#Tyland Lannister x OC

[queen--kenobi]

SCREAMING AND CRYING I got both my commissions from @felrija back, and y'all!!! I cannot express how much I love them, these are both absolutely perfect. They are absolutely gorgeous and just... exactly what I pictured

I cannot get over how in love Tyland looks with Elayna in the first one, and the second one is just !!! Oh I love how both Elayna and Cerelle look, and how they're looking at each other and I just !!!!!!!! Thank you so much

I put the reference photos under the cut so y'all can see how amazing these are. Genuinely I cannot express how perfect they are and how much I love them I literally want to frame them

[mercurygray]

flowers for the lion's bed - stories for a House of the Dragon OC

[lady--elayna]

Okay but Elayna and Tyland getting into a fight in the modern AU when Elayna gets her memories back

"You never loved me!" Elayna spits. She intends for the words to be venom, but they come out open wounds. "You loved what I could do for you! You loved what I would do! You loved the fact I lo- I cared about you!"

Tyland watches her, unmoving from his seat on the edge of the bed. His hands remain on his thighs.

"Are you quite done?"

Elayna laughs.

"Fuck you. Don't you fucking hide from me. Not now. I've seen you, the real you."

"If you had, you would know what you said was a lie." His mask breaks for a second.

"Is it, though? Because you don't do anything without looking at the future, at getting what you want."

Tyland sighs.

"Do you want honesty? Or do you want to be angry?"

Elayna almost recoils. Tyland shifts. He seems almost in pain, as if he doesn't want to speak but feels compelled. He must be. Being open after hiding who he really was from everyone must hurt. His fingers twitch.

"You're partially right. At first, that was the goal. I saw in you what I needed. I needed a good wife, one who was devoted and smart. One who could play the game without getting both of us caught." Tyland breathes through his nose. "I thought I would like you enough to do my duties as your husband. I didn't think I'd love you."

His admission makes her skip and then double beat.

"I knew I was more fond of you than I should be. You took me by surprise." Tyland purses his lips. "I didn't realize how fo- that I loved you until you came back married to Aemond." He moves his hand to his hair, running his fingers through it before bunching it at the back. He drops his hand. He shakes his head. "Tymon was not the only Lannister upset."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"It wouldn't have mattered. Nothing could be done." His lips curl. "Aemond also would have had my head. That would have complicated things."

[blxkstar]

A lion doesn’t concern himself with the opinions of a sheep

I made a playlist for House Lannister. Please check it out!

When you play the game of thrones, you win, or you die

Any man who must say I am the king is no true king

[kingsanddragonsandgods]

⁂Early life:

Princess Visenya Targaryen of Runestone was born on the last day of the year 90AC, at her mother's ancestral home.

The newborn child was named after the Conqueror Queen, Visenya, by her father and anointed by holy oils seven days after her birth at the Sept-by-the-Sea in Runesport.

Queen Alysanne, who held the child during the ceremony is noted for having remarking that ‘the girl has all of Viserra’s beauty, but Alyssa’s temper’ to which the King is said to have answered ‘Gods be good’.

As Princess Visenya grew, her parents continued to battle, using the young girl as a pawn in their conflict, with both parents appealing to the King and Queen to take their side on occasion.

During her early years she grew especially close to her natural born brother, Orys Stone, the illegitimate son of Prince Daemon by Lady Rowena Royce, Lady Rhea’s older third cousin. The young boy was brought into Lady Rhea’s household in the year 90AC, following the passing of his mother.

From the age of five, her parents’ estrangement was permanent, with Prince Daemon returning to the Crownlands and Lady Rhea and their daughter remaining at the Vale. After royal intervention it was agreed that the Princess time was to be split between living in Runestone with her mother, and between the Red Keep and Dragonstone with her father, alternating during the seasons, summer and winter was spent on the Vale, while spring and autumn in the Crownlands, special celebrations were shared.

Her education appears to have been strict and somewhat old-fashioned, thus, in addition to her studies, Grand Maester Runciter notes in his journals, she was taught spinning and weaving and had an innate talent for weaving intricate tapestry. From the year 92 forward, Visenya, who had been betrothed to her newborn cousin, Prince Aerion, was expected to become Queen Consort, and her education reflected it. Her betrothed passed away in his cradle two years later, and Visenya was then betrothed to his newborn brother, Prince Aelor.

Her tutors at the time, Maester Adelin, Archmaester Vaegon and Master Petrarca of Volantis, regarded Princess Visenya as an extroverted, lively, highly intelligent, and strong-willed girl. Prince Daemon was reported to be proud of her horsemanship and marksmanship.

Because of her outstanding intellect, and his blunt favoritism, King Jaehaerys named Princess Visenya as his cupbearer in the Year 96AC, at the age of six.

The young princess often was allowed to discuss the classics, philosophy, and the affairs of state with ambassadors and envoys visiting the court of Jaehaerys. Moreover, she was personally acquainted with the painters, musicians, writers, and scholars who lived in and around the royal court.

Princess Visenya if often considered one of, if not, the best educated women of her generation.

The year 96AC marked another milestone for Princess Visenya: on the eight moon of the year, the young princess bonded and became the first rider of a she-dragon she named Huraxes. The same dragon that as a hatchling had been brought to Princess Daenerys Targayen. Huraxes had pearly scales and iridescent wing membranes, with pale and pinkish flames. The princess was allowed to bond with the she-dragons by royal decree after falling ill with a bolt of Spring Fever that nearly took her life.

Matches for Princess Visenya started being discussed by the Small Council, brought up by the Lord Hand. Thought Visenya was heiress to the largest fortress in the Vale and to the Ladyship of Runestone, it was argued that as she was a Princess of the Realm, the matter of her marriage was a prerogative of the King, which infuriated Prince Daemon, who at the time occupied the seat of Master of Law, the Grand Master agreed that such line of thought might anger the Vale, as the Princess was highly regarded by her people and her second cousin, the Lady Jeyne Arryn. Lord Corlys suggested his own son as a match for the princess, four years her junior, most likely to tie another dragonrider to his house. His Grace put down all talks of marriage for his niece, agreeing that such was the right of his brother and good sister to choose her match.

For the celebration of his niece's fifteenth nameday, the king ordered seven days of celebrations, with a tournament and grand feasts. The Queen's absence was noticed, excused as Her Grace was in the early stages of her final pregnancy, and Visenya was allowed to sit in the seat usually reserved for the consort; she was crowned Queen of Love and Beauty by the Dornish Ser Eldric Dayne, the Star in the Morning.

Since the Princess's return to court early in the spring of 104 AC, Visenya had caught the king’s eye, and it is reported that Viserys and his niece have become very close, spending hours each day in each other's company, promenading in the gardens, hunting in the Kingswood, and dancing together during feasts and balls.

The king is said to have spoiled his niece with lavish gifts, including presenting her with a manse in King’s Landing, a country estate crossing the Blackwater Rush and later a sea palace in the Reach.

⁂Marriage and Queenship:

After the death of Queen Aemma Arryn in the Year 105 AC, Princess Visenya, aged 15, became the 2nd wife and Queen Consort of her uncle, King Viserys I Targaryen. Their betrothal was announced a month following the queen’s passing, and a private ceremony was held three months later in Dragonstone.

It was a scandal at the time, as not only the King’s new marriage was announced a moon after the late queen’s passing in childbed, but it had also been rumored for some time that Viserys and Visenya had been lovers.

More salacious tales propagated by the fool Mushroom during the Dance of the Dragons tells of the princess sitting on her uncle's lap during feasts, kissing him shamelessly, and nibbling his fingers sensually as he fed her like a beloved pet; of the king fondling her breasts in public, and announcing to his courtiers that he and his niece would retire to make love. These have no contemporary support, with Septon Eustace calling such tales absurd and slanderous.

Over the matter of his marriage to his niece Viserys claimed that the marriage was in the public interest and ordered a grand celebration for the occasion of his new queen's coronation, to happen after the end of mourning period for Prince Baelon. Visenya was the first Queen Consort crowned in a separate ceremony from the reigning King. During the occasion the apparent advanced state of the queen's pregnancy caused a new wave of rumors that Visenya had been the King's mistress while the queen was still alive and that their child was conceived out of wedlock.

In their more than two decades of marriage, Visenya and Viserys had fourteen children, all survived into adulthood, something that the maesters attribute to the queen’s management of the nursery. Visenya’s role as a mother was glorified throughout the realm, their young new queen’s obvious fertility was seen, by the smallfolk and nobles alike, as both a bless from the Mother and a sign from the gods. With the birth of her twin girls, Princess Viserra and Princess Rhaelys, coins were issued, portraying her as the Mother, an allegory that would repeat itself many times for the remaining of her husband’s and son’s reign. If in her maidenhood, as a young princess, Visenya posed as a model for sculptures of the Maiden, in motherhood and queenship, she was now the Mother.

Although it was not the norm of the age, and in fact, apart from the late Queen Alysanne, no other queen receive such a honor, King Viserys granted Visenya a seat on his Small Council, leaning on her for advice on varied subjects due to his respect for her opinion and good judgment. She became a formidable figure with far-reaching influence during this time. According to some sources, her influence was such that Queen Visenya effectively ran the government alongside the Hand of the King.

In the year 115AC, around the time of her stepdaughter’s wedding to Ser Leanor Velaryon and in the years that followed, the Queen Consort started to work and put her own trusted people in ever higher positions to strengthen herself and her sons through them.

Visenya acted as her first husband’s regent after his health decline, sat in her eldest son’s war table following Viserys’s death.

⁂Personality:

Some historians have contended that to some extent she deserved her negative reputation propagated by her stepdaughter following the death of King Viserys I, despite the inaccuracies of the claims that she was sexually disreputable or regarding the legitimacy of her children, other criticisms of her were valid: she was ambitious, proud, obstinate, and masked her cunning behind a sweet-toned voice and flawless manners.

Princess Rhaenyra described her as a woman of reckless extravagance and wantonness, who seduced a grieving man, and whom the King nonetheless loved passionately and faithfully. It is widely known that those part of the Black Court of the Princess of Dragonstone took to call the queen ‘the King’s Great Whore’ and ‘Lady Concubine’, however always away from both the queen and the king’s ears as well as her supporters, further spreading the rumors of an extramarital affair while the late Queen Aemma still lived and questioning the validity of the legitimacy of their children. Despite rumors spread on her sons legitimacy supported by the queen's supposed lasciviousness, all of Visenya’s children resembled those of her lineage.

In her youth, Visenya was celebrated as ‘the most beautiful creature in the world’ and that there was ‘nothing lacking in her that the most beautiful girl should have’. Ser Alyn of Hull would reflect later in her lifetime that regarding her appearance ‘there were few women who could compete with the Queen in her prime’.

Visenya was fiercely independent, a trait she shared with her mother. Mellos described her as having ambitions to match her pedigree. However, Archmaester Gyldayn notes that Visenya was fully aware that a woman in Westeros could not hold power in her own right. Instead, Visenya orchestrated the rise of her sons.

Capable of acts of extreme ruthlessness, she, in contrast, was also able to demonstrate uttermost kindness and charity.

⁂Issue:

At four and thirty of age by the time of their weeding, Viserys was already considered in his middle age. The union however proved itself to be a happy one, and together they had 14 children, nine sons and five daughters.

Visenya had been taught the importance of receiving an education and came to play an extensive role in her children' education, resulting in the creation of a "superior breed of princes."

Queen Visenya was know to call her children her 'precious jewels', and took great pride in all of them, she was particularly close to the princesses Alyssa and Elaena, however it is said, that from all her children, her favorite was Prince Aegon.

edited on 11/04/2024

[sikudastoner]

Mabel Lannister née Waters, Tyland Lannister and their baby Elsbeth.

Commission done by @yomna-art, thank you so much for bringing the image in my head to life!

[jason-todd-is-a-real-mood]

Tywin wants to be tyland.

Cersei wants to be the lannister!oc we're all adding into our aemond fic

[ladybug023]

Little Shadowcat Chapter 1

Daeron Targaryen x Cerelle Lannister

Warnings: None this a pretty fluffy chapter. Some spying, mention of murder.

Notes: Cerelle only communicates through sign language and gestures.

(8 years ago)

Tyland Lannister wandered through the lush gardens of Casterly Rock, searching for his little niece, Cerelle. He was informed by the septa that the triplets, Jaissa, Elissa, and Marissa had been teasing Cerelle once again. Cerelle was an easy target for their mocking because she was born deaf.

Tyland was visiting Casterly Rock for Cerelle’s sixth name day. It was nice to get away fron King's Landing and its purtrid stink, to get some fresh air for once. Though, he couldn’t stay away for long. Based on what he had heard, Lady Laena Valyrion's funeral was a complete and utter catastrophe. In short, Prince Aemond had tamed the great beast Vhagar. However, he later had his eye gouged out by one of Princess Rhaenyra’s bastards. The Queen in turn attempted to kill the Princess, and somehow it ended with Lord Laenor dead and the Princess married to her uncle, Prince Daemon.

Oh Gods, how Tyland wished he could have been there to witness all of the melodrama unfold in person. He found it amusing that House Targaryen was tearing itself apart from within, and civil war seemed inevitable, plunging the realm into chaos. With chaos came opportunity, and now that the Greens had Vhagar on their side, Tyland knew whom to bet on.

After searching for some time, he finally found Cerelle hiding up a tall tree, her big emerald eyes were puffy from crying. She didn't hear him approach, so he shook the tree to get her attention. She noticed the quaking leaves and looked down.

"Cerelle, dear. Can I come up?" Tyland knew sign language, having learned for her. Something, that even her own parents did not bother to do.

She nodded and signed, "Please."

With practiced ease, Tyland climbed up the tree to reach Cerelle, as he had done many times before. As he approached her, he could see tears streaming down her face, and her expensive dress was dirtied from the climbing. Her once-stylish golden hair now resembled frizzy cat ears, adding to her disheveled appearance as she sniveled helplessly.

"What's wrong, little one?" he asked her.

"They teased me again," she signed back, her fingers trembling. "Marissa thinks my voice is weird.”

With a deep sigh, Tyland thought about Johanna's insistence on Cerelle taking speaking lessons with their Maester. He understood how hard it must be for her to learn to pronounce words that she could not hear. It was moments like this that made him empathize with Cerelle, who he knew was an outsider even within her own family. They were like shadowcats among the lions, always watching and waiting. Tyland reached out to tuck a loose lock of Cerelle's hair behind her ear, a small gesture of understanding between two kindred spirits.

"I know it's hard, Cerelle. But your deafness is a gift," he signed to her. Cerelle looked at him, confusion etched on her face.

“How so?” She asked. “I am a cripple.”

“You cannot hear people's lies, and you can see them for what they truly are."

"I do not understand," she signed back. Tyland took a deep breath, trying to find the right words to explain.

"People always say one thing but mean another, they hide their true intentions," he signed. "But you can see the truth in their actions and in their eyes. You can see the world as it truly is." Cerelle looked at him, her eyes wide with understanding. Tyland knew that he had gotten through to her. He wiped away her tears with his thumb and smiled at her.

"Now, let us go inside, it is time for supper and I am sure all that crying made you famished.” he signed to her. She nodded in agreement.

Once they climbed down the tree together, he took her little hand in his. As they made their way back into the Rock, Cerelle tugged on his sleeve to get his attention.

"Uncle," she signed, "Can I have a dragon for my name day?" Cerelle had been enamored with dragons since her Maester had first told her about them. She believed that with a dragon of her own, no one would ever dare tease her again. They wouldn't be able to look down on her if she was soaring high above them on her dragon. Tyland chuckled softly.

"My dear, a Lannister can afford anything in this world except for a dragon. Only a person who posses Valyrian blood can ride a dragon." Tyland saw the disappointment in her eyes and quickly added, "But, what about a pet cat instead? They can be just as fierce and loyal as any dragon, and I promise it will be the best cat in all of Westeros."

Cerelle's face lit up as she eagerly signed, "Yes, please!"

Her beaming smile warmed Tyland’s black heart. Perhaps, that was because a part of him hoped that by bringing joy to his lonely niece’s life, he could redeem himself in a way.

(8 years later in Kingslanding)

Cerelle crouched on the rooftop, peering down at the bustling streets of Fleebottom. She had been following the movements of one of the White Worm’s servants for hours now, hoping to gather information that could prove useful to her uncle. Ser Whiskers, her cat and faithful companion, sat next to her cleaning himself.

Cerelle had to be disguised whenever she went out on these assignments. No one could know that Tyland Lannister’s little niece was prowling the streets of Kingslanding. Her suit was practical and prioritized stealth.She wore flat shoes and fingerless gloves to maintain tactile sensation, while her slim-fitting black pants were crafted from a flexible material to maximize mobility. The top and bottom of the ensemble was a charcoal grey. Cerelle opted not to wear excessive armor that would impede her mobility, but she did wear metal poleyns on her knees and small pauldrons that resembled a lion’s visage. She concealed her face by wearing a mask. Finally, She donned a pitch black hooded cloak adorned with shadow cat fur on the shoulders and frayed at the hem, creating an impression that she was partly comprised of darkness whilst wearing it.

Cerelle had a repeating crossbow slung over her back and two daggers with flamberge blades secured to her waist. Additionally, she had a pouch of arrows with poisoned tips.

As she watched, the servant stopped in front of a rundown tavern and spoke briefly with two men. One was skinny as a rail with a long rodent-like nose. The other one was huge, he looked as if he could easily break elephant bone. She recognized them, although for the life of her, she could not remember their names. She knew the skinny one had once worked as a rat catcher for the Red Keep; she used to see him work in the Keep's tunnels. The big man was once a member of the City Watch. She remembered sitting in the ladies' gallery, watching him get stripped of his rank of Sergeant of the City Watch by the Hand. From what her uncle told her, it was because he beat a girl to death with his bare fists. Cerelle took out her spyglass to get a better look and read their lips.

“2 million gold dragons or we’re not doin it” The big one said.

“We agreed to 500,000.” The servant replied.

“500,000 isn’t shit!” The skinny one sneered. “Not for what she want us to do!”

“The Mistress will not be pleased,”

“Fuck the White Worm! You can tell that bitch if she wants a royal de-”

Suddenly, a piercing roar split the air, and Cerelle noticed smallfolk scrambling off the streets in terror. She flinched as she felt the strong wind of something swooping overhead. Ser Whiskers leaped into her arms, shaking. Looking up, she saw a massive blue dragon soaring in the sky. Its wings were a dark cobalt, while its claws, crest, and belly scales were the color of bright beaten copper. Atop the dragon, she saw a boy – a Targaryen, she figured by his looks– but she had never seen this boy or dragon before. She watched as the dragon flew off to the Dragonpit.

After a couple of moments she turned back her attention to the streets, the servant and thugs were no where in sight. Cerelle mentally cursed as she surveyed the area for any sign of were they might of went. It was no use. She wished she could have witnessed the rest of their conversation but from what she gathered, it was not hard for Cerelle to assume that the White Worm wanted someone dead, but surely she wasn’t stupid enough to target someone in the royal family? After all, Mysaria had been Otto Hightower's informant for years – it just didn't add up. And yet, in a city like King's Landing, where the number of liars and cheats far outweighed the number of rats, maybe it made perfect sense after all.

