the neck, delicate wisps that frame the face and blow in the harsh mountain wind. You attempt to cultivate an affinity for pale impassionate colors. You distract yourself so you don’t think of Aemond. You catch spiders and moths in secret to feed to Sapphire when he visits you each night. You spend days practicing quiet, feminine embroidery—ruining yarn scenes, piercing your fingertips with needles—until you give it up and fling the cursed tangle of threads away and return to your strange fixations that once confounded Mother.

Lady Caro sends knights to accompany you to the mouth of the river, and you wade up to your knees in the icy water plucking rare shells out of the silt and the pebbles. You are not permitted to collect bones from the forest—there are bears and wolves and shadowcats—but you arrange for the hunters to give you what’s left of the carcasses once they’ve been skinned and butchered. The carpenters give you boards of wood and the blacksmiths forge you a small iron mallet. Sometimes Lady Caro stands in the castle kitchen watching you boil animal bones in a caldron or in your bedchamber as you shatter shells and paint the shards with glue, and she shakes her head, surely thinking: What is wrong with these Targaryens?

You don’t dare to make any mosaics of Aemond. It’s too dangerous, and too painful, and too revealing of what you’re truly feeling. So instead you piece together visions of the rest of them: Aegon smirking over a goblet of red wine, butterflies landing on Helaena’s outstretched palm, Daeron riding Tessarion, Mother smiling at Criston, Jaehaera and Maelor playing together in the garden of the Red Keep. You hang them on the walls of your bedchamber and at night you sleep better.

When Jace and Vermax return to Heart’s Home, you and Lady Caro are in the inaptly named Great Hall sipping cinnamon tea and nibbling blackberry oatcakes, and Lady Caro is telling you about her flock of grandchildren who reside at Seagard on the shore of the Sunset Sea. “Jasper is clever but terribly loud, and then Joy won’t talk to humans at all but loves her cats…” She trails off as your husband rushes into the room, his steps buoyant, his red cloak flying behind him.

“Welcome back, Prince Jacaerys,” Lady Caro says as she stands to greet him. “I hope your travels were comfortable and all your ventures went well.”

“Very well,” he says, grinning, alight with victories that are yet unspoken. Lady Caro dismisses herself to give the two of you privacy, promising to bring cinnamon tea for Jace. As soon as she is gone, Jace bolts to the table.

“What happened?” you ask he sits opposite of you. The hearth throws off rage-colored heat.

Please let this be peace and not violence. Please don’t have harmed anyone I love.

He is beaming as he takes a messy bite of a blackberry oatcake, crumbs falling down onto the table. And he must have decided that he can begin telling you his secrets now. Perhaps he trusts you; perhaps he knows there’s nothing you can do to sabotage him anyway, no ravens to send, nobody to inform. “I found someone to ride Vermithor.”

The realization sinks inside you, dark and heavy, an anchor, a sickness. You murmur, knowing it is pointless: “He was supposed to be mine.”

“Well…he didn’t agree.”

This hurts you; Jace doesn’t seem to notice. You think of the tiny wooden Vermithor that Aegon once carved for you, and you wonder if it’s still on your dresser in Maegor’s Holdfast or if Rhaenyra has burned or broken it, or mistaken it for something of no value.

“Corlys’ bastard Addam has claimed Seasmoke,” Jace continues, as if this could not possibly be anything to you but good news. “Vermithor and Seasmoke are now helping Mother to safeguard the capital. Daemon and Nettles…” Jace gestures awkwardly. There was a falling out with Rhaenyra. “They’ve taken Harrenhal as a base in the Riverlands. So we needed more help in King’s Landing, and we found it.”

We have two battleworthy dragons. Now they have six. No wonder Jace is so pleased.

“And there are still other unclaimed dragons,” you say dully, nauseous with dread.

“Yes,” Jace agrees. “But unfortunately, Aemond realized what we were doing. So he took possession of Dragonstone, and he and Vhagar are always back and forth from there, and no one can approach the island and risk him happening upon them.” Another bite of his blackberry oatcake, more crumbs, more casual chewing. “Which brings me to my question for you.”

“For me?”

Jace nods. “I need you to tell me what he’s going to do next.”

You stare at your husband inanely. “What?”

“Aemond is the problem,” Jace says, more agitated now. He devours the last of his blackberry oatcake. “Even with all the dragons we have, it’s going to be difficult to destroy Vhagar. Our new dragonriders are inexperienced, and Daemon, he’s…” Jace waves a hand. “Unreliable. Self-serving. But you were there at the Red Keep with Aemond when he and Criston were drawing up their plans, and therefore you can help us.”

You lie immediately. “I don’t know anything.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Another lie. “Really. He didn’t discuss it with me.”

“Then tell me about him,” Jace says impatiently. “I know he’s good with a sword, but he must have weaknesses. Does he have lasting pain from his maiming, does he have vices that distract him?”

I’m not convinced I knew Aemond at all. “I’m not going to help you kill him.”

Jace glares at you incredulously. “How do you think this ends?”

“Rhaenyra promised Mother that Aemond would be spared, and you were a part of that bargain—”

“We said we would let him live if he’s still alive when the war is over, but we can’t win the war if he and Vhagar are seizing castles and territory and burning our men and supplies and nobody can stop him!”

“Does he know that…” You swallow, your throat burning. “Did Rhaenyra send him a raven to tell him about our marriage?” About my treason, about my ruining?

“No. Why would we provoke him like that? Why would we put a target on my back? The realm will be told when the battles are past and the surviving Green loyalists must be convinced to bend the knee.”

You close your eyes and you can’t picture Aemond as a warrior; you can only see him as a child with stitches and agony, as a man who gave you forbidden, bewitching pleasure. “I don’t know anything. I can’t help you.”

“I did as you asked,” Jace snaps. “I persuaded Mother to give Helaena more freedom, I ensured that Alicent is healthy and that Jaehaera and Maelor are well cared for and never lonely. I can probably even save Daeron. But Aemond must be stopped.”

“He’s my family too—”

“I am your family now!” Jace roars, jolting to his feet and pounding on his own heart. “Me and my siblings, and my parents, and my children, not them!”

One of the doors of the Great Hall swings open and Lady Caro is there with a tray of cinnamon tea and fresh blackberry oatcakes. She gapes at you and Jace, too shocked to remember to be polite. It’s too late for her to pretend she hasn’t heard. She stalls, trying to think of something to say.

“I believe we’re having venison for dinner,” she announces with feigned cheerfulness.

