#a song of ice and fire

[souryam]

my bff

[venusbyline]

i luv toxic sapphic ships and that's why i luv Rhaenicent. my beautiful and problematic women just need therapy

"you can't ship those characters they tried to kill each other!" sounds like someone can't appreciate the inherent eroticism of violence 🙄

[quiddling]

a lil doodle of aenys (:

[therogueflame]

The Small Council

Hi my sweet baby angels,

Here is the long overdue Aemond fic I promised all those moons ago. I hope you enjoy it, this one was definitely interesting to write. Writing someone as calculated as Aemond was a different kind of difficult, but using the dialogue from the show with Alicent did help quite a bit. Please let me know what you think! (Also if anyone can point me in the direction of making those cool like three gif/pic banner things cool authors put on their fics that would be so great love you bye.)

✨My Masterlist✨

Summary: A brief conversation between the Queen Dowager and the Prince Regent brings you unexpectedly to the precipice of action.

WC: 5.0k

Warnings: 18+, sex (p in v), oral (f!recieving), multiple orgasm, cheating, no use of y/n, public sex, implied fem!reader

Aemond Targaryen x Mistress!Reader

MDNI!!!

Aemond remained seated at the head of the council table, exuding an air of effortless authority. The chamber had begun to empty, the scrape of chairs and measured footsteps fading into the corridor beyond. Only the crackle of the hearth and the rustle of parchment lingered in the stillness. His fingers drummed idly against the carved wood, his expression unreadable as he watched the last figures depart.

Alicent was nearly at the door, walking beside Ser Criston, her hands clasped tightly, her posture poised yet rigid. Afternoon light streamed through the high windows, casting sharp angles across the chamber floor.

“Mother? A word.”

His voice cut through the space, measured—a command rather than a request.

Alicent halted, her lips pressing together as if steeling herself. Then, slowly, she turned, her gaze unreadable as she stepped back toward him. “I caution you, Aemond—boldness is one thing, but—”

“I am relieving you of your place on the small council.”

Silence stretched between them, taut as a drawn bowstring. Alicent did not waver. “You know very well I represented your father in his final years and have counseled Aegon.”

“Capably so.” Aemond’s tone was even, unruffled. “Father is dead. Aegon is… mmm.” He exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly as though considering his phrasing. “You served the realm well in its time of need. That need has ended. You are no longer obliged.”

Alicent’s chin lifted, her gaze sharpening. “It is not a matter of obligation. This council is in need of a tempering voice.”

Aemond’s mouth twitched, something too faint to be a smirk but just as dismissive. “We have more than enough of those, if you ask me.”

Her shoulders squared. “You have the recklessness of ease. And its arrogance. Neither of which befits a king.”

His fingers stilled against the table. He did not flinch, did not betray so much as a flicker of reaction, but something shifted in the air between them. “I release you from your seat, such as it was. I trust you’ll find contentment in more... domestic pursuits.”

Alicent stepped forward then, close enough that the afternoon light slanting through the chamber windows cast a gentle glow over her face. She reached out, fingertips light as they pressed to his cheek—a touch meant to soothe, perhaps, or to remind.

“Have the indignities of your childhood not yet been sufficiently avenged?”

Aemond’s hand caught her wrist, his grip firm, but not unkind. The moment stretched, heavy with words unspoken. Then, slowly, Alicent pulled away. She did not look back as she turned, nor did she speak. Aemond stood, movements smooth, deliberate, and watched as she disappeared beyond the threshold.

“You have the gratitude of the Crown,” he said at last, though the words were spoken to the empty air.

The door closed behind her, leaving him alone in the hush of the chamber, the afternoon light stretching long across the stone. Aemond exhaled, long and slow, before turning back toward the window. He clasped his hands behind his back, posture rigid as he gazed out over King’s Landing. The city stretched before him, its streets winding and endless, its people moving below like ants, oblivious to the shifting of power within the Red Keep. The faint sound of the door opening again caught his ear, but he did not turn. He already knew who it was.

You hesitated in the doorway, the soft click of the latch settling into place behind you. He did not turn. You had not expected him to. Still, a quiet unease curled in your stomach as you took a measured step forward, the train of your gown whispering against the stone floor.

“My prince.”

His only response was a slow inhale through his nose. “My lady.”

He still did not look at you, his gaze fixed on the sprawl of the city below. That suited you just fine. You had no desire to meet his eye just yet, not after overhearing what had passed between him and the Dowager Queen. You had not lingered to eavesdrop—not intentionally, at least—but whispers carried through these halls like a restless wind. And you had learned long ago that it was wiser to listen than to be caught unprepared.

“You’re troubled,” you said, choosing your words carefully.

That earned you something—a quiet exhale, almost a laugh, though it held no true mirth. “What keen insight,” he murmured, finally turning to face you.

Aemond’s gaze swept over you, cool and assessing, and though you stood still beneath it, you felt the weight of it settle on your skin. You were no one of great consequence, no rival, no threat—merely a courtier, the wife of another lord. But you had remained in the Red Keep long past what was necessary, and he had noticed.

He noticed everything.

“Shall I presume you were listening at the door?”

The corner of your mouth lifted, though you did not dare call it a smile. “No, my prince. The halls carry sound.”

His expression did not shift, though something in his gaze sharpened. “And what have you come to tell me?”

You hesitated only a moment before lowering your head, a gesture of deference, though not entirely without purpose. “Only that I thought you might appreciate the presence of one who has no quarrel with you.”

Aemond studied you for a long moment, the afternoon light cutting across his features, sharpening the angles of his face. His silence was weighty, deliberate, yet you did not move.

“You believe I am in need of comfort,” he murmured, stepping forward.

You did not step back. “I believe you are in need of company.”

A breath passed between you, heavy with something unspoken. The chamber was empty now. The smallfolk below were nothing more than distant echoes. The day stretched before you, uncertain yet light.

His lips curved, slow and deliberate. “Then stay.”

You stepped closer, the soft rustle of your pale yellow skirts barely breaking the silence between you. Aemond remained as he was—tall, composed, hands still clasped behind his back—but you saw the shift in his gaze, the way his eye flickered over you in quiet recognition.

“You wear yellow,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, edged with something more thoughtful than before.

You tilted your head slightly, watching him. “Should I not?”

His lips twitched, the barest ghost of amusement, though it never fully formed. “It does not suit your purpose.”

A small smile found its way to your lips. “And what do you think my purpose is?”

Aemond did not answer immediately. He let the silence linger, his eye sweeping over you—your gown, your posture, the way you stood before him without hesitation. It was a game, this dance between you. Yours was a connection made in the quiet corners of the castle, in the moments stolen between duty and discretion. He had taken you first out of spite, his own cold, calculated revenge against a man who had slighted him. But what had begun as punishment had not ended so cleanly.

It was not hatred that brought you here tonight.

Aemond finally turned fully to face you, the sunlight catching on the sharp planes of his face, throwing half of it into shadow. “You came to me of your own will,” he said, a statement rather than a question.

You hummed lightly, a sound that was neither confirmation nor denial. “Would you like to believe that?”

His gaze darkened slightly, though not with anger. With something else, something heavier, something that had long since settled between you both.

“I believe,” Aemond said, voice low, “that you should be more careful of whose company you keep.”

You lifted a brow. “And yet, here I stand.”

A pause. A slow breath. Aemond reached out, fingers brushing against the fabric of your sleeve—light, testing. Not claiming, not yet.

“You should go,” he said, but the words carried no weight.

“I should,” you agreed, though neither of you moved.

Another long silence stretched between you, the kind that always came before you surrendered to what had long since become inevitable.

His fingers curled around your wrist, firm but deliberate, drawing you just a fraction closer. Your breath shallowed, your pulse quickening as his thumb brushed idly along the inside of your wrist. He was warm, even through his gloves. You knew that touch well.

“You wear yellow,” he murmured again, this time with something close to satisfaction. “Like a wife meant to be untouched.”

You let your lips part slightly, watching him, waiting.

Aemond tilted his head, considering. Then, his grip tightened ever so slightly, guiding your hand to rest against his chest, just over the slow, steady beat of his heart.

“And yet,” he murmured, his voice dropping to something almost intimate, almost soft, “we both know better.”

You watched him, feeling the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath your palm, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat betraying none of the control he so carefully maintained. There was something intoxicating about the way Aemond looked at you—like he already owned you, like you had always been meant to stand before him like this, close enough for him to touch, close enough for him to take.

His eye flickered downward, tracing the shape of your fingers splayed against the black leather of his tunic before he released your wrist, the warmth of his touch lingering even after he pulled away. Without a word, he turned and moved back toward the head of the council table, settling into the chair with a quiet ease, as if he belonged nowhere else.

You lingered a moment longer before following, stepping forward until you reached the table. The cold stone bit into your palms as you leaned back against it, shifting just enough to let your skirts sweep over the edge. You hovered between standing and sitting, the table supporting just enough of your weight to suggest ease without fully surrendering to it. Instead, you turned your head to face him, meeting his gaze from where he sat at the head of the table. Not quite relaxed, but not so formal either. A silent challenge.

Aemond studied you from his seat, his fingers tapping idly against the wood. “You make yourself comfortable.”

You shifted slightly, the fabric of your gown whispering against the stone. “Should I not?”

The ghost of a smirk crossed his lips. “You enjoy testing me.”

You exhaled lightly, not quite a laugh, tilting your head. “Do I?”

Aemond said nothing, only watched you, the sunlight filtering through the high windows casting shifting shadows across his face. You had known him long enough to understand what that silence meant. He was considering you, weighing your presence, deciding what he wanted from you today

And you would give it to him.

His eye flickered down, a slow sweep of your gown, the delicate fabric stretched over your form in soft, yielding folds. The color was warm, too gentle against the harsh stone of the council chamber, against the cold weight of the crownless throne he had claimed.

“You do not wear this color for me,”he murmured, almost idly.

Your fingers curled against the edge of the table, the cool bite of stone grounding you. “No,” you admitted. “But that does not mean I did not come for you.”

Aemond hummed low in his throat, a sound of acknowledgment, of something almost pleased. He leaned forward slightly, resting an arm against the table, his gaze steady. “Say it, then.”

You arched a brow. “Say what, my prince?”

His lips curved, though the amusement did not quite reach his eye. “That you came for me.”

You inhaled slowly, letting the tension stretch between you, letting it coil and settle before you finally spoke.

“I came for you.”

Aemond’s fingers stilled against the wood, his gaze dark and knowing. He did not move at first, only let the weight of your words settle before he pushed his chair back slightly, rising to his feet once more.

His presence was suffocating in the best way, the sheer weight of him as he stood before you, close enough to touch, close enough to remind you of exactly why you were here.

His gloved hand lifted, fingers grazing along the curve of your jaw, featherlight but deliberate.

“And what shall I do with you, now that you have?”

Your breath hitched, the heat of his touch seeping through the delicate barrier of your composure. The chamber, vast and cold, felt smaller with him towering over you, the air between you charged and heavy. Aemond’s fingers trailed from your jaw to the delicate line of your neck, his thumb pressing gently against the pulse fluttering just beneath your skin—a subtle reminder of the power he held over you.

Your eyes did not leave his, refusing to grant him the satisfaction of your surrender, even as your body betrayed you, leaning just a fraction closer to the warmth radiating from him.

“What shall you do with me, my prince?” you murmured, your voice a low hum that barely bridged the distance between you.

Aemond’s lips twitched, the barest hint of a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “I could send you back to your lord husband,” he said, the words a dark promise, “make you walk these halls with the knowledge of where your loyalties truly lie.”

The suggestion sent a thrill down your spine, the dangerous game you played with him only stoking the fire that had long since consumed your common sense. “And if I said my loyalty was to you?”

Aemond’s eye narrowed, a flicker of satisfaction mingled with possessiveness tightening his grip ever so slightly. “Then I would say you have chosen wisely.”

You felt his other hand settle at your waist, pulling you off the table’s edge until you were flush against him, the hard planes of his body pressing into your softer curves. The cold stone was forgotten, replaced by the searing heat of him, of the knowledge that, for now, you were his alone.

“I have chosen you,” you confessed, voice breathless against the sharp lines of his jaw. “Again and again.”

His lips found yours, the kiss consuming, leaving no room for second thoughts or regrets. Aemond’s fingers tightened at your waist, pulling you impossibly closer as his mouth moved over yours—demanding, claiming. Each press and pull was a reminder of what you had surrendered to him, of what he had taken from your husband, of the way you had given yourself willingly.

When he finally pulled back, his breathing was as measured as ever, but his eye was dark, his gaze heavy-lidded and intent.

“You come to me in secret,” he murmured, his thumb brushing along your lower lip, swollen from his kiss. “And yet, I think you wish to be caught.”

You held his gaze, defiance and desire mingling in the depths of your eyes. “Perhaps I do,” you whispered. “Or perhaps I trust you to protect what is yours.”

The words struck a chord in him, a gleam of something dangerous and possessive lighting his gaze. Aemond’s hands slid down, gripping your hips firmly as he lifted you onto the edge of the council table, the hard stone pressing into the backs of your thighs through the thin fabric of your gown.

He stepped between your legs, his presence overwhelming, your skirts tangling around his knees as he closed the space between you. Aemond’s fingers splayed against your back, pulling you forward, leaving no room for hesitation or modesty.

“I will protect what is mine,” he vowed, his voice a rasp against your ear, the words sending a shiver of anticipation racing down your spine. “And you, my lady, are very much mine.”

Your hands found their way into his hair, fingers tangling in the silvery strands as you pulled him into another kiss, this one slower, deeper, the taste of possession mingling with the thrill of secrecy.

He pulled away for a moment, his expression that of a determined man. Yours was tinged with confusion, but the confusion ceased when his face soon disappeared beneath the fabric, and other sensations began to take over.

Your fingers tightened in Aemond's hair as his mouth found the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. A soft gasp escaped your lips, the sound echoing in the empty chamber. His touch was deliberate, calculated, each press of his lips and scrape of his teeth designed to unravel you piece by piece.

The yellow fabric of your gown pooled around your waist, a stark contrast to the dark leather of his gloves as he gripped your hips, holding you steady against the unforgiving edge of the table. You could feel the heat of his breath against your skin, the anticipation building with each passing moment.

"Aemond," you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper.

He paused, lifting his gaze to meet yours. In the afternoon light, you could see the intensity burning in his eye, the raw desire etched into every line of his face.

"Patience," Aemond murmured against your skin, his voice low and commanding. "You came to me. Now you'll take what I give you."

His words sent a shiver through you, a mix of anticipation and surrender. You relaxed back onto your elbows, the cold stone of the table a stark contrast to the heat building within you. Aemond's hands slid along your thighs, pushing them further apart as he settled between them.

The first touch of his tongue against you drew a soft gasp from your lips. Your head fell back, eyes fluttering closed as he worked you with deliberate, measured strokes. Each movement was calculated, designed to build your pleasure slowly, inexorably.

Aemond's grip on your hips tightened, holding you in place as your body began to tremble.

Your fingers curled against the smooth surface of the table, seeking purchase as Aemond's ministrations intensified. The cool stone beneath you was a stark contrast to the heat of his mouth, the warmth of his hands as they held you steady. Your breath came in short, shaky gasps, each exhale threatening to form his name.

Aemond worked with the same focused determination he applied to all his pursuits. His tongue moved in deliberate patterns, alternating between long, languid strokes and quick, precise flicks that sent jolts of pleasure coursing through your body. You could feel the tension building, coiling tighter with each passing moment.

A soft whimper escaped your lips as he pulled away briefly, his breath hot against your sensitive skin. "Look at me," he commanded, his voice low and rough with desire.

Your eyes met Aemond's, his gaze burning with an intensity that made your breath catch in your throat. Sunlight streamed through the windows, casting shadows across his face, deepening the hollows of his features and lending an almost predatory gleam to his eye.

"Good," he murmured, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "I want you to watch as I undo you."

Without breaking eye contact, he lowered his head once more. The first touch of his tongue against you was electric, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips. Your fingers curled against the table's edge, knuckles white with the effort of maintaining your composure.

Aemond's technique was relentless, each stroke of his tongue precise and measured. He knew your body well, knew exactly how to build your pleasure to dizzying heights.

Your breath hitched as Aemond's tongue swirled against your most sensitive spot. The tension within you coiled tighter, threatening to snap at any moment. Your hips strained against his grip, seeking more, always more.

"Aemond," you gasped, your voice a breathless plea. "Please..."

He hummed against you, the vibration sending a shudder through your entire body. His eye remained fixed on yours, dark with desire and something deeper, something possessive.

You could feel yourself teetering on the edge, every nerve alight with sensation. Aemond's movements became more focused, more insistent. His fingers dug into your thighs, sure to leave marks—a reminder of this moment, of your surrender to him.

The pressure built to an almost unbearable level.

Your body trembled on the edge of release, every muscle taut with anticipation. Aemond's gaze remained locked on yours, intense and unyielding, as he drove you closer and closer to the precipice.

With a final, deliberate stroke of his tongue, the tension within you shattered. A cry tore from your throat as waves of pleasure crashed over you, your back arching off the cold stone table. Aemond's grip on your thighs tightened, holding you steady as he worked you through your climax, drawing out every last shudder and gasp.

Your breath came in ragged gasps as you lay sprawled across the council table, the aftershocks of pleasure still rippling through your body. The rustle of fabric and the soft clink of metal drew your attention back to Aemond. He stood between your parted thighs, his fingers working deftly at the fastenings of his breeches. His eye never left yours, dark with desire and something deeper, more possessive.

"Did you think we were finished?" he murmured, his voice low and rough with want.

A shiver ran through you at his words, anticipation coiling in your belly despite your recent release. You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, watching as he freed himself from the confines of his clothing. The golden light spilling through the windows carved over the planes of his body, accentuating the lean muscle beneath pale skin.

Aemond's hands slid along your thighs, pushing them further apart as he stepped closer. The heat of his body radiated against you, a stark contrast to the cool stone beneath. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your hips as he pulled you to the edge of the table, leaving you exposed and vulnerable before him.

"Tell me you want this," he commanded, his voice low and husky.

You met his gaze, defiance mingling with desire in your eyes. "You know I do."

A ghost of a smirk played at the corners of his mouth. "Say it."

Your breath caught in your throat as you felt him press against you, the promise of what was to come sending a shiver down your spine. "I want you, Aemond," you breathed. "Only you."

With a single, powerful thrust, he buried himself inside you.

A gasp tore from your throat as Aemond filled you completely, the sudden stretch and fullness overwhelming your senses. Your fingers scrabbled for support against the smooth stone of the table, seeking something to ground you as pleasure and pain mingled in equal measure.

Aemond remained still for a moment, his eye fixed on your face, drinking in every flicker of emotion that passed across your features. His hands gripped your hips tightly, holding you in place as your body adjusted to his intrusion.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice low and rough.

You forced your eyes open, meeting his intense gaze. In that moment, with his silver hair gleaming and his eye burning with desire, he looked every inch the dragon prince he was.

Slowly, deliberately, Aemond began to move. Each thrust was measured, controlled, driving deep before withdrawing almost completely. The pace he set was torturous, building the tension within you with agonizing precision. Your breath came in short, sharp gasps, each exhale threatening to form his name.

"Is this what you came for?" Aemond murmured, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down your spine. "To be taken on the council table, like the whore you are?"

A whimper escaped your lips, equal parts humiliation and arousal flooding through you at his words. "Yes," you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper.

His grip on your hips tightened, fingers digging into soft flesh as he increased his pace. The sound of skin against skin echoed in the empty chamber, a rhythmic counterpoint to your gasps and moans.

Aemond's thrusts grew more forceful, driving deeper with each movement. The table beneath you creaked in protest, the sound mingling with your breathless cries. Your fingers curled against the smooth stone, seeking purchase as pleasure built within you once more.

"Look at you," Aemond growled, his eye raking over your flushed skin and parted lips. "Spread out before me like an offering. Tell me, does your husband know how eagerly you come to me?"

