#also if he has a targ name | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

qvrcll · 4 months ago

Text

summary: with your subsequent marriages, you assumed that whatever friendship, and within it, desire and longing, you had with aemond in childhood had long since dissolved. but a dragon rarely ever yields.

warnings: EXPLICIT CONTENT AHEAD, childhood friend, non-targ reader, young betrothals, forced marriage mentioned, targcest marriage (a/h), possessive themes, dark aemond, (kinda) exhibitionism, finger in p, p in v, breeding kink, infidelity, cursing, slight dub-con but not really, aegon is a sorta decent friend if not a present and worthy husband, no dance of dragons

wc: 6.2K

author’s note: just watched ep 5 and i still stand by my slightly psychotic, slightly convoluted, wholly ambitious princess, but he’s on thin ice – aegon has suffered enough! you’ve made your point as king regent. this lowkey came to me in a melatonin-induced dream so excuse the errors if there are any, i haven’t written for this man since 2022! also, i’m so sorry aegon lol but then again, there is nothing more than friendship between him and reader – it’s just the principle that stings. oops :,) / dividers by strangergraphics

Carriage rides were always a handful.

More-so now, that you were a mother, cupping the back of your child’s head and bouncing him eagerly on your lap to keep him from fright, whilst your husband sat beside you, sticking his finger between the ridge of the little boy’s top lip and nose in a manner of teasing.

Rhaekar was a name that both you and Aegon had agreed upon. A fine name for a fine baby boy.

Fresh out of the womb and nursed delicately against your breast, Aegon’s usually frivolous and disengaged habits had quelled at the low cries that left the tiny bundle of cloth at your breast. He had uncharacteristically poked his head up and down, trying to catch a glimpse of the little wrinkled flesh, slick with blood and fluid.

He is tinier than I expected, he had said in a hushed tone, his ringed finger delicately tracing the fat of the newborn’s cheek, as if afraid to hurt it.

Most babies are, if not smaller, you had smiled.

It really was no secret. Your marriage with Aegon was not bourne out of love, nor willingness. He had detested duty, and you had grown cold at the thought of a loveless marriage. Even as you stood at the Sept steps, clothed head to toe in white that mirrored the marble of fresh-tasting cream frosting, cloaked in the regal cream of the Targaryen colours, the two of you had been too young to absolve or deny such a proposition.

But the years passed to prove that friendship could sprout in the absence of love. Aegon did not love you in a way you had hoped to be loved by someone, anyone. But he loved his son, and the friendship you held with him was near enough.

“He’s going to drool all over you,” you fuss gently, watching as your son takes his father’s finger into his two hands and grasps it like rope. A laugh is pulled out of Aegon – adoration is clear in his light irises.

“Do not worry, my dear boy,” Aegon drawls, broad and toothy smile catching the lines on his face, “Your father doesn’t mind.”

“He has grown.”

The third voice is a surprise, if anything. Yet it strikes a deep cord within you, familiarity bubbling in your chest at the age-old smooth voice, curved syllables.

Aemond.

You had been mildly conscious of his presence, and with him, Helaena, sitting across from you in the carriage. It wasn’t customary to be lodged in a single carriage like so, but with the destination being the annual hunt and Rhaekar’s name day, the family would need to be close. Well-knit as they walked out of the carriage for appearances.

Yet, you cannot help but hold Aemond’s one-eyed gaze for one second too necessary, to notice how he watches the three of you like a hawk.

Aegon breathes in softly, clearly distracted by the little babbling boy as he hauls him out of your lap at the arms and takes to playing with him more efficiently. You’re left to answer his brother’s question with a simple smile.

“The Maesters say he is growing up strong and fast,” your hands come to lay across each other on your lap, the action not being missed by the younger Prince’s steely, unreadable gaze. You almost burn under it, but you chalk it up to the closed space.

He doesn’t respond, but simply tilts his head forward in a single nod. When you look back to Rhaekar upon Aegon’s lap, he rips his gaze from your face to the youngling’s.

In his mind, he is barely hanging on. Stuffed in a carriage with a brother he would rather wrangle than humour, a lady wife he is bound to duty alone and the sight of his childhood companion – love, friend, half of his heart, whatever that constitutes – wed and mothering a son with not only another man, but his own debauched brother. He would sooner die than stomach that.

But Aemond holds more restraint than most mortal men. At least, he thinks he does. His single eye traces over the soft of your son’s cheeks and the ovals of his eyes – all traces of Aegon. All traces of you. His hands clench against the thick leather of his pants, trying to seem indifferent, as his eye trains back to your face.

Your gaze floats back to his. Only the two of you understand that there is a tension floating between you, but you alone do not understand it. He is hard to read now, more than ever. The event at Drift-mark had shut you out from all his previous behaviours, his usual antics and juvenile tendencies. Now, a hardened and roughened man remained, whatever trace of friendship conjured in your childhood being a mere floating memory now.

At least, it seemed like it.

“Ah, here we are,” Aegon chimes blandly, pointing to the carriage window to ascertain which Lords were which, and which camps held best.

The moment breaks as the footman hurries to the door, and with it, you step outside beside Aegon and clutch Rhaekar at your chest with a smile. Beside you, Helaena and Aemond step awkwardly together. The sight of cheerful men and ardent cheers overwhelm you, and you push back the feeling arising in your chest with a lost sense of conviction.

The maids are gentle with your son, and it is all that you need to quell your thoughts and feeling heart.

You are able to catch a moment of reprieve amongst the tent that was erected for the likes of you and Aegon. Being the first born son, the tent served to reflect exactly that. It lay amongst the middle of the camp, green silks draped over wooden posts in different shades, like thick vines draping from the ceiling. Where there had been thick ground outside, had now been replaced by a verdant carpet, embroidered by gold all throughout. An extravagant faux-throne stood at a few steps to the right, and a swath of low cushions to your left – toys lay upon those cushions, with your son teething at a toy that a maid had gently placed at his feet.

Lords and Ladies flitted from here and there, passing like blurring bodies in your vision. A few stopped to greet you, and engage in conversation is pressing their advantage, though you were polite. There wasn’t much to look forward to – the small array of ladies gathered around chairs and carpets would surely do more to discomfort you than engage you in something meaningful.

At the back of the tent, a low serving table lay with refreshments. For all your knowledge, Aegon never really did reign in his inhibitions – there was already a pitcher half-full, and a goblet half-drunk on it. Aegon was somewhere, possibly entertaining some few of his many Lordly friends.

The ache of love could not be quelled by friendship.

You sip your wine slowly. In times like these, left alone to your own devices and given the option to drink, engage or settle with some ladies, your mind tended to wander instead. You tilt your cup to your lips, the sight of the fruitful wine giving way to a faint image in your mind.

It was his twelfth name day. You remember it so clearly – waking up before the maids and selecting your frilliest, prettiest gown for the occasion, frowning and whining when they insisted different colours and styles, fashioned with embroidery or gems.

You had wanted it to be special for Aemond.

Being one of his most beloved childhood companions, you wanted every intention to count. You knew it mattered when you stepped into the gardens, dressed in a delicate green gown, with red-dotted jewellery to dot your neck and fingers. He had been standing there, waiting anxiously, and nearly fell face front when he approached you.

You look… really pretty, he had stuttered.

Thank you, Aemond, you had giggled, enjoying the way his tongue had turned liquid in his mouth at the sight of you.

The plans had been made that day – whatever he wished for. When breaking fast, he couldn’t keep a hold of his tongue as he clutched your palm and led you hastily down the halls of the Red Keep. He knew that the day would entail later; extravagance and little time. Little time for you, and the thought soured his mind.

First, there was the clearing near the woods. He didn’t mind the presence of the knights trailing behind much, and neither did you. All he cared for was the feeling of perching his head nervously against your lap, fighting a smile as you braided flowers within his hair. It had been a sweet, long affair. Next, it had been the banquet dinner, and he had saved a space in the chair beside his own. His smiles never left you, his eyes always chasing your own, smiling bashfully when he did something worthy of impression to you.

And then, at the end of the day, past the pesky guards and the prying eyes of your parents – came the Dragon-pit escapade.

What if we get caught? Someone could see us, you voiced in worry, despite your eyes betraying the excitement broiling in your gut. Aemond had merely tugged at your wrist, boyish grip a little too tight for comfort, yet neither of you cared much.

No one will catch us, he smiled nervously, as though unsure of himself.

When the two of you tentatively descended the rocky steps of the massive crypt, you had held closer to him. Aemond tried to calm the jump in his pulse when your palm squeezed around his, or the way your shoulder bumped softly against the ridge of his back when the dark got too frightening.

Just stay close to me, he murmured. Though only a few centimetres taller than you, he was speaking with more confidence than what lay in him.

You had stayed close with a tight nod, your soft breath against his nape. He was scouring the darkness – the smell of Dragon-spit and smoke marred the air heavily, and the mechanical groans of a few of the pit’s creatures emboldened the darkness a little more. You clung to him even tighter, the silk of your dress pressing against his leathers. When the first dragon, however unrecognisable, had grown weary of your intrusion and lit its flame, you covered your eyes and ears. He had ducked you behind him, though he quivered just as much, and had covered you with both arms in an embrace.

Look, he had breathed.

And what a sight it had been.

Yellow climbed atop orange as dragon-fire spilled forth from a gargantuan throat of an unnamed dragon. It raised across the dark rock of the ceiling, lighting the space like a well-lit room, the heat bearing down against you like the summer season of the realm. Where there was fear, now there was also awe, as you and Aemond clung to one another. When the room dimmed, the two of you ran hand in hand above ground, falling atop each other in a hurry to rid of the pit’s darkness.

The added weight of you above him was barely registered, with your childish laughter filling the air in cacophonies, his hands a welcome weight against your hips. However that night ended, you do not remember. Did the two of you trek to the Red Keep in barely concealed laughter? Or did you peek at the stars when the guise of friendship had moved on to a tenderer feeling?

“My Lady?”

You blink like a fish out of water. Your wine is long gone, and you find yourself staring at the maid in front of you, who views you with the same sort of concentration, just a tinge of concern in her eyes.

It appears your thoughts might have drifted – Rhaekar had been fussing for you from the carpeted floor, barely able to sit still against the silk drapery and consoling maids.

“Forgive me—“ you begin, setting down your goblet and lifting yourself off the chair you had unknowingly seated yourself upon, approaching the child with a twinkling smile, “My sweet boy. Do you miss me?”

The boy babbles happily at your voice, recognising the soft tone of his mother’s voice. He clings to the collar of your blue silks, the embroidery against your collar being fisted in his little hands. You smile, entertaining the small boy as the maids watch with an affectionate smile.

From the corner of the room, Aemond watched. He always did – and he had been, especially now. His eye had lingered when you were day-dreaming. How twisted it was for an unreadable man of his station to desperately want to know the inner workings of another. He supposed he was this sort of man now – barred and unaffectionate, cruel by practice.

His duty to Helaena was just that. There wasn’t love, but a deep-seated admiration and bond with the quiet girl. He had been close with his sister, but he had never seen her as more – they had hardly sired heirs of their own. Targaryen customs had never repulsed him; he was no stranger to the much exercised practices of his house. But there was no deeper reason to feel more for her and the act of intimacy was hidden deep in his chest, unwilling to be made known to anyone but you. And she felt the very same with her own duty, seated in the far corner of the room, taken to her maid, who watches as she palms a spider carefully.

But you – God’s, you were different.

His childhood companion of when he was much too young to know of the atrocities of loss and shame, the one he chased with his eye alone and caught in a full room. He could abandon all feeling and you would still be in his chest, thudding place of his heart.

