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damn-stark · 3 days ago

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Chapter 33 Ding dong the King is dead!

Chapter 33 of Moonlight

A/N- I hope you guys like it!!

Warning- PTSD, ANGST!!!, swearing, violence, blood, and DEATH. SPOILERS!! FOR FUTURE EVENTS OF HOTD, USING FIRE AND BLOOD, long chapter.

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

Episode/Pages- 549-561

(If you want to be tagged let me know)

————

There’s always something so beautiful about snow storms, whether it's big or small, quiet or loud with their howling wind, and delicate yet sharp icy flakes of snow all individually unique in design.

Maybe spending 25 years living in the cold and distant land has warped your mind into believing that the bitter snow falling over the piles of snow is enchanting and comforting, but it doesn’t make your statement any less true.

The question is would you spend any time outside in the storms like many of the locally born citizens do? No, you still crave warmth and a sun so hot that the only way to cool down is by being embraced in a cool and never-ending body of water—that has never changed in all your years. However, once in a while, when the winds aren’t as sharp and strong, you do like to walk into the swirling snowstorms to be a part of its dance. Is it perhaps a little mad? Some people don’t think so, they say you’ve embraced the Northern lands and its beautiful qualities. Whilst other people think you have gone completely mad for basking in such conditions. You, albeit don’t think so, in some ways it’s comforting. And you’re not the only one who thinks so it seems.

On your way to the Godswood, you come to a stop as you catch a pair of footsteps leading to the gardens. They’re slowly getting buried under the sheets of falling snow, but you don’t need them to guide you. You know the way and thus you take the path toward the gardens rather than following your original path.

Once you find yourself passing the archway that leads to the gardens, there in the center you find a young man hardly covered by any furs. Which is a bit daring, but he does say that he’s not bothered by the cold like you are.

In any case, you make your way to the young man, letting him hear your crunching footsteps so he can be aware of your presence rather than interjecting to gain his attention. When you fall by his side you steal a glance at his face molded into his usual state of soft melancholy almost as if he’s years ahead of where he actually is. You then follow his line of gaze to the statue that stands at the center of the garden.

You like to give credit to the bunch of Blue Winter Roses that surround the statue for stealing all the attention the vivid and enchanted garden has to offer. However, others insist that the statue steals the attention from the garden because it’s you.

Now you are a bit of a vanity, even in your old age, but your statue always has a way to make you feel flustered. Maybe it’s the meaning behind it because when you get reminded of it you swoon like a love-struck idiot. Or maybe it's because you look at the face carved on the marble stone and hardly recognize the young woman you look at. Whatever it is you don’t think you’ll ever get used to seeing yourself every time you enter the gardens

“Did your father do a good job at commissioning me? Or was he terribly off? From what you know I mean?” You finally break the silence and speak over the howling wind.

The young man, and your youngest child out of seven, Torrhen, tilts his head and then stretches his arm out to dust some snow off Astraea forever wrapped around your shoulder. “I think Astraea turned out smaller than she was.”

You snicker, and a warm and sweet smile that could melt the wall of ice tugs on his sweet face.

“Yeah well unfortunately the sculptor did not have enough material to sculpt her true to scale. Maybe as my dying wish, I’ll have someone sculpt her to size.”

Torrhen chuckles. “I’m afraid it would take up the entirety of our home,” he comments, making you shrug.

“You could move somewhere warmer.”

He scoffs lightheartedly, but then that smile that painted his face slowly fades away, making your own smile fall as you grow worried.

“What was it this time?” You probe as you gently cup the back of his neck to offer him some comfort since you know that his dreams and visions take a toll on him. More so now that he’s older and they get more vivid.

“Just…” Torrhen trails off quickly and drops his head to look at the rings around his fingers.

“If you don’t wish to tell me that’s fine,” you assure him as you cup the back of his neck. “Just tell someone. Your brothers…your friend. Just don’t sit on it. Keeping it all inside will eat away at you from the inside out.”

Torrhen slowly drifts his gaze to you, letting his glimmering eyes lock on you before he sighs and looks at you with sorrow.

“You may see glimpses of the future, but, my boy, you can’t change it. Don't tear yourself apart trying to piece it together.” You try to offer him some advice from what he’s told you in the past.

“I know,” he whispers. “I know I can’t change it, but what if by not trying something changes? What if I doom the future? Should I not at least try in the same way I helped you when you needed it?”

Alys says Torrhen is a greenseer, and you know he’s also a dragon dreamer the same way Helaena and a few before him were. He’s cursed with the knowledge of the future, and of the past, and because of it he wants to be so much more than what he already is. Is it to silence his visions and dreams? Or is it to simply help in hopes he can change the unchangeable?

Maybe it's both, you don’t know. You just know that it takes so much away from him and it’s in a way that you can’t truly help him feel better.

“You can’t change the future Torrhen. Everything you see is a story,” you try to offer him some consolation. “You told me that. Alys told me that. And I will remind you again because it’s not your job to change the future.”

Torrhen sighs deeply and you slide your hand down to stroke his cheek.

“You already helped me get here, is that not enough?” You ask and hum softly.

“Did that not lead to change?” He quips and looks down at the snow as more snowflakes pile on.

“No,” you rebuttal. “You guided me. You shed a light on my already marked path.”

Torrhen keeps his head hanging and mutters. “If only I could have helped more.”

You sigh and cup his cheek to tilt his head up. “Oh, my sweet, sweet boy. As hard as my past was, I have made peace with it now.”

“Have you?” He asks with genuine concern as his dark eyebrows knit together.

“Yes.” You nod. “All of it. I am haunted by some parts of the past, but I’m afraid I cannot change that. And it’s okay because I found my way through the noise.”

Torrhen hums and you add on quietly.

“Some people did not like the way it happened, but…”

“It had to be done,” he finishes for you, making you smile sweetly before you nod gently.

“Yes. Yes, it did.”

——

*NOW*

Twenty-five men were marked for death, and twenty-four of those men were killed for being loyal to the wrong man. You only took care of slaying one of those twenty-four men, but you wish you could have added a second to that list. If not more than five, at least a second man who was marked for death, but alas, you did choose poison as your weapon of choice for a reason.

Besides, Ser Cane says if people had seen you slay Aegon, everyone would turn against you even if it was deserved or not. Not because they love him; the smallfolk hate Aegon, and almost all of the people working in the Red Keep hate him too, but you’ve already committed a great sin they judge you for, and kinslaying Aegon would have only given the right excuse to go after you. Thus you let the poison take the credit for his death to let the people always wonder who gave him said poison.

The knowledge that he’ll die is your only consolation and the one thing holding you back from taking his life with your own bare hands. However, you won’t let the tightness around your throat loosen, not until you see his dead body, and see for yourself that he’s no longer breathing and his heart is no longer beating.

Until then you return to the royal apartments to take care of one last person before you can reach the throne, and that’s Alicent. The mother of the broken king and the one person still blindly supporting him after all this time.

You actually find her and her handmaidens on the serpentine steps heading back to her chambers.

“Alicent,” you call out even though you know she can hear the echoes of footsteps and rattling armor as you approach her with your men.

“Your Grace,” she responds quietly before she turns around and blinks as she goes wide-eyed at the sight of you and your men in your shining armor. “What’s the meaning of this?” She cries out as she takes a step down to get closer to you.

You tilt your head up and glance out the window as Astraea flies by to remain close to protect you if need be, and also be a menacing presence from the outside.

“I’m sure you have an idea,” you mutter as you take in the warm sunbeam that casts through the window. “You are not as dumb as you feign to be.”

Alicent scoffs as her eyes stay locked on your face finally giving an ethereal glow against the sunlight. Even though the silver chains cascade over your face and shine brighter, your beauty is far more spectacular as the grief and agony is replaced by pride, malice, and determination.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” she snaps, pulling your head down so your eyes can fall on her once again. “Why don’t you tell me.”

“Your Grace!” A voice calls out from the bottom of the steps, followed by hurried footsteps that echo as they approach.

Once the guard finds you they hand you your Valyrian sword Blackfyre, and the Valyrian dagger your grandfather Viserys used to carry before Aegon got a hold of it.

“Thank you,” you tell the man before he scurries off and leaves you alone with Alicent once again. This time as she sees you hang the sheath around your shoulder, she lets herself grasp what’s going on and why the Red Keep has gone so quiet all of a sudden.

There is a moment where she wants to be in denial but then the men behind you depart from their spot and charge after her guards like a pack of ravenous animals. After her guards drop to the ground with their blood spilling over the stone steps she looks rightfully horrified. You can see her mind racing behind her eyes, but rather than asking for her last remaining son, the target of this coup, she asks about someone else first. “Jaehaera? Where is she?”

You hook the daggers sheath around your waist first before you reassure her. “She’s safe. She was taken to safety with my children and my brother. Don't worry, no harm will come to her.”

Alicent blinks repeatedly and lets out a deep and shaky breath. Silence then follows in which you don’t try and fill it. You let her gather her thoughts which is a kindness she doesn’t deserve, but alas, it does go with the punishment you have for her.

“And,” she quietly speaks up and brings her hand to her lips to gnaw on her cuticles. “Aegon?” She lets herself ask a question that has an obvious answer, but what mother would she be if she didn't at least try and be oblivious just once in hopes she’s wrong?

Nevertheless, you don’t answer right away, cementing that horrifying truth in her already battered heart. Instead, you unsheath the dagger and raise the Valyrian weapon to look at the reflection you don’t recognize looking right back at you.

“This is the dagger you used to go after my mother,” you interject, making Alicent gulp. “With this dagger, you demanded the eye of my little brother because he defended Jace and me from Aemond,” you mention and lean the tip of the dagger toward the scar on the side of your face that Aemond made that day.

“And sure,” you continue and twirl the dagger around as you break away from your spot and slowly start taking steps toward her. “Jace did take a blade first, and that wasn’t good, I admit it, but,” you sigh and snap your eyes to her from behind the chains that cascade over your face. “Have you thought that if it wasn't for your animosity toward my mother, none of this,” you say as you spin the blade around to also talk with it. “…would have happened.”

Alicent’s face falters from its grief to flicker on disbelief and more horror at the sound of your true words.

“Helaena would have married a good man,” you mention to pierce her heart. “A man that could have loved her, and a man that she could have loved. Aemond,” you pause, and your breath trembles as you think about him. “My Aemond could have met his daughters and could have raised his children. He would’ve been such a kind and good man if things had been different.” You say as you reach her and tilt the dagger toward her, making her grow stiff and start to take labored breaths as she thinks the worst.

“Daeron,” you scoff. “Would have still left to be someone’s ward, but he would be alive and not in two pieces—did you know that I intended to bring you his head.” You chuckle and watch her bottom lip tremble. “But I got hurt and his head rotted in my saddle bag. Which ruined it by the way. It was a good leather saddle bag too.” You pout and watch her quietly break into tears so you mock her crying face for a brief moment before you grow serious and pierce a menacing glare into her.

“So much potential wasted,” you scoff. “All because of your jealousy and your pride. You were Queen and you let yourself be puppeteered by men. What a shame your children had to pay the price.”

Alicent gasps as she weeps harder.

“And you,” she says in between gasps “Will you rule or let men rule in your stead?” She tries to counter spitefully in an attempt to catch you off guard, but you only smirk.

“My brother will rule. Not because men demanded it because if I wanted to I would have grabbed them by the balls and told them to shove it, or,” you snicker. “I would have burned them. Whichever fate they decided they wanted, I have a dragon and I am Targaryen with fire-made flesh after all, but alas, my dreams aren’t what they were two years ago. I’m tired,” your voice falters along with your smirk. “I just want to raise my children and grieve in peace.”

Alicent faces you with her chin up and trembling, but she still tries to keep herself poised.

“Anyway. If things were different Aegon would not be dead, but things aren’t different and he’s dead now.” You pause and take a step back to let her take a moment to process what you told her even though in the back of her head she already had started to grieve for him.

“You’ll be given the chance to say your goodbye,” you offer her kindness. “Which is much more than my mother had. Four of her sons died and she never got to see them one last time. They were all lost or eaten.”

“Gods,” she whispers and you glance back at the sunlight peeking through the window and shake your head. “No. There are no Gods. We were abandoned a long time ago. Put her in chains,” you change the subject and direct your orders at your men. “And bring her to the throne room. Ladies,” you direct at the handmaidens. “You may go. No harm will come to you.”

The flock of handmaidens offer you a shaky curtsy before they run off just in case you decide to take back your mercy. However, they would have been wrong because they aren’t your target. Your target is just what remains of the Greens.

“Oh, and Alicent,” you add in a much more serious and angry tone. “Just so you know, you will live on. If you don’t want to eat you will be fed. If you even think of a way to end your misery short it will be diminished. You will live the rest of your life in chains, and you will be living to regret the path you took in this life. Don't worry though…I’ll let you see your grandchildren so don’t mess that up.”

You nod slowly and let out a deep sigh as you hold her watery gaze before you let your men take her as you put the dagger back in its sheath, and then turn around swiftly to march toward the Throne room.

On your way there you pass by a green banner sporting a golden dragon and you're riddled with disgust and rage at the mere sight. Before, when you would pass by them, you would be riddled with the same emotions, but you could never do anything about them but grow angry and disgusted by the sight. This time you grab the edge of the banner and yank it off to signal the death of Aegon’s tyranny and the beginning of a new reign under the rightful King, who sports the original and proud black banner with the red three-headed dragon.

Finally, Aegon Targaryen, Second of his name, and his Green faction are dead. Finally, there will be peace in the realm, and finally, you may know peace as well…

Albeit…when you approach the Throne room. When you slowly trudge down the great hall, passing cold sunbeam after cold sunbeam with your eyes never parting from the lonely throne made of swords, you realize that you don’t know what peace really means.

You reach the steps that lead up the great throne and slowly ascend them watching how the sun seems to play a neat trick by smiling down at the Iron Throne with its bright and illuminating hue as if passing a message from the gods of their contentment. Yet you fail to feel that great thing because it costs so much to attain and you lost so much of yourself to take it back from the enemy.

If only your brother Aegon could claim his prize now so you may find peace and bless your sights by no longer having to see the throne so much blood was shed for, but alas, Aegon the Younger is but a boy. You have to continue laying your eyes on the Iron Throne and rule in his stead. At least until this noise of war and the aftermath of it is resolved.

“Your Grace,” you recognize your grandfather calling out as he walks into the throne room.

When you turn around you see him approaching you with a couple of his own men.

“Lord Corlys,” you greet him and climb down one step.

Said man comes to a stop at the foot of the steps and after a labored breath he shares what brought him to you. “All of Aegon’s men have been slain…”

You smile at the news, but he takes another deep breath, making your smile fall, and making you look at him with confusion.

“And the Riverlords are approaching the city gates,” he announces, perking the corner of your lips to a genuine and bright smile.

“That was quick. The thought of battle must have excited their spirits. Alas, they’ll be disappointed to know that there is no more fighting.” You scoff and peer back at Ser Cane. “Have it seen that they’re greeted properly and brought here immediately, I would like to greet them with their new king.”

Ser Cane offers you a comprehensive nod before he marches off to do as he’s told, leaving you alone with your grandfather to ask him one single question. “What of Aegon? The second?”

Your grandfather glances at Alicent in a far corner and then returns his gaze to you. “Dead. His body is being brought here as we speak.”

Your eyes flicker down and you let out a relieved sigh and nod gently as you let your mind and your heart progress the news. Not out of shame or regret. You could never feel bad for killing Aegon. The news just feels surreal that’s all.

No matter how much you thought of it, and even though you had given the news to Alicent before it could be confirmed, hearing that the man responsible for so much of your pain is at last dead and no longer here to terrorize you and the realm, is surreal.

“Have my brother brought to the throne room,” you direct at your grandfather. “I’ll greet our guests.”

Your grandfather hesitates, but he does as he’s asked, letting you descend the steps and stride out to the courtyard with an army of Velaryon men and houseguards at your back. It’s not to intimidate the Riverlords, but more so it’s a show of power to everyone who inhabits the Red Keep, and those Smallfolk who will sneak a peek inside the castle gates. You’re actually more than eager to welcome not only men who you spilled blood with, but also friends, and lately, you’ve been in dire need of friends who don’t scorn you.

It's why you wait for them at the courtyard with the castle gates open, and the house guards standing in parallel lines, because you want them to know that they are welcome, and because you want to show them as proper of a welcome as you can muster.

And once the Riverlords finally reach the castle gates, your stiff stance loosens, and your serious demeanor falls as a warm smile starts to spread on your face.

“Welcome!” You greet the Riverlords riding at the head of their endless train of muddy warriors.

“You stand in the presence of the Queen Regent of house Velaryon!” Ser Cane’s voice booms as he climbs off his horse and walks to you as you make your way to the Riverlords

“Here we came salivating at the thought of our next fight,” Lord Benijcot Blackwood is the first to interject as he hops off his horse and bows first before he meets you halfway. “But instead, we’re greeted by The Blood Hound not covered in blood, and saying that you are now Queen Regent. What’s that about?”

You flash him and the rest of the Lords behind him a proud smirk. “King Aegon is dead and the Realm is now under the rule of the rightful ruler.”

Murmurs are passed throughout the crowd and you can see that their faces start to brighten with excitement, but you cut them off before they can celebrate just yet. “Let’s talk inside, My Lords.”

The boy Lord offers you a sly grin before he turns and lets Lord Kermit and his younger brother Ser Oscar Tully greet you with a proper bow before you shake their arms with the same warm smile.

“I hope the greeting was to your liking.”

Lord Oscar huffs and shrugs cockily. “Ladies kissed our feet and threw their napkins at us.”

“It’s beats getting swung at as a greeting,” Lord Kermit chimes in, making you chuckle softly before you move on to greet the other Lords and Ladies of the Riverlands. After you’re done and intend to lead them inside, Lady Alysanne Blackwood, aunt to Lord Benjicot, and Lady Sabitha Frey, come forward tugging at leads.

“Your Grace,” Lady Alysanne, or Black Aly as she’s called, yanks at the lead to pull forward her prisoner, Ser Jason, whilst Lady Sabitha pulls forward none other than Lord Larys—“we came across these men past the city trying to escape by horse.”

You drop your eyes on the pair of men and take a long look at them before you step back and raise your chin to look down at them between your lashes with a cocky and malice look.

“My Lord. Ser,” you greet them both with a hint of amusement. “Why am I not surprised you tried to flee? Here I thought you weren’t going to do me no more wrongs, My Lord,” you spat and snap your eyes to the crooked man.

“As if you would have spared my life the moment you took back the throne in your mother's name,” Larys rebuttals correctly because it’s true, you were going to kill him the moment Aegon died.

“No, I wouldn't have spared you. That’s right,” you say without shame and start to stalk around the men brought to their knees. “But you tried to kill me and my children. And I would be stupid as to trust you. I do applaud your attempts at fleeing though, but alas, cockroaches are not immortal.” You snicker and then shift your eyes to Ser Jason and immediately scowl rather than look smug.

“Once a coward always a coward.” You huff and look up at the sky mere seconds before Astraea’s shadow casts the courtyard before she flies over and lets everyone know she’s close and ready for any command you might give her.

“Death by dragon fire is far too quick,” you interject and blink before you look back down at the men before you. “So another death sentence will be thrust upon you, and no, you may not have a trial by combat. You will, however, challenge your death sentence,” you explain and Lord Benjicot and the other lords and guards around you grow eager as they know what’s coming.

“In two days you will face each other in a bloody game where you will fight to survive.”

Lord Larys drops his head as all the color flushes from his face since he knows now that he’s a dead man.

“The first round is against each other and then the winner would face me,” you continue smugly and tauntingly. “But I did promise Lord Benjicot he would get to participate in the next game, so,” you sigh and flash them a wicked grin. “Be prepared.” You shimmy your shoulders before you peer back so your own men can come forward and take the prisoners to their dungeons.

“Thank you, my Ladies,” you offer Black Aly and Lady Sabitha before you take another step back to get a better look at everyone from the ground. “Now if you will all come inside with me, I have a few words and an announcement to share,” you let them know with a faint smile before you turn on your heels and march inside with the Riverlords, men and women you fought alongside with, Velaryon men, house guards, and Ser Cane, all marching behind you. Another and a more tremendous show of power that has passing servants reeling to the shadows, and has other bystanders catching their breath as they watch the great show of strength marching down the halls.

Now no one dares to sneak any dirty or judgmental looks your way with the army of bloodthirsty men at your back. They all make way for the Queen and her allies without realizing what’s happened, but all those who are clueless will know soon enough, and those who did have a clue about what transcended only get a firm confirmation when you all walk into the throne room and get greeted by the dead body of King Aegon Targaryen, and the mournful wails of the Dowager Queen.

For some, the body is harder to see than others, but they all know what they see. There’s no denying or asking questions, it’s really him. King Aegon is lying dead on a bier beneath the Iron Throne, and as you reach him you grow rigid and feel your breath catch in your throat.

Once again you’re struck with surreal disbelief. More so now as Aegon’s poisoned body is before your very eyes.

After all this time. After all the fighting, and after losing so much, there he is no longer drawing breath, and with no beating heart—you make sure that his heart is no longer beating by pressing your hand on his chest to prove to yourself that he’s really and truly dead.

It’s truly unbelievable how someone so terrible could have lived so long to terrorize the world, but now…now he’s dead, and your mother's ghost still haunts you.

You see her now too standing at the other side of the bier. Her blue eyes are stuck on you, but she’s not burnt like many times before. She’s as beautiful as she was the last time you saw her, but she wears a melancholy look on her face.

“Welcome,” you let your voice carry out throughout the hall as you remove your hand from Aegon’s corpse and pull your eyes away from your mother's ghost to look at your brother with his caretaker—“My Lords and Ladies. My fellow comrades, and everyone else who finds themselves here today,” you say as you slowly move away from the bier to approach your brother. “I know some of you came here expecting a fight, and I’m sorry that you were disappointed, but there’s no need to be upset because I can now offer you peace.”

You approach your brother and he finds you right away and leans toward you to stretch out his hands so you take him instead.

“I know it’s confusing as to how we achieved it,” you continue and finally face the attentive crowd. “But you don’t need to look far. It’s all of you who made it possible. It’s because of every single one of you that there’s at last peace in the realm, and the tyranny of Aegon the Second has come to an end! So thank you for fighting, and thank you for sacrificing so much. It wouldn’t be possible without you and what you did every day for the past two years.”

You offer them a proud smirk that’s illuminated by the sunlight casting inside.

“Queen Rhaenyra might not be here to bask in the triumph or proudly wear the crown on top of the Iron Throne, but her blood will,” you carry on and glance down at your brother Aegon, and caress his cheek as he rests his head on your shoulder. “The reason you fought so hard did not go to waste when she died, it lives on in him. Aegon Third of His Name. Queen Rhaenyra’s last remaining son will sit the throne as your King.”

Gasps fill the hall and you walk to the Iron Throne before you cut off the whispers already being shared. “I would have taken the title of Queen, but…” you pause and swallow thickly. When you reach the foot of the throne you face the crowd all before you and draw out a deep breath before you continue to address them. “I can admit that when my brother grows of age he will make a much wiser King. He will maintain peace with his wife Jaehaera Targaryen.” You nod and caress your brother's back as he refuses to face the crowd as he hides his face in the crook of your neck.

“They will make a great King and Queen with the guidance of wise men and women who have learned from the past. I know it and I swear it to all of you. So,” you roll out with a growing smile, and pride in your voice. “Ring the bells for Aegon the Second is dead, and cheer for your new king, King Aegon the Third!” You exclaim and flash them all a beaming grin.

The crowd does as you say, finding nothing wrong with your brother taking your place. They embrace the change with an explosive cheer and their feet stomping against the ground as they chant for their new King.

“LONG LIVE THE KING!”

——

*SOMETIME LATER*

The exhilarating bloodbath you had promised in two days’ time unfortunately had to be delayed with so much aftermath to be handled.

For example, the garrison at Dragonstone was defiant to denounce the dead king. It took three days for them to finally give up and it was not out of their own will, the people working at the castle took up arms as they slept and killed some whilst they delivered others to Alyn as prisoners. You almost had to fly out there with Astraea to flush them out, but luckily people stood up against the traitors and returned the castle to its rightful king.

Next, since your brother is young and unable to assist in any way you’ve had to send ravens to Oldtown, the Reach, Casterly Rock, and Storm’s End, promising them pardons and safe conducts as long as they rode down to swear fealty to their new king.

And lastly, you had to deal with Aegon’s body as it was decaying faster due to the poison in his system, but you couldn’t be there. You couldn’t give him the satisfaction of having someone else besides his mother attending his funeral. Nor could you give him a traditional Valyrian funeral, no matter how much Alicent asked, your pride and everything besides couldn’t permit him to be burned away with dragon flames. So his body was turned to ash by traditional fire, while other people besides his mother watched because Ser Cane says that the people hoped to witness the bad omens and hatred his reign brought burn away with him. After there was nothing left of him you had his ashes lost at sea so he may drown in darkness for all eternity.

After that was handled at last you could bring your focus back on your prisoners and the bloodbath you promised, making it like a disturbing reward after so many long days.

“Silence!” A speaker makes his voice loud and booming to silence the eager crowd of Rivermen, lavish Smallfolk, Velaryon guards and soldiers, and the men from here.

“You are now in the presence of her Grace, the Queen Regent of House Targaryen, Lady Baela of House Targaryen, and the Lords and Ladies of the Riverlands!”

Applause and cheering breaks in the cold air that drifts through the crevices and gaps permanently marking the once great Dragonpit, but most of that shared excitement comes from warriors you fought side by side with, and men from your own Velaryon home. The Smallfolk made their discontent for you obvious with silence, displeased stares, and a cold stiff welcome.

However, you can be petty too, so you summon Astraea to accompany you; out of protection, intimidation, and well, now that the Dragonpit is ruined there’s room for her to sit behind you, so she descends from the thick grey clouds threatening to bring rain to the city, and forces those Smallfolk who refused to spare you any kind of kindness to clap and welcome you with a frightened and feigned excited welcome.

“Welcome!” You address the crowd. “And first off, thank you for joining me today. I know the wounds of war are fresh, and this may be the last place you want to be, so thank you. Now I promise—no I swear.” You flash a feigned beaming smile. “That I will not disappoint with today's trial.” You say with a grin before you look down at the guards below and offer them a quick and stiff nod that sends them away to bring out the prisoners in chains.

“Here before you,” you continue as you step toward the edge of the high designated and roped-off area to look down at Ser Jason and Lord Larys with a slow-forming glare—“…stand two traitors, Lord Larys who not only betray his Queen and his King by switching sides to where he deemed fit, but sent assassins to kill me and my unborn children.” You scoff and the corner of your lips form to a scowl, while the crowd share gasps of shock and disgust.

“And the other is Ser Jason Waters. My former Sworn protector who took the cravens course by turning his cloak the moment I needed him most. Perhaps if he had done his job and been braver, my mother would be here, but he…” you trail off and swallow thickly. “…turned his sword against me and delivered my mother, your new king, and me to our enemy.” You finish with disgust and dig your glare into him before you step back into the shadows to avert your gaze from his pathetic face.

“Thus for their crimes, they will face each other in a fight to the death. The winner will then face Lord Benjicot Blackwood, and if they win against him their life will be spared, but if they don’t then…” your trail and huff with a smirk since it’s easy to fill in your silence.

“Ser Cane,” you say over your shoulder, and right away your sworn protector approaches the edge to throw down two sharp metal swords for the prisoners to use.

“Guards take off their chains. Gentlemen take your weapons, and my beloved audience grab your seeing glasses, place your bets, and feast your eyes on the spectacular blood trial to the death!” You exclaim and thrust your arms out in the air, causing the crowd to fill with a blood-pumping and ravenous excitement that erupts throughout the Dragonpit.

“Oh,” you add and glance down at the men. “And gentlemen may you be the last.” You flash them a mischievous smirk before you step back to take your seat.

“Ladies, may you want to place your bet?” Ser Oscar Tully interjects right away as he pushes himself off his seat to lean in between you and Baela.

“This fight obviously already has a winner,” Baela counters as she looks over her shoulder. “To bet my coin on this fight would be an insult.”

“An obvious scam since Ser Oscar has obviously lost his earnings at the brothels,” you remark lightheartedly and look away from Ser Jason trying to show Lord Larys some mercy to twist around and look at the young man with a teasing smile. “Isn’t that right, ser?”

The young knight grows as red as his hair but he manages to quip. “Here I thought you were busy.”

You shrug. “I’m Queen Regent and you are my guest, I have to be informed of your whereabouts before they blame me for anything that may happen to you,” you rebuttal since Lady Alysanne Blackwood has spoken against you over Aegon’s death, calling it a coward's weapon. She nor any other discontent lord have outwardly pointed their finger at you, but they do suspect it.

Which in their case they would be right, but they don’t dare and accuse you.

“Hm,” Ser Oscar hums before Lord Benjicot bounces in.

“Fine then bet for me. Unless you think I might lose against your former sworn protector?” He presses with a quirked brow.

You scoff and pass him a faint smile before you turn around and face the arena below, catching Ser Jason still being reluctant to swing at Lord Larys—“I know you will win but I am Queen Regent, I cannot be seen placing bets.”

Lord Benjicot chuckles and grabs your shoulders before he looks at Baela. “You my Lady?” He probes.

Said woman glances at him and sighs before she hands Lord Kermit her bet, making the boy lord snicker and shake your shoulders before he looks at your sworn protector.

“You, my infamous Blood Hound? What way do you lean toward? Or does your ranking as the Queen Regent's protector forbid you from such a sin?”

Ser Cane keeps his eyes scanning the Dragonpit for any potential dangers, but he doesn’t keep quiet. “Oh you’re sadly mistaken my young lord, I have made no such vow. I placed my bet,” he says nonchalantly. “And her graces bet as well,” he adds in a quieter voice, making Lord Benjicot hit your shoulders before he laughs in your ear and then throws himself back to his seat.

Now as all your attention is on the prolonged fight you notice that the crowd is getting upset for the lack of a fight from either man. Thus without passing any command, and speaking from your intertwined connection, you have Astraea let out an annoyed roar, forcing the men to move forward and lift their weapons.

Nevertheless, anyone with a brain would see how this fight would end. It was a rather pathetic fight, but you didn’t want to give Lord Larys the satisfaction of a quick death. You wanted to make him suffer so you had him fight, and lose.

Yes, Lord Strong did try, he swung his sword, but Ser Jason is quicker and smarter given he’s playing with his life. The traitorous knight kicks in Lord Larys twisted leg, sending him to his knees before he lunges forward, and swings his blade across Larys neck to bring his life to a violent end.

The crowd immediately cheers, but they’re not enthusiastic about this fight. Nor are you. A faint proud smirk tugs on the corner of your lips, but that's all you muster, pride for the now-dead traitor. You’re not excited that Ser Jason won and you don’t want him to think you are, so you quickly proceed to clench your fists and your jaw as you keep your gaze on the arena below to await the next fight just like the rest of the audience.

The moment Lord Larys is being dragged off the arena, the crowd starts cheering for the young Lord Benjicot, unaware that they’re only stroking his ego and overfilling him with an almost boyish excitement.

“Good luck nephew,” Black Aly directs at the young lord, but he only shrugs her off.

“As if I need it!” He exclaims as he jumps off his seat and shrugs off his cloak before he walks down and stands before you.

“Your mother will be avenged and you will have your justice today, Your Grace.”

You offer him a sweet smile and stand to your feet to grab his cheek and then lean in to press a light feathered kiss on his other cheek. “Be careful, my Lord.”

The young man offers you a sheepish smile as his cheeks grow a light shade of pink that he hides by bowing his head. “Your Grace.”

You slide your hand off his cheek to let him turn away and eagerly descend to the arena. Once he reaches the last barrier he hops over it and lands on the ground, raising a cloud of dirt that he quickly breaks by striding forward.

“It saddens me to let such a talented man go to waste, but it also makes me glad that I’ll be the one to do it.” The young lord interjects as he unsheathes his sword and begins to slowly trudge around the traitorous knight like a predator stalks its prey as he grins and swipes his tongue over his teeth before he makes the first move by swinging.

Albeit Ser Jason quickly blocks his attempt just like the next, and the others that follow.

The young lord chuckles softly out of amusement before he shoves Ser Jason back, and then follows by thrusting his blade forward to try and pierce the traitorous knight. However, Ser Jason jumps to the side and captures his arm, and pulls him closer, making you hold your breath.

Lord Benjicot proceeds to slap his hand on Ser Jason’s shoulder and quickly thinks to headbutt the traitorous knight, letting you draw out your breath and rise off your seat as Ser Jason stumbles back whilst his nose starts to bleed.

After that the young lord doesn’t rest, he swings up, but Ser Jason throws himself back and swings his sword up, making the metal swords clash and ring against the silence. Ser Jason then proceeds to stretch his other arm out to capture Lord Benjicot’s wrist, making the young lord react quickly by pulling a dagger out and swinging, however, Ser Jason captures his wrist yet again.

“Come on Ben!” Black Aly exclaims as she rises off her seat.

And as if fueled by her encouragement the young lord snatches his dagger arm away from the knight's grip, and lets his sword go to twist his wrists and grab the Lord's hand. He then lunges forward to twist the knight's arm back.

Yet the man turns his body and tries to thrust his sword, but Lord Benjicot lets go and slides back, leaving himself unarmed and leaving Ser Jason the chance to win his fight now.

With that in mind, you slowly rise off your seat, catching the traitorous knight's attention and turning his face towards you.

“Yield boy,” Ser Jason warns the young Lord in between a deep breath whilst he keeps his eyes on you, and you hold his gaze with a piercing and venomous glare.

“No,” Lord Benjicot seethes before he runs forward and swipes his weapons off the ground, forcing Ser Jason to turn around and once again face his opponent.

“You will die today Ser,” Lord Benjicot tells the traitorous knight before he kicks dirt up at the knight, clouding his vision so he can charge forward and swing low.

However, the knight had quickly shielded his eyes and slid back out of the way, leaving each other open once again. This time they proceed to swing at each other and once again they clash against each other's swords with each block. Neither can gain the upper hand until Lord Benjicot thrusts forward with great strength, managing to scrape the knight's side, but not knocking him down. The knight ignores his wound and twists down to swipe Lord Benjicot off his feet.

The crowd all reacts with gasps and you stand on your feet while you walk forward and hold your hands tightly together.

“Yield!” Ser Jason yells at the young lord, but the young lord is proud. Even more so as he’s facing his opponent, so he just flashes him a crooked grin and shakes his head before he raises his leg and kicks Ser Jason back to the ground.