His words sent a tremor through you, mortification and desire coiling tight in your belly. "No," you gasped, the word slipping out in a breathless plea.

Aemond's lips curved into a satisfied smirk. "Good. Let him wonder why you return to him with bruises on your hips and my name on your lips."

Aemond’s words sent a heated rush through you, the thrill of his dominance laced with something illicit and intoxicating. His possessiveness only fueled your arousal, each thrust driving you closer to the edge. The cold stone of the table bit into your skin, a stark contrast to the heat building within you.

Aemond's pace increased, his movements becoming more forceful, more desperate. His eye remained fixed on your face, drinking in every gasp and moan that fell from your lips. One hand left your hip, sliding up your body to grasp at your breast through the thin fabric of your gown.

"Mine," he growled, his fingers kneading the soft flesh. "Say it."

"Yours," you gasped, arching into his touch. "I'm yours, Aemond."

A low groan rumbled in his chest at your words.

Aemond's thrusts grew more erratic, his composure finally slipping as he chased his release. Your own pleasure built rapidly, coiling tighter with each powerful movement. The table creaked beneath you, the sound barely registering over the pounding of your heart and your breathless cries.

"Look at me," Aemond commanded, his voice rough with exertion.

You forced your eyes open, meeting his intense gaze. The single eye that remained to him burned with an almost feverish light, desire and possessiveness warring in its depths. His silver hair clung to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his lips were parted as he panted with each thrust.

The tension within you reached its breaking point. With a cry that echoed through the empty chamber, you shattered.

Pleasure crashed over you in waves, your body arching off the cold stone as your release overtook you. Aemond's grip on your hips tightened, holding you steady as he continued to drive into you, prolonging your ecstasy with each powerful thrust.

His own climax followed soon after, a low groan tearing from his throat as he buried himself deep inside you. You felt the heat of his release, your inner walls clenching around him as the aftershocks of your own pleasure rippled through you.

For a long moment, the only sound in the chamber was your shared labored breathing. Aemond remained buried within you, his body a warm weight pressing you into the unforgiving surface of the table. His eye never left yours, the intensity of his gaze unwavering even in the aftermath of your shared passion.

Finally, he withdrew, the loss of his warmth leaving you aching for more.

Aemond stepped back, his movements precise as he adjusted his clothing. You remained sprawled across the council table, your chest heaving as you caught your breath. The yellow fabric of your gown was crumpled and askew, a stark reminder of what had just transpired.

"Stand up," Aemond commanded, his voice low and even once more.

You pushed yourself up on shaky arms, sliding off the edge of the table. Your legs trembled beneath you as you smoothed down your skirts, trying to regain some semblance of composure. Aemond watched you with a critical eye, his gaze sweeping over your disheveled appearance.

"You'll need to fix your hair before you leave," he remarked, a hint of satisfaction coloring his tone. "We wouldn't want anyone to suspect."

A wry smile tugged at your lips."Of course not," you murmured, your fingers working to tame your tousled hair. "Though I suspect the marks on my hips may be harder to explain away."

Aemond's lips curved into a smirk, satisfaction gleaming in his eye. "Good. Let them serve as a reminder of where your true loyalties lie."

He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek. His touch was gentler now, almost tender, though the possessiveness remained. "You wear yellow like an innocent," he murmured, his thumb brushing along your lower lip. "But we both know the truth of what lies beneath."

You leaned into his touch, your eyes meeting his. "And what truth is that, my prince?"

Aemond's gaze darkened, his grip tightening ever so slightly. "That you belong to me. In all ways that matter.”

A shiver ran through you at his words, desire and something deeper coiling in your belly. "Yes," you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper. "I am yours."

Aemond's thumb traced the curve of your jaw, his touch feather-light yet possessive. "Good," he murmured, satisfaction coloring his tone. "Remember that when you return to your husband's bed."

The reminder of your marital obligations sent a pang of guilt through you, quickly overshadowed by the thrill of your illicit liaison. Aemond's hand dropped from your face, and you immediately felt the loss of his warmth.

"Go," he commanded, stepping back. "Before someone comes looking for you.”

You nodded, taking a moment to smooth your skirts and adjust your hair one final time. As you turned to leave, Aemond's voice stopped you.

"One more thing," Aemond said, his voice low and commanding.

You paused at the door, turning back to face him. Aemond stood tall and imposing, his eye gleaming in the flickering candlelight.

"Next time," he said, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down your spine, "wear green."

A small smile played at the corners of your mouth as understanding dawned. Green, the color of House Hightower - his mother's house. A subtle rebellion against your husband's loyalties, and a clear sign of where your allegiances truly lay.

"As you wish, my prince," you murmured, dipping into a curtsy.

As you slipped out of the chamber and into the afternoon halls of the Red Keep, Aemond’s gaze seared into your back. The weight of your shared secret clung to you like a cloak, a whispered promise and a lingering threat, impossible to shake. 

[fancyfunsalad]

اى بنت شايفة جسمها تكلمني

[novaursa]

Legacy (the last enemy)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (descriptions of blood, gore, violence and death)

- Previous part: the great war

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi @alkadri-layal @butterflygxril @urdxrling

The walls trembled with the force of the onslaught.

Tywin stood firm, his golden armor dusted with soot, his crimson cloak billowing as he surveyed the carnage unfolding before him. The dead had come in numbers beyond reckoning, their skeletal fingers and frozen flesh clawing up the steep cliffs and battering the gates.

The ramparts were slick with blackened blood, as the men of the Westerlands fought tooth and nail, driving back wave after wave of the relentless undead. Arrows laced with dragonglass pierced the skulls of wights, sending them crumbling into the masses below. Boiling oil and flaming pitch rained down, setting the battlefield ablaze, yet still they came.

On the eastern wall, Kevan Lannister parried a strike, his sword cutting clean through the rotted flesh of a wight, sending its head tumbling to the ground. Behind him, one of the younger knights—Ser Andros Lefford—gasped out, “They don’t stop! Gods, they don’t—” before an icy blade pierced his throat, silencing him instantly.

Kevan whirled, his blade lashing out and taking the wight’s arm off at the elbow, but the creature did not falter. It lunged at him with unnatural speed, its hollow eyes fixed in hunger, until one of Thoros’ men brought an axe crashing down onto its skull, splitting it in two.

Kevan turned, panting, his breath misting in the frigid air. He locked eyes with his brother, standing atop the main gate, his gaze like steel.

“They’re wearing us down,” Kevan called up, his voice hoarse. "The men grow tired."

Tywin did not move, his expression unreadable as he watched another section of the wall collapse under the weight of the dead.

A horn sounded, deep and ominous.

One of the bannermen, Lord Crakehall, staggered toward him, his face pale beneath the grime and sweat. “My Lord… we can’t hold forever.”

Tywin finally turned to him, his voice as cold as the air that surrounded them. “Then we hold as long as we can.”

Crakehall swallowed, looking as if he wanted to argue, but there was no point. They had been fighting for hours, the sky above them a void of endless black, the air thick with the stench of death and burning flesh.

Below, Arraxes stirred from the mines, his blood-red eyes flashing in the darkness. The young dragon let out a guttural growl, the deep rumble shaking the ground, but he did not leave his lair. The battle raged around him, but he had yet to take flight.

Kevan turned his head, wiping sweat and grime from his brow. "Why didn't she return?"

Tywin did not answer.

The question had gnawed at him for hours. Where was she? His wife, his dragon-rider lady, the only woman to ever unravel the cold fortress of his heart. She had promised to return, to bring fire and death upon the enemy before they reached the gates.

But she was not here.

The walls shuddered as another siege ladder slammed into place, the undead swarming up like insects, their fingers clawing and scraping at the stones. The men on the ramparts hacked and slashed, their muscles burning, their blades growing dull from overuse.

A scream rang out as a wight ripped a man’s throat out with its bare hands, sending him toppling over the wall, his lifeblood spilling into the darkness.

Tywin clenched his jaw. This could not go on.

He turned abruptly to Thoros of Myr, whose sword still burned with divine fire, carving through wights like parchment. "Tell me, Red Priest," Tywin said, his voice dangerously low, "where is your Lord of Light now?"

Thoros paused only briefly, his expression unreadable as he swung his blade, sending another wight screaming into oblivion. “He watches, my Lord. The question is—what will we do before he acts?”

Tywin narrowed his gaze.

A decision needed to be made. A desperate one.

He turned to his commander. “Pull the men back from the eastern gate. Draw them inward.”

Kevan’s brow furrowed. “You mean to let them through?”

“I mean to burn them all.”

Crakehall exhaled sharply, but he did not argue.

The new plan was in motion.

From the mines below, the ground shook as Arraxes let out a low snarl, sensing what was to come.

Tywin’s eyes remained locked on the endless horde, as they crawled and surged toward him.

The iron gates groaned as they swung open, and the dead poured in like a flood, their hollow eyes fixed on the living flesh that awaited them.

Tywin stood motionless, his green eyes cold and sharp, watching the monstrous tide surge forward. The plan was in motion���the courtyard would become their pyre.

Yet, as the first wights crossed the stone threshold, something shifted.

A sudden stillness gripped the air, a heavy pause like the moment before a storm.

The wights that had rushed forward now froze mid-step, their heads twitching unnaturally, their jaws clicking, the ice inside them humming with something unknown, something ancient.

The soldiers on the battlements who had been ready to drop torches and fire hesitated, looking down with wide, confused eyes as their undead foes stood eerily still.

Then, the air itself changed.

A deep, guttural growl resonated through the stone walls, a sound that was older than men, older than the kingdom itself. It rolled through the courtyard like thunder, a vibrating tremor born of rage.

Tywin’s breath hitched as the shadows beneath the castle moved.

Then he saw them—two massive, blood-red eyes, glowing like molten embers, emerging from the darkness of the mines beneath Casterly Rock.

A monstrous black form slithered forward, slow and deliberate, the torchlight flickering against his onyx scales, his long, serpentine body shifting with the grace of a shadow given flesh.

Arraxes.

The young dragon, no longer a hatchling, no longer a beast confined to the earth, but a living, breathing instrument of war.

The wights turned toward him, their heads twitching, their limbs jerking in response to something unseen, something ancient. The magic that bound them quivered, as if some primordial force had just been awakened.

Then Arraxes roared.

A great explosion of sound, a maelstrom of fury, the sheer force of it shaking the very stones beneath them.

And the dead began to scream.

The battlements erupted with shouts as Tywin’s men bellowed their battle cry, calling to the beast below.

“Burn them! Burn them all!”

The courtyard ignited in chaos, as Arraxes lunged forward, his jaws unhinging, his throat glowing with a furious crimson fire.

The wights moved, some clawing toward him, others stumbling back, but it was too late—

A torrent of flame erupted from Arraxes’ maw, a wave of fire so intense that the very air warped and twisted, a golden-red inferno consuming the creatures whole.

The wights burned instantly, their screeches echoing across the walls, their bodies crumbling into charred, lifeless husks.

Tywin had seen fire before. He had commanded it, wielded it like a weapon in his long reign of war.

But this…

This was something else.

This was vengeance made flesh.

Then, another roar split the sky.

A sound Tywin knew.

His head snapped upward just as a massive cream shape came plummeting down from the heavens, the force of its arrival causing the air to tremble, the winds to shift.

A torrent of pale gold fire rained down, engulfing the northern side of the battlefield, sending entire waves of wights into oblivion.

And there you were.

High above the Rock, mounted upon the beast of war itself—Viserion.

Tywin's breath left him, his mind snapping to realization.

You had returned.

The battlements erupted in a chorus of relief and war cries, the soldiers shouting your name, their voices melding with the roar of battle.

And as the golden dragon leveled her wings, as Arraxes lifted his head to the sky, something stirred in the distance.

A new sound.

A new force.

Tywin turned sharply, and in the distance, beyond the burning wights, beyond the chaos of battle, he saw it.

An army.

But not of the dead.

Not of wights.

Not of nightmares.

A host of living men, clad in steel and leather, banners whipping in the wind.

And at their head—

Jon Snow.

A second front had arrived.

And the true battle for Westeros had begun.

Jon gripped the hilt of Longclaw tightly, his breath coming in quick, visible bursts as his army pressed forward into the abyss of war. The ground beneath them was slick with ice and blood, the scent of rot and death so thick in the air that it clawed at his throat. The sky overhead remained an endless stretch of darkness, no moon, no stars—only the cold void of an unnatural winter that had swallowed the world whole.

Then, they came.

At first, it was just a whispering sound, the unnatural scrape of bone against steel, the mindless hissing of wights as they sensed fresh flesh, their movements jerky, broken, and yet disturbingly fast. Then the horizon erupted with motion, a tsunami of the dead rushing forward, wights bounding across the ice, climbing over one another, their jaws snapping, their dead eyes fixed upon the living.

“Shields up!” Jon roared, and the Northern front braced itself, shields locking into place, spears lowered.

The first impact was brutal. The wights threw themselves against the shield wall with mindless ferocity, their rotting hands clawing, scratching, tearing at anything they could reach. Steel sang, blades cleaved through frozen flesh, and the battle dissolved into a chaotic storm of bodies and blood.

Jon struck down one wight, then another, his movements swift, practiced, each strike of Longclaw sending the creatures collapsing into lifeless heaps. Beside him, Tormund swung his axe, cutting through the onslaught with savage force.

“They just keep coming!” Tormund bellowed, smashing the brittle skull of a wight beneath his boot.

Jon didn’t respond—because he had already sensed it.

Something else was coming.

A new sound broke through the howling storm of battle—a deep, guttural clicking noise, something alien, something far more sinister.

Jon turned just in time to see them emerge from the darkness.

Tall, lithe, and eerily graceful, the Others strode through the battlefield like specters from a nightmare. Their armor gleamed like ice, reflecting the dim light of distant flames, their eyes glowed an unnatural blue, piercing, unfeeling. Each carried a blade of frozen death, their weapons forged from the very essence of the Long Night itself.

The wights parted for them, shifting and retreating as the Others advanced, their movements calculated, elegant, lethal.

Jon’s stomach twisted into a knot. He had seen what their blades could do, how they could shatter steel, slice through flesh effortlessly, how they left no wound that could heal.

“Steady!” Jon called to his men.

Then—a new horror.

The ground trembled, a deep, unsettling quake that rippled through the ice. From the shadows beyond the fray, massive dark shapes skittered forward—their long, spindly legs moving with unnatural speed, their mandibles clicking, their icy exoskeletons gleaming like frozen obsidian.

Spiders.

But not just any spiders.

These were the legends given flesh, the beasts of Old Nan’s stories, the terrible nightmares that haunted the North for thousands of years—the Cold God’s children.

Their eyes burned with the same eerie glow as their masters, their limbs moving like streaks of black lightning, their webbing a frozen death trap that could ensnare even the strongest warriors.

The Northern lines buckled as the first wave of monstrous arachnids lunged forward, their legs piercing armor, their fangs tearing into flesh.

Jon ducked as one leapt toward him, its monstrous body blocking out the battlefield behind it. He rolled, barely avoiding its deadly strike, before bringing Longclaw down in a powerful arc. The Valyrian steel bit deep, slicing through chitinous flesh, sending the beast screeching in agony before it collapsed in a heap of twitching limbs.

Davos plunged his sword into another, while Tormund hacked off its legs, laughing like a madman drenched in blood.

“What in all the hells are these?!” Davos shouted, his sword slipping on the frozen exoskeleton of another spider.

Jon had no answer, only the grim realization that this was not just an army—it was a nightmare made real.

Then, a shadow passed over them.

Jon looked up just in time to see a torrent of pale-gold fire erupt from the sky, the flames licking across the battlefield, igniting the wights, turning the monstrous spiders into charred husks of burning legs and blackened corpses.

The air shook with the roar of a dragon, and Jon’s heart leapt into his throat.

Viserion.

And not alone.

The ground shook again, but this time it was not the dead that trembled. Another roar joined the first, a deep, furious sound, one that made the very air vibrate with heat and fury.

From the darkness of the battlefield, another form streaked through the sky, its wings massive, its eyes burning like molten rubies.

Arraxes.

The dragons dove together, their fire cascading down upon the battlefield, their fury unleashed upon the cold horrors below.

The Northern men roared in defiance, emboldened by the sight, their swords cutting through the wights with renewed strength, their resolve hardening in the face of the impossible.

Jon gritted his teeth, the flames illuminating the battlefield, casting the Others in stark relief.

For the first time, they hesitated.

For the first time, they looked up.

The chamber was deep within the heart of Casterly Rock, carved into the very stone that had been home to House Lannister for centuries. The thick, ancient walls muffled the sounds of battle from the world outside, but Damon and Maelor could still feel the tremors, the distant thunder of war pounding at the gates of their sanctuary.

Damon sat near the heavy oaken table, his fingers clenching the fabric of his tunic as he stared at the flickering candlelight. He knew, even without seeing it, that his father was somewhere on the walls, that his mother was up there in the sky, and that death was coming for them all.

Maelor was sitting on the floor by the hearth, his small hands clenched around the wooden lion figurine that had been gifted to him long ago. He was still too young to understand the full scope of what was happening, but he understood enough—the fear in the guards' eyes, the way the castle had gone deathly quiet despite the howling wind outside, the way everyone was whispering prayers to gods he had never truly known.

Across the chamber, Ser Barristan Selmy stood watch, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword, his sharp gaze sweeping over the room like that of a lion ready to pounce at the first sign of danger. He had seen countless battles, served countless kings and queens, but nothing could have prepared him for this.

“It’s too quiet,” Damon muttered, breaking the silence.

Barristan turned his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “The worst storms are always silent before they strike.”

Damon swallowed hard. He had never been a coward, but right now, all he could think about was his mother and father, out there in the midst of it all, facing things that should not exist.

“Do you think they’ll win?” Maelor’s voice was soft, hesitant, as he looked up from his lion figurine. His large eyes flickered with worry.

Barristan sighed, stepping forward, his armor glinting in the dim torchlight. “Your parents are strong, your father is the greatest commander Westeros has seen in a century, and your mother has fire in her blood.” He kneeled before Maelor, his voice gentle but firm. “But wars are never certain, young prince. We must be ready for anything.”

Damon exhaled, his hands tightening into fists. He was seven, nearly eight, not a child anymore, not a babe to be coddled. “I should be out there.”

Barristan arched a brow. “And what would you do? Swing a wooden sword at the dead? The battlefield is no place for you yet. You will have your time, but not now.”

Damon bristled, but he knew Barristan was right. He had tried to claim Arraxes, tried to prove himself worthy of a dragon, and he had failed. The pain of that rejection still burned just as deeply as the scars the dragon had left on him.

Maelor, still holding his wooden lion, suddenly whispered, “They won’t let them take us, will they? The monsters?”

Barristan stood, his shoulders straight as a steel blade, and placed a hand on the pommel of his sword. “Not while I still draw breath. Not while your father still stands. And certainly not while your mother flies above us.”

The young prince nodded but said nothing more.

Damon’s thoughts drifted to the sky, wondering if his mother was still flying with Viserion and Arraxes, wondering if his father was still standing atop the battlements, staring down the army of the dead with that cold, unshakable gaze of his.

The castle trembled again, and from beyond the stone walls, a distant, bone-chilling shriek echoed through the corridors.

The sky above Casterly Rock had never seen a storm like this before. Not a storm of wind and rain, but one of fire and ice, of death and war, raging in the heavens like the battle of gods. The once-imposing sky, veiled in an unnatural darkness, was torn apart by flames, illuminating the battlefield below in flickering shades of gold and blue.

Tywin Lannister stood atop the ramparts, his eyes lifted to the heavens where you and your dragon fought against something beyond the comprehension of men. Around him, his men held their breath, frozen in place, momentarily captivated by the spectacle of beasts clashing in the sky. Even hardened soldiers, men who had fought in countless wars, who had carved their legacies in blood and steel, could only watch in stunned horror.