Jace looks at you one last time—with disappointment, with fury—and storms out of the room.

~~~~~~~~~~

He doesn’t come to bed all night, and you leave the window wide open so Sapphire can glide in and visit you: hanging from your bedposts, scrambling over your blankets, and then vanishing shortly before daylight. You have a headache that worsens until you are half-blind and sick to your stomach, and the maids hear you retching and bring you toasted bread and ginger tea and a bucket and wet cloths to cool your face.

Lady Caro wanders in and sits down beside you, her weight shifting the feather mattress, and pats your shoulder sympathetically. “I think you should tell the prince that his efforts have been successful.” To produce an heir, she means, and you’re convinced she’s wrong.

“That’s not what it is,” you moan, burrowing under the blankets. “I’m sick all the time.”

“You haven’t had your monthly blood since you’ve been here,” Lady Caro says gently, and of course she knows this because of her maids, her spies. You stare up at her vacuously, unable to comprehend it.

Pregnant with Jace’s child?

And this feels like a final severing of any possibility that Aemond will ever want you back. No other man was allowed to lie with you. Now Jace has wed you, bedded you, bred with you, turned your coat.

You force yourself out of bed and let the maids dress you and comb your hair, nursing the ginger tea—unappetizing, but good for nausea—as you gather your courage. You aren’t sure how to tell Jace. You aren’t sure that you want to see him at all.

Your skull still throbbing and your bare feet unsteady, you stumble through the cold stony corridors of the castle until you hear men arguing spiritedly in the Great Hall, their voices rumbling like thunder. Inside you find Lord Corbray, a number of lords and knights, and the maester of the castle. Jace is bent over one of the tables and reading, then rereading, a letter that the maester must have brought from the rookery.

Lord Corbray is saying: “They write that he has already razed Darry, Blackbuckle, Claypool, Swynford, and Spiderwood. The noble houses are constructing scorpions, but even with them, how many bolts would be needed to kill Vhagar? She’s massive, she’s monstrous. The Northmen are marching south, but now they’re saying they won’t go beyond the Twins without Caraxes and Sheepstealer as escorts, and can we count on Daemon for anything…?”

Jace looks up and sees you standing in the threshold. His dark curls hang over his bloodless face; his eyes are staggered and fearful. And twistedly, horribly, there is a flash of light that burns radiantly through the murky gloom of your skull and your ribcage, a forbidden vindication, a rapture you can never reveal.

Aemond remembers me? Aemond longs for me?

Jace says: “He thinks you’re in the Riverlands.”

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond x reader #jace x you #jace velaryon x reader #jace x reader #jacaerys x you #jacaerys x reader #jacaerys velaryon #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x y/n #jace velaryon

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drakaripykiros130ac · 1 year ago

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This should be the final scene from House of the Dragon:

The extremely emotional reunion of Rhaenyra and Daemon’s sons.

Aegon III Targaryen married to Daenaera Velaryon.

Alyn Velaryon and Baela Targaryen as the Lord and Lady of Driftmark.

Rhaena Targaryen (the rider of the Blacks’ pride and joy, the dragon Morning) and her husband, Corwyn Corbray (Brave valeman and Team Black supporter).

Alicent Hightower’s horrific, well-deserved end and the treacherous Green line permanently ended.

A new beginning for the true members of House Targaryen.

And I want Rhaenyra’s theme to play in the background, just as it did in the first episode, because this is after all, her victory.

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wweskywalker · 10 months ago

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“A sudden trumpet blast heralded the arrival of Baela Velaryon and Rhaena Corbray. The doors to the throne room were thrown open, and the daughters of Prince Daemon entered upon a blast of winter air. Lady Baela was great with child, Lady Rhaena wan and thin from her miscarriage, yet seldom had they seemed more as one. Both were dressed in gowns of soft black velvet with rubies at their throats, and the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen on their cloaks.”

Referenced from The cousins: Queen Victoria and Victoire, Duchesse de Nemours by Franz Xaver Winterhalter, 1852.

#baela targaryen #rhaena targaryen #fanart #art #asoiaf #game of thrones #asoiaf art #targaryen #house targaryen #artist #fire and blood #a song of ice and fire #house of the dragon #hotd #open commission artist

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malaquitesgallery · 9 months ago

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‘As long as he is considerate, kind and noble, I know that I can love him.’— Lady Rhaena of pentos, of house Targaryen ‘the dragon twin’, lady wife to her first husband, lord Corbray and lord Hightower; rider of Morning.’ |

Her and Baela’s matching pearls🤭🤭

#rhaena targaryen #rhaena of pentos #baela and rhaena #asoaif #house velaryon #house of the dragon #house targaryen #character design #artists on tumblr #digital art #fanart #fire and blood #game of thrones

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yerimsdreams · 4 months ago

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Duty is Sacrifice

author's note: chapter 2 is finally here! sorry for the wait, I had an exam period, but that is finally over!

cregan stark x oc (she/her pronouns)

warnings: swearing. sentencing. mention of death and murder. spoilers for fire&blood.

The council chamber was dimly lit by the morning light filtering through narrow windows, casting long shadows across the stone walls. The air was thick with the scent of parchment and the muted rustle of cloaks as the nobles took their seats. Cregan sat at the head of the table, towering above everyone else.

Benjicot, Oscar and Kermit cautiously observed him. Kermit's fingers lightly drummed against the table as his brother and friend awaited the words of the Lord of Winterfell.

On the other side of the table, the brothers Leowyn and Corwyn Corbray of the Vale sat with anticipation. They'd only arrived that morning in King's Landing after they had received word from Lady Arryn, who occupied a place at the opposite end of the table, her sharp gaze never leaving Cregan.

He let the silence stretch, allowing it to settle over the room. He knew what was coming, the resistance he would face, but he remained fixed.

''Unworthy as Aegon the Usurper might have been, his murder was high treason. Those responsible must answer for it.'' He spoke clearly, his hands clasped in front of him.

The others remained quiet at his words, exchanging uneasy glances with one another. It was a sentiment that most did not share, but none were eager to challenge the northman so directly.

''My lord,'' Benjicot dared to speak up, ''no one here disputes the crime that was committed, but we must consider the realm. Pursuing vengeance will only breed more unrest.''

''What of those who still hold Aegon the Elder's banner? What if they decide to seek a vengeance of their own in response to those imprisoned here?'' Lord Leowyn asked, shifting in his seat.

''There are still pockets of resistance, but they are of little consequence, my Lords.'' Lady Jeyne Arryn responded to his concerns, before Cregan could.

Lord Tully spoke up for the first time, scratching his voice. ''The Dance is done. The war is over, and the realm is in shambles. It is time to make peace.''

The Warden's eyes flicked to Kermit, studying the young boy's tired features. The desire for peace was palpable in the room, but so was the fear of what Cregan might do if his demands were not met.

''The realm must heal,'' he conceded, though his tone remained firm, ''but it cannot come at the mercy of justice. The killers of King Aegon II cannot be allowed to walk free, lest we invite more treachery.''

Kermit Tully’s drumming fingers stopped abruptly. He leaned forward, his expression serious, any trepidation that had manifested itself around Cregan gone. ''Let it be on your head, Stark. I want no part of this, but I will not have it said that Riverrun stood in the way of justice.''

Cregan nodded, somewhat relieved they would stop fighting him on this, even if it was done with heavy hearts and lingering doubts.

''Aegon the Younger will have to make you Hand, my Lord. No lord has the right to put another lord to death. You will need the King's authority to act in his name.'' Ser Corwyn reminded him. If Cregan were to put sentences on the kingslayers' heads, he will at least do so according to the law.

The Warden gave an unimpressed glare to the Corbray knight. He had no desire to undermine the authority of the King, nor to cast doubt on the justice he sought to dispense. The law would be his shield as much as his sword.

''Then it will be done,'' Cregan declared, ''I will seek the King’s authority, and with it, the traitors will be judged.''

The room fell into a heavy silence. The lords and Lady Arryn exchanged uneasy glances but did little more than nod. They could sense the determination in Cregan, a man who would not easily be swayed from his course. Even if they harboured doubts, they understood that any attempt to change his mind would be futile. Cregan held the authority in court now, whether they liked it or not.

''Where is Visenya?'' Bloody Ben asked. He had waited all meeting for her to walk into the room and join them, her empty seat now gathering dust as the council continued without her.

The question hung in the air, drawing the attention of the assembled lords. Cregan looked over to the Blackwood boy, his keen eyes narrowing ever so slightly. It was not only the inquiry that caught him off guard, but the casual way Benjicot referred to Visenya - by her name alone, without her title. Cregan knew that the young lord had fought alongside her, sharing the burdens of war in ways that few others could understand. But even so, the breach in formalities did not sit well with him.

Before he could even think of a response, Jeyne's voice had him beaten again. ''It is curious, isn't it?'' She mused, her tone deceptively light, though her eyes gleamed with sharpness. ''The Princess is not one to retreat without reason.''

She did not know why Visenya had confined herself to her chambers for days on end, speaking to no one but the young King Aegon. However, she had her suspicions, and they pointed directly to the man sitting at the head of the table.

The lords around the table exchanged puzzled glances, not fully grasping the weight of her words, but Cregan understood. Her pointed comment was as much a question as it was an accusation, a way of nudging Cregan to acknowledge his own part in whatever had driven Visenya into isolation.

But Cregan would not allow her to unsettle him in front of the others. ''The Princess will join us when she is ready.'' He replied, emphasising her title as he glanced at Lord Blackwood.

''Or when you are ready for her to join us?'' She'd leaned forward as she asked, further provoking the Warden of the North.

It was uncomfortable to watch, to say the least. The Maiden of the Vale the only one brave enough to somewhat challenge the Wolf of the North. Cregan would respect it if he was not the object of her sharp words. He knew she was testing him, trying to see how far she could push, but he was not about to give her the satisfaction of a reaction.

''Whenever that may be,'' his voice was surprisingly calm, ''the council will continue its work. I suggest we resume our other duties now.''

The finality in his tone left no room for further provocation. Jeyne, though clearly unsatisfied, leaned back in her seat, her eyes still fixed on him, as if weighing his resolve.

One by one, the lords rose from their seats exchanging quiet murmurs as they made their way out of the council chamber. The clatter of boots and swords filled the air, the heavy atmosphere easing as the chamber slowly emptied.

Cregan lingered for a moment more, staring at the parchments in front of him. He realised his control over the court was slipping out of his hands. His plans to march on Casterly Rock, Storm's End, and Oldtown had been cast aside, undone by Visenya and Corlys's pacts of peace sent before his arrival. The trials for the traitors in the dungeons was the only thing that remained to him, and he would not let go of it.

The room had emptied, save for one.

Jeyne Arryn had no intention of letting him leave without a final word. She rose from her seat and approached him, her steps slow. There was an air of quiet authority about her, the kind that came from years of ruling her own domain with both strength and wisdom.

''Lord Stark,'' she addressed him, ''a moment, if you would.''

Cregan paused, turning to face her with a guarded expression. He was not in the mood for more of her probing comments, but something in her demeanour told him it would be a bit different.

''What is it you wish to discuss, my Lady?'' He acknowledged, standing up from his chair that scraped against the floor.

She held his gaze, the silence stretching between them for a heartbeat longer than was comfortable. And then, with a tone that was both knowing and subtly accusatory, she spoke a single name.

''Visenya.''

Cregan's breath hitched for a moment, not expecting such an outright answer. The name hung between them like a drawn sword.

''What of the Princess?'' He replied, his voice carefully neutral, though he knew it was a futile attempt to shield himself from whatever insight Jeyne was about to lay bare. Cregan could feel his pulse quicken.

Jeyne tilted her head slightly, a look in her eyes that seemed to see through his composed exterior. ''No one has seen her or spoken to her in days. The court has taken notice, as have I. One might wonder what has driven her to such isolation.''

His jaw tightened, the recurring mention of her absence stirring emotions he had tried to bury. He had thought of little else but her in those silent days, his thoughts a storm of conflicting feelings.

''Perhaps the Princess simply needs time for herself.'' He said, his voice low, though the uncertainty in his tone betrayed him. He didn’t sound sure of himself, and he knew it.

The Lady's gaze softened, feeling somewhat pitiful for him. ''When the council is in need of her mind, she precludes herself? My cousin's daughter does not run when her presence is required by others.''

Cregan's expression remained stoic, his face a mask of controlled indifference. He wasn’t about to let Jeyne, or anyone else, see any sign of doubt or guilt. ''War has taken its toll on all of us, my Lady. I trust the Princess knows what is best for her.''

She noted the evasiveness in his voice. She had seen many men in positions of power adopt this same diplomatic tone, a way of deflecting blame while maintaining an air of authority. But Cregan Stark, despite his best efforts, was not fooling her.

Jeyne's eyes narrowed, her earlier pity giving way to a sharper curiosity. ''Of course,'' she replied, her voice laced with just enough doubt to make it clear she wasn’t convinced, ''But Visenya is not one to retreat, as you have seen for yourself, I am sure. She has been through more than most can bear, yet she always finds a way to press on. So I ask again, what of the Princess, Lord Stark?''

His composure faltered, just for a heartbeat. It was a moment so brief that most might have missed it, but Jeyne Arryn was not most. ''As I said, Lady Arryn,'' he quickly recovered, ''the Princess is taking the time she needs.''

''She is not a woman to be underestimated, my Lord. Nor is she one to leave herself out of decisions that deeply affect her family, such as a potential execution of Lord Corlys Velaryon.''

She was figuring him out despite Cregan not giving anything away, it aggravated him. ''I do not underestimate her, my Lady,'' he said, keeping his tone respectful, ''I know full well what she is capable of.''

Jeyne studied him, letting her eyes wander over his figure. ''Do you?'' She challenged, again.

A flash of frustration crossed his face before he masked it with his usual composure. ''If you are implying something, Lady Arryn, I suggest you say it plainly.''

She chuckled softly, a sound that was more calculating than amused. ''Do not let your sense of duty blind you to what is right in front of you, my Lord.'' Her tone was gentle, more advice than accusation.

Jeyne did not press further, sensing she had said enough. She offered him a faint smile before leaving. The sound of her footsteps echoed softly as she made her way out of the chamber, leaving Cregan alone with his thoughts and maps.

As the guards closed the doors behind her, Cregan stared at the empty room and the large table in front of him. She had seen something in him, something he was not ready to admit to himself yet.

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was eerily silent, the weight of the impending judgments pressing heavily on all present. The Iron Throne loomed in the background, a jagged, forbidding monument to the power that had been fought over so bitterly. But today, it was not the Iron Throne that commanded attention, it was the man sitting before it, on a simple wooden bench, that captured all the eyes in the room.

Lord Cregan Stark, newly named Hand of the King, though it was less an honour and more a necessity born from the young king's fear and the absence of his formidable aunt, sat in judgement of all the turncloaks and kingslayers that had been arrested.

The next criminal in session was Ser Perkin the Flea, a man of no great birth but of infamy enough to fill the hall. His shoulders hunched slightly, his gaze shifting nervously as he was brought forward to stand trial. The man who had once risen so high through treachery now looked small and pathetic.

''Ser Perkin,'' Cregan acknowledged the traitor, ''you rose up in rebellion against your lawful queen and helped drive her from this city to her death. You raised up your own squire in her place, then abandoned him to save your worthless hide.''

The Flea opened his mouth to protest to plead his case, but Cregan continued, his voice growing colder with each word. ''The realm will be a better place without you.''

Desperation flared in Perkin's eyes. ''I was pardoned for those crimes, my Lord! I was forgiven!''

The Warden's expression did not change as he delivered his final, damning words. ''Not by me.''

The weight of that statement hung in the air as the Flea was led away, his fate sealed by the undaunted judgement of the Lord of Winterfell.

