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eldrith · 2 months ago

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ғʀᴏᴍ ᴇᴅᴇɴ ; ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏɴᴇ.

ʜᴏɴᴇʏ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ғᴀᴍɪʟɪᴀʀ ; ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴍʏ ᴍɪʀʀᴏʀ ʏᴇᴀʀs ᴀɢᴏ

jacaerys velaryon x fem!reader words: 3.1k synopsis: jacaerys falls for a woman in aegon's garden. notes: happy haunting season! here's part one (more of an introduction or prologue) to my october mini-series! a little horror love-letter from me to youse <3 so many thanks to my beautiful sweet brains @useralba & @dipperscavern ... dippy fetched my header for me & they basically co-wrote this whole concept. chapter warnings: this is The Most Normal™️ part out of the whole series so not much. canon-typical mentions of death/grief, but jace is thugging it out. morally gray jacaerys (& reader) throughout the story, though hes p normal in this. series masterlist. main masterlist.

A SHARP ACHE PIERCES JACAERYS’S MIND.

It has lingered, ebbing and flowing in the corner of his vision since the news came by raven this afternoon; whispers of fury, nostrils flared around the Painted Table as gasps of shuddered grief echoed in the dusting quiet. A gust of sharp wind blows his curls from his temple, his lips wettened and chilled by the cold of eve.

Soil turns soft underfoot as Jacaerys stalks down a trail less frequented; the Outer Bailey of Dragonstone Castle is thick with land, and yet rather sparse in people - most of whom are within tubs. Or, more likely, tending to those within the tubs - though tonight, as much as it can be afforded, he wishes not to not remain within those suffocating walls.

Walls which still echo, in the slumbering quiet when candles are all snuffed and guards repose drearily against stone, with laughter and footsteps of his kin; walls which whisper of doves, wings clipped and soiled by blood of innocent, by hatred stale and harbored.

Walls which used to hold his family - which now cage the fragmented remainder of such a thing; of tense jaws and eyes that cannot help but glaze over each other in pursuit of some long predetermined destiny.

He sniffs against the chill of the evening, rather disturbed by the beauty, raw and wild, of the island - steep cliffs clumped by wildgrass and staggering up into sharp black slates, which yawn high into the sky; the Mont, steeping with heat and nesting ancient beasts within its belly.

And the garden, just ahead - a primordial thing, once shining and primed by the glory of a beautiful empire. When he'd stormed from the council room, he'd been rather dead-set upon the garden - if only in a bout of frustration lingering in the denial of his mother, yet projected as a sharp mind ache that laid somewhere in the bowels of Aegon's Garden. Searching for a figure, one that likely exists in only his imagination - the one he's seen through bleary eyes of his chamber window, dancing through leaves and past faces of stone; their presence a low hum in the back of his mind that pierces and grates against his resolve.

The castle’s hearths burn low now after supper, and the eve falls dreary upon quiet ocean-misted moors. His footsteps drag untenanted, burdened by the weight of some distant crown as he clenches tight to his pommel.

Those empty feet had indeed carried him all the way down from the tower; past guards and faces familiar, as though his mind was tethered to a memory, a shadow flickered in the distance of his chamber window.

The cliffs are black in the fall of night, the walls of the keep warm but crumbling in the lower Baileys. The Sept - a rather forgotten relic these days - has a soft glow from within; though through the thickening fog, Jacaerys wonders if the figures he sees within are truly there.

Silent Sisters, his mind whispers, though there is no body reclaimed for them to prepare. She lies with the Red Queen still; a war without bodies, though he fights the thought from festering - no bones to wrap, no flesh to burn. Only names, which will die on the tongues of those who are too agonized, too vengeful to mourn.

The trail is unkempt; it is not often the inhabitants of the island come to the Garden, less so now that looming war plagues the realms. Death grasps Dragonstone Castle in its implacable grip these days; and anger, that hungry beast that bites at the tail of revenge - it ravages his house.

He has known since the very first moon they came to Dragonstone, all that time ago - in the earlier years; Luke, Joff, and himself - stumbling over hilts longer than their legs, watching the spiraling towers of Dragonstone become swallowed by thick clouds. And there had been Maester Gerardys, in the first of many lessons to come round the table, tone imbued with something rather distant, gaze fixed upon the window.

Even now, years later, Jacaerys knows that the ground he walks is tainted - the Dragonmont looms, its acidic breaths falling in years over toppling years, watching Dragon Kings rise and leave for their birthright; and yet still it remains, sprinkling its volcanic acids to leech into the earth below.

The soil the castle was built upon is imbued with the very acid that grows beneath the island’s crust - and from it, the plants in Aegon’s Garden now grow unruly, unbidden; No longer tended to by hands familiarized with their needs.

The soil is rich, Maester Gerardys had looked out the sharp window in the drum, eyes weathered as the skies. But even when the Conqueror landed, it was unfit for nurturing life. We eat not from the fruit which grows from this side of the island. The blooms stay within their home, and return with each cycle of life back into the ground.

Evening fog swallows the burst of trees on the other side of the Thorned Dragon; it twists into the sky high enough that Jacaerys can see the horns through the iron gates to the garden. Fresh sprouts crawl out of the earth from under the wall, curled with the kiss of frost which visits each evening and thawed by the island's sun come each morning. Life into death.

The circle turns.

The gates to the garden are marred with the same rust that crawls up the chains lining the Western Docks; Jacaerys grasps the cold metal and pushes through with surprising ease.

A creak of groaning metal. Trees are gnarled; they twist and wind down the path that he walks, his mind lingering up in the thick clouds - a faint gust sends the scent of smoke through his nose.

