#aegon ambrose

[gotham-at-nightfall]

Trial of Seven

In 42 AC during the Faith Militant uprising, Ser Damon Morrigen, the Grand Captain of the Warrior's Sons challenged King Maegor I Targaryen to a trial of seven, believing the right to rule the Seven Kingdoms did not belong to Maegor. Maegor accepted the challenge, and faced Damon and six other Warrior's Sons. The man-at-arms Dick Bean inspired five knights to defend the king. While the tales about the trial are often contradictory, they all agree that Maegor was the last one standing. However, Maegor was severely injured by the last of the Warrior's Sons, fell to the ground shortly after killing his last opponent, and was unconscious for several weeks

By TheMarkyGallery

[lizzyiii]

His Mother's Sister

pairing | aemond x aunt!reader word count | 4.7k words summary | aemond becomes instantly captivated by his alluring and enigmatic aunt upon her arrival in King’s Landing, his fascination growing into a consuming obsession. one night, he sneaks into her chambers intending to claim her, only to find himself ensnared and wholly claimed by her instead. tags | 18+ MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, obsession, incest, oral (f), aemond being a simp, aemond being obsessed, older woman/younger man, reader is in her early 30s a/n | haven't written smut in a while, so here's my smut piece before I continue with my normal angst and fluff

likes, comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢��𝐭

“I have summoned your sister to King’s Landing.”

Aemond’s attention sharpened, his gaze lingering on his mother’s face as Otto spoke. He watched as the blood seemed to drain from her cheeks, her knuckles whitening as she gripped the edge of the table.

“For what purpose?” Alicent’s voice held a strained note, attempting to maintain a composure that clearly wavered.

Aegon, lounging at the head of the table, raised his head, intrigued. A faint smirk tugged at his lips, eyes flicking between his mother and grandsire.

“Marq Ambrose commands one of the most powerful armies in the Reach,” Otto stated with an offhand shrug, his eyes giving nothing away.

“And he would serve us best by keeping that power in the Reach, where it may be summoned at need,” Alicent interjected, her tone unyielding, her eyes locked on Otto’s. There was no mistaking the tension in her voice, a chill that crept through the words.

Aemond’s brow furrowed slightly as he observed his mother. His aunt had always been something of a mystery—whispered about in brief conversations that faded when he entered the room. A few years after his birth, she had been wedded to Lord Ambrose of the Reach, her presence a vague shadow on his life, a name he had heard only in passing. And now, with her impending arrival, he sensed a thread of something forbidden—a story that remained carefully locked away, just out of reach.

Aegon chuckled, breaking the taut silence. “Let Lord Ambrose come, then, if he so wishes to make merry in our halls. He is but my uncle by marriage; surely, we ought to welcome such kin to the capital.” His gaze gleamed as he spoke, and his smile widened. “And I would be most pleased to meet my aunt, at last.”

But Aemond’s mind lingered elsewhere. His mother’s discomfort stirred his curiosity, yes—but something deeper, a whisper of anticipation he could scarcely name, took root.

A week had passed since that conversation, and now the family gathered in the throne room, awaiting Lord Ambrose’s arrival. Aegon sat with careless authority upon the Iron Throne, his gaze sharp with the amusement of expectation, while the rest of them stood beneath the shadow of the dais.

The heavy oak doors creaked open, and a knight’s voice rang out through the hall. “May I present Lord Marq Ambrose and his Lady Wife.”

A stocky figure stepped forward, his hair streaked with white and black, his girth almost comical in its fullness. Aemond cast but a cursory glance at the man, unimpressed by this swollen lord from the Reach, before his gaze shifted past him.

And then, Aemond stilled. His eye widened, his brows lifting as he fought to contain his reaction. His heart gave an unbidden jolt, nearly betraying him. If he had chanced a glance at Aegon, he would have seen his brother’s mouth agape, struck silent.

Beside Lord Ambrose stood his lady—a woman of such beauty that she seemed almost ethereal in her presence, like some creature of starlight veiled in fine silks. You could have been Lord Ambrose’s granddaughter, and yet here you were, his lawful wife. Aemond’s mind spun.

From what he understood, this aunt of his was five summers younger than his mother, yet you bore not a trace of age. Your beauty held a captivating allure, tempered with a regal composure that only added to your mystique. You appeared no older than five-and-twenty, though your presence held the calm authority of a queen.

"Lord and Lady Ambrose," Aegon declared with a broad grin as he rose from the Iron Throne and descended the dais, his eyes gleaming with curiosity. "Welcome."

Lord Ambrose, with a thick and lumbering step, inclined his head and spoke in a voice as stout as his frame. “We thank you for your welcome, Your Grace, and pledge our loyalty to the one true king.”

Aegon waved a dismissive hand, barely seeming to heed the man’s words. “Yes, yes, the crown is grateful for your loyalty and your… soldiers,” he said, his tone absent, as though the promise of men-at-arms meant little to him in the face of his aunt.

Then Aegon turned his attention to you, his expression shifting to one of eager charm. He stepped closer and took your hand, lifting it to his lips. "My aunt," he said, his voice thick with pleasure, “it is an honor to finally make your acquaintance.” He kissed your hand, his gaze lingering on you as he released it.

Your lips curled into a slight, knowing smile, your sharp eyes gleaming with a trace of amusement as though you found the entire display mildly amusing. “The honor is mine, my king,” you replied, your voice soft but rich, laced with an elegance and confidence that defied your role as the wife of a lesser lord.

Aemond, standing nearby, felt his pulse quicken at the sound of your voice. It was smooth, sultry, and held an unspoken promise, a warmth that washed over him and stirred something deep within. His gaze lingered on her, captivated, as if drawn to some unnameable force.

Otto cleared his throat, a subtle warning in his gaze as he stepped forward, sensing the direction of Aegon’s attentions. He inclined his head politely. “Lord Ambrose,” he greeted, then turned to the lady beside him, his tone softening. “Daughter.”

Aemond watched with surprise as she stepped away from Lord Ambrose without hesitation, her face alight with joy. “Father!” she exclaimed, her voice warm and bright. She crossed the floor with graceful steps, her skirts sweeping behind her as she embraced her father.

Otto’s usually stoic expression softened, his arms enveloping her with an affection rare to see from the Hand of the King. “How I’ve missed you,” he murmured.

Aemond, along with Aegon and Helaena, exchanged startled glances, astonished by the depth of feeling Otto revealed.

She broke away, casting a radiant smile at Otto before her gaze shifted, and she found Alicent. Aemond watched as his mother’s expression flickered, caught between awkwardness and reluctance, her shoulders tense. But his aunt moved toward her with the same confident warmth. “Sister,” she greeted, wrapping her arms around Alicent in a sincere embrace.

Alicent seemed to steel herself, managing a strained smile as she endured the hug. When they pulled apart, her expression remained stiff as she forced a cordial tone. “Sister,” she said carefully, “you look… as though no time has passed at all.”

The amusement in your eyes deepened, a subtle spark of mischief that curled your lips into a nearly smug smile. “And yet,” you replied, voice gentle but pointed, “it seems that time has left its mark on you."

The words were soft, yet they carried an edge that struck the air between them. Alicent’s face faltered, her polite mask slipping for an instant. Aemond watched the exchange, captivated by the intricate web of tensions and histories unfolding before him. He had thought his mother impervious, yet here she was, visibly discomforted under the gaze of her younger sister.

“Well,” Aegon’s voice broke in, strangely lively, “this calls for a celebration.” He clapped his hands, grinning widely. “A family supper, to welcome Lord… and Lady Ambrose to King’s Landing.” He glanced between his aunt and mother with a glint in his eye, as if relishing the simmering tension.

Aemond glanced toward his aunt, your eyes alight with a confidence that drew him in, entangled with memories he could only guess at. You seemed utterly unperturbed by the uneasy reception, holding yourself with an assurance that only deepened the fascination you stirred within him.

The supper was, in truth, a strained affair. Lord Ambrose quickly drank himself into a state of merriment, his voice growing louder with each goblet of wine he downed. He boasted endlessly of Ambrosia, their ancestral castle in the Reach, extolling the grandeur of its halls, the strength of its walls, and the might of his armies.

It was painfully clear that neither Aegon nor Otto paid him much heed; Aegon’s eyes glazed over with feigned interest, while Otto offered only the occasional nod, his mind elsewhere.

Aegon, however, deftly steered the conversation back to you at every opportunity. “But tell us, Aunt,” he said with a sly smile, “what tales do you bring from the Reach? Surely there are more interesting things than castle stones and soldiers.”

Across the table, Aemond found his brother’s persistent attempts at flirtation grating, yet he could not fault Aegon for giving you the attention. Your voice, like a song in his ear, drew him in each time you spoke, its smooth cadence addictive.

You spoke easily, your words painting scenes of courtly life in the Reach, of feasts and tournaments, your radiant smile outshining your husband’s drunken ramblings. Every eye at the table seemed drawn to you, but none with the quiet intensity of Aemond’s single, focused gaze.

He was captivated by the way you commanded the room, with a poise that cast Lord Ambrose’s bluster into the shadows. And when you looked his way, even for a fleeting moment, he felt as though the world quieted around him.

“And what of you and my mother in your younger days?” Aegon asked, a mischievous, drunken grin on his lips, his words slurring slightly as he leaned forward in his chair.

Alicent shot him a pointed look, her expression tightening as she cleared her throat. “Aegon,” she murmured, her voice gently chastising, “perhaps my sister would appreciate a moment to enjoy her meal.”

But you merely laughed, dismissing her concern with a wave of your hand. “Oh, it’s quite all right, Alicent,” you said warmly. Turning to Aegon, your eyes sparkled with a hint of nostalgia. “You see, in our younger years, your mother could barely stand to be near me.”

Alicent’s discomfort grew visible as she shifted in her seat, her voice soft but strained. “That is not true, sister.”

“Oh, but it is,” you replied with a soft, almost wistful laugh. “Not that I hold it against you, Alicent. I was terribly fond of her then; I looked up to her as one might look to a mother. But every time I tried to spend time with her, she would run off with Princess Rhaenyra, laughing at my expense.”

“Those were mere childish games,” Alicent interjected, her voice taut as she worked to maintain her composure.

“Indeed, they were,” you agreed with an unbothered smile. “Children can be so prone to envy and jealousy. You see,” your tone lightened, yet held a playful undertone as your eyes drifted back to Aegon, “I was often called the ‘Diamond of Oldtown,’ and perhaps such adoration left its mark on dear Alicent.”

The words were spoken with an air of casual jest, yet there was no mistaking the edge beneath them. Aemond watched as Alicent’s mask slipped, her cheeks flushing as she struggled to keep her voice steady. It was clear you were savoring Alicent’s discomfort, a faint glimmer of amusement lighting your eyes as they traveled slowly down the length of the table.

And then, your gaze found him.

“And what of you, dear nephew?” you inquired, your voice as smooth as wine poured in darkened halls. “I’ve heard many tales of you in the Reach.”

Aemond felt his heart thud within his chest, a warmth rising unbidden to his face as he fought to maintain his poise. “Tales of what, Aunt?” he asked, his voice low, striving for calm.

A smile curved upon your lips, one that was as inviting as it was knowing. “A great warrior, fierce and unmatched across the Seven Kingdoms. The rider of Vhagar, queen of all dragons,” you murmured, your words laced with a hint of admiration.

“That’s all, my lady,” Aemond replied softly, his gaze never wavering from yours.

And in return, you tilted your head ever so slightly, an amused glint in your eyes as though you were looking beyond the surface, into the very marrow of him. It was a gaze both alluring and unsettling, one that sent a shiver down his spine.

Before you could speak again, however, your husband’s voice cut through the charged silence. His tone was slurred and irritated, clearly displeased by the lack of attention on him as he clumsily launched into yet another tale of his supposed valor. Aemond noted how you sighed softly, a look of resignation crossing your features as you turned your gaze away from him.

But then, as though unable to resist, your eyes drifted back to Aemond. You held his gaze for a heartbeat longer than propriety allowed and, with a barely concealed smirk, you winked.

Aemond’s heart skipped a beat, his lone eye widening ever so slightly as he blinked, wondering if he had imagined it. He looked back, only to find you now watching your husband with a look of faint distaste, a grimace twisting your otherwise perfect features. It was a small, subtle gesture, but one that spoke volumes, and Aemond felt a surge of something dark and possessive stirring within him.

In that moment, he realized that this supper was not simply an introduction; it was an invitation, a challenge, and a temptation all at once.

These thoughts lingered long after, spiraling in his mind with an intensity he couldn’t quiet. Later, as he passed through the halls, he overheard a quiet murmur from a maid: Lord and Lady Ambrose had chosen to sleep in separate chambers. Aemond’s pulse quickened.

The knowledge seemed a silent invitation, a doorway left just ajar. He recalled the way you had spoken to him, your voice holding layers meant only for him. The look in your eyes—hungry, as though you sought to devour his very soul—left him craving to be consumed by that gaze again. No, this was not his imagination. He was certain of it.

And it was this certainty that drove him through the darkened halls of the Red Keep, slipping past drowsy guards, cloaked in shadow, his steps muffled by the silence of the sleeping castle.

When he reached your door, he eased it open, careful to make no sound, and stepped inside with the stealth of a shadow. Yet he halted at once, caught off guard by the sight that greeted him.

There you sat, reclining on a velvet chaise, a goblet of deep red wine in hand, eyes cast down at a leather-bound book resting in your lap. The faint candlelight painted your skin in warm gold, and your attire—a red nightgown, translucent and clinging to every curve—left little hidden, casting a spell of allure around you.

Aemond’s throat tightened as he took in the sight, the image searing itself into his mind. But the quiet gulp betrayed him, and your gaze lifted, pinning him where he stood.

“Your Highness,” you murmured, your voice laced with a seductive warmth. “What a surprise.” The knowing smile on your lips told him this was no surprise at all.

Feeling the weight of your gaze, he steeled himself, adopting the guise of confidence. “I could not find sleep, my lady,” he replied, his voice steady. “And it would appear you are in the same predicament.”

You set down your goblet and closed the book in your lap, your every movement deliberate. Rising from your seat, you let the robe slide from your shoulders, the fabric pooling at your feet. “You know,” you murmured, teasingly, “it is most improper for a man to visit a married woman at such an hour.”

Aemond took a step closer, his gaze never leaving you. “But you are my aunt—my family.”

A small, knowing laugh escaped your lips as you slipped past him, your arm brushing his, a soft touch that sent a jolt through him. He closed his eye briefly, savoring the warmth, and when he opened it again, you had moved toward the bed, your smile one of invitation.

“The Targaryens are known for their peculiar customs when it comes to family.” You glanced back at him with an amused, daring gleam in your eye. “Tell me, what is it that you desire?”

He took another step forward, drawn like a moth to flame. “I think you know what I desire.”

“And if I were to say yes,” you purred, sitting upon the edge of the bed, “what would you do?”

He moved closer, his voice low with reverence. “I would do whatever you asked of me.”

Your lips curled, eyes glinting with a barely concealed command. “Then kneel for me,” you whispered.

For a brief moment, his brow furrowed, but any hesitation vanished. He lowered himself to his knees before you, his head tilted upward, gaze reverent. “As you wish, my lady.”

You studied him, a look of satisfaction crossing your face as you gathered your skirts, parting your legs with a languid grace. Tilting your chin, you gave a single, soft nod. “Then go on, my sweet prince,” you murmured, your voice a quiet command, heavy with promise.

He hesitated for a moment, then slowly leaned forward, pressing a tender kiss to your inner thigh. His hands came to rest on your hips as he began to place soft kisses along your skin, working his way higher.

When he finally reached the apex of your thighs, he paused, looking up at you, his eye hooded.

"Are you certain about this, Aunt?" Despite his words, his body language betrayed his eagerness - his breathing quickened and his fingers tightened their grip on your hips ever so slightly.

You let out a soft moan as he kissed your thighs, your fingers tangled in his hair, urging him on, "Yes I am certain, now continue before I change my mind."