When the young Lord pushes himself back to his feet he quickly stomps his foot on Ser Jason’s ankle, causing a crack to echo throughout the Dragonpit before Ser Jason cries out, providing a tense air that makes your heart start to race.

“Do it, Ben!” Black Aly cries out.

And so Lord Benjicot stomps toward Ser Jason’s side. You grab the rope and lean forward with your eyelids slowly peeling back as you grow excited and eager yourself.

“Come on, come on,” you whisper, hearing Astraea shift in her spot before she raises her head.

“I told you,” Lord Benjicot tells Ser Jason. “You’d die today.”

Ser Jason swallows back thickly and his breath shudders as he breathes out, but he doesn’t let his sword go. He looks Lord Benjicot in his eyes and lifts his chin, making the young Lord scoff proudly before he thrusts his sword down.

Nevertheless, just as the young Lord is going to pierce Ser Jason. The traitorous knight uses all his will to throw himself up and shove his own sword up as he also grabs a hold of Lord Benjicot’s collar and pulls him down against the tip of his sword.

“Ben!” Black Aly exclaims and runs to where you are.

“Heh,” Lord Benjicot chuckles, making you and Black Aly share a worried look

“Smart,” the young Lord praises the knight while he fixes his grip around his blade. “But. I. Will not. Yield today.”

Without moving his side away from the tip piercing into him, or adding anything else, Lord Benjicot presses his sword through Ser Jason’s unprotected belly and pushes deeper and deeper into the man’s flesh until he hits the ground.

You let out a breathless chuckle, but before you can catch Ser Jason’s reaction or anything else on that matter you’re called out with urgency. “Your Grace!”

You groan and snap around. “What?” You growl in annoyance.

The innocent messenger bows and then takes a breath before he shares what brought him here. “Lord Stark is approaching the city.”

Just like that, you lose all interest in the fight and Ser Jason’s death. Your heart comes to a sudden halt, and a surprised breath leaves your lips.

“H…how? He was still days away? How did you miss him and his caravan?” You throw your questions out of panic and sudden worry.

“We didn't,” the man says back in his defense so he wouldn’t get in trouble. “He’s coming alone with just a few of his men. He rode ahead of his men.”

Alone?

You nod lightly. “Okay. Thank you, I’ll return to the Red Keep now.”

The man bows his head and turns to rush back out, letting you turn to face the arena and make sure that Ser Jason is dead and that Lord Benjicot is okay and not dying.

“But a scratch!” The young lord cries out as he thrusts his arms in the air which only makes the crowd get carried away with much more excitement.

“Good,” you breathe out and turn to his aunt. “Lord Stark is approaching the city. Stay with Lord Benjicot while he has his moment and then join us in the throne room.”

Black Aly doesn’t argue besides your indifference. She nods and you then walk away to address the people you came with. “I know you all intended to celebrate Lord Benjicot’s victory, but Lord Stark is approaching the city, so our duty comes first, meaning we now have to welcome him as I welcomed you. So please if you will return to the Red Keep with me that will be very much appreciated,” you finish and walk ahead, making Astraea rise off her spot and flap her wings to ascend to the skies, and follow you as you make your way back to the Red Keep.

Once you’re in the throne room, Aegon is brought to you and the hall slowly fills with Lords of the Riverlands, your current Small Council, and others who are a part of the court.

Maybe that’s why the throne feels so stuffy? Or maybe one too many hearths are blazing?

You remove the silver chains you wore over your face and fell like a glistening veil, leaving your silver circlet on your head that matches the chest armor wrapped around you. Yet it doesn’t make it any easier to breathe properly (not like the chains were a problem to begin with).

Maybe it’s the chest armor itself? Maybe Vanessa put it on too tightly?

No. You just need to breathe. Breathe. Breathe…

After a while, as the sun is starting to set and shining brightly through the tall windows behind you, creating an almost mythical aura around you, the doors are opened and in marches none other than Cregan.

“Lord Cregan of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell, and Warden of the North!” The guard announces and you slowly let your eyes fall on his presence, noting right away that his grey eyes are hit by the same shining sun setting behind you, causing, for the first time in a while a warmth to unfurl over your chest, whilst your heart skips a beat as if reviving your withered soul before it slowly picks up its pace as he gets closer to the steps that lead to the Iron Throne, and that you stand on.

Now it would be a lie to say that he wasn’t blinded by the mere sight of your presence before the sun even hit his eyes, because he was. For so long he could only rely on words from the mouths of others to know if you were well or not, and words from strangers were never enough. They couldn’t compare to the sight of you before his very eyes. So now that he’s walking down the great Throne Room of the Red Keep, nothing interests him more than you.

You are the sole keeper of his attention; you and your flesh body untouched by any illness, or crippled by any wounds. You are the sole captor of his breath as the sun shining behind you makes you look divine, and your eyes giving off a sparkle without the touch of any light give his longing heart much-wanted relief.

“You stand in the presence of King Aegon of House Targaryen, Third of his name, and his Sister, the Queen Regent, of House Velaryon!” The guard shares and proves right the news Cregan had heard on the road. Now, the warmth that your presence spread over his heart fades, and he once again turns cold.

“Lord Stark, welcome to Kings Landing,” you interject loudly and with a genuine smile on your face. “I am surprised to have you here so early. It was said you still had a couple days left to reach the city.”

Cregan’s grey eyes bounce to your grandfather, Ser Perkin, Baela, and all the guards that stand in front of you and Aegon before he returns his gaze to you and makes his deep-set frown prominent.

When you notice you blink and swallow nervously before you drop your smile, and your own warmth washes away.

“The North Remembers, my Queen. I came here to make good on my promise to your brother Prince Jacaerys, by ending this war in favor of the slain Queen Rhaenyra,” Cregan’s voice booms while his dark eyebrows start to pinch together, painting his usual hardened expression on his face.

“You come too late, My Lord,” your grandfather chimes in for you as you take note of Cregan's voice and his grey eyes brewing a storm that chases away all the rest of the warmth he held for you just now. “For the war is done, and the King is dead.”

Cregan clenches his jaw and lowers his chin to pierce his cold glare at your grandfather. “By whose hand and at whose word, I wonder?”

Your grandfather doesn’t give his answer away with his eyes, instead he answers as he holds Cregan’s gaze. “By the Queen Regent and the rest of the small council.”

Grey eyes fall on you, and you try to challenge his hardened gaze, but your eyebrows falter and your eyes can never express the tension. Just yet.

“It seems you have a lot to say Lord Stark, and this may not be the place to say it for we will surely bore the court,” you interject. “Swear fealty to your new king and we may retreat to more private chambers.”

Cregan parts his lips to argue, but he sees that you’re right so he lets out a deep breath and walks forward to get down on one knee and reaffirm his loyalty to your brother King Aegon, making the tension only rise now that everyone knows what followed.

“Return the King to the royal apartments, have him continue his teachings,” you tell his caretaker, and then watch him be carried out with an army of Kingsguard surrounding him.

Once your brother has left the hall you turn to the audience. “You may go my Lords and Ladies of the Court,” you say before you then shift your attention to Cregan and the others. “Lord Stark and my Riverlords, follow me.”

When you file out, any attempt to get a word in between you and Cregan is blocked as Ser Cane follows at your tail and other guards accompany him. That’s if Cregan even wanted to try and talk to you directly before you reached your intended hall, he’s upset and it’s not hard to guess why.

Cregan is a proud man and even though his honor falters when it comes to you, when it comes to matters of his duty as Lord, that’s where he doesn’t falter. So even though you wished to speak to him, you don’t know if he wanted anything to do with you. And you can’t even read him because you’re separated by a barrier of men up to the point you reach the hall.

Now all you have in return is a high tension that lets you truly harden your face to mirror Cregan’s.

“If every one of you believes the war is truly done, you are sadly mistaken,” Cregan gets right down to business before the other lords can even finish filing in. “Others may have started the war, but I intend to finish it. I will continue South and crush all the remaining Greens who placed Aegon the Second on the Iron Throne, and fought to keep him there,” Cregan continues to share his plan with such a burning passion that he doesn’t often share with the masses unless provoked. Other times his fire would burn you too, but right now all he does is start to irritate you.

“First I will reduce Storm’s End, then I will cross the Reach to Old Town. Once the Hightower has fallen I will take my wolves north along the shores of the Sunset Sea to pay Casterly Rock a visit,” Cregan finishes expressing his passionate plan, leaving the other Lords untouched by his own flames.

“A bold plan,” Maester Orwyle says cautiously, but with no intention to back up said plan.

“Storm’s End, Old Town, and Casterly Rock are as strong as your own army, if not stronger.” Lord Kermit interjects with disagreement, gaining Cregan’s attention, and letting you share a speechless look with Baela. And even though you both haven't reconciled since your fight, you still have the instinct to look at one another to share your disbelief and her taunting.

“Neither castle will fall easily. If it all.”

“Lord Kermit is right,” Lord Benjicot echoes the young Lord, which brings your attention to Lord Benjicot and makes you realize that you hadn’t noticed when he returned from celebrating his victory at the Dragonpit, until the moment he spoke. You were so lost on Cregan to remember about him.

“Half of your men will die, Lord Stark,” Lord Benjicot adds in an attempt to warn Cregan, but he is in no need of it. He wasn’t as inexperienced or as young as they were.

“They died the day we marched, boy,” Cregan mutters in a deep and intimidating voice that again, would have made you burn and get all flustered, but right now, you find his persistence annoying.

“The killing has gone on too long,” your grandfather tries to ease the tension Cregan had bombarded everyone with. “Rhaenyra and Aegon are dead. Let their quarrel die with them. You speak of taking Storm’s End, Oldtown, and Casterly Rock, my lord, but the men who held those seats were slain in battle, everyone. Small boys and suckling babes sit in their places now, no threat to us. Grant them honorable terms, and they will bend the knee.”

As if the words of peace have gone to deaf ears, Cregan presses his hands on the tabletop and leans forward to argue. “Small boys become large men in time. And a babe sucks down his mother's hate with his mother's milk. Finish these foes now, or those not in our graves in twenty years will rue our folly when those babes strap on their father's swords and come seeking after vengeance.”

Much one like the other, your grandfather isn’t easily defeated either. He talks in your stead as you choose to remain seated and silent to listen to the arguments thrown across the table.

“King Aegon said the same and died for it. Had he heeded our counsel and offered peace and pardon to his foes, he might be sitting with us here today.”

The crease in between Cregan’s eyebrows only grows deeper as he scowls before he spats back. “Is that why you poisoned him, my Lord?”

You don’t react. You can’t because it would give away the truth behind Cregan’s remark, and since he can read you with ease, you know he would gain the answer to his accusation that your grandfather ignores.

“Small wonder why you are called the Sea Snake,” Cregan continues as he glowers. “You may slither this way and that way, but, oh, your fangs are venomous. Aegon was an oathbreaker, a kinslayer, and a usurper yet still King. When he would not heed your craven’s counsel, you removed him as a craven would, dishonorably, with poison…and now you shall answer for it.”

You look at Cregan with confusion and share that same emotion with Baela and the other Lords before the doors burst open and Cregan’s men barge in pointing their swords at the guards with the intention to what? Take over? Do another coup? Take the power right from under you?

No! You have sat in silence long enough. You have let Cregan drag on and accuse and insult your grandfather, but you will not be made small. Not by him. And you surely won’t let anyone take your power. Not anymore.

“Enough!” You bark and slam your hands on the table to steal everyone’s attention. “Who do you think you are?” You hiss as you slowly stand up and dig your glare deep into his grey eyes that falter at the sound of your voice.

“Do I need to remind you who you are, Lord Stark?” you spat and slip away from your seat to start stalking toward him with Ser Cane passing you Blackfyre as he trails behind you. “You are a Lord. You are not King, nor are you The Hand. You are not a part of the small council. You are a Lord. You cannot come into my brother's castle and demand this and that, or throw accusations at his Lords. You cannot have your men barge in my halls like these are your lands.”

Cregan’s glare falters again as he feels taken back by your fire directed at him. You get angry at him, but never have you gotten this mad that you look at him with a threatening and burning glare, or talk to him like you don’t know him. So hearing and seeing you be so enraged at him throws him off, and has him pushing himself away from the table to watch your every move as he can’t help but feel more enticed by your show of power and fearlessness.

“You may be a dear friend, Lord Stark, but don’t mistake my kindness. I will arrest you as a rebel and if you still don’t stand down I will reduce your men to ash,” you roll out with ease, and this time Cregan snaps from his stupor. He mirrors the fire of your glare and also starts to stalk toward you, however, to anyone paying close attention neither of you are tense. Your shoulders are resting, and neither of your bodies scream the need to lunge for an attack even if you hold your Valyrian sword.

“Just as you reduced those innocents to ash?” Cregan remarks thinking you’ll falter, but you just hold your head high and defend what you did.

“I had the courage to do what was right for our realm. I brought security by burning away any chance for the people to rise up against the crown after they killed the dragons. I brought justice after they killed my brother and chased their Queen out of the city. I returned fear after they joined a false prophet. And I will do it all again,” you roll out of your tongue almost seductively. “So tell me, Lord Stark, do you want to meet the same fate?”

Cregan scoffs and you meet each other halfway, but your proximity doesn’t make either of you falter under the pressure of each other's warmth or tension that is quick to spring up as your lips are close, and your hands are closer.

“I want justice too. The same as you, My Princess. I made a vow I intend to follow not only as a friend to your brother but as Lord to my Queen. This war is not done. No matter what anyone says. Not even you.”

His eyes show a flicker of warmth, but it was quick to vanish as you don’t break.

“Are you babes in swaddling clothes, to be cozened by flowers and feasts and soft words?” Cregan then directs at the other Lords around the table. Those he wasn't accusing.

“Wars end when the defeated bend the knee and not before.” He berates them, and you tilt your head and keep your eyes on him as he’s looking away—“Has Oldtown yielded? Has Casterly Rock returned the Crown’s gold?”

Silence follows and you spare a glance at the other Lords, but immediately look back at Cregan to await the next words that will come out of his mouth just in case you need to take measures you never thought you’d use against him. And well, you also can’t keep your eyes away. His scent is intoxicating and his eyes tempting.

“The Stormlanders were beaten and don’t have the strength to field another army,” Lord Kermit protests, but nothing changes Cregan’s mind.

“Aegon sent envoys across the narrow sea, any of whom might return in the morrow with thousands of sellswords.”

“All of whom were sent offers of pardons,” you cut in, but Cregan just rebuttals.

“Queen Rhaenyra believed herself victorious after taking King’s Landing…”

You finally avert your gaze and clench your fists.

“Aegon thought he ended the war by feeding his sister to a dragon,” he continues and only infuriates you further. “Yet the Queen's men had remained, even after the Queen herself was dead, and Aegon was reduced to bones and ashes.”

“I said the war is over, Lord Stark,” you interject with spite and without looking him in the eyes. “Rise your sword against me if you dare to challenge the King's word, but I will not have you take control, nor intimidate my guests.”

Cregan’s eyes fall on you, but you don’t look up. You clench your jaw and keep looking away. A moment of silence follows where all you hear is Cregan breathing as he remains close.

“You are right, I am just a Lord. I don’t have much power here, so I demand to be Hand. I will question the people who might have had a hand in killing Aegon because I want the same as you, to get rid of any seed of rebellion before it can take root. What do you think people will do when they see that there are no consequences for poisoning a king?” He asks, but you don’t answer, letting him add on. “Besides, I intend to keep my promise to your brother.”

Your eyes start to sting at the mention and the softness of his voice, so you draw in a deep breath and look to your grandfather for guidance. And since it was between agreeing or bloodshed, he passes you a stiff nod, making you draw out a deep breath and roll your head up to meet Cregan’s attentive gaze.

“You will be my hand, but if you raise your sword against us again you will be punished,” you mutter before you face the others. “Meeting dismissed.”

Without lingering you pass your sword to your sworn protector and then turn on your heels to storm out in a huff, making sure Cregan noticed.

And of course, he did notice. He watched you leave and didn’t dare to miss a single step. He has the intention to follow, but with you as upset as you are he knows to wait instead. Even though you would have welcomed his company right away.

Alas, he doesn’t follow.

——

*LATER*

“How dare he come here and…” you trail off as you feel at a loss for words. “…he,” you grumble and shake your head out of frustration, letting Vanessa finish for you.

“<Vex you?>” She quips in Valyrian so neither the guards nor the servants would hear you and spread it like gossip. “Fluster? Or make you feel hot?>”

You snap your gaze to her and roll your tongue along the inside of your cheek to hide your amused smile. Vanessa however, knows you well so she nudges your arm and smiles proudly at herself since she made you smile

“Annoy me,” you quip and roll your eyes. “He comes here and tries to take command of the place as if he doesn’t know the struggles I already face by simply being a woman!” You remark and throw your hands out. “Had there been more men there I would have been shoved aside…” you trail off in a whisper as you lower your head to let out a deep sigh.

“No matter how good they are, men can still be inconsiderate and for Lord Stark, his duty comes first,” she tries to comfort you, and you listen to her, but you think about Aemond too; he could be selfish but he would have put you first.

“That’s right,” you whisper and draw out a deep breath to push that matter aside before you get enraged again. Instead, you bring up another matter. “I thought that I would take the twins and Aerion for a ride on Astraea…the twins haven’t met her and they’re getting older, I don’t want them to be scared of her.”

The corner of Vanessa’s lips tug up softly and her eyes widen with disbelief as you’re finally starting to warm up to your children.

“That would be a great idea,” Vanessa encourages you. “I could come with you to help you.”

You offer her a sweet smile and nod. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

Vanessa mirrors your gesture, letting that be the last thing you see before you set your eyes on the Red Keep’s Godswood, and someone else; Lord Kermit Tully playing his lute as he sits against the Weirwood tree.

The moment the young lord notices you and your company trailing behind you, he drops his lute and pushes himself to his feet to bow your way. “Your Grace,” he greets kindly.

Once he stands at his given height, and you meet his dark blue eyes that appear almost black under the shadow of the Weirwood tree, you return his kind greeting with a warm smile. “My Lord.”

You then glance at the holy Weirwood tree with its bold red leaves, and then look back at Lord Kermit with his striking red hair and your smile widens. “I was taught that the Tully’s followed the New Gods, am I wrong?” You probe as you walk away from your train of people to be closer to the young lord who isn’t as young as his brother is; he’s actually the same age you are, but you still consider him young because you like to think you still are even after all the lives you’ve lived these past two years.

“No, no,” he shakes his head and lets out a nervous chuckle whilst he steps back and starts to grow as red as his hair. “You are not. We follow the Seven, but at home, I like going to the Godswood to find silence, or practice my lute where there are no others who I can curse with my awful playing.”

You chuckle and his eyes widen in disbelief, whilst he seems to only grow a deeper shade of red as you continue to fluster him.

“Then I apologize for disturbing your peace,” you tell him lightheartedly with a faint smile playing on your lips. “I will leave, but I need to tell you that I think you play swell. Now, and at the campfires when we camped together.”

Lord Kermit scratches the back of his neck and drops his head as he laughs nervously. “Well, I was drunk then so I don’t think it counts.”

You huff. “Drunk men tell true words. So I think the saying would go for your playing.”

Lord Kermit laughs and you giggle before you get closer with no true intention to actually leave. “You’ll have to play around a campfire soon so I can sing. All these duties have really stressed me out, I need to release it somehow.”

The young Lord's eyes snap up and his lips part with more surprise. “Are you sure that I would be the right man to follow your singing?”

You nod eagerly. “Yes of course.”

Lord Kermit scoffs softly and bows his head. “You flatter me, Your Grace.”

You offer him a wider smile and then turn to face the Weirwood tree, making the young Lord bend down to collect his lute off the ground. “I will leave you be—”

“No, stay, it’s really, truly fine,” you assure him and reach out without grabbing his arm. “I would like the company. I don’t mind. Without my brothers or my aunt, the castle is…really just too big and haunting.”

Lord Kermit blinks repeatedly in surprise, but after those swirling emotions pass he can’t help but smile softly as you’re welcoming his company. You, the Queen Regent.

“I also…want to thank you,” you continue and turn your head to have him in your sights. “When we were in that meeting you stood your ground and had my back when you could have sided with Lord Stark. I know he can be intimidating, so…thank you, My Lord. It really means a lot.”

Since the young lord keeps getting hit with surprises he doesn’t respond right away. His shoulders fall from their tense hold that you put them in whilst his eyes meet yours before he parts his lips. “It’s my duty to my Queen. And my King. Besides, I trust you. We fought together at Tumbleton. It’s not every day a royal fights with their armies, especially not ones made of Rivermen and Northmen, so having you there fighting with us while you were with child with twins no less,” he clarifies loudly so you can hear his awe—“was truly inspiring. I will always support you and respect you until the end of my days.”

Maybe it’s because after so much heartache and trials and tribulations all you want is someone to tell you kind words, or maybe it's because he’s sweet when he’s sincere, but your eyes water and your smile wobbles at his simple words. “Thank you, My Lord.” You whisper and inhale deeply as you look back at the face carved on the white-wooded tree.

“By the way, how are your twins? Your dragon took you and we never saw you until we arrived here,” he interjects in the short silence you left in your own awe.

“Fat,” you let him know giddily. “They have no wars to fight or meetings to lead, so they eat all day. They’re fat.” You giggle, making the Lord nod in comprehension and smile proudly.

“Good. I’m glad to hear it, and envious, maybe.”

You continue to laugh and just continue to heighten his disbelief.

“Well, you know you do have your liberties. Your brother sure knows how to use them,” you retort and he huffs and rolls his head away.

“My brother,” he scoffs. “He’s young and full of temptation. He also doesn’t have to carry the same weight I do as Lord.”

You hum and he mindlessly starts to rub his fingers together as he continues. “But I suppose as an older brother it doesn’t really bother me. In a lot of ways I’m glad I’m the only one cursed with the burden of Lord.”

Your heart skips a beat and your brothers come to mind. Not Aegon, your other brothers, the ones you grew up with.

“Yet another burden we carry as the oldest don’t we?” You whisper just loud enough so he can hear. “No matter what, we always want the best for them.”

“Like a parent,” he adds what you were thinking. “But I suppose this burden isn’t as heavy as the others.”

The corner of your lips pulls up and you nod slowly in agreement. You get ready to add on with a different comment, but then you’re interrupted. “Your Grace.”

You and Lord Tully turn around and you see Cregan walking over without caring to wait to be invited over. He just stomps over with his eyes hardened and focused solely on Lore Kermit.

“My Lord,” Cregan greets the young Lord in an intimidating way that makes the young lord grow stiff once again.

“Lord Stark,” Lord Kermit greets the man and bows his head.

“I pardon the intrusion, but I desire to speak to the Queen Regent, alone,” Cregan doesn’t waste a second to get right to what he wanted.

“Of course,” Lord Kermit gives in and turns to face you. “Your Grace.” He bows his head.

You offer him a sweet smile and reach over to take his hand in yours, causing Cregan’s eyebrows to furrow deeper.

“I hope we talk again soon and not just to share a song,” you tell him, making the young Lord's breath falter as he looks between your united hands, and your eyes softened and looking at him with kindness.

“Of course, your Grace,” the young lord agrees quieter and offers you a quick smile before he pulls his hands out of your grasp and walks away.

The moment he’s past you you face the Weirwood tree again with your hands clasped and your nose high in the chilly air, while Cregan watches the young Lord leave until he’s finally out of sight and no longer in earshot.

“No smile for me?” He quips lightheartedly as his eyes fall on you and he acts as if he didn’t just challenge you in that meeting room.

“Or do you plan to take a third husband? Maybe the third one is the one?” He adds in hopes of gaining your attention and getting you to smile and laugh, but you continue to avert your gaze and just draw out a long and deep breath.

“You made me look a fool in that meeting hall,” you remark without any sort of warmth.

“You’re upset,” he mutters and drops his head to gather his thoughts since you want to pick on the matter.

“Of course I’m upset,” you rebutt bitterly and snap around swiftly to face him. “You waltz in like you own the damn place and try to take it from under me, Cregan. Do I mean nothing? Do those deep insecurities I trusted you with not matter, huh? Because you tried to undermine me. You.” You hiss and hit his chest with the heel of your palm. “Out of everyone,” you then mutter softly as your disbelief overpowers your rage. “Why you?”

Cregan slowly faces you with his eyes caught in a storm and his eyebrows furrowed, letting go of any warmth he also walked over here with.

“Because there was injustice done in the Red Keep,” he remarks. “And I’m not talking about you burning part of the city, but the poisoning of the King.”

“The king?” You scoff and look at him like he’s spewing madness. “The King was broken. He was a usurper, an abuser, and a sick man—”

“Perhaps but he was still the King and your husband and you went behind his back and—”

“And what planned a coup?” You cut him off just like he cut you off. “Those are fair. That’s no injustice unless your loyalties were never with my mother.”

Cregan’s eyebrows pinch deeper as your words hit his ears. “You know that’s not true,” he defends himself and flashes you a second of disbelief in his grey eyes. “I am loyal to your mother, but I also know when an injustice has been done and so should you. Love or not poisoning a king rather than facing him is a treason that you should punish.”

You scoff and step back, letting him bury his eyes deep into your gaze and see what he failed to capture before. Your own part in the entire ordeal.

You don’t need him to throw you any accusations. You see him start to question if it was truly you or not with the way his eyebrows unfold and his eyes widen just slightly because you can read him too.

“Would he have not deserved it?” You ask without admitting to any of his suspicions that are growing behind his eyes. “Besides what was known about him, he also carried the crime of killing my mother. Right in front of me,” you say as you take your step forward once again so your heartache can be as clear as day.

“He killed his own sister. No amount of crying or begging stopped him,” you continue as your voice gets shaky and your eyebrows knit together while your eyes start to fill with tears. “He killed her. I saw her get eaten until there was nothing left of her. I screamed, I tried to run over and save her because I can withstand fire, but when it came down to that moment in time, all I could do was watch her burn to death, and then get eaten until there was nothing left of her but a single limb. A limb that I have not gotten back yet to burn by the way,” you add grimly.

Cregan watches you with pity, but it doesn’t change his mind. His duty still comes before his pity for you.

Thus you continue to try and sway his stubborn mind. “So tell me now Cregan if he did not deserve what he got? Would you not want him dead if you still heard your mother’s screams?” You ask in the same haunting way that you spoke in before, bringing a chill to the back of his neck as well as bringing a deafening silence.

“Because I hear her screams every day. I hear her cry out for help, but the thing is that she never actually cried out for help. It’s a figment of my traumatized mind,” you can’t help but cry. “And because my mind is so messed up I see her too. Her burnt corpse. And not just when I sleep, but when I’m awake. In dark and enlightened corners alike. I see her die at every waking moment of my life, and every day that she dies I die with her because the truth is that whatever was left of me died that morning with her. Every bit of who I used to be. My soul and my heart. So tell me if Aegon would have not deserved his tragic end? Tell me, Cregan!” You press him sharply.

Said man swallows thickly and keeps his eyes on you as he sighs and lowers his head. “He deserved to die, but not that way,” he keeps arguing, making you scoff in disappointment.

“Ask me then,” you spat and sniffle as you slowly raise your chin and point your nose in the air as you await his accusation.

“Was it you?” He asks and hides his own hurt over having to ask you.

You sigh deeply and look him in the eyes to lie. “No, but if you wish to interrogate me, do it. If you wish to question everyone in the Red Keep, do it. Do what you need to do, Lord Stark. Kill me if you have to, I have nothing left to lose anyway. It seems I lost everything I loved anyway.”

His lips part as a breath escapes him, while you steal one last glance at him before you turn away with tears crawling down your face and walk away.

“Wait,” he calls out, but you ignore him and keep walking as you keep crying quietly.

A/N- Cregan baby…

Tagged- @namelesslosers @stargaryenx @chainsawsangel @lauftivy @winxschester @cloudroomblog @llarue @padsdarlg @sofietargaryen @gracielikegrapes @dreaming-of-the-reality @itzelpeyton @patdsinner33 @mrsdominickstark @elaena-aerrin @todoroki-slut @snh96 @urmomsgirlfriend1 @nifujiswhore @sweethoneyblossom1 @kaetastic @lightdragonrayne @squidscottjeans @oh-you-mean-me @wallacewillow0773638 @icefrye19 @thescottpack @fiction-fanfic-reader @crazymusicgirl104 @r-3dlips @strangersunghoon @just-pure-trash @ethereal-athalia @missyviolet123 @callsignwidow @xunquish-blog @tabathastan @weepingfashionwritingplaid @answer-the-sirens @silverlightsaber @rosey1981 @amortentiaaaa

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dixie-elocin · 2 days ago

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🥵🥵🥵

Paring: Aegon II Targaryen x reader x Aemond Targaryen, Aegon II Targaryen x Aemond Targaryen

Synopsis: follows from this fic. The summer is ending and so should your secret relationship with Aegon and Aemond, right? Yet again the brothers manage to surprise you yet again.

Warnings: Targaryen incest (Aegon and Aemond have an established relationship), kissing, handjob, overstimulation, orgasm denial, scratching, biting, titty sucking, fighting, anal (M receiving), p in v sex, brothers bickering, creampie, a bit of chocking if you squint, cock and balls slapping, a bit of post orgasm torture, smoking, fingering (F receiving), talk of double V penetration, talk of pegging, talk of anal (F receiving), talk of titty fucking.

A/N: reader is AFAB but not described. Where needed they/them pronouns used

Baela and Rhaena have you cornered, using the excuse of a day trip to a small bay no one else wanted to visit, because nobody wants to ride a bike for two hours in the stifling heath, but you and your best friends.

They orchestrate their attack, waiting patiently for you to lay under the shadows of a big tree, sunglasses on and ready to have a nap.

“What’s going on between you three?”

Of course Baela asks directly, causing you to sit up and push your glasses over your head. You try to fake a calm you don’t feel; you and the Targaryen brothers haven’t been as covert as you three believed, if your friends are sniffing something.

“What’s going on between whom?” “You, Aegon and Aemond. You’re always spending time together, more than you do with us.” Rhaena says.

You take a big breath and try to sit more comfortably: you hate to lie to your friends, but you’re not ready to discuss whatever is happening in your sex life.

“Girls, we’re the only ones who don’t have a partner here, it’s only natural that we gravitate towards one another.” You raise your hands before either of the two can interject. “I’m not saying you’re ignoring me, or anything, only that I understand that you both need that kind of space, before uni starts again and you will not have as much time to spend with your lovers.”

“You’re far too exceptional to spend time with those two losers.” Baela snorts. “Like Aegon! What do you have in common with him?”

“He’s far more insightful than what you give him credit for. And we talk stupid nonsense, which is refreshing for my brain.”

The memory of your last ‘nonsense talk’ with Aegon resurfaces in your mind.

You were in your room in Dragonstone, sat in front of the big vanity table, desperate to salvage both the damage caused to your hair by the sea salt, despite your diligent routine, and the inflamed skin, due to the mosquitoes and the love bites the Targaryen brothers left constantly on you.

You were so engrossed with the bottle in your hand, a new product Aemond had loaned you, that you didn’t hear the secret passage door open behind you, nor you did saw Aegon’s sun burnt face emerge from the shadows.

“What are you doing?”

It was an instinctual response to turn around and throw the bottle in the general direction of the voice, screaming like a vengeful ghost; you realized a fraction too late it was Aegon, who had managed to avoid your projectile, and was now looking at you with accusatory eyes, making you feel like you had stepped on a puppy’s tail.

“Are you out of your mind? Scaring me like this?”

You were still running on the adrenaline spike and were panting.

“I always use this passage! Are you out of your mind?” “You always texted me to tell me first!” “I did! When you didn’t respond I decided to pop by anyway!”

You glanced at your phone, noticing only now the red dot of the unread message; you were probably showering when he sent that.

“I could have been here with Baela and Rhaena. I could have been with Aemond.” You answered, your voice taking a sultry tone when the younger Targaryen gets nominated.

You noticed the shift in his posture: he was not the kicked puppy any longer, he stood proud and was eyeing you shamelessly.

“The twins are with their stupid lovers, and if Aemond were here, he wouldn’t mind me joining in midway.”

You stood up, clad only in your bathrobe, the soft cotton teasing the heavenly sight of your naked breast, and sauntered towards Aegon, who was staring at the skin emerging as the knot loosened.

“You scared me Aegon. How do you plan to gain my forgiveness?”

You didn’t plaster your body against his, you made sure that only a sliver of space remained between the two of you.

“How do you want me to?” He groaned, his erection at full mast against the cotton of his trunks.

Your index finger traveled down his chest, slowly, teasingly, as you pretended to ponder his request.

“Get on the bed. Be ready to put that big mouth of yours in good use.”

You have to hastily focus back on the conversation when Rhaena asks you what you find so interesting in Aemond, of all the people.

“We discuss poetry. And literature. We have long talks about the genres and authors we prefer.”

Your brain supplies you with your last, lengthy ‘conversation’ with him.

After the first tryst, you and the boys had agreed on a signal only you three, would be able to understand, to meet up: it was the book emoji, the one that was now blinking at you from the text message Aemond had sent you.

You were chatting with Helaena and Jace, sitting under the lovely arbor at the back of the sprawling mansion; you had to come up with an excuse to leave them, but you took your time, least Aemond started to believe you were at his beck and call.

You walked calmly to Aemond’s room, careful to use the longer route in fear of meeting one member of the family, or another.

He was annoyed that you had kept him waiting, you could see in the way his eyebrow was raised and in the smirk on his lips.

He was sitting on the huge wooden chair that resembled a throne, the one that stood right in front of the door, wearing a long red coat, only the button on his tummy fastened, his erection proud against the ivory of his skin.

“It could have been someone else.” You said, already mesmerized by his beauty. “Their problem.” He shrugged. “Take your clothes off and come here.”

Slowly, too slowly for someone only wearing a short dress, you started to take your clothes off, teasing your bare skin to his hungry eye.

He ordered you to crawl towards him, and you were on your knees in seconds, moving slowly, with your naked arse up in the air, until you were face to face with his engorged member and his long fingers found home in your locks.

“Are you sure everything is all right?”

Baela’s hand finds yours, holding it in a tight vise.

“Absolutely. It’s all in good fun. We chat and have a laugh. I promise you both nothing weird is happening.”

It’s not a lie, not when you don’t find fucking a couple of incestuous brothers to be strange.

You sigh in happiness when the cold walls of your room welcome you, after the long trek back to the enormous mansion.