Dragonfire.

A clench within his chest; the falling of the Queen Who Never Was echoes in his mind, the fluttering of raven’s wings, the whisper in a chamber much too empty for all the people who occupied it - and a suppression of the stab of loss which threatens to crawl out his throat.

The garden is bright, despite the falling daylight. It bursts with untamed indigenous flora, thick with the air of blossoms - roses, red and thorned; bark, dampened upon twisted trees older than his mother’s mother, rough under his palms. Stoned statues loom with twisted grins in the half-light, some relic of his ancestors which turn now to mock him in his solitary march.

Jacaerys’s breath comes out in a puff of fogged chill - the evening brings a cool seabreeze, although his heart has always beat rather warm.

A gentle caress seems to bring forth a curling smile from a bushel of red anemone blossoms as he passes - a twitch of a grin upon his own lips though the lingering feeling of walking deeper into a shadow looms within his mind.

Any semblance of peace is disrupted at the slither of fabric around a lingering statue of a melancholy ancestor, a rustled noise - his heart stops.

Though his mind is muddled with tumult, there is some life breathed back into him when he catches a glimpse of shining tresses around a tall thorny hedge, and the snaking curl of dress skirts around the bottom; and so he begins to stalk after the scent of earth, of some deep turn of late summerfruit.

Another flicker of movement, a rustle in the vines; and still he follows, heart slamming as the clouds roll over the sunlight.

In the deeper part of the garden lies the Thorned Dragon - a once-wonderful iron statue which now crawls with thick vines and time-bitten rusted holes; though below sits stoned benches for respite.

And there Jacaerys halts his footsteps, deadening at the sight before him.

Concealed, only the whisper of skirts near hidden feet, strands of glowing hair, the peek of one timid eye thickened by long wisps - of a brow that arches, peeking only just so from beside the iron Dragon.

A young woman.

“Hello.” His voice is schooled with confidence - this is his island, after all.

The sun glints in a sharp fight against the rolling clouds; the foggy cloud around his feet swirl as he carries himself with curiosity - it is unusual for Housestaff to venture into such a place. At his voice, there is a flicker, a twitch - slither of skirts until his gaze meets the pair of wide eyes.

You stand on legs doelike and unsure, bent slightly at the hips as if prepared to skitter away at the slightest of movement; and he, with a skip in his heart at the glow of your skin, the flutter of lashes upon sweet cheeks.

“Hello,” you echo his very essence, voice a mirror of his own tone though syrupy and curling with the warmth of summerfall.

He is struck at once by your beauty.

A breeze picks up; the scent of rich earth beneath his boots, the thick blooms even in so chill a climate. Skirts blown back gently, your hair rustles against the wind and he finds the soft beauty upon your visage arresting.

Your feet are bare. His brows drawn, he moves just slightly, cloak fluttering in the wind; and you, watching with owlish eyes as he nods cordially, struck with the natural compulsion to greet you with proper manners.

“I am Jacaerys,” he is rather unsure why he omits Prince from his introduction - though with a pang of storm clouds looming in his mind, he dwells not.

Indeed it matters little, for you offer some sudden beaming smile - a bright thing, a leap from his heart at such a blessing from the Gods as you have been given; and you nod gently, lips glistened and pale.

A sharp smile, something that would seem coy, unpropitious if not for the small flash of kindness that lingers in your stare.

“-Jacaerys Velaryon,” you finish, dropping into a curtsey that brings about a slight glide of interest over your form; he chastises himself sharply in his head, bowing back.

A Houseworker, then, though he’s never seen you in the halls; nor has he seen a maid or cook wear such material of their gowns. He reclines upon a stone bench; you follow after he invites you kindly, your eyes skittering over the fine folds of his tailored clothing, lingering on the line of his jaw, then hooking rather intently on the dragon upon his chest. Your own dress seems to shift with the light - it is white, then gray, then a near muted purple; it fits with the glow of your chest, with the glint in your eyes.

You tell him your name then and it lodges itself warm and wanting into the cavity of his chest. It drips with the glazed sweetness of blooms left in the care of the sun and preserved in the chill of shade.

Pines linger tall around you; a sea of green, though the true thing lies far in the distance, its tidal breath a slow roll in the evening air. Your fingers are lithe as they trace over a spiny vine hanging off the Thorned Dragon; and yet, peculiarly, you give no hiss as you press your thumb down against a thorn - in fact, your lips curl into a quick grin, eyes dark in interest when the thorn nearly pierces your flesh.

“-Why are you here?” His question is one rather improper, though he finds himself perturbed and cannot bring himself to feel remarkably bad. Indeed, your dreamy hum silences any doubt that may linger in the back of his mind, “It was my assumption not many come to Aegon's Garden anymore.” He admits.

And something about his words must be amusing to you; a grin that you hide with a tilt of your head, your hand leaving the thorn on the vine. He can smell the scent of your hair; a honeyed thing, a gentle thing. A sweet thing.

“I tend to it,” you murmur, voice gentle as a psalm, though your eyes flicker off towards the peak of a twisted treeline upon the far end of the garden, past the murky bog. “-Though sometimes I feel as though it tends to me.”

Dreamlike, your eyes glaze over - and Jacaerys is left rather uncomfortable against the cooling stone. A foreboding prickles at the edge of his mind; and as fog creeps towards the shore each morning, he has a sudden urge to back away from your curling chill - there is something familiar within your lilt, in the way your eyes shift under dappled sunlight. His aunt had much similar a tone when they were young; with fingers that slid between bars of small cages, prodding creatures which nuzzled back against her, musing words that never quite strung together right.