Cerelle suspected that the target of any assassination would be Prince Aemond Targaryen, who had become a kinslayer after the events at Storm's End - a grave offense in Westeros that carried no forgiveness. The mere thought of the word "kinslayer" left a bitter taste in her mouth, but she could not deny that she had no room to judge.

With Ser Whiskers trailing behind her, Cerelle gracefully descended from the rooftop and headed back to the Keep. She had plenty to report, but for now, all she wanted was a hot bath and a good meal to wash away the stench of the gutters. Her mind was consumed with the image of the boy riding the dragon as she walked, replaying it over and over again. Questions of his identity swirled around in her head, until a distant memory surfaced. Uncle had once mentioned a third son of the late King Visarys. Suddenly, everything clicked, the lost Prince Daeron Targaryen had finally returned home. Cerelle quickened her pace towards the castle.

Oh Gods, this should be interesting...

[annwrites]

⸻ being jason & tyland's younger sister would include:

· tags: twincest, canon-typical incest, double-penetration, possessiveness, jealousy

Since you were a babe, your older brothers have doted on you.

You may be nearly half their age and a girl, but they never made you feel an outsider to your own family.

When you were little, they showered you with gifts & attention, which only multiplied tenfold as you grew older.

They wanted to ensure you wanted for absolutely nothing.

As a child, they would bestow upon you only the finest porcelain dolls, tea sets, ribbons for your shimmering blonde curls, sweet, decadent treats, one of the finest ponies from your house's stables: one of pure white, with silver tassels hanging from its mane, painted spinning tops, and much, much more.

They watched with glee as you smiled, giggled, and cooed over your presents, their hearts warmed by the mere sight of you.

When you bloomed into womanhood and became more of who you're truly meant to be, so, too, did those gifts change in nature.

They became gowns and corsets, pearls and jewels, golden brushes for your hair, a gleaming handheld looking glass, a polished leather saddle for your horse, with a lovely handwoven blanket to rest atop it, a silver flute and a gilded harp for your music lessons, along with a set of bells, paints and a cherry-wood easel...in truth, the list is practically never-ending.

A large hand comes to rest gently over your eyes and your lids flutter closed while a small smile spreads across your lips. "I've brought you a present," a familiar voice softly coos before settling something in your lap. Even without seeing his face—rather, more specifically, his hair—you already know that it's Jason. There's small, nigh-on imperceptible differences between the two men, including the tenor of their voices, which aid you in telling them apart. You seem the only one able to do so, at that. You giggle quietly, then rest your hands gently atop the package he's given you. Jason then seats himself beside you while winding a curl, which resembles freshly-spun gold, around his index finger. "Go on, my sweet, open it," he tells you with a twitch of his lip.

Another difference between the two are their nicknames for you. For Jason, it includes 'my sweet', 'young lady' (which, at times, he uses if he is cross with you), 'little doll', etc. While Tyland prefers 'my love', 'darling', or just your name. Jason hardly ever calls you by the latter.

Even their respective treatments of you differ in nature.

Jason can be more sarcastic and almost...flirtatious in nature (then again, that seems to be his disposition in general, you've noted, so you think little of it anymore), while Tyland is far more gentle and serious.

You pull loose the light-pink satin ribbon tied around the box, then set it to the side so it can be added to your collection. You then begin to peel back the crisp brown wrapping paper wrapped around it before crumpling it into a ball and tossing it playfully at Jason's face. He grins. "I should put you over my knee for that, young lady." He leans in closer while gripping the back of your chair. "And not stop until your backside is raw and you're begging for mercy." You blink at him while blushing from nerves, then return your attention to the box in your hands. You lift the lid and your eyes grow wide at the collection of small pelts within. You lift one gingerly and run your fingertips along the feather-soft, light-brown fur. "I prefer bigger game, as you well know, but I wished for you to have them," Jason remarks. You remove another, which is white as snow, and another beneath it that's fur is as black as the inky night sky. "Rabbit?" You ask quietly while glancing to him. He nods while caressing the back of your head in his callused palm.

Jason often enjoys having you accompany him for horseback riding through the western woods.

The two of you race one another through open fields of greenery and flowers, or between tall oak trees that cast the afternoon sun in dappled light across the forest floor.

Sometimes, you break for small picnics together, or Jason watches as you strip down and wade through warm summer waters in only your shift.

You hardly ever notice the way his gaze darkens as he takes in your bare feminine form through the thin linen that hangs from your frame.

Hiding his arousal isn't possible, however, when you emerge drenched, with the item of clothing clinging to you—thus leaving nothing to the imagination.

You pad over to your eldest brother to retrieve a strawberry from your picnic, until he grabs your hand and tugs you down beside him. "Jason!" You call through a fit of voracious giggles while he leans over you, sliding a hand along your damp waist. "I think," he says, settling his weight atop you, allowing you to experience the full length of his manhood, hoping it stirs something within you. "You are the most comely girl in all the realm." Your brows furrow slightly and you shift beneath him before pressing your palms gently to his chest. "I doubt that." He tangles his fingers in your wet strands. "Mm, I don't, my lovely little dove." He considers for a moment—his blue eyes flitting between your own, and then he presses his lips softly to your flushed cheek. He drags them across your skin and you snicker at the feel of his beard scratching against you, until he places a featherlight kiss against the corner of your full lips. And then his own come to hover just overtop of them—yours and his touching as he speaks. "For I've seen every inch of you. So I know what it is which I speak of."

You and Tyland typically spend your time together either taking leisurely strolls through Casterly Rock's gardens, sitting together outside and overlooking the Sunset Sea as you dine together, or you sit with him before a roaring fire as he reads quietly to you as you rest your head upon his shoulder and keep your arms wound tightly around his own.

Tyland presses a loving kiss to the top of your head and your eyes flutter closed as you smile warmly. "Would you like for me to continue, my love?" He asks, turning a page from the history book he's currently reading to you. You nod, sliding a palm up his arm. "Yes, please." He smiles for a moment, though you cannot see it. "I love you," he whispers, his heart full of adoration for you. You slowly lift your head and gaze at him from beneath hooded lids, as the warmth of the fire and the sound of his voice are both lulling you gradually to sleep. "And I you." He cups your cheek, then kisses your lips tenderly—mere brotherly affection, you're sure—before returning to the book in his other hand.

A number of balls and masquerades are held within the kingdom Jason serves over as warden of.

And you're invited, of course, to all.

"Please, please, may I go?" You ask excitedly as you stare up at Jason with wide eyes. His mouth tugs into a frown. "It's all the way at Ashemark, my sweet. And you know I have duties I must attend to here, so I can't accompany." You shift unhappily on your feet—your blonde curls swaying around your waist. "What of Tyland? He can come as my chaperone. There are two of you, you know." He raises a brow and crosses his arms—meaning that he is now growing cross with you, so you shrink away. "You know how he detests crowds, and does not do well to be shoved into the middle of them." "But—" "I won't force him to subject himself to an evening of frivolity, all so young lords with only one thing on their mind can try to get in your good graces, so as to tarnish your reputation. Or to otherwise flock to Tyland to try and earn our house's favor, if not a bit of coin, or land." Unshed tears burn in your eyes and you watch as Jason's eyes flit to somewhere, or perhaps something, behind you. "It's better for you to remain here," Tyland calls from the doorway, before stepping closer. Your chin wobbles—you detest when you don't get your way, because the times of it occurring are so few and far between, for they both adore spoiling you so. 'No' is hardly a word within their vocabularies when it comes to their darling little sister. You look away from Jason and sniffle quietly. "I just...wanted to enjoy myself for one evening. But instead, you'd rather keep me locked up here." Just then, you feel Tyland pressing his frontside to your back, while sliding his hands up your arms before coming to firmly grip your shoulders. Jason takes a step forward and he tucks a curl behind your ear, pressing his chest against your own while gazing down at you. "This is where you belong," he replies quietly, the look upon his face one of certainty. "Between the two of us," Tyland adds. Jason takes your face between his hands and brushes his thumbs along the apples of your cheeks while Tyland winds his arms around your waist. And then Jason leans in for a kiss.

After that day, you begin to think back through all the times spent with your brothers.

Which is a difficult feat, as they've always been there.

So you focus on more recent events and occurrences.

Like that time at the lake with Jason when he laid his body atop yours and you felt…part of him pressing against you.

Or all the times he and Tyland have kissed you directly on the lips.

Or allowed you to fall asleep in their beds and when you woke, it was to them holding you.

And how many times have they entered your chambers when your handmaids were readying you, only to dismiss them so they could instead aid you in dressing the rest of the way?

Or when you bathed… So many times have they come in and kept you company while you were doing so, then held a towel out for your naked body once you were finished. 

And showering you with gifts, praise, attention, and undying and unfaltering love…

Surely what you’re thinking—rather, suspecting—can’t be true.

They’re not…in love with you, are they?

Such a relationship could never occur. 

For you are not Targaryens.

You wonder if they care about that fact.

Somehow, you doubt it.

And you smile at the thought.

Jason is ecstatic about your family’s invitation to attend the Royal Hunt.

You and Tyland less so, but you both know that you are nevertheless expected to come along with your eldest brother.

And so you have your servants pack you, perhaps, one too many trunks, but you merely tell them sheepishly that you only mean to ensure you’re well prepared.

A few shake their heads with playful smiles.

When the three of you arrive, your tents are already, quite thankfully, ready.

You each break for lunch as the servants take your trunks and bags into your respective tents and unpack your things while you fill your bellies.

Jason glances to Tyland who sits next to you, across the table from him. He chews his roast duck thoughtfully for a moment before speaking. "Just ensure me that the pair of you aren't going to be remaining sequestered away inside your tents for the duration of this trip." Tyland briefly studies him, then slightly shrugs. "Perhaps we will." He wraps an arm around your shoulders then, so you release your fork as you stare up at him, while he remains meanwhile looking at his twin. "Worry not, Jason, I'll keep our little sister well-entertained, I assure you." With that, he presses a kiss to your cheek and releases you and you could swear that Jason seems to be... Well, if you didn't know any better, the look on his face makes him appear to be absolutely seething. "Mayhaps I will have to steal her away into the woods, then," he remarks. "For I can think of no finer quarry." Jason picks up a warm roll from a carved wooden bowl positioned in the middle of the table. "On that, we agree."

Many young lords seem to admire you from a distance over the next few days, but with Jason and Tyland attached to your side at all times, hardly any attempt at conversing with you.

You nervously clutch Tyland's arm and half-hide yourself behind him as a young lord speaks with Jason, asking if the two of you may take a walk together around the camp grounds. With your brothers, you're more than open and comfortable. Around others...not so much. The young man gives you a gentle smile. "Hello there, My Lady." You press yourself against your brother shyly while staring at him with wide eyes. "Hello," you reply quietly, only half your comely face even visible to him. He thinks you resemble a frightened fawn. Not quite as interesting as he'd been hoping you would be... Jason steps over and slides a hand down your silky mane of golden hair. "She's rather timid around strangers, I'm afraid. Poor thing." He glances back to the man while cupping your cheek protectively. "I think it best she remain at my brother's side for the day instead." He quickly escorts the man out of the dining tent then, glad to be rid of him.

Not even once it is late and the stars are shimmering in the sky as the royal encampment goes to their tents and beds do your brothers leave you be.

“Which of us would you like to stay with tonight, my little doll?” Jason asks, running a knuckle softly down your cheek while Tyland sips idly from a glass of arbor red across the way. You hold your satin robe more tightly to you, then cross your arms. “I’m not a child anymore, Jason. I can sleep in my own bed.” Tyland sighs and rises from his seat, padding over to the both of you. Jason merely smirks, which you feel an urge to smack off his face. Instead, however, you merely glower at him from beneath your long lashes. You’re cross enough with him right now after his pathetic little proposal to the ‘princess’ that afternoon. As if the spoiled little brat doesn’t have enough men lusting after her, she doesn’t need your brother, too. Because he’s just that: yours. Not hers. “I’m staying in my own tent tonight,” you spit. You make to step away, until you feel a hand suddenly gripping your forearm.  You jerk your head to the side and narrow your eyes at Tyland and try to yank it away, but he holds firm. “Get into bed,” he says softly, nodding toward the head of the tent. “No,” you say, then take a small step back, slipping your arm from his grasp. And then you promptly bump into Jason’s chest. “What—” “Are you jealous, my sweet?” Jason whispers while leaning in closer to your ear. Tyland cups your face between each of his hands. “O-of what?” You ask, turning your head slightly back toward him. “I think you know,” he replies, sliding his hands beneath your robe while Tyland unties the front of it and it falls to the floor, pooling around your feet. Jason ghosts his lips along the sensitive skin of your neck while Tyland leans forward and presses his lips to your own. Your heart jumps into your throat and you jerk under their roaming hands. “What’re you—” “Do you think I truly desire her?” Jason asks, sliding his hands up your stomach, then cupping your breasts. You stare up at Tyland with wide eyes and then he presses a tender kiss to your forehead. “You’re all I want.” Tyland’s eyes flit away from you and instead to Jason. “All we want,” he adds.  “I saw an opportunity for our family,” Jason explains.  “As I was…unsure,” he says, pressing his hard cock into the small of your back. “If you felt similarly as we do.” “So you…propose to—” He comes around to the front of you then while Tyland positions himself at your back and he begins running his fingers through your curls. “A foolish mistake,” Jason states as you gaze up at him. “But rest-assured, my pearl, that I never intended to part with you.” “You will stay at Casterly Rock,” Tyland whispers. “You will stay…with us.” Jason leans forward and crushes his lips to yours while Tyland reaches down to the hem of your nightgown and begins to push it up, until he’s reached your neck, and you and Jason break from your kiss long enough for him to remove it. And then one of them spins you around—you’re unsure whose hands are to blame—and Tyland grips you beneath your thighs before carrying you over to the bed.

Every inch of you is being tended to by your brothers.

Every part of you is put to use.

Their hands roam along your skin, your breasts, your thighs, between your legs...

Each of them takes turns making love to your cunt with their mouths.

And each of them takes turns inside of your own.

They gently pump their cocks away between your lips, giving you loving words of encouragement of how well you're doing, how good you feel, how things have always been meant to be like this between the three of you.

They tell you how much they love, adore, & cherish you. They assure you that no other men could ever compare. That you are meant to belong to them and them alone.

Before long, you're begging the both of them with tears in your eyes to take you. And that you want the both of them to claim your virginity at the same time.

It is the way you need it to be.

You tell them that you wish for it to be perfect and that is the only way that it can be.

You lie down on Tyland's chest and he wraps an arm around you while his other strokes his cock. Jason positions himself behind you and slides his hands along your hips before taking himself in-hand as well. Your eyes flutter closed and you nuzzle against your brother's neck happily. "Are you ready, my love?" Tyland asks one final time, his eyes flitting to his twin's. You nod gently. "I am," you whisper. They each rub the weeping tips of their cocks against your slick, dripping entrance and you bite your lip at the feel. And then they each begin to ease inside of you.

You would be lying to say it was not initially painful.

But once they were past your threshold and buried deeply inside of you, and your cunt was stretched to its limits around them... Gods, you never knew such pleasure was possible to feel.

They each fuck themselves gently inside of you, appreciating this most perfect moment.

The three of you bound together in such an intimate and private way.

Joined as one at last.

You kiss Tyland repeatedly, mewling and whining against his lips and Jason moans from behind you as he grips your supple hips tightly in his rough hands.

They each repeat to you time and again how much they love you. And you repay the sentiment. And then they proceed to assure the other of their love as well.

The sound of ragged breathing and slapping skin and moaning fills the tent.

Your eyes sting with tears of happiness.

They each spill their seed inside of you.

Your wedding is carried out in a Sept near Casterly Rock.

It's a grand occasion.

Jason spares no expense.

He and Tyland each have new suits tailored for them, each of red and gold, while your gown is of pure white.

Even if you know your maidenhead had already been claimed before your wedding night.

There are flowers and food and music, and a pile of gifts taller than either of your husbands.

Even if many scoff and disapprove of a young woman taking for herself two husbands—especially with them being your siblings at that—but none of you care in the least, for you've never been happier.

And once they have each sealed their love for you with a kiss, to many attendees' chagrin, they too kiss each other.

You smile with tears in your eyes at the sight.

Soon enough, all of you move into one bedroom together—the mattress more than large enough to fit all of you.

You make love nigh-on nightly.

And you fall asleep in their arms—the three of you a mere tangle of limbs.

And when you fall pregnant, there is no debating over who the father is, because they each agree: it is all of yours.

And if you thought your life was already like something out of a fairytale...

You had been so wrong.

For now....it truly is.

Your children are darling little cherubs.

Little lion cubs made between you and the two men you love.

And you all three dote on them.

But still ensure to do as much with one another when time allows.

You run through the gardens, dodging marble statues and giggling excitedly all the while. And then you slam into a solid chest while another form suddenly comes up from behind you and grips your upper-arms, holding you in-place. "Well," Jason says with a smirk, while Tyland slides his hand along your waist. "It appears that we've won." "So," Tyland continues, caressing your jaw between his fingertips. "What is our prize?" You smile. "You already have me for a wife and mother of your children. What more could you possibly desire?" Jason cups your cheek while Tyland presses his lips to your hair. "Not a thing in all the world."

[kckt88]

The Picture of Aemond Targaryen II

Summary:

Aemond continues his life of debauchery and sin, but soon discovers that his indulgences come at a price.

Warning(s): Language, Drugs, Sin, Indulgence, Debauchery, Kissing, Smut – P in V, Murder, Death.

VICTORIAN ERA AEMOND TARGARYEN

INSPIRED BY THE BOOK/MOVIE - THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY

Word Count: 7157

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated.

As Criston Cole observed Aemond's increasingly erratic behaviour, a sense of concern gnawed at the edges of his conscience. The once noble scion of House Targaryen seemed to be descending further into a spiral of debauchery and sin, his actions betraying the darkness that lurked beneath the surface of his flawless facade.

"Aemond, my dear friend," Criston began tentatively, his voice tinged with worry as he approached his troubled companion. "I cannot help but notice a change in you as of late. Your indulgences in the pleasures of the flesh have become-excessive, to say the least."

Aemond's eyes flickered with a mixture of defiance and guilt as he met Criston's gaze, his demeanour guarded as he struggled to maintain the facade of composure. "I fail to see how my actions concern you, Criston," he replied coolly, though the tremor in his voice betrayed the turmoil that raged within.

Criston's brow furrowed with concern as he reached out to grasp Aemond's shoulder, his touch gentle yet firm. "Because I care about you, Aemond," he said earnestly, his voice laced with sincerity. "I fear that you are on a path that can only lead to ruin, that your actions will bring nothing but sorrow and regret."

A flicker of uncertainty crossed Aemond's features as he regarded his friend's earnest expression, a sense of shame washing over him like a tidal wave. "Perhaps you are right, Criston," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "Perhaps I have lost my way."

But even as he spoke the words, Aemond knew that the allure of his own desires was too strong to resist. For in the depths of his soul, he was haunted by a darkness that threatened to consume him whole – a darkness that could only be quenched by the fleeting ecstasy of the pleasures that beckoned him ever closer.

