#Riverland Bar

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Muña (Aemond Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: At the start of the Dance of the Dragons, you host a familiar face. But it is not your husband who darkens your doorstep. It is his nephew.

Warnings: Daemon haunting the narrative. Smut. Body image issues, self-esteem issues. Tully! Reader (Reddish undertone hair) Implied mommy issues. Vaginal sex. Breeding kink

A/N: I got no explanation for this. Might end up writing a part 2 if this does well. Pt 2

“THERE IS a dragon at our gates.” One of your guards announces. You get up from your seat, a wave of nausea already beginning to make herself known. You would rather not face your husband. Not today. Not ever, if you are being truthful with yourself.

You have gained weight. The slim figure that you flaunted at sixteen is long gone. There is more weight in your hips and chest, a bit of softness around your middle. You know he will mock you for it.

“Open them.” You order, bracing yourself for the uncomfortable encounter. You can’t bar him entrance to what is his home too, despite him not visiting in years. “Tell him to leave the dragon there. I’ll send it some food.”

The guard bows and exits the room. One of your companions, Lady Whent, starts to pace the hall. She fears what your husband coming here might mean for you. The rumors said he had loudly proclaimed he would deal with you himself.

Your choice to keep the Riverlands out of the war effort is controversial, but predictable. Surely, no one in their right mind thought you would aid your husband install his Queen. Not even him. Not after he had left your shared home and started living in sin with her, shaming you in front of the whole realm. Yet again, no one would have called Daemon Targaryen the epitome of saneness.

You go sit on your throne, placing your embroidery aside. Your tenants are happy enough that you don’t hold court as often as the other lords. And when they are not, they still refuse to bring their problems to you unless absolutely necessary. No one wants to burden their poor lady more.

You wish they did. The days would seem less empty that way, rotting away in this castle, your house’s sigil mocking you from every corner. Family, Duty, Honor, they had promised you. None had come.

The guard comes back. You remain sitting on your throne, the one you hardly use. You intend to receive your husband from a position of power, not allow him to cower you. But when you look at the man next to the guard, your breath catches.

This man is not your husband. This man is not even one of Rhaenyra’s men.

“Lady Tully.” He says, taking a deep bow. Very respectful, which would make you doubt his relation to your husband were it not for the fact he shares his silver hair.

“Prince… Aemond.” You say, looking at his face. It’s your best guess as to his identity, considering he has a green banner and an eye patch. He wears all black, the color of House Targaryen. You stand up, and curtsy.

“My lady.”

“My husband is not here.” You say, hurriedly. It’s your first instinct. You do not want that dragon of his torching your tenants.“You are welcome to check the castle and my lands, but there is no love lost between us. I assure you I am not hiding him.”

“I know.” He answers, lips twitching into a smirk. You find nothing humorous about it, but you do not dare voice it. You do not understand what he is doing here, if not chasing after Daemon. “I understand your people… Resent him.”

“It is not our place to judge.” You say, voice firm. This man is at least ten years your junior, you will not allow him to intimidate you. No matter how he towers over you, no matter how menacing and mean his features seem. He is no Daemon Targaryen, this green boy. Your husband is the only man you had truly feared. “Only the Seven are perfect, and thus, entitled to judge others' actions.”

“Very devout.” Aemond steps closer to you, his smile widening. The way his face contorts, sharp and with too many teeth, reminds you of one of the piscivorous fishes you have seen swimming up the stream during summer. The look in their eyes is the same he sports now, right before they decide to feast on an unaware trout. “Just like us. Seems like we have a lot in common.”

You gulp. You wish you were less easy to intimidate.

“We do?”

“We do. I don’t like your husband either. The tales of his prowess have been overly exaggerated. And I do not think you are too keen on bowing to Rhaenyra, considering your marriage will be annulled.” A pair of his fingers pluck a stray curl from your up do, twirling it between his fingers. The slightly copperish undertones of it glint under the candlelight.

The threat looms in the air, uncontested by you. Both Prince Aemond and you know that Queen Rhaenyra would be dissolving your marriage as you speak, were it not for the fact that your husband and her need your lands and men for her war. Annulment in exchange for your life would be a much less cruel punishment than whatever they are cooking.

If you were a quieter woman, a less brave one, you would accept your fate. You would say your marriage had been unconsummated, that you will aid your new sovereign and your ex-husband in their war. But you won’t leave your people to their tender care. With the privileged position your lands have, they are also in the privileged position to be amongst the first to burn.

You are not so craven as to save your life in exchange for the ones of your subjects. Hence, neutrality. Hoping it will spare you. All of you.

“Do you think I want to still be married to him? After all this?” It is not enough, you see it now. With the green banner inside your hall, with the one eyed prince himself sent to rally you behind their cause. Neutrality won’t save you. You need to resist Daemon, not just sit praying he won’t attack you. The Seven know he has no such qualms.

“Perhaps we can make a widow out of you yet.” Aemond says to you, a hint of a smile making his expression turn even more menacing.

Tasting freedom on the tip of your tongue for the first time in years, you smile back.

YOU ARE on your side, Aemond thrusting into you from behind. His hand envelops your hip, greedily grasping your flesh. His other arm is under your head, serving as a pillow. For once, you are not self-conscious.

How could you be, when he had practically begged for entrance to your bed? He wanted you, and the thought of that was as thrilling as it was foreign. You hadn't broken your marriage vows ever since you took them. No man had dared voice interest, considering who your husband was.

Aemond had to convince you to get you here, and you had fumbled like a maiden every step of the way. You didn’t dare defy Daemon either. Despite your loneliness over the years, you had never taken another to your bed. No matter how tempted you had been.

When you had seen Aemond, you weren’t planning to, either. He was your good nephew, Daemon’s family. It was utterly scandalous, yet here you were.

You weren’t too sure how you had ended up into this predicament, though. One second the two of you had been making plans, your Lord Commander eager to be at his service, and the next, Aemond was crowding you against a wall and kissing you with unparalleled hunger. Your doubts had been quieted by his warm hands and eager mouth, as he forced you to writhe on his arms and try to divest him of his clothes. Perhaps he had carried you to your room then. You can’t remember, you just hope no one saw you.

“Did he fuck you like this?” He mouths at your ear, lightly biting. No matter how much you want to banish the thought of Daemon from your mind, Aemond doesn’t let you. It makes you feel guilty, breaking your self-imposed celibacy with your nephew in law, but he seems to get a secret thrill from it.

You don’t have the heart to tell him Daemon and you have only gone to bed together once. The night of your wedding.

You stay silent. His hand slides over your stomach, down to your mound. A single, long finger, slips through your folds and starts to rub circles on your pearl.

“Did my uncle ever make you peak?” Aemond asks you, still rubbing those maddening circles. You can’t think. All that is on your mind is a cloud of pleasure, warm and shameful. You shouldn’t be in bed with Daemon’s nephew. Nor should you be breaking your vows.

Aemond bites at your nape, sharply. Just like his uncle, he doesn’t take kindly to not being the center of attention.

“I asked you a question.”

“No.” You tell him, closing your eyes. Your face burns with your shame. Perhaps it is the embarrassment at your husband hating your bed so much he never visited It any longer, or perhaps it is the fact that you are breaking a vow you had really believed in. But Aemond doesn’t seem to like it, pressing soft kisses into your shoulder in an attempt to relax you.

“I'll give you one.” He promises, rubbing your pearl. His thrusting slows down, allowing the head of his member to hit deep inside you. “In my bed, you won't want for anything.”

The way he says it startles you. Dark, possessive. As if he doesn’t intend to let you go after one night, as if he intends to keep you.

“I don't belong in your bed.” You moan, trying to resist the pleasure that seems so sinful in your eyes. You clench around him despite it, not wanting him to leave your body. His free hand, the one serving as your pillow, grabs at your hair, the auburn mane as a bracelet in his pale arm. The pain of the tug only heightens your pleasure, making your body soar above the wave that threatens to crash and drag you under on the pools of hedonism.

Never before had you felt like this. In your encounter with your husband, as he huffed and puffed over you, you had only felt a quick pain and a vague feeling of shame. He had focused on his pleasure first, kicking you out of bed as soon as he was done.

But Aemond. Aemond stares at you, proud of how you unravel in his arms. He encourages you to do it, taking great delight in watching you fall apart.

“You do. With your gorgeous hair and your delicious cunt, I won't allow you to go elsewhere. You are a gift from the Mother herself.” He whispers, darkly. “I’ll worship you how you deserve, Muña.”

The last word seems to amuse him greatly, for it prompts a chuckle out of him. It’s an odd sound to hear coming from him. He seemed the kind who took himself too seriously. He licks at the shell of your ear, at your face, slobbering all over you.

It should disgust you, yet you can’t help but sigh in his arms. Surrender tastes cloyingly sweet in your mouth.

“I… Married.” You repeat, trying to get Aemond to see reason. You claw at his hands, trying to stop him from bringing you this overwhelming ecstasy that makes your body tense, and your thighs quiver. Your mind feels foggy, your wit reduced to half whimpers and softly spoken words.

“I'll wed you, and place my son on your belly.” He grins against your nape, contemplating his final triumph against Daemon. “My seed will take, where his never could. He is weak.”

“I am already married.” You repeat, a bit more firmly. Aemond laughs, rubbing at your pearl once more.

“Shhh, quiet. Quiet, Muña.” He whispers, pulling you to lie under him. He enters you in a single thrust, not giving you a moment of respite. You cry out, nails raking down his back. “I'll kill him. He is just an old man.”

You mutter something. Maybe a reply. Your lips move, incoherent, and you are screaming, the wave of pleasure finally crashing and pulling you under.

“That’s a good aunt. Squeeze your tight little cunt for me.” He grins, and you think this is it. The two of you are going to the Seven Hells.

[aprilcolours]

blackheart

A/N: OC is Visenya, daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon, second eldest child after Jace and before Luc. She rides Vermithor, the Bronze Fury. This is about SHOW Benjicot Blackwood NOT book!! The three seconds we’ve seen of him at least lol <3 Valyrian is translated at the bottom

part two - part three - part four

—

When Vermithor landed, a slew of muck and water sprayed into the humid Riverlands air. Visenya the Second wrinkled her nose and brushed some of the mud specks off her riding leathers. 

She reassured her dragon, “Sȳz, jikagon arghugon,” and slid promptly off onto his shoulder, before deftly sticking the ten foot drop to the ground. The marshes were full of tents, troops mustered from across the realm to gather here in this central region, where the flags waved black. She had made sure to land a little ways away, wouldn’t want to crush any of our own now would we, she thought with a slight smirk. 

She was the daughter of the Rogue Prince, and carried herself as such. There was a latent danger in the way her lithe form prowled forward, a ferocity to the confident tilt of her shoulders. Despite her stature as a young woman, and a slight one at that, she cut an imposing figure. 

The bannerman watched her approach, most tilting their head in recognition at least, some falling into deep bows. She stalked through the lines of troops, searching for the central war council. 

Visenya had flown to the Riverlands a fortnight hence, to guard their troops from a possible attack by Vhagar, to see her mother’s will done in the strategizing, and for a third purpose that was known only to her and her mother. At the center of a camp, a large table had been brought forth, encrusted with maps of the region and the current positions of hosts. Gathered around the table were a group of knights and lords sworn to Rhaenyra: Lords Darklyn, Staunton, Massey, and a group of young lords that had come to be known as the Lads: Lord Kermit Tully, Ser Oscar Tully, and Lord Benjicot Blackwood. 

Benjicot Blackwood had come into his lordship quite recently, with the death of his father mere months ago at the beginning of the war. Despite this, he had already made a formidable reputation for himself as ruthless, bloodthirsty, and a force to be reckoned with. He was not necessarily physically imposing, favoring a lean build, but he had a certain gleam in his eye. Almost rabid, Visenya had thought to herself with a small laugh. 

She looked at each of the gathered as she reached the table, daring any of these older men to show anything other than submission. Each of the lords bowed, averting their eyes. Bar one. Lord Blackwood always held her gaze as he bowed, eyes gleaming and a crooked smile playing at his lips.

She raised a brow, unimpressed. 

It only seemed to make his smile curl even wider. 

“The Western front has shifted closer, your Highness,” Lord Massey informed her. Visenya finally tore her eyes away from the Blackwood to observe the map. Indeed, the Green host mustered at Lannisport had crept closer in the night. It now dared to encroach on the edges of Tully land. 

“The numbers mustered are not insignificant,” Lord Darklyn added. 

“They are when compared to the whole force of the Reach that soon converges upon us from the South,” Lord Staunton argued. The combined Tyrell, Hightower, and Florent host was decidedly large. 

“A problem only made worse if the Lannisters are allowed to join them,” Darklyn shot back. It was clear this argument had been happening for some time at this point. 

As she considered the map and heeded the advisors, Visenya felt a certain piercing dark gaze boring holes into her. She did not indulge him further with another look, but she could feel the unending weight of his stare as it did not abate. 

“We march on the Lannisters,” Visenya declared, voice carrying high and clear. The council ceased their squabbling. 

A short silence descended, as the Lords who disagreed weighed whether they would be endangering themselves if they expressed their opinion. 

“We will cut them off at Lydden, before they can turn southwards,” she continued, gesturing to the spot on the map. “Darklyn is right, they cannot be allowed to join the Reach. Lannister forces will have supplies from Lannisport, so they will not have been affected by the blockade. Time is our greatest ally at the moment. We have the whole of the North marching to us,” Visenya spoke plainly and matter-of-factly, but at this point she smiled slightly and tossed her silver braid over one shoulder. 

“Furthermore, the Green houses are well… green. The longer they wait, they longer they have to ponder tales of fearsome Northmen who need neither food nor sleep, to whisper legends of Rhaenyra the Cruel and her fleet of dragonriders,” she paused to shoot Blackwood the barest hint of a grin, “to hear word of Bloody Ben and the carnage they march towards.” 

The Lads laughed and jostled Ben’s shoulders. 

“I hear he slew fifty men in a single evening over his cup of tea!” Ser Oscar teased, voice mockingly high. Blackwood ducked his head and laughed, rustling the other two men back. 

“The flower knights will quiver and shake their way back to Highall,” Visenya finished, looking to the council members for dissent. 

“What of Vhagar, your highness?” Lord Staunton asked, “The kinslayer will surely come calling.”

Visenya tilted her head. 

“That is why I am here,” she answered. 

With that, and a few more details of the march agreed upon, the council was adjourned. As he began to walk towards his troops however, Visenya called out to him,

“Oh and Blackwood?”

Ben turned back to face her, taking the address as an invitation to step closer. Closer than any other dared step. She had to tilt her head back slightly to look him in the eye. 

“Be sure to give them something to talk about,” she commanded. Her voice did not falter even as she felt her heart begin to hammer in her chest. 

With a lopsided grin and another bow, “I swear it, my lady.”

—

The battle at Lydden was a roaring success. Vermithor made sure to roar it across the skies. Together, Visenya and her dragon burned whole battalions and paved the way for the Black troops to carve through the Lannister forces. It was not without its casualties to the numbers, but still a resounding victory for the Queen. 

In the aftermath, they had landed in a small forest slightly away from the troops, who she could hear were already carousing. Visenya used the flat of one of her blades to scrape dried blood from Vermithor’s scales. 

“Messy business, isn't it,” a voice rang out from behind her, with his signature teasing lilt. Ben stood at the other edge of the clearing, grinning, also covered in blood and mud. She turned, raising an eyebrow at his antics. 

“What I thought was courage I see now might be stupidity,” she responded with a teasing tone of her own, “to approach a dragon on your lonesome.” 

He approached further, despite her warning, and like a moth to a flame she was drawn closer. 

“Ah but I am not alone, am I?” He said, almost breathless still from the battle they had just fought. They drew near together in the center of the clearing. “And my princess is a great dragon rider who would not allow harm to befall me,” he intoned in a low voice. 

“Ha! I have left court only to find flatterers in the fields,” she replied. Perhaps the bloodlust had gone to her head but Visenya ignored any thoughts of impropriety, choosing to match his grin with one of her own. “

“What is it you want, Lord Blackwood?”

Surprisingly, his expression shifted. The giddiness receded, and what rose upon his features then was a simmering focus. It was not unlike the expression he wore in the midst of battle. After a heartbeat of tension, Benjicot Blackwood stepped even closer. Gazing down at her with that signature glint of crazed gleam in his eyes, he confessed, 

“Since meeting you, your highness… my desires have become uniquely singular.”

Even with her years of courtly training, Visenya could not hide her shock. Or her blush. 

“Let none say you are not bold,” she whispered, stupefied. He chuckled slightly and noted,

“So you think me both bold and courageous.”

“Did I say that,” she teased breathlessly, still gathering her bearings.

“You did,” he replied simply, eyes dark and hooded. 

He was enjoying watching her on the back foot for once, she could tell. She felt a flicker of temper rise and latched onto it. Visenya leveled her haughtiest at look at him and remarked, 

“Our surroundings are hardly appropriate for a marriage proposition, do you not think Lord Blackwood?”

Her indignance only seemed to amuse him further. 

“On the contrary, my lady, they are perfect. Together, we have won a great victory and live to see another day. In war, this is the best one could hope for.” 

She considered his words, considered the whole of Benjicot Blackwood and his proposition. 

Certainly an unconventional choice, she thought. I think mother would like it. 

She considered her third purpose for venturing out across the realm: to seek a husband.

And she kissed him.

Benjicot Blackwood kissed like he was drowning man and she was air itself. He kissed like she might change her mind at any moment and he would make every second count. He was all teeth and tongue and grasping pulling hands at her waist, her arms, her face. 

“Do not get blood in my hair,” she broke away to command, voice breathy but firm.

His laugh echoed into the night. 

—

A/N: Truly insane that I wrote this and he's not even in the show yet lmaoo

Sȳz, jikagon arghugon - good, go hunt

i will post this on ao3 too, and i might add more if i feel so inclined!!

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

My Body is a Cage

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x f!reader Warnings: Heavy angst, death. Word count: ~2.3k

Summary: When Aemond goes to Storm's End to offer a betrothal between his younger brother, Daeron, and one of Lord Borros Baratheon's daughters, he does not anticipate the arrival of his nephew, Lucerys, nor does he anticipate murdering him. He seeks comfort and reassurance in the arms of his betrothed, but soon finds she has neither to offer to a kinslayer... Based on this request.

Author's note: For @doomwhathouwilt Moodboard by the wonderful @flowerandblood. No tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

Grief is an impregnable fortress, an all consuming void that, once toppled into, feels impossible to escape. When grief turns to rage, there is the false belief that one has found freedom, however, it is merely the act of replacing the bars of a cage with anger instead of sorrow. The emotions vibrate at a differing frequency, yet the imprisonment is fortified with equally devastating consequences.

The air is thick as Aemond dismounts from Vhagar, the sulphurous stench of dragonfire clings to his leather riding coat like a shroud as his boots crunch heavily across the gravel, leading him back towards the imposing ruin of Harrenhal. His skin is hot, he can feel the soot that darkens the ends of his snow white hair also sticking to the flesh of his cheeks. There is no time to pause and wipe it away, not when duty awaits.

The heavy oak doors creak as he pushes them open, revealing the men that sit around the long table in the centre of the room - his war council - dwindled to a paltry number since the war began. They stand as he enters, each of them look ashen faced, none standing quite as proudly as they once had. He swallows thickly, before addressing them.

“Be seated,” he snaps dismissively. “Have the Riverlands been scouted? Do we have the final count of Houses that have fallen?”

How different life is now to what it was a year ago.

Aemond’s betrothal to Lady Fell had been a political arrangement, a bargaining tool utilised by his grandsire to secure loyalty to Aegon’s claim to the throne in the Stormlands. A lady in waiting for Helaena, it had made perfect sense, she was already present within the Keep, so their courtship could be easily managed.

Despite the formality of it, Aemond had grown to love her, and in turn she loved him. She was patient where he was quick to anger, forgiving where he was vengeful, all of the things he knew he did not deserve and yet yearned for just the same.

He basked in the glow of her radiant smile, his heart softening when she did not recoil from his disfigurement. With every stolen kiss in darkened corridors, every eager touch that lingered in places that decency dictated be saved for their wedding night, the burden of the injustice that had been bestowed upon him felt lighter to bear. Despite the hardships that had befallen him, his affection for her came easily, there was nothing simpler in his world.