“And you?” You add now, fingers cupped within your lap. His brows draw as you murmur again, “What brings you here, my Prince?”

Behind your shoulder is the long path narrowed by closing hedges, by twisted trees and creeping vines untamed and wild with life; with life, a part of him rejoices silently, life, though so much death looms over Dragonstone these days.

His hesitation lingers in the quiet thick fog that creeps through the grass. “I’m…” His brows furrow, a sudden cloud of amnesia confusing weighing his tongue. He feels almost blank, save for the sweet scent of you beside him.

“...I don’t know.”

A flicker of your visage in his peripheral, as if you’ve moved - though when he turns to your countenance once more, he wonders if the sharp, darkly unnerving smile that had flashed onto your face was only in his mind. It unsettles him deeply within his stomach as your eyes remain upon his, muscles lax, as though the smile you’d given earlier was the first in years.

His mind is too clouded - Rooks Rest has weighed heavy on the tongues of the council today, though it seems it weighs even heavier so on the mind. He must be rather exhausted.

“I…” He struggles once more, unsettled by the false image of that hungry grin, gaze focused upon the soil, fresh and puffy below his boots. “I thought I was…looking for something.” It is said absently, straining to recall his initial intentions - and it feels only slightly incorrect.

You do not say anything to this, and for the sake of his nerves, he pretends to ignore the growing smile slow over your countenance in the corner of his vision.

In a breeze cooler than expected, his unnerved eyes rise to the Castle - up, to the window of his own chambers high within the spire of the Stone Drum with such direct view of the garden, of this very statue.

Gulls cry in the distance; the blooms overgrown above your head seem to droop, as if bowing towards your companionship. A beauty Jacaerys has never once fathomed; though he is momentarily distracted by the movement of your hands, once so still within your lap.

It is with surprise when he finds your fingers delicately peeling away at some foreign fruit, revealing the glistening flesh within - and your lips, wettened with your tongue as you pluck at the tissue of its skin.

A heaviness in his throat, muddled bewilderment leaking through the cracks of his mind; though any true alarm melts away as you slowly bring the fruit to your gentle, awaiting lips, its crimson juice staining your fingers.

Slow bites, teeth sinking into tender flesh in the stillness of the bright garden; and Jacaerys, transfixed upon the glow of your skin, the gentle sigh from your chest at the taste. It is bizarre he has never once seen you here - perhaps you are new to the island; with the influx of residents within the castle, it has provided ample new jobs for the smallfolk around. He is certain he’d have remembered such arresting eyes.

It is a sight so innocent, yet so incredibly salacious in its sudden intensity - he finds it a battle to cast away his gaze; his toes drag through the dirt upon the earth, watching the sprouts bounce back upwards once the pressure of his presence is relieved.

“Have you ever had one?” Your voice curls through fog, some sweet melody that startles him. His cheeks are flushing red, though you are much too enraptured with the fruit, lips stained dark as wine. “-A fig,” you mend, an afterthought as your eyes rise once more to the larger of the trees deep in the gardens; and a buzzing haze that creeps through Jace’s mind as the empty shell falls from your fingers onto the ripe dirt below.

He watches it lie to rest, bespeckled with the damp dark of soil.

The circle turns.

His mouth is dry, and he struggles to swallow; “No,” he admits, clouded by déjà vu and a sudden, mild perplexity. “I haven’t.”

Your lips curve into that slow, knowing smile once more - less unsettling when it is fixed upon his gaze this time. Your fingers trace the smooth skin of another fig before your palm extends, offering it with a slight tilt of your head. “They are divine,” your words lilt, syllables sung out into the garden’s thick air. Divine.

And gods, you are divine - an arresting thought, one that jolts him out of the trance he’d so unwittingly tumbled into - and with a blink, he hesitates.

A half-remembered tale told in the dim light of hearths drawn moons, years ago - and he shakes his head, the thought of food at a time like this rather sickening. “Where did you get them?” he wonders instead of accepting, though your palm remains outstretched, enticing. There is a thrumming in his ears, though he realizes with a start that his headache has ceased.

“They come from me,” you reply coyishly; though there is some glint in your eyes, some shift of the breath you take - and he looks away just before that smile reclaims your face.

A strange girl, he decides. A strange girl, yet quite endearing.

He cannot help the smile he returns to you, a short chuckle, mostly out of nerves from him which is echoed rather enthusiastically, nearly unsettling in its fervor, by you.

His heart beats faster, though he cannot say why - his lips are wettened by the prod of his tongue, and he pretends not to notice the flush upon your hollowed cheeks, nor the way your head seems to dip lower to observe his countenance.

“No, thank you,” he declines, voice barely a whisper; and his eyes search yours, your name echoing heavy in his mind - so familiar a name.

Your smile returns, though this time it is sharper; and with darkened eyes, the corners of your lips twitching as if you already knew what his answer would be. When you respond, it is not what he expects. “As you wish, my Prince.”

And then you bring the last fig to your chest, fingers delicate even when they tear at the little flesh as though you've been starved; his stomach rolls, entranced as a drip of juice rolls down your chin, crimson against your muted skin.

Night falls. Council will be called soon, he knows - and the bells will be rung though they are barely heard from outside the inner bailey. Jacaerys is hesitant to leave, yet there is a chill that has begun to seep through his bones; a pit that grows within his stomach. Each pulse of his blood through his heart, a bite of your teeth into the fruit of the fig - but he waits until you’ve finished your repast to clear his throat.

“I must return,” he decides, a strike of hesitance at your look, that kind stare that flickers in the death of sunlight.