And as he turned away from Criston's concerned gaze, Aemond knew that he was teetering on the edge of a precipice, the abyss of his own desires yawning before him like a gaping dragon's maw. But still, he could not resist the call of the darkness that lurked within, a darkness that whispered promises of ecstasy and oblivion in the depths of his own mind.

“You’re not afraid, are you?” asked Aemond as he discarded the last of his clothes.

Alysanne shook her head slightly, she wanted Aemond, and she loved him deeply, he had promised to marry her. He’d even presented her with a ring so beautiful that she couldn’t stop admiring the way it looked on her finger, the way the stone shimmered in the light.

Aemond was to be her husband-laying with him wasn’t truly a sin. They would marry, they would have children and they would live happy-together.

Aemond placed his hand on Alysanne’s shoulder and directed her to lay down. He laid between her open legs, supporting his weight on his left arm as he reached down and took his hard cock in his hand and placed the tip of it against Alysanne’s entrance.

Alysanne shut her eyes tight and took a deep breath as Aemond sheathed himself within her.

Aemond stopped as she shrieked loudly in pain. He lifted his head and noticed that she had her eyes screwed shut.

"The pain will fade" whispered Aemond, his breath hot upon her skin.

The tears rolled down Alysanne’s cheeks as Aemond rutted against her. The pain was unbelievable, how was this supposed to be pleasurable for the woman? Was this her penance for laying with a man before exchanging the matrimonial vows?

Aemond gave a surprised moan as she involuntarily clenched around him. Alysanne grasped at Aemond’s shoulders as the pace of his thrusts increased.

Then she felt it, a gentle ebb of pleasure radiating around her body from where they were joined.

His hard cock, moving against something inside that made her toes curl.

"Aemond" breathed Alysanne, she was the edge of something-a peice of string stretched to the point of breaking-until it snapped. It felt like an explosion, her legs shaking as she came down from her high.

Aemond buried his face into her neck and let out a long low groan as he spilled his seed inside her. Eventually he pulled his softened cock from her and sat on the edge of the bed.

“A-Aemond” whispered Alysanne.

“Are you ok?” asked Aemond quietly.

“Bit sore, but I’m sure I’ll be fine” muttered Alysanne as she reached forward to take Aemond’s hand only for him to stand up and begin pulling on his clothes.

“I need to go-I’m meeting Tyland and Criston” muttered Aemond as he pulled on his cotton shirt and began doing up the buttons.

“I wish you would stay” whispered Alysanne sadly.

“You know I can’t, if your brother catches me here-he’ll not be very happy”.

“I know but maybe a few minutes” exclaimed Alysanne.

“Alys-my sweet lady. I shall linger for a moment longer” replied Aemond as he finished dressing and sat back on the bed, allowing Alysanne to embrace him.

His thoughts were never far from the painting hidden under the cloth in his attic. The reflection of his sins twisting his features like a knife. Was this another mark on his dark soul, his besmirching of Alysanne’s innocence, his lust for her clouding his mind, until he couldn’t stop. He had to have her, and he did.

But her arms around his body, felt like chains. Shackling him to a life he didn’t truly want. He was dishonest in his quest to bed her and now he would no doubt pay for his deceit, his portrait twisting with grotesque purpose even more than before.

He had to leave, he needed to be free of Alys’ womanly ideals, he wasn’t in the right frame of mind to be a husband, her life goals did not align with his and he would only taint her with his darkness should he remain by her side.

“It’s getting late-I should be going” uttered Aemond.

“Shall I see you tomorrow?” asked Alys softly.

“I’m having some remodelling done-I cannot leave the workers unattended” replied Aemond as he moved away from Alysanne and took his long black coat into his arms.

“The day after?” questioned Alys.

“Maybe-“ muttered Aemond as he pressed a quick kiss to Alysanne’s forehead before leaving the room.

Ignoring the fleeting sound of Alysanne’s muffled sob as he shut the door.

As the echoes of their night together lingered in the air, Aemond Targaryen found himself consumed by a sense of unease. The connection he had once felt with Alysanne Rivera now seemed to wane with each passing day, replaced by a growing distance that he couldn't quite explain.

Avoiding her repeated attempts to seek him out, Aemond retreated further into the shadows, his heart heavy with guilt and uncertainty. What had once been a blossoming romance now felt like a burden too heavy to bear, weighed down by the weight of his own sins.

And as Alysanne reached out to him with words of affection and longing, Aemond found himself pulling away, his interest in her fading like a wisp of smoke in the wind.

But even as he turned his back on his Alys, Aemond couldn't shake the feeling of regret that lingered in the depths of his soul. For in the darkness of his own desires, he had found a fleeting ecstasy that could never truly replace the warmth of her embrace.

And as his feelings for his lady Alys faded into the distance, Aemond knew that he had lost something precious – something that could never be reclaimed. But still, he could not bring himself to reach out to her, the weight of his own sins dragging him down into the wanting embrace of darkness.

Heart heavy with apprehension, Alysanne sought out Aemond, determined to confront him about the distance that had grown between them. With each step, her resolve wavered, but she knew she couldn't ignore the gnawing ache in her heart any longer.

"Aemond," she called out softly as she approached him, her voice trembling with emotion. "We need to talk."

Aemond turned to face her, his expression guarded and aloof. "What is it, Alysanne?" he asked, his tone cool and distant.

Tears welled in Alysanne's eyes as she searched for the right words, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don't understand what's happened between us," she confessed, her heart breaking with each syllable. "We had something special, Aemond. What happened to us?"

Aemond's features hardened as he regarded her, his gaze cold and indifferent. "You were a distraction, Alysanne," he replied curtly, his words like a knife to her heart. "Something to pass the time, nothing more. I told you what you wanted to hear, but it was never meant to be anything everlasting."

Alysanne's breath caught in her throat as she recoiled from his callous words, her hands trembling with a mixture of hurt and betrayal. "How can you say that?" she whispered; her voice thick with tears. "What we had-it meant something to me. I thought-I thought it meant something to you too."

But Aemond's expression remained unchanged, his eyes devoid of warmth or remorse. "You were mistaken, Alysanne," he said dismissively, turning away from her as though she were nothing more than a passing shadow. "What we had was fun, but it was never meant to last. You would do well to remember that."

With those words, Aemond walked away, leaving Alysanne standing alone amidst the wreckage of their shattered dreams. And as she watched him disappear into the distance, she knew that she had been nothing more than a fleeting distraction in his eyes – a casualty of his own selfish desires.

The air hung heavy with tension as Arthur Rivera, Alysanne's older brother, confronted Aemond, his eyes blazing with a righteous fury that burned like a beacon in the darkness.

"My sister is dead," Arthur began, his voice trembling with suppressed rage.

Aemond's facade of composure wavered for just a moment, his features contorting with a flicker of shock before settling into a mask of cold indifference.

"What are you talking about?" he demanded, his voice icy and devoid of emotion.

Arthur's gaze bore into Aemond's soul like a dagger, his words cutting through the silence like a sharpened blade. "Alysanne drowned herself," he spat, his voice thick with grief and anger. "And she was carrying your child."

Aemond's breath caught in his throat at the revelation, his heart pounding in his chest with a mixture of shock and horror. But still, he remained stoic and unmoved, his expression a mask of cold indifference.

"That's impossible," he replied flatly, his voice devoid of emotion. "Alysanne never told me she was pregnant."

Arthur's eyes flashed with fury as he took a step closer, his fists clenched at his sides. "She didn't have the chance," he seethed. "You cast her aside like she was nothing, a mere plaything to be discarded when you grew tired of her. And now she's dead because of you."

Aemond's jaw tightened with barely contained rage as he fought to maintain his composure in the face of Arthur's accusations. "I had no idea," he insisted, though the words rang hollow even to his own ears.

But Arthur would hear none of it, his grief and anger consuming him like a wildfire in the night. And as he turned to leave, leaving Aemond standing alone amidst the wreckage of his own making, Aemond knew that he could never escape the consequences of his actions – that the darkness that lurked within his own soul would haunt him for the rest of his days, a constant reminder of the price of his own cruelty.

As the news of Alysanne's tragic death reached Criston Cole's ears, he couldn't help but notice the unsettling lack of reaction from Aemond Targaryen, his dear friend and companion. Despite the gravity of the situation, Aemond remained stoic and indifferent, his demeanour a stark contrast to the turmoil that raged within Criston's own heart.

"Aemond," Criston began tentatively, his voice laced with concern as he approached his troubled friend. "I couldn't help but notice-your reaction to the news of Alysanne's death. It's-troubling, to say the least."

Aemond's gaze remained fixed ahead, his expression unreadable as he absorbed Criston's words. "What would you have me do, Criston?" he replied coolly, his voice devoid of emotion. "Her death, while tragic, is of no consequence to me."

Criston's brow furrowed with confusion as he regarded Aemond's cold indifference, this man standing in front of him was becoming more unrecognisable as each day passed. A once promising young man descending beyond the precipice of darkness to which he would never return from.

"But Alysanne was more than just a passing acquaintance, Aemond," he insisted, his voice tinged with frustration. "She was a kind and gentle soul, taken from us far too soon. How can you be so callous in the face of such tragedy?"

Aemond's lips curled into a thin line as he turned to face Criston, his eyes like chips of ice that seemed to pierce straight through to the depths of Criston's soul. "I am not callous, Criston," he replied evenly, though the words rang hollow in the silence that hung between them. "I am simply realistic”.

But even as he spoke the words, Aemond knew that they were a lie – a feeble attempt to conceal the turmoil that raged within his own heart. For in the depths of his soul, he could not shake the feeling of guilt that gnawed at him like a hungry beast, driving him further and further from the truth that lay buried beneath the surface of his own indifference. And as he turned away from Criston's concerned gaze, Aemond knew that he could not outrun the consequences of his own actions – that the darkness that lurked within him would haunt him for the rest of his days, a constant reminder of the price of his own cruelty.

But Criston would not be deterred, his freind was hiding something and he was determined to find out what it was.

Criston heart raced with anticipation as he ascended the creaking stairs to Aemond’s attic, eager to lay eyes upon the portrait that his friend had hidden away with such secrecy. But as he reached the top of the stairs and pushed open the heavy door, his excitement turned to horror as he beheld the grotesque visage that lay hidden within.

The once flawless features of Aemond Targaryen had been twisted and contorted beyond recognition, the lines of the painting reflecting the darkness that lurked within his soul. It was a macabre masterpiece, a testament to the depths of depravity to which Aemond had fallen.

Criston's breath caught in his throat as he recoiled from the twisted portrait, his hands trembling with a mixture of fear and revulsion. "What... what have you done, Aemond?" he whispered, his voice barely above a whisper.

But there was no answer, only the eerie silence of the attic as the shadows danced around him like spectres in the night. And as Criston gazed into the depths of the painting, he knew that he had stumbled upon something far more sinister than he could have ever imagined – a darkness that threatened to consume them both if left unchecked.

With a sense of dread weighing heavy on his soul, Criston wanted to flee, but he was rooted to the spot, the twisted portrait haunting his every thought like a ghost in the night.

He knew that he could not unsee what he had witnessed – that the darkness that lurked within Aemond Targaryen was far more dangerous than he had ever dared to imagine.

Aemond's heart pounded in his chest as he watched Criston recoil in horror from the twisted portrait, his mind racing with desperation as he realized that his darkest secret had been laid bare before his friend's horrified gaze.

"You can't leave, Criston," Aemond pleaded, his voice trembling with feigned desperation as he blocked the doorway with his body.

But there was a glint of suspicion in Criston's eyes as he regarded Aemond's frantic demeanour, a sense of unease settling over him like a shroud. "What- what is this Aemond? This can’t be real surely" he demanded; his voice tinged with fear.

Aemond's gaze flickered with malice as he reached for a shard of broken glass that lay discarded on the floor, his mind consumed by the darkness that lurked within his own soul.

"It’s very real Criston-my portrait bears the marks of my sin whilst I remain untouched," replied Aemond coldly, his voice devoid of remorse.

“Y-You need help Aemond-“ urged Criston.

“Why?” asked Aemond cocking his head to the side.

“Something is very wrong-we must destroy the painting,” said Criston.

Destroy the painting? No Aemond could not allow that, it needed to be preserved, his soul was ensconced within the very essence of the painting.

Aemond watched as Criston seized the painting and looked wildly around the room, no doubt looking for something to aide in the destruction of his work.

With a sudden burst of violence, Aemond lunged forward, the shard of glass glinting in the dim light of the attic as he drove it into Criston's neck.

The painting slipped from his grasp and clattered to the ground with a loud thump.

Criston crumpled to the ground, his lifeblood staining the floorboards beneath him, Aemond felt a sense of twisted satisfaction wash over him like a tidal wave.

For in that moment, he knew that he had silenced the only witness to his darkest secret – a secret that could never be allowed to see the light of day. And as he stood over Criston's lifeless body, he knew that there would be no turning back from the darkness that now consumed him whole.

With a cold determination gripping his heart, Aemond Targaryen dragged Criston lifeless body across the attic floor, his mind numb to his actions. With each step, the weight of his sin pressed down upon him like a leaden shroud, but his focus fixed solely on the task at hand.

Struggling against the weight of his friend's corpse, Aemond managed to hoist Criston's body into the trunk that lay discarded in the corner of the attic. The wood groaned in protest as he forced the lid closed, sealing away the evidence of his crime beneath a veil of darkness.

Heart pounding in his chest, Aemond dragged the trunk down the stairs and out into the moonlit night, his footsteps echoing in the silence of the deserted street. With each step, the weight of his burden seemed to grow heavier, but he pressed on, his mind consumed by the need to rid himself of the damning evidence.

Reaching the edge of the riverbank, Aemond paused for a moment, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he stared out into the murky depths below. With a final surge of strength, he heaved the trunk over the railing and into the water below, watching as it disappeared beneath the surface with a muted splash.

For a moment, the world seemed to stand still, the silence broken only by the gentle lapping of the waves against the shore. And as Aemond turned away from the river, a sense of relief washed over him like a cleansing tide, the weight of his guilt lifted – if only for a fleeting moment.

But deep within the recesses of his soul, Aemond knew that he could never truly escape the consequences of his actions – that the darkness that lurked within him would haunt him for the rest of his days, a constant reminder of the price of his own cruelty. And as he disappeared into the shadows of the night, he knew that he was forever bound to the darkness that now consumed him whole.

Years had passed since the night Aemond Targaryen had silenced his friend Criston Cole, his guilt and shame driving him to flee from the city that had once been his home. In the quiet solitude of the countryside, he sought solace in the shadows, his past a dark spectre that haunted his every step.

But as the years slipped by like grains of sand through an hourglass, Aemond found himself drawn back to the city that had once been his playground, the lure of its bustling streets and glittering society impossible to resist. And so, with a heavy heart and a sense of trepidation, he returned to London once more, his arrival met with whispers of surprise and disbelief.

For while the faces of his peers had grown lined with age and weariness, Aemond remained unchanged, his features as youthful and handsome as they had been on the day he had fled from their midst. It was as though time itself had stood still for him, leaving him untouched by its relentless march.

As he moved through the crowded streets of the city, Aemond felt the weight of their scrutiny upon him, their whispered rumours like a dagger in his side. But he paid them no mind, his gaze fixed upon the horizon as he sought to reclaim his rightful place in the world that had once been his playground.

And as he mingled with the upper echelons of society once more, Aemond could not help but revel in the shock and awe that his presence elicited, his youthful appearance a stark contrast to the aging faces that surrounded him. It was a cruel reminder of the bargain he had struck so many years ago – a bargain that had granted him eternal youth and beauty at the cost of his own soul.

But even as he basked in the adulation of those who marvelled at his ageless beauty, Aemond knew that the darkness that lurked within him could never truly be escaped – that the sins of his past would forever taint the facade of perfection that he presented to the world.

As Aemond re-entered London's high society, he found himself once again drawn into the orbit of Lord Tyland Lannister. But as they reunited after years apart, Aemond couldn't help but notice the marked difference in Tyland's appearance – where once he had been a picture of youthful vitality, now he was aged and weathered by the passage of time.

"Remarkable, isn't it?" Tyland remarked with a wistful smile as he gazed upon Aemond's flawless features. "Youth seems to cling to you like a second skin, while the rest of us are left to wither away with age."

Aemond's lips curved into a practiced smile as he shrugged off Tyland's observation, his eyes betraying none of the turmoil that churned within his soul. "Luck, perhaps," he replied casually, though the words felt like ash on his tongue. "Or good genes, if you believe in such things."

But Tyland's gaze lingered upon him with an intensity that sent a shiver down Aemond's spine, his eyes searching for the truth that lay hidden beneath the surface. "There's more to it than luck, Aemond," he said quietly, his voice tinged with curiosity. "I can see it in your eyes – the weight of a secret that you carry with you wherever you go."

Aemond's heart skipped a beat at the mention of his secret, his facade of composure threatening to crumble beneath the weight of Tyland's scrutiny. But with a practiced ease born of years of deception, he pushed the fear aside, his expression remaining unchanged as he met Tyland's gaze head-on.

"You read too much into things, Tyland," he replied smoothly, his voice betraying none of the turmoil that raged within him. "Some things are best left unsaid, don't you think?"

And as they moved through the crowded halls of London's high society, Aemond couldn't shake the feeling that Tyland's suspicions lingered like a shadow between them, a reminder of the darkness that lurked within his own soul. But still, he pressed on, his secrets buried deep beneath the flawless facade of perfection that he presented to the world.

As Aemond Targaryen's youthful appearance continued to defy the passage of time, Lord Tyland Lannister couldn't shake the growing sense of unease that gnawed at the edges of his conscience. Though he had initially dismissed Aemond's flawless beauty as nothing more than luck or good fortune, there was something about his friend's demeanour that set off alarm bells in Tyland's mind.

As they mingled amongst the glittering elite of London's high society, Tyland found himself studying Aemond's every move with a newfound sense of scrutiny. There was a calculated precision to his actions, a careful mask of indifference that seemed almost too perfect to be genuine.

But it was in the moments when Aemond thought no one was watching that Tyland caught glimpses of something darker lurking beneath the surface – a flicker of malice in his eye, a hint of cruelty in his smile. It was as though he were hiding something, something that he would go to great lengths to keep hidden from prying eyes.

And as the whispers of scandal began to swirl around Aemond once more, Tyland knew that he could no longer ignore the nagging sense of suspicion that tugged at the corners of his mind. For beneath the flawless facade of perfection that Aemond presented to the world, there lurked a darkness that threatened to consume them all.

With a sense of determination burning in his heart, Tyland resolved to uncover the truth – whatever the cost. For he knew that the secrets that Aemond Targaryen carried with him were far more dangerous than anyone could have ever imagined, and it was only a matter of time before they were laid bare for all to see.

Under the cover of darkness, Lord Tyland Lannister slipped through the shadows like a ghost, his heart pounding in his chest as he made his way towards Aemond Targaryen's opulent town house. Though he knew the risks of his clandestine mission, the nagging sense of suspicion that gnawed at the edges of his conscience drove him forward, propelling him deeper into the heart of the darkness that lurked within.

