#addam of hull x y/n

[targaryen-dynasty]

HIGH TIDES.

Addam of Hull x female Reader

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT — MDNI; p in v, slight choking, rough sex, praise kink, size difference, fingering, lmk if I missed anything

WORDS: 2.5 K

NOTES: I added the last 200 words and finally finished this. It's not beta read.

Except for the regular patrons, the tavern has been oddly quiet this night. Serving some ale and broth every now and then, you seize the opportunity to indulge in the cleaning of the counter, scrubbing down the counter and sink. 

That is, until another patron chooses to occupy one of the seats right in front of you. “A strong ale, please,” he says, causing you to look up at him. He wears a blue tunic, the fabric stained with spots of water as he was probably out fishing prior to this. His hair is pulled up into a bun, yet some strands still find a way to escape. 

With a nod, you immediately fetch a mug, filling it with the clear liquid. “Here, m’lord,” you say, pushing the mug toward him. 

He takes it into one hand, bringing it to his lips to take a large swig. As he lowers the cup, he looks at you with a grin. “You know not to call me lord,” he states, his tone sly.

Mirroring his grin, you grip the edge of the counter with both hands, leaning forward slightly. “Well, what would you want me to call you, then? Ser?” 

He hums at your question, taking yet another sip. “Just Addam is fine,” he says, dragging his eyes over your frame. “Is that a new dress?” 

“It was a jest, you know,” you reply. Smoothing out the skirt of the black dress you wear, you give him a swirl. “It is, indeed. I have made it myself. Do you like it?”

Addam looks at you for a moment, biting his tongue as his eyes trail over your form once more. “You look lovely,” he says, softly, before quickly adding, “not that you don’t always look lovely.”

His compliment has your lips curl into a smile, and you stand up a bit straighter, before continuing to wipe down the counter. “You’ve been in here almost every night for the past two moon turns, Addam of Hull, you have anything to say?” There is a teasing edge to your tone as you look up at him from between the strands of your hair that have fallen into your face. 

Warmth spreads to his cheeks at your teasing, and he tries to cover it by taking a large gulp of the ale before putting the mug down, chuckling under his breath. “Only a drunk man would admit he fancies a barmaid.”

You raise an eyebrow at his words, placing the cloth aside to resume your previous position again, holding onto the edge of the counter with your body slightly bowed forward. “But what if this barmaid fancies the drunk man right back, hm?” you hum teasingly, tilting your head to the side. 

There is a brief pause between you, and you can see him pondering over his reply. 

“Then that drunkard would be the richest man in Westeros…” he teases, leaning in to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. 

A shiver runs through you at the contact, and you can feel your cheeks grow warm. “You’re such a fool, Addam,” you say softly, turning your head to the side as your teeth dig into your bottom lip. “You would be the richest fool, and the fairest…”

“And the most charming fool, I would hope.”

“The one with the sweetest words…” you reply, words accompanied by a chuckle. “Perhaps I shall give you a reward later… for all the coins you have spent here.” 

He has finished his ale with the last swig, pushing the mug away from him with a smirk. “Is that a promise?”

You hum, shrugging your shoulders. “Perhaps it is,” you say. “If you come by later tonight, I might show you the reward I have in mind… you know where to find me.” You take the mug, putting it into the sink. 

As he rises from his seat, he bites his bottom lip, a poor attempt at stopping them to curve into a grin. “Then I shall find you later tonight,” he says, sending you a wink. With a subtle nod of his head, he walks away and out of the tavern, leaving you to continue with your cleaning and serving for the rest of the evening. 

Much to your surprise, the tavern keeper released you of your duties around the Hour of the Ghosts, far earlier than usual. As you approach your small abode, you spot Addam leaning against the wall already, waiting for you.

“Eager much?” you tease with a smile, before opening the door for you two to step inside. 

It’s not really a place for you to spend much time, rather just something that serves as a place to sleep and cook when you’re not working in the tavern. Yet you’ve done your best to keep it clean and enhance it with furniture and decorations you’ve either found or created yourself. 

Addam has been here before. Whenever you walked along the ship hulls at anchor below the old Castle Driftmark, carrying far too many alignments or materials in your arms, he was the first to come to your aid. 

As he tries to step past you into your abode, he brings his hand to your waist, stopping as he towers over you from behind. “Only for you,” he replies. 

His touch sends a shiver up your spine, and you turn around to face him with your lips curved into a soft smile. As you get on your tiptoes to lean in to kiss him, your hands grab his tunic to pull him towards your bed.

Addam grips your waist as you walk backwards, all too eagerly chasing your lips to interlock your tongues. With your calves hitting the edge of your bed, you lose balance for a moment, only to be steadied by his large hands. Gently pushing you down on your bed, they travel to your front, fumbling with the laces of your dress. 

With your hands still on his tunic, you pull him with you, forcing him to climb between your parted legs. He tries to push the skirt of your underdress up with his knees, but you’re quick to yank it up yourself. 

Your lips travel down his neck while he is busy undoing your dress, your teeth and tongue slowly traveling his skin, only stopping to leave a few bites in their wake. 

The laces of your overdress are undone, and his large hands make quick work of pushing it aside. He cups your breast through the linen of your underdress, making you arch into his touch. 

As he moves back to sit on his haunches, you follow him, desperate to keep your lips on him. He has a hand on your rear now, supporting your body. Addam scoffs, more so as he feels your hands fumbling with the belt around his waist, and brings a hand to the back of your head, entangling it your hair. He tugs your head back to force you to meet his gaze, and you stare up at him with half-lidded eyes. 

“Eager much?” he mocks with a smirk on his lips, repeating your past teasing. 

You hum, raising an eyebrow at him. “Says the man whose hands are traveling to places they shouldn’t…”

You recklessly throw his belt aside, discarding it into the next best corner of your little abode, and his gaze flickers down to where your hands are tugging on the hem of his blue tunic already. He does not stop you when you pull it over his head, if anything, he helps you with it. 

But you don’t get the chance to let your eyes wander over his toned body, instead, Addam is quick to mirror your motions, pulling your linen underdress over your head, throwing it aside. Warmth spreads to your cheeks, a stark contrast to the chill air that hits your skin.

There is a brief pause between you two, one in which he just bites his bottom lip, his gaze not leaving your exposed breasts, before Addam leans in to press his lips to yours again. You gasp at the sudden movement, pushed back into the pillows and pinned beneath his weight. 

As he fists your smallclothes, tugging them down your legs without your lips separating once, the embarrassment is replaced by pure lust, a liquid fire that spreads through your veins.

He grinds his clothed cock against your cunt, and you feel him hard and heavy even beneath the linen of his breeches. 

“I want you,” you pant against his lips, your chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. 

“Then you shall have me,” he replies, trailing his lips from yours down to your neck. You crane it slightly to grant him better access, squirming and shifting beneath him with a desperate ache between your legs.

When he leans back once more, you watch him rise from the bed to rid himself off his breeches and undergarments at once, baring himself wholly to you. 

You inhale a deep breath at the sight, shamelessly taking in how his hard cock stands to full attention. Not able to hold back any longer, you dart forward to seize his hand, pulling him onto the bed again. “I don’t want you just standing there,” you tease against his lips, releasing a breathy chuckle. “Or are you just for me to look at?”

“We do have all night, do we not?” Addam teases back, a hum rumbling in his chest. 

“We do–”

The words are cut off as flips you around, wrapping an arm around your waist to keep you up with your back pressed flush against his sturdy chest. His other hand trails down your front, making itself at home between your legs. 

You part your legs just a bit more to grant him better access, and start to grind your hips against the heel of his hand as two of his thick digits slide inside of you without warning. Addam has always been bold around you with that cocky and charming mouth of his out in the open and in the tavern, but never in your life would you have imagined him to be just as bold behind closed doors.

Bringing one hand behind you to the back of his head, you hold him firmly against you, moaning and whining as his fingers prepare you for more. His lips press against the side of your face, your neck – everywhere they can reach, even leaving slight marks at places where your skin is particularly thin. 

“Addam…” you whine, turning your head to the side to capture his lips in a kiss, a wave of pleasure filling your belly. 

His hard cock is nestled snugly in the crevice of your ass, and the grinding of your hips grants him enough friction to have him grunt and groan against your skin. But as good as his thick digits make you feel, you do not desire to wet them with your peak. 

Tugging on his locks in a demanding manner, you moan against his lips. “I need you.”

It must have been the tinge of despair in your voice, but he is quick to comply, not needing anymore encouragement. Nudging your knees further apart slightly, he angles his hips behind you, dragging the tip of his cock through your soaked folds from the front to the back. It brushes your sensitive pearl, prompting you to arch your back and making it easier for him to align himself with your entrance, pushing inside in one, swift thrust. The slight sting that comes with accommodating his size prompts you to gasp, lips parted and head tipping back against his shoulder. 

You hold onto the back of his neck to steady yourself, other hand grabbing the forearm that’s still wrapped around your waist, nails digging into his skin and leaving crescent shaped marks. 

His free hand comes up to wrap around your throat, applying just little pressure to support your body, while the other travels to your breast, squeezing and fondling it heartily. 

Your bodies work in rhythm, moving back and forth to meet each other halfway. His thrusts are determined, and there’s no trace of his previous gentleness in them anymore. Your moans and whines grow in volume with the increasing snaps of his hips, just hardly leaving any room for his own sounds of pleasure. 

“You feel perfect,” he rasps against your neck, making a shiver run down your spine that has your walls clenching tightly around him. 

His praise goes straight to your cunt, a renewed wave of arousal dripping down his thick cock and heavy stones. “Gods… Addam,” you whimper once more, and you swear you can feel his thrusts momentarily falter at the needy tone in your voice. 

He pushes you forwards into the pillows, towering over you and bringing a hand between your shoulders to keep you pinned down. With the other hand now on your hip, he keeps them up, allowing him to ruthlessly snap his hips against yours. 

“You’re going to make me–” your words are hiccuped, a hint of panic in them, “–peak.”

“Already, hm?” he teases, harshly squeezing your arse. Bowing forwards, he brings his hand down your front and between your legs, finding your sensitive pearl, teasing and rubbing it. “Is that so?”

You grip the sheets of your bed at the sudden flash of pleasure, fisting them tight enough for your knuckles to blanche. “Yes, yes, I– by the Seven!”

Your walls suddenly spasm around his cock, fluttering and convulsing in a way that makes it difficult for him to stay inside of you. Your body jerks beneath his tall frame, and nothing more than breathy whines and whimpers are able to leave your lips. He fucks you through it as you gasp and tremble, showing an admirable amount of restraint. 

Any semblance of rhythm has left him at this point, a telltale sign that would let you know he’s close to completion as well – if only your hazy mind would allow you to process as much. 

“You are turning me into a madman,” Addam rambles, a clear strain to his voice. 

As he pulls out of you, your body collapses, falling flatly onto the mattress. He strokes himself twice, thrice, before his peak eventually washes over him. “You’re–You’re so good,” he pants. His hand keeps on working himself as he spills his seed all over your arse and lower back, raspy grunts and groans leaving his lips. 

Your chests heave in tandem when Addam falls into the spot beside you, desperately trying to catch his breath again. 

He is the first one to break the silence. “Do you offer this kind of reward to every one of your patrons?” Addam teases, looking over at you with a smirk on his lips.

Rolling your eyes, a huff escapes your lips. “Of course,” you tease as well, nudging his shoulder. “They call me The Sweet Siren of Hull for a reason.”

Addam hums at your words, wrapping an arm around you to pull you closer in response to your nudging. “I don’t know if the other patrons can make my pretty siren moan as I can, though…” he teases. 

You rest your chin on his chest, gazing into his eyes. “And what makes you so special?” you as coyly, moving your hand over the side of his body. 

Combing his fingers through your hair, he bites his tongue to stop his lips from curving into a smirk. “Oh, you’ll be in for a big surprise on the morrow, sweet siren.”

[damn-stark]

Chapter 10 Heart of Ice

Chapter 10 of Moonlight

A/N- I was giggling and kicking my feet tehehe ;)

Warning- some swearing, talks of miscarriage and death, ANGST!, FLUFF, mild NFSW, SPOILERS, LONG CHAPTER.

Pairing- Aemond Targaryen x Velaryon!fem-reader, Cregan Stark x Velaryon!fem-reader

Episode- 2x01

(If you want to be tagged let me know)

————

There it is, standing so tall that it looks like it’s touching the sky. It’s mesmerizing no matter how many times you’ve seen it, and it never fails to steal your breath.

Yet the wall is at its prettiest when it weeps when the sun hits it just as it rises from the ground. Right now all it does is bring forth an icier chill as the wind blows, making you hold onto your cloak for warmth.

You can only imagine how Jacaerys is fairing, this is his first time at Castle Black.

“How are you holding up?” You make sure to ask your brother as his eyes stay stuck on the towering wall.

“My balls are about to freeze off,” he makes no effort to talk properly in front of you, nor do you remind him to.

You smile at him and look at him with a soft endearment only reserved for those you deeply cherish. “It will be worth it, I promise. I cannot wait for you to see it,” you muse and cup his shoulder.

Jacaerys finally takes his eyes off the wall and meets your gaze with such a warm smile that it’s capable of melting the thickest sheets of ice.

“It better live up to everything you have said,” he remarks lightheartedly, making you drop your head to laugh softly at the ground.

“It will pass your expectations,” Cregan interjects as he finally rejoins you and leads the way to the lift that looks a bit unreliable, but all the people at Castle Black use it, and you have survived after using it so, you walk in. Slowly of course, and you don’t dare pay too much attention to the sounds it makes as it starts moving Jacaerys, Cregan, and you to the top.

“You know,” you take the attention of the rackety noise. “Perhaps one day I will send one of my children over here to take up a role as guardian of the wall.”

“Is that so?” Cregan probes.

“One of your seven?” Jacaerys jokes and you laugh softly but don’t take back what you said, catching him by some surprise.

“It’s a rare thing for a Targaryen or Velaryon to come be a brother of the Night's Watch,” you explain your thought process to the curious men. “But we are the families the people look up to. I mean I understand the sacrifice, but I believe that for us to have a good relation with the North, and for us to protect our realm against what may be out there, we too should be here with a dragon or two.”

Cregan briefly meets your gaze and hides well those emotions you stir up inside since your brother is standing at his other side, but he doesn’t stay quiet, he takes a deep breath before he parts his lips.

“You are right, the sacrifice one must commit is great, but duty is sacrifice,” Cregan begins to say. “It eclipses all things, even blood. All men of honor must pay its price. The North owes a great duty to the Seven Kingdoms, one older than any oath. Since the day of the first men, we have stood as guardians against the cold and the dark. Through its long tradition, the Night's Watch cultivated its strength from doomed men who had their life as their only possession. But my ancestor, Torrhen Stark began a tradition by making an offering at the onset of winter; one in 10 men from our household was to be chosen to fortify the Watch. This is not a sentence but an honor. A duty embraced by all who serve the North. Even by mine own kin. Thus I respect your decision, My Princess.”

He talks so well that even these long comments captivate you, and that’s hard to do because you get so easily bored.

“The North must stand ready,” Cregan adds without losing a breath. “Winter is coming.”

“Coming?” Jacaerys interjects. “What is this, then, that falls from the skies and shivers my bones?”

You roll your eyes away and scoff softly.

He thinks he’s so funny.

“This is only a late summer snow, my prince,” Cregan says something he’s already mentioned once before. “In winter, it will cover all you see and all memories of warmth will be forgotten.”

You look through the gaps on the wooden walls but the lift then shakes so you step back and stand closer to Cregan.

“It pleases me to think that over a century ago our ancestors treated in this very place,” Jacaerys mentions with a lighthearted look on his face. “The Conqueror and the King in the North.”

You can’t help but smile at the thought and the history the Starks share with your ancestors. It’s so bittersweet. But it’s all so corny of Jacaerys to say, he sounds just as infatuated as you.

You would tease him, but now doesn’t seem like the time so you just smile wider to yourself.

Cregan’s gaze wanders to you after your brother's words, and you share some of that sweetness with him because regardless of it all, you are happy Jacaerys expressed his fondness for Cregan.

And when Cregan does see your smile some of that hardened demeanor melts.

“You, at least had the mercy not to threaten me with your dragon,” Cregan quips at your brother jokingly, leaving him silent until he queries.

“Did my sister threaten you with her dragon?”

Does he think of you as some wild beast or something?

Regardless, Cregan's eyes soften before he shakes his head and tells him what you did do. “No, but she did threaten to go over the wall and escape when she first got to Winterfell six years ago.” He says and tilts his head over to you, but you look out the window and shake your head.

“I was having a hard time adjusting,” you remind him. “And I did not end up going over the wall.”

“No,” he mutters softer as if speaking with admiration. “You did not.”

You lift your eyes off the icy wall and let yourself meet and hold his gaze with a soft look just until the lift finally lands on the top because when it comes to a sudden halt the wooden lift shakes, and you’re reminded why you hate coming to the top this way—You almost reach out to Cregan to keep yourself balanced and safe, but you stop yourself and just stand stiffly until finally he opens the door for you and your brother, letting you feel like you can breathe again when you’re on stable ground.

“My Prince, My Princess,” one of the brothers greets you while you slip your arm around your brothers to hold onto more warmth as the coldness nips at your skin.

“My Lord.”

“My Lord,” other brothers greet Cregan while he walks after you until finally he catches up and leads you to one side.

“Surely the great Torrhen Stark would’ve sooner died than bent the knee,” you chose to return to the previous topic as you watch Jacaerys’ eyes fall on every single detail you pass by. “Unless he believed the Conqueror could bring unity to the Seven Kingdoms.”

Cregan nods. “You are right in that,” he agrees.

“That unity is now threatened,” Jacaerys goes on for you with another clever workaround to the subject at hand. “The realm will soon tear itself apart if men do not remember the oaths sworn to King Viserys and to his rightful heir.”

Again you can’t help but be proud of the way he speaks. But you also know this second attempt won’t mend Cregan Stark’s choice.

“Stark’s do not forget their oaths, my Prince,” Cregan reminds him proudly. “But you must know that my gaze is forever torn between North and South.”

Jacaerys glances over at you with discreet disappointment, and you press him an, ‘I told you so’ look right back.

“In winter, my duty to the Wall is even more dire than the one I owe to King’s Landing,” Cregan strengthens his argument. “I need my men here.”

You swallow thickly as you come to a halt just under a post, and Jacaerys turns you around with him to pass Cregan a hard look that furrows his eyebrows. “Whilst your men guard against wildlings and weather the Hightowers plan to usurp the throne,” he remarks.

You grip onto him as a warning for him to calm down, but he doesn’t understand.

“If my mother is to defend her claim,” Jacaerys presses while Cregan guides all of you up the stairs. “To hold the realm united she needs an army. War is coming to the whole of the realm, my lord. We cannot wage it without the support of the North…” Jacaerys trails off when he reaches the top and finally sees with his own eyes the never-ending land beyond the wall, the beauty that you promised, and what you could never fully describe in words.

He moves toward the end of the post and you let your arm slip off his to let him admire for himself the beauty and the mystery that is the North, and the freedom it holds in its cold wilderness.

You can now honestly say you know the pride Cregan felt when he first brought you up here because you feel it. You are not from here, but seeing your brother be so captivated by what’s beyond the wall makes you fill with excitement that you can’t put into words, you can just express it with admiration and awe in your eyes.

Cregan notices and admires you while your brother's attention is far away, and to his surprise, you feel his stare and return his soft gaze while you also let your gloved knuckles brush against each other as you let yourself be swooped up once again by the comfort you have been fighting to feel.

Yet you don’t let yourself get completely carried away, nor do you cross the line by letting your fingers touch, you keep your smile and join your brother's side.

“Was it everything you expected?” You ask before you’re brought back to the cruel reality.

Jacaerys laughs softly and nods. “It was everything you said and more…it feels like I could stay here and admire this forever.”

“It would get cold,” you joke, making him chuckle.

“It would be pleasant,” he murmurs.

You nod in agreement and dread returning to the sore subject, but you will lose yourself.

“I brought your sister, and my father brought King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne to see the Wall,” Cregan finally rejoins your company. “His Grace stood at this very outlook and watched as their dragons the greatest power in the world, refused to cross it.”

Jacaerys snaps his head to you and probes for more. “Even adventurous Astraea?”

You look out and nod. “Yes. She perches herself on the wall but never once does she fly over, nor does she dare fly over just to turn. I tried to command her to cross but she disobeyed me,” you back up Cregan's argument and feel a chill crawl down your spine at the reminder.

“Do you think my ancestors built a 700-hundred-foot wall of ice to keep out snow and savages?” Cregan presses your brother in a colder tone that almost works to frighten you.

“What does it keep out?” Jacaerys asks.

Cregan leans in closer to your brother and speaks one word. “Death.”

You swallow back nervously and share your uneasiness with your brother with a simple look that actually helps him let go of some of that tension and ignorance he held.

“I have thousands of graybeards,” Cregan finally offers and breaks the speechless moment between Jacaerys and you. “Who've already seen too many winters. They are well-honed.”

You loll your head to the side and snicker, while Jacaerys says what you were thinking. “So they’re old?”

“I can ready them to march at once,” Cregan assures him and you.

Jacaerys breathes out and accepts the offer. “If your graybeards can fight, the Queen will have them.”

“They will fight hard,” Cregan states with a hint of pride and some faint smugness. “Like Northerners.”

You glance over at him and catch that smugness on his usually serious face and you can’t help your heart from skipping a beat when he glances at you with the same look.

“My Lord,” a man calls for Cregan’s attention, making his face fall hard once again. “A ravens arrived.”

The man approaches the post breathing hard as if in a hurry and hands Cregan a scroll. “Urgent news from Dragonstone,” he announces, making you understand his urgency, and causing you to fall serious and nervous yourself.

But if it is bad news wouldn't it be sent directly to Jacaerys and you?

Maybe?

Unless—

You can’t let yourself think the worst, but you still share your worry with your brother before you watch Cregan unravel the scroll to read what the news is.

He doesn’t take long to read, but it feels like he is reading for eternity in the waiting silence until finally he puts the scroll down and meets your gaze. This time when you lock eyes your heart skips a beat out of worry instead of awe, this time a smugness doesn’t play in his eyes or tug the corner of his lips up, his eyebrows are furrowed and his jaw is clenched like when he makes his face hard, but you can read him clear as day as you simply hold his gaze.

You can see the pity pulling his lips down, and a soft apologetic look in his grey eyes that makes them appear darker. He doesn’t need to say anything for you to know that what he read wasn’t a simple warning or a call home, they’re dark words that he almost but says.

You want to ask, he knows that, he sees your worry heighten in your furrowed brows and parted lips, so with a simple blink his face softens as he gives you sorrow, making your eyes immediately cloud with tears. While in the back, Jacaerys sees it, your shared past. He figures it out in the exchange that is far more complex than one friends should share, but it all makes sense now.

Your friendship always slightly caught his attention, it bugged him in some way. Not because he felt bad for Aemond that you were so sweet on another man, but all your interactions were always weird he just didn’t figure out why until this very moment as Cregan fails to look over at him after what he read, as he watches this speechless interaction and sees the deep aching softness on the Lord's face and a deep set heartache in your eyes.

He had only seen such a speechless complexity in his mother and Ser Harwin. He was too young to realize it then but as he got older he understood what happened around him, and doesn’t fail to understand now.

Yet as much as he wants to give into this anger he feels boil within him at the thought of Lord Stark taking advantage of you in your five years in Winterfell, the news that awaits him helps him stay collected. Thus he steps forward without causing a scene and finally, Lord Stark drives all the attention to him, letting him finally receive the scroll, and leave you waiting longer without focusing on Cregan any longer. Now you turn to face your brother as he reads what was sent.

Once again it feels like what was written is getting read at an infuriatingly slow pace, but now you’re not impatient to know. You’re scared to know or read Jacaerys' face now. But you keep your eyes on your brother and watch his jaw unclench and his lips part to let out a soft gasp, while his once steady hands begin to tremble, and his eyes…water.