With a low growl, he surged forward, burying his face between your thighs. He wasted no time in finding your sensitive bud with his tongue, flicking and circling it expertly.

One hand slid up to cup your breast through your thin nightgown, kneading the soft flesh as he continued his ministrations below. He alternated between long, slow licks and quick flicks of his tongue, gauging your reactions to find what felt best.

The other hand gripped your hip more firmly, holding you in place as he devoured you like a starving man at a feast. Wet sounds filled the room as he worked tirelessly to bring you pleasure, lost in the taste and scent of your arousal. Your back arched as he licked your cunt, a loud moan escaped your lips, "Oh gods, yes."

Your fingers tightened in his hair, as you bucked your hips against his face, seeking more of his skilled touch, "Yes, feast on me."

Spurred on by your moans and the encouragement in your voice, Aemond redoubled his efforts. He sealed his lips around your bud and sucked hard, his tongue lashing over the sensitive nub in rapid circles.

Two fingers slid deep inside your slick heat, curling to stroke along your inner walls as they thrusted in and out. The obscene wet sounds of his fingers pumping into your dripping core mingled with your increasingly desperate cries of pleasure.

Aemond could feel you tensing and shuddering beneath his touch, teetering on the brink of release. He doubled down, sucking harder and fucking you faster with his fingers, determined to push you over the edge into blissful oblivion.

Your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, screaming out in ecstasy as your body shook violently, juices gushing out and soaking his face, "Oh fuck! Aemond!"

You clutched at his head, grinding your cunt against his mouth as you rode out the waves of pleasure, your skin glistening with sweat, "Don't you dare stop until I tell you to!"

Feeling your body quake and spasm around his invading fingers, Aemond drank in every drop of your sweet release, lapping at your pulsing sex greedily. He prolonged your climax with relentless strokes of his tongue, coaxing out every last tremor of pleasure.

Only when your spasms subsided does he finally pull back, his chin dripping with your essence. He gazed up at you with a triumphant, almost feral glint in his eye, his own arousal straining against the confines of his breeches, "Have I pleased you, Aunt?"

"Yes, yes you have," you said breathlessly.

Without a word, he rose to his feet and began to strip off his clothes, revealing a lean, muscular physique honed by years of training. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed with blood, the tip already glistening with pre-cum.

"You have such a pretty cock, nephew," you said, taking in the sight of him, as your hand reached out for his cock.

Aemond's breath hitched as your hand wrapped around his throbbing length, his hips instinctively bucking into the touch. He watched, transfixed, as your fingers traced the ridged veins and delicate skin, marveling at how small yet firm your hand looked compared to his engorged member.

"It's yours," he rasped, his voice strained with need. "Do whatever you want with it."

He stepped closer, pressing the heavy weight of his erection against your palm, the heat of his skin seeping into your touch. Leaning down, he captured your lips in a hungry kiss, his tongue delving deep to tangle with yours as he grinded against you.

You broke the kiss, panting heavily, as you pulled him onto the bed. Then you straddled him, rubbing your dripping cunt along his cock, coating it with your juices, "I've never ridden a dragon before. Tell me, do you want me to claim you?"

Aemond's single eye blazed with lust and something deeper, darker, as he gazed up at you poised above him. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, the muscles flexing beneath his pale skin.

"Yes, Aunt," he growled, his voice thick with desire. "Claim me. Make me yours."

His hands came up to grasp your hips, guiding you to position yourself over his straining cock. His head nudged at your entrance, smearing your slickness across it.

"Do it," he urged, his gaze intense and unblinking. "Take me deep."

So slowly you sank down onto his cock, letting out a loud moan as you stretched around his girth. You took him inch by delicious inch until you were fully seated on him, "Fuck, your cock was made for my cunt."

Aemond threw his head back with a guttural groan as you sheathed him completely, your tight heat enveloping his throbbing length. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, nipping and sucking at the tender skin as he reveled in the feeling of being utterly filled in you.

"So tight," he panted against your throat.

His hands squeezed your hips, holding you steady as he began to thrust up into you, meeting each downward plunge of your own hips. The bed creaked beneath you, the sound mingling with your mingled moans of pleasure. And feeling a tinge of frustration, his hands met the top of your nightgown as he pulled hard, ripping it in half completely, making you gasp.

You rode him hard and fast, your breasts bouncing with each powerful thrust. the sound of skin slapping against skin echoed through the room, mixed with your high pitched moans, "Yes, yes, fuck me harder Aemond!"

Aemond leaned forward, sucking on your breast as if he was a babe desperately seeking milk. He suckled greedily at your breast, his tongue swirling around the hardened peak as he drew the sensitive flesh into his mouth. His hands roamed your curves possessively, one sliding down to grip your ass while the other tweaked and tugged at your neglected nipple.

He met your wild riding with equal fervor, pistoning his hips up to meet your downward thrusts. The force of his movements drove you upward, impaling you again and again on his thick cock. Your cries of ecstasy spurred him on, his own groans of pleasure growing louder and more desperate.

Suddenly, he flipped you over onto your back, looming over you with a predatory gleam in his eye. He pinned your wrists above your head, holding you captive as he pounded into you with renewed vigor, the new angle allowing him to penetrate even deeper.

You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist, locking him in place as you grinded your hips upwards to match his frenzied pace. Your nails dug into his shoulders as you clung to him, urging him on, "Fuck! Right there!"

Aemond let go of your wrists, leaning down to capture your lips in a bruising kiss as he continued to ravage your cunt. He swallowed all your screams and moans, relishing in the taste and feel of you.

"Cum in me aemond! Fill me with your seed!" You screamed into his mouth as another orgasm ripped through you.

The sensation of your inner walls clenching and rippling around him sent Aemond careening over the edge. With a hoarse shout, he buried himself to the hilt and erupted, his hot seed flooding your womb in powerful jets.

"Ahh, gods," he gasped, his body shuddering with the intensity of his climax. He continued to pulse and twitch within you, ensuring every drop is deposited deep inside your welcoming heat.

As the aftershocks subsided, Aemond collapsed onto you, his weight a comforting press against your satiated form. He nuzzled into the crook of your neck, his breath coming in ragged pants as he struggled to regain his composure.

"That was...incredible," he murmured, his voice low and husky with satisfaction. “You are truly remarkable.”

You wrapped your arms around him, holding him close, reveling in the warmth of his body against yours as you both sought to catch your breath. A delicate shiver coursed through you, remnants of your shared ecstasy still fluttering within.

“There, there,” you purred softly, running your fingers through his silken hair, enjoying the feel of his softness against your skin. Aemond lay on your chest, his face buried in the crook of your neck, the intoxicating scent of you mingling with the fading heat of your shared intimacy.

Once Aemond had calmed his breathing, he lifted his head to meet your lips in a searing kiss, his tongue dancing with yours in a fervent exploration, igniting a spark that flickered between you. His hand traveled down your body, the warmth of his touch setting your skin alight.

When his hand paused on your stomach, he broke the kiss, a frown creasing his brow as curiosity flickered in his violet eye. It was well known that you had been wed to Lord Ambrose for fifteen years without bearing a child. Whispers of your barrenness had circulated through the halls of the Red Keep, and Aemond could not suppress the question that hung in the air between you.

"Is it true you are barren?" he asked, his tone laced with concern.

You regarded him with a playful smirk, the corners of your lips lifting. “No,” you murmured softly, your fingers gently caressing his long silver hair.

There was amusement in your voice, and as you laughed lightly, the sound was like music in the dimly lit chamber. “Do you truly think I had ever wished to be filled with a child by that fat cunt?”

Aemond’s single violet eye widened in surprise at your boldness. You continued, your tone shifting to one of quiet confidence. “Each time I’ve lain with him, I’ve taken moon tea the morning after.”

You leaned closer, your hand reaching out to caress his cheek with a gentle, deliberate stroke. Your fingers traced the sharp line of his jaw, igniting a spark that sent a wave of absolute pleasure down Aemond's spine. “Yet I don’t think I’d mind bearing your child.”

The very thought of your bearing his child sent shivers of exhilaration coursing through him. The idea that at this very moment, his seed might have taken root within you filled him with a sense of possessiveness that was both intoxicating and primal. In that instant, it became clear: you were his, and he was yours, bound together by an unspoken promise.

Aemond’s mind raced with possibilities. He would need to find a way to rid you of Lord Ambrose, but that task seemed deceptively simple in the face of what awaited him. Once the obstacle was removed, he would claim you as his wife, securing a future that felt destined.

You were made for him, and in his heart, he knew you had been waiting all this time—patiently, silently—for him to come to you.

HOPE YOU ENJOYED!

[councilofcastamere]

WINTER NIGHTS | CREGAN STARK X TARG!READER ꧂

a b r i d g e m e n t : With tensions rising, your elder half-sister Rhaenyra arranges for you to seek asylum in the freezing land of the North. And fortunately for you, Cregan is there to show you how Northmen operate.

TW: penetration, loss of virginity, breeding kink, mentions gender roles but in a sexy way, sexual tension, sibling jealousy, childhood neglect, mentions of death by birth, shitty character development

A/N: I know the girly portrayed is Visenya but her body is tea in this so maybe I do know best…

The second daughter. The oh-so passed over maiden. Not belonging to anything, nor belonging to nothing. Not the first, and not the last. An ever enduring memory to a passed over era. Nothing significant. Never anything significant.

That’s what you were. Insignificance. A beautiful insignificance, if you could see beauty in tragedy. Beauty in all the ways of life. All the little horrible things that make up a big, beautiful, picture. People shan’t look close, you’d assure yourself.

But you were you. Born to the everlasting way of royal life. To the peaceful Viserys, and his second wife, a woman whose name is not all that important. Another maiden from a noble house that perished to childbirth. Lost her life, giving life.

And as it did not to many maidens, the Gods did not grant you the chance to grow up with your mother. The blood that dripped down her thighs had covered you from head to toe as you came into existence, and she had naught of you in her arms before a deep and long slumber overcame her. The stranger had come for her, and he did not slow down on its way. He’d taken her as quick as she’d given you to the world. A quick exchange, you’d suppose.

Now and then you think about her. What she might have looked like, what she might have liked, what she might have been had she survived the wretched burden of your existence. You’d often wonder if infants who survived childbirth ever felt as deep a burden as she did. To have your very first breath of life tainted with the death of an innocent. Tainted with tragedy.

Growing up in King’s Landing hadn’t been all that as it sounded. You’d never really been that happy, as ungracious as it sounded.

You had an older sister - Rhaenyra - who’d occasionally humoured you. You’d never seen much of her, really. Perhaps it was your own fault as well. For not actively seeking her out. For not being the younger sister one was supposed to be. Some people - as close to you as they may be - are just unattainable in your mind. Your kin aren’t your kin until you allow it.

You have better companions than her, you figured. You had your lady-in-waitings. Lady Vievenne of house Swann. Lady Laycie of house Oldflowers. Lady Claere of house Ambrose. Lady Evelyne of house Hightower, who was, by all accounts, a gift from your newest stepmother, Alicent of the house Hightower.

What you also had was younger siblings. Such as Aegon. Though he is naught but a skirt enthusiast, swimming along the sea of young maidens at his whim. But he cares not whether they are, does he?

And oh, do not get yourself started on the one-eyed prince and that smug little smile on his sharp-featured face. Nonetheless, he was gentle. Oh so gentle with his touch. And oh so sinister in the way that made you feel important enough to be in his good graces.

However, you chose to distance yourself from all parties involved as fate made it clear what it had in store. A great slap to the great Targaryen dynasty. A dark cloud looming over the already curse-clad clan.

For even you knew that the only thing that could tear down the House of the Dragon, was itself.

“Sister.” you greeted one late evening, having taken flight to Dragonstone on your she-dragon, Starfyre. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

“…y/n.” the elder sister called out, a small smile on her lips. “I… am glad for your visit.”

“…I’m certain you are,” you say, trying with all your might to contain a frown.

You eyed her awkwardly as she wiped her sweaty hands off her dress, letting out a sigh as the elder royal wasn’t quite certain how to approach the topic.

“I… understand… things quite haven’t been… that active, in our kinship,” Rhaenyra speaks up, taking a step closer. “And for that, I apologise.”

You could only nod, a small smile gracing your lips at the heartwarming confession of absent love.

“I apologise, also.” you smiled, your hands finding each other behind your back. “I suppose I should have been the one to seek your company and counsel as well.”

“Good.” Rhaenyra smiled awkwardly, a silence engulfing the echo-ridden chambers. “The reason, as to why I called you, might be surprising.”

You froze slightly, heart pounding as the possibilities of implications travelled through your mind. The goosebumps on your arms grew more prominent as a cold breeze passed through.

“Oh?” you answered, cocking a brow. “And what might that be, sister?”

“I ask of you to travel to the North,” Rhaenyra admits, a tone of seriousness overshadowing the warm moment. “I have already sent a raven to Lord Cregan Stark, and he has agreed to host you. If it pleases you, of course.”

No answer came out of your lips, save for your a mere breath. You felt a pang in your heart, consuming your every emotion, making certain you cannot detect how you feel about the news.

A dragon in the north? What a jest. You’d do better in Dorne, surrounded by sun-kissed squires and stable boys than laddish lordlings and Northern butchers.

“And… why should I?” you asked, respect in your tone. “Pardon me, my sister, but why have you made this decision for me?”

“Tensions are rising, y/n. You know that as well as I do.” Rhaenyra sighs, her body language giving up on its tense posture. “And I am aware of your… complex feelings on it. But to the North you must. I’m sending Rhaena to the Va-”

“Yes, because Rhaena gets to be hosted by a relative of yours, in safety. Meanwhile you sent me off to some Northern stranger!”

“Y/n.” Rhaenyra warned, raising a brow. She took a step closer as you composed your words. “You are my sister, and I will have you safe in the North. The Northmen are honourable men, and in time you’ll know.”

✫彡

And so you were, clad in thick fur, lady Vivenne and lady Evelyne at both sides of yourself. Across from you sat three servants, and somewhere else sat your sworn shield.

“It will be splendid.” Evelyne beamed, properly adjusting her hair, tied up in a bun, similar to the ones the older maidens wear. “We shall meet every dusk, and speak about our day. In front of the fire.”

“Not if I can help it.” you sighed softly. “Apologies, my ladies, but I’ll let you two get at it. I’d love to explore the North in solitude.”

“Right…” Vivenne nodded, looking through the small peep holes as the carriage slowed down, just outside the gates of Winterfell. “We’ve arrived, I suppose. You’ll have to greet Lord Stark. If he’s anything we’ve heard of and more, I wish you luck.”

You only nodded, watching as your ladies exited the carriage, standing at the side of the door. Their faces are cast down, as if in mourning. Perhaps they’re mourning the life of luxury provided at King’s Landing.

You could not blame them for it, really. From growing up in their own house, to growing up in the Royal house, to trade it again to live to see the snowy winters of Winterfell.

You shook slightly, the cold air hitting your face in an instant as you slightly lifted your dress, taking a step out of the three provided for the carriage.

You looked ahead of you, eyes locking on the noblemen and women, standing straight and proud. The women bore clothes of low quality, so obviously sewn to fit any class. The men wore dark furs, contrasting to the blue clothing of the opposite sex.

And in the midst of it, stood Cregan Stark, accompanied by a mere little boy of just two years of age. Your eyes locked upon his stormy-grey ones, his face etched into a stern expression, eyes focused on yours.

You maintained the eye contact, taking each step closer to him.

“Princess Y/N.” Cregan greeted formally, taking your soft hand in his. “Welcome to Winterfell. I am Lord Cregan Stark.”

“Thank you, Lord Stark.” you smile, curtsying in a fashionable manner. Your eyes stood glued on his as his lips brushed against the palm of your hand. “I’m truly honoured to be here.”

“…I’m certain you are.” Cregan answered, eyeing you skeptically.

Hearing false compliments wasn’t out of the ordinary for the wolf of Winterfell. He knew well enough that you weren’t suited for the North. You were a Southern lady, used to the life of feasts, luxury, and sparkly dresses.