High above them, Viserion roared, her body twisting through the air as she clashed against an abomination that should not exist. The Night King’s dragon, a monstrous corpse of ice and death, let out a horrific, piercing shriek that shattered the sky, the sound echoing over the battlefield like the wail of a dying world.

You sat firmly in Viserion’s saddle, your breath fogging in the unnatural cold that radiated from your foe. You clutched the reins, your body taut with focus, the very air around you biting like a blade as you commanded your dragon to strike. The Lannister-forged armor that encased Viserion’s powerful body gleamed in the flickering light, its crimson and gold etchings striking a stark contrast against the swirling darkness around you. The lion’s sigil had been carefully engraved along the armored plating on her neck and flanks, a lion riding a dragon into war.

“Dracarys!” you roared, and Viserion obeyed, unleashing a torrent of pale golden fire, so hot it burned white at the center, cascading toward the ice dragon.

But the Night King did not flinch. He did not recoil, nor did he flee. Instead, he raised a single, frozen hand, and the fire sputtered, struggling against the unnatural cold that surrounded him. The flames licked against the ice dragon’s hide, but it did not burn—it resisted, as if flame itself could be turned to frost.

“What in the Seven Hells is that thing?” one of Tywin’s bannermen whispered, his voice trembling.

Tywin did not answer. He merely watched, his jaw tightening, his knuckles white as he gripped the hilt of his sword. You were up there, fighting a battle that no warlord, no king, no conqueror had ever prepared for.

Then, Viserion and the ice dragon collided.

The impact was like a thunderclap, two great titans crashing into one another with enough force to shake the very heavens. Viserion clawed and bit, her jaws snapping at the cold, lifeless flesh of her foe, but the ice dragon retaliated with brutal swipes of its frozen talons, gouging deep into Viserion’s armored flank.

You barely held on, your fingers gripping the saddle tightly as Viserion roared in pain, her body lurching violently. You felt the deep, aching wound through your bond, a searing pain that made your stomach churn.

“Fall back! Defend the gates!” Tywin’s command snapped through the frozen air, dragging his men’s attention back to the war that still raged around them. The dead had not stopped their assault, and now they came harder, faster, as if driven by the presence of their king.

The gates of Casterly Rock trembled, the undead hordes hammering against them like waves crashing against a cliff. Pale, lifeless hands reached over the battlements, grasping, clawing, pulling themselves up. Men screamed as they were dragged over the edge, their armor useless against the sheer numbers of the dead.

A wight lunged toward Tywin, its hollow, frozen eyes locked onto him, its mouth twisted into something like a grin. But Tywin did not hesitate—his sword flashed through the darkness, severing its head in one clean stroke.

The ground beneath them shook again, this time from above.

Tywin looked up just in time to see Viserion twisting through the air, flames and ice clashing as the battle raged on. The Night King’s dragon spewed an unholy breath of frost, a bitter, freezing wind that turned fire to mist and ice to jagged spears.

Viserion barely evaded, but the attack struck her wing, and a section of it stiffened, turning to frost-bitten crystal. You gasped, feeling the numbness through your bond, and you urged your dragon onward, higher, away from the deadly grasp of the Night King.

But the Night King did not let up. He lifted his spear—a javelin of pure ice, the same weapon that had felled a dragon before. He pulled back, his inhuman face emotionless, his piercing blue gaze locked onto you and Viserion.

Tywin saw it before it happened.

“No—!”

The Night King threw his spear.

Time slowed.

You saw it slicing through the air, its tip glinting like death itself, aimed straight for your dragon’s heart.

And then—

A blur.

Arraxes.

The young dragon—smaller, but faster—swooped in from below, his scarlet eyes burning like fire itself, his wings folding in just as the spear struck him instead.

The impact was instantaneous. The ice spear pierced through Arraxes’ chest, and for a moment, the world stopped. The young dragon let out a piercing wail, one that rattled the very bones of the earth, and then he fell—spiraling downward, blood and frost spilling into the endless night.

Your scream split the heavens.

Tywin watched in horror as Arraxes plummeted, his body twisting, his wings faltering, his onyx and crimson scales gleaming even as death claimed him midair.

But there was no time to grieve.

Viserion roared in fury, and you clutched the saddle, your mind burning with rage and sorrow. The Night King had taken something from you, and you would make sure he burned for it.

As the battle raged below, as the dead swarmed the gates, as Tywin and his men fought for their very lives, you turned Viserion toward the Night King once more.

And this time, you would not hold back.

The sky burned, and yet the cold never ceased.

You gritted your teeth, feeling the throbbing pain in your head, your body weighed down by the sheer exhaustion of battle. Viserion’s breath came ragged, her golden armor dented and scratched, dark stains of blood marking the spots where the ice dragon had struck her. You could feel her rage, her pain, the way her body ached but refused to yield.

And Arraxes was gone.

The young dragon had fallen to the depths, his lifeblood spilling like a comet through the darkened sky, but you had no time to weep, no time to scream. The Night King was still standing, still riding his monstrous undead dragon, its hollow, soulless eyes staring at you with an unnatural hunger.

“Fly, my love, fly!” you urged, gripping the reins tighter as Viserion roared, banking hard to avoid another ice spear forming in the Night King’s grasp.

Below, Casterly Rock was drenched in battle, the flames of Viserion’s earlier attacks still licking at the swarming masses of undead. But even dragonfire wasn’t enough—their numbers were endless, waves upon waves of the dead still climbing the walls, forcing the gates, their pale, rotten hands clawing at every living thing they could reach.

And at the very heart of the chaos, Tywin Lannister watched you fight a war in the sky that no army could reach.

“My lord, there is nothing we can do—” one of his knights began, but Tywin silenced him with a look sharp enough to cut steel.

His hands were clenched into fists. His breath came short and cold, not from fear, but from fury. He had fought wars his entire life, built a legacy of order and control, and yet here he stood, watching as his wife fought a battle he could not reach, one that no Lannister steel nor Westerland army could touch.

His teeth clenched as he turned sharply, barking an order:

“Bring me my horse.”

There was a pause, a moment of disbelief.

Kevan took a step forward, his brow furrowing. “Tywin, what are you—”

“Bring. Me. My. Horse.”

“You can’t help her!” Kevan snapped, frustration flaring in his voice. “She is up there, fighting a dragon, fighting something that isn’t even human! How do you plan to—”

“I will not stand here while my wife fights alone.”

His words were steel, unyielding, absolute, the kind that left no room for further argument.

A heavy silence fell upon the men around him, all of them watching the great Tywin Lannister, the man who never acted without cold calculation, now mounting a horse in the middle of an impossible battle.

It was Beric Dondarrion who finally spoke, his voice grim, but resolute.

“We’ll ride with you.”

Kevan turned his glare toward the men of the Brotherhood Without Banners. “Are you mad? This is suicide!”

Beric merely smiled, a dry, weary expression. “Death is not as permanent as you might think, my lord. And besides—someone has to watch the Lion of Lannister charge into a storm. A tale worth remembering.”

Thoros of Myr grunted, pulling himself onto his own mount, the light of his flaming sword casting eerie shadows over the blood-stained snow.

“Let it be known that Lannisters are as mad as Targaryens.”

Tywin said nothing. He merely kicked his horse forward, his cloak trailing behind him as he led the charge into the chaos.

You could feel Viserion’s wings weakening, the frost slowly creeping into her bones from the wounds she had taken. Every beat of her wings was a desperate, furious fight against the cold trying to steal her from the sky.

But the Night King did not tire.

His lifeless blue eyes locked onto you, and his dragon—a decayed, twisted horror of what once was a great beast—let out a breath of pure death.

A spear of ice formed once more in his grasp, and this time, you could feel the inevitability in the air.

Viserion was struggling.

Your body ached.

The Night King would strike again, and this time, he would not miss.

But then—

Something below shattered the battlefield.

A golden standard, burning against the night, moving through the horde of undead like a specter of defiance.

Tywin.

You almost did not believe it. He was down there, riding into the fray, sword in hand, cutting down wights and monsters alike, his men charging behind him with flaming swords and shields raised high.

“Seven hells, what is he doing?!”

Viserion stirred beneath you, her own fire igniting in response. She had always been protective, always watched over the man who had claimed you as his, and now he had charged into a battle he could not win—for you.

For you and your children.

The Night King turned his head, his gaze flickering toward the movement below.

A mistake.

“Now!” you screamed, and Viserion answered.

With every last ounce of her strength, she roared, diving toward the Night King’s exposed flank, golden fire surging from her jaws just as the sky erupted with flame and steel below.

Tywin’s men fought harder, their leader at the very front, cutting through the waves of the dead as Viserion and her rider struck the heavens like vengeful gods.

And finally—finally—the Night King faltered.

[wodania]

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[vhaenaera]

[ Sons of The Dragon ]

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reupload

[angstandhappiness]

IMPORTANT

The article is under the cut because paywalls suck

This is an edited transcript of an audio essay on “The Ezra Klein Show.” You can listen to the conversation by following or subscribing to the show on the NYT Audio App, Apple, Spotify, Amazon Music, YouTube, iHeartRadio or wherever you get your podcasts.

If you want to understand the first few weeks of the second Trump administration, you should listen to what Steve Bannon told PBS’s “Frontline” in 2019:

Steve Bannon: The opposition party is the media. And the media can only, because they’re dumb and they’re lazy, they can only focus on one thing at a time. … All we have to do is flood the zone. Every day we hit them with three things. They’ll bite on one, and we’ll get all of our stuff done. Bang, bang, bang. These guys will never — will never be able to recover. But we’ve got to start with muzzle velocity. So it’s got to start, and it’s got to hammer, and it’s got to — Michael Kirk: What was the word? Bannon: Muzzle velocity.

Muzzle velocity. Bannon’s insight here is real. Focus is the fundamental substance of democracy. It is particularly the substance of opposition. People largely learn of what the government is doing through the media — be it mainstream media or social media. If you overwhelm the media — if you give it too many places it needs to look, all at once, if you keep it moving from one thing to the next — no coherent opposition can emerge. It is hard to even think coherently.

Donald Trump’s first two weeks in the White House have followed Bannon’s strategy like a script. The flood is the point. The overwhelm is the point. The message wasn’t in any one executive order or announcement. It was in the cumulative effect of all of them. The sense that this is Trump’s country now. This is his government now. It follows his will. It does what he wants. If Trump tells the state to stop spending money, the money stops. If he says that birthright citizenship is over, it’s over.

Or so he wants you to think. In Trump’s first term, we were told: Don’t normalize him. In his second, the task is different: Don’t believe him.

Trump knows the power of marketing. If you make people believe something is true, you make it likelier that it becomes true. Trump clawed his way back to great wealth by playing a fearsome billionaire on TV; he remade himself as a winner by refusing to admit he had ever lost. The American presidency is a limited office. But Trump has never wanted to be president, at least not as defined in Article II of the U.S. Constitution. He has always wanted to be king. His plan this time is to first play king on TV. If we believe he is already king, we will be likelier to let him govern as a king.

Don’t believe him. Trump has real powers — but they are the powers of the presidency. The pardon power is vast and unrestricted, and so he could pardon the Jan. 6 rioters. Federal security protection is under the discretion of the executive branch, and so he could remove it from Anthony Fauci and Mike Pompeo and John Bolton and Mark Milley and even Brian Hook, a largely unknown former State Department official under threat from Iran who donated time to Trump’s transition team. It was an act of astonishing cruelty and callousness from a man who nearly died by an assassin’s bullet — as much as anything ever has been, this, to me, was an X-ray of the smallness of Trump’s soul — but it was an act that was within his power.

But the president cannot rewrite the Constitution. Within days, the birthright citizenship order was frozen by a judge — a Reagan appointee — who told Trump’s lawyers, “I have difficulty understanding how a member of the bar would state unequivocally that this is a constitutional order. It just boggles my mind.” A judge froze the spending freeze before it was even scheduled to go into effect, and shortly thereafter, the Trump administration rescinded the order, in part to avoid the court case.

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What Bannon wanted — what the Trump administration wants — is to keep everything moving fast. Muzzle velocity, remember. If you’re always consumed by the next outrage, you can’t look closely at the last one. The impression of Trump’s power remains; the fact that he keeps stepping on rakes is missed. The projection of strength obscures the reality of weakness. Don’t believe him.

You could see this a few ways: Is Trump playing a part, making a bet or triggering a crisis? Those are the options. I am not certain he knows the answer. Trump has always been an improviser. But if you take it as calculated, here is the calculation: Perhaps this Supreme Court, stocked with his appointees, gives him powers no peacetime president has ever possessed. Perhaps all of this becomes legal now that he has asserted its legality. It is not impossible to imagine that bet paying off.

But Trump’s odds are bad. So what if the bet fails and his arrogations of power are soundly rejected by the courts? Then comes the question of constitutional crisis: Does he ignore the court’s ruling? To do that would be to attempt a coup. I wonder if they have the stomach for it. The withdrawal of the Office of Management and Budget’s order to freeze spending suggests they don’t. Bravado aside, Trump’s political capital is thin. Both in his first and second terms, he has entered office with approval ratings below that of any president in the modern era. Gallup has Trump’s approval rating at 47 percent — about 10 points beneath Joe Biden’s in January 2021.

There is a reason Trump is doing all of this through executive orders rather than submitting these same directives as legislation to pass through Congress. A more powerful executive could persuade Congress to eliminate the spending he opposes or reform the civil service to give himself the powers of hiring and firing that he seeks. To write these changes into legislation would make them more durable and allow him to argue their merits in a more strategic way. Even if Trump’s aim is to bring the civil service to heel — to rid it of his opponents and turn it to his own ends — he would be better off arguing that he is simply trying to bring the high-performance management culture of Silicon Valley to the federal government. You never want a power grab to look like a power grab.

But Republicans have a three-seat edge in the House and a 53-seat majority in the Senate. Trump has done nothing to reach out to Democrats. If Trump tried to pass this agenda as legislation, it would most likely fail in the House, and it would certainly die before the filibuster in the Senate. And that would make Trump look weak. Trump does not want to look weak. He remembers John McCain humiliating him in his first term by casting the deciding vote against Obamacare repeal.

That is the tension at the heart of Trump’s whole strategy: Trump is acting like a king because he is too weak to govern like a president. He is trying to substitute perception for reality. He is hoping that perception then becomes reality. That can only happen if we believe him.

The flurry of activity is meant to suggest the existence of a plan. The Trump team wants it known that they’re ready this time. They will control events rather than be controlled by them. The closer you look, the less true that seems. They are scrambling and flailing already. They are leaking against one another already. We’ve learned, already, that the O.M.B. directive was drafted, reportedly, without the input or oversight of key Trump officials — “it didn’t go through the proper approval process,” an administration official told The Washington Post. For this to be the process and product of a signature initiative in the second week of a president’s second term is embarrassing.

But it’s not just the O.M.B. directive. The Trump administration is waging an immediate war on the bureaucracy, trying to replace the “deep state” it believes hampered it in the first term. A big part of this project seems to have been outsourced to Elon Musk, who is bringing the tactics he used at Twitter to the federal government. He has longtime aides at the Office of Personnel Management, and the email sent to nearly all federal employees even reused the subject line of the email he sent to Twitter employees: “Fork in the Road.” Musk wants you to know it was him.

The email offers millions of civil servants a backdoor buyout: Agree to resign and in theory, at least, you can collect your paycheck and benefits until the end of September without doing any work. The Department of Government Efficiency account on X described it this way: “Take the vacation you always wanted, or just watch movies and chill, while receiving your full government pay and benefits.” The Washington Post reported that the email “blindsided” many in the Trump administration who would normally have consulted on a notice like that.

I suspect Musk thinks of the federal work force as a huge mass of woke ideologues. But most federal workers have very little to do with politics. About 16 percent of the federal work force is in health care. These are, for instance, nurses and doctors who work for the Veterans Affairs department. How many of them does Musk want to lose? What plans does the V.A. have for attracting and training their replacements? How quickly can he do it?

The Social Security Administration has more than 59,000 employees. Does Musk know which ones are essential to operations and unusually difficult to replace? One likely outcome of this scheme is that a lot of talented people who work in nonpolitical jobs and could make more elsewhere take the lengthy vacation and leave government services in tatters. Twitter worked poorly after Musk’s takeover, with more frequent outages and bugs, but its outages are not a national scandal. When V.A. health care degrades, it is. To have sprung this attack on the civil service so loudly and publicly and brazenly is to be assured of the blame if anything goes wrong.

What Trump wants you to see in all this activity is command. What is really in all this activity is chaos. They do not have some secret reservoir of focus and attention the rest of us do not. They have convinced themselves that speed and force is a strategy unto itself — that it is, in a sense, a replacement for a real strategy. Don’t believe them.

I had a conversation a couple months ago with someone who knows how the federal government works about as well as anyone alive. I asked him what would worry him most if he saw Trump doing it. What he told me is that he would worry most if Trump went slowly. If he began his term by doing things that made him more popular and made his opposition weaker and more confused. If he tried to build strength for the midterms while slowly expanding his powers and chipping away at the deep state where it was weakest.

But he didn’t. And so the opposition to Trump, which seemed so listless after the election, is beginning to rouse itself.

There is a subreddit for federal employees where one of the top posts reads: “This non ‘buyout’ really seems to have backfired. I’ll be honest, before that email went out, I was looking for any way to get out of this fresh hell. But now I am fired up to make these goons as frustrated as possible.” As I write this, it’s been upvoted more than 39,000 times and civil servant after civil servant is echoing the initial sentiment.

In Iowa this week, Democrats flipped a State Senate seat in a district that Trump won easily in 2024. The attempted spending freeze gave Democrats their voice back, as they zeroed in on the popular programs Trump had imperiled. Trump isn’t building support; he’s losing it. Trump isn’t fracturing his opposition; he’s uniting it.

This is the weakness of the strategy that Bannon proposed and Trump is following. It is a strategy that forces you into overreach. To keep the zone flooded, you have to keep acting, keep moving, keep creating new cycles of outrage or fear. You overwhelm yourself. And there’s only so much you can do through executive orders. Soon enough, you have to go beyond what you can actually do. And when you do that, you either trigger a constitutional crisis or you reveal your own weakness.

Trump may not see his own fork in the road coming. He may believe he has the power he is claiming. That would be a mistake on his part — a self-deception that could doom his presidency. But the real threat is if he persuades the rest of us to believe he has power he does not have.

The first two weeks of Trump’s presidency have not shown his strength. He is trying to overwhelm you. He is trying to keep you off-balance. He is trying to persuade you of something that isn’t true. Don’t believe him.

You can listen to this conversation by following “The Ezra Klein Show” on NYT Audio App, Apple, Spotify, Amazon Music, YouTube, iHeartRadio or wherever you get your podcasts. View a list of book recommendations from our guests here.

[soncee]

Dany in Meereen

[gotham-at-nightfall]

Dany and Missandei

By Dede

[salialenart]

Catelyn & Cersei

commission for @cerseidefender

[spicy30]

Modernness of 1400s 011

Pairing: HOTD x Fem!Modern!Reader

Extra: The reader is noted to be bilingual (Spanish speaking) and is familiar with the majority of Latin-based languages, No use of Y/N

Rating: 18+ (Masturbation, religious psychosis)

Tags: @fan-goddess @meowmeowmothermeower @bunxia @your-favorite-god @coolalienstatesmansports @georgiatesulitsyeykite @qwerrtsworld @wegottastayfocus @dakota-rain666 @talilosha @the-deep-dark-abyss @101crows @agustdeeyaa @ggglich-exe @illjhhlisa @deepeststarlightmoon @cluelessteam @a-fruity-snack @i-zenin @justablondeeee @feyresqueen @yduimobsessed @pinkluv29 @xmenteria @itwaszzmoon @powllito @xadaboo @magdalenacarmila @btzams @jellyforbrains @thebl00rwyrm @smiley-roos

WC: 20.2k

17th day of the 7th moon of 129 AC

There are few things in this world that are truly holy.