Then his father, King Viserys, had passed away, and life for Aemond grew infinitely more complicated.

There had always been the unspoken intention that his mother and grandfather planned to challenge his half sister Rhaenyra’s claim to the throne, however, even he was surprised by the swiftness with which they moved to coronate Aegon. Further still, there was the responsibility that fell to him as second son to help assure his brother kept the throne that his family had made bold moves to secure.

Many of the lords that had sworn fealty to Rhaenyra as heir to the Iron Throne had long since passed, and she would surely be sending reminders to their heirs of the vows sworn more than a decade ago. It was up to Aemond to ensure that better offers were made in Aegon’s name.

With Daeron in Oldtown, Aemond was tasked with earning the fealty of The Stormlands. Despite his own impending marriage to Lady Fell, without the support of House Baratheon they would stand little chance of gaining any further support from that part of Westeros. In order to do this, he was to fly to Storm’s End to offer a marriage proposal between his younger brother and one of Lord Baratheon’s daughters.

He had been given a warm reception upon his arrival, and Lord Borros had readily accepted his offer. Aemond has chosen carefully for Daeron, desiring for him to have a match that would make him as happy as he was with Lady Fell. He had selected the youngest of the Four Storms, Floris. Closest in age to his sibling, and the most comely of her sisters, she had seemed the best suited. Aemond had felt satisfied that he could return to King’s Landing proud of what he had accomplished for his family.

What he hadn’t anticipated was the arrival of his nephew, Lucerys Velaryon.

When he saw the dark haired boy enter the hall, he had felt a phantom slash across the left side of his face, a malevolent rage simmered beneath the surface of his skin, barely concealed by the sinister smirk that tugged upwards at the corners of his mouth.

With every word that Lucerys uttered, Aemond’s mood grew darker. Was it not enough that his half sister’s bastard had taken his eye? Now he meant to take his brother’s birthright too.

As he had chased down Lucerys and Arrax on the back of Vhagar, he had only intended to scare him. If his nephew felt only a fraction of the fear that he had endured as a boy, as he had laid bleeding and maimed upon the dusty ground of Driftmark, then he would consider it a triumph, a reminder that there was a debt to be paid.

His heart had lurched when the jaws of his dragon had snapped around the body of the one they had been pursuing, sending both rider and mount toppling into the sea below. He had killed him. Yet the tears he wept as he made the sombre return home to King’s Landing were not for the death of Lucerys, they were for the consequences that his family would face as a result. The debt owed to Aemond had been paid in blood, and it would cost his family everything.

He had immediately sought out Lady Fell’s chambers upon his return to the Red Keep. The rain had dripped off of his riding leathers and onto the flagstone floor in cold rivulets as he had hovered in her doorway, eye wide and imploring.

She had rushed to him, grasping his forearms and pulling him inside. Her touch had immediately grounded him, calmed the pounding in his chest. It would all be alright in the end, how could it not be with her at his side?

“You will catch a fever like this,” she said with a soft laugh,”could you really not wait to get changed to see me?”

He raised a hand to stroke through her soft hair, loose and brushed through, ready for sleep. It was only as he did this that he realised he was trembling, and not from the cold.

“Aemond?” She asked, her brow furrowing with concern. “What is it?”

It would be fine. He could tell her this. She loved him. She would understand.

“I killed him,” he told her in a hushed tone, his eye reluctantly meeting hers.

Her lips had parted in shock, before she exhaled shakily. “Killed who?”

“Lucerys,” he told her, “I did not mean to, I only meant to frighten him, but I lost control, and now he is dead.”

He had expected her to embrace him, to tell him Lucerys had gotten what he deserved, that she would stand by him.

Instead, she had pulled away, and at the loss of her touch Aemond had felt as though he was in freefall. The warmth that usually filled her gaze when she looked upon him was filled with an emotion that he had never seen her direct at him before: fear.

His stomach had twisted into knots and his throat had grown dry as he’d taken a step towards her, hoping to bridge the gap between them, and instead she had furthered it by taking one backwards.

“Kinslayer,” she had whispered shakily. “Leave my chambers at once or I shall scream.”

He had turned and walked away without another word, a gaping void opening within his chest at the realisation that her love for him had died alongside Lucerys.

His world had seemed as though it was coming to an end when Lady Fell departed King’s Landing to return to Felwood. She was taking his heart with him, and he grieved the loss of her, alongside the knowledge that he had jeopardised his family’s prospects for an alliance with the Houses of the Stormlands.

Consumed by grief, her absence was never felt more than in the moments when his nephew, Jaehaerys, was murdered and Aegon was grievously injured in battle. He no longer had her to turn to for comfort, and so his sorrow turned to rage, hot as dragon’s fire. If the only person he had ever truly loved saw him as someone to fear, then he would become just that. The loss of her would not be for nothing.

It was this thought that had clouded his thoughts as he had seized Harrenhal, and put every person residing within to the sword. Every person except one: Alys Rivers. She was a witch, and the visions she conjured within fire aided him in his efforts in battle, though his uncle continued to evade him.

He had grown to love Alys, not in the same way he loved Lady Fell, but he felt that Alys was the match that he deserved. Lady Fell possessed a kind heart, a purity that Aemond could never dream of aspiring to. There was a darkness within Alys that paralleled his own, and so when she invited him to her bed, he did not resist.

There was no hushed laughter, or gentle caresses, the pair of them tore at each other like wild beasts, both of them pouring their malice into the other. There was no warmth to be found in her gaze, only a sharpness that served to encourage his bloodlust and desire for vengeance.

She had told him that she was expecting his child, and his thoughts had drifted to what could have been with his betrothed; a soft, happy bundle of joy that would have been all of the best parts of its mother. He wondered what qualities the bastard he had fathered upon Alys would possess, perhaps they had created the second coming of Maegor Targaryen. It would be no less than what he deserved.

When the news had reached him of Rhaenyra’s capture of King’s Landing, he was briefly thankful that Lady Fell no longer resided there, though enraged that he was not able to fly back to the capital to defend his family. If he ended his occupation of Harrenhal, then it would provide his uncle with the opportunity to seize it back.

The fear in Lady Fell’s eyes flashed through his mind once more. Fear. If he could inspire that, do any damage possible to his half sister’s plight, then he would. His losses would not be for nothing.

He was merciless as he mounted Vhagar and flew over the Riverlands, torching everything in his path. Every House that had sworn allegiance to Rhaenyra Targaryen would burn, for her capture of the capital would be meaningless with no supporters left to aid her.

It is in the wake of this that he stands, waiting to hear of the total losses of support to his half sister.

The maester clears his throat, unfurling a parchment upon the tabletop. “The final raven has just arrived, your grace,” he tells Aemond. “House Darry, House Blackwood, House Fell–”

“House Fell?” He interrupts, his blood turning to ice in his veins. “Impossible, they are based in the Northern Stormlands.”

“Yes, your grace. However, there was a betrothal between the youngest daughter of House Fell and the youngest son of House Blackwood. Lord Fell and his family had been guests of Raventree Hall.”

Bile rises in his throat. He had killed her. The only good thing he had ever had in the world had died at his hands. She had been right to be afraid of him, and yet it had not helped to save her. He does not want to live a life where her goodness has been snuffed out. For every atrocity he has committed in the name of his family’s honour, he has known that the gentleness of her soul is a beacon of hope that there is goodness in humanity. Now there is nothing. He is trapped in a prison of his own making.

It has to end.

With the aid of Alys, he tracks Daemon to South of the Trident, West of the Kingsroad in the Southern Riverlands. His uncle is eagerly awaiting him.

As he kisses Alys, his usual ferocity is absent. His lips are soft and tender against hers, filled with unspoken devotion, the goodbye kiss he never got to give to his intended.

He knows this is a battle he will not return from as he chains himself into Vhagar’s saddle. The cage he is trapped in has only one means of escape.

Daemon is a savage opponent, and Aemond fights as though he has nothing to lose. What else could possibly be taken from him, when he has already deprived himself of it? As his uncle leaps from the back of Caraxes towards him, he does not resist, even as the blade of Dark Sister plunges brutally into the socket of his seeing eye.

His final thought as his body tumbles down towards the icy waters of the God’s Eye is that finally he is free, and if he could not reciprocate his true love’s purity in life then perhaps the Seven will see fit to grant him the opportunity to do so in death.

When grief is allowed to mutate into rage, it will become a person’s ruin, and none more so than that of Aemond Targaryen.

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[undertheorangetree]

The Last of the Dragons

Chapter Four- Cooperation

Summary- Cregan Stark has a proposition and Aemond struggles with the lord’s arrival.

Warnings- MDNI 18+ NSFW. Female reader. Incest. Grief. Talks of treason. Angst cuz I literally can’t stop. Semi public sex. Also private sex. There's a lot of sex. Mild breeding kink. Praise kink. Jizz?? Dry humping. Discussion of dead babies and children. And Alys cuz apparently she needs her own warning now. Cockwarming.

Author’s Note- sorry this took longer than usual it’s end of semester and I am a shell of my former self lmao. Anyway this is once again debatably too long (10.2k) and the full chapter is linked below as usual :)

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It takes a few more days than she had hoped before she is able to speak with Cregan Stark. It seems as though the council had been saving the true work for after the coronation and now they refuse to allow a day to pass without attempting to fix one issue or another. She learns very quickly that even with a council to do the heavy lifting, Aegon had done next to nothing in his six months on the throne, the realm still in shambles from the civil war that has destroyed it.

The Riverlands burnt and all but decimated due to Aemond and Vhagar. The Ironborn raiding every village, port, and town they can reach despite more than one letter arriving in Pyke demanding an end to it. All the great houses still at odds over their differing allegiances. Cregan Stark still thirsty for blood in order to avenge her mother and fulfill his promise to his men. King’s Landing only repaired with half measures after the revolt in the city and less than a quarter of the repairs underway. The list seemed never ending and by the end of each day, she finds a headache sitting heavy behind her eyes, so deep she can’t even attempt to massage the pain away.

To his credit, Aemond takes it upon himself to begin rebuilding the Riverlands himself, taking the initiative to lead the restoration. She has Corlys send word to Alyn Velaryon and command him to sail to Pyke with some of Velaryon fleet with the hopes that conversation and some bribing will be enough to stop Dalton Greyjoy from his raids. Lord Tyland informs them of just how much of the crown’s coffers he had spirited away and begins rationing what can be spared to begin repairing the city. Lord Larys assures them that the hunt for Aegon’s murderer is still well underway, though he has little to show for it.

It is Cregan Stark that is left to her. Handsome, bloodthirsty Cregan Stark. Where he had cast a glare upon almost everyone when he had arrived for the coronation, he had smiled at her, had been friendly and chivalrous. Though Aemond had vehemently disagreed, the council had all but unanimously decided that she was to charm him and turn him toward peace or, barring that, some acceptance of who was now ruling. She does not mind the task, already having planned to speak to the man and not prepared to be usurped less than sennight on the throne, so she agrees and leaves the council chamber with Aemond staring daggers into her back.

She is even more glad for the task as she sits on a bench in the gardens, eyes closed and face tilted up toward the sun as she waits for Lord Stark’s arrival. It feels as though it has been an age since she had the chance to simply be and in this moment, the sun warm and the air sweet with the smell of flowers, she feels completely and totally at peace. It is a strange feeling to have when worry and panic have been all she seemed capable of feeling as of late, but she will take it as it comes. She would rather feel this than the latter and she plans to enjoy it for as long as she is able.

A throat clears and she opens her eyes to see Cregan Stark standing before her, a servant at his side. The girl bows her head to them both before scurrying off as quick as she came and she stands from the bench with a smile.

“Lord Stark. I apologize for the delay in finally being able to speak to one another. My council seems content to work me like an ox now that everything has become more official but I insisted they release me so that I may fulfill my promise to you.”

He smiles as he offers her his arm. “I am honoured you were able to find the time at all, your grace. I know the early days in a new role can be exhausting.”

She mimics his smile gratefully as she takes his arm, allowing him to begin leading her through the gardens. They have not received the attention they deserved as of late- the shrubbery and bushes beginning to grow a bit wild, the flowers untrimmed- but she finds she likes it this way. Being so far into spring, everything is in bloom and beautiful even if they have not been well tended to, the green brilliant and dotted with red, yellow, purple, and white. She allows the silence to fall between them for a moment as she admires it all, feeling as though it has been too long since she has been allowed to enjoy something so simplistically pretty. Whenever she is given a gown or a piece of jewelry, she cannot help but feel as though it is a piece in this great game she never asked to play. The flowers, though, nature, they do not suffer the same fate.

Eventually, she knows she cannot allow for the silence to reign much longer and turns her head to look at the young lord. “My brother told me much about you in his letters. I feel as though you and I are already acquainted.”

Read the rest here :)

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[j-k-writes]

The Bronze Targaryen - 11

Summary - War is brewing in Westeros, but Rhaenyra is determined to avoid it for as long as possible (to the frustration of her husband).

Warnings - General HOTD warnings, canon character death, minor violence between family members ((Y/N) and Daemon)

The end of season one! I'm putting this series on a bit of a hiatus while I figure out my plans for season two (thank you, Ryan Condal, for making my life miserable) but do not fret I have stories to hold y'all over in the mean time.

“What is our standing?” 

“We have thirty knights, a hundred crossbowmen, and three hundred men at arms.” Daemon spoke, “Dragonstone is relatively easy to defend but as an instrument of conquest, our army leaves much to be desired. We have sent word to my loyal men in the City Watch. I’ll have some support there but I cannot speak to the numbers.” 

“We already have declarations from Celtigar and Staunton, Massey, Darklyn, Bar Emmon.” 

“As well as Coldwater, Sheet, and Tollett.” (Y/N) turned to Rhaenyra, “Runestone stands behind you. I have no doubt Lady Arryn will as well, the Vale will not turn cloak against their own kin.” 

He watched as Rhaenyra gave him a grateful smile and placed a marker on the table. 

“Riverrun was always a close friend to your father, your grace. With Prince Daemon’s acquiescence, I’ve already sent raven to Lord Grover.” 

Both (Y/N) and Rhaenyra paused at Maester Gerardys’ words, they both looked up at the Prince. (Y/N) narrowed his eyes at his father, who did not look the least apologetic as Rhaenyra spoke, “Lord Grover is fickle and easily swayed. He will need to be convinced of the strength of our position and that we will support him should it come to war.” 

“I am going to treat with him myself.” (Y/N) raised an eyebrow at his father’s boldness, watching as he and Rhaenyra glared at each other from across the room. His father had been falling into tendencies (Y/N) had hoped he’d grown out of these past days, and the new Consort was unsure how to feel about it. 

“What of Storm’s End and Winterfell?” 

“There has never lived a Stark who forgot an oath. And with House Stark the North will follow.” 

“Lord Borros Baratheon will need to be reminded of his father’s promises.” Rhaenyra said, voice tight. More markers were placed around the table, the promise of war becoming stronger and stronger with each clang against the wooden table. “What news from Driftmark?” 

“Lord Corlys sails for Dragonstone.” Rhaenys said. 

“To declare for his Queen?” (Y/N) asked. 

“The Velayron fleet is in my husband’s yoke.” (Y/N) frowned, unable to stop the hot flash of anger in his chest at her words. “He decides where they sail.” 

“We shall pray for both you and your husband's support. Just as we prayed nightly for the Sea Snake’s return to good health. There’s no port on the Narrow Sea that would dare to make an enemy of the Velaryon fleet.” Rhaenyra spoke before (Y/N) could open his mouth to speak his offense at Rhaenys’ answer. “And our enemies?” 

“We have no friends among the Lannisters. Tyland has served the hand too long to turn against him. And Otto Hightower needs the Lannister fleet.” 

“Without the Lannisters we are not like to find any allies west of the Golden Tooth.” Both (Y/N) and Rhaenyra frowned. 

“The Riverlands are essential, your Grace.” Daemon spoke. (Y/N) cringed inwardly at the knowledge that Daemon was making good points for all of his boldness and made eye contact with Rhaenyra from across the table.

“Pray forgive my bluntness, your Grace. But talk of men is moot. Your cause owns a power that not has not been seen in this world since the days of Old Valyria. Dragons.” 

“The Greens have dragons as well.” Rhaenyra responded. 

“They have three adults, by my count. We have Syrax, Vermithor-” (Y/N) winced at his father’s words, taking in a deep breath as his father continued on his rant. “-Caraxes, and Meleys. Your sons have Vermax, Arrax, and Tyraxes. Baela has Moondancer.” 

“Daemon none of our dragons have been to war.” 

(Y/N) grabbed his father’s arm, bringing him in close so that his words did not go any further than their small shared bubble. “And need I remind you, we do not have Vermithor until I am recovered.” He bit out, face hot as he spoke. 

Daemon ignored him, causing (Y/N) to throw his head back and sigh, “There are also unclaimed dragons. Seasmoke still resides on Driftmark. Silverwing dwells on the Dragonmont, still riderless. Then there are the three wild dragons, all of whom nest here.” 

“And who is to ride them?” Rhaenyra sounded as exasperated with Daemon as (Y/N) felt. 

“Dragonstone has 13 to their 4. I also have a score of eggs incubating in the Dragonmont. Now…we need a place to gather, a toehold large enough to house a sizable host. Here, at Harrenhal.” Daemon spoke, ignoring his Queen’s question. “We cut off the west, surround Kingslanding with the Dragons and we could have every Green head mounted on spikes before the fucking moon turns.” 

“Your Grace.” Ser Erryk spoke up, and (Y/N) relaxed, grateful for the interruption. “A ship has been sighted offshore. A lone galleon flying a banner of a three-headed green dragon.” 

(Y/N) straightened in his seat, grabbing his cane as his father shouted out commands to the men around them. He stood making his way toward his wife, she was frowning as Daemon exited the room flanked by guards and lords. 

“Follow him.” Rhaenyra said, “Make sure he doesn’t do anything rash.” 

“And you?” 

The smile she gave him did not reach her eyes, “Just go.”

(Y/N) kept one hand on his cane and the other on his sword as he watched Otto Hightower and his posse of Knights approach. Otto looked between (Y/N) and Daemon, chin up in the air and posture straight as the oak branch up his ass. 

“I come at the behest of the Dowager Queen Alicent, mother of King Aegon, Second of His Name, Lord and Protector of the Seven Kingdoms.” He spoke. “I’ve been directed to deliver her message only to Princess Rhaenyra. Where is the Princess?” 

Otto and his men were startled at the sound of Syrax’s screech overhead, causing (Y/N)’s lips to curve up in a smile. Syrax’s landing caused stones of the bridge to crack and fall off the side, and the she-dragon continued to growl and screech at the men as Rhaenyra dismounted and walked through the crowd. She took her place between (Y/N) and Daemon, turning to face Otto. 

“Princess Rhaenyra.” 

“I’m Queen Rhaenyra now. And you all are traitors to the realm.” Rhaenyra spat. 

Otto took her statement in stride, continuing on as if she’d never spoken. “King Aegon Targaryen, Second of His Name in his wisdom and desire for peace-” (Y/N) scoffed, but yet again Otto continued on. “-is offering terms. Acknowledge Aegon as king and swear obeisance before the Iron Throne. In exchange, His Grace will confirm your possession of Dragonstone. It will pass to your trueborn son, Jacaerys, upon your death. Lucerys will be confirmed as the legitimate heir to Runestone-” 

“He is my legitimate heir.” (Y/N) stepped forward, but Rhaenyra shot her arm out, blocking his path. 

“-and all the lands and holdings of House Royce.” Otto looked smug as (Y/N) begrudgingly heeded his wife and stepped back. “Your sons Aegon and Viserys will also be given places of high honor at court: Aegon the Younger as the King’s squire, Viserys as his cupbearer. Finally, the King, in his good grace, will pardon any knight or lord who conspired against his ascent.” 

“I would rather feed my sons to the dragons than have them carry shields and cups for your drunken usurper cunt of a king.” (Y/N) said, hand flexing around his sword. 