With practiced ease, Tyland picked the lock on the grand entrance, the door swinging open with a soft creak that echoed through the silent halls. As he moved through the empty corridors, his senses heightened with anticipation, he felt the weight of Aemond's secrets pressing down upon him like a suffocating shroud.

And then, at last, he found himself standing before the door to the attic, with trembling hands, he pushed the door open, the air thick with the musty scent of neglect and decay.

But as he beheld the portrait that lay before him, horror washed over Tyland like a tidal wave, threatening to consume him whole. The once flawless features of Aemond Targaryen had been twisted and contorted beyond all recognition, the lines of the painting reflecting the darkness that lurked within his soul.

A scream caught in Tyland's throat as he recoiled from the grotesque visage that stared back at him, his mind struggling to comprehend the depths of depravity that lay hidden within Aemond's heart. It was a macabre masterpiece, a testament to the darkness that had consumed them both.

With a shaking hand, Tyland reached out to touch the twisted canvas, his fingers tracing the lines of Aemond's distorted face with a sense of disbelief and horror. How had he allowed himself to be deceived by the facade of perfection that Aemond had presented to the world? How had he failed to see the darkness that lurked beneath?

With a sharp intake of breath, Tyland recoiled from the painting, his heart hammering in his chest as a sense of dread washed over him. And then, to his horror, he watched as the grotesque visage on the canvas seemed to shift and contort, as if alive with a malevolent energy of its own.

A strangled cry escaped Tyland's lips as he stumbled backwards, his eyes wide with terror as he watched the twisted figure in the painting leer at him with a mocking grin.

Aemond Targaryen's heart skipped a beat as he ascended the stairs to the attic, a sense of foreboding gnawing at the edges of his consciousness. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled with unease as he pushed open the heavy door, revealing the twisted portrait that lay hidden within.

But to his surprise, it was not solitude that greeted him, but rather the figure of Lord Tyland Lannister standing before the painting, his eyes wide with shock and disbelief. And yet, despite the horror that lay before him, Aemond felt a strange sense of calm wash over him, a serenity born of resignation and acceptance.

"Tyland," he said softly, his voice a mere whisper in the silence of the attic. "I see you've discovered my secret."

Tyland's gaze flickered to meet Aemond's, his expression a mask of disbelief and horror. "What-what have you done, Aemond?" he whispered, his voice tinged with fear.

Aemond's lips curved into a serene smile as he regarded his old friend, his eyes glinting with a madness that seemed to dance just beneath the surface. "I have embraced the darkness within me" he replied calmly, though the words sent a chill down Tyland's spine. "I have made a pact with forces beyond your comprehension, and in return, I have been granted eternal youth and beauty."

Tyland recoiled from Aemond's words, his mind reeling with disbelief at the depths of depravity that lay hidden within his friend's soul. And yet, despite the horror of the revelation, there was something about Aemond's demeanour that chilled him to the bone – a sense of calm and serenity that seemed almost unnatural in the face of such darkness.

"You dare to gaze at me with such disgust, Tyland?" Aemond's words were laced with venom, his gaze boring into Tyland's with a ferocity that left no room for doubt. "You, who revelled in the pleasures of the flesh without remorse or regret? You, who preached the gospel of hedonism to all who would listen?"

Tyland recoiled from Aemond's accusation, his own anger flaring in response. "I may have indulged in the pleasures of life, but I never stooped to the depths of depravity that you have, Aemond," he shot back, his voice thick with disdain. "You are the architect of your own downfall, driven by a darkness that I cannot begin to comprehend."

Aemond's laughter echoed through the attic, a hollow sound that sent shivers down Tyland's spine. "Is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night, Tyland?" he sneered, his eyes blazing with a madness that seemed to dance just beneath the surface. "That I am the monster, and you are merely an innocent bystander?"

Tyland's fists clenched at his sides as he struggled to maintain his composure in the face of Aemond's taunts. "You are responsible for your own actions, Aemond," he replied through gritted teeth, his voice trembling with anger. "You alone bear the burden of your sins."

But Aemond merely smirked at Tyland's words, a cruel twist of his lips that sent a chill down Tyland's spine. "Perhaps," he conceded, his voice dripping with malice. "But you, Tyland, are the one who made me what I am. You and your hedonistic worldview, your constant insistence on giving in to temptation at every turn. allowing me to take without the fear of cencequnce"

As Lord Tyland’s eyes scanned the cluttered attic, searching for any clue that might shed light on the darkness that lurked within Aemond Targaryen's opulent town house, they fell upon a small object lying discarded on the floor – a scarf, stained crimson with dried blood.

With a sudden surge of realization, Tyland's heart skipped a beat as he recognized the scarf as belonging to Criston Cole, his dear friend whose life had been taken, his death shrouded mystery. And as he reached out to pick up the blood-stained fabric, a sense of horror washed over him like a tidal wave.

For in that moment, Lord Tyland Lannister knew the truth – that Aemond Targaryen, his once-friend and confidant, was responsible for Criston's untimely demise. The pieces of the puzzle fell into place with chilling clarity, the portrait in the attic serving as a damning testament to the darkness that lurked within Aemond's soul.

As Lord Tyland’s trembling hands clutched the blood-stained scarf, a primal instinct surged within him, urging him to flee from the attic and the horrors it contained. With a strangled cry, he turned towards the door, his heart pounding in his chest as he scrambled to escape the suffocating confines of the room.

But before he could take a single step, a cold voice cut through the silence, freezing him in his tracks. "Leaving so soon, Tyland?"

Tyland's blood ran cold as he turned to face Aemond Targaryen, his eyes wide with fear as he beheld the man who had once been his friend. But now, there was a darkness in Aemond's gaze that sent a shiver down Tyland's spine, a malevolence that seemed to pulse with a life of its own.

"Aemond-" Tyland's voice was barely a whisper, choked with fear and disbelief. "What have you done?"

Aemond's lips curled into a twisted smile, his eyes glinting with madness as he took a step closer, his presence looming over Tyland like a spectre in the night. "I have done what needed to be done," he replied calmly, though the words sent a chill down Tyland's spine. "I have rid myself of those who would seek to expose my true nature."

Tyland's heart raced in his chest as he struggled to comprehend the enormity of Aemond's crimes. "Criston-" he whispered, his voice trembling with horror. "You killed him."

Aemond's smile widened into a sinister grin as he nodded in confirmation. "Yes" he replied, his voice dripping with malice. "I killed him. Just as I would kill anyone who dared to stand in the way of my desires."

With a surge of desperation, Tyland turned and lunged for the door, his mind consumed by the need to escape from the madness that surrounded him. But before he could reach safety, a strong hand closed around his wrist, pulling him back with a force that sent him stumbling to the ground.

"You cannot escape me, Tyland," Aemond whispered, his voice a menacing whisper in the darkness.

As the flames consumed Aemond Targaryen's opulent townhouse, a crowd gathered in the street below, their faces twisted with shock and disbelief as they watched the inferno rage with an intensity that seemed to defy the darkness of the night. The crackling of the flames echoed through the air, a symphony of destruction that filled the silence with a sense of foreboding.

Among the onlookers, whispers of speculation began to circulate, fuelled by the fear and uncertainty that gripped them like a vice. Some speculated that it was an accident, a tragic twist of fate that had reduced the once-grand mansion to a smouldering ruin. Others whispered of foul play, their minds consumed by the possibility of arson and murder.

But amidst the chaos and confusion, one thing remained certain – the charred remains of a body had been discovered in the attic, its identity shrouded in mystery. But as the smoke cleared and the flames died down, the body was identified only by the rings on its fingers, rings that were known to belong to Aemond Targaryen.

With a sense of solemnity, the authorities announced the tragic news to the waiting crowd, their words echoing through the stunned silence. Aemond Targaryen, once a pillar of London's high society, was now little more than a charred husk, his life snuffed out in a moment of madness and despair.

The group of girls wandered through the museum, their expressions a mixture of boredom and disinterest as they glanced over the various displays of ancient artifacts and historical relics. Their attention waned with each passing exhibit, their minds elsewhere as they idly chattered amongst themselves.

As they rounded a corner, their eyes fell upon a display showcasing artifacts discovered at a long-forgotten townhouse, the name "Aemond Targaryen" emblazoned on a plaque beneath. A few of the girls exchanged glances, their interest piqued for a moment before quickly waning again.

"Ugh, more old stuff," one of the girls muttered, rolling her eyes as she brushed past the display without a second thought.

"Yeah, who cares about some rich guy from forever ago?" another chimed in, her voice tinged with sarcasm as she continued on without a backward glance.

The girls moved on, their attention already drifting to the next exhibit, the artifacts of Aemond Targaryen forgotten in an instant amidst the hustle and bustle of the modern world. And as they disappeared into the depths of the museum, the relics of a bygone era stood silent and forgotten, their secrets lost to the sands of time.

As the group of girls continued their aimless meandering through the museum, their chatter filled the air with a lively energy. But their conversation came to an abrupt halt as they rounded a corner and collided with a figure standing in their path.

Apologies spilled from their lips in a flurry of hurried words as they stumbled backwards, their eyes widening in surprise as they took in the sight before them. Standing before them was a man of striking beauty, his long silver hair cascading over his shoulders, his sharp features chiselled and refined, the sapphire nestled in his missing eye only adding to the allure of such a man.

For a moment, the girls were rendered speechless by his arresting presence, their gaze lingering on his flawless complexion and piercing gaze. He offered them a charming smile, his eye twinkling with amusement as he took in their stunned expressions.

"Sorry about that," one of the girls managed to stammer, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment as she regained her composure. "We weren't watching where we were going."

The man's smile widened, a knowing glint in his eye as he inclined his head in acknowledgment. "No harm done," he replied smoothly, his voice a melodic lilt that sent shivers down their spines. "It's not every day that I have the pleasure of such delightful company."

The girls exchanged nervous glances, their hearts fluttering in their chests as they struggled to find their words. There was something undeniably captivating about the man standing before them, a magnetic charm that left them spellbound.

Emboldened by a surge of courage, one of the girls stepped forward, her heart pounding in her chest as she met the man's gaze with a determined expression. "Um, excuse me," she began tentatively, her voice betraying her nerves. "I couldn't help but notice-would you mind giving me your number?"

The man's smile widened at her boldness, a twinkle of amusement dancing in his eyes as he reached into his pocket and produced a sleek smartphone. "Of course," he replied smoothly, his voice a velvety purr that sent a shiver down her spine. "I'd be delighted to."

With practiced ease, he entered his number into her phone, his fingers dancing across the screen with effortless grace. And then, with a flourish, he handed it back to her, his gaze lingering on her with an intensity that left her breathless.

"There you go," he said with a charming smile, his voice soft yet commanding. "Feel free to give me a text or call anytime."

The girl's heart soared with elation as she thanked him profusely, her fingers trembling with excitement as she clutched her phone to her chest.

As the man prepared to take his leave, a nagging curiosity tugged at the girl's mind, prompting her to speak up once more. "Wait," she interjected, her voice tinged with a hint of uncertainty. "You didn't tell me your name”

The man turned back to face her, his smile widening as he regarded her with a knowing glint in his eyes. "My apologies," he replied smoothly, his voice as rich as velvet. "You may call me Aemond."

As Aemond prepared to depart, the girl's mind raced with a sudden realization. His name echoed in her thoughts, stirring a memory from earlier in the museum. With a furrowed brow, she spoke up once more, her voice trembling with curiosity.

"Aemond," she began, her words cautious yet determined. "As in Aemond Targaryen?"

A flicker of amusement danced in Aemond's eyes at her question, a knowing smile playing at the corners of his lips. "You could say that" he replied enigmatically, his tone hinting at a deeper truth that lay just beyond her grasp.

As she watched him disappear into the crowd, her thoughts consumed by the enigmatic stranger she had just encountered, she knew that there was much more to Aemond than met the eye. And as she returned her attention to the museum display, her mind buzzing with excitement, she couldn't help but wonder what other secrets lay hidden beneath the surface of his captivating persona.

Aemond returned to his luxury penthouse, his mind still lingering on the chance encounter with the girl at the museum. As he stepped into the opulent surroundings of his home, a sense of satisfaction washed over him, a rare moment of contentment amidst the chaos of his existence.

With a graceful flourish, Aemond made his way to a reinforced room hidden away from prying eyes, his steps echoing through the silence of the empty halls. With practiced ease, he unlocked the door and stepped inside, the air thick with anticipation as he approached a large, covered object at the centre of the room.

With a flick of his wrist, Aemond lifted the cover from the object, revealing the twisted painting that lay beneath. In the years since its creation – and the sins it bore the mark of – the painting had become unrecognizable, its once-flawless visage now warped and contorted beyond all recognition. Jagged teeth protruding through festering skin, the eye rotten in the socket.

But as Aemond gazed upon the grotesque masterpiece before him, a sense of satisfaction washed over him, a reminder of the darkness that lurked within his own soul. For in the twisted lines and distorted features of the painting, he saw a reflection of his own inner turmoil – a reminder of the price he had paid for eternal youth and beauty.

As Aemond stood in his reinforced room, contemplating the twisted painting before him, the gentle buzz of his phone broke through the silence, drawing his attention away from the dark thoughts that had consumed him. With a curious glance, he picked up the device, his heart skipping a beat as he saw the name displayed on the screen – Cerelle.

A smile tugged at the corners of Aemond's lips as he read the text message from the girl he had encountered at the museum, her invitation to join her for a drink filling him with a sense of anticipation. Who was he to turn down such a beautiful young lady, after all?

With a swift reply, Aemond accepted Cerelle's invitation, his fingers flying across the screen as he typed out his response. As he set the phone down, a sense of excitement coursed through him, a flicker of anticipation igniting in the depths of his soul.

For in that moment, Aemond knew that his encounter with Cerelle was only the beginning.

[greycloudsinwinter]

Master list ❤️❤️

A court of thorns and roses:

Platonic inner circle x reader x romantic azriel

Cassian x reader

High lord rhysand x reader

Thesan high lord of dawn x reader

Yandere inner circle x reader romantic

Kallias x reader

Amarantha x reader

My hero academia:

Katsuki bakugo x reader

Endeavour x reader

Eijiro kirishima x reader

Deku x reader

Twisted wonderland:

Azul x reader

Jamil x reader

Vert x reader

Bridgerton:

Poly bridgerton boys x reader

Colin bridgerton x reader

Game of thrones/ hotd :

The mountain x reader

Khal drogo x targeryan reader

Khal drogo x escaped reader

Khal drogo question

Khal drogo x reader smut

Jamie Lannister protected x reader

Maegor x reader

Rhaegar targeryan x reader

Maegor x wife reader with child

Aegon I x reader

Rickard stark x reader

Tywin Lannister x targeryan first wife reader

Jason Lannister x targeryan wife

Aegon I x reader with children

Maegor x male reader

Jaehaerys I x reader

Tyland Lannister x reader

Yanderes who become kings guard for male reader

Otto hightower x reader

Daemon targeryan x reader

Maegor x escapee reader

Ned stark question 1

Stannis Baratheon x reader

Otto Hightower x reader x platonic alicent

Poly viserys and Otto x reader

Poly viserys and Otto x reader

Poly viserys and Otto x reader question 1

Poly viserys and Otto x reader questions 2

Criston Cole x reader

Corys velaryon x reader

Criston Cole x reader part 2

Otto x reader x viserys question 3

Platonic aegon x platonic aemond x reader

Erryk cargyll x targeryan princess x arryk cargyll

Jacaerys veleryan x reader

Harry Potter / fantastic beasts :

Tom riddle x reader question

Gellert grindelwald x reader

Orion black x reader

Newt scamander x reader

Aberforth dumbledore x reader

Tom riddle x malfoy reader

Knights of walpurgis x reader

Cygnus black x reader

Cygnus black x reader questions

Cygnus black x reader questions 2

Pollux black x reader

Cygnus black x reader question 3

Cygnus black x reader question 4

Cygnus reaction to reader not wanting her children to be death eaters

Who wants the most children Orion or Cygnus black?

Orion black part 2

Poly orion and Cygnus black x reader

Poly marauders x Slytherin reader

Walpurgis x muggle reader

Lucius malfoy x reader

Salazar Slytherin x reader

Hobbit/ lotr :

Thranduil x fairy reader

Thranduil x fairy reader with children

Thranduil x fairy reader 3

Thranduil x fairy reader part of the company

Thranduil x fairy reader question

Haldir x reader

Would yandere Thranduil still join the battle of five armies

Yandere thorin Oakenshield x reader

Twilight:

Marcus volturi x reader

Aro volturi x reader

Cauis volturi x reader

Marcus volturi x reader part 2

Marcus volturi x stubborn reader

Aro volturi x reader (who doesn’t care )

Beaststars :

Ogma x reader

Tem x reader

Poly gohin and oguma x reader

X-men:

Erik lehsnherr x reader

Erik lehsnherr questions 1

Historical characters:

Henry VIII x reader

Henry VIII x reader question 1

Baldwin IV x reader

Oc’s

Knight x reader

[queen--kenobi]

Wheel of Fortune: Magician (Reversed)

Story summary: Elayna Reyne often imagines herself being someone and making a name for herself but only in the way young girls do. Unfortunately, when Elayna makes her way to King's Landing as one of Cerelle Lannister's ladies-in-waiting, Elayna finds dreams come with a price.

Chapter summary: Almost at King's Landing, Elayna finds her circumstances changing. Anxiety and pride mix, causing her to make deals she may regret.

Masterlist

Prologue

Elayna pauses when she steps out of her tent.

The air here tastes different; she isn't sure if she likes it or not. At first, the smell of fresh river water delights her sense. It makes her think of home. Now, as they approach King's Landing and the coast, the water seems less like home.

They still have several more days to King's Landing. Their camp sits on the edge of Blackwater Rush. Gold Road crosses it twice on their way towards the Red Keep, and although it strays from the water, it never strays too far. Elayna wishes it would. She doesn't like the smell or feel of this river. No. She much prefers mountain water to this.

Elayna lifts her upper lip in disgust when the wind blows her way. Out of the corner of her eye, she watches Cerelle emerge from her own tent. Cerelle makes a face not too dissimilar from her own.

Their eyes meet.

The space between them stretches for miles. Cerelle stands only yards away yet Elayna imagines an ocean's worth of distance in the empty space. Elayna swallows. Cerelle purses her lips. She looks away first towards the campfires. Even though Elayna can't truly see how she looks, melancholy rolls off Cerelle in waves.

Elayna's feet move without her permission. She makes her way towards Cerelle, consequences be damned. She may speak to Cerelle if she wishes.

Besides, she has been meaning to ask Cerelle if she might ride with her father today. Alon specifically asked last night for her to check.

“Lady Cerelle. May I ask something?”

Cerelle turns to face Elayna fully. Dark circles highlight her lack of restful sleep. While her hair is intricately braided and done, wisps of blonde hair appear everywhere. Her pale skin almost seems to emphasize her condition, making her look almost sickly. She stares at Elayna for a second before slowly nodding.

“Of course.”

“Would it... would it be alright if I rode with my father today? I would like to spend some time with him.”

“I don't see a problem with this.” Cerelle nods her acquiescence. Elayna smiles at her.

“Thank you.” Elayna doesn't move yet. She wants to say something, to address the awkwardness between them. She takes a single step forward. “I- I have something else I want to speak with you about.”