“Let us go inside, shall we?” you smiled charmingly, looking up at the tall castle with dread in your eyes.

“Aye, so we shall.” Cregan nodded, his broad shoulders most notable as he sauntered into the opened gates.

✫彡

The first night went unfamiliar to you, the harsh blows of the cold weather creating a prominent presence looming over the already melancholic times.

You sat in your chambers, sitting at the stony window sill as you watched Cregan from above.

The lord was overlooking young squires on the courtyard, engaged in conversation with the knight in charge of guiding the young to-be-knights.

All dressed in fur, shoulders looking as if they were padded. Cregan’s hair was tied up, with two front strands escaping and hanging loose. His grey-blue eyes stood glued at watching the young squire’s techniques, and you could only sigh as you got lost in his appearance.

Ever since stepping foot into the North of Westeros, you’d developed a strange sense of interest in the beauty of Northern men. How they all dressed so grimly, but intimidating. How they’re oh-so honourable and hard working. How they always seemed so clean shaven but rugged all at once.

And you could not help but wonder what it would be like had you wedded one of them.

Being completely honest, you’d never really been the sort of maiden to stay inside of her chambers, waiting for her husband to return from his duty, deprived of affection.

With any Southern lord, being a doting unappreciated wife would never cross your mind.

But with Northern men, however, you had the feeling your efforts wouldn’t go unnoticed.

Before you could continue your vulgarly confusing thoughts, you saw Cregan’s eyes shift to yours, finding your gaze.

You could only lean against the window, a hand on the stony side as you gazed back at him. Your hair was loose, and you were dressed in your creamy beige nightdress.

You held his gaze for a moment, until ultimately turning away, leaving the implications of that gaze to his imagination.

✫彡

By the third day, you’d been reading in the old library belonging to House Stark. You’d sat on a plush seat, the dusty book on your lap as your gentle fingers flipped through the pages.

But you weren’t alone.

Cregan Stark sat near you, his knees in almost touching proximity to yours.

“Aye, the North is cold, but it’s honest.” he tells you, gently shutting his own book. “The snow doesn’t lie about its intention. No courtly games like they play in the South.”

“Oh, please.” you smiled, shutting your book as well. your body shifted so it was facing his, resting your head on one hand. “The courtly games are what makes it so fun.”

“Now, riddle me this.” You smiled, noting his full attention on you. His body language exuded calmness, and you felt secure in the knowledge that his comfort lies with you. “How do you not like courtly games? Personally, it makes my life all the more amusing.”

“I suppose it’s all jesting for you, princess.” Cregan said, his eyes resting on yours. “Amusement or not, I’d rather know where I stand…”

“With you, however…” His eyes trailed down to your bare shoulder, the white nightdress you’re wearing very much a sight of sore eyes. “I think I know.”

“Oh, do you?” you teased, cocking a brow. “And how so, pray tell?”

“Well…” he grunted, shifting in his seat to tighten the proximity around you two. “You’d do well not to cross any Northern man. They don’t take well to… courtly games.”

You only smiled at that, your upper body instinctively leaning in, albeit torturously slow.

“And, uh, suppose I… marry a Northern lord.” you teased quite coquettishly, a hand moving to rest on the thick fur coating his body. “What am I in for.”

You watched as his smirk only widened, gently taking the hand that rested on his fur, and taking it in his.

“Marry a Northern lord like me, and have your nights warmed under the thick fur of blankets.” he says, his thumb rubbing against your knuckles. “Northern loyalty runs deep, princess. That’s what you’d be in for.”

You nodded slowly, and you could not help but notice those coloured eyes of his descending onto your perky breasts.

Great, this was all going well so far. “I’d imagine… do you think he’d gift me a pup? I’ve always wanted a tiny pet, to keep.”

“Yeah?” The lord licked his lips, a hand resting on your waist. “You think you’d handle a wolf properly?”

“Well, I would.” you smiled, nodding in agreement. “I’m a dragon… and dragons do not surrender that easily.”

You smiled, shifting in your seat again as Cregan amusedly indulged you in your silly thoughts. “Just imagine it, my lord. I’d be holding that pup every night trying to get it to warm to me.”

Your hand slowly, but surely, trickled down to his clothed thigh, trying to maintain a sense of quiet intimacy.

“You’ll have your work cut out for you, then.” his voice lowered, bordering on husky. “Wolves aren’t so easily tamed, not even by someone with…”

He paused for a moment, a hand gently taking the one you placed on his thigh.

“…your charms.”

You’d have a cheeky comeback on the tip of your tongue, had it not been for Cregan’s lips descending upon yours, clashing together like Blackwoods and Brackens.

You let out a soft breath as you eased into the kiss, feeling his large hands grip your waists as if his life depended on it.

Your hands moved from his shoulders, to his neck, and then to his armoured chest. The armour he carried felt cold to your hands, yet it made it all the more sinful.

“Did you have this in mind?” you murmured against his lips, tongue circling his as you so sloppily attempted to kiss him. “Seducing me?”

The silence engulfed you two for a moment, only being overshadowed by the sound of soft breaths.

“You have it wrong, princess.” he breathed, firmly planting you upon his lap, your back pressing against his chest. “Do you take me for a halfwit?”

You smiled, looking over your shoulder as you attempted to chase his lips with yours again.

“No, but I certainly did not take you for a man so easily seduced.” you teased, guiding his hands to your clothed breasts. “You don’t seem the type to give in that easily.”

“Because it’s untrue.” he spoke up, lips brushing to against your neck. “But do you honestly think nothing would be done about the way you saunter around, looking as you do?”

His hands slowly tugged against your nightdress, pressing a hard kiss to your achy jaw before pulling away.

“Lay yourself down on the carpet.” he commanded, hands shifting to peel off his fur coat, along with his armour and tunic.

All you could do was nod and watch on as his armour went discarded on the floor, the metal material cranking against the stone ground.

His bare chest was now visible, the defining abs illuminated by the glowing fire. His hair messed up when he threw his tunic over his head.

“Cregan, I-"

And in one moment, you felt his large body overshadow yours, clashing lips again. Cregan lifted his body as to not crush you, hands on either side of your head.

You only permitted yourself to breathe unevenly, stead of moan. Your hands found his shoulders, desiring to pull him closer than possible.

“Ever since you’ve arrived you’d been nothing but trouble.” Cregan murmured, lips finding your throat. “Sauntering around with your ladies, endlessly teasing me.”

Your legs only shifted to wrap around his waist, back slowly arching at the kisses.

He took notice, and let one of his hands pin you down, lips descending towards your perky breasts.

“Gods, you’re wrong for this.” he grunted, swirling his tongue around the nipple. “For provoking me, as you did yesterday, and the day before that.”

“For thinking you have the authority to do this to a lord.” he breathed, your small breast fitting into his large palm.

“For…” he continued, kissing down your stomach, before ultimately glancing back at you “…thinking you’d get away with this.”

“I did not think I’d get away with this.” you tease, watching as he moves face-to-face again. “Which is why I did it.”

Your hands find his muscled arms, squeezing it gently. “I want to know how Northern men do it.”

You’d think you were jesting, but were you truly?

You’d have opened your mouth to say anything else, looking up at him, if it weren’t for the Northern lord himself roughly flipping you to your stomach.

“You wish to know, my princess?” he murmurs, unlatching his breeches. “You’d have your first time be with a Northman?”

You nodded, cheek resting on the carpet fabric without surrender. “Yes. Gods yes.”

He hiked your skirt around your waist, your plump ass visible to his peering eyes.

“You’ll be ruined for other men, aye.” He grunted, his hand wrapping around his rock hard cock.

“That’s good, because I desire no one save you.” you smiled, allowing him to lift your hips up and arch your back.

“Yeah?” he smirked, the tip of his cock rubbing against your damp hole. “You’ll have me make you my wife?”

You nodded, impatiently moving your hips. “I wouldn’t be opposed to it.”

“You’d be a good wife, wouldn’t you?” he grunted once again, head finally pushing into your unloosened clit. “No Southern games, no poignant looks of yours.”

“You like that about me.” you painfully breathed, feeling the uncomfortable ache of his cock in your newly penetrated cunt.

His head descended, placing gentle kisses upon your shoulders. “A maiden. Perhaps you aren’t as well-equipped to handle a wolf as you said you were.”

“I am.” you protested, pushing your hips back. “Move your hips. I wish to prove myself.”

He only speeded up his thrusts, and as you allowed the moans to fill your lips, his hands found a way to push your head down.

“You’d carry my pups?” he asked, thrusting into you aggressively, pumping his cock in and out. “Wait on my cock every night?”

You only moaned incredulously, asscheeks clapping along with every snap of his hips.

“Yes.” you breathed, gasp and claps filling the room. “Fuck, put a babe inside of me. I want your children.”

“We’ll have to wed sooner, before the babe gets born in wedlock.” he grunted, hands gripping your hips, pushing you back onto his thick length. “But that’s what you wanted all along, was it?”

You gripped the fabric of the carpet, cheeks burning as it rubbed against the irritating carpet.

“For a thick cock such as this.” he teased, tugging at your hair.

“Yes.” you moaned pathetically, cheeks flushed as you felt a knot forming into your stomach.

Your lips parted, your eyes rolling above-ways.

“Yes, yes!” you moaned loudly, feeling his hands grope your breasts. “Fuck, you’re moving fast.”

“Never fast enough.” he murmurs, member sliding against your wet slit.

He could feel your tight walls clenching around him, milking his cock for all it is worth. His grip on you tightened as he thrust down to meet your upward motion.

And with one sharp thrusts, you felt the knot loosen and the cream dripping out your twitching clit.

Yet, he didn’t stop, his thrusts becoming more erratic as he rode you through your orgasm.

The feeling of your walls clenching around his cock was enough to send him reeling as well, burying himself deep inside of you.

Hot spurts of cum dripping out of your hole, you completely got yourself spent, closing your eyes and deciding you could just fall asleep on this carpet.

“No sleeping in the library.” he scolded lightly, putting on his fur coat, covering his naked physique. “Come here.”

You exhaustedly crawled over to him again, and snuck yourself into his coat, the clothing covering both of your naked bodies.

“I’m taking you to your chambers.” he sighs, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. “And for the next time, do not attempt to get so exhausted. I went easy on you this time.”

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Cannibals [Chapter 9: Blue Jays and Red-Tailed Hawks]

A/N: Thank you so much for your patience! Life got hectic but I am back, besties. Only 1 chapter left!!! 🥳❤️💙🦇

Series summary: You are his sister, his lover, his betrothed despite everyone else’s protests; you have always belonged to Aemond and believe you always will. But on the night he returns from Storm’s End with horrifying news, the trajectories of your lives are irrevocably changed. Will the war of succession make your bond permanent, or destroy the twisted and fanatical love you share?

Chapter warnings: Language, mentions of sexual content (18+ readers only), blood and violence and warfare, character deaths, chaotic giant lizards.

Word count: 5.5k

💙 All my writing can be found HERE! ❤️

Tagging: @themoonofthesun @chattylurker @moonfllowerr @ecstaticactus @mrs-starkgaryen, more in comments 🥰

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He reaches for his game piece, the shadowcat, although it isn’t purple but only a plain, crudely-carved chunk of oak wood, a makeshift imitation of its twin back in the Red Keep, assuming that Rhaenyra hasn’t stumbled upon and destroyed it. Daeron has sculpted the beast himself; he used a dagger that Aemond gave him as a gift before he was sent away to Oldtown, its hilt embellished with dark blue stones the color of Tessarion’s scales. He has made dice and a board too, and the other four pieces, homely little animals, proxies of his long-lost siblings. Daeron wonders if they miss him as much as he has always missed them. None of them ever said that in their letters, not in words so explicit. Aegon never really wrote at all; instead, he would scrawl barely-legible postscripts at the bottom of other people’s letters: Don’t drink too much, Learn some High Valyrian, Try not to get anyone pregnant.

“I am always the shadowcat,” Daeron explains, grinning. He shows the talisman to his companions, four soldiers fighting in the Hightower army, his closest friends. Then he places it at the starting line he has etched into the board.

“Why do you get the best one?” says Anthony of House Ambrose.

Daeron blinks. This has never occurred to him before. “Is the shadowcat the best piece?”

“Obviously.”

“I don’t know,” teases Josiah of House Roxton of the Ring, scratching his beard. “That butterfly is mighty fearsome.”

Now they’re all laughing. “Then you shall have the butterfly,” Daeron proclaims, handing it to Josiah. “That was my gentle sister Helaena’s piece. And you will never be as good as her, not if you pray to the Seven for a thousand years.”

“No,” Josiah agrees somberly, bowing his head in the firelight. It is just after dusk, and even here in the south, even within the cloth walls of the tent, the metallic chill of winter is creeping into every room like a vermin, like a spider or a rat.

“And Anthony, because you are clever yet envious and ever-grasping, I bequeath you Aemond’s wolf.” Daeron drops it into his open, calloused palm.

“I hope he doesn’t come looking for it,” Anthony chuckles. “I’m quite skilled with the sword, but I would be loath to meet the prince in combat.”

“I don’t want the worm,” slurs Oliver of House Fossoway of Cider Hall. Oli is quite drunk.

“It’s a snake, you idiot,” Josiah says.

“And it’s yours, Oli.” Daeron gives the tiny wooden snake to him. Oli accepts it reluctantly. “The snake was Aegon’s piece.”

“Long live the king!” Oli bellows with sudden fervor, and raises his cup of ale. Everyone toasts to the king’s health.

“Wherever he may be,” Daeron says before draining his cup and sweeping his silver hair out of his eyes, blue like a Targaryen’s, large and expressive like Mother’s. He feels that Aegon is still alive somewhere. He believes that if his eldest brother was dead, he would know it in his bones; there would be invisible, unbearable wounds like the ones that opened up when Helaena and Dreamfyre fell from the sky, days before Daeron received a raven carrying the news.

“What about my game piece?” asks Laurence of House Redwyne of the Arbor. He is a bowman and a healer as well, adept at herbal remedies and stitching. He would have preferred to be a maester or a septon, but as his parents’ only son he was compelled to endure the life of a lord. A squire arrives, refills all the cups with ale, departs with a swift bow.

“You are a Redwyne, and so you shall have Red’s bat,” Daeron says, entrusting the inanimate beast to Laurence. They know who he is talking about; they have heard more fireside stories of Daeron’s siblings than they could count. “And you are nothing like her. You are pious and poised, and you have never made your parents blush with shame. My Mother would have loved to have you for a son.”

“I’ll take your place,” Laurence says mildly, smiling. “You can be my parents’ dashing warrior, and I can accompany Queen Alicent when she prays in the sept.”

Daeron rolls first. He reads the dice and moves his shadowcat forward seven spaces. His brow knits together with determination. “I’m not leaving my mother there.”

“What? In the city?” Anthony asks, startled but not opposed. He is not one to shy away from battle. He believes that is where men find glory, where they ascend from mortals to something more, legends, heroes, gods.

Josiah snickers. “Not going to wait for Prince Aemond’s permission, huh?”

“The people of King’s Landing are in rebellion,” Daeron says, firelight flickering on his face. “Rhaenyra is desperate, and she is grieving Jace’s death, and she has my mother, Jaehaera, and Maelor in her grasp. What if Rhaenyra flees the city on Syrax and evades punishment for her treason? What if she executes my family, or if they are killed somehow when mobs overrun the Red Keep? I will not wait idly. Tessarion and I will recapture King’s Landing for the Greens.”

Oli raises his cup of ale again. “And we will fight with you!”