“Aegon Targaryen sits the Iron Throne. He wears the Conqueror’s crown, wields the Conqueror’s sword, has the Conqueror’s name. He was anointed by a septon of the faith in the eyes of thousands. Every symbol of legitimacy belongs to him. And then there is Stark, Tully, Baratheon. Houses that have already received and are at present, considering generous terms from their king.” Otto spoke, causing (Y/N) to laugh. 

“Generous? You have offered us things we already have.” 

“Stark, Tully, Baratheon all swore to me when King Viserys named me his heir.” Rhaenyra said, and (Y/N) could see the anger deep inside her bubbling to the surface. 

“Stale oaths will not put you on the Iron Throne, Princess. The succession changed the day your father sired a son. I only regret that you and he were the last to see the truth of it.” 

“You are no more Hand than Aegon is king.” Rhaenyra moved toward the man before (Y/N) could have time to respond. She rushed the man, seething, grabbing the silver hand pinned on his chest. She ripped the pendant off, tossing it over the side of the bridge. “Fucking traitor.” 

Once again Otto was undisturbed by the show of anger, “Grand Maester.” 

“What the fuck is this?” He heard his father ask as Otto grabbed a folded-up piece of parchment from the Grand Maester, handing it to Rhaenyra. (Y/N) could not see Rhaenyra’s reaction from where he was standing, but his stomach turned at the sight of her angry posture softening ever so slightly as she looked at the paper. 

“Queen Alicent has not forgotten the love you once had for each other. No blood need be spilled, so the realm can carry on in peace.” Otto said softly to Rhaenyra. “Queen Alicent eagerly awaits your answer.” 

“She can have her answer now, stuffed in her father’s mouth along with his withered cock. Let’s end this mummer’s farce.” Daemon and the knights around him drew their swords, and (Y/N) smiled as Otto’s knights tensed. (Y/N) took a step forward, not bothering to draw his sword. (The scabbard was really only by his side for show, for he was practically useless with it until he could manage to bring his arm above his head without aggravating the wound in his shoulder.) “Ser Erryk, bring me Lord Hightower so I may take the pleasure myself.” 

Syrax roared, causing the stones they were standing on to shake and the men behind Otto drew their weapons in retaliation. Before anyone could make a move Rhaenyra turned on them. 

“No.” She said, and the men around him stood down. (Y/N) raised an eyebrow at her, but she did not look at him as she continued. “Kingslanding will have my answer on the morrow.” 

(Y/N) gaped as Otto Hightower and his crowd of traitors walked away completely whole. Daemon huffed and puffed in frustration the whole way up to the keep, but (Y/N) paid his grumblings no mind. His shock was aimed wholly on Rhaenyra. Rhaenyra would not look at him as they walked, or limped in (Y/N)’s case, and (Y/N) feared the worst. He bit his tongue as the council resumed, sorting through his scattered thoughts before he said something rash in front of the council. 

He’d only wished his father could have the same sort of self control. 

“It’s no easy thing for a man to be a dragonslayer. But dragons can kill dragons. And have.” Daemon spoke. “The simple truth is this: we have more dragons than Aegon, even with (Y/N) recovering.” 

“Viserys spoke often of the Valyrian histories. I know them well. When dragons flew to war-” Rhaenyra sighed, “Everything burned.” 

“War has its casualties whether dragons are involved or not.” He mumbled from his seat. His voice was merely a whisper but Rhaenyra heard him anyway and shot him a subtle glare. 

“I do not wish to rule over a kingdom of ash and bone.” She said it to the room, but it was clear the words were directed to her husband and uncle. 

“Are you considering the Hightowers’ terms, your Grace?” (Y/N) straightened to attention as Lord Bartimos asked the question at the forefront of his mind, on everyone's mind, apparently. 

“As Queen, what is my true duty to the realm, Lord Bartimos? Ensuring peace and unity? Or that I sit the Iron Throne, no matter the cost?” (Y/N) sighed at her words, frustration building as Daemon responded. 

“That’s your father talking.” 

“My father’s dead. And he chose me as his successor. To defend the realm, not cast it headlong into war.” 

“They have already declared war, Rhaenrya.” (Y/N) could not help the bite in his words. His frustration and exhaustion finally boiling over despite his attempts at holding it down until he and Rhaenyra were in private. 

“Clear the room.” The lords looked between the two warily but they left without complaints. As soon as the door shut behind the last lord Rhaenyra rounded on (Y/N), practically sneering. “Does the promise of war excite you?” 

“I just ended one war, Rhaenyra. My last wish is to start another, but you cannot bend the knee to the Hightowers.” (Y/N) sighed, collapsing into his chair. The action brought attention to the wound in his shoulder, and he swallowed a groan of pain. He was dreading this war, but he was not going to sit in denial. Unless they were to take the Hightower’s terms, and (Y/N) would die before he let that happen, war was inevitable. 

“If you could take the Iron Throne without putting Otto Hightower’s head on a spike, would you?” (Y/N) could not help but scoff at her question. 

“Are you not angry?” 

“I should declare war because I’m angry?” 

“No.” (Y/N) said between gritted teeth, “Because it’s your duty as Queen to crush rebellion.” 

“My oath reaches beyond our personal ambitions.” Did she not understand? How could she not understand what this slight meant for their family? 

“Personal ambitions? Rhaenyra this is your birthright and they have stolen it from you the same way they tried to steal it from Luke. To bend the knee now-” 

“Shut up and listen to me. You are acting like your father.” (Y/N)’s mouth shut with a click, his words dying on his tongue. Rhaenyra continued on, ignoring the rising anger in her husband. “My father told me something when he named me heir, The Conqueror’s Dream.” 

“A dream?” (Y/N) scoffed, but Rhaenyra ignored him. 

“A Song of Ice and Fire, a coming war against the darkness in the North. The realm must be united if it is to survive, so you must understand why I am so reluctant to plunge it into war.” She spoke with such certainty that (Y/N) almost wanted to concede to her. 

Almost. “You are in denial, Rhaenyra.” He said, forcing his voice level. He was not his father and he would not take his frustration out on his wife, even if she was part of its origin. “There is to be a war over this. I do not want it, but I have accepted it and so should you.”

(Y/N) felt himself drifting off in his chair as the lords argued around him, barely letting Rhaenyra get a word in. His body throbbed, a few new bruises added onto them courtesy of his father’s drunken anger. 

He’d sought the man out last night, too keyed up from his argument with Rhaenyra to go to their bedroom. He’d knocked on Daemon’s door hoping to drown in the wine his father no doubt had already brought up from the kitchens. Instead he’d found himself thrown into the wall after a particularly nasty screaming match that had multiple guards running into the room.  

One snide comment about Rhaenyra's choices was all it had taken for (Y/N)’s already simmering anger to rise to the surface. Rhaenyra could frustrate them both to the grave, but she was still their Queen, and Daemon needed to give her his respect, especially in the presence of the other lords.

His father had not seen it that way. 

“The Lord of the Tides, Lord Corlys Velaryon, and his wife, the Princess Rhaenys Targaryen.” (Y/N) snapped to attention at the sound of Ser Eyrrk’s voice. 

“My lords.” Lord Corlys nodded to the lords around them as he limped down the steps and toward Rhaenyra. He looked well despite his injuries although the grimace he gave with every step betrayed just how healed he truly was. 

“Lord Corlys. It brings much relief to see you hale and healthy again. I extend my deepest condolences for the loss of your son, and heir.” Rhaenyra said. 

“I’m very sorry about your father, Princess. He was a good man.” Corlys looked around the room, gaze falling on (Y/N) for a moment before he spoke again. “Where is Daemon?” 

“There were other concerns which demanded my father’s attention.” (Y/N) responded, and Rhaenyra pursed her lips, having heard about these other concerns from a concerned guard the night before. She had not been happy at his father’s regressions in anger management, even less so with his decision to take his frustrations out on his already injured son. 

Corlys hummed, obviously too familiar with Daemon’s temper. “Your declared allies?” 

“Yes.” 

“Too few to win a war for the throne.” 

“Well, we would also hope to have the support of Houses Arryn, Baratheon, and Stark.” 

“Hope is the fool’s ally.” (Y/N) frowned at the Sea Snake’s words, the lord of the tides was correct in his statement but that did not mean (Y/N) had to appreciate the sentiment. 

“House Arryn shares blood with my house, but all of them swore oaths to me.” Rhaenyra was losing her patience. 

“As did House Hightower, if I remember.” 

“As did you, Lord Corlys.” 

The room went silent at Rhaenyra’s statement, but (Y/N) simply smiled. He hid his soft laugh behind his hand turning in his chair to get a better view of Lord Corlys as the Lord seemed to ponder her unspoken question. 

‘To who are you loyal to?’ 

“Your father’s realm was one of justice and honor. Our houses are bound by common blood and common cause. This Hightower treason cannot stand. You have the full support of our fleet and House, your Grace.” Lord Corlys bowed his head to Rhaenyra who sputtered. She recovered quickly, turning to look at Rhaenys who simply nodded with a smile. 

“You honor me, Lord Corlys, Princess Rhaenys.” She straightened, letting her demeanor shift back to that of Queen. “But, as I said to my bannermen, I made a promise to my father to hold the realm strong and united. If war’s first stroke is to fall, it will not be by my hand.” 

“You do not mean to act?” 

“Taking caution does not mean standing fast.” Rhaenyra shot him a subtle yet harsh look as she spoke. “I wish to know who my allies are before I send them to war.” 

“The consequence of Laenor’s sacrifice and my near-demise in the Stepstones is that we now control them. I took care to fully garrison the territory this time. A total blockade of the shipping lanes will be in place in days, if not already. The Triarchy have been routed. The Narrow Sea is ours. If we further seal the gullet we can cut off all seaborne travel and trade to Kingslanding.” The mood of the room immediately brightened at Corlys’ words. 

“I shall take Meleys and patrol the Gullet myself.” 

“When we drain the Narrow Sea, we can surround Kingslanding, lay siege to the Red Keep, and force the Greens’ surrender.” 

(Y/N) smiled at the sudden mood change amongst the lords of their council. Rhaenyra herself was not immune to the feeling and (Y/N) watched as her mouth curved up in a small smile as she watched the room. “If we are to have enough swords to surround Kingslanding, we must first secure the support of Winterfell, the Eyrie, and Storm’s End.” 

“I’ll prepare the ravens, your Grace.” Maester Gerardys moved to leave the room but Jace interrupted before he could. 

“We should bear those messages.” Everyone turned to look at the young prince. “Dragons can fly faster than ravens and they’re more convincing. Send us.” 

(Y/N) smiled at his son, “He’s right.” 

“Very well.” Rhaenyra caught his eye from across the table and smiled. “Prince Jacaerys will fly north. First to the Eyrie, to see my mother’s cousin and his father’s liege Lady, the Lady Jeyne Arryn, and then to Winterfell to treat with Lord Cregan Stark for the support of the North. Prince Lucerys will fly south to Storm’s End and treat with Lord Borros Baratheon. We must remind these lords of the oaths they swore. And the cost of breaking them.”

The gods, old and new, gave him no warning that day. There was no warning, no omen, for him to heed as they said their goodbyes. As he looks back on that day he wonders what he would have done differently if there had been. 

“It's been said that as Targaryens, we are closer to gods than to men. And the Iron Throne puts us a touch closer, perhaps. But, if we are to serve the Seven Kingdoms we must answer to their gods.” Rhaenyra spoke. “If you take this errand, you go as messenger not as warriors. You must take no part in any fighting. Swear it to me now.” 

“Under the eyes of the old and new gods.” (Y/N) added as the book was presented to his sons, and Jace smiled at the obvious disdain in which (Y/N) regarded The Seven. (Y/N) looked over his boys as they swore, locking eyes with their mother as they did so. Jace was as confident as (Y/N) had expected a boy of his age to be. He was still green and eager to prove himself to the realm. 

“Thank you.” Rhaenyra turned to Jace. “Cregan Stark is closer to your age than to mine. I would hope, that as men, you can find some common interest.” 

“The North follows the Old Gods as House Royce does, Jace.” (Y/N) added, smiling. “Do with that what you will.” 

Jace smiled back at him, head held high. “Yes, your Grace.” 

Luke was less confident, which brought a small frown to (Y/N)’s face. He did not comment on it, remembering himself when he first began to fall under the pressure and critique of the court. Luke was younger than he was when Rhea died, and Daemon brought him to Kingslanding, and he no doubt felt more pressure than (Y/N) could have imagined at his age. 

“Storm’s End is a short flight from here. Lord Borros is an eternally proud man. He will be honored to host a prince of the realm and his dragon. I expect you will receive a very warm welcome.” 

“Yes, Mother- your Grace.” Luke stumbled, and (Y/N) gave him a reassuring smile. 

He touched his shoulder gently, bringing his voice to a whisper so that only Luke could hear him. “Do not worry, tresy. You are simply going to remind Lord Borros of his oath, if you cannot convince him he is already lost to us.” 

Luke nodded, and (Y/N) kissed his head. He grabbed Jace next, who only gave a small protest as his father laughed and kissed his cheek. All three Royce’s turned to look at their Queen who nodded. 

“Go to it then.” 

(Y/N) had not thought to be worried as he watched his eldest sons fly off. It was only a few days later, when they received a raven assuring them of Jace’s safe arrival in the Vale, that (Y/N) began to worry about his younger son, and even then, he brushed it off. He told himself that perhaps Luke had just forgotten to write, and he did not know Lord Borros, but he would not put it past the man to not bother sending a raven. Rhaenyra began to worry immediately, watching the sky at every opportunity as if Luke would suddenly appear on Arrax to assure his mother of his safety. She would not hear (Y/N)'s excuses, and months later, in his grief, (Y/N) realized he was simply doing what he had yelled at Rhaenyra for doing not days before. 

Living in denial. 

They were in a council meeting when Daemon received the news. (Y/N) was immediately on edge at the look on his father’s face as he took both he and Rhaenyra aside. Rhaenyra and (Y/N) watched as his father struggled to find the words, turning his body so that he did not have to look at them as he spoke. 

(Y/N) did not need Daemon to speak to know what the raven had said. 

He vaguely remembers Rhaenyra’s gasp as Daemon finally got the words out. She turned away from both men as she processed the words, doubling over and clutching her stomach, sobs began to rack her body. (Y/N) stumbled as the voices in the room faded from him and his vision tunneled, Daemon reached to steady him but (Y/N) pushed his father away. He threw his cane across the room with a shout as the tears began to fall. His hands met the council table with a loud slam and he swept the nearest items off the table. The clatter of the items meeting the stone floor was not loud enough to drown out his curses and pleading words. 

His father approached him when his body finally gave up on him, his legs unable to support his weight without his cane to steady him. He held him up, pulling him close to his chest. As (Y/N) sobbed, fists pounding against his father’s chest, Daemon leaned in close. 

“An eye for an eye, a son for a son.” Daemon cupped his cheeks, forcing (Y/N) to look at him through his tears. “Your son will be avenged.”

---

Translations -

Tresy - son

[lalacliffthorne]

💜 starshine pt. IV 💜

Rhysand x Reader

part I part II part III part IV part V part VI

summary: a promise is fulfilled.

notes: back to our regularly scheduled program of fluff deluxe - with maybe a teeny-tiny sprinkle of angst. come on, I can't just make it that easy.

______________________________________________________________

Crossing the street, I pushed my bag higher up my shoulder, a cool but soft breeze brushing through my hair as I closed my eyes for a second.

Something warm vibrated under my ribs, something that seemed to stem from the city I was wandering through itself, and when I opened my eyes again, my heart rose in a vibrant flutter when I caught a glimpse at the sun sinking towards the mountains, its warm golden light submerging the buildings and gardens into an otherworldly glow.

Velaris. The City of Starlight.

The Court of Dreams.

When Rhys had first told me about it, all those years ago, I had almost not believed him. It had sounded - far too good to be true.

But now, as I made my way through the narrow streets, laughter and voices winding through the air from restaurants and bars, families passing me, I suddenly understood the light that appeared in his eyes whenever he talked about the city.

It was beautiful.

The buildings were big and winding, with towers and bay windows and balconies, the cobblestone streets between ranging from wide ones leading to big squares to narrow, connected alleys. There were wisterias winding around the houses, in full bloom just like the trees, their petals being sweeped through the streets by the soft breeze, lacing the air with a sweet scent.

A few children were chasing a whirlwind of blossoms, giggling, and I could feel something in my chest swell.

My eyes flared golden for a moment, and the petals rose in a rush, moving through the air like water flowing and sweeping around the children, their laughter growing as petals brushed over their cheeks like gentle tickles.

I smiled brightly and exhaled a soft laugh before turning back ahead, my breath hitching as I slipped out of the street and found the river in front of me. Bridges with intricate carvings arched over the water that reflected the light of the first golden lanterns and the sky, a few stars already visible, twinkling in the pale blue that spanned all the way to the surrounding mountains.

It had taken me longer than expected to fulfill my promise. After taking care of those still Under the Mountain and the faeries there, I had brought those captured home. By then, many faeries had started leaving the places they'd sought shelter at.

But the chaos that had become the courts had not spared their homes. Many of the wild woods, the meadows and riverlands had been destroyed or had withered without the fairie´s care.

And so I had spent almost two months making my way from Spring up all the way to the North, rebuilding the fairie's homes a lot easier with the assistance of my magic. It had mended something in my chest, cracks that had formed there over the past fifty years, cracks caused by the harm that had been caused to those I felt I was made to protect. And not a day had gone by where I hadn't felt the gentle rake of claws down the walls of my mind, like the male they belonged was trying to assure himself I was still there.

I knew Rhys was probably up to his ears in work, things that had piled up over the last fifty years; mending his own court back together. But still.

I knew him.

Knew how wonderfully, awfully self-sacrificing he was, and how he had the admirable and not at all healthy tendency to always put everyone else first.

The stubborn male hadn't sought me out once. And it had made something rise and ache in my chest, more with every passing week, until over the last few, I had rushed, moved as quickly as possible, barely halting to accept the faerie's words of thanks.

It felt like something pulled me north, something that became stronger the closer I got.

☆

The sun was almost touching the snow-covered mountain peaks when I finally found the adress Rhys had left me. It was located at the end of a long street, a bit off the city center, sheltered by blooming trees and hedges, just like the other properties.

Carefully opening the gate covered in sweet smelling vines, I felt my heart skip softly against my ribs.

Before me rose a big house made from sandstone, with huge windows, carved details and a domed roof, blossoming plants climbing the walls. There were bushes in bloom planted in front, and as I slowly made my way towards the steps at the side of the house, leading to big wooden doors, I caught a glimpse at the garden beyond.

My breath hitched, and I slowed until I stood still.

Flowers bloomed, wild and free, faeries whizzing through the high grass, giggling and chasing each other over a pond with floating lilies, reflecting the mountains lining the horizon and the sky above, beginning to turn pink.

Something rose in my chest, swelling and thrumming as a soft, slightly shaking laugh built in my throat, and I quickly wiped a hand over my nose.

Staring at the garden for another second, my heart fluttering wildly against my ribs, I blinked before looking up the houses façade. Then I turned, climbing the steps to the door where I hesitated for a second before I raised my hand to knock gently.

After waiting for a minute and knocking again, I felt my brows furrow, and my heart skipped softly when Rhys' voice echoed through my memories.

Don't worry. The wards will let you in any time, day or night.

I could still hear the cheeky smile in his voice, and something rose in my chest.

Raising my hand again, I paused for a moment before carefully placing it onto the wood of the door.

My heart skipped when I felt a shift under my fingers. A soft breeze brushed through my hair and brought with it the small of chilled nights and wild flowers, and my lips rose into an incredulous smile when the door opened with a creak.

Carefully stepping over the threshold, I felt something begin to flutter gently against my ribs as I slowly made my way past the staircase leading up and felt my lips part softly.

My gaze flickered over the one wide room that was the first floor, open and flooded by the golden light of the sinking sun coming from the big windows that opened like doors into the garden. There were shelves filled with books to the front, comfortable looking couches and soft carpets, and a big oak table over in the open kitchen with an array of chairs. The air smelled warm, of blooming flowers and a trace of Rhys that lingered, like he'd been here some time in the past few days.