“Don't.” The sudden sternness in Cerelle's tone makes Elayna flinch. Cerelle clears her throat before looking away from her. One of her hands finds the hem of her sleeve. She toys with it for a second before speaking. “I have spoken with mother. She's informed me of the decisions that have been made.”

Cerelle lifts her head and looks at Elayna over her shoulder. One perfectly curled strand of blonde hair falls over it and down her back. Cerelle's rueful expression snaps Elayna immediately back to the present.

“I was told to pursue other, more fruitful, ventures.”

Ah.

Despite the sadness in Cerelle's tone, a quiet weight lifts off Elayna’s chest. It helps, oddly enough. The thought of no longer being miserable alone but Cerelle sharing in her misery helps her. Elayna hates Cerelle feels that way, but at least she knows now she didn't sit in misery and silence by herself.

Elayna shifts from foot to foot. She tries to think of what to say, to tell Cerelle. She wants to tell the truth, but she would risk incriminate herself in the process.

“Would it help if I-”

“Cerelle! Elayna!”

Both Elayna and Cerelle turn to face the newcomer. Elayna bites down on the inside of her cheek to keep from scowling. Alia Oakheart makes her way over to the two of them, a pleasant smile on her face. Two thoughts cross Elayna’s mind: either the smile on Alia's face is fake, or the other girl just finished making babies cry for fun. The third thought that makes its way into the forefront of Elayna’s mind, and the one most likely the truth, is Alia has been charged with making sure she and Cerelle don't spend anytime alone.

Elayna hates her all the more for it.

Elayna never quite understood why Cerelle never did anything to have Alia sent back home. Sure, it would most likely cause issues, but those would be worth it to not have Alia hovering around them. She can't put a finger on the point she started to dislike Alia; all she knows is everything Alia does grates her nerves. Even Alia sneezing sets Elayna’s teeth on edge.

Maybe it's because Alia thinks she's as smart, if not smarter, than Elayna. Maybe it's because she always feels an air of judgment from Alia, as if Alia knows about her and Cerelle and is waiting to expose them. Maybe it's because Alia is just a bitch. Whatever quality Alia possesses that Elayna hates, Alia has in a massive quantity.

Alia stops when she reaches the two of them. She smiles at them.

“What are the two of you doing down here? We're about to break camp.”

“Elayna was asking if she might ride with her father today.” Cerelle stands up slowly. She shifts into her usual self, but her heart clearly isn't in it. Elayna nods.

“I was. Cerelle has been gracious enough to allow me to do so.” Elayna knows her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes.

Despite the surface level pleasantness of the interaction, the undercurrent of awkward tension is thick enough to cut with a knife. Alia doesn't prod or push, but she clearly seems to think something more is going on, based on the slightly suspicious look on her face. Cerelle, for her part, isn't helping. She looks anywhere but Elayna, her gaze eventually settling on a tent in the distance.

A squeal of absolutely delighted laughter makes both Cerelle and Elayna turn. The sound comes from down closer to the river.

“Ryman! Stooop, ‘tis not funny.” Despite Tyshara's words, she grins. She blushes, her cheeks a light shade of pink. Ryman sits beside her. The situation doesn't look indecent; Tyshara's two closest confidants and Ryman's two friends all sit clustered together so the pair aren't alone. Still, Ryman leans in a little closer than socially appropriate. He whispers to Tyshara. His words cause her entire face to go pink.

Elayna looks to Cerelle out of instinct. Much to her surprise, Cerelle glances back at her. One of her eyebrows raises. Elayna snorts.

“Elayna, I think your brother might have designs on Tyshara.” Alia Oakheart's voice comes out almost sing-song. Her eyes glitter with genuine delight. Elayna shakes her head with a small smile.

“I doubt that. He plays too much.”

“This looks like some very serious playing.” Alia nudges Elayna with her shoulder. Elayna instinctively pushes back against her.

“It shan't happen.” Both Elayna and Alia turn to look at Cerelle. Cerelle stares forward. She watches the meandering river. “Marriages cannot be even exchanges. Tyshara won't marry a Reyne.”

An awkwardness pervades the air for a second. Alia breaks it.

“No one said anything of marriage. Designs don't guarantee outcomes.” She almost titters. Cerelle tears her gaze away from the river to look at the pair. She catches Elayna’s eye. Elayna cocks her head ever so slightly to the side and shrugs, lifting her eyebrows as she does so. Elayna keeps her gaze trained on Cerelle to make sure she catches her quick eye roll.

For a second, Alia's expression falls. Her eyes flick between Elayna and Cerelle of them. She truly looks crestfallen. A twinge of guilt makes itself known. Elayna averts her gaze. She clears her throat.

“Shall we go break our fast?” Elayna offers. Normally, Cerelle smoothes over any minor slights when it comes to the three of them. She manages their small group. Elayna knows how, but Alia makes it difficult. She never seems to believe Elayna, no matter how earnest she actually is.

“That sounds perfect!” Alia beams. “Cerelle, don't tell us you're not hungry.”

Cerelle stares at Alia. The dark circles around her eyes makes her expression seem sunken. After a moment, she nods.

“Yes. That... that sounds good.”

“Excellent!” Alia smiles. She moves forward and grabs Cerelle's wrist. Elayna swallows down a sudden wave of rage. Alia shouldn't touch Cerelle. She doesn't deserve to touch Cerelle. Elayna's hands flex and curl into fists, but she closes her eyes and breathes in slowly. It keeps her from swinging on Alia. She forces a smile.

The three of them make their way down to where everyone else is. Elayna notes her father and Johanna sitting at the head of the group, clearly deep in discussion. Johanna’s eyes briefly leave Alon. Even from this distance, the intensity of Johanna’s gaze nearly makes Elayna stop. She regards Elayna coolly. After a moment, she turns her attention back to Alon.

Elayna purses her lips. A sense of unease creeps over her. She turns her attention back to Cerelle and Alia in an attempt to ignore her discomfort. Still, it nags at her, prickling in the back of her mind. Elayna follows the other two women to the fires. The smell of food causes Elayna's stomach to rumble. She blushes, embarrassment coursing through her. For a second, she swears she hears Alia giggle. Her suspicions are confirmed when Alia nudges Cerelle with her elbow.

Her heart soars when Cerelle gives Alia a dirty look. Elayna doesn't even bother to hide her smirk.

Their meal consists of bread and some cheese. Their journey demands they eat, especially since setting up in the middle of the day just to eat makes no sense. They can close the distance within two or three nights. Extra breaks mean a longer journey, and everyone wants to reach their destination. Even Elayna finds herself irritated with people; she has no place to hide when she tires of everyone else.

The group sits by the river. Elayna nibbles on her bread. Cerelle barely touches her. Alia seems to be the only one enjoying her food. After several long minutes of silence, Cerelle stands. She moves to her feet rather quickly. Both Alia and Elayna look at her.

“I wish to speak my brother. I shan't be but a moment.”

This time, Alia and Elayna exchange confused expressions. Cerelle and Tymon have grown closer on the trip, so her words aren't unexpected. It's more the delivery and suddenness with which she stands.

“Are you su-” Alia begins, but Cerelle quickly interrupts.

“I must speak with him alone.” Cerelle pauses. “I really shan't be but a moment.”

Elayna nods. While she is just as curious as Alia, Cerelle's tone and expression make Elayna think better of asking what is going on. Besides, if it is important, Cerelle will tell her in time. She thinks. Despite her best efforts, Elayna's faith in Cerelle isn't as strong as it once was. Elayna tries to dismiss it, but it bothers her more than she wants to admit.

“If you need us, we'll be here.” Alia practically chirps. Cerelle nods before making her way towards Tymon and his friend. Elayna watches her march determinedly across the grass towards them.

“So.” Alia clears her throat and looks at Elayna. Her eyes sparkle with barely contained mischief and a deviousness that worries Elayna. “You may be betrothed to Tymon?”

“Mayhaps.”

Alia grins. “And what is your plan to get out if it?”

It takes every ounce of Elayna’s self-control to not recoil. Her upper lip twitches.

“Pardon me?”

“You always have to have a plan. I want to know what it is.” Alia leans in close to Elayna. “So tell me. What is it?”

“You make it sound as if I'm constantly scheming.”

Alia raises an eyebrow. “Are you not?”

“I don't scheme! Planning for the future is not scheming.”

“No, that isn't. What you do is.” Alia laughs at Elayna’s expression. It's almost vicious, and Elayna nearly bares her teeth at her. “Don't tell me that you don't realize that's what you do.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about.” Elayna bites her bread a little more viciously than needed.

“Ohohoho, I finally know something the great Elayna Reyne doesn't.” Alia almost sneers.

“Considering I know what a plan is versus a scheme...”

“Planning means you have a general plan. However, since all of your plans end up with you not only surviving, but you coming out on top? You don't plan. You scheme.”

Elayna huffs. Irritation courses through her and takes over her mouth before she can stop it.

“You shouldn't speak of things you have no knowledge of. It makes you look even more ignorant.”

A brief flash of hurt crosses Alia's face. Were Elayna not so upset, she might apologize. However, given Alia is in the wrong, she has nothing to be sorry for. Alia never knows what she is talking about. Alia presses her lips together.

“I bet you can't do it.”

“Can't do what?” Elayna raises an eyebrow.

“I bet you can't get out of this betrothal.”

“Again. You shouldn't speak on things you know nothing about.”

“Do it then.” Alia tilts her head. “You won't. You can't.”

Elayna sets her piece of bread down in her lap. She stares Alia down.

“Not only will I prove you wrong, but I'll do one even better. I shall get out of this betrothal by getting into a better one.” Elayna lifts her head. Her nostrils flare. She keeps her eyes trained on Alia's, jutting out her chin. She dares Alia to challenge her.

Alia doesn't back down. Instead, she grins. It's a sly grin, one Elayna should heed as a warning. Elayna's lip twitches.

“Prove me wrong then." Alia actually smirks at her. Elayna's fingers twitch. She glares venom at Alia, visions of strangling her or bashing her head into the table dancing through her head.

“Oh, I shall.”

*********************************************

The carriage creaks as it goes down the road. Elayna sits across from her father, an embroidery hoop in her hand. Focusing on her stitchwork not only helps the time pass but also eases her anxiety. It gives her fingers and hands an alternative to picking at stray fibers or her nails.

“I spoke with Lady Johanna.”

Elayna blinks and looks at her father. Alon keeps his hands on the handle of his cane. At first, seeing her father with a cane nearly sent her into a spiral. He could not be so old and feeble as to need a cane to keep himself upright. She wouldn't allow it. Her fears ease as she sees him use it infrequently. She only really sees him use it after a particularly brutal day of travel.

It concerns her he uses it more and more often. The use of carriage instead of horseback also bothers her; she tries to attribute it to his age. Surely it must get uncomfortable riding when one reaches his age. She clings to the explanation.

“Did you?” Elayna tries to keep her tone neutral. Hope creeps in despite itself. Maybe her father talked some sense into Lady Johanna. If anyone could, it would be him. She knows this, is certain of this fact. When all else fails, Elayna can count on her father to not only have her back but find a graceful way out of the situation.

Some might call what faith she has in him blind faith, but it's not. Blind faith implies he could let her down yet she takes the risk in trusting him. No. This isn't blind faith. Elayna knows he has her. He has never once fractured her trust; it stands as steady as the rocks beneath their feet. He has never once let her down. He will never do so.

“It was a productive conversation.”

Patience has never been one of Elayna’s strong suits. Having a potential answer to her problems but not knowing the specific details drives her more than a little mad. She cannot solve her issue if a piece is being purposefully withheld from her. Elayna looks at her father expectantly.

“How so?”

Alon leans back some. He presses his lips together slightly, clearly considering his words carefully. Elayna fights to keep still.

“We may have reached a compromise.” Alon states. His tone carries an odd sense of finality to it, one that sets Elayna on edge.

“May I ask for details?”

“You may. You won't get them, but you may ask.”

Elayna's expression must betray her because Alon shakes his head. A soft hiccup of a laugh betrays the fondness in the gesture. Elayna huffs and leans back. She crosses her arms over her chest and looks out the window. This time, Alon's laughter is unmistakable. Elayna glowers at the trees lining the road. She knows how ridiculous she must look, pouting because she isn't given the information she wants, and Alon's laughter only further makes her feel silly. She gets why he's laughing; it doesn't mean she appreciates it.

“I'm not keeping information from you on purpose.” Alon breaks the silence first. His tone shifts from amused to soothing. He shifts in his seat, the sound carrying a little in the carriage. “Things are not solidified as of yet. When I know more, I shall tell you.”

Elayna nods. Despite herself, her shoulders drop away from her ears and ease down her back. She closes her eyes and inhales slowly. She needs to trust, trust her father and his plans.

“I know.” Elayna winces at how her voice comes out a petulant whine. She huffs a quick breath to try and pull herself together. “I know you will. I just... I do not do well with uncertainty.”

“Really? I hadn't noticed. You should tell me these things.”

His words earn him the nastiest glare Elayna can muster. Alon isn't bothered by it; he merely leans back in his seat and looks out the window. Both hands sit on the pommel of his cane, one resting on the other. The grin on his face is infuriating. Elayna isn't the only one who thinks so. Everyone knows Alon's sword skills were only as good as they were because they had to match his wit.

They sit in silence for a long moment. Elayna listens to the carriage roll along, turning her attention back out the window. She frowns at the passing trees. Despite her best efforts, her teeth dig into and pick at the inside of her cheek and lip. She fidgets. Elayna glances down to her hands and then out the carriage window. She shifts her weight from one hip to the other and then back. She sighs. One of her hands comes up to play with some of the stray curls not captured in her braids. She sighs again. Eventually, Elayna clears her throat and turns to face her father.

“I truly don't like knowing.” Elayna confesses. “I know you shall do right by me. I...” she sighs, “I don't want to marry Tymon. I understand the advantages and what it would do for us, but I cannot. I could never love him. And I know that isn't required for marriage but I have to be able to at least stand my husband, but I could never ever stand him.”

Tears begin to form in her eyes unbidden. She swallows hard. The outpouring of emotion startles even her. She stares at Alon, lip wobbling.

“I don't want to.” She knows she sounds like a child, but it sums up how she feels perfectly.

Alon watches her. The look on his face isn't cold or impassive, far from it. While his face is perfectly schooled, she can see sorrow in his eyes. He sighs.

“The current plan is to find you a better match.” Alon speaks carefully, each word specifically chosen. His reluctance to tell her sits heavy in the air yet Elayna's heart swells. She knows the signs of victory when she sees them. “I won't tell you who. But that is the plan.”

Elayna nods and swallows. Gratefulness and relief creep into her in equal measure. She smiles at Alon, and she watches some of the sadness in his eyes leave.

“Thank you.” She murmurs. Elayna can't find any other words. Alon leans back once more and settles himself in his seat. Curiosity burns through her. It tries to pry her mouth open, but Elayna keeps it shut. Alon clearly sees the conversation as finished; he closes his eyes. Elayna swallows hard. A million and one worries dance through her head. She breathes in slowly.

“Elayna. I would not do anything to bring you harm.” Alon keeps his eyes closed. Elayna nods and turns her head.

“I know.” She presses meaning into the simple phrase. Having been at Casterly Rock for so long, trust seems as unfamiliar as a friend who she long lost contact with due to being oceans apart. The danger present in such emotion makes her skin itch. Still, Elayna places her trust in him.

“You shall be fine. I promise you this.”

Elayna picks up her needlework once more. She moves slowly and far less viciously.

“Did I tell you.” Alon interrupts the silence. He still keeps his eyes closed, but his tone makes Elayna look up from her work. “I heard the most interesting rumor about James Crakehall the other day.”

“Oh?” Elayna tilts her head to the side. She finds Lord Crakehall repulsive for many different reasons, a fact she expresses to Alon whenever his name comes up. She distinctly remembers the old man leering at her when she was but two and ten. Neither her nor Alon will ever forgive the offense. “And what did he do now?”

“To my knowledge, there are two new Hills. Unofficially of Crakehall. Of course.”

“And? We know there to be at least 5 Hills a year born there.” Elayna scoffs. “More if rumors are to be believed.”

“None who's mother is newly six and ten.” Alon raises an eye. Elayna drops her needlework in her lap.

“Tell me you jest. Where did you even find out this information?”

“We aren't the only ones who dislike him.” Alon shrugs. “While I have never heard of him officially trying anything untoward, Dustin Plumm seems to have the same gripes as us.”

“Six and ten?”

“Aye. Six and ten.”

“And to think my opinion of the man could have been no lower.” Elayna scoffs. “If it were any lower, it would be in the Seven Hells themselves.”

Alon laughs. The laughter turns into a cough, one seemingly rattling Alon's very bones. Elayna sits up with alarm, needlework clattering to the floor of the carriage. Alon grunts. He waves her away.

“I'm fine.”

Despite him forcing each word through his breathlessness, Alon's tone is sharp, sharper than normal. Elayna hesitates, but Alon opens one eye to level her with a look. She holds up her hands in surrendered before sitting back down. After a moment, she bend forward and picks up her work.

“And how do you know Lord Plumm has the same complaints as us?”

“I have my sources.”

Elayna resists the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she looks back out the window. The distance between her and her fate closes with each turn of the carriage wheels. She purses her lips together. Gossiping about other people's misfortune would keep her mind off of her own impending doom.

“And what of Lord Crakehall? What does he say to the accusations?”

[mercurygray]

Unforeseen + punctual for one of your OCs in HOTD? Juno xx

Decided I need to write more Elin. As one does. This is mildly NSFW.

She never tired of coming home.

The townhouse near the Red Keep would never compare to the splendor of Casterly Rock - she was reminded of that every time she made the journey there and back. But the Rock was not Elin's to claim, and this place was - it was her staff who met her at the door to take her cloak, her tapestries and hangings that decorated the walls. Modest, perhaps, but only compared against the gilt trimmings of the Lannister castles. She let her maidservant take her cloak and gloves and carefully climbed the steps to the upper landing, passing another embroidered lion as she went. But no one will forget a Lannister lives here, either.

They had made good time, from the western coast - Elin fairly marveled sometimes that the trip had only taken twenty days, but there had been no rain to speak of, and the roads had been good. The Master of Coin would complain about the expense of such building works, when Viserys bid the treasury pay out for their upkeep, but the cost was worth it, when a journey of nearly a month lost four or five days.

"I said I was not to be disturbed," Tyland said angrily from his chair, obviously very deep in his ledgers.

"The mistress said I should," Elin said with a grin from the door. Her husband looked up, surprised at her voice, and she allowed herself even more of a smile.

"We didn't expect you for another week!"

"The realm's investment in its roads is paying out."

"I thought you would have sent a raven when you were closer Harrenhall! I would have had the servant- never mind. How was the journey? How is Johanna?" He pushed his chair away from his desk a little, and she came around to his side, resting on the edge of the desk.

"Well, and delivered of a healthy baby girl."

Tyland sighed. "How many does that make?"

"Five."

He scoffed - and with good reason. Jason's daughters were all lovely girls - but at the end of it all, a daughter was still a daughter, and five of them was only adding insult to injury. "How did my brother manage?"