He could hardly tear his one, assessing eye off of you. Those silks, that draped off your form, curving against you in the places he wished he could memorise. Your hair wasn’t the silver of his Targaryen own, but a colour of your own – he had always admired it closely in childhood, perhaps another outlet of his devotion of you.

But now, watching you tend to your child, a child that he could easily confuse as his own, he felt something… in his gut.

He was that sort of man now – the sort of man who knew long ago of what he truly wanted.

“Trouble?” he asks smoothly, without much hesitation or emotion, as he crosses the room to stand beside you. His arms are folded behind his back, a habit he had developed with his roguishness, as he looks down at you.

You’re hardly surprised. You knew he would seek you out somehow – perhaps for conversation. It felt nice, for a moment, regarding him without looking into his eye and seeing the tension that lay within it, raw and confusing. You were forced to bury whatever you felt beneath lines of formality.

“He always is,” you smile at Aemond, dusting the front of your gown as you straighten to your full height, “Are you having a good time?”

“I suppose,” he hums. Brisk and short – you do not mind. You have grown used to that. But what makes your hair stand on edge is the look he gives you. Like he is studying you, trying to figure you out. His eye blinks towards the room, uncharacteristically relieved to find Aegon nowhere near, before he offers his arm.

“Walk with me.”

More demand than request, but his tone is not at all harsh and soft in his own way. Watered down and guarded but not forced, like it was nature to be with you so. Your heart flutters in your chest. There is no reason to deny.

“Lead the way,” you answer with a familiar smirk, which leaves a ghost of a smirk on his own lips. You leave the tent, arm warmly wrapped against Aemond’s own, after ensuring Rhaekar was satisfied with the stuffed renditions of dragons and the maids that coo at him when the drapery slides into place with your exit.

If the men assembled around the camp were surprised by your company, they made no show of it.

No protest rang as you and Aemond made for a thin path in the woods, mind anywhere but within the moment. The heat of your skin was warming his rib and arm, and the presence of him was making a familiarity dawn upon you.

Where there had been easy conversation in the past, there were silences and the light crunch of boot upon leaf. You didn’t blame him much – the change does not repulse you. He had always been a thoughtful boy in the past, and the silence had only grown. He tended to think more now, second guessing his words and choosing which words to best fit with you. He didn’t know where the two of you stood – was it fit to feel greedy even now?

The sounds of the creaking woods and crackling leaves are finally broken by his speech, “How are you?”

You look at him with mild surprise, a soft smile on your face as you regard him. His one eye is genuine as it looks upon you.

“Do you want the truth or something soft-sounding?” you jest, but he merely breathes softly.

“You know what I want,” he states with not so much as a smile, but his tone is light. Did you know what he truly wanted? Perhaps not. It would frighten you, surely.

“I am well. Rhaekar left me a little exhausted and sore, but the recovery has come along well,” you answer, “Truly, I am well.”

He pushes his luck, “And your marriage?”

It should surprise you, but it doesn’t. He’s always been eager at his hand, no matter how much restraint he had learnt over the years.

You sigh through your nose, “My duty, you mean. It is… not as horrible as it ought to be. Aegon is… well, Aegon. We perform what we must. He is a friend to me, in a way. No lover. But… it is good, I suppose.”

Something about the mention of a satisfactory marriage with his leech of a brother had his mind boiling with anger. He didn’t expect – much less hope – for you to be miserable. No, he was never that cruel to you. Perhaps to others, but not you. But the smell of friendship unnerved him. It was how he was taken to you – would Aegon follow that same path, find himself infatuated and easily claim your heart as it was already done legally through marriage? Would he standing by the sides when time would run out?

“Hm,” he repeats, monotone. He was clenching his fists, you notice, and visibly stiff against you. Something had angered him, and you wouldn’t just sit around to find out.

“What is it?” you ask, a frown on your face.

He takes note of it, almost wanting to press his index finger against the middle of your brows, to see the frown dissipate. But he held his hands back – that greed would get the better of him.

He steels himself, stopping by a large tree. It looms above the two of you, like a sledge-hammer, the roots taking place underneath your feet in bumps and ridges. The leaves are speckled across the vast amounts of branches, green and white in the cold sunlight. But the gaze he gives you is enough to warm your insides for good.

“It irks me,” he speaks truthfully for the first time in years, and for once, it feels freeing. His conscience is still heavy, “Your marriage with the… likes of him.”

You pause. This was traversing some grounds, this stupefying discovery and suspicion. Your vows and your duty flit through your head like the numerous scrolls in the Sept, the weight of the realm atop your shoulders. You had seen him in similar lights, but the truth almost made him vulnerable, angry. Fear griped at your chest, as you look at him like he was strange for saying such a thing.

“Well, it shouldn’t,” your voice is wary, a swallow diminishing the flurry in your belly, “We have a duty to uphold. Me, to Aegon. You to Helaena.”

He comes to a halt beneath one of the branches, disgruntled in a way that you cannot see. Aemond feels his tongue slacken in his mouth, the weight of another man’s anger resting in his body – or was it his? Hidden and barely known, even to himself? Was it the anger, the bitterness, that he held as young child, now refusing to be shown?

You notice his stiffness, but make no move to coax him out of him. He had to snap out of it.

“You have Helaena,” you repeat, softer if only it would soothe whatever line he was transgressing, “She is your lady wife.”

He scoffs. It is a sound that catches you off guard. In the past, he would have conceded and offered a hasty apology. Or perhaps in reluctance. But he was brash now, bolder. His shoulders squared, as his head moved an inch to look back at you, silver tresses spilling over the jerkin he wore.

“Helaena. She is my dear sister,” his voice is blank, “There was never any sort of love there. You know that.”

Your eyes widen. He was being truthful, more than usual. He was unravelling, surely, and the coldness of the forest sears away to be replaced with a warmth that nips at your heel. His eye only holds some light of anger and truth, never fear – but that is within him, refusing to be shown.

You look at your feet, distractedly picking your gown up from an edge of a root, “She is your wife, nonetheless.”

The words work more to anger him – you know this because a piece of his jaw sets in place, and he fully turns to face you. He had always been a head taller, but now, he was towering above you. Looming. The tree barely intimidated you as such – regal beauty closing in on you like Valyrian smoke.

“She is my wife,” he begins again, voice low. He approaches you, and you move backwards on cue. He stops upon notice, a sharp breath breaking the silence, “But you—“

“But me?” your voice is incredulous, “What about me? What am I to you but a friend from childhood—”

He moved closer, and you lose some semblance of control as he crowds your space. Your back presses against the bark of the large tree, uncomfortable and poking against the soft length of your gown. But you do not care, and neither does he. His fingers almost reach up to touch your arm, but he doesn’t dare. Not yet.

“Do not fool yourself,” he sneers, one eye looking down at you in a way that burns your skin once again, “You are more. You might have not known, but I did – you’ve always been more.”

His fingers finally concede, tracing the gooseflesh on your elbow as you twitch under him. Your eyes are wide and shocked, but you do not make a move to stop him, nor his words. He knows you are a proud lady by nature – you could easily make quick of this conversation and never return to him. But your eyes hold the truth. You’re half curious, as you are fearful and just as selfish as him, though you think of yourself better at hiding it. He smirks slightly.

“You should have been mine,” his eye searches your face, his finger trailing up to touch the side of your chin, a touch too soft.

If the bottom of your stomach hadn’t dropped before, it definitely had in this very moment. The leaves rustle softly as you feel your back scratch against the bark, your face warming where he touches you. The two of you are crossing a line, the both of you, because you make no move to leave. You lean into his touch ever so slightly, seeking for the warmth that lies there. Targaryens and their heat.

“We mustn’t,” your voice is weak, barely a deterrence, but you try anyhow. You know better than to give into the urges, the fears and hopes that belonged to a whole different time. A time where the two of you were much younger, and ignorant in a sweet sense, making light of the weight on your heart. But now, festering all throughout your adolescence, it had begun to take root, “We belong to others—“

Aemond makes a sound between a grunt and a scoff, as he traps you against the bark. His hands loop around your waist, the touch dangerous and a tell-tale warning of yourself and him, too, in a sense. But he doesn’t losen his hold, and you sigh shakily as he hauls you closer, chest to chest.

“We belonged to each other long before we belonged to others,” he manages in a ragged tone. In a tone that suggests that you knew better, just like he did, and that it was no better playing the fool. You supposed he was right – it was out in the open, and the two of you were chest to chest, like he’d tear your gown open and make love to you in the solace of the forest alone. Not much to hide now. Not much to disguise.

But still, you try. You pretended to not know better.

“That was in childhood—“ you struggle against his arms, heavy breaths stifling your lungs like sea-smoke as he comes so close, too close. His lips are at the corners of your own, his one eye so close as to depict the many different etches in his eyepatch, “I am your brother’s lady wife now.”

He tightens his hold around the small of your back, and you fail to ignore the warmth that builds all over. You are beginning to feel fuzzy, to let go of all your inhibitions, your restraint. And he was too.

“The laws of matrimony were forged by men,” he speaks smoothly against your lips, “They mean nothing to me—not when it comes to you.”

Your last ditch effort to deny crossing the line is futile – you sharply move your face away from him, the sight of his face ripping away from your line of vision. It proves to be a poor effort, because he merely grunts, grabbing your cheeks with his calloused digits and shifting it back to where it was before. It is almost violent in a way, if it weren’t for the tenderness in which he looked at you.

Every breath feels heavy, and your hands come to rest against his chest, not knowing whether to push or pull. Your restraint was slipping, and there was little to stop you now. You could barely deny yourself, let alone him.

“Look at me.”

The order is so simple and you curse at how your eyes float to his. It was such an easy thing – finding his eyes in the harrowing darkness of the Dragon-pit, peering into his good eye and trying to ignore the blood and gore that marred his other, trying to discern his thoughts with a look alone. You had looked so easily.

And he knew. God’s, Aemond knew it.

The truth lay in them, as they had all along. Even with one eye, he was left blinded. How could he have let the pretence of your duties hold him back, when you were there for the taking?

You knew it too – the lack of such a burn was abysmal in your own marriage. The presence of it now left you cloudy brained, hazy, and you couldn’t navigate the barest of thoughts. Before, caution would have been exercised. Now, there was an utter lack of it. A lack of patience, a lack of restraint, and a lack of all of which made you and Aemond.

With a slow pace, you let slide your hand against the nape of his neck, slowly trailing up and feeling the long strands that lay there, pale and silver against your fingers. You had once told him that it reminded you of star light. The truth stood now, even in the barely concealed brevity of your fingers. Not that you cared.

All restraint that the Prince had once retained in childhood snaps like a string and he surges forward. His lips are rough and a clatter of teeth, gum and tongue. He is not a patient man – so when he angles your head and licks against your lips, you keep your lips sealed for the thrill of it. Nevertheless, he wrenches your mouth open with his tongue alone, wrapping around your own like a muscle well-trained, noting every sigh and moan that escapes you.

His hands are all over you. There is surprise in the way it trails from your neck to your nape, to the back of your head and down your hip, his fingers thumbing your breast in the decline. You shudder against him, and he swallows your groan in earnest.

“So eager,” he drawls, though the need is thick in his voice, “I thought your vows meant more to you than this?”

“Fuck you,” you bite back, a strangled moan leaving you seconds later, as his fingers dive beneath your skirts and thumb your slit in a slow swipe. The words of retort die in your throat as you clutch fiercely to his shoulders, his pressing weight being the only source of support.

He smiled, tracing your bottom lip with his tongue, “You’ve always had a filthy mouth on you. A lady no less.”