Something rose under my ribs, quick and fluttering wildly as I carefully let my fingers graze over the back of a leather armchair, breathing in the scent of the flowers on the dining table – and then the air shifted behind me, and I quickly looked over my shoulder, my heart rising in my chest and breath stilling.

Rhys had appeared next to the stairs, looking a little out of breath, his hair windswept like he had rushed as his wide eyes flickered up the stairs.

My gaze quickly darted over him, and something tightened harshly in my chest as I practically drank him in, because Gods, I had missed him. Far more than I had realised, something that seeing him again Under the Mountain had not changed; in fact, it seemed to have made it worse, because as my gaze dragged over the familiar width of his shoulders, his inky black hair and that stupidly beautiful face, something in my chest began to ache.

Rhys' eyes darted away from the stairs as he turned quickly, and his body went completely still when his gaze found mine.

Something swelled under my ribs, rising as it pulsed warmth, and I swallowed before sending him a smile, soft and just a little cheeky. “Hello.”

Rhys stared at me like I had knocked one of the books from the shelves behind me over his head. His violet eyes were wide, his throat working as he swallowed lightly, and suddenly, the ache in my chest grew unbearable.

Dropping my bag, I darted towards him, and Rhys stepped forward, catching me as I crashed into him.

His familiar scent washed over me like a tidal wave as his arms tightened around my waist, lifting me slightly until only my toes touched the floor as he pressed me into his chest, and I dug my fingers into the back of his shoulders, my arms wound tight around his neck as I buried my face in his shirt. His scent filled my nose, the warmth of his skin causing my own to heat, and something rose under my ribs, fluttering into my throat when I could feel the light shudder going through Rhys' body.

His arms tightened around me like I wasn't already pulled flush into his body, then he dropped his head to bury his nose at my shoulder, a slightly shaking breath leaving him.

“You're here,”, he mumbled, his deep voice hoarse, and I slid my arms down from his neck to wind them tightly around his middle, curling into his chest because it felt like the only way to still get closer.

“I promised, right?”, I mumbled into his shirt, my own voice sounding a bit weak, and Rhys slid his arms up from my waist to wrap them around my shoulders, dragging me further into his body as he dropped his nose into my hair.

My heart clenched when I felt a tightness form in my chest, one that wasn't mine but belonged to the male in front of me, who felt tired, and worn, and a little heavy, but like him, and the feeling in my chest swelled.

Breathing out, I felt my shoulders sink. Winding my arms tighter around Rhys and nuzzling my face into his chest, I mumbled: “I hope not everyone can walk in here like that, because then we'd really have to talk about your security measures.”

Rhys huffed into my hair, his lips moving up against my forehead when he mumbled back: “What do you take me for, an idiot?”

I felt my own lips rise, and Rhys seemed to realise it too, because he added a grumbled: “You know what, don't answer that.”

A giggle bubbled in my throat, and I could feel Rhys' muscles shift under my hands, slowly relaxing as he wrapped me up tighter in his arms.

“You're not an idiot,”, I whispered softly, pressing my nose into his shirt, and my heart skipped when I could feel Rhys begin to smile brightly into my hair.

“I've been telling you that for more than a century, darling.”

His voice sent a soft tingle down my spine, low and rumbling warmly, and I grumbled: “I take it back.”

“Nuh-uh,”, Rhys murmured, and I could feel his smile widening.

Closing my eyes, I carefully sent a wave of warmth his way, to lessen a bit of that heaviness clinging to him, and Rhys' grip shifted as his shoulders sagged.

We would have probably kept standing there for another while, because tiredness suddenly washed over me, the exhaustion of the past two months finally catching up with me, and Rhys didn't seem like he was planning on letting go either, his grip softening as he held me, body unwavering even when I slowly let my whole weight sink against him, burying deeper into his chest.

But then something shifted at the back of my mind, soft and curious, and I hesitated before pulling back.

“Rhys?”

The male looked down at me, violet eyes tracking over my face, and I slowly slipped out of his grip a little, feeling my brows furrow gently as I stared up at him.

“Who's house is this?”

Rhys' hands on my hips flexed a little, almost like nerves as he slowly slid them off. Then he blinked and smiled, soft and lopsided and almost a little sheepish as he dipped his head to the side.

“Yours.”

I blinked. My arms slipped from his waist as I stared up at him, feeling my lips part, and suddenly, the ache in my chest was back, only it was different now, pressing onto my lungs and causing my breath to hitch.

“What?”, I whispered softly.

One corner of Rhys' lips curved, his eyes moving over my face as he shrugged lightly.

“I always hoped you'd come here one day. And I didn't want you to feel like you were just visiting.” He blinked, and it almost looked like he was hesitating for a second before he mumbled, voice hoarse: “I wanted you to have a home here.”

Staring up at him, I felt the ache rise. Looking over my shoulder, my eyes brushed over the beautiful living room, the garden visible through the big doors –

Something thrummed harshly against my ribs, and turning around, I sniffled and moved forward, slipping my arms around Rhys' neck and hugging him so forcefully, he huffed a little in surprise.

“Thank you,”, I whispered, my heart rising as my bottom lip trembled a little and a tear ran over my cheek as I quickly squeezed my eyes shut.

Rhys breathed out and wrapped his arms around me, dropping his chin onto my shoulder, and his deep voice rumbled through my body when he mumbled back, sounding a little raspy: “Purely selfish reasons.”

Giggling softly, I pressed my nose against his shoulder. Then I pulled back to stare up at him, breathing a soft, incredulous snort.

"Only you casually buy someone a house."

Rhys grinned. "Always aiming to impress." Raising his hand, he gently brushed his thumb over my cheek, wiping away a tear as he stared at me, one corner of his lips curving. Then he blinked.

“Come on.” Leaning down, he picked up my bag before straightening and sending me a slow grin that caused his cheeks to crease and my heart to do a backflip. “You're staying with me tonight.”

“And where would that be?” Feeling my lips curve, I turned around to follow Rhys towards the windows leading onto the terrace.

Rhys pushed open the doors, and something skipped lightly against my chest when he threw a look over his shoulder, his violet eyes twinkling lightly when he raised a brow.

“The House of Wind.”

The soft air brushed over my skin when I stepped onto the terrace, breathing in the scent of blooming trees as I slowly took the two steps leading down onto the grass. Then Rhys turned around, and my breath hitched when the air behind him rippled, shimmering as his wings melted out of the darkness. I had seen them before, but they still made something tumble softly in my stomach, the way they opened in a stretch, flared wide for a moment before relaxing and folding lightly against his back. Then I blinked.

“Oh, hell no.”

“No other way.” Rhys shrugged, eyes twinkling.

“I am not flying with you.” I glared at him.

“Darling, the only way to the House of Wind is by air travel.” Rhys' lips curved in amusement when he raised a brow. “So unless you've learned how to grow wings, you'll have to fly with me.”

“No.” Crossing my arms in front of my chest, I shook my head. “Won't happen.”

Rhys casually slipped his hands into his pockets, eyes bright when he tipped his head to the side.

“You know, it sounds a little like you don't trust me.“

“That's low.” I glowered at him, and Rhys breathed a chuckle, something skipping against my ribs at the way his eyes crinkled when he grinned at me.

“Just telling you what it looks like, sweetheart.”

I grumbled.

The most annoying thing was – I did trust him. And he knew it.

What he didn't know was that I had trusted him for so long, and still, it scared me just how much.

Rhys seemed to see how he cut through my resistance, because he smiled, that godsdamned beautiful smile, and raised his brows.

Glowering at him for another second, I gave up my defensive stance and huffed. “I still don't see why I can't stay down here.”

Rhys chuckled and stepped towards me, carefully slipping my bag over my head and sending me a smile as he tightened the strap across my chest until it was sitting securely on my back, his eyes twinkling like the stars.

“Because I am far too selfish to let you stay anywhere I am not.”

Something got stuck in my throat as I looked up at him, and he sent me a wink that had me pull myself out of my stupor, deadpanning at him.

Rhys laughed, and the sound sent a shiver down my spine, my body fighting to angle towards him.

“Alright, starshine.” He grinned down at me, eyes glittering with mischief. “Hop on.”

I huffed.

“Wha-“ Interrupting myself with a soft squeal, I quickly grabbed onto to Rhys when he picked me up. My legs locked around his waist like reflex, arms clinging to his shoulders, and my eyes widened a little.

“What are you –“

Rhys' laugh made his chest vibrate, his arm under my thighs hoisting me up slightly to adjust his grip, and my heart skipped so high, I knew he'd caught it when he grinned at me.

We were on eye level for once, noses almost brushing and his body impossibly close, and I had to keep myself from holding my breath.

“Really?” My voice was a little breathier than usual, but huffy, and Rhys' eyes twinkled.

“Hold tight.”

“You are enjoying this far too much.” I tried not to swallow, and Rhys' lips curved upwards as his eyes dragged over my face.

“You have no idea.”

My breath hitched when I stared at him and the spark in his eyes.

My voice sounded a little shaky but moderately threatening when I mumbled: “If you drop me –“

Rhys smiled brightly. “Don't worry, love. I rarely drop anyone.”

I flicked his ear, and the grin I got in return made my heart stagger.

Rhys chuckled and raised his brows. “I am insulted you think I wouldn't try to catch you.”

My breath hitched, my mouth opening.

“Try to catch me; you –“

Rhys' wings opened as he took a step backwards, and with one strong beat, he launched into the air, leaving my stomach and my squeal down on the ground when we shot into the sky.

Wind whipped my hair as I squeezed my eyes shut tightly on instinct. My fingers dug into Rhys' shoulders, my legs tightening around his waist and arms clinging to his neck in a way that could not have been comfortable, but he just held me steadily as his wings carried us higher and higher. I didn't dare look down, instead hastily turning my head to bury my face in the crook of his neck, and I could feel Rhys' chuckle rumble deep in his chest, the arm slipped around my waist tightening.

“You know, if you were to look down to your left right now –“

The teasing tilt of Rhys' deep voice right at my ear made me dig my nails into his shoulders, and his warm laugh caused my stomach to dip for an entirely different reason than the way he leaned to the right as he dove into an elegant curve, wings stretched wide as they took us higher and higher with powerful movements.

When, after what felt like an eternity, Rhys' feet finally touched solid ground, my muscles had cramped into place. I refused to raise my head from where my nose was pressed into Rhys' neck, keeping my eyes shut tightly. Just in case.

It most definitely did not have anything to do with the fact his scent had filled my lungs or how warm he felt. Warm and solid and safe.

Rhys chuckled lightly, his grip loosening until only his right arm was resting under my thighs, supporting my weight effortlessly, and I could feel air graze my skin as his wings disappeared into the shadows. Then his warm breath brushed over my ear, causing my heart to miss a beat when his nose gently nudged my temple.

“You can open your eyes now, starshine.”

Ignoring the teasing tilt in his voice, I furrowed my brows, eyes still squeezed shut.

“Are you sure?” My lips brushed over Rhys' neck with my sceptic grumble, and it almost felt like he shivered a little under the touch.

Rhys just huffed in amusement, and I cracked open an eye, peaking over his shoulder.

My heart stilled, and my breath hitched as my lips parted softly.

Slowly, I raised my head.

Terraces stretched away from the mountain and the façade of a palace carved out of the very stone, shimmering in the moonlight. Blooming trees and gardens flanked the stone balustrades, lanterns and fires dipping everything in a golden light.

And far, far in the vale below us, the Sidra glittered in the moonlight, and around it, Velaris stretched into the distance, a maze of cobblestone streets, blooming trees and sandstone buildings, lit in a warm golden light that reflected in the river while mountains rose in the distance, guarding the city from all around as they rose high into the night sky.

A night sky filled with more stars than I had seen in my whole life. Glittering, twinkling in dozens of galaxies stretching to the horizon, hues of lilac and pink gleaming in the pitch black darkness.

It was so beautiful, it caused my chest to ache.

I hadn't realised my throat had closed up until I swallowed harshly, something skipping violently against my ribs when I whispered: “Oh.”

Rhys shifted, and I turned my head, my heart getting stuck in my throat when I found his eyes already on my face. There was a light in them, like they were reflecting the galaxies above as they pierced into mine, one corner of his lips curved upwards just enough for a crease to appear in his cheek and my breath to falter.

Suddenly, I realised I was still clinging to him, bodies still pressed together, so close that our noses were almost touching. Yet Rhys didn't make any move to let go.

Lightly swallowing again, anything to fight the sudden urge to lean forward, I unlocked my legs from around his waist, and Rhys loosened his grip enough to carefully place me on the ground. When my feet hit the stone floor, my knees almost buckled, and Rhys caught me by the waist, his eyes dancing with amusement when he leaned down his head a little, grinning at me.

“Am I making you weak?”

I had enough sense to hit his biceps instead of just gaping at him.

Rhys chuckled and straightened.

“Come on.” His hand slipped to the small of my back, and his chest bumped into my shoulder as he began to gently push me towards a pair of big doors leading into the House of Wind. “I'll show you to your room.”

Following Rhys through the halls, I felt my heart skip lightly. It felt a little strange, like the mountain was humming softly, not quite a presence like the one of the male next to me, but still –

“You'll stay right down the hall from me.” Rhys threw me a look, his eyes twinkling. “In case you get lonely.”

I huffed, trying to ignore the strange tingle down my spine, and Rhys chuckled, creases forming in his cheeks.

“Where is everyone?” I slipped my bag onto my shoulder.

“Azriel and Cassian are staying in the city right now. You'll meet them and Mor tomorrow.”

I sent him a cheeky grin. “Still scared they're going to steal me away?”

Rhys slowed as we reached a door, and his eyes moved over my face, then he blinked, one corner of his lips rising softly. “More than ever before.”

Looking up at him, I felt my brows furrow gently, something turning a little in my chest. But then he pushed open the door, and as I stepped over the threshold, my eyes got caught on the ceiling and the star constellations depicted in golden paint on inky black, and my breath hitched.

“Oh.”

☆

I woke up from the mountain trembling.

It was far past midnight. The sky was deep black, the stars twinkling, and I had fallen asleep with a soft skip in my chest, the bed in the guest room soft like a cloud, my eyes on the constellations painted onto the ceiling. But now, my breath was heaving, a pressure on my chest that wasn't coming from me, like a weight pressing me down, and my eyes widened as horror took over me.

Rhys.

Scrambling to my feet, I almost stumbled when the tremble of the mountain stopped, the windowpanes no longer clinking. My heart skipped into my throat, and I slid over towards the door, ripping it open – and barely catching the tall figure tumbling through it.

“What –“ My eyes widened as my heart tightenend harshly, and I nearly lost my breath at the wave of emotions crashing over me as warm, sweaty skin pressed against mine. Then Rhys' soft, broken voice sounded next to my ear.

“I'm sorry.”

My throat closed, pulled tighter and tighter as I felt his fingers digging into my waist and the way his chest heaved with his shuddering breaths, and pulling back, I slipped my hands up to cup the sides of his face, staring at him and feeling something press onto my chest at the sight of dried teartracks on his cheeks and his eyes, iris blown and utterly terrified.

Trying to swallow, I whispered, my voice cracking slightly: “Come on.”

Pushing the door open with my shoulder, I slipped under his arm and wrapped my own around his waist, and something closed around my heart like an iron fist when I felt Rhys lean heavily against me, his nose brushing over my hair as I started to guide him towards the bed. He sank onto the mattress, and I slipped into between his legs, my hands carefully cupping his face as I tracked his heart rate, off and racing, felt a slight tremble run through his body. Then his hands slid around my waist and pulled me forward, and something pulsed harshly, painfully in my chest when Rhys wrapped his arms around me and buried his face in my shirt. I could feel something wet seep through the fabric and barely fought back the burn in my eyes, a heavy weight on my throat when I slid my arms over Rhys' shoulders and buried my nose in his soft hair.

Rhys held onto me until I felt his heartbeat calm a little. Then his grip around my waist tightened, and he pulled back, arms slow to slide away from me, hands coming to rest at the back of my thighs.

“I'm sorry for waking you up,”, he mumbled, and his rough voice caused something to break a little in my chest. "It's why the others are staying in the city, but - I couldn't stand the thought of you being here but not with me."

My breath hitched, heart skipping high.

Slowly sitting down on the mattress, I pulled my legs up. Something skipped harshly against my ribs as I watched Rhys, his hunched frame, so unlike him, head dropped, hair dishevelled as he ran his hands over his face.

“What happened?”, I whispered, barely audible and a little uneven.

Rhys turned his head, and something skipped hard against my ribs when his eyes found mine, pained and raw. Then he mumbled, hollow and hoarse: “She killed you.”

My heart beat once before stilling.

“I always dream about it. Her killing you.” Rhys blinked, staring into nothingness. Then he turned, slowly pulling myself up until he was sitting fully on the mattress, back against the headboard. There were dark circles under his eyes, skin sallow. I hadn't even fully realised he wasn't wearing a shirt until I saw the scar on his collarbone that I knew hadn't been there.

Before.

Rhys swallowed, staring at my knee. Then he mumbled: “Even though I'm back here, I feel like some part of me is still trapped down there.” A muscle in his jaw shifted, pain flashing through his eyes. “With her. I can still feel her, whenever I close my eyes. When I sleep, I dream about – what she did. It makes me –“

His face twisted into something that made my breath still. Then he blinked and raised his eyes, and they found mine, tired and a little broken when he mumbled: “I never wanted you to have to witness that. What she did, what she made me do – wasn't just for her pleasure.” His voice crumbled a little when he mumbled: “It was just another way of torture.”

My fingers trembled, but I kept staring at him, feeling my breath shake. My eyes were burning, and there was a pressure on my chest, a weight that made my body ache as I couldn't tear my eyes away from him, the male in front of me who had always been sure and charming and overly confident boarding on annoyingly arrogant and who now looked tired and a little empty, like something deep inside him had been shattered.

All because of her.

I didn't realise I had started to shake, my whole body so tense, my fingers dug into my knees until Rhysand´s soft, slightly cautios voice made me tear away my eyes from the scar on his collarbone.

“Starshine?”

My eyes darted up to meet his, and Rhys looked at me with his head tipped to the side.

“You're glowing.”

I blinked before hastily drawing away my eyes, swallowing against the pressure in my throat as I found a golden light pulsing around me.

Quickly, I furrowed my brows, drawing back the magic, even though it still raged soundlessly in my chest, then I raised my head again, and my heart tightened when I met Rhys' eyes that were already on my face.

Trying to fight the ache in my chest, I whispered, my voice hoarse: “I should have ripped her to shreds.”

Rhys breathed a laugh, and something tumbled in my chest at the way his eyes crinkled slightly, some of the familiar curve of his lips returning onto his face when he looked up at me. That slightly broken look was still there, and even though he was smiling softly, I could feel his pain.

Before I could stop myself, I dove forward, tackling him in a hug so forceful, it knocked the wind out of him; his arms catching me in reflex the only thing preventing me from slipping right off the other side of his lap.

I could feel Rhys freeze for nothing more than a second. Then a slow breath left him. His shoulders sagged and his arms circled around me, pulling me into his chest so tightly, I lost my breath, his grip almost squashing my ribs, and something stilled in my chest when he turned his head to bury his face in the crook of my neck.

I tried to swallow against the weight in my chest, pressing my nose against his shoulder and closing my eyes tightly.

“I wish I could take it away.” My voice was nothing more than a whisper, but I knew Rhys had heard me, because he shook his head without pulling back, his face still pressed into my neck, and something fluttered against my throat when he mumbled, voice so rough, it vibrated over my skin: “You've already done much more than I could ever give back.”

“Rhys –“

“You saved me.” Even though his deep voice was steady, it sounded raspy, and a little breathless when he added in a soft murmur: “You have been saving me since the day I met you.”

My heart did one small skip. Then it stilled.

Staring at the wall, I tried to fight the pressure in my throat as something warm rolled over my cheek, and I fisted my hands, quickly burying my nose at his shoulder and squeezing my eyes shut tightly.

There was an ache in my chest I couldn't explain.

Rhys propped his chin onto my shoulder, his hand gently running over my back, and I sniffled and huffed, my voice grumbly and a little shaky when I mumbled: “Shouldn't I be comforting you?”

Rhys breathed a chuckle, and the sound filled something in my chest I hadn´t realised had been empty.