Next came Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake himself. The room seemed to hold its breath as the old man was brought forward, his chains clinking softly with each step. Unlike Perkin, Corlys did not cower or plead. His gaze was steady, though weary, as he faced Cregan.

Cregan observed him for a long moment, his thoughts unreadable. The Sea Snake had been many things - an ally, a traitor, a hero, a villain - but now, he stood accused of murder, and that was all that mattered.

''You stand accused of murder, regicide, and high treason. How do you answer these charges, Lord Velaryon?'' His deep northern accent boomed through the Great Hall.

Much to everyone's surprise, Corlys did not attempt to hide his guilt. ''What I did, I did for the good of the realm. I would do the same again. The madness had to end.''

Cregan remained silent for a moment, his gaze steady, measuring Corlys’s resolve. The old man had seen countless battles, navigated treacherous waters, both literal and political, and yet here he stood, admitting to regicide without a flicker of regret.

As he stared into the Sea Snake’s eyes, Cregan’s mind drifted, if only for a heartbeat, to Visenya. Their bitter words echoed in his memory, and he felt the sting of her absence more keenly than ever. Seven days had passed since they had last spoken, seven days of not having even seen a glimpse of her. It was a wound that festered, a silent torment he could not afford to indulge.

His gaze faltered for a brief moment as those thoughts consumed him, but he quickly steeled himself. This was not the time for doubt. Corlys Velaryon had committed murder, and murder demanded justice, no matter the cost.

''I declare Lord Corlys Velaryon guilty of murder, regicide, and high treason. For his crimes, he must pay with his life.'' Cregan decided, every word a hammer blow.

The old man stood silent, accepting the verdict with the same calm he had displayed throughout the trial. His granddaughters watched in horror as their grandsire was escorted away back to his cell in the dungeons, now a sentenced murderer and traitor.

The price of peace was high, and today, it had claimed the Sea Snake.

The halls of the Red Keep were quieter now, the echo of recent trials still lingering in the air. The heavy weight of the verdicts hung over the castle, settling uneasily in every corner, as if the very stones themselves were absorbing the gravity of what had transpired.

Cregan walked the corridors alone,his thoughts occupied with the day's grim duties. He was heading towards the courtyard, seeking his men, when a sudden presence halted him in his tracks.

''You cannot do this,'' Baela's voice was steady, her expression fierce, her hand gripping the hilt of a sword, ''Aegon pardoned my grandsire. He granted him mercy, and you cannot simply take that away.''

Beside her, Rhaena lingered, her gaze troubled but determined. Cregan could see that while she did not entirely condone her sister's approach, she had chosen to stand by her regardless.

The Warden regarded her for a moment, the corners of his mouth twitching in something that was almost a smile. He recognized the fire in her eyes, a familiar Targaryen resolve that demanded to be heard. But her words, her challenge, it amused him more than it angered him.

''And you intend to force this pardon with that sword?'' Cregan asked, his voice laced with a hint of mockery.

Baela tightened her grip on the sword, her expression remaining fierce. She had made a show of defiance, but deep down, she knew she would not raise her blade against him. Cregan saw it too, the internal struggle playing out behind her determined gaze.

He let out a low, rumbling laugh. ''You will not use it, Princess. You are not here to fight me,'' Cregan respected Baela, she had been Jace's betrothed and his late friend had always spoken of her in high praises, ''you are here because you think you can sway me with a threat, but we both know that is not going to work.''

Baela clenched her jaw, her pride wounded by his dismissal. Rhaena, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke. ''My sister only seeks what was promised by the King. It is not too late to honour that, Lord Stark.''

His laughter faded, replaced by a more serious expression as he looked between the Dragon Twins. ''The King may have offered pardon, but I have not. Your grandsire committed crimes that cannot be overlooked. What’s done is done.''

Baela's grip did not falter as she held it up to Cregan, her eyes blazing with a mix of fury and desperation. She could see that her words alone weren't enough to sway him, so she aimed for what she hoped would be a weak spot.

''Is that what you told Visenya, Lord Stark? Or did you wish to court her, but she rejected your Northern beastliness, and you had her imprisoned like you did our grandsire?''

Cregan's eyes flashed with anger at Baela's words, a fire igniting within him that he struggled to keep in check. Her comment had struck deeper than she could have known, but he would not let her see how much it affected him.

''Whispers of the court do not concern me, Princess.'' He brushed it aside, though his voice was dangerously low, his temper barely restrained. He knew she was trying to provoke him.

Baela's eyes narrowed as she noted his reaction. ''But they seem to concern my cousin, and what concerns her, concerns us, Lord Stark.'' She said, her tone dripping with disdain.

His temper flared, but he forced himself to maintain his composure. ''Put the sword down, Princess. You know as well as I do that you will not be making use of it.''

Baela refused to back down, the fire in her eyes only growing more intense as she stared him down. ''Do you think so little of us, Lord Stark?'' She asked, her voice venomous. ''You dismiss our concerns, our family, as if they are beneath you. You should know better than to dance with a dragon.''

''I do not underestimate anyone,'' he retorted, the same way he had said to Lady Jeyne in the council chamber, ''least of all your cousin. Your grandfather was complicit in the poisoning of a King, even if it was the Usurper. A crime he will be punished for.''

Her hand slowly dropped from the sword, the fire in her eyes dimming, replaced by a mixture of frustration and resignation. Still, she was not ready to let him have the last word.

''You might believe this is justice, but there will be those who remember this as cruelty.'' She said quietly, only loud enough for him and her sister to hear.

Cregan nodded slightly, acknowledging her words without conceding to them. ''History will judge us all, Princess.''

With that, he stepped past the two women, leaving them standing in the corridor. He did not slow his pace, even as doubt clawed at the edges of his mind.

Baela's grip on the sword slackened further, her shoulders drooping as she exchanged a look with Rhaena. Her twin put a comforting hand on her shoulder, guiding her away from the cold emptiness of the corridor.

The castle was draped in silence, the kind that only settled over King's Landing in the dead of night. The corridors were empty, save for the occasional torch flickering in its sconce. Outside, the air was cool, a stark contrast to the stuffy warmth inside the castle walls.

Visenya moved quietly, her steps light as she made her way through the Great Yard. She had been to see her dragon, Sōnax, seeking solace in the dead of night when sleep eluded her. The moon cast a pale light over the paths, guiding her through the maze of hedges and flowers that had once been so meticulously tended. Now, they seemed as weary as she felt, their blooms drooping in the darkness.

She passed the godswood, pausing against the heart tree. She took a deep breath, letting the cool air fill her lungs, trying to ease the tension that had settled in her chest.

It was then that she heard the faint sound of footsteps, slow and deliberate. She turned, instinctively reaching for the dagger she kept hidden in the folds of her gown ever since the start of the Dance, but she relaxed slightly when she saw who it was.

Cregan emerged from the shadows, his tall figure illuminated by the soft glow of the moon. He had been patrolling the grounds, unable to sleep with the weight of the day’s decisions pressing down on him. The trials, the confrontations - it all swirled in his mind, leaving him restless.

They had not expected to see each other at this hour or even at all until the Lord of Winterfell would ultimately return to the North.

The pair stared at one another, neither moving or speaking. The tension that had manifested itself in Visenya's chest had been lifted from her body and into the air between them. Cregan's dark eyes met hers, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Visenya did not look away.

''Princess.'' He finally greeted her, his voice rough from the lack of sleep.

''Lord Stark.'' She nodded, her tone equally guarded. She could see the weariness in his eyes, the lines of fatigue etched into his face. It mirrored her own exhaustion, the strain of everything they had endured.

He loosened the grip on his sword as he took a few steps closer. ''What brings you here at this hour?'' He asked, though he already suspected the answer.

''I could ask you the same.'' She replied, her tone neutral, careful.

Cregan let out a soft breath, almost a chuckle, but it lacked any real humour. ''I suppose neither of us has found much comfort in sleep lately.''

Visenya nodded, her gaze turning back to the large tree behind her. ''The nights are long when ones thoughts are troubled.''

''And yours are troubled, Princess?'' He asked, taking a step closer, though still keeping a respectful distance.

Her eyes flickered back to his. ''They are. As are yours, I imagine.''

Cregan did not provide her with an answer right away, instead watching her. He looked at her, really looked at her, and he could see the toll that the last few days had taken on her. She was still beautiful, even in all her fatigue and unrest.

''Yes,'' he said, his voice thoughtful, ''there is much to ponder about.''

''The trials, I suppose.'' She was leaning against the tree, observing every step and move he made.

Cregan stopped his pacing and turned to face her. ''Indeed.''

''I know what you think of his actions,'' Visenya sighed, '' and I agree that poison is a coward's weapon.'' Her gaze became distant, as if dreaming.

The Wolf of the North nodded along, his expression one of contemplation.

''When I flew to King's Landing, I only had one purpose; to kill my half-brother, to kill him as he had my sister, by burning him alive and feeding him to my dragon. You can imagine my anger when I arrived here and I am told that the Usurper is dead, and by poison of all ways,'' she chuckled, though the sound was devoid of real mirth.

''However, I am glad he got a coward's death. My sister died like a true Targaryen, in fire and blood. Her death will be a grand story told for centuries, but no one will remember his. The story of his demise will fade because it lacked the valour and the strength that he lacked,'' She admitted, almost sounding proud.

Cregan nodded slowly, understanding the fierce loyalty and pride that Visenya held for her family.

''But there are others who acted not out of cowardice, but out of duty to the realm, to their family. They deserve a different fate.'' She met his gaze again, sorrow in her eyes.

Cregan's eyes narrowed slightly, sensing where the conversation was leading. ''Lord Corlys Velaryon?''

Visenya nodded. ''I ask you one last time to reconsider his sentence. Yes, he made a choice that many would condemn, but without him, Aegon would not be alive today.''

He remained unreadable, though his eyes softened slightly. ''You ask much, Princess. The law cannot bend every time someone believes their cause is just.''

She stepped closer to him, her violet eyes locked onto his.''If not for the stability of the realm, if not for the honour of my nephew, if not for the sake of peace, for me. A personal boon.''

Cregan studied her, the sincerity in her voice piercing through the walls he had built around himself. ''And if I were to grant this boon, what would you offer in return, Princess?'' There was a hint of curiosity, the first time the mighty Warden of the North could actually sound like his conviction could be persuaded.

''In return, I will give you whatever you desire, Lord Stark.'' Visenya answered, her voice strong despite the tremor in her earlier plea.

He could see the desperation in her eyes, the way she held herself with a dignity that was both regal and vulnerable. The offer she made was not one to be taken lightly.

''What I desire?'' He repeated, almost as if testing the weight of those words. He looked down, thoughtful, then back at her, his gaze piercing through the darkness. ''What if what I desire is not something you are willing to give?''

Visenya stiffened slightly, her heart pounding as she anticipated what he might say. ''Name it.'' She said, though there was a hint of apprehension in her voice.

Cregan took another step, closing the distance between them. ''What I desire is all of you, forever.''

Visenya felt the air catch in her throat as Cregan's words hung between them. It was as if the entire world had paused, waiting for her response. His dark eyes, intense and unwavering, held hers captive, and for a moment, she found herself unable to speak.

''All of me?'' She managed to whisper. She was not sure if it was a question or an incredulous statement.

Cregan nodded, his expression solemn. ''Yes. Your hand in marriage, your loyalty, your trust - everything that you are, everything that you could be. Not just for a night or a season, but for as long as we both shall live.''

She searched his eyes, looking for a trace of jest or manipulation, but found only earnestness. The Warden of the North was not a man to make light of such things. The very idea was preposterous - her, a Targaryen, bound to the North? Yet, in that moment, it felt as though he was offering something more than a mere proposal. It was an invitation to a different kind of life, one far away from King's Landing.

She let out a small, breathless laugh, one that held no humour. ''Are you mad, my Lord? A Targaryen in the North?''

Cregan's lips curved into a faint smile, though his eyes remained serious. ''Perhaps I am, my Princess. But madness and greatness often walk hand in hand, do they not?''

Visenya regarded him, the idea swirling in her mind. It was mad, audacious, and yet... "You would truly ask this of me? To marry into the North, where winter reigns and dragons do not fly?"

He nodded, his expression unwavering. ''I would. The North may be a land of ice and snow, but it is also a land of honour, of strength, and of loyalty. It is a place where bonds are not easily broken, where words are not just spoken but lived, my Princess.''

''It is no place for dragons, nor for those who carry their blood.'' She shook her head.

''And yet, here you are,'' he countered, ''a dragon in King's Landing, a place that has brought you nothing but pain and loss. What has this city given you that the North could not? What has this life offered you, other than endless war and treachery?''

She opened her mouth to respond but found herself at a loss for words. His questions struck at the heart of her fears, her uncertainties. The life she had known was one of fire and blood, of power plays and betrayals. But what had it truly brought her? What had it cost her?

Everything.

Cregan took her silence as an opportunity to continue. ''I offer you more than just a marriage, Princess. I offer you a chance to build something new, something not tainted by the ghosts of the past.''

Visenya felt a chill run down her spine, though she was not sure if it was the cold night air or the weight of his words. For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine it - a life in Winterfell, far from the scheming of King’s Landing, the endless battles for power. A life with a man who, despite his stern exterior, had shown her a kind of respect and understanding she had not expected.

But the thought of leaving everything behind, of binding herself to a man she barely knew, was terrifying. ''You ask much of me, my Lord.'' She remarked, her voice slightly trembling.

''And you asked much of me, my Princess.'' He retorted gently.

''You are right,'' she chuckled, ''I did ask much of you.''

Visenya looked down, her thoughts a tangled web of doubt and longing. She had always been a Targaryen, defined by her name, her blood, her dragon. But what had that brought her? Loss after loss, betrayal after betrayal.

''What of my dragon? Sōnax is a creature of fire and sky, bound to me as I am to her.'' She could not leave her behind, she'd seen how Seasmoke had acted when Laenor left. She did not want Sōnax to be subjected to the same fate.

''She would find her place,'' he assured her, his eyes not leaving hers, ''The North may be cold, but it is also vast, with endless skies and mountains that reach the heavens. She will not be confined, just as you will not be.''

It did not feel real to her. As a young girl, she had imagined how her betrothal would go. She figured it would be much like her sister's, one to strengthen alliances and no regard for what either the bride or groom want. There was no room for dreams or desires. It was all about duty.

Despite asking him for a favour, his proposal almost felt like a choice. It felt foreign, strange, like something she was not accustomed to. To have a choice in something so monumental felt both liberating and terrifying.

''And if I say yes, if I agree to this... I want to be your equal. I do not wish for you to rule, while my only purpose would be to squeeze out heirs like a broodmare.'' She was firm and resolute, no room for arguing.

Cregan took her hand, engulfed by his. ''You would be my equal in every way, my Princess. We do not see women as mere vessels for heirs. I already have one, my son Rickon. We value strength, wisdom, and the ability to lead, regardless of one's gender. If you stand beside me as my wife, you will be a Lady of Winterfell, not just in name but in action.''

Visenya felt the warmth of his hand enveloping hers, a stark contrast to the cool night air that surrounded them. Her heart raced as she met his gaze, his grey eyes filled with a depth of sincerity she had not encountered before.

With a deep breath, she nodded, her decision crystallising in the quiet of the night. ''I will marry you, Lord Stark. A hand for a head.'' She agreed, grinning.

A genuine look of joy and relief crossed Cregan's face. He lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to her knuckles. ''Then it is settled,'' he said, his voice warm with emotion, ''I will have my men release Lord Corlys from his cell when the sun rises.''