No amount of breath could have braced you for the way in which his fingers dipped beneath the smooth fabric of your underwear, slipping past the pubic hair that lay there and catching your pearl in a tight-rounded flick. You moan in a way he hadn’t yet heard before, and his heart clenches uncomfortably. He had only ever felt such exhilaration when atop Vhagar, mapping the expanse of King’s Landing below. But he is greedy now – he knows that he can be.

He mouths a quiet ‘fuck’, as he positions his fingers in a way that breeches you so barely, before burying a long, lithe finger within you. He is not prepared for the way you buck against him, the broken syllables of his name leaving your lips – almost desperate. Did Aegon know that he was claiming his own wife so, with his fingers alone?

When his fingers ease you open enough, one too many to wrench just sighs out of you, he retreats his hand from your small-clothes. You whine at the loss of his warmth, the absence of the ball of his palm against your clit that warmed the wet flesh just right. He simply smiles, taking your earlobe into his mouth.

“Patience, ñuha jorrāeliarzy,” he purrs against the expanse of your throat. The odd, old language blends into his usual use of the common tongue, and you do not know how it excites you so. Perhaps the premise itself is so debauched – your childhood companion and the brother of your own husband dragging your own slick back and forth across your cunny, in the solace of a forest.

It only clicks after that he called you his love.

You can barely digest that thought when he barely steps back. His fingers hook against your small-clothes and yanks them down harshly, the fabric lying wet and soaked slightly between your legs. You feel no shame – you wish you did, because some clarity would do you some good. Instead, you hurriedly help him unlace the buckles of his leather, laces of his breeches. They lower enough to let his cock to spring free, sinful and dangerous as he presses the weight of him against you, dragging it across like a damn tease.

“Please,” you plead, breaths ragged and poor. He smirks, arms hooking under your shoulders to pull you closer against his chest.

“Your words, sweet girl,” he coos. The smirk that tears his face is devilish – you almost cower, if not for the lust clouding your system, the decade long affair boiling between you both.

“I need you to—“ you struggle at a swipe of his cock-head against your slick entrance, “I need you to—to fuck me.”

“Is that so?” he asks, amused, as he begins to press into you. So, so close, yet not enough.

You nod tearfully, “I need you—I’ve always needed you, and you’ve always known. I wish it was you. I wish we would have wed—“

The moan that rips through you is entirely his fault. The sharp way he breeches you, in one harsh moment – his fault. But who could blame him? The thought of you so desperate to change the course of fate, to be bound to him by matrimonial vows, makes his stomach burn. He knew he was a hypocrite – he had just sullied and mocked them, but if you were his by law, he would have made it count.

“Wanted you forever,” he grunts against your ear, cock spearing through you and splitting you in half against the bark of the tree. The bark bites into your back, and your hips begin to burn. He smells of Dragon-scale and fire. He must have ridden Vhagar sometime this week – it makes you clench tightly around him, as he stutters, pushing in deeper, “I would’ve wed you in a heartbeat, if not for those fucking duties.”

You aren’t faring any better than him, moaning and whining as he ploughs into you, holding you up with his strength alone as he batters you endlessly. He speaks again, pleasured at the sight of you so wordless, “Don’t care much for that. You’re mine. You’ve always been mine. My insolent brother would do good to remember that—fuck.”

You clench against him again, “Aemond—“

“Could spill my come in you now,” he pants, angling your hips to reach further into you, like he was taking the good parts of you and sullying them, just so he could lay his claim on you, “That fool would never know—you’d be round and swollen with my babe and he’d never fucking know—”

Excitement and fear gripes at your heart, as you look up at him in slight alarm. But you cannot help but entertain the thought – the mere thought of him laying claim on you so viciously, a formidable dragon in his own right, not caring for whatever that kept you apart. Gone was the boy that feared overstepping, that feared distance. Here was a man that would make space if he wished for it, lay claim on you because he craved you so.

With a strangled call of his name, you bite his shoulder firmly – not enough to cause hurt, but enough to have him grunt – as you near your release. A creamy ring forms around the base of his cock when he looks below, and he knows the sight is his undoing. He is close – so close.

“You’d like that wouldn’t you?” he taunts, yet spears in harder, “You’d like that so much.”

You can only nod helplessly, lost to the sensations swimming in your veins. He grunts through a wrangled moan, aroused by the way you let him.

It isn’t a surprise when you come first. It is a goal of his – as a man, to bring you ecstasy, before his own. But when he does come, it is deep within, a warmth that fills your body as he spills his seed deep inside your cunny. The two of you struggle against each other with ragged breaths, and his hand settles against the small of your back again, the touch leaving an impression.

“You’re insatiable,” you groan, though playfully, as you watch the product of his come drip from beneath you. He barely gives you any words, as his fingers collect the slick and quickly stuff the escaping wetness back in, ignoring the way your hips twitch away from him. Sensitivity. It makes him smile cruelly.

“Don’t you waste a bit of it,” he speaks, voice a drawl, thick with want. The weight of the truth lay between you two, but there was no need to navigate such a thing. You had known long, long before, even buried it underneath lays of flesh and bone.

He helps you dress again, and then himself, quick and expertly, your small-clothes containing the eager spill of his seed between your thighs. You do not miss the way his one eye glitters with some dangerous sense of pride, how he kisses your neck only so slightly. You smile, laughing softly, as he curls into the side of you, claiming a part of you and aiming for more – until you smell of nothing but Dragon-smoke and sweat.

“Let’s head back, before the others grow suspicious. For good reason,” you tug at his arm, your smile a balm against the ruined convictions of his past.

He offers a rare smile, letting himself be led away by you, just like in childhood, “Let’s.”

There was no need to fret the words – the two of you have always known, in some sense. Perhaps you’ll figure the future out sooner than you had before, with the added weight of him against your body.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen drabble #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x female reader #aemond targaryen fic #hotd fic

1K notes · View notes

just-some-random-blogger · 3 months ago

Text

Break Bones?

There has been nothing but tension between you and your ward, and Breakbones has only added to it.

bodyguard!Gwayne Hightower x Lannister!Reader x Harwin Strong | 4k+ | cw: fem!reader, reader has golden lannister hair, enemies to lovers, forced proximity ig, im just a girl!reader, angst?, jealousy, typos, etc.

A/N: this the '3rd part' to Seeing Red (1) and Seeing Green (2) but you dont have to read either to understand what's happening <3. Also, I think a lot of facts are skewed here in this fic but... Roll with it pls thx. I hope someone enjoys this because I do nawt 🥲

Tagging: @lancedoncrimsonwings @targs-on-zorses @barbieaemond @arabellasleopardcoat @dreamsandconstellations

@uniquecroissant @holdingforgeneralhugs @b00kw0rmsworld

Lunch was my favorite meal. This time of day was most pleasant, with the sun high in the sky and the birds singing. Normally at this time, whatever grogginess the morning gave me would long be gone. But today, it was not so.

Gwayne turns to me as I pointedly smack on my meal to annoy him. If my day is grim, then so should his.

He chews harder than he needs to then swallows, "I see frolicking with Breakbones has made you forget your pedigree."

I raise my brows, "nay," I set my spoon down, "my meal is simply so scrumptious that I cannot contain myself."

Gwayne releases a breath. I watch him as he reaches for his teacup. He looks as though he's using all the muscles in his body to withhold an eye roll. He takes a sip; the heat of the tea leaves his lips ruddy.

I watch him set his floral cup down. I watch him as he leans back on his chair. When did his get that long? The locks by his temples go past his cheeks now. A line forms on his face when I stare too long. I avert my gaze to my own teacup. The milkiness of his face is reflected in my drink. My stomach churns.

"So-" "How-"

We look at each other after speaking at the same time. I open my mouth, meaning to tell him to go first, but he cuts me off and simply speaks, "how is Breakbones?"

Offence latches on my being. How ill-mannered of him not to even feign the courtesy of allowing me to speak first. Irritation springs forth, so I quip, "what?"

Gwayne scoops some honey and stirs it into his tea. He licks what remained on the silverware.

I avoid his eyes as he does so.

"Your whereabouts have not gone unnoticed by me," he says dryly, "I am aware that you have since been accompanied by Breakbones to the market more than once."

A horrid scowl finds my features, "and just who is this foul creature?"

Gwayne's expression falls until my scowl is reflected on him. His jaw sets, "I can assure you; you have already wholly vexed me this morn; you needn't feign ignorance to add to it."

"But I am not acquainted to this brute who breaks bones," I hiss, "and I need not feign something which comes easy for me."

He realizes then that I was sincere in my own vexation when I heatedly continue.

"Your delusions of my character will not bleed into reality, Ser." I pointedly raise a brow, "whichever part of my body you think would associate with such people who garner such names would surely rather strike your cheek."

He furrows his brows as he tilts his head, "yet it seems you are ignorant to the fact Breakbones is your beloved City Watch commander."

My brows furrow. I am silent for a moment before speaking, "Ser Harwin?"

He scoffs out a chuckle, "oh, yes," he takes a sip of his tea, "the brute with such a name is the one you have extended such warm amity to as of late."

A moment of concern and even alarm floods me. But it is fleeting the next moment, and my expression falls. I huff. A pit grows in my stomach, "how acrid and crude."

Gwayne's brows quirk as he gulps his tea. The manner in which his lips curl pierce through my belly in the most unpleasant of ways.

"I am well aware that you and I have never met eye to eye, that you disagree with my interest in beautiful things-"

His expression slips.

"-but your want to deter me of my only companion here is repellent, even for one as you."

Companion? Gwayne's blood rises just as I from my seat across him, "such as I?"

"Such as you!" I maintain, chucking my table napkin onto my half-finished plate.

"I see your unfeigned ignorance has made you callous to my efforts to please you," he words harshly, slowly rising from his seat.

"But it is not your work to please me!" I snap, "your work is to keep me safe!"

"From library books?!" he raises his voice, "from cakes and dresses? What is your danger in King's Landing when not only do a thousand guards reside within these walls, but your own lord brother is seated upon the council of the king?"

My nostrils flare at his words. I decide to maintain my dignity by forfeiting my response. I gather my skirts and flee him.

He releases an irritated laugh, "oh, how very like of you!"

"Do not wait. I have errands to accomplish."

"Ha! Do accomplish them well with your beloved Breakbones."

I storm away from him. I storm and storm until my face rains. It annoys me how my breath shortens and how my throat constricts. I run off to my chambers and dismiss any ready servants there. I crumble to my bed and wring out my melancholy.

The letter I received late last night calls to me from my vanity. I sigh and reach out to it. I slide down my bed and will the contents of the letter to change.

It does not work. The words are as clear as they were last night underneath my lamp, if not clearer now in afternoon shine.

Highgarden would be honored to receive Lady Lannister. House Tyrell presently prepares its home in hopes it will be hers in the apparent future.

I rip the parchment to shreds, as if its riddance would destroy the reality it held.

It does not.

It comforts me, nonetheless.

I wash my face and reapply rogue before exiting my chambers. I begin to walk off but freeze when I see Gwayne at the end of the hallway. He does nothing. He says nothing.

I turn the other way.

I find myself heading to the guard's quarters, where I soon learned Ser Harwin was not. A guard informs me that he was in the training grounds, and so I promptly make my way there.

The moment Harwin catches the golden glint upon my head, he is distracted. He pays less attention to his pupils, offering me a smile and nod in regard. Soon, when I am close enough, he says a quick word before abandoning his post altogether.

Harwin struts up to me with another smile and nod, "my lady Lannister."