All five men toast, drink deeply, resume the game. Daeron wins; he has always been lucky.

~~~~~~~~~~

You stumble upstairs together, you supporting Aegon’s weight as best you can, tripping on the stone steps as lightning flashes outside the windows. Rain pours in sheets, wind howls through the cracked walls of the castle, and for a moment you think you are back at Heart’s Home, and that at the top of the tower you will find Luca waiting for you, safe and without pain and grinning his toothless little smile at you over Jace’s shoulder. Then—through the wine, through the torchlight and the thunder—you remember, and you feel the loss of them all over again, and when your knees buckle on the staircase Aegon drags you to your feet. You can sense that Alys Rivers is following you both, sweeping near-silently in her mossy green gown, peering fixedly with those strange silvery eyes like mirrors, haunting doorways and corridors. When you look back you catch glimpses of her, deformed shadows with long white fingers like the skeleton of a bat.

“I’m not a man anymore,” Aegon is blubbering as he collapses into his bed. His half-unbuttoned shirt is damp with spilled cider; tears gleam on his disfigured face.

“Shh, yes you are,” you soothe, lying down beside him. You rest a palm on his chest, gnarled grotesque scar tissue the color of a flayed man. Hazily, you think of the Bolton soldiers who must have marched south with Cregan Stark, and you wonder if when they sharpen their knives they are thinking of Aegon, or Daeron, or Aemond, or Mother, or maybe even you.

“I used to be,” Aegon sobs. “Now I’m just a useless, mutilated, flaccid freak.”

You burrow into him, drunk and drowsy. “Whatever you are, I’m glad you’re still alive.”

Aegon slings a scarred arm over your shoulder. Your ribs throb, your skull aches. “I used to love whoring,” he says miserably.

“The sport is not lost to you entirely. A working cock is not required to satisfy a woman.”

He laughs. “No, I suppose you’re right.”

“Perhaps you will recover. Perhaps you will find new ways to experience pleasure.”

“Perhaps,” Aegon agrees in a soft murmur, and then he dozes off.

And as the room spirals around you and thunder booms outside, you are carried back to other times and places, fleeting visions like the windows you once peered through into Aemond’s mind. You are a child being shoved into a wooden trunk and entombed there. You are tapping your little red bat around the game board. You are under the arbor grown over with roses and thorns, sunlight bleeding through the leaves in golden trickles. You are watching blue jays flit through a blue sky and bathe in the water of the fountains. You are playing with Jaehaerys, Jaehaera, and Maelor, building fortresses of stones and sticks, collecting seashells with them on the beach. You are catching your bats when they soar in through the open window to land in your palms. You are watching Aemond ride back from hunting with one of his red-tailed hawks still perched on his glove. You are feeling your mattress shift beneath his weight, his hand on your thigh, his teeth on your neck; you hear a reverent whisper of High Valyrian. And then you hear the blistering shrieks of all the people he has killed, and you are reminded of Mother’s words about what you once shared with him: It’s strange, and violent, and obsessive and profane and…and…unnatural.

Was she right? She must have been. All it has led to is suffering.

If I had never loved Aemond, Luca and Jace would still be alive. If I had married some ordinary nobleman like Mother and Grandsire always wanted—his bloodline an inheritance from the Andals or the First Men, not the treacherous smoldering embers of Old Valyria—my children would be safe, and Helaena never would have tried to escape King’s Landing, and Aemond would have wed a Baratheon girl and perhaps accepted Lord Borros’ offer of dinner and rest that night in Storm’s End, and maybe Luke wouldn’t have been killed over Shipbreaker Bay, and there is a chance the war would never have happened at all.

But you didn’t listen to Mother and Grandsire, because you have never been tame, gentle, dutiful, ladylike. Jace saw this clearly; you were hungry.

You don’t fall sleep until dawn, and when you wake it is night again. The maids bring food, bread and butter and stew thick with fish and crab, but neither you or Aegon want it. You are marooned here together, not useful like Aemond or Daeron, not holy like Helaena, and the only remedy is cider that flows like molten gold, heat that burns in your throat like the fire of a dragon.

Now there is bleak grey midday light streaming in through the windows, and Aegon is screaming downstairs. You sit up, startled and bleary-eyed, your tangled silver hair strewn carelessly all around you. Alys is standing beside the bed. You yelp in alarm when you see her.

“A raven has arrived,” Alys says tonelessly. She has a red ribbon laced through her moon-white fingers and is toying with it.

“What? Why are you in here…?”

“I think it’s bad news.” Then she floats to the doorway and turns back to make sure you’re following, her hand with the ribbon resting on her rounded belly.

At the bottom of the staircase, Aegon is writhing on the stone floor, a piece of parchment—doubtlessly sent by one of his loyalists on the mainland, one of the very few who know where he is now, perhaps somebody at Rook’s Rest or Crackclaw Point—crumpled in his fist. Several maids are trying futilely to comfort him. You take the letter from Aegon so you can read it.

What is written there in black ink is a tale of triumph and ruin. Under the cover of darkness the Hightower army marched on King’s Landing, and the smallfolk rose up to join them when the soldiers breached the city walls, and the capital has been retaken by the Greens and Mother freed from her cell. Ulf the White was found drunk and senseless, and promptly murdered. Silverwing fled from the Dragonpit in the midst of the chaos. Daeron and Tessarion flew directly to the Red Keep and attacked Syrax where she had been kept in the courtyard, killing the dragon and thus destroying Rhaenyra’s chance to escape. The woman the Blacks call queen was captured and imprisoned, and the men of her council executed; but not before her bowmen shot Daeron through the chest and throat and he tumbled from the saddle and died alone, bleeding to death within the castle walls he once called home. Tessarion screeched in grief and would not leave his body, incinerating the archers when they dared to shoot at her next.

It’s in your pounding skull, a memory that fills your vision, harsh and luminous like lightning: Daeron as a child moving his little purple shadowcat around the board, how the rest of you packed up the game and never played again after he was sent to Oldtown.

“He was supposed to wait for Aemond,” Aegon is sobbing. “He wasn’t supposed to try to retake the city alone, he knew that, he was just a kid…”

You see Daeron falling from the sky, riddled with arrows and stained red with blood. You see Helaena and Dreamfyre plummeting down towards the beach where you once played with her children. And then you see Aemond plunging into the Gods Eye and being swallowed up by cold dark currents, sinking to the floor of the lake, dissolving into silt, disappearing from history.

I love him, you realize, an abrupt and agonizing laceration down to the bone. I might hate him, but I love him too. And hasn’t it always been that way?

You feel the heat of blood drawn on your cheek, taste the iron and copper of it on Aemond’s lips. Your skull aches, always on the left side.

“Why are we the ones still alive?!” Aegon wails at you. “You and me and Aemond were the monsters. But Helaena and Daeron, they were good, they were pure, they deserved to be here when the war is over!”

“It’s not over yet,” Alys says ominously.

“Go away, witch,” Aegon moans, covering his face with his hands. “Go away, go away, go away…”

Outside where soft rain is falling—you can see droplets on the windows and endless opaque fog—you hear the distant snarl of a dragon. And you have the overwhelming sensation that you are being called to.

Above the Gods Eye, the red and the blue, Alys had said. Aemond was blue…but who was red? Caraxes, Daemon, me?

The dragon growls again, not Sunfyre or Grey Ghost or Vermithor the Bronze Fury but the Cannibal, never ridden, never tamed, always hungry. Alys Rivers is holding something out to you. It is the red ribbon.

“He flies to his death,” she says levelly. “Unless you are there to catch him.”

Luca and Jace are gone. Helaena and Daeron are gone. Jaehaerys and Grandsire are gone. But I don’t have to lose Aemond too.

You take the ribbon and swiftly weave your hair into an untidy braid, then tie it off at the end with the strip of red. It is the first color besides black you have worn since you left Heart’s Home. Then you pad towards the castle entranceway in your bare feet.

Aegon is sniffling as the maids try to console him. He peers up at you from where he is still collapsed on the floor, a heap of marred skin and weak bones. “Where are you going?”

In answer, the Cannibal roars outside, immense and gravelly and malevolent.

Aegon says again, frantic now: “Red, where are you going?”

“To claim a dragon.”

“You can’t,” he says, stunned, petrified. “They all refused you.”

“I’m a different person now.”

“No!” he shouts as you turn to leave, lunging and wrapping his arms around your legs, trying to keep you here. “Please don’t go. Please stay. I don’t want to lose you too.”

Tenderly, you touch his tangled locks of silver hair, his mutilated cheek, his slumped shoulder. “If I don’t go, you might lose all of us.”

“It’s suicide. The Cannibal can’t be ridden.”

“But I know what he craves,” you say, and from across the room Alys smiles at you, her pale eyes glinting and her hands stroking the small globe of her belly. “And I want the same thing.”

You pull away from Aegon and escape into the mist, the rain, the cold wind and sea spray that burns in your lungs. He hobbles after you with his walking stick, pleading for you to stop, but he is too slow to catch up. Behind Aegon, Alys trails at a distance, meandering over the rocks. The magma trapped beneath the surface of the island flows like scorching blood through the arteries of the earth; the heat radiates up through the soles of your feet. The marrow glows hot and red in your bones.

You follow the Cannibal’s grunts and snarls and find him down by the water, a shore of jagged volcanic rocks and no sand, volcanic glass, fury hardened and cooled. But yours is still fresh. The Cannibal is feasting on the corpse of Grey Ghost. Gore hangs in crimson shreds from his craggy teeth; he has too many of them, they grow in rows like a shark’s. Frothing seawater laps at his claws. He raises his massive head—black scales and barbed spines, mindless primordial eyes green and luminous—and growls, steam rising from his flaring nostrils.

Fear strikes you, sharp and sudden. Your hands and knees are trembling.

“Let’s go back to the castle!” Aegon yells over the sounds of the sea and the gales of wind.

But you can’t stop now. The Cannibal called and you answered. And here, eighteen years late, you will have the dragon you were denied from birth.

You speak in High Valyrian as the wind gusts and rakes, your black mourning gown billowing, strands of silver hair ripped from your braid. “You hate your kind,” you say to the Cannibal, showing him the empty palms of your hand as you approach, cutting your bare feet on the rocks; and he watches you, eyes blazing, fangs revealed. “And I do too. I hate Rhaenyra for ordering the deaths of Helaena and Daeron and Grandsire. I hate Daemon for sending assassins into my home to murder Jaehaerys. I hate Aemond for killing Luca and Jace. And I hate myself for not being able to stop any of it.”

The Cannibal roars and his jaws open wide, revealing a gaping blood-red throat. From deep within him, lethal flames are building.

“I told you!” Aegon is shouting. “He can’t be tamed, get away from him! Red, come back, please don’t die, please!”

“I was weak!” you scream at the Cannibal in High Valyrian, stumbling over the rocks as you move closer. You bare your teeth at him like you did to Jace the night Rhaenyra took King’s Landing. “I was useless without you. I tried to forget my inheritance as a Targaryen, but it found me. It found me in the Vale, it found me as my son died in my arms. I cannot be gentle and toothless. I can only be the blood of the dragon.”

The Cannibal snaps his jaws shut and stills, his green eyes alight and fixed on you. Aegon and Alys say nothing; perhaps they are afraid to break the spell. You reach out and press your hand to the Cannibal’s muzzle; it comes away covered with Grey Ghost’s blood. You drag your tongue up the length of your palm and drink it. Dragon blood tastes like metal and smoke and the verdant rot of a swamp. The Cannibal growls from low in his enormous chest, but now his radiant eyes are curious.

“Help me kill Daemon and Caraxes,” you say as the wind howls and raindrops run in rivulets down your face. You place both hands on the Cannibal’s bloodied muzzle now. “You’ll kill your kind and I’ll kill mine. Together we will consume them. And I swear to you, my hatred burns every bit as hot as yours.”

You show the Cannibal, picturing it in your mind and knowing he can see: Aemond confessing that he murdered Luke, blood spurting when Jaehaerys was decapitated, Helaena and Dreamfyre crashing down to the beach outside the Red Keep, Jace lying dead in a crumbling stairwell, Luca’s blanket spotted with scarlet and his cries going silent, Daeron pierced with arrows, Aemond disintegrating in the depths of the Gods Eye if you cannot save him.

“I have all this hatred and no way to satisfy it. Let’s fly. Let’s devour.”

The Cannibal wears no saddle and never has. He is wild, and even now you will never own him. What you share will aways be a fight, a push and a pull like the tides, brutal and beloved, but isn’t that how you like it? You move to his side, wading in the shallow water on the shoreline, and hook your fingers around the spines that jut out of his thorax like thorns. His scales gleam like obsidian; he snorts tendrils of searing steam. He does nothing to help you, not stooping lower to the ground, not nudging you along with his snout as you’ve seen Sunfyre do for Aegon. The Cannibal only looks to Grey Ghost’s tattered corpse and takes another bite, crushing the ribcage between his jaws, ropes of gristle and deflated pink lungs gulped down.

Faintly, you hear Aegon say as he whirls to Alys: “Seven hells, I think it’s working.”

You heave yourself upwards and climb until you reach the Cannibal’s knobby spine, and nothing hurts, not your head or your ribs or the cuts on your feet or the scar that begins at your collarbone. As you are still searching for good spots to grab onto so you don’t slide off, crawling over the terrain of his back like stones, the Cannibal jolts forward and you scream when you nearly tumble head-first off of him and into the ocean. You grapple for purchase, eventually finding several large spines near his shoulder blades. You grip these thornlike appendages—your hands are too small to close around them completely—and now the Cannibal is diving into the Narrow Sea.

Aegon shouts something you can’t decipher, and then you are underwater and the world outside is muted. The ocean is ice cold and thrashing violently with the force of the Cannibal’s movement, and you hold on with your eyes squeezed shut, the currents wrenching you roughly, waiting for the dragon to resurface. But the Cannibal plunges deeper and pressure builds in your ears until it feels like they will rupture open and hemorrhage.

Is he trying to drown me??

You consider releasing his spines and paddling blindly for open air, but that would be a surrender. You would be unworthy. You would have no dragon. And the Cannibal would devour you like he did Grey Ghost.

You think in High Valyrian as loudly as you can: I will die here before I let go. I am not afraid of the afterlife. Half of my family is there already. Jace is rocking Luca in his arms, Helaena is placing ladybugs in his tiny wrinkled palms, Daeron is telling him that I’ll be home soon.

And then the Cannibal ascends, and through your eyelids you can tell there is light again, and he bursts through the surf and onto a rocky beach. He scrabbles over the ground, you lurching and blinking seawater from your eyes. The Cannibal’s black wings, ragged from battling other monsters, open like the wings of a raven or a bat. You peer down and the island is growing smaller and the wind is forceful, the ocean rippling under the gusts from the Cannibal’s wings.

You look over your shoulder, and for only a moment you glimpse Aegon standing on the shore and cheering, waving, whistling, and Alys watching with a smile. Then the Cannibal banks and carries you higher into the grey clouds. The air is frigid, and you can’t see anything through the fog, but you are grinning as the wind stings on your teeth. At last, you know what it is like to fly. Dreamfyre bonded to the gentle, Vermithor to the powerful and ambitious, but you were made for a different sort of beast. Your dragon is hateful. Your dragon is hungry.

The Cannibal circles back to Dragonstone, breaks through the sightless mist like a blade through flesh, and lands beside Aegon and Alys and snarls at them, gnashing his gore-stained fangs. Steam blasts from his nostrils and blows through their hair. Alys shrinks away from him, her hands cradling her belly protectively.

Aegon is laughing hysterically. “What now?” he says, marveling at the Cannibal, awed and horrified in equal measure. “All these years you thought there was something wrong with you. Thank the gods your egg never hatched.”

“Aemond is meeting Daemon in battle above the Gods Eye. That’s where I’m going.”

“Do you even know how to get there?!”

“It’s west of here. That’s a start.” But you see a mirage through the Cannibal’s ancient green eyes: a time years ago, decades, centuries, when he flew over the Riverlands and felt the foreign magic of the Old Gods, natural adversaries to Valyrians. He flew away from them then. He can find his way back now.

In High Valyrian, you think: Take me there and we will kill our own.

Yes, an ancient voice rumbles in your skull, wrathful black bottomless gluttony. Yes, yes.

~~~~~~~~~~

It gleams like a sapphire in the face of the earth, the Gods Eye as you descend through dense clouds that taste like metal when you breathe the winter sky into your lungs. You have flown through the night, and you both would be exhausted if not fueled by hatred the way wood feeds a fire.