And you, despite your deeds, have never been counted among them. The High Septon does not see you as holy. Not even your remarkable acts—curing illnesses, mending the King’s failing health, disproving age-old scientific fallacies—are enough. The King, though healed by your hands, cannot evade death; your brilliance, though it shatters centuries of ignorance, does not sanctify you. Even as the faithful gather at the sept to pray for you, their devotion cannot transform you into something divine. To the High Septon of King’s Landing, you are ordinary. Unholy.

That is until he hears it—a melody, soft and sweet, whispering in his ear. A song so heavenly that he cannot deny its origin: it must be from the Seven. The music echoes through the walls of the sept as you stand beneath the towering effigies of the Seven. The stained glass scatters sunlight, framing you in an ethereal glow, each ray dancing like a blessing upon your form.

The Seven seem to watch you, their gazes carved into the very stone of the sept. The light catches your hair, setting it aglow like spun gold. Your skin gleams with a divine radiance, smooth and flawless, while your white gown shines like a star reborn. The gold adorning your body reflects the sunlight in shimmering patterns, as if touched by a celestial hand.

And then, as though you too hear the melody, you turn your head toward the Father. The movement is graceful, purposeful. The light refracts off your skin, casting a spectrum of colors—each hue a reflection of one of the Seven. A faint rainbow dances upon you, a living symbol of divine unity.

The High Septon is struck silent. The melody still hums in his ears, and the vision before him—bathed in the sun’s radiant light—leaves no room for doubt. You must be sent by the Seven. There, in the heart of their sacred light, you stand as a vessel of their will. Holy. Transcendent.

The High Septon falls to his knees, his voice trembling with awe. “A blessing... a messenger of the Seven themselves.” He clasps his hands together in reverence, his ornate robes pooling around him like a tide of silk and gold. The sept is silent save for the soft hum of the melody, a sound that seems to dim with each passing moment. The smallfolk who had gathered outside now pressed closer to the sept’s open doors, drawn by the radiant light and the sound of something beyond mortal understanding—Or so it would seem.

“High Septon, please. It should be I who bows.” Your voice is soft, yet it carries a weight that makes the High Septon freeze in place. He watches, mortified, as you incline your head toward him, a gesture of humility that feels utterly misplaced.

“Please, no!” he exclaims, his voice trembling. “It would be blasphemy!” He moves to stop you, his hands halfway raised, but then he falters. He cannot touch you. Something holds him back—whether fear or reverence, he does not know. The light that surrounds you, shimmering with the colors of the Seven, makes it impossible to believe you are of this world. Even as the Father of the Faithful, the voice of the new gods on earth, he feels unworthy.

How can he call himself the Most Devout when he has ignored your calls for months? When he has turned away from your work and dismissed your deeds? Shame wells in his chest, his knees buckling beneath the weight of his own failings. “I have wronged you,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “I have failed to heed your summons, to meet you as I should. I beg your forgiveness.”

He bows deeply, pressing his forehead to the cool stone floor, his heart heavy with regret. For the first time in his long tenure, he feels truly small, unworthy of the title he bears.

And then, like the breaking of dawn, you smile. The light around you brightens, casting a soft, golden halo that almost hurts to look upon. The High Septon shields his eyes, his breath caught in his throat, as though gazing upon the sun itself.

“High Septon, please,” you say, your voice gentle, unyielding. “You needn’t beg. It is of no consequence.”

The High Septon lifts his head slowly, his heart pounding in reverence and disbelief. Your words—so calm, so forgiving—ease the tension in his chest, though the sight of you, radiant and otherworldly, leaves him trembling. He does not rise, unwilling to meet your gaze on equal ground.

“You are merciful,” he murmurs, his voice quivering. “Far more than I deserve. Your grace is a testament to the Seven themselves.”

You extend a hand toward him, a gesture so simple yet profound, and for a moment, he hesitates. The aura around you shimmers, as though the Seven themselves watch over every movement you make. Slowly, reverently, he takes your hand, careful not to break the fragile sanctity of the moment.

“High Septon,” you begin, your tone warm and inviting, “I come not to reproach but to seek guidance. You are the Father of the Faithful, the voice of the Seven on earth. Surely, you can help me understand their will.”

His breath catches, and he nods fervently. “Of course, my lady. Anything within my power. I am yours to command.”

You smile again, though this time it is softer, almost conspiratorial, as if inviting him into a sacred trust. “I do not seek to command, but to learn. The Seven have blessed this world with their wisdom, and I wish to understand their teachings more deeply. I feel their light, but I lack clarity. There are answers I need—answers that only they can provide.”

The High Septon straightens slightly, emboldened by your words. “If the Seven have chosen you, as I now see they have, then you are already closer to their wisdom than any of us. But I would be honored to guide you as best I can, to walk this path with you.”

“Then we shall walk it together,” you say, your voice like a balm. “The Faith is vast, and its mysteries profound. I seek to cultivate a relationship not only with you but with the Seven themselves. If they have granted me their favor, it must be for a purpose. Help me uncover it.”

The High Septon’s heart swells with purpose, the doubts that had plagued him vanishing like shadows before dawn. “I will dedicate myself to this task,” he vows. “With the Seven as my witnesses, I shall help you find the answers you seek.”

You squeeze his hand gently before releasing it, the light around you softening but never fading. “Thank you, High Septon. Together, we will uncover their will and ensure that their light shines brighter than ever before.”

As you turn to leave, the High Septon remains kneeling, his heart alight with a newfound resolve. He looks to his hands, now covered slightly by your blessing, they too shine as bright as the Seven. The Seven had sent him a guide, a vessel of their divine wisdom. He would not fail you—or them—again. 

…

21st day of the 8th moon of 129 AC

When Aegon first tried the herb you called "weed," he wasn’t fond of it. It burned his throat, sharp and unforgiving. Yes, Aegon is a Targaryen—fire made flesh—but it still burns. Over time, though, he came to admit you were right. It did get better. It always does.

Which is why he sits here now, perched on the highest point of the Red Keep, looking out over King’s Landing with smoke curling lazily from his lips. The cold wind bites at his face, and for once, the weight pressing down on him feels lighter. You were right about this too: there’s no better feeling than losing yourself in the wind while the world below feels so very far away.

“So, I heard you’ve gotten your foot in the faith,” Aegon says, exhaling a plume of smoke. For a moment, he feels almost like the dragon he’s supposed to be, like the conqueror whose name he bears. It’s fleeting, but it’s there—a taste of what it might be like to accept the crown his mother pushes on him.

He glances at you, standing beside him with your eyes fixed on the bustling city below. The wind whips your hair across your face, and Aegon notes that same faraway look you always seem to have. You’re high—it makes sense. What doesn’t make sense is that you always look like this, as though your mind is in another world entirely. Why? Aegon doesn’t know.

(And frankly, he doesn’t care enough to find out. You’re fun—he’ll give you that. Aegon can admit he enjoys your company, your wit, your odd mannerisms. But you also bother his brother, and Aegon, despite all his misdeeds, loves Aemond. Loves him in a way he’s sure Aemond, deep down, loves him too. So, no, Aegon doesn’t care to unravel your mysteries, because he’s certain Aemond is the cause of them. And Aegon loves his brother more than he cares for you.)

You extend your hand toward him, and Aegon passes you the ‘blunt.’ (Or so you called it) It doesn’t take long before you’re exhaling smoke, matching him with ease. “Yeah,” you say, leaning back, “I’m a pretty lucky person, I think. Always have been. But lately, my luck’s been running thin. Guess it was saving up for that encounter with the fuck-ass priest—or Septon—or whatever the fuck they’re called.”

Your vulgarity makes him chuckle. The randomness of your phrases, the chaotic way you piece together words—it’s absurdly creative. Aegon files “fuck-ass” away for later use, much like he did with “fuck with.” You’re a poet of profanity, and it’s hilariously endearing.

“You don’t fuck with the High Septon?” Aegon asks, extending his hand for the ‘blunt.’

“Nah, I do,” you reply, passing it back. “Mans got me in, you know? Just didn’t like how he switched up on me when—by chance—something happened. Now he worships the ground I walk on. Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice. Just… crazy to see.”

“What happened?” Aegon leans back, smoke curling from his lips, his smile lazy and knowing.

“Who knows? Weird shit, for real,” you say with a shrug, your tone dismissive.

Aegon studies you for a moment. He suspects you know exactly what happened. A part of him even thinks you orchestrated it—whatever it is. But right now, he doesn’t have the mind or energy to sift through the peculiarities of your schemes. It’s easier to let the questions drift away with the smoke, at least for now. 

“Word.” Aegon hears you laugh beside him, the sound breaking through the haze of smoke that lingers in the air. He turns, lifting a brow as he takes another hit, the ember of the ‘blunt’ glowing softly in the dim light.

“It don’t sound right with your posh accent,” you tease, letting out another laugh that pulls a grin from him despite himself. “Pronounce the ‘r.’ That’s how it’s done.”

“I like the way I sound,” Aegon counters smoothly, his voice tinged with amusement. He watches as you shrug and sit back, exhaling smoke in a slow stream.

“So, when will I get to hear your music?” he asks, leaning forward slightly, curiosity sparking in his voice.

“Never.”

Aegon turned swiftly towards you watching you with brows furrowed as you attempted to blow out an ‘o’ shape. (Aegon saw you do it once and you both ran around yelling.)

He stares, incredulous. “What!? Why?”

You shrug casually, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “I don’t know where my phone is.”

His jaw slackens. “What?”

“I was pretty bummed out at first,” you admit, your tone light despite the words. “For the first few days, I was suffering from withdrawal, but now… I’ve come to terms with it.” Another shrug, as if it means nothing, but to Aegon, it means everything.

No. This wasn’t just your loss. This was his loss. The music he had wasn’t enough anymore—not after what you’d introduced him to. He can’t live in silence now, not after hearing the melody of No Church in the Wild or the haunting beauty of Are We Still Friends? How was he supposed to go back to the same old tavern ballads or the Red Keep’s dull minstrels when you’d opened the door to something timeless, something transcendent?

“How did you lose it?” he presses, his voice sharp with urgency.

You glance at him, unbothered. “People going through my stuff,” you reply simply, and Aegon stiffens.

Oh. Him.

His brother’s face flashes in his mind, unbidden. Aemond. Of course. Your little secret isn’t so secret anymore. The strange contraptions you’ve hoarded and hidden away are probably being picked apart by his ever-curious, ever-judgmental younger brother. Or worse—Aemond had already known about them long before Aegon did. Either way, it didn’t matter. What mattered was this: it affected him.

Aegon leans back against the cold stone, running a hand through his messy silver hair in frustration. He needed your music. He needed to hear Timeless again, just one more time, to feel that strange, inexplicable pull that only your land’s melodies could offer. The silence felt unbearable now, heavy and suffocating.

“I’ll find it,” Aegon declares, his voice uncharacteristically firm as a rare clarity seems to pierce through his haze.

“Yeah, good luck with that. Your brother isn’t exactly thrilled with me these days.” Your tone is dismissive, casual, but it’s enough to make Aegon pause. His determination to recover your music remains, but now there’s something else nagging at him. Why is Aemond upset with you?

“Well, what did you do?” he asks, his curiosity piqued.

“Nothing.”

“You had to do something.” Aegon presses, leaning forward as he narrows his eyes at you.

“I swear, I didn’t do anything. That’s why he’s mad,” you say with a chuckle, taking a long, final drag of the blunt. Smoke swirls around you, and Aegon watches the way your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Well, then do something!” he exclaims, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

“And risk getting him even more upset? No, thank you.” Your words are accompanied by a lazy exhale of smoke as you offer the blunt to him. Aegon shakes his head, declining. This wasn’t a joke to him—not this time.

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of him.” His tone is playful, teasing, but there’s a sharper edge beneath it. He’s poking fun, yes, but he’s also genuinely curious.

Your reaction is immediate. You choke on the smoke, coughing harshly as you hurriedly toss the rest of the blunt out the window. “I’m not!” you snap, defensive, your brows knitting together as you abruptly stand. Aegon tilts his head back to look up at you, his amusement fading as he watches the tension ripple through your frame.

“I’m not afraid of him,” you repeat, quieter this time, almost as if you’re trying to convince yourself rather than him.

Aegon studies you for a moment, his earlier grin fading into something softer—almost contemplative. Defensive or not, there’s something in the way your voice wavers, something in the way you won’t meet his eyes, that makes him wonder. Whatever his brother had done to make you like this, Aegon doesn’t know. 

He leans back, crossing his arms as he watches you. “If you’re not afraid of him,” he drawls, his tone laced with skepticism, “then what’s stopping you?”

Aegon watches as your jaw tightens, but you don’t answer. The silence between you stretches, and Aegon lets it linger, his gaze sharp and searching. Whatever game you and Aemond were playing, Aegon decides, it’s a dangerous one.

…

25th day of the 8th moon of 129 AC

“Tag! You’re it!” 

Ser Criston watches as you run around with Jaehaera and Jaehaerys. You had been playing with the twins for quite a while now as Helaena sits far off mumbling. “First shall come the gnashing tide, a flood of scurrying claws,”

Ser Criston was advised to ignore the Princess' odd behavior. You had been spending more and more time with Helaena and Ser Criston can only surmise it has something to do with Aemond spending more and more time in the training yard always upset. 

“You missed!” Ser Criston watched as you dodged Jaehera’s hand. You always stayed just out of reach and it was clear that the twins were planning to gang up on you. And they did. They both cornered you but you ran towards Jaehaerys stepping out right before leaning left and spinning out his reach. “Oh! Ankles have been taken! I took out your ankles Jaehaerys.” You began laughing as both of the children hopped on top of you as you sat down. 

That’s when the twins veer toward him, giggling as they dart behind his cloak. He feels their small, sticky hands clutching the pristine white fabric, pulling it taut as they hide. Criston stiffens, resisting the urge to sigh.

You approach, your breath coming out in light huffs as you slow to a stop before him. Your body almost seems lazy. Your eyes relaxed and it almost seems as if you're not fully here. There’s a mischievous glint in your eyes as you crouch slightly, pretending to search for the twins. Criston remains still, his face impassive as you attempt to coax the children from their hiding spot.

“Using a knight for cover, are we?” you tease, glancing at Criston with a knowing grin. Criston looks down. The whites of your eyes are slightly red. Like you’ve been crying, but they’ve been red for quite some time. Such a carefree smile you show him. Nothing like the silent woman that day in the council room. “You can’t hide behind him forever.” He watches your eyes flicker down towards the twins as you stand up pretending as if you’ve lowered your guard.  

He doesn’t respond, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword as he waits. You’re unpredictable—he’s learned that much. And yet, as the twins erupt into laughter behind him, their little bodies finally darting out from their hiding place, Ser Criston finds himself... watching. Always watching. Because whatever game you’re playing, he knows it’s not as innocent as it seems.

“Woah!” Ser Criston’s attention flickers toward Aegon as he lifts Jaehaera into the air, her giggles echoing through the garden.

“Prince Aegon,” you breathe out, surprise threading through your voice.

“My lady,” Aegon nods in acknowledgment, a lazy grin tugging at his lips. “What are you playing?”

“Tag,” little Jaehaerys pipes up, tugging at his father’s trousers with eager hands.

Ser Criston watches the scene unfold, a quiet observer of the boy he once watched grow into a man now playing with his own children. Though he knows the weight of such responsibilities came too soon, Criston remains impassive, his expression betraying none of his thoughts.

“The plague of rats, their shadows stretching across the lands.”

His gaze shifts briefly to Princess Helaena, her soft murmurs drifting on the wind. As always, he forces himself to look away, as instructed.

When his eyes return to the scene before him, the knot in his chest tightens. It is then he notices it—the easy familiarity between you and Prince Aegon. In your arms is little Jaehaerys, his small hands clutching your shoulder as you glance toward Aegon with a smile. Too familiar. One could almost mistake you for his wife with how naturally you interact.

It isn’t long before Aegon joins in on the game, chasing after the children with exaggerated steps that send them into fits of laughter. Yet, for Ser Criston, there is a melancholy that lingers in the air.

Though Prince Aegon is now well into his twenties, no matter how Criston views him, he still sees a boy—running, laughing, playing. Not with his children, but with children. There’s a hollowness to the image that Criston cannot shake, one he dares not examine too closely. His eyes shift to Princess Helaena, and suddenly, she isn’t the mother of two (Though soon to be three, or so it is rumoured by the maids.) but a quiet fourteen-year-old girl sitting alone, detached from the world around her.

He tries to banish the memory, but it clings to him—the year her small belly swelled with a child, and it was clear that she was much too young for it. How wrong it looked, her small underdeveloped body swelling with twins.

And then there’s you.

Ser Criston doesn’t know you, not truly. To him, you seemed like any other courtly lady at first glance (Except you never were, because you did not have a name. You still do not have a name.) save for the peculiarities that have since come to define you. You are close in age to the royal adults—children, really, at least in Criston’s eyes. Yet, as he watches you laugh and dart behind trees with the twins, he sees something unsettling: a regression.

There’s a flicker of something in the way you move—instinctual, fluid, and practiced. It’s not just playfulness fueling your evasion but a muscle memory, a honed reflex that speaks of something far more sinister than a game of tag with children. Ser Criston’s brow furrows as he watches. This isn’t the carefree jest of a lady indulging the younger royals. This is survival, disguised as mirth.

Aegon, for his part, seems oblivious, his clumsy movements no match for your speed. He barrels forward with all the grace of a charging boar, his hand swiping through empty air as you spin away, light on your feet. Your laughter rings out again, but Ser Criston isn’t fooled by its melody.

What is it about you that feels so out of place, so wrong?

The thought gnaws at him as he observes the scene, his hand resting instinctively on the pommel of his sword. You don’t just evade; you anticipate. Every feint, every twist is calculated. It’s almost unnerving how natural it seems for you to be one step ahead, as though this isn’t a game to you at all but something far more serious.

And yet, you smile—wide and radiant, your cheeks flushed with color as you run away from Aegon and the children. For a moment, you appear as harmless as they do, a vision of innocence and joy.

But Ser Criston can’t shake the feeling that it’s a mask.

“Their teeth will gnaw the fragile peace, spreading whispers of decay,” Helaena murmurs once again, her voice barely audible over the sound of the children’s laughter.

“Ser Criston!” Aegon’s voice carries across the garden, his tone laced with boyish amusement as he calls out. “Capture her!”

Criston gives a curt nod, his duty as unshakable as ever, and begins his approach. You stand your ground, arms crossed as your lips curve into a smirk.

“You’re cheating, Aegon,” you call out, your voice teasing but firm. “That’s not fair.”

“Rules do not apply to a Prince of the Realm!” Aegon replies with a laugh, his grin as wide as the sky above.

Criston notes the flicker of your gaze toward Aegon before making his move. Lunging forward, he reaches for you, but you step back, just beyond his grasp, nimble as ever.

A smile plays across your lips, a playful challenge in your eyes as you dance out of his reach once more. Undeterred, Criston lunges again, his focus narrowing, but you twist away, leaving him empty-handed.

It was a game to you—to Aegon, too—but to Criston, it is something else entirely. For just a moment, as the chase continues, he wonders if he is being played as much as the game itself. 

“Come on, Ser Criston!” Your teasing voice carries through the garden, light and playful, as you dart away with the agility of someone far too familiar with evasion.

He exhales sharply, his patience thinning as he begins to give chase. Duty compels him to follow, though there is a part of him that questions why he’s being roped into such childish antics.

Before he knows it, Aegon joins in, his laughter loud and uninhibited as his children squeal and sprint alongside him. Their delighted giggles mix with your own, a symphony of amusement that contrasts sharply with Ser Criston’s singular focus.

Sounds of laughter ring in his ears, growing louder with each step. But to Criston, this isn’t a game—it’s an obligation. He isn’t here to entertain; he is here to serve. He pushes himself harder, his armor clinking with each determined stride, as his eyes stay fixed on you.