"He stayed well enough away until we were done and had the good sense not to say anything terrible after."

"And he behaved himself, otherwise?" Tyland's eyes were sharp.

"I should say suprisingly, but it was explained to me later that he has a new mistress and that settled the matter some," Elin reported with an amused look at her husband. "If I didn't know you better, Tyland, I'd say you were disappointed."

"My wife is owed the compliment of a little flirtation," the Master of Coin offered, somewhat obliquely, his shoulders set just the way they did when he was feeling defensive.

"Well, if I'd wanted that I could have stayed nearer to home. The Prince greeted me on my way in. Aha - see?" Elin smiled at Tyland's sudden scowl. Prince Aegon was predictable in many ways - and trying to proposition the wife of one of his courtiers was a regular occurence. "He only does it to vex you, you know. If I were to say yes to his proposals he'd be terrified. You know as well as I do he only likes women who don't say no."

"That pup needs to learn to mind his manners."

"I'm not entirely sure he has any," Elin reported with mild amusement. "Not that the Queen hasn't tried." She made herself comfortable on the edge of his desk, facing her husband and studying his face. "Shall I tell you what he said?" she asked, brushing a hair out of his face and choosing her words carefully. Her husband said nothing, but she knew he wanted it, that swell of jealousy. "He asked after my journey, neatly enough, and then said if my dry old stick didn't serve me well enough there was plenty of sap in other trees." Her hand traced down his chest, over the blackwork of his tunic and his golden chain, gently moving her hand between his thighs. "I told him he was kind to offer, but that old wood is stronger than green."

"Elin," Tyland's voice was tinged with warning and desire, closing his eyes as she moved aside his tunic and began undoing the points of his hose so she might slip her hand inside, finding the length of him and letting her fingers just ghost over his skin before she took him in her hand. "Elin, it's the middle of the afternoon."

"And it's a very long ride from Lannisport," she said, patience in every word. "Your wife wants something between her legs that isn't a horse - or a piddling princeling." I've been gone three months and I miss my husband.

"I've - ah! a meeting with -" he lost his thought as he moaned again, his eyes still closed. "Jasper Wylde. And he's usually-" Tyland groaned. "Punctual."

Elin smiled, continuing to stroke him without a second thought. "Perhaps we can make the Ironrod jealous, too," she said, moving closer so she could kiss his face, her hand still stroking him steadily. "Lady Wylde's not nearly as pretty as me."

[lady--elayna]

Elayna's phone rings.

She nearly jolts at the sound. Alon doesn't stir. His chest rises and falls with regularity. Elayna grabs her phone, fully intending on ignoring the call. The name flashing across her screen makes her pause.

Katie, one of the younger nurses, walks by at that moment. Perhaps she came over to check on Elayna.

"We'll watch him." She offers.

"Thank you." Elayna stands. She accepts the call as she heads towards the doors. Alon taught her to always take calls outside when in public places, so as not to disturb anyone else.

"Hello?"

"Miss Reyne." Tyland's voice greets her from the other end. His tone is almost bland.

"Mr. Lannister." Elayna makes her way out of the chemo ward. "How are you? I heard you're back in Paris."

"Yes. I arrived last week." Tylands hums. "I must say, I could be better."

"Oh? What's wrong?"

"I just got a troubling call from Jason." Tyland keeps his tone friendly and approachable. "He says he had a meeting with the Targaryens, and we lost our contract."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Oh, I don't think it's news to you." Ah. Elayna smirks to herself. That's the crack in his benign bean counter facade she wants to see. "He said we lost the contract to Castamere Financial. More specifically, we lost it to you."

"To me?" Elayna hums. She walks out into the hospital courtyard. "That's very flattering, but everything is still run by my father."

"Jason seemed under the impression it was to you."

"I will be working closely with the Targaryens, yes. But that does not mean it was lost specifically to me or because of me."

Tyland makes a small noise over the phone. "I see."

"You know Otto Hightower is a fickle bitch. He probably got upset with Jason and decided to punish him."

"Oh, I have no doubt Jason upset him." Tyland sounds almost amused. "I talked to Otto as soon as I heard. He says you were the one who brought Jason's indiscretions to light."

Elayna rolls her eyes. She barely stops herself from muttering something derogatory about Otto. "You make it sound as if I tattled. All I did was bring up concerns, but they were not why the meeting was called."

Tyland makes a low noise, one indicating he's not convinced.

"I didn't know the meeting was even happening until last week. I didn't even know I was to do anything other than be there until today." She offers. "I thought I was just along to ease any future transitions."

"So you didn't know you were tapped to work with them?"

"I didn't." Of course Elayna had her suspicions. She never asked, though. Mostly so she could answer this question honestly and in a way that made her not a threat.

Tyland stays silent for a moment. She wonders... If circumstances were different, what would he say? She finds for the briefest of moments she wants his verbal approval, like she used to get.

"Do you need to talk Jason off a ledge?" She teases to fill the space.

"No. He merely asked me to talk some sense into you. If that hasn't worked by now, I'm afraid it never will."

Elayna places a hand over her heart.

"You wound me."

"Yes, the truth can hurt." Tyland hums. "How is your father?"

Elayna swallows.

"Are you asking in a business capacity or friend capacity?"

"Friend."

"As well as can be expected."

"And if I said I was asking in a business capacity?"

"As well as can be expected."

Tyland lets out a low chuckle. "It sounds as if you don't trust me."

"It’s more..." Elayna sighs. "I don't particularly want to talk about it." She stops. "That, and I don't trust you right now."

"Probably wise."

[emilykaldwen]

The Maiden and the Drowning Boy | Aegon x OC | Chapter One

Rating: Explicit Ships: Aegon II Targaryen x Abrogail Strong (Lyonel Strong's Daughter), Jacaerys Velaryon x Helaena Targaryen Summary: As the kingdom teeters on the edge of chaos, Alicent Hightower swaps the pieces on the board: Aegon will marry Abrogail Strong, Larys’ younger sister and heir to Harrenhal. Caught in the web of intrigue and political machinations, the pair must figure out where their loyalties lie, and what they mean to one another.

Tropes: Childhood Sweethearts/Friends to Lovers, Generational Trauma and Cycles of Abuse, It's All About the Character Development, Unreliable Narrators, Multi-POV, Canon Divergent, Bisexual Aegon II Targaryen, Book/Show Mash Up, Fix-It Of Sorts, Stopping the Cycle of Abuse before it gets us all killed, Team Neutral, fairy tale vibes meets victorian medievalism meets grrm

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Author's Note: After a lot of encouragement, I will be posting chapters in their entirety here and on AO3. Many many huge thanks to @acrossthesestars for being my co-pilot, and for holding my hand through writing this story. Thank you to everyone who has reblogged and commented. Your words mean the world to me.

CHAPTER ONE - THE WEIGHT THAT BROUGHT US HERE

Alicent watched the lords of the council settle into their seats, placing their markers in the proper place. Lord Tyland Lannister took his seat at the opposite end of the magnificent table, Lord Lyman Beesbury to his right. Maester Mellos and then Lord Larys at her own left hand. Jasper Wylde sat beside her father’s usual place at the right hand. The power of the realm all concentrated right in this room. They prayed to the Crone for guidance and wisdom at the beginning of every meeting, a practice that had thankfully not reached the ears of the king, as he’d been cloistered in his rooms since his illness had taken more of his body. It was one thing to allow her Faith to grace their dinner table. It was a whole other to have the Faith find its place at the Small Council. While his signature still graced the decrees, and his decisions still paramount for he was the King, Viserys had left the dealings of the realm to them. It was for the best - Viserys’ mind was giving way to his illness and the less seen, the better. Alicent didn’t know what she preferred: her husband demeaning her and neglecting her children, or him calling her Aemma when she came to care for him at night.

She grazed her fingers over the polished black marble ball in front of her as Maester Mellos began rattling off the never ending fighting between the Brackens and Blackwoods that not even the Father bearing down from the heavens himself could stop. They continued to tear themselves apart as if they would win all the gold in Casterly Rock for the longest, most ridiculous spat that the Tullys were no longer capable of handling. Sometimes she wished she could just drag charcoal lines along the map, piece off the floodplains to the north and the west and the mountains, let the other kingdoms take their pieces.

“Begs the question if perhaps it isn’t time to elect a new Lord Paramount to bring them to heel,” Lord Wylde harrumphed in his self-important way. The man was well and agreeable enough, Alicent thought, but every time he spoke, she missed Lyonel Strong. None of his proposals contained this ‘begging the question’ sort of nonsense, and none of Wylde’s attempts had any of the late Lord Strong’s well thought out solutions and easy friendliness.

“Unless grievous injustice is done, we cannot normally strip the title of Lord Paramount, but their inability to bring either house to heel since given the title is threatening the stability of the realm. Blackwoods own more land than the Tullys, and now we have reports they’ve gone undermining one another’s orchards, and putting others at risk.” Jasper turned his gaze to Larys, who had not spoken since the prayer. “Strong, your holding is Harrenhal. What do you have to say about this matter?”

Larys’ manner did not fool Alicent, but it worked wonders, as always, on Jasper. “This quarrel of theirs has lasted as long as the dynasty and longer still. King Jaehaerys brokered peace, and we cannot ascertain what sparked it again.” From the nervous licking of his lips to the fidgeting of his hands, he was a master at seeming far less dangerous than he truly was. “You might seek instead the opinion of my dearest uncle Simon. He is the castellan and knows both it and the Riverlands far better than I do, as I’ve been here during most of this recent infighting. ”

Wylde humphed, twitching his nose in such a way that his bushy mustache reminded Alicent of a walrus she’d seen at Driftmark. She dug her nails into her palm to hold back her laugh. “Should we offer the Tullys more incentive?” Wylde blustered, reaching for a solution that he could take credit for.

“Incentive for not letting their bannerman destroy harvests?” Tyland Lannister snorted, reclined in his chair as if he were the one running the meeting. “That’s their duty. If they can’t do it, then there’s a bigger issue to deal with.”

“Perhaps a betrothal,” Lord Beesbury spoke up, his eyes darting from Larys’ to hers. Alicent straightened, watching the man try to figure out how to present his own suggestion. “The Tullys are proud, and the Riverlands command a great host when they come together. Lord Tully’s great-grandson is around Princess Helaena’s age. It would be a show of friendship and goodwill.”

“A show of a dragon is what you mean, isn’t it?” Her father’s voice cut in smoothly, but she could see the annoyance in his eyes at the prospect of Helaena being sent to the Riverlands. She did not want her sweet girl sent so far away either, but his words hurt in their easy protectiveness of her daughter, when they had never done for herself.

“Dragons are a statement, my Lord Hand. If not the princess, perhaps… Lord Strong, your youngest sister is not yet married,” Beesbury continued, flush with ideas. Was Rhaenyra feeding them to him?

“If Grover Tully, or whomever is handling their seat, cannot bring them to heel, we should have the Lords Bracken and Blackwood come and explain themselves to the crown,” she cut in before Beesbury could really get his momentum going. Heads turned to look at her, and Alicent looked to the Grand Maester. “Send ravens today. By the moon’s turn, I want them before the Iron Throne explaining themselves.” There was a curl of satisfaction on her lips as the aging Mellos gestured to his assistant. “We should also have Lord Tully, or his son, also come to answer. I know Lord Grover has been recently ill,” she continued. Authority and compassion were the balance she must always strike, so that her decisions could not be questioned, her judgment nothing but sound. She was the Mother of the Realm after all.

“Well said, your Grace,” Larys said softly, that shadow blink of a smile on his face. Lord Beesbury’s suggestions were easily dismissed.

Tension knotted between her shoulder blades, and she shifted in her chair to relieve the pain. She drummed her fingers on the armrest of the chair as her father’s warning spun dizzily through her thoughts.

Either you prepare Aegon to rule, or you cleave to Rhaenyra and pray for her mercy.

That morning, Ser Criston found the boy who might be king passed out in the stables with his cock in hand; at least her father hadn’t found out. Alicent felt nauseated at the idea of sacrificing a girl barely younger than she’d been in an attempt to corral her son into leadership.

The doors of the chamber opened. Ser Harrold Westerling entered the room with the head dragonkeeper, Arryx, following behind. Her father rose not in a show of respect for the Kingsguard Commander, but some show of power - the unyielding stone and height of the tower that would not bow to neither wind nor storm.

“Forgive my tardiness, your Grace, my lords.”

Her father waved a hand and sat back down. “We were told that you were attending to an urgent matter, Lord Commander.”

Ser Harrold clasped his arm across his chest and bowed to her. “This morning, I was alerted to events that transpired last night inside of the dragonpit. Keeper Arryx wanted to speak of the matter to you personally.” Ser Harrold stepped back to allow the aging keeper to take the floor. Alicent gave her own nod to the man as he rose from his prostration.

“Dreamfyre has laid another clutch of eggs. Only three, your Grace, and she will let no one near them. Vhagar has been circling,” Arryx said.

Alicent frowned. Dreamfyre had not laid a clutch in several years now, and Vhagar rarely came to the pit. She was too old, too large, with little desire to be kept with her smaller brethren. The horrific beast preferred a rocky outcropping far out into the bay.

Aemond had given her a quizzical look when she’d brought it up once, when he was still bedridden and recovering from his mutilation. Her sweet boy was now strung through with a confidence that she’d never seen ignite within him when he had both eyes. The dangerous glint that confidence took as he’d grown older was also new.

She’s protecting what is hers, mother. We both are, he’d said.

“I have spoken with the Commander of the City Watch, your Grace, to ensure that those in the areas closest to the pit keep their distance unless absolutely necessary. It has allowed us to take stock of the current state of those neighborhoods.” Ser Harrold turned to look at Ser Otto. “A full report will be on your desk.”

Her father nodded, and Ser Harrold looked once more to the keeper.

Arryx shifted on his feet, and Alicent watched his eyes flick to the Grand Maester with an expression that she could not discern. The Citadel and the Hightowers have always stood side by side for the betterment of the realm, Alicent, and you’ll continue to foster that friendship, won’t you?

“Five of the kitlings have also died, your Grace. They were unbonded, brought from Dragonstone before…”

Before Daemon had come back.

“How many dragons does this put us at?” Her father’s deceptively mild tone was the opposite of his glee when Aemond had claimed Vhagar. The numbers requested were ones he’d calculated in his head, monthly, since he’d come back.

“Claimed, my lord?” Arryx asked, pausing momentarily. “Eleven, throughout the family. Lady Rhaena’s dragon hatched, but it was born twisted and sickly and did not last. I have not received word otherwise of any intention for Lady Rhaena to come and try to claim another dragon.”

Half of the dragons were claimed. Alicent watched her father drum his fingers along the table. Identifying the pattern took only a moment. He was counting.

Specifically, the dragons that were on their side.

“I want reports of the necropsies upon their completion,” her father said with a narrowed and assessing look, disturbed by the news. “The last thing we need is some strange illness to rip through all of them.”

Alicent chewed on the inside of her lip and watched the shining outline of the seven-pointed star beaming down on the table.

“Syrax is almost big enough for two riders now. Will you come touch the clouds with me, Alicent? Please?” Rhaenyra had always begged, mouth close to her ear, hands stroking her arms, her wounded and bloody fingers.

The joyful look that Aegon once gave her now reserved for a beast: “I’ve never known love until Sunfyre, mother. It’s like the world has color now that we’re together.”

“Dreamfyre keeps me tethered to the ground even as I fly in my dreams. She’s the only anchor I have,” said Helaena, who would withdraw from her touch as if it were a sting from a bee.

Little Daeron and his dragon clutched in his arms: “I can’t leave Tessarion behind, mother! I won’t know how to be happy without her!”

Dragons had robbed Alicent of everything.

“Thank you, Arryx. I will speak to the children and see what Prince Aemond might do about Vhagar.” The idea of her sweet, once immaculate and tender-hearted child being near that twisted, hoary thing still terrified her, no matter how gently reassuring Aemond could be.

Arryx did not move to leave just yet. “Forgive me, your Grace, but Vhagar is no Vermithor or Sunfyre: she is old and willful, and although she is bonded with our prince, I would suggest caution. He is… young, and Vhagar was forged in the fires of battle.”

He bowed once more before taking his leave.

Even in indescribable pain, in the face of his own father’s disregard and disdain, Aemond sought to soothe her. “Do not mourn me, mother. It was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye, but I gained a dragon.”

What else would her father do to get more dragons on their side?

Nervous tension pulsed in the silence left when the doors closed behind the dragonkeeper, filled only by the soft creak of the Kingsguard’s mail and the gentle clink of the chain around Grand Maester Mellos’ neck as he shifted in his chair, barely audible. The enduring mystery and curiosity of dragons was a specter of The Stranger above them all. Alicent had heard her kingly husband remind Rhaenyra repeatedly: Dragons were not pets. The bond with them should not blind their riders to the power that thrummed ancient and thick in their veins.

She breathed slowly, letting the quiet ease, refusing to meet anyone else’s eyes as the tumult of feelings inside of her crashed upon the jagged edges of her broken ribs. This was the right choice. Her babies were only half-Targaryen, and Rhaenyra’s bastards were the same, whether she’d ever admit to it or not.

Everyone in the room had grown up with the stories that the Conquerors spread when they forged the throne: The Valyrian blood magic that had made them dragonriders was only to be found in their Targaryen blood. That bloodline needed to remain pure. Yet, Rhaena’s pure Valyrian blood did not save her first dragon from being born sickly and dying quickly, while Aemond - Targaryen only by half - bonded with Vhagar, the most powerful beast in the world.

There were no further reasons to believe the Targaryens were gods after all, and above the realm they had conquered.

The great chair of the King creaked as she slowly rose, taking in the council before her. There were no Targaryens in this room, even if she had birthed her own clutch of half-dragons. Alicent bore this task without joy or fanfare. It was a duty to be endured for the good of her family, for the good of her realm.

She stood with her hands folded in front of her, the image of the Mother of the Realm. Alicent had done this once before, when she had declared that she was standing in an official capacity for her husband.

“My lords of the council,” She hedged a glance at her father before moving her gaze to each man at the table. Ladies of the realm should be on the council. “It is with great joy and love that the King and myself, with Lord Larys Strong, announce to the small council that we have arranged the betrothal of our son, Prince Aegon Targaryen, and Lady Abrogail Strong.”

Each of the lords straightened in their chairs. Lord Beesbury frowned and glanced away from her. The uncertain and uncomfortable shifting in his chair belied the embarrassment he was attempting to hide. Alicent felt no need to point it out. It was a fine idea that he’d presented and not his fault he did not know what had already been decided. Even if he was Rhaenyra’s lapdog, Alicent would be the better person, and not rub his face in it.

The congratulations buzzed in her ears as she sat back down in her chair, and beneath the table, she tore at the skin along her left thumbnail. The pain was as dull as the congratulations in her ears. Her father’s voice was distant, jovial even.

They hadn’t even told Aegon and Abrogail yet. She remembered standing in the same position, knowing what was coming, knowing what it would destroy and desperately hoping that it might not.

I have decided to take a new wife. I intend to marry Lady Alicent Hightower before Spring’s end.

I’m sorry, I’m so sorry Rhaenyra forgive me forgivemeforgiveme.