You hesitate as he rises, just for a moment - and then, leaning forward as crimson fingers grasp the stone bench, your smile drops. A fleeting thing, a sparrow upon a windowsill, a hummingbird through the morning air.

“Thank you, Prince Jacaerys.”

His brows furrow; and you, staring up at him with a gaze so unalloyed, so pure - a lingering darkness in his chest that grows each day of unrest cooped up in his coddled little nest within the island.

Though he smiles only gently back at you - a twist of soft pity that bleeds into an odd affection for such a sweet stranger; a much needed respite from the faces much too familiar and suffocating in the choking smoke of war and duty.

“I suppose I find myself rather lonely,” you confess, eyes dropping to stare at the figs that now rest in your lap - a blink from Jacaerys at the sight of them, once more bewildered at their presence. “Not many come to the garden anymore. I worry I tend to it only for myself these days.”

Jacaerys finds himself rather uneasy - there is that guilt that coils familiar, a serpent squeezing his stomach. The circle turns, he thinks.

“I will have to return then, my lady.” He feels rather uneven on his feet, “This garden is quite beautiful.”

And if you bristle at his assumption of your title, you do not show it; an absent look has plagued your seraphic features, leaving you with shallow breaths and a plumped lower lip. “I would hope so, Jacaerys.”

For a dreadful moment, he fears you might begin to cry; a stoke of regret and pity through him. Though it is quelled rather abruptly as you snap up, eyes staring down the row of hedges behind him before returning to his own, much more warm than before.

You hold his gaze for a horrible few breaths - and he knows not what to do, as you sit faraway and dreamlike, your hair moving in a breeze he cannot feel.

“Are you turning in soon?” He wonders, unable to quell his curiosity - he cannot imagine your duties much require you to extend your services into the dark of night, though he admittedly has paid less than staunch attention to the Housestaff as of late.

Your eyes remain distant, though a soft wisp of a smile grows as you rise to your height, standing oddly against the vines which creep down towards you.

You look back beyond his shoulder, a glint of firelight in your eyes though the sun still whispers its last stretches of breath across the indigo sky.

“Not so soon, I'm afraid. The roses need pruning,” you sigh. “I detest thorns.”

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drgnmnts · 4 months ago

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knuckles bruised (like violets) │ jacaerys velaryon x targaryen!OC

Title: knuckles bruised (like violets)

Pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x Targaryen!OC (Daenys Targaryen, daughter of Viserys I Targaryen and Alicent Hightower)

Summary: There is no war so hateful to the gods as a war between kin, especially for those caught in between, longing only for peace as they're met with fire and blood.

_______________________________________________

Chapter 6 - Second of His Name

Conten warning: mentions of su1cide (not explicit)

Word count: 3k

Ser Criston Cole gave Daenys a fright when he woke her up, as the hour of the wolf slipped away and gave way to the nightingale. His rich brown eyes, who had always looked at her with fatherly fondness, were now dark as a raven, and the look on his face was one of concern.

“What’s the matter?” Daenys asked, sitting up on what once had been her childhood bed.

“You must come with me at once, Princess,” he said, “Her Grace the Queen has summoned you in the Hand’s Tower.”

____________________________________

Daenys could barely remember the last time she had visited her grandsire’s chamber, but she was sure she had never seen the place so crowded: Ser Otto was standing by the fire, his clothes pristine and poised as he stared at the flames; Queen Alicent, also dressed in her day garments, was sitting on one of the chairs by his desk, the other one taken by Helaena who, just like Daenys, was still wearing her nightgown. By the window, Aemond stood tall as he watched the moon set outside.

“Did something happen to Aegon?” she asked as soon as she noticed her eldest brother’s absence. Alicent stood then and walked to meet her daughter at the door.

“No, sweetling, Aegon is—”

“The King is dead,” informed Ser Otto before Daenys’ mother could deliver the news. Alicent let out a heavy sigh, and Daenys heard Helaena whimper.

As she felt all the blood in her head rush to her feet, ridding her face from any color, Daenys let out a soft “oh”. Alicent grabbed her hands and rubbed at them, her attempt at comforting her youngest daughter.

“How?” Daenys asked. Her eyes were brimmed with unshed tears, but somehow she felt unable to cry.

“In his sleep,” explained the queen, voice thick from all the crying. “A servant boy was changing the incense in his chamber when he saw him.”

Daenys sighed heavily, trying to process such grim news.

“I must write to Rhaenyra, I think she’d prefer to hear it from me,” she said. As she turned back towards the door, however, Ser Criston blocked her path, his eyes looking straight ahead.

“What are you doing?” she asked, and once again it was Ser Otto who answered.

“No one is to leave this room until we decide what our next step will be,” the man declared.

A knot set in the pit of Daenys’ stomach.

“Our next step?” she repeated with a humorless scoff. “Rhaenyra is to be our queen now, we must send word to Dragonstone and start with the preparations for her coronation. That is our next step, what is there to decide?”

The silence that followed her question was deafening, and realization fell upon Daenys’ shoulders like a stone.

“You wouldn’t dare,” she muttered in disbelief. “That is treason.”

“It was your father’s wish,” intervened Alicent, her white handkerchief clutched in her hand. “Last night, when I visited him, he told me he wished for Aegon to succeed him.”

“Beware the beast beneath the boards…” muttered Helaena, although no one seemed to pay her any mind.

Daenys shook her head in confusion. “You lie,” she uttered, and this made Aemond turn to face her immediately.

“Mind your tongue, sister,” he said, and his words felt like a slap on the face.