“Jacaerys,” you almost plead his name out.

That anger he had at the waiting completely disappears and he slowly looks up at you with a loud and heartbreaking sorrow.

“Jace,” you mewl.

Said man licks his lips and sniffles before he grabs your arm and gently pulls you aside.

“Listen to me,” his voice quivers and only makes your heart race faster than it’s already beating.

“Is it…” you trail off to catch your breath. “A-Aerion?”

Jacaerys shakes his head and keeps in those tears that fill his eyes. “No, Aerion is fine,” he assures you but you don’t feel relieved.

“What?” You beg for an answer and reach for his hands, but he lifts them and tucks loose strands of hair behind your ear.

“When,” he says shakily. “Lucerys was in StormsEnd, Aemond…”

You start to shake your head and his bottom lip trembles.

“Aemond killed Lucerys,” Jacaerys finally reveals quietly.

A cold breeze hits you and all that you had been feeling gets lost in the wind, leaving you numb.

Jacaerys calls your name but you stare ahead blankly. Theres nothing that crosses your mind, there’s nothing you feel that makes you react. You know it’s heavy and painful news, you knew they were dark words when Cregan told you speechlessly, but you can’t accept the truth that’s given. You don’t want to, you can’t because if you do then it means you will accept that your husband, the man you love…did what was written, and you don’t want to accept that.

However, Jacaerys calls out for you again and this time he grabs your arms and steals your attention, forcing you to once again connect to what you refused to feel.

“No,” you blurt and push him back. “You’re lying. You’re a liar.”

Jacaerys shows you the scroll as he gets close again. “You can read it yourself. It’s the truth, Lucerys…he’s,” he strains to say. “He’s…dead.”

Your heart drops and a flood of emotions rams through you, knocking the air out of your lungs, and making your legs weak.

Jacaerys grabs your arms and holds you up before you can fall and pulls you to him, letting you see how red his eyes are, and how drowned they are with tears he’s holding back.

“Jace,” you mewl and cover your mouth to sob.

Your brother nods in understanding without you having to express the rest of your sorrow. “I know,” he whispers. “I know.”

“Oh gods,” you gasp and drop your head while grabbing at your chest as you can’t seem to catch a breath. You can’t breathe. There’s so much air where you are, it’s so crisp but you can’t manage to take in any which in return only lets you feel the pounding of your heart, the rushing of your blood, and a rush of memories of your little brother Lucerys.

All you can think about is Lucerys, you imagine his last moments, and with every memory and every fake scenario the more you fail to grasp for air.

In the distance, Cregan watches how you’re breaking down, but no matter how much he wants to, he has to stay put even if it hurts not being able to help you when you need him the most. He does get close to trying something small since you are in so much pain trying to breathe, and your brother seems a bit lost on how to help you, but Jacaesys then does the first thing he thinks of and pulls you into an embrace.

Thankfully right away, at the feeling of your brother's weight, and at the feeling of his warmth, all those rushing memories slowly disappear, letting you draw in a deep breath. You pull him closer and bury your head in the crook of his neck whilst you wrap your hand around the back of his neck, and push his head down to let him bury his face on your shoulder so he can express everything he refuses to show to the public.

When he clutches onto the back of your cloak your heart comes to a slow pace, but it doesn’t stop weeping. With every ba-dum, you feel an aching pain in your chest that doesn’t go away.

Eventually, after a short time, Jacaerys pulls back and gives his back to Cregan to wipe away his tears before facing him with a sorrow that isn’t able to wipe off. “We need to go, my Lord. You’ll have to forgive us for not accompanying you back to Winterfell, but with our dragons here we need to make haste to return to Dragonstone.”

You grab at your chest and gently caress it as if that would cure you’re heartache while Jacaerys shares something you agree to without the need for a discussion.

Albeit Cregan is the one who protests. “It will get dark soon, why do you not wait until first light to take flight? Wait until you both have collected yourselves so you don't do anything rash in the heat of the moment.”

You shake your head and interject in a broken voice. “The storm won’t pass, Lord Stark. We’ll just face it head-on and leave, our mother needs us.”

Cregan steps forward, gaining a brief glance from you. “Just eat, and rest…I know the pain of losing a brother, I understand your grief, my heart is with you,” he tries to relate so you would listen. “I have lost many others too, I know the anger, please just let yourselves calm down before you return home. I will stay with you here.”

You know your brother too, you know how angry he can get. You know that once your grief really settles you’ll also start thinking of what happened and you’ll get upset too. Thus you don’t hurry to answer, you look at your brother and he looks at you. And without a word, you come to the same conclusion.

“All right,” Jacaerys says for the both of you. “We will stay, but leave at first light. Thank you, my Lord.”

——

*LATER*

Nothing makes sense.

Why? How?

Those questions are what runs around and around in your head accompanied by different terrifying scenarios that could’ve led to the act. A lot of it points to an accident, you want to believe in your heart of hearts that what…Aemond did was an accident. You don’t want to believe that this remorse got the best of him, he’s supposed to be better, he’s supposed to keep it in for your sake.

He knows how much you love your brothers, he knows he can hate them all he wants, but he can’t hurt them. And yes! You know that war was going to happen no matter what, and violence was going to be dragged in between your families, but Aemond went out of his way to…kill Lucerys when all he was was an envoy.

He killed your brother. Your husband killed your brother, and in turn, betrayed you in the worst way possible. He tore your heart out, and what hurts more is that he hasn’t said what he did in the multiple ravens he’s sent! Just like always, he never tells you a thing!

What are you supposed to believe, but the worst? You want to believe he’s good behind all that hard demeanor, you defend him against your family when they say something bad because you want to believe he has a good heart, but what does killing Lucerys prove? That you’ve been wrong all along?

Gods!

Damn it! Why did he have to do it? Why did he take Lucerys?

A knock raps on your door, but you’re so drowned in your heartache that you don’t hear the sound. It’s not until you hear your name being called out softly behind that door that you almost wake up from your stupor.

“It is I, Cregan,” he announces without the need to, you knew who he was the moment he uttered the first word. “Can I talk to you? You didn’t come for supper.”

You blink repeatedly to relieve the dry spell in your eyes after not blinking for a few seconds and clutch onto the ring you were fiddling with before you get up and unlock the door. You don’t proceed to say anything, you walk away from the door and stand against the fireplace, but Cregan takes the unlocked door as an invitation and walks in, finding your food untouched, you in your nightgown, and your head down.

“I came to check on you,” he says softly as if careful not to hurt you even more with his voice. When he gets no response or even a small breath, he walks in further and notices now how unkempt you are; you’re usually so precise with the way you keep yourself, you always look so clean and tidy, it was only in the morning when you first woke up that he would catch you off guard, but now it’s like you don’t care how you look.

“I hope you are not going to bed with your hair down like that,” he tries to be lighthearted. “You hate having your hair tangled in the morning.”

He waits for a reaction, a soft ‘oh’, but you stay quiet and it just deepens his concern.

“Darling,” he uses your pet name and you finally break from your stupor and turn partially to face him.

He expected a sweet look just out of instinct, but those usually wonder-filled eyes are clouded by agony and tears that can’t even fall down your cheeks anymore; while the fires fierce light brings clarity to your deep set frown, knitted brows, and puffy face worn out from crying.

“Here,” he breathes out and catches a gleam coming from in between your fingers. When he fills his curiosity he notices that the firelight is dancing on a sapphire ring you cannot stop fiddling with in between your fingers; a ring he had not seen you take off once since he saw you. Which must mean your husband gave it to you.

He doesn’t want to ask for many reasons, so he approaches you from behind and gently starts braiding your hair in silence you cannot seem to fill. It’s almost like there was no one inside your body, you were a hollow body left soulless.

“I understand why you locked your door,” he mentions in hopes that would get him a simple reaction. “However, it does not seem necessary, your dragons are restless and it stirs up fear in the brothers. And I am here as well.”

Your back raises as you draw in a deep breath, but rather than filling the silence with a dry response, or some remark, you just breathe out, making him steal a glance at the side of your face that he can see from behind you, before he pulls out the leather strip that keeps half of his hair out of his face to keep your own braid in place instead. He then proceeds to shuffle to your side to grab your arm.

“Sit down, Princess.” He commands softly.

You don’t fight him, you let him guide you down to your seat, and once he’s feeding the fire more wood your hoarse voice finally fills the room.

“I should have gone back to King's Landing…A—He sent me a raven the day after when my grandsire the King died. He didn’t tell me of course, but he told me to go back…I should have listened, I…” you pause to catch your breath. “Maybe then Lucerys…” you trail off and whimper whilst you drop your head in your hands.

Cregan leaves the last piece of wood in the fire and then wipes his hands on his shirt while he stands up to close the gap between you.

“Don't,” he says firmly and crouches down in front of you to grab your hands and pull them down so you can meet his gaze. “Do not blame yourself for your brother's death. What happened is not your fault to carry. What happened is dealt with, don’t dwell on things that can no longer happen.”

You hold his gaze while you process his words for a second and then look down at the ring you still hold.

“I’m sorry,” he says sorrowful words that bring your heart some comfort, but also make your body tremble while those tears that you once couldn’t muster, come rushing down your already stained cheeks.

Nothing else is spoken, and nothing is asked of either of you, but out of instinct your arms slip around his neck, and he returns the embrace and follows you to your feet where he keeps holding you and lets you cry on his shoulder; for hours? For a few seconds? You don’t know, you dwell in his comfort that you missed and relish in it until you stop crying.

He probably should have been the one to pull away, but he doesn’t complain, not once. He lets you pull back on your own time, and even then he grabs your arms to keep you close so he can cup your cheeks and caress them for a final piece of comfort to your aching heart.

Yet that proves to be a mistake because as you linger in his proximity, your eyes fall on his lips and you’re overwhelmed with a passion-filled heat that pushes your lips against his.

At first, Cregan is so stunned by the warmth of your lips on his, and then he’s taken by the excitement of feeling your lips reconnecting that he closes his eyes and kisses you back, but when his lust begins to rush through his blood he pulls back and groans.

“No,” he shakes his head and slides his hands down your face to grab your shoulders, leaving a burning trail down your skin. “You are married. No matter what happened you are still married, and you’re grieving.”

You want to forget your pain for a moment and be consumed by the comfort, bliss, and excitement he provides, but he’s also right. And how can you do that to Aemond…

But…

Maybe you don’t care if it hurts him because he hurt you. He won’t know either way—But you will know, you will know that it’s something that can hurt him, and you…don’t care. But Cregan…is right.

“I’m sorry,” you throw out and step away from him, feeling a chill hit those parts of you that he kept warm with his touch—“you are right. I’m sorry.”

Cregan turns away and swallows back thickly, feeling somewhat disappointed that he has to turn down this heat of the moment. “Perhaps I shall bid you a goodnight now.”

You swallow back to hide your disappointed sigh and nod. “Yes, goodnight Cregan.”

Said man avoids looking at you when he turns. It makes it easier to walk away from you. But when his hand touches the door handle he doesn’t turn it to open it, he stands there frozen with his back turned to you as he feels his honor start to slip.

He turns his head but doesn’t peek over right away, he fights himself but quickly falters when he feels the ghost of your wet lips haunting his. And when he fully looks back and sees the shadow of your sculpted figure in your white nightgown his inner battle is lost. He only proves his loss by locking the door and turning completely to face you, turning around as well.

“Cregan?” You query, puzzled by his presence.

Said man draws out a deep breath before he strides back to you with determination in his step and surprises you by grabbing your face the moment he can. You want to utter his name, but a small gasp is all that goes past your lips whilst you drop the ring that Aemond had gifted you.

“I pride myself in my honor,” he says while his eyes flicker between your parted lips and your shocked gaze. “But when it comes to you it’s turned to ash, nothing stops me from wanting you, from…” he trails off and leans forward, but you don’t allow your lips to touch. You shift your head away, but he follows you to keep your breaths unfurling over each other's lips.

“…desiring you in every way a gentleman shouldn’t. I burn for you when you’re far, and even when I dream of you. It is wrong.” He nods, and you nod too without much effort. “But you are my weakness, you have always been my weakness. You’re my joy, the reason I laugh, and also the reason I don’t march to King's Landing and bring you to Winterfell to make you mine,” he whispers against your lips, making a smile make an appearance on your saddened face.

“Tell me this is wrong, tell me to leave now,” he tells you and drags his eyes up to meet yours so you can know he’s being serious. “And I will. I will leave your chambers and when morning comes I’ll bid you farewell with no remorse and as nothing more than friends.”

As if being hypnotized to his lips you lean forward, but only let your lips brush, leaving your heart pounding as it screams for you to connect.

“I still have to leave,” you make it known while you gently cup his jaw to touch some part of him. “I have to return to Dragonstone no matter what.”

Cregan’s eyebrows pinch together and he hesitates before he nods. “I understand,” he mutters and glances at your lips again. “But that doesn’t change a thing if you tell me to leave.”

You should. You're still married even if Aemond betrayed you by killing your brother. And deep deep down a lot of your conflict comes because you don’t know if you did stop loving the man who killed your brother, but that reason is also why you want to give in to your deepest burning desire.

That reason is why you’re selfish and don’t resist Cregan or stop your heart from swooning at his confession.

“Don’t leave,” is all he needs to hear to smile widely before he finally feeds your desire by kissing you slowly, fueling that passionate heat that completely takes over your body, and leaving you still and breathless for a moment as you relish in the sweet taste of his soft lips melting with yours, guiding your every movement, and driving you mad with lust.

You had forgotten this dream-like feeling, you had forgotten how fast he makes your heart race when he’s kissing you, and you forgot how hot you burn when his fingers explore the perimeters of your body. Furthermore, you forgot how eager he can get until you feel his grip on the back of your gown.

You pull away quickly and protest. “No, no, wait, do not rip it.”

Cregan fingers loosen and you start to giggle. “Why do you always want to rip my gowns?” You bring up, making his lips lift to a smirk.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers between heavy breaths.

You press a kiss on his lips and then tell him, “gently.”

He breathes out deeply and nods once before he slides his fingers back to the ribbon tying your gown together, and slowly begins to untie it while you drift your lips to kiss the corner of his mouth, and then kiss his jaw before you graze your lips up and kiss the corner of his jaw.

Cregan lets out a groan from the back of his throat, making you feel chills grow on your skin.

“I hate all these layers,” he musters while you continue to leave a trail of kisses down to his neck. “They are so infuriating.”

You smile against his neck, causing you to feel his nails dig in your skin.

“It keeps me warm,” you tell him and lick a stripe up to his lips. “Your North is cold, my Lord.”

Cregan clenches his jaw and shakes his head. “A little less with your presence,” he completely wins you over, making you grin and look at him in awe.

“I missed you,” he finally lets himself confess to you. “My darling love.”

You sigh and whisper back. “I missed you too.”

His eyes gleam brighter and that short absence is filled once again with your lips while he finally slips off your gown, leaving you under a simple sheer gown that he slips off with ease.

“You’re beautiful,” he says with awe, and his eyes dark with lust.

“It’s no fair,” you argue between kisses and slowly drag your hands down to help him pull off his layers. “And you say I wear a lot of layers,” you comment, making him scoff.

You finally end up pulling the last one off and throw it to the side mindlessly as you’re captivated by his toned torso and those thick arms that he unfairly hides under all those garments.

“Kiss me,” you command in a voice oozing with honey.

“Gladly,” is all he says before capturing your face to smash his lips on yours and this time make out more roughly as he’s filled with a much more hungry need.

Your own need lets you multitask by unbuckling his pants and tugging on them so he can pull them off in the brief pause you have between devouring each other. Yet when his member is out for you to see, you take a moment to admire how girthy and hard it is, and how perfect every vein is on his length.

You can’t help but start to go on your knees, but he grabs your bicep and pulls you back up to drift you away from that need.

“No,” he says out of breath and instead wraps his arms around you, and presses his lips on your neck to start leaving wet kisses on your flesh while he also slides his hands down your body, making you shiver at the feeling of his warm hands caressing you gently.

Without lifting his mouth off your neck he drifts his hand behind your knee, and with no explanation, he pulls your leg up to help you climb up and wrap your legs around his waist so he can walk you back to the edge of the bed, and gently put you down.

Once you’re lying on your back he pulls back but leans down to press his hands beside your head, and simply hold your gaze with this endearing look that makes his eyes smile.

“I'm going inside you,” he warns you, making you shiver and swallow thickly as you already imagine the stretch. “You need to be quiet.”

You part your lips but utter nothing, instead, you lift your head and he responds by giving you what you wanted, a deep kiss, while he grabs his length and aligns himself with your hole. When his tip touches you you gasp and he grins before taking your lips again to distract you while he slowly penetrates you.

Albeit the stretch is so wonderful and filling that you claw your nails on his back and scratch his back as he keeps going in deeper. Once all the way inside he finally pulls his face back to whisper. “You were made for me. You belong with me.”

You don’t respond with words, you cup his cheeks and brush strands of his hair behind his ears before you slide your hand to the back of his neck to gently pull him down. “Cregan make me yours,” you finally fill the silence, feeling as if his cock hardens even more before he finally starts moving his hips, filling you with a blinding ecstasy that heightens this passionate moment, and makes you only think about him and the pleasure he feels and gives you. You forget your sorrows and the grudge. You forget the war and the responsibilities you have.

You’re selfish in the lust-filled night and remain ignorant even before it's time to get out of bed. You just relish in Cregan's presence for a bit longer.

“Cregan…” you whisper, and the man hums in response letting you sigh before you share what’s been bothering you. “I do not like that I am the reason you disregard your honor. I do not like putting you through that.”

The hand on your back stops moving and a small huff rolls out of his nose. “I think it’s late to start thinking about that.”

You blink repeatedly with discontent and abruptly sit up to face him. “I am not jesting,” you press sharply. “I’m being serious. You hold your honor in high regard, I hate to be the one who makes it falter.”

A faint smile tugs on his lips without regard to your comment before he leans forward and assures you. “I have my honor, I never forget it, but I love you more. I’m being selfish without disregarding everything to be it. I know how to hold myself back,” he says firmly and cups your cheek to bring you closer to him. “I know where I stand, I am just choosing to have a taste of happiness. You, my darling, are my happiness.”

Your eyes water and your heart swoons, there’s nothing you can say that would measure up to the kind things he just said, all you can do is press a lingering kiss on his warm lips before you lay your head down on his chest, and hold onto him like he’s your security blanket.

“I…could offer you and your Aerion refuge here,” he offers and makes your pounding heart hurt.”

“Here? In Castle Black?” You tease without sounding too amused.

Cregan scoffs and starts to caress your arm. “Not here. In Winterfell,” he clarifies without a hint of falter at the mention of your son who is fathered by someone else who does bring him pangs of jealousy every time he remembers you’re married, and when he hears his name. “I would make sure no one could touch you and your boy there. He wouldn’t have to grow up around so much violence and you would not have to worry.”

You tilt your head down to kiss his shoulder before you give his offer an answer. “It's a nice offer, but my place is not hiding in a cage like some frightened bird. My place is out there, with my mother, with my brother, and the rest of my family fighting with the dragon I have. My mother needs me and I don’t want to leave her alone.”

Cregan doesn’t interject with anything, his chest rises and slowly falls back down, letting you know your response slightly wounded him.

“Instead of having her husband with her when she lost my sister,” you begin to say quieter but filled with frustration. “Daemon was out leading her council. I was the one who held her when she cradled my sister's lifeless body. I…have to be there for her now.”

“I understand,” he doesn’t falter to assure you. “But you must know if you ever find yourself needing somewhere to go, Winterfell is yours. You and your son are welcome.”

You lift your head off him to face him in the little space left between you. “I will always remember that. Thank you,” you say from the bottom of your heart.

A smile twitches on his serious face, and he proceeds to press a feathered kiss on your lips before he grins and says. “Sing for me? Just for me.”

You giggle and gently smack his shoulder. “No,” you answer bluntly and lay back down basically on him.

“Why not?” He chuckles. “It's not like you have to fear enchanting me with your song, you already have.”

You roll your eyes. “Shut up. Anyway!” You change the subject. “I was supposed to stop writing to you. I had already planned it.”

Cregan sighs and his chin rests on the top of your head. “I know,” he mutters. “You stopped writing as much as you would recently.”

Your smile falls but you grow desperate and hopeful. “But…you will answer me when I write to you in the weeks to come, right?”

He shrugs and interjects. “If that’s what you want, I will.”

You nod softly. “I do.”

You lift yourself up again to face him so he knows you’re being sincere. “I do.”

He grabs your cheek and his eyes soften. “Are you frightened?” He makes sure to ask.

You swallow thickly and shake your head. “No. Nervous, but not scared.”

He smirks and slides his hand down to caress your chin. “That’s my girl. You know how to fight, use that.” He tells you.

You laugh nervously. “I’ve never had to actually use my skill for violence.”

Your swordsmanship and your skills with archery were never for the intent of being some warrior, you like the idea of being like Queen Visenya Targaryen, and Princess Alyssa, but mostly your need to be trained with a sword and with archery was because you took it as a challenge. They said you couldn’t have it and you challenged them. Thus now that you’re having to face this war and the potential of having to use your skill, you’re honestly quite nervous.

You’ve never admitted that. You don’t want to admit it to anyone but him so they don't feel like you aren’t reliable.

“It won’t be easy,” Cregan says the truth. “But when you face your enemy, do not hesitate. Think quickly but be smart and do not let them gain the upper hand. You have a dragon, use her, and you have skill, good skill. Use it.”

You let out a shaky breath and nod in comprehension. He offers you a gentle smile and pulls you down to press his forehead against yours.

“You must know I will wait for you. Just a while longer.”

Asking what will happen after a while passes scares you, so you leave it be and just give him an honest response. “If fate ends up letting me choose, I will finally come home to you.”

He flashes you a charming smile that eases that worry in your heart and only works to sink you further down into this little escape.

“Now,” he coos against your lips. “Will you sing for me?”

You roll your eyes with a flattered smile featured on your face before you pull away to lay back on his chest and finally do as he asks of you as a parting gift where there aren't multiple people watching you, and pushing you down to hide or pretend that you’re nothing more than friends. You sing him a song for only him to hear before you take your leave and face reality once again.

——

*SOMETIME LATER. DRAGONSTONE*

What good is actually facing reality? Facing a dead beloved brother, and the fact that it was someone who you loved that killed him?

Dragonstone is a painful reminder of what happened while you were away. Only now that pain in your heart is tenfold and you don’t think anyone can actually know the pain that plagues you. Who can truly understand what it is you carry? No one is married to the man who killed Lucerys. They can hate him with ease, but you?

You want to despise him, you fought yourself the entire flight back to Dragonstone to hate him and view him as another enemy, to view him like you view Aegon, but as much as you think you hate him, your heart fights hard to try and tell a different tale. And that’s what makes it worse.

Thus it's easier, it was almost healing, having an escape with Cregan, but now there’s no one who will silence your cries. And what makes matters worse is facing your heartbroken mother. You don’t like seeing her cry or be hurt, when she lost Visenya your pain could never equate to what she was feeling, but you hurt too with every groan, with all the blood that she spilled, and every sob. Now you’re moments away from her and your heart and soul are already shattering.

However, after you watch your dragon disappear into the caves with Vermax, and take a step inside the castle, a hand wraps around your forearm and you’re pulled into a dark dead end where there aren't prying eyes or nearby ears.

“<Tell me the truth,” Jacaerys spats in a whisper so no one would hear the sound of his words also protected by High Valyrian. “About you and Lord Stark.>”

You can’t help yourself, you blink repeatedly in disbelief and gape like a fish out of water.

“< There's no point in lying,” he only further surprises you. “I figured it out when he got the letter from Dragonstone. I would see it every time you would talk but I never pieced it together until yesterday. It all made sense then, the glances, what you would tell each other, and every story you told about him.>”

Tears fill your eyes and your heart echos in your ears as you’re struck with shame. Not for loving another man, but that Jacaerys found out.

