#Rhaella Targaryen (twin)

[vampire207343]

Helianthus Euphemia Potter

Lily & James Potter had twin daughters the oldest Helianthus Euphemia Potter as their oldest child their father named her his heir and then there is the youngest twin Mara Lily Potter.

Hometowner Queen would plan to send her youngest half brother to old town to protect it with his dragon so before the Hightower had that chance she had asked her father to be the paymate for Bealon which the king allow no matter how Alicent had tried to stop the king to sending Daeron to Claw Isle  but it was no use it was king's order so their nothing they could do but watch the one 1 month old Dearon leaves since they can't go against the order of the king.

Daeron was raised alongside Bealon like they are brothers instead of Uncle and Nephew. Even Brandon, Torrhen and Rickon also like him well enough. That unlike other children of Alicent Daeron was the only who grew up with love being away from his so called loving mother and his egg which came from Dreamfrye newest clutch during the time he was born hatch.

One day Dreamfrye had escape the dragon pit and had moved to Summerhall and made a new den being guide by the 14 flames no one has seen Dreamfrye since well unless your Rhaella then since the king never had ask if she saw either Dreamfrye or Vermithor & Silverwing for that matter but they never did so she hadn't say anything that they had made a. Den in Summerhall.

5 years later…

Daeron Targaryen & Bealon Targaryen-Celtigar are now 5 years old a Rickon Targaryen-Stark is now 9 years old and the twins are now 12 years old themself and Rhaella is now 25 years old and husband had died from some poison on his system and he never told anyone and with him gone Claw Isle now belong to Rhaella until Baelon is old enough.she may not had grow to love her second husband like she had with her first but they did before friends so she was saddened to his death. But as much as she would have if she had fallen in love with him.

And after the funeral she received a Raven that Leana Velaryon had dies so her family and herself had to travel to Driftmark for Leana's funeral where she saw that her father doesn't look someone his age in fact he look like Lord Rickon Stark when he was still alive and that's saying something since he came from the generation of her grandsire than her father. She kept her children away from Rhaenyra's children along with keeping them away from her other half siblings since who know what they are like they might even injure her children which the boys didn't mind since they don't want to be away her either and Daeron himself kept his distance from the family he himself doesn't even know since he was sent away as an infant.

And the night after the funeral a fight broke off between the Children of Rhaenyra & Daemon's girls along with Aemond who had claim Vhagar and the girls claim they stole Vhagar when no one own a dragon so Aemond can't have stole him if Rhaena had wanted to claim Vhagar she should done it already but she didn't so she shouldn't blame the boy when he decided to claim a dragon for himself. But Lucerys had taken one of Aemonds eyes so she was glad that she had kept her children and Dearon and it became obvious it was a great call because that could have been one of them. By that time Rhaella's twin boys are already master swordsmen and even Bealon and Daeron already began training in weapons unlike Rhaenyra's boys who had yet to learn how to properly fight.

After Leana's Funeral Rhaella and her family left and decided to travel around Essos and their dragon had even somehow taken them to Valyrian luckily for them whatever virus is the air they are immune especially Daeron since she had the blood ritual wto make him properly her son so he would one day be immortal as well they found a lot of Valyrian steel weapons and jewels and even dragon eggs left unhatch and only few had turn to stone which should be aa miracle at all they also found a lot of spell book that was left behind. All the thing that had found were purge of anything negative that had affected them during the doom before taking it back to Summerhall by then the Direwolf they have had multiple especially when Brandon and Torrhen Targaryen-Stark's Direwolf had mated each other had 5 pups together trusted dragon keeper that Rhaella allow to stay in Summerhall were taught how to take care of Direwolf as well so they also take of their direwolf when they are left behind.

300 years later….

The last Targaryen had died when Daenerys Targaryen, the daughter of the mad king, was killed by her lover and nephew Jon Snow/Jaehaerys Targaryen the son of her older brother Prince Rhaegar Targaryen with Lyanna Stark. Rhaenyra's line is gone but Rhaella's family are still alive living in Summerhall or Claw Isle along with the dragons that lived there.

During their travel they discover a land unknown to the rest of them for quite sometimes

Rhaella and Brandon had been living on one town from one such land they had discover a man who could turn to beast for every full moon but during their time in the New world Rhaella have fallen in love with a young worlock by the name Kol Mikealson and he to her the two of them have been courting for a year now. Before the two married by then Kol had been told the truth but he still accepted Rhaella and any children she may have from her first two husbands hundred years ago. Kol met Brandon's other brothers and he was accepted by them. Rhaella had even taught Kol Valyrian magic which is a lot more powerful than the magic he and his mother use. He had begun worshiping Balerion.

It wasn't long after Kol & Rhaella had married that Kol had become immortal like her and his new step children when his mother had turn all his children to a vampire who required blood to lived but luckily the only thing kol had gotten from that was the lost of magic over nature along with gaining Strength and speed of a vampire other than that he is truly immortal unlike the rest if his siblings who can still be killed. The reason their mother Easther had turned them to vampires was because she was afraid she would have more of her children but unfortunately for her husband discovered her affair with a werewolf that resulted in the birth of Klaus mikaelson.

Which Mikael went after the werewolf and slaughter them and before their father could return Klaus,Elijah and Rebekah made a vow between them always being their for each other but three of them left Kol and Finn from that vow so decided to leave his sibling behind and join his wife back to her home in Summerhall where he meet a lot of dragon that had survive the dance of dragons between Rhaenyra & Aegon II.While Mikael began hunting his own children after that but no one had ever seen Kol, not even their father, no witch they asked to locate him was able to reach him at all.

[novaursa]

Robert Baratheon x Targaryen!reader.

Aerys goes on his "everyone must burn" rant and his daughter tries unsuccessfully to talk him down. Finally, Jaime snaps and kills Aerys while ordering his father's men to hold the Princess back. She's not guilty, so he doesn't want her dead.

Robert claims the throne and dismisses Tywin's attempt to marry him to Cersei. Instead, Robert declares he'll "legitimatizes" his rule by marrying Rhaegar's sister, who is being held as a political prisoner. He's planning on using the smallfolks' love of her to soften the blow of taking the throne; if he kills her, there might be a riot he can't afford.

In the weeks Robert had spent settling into his new role as interim King, she's been depressed and inconsolable, especially after hearing of her mother's death. Not to mention just about everyone she loves has either betrayed her, died, or is out of her reach; Jaime, Rhaegar, Lyanna, Aerys, Rhaella, Arthur, Barristan, Viserys, Dany.

She's no longer speaking, hardly eating, and alternates between crying her eyes raw or staring numbly at nothing. She's barely sleeping. There is talk she'll starve herself. Hearing about Robert's plans doesn't do her fracturing psyche any favors, but it doesn't matter.

She sees memories of their relationship; meeting for the first time after he sees Lyanna and Rhaegar together; how cold he is to her. Running into her coming out of the library with an embarrsing book, which amuses him. Later finding her sketching him- teasing her instead of being embarrassed, finally seeing her instead of her twin. Still doesn't love her, though.

For all her lashing out at him, she still winds up at the alter.

3 three time skip and Targ Princess has given birth to her first child. It's the first hint of happiness she's shown in years and when Robert is let into the room, he's dumbfounded by how attractive her maternal side is to him.

The story ends with him trying to get closer, maybe under the guise of seeing the child and hoping she won't pull away when he finally touches her. Left open ended.

Thank you! Sorry for the original ask. I scrolled down it after you posted yoir response and went "Holy shit, that's a wall of words!"

I hope I shortened it enough. If not, I'll try again or you can cut anything you don't think adds to the story. Again, so sorry. And thank you if you choose to take on my request.

The Crown That Bled

Requests are closed

- Summary: He married you to keep the realm in line. You married him because you had no choice. And happiness is an elusive thing.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Robert Baratheon

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (just to be safe)

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial

- A/N: So, this was still a little too overwhelming for a short story and I've struggled with what to keep and what to discard. This is what I've managed to write with the information provided. I hope this is something you had in mind.

The Sept of Baelor smelled of incense and wilting roses. Smoke curled from brass censers, spiraling toward the high-arched dome where sunlight bled through colored glass, staining the floor in hues of crimson and gold. The bells tolled dully in the distance, sounding more like a funeral dirge than a wedding celebration. The gathered nobles whispered in hushed tones, draped in velvets and silks, eyes darting toward the altar and the lone figure standing beside it—the King, newly crowned and wide-shouldered in his fur-lined cloak of black and gold, Robert Baratheon.

You were not there yet.

You sat in the chambers they'd locked you in, a gilded cage fit for a princess—cold and quiet, except for the caw of a raven outside the window and the steady creak of footsteps as guards paced the hall. Your reflection in the mirror looked like a ghost: hollowed eyes rimmed in red, skin pale and drawn from weeks of mourning and madness. Your silver-gold hair hung in limp strands, unbrushed. You barely remembered the last time you bathed or ate. The food they left was always taken away, untouched or barely picked at. The maids stopped trying to coax you. You no longer spoke to them, or anyone.

They had told you of your mother’s death three nights past, and the sound you made then had not been human. You’d torn the hem of your dress, your nails bloodied your own arms, your sobs had echoed like a broken harp string long after you collapsed onto the stone floor. Rhaella—your mother, the last steady thing in a world of fire and betrayal—was dead, her frail heart giving out after the news of her husband's fate and her son's. You had not wept since then. Not truly. You had simply… leaked tears, as though your soul had cracked and the sorrow slipped through the fissures, silent and endless.

When you first heard Robert intended to marry you, you had laughed. It was a horrible sound, brittle and dry. Then you screamed. Screamed so long your voice disappeared. You spat on the servant who brought the message, shattered a goblet against the wall, and threatened to throw yourself from the tower window. But none of it mattered. You were the last piece left on the board—the only one of value. And Robert, ever the brute, ever the warrior, had turned conqueror and king. He didn’t want Cersei Lannister, despite Tywin’s persistence. He wanted you. Not for love. Not even for desire, though there had once been something hungry in the way he looked at you during court gatherings, long before the war. No, he wanted you to silence the blood in the streets, to win the hearts of those who still whispered your name as they lit candles for the dead dragon prince. Rhaegar's sister. A daughter of the old line. If he couldn’t kill the dragon, he would cage it. Wed it. Breed it.

A knock came at the door. You did not answer.

It creaked open anyway. You didn’t turn.

“Y/N,” a voice said, rough and low and too alive. “It’s time.”

You didn’t move.

He stepped closer, boots scraping the stone. “The realm needs this.”

The realm. You hated that word. The realm had taken everything from you.

Still, you rose. Slowly. Mechanically. The maids came, silent as ghosts, dressing you in the gown that had been ordered. White. As if your innocence could still be claimed. They wove braids into your hair, pinned a small crown of rubies and pearls. One offered you a veil. You shook your head.

And so you walked to the Sept without it, your face bare for the world to see—shattered, exhausted, and empty.

Robert turned when he saw you, and for a moment, something flickered in his blue eyes. Not victory. Not lust. Something quieter. Sadder. He didn’t smile.

You stood beside him, your hand limp in his. His palm was calloused, warm, too large around yours.

The Septon's voice droned on, reading the vows of House and Faith. You barely heard it. Words floated past like wind in a dead garden.

“Do you, Robert of House Baratheon, take Y/N of House Targaryen—”

“I do,” he said before the Septon even finished, the words rasped from his throat like they pained him.

You said nothing. The Septon looked at you, hesitated, then gently prompted: “Princess?”

Your lips parted. The words did not come.

Robert’s hand tightened.

You closed your eyes. You saw Rhaegar on the Trident, dying with Lyanna’s name on his lips. You saw Jaime's haunted face as he watched your father burn the city down in his mind. You saw your mother’s hands, trembling as she held baby Viserys. You saw Dany’s face, too young to understand any of it. All of it gone.

“I do,” you whispered.

The bells rang again.

The crowd clapped politely.

And the man who had helped kill your family leaned forward and kissed your cheek, soft and solemn, as if it made anything better. You did not flinch. You did not cry. You did not breathe.

You were a queen now. But there was no joy in it.

Only ash.

The birthing chamber was quiet now, save for the faint pop and hiss of the brazier in the corner and the distant echo of revelers in the Red Keep, drinking to the health of the new heir. It had been a hard labor, a long one—two days and a night of pain so deep it had splintered your mind, left you delirious with heat and blood and the haunting memories of every Targaryen woman who had died doing this same sacred, monstrous thing. You had not screamed, even when the pain was worst. You had whimpered, sobbed, clenched your teeth until your jaw ached, but never screamed. That part of you had been burned out long ago.

But now, as the sun bled pale gold through the sheer curtains of the tower windows, you lay propped on linen pillows, your hair damp with sweat, skin aglow with the exhaustion of survival. And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, your arms were full. A child. Your child. A small, warm bundle swaddled in Targaryen red silk, already calm, already curious. He blinked up at you with wide, unfocused eyes—eyes that were not violet like yours, but a deep, rich blue that reminded you too cruelly of the man who sired him.

Still, you did not hate him for it. You did not hate him for anything. You loved him. Already. Utterly.

You traced his downy cheek with a trembling finger, and for a moment, a smile—small, stunned, wondrous—broke across your face like sunlight through a storm. The midwives had seen it. The maester had noticed. They exchanged glances, hushed and wide-eyed. It was the first expression of happiness they’d ever seen on your face since the sack of King’s Landing. The stillness in you had cracked.

“My lady,” one of them said, gently, reverently. “The King is waiting.”

You didn’t answer right away. You only looked down again, studying your son's tiny fists, his slow, sleepy blink. “Let him in,” you said at last, softly.

The door creaked open moments later, and Robert entered.

He was cleaner than usual, though his hair was still a bit unkempt, and the heavy cloak of royal blue slung over his broad shoulders gave him a warlike silhouette. He looked older, wearier than the man who had crushed Rhaegar’s chest with a hammer, older than the roaring brute who had seized your hand and crown in one swift move. But his blue eyes sharpened the moment he saw you—really saw you, sitting there in the sunlight, your hair loose around your shoulders, the silver tangled and darkened with sweat, your gown undone at the breast as you nursed your newborn son.

The sight stopped him cold.

He didn’t speak for a long moment. He simply stared, his mouth parted slightly, his gaze flickering over you not with the drunken lust he usually turned on brothel girls or serving wenches, but with something far more quiet and dangerous. Hunger, yes, but layered over awe. You were radiant, even with the fatigue etched into your face, even with the bruising along your throat where the maids had steadied you in the worst of the pain. There was softness in you now that hadn’t been seen since before the war, before madness and fire took your family from you. A part of you had returned, and it shook him.

You didn’t look up right away. You focused on the baby, adjusting the swaddling gently. “He’s healthy,” you said at last. “Strong. They say he didn’t even cry until he was cleaned.”

Robert cleared his throat. “He’s mine, then,” he said, trying for jest, but the words came out too raw.