You dart around a tree, Aegon and the children following suit. It’s chaos, pure and unbridled, as you all weave between the garden paths. Criston moves with precision, his every step calculated, but you remain maddeningly out of reach.

“Faster, Ser Criston!” Aegon calls out between breaths, grinning over his shoulder. “She’s making a fool of you!”

Criston clenches his jaw but says nothing, focusing on closing the gap between you. He can feel the weight of Aegon’s jest, the implied challenge in his words. It’s not the first time Aegon has tried to needle him, but today, it feels different.

Finally, you pause near a fountain, momentarily caught off guard as you turn to check your pursuers. Criston sees his chance. With a burst of speed, he lunges, his hand outstretched.

But at the last second, you spin away, your laughter ringing out like a bell. “Too slow, Ser Criston!” you call, your grin infuriatingly triumphant.

“And from their filth shall spring the curse of crimson sores.”

Helaena’s soft, cryptic words hang heavy in the air, and for the briefest moment, they seem to freeze you in place. Your smile falters, your laughter dies, and the light in your eyes dims as though the weight of some unseen burden has fallen upon your shoulders.

Ser Criston doesn’t miss it. The sudden shift in your demeanor sparks a flicker of curiosity within him, though he buries it beneath his sense of duty. Whatever troubles you, it is not his concern.

Using the momentary distraction to his advantage, Criston lunges forward and seizes your wrist, his grip firm. “Caught,” he announces, his voice tinged with triumph.

But the victory is short-lived.

In your attempt to twist free, your heel catches on the hem of your dress. A sharp gasp escapes your lips as you stumble backward, pulling him with you.

The world tilts for a fleeting second before a loud splash shatters the stillness of the garden.

Cold water engulfs him and you both as you both tumble into the fountain, the shock of it jolting Criston from his focus. He surfaces quickly, sputtering as droplets stream down his face, his hair clinging unceremoniously to his forehead.

You emerge a moment later, your dress heavy with water and your expression caught somewhere between shock and disbelief. For a beat, the two of you simply stare at one another, both dripping and equally at a loss for words.

Then, you laugh.

It’s not the polite laughter you might reserve for a courtly jest, nor the restrained giggle that punctuates your playful teasing. This is unrestrained, unabashed laughter, spilling from you like the water cascading from the fountain’s edges.

Criston scowls, running a hand down his face to wipe away the water. “This is hardly amusing,” he mutters, his voice low and irritable.

“Oh, but it is,” Ser Criston hears Aegon reply as he laughs. Your laughter mixes with Aegon’s and his children, and even a small giggle from Helaena. Eventually your laughs subsided into soft chuckles as you wring out a section of your dress.

“Ser Criston Cole, the ever-dutiful knight, bested by a fountain. Truly, a tale for the ages,” Aegon jeered, his voice ringing with amusement.

Criston huffed out a sharp breath, his patience wearing thin as he yanked you to your feet with more force than was necessary. His grip on your arm was firm—unyielding, even—as though he were anchoring you to the moment, making sure there was no chance for you to dart away.

He looked down at you, taking in the way the water clung to your features. Your reddened eyes, framed by damp lashes clumped together, gave you a doll-like appearance. The sunlight caught in them, giving way to a beautiful color. 

In this way all eyes look beautiful in the sun. All eyes look beautiful when catching the sunlight, not just yours.

“And tag,” Aegon announced, tapping your other arm with a laugh.

Criston’s grip didn’t falter as you shifted slightly, your body tensing with the intention of lunging toward Aegon. But before you could make your move, Criston pulled you back sharply, keeping you firmly at his side.

“Oh, come on, Ser Criston,” you quipped, raising a brow as water dripped from your soaked hair. “You’re such a stick in the mud.”

He didn’t respond, his lips pressed into a hard line as his gaze lingered on you. Whatever that phrase meant, it was irrelevant. What mattered now was keeping you from whatever mischief you were undoubtedly planning.

“Brother!” Aegon’s voice rang out again, louder this time.

Criston’s sharp eye caught the subtle change in you. Your smile faltered ever so slightly, and though it lasted only a moment, your entire demeanor seemed to stiffen. The vibrant energy that had been radiating from you mere seconds ago dimmed.

So there were issues.

He didn’t have time to dwell on the thought before Aemond’s familiar figure appeared, his stride purposeful and his face a mask of cold disdain. The contrast between the two brothers could not have been more apparent—Aegon, all reckless energy and smirking irreverence, and Aemond, a storm contained within human form.

“Having fun?” Aemond’s voice cut through the air, low and biting. His single eye flickered briefly to Criston before settling on you.

“Loads,” you replied, your tone far too casual, though your stiffened posture betrayed you. “We’re just playing a game.”

Aemond’s gaze didn’t waver. “A game,” he echoed flatly, his tone making it clear he found the notion ridiculous.

“It’s called tag,” Aegon interjected with a grin, clearly enjoying the tension that crackled in the air.

Criston felt your arm twitch in his grip, and he tightened his hold slightly, a silent warning. Whatever this was, he was not going to let you escalate it.

“And I see Criston has already captured the prize,” Aemond remarked, his eye narrowing as he gestured vaguely toward you. “How fitting.”

Your jaw tightened, and for the first time, Criston saw a flash of something raw in your expression. Defiance, perhaps. Or was it fear? He couldn’t tell, but whatever it was, it burned briefly before you masked it with a forced smile.

“Well,” you said lightly, though your voice wavered just enough for Criston to catch it. “You know me.”

“Do I?” Aemond replied, his voice like ice.

Criston’s grip on your arm was the only thing keeping you rooted as the tension between you and Aemond thickened, the unspoken weight of whatever grudge lay between you pressing down on everyone present.

“Ser Criston, release her.”

Dutifully, Criston did as commanded, his grip loosening immediately.

“My lady.” Aemond extended his hand toward you, his expression as cold and unreadable as his tone.

Criston didn’t miss the hesitation in your movements, the way your gaze seemed to flit just past Aemond’s hand, as though searching for something—or someone—else. Still, after that brief pause, you placed your hand in his.

The moment your fingers touched his, Aemond’s grip tightened slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you who held the reins. He wasted no time turning on his heel, leading you away without so much as a glance back.

“I will excuse myself,” you called over your shoulder, your voice forced into a semblance of calm. “I must gather a change of clothing.”

Aemond’s steps didn’t falter, but his eye flicked toward you, sharp and questioning.

“You’ll have no need,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Criston watched the two of you disappear around the corner, your figure still visibly stiff beside Aemond’s towering form. The air that remained in their wake was thick with something unspoken, something that left Criston unsettled.

“My brother,” Aegon muttered with a smirk, breaking the silence as he approached Criston. “Always so dramatic, isn’t he?”

Criston said nothing, his eyes lingering on the empty corridor where you had been led away. Aegon’s humor didn’t reach him. Something felt…off. But it wasn’t his place to pry. At least not yet.

It wasn’t long before Aegon dismissed him to change. His white cloak was soaked through, the weight of it dragging against his shoulders. Criston’s jaw tightened as he made his way down the hall.

“I think you’re overreact—” Your voice rang out, you were giggling and laughing, only to be cut off abruptly.

Criston’s steps slowed instinctively, his gaze shifting to the dark corner ahead. There you were, pressed against the stone wall, with Aemond looming over you like a shadow. His dominant arm was raised, where his hand lay, Criston knew. He knew by your eyes, wide and pleading, and your hand raised holding onto Aemond’s arm. Ser Criston did not falter. He resumed walking, his pace steady, his gaze deliberately forward. He didn’t acknowledge the strained sound of your breaths that echoed faintly in the silence.

(The honor of Ser Criston Cole died long ago)

You polluted so much. Criston had always known that. You had polluted Aemond, a prince he believed would never behave in such a way toward a woman. Yet here you were, dragging him into the chaos that seemed to follow you like a shadow.

Ser Criston told himself it wasn’t his place. The Queen had not commanded him to intervene. The crown had not tasked him with your redemption. Still, as he walked away, the unease lingered like a sour taste on his tongue. Aemond was changing. And for better or worse, it all seemed to lead back to you.

…

Alicent cannot count how many hours you have spent staring at her sworn hand. The way your gaze lingers on him, with that peculiar curiosity you seem to carry for everything, makes her skin prickle. You had begged for a horse—so insistent, as though you believed yourself entitled to such privilege. Alicent does not doubt you wanted to ride alongside the men, away from her watchful gaze. The High Septon’s words about you echo in her mind: the gods sing through her; her skin is a reflection of the Seven themselves. Nonsense.

To Alicent, all she sees is a harlot reaching too far. A harlot who has already corrupted her son. She feels her throat tighten at the thought and resolves, with steel in her heart, that you cannot meet Daeron. You must not. Her sweet boy, her last hope—the only one she can still convince herself is untainted.

Her eyes flick to the high-collared dress you wear, elegant and modest in cut, but it does little to conceal the faint, creeping purple at the base of your neck. A bruise. Alicent feels the muscles in her jaw tighten as she forces her gaze back to your face.

It is your fault, she tells herself. Aemond would never… Not unless it was necessary. Her son is dutiful, measured, and righteous. If his hand left its mark on you, then surely it was deserved. It had to be. You push too far, speak too freely, play too dangerous a game.

You do not look toward her, your focus instead turned to the carriage window. Your head leans slightly out, as though you are eager to escape even this small space you share with her. The sunlight dances on your skin (there is a shine to it, but Alicent will not admit that. She will not admit that she too can see the small specks of the color of the seven on your skin.),the faint breeze tousles your hair, your impossibly long dark lashes, the same flushed look you always seem to have even as the wind blows, and finally your plump lips that shine in the sunlight, but to Alicent, there is nothing graceful or pure about the sight. There is only calculation in you.

“You’ve grown awfully quiet,” Alicent remarks, her tone laced with an air of authority that expects a swift and proper response.

You straighten slightly, turning your gaze toward her, though you keep your head bowed in deference. “There is little to say, Your Grace, that would interest you.”

“Is that so?” Alicent’s voice is sharper now, her posture rigid. “You’re rarely so reserved when others are around to listen.”

There’s a flicker in your eyes—something unreadable that Alicent does not like. “I only meant that my thoughts are unworthy of wasting your time, Your Grace.”

She narrows her eyes, studying you. There’s no outright defiance in your tone, but the undercurrent of something unsaid needles at her. Alicent grips the edge of her dress tightly, a quiet storm brewing beneath her calm exterior.

“You are to tread carefully in Old Town,” she says, her voice firm and deliberate. “The Faith is not as easily charmed as my husband or my son.”

Your head bows further, your tone soft and measured. “I understand, Your Grace. I will do my utmost to meet the expectations of the Faith.”

Alicent’s lips press into a thin line. It’s the perfect response, yet somehow, it still feels like an affront. “Good,” she says, though her tone is far from satisfied. “Oldtown is not a place for missteps.”

“I would never dare, Your Grace.”

Her gaze flicks back to the faint bruise once more, and she resists the urge to sigh. Foolish girl. Alicent is convinced it is your audacity that led you here. You provoke too much. You speak too freely. And her son—her son—had merely reminded you of your place.

The carriage jolts slightly, and Alicent’s hand grips the armrest for balance. She turns her gaze back to you, but you’ve already returned to staring out the window, your expression unreadable.

Alicent watches you in silence for a long moment, her mind whirling. The Faith may sing your praises now, but Alicent knows better. There’s something about you that doesn’t belong—something that unsettles her. Whatever game you are playing, she resolves to put an end to it before it can spread further.

The road stretches endlessly ahead, and for the first time in years, Alicent finds herself praying—not for herself, but for the strength to protect what little remains incorrupt.

Time stretches on, a monotonous drone of hooves and wheels against the dirt road. Your gaze remains fixed on the world beyond the window, your eyes following the guards as they ride in rhythm with the carriage. Every so often, your gaze lingers on Ser Criston Cole, though your expression betrays little. Finally, you lean back, letting the glass pane fade from your view, and close your eyes.

Alicent watches you from across the carriage. Your breaths are soft, measured—a lull that seems almost serene. You, a mere commoner, asleep in the presence of a queen. The thought should anger her. It should ignite the same righteous indignation that has kept her spine straight through decades of duty. But instead, it settles like a lead weight in her chest, pulling her down, suffocating her under its quiet enormity.

And then your head tilts back, your features soft in repose. But the calm shatters for her as the high collar of your dress shifts, revealing the deep purple marks circling your neck like a cruel mockery of jewelry. Her breath stills.

Alicent’s fingers twitch in her lap. There’s an itch beneath her skin, one she can’t quite place, but it festers as her eyes remain fixed on you. She grips the folds of her dress tightly, her nails pressing into the fabric, then against her palm. Aemond wouldn’t do this. He couldn’t have done this. He is good—he is better than this.

Her nails dig deeper, but the itch refuses to fade. Her gaze flickers between the bruises and your still form. You sleep so peacefully, as though you have no weight to carry. But Alicent can feel it. She feels the weight of your presence, the way you’ve crept into her life like a shadow she cannot escape. You infect everything—her court, her children. It’s you. It has to be you.

She scratches harder, the skin of her palm breaking beneath her nails. It isn’t enough. She bites at the side of her nail, tearing at it until she tastes blood. But even that doesn’t ease the ache building in her chest. The sight of those bruises—those vile marks—gnaws at her. You must have done something. Provoked him. My son would not… could not… unless it was necessary. It is your fault. You are the problem.

Her breaths grow shallow as the ache twists into something unbearable. The itch deepens, crawling up her throat, demanding relief she cannot give. The carriage feels too small, too confined. Every jolt of the wheels rattles through her bones, every breath a knife she cannot avoid.

“Stop the carriage,” she says, her voice hoarse and brittle.

The carriage lurches to a halt, the abruptness jolting you awake. Your eyes blink open, hazy with confusion, and you glance toward her. Alicent doesn’t look at you. She cannot. She forces herself to step out, the rush of cool air biting against her flushed skin.

The guards look to her for instruction, but she ignores them, her eyes fixed on the empty road ahead. The stillness of the air feels deafening, the weight of her thoughts pressing harder now that she is no longer confined.

Behind her, she knows you are watching. You adjust the collar of your dress, your hands pulling it higher, though it can never truly erase what she has seen. The bruises remain etched in her mind, as much a scar on her conscience as they are a mark on your skin.

Alicent stands motionless, her hands trembling slightly at her sides. Aemond wouldn’t. He couldn’t. But the thought circles back to her, relentless and cold. Unless it was necessary.

The wind brushes past her, carrying with it no answers, only the bitter chill of failure.

Unless it was necessary.

How could it not be? How could it not be when you tempt those around you, flitting through their lives like a spark too close to dry kindling? You walk as if you belong everywhere, stretching your arms wide as though ready to embrace the world. Your steps are light, but your presence weighs heavy. You look at everything with those wide, curious eyes, as if you are discovering Westeros anew.

Alicent watches, her jaw tight as you meander over to the horses being tended by the King’s Guard. She watches as you run your fingers along their manes, pulling at tufts of long grass to feed them. Her lips press into a thin line as you strike up a conversation with Ser Arryk, who humors you with a faint smile, answering questions she can’t quite hear.

Unless it was necessary.

The thought loops endlessly in her mind. It has to be true. It must be true. How else could she reconcile the sight of those bruises on your neck with the son she raised? Her perfect, dutiful boy who would never harm without cause. You must have provoked him. You must have done something.

Alicent’s hands curl into her skirts, her nails digging into the fabric. She cannot stand it—cannot stand you. The itch resurfaces, crawling beneath her skin, making her feel raw and restless. Her gaze meets Ser Criston’s, and she finds him already watching her. His face is unreadable, but his presence only sharpens the itch. It prickles her arms, sends gooseflesh rising across her skin.

It is wrong, she knows, this loathing that wells within her every time you are near. She tells herself it is because you are dangerous, because you have ensnared her son and polluted her household. She tells herself that no mother could endure what she must endure, watching you move so carelessly through her family’s fragile world.

But Alicent also knows she cannot survive much longer in your presence. The mere thought of returning to the carriage with you, sitting so close that she can hear your breaths, makes her stomach twist. The itch demands relief, and she scratches at it in her mind, even as her resolve cracks.

“Give the girl a horse,” she murmurs, her voice low but firm, a queen’s command. Without waiting for a reply, she retreats to the carriage alone. The door shuts behind her with a heavy finality, sealing her in a space that feels marginally safer now that you are no longer there.

Inside, the itch subsides, though only slightly. Her hands tremble in her lap as your voice drifts through the air, clear and bright.

“In all honesty, I cannot ride well, Ser Arryk. I’m afraid I will need lessons. Sorry.”

Alicent’s lips curl into a grimace. Why would you ask for a horse if you cannot even ride? It makes no sense. Nothing about you makes sense. You are a puzzle she does not wish to solve, a disruption she cannot ignore.

The carriage jolts as the horses start moving again, and Alicent leans back, closing her eyes in a futile attempt to find peace. But even here, away from you, your presence lingers like a shadow, impossible to shake.

Alicent is given an hour of peace before your voice rings out again, slicing through the fragile silence she had desperately clung to.

“I think I’ve got it,” you announce with an air of triumph, the sound of hooves clattering unevenly as you approach.

Her jaw tightens instinctively. Slowly, she opens her eyes and peers out the window of the carriage. There you are, perched precariously atop the horse, wobbling slightly as you grip the reins. One of the guards walks alongside you, holding the bridle steady, while Ser Arryk watches from a few paces away with barely concealed amusement.

“Steady!” Ser Arryk calls out, his voice laced with patience.

“I am steady!” you snap back, though your swaying posture betrays you. “This is easy. See? I’m practically a natural.”

Alicent exhales through her nose, long and slow, as though releasing the weight of her irritation. But the truth is, she can feel the annoyance bubbling beneath her ribs, like hot oil threatening to spill over. She has no desire to watch this display of yours, this... spectacle.

Alicent looks outside and suddenly you're making the horse gallop and while you sway, the speed of which you have managed to ascertain this skill…Alicent rests her head against the back of the seat ignoring the prickle she feels.

“My Lady please go with caution!” Alicent can hear Ser Arryk or Ser Erryk yell after you. She can only imagine just how you are riding now. The wind blowing through your skirts as your horse continues to gallop. (And Alicent can picture the sun illuminating your face as fragments of the Seven shine upon your skin. Though she will not give any acknowledgement that she can see how the High Septon may have been fooled by you.)

After hours finally the sun was beginning to set. It wasn’t long before everything was set up. Alicent looked around. You were nowhere in sight…and neither was Ser Arryk. 

Harlot.

Alicent’s eyes flickered to Ser Criston once more, but he was already on the move, drawn away from her as always. She remained in the carriage, waiting as the men prepared the camp, listening to the distant clatter of armor and hushed orders.

Then—shouting.

“STAY WITH THE QUEEN!”

The call rang through the night, sharp and urgent. Alicent turned toward the window just as the full moon bathed the camp in cold, silver light. And then—hands. Unfamiliar, rough hands yanking her from the carriage.

She screamed, a shrill, desperate sound. No—no, no, no! She cannot die. Not now. Not when the realm needs her. Not when her children would be left without her. What would become of them?

“SHEILDS!”

The thud of arrows sinking into wood filled the night, the sharp twang of bowstrings cutting through the chaos. Alicent’s breath came in short, panicked gasps as she struggled against her captor, her thoughts frantic. Where is Ser Criston?

Still looking for you.

Selfish, reckless, insufferable you.

And now, because of you, because of your ceaseless ability to command attention, she was here, vulnerable, desperate for her sworn shield—yet you had him as the wrath of the Seven crashed upon her in full force.

Why?

Was it because she had violated the sacred vows of marriage? Because she was a mother who would go to any lengths to protect her children? What crime had she committed so great that the gods saw fit to damn her like this?

Alicent barely had time to think before she was shoved to the ground, the impact rattling through her bones. Warmth splattered across her face. A metallic tang filled her mouth. Blood. Not hers.

She screamed.