My heart swells at his kind regard, a stark contrast of Gwyane, "lord Strong."

"You must forgive my state," he wipes the sweat dripping from his temple, "an hour remains of our session, then I will be free to accompany you to the baker's today," he assures. He smiles but it quickly disappears as he adds, "after I wash and change, of course."

I press my lips tightly together, yet it does not contain my giggle.

Harwin crosses his arms at the sound, his own lips unable to contain his own giggle.

"I am in no hurry, commander," I clasp my hands together, "feel free to ignore me until you are ready."

He walks backward, "I pray you do not require me to do something impossible."

I chuckle at the sentiment, but I roll my eyes. I sit myself on a crate nearby and watch as the man instructs his pupils. He demonstrates the proper handling of a sword and strikes the dummy. For a moment, I think of Gwayne training.

Then suddenly, I remember our argument and find myself calling out, "break bones."

I watch as Harwin turns to me.

I flatten my skirts on my lap but do speak any further.

"You call, my lady?"

I straighten my back, slightly taken aback that he responded, and shake my head, "never mind."

Harwin does not think twice on it. He continues with his lesson.

Watching him teach was... titillating. His voice was rich and sure, his actions more so, and his demeanor was truly that of a commander. More and more, I thought of 'break bones' and continued to convince myself that this was not him. Soon, I was not enslaved to my thoughts and became thoroughly entertained by Harwin's instruction. It was almost a shame that the hour passed as quickly as it did.

Harwin quickly comes to me, announcing he will not take long to tidy up, then leaves just as quickly. Unable to help myself, I decide to ask a guard about this break bones fellow. Before I can even ask if that man was truly his commander, he's already droning about See Harwin Strong. Before he could finish, the said man was beside me, face and locks slightly damp.

Harwin and I make our way to the stables after and I immediately start, "I did not realize you had quite a reputation."

I watch my feet peak out from beneath my dress as we leisurely make our way to his steed. Harwin, with his hands behind him, turns to me with a quirked brow, "and what reputation might that be?"

"Breakbones," I look up.

He simply stares.

"I thought Gwayne thought it up to deter me from your companionship."

He purses his lip, "...does it?"

I give him an incredulous look, "perhaps if I had known it before I knew you. I was testing the name on you. I did not expect you to respond."

"Is it very ill-fitting?"

"Yes," I speak immediately. I tilt my head, "you are very gentle."

He laughs. It is quiet but hard enough that he must clutch his gut and take a moment to gather himself.

Though it was not like him to mock me, I could not help but feel perhaps that in this moment he was. A frown finds me.

I think of Gwayne and his condescending laughter. My chest tightens.

He breathes in deeply before finally calming. Harwin notices my dejected demeanor and it wipes the grin off his face, "forgive me. I laugh only because I have not yet been called gentle in earnest."

It does not rid my frown.

"It pleases me," he mutters.

I stop in my tracks when he reaches for my hand. My pulse quickens when he takes and lifts it.

"I am glad to appear as such to you," he speaks carefully, blue eyes locked on mine. He presses a chaste kiss at the back of my hand. He maintains his hold until we are in front of his horse.

Harwin helps me up the brown stallion. He maintains a respectable hold and even fixes my dress as I seat myself. I look down at him and his smile. I nod, indicating that he can now climb up.

He shakes his head, lips still curled upright, "I do not think it wise for me to ride with you today."

I furrow my brows, "why ever not?"

Harwin takes the reins of his horse, "well, I fear my hasty washing was not enough."

I roll my eyes, "I-"

"And I desire to uphold the gentle nature you recognize in me." Harwin begins to walk.

"I do not understand."

He snorts lightly, "I fear my softness will not remain if I ride behind you."

My brows only furrow deeper.

Harwin catches this and chuckles. He mumbles under his breath, "the lioness is but a kitten."

"I heard that."

He raises a hand, "a jest. An innocent jest."

I spent a good part of the afternoon scrutinizing cakes and frosting, meticulously ordering the perfect assortment to be delivered to me tomorrow.

By the time Harwin and I were back in the Keep, I could tell that he was worn, not only from being made a taste tester against his will, but also from walking back and forth.

Another image of Gwayne flashes in my mind. Guilt and dread threaten to spill from my lips.

Harwin helps me down his steed and softly smiles once I am stood before him. My heart stings at his drowsy expression. My forehead curls as I reach for his cheek, "you have been most patient and kind."

His face perks at my touch.

"I am most grateful," I brush his curls away from his face, "I would not have been able to accomplish what I have today without you."

Harwin straightens when I pull away, seemingly reinvigorated.

"Forgive me if my meticulousness cost us a longer trip than expected."

He chuckles and shakes his head, "you award me more credit than I am due. It is an honor to witness the care you put into your gifts."

I watch him as he leads the horse into the stable. Harwin continues once he's walking back towards me, "I am sure Gwayne's nameday will be heartfelt, knowing his lady took great measures to prepare her gifts for him."

The thought makes me want to pull my hair out. I sigh and simply walk off.

Harwin's expression falls. He follows after me, "is something wrong?"

I watch my shoes peak from beneath my skirt with my steps. I turn to him when he calls me by my name. Harwin has a look of concern upon him. I comb the tips of my golden hair in agitation, "I... do not wish his nameday to come."

A line forms between his brows.

I sigh, "surely you are aware that my move to King's Landing was to secure myself a husband."

Harwin did, in fact, not know this, but does not have the chance to say so.

"My brother says the only house interested in me is that of the Tyrells."

His brows quirk. A doubtful thought.

"I did not..." I turn to the ground, "think my demeanor so odious that I am able to attract but one marriage proposal. Surely my family name weighs more than that."

The thought makes Harwin's forehead curl.

"I am not due to leave for Highgarden until the next moon, but I figured if it pleases Gwayne, I would set him free on his nameday. Another gift for him."

Harwin frowns, "do you not think your decision rash?"

"Rational, perhaps."

He does not seem to like my resolve on the matter, and yet he does not press any further. The rest of our walk is silent, and soon we are in the hall to my chambers.

Both Harwin and I slow at the sight of Gwyane standing attention at my door. He shifts in his spot, turning to us. When we reach him, I notice the way his jaw feathers.

The auburn haired man lifts his nose slightly, "Breakbones."

Harwin nods, "ser Hightower."

"How kind of you to return the lioness to her den," he turns to me, pale blue eyes ripping into my flesh, "I do hope she did not bare her teeth and claws too much."

Harwin raises a brow, "her company is most welcome, teeth and claw included."

I turn to Harwin. He smiles at me. Gwayne watches. His blood curdles.

"She tells me tomorrow is your nameday," Harwin looks to Gwayne, "what plans have you made to celebrate?"

"Whatever my lady has planned for me," he chuckles dryly. His begins to turn red in the face.

My brows furrow, "worry not, Gwayne. There shall be no errands to attend to on the morrow."

"How magnanimous," he smiles, or rather sneers, "your commander seems to need the day off. See how worn you've made him."

"Enough," I quip.

"Agreed," he blurts, "you should retire," he motions with his head, "I will treat the man to some wine," he turns to Harwin, "and perhaps he will the same, as a nameday treat."

Harwin nods, "perhaps on your nameday itself. I have an evening patrol I must cover."

Gwayne's nostrils flare, "unfortunate."

With that, I thank Harwin for accompanying me and head inside my chambers.

Gwayne places a hand on Harwin's shoulder, leading him down the hall, "I must express my appreciation for lightening my load as of late."

"My duty is to serve, but it is a pleasure to do so for the lady Lannister."

Gwayne pulls his hand away then brings both behind him, "I'm sure for one who is daily surrounded by sweaty men, it truly is."

Harwin does not respond. They continue walking down the hall.

"I am glad to know she did not forget my nameday and neither of us will need to be worked by her tomorrow."

Harwin gives a lopsided smile, "if it comes down to it, ser, I will do any work she may require of you in your stead."

Gwayne's face twitches but he expertly covers it up with a low chuckle, "oh, how good. Do not deny me then if it happens."

The two men part ways at the end of the hallway. Gwayne heads for his chambers, feeling irritated and suffocated. He bathes but it does not soothe him as much as he hoped. The next morning, he wakes up groggy and attempts to bathe it away, but the water was as ineffective as the night before.

He gets dressed and makes his way to the solar. He stops in his tracks when he hears the ruckus from inside. It doesn't take him long to recognize the voices, which is why he decides to enter and interrupt the argument taking place inside.

I gasp softly at the sound of the door opening. The sight of Gwayne's concerned expression only makes the tears from my eyes spill further.

Tyland turns to him. He does not mask his ire, which is why he does not greet him. My brother simply quips, "you will not leave her today."

Gwayne turns from my brother to me. It takes a moment before he realizes it was an order, "of course, my Lord."

The master of coin sighs and heads for the door. Before leaving, he raises a hand, "a servant will come to deliver your nameday gift tonight or tomorrow. Lannisport has been overflowing as of late, but I was assured your delivery will be swift."

Gwayne nods, "you have my thanks."

Tyland leaves after this, and Gwayne walks over to me.

I pull away before he can touch me. I lean towards the table and push the assortment of cakes towards him, "you will not need to steal my sweeties today, ser."

I walk towards the window, turning my back on him, uncomfortable with the idea of the man seeing me in disarray. He is insensitive to this and follows after me. I move away, but he does not relent.

"You need not tend to me!" I snap, strands of gold sticking to wet cheeks. I brush my hair away and helplessly point to the table, "there is a box on your chair. Tend to it! I have no use of you."

Gwayne pulls his head back. The sentiment stung, but he decides not to take offence. He cannot, not with the red eyes staring back at him. He decides to walk off and head for his usual chair.

Sure enough, a smallish wooden box tied in a red velvet bow rests on the cushion. He sets it down on the table before seating himself. He turns to me then back at the box. He undoes the bow and opens it. He stares at it. His silence reads to me as disinterest.

"Gloves. Practical but stylish," I walk towards him. He turns to me as I pull the chair beside him. I sit down, taking one glove and the hand it belonged to.

Gwyane spares a moment to watch the red leather be slipped on him hand, the rest of his moments are spent observing the tear laced lashes before him.

After buttoning the glove in his wrist, he stretches his fingers, opening his closing his hand to test the fit. His eyes do not leave me as he does so, "it fits me perfectly."

"As it should," I say, reaching for the other, "I paid the artisan well for this."

He grabs my hand just before I can do that with his. I stare at the veins that run past his sleeves, "I am exhilarated by the knowledge the shape of my hands are known by you."

My lips part.

Had it been any other day, had the circumstances been different, I would have received that statement with offence, for it was one of clear mockery. Yet, with how his dimples vaguely made an appearance and how his lips pressed softly into a smile, it seemed... genuine.

And it seemed to make my heart skip.

I mutter, "I stole a pair of your gloves and had it fitted."

Gwayne chuckles.

My heart skips again.

"Clever girl," he releases my hand and removes the glove I put on him. He takes the ribbon on the table then turns to my hair, "red goes well with gold, wouldn't you agree?"

"... my hair is already made."

"You would be glad to know that I am skilled in unmaking it," he pulls my chair closer to him.

My body burns as he reaches for my curls. My hair was braided by the sides in a fashion I quite enjoyed; I did not enjoy the idea of him unmaking it.

"-just as I am skilled in braiding," Gwayne adds.

I knit my brows at the idea.

"Do not look so shocked," he chuckles, "my sister has as much hair as you, and I did not enjoy how it flew to my face when we were children."

Before I can speak, he grabs my shoulders and turns me away. He gathers my hair and my skin pricks at the feel of his fingers against my nape.