The Cannibal shows you things through his archaic reptilian eyes—the Targaryens arriving on the doorstep of his lair after heeding Daenys the Dreamer’s vision of the Doom of Valyria, Aegon’s Conquest and Visenya’s scheming, Maegor the Cruel’s ashes being interred on the island where he was raised, the Old King Jaehaerys fleeing with Alysanne to Dragonstone so they could marry against the wishes of his advisors, Rhaenyra and Daemon’s wedding and happiness there before the war began, dragons coming and going, storms and eruptions and shipwrecks, claws and fangs and raw meat—and so you learn what it means to be a dragon. You show him your comparatively few memories in return, your momentary existence, and he begins to understand you too.

The dark skeletal remnants of Harrenhal, promised to Alys and the son she shares with Aemond, appear as the Cannibal flies lower. On the fields by the lakeshore, armies are clashing in battle; you see the banners of House Stark, House Lannister, and the dual factions of House Targaryen. High above the murky blue water, Vhagar and Caraxes are twisted in lethal combat, flames pouring from their jaws, claws scraping away scales.

Aemond, you think, and you wonder if he has already felt that you’re here.

The Cannibal glides with his vast, frayed wings over the Green soldiers, and you spot Criston among them, astride a galloping white horse and wielding a sword. He stares up as the Cannibal’s shadow falls over him, and he sees what you have brought with you, and he is so staggered he cannot look away. Men are pointing and shouting. The Northmen are pulling up their horses, their infantry bolting for the trees. In front of you are thousands of enemy combatants, anonymous and swarming like ants.

“Dracarys,” you whisper, and the Cannibal opens his jaws and spills a river of fire down on the Northman. Their banners burn, their horses scream and scatter, their men are cooked in their armor and stumble towards the water to extinguish themselves. You feel the Cannibal’s malevolent satisfaction. He feels your hatred turning lighter, anemic, easier to carry.

He swoops up into the sky where Vhagar and Caraxes are intertwined. Vhagar has the Blood Wyrm’s long, serpentine neck clenched between her fangs, but Caraxes is not dead yet; he has clawed through the scales of Vhagar’s belly and opened her, unspooled her, disemboweled her. Vhagar’s intestines cascade from her abdomen and tangle around her kicking feet. She is bleeding to death. She will fall soon.

Daemon knows there is no escape. He has Dark Sister in his fist and is preparing to jump from his saddle and deliver the deathblow to Aemond. You remember Daemon stalking you around the courtyard of the Red Keep with the same sword, twirling it in his hands and fantasizing about slitting your throat. The Cannibal understands this as if it is his own memory and unleashes crimson flames upon Caraxes. In his final seconds, Daemon turns and sees you, and the last thing he feels is not triumph but shock and heat and excruciating, incinerating pain, a fire that burns ruinously clean, leaving not even the bones.

Vhagar is dying. She releases Caraxes and the smoldering, broken dragon tumbles resistlessly into the lake. Aemond is calling your name. The Cannibal soars towards them, almost close enough now. Vhagar goes limp as she exsanguinates, her wings stop flapping, her colossal body spirals down towards the Gods Eye. Aemond unfastens his chains and leaps from the saddle. It is his only chance; if he hits the water with Vhagar, he will be knocked unconscious and drown, sink, vanish. His long hair is a ribbon of silver. His hands grasp for you and the Cannibal, catching nothing but empty air.