Why must she suffer? How much more must she endure before the gods smiled upon her? Had she not done everything right? Had she not abided by the Seven? Had she not fulfilled her duty as a wife, as a mother, as a queen? She is not the one who birthed bastards.

The screams and clamor of battle dulled into ringing silence, her breath shallow and uneven. The chaos melted into an eerie stillness, and then—hands. Strong hands lifting her from the ground.

She could not see who they belonged to. The moon hung full and bright above them, yet its light did not reach her. Be they rogue men or the King’s Guard, she did not know. The gods had left her blind in the dark.

Then, at last, a voice.

Ser Erryk. Or was it Ser Arryk? Their faces blurred together in the dim light, indistinguishable. If they were both here, then—

Where were you?

Had you been killed in the chaos?

Something warm trailed down her temple. Slowly, Alicent raised a trembling hand, her fingers brushing against the thick wetness. As she pulled away, the dark smear on her skin became visible.

Blood.

Alicent’s breath shuddered in her chest, though she did not allow herself to tremble. The knight wiped her face, the blood smearing before it was cleared away.

“Tis not your blood, my queen.”

No, it was not. But whose was it?

She barely registered the chill of the night, the acrid scent of blood still thick in the air. One of the twins turned from her, disappearing toward the woods.

“Where are you going?” she asked, though her voice sounded distant to her own ears.

“The lady was left alone in the woods with Ser Criston and her horse.”

The words settled over her like a burial shroud. The lady. You.

So you were dead.

Alicent exhaled through her nose, steadying herself. She had no doubt. Ser Criston had killed you. He was always thorough. Always dutiful.

Her own words returned to her, whispered in the confines of her mind.

Unchecked, yes, but not for much longer.

She had nodded to him, and he had understood. (He always did.) This had been the best time. A death under the guise of an attack. A necessary evil.

She stepped forward, her pace steady but laced with urgency. She needed to see it herself—no matter how gruesome, no matter how stained with blood. The truth could not be avoided.  

The guards moved with her, silent specters in the night. Seven in total. Four from the City Watch, their golden cloaks muted beneath the moon’s gaze, and three from the Kingsguard, gleaming white even in the gloom.  

For her protection, she had briefly assumed. After all, only the finest warriors in all of Westeros were chosen to serve the Crown, and three of them walked by her side. But it was not for her, was it? No, not for the Queen of Westeros.  

It had taken only a few hushed words from Viserys—words spoken in passing, laced with an unease she had not heard from him in years—for the realization to sink in. He worried for you. The three were for you. 

How could they not be?  

You, who played the role of a god in her husband’s eyes. You, who bent the King’s ear with ease while she, his lawful wife, was left to wither in silence.  

The forest stretched before her, vast and unyielding, the trees gnarled like the grasping hands of the dead. Shadows coiled between the trunks, thick and endless, swallowing the light of the moon. Had it not been for the gleaming white of the Kingsguard’s cloaks—like fallen stars against the darkness—she might have been lost to the night entirely.

It was not long before she heard it—muted cries, soft and broken. Alicent halted mid-step, her breath catching in her throat.

The moon had not shone for her, offering no solace, no guiding light. But for you… the moon bathed you in its radiance, casting you as something otherworldly amidst the gnarled shadows of the trees. The sight sent a ripple of unease through her.

Fear. She had never feared you before. Not truly. Not in the way she feared you now, standing there with the Seven seemingly dancing upon your skin, your form aglow beneath the silver light.

Something black streaked down your cheeks, pooling at your chin, yet it was not for yourself that you wept. No, your sorrow was reserved for the creature at your feet—the very horse you had met mere hours ago, now gasping for breath, its life slipping from between your fingers.

The moon did not shine for Alicent. The Seven did not smile upon her. But for you? They wept with you, grieved with you, their presence so stark and undeniable it made her stomach turn.

She cannot understand it.

How the light clings to your features, how it renders you ethereal. How you kneel beside the dying beast, shushing it with soft murmurs, your voice weaving through the cold air in a tongue she cannot place. “Santificado sea tu nombre,” Yet, she knows—you are praying.

And that—more than the blood, more than the darkness streaking down your cheeks—makes her ill.

"By the gods."

She shouldn’t swear. She knows she shouldn’t—another reason for the Seven to turn their faces from her. But Alicent cannot stop the words from slipping through her lips, breathless and shaken. Because this cannot be. You cannot be.

The High Septon had spoken of divinity, of the gods whispering in your wake, of holiness reflected in your very skin. But Alicent had already damned you in her mind. She had condemned you as a harlot, a corrupter, a creature born to bring ruin. The gods cannot claim you now. (But perhaps you had always been theirs.)

Yet here you are, and the world bends in your presence. The forest, once thick with shadows, parts for the moonlight that clings to your form. The dark streaks down your cheeks, the tremor in your breath—it is not for yourself that you grieve. You cry for the dying beast at your feet, hands pressed to its shuddering side as if you might will life back into it. And the gods—her gods—watch over you.

Alicent cannot bear to look.

Her gaze seeks out Ser Criston, her sworn shield, her ever-faithful hand. But when she finds him, he is not looking at her. His eyes are fixed upon you and behind him are blinking lights as the lights of the forest shine for you and those who repent. 

And then Alicent feels it—a lurching sickness, twisting deep in her stomach. Because she knows that look. Awe. Repentance. The quiet devastation of a man who was meant to kill you but cannot.

Her eyes look towards you once more, your eyes red as you cry and pray for the dying animal and more lights begin to flash behind you. Rhythmically almost.

She turns away and retches into the dirt.

The sound of her own breathing, ragged and uneven, barely drowns out the silence behind her. She does not need to turn back to know what she will see. Ser Criston’s morningstar lying useless on the ground. A blinking light on it. His sword cast aside. Another weapon with blinking lights that sit upon it. His white cloak dirtied at the edges but forgotten in his reverence. And worst of all—the truth written plainly in his eyes.

He was going to do it. He was going to carry out her will.

But he could not.

Not when the gods themselves seem to shield you. Not when the Seven have wrapped you in their light and forced his weapon from his grasp.

Not when they have chosen you.

…

But you left.

Aemond knows he was wrong. He knows it deep in his bones, in the quiet moments when he is alone in his chambers, staring at his own reflection in the polished steel of his dagger. The bruises he left upon your throat haunt him. A phantom wrapped around his fingers, a weight he cannot shake.

(But did you have to act like that with Cole? Did you have to hold onto him? Did you have to continue to humiliate him? Why is that you deem it proper to humiliate a Prince of the Realm? )

But you—you should have told him. If you had only spoken, if you had only trusted him, then it wouldn’t have come to this. He wouldn’t have had to force it from you. Wouldn’t have had to feel his pulse pounding in his temples, his fingers tightening against something so soft, so breakable. Wouldn’t have had to see the shock in your eyes, the betrayal that stole your breath.

He tries to tell himself that it wasn’t his fault. That it was you who made him do it. But the thought is hollow. Aemond has spent his whole life mastering control—of his mind, of his body, of his rage. And yet, when it came to you, all of that control unraveled, slipping through his grasp like sand in the wind.

And now you are gone.

He tells himself it is for the best. That you will see reason in time. That you will return. But doubt festers in his chest like an open wound, aching, throbbing, refusing to heal.

You left. And Aemond is beginning to fear that you might not come back.

You wouldn’t leave him. Would you?

Not when he knows the most intimate parts of you, and you of him. Not when you unraveled each other in ways no one else ever will. Not when he owns a part of you—a part that lingers in the very bed he lies upon, in the imprint left on the sheets, in the scent still fresh on the linen.

You could not leave him. Not when Aemond has been your solace, your refuge when the world turned cruel. He knows it. You found something in him—he saw it in your eyes, heard it in the way you whispered his name in the dark. You cannot walk away. Not when you know he is more capable than the others. More than Aegon. More than Jacaerys. More than Cole. More than Daeron, should you ever meet him. More than anyone.

With Aemond, your worries disappeared. You told him so. He never even had to ask.

You will come back. Of course, you will. And when you do, everything will be as it was.

Even if you make him suffer in your absence, even if you seek to punish him with distance—to make him hate you—he will endure it. Because Aemond is nothing if not resilient.

Aemond simply is.

Yet there is a doubt that creeps in his mind as he bucks his hips upwards into your sheets, desperate to inhale your scent. 

No, Aemond can take it. He can take it, swords twisting into him, Dragon fire pecking at his skin, blows from the strongest warriors and fighters. He can take it. (Except he cannot, he cannot take having you gone, even if you are coming back soon. (And you will…right?)) 

Aemond is desperate, it’s been days since he’s last had you, since he’s last tasted you. You are a necessity. 

And he is a necessity. You have made it so. Aemond wonders if you too are on a bed in Old Town, mayhaps your fingers between your thighs. Desperately trying to recreate him as he is trying to recreate you now.

You will come back. You will come to him. You must come back to him.

Him? Aemond, a Prince here in your bed desperately trying to find you? He cannot go on living like this, you will come back. 

You are ideal. Had you only been born with a noble name, you would’ve been perfect. Though he supposes your attempt to claw your way up is endearing as well.

But by the gods, he needs you now. Your familiar warmth. His body that now longs for your warmth. 

Aemond has worked hard to mold you to him, and you are for him.

You cannot have him like this. Hopeless, turned boy once more searching fruitlessly for his mother’s affection. (Now you do, however, you have him wrapping his hands around his cock trying to simulate the feeling of your hands that have never known a day of work, while his face is buried into your sheets trying to smell you once more.)

Aemond knows he lost his temper with you. It wasn’t on purpose, he swears it wasn’t on purpose. He cannot recreate your hands with his own, his own that he knows that holds the weight of his betrayal of you. A distinct whimper slipped through his parted lips. Aemonds chest rose up and down, releasing the short gasps.

God, he needs your lips. Those kisses that he remembers as if it was only yesterday. The sweetness that to him tastes like honey. Aemond can only hope to try and remember when his body would enter yours little by little, while he kissed your tender skin. 

Another groan left him. Those sounds Aemond made that he knows would have you clenching around him. Every minute, no, every second of it, it was perfect. You exist for him. You have to when you react to him in such a manner. 

But now you're gone.

His hand wrapped around the throbbing genital, fisting it after his first climax had his vision blurring, tears sparkling his lash line.

Aemonds hand never stopped. It's what you would've done, as revenge perhaps…a get back at him?

Excuse after excuse. Aemond longed for your presence beside him and if you weren't gonna appear, he'd have to visualize you inside his mind.

The large, veiny hands were replaced with the cold of your own, Aemond shuddered, head tipping back against the bed frame. His eyebrows scrunched together, eye half-lidded and allowing the pleasure to seek through his veins.

A finger caught on the thin slit, spreading the pearly-white pre upon the tip, rubbing the spot, a giggle leaving your lips, watching as his cock sprung up. Pumped and angry.

Aemond blanked out, his hand was mindlessly keeping the rapid movement of stroking his length, roughly so. He blinked away tears, painting the scenes of you together inside his head.

The imagination was truly a powerful thing.

A coil tightened in his stomach, a cold touch to his dick and the thumb caressing his tip.

Again. Again. And again. 

Until the pain turned into pleasure, all his thoughts faded out, crawling out of his head.

“F-fuck! You…come!” He slurred.

Sensing his next climax about to crash down on him. His head was mushy, squeezing the muscles of his face together.

“Please…! I never–!” The white filling spurted out of his cock, now coating the whole length by the continued strokes,

“–meant it!”

It sent that paralyzing chill up his skin until it reached his neck, Aemond fell back on the bed exhausted, overstimulation having his body slowly ticking into sleep.

Another snicker had his heart dropping to his stomach, eye blown wide.

Yet…you weren't there. He was slowly losing the rope that he clutched onto. The fabric that had his sanity tightly bound together.

“You’ll come back.” Aemond looks down towards his mess on your sheets. It was fine. It’s how it was supposed to be in the first place. Silently slipping under your covers he covered himself completely as sleep took him.

…

"And the King has approved of this?"

Ser Criston lingered just beyond the heavy doors, the hushed murmurs within barely muffled by the thick wood. It had taken three days—three days—for the Grand Maesters to grant you an audience.

How absurd. You carried the King’s word.

(And perhaps, if Ser Criston’s eyes had not deceived him, the will of the gods as well.)

That night, gods be good, he was to strike you down. He bit the inside of his cheek as he listened to the murmurs behind the door. He felt sick. So sick when he saw you crying. He had thought you hurt yourself, or perhaps one of the bandits had gotten to you before Ser Arryk could strike them down. But it was quickly dismissed when he crossed paths with Ser Arryk informing him you had no such injuries. 

And yet, the image of you remained burned into his mind—the moonlight kissing your skin, the gods weeping with you, the streaks of black down your cheeks like some holy anointment. The horse’s dying breath rattled in the cold air. His fingers clenched at his side.

He had been meant to kill you.

Alicent had willed it. He is her sword shield. What she wills he does. His sword, his faith, his duty—he had steadied himself for the blow. And then the gods had turned his weapon to dust as they wrapped you in their light and they danced upon your skin. 

He had seen it in Alicent’s eyes. The horror, the fury, the sickness of a woman who had called upon righteousness only to find the gods had already made their choice. And not in her favor.

Ser Criston closed his eyes briefly, willing the memory away as the murmurs beyond the door grew sharper.

“And you, a woman, was the one to propose it?” one of the Grand Maesters was saying, his voice filled with mockery. “I am sure you are a woman who is coquette.” Criston’s eyes narrowed. (He knows he once regarded you as such once before, but was he wrong? Is he right? Ser Criston does not know anymore.)

There was a pause. The rustling of parchment.

“If King Viserys so desires it, with the approval of Otto Hightower, then we shall look it over honestly.”

A scoff. “Otto Hightower is not a man to be ‘persuaded.’”

Criston exhaled sharply through his nose. The Maesters could play at logic, at reason, but they had not seen what he had seen. They had not stood in the presence of something they could not explain.

Another voice—one that made his stomach twist.

“Yet his name is signed. Everyone in the small council has signed it. If they all signed, should it not be a sign that it is worth a look? Regardless of who proposed it?” Your voice sounded and guilt twisted in his stomach. 

He had not felt guilt like this in almost a decade. 

He must will himself through it. 

Criston Cole has a role to play and he will play it well. The role of Ser Criston Cole, an honorable knight, who had taken an oath of celibacy, and is the sworn shield to Queen Alicent Hightower.

(Yet he did not play his role when he saw you against a wall with Prince Aemond’s hand around your neck. He was not honorable then.)

This must be a test of sorts. But for who, he does not know. 

Criston does not know anymore. 

Criston had once believed himself a man of unwavering faith, his conviction as firm as the steel he carried. He had followed the will of the gods, the will of his Queen, without question.

And yet, as he stood beyond those doors, he can only listen as they ridicule you, and mock you. Criston Cole does not know what to feel as he hears you petition for the people, hears your voice heavy with conviction. 

Ser Criston’s hands remain empty, his sword untouched, his faith in tatters—he could not help but wonder:

Had the test been yours?

Or had it been his all along?

Ser Criston lingered just beyond the heavy doors, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, his jaw rigid. The voices within were hushed yet sharp, their tones laced with authority and condescension. He should not be listening. He should not care. And yet, his ears strained to catch every word.

“You think you can do what Maesters for decades could not?” The voice was old, lined with skepticism, the weight of experience carried in its rasp.

Criston imagined the scene inside—wrinkled hands folded over thick robes, chains rattling as the Maesters exchanged glances. He could picture the way they sneered down at you, their superiority draped around them like armor.

“You are not properly educated, nor can you be,” another scoffed. “Women cannot become Maesters. Only midwives.”

A pause. He could almost hear the way you tilted your head, the way your lips would curl, sharp as a blade before you spoke.

“I can assure you, I wield proper education. Some would wager, more advanced than yours.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Criston exhaled sharply through his nose. A bold answer. Too bold. You had no fear, did you? Or perhaps you did, but you wielded it as a weapon rather than a chain. (Yet Criston knows the Gods protect you.)

A shift of robes. A deep inhale, drawn through gritted teeth.

“Mind your tongue,” the elder Maester snapped, his voice taut with barely veiled irritation. “You are foreign. Where you come from, I’m sure they use dirt as money. You are not special. You are commonly born, without a name behind you. You are a woman.”

The words settled in Criston’s stomach like a stone, heavy and unyielding.

Another man might have laughed—might have found amusement in your humiliation, might have thought it fitting. But Criston only pressed his palm against the hilt of his sword, fingers tightening until his knuckles burned, his jaw clenched so hard it sent a dull ache through his skull.

He did not know why.

No, you were not like him. You were nothing like Criston Cole. He had been a fool to think otherwise. And yet, for some reason, the realization felt like a betrayal.

Criston Cole had never stood where you stood. He had never been in your position, just as you had never been in his. He had never been protected by the gods. That was the difference, wasn’t it? That was why you stood so assured, so unshaken—not because you placed faith in yourself, but because you placed it in them.

Envy is a disease blooming within him, curling its way through his ribs like ivy tightening around stone. It festers in the quiet moments, in the spaces between breath and thought, poisoning him with its whispers.

(Envy is a disease.)

Envy—for the way you stand unbowed beneath their ridicule, for the way their scorn does not touch you as it once had him.

Envy—for the appearance of self-assurance when he has never known such a thing, when every step he takes is burdened with doubt.

And now, envy that claws at him from the inside out, sharper than any blade. Envy for your unmovable faith—the kind that has not only endured but has been rewarded.

“Proper education?” Another scoffed, incredulous. “You speak as though knowledge is plucked from the air like an apple from a tree.” A faint rustling of parchment followed—a deliberate gesture, no doubt, a reminder of their many tomes, their vast libraries. “We have spent decades studying, interpreting, refining our craft. And yet you, a nameless girl, would have us believe you possess wisdom beyond our station?”

Another chuckled, low and derisive. “She thinks herself above Maesters. A scholar, perhaps? Did you sit at the feet of great men and scribble down their words like a dutiful little scribe? Or did you trade whispers in the dark, learning your lessons between silken sheets?”

A ripple of laughter followed. Criston’s grip on his sword tightened.

(Why? He cannot say why. Why should he care when you are nothing like him.) 

“Perhaps she fancies herself a healer,” another mused, his voice thick with amusement. “Is that what you are, girl? Did you brew a few herbs, press a few leeches to flesh, and now you believe yourself learned?” A beat of silence, then a sneer. “Or is your skill in another craft entirely? A different kind of medicine, one that does not require ink or parchment, only a well-placed smile and willing men?”

The laughter was louder this time. Ugly.

Criston exhaled sharply, staring at the thick wood of the door as though it might crack beneath his gaze. He should not be here. He should not care. He should turn on his heel and walk away, let you fight your own battles, let you bear the weight of their scorn alone.

And yet.

He remained rooted in place, listening.

“I bring the word of King Viserys and I ask that you would so humbly listen to what I have to say. My proposition of—” Your voice finally came out, though now…Criston could not recognize it. 

No you were nothing like him. 

Nothing at all, but your voice sounds so much like his when he was denied his life. 

“Do you truly think you can live up to someone like Bran the Builder. I think not. You are the King’s glorified messenger. The faith may smile upon you, or so it said, but here, the Gods will not help you. You are a girl who has mistaken arrogance for knowledge. A child playing at wisdom. A woman who believes herself exceptional simply because she dares to speak above her station.” One chided and Ser Criston only stands and listens. 

It was bound to happen. The rules will not bend for you. (But are there rules for gods? Criston does not know.)

“Tell me, then,” the eldest among them finally said, voice soft, but no less cruel. “If you are so learned—so wise—why, then, are you here? If you were half as clever as you claim, you would have already found another way. Instead, you come before us, expecting the respect of Maesters, yet bearing none of their titles, none of their chains.” A pause. A smirk, perhaps. “Or did you think you could charm us as you have others? Shall we bow to the wisdom of a woman who was never meant to possess it?”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Criston clenched his jaw. He knew this game. He had played it himself, once. He had wielded his own tongue like a blade against you, testing, pushing, waiting to see if you would break.