He is silent when he begins. I close my eyes and focus on the feeling of his light touch.

"I would braid Alicent's hair when she wept as well."

My eyes open. Oh.

"Thankfully, it was not a frequent occurrence."

I turn to my skirt.

"I do not tell you this to press you for answers," he softly clarifies, "merely to express how I think it comforted my sister... and how I wish to do the same for you."

I do not reply. My lips wobble.

"I was instructed not to leave your side today and I do not wish to add to whatever offense that could bring a lioness to tears."

I silently wipe my face.

Gwayne says nothing more after this, not until he finished braiding my hair.

He rests the braid on my shoulder. I inspect it, seeing he incorporated the ribbon into the pleats and even managed to make a small bow at the bottom. I look up at him. He frowns and reaches for my cheek, wiping my tears.

I take a deep breath to calm myself, "my brother received an offer for my hand."

Gwayne stills.

"Well," I turn to the box on the table, "he received multiple."

He leans on his elbow. He smiles, though against himself, "we came to King's Landing to find you a match, did we not?"

"It seems my brother has other plans," I mutter, "apparently Tyland means to use me as leverage for the crown. He wishes to wed me to the Tyrells so that he can have a firmer hold on Highgarden. Jason does not know this. He was led to believe I was simply going to King's Landing to purchase new dresses."

A line forms between his brows, "I presume Jason found out about Tyland's plot."

"Yes. Jason writes that I should put my dresses to good use and entertain any suitors that come to me whilst I am in King's Landing."

He nods curtly. He sighs and shrugs, "why the tears then? Does the idea of entertaining men upset you so?"

"..."

"... Tyland reminded me of what happened last time when I had many suitors at my beck and call."

Gwayne clenches his teeth. He rests his hand in front of me, "I swear on my life that no one will come close enough to take advantage of you again."

His hand itches to reach out, but he instead goes for the cakes, dragging it in front of him. He shoves a chocolate cake into his mouth and chews.

I watch him lick his lips. He notices how I lick mine. He speaks through a mouth half-full, "do not think I will share simply because you are sad."

I snort and roll my eyes. Gwayne is relieved this was the reaction he garnered.

"I had enough cake from tasting them with Harwin yesterday."

He stops chewing.

I notice the frosting on the corner of his lips and wipe it with my thumb, "enjoy your cakes."

Gwayne is perfectly still.

"Happy nameday."

#gwayne hightower #gwayne fanfic #gwayne x reader #gwayne fluff #gwayne angst #gwayne x you #harwin fanfic #harwin strong fanfic #harwin x reader #harwin strong x reader #harwin fluff #gwayne hightower fanfic #gwayne hightower fic #gwayne hightower fluff #gwayne hightower x reader #harwin strong #harwin fic #harwin strong x you #gwayne fic

369 notes · View notes

radiance1 · 7 months ago

Text

A new business started up in Metropolis by the name of MastersCo. Headed by man who simply goes by the name Masters who just happens to have a large lion with black fur, mane, and red eyes.

Now, as any sane person would think, Masters is the ultimate brain behind MastersCo's brilliant, brutal, ruthless, and utterly efficient business practices that let the seemingly nobody company rise to one of the largest in the city and the world at large.

A fact thag Lex Luthor is both impressed by, and utterly hates for the simple fact he is a targe of an unfortunate amount of those practices.

But you see, in reality, it is the lion that, according to Masters himself. Was an experiment that he managed to save from his brutal captors when he was being trafficked on accident one day and as such, was the reason he made his company in the first place. That is the brains of the opperation.

Who is the lion, truly? Well...

None other than Vlad Masters himself, of course!

Who just so happened to be on the wrong side of his own tech that was supposed to target none other than the hero Phantom. Turning him into a random animal and causing his powers to be temporarily out of control long enough for him to open a portal to another dimension entirely and push him through to get him out of the way and then some.

He never expected that he would be the victim of his scheme. He had Danny right where he wanted him and that, unfortunately, made him cocky. Cocky enough that Danny reversed the tides and it ended up being him to turn i to an animal and forced into another dimension.

He knew he should have had the portal activation be manual instead of automated.

In a last act of desperation, he tried to drag Danny along with him. He failed.

So then there he was, trapped in the form of a lion with powers that did not heed his wishes and, ubfortunately, about to be sold off to the highest bidder. He, of course, would not have gone down without a fight and managed to pull off an act that crashed the container he was teapped in with the casualty of death to those who tried to turn him into a profit. Forrtunately, he was then saved by a man too curious for his own good and had his wounds treated well enough.

Let it be known that Vlad Masters does not forget kindness shown to him, especially when it pertains to his very own life. So he restared VladCo, now known as MastersCo and turned it into an empire in return. Though it also doubled as a rescue for other 'animals like him' he didn't really mind nor care about that fact.

He dislikes Lex Luthor because the man called him a pet. Him a pet. The Vlad Masters, a mere pet!?

The utter gall of that man, truly.

He also holds a dislike for Superman as well, not to the extend of Lex Luthor, but the amount of property damage that man creares is astounding not to mention the fact he exposed Vlads rather... unique heartbeat situation. From nothing of good intent, he has since realized, but still.

He coukd have done without that, thank you very much.

#dc x dp #dp x dc #dpxdc #dp x dc crossover #dcxdp #dc x dp crossover #typed on me phone #just a random idea I had #Lex Luthor called Vlad a pet and Vlad has since hounded his ass since #Vlad is appalled by the amount of property damage Superman creates #which he has to spend money for because the one in charge of the business is a 'bleeding heart' type #which helped Vlad out but still-

672 notes · View notes

novaursa · 2 months ago

Note

hi ! can you do a writing for sister reader and rhaenyra and daemon. viserys like names them both heir (which otto is tryna like stop him or change his mind) but viserys is hell bent on having his two daughters on the iron throne , with them getting married and like adding daemon to the equation because while both reader and rhaenyra loves each other they also love daemon. and like during the dinner at the red keep alicent voices her opinion which has viserys FINALLY realizing what the hightowers are trying to do and he stands behind his daughters ten toes down and he makes sure they are on the throne before he dies. happy ending for everyone please (even the little hightower children aka aegon and aemond and helaena especially helaena that’s my baby) 😚

Three Heads

Requests are closed!

- Summary: Your father names you and Rhaenyra his heirs, and you both take Daemon as your husband.

- Paring: Rhaenyra Targaryen/targ!reader/Daemon Targaryen

- Note: The ending is left unsaid for narration purposes. You can assume how the Dance never happened.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Next part: nights

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The air was filled with anticipation as the three of you stood at the precipice of something ancient, something forbidden to those bound by the narrow constraints of Westerosi law. But you were not only Westerosi. You were Targaryens. Blood of Old Valyria, blood of the dragon. The moon cast a silvery light over Dragonstone, reflecting off the stone-carved faces of the ancestral dragonlords, their eyes seeming to watch as if blessing the union about to take place.

"The dragon has three heads," your father, King Viserys, had declared before the lords of his court, his voice unwavering against the protests of Otto Hightower and the murmurs of the others. He had been insistent, unyielding in his decision to name not only Rhaenyra but you, his beloved twin daughters, as heirs to the Iron Throne. And if you wished to marry Daemon, then so be it. Otto’s warnings had fallen on deaf ears, his opposition met with your father’s conviction.

You glance at Rhaenyra, standing to your right, her silver-gold hair catching the wind like a banner of fire. Her violet eyes meet yours, and for a moment, it’s only the two of you—the twin flames that have burned side by side your entire lives. There is something unspoken in her gaze, a shared understanding, a bond far deeper than blood. Tonight, that bond will be sealed in ways that no lord of Westeros could comprehend.

Daemon stands between you both, his presence commanding as ever. He is your uncle, yes, but he is also your lover, your equal in the dance of dragons. His eyes, sharp and bright, shift between you and Rhaenyra, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He thrives in defiance, in the breaking of traditions. But tonight is not about breaking. Tonight is about honoring something older, something lost.

The ritual begins as the dragonfire is lit around you, the flames crackling with the same intensity that fills the air. The old tongues of Valyria, forgotten by most, are spoken by the priests who have come to witness this union. Their words echo through the chamber like the roar of dragons. Your heart pounds in your chest, the ancient magic of your ancestors awakening in your blood.

Daemon steps forward first, his hand outstretched toward you, and then toward Rhaenyra. His touch is warm, familiar, as he brings both of you closer to him. “You are mine,” he says softly, his voice filled with a possessive reverence that sends a shiver down your spine. “Both of you.”

“And you are ours,” Rhaenyra responds, her voice strong and clear, echoing your own thoughts.

The Valyrian steel rings, forged specially for this moment, are brought forth. Daemon takes one in his hand, sliding it onto Rhaenyra’s finger first, then yours. As the cool metal touches your skin, you feel the weight of it, not just the physical weight but the weight of history, of legacy. The three of you are bound now—not only by blood, not only by love, but by destiny.

You take the second ring, your fingers trembling slightly as you slide it onto Daemon’s hand, followed by Rhaenyra’s. She smiles at you, a smile full of mischief and affection. She has always been the fiery one, the rebellious princess who defies convention, but so have you. You are her mirror in many ways, the reflection of her ambition, her desire, her strength.

The final words of the ritual are spoken in the language of dragons, the ancient Valyrian wrapping around the three of you like a cloak. Fire, blood, and power. The three pillars of your house, and now the pillars of this union. You are no longer two sisters and their uncle. You are one. One flame, one force, one future.

The kiss that follows is not timid. Daemon pulls you both close, his lips claiming yours first, then Rhaenyra’s. It is not the kiss of a husband and wife under the eyes of the Seven, but the kiss of dragons. Fierce, passionate, untamed. Rhaenyra leans into you, her fingers brushing your cheek before she too claims your lips. The world around you fades, leaving only the three of you, bound in fire and blood.

As the flames around you burn higher, you can feel the weight of what this means. You are no longer just heirs to the Iron Throne. You are the future of House Targaryen, the embodiment of its ancient power. The dragon has three heads, and now, you will soar together, unbreakable.

Otto’s warnings echo in your mind, but they are drowned out by the roar of dragons in your heart. Let the realm whisper. Let them plot and scheme. You are Targaryens, bound by the old ways. And together, you will reshape the world as you see fit.

The atmosphere in the Red Keep’s great hall was stifling, despite the lavish feast laid out before you. The long table gleamed under the glow of countless candles, the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine filling the air. Yet, there was no warmth in the room. Not tonight. The gathering was small but potent—Viserys, seated at the head of the table, you and Rhaenyra on either side of Daemon, with Alicent and her children opposite you. Otto Hightower sat quietly near the Queen, his calculating gaze shifting between you and your twin.

You could feel the weight of the words unsaid, the barely concealed discomfort radiating from Alicent, her hands clenched into tight fists in her lap. It was only a matter of time before something was spoken aloud, and you sensed the moment approaching.

Aegon lounged lazily beside his mother, a smirk playing on his lips, while Aemond's single eye, as sharp as a blade, flickered between Daemon and Rhaenyra with barely veiled contempt. Helaena, ever quiet and strange, sat silently, fiddling with a small trinket in her hands, muttering something under her breath.

The tension finally snapped when Alicent placed her cup down with a little more force than necessary, drawing all eyes to her. She smiled tightly, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

"Your Grace," she began, her voice honeyed but brittle. "I wonder… have you truly considered the implications of such a union? Between Daemon and your daughters?"