“<He touched you?>” He proceeds to ask in your shocked silence.

And it’s in that silence where he figures out your unspoken response and finally lets go of your arm to turn away with a scoff.

“<He never forced himself on me,” you defend Cregan. “Everything we did was because we wanted it to happen. We love each other.>”

Jacaerys turns on his heels with frustration and clutches onto your arms to sneer. “<You saw how much mother suffered because she was with Ser Harwin. Did you not learn anything?>”

You know he’s remarking all that stuff to your face because he cares. He’s being thoughtful in his way but it doesn’t stop you from crying, and when you shed tears you hit a cord in your brother's heart and he lets go of you with a sigh.

“<If you weren’t already married I would turn back and force him, but alas,>,” he mutters and sighs again before turning and dropping his head in his hands.

“<He would’ve too,” you defend his honor. “But I did not want Aemond to hurt him with Vhagar. I choose not to marry him, please don’t blame him. He’s a good man.>”

Jacaerys shakes his head in disappointment and turns to face you with his eyes narrowed into a fierce glare and his lips curled in a snarl. “How am I not supposed to blame him?” He remarks in the common tongue. “He had his way with you and did not do what he was supposed to do! What an honorable man would do!”

“I told you already, I told him not to because of Aemond.”

Jacaerys grabs his face and rubs the bridge of his nose, so you continue to try and calm him down.

“He was always respectful and kind. And…” you pause and lick your lips before you utter the reality. “There’s nothing you can do about it now. There's no use in being upset, I am married and that won’t change even if I love him unless Aemond dies. So please,” you plead softer and step towards him to grab his arm so he can face you. “Please Jace, keep it a secret. No one must know. It’s in the past. Please don’t tell a soul.”

Jacaerys eyes snap to you and he clenches his jaw as he looks at you thoughtfully for a few agonizing moments before he sighs and whispers. “Fine. I will not tell anyone only because there’s nothing I can do now.”

You sigh with relief and wipe away your tears before you offer him a thankful smile and a sweeter comment. “Thank you so much. Thank you, Jace, really. I love you.”

Jacaerys lets out a deep breath and his face slowly lets that frustration go, and instead slowly falls to express a soft sorrow. You slide your hand down his arm to cup his hand and slowly mirror that grief as you remember what you lost and that pain you both now harbor.

No matter how hard you wish, there’s nothing in this world that can change what happened, no one can bring back your fallen brother. And what’s even crueler is that no matter how hopeful you were for the news to be a lie, you’re home now and that hope lies with Lucerys.

You both come to the same realization and speechlessly exchange it, bringing you both into each other's embrace to cry now without care.

And deep down you both want to stay close in just the way you are so neither of you run the risk of losing each other the way you lost Lucerys. It’s a foolish thought, but it’s one brought by grief, and a new fear set in both of your hearts because no matter how much you love your little brothers, nothing can compare to the bond the three of you had. A bond that now consists of Jacaerys and you. Just him and you.

“Jacaerys,” your moment is interrupted by a feminine voice that also speaks your name but does not belong to your mother. And when you both break away and look over you see Baela stand at the end of the hall with her hands clasped together and a pitiful look in her eyes.

“Baela,” you greet and wipe your tears away while Jacaerys turns to wipe his own tears away.

“Welcome back home,” she speaks sweetly.

You offer her a thankful nod before you walk over to her and meet her halfway with an embrace.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly.

You nod and then interject. “Thank you.” You pull back and glance around in search of her twin. “Where’s Rhaena?”

Baela sighs. “In her chambers.”

You wished to greet her just as you returned home, but now you’ll have to speak to her after you speak with your mother.

“And what about…” you trail off and hesitate. “What about my mother?”

Baela glances behind you as Jacaerys approaches you and then gives you the answer you wanted. “I’ll take you to her.”

You offer her a thankful smile and watch her walk to Jacaerys to wrap her arms around him and offer him sweeter condolences. When the moment passes she guides you to your mother and your heart begins to pound, while your stomach twists and makes you feel almost nauseous at the anticipation. You already know you’re going to break even more, but there’s something about thinking about your mother being heartbroken that already tears you apart.

And maybe a part of it is because…it feels like you had a hand in her heartbreak because it was your husband who killed Lucerys.

It was not really you, you know that. You were oblivious to your husband's affairs, but no matter what anyone says, yes, that’s what is dwelling within, your guilt. It rattles you to the point you can’t be comfortable in your own skin.

As you get closer to your mother's quarters breathing gets hard once again, and your surroundings begin to dim, leaving only the narrow path ahead visible. You want to run away and not face the pain you’ll see. But when the doors to your mother's quarters open and you see her sitting across the fireplace, alone and in the dark, that panic settles as if she was the fresh air you needed to calm down, leaving you with the need to be embraced by her warmth and comfort, while also giving the same in return.

“Your Grace,” you greet her softly once Baela clears the room and leaves only you and your brother with your mother.

Your pounding heart starts racing once again, but it’s not out of fear, it’s racing out of a need to ease your pain, and the pain you clearly see on her delicate face. Yet you hold strong with tears stinging in your eyes already.

“Lady Jayne Arryn has pledged her support,” Jacaerys breaks the emotional silence to share the support you both gained when you were away on a mission. “…In exchange for a dragon to guard the Vale,” you hear the tear in your brother's voice, and when you glance over at him you see him fiddling with his hands while his eyes grow more and more teary, making your already weak hold, falter.

You still want to continue for him, but when you part your lips you can’t utter a word, it’s all lost in your grief that heightens the longer you watch your mother.

“And,” Jacaerys continues sounding even more brokenhearted by the second. “Lord Cregan Stark,” he pauses and takes a deep breath, but doesn’t seem to find the will to finish. He falls breathless and that wall he usually has up to be perceived as strong, and a protector crumbles, leaving him shaky.

You reach over to grab his hand while tears start to roll out of your eyes as you trail on for him. “…Lord Stark…promised 2000 men,” you manage to share with all the might you can muster.

Your mother doesn’t respond, she instead stands from her seat with her face contorting with grief and approaches the both of you, making you completely lose the faltering hold you had on your emotions.

However, when she’s close, Jacaerys reaches out first and she welcomes him in her arms. You want to do the same, you’ve been aching for it, but your guilt hits you and you stand there frozen with your head down.

“Mother,” you mewl with streams of tears. “I’m…sorry.”

Your mother pulls away from Jacaerys just slightly, leaving her arm around his neck to approach you and caress your cheek with no disdain in her eyes; nor does she look at you like you were the one at fault, her eyes are sad, but she expresses her reassurance before she slides her arm around your neck and pulls you in her gentle embrace and confirms that she doesn’t hate or blame you.

It’s such a relieving comfort that it works to lift some weight off your chest. Weight Cregan couldn’t ease when he talked to you.

Now you can ease in your mother's embrace without feeling like she hates you. Now you can caress her back without the fear of getting rejected.

Soon thereafter, neither Jacaerys nor you attempt to leave your mother's comfort. Nor does it feel like your mother wants either of you to pull away from her embrace that protects her two eldest from the cruel reality that took her third child.

You stay interlinked and weep on each other's shoulders until she pulls away to face you both.

“I have been waiting for your return to light…Lucerys pyre,” she shares. “Is it fine if we light it tonight? The sun is setting and the winds are calm.”

You and Jacaerys don’t find a reason to push the funeral back. You also know there are other matters to attend to that don't give you the luxury of sitting in your grief.

But, oh wouldn’t that be nice?

You don’t want to ignore what happened, no, that’s not what you want. You just want to take a moment to process what happened, and who did it, and tell yourself that you will no longer see your little brother Lucerys.

But no, war forces you to face reality and deal with your grief harshly on the same night you arrived from Winterfell, and at the same spot where your baby sister's funeral pyre was lit.

This time the crowd is smaller though, more intimate. Daemon isn’t even here, which isn’t surprising, but it is also disappointing that he can’t be at his wife’s side as she deals with the death of her son, and lights yet another funeral pyre. And what grows your hatred for him even more is that he can’t seem to be bothered to be a father to his daughter who just lost her betrothed. It’s a good thing Baela is at her side.

It’s also good that you can be with your family this time, dealing with your father's grief alone was devastating. There was no one besides your handmaiden Vanessa to hold your hand and embrace you when you wept. Comforting letters could never measure up to the comfort of your mother's arms or that of your siblings and your grandparents.

Now though, you stand amongst them around the fire that will burn away the only pieces you have of Lucerys, which are his things. There's not even bones to turn to ash, nothing was found of him but his cloak, and a part of his dragon's wing.

Thus Jacaerys steps up first and throws in a soft red blanket along with a piece of his clothes. Besides a few tears rolling down his face, he holds strong now, unlike before when he was in the privacy of just you and your mother, which is assuring. He definitely seems to comfort Joffrey, who throws a wooden horse in the fire, leaving you to step up next.

Yet when you step up and lift a small wooden ship you sob for the brother you’ll never be able to see grow into a man. You’ll never be able to see him marry, or see him command his fleets. You’ll never be able to watch him build a family of his own, nor will you be able to dance another song with him, he’ll be gone forever.

You throw away all those possibilities you’ll never get to see in the fire, and watch the flames eat away at the small wooden ship, and turn to ash everything you couldn’t watch your brother do.

Thick smoke rises, it infiltrates through your nose and stings your throat and eyes while also helping you realize something through the stinging pain, that being your hate for Aemond, your husband, and best friend. You were clouded with confusion before, you couldn’t let go, but you see it clearly now in the thick smoke, you hate him.

And it’s because of your realization that you don’t realize your mother is next to you until you catch her throwing in a piece of Lucery’s clothes with agony contorting her face and clouding her eyes. She lingers by the fire for a moment and you watch her shoulders shake before she steps back. You fall by her side and glance down at her empty hand before you reach over to grab it and once again be the comfort she needs in her moment of pain.

A need to go to Rhaena’s side does grow. You feel called to her side to comfort her, but once the fire starts to lose its power, and all the wooden logs turn black, you step away from your brother and mother's side, but come to a stop right away as you feel guilt again. Your mother might’ve speechlessly assured you, but Rhaena’s anger and grief is different, what if she does blame you for what Aemond did?

If you weren’t away you probably could’ve stopped Aemond, but you weren’t with him. What if she blames you for Aemond taking her betrothed?

You don’t want to be the source of more pain for your cousin, so out of fear and guilt, you don’t approach her. You avoid her and instead, let your grandfather give his condolences before embracing your grandmother.

“I heard the Queen made you her hand,” you interject and pull back to face her with a proud smile. “Congratulations, grandmother, I could think of no one more capable than you.”

Your grandmother caresses your face and offers you a sweet and thankful smile. “Thank you, my Sweet. How are you doing?” She asks with a concerned gaze.

You sigh. “I’m dealing with all my emotions, but I’m relieved that I at least don’t have to go through my grief alone this time,” you share, earning a faint smile.

“I was wondering…” you roll out hesitantly whilst you hook your arm around his to head back inside together. “…does anyone accompany you on your patrols?”

Without needing to hear the rest of what you wanted to ask, she figures out the direction you're taking this conversation.

“No,” your grandmother assures you.

“Oh, well I was wondering,” you finally get to your question. “If I could accompany you? The sea is large, together we could cover more ground. Besides,” you sweet talk her to persuade her. “Astraea is fast, and she’s grown large from her time at Winterfell. She’s good at sea. She likes to dive with me on her. And I am a good archer on Dragonback. We could help you.”

Your grandmother scoffs and flashes you a smile. “Well as much as I would like your help, we would have to ask the Queen first. Bring it up with her and if she accepts I would love to share patrol with you, it would relieve me of some work.”

You smile excitedly and nod eagerly. “Good, I’m glad. I’ll ask her at the next council meeting.”

Your grandmother offers you an encouraging smile and helps you feel some joy in the dark storm that casts over you.

Of course, no one or nothing brings you more joy than your little one, your beloved Aerion. When you see him fast asleep in his cradle your dim world lights up and you muster a happy grin.

As much as you want him to wake so he knows you’ve returned to him, you let him be and just crouch by the cradle to admire him as he sleeps.

You admire his cute round cheeks, his tiny little hands balled up to fists over his head, his thin eyelashes he got from his father, and those pink thin lips he also got from

Aemond. But most importantly you watch his chest carefully to make sure he’s breathing.

You could watch him sleep for hours on end and never tire. Especially because sometimes, just like now, you catch him smiling in his sleep and you just can’t help but swoon.

You always wondered what it is they dream about, fairytales mayhaps? Food? Their parents?

Does he dream about his father now that they’re apart? A father who loves him, and takes pride in his son? A father that you hate and…cheated on…

He killed your little brother, and you lay with Cregan because you wanted to, because you missed him, and you were upset and selfish, but now that you’re looking at your son sleeping away a different pang of guilt punctures your heart.

A guilt you shouldn’t feel, Aerion is young, he won't remember this conflict, but he will feel shame if he ever finds out you cheated on his father.

Yes, his father hurt you first, Aemond betrayed you first. He hurt you in one the worst ways possible! But…now…

Now you’re looking at Aerion and you think of how this could also hurt him. He’s young, a baby turning five months old soon, he won’t remember his life as an infant, but your secret won’t be forgotten, especially if in the future Cregan and you aren’t together.

It would hurt him so much if he ever found out. That’s what makes you cry with guilt. Not regret, you don’t regret your night with Cregan, he made you happy, but you do feel guilt and shame.

——

*THE NEXT MORNING*

Does Aemond’s crime justify what you did?

You can’t help but think of that, you can’t help but think of the hate you harbor, but you also can’t stop thinking about him. About the way his family doesn’t show him the affection you do. He protects them and takes care of them, but they will never return it in the same amount.

He’s probably lonely, and brooding. He’s probably silently just lurking in his brother's council, and breaking his fasts alone.

You always tried breaking fast and eating dinners together. He always smiled when he saw the way you were dressed, especially when you wore purple. He always gave you a kiss before you drifted apart for the day, and when you saw each other he kissed you with need as if you had gone years without seeing each other.

When night came, or when you found yourselves just in a calm moment, he let his guard down and let himself be vulnerable. You loved those moments the most because it felt as if only he and you existed in this world.

Actually, he treated you like you were the only person he has ever loved. You came first all the time, even before your son. Which is selfish, but you never minded because who could treat you the same?

Cregan’s people come first, the North comes first no matter what he says. That’s why he’s not marching over here to fight himself because other priorities come first, but with Aemond, he may have his goals and his pride, but you were never held lesser than something. His anger got in the way. It’s blinding but you understand why.

You understood at least…because the truth is you can’t defend him now…

He deserves his solitude. You hate him for taking Lucerys away. That much is true and you put that over everything.

“Princess,” Vanessa’s sweet voice cuts through the blowing breeze of the sea, making you pick your eyes off your son to look into the distance.

“Vanessa,” you entertain your handmaiden with what you know she’s leading up to.

“I was wondering,” she parts her lips, but before she can finish her thought the sound of your name coming from someone else’s lips interrupts the conversation. You look back and smile faintly when you see your grandfather Corlys.

“Grandfather,” you greet sweetly as you stand up to watch him approach you at shore.

“I’m surprised to see you out here so early,” he mentions, making you scoff softly and look down at Aerion watching your grandfather carefully.

“When I saw Aerion he was sleeping, so I wanted to make up for it and spend as much time as I can before I’m called away,” you tell him and study him, noticing he’s standing up a lot straighter than before, and still using a very nice wooden cane. “I wanted to apologize for not going to visit you when you were abed. I’m more than glad to see you up now and attending to your fleet.” You smile brightly and watch him get close to watch Aerion in your arms.

“It's quite all right,” he assures you and meets your gaze. “You are a dragon rider, and the Queen's daughter, there’s a lot to do. I'm happy to see you safely returned, I know Aerion has missed you.”

You glance at your son, and as if he knew you were admiring him he glances at you and smiles before laying his head on your shoulder.

“Rhaenys and I would take him on strolls when the day gave us time,” your grandfather catches you by surprise. “The poor lad would be cooped all day with your mother gone.”

Considering Aerion the son of Aemond, you didn’t think your grandparents, especially your grandfather would much care for your son, but hearing his report really brings a warmth to your heart.

“I noticed that young Aerion quite enjoys being by the water,” your grandfather adds, making you grin and nod.

“Yes, he loves it when the waves roll over his feet,” you share giddily and caress your son's head as you return your gaze to your grandfather. “And he gets lulled to sleep by the sound of crashing waves.”

“He’ll be a fine sailor in no time.”

You hum happily at your grandfather's comment and then watch him glance out at the never-ending sea before he sighs softly, and then looks back at you with a faint smile that lets you catch a look in his eye that makes you think he’s up to something.

“Why don’t you and Aerion accompany me to Driftmark? It’s still early, and you can come back by dragonback before you’re needed,” he suggests.

You have been meaning to keep your mind off all the racing thoughts that kept you up at night, and well, you are extremely curious. It’s not common for him to invite you to accompany him anywhere. That’s what your grandmother does.

“Vanessa,” you address your handmaiden, and give your grandfather an answer. “Return inside, if anyone asks for me tell them where I am and that I will return soon.”

Your handmaiden offers you a comprehensive nod and goes off to do as you asked, letting you walk with your grandfather toward his boat under the morning sky pampered with fluffy white clouds that make you feel a smidge of joy as certain memories infiltrate your mind.

“On nice days like these my father would take me sailing,” you muse with your grandfather. “I’m pretty sure the septa giving me lessons would despise when he would pull me from my lessons since I was a princess and had no business doing boy stuff, but,” you grin softly. “He was the prince consort, he did as he pleased and my mother never minded. Besides, I encouraged him,” you pause and feel your eyes begin to sting without much warning.

“He taught me a lot of ships…I miss him,” you finish in a whisper.

Your grandfather lets out a deep sigh and you see him nod along with you from the corner of your eye.

“Did he teach you how to read maps?” Your grandfather wonders.

You nod. “Yes, and star charts. I could learn more about those, but I could follow the stars North and to King’s Landing with no map. He…never tried to leave anything out, he was always so excited.”

Your grandfather hums and you glance over at him to address something else on your chest. “I’m glad you decided to side your fleet and Driftmark with my mother.”

His dark eyes meet yours and he quirks a brow. “Why would I side with Aegon?”

Well besides him being a man, there’s also the fact that it’s highly theorized Daemon killed his son. You believe and hate him for it, but no matter how much you want to share that belief, you bite your tongue and shrug as if it was just a concerned-filled thought.

Your grandfather understands your speechless response and holds your gaze as he gives his vague response. “I had many reasons to side with your mother.”

You offer him a simple proud smile and reach his boat in a peaceful silence only filled by the crashing waves and the cawing of seabirds. You had hoped to feel a hint of those exciting and tender feelings you oftentimes felt with your father when you were out at sea, but even if you walk with his father, those feelings you ache to reconnect to aren’t anywhere close, reminding you that you’ll never be with your father ever again, or have a bond with any father-figure.

Albeit your grandfather does let you sail the boat to Driftmark, but as excited you do feel to show off your skills and once again maneuver a boat, you still feel empty within.

“My dragon loves the sea,” you begin to say with the intention of persuading him to use your aid at sea whilst you keep an eye on the distant waters. “And I have learned how to use a bow and arrow on dragonback, perhaps I could be the dragon rider to protect your fleet when battle hits our shores, or we attack theirs,” you finish and peer back at him with a sly grin, unknowingly reminding him of his son when he was your age and eager to prove his worth. You even wore the same sly smile Laenor wore when he was proving himself a fine sailor and dragonrider.

“That…” he starts off quietly but then clears his throat and sounds as mighty as ever. “That would honor me.”

You offer him a happy smile over your shoulder and then let your gaze fall on Aerion strapped on your chest, noticing him watching the waves with his eyes wide and full of wonder.

However, the wonder slowly gets lost as he starts to get lulled to sleep. He tries to fight the sleep to keep watching the moving waves, but he’s outmatched and loses himself to sleep not long before you arrive at Driftmark’s shore.

Unlike Dragonstone, Driftmark is more lively with people; both townspeople and soldiers from the fleets as well as those who work on your grandfather's massive ship. Some seem worried that something could happen at any given moment, while others seem to be happy just mindlessly living.

You begin to wonder about that happiness, you don’t envy their joy, a part of you resents all these people being so happy and living their lives unaffected by the death of Driftmark’s Heir. You wonder why it is they don’t feel what you’re plagued with, you want them to feel your sorrow.

But then you do realize that you’re just letting your pain cloud your judgment.

“Besides having you accompany me,” your grandfather interjects, pulling your attention away from the large ship. “I wanted to share something I have been thinking of as of late.”

You clasp your hands together and out of instinct reach out to fiddle with the ring Aemond gave you, but you’re then surprised when you feel that your ringer finger is bare.

You spare a glance at your finger and drift your gaze to the ground, but you’re then reminded of the fact that you left your ring behind in your borrowed quarters at Castle Black.

You probably won’t ever see it again…

“…I was hoping that when Aerion is older he could be my ward,” your grandfather catches your attention and makes you furrow your eyebrows and look at him with disbelief, and slightly bothered.

“Of course,” he continues, “he won’t have to join me until he’s much older, but he is Laenor’s grandson, I want him to know the sea, and I want to teach him about ships and how to command fleets like I taught your father.”

You glance at your sleeping son and cradle the back of his head as if protecting him from being parted from you.

“He’s the son of a second son, he won’t inherit a crown or a castle from his father, but he could inherit…my title.”

You snap your eyes over to him and come to a slow stop as you’re overcome with surprise. You want to be filled with pride and joy, but there’s an obstacle that stops you. “But,” you mutter your thought out loud. “He is Aemond’s son. A man who opposes us. A man who killed your heir.”

Your grandfather turns away from his ship and faces you, and doesn’t fail to nod in agreement. “Aye, he is the son of Prince Aemond, but Aerion has salt-littered blood. He is the grandson of Laenor Velaryon, my son.”

Aerion is also your son, and you are also your father's firstborn, and only biological child, but he doesn’t seem to ever mention that! What are you, a painted portrait?

You would’ve loved to inherit Driftmark and his title of Lord of the Tides, but no!

You would ask about Rhaena getting that chance before Aerion since she is the daughter of his only daughter, but you don’t see that having a good answer, so you don’t even waste your breath.

“What of Joffrey?” You bring up. “He should be your heir.”

Your grandfather sighs and nods stiffly but quickly counters you. “Perhaps, but I want it to be Aerion. The grandson of my son.”

It’s not hard to realize the actual truth behind his response; Joffrey is the bastard son of your father. With Lucerys gone, he can actually name an actual Velaryon his heir. It doesn’t seem fair, your father loved your brothers whether they were his or not, but who are you to deny Aerion of a fruitful future?

He comes first now, and it doesn’t seem like your grandfather is actually asking your permission or for your actual thoughts, his mind seems mind up, so with a deep breath and a hesitant smile you accept what he brings up. “That…would make me happy. And I’m sure it would’ve made my father happy.”

Your grandfather offers you a smile and surprises you by patting your shoulder as an endearing gesture that brings a…silence where you smile faintly out of pride, but you can’t help but think what next. You’ve never actually spent so much time with your grandfather, and if you do your grandmother has always been with you.

“Why don’t you show your knowledge on the ship,” your grandfather luckily drifts the attention over.

However, just as you approach the plank resting on the dock, he stops you by grabbing your shoulder and interjecting loudly. “Alyn!”

You follow his gaze and blink repeatedly in surprise when you see the same Addam of Hull who fought in your engagement tourney.

When the man’s eyes fall on you beside your grandfather his lips part in surprise, but when he reaches you he closes his mouth and bows his head. “Princess,” he greets you properly right away.

“Ser,” you greet him quite excitedly.

“Good,” your grandfather cuts in and steps back. “You remember each other.”