“A feast is in order to announce Prince Aegon and Lady Abrogail’s betrothal,” Tyland’s jovial tone broke the silence. His suggestion—or statement, depending on how Alicent took it—was not one that she’d expected when she sat down in Viserys’ chair, but welcomed the confirmation of his support.

Meanwhile, Larys’s expression gave nothing away. He simply inclined his head in agreement.

Her son — her trueborn son — for all his faults, deserved to be celebrated. She was happy she didn’t have to fight for this. It was Mellos who spoke next: “Given the last wedding that was celebrated within these halls, it would be a reassuring gesture to the Lords of the Realm if they were given the opportunity, and for us to show unity within House Targaryen. With the Prince’s nameday in a few moons, perhaps we can celebrate with a tournament.”

Alicent’s eyes cut to her father, who smiled lightly, nodding in agreement but careful not to say a word, allowing the Maester to be responsible for the idea.

“Even better,” Tyland raised his goblet in agreement. “We haven’t had a proper celebration in years. What better occasion? Lord Rickard Reyne will be overjoyed to hear the honor bestowed on his granddaughter.” He looked over at her father. “I take it you’ll be writing to him, Lord Hand?”

The last time Alicent had seen her uncle Lord Rickard had been at her mother’s funeral: now no longer the worst day of her life, but the memory that was still seared into her mind. She recalled Lord Reyne as a stoic man, but he’d been kind to her in her grief. Alicent hoped the years had not taken that away from him, but they likely had.

Time always stole away kindness.

Lord Beesbury looked pensive. Alicent could practically hear the man pushing house markers along the map in his head as the conversation continued. “Was Princess Rhaenyra involved in such a discussion?”

“The Princess Rhaenyra has continued to seclude herself and,” he paused, his gaze heavy and considering as he took in those around the table. “Her second husband, Daemon Targaryen, at Dragonstone. Neither has she come to the small council as her status allows, nor has she engaged with matters of the realm that her being heir gives her right to,” her father said smoothly, and he was right. “The king still grieves his daughter’s choices, and she has yet to amend with him. I agree with Lord Lannister and our Grand Maester. This would show the strength and unity and willingness of House Targaryen to bond and celebrate with the realm.”

Beesbury gave a humorless chuckle. “And nothing to do with presenting Prince Aegon formally.” As a contender. As a choice - that was left unsaid.

Alicent felt a surge of anger inside of her, instinct compelling her to protect her children and pull the wool Viserys and Rhaenyra spun from Beesbury’s eyes so he could see the truths they refused to acknowledge.

Not long after Aemond had been born, Lord Lyonel had enlisted her in trying to get Viserys to hold another declaration to follow Rhaenyra, if she was truly his desired heir even with two healthy boys of his blood. The King had originally chosen Rhaenyra because of the loss of Baelon and Aemma. Everyone wanted to keep Daemon off the throne, lest he became another Maegor the Cruel… and now, he was to be Rhaenyra’s consort, and Viserys still would do nothing. Alicent refused to believe that Rhaenyra would kill her half-siblings, that she would kill Alicent’s children for whatever love had been there. Every dark, curly haired little boy caused her to fear not what Rhaenyra would decide, but what others would encourage her to do. Her father had not been wrong - her sons would be beacons of rebellion, damned by the man who had so desperately craved a son, yet now ignored. How bitter a pill.

Daemon terrified her. They should all be terrified of him. Daemon now had Rhaenyra’s ear and her heart and her body. Daemon was not one to hesitate if something stood in his way.

Did you fuck Daemon Targaryen in a pleasure house? Targaryens have such queer customs.

“Prince Aegon is eight and ten, an accomplished dragonrider, ah…” Mellos trailed off, and the uncertainty on his face clawed at Alicent’s insides. Failure was acid in her throat.

Either you prepare Aegon…

That boy who would be king had groped six serving girls at the last feast before drinking and whoring his way through the Street of Silk.

“My sister and heir is of unimpeachable character,” Larys’ quiet voice carried within the room. “As a child, Abrogail was a playmate of Prince Aegon and his siblings, and she has become a beloved ward of Queen Alicent, who has done a remarkable job of raising her after the deaths of our parents. I would consider her to be a prime example of all our realm offers to a family that has, if I may be candid, gone to great lengths to keep to their own since the conquest. Wouldn’t you agree, Grand Maester?”

That poor girl she’d now chained to him was a picture of the Maiden. It had taken everything to ensure that her father waited for it. She would not have another bride offered to the throne before she was of age, while her father wanted nothing more than for Aegon to grow up.

Tension crept back into the room at Larys’ words. Nobody would think to utter these thoughts had Viserys been sitting there. Mellos cleared his throat and avoided her father’s gaze to adjust the heavy chain around his neck. The title of Grand Maester had been his even before Viserys’ reign, and he was possibly the closest representative that was not her to speak to Viserys’ mind.

“I would agree, Lord Strong. Perhaps even exploring the eventuality of wedding Prince Aegon’s children to Prince Jacaerys’ would… reassure Princess Rhaenyra. She once suggested a betrothal between Princess Helaena and-”

“We already have other candidates in mind for my daughter,” Alicent cut in immediately. She wouldn’t say anything about Jace’s children and future grandchildren. She refused to entertain the idea that Helaena would marry Rhaneyra’s son to cover her indignity and insult to everything that she had been given and born into. “We have time before the wedding,” she said with a gentler tone. “A year should be more than enough to introduce them to the realm and start introducing Prince Aegon to newer responsibilities befitting his station.”

That was time enough to beat her son into someone who could be King.

Morning light streamed through the gauzy, sage curtains of the princess’ room. Abrogail licked the honey clinging to her fingers as she moved towards the washbasin, abandoning half-eaten bread and cold cuts of meat at the table. Helaena also ignored their meal as she lingered at the only window that could give her a good view of the Dragonpit. Vhagar had been on the prowl that morning, unusually territorial, and the change in the dragon’s temperament had entranced the friend whom she called sister. She jumped when Abby ventured near her, eyes wide and body tense as a startled cat, so the redhead pivoted in the opposite direction in order to retrieve Helaena’s bodice. Normally, she did not wear one unless the Queen noticed, but on days when her mind drifted, the structure of the garment seemed to keep Helaena focused on the moment instead of her dreams. The princess was somewhere else in her thoughts, mechanically holding up her arms to have the bodice slipped over her shift.

“I’m going to tighten the laces now, alright, Helaena?” Abrogail told the princess as she always did, walking through the process so she wasn’t surprised by anything.

Helaena gave no verbal indication that she was listening, but Abby noticed her pale blonde head bob in acceptance. Slowly, she began straightening the garment, mindful of keeping her touch on the lacing and the chemise from pulling and pinching uncomfortably and defeating the purpose.

“Pink and red, he might be dead. Blue and black, no coming back,” Helaena murmured. Her gaze drifted to Myrella Penrose, who approached with a yellow, diamond patterned dress for inspection. “I don’t want my scales to be so bright.” Helaena’s voice did not rise from her quiet tone, and her gaze flitted away.

“How about the new one from Sevenmas?” Abby offered brightly before Myrella’s face could twist into the uncertain and disturbed look it took whenever Helaena drifted. “The ocean blue one with the beading. That’ll be nice to feel, right, Helaena?”

The princess tilted her head about, humming. “Yes, that would be.” She threaded her fingers together, pressing in so the knuckles would crack. Myrella visibly winced at the sound, but Abby just shook her head and carefully tucked the laces into the bodice. “The perfect hug,” came the breathless statement, before Helaena’s bright lavender eyes finally focused away from whatever she was tracking to turn around and look towards her. Abby took the dress from Myrella and offered her cousin a smile as she held it up. She was used to Helaena’s inquisitive gazes, as if she was a bug under the pretty Maester’s glass Aemond had gifted his sister. “Do you need them, too?”

“A hug?” Abby frowned.

“Scales - armor to protect you,” she clarified. Helaena held her arms up to slide the dress over her head, and Abby left her to do the little buttons down the front herself. “Or would you prefer a pretty carapace? Silver and reds, greens and blue. Pinks and black and gold.”

Abby laughed at the idea of being covered in so many colors, and Helaena even returned the smile as she finished her buttons. It was a good sign, and the tingle of worry that had been crawling up and down along her spine immediately eased. “To be decorated in so many colors? That would make for lovely armor.”

Helaena’s mood was improving, which meant that when the Queen finally came in, she wouldn’t immediately launch into fretting and worrying about the princess being in ‘one of her episodes.’ Abby knew the Queen did not mean it badly, but it still made her uncomfortable. Were her mother still there, she would say something if Abby expressed her concern. She was alone here now, and things were as different as the day and night.

The door creaked open, but it wasn’t Alicent who entered. Helaena’s little smile turned bright and beaming: “Aemond!”

At four and ten, the boy was steadily growing with each passing turn of the moon. While bypassing Abrogail in height was no difficult feat, he now stood as tall as his sister and mother. Prince Aegon was the next family member he was bound to outgrow, and the Queen had already tasked her with ordering clothes to be made ready for when Aemond shot up again. Lord Otto towered over most, and he japed that Aemond might make it where Aegon had failed to surpass him.

Hearing Helaena’s joyous declaration, Abby caught a spray of pink blooming on his pale cheeks, and Aemond reached up to adjust the soft leather strap of his eyepatch. The scar no longer looked angry, but it was prominent; a ridge of thick skin that was only just smoothing out with time. The prince held a jar carefully in his hands. He took several steps before Abby clucked her tongue at him the way she would at her own cat, though Theraxis had not joined her that morning in Helaena’s room. Earlier, a maid brought along with their meals news that the cat was gallivanting in the discarded feathers while the scullery maids plucked chickens.

“Your mother will be up any minute. She said she doesn’t want to catch you in here anymore,” Abby warned with an arched brow. There was no censure in her teasing tone. Aemond was nearly her own little brother, although much was changing as they left their childhoods behind.

“She won’t be here for him,” Helaena said in a voice far more present than it had been before, Aemond’s very presence pulling her back down to earth and away from the clouds. “What did you bring me?” Even though her buttons were only half-done, Helaena rushed across the room to Aemond with her arms outstretched and fingers wiggling. “Oh! It’s beautiful! Abby! Look!” She held up the jar filled with little sticks and leaves – a fat blue and yellow cocoon precariously hanging from one forked stick inside. “I wonder if it belongs to the ones I released last year.”

“You’ll be the mother of all the moths and butterflies in the Red Keep,” Aemond said softly, so softly that Abby could hardly hear him despite standing close by.

Abrogail moved away from the siblings, smiling at Myrella and leading the woman to the opened door. “Thank you for your help this morning. I believe the Queen will need you more today. Let her know we’ll be going to the gardens later, if you please.” Lately, the Queen had been sending the Penrose woman to help Abby tend to the princess’ needs. It had made her nervous. When she asked the Queen if she was being replaced, the words stuck to her throat. Her Grace had been adamant that it was not the case at all, that it was only so Abrogail could learn from her in preparation for her own running of a household, and give Helaena time to get used to someone else helping her.

Another part of Abby wondered if the Queen knew Aemond was still coming to visit in the morning. Or worse, that Uncle Otto was spying. Abby was protective of her friends, her kin. They were siblings bonded through the years of fights in the mud and pranks and stories in the nursery. Bonds such as theirs were not so easily broken; they only changed as time passed, as things happened, like Aemond losing an eye.

Myrella Penrose gave her a tight smile and left down the hall. Abby watched her go, lingering in the door as Aemond and Helaena whispered in the room. Her friend’s quiet giggles were a rare sound, and Abby would do anything to protect those moments for her, for them both. She tugged at the embroidered cuffs of her dark blue-gray dress, thumbs brushing the little weirwood leaves sewn in delicate scarlet thread. Little golden dragons danced through them as a symbol of her ties with the family. Aegon had picked the golden thread, predictable as ever, when she’d asked his opinion.

She thought of the embroidered knot Helaena had been making – silver and green, tangling with red and black and gold. There were so many twists, but Helaena assured her that there was a rhyme to it, a dance with complicated steps. Aemond’s soft laugh cracked a bit, and Abby bit her lower lip to hide her giggle at the sound. She turned her head, and while she couldn’t quite make them out, she could see their shadows along the stone floor. They stood close together, heads bowed over something - maybe the jar, she couldn’t tell.

Heavy and purposeful footsteps echoed down the hall. Abby’s head snapped up from where she stood within the doorway, not immediately visible. She strained to identify the cadence, and her stomach twisted when she did.

“It’s him,” she hissed, glancing wide-eyed over her shoulder. Aemond’s head was close to Helaena’s with her hands resting on his shoulders. At Abby’s raised alarm, her fingers twisted in his dark green doublet and yanked him towards the partition, shoving him behind it. Abby snatched the jar with the precious cocoon inside and tucked it on the bookshelf behind the embroidered manticore Helaena had just finished. Otto Hightower’s footsteps were not alone, although the Hightower guards did not enter the Princess’ room when he swept in. Abby immediately dropped into a curtsy, a murmur of, “Lord Uncle.” Helaena bobbed slightly, twisting back and forth a bit. “Good morning, grandfather,” she said, bounding up to press a kiss on his cheek. If Otto had any weakness, it would be his unparalleled love and favoritism of his granddaughter. It was hard to tell how much Helaena enjoyed her grandfather’s attention and how much was one of her games, but whatever it was, it worked.

“Good morning, sweet girl. You look lovely today.” Otto’s voice was fond, his smile more gentle than he seemed capable of. He was an intimidating man. Abby had received nothing but kindness and vague disinterest, but he still made her nervous. “I hope you don’t mind, but I need to borrow your cousin.” She felt her cheeks color as Otto’s gaze moved to her. Her mouth dried as her nerves returned to where they’d been when standing before the Queen, wondering if she was being replaced. Perhaps Larys was sending her back to Harrenhal or her sister was demanding she go to her in Casterly Rock.

Helaena smiled at her, though, with her hands folded across her stomach. “I’ll help you with your carapace later,” she reassured her. “You won’t be without armor.”

Closing the door behind them, the Hightower guards followed a few paces behind as Abby fell in step with him.

“Is everything alright?” she asked as they went left instead of right, towards the Hand’s tower. It had been years since she’d walked this path that had been as familiar to her as the gardens of the Red Keep. Her eyes glanced for the loose stone at the corner of the step, where she’d stow secret messages in the little hollow behind it. Had she left a note there? Was there perhaps a mystery one waiting for her?

“It is. And I hope you have been well yourself.” Lord Otto looked down at her gently, and she nodded. “The Queen says you pray often in the Sept?”

A prompt. A strange one, but a prompt all the same. She swallowed past her dry mouth and put a smile on her face. “Yes, I enjoy the quiet, and it helps me feel closer to my parents.” And brother, but she was careful not to mention Harwin around anyone but a handful. “It’s especially nice when her Grace joins me. It’s almost like I have my mother back.” No one could replace her mother, but the Queen had been there for as long as she could remember, and sometimes, when she tilted her head a certain way and the light caught in Queen Alicent’s auburn curls, she could pretend her mother was there once more.

“Her Grace speaks highly of you – how good you are with Princess Helaena, well behaved and polite. She said that you and the princess have made things for the poor children of the city. A very kind and admirable pursuit for you both. Your father would be very proud.”

“Thank you.” Abby wasn’t sure what else to say or what he was getting at as they began climbing the winding staircase. The familiarity of it hit her like a scent memory - one sudden and revealing of long-forgotten feelings. “I do my best to follow the Queen’s guidance and reflect well on my position within the family and her example.”

“Good. Very good.” She wasn’t sure if it was something she was supposed to reply to, so she hedged her bets and remained quiet. Her palms were sweating, and she discreetly wiped them on her skirt as she held the fabric. “I’ve noticed that you and Prince Aegon do not spend as much time together as you used to.”

Aegon? Why was she being asked about Aegon? Her stomach twisted, and she felt a prickle of heat along the back of her neck. It was true: they didn’t spend as much time together, but they hadn’t for years now, not since she spent more of her time with Helaena and… Aegon? Well, Aegon had been withdrawing slowly but surely for so long, like fraying threads at the seams. She’d be lying if she claimed to not miss him, because she did. She missed the happier boy he’d been, who did not constantly ply himself with drink and was more mercurial than a wild dragon.

Abrogail would also be lying if she claimed they saw little of one another, or spent no time at all because that was untrue as well. Until the past few moons, she’d gather lunch for the two of them when he finally rose well past noon, and he’d take her flying wherever he and Sunfyre desired to go. It had been something quiet and cherished, simply the three of them away from everything. Until Aegon had gotten in the tavern brawl all that time ago. Until Aegon started avoiding her. Until he barely acknowledged her at meals that he decided to join, even when he sat beside her. There was no way that Otto Hightower would not be aware of that, and she would not hedge around it. It wasn’t like anything untoward was happening.

“Not as much, but that is a natural casualty of leaving behind childhood. He found me earlier this week because it seemed there was a lack of honey cakes in the kitchen and I was the first to be interrogated.” There was a note of amusement in her voice, and Abby smiled in memory of his indignation and how silly he looked when she shoved honey cake into his mouth to stop his ranting. “He occasionally accompanies me in the Sept to pray. It’s incredibly kind of him to do so.”

She mounted a few more steps before realizing that Lord Hightower had paused. She turned to look at him. Morning light streaked through the narrow, delicate paned windows, casting shadow and illuminating dust in the air. He stared up at her, and with a few steps between them, she stood at his height. It was the first time she’d ever met her uncle’s eyes. Unlike her own unreadable brother, Otto’s face was not so impassive. He looked intrigued by her admission. Abby’s hands wound into her skirt so as not to fidget.

“He was not inappropriate, if that is your concern, my lord. Prince Aegon behaved with due respect.” To defend Aegon was second nature to her, and she would do so towards arguably the most powerful man in the realm if it meant to spare Aegon more shame and ire when, for once, he’d done nothing wrong. Which was true. Aegon hadn’t said a single thing. He knelt beside her, lighting candles, and simply stayed with her while she prayed for her family. He hadn’t even put a hand of comfort on her shoulder. She felt that was worth mentioning, given his current proclivities. She would not deny his vices, but she would not break confidence, and she would let no one, especially Lord Otto, think any worse of him if she could help it.

“Very good.” It took everything in her to keep the bewilderment off her face as she tried to understand what exactly he was trying to figure out. Otto resumed their progress, although now he rested a heavy hand between her shoulder blades like a father guiding a child. “So, you have no current complications with him?”

Complications? Did he think she’d lifted her skirts for Aegon? It wasn’t like she’d never thought of kissing him on those lazy afternoons when they’d lay in the grass and stare at the sky somewhere in the Kingswood with Sunfyre sunning himself like a cat. Of course she’d thought about kissing him, especially when he was at his most melancholy, with tears pooling in his eyes, making them pinker than normal. A kiss beyond the games children play, a kiss to comfort an angry prince in the firelight’s glow, his tears coursing down his cheeks with each snip of her embroidery scissors that sent locks of moonlight hair to the ground.

He’d never touched her more than a handhold, and far less than she touched him in her casual affections.

“No. No complications,” she confirmed.