You looked at him. There was no bite in your eyes today. Just tiredness. And something else—something soft and distant, like the echo of a dream.

“I named him Baelor,” you murmured. “After the Blessed.”

He blinked, clearly surprised. “Not… not a more fierce dragon name?”

“No.” You kissed the baby's forehead. “He was born in fire, but he deserves peace.”

Robert stepped closer, more slowly than usual, as if he feared startling you. He was so large that his shadow cast over the bed, over you and the boy. “May I…?” he asked, and his voice faltered. “May I hold him?”

You hesitated. You didn’t recoil, but your arms tightened instinctively around the bundle in your arms.

“I won’t hurt him,” he said, quieter this time. “Or you.”

You nodded, slowly, and shifted the child just enough for him to slip his arms underneath. He moved with surprising gentleness, lowering himself to the edge of the bed, cradling his son as if he were holding a cup made of glass. Baelor blinked once at him, then yawned.

“Seven hells,” Robert whispered, a chuckle caught somewhere in his throat. “He’s real.”

You watched him closely, head tilted, your hands still hovering near the baby’s blanket. You didn’t lean away. You didn’t tell him to go.

He glanced at you sideways, unsure, and something flickered again in his expression. Not just pride. Not just male satisfaction. But need.

“You smiled when you looked at him,” he said.

“I did,” you whispered.

He was silent for a beat longer, then dared to reach out. Not for the baby, but for your hand. Just two fingers grazing the edge of yours. Barely touching.

You didn’t pull away.

Not yet.

[syndrossi]

Rhaella AU (Part One)

At long last, here is the finished part one of the Rhaella AU, aka what if Rhaella had marched to Summerhall in search of her son and followed that same call through a doorway!

x~x~x

The king before her reminded Rhaella of her father in his final days: frail and tired, his hand sheathed in a black glove that rested atop a golden cane for balance. His smile was kind, as her father’s had been, yet that kindness had not spared her a marriage to her brother.

Though she knew that King Viserys was not yet forty, he looked a decade older, but he straightened as they approached, assuming a kingly air.

“Your Grace, may I present my daughter, Lady Rhaella.”

Whereas her new father was nothing alike the one she knew before. Dyano Durolis was an oiled and perfumed magister of Pentos, his family among the forty from which the Prince of Pentos was chosen. His light blond hair hung loose in his customary curls, his mustache twirled to a point, though his beard was kept short. He was a loud, boisterous man, with ambitions greater than his wit could carry, which was why he had brought her across the Narrow Sea.

Rhaella did not care a whit about either his wit or ambition. What mattered was that he had brought her to King’s Landing, to her son.

“Lady Rhaella,” the king said warmly as she straightened from her curtsy, extending his other hand toward her to beckon her close for a kiss of greeting to the cheek. “It is a pleasure to meet you, cousin.”

“And you, Your Grace,” she said before switching to High Valyrian. “I have always longed to see the splendors of my mother’s homeland. Your invitation was most welcome.” 

The king’s smile brightened and he responded in kind. “Your Valyrian is lovely—if you are not careful, I may steal you from your father as a tutor for my sons.”

Her father forced a laugh. “But of course it is not only my daughter’s High Valyrian that brings us to your court. Will we be meeting Prince Daemon as well?”

“My brother is not unlike the wild dragons of Dragonstone,” the king said wryly. “Particularly where marriage is involved. He is prone to flight whenever I inform him that I have found a new potential match. I can promise no more than an introduction, and accommodation in one of the guest chambers within the Red Keep.”

“Your Grace is too kind,” her father said, though his smile was strained.

Rhaella did not know precisely what he hoped to achieve with a match. Coin, perhaps, or favors back home. If the magisters believed her loyal enough to the city where she had been raised, then perhaps they hoped to claim the protection of House Targaryen and its dragons.

Dragons.

It did not yet seem real to Rhaella that she lived in a time of dragons. Daemon Targaryne’s mount Caraxes was well known, as were their exploits in the Stepstones. Her son had one, she knew, as did her son’s twin brother, the one named Jon.

Which of my babies would you have been? My little Daeron?

He was not truly her son, of course, however much she might like to think so. Prince Jon was dark of hair, like the woman who had birthed him here. How different would Rhaegar be? Would she still recognize him? Will he recognize me?

Not on account of her appearance, which was much the same as before—albeit free of bruises and the scars of troubled childbirth—but would he remember as she did?

Rhaella barely listened to the amiable chatter between her father and the king, thoughts turning to the boys’ father, who was said to be quick-tempered. Will he be anything like Aerys? The prospect did not excite her, but if she failed to secure the match, then she would likely be sent back to Pentos.

A Targaryen bastard daughter is only as useful as her marriage prospects. 

No, she had to persuade the king’s reluctant brother that she could be a mother to his children. Otherwise, there had been inquiries from several families in Volantis, where her mother had lived and eventually died. It would be impossibly far away.

“If it please Your Grace,” Rhaella said once the conversation had come to a natural pause, “I should like to acquaint myself with the castle grounds.”

She ignored the stab of apprehension that whispered bold, too bold. If she had spoken thus to Aerys, she would have paid for it later. But the king merely gave a nod. “Of course, Lady Rhaella. Doubtless you are eager to stretch your legs after so long at sea.”

Rhaella curtsied once more, then left her father to his schemes. True confinement had not been the close quarters of their ship, but rather Maegor’s Holdfast looming over the yard, her prison for so many years, her few companions dwindling as Aerys’s paranoia saw her handmaids accused of treason one by one and tortured or dismissed. Remembering an entirely different life in Pentos had been a wonder, and the waters of the Narrow Sea, though treacherous in autumn, a welcome reprieve. Every breath she had taken on the voyage here had been full of possibility.

That sense of possibility narrowed slightly as she passed through the familiar layout of the Red Keep. Despite the eyes on her, she felt almost like a ghost haunting a world that was not hers. There were conflicting memories in her mind: two childhoods, one where she had explored every last inch of the keep, and another where she had traveled throughout Essos, often on one of her father’s ships.

Rhaella turned her gaze from the holdfast, reminding herself of her objective. She had been told that the king’s nephews often had lessons at this hour, but today was one of their free days, so it was the dragon enclosure she sought, knowing that her son would likely seek his dragon’s company often.

To her surprise, it was little more than a simple fence barring off the area from the rest of the yard, though she supposed a dragon was more than capable of defending itself. In the distance, visible atop Rhaenys’s Hill, was the true enclosure: the towering dome of the Dragonpit, wholly intact rather than the ruins she had known.

No one stopped her from approaching the fence, and she wondered idly if she had her coloring to thank for that. Within the enclosure, she could see men standing guard in gleaming black armor that she recognized through faded pictures in books as Dragonkeepers.

But it was the great red wyrm at its center, curled up in slumber, that captured her gaze. Caraxes. It took a moment for her to spot the young hatchlings, who had settled on the dragon’s enormous back to bask in the afternoon sun.

The hatchlings stirred first, the dark blue one—Qelebrys, she recalled—lifting her head to blink silvery eyes at Rhaella. Her wings began to flap, and she glided over to land on the fence, where she perched in study. The little dragon’s nostrils flared repeatedly as though trying to place her scent.

Rhaella stood motionless at first, uncertain if she should dare make a move toward the hatchling, but from the moment she locked eyes with her, she was unable to help herself. She extended her arm, then drew it back, startled, when Qelebrys’s wings flapped in response. She barely had time to brace herself in time for the little dragon to land on her left shoulder. A snuffling sound followed, and she could feel her hair stir as the hatchling’s snout prodded at it.

I am not afraid, she realized.

So many years of her life had been spent in fear and grief, her nerves endlessly braced for whenever Aerys might call upon her. She had memorized the sound of his footsteps, so that she did not have to suffer the same fear when it was her son being escorted to her door by Kingsguard instead.

He will never see a dragon as I have. If there was one thing they shared amongst themselves—herself, her husband, and her son—it was a fascination with their family’s dragons of old. Aerys has hungered for their power. Rhaegar had dreamed of their magic. Rhaella had longed for their freedom.

The shifting of her hair calmed, and she could feel the gentle pressure of the hatchling’s chin resting atop it now. With one baby dragon atop her and another watching her with curious eyes, it was hard to imagine that they might ever disappear from the world.

Where there are children, there is promise. Unlike the poison of her womb, which had seemed intent upon devouring the last of her family’s line, save for her firstborn, whose first wailing breath had come as fire claimed generations of kin.

The other hatchling had ventured over to the fence now. He seemed less certain than his clutchmate, and a soft call escaped him, seemingly directed at the other hatchling. It was Caraxes who stirred, however, his eyes slitting open to look upon the three of them. Rhaella stared at him, the flutter in her heart one of wonder rather than fear, and after a moment, the dragon’s eyes drifted shut once more.

He trusts me.

That did not stop a Dragonkeeper from approaching after a minute. “My lady.”

There was a hint of a question in his voice, and it took her a moment to realize what it was. They do not know me. It was an oddly freeing thought. “Lady Rhaella of House Durolis,” she replied. “I am cousin to the king.”

The Dragonkeeper looked between the hatchlings, and she could tell that he was uncertain what to make of the situation.

“I am not disturbing them, am I?” she asked.

“I do not know,” the Dragonkeeper admitted, surprising her. “They are strange, these hatchlings. Those raised in the Dragonpit seldom allow any near who they are not bonded with, save for Dragonkeepers.”

“They are not from the Dragonpit?” She dared to stroke a finger along the tail of the hatchling perched upon her shoulder. “Are they of Dragonstone, then?”

Prince Daemon had infamously stolen a dragon egg and taken it there years before, but according to the histories, Queen Rhaenyra’s dragon Syrax had left egg clutches there too. Had he taken two dragon eggs from there for her sons?

Not my sons, she reminded herself with a pang. His.

“I cannot say, my lady,” the Dragonkeeper replied. “They arrived here already bonded.”

That she had already known. Prince Daemon’s twin sons were quite the popular topic throughout the Free Cities. Rumors abounded about their sudden appearance, and her father had entertained one Lysene singer who had gleefully sung a ballad lurid enough to turn her stomach.

Someone had tried to kidnap the young princes, that much the rumors agreed upon. A bounty of ten thousand dragons had been placed upon the head of the man said to have taken them from where the late Lady Royce had hidden them. And Prince Daemon had supposedly abandoned the field mid-battle once word had reached him in the Stepstones, in order to fly to their rescue.

The Iron Throne had placed the blame upon Volantis, albeit informally. Many in Pentos thought it more likely to have been a Triarchy plot in order to bring a swift end to the war. Whoever was to blame, there was no telling if they would try again, and the thought of it made her clasp the fence.

In the early days of Aerys’s reign, he had been gripped by the notion that someone might strike at him by trying to kill his only heir. Rhaegar had not been allowed anywhere outside the holdfast without a Kingsguard present. Over time, Aerys’s suspicions had turned elsewhere—to plots against her babes, born and unborn—but the order had remained.

The Kingsguard serve the king alone.

That was the lesson she had learned early on. For all their oaths, they would stand aside when he raised his hand to her, or whoever else had earned his ire. Indeed, they were an extension of Aerys himself—his eyes and ears, to report back all that they saw. Aerys’s specter had loomed over every waking moment, regardless of his presence.

Rhaegar was the only other person in the Red Keep who knew as she did what it was to be utterly alone while denied even the balm of true solitude. He had found the occasional escape, at least, in the secret tunnels within the Red Keep.

For Rhaella, there had been nothing. Her duty was to be available to the king at all times.

“My lady?”

The hatchling on her shoulder was hissing quietly, Rhaella noticed at last, stirring her hair once more. “Your pardon, ser,” she said, stroking the hatchling’s bumpy spine until she calmed. “I lost myself in thought.”

He had not yet asked her to leave, and she wondered if he would. Were there rules about who could visit the enclosure? If not, certainly there must be regarding who was permitted to handle young hatchlings. King’s cousin or not, she was of Pentos.

Nor was the Dragonkeeper the only person to have taken notice of her presence. A pair of young ladies with flax-blond hair were whispering amongst themselves some forty feet distant, heads turned in her direction, an abrupt reminder that Rhaella was not alone in seeking to win a match with Prince Daemon.

I wonder how many have been bold enough to approach the enclosure.

A flicker of movement beyond them drew her gaze, and she felt Qelebrys stir, head lifting to peer along with her. There was another pair approaching, but much smaller, and her heart fluttered in her chest. Two children, one dark-haired and one light as her own. They gave a wide berth to the gossiping duo, but their steps slowed as they caught sight of her.

Her eyes were fixed on the boy she knew to be her son, even at a distance, and he stared back, eyes wide. His lips moved, the word upon them plain. Muña.

Her vision blurred with tears, equal parts joy and relief. We are free. We are both free of him.

And he remembered her.

His brother, Jon, was looking between them with a small frown. He tugged at his brother’s sleeve, and that seemed to break the paralysis that had taken hold of her son. Rhaegar bounded toward her, arms swinging wildly, and she opened her own to catch him as he barrelled into her, sobbing her name into her chest as she crushed him to her, kissing his hair over and over.

All the uncertainty and doubt that she had clung to, guarding her heart against whatever fate might have in store for her, vanished completely. She rocked him from side to side, utterly content.

Jon followed more slowly, his gaze meeting hers, and he halted a few feet away, as though wary about drawing too near. He looks like my son, she thought with a soft wonder as she took in his features. A small ache followed as she thought once more of her babes who had died in the cradle.

Rhaegar pulled back at last, his hatchling having climbed over onto his shoulder at some point during their embrace. “I do not understand,” he said, voice trembling as he stared up at her. There was a fear in his eyes, as though he thought she might vanish.

“I am Lady Rhaella,” she said softly. “Cousin to your father. My mother was his aunt, Lady Saera.”

“But you are here,” Rhaegar said, his tone rising in question.

“I am here,” she said. “Though I do not know how.”

Jon had not yet spoken, and she tilted her head at her son, who gave a faint nod. He too was someone before.

“Jon,” she said. “I am pleased to meet you.” She hesitated. “You look just like your brother.”

Just as she had, he seemed to read her question. His gaze flicked away, shoulders tightening. “I am pleased to meet you, Lady Rhaella.” He glanced at the Dragonkeeper. “You may go, our hatchlings are safe with us.”

To her surprise, the Dragonkeeper gave a nod and obeyed, retreating to a small lean-to built into the southeast wall to watch from a distance.

“Rhaegar has spoken of you,” Jon said, keeping his own distance.

“I thought that you were lost,” her son said, tears spilling down his cheeks almost faster than she could wipe them away. “I thought that I had left you alone with him.”

His guilt and misery was plain, too familiar from nightmares past, and she hugged him to her again. “It is you who were lost,” she said, shying away from the horror of that memory. “I went to Summerhall to find you.”