You drift your gaze to your grandfather and express your confusion with knitted eyebrows that he helps ease with a quick response. “I sent him to check on you for me when I was fighting in the Step Stones.”

Instead of going to you himself?

Whatever.

“Really?” You ask with more surprise. “Well thank you, he was a very excellent jouster who brought Driftmark and me great pride.”

Alyn offers you a stiff smile and bows his head as a thank you.

“Good, I’m glad to hear he can’t show his skill,” your grandfather fills the man’s silence. “Why don’t I let you get reacquainted.”

Without room to argue he walks away and leaves you alone with Ser Alyn—or is it just Alyn since it was your grandfather who sent him?

“Seeing you again makes this world feel small. I never thought our paths would cross again,” you fill the silence to avoid awkward silences.

“In truth neither did I,” he admits. “But it is an honor.”

You offer him a smile and notice how much more muscular he is now compared to before. He’s also a lot more serious too.

“Who—”

“Alyn!”

You both turn your attention to the caller, and you see a tall and thin man with long dreadlocks approaching with a bright and charming grin that immediately works to intrigue you.

Albeit when he notices your unique white hair, your long and elegant red gown finer than any material he’s touched; accompanied with shiny gold jewelry on your hands and neck, he realizes that you are no ordinary woman. The man’s grin slowly disappears at the realization and he slows down towards Alyn. Once he’s finally nearby he straightens up and doesn’t fail to bow when he joins you and Alyn.

“My Princess,” the mystery man greets you with a nervous but charming smile that actually serves to completely get rid of any tension or awkward atmosphere he could’ve brought.

“Princess,” Alyn interjects and looks at the man in blue beside him. “This is my brother Addam. Addam, this is the Princess, granddaughter of Lord Corlys Velaryon.”

You and Addam meet each other's gaze and that snobby princess Addam already imagined you’d be upon laying eyes on you completely falls apart when you offer him a bright smile in return. You perhaps are one of the most majestic beauties he’s ever laid his eyes on, he can’t help but think. Even from afar you were luminous and almost like an illusion, but from up close he could see your beauty was no illusion, he could see a sadness in your eyes, but so much more that intrigued him.

You give him your name and Addam’s eyes proceed to fall on the sleeping infant strapped on your chest. “Who is this?”

You cradle your baby's head and introduce him to Addam and Alyn. “This is my son, Aerion Targaryen.”

“Hm, not one to care about first impressions I see,” Addam throws out boldly, making his brother shoot him a warning glare. You, however, laugh genuinely in return, which is something that surprises even you. You didn’t think you could ever laugh the way you just did again.

“He takes after his father,” you mirror his humor.

“Well, we’ll let this lad get away with it this time.”

You scoff and nod. “I’ll make sure he’s more prepared next time,” you remark lightheartedly.

He hums and glances over at his brother. “Could I ask how you met?”

“At a tourney,” you answer for Alyn. “Last year. Apparently, he was sent by my grandfather.”

“Tourney?” Addam asks as if it’s the first time hearing of it. “Aren’t you supposed to be a knight?”

“Actually I was trying to get to that too,” you share and both wait for a response from the serious man.

“Well I was surprised to see what money could buy,” he remarks. “I was deceitful when I entered. I am no knight.”

You hum and ease his growing worry right away by assuring him. “Well, I would say you were actually quite entertaining and impressive. You fought well and won.”

Addam pats his brother's back and whispers, “I’m proud of you.”

You watch Addam offer his brother a very faint smile and you can’t help but remember the grief you had pushed aside as you remember the brother you lost.

“I was hoping to have some early brunch with my brother,” Addam now directs at you. “But it seems insignificant now that you have graced us with your presence.”

You can't help but smile with amusement and feel slightly flattered. Addam is surely more outgoing than his brother in a way that doesn’t fail to catch your interest and actually helps bring attention to his fierce spirit that you can’t help but feel the need to get to know.

Actually meeting him makes you feel like you found something you had been in search of your whole life.

.

.

.

.

.

A/N- romantic or platonic? (For those who have read moonlight before already know but please don’t spoil it for the rest heheh :)

Tagged- @namelesslosers @stargaryenx @chainsawsangel @lauftivy @winxschester @cloudroomblog @llarue @padsdarlg @sofietargaryen @gracielikegrapes @dreaming-of-the-reality @itzelpeyton @patdsinner33 @mrsdominickstark @elaena-aerrin @todoroki-slut @snh96 @urmomsgirlfriend1 @nifujiswhore @sweethoneyblossom1 @kaetastic @lightdragonrayne @squidscottjeans @oh-you-mean-me @wallacewillow0773638

[creganslover]

「 ✦ Masterlist ✦ 」

find all my works here ── .✦ last updated: aug. 16 2024 ── .✦

⋆˚࿔ Rhaenyra Targaryen 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

My Queen - Summary: Throwing your life away to travel to Dragonstone was not your initial idea, nor was claiming a dragon... and getting to bond with the Queen herself.

⋆˚࿔ Daemon Targaryen 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

none yet

⋆˚࿔ Jacaerys Targaryen 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

none yet

⋆˚࿔ Lucerys Velaryon 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

none yet

⋆˚࿔ Aegon II Targaryen 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Sneak Away (18+!!) - Summary: There's perks in knowing Maegor's tunnels, and Aegon makes the most of it, by going to you every time the world seemed to turn against him, and tonight, you remind him how good he can be.

⋆˚࿔ Aemond Targaryen 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

none yet

⋆˚࿔ Helaena Targaryen 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Hellish Dream

⋆˚࿔ Alicent Hightower 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

none yet

⋆˚࿔ Gwayne Hightower 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

none yet

⋆˚࿔ Cregan Stark 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

The Pack Survives Woman Like You - Summary: Skilled as a warrior like your husband, you both made the dangerous pair... the latest battle proves just how much you mean to him. More than A Woman Cregan drabble #1 Beast of Winterfell

⋆˚࿔ Addam of Hull / Addam Velaryon 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Spicetown Shore - Summary: Being the daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen, she had no choice but to let you be the one to confront Seasmoke's new rider.

⋆˚࿔ Criston Cole 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

none yet

[damndamsy]

renegade | aemond targaryen x oc (part ix)

a/n: Silverwing being ride-or-die is my new favourite trope

Princess Aemma Velaryon's death reached Dragonstone only after her forlorn brother, Prince Lucerys, feverishly searched the seas and skies alike for any sign of her or Silverwing. All he came upon of her was the shredded length of her velvet cloak by the shores of Shipbreaker's Bay, his sister's sweet lavender perfume lost to the salt of the sea. He had clung to it like it was his lifeline, and that's how they found him in the Sea Dragon tower, within Aemma's chambers—crying his eyes out and calling out to her.

Luke sobbed deeply, pulling at his hair. "It should've been me."

Queen Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon walked in on Luke, eager to see her children again, and eventually registering his undone suffering. Once the mother noticed the familiar article of clothing—formerly her own—she went insensate. Her shoulders shook, composure gone to ashes, and sank to her knees. Daemon was stoic to the scene, save for his hand that went to direly fist at his sword.

The older prince spoke first, relieving the tension. Despite his grave face, his tone was forbidding, intending to burn. "Who the fuck did this?"

Luke's upper lip curled, his hands clenching at his sister's cape. "Him."

Nothing else needed to be said. The reality of who was capable of executing such treason was well understood, though uttering his name was like spitting venom.

Rhaenyra roared out with the visceral fury of a dragon, and once that drained, she was but an empty vessel. She heaved a solemn breath, palming at her abdomen. The misery that wracked her labours was far less cruel than whatever this was, the anguish overwhelming, her chest aching with the burden of mourning two daughters, their deaths igniting the flames of war.

When she tearily looked to her side, Daemon had disappeared.

Prince Daemon had been conditioned to barbarity and grief, so much they were welcome drinking companions of his. Aemma was no different to this addition. In her, he saw echoes of his own turbulent youth—the same steely determination, the same unpredictability, the restless drive to remain an enigma to those around her. Perhaps it was this reflection of his own wild spirit that spurred him to seek out grisly revenge.

Daemon's warpath toward Caraxes came to a sudden halt as he saw him standing before the painted table. The hollow swordsman. There one-eyed kinslayer. A mirror of Daemon's worst motivations. Here stood the rider of the beast that had slain his daughter.

Without hesitation, Daemon unsheathed Dark Sister, the Valyrian blade slicing through the air with a menacing swish.

"Poetic justice or self-destruction?" he muttered, masking his fury.

Aemond bore a black smile, barely lifting his lips. "Depends on which of us you ask, uncle."

X

Rumours had begun to spread that Aemond Targaryen had defected to the Blacks. Some even called it a surrender. Perhaps it was the stabs of a prickling conscience, the blood stains of love in his hands, or the affliction of sorrow that had overtaken him, making him ready to face the wrath of a grieving mother—and his own death. Bereft of his truest calling, shattered by dreams he had destroyed with his hands, the one-eyed prince swiftly concluded that life held no meaning without his princess. He intended to follow her footsteps soon enough, to fulfil the conclusive detail of their promise: never to part from Aemma henceforth.

Without Aemond and Vhagar, King’s Landing had become perilously vulnerable. The soaring pall of the largest and most terrifying dragon no longer loomed over the capital, and it was clear to all that their strongest defence was now absent. The Greens' was evidently morale staggered. With Vhagar’s absence, Rhaenyra’s forces could bring the fire with seven dragons and fewer consequences, and rumours of dissent spread throughout the city. The Greens were losing their grip, outmatched in numbers and firepower, leaving the smallfolk exposed and the city teetering on the edge of defeat.

Terrible fables spoke of King Aegon and Aemond One-Eye’s grandiose schemes to slay the false queen under the guise of begging for mercy. But these tales were discredited when it was revealed that Aemond had been imprisoned in the chambers of the late princess—a ruthless move orchestrated by Queen Rhaenyra. It was, in every sense, a final sentence.

“If that savage snake truly loved her,” Rhaenyra had said vengefully to her husband, “then that place will drive him mad. Let his evil haunt him. I want to see the fear in his eyes when I burn him.”

Yet fear was not something Aemond would entertain. He would sooner fall on his sword than show terror before his wretched half-sister.

Over time, however, he did fall—deeper into madness consumed by the unfamiliarity of being locked in the space that had once been Aemma’s. The burden of memory became the iron bars and chains of this prison. Numb to everything else, he wandered her chambers aimlessly, haunted by her absence. She was everywhere and nowhere at once—in the vanity, where strands of her hair clung to her hairbrush; in the bureau, where her meticulously folded maps and lists remained undisturbed; and in the faint perfume that lingered in the air, forever scenting her dresser.

A full moon's cycle passed before Aemond began hearing her voice. A breathy echo, a laughing whisper, a figment of his broken mind. With each crash of the waves against the jagged rocks beneath her balcony, he would catch that soft, familiar sound: My friend.

The echo eased him in ways nothing else could, drawing a smile to his face. If this was madness, it was madness he welcomed. My love, he thought, and in that moment, he would’ve gladly surrendered to it.

Jace was the one who finally confronted Aemond, his vengeance boiling over upon his return from the Vale. Sword in hand, he cornered the one-eyed prince in his sister's chambers. What was surprising was how the captive did not baulk at the sight of the angry prince. He simply tilted his head, offering his neck and awaiting the onslaught.

"Fucking murderous cunt," Jace spat, barely above a whisper, trembling with restrained fury.

Aemond was inured now. It resounded in his mind with every breath, a constant reminder of what he'd become. His gaze remained distant, vacant as he met Jace's stare.

"Mount your dragon," Jace ordered, dripping with disdain. "I only spare you this avail because of how dearly Aemma loved you."

Aemond didn’t even blink. It took more effort than expected to form words after days of silence.

"I will not fight you," he muttered, voice gravelly from disuse. "So, get it over with. Finish me."

But Jace wasn't about to grant him that release.

"You're coming with me," he growled, eyes blazing with wrath. "I won't believe my sister is gone until I see it with my eyes. Find me Silverwing, and only then will you get what you so desperately crave."

Aemond turned away, blinking back a rare sting of emotion clouding his vision. He had been so benumbed, that the sensation sliced him raw. His jaw clenched, forcing his voice through the anguish tightening his throat.

"Silverwing sank beneath the waves."

"Then she should've washed ashore by now," Jace snapped, his tone sharpening. "Or been spotted near Storm's End, or found by sailors off Driftmark. Someone would've seen her. I will not grieve with my family until I know for certain. Until I’ve seen damning proof."

Aemond’s teeth ground together in frustration. "My hope ended with her."

"Hope?" Jace sneered, the word wresting bitterly in his mouth. "Know this, uncle—gods forbid I find what I seek, you won’t just be dead to the realm, you’ll be nothing more than a relic of a prince no one will remember."

X

We cannot know the ancient minds of dragons. They were not merely instruments of war—they were beasts of chaos, as unreliable as the gales they rode. A bitter reminder of how little command Targaryens truly held, even over their own beasts. Yet, the Good Queen's Silverwing had always been distinct from the others—gentler, some would say, with a serenity that belied the strength coiled within her shimmering, pale-scaled body.

Her loyalty to her peaceful rider ran deeper than bloodshed or battle, for it was not assumed upon command or duty but of a friendship that transcended power. It was instinctual, a mutual loneliness that they shared. Silverwing had intuited Aemma’s presence since her first touch upon her scales, the soft whispers of affection, the implicit trust.

Following Aemma's descent from her dragon's saddle, the waters hit her hard, churning her into the abyss. Just as the waves threatened to pull her deeper, Silverwing cut through them, her talons outstretched, and in a swift, precise motion, she plucked Aemma from the depths before the sea could claim her entirely. Silverwing’s grip was painstaking, cradling her rider’s limp form between her sharp talons, ensuring she was protected. With a great struggle, Silverwing battered her wings against the storm, fighting the ocean’s pull, lifting them both back into the air, finding cover above the storm clouds.

And now, in the quiet of this remote sanctuary, camouflaged against rocks, their bond held firm, even as Aemma lay unconscious amidst the mud and grass, suspended between life and death.

The old dragon sensed more than the warmth of her rider's skin when she nudged her snout against her constantly, letting out a low, concerned rumble. She felt the pulse of her heart, flimsy but steady, the rhythm of her breath, shallow but resilient. Every beat, every rise and fall of Aemma’s chest was a call to Silverwing, one that she refused to neglect.

Silverwing would shift her body closer at night, nestling Aemma to the earth, her massive wing folded protectively over the young princess' limp body like a shroud of safety from the bitter storms and the chilliness of dusk. Her fiery breaths ghosted over Aemma, keeping her warm.

Days turned into nights, and nights into days, but Silverwing never left, only venturing far enough to find sustenance, returning quickly, her eyes scanning the skies for any threats that might approach. But none came. The world remained unaware of the little hidden firth by the hills and the fragile life it cradled.

Silverwing’s troth was not just an animal instinct—it was a devotion to the one person who had never treated her as a mere beast. For nigh on a week, Aemma had doted on her, spoken to her in the tongue of Old Valyria, just as Alysanne did, with the same reverence and care, and Silverwing, in turn, had taken her into the skies, free from the burdens of the mortal realm.

In this isolated place, far from the throes of war, Silverwing held the last vestige of hope for her rider’s survival. It wasn't until a dark-haired sailor had stumbled upon their refuge that the mighty she-dragon let out her first roar in a while.

Addam of Hull hadn't expected much that day. He had set out on his small boat with nothing but the hope of catching enough fish to feed Driftmark's shores. The oceans had been restless ever since the bloodshed over Shipbreaker's Bay, and his mind had drifted as the waves lapped at the sides of his skiff. He cast his net, whistling a well-known sea shanty, letting the salt air fill his lungs, when something unusual caught his eye, beyond a small inlet of water rambling away from the beach.

A flash of silver. A rustle in the trees.

As his little skiff crept closer and into the currents of the slight strait, Addam’s heart surged. There, nestled within the protective embrace of the rocks, lay a great silvery-blue dragon that was the name on everyone's fuller lips—Silverwing. Her glittering hide was unmistakable, though it bore the wear of days spent at the mercy of the weather. She lay low to the ground, her immense wings tucked tightly around something as if guarding a prized jewel.

Addam wasted no time. He rowed forth, with all the strength he could muster, his mind racing. Could it be? Could Princess Aemma have survived the hand of fate, the cruel sea, her murderous husband, and the relentless storm? Could it be that Rhaeynra's heir was very much still alive?

As he drew nigher, disembarking his boat and clambering up the rocks, Silverwing raised her head, her auburn eyes locking onto him with a vicious intensity. She cautioned him with a low rumble, ready to spew out her ire.

For a moment, Addam feared she truly might lash out, mistaking him for a foe, but she did not move. Instead, she took a prudent sniff and juddered her head, softening almost.

Eventually, she unfurled her wings narrowly, revealing the motionless form of Princess Aemma cradled beneath her. She was drenched, emaciated, tattered, bruised, and her silver hair matted to her gaunt face, but her chest rose and fell.

There was yet life in her. Barely. All alone. No one else. Just Silverwing standing vigil over her as if she’d been guarding the princess all these days. Ten days.

"Gods be good," Addam murmured.

Silverwing shifted away, stooping into the rocky niche, as if to offer her rider to him, but kept her weather eye on him. Addam made quick work of it, lifting her carefully into his arms off the wet ground. She was light, too light, but she stirred faintly at his touch.

"Princess?" He was unsure if she could hear him.

As he carried her back toward the boat, shrouded her in the coils of his nets, her fiery guardian observed the sailor, her vigilant eyes never leaving Aemma’s form.

She pierced a startling trill at her rider's saviour.

Addam jerked in shock, nearly dropping his docking ropes.

Silverwing rose off the ground, and shook herself off, wings beginning to unfurl as if preparing to take flight.

"You—er, stay," Addam stammered, desperately gesturing with his palms, trying to convey some form of command to the dragon.

He knew full well he was speaking to a creature that answered to no man but her rider, and she was not going to let just anyone snatch the princess away unless she was certain they meant no harm.

Carefully, Addam took a step closer, heart thudding in his chest as he bowed his head to the dragon.

"I'm not here to harm her," he said softly as if Silverwing could understand his plea. "I want to save her."

For a long moment, the dragon stayed unmoving, watching him closely, casting her own unfamiliar judgement. Then, with a slow and deliberate movement, she backed away scarcely.

"Thank you," he whispered, though he wasn’t entirely sure if he was thanking the dragon, the gods, or fate itself.

X

Returning Princess Aemma in such a state to her kin on Dragonstone would have them questioning Addam's heartening intentions toward her. Rather than have them cast their vile aspersions on him and taint his shoddy name further, the brothers knew it was only proper to nurse the princess to health before anything else. The secret of Aemma's survival would remain closely guarded for a while longer.

"She thinks I'm her father," Addam quietly shared with his brother, Alyn, upon the fifth evening of secretively nursing Princess Aemma in their meagre home. It had been a total of sixteen days since she was believed deceased.

Alyn raised an eyebrow, glancing over at the small, makeshift room where their heir to the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms lay in a thrifty cot, wrapped in linen blankets and tended to with great care. Her condition had steadily improved, but she remained barely conscious and frail.

"What do you mean, ‘she thinks I’m her father’? Is she delirious?" He asked.

Addam leaned against the doorframe, picking off the herbs from his thumb. "Perhaps she seeks comfort. And she finds it in the late Laenor."

As they spoke, a soft groan emanated from the cot, interrupting them. Aemma stirred, her dark eyes fluttering open briefly before closing again. Her lips moved silently, murmuring incoherent words. Addam and Alyn exchanged a glance, their choices harshening.

Alyn's brow furrowed. "How is she then?"

"Better than expected," Addam replied, shaking his head. "Her fever broke, I've stopped feeding her milk of the poppy. She recalls her mother often. The poor thing had nearly cracked every rib in her chest, the healers had to brace her spine with wood until yesterday. The blood of Old Valyria heals quick, I suppose."

Alyn nodded, absorbing the solemnity of his brother’s words. "And the dragon?"

"Stays close, hovers around the Driftmark groves. I've been feeding her, too," Addam said, shaking his head with a small, wry smile.

Alyn clapped his brother on his back, grateful for him. "How are you faring?"

Addam shrugged casually. "I’m doing what I can."

"Good. Keep watch," Alyn instructed, nodding at him. "On the morrow, I’ll prepare a fresh supply of herbs and check on the guards. There's only so long that we can keep her out of prying eyes."

Addam sat by the firelight in the hearth, his eyes constantly drifting to the young girl as she lay nestled beneath the heavy blankets, adjusting them around her again, his movements careful, almost tender. Every now and then, Aemma would stir, her brow twitching in her sleep, speaking illegibly. The flicker of the flames stained her face in hues of gold and shadow, silvery hair glinting, making her seem almost unearthly, untouchable. She could not have been older than fifteen, an age no child should have to raise battlements in a war.

“She’s strong,” Addam murmured, more to himself than to anyone in particular. “Stronger than I imagined.”

"A future queen," Alyn said. "There's hope for her yet."

X

The second sons of the Blacks and Greens, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon and Aemond Targaryen, were unlikely allies as they scoured the realm despite their bitterness, united on a front to find a whiff of Aemma or Silverwing, searching high and low, from the misty mountains of the Vale to the shadowed peaks of Harrenhal and the foggy forests of the Riverlands. Every whisper of a silver-blue dragon sighting raised their hopes, only to be dashed moments later.

The weight of Aemma's absence dangled over them like a blade. Jace was fierce, relentless in finding that damned dragon himself, dead or alive. Maybe they were on a wild goose chase, led astray to not confront the reality that awaited them. Every dead end with clueless lords and fishermen was a new wound, yet he never yielded.

Aemond, however, wore a stoic mask over his understanding of the truth, though beneath it, the torment tore at his soul. If Aemma's room had been perfect chaos, this was his purgatory. His nights grew sleepless, plagued by the recollections of his mistakes, the sight of her empty saddle still burned behind his eyes. He carried the guilt like a second skin, abrading when it got too thin. A little part of him was driven to heed Jace, an insignificant confidence, not by burden but by desperation—a need for redemption, to see her alive, to prove to himself that she had somehow survived.

Now, close to five nights, it had become custom for Jace, drunk on grief and rage, to drag his feet outside Aemond's pitched tent, embracing his shining sword, fighting his morals. Fighting the inevitable. Jace never spoke to Aemond directly, but his accusations found a way into his earshot.

"Aemma was good. Peaceful," he would hear Jace lament. "She had dreams. She was our sunshine. Now she’s out there somewhere, alone in death. Or worse. And you, of all people, claim to be the one who loved her? You never did. You fucking murderer. Selfish cunt."

This night, a familiar darkness flickered alight in Aemond. Unfailing despair powered him to react. He walked out of his tent, stepping forward in a threat until Jace's raging face was inches apart, his sword slipping from his grasp. His single eye narrowed.

"Say it again," Aemond dared, his voice low and cold. "Say that I do not love her. Say it, bastard."

Jace shoved him by his chest, his rage boiling over. "You threw her away like she was nothing! For your treacherous family! You never gave a fuck about her, and that is the truth!"

Aemond stumbled back but didn’t fight back. How could he, he had nothing left to withstand. His mouth twisted in pain, but his voice remained hard.

"Hate me all you want. Blame me. Strike me down. Your words hold facts. But don’t think for one second that your fury burns hotter than mine own. Or that your love transcends mine own."

"Fuck you!"

Jace shoved him again, shouting out his rage, this time harder, the power of his wrath pushing Aemond back a step. And again and again, until Aemond fell back into the mud. Back again to ten years ago, when a spiteful Aegon had towered over him, Sunfyre peering over his shoulder mockingly.

Jace met his gaze, the two facing eye to eye, the consequence of years of rivalry and betrayal still fresh between them. But beneath it, there was something else now—shared desperation, grief that only they could understand. The closest brother of Aemma and her husband.