You stiffen beside Daemon, feeling Rhaenyra tense on his other side. Alicent's words hang in the air, dripping with disapproval, though she masks it with concern. She turns her gaze to Viserys, her eyes wide, playing the role of the dutiful wife. "Surely, there are other considerations that must be taken into account. For the sake of the realm, and for the future stability of the crown."

Viserys’s eyes narrow, his fork pausing mid-air as he studies her. “What are you trying to say, Alicent?”

Alicent’s gaze flickers briefly toward Otto before she continues, emboldened. “There are traditions, Your Grace. Laws that must be upheld. Marrying Daemon to both of your daughters… it is… unorthodox.” She hesitates, her words cautious. “It could create discord within the realm. People might question the legitimacy of such a union, especially with the potential claims from…” Her voice lowers, though not enough to be polite, “…Daemon’s past.”

At that, Daemon leans back in his chair, a lazy, dangerous smile spreading across his face. He says nothing, simply watching as Alicent's discomfort grows under his scrutiny.

You exchange a glance with Rhaenyra, and she meets your eyes with a flash of defiance. You knew this moment would come. The Hightowers have been quiet for too long, waiting for a chance to undermine your father’s wishes, to place their own blood closer to the Iron Throne. And here it was, unfolding before you like a play.

Viserys’s face darkens, his eyes shifting from Alicent to Otto. “Is that what you’re concerned about, Alicent? Tradition? Or are you worried about what this union means for your children?”

There’s a sharp intake of breath from Alicent, but it is Otto who speaks next, his voice measured and calm. “Your Grace, no one questions your love for your daughters, nor the bond they share with Prince Daemon. But the realm is fragile. Marriages such as these, unconventional as they may be, can sow uncertainty. It may lead to factions… rebellion.”

Viserys sets his goblet down with a resounding thud, his eyes flashing with something you haven't seen in years—a simmering anger, a reawakening of the dragon within him.

“Rebellion? Uncertainty?” he repeats, his voice low but dangerous. “My daughters are Targaryens. They carry the blood of Old Valyria. The laws of Westeros are not the only ones that govern our family. I named both of them my heirs because I have faith in their ability to rule, just as I have faith in Daemon, my brother. This union strengthens our house, not weakens it.”

Alicent pales, her grip tightening on her goblet. “Your Grace, I only meant to say—”

“Enough!” Viserys cuts her off, rising from his seat with surprising vigor. “I have been patient, too patient, with the whispers and scheming around me. You question this marriage because it does not suit the plans of your house. But I will not allow the Hightowers to dictate the future of my daughters, or the future of this realm.”

There’s a stunned silence as his words settle over the room, the full weight of his wrath directed at Alicent and Otto. Aegon’s smirk fades, and Aemond’s eye narrows in suspicion. Helaena remains quiet, her focus still on her trinket, as if the conflict around her is distant, unimportant.

You glance at Daemon, who watches with a gleam of amusement in his eyes, his lips curved in a small, satisfied smile. This is the moment he has been waiting for, the moment when Viserys finally sees the Hightowers for what they are—a threat to his daughters’ legacy.

“I will make myself clear,” Viserys continues, his voice steady and unwavering. “Rhaenyra and Y/N are my chosen heirs. They will rule when I am gone, and Daemon will stand beside them as their husband, as their equal. This is my will, and it will be law. There will be no more discussion, no more questioning their claim.”

Otto shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his face impassive but his eyes sharp, calculating. Alicent looks stricken, her gaze dropping to her lap, no longer able to meet Viserys’s eyes.

The tension breaks when Viserys sits back down, his breath labored but his resolve unshaken. “I expect you all to remember that.”

The rest of the dinner passes in a tense silence, but the message is clear. The Hightowers’ influence is waning, and Viserys will ensure that the Targaryen line remains strong and unchallenged. You share a quiet look with Rhaenyra, feeling the weight of your father’s words settle in your chest. You are no longer simply his daughters. You are his heirs, and the Iron Throne will be yours.

Daemon raises his goblet, a wicked smile playing on his lips as he leans in, his voice low but filled with triumph. “The dragon has three heads, indeed.”

#house of the dragon #hotd x reader #hotd #hotd x y/n #hotd x you #hotd daemon #daemon targeryan #daemon x reader #daemon x rhaenyra #daemon x you #daemon x y/n #rhaenyra targaryen #rhaenyra x reader #rhaenyra x you #rhaenyra x y/n #house targaryen #fire and blood

341 notes · View notes

cherriecove · 2 months ago

Text

Fine Line Between Duty and Oaths (Part 9)

Gwayne Hightower x Targ!Reader

Summary: The second born daughter of King Viserys I Targaryen and Queen Aemma is just as brave, beautiful and stubborn as her older sister but cannot deny her growing love for a certain red haired knight who just so happens to be a dear friend's brother. Cherrie's Note: Hi everyone hope you enjoy, please feel free to give any feedback! Masterlist | Previous Part | Next Part

The days following Rhaenyra's ascension to heir passed slowly, but gradually the weight of grief began to lift. It wasn’t immediate, nor was it complete, but in the small moments shared between sisters, between friends, a sense of healing started to take root. Rhaenyra threw herself into her new duties, determined to prove herself worthy of the crown she had been named to inherit, while you found solace in Gwayne’s steady recovery and the quiet, unwavering support of Alicent.

There were days when the grief still surged—when memories of your mother’s laughter or the scent of her perfume caught you off guard and sent a pang through your heart. But more and more, there were moments of light, moments where you and Rhaenyra could speak of your mother without the ache of loss twisting so fiercely. You would walk the gardens together, talking not of politics or duty, but of memories—of the times your mother had brushed your hair before bed or how she would hum an old Valyrian lullaby to calm your worries.

Alicent, always the steady hand, often joined you on these walks. She was the anchor that kept you grounded when the waves of grief threatened to pull you under. Her presence, quiet but ever supportive, allowed you and Rhaenyra the space to breathe and slowly begin to find joy again.

One afternoon, after a long walk in the godswood with Alicent and Rhaenyra, you returned to the keep, finding your father waiting for you in the royal chambers. King Viserys had grown distant since the funeral, his own grief a heavy shroud, but now he stood with a sombre expression, his gaze soft but filled with regret.

"My daughters," he said quietly, motioning for you both to join him. "I owe you an apology."

Rhaenyra’s eyes flickered with surprise, but she stayed silent, allowing him to continue. You could feel the tension in the air, the weight of unspoken words between you all.

Viserys sighed deeply, running a hand through his thinning hair. "I made choices... choices that cost us all dearly. I wanted a son so badly, I lost sight of what I already had. Your mother... your brother..." His voice faltered, his eyes glossing over with unshed tears. "I’m sorry. You deserved better. She deserved better."

Rhaenyra’s jaw tightened, but her expression softened as she stepped forward. "We miss her every day," she said quietly, her voice steady but filled with emotion. "But we will move forward. For her."

You nodded in agreement, your own heart softening as you watched your father’s remorse play out. There was anger, yes, but now there was also understanding. He hadn’t been malicious; he had been misguided, a man desperate to secure the future of his house. The price had been high, but it was not beyond forgiveness.

Viserys reached out, placing a hand on both of your shoulders. "I know it doesn’t change what has happened, but I will do everything in my power to make things right. You, Rhaenyra, are the future of this kingdom. And you," he turned to you, his eyes softening further, "you deserve happiness and love."

With your father’s apology came a shift in the royal household. There was no longer a cloud of unspoken grief hanging over every interaction, and life within the Red Keep began to regain some semblance of normalcy. The preparations for your wedding resumed, though now with a quieter, more intimate tone. The kingdom still mourned your mother and the infant prince, but it was time to look forward, to embrace the future.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the keep in a golden glow, you found yourself by Gwayne’s bedside. His recovery had been slow, but he was much stronger now, able to walk the corridors of the keep, though with a slight limp. He was seated in the window alcove, staring out at the sunset when you approached.

"Gwayne," you began softly, sitting beside him. "I’ve been thinking about our wedding."

His blue eyes flickered to yours, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "You’ve changed your mind about marrying me, have you?" he teased, though there was a warmth behind his words.

You laughed softly, shaking your head. "No, I haven’t. In fact, I was wondering if... we could incorporate Targaryen traditions into the ceremony. I know you follow the Faith of the Seven, and I respect that, but... it would mean so much to me, to honour my ancestors in that way."

Gwayne’s smile softened as he reached for your hand, his fingers warm against yours. "I would marry you in whatever tradition you chose, even if it involved dragons and fire. Your family’s heritage is important to you, and if that’s how you want to be wed, then so be it."

His words brought a sense of relief, and your heart swelled with gratitude. "Thank you, Gwayne. I promise we’ll honour both traditions, but I wanted... I wanted to feel close to my mother. To the roots of my house."

Gwayne nodded, his expression tender as he leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "Then we’ll have the ceremony you wish for. I’m not afraid of a few dragons."

You smiled at that, the weight of the past few months slowly easing as you found solace in Gwayne’s unwavering support. Together, you could blend your two worlds—Targaryen fire and Hightower faith—into something beautiful.

As the wedding preparations unfolded, there was a sense of renewal in the air. Though the past still lingered, there was joy to be found in the future. You and Gwayne spent more time together, his recovery a constant reminder of the resilience you both shared. His teasing humour returned in full force, and you often found yourselves stealing moments of laughter and light amidst the planning.

Rhaenyra, too, seemed to find her own path forward. Though her grief for your mother would never fully fade, she had taken to her role as heir with grace and strength, her bond with you, and with Alicent, stronger than ever. The three of you often spent evenings together, sharing stories, memories, and hopes for the future.

Your father’s apology had been the first step in mending the fractures that grief had caused. Now, with the marriage on the horizon, it felt as though the kingdom, and your family, were on the cusp of something new. You were moving forward, together, united by love, loss, and the promise of what was yet to come.

In the weeks leading up to the wedding, the atmosphere within the Red Keep grew lighter, though not without tension. The grief that had weighed so heavily on your family had begun to ease, replaced by the anticipation of your upcoming marriage. There was still an ache in your heart for your mother and the little brother who would never grow up, but the future now held the promise of new beginnings.

Preparations for the wedding were in full swing, and you spent many of your days with Gwayne, discussing the details, the guest lists, and, of course, the matter of the ceremony itself. The Targaryen traditions were ancient, woven with fire and blood, and they meant everything to you. When you’d asked Gwayne if he’d be open to incorporating those traditions into your wedding, his immediate acceptance had been a balm to your soul. But not everyone was as agreeable.

One afternoon, you found yourself in the council chambers with your father, King Viserys, and Otto Hightower, Gwayne’s father. The discussion had turned to the wedding plans, and as soon as the subject of a traditional Targaryen ceremony was raised, Otto’s brow furrowed in disapproval.

"Your Grace," Otto began carefully, his tone measured but firm. "I understand the importance of honouring your House’s traditions, but Gwayne is of the Faith of the Seven. It would be... unorthodox for him to partake in such rituals, especially the more pagan elements. A wedding under the eyes of the Seven would be more fitting, more appropriate for someone of his station."

You could see the way Otto’s gaze flickered, the carefully hidden discontent barely concealed. He was a man of order, of rules, and the thought of his son partaking in Targaryen rites, especially one involving the ancient Valyrian customs, was something he clearly found distasteful.

Before you could respond, your father spoke, his voice calm but firm. "My daughter’s wedding will honour both traditions, Ser Otto," Viserys said, glancing briefly at you with a soft smile. "She is of House Targaryen, and it is only right that we incorporate our customs, especially given all she has endured. Gwayne has already agreed to this. I see no issue with blending the Faith of the Seven with the traditions of Old Valyria."