There had been one Kingsguard willing to forsake Aerys—a boy, only a few years older than her own, who had shown more courage than knights thrice his age. Had they been caught, a ghastly fate would have awaited him, whereas she likely would have been spared, her actions excused as those of a grieving, desperate mother.

I hope that Ser Arthur found an escape of his own.

“There was a doorway,” she said. “I could—” Feel you, calling for me. She swallowed. “I swore that I would not let anything take my child from me.”

And so she had ventured through, and gained a life both new and familiar.

Jon was still watching her, but the mistrust had faded from his expression. Instead, there was a vulnerability to it, as though he were seeing someone else in her, and her heart ached for him. Does he wonder where his mother is, and why she has not come for him?

“Jon,” she said, and he seemed to startle. “May I greet you as well?”

His gaze shifted to Rhaegar, but he nodded after a moment. Sensing his hesitation, she drew him in with one arm so that he had his brother beside him, and held them both. She did not kiss his hair, as she had Rhaegar’s, but she rested her chin atop it a moment.

It was then that she glimpsed another figure approaching on a swift stride, tall and silver-haired. The fear was instinctive, but the protective fury that followed was a fire she had not felt in too long. She tightened her arms around her boys, mouth firming, only for thought to finally catch up with instinct.

It is not Aerys. It is their father. His pace had slowed, as though in confusion, and she let up her embrace reluctantly. He will think me forward, to hold his children thus.

As he neared, the differences between Daemon Targaryen and her husband became more apparent. She had not once seen concern cross Aerys’s face, but it was plain in Prince Daemon’s eyes as he looked between her and his sons. He was nearly of an age with Aerys, but he wore the years better, lacking the harsh lines that had already begun to carve themselves into her husband’s mouth and brow.

She could see the blood both she and Aerys shared with him, but she could also see her son in his face, and his eyes were not Aerys’s lilac, but a violet nearer to her own.

“My lady,” he said, his frown of suspicion so like young Jon’s that she did not even think of Aerys’s fits of paranoia. “We have not met before.”

“My prince,” she said, dropping into a curtsy. “I am Lady Rhaella Durolis, daughter of Lady Saera.”

“She is visiting from Pentos,” Rhaegar said, barely more than an inch from her side. He coaxed Qelebrys back onto her shoulder. “See how the hatchlings recognize her as kin?”

“So they do,” Prince Daemon said mildly, though the suspicion remained in his eyes.

Pentos is not Volantis, nor Triarchy, but other Free Cities have tried to steal his children away. She could not fault his caution, but it was an obstacle she had not anticipated. And my mother lived in Volantis for nearly two decades after she left me in Pentos.

“Forgive me,” she said. “I have not seen a dragon, and my curiosity proved too great. The king gave me leave to wander the grounds, but doubtless he did not expect me to go directly here.”

“Indeed not,” the prince agreed.

Rhaegar, clearly picking up on Prince Daemon’s reservations as well, seized her hand. “You must sup with us tonight, Lady Rhaella.”

It was a shameless maneuver, one that her son would not have dared take with Aerys, and her heart softened slightly toward the man who was their father now. Rather than irritated, Prince Daemon seemed more startled than anything at the impromptu invitation. Oddly, it was Jon who he looked to, as though for guidance.

“Our tutors have been teaching us about Pentos,” Jon said. “Lady Rhaella must have many stories of its splendor, having grown up there.”

His eyes sought her then, in sudden worry, and she nodded at him with a smile. Perhaps he wondered if she did indeed remember her childhood.

“I could hardly rescind my sons’ invitation,” Prince Daemon said, in a tone that suggested he would prefer to, given the choice. “You are welcome at our table tonight, Lady Rhaella. I look forward to hearing of your business in King’s Landing.”

By the twist of his lips, he had guessed precisely what such business was.

“You are very kind, my prince,” she said. “I gladly accept.”

[miiroki]

𝘿𝙖𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙣 𝙏𝙖𝙧𝙜𝙖𝙧𝙮𝙚𝙣 & 𝙣𝙞𝙚𝙘𝙚! 𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧/���𝙘

𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘶𝘭𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘯𝘪𝘦𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢 𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦, 𝘢 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘦𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥'𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘴𝘩 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘩𝘦, 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯?

Warning: targcest, (niece and uncle) 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

one: ✶ two: ✶

It was in the wee mornings on a warm day that Prince Daemon Targaryen, Prince of the City, had been forced to partake in breaking fast with his family.

Consisting of his father Prince Baelon the Brave, his mother Alyssa Targaryen, his elder brother Prince Viserys, and his lady-wife, Aemma Arryn.

For a young prince of merely 16 name days old, Daemons world was small, and only consisted of his family, sword fighting, and Caraxes. His thoughts of marriage and husbandly duties were of no importance to him, and held no precedence in his mind.

Daemon walked the bustling halls of the Red Keep, his head held high as the servants, guards, and common men alike showed respect by bowing slightly to the young boy.

Reaching the dining room, he was welcomed with the smell of warm food, his mother calling out to him and patting the seat next to her.

Daemon quickly situated himself, readying his stomach for the food and quickly pounced on the meat pies across the table, slightly splashing Viserys’ beige tunic.

—

The day seemed to drag on for far to long. It was late into the afternoon that Daemon was made aware that he was now an uncle to two Targaryen babes.

The news had him running to the birthing chambers, where his brother and his wife sat, cooing at the whining twin girls.

Feeling awkward, Daemon stood rigid near the entrance of the large room.

“Brother, come. Would you like to see them” Viserys had hollered. If Daemon didn’t know any better he would have guessed that Viserys himself birthed the babes, he looked even more elated than Aemma did, which was hard to achieve.

Daemon shuffled quietly near the couple, and peered down at the babes. He couldn’t help but poke the cheek of the one in Viserys’ arms.

“Be gentle Daemon” Viserys somewhat scolded him.

Before Daemon could retreat his finger, the babe had grasped it with both her tiny hands, babbling quietly.

When Daemon broke free from her grasp, she started to wail, and wail she did. So he quickly extended his finger to satiate the crying newborn.

Viserys and Aemma let out a shared chuckle, before offering the babe for Daemon to hold.

“What if I drop it” He whispered.

“It is not an ‘it’ brother, her name will be Rhaella” Viserys stated while softly stroking the girls head, “and the youngest will be Rhaenyra”

Daemon reluctantly held the babe awkwardly in his arms, adjusting to fit to the curve of the squirming girl.

Once settled Rhaella quickly found comfort in her uncles arms, and fell asleep, chest slowly falling up and down. Daemon kept his eyes on her, and his gaze never faltered. He wasn’t much for babies and children, but he knew he’d adore his new niece.

Aemma giggled from her position of the bed, “Rhaella seems to be quite fond of her uncle already” she rocked the sleeping Rhaenyra calmly. “Let’s hope young Rhaenyra will feel the same way”

—

“Rhaella, come out!” A man’s voice had echoed in the gardens of the Red Keep, situated behind the throne room.

Daemon was now 1 and 20, while his darling niece was only a mere 5 name days old. She was currently playing with him by hiding in the palace bushes, that littered the gardens of the Red Keep.

“I’m coming to get you…” Daemon said tauntingly, knowing that Rhaella can hear him well thanks to her frenzied giggles, that bounced off the stone walls.

Daemon slowly stalked deeper into the garden, while his eyes followed a girl shaped shadow that darted from bush to bush.

He sighed and stopped in the middle of the grassy area, hands on his hips. “Where is that little girl? When I find her I'm going to gobble her up” he dramatically stated to himself, making sure he’s heard.

Rhaella had wanted to move to the bush to his far right but before she could leave her spot she was caught and lifted into the air.

“I got you now!” Daemon declared, lifting her by her arms and bringing her closer to his chest while he pretend to eat her dramatically like a dragon.

Rhaella’s giggles and laughter could be heard all throughout the halls of the Keep, as she flailed her arms and legs out, trying to escape the dragons grasp. “Not fair uncle” she whined, when Daemon finally settled her on his arms.

He grinned and laughed slightly, brushing parts of Rhaella’s hair away from her face. “Don’t you think your uncle is mighty and clever enough to find you wherever you are?”

Rhaella huffed and flopped into Daemons chest admitting defeat.

Daemon laughed louder as he held onto her tightly, bundling her up in his arms even as she giggled and squirmed.

[darknight3904]

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕽𝖆𝖈𝖊

ᴀᴇᴍᴏɴᴅ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ x ꜰᴇᴍ!ᴏᴄ! ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ

ᴘʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ / ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ /ᴍʏ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

129 AC

Her chamber is suffocatingly warm, the soft morning breeze that she normally was indulged in was missing today. However, it was not the stifling heat that bothered her today, the news that was being spoken to her was.

"How long have you known?"

Her voice is stronger than she thought it'd be.

"Since Rhaenrya and Laenor's wedding. His...face that night gave his actions away."

Rhaella could scarcely believe what Rhaenys had just said. She had known for so many years and chosen not to tell her? Every night at supper she had looked at Rhaella and chosen to withhold information from her?

Her hands shook with anger. Anger for what might've been her life, for a mother she did not know.

"I will not return to Driftmark with you and my cousins on the morrow." She said

"I am sorry." Rhaenys said. As much as Rhaella hated it, she sounded sincere

"Get out!" She yelled, hoping no tears had escaped her eyes yet.

"I thought that if I kept my silence he'd tell you himself," Rhaenys explained

"He clearly had no intentions of ever telling me of Lady Rhea." Rhaella yelled, pointing an accusing finger at Rhaenys, "Just like you he is content with keeping me in the dark."

"You were a little girl when you came to me, I did not want to burden you with such a truth." Rhaenys said, trying to take a step closer to Rhaella.

"I am not a child any longer! You have had every opportunity to tell me!" Rhaella cried

"I know...I was wrong in withholding it...If you might-"

Rhaella lets her hands come down on the trinkets and ink well that sit on the table that separates her from Rhaenys. Papers and a jewelry box go flying to the floor while the ink well smashes into the wall.

"No. You knew how much I yearned for a family, for kin that were related to me, that is why I accepted your invitation to live with you. Because Baela and Rheana are my blood, yet you stood by and let me build a relationship with the very man who murdered my mother!"

Rhaenys' lips press into a firm line and Rhaella feels her face twitch in anger and sadness.

"I never wish to see you again." Rhaella declares, "Leave. Go back to Driftmark and let the tides swallow you whole."

She turns so her cousin cannot see the tears that are beginning to fall. The clicking of heels and the sound of a door shutting let her know Rhaenys is finally gone. Rhaella lets herself drop onto her bed. The blankets are soft and comforting as she cries into them. She's not even sure why she cries, mourning for a woman she has never met, a woman she will never know.

Aemond takes note of Rhaella's absence in the training yard immediately. She had just a day left her in Kings Landing and now she was standing him up after he offered to show her how to hold a longsword better. His spine was tight with anger as he searched the Red Keep for her. She wasn't in the library, her chamber, or even with Heleana. He was ready to even check in Aegon's chamber when the sight of his own chamber's door ajar caught his eye. Surely he had shut it entirely before departing for the training yard this morning.

He pushes it open, expecting one of Heleana's twins to be riffling though his things again. He'd had candy on his desk one time and now they expected it every time, they were truly going to be the fattest Targaryens if they weren't careful. Fortunately, it is not his niece or nephew who is in his chamber but Rhaella herself. She sits at his desk writing something. She had stood him up in the training yard to invade his private chambers?

"What are you doing?" He asked, still upset about her absence, "You have your own quill."

He crossed the room quickly and his dexterous hands snatched the quill from her hand. He expects her to laugh and try to take it back, like she usually would but instead is met with bright violet eyes tear-filled eyes.

"What has happened?" He asks, suddenly fearing the worse," Was it Aegon? I'll kill him if he touched you."

His hand jumps to the thin dagger he keeps at his side, a practice he had adopted after he lost his eye.

"It wasn't, Aegon. It's Daemon." She says sadly

"What has he done?" Aemond asks

Daemon was not eve in attendance for his name day celebration, he and Rhaenrya had stayed on Dragonstone.

"Rhaenys told me the truth of my mother's death. She did it today, I do not know why she chose to do it now, after knowing for so long. But Daemon is the reason my mother was taken from me, not a hunting accident like I was told for so many years." Rhaella explains, a stray tear escaping her eye

Aemond's fingers twitch with the need to wipe it away.

"I'm writing Daemon to tell him what a terrible person he is for doing that to my mother. I want him to regret it for the rest of his life." Rhaella says, glancing at a half-written raven scroll.

"I am sorry, for your mother," Aemond said

He doesn't know what to do. He has no experience with tears or feelings, even his own are a mystery to him. Most of all though the tears of a woman are something he has never been trained to deal with.

He is even more unsure of himself when she suddenly stands and wraps her arms around him. He's sure her snot is now wiped in his hair.

"Thank you." She whispers

He can feel the movement of her lips on his neck.

"What can I do for you? Is there anything?" He asks, tightening his own arms around her.

"Ask your father if I can stay here again. I cannot go back to Driftmark with Rhaenys and my cousins. I'll die if I have to see her again." Rhaella confesses

"Of course. I'll make sure he agrees." Aemond says

Soft silence settles around them as Aemond gently runs a soothing hand up and down Rhaella's back. He had seen the wet nurses do it to his niece and nephew when they cried so it seemed appropriate.

"I also ask that you let me use your quill and ink...I broke mine." Rhaella confesses

"Use as much as you want," Aemond says, a smile forming on his lips.

Okay, now our filler chapters can begin. A fluff arc is incoming. Also for reference, As of this chapter, Rhaella is 14 and Aemond is 13.