They reached the landing, and Abby ran her hand over the stone dragon curled up in eternal sleep at the top of the stairs. Her fingers scratched along the smooth curve of its head the way she’d done every morning when she visited her father. She felt her uncle’s gaze on her, and she drew her hand away, hurrying to follow him into his office with her cheeks burning beneath her freckles, relieved only just by his vaguely amused expression.

The room was darker than it had been before. Gone were the stacks of books with various slips of paper sticking out haphazardly, or Theraxis lounging lazily along the cool stone floor by the door with his fluffy tail, sending motes of dust into the air. She instinctively clutched her skirt on the right to pull them away, so used to a giant paw the size of her hand grabbing at the fluttering fabric. But Theraxis was not there. The crumbling tome about the Andal invasion was absent from where it once rested on the side table. Instead, Larys stood by the fire with his back to her, as did the Queen, her lovely green dress covering her from neck to wrist with a golden pattern woven in the fabric that caught the firelight. Her face pinched in the way it did when she was uncertain and trying not to pick at her nails.

Abby noticed, of course. It usually meant that someone was about to get yelled at or she would send them away with the other ladies.

The figure in the chair slouched so far down that his silver head nearly vanished behind the back of it. At the clearing of Lord Otto’s throat, Aegon jerked up. His whole body held so much tension that it made Abby’s own hurt just by looking at him. He peered over his shoulder at them with glossy, red-rimmed eyes that give him a strange, ethereal sort of gaze, skin pale enough to prominently display the flushed pink mottling of a strike against his right cheek. He looked stuffy and uncomfortable in his dark green doublet, his fingers absently tugging at the buttons and collar. As his gaze focused, his eyes widened and darted from the uncertainty she knew was on her own face to his grandfather behind her.

The thud as Otto shut the door reverberated through her, and she and Aegon both flinched at the sound. Out of the corner of her eye, Abby could see the Queen flinch as well. Larys, as always, looked unphased. The heavy hand on her back pushed her towards the empty chair closer to the fire, and she had no time to bob a curtsy; courtesies stuck like toffee in her mouth.

The chairs once held the delicately embroidered pillows her mother made. She would curl up with them and read aloud from the books scattered around while her papa worked. He would-

“Queen Alicent and Lord Larys have received several letters expressing interest in you, Abrogail,” Otto said, walking behind his desk. She dug her thumbnail into the pad of her middle finger, and she saw Aegon’s booted foot twitch on the flagstone – a rocking motion from the ball of his foot to his heel before slapping it back down beneath the desk. Wood crackled in the fireplace. “Lord Farman is looking for a wife for his eldest, and Faircastle would be close to your sister.”

He plucked a scroll from the basket as he spoke, and Abby felt her stomach churn with nerves as a red heat clawed along her throat. She did not venture a look at Aegon, save for the foot he kept rocking back, the heel he repeatedly ground into the floor. He’d not gone back to slouching. He could be indolent and rude when he wanted, but not even Aegon dared to in his grandfather’s presence. Abby didn’t understand what this was about, or why Aegon was here.

“Edmund Vance, the heir to House Vance, recently lost his wife. A good man, and part of the Riverlands although a small seat. Or, if you married Jesper Celtigar, the heir of Crackclaw, you’d be able to remain in King’s Landing.”

Otto Hightower produced scroll after scroll and Abrogail felt the flush of embarrassment in her cheeks, confusion keeping her words locked away. How was she supposed to react to all of this? What was he trying to say? Were all these marriage proposals meant to make her feel better about herself? No, that was too odd to contemplate.

Why was Aegon here?

“Lord Grover has also written of his interest in you for his grandson. A Paramount seat would let you be close to your home at Harrenhal, and he already has an heir. He would take good care of you, and your children would have every opportunity.” Another scroll plucked from the basket. “It would bring Harrenhal into their holdings. Is that not correct, Lord Larys?”

Right. Harrenhal.

A woman’s lot is to only be worth what she could bring to the table.

Her brother was a man of few words, and he inclined his head with a shadow of a smile flickering across his face. Abby looked at the queen to find that her face was pinching harder. In the interim, Queen Alicent stepped away from the fire and moved instead to the desk with the gentle swoosh of her skirts gliding across the stone. She cleared her throat, a smile fighting its way on her face.

“All the offers were wonderful for you, my sweet girl, but none seemed right.” The Queen reached out to tuck a copper curl behind her ear, and Abby could not tell if this was supposed to be comforting to her or if the Queen sought comfort in the action for herself. Her lungs felt constricted, and it finally dawned on her.

Oh.

The sole of Aegon’s boot continued to drag across the stone in both a nervous fidget and to keep himself from slouching down even further into the chair. The only reason she could hear it was because of how focused she’d been on it, but now blood rushed into her head and Abby broke eye contact with her cousin to look down in her lap.

“What does seem right is for you and Aegon to be married, after your nameday. You’ll be eight and ten, and the pair of you will go to live at Harrenhal, and make your home there.”

Oh.

“Are you fucking serious?” Aegon’s voice was a hoarse, disused rasp from a night with endless drink. When she looked at him again, she noticed that his hair was still damp, and that beads of water from the wet ends had soaked little spots into the collar of his shirt. He wasn’t looking at her, but up at his mother, and then, incredulously, across the desk at his grandfather.

Otto’s face remained impassive following his grandson’s outburst. Abby wanted to grab Aegon and drag him out of the way of whatever was about to come out of the Hand’s mouth, as if the words would physically harm him.

The silence lengthened. Another log popped in the fireplace.

“He speaks.” The amusement in Otto’s voice caused Aegon to draw back further into his chair before he finally turned to look at her. His eyes were so red-rimmed, and his sullen face was so terribly pale that the pink-lilac of his eyes stood out ethereally, inhumanly like the drawing of a fae folk from a book she had as a child - wild and cornered. He’d bitten his pouty, chapped lips bloody.

Aegon searched her face for an answer to a question that she did not know. The only thing Abrogail could do was give him the gentle, reassuring smile she’d given him countless times before. It was what she did in this world: comfort her loved ones in any way possible, even as she needed to bury her own feelings on the matter. Feelings that, in this particular case, she couldn’t even begin untangling in the moment.

“Well, that makes us luckier than most, doesn’t it?” Abby cleared her throat and turned the smile onto the others in the room. She reached up to grasp the Queen’s hand and gave her a reassuring squeeze before she burst into a million pieces. Whether it was her, or the Queen, that might burst, she could not say. “We are fortunate to know one another so well and to be of an age. I thank you Lord Hightower, your Grace.” She looked at Larys, who remained silent in his observations, as always – an owl in a tree, eyes taking in everything. “Thank you, brother, for looking out for me.”

She felt Aegon’s eyes continue to pin on her. She looked back at him.

The wild and anxious expression was still on his face, and instinct compelled her, as it often did, to reach out her hand to take his - but he surprised her by beating her to it. His skin felt like fire engulfing her frigid hand and his fingers tangled with hers with easy familiarity. Before she could register what was happening, Aegon’s chair was already scraping across the floor and he pulled her from her chair with the momentum of jumping from his own. There was no pause in his movement as he dragged her to the door.

“How very fortunate we are.” A laugh bubbled from Aegon’s chest. It was a joyless sound when he laughed in the presence of his mother and grandsire. It was edged with the familiar mania; Aegon laughed when he was afraid, when he was anxious, when he was trying not to scream as his world was coming apart, or the laughter and joy on the back of Sunfyre. He tilted his head to stare up at the ceiling before throwing a look over his shoulder at the three across the room. “How very lucky we are.”

Aegon’s hand was clammy around hers, his grip bordering on painful. He yanked the door open with a protesting whine of the latch. Abby heard the Queen calling after him, but Aegon’s strides were purposeful as they ate up the ground to get away. Only the grip of their hands kept her from being left behind in the claustrophobic room where their future was being decided for them.

It might have been the second bravest thing she’d ever witnessed from him.

[Chapter Two]

[starogeorgina]

Violent delights

Warnings: Swearing

Pairings: Jacaerys Velaryon x oc

1.12

“Try not to pull, princess; the chains will become tighter if you do.”

“Thank you, Ser Arryk.”

The knight gives you a sympathetic look before going to stand beside another knight of the kingsguard by the entrance to the room. You were surprised that Ser Arryk was showing you any kindness at all, considering he was on the side supporting the usurper. Perhaps it was because his twin brother bent the knee to your mother or because he knew how devious the greens really were.

Daemon had accompanied you from Dragonstone to the Keep in disguise before bidding you farewell. A few moments later, you ditched the disguise and allowed yourself to be taken, which is how you found yourself in the tower of the hand, awaiting Alicent’s arrival. The moment Otto clapped his eyes on you, he ordered the knights to put shackles on you. He claims it was to protect the king. Your sudden arrival had interrupted a counsel meeting. Ser Tyland Lannister and Larys Strong both kept glancing at you, looking visibly uncomfortable.

The doors to the room open, and Alicent enters, looking in complete shock at your presence. She mumbles something to her father before sitting down beside him. It must have dawned on her that if you could get this close to the keep unnoticed, then others could easily do the same. She took in a long, deep breath, eyebrows furrowed as she took in your appearance. If it weren’t for your Targaryen features, you could have been easily mistaken for a beggar from the streets of flea bottom. Eventually she asks, “Lyarra, what are you doing here?”

“Hopefully to bend the knee to the rightful heir to the iron throne,” Otto says, his voice oozing with arrogance.

“Tell me, years after proclaiming my mother as heir, did my grandsire, King Viserys, not sit Prince Jacaerys upon his knee while sitting atop the Iron Throne and say, ‘One day this will be your seat, lad.’ In front of his entire counsel?”

Neither Alicent nor Otto answered your question.

The dowager queen toys with the necklace hanging around her slender neck, the symbol of the faith of the seven. With her hair neatly braided back and dressed in a modest green gown, she looked like a lady, but only someone who knew Alicent like you did could see her true venomous nature.

Otto breaks the silence. “King Aegon and prince Aemond shall be returning to the keep soon. Bend the knee, and they will be merciful.”

“I shall do no such thing. The blood of my sweet brothers is on their hands.”

“Bastard blood, shed at war,” Alicent replies.

Her words cut deep, but you don’t give her the satisfaction of shedding a single tear. “The more you talk freely, the more others will see who you really are. Lucerys was just a child, as was Gaemon.”

Otto leans in and whispers something in Larys ear, to which the clubfoot shakes his head. The older man looks taken aback. “Prince Gaemon is dead?”

“Assassins were sent to Dragonstone to slay one of my sons, but they killed my brother instead.”

Their reactions have you stumped. It seems nobody in the room was aware of this, which could only mean Aegon and Aemond were no longer seeking counsel and doing whatever they pleased. Alicent presses her forehead into her hands and says, “May the mother have mercy on us all.”

You can’t contain the scoffs that leave your mouth, “the mother.”

The former queen glares up at you with tears in her eyes, no doubt out of fear of the chain of reactions her sons had set in motion. “Faith in the gods—”

Something inside you snaps—how dare she preach about faith when she herself was an ungodly woman? With tears in your eyes, you hiss, “Your son, your king, raped and defiled me, and my faith in the gods did nothing to stop it. My faith did nothing to stop the loss of my son.” Tears fall freely from your tired eyes as years of pent-up emotions start to bubble over. “My mother made Jacaerys and Lucerys swear under the eyes of the Seven to go as messengers, not as warriors, before they left Dragonstone. I assume your sons did no such thing, Alicent.”

Alicent looks hollow, as if nothing you’ve just said registers in her brain. “Take the princess to her former quarters. Make sure she doesn’t leave the room.”

—

Once in your old quarters, you were allowed to sit on a platform that overlooked the gardens of King's Land while an emergency meeting took place. Of course, you were still in shackles and had knights watching your every move just in case you tried to escape. However, you were no longer alone; Larys had come to tell you of the latest casualty in the war for the throne, the princess Rhaenys. Your grandmother had flown into a trap set up by Ser Criston Cole, and she was attacked by both your uncles as they rode upon their dragons and killed both her and her dragon.

Your heart ached; you loved your grandmother and would miss her forever.

“Might I ask why you suggested that Princess Helaena and her children leave the keep?” Larys asks.

“An eye for an eye, a son for a son. Lucerys shall be avenged,” you click your tongue. “Those are the words spoken by my stepfather, Prince Daemon, and as much as I agree my brother's death should be avenged, I do not wish to see harm come to Princess Helaena or her children.”

He raises his brows, and Larys looks deep in thought before speaking again. “I suppose that makes sense, especially since you’ve now made yourself a hostage here, so it’s likely the red keep will come under attack.”

Daemon told you it wouldn’t take the clubfoot long before he came to you, under the pretense of trying to make peace, which would be why Larys made a point of having food and tea brought to you. He probably thought he could lure you into a false sense of security and, in the end, learn something he could use against the blacks.

“Under attack?”

“Oh yes,” he says before taking a drink of tea. “Once word spreads among the small folk that Rhaenyra’s daughter, the beloved princess Lyarra, is being held within the keep, they are likely to start questioning their loyalties. And as you came here on your own accord, I’m assuming it won’t be long before your husband, mother, and stepfather come to rescue you, bringing fire and blood in the process.”

Before you can say anything else, Criston enters the room, followed closely by two serving girls, who both had their heads hanging low. You notice one of the girls holding a dark emerald dress and scowling, which amuses the knight. “The king wishes for you to wear this. He will be gracing you with a visit after attending the feast celebrating his most recent victory.”

Larys uses his stick to help himself stand and says, “I shall leave the princess to it.”

Criston nods his head in Lary's direction before addressing you. He removes the shackles. “I have a theory, princess, that the reason your brother was mistaken for one of your sons was because your children are no longer on Dragonstone.”

You smile up at him and say, “say another word about my children, and I’ll have my husband feed you to Vermax.”

Criston smirks. As he turns to leave the room, he speaks to the servants, “Make sure she is bathed and dressed by nightfall.”

—

As you approach your quarters, returning from the dragonpit, you hear the sounds of a child’s screams echoing down the hallways, and guilt begins to stir inside you. Leaving your daughter to go dragon riding was something you had second-guessed, but your mother assured you nothing bad would happen in the short time you were gone and insisted that riding Viserion would be good for you.

Your pace quickens the closer you get, fear etched into your features. When you enter the nursery and see that Aemma is not in her cot, you start to panic until you hear Jacaerys hushed voice. “Your muña will be back soon; she’d never go far without you. She loves you so much. We both do.”

Quietly, you walk into another room to see Jace holding Aemma in his arms, sitting by the fireplace, singing her a lullaby, and caressing her hair as her eyes start to close over. Smiling, you observe the sweet moment between them. Aemma was at the age when she was learning what words meant and observing the world around her, including who her parents are.

You walk up behind Jace and crouch down enough to kiss him on the cheek, which causes him to blush. “She woke up from a nap upset,” he whispers. “I think she was looking for you.”

You smile. “I think she was looking for her kepa, and now that she’s found him, she’s settled.”

Jacaerys eyes become glossy. As far as you were concerned, from the moment you first kissed Jacaerys on the balcony, he was Aemma’s father, but you understood why he needed reassurance.

Jace places an arm around your shoulder, and you sit to cuddle in beside him and your babe. “I love you,” you say quietly. “I don’t tell you that enough, but I really do love you and our family.”

You’re pulled from your slumber when you hear a clattering noise. Opening your eyes, you’re greeted by the sight of the usurper cursing as he picks up his cup, which he had knocked onto the ground, before refilling it. You keep your eyes tightly shut to hold back the tears. Now that the moment has come to put Daemon's plan into motion, you wish you’d never left Dragonstone. You longed to be back in Jacacery's arms, watching as your children played together on the beach of your home.

You’d fallen asleep sitting on one of the leather chairs and were in that deep of a sleep you didn’t hear him enter. It felt like déjà vu; you and the room had both been ‘readied' for Aegon. Plenty of wine was brought before his arrival, and the oils that he liked the smell of were brushed through your hair.

“Can I ask you something?”

Aegon rolls his eyes and says, “If you must.”

“If I had left here and married some lord who raised Aemma as his own, would you have cared? Or do you only want to hurt Jacaerys?”

“Do you know what they call my half sister? The whore of Dragonstone, as I recall. Rhaenyra Targaryen, the mother of bastards.” Holding up his cup towards you, when you shake your head, he scoffs, “Gods, I forgot how boring you could be. Give me one good reason why you won’t drink with me.”

“My milk is still coming through.”

He scrunches his nose up in disgust. “I forgot you just had another little b-a”

“Don’t you dare say it!” you snap. The tight fabric of the dress you are wearing rubs against your skin as you move to sit on your knees on the ground beside him. Deep down, you still wanted to believe Aegon wanted to be a good person, but you knew that wasn’t true; it was just a lie you told yourself. “My children are not bastards; all of them are Velaryon’s.”

Aegon looks disinterested, returning his attention back to the wine in his hand. His eyes were becoming heavier, and his body language was more sluggish.

“So why did you really come to the keep? I’m assuming you don’t want to bend the knee; do you want to remember what it’s like to be pleasured by a man?”

“Why aren’t you more angry with Alicent for letting me take Aemma and making her a bastard?”

His face falls. “She is my mother. She was doing what she thought was best for me.”

Alicent and Aegon’s relationship was something you’d never understand or feel the need to question, especially since he had you wear a gown that closely resembles the ones his mother wears. Tears well in your eyes, “my nephew can keep his bitch, but I will keep my daughter, or I will have their heads. Did you really say that?”

“Yes. Is the girl still on Dragonstone?”

“I’ve sent Aemma far away from Dragonstone to keep her safe.”

The tension in the room changes as Aegon becomes angry at your answer. He goes into graphic detail about how he planned on torturing Jacaerys, mainly by hurting you. It was clear he had no intention of stopping the war until every member of the blacks were dead. Just as Daemon predicted. The list of monstrosities committed by the Greens included rape, kinslaying, usurpation, and treason, and it would only grow as time went on.

“There’s the Aegon I remember. Cruel and selfish.”

“I can have your tongue removed for that.”

“Hmm,” you say, getting to your feet and stepping away from him. “I used to think I was a good person; I tried to be anyway. But what I’ve learned over the years is that I’m willing to do anything to protect my family.”

Aegon attempts to reach for you, but his arm falls to the ground. He slurs, “What did you do?”

“You want to take my daughter from me, tried to have my son killed, and have now just confessed to planning to kill my husband.” Tears roll down your cheeks. “I can’t let you do that.”

You walk towards the part of the wall that has a weirwood tree engraved on it. You run your fingers over the smooth edges before pressing on the middle of it to open it.

“Lyarra, you stupid bitch, get back here.”

You let out a deep sigh before stepping aside to let two men enter the bed chamber. Blood and Cheese, two rat catchers who had been hired by Daemon to seek revenge for Lucerys You weren’t sure what the full plan entails; your only part was to get them into the keep, then escape. You glance back at Aegon, who has now passed out. Soon as the wine was brought into the room, you put the sleeping aid given to you by the maester on Dragonstone into the cup beforehand, knowing the first thing Aegon would do when he arrived would be to drink.

You pick up the disguise that’s been left on the opposite side of the secret door; you need to change before you stare, going down the hidden hallways and far away from whatever you’d just set into motion.