And now?

Now he could not understand the sickness curling in his gut, the bitterness on his tongue as he listened to them flay you apart with nothing but words.

"I know," one of them sneered. "Go out into the streets of Old Town and beg for coins while preaching your grand… proposition. If the people find your cause worthy, then perhaps—perhaps—we shall spare a scholar or two to help you make sense of Bran the Builder’s work."

Laughter erupted, a chorus of mockery that echoed through the chamber.

Then, silence.

A voice, heavy with condescension, cut through the stillness. "Women do not possess the minds of men. No man will ever bow willingly to the weaker sex."

"Then I wonder how you will fare when the day comes that you are forced to bend the knee to Crown Princess Rhaenyra."

The door creaked open, drawing all eyes toward Ser Criston. His gaze found you, and for a moment, he hesitated. Your expression was unreadable, your eyes glassy, distant—yet there was something simmering beneath them. Something neither he nor the gathered men could name.

He watched as you walked past him, your shoulders trembling ever so slightly. A silent tremor, but a tremor nonetheless.

(Ser Criston’s honor had been lost long ago, but he prays his faith has not.)

So he follows.

Your voice, low and sharp, spills into the corridor—a tongue he does not understand, but the venom in it is unmistakable.

"Desgraciados. Que chinguen toda su puta perra madre."

The words slip through gritted teeth, hushed yet seething, as though cursing the very air you breathe. Ser Criston watches the way your hands clench at your sides, the tension coiling through your frame like a storm yet to break.

He watched you storm into a room, the door nearly slamming behind you. For a moment, he lingered outside, uncertain, before stepping forward. The flickering candlelight inside cast long shadows against the stone walls, and when you turned to face him, the golden glow only made the raw humiliation on your face more stark.

“What?” Your voice wavered, your hands planted firmly on your hips as if bracing yourself against the weight of the moment. Your shoulders rose and fell with uneven breaths, and though you tried to hold your composure, he could see the gloss in your eyes.

“Can I help you?” you asked again, sharper this time, though the tremble in your voice betrayed you.

Criston remained silent, unsure of what to say, of what he was even doing here.

Your lips pressed together, your chin lifting in defiance. “Have you come to laugh at me? I know you do not like me.” The words were forced, brittle, as if saying them aloud might solidify them into truth. “And I can understand why. Loyalty is a noble trait of yours. But I ask that you would spare me and not kick me while I’m—”

Your voice broke. A single tear slipped down your cheek, then another. You tried to catch your breath, swallowing hard against the sobs that threatened to consume you, but it was no use.

“While I’m down.”

The words barely made it past your lips before your breath hitched again. You turned away, as if unwilling to let him see you like this, but Criston knew—some wounds, no matter how much you willed them away, could not be hidden.

He took the chance to step closer—may the gods forgive him for not interfering sooner.

“What do you want from me!?” You had already stepped inside, but he followed, drawn forward despite himself.

Criston bit his lip, uncertain. You were nothing like him. He should not be here. His sworn duty was to Alicent. He was meant to kill you. He should kill you, for it was the will of the beacon he followed. You did not matter because he could not live through you any longer.

“My lady, the Maesters, spoke overly harsh words.” His voice felt foreign to him, softer than it should be.

Criston cannot live the life he once wanted—his honor is lost, despite the clean white cloak draped over his shoulders. His nobility is tarnished, a stain no absolution could erase.

A queen cannot restore it. (A queen has only worsened it.)

His nobility cannot be given.

But perhaps the gods can bless him still. 

The idea is quickly shattered by a scoff. Your scoff. Maybe the gods scoff at him as well.

“Now you want to act noble?”

For the salvation of himself, for the salvation of his beacon—perhaps.

“And where were you when I asked for your help?”

Shame pools in his stomach, heavy and unrelenting. He cannot look away from you, not when your eyes are red, raw with tears that still fall.

“You looked at me, Ser Criston.” Your voice wavers, but there is fire beneath it.

A sharp shove against his chest. He does not move. He will not move.

“And you left me.”

Another shove. His breath stirs, but he remains where he stands, bound by guilt.

“You left me. No good knight—no knight from the songs or stories—would have done that.”

Another shove, harder this time.

“You left me there, and now you want to act noble?”

The words strike deeper than your hands ever could. He deserves them.

“He is a Prince of the realm.” It’s not all his fault. How could he attack a Prince of the realm? His job is to protect them. To protect the righteous.

(But you were not righteous. Or were you? Criston Cole no longer knows.) 

“Loyalty is only as noble as the cause it serves.”

“I am a King’s Guard!” He will not let his loyalty be questioned. He will not let his Queen be questioned. Not by you. Not by you who has corrupted a prince.

“Then why are you here!? I am no royal! Why are you here?” You snap at him, your hands rushing to gather your belongings, your frustration evident. You’re preparing to leave, to return to Hightower.

“Yet you are involved with a royal.” He shouldn’t have said that. It was gossip, rumors, and unworthy of his station. But when he sees your reaction, he knows it struck a nerve. You freeze.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. So get off your high fucking horse and get the fuck out of my room!”

Another shove, though this time your eyes are dry. The remnants of your tears cling to your face like a map of the pain you’re carrying.

“Get out! You have no idea who I am or what I’m doing, so get out!”

“I am to escort you back to Hightower.” He forces the words out, but there’s a heaviness in his chest. Maybe Criston was too far gone, lost in the shadows of duty and shame. If the gods would not take him, then who would?

“I want someone else, so get out. I don’t want to see you!” You push him again, this time with a finality that stings. He takes a step back, giving in to the distance between you.

“I will be waiting outside.” His voice is low, as if the weight of his own failures is too much to carry in a single breath. He will follow the beacon that always shines for him, even if it’s nothing but a dim, distant flicker.

…

“Tis been four years, Uncle. I am aware my letters have not been as frequent as they should, yet… I find myself tense.” Daeron’s voice was measured, though his fingers curled slightly where they rested. He looked toward his uncle, searching for something—reassurance, perhaps.

Four years. Four years since he was sent away from his mother. Four years away from his brother—though from what he has heard, he wonders if that was for the best. Four years apart from his only sister, now a mother of two.

Daeron Targaryen, the fourth son of Alicent Hightower and Viserys Targaryen, does not know what to feel as he rereads his mother’s letter, announcing her arrival in Old Town. Would she be proud of him?

(He is a boy with no mother. It is only natural to yearn—for her presence, for her approval. For some validation that he has not been forgotten.)

“Your mother will be happy to see you,” his uncle said, and Daeron gave a firm nod.

A moment later, they entered the chamber. His mother sat by the window, bathed in the light of the setting sun. In four years, she had not changed. The tired look she always wore had not lifted, nor had the anger that seemed to smolder just beneath the surface.

Yet when her eyes met his, all his worries faded.

A smile bloomed on her face—warm, genuine. A smile meant only for him. It was infectious, and Daeron felt his own lips curve in response.

“Mother.”

“My boy.”

Before he could say another word, she was in his arms. The last time he had held her, he had been shorter. Now, he towered over her, but in her embrace, he still felt small. Her hands, soft and warm, cupped his face, and he leaned into her touch.

“How you’ve grown.” Her voice held something deeper—pride, yes, but also sorrow. A wistfulness that made Daeron furrowed his brows.

“I was worried,” she murmured. “You write less and less these days.”

“The fault is mine, not yours, Mother,” he admitted. “I have found myself… occupied as of late.”

Her eyes flickered with something unreadable before her smile returned, albeit weaker. She traced his cheek with her thumb, studying him. “Tell me,” she said, gently but firmly. “What is it that keeps my son so busy that he forgets his mother?”

Daeron hesitated. There were many things—his training, his studies, the expectations placed upon him in Old Town. But there was also something more. A restlessness that had settled in his bones. A feeling that he was meant for more than quiet halls and whispered prayers.

He exhaled slowly. “I do not forget you, Mother. Never. But I—” He paused, searching for the words. “I feel as though I am standing at the edge of something, waiting to step forward. And yet, I do not know where that step will take me.”

Alicent studied him for a long moment before sighing softly. “You are growing into a man, my love. And men must find their place in the world.” Her fingers lingered at his temple, brushing back a lock of silver hair. “But wherever you go, whatever path you choose, you are still my son.”

Daeron swallowed, nodding. He wanted to believe her, to hold onto this moment, but he could not shake the feeling that whatever lay ahead would change everything, for his mother always has reason behind her actions. Why she was here in Old Town, she never said.

The next few hours passed with Daeron simply basking in his mother’s presence as she spoke with his uncle. He listened, half-engaged, yet his mind drifted elsewhere—toward his brothers.

Uncle Gwayne never mentioned them, not once, as he conversed with his mother. That alone was enough to stir unease in Daeron.

“And this law, you do not present it, sister?”

His uncle’s voice carried a sharper edge now, drawing Daeron’s attention. He straightened slightly, ears keen to the shift in tone. Behind him, he felt his mother go still. He turned just enough to catch a glimpse of her face—rigid, unreadable.

What could make her react in such a way?

The answer came swiftly.

You.

The next hour was spent speaking of you. The newest addition to the Red Keep. And, to his mother’s evident horror, a potential addition to the family—by marriage.

You and Aemond.

Or so his father had suggested, according to his mother’s tight-lipped retelling.

Just who were you?

A woman who had seemingly restored his father’s health, yet disturbed his mother’s peace.

Daeron knew it was wrong to judge before even meeting someone, but the mere mention of you unsettled his mother. That was reason enough. He would not allow it—not a foreigner.

“And what do you have to say on the matter, sister?” his uncle asked.

Daeron turned his gaze to his mother, expecting the same anger she reserved for his bastard nephews or, on occasion, his eldest brother. But what he found instead was… hesitation.

Uncertainty.

Nervousness.

No. You could not remain.

His thoughts were soon reflected in his mother’s words.

“If Aegon is to be king… she cannot stay.”

Daeron watched as his mother reached for her brother, her grip tight, her voice carrying something that unsettled him.

“But Gwayne… brother, what I have seen from the girl—may the gods forgive me for ever wanting to do away with her.” A sharp breath. A pause thick with unspoken things. “Brother, she is…”

Distress. Genuine distress laced her tone.

You?

You had unsettled the Queen herself?

“I do not know what she is. I fear—”

“Fear what, sister?”

She swallowed, the words slipping through barely parted lips.

“That mayhaps, for proper forgiveness from the gods, a marriage between her and my son will be best.”

Just as Daeron was preparing to ask what importance you held and where exactly you were, a prickle ran down his spine.

Tessarion.

The sensation was unmistakable, an unspoken pull deep in his bones. His dragon was calling him.

He shot to his feet.

“Daeron?” his uncle called, brow furrowed.

“Tessarion calls me.”

“For what reason?”

“I do not know.”

His uncle regarded him for a moment before nodding. “Go. I will remain here and speak further with your mother.”

Daeron turned to Alicent, bowing his head before leaning down to press a brief kiss to her forehead—the same way she had once done for him, when he was still small enough to tuck beneath her chin.

“I will meet you for supper,” he promised.

And with that, he strode out, the weight of an unknown summons pressing against his ribs.

Whatever awaited him, he would soon find out.

Daeron rode swiftly across Oldtown, the familiar spires of the Hightower fading behind him as he reached the makeshift dragon pit. There, he found Tessarion—his proud, blue-scaled dragon—tugging against her chains, her body trembling with barely contained agitation. She wanted to fly. No, she needed to fly.

He did not hesitate to oblige her.

The moment the chains were loosened, Tessarion took to the sky, her wings slicing through the crisp air as she carried him high above the city. But she did not stop there. Higher and farther she flew, as if something unseen pulled her forward.

Then Daeron saw it.

A shadow in the distance—vast, black, and impossibly large. His breath caught in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs. He had never seen anything so massive, so ancient. Fear coiled tight in his chest, and Tessarion responded with a defiant roar.

"Daor, Tessarion!" he shouted, gripping the reins. No. Whatever that thing was, it could swallow them whole.

Another roar sounded. His grip tightened around the reins of Tessarion. The roar was deafening. He could feel it in his bones. The way his bones shook and it hurt his ears, the sound was so strong. Groaning, he forced Tessarion to turn back and take him back to Old Town. Whatever or whoever it was, Daeron wouldn’t stay around to find out. 

Unfortunately, the other beast decided otherwise. A sudden gust of warm wind hit his back, and he turned sharply, his blood running cold.

Gods be good…

It was an ugly beast—great and ancient, its green hide worn and weathered with age, its teeth long and jagged. And it was gaining on him.

“Naejot Tessarion!” He urged and his dragon dove. Though through the wind he heard his name. Someone was shouting his name. Turning he saw the large beast diving with him, though the head was so great, he could not see who was on the dragon. 

Daeron’s heart pounded in his chest as Tessarion descended, skimming just above the ground before leveling out. Behind him, a thunderous thud echoed—the large beast was landing. Each of her steps sent tremors through the earth, as if the ground itself might crack beneath her weight.

His gaze flickered to Tessarion. Would she ever grow to such a monstrous size? He doubted he’d live to see the day—doubted she’d even be his by then.

Tessarion rose once more, and as Daeron turned, his eyes settled on the figure now visible atop the massive dragon.

He and Tessarion dove again, closing the distance.

Then he saw him.

A face he hadn’t laid eyes on in years—so changed from the boy he once knew that, for a moment, he doubted himself.

Until his name was shouted.

"Brother."

Daeron’s jaw tightened.

Aemond.

And that meant…

This was Vhagar.

The Queen of Dragons.

Daeron guided Tessarion to land, his dragon’s claws kicking up dust as she settled. Overhead, Vhagar let out another ear-splitting roar, and Daeron winced at the sheer force of it. The Queen of Dragons soon lowered her ancient head, her massive eyes fixed on his smaller dragon with something almost like curiosity—or perhaps indifference.

Sliding off Tessarion, Daeron turned just as Aemond dismounted from Vhagar.

A weight settled in Daeron’s chest.

Prince Aemond Targaryen. The One-Eyed Prince.

The stories of his older brother had traveled far, tales of his prowess on the battlefield, his ruthlessness, his command over the largest dragon alive. Had he entered the tourneys, he would have dominated them, carving his legend alongside that of their uncle Daemon, just as the Rogue Prince had done all those years ago.

Aemond was taller than Daeron remembered, though perhaps that was no surprise—he had always been taller. Two years his elder, yet it felt as though an eternity had passed since they last stood face to face.

Back then, Aemond had been just his older brother.

Back then, he had two eyes.

And no dragon.

Now, he stood before him, draped in black and steel, the weight of war and Vhagar’s shadow behind him.

"Daeron," Aemond spoke at last, his voice smooth but edged like a blade.

Daeron straightened. "Brother."

A moment stretched between them, heavy and unreadable. Then, with measured steps, Aemond closed the distance.

"You’ve grown," Aemond observed, eyeing him with an intensity that made Daeron bristle. "Oldtown has not made you soft, I hope."

Daeron lifted his chin. "You’ll have to test that for yourself."

A ghost of a smirk touched Aemond’s lips. "Perhaps I shall."

Daeron grinned, stepping forward and wrapping his arms around his brother in a firm embrace. His older brother. The one who had once been the family’s jest now stood before him, taller, commanding.

Aemond was no longer the boy Daeron remembered—he had grown into his frame, his presence looming. Daeron suspected he now stood taller than their bastard nephews and perhaps even Aegon himself.

"What brings you to Old Town?" Daeron asked, a playful lilt to his voice. "Come to chase after Mother?"

The energy between them was light, easy. He had always gotten along with Aemond. In his youth, Aemond had been softer, and Daeron had naturally gravitated towards him. Even when Aegon teased him—mocking that Aemond might one day steal his dragon—Daeron never believed it.

His big brother wouldn’t do that.

In truth, Aemond had been the one to play with him and Tessarion whenever he could, always watching out for them in ways no one else did.

"No," Aemond replied, his voice quieter, more measured. "No one knows I’m here."

Daeron watched as Aemond stepped closer to Tessarion, his single eye filled with something unreadable. He lifted a hand but hesitated, glancing back at Daeron for permission.

Daeron would never deny his older brother. He gave a nod.

"She has grown much since I last saw her," Aemond murmured, his gloved hand running over Tessarion’s shimmering blue scales.

Tessarion did not flinch. She allowed the touch.

"I only began riding her last year. This is my first time beyond Old Town." Daeron glanced toward the massive green beast. "So this is Vhagar."

"Queen of Dragons," Aemond affirmed. It was fitting, Daeron supposed, that his brother had claimed the largest and most formidable of dragons—the last living relic of Aegon’s Conquest. Aemond had always yearned for greatness.

"Why are you here, brother?" Daeron asked, stepping closer to Tessarion.

"Have you seen Mother?"

Daeron resisted the urge to sigh at his brother’s habit of answering with another question. "I have."

"And the woman who travels with her?"

Daeron frowned. "There was no woman. Only Mother."

Aemond’s expression tightened. "Ser Criston?"

"The Dornishman?" Daeron had heard tales of Ser Criston. The man who bested the Rogue Prince in battle. The man who came from no noble name, yet he is one of the seven in the King’s Guard. Ser Criston Cole is a well known name.

"Yes."

"He was not there," Daeron said firmly. "It was only my mother."

Daeron caught the flicker of annoyance in his brother’s eye.

“Who is she?”

Then, your name left Aemond’s lips.

You. Again.

You, who made his mother speak in hushed, fearful tones. You, who now had his noble older brother seeking you out with urgency. Who were you to command such attention?

Aemond offered no explanation, only the weight of his silence.

“I heard mention of her being at the Citadel,” Daeron added, watching closely.

The moment the words left his mouth, Aemond stiffened. His spine straightened, his fingers flexing at his side, and something unreadable flickered across his face—something Daeron could not quite place.

“Daeron,” Aemond finally spoke, his voice low but firm. “Can you bring her to me?”

Daeron hesitated, brows knitting together. “Why?”

Aemond turned to him then, his lone eye sharp, assessing.

“Brother… have you taken a lover?” The words felt absurd the moment he spoke them. Aemond—their mother’s ever-loyal son, rigid in his discipline, a man who lived by duty alone—taking a lover? Unthinkable. You, of all people, the one who sent their mother into whispered prayers and sleepless nights? Impossible.

Aemond’s lips curled slightly. “Of a sort.”

Daeron’s head snapped toward him, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and alarm. “She is your lover? Do you know how she torments our mother? And you would take her to your bed!?”

“Daeron.” Aemond’s voice darkened. “You do not know our mother. You were raised in Old Town, far from her shadow. I see you have grown well and true, but her… caution is not as well-founded as you might believe.”

“Aemond, she is our mother,” Daeron shot back, voice tight with frustration. “And you would choose this—this foreigner over her counsel?”

Aemond exhaled sharply, as if barely restraining his temper. When he spoke again, his words were measured, his tone carrying a weight Daeron had not heard in years.

“Mind your tongue, brother.” His gaze held no room for argument. “Can you bring her to me?”

Daeron clenched his jaw. He had been away too long—long enough to feel the shift, to sense the distance between them now. The boy who once followed Aemond’s lead without question had grown into a man who no longer recognized the brother before him.

But for the sake of old loyalties, of blood and brotherhood, he would not deny him.

“I can.”

Aemond nodded, his expression unreadable once more. “This stays between us. I will wait here. See that no one follows you.”

“How will I know it’s her?” Daeron stopped in front of Tessarion. 

“Offer her water from a vendor. She’ll decline it. Then offer her meats, she’ll decline that as well.”

Strange.

Daeron nodded, murmuring a few words to Tessarion before setting off. Now to find you.

You were said to be near the Citadel, accompanied by a Dornish knight. That alone should make the search easier—Dornish men stood out in Old Town, their dark hair and sun-kissed skin a stark contrast to the pale, flaxen heads of the Reach. Still, Daeron found himself doubting the ease of his task.