Next Part

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Taglist:

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@mizuki80

[alienoryva]

A targaryen name that only used by one person in the family ;

Aenar (Father of Daenys the dreamer)

Daenys (Daughter of Aenar the exile)

Maegon (Son of Aegon & Elaena/grandson of Daenys the dreamer & Gaemon the glorious)

Aelix (Son of Aerys/great-grandason of Daenys the dreamer)

Daemion (Youngest son of Aerys/great-grandson of Daenys the dreamer/father of lord Aerion/grandfather of the Conqueror siblings)

Aenys i (only child of Aegon the Conqueror & Rhaenys)

Aerea (Daughter of Aegon the uncrowned & Rhaena Targaryen/twins sister of septa-princess Rhaella Targaryen)

Maegelle (Sixth child of Jaehaerys i & Alysanne)

Vaegon (Seventh child of Jaehaerys i & Alysanne)

Viserra (Tenth child of Jaehaerys i & Alysanne)

Valerion (Twelfth child of Jaehaerys i & Alysanne)

Gael (Youngest/thirteenth child of Jaehaerys i & Alysanne)

Rhaenyra i (Daughter of Viserys i & Aemma Arryn)

Helaena (Daughter of Viserys i & Alicent Hightower)

Baela (Daughter of Daemon & Laena Velaryon/Twins sister of Rhaena)

Jaehaera (Daughter of Aegon ii & Helaena/Twins of Jaehaerys)

Daena (Eldest Daughter of Aegon iii & Daenaera Velaryon)

Naerys (Daughter of Viserys ii & Larra Rogarre)

Rhaegel (Third son of Daeron ii & Myriah Martell)

Maekar i (Youngest son of Daeron ii & Myriah Martell)

Aelor (Son of Rhaegel & Alys Arryn)

Aelora (Eldest Daughter of Rhaegel & Alys Arryn/Twins of Aelor)

Daenora (Youngest child/daughter of Rhaegel & Alys Arryn)

Valarr (Eldest son/child of Baelor the breakspear & Jena dondarrion)

Matarys (Youngest son/child of Baelor the breakspear & Jena dondarrion)

Rhae (Youngest daughter/child of Maekar i & Dyanna dayne)

Rhaelle (Youngest daughter/child of Aegon v & Betha Blackwood/grandmother of Robert i,stannis,renly Baratheon)

Rhaegar (Eldest son/child of Aerys the mad king & Rhaella)

Shaena (Second child/Eldest Daughter of Aerys the mad king & Rhaella)

🪻

NOTE: I didn't add the Targaryen name which only uses additional alphabet but the spelling is same (Saera & Shaera / Aemon & Aemond)

[aelenavelaryon]

Robert Baratheon x Reader (pt.2)

Summary: in which the Queen gets her revenge on her husband

The return of dragons came to a surprise for the realm. It was unexpected yet a blessing, especially for Rhaenyra. Finally, dragons returned to the world. Robert was not on board with having them in King's Landing at first but after watching Rhaenyra be happy after the loss of their child he agreed. Robert, despite marrying her without love came to enjoy her company as the two enjoyed making children.

Rhaenyra choose to let her dragons roamed free in a place where they were all away from people, to avoid harming innocent people. Prince Daemon was born in the year 283, near the end of the year. His brother Orys came days after his first name day in 284. In the year 286 came the twins, Aemon and Aemond. Just a year later in 287 she lost a child, it was then that Dragons were reborn.

By 290, Rhaenyra's dragons had grown a lot. The year prior they disappeared and when they returned they were the size of an adult dragon. So, for the first time in centuries a Targaryen finally took to the skies on dragonback. Balerion, the dragon she rode flew her to a part of the Keep that was abandoned and where he kept dragons eggs.

Rhaenyra brought Dragon Keepers to the Keep to help with the dragons and their eggs. The eggs, which were enough to give to each one of her children and brother, were kept warm and ready in the children's room. Finally, after five years of trying for a daughter, a girl finally came. Well, more like two. Rhaena and Helaena came during the summers of 290. By then, her children all had dragons eggs. Prince Daemon had claimed Caraxes, while his brother's hatched their eggs. Orys named his Eros. Aemon named his Moonfyre and Aemond named his Meraxes. Princess Rhaena and Helaena's dragon eggs hatched the same day of their birth.

King Robert threw a feast in honor of their first name day. By then, queen Rhaenyra had given him four sons and two daughters. Princess Rhaena was said to be as wild and defiant as her mother in her youth. Rhaena had the Targaryen hair and eyes, while her twin, princess Helaena had black hair and blue eyes like his father but she was as quiet and calm as her late grandmothers, queen Rhaella and Lady Cassana Baratheon. Robert was a decent king who took the input of his queen. They had a quiet a decent marriage.

Since the day they married Robert kept to his wife's and his own chambers. He slept with no other woman that was not his wife. Some had said he changed for the better and Eddard Stark could attest to that. Rhaenyra's life was good. She had no worries. Everything was just perfect.

The news reached her a few weeks later. Robert Baratheon had slept with Cersei Lannister or so she claimed. Cersei was a girl of three and twenty. She was yet to be married as her father hadn't found her a good match yet. Rhaenyra when she heard said nothing. Robert even thought she hadn't heard but she had. She knew, thanks to her little birds that Jaime was Cersei's lover. So, her plan was to take Jaime from Cersei. It was her goal to make him loyal to her.

Her plan began the very next day. She had asked Robert for a new guard. Stating that with six children it was better for them and her to have extra security. The king agreed. She smiled and acted as if nothing was happening. When Cersei was forced to move the keep by her father's order, Rhaenyra was forced to confront her husband.

Robert entered their shared chambers. "Nyra" she looked away. Rhaenyra was two and twenty. She had given her husband six children. She never complained nor did she cause him any problems. She simply did her duty, ever the dutiful her mother used to say. "I have never asked anything of you, nor have I ever caused you trouble or any problems. I have stood by you for the last seven years. I married you despite everything. I am no saint, nor have I ever been. I brought a son into a marriage that was not yours. You loved him and took care of him as if he was your own. And in return I gave your four sons with your blood and two daughters with your blood" there was a brief silence. "Where our children not enough?" she asked. "Was I not enough?" she asked.

Rhaenyra had never been insecure. How could she? She was a Targaryen, their beauty seemed to be god like and now, with her dragon being a god seemed far more possible than before. "I love you, Robert. But I will not be the person you treat like a common whore. If Cersei gives you a bastard child I will give you one too. And if she gives you another so will I" she said. Robert was too stunned to speak. She gave him on chance to speak before she left their shared chambers, Arthur and Jaime following behind.

Rhaenyra knew Cersei's greatest love was Jaime, and she rarely even allowed him to wonder far from her. Jaime didn't mind, watching over her gave him some sort of relief as he felt guilty for killing her father years back. He also wanted to keep her safe as he could not keep Elia and her children. Jaime was also avoiding his sister, as much as she would try to find him but he would walk the other way or ignore her pleas to talk. Over the months the good relationship between the queen and king perished in the blink of an eye. King Robert returned to his drunken and whoring ways.

Cersei Lannister gave birth to a son who she named Joffrey Baratheon, a boy with black hair and green eyes, he seemed to be all his father but the eyes. A year later, in the year 292, queen Rhaenyra gave birth to a son, a boy she named Rhaegar Targaryen and a daughter who she named Rhaella. The boy had blonde white hair. His eyes were the same eyes of princess Alyssa Targaryen, wife of Baelon Targaryen. One green eye and purple. Her daughter, princess Rhaella had a her grandmother's looks. Ser Jaime Lannister was the first one to hold his two children. A little princeling he used to call him and his little baby girl. Jaime and Rhaenyra were the ones who picked the names.

Robert knew but he said nothing as the guilt of returning to his old habits returned. Prince Jacaerys came four years after his sisters, then, a year after him came Lucerys. Princess Rhaenyra had always loved those names and had always wanted to name one of her sons like them. Prince Jacaerys had dark brown hair and purple eyes, his brother Lucerys was just like his brother. Queen Rhaenyra bore thirteen children at the short age of thirty. Her last two children were girls. Daughters. Visenya and Daenerys, daughters of Ser Arthur Dayne.

Eddard Stark never married, instead he served his queen Rhaenyra his entire life. And of course he took care of their two sons. Ned had became her closest companion alongside Arthur and Jaime Lannister. She had no other allies at court but them. At least, she didn't trust anyone else but them. Cersei gave Robert three more children. Tommen, Myrcella and Joanna but they were known as bastards since they were not married.

On the queen's name day, a thirtieth name day celebration was made in her honor. Every house in the realm attended, including Dorne, Driftmark and the North. By then, Prince Jaehaerys was nearly six and ten, Daemon was five and ten, Orys three and ten, Aemon and Aemond were one and ten, Helaena and Rhaena were eight, Rhaegar and Rhaella were nearly six, Jacaerys was four, prince Lucerys three and his sisters had just turned one.

Queen Rhaenyra, despite birthing thirteen children looked far better than most, she was grateful, she also took care great of her figure, she wanted to preserve herself as much as she could. Robert knew that seven of those children where not his. Jaehaerys had been claimed as a Targaryen despite Tywin's insistence to keep him as a bastard. Rhaenyra did not wish for her son to bear the name Baratheon or Stark. Brandon had written to her often wanting to know about his son but he not once had asked for the boy to visit him nor to be claimed as a Stark. She knew Catelyn did not like the idea of Brandon's bastard sons being in their home and possible taking Robb's birthright.

During the Queen's name day celebration things are said and revenge is plotted. They say when you play the game of thrones you win or you die, there is no middle ground. Queen Rhaenyra is going to win, no matter what. The question is, will she succeed or will she fail?

[amoratearte]

🐉 Rhaella Targaryen 🌟

Targaryen Family Tree

[…]the queen spent time with her daughter Rhaella, so like and yet so unlike her twin[…] “I have had the best mother any child could wish for, the Mother Above, and you are to thank for her”

No issue

[melrosing]

What actually is the evidence for Tyrion Targaryen? I’ve seen the bits about Joanna from A World of Ice and Fire but don’t know if there is more? What is the bit in GRRM’s blog post?

I can’t remember if I did an answer for this before but in any case I can’t find it so summary below

THE JOANNA SIDE OF THINGS

Joanna spent her youth at court as a lady in waiting to Rhaella, and Aerys always had a thing for her. Rhaella ultimately dismisses Joanna from court, saying she wouldn’t have Aerys making a whore of one of her ladies, but it’s unclear whether whatever was taking place between them was consensual or not/how far it was taken. Joanna marries Tywin around this time, Aerys gropes her during the bedding ceremony, then presumably they don’t see each other for a few years, in which time the twins are born.

After that they meet again maybe twice on record: once for an extended period when Aerys moves the court to Casterly Rock having named Tywin hand, one year after the twins are born. Then again at court in KL when the twins are six, which is the time Aerys makes a derogatory comment about Joanna’s breasts. And….. this is around a year before Tyrion is born.

So as far as the Joanna stuff goes… if Tyrion is indeed Aerys’ son biologically, it’s unclear what kind of relationship his parents had. There are three possibilities:

The relationship was always nonconsensual, and Joanna has always loved Tywin (or it’s possible even that she never loved either of them idk)

The relationship was initially consensual but later it was not: maybe Joanna loved Aerys in her youth but then fell in love w Tywin instead, and Aerys forced himself on her in the latter years

They were in love the whole time but there were abusive and/or toxic elements to the relationship, with Aerys humiliating Joanna at court before/after they slept together in KL in 272AC.

I kind of tend towards 3. I don’t think Aerys and Joanna were star crossed lovers, it’s obvious he has publicly humiliated her a number of times and that a big part of her appeal is that she ‘belongs’ to Tywin, and Aerys wants what Tywin has, and relishes the opportunity to humiliate him more than anything. There’s definitely some humiliation by proxy shit going on here. Joanna is sometimes the middle man between Tywin and Aerys, and maybe Tywin is sometimes the middle man between Aerys and Joanna.

And the reason I think it’s 3 is specifically bc of how Tywin himself is written. Tywin is fucking deluded, and everything he thinks is gold is shit. If the thing he prized the most (his romance w Joanna) was the biggest lie of them all, that would be some kind of poetry.

Then it’s a matter of whether Tywin knew. And I think he did? Tywin almost never talks about Joanna, except to accuse Tyrion of killing her. And whilst this is quite an emotive thing to say, the way he says it has a level of remove - it’s another in the list of Tyrion’s sins. As for how his grief for Joanna looks from the outside, we’re told that 1) whatever joy he had in him was gone and 2) he tells Jaime at the age of about 8 (I.e. maybe a year after Joanna’s death) that love is worthless.

This could be bc he’s a wife guy and misses her terribly in his usual deeply dysfunctional way. But my suspicion is that Tywin despises Joanna for the affair, but cannot tell anyone about it. No one can know that this grand romance of his was tarnished, and that he was a cuckold. So everyone assumes his coldness is his grief from the outside, but we don’t know that. And it’s possible the sheer hatred he feels for Tyrion has to do with not only having to raise the child of this affair, but that that child, being disabled, leaves him to suffer a fresh ‘humiliation’ that he has to claim as his own.

I’ve also always found Jaime’s dream of Joanna very strange in that it tells us a lot about how insecure Tywin was, and how Joanna knew that - but nothing about how she herself felt about him. She's a very ambiguous character, and have only the most fleeting glimpses of her as a person apart from Tywin. How do we know she ever loved him as much as he loved her?? I've said before I think it's notable she never told him about what the twins had been doing, and her plot to send one of them to Dorne. She was clearly a woman with thoughts and plans quite separate from her husband's, that she let him in on only as she saw fit. There is a tangible distance in there somewhere, it's just hard to say how great that distance might be with what we have so far.

And finally, when Tywin's last words are literally 'you are no son of mine' - was he like. telling the truth? lol?

THE DRAGON SIDE OF THINGS

So obviously this also goes way beyond just the possibility of an affair between Aerys and Joanna - Tyrion is also tied up with a lot of dragon imagery, as well as bits of foreshadowing etc. First off, his interest and affinity with dragons is established several times over:

Tyrion had a morbid fascination with dragons. TYRION II, AGOT

"When I was your age, I used to dream of having a dragon of my own [...] Oh, yes. Even a stunted, twisted, ugly little boy can look down over the world when he's seated on a dragon's back [...] I used to start fires in the bowels of Casterly Rock and stare at the flames for hours, pretending they were dragonfire. Sometimes I'd imagine my father burning. At other times, my sister." TYRION II AGOT

When he was still a lonely child in the depths of Casterly Rock, he oft rode dragons through the nights, pretending he was some lost Targaryen princeling, or a Valyrian dragonlord soaring high o'er fields and mountains. Once, when his uncles asked him what gift he wanted for his nameday, he begged them for a dragon. "It wouldn't need to be a big one. It could be little, like I am." His uncle Gerion thought that was the funniest thing he had ever heard, but his uncle Tygett said, "The last dragon died a century ago, lad." That had seemed so monstrously unfair that the boy had cried himself to sleep that night. TYRION II, ADWD

And there's a fair bit of foreshadowing in these passages alone, e.g. in the second passage, Tyrion is talking to Jon, ALSO a secret Targ, and in the third imagines himself 'some lost Targaryen princeling', which he may well fuckin be. sort of.

There's also this passage that has always stood out to me.

[Tyrion:] "What do you see in those flames?" "Dragons," Moqorro said [...] "Dragons old and young, true and false, bright and dark. And you. A small man with a big shadow, snarling in the midst of all." TYRION VIII, ADWD

Like oh, right. So what's Tyrion doing amidst all those dragons lol. well, I think it's going to be a whole lot more obvious in hindsight; this is very Melisandre searching the flames and seeing 'only snow' - Moqorro has seen something but no one knows enough to take its meaning.