The first thing you do is to take a long shower, humming a song as the water washes away the sea salt and the sweat on your skin; only when you are sitting in front of the vanity you grab your phone, curious to see if either brother has written something in the What’s app chat you three share.

You had to be careful, when you were with your friends, in case some inappropriate message were to pop up on your screen; usually it is Aegon who sends racy pics, as if he can’t fuck you, or Aemond, whenever he wants. He probably has a heightened libido, you think: whatever the reason, the video he sent of himself masturbating and moaning like a whore will star in many of your ‘self care sessions’, once this strange holiday is over.

Weirdly enough, both brothers have been quiet, which makes bells ring in your head: the chronology of the chat is full of them bickering, what’s different today?

With an unknown weight in your stomach you get ready fast and use the secret passage to Aemond’s room to check on them.

When you open the hidden door, you don’t expect to see Aemond on his knees, being fucked mindlessly by Aegon, who has one hand around his long throat, and the other clawing at his slender hips; against Aemond’s chest, his medallion slams in tandem with Aegon’s punishing rhythm.

It’s not the coupling that’s taking your words away, it’s the energy, the desperation, almost, that’s fueling Aegon’s pushes, his bared teeth and the red streaks left by his fingernails on Aemond’s white skin.

The whole room is saturated with the smell of sweat and sex, Aemond’s choked moans reverberate against the stone walls as his cock slaps painfully upwards with every brutal thrust: you’re wet, immediately, your nipples push against the cotton of your bra. It’s only the desperate hold you have on the door that keeps you upwards and stops you from joining the two brothers: as deranged as it is, you feel like you’ve stumbled upon something you shouldn’t have, the tail end of a discussion you weren’t privy of and, for this reason, you have no right to join, even through you want to with all your heart.

“Don’t stand, ah! There!” Aegon moans. “Come here! Fuck Aemond you’re so tight!”

As if in a dream, you remove your clothes and close the door behind you; your panties are soaked already and your honey slides down your legs with every careful step you take towards Aemond’s huge bed.

The younger Targaryen squirms and keens in his brother’s unforgiving hold, his mouth hangs open, saliva drips down his chin and on his dark sheets, mixing with the precome raining there: he’s the model of debauchery, with his pale skin covered in hickeys and his cock so engorged he’s ready to come.

“You started without me.”

You groan, kissing Aemond’s sternum, your hand jacking his erection slowly as he shakes and cries in overstimulation.

“He’s not allowed.” Aegon slaps Aemond’s arse. “I’m not done, yet.”

You smile, cruelly at the way Aemond looks at you, scared and desperate to lose control too soon, your hand pure torture against his red cock.

“He wouldn’t mind be your flashlight, wouldn’t you Aemond? Let your big brother use your body to get himself off.”

Aemond’s body vibrates against yours, his head falls forward in abandon when Aegon grants you permission to to as you wish with him: it’s not that common for Aemond to submit, when he does he’s pure perfection.

“I want you to come all over my tummy, Aemond. I want you you to paint my skin with your come. Will you be good for me?”

You jack him faster now, one hand tight around his erection, the other crushing and pulling at his heavy balls.

He squirms in the double hold, all he can feel are the cock defiling his hole, and your hands torturing him into his end; his come splatters against your overheated skin, the pleasure turning into pain when you don’t stop touching him, you simply slow down, deaf to his desperate cries.

Blindly he tries to stop your hands, earning a raining of slaps on his cock and balls, the pain a whiplash up his spine that has him cry, and almost pass out.

“Don’t you dare, Aemond!” Aegon pinches one of his nipples. “You know I hate fucking you when you’re out like a light!”

Your hands are gentle, yet persistent on his cock and stones, your skin hurts against his and you grow even wetter with every painful sound escaping his thin lips.

“I want you hard again. I want you to come all over my breasts. I know you can.”

With every second, every slap of Aegon’s skin against his, his cock grows, painfully, in your hold, your spit on his cockhead makes him scream, his brother’s dick pistoning inside of him forces moans and keens against your lips.

“I’m, ah! Ah! Almost there, little brother.” Aegon aims at his prostate now. “I hope, oh Gods! You’re ready!” “He is.” Your tongue licks Aemond’s engorged erection and he almost passes out. “Make him come, Aegon.”

Your words are all he needs, he explodes against your breasts, his come copious on your flushed skin, his arse a vise Aegon can’t escape, he follows him with a last, brutal push and a long groan of pleasure: he loves emptying his balls in Aemond’s arse.

Both brothers fall on the bed, Aemond sprawled on the ruined sheets, too lost to be capable of doing anything with his long limbs, Aegon next to him, barely coherent to remove the condom from his deflated cock and grab a smoke.

You have to curl against Aemond’s unresponsive body to light yours, the brothers having left you next to none space to lie down.

Silently you three smoke, you sharing your cigarette with Aemond, who is barely breathing the smoke in, Aegon is sat with his back against the wooden end of the bed frame; the quiet is companionable, yet you feel there’s something the brothers are not telling you, and that prompted the brutal fuck you witnessed.

“What happened?”

Someone has to rip the band aid, might as well be you.

“You didn’t come.”

Aemond’s voice is dreamy, he’s still floating in cotton and endorphins to be of any use. Gently, you offer him your nipple to nurse him back into himself, he latches on your skin, moaning when he tastes your sweat and his own come.

“I want to suck on your boobies too!” “If you tell me what happened I might feel generous and let you do that.” “That’s blackmail!”

You laugh at Aegon’s scandalized tone and hold Aemond tighter against your body, murmuring nonsense against the crown of his head.

“What a terrible thing to say! I’d like to call it a persuasive way to reach my goal.”

Aegon sulks, looking at his brother, and you, like a kicked puppy; he’s almost ready to cry in frustration when you exaggerate a moan, after one harsh suck from Aemond.

“What happened? I know something did, I can feel it.”

Aegon hides his frustration behind another cigarette, his face is still a mask of unhappiness at being left out.

“There’s been a discussion.” He starts. “I would call it a disagreement.” Aemond interjects.

He looks more like himself, that light mask of secrecy he always wears is back to hide his feelings; no matter the depraved things you two have been doing to one another, and to Aegon, you feel there’s a part of Aemond you can’t reach, not due to any fault of your own, but because that’s who he is, how he functions.

“It wasn’t a disagreement, and we both know it.” Aegon kills his cigarette in the ashtray with a nervous push that almost tumbles it on the floor.

You don’t know that they had come to blows, in the secret sanctum that’s Aemond’s room. You don’t know how Aegon had pushed Aemond against the wall, knocking his head against the stone while screaming to him to tell the truth about his feelings, for once in his life!

“Will you two please stop discussing semantics and tell me what happened?”

You have pushed yourself back to the headboard, so that you could look at the two of them from the angle of the mattress, your legs curled against our chest, hiding your naked front to them; for the first time you don’t feel comfortable with your skin bared.

The brothers share a long look, a silent dialogue passes through them, making you wonder whether they’re going to explain to you what has happened while you were gone, or if those last few weeks before the start of uni will be shadowed by this mystery.

“We were discussing, ow!” Aemond slaps Aegon’s tight when his older brother kicks him. “As I was saying, we were talking about the future. We thought there was a disagreement, we were wrong.”

He doesn’t look like he’s going to spill any more information, which spikes your curiosity immensely: what does he mean with ‘discussing the future’?

“Tell it the way it is!” Aegon snaps. “That we were fighting over us three, because you’re too constipated to express a single feeling!”

You’re stunned into silence: you three? Feelings? You were supposed to be fuck buddies until the end of the summer, nothing more. What has changed?

Aemond doesn’t look like he wants to be in the room, he wants to crawl away until he can safely re-emerge from his hiding spot, after his brother has thoroughly mad an ass of the two of them, because what Aegon wants to propose, you’ll never accept.

That’s what he had tried to explain to his older brother, before blows started to fly; the matter is not Aemond’s incapability to express his feelings, but the fact that Aegon’s idea is too mad to work.

Silence falls again, uncomfortable and full of unsaid words; Aemond’s room is build too deeply into the guts of the mansion, to let the sounds of the outside world sneak in, there’s only the rustling of the bedding and the click of a lighter being used.

“We usually fuck ‘em and forget ‘em.” Aegon blurts. “Good for you?” “You’re such an idiot brother!”

Aemond snaps, turning on his belly before kneeling on the mattress, wary of his sore arse.

“Then explain it yourself, Mr. Perfection!”

Aemond says something under his breath, too low for you to understand.

“We’ve always been together.” He starts, his eye focusing somewhere over your naked shoulder. “Sometimes we had someone jointing in, for a night of different fun. This is how it had always been, and how we envision it to be right from the beginning.” “Someone like me.”

It stings to say it, even though you have never expected anything from them.

“That’s the problem, you aren’t like those anonymous lays.”

Aemond’s eye now focuses on yours, sharp it takes in all your expressions.

“That first afternoon was supposed to be a once only. We were to have our fun and go on.” He continues. “We couldn’t.”

You’re still feeling lost, and a bit hurt by his words.

“You passed out.”

Now it’s Aegon’s turn to stare at you, there’s an insecurity in the way his whole face looks that you want to take his hand in yours to tell him that it’s all right, everything is fine.

“You were out like a light, on the bed.” Aegon says, proud. “And we knew we didn’t have enough of you, we needed more. It was a strange feeling, but the more we fucked, the hungrier we were.” “You have to understand that we never thought it could have happen. Even when one of us dated someone, it never worked out because we needed one another more. You were a curve ball, you were the unexpected, smart and pretty.”

“And so good in bed.” Aegon interjects. “You’re the perfect package deal. And my brother had his panties in a bunch when I proposed to open up the relationship to you.”

You don’t know what to say, there’s so much to unpack and you don’t know where to start.

“As in being fuck buddies?” You finally ask.

Both they faces fall: what did you say wrong?

“I told you they would never accept!” Aemond snaps at his brother. “I never said that!” “You had to be an asshole about it!” Aegon tries to kick Aemond. “Boys! Boys! Boys!”

You have to put yourself between them, physically keeping them from starting another fight.

“I don’t understand what you wanted to ask me.” “We want you to be with us! As in partner!” “Don’t snarl at me Aemond! How do you expect me to infer that, when you two never talked about any feelings you might have?” “That means you’d do it?” Aegon quips from your side.

You pinch the bridge of your nose and close your eyes, trying to sort out the words you want to say.

“I have never expected this.” You start, cautious. “I have operated with the goal of keeping my heart safe, making sure I would not leave Dragonstone hurt. I never let myself imagine anything more than what we have been doing, I didn’t want to think about the future and my normal life back home. You two have to understand this when I tell you that I am willing to try, but that I can’t give you two an answer as to where my feelings are, because I have been keeping everything under lock and key, for my safety.”

You haven’t been looking at them, focusing your eyes on the stained sheets; you jump when Aemond’s warm hand gently cups your cheek to look into your eyes.

“You’d try, though.”

His voice is low and soft, what surprises you the most is the openness you see on his face: he’s never been like this with you, he’s never given you such a deep insight into himself.

“Slowly and gently I’m willing.” “So that means you’re not moving in with us?”

You shot Aegon a dirty look.

“You will need more than a handful of nice orgasms to have me sort out your dirty laundry, you dumbass.”

You find yourself flattened on the bed, both brothers having hugged you at the same time, taking you by surprise, in a heap of laughter and limbs.

“Here.” Surprisingly Aegon is the first to sober up. “Wear this.”

With gentle hands he removes his signet ring to push it on your thumb, Aemond is right behind him, taking off his chain and medallion to help it around your neck.

You observe the jewelry now adorning your body, savoring how right it feels against your skin, despite the fear and the uncertainty for the future.

“I can’t parade around wearing those. It’s too early.” “Then do it when you’re with us.” Aemond’s eye burns with heath now that his sigil is on your body. “You don’t need anything else behind closed doors.” “It would be nice to return home to your naked on our sofa.” Aegon says with dreamy eyes. “All on display.” “I’m not and I will never be your kept toy, Aegon.” “My brother doesn’t mean it like that” “I do!” “My brother is an idiot.” “I’m not! We can provide for you!” “What he means to say is that it would be nice to come back home to you, after you’re done with your coursework for the day, obviously.” “No! No! I would never leave home if there’s a set of knockers like this available!”

Aemond huffs and lays on his back, facepalming at his brother’s stupidity.

“I’m trying to sell us as a good bargain, Aegon. Shut up!” “No, you’re being boring. Our apartment is closer to the campus. Loads of space and a maid who takes care of everything. It’s the perfect deal!” “Aegon.” You say, patiently, turning your head to face him. “As tempting as your life is, I need us to take this slowly, see if there’s an actual future when our normal lives get in the way. The twins are already suspicious and I want to look into my friends’ eyes and tell them that, however unconventional our relationship is, it’s healthy and I am happy.” “You’re already calling us ‘a relationship’. I need the number of a moving company, immediately!”

Defeated you facepalm, mostly to hide your smile at Aegon’s antics.

“Aemond. Are you sure you and Aegon need to be a package deal? We can elope on an Essos freighter and be none the wiser!”

With a wince, Aemond turns to hide his face against the curve of your neck; he’s laughing and kissing your sweaty skin.

“We, unfortunately for you, are a package deal. You’re lucky you’re not going to have to listen to his idiocy for the whole day. He only happens to say something smart when he’s chocking on my cock.” “Don’t forget when I am being smothered by our beloved’s pussy!” “I’m serious, though. We haven’t been as thoughtful as we hoped to be. I am not sure for how long anyone is going to believe the hickeys are mosquito bites that I have scratched.” “Hmm, that sounds serious.”

There’s a light in Aemond’s eye, one that burns when he catches sight, again, of the pendant now resting between your breasts.

“You’re in luck we’re almost due back to King’s Landing.” Aegon adds, a wolfish expression now adorning his beautiful face. “No more pesky mosquitoes; I can’t wait to see you go to your classes still dripping with our seeds.”

You shiver at the idea of parading around campus wet and marked by their scents.

“You wish I’ll let you do that.” You moan in response. “Baby, I can be very convincing, trust me.”

Aegon’s face is so close to yours that kissing him is instinctual, so is moaning when Aemond’s curious fingers slip in your wet cunt and Aegon cups your left breasts with his free hand.

“I bet you can’t take four of my fingers, and four of Aegon’s in your pussy.” Aemond growls against your lips, when you turn towards him, hungry for his taste as well. “Would you like to check if I can take both of your monster cocks in me? Would you two like to fuck me like that?”

Aemond groans against your lips: who would have thought you’d have such a kinky brain? To be nestled in you, alongside his brother, would be heaven.

“Let’s see how many fingers you can take, issa dōna, my sweet.”

You arch as their fingers start caressing and teasing your hole, you moan breathless already when your cunt sucks their fingers in and squelches with your honey: you love letting go when you’re with them both, be more submissive, positive as you are that they’ll never let you fall, the knowledge makes the pleasure travel faster through your body and melt your brain. You want to be their plaything if that means they’ll make you come repeatedly and then cuddle you back into yourself; no one else has ever made you feel like this, no one has conquered your trusts as the brothers did.

They both kiss you, fast and hard, hungry as if they haven’t had a taste of you in months, instead of hours, sneaking their tongues in, licking the drool already seeping from your parted lips and the tiny drops of perspiration that roll down your neck: you’re burning up already for them!

“I wanna suck your cocks.” You beg, drunk on pleasure. “Please! I love sucking you off!”

Beside you Aegon moans, so close to orgasm already he can feel the precome leak from his cock head: your mouth! He must have done something good with his life, if he gets to use it!

“If you’re good, after dinner, you’ll be on your knees for us.” Aemond murmurs darkly in your ear. “Make a mess of me?” “Only if you remain in bed with us for the whole night, covered in our come.” “Yes, Aemond! Yes!” “You’re leaking all over our fingers.” Aegon groans. “Taking us so well.”

You’re so wet and loose already you barely feel the sting when he slips his pinkie in your stretched hole, you simply arch, hungry for their cocks.

“Come and ride me.” Aemond orders.

You can’t answer, you can’t move, not when both brothers are still finger fucking your cunt open, praising how welcoming and wet you are, how good you must taste after both their comes will paint your walls.

You squirm and wail, needing to come and to be filled, plugged closed until you pass out, drunk on pleasure.

You let out an unhappy sound when Aemond’s fingers leave your hole, covered in your honey, strings of it hanging from between his fingers when he spreads them.

“All the lube I need.” He growls.

He lays on the bed, legs spread, hand lazily jacking his erect cock; his lonely eye focused on his brother’s fingers still making your hole gape.

“Ah! Ah! Aemond… ah!” You cry out. “Ah! You’re… oh God! Sore!”

Aemond smiles, devilishly.

“I can take that when the prospect is watching you fucking yourself on me, your breast jiggling and framing my pendant. Come here.”

You whine, unhappy and desperate when Aegon’s fingers leave your hole: you were so close!

The older Targaryen brother kisses you, his weight and warmth ground you back into yourself, helping you calming the flames of lust burning inside your chest.

He’s patient when he has to help you turn on your fours and crawl to his brother; with his hands on the round globes of your arse he lifts your hips as you grab Aemond’s erection to position him for the taking.

You three moan in unison when Aemond breaches you, you’re so warm around him, he’s so hard, kissing your walls until he’s fully seated inside of you.

You try to move fast now that you’re full of him, but Aegon’s hands on your hips force you to slowly fuck yourself, his own hard cock nestled between the globes of your arse.

“You want to fuck, oh! Ah! My arse so bad it makes you look stupid!” You moan.

Behind you Aegon whines, his hands cupping your breasts as his brother takes control with his palms on your hips.

“Only if you fuck mine.”

You clamp around Aemond at the thought, forcing him to move your body faster, mesmerized by the pendant bouncing against your breasts. It’s a dream to see you like this, marked as his, lost to the pleasure he’s giving you.

“Can’t wait to fuck your tits tonight!” Aegon groans. “Ah! Yes!”

You’re starting to lose control, your mind flying already as pleasure mounts and mounts.

“Aegon loves having his arsed fucked. He’s so responsive when he’s full and knows he’ll feel you for days!”

Aemond’s words do you: you clamp around him, coming with a shrill scream of surprise, taking him with you, his come leaking from your pussy when he slips out, sated.

You’re so sweaty, sandwiched between brothers, loopy you kiss Aemond’s skin, following the drops of perspiration on his chest: it feels so good to be with them both, so right to feel Aemond relax under you, while Aegon kisses your neck playfully.

“Do you think you’re ready?” He asks.

He’s so hard it hurts to move, to think, to breathe, he wants your warmth, your cunt so perfect and velvety, needs to fill you with his seed, only to see it drip out of your overused hole.

“Yeah.” You try to lift your hips. “Do you want me like this?”

Aegon hugs you tight, his face hiding for precious seconds in the curve of your neck, where he can smell the tantalizing perfume of your skin.

“Let me help you.”

He’s so wired up he can barely turn you on your back, sliding your tired body off Aemond and on the mattress; not coming when your legs spread to show your cunt is a feat he can barely manage, your cute, hungry hole and puffy clit waiting for him to play with them!

He crawls to you when you lift your arms as if to invite him, his hands tremble on your skin, and on his cock, he feels drunk when your warm muscles envelope his erection, with every inch he feels control slipping from his fingers, he’s delirious when he bottoms out and your legs curl around his hips.

He cages you under his body, the need to see you experience the pleasure he’s giving you becomes more important than his own end: how you scrunch your face at his slow rhythm, feeling him in every crevice of your body, the ‘O’ of your mouth when you beg and moan, the tears and perspiration on your face as he moves.

Your lips biting his ring on your finger break his concentration; his rhythm falters and becomes faster, a slight tilt of his hips and he’s fucking your G spot dead on, howling at the pleasure and desperate for you to follow him.

“Close! Close!” You scream.

Your hips jump when his thumb finds your clit, fast and precise motions that have you tighten and scream, burning and burning, body twisting under his, clenching and screaming, Aegon’s teeth bared as if he’s in pain, his orgasm like white light that blinds him.

When he falls against you, you don’t care that you can barely breathe, you’re happy that this strange connection you three have is not finishing, that you will have the chance to be with them time and time again.

You’re not sure for how long you three lay on the bed, cuddling and dozing off as the day slowly dies outside.

When Baela texts you to ask if you’re ready for dinner, you smile and send a quick voice memo.

“Sis, I am knackered. I just need to sleep the long ride off. I’m going to bed now, the shower must have killed all my energy! See you all tomorrow!”

Beside you Aegon cackles and Aemond pulls you closer to his big body.

“I was thinking: why wait for after dinner, when you two can start making a mess of me right now?” “You’re so smart.” A full smile graces Aemond’s lips, cute dimples appearing on his cheeks. “A genius, really.” “Don’t start without me!” Aegon warns you two. “I’m going to ask the staff to bring the food here. We’re going to be famished!”

No one will truly notice, meals at Dragonstone during the summer aren’t a family affair, people are free to eat wherever they want, or to go to the closest town for a night out: Aegon asking to have food bought to Aemond’s room is the norm.

“We need Champaign.” He tells you and Aemond. “What for?” “Celebrate this new phase in our lives.” Aemond answers your question. “And to pour on your titties! If only we had pearls you could wear!” “Don’t start again with your ‘80s soft porn fantasies, brother!” “First of all, they’re full fledged porn! Second…”

You decide to zoom out until they’re done with their bickering and food is here: you’ll need to hone this skill, a lot, if you’re going to date them both. Luckily you still have time and, hopefully, the rest of your lives to become a master at that!

#aegond x y/n #aemond targaryen x y/n x aegon ii targaryen

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entitled-fangirl · 17 hours ago

Text

Rumors and the bastards of one Aegon Targaryen II.

Aegon Targaryen II x wife!reader

Summary: Aegon spent his time on the Silk Streets; rumors always spread. When Aemond encourages the truth of one, Aegon's wife is mortified.

Warnings: brothels, alcohol, being drunk, rumors, miscommunication

A/n: I am an Aegon hater BUT listen listen listen- I hated the fighting pit allegations with his "bastard children" that the twins talk about in the show. Do I think he had bastards? YES. Do I think he did all that? NAH. Also- this was supposed to be based on an ask but I may write another one with that ask cause I don't think I did that part justice

Masterlist

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His wife was not a useless woman who spent her time doing deemed "meaningless" tasks like embroidery. She was well studied, and well spoken. She was not pushy. Alicent would never have let a woman control her son like that. But she found easy ways to state her thoughts while still being considerate to her husband.

A woman like that felt like one of a kind.

Aegon knew that in his mind. Somewhere deep down.

But he didn't change his habits when she came around. He still spent some of his nights in the streets of King's Landing, causing trouble and problems everywhere he went.

Everyone knew of Aegon's "night adventures," though none talked of it. It was not something you bring up during a council meeting or spoke of in the corridors.

…

After a particularly long night out, Aegon rolled over in his bed, covering his eyes as he cringed at the sunlight streaming throughout his room.

This is why he didn't want to be king. Duty awaited him.

He was reminded that with the insistent knock on his door and his servant reminding him of the council meeting only minutes away.

He yawned, groaned with a stretch, and stood to slowly dress himself.

He could take his time, after all. No meeting started without the king.

…

Now a little more conscious, he entered the council room with a creak of the large doors. It earned the attention of everyone at the table.

Criston sat at the King's right side. The queen dowager was next to him and Aegon's wife after that. Aemond at the end. The table went round with others as well, but none were as connected in the king's life as those four.

Y/n had always gotten along with Aemond. When Aegon was off sullying the Targaryen name, she spent time with Aemond in the castle's large solar, studying quietly alongside him. Different topics, but the shared silence was comforting.

And Aemond almost felt a guilt when he looked at her. Especially today when her husband entered the council meeting late with a staggered step and a clear look that said 'I did things I shouldn't have last night.'

The council was quiet at first, the awkwardness eating any things they had to talk about.

But once the talk of war started, the two brothers began to argue and the council meeting had truly begun.

The queen stayed quiet, her eyes set on the table, her fingers fidgeting absentmindedly with her stone and its place at the table.

Aegon never really had his arse in his seat. He loved to pace. When the arguing grew to anger, he set his anger on anything that annoyed him, prompting him to once point out his wife's fidgeting. Her cheeks turned red and she forced her hands away from the table.

But soon Aemond stood as well, eager to point out his plan in their map. As he did so, he took the long path around, passing by his brother's wife. In his hand was his own stone, which he set on the table in front of her without even looking her way or slowing his pace.

It rolled towards the edge of the table and she caught it, silently thanking his support.

He felt like he owed it to her for what he had done yesterday.

…

"I'll never understand," Aemond muttered, breaking the prolonged silence of their studying.

Her eyes never moved from her page. "Understand what?"

He rolled up the scroll he had focused on and set it aside. "Him. Being so irresponsible."

Their eyes met, and neither had to question who he was speaking of.

"He did not want this," was her soft reply.

"Neither did you. And still you defend him. You did not wish for a man who spends his time with ale and women rather than home and duty."

Her eyes softened as his words hurt her. "I am Queen of the Realm. Me. Anyone would kill for my seat. One woman of the millions here."

"That means nothing." His eye pierced hers deeply. The gaze of Aemond Targaryen, though only half the gaze of a normal person, was double in the way it would see right through you. It made even tough men flinch. He leans over his papers. "He should be here, spending his time with his wife so she may do her duties."

"H- He does," she tries to defend. "Sometimes."

"Right before he passes out from all he's drank." There's no defense for that. He was right. "My queen, it's not that he can't make heirs with you. He just doesn't with you."

"What?"

His eye darkens. "How do you fancy an adventure down the Silk Streets of King's Landing?"

…

The meeting was over with the wave of Aegon's hand, thank the gods, and they all stood to leave.

"Except you, brother. You'll stay."

Y/n takes her time leaving, seeing both brothers' eyes roam over her for a moment before she left them to talk.

…

She sat by the fire. Since she had lived here, the servants had all begged her to sit in chairs or sofas near the fire rather than on the hard floor directly in front of it, but none held the same feeling that she desired.

She always had a cloak or fur of some sort on the floor, a small nest of sorts always awaiting for her to come back to the flames.

She had asked for a needle and thread, struggling to embroider on one of her skirts as she tried to relieve stress. But she'd never really done so before and it looked messy and her hands were too gruff with it.

Aegon entered after a few minutes. He didn't knock. He never did.

His eyes took in the room slowly until they settled on her. He tilted his head and stepped further into the room until he could feel the heat of the fire. "Aemond doesn't know what he speaks of."

"Aemond only told me the truth. I don't see why you have to lie."

He shifts his weight. "I-I told him to stop meddling in your affairs. He's far too close."

She turns her head but doesn't look over her shoulder. "He's been kinder than… most."

That hurt Aegon more than he wanted to admit. "What did he show you? What did you see?"

She begins to sew faster, as if it's a quick sport. "Does it matter? You're the king. Your affairs are none of my bu-"

"-I want you to speak to me," he said with a desperate tone. "How can I keep a kingdom together if I cannot even communicate with my wife?"

"How many?"

His head tilted again in confusion. "How many what?"

She turned her body this time, pausing her efforts on the fabric to look at him. "How many of your bastards run around King's Landing?"

Silence.

This was not a comforting silence like the solar with Aemond.

This was a silence that suffocated you.

Aegon tore his gaze from her face in embarrassment to look down at his shoes. Like they needed his attention over the woman in front of him.

She tried again. "How many, Aegon?" Her voice quivered with his name and it send sharp spikes down his spine.

When he dared to look back up at her, he saw unshed tears pooling in her eyes.

"I-" he stopped himself. What answer did she want? What answer did he even want? "I don't see how that's relevant."

His deflection forced a sob out of her. It was light and painful, a slow withering of her from the inside out.

Aegon deemed himself useless when it came to tears.

His jaw went slack for a moment, his eyes just watching in slow motion as his stomach jolted. He blinked and shift his weight again. "I…. I d- stop doing that."

It was a ridiculous ask. They both knew that. But she turned away from him as if keeping it from his sight was enough.

He watched her shoulders shake with each weep as her fingers tried to pull the needle through the fabric. He closed the distance more, now daring to kneel at her side. He had no idea how to comfort a situation like this. "You have never liked needlepoint," he softly pointed out.

It was a long while before she answered. Sniffle. "I have never liked you either. Yet here I am with both."

That forces him back to rock on his heels. She was quick and had a sharp tongue. It was thoroughly impressive- when it wasn't painful like this.

The only sounds that echoed in the room were her sniffles and the occasional clicks and pops of the fire in front of them. And her tugging of the thread through the fabric.

Finally, he spoke.

"Two."

Her fingers paused. "What?"

"I've fathered two bastards."

Her head snaps back to him, but he makes no hurry to look at her. The flames dance in his eyes as he stares off.

"Only two?"

Aegon finally lulled his head to look at her. "Two."

"You sound sure."

"I am sure. I'm very sure." He reached up, wiping away a stray tear off her cheek. Once gone, he returned his hand to his lap, pulling at the skin around his nails.

"There are rumors about your bastards…a… at the fighting pit-"

"-Who told you those?" He said in annoyance.

She hesitated. "There were so many of them there. They had your hair."

"Most bastards here do. Does not make them mine." He sighed. "Do you ever think that perhaps I'm not the only Targaryen that has roamed the Silk Streets at night?"

"You're saying-"

"-I'm saying that they could be Daemon's. They could be my father's. They could be his father's, or his father after him. But they're not mine." His kind eyes set on her. "I won't be blamed for all of King Landing's problems. Only the ones I cause."

She set the needlepoint aside and rubbed her hands over her face. "I just wished…"

Aegon waited patiently for what she would say.

"I just wish you would spend more of your energy here. With me. You're forcing me to neglect my duty." She ran a hand through her hair. "I cannot take your mother's insistence again. She's relentless."

He sighed again. He loved to drink, and that usually ended with him stumbling into the brothel with the help of his friends. That was his release from this prison they all called 'duty.' But perhaps there could be silver linings in all of it.

He couldn't say no when he never gave her a decent try.

"Fine. I'll… hold back on the drinking. And the… the late nights. If it guarantees your happiness. I want to make you happy." It would be hard. No, it would be like torture to not drink as often, to not spent hours forgetting life and having to return to it with a headache a few hours later.

But she deserved a decent try from him.

"Thank you. And when I am with child, we can… access it all once again." She tucked a stray hand of his hair behind his ear. "Thank you. Truly," she added again.

"Of course," he smiled sheepishly. "Just promise me to never assume the trust of the rumors of King's landing. Just ask me. I've done awful things, but I'll admit them to you at least."

For once, she smiled. "That's easy enough. I never should have gone with Aemond last night."

"From now on, the streets will see little of their King and Queen," Aegon smiled back. With a hesitant stretch and groan, he stood. "I have petitions soon. Perhaps you'll wait for my return?"

She pushed herself up to stand, taking Aegon's hand when he immediately offered it. "Of course. But not here. I'll be in the solar."

His brows furrowed. "What's wrong with here?"

"If I have to pull that needle through fabric one more time, I will stab it in my eye." She said it with no emotion, and it caused a bright laugh to pull from Aegon's chest.

She was witty.

Finally, she broke into a breathy laugh and moved to collect her things for studying.

He followed her for a moment, curious to see what she had before he left.

"In the least, Aegon," she spoke over her shoulder. "Think of the money you'll save when you're away from it all. Whores and drinks are expensive, I'd wager."

His voice was low in her ear as he stood next to her. "Darling, when you're King, they all beg to buy a drink for you. I haven't bought myself a drink in almost a year."

She shivered at his proximity and she spared him a glance- almost one of offense. "Then you spend it all on women?"

He shook his head as if it was a dumb thought. It was true that he spent a lot on the streets. But now that he considered it, no one had ever really asked where it went. The crown just provided it and that was that.

"Then where-"

He put a finger over her mouth. "There are two children with no father to provide for them." He tilted his head side to side, "Perhaps their mothers find themselves with… extra money from a donor of sorts."

Her eyes widened. And just as she opened her mouth to ask more, he walked away, leaving her to her thoughts.

How wrong she had been about King Aegon Targaryen II

.......................................

#fanfiction #house of the dragon fanfiction #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones x reader #game of thrones imagine #game of thrones x y/n #game of thrones fic #house of the dragon x reader #aegon targaryen fanfic #aegon targaryen imagine #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon the second #aegon ii fanfic #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii x you #aegon ii x y/n #aegon targaryen II x reader #aegon targaryen II imagine

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br0kenangel · 4 months ago

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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐄𝐅: 𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘈𝘦𝘨𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘈𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺 𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳, 𝘢 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘦𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘩𝘦𝘳.

The nursery was a whirlwind of noise as Aegon and Aemond, stood nose-to-nose, arguing fiercely. Their baby sister sat on a blanket nearby, her wide violet eyes watching them with a mix of curiosity and confusion.

“She likes playing with me more!” Aegon insisted, his voice rising as he pointed toward their sister. “I’m the one who makes her laugh!”

“No, she likes me better!” Aemond shot back, crossing his arms defiantly. “I’m the one who reads to her!”

Their bickering continued, growing louder with each passing moment, neither of them noticing the soft patter of tiny footsteps approaching. Little Daeron toddled into the room, his big eyes full of innocence. He looked from Aegon to Aemond, then over to his sister, who was sitting quietly on her blanket, seemingly forgotten by her squabbling brothers.

Without making a sound, Daeron walked over to his sister, his steps wobbly but determined. He reached out with his small hands, and she, always delighted by her youngest brother, lifted her arms toward him. With surprising ease for his age, Daeron picked her up, wrapping his little arms around her as he balanced her on his hip.

The older boys were so engrossed in their argument that they didn’t notice as Daeron carefully carried their sister out of the nursery, her giggles muffled as she snuggled against him. He navigated the corridors with surprising confidence, eventually finding his way to the garden, where the late afternoon sun bathed the roses in a warm, golden light.

Daeron gently set his sister down between the tall rose bushes, their vibrant blooms towering over her. She giggled again, reaching out to touch the soft petals of a nearby flower. Daeron watched her for a moment, a wide smile on his face, before carefully plucking a small rose. He held it delicately in his tiny hands, just as he had seen the maids do, and then leaned in to tuck it into her hair.

“There,” he said in his sweet voice, his words still slightly lisped. “Pretty.”

His sister beamed at him, her little hands clapping in delight as she reached up to touch the flower in her hair. Daeron’s smile widened, and he began to hum a tune—one of the lullabies he had heard their mother sing. His voice was soft and uncertain, but the simple melody seemed to enchant his sister, who watched him with adoration in her eyes.