You reach for him as he falls and the wind rushes through your fingers, grey as steel and cold like the descending winter.

~~~~~~~~~~

A year ago, twilight in the garden of the Red Keep, the fountain trickling lazily as you perch on the edge with Blue Jay clinging to your forearm. High above, silver glints of constellations are burning through the indigo sky. On the ground, you kick pebbles around aimlessly with your bare feet. You avoid his gaze because you’re trying to pretend you’re teasing; you don’t want him to see how upset you are. “They’re going to make you marry a Baratheon girl.”

“No they aren’t.”

“Yes, Aemond, they are. I understand that. You don’t have to lie to me.”

“They’re going to try,” he purrs into your ear as he sits down beside you, petting Blue Jay with one lithe hand. “But I won’t do it. If Borros Baratheon needs a marriage to seal his alliance, then Daeron can wed his youngest daughter. I’ve already written to Daeron, and he agreed. He was willing, in fact. If it means he would be coming home to King’s Landing at last.”

“Lord Baratheon will want you,” you insist. “You are older. You are closer to the throne.”

“I’m very close to it,” Aemond agrees, kissing the apple of your cheek and then biting you there, the sharpness of his teeth, the pink warmth of bloodrush. Blue Jay swoops off into the dusk to devour the wheeling white specks of moths and lacewings.

“He will try to tempt you, he will offer you a beautiful bride.”

“Oh, yes, she will be beautiful,” Aemond murmurs, and when you strike at his chest he catches your wrists and yanks you in closer. “And she will be meek, and compliant, and ladylike in every way, and if she was mine she would lie down and spread her legs for me whenever I asked, because that is what is required of a dutiful wife. She will be devout…and decorous…and sinless…”

“Then marry her instead,” you hiss as you battle with him, fighting to get away, not wanting to win. Aemond drags you off the ledge of the fountain and into the cool shallow water. You splash as you struggle, your fingernails raking against his throat and the blind side of his face where he can’t see to defend himself, your long silver braid heavy and sodden, your blood-colored velvet gown drenched and clinging to you like muscles to bones.

“But the Baratheon girl wouldn’t be like me,” Aemond says, grabbing your jaw and forcing you to look at him, and while his hands are rough his voice is soft, almost like a whisper, almost like the prayers that Mother sighs in the sept, pleading for the gods to tame her children. The thrashing water goes still. Your heartbeat is slowing. You gaze into the crystalline blue of his eye and are trapped there like a sailor sinking to the bottom of the sea. “And she wouldn’t be like you either.”

You grin—relief, triumph, hunger—and Aemond kisses you, not like how a lord kisses a lady but how animals devour each other, fierce and biting, insatiable, unashamed.

Aemond says as he kneels in the water of the fountain, bats you named after him flapping overhead in a darkening sky: “I have to leave for Storm’s End at dawn. I won’t be gone long, I won’t sleep there even if I’m invited too. Wait up for me tomorrow night.”

“No,” you answer, taunting him; but you will.

[daenerys-apolog1st]

Crazy how people ignore literally everything about the Dance to support bullshit that they just made up in their heads to justify backing the misogynist bootlicker side of the war.

Rhaenyra was supported by the vast majority of the houses, and that's just plain fact. How about we list them all:

House Velaryon, House Celtigar, House Staunton, House Massey, House Bar Emmon, House Darklyn, House Stark, House Tully, House Frey, House Hayford, House Harte, House Byrch, House Dustin, House Manderly, House Darry, House Blackwood, House Beesbury, House Caswell, House Costayne, House Borrell, House Buckerler, House Fell, House Arryn, House Corbray, House Cerwyn, House Hornwood, House Charlton, House Mallister, House Piper, House Roote, House Footly, House Vance of Wayfarer's Rest, House Smallwood, House Wode, House Burley, House Grimm, House Merryweather, House Mullendore, House Oakheart, House Rowan, House Royce, House Sunderland, and House Tarly.

House Yronwood- (the most powerful house in Dorne, aside from the Martells) -also supported Rhaenyra, even though the Martells remained neutral.

THAT'S 44 HOUSES!!!

Even House Bracken defected to the Blacks, even after first supporting the Greens---as did the City Watch of King's Landing.

And do you know how rare and insane it is for the Brackens and the Blackwoods to be on the same side? Like, if that tells you anything about who had the most support during the Dance, it definitely wasn't Aegon.

So, with a total of 45 houses that supported Rhaenyra and her claim, let's see how many supported Aegon:

House Hightower, House Cole, House Lannister, House Wylde, House Strong, House Peake, House Fossoway, House Roxton, House Norcross, House Ambrose, House Butterwell, House Rosby, House Stokeworth, House Mooton, House Lefford, House Swyft, House Reyne, House Tarbeck, House Crakehall, House Redwyne, House Baratheon, House Swann, House Vance of Atranta, House Graceford, House Risley, and House Leygood.

26 houses supported Aegon...and, not for nothing, but 4 of those houses originally supported Rhaenyra and only defected to the Greens because they were captured and told that they had to either swear fealty to Aegon II or die---meanwhile the Brackens defected to the Blacks of their own volition.

Even so, however, with Aegon's 26 houses, that still leaves Rhaenyra with 19 HOUSES MORE THAN AEGON! 45 houses v. 26! And that's at the END of the Dance after Aegon forced 4 houses to join his side, in the BEGINNING---putting those 4 houses on Rhaenyra's side and House Bracken on Aegon's side---Rhaenyra had 25 MORE HOUSES ON HER SIDE! 48 houses v. 23!

To really nail the point home:

In the beginning, Rhaenyra had 25 MORE houses on her side than Aegon did, which is more houses than Aegon had IN TOTAL!

Either way you slice it, beginning or end, Rhaenyra had the support of the vast majority of the houses.

As for the smallfolk not liking her, that's something that the show completely made up.

Firstly, it's clear that that play was less a vote of whether they liked Rhaenyra or not and more of a showcase of that societal misogyny TG is such a big fan of. They weren't making fun of Rhaenyra because they didn't like her, they were making fun of her because she's a WOMAN! If she were a man, the play wouldn't exist because they'd have no reason to make fun of her because her (him, in this case) being named heir would fall into their society's expectations.

Secondly, in the book the smallfolk do actually support her claim---she wasn't called "The Realm's Delight" for nothing. At Aegon II's coronation, no one cheered and people were asking for Rhaenyra; when Rhaenyra took over King's Landing, people cheered and celebrated; the only reason the smallfolk revolted against her was because the Greens raided the treasury and so Rhaenyra had to raise taxes to try and replenish what they stole; and are y'all seriously forgetting this passage in the book:

"When Prince Daemon sent forth his call to arms, they rose up all along the rivers, knights and men-at-arms and humble peasants who yet remembered the Realm's Delight, so beloved of her father, and the way she smiled and charmed them as she made her progress through the riverlands in her youth. Hundreds and then thousands buckled on their sword-belts and donned their mail, or grabbed a pitchfork or a hoe and a crude wooden shield, and began to make their way to Harrenhal to fight for Viserys's little girl.”

Rhaenyra was beloved by the smallfolk---despite what TG would have you believe---and they DID support her, alongside the majority of the houses. She had the stronger claim, the majority of the houses, the love of the smallfolk, the better cause, and her son sat on the throne at the end of it all---because the houses that supported her were truly LOYAL to her, something that can't be said for Aegon's supporters considering that he was literally poisoned by his own men.

Team Green trying to pretend that she wasn't loved and supported is just a deathly case of copium because they can't handle the fact that no one liked their rapist loser king 🤷‍♀️

[studyofasoiaf]

Names used in the Riverlands

(according to books; names of characters from houses in the Riverlands)

next to the names are either houses which have a character/s with that name or culture of the character/s with that name

Female

Agnes (Blackwood)

Alys (Frey, Harroway)

Alyssa (Blackwood)

Alysanne (Blackwood, Bracken)

Alyx (Frey)

Amerei (Frey)

Arwyn (Frey)

Barba (Bracken)

Barbara (Bracken)

Beatrice (Buttterwell)

Bellena (Hawick)

Betha (Blackwood)

Bethany (Blackwood, Bracken)

Bess (Bracken)

Carellan (Smallwood)

Catelyn (Bracken, Tully)

Celia (Tully)

Cersei (Frey)

Cynthea (Frey)

Danelle (Lothston)

Darla (Deddings)

Della (Frey)

Eleanor (Mooton)

Elyana (Vypren)

Emberlei (Frey)

Emphyria (Vance)

Gwenys (Riverman)

Hanna (Harroway)

Hostella (Frey)

Jayne (Bracken)

Jeyne (Darry, Goodbrook, Harroway, Lothston, Mooton, Smallwood)

Jirelle (Mooton)

Joyeuse (Erenford)

Jyanna (Frey)

Kyra (Frey)

Leana (Frey)

Liane (Vance)

Lysa (Tully)

Lythene (Frey)

Maegelle (Frey)

Marianne (Vance)

Mariya (Darry)

Marissa (Frey)

Melantha (Blackwood)

Melissa (Blackwood)

Mellara (Riverman)

Melony (Piper)

Merianne (Frey)

Minisa (Whent)

Morya (Frey)

Mya (Riverman)

Perra (Frey)

Perriane (Frey)

Rhialta (Vance)

Ryella (Frey)

Sabitha (Vypren)

Sallei (Paege)

Sarra (Frey)

Sarya (Whent)

Serra (Frey)

Shella (Whent)

Shiera (Blackwood)

Shirei (Frey)

Sylwa (Paege)

Tysane (Frey)

Tyta (Frey)

Walda (Frey)

Wynafrei (Whent)

Zhoe (Blanetree)

Zia (Frey)

Male

Addam (Frey)

Aegor (Riverman)

Aegon (Frey)

Aegor (Riverman)

Aemon (Riverman)

Aenys (Frey)

Alesander (Frey)

Alton (Butterwell)

Alyn (Blackwood, Frey, Haigh, Terrick)

Ambrose (Butterwell)

Amos (Bracken)

Andrey (Charlton)

Androw (Frey)

Armistead (Vance)

Arwood (Frey)

Axel (Tully)

Benedict (Justman)

Benfred (Frey)

Benjicot (Blackwood)

Bennifer (Blackwood)

Bernarr (Justman)

Bradamar (Frey)

Bryan (Frey)

Brynden (Blackwood, Tully)

Bywin (Strong)

Clarence (Charlton)

Clement (Piper)

Cleos (Frey)

Colmar (Frey)

Dafyn (Vance)

Damon (Darry, Paege, Teague, Vypren)

Danwell (Frey)

Darnold (Darry)

Davos (Deddings)

Denys (Mallister, Strong)

Deremond (Darry)

Derrick (Darry)

Desmond (Darry, Grell, Mallister)

Dickon (Frey)

Donnel (Haigh)

Duncan (Strong)

Edmund (Blackwood)

Edmure (Frey, Tully)

Edmyn (Tully)

Edwyn (Frey)

Ellery (Vance)

Elmar (Frey)

Elmo (Tully)

Elston (Tully)

Emmon (Frey)

Florian (Mooton)

Franklyn (Frey)

Gargon (Qoherys)

Garibald (Grey)

Garrett (Paege)

Garse (Goodbrook)

Geremy (Frey)

Grover (Tully)

Guy (Lothston)

Halmon (Paege)

Harbert (Paege)

Harry (Riverman)

Harwin (Strong)

Harys (Haigh)

Hollis (Teague)

Horas (Harroway)

Hosteen (Frey)

Hoster (Blackwood, Frey, Tully)

Hugo (Vance)

Humfrey (Bracken, Teague)

Jaime (Frey)

Jammos (Frey)

Jared (Frey)

Jason (Mallister)

Jeffory (Mallister)

John (Mudd)

Jon (Charlton, Lothston, Lychester, Mooton, Piper, Vance)

Jonah (Mooton)

Jonos (Bracken, Frey)

Jonothor (Darry)

Jorah (Mallister)

Jordan (Towers)

Joseth (Mallister, Smallwood)

Karyl (Vance)

Kermit (Tully)

Kirth (Vance)

Larys (Strong)

Leslyn (Haigh)

Lewys (Piper)

Lorimas (Mudd)

Lothar (Bracken, Frey)

Lucamore (Strong)

Lucas (Blackwood, Harroway, Lothston, Nayland, Roote)

Luceon (Frey)

Lucias (Vypren)

Lucifer (Justman)

Lyle (Riverman)

Lyman (Darry)

Lymond (Fisher, Goodbrook, Lychester, Mallister)

Lyonel (Frey, Strong)

Maegor (Towers)

Malwyn (Frey)

Manfred (Lothston)

Manfryd (Lothston)

Martyn (Riverman)

Marq (Mudd, Piper)

Medgar (Tully)

Melwys (Frey)

Merrett (Frey)

Myles (Mooton, Smallwood)

Norbert (Vance)

Olyver (Bracken)

Oscar (Tully)

Osmund (Frey, Strong)

Oswald (Wode)

Oswell (Whent)

Patrek (Mallister, Vance)

Perwyn (Frey)

Petyr (Frey, Mallister, Piper)

Prentys (Tully)

Quenton (Qoherys)

Quincy (Cox)

Quentyn (Blackwood)

Raylon (Bracken)

Raymond (Nayland)

Raymun (Darry)

Rhaegar (Frey)

Richard (Roote)

Robb (Riverman)

Robert (Blackwood, Frey, Paege, Strong, Vance)

Robin (Ryger)

Roderick (Blackwood)

Roger (Blackwood)

Roland (Blackwood, Darry)

Ronald (Vance)

Ronel (Riverman)

Ronnel (Vance)

Royce (Blackwood)

Ryger (Riverman)

Ryman (Frey)

Samwell (Blackwood)

Simon (Strong)

Stanton (Piper)

Steffon (Frey)

Stevron (Frey)

Symond (Frey)

Theo (Charlton, Frey, Teague)

Theomar (Smallwood)

Thoren (Smallwood)

Tion (Frey)

Torrence (Teague)

Tristan (Mudd, Ryger, Vance)

Tristifer (Mudd, Wayn)

Tommen (Tully)

Tytos (Blackwood, Frey)

Tywin (Frey)

Utherydes (Wayn)

Vorian (Vypren)

Walder (Frey, Goodbrook, Haigh, Vance)

Walter (Whent)

Walton (Frey, Towers)

Waltyr (Frey)

Walys (Mooton)

Wendel (Frey)

Willamen (Frey)

William (Mooton)

Willem (Darry, Frey)

Willis (Wode)

Zachery (Frey)

[sunfyre-targaryen]

WESTEROS' HOUSES DURING THE DANCE OF DRAGONS

(based on A Wiki of Ice and Fire)

Houses that supported Aegon II

House Vance of Atranta

House Butterwell (originally black)

House Mooton (originally black)

House Strong

House Velaryon (originally black)

House Stokeworth (originally black)

House Bourney (originally black)

House Rosby (originally black)

House Thorne

House Crakehall

House Lannister

House Lefford

House Reyne

House Swyft

House Tarbeck

House Hightower

House Redwyne

House Ambrose

House Fossoway

House Graceford

House Leygood

House Norcross

House Peake

House Risley

House Rodden

House Roxton

House Wylde

House Baratheon

House Swann

Houses that supported Rhaenyra

House Stark

House Manderly

House Cerwyn

House Dustin

House Flint

House Hornwood

House Greyjoy

House Arryn

House Royce

House Borrell

House Corbray

House Sunderland

House Frey

House Smallwood

House Tully (originally green)

House Mallister

House Piper

House Blackwood

House Bracken (originally green)

House Bigglestone

House Chambers

House Charlton

House Darry

House Deddings

House Grey

House Perryn

House Roote

House Vance of Wayfarer's Rest

House Wode

House Darklyn

House Massey

House Bar Emmon

House Brune of Brownhollow

House Brune of The Dyre Den

House Byrch

House Celtigar

House Crabb

House Harte

House Hayford

House Stauton

House Beesbury

House Costayne

House Tarly

House Caswell

House Footly

House Merryweather

House Mullendore

House Rowan

House Buckler

+ Aegon II had also The Triarchy on his side.

+ Rhaenyra had also Black Trombo's sellsword company on her side.

[stromuprisahat]

Perhaps the boldest letter [suggesting Aegon's new wife] came from the irrepressible Lady Samantha of Oldtown, who declared that her sister Sansara (of House Tarly) “is spirited and strong, and has read more books than half the maesters in the Citadel” whilst her good-sister Bethany (of House Hightower) was “very beautiful, with smooth soft skin and lustrous hair and the sweetest manner”, though also “lazy and somewhat stupid, truth be told, though some men seem to like that in a wife”. She concluded by suggesting that perhaps King Aegon should marry both of them, “one to rule beside him, as Queen Alysanne did King Jaehaerys, and one to bed and breed”. And in the event that both of them were “found wanting, for whatever obscure reason”, Lady Sam helpfully appended the names of thirty-one other nubile maidens from Houses Hightower, Redwyne, Tarly, Ambrose, Florent, Cobb, Costayne, Beesbury, Varner, and Grimm who might be suitable as queens. (Mushroom adds that her ladyship ended with a cheeky postscript that said, “I know some pretty boys as well, should His Grace be so inclined, but I fear they could not give him heirs”, but none of the other chronicles mention this affrontry, and her ladyship’s letter has been lost.)

Fire and Blood (George R. R. Martin)

[vhaemystheberserker]

I've not been here long enough to know the lore of Vaegor and Rhagaevor, may i ask who they are sons of and where in the asoiaf history are we?

Vaegor and Rhagaevor are the sons of my OC's, Wulfric Flowers, a bastard, and a Targaryen Princess, who Is also my namesake, Vhaemys! Named everything after her, she used to be my favorite OC, now it's Wulfric and Rhagaevor <3

Now Wulfric is also a bastard's, bastard. His father is Ulf the White and his mother is a woman of House Ambrose, but he was taken in by one of the Targaryen prince's when he was a child and was raised into a knight! The reason his children have the Targaryen name of their mother and their title as Princes of House Targaryen is currently because Wulfric did some great deed that rewarded him with Vhaemys' hand in marriage and they thought it would be fit if the children had her Houses name. Wulfric also has a few bots of his own, if you'd like to check them out, and he's had a lore rewrite, so the bots may act differently!

As for Vhaemys herself, she is going through an entire lore rewrite as I found myself disliking her character and her lore, so her parentage will most likely end up changing! Not going to say what it currently is, because it doesn't matter, plus I've privated the original bot I made for her because I thought it was absolute dog shit 💀 After I write down the lore of a few other OC's, I'm hoping to rewrite her and release a new bot for her once she is done!

The era Vaegor and Rhagaevor's bots usually take place in, are during Aegon III Targaryens rule! But I can't say an exact year because I fucked up on some of the dates in their lore so I need to fix it... 😓

I also most likely have some more information on the two brothers over on my side account @wulfricwashere if you'd like to do some digging!

[thaliajoy-blog]

My abundance of Reach girls ocs, revealed 💚 chronologically ! I'm in the process of drawing them too but it's gonna be slow so I'm laying it out here.

Conquest OCs !

- Gloria Gardener ("Lady Glory"), last female Gardener and wife of Harlan Tyrell, the first Tyrell to hold Highgarden.

- Lysa Oakheart, née Tyrell, first daughter of Harlan & Gloria, wife of Lewyn Oakheart.

- Lady Laura Oakheart, born Kidwell.

- Selyse Redwyne, née Oakheart. Eldest sister of Lord Lewyn Oakheart. Step-sister & occasional lover of Lysa Tyrell ; daughter of Laura Kidwell. Sister of Alys Oakheart (canon character).

- Fauna "the Fox" Florent. Head of House Florent, and wife of ser Alyn Tyrell (2d son of Harlan Tyrell) ; step-sister of Lysa Tyrell. Occasional lover of Gloria Gardener.

- Bedelia Redwyne. Step-sister & lover of Selyse Oakheart.

- Lora(s) Flowers. Trans half-sister of Selyse Oakheart.

Early post-Dance OCs !

- Margaery Meadows : the unamed (& estranged) mother of Alicent Hightower. Yeah she survives her. She's my OC now.

- Daleyne Oakheart, née Flowers and legitimized Hightower. Eldest daughter of Lord Lyonel Hightower & Lady Samantha Tarly. Wife of Loren Oakheart & later Harbert Oakheart. Lover of Daenys Hightower & Laena Velaryon II.

- Alys Flowers (full name Alysanne). Daughter of an illegitimate son of a Lord Redwyne who became a winemaker. Dressmaker & embroiderer herself, after her mother's profession.

- Irene Osgrey. Daughter of ser Clarence Osgrey of Standfast.

- Bliss Rowan, born Ambrose. Wife of Lord Perwyn Rowan. Lover of Viserys Plumm.

+

OCs from a time of my own conception, more than three four hundred years after the restauration of the Targaryen dynasty by Daenerys Targaryen I (not Reach girls this time)

- Queen Valaena I Targaryen. Descendant of Daenerys I and ruler of Westeros.

- Prince Aegon Targaryen. Grandson of Valaena and only living Targaryen aside from her.

- Aaricia Blackwood. Heir to house Blackwood and companion of Queen Valaena. Distant cousin of the Queen, besides. Killed the former heir of House Bracken, Arthur Bracken, during a duel.

- Arabella Bracken. Heir to house Bracken. Caretaker of prince Aegon. Distant cousin of queen Valaena too.

[duxbelisarius]

The Dance of the Dragons: A Military Analysis (Pt. 6)

Having already discussed the Battle of the Gullet and the taking of King’s Landing in Parts 2 and 3 (Master Post here for first time readers), Part 6 will take a brief step back into 129 AC to cover events in the Reach. As noted in Part 1, George’s decision to ‘spawn’ supporters for Rhaenyra in the Reach is one of his most frustrating; we have next to no explanation as to why the houses that supported her chose to do so, but their presence also exposes a massive strategic blindspot within the Dance itself. In short, had Rhaenyra and the Blacks given supported her followers in the Reach from the start, they likely would have won the war. Utilizing  the map of southern Westeros found in A Dance With Dragons illustrates this quite well; this map is the most detailed we have in terms of giving locations of house seats within the Reach and gives us an indication of which houses are considered important enough by George to warrant including. 