Alicent put her hands up in a conciliating manner. “It is the truth, Daenys,” she said, “I would never lie about something of this importance.”

Daenys crossed her arms over her chest, defensive. After a moment of silence that felt like a decade, she spoke again. “They won’t accept this. Daemon won’t accept this.”

“They will be offered generous terms,” said the Hand.

“If you think that will suffice, then I’m afraid your delusions of grandeur might have gotten the best of your intelligence, Grandsire.”

Otto Hightower’s anger used to scare Daenys as a child, but not anymore, and she held his cold gaze with defiance.

“Aemond,” he said, “escort Helaena back to her chamber. And do me the favor of finding your brother.”

With a curt nod, Aemond took Helaena’s arm with a gentleness he seemed incapable of, and the two left the room without uttering another word. The idea of staying there with her mother and grandsire sounded worse than torture, but as Daenys made her way to follow her siblings out, Ser Otto called her name again.

“I am afraid your lack of cooperation has led me to make a radical decision,” he began, as he closed the distance between them with slow steps, like a predator circling its prey. “You’ll remain in your bedchamber until Aegon’s coronation—”

“You’ll imprison me?” she inquired, utterly taken aback. “Mother!”

“You can’t be a prisoner in your own home, Daenys,” the queen said, but both of them knew that wasn’t true.

“The Queen and I cannot trust you,” he continued. “You’ve proven yourself more loyal to Rhaenyra than to your own family. I cannot have that kind of insurgence taking place in my own household, so from now on you will obey. You’ll remain in your bedchamber until Aegon’s coronation,” he repeated, “and after that you will stay here, at King’s Landing, where you should’ve been the last six years. There is no need for that marriage pact anymore.”

Daenys’ face paled, and she blinked rapidly as if trying to clear her vision and make sense of what her grandsire had said. There is no need for that marriage pact anymore. Jace’s beautiful face flashed before her eyes, and an involuntary sob escaped her lips.

“You cannot do that,” she choked out while she took a step back, as if she was being pushed by an invisible force that made her behave like a scared animal.

Alicent sighed. “Royal marriages are politics, Daenys—”

“I do not give a fuck about your bloody politics,” she snapped, and Alicent clutched her chest at her daughter’s improprieties.

“Careful,” warned Ser Otto.

“I am a woman grown,” she continued. “You might still be my grandsire, but you’ve long lost any right to tell me what I can or cannot do. I will go back to Dragonstone.”

“You shall not,” he insisted.

Daenys’ lower lip trembled as she felt like a little girl again, restrained and powerless in a house that was ever unable to show her love. “I would sooner throw myself out my window than stay here.”

Ser Otto took a step closer. “Do not threaten me, child,” he warned again.

She knew in her bones that this battle was lost. It didn’t matter what she said, or how much she pleaded with them to let her go. This decision was clearly long in the making and not an ounce of it was improvised or prompted by her father’s sudden death: Ser Otto Hightower never did anything unpremeditated.

Alicent tried to approach her daughter again, but Daenys was quick to remove her arm from her grasp as she took a step back. “I would like to return to my chamber, please,” she said, her voice quavering from holding back her need to cry.

Ser Otto gestured for Ser Criston to walk Daenys back to her impromptu prison cell. It was only when the heavy wooden doors were closed behind her that she allowed herself to collapse on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably as she was overcome by a sorrow she had never felt before.

______________________________

The day had dawned and turned to dusk again, and Daenys had not been allowed to leave her bedchamber. She had been served food twice, but of course she had rejected it, fearing the Hand might try to poison her to get her out of his way. She was now sitting by the bay window (which had been closed shut with locks to prevent her from escaping— or jumping to her death), leaning on the stone frame as she watched the specks of dust dance around the room with the setting sun.

Her face was puffy and red from crying, and her hair was now a disheveled mess after freeing it from her braids. She did not move when she heard someone opening the door.

“I heard you had quite the meltdown last night,” her visitor said. It was Aegon.

This made Daenys stand up immediately, defensive. However, what she saw in her brother’s face caught her completely off guard: Aegon’s face was as blotchy as hers, with dark circles under his eyes, and his sky-blue orbs now bloodshot red.

Since his sister did not respond, he spoke again as he sat down in one of the chairs by the fireplace. “They have me walking around to sober up so I can get some rest for tomorrow.”

Daenys wondered if he even remembered the awful things he had said to her during dinner. Her expression tensed. “They’re crowning you tomorrow?”

Aegon nodded, eyes glued to the dancing flames. “At dawn. In the Sept.”

“Gods…” Daenys whispered, covering her face with her hands. That meant the ceremony would take place before the smallfolk. There was no going back after that. Rhaenyra would be devastated.

As she sat next to her brother, he spoke once more.

“I know you probably won’t believe me… but I’m as much a prisoner as you are, dear.”

Daenys turned to look at him. He certainly didn’t look happy about becoming king; in fact, she couldn’t recall ever seeing him so miserable.

“Then refuse the crown, Aegon” she said. “Say you don’t want it. Bend the knee to Rhaenyra and this whole misfortune will end before it even starts.”

Aegon laughed bitterly.

“I begged Aemond and Cole to let me go. I would gladly get some gold, buy a myself a passage on whatever ship takes me as far away from here as possible and never set foot in this fucking shithole of a city again— sorry.”

Daenys shook her head; the least of her concerns was her brother’s profanities.

“This doesn’t feel real,” Daenys murmured. Aegon patted her knee in an attempt to give her some consolation. “What happens now, then?”

Aegon let out a heavy sigh. He looked tired, and much older than he actually was.