Meanwhile, back in the nursery, Aegon and Aemond’s argument had finally come to an abrupt halt when they realized their sister was nowhere to be found.

“Where is she?!” Aegon asked, his voice tinged with panic as he looked around the empty room.

Aemond’s face had gone pale, his one good eye wide with fear. “She’s gone!” he cried, the beginnings of tears forming in his eyes. “We lost her!”

The two brothers tore through the Red Keep in a frantic search, their hearts pounding in their chests. Servants were questioned, corridors were scoured, and they even checked behind the curtains in every room. But there was no sign of their sister.

Finally, they reached the garden, bursting through the door with wild, desperate energy. Aegon was ready to yell out for help, his voice rising in a cry that was sure to bring the whole Keep running, when he suddenly stopped short.

There, nestled between the rose bushes, was their baby sister, sitting comfortably in Daeron’s lap. The tiny boy was still humming his lullaby, his chubby fingers gently combing through her silver hair as she gazed up at him with adoration. And then, to the utter shock of Aegon and Aemond, she leaned forward and planted a soft kiss on Daeron’s lips, her expression filled with innocent affection.

Daeron giggled, delighted by the kiss, and wrapped his little arms around her in a tight hug. She responded by snuggling into his neck, hiding her face shyly as if to escape the world in the safety of her youngest brother’s embrace.

Aegon and Aemond stood frozen in place, their jaws dropping in unison. The jealousy that coursed through them was almost palpable, their earlier argument now seeming insignificant in the face of this new development.

“How did he—” Aegon started, his voice a mix of disbelief and frustration.

Aemond, still stunned, could only shake his head. “She kissed him,” he murmured, as if saying it aloud would make it any less unbelievable.

Daeron, completely aware of the turmoil he had caused, simply looked up at his older brothers with a straight face. “We playing,” he explained in his cold voice, as if he didn't wanted them here.

Finally, Aegon stepped forward, reaching out to take his sister from Daeron’s lap. “Come here,” he said softly, his voice gentler now as he lifted her into his arms. She looked up at him with those big, trusting eyes, and his heart melted all over again.

Aemond joined them, standing close as he reached out to stroke her hair, his earlier panic forgotten. “We were so worried about you,” he murmured, his voice filled with relief.

But their sister, still cuddled against Aegon’s chest, just giggled and reached back toward Daeron, making it clear she wanted to keep playing. Daeron, proud of his little adventure, stood up and toddled over to them, his smile as bright as the sun.

“She's mine,” he said, more sharp this time, and the two older boys couldn't help but be scared of his tone.

Part 1 ♡ Part 2

@ 𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒏𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒍 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒. 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒑𝒚, 𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒆𝒃𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒔.

1K notes · View notes

nalyniavadelletargaryen · 5 months ago

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Aegon II: Fuck…! I cut my finger

Y/N: I can kiss it so it'll get better

Aegon II: That works?

Y/N: Yes, my mother used to do it when I was little

*later*

Aegon II: I need you to punch me in the mouth

Aemond: Gladly, brother.

2K notes · View notes

anjelicawrites · 2 months ago

Text

Lanaaaaaaa!!!! What can I say????? Chef's kiss!!!!!!!

Sell Your Soul (Vampire!Aemond x Mortal!Reader x Wolf!Aegon)

Summary: The blood of Old Valyria was steeped in mysticism and magic. There was no rhyme or reason to the powers a Targaryen received. Some saw it as a curse. Others, like the brother princes, saw them as a blessing. Power beyond measure and they used it to their advantage. The mortals would send a tribute in return for protection, but what happens when both brothers covet the prize?

CW: MINORS DNI, afab reader, she/her pronouns, supernatural au, polyamory (sharing is caring), profanity, innuendo, mentions of blood/injury,, primal play, threesome (mutual participation from all parties), oral (f receiving), p in v sex, anal penetration (male receiving), multiple orgasms.

Words: 6069

No beta...let chaos ensue!

For centuries, the mortals of Westeros had paid tribute to their Valyrian rulers. Countless sent to the Red Keep to pay for the protection the silver haired immortals gave them.

There was little rhyme or reason to the supernatural abilities of a Targaryen. Some would shift their shape, some would turn into a beast on a full moon, others would eternally sate themselves on mortal blood.

Whatever they became, they were immortal.

Once every quarter, a new tribute would be sent to the Keep. It was only the two princes who now partook in the ceremony. Taking it in turns to receive a tribute every quarter.

This quarter, the turn belonged to Prince Aemond.

The One-Eyed Prince had long since mastered his thirst for mortal blood. Usually sating himself on a planned hunt or on the battlefield. But his favourite time of the year was his tribute months. Knowing he would have a subservient mortal to bend to his will?

He enjoyed nothing more.

Prince Aegon on the other hand, let the beast within control everything he was. He had succumbed to his nature so deeply that he could shift his form on a whim. A true connection between man and beast. The amber in his eyes a constant reminder of his true being.

Their father had long rescinded his claim, living out his immortality on the Targaryen’s ancestral seat of Dragonstone. The once King Viserys was joined by his eldest daughter and her family, who like Viserys, had chosen to remove themselves from royal life.

Their sister, Helaena, had returned to Oldtown with their mother. Birthing Targaryens had lengthened Alicent’s life substantially, but neither enjoyed immortality as the brothers did.

You were of a Noble House. Not as grand as the likes of the Baratheons or Lannisters or as ingrained into Westerosi history as the Starks. But your family were known well enough.

The tributes were chosen at random. Though no one knew the true details of the selection process. Only that a letter, sealed with a red dragon, would appear by raven at the door of the one chosen.

This quarter, the letter arrived at your family’s door.

The preparation for your journey to the Red Keep was intensive and felt wildly unnecessary.

The luxurious bath filled with petals and oils, permeating your skin and your senses. The gown that had been designed and made solely for the event. A silken dress of sapphire blue, golds and black. The colours not of House Targaryen, but of Prince Aemond.

You were to belong to him, to his House. Not you.

You were no longer your own person. You were to be owned. To serve Prince Aemond’s wishes, whatever they may be.

So, into the carriage you went. With a singular chest of your more precious belongings. The books you had kept since you were a child, a favoured shawl for when the night’s cooled. Your father had been assured, within the letter, that everything else would be provided for.

Your life was soon to change forever. Little did you know just how much.

The throne room was opened in preparation for the tribute’s arrival. Aemond had ensured he’d hunted the night before, keeping his thirst at bay for the new arrival.

The Iron Throne was shared between the brothers now. When Aegon chose to take his lupine form, Aemond would sit the throne. When Aemond was out hunting, usually for up to a week, Aegon would take charge.

The younger prince sat comfortably on the throne. His posture the perfect mix between relaxed and upright. Fingers tapping against the iron blades beneath his arm.

Waiting.

The heavy doors to the hall soon opened, two guards flanking a young woman. The only movement from the prince was a straighter back as he waited for the mortal tribute to be brought to him.

“Your tribute, my prince,” one of the guards urged you forward with a firm push.

You immediately dropped to a curtsy. You had heard the stories of the princes. Prince Aemond was the fiercer of the pair in his brutality and blood lust. Whereas Prince Aegon was every bit the animal, frivolous and lustful in his demeanour.

He held out his hand in silence, waiting for you to take it.

And take it you did.

His skin was like ice. Soft yet cold, a shiver running down your spine at the feeling.

“My lady,” Aemond purred, bringing your hand to his lips and pressing a soft kiss to it.

But his lips lingered, the tip of his nose now pushed into your floral scented skin. It wrinkled slightly at the scent, but he continued on whatever path he had planned. Tracing down to your wrist until he could nestle again your vein.

You felt him inhale deeply, the low grumble of satisfaction within his chest should have put you edge.

“You smell delightful.”

Aemond said the words with no more gravitas than if he was complimenting your gown or the weather. Goosebumps rose on your arms as he pressed another kiss to the veins on your wrist.

“Thank you, my prince.” Was all you could manage, your voice barely a whisper but he heard you well enough.

Delightful wasn’t a good enough word, Aemond thought.

You smelled divine.

Aegon had heard the carriage arrive, watched as the guards led you into the Keep. You were beautiful. A small growl of frustration had left him when he remembered you weren’t to be his to claim this time.

But he had followed. Slipped behind the pillars of the throne room as you entered. Amber eyes able to see better in the low light that his brother preferred.

And he watched.

Watched you walk to stand at Aemond’s feet. Watched as you curtsied before the younger prince. And watched as Aemond sated himself with your scent.

A scent he could smell from here. So sweet. The mix of floral oils and the blood that ran in your veins. You smelled more delicious than any mortal he had smelled in a long time.

And yet fate had not brought you to his feet.

But he wanted you, nonetheless. Aemond could never treat you as you should be treated. Use you as you should be used.

No. You needed a beast.

The chambers were grander than anything you had ever slept in before. You wagered they were grander than your entire family home.

Plush bedding in deep purples and blues. A heavy four poster bed in a deep mahogany, carved with what looked like dragon wings.

One wall was filled with shelves crammed full of books. Histories, poetry, romance and everything between.

The opposite side had a large vanity, perfumes and oils placed neatly on the dark wood. A door to the side showed you a balcony, though the prince made you promise to keep the heavy drapes closed if he entered the room.

Aemond leaned against the door frame, watching you inspect every inch of the chamber with fascination. He couldn’t count how many mortals had taken to this chamber before you. His brother had his own in his corridor of the keep for the same purpose. But he would never tell you as such.

He had learned long ago, mortals found fascination in the most pedestrian of things. And to have you happy, would only make you taste sweeter.

“Thank you, my prince. I have never seen a room so beautiful.”

Aemond smiled, the sharp tips of his fangs grazing his lip. He walked towards you, his back straight and his steps slow.

“I am glad. These are to be your chambers for your time here. Do with them as you please, but always be ready should I call.”

You nodded. The terms seemed simple enough. You were to serve the prince however he pleased. Be it to fuck or to feed.

You were his now.

Aegon could smell it. The sweet scent of the bath the servants had drawn for you.

Of course you were to be bathed. Aemond enjoyed his meals when they were fresh and warm. A hot bath would only warm your blood and calm your nerves.

But the smell was like a torment.

Reminding him over and over that you were not his.

He had never felt like this during one of Aemond’s quarters before. None of the other tributes in those times had ever entranced him as you did.

And Aemond knew. Aegon could tell.

The way his brother’s nose twitched in the throne room; it wasn’t in reaction to your perfumes. It was in reaction to him. The musky scent of a wolf had not always been a scent Aemond enjoyed.

Aemond had known he was in the throne room. His brother was intelligent, perceptive. He’d have known exactly why Aegon was there.

Which would only make what he planned all that more satisfying.

Morning came and a tray of food had been left on the small table at the foot of your bed. You settled on to the couch to eat before noticing the small scroll next to your pot of tea.

The daylight hours are yours to do with as you please. All I ask is that you do not leave the Keep walls, that way I know you are safe and well.

I will send a servant for you when the night comes. Every night, you will come to my chambers. Clothes will be left for you every morning. Your meals will be delivered to your chambers, or wherever you would prefer to eat.

Anything you need, do not hesitate to ask.

Aemond.

You read the note twice more. Committing every word to memory. You knew there would be rules, but you had not expected as much freedom as you were apparently being offered.

“I can go as I please…?” you mumbled to yourself.

The rules made sense, of course. You were a payment to the Prince; it was understandable he would not want you to venture far. The intricacies of what you would do in his chambers remained a curiosity. You had asked the Maester in your family home about the Targaryens. More specifically about those of a vampiric nature.

It was known before the letter arrived who the tribute would go to. So, when it arrived at your door, you immediately demanded everything the Maester knew.

No sunlight for Prince Aemond.

No silver for Prince Aegon.

Prince Aemond would sustain himself on mortal blood, though animal would suffice if he was desperate.

Prince Aegon would shift with the turn of the moon, becoming more beast than man.

The Maester had made sure you knew everything; despite your reminder you were serving only Prince Aemond. But the Maester had heard the stories. Both brothers were vicious in their own right. He wanted you to be well prepared.

You finished your breakfast and moved to get tread for the day. As the note had promised, clothes had filled your wardrobe. A variety of gowns in all manner of fabric and colour. Though there was one consistency you noticed. Every single one was a lower neckline than you were accustomed to.

Though when you thought on it, it made sense. As a vampire, Prince Aemond would need…access…to your throat. You assumed that was the main service you would provide anyway.

You chose a lighter gown, having felt the warmth of the sun coming through the drapes. Your plan for today was simply to explore the Keep. Learn your surroundings.

Though you would soon come to find you were not the only one on the prowl.

Aegon followed you everywhere during the day, though for the first week or so you never managed to see him. You simply always had the feeling you were being followed. The hairs on the back of your neck would stand on edge. You were sure you could always hear footsteps shadowing yours.

But he always remained out of sight.

You would see him when he allowed it. When he would pass you after dinner, or when you chose to walk the gardens.

But you knew it was him that stalked your every move.

Some nights, you were sure you would see his amber eyes in the shadows.

Aemond, on the other hand, was a curious man. You could never tell if he disliked your presence or craved it. But you had fallen into a comfortable routine.

As soon as the sun set, you would eat your last meal, bathe and walk to Aemond’s chambers. He preferred you dressed simply, not wanting to risk blood stains on one of your more lavish gowns.

You usually sat in his lap, or between his outstretched legs on the bed. His fangs sunk into your neck or wrist.

In the times he took you to bed, which were becoming far more common, he would feed from the flesh of your thighs. Alternating between drinking the blood in your veins and lapping at the slick between your folds.

If your blood wasn’t his means to survive, he’d say your cunt was his most delicious meal.

A month had passed. Aemond was more enamoured with you by the day. He had drained the last tribute long before a month. But you were different. He enjoyed your company more than he anticipated.

But then there was Aegon.

Time and time again, his elder brother would come asking for one night with you. For Aemond to share you, just temporarily. And tonight was another of those times.

“One night, brother, you can surely spare her for one night?”

It wasn’t that he didn’t wish to share you to spite his brother. Well, that’s what Aemond would tell himself. No, it was to make a point.

They had agreed to take a turn every quarter. Those four months, the new tribute belonged to the chosen brother and him alone.

Changing that now would surely tear down the routine they lived by?

“As I have told you countless times, brother…No.” Aemond said tiredly, this was the second time they’d had this conversation this week.

“Your time for a tribute will come soon enough. You need to exercise patience.”

All that earned Aemond was a rough growl. Amber eyes flashing with rage as the elder prince realised he wouldn’t get his way.

“A deal then.”

It wasn’t a question, or at least Aegon didn’t post it as one.

“What?” Aemond asked simply, returning his attention to the books in his lap.

You would arrive soon, and he wanted Aegon gone by then.

“A deal. A game of sorts.”

Aemond sighed. Whatever it was would be guaranteed to be ridiculous.

“I have no time for jests, Aegon.”

Aegon however, was taking this seriously. Grabbing the book from Aemond and throwing across the room.

“It is not a jest!”

Aemond rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration. It was like Aegon was on fire. The entire energy of his body bubbling to the surface. The look in his eyes told Aemond he was truly serious.

“Alright, I’ll indulge your nonsense. What game are you suggesting?”

Aegon sat in front of him, lounging in the armchair in contrast to how Aemond sat perfectly straight backed.

“A hunt. Not to kill as we usually would, but to claim her as a prize. Whoever catches her first is the one she belongs to.”

Silence settled between them while Aemond considered what his brother was saying. If he lost, he would lose you. He wasn’t truly sure if he wanted to risk that. And how would you take being competed over?

“One condition. We tell her. I will not allow her to be caught off guard by it all. She has been a loyal and obedient tribute; she deserves as such.” Aemond finally said, his voice low and calm.

Aegon huffed a little, but he knew agreeing was his only option. His brother was quite possessive of his tributes but treated them far kinder than Aegon.

“A fair compromise. We are agreed then?”

The elder prince held out his hand, as though they were agreeing to something far more pedestrian than the life of a mortal. Aemond took it, one shake sealing their agreement.

And with that, Aegon made to leave the room.

“May the best brother win.”

You came to Aemond’s chambers at the same time as you had every night you had been here. Dressed in a soft white gown, one of his favourites. Hair flowing in sync with your gown in the breeze coming through Aemond’s window.

The prince preferred his room on the cooler side but would always light a fire if you requested it.

Usually, he was either reading by the unlit fire or lounging on his bed. But the air in the room felt tense as you entered. Aemond stood eerily still by the balcony in his room, moonlight illuminating his lean silhouette.

“My prince?”

Aemond turned slowly, singular gaze softening a little as he looked at you.

“Sweet one. Would you like the fire lit?”

The small goosebumps on your arms gave the answer before your words could. Aemond moved quickly, it was rare for him to allow servants to enter the room once you joined him for the night.

The fire soon roared to life. Your body naturally being drawn to the warmth. Aemond followed, holding his hands out to temper some of his body’s coldness. All for you, of course.

“Thank you, my prince.”

He sat in his armchair, beckoning you to sit in his lap. You had no hesitation, legs both slung across him, your back against the arm of the chair. His arm around your waist and his lips immediately at your neck.

Aemond had every intention of one last feed before he proposed Aegon’s game. Your blood was only second to your company in the things he would miss should he lose.

But even without words, you could tell something was wrong. Even in a month, you could sense a tenseness in how he held you. His hand a little too tight on your waist.

“Is something the matter, my prince?”

You could feel him freeze; teeth just pierced into your throat. He pulled back, laving his tongue over the bite mark before sighing.

“Yes, my dearest. Tis not something I had ever hoped to have to speak on.”

You remained silent. Knowing he would tell you in his own time.

His head rested against the back of the chair. A low hum left his lips as though deciding how to formulate his next sentences.

“My brother…” Aemond started, fingers tightening and loosening on your waist.

“He has proposed something, regarding you.”

The mention of Aegon made you squirm, for reasons you didn’t fully understand. Both brothers were handsome. Aemond in an ethereal, almost demonic way. Aegon in a primal, animalistic way.

Deep down, you knew you wouldn’t dislike being owned by either Targaryen prince.

“Me? What does your brother wish with me?”

You weren’t entirely foolish. You had seen the way Aegon would look at you as he passed. Watching you as you walked the gardens, he was able to stand the sun unlike Aemond. He only ever watched. Spoke if you spoke to him. But his eyes betrayed everything.

Looking at you as one would look at a fine jewel or a decadent meal.

As though he wished to capture and devour.

At first, it had made you uncomfortable. Made you wither under his gaze. But now…now you found yourself seeking it out. Wondering what his touch would be like. Warmer than Aemond’s, most likely. Rougher even, an untamed animal.

Aemond’s nose again the shell of your ear brought you back to your senses.

“He asked me for a deal. He covets you, sweet one.”

Aemond should have been against it. Upset, frustrated, angry. Yet he wasn’t. He had seen how Aegon looked at you. His brother had no shortage of lovers at his beck and call. Walking in daylight allowed far more freedoms.

So for Aegon to covet what belonged to Aemond, it was not something to trifle with.

Your silence prompted him to continue.

“He wishes to compete for you. For us to chase you down and claim you as a prize.”

It shouldn’t have sent heat rushing down to your belly. It shouldn’t have made your cheeks flush. It shouldn’t have made your core twitch with need.

Aemond could smell it. Though in his pride, he believed it was only in response to him.

“And you are telling me because…?”

Aemond inhaled a breath he did not need.

“Because I wish for you to be fully aware…to not be taken by surprise or be taken advantage of.”

You gave your prince a small smile. You knew this was out of possessiveness not love, but it made your heart swell. Your pulse beat just a little faster.

“Do you want to make the deal?”

Aemond pressed a kiss to your pulse.

“I do. Aegon is not one to covet often. To ask such a thing…”

You turned your head. Daring to press a kiss to his forever pouted lips. Aemond smirked, tugging you in deeper.

“Then hunt me, my prince.”

The time was set. The Kingswood would be the setting. At night, of course. Not close to a full moon so as not to truly risk your life. Everything was designed so that you would be safe, and the competition would be fair.

Your gown was both practical and beautiful. Flowing out in layers of chiffon and silk. Shades of white and soft blues and lilacs. You almost glowed in the moonlight as you and the princes waited at the boundary of the woods. You were more than thankful the night was a warm one.

The brothers talked between them, too low for you to hear. You simply waited.

Soon, both were at your sides.

“Run as fast as you can, sweet one.” Aemond said softly, twirling a lock of your hair in his fingers.

“We will give you a head start.” Aegon chuckled, his chest just close enough to your back that you could feel the heat of him.

You nodded. Bustling your skirts to make running easier. And with that, you ran.

As fast as you were physically able.

You were deep in the Kingswood by the time you heard the cracking of twigs. You knew it was purposeful. Both princes were too well skilled in the hunt to give away their position.

It was a taunt. Something to get your body pumping with adrenaline.

And it worked.

Your heart beat faster. Your legs burned with the speed you ran. But it was exhilarating. The longer you ran, the more you realised you had little concern for which prince caught you. The idea was what kept you running.

One would catch you.

The question was simply…which.

They could hear you, smell you. The sweat on your skin, the blood in your veins. The cracking of the twigs and leaves beneath your feet.

And they could hear each other.

Aemond could hear Aegon’s growls. The gnashing of his teeth as he lost himself to the hunt. He could even smell the change, his brother’s scent turning more and more lupine as he closed in on you.

Aegon could hear Aemond. His heavy, purposeful steps as he ran. A sound impossible to hear for mortals. But Aegon would know his brother’s steps anywhere.

Aegon found you first. Saw you at least. Just ahead, dress billowing in the breeze. You were like something from a fairytale. A princess lost in the woods.

Two monsters hunting her down.

“I can smell you, pretty girl.” Aegon called out, his voice rough and low but echoing through the trees, nonetheless.

You passed by a tree, claw marks imbedded that could only come from someone moving upon two legs.

Aegon. It had to be. So where was Aemond?

Your question was answered when you saw a flash of silver pass ahead of you. Faster than anything you had ever seen. You could hear Aegon, howling out your name behind you.

Ahead must be Aemond.

You trapped between the brothers. And the idea sent fire through your veins.

But you were tiring. A mortal could only run for so long. Your legs gave out in the centre of the Kingswood, grasping on to a nearby tree before you hit the ground.

And then you felt him. The warm, rough hands of the wolfish prince.

“Caught you…”

His arms were around your waist, inches from the ground. His chest pressed hard into your back. His lips on your shoulder.

“Not so fast, brother.”

Aemond’s voice was like silk, appearing from behind the tree you clung to only moments before. Finding you at almost the same moment.

“It appears we found her at the same time.” Aegon grumbled, his arms almost painful around your waist.

You could feel the argument brewing. The tense air between siblings.

“My princes…”

Your soft voice made them stop immediately. Curiosity in both of their eyes.

“You both found me. You both win.”

Rules were technically rules. Whoever found you first, claimed you as a prize. And they had both found you.

“You may both claim your prize.”

You couldn’t remember how you got back to the Keep, just that you had arrived their quickly.

They brought you to your chambers. Neutral ground you imagined.

You were laid flat on your bed, the white fabric of your gown splayed out around you. Both brothers on either side of you.

Your mind muddled with the feeling of their hands tugging at your dress. Taking layer after layer from your body until you were entirely bare. Their own clothes soon followed, warmth on one side and cold on the other.

Your two monstrous princes.

“Such a beautiful prize, brother…” Aegon growled into your neck, lips ghosting over your skin.

Aemond’s hands were everywhere. He delighted in the gooseflesh that followed his icy hands. Aegon’s warm lips soothed the cool touch, following the path his younger brother took.

They were in perfect synchronisation. Hands moving over every bare inch of your body. Lips claiming your skin with forceful kisses.

“A delicious one too.” Aemond hummed, lips finding the swell of your breast. Taking your soft bud between his lips, teasing you.

Aegon’s hands hand delved between your thighs. Rough fingertips finding you already wet and waiting.

“Her blood or her cunt? I assume you have dined on both?”

Aemond chuckled, tugging at your closest thigh as Aegon shifted down your body. You barely sighed out a moan before Aegon’s mouth latched onto your pearl.

He was just as you pictured. Feral. Animalistic.

Aemond preferred to take his time. Tease. Tempt.

Aegon devoured you. He had your back arching almost immediately.

The younger prince remained latched to your breast. His third favourite part of your body, he’d told you. Your blood, your cunt, your breasts. You should have taken offence, but the way he touched and fed was nothing short of euphoric.

Aemond held your legs wide. Gaze flicking from his brother’s head nestled between them, to your face. Eyes closed in pleasure as you began to moan out Aegon’s name.

It wasn’t long before you were spilling on Aegon’s tongue. The elder growling into your skins as he finally tasted you. He shoved Aemond’s hands away. Wrapping his arms around your thighs and keeping you pressed against his face.

One peak became two. Coating his tongue with your pleasure with a scream of his name.

“Aegon…” you sighed, vainly pushing Aegon’s head away.

Aemond’s lips were at your neck. Kissing all the places that would make your body shiver.

“I told you, brother. Delicious.”

Aegon growled a reply. The amber in his eyes seemed brighter, boring into you as he crawled up your body. You half expected his lips to find yours…

But they found Aemond’s. The younger groaned into his brother’s mouth, the fierce kiss a clash of fangs and tongues.

The taste of your slick on Aegon’s tongue, mixed with his brother’s own distinct flavour had Aemond’s length twitching against your side. His hand tangled into Aegon’s shaggy locks, tugging him closer.

And the sight had your cunt pulsing around nothing. You didn’t mind being momentarily ignored, the embrace before you was enough to keep your body thrumming.

But they didn’t ignore you for long.

Aemond’s free hand roamed freely over your stomach, lower and lower until his fingertips teased over your mound. Aegon’s hips remained settled between your thighs, and Aemond wasted no time in simultaneously touching you both. His fingers nestled between your folds as his knuckles brushed against Aegon’s cock as he slowly ground himself against you.

The longer Aemond touched, the more you and Aegon both moved. Seeking out his hand in any way you could. And at the same time, grinding against each other. It was like a rhythm, all three of you falling into synchronisation in pursuit of pleasure.

Aegon’s lips remained near Aemond’s, chasing his kiss again and again as his length rubbed faster against your core.

Your own hands found their way on to Aemond’s body. Up his thigh and across his waist to his back. If there was one thing Aemond had asked you when he first bed you, it was to touch him. Any way you saw fit, just touch him. Dig your nails into his shoulders, tangle your hands into his hair, he didn’t care as long as he was touched.

It soon turned out that Aegon was much and the same.

The elder prince’s lips left Aemond’s and found yours. Aemond’s hand sandwiched between you both as Aegon leaned forward to kiss you. You could almost taste Aemond on his tongue.

“Do you want us both, pretty girl?” Aegon asked, his lips moving from yours down to your jaw and neck.

Aemond continued to slide his fingers between your folds. Parting them just enough for the length of Aegon’s cock to rub between them.

You could barely speak, on the verge of overstimulation and they’d done hardly anything to you really.

“Answer my brother, sweet one.” Aemond whispered, pressing his fingers against your pearl to earn a shocked moan from your lips.

“Yes. Yes…please…”

The question was pointless in truth. It was abundantly clear you desired them both, but the princes were never shy of seeking a boost to their ego.

And the look they shared was almost as though they were communicating in a way you’d never quite understand.

Aemond slipped from the bed, his absence making you whine just a little. But you just missed the small smile he gave at the sound.

“I’ve had her quite a few times this past month, brother. What say…you fuck her first?”

You tried to stifle the flush to your skin, the way your legs clenched together for some relief at the thought.

But only Aegon truly understood Aemond’s plan.

“You are too kind,” Aegon grinned, turning back to you and swiping two fingers through your slick.

His hand then moved to his length, using your juices as lubrication as he pumped himself a few times before lining up at your entrance.

You should have questioned what Aemond would be doing, but the slow slide of Aegon’s cock between your folds was far too much of a distraction. Your back arched from the bed immediately, hands grasping at Aegon’s shoulders.

Your eyes fluttered closed, focusing only on the feeling of Aegon’s length pushing in and out at a torturously slow pace. It was almost as though he was waiting for something.

Aemond had already found the small vial of all, similar vials stashed everywhere in the Keep – should the brothers ever need them. Long fingers slick as they circled Aegon’s hole, free hand pushing his plump cheeks apart.

Aegon’s rhythm faltered momentarily at the feeling, stuttering as Aemond pushed his fingers deeper and deeper. It never took much really, centuries of being each other’s source of pleasure had kept them both forever ready.

The elder’s hips slowly matched Aemond’s rhythm, the push of his hand urging Aegon’s hips to move faster.

So, when Aemond positioned the head of his cock at Aegon’s puckered hole, all the wolf prince did was lean a little further forward. The new angle pushing his cock deeper into your cunt.

The brothers soon sank into a rhythm. Aegon allowing the rough push of Aemond’s hips to determine the thrusts he made into you. Their rhythm bordered on punishing and all you could do was pant and moan out some garbled combination of their names.

Your body jolted with every combined thrust. Aegon’s head buried between your breasts, your hands tugging at his hair every time he hit deeper and deeper.

Aemond’s hands were tight on Aegon’s waist. Restraining himself from the urge to use his full strength solely for your benefit. But that didn’t stop the bed slamming into the wall with their combined vigour.

You could Aemond whispering to Aegon, but it was too low for you to properly hear except for the last few words.

“Fuck her harder. Bite her. She’ll like it.”

Aegon growled into your chest, his lips already latched onto the valley between your breasts. But now, his teeth joined. Grazing your skin just to tease.

“Harder, Aegon. Leave a mark. Can you not see mine own on her skin?”

Aemond’s marks littered your body. From where he drank to where he simply latched on as he fucked you. Soft crescents a shade or two lighter than your skin. Aegon could see them well enough.

He started slow. Thrusting deep in unison with Aemond as he sunk his teeth into your breast. His bite was harsher than Aemond’s, but pleasurable all the same. The sting soon gave away as he suckled the blood he drew.

When he’d had his fill, not needing the sustenance in the same way Aemond did, he leaned back to tangle in yet another kiss with his brother.

The blood on his tongue made Aemond growl into his mouth, taking whatever was left to remind himself just how delicious a morsel you were.

Their hips continued to thrust into you, body arching as your release overcame you before you could think. Slick coating Aegon’s cock, milking him for all he was worth. He still inside you, letting Aemond control the rhythm.

The pace was almost painful, Aegon’s cock spearing you wide open in response to Aemond’s hips. The younger prince’s cock bullying at Aegon’s prostate until he spilled inside you with growl.

Aemond followed, sinking his teeth into Aegon’s shoulder as he filled his hole completely. His seed dripping down his brother’s thighs.

Your body was past spent. Exhaustion overtaking even before Aegon pulled himself from your depths. He moved to clean himself up, whilst Aemond came to your side.

“Do you think you could me one more, darling?” Aemond purred into your ear, slipping between your thighs.

You sighed out in agreement as Aemond rolled his hips against you. Hardening already and reminding you of his stamina.

It didn’t take much, his cock sliding in easily and beginning a soft rhythm. Aemond wasn’t about to leave himself without the feel of your silken walls.

Aegon watched from the side, fully cleaned and still bare. He lounged on an armchair. Simply watching.

Aemond rut into you slowly, urging you into a wakened slumber with his tenderness. You came for him with a whimper, his lips on your neck. Just like he always would. Letting you fall to sleep still buried inside you. As close as you could be. His seed pulsing into your cavern now.

When you finally relaxed, eyes barely opened, Aemond pulled away. Taking the cloth from Aegon he cleaned your skin of both of their spends. Aegon slipped into the bed at your opposite side.

Both brothers nestled against your now sleeping form.

“We keep her.” Aegon offered, sliding an arm around your waist to join Aemond’s.

Their fingers interlaced over your stomach, relaxing to the sound and feel of your breathing.

The idea was something they had never considered. To share a lover, to keep a mortal together for the first time.

Aemond hummed his agreement.

You would be theirs. Theirs to love. Theirs to own. Theirs to devour at will.

You had sold your soul, and they would cherish it.

Aegon/Aemond taglist:

@legitalicat @thenameswinter99 @sylasthegrim

@aemondsbabe @kaelatargaryen @thought--bubble

@towriteloveontheirarms @anjelicawrites @multyfangirl

@blissfulphilospher @elaratyrell @khaleesihel

@arcielee @tumblin-theworldaway @aemondsbabygirl

@hoosbandewan @mysticalendings @arcielee

If you want to be added or removed, let me know!

#aemond targaryen #aegon ii targaryen #aegond x reader #aegond x y/n #fic rec #aemond targaryen x reader x aegon ii targaryen #aemond targaryen x y/n x aegon ii targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x y/n #aegon ii targaryen x y/n #aegon ii targaryen x reader

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beautifulsweetschaos · 6 months ago

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They got him 😔 they got Pookie 😫 I’m gonna kms

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shesjustanothergeek · 7 months ago

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The Gods We Can Touch Masterlist

|Aemond Targaryen x Strong!Reader| ft. Yandere Aegon and Alicent

Summary: The older twin of Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, you were a picture of the maiden, untouched and untainted by man's sins. At least, that was what Alicent Hightower believed when she held you in her arms moments after her old friend's labors. You were her shining light, her dream. Though you were never hers, she believed you were meant to be.

What will become of you as time passes and the Queen's shining light grows within the blackened darkness? Will her eldest son's morbid fascination with the light burn the realm? Or will her second son's obsession with the only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen change the course of the Seven Kingdoms as we know it?

"I have outlasted all desire,

My dreams and I have grown apart;

My grief alone is left entire,

The gleamings of an empty heart.

The storms of ruthless dispensation

Have struck my flowery garland numb,

I live in lonely desolation

And wonder when my end will come."

Chapter One: My Dream

Chapter Two: The Gods' Light

Chapter Three: The Long Night

Chapter Four: Before the Storm

Chapter Five: The Princess and the Queen

Chapter Six: Salt and Blood

Archmaester Gyldayn’s Testimonies of Princess Aelora Targaryen’s Youth

Chapter Seven: Ending Anew

Chapter Eight: The Lord of the Tides

Chapter Nine: Time Mends the Broken

Chapter Ten: The Black Council

Chapter Twelve:

Chapter Eleven: The Weight of a Crown

Chapter Thirteen:

Chapter Fourteen:

Chapter Fifteen:

Chapter Sixteen:

Chapter Seventeen:

Chapter Eighteen:

Chapter Nineteen:

Chapter Twenty:

Chapter Twenty-One:

Chapter Twenty-Two:

Chapter Twenty-Three:

Chapter: Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five:

Chapter Twenty-Six:

Chapter Twenty-Seven:

Chapter Twenty-Eight:

Chapter Twenty-Nine:

Chapter Thirty:

Chapter Thirty-One:

Chapter Thirty-Two:

Chapter Thirty-Three:

Chapter Thirty-Four:

Chapter Thirty-Five:

Spotify Playlist

The reader does have a name (no use of it) for the sake of titles and the typical Targaryen/Strong features, but other than that, descriptions are vague.