“I think it's fine if we comfort each other.” I could hear the way his lips had curved and breathed out, threading my fingers through the hair at the back of his head as I pressed my nose against his shoulder.

A low hum left Rhys that had his chest vibrating and something jump in my stomach, and when I pulled back lightly, his eyes had closed as he leaned back into my touch. There was something so unguarded about this face, hurt and tension and restlessness still visible in the way his brows were crunched a little, but the shadows of Under the Mountain seemed to fade slowly as a light rumble built in his chest, voice rough when he mumbled: “I think I need headscratches.”

My heart skipped, and I felt my lips curve into a slow, soft but cheeky smile.

“Are my ears deceiving me or is the mighty High Lord of the Night Court actually asking me for headscratches…“

Rhys' grip around my waist tightened when he huffed and cracked open an eye, but one corner of his lips quirked when he glared at me.

“Yes, so think about your answer, because the High Lord is going to remember if you decide to deny them to him.”

I breathed a laugh, grinning widely at him.

“One, you're not my High Lord, in case you forgot about that; High Lords aren't really a thing for me, which leads me to two; are you trying to use your title on me, because you know I am not impressed by something like that –“

“Well, you could be impressed by other things -“ The rest of his words went under in a deep, soft chuckle when I lightly tugged at his hair, just enough to make a grin spread over Rhys´ face.

Feeling my heart skip, I loosened my grip, and Rhys' eyes rolled back a little when my nails raked gently over his scalp. Something twitched in my stomach at the way he groaned softly, head tipping back into my touch, the movement exposing the curve of his throat.

I swallowed softly, watching as little by little, my fingers massaged away the tension clinging to the male in front of me. His shoulders slowly slumped, hands around my waist relaxing before gently pulling me closer in what felt like subconcious, and I was suddenly glad his eyes had fluttered shut, attention clearly somewhere else, because I couldn't keep myself from holding my breath.

Stupidly pretty.

When I finally slid my fingers out of his hair, Rhys looked close to falling asleep on the spot. His eyes were drooping as he fought to open them fully, gaze seeming a little dazed as he blinked a few times, and I felt my lips curve when I gently poked my finger into his chest.

“Happy?”

Rhys' eyes found mine, and something skipped high into my throat when they pierced into mine, tired and warm and still twinkling softly. Then one corner of his lips rose a little.

“Profoundly.”

Staring at him, I felt something surge in my chest, warm and rising, and my lips curved cheekily as I raised my brows, whispering a little roughly: “Good.”

For a moment, we just stared at each other, and I knew that I should have broken eye contact, should have looked away, because the way my heart was beating against my ribs, firm and steady, was strange and scary - but I didn't.

Not when Rhys was watching me like this, tired, lips curved up far enough for his cheek to crease.

I blinked, then I tipped my head to the side a little, mumbling softly to not disturb the quiet: “Are you going to try and get some sleep?”

Rhys stared at me, something behind that tired sparkle in his eyes when he mumbled back, voice almost a little rough: “Are you going to get me back if she finds me again?”

My heart slipped into my throat, and I barely suppressed the urge to swallow, instead sending him a soft, crooked smile, mumbling quietly: “I´ll fight her over and over again if I have to.”

Rhys stared at me, and blinking, I carefully slipped off his lap, tugging up the blanket and sliding under it. Rhys followed, heavily turning onto his side, and I let my head sink into my pillow, my eyes tracking over his face. Then, before I could stop myself, I slid closer, and I almost thought I could feel Rhys' breath hitch when I wrapped my arm around his waist and buried into his chest.

“I hope for your sake that you don't snore,”, I mumbled softly into his warm skin, and something that felt a little like a shudder went through Rhys' body. Then his arms slipped around my shoulder and squeezed, pulling me into his chest until even the last bit of me was pressed into his body.

My heart got stuck in my throat when I felt him bury his nose in my hair, then Rhys mumbled, his voice almost a little hoarse: “Why? Would you kick me?”

My heart skipped gently, and I felt my lips curve into a slow, cheeky smile as I whispered back: "Don't think I'd spare you, High Lord."

I could feel Rhys' lips rise, then he breathed out softly, and slowly, very slowly, his heartbeat calmed, only occasionally hitching gently. Exhaling lightly, I closed my eyes and felt something pulse gently in my chest.

"Night,", I mumbled softly, and Rhys' hand slipped up, fingers tangling into my hair, his thumb gently brushing over the back of my neck and causing a tingle to run over my skin when he mumbled back: "Good Night, starshine."

@starswholistenanddreamsanswered @stayinglow-exploringworlds @tcris2020 @lizziesfirstwife @brandywineeeee @t0uch-starved-h0e @sharknutz @valencia-rou @twsssmlmaa

[atopvisenyashill]

please please PLEASE elaborate on greywind as robb's husband. i feel like this take unlocked the option to 3d rotate robb within my mind...

Robb the Warg

Something I think is overlooked, largely because we don't get to look into his head (and he never confides in Bran or Catelyn about it) is that robb, like his siblings, starts the series by being given this supposedly divine animal companion that he shares a soul with. during the events of the first few books, all of the other starklings are accidentally warging and we see it affect them - they’re afraid, curious, getting used to eating raw meat in wolf form, and throw themselves into Identifying As An Animal. some quotes here, although none of this is stuff we all don't know-

Gendry nodded. Hot Pie said, "Hoot like an owl when you want us to come." "I'm not an owl," Arya said. "I'm a wolf. I’ll howl."

And later, when she's ready, Arya isn't the one to howl but another wolf-

When he stopped moving, she picked up the coin. Outside the walls of Harrenhal, a wolf howled long and loud. She lifted the bar, set it aside, and pulled open the heavy oak door.

Which leads us to think that perhaps it's Nymeria, that Arya made Nymeria howl, and perhaps Arya can still warg - something that is confirmed in the next book when Arya has dreams of leading a wolfpack and finds her mother's body, with Nymeria guarding it from being eaten by other wolves. Later on, Arya skinchanges into a cat in braavos while she's blind-

The priest winced and snatched his hand back. "And how could a blind girl know that?" I saw you. "I gave you three. I don't need to give you four." Maybe on the morrow she would tell him about the cat that had followed her home last night from Pynto's, the cat that was hiding in the rafters, looking down on them. Or maybe not. If he could have secrets, so could she.

We have several scenes where both Arya and Bran identify as wolves, and even howl alongside wolves. Rickon too howls along with the wolves, and his behavior becomes noticeably more animal like.

And of course we have jon snow, who even despite having visions of opening his third eye, meeting other skinchangers, and being involved in magical plots, is actively ignoring his own abilities. It's basically common knowledge at the Wall at this point, even Stannis comments on it-

“Aye. All that, and more. You are a warg too, they say, a skinchanger who walks at night as a wolf.” King Stannis had a hard smile. “How much of it is true?”

SO ALL OF THAT TO SAY....if Jon, Arya, Bran, and Rickon, all of whom have living wolves, are skinchanging regularly, if all these kids are practically steaming with magic...why isn't Robb? Well....he is! And the thing is, he hints at it to Bran-

"Did you hear Summer howling last night?" "Grey Wind was restless too," Robb said. His auburn hair had grown shaggy and unkempt, and a reddish stubble covered his jaw, making him look older than his fifteen years. "Sometimes I think they know things … sense things …" Robb sighed. "I never know how much to tell you, Bran. I wish you were older."

Like Arya's initial re-settling of her bond with Nymeria in the Riverlands, like Jon's continued refusal to admit how much power he has, Robb doesn't understand what he's doing, can sense something off about the wolves, but can't quite put it into words. Later on, some of the men remark on how Robb was able to find the goat trick around the Golden Tooth-

"How did the king ever take the Tooth?" Ser Perwyn Frey asked his bastard brother. "That's a hard strong keep, and it commands the hill road." "He never took it. He slipped around it in the night. It's said the direwolf showed him the way, that Grey Wind of his. The beast sniffed out a goat track that wound down a defile and up along beneath a ridge, a crooked and stony way, yet wide enough for men riding single file. The Lannisters in their watchtowers got not so much a glimpse of them." 

It's from a Frey, and just a rumor, right? Except later on, Jeyne makes this comment to Catelyn-

"Robb has not eaten all day. I had Rollam bring him a nice supper, boar's ribs and stewed onions and ale, but he never touched a bite of it. He spent all morning writing a letter and told me not to disturb him, but when the letter was done he burned it. Now he is sitting and looking at maps. I asked him what he was looking for, but he never answered. I don't think he ever heard me. He wouldn't even change out of his clothes."

Does that behavior sound familiar? It should because Bran also does this when he's warging - not only does he go still for hours, but he usually forgets to eat because he eats through Summer, something Jojen and Bran even talk about.

But that's the problem - Robb has no Jojen, no wildlings, no Jaqen, no Osha to tell him what the hell he's doing and that magic still exists. He's completely lost in the political story and cut off from any magical ties despite actively doing magic. And I think this weights heavy on him because while Arya and Bran, for example, start to identify more as animals, as wolves, as their warging powers go stronger, Robb shies away from this-

"A hall is no place for a wolf. He gets restless, you've seen. Growling and snapping. I should never have taken him into battle with me. He's killed too many men to fear them now. Jeyne's anxious around him, and he terrifies her mother." And there's the heart of it, Catelyn thought. "He is part of you, Robb. To fear him is to fear you." "I am not a wolf, no matter what they call me." Robb sounded cross. "Grey Wind killed a man at the Crag, another at Ashemark, and six or seven at Oxcross. If you had seen—" "I saw Bran's wolf tear out a man's throat at Winterfell," she said sharply, "and loved him for it."

Why is he so cross? Perhaps because he's losing the ability to differentiate between himself and the wolf he regularly shares a mind with, controls? Perhaps because he's killed inside that wolf's head? Perhaps because he thinks he's going crazy?

And of course, his final moment that echoes Jon's - Robb whispers Grey Wind's name, Jon whispers Ghost. And just like it's guessed that perhaps Jon whispered Ghost's name because he's about to actively slip into Ghost's skin for the first time so his body can heal without his soul inside it, Robb is slipping into Grey Wind in his final moments. As Varamyr points out, this is common with skinchangers - a second, much more simple life when your first is ended.

So all this to say - Robb is actively warging Grey Wind throughout the series and starts losing his own sense of self in Grey Wind.

Grey Wind as Robb's Wife

Okay but what does this have to do with their bond? Well the thing is...Grey Wind does not exist outside of Robb. Nymeria, Summer, and Ghost both go off on their own; Nymeria practically has her own plotline outside of Arya, and Ghost goes on a number of little adventures all by himself. But Grey Wind begins and ends with Robb. Much like how Catelyn refers to Ned as the rock her life was built on, how she died with Ned at the ending of agot, Robb is the rock Grey Wind's life is built on, and Grey Wind follows Robb into the grave just moments later.

Not only this, but Robb the Brother and Robb the Warg as identities start to get subsumed into what Bran calls "Robb the Lord" and eventually Robb the King. Because Robb sees this war as his identity, his reason for being, I think he sees himself as almost a liberator - he owes his existence to the brutal murder of the man who was supposed to be his father and his grandfather, as well as the kidnapping & murder of his aunt that anyone with eyes can see completely upended his father’s ability to Feel Happiness Normally. For robb, this war is about not saving his family, but righting all the wrongs and indignities that have ever been done to the north - and when you factor in how quickly the Riverlands flock to him, I think this adds to his resolve because the riverlands is soooo vulnerable and no one’s ever been able to get a handle on them, to properly protect them, not the Targaryen kings, not the petty kings but maybe HE can. It's as Catelyn says-

There would be no peace, no chance to heal, no safety. She looked at her son, watched him as he listened to the lords debate, frowning, troubled, yet wedded to his war. He had pledged himself to marry a daughter of Walder Frey, but she saw his true bride plain before her now: the sword he had laid on the table.

So he’s struggling with magic and identity just like everyone else, and at the same time being subsumed into this other identity of Robb the Lord, Robb the King. I think for a long stretch of time this means he’s combining these identities of Robb the Warg and Robb the King and viewing Grey Wind as his partner, his soul mate, his other half. AKA….his spouse. His husband. His true bride. All of this while he’s using Grey Wind not as a pet or even a defender (contrast to Jon who sends Ghost away when there’s battle or danger!) but as a weapon! But this isn’t because he sees Grey Wind as non sentient, not important, just an animal, it’s because Robb the King, Robb the Warg, it’s all tied up in his head in confusing & horrifying ways.

And that's the exact dynamic most noble marriages have! Men in most of Terros and especially in Westeros see their wives not as independent people but often as extensions of themselves. It’s why Viserys, Robert, Jon Arryn don’t see the “betrayals” at their wives hands coming, it’s why Catelyn phrases criticism in her head as “Ned would have done this", it's why the Khaleesis are required to go to Vaes Dothrak when their husbands die. And so the more Robb sees Grey Wind as his Partner In War, and the more he’s having these impossible true dreams where he is one with Grey Wind, the more Grey Wind is essentially playing the role of a Westerosi Wife for Robb. Summer, Ghost, and even Nymeria have like, lives of their own but Grey Wind is always in the same place as Robb, feeling the exact same things as Robb. Even moreso than Summer, Ghost, Nymeria, Shaggy, and Lady, Grey Wind seems to pick up on Robb's every emotion. He attacks Tyrion because Robb is angry, he bares his teeth at Catelyn when Robb gets cross with her more than once, and very often there's lines like ~Robb stalked from the room and Grey Wind padded along beside him~ or something to that effect.

What's really interesting is that when Catelyn gets back in ASOS, Robb has sent Grey Wind to the kennels because Grey Wind scares Jeyne - the moment Robb marries, he sends his wolf away. He's lost faith in Grey Wind's magical abilities after the "murders" of Bran and Rickon, the murders which sent him to Jeyne's bed in the first place and he says as much-

"I found them, remember? I know how many there were and where they came from. I used to think the same as you, that the wolves were our guardians, our protectors, until . . ."

And the moment Robb is separated from Jeyne, Grey Wind is back at his side, and Robb seems to not only prefer Grey Wind to his anxious little wife, but Grey Wind seems almost annoyed at the imposition of Jeyne-

The day was damp and grey, a drizzle had begun to fall, and the last thing he wanted was to call a halt to his march so he could stand in the wet and console a tearful young wife in front of half his army. He speaks her gently, she thought as she watched them together, but there is anger underneath. All the time the king and queen were talking, Grey Wind prowled around them, stopping only to shake the water from his coat and bare his teeth at the rain. When at last Robb gave Jeyne one final kiss, dispatched a dozen men to take her back to Riverrun, and mounted his horse once more, the direwolf raced off ahead as swift as an arrow loosed from a longbow.

Catelyn remarks that Grey Wind is at his side ones more - "where he belongs" - and from that point until they get to the Twins, Grey Wind remains at Robb's side. Every single scene afterwards mentions Grey Wind with Robb, whether Grey Wind is growling at someone, scouting ahead, or just receiving some scratches from Robb.

And they remain together until the day they both die.

[dalekofchaos]

If Ned Stark became King

Hypothetically speaking. Let's say Robert and Rhaegar killed each other in the Battle of The Trident and Ned had no choice but to take the Iron Throne because The Rebellion expected it of him. Here is how I could see things going.

Tywin lannister would have been sentenced to death do to his part in the deaths of Ella Martell, Rhaenys and baby Aegon.

Jamie has three options. He killed the King he was sworn to protect which should mean either a death sentence or a sentence to the wall. If he could convenience Ned that he did the right and honorable thing by keeping the city from being burned maybe he could have lived and be Lord of Casterly Rock.

If Jamie died, Tyrion would have become Lord of Casterly Rock.

He would send for Queen Rhaella and Viserys and baby Daenerys in peace promising safety. Rhaella would have been allowed to live and raise Daenerys possibly in the capital or on Dragon Stone. Viserys would have been sent to the Eryie as a ward of Lord Jon Arryn. ( Ned had fond memories of being warded there, a good place for a confused young child).

Now for Jon, this is my belief of what would have happened. Jon would have been named Prince and heir and betrothed to Ned's first born daughter, in this case Sansa. This would unite both the rebellion and House Targaryen uniting the kingdom again.

Stannis would have been given temporary lordship over Dragonstone, holding it for Viserys. And would still be Lord of Storms End.

The Martells would be happy because they would have been given the Mountain and Tywin would've been executed for his crimes. I could see Ned also fostering Jon there. By all rights Jon is sort of related to the Martells. Its unknown if Ella knew that Rhaegar was going to remarry or not, if she knew and told her family I could see them opening their arms to Jon.

Now for Winterfell, with Ned at Kings Landing, Benjen would be the stark in the north. Its unknown why Benjen joined the Nights watch, I think he just plain wanted to. Ned would ask Benjen to hold Winterfell for a time before he joins, till either Robb is ready to take over, or Ned leaves the thrown for Jon.

Since the Eddard-Catelyn marriage had already been arranged it would not change. Marriages would be vastly different however.

Eddard and Cats marriage ensures an alliance between the Tullys and Starks.

Robb would then be promised to Margaery Tyrell when they both came of age thereby ensuring an alliance between the Tyrells and Starks.

Jaime Lannister and Lysa Tully would be betrothed thereby ensuring an alliance with The Westerlands and the Riverlands and, by extension, the Crown.

Because Jon Arryn had no heirs and was getting older he would be wed as well but since he was already Lord Paramount of the Vale his bride would be from a lesser vassal house from the Reach.

Prince Oberyn would be wed to Cersei hereby ensuring an alliance with Dorne and the Westerlands.

Arya Stark and Quentyn Martell

Arianne Martell and Theon Greyjoy

Viserys and Shireen

Daenerys and Willas

Varys and Baelish would be summarily dismissed from their services in the capital. They would be given holdfasts somewhere far away and forever be barred from the capital or from raising armies.

Grand Maester Pycelle would be sent to the Citadel for reassignment elsewhere. An election for a new Grand Maester would take place then (as is the Citadels way).

Small Council members:

Hand of the King: Jon Arryn

Grand Maester: Marwyn

Master of Coin: Olenna Tyrell

Master of Ships: Balon Greyjoy (bring him into the fold)

Lord Commander of the King’s Guard: Barristan Selmy

Master of Whispers: Prince Doran of Dorne (Bringing Dorne into the Fold as well)

Master of Laws: Brynden Tully

Lord Commander of the City Watch: Mace Tyrell

One of Ned’s first and continuing acts would be to repair the damage, both physical and emotional from Robert’s Rebellion and to repair the relations and trust between the common people and the Crown.

All soldiers that fought against Robert and Eddard during the campaign would be forgiven and pardoned and allowed to return to their homes without consequence. Their leaders, depending on their level of loyalty, would be offered a chance to swear fealty to the Starks. Any that refused would be sent to the Wall and their lands, estates, and positions would be given to loyal nobles.

Ned understood that the job of a noble is to help the people (he considers them his children), and he would immediately order all noble houses of a certain wealth to pay a one-time reparation tax to lift the poor out of poverty and to secure a positive working relationship with them.

Because so many noble houses have been killed off and there is a lack of trueborn individuals left in the kingdom tournaments would be held throughout the kingdom that would be open to the common man, the winners of which would receive a large reward of coin, be allowed to squire with the guarantee of knighthood, and a holdfast. These new nobles would be extremely loyal to the house that allowed them knighthood as well as the crown that elevated their status. These tournaments would also serve to lift the spirits of the common people.

If Ned took the throne the world would be a lot different and ultimately the story would be considerably more boring because the “game” would never happen.

[pessimisticpigeonsworld]

I will never understand the "both sides are bad" people. Like, first off, GRRM himself has a clear idea over who is right (hint: it's the team whose line was not wiped out). If the fucking author has decided who is right and who is wrong, then why do people think they know better?

Second, one way to know if one team is as bad as the other is knowing the motivations of both sides. TB wants to reclaim the throne for the woman whom the past king declared heir and her descendants. TG wants to usurp the declared heir and ensure women aren't allowed to inherit the throne. These are the basic motivations of both sides. Wow, I wonder which team we should root for if we're not misogynists?