Of twenty-one House seats shown on the map (counting the Arbor and the Shield Islands each as a single seat), eight are of houses either neutral during the Dance (the Tyrells) or are not mentioned in the Dance: Red Lake (House Crane), Brightwater Keep (Florent), Bandallon (Blackbar), Blackcrown (Bulwer), Sunhouse (Cuy), Ashford and Grassy Vale (Meadows). Excluding Oldtown, only House Redwyne (the Arbor) and House Fossoway (Cider Hall) are known to have supported Aegon II, while the rest were supporters of Rhaenyra: Honeyholt (Beesbury), Longtable (Merryweather), Bitterbridge (Caswell), Horn Hill (Tarly), Uplands (Mullendore), Golden Grove (Rowan), Old Oak (Oakheart), Tumbleton (Footly), Three Towers (Costayne) and the Shield Isles (Grimm). This critical mass of major houses supporting the Blacks is compounded further by the fact that, with the exception of House Peake, all the other named supporters of the Greens seem to be minor houses or landed knights: Roxton, Norcross, Ambrose, Rodden, Leygood, Graceford and Risley. Even the Fossoways require an asterisk based on Lord Owen Fossoway being mentioned among the so-called ‘Caltrops’ at Tumbleton; given Cider Hall’s location south of Longtable, it’s entirely possible the Fossoways were neutrals or Blacks who joined Aegon’s cause after the victories of Daeron and Ormund. 

George’s inexplicable decision to weight the scales against the Greens of the Reach is made worse by nonsensical writing once the fighting starts. Upon setting out to putdown the Black rebellions within the Reach, Ormund Hightower’s army is attacked by the forces of House Beesbury and House Tarly, while House Costayne’s forces attack his supply train. This scenario makes no sense geographically, for while Costayne’s seat of Three Towers is located just south of Oldtown at the mouth of the Whispering Sound and the Beesbury seat of Honeyholt is further up the Honeywine, the Tarly seat of Horn Hill is almost a 10 day journey from Oldtown. It requires Ormund Hightower to be completely unaware of Alan Tarly departing the Dornish Marches and entering the Oldtown region, and to ignore the Costaynes and Mullendores to his south and east despite the threat they posed to his rear area. We know from Under the Regents - War and Peace and Cattle Shows that House Peake supported Aegon II from the beginning, and while we have no exact location for their house seat it seems likely that Starpike is located in the Dornish Marches. Are we to assume that Unwin Peake failed to combat Alan Tarly’s forces, even though House Peake fought alongside the Hightowers at the subsequent Battle of the Honeywine? We must also assume that not a single house in the Oldtown region supported Aegon’s cause outside of the Hightowers, as support from the likes of House Cuy and Florent would have made it difficult for the Costaynes and ‘the Two Alans’ to operate against Ormund’s host with such impunity. The idea seems never to have occurred to besiege Honeyholt and Three Towers, cutting off the Costayne and Beesbury forces from what should have been their main source of supplies, and taking their families hostage to force a surrender. 

The complete absence of the Hightower and Redwyne fleets, as well as a disuse of river transport, is another frustrating omission by George. Honeyholt and the Mullendore seat of Uplands are both located next to the Honeywine and it’s tributaries, while Three Towers is right beside the Whispering Sound. Laying siege to Three Towers should have been fairly simply for Ormund with the aid of the Hightower and Redwyne fleets, while the Honeywine itself would have been a boon logistically. From Samwell Tarly’s final chapter in AFFC, we know that the Isle of Ravens was used by pirates to raid ships coming down the Honeywine during the Age of Heroes, implying that the Honeywine connects to the Whispering Sound in a manner similar to the Thames Estuary and the London Docks IRL. It’s not unreasonable to assume that coastal shipping and sea-faring vessels with shallow enough drafts would be able to navigate certain stretches of the Honeywine, and this also assumes that the Reachmen never attempted dredging the riverbed to improve it’s navigability (as was done to European rivers throughout the Ancient and Medieval world). Utilizing river transport as a ‘floating storehouse’ so-to-speak would allow Ormund to decrease the length of his supply train and give his forces greater mobility. Such ships could also have been built or modified to carry in-world artillery such as Scorpions, Catapults and even small trebuchets (the latter of which were used on ships by Danish raiders during the Siege of Paris in 885-886), assisting Ormund’s forces in besieging locations like Honeyholt, Uplands and Three Towers or if they had to give battle near the river itself. 

Ormund’s position deteriorates further after the Battle of Rook’s Rest, when he informs the Green Council of a host equal to his own bearing down from the north, lead by Thaddeus Rowan. With him was Tom Flowers  of Bitterbridge representing House Caswell, and their army is described as being comprised of mounted knights; based on estimates of the size both armies made in Part 4, this force composition presents a problem for the narrative. If we are to believe that the Rowans, Caswells and their allies raised a mounted force capable of rivalling Ormund’s army as a whole (giving them an advantage as great as 10 to 1 in mounted troops), then their rate of march must also be considered. Rowan’s force was on the march just before or after Rook’s Rest, but the next we hear of them is at the Battle of the Honeywine, which took place a fortnight after the Battle of the Gullet in 130 AC. The Gullet took place between January 5th and 6th by our calendar, meaning the Honeywine battle took place on January 19th or 20th; 129 AC ends sometime after Rook’s Rest, so anywhere from one to three months may have elapsed before Rowan and Flowers made contact with Ormund’s host. 

Journeying from Golden Grove to the Honeywine would probably take a fortnight and the journey from Bitterbridge might be five days longer, but Rowan’s mounted force should have been able to make the journey in far less time. They should also have been able to utilize river-based logistics similar to the Hightowers, given that Golden Grove, Bitterbridge and their allies are situated along the Mander and it’s tributaries. We know from Victarion Greyjoy in AFFC that Ironborn longships can travel up the Mander as far as Bitterbridge when most sea-faring ships stop at Highgarden, while John II Gardener was able to sail his barge as far the headwaters of the Mander according to TWOIAF. As with the Honeywine, George effectively pretends that the Mander does not exist, while the vagueness of the timeline will be a recurring factor in the Dance.

The Battle of the Honeywine itself does not permit much tactical analysis, as we’re only told that the battle took place along the river with Rowan and Flowers attacking from the northeast and Costayne, Beesbury and Tarly attacking from the rear. Having failed inexplicably to deal with the threats to his supply lines, Ormund Hightower and his army are cut off from Oldtown and facing certain defeat; only the intervention of Daeron and Tessarion that prevents this, and the battle ends with Rowan in retreat to the north, Tom Flowers and Lord Costayne dead, and the ‘Two Alans’ taken prisoner. 

In analyzing this first act of the Dance in the Reach, it is clear that George did not grasp the implications of his decision to furnish Rhaenyra with such significant support there. Without Daeron’s intervention, the Battle of the Honeywine would have been the death of Aegon’s cause in the Reach, as Oldtown would have been defenseless; surrender would be the most likely outcome, and with it Rhaenyra would have had the agricultural heart of the Seven Kingdoms on her side, along with the largest armies of any of the Seven Kingdoms. With control of the Riverlands and the Reach, the Blacks would have cut off Aegon from his allies in the Westerlands, and could threaten that kingdom with invasion from the south and east. Aegon would have only the Crownlands and the Stormlands at his immediate disposal, and only Vhagar and an injured Sunfyre as a defense against Rhaenyra’s dragons. Had Daemon and Caraxes left the Riverlands (now firmly on Rhaenyra’s side) and joined the Blacks in the northern Reach, Daeron and Tessarion would have been hard-pressed to defeat them, and a Black victory would be assured. 

[asoiafandotherbooks]

TWOIAF/Fire & Blood: The Trial By Seven

Warning, Spoilers Ahead…

Visenya has crowned Maegor and proclaimed him King of Westeros. Visenya and Maegor arrived and King’s Landing and laid down the challenge: “Want some? Come get some!”

The Warrior’s Sons picked up the gauntlet. Seven hundred knights, led by Ser Damon “the Devout”, rode to Visenya’s Hill.

Maegor wasn’t in the mood to persuade or pacify his opponents: “Let us not bandy words. Swords will decide this matter.”

Damon the Devout agreed: “Let each side have seven champions, as it was done in Andalos of old. Can you find six men to stand beside you?”

This was the moment Maegor realized he left the Kingsguard at Dragonstone and Visenya isn’t as spry as she used to be. Maegor asked the crowd: “Who will come and stand beside his king?” The crowd played the “sorry, I can’t hear you” game as the Warrior’s Sons were fierce fighters. Dick Bean, a master-at-arms, volunteered to fight with Maegor: “I been a king’s man since I was a boy. I mean to die a king’s man.”

Dick’s courage shamed a knight to step forward: Bernarr Brune, the quire who had slain Harren the Red and had been knighted by King Aenys. Bernarr proclaimed: “This Bean shames us all! Are there no true knights here? No leal men?”

Bernarr’s scorn cased others to come forward: Ser Bramm of Blackhull (a hedge knight), Ser Rayford Rosby, Ser Guy “the Glutton” Lothson, and Ser Lucifer Massey, the Lord of Stonedance.

Playing for the other team are Ser Damon “the Devout” Morrigen (Grand Captain of the Warrior’s Sons), Ser Lyle Bracken, Ser Harys “Death’s Head Harry” Horpe, Ser Aegon Ambrose, Ser Dickon Flowers (the Bastard of Beesbury), Ser William the Wanderer, and Ser Garibald of the Seven Stars (the septon knight).

Before covering the Trial by Seven, have the opposing sides taken the time to clarify the stakes in the fight? What happens if Maegor wins? He’s recognized as king? The Warrior’s Sons leave King’s Landing? The Faith ceases their rebellion? If the Warrior’s Sons win? What? The Targaryens forfeit their claim to the throne? The Faith chooses the next king? Does Damon have the authority to make these decisions/concessions? Would the High Septon honor the agreements? What is the point of this mortal combat?

Damon the Devout led a prayer before the fight. Visenya gave the command to begin. Fight!

The only agreed version of the fight was that Dick Bean died first, cut down by Lyle Bracken. The rest of the details vary wildly. Some say the fight went on for hours, other say it lasted minutes. No one seems to agree on whether Lord Massey killed Harry Horpe or if Horpe killed Massey. The ending came down to Maegor versus Damon the Devout and William the Wanderer. Maegor slew Damon and dealt William a death blow but William gave the king a terrible blow to the head before dying. The blow cracked Maegor’s helm and left him insensate.

Maegor was declared the victor as he was the only combatant still alive – comatose but alive.

Visenya ordered Maegor to be taken to the maesters. The Swords of the Faith “dropped to their knees in submission” and Visenya ordered the Warrior’s Sons to return to Rhaenys’ Hill.

The trial didn’t resolve a thing – the Warrior’s Sons are still in King’s Landing with no intention of leaving. The Faith is still in rebellion. The only result was the death of thirteen men and a weakened Maegor. So what was the point? This is why you discuss parameters before a fight to the death! The main purpose of the fight seems to be a rationalization for Maegor’s post-coma cruelty.

Up next, Maegor takes a month-long nap.

[dark-sirenparis]

About: Paris Ness

PERSONAL:

Full Name: Paris Aegon Ness Nickname: N/A Do they like their nickname?: N/A Birthday: January 28, 1459 Birthplace: The Dead Sea Hometown: The island Delos Species: Siren Ethnicity: White Religion: None Pets: None, he doesn't want any Subject: Sculpting & Carving Current Occupation: Professor Sexuality: Heteroflexible Relationship Status: Married, to Selene Ness Do they drive? What kind of car do they own? He drives an ivory Aston Martin Vanquish

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE:

Height: 6'2 Body Type: Athletic Hair Color: Sandy Brown Hair Type: Curly, wavy if it gets too long Eye Color: Blue Glasses/Contacts?: Not needed Prominent Features: A very square jawline, his bright eyes Scars: One, from a incident with 16th century pirates - on his tail, it shows up as a white line by the fins, and on legs, it’s a six inch curved line above his ankle, on his shin. Tattoos: None Piercings: None Health Problems or Conditions: None Style: Sharp dressed, tailored suits. Expensive sunglasses, designer clothes every time. Vacation-wear is always Ralph Lauren, Armani, Gucci, and Saint Laurent Notable Jewelry: A necklace with his wedding ring around it, sometimes on its cord, or a substitute on his finger. Grooming: Well kept together

PAST:

Mother’s Name: Kalliste Mother’s Maiden Name: Status: Alive Relationship: Paris was a bit of a momma's boy when he was younger, and sometimes if he's home to his family for too long, he reverts back to that Father’s Name: Ambrose Status: Alive Relationship: As good as any father/son relationship can be. They aren't very affectionate, and when they get together, it's often talk of business or the arts, nothing very emotional. Siblings: Bastion (+3) and Dmitri (-4) What was their childhood like?: Fine, the Ness boys all had their early responsibilities, so there wasn't much childhood and mostly preparation for adulthood. Not a ton of play, but Paris never felt he missed out on much. He was still able to be rebellious, to hop onto land and mess around with the humans in his teen years. Earliest Memory: Happiest Memory: His wedding day Saddest Memory: Education: He's gone to university settings a few times, with degrees in Philosophy, Art History, Painting, and Sculpture. Past Jobs: He's ran all sorts of business in his life - statues, woodshops, art galleries, clothing lines, furniture brands. Police Record: He's a ghost, never had any issues. Major Past Trauma/Illness - Are they still affected?:

SEX & ROMANCE:

First crush: Selene's sister, technically First sexual experience - Was it a good or bad one?: With an island maiden, they snuck off together during a rainstorm. It was fine, it was one of his first times on land and he managed to figure sex out pretty quickly. Never saw her again. Sexual Type: Dominant Turn Ons: Oral Sex, Hypnosis, Choking, Bondage, Voyeurism, Exhibitionism, Shower Sex, Multiple Partners, Sensory Play, Body Worship (Receiving) Turn Offs: Bathroom Play, Blood Play, Temperature Play, Feet, Clinginess, Wax Play, Infantilism Love Type: Devotion. He's only devoted to Selene, though, and everything else is just a fling. Nobody has ever caught his attention like her, and while they may sleep with others outside their marriage and have their own relationships, focus is never lost. Significant Past Relationships: Just Selene. They married young, were engaged young. He's only ever known life with her by his side.

MENTAL WELLNESS:

Psychological Issues/Mental Illnesses: Short Temper Outlook on Life: It has always benefited him, so life can be a beautiful thing he thinks Myers-Briggs Personality Type: ESTJ Temperament: Choleric Sun Sign: Aquarius Moon Sign: Leo Rising Sign: Gemini Venus Sign: Pisces Alignment: Neutral Evil Hogwarts House: Slytherin What/Who do they value most?: Selene What/Who are they willing to die for?: Selene, maybe his mother Personal Philosophy: That he is priority, everything else is secondary. His needs and wants matter the most Biggest Fear: Submarines of too curious explorers Are they superstitious?: Yes, but he doesn't let on that he is Greatest Strength: His voice Greatest Weakness: Obsession - if things catch his strong obsession, it's difficult to veer him off that course Good Characteristics: Passionate about his interests, will raise up people he thinks are good at their jobs or deserving of some help - which is rare. Bad Characteristics: He is extreme at everything, which can be a problem. He has a horrible temper and is very demanding to his students and employees. He's very selfish - he doesn't see it as a bad thing, but the kind of selfish with no regard to people, even if their lives are at stake. Favorite thing about themself? Why?: His looks and tenacity. Least favorite? Why?: There is none - what's to dislike? Biggest regret: Proudest moment: He was the first to do any college, so his first day truly on his own. Quirks: He stays on his routine like his life depends on it. Music during sex is preferable. Very neat and needs everything in a certain order. Very particular about the way his kitchen of all places is laid out. Do not touch any of his art equipment. How are they in crisis? Excellent, unless is personally affects him. Then, not so well. What do they wish to change most about themself?: He doesn't believe there's anything wrong with him.

SPEECH & COMMUNICATION:

Pace: Slow and Deliberate Voice Tone: Typically a bit condescending, more when he is talking to someone he believes is below them - which is most people Accent/Dialect: Mostly British, a bit of Greek in there with certain consonants Speech Patterns: Very enunciated, very proper Favorite Words/Phrases: "No." Mannerisms/Demeanor: Demeanor is always suave and confident, he speaks very surely of himself Posture: Always poised Gestures: Normally none, but the more worked up he gets, the more he talks with his hands How good are they at lying? Excellent

BEHAVIOR:

Finances: Paris is excellent with finance, but he can also afford bankers and accountants for the necessary upkeep and investing Alcohol Use: Not an alcoholic, but it wouldn't matter anyway since it doesn't typically affect him. He likes having a drink with dinner, sometimes with lunch. Drug Use: He doesn't bother. He doesn't need any - but certain fish or jellyfish when consumed can give similar affects, he learned in his youth. Morning/Night Person?: A morning person primarily, but can function at being both. Morning Routine: Paris wakes up early, and exercises almost immediately. He showers and eats a lavish breakfast, preparing everything for the day. Day Routine: He dresses, takes any calls in the morning he needs to take. None of his classes are offered past 2pm, so he spends the days in his university office, grading projects and papers and teaching. Lunch is brought in by one of the slaves, typically, sometimes he pulls one in to have sex in his office. Evening Routine: He has an early dinner typically, and does any of his personal work. He'll usually have some alone time swimming in one of the pools in his home, or just in the ocean. He calls or spends time quality with his wife. Night Routine: He stops by the trench or checks in on one of his other ventures on the phone. He is in bed by a reasonable time, and rarely is he ever alone - but, typically, once he's done with them, he makes them sleep on the floor or kicks them out of the house altogether so he doesn't have to worry about them in the morning. Sleep Habits: Not for very long, he only sleeps about 5 or 6 hours in the night. Special Skills: Swimming, he's an incredible artist. He plays most string instruments - his favorite is the guitar, but he does enjoy a harp. Excellent dresser. Very good singer, but that's a given. Unskilled at: Being patient. Not the greatest with technology, but he's learning. Video games. Not a good writer. Bad at finishing television shows. Hobbies: His art, woodworking, gardening/landscaping, reading.

FAVORITES (AND OTHER MISCELLANIA):

Book: The Odyssey by Homer Movie: Picnic at Hanging Rock TV Show: Mad Men Album: Get Your Wings by Aerosmith Artist: Frank Sinatra Song: Love Me Do by the Beatles Sport/Sport Team: British Football, Manchester City Color: Blue Meal: Garlic and Parmesan Crusted Salmon Drink: Gin Martini Snack: Caviar on fresh baked bread slices Outfit: 3 piece black suit with a teal tie and matching pocket square Quote: Suave Mare Magno Prized Possession: His wife