All House of the Dragon/A Song of Ice and Fire warnings apply, but I will put specific ones with each chapter.

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rottenfyre · 1 month ago

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⸻ ᴜ ɴ ᴛ ɪ ʟ ᴅ ᴇ ᴀ ᴛ ʜ ᴅ ᴏ ᴜ ꜱ ᴀ ᴘ ᴀ ʀ ᴛ ⸻

Pairing: Show Aemond Targaryen x Fem Reader

Headcanon: how would he be when he's obsessed?

˚꒰notes꒱‧ English is not my first language. Gifs belong to @barbieaemond. Hope you enjoy!

Aemond’s obsession with you is intense yet restrained. He’s not the type to openly declare his feelings or show affection through words or flowery gestures. Instead, he watches you, studies you, absorbs every detail—like he’s trying to memorize you. Your smallest gestures, the sound of your laughter, even the way your eyes shift when you’re uncomfortable—all of it becomes ingrained in his mind. You’re his fixation, his secret treasure, the one thing he allows himself to crave.

At first, his presence is barely noticeable. He’s there, quietly lingering in the background, watching you in ways that feel both protective and invasive. But as time passes, you realize he’s always there, always watching.

“You have no idea, do you?” he’d murmur one night, his eyes holding an unsettling intensity. “How long I’ve waited, how much I’d sacrifice just to keep you close.”

Aemond’s possessiveness doesn’t manifest in obvious ways. He doesn’t need to announce that you’re his—he knows it, and in his mind, so should you. The way he stands close to you, how he always seems to position himself between you and others, the subtle but possessive hand he places on the small of your back—all are quiet signs of his control.

When others try to get too close to you, his gaze alone is enough to send them away. Aemond doesn’t tolerate competition; to him, you’re his, and he’ll ensure that no one ever doubts it. He won’t raise his voice or cause a scene like his brother—his icy stare and that ever-present hand on his sword are all he needs to convey his message.

“You belong to me,” he’d say in that low, measured tone, his fingers tracing a slow line down your arm. “Do not let them forget that.”

Aemond knows everything about you—your daily habits, your secrets, your fears. He’s intelligent, calculating, and patient, and he uses those skills to orchestrate situations that keep you close to him. He knows who you speak to, where you go, and even your thoughts before you voice them. He’ll play on your fears, your desires, using them to his advantage, always pushing you closer into his web.

He won’t openly restrict you. Instead, he’ll manipulate circumstances so that you have no choice but to turn to him. When you need comfort, he’s there; when you feel threatened, he’s there, his hand on his sword, ready to protect. In his mind, he’s the only one who can understand you, the only one who’s truly worthy of you.

“You see how they look at you, don’t you?” he’d whisper, his tone almost affectionate, a hint of jealousy darkening his gaze. “They don’t deserve to even stand in your shadow.”

Aemond’s jealousy is quiet, subtle, but no less dangerous. He seethes when others try to approach you, though he keeps his composure, his expression unreadable. But if anyone dares get too close, Aemond’s revenge is swift and ruthless. He’ll ruin reputations, destroy alliances—he’ll make them pay in ways that leave no question about his power. His jealousy isn’t petty; it’s all-consuming, a cold, lethal fire.

If he catches you in conversation with another man, he’ll silently insert himself into the situation, his icy gaze boring into them, making it clear that you’re untouchable. He won’t show his rage outwardly, but the consequences will be devastating. And if anyone dares to harm you or threaten your relationship? His retribution will be terrifyingly swift.

“Let them try,” he’d murmur, his fingers running possessively through your hair. “They’ll regret ever thinking they could touch what’s mine.”

Aemond struggles with vulnerability, his past leaving scars he can’t hide. His emotions are buried deep, guarded by layers of pride, shame, and bitterness. But with you, his intensity surfaces in ways even he can’t fully control. You’re the one thing that breaks through his walls, and he both hates and craves that vulnerability. He’ll never openly admit his love, but it shows in the way he’s constantly there, always silently protecting, always watching.

And when he’s alone with you, he lets that restraint slip. He holds you as if you’re a lifeline, a fragile thing he could lose at any moment. His touch is both possessive and desperate, a reminder that you’re the one thing in his life he can’t stand to lose.

“You’re the only one I need,” he’d confess in a rare moment of vulnerability, his voice almost breaking. “The only one who matters.”

He believes the world is a dangerous place, full of enemies who’d harm you, and he’s determined to be your shield. He’ll demand that you stay close to him, questioning your every move if it takes you out of his sight. He’ll use his power to keep you safe, even if it means isolating you from everyone else.

If you try to resist, he won’t argue or raise his voice. Instead, he’ll find subtle ways to manipulate the situation so that you have no choice but to obey. And in his mind, it’s all justified—it’s all to keep you safe.

“Stay close to me,” he’d command softly, his hand tightening around yours. “The world is full of threats, and I’ll be damned if I let any of them touch you.”

He’s possessive to the point of madness, convinced that you’re the only person who understands him, the only one who sees him for who he truly is. And if he ever feels like he’s losing you, his obsession will consume him, driving him to desperate, dangerous lengths.

He won’t hesitate to use every resource at his disposal to ensure you remain his, even if it means trapping you in a world where he’s your only companion.

“If you ever leave, there’ll be no place you can hide,” he’d say, his voice low, his gaze dark and unwavering. “You’re mine, and I’ll make sure it stays that way.”

Aemond’s love isn’t gentle or kind; it’s fierce, unyielding, and impossible to escape. Once he’s set his sights on you, there’s no freedom, no escape. His love is a trap, one that tightens around you until you realize there’s no way out. But in Aemond’s mind, it’s a love like no other—a love that binds you together, that defies the bounds of mortality itself

In Aemond’s world, love is something that consumes, devours. Once he’s claimed you, there’s no escape—only him, and the unbreakable bond he’s forced upon you.

“Even death wouldn’t stop me from finding you,” he’d murmur, his lips brushing over your forehead, his arms wrapped tightly around you. “No one else could ever love you like I do. Remember that.”

@ʀᴏᴛᴛᴇɴꜰʏʀᴇ 2024. ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ, ᴛʀᴀɴꜱʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴏʀ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡᴇʙꜱɪᴛᴇꜱ.

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hisfavegirl · 15 days ago

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The Rouge Prince - Daemon Targaryen x Reader.

summary : As the only daughter in your family, you are required to marry someone with dignity and honor, that's what your father thinks and when he heard that the king wanted to find a bride for his grandson, your father and mother did something that required you to sacrifice your future.

You sit in the carriage, your eyes fixed on your parents, who are deep in conversation. The rhythmic sound of the horses’ hooves on the road fills the air, but your mind is elsewhere. You glance at your father, his brow furrowed in thought, and your mother, her eyes scanning the horizon as if lost in her own plans.

“Why are we going to King’s Landing, Mother?” you ask again, trying to break through their focused discussion.

Your father, glances at you briefly before returning his attention to your mother. “You’ll find out when we arrive, child. It’s not something for you to worry about right now.”

“But I want to know now!” you protest, frustration bubbling up inside you. “Why do you keep talking in secrets? What are you planning?”

your mother, turns her head slightly toward you, her face calm but distant. “Enough questions, dear. It’s for your own good.”

You cross your arms, narrowing your eyes in suspicion. You look out the window, trying to ignore their conversation, but curiosity gnaws at you. What are they planning? What could be so important that they won’t share with you?

“Mother,” you ask quietly, your tone softer now. “Please. I just want to understand.”

Your mother sighs, her gaze softening for a moment. “In time, you will, my love. But for now, you must trust that we are doing what is best.”

You turn back to the window, still not entirely convinced. The trees pass by in a blur as your mind races with possibilities. What is waiting for you in King’s Landing? What role do you play in this unknown plan?

The carriage rumbles to a stop, and the clatter of hooves fades into the bustling noise of the Red Keep’s courtyard. Your eyes scan the scene before you — guards marching in tight formations, their armor clinking with every step, and servants rushing about, their arms full of crates and baskets of food, wine, and decorations. The air hums with activity, the scent of fresh bread and sweet fruits mixing with the sharp tang of metal.

“Out,” your father’s voice cuts through the noise as he steps down from the carriage, offering a hand to your mother. You follow after them, your eyes darting around, taking in every detail.

“What’s all this for?” you ask, noticing the banners being unfurled from the high towers. The sigil of House Targaryen — the three-headed dragon — looms over the courtyard like a watchful beast.

“The feast,” your mother replies, her gaze sharp as she glances at a group of servants struggling with a large cask of wine. “There will be many important guests tonight. You will behave accordingly.” Her tone is gentle but firm, the kind that leaves little room for argument.

“A feast for whom?” you press, stepping closer to her. “What’s the occasion?”

A flicker of something — hesitation, perhaps — crosses her face. She looks at your father, who gives her a short nod. “The King has decided it is time to strengthen bonds between houses,” your mother says carefully. “There will be dancing, music, and… alliances to be made.”

“Alliances,” you mutter under your breath, frowning. The meaning behind that word is never as simple as it sounds.

The three of you walk into the Red Keep, and the warmth of the sun is quickly replaced by the cool, shadowed halls. The once-quiet corridors are now alive with movement. Servants hang garlands of flowers along the walls, and tables are being set with silver plates and goblets of polished gold. You have to step aside as a pair of kitchen boys hurry past, balancing platters of fruit and roasted meats.

“Stay close,” your father says, glancing back at you. “The halls are crowded, and I will not have you wandering off.”

You nod but your eyes remain on the scene before you. The smell of spiced wine drifts past your nose, and the distant sound of musicians tuning their instruments echoes through the stone corridors. Everywhere you look, people are moving with purpose, as if the whole keep is holding its breath for something grand to begin.

You glance up at your mother, your brow furrowed in suspicion. “Are you sure this is just a feast, Mother? It feels like something more.”

Your mother doesn’t answer immediately. Her gaze is fixed straight ahead, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Keep your eyes open tonight, my dear,” she finally says, her tone low but pointed. “There is more to see than what is being shown.”

Her words stay with you as you walk deeper into the Red Keep, the echoes of footsteps and distant music filling your ears. The air feels heavier now, like a storm about to break.

You walk through the grand corridors of the Red Keep, the distant hum of preparations for the feast slowly fading behind you. The air grows colder, heavier with the weight of expectation. The echo of footsteps bounces off the high stone walls, each step feeling louder than the last.

As you approach the large, looming doors of the throne room, two guards push them open with a low, rumbling creak. The chamber beyond is vast and dimly lit, the narrow beams of sunlight streaming through high windows casting sharp rays upon the stone floor.

At the far end of the room, atop the Iron Throne, sits King Jaehaerys I Targaryen, his presence as commanding as the throne itself. His silver hair gleams in the fractured light, and his sharp, thoughtful eyes watch every movement like a dragon surveying its domain. Beside him stands Prince Baelon Targaryen, his son, tall and broad-shouldered, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword. His gaze is sharper, more direct, and it lingers on you just a moment too long.

“Lady Tyrell, Lord Tyrell,” King Jaehaerys’s voice echoes across the hall, steady but worn with age. His gaze shifts to you, eyes narrowing with faint curiosity. “And you have brought another with you.”

“This is my daughter,” your mother replies with a polite bow of her head. “She has come to learn, as all must in time.” Her voice is steady, but there is a careful calculation in her words, as if each syllable has been weighed before it was spoken.

“Ah, the young one,” Baelon says, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. “She looks sharper than most. I wonder if she listens as well as she watches.” His eyes meet yours, a spark of challenge in them.

You lift your chin, refusing to look away. “I listen when there’s something worth hearing,” you reply, your voice cool but clear.

Baelon raises an eyebrow, his grin widening. “A tongue as sharp as her gaze. She’ll need both if she means to walk these halls.”

Jaehaerys raises a hand, and the room falls silent. His eyes settle on you, more curious now than before. “Tell me, child,” he says slowly, his voice like distant thunder, “what do you see when you look upon this throne room?”

You glance around the room, your gaze moving from the cold stone walls to the guards stationed along the edges, to the light catching on the jagged edges of the Iron Throne. Your eyes linger on the throne itself — a twisted mass of blades, swords of conquered kings melted together. You feel a weight in the air, not just from the presence of those before you, but from the very history embedded in the metal.

“I see power,” you answer carefully, your voice unwavering. “But power that cuts as easily as it commands.”

For a moment, there is only silence. Jaehaerys’s eyes remain on you, and you can feel him weighing your words. Slowly, a faint smile touches his lips.

“Wise beyond your years,” he says, leaning back on the throne. “Perhaps too wise.” His gaze flicks to Otto, then to Alicent, his eyes sharp with meaning. “Keep her close, lady Tyrell. Wisdom is both a gift and a danger in these halls.”

Your mother dips her head in acknowledgment. “She will be guided well, Your Grace.”

Baelon chuckles softly, his eyes still on you. “If she’s as clever as she seems, I doubt she’ll need much guidance.”

You glance at him again, your heart steady despite the weight of so many eyes upon you. The Iron Throne looms larger than ever, and in this moment, you realize that every gaze in this room carries its own weight of expectation. Something about this meeting feels heavier than it should.

As the king begins speaking with your mother and father, you remain silent, but your mind is far from still. What had your mother said before? “There is more to see than what is being shown.”

You watch them all — the king, the prince, the guards, even the way the light falls on the Iron Throne — and you wonder what lies beneath their words.

The heavy groan of the great doors behind you draws your attention. Slowly, they swing open, and for a moment, the light from the corridor frames the figure in the doorway like a portrait.

Prince Daemon Targaryen steps inside with the confidence of a man who has never questioned his place in the world. His silver hair, so much like his father’s and grandfather’s, falls just past his waist, but it is the sharpness in his eyes that catches your attention. Mischief and danger swirl in his gaze like fire and smoke. His lips curve into a crooked grin, as if he already knows something no one else does.

“The Rogue Prince arrives,” Baelon mutters, glancing toward his son with a mix of pride and exasperation. “Late, as usual.”

“Better to arrive late than to wait on others, Father,” Daemon replies smoothly, his voice rich with amusement. His boots echo as he strides forward, his cloak swishing behind him like a dragon’s tail. He spares a glance at his grandfather, King Jaehaerys, and gives a short, almost lazy bow. “Your Grace.”

“Daemon,” Jaehaerys says his name like a warning, though his gaze is steady. “You walk these halls like they belong to you.”

“Do they not, grandfather?” Daemon’s grin widens, his eyes flicking briefly to the Iron Throne. “One day, they will.”

A strained silence falls over the room, heavy as storm clouds. You glance at your mother, and see her eyes narrow, her lips pressed tightly together. Your father, shifts his stance, his gaze fixed on Daemon like a hawk watching prey.

“Ambition is a dangerous thing, nephew,” your mother says softly, her voice calm but pointed. “It burns hot but fades quickly if not tempered.”

Daemon’s eyes flick to her, his grin unfaltering. “Then it’s a good thing I prefer wildfire, my lady. Burns hotter, lasts longer.” His gaze moves to you next, his eyes sharp and assessing. “And who do we have here?”

You meet his stare without flinching, your eyes steady on his. “Someone who knows better than to be charmed by wildfire, Prince Daemon.”

Baelon barks a laugh, his eyes lighting up with surprise. “She has your tongue, Daemon. Careful, or she’ll cut you with it.”

Daemon’s grin only widens, his eyes gleaming with interest now. He takes a step closer, tilting his head as he examines you like one might examine a puzzle with missing pieces. “A sharp tongue, a sharp gaze. Dangerous tools for one so young.”

“And yet,” you reply smoothly, “dangerous tools tend to be the most useful.”

His eyes narrow, but there’s no malice in them — only curiosity and something else you can’t quite name. He chuckles softly, his eyes flicking to Alicent. “This one’s yours, I take it?”

“She is mine,” your mother replies firmly, stepping slightly forward, as if to place herself between you and Daemon. Her tone leaves no room for doubt. “And she is not a tool for anyone to use.”

“Everyone’s a tool, my lady,” Daemon replies with mock sweetness, stepping back with his hands raised in mock surrender. “Some just don’t know it yet.”

“That will be enough, Daemon,” King Jaehaerys’s voice cuts through the room like a blade, sharp and absolute. “We are here to prepare for the feast, not to play games of wit and pride.”

Daemon lowers his head slightly, his grin fading but not disappearing. “Of course, Your Grace.” He steps aside, letting his gaze linger on you for a moment longer before turning toward his father, Baelon.

You release a slow breath, realizing only then how tense you’d been. Your gaze flicks to Alicent, who places a hand on your shoulder, her fingers firm but reassuring.

“Remember what I told you,” she says quietly, her eyes locked on Daemon as he walks away. “There is more to see than what is being shown.”

Her words echo in your mind as you watch the Rogue Prince disappear deeper into the throne room, his laughter still hanging in the air like smoke after a fire.

The king rises from his throne, and the room falls into a hushed silence. His presence alone commands attention, but as he begins to speak, the weight of his words settles over the room like a heavy fog.

“Now that Prince Daemon has arrived,” King Jaehaerys’s voice rings clear and firm, “I am pleased to announce the engagement of my grandson, Prince Daemon, to Lady Tyrell, the daughter of Lord and Lady Tyrell. The marriage will take place in one month’s time.”

The room seems to hold its breath. You feel your heart stop in your chest, and for a moment, the world around you seems to blur. Your eyes flick to your parents, and everything falls into place.

You had wondered why your father had so stubbornly rejected every suitor you had been offered, why he had pushed back against every potential match, no matter how prestigious. It wasn’t that they didn’t care for your happiness—no, it was something far more intricate, far more political. The realization strikes you like a thunderclap.

The match with Daemon. This is what your father had been maneuvering toward all along. A marriage that would tie your House to the Targaryens in a way that could not be undone. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? This is a power play—a way to gain influence in the court, to strengthen your family’s position, to secure your place among the highest powers in the realm.

You feel a cold shiver run down your spine as you look at Daemon. His eyes meet yours across the room, his expression unreadable, but there’s a glint of something in his gaze. Recognition? Amusement? Or something far more dangerous?

Daemon, the Rogue Prince—the one who had walked into the room with such defiance and charm. The one who had stirred the pot, who had pushed every boundary. And now, he is your fiancé. Your blood runs cold, and yet, you can’t tear your eyes away from him.

“Is this truly necessary?” you hear yourself ask, the words slipping from your mouth before you can stop them. Your voice rings out in the room, breaking the silence like glass shattering.

King Jaehaerys’s eyes flick to you, sharp and unyielding. “It is done, child. The decision has been made.”

Your mother, Lady Tyrell, steps forward, her expression neutral but tight with control. “It is for the good of House Tyrell,” she says, her voice calm but with an edge. “A union with House Targaryen will strengthen our position. We must all think beyond our desires, for the future of the realm.”

The weight of her words crashes down on you, and for a moment, you feel as if the room is closing in. You glance at your father, Lord Tyrell, who watches the exchange with a cold, calculating gaze.

“So this is why,” you say softly, more to yourself than to anyone else. “This was the reason behind all the rejections… All those men who came to court me, only to be sent away with little more than a polite refusal. You had this planned all along.”

Your father does not deny it. “Sometimes, the right choice is not the one that makes us happy,” he says quietly. “But it is the one that secures our future.”

Daemon’s voice cuts through the tension. “Don’t look so disappointed, Lady Tyrell. You may find our union more… thrilling than you think.” His grin is sly, but there’s something behind it that you can’t quite place.

You take a steadying breath. You don’t have to like this arrangement, but it seems you have little choice in the matter now. Daemon is your fiancé, and the course has already been set.

As the room shifts back into its previous rhythm, the whispers of the courtiers beginning again, you feel a chill settle in your bones. The power dynamics have shifted in ways you couldn’t have predicted, and now you are at the center of it all.

Your life, and your future, are no longer entirely your own.

You stand in the newly prepared chamber, its walls draped in fine silks and the soft glow of candlelight flickering across the polished stone floor. The room feels both grand and foreign to you, filled with the weight of the Targaryen legacy, yet it is still undeniably your own—at least for now. The heavy, regal scent of incense fills the air, and everything in the room seems meticulously arranged for your new life.

Your mother, Lady Tyrell, stands near the window, her gaze fixed on the far-off horizon, as if she is contemplating something far beyond the stone walls of this keep. The silence between you is thick with unspoken words, but you can feel her eyes shift toward you, sensing your presence without turning.

“Mother,” you begin, your voice steady but tinged with a mixture of confusion and something deeper. “You are part of House Targaryen by blood, yet now you’re asking me to bind myself to them through marriage. Is this truly the best course for our House?”

She finally turns to face you, her expression unreadable but her eyes sharp. For a moment, there’s a flicker of something, a vulnerability, before it is quickly masked.

“It is not just about bloodlines, my dear,” she says softly, her voice carrying the weight of experience. “The strength of our House is not in our name alone but in the alliances we forge. House Targaryen is the most powerful in the realm. A marriage to Daemon… well, it solidifies our position in ways that words alone cannot.”

You stare at her, trying to make sense of her cold pragmatism, yet beneath it, there is something you almost cannot place. She speaks with such certainty, such authority, as if her entire life has been leading up to this moment.

“But what of me?” you ask, a thread of frustration slipping into your tone. “What of my future? My happiness?”

Lady Tyrell steps closer to you, her gaze softening just slightly, though her resolve remains strong. “You are not the first woman to be wed for the good of her family. And you will not be the last. But remember this, child: House Tyrell will endure, and so will you. You are not just a pawn, but a queen in the making. Your sacrifices will carry our name far and wide, and that is something that will outlast any personal longing.”

You want to argue, to voice the doubts and fears that have been swirling in your mind ever since the announcement. But there’s something in her voice—something both comforting and chilling—that silences you.

You look down at the fine silks draped over the bed, the delicate embroidery woven with care, and for the first time, you realize the cost of this union. It’s not just about power. It’s about the future of House Tyrell. And you, whether you like it or not, have become its instrument.

“Will I ever truly have a choice in any of this?” you ask, the words barely escaping your lips before you can stop them.

Your mother steps forward and places a hand on your shoulder, her grip firm, almost too firm. “You always have a choice,” she says quietly. “But know this: sometimes the right choice isn’t the one that will bring you immediate joy. It’s the one that will ensure survival, legacy, and honor.”

You nod slowly, feeling the weight of her words settle into your bones. There is no turning back now. You are bound to this marriage, to Daemon, to a future that will not be of your choosing.

But as you meet your mother’s gaze, something inside you stirs—determination, perhaps, or the beginning of a plan of your own. This life might not be the one you imagined, but that doesn’t mean you have to accept it without shaping it in your own way.

And with that thought, you look at your mother one last time. “I will make sure House Tyrell does not just survive, but thrives,” you say, your voice quiet but resolute.

She gives you a nod, the faintest hint of a smile on her lips. “I know you will.”

Your words hang in the air, heavy with doubt and defiance. “Becoming a queen? Even Daemon is just the second son,” you say, your voice tinged with frustration. You didn’t mean to speak so openly, but the realization of your situation is too much to bear. How could you possibly be married to someone like Daemon, the second son of House Targaryen, whose ambitions and wild nature are known across the realm?

At the sound of your words, a sharp silence fills the room, and in an instant, you feel the change in the atmosphere. Your father, Lord Tyrell, who had been so composed, now stands rigid, his eyes narrowed with a cold, burning fury.

“Do not question my decisions,” he says, his voice low but firm, each word biting through the air like a blade. The heat of his anger is palpable, and his gaze hardens as he steps closer, his presence towering over you. “Daemon is not just any second son. He is a Targaryen. And his blood is powerful enough to change the course of this realm.”

You can feel your heart pounding in your chest as his words sink in. This is no longer a family discussion; it’s an assertion of power, of authority. Your father’s hand tightens into a fist, and you know that questioning him now is not a luxury you can afford.

“I have done what is necessary,” he continues, his voice steady, though there is an edge to it now. “House Tyrell’s future is secured by this union. It is not a matter of titles or birth order. It is a matter of survival, of influence. And you will marry Daemon, whether you like it or not.”

You swallow hard, the tension in the room thickening. The implications of his words are clear—there is no room for rebellion in this decision. Your personal desires, your future hopes, they mean nothing in the face of what your father believes is best for the family. You can see the finality in his eyes.

“But father,” you protest, your voice trembling slightly despite your best efforts to remain strong. “This is not the life I wanted. This is not the future I dreamed of.”

Your father’s expression softens only slightly, but there is no trace of remorse in his eyes. “Dreams are for children,” he replies, his tone hardening again. “The realm is ruled by power, not dreams. You will adapt. And in time, you will understand.”

Your mother, Lady Tyrell, steps forward now, her presence steady and calm as always, but her eyes meet yours with an expression that speaks volumes. She says nothing at first, allowing your father’s words to settle. Then, her gaze softens, and she places a hand gently on your arm, her touch warm but firm.

“I know this is difficult,” she says quietly, her voice carrying the weight of years of experience. “But your father is right. This is not just a marriage. It is the future of our House. And your role in this is not one to be taken lightly. You must think beyond yourself for the good of everyone you love.”

You want to fight back, to argue that your happiness should matter, but the reality of your situation presses in. This is the life you will have now—the life your parents have chosen for you.

With a heavy sigh, you turn away from them, facing the window, your eyes tracing the distant horizon, where the sun is setting. You are trapped in a life you didn’t choose, and for the first time, you feel the full weight of that reality.

You freeze as you hear the soft rustling of fabric and the faint sound of footsteps. Turning swiftly, you spot Daemon emerging from the shadows at the far end of your chamber, his presence as commanding as ever. He moves with a fluid grace, almost as if he’s accustomed to walking unnoticed, and before you can fully react, he’s already standing close, his piercing eyes fixed on you with an intensity that makes your heart race.

Daemon reaches out, his fingers brushing lightly against your cheek, and you can feel the warmth of his touch, despite the coldness in the room. The gesture is unexpected, and for a moment, you’re caught off guard—unsure of whether to push him away or allow the contact.

“Did you think I wouldn’t come?” he asks, his voice low, his smirk barely concealed. There’s something almost mocking in the way he says it, as if the idea of you being alone, contemplating your future, amuses him. “You are not the first bride-to-be to feel lost in this place, but don’t worry, I’ll make sure you aren’t alone for long.”

You pull back slightly, trying to regain your composure. His presence fills the room in a way that’s both unsettling and undeniably magnetic. He seems to relish the power he holds over the situation, over you. It’s clear that he’s not here just for casual conversation.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” you say, your voice sharp despite the uncertainty creeping in. “This is my room, not a place for you to wander in whenever you please.”

Daemon’s smile widens, though there’s a darkness lurking beneath it. He leans closer, his breath warm against your skin. “Expectations can be… limiting,” he murmurs, his hand still lingering on your cheek. “I’m here because I want to be. And I’m not known for following the rules.”

The way he speaks, the confident, almost predatory manner in which he carries himself, unsettles you. Yet there’s an undeniable pull—his presence is commanding, and you can’t help but feel as though you’re caught in his web, whether you like it or not.

“Why are you here?” you ask, your voice quieter now, more cautious. “Is this another game to you, Daemon?”

He tilts his head, studying you as if trying to read the very thoughts behind your eyes. “Games?” His voice is low, almost a whisper. “Perhaps. But I’m not a fool, and neither are you. We both know what this marriage is about. It’s not about love, or even companionship. It’s about power, survival, and what we can make of it.”

His fingers trace your jawline, sending a shiver through your body, but this time, you don’t flinch. “So, yes,” he continues, his voice a little softer, though the intensity still lingers. “It’s a game. But it’s also something more. And you… you have a role to play, whether you accept it or not.”

You stand still, caught between the impulse to push him away and the dawning realization that you must, somehow, find a way to navigate this union, this game, in a way that serves you. Daemon Targaryen may be a powerful figure, but that doesn’t mean you have to submit to him blindly.

“Don’t think you can control me,” you say, your voice firmer now, your eyes locking with his.

Daemon’s smile doesn’t falter, but there’s a flicker of approval in his eyes. “Control?” he repeats, as if savoring the word. “I never said anything about control. But don’t mistake me for a man who will be ignored, either.”

He steps back slightly, his hand falling from your face, but his gaze remains fixed on you—intense, unreadable, and as unpredictable as the storm clouds gathering in the distance. You can feel the tension thick in the air between you, the unspoken challenge hanging heavy.

“Remember,” Daemon adds softly, “this marriage may not be of your choosing, but it will be a union of power, of influence. And how you wield it will be up to you.”

With that, he turns, his cloak swirling behind him as he disappears back into the shadows from where he came, leaving you alone once more, the weight of his words settling in your mind.

You remain standing there for a long moment, your heart still racing, trying to make sense of the encounter. Daemon’s touch, his words, his presence—they all felt like a warning, a challenge, and a promise wrapped into one.

This marriage, this union… it will not be as simple as they want you to believe.

You watch as Daemon slowly fades into the shadows, his presence still lingering in the room, as if he has left behind more than just his physical form. A cold shiver runs down your spine, a mix of unease and something deeper—something you can’t quite name. You remain rooted in place for a long moment, trying to shake off the lingering feeling of his touch, his words, but they refuse to leave you.

With a deep, steadying breath, you turn away from the dark corner of the room, trying to collect your thoughts. You had expected your life to change, but not like this. Not with Daemon, not with the weight of House Targaryen looming over you. Yet, here you are, standing at the precipice of a future you never asked for, and there’s no turning back now.

Just as you’re lost in thought, the door creaks open, and several servants step inside, moving briskly toward you. They are efficient and polite, with no hint of judgment or curiosity in their eyes—just the practiced grace of those accustomed to serving in the Red Keep.

“My lady, it is time to prepare for the evening’s festivities,” one of them announces softly, her voice respectful but gentle. “your father requests that you be ready soon.”

You nod, taking a deep breath, and allow yourself to be guided toward the preparations. The weight of your thoughts shifts to the evening ahead. The grand dance, the ceremonial waltz of power and politics that you are now an integral part of. It’s strange to think of yourself as a player in this grand court, a mere pawn in a game that stretches far beyond your reach.

The servants begin to undress you with practiced care, replacing your simple clothes with the intricate, heavy gown that has been prepared for you. The fabric feels foreign against your skin—rich, cold, and undeniably royal. They twist your hair into an elegant updo, tucking every strand into place as if to remind you that tonight, you are not just yourself—you are a symbol of House Tyrell’s power, a future princess.

As they work, you find your mind drifting back to Daemon. His words replay in your head, his touch lingering on your skin. Despite everything, despite the storm of thoughts in your mind, you know one thing for certain: this night is only the beginning. The beginning of a journey you cannot avoid, no matter how hard you try.

Once they finish, the final touches are made, and you look at your reflection in the mirror. You are ready—at least, outwardly. Inside, the battle between your duty and your desires rages on. But there’s no time to dwell on that now. The evening awaits, and your role in it is clear.

As the final servant leaves, you take a deep breath and turn toward the door. Tonight, you will step into the world of the Targaryens, the world that Daemon has invited you into, and you will have to play the part. There will be no room for hesitation or doubt.

With one last glance at your reflection, you leave the room, walking toward the unknown that awaits you in the grand hall.

You gaze at your reflection in the mirror, the red gown clinging to your body in all the right places, the intricate design and fabric of the dress making you look like something both regal and untouchable. The deep crimson hue mirrors the fiery determination and turmoil churning inside you. Your hair is styled flawlessly, and you feel a strange mixture of power and vulnerability in the reflection staring back at you.

Just as you’re about to turn away, one of the servants steps forward, holding a small, velvet-lined box in her hands. She approaches quietly, her eyes respectful as she presents it to you. “My lady,” she says softly, “Prince Daemon has sent this for you to wear tonight.”

Your heart skips a beat at the mention of Daemon, and a wave of unease floods over you. The box is opened, revealing the most beautiful piece of jewelry you’ve ever seen. Nestled within the box is a stunning ruby necklace, its deep red color rich and intense, like the blood of kings. It glistens in the light, its intricate design made of gold and delicate filigree, catching the light in such a way that it almost seems to pulse with life.

“His Grace requested that you wear this tonight,” the servant continues, her voice barely above a whisper, as if she knows the weight this piece of jewelry carries. “It is a gift for the evening’s festivities.”

Your fingers hover over the necklace, and for a moment, you feel the weight of Daemon’s gaze upon you. His presence, his influence, it is all around you now—through his words, through his gift. The necklace, while beautiful, feels more like a symbol than an ornament. It feels like a chain, a reminder of the role you’re about to play in the world of Targaryen politics.

You take the necklace from the box, and the servant helps you place it around your neck, fastening the clasp with careful hands. The cool weight of the ruby against your skin sends a shiver through you, but you force yourself to remain still, to remain composed. You are no longer just a Tyrell. You are now something more, something that belongs to the Targaryens—whether you like it or not.

As the servant steps back, you take a deep breath and adjust the necklace, staring at your reflection once more. You look every bit the part of a princess, of someone who belongs in the Targaryen court. But inside, the questions still linger. What does Daemon want from you with this gift? What does it mean? Is this a sign of favor—or something more insidious?

With a final glance at the servant, you nod to yourself. This night is inevitable, and you will walk into it with your head held high, no matter what Daemon’s intentions may be. The game is on, and whether you like it or not, you are a player now.

You leave your chamber, stepping into the hallway where the sound of music and laughter grows louder, and you move toward your fate. The ruby around your neck feels heavier with each step, as if it carries the weight of a thousand unspoken words.

As you approach the grand doors of the throne room, your parents stand waiting, the regal elegance of their presence undeniable. Your father, Lord Tyrell, stands tall, his face a mask of calm authority, while your mother, Lady Tyrell, gazes at you with an expression of quiet admiration. Her eyes soften as they trace the delicate ruby necklace around your neck, and for a brief moment, you feel the weight of her approval. It’s a look that says so much more than words ever could, as if she understands the path you are being forced to walk, and yet, she is proud of how you carry yourself.

Your heart races as you take a deep breath, steeling yourself for the moment ahead. This is it. This is the night where everything changes, and you step into a new world—a world of power, influence, and uncertainty. The weight of your new reality presses down on you like a mantle, but you hold your head high as you walk toward the doors.