Then there's the fact that we basically know there will be two dragonriders joining Dany, because 'the dragon has three heads'. One of them is obviously Jon, but who is the other? It's not going to be Aegon/Young Griff, because ya boy's a Blackfyre. It's going to be Tyrion. There are imo three main characters in ASOIAF, and they are Jon, Dany and Tyrion, and it's what connects them that's the twist. They're also distinct in that their mothers all died giving birth to them, and each comes from what I think are functionally the three main houses - Targaryen, Stark, and Lannister. Dany is Targaryen-Targaryen, Jon is Stark-Targaryen, Tyrion is Lannister-Targaryen. There's a weird little rhyme to it.

So having established that Tyrion is one of the three heads, I'm referring back to GRRM's recent blog post. There's not a whole lot that's new here, except that I think it comes close to affirming that whatever affinity it is that Valyrians have with dragons, it's in the blood.

I did once prefer the idea that hypothetically, a dragonrider could be anyone (e.g. Nettles), because it seemed kind of just idk. dull that the Valyrians hold all the power here, and kind of romantic that a dragonrider could be almost anyone.

However, I have changed my mind lol. Thinking about it now, it's like.... if indeed the dragons are products of bloodmagic etc, as Septon Barth's GRRM-endorsed theory goes, there is something weird and manmade about them, and indeed about whatever connection the Valyrians have with them. It's not a natural feature of the Valyrians that they just get along great with dragons, it's an affinity intentionally created by their ancestors to grant them access to the power a dragon represents. This isn't an equal relationship between man and beast - man messed with something here. That is why the Valyrians can connect with dragons, and the whole 'blood mages were doing freaky experiments to create a connection for the use of dragonfire' is a fair bit less romantic than 'Valyrians and dragons are one and the same'. There's a deep cynicism in it.

That said, I don't think that means that the dragons can't be used as a force for good. They can and will be. It's more that, taking control of any creature that powerful has consequence, and what are the limits of that blood connection etc.

ALL that to say, if Tyrion's going to ride a dragon he needs Valyrian blood. It can't be enough that Viserion/Rhaegal just think his one liners are killer.

and finally no Tyrion Targ post complete without mentioning that his hair is paler than Jaime and Cersei's and he has one dark eye that who knows could be a deep purple??

WHY DON'T I LIKE TYRION TARG THEORY

Because I like Lannisters lol and I think for all that's interesting about the above, the messy relationships between Tywin and Tyrion and Cersei and Jaime are a whole lot more engaging for me, and I feel like it's some kind of cop out if the one son Tywin never wanted wasn't really his anyway, proper yer a wizard tyrion. It's just. why mess w a good thing, you know. but as i've said before, if it happens i'll just go to therapy and talk it out. i will live. whereas if jaime and cersei were secret targs i WILL jump out a window

[thetinksessays]

The Line Of Succession

….and how it proves Aegon II is the rightful heir.

Introduction

So I was listening to Fire and Blood and there’s a couple of interesting lines in its first few chapters regarding succession.

‘While many still debated whether Prince Maegor or his niece, Rhaena, should have precedence in the order of succession, it seemed beyond question that Aegon would follow his father, Aenys, just as Aenys would follow Aegon.’

Page 56, The Sons of the Dragon, Fire and Blood.

‘Only Grand Maester Gawen dared object. By all the laws of inheritance, laws that the Conqueror himself had affirmed after the conquest, the throne should pass to King Aenys’ son Aegon, the aged maester said.’

Page 74, The Sons of the Dragon, Fire and Blood.

The Initial Line of Succession

The initial succession is clear, and was indicated long before Aegon I affirmed the succession laws. It was when it was decided that Aegon, despite being the middle sibling, would be the main ruler. This set the precedent that male heirs come before female heirs, regardless of birth order.

Aegon’s heir was his eldest son Aenys, and in turn Aenys’ heir was his eldest son Aegon. But while Aenys was the elder of Aegon I’s two children, Aegon was not the eldest of Aenys’ children. Aenys’ first child was his daughter, Rhaena. Again, setting the precedent that sons inherit before elder daughters.

But here’s where it starts getting messy. Because Aegon didn’t inherit the throne; he was usurped by Maegor, Aenys’ younger brother. Interestingly, Maegor named his great niece Aerea his heir. Aerea was Aegon’s daughter, and would have been the rightful heir if Aegon had inherited the throne as the laws dictated.

Maegor, by the way, had very legitimate reasons for usurping. Thanks to Aenys’ insistence on marrying his son and daughter together, the Faith was up in arms and had declared that any children they produced were abominations. There was no way anyone in Westeros would accept Aegon as King, and being as he was only 16 and had no dragon, he had no way of taming the rebellions and riots breaking out across Westeros. Maegor, on the other hand, rode Balerion the Black Dread and wielded Blackfyre. He was easily able to squash the Faith’s armed branches.

None of Maegor’s wives produced any living children, so he had to name someone else his heir. Aenys had five surviving children: Rhaena, Aegon, Viserys, Jaehaerys and Alysanne. Aegon was killed in battle so he couldn’t be Maegor’s heir. Jaehaerys and Alysanne were hidden away and protected by their mother, so Maegor couldn’t name them either.

His options were Rhaena, Viserys or one of Rhaena and Aegon’s twin daughters (it’s unclear who the older twin was) Aerea and Rhaella. Despite Viserys being held as a hostage by Maegor, he chose Aerea. He still decided to follow succession laws even though he didn’t have to.

Jaehaerys And The Law

However, after Maegor’s death, his nephew Jaehaerys I became King. This was because Aerea was only six years old, and was a rather timid and shy child, so even her mother said she wasn’t a good fit for the throne. But this is going against the succession laws. And it wouldn’t be the last time Jaehaerys did that.

Jaehaerys’ first heir was his eldest son, Aemon. Queen Alysanne wanted their eldest child, Daenerys, to be the heir but Jaehaerys refused. This is the right choice, because the laws are clear that sons inherit before daughters, and not even the King can defy the laws.

Aemon died long before Jaehaerys, and his daughter Rhaenys should have been the next heir, but Jaehaerys instead chose his second son, Baelon. Many people blame this on sexism, but I think it’s more complicated than that. Rhaenys was married to Corlys Velaryon, an ambitious man. Her children weren’t Targaryens; they were Velaryons. Making her the heir meant the throne passing from House Targaryen to House Velaryon. Not to mention, Rhaenys was 16 with no experience while Baelon was 35 and had experience.

It’s unclear if this goes against the succession laws. The quote above regarding Maegor and Rhaena suggests the laws are unclear if a brother comes before a daughter. So it’s uncertain if Rhaenys should have inherited, because she was Aemon’s daughter, or if Baelon was the rightful heir as he was Jaehaerys’ son.

Viserys And The Dance

After Baelon’s death, the Great Council chose Viserys I as the next heir. It is unclear where the laws stand on this. As Baelon’s eldest son, he was unquestionably his heir but, given it was unclear if Baelon was the lawful heir, that may not mean anything. It does, however, set the precedent of male heirs over any female heirs.

Now, here’s where we come to Rhaenyra and Aegon II. There’s some ambiguity when it comes to a brother and a daughter of the king, but not if it’s between a son and a daughter.

There the laws are clear. Aegon II, as Viserys’ eldest trueborn son, is his rightful heir. Rhaenyra has no claim to the throne while Aegon II, Aemond, Daeron, Jaehaerys and Maelor are alive.

After looking over the succession prior to Viserys, we can establish that the Targaryens followed the law of sons before daughters, but there’s some question of if daughters come before uncles. Therefore, succession following his death could go two ways.

It’s either Aegon II, Jaehaerys, Maelor, Jaehaera, Aemond, Daeron, Rhaenyra, Aegon III, Viserys II, Helaena, Daemon or Aegon II, Jaehaerys, Maelor, Aemond, Daeron, Daemon, Aegon III, Viserys II, Daemon, Helaena, Jaehaera.

(As Jacaerys, Lucerys and Joffrey are bastards, they cannot claim the throne and are not in the line of succession).

Regardless, Rhaenyra is not the rightful heir and is actually quite far down the line of succession. She, not Aegon, is the usurper and unlike Maegor, she has no good reasons to usurp the throne.

TLDR: Targaryen Royal succession follows the law, there’s an area of ambiguity over whether a brother or a daughter inherits but no ambiguity regarding sons over daughters, and Rhaenyra is a usurper with no good reason for doing so, making her worse than Maegor in that regard.

[sansa286]

One of my favorite bus driver ships is Rhaena the Lesbian x Aegon the Uncrowned. No, I don't ship them romantically. Rhaena was a lesbian, so there was no sexual attraction there. But I do think they loved each other as brother and sister and best friends. Reading their parts in Fire & Blood, they just seemed like siblings that got along and cared for each other which is refreshing for a Targaryen couple. They were either like Jaehaerys II and Shaera, who were weirdly besotted with each other despite being siblings, or they were like Naerys and Aegon IV where not only did neither party like the other, but Aegon was straight up abusing Naerys. Rhaena and Aegon are like if best friend were forced to get married.

They're kind of Artemis and Apollo coded (they never together or got married, but stay with me). They are close as siblings. Artemis is the older and more secluded and has a group of women that she hangs out with (with Rhaena, it's explicitly queer). Aegon is younger, bright, and popular. They both care for each other deeply as siblings and love hanging out together. Both are protective over one another. While Rhaena and Aegon are not twins, they do have a pair in Aerea and Rhaella.

They're just sweet and enjoyable to me, in so far a Targcest couple can without getting outrageously creepy. If only Aegon were less frantic...because his and Melony's death did deeply affect Rhaena; he is the only husband of hers that she never spoke ill of. They were besties.

[novaursa]

The Flames We Loved (to wake a dragon)

This is one of my darker works. If it's not your cup of tea, skip it. The story gets progressively worse with each chapter. You have been warned.

- Summary: It started with Harrenhal and the year of false spring, where you danced with a dragon trying to calm his flames.

- Pairing: daughter!reader/father!Aerys II Targaryen

- Note: Since people liked the intro posted, here is the first part of the official story before I retire for the night. Enjoy. ❤️

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Previous part: prelude

- Next part: to ignite an ember

The weight of the crown sits lightly upon your head, the soft petals of blue winter roses brushing against your brow as you sit, dazed, in the gallery. Rhaegar’s silent proclamation, his silver hair gleaming as he rode past, had left the entire court in stunned silence. It was you he had crowned Queen of Love and Beauty—not Elia, his wife. Not the Dornish princess who had been gazing at him with soft eyes and a knowing smile. It was you, Y/N Targaryen, your twin sister by two minutes, born of the same flame in the ruins of Summerhall.

You can feel the weight of their eyes on you, the court buzzing with whispers. The knights, the ladies, even the smallfolk watch, but none more intently than your father. Aerys. His gaze has been fixed on you for far too long, as if he sees something now that he hadn’t before. You shiver under his stare, but not from the cold.

Rhaella, ever pale and fragile, sits beside you. Her hand trembles slightly, hidden beneath her long sleeve, and she’s barely able to smile in congratulations. Her health has declined so much in these years, a thin shadow of the queen she once was. Still, she tries. She always tries.

“Rhaegar…” she murmurs, as though not quite understanding, her soft words almost drowned out by the rising murmurs in the crowd. “Why did he…?”

But she is cut off by the sound of your father’s voice, ringing louder than the court’s gossip. “My daughter! My beautiful, perfect daughter! Crowned by a prince! Crowned by the realm’s future king!”

He’s indulged too much in his wine today. You can tell by the way he sways slightly in his chair, the manic gleam in his violet eyes. Aerys has become more unpredictable over the years, his moods swinging like a pendulum, sometimes sweet as honey, sometimes as sharp as dragonsteel. And today…today he is not sweet.

Tywin Lannister, your father’s Hand, stands behind the king’s seat, his eyes narrowing as he senses the king’s growing unease. Tywin has always been cautious around Aerys, his patience thinning year by year. He tries to step forward, to whisper something in your father’s ear, but Aerys waves him away like a buzzing fly.

“No,” Aerys says, his voice raising, drawing more attention to himself. “No, Tywin, you think I don’t see your game. You’d crown your lioness queen if you could!” His laughter rings out, brittle and sharp, and it makes you flinch in your seat. His gaze slides back to you, hungry and fierce. “But it is my daughter who is queen today!”

A shiver runs down your spine as his eyes linger too long on your form, raking over you in a way that makes your skin crawl. The crowd is watching. You can feel their gazes burning into your skin, and worse, you can feel the whisper of rumors building, slithering through the air like vipers. Cersei Lannister, with her beauty and ambitions, glares at you from her place with her father. The resentment in her gaze is like a dagger, but it is nothing compared to the weight of your father’s stare.

“My king…” you murmur, standing slowly from your seat and approaching your father with a gentle, careful grace. “Perhaps we should—”

“Sit,” Aerys commands sharply, pulling you down into Rhaella’s seat beside him. His grip on your arm is tighter than it should be, and the gesture doesn’t go unnoticed by those around. The court falls into a nervous hush, the once-lively tournament atmosphere now tinged with unease.

“Father, please…” You try to smile, to ease his mood, but the grin he offers in return is unsettling. “The tourney—”

“Do you think they care about a tourney?” Aerys interrupts, waving his hand dismissively at the field, where knights have now ceased their contests, all eyes on the royal box. “No! They’re here for us, for you! My daughter—more beautiful than the moon and stars. More radiant than any queen this realm has ever known.”

“Perhaps we should retire,” Rhaella murmurs, her voice barely audible. “The day has been long, my love…”

“No!” Aerys snaps, his fingers still gripping your arm as he leans closer to you. The sour scent of wine is heavy on his breath, and his words become a low hiss, meant for your ears alone. “Do not leave me.”

You swallow, trying to remain calm. You can feel the dread building in the air, see the way Tywin shifts uncomfortably, his calculating eyes watching the king’s every move. You know you need to de-escalate this, to calm your father down before he makes an even greater spectacle. His moods have been worse lately, more erratic, more dangerous.

“Father,” you whisper, leaning in slightly, trying to ease him, as you always have. “Let us enjoy the rest of the tourney. The people are watching.”

“They watch you,” Aerys breathes, his voice softer now, almost tender. His gaze is too intense, too focused on your face, your lips, your eyes. “You are the jewel of the realm. You shine brighter than Rhaella ever did.”

Your breath catches in your throat. His words feel like a dagger, sharp and cutting, and Rhaella flinches beside you, though she says nothing. She has grown used to such wounds, silent and enduring as ever. But you are not Rhaella. You have always been your father’s favorite, the one who could soothe his tempers, calm his storms.

But now, something has shifted. The way he looks at you is not the way a father should look at his daughter.

“My king,” Tywin speaks up again, his voice cautious but firm. “Perhaps it is best if we retire for the day. The tourney can resume tomorrow, under more favorable circumstances.”

Aerys’s eyes flash with anger, and he releases your arm, turning to Tywin with a sneer. “I do not need your counsel, Lannister. You think you can control me? I am the king! I am fire! I will burn you all before you take what is mine!”