Aemond's breath hitched, bearing himself with his palms, the words barely escaping through his gritted teeth. He looked Jace in the eye, his jaw tight.

"I have nothing left. Seize your sword and end it all."

Jace leaned down, seething, his voice trembling with scorn. "Look at where your absolution got you. Begging your foes for death. Pathetic."

Aemond’s hand twitched toward his dagger on instinct, his face a storm of rage and remorse. He had been so accustomed to being on his back, bearing through the punches thrown, facing defeat, now when he was made to encounter this yet again.

"Yes. That is all you see," Aemond agreed, his expression darkening. "All you ever see. Aegon, Rhaenyra, you. A pathetic boy too sightless for power. I've belonged nowhere but with Aemma all my life"—his voice cracked—"and now she's gone, too. And I am left trapped in this resenting world."

Jace stayed quiet, breathing deeply.

"I could not save her," he whispered, the words hollow as they left him. "No atonement will ever free me from this, even while I chase forgiveness from a ghost. I will never know peace again until my last breath."

His trembling fingers unsheathed his dagger and threw it to Jace's feet. "Make your shot count, nephew. Plunge it into my other eye, and take what is due. I do not care anymore."

Jace’s mouth opened, but no words came out. He took a step back, torn between fury and pity, his expression unreadable. He looked away, blinking back tears as if the significance of Aemond’s words was too much to bear. He couldn’t bring himself to speak—there was nothing left to say.

"You don't deserve peace, not even in death," Jace eventually whispered before walking away.

X

The air was dense with the scent of salt and damp wood as Aemma lay in a bed draped with soft linens, the faint sounds of the lapping waves against the rocky shores of Driftmark echoing in her ears. Her body felt heavy, as though weighed down by an invisible force. Pain coursed through her like a vicious tide, abrupt and relentless, yet there was a warmth surrounding her that whispered of safety.

Fingers of consciousness began to weave their way through the fog enveloping her mind. Flashes of memory flickered like distant constellations—Silverwing’s fierce wings, the chaos of the storm, and Addam’s urgent voice calling her name. She struggled against the haze, her heart pounding with the remnants of fear and desperation.

"Aemma." The voice broke through her reverie, softer now, tinged with concern.

She fought to open her eyes, the effort feeling monumental. Slowly, her eyelids fluttered, and the dim light of the stuffy room began to emerge. A figure stood at the foot of the bed, cloaked and hooded, shrouded in shadow.

A wave of shock washed over her, and before she could fully grasp the situation, he lunged forward, pressing a warm hand to her lips to silence her gasp. Heart racing, Aemma’s gaze narrowed, the edges of her memory sharpening.

"Ssh, my love," he shushed her.

She recognized the intensity in his gaze, even from beneath the hood. He hovered close, his presence both alarming and strangely familiar. His silver hair rolled off his neck and shoulders, catching the light and casting shadows that accentuated the depth of his expression. One striking violet eye shone through the darkness, piercing and filled with emotion, while the other was shrouded in shadow.

“Aemond,” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper, like the faintest breeze. It felt like a lifetime since she had last spoken, her throat dry and cracked.

He flinched at the sound of her voice as if she had struck a nerve. Slowly, he lifted his head, an indigo eye swirling with a charged storm—pain, regret, and something darker lurking beneath the surface.

His voice was as firm as steel, yet equally gentle. "We've done our parts here. You’re coming with me, and this time, forever."

X

[rennalaqotfm]

𖤓 DRAGONSPEAR | J.V (PART III)

Pairing: Prince Jacaerys Velaryon x Martell Princess! Reader

Synopsys: Upon discovering Aemond Targaryen's alliance with the Triarchy, the Blacks are pushed to the point of desperation. With the war looming over the horizon, they have no choice but to turn to an unlikely ally: House Martell.

Content Warning: Violence, blood and injury, mentions of death, alcohol consumption, angst, and a lot of 'fucking politicking,' as King Viserys said, (not proofread).

Dialogue in italics is High Valyrian.

WC: 5.4k

Series Masterlist

(A/N and taglist at the end of the chapter)

Prince Jacaerys Velaryon had always prided himself on being a capable fighter. Although Jacaerys' strength primarily lay in politics, he never let his swordsmanship fall behind. In fact, Ser Harwin Strong, the captain of the City Watch, and as many whispered, his real father,  had taught him everything about the art of yielding a sword. From the correct way of unsheathing the blade to keeping his knees slightly bent so he wouldn't stagger as easily. He still recalled how at the tender age of six, Ser Harwin kneeled to his level as he placed his heavy arm on his shoulder.

'A sword is but a tool. Its true power lies within the one who yields it. Visualise your desired outcome, and your blade will follow.'

Ser Criston Cole, however, had no patience for his idealised notions of battle. While Ser Harwin had taught Jacaerys the foundations of swordsmanship, it was Ser Criston who introduced him to the unforgiving truth of a real battle, proving that sparring with a straw dummy wasn't useful beyond the training grounds.

'When steel is drawn, a fair fight isn't something anyone should expect.'

He still bitterly remembered how Ser Criston had him spar against his uncle Aegon. Anyone who watched that scene would've thought it wasn't a fair battle. Aegon was already four-and-ten, much taller and stronger than he was. Jacaerys still remembered how Aegon's strikes had come faster and harder than anything he had faced before, especially the kick to his stomach that sent him flying to the ground with a thud, and yet, Aegon didn't cease delivering blow after blow with brute force.

'Is this what you teach, Cole? Cruelty to the weaker opponent?' 

The sting of defeat, the bruises that lingered for days, and the humiliation of being bested in front of others, particularly his grandsire Viserys, were all part of Ser Criston's lesson. And in that moment, Jacaerys came to realise that cruelty might be something he didn't possess.

Now there was no excuse. It wasn't going to be an unfair battle since Prince Elyas Martell was but a year older than him, and couldn't have trained any differently. However, Jacaerys had never killed a man with his own hands. Yes, he had led men into battle, but taking someone's life with his sword was something he had yet to experience. There was no doubt that killing was nothing more than just a mundane task for Elyas. Those Dornishmen seemed to take pleasure in the most outlandish ways, which made him question how strong of a warrior Prince Elyas was to defeat such great lords.

Then he recalled the story Addam of Hull had told them in Dragonstone, how the reason why Princess Y/n remained unwed was because his suitors had met the common fate of death. As much as he didn't want to believe those rumours, he had bitterly grown to accept that all those tales about the Dornishmen were nothing but true. 

The young prince frowned as he took in the arid, unforgiving weather. It would've been foolish to wear his full armour for the trial; the extreme heat would likely cause him to collapse before he even reached the arena. He sported nothing more than a Targaryen breastplate on top of a linen tunic, and his breeches. He considered sporting his gauntlets, but the sweat of his hands would affect the grip on his sword. Even with just the breastplate, he already felt how beads of sweat rolled down his back.

Jacaerys had been so fixated on winning the trial that he barely had any time to process his betrothal with Princess Y/n. He wondered if all of her suitors even wished for power, or mayhaps they were simply entranced by her beauty. Despite her attitude,  there was something enticing about the Princess he couldn't bring himself to deny. But what was he going to do if behind that beauty lay nothing but different ideals and hostility? What would the rest of the houses think upon finding out about their alliance with House Martell? How would the two of them rule the whole realm if the Princess put Dorne's interests before the rest of Westeros? 

Not to mention, even if he emerged victorious from the trial, he doubted Princess Y/n would be too pleased if her brother's life was the price. The thought gnawed at him as he fastened his boots. But what if he were the one to fall? He couldn't even begin to imagine the devastation it would bring to his mother, and the mere thought of her grief twisted his stomach. Daemon had offered to fight in his place, a suggestion his mother had eagerly supported. Yet, Jacaerys had refused, knowing that the Princess would never consider his proposal if he didn't prove his own worth in the arena. To win her hand without facing the trial himself would be dishonourable.

No matter what he did, all odds were against him.

"It's time," one of the guards spoke behind the door.

One guard led the way, as the other trailed behind him, with his spear in hand, ready to attack if the Prince even attempted to do anything. They walked through the labyrinthine halls of the Old Palace, adorned with pillars and chandeliers, lighting up the place as the blinding rays of sunshine met with the golden decorations.

They stepped into the flourishing gardens leading to the arena, where Rhaenyra and Daemon awaited his arrival. He could hear his mother's voice as they spoke in High Valyrian, unaware of his presence.

"I have lost too many children, Daemon. The thought of losing Jace—" Rhaenyra's voice faltered, her lip quivering as she fought to swallow the rising lump in her throat. 

"Elyas would be a fool to slay the Crown Prince," Daemon mumbled. 

"You, above all, should know what these people are capable of."

"But killing the future king of the realm is a line they would not dare cross."

"And yet, must the price we pay for this war be our children?" Rhaenyra's voice broke. 

"I was not aware how my death would be such an interesting thing to discuss," Jacaerys muttered bitterly.

"Jace," Rhaenyra turned to face her son, cupping his cheek. "For the last time, you do not have to do this—"

Jacaerys swatted his mother's hand off, his eyes full of contempt. 

"You have no right to act concerned, Mother. You pushed forward with this, knowing the risks, knowing that I might pay with my life. Whatever fate awaits me in this trial... if I die, my blood is in your hands. But at least I will have done my duty."

Before Rhaenyra could say anything else to her son, the guards urged him to move forward.

With a heavy heart, Jacaerys turned to face her mother one last time, but she was nowhere to be seen as they most likely had been taken to the gallery. Before the guards pushed the double doors they exchanged a look of pity, clearing a path for him. That didn't go unnoticed by the Prince, and it only added to the river of negative emotions he had been drowning in since they arrived.

As Jacaerys stepped through the double doors, the world around him was suddenly swallowed by darkness, with only a narrow beam of light from the distant end of the tunnel. The corridor stretched before him, its walls echoing with the muffled sounds of the world above. He could hear the creak of wooden beams straining under the weight of footsteps, making him wonder how many eyes might be waiting for him outside. The air was cool and heavy, carrying with it the scent of the arena's sands, yet the usual roar of a crowd was eerily absent.

Jacaerys took a deep breath before stepping into the arena. The sun was almost blinding, leaving him momentarily disoriented. Feeling like a caged animal, he scanned his surroundings, shielding his eyes with his hand. To his surprise, there weren't many spectators; he could only make out the members of the Martell council. Then, his eyes quickly found his mother, whose face was etched with deep concern and regret. Nearby, Daemon, unable to sit still, attempted to calm his nerves with a cup of wine. Not very far from where the council sat, there were three empty seats in the royal box, where Prince Qoren took his seat, with Farien on his lap. Jacaerys grew confused as he saw Prince Elyas take a seat next to his father, leaving one empty. Was he not going to fight for his sister? Mayhaps the Princess' champion was her sworn protector. 

A few moments had passed, yet the Princess was nowhere to be seen. Jacaerys' mind raced with doubts. Was she not going to attend the trial she herself had proposed? 

Suddenly, the double doors opposite him began to open and the Martells began to cheer. Prince Qoren wrapped his arm around Farien, who couldn't stop clapping as he bounced on his father's lap. Elyas signalled one of the servants to bring him a cup of wine, as he leaned back on his seat and looked at Jacaerys with a sneer. 

His eyes widened in shock as the figure emerging from the other side of the arena wasn't one of the twins either. 

It was Princess Y/n herself.

The Princess strode toward the centre of the arena, the sun-kissed amber fabric of her dress flowing like a whisper with each step. The high slits on either side of the skirt fluttered and snapped, revealing glimpses of her legs as she moved. With a fluid motion, Princess Y/n unsheathed the two golden daggers holstered on her thighs, playfully twirling them around her fingers.

"Princess Y/n Martell, the Dancing Serpent of Dorne, and Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, the Crown Prince. Let the trial commence," Ser Domeric Uller announced, earning another wave of applause from the Martells. 

Dancing Serpent of Dorne?

Jacaerys took an instinctive step back, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. Two guards blocked the door with their spears, leaving no chance of escape. In the glaring sunlight, Princess Y/n appeared like an oasis amid the dunes, her bronze skin glowing with an ethereal radiance, akin to that of a deity. She moved with the lethal agility of a serpent, her eyes locked onto him, calculating, and ready to strike. A storm of doubts began to cloud Jacaerys. What was he supposed to do? Kill her? Maim her? 

He suddenly heard Ser Criston Cole's voice echoing in the back of his mind.

'Blades up. Engage.'

As if guided by pure instinct, the Prince unsheathed his sword, the sharp silver catching and reflecting a ray of sunlight. He quickly assumed a defensive stance, his eyes fixed onto the Princess. If he kept his distance, he should have the advantage over her. He lunged, aiming not for a lethal blow, but to knock the Princess off her feet, hard enough to force her to yield. 

He was not there to shed blood. 

The Princess easily dodged his attack as his blade slashed the air, and he quickly withdrew to his defensive stance. They began circling each other, eyes locked, neither daring to look away.

A bead of sweat trickled down Jacaerys' temple, his heart pounding as he watched Y/n assume a low, unfamiliar stance. She held both of her daggers up, poised like a serpent's fangs as she moved with languid grace, inching closer to him, almost hypnotically.

Before he could fully register the movement, a sharp pain sliced through his arm. Jacaerys hissed as Y/n's blade carved a deep gash, warm blood seeping through his white tunic and dripping onto the sand. He clenched his jaw, forcing the searing pain to the back of his mind, determined to ignore the Martells' cheers echoing around the arena. At least the arm wielding his sword was still intact.

The dance between the dragon and the serpent continued. Y/n darted forward, her twin daggers a blur as she unleashed a relentless flurry of slashes. Jacaerys struggled to block, each clash of steel sending vibrations up his injured arm. As she pressed her assault, he caught a glimpse of something feral in her eyes, a familiar look he knew all too well: bloodlust.

Growing weary of her relentless attacks, he sidestepped one of her strikes and delivered a swift, powerful kick to her side. The sheer force sent the Princess onto the sand with a grunt, one of her daggers slipping from her grasp.

Seizing the moment, Jacaerys lifted his blade to force her to surrender. But before he could strike, the Princess rolled to the side and kicked his shin, sending him stumbling backwards. In a heartbeat, Y/n was on him, knocking the sword from his grasp. She straddled him, raising her dagger high, ready to plunge it into his throat. Jacaerys reacted just in time, catching her wrist in a bone-crushing grip. Y/n cried out, the pain weakening her hold, and Jacaerys seized the opportunity. With a desperate reach, he grabbed the dagger she had previously dropped, which was just at arm's reach, and drove it straight into her side. 

"Sister!" Elyas stood from his seat, ready to drive a spear into Jacaerys' heart. 

The Princess wailed in agony, her body retracting as she recoiled from the blow. Jacaerys quickly rolled free and scrambled to his feet, retrieving his sword and pointing it at her, his chest heaving as he tried to keep her pinned under the threat of his blade.

"Princess, please, I do not wish to hurt you—"

Jacaerys' eyes widened in horror as he watched Y/n yank the dagger from her side with a wicked grin. Without hesitation, she drove it into his calf. He groaned in pain, nearly collapsing, and used his sword to regain balance, the blade trembling under his weight.

Princess Y/n stood up from the ground, twirling the dagger as she watched the Prince struggle to get back to a defensive stance. Blood trickled down her side, soaking into her dress and staining the sand beneath her a deep crimson colour.

Jacaerys clenched his jaw in humiliation, feeling how pathetic he must have appeared to his mother, Daemon, the Martells, and most of all, to Y/n herself. 

Before he could fully recover, Y/n moved like a shadow, slipping behind him. He grunted as she wrapped her arm around his neck, pulling him close. The cold edge of her dagger was pressed firmly against his throat, and he dared not move.

He caught a glimpse of his mother, restrained by Daemon and the guards, her blood-curdling screams piercing through the air. It was the last sound he wanted to hear in his final moments. Jacaerys squeezed his eyes shut, trying to drown out the chaos and focus on memories that brought him comfort: the waves crashing against the cliffs of Dragonstone, the rhythmic beat of Vermax's wings cutting through the clouds, and Lucerys' carefree laughter.

As he opened his eyes and looked up at the sky, he smiled bitterly. The absurdity of it all nearly made him laugh. From the moment he had stepped into the arena, he knew he was doomed to fail. Yet, some foolish part of him had clung to the hope that he could make the Princess surrender. 

He felt the Princess' laboured breaths in his ear, sending a chill down his spine. He waited, and waited, and waited for the dagger to slash his neck, but the excruciating pain he had anticipated never came. 

Instead, a simple command reached his ears. One that, under any other circumstances, he would have defied without a second thought. But at that moment, his life was in the hands of Princess Y/n, and he dared not disobey her.

"Kneel before me," she whispered, making his blood run cold.

Jacaerys felt the Princess's grip loosen, allowing him to stumble forward. He turned back to face her, dropping to one knee, his gaze locked on hers. But in her eyes, he found no trace of mercy, nor cruelty. The bloodlust had drained away, replaced by a storm of emotions she herself couldn't fully comprehend.

That was the first time he had looked closely at the Princess. Her chest rose and fell rhythmically, beads of sweat rolling down her temple as a few droplets of his own blood stained her face. There was something undeniably bewitching about her, a pull he couldn't fathom. As he gazed up at the woman before him, a creeping sense of fear began to coil in his chest as he came to realise the power she wielded over him. She was the kind of woman who could either plunge the Seven Kingdoms into chaos or unite them under her command.

"I choose Prince Jacaerys Velaryon as my betrothed," she declared, her voice echoing through the arena as her eyes locked onto Rhaenyra. "House Martell will stand with Queen Rhaenyra in the Targaryen Civil War. In return, we demand control of the Stepstones, the unwavering protection and loyalty of House Targaryen whenever called upon, and the unchallenged independence of Dorne once the war is won. And most importantly," she looked at her father, giving him a firm nod, "I expect an official acknowledgement of Dorne's sovereignty. Let this moment be written in history, for the generations to come."

The dining hall of the Old Palace was in full swing. Delicacies were served in abundance, and the servants scurried about, refilling cups left and right. The Princess was deep into her fifth cup, trying to numb the burning pain of her wound, which had been sewn and bandaged by Maester Kyce, and although her wrist was badly bruised, it wasn't dislocated.

Her gaze shifted to the erotic performance happening before them as they ate. A pair of men and women explored their bodies, trying the most peculiar positions that she never thought were possible. She could only chuckle, the wine painting the scene as the most amusing thing she had ever witnessed. She finished what she had left in her cup, before ushering the servant for more. 

It was the only thing that could help her escape the suffocating atmosphere at the round table. Her father wasn't particularly pleased to be sharing the table with the Targaryens, and the feeling was mutual with the Martells. She couldn't bring herself to look at Elyas, whose eyes burned with the desire to start a war. Rhaenyra appeared torn between wanting to have her publicly executed for hurting her son and embracing her for sparing his life—yet even then, Y/n wasn't sure if what she had done was truly an act of mercy. Daemon leaned back, indulging in the finest Dornish wines, smirking as he silently celebrated the small victory of his successful plan. The only person who could have made the ordeal more bearable was Farien, but he was already fast asleep in his chambers. 

Then there was Jacaerys. He sat stiffly, trying to focus on anything but her. Yet, there was something about her presence that commanded his attention, and his eyes betrayed him, drifting toward her against his will. Mayhaps her eyes lingered on him longer than she had realised, as their gazes suddenly met. He looked away, as though her eyes just scarred his soul.

"Well, isn't that pathetic..." she muttered under her breath.

That was the man who was to be her future betrothed, a prince who couldn't even meet her gaze without flinching. The thought of marrying someone like him left a sour taste in her mouth.

"Have you got something to say, Princess?" Jacaerys suddenly spat.

"Oh, I most certainly do," Y/n retorted, her lips curling in a mocking grin as she tried her best not to slur her words. Casymir helped her stand up. She took her cup and slowly raised it. "I wish to propose a toast," she began, trailing her eyes at Daemon and Rhaenyra before resting her gaze on Jacaerys. "After all, it's not every day that we witness such a... historic moment. The mighty Dragon, so fierce and proud, finally finds its place... on the ground, with one bent knee before the Serpent. To the ever-lasting and prosperous alliance of House Martell and House Targaryen." 

The room fell into an uneasy silence. Prince Qoren hummed in approval, raising his cup with a satisfied smile, while Rhaenyra and Daemon's expressions tightened in shock and disbelief at the blatant disrespect. Daemon's eyes narrowed dangerously, lingering on the knife beside the roast piglet, his fingers inching towards it. But before he could act, Rhaenyra's sharp glare stopped him. Jacaerys, however, had enough of her insolent attitude.

"I wish to propose a toast as well," Jacaerys stood up, wincing at the pain in his leg. "I wish to thank House Martell for their... overwhelming hospitality in receiving the Crown," he paused, taking his time to look at the Martells and each guard. "Not only have we been looked after with the utmost care, every single moment accompanied by the comforting presence of a spear at our backs, but you have also shown us that the great tales they speak of the Dornishmen are nothing but the truth. Fighting against the Princess herself has truly been an honour, and I am forever grateful for the mercy she has shown me. Mayhaps the Princess has a soft spot after all." 

"Oh, my Prince," her eyes narrowed, knowing all too well that the mercy Jacaerys had referred to was cowardice. "I would love to have another duel, but I'd much prefer you alive for our wedding."

Jacaerys' face twisted with fury, his anger momentarily blinding him. In a swift motion, he drew his sword. Y/n didn't flinch. Instead, she unsheathed her dagger instinctively, pointing it directly at his forehead.

"We should take this to the arena if the Prince dares, that is," Princess Y/n smirked. "Well?" She taunted, looking down on him.

Jacaerys' nostrils flared with rage, knuckles turning white as he tightly held the grip of his sword. His mother's comforting touch slowly calmed his inner storm, and with a sour look on his face, he put his sword away. 

"That's what I thought," she muttered loud enough as she sat back down.

"Aren't they lovely, both of them? Already bickering like an old, married couple," Prince Qoren laughed. "Speaking of, they should marry as soon as possible. The wedding of my beloved daughter should be an event to remember," he turned to the Targaryens. "What do you want, Y/n, dear? We should get a pair of fine Braavosi tigers and make the prisoners fight them in the arena—"

"We are at war, Prince Qoren, we have no time for celebrations," Daemon interrupted him.

"It is only a matter of weeks before Ser Tyland reaches the Free Cities if the winds are in their favour," Rhaenyra echoed Lady Mysaria's words, not able to hide her concern. "Rest assured, once the war has been won, the celebrations will be held in the Red Keep."

"But who can assure me the Prince will not die during this war?" Prince Qoren asked, shrugging his shoulders. "When do you suppose we have the wedding? Once the Prince is dead?"

The Queen's face hardened, her eyes narrowing at him.

"I could have your tongue for that, Prince Qoren," she said coldly. 

"I'm glad the formalities are off the table," he muttered bitterly. "Your war can wait. My daughter is of sun and sand and will be married here, in our lands, with our people."

Rhaenyra could barely contain her anger, too tired of hearing the Martells' unreasonable demands. The idea of postponing the war for a wedding felt like a mockery, a distraction from the battle that could determine the fate of her house.

Y/n fought the urge to roll her eyes, too exhausted by the entire ordeal, the weight of her choices, and the tangled mess she now found herself in. With a deep sigh, she drained her cup, forcing herself to adopt a more civil tone.

"As much as I'm enjoying everybody's lovely company, I'm not faring well with my wound. I shall go back to my chambers to rest," the Princess excused herself as Casymir helped her stand up, wrapping his arm around her for support. 

By now, the once lavish feast had lost its appeal. The delicacies had grown cold, and the appetite of those present had long since vanished.

"I'll see to it that my sister returns to her chambers safely," Elyas excused himself, rising from his seat and trailing after the Princess.

"Elyas isn't happy about your decision," Casymir said softly as he cradled the Princess in his arms. 