Let's also look at the actions of both teams. Now, we know that in the book and the show, the Greens declared war first; Alicent demanding Rhaenyra be disinherited after Aegon's birth/the green dress at the anniversary feast in the books and Alicent's green dress at Rhaenyra's wedding. We also know that in the book and show, Alicent spent her children's childhoods, particularly Aegon and Aemond's, teaching them that Rhaenyra and her children were inferior. Lucerys did cut Aemond's eye, but that was only after Aemond was threatening potentially lethal harm to his brother(s).

Now we're not even going to go into how the greens ran KL, but I will fast forward to the actual usurpation. The Greens were the ones who usurped the rightful heir, Rhaenyra. There was no law concerning inheritance, and women inherited the seats of both the Great and lesser houses. So the Greens did commit treason. And to top off this treason, the Greens also drew first blood when Aemond killed Lucerys.

During the Dance itself, the Greens sent an assassin (Arryk Cargyll) after Rhaenyra and/or her children, executed any lords who didn't declare for them, sacked Duskendale, barred the smallfolk from fleeing KL, burned the Riverlands through Aemond, massacred Tumbleton through Daeron, were hated by the smallfolk (Aegon and Aemond), wasted or stole the gold from the Crown's treasury, invited the Triarchy into Westeros causing the sack of Spicetown, planned to have Aegon the Younger castrated, and Aegon was murdered by his own supporters.

The Blacks sent B&C to assassinate Jaehaerys (without Rhaenyra's say-so), took KL and employed a harsh tax, sought out and executed green supporters, allied with Dalton Greyjoy who pillaged the coasts, declared Addam Velaryon a traitor, ordered Nettles' execution, and continued fighting after Rhaenyra's death.

For the sake of time, I've only listed the war crimes/atrocities/unpopular choices done by the teams. But anyway, let's look at these lists, who exactly caused the most harm and actively sought to start this war? The answer is the Greens, end of story.

So no, there is no actual grounds for "both sides are equally bad". Disliking the feudal system and the harm it does to the common people is one of the points of F&B. However, you can dislike and not support feudalism while acknowledging that the one of the teams (the Greens) was more in the wrong and more of a danger to the realm than the other. Being "team smallfolk" doesn't work when you're refusing to acknowledge that one team was actually better for the smallfolk than the other. The Blacks were not only better liked by the smallfolk, but they also committed far less atrocities that destroyed the lives of thousands and didn't start the fucking war in the first place.

[moonlightazriel]

Longing for Change /// Aemond X F!Reader

Summary: When the gang rescues a widow, Aemond finds himself getting the chance he always dreamed of. A Red Dead 2 inspired AU.

Warnings: Well, death, smut, robbery and bounty hunting.

Word Count: 3,3K

Notes: I lowkey always wanted Sadie and Arthur to be together so this is me saying it! Yeeeehaw outlaws for life

Main Masterlist

Y/N curled against the cold wall, she could hear them, chatting and laughing like they were at a bar, and not HER home. Three days stuck there, not knowing how many they were, how many guns they had, she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to calm the anger rising in her heart.

Three days agonising, wanting to call for her husband, she cried herself to sleep, her body cold, and her thoughts burning with rage, the gunshot still ringed in her ears and she wondered what they had done to his body, did they at least have the decency to bury it? She knew the answer for that question, those rats didn’t have enough respect to do that.

Curled against the cold wall was when she heard it, the knock on the door, one of them getting up to answer, the quick exchange between them before the shots began. She pressed her palms against her ears, trying to muffle the sounds.

Only when she didn’t hear anything, neither voices nor steps, she clutched the dirty kitchen knife and got downstairs, losing her balance and falling on top of someone. The guy was dressed in a heavy coat, he shoved her away, angrily mumbling to himself.

She held the knife up in defence, to which the man scoffed and knocked it out of her hands, yanking her forward by her arm, knocking a candle in the process. He threw her on the snow, the cold terrain making her violently shiver.

“What do we have here?” Someone asked, she looked up, meeting the lilac eyes of a white man, his silver hair was covered by a hat and he wore a fur coat.

“This crazy lady tried to kill me.” The man spat, throwing the knife on the snow, dangerously close to her head.

“That’s not a way to treat a lady, Criston.” The other man kneeled by her side. “Are you okay?”

“Those bastards killed my husband.” She felt the tears falling, but her limbs were too tense for her to try and wipe them away.

“You’re safe now.” He patted her back, helping her to her feet, the smell of smoke drew her attention back to her house, and she cried even harder as she saw the flames engulfing what once was her home. “I’ll give you two options..” he placed the furry coat around her shoulder and she sighed with relief at the warmth. “Either you come with us, or you can stay here.”

She looked at the flames, burning everything that she and Cregan worked so hard for, everything she owned turned to ashes, she wiped her face with the coat’s sleeve, taking a deep breath, she turned to him again.

“I’ll come with you.” The man gently smiled at her. Someone groaned, dressed in a green coat, the man looked at her, he was wearing a hat, a silver hair similar to the older man behind her, but his was much longer, tied behind his back, he was tall, and had a lilac eye, only one, the other was covered by an eyepatch and a long scar crossed his beautiful face.

“Great, Aemond this is…” The man motioned to her, so she would introduce herself.

“Y/N Stark.” Her heart sank after saying the last name of her deceased husband.

“She’s coming back with us, take her with you.” The man ordered, and Aemond nodded. He silently grabbed her hand and pulled her towards a black horse, much bigger than the others she had seen or owned. He easily climbed the horse back and offered a hand for her, she took it, forcing herself up the huge animal, curling against his back, feeling the horse move away to the unknown.

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆

They were a gang, she learned later, outlaws running away after an unsuccessful bank robbery at the Riverlands. The Targaryen gang, Daemon was their leader, taking a few strangers in here and there, but mostly, the gang was composed of his family members.

Rhea and the girls, Baela, Rhaena and Helaena had took her in, providing her with clothes and words of comfort after she had lost everything, everyone in the gang had their job, either robbing and getting money, helping around the camp or earning money inside the limits of the law.

Y/N was designed to help Larys with the kitchen. The man was an absolute nightmare to work with, always arguing and demanding too much. She dreamed of ripping his flesh open with the cleaver he had given her to chop vegetables.

Despite being strong and knowing how to handle a gun, she hasn't had the energy to leave the camp. They had moved from the cold mountains to a nice warm place hidden in a cliff. The sun was always hot and made the view look breathtaking when it was setting.

Aemond would always check on her, stopping by her tent to talk and ask about her day, telling her about his adventures in the nearby city where he was working as some kind of bounty hunter. He was kind, quiet and very smart, his only eye would look at her intensely as they talked, making her shy under his gaze.

Her eyes would always follow him around the camp, and she would always notice when he was gone, his empty tent always made her heart clench for some reason, a newfound fear of him not returning to the camp was starting to set its claws in her heart. So when he wasn’t near, she would sit around, talking with the twins or reading with Helaena.

Sometimes she would walk to Daemon’s tent, when he wasn’t around, and chat with Rhaenyra, his wife and mother to Jace and Luke, her ex husband Laenor and the man that rumours would say was the father of her children, were also in the gang. She would always find it kinda weird and a bit funny how they managed to get all those people who had some kind of relationship to live together in peace.

She also enjoyed spending some time in Floris' tent, playing with little Jaehaerys, they were the family of Aegon, Aemond and Helaena’s older brother. The trio had run away from their absent father and joined their uncle in the life of crimes.

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆

“Do you ever wonder what your life would be like if you hadn't run away from home?” She asked, sipping on the coffee she had made, she and Aemond sat on a log, near the horses, watching the sunrise.

“I don’t know, I would probably be married to Alys.” He looked at her, his eye studying her features. She was a beautiful and brave woman, she hadn't backed away from their lifestyle, and she wasn’t afraid to protect herself.

“Who is she?” She dared to ask and Aemond shook his head, emptying his coffee mug.

“A girl I fell in love with, she was from a good family, but her father wasn’t very pleased when he found out I had run away to live with my uncle. I tried to ask her to run away with me, but this life isn’t for her.” It didn’t hurt anymore, he had fallen out of love with Alys a long time ago.

“I’m so sorry things happened that way.” She patted his shoulder and Aemond nodded, feeling bold enough to ask.

“What about your husband?” She took a deep breath, looking down, her voice laced with pain and sorrow.

“It was a match for love, I've loved Cregan ever since I first met him, when I was 16. He worked hard to convince my father that he could be a good husband, and we got married at 18. We had our farm, we shared the tasks, took care of everything, he never thought I was less than him, or treated me like I couldn’t do things just cuz I was a woman. He loved me entirely.” She was shivering, he could feel it.

“I’m so sorry they took that away from you.” His arm rested on her shoulders as he pulled her close, she let her head rest on his chest, and for a moment they just stayed like that, in silence, seeking comfort in each others embrace.

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆

“She’s going to kill him.” Rhaena yelled in Daemon’s face, her cheeks hot from running to his tent. They had moved again, to a camp near a lake and Larys was being particularly annoying with her in this new location.

“What is happening?” Daemon asked the young girl.

“They had a fight, Y/N will kill Larys.” Daemon rushed to the kitchen wagon, finding Larys pressed up against the wooden surface and Y/N holding her beloved cleaver against his neck.

“What if I cut your neck instead and we feast on your meat?” She threatened, face contorted in a angry frown while Larys begged for someone to take her away from him.

“You’re not cooking him.” Aemond said, pulling her by the waist, flush against his chest, while she whined and kicked to be freed from his iron grip.

“Then take me away, I can’t look at him right now.” She pleaded and Daemon agreed.

“Take her to town, we need some supplies anyway.” He dismissed them, and Aemond once again held her hand, pulling her towards a smaller chariot.

“Are you going insane?” He asked, a smirk dancing on his lips as he conducted them towards the city, her chest moved up and down as she tried to control her breathing.

“Yes! I can’t get stuck there anymore with that pig, ordering me around like a dog.”

“But you can’t kill him for that, unfortunately we need him.” She looked at him.

“If you gave me a gun I could.” She mumbled.

“You know how to handle a gun?” He inquired, eyebrows raised.

“Of course I do, I would shoot you with my eyes closed.” She joked and Aemond motioned for the horses to stop.

“Then show me.” He said, handling her a rifle. She weighed the weapon, heavy but not enough to send her falling on her ass if she shot. “Shoot that tree.” He demanded, pointing to a tree a little far away from them.

Y/N positioned the gun, the handle pressed against her shoulder, hand holding the barrel steadily, she took a deep breath, closing one of her eyes, and aiming to the centre of the tree, an imaginary target painted on it. As the air left her lungs, she pulled the trigger, the gunshot startled some birds, who flew away.

Aemond looked at her impressed, climbing out of the chariot and walking towards the tree, where a bullet made a hole in the centre part of the tree. He clapped.

“You know how to shoot.” He said, sitting by her side again.

“Told you so.” She answered. Taking the reins from him and making the horses move.

“I have to say that I’m very impressed.” He eyed her, her cheeks coated in red at his compliment.

They arrived at the city, and Aemond left her alone at the store, buying some of the items the gang required, while he mailed some letters and visited the gunsmith. He looked at the options, opting for a rifle similar to his, a bit smaller but perfect for her.

He found her next to the chariot, the market owner loading the thing while she adjusted her clothes.

“I see that you’ve gone shopping.” He looks at her up and down, she’s wearing pants and a shirt, cowboy boots and a hat, the clothes hug her frame and accentuate the natural curve of her hips. “With clothes like that, you will need a gun like this.” He hands her the rifle.

“It’s perfect.” She thanks him, testing the gun. She pulled the gun around her shoulder, jumping on him in a hug. “Thank you so much for the gift.”

He buried his nose in her hair, feeling the softness of her locks, while his hand caged her against him, resting on her lower back.

“Nothing to thank me, I’ll take you bounty hunting with me. Time to make some money.” She giggles, still feeling his body pressed against her, the sensation was nice.

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆

Aemond was truthful to his word, they had gotten her a horse and now they were travelling around, hunting criminals and making money legally. They were camping under the stars, tracking some criminal from the Vale of Arryn.

“I’m feeling disgusting.” The moon shone upon his silver hair, as he looked at her. “I’m heading to the lake to clean myself.”

She looked at him, he was already removing his boots and coat. He winked at her, leaving her alone as he headed for the lake. She pondered for a bit, staring at the fire. It’s been a while that new feelings started to blossom on her heart under his attention, she wanted him and she was ready to chase what she wanted.

So she slowly got up, removing her clothes in the chill night breeze, and carefully walked towards the lake. Aemond wasn’t looking at the shore, so he didn’t notice her approaching until her body touched the water.

He turned to look at her, her skin glowing in the moonlight, he could see her silhouette perfectly, her round breasts and the full curve of her hips and ass, the image of her walking towards him immediately sending blood straight to his cock. He didn’t want to think about her that way, she was a widow, but he couldn’t help as he looked at her and sought her company.

“Thought you may want some company.” She declared, an inch away from him, if she walked any closer their naked bodies would be touching.

“Smart girl, as always.” He praised, one hand cupping her breast as the other he pulled her close, she felt her body on fire as they kissed, a kiss so desperate and filled with passion, she hadn't felt a desire like this in months.

She would gladly burn for him and melt away in his touch. His cock was pressed against her thigh, she reached for it, stroking it slowly as Aemond moaned against her lips.

His hands slowly pressed the flesh of her breasts, pinching her nipple, making her shiver. Her core was dripping, and Aemond felt a very pleasant sensation as his finger dipped between her folds, rubbing circles around the bundle of nerves.

“Do you really want it?” He asked, forcing her to open her eyes and look at him.

“Give me everything.” He captured her lips again, grabbing the back of her thighs and pulling her up, she wrapped her legs around his waist as he guided them to the shore. Laying her on top of his clothes.

He kissed her neck, sinking his cock inside her warm hole. She moaned and arched her back, while he set a fast and steady pace. Snapping his hips against hers, making the woman underneath him melt with the pleasure growing on her.

His lips wrapped around her pert nipple, his tongue flickering and sucking the flesh. She dipped her nails in the skin of his back, pulling him impossible close to her. His hips moved so fast and her orgasm hit her so suddenly that she almost blacked out, he kept moving, now in a more slow pace to respect her sensitive walls. He removed his cock, pumping it until he was spilling his seed on her belly.

“You’re mine now.” He said, getting to his knees and taking her back to the lake so they could properly clean themselves now.

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆

After that, they were inseparable, always leaving camp together and sharing a tent. The gang congratulated them, throwing a party in their name, a party that was rudely interrupted by the law, threatening them and forcing them to move again.

It was weird how whenever Cole disappeared, the law would find them again. Aemond was noticing it too, but Daemon was too stubborn to listen to them.

“I know he’s plotting something.” He groaned, sitting at your shared bed in Dragonstone, where you were hiding now.

“What if we just leave?” She suggested. “We have the money, we can find a place for us, we can live off hunting.” Aemond looked at her.

“I can’t leave Daemon, he took me and my brothers in, I owe him.” He sighed.

“And you paid, everything that you owed him was paid. You did everything that you could to help.” He blinked. “I feel that Criston is up to something, we need to go before we end up being killed.”

Aemond seemed to ponder a bit, he new she was right about everything that she spoke, but he was so afraid to leave.

“I’ll be by your side, forever. We can take Helaena, Aegon, Floris and Jaehe. Anyone will be welcomed. But we must leave.”

“We need money to buy land, and we don’t have much.” She got up, rummaging through her things until she pulled out a letter.

“The bank sent me this, my father died and left me 20.000 dollars, which is more than enough to start again, Aemond.” He quickly read the letter.

“I can’t ask that of you.” He gave her the letter back.

“You’re not asking, I’m giving it to you. You gave me all you are, and I’m giving you all I am. I am yours and this money is ours.”

He got up, pulling her in for a hug and kissing her dearly.

“We will get out.” He promised.

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆

Dorne was nice, no one knew them there, it was easy to buy a piece of land and start to build their house there. A house big enough to accommodate them and his family.

They left two months ago, sending letters to his siblings, telling where to find them and saying they were more than welcome there.

They had people building the house and the farm, so it was quickly done. They brought animals and seeds, Aemond would go on hunts here and there, going to the nearby town every once in a while to see if they could make money. Pentos paid well, especially bounty hunters, so it was mostly what Aemond did, Y/N joined him sometimes.

He was walking around in the city, looking at the jewellery store, he nervously looked for a ring, he wanted to take her as his wife. She had saved him, he would always be thankful for that. He loved her and wanted to make their love eternal.

Finding the perfect ring he headed home, a wagon and a different horse waited in front of his house. He let his horse under a tree and walked inside, finding people laughing and talking.

Three silver heads turned his way. Jaehaerys was in Floris' lap, Aegon and Helaena both by her side. Y/N served them food. His sister jumped on him, hugging him close.

“I’ve missed you.” She sobbed and he rubbed her back.

“Me too, Hel.” He passed by Aegon, playfully hitting his head on the way, kissing Y/N’s head and greeting Floris.

“Shall we start now?” Aegon spoke.

As soon as they left, the gang collapsed. Criston was planning on taking Daemon to the law, get the reward price for his head and get the gang killed. Laenor, Harwin and Rhea ended up getting killed. Baela and Rhaena ran away with Jace and Luke. Daemon killed Criston and the whole gang had gone their separate ways. Leaving Aegon, Floris and Helaena to accept their offer.

Aemond was happy to have his family back with him, so when they celebrated at night, drinking and singing, he got to one knee and proposed to the love of his life. She happily accepted, kissing him a million times. They danced that night, dancing to the promise of a better future.

[vivacissimx]

Thrice does Arya Stark offer water to dying men. First, the Karstark prisoners sentenced to death for their crimes in the Riverlands, then a heavily injured Sandor Clegane, and finally a young man in the process of committing suicide in the House of Black and White.

They all seemed to be looking at her, the living and the dead alike. The old man had squeezed three fingers out between the bars. "Water," he said, "water."

Arya swung down from her horse. They can't hurt me, they're dying. She took her cup from her bedroll and went to the fountain. "What do you think you're doing, boy?" the townsman snapped. "They're no concern o' yours." She raised the cup to the fish's mouth. The water splashed across her fingers and down her sleeve, but Arya did not move until the cup was brimming over.

—ASOS, Arya V

Long before noon, Sandor Clegane was reeling. There were hours of daylight still remaining when he called a halt. "I need to rest," was all he said. This time when he dismounted he did fall. Instead of trying to get back up he crawled weakly under a tree, and leaned up against the trunk. "Bloody hell," he cursed. "Bloody hell." When he saw Arya staring at him, he said, "I'd skin you alive for a cup of wine, girl."

She brought him water instead. He drank a little of it, complained that it tasted of mud, and slid into a noisy fevered sleep.

—ASOS, Arya XIII

In the center of the temple she found the water she had heard; a pool ten feet across, black as ink and lit by dim red candles. Beside it sat a young man in a silvery cloak, weeping softly. She watched him dip a hand in the water, sending scarlet ripples racing across the pool. When he drew his fingers back he sucked them, one by one. He must be thirsty. There were stone cups along the rim of the pool. Arya filled one and brought it to him, so he could drink. The young man stared at her for a long moment when she offered it to him. "Valar morghulis," he said.

"Valar dohaeris," she replied.

—AFFC, Arya I

There is a lot of handwaving about how in Arya's storyline mercy=death, but it's important to recognize that Arya also shows mercy in the face of death. Despite her own misgivings about the Northmen guilty of rape & pillaging (She wanted to hit them. She wanted to hurt them. She wanted to cry) as well as Sandor (I bet he's killed a hundred Mycah's) it still moves her to see them at a point of suffering. Moves her to commit the ultimately meaningless but still deeply compassionate act of offering them water. It reminds me of Arya throwing the axe to Rorge, Biter, and Jaqen, lest they burn to death; of her attempts to rationalize the deaths of her assigned targets as bettering the world in some way.

It's all connected. Arya offering the water to the prisoners motivates the Brotherhood Without Borders members to take pity on the starving, rotting men by condemning their torture and killing them quick. It's possible that Arya's efforts tide Sandor over until his fever breaks. The man in the Temple was already dying from a stab wound, but after drinking from Arya's proffered cup, chooses to seek out his final resting place in an alcove.

Death may be the final mercy, but a cup of water is the first.