“I wish I knew.”

“Did they say anything about me?”

Aegon furrowed his brow in thought, as if trying to come up with the best way to word the information he was about to share with his little sister.

“They want you to bend the knee to me, of course. I suppose they intend to use you as some sort of messenger to speak to Rhaenyra, perhaps expecting her reaction to be softer if it’s you. And… well, you already know about the betrothal.”

The mere mention of her betrothal to Jace made her jaw clench, eyes cast down. Aegon noticed.

“You really love him?”

Daenys met his eyes again, and this time hers were brimmed with unshed tears. She nodded, lower lip trembling.

Aegon’s expression was a mixture of curiosity and genuine wonder. He nodded his head as he turned his gaze back to the fire. “Lucky,” he murmured.

Daenys wanted to agree, but she felt anything but.

Both siblings remained seated by the fire until the hour grew late and someone came to fetch Aegon. They were mostly quiet, but Daenys would occasionally put her head on his shoulder, and Aegon held her hand twice. Despite Aegon’s many flaws, the eldest son and youngest daughter had more in common than they had ever realized: both ignored by their father and constantly sermonized by their mother, knowing painfully well that they were not what she had expected them to be. Aemond was loyal and upright. Helaena, kind and soft. Even Daeron, who had spent most of his life away, was said to be stalwart and chivalrous.

Daenys and Aegon existed solely in the margins of their family, only brought to the spotlight when necessary, always to the benefit of others. Just like Daenys had been sent away in her youth to unite their family, Aegon was now being brought forward to secure the crown.

Before he left, Aegon hugged Daenys for the first time in many years. Then, she was alone again.

_________________________________

She hadn’t been able to sleep the whole night and, when the handmaids came into her chamber at dawn to help her prepare, Daenys was sure her ghost-like state gave them a fright. The women bathed her and clothed her in a simple pearl-white dress, very similar to the ones she used to wear as a little girl, and she was certain it had been her mother’s idea. The handmaids braided her hair in such an intricate and beautiful way that Daenys would’ve thanked them, had it not been for the lump in her throat every time she caught sight of herself in the mirror.

She was escorted to the Sept of Baelor by four members of the Kingsguard, and she knew Daemon would’ve found it amusing, for they were treating her as if she was some sort of criminal instead of just a girl without her dragon.

Upon their arrival, Daenys took her place next to Aemond, but didn’t utter a word to him. She watched the small-folk enter the Sept until it was full to the brim.

“People of King’s Landing,” began Ser Otto, his voice powerful as he addressed the crowd, “today is the saddest of days. Our beloved king, Viserys the Peaceful, is dead.”

The people audibly gasped and spoke amongst themselves, and Daenys wondered if they really felt the loss of their king, or didn’t care at all.

“But it is also the most joyous of days,” he continued, “for as his spirit left us, he whispered his final wish that his first-born son, Aegon, should succeed him.”

After a moment of confusion, the crowd applauded, as knights and musicians alike entered the premises, ready to receive their soon-to-be king. Daenys felt sick to her stomach as she watched Aegon march through the crowd, visibly upset and insecure, but anger was also starting to bubble up inside her: you shouldn’t be here. None of us should be here.

“It is your great good fortune and privilege to be here to witness this. A new day for our city. A new day for our realm. A new king to lead us.”

After Aegon had knelt before the Septon to receive his blessings in the name of the Seven, Ser Criston took the Conqueror’s crown and put it on Aegon’s head.

“The crown of the Conqueror, passed down through generations. Let the Seven bear witness: Aegon Targaryen is the true heir to the Iron Throne.”

Ser Criston was the first one to bow his head to his new king; he was followed by Alicent, Helaena, and Aemond. When Aegon’s eyes fell on Daenys, they were pleading. She could feel her mother’s gaze, and the Hand’s, and the hundreds of people waiting for her to acknowledge her brother as her King. Whatever I do, I am a traitor, she thought.

Flexing her knees ever so slightly, Daenys curtsied to King Aegon II.

“All hail His Grace, Aegon, Second of His Name, King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”

Each toll of the bell felt like a dagger through the heart; an ominous warning of the wars to come, a reminder that the situation wasn’t a dream, but real life, and so would be the consequences.

As the crowd erupted in cheers for their new king, however, Daenys felt the floor beneath her vibrate as if they were standing on a volcanic crater. Before she could even turn towards her siblings, a giant dragon, scarlet as the blood that ran through her veins, emerged through the wooden floors: Meleys.

The Red Queen screeched as she came completely into view, and amidst smoke and cries of help, Daenys felt Aemond grab her wrist as he stood in front of her and Helaena.

Princess Rhaenys looked majestic on her dragon, and Daenys’ heart leapt in anticipation when she saw her eyes scanning the family until they fell on her. Rhaenys gave her a barely-there smile.

“I am not here to shed blood,” the woman said, her voice resonating in the now quiet sept. “This war isn’t mine to begin, and I am no kinslayer. However, I cannot return to Dragonstone without Princess Daenys.”

Daenys’ eyebrows shot up as she drew a breath, her heart beating with such intensity that she could hear its thumping echoing in her ears. Aemond’s grip tightened around her wrist.

“Aemond,” she said, eyes wide in agitation, “let me go.”

Aemond’s brows furrowed in something akin to affliction, and Daenys had to peel his fingers off her so he would finally release her. Daenys looked at her family one last time: Helaena seemed miles away, while Ser Criston kept his eyes glued to the dragon. Alicent and Aegon stood together: her, with eyes wide and glassy; him, with a faint smile. From the other end of the altar, Ser Otto watched her intently.