Casymir chose to take the long path through the gardens back to her chambers, where the light of the full moon bathed everything in a silvery glow, and the warm evening breeze carried the scent of blooming magnolias. The flickering torches along the way cast dancing shadows, soothing the Princess' spirits.

"I figured as much," she scoffed. "He'll come to understand in due time."

"I'm afraid he won't, Princess," Casymir teased, making her laugh. 

"Not even if I explain?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"He'd understand even less," Casymir replied with a grin, his words drawing another burst of laughter from her.

At that moment, it was clear that Casymir was the only one who could truly reach her heart. She looked up at her half-brother, noting the familiar wild curls and thick brows they shared. Yet, unlike the brown eyes she and her other brothers had, his were a deep shade of blue, like the glittering Dornish waters on a sunny day.

"You should've been a jester instead, Cas," she murmured, her voice growing softer as the effects of the wine finally began to lull her into sleep. She nestled closer to his chest, allowing herself to relax completely in his arms.

"I'd rather be your shadow, Princess," his eyes softened, watching her doze off.

By the time they had arrived at her chambers, Y/n was already snoring lightly. Casymir raised his brow upon seeing his twin waiting outside.

"Leoran?" Casymir asked. "What are you doing here? Where's Elyas?"

"Inside. I'd hurry if I were you," Leoran said, opening the door for them.

Casymir stepped inside, only to find Elyas sitting on one of the seats. By the look on his face and the empty cup on the table, it seemed that he had been waiting for a while.

"What took you both so long?" He asked, looking at his half-brother in disdain.

"We were in the gardens, Y/n wanted to—"

"Leave us," he commanded.

"Very well," Casymir lowered his gaze and nodded. 

He laid the Princess on her bed carefully, brushing a strand of hair off her face, but she already seemed to have been awoken by Elyas' voice. Y/n sat up, rubbing her eyes, only to be greeted by a pounding headache and a sharp pain on her side. Once she spotted her brother with his arms crossed, sitting down across from her, she groaned. 

"Well?" He asked, expectantly.

"Not now, Elyas," she sighed. 

"Then when?" He stood up and kicked the chair aside. "When? When were you going to tell me what you and Father were planning?"

Y/n rolled her eyes, feeling her headache worsen as Elyas' voice boomed in her ears.

"Planning?" She scoffed. "Father didn't have a say in my decision. He gave me two choices, and I merely chose the one that wouldn't lead to bloodshed."

"Oh, really? What were these two grand choices?" He pressed.

"Side with the Blacks and keep our independence, or refuse, and face the Triarchy and the Greens once this war is over," she paused, gathering all of the patience she had left to keep going. "Do you understand what that would mean, Elyas? It means another war, right on our doorstep. For us. For Dorne. For our people. And tell me, what should I have chosen? More bloodshed? More meaningless deaths? You think that's what Father would've wanted?"

"If you had told me, then I could've helped you decide!" Elyas' voice cracked with frustration, his fists clenching at his sides.

"Help me decide?" She retorted. "And by that, do you mean killing the Velaryon boy?"

"Why not?" Elyas shot back. "You had the chance! You could've slit his throat and ended it all, yet you chose to spare that bastard's life."

"And what would that have accomplished?" She shouted. "Had I killed him, you'd be nothing but a pile of ashes right now. Rhaenyra would've burned us all to the ground before I could even take his head."

"She wouldn't have dared!" Elyas shouted back, his face inches from hers, as though she was the most foolish person to live. "The last thing she needs is another war on her hands, especially against us. Her own house is already tearing itself apart!"

"Very well. If you're so smart, what would you have done?" She scoffed, crossing her arms.

"Face the Triarchy and the Greens. We were victors in the First Dornish War, Y/n. We fought then, and we could fight again. We could win."

"You? Fight?" She sneered. "Tell me, when their dragons' flames rain upon our cities, our people, what would you do? Hide behind the walls of our palace? The same walls that would be turned into ashes? Listen to me. We are not made for wars like this, Elyas. We're not prepared to face something as devastating as another Dornish war."

"And that's why we have those people fighting for us!" Elyas retorted, pointing furiously out the window.

"Those people?" she asked in disbelief. "It should be us fighting for them under those circumstances! Do you not care about the lives beyond the confines of this palace?" She turned away, already feeling her tears pooling in her eyes. "No wonder Father doesn't trust you." 

"You both have no clue what you're doing. You're putting our house to shame by trusting the enemy," without warning, he grabbed her injured wrist, yanking her close. She gasped, a sharp pain shooting up her arm, but he didn't relent. "Tell me, sister," he hissed, his face inches from hers. "When this war is over, how will you know they'll keep their word? All those demands you made... you sounded so righteous, so powerful like you had the Targaryens wrapped around your finger. But you know exactly what they think of us. To them, we're nothing but foolish, power-hungry savages," he tightened his grip slightly, causing her to wince again. "And do you know what you've done, dear sister? You just proved them right."

"I'll have your whole arm if you dare lay your hands on me again," she tried to pry her wrist off of him, her voice quivering as her composure began to waver. "You're starting to forget your place, Elyas."

"And you're starting to forget what it truly means to be a Martell," he tightened his grip even more, watching as the Princess sucked a breath in through her teeth. 

Elyas let go of her with a push, making the Princess stumble back on her bed. Y/n massaged her wrist with her other hand as she buried her face in her bed, heaving, and squeezing her eyes shut. She flinched upon hearing Elyas' heavy footsteps leave, the door slamming once he left her chambers.

The Princess slowly got up to pick up the jug of wine lying on the table. Upon finding out it was empty, she flung the jug across the room with a frustrated yell. Her strength gave out, and she collapsed to the ground, burying her face in her hands. Tears streamed down her cheeks as her sobs filled her chambers. The soft knocks on her door went unanswered; she knew it was Casymir, the one person who could bring her comfort, yet she couldn't bear to let him see her that way. 

Her father's words echoed in her mind. She was destined to be the Princess of Dorne, a role she had fully embraced for as long as she could remember. Yet there she was, crumbling under the pressure, feeling as though every decision she made was beyond her control, burying her deeper into a grave she herself had dug.

A/N: Hello my lovelies! Thank you for being so patient with me. This chapter was a lot longer than I had expected, but here it is. Let's just take a moment and give our Princess Y/n a big hug, she needs it. I don't know why, but i'm having waaay too much fun making these extremely dramatic dialogues. and I live for their drama, tbh.

I also mentioned this before, but I'm having trouble tagging everyone. Some @'s would tag, but for some reason, some of the usernames just appear like normal text. I've double-checked every username and typed them over and over, but i still can't tag you all. Would be great if you guys could tell me how to fix this!

Taglist: @happinessinthebeing @deltamoon666 @dark1paradise @elz-zalarrr @v0dka4a @yohanseyebrowmole @dracaryxzs @ladyofvelaryon @burningwitchobject @lovelyteenagebeard @radtragedyarcade @dragonrider-3000 @labellapeaky @wintersoldier-101 @hummusxx @vastseamind @miksxz @cornbreadwithcheese @boiolay @op-oppai-blog @hajmola-vs-aamchaska @nichmeddar @ilovemingandming @Mgurl @marr3adsyou @lotus-888 @icarusvshozier

[westeroswisdom]

Abubakar Salim and Clinton Liberty portray Alyn of Hull and Addam of Hull – characters we'll be seeing more of in the remaining episodes of HotD Season 2.

[N]not only do the pair play bastard brothers in the new series of House of the Dragon, but the experience was so intense that they have become chosen family in real life. “It was a journey we started together,” says 26-year-old Liberty, for whom House of the Dragon represents a significant step up in scale after grounded Irish dramas such as Normal People and Holding. “And we bonded over how crazy it all was. Every day we’d think we were getting used to it, then it was just like … what is going on? Is this real? Are you sure?” [ ... ] Alyn is a sailor, a consummate seaman whose moment of glory came when he rescued his Lord, his Captain and – it’s hinted pretty strongly – his father, Lord Corlys, from drowning. Addam, meanwhile, is a shipwright, gainfully employed in the harbours of Driftmark. Both characters are more down-to-earth, more working class (if such a term existed in Westeros) than the Royals and blue-bloods we’re used to encountering. For 31-year-old Salim, a seasoned player in big-budget shows such as the historical drama Jamestown and Ridley Scott’s sci-fi series Raised By Wolves, the partnership with Liberty rekindled a love for his profession. “I may not have seen it all,” he admits, “but I’ve seen enough to be like: ‘OK, here’s another cool set.’ I wasn’t necessarily jaded, but it’s like you’re eating chocolate for the 100th time. You know you’re going to enjoy it. With Clinton, it was like this was the first time he’d ever had chocolate. He was in absolute awe. That excitement was really infectious.” He is not exaggerating: months after shooting wrapped, Liberty is still giddy. “The scale was so massive,” he beams, recalling the bustling Driftmark harbour set at Leavesden studios where the pair filmed their early scenes. “I mean, they built a full-size ship. And a whole village. For the first few days, I just had to give myself permission to nerd out. It was everything I wanted to do, as a kid who dreamed of being an actor.”

Clinton Liberty has rubbed elbows in the past with another ASoIaF actor.

“I worked with Conleth Hill [who played Lord Varys in Game of Thrones] on Holding, and the whole time we were filming I was asking him about it. What’s Kit Harington like? What’s the world like? I was such a fan. And I’d do these affirmations. I used to wake up every morning and say: ‘One day I’m going to play a lead character in an HBO show. I’m going to be a character like Jon Snow.’ I said it every day for two years. I was just talking to the wind, really. Then lo and behold … ”

Abubakar Salim has been a game developer in addition to his career in acting.

For Salim, the parallels between acting and game development could not be clearer. “It’s all world-building,” he says. “Jumping into these fantastical worlds, be it through a video game or a TV show, and using that to explore human emotions and human truth. My game is all about the journey of grief, it was inspired by the loss of my father. Then in House of the Dragon, my character experiences the loss of a parental figure in a different way, which is really interesting.” Other parallels between the worlds of TV and video games are less welcome. Salim recently posted a video on X railing against the racism still rife in gaming, and he is well aware that similar attitudes exist in television. “It’s been said before, but there’s this idea that you can suspend your disbelief with dragons, but when it comes to a Black guy with white dreads you can’t handle it?” he says. “You know, football was rife with racism, and it still is, but now you’ll get your season pass banned, you’ll get kicked out because it’s no longer tolerated. I think we need more of that for artists and creatives.” Overall, though, he has been heartened by the response from the House of the Dragon fans, and is still buoyed up by his experience working with Liberty.

Both actors are listed at IMDB as being in the cast for the remaining three episodes of Season 2.

[damn-stark]

Chapter 19 My tears are blood

Chapter 19 of Moonlight

A/N- Daemon would be so proud of you

Warning- Swearing, fishing, ANGST!!, violence, blood and death!!, some fluff, SPOILERS FOR FUTURE EVENTS OF HOTD, USING FIRE AND BLOOD, LONG CHAPTER.

Pairing- Aemond Targaryen x Velaryon!fem-reader, Cregan Stark x Velaryon!fem-reader

Episode/Chapters- 434-438

(If you want to be tagged let me know)

————

Black dense smoke is all you see. If you weren’t flying it would look like the sky was suddenly overcome by an intoxicating darkness, but you’re on top of your dragon and it's clear that all that pollutes the sky is black smoke rising off sinking or burning ships. It burns your eyes and brings them to tears, but it’s hard to rub the stinging away. It infiltrates your nose and burns your nostrils, making you want to stop breathing as you fly closer and closer to the Gullet.

But you can’t stop breathing and you can’t stop flying forward. You should, part of the Velaryon fleet is set ablaze or is nothing but polluting debris in the water, while what survived of the Triarchy fleet is fleeing from not only four dragons roaming the skies, but five, and one of them is not Syrax, it’s a small and ugly colored dragon; meaning the battle is over, you got here too late.

Yet how can you fathom leaving when you know nothing of your brothers or Rhaena? Surely if they were rescued most of the dragonriders would have returned to Dragonstone, but they’re all still chasing the Triarchy. All except Vermax and Jacaerys, where are they?

Maybe he took them back to Dragonstone? You can’t imagine he would let your mother keep him in Dragonstone while the others are fighting, so he must have saved them and taken them home.

Yes, that's it. Your mind fixates on that thought while your heart is reassured by it, letting you drive your focus to the small ugly dragon in the distance—You never saw it at Dragonstone while you were there, and the muddy brown and pink spots don’t trigger any memory of its mention, so it must be wild, but…why is it fighting?

“<Let's get closer to that brown dragon,>” you tell Astraea as you feel a bit starstruck by the wild dragon in the midst of battle. The rider must be someone truly incredible to have claimed a wild dragon.

You want to see who it is! Plus while you’re answering your curiosity you can catch Baela’s attention and have her assure you that your brothers and Rhaena were rescued. You can’t leave without knowing. You were eager to fight, the whole flight here all that occupied your mind was ways you could and would fight, but alas you were too late.

Nevertheless, as Astraea reaches the sea and flies over the polluted water, there past a thick cloud of black smoke is a Myrish ship with two men standing at the edge of the starboard yelling and shooting two arrows at something in the water. You follow their aim and the first thing you see floating in the murky body of water is Vermax…

You see part of his green wing entangled by chains, while his head poked out of the water. Yet even then he doesn’t thrash or scream, his eyes are rolled back and his neck is slowly being weighed down by a broken ship's mast. You search for the saddle to see if Jacaerys is caught, but that part of Vermax is sunken in the water, you can’t see your brother. He’s not on his dragon.

“Astraea,” you whimper, but she saw what you did; she sees Vermax sinking and flies low while she cries out in sorrow.

“Jacaerys!” You cry out even though you know your shout isn’t loud enough to be heard from the top of your dragon, not while the commotion of distant fire blasts and blood-curdling screams filter the polluted air. Yet you still call out desperately. “Jacaerys!”

When you approach Vermax, you pull off your restraints and shove your feet in the saddle's stirrups to crouch over the seat, while more men on the Myrish ship approach the starboard and aim their crossbows at something in front of Vermax’s head. Something you can’t see, but it’s still something that catches your breath, causing Astraea to react by picking up her speed just by a little, but enough for you to finally catch what it is that the men are pointing at; it’s…Jacaerys with an arrow in his chest and one in his stomach.

“Jacaerys!” You bellow out in panic and concern.

Said man manages to hear the sound of his name coming from your lips and begins to move his head, while the men in the distance get ready to shoot their crossbows thinking that the purple dragon is on their side and here to fight, but alas they’re proven wrong the moment you sneer out a single command. “Dracarys!”

Astraea opens her mouth and blasts out blazing fire, burning away the threat with a single cloud of fire, but alas, a moment too late. You were too late, Jacaerys was still hit.

“Jacaerys!” You cry out to let him know you’re here even if he already sees you approaching. “Just…hold on.”

A part of you wants to jump off your dragon, but you also know that won’t bode well for neither you or Jacaerys, so instead you trust your dragon to carefully grab onto Jacaerys with her claws to fly him to stable ground where you can help him. After all, the other dragonriders are taking care of the enemy fleet so you can help him. You can save him, it can’t be too late.

It can’t be too late. You couldn’t have gotten here too late.

You can save him. You can save him, you can. Yes, you can.

“It’s going to be okay,” your voice quivers, but you don’t cry, because you keep repeating to yourself that he’ll be okay. That makes you ignorant of the truth. It numbs you and makes you desperate.

That's why after Astraea puts Jacaerys down, you don’t wait for her to land. You frantically hop off your saddle with an ignorance pumping your blood that makes you sprint over to Jacaerys and throw yourself on your knees by his body.

“<I’m here,” you say breathlessly in High Valyrian. “I’m here.>”

You rip off the mask caging your face and tear away the headpiece off your head so he can see you. So he can be assured that it's really you.

“I’m here,” you whisper and press your hands over one of his bloody ones that he has pressed on the bleeding wound on his chest.

“You’re…here,” he strains to say between raspy and heavy breaths. “I thought Aemond wouldn’t let you come.”

You muster a strained laugh and shake your head. “He cannot tell me what to do. I came here to help our brothers.”

Jacaerys nods. “Mother was right…I was angry at you but she was right,” he mutters.

You glance at the arrows and know that you can’t pull them out. You know that much, so you just need help. You need a healer.

You look around for one. Maybe one rushed up ashore.

But all that you see is Astraea curling up around you and Jacaerys to protect you from any potential threat.

“Tell her…”

“Stop,” you snap at him and face him again. “Don’t, you will tell her yourself. You will.” You nod and move one hand off his chest to cup his face. “You have to hold on. Please Jace, please, please don’t leave me.”

His eyes water now, he can’t hold his tears back. “It…hurts,” he gasps for air and hisses as the arrows dig deeper into his flesh. “It hurts,” he lets you hear his vulnerability. He doesn’t hide his pain like he usually would so you wouldn’t worry, he’s honest and that makes your heart ache.

“I know,” you nod. “I know, but I cannot pull them out or they will bleed out more. Just hold on…” you trail off and look out desperately. “I need help! Please!”

“Listen to me,” he beckons your attention and uses his other hand to put it on top of yours. “Listen to me. Tell Mother I tried, okay? I really tried. And I’m sorry I let her down.”

Tears well in your eyes as your lips tremble.

“You did not let her down,” you try to assure him and stroke his cheek. “You didn’t. Just please, Jace,” you beg him. “Please hold on, we’re going home soon, okay? Me and you, I won’t leave again, just please hold on.”

Jacaerys nods weakly and tears of his own start to crawl out of his eyes.

“You know,” he heaves. “I-I..love you right?”

Agony starts to tear at your heart, but you keep trying to repeat the same words to yourself, “he’ll be okay. He’ll be okay.”

“I love you too,” you whisper and lean closer to him.

“It hurts,” he mutters again and his breathing turns more shallow indicating what’s to come, and pushing a part of you to speak mindlessly.

“We will meet again. Did you know that?”

The part of you that senses his end doesn’t let a word go unspoken. That part of you doesn’t let Jacaerys go without having him hear what you have to say; a last goodbye that you never got to share with Lucerys.

“I know,” he agrees with a tiny and pained smile tugging on his pale face. “I know.”

“I will look for you and Luke in every lifetime because, to me, you and him are the best brothers someone could have,” you speak sweetly as you stroke his face. “And I’m sorry for how I've acted lately, I’m sorry if you’ve felt alone, I really am.”

“It’s…okay,” he assures you and lifts his other hand to cup the one you have on his face. “You’re…here now.”

You nod softly and offer him a quivering smile. “We’ll meet again where the sea meets the edge of tomorrow.”

Jacaerys nods gently and holds your gaze as the corner of his lips attempts to pull on a wider smile.

Yet in his strained attempt, his eyes begin to dull, his hands that cup yours slowly go limp, and his lips slowly fall as a last breath escapes his lips, leaving him lifeless on the ground.

“Jace?” You cry out with ignorance to the truth even if it lies before you. “Jacaerys?”

His gaze once gleaming with tears is dull and lifeless. His shallow breaths don’t run anymore, he’s silent, deafening so, which only means one thing, but still, you can’t accept it. You can’t accept that you got to the Gullet too late to save your brother, so that part of you that once accepted the truth completely vanishes, leaving you trying to desperately get your brother to react; to take one more breath and live so he can hold on.

“Jacaerys?” You whimper and try to stroke his cheek. “Please, please, please. Don’t do this to me, please don’t leave me…we have to go home. Please let’s go home.” You come to a halt and wait for a reaction, just a single blink, but alas, he remains motionless, edging you to accept the truth, but not actually accept it yet. You first move your hand away from his face and shake him by the arm and chest.

“Jace! Jacaerys!” You cry out. “Jace?!”

Once again you wait, wait, and wait, but he doesn’t react in any way. He doesn’t blink and his chest doesn’t move. He’s there bleeding out and lifeless. He’s not breathing anymore, and his heart is no longer beating, no matter how many times you check not even a soft and weak ba-dum beats. He’s…lifeless. He’s gone, your brother, your little brother is gone, he’s…dead. And with him, the last fragments of your heart burn away and turn to nothing but ash that gets blown away here, where he died.

That’s why no heartbreaking sobs leave your lips. You don’t plead a moment longer. Astraea coos before her mournful song fills the air, while you stay quiet as you pull the arrows off his body and cradle him, letting your last stream of tears escape your weeping soul as you rock him back and forth against you until your legs fall asleep, your arms hurt, and Astraea unfurls her body.

“Jacaerys?” Another voice breaks through the silence without a snarl or a single snap of a jaw from Astraea, so it must be someone you trust.

“No…NO! NO!” Agonizing sobs pierce through the air, pulling you away from your brother's body to look over and notice Baela with streams of tears running down her soot-covered face.

At first, it seems she wants to make hundreds of excuses to deny the truth, but her mind works fast and breaks her heart even further by having her see that yes, Jacaerys really is dead. There’s no mistaking it, thus she breaks away from her spot and runs over to fall on her knees across from you.

“I’m sorry,” is all you can offer her before you let her take Jacaerys’ body so you can stand up and attempt to mount your dragon.

Yet before you can, you stop as you see Rhaena standing there with soot all over her face and hair as well, but completely unharmed.

“Rhaena,” you sigh with relief and stride over to her to throw your arms around her. “You’re okay,” you breathe out and clutch onto her.

And it’s while you’re hugging her that you see that little dragon again. This time the brown and pink dragon is on the ground, staring you down right across from you.

“Is that,” you gasp and pull away to face Rhaena. “Yours?”

Rhaena peers back briefly before she meets your gaze and nods. “Yes, that’s my dragon, Morning.”

Your eyes flutter as you’re hit with disbelief. “That’s…amazing,” you deal with your disbelief on the spot. “I’m proud of you,” you praise her and cup her cheek.

The corner of her lips twitch to smile but she can’t make the effort to offer you the kind gesture because of Jacaerys in the back.

“Do you know…” you trail off and drop your arm back to your side. “If Aegon, Viserys, and Joffrey are okay?”

Rhaena eyes flicker down and she lets out a shaky sigh before she responds. “Tyraxes brought Joffrey to Dragonstone when their cog was attacked, he's the one that alerted everyone of what was happening. We could not find Aegon or Viserys. They…” she trails off and starts to cry, whilst your chest is hit with a sharp pang. Yet tears fail to break from your eyes. You’re just riddled with more grief and agony.

“I understand.” You nod stiffly and begin to walk back toward Astraea, pulling Rhaena’s attention back to you.

“Where are you going?” She throws out in confusion.

You swallow thickly and grab the rope ladder hanging down Astraea’s side. “Back to Aemond,” you mutter.

Rhaena takes a step forward to try and grab you but you pull your arm away to avoid her touch.

“Why?” She demands to know. “Your place is with the Queen! With us!”

You glance over at your brother, the sole reason why you would return to your mother's side. And he’s dead now. Your place is with Aemond now until your last breath or until his. That’s where you belong because no matter what just happened, that resentment toward your mother and Daemon is still very much lively and raging flames.

“No,” you deadpan as you take your chainmail headpiece and put it back on your head, along with the silver mask that cages your face. “My place is with Aemond.” You tell her coldly with no hint of sorrow in your voice, making her part her lips to argue.

However, you don’t wait to hear another piece of argument; you quickly mount your dragon, and Astraea doesn’t fret to ascend to the sky or make a sharp turn away from the Gullet to direct yourselves back to where Aemond is, back home. She flaps her wings and gets further away, foot by foot, and your gaze remains cold and set in the furious morning sky. Your body remains stiff, every blink is done slowly as if it’s too much strain, while your breaths are slow and deep, and not a single thought occupies your mind which makes it easy to mindlessly drop your gaze on your hands and lose yourself on nothing in particular.

Alas, when your eyes land on your hands you see the bright crimson blood staining them. There’s blood on your hands and when you lift them off the handles of your saddle to study them, you look at them in disbelief until at last a thought goes through your mind; It’s not your blood, it’s Jacaerys’ blood. The blood from his fatal wounds is staining your hands.