Otto’s lips tightened, but he nodded, bowing his head slightly. "Of course, Your Grace. I merely wish for the union to be blessed by the Seven, as befits my house."

Viserys looked at Otto with a mild but commanding expression. "And it will be. But we will also honour the legacy of the Targaryens. I trust your son will not object."

Otto had little choice but to concede, though it was clear from the look in his eyes that he was not pleased. You left the meeting feeling lighter, grateful for your father’s support. For all his faults, Viserys had always loved you deeply, and in this, he had sided with you.

Later that evening, you found Gwayne in his chambers, sitting by the hearth with a book in his hands. He looked up as you entered, smiling warmly as he set the book aside.

"Another battle won for you, my princess?" he teased, his eyes twinkling.

"Indeed," you laughed, crossing the room to sit beside him. "Your father wasn’t pleased, but mine overruled him. We’ll have our Targaryen ceremony after all."

Gwayne chuckled softly, shaking his head. "I’m not surprised. My father has always been a stickler for tradition. But as I said before, I’m not afraid of a few dragons."

You grinned, leaning into him. "Well, I have something important to teach you, then. If we’re going to have a proper Targaryen wedding, you’ll need to learn a few Valyrian phrases. Specifically, the vows."

Gwayne’s eyebrows shot up, a playful glint in his eyes. "Valyrian vows? You know I’ve only just managed to grasp a few words of your language."

"That’s why we’ll practice," you said with a grin, pulling a small parchment from your sleeve. You handed it to him, watching as he unfolded it to reveal the words written in High Valyrian.

He squinted at the letters, his lips moving as he tried to pronounce the words. "Nyke īlot... rūvēbagon..."

You giggled, covering your mouth. "Close, but not quite. It’s ‘Nyke īlot rūvēbagon ao, issa jorrāelagon,’ which means ‘I bind myself to you, my love.’"

Gwayne glanced at you, his expression a mix of amusement and determination. "I see. So, all I need to do is say these words without tripping over my tongue, and I’ll officially be a dragon-rider?"

You laughed again, the sound light and joyful. "Something like that."

For the next few days, you and Gwayne spent your evenings practicing the Valyrian vows, his efforts both earnest and endearing. There were many moments where he stumbled over the unfamiliar words, his brows furrowed in concentration, only to break into laughter when he mangled a particularly tricky phrase. And then there were the moments where his voice softened, his gaze steady on yours as he recited the words with growing confidence.

"Nyke rūvēbagon ao... issa jorrāelagon," he murmured one evening, his voice low and full of meaning.

Your heart swelled at his sincerity, and you smiled, leaning forward to press a kiss to his lips. "You’re getting better every day."

Gwayne grinned, pulling you closer. "I have a good teacher."

As the wedding day approached, the excitement grew within the Red Keep. The blending of two ancient traditions—Targaryen and Hightower—was a delicate balance, but one that symbolised the union of your two houses. The Faith of the Seven would be honoured, but the heart of the ceremony would be steeped in the rites of Old Valyria, something that brought you closer to your heritage, to your mother, and to the legacy of your ancestors.

Though Otto’s disapproval lingered in the background, the knowledge that your father had supported your wishes gave you strength. And with Gwayne’s dedication to learning the Valyrian vows, you felt more connected to him than ever. There was something deeply intimate about sharing the language of your ancestors with the man who would soon become your husband. It was a part of yourself you had never truly shared before, and Gwayne embraced it fully.

The days of grief and mourning, though still present in the shadows, had given way to a new sense of hope and joy. And as the day of the wedding drew near, you knew that this union—blending fire and faith—would be the start of something truly remarkable.

#hotd x reader #rhaenyra targaryen #alicent hightower #gwayne hightower #gwayne hightower x reader #hotd #house of the dragon #targeryan reader

167 notes · View notes

maysileeewrites · 4 months ago

Text

guilty as sin? ;*teaser

Jacaerys Velaryon x fem!Targ!reader; 18+

c.w.: smut!! (fem masturbation + Jace watching reader - that's it for the teaser, more good things are coming!), infidelity

Jacaerys masterlist

Jacaerys hadn't meant to watch you.

Truly, his only intention in coming to your chambers had been to check up on you, seeing as you'd been so unusually quiet and withdrawn during dinner.

He wasn't prepared for what awaited him when he cautiously opened your door after you hadn't answered neither of his tentative knocks.

The sight before him had him frozen in shock, rooted to the spot.

You, stretched out on your bed, wearing nothing but your thin nightdress that had already slipped away in some places so that the top of your breasts were visible, as well as the soft skin of your upper thighs - and your swollen core, already leaking slick.

Jacaerys couldn’t help himself - he stood, transfixed, watching as your back arched off the bed, your fingers desperately moving in and out of your cunt.

He shouldn't watch. He should go, now.

This was wrong, on so many levels, he tried to remind himself.

But he couldn't bring himself to do anything but watch, mesmerized, as your fingers moved in and out of your core in a desperate pace. Greedily, he took in every breathy little moan, every squelching sound your cunt made.

This was wrong, so wrong. This was a private moment he wasn't meant to see, and oh - there was also the small problem of you being his betrothed‘s sister.

This was wrong, and he should go.

Just then, another desperate moan escaped you.

"Jacaerys, oh gods- "

Hearing you moan his name like that broke something within him. Caution and thought were forgotten. Instead, what remained was only his yearning and desperate desire to finally claim you as his.

He couldn’t contain himself any longer, could no longer ignore the sensation of his breeches feeling so impossibly tight, could no longer ignore all the dirty, lust-driven thoughts running through his head.

"Don't stop, Princess."

See you soon! I know I just teased/announced Apocalypse, but Apocalypse is proving itself to be a bit harder to write, seeing as Apocalypse actually has a lot of plot compared to this piece, which is honestly just going to be pure filth. Oh well, sometimes it seems as if all it takes to break your writing slump is writing some good ol'-fashioned smut whilst listening to Guilty as Sin? on repeat lol. Hopefully I'll see you soon!

#jacaerys x reader #jacaerys x you #jacaerys imagine #jacaerys smut #jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys targaryen #hotd #jacaerys valaryon x reader #jacaerys targaryen x reader #prince jacaerys #hotd x reader #hotd x you #jacaerys x y/n

201 notes · View notes

jonsnowunemploymentera · 6 months ago

Text

Imo saying Jon won't care that he's half Targ because he has "nothing to do with that house" is a not only very simplistic way of viewing his arc but also just a flat out wrong and bad take. Like my brothers and sisters in R'hllor, he has everything to do with that house even though he may not bear the name! Jon is constantly equated with Targs in the series. In fact, he's constantly equated with the best that house has to offer. He's got Jaehaerys and Alysanne in him, he's directly paralleled with Maester Aemon and Aegon V, he transforms into Daeron the Good at the Wall, and he's basically best boy Jacaerys resurrected some 200 years later. Let's also not forget that he's best girl Dany's 1:1 narrative mirror. Jon's personality is what you get when you combine Daemon the Rogue Prince, a little bit of Maekar I, Egg, a teaspoon of Rhaegar, a few sprinkles of Baelor Breakspear, and a whole cup of Jaehaerys. He has the heroism of Aemon the Dragonknight, the innate leadership of Aegon the Conqueror, the youthful foolhardy of Daeron the Young Dragon, and the aggressive pettiness of Prince Daemon. He's got Daemon Blackfyre's nobility and Brynden Rivers' terrifying pragmatism. His rebirth is literally equated to the waking of a dragon ("two kings to wake the dragon", "promised prince born amidst salt and smoke"). He has both the good and the bad that comes with House Targaryen. He also has the good and bad of House Stark, but no one ever thinks less of him for that... Y'all let Targ hate and Rhaegar hate (both of which are just extensions of Dany hate lbr) cloud your judgement and ignore what's right in front of you. Jon is a Targ. The same way he is a Stark. He's not either or, he's both. The lesson at the end of the day isn't for him to choose one or the other. The lesson is to recognize that he so much of BOTH in him, and he can take these and become whatever he wants - bastard as he is.

#asoiaf #valyrianscrolls #jon snow #house targaryen #“jon will find out he's a targ and hate it because they are awful!111" 🙄#let me remind the audience that there are some terrible monsters in his stark bloodline as well #like he can be bran the builder and ned and lyanna and jon stark the first in their heroic spirit #AND brandon of the bloody blade and theon the hungry wolf in their bloodthirstiness #JON IS WOLFBLOODED #and that is not always a good thing!!#so saying that he can't like the targs because of a few shit people is also saying he can't like the starks as a whole either #because they have a couple of war criminals in their bloodline - you see how silly that is?

198 notes · View notes

coffeebooksrain18 · 3 months ago

Text

this is what I think modern TG would be doing for work.

Otto would be running Targ Corp like his Goddamn life depends on it and will be holding that company up on his own back.

Alicent would be a trad wife, not cause she wants to be, but because Viserys makes her.

Aegon would either own a successful weed dispensarie or be a video game streamer with a OF on the side. He'd also have a golden retriever named Sunny which is short for Sunfyre

Helaena would be a microbiologist living in her apartment with her 3 cats and shelf full of her insects, or a cottagecore queen everyone wants to be, having a whole farm that's environmentally safe, and animals she let's free range on her land. No in between, one or the other.

Aemond would either go into business, become a crime lord, or become a mystery author. None of those can over lap though. And he would also have a pet snake named Vhagar.

Daeron would be the one who is a successful business man, who also still lives with their mom at 30 even though they have a company worth 3 billion dollars.

And finally Criston would be a bodyguard/home chef who wouldn't let anyone but himself cook for the family because I could be poisoned. He would do this even if they didn't have enemies. He'd also have a Doberman that everyone thinks is terrifying cause it has scars all over it, but really it's a sweet heart that he rescued from a dog fighting pit

Thank you for reading my Ted talk.

#hotd #house of the dragon #team green #pro team green #alicent hightower #otto hightower #criston cole #aegon ii targaryen #helaena targaryen #aemond targaryen

101 notes · View notes

daenerysaizie · 1 month ago

Text

𐔌 . ⋮ REALM’S DELIGHT .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

Mk1 x Targ!reader

A/N:

Dear gentle readers,

I pray thee forgive my long silence, for a month hath passed since I last shared my humble words. Life’s cares did hinder my pen, though my thoughts oft turned to thee. Now, by God’s grace, I return with renewed spirit and fresh ink. I humbly ask thy pardon and hope the stories to come shall be worthy of thy patience.

Thine in earnest,

Author

@kchavez666 💋

Chapter 3 — a typical day?

Time had passed so quickly; a month had already gone by. While others showed significant improvement, you progressed at your own pace, which you didn’t mind as long as you kept improving. You demonstrated great potential in archery.

Apart from the intensive training and the constant challenges you endured, the Wu Shi Academy brought a certain tranquility to your mind. The recurring dream that had haunted you throughout your life was replaced with a forgotten memory. While the memory brought a sense of nostalgia and sadness, it was much preferable to the nightmarish dream of your mad father's death.

Viserys called out to you, “Sister,” capturing your attention. You were no more than five at the time, while he was already a young man, around the age of fifteen years old and strong in both mind and body. You recalled him as being built and skilled in swordsmanship, with a fondness for storytelling. He was particularly captivated by the tales of the conquerors and their dragons, he also shared with you bitterly that these creatures had vanished more than a century ago. The dream depicted your room in Dragonstone, wooden toys that mimicked horses and dragons scattered across the floor. "Aegon the Conqueror brought fire and blood to Westeros," Viserys began, gesturing towards the brown leather-bound book adorned with the three-headed dragon sigil. "but afterward he gave them peace, prosperity, and justice. It was not Aegon alone who united the Seven Kingdoms. He had the support of his sisters, Visenya and Rhaenys." He continued turning the pages of the book as he spoke of the conquerors and their conquests. Then, Viserys turned to you “Sister, in hard times like these, you and I bear the hope for the future.”