When Daenys made her way down the stone stairs, the dragon’s enormous head turned towards her, her threatening jaws opening to let out a warning sound.

“Vēttan se, Meleys,” said Rhaenys, and the she-dragon lowered her head. Allow it.

Daenys lifted her skirts and grabbed onto the rope ladder that connected directly with Rhaenys’ saddle. She climbed as fast as she could, aware that the more time they spent there, the more likely it would be for someone to try and attack Meleys.

As she settled herself behind Princess Rhaenys, Meleys taking flight shortly after and thus getting them out of the Sept, there was only one thought in Daenys’ mind, which repeated itself over and over again:

I’m going home.

______________________________________________

If you liked this, let me know in any way! <3

Don't worry, we'll see Jace again next chapter, and I think you'll like it hehe.

Also, just a reminder that I'm open to requests if you have any! :)

And once again, thank you for your patience and all the kind comments!

_______________________________________________

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vanilleandclove · 5 months ago

Text

the meadow in which you lay | 2

ser erryk cargyll x arryn!reader | chapter two: lady arryn, oathbreaker

More years have past, when the sworn shields of Rhaenyra shift to that of Viserys's sons, Aegon and Aemond, both young and sprouting boys, the houses gather for the funeral of Lady Laena Velaryon. Only, the funeral is yet once again marked with violence from the interference of the young and old, greens.

word count: 2k | warnings: oral sex (female receiving), slight insults to one's gender and sexuality, the reader hates the greens (her vibes are off) | a/n: two parts in one day woop woop!

previous - next

taglist: @wolvestitches @holb32 @callsignwidow

"A raven has come in for you Lady Arryn" Margot lightly curtsied, "My deepest condolences my Lady, I know how much you and the Lady Laena accompanied each other with Rhaenyra".

As you read the raven's word, you surely wondered if it was pure farce, 'Lady Laena Velaryon, wife to Daemon Targaryen, mother to the Ladies Baela and Rhaena Targaryen, has passed in her labors'. Your knees faltered, wondering if it was a curse to the years, you have not spoken to one another; Laena became a wonderful mother to her two beautiful and fierce daughters she shared with Daemon. The Velaryon blood is known to be kind, fierce, and strong, you know for certain her dearest daughters will be an image of that. You looked up from your hands as they held the message, glassy irises, blinking away the tears, your throat scratchy and dry- as if sandpaper was cutting into your larynx.

"Margot" you spoke up before clearing your throat, "Would you kindly see to it that two ravens are sent. One to the Princess Rhaenys and her Lord husband Corlys, sending my condolences for their loss. The other to my cousin Princess Rhaenyra, telling her I will be voyaging to Driftmark and will meet her and her sons there".

"You are missing one person I am afraid" Margot insinuated, you looked into her eyes, and gave her a slight nod.

"And to Ser Erryk and his brother".

Come Laena's funeral, you took note to Daemon's shock of death, everyone grieves differently especially how he was the one who stumbled upon the Lady as she wanted to die a dragon-riders death but laid to rest as a Velaryon. You dressed in your late mother's dress, attending Laena's funeral with your brother. You donned in a black dress with blue, almost white accents that were meticulously sewn into the fabrics. Your brother and his dear wife Lady Tully- now Arryn- showed upmost respect to your mourning.

"You are rather looking stunning Lady Arryn, welcome back to Driftmark Lord Arryn and your Lady wife" Lord Corlys smiled somberly, giving your hand a tight squeeze, your father always took company with Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys, them being a close ally to the point of family. "We already made sure to secure your sleeping arrangements for the week, the journey must have been taxing".

"Anything for the Velaryons, you are a close to kin to us Lord Corlys" you nodded, "Where might Laena's daughters be, I would like to comfort them?"

Princess Rhaenys directed you to the benches, seeing the beauty that has become of Laena's children. They truly were an extension to their mother. Giving them a tight and lasting hug, the girls further sobbed into your arms, gripping onto your dress, you lightly cooed into their ears to soothe them; looking out to the view in front you, the tides were rather high.

As you left to seek business elsewhere, glancing over to Aegon and Aemond to their sworn shields, now Ser Erryk and Arryk. You gave them a light nod before furrowing your brows that met the gaze of Criston and his mistress, Alicent. You owed them no respect, especially from the events that followed but more because of how Alicent insulted your choice to not marry in order raise rumors of your sexuality and perhaps if you were born a man. You've heard it all, since then, you have not spoken a word to the Queen, nevertheless you did not give a fuck about simple formalities, she was no Queen, she was a consort whom whispers tyrannical rulings alongside her poor excuse of a father into the Kings ear, granted he was also a sad excuse of a man.

"Dear cousin" you hugged Rhaenyra, lightly petting the heads of Lucerys and Jacaerys, they have grown since you've last seen them, freckles kissing the kids face, "How is Laenor?".

She nodded, keeping a hand on your wrist, "Cannot seem to find him cousin, though, how was the journey?".

"Far too long I am afraid" you chuckled, your eyes wrinkled at the answer, you greatly enjoyed ventures from the Vale, noting that Kingsroad had beautiful scenery. "I am grateful to be staying here, Jeyne prefers to be left at home alone, she is one to be riddled angst. My brother and I tried to persuade her to come to company Jace and Luke, perhaps they'd become close friends".

Rhaenyra lightly smiled, "I'd prefer them to be in her company than that of the Queen's children" noticing the refusal to call her kin, her siblings. Jeyne was quite the cunning and caring girl, though it was not a weakness but a skill.