The court falls into an uneasy silence, the tension so thick it is suffocating. You feel the weight of the crown on your head, a crown you did not ask for, a crown that has become a noose. You stand slowly, trying to pull yourself from the chaos that swirls around you.

“Father, please,” you whisper, your voice steady but soft. “Let us leave the field. For now.”

Aerys looks at you, his eyes narrowing as if he is trying to decide whether to listen or lash out. Finally, after a long, tense moment, he rises to his feet. “Yes,” he says, his voice low, but still audible to the crowd. “We will leave. But remember this, Tywin.” He turns to the Hand of the King, his gaze burning with fury. “No lion will ever rule this realm. Only dragons.”

You follow your father as he sweeps out of the gallery, your heart heavy with the knowledge that the rumors will only grow after today. The court will talk, the whispers will spread. And you… you will bear the weight of a crown you never wanted.

You follow in silence, the cold stone of Harrenhal looming ahead, as your father grips your arm with a possessiveness that makes your skin crawl. His steps are uneven, the wine clearly affecting him more than usual, but it’s not just the wine—it’s something deeper, something more dangerous, festering inside him. You’ve seen this before, but never like this.

Aerys leans heavily on you, as though you’re his anchor, his lifeline. His fingers press into your skin, more confident now, more brazen. His touch lingers too long on your arm, sliding down to your wrist, and you feel the weight of his gaze on you, even as you keep your eyes forward, leading him toward the darkened halls of Harrenhal. Behind you, you can hear the footsteps of Ser Gerold and Ser Oswell trailing at a respectful distance, their presence both a comfort and a burden.

“You always know how to calm me,” Aerys murmurs, his voice slurring slightly as he pulls you closer to him. His hand slips to your waist, and you tense, heart racing, trying to keep your expression neutral. “Rhaella could never…not like you.”

You force a smile, the one you’ve perfected over the years, the one that hides the storm brewing inside. “We should retire to the castle, Father. You need to rest. The tourney will continue tomorrow.”

“Rest?” Aerys laughs, a sharp, brittle sound that echoes through the corridor. “Rest is for the weak, Y/N. You think I don’t see how they look at you? At us? They whisper and plot, but they are nothing. Nothing.” He pulls you even closer, his breath hot against your neck, and you fight the instinct to pull away. “You and I… we are fire. We are the blood of Old Valyria. No one else can understand.”

You swallow hard, glancing back at Ser Gerold and Ser Oswell, who remain a discreet distance behind. Their faces are expressionless, their duty unquestionable, but you know they can see. They can hear. The walls of Harrenhal have eyes, ears, and mouths ready to spread stories with each passing breath.

“Father,” you whisper, your voice low but firm. “The guards are watching. The entire court is watching. We must be careful.”

“Let them watch,” he growls, his hand sliding lower, his touch no longer hidden by the guise of fatherly affection. “Let them see how perfect you are, how you were born to rule with me. They don’t understand, but you do. You’ve always understood.”

Your heart pounds in your chest, the once-familiar warmth of your father’s affection now twisted into something dark and possessive. And it feels like you’re losing control, like the storm inside him is growing too powerful for even you to quell.

“Father, please…” you say, more quietly this time, your eyes darting to the guards behind you again. Ser Gerold and Ser Oswell keep their distance, but they’re there, always watching. You need to remind him, to make him understand the danger in his actions.

But Aerys is not disheartened. His hand tightens on your waist, pulling you to a stop as you near the entrance to the castle. His eyes, wild and fevered, lock onto yours, and for a moment, it’s as though the world around you fades. His breath is heavy, his gaze piercing, and he no longer sees you as his daughter—not in the way he should.

“They think they can take you from me,” he whispers, his lips too close to your ear, his voice dripping with possessiveness. “But they can’t. You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”

A shiver runs down your spine, not from fear—no, not yet—but from the realization that you are losing him. Losing the man you thought you could save. Losing control over the only thing that ever made sense in this madness. The father you once loved and idolized has become something else. Someone else.

“We should go inside,” you murmur, forcing your voice to remain calm. “Away from prying eyes.”

Aerys laughs again, a high, unhinged sound that makes your stomach twist. “Yes… inside. Where no one can see. Where it’s just us.”

His words hang in the air, and you nod, leading him forward, praying that once you’re behind the walls of Harrenhal, you can regain control—praying that you can pull him back from the brink before it’s too late.

But as his fingers dig deeper into your waist, you know that prayer might not be enough.

You walk through the halls of Harrenhal, Aerys still holding onto you as though he might crumble without your support. His hand still lingers on your waist, too tight, too familiar, but you keep your pace steady, knowing that any hesitation, any sign of discomfort, might set him off again. The weight of his touch feels heavier than it ever has before, each step echoing with the sharp reality that you’re losing the father you once knew.

Behind you, Ser Gerold and Ser Oswell follow at a distance, shadows in their silent vigilance. You are keenly aware of their presence, of the eyes watching from the corners of the great castle, waiting for another spectacle to unfold. You must get him to the royal quarters, away from the prying eyes, before his madness consumes him fully in public.

You take a breath, trying to steady yourself, and engage him in conversation. "Father… how are your nightmares?" Your voice is gentle, coaxing, as if you’re speaking to a wounded animal. "Is Pycelle’s tonic helping at all?"

For a moment, you wonder if he heard you, his gaze still fixed on you, his fingers tightening briefly before loosening again. But then he laughs softly, leaning more heavily into you. His breath, tainted by the wine, is warm against your ear as he speaks. “The nightmares? Ah, Y/N, my sweet, my perfect daughter… the dreams have changed.”

You stiffen, your stomach twisting. “Changed?” You try to keep your voice light, unassuming, but there’s a tremor of unease that you can’t quite suppress. You’ve never heard him speak of his dreams like this, not with such… intensity.

He nods, his head resting against your shoulder for a moment as if he finds comfort in your presence. But his words are anything but comforting. “They’re not nightmares anymore. No… they are visions. I see us, Y/N. You and I—together. In fire and in blood, we are unstoppable. No one can take you from me. No one.”

You feel his words sink into you, cold and suffocating. His descent into madness has been long and gradual, like watching a star fall from the sky, knowing it will burn out before it hits the earth. But this—this talk of visions and dreams—it feels different. Darker. More dangerous.

You force yourself to keep walking, though your legs feel heavy, leaden with the weight of what he’s saying. “Visions?” you echo softly, trying to keep him talking, to calm him, to pull him back from whatever dark place he’s slipping into. “What do you see, Father?”

Aerys stops suddenly, turning toward you with a manic gleam in his eyes. His hand moves from your waist to your face, his thumb brushing your cheek in a way that feels far too intimate, far too wrong. “I see you beside me. Always beside me. As my queen. As my fire. The world will burn for us, Y/N. They don’t understand, but they will. I’ll show them. We’ll show them.

You stiffen, unable to hide your reaction this time. The words coming from him are not those of a father—they are the delusions of a madman. The way he speaks of you, the way he looks at you, makes your skin crawl, but more than that, it fills you with a deep, aching sadness. You’ve known for some time that Aerys’s mind was slipping, that the father you loved was disappearing beneath the weight of his paranoia and his madness. But this… this feels like something more. Something worse.

“Father…” you whisper, your voice barely above a breath. “These are just dreams. Just… dreams.”

But Aerys shakes his head, his grip on you tightening again. “No, no, Y/N. They are not just dreams. They are the future. I see it. I feel it. The dragons are speaking to me again. Just as they did in the days of old. I am the last dragon, Y/N, and you—you are my fire. Together, we will bring the realm to its knees.”

The words make your heart race, but not with fear—at least not yet. It’s the sadness, the overwhelming sorrow of watching him unravel before you, that grips you most. You’ve always known there was something more to his madness, something beyond the paranoia and the cruelty. The way he speaks now, of visions, of dragons… it’s as though he truly believes he is touched by something divine, something ancient. And that makes it all the more dangerous.

“You must rest, Father,” you say, your voice trembling slightly as you try to lead him toward the royal quarters. “Let us get you to your chambers, where you can lie down. You need to rest.”

Aerys doesn’t resist, but he doesn’t loosen his grip on you either. His eyes are still fixed on you, wild and intense, as though you are the only thing tethering him to this world. “I don’t need rest,” he mutters, his voice lowering to a whisper as he leans in closer. “I need you.”

Your breath catches in your throat. You’ve always been the one to calm him, the one he relied on when no one else could reach him. But now, that reliance has twisted into something else entirely. Something you’re not sure you can control anymore.

As you finally reach the entrance to his chambers, you gently pull away, forcing a smile even as your heart pounds in your chest. “You’ll feel better after some sleep,” you say softly, guiding him inside.

But as he releases you, his eyes linger on yours, and the words he speaks next send a chill down your spine.

“Sleep,” he murmurs, stepping inside. “Yes… but the visions will come again. And when they do, Y/N… I will make them real.”

As the door to Aerys’s chambers closes with a soft thud, you stand there for a moment, the cold stone walls of Harrenhal pressing in on you. Your chest feels tight, each breath shallow and shaky as you replay his words in your mind. The visions. The way he spoke to you. The way he looked at you. It had never been like that before—not like this.

You’re lost in your thoughts when you hear a voice beside you, low and gentle, yet full of concern. “Princess,” Ser Gerold Hightower speaks, his brow furrowed in quiet worry. “Are you well?”

You turn to him, forcing a small, tight smile. “I am… fine, Ser Gerold. I just—” Your voice falters, the exhaustion of the evening catching up to you. You’ve spent so many years keeping up this facade, being the only one to soothe Aerys’s temper. But tonight, you feel as though the weight of it all might crush you.

“If it pleases you, Princess,” Ser Gerold continues carefully, his eyes kind but watchful, “I could escort you back to the festivities. Perhaps it would help you clear your mind.”

The thought of returning to the tourney, to the laughter and the noise, makes your stomach churn. You cannot go back out there, not after what just happened. Not after the way Aerys’s gaze lingered on you, how the court must be whispering even now, waiting for the next scandal to unfold.

“No,” you say quietly, shaking your head. “No, Ser Gerold. I think I should retire for the night.”

Ser Gerold nods, his expression softening with understanding. “As you wish, Princess. I will escort you to your chambers.”

You allow him to lead the way, his presence a steady and silent comfort as the halls of Harrenhal stretch before you. The castle feels oppressive in its vastness, the shadows long and deep, like ghosts of the past watching your every step. You feel raw, exposed, and the weight of what just happened with your father hangs heavy on your shoulders.

When you finally reach the door to your chambers, Ser Gerold bows his head respectfully. “Should you need anything, Princess, I will be near. Rest well.”

“Thank you, Ser Gerold,” you reply softly, offering him a faint smile. “Good night.”

He waits until you’ve safely entered your chambers before he steps away, his heavy footfalls fading down the corridor. Once inside, you allow yourself to breathe—really breathe—as the door clicks shut behind you. The stillness of the room is suffocating, but also a relief. You’ve been holding yourself together for so long, keeping your composure for the sake of appearances, for the sake of the court, for the sake of your father.

Now, in the solitude of your chambers, you finally let the mask slip.

You move to the window, resting your hands on the cold stone sill, and stare out into the darkened sky. The stars glitter faintly above, distant and unreachable, much like the peace you seek. Aerys’s words echo in your mind—visions of fire and blood, of you at his side, as his queen. It is madness. You know this. You’ve always known his mind was slipping, but tonight, it felt different. Darker. More certain.

And the worst part? Some small, nagging part of you wonders if there’s truth in his visions, if the madness of the Targaryens is something far more ancient than you ever realized. Could Aerys’s madness be a reflection of something real? Or is it simply the ravings of a mind long broken?

You lean against the wall, your head resting against the cold stone as you try to calm your racing thoughts. But no matter how much you try to rationalize it, to push it away, the weight of his words lingers.

When sleep finally claims you, it is shallow and restless.

Hours pass, though it feels like mere moments, before you hear it—Aerys’s voice, loud and frantic, piercing through the silence of the night.

“Y/N! Y/N!”

You bolt upright in bed, your heart pounding in your chest. His voice is ragged, desperate, echoing through the halls of Harrenhal. You hold your breath, listening intently, hoping it was just a dream. But no—the sound comes again, louder this time, closer.

“Y/N!”

He’s calling for you. Again and again, his voice cracks with desperation, sending a chill down your spine. You can feel the familiar panic rising in your chest, the fear that he’s slipped further into his madness, that he’ll come for you, that his delusions have become too strong for even you to quell.

You sit there, frozen in the darkness, your hands gripping the edge of the bed as you try to steady yourself. But the sound of your name, repeated over and over, claws at your nerves.

And then, after what feels like an eternity, the sound begins to fade. His cries for you grow distant, muffled by the thick walls of the castle, until finally… silence.

You exhale a shaky breath, your body trembling with the effort of holding yourself together. But sleep will not come again. Not tonight.

You lie there, staring at the ceiling, your mind too heavy with worry, with fear, with the inescapable truth that the father you once loved is slipping further away from you. And no matter how hard you try, you cannot pull him back.

As the night drags on, you wonder if anyone else heard him. If anyone else knows the truth of what’s happening behind the closed doors of Harrenhal. But even if they did… what could they do?

Nothing can save Aerys from his descent. And nothing, it seems, can save you from the weight of it all.

In the dead of night, with the echoes of his voice still ringing in your ears, you wonder how much longer you can carry this burden.

The grand hall of Harrenhal buzzes with quiet murmurs and the clink of cutlery against silver plates, but there’s an invisible weight that presses down on everyone seated at the long tables. You sit among the courtiers, doing your best to appear composed, regal. Your hands rest in your lap, still, despite the storm churning inside you from the events of the night before. Your father’s words, his cries for you in the dead of night, echo in your mind like a ghost that refuses to fade.

You’ve had no sleep, and it shows in the subtle stiffness of your movements, the way your fingers grip the stem of your goblet just a touch too tightly. But you keep your head high, your face calm and composed as you’ve always been taught to do. The princess cannot be rattled, not in front of the court. Especially not after yesterday.

To your right, Rhaegar sits beside his wife, Elia Martell. Her head is bowed, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup absently, her mind clearly elsewhere. You can feel the rift between them like an open wound, one that you know is your doing. When Rhaegar placed that crown of winter roses on your head instead of hers, you could feel the fracture it caused, the hurt in Elia’s downcast eyes, the murmurs that spread like wildfire across the tourney grounds.

But it is Rhaegar’s eyes you feel most acutely, burning into the side of your face, seeing through the mask you wear. His indigo eyes, a mirror of your own, have always had that unsettling ability to see the truth in you. And now, as you glance at him from the corner of your eye, you can see the concern in his gaze, the unspoken questions hanging between you. He knows. He saw what happened last night, how Aerys’s grip on you lingered too long, how his words were too intimate, too possessive.