[aegor-bamfsteel]

Hey Aegor, hope you’re having a good day. I was wondering, do you have any headcanons for the what the Riverlands accent(s) would sound like?

Hey anon, I hope you’re enjoying your day.

GRRM usually uses accents to indicate class (usually smallfolk) and nationality (usually Essosi). People with Essosi accents considered “light” are Alayaya, Moreo Tumitis, Moqorro, the Widow of the Waterfront, and Tycho Nestoris; these people probably often deal with “Common Speech” (which would more properly be called “Westerosi Andal”, as both the First Men and the Rhoynar have distinct languages) Westerosi. There are some Westerosi mentioned to have accents: Alleras (who is half-Dornish, said to have a “soft Dornish drawl”), Timeon (“Dornish drawl”), Harwin (“frosted accents of the North”), Arya Stark (at least in Braavosi), Gerris Drinkwater (at least in Volantene), Kem (Flea Bottom), and Sigorn (a thick Old Tongue accent). However, it’s all but stated that the nobility have their own accent, probably learned from Maesters and Septons/Septas, as Rohanne Webber can tell Dunk is of the smallfolk and Roose Bolton and Alleras can tell Theon and Sam are highborn by the way they talk. This accent makes them unidentifiable by region to at least other Westerosi, as Alleras isn’t able to tell Sam is from the Reach. Therefore, it’s likely the higher nobility of the Riverlands (or at least those educated by maesters/septons) would have adopted the accent.

The smallfolk sometimes speak with by eliding initial/middle/final vowels and consonants (Ex: eliding “than” before comparisons like mor’n/better’n, c’n, t’, y’see, thank’ee, “hunnerd” for hundred, t’other, o’ for “of”), using other verb or adjective structures (Ex: “don’t he” for “doesn’t he”, “none” for “any” among other double negatives, “should of” for should have, “might be” for “may be”), or another sentence structure (Ex: “that lord, he did”). GRRM doesn’t try to vary this up between kingdoms, but what’s interesting to me at least is that the Free Folk and Ironborn can have these speech patterns regardless of status (Ex: Tormund, Erik Ironbreaker), which could mean the “smallfolk accent” is actually the original way of speaking the Westerosi Andal “Common Tongue” as spoken by native Old Tongue speakers, just handed down over the generations, and the “noble” version (without all the letter dropping) was adopted to standardize the language to go along with corresponding Common Tongue literacy. Other nobles, such as Axell Florent and Boros Blount, also do some letter dropping, but Septon Meribald doesn’t, so while pattern of speech is seen as a class indicator by some of the nobility, it’s not necessarily a hard rule.

Now, going away from canon where everything is pretty straightforward (noble/nonnoble, Westerosi/Essosi), irl accents are determined by settlement patterns and isolation. It makes a lot of sense that the North (relative isolation, Old Tongue influence) and Dorne (isolated by the Red Mountains, Rhoynish influence) would have a distinct regional accent, and less sense that the Iron Islands wouldn’t have one (given how they’ve historically made thralls of the North, Riverlands, and now raid the Stepstones and Basilisk Isles, plus their relative isolation and strong cultural distinctiveness). Meanwhile, the Riverlands touch all of the other Kingdoms except for Dorne (and the Iron Islands, which they’ve had a lot of unwelcome contact with), with a history of entire conquest by both the Stormlands and Iron Islands, and partial conquest from the Westerlands and Reach, not to mention pressure from the Vale Mountain Clans. It would make sense that the regions closest to the other kingdoms would have similar accents (Ex: the people of Piper lands sound Westerlander, those near Maidenpool sound more Stormlander, areas settled by the Ironborn such as Harrenhal could sound more Ironborn), barring maybe cases of isolation (Ex: the people on Frey land wouldn’t speak like Northerners due to the Neck blocking regular access to the lands north, same with the Mountains of the Moon blocking regular access to the Vale), meaning the Riverlands is the most accent-diverse region in Westeros due to its centrality.

Going even further away from canon, if I assume that Westerosi speak US American English (an assumption because: the author and I speak it, the British Isles accents the shows use is an anachronism that isn’t even that old but just sounds “proper” to Americans, and because Americans haven’t been in the USA that long it means there isn’t as much accent diversity over such a large area as the British Isles and we know GRRM values simplicity. People from other countries or with more imagination would probably translate a Riverlands accent differently), and the Riverlands are analogous to the Midwest, then the northern Riverlanders plus the Blackwoods would speak Inland North (Northern accent analogous to that of Eastern New England), the areas around Seagard and Harrenhal might sound more Western Pennsylvanian (Iron Islands accent analogous to the Chesapeake/outer Banks), the Central Riverlands would speak Midlands or Ozarks, and the Southern Riverlands might speak with the Piney Woods variety of Southern accent (Stormlander accent analogous to the varieties of Texan) (examples in linked videos). No, it doesn’t make a great deal of sense to translate the accents this way given the different settlement patterns, but it’s roughly reflective of the kingdoms that shaped the Riverlands, and it’s just a fun headcanon anyway.

I imagine Aegor Rivers had a different accent—slower, deeper “mumbly” register, more elisions, similar to the Ozarks maybe—from the Crownlander Targaryens, which is very clipped and “precise” due to a doubling down on the “noble” accent at Daeron II’s court (think the Transatlantic accent that’s often used in older Hollywood movies) and it’s just another thing the court mocked him for, as a sign of his “lack of education”.

[sankta-wraith]

My Pain Fits in the Palm of Your Freezing Hand

The deleted/missing scene of Daemon and Rhaenyra after they lose Visenya, and Rhaenyra’s POV of the funeral. Title is from Ivy by Taylor Swift.

Rhaenyra Targaryen was no stranger to pain. Six childbirths, the death of her mother, her closet friend’s betrayal, and ten years trapped in a loveless marriage had served to make her well acquainted with all manner of pain. She had thought herself hardened. Not invulnerable to pain, but acclimatized enough that she could bear it with little struggle. But as she cradled the twisted, scaly body of her first and only daughter, Rhaenyra knew all the pain in the world could not have prepared her for this.

Daemon was about to lose another child. He knew it. Had known it since Rhaenyra had revealed her bloody hand, and memories of her siblings bleeding out of Aemma’s womb moons before their time had hit him like arrows. He should have stayed with Rhaenyra. Should have followed her to their bedchamber, and held her hand as she labored. And yet he hadn’t. He could not bear to watch her scream and suffer for a child unlikely to survive while he did nothing. He could not be helpless. But neither could he be idle. And so, as his wife labored alone, he had called together her Small Council and set about preparing for the coming war. They were uneasy about it, Daemon could tell. They believed he was making a power grab, seeking to undermine Rhaenyra and establish himself as the true authority. Daemon didn't care. How they perceived him mattered little, so long as they followed his orders. Rhaenyra's scream echoed through the Castle. Daemon tightened his grip on Dark Sister's hilt. You do not want me there. He wanted to scream. I cannot help you there. Let me remain here where I may be of use to you. He forced his attention back to the Painted Table. He could not actually call any banners, that would be tantamount to treason. He could, however, see to Dragonstone’s defenses and send ravens to their allies. “We’ll send ravens to our nearest allies,” another scream rent the air, and Daemon forced himself to keep talking “Lords Darklyn, Massey, and Bar Emmon.” “Daemon!” It took every ounce of control he had to keep up his unbothered facade. But he managed. Even as guilt and grief were sawing him apart from the inside. The Small Council glanced at him anxiously. Perhaps he didn’t appear as unconcerned as he’d hoped. “Do you want to speak to the maester, my Prince?” The inquiry had come from one of the Kingsguard (no, Queensguard,) but all of the Small Council nodded along encouragingly. Daemon glared at them all. No, he did not want to speak to the maester. At best he would hear what he already knew: it was too early. The babe was unlikely to survive, and he should prepare himself. And at worst…Daemon didn’t want to consider to worst. “I will fly to the Riverlands myself and affirm Lord Tully’s support.” “You will do no such thing.” Rhaenyra’s eldest son strode into the council chamber. “My mother has decreed no action be taken while she’s abed.” Daemon glanced at Jacaerys, then looked away. “It’s good you’re here, young Prince. You’re needed to patrol the skies on Vermax.” “Did you hear what I said?” The distraction might have worked on another boy, but not Jace. He was far too focused. Daemon felt a flicker of pride. Rhaenyra screamed again, and the feeling guttered out. He could not continue his preparations here, Jace had made that clear, but he could not bring himself to face Rhaenyra, especially not now that he had left her for so long. He looked up. “The ravens, Lord Bartimos,” he said. The other man hesitated for a moment before giving in. “I shall see it done.” Daemom grabbed Dark Sister, and turned away from the table. “Summon Ser Steffon,” he said as he walked away, “our Kingsguard are needed on the Dragonmont.” Queensguard. He should have said Queensguard. “Come with me,” he said as he passed Jace, “I’ll show you the true meaning of loyalty.

Daemon’s steps were slow as he walked back to the castle. To any observers, it would seem as though he were simply taking a leisurely walk from the Dragonmont. In truth, he was doing everything he could to delay his return. It was pathetic and cowardly. He was Daemon Targaryen. The Rogue Prince, Rider of Caraxes, Wielder of Dark Sister, King of the Narrow Sea. And yet, here he was. Wandering about Dragonstone because he was afraid of what awaited him at the castle. But despite the fear, he couldn’t silence the foolish, innocent part of him that whispered that there was still a chance of his daughter living. She was a Targaryen. Targaryens were nothing if not fighters. He ended that line of thought quickly. For all that Targaryens were fighters, his family has also lost its fair share of babes in the cradle. Daemon thought of his little brother. Syrax screeched, and Daemon looked up. He was used to Syrax’s calls, he had lived near the dragon for six year, but something about that one had jolted him. It had seemed almost…familiar. Daemon shook himself. Syrax was probably just hungry. It meant nothing. Still, he couldn’t shake the cold tendrils of fear that had wound their way about his ribs. Syrax let out another shriek, and suddenly Daemon was three years old again, face buried in Queen Alysanne’s skirts while his mother died behind a closed door. He hadn’t understood at first. He and Viserys had been going to visit their lady mother, but when they arrived at her chambers there had been a score of maids and maesters congregating about the door. Daemon could dimly recall glimpsing his father’s boots as the Spring Prince paced within the room. His grandmother had come out then, and upon seeing him and his brother she had gathered them close to her. Perhaps she had been murmuring words of comfort. Daemon could not recall. What he did recall was the terrible, agonized dragoncall that had echoed through the Red Keep. For a moment his young mind had imagined it to be the Doom come again. He would later learn that it was Meleys, mourning the death of her rider. Daemon had no memories of the rest of that day, and only fragments of the funeral, but he remembered that cry. He could hear echoes of it now, in Syrax’s wails. Rhaenyra. He had to get to her. He quickened his pace, heart hammering in his chest. Another cry rent the air. Daemon was running now. What if he wasn’t fast enough? What if she was already gone when he got there. Gods, why had he left her? He had a been a fool and a coward and now he might never see her again. No. She would live. She had to live. If she didn’t he would burn them all. He’d take Caraxes and burn the whole fucking court of vipers, the leech Otto Hightower, his whore of a daughter, and all her half breeds. Kinslaying be dammed, he’d burn them all.

He was at the castle now. The sentries were opening the gates for him and he was speeding past them without an acknowledgment. The way to his chambers was familiar as breathing and in what felt like seconds he was in the hallway and Maester Gerardys was standing in front of him. He looked haggard. Daemon’s pulse beat in his ears. “It’s over, my Prince,” he said, eyes on the floor, fingers twisting together. “And the Queen,” his voice sounded wrong. Strangled and breathy. “She lives? She is well?” “She is alive, my Prince. She does not seem to be in any danger at the moment.” He said something else but Daemon didn’t hear. He already shoving past him, towards Rhaenyra. Although it couldn’t have taken more than a few seconds, the walk seemed to take hours. Rhaenyra is alive. Thank the gods, she’s alive. And if she’s alive then our girl could… The thought died as Daemon stepped into the room and beheld the scene there. Rhaenyra was sitting slumped against the side of their bed, shift stained red, and bloodied to the wrist. (Why were her hands bloody? Had she drawn the babe out herself?) Her head was bent so he couldn’t see her face, but he could see what she held. Their daughter was in her arms. She had dragon scales. Even bloodied as they were they still gleamed faintly. Rhaenyra held her as though she were alive, head pressed against her breast like she wanted her to drink. Daemon bowed his head. The grief was crushing, all consuming. He was still standing in the doorway. He looked up and Rhaenyra’s eyes met his. She said nothing. She looked so hollow. She rose, unsteady on her feet, and took a few shaky steps towards the balcony where she sat, legs crossed, dead daughter in her arms. Daemon couldn’t move. She rocked the child, the way she had with Aegon and Viserys. Daemon came up behind her, tentative. He put a hand on her shoulder. “Rhaenyra.” “She was my only daughter,” the brokenness in her voice nearly sent him to his knees. “She was my only daughter and they killed her.” The words brought Daemon a confused sense of relief. Vengance was preferable to pain any day. “We shall burn them all,” he whispered. She said nothing. He knelt behind her, arms going around her shoulders. Not quite drawing her to him, but holding her nonetheless. She leaned into him. “We must burn it.” He could only nod.

Daemon stumbled out of the room, head spinning as though he were drunk. He was dimly aware of calling for a funeral pyre to be built and for the inhabitants of the castle to assemble on the Dragonmont. He felt strangely removed, as though he was watching somone else control his movements. Colors and sounds blurred together, and suddenly he was on the beach and his knees were hitting the sand. He had drawn Dark Sister at some point. The sword's point was buried in the sand, and Daemon was leaning on it the way his brother had leaned on his cane. He had known. He had known, he had known, he had known. He had known he was going to lose the child, so why did it still hurt so much? His head was full of memories. Rhaenyra's delight as she told him she was with child again, her surety that she was finally carrying a girl, the first time he had felt his daughter kick, the egg he set aside for her cradle, retrieved the day Baela's letter arrived and everything went to hell. He clung tighter to his sword, trying to drown out Rhaenyra's voice in his ears. I want a girl, Daemon. A daughter

We must burn it

She was my only daughter

My only daughter

She was my only daughter and they killed her

They killed her

They killed her They killed her They killed her And yet, they had done worse than kill her, hadn't they? If he closed his eyes, Daemon could still see the scales that covered her skin, and the hole where her heart would have been. He had heard stories, as a child, about Maegor's children, how they had all been born dead, and with dragon features. He had never expected it would happen to him. Otto Hightower's voice rang in his ears. A second Maegor the Cruel, or worse. Daemon felt a laugh bubble up im his chest, but when it slipped from his lips it was a sob, and then he was weeping. Shoulders shaking, body wracked with agony, Daemon clung to Dark Sister the way he had once clung to the Good Queen's skirts as his mother's body cooled. Caraxes had come at some point. Daemon hadn't needed to look up to know. He had felt his dragon's presence like tug on his soul. He could feel him now, circling the beach, protecting him while he grieved. There, on that beach, with no one but his dragon as a witness, and nothing but a sword for comfort, Daemon wept.

The pyre was tiny. More of an alter than a pyre really. Rhaenyra stood just in front of it. Daemon was at her side, and their children stood a short distance behind them. Her ladies had done their best to neaten her up, but she knew she still looked a sight. They had scrubbed the blood from her skin, tied her hair back in a simple style, given her a fresh dress and cloak to wear (black lined with red,) and even slipped small earrings through her ears. But they could not hide the grief, nor could they take away the pain. The walk from her chambers had been agony. Rhaenyra could not help but recall another walk, just after a birth. For a moment she almost longed for it. At least then she’d had a child to hold. She watched the flames devour her only daughter’s body. Daemon turned to look at her. He wanted to say something. She could feel the words gathering between them like storm clouds. She did not know where he had gone after he left her. Presumably somewhere isolated, where he could grieve without the risk of being seen. She wished he had stayed. She wanted to mourn with him, united by a pain few could understand, but openness had never been Daemon’s strong suit. That was why he had left, and that was why she had labored alone. She was well aware of his need to do, to help her, but she wished he would realize that staying would have helped her more than any war council. He was still looking at her, but he said nothing. She continued to watch the pyre. Someone was approaching behind her. Her Queensguard moved closer, and Daemon turned to face the stranger. Rhaenyra watched the pyre. She heard the drawing of steel. “I mean not harm, brothers.” She knew that voice. Ser Erryk. Twin to her sworn shield. She heard swords slide back into their sheaths. She turned. Erryk knelt. He reached into a leather satchel at his side, and drew out her father’s crown. He held it up to her. “I swear to ward the Queen with all my strength, and give my blood for hers,” Rhaenyra watched him. It almost felt like a dream. Daemon stepped forward, taking the crown. “I shall take no wife…” Her husband held the crown. Rhaenyra couldn’t see his face. Her father had always said he wanted it, but throughout their marriage he had seemed perfectly content with being her consort. “…hold no lands…” Daemon was still looking at the crown. She remembered the tenderness with which he had placed it upon his brother’s head. Had he ever truly wanted it? Or had he merely wanted trust? “…father no children…” No one moved. “…I shall guard her secrets, obey her commands…” He looked up. The hand holding the crown fell to his side. “…ride at her side and defend her name and honor.” Daemon glanced at the crown in his hand, then turned to face her. She nodded, ever so slightly. He closed the gap between them. She kept her gaze steady, looking into the lilac eyes she had known all her life. Gently, oh so gently, he placed the crown on her brow. The metal was cold, but warm where he had held it. It sat heavy on her head. Daemon knelt. She watched him. He looked up at her. Their eyes met. “My Queen.” His face was open, eyes swimming with love and devotion, but grief shadowed it all. He looked down again. Her eyes went beyond him, to the rest of her court. One by one, they all followed his example. Even her boys, and Daemon’s girls. All knelt, save one. The Queen Who Never Was remained standing. Rhaenys met her eyes, and something passed between them. Rhaenyra looked back at her people, all on their knees. For me. Not for my father, or my husband. For me. They kneel for me. And as her daughter’s pyre burned behind her, Rhaenyra knew, she was a Queen in truth now.

[simplynotcapable]

listen to me: prince daeron “the daring” targaryen is one of the most moral people in the dance (by targaryen standards)

barring jacaerys, baela and rhaena, helaena, and the children—daeron is the ONLY moral character in the dance. there’s probably commentary to be made here of how he grew up outside of his mother and grandfather’s influence, but we aren’t talking about WHY he’s a good person just that he IS.

comparatively, we have:

Aegon II: a drunken, usurping rapist who paraded a dragon’s head through his city

Aemond: a mass murderer who at the very least coerced Alys Rivers into engaging in a romantic/sexual relationship with him

Daemon: Blood and Cheese, killed his wife, penchant for teenage girls, the entire Laenor situation

Rhaenyra: Blood and Cheese, the entire Laenor situation

Rhaenys: slaughtered HOW many innocent smallfolk in her grand escape

(very quickly: do not argue with me that Aemond/Alys is some grandly tragic love story or that he’s the victim because she’s older; he murdered her entire family in front of her, and a yes is not a yes if no is not an option)

(very quickly: WHAT do you think would have happened to Laenor if he told Daemon and Rhaenyra, who have just gotten into their heads that they can finally have what they wanted all along, that he isn’t going anywhere?)

(very quickly: i will never believe that book!Rhaenyra had no idea that b&c was going to happen and until the show settles it this summer, i am not going to believe that show!Rhaenyra is innocent in it either)

And then there’s Daeron, who admittedly does commit mass murder.

But this is Daeron’s only real crime.

And, I mean.

Maelor was torn apart by a *mob* of people. This was not a death that Daeron could say “okay this singular person is responsible” because so many people had a hand in it. There was no way to punish the singular person that killed his nephew because a singular person *didn’t*, and there’s no way to only punish the mob because how do you pick out the two dozen people from an entire town?

Sure, Lady Caswell says she executed them all, but she’d have every reason to lie about it when faced with Targaryen wrath. If she didn’t find them all, or if she really has no idea if the people she hanged are the right ones…why would she ever admit that to the Greens, who are rightfully enraged? And so why would Daeron believe her?

Was it right for him to exterminate Bitterbridge?