Your brother's blood is on your hands…he’s dead, and all you have besides memories is his blood.

A shuttered gasp escapes your lips, but rather than having tears return to your eyes, something painful unravels where your heart used to be instead. Something so vigorous, something so piercing, and throbbing, that with each pulse, the blood rushing through your veins pumps faster.

“This will cost Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys their only remaining child. And it will cost my daughter…her father.”

Your lips twitch before they start to curl into a scowl, while that cold and mindless gaze starts to spark a fierce fire in your eyes.

“He—it broke him to leave you and your brothers behind, but he also knew that I needed more than he could offer for our sake. He was selfless. He did it because he loved us, because he loved you.”

You gently shake your head in an attempt to shake away what’s building inside you, but nothing stops you from returning your hands to your saddle with a deadly, and nothing holds back the once slow and deep breaths from growing shallow and quicker.

“It’s…okay. You’re…here now.”

Jacaerys’ last words echo through your mind now and at last, you recognize what it is that plagues you so. It’s raging anger. It’s blinding and agonizing. It torments your very soul and sets it ablaze while setting this dire need for bloody revenge there where your heart once used to be.

That is what is making your breaths so shallow and quick, that’s what is pumping through your veins, and that’s what completely burns away the mercy you had and the kindness you held for everything in this world that wasn't those you cherished. It's all completely gone.

Who you once were is gone, and this new bloodthirsty self cannot leave without destroying those who were responsible for the death of your brother. Thus with a deep exhale you nudge the handles to the side, and Astraea makes a big turn to return toward the Gullet.

This time rather than remaining vigilant and careful Astraea flies low once she reaches the water again as your eyes dart around the watery battlefield in search of one ship; the commanding ship that holds the commander of the fleet, and Ser Tyland Lannister, the one who made the alliance.

Honestly, it should not be hard, usually, the commanding ship always has a different flag to differentiate them from the rest. And if not well you can’t imagine Ser Tyland staying back to fight with the men once the dragons joined the battle, so he should still be nearby. You just need to find the right ship.

All the other dragonriders that were fighting when you got here now seem to be retreating as the Triarchy fleet is fleeing, so they look back at you confused as Astraea and you fly past them, but to you, it’s not like they’re even there. Nothing steals your attention, you keep your eyes set on the fleeing fleet to search and search.

Once you get closer to the fleet, what’s left of the fleeing Triarchy is clearer, but so is the fact that you’re not there on peaceful terms. The Velaryon men were instructed not to attack you regardless of what side you came to fight for, but the Triarchy was not given the same command. They see you coming and panic returns to their bodies after thinking they would be able to flee unscathed.

You could hardly care about the fodder though. You're dead set on one ship, but as you cross the line and start to fly over the Triarchy fleet, they bring out crossbows and grapples. And it’s true, arrows from crossbows can’t harm Astraea, her scales are too thick now to be harmed by something so minuscule, and your armor protects the most significant parts of you, but those grapples are the same that took Vermax down, and they’re the same ones that could possibly take Astraea down.

That's why you pull out your bow and arrows and crouch over your saddle as you see men approach the starboard of their ships in an attempt to bring your dragon down, completely unaware of your counter antics. They don’t expect you to have a way to fight back, they don’t see their fates coming to an end until Astraea tilts to one side to let you aim at one man on your left side, and shoot him down with one arrow. The second man on your left side sees what befell the other man, but he doesn’t quit, so as Astraea is flying past, you twist around and let the arrow fly into his throat.

Once that threat is left behind, you face ahead hastily, and there leading the escape is the commanding ship. It’s still standing, just as you assumed, and so that vigorous anger only burns more fiercely. It’s a blinding thing, letting you easily forget about any sort of consequence this direct attack may have.

All that occupies your mind is anger and revenge. It’s consuming and agonizing. And for once it threatens to bring tears to your eyes, it makes your chest grow tight as that need fills you, but rather than letting any tears escape, you let out a blood-curdling and painful scream that carries so much deepened pain that Astraea feels it too. She feels it in her own heart, making her release her own ache by opening her mouth and letting out a shrieking cry before she blasts fire out and burns down the ships in the way of the commanding ship.

Now there’s no mistaking who you’re after, the people on the commanding ship know you’re hunting them. They’re your prey, and so they try to fight back to defend themselves as they’re at their weakest, but rather than hitting them straight on, Astraea dives in the water, leaving them paranoid as to where you’ll appear.

They run to every edge of the ship to look in the water, and you’re easy to find. Astraea is long, and it would be pretty hard to miss such a large beast swimming in the water. That's why they assume you’re coming out from the other side to burn them down from the front, that's why they take their eyes off the water and frantically point their aim at the empty space ahead.

However, you don’t go for an attack from the front, Astraea swerves to one side, and you completely catch them by surprise when you and your dragon jump out of the water like ravenous sea creatures after they’re prey.

The warriors on the ship are quick to fix their aim, one is even closer to hitting the trigger, but they don’t know you’ve trained hard, they don’t know how hard you’ve pushed yourself, so you leave them all completely shocked when you jump off your saddle and let an arrow fly out whilst you’re in midair.

When the arrow hits the attacker you hit the floor harshly and sloppily, but you’re quick to push yourself to your knees and throw your head up to pierce your glare at the warriors before you.

“Give me Ser Tyland,” you snarl. “And your commander.”

Glances are exchanged, but no one utters a word, breaths escape their mouths, but no matter how menacing you proved yourself to be, their greatest threat is Astraea, your dragon circling around to fly back toward the fleet.

“Have it your way,” you grumble and hang your bow around you to instead pull out the mighty Valyrian sword, Blackfyre from its sheath.

Now the stillness that once kept people stuck to their spots breaks and a woman sets herself after you. She’s tall with long dirty blond hair, a long face, and a small scar over her lips. She pulls out a curved blade and swings low to try and slash your thighs, but you surprise her by swinging the sword down and meeting her swing with a loud clash.

“You want me,” she speaks, revealing herself as the person you’re after. “Here I am, Princess,” she spats with a playful smirk.

You tilt your head to the side as you grimace, and then throw your foot out to hit her knees, causing her to drop her hold and wobble. You proceed to not let her rest, you try to swing at her side, but before you can make your move, hurried footsteps come at you from behind, so you hastily spin around whilst you reach back for an arrow.

When your gaze drifts to the corner of your eyes, you catch the attacker and hurl the arrow at his face as you’re turning, so when you face him completely the arrow caves in their face and puts him down.

All while the commander has the same thought process as you and proceeds to try and overwhelm you by swinging from behind, but you twirl back around and clash your sword against her blade.

The commander then lifts her blade and swings again and again, but you block her every single time and actually end up making her laugh. “What a surprise you are,” she says with awe and amusement. “Here I thought you Valyrians were all prissy cunts, but alas, here you are. I would have loved to have drinks with you.”

You huff at her ability to talk at a moment like now and don't even think of returning any of her lightheartedness. You use all your strength and shove her blade to the side, making her falter. You then try to lunge forward, but suddenly a hand grabs the back of your head, pulling the chainmail off your head, while they also grab the back of your neck and yank you back.

You react with a groan and grind your teeth as they keep pulling you back with confidence since your dragon is setting other ships ablaze, and or ripping them apart by jumping out of the water right from under them. Yet your attacker's confidence was blinding, and they perhaps did not trust you to think quickly, but you do. You spin the sword around in your hand; in the same way Aemond likes to do it, and then fold your arm back to impale the man in the eye.

The man then cries out and you pull the sword out before you shove them back with your elbow, and then spin around to slash their belly. When they hit the ground you should leave them be, but your rage sends you on top of them, and has you using their own blade to stab their face over and over again, making blood splash on your face again and again until it’s like another layer of skin.

You’re so consumed by what you’re doing that you forget where you are, only your pain accompanies you, it’s loud and tormenting. And unlike when you were throwing your clothes off the balcony, this time Aemond is not here to pull you out of your emotional state, you’re kicked to the ground, and that is what snaps you from your rageful trance.

When you look up, there, overshadowing you is the commander. She shoots you a smirk before she lifts her leg and quickly tries to bring her foot down. Before you can be slammed by her foot though, you roll over to the side where your sword is to take it from the ground, and then press your hands on the floor as you bring your legs back to be able to throw yourself forward and land on your feet.

The woman quickly turns to face you and swings her blade, but you throw yourself back to avoid her swing. In doing so though, a man runs at you from the side.

You quickly give him your attention and twist the sword around in your hand before you sprint at them. When you get close, rather than clashing blades, you suddenly slide down and lunge your sword up to impale them through their stomach and slash down until you swiftly twist around on your feet, and push yourself to your given height.

Another warrior then tries to rush at you, and they give you some trouble, but you near an edge and you manage to kick them overboard, leaving you only with more warriors, but for one man you swing the sword so hard that you manage to cut their head clean off their neck. And honestly, that leaves you enthralled and smiling maliciously, while you also seek more danger, more blood, and violence. You’re relishing in the adrenaline that runs through your veins, wanting more, getting more, but not feeling satisfied.

Which is why after defeating more men, you turn and point your sword at the commander. She flashes you a wide and menacing grin before you both break from your spot. However, since you have the high ground right now, you hop off the top of the stairs that you’re on and bring your sword down.

The commander tries to block your thrust, but you end up swinging the sword, making the tip of the blade slash her across the face, and causing her to fall on the ground grunting and clutching at their bleeding face.

“<I found you,>” you say in High Valyrian between heavy breaths once you’re standing on the floor. “<I'll have you.>”

You twist the sword around in your hand and try to thrust down, but through her pain, she rolls to one side and quickly scrambles herself off her feet to run away. You try to run after her, but she ends up throwing herself overboard, and you would walk to the edge to shoot her with an arrow, but a tall and buff older man blocks your way with two blades in his grasp.

“I’ll send the Sea Snake your head, Blood Dragon.” He throws at you as he points a blade at you. “We’ll prove the Sea Snake can weep.”

You snicker and lunge at him, but he doesn’t falter, he counters your action by swinging his blades down and clashing them against your sword. You try to push his blades up and away from you, but he challenges you with his strength and pushes back so hard that you start to slide back.

You then try to move your sword to the side, but he doesn’t let you move an inch, he doesn’t budge, he instead tries to unarm you, but you fight back. It might be challenging, you might be groaning, but you dig your heels in the floor and push back, causing the tip of your blades to scrape on a wooden pillar as you both press and move against each other.

However, as entertaining as this little game is, you know you can’t hold on longer. He’ll overpower you, so you bounce off a crazy stupid idea that just popped into your head. It’s stupid and sudden, but you don’t have another choice.

You let your sword fall from your grasp, hitting him with confusion, and making him stumble. Just before the sword can hit the ground like he thought it would, you swoop down and catch it before you thrust the sword up and impale him through his jaw so hard that the tip of the sword comes out of his head, and blood pours out all over you.

“Damn,” you cough and spit out blood that hits your lips whilst the man hits the floor—“Forgive me this has been hell,” you direct at the twins as you press your hand on your belly. “Don’t worry, your father will try and be angry, but he’ll also be too busy creaming his pants to do anything about it.” You strain a chuckle.

“Blood dragon!” Some stupid man interrupts you catching your breath, forcing you to slowly turn and face a brave man. “I won’t let you leave this ship.”

You hold their gaze and rather than preparing to counter his incoming attack, a wicked smile starts to tug on your lips as you see Astraea approaching from behind, like a predator stalking its prey.

“Mad cunt,” he spats and bends his knees to get ready to run at you, but a part of Astraea’s shadow then casts over him and he goes paralyzed as he immediately figures out what threat is lurking behind him. He doesn’t need to look back, he feels the hot steam of her breath unfurling over his back and all over the floor, yet he still starts to peer back with thick beads of nervous sweat dripping down his face, and sees that the same wicked smile playing on Astraea’s lips.

Now you don’t need to say it, Astraea knows your heart's desire, but you’re dramatic, so you part your lips and say the words almost seductively. “Dracarys.”

The man’s face goes white, and he tries to run, but Astraea is quick. The moment she opens her mouth she bathes the man in her raging flames that manage to kiss you.

The man wails out in pain and his body mindlessly moves around as he falls to his knees, letting him capture the horrifying sight of you not wincing or moving a single muscle as the flames touch you just enough that they should be piercing and skinning you alive. You just stand there with an even more malicious smile.

“<Fire…demon>,” he says in Valyrian with his last breath before he collapses on the floor.

You watch the skin and flesh melt off his bones with a cold and emotionless expression painted on your face, while Astraea swoops down and catches a man trying to sneakily jump off the ship.

When she has him in her jaws he begins to shriek as her large and sharp teeth pierce in him. He desperately cries out for your help, but only pulls your attention to him in the sky to watch him try and squirm away out of instinct as his body hangs over her jaw; in doing so annoying your dragon to the point that instead of burning him to eat him, she chomps down on him, making blood and pieces of flesh rain down on you as she flies by.

And rather than turning your head away, you close your eyes and welcome the rain of blood. You relish in it as if you were withered up and that rain of blood and flesh was the very salvation you needed.

When you open your eyes again and tilt your head down there in the distance is none other than the man you missed, Ser Tyland Lannister.

His eyes are unmistakably on you, wide and horrified by the vile display, but also caught in awe; that’s what leaves him paralyzed to the floor, you. Regardless of the fact that you’re trudging toward him with the tip of Blackfyre scraping against the wooden floor, he can’t make himself move because he sees you walk through that violent dragon fire without a single wince, or cry. It’s as if the very dooming fire bowed to your feet, like if your flesh was fire made like a dragons; it made you captivating, alluring, and otherworldly ethereal. Much more than any other Targaryen he’s ever met before.

Alas no matter how much he wanted to keep watching this almost demonic display, you make it out of the fire with a wicked smile only aimed at him and he knows with that menacing look alone that you will not hesitate to slay him like you did almost everyone else on this ship. So he doesn’t even attempt to try and fight back, not with your dragon circling back around. He runs into the cabins instead.

You chuckle dryly and change your trudge into a quiet stride that makes you almost like some haunting ghost. But that’s it, almost, your breaths are heavy and that’s what gives you away when your footsteps don’t.

Yet it’s not like you care that he hears you. You want him to hear you coming, your heart races with excitement at the fact that he’s scared and running away from you like some scared prey.

“Ser,” you call out in a sing-song voice in such an alluring way that it makes that Siren alias all too fitting. “Ser.”

You push a wooden door open with the tip of your sword and slowly trudge in about halfway. When you see that the cabin is abandoned you continue with your search, looking from cabin to cabin until you come across a locked room.

“Ha,” you breathe out and step back to swing the sword across the door and make a long slash across the wood. You proceed to make another and another until there's a large enough gap that you can see through. After that you approach the door and peek inside, catching the valiant knight inside like some cornered rat.

“There you are,” you roll out and flash him a wicked smile before you back away and make a last slash across the door so you’re able to walk through it.

“We’re on the same side,” he throws out nervously as you stomp toward him.

“Are we?” You retort and twist the sword around in your hand.

Confusion flickers on his face before his eyes widen and he scoffs. “You’re one of them. A black.”

You stop walking and fold your arm back to hang the sword over your shoulder and tilt your head. “No,” you don’t hesitate to say. “Wrong again.”

You roll your head back to place and slowly tilt it down. “You,” you grimace with a piercing glare that burns through the windows of his soul as you refuse to lose your prey from your sights. “…you killed Jacaerys,” you finally announce the meaning behind your fury, and as you stand there across from him a soft beam of sunlight peeking through a round window catches on your face, letting him see how the blood that rolls down your cheeks like tears gleams against the sunlight.

“And now,” your voice quivers. “I am going to kill you.”

The corner of your lips curl to a scowl seconds before you lunge forward, but come to a halt when he meets your lunge with a block.

You grunt and push yourself back to swing at his side, but a sharp cling echoes in the room as the metal from your swords sings.

“I did not kill the Prince,” Ser Tyland tries to explain, and you know that. You know that, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters besides trying to satisfy the anger that’s eating away at your soul.

Which is why you throw swing after mighty swing and grow even more frustrated over the fact that he keeps blocking and countering you. You want him dead, you want to feel like you got some sense of justice to try and ease what’s growing inside you, but he keeps evading and blocking your every move to the point that when you bring your arms back to throw another swing at him, you leave yourself open, letting him use his foot to kick your chest.

When you hit the ground you let out a sharp cry and quickly swipe your sword off the ground, but Ser Tyland falls over you to straddle you and clash his sword against yours.

“I will not hurt or kill you,” he says between pants.

You scoff. “<Because you’re scared,>” you snap back in High Valyrian. “<The Prince Regent won’t be forgiving when he hears you were responsible for my death.>”

Ser Tyland swallows back nervously and looks at you confused as he doesn’t understand what you’re saying to him. You just sound mad.

“<Do it.>” You snarl. “Do it!” You yell in the common tongue in an almost inviting manner. “Do it!” You cry out.

Ser Tyland parts his lips, but as he does the door from the wardrobe in the corner rattles before it slightly opens.

You slide your eyes to the door and there in the shadows you see a glimpse of golden-silver hair before you make out who was hidden inside. It’s your brother, Aegon.

And Ser Tyland knew. That’s why he came in here, to use him against you, or take him. Either or, you drift your gaze to Ser Tyland and grimace before thrusting your knee up to hit his groin.

Ser Tyland groans and falters letting you push him off you and then quickly follow up by kicking him in the face so hard that he passes out.

“Aegon,” you call out in a complete change of tone and demeanor; from rageful and menacing to soft and reassuring. “Aegon come out.”

You return the sword to its sheath and reach the wardrobe to open the door and let him know it’s okay, it’s just you, his sister. “It’s okay, buddy. It’s just me.”

Aegon takes a look at your face and his bottom lip trembles as his eyes fill with fear and tears.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” you try to assure him. “Come so you can go to Mother.”

He hears that last word and his attention perks.

“Mama?” He mumbles and wipes his eyes.

You nod softly and approach him to carry him away with you as you return to Ser Tyland's unconscious body and grab him by the collar to drag him out with you.

“You’ll be okay,” you continue to try and comfort your little brother. “You’ll go home soon.”

“Home,” he repeats.

You hum and offer him a tiny smile before nuzzling your forehead against his cheek as a wave of reassurance hits you over the fact that even if no one could find Viserys, you found Aegon. Not a lot may matter to you right now, but finding Aegon matters.

Is feeling the relief of finding your brother enough to return you to your mother’s side? No, it isn’t, but you’ll hand him to Rhaena or Baela, they can take him home.

With that in mind, you walk back outside, and the first thing you’re welcomed with is Astraea hovering over the burning ship as she waits for you.

“You need to hang on,” you advise Aegon. “It will just be a short ride, okay?”

Aegon looks at you and utters, “Aeri.”

You chuckle. “No, Aerion is not here, but perhaps you will see him soon.”

Aegon lays his head on your shoulder and when you reach the ladder hanging from Astraea’s saddle you let Ser Tyland go to hold onto the ladder with a tight grip.

You don’t climb to your saddle because one, it would be hard doing so with a toddler on your hip, and two, what’s the point when it’s a short ride to land? So you just hang onto the ladder and Astraea takes flight, but not without snatching Ser Tyland off the floor with her feet first.

When you reach land, Astraea discards Ser Tyland on a patch of grass before she lands near Seasmoke and lets you hit the ground where you’re greeted by both Rhaena and Baela, who both sport red and puffy eyes now after crying so much.

“Take Ser Tyland to Rhaenyra, or your father, or leave him here, I do not care, just take Aegon home,” you direct at the twins as you glance over at Addam departing himself from Seasmoke and slowly looking at your blood-covered figure up and down.

“What happened to you?” Rhaena asks with concern and disbelief. “Are you alright?”

“Rhae!” Aegon points out before he pulls away from you to throw his arms out to garner her attention.

“I’m alright,” you deadpan and steal another glimpse at Addam and can’t offer him a kind or even a faint smile, the thought of him stealing your son's title as heir plagues your mind, making you roll your eyes away from him with disgust.

“Viserys?” Baela asks whilst Rhaena takes Aegon from your hold.

“I only found Aegon,” you speak quietly and with a hint of disappointment and sorrow in your voice. “Take him home and be careful, okay?”

You turn to return to your dragon, but once again the same question as before is thrown out. “Where are you going? Are you not going home?” Baela is the one who asks now.

This time you don’t stop what you’re doing to face either of them. You continue striding toward your dragon while ignoring Addam and mutter back. “I am going home.”

——

*LATER*

They had moved while you were gone. Not far, but they still did, making you fly low over the treetops until you manage to find the green dragon, Vhagar, hidden amongst all the greenery.

When you land and hit the ground, rustling behind you puts you on guard as if you were still fighting on that ship. So you swiftly pull the sword out of the sheath before you spin around and press the blade against your armguard to point the blade at the threat.

Once the lurker comes out of the shadows of the forest a heavy breath leaves your lips when you see that it’s just Aemond.

When your husband sees you he finds his breath caught in his throat when his eyes land on your blood-covered figure, puffy eyes, and cold and distant look. You couldn’t see it, you haven’t looked at a mirror or any reflection, but this heavy sullen look paints your face, letting him know that what you lived while you were away was anything but pleasant.

The way you roll your shoulders back to bring your arms down from their defensive position, and the way you avert your gaze to avoid looking at his current emotions only proves that further.

“Rhaena bonded to a wild dragon,” you share in the same bitterness that has taken control of your face. “Viserys is dead, and…” you trail off and get close to him, but as his eye falls heavy on you, you still look distant. “…Jacaerys,” the name makes your lips tremble. “Is dead.” You breathe out deeply and walk away without hearing a word of what he most likely had planned since he found out you left. You just don’t want to argue, he’s mad, you know, you don’t need to look at his face or hear him to know. It will only be the same argument, so you just walk away, making Aemond trail behind you.

Once you reach the camp, everyone stops what they’re doing to stare at your bloody and shell-shocked figure striding toward your tent. No one says anything; no one dares. They all just stare and share the same disbelief and slight chill that crawls down their necks. When you approach your tent the first person who dares to get a word across is your sworn protector.

“Princess,” he gasps and slowly walks after you. “Are you alright?”

“Quite,” you deadpan and don’t give him the time of day, you just go in your tent to find your privacy there.

Aemond quickly tries to storm in after you to throw out his argument that he’s been building up since you arrived, but he’s stopped by a strong hand before he can open the flaps of his tent.

“Stop.”

Aemond twists his head to the side and sees that it’s his uncle who dared to stop him in his wrath. “She does not need to be yelled at right now. She needs her friend, husband, not a commander.”

Aemond narrows his gaze to a glare and curls his lips to a snarl. “She’s my wife, I may talk to her as I please. Why do you not mind your own business, uncle,” he spats spitefully and shoves past him to enter the tent, finding you seated on a wooden chair and starting to undo the braids drenched in dry blood.

“I know you’re upset,” you break the silence in an exhausted tone. “I left and I’m sorry, so please…just don’t say anything…I don’t feel like arguing. Besides,” you let out a shaky sigh. “I’m not leaving again…there’s nothing to go back to.”

Aemond stays stuck by the entrance and watches with his lips parted after you completely stole the breath he was going to use to argue.

He is going to walk back out, but he does remember what his uncle tried to suggest just moments ago and instead goes out to grab a bowl of water, making you slouch in your seat and frown as you think he just left to not be with you.

However, a couple of minutes pass by before Aemond returns to the tent, grabs another chair, places it in front of you to take a seat, and gently starts to wipe the dry blood off your face with warm water, making you immediately pause what you’re doing to look at him with a soft and thankful gaze whilst butterflies flutter in your stomach, and your cheeks grow warm.

Nothing is shared though, not your thanks, and he doesn’t ask what happened. He can already sort of imagine what happened by what you told him when you arrived, by your bloody state, and the bloody sword. Yet neither of you mind the silence, it’s not filled with anger or tension. The silence that sits in this tent is comforting and peaceful. You feel embraced without the need of his arms and feel appreciated and loved without the confirming words. Especially when he starts helping you undo your braids.