''Thank you, my Lord.'' She expressed quietly.

''Cregan.'' He corrected gently.

''What?'' Visenya blinked, caught off guard by his sudden informality.

''You may call me Cregan.'' He repeated, his smile softening.

Visenya hesitated for a moment before nodding, a small smile forming on her lips. ''Then you may call me Visenya.'' She offered in return.

The familiarity between them, though still new, felt strangely comfortable.

''I will be leaving for Winterfell once the sentences have been carried out.'' Cregan informed her, still holding onto her hand.

She nodded, the gravity of his words not lost on her. ''So soon,'' she murmured, squeezing his larger hand as if to hold onto the moment a little longer, ''I will have to stay here longer. For Aegon, he needs me here for the time being.''

''I know,'' he mumbled back, ''your duty to him comes first. But when your time here is done, Winterfell will be waiting for you...and so will I.''

There was a tenderness in his words that made Visenya's heart ache. She gave him a small nod, her grip on his hand tightening for just a moment before she finally let go.

''We will discuss the formalities once we both have found some rest. I am retiring for the night.'' She announced, suddenly feeling the exhaustion of the past week catching up with her as she leaned against the tree.

Cregan noticed the weariness in her posture and stepped forward. ''Allow me to escort you to your chambers, my Princess.'' He offered his arm, for her to support her weight.

Visenya smiled softly, touched by his offer but aware of the distance between their quarters. ''You are kind, Cregan, but your chambers are far, and you need rest as well. We have both endured enough for one night.'' Her words were gentle, her refusal a considerate one.

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded, understanding her reasoning. ''As you wish,'' he accepted, ''goodnight, my betrothed.'' She could see a hint of a smirk on his face.

''Goodnight, my betrothed.'' Visenya echoed, the words feeling both strange and comforting on her lips.

With one last look, they parted ways, each retreating to their respective chambers.

As Visenya walked away, the weight of their conversation settled over her like a heavy cloak. She had made a decision that would change the course of her life, and yet, she felt a strange sense of peace. It was not the peace that came from certainty, but the kind that came from acceptance, from choosing a path and committing to it.

Cregan watched her until she disappeared into the castle, a mix of emotions swirling within him. He had asked for her hand not out of a simple desire for power or alliance, but because he saw how fiercely she protected those who had stood by her sister and their family.

He wanted to be the object of her loyalty, amidst other things.

taglist: @oxymakestheworldgoround

#cregan stark x oc #cregan stark #house of the dragon fics #hotd fanfic #hotd fics #cregan stark fics #cregan stark fanfic #hotd x oc

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atopvisenyashill · 8 months ago

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DAEMON BALLFYRE THEORY

it’s an unserious name but a serious theory!!!

WHAT WE KNOW ABOUT QUENTYN BALL

If Daemon had ridden over Gwayne Corbray . . . if Fireball had not been slain on the eve of battle . .

-small mention from eustace in the sword sword

For his hot head and red hair. Ser Quentyn Ball was the master-at-arms at the Red Keep. He taught my father and my uncles how to fight. The Great Bastards too. King Aegon promised to raise him to the Kingsguard, so Fireball made his wife join the silent sisters, only by the time a place came open, King Aegon was dead and King Daeron named Ser Willam Wylde instead. My father says that it was Fireball as much as Bittersteel who convinced Daemon Blackfyre to claim the crown, and rescued him when Daeron sent the Kingsguard to arrest him. Later on, Fireball killed Lord Lefford at the gates of Lannisport and sent the Grey Lion running back to hide inside the Rock. At the crossing of the Mandel, he cut down the sons of Lady Penrose one by one. They say he spared the life of the youngest one as a kindness to his mother.

-egg says this in the mystery knight, bolded parts mine

Daemon was the name Daena gave to this child, for Prince Daemon had been the wonder and the terror of his age, and in later days that was seen as a warning of what the boy would become. Daemon Waters was his full name when he was born in 170 AC. At that time, Daena refused to name the father, but even then Aegon's involvement was suspected. Raised at the Red Keep, this handsome youth was given the instruction of the wisest maesters and the best masters-at-arms at court, including Ser Quentyn Ball, the fiery knight called Fireball. He loved nothing better than deeds of arms and excelled at them, and many saw in him a warrior who would one day be another Dragonknight.

The king sent the Kingsguard to arrest Daemon before he could take his plans for treason any further. Daemon was forewarned, and with the help of the famously hot-tempered knight Ser Quentyn Ball, called Fireball, he was able to escape the Red Keep safely. Daemon Blackfyre's allies used this attempted arrest as a cause for war, claiming that Daeron had acted against Daemon out of no more than baseless fear. Others still named him Daeron Falseborn, repeating the calumny that Aegon the Unworthy himself was said to have circulated in the later years of his reign: that he had been sired not by the king but by his brother, the Dragonknight.

-these are both from TWOIAF, again bolded and italicized parts mine.

WHAT STICKS OUT TO ME

Quentyn is married, a landless knight, and clearly older than Daena - it’s not just about a man “spoiling” a young, royal maiden but imo also that Quentyn specifically would get in a LOT of trouble because he is low class (see: Bonifer & Rhaella) and married to boot

He was master at arms, which gives him the ability to be in Daemon’s life without arousing suspicion from anyone, and also proximity to Daena to allow for an affair, even with her on the Maidenvault.

He’s name dropped SEVERAL times and he’s clearly very important to the founding of the Blackfyre Rebellion despite being both very lowborn and also dying in a kinda lame way (not even during the battle, just by a lone archer)

He wanted so badly to be on the kingsguard he forced his wife into the Silent Sisters, only to be denied by Daeron

He seemed to be on good terms with Aegon IV

Everyone seems real sure that the daddy was Aegon and we’re not given a reason why

Aegon doesn’t claim Daemon as his bastard until after (presumably) Daena has died

Also, Aegon doesn’t claim Daemon as his bastard until after all of the Great Bastards have been born

EYE think that Aegon IV was purposefully trying to have a bastard that could challenge Daeron, and that his affairs weren’t just like lust, boredom, wanting to disrespect Naerys & Aemon, etc. There is, imo, a shift in his mistresses being just, any woman he has access to - Falena, Bellegere, Cassella, and Meg - to woman who are highborn maidens from powerful families in Westeros - the Blackwoods, Brackens, and Lothstons. Even Serenei fits in here, given that Targ-looking wives from Lys & Volantis are not uncommon before or after Aegon IV. He’s even mentioned as still having a role in Aegor’s life by visiting him, potentially trying to groom him to rebel. But then everything with the Brackens blows up in his face (which is his own fault tbc), and Brynden is an emo fuck with red eyes, and Shiera is a girl. Then Daena dies…..and an opportunity opens up. Daemon looks like a Targaryen, no one knows who the father is, but for some reason everyone already suspects him (imo this is due to Rhaenyra’s boys looking like Harwin - like just a misogyny thing that SURELY Daemon couldn’t get his look from his mother alone, look at Rhaenyra’s kids vs Alicent’s), so publicly claiming Daena’s child at last gives him the perfect rival against Daeron.

ALSO, we have a few times in the story where someone joins the Kingsguard to be closer to a woman they want to protect - Aemon & Naerys, Jaime & Cersei, and Loras & Margaery. I think Lewyn & Elia likely fall under this as well. I think it makes sense Quentyn would see joining the Kingsguard as an opportunity to be closer to both Daena & Daemon especially given his low class status; skilled knights can rise to the Kingsguard even from lowborn or baseborn backgrounds. ALSO ALSO again, our only evidence of Aegon IV being the dad is, ya know, Aegon himself. Daena stayed silent her entire life on the subject. I like to think she had a reason for this - not that she protecting Aegon, but that she was protecting Quentyn.

#thank you very much i’ll be here all week #valyrianscrolls #quentyn ball #daena the defiant #daemon blackfyre #getting on my soap box

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targsource · 9 months ago

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TARGARYEN PORTRAITS: PART 4

by riotarttherite on twitter

featuring: Lady Jocelyn Baratheon (1), Lord Rodrik Arryn (2), Ser Corwyn Corbray (3), Ser Garmund Hightower (4), King Aegon III (5), King Daeron I (6), King Baelor I (7), Princess Daena (8), Septa Rhaena (9), Princess Elaena (10)

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agentrouka-blog · 8 months ago

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omfg you have every right to be angry over that anon. What a condescending, arrogant ask. There's an extra level of insult, because people aren't just trying to dispute your opinion, they're trying to waste your time, energy, and thinking too. It's not an honest and equal debate, it's just pure entitlement.

Something for your perusal: I've been reading the ASOIAF books again and was curious when I came upon Catelyn's passage up the Eyrie in AGOTA, where she laments that Mya Stone won't be able to marry the boy she's in love with because she's a bastard. Then Catelyn muses that Mya reminds her of Sansa. I thought this was interesting because of how the information is introduced, and then the Mya-Sansa parallels. Sansa becomes a bastard when Jon is a secret prince sort of business. I haven't seen anybody mention this and thought it was curious.

Thank you! <3

And there's actually a lot of stuff in that Mya Stone moment.

For one, it happens at a time when we already know that Sansa's own dreams are as hopeless as Mya's, no matter that Sansa is trueborn, because Cat and Ned both agreed to marry her to House Lannister and at the Trident Joffrey took off his mask and nothing is being done about it regarding Sansa.

Then we have the parallel to Littlefinger, whose crush (trueborn but low status) was always as hopeless as Mya's.

Then we have the fact that Cat foregoes an obvious comparison (tomboyish Arya) by focusing on not one but two other people in regard to Mya. First the unpleasant association with Jon Snow, followed by a softening when she recognizes the resemblance to Sansa.

"Mya Stone, if it please you, my lady," the girl said. It did not please her; it was an effort for Catelyn to keep the smile on her face. Stone was a bastard's name in the Vale, as Snow was in the north, and Flowers in Highgarden; in each of the Seven Kingdoms, custom had fashioned a surname for children born with no names of their own. Catelyn had nothing against this girl, but suddenly she could not help but think of Ned's bastard on the Wall, and the thought made her angry and guilty, both at once. She struggled to find words for a reply. [...] "Mychel's my love," Mya explained. "Mychel Redfort. He's squire to Ser Lyn Corbray. We're to wed as soon as he becomes a knight, next year or the year after." She sounded so like Sansa, so happy and innocent with her dreams. Catelyn smiled, but the smile was tinged with sadness. The Redforts were an old name in the Vale, she knew, with the blood of the First Men in their veins. His love she might be, but no Redfort would ever wed a bastard. His family would arrange a more suitable match for him, to a Corbray or a Waynwood or a Royce, or perhaps a daughter of some greater house outside the Vale. If Mychel Redfort laid with this girl at all, it would be on the wrong side of the sheet. (AGOT, Catelyn VI)

Mya makes her feel guilty and angry when thinking of Jon Snow, but bittersweet when contemplating her similarity to Sansa and the impossibility of her dreams. It's easier to handle Mya's status when connecting her to Sansa, someone Cat knows how to love, rather than Jon, whose existence strips all romance from the veneer of the brutal society and the reality of patriarchy for Catelyn herself. She doesn't hate bastards, she even has sympathy for them. She only hates what Jon represents for herself.

Sansa ends up modeling her own bastard figure after Jon Snow (fourteen and bastard brave), and from what we have seen of Jon's own struggles with bastardy, his own unfullfilled dreams, it becomes easy to directly compare Sansa and Jon as similar souls, with similar hopes and disappointments, with their shared longing for something unattainable by the rules of their society.

Within the one mirroring scene coming down the mountain in AFFC, Sansa contemplates Mya Stone's lost virtue (after Cat's predictions have come to pass) and potential future husband of fitting status who would love her anyway, and she will also be reminded of Jon Snow. "I am a bastard too now, just like him. Oh, it would be so sweet, to see him once again. But of course that could never be."

The chapter ends with a proposed miracle transformation. Littlefinger paints the picture of a reveal of true identity: The bastard sheds their mask and is recognized for their true self. Something that can only happen to a false bastard. Like Sansa.

Who is so similar to Jon. With his impossible dreams.

#rouka queue #bastardy #mya stone #sansa stark #jon snow #catelyn stark #foreshadowing #jonsa

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princesssszzzz · 8 months ago

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a lot of people were upset at character parallels being pointed out especially between Rhaena and Sansa since fandom has made Sansa à controversial character. They were mad and saying Sansa bullied Arya so Baela and Rhaena can’t be like them

I don’t know why people would get mad at that, that’s just how the characters were written. And that’s how they were portrayed on screen, even if fans choose to ignore that. It’s not verbatim they are copy and paste the same character with the exact same interactions with people. Sansa and Rhaena are still two different characters, they just happen to be written with parallels like Baela and Arya, and a multitude of other F&B characters. A good example of this is the Vale arc. Rhaena was not mistreated in the Vale and show!Rhaena I think will also have a great relationship with Jeyne Arryn, and that’s different than Lysa’s crazy behavior towards Sansa. So it’s two different relationships and experiences, but the parallel of them being in the Vale and separated from their family is still there. Also with the Hound and Corwyn Corbray. The Hound is TOTALLY different but it’s still a middle aged knight twice the age of the girls and they have some form of bonding.

Corwyn actually didn’t even need to exist, I think he was really just created for that parallel 😂 My favorite parallel is with Rhaena’s dragon and Lady. The fact that they died at a young age and then Rhaena and Sansa go on without their house sigil’s animal while the rest of their siblings still have them. Ned is also one of the better fathers in asoiaf universe but obviously we know Daemon is not. Rhaena also loses her mother alot sooner than Sansa loses hers, and Laena doesn’t come back like Lady Stoneheart but her dragon is still flying around 😭 Show sansa kinda touches on Jon being a bastard but Rhaena is in a situation where she can’t question the hair color or parentage of Jace or “tongues removed”

So there’s also lots of differences

#house of the dragon #game of thrones #house targaryen #house stark #rhaena targaryen #sansa stark #hotd meta #asoiaf #pre asoiaf #fire and blood #baela targaryen #arya stark

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unusual-raccoon · 10 months ago

Text

Silver Son (Ch. 2) | by Unusual_Raccoon (JaceLuke)

@livinginafantasysposts, @andromaxeoftroy, @saintbehemoth, @mondstaub1, @the-heartlines, @the-white-w0lf, @potatochips-15, @arkah-archive, @lunar-19, @bimyself06

Warnings: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark Jacaerys Velaryon, Blonde Jacaerys Velaryon, Jace is Daemon's Biological Son, Complicated Relationships, Political Alliances, Canon-Typical Violence, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha Jacaerys Velaryon, Omega Lucerys Velaryon (Son of Rhaenyra), Episode: s01e08 The Lord of the Tides (House of the Dragon), Viserys I Targaryen Lives, Daemyra Have Disney Parent-itis = they died, Brother/Brother Incest, POV Alternating, Political Alliances, Arranged Marriage, Valyrian Culture & Customs (A Song of Ice and Fire), Valyrian Wedding, Loss of Virginity, Explicit Sexual Content, Vaginal Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Multiple Orgasms, Knotting Summary: With few options left, Lucerys travels to Dragonstone to marry his mother's eldest son and heir, Jacaerys Targaryen. WC: 8,9K+ Ao3 Link

It began with a proposal. The promise of marriage in exchange for protection.

A marriage…to the prince of Dragonstone.

Their breakneck pace had consumed two weeks' worth of time in an instant, and before Lucerys had a true moment to recuperate, he was standing upon blue-veined white marble within the Eyrie’s High Hall.

“Prince Lucerys,” The lady of the Vale welcomed him, eyes as blue as the sky creased at the corners in a small sign of fondness.

“My lady,” he greeted, lowering his head in a show of deference to his host.

“I pray your time in King’s Landing has seen you well.”

“It has my lady, and while I am eternally grateful for your hospitality, I’m afraid I will need to depart from the Eyrie soon.”

To her credit, Jeyne Arryn took the news with aplomb.

“Might I ask, who is stealing you away, dear cousin?”

“I am Targaryen, my lady, I worry you may find the truth upsetting.”

She arched a single brow, the same shade of honeyed-gold as her hair. Whatever fondness she reserved for Lucerys in the months since his mother’s passing seemed to vanish at the mere insinuation of him.

What power you wield, dear brother.

The image of pale hair stained more crimson than silver flashed through his mind.

“I see.” She replied with an icy sort of diplomacy that made his teeth clench cold. Her disdain gleamed through in the blue of her eyes.