You can feel Rhaegar’s stare, but you don’t meet it. You can’t. Not with the eyes of the court upon you, waiting for something—anything—to confirm the rumors that have begun to swirl. Rhaella, sitting further down the table, looks paler than usual, her eyes darting nervously toward the door as though she expects Aerys to burst in at any moment. She has always known the worst of him. She lives with the consequences of his madness every day.

And then, as if summoned by her thoughts, the grand doors open with a creak, and a hush falls over the hall.

Aerys enters.

The tension in the room settles immediately, the subtle sounds of the hall fading to nothing as all eyes turn toward the king. He is dressed in his usual dark robes, his silver hair hanging loose and wild around his shoulders. His eyes—those bright, fevered eyes—scan the room, and for a brief moment, they land on Rhaella, who shrinks under his gaze. Then they move to you, and your breath catches in your throat as his lips curl into a twisted smile.

He strides forward with purpose, his presence commanding and unsettling all at once. No one speaks as he moves through the hall, his footsteps echoing against the stone floor. You can feel the weight of the room’s collective gaze, watching, waiting, wondering what will happen next.

Aerys reaches your side, and you feel the shift in the air as he stops behind your chair. His hand rests on the back of your seat, a touch that feels like a brand on your skin. You force yourself to stay still, to keep your breathing steady as the room holds its breath.

Then, without warning, Aerys leans down, his lips brushing against your ear in a way that makes your skin crawl. His voice is a low, dangerous whisper, meant only for you.

“Did you sleep well, my sweet?” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin. “Or did you miss me in the dark?”

You stiffen, your fingers clenching in your lap as you will yourself to remain composed. He knows. He must know how his calls in the night haunted you, how the sound of your name on his lips was enough to keep sleep far from your reach. But his words are not filled with concern. No, there’s something darker in them.

The hall is silent, the court frozen as they watch the king’s every move. Rhaegar’s eyes are on you, you can feel them burning into you, filled with a quiet fury, a protectiveness he cannot show here. Not now. Not with all these eyes upon you.

You turn your head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of Aerys’s face from the corner of your eye. His smile is sharp, his eyes gleaming with something you can’t name—something unhinged.

“I—” Your voice catches in your throat, and you force yourself to swallow the fear, the unease that threatens to bubble to the surface. “I slept well, Father,” you manage to say, your voice steady despite the weight pressing down on you. “Thank you for your concern.”

His fingers brush the back of your neck, and you fight the urge to flinch, to recoil from his touch. “Good,” he says, still leaning close. “You’ll need your strength, my daughter. The dragons demand it.”

With that, he straightens, his presence still looming over you for a moment longer before he moves away, walking toward his seat at the head of the table. The court watches him in silence, unsure whether to speak, to breathe, to act.

You can feel the weight of the moment, the whispers that will follow this breakfast, the eyes that are already on you, waiting for a sign, a crack in your composure. You sit there, your heart pounding in your chest, but outwardly, you appear calm. Regal.

It’s only when you glance at Rhaegar that you see the truth reflected in his eyes—he knows. He knows what Aerys is doing to you, what this descent into madness is costing you. His gaze, filled with sorrow and silent fury, makes your chest tighten. But this is not a fight that can be won with swords or crowns.

You turn away, focusing on the empty plate before you, your mind spinning with the weight of what has just happened, and what might come next.

You are the daughter of a king, the jewel of House Targaryen, but today, more than ever, you feel like a prisoner in a cage made of fire and blood.

Aerys settles into his seat at the head of the table, his presence as heavy as a storm cloud over the grand hall. Silence lingers in the air as everyone watches him with a mixture of fear and curiosity. Then, suddenly, his voice cuts through the quiet like a blade, sharp and commanding.

“Music!” he calls, his voice booming across the hall. “We are not at a funeral!”

The court startles, eyes darting toward the musicians, who scramble to lift their instruments and fill the hall with sound. It’s a jarring shift, the mournful silence replaced by lively music that seems wholly out of place after the events of the previous day. But Aerys seems pleased, his grin spreading as he leans back in his chair, as though he’s basking in the uneasy energy of the room.

The music provides a brief reprieve, a distraction, and Rhaegar takes the opportunity to lean closer to you. His voice is low, meant for you alone as he keeps his eyes trained ahead. “Y/N,” he says, his tone soft but laced with concern. “I saw what happened last night… with Father. Are you—” He hesitates, searching your face for any sign of what you’re feeling beneath the mask of calm you wear. “Are you alright?”

You force a small smile, though it doesn’t reach your eyes. “I’m fine, Rhaegar,” you murmur, keeping your voice even. “You don’t need to worry.”

Rhaegar’s frown deepens, his indigo eyes—the same as yours—piercing as he looks at you. He knows you too well to be fooled by your reassurances. “I know how he is with you,” he says quietly. “What he wants from you. It’s not right.”

You glance around the hall, feeling the weight of Aerys’s gaze on you even before you hear his voice. “We all do what we must,” you reply softly, your voice laced with an edge of resignation. “It’s the only way to keep the peace.”

But Rhaegar shakes his head slightly, his jaw clenched in frustration. “This is not peace. This is madness. If you keep indulging him—”

Before he can finish, Aerys’s voice booms once more across the hall, cutting through the music like a crack of thunder.

“Y/N!”

The entire hall goes still. Your breath catches in your throat as all eyes turn toward you, including Rhaegar’s, filled with alarm. Slowly, you turn your gaze to your father, who is standing now, his wild eyes fixed on you with a strange intensity.

“Come,” he says, his voice carrying across the hall with a commanding force. “Dance with me.”

You feel the air leave the room, the shock rippling through the courtiers like a wave. Aerys hasn’t danced in years. Not since before the madness began to consume him. You hear the whispers rising from the tables, hushed murmurs of confusion and disbelief. But it’s Rhaegar’s voice, low and urgent, that cuts through the noise.

“Don’t,” he says, his hand reaching out to gently touch yours beneath the table. “Y/N, don’t indulge him. You know how he gets with you.”

You turn to your twin, seeing the worry etched in his face, the same worry you’ve seen so many times before. He knows. He’s always known, even if he’s never spoken of it directly. He’s seen the way Aerys’s affection for you has twisted into something else. But you also know what happens when Aerys is denied what he wants. The court has seen it, felt the wrath of his temper.

You place your hand over Rhaegar’s and offer him a small, reassuring smile. “I’ll be fine,” you say quietly. “If I indulge him, it might lift his spirits. And if he’s in a good mood, the court will breathe easier. We all will.”

Rhaegar’s lips press into a thin line, his hand tightening around yours as if he doesn’t want to let go. “Y/N…”

“I’ll be fine,” you repeat, your voice firmer this time. You withdraw your hand gently from his, rising to your feet and smoothing the folds of your gown.

The hall watches in stunned silence as you make your way to the center of the room, the music continuing but softer now, as if even the musicians are unsure of what to do. Aerys waits for you, his eyes gleaming with an unsettling hunger that makes your skin prickle. But you keep your expression calm, collected, as you step toward him, your head held high.

When you reach him, he holds out his hand, and for a brief moment, you hesitate. But then, with a deep breath, you place your hand in his.

The dance begins.

At first, the steps are simple, the movements slow and measured. Aerys’s hand rests on your waist, his grip firm but not yet inappropriate. The court watches, their shock evident, as they witness the spectacle before them—the king, who hasn’t danced in years, leading his daughter in a dance that feels far too intimate, far too close.

You feel the tension in his body, the way his hand tightens on your waist as the music swells. His touch lingers, his fingers brushing the small of your back in a way that sends a shiver down your spine. You try to focus on the dance, on the steps you’ve memorized from countless royal functions, but it’s impossible to ignore the way he leans in, his breath warm against your neck again.

“I see it, Y/N,” Aerys murmurs, his voice low and possessive. “The fire in you. Just like me.”

You stiffen, your heart pounding in your chest as his lips brush against your ear. The entire court watches, their eyes wide with disbelief. They’ve seen Aerys’s madness, his erratic behavior, but this—this is something new.

You want to pull away, to distance yourself from him, but you know you can’t. Not here. Not with all these eyes upon you. So you force yourself to continue the dance, to match his steps, to keep the illusion of control even as his grip tightens and his whispers become more unsettling.

The music crescendos, the dance moving faster now, and Aerys pulls you closer, his hand sliding up your back, his fingers grazing your neck. His lips hover near your cheek, too close, too intimate, and you can feel the court’s gaze burning into you like flames.

“Together, we will burn this world,” he whispers, his breath hot against your skin.

The music swells around you as the dance continues, your body moving in rhythm with Aerys, though your heart races with each step. His hand, once resting lightly on your waist, has crept lower, his touch lingering in a way that makes your skin crawl. But you don’t flinch. You can’t. You’ve always known how to handle him—how to soothe his temper, how to pull him back from the edge when no one else could. It’s always been your role, to keep him tethered to some semblance of sanity.

Today, though, feels different. The madness in his eyes is brighter, more intense, and his gaze has lingered on you in ways that make your stomach twist. You try to focus, to keep him engaged, to steer him away from the edge once more. You’ve done it before. You can do it again.

“Our blood,” Aerys murmurs, his voice low and thick with the weight of years of delusion, “is pure, Y/N. We are the last dragons.” His grip on you tightens, pulling you closer until there is barely any space between your bodies. “No one else can understand that. No one but us.”

You nod, keeping your face serene, though your mind is racing. “Yes, Father,” you whisper, your voice soft and coaxing, just as you’ve always done. “Only we understand. We’re the last of our kind.”

His eyes gleam with that fevered madness as he searches your face, looking for something—what, you’re not sure. “You understand,” he breathes. “You’ve always understood.”

Rhaegar watches from the side of the hall, his hands clenched into fists as his gaze follows every movement, every touch. His concern is visible, his eyes filled with worry, but you avoid his gaze, knowing that if you acknowledge it, if you let yourself show any weakness, Aerys will sense it. He will know, and you cannot afford that. Not now.

Instead, you keep your attention on Aerys, smiling softly as you’ve done a thousand times before, as though you are indulging a wayward child rather than a mad king. His hand slides up your back, and you allow it, letting him take these small liberties, knowing it will keep him placated. If you can control this moment, you can control the situation. That’s what you tell yourself.

But as the dance proceeds, you feel his touch become more brazen. His fingers trace the curve of your spine, his other hand coming to rest at the small of your back, pulling you even closer, until you’re pressed against him. The court is watching with wide eyes, uncertain of what they’re seeing. They’ve never seen the king like this—so close, so affectionate.

And neither have you.

You lean into him, as you’ve done in the past, resting your head lightly against his shoulder, hoping that the familiarity of the gesture will calm him, remind him of who he was before Duskendale, before the madness truly took hold. The king who was once kind to you, the father who looked at you with pride and love. You’re trying to reach him, trying to coax that man out of the depths of his madness, as you always do.

But today once more, there is no reaching him.

Aerys leans down, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, “I’ve starved for months, Y/N.” His voice is raw, edged with something dark, something that makes your heart pound with a new kind of fear. “But you… you are my fire.”

You stiffen, the meaning behind his words sinking in, and you realize, with a sickening lurch, that you’ve gone too far. You’ve played your part too well this time, given him too much liberty. You thought you could control him, could keep him in check by indulging him as you’ve always done. But now, it feels as though you’ve let the dragon out of its cage, and he is far more dangerous than you anticipated.

His hand slides to your hip, and though you try to remain calm, your body stiff. You feel trapped, ensnared in this dance, unable to pull away without causing a scene that would ripple through the court. The eyes of everyone in the hall are upon you, watching, waiting, and you know that any misstep could lead to disaster. You glance toward Rhaegar, whose expression has shifted from concern to something far more alarmed, his eyes wide with disbelief.

“Father,” you whisper, your voice barely audible over the music, “perhaps we should—”

“Shhh,” Aerys murmurs, his lips grazing your cheek now, his breath hot against your skin. “This is where we belong, Y/N. Together. Always.”

You feel the blood drain from your face as his words settle over you, their meaning as clear as the fire in his eyes. He is not just indulging in a dance; he is making a spectacle, a claim—one that the court will remember. One that they will whisper about long after this day is over. And you realize, too late, that you’ve given him too much.

The music swells again, and Aerys pulls you even closer, his hand sliding to your waist as he spins you in a way that feels possessive, claiming. You’ve danced with him before in your girlhood, but never like this. Never with this kind of intensity, this kind of hunger.

The hall is silent save for the music, but you can feel the eyes of the courtiers following your every move, their shock and unease unhidden. The whispers will spread by the next morning, you know that, but in this moment, all you can do is continue the dance.

You rest your head against his shoulder again, though this time it feels like a surrender, like you are giving him something you cannot take back. You close your eyes, trying to block out the sensation of his hand on your waist, of his breath on your skin, of the court watching this spectacle unfold.

The music plays on, and you continue to dance, locked in this twisted waltz with a king who has long since lost himself to madness.

And as the day stretches on, you wonder how much longer you can keep playing this part. How much longer you can keep the dragon in check before he burns you alive.

[syndrossi]

I'm not selfish by prompting more than once. I'm just giving you options. Write 100 words-ish of Jon meeting Rhaella -- be that a female!Rhaegar or a summerhalled!Rhaella-his-grandma or some other verse's Rhaella, 'tis your choice.

Okay, first a little snippet of Rhaella's POV in the AU ficlet I was writing for that (separate from the NYE ask game):

Dragons. She still had trouble believing that she lived in a time of dragons. Her son had one, she knew from gossip, and Daemon Targaryen’s own dragon was well known. And then there was her son’s twin brother, the one named Jon. Which of my babies would you have been? My little Daeron? It was not entirely the same, she knew. Prince Jon was dark of hair, like the woman who had birthed him and his brother here. How different would Rhaegar be? Would she still recognize him? Will he recognize me?

And now the definitely 100 words-ish 😂 of the prompt fill...

x~x~x

Worry stirred in Jon upon spying the distant, pale-haired figure of his brother alone in the godswood through the window of the library. At this time, Rhaegar should still be in arms training, and there wasn’t a Princesguard in sight, not even at the entrance to the godswood.

He slipped out of his lesson with practiced ease, opting not to employ the secret passage where his young cousins could see, and trotted across the yard to the godswood. His brother had been in plain view, which likely meant that he had intended for Jon to see him. Is there something he wishes to discuss in private?

Jon’s own Princesguard settled at the gate to the godswood, and Jon followed the familiar path to the heart tree. His steps faltered, however, as he drew near. It was not Rhaegar waiting beside the tree, nor even one of his cousins. It was a woman dressed in flowing blue silks that were too cold for the autumn weather, her silver-blond hair worn in a partial braid that half-reminded him of one he had seen Rhaegar wear once.

She even looked something like his brother, especially in the eyes and lips, though she was a woman grown rather than a child—and there was something of his wonder in her expression as she stared upward through the red leaves, taking in the beauty as the wind stirred her hair.