The sound of the guards’ footsteps echoes in the hall, and as you reach the entrance, the heavy doors swing open. The loud voice of a herald announces your arrival.

“Presenting Lord and Lady Tyrell, and their daughter, Lady Tyrell, betrothed to Prince Daemon Targaryen!”

The words ring out across the vast chamber, and the eyes of everyone in the room fall on you. The grand hall of the Red Keep is filled with nobles, courtiers, and various dignitaries, all gathered for the night’s festivities. But it feels as if all eyes are on you now, studying you, measuring you. Your pulse quickens as you step forward, every movement deliberate and graceful, despite the storm of emotions swirling within.

The throne room is resplendent, with golden chandeliers casting a soft light over the gathered crowd. The walls are adorned with tapestries depicting the history of House Targaryen, their dragons roaring and flying in intricate detail. The air is thick with the scent of fine wine, rich perfumes, and the soft murmurs of conversation. But in this moment, everything seems to slow down as you walk toward the center of the room, where the royal family awaits.

As you approach the royal table, your gaze meets King Jaehaerys, who is seated with an air of quiet power. His eyes flicker over you, an unreadable expression crossing his features before he nods in acknowledgment. Beside him, Prince Baelon stands with his usual stern demeanor, his gaze cool but respectful. And then, of course, there is Daemon. His eyes catch yours the moment you enter, and despite the crowd around him, it feels as though the rest of the world disappears for just a second. His lips curve into a knowing smile, one that sends a mix of unease and curiosity rippling through you.

The moment feels charged, as if everything is hanging in the balance. You are no longer just a Tyrell; you are now a part of the Targaryen story, and tonight will set the stage for everything that follows.

Your parents move to the side, and you step forward, your heart pounding in your chest. This is the moment you must embrace the future, no matter how uncertain it may be. You lower your gaze to the floor, curtsying in respect, before raising your head to meet the eyes of King Jaehaerys, Daemon, and the others.

The crowd watches in silence, the tension thick as the evening unfolds, and the weight of your decision, of this engagement, settles over you like a cloak you cannot cast off.

As you stand before the royal family, your eyes catch a glimpse of the serene and graceful figure of Princess Aemma, the wife of Prince Viserys. Her gentle smile is directed towards you, a silent acknowledgment that, despite everything, you are not alone in this court. Her delicate hand rests on her round belly, the life within her a reminder of the future of House Targaryen. You return her smile with a nod, feeling the weight of the moment settle over you like a heavy cloak.

But your attention is swiftly drawn back to Daemon as he rises from his seat, his movements fluid and confident. The eyes of the room seem to follow him, but he pays them no mind, his gaze fixed entirely on you. His presence is overwhelming, and for a brief moment, the air seems to thicken between you both, the tension palpable.

Daemon approaches you with that same predatory grace, and before you can react, he takes your hand in his. The coolness of his fingers against your skin sends an unexpected chill through you, but you don’t pull away. His touch is firm, commanding, as he raises your hand to his lips, brushing them against your skin in a manner both intimate and public.

The soft rustling of the crowd falls away, and his voice, low and almost a whisper, reaches your ear. “You wear it well,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear. “The ruby. You used it… just as I intended.”

You freeze for a moment, his words striking a chord deep within you. You hadn’t expected him to notice, to connect the necklace to something more than just a simple gift. But there is something in his voice—something that hints at a deeper understanding of the game you are now both playing.

Daemon pulls away slightly, his eyes locking onto yours with a flicker of something unreadable. “The Targaryen blood runs thick, but your Tyrell strength… I can see it in you,” he says, his words both a compliment and a challenge. “Tonight, we show them who we are.”

Before you can fully process what he means, Daemon straightens up, his hand still lingering for just a moment before he releases yours. The world around you feels suddenly more real, the weight of this engagement, this court, this night—everything—is no longer just a distant concept. It is here, in this room, in this moment, and Daemon has just marked you in a way that you can’t ignore.

As he steps back, the music in the hall swells, and the courtiers begin to resume their conversations, the tension in the room slowly dissipating. But you are left with the echo of Daemon’s words in your mind, and the unsettling realization that this night is only the beginning of a journey you have little control over. You straighten your posture, your thoughts racing, but your gaze remains steady.

Daemon may have whispered those words, but you know that the game has just begun, and you will have to play it carefully, whether you’re ready or not.

The music swells, and Daemon steps closer, his gaze never leaving yours. The moment feels charged, the entire room seemingly holding its breath as he places a hand firmly on your waist. You can feel the warmth of his touch through the fabric of your gown, his fingers pressing gently but assertively. The dance has begun.

He leads you onto the floor with the grace of a man who has danced this many times before. His movements are confident, his body guiding you effortlessly through the steps. Despite the eyes of the entire room on you both, the closeness of your bodies feels intimate, almost private, and for a fleeting moment, you wonder if anyone else can see the tension building between you and Daemon.

As you move in rhythm with the music, the world around you blurs, the noise of the court fading into the background. Your focus narrows to Daemon—his steady hand at your waist, the slight tension in his jaw, the way his gaze occasionally flickers to yours, as though testing you. The red ruby around your neck glints under the soft candlelight, and you can’t help but feel the weight of both the necklace and his gaze.

He leans in slightly, his lips just inches from your ear. “You dance beautifully,” he whispers, his voice a velvet caress against your skin, but there’s something dark behind the compliment. “But this… this is just the beginning.”

You meet his gaze, a mix of defiance and uncertainty bubbling inside you. “What do you mean?” you ask, the words slipping from your lips before you can stop them.

Daemon smiles, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Everything here is a dance, my dear. You’ve only just started learning the steps. But we will both master it in time.”

The sound of the courtiers around you begins to fade back in as they join the dance, filling the floor with elegant figures twirling in harmony. Your moment with Daemon becomes a shared performance—everyone around you moving, their eyes trained on you both as you sway together. The music is sweet and slow, but beneath the surface, there’s an undercurrent of something far more dangerous, something unspoken that pulses between you and him.

Your movements grow more synchronized as the dance continues, and soon, the entire room is swept up in the rhythm, the energy of the event building. You can feel the weight of the room’s attention on you, but your thoughts remain fixated on Daemon, his hand never leaving your waist, his presence never wavering.

The dance floor becomes a stage, and in this moment, you and Daemon are the stars of the show, bound by an invisible thread that neither of you can fully unravel.

You make your way toward the royal table, offering a polite but hurried excuse to the courtiers around you. “I’m afraid I’m not feeling well,” you say, your voice laced with just enough feigned fatigue to seem believable. “The journey has left me rather drained.” Your gaze flickers to your parents, who, though surprised, offer a brief nod of understanding. The polite murmurs of the crowd fade as you slip away from the bustling celebration.

The corridors of the Red Keep are quieter now, a welcome contrast to the din of the ballroom. Your steps echo as you move through the familiar halls, each footfall a reminder of the weight on your shoulders, of the whispers and the secrets that hang heavy in the air.

You reach your room, the door creaking softly as you push it open. The room is dimly lit by the flickering glow of the candlelight, and the comforting solitude washes over you. You close the door behind you with a soft click, the world outside suddenly feeling distant and muted.

The weight of the evening’s events settles upon you like a physical burden. You approach the mirror, taking a deep breath. The reflection staring back at you seems foreign, like someone you barely recognize. Slowly, you begin to undo the intricate braids that hold your hair, the strands slipping free with each gentle tug. The weight of the ruby necklace feels heavier now, its once dazzling allure now a symbol of the very thing that has begun to change everything for you. You set it down on the vanity with a quiet finality.

Next, you begin to unlace the tight corset beneath your gown, the fabric finally loosening around your body, allowing you to breathe more freely. The delicate layers of your dress slip away, leaving you in the simpler, more comforting layers of your undergarments. You stand for a moment, letting your body relax, the tension of the evening melting away.

But as the final layer of your gown falls to the floor, leaving you standing in the solitude of your room, the silence feels oppressive. The weight of the words Daemon spoke earlier, the whispers of the court, the uncertainty of your future—all of it feels like a storm waiting to break.

You sit down on the edge of the bed, your mind racing. What had Daemon meant by his words? The future? Power? Survival? Did he truly see this marriage as a partnership, or was it merely another chess piece in a game neither of you had fully agreed to play?

The questions linger, unanswered, as you finally lean back against the pillows. The soft rustling of the fabric around you offers no comfort, no answer to the storm swirling inside you. With a deep breath, you close your eyes, knowing that the days ahead will only grow more complicated.

But for now, at least, you are alone with your thoughts. And that, for just this moment, is all you can bear.

The days have slipped by faster than you could have imagined. One moment, you were standing in the great hall, Daemon’s hand in yours, and now, it feels as though time has run away from you. Tomorrow marks the day that will change everything—the day you will marry Daemon. The realization is both exhilarating and terrifying, and as you sit in your room, your heart beats with a mixture of anticipation and dread.

You stand before a large mirror, the soft candlelight casting gentle shadows on your face. Your mother stands beside you, her hands gently smoothing the fabric of the wedding gown that rests over your body. The dress is a masterpiece, elegant and simple, with intricate lace and delicate pearls woven into the fabric, creating an aura of timeless beauty. The gown feels heavy, as if it carries the weight of the future with it.

“How does it feel, my dear?” your mother asks, her voice soft and warm. There’s a tenderness in her eyes, but also a flicker of something else—concern, perhaps, or fear. She’s seen the way you’ve carried yourself these past few days, the quiet distance in your eyes, the hesitation that lingers in your every movement. She knows how you’re feeling, even if you haven’t spoken the words aloud.

You take a deep breath, looking at your reflection. “It’s… beautiful,” you say, your voice tinged with a hint of uncertainty. “But I can’t help but wonder if I’m ready for this.”

Your mother steps closer, her hands resting gently on your shoulders as she looks at you in the mirror. “You are more than ready, my darling. You’ve always been strong—just like your father, just like me. And tomorrow, you will take the next step in ensuring the future of our house. Daemon… he is a man of power. You know that.”

Her words hang in the air, a reminder of the path that you’ve been set upon. Your mind drifts to Daemon—his presence, his words, the way he made you feel both desired and distant. You still don’t fully understand what he wants from this marriage, or what your role will truly be. But one thing is certain: this union will define your future, for better or worse.

“You know, you don’t have to go through with this if you truly feel it’s not right,” your mother continues, her voice soft, as if sensing the turmoil inside you. “But remember, sometimes the choices we make are for the greater good. For our family. For our legacy.”

You look up at her then, meeting her gaze in the mirror. “I know,” you say quietly, the weight of her words sinking in. “I just wish I knew what I was getting myself into.”

Your mother smiles gently, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. “No one ever truly knows what lies ahead. But you’re not alone in this. You have the strength of the Tyrells and the wisdom of the Targaryens in your blood. You will find your way.”

Her reassurance brings you a measure of comfort, but a knot of uncertainty still lingers in your chest. As you stand there in the gown, the future seems both distant and frighteningly close. Tomorrow, you will walk down the aisle, and your life with Daemon will begin.

You glance at your reflection once more, your heart heavy but resolute. No matter what comes next, you will face it with the strength and grace that your family expects of you. The time for hesitation is over. Tomorrow, you will step into your new life, whatever that may bring.

You freeze for a moment, the sudden sound of Daemon’s voice breaking the quiet of your room. You hadn’t heard him approach, but the smooth, confident tone of his voice tells you he’s been there for longer than you realize. A feeling of both surprise and tension rises in your chest as you glance toward the direction of the sound, your gaze following the faint rustling of the curtains.

Daemon steps into the soft moonlight, his presence as commanding as ever, even in the stillness of your chamber. In his hand, he holds a glass of wine, the ruby liquid catching the light as he approaches you. His gaze is steady, watching you with that same intensity that both unnerves and draws you in.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. You just stand there, silently observing each other. His eyes travel over you—the gown you wear, the way the moonlight seems to soften your features, but it’s hard to tell what’s in his mind. You can feel the weight of the unspoken words hanging in the air between you, a sense of anticipation that seems to fill the room.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Daemon finally says, his voice low, almost amused. “But I thought you might need something to help ease your nerves.” He holds out the glass toward you, the offering an unexpected gesture. The deep red wine glows softly in the dim light, tempting you with its warmth.

You study him for a moment, wondering why he’s here, why he’s come so late. Is it simply to check on you before tomorrow, or is there something more? A flicker of uncertainty tugs at your chest, but you quickly push it away. You’ve already made your choice.

You walk toward him, your steps quiet on the stone floor, and reach for the glass. His fingers brush yours briefly, sending an unexpected jolt through your body. His touch lingers for just a heartbeat longer than necessary before he releases the glass into your hand.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice a little softer than you intended, your eyes briefly meeting his. For a moment, you think you see a flash of something deeper in his gaze—an unreadable emotion that quickly disappears behind his usual guarded expression.

Daemon leans against the wall, his posture relaxed but his eyes never leaving you. “Tomorrow,” he begins, his voice now lower, “changes everything. You know that, don’t you?"

You nod, your fingers tightening around the stem of the glass as the weight of his words settles in. “I do,” you reply quietly, unsure of how much more to say.

“Good,” he murmurs, the hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Because it’s not just the kingdom that will change tomorrow. You will, too. And there’s no turning back.”

The finality of his words hangs in the air, a reminder that once you step into tomorrow, there is no going back to the life you once knew. You can feel the tension rising between you both, a complex mix of emotions that neither of you has fully expressed yet.

Daemon steps closer again, his presence filling the space between you. His voice drops to a whisper, just low enough that it feels like an intimate confession. “But I think you already know that. And perhaps… you’re ready for it.”

You hold his gaze for a moment longer, wondering what he truly means by that.

Your breath catches in your throat as you feel Daemon’s lips brush against yours. The kiss is brief but electric, sending a shiver through your entire body. It’s soft, almost tender, yet laced with an undeniable intensity. Before you can fully process what’s happening, Daemon pulls back, his lips curling into that familiar, enigmatic smile.

Without saying a word, he turns, his movements graceful and confident, and steps back into the shadows. The room seems to grow even quieter as he fades into the darkness, leaving you alone with a lingering warmth on your lips and a rush of confusion swirling in your chest.

You stand frozen for a moment, the kiss echoing in your mind, its meaning elusive. You lift a trembling hand to your lips, feeling the faint trace of his touch still there. What was that? What did it mean? And why did he leave without another word?

The silence in the room feels deafening now. The wine in your hand, once a source of comfort, suddenly feels heavy. You don’t know if you’re ready for the emotional storm that’s brewing inside you, the mixture of desire, fear, and uncertainty that Daemon has stirred within you with a single, fleeting kiss.

Your mind races, and for a long moment, you just stand there, trying to collect yourself. His words, his actions—they’re a mystery you don’t yet have the answers to. And as the last traces of his presence fade into the night, you’re left with more questions than before.

What do you truly want from this marriage? From him? And how much of yourself are you willing to give away in the pursuit of a future that is no longer entirely yours to shape?

The night feels heavier now, the weight of everything pressing down on you as you stand alone, still feeling the warmth of his touch on your lips.

The day has finally arrived. The weight of it presses down on you as you sit in front of the large mirror in your chamber. The room is alive with movement—your mother directing the servants, Aemma offering quiet words of encouragement, and your handmaidens working carefully to perfect every detail of your appearance.

Your wedding gown is a masterpiece. The fabric shimmers faintly with every movement, a blend of white and pale gold, symbolizing both your Tyrell roots and the union with House Targaryen. The lacework is intricate, delicate flowers and vines winding along the sleeves and bodice. Around your waist, a small belt of golden roses serves as a subtle nod to your house. The long, flowing train trails behind you like a river of silk, and the soft veil drapes over your head, light as air, yet it feels heavier with each passing second.

Your hair has been braided in the traditional Targaryen style, an acknowledgment of the house you will now be tied to. The braids are adorned with tiny pearl pins that catch the light as you move, and strands of your hair frame your face softly. One of your handmaidens carefully places the final flower—a pale blue lily—among the braids, a finishing touch that makes you look almost ethereal.

“Look at you,” your mother says, her voice filled with pride as she stands behind you. Her hands rest gently on your shoulders, and you see her reflection in the mirror. Her gaze is soft, though there’s something more in her eyes—a mixture of pride, sadness, and perhaps a hint of worry. “You look every bit the queen you were always meant to be.”

“Not a queen,” you reply softly, your gaze fixed on your reflection. “A princess, a wife.”

“A princess today,” Aemma interjects gently, stepping forward. She places a hand on your cheek, her smile kind and knowing. “But tomorrow, who knows what fate will bring? Queens are not born, child. They are made.” Her words linger, filling you with something you can’t quite name—hope, perhaps, or warning.

You take a slow breath, glancing at your reflection. For a moment, you barely recognize yourself. You look regal, untouchable, like one of the porcelain figures you used to play with as a child. But beneath all the silk, pearls, and flowers, it is still you—just a girl about to face something far greater than she ever imagined.

“Does it feel right?” Aemma asks, tilting her head as she studies you closely. “The gown, the flowers, all of it?”

You glance at your mother, who looks at you with quiet encouragement, and then back at Aemma. “It feels… heavier than I expected,” you admit, your fingers brushing the fabric of your dress. “But I suppose that’s how it’s meant to be, isn’t it? Every choice we make feels heavier when it becomes permanent.”

“Wise words,” Aemma says with a soft smile. “But know this—you may feel bound by duty, by house and family, but you are not without power. Do not forget that.”

Her words offer you a brief sense of reassurance, though they also stir something deeper inside you. Power. It is a word that has followed you like a shadow ever since your betrothal was announced.

The servants step back, their work complete. One of them hands you your bouquet—a carefully arranged bundle of white roses, blue lilies, and soft green leaves. The floral scent is fresh, clean, and grounding.

“Take one last look,” your mother says as she steps aside. “Because the next time you see yourself like this, you’ll be walking down that aisle.”

You glance once more at your reflection, taking in every detail. The girl you see is no longer the same person she was yesterday. She is poised, elegant, and strong. But beneath it all, she is still you.

With a deep breath, you rise from your seat, the weight of the gown settling around you like armor. Your mother adjusts your veil one last time, letting it fall perfectly behind you. Aemma offers you a reassuring smile, her gaze firm and steady.

“It’s time,” your mother says softly, her voice filled with emotion she tries to hide. “Are you ready?”

Your heart beats steadily in your chest, a steady rhythm that echoes through your entire being. You grip the bouquet tightly, feeling its thorns pressing faintly against your fingers.

“I am,” you say, your voice clear and certain. “I’m ready.”

With that, you turn toward the door, your veil trailing behind you like a river of light. The world outside awaits—the noble houses, the court, and Daemon himself. Each step you take will lead you closer to a future you can no longer escape, but one that, perhaps, you can still shape.

The rhythmic creaking of the carriage wheels fills the air as you sit beside your mother and father, the weight of the moment pressing heavily on your chest. Your fingers twist anxiously around the fabric of your gown, the silk smooth and cool beneath your fingertips. Despite the grandeur of the occasion, your heart beats loudly in your ears, drowning out the soft murmurs of your parents.

Your mother notices your fidgeting and places a gentle hand over yours. Her touch is warm, grounding you as she gazes at you with that calm, steady look she always gives you in moments of doubt. “Breathe, sweetling,” she says softly, her voice barely audible over the clatter of the carriage. “You look perfect. Every eye will be on you, but they will see only your grace and beauty.”

Her words are meant to reassure you, but they only make the weight in your chest feel heavier. Every eye will be on you. Not as yourself, but as a symbol of something greater — a marriage that would bind House Tyrell and House Targaryen forever.

Your father sits across from you, his hands resting on the head of his cane, his gaze fixed firmly out the window. He has been unusually quiet since you left the Red Keep, his expression unreadable. His sharp eyes flicker toward you for a brief moment, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

“You’re doing what’s expected of you,” he says suddenly, his tone firm but not unkind. “This marriage is your duty, and you will fulfill it with dignity and strength.” His words are as sharp as ever, but there is a strange sort of pride beneath them. He has always spoken to you this way, as if molding you into something unbreakable. Today is no different.

You nod, though his words leave a hollow ache in your chest. Duty. Dignity. Strength. You’ve heard them all your life. They have guided you, shaped you, and now, they are about to define you.

The light filtering through the carriage window shifts as the carriage begins to slow. You glance out and feel your breath catch in your throat. The Great Sept of Baelor rises before you, its grand domes and stained glass windows glistening in the morning sun like a crown of jewels. People line the streets, their voices a mixture of cheers, gasps, and murmured prayers. Flowers are scattered on the ground, a soft path of white petals leading to the steps of the Sept.

The sight is breathtaking — and overwhelming. You feel the full weight of every gaze upon you. They are here for the spectacle, to witness history in the making. They do not see you. They see a bride, a symbol, a promise of power and legacy.

The carriage comes to a slow stop, the clattering of wheels replaced by the distant hum of the crowd. Your heart beats faster. This is it. No turning back. No running away.

“Stand tall,” your father says as he steps down from the carriage first, offering his hand to help you descend. “Show them who you are.”

Your mother exits next, giving you one last glance filled with quiet encouragement. Her eyes glisten, though she blinks away whatever emotion threatens to show.

Finally, it is your turn. The carriage door swings open, and the soft breeze of the open air greets you. Your eyes catch the first glimmers of sunlight reflecting off the stained glass of the Sept, casting colors of blue, red, and green across the stone steps. You take a breath, slow and steady, letting it fill your lungs. Show them who you are.

You place your hand in your father’s, his grip strong and steady, and step out of the carriage. The crowd erupts into cheers. The air is filled with the scent of flowers and incense, the warmth of the sun on your skin making everything feel surreal. Every eye is on you. Just as your mother said.

Your gaze remains forward as you ascend the steps, the long train of your gown flowing behind you like a river of silk and lace. The Great Sept’s bells ring in the distance, their deep, resounding chimes echoing across King’s Landing. It is a sound that makes the air feel heavier, more sacred.

At the top of the steps, waiting for you at the grand entrance, is Daemon. His silver hair gleams like molten silver in the sun, his armor polished to perfection, but it’s his eyes that catch you. He is watching you with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe. His gaze is not like the crowd’s. It is sharper, more deliberate, like he sees you and no one else.

He stands tall in his Targaryen armor, the three-headed dragon emblazoned on his chest. There is no crown on his head, but he looks every bit a prince. His smirk is subtle, barely there, but you see it. That quiet confidence, that knowing look that tells you he is fully aware of the spectacle before him — and he enjoys it.

As you approach, his eyes remain on you, unwavering, unreadable. The steps seem longer than they should be, each one a reminder of how far you’ve come. Finally, you reach him, and for a brief moment, it is just the two of you. The world fades away — the crowd, the bells, the weight of duty — and all that remains is him.

Daemon steps forward, his gaze never leaving yours. He extends a hand to you, and for a heartbeat, you hesitate. Is this truly what you want? you wonder. But then you remember Aemma’s words. Queens are not born. They are made.

With steady resolve, you place your hand in his. His fingers curl around yours, firm and warm. He leans in, close enough that only you can hear him.

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs, his voice laced with amusement. “Nervous, little flower?”

You lift your head slightly, meeting his gaze with all the strength you can summon. “No,” you reply firmly, though your heart betrays you with its quickened pace. “I am simply ready.”

His smirk widens just a fraction, a glimmer of something playful, perhaps even impressed. He turns, leading you inside the Great Sept. The light from the stained glass windows paints the stone floor in brilliant hues of red, blue, and green. Each step echoes softly as you walk together, hand in hand, toward the altar where the High Septon awaits.

The nobles of Westeros line the aisles, all eyes on you once more. You see familiar faces among them—lords and ladies from noble houses, your family, and even Aemma, watching you with quiet pride. Whispers follow your every move, but you do not falter.

As you approach the altar, the High Septon raises his hands, calling for silence. The Sept grows still. You can hear every breath, every faint shift of cloth. Daemon stands beside you, his hand still holding yours. You glance at him briefly, and for the first time, he is not looking at the crowd, the Septon, or the nobles. He is looking at you.

“Let us begin,” the High Septon declares, his voice echoing through the hall.

The ceremony is a blur of words, oaths, and promises. You speak them all clearly, every vow falling from your lips with certainty. Daemon’s voice is steady as he repeats the words, his eyes never leaving yours. The world feels smaller now, like it’s only the two of you standing there.

When it is done, the High Septon raises his hands. “By the light of the Seven, I declare them husband and wife. May their union be strong, their line unbroken, and their love enduring.”

The Sept erupts in applause. The sound crashes over you like a wave, and for a moment, you are breathless. The High Septon turns to Daemon with a nod.

“You may kiss your bride, Prince Daemon.”

Daemon steps closer, his eyes narrowing in that familiar, wicked way. Slowly, he lifts your veil, his fingers brushing your cheek as he pushes it back. The crowd fades once more, the sound of their cheers dull and distant.

He tilts his head slightly, eyes locked on yours, as if daring you to look away. But you don’t. You meet his gaze, unwavering, unafraid.

“Here we are,” he murmurs, his voice just for you.

“Here we are,” you reply, and before you can say anything more, his lips are on yours.

The kiss is firm, claiming, and yet somehow soft. The world seems to hold its breath as Daemon Targaryen, your husband, pulls you closer. His hand rests at the small of your back, grounding you, anchoring you to this moment. The cheers of the crowd grow louder, but you hardly hear them.

The cheers of the crowd still echo in your ears as you sit beside Daemon in the carriage. The air is thick with the sweet scent of flowers from the Great Sept, and the faint clattering of hooves on cobblestone fills the silence between you. Your gown feels heavier than it did before, the weight of everything — the vows, the kiss, the future — pressing down on you.

Daemon sits beside you, one leg crossed over the other, his arm draped casually along the edge of the seat. His silver hair catches the faint glow of sunlight that seeps through the window, making him look like something out of legend. He tilts his head toward you, his eyes sharp, watchful, and filled with something you can’t quite name.

“You’re quiet,” he says, his voice smooth as silk. His gaze flickers to your hands, which rest neatly in your lap, fingers still clutching the edge of your gown. “Nervous, little flower?”

You turn your head to meet his gaze, your expression calm despite the storm of thoughts in your mind. “I have no reason to be,” you reply, your voice steady, though a hint of weariness slips through. “I did as was expected of me. And now, so have you.”

His eyes narrow, amusement tugging at the corner of his lips. “Expected of me?” He shifts, leaning forward, his face closer to yours now. His voice drops to a low murmur, carrying the weight of something more dangerous. “You think I wed you out of duty alone?”

You hold his gaze, refusing to look away. “Isn’t that what marriage is for people like us? Duty and power. Nothing more.”

There is a pause — a flicker of something that could be surprise or intrigue in his eyes. Then, he lets out a soft, short laugh, leaning back into his seat. “Perhaps. But power comes in many forms, little wife. And duty… well, it tastes sweeter when shared with someone clever.”

His words linger in the air like smoke, curling around your thoughts. You glance at him, studying his face for any sign of sincerity or mockery, but, as always, he is impossible to read.

“You sound as though you plan to enjoy it,” you say cautiously, tilting your head ever so slightly.

His grin widens, wicked and knowing. “I always enjoy what is mine.”

His words send a shiver down your spine, though you do not show it. What is mine. There it is again — that sense of possession, of control. You are his now, by law, by faith, and by the eyes of every noble in Westeros. But just as he has claimed you, you have claimed him.

The carriage jostles slightly as it moves over uneven ground, and the sound of the crowd begins to fade into the distance. Your gaze shifts to the window, watching as the familiar towers of the Red Keep draw closer. The sun glints off the red stone walls, and you feel a strange mix of relief and dread.

The feast awaits. Another spectacle, another performance. More eyes, more whispers, more judgment. It would not end, not today, not ever.

“Are you afraid of them?” Daemon asks suddenly, his eyes still fixed on you. “The nobles. The lords and ladies who will watch your every move tonight.”

You glance at him, your brows furrowing just slightly. “Should I be?”

He hums thoughtfully, his eyes dancing with mischief. “No. They are like hounds, sniffing for weakness. But if you show them none, they will kneel.” He leans closer, his voice soft but sharp as a blade. “Show them the rose, but never the thorn. That is how you win.”

His words echo something your father once told you. It is a lesson you have heard all your life, but hearing it from Daemon makes it feel different. He is not like your father. He is wild flame, not tempered steel.

“Wise words, husband,” you reply, turning to face him fully. Your eyes meet his, unwavering. “But I am not just a rose. I have thorns, and I know when to use them.”

His eyes darken with something you can’t name. Amusement? Respect? Perhaps both. He leans back once more, his grin widening as he taps a finger against his knee.

“Good,” he says, his voice like a purr. “I would hate to have a boring wife.”

Silence settles over the carriage once more, but it is different now. The tension is still there, but it has shifted — no longer suffocating, but sharp and aware. You feel it in the way Daemon watches you, like a cat watching a bird just out of reach. He is testing you, just as you are testing him.

The gates of the Red Keep loom ahead. The sun dips lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the courtyard. The clatter of the carriage wheels begins to slow, the gentle pull of momentum drawing to a stop. Outside, you hear the distant calls of guards and the sound of footsteps.

Your heart tightens for a moment, knowing what comes next. Another performance, another step toward a future you cannot escape.

Daemon is already on his feet before the carriage door is even opened. The guards outside pull it wide, and the light spills in, illuminating his figure as he steps out first, his black and red cloak sweeping behind him like wings. He turns back, his hand outstretched toward you.

You hesitate, but only for a heartbeat. With a deep breath, you place your hand in his, letting him guide you down from the carriage. The crowd within the Red Keep courtyard is smaller but no less watchful. Nobles, servants, and guards alike pause in their tasks to turn and watch. You feel their stares like pinpricks on your skin.

Daemon’s grip on your hand tightens just slightly as you walk together, side by side. His head is held high, his posture that of a dragon who knows he is feared. You mirror him, lifting your chin as you walk with steady grace, every step measured, deliberate, queenly.

The nobles bow as you pass, some low, some shallow, but all respectful. Whispers follow you like the rustle of leaves in the wind. You catch snatches of their words — “beautiful,” “Tyrell,” “Targaryen bride.” The names of houses swirl around you like a storm, but you do not react. You are stone, unyielding, unbreakable.

As you approach the entrance to the Keep, Daemon leans in, his voice low and teasing by your ear. “They’ll be watching you all night, little flower. Waiting to see if you wilt.”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Then let them watch. A rose does not wilt in the eyes of lesser flowers.”

Daemon laughs, a genuine, full laugh that echoes off the stone walls. The sound draws more stares, but neither of you care. His eyes gleam with something dangerous and delighted as he gazes at you, his bride, his wife.

“I knew it would be you,” he says softly, just for you. “From the moment I saw you in the Sept. No one else would have suited me.”

You glance up at him, brow raised. “I wonder, husband, if that is meant as a compliment or a warning.”

“Both,” he says, his grin sharp as a blade.

He guides you inside the Red Keep, where the torches burn brighter than the sun outside. The air is filled with the distant hum of music, the clinking of goblets, and the scent of roasted meat and sweetwine. The wedding feast awaits. Lords and ladies will gather, faces hidden behind smiles and masks of courtesy. There will be toasts, jests, and glances filled with envy and doubt.

But you are not afraid.

Daemon’s words echo in your mind. Show them the rose, but never the thorn.

No. You will show them both.

With each step deeper into the Red Keep, you feel the weight of your new role settle on your shoulders. You glance once more at Daemon, his eyes forward, his confidence as unshakable as the stones of Dragonstone itself.

Your grip on his hand tightens.

He glances down at you, eyes sharp and curious.

“You and I,” you murmur, low and certain, “will be more than they ever expected.”

Daemon tilts his head, his eyes narrowing with interest, his smirk returning in full force. “Yes,” he says, his voice filled with dangerous promise. “We will.”

And as you enter the grand hall where your wedding feast awaits, you feel it — the power in every glance, every step, every breath. This is your night. Your house may have offered you up as a rose, but you will bloom as something far more dangerous.

They will see your beauty.

But soon, they will know your thorns.

The grand doors to the throne room swing open with a low, resonating creak. The light of a hundred flickering torches dances on the polished stone floor, illuminating the space with a warm, golden glow. The cold, commanding aura of the Iron Throne is softened by the vibrant colors of the decorations. Rich red and gold banners hang from the high ceilings, sigils of House Targaryen and House Tyrell displayed side by side. Flower arrangements — red roses for your house, and dragonfire lilies for his — fill the room with a heady, sweet fragrance.

Daemon’s hand rests firmly on yours as he guides you inside, his grip steady and possessive. Your gown sweeps behind you like a river of white and gold, the delicate embroidery shimmering with every step. The room is filled with nobles from every corner of Westeros, their eyes fixed on you. Lords and ladies bow their heads as you pass, their gazes sharp with curiosity, envy, and judgment.

“All eyes on us, little flower,” Daemon murmurs lowly, his voice laced with amusement. “They’ll be watching to see if the rose wilts under the weight of the dragon.”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, tilting your head slightly as you whisper back, “Let them watch. I’ll show them how a rose blooms under fire.”

His grin widens, sharp and wolfish, and his grip on your hand tightens for a moment in approval.

At the far end of the hall, King Jaehaerys sits on the Iron Throne, regal as ever despite his years. His white beard flows down his chest, and his eyes, though kind, are watchful. At his side stands Prince Baelon, his posture straight and proud, and next to him is Princess Alyssa, who offers you a warm smile. Beside them, Prince Viserys stands with his pregnant wife, Aemma, her hands gently cradling her growing belly.

As you and Daemon approach the royal table, the herald steps forward, his voice booming across the hall.

“Prince Daemon Targaryen and Lady Tyrell, now husband and wife!”

Applause erupts from the crowd, a sea of clapping hands and murmurs of approval. You feel the weight of the moment settle on your shoulders, but you do not falter. With your head held high, you meet the gaze of every noble brave enough to stare for too long.

Daemon leads you to the head table, where two seats have been prepared beside the king. The chair feels larger than it should, its grandeur meant to emphasize the significance of the place you now hold. Daemon sits beside you, his posture relaxed, as though this is where he was always meant to be. He leans back in his chair, his gaze sweeping over the crowd like a dragon surveying its domain.

King Jaehaerys rises from his seat, his golden cloak draped heavily over his shoulders. The room falls silent at once. All eyes turn to the king, and even the faintest whisper dies in the air. He raises a hand, his voice clear and commanding despite his age.