“And you’re certain there is nothing I can do to persuade you otherwise?”

She spoke with a royal I, not only of herself but also of the Eyrie and all its vassal houses…House Corbray amongst them. He thought of Ser Corwyn – the kind, gentle Valeman that had seen him return to the Eyrie safely.

Corwyn, who carried Valyrian steel upon his hip. He pondered briefly the wail Lady Forlorn might make when she collided with Dark Sister.

The hairs on his arms stood on end. He prayed it would not come to such unpleasantries.

Yet, as he imagined falling sway to Lady Arryn’s suggestions and wedding Ser Corwyn, Lucerys’ mind only conjured the image of Alyssa’s Tears scorched dry by dragonfire, yellow-orange flames shot through with veins of green, and his betrothed’s body severed at the neck, his handsome head gnashed between Vermax’s thorny jaws…

Have care, I will crush him if he intends to deny your departure.

He recalled his brother’s words even a fortnight later, as though he was yet twined in Jacaerys’ arms rubbing mindless fingers against the dried blood, blood his brother had spilled in Lucerys’ name, upon the velvet of his sleeve. He chastised himself still for the thoughtless creature he had been reduced to with his lungs full of his elder half-brother’s scent: the heat of an open flame and the heady musk of white oak.

The thought inspired a conflicting sense of hot and cold spreading through his body. A simultaneous pleasure and pain.

“I think it is for the best, my lady.”

Her smile was amiable, but far from pleased.

“Very well,” She hummed in acquiescence.

It was not until she descended from her carved weirwood throne that Lucerys voiced another rather pressing concern.

“I must admit, dear cousin, I fear how he will take the news.”

Jeyne Arryn offered a soft smile, her hand folded over the delicate expanse of his forearm and he was reminded of the few times the lady of the Vale had taken him hawking in the Mountains of the Moon.

“He loves you, he’ll understand.” she reminded with a knowing tilt of her lips.

Lucerys exhaled. He hoped love might be enough to soften the blow of his elder brother’s proposal as Lady Jeyne escorted him to his apartments in the Maiden’s Tower.

. . .

A long soak in a marble tub had not seen his nerves much improved. In fact, Lucerys felt more disturbed knowing he was avoiding the inevitable.

He sank deeper into the water scented with orange blossoms and rose hips, while it was a distraction, it was certainly a pleasant one; it did wonders for his sore bottom after two hard weeks on horseback.

He hadn’t dithered for much longer before dressing.

He omitted his usual high-collared samite gown with a laced-tight bodice to accentuate curves nature had failed to provide, in exchange for a soft, modest shift to sleep in.

He layered a patterned dressing gown over his shift to stave off the everpresent wind of the Vale.

There was a knock at the door and Lucerys grimaced. He wasn’t ready, yet still approached his fate with a raised chin - as mother had taught him.

“Prince Lucerys-”

“Ser Corwyn,” He greeted, voice lilted in surprise.

“My deepest apologies, forgive the intrusion, I was not aware-” the knight stammered at Lucerys’ state of dress.

“There is nothing to forgive, the fault is mine own,” Lucerys murmured, cheeks warm, as demure as any proper worshiper of the Seven desired in an Omega.

The insinuation of his nakedness was enough, even layered in sleepwear as he was.

Lucerys crossed bashful arms over himself and Corwyn reddened further.

“I have heard the news of your departure,” Corwyn informed steadily and to the point, eyes focused on some fixed point just over Lucerys’ shoulder.

“From Lady Jeyne, I have no doubt” he had shared the news with none other,“– forgive me, it is uncouth to speak of my host in such a way.”

Corwyn shook his head.

“It was uncouth of my Lady to share business that was not hers.”

Lucerys swallowed, wringing his hands together, discreetly scratching small scent glands in his wrists until the air sweetened with his natural scent.

Vanilla and browned butter.

“I gather that she has informed you as to why I must be leaving…”

Corwyn nodded, nostrils flaring subtly. His jaw tightened.

“She has…”

He looked away, sheepishly with a dusky color upon his cheeks that revealed what his nonexistent scent did not. He chafed at the thought of Lucerys departing to Dragonstone - to Jacaerys.

“Ser, I pray you will not think less of me now…it is not a thought I think I can bear.”

Corwyn’s eyes were a bluish-grey, a beautiful, but understated color that Lucerys admired as the knight turned back towards him in shock.

“My Prince I would never.”

“I don’t believe our Lady shared this information with the thought that it might sour my opinion of you.”

“Oh,” Lucerys exhaled with the kind of smile that enamored countless at court, “good,” he hummed with a dithering kind of naivete a simpering storybook Omega possessed.

Corwyn appeared ensorcelled.

He prayed silently that Jacaerys might be so simple to gain mastery over.

“I believe my cousin has shared with me this news to embolden me…”

Embolden, Lucerys thought. Corwyn’s eyes focused on him then, breathing a touch shallow like he meant to sling Lucerys down onto the floor to ravage him…

Instead, the knight drew Lady Forlorn from the sheath upon his hip.

Lucerys’ heart stilled for a moment before Corwyn knelt before him, head lowered.

“With your permission, my prince, I would swear myself to you…as your protector.”

His brother’s words rang through his head once more as the knight’s hands clasped the weeping woman carved into the sword’s pommel and grip.

You have gone too long without an Alpha. Too long without proper protection.

Lucerys was not acquisitive enough to think he could have both his brother’s protection and Ser Corwyn’s.

A choice was required.

He imagined yet again the sound that Lady Forlorn might make when she clashed with Dark Sister, yet when he pictured Valyrian steel on steel he could only hear the bellow of a dragon…

“You honor me deeply, ser…but, I am afraid I cannot accept. To bind yourself to me on the eve of my marriage…it would not be wise. I fear my betrothed will think ill of it. However, I hope that should I ever need such a gallant knight you might permit me to call upon you?”

Ser Corwyn rose with a conflicted look etched upon his face.

His bluish-grey eyes softened as Lucerys draped an effete hand over the knight’s forearm. Corwyn’s gaze lingered on Lucerys’ hand.

“Of course, my prince.”

Again, Lucerys offered that affable smile and his sweet scent and all was well.

“Rest well, my prince.”

Lucerys blinked slowly, a soft smile about his lips, “I shall certainly rest easier now ser, thank you.”

With Corwyn addressed he would face his greatest challenge yet on the morrow.

. . .

In the morn he was awoken by the sound of his door opening and a riotous blur bolting inside. He was spared only a moment before said blur was atop his bed – bouncing.

“You’re back!”

“Joff,” Lucerys hummed, half asleep, partially shielding his body from each spring of his younger brother’s body.

“You’re back!” He exclaimed again with a wide, gap-toothed smile, “What was the capital like? Did you get to see the king? Is it true that you killed someone?”

Lucerys’ eyes widened immediately, what vestiges of sleep remained fled from him.

He wrangled his younger brother in his hands like catching lightning in a bottle.

Joffrey tugged at the silk sleeves of Lucerys’ shift, irritated at being held captive.

“Where have you heard such things?” Lucerys asked seriously.

“A girl from the kitchens,” Joffrey shrugged, “She said someone died-”

Gods damn Jacaerys Targaryen. Already whispers floated about the validity of his hearing of succession. Matters hadn’t been helped by the same rumor mills purporting that Ser Vaemond’s head had allegedly been fed to his elder brother’s dragon; he had yet to hear the word kinslayer but knew it hung on countless tongues.

“You should not repeat such talk, it is not princely.”

Joffrey tugged upon Lucerys’ sleeve, eager to be released.

“Swear it,” Lucerys commanded with a waggle of his finger.

“Fine, I swear it, let go-”

“You swear what?”

“I swear not to repeat unprincely things, Luke-” Joffrey whined.

Lucerys smiled fondly despite himself and released his grip upon his younger brother, content to let him whirl about.

And whirl he did. He had become so content in the Vale. A part of Lucerys mourned the thought of taking him from what had just started to feel like home. It wasn’t fair.

“Joffrey?” Lucerys called as Joffrey’s dark head bobbed around. His brother fiddled with something on the other side of Lucerys’ apartments; something breakable no doubt.

“Something did happen at court…something important.”

“Is this about you getting married? I already know,” Joffrey said, sounding rather bored as he watched the viscous swirl in a stoppered inkwell.

“Another rumor from your spy in the kitchens?” Lucerys asked, unmoved by his brother’s pout.

“No - and she’s not a spy!” He huffed defensively, “Melara told me that you’ll marry her father. I’m not upset, Luke, I promise. I like Ser Corwyn. If you marry him, do you think he’ll train me to be a knight and give me his sword when I’m older?”

Lucerys felt ill.

“Joffrey, come here,” He beckoned, voice trembling. His brother whined a petulant little noise, but remained at Lucerys’ desk, shaking the stoppered inkwell.

“Now.”

It was cruel, Lucerys knew, but he prayed none of his children were Alphas, that none would ever be so obstinate as his brother - brothers. He prayed for Betas and Omegas to quicken in his belly when the time came, for obedient children with sensible little heads on sensible little shoulders.

“She said House Corbray’s colors are like ours, red and black - and white too, but that we wouldn’t have to change very much.”

Change, Lucerys thought to himself, how much of that have we endured already?

Joffrey continued his blabbering, stubborn at that. Lucerys winced, his frustration mounting to a point of eruption.

“I won’t be marrying Ser Corwyn!”

Distantly, he heard glass shattering as the inkwell toppled to the ground. Lucerys bolted from the bed, taking Joffrey’s little hands in his own. He scrutinized his brother’s palms for any shards of glass amidst the overwhelming pools of ink on his pale skin…

“Why not?!”

“Oh, Joff, look at your hands! You mustn’t be so careless.”

His younger brother tore his hands out of Lucerys’ grasp, visibly crestfallen. The pristine white silk of his sleeve was slashed with ugly splatters of black ink.

“Why aren’t you marrying Ser Corwyn?”

Why? Why indeed…

Lucerys sighed. How could he tell a child of seven years about the politics of the matter? Or worse yet, that in the most aggravatingly primal sense, a piece of him yearned for Jacaerys…

“I’ve been presented with a stronger proposal.”

“But, you said we’d be safe here, that we wouldn’t have to leave!”

His younger brother argued, what else could he have said to a grieving child who had just fled the only home he had ever known? Their exodus from Dragonstone had been a hasty affair, yet in the midst of their pain and fear, it seemed the only thing they could do.

“This proposal means more protection, real protection,” Lucerys swallowed, each breath scraping the inside of his throat like shards of glass as his brother’s face reddened, “Joff, we can go home.”

Tears welled in the muddy brown of Joffrey’s eyes.

He held his brother’s dirty little hands so tightly in his own, clinging desperately.

“But if I am to keep my word, we must leave soon.”

Lucerys brushed an affectionate finger beneath the cleft in his brother’s chin.

“You haven’t misplaced Tyraxes’ saddle have you?”

Joffrey blinked slowly with a dawning realization, sadness forgotten at the prospect of flying again.

“No…”

“Good,” Lucerys hummed before ruffling his brother’s dark curls, swallowing beyond the lump in his throat as he spoke, “you’re going to need it.”

. . .

The fortnight he had allotted had passed, and for two days and two nights longer, Jacaerys had waited.

He had spent 6 years in the North as a ward of Lord Cregan Stark, estranged from his family, and yet, he had never yearned more ardently for his own blood than he did in the two weeks since leaving King’s Landing.

Every morning he waited on Dragonstone's beaches for a young white dragon to pierce the clouds and the scent of vanilla and browned butter to shower him from the sky; for Lucerys to come home to him.

Each day that passed he weighed the worth of simply collecting his brother on dragonback. Of flying to the Eyrie, Dark Sister in hand…like Visenya on Vhagar, and dragging his little wife home.

But then he thought of Lucerys…of sweet, gentle Lucerys.

He refused to force the matter. Lucerys would come to him in time, he knew it…

And so he waited, morning after morning.

And each morning yet he had been disappointed, though he was not the only one.

Baela was still bitter about his decision to break their betrothal that had been arranged since they’d been born…

A marriage done in the tradition of Old Valyria was binding, unbreakable, a union that could never be undone or annulled. Immutable to the word of any king or council. It was everlasting.

He’d been rehearsing the words since he’d had ears to know them. Leagues away in the bitter cold, they had given him warmth. The knowledge he might one day speak them to the one that he loved, as his mother had, as his father had, as was his right.

He was owed this. Tradition dictated for the two oldest children to marry, as Aegon and Visenya had; there was duty and honor in it. By definition, Jacaerys and Lucerys were their mother’s eldest children - the two destined to wed.

He stared at the sky, awaiting his destiny.

. . .

It was the third morning and the sky was a cool blue, drowsy in color when a bright streak sailed through it…

Descending toward the island like a falling star.

Lucerys.

Jacaerys had never seen anything so picturesque, so perfect-

Then came the rambunctious squawk of a dragon scarcely large enough to fly. Black and red and chasing after gulls, belching plumes of black flames.

Joffrey.

“Dohaerās, Tyraxes!” A reedy little voice called.

“Ninkiot, Arrax,” Lucerys commanded calmly and Jacaerys watched as that young dragon, glittering pearl white and gold, spread his wings to slow his descent to the island.

The sea breeze rolled over the shore, tasting of salt and morning air, of vanilla and browned butter…

Lucerys was a vision in supple charcoal gray, wool-lined riding leathers. His dark curls were wind-tossed and his cheeks a ravishing shade of red.

Those beautiful brown eyes widened at the sight of him.

His younger brother cleared his throat, calling up to Joffrey.

“Come down here,” He commanded, “now.”

Lucerys’ expression was unreadable as he marched across the sands toward Jacaerys, Joffrey in tow.

The dragonkeepers handled their mounts, even the unruly Tyraxes who had feathers hanging from his maw.

“Jacaerys,” Lucerys greeted coolly, with a defiant little raised chin. Jace wanted him then and there — marriage be damned, he wished to pup Luke in the sand. He pushed the thought away, quite capable of ignoring his hindbrain.

“Brother,” Jacaerys responded smoothly, smile softening, “welcome home.”

Lucerys gave a small nod, dainty gloved hands clasped together demurely.

“I apologize for making you wait,” Lucerys said primly, poised and practiced and perfect.

Jace chuckled, “Oh, I doubt that very much. Come along, we’ll get you both settled.”

They stepped through the Great Hall’s massive red doors, flanked by household guards at every step.

He felt Lucerys gasp as he pressed a palm to the small of his brother’s back, leading him into the hall. Luke walked along, spine stiff, his scent dripping from his pores.

It was surreal, sharing the space with Lucerys once more… It had been so long since they had been here together, lived here together.

“Prince Jacaerys,” Maester Gerardys greeted fondly, “and Prince Lucerys, how comforting it is to see you two together once more…”

For the first time since his brother had returned home, Jacaerys witnessed that icy demeanor thaw. His smile was soft and genuine and beautiful…

“It is…good to be home,” He answered, and to Jacaerys’ surprise, his words seemed sincere. Buried somewhere beneath the stoicism his younger brother wore like a coat of mail, he was happy.

“Your mother would be pleased.”

Lucerys’ throat bobbed and his eyes misted, for a moment he seemed to lean into Jacaerys’ touch upon his back. He steadied Lucerys instantly, naturally — it was what elder brothers were meant to do.

He caught a brief flash of gratitude in the corner of a brown eye when Lucerys glanced back at him.

“I’ll show you to your rooms,” Jacaerys said softly, to which Lucerys nodded, a pliant little thing.

“I know where my room is,” Joffrey called, running off blindly, to Lucerys’ horror and Jace’s amusement. Lucerys seemed mortified of Joffrey’s boyish behavior, like some minute thing would pull the rug out from beneath them, as though he may cast them out to the wilds once more…

He’d sooner fall upon his own sword than permit such a thing to happen.

“It’s alright,” Jace soothed, tasting the frantic spike in his younger brother’s scent, vanilla and burnt butter, “he’s home too.”

Lucerys nodded, swallowing thickly.

“When will the ceremony be?” Lucerys asked, his voice steady like he’d practiced the words.

“When would you like it to be?” Jace asked in return, something that seemed to bewilder his younger brother who stared up at him owlishly. Something he hadn’t prepared for.

“Soon,” he said, a tad uncertain as Jacaerys slowly circled him like prey.

“Soon?” Jacaerys echoed with a wily smirk. Lucerys’ brow dipped in what he knew was annoyance.

“Yes, soon, unless you intend on making me wait.”

There he was, Jacaerys grinned, all teeth - his Luke.

“Had I known you were so eager to be my wife, I never would have left King’s Landing without you…” His lips touched his younger brother’s ear.

Lucerys exhaled a shaky breath that he very badly wanted to be a scoff, struggling to right his mask of aloofness. The rich scent of vanilla and browned butter, nutty and earthen and sweet, betrayed him.

“Is tonight soon enough for you, brother?” Jacaerys asked, his subvocals flanging.

Lucerys turned, blinking up at him, pink-cheeked.

“Y-yes.”

“Good.”

“Good,” Lucerys said with his raised little chin, as though he had been so decisive, to begin with; Jacaerys could only focus on the cute cleft of his chin that he wished to trace with his tongue.

Without another word, his younger brother turned and exited the Great Hall, marching down a corridor after Joffrey.