The night ventured on, losing sight of Rhaenyra and making your way to the Kingsguard, taking company in Ser Erryk. You took in his appearance, his beard no longer just stubble and his hair had grown, it's copper tones being kissed by fire in the dim light. How handsome he has aged, you cannot shamelessly admit how much the heat grew within your legs, may you see it to your chambers alone in the later hours. You were seemed to be a horny-stricken teen who ached to be felt and known.

"My brother and I received your raven" Erryk started, your face could not resist to smile. "Did not think you'd send one my Lady Arryn".

"You know my name Ser Erryk" you lightly snickered, "No need for formalities… my love".

You searched his eyes for an answer that his mouth could not give, your foreheads lightly touching one another, wondering if you could allow yourself to give up decency and let him break an oath, one of the highest in the realms. A complete lapse of judgement that it was, the pool that soaked your dressing underneath your dress, your heart betraying you in the way you could not understand, begging it to silence itself for you could not dissuade the knight into bedding you and breaking his oaths to the King.

"I cannot- We cannot continue" he lightly murmured, grabbing at your waist, you shuddered in the halls of Driftmark, "You make it hard to maintain a sworn oath my love" the way his affections rolled off his tongue.

"Leave me" you choked out faintly, your lips almost touching his, "Erryk. Leave me" your hand grazing his cheek. "I cannot bare to see you and not have you, need that be in love or in friendship. You make it hard to resist".

"I cannot do that either I am afraid" her whispered, finally kissing your lips just as he did when you were the age of 16, but with a harsher undertone of lust and the years of pining for one another. "I cannot please you in the means of pleasing me. Though, I can please you my Lady".

You quickly opened the door to your chambers, rushing in Erryk in order for no one to question. As you allowed the knight to undress you, you worked on his breeches. "Stop" he delicately paused your advances "This is solely for you my love". You panted as the knight's ease into undressing you, furrowing your brow as you wished to please his just as much. Your cunt quickly became exposed to the knight, his mouth salivating, begging to taste you.

As the knight firstly started with spitting on your heat, even if your wetness was sufficient enough to grant ease, he wanted to mark you, however he can. Your moans cascading through your quarters, gripping onto the table he sat you at as he devoured your cunt. His mouth sucking onto your bud, his nose inhaling the most delicate scent of you. You found yourself raking your hands into the knight's head, his locks being entangled into your fingers. Your thighs faintly shaking around Erryk's head as he held them down with one arm, the other finding purchase onto your stomach, your other hand finding his own, hoping he would please you with your fingers once more.

"Erryk" you moaned, your voice breaking as pleasure overtook your bones, "Please, take it".

"Use your words" Erryk teased, his beard tickling your inner core. You gripped onto his hair once more, in order to raise him once again to kiss him.

"Take my maidenhead" you spoke into the kiss, he simply shook his head, "Not with your cock my love".

"That is a pleasure for your husband to take".

"I do not wish to be wedded, my line ends with me, my brother suffices" you challenged. "Please" you pleaded again, he lightly smirked, before opening your legs once more and thrusting a singular finger into your cunt. Your pleasure led to you knocking over several cups and almost a candle. Staring into the eyes of the man who was the perpetrator of your ecstasy. "I'm going to finish Ser".

"Erryk" he corrected as he then added an additional digit, sending you over the edge. How beautifully you came, gripping onto his arm for dear life as no man has ever made you cum. Wishing you were to never be parted from your dear lover. Kissing him once more, you bit onto his lip, afraid of losing him to law.

"I love you" you quietly spoke, kissing his forehead, then his cheek. Finding his affections once again, painted in his eyes.

Later in the evening, as Erryk cleaned you up, clamoring interrupted, Erryk quickly grabbed his swords and left your quarters, "Stay here" was all he could muster though he could not stop you from wondering what has happened.

"You do not listen do you?" Erryk teased as you ran behind him quickly surpassing his place, despite the limp he now gave you from overstimulating your cunt, your urgency was one that led the knight to have a strain in his breeches.

As you both stumbled into the halls, clearly gaining a view of the violence, your heart leaped as you saw Jace and Luke's bloodied face, looking ahead to see Aemond's now swollen face with stitches upon his eye. You gracefully entered the hall, much to Alicent's distaste as she noticed Erryk trailing behind you, her stares stabbing daggers into you. Her spats of insults and verbal fighting with Rhaenyra as she pleaded for Lucerys's eye to be taken as a debt to be paid. You quickly defended yourself to that of Jace and Luke, forcing a barrier between the two.

"If the King will not seek vengeance, the Queen will" Alicent spoke up, a near act of treason. As she grabbed Viserys's blade, seeking her own form of revenge. You nearly were pushed back by the ideals of the Kingsguards, you saw Criston Cole rushing up to you, seeing that Daemon and Ser Erryk immediately pushing him back. You saw the gaze Criston gave the two of you, his smirk being one of a jester. The smug look being an insult.

When blood was drawn from Rhaenyra, your place with the boys was replaced by Lord Corlys. You quickly forced Alicent away. "Your insolence does nothing Alicent, the honor and dignity you parade about is gone, no longer the piss poor lady you once were, nothing more than a fake Queen who hides behind her father who hides behind the King" you wildly spat at her face, as Rhaenyra began her own testament to her once friend. How the times have changed greatly.

#hotd #house of the dragon #game of thrones #ser erryk #ser arryk #ser erryk cargyll #ser arryk cargyll #rhaenyra #rhaenrya targaryen #alicent hightower #house of the dragon fanfiction #ser erryk cargyll x reader #erryk cargyll #erryk cargyll x reader #angst #smut

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