“Today, we bear witness to a union of fire and bloom,” he proclaims, his voice echoing through the hall. “House Targaryen and House Tyrell, bound together in strength, in unity, and in purpose.” He turns his gaze to you and Daemon, his eyes filled with wisdom and authority. “May this marriage be as enduring as the roots of Highgarden and as unyielding as the flames of our dragons.”

Another round of applause fills the hall, and you bow your head in respect. Jaehaerys raises his goblet, and the hall follows, their goblets raised high in the air. “To Prince Daemon and his bride!” he declares.

“To Prince Daemon and his bride!” the crowd echoes, their voices like a chorus of thunder.

Daemon raises his own goblet, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. He leans toward you, his eyes flickering with mischief as he murmurs, “Drink, little flower. They’re watching.”

You glance at him, your eyes narrowing slightly in defiance, but you do as he says. Lifting your goblet, you meet his gaze as you drink, letting the sweet tang of wine linger on your tongue. He watches you closely, his eyes never leaving yours, and for a moment, it feels as though there are only the two of you in the hall, locked in a silent battle of wills.

The music begins to play, the gentle strumming of lutes and the deep hum of drums filling the air. All eyes shift toward the center of the room, where the space has been cleared for the first dance. Daemon rises from his chair, offering his hand to you once more.

“Shall we, wife?” he says with a teasing grin, tilting his head just slightly.

You glance at his hand, then meet his gaze with quiet resolve. Slowly, you place your hand in his, letting him pull you to your feet. The hall watches with anticipation as you step onto the dance floor together. The music shifts, growing louder and more rhythmic, the steady beat of the drums like the thundering of a heartbeat.

Daemon’s hand rests lightly on your waist, his fingers curling ever so slightly as he draws you closer. His other hand takes yours, his grip firm but not forceful. Your free hand settles on his shoulder, fingers lightly grazing the fabric of his tunic. For a moment, the world narrows down to the space between you and him. His eyes lock onto yours, sharp as Valyrian steel, and you feel the hum of energy between you.

“Don’t look down,” he says softly, his voice so close to your ear that it sends a shiver down your spine. “They’re watching.”

You tilt your head, lips curving into a faint smile. “Then let them watch.”

The dance begins.

The two of you move with the music, each step practiced but not without grace. Your movements are precise, every turn and spin guided by his hands. The room blurs around you, faces melding into indistinct shapes as you focus on Daemon — on his eyes, his smirk, the way he moves with the confidence of a man who has never doubted himself.

He twirls you, and your gown flares out like petals in bloom. Gasps and murmurs of admiration rise from the crowd. When he pulls you back to him, his hand presses firmly against your back, his eyes dark with something more intense than pride.

“You’re doing well,” he murmurs, his voice low and smooth. “But I expected no less from you.”

“Careful, husband,” you reply, your breath even despite the pace of the dance. “Compliments from you sound dangerously close to affection.”

His grin is quick, wicked. “Perhaps I’m feeling generous tonight.”

The final note of the music echoes through the hall, and the two of you come to a stop. You’re so close that you can see every flicker of firelight reflected in his violet eyes. Your heart pounds in your chest, but not from the dance alone. His gaze holds you in place, unrelenting and unwavering.

The room erupts into applause, loud and thunderous. Lords and ladies rise from their seats, clapping and cheering. Daemon releases you slowly, his fingers trailing down your arm as if reluctant to let you go. His eyes linger on you for just a moment longer before he turns to the crowd, his grin sharper than ever.

He raises a hand, silencing the applause. “Eat, drink, and be merry,” he calls out, his voice cutting through the noise. “For tonight, we celebrate not just a union, but a conquest.” His eyes flick to you, his grin curling into something more dangerous. “A victory for us both.”

The lords cheer, raising their goblets high, and the servants begin to bring forth trays of food and pitchers of wine. The hall fills with music, laughter, and the clinking of goblets.

Daemon turns back to you, offering his arm. “Shall we, little flower?”

You place your hand on his arm, your gaze steady, your chin lifted high. “Yes, husband,” you say softly, your voice carrying all the quiet power you’ve kept hidden. “Let them see what victory looks like.”

The two of you return to your place at the head table, side by side, facing the hall of nobles and onlookers. You feel the weight of their stares, their whispers, but none of it matters. Not tonight.

Daemon sits with the ease of a man born to rule, his hand idly resting on the arm of his chair. You sit beside him, as regal and steady as the roots of Highgarden.

The feast continues, but you know one thing for certain.

They may call you a rose, but tonight, they will see your thorns.

As the feast continues, the lively clamor of laughter, music, and the clinking of goblets fills the grand hall. Despite the noise, your world feels quieter as you turn to face Daemon. His gaze is sharp as ever, his features carved with the confidence of a man who knows his worth. Yet, tonight, you notice something different — a subtle shift in his eyes when he looks at you, something softer than the sharp edge he shows the world.

You sip your wine, letting the warmth settle in your chest before speaking. “You’re not what I expected, Daemon.”

He raises a brow, his smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “And what did you expect, little flower? A monster with sharp teeth and claws?”

“Perhaps,” you reply, tilting your head as you study him. “They call you the Rogue Prince, after all. A man ruled by impulse, driven by chaos and ambition.”

He chuckles, low and rich like a purr. “Ah, titles are like cloaks. Useful when worn, but beneath them, we’re all just flesh and bone.” He leans in slightly, his violet eyes fixed on yours. “Tell me, do you think I’m a monster?”

You meet his gaze, unflinching. “No. Monsters don’t get nervous.”

His grin falters for just a heartbeat — so quick that most would miss it. But you see it. His eyes flicker briefly, a crack in the mask he wears so well. He leans back in his chair, swirling the wine in his goblet as if to distract himself.

“I didn’t think you’d notice,” he admits, his eyes still on the wine.

“You’re better at hiding it than most,” you reply, a small smile playing on your lips. “But not from me.”

He glances at you then, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. Silence stretches between you for a moment, comfortable but charged with unspoken meaning. Finally, you decide to ask the question that has lingered in your mind since the day you learned of the betrothal.

“Why did you agree to this marriage, Daemon?” you ask, your voice quiet but firm. “You could have refused. You have always been known to defy expectations.”

He goes still, his fingers pausing on the stem of his goblet. His eyes shift to yours, and for a moment, he seems to weigh his answer. His smirk is gone, replaced by something far more genuine — something raw.

“I agreed,” he says slowly, his voice quieter now, “because I wanted it.” His eyes hold yours, steady and unwavering. “Years ago, when I accompanied my grandfather to Highgarden, I saw you in the gardens.” He exhales through his nose, his gaze distant as if seeing the memory play out before him. “You were surrounded by roses, and you were laughing with your maids. You had dirt on your hands from planting flowers, but you didn’t care. You looked… free.”

You blink, surprise washing over you like a sudden breeze. “You remember that?”

“Of course, I do,” he replies, his voice steady but his eyes carrying a weight of something long kept hidden. “I stood there longer than I should have, watching you laugh. It was the first time I’d seen something so simple yet so… whole.” He breathes deeply and turns to you, his eyes piercing. “I told myself then that if I ever had to marry, I would marry you.”

His words hit you harder than you expect. You feel the warmth rise to your cheeks, but you keep your composure. “And yet, you said nothing until now,” you say softly, tilting your head. “Why not speak of it before?”

“Because I’m a fool,” he admits, his grin returning, but it’s smaller, softer. “Or maybe because I didn’t think fate would be so kind to me.” His gaze shifts, watching you closely. “And now here you are, seated beside me, not as a dream, but as my wife.”

You don’t look away, and for the first time, the weight of the feast, the eyes of the lords and ladies, and the whispers of onlookers all seem to fade into nothing. The only thing that matters is this moment.

“I suppose fate can be cruel,” you murmur, lips curling into a knowing smile, “but tonight, it seems she has been kind.”

Daemon’s gaze narrows slightly, his grin returning in full force. “Careful, little flower. Say too many sweet things, and I might think you’ve fallen for me.”

You arch a brow, lifting your goblet to your lips as you take a slow, deliberate sip of wine. “Maybe I have,” you say lightly, setting the goblet down and looking at him from beneath your lashes. “But I suppose you’ll have to wait and see.”

His eyes darken with that familiar fire, and his grin becomes something more — a promise of trouble and devotion all at once. “I can be patient, wife,” he says, his voice low and rough like a storm brewing on the horizon. “But not for too long.”

The music shifts, another lively tune filling the hall, but the two of you remain still, locked in a silent understanding that words could never fully capture.

Tonight, fate has been kind indeed.

You laugh softly at Daemon’s story, his wit sharper than any blade. But your laughter fades as the sound of approaching footsteps echoes behind you. You glance over your shoulder and see Otto Hightower, your father’s kin and the Hand of the King. His face is as composed as ever, a mask of politeness with eyes that see far too much.

“Congratulations on your union,” Otto says smoothly, his voice calm yet purposeful. His gaze shifts between you and Daemon, lingering on your husband for a moment too long. “A fine match, one that will no doubt strengthen the ties between our houses.”

You nod politely, offering a small smile. “Thank you, Lord Hightower. Your words are most kind.”

But you can feel the shift in the air. Daemon stiffens beside you, his grip tightening ever so slightly on his goblet. His eyes narrow, fixed on Otto like a predator watching prey. The playful warmth he had while speaking with you is gone, replaced by a sharp, simmering edge.

“How gracious of you to offer your blessing, Otto,” Daemon drawls, his tone dripping with mockery. He tilts his head, his smile sharp like the edge of a dagger. “Though I wonder if it pains you to see me gain something you could not control.”

Otto’s jaw tightens, but his smile remains. “I only seek the prosperity of the realm, Prince Daemon. Your marriage serves that purpose well enough.” His gaze flickers to you for the briefest moment. “It is always wise to guide wild flames before they burn out of control.”

Daemon lets out a low, humorless laugh. “Careful, Otto. You speak as though you’ve forgotten who commands fire in this realm.” His voice drops lower, more dangerous. “And who is merely ash beneath it.”

The tension coils tight between them, sharp and ready to snap. You place a hand lightly on Daemon’s arm, feeling the taut muscle beneath his sleeve. He glances at you, his hard gaze softening just enough to acknowledge your presence.

“Perhaps tonight is not the time for old rivalries,” you say firmly, looking between them both. “It is a night of celebration, not division.”

Otto’s eyes meet yours, calculating and assessing. For a moment, he says nothing, then bows his head. “Of course, Lady Tyrell. Forgive me. I meant no offense.”

You can feel the tension between them, as sharp and volatile as wildfire. For a moment, it seems as though Otto might push back, but he only tilts his head in mock understanding. “She is no longer ‘Lady Tyrell’ to you.”

Otto’s brows lift just a fraction, his eyes flicking briefly to you before settling back on Daemon. “My apologies, Prince Daemon,” he says, his tone polite but firm. “Old habits, you understand.”

Daemon’s lips curve into a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Old habits can be broken,” he replies coldly, his eyes narrowing. He gestures toward you with a sweeping motion, his gaze never leaving Otto. “She is Princess now. Best you remember it, lest your tongue slip again.”

“Of course,” Otto says slowly, folding his hands behind his back. His eyes meet yours for a brief moment, calculating and watchful. “Princess,” he adds with an exaggerated formality, bowing just enough to follow decorum but not a step further.

Daemon’s eyes follow him like a hawk tracking prey. His jaw is set, his fingers tapping the rim of his goblet with restless precision. “That man poisons every room he enters,” he mutters, his eyes still locked on Otto.

You lean in just a little, tilting your head toward him. “Then let him choke on his own venom, husband,” you whisper, your voice laced with quiet defiance.

Daemon blinks, then slowly turns his gaze back to you. A grin spreads across his face, wild and dangerous, but there’s pride in it too. He raises his goblet toward you in a silent toast. “To clever wives,” he says, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

“And to husbands who know when to listen,” you reply, clinking your goblet lightly against his.

The fire in his eyes burns brighter. “You and I, little flower,” he says softly, his voice low like a secret shared in the dark, “will burn this world brighter than they can ever imagine.”

The joyful hum of music and clinking goblets fills the hall, but all you can hear is the rapid beat of your heart. The bedding ceremony. The very mention of it had lingered in your mind all night, and now, as the hour draws near, a subtle unease creeps in.

Your gaze flickers to Daemon, who is seated beside you. His posture is as relaxed as ever, leaning back in his chair like a king on his throne. His sharp eyes scan the room, half-lidded with boredom, but there’s a flicker of awareness in them. He knows. He always knows.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the edge of your goblet, your knuckles pale beneath the soft glow of the firelight. You feel your mother’s gaze on you, steady and supportive, but even she cannot help you now. Tradition is tradition, and the eyes of the realm are watching.

A loud voice echoes through the hall — one of the lords, his cheeks flushed from too much wine. “It is time for the bedding!” he shouts, his voice met with a chorus of drunken laughter and cheers. The call is picked up by others, nobles and knights alike, their voices chanting in unison.

“To the bedding! To the bedding!”

You glance at Daemon, unsure of what to expect. He turns to you, his gaze steady and unyielding. Slowly, he reaches for your hand, his touch firm and warm. His thumb brushes lightly against your knuckles, a silent reassurance.

“They will not touch you,” he says softly, his voice low enough that only you can hear. His eyes, sharp as dragonfire, meet yours with unwavering certainty. “Not if I am standing here.”

Your breath catches in your chest, surprise flickering in your eyes. It is a small promise, but it feels like the weight of the world has been lifted from your shoulders.

The chants continue, louder now, as the guests begin to rise from their seats, some already moving toward you. Daemon stands first, his presence commanding enough to make even the most brazen of lords hesitate. He extends a hand toward you, his expression one of quiet defiance.

“Shall we, wife?” he asks, his lips curving into a sly, knowing smile.

You take his hand, your heart still racing, but the panic that once clawed at you has dulled. You rise with him, head held high, and the crowd erupts into a sea of laughter, cheers, and jeering calls. Lords and ladies step forward, but before any of them can reach you, Daemon’s gaze turns to them — hard as dragonstone, sharp as steel.

“Touch her,” Daemon says coldly, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade. “And I’ll take your hand as payment.”

The hall stills. The drunken grins falter, the more sensible lords stepping back as if scalded. The boldest of them mutter curses under their breath but make no further move.

“That’s what I thought,” Daemon mutters, his grin returning, sharp and predatory. With his hand on the small of your back, he guides you toward the doors leading to your chambers. The crowd follows, but from a distance now, the earlier fervor tempered by Daemon’s words.

Your steps are slow but steady, each one more certain than the last. You are not alone. Your hand is held firmly in Daemon’s grasp, his presence at your side a shield stronger than any wall.

When you finally reach the heavy wooden doors of your chamber, the crowd begins to cheer again, but none dare approach. Daemon opens the door himself, holding it for you like a king for his queen.

“Inside, Princess,” he says, his voice softer now, meant only for you.

You step in, glancing over your shoulder at the crowd one last time. Their eyes are filled with expectation, mischief, and far too much wine. But none of them matter now. The door closes behind you with a resounding thud, silencing the world beyond.

The chamber is warm, lit by the soft glow of the hearth. The distant sounds of revelry echo faintly through the stone walls, but here, it is quiet. Your heart is still racing, but it is not from fear.

Daemon turns to face you, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. His smirk is gone, replaced by something far more honest. He steps toward you slowly, his movements deliberate, giving you time to step back if you choose. But you don’t.

“You handled that well,” he says, his gaze flickering with approval. “They expected you to shrink. But you didn’t.”

“Should I have?” you ask, your voice quiet but steady.

Daemon tilts his head, his eyes filled with something akin to admiration. “Never.”

Silence hangs between you, but it is not uncomfortable. Slowly, he reaches for you, his fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from your face, tucking it gently behind your ear. His touch is careful, deliberate — nothing like the wild prince the songs describe.

“If you wish to rest,” he says quietly, his eyes never leaving yours, “then rest. I’ll stay if you want me to, or I’ll leave if you don’t.”

For a moment, you are stunned. All the stories, all the rumors of Daemon Targaryen — bold, brash, uncontrollable — and here he is, offering you control in a world that rarely grants it.

“What do you want, Daemon?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper.

He smiles at that, a slow, wolfish grin. “I want what’s already mine,” he says, his eyes dark but steady. “But I am not so foolish as to take it by force. A king can command fear, but only a fool ignores respect.”

His words linger in the air, carrying more weight than any vow spoken at the sept. You search his face, looking for deception, but all you find is truth — a truth that you had not expected.

“You think me wise enough to be respected, then?” you ask, one brow raised.

“I think you’re wise enough to be feared,” he replies, stepping closer until there is only a breath between you. His eyes lower to your lips, but he doesn’t move, letting you decide. “And that, wife, is far more dangerous.”

The choice is yours now. In a world where choice is often stolen, he offers it freely. No songs will be sung of this moment. No maester will write it down. But this moment is yours.

The warmth of the firelight flickers softly against the stone walls of your chamber, casting long, shifting shadows. The air is thick with unspoken tension—not the kind born of fear, but of expectation. The weight of tradition presses down on you like an invisible cloak, suffocating in its silence.

Daemon stands before you, his violet eyes sharp but calm, as if this moment is nothing more than another game he’s mastered. His fingers reach for the intricate braids woven into your hair, undoing them with slow, deliberate care. He works in silence, never rushing, never fumbling. His fingertips brush against your scalp, and the warmth of his touch is startling in its tenderness.

You feel the weight of your hair slowly falling free, the braids unraveling strand by strand, until your hair spills over your shoulders like a golden cascade. Daemon steps back for a moment, his eyes meeting yours with quiet intensity. There is no mockery in his gaze. No jest or smirk. Only focus.

“Still with me, Princess?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nod, your throat too dry to answer aloud. His lips twitch into the faintest smile before he steps closer once more. His fingers move to the clasps at your shoulders, the ones holding the delicate fabric of your wedding gown in place. For a moment, he hesitates, his fingers brushing against the embroidered flowers that line the edge of the fabric.

“You are beautiful,” he says suddenly, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. There is something raw in his voice — not a compliment to charm you, but a statement of fact.

“Flattery, husband?” you reply softly, your eyes narrowing in playful suspicion.

He chuckles under his breath, his gaze never leaving yours. “No, just truth. I may lie to kings and councils, but not to you.”

His hands resume their task, and slowly, he unclasps the gown, letting it loosen around your shoulders. The fabric slips, slow as silk, pooling at your feet in a sea of red and white. You stand before him, vulnerable but unafraid.

But then — a sound.

A rustle. A shift of fabric behind the heavy curtain at the far end of the room. You freeze, your eyes darting toward it. The faintest outline of movement is visible through the dim light. Your heart tightens in your chest, heat rising to your face.

“They’re watching, aren’t they?” you murmur, your voice laced with unease.

Daemon doesn’t even glance at the curtain. His gaze remains fixed on you. “Yes,” he replies bluntly, his tone neither ashamed nor apologetic. “The king. The council. They’ll want to see it done properly.” His eyes flicker with a glint of something darker. “Fools with nothing better to do than spy on a husband and wife.”

You clench your jaw, your hands balling into fists at your sides. “It’s humiliating,” you mutter, your eyes narrowing at the veil of fabric separating you from them.

“It is tradition,” he replies, his tone sharp but not unkind. He steps closer, so close that you can feel the warmth radiating from him. His voice softens, the fire in him dimming to embers. “But they are only men, little flower. Let them watch.” He tilts your chin up with a single finger, his gaze hard but reassuring. “Let them see that you belong to no one but me.”

His words linger in the air like a spark set to kindling. The fire of it spreads, steady and slow, filling the hollow space that doubt had left behind. Daemon is not afraid. He stands as if he is untouchable, unbothered by their eyes, and for a moment, you think perhaps you can do the same.

“Do they always watch like this?” you ask, your voice quieter now, but steadier.

“Not always,” he replies with a small grin. “But sometimes. They call it ‘assurance of consummation.’ As if it matters to the realm what happens between husband and wife.” He leans in, his breath warm against your ear. “If it bothers you, I can send them away.”

You glance at him, your eyes searching his for any sign of deceit. But he looks at you like you are his equal, his partner in all things. Not a pawn to be used. Not a flower to be plucked.

“You would?” you ask, testing him.

He nods slowly. “One word from you, and they’ll leave. I promise you that.” His hand rests lightly on your waist, his touch grounding you, steady as stone. “But if you wish to see this through, I will make it quick.”

The choice is yours. His words echo in your mind, and you think of all the choices you’ve never been allowed to make before this. But this one is yours.

You take a slow, steady breath, glancing at the curtain once more. You see them there, shadows behind fabric. Fools. Spies. Men who think they have power. But none of them are in this room with you. None of them are Daemon.

You turn back to him, lifting your chin. “Let them watch,” you say, your voice sharp as a blade. Your heart still races, but there is a new resolve in it now. “If they want proof, they’ll have it.”

Daemon’s eyes widen just slightly, his grin returning in full force. He laughs softly, the sound like the low rumble of thunder. “That’s my wife,” he says, his voice filled with pride and something far more dangerous — affection.

“Then let’s give them something to remember.”

He reaches for the laces of his tunic, pulling them loose with practiced ease. His eyes remain on yours the entire time, a silent promise in his gaze. No mockery. No cruelty. Only certainty.

The fabric of his tunic falls away, revealing the pale expanse of his chest, littered with faint scars like constellations across his skin. His silver hair gleams faintly in the firelight, a halo of shadow and flame.

You take a step forward, your breath steady now. The weight of their eyes no longer feels so heavy. Let them watch, you think. Let them see that you are not afraid.

Daemon sees it too. He sees the shift in you. A dragon recognizing another dragon. His grin fades into something more solemn, more reverent. His hand cups the side of your face, his thumb brushing the curve of your cheek.

“You are more than they deserve to see,” he says quietly, his voice so soft that it feels like a secret. His eyes lower to your lips, then back up to your eyes. “But let them see you anyway.”

And so you do.

The air grows warmer as the fire crackles behind you. Daemon moves with purpose, each gesture slow but sure, as if you are something sacred. There is no rush, no frenzy. Only patience. Only reverence.

The sounds of the council behind the curtain fade from your mind. You barely hear them anymore. It is only you and him now.

Daemon’s hands move over you, each touch as careful as a man handling dragon eggs. The weight of tradition still hangs in the air, but it no longer feels suffocating. You have claimed it. Turned it into something of your own making.

Daemon led you towards the bed and laid you down there, you stared at his face as he started to climb on top of you. "Are you ready little flower?" you just nodded and that's when he started kissing you, his kiss was very gentle and also demanding.

Your hands moved to his neck, you played with his long hair and heard him moan softly in between your kisses. he then started kissing your neck. You heard the voice behind the curtain again, "don't mind them, just focus on me" the daemon whispered in your neck, you moan softly as a result.

Daemon's hands didn't stay still, he traced the curves of your body which made you close your eyes. when his fingers touched your core which was starting to get wet you moaned. He started by inserting one finger and looking at you, your body started to heat up. he then added another finger and his rhythm became faster, you moaned because of his treatment. "i have to prepare you first little flower"

After Daemon felt enough, Daemon started to take off his pants. He looked back at you and kissed your forehead, "This might hurt."

You looked at his face and smiled, "i'll hold it in" he smiled and started kissing you. you felt his cock start to enter your core slowly. You squeezed his hair as you felt him start to enter and fill you, you both moaned and after that daemon slammed his cock hard which made you scream in pain in the kiss.

You could feel your blood rushing out, he growled softly as he felt you squeeze him tightly. He wiped away the tears that were in the corner of your eyes, he didn't move yet to make sure you were enjoying and accepting his size.

"Are you comfortable?" he whispered and stroked your cheek gently, you nodded and that's when he started to move his hips slowly. The pain you felt begore slowly turned into a pleasure you had never felt before.

"like that, oh god. you're so tight" he growled and started to speed up the rhythm of his hips. you could only moan under him,

He doesn’t hold back, his hand found yours and he intertwined his fingers with yours. Something hot and heavy settles on the pit of your guts then rises from every thrust of Daemon’ hips, a spark flowing down from the top of your head to toes. Back arches up when the head of his member prods against your sensitive spot.

“You take me so well, sweetling.” You let go of his grip and pulled his face to kiss him again, your legs automatically wrapped around his waist making him go deeper inside you.

Daemons can go crazy because the way your walls are clenching tightly around his length. He then splays his palm on one of your boobs and squeezes the flesh there, keenly studying as the skin turns pink. he broke the kiss and pressed your foreheads together, your breaths mingled and he continued to growl.

"Daemon please g-go faster, please.." you mumbled. He smirked, before going fast and hard. You gasped at the sudden change of pace, holding down at the bed to get some sort of grounding. You threw your head back as he kept on pounding into her.

You shut your eyes as the knot inside your stomach grew tighter, signaling that you was about to come. he chuckled. "Is my little flower about to come?" He teased. you nodded. "P-please let me come..." you rasped. He groaned, he was near his orgasm too. "Shit love, I'm close too.." He said. He thrusted a few more times before finally coming inside you, filling you with his seed, he growled softly before kissing you and lying down next to you.

And when it is done — when the silence behind the curtain is replaced by the rustle of cloaks and the soft, satisfied murmurs of councilmen walking away — you do not feel shame. You do not feel small.

Daemon lies beside you, his eyes on the ceiling for a moment, his breathing steady. Then he turns his head to look at you, his silver hair tangled, his expression calm but sharp with awareness.

“You did well,” he says softly, his eyes watching you with quiet pride. “They’ll remember this night, but not for the reason they think.”

You glance at him, raising a brow. “And what reason will they remember it for?”

Daemon’s eyes narrow slightly, a glint of mischief in them as he tilts his head to look at you fully. “Because they’ll realize they made the mistake of thinking you could be broken.”

His words hit you harder than any vow spoken before the sept. You breathe in deeply, letting them settle in your chest like a flame that will never burn out.

“Let them remember,” you say, your voice stronger than it has ever been. “Let them remember I am not so easily broken.”

Daemon’s grin widens, his eyes glowing like embers in the dark. “No, you are not.”

The warmth of the fire has dimmed to a soft glow, shadows dancing gently across the chamber walls. The weight of exhaustion presses down on you, your limbs heavy and your breathing slow. Without thinking, you turn toward Daemon, seeking the warmth of another presence.

You rest your head against his chest, your arms wrapping around him. His skin is warm, the slow rise and fall of his breath lulling you into calm. For a moment, everything feels still. The noise of the world outside — the lords, the council, the weight of duty — fades into the background.

Daemon doesn’t move at first, his body tense like he isn’t used to this kind of closeness. But then, slowly, you feel his arms come around you, his hands settling on your back. One hand moves up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers threading gently through your hair.

His chin rests lightly atop your head, and you hear him sigh — a long, quiet breath as if releasing something he’d been holding for too long. His lips press softly against your forehead, warm and deliberate. No words are spoken, but the meaning is clear. You feel it in the tenderness of his touch, the weight of his hand holding you steady.

Your eyes grow heavier with each heartbeat, the steady thump of his heart beneath your ear a rhythm you cannot resist. Your breathing evens out, matching his, and before long, sleep pulls you under. Your last thought is that, for the first time in a long while, you feel safe.

Daemon tilts his head slightly, gazing down at you. His sharp eyes, so often filled with mischief or calculation, have softened into something quieter, something unguarded. He watches you in silence, as if memorizing every line of your face. His thumb traces a small circle against your back, a motion so subtle it might as well be instinct.

He watches you for a moment longer, eyes narrowing slightly as if puzzled by the depth of his own thoughts. Then, with a quiet huff of breath — not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh — he rests his head back on the pillow. His eyes remain on you until, slowly, his lashes lower, and sleep takes him too.

In the quiet of the chamber, there is no crown, no council, no eyes watching. Only two people, entwined in warmth and stillness, finding peace in the comfort of each other.

tag list : @danytar @hangmanscoming @yazzzmints @julessworldd

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lionneee · 6 months ago

Text

Aemond had been welcomed at the council

English is not my first language, be kind.

•Warnings: incest, p in v, smut, kissing, taking of sexual themes, smut, chocking.•

OC!Aemond x Sister!Reader

“You’re so good– So good– Fuck, Aemond!” She moaned loudly, as she arched her back, her hands tucked up her head on her mattress, held tight in his hand.

“Fuck– You’re so tight– You’re fucking sucking me in–” He growled as he started moving faster, meeting her skin with harsh hard thrusts as he felt himself loosing in the feeling.

“My big brother is part of the council now?” She moaned as she widened her legs more, looking down at his cock entering her so furiously. He let go of her wrists, grabbing her throat to make her lay back her head.

“Such a dirty sister I have, mh?” He growled against her temple. “Aegon simply welcomed me.” He said as he trailed his other hand on her chest.

“Aegon–” She pants as she tries to speak despite the overwhelming pleasure. “Aegon trusts you– You’ll find yourself being his hand in no time– Fuck! Aemond!” She threw her head back as he hit one particular spot inside her, that almost left her breathless. He put his hand over her breast, squeezing it in his hand.

She reached his face with one hand, but he pulled away for a moment, a flash on challenge flashing his eye, but she quickly reached again, tearing off the eyepatch from his eye.

He chuckled as he felt her clenching around his cock at the sight of his scar.

“You’re a freak. Fucking freak.” He groaned as he thrusted faster, trying to angle himself to hit that sweet spot inside her once again.

“I’m a dragon–” She panted. “I’m your dragon–” She choked as he tightened his hand around her throat.

“Mine.” He growled in her ear, as he loosened his grip around her neck, leaning down to suck her breast in his mouth.

“Oh, Gods– Aem– Fuck– You’re so good to me–” She placed a hand on the back of his hair, keeping him close as he licked herr nipple, sucked and bit, wettening with his own saliva.

“You like when your brother takes care of you? Mh?” He squeezed her tit again, licking it all over, as his hips pace never faltered.

“I’ll kill them!”

The sound of skin slapping was filling the room, Aemond and his sweet sister too engrossed with their own pleasure to care about what was happening outside her room.

Careless if the world was about to fall apart.

If some head was rolling around.

“Yes– Fuck!” She moaned loudly again as he hit that spot again.

“There it is– Yes!” He leaned back up as he gripped tightly her hips, pulling her back against him as he started thrusting in her like a mad person, watching as her tits jumped up and down by the force and speed of his hits.

“I’ll kill them all!”

She moaned loudly in despair, as she started leaning back on the mattress.

“Fuck! Aemond!” She leaned back enough to make him slip out, as she panted, looking up at him as he growled, his eye fixed on his core, as his sapphire glistened, reflecting the light of the candles.

“Don’t you dare–” He pulled her back and slipped back in, resuming his thrusts just the same, finding, to her surprise, the perfect angle again. She whined in despair, as he pulled her legs back on her chest, getting deeper inside her.

“Gods– Aem–”

“You’re so fucking loud, sister—“ He panted. “Everyone will hear you, if you keep going like this—“ He kept thrusting harder and faster. “Is that what you want? Everyone to find out how your big brother is fucking you good? Uh? Find out how much of a whore you are?”

She moaned at his words, her cunt clenching around his at the idea.

“They’d have to marry us then— Finally— Aemond!”

He shushed her with an aggressive kiss, slipping his tongue in her mouth greedily, savoring her taste. She is quick to respond to his kiss, and return it, she sucked his tongue in her mouth, forcing a moan out of him.

“This is war!”

He pulled back from the kiss, hovering over her, leaning on his elbow as he lowered his hand on her pearl, massaging it lightly.

“Ohh–” She sucked in a breath, arching her back suddenly, letting out a long whine. “Aemond! Aem– Fuck– Aemond!” She gripped his forearms tightly, digging her nails in her skin, making him groan. He could feel her clenching repeatedly around him, sucking him in in such a delicious way, all of it, mixed with her moans, the smell and the sounds of sex, and the sting of pain on his arms, he was losing control.

“Fuck– You like me being a powerful man? You like that I am part of the council?” He leaned down to growl in her ear. “That I could be the King’s Hand?”

“I declare war!”

“Yes– God!” She threw her head back. “Fuck me– Fuck me like the powerful man you are– Ah!” She kept moaning, her voice completely out of control.

“God– Yes, you feel so good, sister–” He moaned as he kept thrusting harder faster, gripping her tightly. “So tight— So fucking loud.” He could see her in ecstasy beneath him.

“Come on my cock, I can feel you clenching like crazy– Shit– Come on me– Now.” He ended up growling like an animal, but it only fit the way she was fucking her right now. She moaned again, her legs wrapping around his waist as she came undone with a long moan, holding on to him, as he thrusted a few more times, finally reaching his own release.

“Shit– Fuck–” He quickly pulled out, despite her moans and her cunt sucking him in so sweetly. He jerked off in front of her as she spread her cunt with her hands, the sight too arousing to hold back any longer.

He gasped as his sperm painted her inner thighs, his body jerking violently by the force of his release.

She smiled up at him, gathering with her hand some of his release, then bringing her fingers to her mouth to suck them clean. He looked with a moan at her movements, as he sat back on his haunches, caressing her calves.

Only then they heard the fast steps and rustle outside.

“Gōntan mirros massigon?” She asked as she looked at the door, confused.

-Did something happen?-

He looked at her, then at the door.

“Nyke ȳdra daor gīmigon.”

-I don’t know-

Taglist: @ka1afbr @cynic-spirit @ladythornofrivia @zenka69 @queenofthekeep @adorewhatever @diannnnsss @kotadislikesthissite @iloveallmyboys @valyrianflower @dixie-elocin @gelacat0413

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lovelykhaleesiii · 9 months ago

Note

Aegon is the best big brother to his sweet sister, who is in third trimester of pregnancy; not only does he help her relieve the feeling of her heavy breasts by sucking on her tits greedily like a babe, he sometimes helps the aching feeling between her legs by sticking his cock, tongue or fingers in her cunny

Such a good brother, especially when she’s not even his wife

Blood of my Blood.

PAIRING: Older!Brother!Aegon ii Targaryen x Little!Sister!Fem!Reader

WORDS: 1,715.

WARNINGS: incest to the max, implied affair [Aegon is the father of the child], age gap [reader is of mature/consensual age], lactation kink, pregnancy kink, slight reference to breeding kink, p in v sexual intercourse, possessive!Aegon, swearing.

A/N - now I NEVER write brother x sister tropes even in the ASOIAF universe just because it’s not really my cup of tea, but this ask sparked something very very feral in me. I might make a neice x uncle version of this or a Daddy Aeg x daughter!reader version.

credit to the owners of the images.