. . .

Valyrian wedding ceremonies were not as time-consuming as weddings performed under the faith of the seven. The very same priest that had performed their mother’s wedding was summoned to conduct theirs.

The materials had been gathered and garments prepared.

A natural stone dias was dressed accordingly. A thick chalice of inscribed Valyrian steel sat upon the dias, filled halfway from a decanter of blood wine.

Jacaerys’ hands shook as he reached for the traditional robes worn during Valyrian wedding ceremonies. The fabric was a pale cream color, with thick blood-red collars and a gradient along the hem and sleeves.

They were meant to symbolize blood purity… the irony wasn’t lost on him.

“Father was the last to wear these…”

Jacaerys exhaled, fingers trailing over the dyed collar of the robe. He never had the right to refer to Daemon Targaryen as his father publically, yet as he stared at the garment, shapeless against his dressing table, it felt right. His father had worn these robes, and Jacaerys would wear them after him.

“He’d be proud of you…”

Baela intoned, her voice alarmingly gentle despite how angry she had been with him in the past weeks.

“Even if I’m marrying against his wishes?”

His sister smiled a radiant thing. Pretty enough to kiss, but he knew better than to try.

“Especially because you’re marrying against his wishes. You chose your own bride…he’d admire that.”

Baela stepped closer, inspecting the ceremonial garment. The fabric seemed endless when lifted into her tiny hands.

“You have every right to wear them, Jace. You’re a Targaryen.”

He nodded and began unlacing his tunic.

“Slower,” His sister bade, her deep violet eyes raking over every ounce of unveiled flesh with unbridled want. Spice flower and cinnamon hung heavy in the air. There was time when that scent beckoned him like a siren’s call, yet there had always been another scent, more potent —— dragonsong.

“I don’t want to forget a thing,” She added sadly, and Jacaerys felt a twinge of regret…she had always been good to him.

Jacaerys slowed, plucking away each individual lace with the utmost care. The garment swayed open and he heard the sharp intake of her breath.

He smiled softly. He couldn’t marry her, but he could give her this.

. . .

It all felt foreign to Lucerys like something out of a dream. His hair painfully twined into a snug series of plaits and braids atop of which the ceremonial headdress was placed.

The robes were long, the dyed hem puddled like blood around his feet.

Unbidden emotion snagged in his throat as he straightened the headdress. His entire life had led to this moment, from the day he was born and the maester had announced what resided between his legs. He was an Omega, he was born to be someone’s wife. Jacaerys’ wife. His face burned hot for reasons he dared not contemplate.

He was to be married and his mother wasn’t here to witness it…

He glared at his reflection in the looking glass.

He blinked away the tears quickly and straightened his back. Jacaerys wanted a wife and he’d get one…and Lucerys would get the legitimacy he’d been lacking. He would certainly be a wife, but Jacaerys had been born an Alpha —— he would become Lucerys’ weapon. It was all he could find comfort in; for this was not a union borne of love.

Lucerys’ bravado held up quite nicely as they traveled to the dais where the ceremony would be held. Jacaerys looked as he always did, aggravatingly handsome; rakish, even, in the long ceremonial robes with his silver hair bound in twists away from his face.

Countless candles burned around the dias, ensconcing them in a golden hue.

It was surreal, standing on warmed stone in the very same spot, in the very same gown his mother had once worn…

Joffrey stood beside Maester Gerardys, a sour look on his little face, in the same spot where Lucerys had stood as a child. Fragmented memories of his mother’s wedding washed over him like the dewy evening rain.

A hand in his clutched so tightly. Father had died. Warm lips pressed to his crown, there was no giggling when he pressed his cold little feet to the backs of warm knees; just a need to be sated, and comfort that was given. There was no room for laughter on the grim day. Mother had never looked so beautiful. The hand in his was pulled away. It hurt, that missing piece, like a severed limb…

“Luke?”

Lucerys felt the memory fade away as he blinked his way back to the present. Jacaerys stared at him with unabashed concern.

“Hm?” he hummed, “I’m sorry.”

“Are you ready for the ceremony to begin?” The priest asked.

“Yes,” Jacaerys said without hesitation, and all eyes were on Lucerys.

“Yes,” Luke nodded, the tassels of the headdress bouncing.

“Very well.”

Ceremonial dragonglass daggers were given to each of them.

“I’ll go first,” Jacaerys told him and Lucerys nodded, and when he smiled at Luke, it was the smile of an elder brother.

Rest easy, little brother, that roguish smile said, I’m here. His hands trembled as he brought the shard to his Jacaerys’ mouth. He didn’t flinch when Luke cut him. The dagger split the supple flesh of Jacaerys’ lower lip with ease. Blood oozed bright and warm. He gathered some upon his thumb, transfixed by it. The candles seemed to glow brighter, the air more fragrant. He painted the sigil upon Jacaerys’ skin.

His own dagger was lowered as Jacaerys approached. A large hand came to grip his chin, stroking the skin fondly. He tensed in anticipation of the sting of the dagger. He met his brother’s gaze, those hypnotic violet eyes, silver lashes brushed gold in the candlelight. He felt warm, very warm wrapped in Jace’s scent. His hindbrain was alight. Gently, the dagger sliced his lower lip, he hardly felt it.

He blinked and Jacaerys’ thumb was wet with his blood.

The liquid crimson felt hot against his skin as his brother painted the accompanying sigil.

Blood would flow, and their line would continue.

He watched as Jacaerys’ dagger carved a wound across his palm. Lucerys did the same.

The priest carried forth the chalice and spoke the binding words. An embroidered chord of gold tied them together.

“Hen lantoti ānogar”

Blood of two

“Va sȳndroti vāedroma”

Joined as one

Jacaerys’ hand clasped with his, the open wounds upon their palms bleeding into one another. Unerringly intimate; eternally entwined. The golden chord soaked crimson. Red oozed into the chalice.

“Elēdroma iārza sīr”

And song of shadows

“Izulī ampā perzī”

Two hearts as embers

Lucerys stared into the chalice, at the placid surface of the blood wine, small dots of liquid crimson littered the rim, like crushed garnets. His reflection stared back.

The wine smelled of figs and iron and was thick upon his tongue. He’d never known something so foreign, yet so perfect. Heat raced in his veins when he swallowed it. Jacaerys’ eyes never left his, his hand clutched so tightly…they were a perfect fit.

“Prūmī lanti sēteksi”

Forged in Fourteen flames

Fourteen candles stood taller than the rest.

“Hen jenȳ māzīlarion”

A future promised in glass

Jacaerys tilted the chalice toward his lips. Lucerys squeezed at his brother’s hand, fresh blood sticking between their palms.

“Qēlossa ozūndesi”

The stars stand witness

“Sȳndroro ōñō jēdo”

The vow spoken through time

“Rȳ kīvia mazvestraksi.”

Of darkness and light.

“Your vows must be spoken.”

Lucerys nodded and swallowed the urge to mewl as Jacaerys’ hand squeezed his; both comforting and consuming.

“One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever,” they spoke the words in unison. The lingering taste of wine on his tongue deepened. The richness of Jacaerys’ scent thickened in his lungs. He could taste only fire and blood…

The priest lowered his hands and inclined his hooded head towards them to indicate the ceremony was complete. Lucerys’ entire being pulsed hotter than the dragonmont. They were married. Bound in blood.

He stared at Jacaerys, still struggling to fathom when his brother’s lips were on his - kissing him, ravenously; like he had waited his entire life for such a moment. And it returned to him, the frayed pieces of a memory, like torn pages in a book, as Jacaerys’ hands gathered his face between them, tender and so familiar - they had done this before.

Oh.

He felt a fool.

He gasped when his brother pulled away, mouth red. Lucerys’ legs felt boneless. His hand clutching Jacaerys’ sleeve, anchored to his brother, his husband, his other half…

Jacaerys’ tongue chased the trickle of crimson from Lucerys’ mouth. He mewled then, openly, unabashedly, without meaning to.

His brother’s forehead touched his, tacky with blood. A deep flanging purr swelled there and Lucerys struggled to remain upright with his knees turned to liquid. A strong arm curled around his waist.

The sky shook with the triumphant cries of Vermax and Arrax. Blasts of dragonfire burst above them in a spectrum of color, yellow-orange, gold, copper, and bronze, swirls of white, pearl, emerald, and jade green. There were streaks of rainbow light where their flames collided as their dragons danced in the sky overhead.

With the wedding complete, only one thing remained…

Their wedding night.

. . .

The inside of the Lord’s chambers were carved in dark stone, the snarling heads of dragons frame towering columns around the bed, a blood-red canopy draped above it.

Dragonstone was not known for its forgiving weather, and despite the chill that was ever-present in the air, Lucerys felt like the flesh might slough off his bones from the heat that raged within him.

A fire burned in the hearth that resembled a dragon’s maw, with flames crackling between pointed stone teeth.

A touch dragged featherlight over his pulse and he gasped, body burning hotter than the fire.

He looked at his brother - his husband with new eyes.

“Forgive me,” He murmured in apology, “I feel…warm.”

Jacaerys offered a smile, a flash of pointed teeth that left Lucerys breathless.

“‘Tis your blood calling.” His husband explained.

Lucerys flushed deeply.

“Do not fret,” Jacaerys hummed, fingers finding Lucerys’ chin, stroking the skin fondly, “We will answer it.”

Lucerys nodded, struck into a demure state, his heart hammered hard in his chest.

There was nothing entirely complicated about seduction, Lucerys knew, most Alphas simply desired a chase. A submissive bit of prey that they could play with before devouring them whole. It became clear Jacaerys was no different in that regard.

It brought to mind a memory far more recent…

“Tilt your head, just gently over your shoulder. A tad more. Perfect. Lower your eyelids. Less, Lucerys.” Daemon clucked.

“I feel like an imbecile,” Lucerys complained, though his step-father chuckled.

“I assure you, you don’t look like one.”

He snorted, “Is this how mother got you to fall in love with her?”

Daemon hummed a laugh, flicking Lucerys’ ear as he passed by, “Don’t slouch, extend your neck. There. Delightful. Any Alpha with a knot between their legs will understand the invitation. And, no, your mother was the exception in that regard.”

Lucerys rolled his eyes. Unsurprised to find that his mother, as always, was so perfect.

“You have no shortage of suitors, even now, but it never hurts to know how to keep them.”

Lucerys flushed, “I have…suitors?”

Daemon nodded, “Many. Amongst our vassals Houses Bar Emon, Celtigar, and Massey have already put forth proposals for your hand. You even have the attention of an Alpha up North…”

“Truly?” Lucerys gasped, strangely flattered.

“He’s been the most persistent of all,” Daemon said with a wink.

“That’s enough practice for today, little one. With any luck, matters of marriage won’t be relevant for some time. At least not while your mother and I draw breath.”

The fresh loss of his parents' death yawned open once more, like a gash across his heart, at the memory, but he ignored the pain. His blood had already spilled today. Lucerys turned his back to Jacaerys as he began the tedious process of removing countless metal pins from his hair. Discreetly, he nipped at the scent gland in his wrist.

The aroma of vanilla and browned butter, rich and sweet dripped into the air. A Siren’s call.

Unlike Ser Corwyn who had merely blushed and floundered at the presence of his scent, his husband however, evidenced a more promising reaction.

He heard the sharp intake of Jacaerys’ breathing. The subtle beginnings of a growl left Lucerys weak at the knees.

He shook his curls loose with a soft sigh, he arched his back with an indulgent stretch.

When he turned back towards his husband, he did so employing everything Daemon had taught him. His head tilted coyly, his eyes hooded just right, bare neck extended boldly…

“Husband,” he called with intention, his voice a touch higher than it typically was, “shall we- mmph!”

Being kissed was as disorienting as it had been the first time, scorching, the taste of blood on his tongue. His husband’s hand cupped his bottom. Lucerys considered it a rousing success.

He panted, mouth slick. Jacaerys’ tongue glided against the roof of his mouth and something glittery and warm surged down to his toes. His brother’s fingers curled beneath Lucerys’ chin. A softer, kinder kiss was pressed to his crown, and yearning opened up in him like an old wound.

“I’ve missed you…” Jace whispered against Lucerys’ dark fringe. Longing resounded in his voice, spanning deep like the roots of a tree.

Lucerys swallowed, a strange sense of guilt left him feeling hulled. A part of him wanted to feel what his brother did as well, yet there were still pages torn from their story in his mind; pages he feared he may never recover.

“I-I’m sorry, I don’t-“ He stammered, frightened that his husband may be slighted by history Lucerys had forgotten…

“I know,” Jacaerys soothed, thumb pressed to the cleft in Lucerys’ chin. A dizzy back and forth was etched in his flesh by the callused pad of his husband’s finger.

When his brother kissed him a second time, it was a slower exchange. Jacaerys’ mouth and tongue coaxed his into action. It was evocative, sensual, reciprocal; dragonsong. It was the stoking of embers, the spreading of wildfire to every corner of his being.

“On the bed,” his brother growled, a crass hand swatted his bottom.

Lucerys nodded.

Their robes were placed aside and Lucerys settled upon the bed, skin bare and pulsing hot.

He laid carefully upon his stomach, firelight licking at his back. His face burned as he arched his back, his bottom sticking out in subtle invitation.

The bed dipped beneath the addition of another body and Lucerys drew in a steadying breath. His lungs were coated with the aroma of white oak and an open flame; heady and thick. His hindbrain secreted pacifying pheromones that left him strangely at peace.

He was going to be claimed, he realized, holding fistfuls of sheets. He would be mounted like a broodmare…

A warm hand grazed his spine.

A breath that smelled of figs and blood wine caressed his ear.

“What are you doing?”

Laid upon his stomach, Lucerys should have felt vulnerable; his neck was left exposed. He tilted his head against the bedding, curls loose as he caught the corner of his husband’s statuesque visage knelt upon the bed.

“I-” Lucerys swallowed, mouth uncomfortably dry. Even now, as bare as the day he was born, he was meant to exude aplomb. Jacaerys clearly desired a confident lover.

“I am not so naive, journals and written accountings detail that being upon one’s stomach is the most efficient way to ensure a successful mount…”

Jacaerys’ expression remained unreadable, but then he chuckled that pleasant sound that buzzed in Lucerys’ ears.

“...a successful mount.” Jacaerys echoed to himself with a shake of his damnable silver head. Lucerys flushed hot with embarrassment, feeling anything but confident.

A warm hand settled upon the small of his back. The simple touch inspired a strange building pressure. Jacaerys’ lips touched his ear and Lucerys exhaled a flustered sound into the bedding.

“You have spent too long with Andals that do not know how to fuck…”

His husband’s voice dripped thick and hot into his skull, like honey, or blood. His quim clenched. His husband seemed intent on showing Lucerys the error in his ways.

“Fucking is a pleasure. And Omegas were made to be pleased.”

There was lightning in Jacaerys’ voice, raw power, like the crackling of logs in the hearth.

“Here,” Jacaerys murmured, “turn over.”

He blinked up at him, at his pale hair, at his violet eyes that were nearly glazed black, at the sharp contrast of gold light and rich velvety shadows painted by the hearth across his husband’s body. His mouth had grown wet at his lean abdomen and sturdy shoulders, at his firm chest and strong arms…

A picturesque virile Alpha.

“There you are,” Jacaerys hummed, eyes so very fond.

His thighs are eased apart and Jacaerys settled between them. Each touch exchanged between them felt like it might set them alight. Mere kindling to a fire.

Every sensation titillated and overwhelmed.

A finger trailed featherlight from the hollow of his throat to the spot above his navel where that building pressure persisted. He was left gasping. Tears beaded in his eyes.

“Mm,” Lucerys sighed, unaccustomed to such intimacy, such nearness as his husband caressed the spot as the feeling worsened.

His fingers dipped lower toward the dark mound of his quim, wiry curls matted with slick.

Lucerys’ hips leapt from the bed with a cry at the barest touch. A clever, knowing thumb unveiled his bud, teasing it. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, wetting his temples, inevitably soaking into his loose curls.

His husband’s damp fingers teased along the seam of his quim; leisurely, as if skimming the lines of a book he had read before.

He felt as a digit slipped down to the knuckle into his velvety embrace.

“Jacaerys,” He croaked. The concave dip of his stomach quivered as his husband’s attention returned to the pink ache of his bud; his fingers made a lewd sound, so thoroughly wetted with slick.

Jacaerys’ silver head lowered with a knowing look and began to kiss him breathlessly; each press of Jace’s lips against his own selfishly stole what air remained in his lungs, and good sense from his mind.

He anchored a fist in his husband’s pale hair if only for an ounce of control, to claim something in return.

He sucked on Jacaerys’ tongue when it dipped into his mouth; he felt his husband’s body shake with a melodic swell of his subvocals.

“When I claim you, it shall be like this,” Jacaerys murmured through spit-slick lips into Lucerys’ panting mouth, their foreheads were pressed together, tacky with dried blood and sweat.

“Not for a ‘successful mount’, but so that I may look upon you, so that I may see the pleasure writ across this face,” His husband paused mouthing at Lucerys’ jaw, weight steadied on a forearm, Jace gazed down at him with such longing, “to have gone six years without it, ‘tis a crime against our nature. Yours and mine.”