Still albeit after a while, as a bath is getting drawn for you, you can’t help but finally fill that silence. “You should have seen me, you would have been impressed.”

Aemond lifts his gaze to meet your eyes already on him and a faint smile twitches on his thin lips. “I do not doubt it. Look at you. Not a scratch on you.”

A smirk pulls on your lips and the warmth now creeps all over your face.

“How was the sword?” He asks.

You sigh proudly. “Lighter than I imagined. Sharper too, I cut a man’s head clean off his neck.” You grin and turn, making the braid Aemond was undoing slip from his fingers. “They called me Blood Dragon and Fire Demon,” you share proudly and with a small giggle that can’t make Aemond mad, the corner of his lips twitch up.

“And,” you add enthusiastically. “Astraea and I jumped out of the water, and I managed to land a hit from the air.” You share and try to motion your actions with your hands. “Like I jumped off and landed a hit.”

Aemond hums softly and you turn back around to continue undoing your braids, and letting Aemond continue to help.

“You should have told me you were going,” he manages to finally find the moment to at least get that across. “You can’t just leave like that.”

You sigh and your smile slowly falls. “I know, but would you have let me go otherwise?”

Aemond stays quiet and you find your answer in his silence.

“I overheard about the Triarchy, and my brothers getting in the way, and I…had to do something. Not like my efforts mattered either way,” you mutter coldly now which is such a fast switch from that honey and excitement in your voice just now. “I was late.”

Aemond watches your face and catches the flicker of rage and agony dancing in your eyes like wildfire, letting him know that this first battle you just fought in was just a mere taste of blood for you. You want to feast in it, he sees that hunger taking root within you. And who would he be if he denied you such pleasantries?

Like him, you will gorge in it.

But until then, once your braids are undone, once all the pearls and rings that decorated your hair are gone, and the armor you donned is off and your gown is on the floor, you dip in the bath and feel as if a weight lifted off you as you wash off all the blood.

“Have you heard anything of Daeron?” You ask Aemond as he sits by the bathtub.

Aemond sighs. “He fought in his first battle and was knighted, Ser Daeron the Daring.”

You blink with surprise and slowly turn to fold your arms over the bathtub and look at Aemond with a playful look. “When will they knight you?”

His eyes fall and a timid smile grows on his face. “That does not matter to me. You know that.”

“Ser Aemond the Sapphire,” you tease, causing his eyes to snap to you—“Ser Aemond…the Prince Regent.”

A laugh escapes past his mouth and you can’t help but laugh with him.

“That,” he breathes out and looks at you with a softened look. “Does not matter to me.”

You hum and reach your hand over to intertwine your fingers with his, making him lean in closer to you.

“Are you okay?” He finally asks.

You blink repeatedly as you try to fight the lump that begins to form in your throat and you can’t keep away. You can’t stop your chest from tightening either. You’re consumed by his genuine concern and you can’t lie even if that’s what you want.

Yet you don’t utter a word, but it doesn’t matter. Even though you can’t form a single word to express what you feel, he knows and cups your face right away to gently caress your cheeks.

You lean into his warm and soft touch and bask in it for a lingering moment before you reach over and take his eyepatch off to look at him as he is.

Aemond watches you longingly before he presses a gentle kiss on the heel of your hand, making your lips tug to a soft smile before it disappears as you wrap your arms around him to take him in for an embrace you immediately melt into. One Aemond doesn’t mind. Even if your body is dripping, he welcomes your embrace and returns it, making sure to press a kiss on your head and caress the back of your head before he nuzzles his face in the crook of your neck, and you do the same with him.

There are so many things you want to say, so many things that you want to let out of your chest at this specific moment, but all those kind words are shared in your loving embrace, in the kisses you press against his flesh, and in the way you cling onto him like you’re afraid he will die in your arms like your brother did.

You almost don’t want to let go of the soul you hold, you want to keep embracing the love of your life forever, but nothing is forever and the embrace cannot be forever, so after a long while you let go of each other. And after a while of just Aemond and you finding solace in each other's presence, when you’re clean and in a new and elegant black gown you find yourself in a meeting. One not so pleasant by the look on Ser Criston’s face.

“We lost Lord Jason Lannister,” he announces with his head down, but as serious as it’s meant to be, you snicker.

“And so the mighty lion is no more. I suppose having those lions in the field did not save him after all,” you comment, making Aemond snicker in amusement, and Ser Criston Cole to slowly lift his head and look at you with a pointed glare.

“I have received some conflicting reports,” he pauses and looks at you up and down. “It's said Ser Tyland was seen being taken by a dragon from a burning ship.”

You slowly roll your eyes his way and follow him as he stands up straight and begins to walk around the wooden table in the middle of the room.

“And that the men on the commanding ship were brutally slaughtered, and the Commander was maimed as they were sailing away after they retreated and won the battle,” he says through gritted and snaps his eyes to you.

You rest your arms on the chair's armrest and lift your nose in the air as you offer him a proud smirk you don’t feel ashamed of. You relish hearing the report and take it as a job well done, especially because they made the report travel here so fast.

“Princess, you were there,” Ser Criston finally drifts the spotlight to you hoping you would feel belittled and ashamed, or feel some kind of guilt, but you keep smirking. “Why not give some insight.”

You hum and hold his gaze. “It was me,” you confess proudly. “Astraea and I killed those men on that ship. I slashed the Commander's face, and I was the one who delivered Ser Tyland to the enemy.”

Eyes fall on you and Aemond starts to grow tense over your confession, but you don’t flinch or show remorse. Your gaze is cold, and your voice is filled with a sense of cockiness and that same coldness that was playing in your eyes.

“I attacked them because it was what felt right, because it was what I wanted,” you say with a hint of honey oozing in your voice, making a faint smile flicker on Aemond’s lips.

“They are our allies,” Ser Criston sounds frustrated. “They will take your attack as personal and pull back.”

You scoff. “There were hardly any of them left. The other dragonriders almost eradicated the entire fleet,” you explain even if you really shouldn’t. “I just attacked the commanding ship because they made me angry.” You shrug and Ser Criston scoffs and shakes his head.

“Both sides took heavy losses,” Aemond finally cuts in. “We still have the rest of our fleet on the way. The Princess Regent actually did us a favor by killing what remained of them.”

You blink in surprise and can’t help but steal a glance at him. You suspected that Aemond was going to be mad because of what you did, but he honestly surprised you.

“We don’t need them anymore, and the Princess took them off our backs before they could try and be greedy and ask for some reward.”

Ser Criston turns away furiously after not getting support from your husband, making you smile at the tabletop before you lift your head and find Aemond’s eyes on you. Not with a hint of some hidden anger, but flames of desire. And you can't help but mirror the same look in your eyes before you focus on Ser Gwayne as he walks toward Ser Criston.

“Our own fleets will arrive shortly and destroy what remains of the Velaryon fleet,” Ser Gwayne offers some consolation. “As of now we must continue forward and attack the army Prince Daemon cultivated. If we start tonight we shall arrive by first light,” he says and points to the map. “Aemond and the Princess will remain here and join us the following day.”

Aemond nods. “He will be anticipating our arrival with the army after he saw Astraea. Going the day after guarantees him being vigil all day as he anticipates us. We will catch him by surprise.”

Ser Criston shakes his head. “And if he is not there because he saw Astraea?” He spats and shoots daggers at you. “The plan was for you not to be seen,” he points at you. “It was a scouting task—”

“If he’s not there then he’s a coward who ran,” Aemond cuts him off as he tilts his head and starts to return his glare. “It's not that complicated,” he mocks him, making Ser Criston look away and clench his jaw.

“Now if it’s not complicated for you Ser, you should start getting ready to head out,” Aemond adds and stands from his seat. “Night is approaching.”

You hide your smirk and Ser Criston bows without bothering to look at his Prince. He just proceeds to leave.

“Princess. Nephew,” Ser Gwayne offers his goodbye along with a proper bow.

“Good luck in battle, Ser,” you offer him kindly while you take Aemond’s hand so he can help you to your feet.

“Thank you, Princess,” he says with a smile before he heads out, letting you face Aemond as you're left alone.

“Thank you for having my back,” you interject, making Aemond let out a deep sigh and stroke your chin as he looks at you with a half-lidded gaze that lights your entire body ablaze, and makes you lean in to close the gap with a kiss. However, he then tilts his head away like a tease and slides his thumb up to brush it over your bottom lip.

You take in a deep breath as you hold his gaze and then lean your head down to part your lips and slowly close them around the tip of his thumb. When he feels the warmth and wetness of your mouth he grins before he drags his thumb down as he can’t resist you a moment longer, he leans in and slams his lips over you.

You quickly wrap your arms around his neck without breaking contact. You then drag him to the table where he proceeds to push you against the end before he hooks his hands on the back of your knees and lifts you up to sit you on the edge. To secure him against you, you wrap your legs around his waist and lose your hands in his long blond-silver hair to ball some in your hands and pull him even closer to you.

When you pull back for air neither of you take too long apart, neither of you want to lose touch out of fear you will lose yourselves if you don’t keep your mouths connected and moving sloppily yet in sync with each other. If you stay too far apart you fear being too cold, so neither of you stray far. When you rip his clothes off he stays in between your legs, and when he pulls your gown off you stay on the table to make sure you reconnect quickly, like reconnecting a piece of a puzzle to complete the beautiful art.

That’s what your souls are like, two pieces of puzzle that fit perfectly together, that belong together. Separate them and the puzzle can never be completed, they can connect with others, but…the puzzle will always be lacking one or the other.

——

*THE NEXT MORNING*

You dreaded the morning because it meant you had to live the next day. You had to get out of the comfort of Aemond’s warm embrace as he slept away with his head on your chest, and his arm lazily hooked around your waist.

Waking up meant having to move forward and join the army of men in Harrenhal to fight Daemon. You want to stay here and keep hearing the birds singing on the branches. You want to keep smelling the fresh scents of nature—albeit the rain is something you don’t mind leaving.

You just don’t want to live throughout the day. You want to remain in bed forever in your husband's arms and blanketed by his vulnerable and nude body. Why can't you just stay here in your tent with Aemond? Why do you have to get up?

Alas, you get up, making sure not to wake Aemond to let him sleep in while he can and while he’s not being pestered or waited on. You throw on a black gown that has Aerion’s swamp green Shrykos embroidered around the skirt curtsy of Helaena, and then don a golden breastplate before you walk out with your bow and arrow.

“Come, Ser Jason,” you tell the knight who stayed behind to protect you and Aemond.

“Wh-where are we heading?” He stammers out as he gets up from the log he was on and quickly trails after you, leaving the campfire unintended. “What of the Prince?”

You disregard his fear of Aemond and quickly try to assure him—or more so brush him aside. “I’m letting him sleep in while I go hunt for our breakfast. Besides I left a note of where we’ll be if we haven't returned by the time he wakes.”

“But—”

“Relax, we won’t be gone long, the creak is not far.”

You hear Ser Jason’s lips part, but he just bites his tongue and follows your hurried pace to the creak a few clicks down north. When you arrive to the rushing creak you miss Ser Jason’s panic as you carelessly hop down large rocks to reach the creak’s bed.

“Princess—”

You throw your hand up to shush him and carelessly step in the water without caring that the end of your gown was getting soaked, or that your boots were dipped in the cold water.

“You’ll scare the fish if you’re loud,” you whisper and carefully align your arrow as you lock your eyes on a fat silverfish.

“I could hunt for you if fish is what you require,” Ser Jason whispers sharply so he can be heard from the high ground.

You track the fish with your eyes as it starts to swim away and shake your head to not leave the man ignored as you hold your bottom lip between your teeth before you let the arrow fly out.

When the arrow hits the fish and leaves it motionless in an instant, Ser Jason claps.

“Thank you,” you respond to his praise as you reach over and pick up the arrow that has the fish clung to it. “And no need, I can hunt on my own. Just two more and we can head back.”

You proceed to hunt and catch another fish when it comes to the third and last one, you don’t struggle to find it. You let the arrow go, but all it does is scrape the fish because it seems to be too smart for its own good and swims away, leaving behind a trail of blood in the water that you follow as you quickly pull out a fourth arrow.

Once you have it cornered you let the arrow go and this time you manage to kill it, making you grin and whisper a small, “yes,” to yourself before you run over and collect your trophy.

However, it’s when you’re holding the arrow in your hands that the fish slips off the tip, making you quickly reach out to catch it, and getting your hands stained with its blood that leaks out of the gash you left.

Normally you don’t mind blood. Just yesterday you were covered in it, but right now as you see the blood on your hands your mind plays a cruel trick on you by flashing the memory of Jacaerys dying in your arms, and your hands stained in his blood.

You see him there in the creak, floating lifelessly in the water, his eyes rolled back, and his fatal wounds bleeding out and staining the creak.

You remember him, his last breath, and the red blood on your hands flashes in your mind again and again and again, taking your breath from your chest, and leaving you paralyzed.

You want to snap out from the trance your mind has you under, but he won’t go away, and the blood won’t stop flashing. You want to breathe, you want to get away, but tears well in your eyes, your hands begin to tremble, and you’re there again watching your brother die, getting covered in his blood without the ability to bring him back to life or heal those fatal wounds. All you can do is watch him until your world is red and rage begins to seep through.

Rage you bring forth to pull yourself out of your trance. Once the vision of your brother's corpse is gone from the water, you crouch to very harshly wash the blood off your hands and then head back to camp with that excitement gone and rage now twisted on your face.

Ser Jason notices, he wants to speak up about it many times, but he fears upsetting you further, so let’s the silence mingle until you’re the one who breaks it. “Do you have any siblings Ser?”

Ser Jason blinks and gapes in disbelief, thinking your voice is some mind trick until you peer back at him and press your question with a lift of your brows.

“N-no,” he shakes his head. “None, just me.”

You hum. “You’re lucky then,” you mumble but he doesn’t catch what you say, your words get lost in the sky as you look away to watch the grey clouds rumbling overhead.

“I did…” he trails off and sighs. “Love someone like they were my sibling. She died though, just before she could leave and see some of the world she wanted to see.”

You blink and lower your gaze to watch your path ahead. “How?” You ask.

Ser Jason hesitates to answer, but he doesn’t deny you the knowledge of knowing what you asked for. “Killed by someone important who covered up her death.”

You nod stiffly and let out a deep breath that is followed by quiet words full of rage. “Then you know what it feels like…to want to burn the world because it took them away from you.”

Ser Jason parts his lips and stares at you in disbelief. He’s felt anger, he would be lying if he said he wasn’t still upset, but the kind of rage you express just now with what you said is something he can’t relate to. If he’s being honest what you said scares him to the point he can’t follow up with anything else that would feel right to say. That and what if he says something that upsets you? So he stays quiet instead and wonders if the reason you returned to camp all bloody is because of a brother you speak so gloomily about. After all, he knows you have brothers, he knows Queen Rhaenyra has a lot of children, and that you lost a brother at the start of this war, so this new rage he hadn’t heard you express before must be due to why you were gone.

He doesn’t want to ask if it’s true, he fears your reaction with how upset you already sound, so he just keeps quiet. Besides, he can’t really ask more even if he had the balls to because you walk away faster, as if trying to escape the topic from developing any further, leaving the rest of the walk back to camp tense and awkward, and leaving you like the brewing storm passing overhead.

That is until you reach camp and see Aemond out stoking the fire.

“Look!” You announce and show off the fish you caught. “Breakfast. I wanted to have it done before you woke up, but…”

“I heard you when you left,” he finishes for you, making you grin before you skip over to his side in front of the fire.

“Well then now I guess I’ll show you how it’s done,” you interject and plop yourself down on the log. “Just so whenever you find yourself alone or lost somewhere you can make your own food.”

He scoffs. “I can make my own food,” he mumbles, pulling your eyes to him, and making you flash him a teasing smile.

“Okay, sure my Prince,” you tease him and yank a fish off an arrow.

Aemond watches the way you handle the fish as if you have done this multiple times and can’t help but probe. “Where did you learn how to skin a fish?”

Your smile falls and you tilt your head away before you give him a short and stiff answer. “My father.”

Aemond hums and then sits down beside you to put his hands over yours and take over what you’re doing.

You try to fight him, but he’s stubborn and overpowers you.

“I wanted to make some breakfast for you.” You mumble and rest your chin on your hand, making Aemond chuckle.

“I’m being serious!” You exclaim and throw yourself on his side to fix his hand's position before you rest your chin on his shoulder and watch him do what you were just doing. “We’re alone…kind of, and I wanted to take advantage of it. After this, who knows when we’ll be alone like this again.”

“I’m sure we’ll find a moment,” he tries to assure you, but you aren’t reassured whatsoever.

“Where did you even learn how to skin a fish?” You retort and tilt your head to the side to lay your head on his shoulder instead.

“A book,” you both say in sync since you know the only way he would’ve learned how to do this is from a book. He’s a book nerd.

“Hm,” Aemond hums in reaction to you knowing what he was going to say, and you can’t help but laugh and then lean in to press a kiss on his cheek.

“Well thank you I suppose. You took over what I wanted to do, but it’s nice. I enjoy seeing you get your hands dirty.” You grin, and he stops what he’s doing to turn his head and meet your gaze with a serious look.

You keep smiling at him and whisper against his lips. “The twins and I anticipate your cooked fish.”

He hums and he can’t beat down the smile that spreads on his features.

“Maybe you should cook for us more often,” you tease as he continues. “And maybe we should do stuff like this more often after the war. Even if you end up being King, hm?”

Aemond stiffens for a second and doesn’t react or respond with anything, he just stays still, watching nothing in particular until a raindrop hits your hand and you rip away from him to look at the sky in horror.

“No,” you complain, and as if in retaliation the rain comes down harder—“No! It’s raining!” You whine and stand on your feet to be closer to the damn sky and glare at it.

“We can finish inside the tent,” Aemond offers some reassurance, but to someone who’s already upset, this mishap just finds a way to tear you down.

“Come on,” Aemond urges you and grabs your hand, but you drop your head and stay put, causing your hand to slip from his hold.

“I’m sorry,” you manage to whisper over the pattering rain. “I’m sorry.”

Aemond puts down what he has in his hand and turns to approach you and grab your hands to tilt your face up so you can meet his gaze.

“I,” you part your lips. “I know why we’re out here, I know what we have to do, but I still wanted to make the most of the time we have alone, and now…” you trail off and shake your head. “It's ruined. I’m sorry.”

Aemond glances up, letting raindrops fall on his face before he looks down and leans in closer. “It’s just rain,” he says sweetly. “It’s just water.”

Raindrops roll down your cheeks, but tears don’t fall from your eyes. You frown deeply and your eyes droop, expressing a great sorrow that fails to bring tears to your eyes, but if you look closely, like he is, you would see your soul weeping.

“You’re here,” he takes his turn to whisper against your lips. “That’s all that matters to me. You’re here with me, that’s all I care about.”

“Yeah?” You ask for reassurance, and he nods softly.

“Yeah.”

You let out a shaky sigh and even shakier words. “I love you Aemond, and there’s never a day where I’m not grateful that you’re with me,” you share from the depths of your soul as if you feared something, he just can’t quite figure out what yet. He just hears that fear in your voice. “Because if you weren’t here, I would have burned the world and I would’ve disappeared with it.”

“Don’t say that,” he presses sharply, but you don’t regret a word because it’s what you know you feel.

“People I love are getting taken away from me. My mother lied to me, and my father left and died,” you continue sharing as if time is running out and this is the last moments you have together. “But I still have you. You’re all I need, you’re all I want, you’re the only person I trust in this world.”

His breath shudders, and his eyes are quick to fill with tears as your words ache his heart in the best way possible.

“You’re all I ever desired. You are all I want and need and love with every part of me, of who I am, who I was, and who I will be in this lifetime and any other I find myself in,” he whispers as he presses his forehead against your damp one, making the pouring rain now fall over your joined heads. “You occupy my every dream and every inch of my heart.”

You laugh softly and cup his jaw to caress his cheeks. “<I love you, Aemond. Selfishly. All my love belongs to you. You…are my morning and evening star,>” you share your intimate and love-filled words in your native tongue.

“<I love you too,>” he doesn’t hesitate returning those same feelings in the same tongue, making you hold his awe-struck gaze for a lingering moment before you wrap your arms around him, and pull him in a tight embrace, letting him know at that moment as he returns your embrace and kisses your cheek, what it is you feared.

You fear this being your last moments together. You fear that this is the last second you have and the last breaths you’ll take together. The thought of this moment in time being the last one you have together frightens you.

What a foolish fear.

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.

.

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A/N- :) Harrenhal is comin!!!

Tagged- @namelesslosers @stargaryenx @chainsawsangel @lauftivy @winxschester @cloudroomblog @llarue @padsdarlg @sofietargaryen @gracielikegrapes @dreaming-of-the-reality @itzelpeyton @patdsinner33 @mrsdominickstark @elaena-aerrin @todoroki-slut @snh96 @urmomsgirlfriend1 @nifujiswhore @sweethoneyblossom1 @kaetastic @lightdragonrayne @squidscottjeans @oh-you-mean-me @wallacewillow0773638 @icefrye19 @thescottpack @fiction-fanfic-reader @crazymusicgirl104 @r-3dlips @strangersunghoon @just-pure-trash @ethereal-athalia @missyviolet123 @callsignwidow @xunquish-blog @tabathastan @weepingfashionwritingplaid @answer-the-sirens

[creganslover]

⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆

<< Guidelines upon requesting >>

and here is the guidelines on what you need to know before requesting, listed here is the characters I will write for, the genres I’m open to write, and the basic do’s and don'ts in order to help me make your request properly!

P.S it is said on my bio whether requests are open or not, so please be aware! :>

the characters I will write for:

Rhaenyra Targaryen

Daemon Targaryen

Jacaerys Targaryen

Lucerys Velaryon

Alicent Hightower

Gwayne Hightower

Aegon Targaryen

Aemond Targaryen

Helaena Targaryen

Cregan Stark

Criston Cole

Addam of Hull/Velaryon

these are the list of characters that I am confident enough to write for, however, if you have another character in mind from the HOTD universe, please ask then I’ll see if I can do it ♡

genre’s I am open to write:

Fluff

Angst

Crack! Fics

Hurt/comfort

Soulmate AUs

Songfics

Drabbles

Prompts

Platonic! Fics

Headcanons

Blurbs

NSFW! (see do’s and don’ts, MDNI w 18+ fics!)

Will be updated as time goes on*

do’s and don’ts:

↳ I would like to start off by pointing out that yes, this is an HOTD centered account and the fics I would be writing will definitely involve canon-typical incest and violence and graphic scenes and others regarding nsfw, so if you are uncomfortable with that, please refrain from reading <3 but are all of my fics going to be NSFW? Nope! I would love to write and explore different genres if I am able.

↳ For requesting, please be specific as it's hard to come up with a plot at times when I don’t have my creative juices flowing T^T

(Be specific in who would you want me to write, and the kind of genre/s you want to see happen as well as what gender you want the reader to be. If none was stated, I would then decide to make the reader gender neutral.)

↳ I can write for poly! relationships if asked.

↳ Please be polite when requesting.

↳ Always, always send requests through my ask box! Please also refrain from messaging me requests.

(Sending requests through my ask box makes it much more easier for me to keep track and add your requests to my list along with the others! :D)

↳ Please be patient. I’m a real person and often times I don’t feel well or motivated enough to write. Aside from that, I also have uni so I may not be able to do your requests in time, but rest assured I’ll try and get them posted as soon as I’m able to once my schedule is free.

↳ Regarding NSFW!! I’m still experimenting on writing smut and uh all the crazy kinks involved in it, but I would like to give writing nsfw a try if ever presented the opportunity :) however, I would like to advise minors to please not read any of my fics labeled with 18+ content!

Other rules may be added soon*

For now, that is the list of what you need to know before requesting! I would love to see you in my inbox soon. ♡