He watched her in silence, wracking his mind for who she might be. She was not Princess Rhaenyra, of course, who had returned home weeks ago. And they had met Lady Laena when she had come courting their father. And although Jon had not been a scholar of the Targaryen dynasty before finding himself here, Rhaegar had since instructed him in every last member of their family, living and dead.

A Velaryon, he decided at last. One of Laena and Laenor’s cousins, perhaps, come to try her own luck.

She noticed him at last, once he had turned to leave. “You must be Prince Jon.”

Even her voice seemed familiar, and there was a longing in it that stopped him in place. He turned back and gave her a nod. “I am. Who are you, my lady?”

“I am Lady Rhaella,” she said, rising to her feet to curtsy.

Jon’s breath caught. It cannot be. He stared at her, scrutinizing her features in search of Rhaegar, and finding pieces of both his brother and himself in her. The same could be said of Daemon, or Rhaenyra, he told himself. House Targaryen’s intermarriages ensured that even cousins could look as alike as siblings.

She was the wrong age. Rhaegar’s mother would have been nearing thirty. And I was nineteen.

He took a cautious step closer, studying her expression for greed or threat, but the intensity of her longing only seemed to grow, her hands clasping in front of her, as though to hold it back.

“Are you kin?” he asked.

“I am,” she said, her voice thickening for a moment before she cleared her throat. “I am your father’s cousin, daughter of his aunt Saera.”

She was the one who had been disowned, Jon recalled. And eventually ended up in Volantis. He tensed briefly, but the pain that the motion seemed to cause her made him relent, and he forced himself to relax. What if she thinks I view her as lesser for being a bastard?

Jon approached for a kiss to the cheek, and she dipped slightly so that he could reach, her lips pressing into his own. He was not prepared for the hug that followed, and she pulled back with an apology, blinking back tears. “I beg your pardon, my prince. I—you remind me of someone.”

She is. Jon stared at her in wonder. She must be.

Rhaegar’s mother. His own grandmother. And now their cousin.

He hugged her this time, and where her arms had been light around him before, as though frightened he might disappear, they tightened.

“Would you like to meet my brother?” he offered.

He felt her kiss his hair, something that no freshly-introduced cousin would dare, bastard or not. “Yes,” she breathed, and he let her hold him a moment longer so that she could compose herself. When he drew back at last, her smile was radiant. “I would like that.”

[atopvisenyashill]

targaryen copies

aegoons

there’s four irrelevent dead infants, alysanne & jaehaerys’, alyssa & baelon’s, laena & daemon’s, and rhaella & aerys

aegon the uncle

aegon the uncrowned

aegon the usurper

aegon the unlucky

aegon the unworthy

aegon the unlikely

aegon the ummmm

aerea is here also bc this is my list

rhaenyses

rhaenys the conqueror

rhaenys the queen that never was

rhaenys martell targaryen

rhaenyra da queen is here at suggestion that i agree with

rhaegaruses

rhaegar the hole in chest

rhaegæl could both go here too

rhaego as well actually, our og plot relevant dead baby

and this goes after rhaenys for the same reason aerea goes with aegon

visenyas

visenya the conqueror

visenya the…dragonborn. included bc she’s not an irrelevant dead infant she’s actually a plot relevent dead infant bc of the dragon stuff

jaehaerbitches

jaehaerys the conciliator

jaehaerys the…idk i actually really hope he gets a cool epithet in f2b or something

there’s a dead infant too (relevent for the very last point)

alyssas - westerosi, probably andal name

alyssa velaryon

alyssa targaryen

rhaenas

rhaena the black bride

rhaena the dragon twin

rhaena the septa

rhaellas

rhaella the septa

rhaella the queen

rhaelle baratheon - i’m throwing her in here it’s my list

rhae is here for the same reason

daellas

daella arryn

daella the briennencestor

viserii

viserys the dead prince

viserys the peaceful

viserys the…he needs an epithet too

viserys the beggar

daeneryseses

daenerys the little

daenerys of dorne

daenerys stormborn

aeryses

aerys the magical

aerys the mad

baelors

baelor the blessed

baelor breakspear

daerons

daeron the dumb ass

daeron the young dragon

daeron the good

daeron the drunken dreamer

daeron the gay married

daeron the dead infant (relevant for last point)

aemons

aemon the pale prince (silver prince? no that’s rhaegar it’s pale)

aemon the dragonknight

aemon the maester

aemon the jon 🤭

martell copies

nymerias

nymeria of ny sar

nymeria sand

mors

mors martell

mors ii

there’s a dead infant mors as well

elias

elia of dorne

elia sand

stark copies

sansas

sansa my girliepop

sansa manderly stark

aryas

arya flint who married a stark

arya my babygirl

artos the implacable bc i am wondering given his entire detailed background and the fact that he has a statue in the crypts even tho he isn’t a lord…if there’s a link here of some kind

theon

if i included the alyssas i should include this one esp since the theon origin is likely first men (or potentially, whatever mystery people the ironborn descend from)

there’s a few theon greyjoys that were kings

theon the hungry wolf

theon greyjoy

jon

i decided to add them.

jon the snow

jon iii

brandons

lmao

there’s a few others besides the ones here, there’s like three king brandons that don’t have epithets, there’s a lord brandon and two other random brandon’s, post conquest

brandon the builder

brandon of oldtown - might be the same as above but

brandon the shipwright

brandon the breaker

brandon the burner

brandon the daughterless

brandon ice-eyes

brandon the bad

brandon the boisterous

brandon the boastful

brandon the baby (the one nan nursed)

brandon the… burned

branda is here as well bc the arya-rodrik parentage is interesting for her & i don’t want to forget it

bran the WINGED WOLF OF HOUSE STARK, THE TENTH (?) OF HIS NAME, KING OF THE TRIDENT THE MANDER AND THE BLACKWATER RUSH, THE IRON KING, THE LAST HERO, THE THREE EYED CROW, THE BROKEN, THE LAST GREENSEER AND REBUILDER OF WESTEROS

[miiroki]

𝘿𝙖𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙣 𝙏𝙖𝙧𝙜𝙖𝙧𝙮𝙚𝙣 & 𝙣𝙞𝙚𝙘𝙚! 𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧/𝙤𝙘

𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘯𝘪𝘦𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘩 𝘢𝘪𝘳. 𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘥𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘥𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘙𝘶𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘦. 𝘍𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭𝘴 11𝘵𝘩 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘥.

Warning: targcest, (niece and uncle) 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

one: ✶ two: ✶

Prince Daemon Targaryen, Lord of Flea Bottom, as he was now deemed in hushed tones had nothing on his mind except his marriage with Lady Rhea Royce.

He had thrown quite the fit when it was announced, his own brother had agreed with the marriage, which lead to the eventual ceremony.

Daemons own grandmother, Alysanne, had arranged the two to wed, others in the council nodded at the offer. The Royce’s were the second most powerful house in Vale, on paper it was a good match for a prince who was second born and wasn’t sent to inherit anything.

But the others had neglected one crucial detail. Daemon Targaryen was vicious, and only marched to the beat of his drum.

Having been wed to an intolerably plain women that bored him was terrible, not being able to return to Kings Landing whenever to visit with his sweet niece had irked him, Runestone felt like exile.

Above all else his bride was not of Valaryen descent, even if Rhea bore children, it’s likely that they would never become dragon riders. To Daemon being wed to a women of brown hair, akin to horse shit, dark emotionless eyes, and that dull bronze armour, had to be the most humiliating action that had ever been done to him.

—

Daemon had finally been able to return to Kings Landing, where they would celebrate his nieces 11th name day.

Rhaella had written to him non-stop. Their were times where he had just finished his reply before another one of her letters had come again.

It’s sure that she has grown into a lovely girl, a flower with no thorns. The girl was gentle to even the roughest thugs for goodness sake.

Daemon had not held back and gotten her more things than any child should own, but it was his wonderful niece. She was no ordinary child.

—

“Kepa!” Fathers Brother

As soon as Caraxes had situated himself on the the ground, Daemon slid off his the wyrms wings and had leaned down, opening his arms towards his niece.

The young girl was dressed in frills and lace, she looked like a cake. Rhaella jumped into his arms and tried to embrace his neck.

“Lēkianna” Child of the older brother

Daemon embraced the girl in his end, tensing and crossing his arms across her back, as if she’d fly away as soon as he relaxed. He untucked her from his chest and pecked her forehead.

“Eman missed ao tolī olvie” I have missed you to much

He whispered in her hair, and slowly caressed the now messy silver locks.

Soft. Her scent had mixed with that of the Dragons den, like smoke, citrus and flowers, and something else he cannot name.

Rhaella squirmed into the crook of his neck and giggled. “You’ve gotten larger uncle. Mayhaps Caraxes will have a harder time riding with you”

He chuckled back, moving his arms to end at her waist, tickling her in the process.

Rhaella laughed uncontrollably while flailing in her uncles hold.

“You’ve gotten cheekier with no one to test you I see”

Rhaella didn’t listen and continued to climb all over his chest, finding herself on his shoulders, with Daemon having a strong hold on her legs.

—

Rhaella’s name day celebration was well underway, many lords of the area had attended and brought gifts, ranging from jewel encrusted jewelry, to soft animal shaped pilwe.

The young lady of the hour had last been seen with her twin sister talking to other young maidens from distinguished houses.

Currently she was no where to be found.

On a grassy hillside, the pair of Daemon and Rhaella had escaped the roaring festivities. Viserys had always liked his feasts.

Rhaella had come up to Daemon and requested for him to take her away from the all the ‘scary people’, as she put it.

He had taken Caraxes out of his den and flew to a small grassy Island littered with wild flowers.

Rhaella had been entertaining herself by sticking flowers of all shapes and sizes into Daemons hair. The silver locks now filled with blues and yellows. His back was facing her as he lounged on the grass.

“You look prettier like this Kepa” Rhaella muttered in a hushed tone, her fingers desperately trying to keep the red flower from falling off his head.

“Are you saying your uncle is not attractive?”

“Noo” Rhaella gasped and encircled her small arms around his neck once more.

Daemon chuckled and slowly stood from his spot, dragging Rhaella up in the process.

“We should return, the people would be devastated if the young princess was to run away with her uncle” He carried her, pressing her small body into his tuniced chest.

“I refuse!” She grumbled into his clothes, gripping onto the maroon leather.

“You mustn’t sweetling”

“But I should”

“Stop it” Daemon taunted, reaching Caraxes who was enjoying the sun.

Rhaella sighed for the seemingly thousandth time, and continued to bury herself into her uncles body. “If I must you must also stay”

Daemon peered down at the young girl, her ears were red with embarrassment, and warm to the touch.

“As the young princess wishes of me” He laughed, earning smacks from the girl.

[darknight3904]

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕽𝖆𝖈𝖊

ᴀᴇᴍᴏɴᴅ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ x ꜰᴇᴍ!ᴏᴄ! ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ

ᴘʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ / ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ /ᴍʏ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

Rhaella is 18, Aemond 17

132 AC

"You are acting like a child."

His mother's words fall on deaf ears.

"It is not fair. Fat Lord Tyrell's son does not deserve her." Aemond seethes

"She is heir to Runestone, she needs to take command and have her own family, Aemond. Did you think that your father and I were going to let her flit about the castle with you? Reading books and flying off to the lake in the Kingswood to swim?" His mother asks as if the answer was plain as day.

"Bethrothe her to me. We will strengthen our bloodline." Aemond says staring at his mother

"Aegon and Heleana are strengthening the bloodline. You and Daeron will secure alliances when you are married." Alicent sighs and rubs her forehead, like he is asking an impossible feat.

"Fuck alliances," Aemond says

Alicent looks at him, and Aemond is unsure if it is a look of pity or anger.

"You will forget about her. It will take time, but you will. Happiness can be found in all places." She says, trying to assure him of his future.

"Is that what you and father have? Happiness?" He mocks

"Your father and I are friends. Something that is important in a marriage." She says

"Rhaella and I are friends!" He cries

"You can make more friends." Alicent dismisses

"I don't want more friends. I don't want some lords's daughter to be wed to. Engage me to Rhaella mother. You will not regret it." He says, determined.

"No. What's done is done. She will leave for Highgarden in a fortnight." Alicent says, "Now go, I'm sure you have training with Cole."

Aemond storms out of his mother's chamber, unwilling to accept what was occurring. Surely his father hadn't conceded to this after all Viserys spent all day in bed now riddled by milk of the poppy. His mother had to be pulling the strings behind all this.

He finds his legs taking him towards Heleana's chamber. Fuck Cole and his training, that could all wait.

He could hear Rhaella's musical laugh as he got closer. She is entertaining the twins and Maelor with some fairytales of Wrights and the brave men of the Night's Watch. He pushes the door open just enough to peek inside. Rhaella sits on the floor surrounded by his niece ad nephews who laugh when she mimics the flight of a dragon with her hands. Heleana smiles, a rarity, as she looks up from whatever bug she's holding.

How could his mother send Rhaella off? She was an integral part of their family. Even Aegon was not so bad to her. Save for his rather explicit comments when Rhaella was not listening...

He couldn't believe he was going to have to let her go. Let her fly off to Highgarden and those stupid golden roses.

"Brother." Heleana greets, spying him lurking in the hall

"Sister, Nephews, Niece." He greets as he enters and sits down on a small stool, "Rhaella."

"Aemond."

Rhaella looks up at him, her face is joyful but her eyes are sad. Perhaps she is here distracting herself with the youngest Targaryens to pretend she is not being forced to leave.

"I thought you had training with Cole." Heleana said

"I do. I'm...finding myself rather bored with him these days. All he speaks of is tourneys. I want real combat." He admits, too proud to say he missed Rhaella.

"Is it not better to not have to fight? It means the realm is at peace." Rhaella says

"I suppose so. I want the experience though." He says

Rhaella lets out a small hum and then reaches to help Maelor with his wooden blocks.

"Shall we build a tower?" She asks him

Maelor, who can't speak yet nods and smiles. He babbles what sounds like a yes and picks up a red block to hand to Rhaella.

Aemond is fully focused on Rhaella. HIs heart squeezes as he watches her laugh and help the baby build. He never wanted to share that laugh with another. Every smile she gives, every laugh, the crinkle in her eyes when she smiles, he wants it all. Rhaella is consuming every fibre of his being and he hopes it is the same for her. He has seen her eyes on him every day, how she watches closely if he rolls his sleeves up during a hot day of training. He swears he saw her even lick her lips once.

Aemond wants Rhaella. He wants to keep her with him forever. No other perfumed lord should even look in her direction as far as he is concerned. He wanted to curl up beside Rhaella the way they did when they were younger at the lake. He'd rest his head on her chest and listen to the steady beat of her heart.

Fuck. He was losing his mind.

Aemond is officially the definition of down bad. Get him a mega simp shirt or something.

Super short part. My trip is going well. Hope you enjoyed it. We are going to be going back to the main plot soon so strap in!

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