[aegor-bamfsteel]

Has it ever occurred to anti Blackfyres that there was no “plan” and BR was making shit up to get people he hated killed? There’s a lot of evidence that the rebellion wasn’t premeditated. Yandel contradicts himself by saying Daemon had crowned himself versus he was planning on crowning himself in a fortnight. He contradicts himself in other places such as when he says Aegon IV gave Daemon lands and titles versus Daeron II gave Daemon “a right to erect a keep” on the Blackwater Rush. Then he says that the rest of Daeron II’s reign was peaceful (which is like saying Aegon II’s reign was peaceful aside from the Dance of Dragons) when in 206 there was a Vulture King Uprising that raided Dondarrion lands, at a time when there was every expectation that Jena Dondarrion would be Queen consort and later Queen Mother. I’d appreciate it if antis actually took time to look at the books themselves rather than just copy what other antis are saying because they have TVTropes and AWOIAF accounts.

Anyway, it’s Peake not Peak. If I had to guess, it’d be Redtusk, Aubrey Ambrose, and Robb Reyne to fill out those spots for the Blacks, as they’re mentioned to be among the greatest warriors by Eustace Osgrey. And as for the Reds, Dunk’s own trial indicates all Kingsguard present are oathbound to fight for the king (unless you think there were defections like for the three Kingsguard that went over to Rhaenyra). Donnel of Duskendale and Roland Crakehall were Kingsguard during the reign of Daeron II and fought for Aerion, so would probably fight for Daeron if they were in the Kingsguard in 196. And Daeron wouldn’t risk both his precious sons, so the rest of the Kingsguard and loyal warriors like Wyl Waynwood and the Knight of Ninestars might join if any Kingsguard defected.

I wonder what Bittersteel and Daemon’s original plan was before they were outed early by Bloodraven and Daemon had to escape and raise an army.

I like the idea it was to accuse Daeron of being the Dragonknight’s bastard in open court, possibly with some draft will of Aegon IV (we know he went through many). This of course would result in an immediate arrest order for treason, BUT in the context of open court Daemon demands trial by seven on the charges, trapping Daeron and forcing the trial - which Daemon winning would have acquitted him of treason and thus demonstrated the truth of his claim, turning the bulk of the court against Daeron. It may still have come to war after that but it would have been a war with Daemon with much more support. Daeron may have lost the Vale for example.

The full lineups of who would have fought in that Trial of Seven can’t be known but I think the majority of each side can be assumed

- Daemon Blackfyre

- Aegor “Bittersteel” Rivers

- Gorman Peak

- Quentyn (Fire)Ball

-???

-???

-???

vs

- Baelor “Breakspear” Targaryen

- Maekar Targaryen

- Brynden “Bloodraven” Rivers

- Willem Wylde (Kingsguard)

- Gwayne Corbray (Kingsguard)

-???

-???

[dumdaradumdaradum]

Of travels and matches

Soooo, i finally wrote something to stop this thought from bugging me. I initially thought I should make this an oc thing but i had no idea what to name her so i went along with x reader, welp-

For those who it might concern, it is an Aemond x Reader fic.

Warning - none unless you count westeros as a warning in itself. Oh and I haven't read f&b and this is my first time writing for HOTD or got universe in general.

My other work can be found here.

Even when the city was thronged by men, it looked plodding. Sun peaked from behind the clouds shyly. Carriages after carriages rumbled through the bulky, monumental gates.

The roads usually well kept and clean were littered with belongings, small vendors lined up on both sides. City watch disappeared amidst the crowd. Once a while a gold cloak would flash somewhere in distance.

Never resting.

Red Keep was just shy of being hidden by the huddled residences. With several assemblage of gents chatting in small groups on both sides, men and maidens passed through in a narrow passage left open like a river.

"You take care now, son! Any of those spilled would be paid from your wage!" 

A stumbling boy delivered beverages interrupting the commotion for a short moment. Moving from shadows of the tent to masses basking in the pleasant sun.

"They don't feed you here, boy?"

Distasteful gazes resounded with obnoxious laughter, making the scrawny kid cower into himself. Once everyone picked up their mugs, he scurried back to his master in the kitchen.

Moving further into the city, crowd thinned considerably. People talking in their houses could be heard on the street. Wheels of the carriages stumbled on the pebbles and small rocks.

Onlookers watched from their windows how convoys after convoys passed. With mildly tall building on sides, sun rays barely made it to the ground.

Fine wooden carriages, and several horsemen at front and at back.

Businessmen prepared for a major occasional boost in the economy. Once more, the small folk looked up with a certain twinkle, hopeful that this event would bring them enough money to put their worries at rest for atleast a season.

Smaller, darker lanes diverge from the wider street leading to the hidden corners of King's Landing. Places that no honorable man would venture to, places unfit for dutiful maidens.

Nobody bothered to peer towards them.

Eventually sky above head started widening. Houses got larger and further apart. Air got cleaner, vividly carrying the scent of flowers grown by ladies of the mansions.

And soon enough they stood in front of the Red Keep.

What would be silent and tame gardens currently played host to multiple tea parties. Melodic and loud giggles of women leisurely sewing and gossiping was certainly a site.

Knights and Lords stood apart deep in discussions.

Banners were flooding in every moment and being sent towards the chambers prepared.

Y/n Ambrose took everything in.

Westeros had a new King and celebrations were in order. Her mother quickly spotted Lady Tyrell accompanied by her handmaidens and moved towards her.

Wind moved fabric as she pulled her daughter by her wrist. "Good morrow, my Lady."

Sparing her mother a look, she turned to Y/n looking at her as though seeing her for the first time. Sun shone a little harsher breaking Lady Tyrell's inquisitive gaze.

"Good morrow, Lady Ambrose. How do you fair?"

An entourage of women trailed behind them. Y/n herself walked a step being the two. Queen mother was nowhere to be seen. Nobody from the royal family was.

Keeping in the snort, timid hands flattened down the flowy skirt. Relying on lace of her corsets, Y/n straightened her back and stood comfortably tall. Ravens and pigeons flew above the walls of the castle and in the orange sky.

Though Lady Tyrell was a quick and interesting lady. She feared there was nothing worth listening to in their conversation. From where she stood, much if the courtyard was visible.

"They say Kind Aegon looks quite handsome in the crown!"

A hoard of girls passed behind her. Hearing them fall into a joyous titter was as uncomfortable as it was annoying. Soon enough she would be with them, conversing over these mundane topics and faking laughters. All for the sake of socializing.

All because she was a lady and a certain engagement was expected of her.

It had been a long journey from Reach to King's Landing. For tonight she wished to retire a room, society and norms could wait till tomorrow. And seeing as they were all there to celebrate ascession of a new King, these festivities would continue for weeks.

There'd be days for her to be the entertaining and interactive young lady of House Ambrose.

Setting sun was bathing the vast area in its lights when she heard her name being called. Breaking out of the stupor, she quickly pressed her hands in the front and walked towards Queen Alicent with as much grace as she could muster.

With a little bow she uttered, "Your grace."

"I hope the travel was comfortable," turning to her mother, the Queen further made small inconsequential inquiries of health and wealth.

With nothing to do but look pretty beside her mother, Y/n focused on the smile that graced dowturned lips of Queen Alicent.

Shadows grew longer along the floor.

Hands locked firmly over her stomach, her eyes traveled again.

In close distance she saw, Ser Criston Cole approach them and along his side was the Prince.

Ready to revert her eyes when needed, Y/n continued to look. They walked in quick and long steps, slowing only when near the Queen.

Exchanging greetings with her mother, they turned to her. Once again bowing, a small greeting slipped past her lips. "Prince Aemond, Ser Cole."

Diligently she kept her eyes shy of theirs, only looking at them when they shifted focus to the woman holding royalty in her stance.

She had to admit, long silver hair suited the beautiful angular face of the Prince. Keeping in mind the uselessness of her thoughts, she marveled at the scar bleeding into his skin as they retired to their bedchambers.

****

Sleep had never hit Y/n as it did after a tiring travel to the capital. Waking up in a room that looked down on the city was certainly a new experience.

Lazily, her feet settled on the floor after the maids started filing in and pulled open the curtains. Pushing back the unruly locks, she tried to rub the sleep away from her face.

"My lady, the bath is ready."

Dark stones felt coarse under her bare sole. It was oddly grounding.  "Hmm."

Day had well begun by the time Y/n got dressed. There was no hurry though.

"My Lady, your mother asks you to make haste."

Another one of the maids rushed in with her skirt hiked up and bunched in her hands.

"Why so?"

Silence fell upon them. Poor maid shied away from her.

She had less to do her home but she had absolutely nothing to do here. Once done with breakfast, she'd be free to take leisurely walks in the gardens all afternoon till time for lunch. Then another walk to pass time. Tea time. Walk with ladies. Dinner. Stay back and chat, maybe even walk. Sleep.

Y/n didn't hate the walks but if they were all she could do all day, just their notions seemed exhausting to her.

"My Lady, your mother and Lady Tyrell await you."

Another one pushed the curtains on the door and rushed in. Biting back a groan, Y/n threw her head back. "Why?"

Small whine at the back of her throat but undetectable in the words.

"I thought Lady Tyrell was going to stay neutral in the current power struggle. Why is she here?"

Though the question was aimed at the walls that seemed to know everything, she hoped one of the maidens would know something. Have some inside news. Some gossip to provide insight.

Slipping into a underskirt, she looked intently at the woman dressing her up. "Are my maids as clueless of these developments as I am?"

"Yes, my Lady. We were as shocked as you that she was here or that she stayed more than few hours."

Just as she was about to step into the fancy skirt, the same maid burst in. Again. "My lady, your mother-"

"Awaits. Yes."

Sighing she signaled everyone to hurry up with the dress and hair. Finally presentable in a simple blue dress, Y/n stepped out of the room and went to stand behind her mother.

"Yes mother, you sent for me?"

"What took you so long? Nevermind. Queen Alicent has requested an audience."

In a nick of time, she bit back a squeak minding presence of Lady Tyrell. Only allowing her eyes to widen slightly. "She wants to talk to us? About what?"

"We shall see, child."

Watching the older woman walk ahead, Y/n tucked a phantom strand behind her ears and turned to her mother. "Mother?"

"Come. We'll know shortly."

The walk to Queen's wing was short. Anxiety flared in her stomach. Several thoughts sprung and died out.

Everything seemed to go in a blur. Small greetings, small talks.

Discomfort flickered throughout the conversation they held over tea. The Greens wanted something. They had the support of her house. What more could they want?

"I feel, Lady Ambrose, I feel it would be fitting if your daughter marries my son, Prince Aemond."

That woke y/n up as anything. Once again, she gripped the cup tighter unable to speak or react. "My Queen?" The queasy feeling returned.

This was truly unexpected. Sure, Reach was fertile and wealthy and House Ambrose was not insignificant but why. They could have offered his hand to any other house, brought another house in an alliance with them.

"That is a wonderful thought, my Queen."

Lady Tyrell clapped her hands and expressed her joy, silently urging Lady Ambrose to come out of her instant daydreams.

"My Queen, my daughter would be honored to be a part House Targaryen." The twinkle in her eye was missed by none as her eyes slowly pinned the three women present. Finally turning to her daughter, chest lifted in pride, "My child, I never thought you would have such a stroke of luck. I couldn't have arranged a better match myself in next century!"

Y/n watched her mother's attention shift all over the place and she sealed her fate. Poured red hot wax and stamped her agreement.

The thought of being married for political gains had always sat ill with her. Helplessly nervous hands wrung the fabric.

"My Queen, I accept your generous suggestion. If you will it, my daughter shall be wed to your son."

As always, the taglist is open. Might fuck around and write more parts.

[bonniebird]

This is a list of current requests I have pending: 

This list will be updated as / when fics are queued.

Requests are currently closed

Requesting information here

Prompts:

.

1. “Are you wearing my (Hoodie)?”

 Allison Argent x Male!Reader

- Requested by: @ab1nsur​

- Notes: Smut

.

2 . “Hey! My best friend is in Slytherin.”

Hermione Granger x Male!Reader

- Requested by:​ Anon

- Notes:

.

3 . "I think I’m starting to bring out the rebel in you."

Aegon Targaryen x Fem!Reader

- Requested by:​ Anon

- Notes:

.

4. "I trust he has heard of your sizable dowry."

Aegon Targaryen x Fem!Reader

- Requested by:​ Anon

- Notes:

.

5. "I won't disturb you. I just need to spy on them out of your window."

Alicent Hightower x Fem!Reader

- Requested by:​ Anon

- Notes:

.

6. "If anyone asks where I am, I've left the country!"

Rhaenyra Targaryen x Fem!Reader

- Requested by:​ Anon

- Notes:

.

7. "It is only the queen's eye that matters today."

Alicent Hightower x Fem!Reader

- Requested by:​ Anon

- Notes: queen alicent with a serving lady

.

8. "I’ve never been an inspiration before… I don’t like this much responsibility."

Daemon Targaryen x Reader

- Requested by:​ Anon

- Notes:

.

9."Lord (Character) has directed me to take her in for charity."

Alicent Hightower x Fem!Reader

- Requested by:​ Anon

- Notes:

.

10. "Why settle for a Duke when you can have a Prince?"

Daemon Targaryen  x Fem!Reader

- Requested by:​ Anon

- Notes:

. 

11.  "Would I rather be feared or loved? Umm… easy, both. I want people to be afraid of how much they love me."

Aegon Targaryen x Fem!Reader

- Requested by:​ Anon

- Notes: Aegon says prompt after reader asks him because she is trying to prove Aemond wrong

.

12. “You're a vampire! I knew it!”

Kol Mikaelson x Fem!Reader

- Requested by:​ @thatweirdoleigh​

- Notes:

.

13. “ What will this alliance cost me?”

Lucien Castle x Witch!Fem!Reader

- Requested by:​ Anon

- Notes:  Frenimes to lovers

.

14. “Can I tell you a secret?”

Isaac Lahey x Fem!Reader

- Requested by:​ Anon

- Notes:

.

15. “I'm a night owl.”

Lydia Martin x Fem!Reader

- Requested by: Anon​

- Notes:

.

16. “I'm looking for a roommate.”

Bonnie Bennett x Male!Reader

- Requested by:​ Anon

- Notes:

.

17. “Every night. The same dream.”

Malia Tate x Male!Druid!Reader

- Requested by:​ Anon

- Notes:

.

18. "Can…Can I help you? Why are you staring at me?"

Emmett Cullen x Female Human!Reader

- Requested by:​ Anon

- Notes:

.

19.  "Fine. Make me your villain"

Madison Montgomery x Reader

- Requested by:​ Anon

- Notes:

.

20. "I will always protect you"

Speedy x Villian!reader  

- Requested by:​ Anon

- Notes:  Reader became a lackey for Damian Darkh.  In the middle of a big fight Reader risks the mission and thier life to save Speedy.

.

.

x Reader

- Requested by:​

- Notes:

.

Full Requests:

.

1. John agrees to help Dean find you after you’re taken by vampires during a hunt

Dean Winchester x Reader

- Requested by: @ellobruv

- Notes:

.

2. Lucifer and Mazikeen work together to set you up with Chloe Decker

Chloe Decker x Fem!Reader

- Requested by: Anon

- Notes: 

.

3. Finally meeting your penpal Ambrose after you house arrest is up (Part 3)

Ambrose Spellman x Fem!Reader

- Requested by:​

- Notes:

.

4 . You and Bill work together to keep each other safe in the Hogwarts battle

Bill Weasley x Fem!Reader

- Requested by:​ Anon

- Notes: Kingsley‘s niece

.

5 . Hotch begins to panic when you’re late for work

Aaron Hotchner  x Reader

- Requested by:​ Anon

- Notes:

.

6 . Aemond finds himself in competition for his crushes attention when his cousin from Essos arrives at Kingslanding

Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Reader

- Requested by:​ Anon

- Notes: Jodie Cormer and Viserys dany's brother for the face claims

.

7. Alicent Hightower arranges for you, the daughter of Rhaenyra’s closest ally to wed Aemond Targaryen

Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Reader

- Requested by:​ Anon

- Notes: Jodie Comer for face claim

.

8. Confessing your feelings to your childhood friend

Tyler Lockwood x Fem!Reader

- Requested by:​ Anon

- Notes:

.

9. Lydia Branwell realises she’s fallen for her betrothed’s sister.

Lydia Branwell x Fem!Reader

- Requested by:​ Anon

- Notes:

.

10. The Mikaelsons discover your secret relationship with Freya Mikaelson

Freya Mikaelson x Salvatore sister! Reader

- Requested by:​ Anon

- Notes:

.

11. Being reunited with Rebekah after you were turned into a vampire and separated for a thousand years

Rebekah Mikaelson x fem!reader

- Requested by:​ Anon

- Notes: (Childhood friends)

.

12. Your younger brother, Lance Sweets, discovers your relationship with Cam and accidentally tells everyone.

Camille Saroyan x Fem!Reader

- Requested by:​ Anon

- Notes:

.

13. Your childhood friend, Derek, investigates you when he starts to become suspicious about your secretive behaviour after you join the BAU and start spending time with Emily Prentiss 

Emily Prentiss x Fem!Reader

- Requested by:​ Anon

- Notes:

.

14. Confessing to your childhood best friend that you’ve fallen in love with him.

Tyler Lockwood x Fem!Reader

- Requested by:​ Anon

- Notes:

.

15.

Rhaenyra Targaryen x Fem!Reader

- Requested by:​ Anon

- Notes: smut, fight make up sex

.

16. Scott and Stiles get sick of watching Derek pine over you 

 Derek x Stilinski!Reader

- Requested by:​ Anon

- Notes:

.

17. When you struggle with the dark side Rey helps pull you back from it.

Rey Skywalker x GN!Sibling Reader

- Requested by:​ Anon

- Notes:

. 

18. Oswald becomes fascinated by your kindness

Oswald Cobblepot x Fem!Reader

- Requested by:​ Anon

- Notes:

.

19. Finding out that Alex was called after you were attacked by a patient because he’s still your emergency contact.

Alex Karev x Fem! Reader

- Requested by:​

- Notes: Based on the episode where Mer gets attacked by a patient but it’s the reader instead and maybe not as severe. Maybe change it to where Alex wasn’t at work and they called him because he was her emergency contact? 

.

20. Your adoptive father Falcone sends your secret lover,  Victor Zsasz, after you when you’re framed by one of his enemies 

Victor Zsasz x Fem!Reader

- Requested by: Anon​

- Notes:

.

21. Befirending Billy Hargrove after he stands up for you

Billy Hargrove x Fem!Reader

- Requested by:​ Anon

- Notes: she is kind of seen as 'strange' cuz she dresses exclusively vintage 1940s/50s. So sometimes she gets made fun of/harassed for dressing in 'hand me downs' being a 'grandma' and just stupid insults.

.

22. Laurel takes care of you after you’re injured

Laurel Lance x Reader

- Requested by:​ Anon

- Notes:

.

23. Your sister, Kate Bishops, worries about you when you seriously injure yourself defending her during a mission

Kate x Sibling!Reader

- Requested by:​ Anon

- Notes:

.

24. Revealing the crush you have on Victor Zsasz when Oswald doses you with truth serum

Victor Zsasz x Fem!Reader

- Requested by:​ Anon

- Notes:

.

25. Team flash are horrified when you reveal just how involved you are with Hunter Zoloman

Hunter Zoloman x Fem!Reader

- Requested by:​ Anon

- Notes:

.

. Trying to save Milton from being a ripper

Milton Greasley x Hybrid!Reader

- Requested by:​ @darkangel70

- Notes:

.

.

x Reader

- Requested by:​

- Notes:

.