Lucerys longed to pry the words apart, like field dressing a fresh kill, to permit nothing to escape his grasp nor understanding. Yet, his husband’s fingers grazed his cunt once more and all sense was lost, bleeding from the pulsing, open wound of his weeping gash.

A few fingers glided into his heat, effortlessly and Lucerys moaned. Ashamed of how easily his body had been reduced to something so carnal.

He was lost in the pleasure, the thick haze of pheromones in his head, and the scent of Jacaerys in his lungs.

When his hips leapt once more, it was to chase the rhythm of Jacaerys’s fingers spreading him open; shaping the walls of his quim like a smith molded metal — with patience and dedication.

His husband’s digits sought deep, fingers squelching amidst the sticky nectar and slick flesh. Without preamble, that knot of tension above Lucerys’ navel was pulled so readily to its limits, fingers pressing at the tender raised flesh until the tension broke.

Lucerys yowled, the sensation smarted, whip-fast as he came undone. His cocklet, stiff and yearning just above the seam of quim, spurted a few delicate ribbons of white against his stomach and chest. His quim gushed as a more potent release took hold, soaking around his husband’s fingers and onto the bed. A pleasure swallowed him so readily that he could not make sense of an end or beginning.

A garbled stream of hybridized Valyrian and common peppered his ears like a rain of arrows.

“There you are,” Jacaerys huffed, eyes ablaze with awe, “Issa lēkia.”

“ābrazȳrys…” he snarled, “mate…”

His body, so laden with pheromones only longed for one thing. To be claimed.

What power you wield, dear brother.

Jacaerys had tasted his blood once already. Surely he wanted more, needed more, needed to sink his teeth into Lucerys’ neck, where his bonding gland lay pristine and untouched.

“I, I need-”

“I shall give you what you need, wife.”

Pangs of longing littered his flesh, like ground glass in raw meat. He watched, mouth wet as Jacaerys’ cock swayed heavy and thick between well-muscled thighs.

It seemed impossibly large then; too large.

“Mm, b-brother… it won’t-”

“It will fit,” Jacaerys assured with a smile that Luke wanted terribly to believe, a brief kiss was pressed to Lucerys’ lips, “you were made for this,” another kiss, “you were made for me.”

Lucerys nodded, permitting his body to fall slack, tensionless, sedate with pheromones and supplicant for his Alpha.

The fattened head of his husband’s cock rubbed slowly along his quim, gathering nectar along the girth.

His stomach quivered as the glistening crown of Jacaerys’ manhood pressed obscenely large to Luke’s quim, puffy and pink.

“Shh,” Jacaerys soothed. His thumb toyed with Lucerys’ bud, rubbing tender little circles as the head applied a hint more pressure.

His legs spasmed as pleasure frothed in his belly.

He whined, the lips of his quim stretching to welcome the thick, drooling head.

His hips inched higher as Jacaerys’ eased lower. He envisioned the steel-tipped head of an arrow piercing the soft cushion of a straw-stuffed target.

The lips of his quim opened like a flower in bloom.

Jacaerys held himself painfully still as Lucerys mewled beneath him at the thin barrier of his maidenhead halting his brother’s path.

His brother kissed the salty spill of his tears; seeming to savor them as readily as he had Luke’s blood.

He awaited the agony that every maester and septa warned young Omegas of, for a geyser of blood to burst from between his thighs as his Alpha sank down to the bulb of his knot.

Yet, as Jacaerys finally slipped completely inside, it wasn’t at all as violent as Lucerys had imagined. It stretched the walls of his quim to what felt like its limits, certainly, but, the sensation did not inspire any pain. Rather, it felt like a wound being sewn shut, flesh knitted together, a sword in a sheath, a sense of completeness so profound that he wished to weep.

Oh.

“There you are,” Jace panted, a wry turn to his lips before his hips eased back.

A hand cradled his jaw as they laid, forehead to forehead, nose to nose. Blood upon their skin, sharing the same dewy breath.

One flesh, one heart, one soul…

The motion of Jacaerys’ hips was fluid, they beat against him as wrathful as the gale upon the sea. Every wave threatened to drag him under. Devastatingly beautiful.

Lucerys gasped, mouth agape as his brother’s eyes stared into his. Jacaerys’ hips pumped, large cock pushing and pulling his insides; molding him anew.

There was a harmony to it, the creaking of the bed, the crackling of the logs, the wet rhythm of Jacaerys’ hips colliding with his. The blood-red canopy above the bed quivered like a razed kingdom behind his husband’s silver head.

He dug frantic nails into the muscle of his brother’s back. He felt power. True power rippling beneath his fingertips.

The broad tip of his brother’s manhood found the raised flesh tucked away within his walls upon every thrust; pleasure spiraled and screamed within him.

Jacaerys’ grip tightened around his jaw. He began to lose track of what limbs were his and which were not.

Barely-there breasts bounced with every thrust, grazing his brother’s muscled chest. His nipples pebbled stiff as they scraped against Jacaerys, the sensation worsening the tension that tangled in his belly.

His quim fluttered, each pulse yearned to draw his husband deeper.

Lucerys dug a heel into the flexing muscle of his husband’s buttocks, urging him faster.

He mewled. Beyond words. Thrashing to bare his neck; recalcitrant and desperate. That only made Jacaerys fuck him harder.

Bloated stones, swollen with seed, slapped against Lucerys’ milk-white bottom.

Jacaerys’ free hand dug into the pliant flesh of Lucerys’ soft little bottom, urging his narrow hips to meet every harrowing plunge of Jace’s cock.

The wet lips of his quim, stretched thin, kissed the bulbous swell of Jacaerys’ knot upon every perfect union of their hips.

He urged his hips down, guided by his brother’s hand, yearning in a primal mania to have that knot inside of him.

The head of his brother’s cock kissed his womb, caressing that soft pink channel on every deep thrust.

His insides felt molten, like the flesh may slough off his bones at any moment. Like every cant of his brother-husband’s hips urged a tongue of dragonfire to lap at that sacred place. The place he yearned to have filled.

Jacaerys offered the dripping length of his tongue and Lucerys suckled upon it readily, filled by him so completely.

He anchored himself to his husband, nails caught upon the rippling muscle of his back.

He has no words left to give, save for a garbled string of “please”.

“Are you close, my love?”

Jacaerys asked, voice little more than a growl, his forehead pressed to Luke’s.

Lucerys thrashed at the delicious torment of his building release, tears streamed down his cheeks. He was close, horrendously so.

His husband’s lips found his, drinking deeply of his anguish.

The cadence of his husband’s thrust had grown all the more ardent in response. The very bed seemed to quake. Yet all he could see was Jacaerys, the silver of his hair, the violet of his eyes, Lucerys’ own blood painted upon his skin…

“Please!” Lucerys cried out, drunk upon the scent of white oak and an open flame, burning with a longing writ in their shared blood upon his very bones. Stripped of all constraints and vanity, he was simply an Omega in dire need of his Alpha.

When he arched his neck, his husband hadn’t the will to refuse a second time. He mouthed at the spot that so dearly needed attention, he adored it with his lips and tongue.

Each thrust fucked him so deeply into the rich, sweat-soaked featherbed. He arched, yowling at the unbearable sensation of his husband’s broad head at his womb.

“Once more, wife,” Jacaerys panted, breath hot as dragonfire ghosted along his lips, “come for me, brother. Shower me in your love.”

His bud was found and assaulted with the unrelenting press of sword-callused fingers; Urging him and higher.

And in a moment, he was undone, his release snapped like their chord of blood-red and gold and his world shook like all of Dragonstone would fall apart around them. His release gushed from his stretched-wide quim, drenching his husband and the bedding further. Jacaerys growled a deeply pleased guttural sound, his hips continued to pump into the squelching mess of Lucerys’ dripping sex, the firm grip of his hand cradled Lucerys’ jaw, forbidding him from looking elsewhere, at anything but Jacaerys.

He could only watch as a trembling look of awe passed over his husband’s face.

Jace’s hips surged forward and Luke bowed off of the bed at the undeniable ache of his husband’s knot popping inside. The thick head pressed against the slender pink opening of Lucerys’ womb. His thighs shook. Teeth were at his neck, kissing then breaking the skin. The bite was clean and perfect and unifying. Lucerys cried out towards the blood-red canopy above them. In that moment he saw a burst of color behind his eyes: the endless rainbow of their combined dragonfire. A third sharp release was upon him; brief and blinding. His cocklet spurted weakly, his quim clenched, milking the fattened bulb of his Alpha’s knot. A desperate whine fell from his lips as he felt it begin to swell. They were tied now, irrefutably: in body and blood.

His unspooling mind retreated to their vows once more as his brother’s seed distended the concave of his belly —— one flesh, one heart, one soul.

A rumbling purr started in his chest and his fingers wound through Jacaerys’ silver hair of their own volition. It was an intrinsic need as primal as the ache to purr, was the need to touch his brother. His husband. His mate.

He became prey pinned beneath his Alpha. His toes curled in atavistic delight.

He felt unbearably whole like he had found his missing piece.

When his brother’s lips inevitably withdrew from the fresh site of Lucerys’ bondmark, he was overcome with the bone-deep urge to weep. Yet, Jacaerys soothed him with a low, nearly musical flange of his subvocals that said, ‘Rest easy, little brother. I am here.’ Lucerys felt the spike of pacifying pheromones filling his frantic hindbrain, putting him promptly at ease. He felt the press of an aquiline nose to his temple, gentle and familiar. He fought his body's need to fall slack and submissive, instead twisting stubbornly upon the bed if only to feel the tug of his Alpha’s knot keeping them tied. A satisfied prickle of overstimulated tears stung his eyes. A dutiful tongue lapped at the slow ooze of blood from the site upon his neck.

A tug persisted at the base of his skull. A nascent thing through which all flowed. Their bond.

There was no word so apt for his current state other than claimed. Even still, adrift within the overwhelming emotion of it all, Lucerys sought some semblance of assurance; some logic to the disorder Jacaerys had made of him.

His mind scrabbled for clarity, despite how his eyelids drooped and his limbs curled into the preternatural heat of his Alpha’s body, wrapped in the woodsy aroma of white oak and the bittersweet bite of an open flame.

He fell deeper still into a place so utterly content as an aquiline nose and warm lips nuzzled fondly at his hairline. It was not long until whisps of vanilla and browned butter roamed in fragrant curls from his sweat-slicked skin.

“I’ll be going soon,” Lucerys said amidst a yawn as firm fingers pressed warm divots into the underside of his thigh.

“Going where, precisely?” Jacaerys asked, indolent, but displeased. The emotion trickled over, like rainwater through a leaking roof. Lucerys frowned at the feeling.

He thought of propriety, of what he’d been taught of formal marriages such as theirs.

“To my own chambers, husband,” Lucerys informed, though he hadn’t the strength to lift his head while he spoke.

“I could use the rest,” he added sweetly, knowing an Alpha’s ego was utterly in want of stroking.

Jacaerys exhaled through his nose before Lucerys felt its straight bridge touch the upturned curl of his own.

“Mm,” his Alpha hummed, “then rest.”

Longing poured over as a hand settled at the dip in Lucerys’ waist where they lay.

“You are my wife now, Lucerys. My chambers are yours.”

Curious, he thought to himself.

It brought to mind a memory formerly lost to him…

“Let me in!” Lucerys demanded in a nasally whisper, lips pressed to the crack in the door.

“Jace-”

The door budged far enough for him to catch the gleam of his elder brother’s silver-gold hair and he felt a swell of victory.

“I can’t let you in, Luke. Mother will have my head-”

“She will not! Oh, Jace, she won’t catch us. She never does.”

Jacaerys’ face twisted in a conflicted expression, but in his heart, Lucerys knew he had won. The door swung open and Lucerys rushed inside. His hand clasping with his brother’s pulling him towards the bed.

“You mustn’t make a sound, hm?” Jacaerys warned, a finger held to Luke’s lips.

Lucerys nodded giddily.

“I won’t. I promise.”

As the memory faded, Lucerys found himself unbearably drowsy, his head pressed to a strong chest, his cold little feet tucked to the backs of warm knees, as familiar as the lines traversing his palms.

I had mastered you once brother, he thought to himself as he squirmed closer into the cage of his husband’s arms, I can do it again.

#my writing #jaceluke #jaceluke agenda #jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys targaryen #dark jacaerys velaryon #lucerys velaryon #jacaerys x lucerys #hotd fanfic

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adarkandmagicalforest · 1 year ago

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i misspelled lannister oh no now tywin has to take me out back and -

#a song of ice and fire #asoiaf #game of thrones #house of the dragon #asoiaf polls #targaryen #visenya targaryen #daemon targaryen #eddard stark #ned stark #jon snow #tywin lannister #jaime lannister #brienne of tarth #otto hightower #samwell tarly

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aebi12 · 4 months ago

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"Resentment" - Chapter 21 [AemondxRhaena]

Summary

He is the cause of her sufferings. He took her dragon, her betrothed, and her father. Now, he will also take away her future by having to marry him.

With so much history and bad blood between Rhaena and Aemond, their forced union has everything to fail, except that the proximity will make them discover that perhaps they have more in common than it seems.

AU - the Greens win the war.

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13 - Chapter 14 - Chapter 15 - Chapter 16 - Chapter 17 - Chapter 18 - Chapter 19 - Chapter 20

Masterlist of my other works.

Read on AO3

Tags: enemies to lovers, slow burn, romance, angst, drama, eventual smut, hurt/comfort

Please remember that english is not my first language, so I'm sorry for the mistakes...

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Aemond does not return to the arena.

It is obvious the prince has left the tournament as the minutes tick by and he doesn’t show up, so the competitions resume, and in the end a minor lord from the Riverlands is the winner.

Not that Rhaena has been paying much attention, her mind on the tents where Aemond and Corwyn are surely being tended to.

“Congratulations, ser, and good fortune,” she says mechanically as the knight approaches to pay his respects, thus signaling the end of the tournament.

Finally.

Rhaena doesn’t wait long to step off the platform and cross the grounds on her way to the competitors’ tents. Though the common folk call her name, wanting her attention, she barely raises a hand in their direction, uncaring of the snub. She has to…

She pauses.

Where should she go first?

The two directions open before her. She knows the prince’s tent is to her left, separate from the ones for the other lords’. Eventually, she takes the right direction, moving through the tents and checking the banners, in case any of them give her an indication of who are inside.

“May I help you, my lady?”

A young man looks at her curiously. Rhaena stops and looks at him, “Are you a maester?”

“Indeed, my lady.”

“Are you tending to the wounded knights?” When he nods, she continues, “Have you tended ser Corwyn Corbray?”

“Just recently, my lady.”

“And how is he?”

“He will survive,” the young man frowns, “The only serious wound is the one on his side, but it will heal well with proper care. Would you like me to take you to him?”

There is a moment of hesitation on her part, “No. There is no need, I merely wanted to hear from him,” she sighs, “I imagine he will be taken to the castle to continue his recovery.”

“When he awakens from the sleep of the milk of the poppy, yes, my lady.”

Rhaena nods, “Thank you, maester. You have been very kind.”

She is about to turn away, when the young man speaks again, “Should I… should I let Ser Corwyn know that you asked for him?”

“No, as I said, there is no need.”

Without waiting for an answer, she turns and strides to Aemond’s tent.

***

“At least you had the good sense to withdraw before killing someone.”

His mother’s voice – or rather her complaints – only worsen the headache he feels throbbing in his temples.

“We can still attribute your behavior to some sort of… need to prove yourself or your worth as a warrior in a tournament being held in your honor,” the dowager queen continues, looking at him with a mix of disapproval and anxiety.

“It is irrelevant what the Court think,” he says quietly, the pain in his jaw beginning to show. That fucking Corbray had managed to hit him hard before he could push him away, “They wanted a good show and that’s what I gave them.”

“And since when do you insist on pleasing the common people?”

“Isn’t that what you wanted? For me to get more involved?”

“Not like this!”

His mother sighs, clearly exasperated with his attitude. The prince thinks there is a certain tone of suspicion in her claims, as if Alicent somehow sensed that something else motivated him to participate in the ridiculous tournament, but she does not press for answers. Still, she approaches the improvised bed where he is sitting and takes the clean cloth that the maester has left while he prepares an infusion for Aemond, and wets it in water, approaching her son and delicately placing her hands on his cheek.

The prince wants to murmur a thank you as he feels the cloth clean his wounds, but he cannot. He only limits himself to observing his mother’s still beautiful face, expression concentrated, cleaning the traces of blood, dirt and sweat that are surely stuck to his skin.

“If only you could see yourself!” sighs the queen, “The bruises will soon appear, how will you enter the Great Sept tomorrow in this state? Your handsome face is…”