Curse the Gods who afflicted the journey of motherhood, for it could be such a gruelling thing... Heading into the final few moons of your first pregnancy, you had never felt such intense discomfort in your life. Your beloved mother, Queen Alicent, had informed you of such grievances, although with little empathy for her pregnancies had been quite embracing and facile. Your eldest sister, Helaena, having already given birth to a set of twins, now in the early stages of her current pregnancy with your elder brother, Aemond, could somewhat console you, becoming an anchor of support.

It was Aegon, your eldest of the siblings, that you seemed most attached to, for it was Aegon that granted you bliss in your pregnancy, more so than your absent husband, some delinquent lord of the Vale. You had argued your way with your mother, and batted your eyes to your father, begging you to stay in King's Landing, in familiar territory with the finest maesters at hand. More so, it was Aegon who had plotted with you this essential plan.

"Do you truly think that the maesters of the Vale and that imbecile you call husband will keep you safe and satisfied, dear sister? Not in the least... But I can."

Aegon's temptress of a tongue was convincing alone, although it had been his merciful gestures of chivalry that kept you sane and grounded. Easing your aches and pains of expecting, Aegon became your sole beacon of ease, like the formidable arms of a warrior and you, the damsel he heroically carries.

"Do they ache again, sweet sister?"

The softness in his husky, drowsy voice breaking the silence of the chamber, woke you whole from your half-hearted daze. You had both succumbed to slumber [often Aegon insisted that you remain closely by his side, even in bed] what felt like hours long ago, and yet through the ginger firelight, by the open window, night remained swallowing the sky.

"Mhmm-" You uneasily stir: weakly trying to muster enough strength to sit yourself upright: however, with the sheer, bulging mass of your grown belly you visibly struggled until Aegon's efforts of pulling you effortlessly upright ended your dilemma.

"Want me to help, princess?"

His calloused, thick hands began to rub small, soothing circles against your lower back, knowing the babe inside exerted much pressure on your lower spine: its weight growing more rigid with each passing month.

"You've helped me enough, Aegon. I mustn't ask more from you... If this state is any indication of me being a mother, consider me a terrible one," You defeatedly utter, one hand stretched from behind supporting your upright position, whilst the other softly caressed at the protruding temple of your clothed belly.

"Don't speak like that, Y/N, dearest. This is your first babe, you must understand your body is adjusting. Hel suffered a great deal with the twins also, and now, look at her... You are going to be a beautiful mother, indeed. I have no doubt...C'me here."

Lightly tapping at your exposed thigh, your night gown had been pulled up just below your way with all the commotion and movement. Obeying, Aegon summoned you onto his lap, shirtless he had entered the bed, however before you could even gather motion to straddle yourself atop: he'd managed to tear away his undergarments, leaving his exposed girth, reddened at the tip with excitement. Modestly covering himself with the sheer, ivory linen.

"Right now?" Your snappy tone vicious, however Aegon remained unfazed.

"Well, little sister, if I'm being quite frank it seems you've been dreaming quite vividly... Do you not hear the moans and pleas that escape your lips in sleep, crying out for me, begging... Want your elder to sate you, is it? Was that babe growing inside of you not enough, you wish me to spoil you some more, hmm?"

"A-Aeg- We shouldn't..." You meekly whimper, a surge of heat coursing through your face, certain your cheeks had grown scarlet with shame.

"All you had to do was ask."

His dark voice a low growl, like some concealed predator eager to ambush. Aegon's motions remained in contrast, tender and cautious, easing your delicate and sensitive frame over his wide, gelatinous thighs. A scorching sensational painfully heightened sent lightning bolts in waves throughout the entirety of your body, shuddering with excitement as your aching cunt eased itself over his pulsating cock. It had been a while since you had been intimate with Aegon like this, prior to the pregnancy in fact: the changes your body had undergone since were bracing and raw.

Feeling the tensity beneath and the heat as you began to bob ever so slowly and sensually over Aegon's tense, fat cock: feeling its hard tip hitting at your cervix [you had hoped rather than the babe]. Your tight walls overstretched, desperate to adjust to his girthy width, you swore to yourself it had never felt this stimulating ever before: every primal sense in your body, every fibre of your being resisting the urge to collapse into a faint against Aegon's soft chest, gripping onto the bare, pale skin of his broad shoulders for dear life.

"That's it, rūs [baby], doing so-so well. It hurts I know, but Daddy's gonna make you feel so much better. Keep going, princess."

Head rolling back in admiration, you felt the intensity from between your inner thighs beginning to lessen, a wetness pooling between, coating the friction to ease the motions. Your hands release their strong hold over him, as your eyes began to wonder over his body, you had immediately noticed the raw, reddened marks lashed across his ivory skin. To avoid any more damage, you guide your relaxed hands up towards Aegon's short strands.

Tugging and playfully pulling at the loose, platinum locks, whilst Aegon's face remained buried, eagerly lapping at your petal-like skin on the base of your neck. One strong arm snaked around your back, gripping you firmly by the neck providing some lumbar support, whilst the other strategically untied the knots of lace at the front of your night gown, exposing your voluptuously full tits. Hardened nipples raw and perky, even as Aegon teasingly flicked at your tit with this thumb, a grimace forming across his handsome face you felt against your skin: kneading the swollen, plump flesh with his palm, you instinctively squirmed and moaned with such debility.

"Seven Hells, you are so fucking full, dārilaros [princess]. This babe is going to be so spoiled. Such a good Mumma, already eager with milk for the bub... Could feed the an entire realm, Mumma."

"J-Just you A-Aeg. Only you get to taste this sweet m-milk before the babe. T-Tell me how good I taste," Stuttering whimpers mottled between mouthful of moans echoed between the dense walls of Aegon's royal chambers. His fat cock still buried and plunging itself deeply inside of you, penetrating against your already tainted and filled womb, Aegon's hand cupped at your breast from beneath. Lifting your tit upwards, latching his mouth tightly against its curvature peak.

"Mhmm- Keep going big boy... M-Making me feel s-so good, A-Aeg. H-Have your full."

The imminent relief your occupied tit began to succumb to, felt like a blissful dream. You felt your breath could finally release, not hitched against your throat from the sheer agony of feeling it was about to burst. The milk you intently sensed, lusciously pouring into Aegon's ravenous mouth, his plump, moist lips suckling at your skin, totally encompassing the nipple in its entirety. His teeth lightly gnawed at your flesh, however, it was a pleasant sensation nonetheless.

"So w-warm and fresh- Gonna f-fill me up so fucking much. P-Poor princess... The weight of these, the copious a-amount- I-I'm greedy for you. Sh-Should've fucked you earlier in your womanhood... Drenching your w-womb of my seed, till we fill the keep i-if need be. M-Mother would rather enjoy it."

Aegon, famished like a destitute of the realm, bathed his taste-buds of your milk from one breast and onto the other: regaining his breath between each as he felt inclined to credit your production. Descending his face down once more, he spared no further second wasting away, as he continued to fervently feed, like a man starved of pure water.

"Th-The el-eldest you may b-be, such a b-big baby y-you are. S-So needy for me, huh? A-Always needing t-to take me, m-make me yours. Every bit of me... Is devout t-to you, A-Aegon."

As if your breathless, sensual words had struck a chord in him, a man gone mad with a fever. His hold on you had tightened, his mouth suckled deeper, tugging at the flesh of your bosom, whilst his cock felt it had grown a size more inside of you. The wet mess coating between your inner thighs now glazed all over Aegon's plump lap, expressed no denial of his power over you, the purpose he gave to you. In theory and practice, you felt your body collapsing into a bliss, a shudder of ecstasy waved through your feeble body as you screamed for Aegon, a gush of your wetness coating all over his stiff cock buried inside. Only to be met with Aegon's mutual appreciation of your vulnerability and submission towards him.

"That's it, baby. Such a beautiful woman... Gevives [beauty]. You honour me with this holy act. You privilege me to your womb, your body and your life... Skorkydoso kostagon nyke mirre deny ao mirros? [How can I ever deny you anything?]."

Easing yourself off of Aegon, your limp, frail body tiresome and relieved of such exploits endured. Aegon knew better than to leave you to your own strength, as absent as it was: carrying you over towards your empty side of the bed, still laying you closely against his natural warmth.

"Continue to serve me, brother. And I shall pay it back 100 times over... And besides, if it had not been for your mischief many moons ago, I would not be in such a state. Although, I wouldn't have it any other way, Aegon... I love you."

"Avy jorrāelan [I love you], my dearest, sweet little sister. Continue as you are and I might have to fuck another babe in you once more to teach you a lesson or two."

general taglist [bold means I could NOT tag you] - @succnfuccubus @fan-goddess @malfoytargaryen @bibli0thecary @m1ndbrand @connorsui @elegantsplendour @sylasthegrim @arcielee @s-we-e-t-t-ea @sahvlren @aemondtargaryensrider @watercolorskyy @hypnos-daughter-certified @urmomsgirlfriend1 @backyardfolklore @snowprincesa1 @zaldritzosrose

Aegon ii taglist [bold means I could NOT tag you] - @who-told-you-this-was-butter @f4ll-for-you @jawline-of-steel @daughter-of-the-stars11 @bucknastysbabe @callsignwidow

credit for divider - @/saradika-graphics

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xxnymeriatargaryenxx · 4 months ago

Text

when your husband aemond wants physical affection, he comes to YOUR chambers.

sex is not the first or the only thing he asks for, aemond just really wants your full undivided attention. after an exhaustingly long day of managing affairs and telling people what to do, all he wants is for his sweet beloved wife to take care of him, starting with removing his clothes and taking a hot aromatic bath.

aemond always prefers it when you undress him, as you are gentle with your touch and you take extra precaution when removing his eye-patch. the prince regent finds a degree of comfort in you he hasn’t felt since he was a boy at driftmark.

when he is feeling extra needy, aemond will insist that you join him in the bathtub yourself, he loves to have you on his lap and chest-to-chest with him so close and intimate.

and when you eventually begin to ride him, he simply can’t stop gawking at how radiant you look under the flickering candlelights. he is completely mesmerized not only by your dornish beauty, but also by your affectionate nature and how well you understand him. it makes him cum that much faster when you ride him like this.

alternatively, when a bath is not involved, aemond will stand at your doorway with his hands clasped behind his back until you make the first move beckoning him over to your bed.

when the prince regent is feeling particularly sore after riding vhagar, you give him a deep tissue back massage, using some hot oil, usually eucalyptus and jasmine rubbed between your fingers to soften his tense muscles and relieve any back knots.

…..after that? it’s all fair game 😮‍💨💦🍆

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m1ndbrand · 9 months ago

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Aegon, staring at Y/N with heart eyes:

Aemond, gagging: I liked you better when you were a whore.

#hotd #house of the dragon incorrect quotes #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen imagine #incorrect house of the dragon quotes #aegon the second #aegon x reader #aegon ii #aegon targaryen #aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen imagine #hotd aegon #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii targaryen x reader

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ladyoftheblades · 5 months ago

Text

comfort

aegontargaryen x aemondswife!reader

synopsis: the war had caused a shift in aemond, brothel visits, questionable behaviour toward his family most of all his brother, and now news of his lover. his wife had had enough, turning her attention to a lover of her own,none other than the king

a/n: i really hate this but wanted to get it out of the way to focus on new things 😙i finished this drunk off of cosmopolitans and crying my eyes out about my fate, so maybe aegons breakdown is a little ooc.hope you enjoy anyway. ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE and im dyslexic.

warnings: smut, p in v, dacryphilia, mutual cheating, descriptions of wounds and scars(not too much tho)

it was a young and uneasy night, sunrays still gracing the sky, dousing kings landing in twilight. the princess sat at the library, the book in her hands long cast aside in favour of staring out of the window. it was a useless thing anyhow, having done little to ease her worries. today was the day she was excpecting news of her husband, aemond targaryen, to arrive from harrenhall.

she knew the rumors surrounding the castle, it was a cursed place, full of mysteries and withcraft. it was especially dangerous for targaryens, since the time of the conquest when aegon burned it down.

aemond had gone to claim it in his brothers name. but the hour ran late yet the messenger had not come. she sat and stared, all of the worst scenarios playing in her head, turning and swirling her thoughts, sending waves of nausea to her stomach.

truth be told, her husband had displayed some very unusual behaviour of late. since the murder of luke by aemonds own hand, he had taken to visiting a brothel in the city. her immediate reaction was one of anger but once her confidants informed her he was visiting the same madam, a woman named silvy, the one who lay with him for the fist time when he was but a child of three and ten, she understood. his actions were not born of lust but of trauma. he had always treated her with respect and love, so in spite of her initial anger she found it in her heart to forgive him, to overlook his slight.

but his strange behaviour had not ended there. the war was taking a toll on him, she could tell. he always had a violent streak, yet he held great mastery over it, always calm and collected, only rarely losing control. the war brought out those tendansies, warping him into a beast of unquenched anger. after the battle of rooks rest, due to his brothers injuries he had been named prince regent which only expedited the change in him.

the battle of rooks rest was the oddest of the ocuurances. princess rhaenys had passed, killed by the joined efforts of aemond and aegon, the king and his dragon sustained grave injuries, incapacitating them fully, yet aemond and vaghar came out of it almost completely unscathed. the lady attempted to coax her husband into talking about the battle, yet every mention of it caused him to break out in a fit of anger or storm out of the room immedietly.

not one soul but aemond could give a complete account of the events, for the king refused to speak with anyone, stating he needed rest. but the account aemond gave was....lackluster. something was off, piesces loose on the tapestry he had paited of the events. if one could poke at it it was sure to come undone, yet the regent allowed none of it. the small council could raise little question, he was -for all intents and purposes- their soveirgn after all.

time went on, the sun hiding behind the western sea, taking all semblances of light with it, the sky now completely black. quite an unpleasant sight. a knock sounded at the door, the princesses heart began to race with unparalleled anxiety "enter, please" she shouted.

she had excpected an envoy from harenhall, one appointed by her, yet none came, in stepped the master of whisperers, lord larys strong. "my lady" he greeted, giving his best bow. "lord larys. i excpected an envoy from harenhall, have you come in his stead ?"

"yes, my lady" he walked further into the room, slowly reaching her spot by the window, taking a seat with great effort. "i must inform you, the nature of the information...is quite sensitive" her anxiety shot through the roof, chest thumping at a hundred kilometers an hour.

"has something happened to my husband ?" she said urgently. "do not fret my lady, the regent is in good health" the air shifted, her anxiety had calmed but something else, something more unsettling took over. what could possibly be of such sensitive nature ?

"go on" she said. "my informats have made me aware of the princes recent behaviours, since taking control of the caste, maybe even pre-"

"oh quit your theatrics and spit it out" her tone was now damn near yelling. the man infrotny of her was stalling, but games of court had no place in the concerns of a wife at alarm. larys took a deap breath "your husband has taken a lover, her name is alys rivers. i am told she works as a milkmaid in the castle, though rumors have it she is a witch"

her heart almost stopped. a lover ? she could excuse silvy, they shared a certain history. a lover ? a paramour ? one that was unpaid, and there to whisper in his ears the gods only know what ? too far. she stood up suddently and began to pace back and forth infron of the window. she continued that way quite a while, not uttering a single word, only flailing her hands in erratic movements, trying to wrap her head around the information, attempting to make sense of the storm of information now revealed to her. larys remained calm. his composure was almost...unnerving.

eventually he attempted to pull her out of her trance "i understand this must come as quite a shock, shall i call for a maester my lady ?" she halted her movements immedietly, regaining contact with reality, yet ever in internal disarray. "no, that is quite alright my lord. who else knows of this ?"

"no one, of yet. i came to inform you first, though i doubt it will remain private for much longer" she looked to larys, a knowing look in his mischievous eyes. information was his trade, and he had provided elite services, a reward was in order. "i thank you for your service lord larys, you may take your leave, your loyalty will not be forgotten, i assure you" with that he was satisfied, giving a final bow, he exited.

with the bang of the door agains its frame announcing larys exit, the emotions hit her all the same. what was she to do ? this was not her husband. war changed the souls of men, bringing forth the worst of their humanity. the brothels she could forgive, the anger excuse, hells she could even overlook the lover, but all three combined ? an insult. a hurtfull, heartbreaking insult, one that could not go unaccouted for.

she had yet to bear aemond any children, if this whore were to come with child, if she was to have a son, it would put her position in danger. semblances of solutions to mend the problem, to find her an explaination at the lest, flew around in her mind, yet she was far too disturbed to give any of them proper consideration. still in that strange trance of betrayal, she began to walk.

her feet acted on their own, unattatche dand seemingly unaffected by the storm that was her mind. they took her out of the library, tracing a path around the red keep. she walked and walked and the more she walked the more she thought and the more she thought the clearer her head became.

power was getting to aemonds head but he was not the ultimate authority, the king was. the root of her husbands behaviour was the death, or rather the murder, of lucerys but rooks rest was the turning point. if he would not provide an explaination, his brother would.

she had shared few words with her brother in law, far and inbetween, aemond always coming inbetween them to root out whatever semblance of a relationship they began to create before it could sprout. but he was pleasant, a little inappropriate in his jests and brash to a fault. he spoke his mind, did as he pleased, with no mind for consequences. the only thing that kept him alive quite frankly, was his position as the fist son, now king. all those qualities, once considered faults, now sounded refreshing. a stark contrast to the lies and masked intentions of others.

the king had locked himself away from the world following the battle of rooks rest. she had heard the whispers of his state, his appearance made up to be groutesque and unnerving. "unlike anything come of our realm" she had overheard one maidservant say.

she traced a path to the kings chambers. security was never strong in the keep anyway and she had memorised the schedule of the changing guard. she reached the hallway of his chambers just as the guards were tuning the other end.

she hadnt much time, begining to advance when suddently three maids exited the chambers in coplete dissaray, clothes soaked and the king audibly yelling from inside the rooms. they began to run in the opposite direction, their voices somewhere between whispers and shrieks, full of terror. something was amiss with the king, even mose so than usual. no matter, she could use the opportunity.

slowly she walked to the rooms, quietly slipping through the door.

"I SAID LEAVE" shouted aegon imedietly upon sensing her presance. the sight infront of her was truly something... the king lay in his tub, his back to her, watter spilled all around, no doubt by whatever had transipired beforehand. his body had been badly burned, maelys managed to damage his body so much, armour melted into his skin. even with his back to her, tub obscuring his visage, the damage to his shoulder and neck was visible.

she took a step forth "im sorry to disturb your grace though i believe you never asked me to exit". upon hearing her voice aegon made an attempt to crane his neck and look at her, the tension to his burns making him wince in pain, immedietly turning back around.

"please, your grace, do not exert yourself" she said, tentatively approaching. she soon reached him, finally able to look at him whole. the water obscured his visage from the waist down but the sight of his face and chest made her heart swell with hurt. the burns consumed the entire left side of his chest, expanding to his neck, fully engulfing the side of his face, even parts of his nose.

thought what struck her most was not his gruesome burns, he was far from such. in spite of the burns his face held a certain beauty, even on the scarred side.

he moved, ignoring the pain, turning away from her quizical gaze. "please, leave, just leave..." none of the previous anger was present, voice laced with only sadness and embarassment. he was voulnerable, oh so voulnerable, exposed, completely at the mercy of the world and his surroundings. she took the kings aversion as a challenge. "oh your grace, please, allow me"

she fell to her knees, the fabric of her dress becoming wet at contact with the floor. "i have no need of your pity" he muttered, face still turned. "i do not pity you, your grace, the scars of war are to be worn as a badge of honor, as proof of your bravery"

she could not see his face still but something told her he did not share that same oppinion. his burns had healed in their majority, forming an angry red scar. some areas remained sensitive, mostly underneath his arm, must be the parts where metal melted into him, she thought. she looked to the desk behind her, an assortment of ointments placed atop.

she looked to the labels on them, spotting one which wrote "after bath". she took it and oppened the top, the smell surprisingly pleasant. "did the maesters instruct a certain ammount be used ?" aegon shook his head no. he was still somewhat uneasy, yet did not deny the assistance.

she put some on her hands and began to apply it to his torso. it must have worked instantaniously for the king eased, becoming accostumed to her presance, and moved his head to finally look at her. she did not return his gaze however, only continuing her movements.

he studied her hands with searing intensity, periodicaly giving satisfied hums. they kept like that a while, the king growing more and more comfortable as time went on. untill she reached his face.

by now it was near impossible not to look at him, yet she resisted. she completed his cheek, and moved to the area around his eye. before she could contunue though, he raised his good hand from the water and grabed hers. his fingers wrapped around her wrist threatening to leave a bruise. she paused, ever so cautious. "y-your grace, i cannot continue if-"

"Look at me." he comanded. she complied, finally looking in his eyes. they were absolutely beautifull, grayish blue hues morroring those of the sea on a moody day, color only accentuated by the candelight. they hid something, something intense yet he dared not reveal it to her, as if her learning of it would embarass him.

"what do you see when you look at me ?" he asked. she was somewhat taken aback by such a question, still she made no attempt to back away, in too deep already. whatever the king wanted she had to comply with. she took a moment to think, knowing the wrong answer might cost her her life. " a boy"

"is that how you see your king truly ? as a boy ?"

"my king is a fierce and brave warrior forged by fire and blood, the one infront of me named aegon targaryen is a boy"

his face began to change, the walls built around his soul slowly coming down, eyes verging on betraying their secret. he removed his hand from her wrist, allowing her to contunie apllying the ointment. she brought her hand forth to his eye, the king leaving a sigh of relief, tilting his head back. she turned around to place the jar to its place, by the time she turned to aegon once again he was looking right at her, head tilted back, eyes dark and playfull. if she looked closely she could even see a smile playing at his lips.

"comfortable, your grace ?" she said, attempting to match his playfulness. he gave a chuckle "very. you my lady ?"

"very" she mirrored his reply. she closed the distance between them, now putting her hand on the good side of his chest, begining to rub soothing circles on his alabaster skin. he enjoyed the contact, she could tell, the smile on his lips turning from one of mischief to one of satisfaction. she knew she could not keep it up for long, her visit was now devoid of purpose, she would have to come up with soemthing quick-

"i never did ask, why are you here ?" he broke her train of thought. she stopped the movement of her hand, moving it instead to play with his hair.

"i have been discarded by my husband im afraid and ... i understood you to be in a similar position. i thought... i thought maybe we could be alone together" she looked straight to his eyes as she uttered that, finalising her last word with an afectionate tuck of his hair beneath his ear. she waited, frozen, afraid of having said the wrong thing, the one that would set him off. yet as time passed, tortourously, kicking her gut harder and harder as it went on, his demeanor went unchanged.

"at first you think me a boy, and now discarded. i ought to have your tongue for that" he moved his hand, the scarred one, to cradle her chin as he delivered his words. yet his toutch was neither threatening, nor malicious. no, he was playing, he wanted a game but more than that.... he was looking for something in her. comfort she had provided already, trust, perhaps ?

she made no attempt to remove her face from his hand, the contact sending shocks through her body... it had been a while since her and her husband had been intimate... the sole attention of the king was something else entirely. "are you not, then ? discarded ? are you not lonely ?"

the game was on. he seized her up, looking to find what he wanted, she spoke again "if you have no need of company, should i take my leave ?" immedietly his fingers dug into her skin "i said no such thing" she gave a smile of satisfaction.

"you admit it then, you are lonely, just as i" her voice was laced with nothing but warmth, coaxing out of aegon his true nature, breaking down any remainants of walls around his heart. "just as you" he spoke, voice but a whisper, a glint of recognition in his eyes.

"we are one in the same. i see you as you are" her words rang true, they were one in the same, cast aside, stripped of their agency, starved of affection, all due to aemond. a wave of boldness washed over her. she moved closer to aegon, head resting on his shoulder, cautious not to disturb any parts not yet healed.

"why did you so rudely dismiss your maids ?" he took in a sharp breath "they thought of me as a beast. i saw it in their eyes, the disgust. besides, they knew not what they were doing, before they even began i could smell the incompetence. i could not allow they stay"

"then why allow me ?" she said, craning her head, looking now to his eyes. "i can trust you. as you said... you see me." she gave a small smile. he drank up the encouragement like a man starved.

"we may help eachother then. i see something troubles you, tell me my king, how may i be of assistance ?"

"my troubles are no secret, these scars trouble me, my face, my... my incapacitation." "oh aegon" she uttered quickly, moving from her spot on the floor, still on her knees, standing behind her king now, hands snaking around his shoulders unashamedly. her head went to his good side, chin toutching shoulder. "aemond may be regent but you... you remain king. ofcourse you are capable, you may rule from your own bed if you wish, council be damned."

a sob rattled his body. she pressed her arms further into him, attempting to stiffle his sadness for every tear of his shook her to her core. something about this man, with all the power of the realm at his fingertips being so voulnerable, putting his heart in her hands and trusting her to protect it, something aemond had not once done, it made her wish to hold onto him and never let go.

he began to weep openly, hiding his face in the crook of her arms. everyone looked at him and saw only what they wanted, be it a king, a rake, an incompetent fool... no one saw him for him, not even his own mother could recognise the pain festering in his body, the unfairness of the situation she put him in. he was given all the power in the realm with no say of his own fate. destined to live a life soely for the sake of others, faithfully serving the realm, his family, his mother, his counsil, never making a choice for his own. and then he was punished for it, punished for all he had no input in, by none other than his own brother, his own blood. ofcourse she knew naught of it, but the way she held him, so tight, so firm, as if she would take away all his pain and pour the love of the world on his skin the same way she had done that ointment, it only made him want to cry more, overwhelmed by the emotion.

she held him close and did not let go, not when the tears ran a salty stream on his face, not when the snot began to fill his nose,making his sobs sound all the more pathetic, not when his hands left bruising marks on her arms, possesively keeping them close, afraid they would be taken from him. she only endured, giving small tuts and shushes as well as little praises here and there.

eventually his sobs ceased, leving him sensitive, puffy faced and shuddering. she tennatively pulled her arms away, much to aegons disapointment, moving to the table once again,bringing a clean piece of cloth to his face. he took it greatfully and began to clean it somewhat.

"your grace ?"

"i just try so hard, all i do i do to please but-" tears threatened once again to spill from his pretty eyes, the princess would do anything to prevent such a thing.

"your grace, aegon, you neednt please anyone, you are far from perfect but you deserve to be treated well, to have your sacrifices recognised"

"they do not respect me"

"fuck them then. you are king, you may impose your authority over the council, you have a mind and a heart, and you can make as strategic a descision as any of them. i will be the fist to support you" his gaze fell to hers, blue eyes further acentuated by the redness brought about by his tears, mouth slightly open, heavy breaths escaping with great difficulty, his eyes from hers to her lips, to her eyes again. she moved her face forward, minimising the distance between them.

she thought of the correct words to say to comfort him, any plan of coaxing truth out of him long forgotten. she had come in with a plan, but his behaviour, his trust in her washed all of that away. she thought yet no words came to he

"aemond is a fool to hurt you"

"aemond is a fool to undermine you" his body reacted on its own, as if possesed by the emotions rooted in his chest so deep and so intense no logic could reach them, and so he kissed her.

his lips were so soft, having been spared, they moved on hers, full of raw intensity. practice attempted to prevail, aegons many conquests having taught him all he needed, yet could not, overrun by emotion. he had no control of his movements, kissing her now like a knight sworn to celibacy, unacustomed to the woea of women, wishing only to express his courtly love.

she pressed onto him harder, taking control of the kiss, hands falling to his face, one on his good side immedietly gripping his jaw, giving back the same desperation he had shown. immedietly upon the contact he oppened his mouth, leaving a whine and allowing her tongue acess. her other hand, ever so carefull not to hurt him, gently rested on his jaw, affraid of horting him.

he broke the kiss, speaking in between pants " my face is-is healed, do not hesitate just toutch me-" and so she did, ever so eager to please her king. the kiss deepened, all the sloppier, all the more desperate, all the more emotional, untill it was not enough to express their devotion.

"are-uh- are other... areas..healed, of yet ?" his face franticaly moving up and down, "yes, all the areas-" he chuckled, a hearty chuckle, such a lovely sound "all the areas of interest are healed, please "

she understood. she rose to her feet and began undoing her gown. aegon watched from his seat, staring patiently, adoration filling his beautifull ocean eyes. it took her a bit to undo the back laces of the dress, she hastily tore it from her body, heavy fabric immedietly falling to the floor, leaving her in only her small clothes, a sheer gown, off white in color, devoid of embelishments, but softly draping over her form.

her body was a painting, brought before aegon to feast his eyes upon. his patience was wearing thin. he moved his hand to toutch her, blocked by her stepping back "please, my king, allow me" he gave a small pout, obeying none the less.

she spared no time in giving him what he wanted, fulfilling finally their shared wish. one leg at a time, she entered the still-somehwat-warm water but faltered, hesitating to put her weight on him,ever so afraid of causing aegon pain.

he sensed her hesitation "its ok, just toutch me, please" desperation filled his body, threatening to chocke him, laced in every word from his lips.

she brought their faces together again, his mouth spilling desperation into hers with every kiss. her hands became unafraid, egged on by aegons words, resting on his chest, one of them reaching further and further down, tracing featherlike lines with her fingers, untill they reached where she wanted. she took aegons cock in one hand, halfhard already, leading him to release a pleading whimper. "good boy" she uttered.

caution thrown to the wind, the praise getting to his head, aegon moaned oppenly. as she began to stroke him, his moans got more and more desperate, each movement of her wrist sending waves of pleasure to his body. much like her he had been starved of affection, all sort of affection, he was desperate to take whatever she was willing to give. "oh gods-"

she shushed him by graciously placing her lips on his, resuming their previous kisses. but it was nowhere near enough for aegon. his hands found purchase on her gown, bunching up the fabric, tugging desperatly. he wanted, nay needed more. he began to tug the gown upwards, a pleading movement, asking of her to be as voulnerable as himself. she was oh so ready to provide.

she took his hands into hers, guiding them to take the gown off, finally it went up, revealng her stomach and breasts to him. immedietly he moved, taking her form into his arms, placing kisses on her colarbone, wasting no time to go lower and lower, reaching her breasts. he took a nipple in his mouth suching in tandem with her thrusts. the princess threw her head back, moaning with her full chest, uncaring of the world around them.

her hand never faltered, his cock began to twitch with his impending release. he detatched from her body, panting like a dog on a dry day, each inhale sending waves of equal parts oxygen and lust in his brain, making his vision hazy. he was not ready to give her up yet.

"p-please, please, im close"

she halted her movements. aegons disapointment traced a path from his abdomen all the way to his throat, releasing a pained whine. his hands moved on her back, clutching her sides for support, the pleasure so rudely torn from him and the previous exhaustion, leaving him stranded in the storm that is the haze in his mind.

"why my darling ? did, did i do something ?" it came out almost more as a cry than a question. "no, aegon, ofcourse not, youre perfect"

his chest fell in relief, lips immedietly finding hers, a kiss of graditude. a kiss of praise. "but im not done with you quite yet. i only wish to please my king after all"

her hand moved to his cock again, she pulled her hips down simultaniously, guiding it to her entrance. his tip barely teased her entrance and he was already a goner. he thrust his hips upwards, chasing the contact he craved so much. "patience, your grace"

she moved his tip forth, coming into contact with her pearl, sending jolts of pleasure to both of them. aegon was on the verge of becoming undone, barely clinging onto his sanity. she gave him a tutt, looking down onto her voulnerable king, his eyes already on hers, looking through his lashes, void of inhibitions and filled with unimaginable lust.

"please" he whispered, begging, such a man brought down by one woman, broken down onto the barest pesces of his soul by the world, pu to gether again by her toutch. "yes, your grace"

finally, finally, she brought her hips down. his cock entered inch by excruciating inch, untill finally she settled, having taken him whole. she resisted moving though, taking strands of silver hair on the nape of his neck, tugging his head to her chest, burrying it between her breasts. his desperatuon had reached a tipping point, this simple act sending him over the edge, sobs wreacking his body once again.

"ooh, my boy, did i pain you ?"

"it just, it feels good. youre so good to me" he muttered, head still buried in her chest and burrowing further, leaving sloppy kisses on her flesh and sucking marks surely with the intent to leave a reminder of him. "aww my darling, do not fret, i will take care of you, just you wait"

she gave his head little reassuring scratches, attempting to ground him somewhat, preparing the boy under her for what was to come. cautiously she began to move her hips. the sobs wrecking her own body just as much as his, only giving her more courage.

the water of the tub began to sway, more and more and more, she picked up her pace, moving her hands through his back, tracing the rough parts of his scars, the sensitivity of those areas adding to his pleasure. her pace picked up further, frantic hip movements rocking the entirety of the tub, the furniture begining to scratch against the floor.

aegon could take it no longer, amidst sobs and moans he began to move is own hips, matching the pace of the princess. his movements executed with no semblance of grace nor purpose, only focused on his own pleasure, seeking retribution for his lost orgasm.

the tub rocked, water splashing all around, aegons sobs turned to little whimpers, salty tears mixing with his spit on his ongoing assault to her chest. her movements began to falter, close to finishing, the white-hot pleasure in her abdomen threatening to burst. her body began to tremble lightly, yet she kept her composure, still in servitude of her king. he was in no better state, cock begining to twitch once again.

he was so so close, and not about to stand for this one to be taken away from him aswell. she took notice of the familiar signs he displayed "im close, aegon, so close"

he took this as a sign to let go, holding her body down with all the strength he could muster, forcefully, halting her movements, selfish for once, taking what he wanted. her orgasm hit her with that final forcefull push on his cock, pleasure exploding from her abdomen, rocking her body while from toes to fingers, face twisting in an expression of absolute extasy, brows knitted together and mouth slightly agape. aegon peeked from her chest, looking up to her face, illuminated by the candles, light softly cradling her features, exposing to his hungry eyes her beautifull expression, the mutters from his mouth a prayer to her beauty.

his own orgasm took over his body, sending a final sob through his mouth, a final wave of tears to his eyes, hot seed spilling inside of her.

they stayed that way a while, her hands cradling his head, his own softening on her hips, softly massaging them, attoning for the shelfish way he had taken his pleasure.

she craned her head down, giving a final kiss to his lips, soft and innocent, unlike any previously shared. he looked so utterly mesmerised by her, though he would not say it, she knew, the same as he did, she kew this meant so much to him. they remained that way, sitting in their understanding, she would do anything for her king and he anything for his lover.

she had come in search of answers to her husbands behaviour yet was left with something different, better. she had gained an ally, more than, she had gained her first genuine friend, her very own lover.

#hotd #house of the dragon #aegon ii targaryen #aegon x reader #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen x reader #hotd x y/n #hotd x reader #aemond targaryen #hotd s2 #team green

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