No.

But Daeron lashed out in his grief over what, in my opinion, is one of the most brutal deaths in the Dance.

He lashes out at the place that holds all the people who did it, even though he can’t pick them out one by one—or, at the least, the place that created these people, the place that spelled his nephew’s death. These people killed him. Daeron kills these people.

Is this misguided? Yes.

Is it an overreaction? Yes.

But he’s also an 18 year old boy with a pet nuke whose toddler nephew was torn limb from limb.

The other Targaryen atrocities involve the knowing and intentional harm to people that the perpetrator knows is innocent of any wrongdoing against them— Rhaenyra and Daemon having Jaehaerys killed after Lucerys’s death, Aemond burning the Riverlands and massacring the Strongs, Rhaenys causing the death of dozens of smallfolk while escaping, Aegon constantly harming those around him—but Daeron’s atrocity is aimed only at those he blames directly for his nephew’s death.

Is the entire town responsible? Of course not!

But, as misplaced as the blame is, at least Daeron is punishing the people/place he blames for his grief instead of intentionally seeking out people who are completely unrelated to the crime.

It isn’t right. But I understand his actions more than I do most other atrocities that take place during the Dance, and I don’t think it’s enough to paint him into the horrible monster that a lot of people do. And being as he’s actively described as gentle and chivalrous and Bitterbridge is his only terrible act…

My son is a good guy who did his best and deserved better than what he got

[sunnyie-eve]

12. Doubting

Fandom: House of the Dragon

Series: Devious Opportunity

Pairing: (Aegon II Targaryen x Cousin! OFC Targaryen!)

Word Count: 1.4k

Notes: Incest, people not trusting Aegon, Daemon being an ass, Rhaenyra being a mother figure

| MASTERLIST |

Rhaenyra and her attendant lords gather around the Painted Table; "How can you know you can trust Aegon bending the knee to you?" One of the men asks her.

"He might use you, Your Grace." Another speaks.

"I trust my brother's word." She tells them, "He told me what he wants and it's not the crown or throne." A few of the men scoff not believing it, "You doubting my decisions and trust?"

Celeste sees the looks on a few of the faces so she steps forward clearing her throat, "You can trust, Your Grace." She looks over at Rhaenyra, who looked surprised.

"Celeste, you don't have to." Rhaenyra grabs her hand.

"It's okay." She tells her before looking at the other's, "Aegon, is the father to my daughters. I know he doesn't want to be King. He has always told me that growing up and he still doesn't want that." She tells them. "I love him but he's not smart enough to think about crossing Rhaenyra. He wouldn't risk losing me and his girls."

"Now that is clear... What is our standing?" Rhaenyra asks changing the topic.

Daemon informs her that Dragonstone's garrison stands at 30 knights, 100 crossbowmen, and 300 men-at-arms; sufficient to defend the island, but not to conquer Westeros. Daemon adds that he has sent word to men in the City Watch whose loyalty he can count on, but he cannot say how many will answer, while Gerardys confirms that Houses Celtigar, Massey, Darklyn, Staunton, and Bar Emmon have affirmed their loyalty.

Rhaenyra asserts that House Arryn and the Vale will support her on account of their kinship through her late mother Aemma Arryn. Gerardys adds that he has also sent a raven to Lord Grover Tully, an old friend of her father's, to sway his support, though Rhaenyra insists that the fickle Grover will need to be convinced of the blacks' strength and assurance of support should war break out; Daemon insists that he will treat with Grover personally.

Ser Steffon mentions Storm's End and Winterfell; Lord Celtigar reminds them of House Stark's reputation as honorable oathkeepers and asserts that the other Northern houses will follow where the Starks lead, while Rhaenyra remarks that Lord Borros Baratheon will need to be reminded of his late father Boremund's oath.

Rhaenyra then turns her attention to Rhaenys, asking for news from Driftmark; Rhaenys remarks that Corlys is sailing to Dragonstone, though she demurs when Daemon assumes that he intends to declare for Rhaenyra. Daemon asserts that House Lannister will back the Greens, as Tyland has been a loyal supporter of Otto's on the Small Council for years, and the Greens will need the Lannister fleet if the Velaryons choose to back Rhaenyra.

Given that House Lannister's allegiance will ensure that the Westerlands support the Greens, Daemon asserts that the support of the Riverlands to the black cause will be essential.

Lord Celtigar interrupts, arguing that talk of fighting men is irrelevant when Rhaenyra's forces command dragons in numbers not wielded in war since the Valyrian Freehold. Rhaenyra points out that the Greens command dragons too, but Daemon adds that they only have three adult dragons, while in addition to Caraxes, Syrax, and Meleys, the blacks possess Vermax, Arrax, and Tyraxes with Rhaenyra's sons and Tanis, Moondancer with Celeste and Baela. He also notes there are several unclaimed dragons in need of riders; Seasmoke, Vermithor and Silverwing, as well as three feral dragons living wild on Dragonstone.

Daemon proposes seizing Harrenhal as a base of operations and using the dragons to lay waste to King's Landing, but before further discussion can be had, Ser Erryk interrupts to inform them a galleon is approaching the island, flying the banner of a three-headed green dragon. Daemon grabs Dark Sister and orders the garrison to battle positions.

Celeste leaves the room to go to her daughters, finding them playing together. Taking a seat watching them she starts to cry but stops as Jace enters her room.

"You didn't have to tell everyone the truth."

"But I did." She looks back at him, "I need them to trust him like your mother and I do."

Jace walks over taking a seat next to her and looks at the girls, "He hardly knows the girls but he's willing to give up the throne for them."

Celeste shakes her head, "As I said he's never wanted it."

"Then what has he always wanted?" He asks.

"Someone who has always cared for him which is me." She smiles a bit picturing them together.

"You really love him?"

"I do and I think without me... he would be lost and a terrible person, honestly." She tells him thinking about the type of person he would be if they weren't close.

Later around the Painted Table that evening, Rhaenyra and her advisors discuss the terms offered to them by the Greens. Daemon insists that while it is not easy for a man to kill a dragon, dragons can kill each other, and the fact that they have numerical superiority of dragons gives them an advantage over the Greens.

Rhaenyra counters that she knows the histories of Valyria thanks to her father, and has no wish to rule over the wasteland of ash and bone that will be left at the end of a war between dragons.

Lord Celtigar expresses incredulity that Rhaenyra is considering the terms offered by the Hightowers, but Rhaenyra asserts that her duty as her father's heir is to keep the realm stable and united rather than plunge it into war, even if it means that she does not sit on the Iron Throne.

Daemon scoffs at this, protesting that the Greens have already declared war, and raises his voice at her inaction. Rhaenyra tells the other lords to clear the chamber, leaving only her and Daemon in the room.

"Did you forget that my brother has already kneeled to me?"

Daemon rolls his eyes a bit," He may make my daughter happy but his ego will get big and he will change his mind wanting the throne."

"I do not believe that. We discussed what the two of us will do. He'll give me information and do everything he can to make them not want him king." She explains to him.

"Why not just tell them he bent the knee to you?! Why do all this unnecessary nonsense!?" He shouts at her.

"As if Alicent and Otto would do what Aegon tells them to do. All his life they have tried pushing him to take my inheritance. We must show them they have no chance but to choose me to rule." She walks over to him.

"Then we kill those who don't."

Rhaenyra protests that they are bound by more than personal ambition, reminding Daemon of what her father told them about "The Song of Ice and Fire," Aegon the Conqueror's prophetic dream that a Targaryen must keep the realm united against the return of a great evil in the North, only for Daemon to seize her by the throat.

Choking Rhaenyra, Daemon angrily hisses that Viserys was obsessed with omens and portents to give his feckless reign meaning, and asserts that dragons, not dreams, made House Targaryen kings. Daemon releases Rhaenyra, but though taken aback by his violence against her, Rhaenyra is stunned to realize that Viserys never told Daemon about the Conqueror's vision, indicating that he never in his life considered Daemon as his heir.

As Daemon leaves Rhaenyra she then leave to go to Celeste, "Your father don't trust Aegon completely." She says as soon as she walks into her room.

"Why wouldn't he?" She asks doing Dahlia's hair.

"Says his ego will get to him being on the throne. That our strategy is nonsense. Just kill those who do not bend the knee to me."

"If we start killing people who would want you as the rightful heir then? You don't want people to fear their queen." She explains trying to finish Dahlia's hair quickly, "Not to mention, if you start killing people... the ones who would prefer Aegon will start a war to kill you."

"Where do you get your smarts from? We both know it's not your father." Rhaenyra walks over to the three taking a seat so Astraea goes over to her wanting attention.

"I get it from you because you raised me. To me, you are my mother."

Rhaenyra smiles watching her, "There was just something about you when you were so little. I knew I had to be there for you and take on a motherly role."

"And I thank you for that. You made me who I am today and I'm grateful. I have brotherly figures, I have a mother figure, and I have my two little girls... All thanks to you. I can't imagine how I would be without you." Rhaenyra gets up as Celeste finishes Dahlia's hair pulling her up embracing her in a tight loving hug.

[francesminos-tt]

Joffy is the captain of the football team and Daeron is a serious and renowned lawyer, they hate each other.

But somehow that doesn't stop them from having sex.

optional tags: odaxelagnia, rough sex, rimming.

My bad habit is trying to build up the world even though it’s just smut.

Today was the first day Joffrey went back to the football field. He had been wrongly suspended for the rest of the season by a complete misunderstanding, but he managed to appeal his case to the National Football Committee, getting back to the field after only three months. However, three months suspension was still a long time, especially for a rising star like Joffrey.

Joffrey Velaryon was Harrenhal FC’s youngest captain in the last three decades. This record was formerly held by his biological father, Harwin Strong, who made it to the captain at the age of 23. Joffrey was made captain at 22, just one year after he had made his professional debut. He was a talented forward player, quick, agile and very skillful at free kicks. He had scored a warping 20 goals in the last season, winning himself the newcomer of the year.

However, just when everyone expected Joffrey to lead Harrenhal to the realm’s cup, he was suspended for getting into a bar fight and injuring four people. The scandal was the biggest gossip on social media for months.

Golden Boy Proved To Be A Violent Hater!

Is Joffrey Velaryon Homophobic?

The LGBTQ+ Society Cancels Joff the Jork

The Westeros Football Committee and The Riverlands League says they will not tolerate violence and hate crime

Joffrey wanted to spit on those damn reporters’ faces, but he couldn't afford to cause any more troubles now. His mother had called the crisis management team, led by none other than the person he hated the most in this world. His serious, renowned, highly competent lawyer uncle Daeron, who Joffrey hated with passion.

“Fractured ribs, concussion, broken legs and snapped fingers,” Daeron read aloud the medical reports of those who were hospitalized by Joffrey, “very impressive, nephew. Are you sure you want to continue your football career? I think you will do better in wrestling, since you prefer to speak with your fists rather than with your mouth.”

See? He had to laugh at Joffrey any chance he got. Daeron had always been like this, looking down upon Joffrey just because Joff didn't go to university. Daeron always treated Joffrey as if he was some kind of savage. Joffrey hated the blonde man for it. He might depend on his physical strength to make a living, but it didn't mean he was an imbecile.

“If you are here to mock me, just fucking leave.” Joffrey rolled his eyes and tried to turn his head away, but the slightest movement sent a sharp pain down his neck. Fuck, he nearly forgot he had a concussion too.

“No, I am here to help you, dear Joff. Mocking is just for my own entertainment.” Daeron chuckled, sitting down at the edge of Joffrey’s hospital bed, “I need your full cooperation to appeal the case. How about you stop throwing me death glares?”

“What do you want?” Joffrey asked through gritted teeth.

“Firstly, I need a complete and honest statement.” Daeron replied, pulling out a recording pen from his pocket, “Why did you beat these people up?”

“They were assholes.” Joffrey said.

“I need more details than that.” Daeron continued, not at all annoyed, “I know you don't beat people up just because they are assholes.”

“Yeah? All the media seems to believe so.” Joffrey scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“No, you are not.” Daeron said so seriously that for a moment, Joffrey was actually moved by the blonde’s words. However, any good feeling Joffrey had for Daeron quickly disappeared when the blonde added, “If so, I would be beaten to death by you a long time ago.”

“Asshole.” Joffrey spat.

“Exactly.” Daeron had the audacity to smile, “You might have put wasabi in my birthday cake before, but you never beat me. So, tell me, Joffrey, what did these people say or do that made you so angry?”

Joffrey bit his lower lip and went silent. Firstly, he didn't want to tell Daeron why he had gone to a gay bar. Secondly, he was reluctant to admit that he had beaten those people up because they insulted Joffrey’s family and called him a pervert.

“I can’t help you if you don't talk, Joff.” Daeron said, but he seemed patient. He was always composed and calm, while Joffrey was often described as a hot-tempered jork.

“What difference will it make if I tell you? I am already suspended. The damage is done. I don't want to go through the humiliation again.” Joffrey said after a long pause.

“Your mother called me, Joffrey. She doesn't believe a single word on social media. She swore that her baby boy did it for a reason. She wants to appeal your case so bad that she’s willing to beg my mother to let me help you. Do you want her effort to be all for naught?” Daeron asked after switching off the recording pen, “So let me ask you again. What made you start a fight in a gay bar? I will switch on the recording again after you are ready.”

The last thing Joffrey wanted was to hurt his mother. Hell, he started the fight to defend her name. He considered for a moment before nodding, indicating Daeron to resume recording.

“Go ahead.”

“They insulted my mother and called her a hypocrite for marrying a gay man.” Joffrey said, his anger slowly building by just recalling the words, “They called me a pervert and…”

“And?”

Joffrey reached out to switch off the recording again.

“I don't deserve their cock.” Joffrey finished, casting his eyes down. He was sure Daeron could understand the hidden meaning in his words.

Joffrey didn’t go to a gay bar to pick up fights. He went to a gay bar like anyone else, to hang out and hopefully get laid. In the sports world, sexual orientation was still a ‘don’t say, don’t ask’ topic. Joffrey hadn’t get laid since he broke up with his boyfriend, and he was desperate. He didn't want to jerk off in his flat like a miserable 14-year-old anymore, so he went out to have some fun. He should have stayed inside. See what his horny got him.

“All right.” Daeron said, “I already have some idea about appealing your case. I need some time to work things out, and in the meantime, you stay put and do not get into trouble again.”

“How could I?” Joffrey snorted, “Look. I am confined to the hospital bed. I think a prisoner has more freedom than me.”

“Be good, Joffrey.” Daeron stood up and headed for the door, “Think about how you can thank me after I get you on the field again.”

“You are just going to help me like that?” Joffrey asked to Daeron’s back, “I thought you hated me.”

“Maybe.” Daeron half-turned and flashed Joffrey a smile, “But I want to see you owe me one so bad. I look forward to your thank-you gift, nephew.”

“Get out.” Joffrey managed between ragged breaths, “My ass is going to split.”

Daeron didn’t answer, for he was busy burying his teeth in Joffrey’s shoulder, hard enough to draw blood. Joffrey hissed as a sharp pain spread from where Daeron’s teeth embedded in his flesh. Joffrey didn’t know which hurt more, his shoulder, or his hole that was stretched to the limit by Daeron’s cock.

Joffrey had no idea how they ended up like this. Today’s game ended with a draw, and Joffrey managed to give two assists, one of them resulting in a goal, which was not a bad performance for someone who hadn’t played for month. The team’s manager drove him home personally, to make sure Joffrey didn’t get into trouble again. When he came out of the sedan, Joffrey found Daeron’s sportscar on his driveway.

It seemed that Daeron was here to collect his reward, or thank-you gift, as the blonde insisted on calling it. Joffrey would never have guessed that Daeron wanted sex as a reward. They had only fucked like what, five times at most? Or ten? Maybe a dozen? Twenty?

“You should have called me.” Daeron murmured to Joffrey’s nape, licking the wound he had just inflicted on the brunette’s skin, “I will fuck you so hard that you won’t be able to sit for a whole damn week. Are you really going to let some stranger from the bar fuck you?”

Joffrey tried to answer, but Daeron took the opportunity to thrust into him, the tip of Daeron’s cock brushing against his good spot, sending a rush of pleasure up his spine. Joffrey moaned and clenched his hole unconsciously.

“Answer me!” Daeron raised his voice, one arm wrapped around Joffrey’s waist, the other pulling the brunette’s hair, “Do you crave cock so much that any one will work?”

“You weren’t here!” Joffrey retorted, his eyes glistening with tears but his tone was full of hatred, “We are just fuck buddies. Do you expect me to keep pure for you, huh? I am not some innocent chick who will wear a purity ring for you.”

Daeron pulled Joffrey’s hair harder, forcing the brunette to exposing his vulnerable neck. Joffrey hissed in pain, but Daeron gave him no time to adjust. Daeron bit hard on the thin skin of Joffrey’s neck, just beside the brunette’s arteries. Daeron tasted blood on his tongue, the sweet and metallic taste made his very being sing with euphoria. He was a vampire when it came to Joffrey. His gum would actually ache whenever he laid eyes on Joffrey. He wanted to bite into the softness of Joffrey’s inner thigh, the hard muscle of Joffrey’s stomach, the juicy flesh of Joffrey’s ass, Joffrey’s arm, neck, chest, fingers, toes, and even the brunette’s cock. He wanted to devour them all.

Joffrey hissed, grunted and moaned, but he was unable to shake Daeron off. The blonde was like a persistent alien, determined to feed on Joffrey’s flesh, blood, and bones.

“Get off me, damn it!” Joffrey cursed, “I told you not to leave a mark.”

Daeron finally lifted his head from Joffrey’s neck, his lips and teeth stained with Joffrey’s blood, the usual calm and collected lawyer replaced by a lustful beast.

“I never promised I would follow your orders.” Daeron said, sneaking his hand down to grab Joffrey’s sagging cock, “You are not hard yet. Do I not please you, nephew?”

Joffrey knew the damn bastard was calling him nephew on purpose, reminding him just how wrong the whole thing was. They were related. They were both men. They hated each other. But why couldn't they stop fucking?

Daeron began to pump Joffrey’s cock while rocking his hips forward, thrusting into Joffrey’s ass without mercy. He thrust so hard that the lube he used earlier was squeezed out of Joffrey’s hole, as the nasty sound of his balls hitting Joffrey’s ass echoed the room. Daeron felt the brunette’s cock grew harder in his hand, sticky pre-cum dripping from the pink tip to his fingers.

Joffrey let out a muffled groan, arching his back and clenching his hole as pleasure took over him. He was in pain. His cock was ready to explode at any moment, the bloody bite marks on his neck and shoulder hurt like hell, his hole sore from taking Daeron’s cock for so long, and his hair was being pulled so hard that he felt his scalp was going to peel off. Everything hurt, but the worst of all, he was so fucking aroused by the pain.

“You are squeezing my cock so hard with your lusty hole, Joff.” Daeron bit Joffrey’s earlobe before licking off the small beads of blood oozing from the teeth-shaped wound, “Are you going to come?”

Yes, yes, he was going to come. He wanted release, so fucking bad.

“Fuck yes.” Joffrey murmured.

“I need you to promise me one thing.” Daeron whispered in Joffrey’s ear, running his finger down the brunette’s shaft.

“Anything!” Joffrey was going insane by the blonde’s teasing, “Anything you say, uncle. Just let me come!”

Daeron said something, but Joffrey couldn't hear a word as a wave of pleasure overwhelmed him. His stomach tightened, his toes curling from pleasure, his skin tingling with unspoken euphoria, as he came in Daeron’s hand. Joffrey’s vision went dark for a moment before he regained his senses.

“Good boy.” Daeron was planting kisses on Joffrey’s ear when the brunette could hear again, “I expect you to keep your promises.”

Joffrey hummed. He had no idea what Daeron had made him agree, but he wasn’t going to find out. Not now, anyway. He would rather cuddle in bed and maybe have a second round after he could feel his ass again. He was sure the promise was nothing. Probably some boring rivalry stuff, or Daeron was asking him for sexual favor. Either way, Joffrey wasn’t opposed to the idea.

Joffrey closed his eyes and began to doze off, with his ass filled with hot, sticky semen.

If you decide to be a whore, be my whore instead.