“You are the only one who finds me handsome,” he interrupts her.

His mother’s response is interrupted by the arrival of his betrothed.

“Queen Alicent,” she greets, walking to a stop a few feet from them. His mother puts aside her task to turn to Rhaena, “Cousin, how are you feeling?”

Their eyes meet for a brief moment, but he doesn’t respond. It’s his mother who speaks, “The prince only suffered superficial wounds, thank the gods.”

“Thank the gods,” Rhaena repeats.

An awkward silence falls between the three of them. Aemond, who can’t speak freely, not in front of his mother, is about to say something when Rhaena intervenes again.

“Your Grace, do you think I can talk to my cousin? Alone.”

His mother, clearly intrigued, looks at both of them, searching for an answer, “I don’t know how appropriate that is.”

“Mother, go find the maester. Our conversation won’t take long,” Aemond’s voice is almost an order.

Alicent grimaces, but doesn’t protest, “I will be back soon.”

Rhaena murmurs a thank you and watches the dowager queen leave the tent before turning to him.

“You took your time before coming and fulfilling your duty to ask for my health.”

The bitterness, much to Aemond’s irritation, is clear in his voice. So is the insinuation and suspicion in his words, which is not lost on Rhaena.

“I assure you cousin, I did not visit him, if that is what you imagine.”

“You did not? Were you not crying at the foot of his bed?”

Rhaena presses her lips into a thin line and tilts her face to the side, clearly annoyed, but ultimately just shakes her head.

“No, though I admit I did inquire about his injuries.”

“Ah,” he smirks at her, “Of course.”

Rhaena takes a tentative step toward him, her hands fiddling with the hems of her dress, “I wanted… I wanted to thank you for not killing him.”

“I was tempted to.”

“But you did not, and I appreciate that.”

Her voice sounds so full of relief, Aemond hates to hear it, so he looks away and down at his hands still red and sore from this morning’s effort, his knuckles cracked from the force with which he had delivered the last blow.

“I imagine you did not enjoy the show as worried as you were for the life of your lover?”

“He was never my lover. And my concern was not exclusively for him.”

“Was it not?”

“No,” she answers almost fiercely, taking a step closer to the prince

“Well, I do not need you to worry about me,” he replies harshly.

No. You don’t need it, but you crave it. You desperately crave for her to… care about you, that voice whispers in his mind.

“Too bad I do. I care what happens to you.”

Aemond only shudders at the words that until a moment ago echoed in his mind.

“Out of obligation?”

“No,” Rhaena takes another step and they are now very close, so close that her dress brushes the destroyed fabric of his pants. She positions herself between his legs and, since the prince is tall, their faces are almost at the same height, “Because I was beginning to enjoy your company and our time together.”

At that, Aemond does not know what to say. Their gazes remain locked for a moment, until Rhaena takes the cloth that Alicent has left, wets it and looks at her cousin, asking with her eyes if she can continue cleaning him. He nods, hating himself, but longing for her touch.

“Does it hurt?” her question is almost a whisper, her small hands delicately fulfilling their task.

“Nothing I cannot handle.”

He is tempted to make a sardonic comment about Corbray’s lack of strength, but prefers to remain silent.

Rhaena nods, and for a moment he closes his good eye and enjoys her ministrations, her fingers brushing the skin of his cheeks, her familiar scent washing over him as they are so close that if he leans forward a little further, he would be able to touch her lips.

“And here?” The prince opens his eye when he feels Rhaena’s hand rest on his chest, over his heart. He looks at her with a confused expression, “Are you happy after taking out your anger on him?”

It doesn’t escape Aemond’s notice that his cousin hasn’t mentioned Corbray’s name out loud. And that, in a way, pleases him, so he decides to be honest.

“Partly, yes,” he answers in the same low tone of voice, “Though I would have been more satisfied if I had gone all the way. At least he got what he deserved and paid for his crime.”

“There was never a crime to pay for.”

“Mmm,” Aemond watches her expression, trying to find some trace of a lie in her eyes, something to betray her words, “Even if I was tempted to believe you, you too must pay for your audacity in meeting him. And him for even suggesting it, for dancing with you, for wrapping his arms around you, for almost kissing you and touching you.”

Rhaena shudders upon hearing this, and the prince wonders if she can detect the possessive tone in his voice as he tells her all these things, “I apologize, cousin. I know I acted in a way that does not befit my position. I am aware of that.”

“Well,” Aemond places his hand over the one Rhaena still has on his chest, slowly stroking her fingers, “It’s good that you have that clear now that you will be my wife.”

“Your wife and therefore you are the only one with the… right to do all those things?”

“Mmm.”

Rhaena smirks, “Well, cousin, that remains to be seen,” she replies, surprising him by noticing her hardened gaze, “Tomorrow you too will become my husband. And I expect the same as you ask of me,” his cousin steps back so suddenly that he can do nothing to prevent it, and only their hands remain joined. She gives him a gentle squeeze before breaking free from his grip and standing at a safe distance, “You know what I mean.”

Yes, Aemond knows what Rhaena is talking about, but he doesn't say anything because Alicent returns at that moment with the maester and she takes the opportunity to leave the tent.

***

Lady Johanna's gaze is on her, watching her with a mix of curiosity and pity?

“I am sorry, my lady, I am afraid I am not the best company this evening.”

They're gathered alone in lady Lannister’s private chambers. Her invitation had surprised her, although she was grateful for the distraction considering that her mind was still returning to the conversation of a few hours ago with her cousin. Had she really given Aemond some kind of… ultimatum? And more importantly, was she even going to be able to fulfill it? It wasn't as if she could stop him from taking her by force or…

“I am perfectly capable of understanding you, Lady Rhaena,” the woman delicately wipes the corners of her mouth with the cloth napkin, “The day before my wedding I didn't eat a bite, I spent it in bed imagining the worst possible scenarios about my future husband and married life.”

“Were you not familiar with Lord Jason?” she asks curiously.

“He was our lord paramount, of course. I had seen him a couple of times when he visited The Crag, but not enough to really get to know him.”

Rhaena nods. She knows that this is how it usually goes in such unions, “Were you scared?” she dares to ask.

“Terrified,” Lady Johanna smiles wistfully, “That is partly why I took the liberty of requesting this meeting. I thought that perhaps you needed a voice with experience on the subject now that you are faced with the fate of every other noble woman in the realm.”

“And I appreciate your consideration towards me.”

“Surely you have doubts,” the woman continues, making a face very similar to Marianne’s when she is concentrating on something, “I imagine that Lady Laena did not have the opportunity to speak with you on these matters, considering that the gods took her when you were still young,” Rhaena simply nods, her heart filling with sadness at the mention of her mother, “And Princess Rhaenyra probably did not speak to you either since your engagement to Prince Lucerys never materialized and times were uncertain.”

Rhaena smiles vaguely, and lifts her teacup to her lips, “I know what is expected to happen tomorrow in the marital bed, my lady, my septas spoke to me of it.”

“Ah, the septas!” Lady Lannister sneers, “They know nothing of the subject. And, if they do know they never dare to speak.”

“Your words do not comfort me,” she lets out a nervous chuckle.

“It is not pleasant. At least, not at first,” she sighs, “But it is our duty, and, with time, it becomes more tolerable. Enjoyable, even, if you can get your future husband to stop thinking only of himself, and take more notice of you.”

“Oh,” is all she can say because the truth is, she has no idea what Lady Lannister is talking about. The woman laughs and sips from her wine glass, clearly understanding her silence, “Do not worry, remember my words and you will understand them as the days go by.”

“I will trust you, Lady Lannister.”

“What I’m really trying to tell you, my dear, is that you need to understand your future husband. Generally, all men like women to be obedient, accommodating, and to simply nod along with everything they say, but we can be more than that.”

“Was that the case with your husband?”

“My husband, gods bless him, loved to hear the sound of his own voice. He was not the brightest, but I learned quickly that he didn’t like being contradicted too much. I would pretend to agree with him, and simply whisper things in his ear, but I did it in a way that Jason thought the ideas were his own,” she smiles sadly, “I am not saying it will be like that with the prince, but you know him, you’ve spent time with him. Learn and observe, it will serve you well.”

Rhaena thinks about her words. She had had a similar thought, of course, but she knows that her relationship with Aemond has changed a lot since then. Weeks ago, when she had wanted to get along with him, it was simply to feel secure in her marriage. Now that there was, somehow, some attraction between them, as well as some sense of competition and battle of wills, everything was more complicated. She knew she should give in, but she didn’t want to. Just as she knew that Aemond showed some weakness towards her, but only at times, only when he was vulnerable, which wasn’t always.

“I’ve given you a lot to think about, it seems,” Lady Johanna’s voice brings her back to reality, “I know that too much is demanded of us, but it will all be worth it if you can earn his respect and regard. His heart, even. And when you give him a son, he will shower you with praise because he will see in him the continuity of his lineage, especially in the situation you find yourself in.”

“I know.”

“It will be worth it, believe me,” she repeats, “A child will change your life, your way of thinking and considering things. And that child will be for you too, especially at the beginning, it will be your world.”

Rhaena doesn’t know if that prospect terrifies her or makes her long for that moment.

“Thank you, Lady Lannister.”

“You are a clever and nice girl, Rhaena, use that to your advantage,” she replies and stands up, “I will not detain you any longer, I am sure you have many things to do.”

Rhaena exchanges a few last words with the woman, and goes straight to her room. When she arrives, she finds several maids packing her belongings into trunks and chests.

“What are you all doing?” she asks Cindy.

“Queen Alicent told us that we should move your things to the Tower of the Hand, my lady.”

The Tower of the Hand. Aemond’s chambers.

“Right, of course.”

Rhaena doesn’t interrupt them any further, she simply sits on the edge of the bed and watches them work, until other maids arrive to fix her hair.

Once again, she doesn't protest, she just lets them undo the dreadlocks from her hair, which takes hours, but she doesn't complain at all, she doesn't complain about the pain or even mention that she would have preferred to keep them. It doesn't matter. Not really.

When they finally let her alone, she lies down on the bed and tries to sleep. And the gods seem to take pity on her once again because she manages to do so without any problems.

***

“You look beautiful.”

The compliment comes from Marianne who, standing behind her, also looks at her reflection in the mirror.

The words of thanks stay in her throat, so she just reaches for her lady’s hand and squeezes it tightly.

It’s not that she doesn’t like what she sees. She knows Marianne is right, she looks good. The dress is a beautiful ivory shade with dark red sleeves that fall to her feet. The details embroidered in gold threads seem to symbolize the flames of dragon fire. The ruby necklace at her throat exquisitely complements the outfit, as does the tiara that looks delicately placed on her mane of silver curls.

She looks more than good, if she is honest with herself.

And yet, she can’t help the feeling of fear and at the same time anticipation that runs through her body.

“Clearly Queen Alicent has good taste,” Marianne continues, “This dress is perfect for a royal wedding.”

Rhaena nods, “Remind me to thank her.”

She doesn’t think she’ll even be able to say anything coherent during the day.

She doesn’t even think she’ll be able to make it to the Grand Sept on her own.

“Come, we mustn’t be late.”

Her friend takes her hand and guides her into the courtyard of the Keep, where she expects to find a carriage, but instead she finds a beautifully decorated open carriage.

“The people will want to see you,” she explains before giving her a hug and saying goodbye.

She is not alone, however. Her cousin is waiting to help her up and make the journey together.

“Lord Alyn, good morrow.”

“Rhaena, you look lovely.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

She does her best not to damage her dress as she sits down. Her cousin settles in as well, and the carriage moves forward, weaving through the people outside the gates, calling out her name.

Thankfully the commotion frees her from having to converse with her cousin. So, she turns her attention to greeting the people, smiling as convincingly as she can and trying to catch some of the flowers thrown her way.

“The people love you.”

Her cousin helps her down as they stop in front of the Great Sept. “People love an occasion to celebrate,” she replies, smoothing the skirts of her dress.

Alyn smirks and offers his arm, which Rhaena takes, slowly moving alongside him.

“We haven’t had much opportunity to talk these days.”

“The wedding took up much of my time, surely you understand, cousin.”

“Of course,” he replies cordially, “However…”

“There is nothing else to discuss,” she replies as she begins to climb the many stairs, “You are to marry my sister, you have assured me that your intentions are the best, and I believe you. I hope your union will be one filled with joy and that, when we meet again, it will be under equally joyous circumstances.”

Alyn does not reply. Although Rhaena has not yet written to Baela, her mind occupied with more pressing matters, she does not tell lies. She believes the new lord Velaryon’s words. It is not her sister whom she is truly concerned about. At least not in matters of marriage.

The Great Sept is brighter than the other times she has visited. Hundreds of candles are lit beneath each altar. The nobles, already assembled, stand in front of the main altar of the Father's statue, and Rhaena notes that only a select group of them have managed to enter the ceremony.

When a trumpet sounds, all eyes turn to her. Alyn begins to advance along the path marked by brothers of the faith, who hold candles and look very solemn. Rhaena does not make eye contact with anyone, her eyes fixed straight ahead, focused on taking one step after another.

“Remember what I told you, cousin,” Alyn whispers when they are already reaching the point where the royal family is standing, “I am here for you.”

Rhaena offers the briefest of nods as she removes her arm from Lord Alyn and walks to where Aemond is waiting for her.

Although the journey is short, the seconds seem to drag on forever as she takes the final steps towards her fate.

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

It is the High Septon who speaks, a goofy smile on his lips as he looks at her with fatherly affection. Rhaena bites the inside of her lip and kneels before the altar. Aemond walks slowly up behind her, and places a heavy black and red cloak over her shoulders.

Then, he offers her his hand to rise. Rhaena takes it, her heart pounding in her chest as she stands and stays beside the prince.

Has he worn the cloak before? She can’t help but wonder as his scent envelops her. Or maybe it’s just the fact that they are so close to each other.

“Your Grace, my lords, my ladies, we stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of a man and his wife. In the presence of the Seven, I join these two as one flesh, one heart, and one soul for all eternity.”

The High Septon’s words take her breath away, causing her breathing to quicken and her legs to weaken. Aemond seems to notice, because his hand goes to her elbow, holding her. Rhaena doesn’t dare look at him.

“Look upon each other and say the words.”

This is it. The moment Rhaena has been dreading. Not only because the words she must speak next are the final hammer blow to the nail that is her sentence to join her life to Aemond's, but because she is not sure she can even speak. What if she can't make a sound and only manages to embarrass herself in front of the court?

Her thoughts are cut off when her cousin faces her, and she, instinctively, does the same.

Rhaena looks up at Aemond and holds her breath as she watches him.

The bruises that weren't quite as visible yesterday are now. A purple bruise covers the left side of his chin and another is noticeable high on his right cheekbone. The girl is tempted to raise her hand and cover his face, but stops herself, finally placing it next to Aemond's, now holding hands facing each other.

“Father, Smith, Warrior,” the prince begins, and instinct guides her, making her repeat the prayer as well. A prayer she has practiced and knows well, “Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger. I am his and he is mine. From this day until…”

“Until the end of my days,” Aemond finishes for both of them.

The High Septon utters something else and the attendees break into applause and cheers, but Rhaena pays them no attention, her gaze still focused on Aemond.

And the way he is looking at her, with… possessiveness and desire all at once, his one good eye scanning her body up and down, making her blush when he finally meets her gaze again.

And though she’s dreaded this moment for the past few months, though just a few hours ago she was miserable about joining her cousin, now she can’t help but feel the same anticipation he seems to be feeling. And the thought sends a rush of pleasure through her body.

Because she is finally his wife.

And he is hers.

Until the last of their days.

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