Tessarion deposited him safely back in Old Town, her great wings stirring dust as she settled into her pit. He ran a hand along her shimmering blue scales, bidding her a quiet farewell before turning to retrieve a horse.

As he rode toward the Citadel, he repeated your description in his mind, over and over again. Yet the more he turned it over, the more he wondered if he should take it with a grain of salt. Aemond’s words had been brief, and something about them had felt… deliberate. Carefully chosen, as if he did not want to say too much.

What had his brother truly meant by of a sort?

A lover. A conspirator. A pawn.

Or something else entirely?

He exhaled sharply and urged his horse faster. Whatever the answer, he would find it soon enough.

Daeron’s sharp eyes caught sight of a white cloak, the pristine fabric standing out against the muted colors of Old Town's streets. Beside it stood a woman, her eyes rimmed with red, as if she had been crying.

Well, that fits the description well enough.

And beside you, just as Aemond had said, was a Dornish knight. A man with the unmistakable sun-darkened skin and sharp, narrow features of his people.

Daeron narrowed his eyes. Aemond had warned him there was something distinct about you—something he had not put into words. And now, seeing you for himself, Daeron understood why. He could not place it, not exactly, but there was something inherently… Strange about you.

(Though Aemond had never called you strange, not aloud. That was Daeron’s own word for it, and he would not shy from it. You had committed the crime of making his mother afraid, and if the Queen feared you, then you must be something.)

Frowning, he pulled the hood of his cloak low over his silver hair and steered his horse toward a shortcut. He needed to separate you from the Dornish knight. Best not to cause a scene in the open streets.

As he maneuvered through the winding alleys, his gaze flickered back toward you. The way you spoke to the knight was… aggressive. Your posture was rigid, your hands tense at your sides. Even from a distance, Daeron could tell that whatever you were discussing was not a friendly exchange.

Clearly, you were not happy with him.

Interesting.

Perhaps he wouldn’t need to intervene at all. If fortune was on his side, you would storm off on your own. But if not… well, he had other means of ensuring you followed him.

“I’m hungry.”

The words were quiet, almost petulant, but Daeron caught them all the same. Your voice was thick—congested from tears, no doubt. Why had you been crying? That wasn’t his concern.

“You can eat at House Hightower,” Ser Criston replied, his tone clipped, leaving little room for argument.

Daeron watched as your expression crumpled, your eyes glistening once more. Again? He nearly rolled his eyes. If his brother—his noble, disciplined brother—had truly taken a lover, he never would have expected this. You were… spoiled. Soft.

“I don’t want to eat there.”

“We must return.” Criston didn’t turn back as he spoke, already moving ahead of you.

Daeron saw his opening.

You had stopped, glancing around as if weighing your options. He could see it in the subtle shift of your posture—the flicker of hesitation, the restless energy in your limbs.

“No,” you muttered, more to yourself than anyone else. “I want something from here.”

Ser Criston remained turned away, oblivious to the danger of leaving you unattended for even a moment. A mistake. One Daeron wasted no time exploiting.

In a single fluid motion, he closed the distance, clamping a hand over your mouth before you could so much as gasp. Your body jolted, a wild, instinctive struggle immediately following, but Daeron was stronger, quicker. With an iron grip, he dragged you back into the alleyway where his horse waited, your feet kicking out uselessly against him.

You fought like a wildcat, but Daeron only chuckled under his breath.

So, you weren’t entirely soft after all.

Daeron hoisted you onto the horse with little effort, swinging himself into the saddle before spurring the beast forward. You squirmed in his grasp, your movements frantic, but his hand remained firm over your mouth, muffling any protests.

For a while, you fought him. Then, just as suddenly, you stilled.

Only when he was certain you were far enough from prying eyes did Daeron finally release you, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze.

Fear. It was plain in your eyes, in the stiffness of your stance, in the way your gaze darted—searching, calculating, already trying to find a way out.

Daeron tilted his head, observing you with mild curiosity. This was the woman who had their mother so shaken? The one Aemond had spoken of with such weight? He couldn’t see it. You were just… a girl. A little strange, perhaps, but normal enough.

You swallowed hard. “Listen, please, I don’t know what this is, but—” your voice wavered, pleading, “—I have to go back.”

Daeron said your name again, slower this time, as if testing the weight of it on his tongue. His brow arched, expectant.

“Who?” you echoed, blinking up at him in clear confusion.

His lips parted slightly. That wasn’t the reaction he had anticipated. He repeated the name, firmer now, but the response was the same—uncertainty, an unfamiliarity that sent a ripple of unease through his chest.

“Listen, I don’t know who that is or who you are,” you insisted, voice thin with desperation. “But…I need to get back home. Please, ser.”

Daeron’s stomach twisted. Gods be good. Had he just kidnapped the wrong girl?

His mind raced, scrambling to piece together an explanation, to make sense of the situation. He forced himself to school his expression, to keep his features composed, but a pit of dread was already forming in his gut. What in the name of the Seven would they think of him now?

“You’re not her?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

You shook your head, tears threatening to spill again, your distress evident in every stiffened muscle, in the way your hands clenched at your sides.

No. No, it couldn’t be you.

The woman Aemond had spoken of, the one their mother feared, the one whose mere presence had left Criston Cole shaken—she wouldn’t be like this. She wouldn’t be trembling before him, sniffling through unshed tears, looking as though the world had just caved in around her.

Of course not.

Daeron exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple. What now? He couldn’t just leave you here, alone in the alley. But returning empty-handed would be an even greater humiliation.

Damn it all.

“You’re sure?” he tried again, grasping at some slim chance that this was all some misunderstanding.

You stared at him, expression incredulous. “I—yes! I just told you, I don’t know who you think I am, but I swear it, you have the wrong person.”

Daeron muttered a curse under his breath. What a disaster.

"May the gods forgive me," Daeron muttered, exhaling sharply. "My sincerest apologies. I was under the impression you were someone else."

He hung his head, shame settling like a stone in his stomach. This was going horribly. An unforgivable mistake. Yet even as he acknowledged it, something about you gnawed at him.

How could you not be the woman Aemond spoke of?

You were different—so different that you stood apart from everyone around you. It was in the way you carried yourself, the way you spoke, the way your presence lingered even in silence.

"Why in the world are you kidnapping girls in the first place!?" you snapped, your voice tight with anger and disbelief.

Daeron flinched, heat creeping up his neck. He felt like a child being scolded. Which, he supposed, at this moment, he was.

Worse still—he needed to answer you. 

He needed an excuse. He cannot say he was taking you to his brother. Aemond was clear in his instructions. 

He swallowed hard, glancing away, feeling the slow, mortifying burn of embarrassment creep across his face. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, laced with an unfamiliar hesitance.

"I have… fallen in love with the woman I thought you to be."

His head hung low and the words felt heavier than they should have, like some unintended confession. (Had he looked you in the eye, he would’ve seen that you too shared his complexion of embarrassment.) A ridiculous notion, really, considering he was not confessing to you. And yet, standing there—his face burning, his pride sinking—he could not deny that it felt like he was.

Daeron Targaryen had never once needed to vie for a woman's attention. It was given freely, eagerly. He had accepted it with ease, with appreciation.

But now? Now, standing before a stranger, burdened by his own foolish mistake, he found himself truly understanding—perhaps for the first time—the women who had confessed their affections to him before.

Because gods be good, he could not imagine being in their place and actually being rejected by a person you truly feel for.

"Oh. Oh dear."

Your voice carried a mixture of disbelief and amusement, and before Daeron could muster a response, you laughed.

Not a nervous chuckle, not a scoff—but a genuine, incredulous giggle.

His mortification deepened. He had been prepared for anger, even for tears, but this? This was somehow worse.

"You can’t just go around kidnapping women you’ve fallen in love with," you teased, shaking your head. "Much less a woman you don’t even seem to really know."

Daeron clenched his jaw, willing his face to cool. "I was under the impression she would come willingly," he defended, though even to his own ears, it sounded weak.

Your brows lifted, amusement still dancing in your eyes. "Willingly? Well, you’ve certainly taken a bold approach."

He sighed, dragging a hand down his face before pinching the bridge of his nose. "I will return you," he muttered.

You tilted your head, a knowing smirk tugging at your lips. "Oh? No more kidnapping in the name of love?"

Daeron groaned. "Must you phrase it like that?"

You grinned. "I must."

He turned away, muttering a prayer to whatever gods might spare him further embarrassment. But as he moved toward his horse, he hesitated, glancing back at you.

"You are… different," he admitted, frowning slightly. "Are you certain you are not her?"

The mirth in your expression faded just a little, replaced by something unreadable. "Quite certain, but I am deeply flattered.”

And yet—Daeron wasn’t.

He needed to be sure. Just a little longer.

"To express my apologies," he began, trying to keep his voice even, "may I treat you to a meal?"

Gods, this was humiliating. What if you said no? He might actually die from the shame of it. He prayed, just this once, that the gods would grant him mercy.

You blinked up at him before shrugging. "I could eat."

Oh, glory to the gods.

But that feeling returned—that nagging sense of wrongness. No lady, whether highborn or low, had ever responded to a Targaryen prince in such a way. Even common folk, at the mere sight of his white hair, would straighten their posture, soften their words, try just a little harder to present themselves well.

But you? You were… comfortable.

Daeron fell into step beside you, his horse trailing behind, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He watched the way you moved—confident, despite the faint flush still lingering on your face. You did not carry yourself like a woman taken by fear, nor a woman eager to please.

No, there was something familiar in the way you walked, the way you spoke.

But why?

"Tell me," he ventured, studying you carefully, "where is it that you call home?"

You didn’t hesitate.

"Everywhere and nowhere."

Daeron faltered mid-step. His brows knit together as he turned to look at you fully. That was not an answer most would give. Not a lady of court, nor a common woman, nor even a sellsword passing through.

It was an answer that meant nothing and everything.

"Everywhere and nowhere?" he repeated, skeptical. "That is hardly an answer at all."

You glanced at him, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "Yet it is the only one I have."

There it was again—that wrongness. Or was it rightness? He could not tell.

Aemond had spoken of you as if you were something unnatural. He had expected… well, he wasn’t sure what he had expected, but it certainly hadn’t been this.

"You are a peculiar woman," Daeron muttered, more to himself than to you.

"And you are a prince who kidnaps women to confess his love," you shot back, smirking.

“It was a mistake.” Daeron urged like a little boy insisting he didn’t take an extra sweet even if the evidence was on his face.

“Still I do not think the woman who you speak of would take kindly to it.” Finally, you both reached a stand and Daeron handed his horse off while his hood remained on. Scandal would follow if they saw him with a commonborn. 

"Of course," Daeron replied smoothly, though his steps slowed as they passed a stand selling cakes. He glanced at you. "Would you like one?"

"What is it?" you asked, eyeing the display. Obviously they were cakes, but…Daeron digresses.

He blinked. "Cakes."

"Ah. What kind?"

How was he supposed to know? He had never eaten here. He gestured toward the selection instead. "Which would you prefer?"

"Carrot."

Daeron nearly recoiled. Carrot? Who in their right mind ate… carrot cake? What even was carrot cake? It sounded horrid. Strange. You were strange. You had to be her, yet you insisted otherwise.

"The vegetable? I doubt they make such a thing."

"A shame. Pumpkin?"

"Hmm…" He glanced at the vendor. "I think not."

"Then I don't know," you mused.

"Honey cakes? Or perhaps apples?"

"Oh, I’ve had honey cakes before. They’re alright. But I haven’t tried apples." Daeron liked apple cakes. Better than honey in his opinion. 

Daeron nodded, turning to the vendor. "Apple, then."

“What if I don’t like it?”

“Then we’ll return, and I will buy you a honey cake,” Daeron replied easily. Not that it will come to that. Anyone who didn’t like apple cakes was untrustworthy.

The vendor handed him the pastry, warm and fragrant with cinnamon, and he passed it to you. He watched as you took a cautious bite, your expression unreadable at first. Then, after a moment, you hummed thoughtfully.

“Well?”

Daeron watched you shrug. “They’re alright, I’ve had better.” From who? The royal cook? Daeron took a bite from his own. He continued to watch you. There was no way you weren’t her. Daeron was sure of it, but how would he get the answers from you? 

“Offer her water from a vendor. She’ll decline it. Then offer her meats, she’ll decline that as well.”

Right. 

“Would you like some water?” He turned towards you watching your lips twitch ever so slightly. 

“No.” One down. Daeron walked slowly trying to spot a meat vendor. 

“How about a meat pie then, I doubt you only eat cakes.”

“No thank you. I don’t eat meat.” Daeron eyed you from the side. 

Daeron’s grip tightened slightly around his own pastry. Two for two. His brother’s instructions had been precise, and you had followed the script perfectly—almost too perfectly. If you were playing a game, you were damn good at it.

“You don’t eat meat?” he asked, feigning casual interest.

You shook your head, wiping your fingers clean. “No.”

“Why?”

You blinked at him, as if the question had caught you off guard. “I just don’t.”

A simple answer. A practiced one. Daeron kept his expression even as he nodded.

“Strange,” he mused. “Most people don’t get the choice.”

“Well, I do.”

There it was again—that ease, that confidence. You didn’t speak like someone struggling through the world. You spoke like someone above it.

He hummed, as if satisfied with your answer, but his mind was already elsewhere. This wasn’t just a coincidence. 

He had you. What a sneaky girl. You put Daeron through hell thinking he had taken the wrong girl. (Though…there is a small part that will admit this was fun, if only a little. So…Daeron supposed he could see the slight allure.)

Aemond had been right.

Now he just had to bring you to him.

Daeron kept walking, his steps even, making steady progress toward the Dragonpit. He cast you a sideways glance, his voice light as he asked, “Have you ever seen a dragon?”

You nodded, hands folded before you. “I have. Wondrous creatures.”

He hummed. “How many?”

You hesitated for the briefest moment, as if calculating your answer. “A couple… in the sky. Maybe three.”

“Have you ever met any of the riders?” he pressed, watching you closely.

“No.” The answer came too quickly, too easily.

Daeron tilted his head, pretending not to notice. “What do you think about the royal family?”

“I’ve heard many things.”

“Such as?”

You exhaled, your gaze drifting forward. “The next queen seems promising. The king, even in his old age, makes way for progress. The princes of the realm are each as handsome as they are strong.”

Daeron bit back a smirk. If only his nephew had heard that.

“And the lone princess?” he asked.

“She is kind,” you answered simply.

“Prince Aegon?”

“Adventurous,” you said, lips twitching in amusement.

That was one way to put it. How kind you were with words.

“Prince Jacaerys?” Daeron kept shooting questions.

“Kind.” And you responded just as fast.

“Prince Lucerys?”

“Determined.”

“Prince Joffrey?”

“Small.”

Daeron chuckled under his breath. Then, ever so casually, he asked, “Prince Aemond?”

You hesitated. It was slight, barely noticeable, but he caught it—the way your fingers curled tighter around the folds of your sleeves, the way your gaze flickered for just a moment.

Then you smiled, tilting your head as if considering your words carefully. “Fierce.”

Daeron grinned. He had you now.

At last, the two of you reached the Dragonpit. You slowed your pace, glancing toward the great stone structure before turning back to him.

“Listen,” you said breezily, “I’d love to stay, but I have to go. Good luck finding this woman of yours.” You took a step back, then added with a playful tilt of your head, “Though, allow me to graciously offer some advice—don’t kidnap her.”

Daeron exhaled through his nose, half amused, half exasperated. Gods.

He watched as you turned to leave, your steps unhurried, as if you hadn’t a single care in the world.

Then, just before you could disappear, he called your name.

You stopped.

Slowly, you turned back to him, a knowing smile curving your lips. “You got me,” you admitted, nodding as if to concede. Then, with a glint of mischief in your eyes, you added, “So close.”

“You did fool me, in the beginning,” Daeron admitted, a small smile tugging at his lips as he called for Tessarion. The dragon responded swiftly, emerging with a graceful yet powerful stride. “It was good,” he added, conceding that you had put on quite the performance.

But then he watched as you dropped the act almost instantly. No startled gasp, no wide-eyed wonder at the sight of his dragon. That, more than anything, assured him—he had been right about you all along.

His gaze remained fixed on you as Tessarion lowered herself, ready to be mounted. He needed to secure you properly; she was barely large enough for him, let alone the both of you. But before he could move, you spoke, voice laced with amusement.

“So, you’re in love with me?”

Daeron’s breath hitched. Heat flared in his cheeks as he instinctively shut his eyes, mortified. “That’s not—”

By the time he opened them, you were already running.

Tessarion reacted before he could even issue a command, leaping forward as flames erupted from her maw, blocking your escape. Your scream cut through the air as you stumbled back, falling hard onto the stone floor.

“I wouldn’t suggest running,” Daeron said, his tone calm but firm.

“Yeah, no shit,” you shot back, breathless from your near escape.

“Listen,” you continued, voice edged with frustration. “I have no idea why you want me, but I don’t know you, and frankly, I am so done with men right now.”

Daeron sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I’m not—” He exhaled, composing himself before meeting your gaze. “I’m not interested. My brother has requested you.”

He watched as your shoulders dropped ever so slightly, the fight in your eyes dimming just a fraction. Something in him wavered. Was his brother forcing you? No. Aemond wouldn’t do that.

…Would he?

It had been oh so long since he’d last seen his older brother. Four years was a lifetime, and time had a way of changing even the best of men.

Daeron clenched his fists at his sides, resisting the urge to sigh as he stepped closer. Your eyes, glossy with unshed tears, met his, wide and uncertain. You looked like you were about to cry again.

He exhaled slowly. Gods.

“Listen…” His voice softened. “If you truly do not wish to see my brother, I will not force you.”

Blood was blood, but Daeron had been raised with honor. His uncle had made sure of that. Whatever Aemond’s reasons were, Daeron would not be the kind of man to drag a woman against her will.

For a moment, you only stared at him, then quickly shook your head, swiping at your eyes before the tears could fall.

“No, I’ll go,” you murmured, voice steadier than he expected.

Note: extra long for y'all 🙏

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To be added to Tag list: !(•̀ᴗ•́)و ̑̑

[serialadoptersbracket]

FINALS: Daenerys Targaryen vs. Whitebeard

Submitted kids:

Daenerys Targaryen: Drogon, Rhaegal, Viserion, Grey Worm, Missandei, the entire population of Slavers Bay

Whitebeard: Marco, Portgas D. Ace, Thatch, Izou, Haruta, Deuce, Jozu, Vista, and a bunch more I can’t think of rn

Propaganda under the cut!

Daenerys Targaryen:

1. “Is there any better example of a serial adopter than someone who has adopted an entire city? Daenerys not only is the mother of dragons with her three dragons being her magic children, but she's also adopted soldiers, polyglot preteens, and old man renowned for his honor, and three cities worth of freed slaves. She takes her responsibility as their mother (or 'hysa' as used in the books) extremely seriously, giving up her goals of reaching Westeros to help ensure that her freed children are able to function in Meereen (notably the books handle this situation much better than the show but the show's cultural impact is too big to ignore)”

2. “#girl takes being mother to her people to the extreme sometimes #not many people have the dedication to risk catching the plague to go personally help the afflicted”

3. “#daenerys ‘i would sooner perish fighting than return my children to bondage’ targaryen absolutely deserves to win”

Whitebeard:

1. “His biggest dream in life is to have a family of his own, but how to go about that? Settle down with a wife and have lots of kids? Boring. No, the best way to go about it is to become a pirate, find the most outcasted and lost people you can, and make them your crewmates/sons”

2. “One of the four emperors of the sea. He wanted a family, so he basically adopted his entire crew. They all call him their dad. He calls them his sons. He wages war against the entire government just to save one of his boys from the scaffold.”

3. “#i can't think of anyone who can beat wb in the game of serial adoption #if he sees someone who is sad lonely angry or otherwise suffering in life he goes they are my child now. no i don't take criticism' #literally over 1000 kids”

Link to the rest here!

[solanumoph]

Quick Dany sketch