The dream ended there.

It was the dead of the night when you woke up. You wiped away the tears on your damp cheeks with the sleeves of your nightgown, thinking about your brother. Time had erased his face and voice from your memory, but somehow, seeing his face and hearing his voice again made you miss him terribly, and you couldn’t help but wonder – Was he alive? Where was he? You were also taken aback to realize that you remembered this distant memory so vividly.

“Viserys…” you murmured, as if testing his name on your lips. When was the last time you called out to him? You recalled his promise to bring you home once the nightmare has ended. But when was that?

And for the first time in forever, you wanted to call out to your brother, embrace him, and feel the safety of his arms again. You couldn’t help but to shed more tears.

Knowing that sleep was far from you for the time being, you decided that a cup of tea might help soothe your nerves and mind. Quietly, you made your way through the temple house to the shared kitchen, hoping to find some solace in the warm, comforting brew of fresh tea.

The kitchen was softly illuminated by a single candle, and in the quiet space, Kenshi Takahashi sat alone at the table, lost in his thoughts. His face was etched with a deep frown. You couldn't help but tease him gently to not startle him, "If you continue frowning like that, you'll end up with permanent wrinkles." Kenshi looked up at you, surprised, and raised an eyebrow. "Why aren't you asleep?" he asked, his usual patience and temper uncharacteristically strained.

"I couldn't sleep," you explained, "and I thought a cup of tea might help calm my mind. Would you like to join me?" Kenshi's frown softened, and he nodded, his initial crankiness fading. "Sure, I guess I could," he responded with less irritation than before. You smiled as you walked over to the stove, preparing the tea.

The process of making tea was quiet. Surprisingly, the silence wasn't uncomfortable, but it was slightly awkward. Kenshi discreetly watched you from behind as you swiftly prepared fresh tea for both yourself and him. He pondered silently to himself, wondering when was the last time he had experienced such kind companionship and comfort from another person.

You carefully placed the porcelain cups and teapot on a tray and carried it to the table, gracefully serving tea to Kenshi before taking your seat across from him. He mumbled a soft "thank you" as you sat down.

"How is it?" you asked curiously, watching for his reaction as he took a sip. Kenshi raised both eyebrows briefly before looking up at you. "It's good," he replied, his gaze returning on the cup. You couldn’t help but feel a sense of triumph, mentally giving yourself a pat on the back for making a good cup of tea.

A moment of silence passed between the two of you as you sipped your tea together. Wanting to break the quiet and ensure you weren't overstepping any boundaries, you asked gently, "Is it alright if I ask why you aren't asleep?" Kenshi looked at you for a brief moment before replying, "I had a dream that I was still in the yakuza." The grimace on his face betrayed the pain that the dream had caused him.

You send him an apologetic look, “Don’t worry, I know that too well.” You pause, “Not being in the yakuza! I meant the dream part,” You fumbled, fixing your wording quickly and think your words carefully to not put the man before you in further bad mood. “Dreams can be cruel.” you acknowledged, your own experience with nightmares reflected in your understanding expression.

A hint of amusement flickered across Kenshi's face at your slip-up before it was replaced with neutral look. "I'm guessing you had a bad dream too?" he inquired. You nodded in affirmation, responding, "It wasn't bad, just... sad. It was better than the usual dream I have, I guess." He simply hummed in acknowledgment, not prodding further on the matter.

The silence settled between the two of you once more. You observed his reaction, noticing how he idly swirled the tea in his cup with a distant look in his eyes. Out of the blue, he confessed dryly, "I hate the gods for making me as they did."

You paused, surprised by his unexpected words, and replied sincerely, "I do not. You are an honorable man with a good heart." A soft smile graced your lips as you added, "And that's a rare thing." Kenshi looked up at you and offered a small smile. It was not noticeable but you could tell it was there.

And what you said was true. Kenshi Takahashi was an honorable man. He was poised, sharp tongued yet respectful. You hoped he had taken your words sincerely.

That night, you both found solace in each other’s presence, even though no more words were exchanged.

—

You didn’t regret staying up so late with Kenshi; it had brought the two of you closer than you expected. However, you dreaded the consequences of getting so little sleep. You looked like you’d fought a raccoon in your sleep, with your hair slightly disheveled from not having the energy to properly braid it. Kenshi, on the other hand, didn’t seem nearly as fatigued. He still looked composed and proper. When he saw you, he chuckled at your appearance and offered to make you an omelette for breakfast. You gratefully accepted, though both of you received raised eyebrows from the other three.

The day progressed like any other at the Wu Shi Academy—rigorous training and your archery lessons. But today was ‘sparring day’, and your opponent was none other than the so-called “best” Hollywood star, Johnny Cage. To your frustration, his flashy, unorthodox fighting style was new to you. He even utilized his sunglasses into the fight—impressive, considering they didn’t break.

To your further dismay, you ended up pinned beneath him. Johnny smirked, enjoying the moment. “Giving up already?” he teased. You huffed in response, an idea sparking in your mind. A playful smile touched your lips as you looked up at him. “Not yet,” you said in a teasing tone.

“Are you sure about that?” Johnny taunted, clearly relishing your determination. He noticed your subtle attempt to distract him, his smirk widening. He was enjoying the way you tried to match his confidence, but unfortunately for him, it worked. He was too focused on how matched his ‘freak’, and his grip loosened just enough. Seeing your chance, you swiftly flipped him over, reversing the position.

“Yield?” you asked with a grin, pulling a hairpin from your bun and letting your silver hair cascade down as you pointed the pin at his neck.

To his surprise, you had him pinned. He chuckled, a mixture of defeat and admiration on his face. “You sneaky little… I yield,” he said, meeting your gaze from beneath you. You helped him to his feet, and the two of you bowed to each other in mutual respect.

Johnny could have won if he hadn’t fallen for your trick, and though he felt a little embarrassed, he accepted his defeat.

“Marvelous victory!” Raiden exclaimed your name, clapping his hands along with Kung Lao and Kenshi. Kung Lao gave you a thumbs up, and Kenshi smirked at Johnny’s defeat, clearly enjoying it more than you enjoyed your victory. You smiled and gave them a playful curtsy.

“Kenshi, how about you and me?” Kung Lao gestured toward the training ground. Kenshi nodded, and the two headed off to spar where you and Johnny had just been.

“You vixen,” Johnny muttered beside you, folding his arms. Raiden, standing on your other side, smiled and suppressed a laugh. “I’d say she won fair and square, Johnny. You let your guard down,” Raiden said, placing a supportive hand on your shoulder.

You turned to Johnny, mimicking his pose. “How am I a vixen?” you teased, barely managing to keep a straight face.

Johnny laughed sarcastically. “You know exactly what you did.” His focus shifted to the next sparring match, while Raiden looked confused at Johnny’s remark. Clearly, no one else had noticed your little tactic.

—

You didn’t mind the peaceful domesticity of the moment, standing next to Kung Lao and Raiden in the kitchen. Kung Lao kneaded dough for baozi while Raiden prepared the fillings, and you focused on making side dishes using Madam Bo’s recipes. The three of you chatted and laughed together, enjoying the simple routine. Living together meant sharing responsibilities, taking turns cooking and doing chores. Tonight, you three were on kitchen duty, while Johnny and Kenshi handled the laundry. Johnny had been complaining about how tight his hands felt from using so much soap.

“Hey,” Kung Lao called your name, grabbing your attention. “You never told us your little secret. Maybe now’s the right time?” He dusted off the excess flour from his hands.

“Yeah, but it’s fine if you’re not ready yet,” Raiden added, pausing in his work to give you a reassuring look. Kung Lao rested his arm on Raiden’s shoulder, and the two of them watched you expectantly.

You had been putting off this conversation for a month now with, “I’ll explain when the time is right.” By now, they knew about realms, magic, and creatures, so your story wouldn’t sound too far-fetched. Maybe it *was* the right time. After all, you trusted them with your whole heart.

You opened your mouth to speak, but the words didn’t come at first. Sensing your hesitation, the two men continued their work, giving you time to gather your thoughts.

“I’m… Stormborn of House Targaryen,” you finally said, revealing your full name to them for the first time.

Kung Lao set the dough aside to let it rest and sat down across from you. “Stormborn? House Targaryen?” he asked, his brow furrowed in confusion. You smiled and nodded.

“I’m from a continent called Westeros, a place here on Earth,” you explained. Raiden, looking puzzled, asked, “I’ve never heard of a continent called Westeros.”

“It’s hidden, barricaded by some kind of magic,” you said. “I’m not sure what exactly, but it separates Westeros from the rest of the world.”

“Why?” Kung Lao asked, resting his head on his arms.

“I don’t know… I was very young when I left Westeros, so my knowledge is limited.” You shrugged.

“Why did you leave?” Raiden asked, his voice soft but curious.

“Because it was dangerous.” A hint of sadness crept into your voice as you looked down at the side dish you were preparing. A small silence followed before you continued. “My father… he wasn’t a good man. He was paranoid and erratic, and because of his behavior, many turned against him.” This was assumption based on your dream now. Was it right for you to speak of your father like this? You did not want to believe your dreams but something told you that it was real.

You remembered how guarded Dragonstone had been, how there were always guards, servants, and food testers watching over you and your brother, Viserys. Once, on your birthday, your father had ordered all your gifts burned, convinced they were cursed or poisoned. Gosh, how much had you forgotten?

“Was he an influential man?” Kung Lao asked bluntly.

“He was the King of the Seven Kingdoms,” you replied, looking up at him. “So, yes, he was influential.”

Both men froze. “You’re a princess?” they exclaimed in unison.

You cleared your throat and nodded. Kung Lao gaped at you, while Raiden bowed with a respectful, “Your Grace.”

You panicked at his formality. “Wait, no! Don’t! I’m no longer a princess. I’m just an ordinary woman now. Please, you’re my closest friends—keep treating me the same as before,” you pleaded, gently pushing Raiden back up.

Kung Lao still looked stunned. “Wait, wait, wait! So we’ve been friends with royalty from a secret land, and you never thought to tell us?”

“I didn’t want to keep secrets from you,” you explained, “but I was strongly advised not to share my background. It could have put me—and all of you—in danger. I didn’t want that.”

Raiden nodded, understanding your reasoning, though both he and Kung Lao still had questions. They shared a glance, silently agreeing to take turns asking what they could.

“Did people there have the same hair and eye color as you?” Kung Lao jumped in, still processing.

You chuckled. “No, only my family and those with Valyrian blood had these traits.”

“Do you have siblings?” Raiden asked next.

A small smile crossed your face as you nodded. “Two brothers—Rhaegar and Viserys. Though, I don’t know what became of them…” A pang of sadness tugged at your heart.

In truth, you barely knew Rhaegar compared to Viserys. You had only met him twice, as his duties as heir to the Iron Throne kept him in King’s Landing. Viserys often boasted about him, and you remembered one thing clearly now—Rhaegar had a beautiful singing voice. Nonetheless, you still loved him.

Sensing your sadness, Kung Lao and Raiden decided to steer the conversation away from your family. The questions turned into silent awe as you continued explaining your background. As you recounted what you could, you began to recall forgotten memories, fragments of your past that time had nearly erased. Though it did make sense for you to forget. After all, you were no more than five. Of course, you didn’t tell everything as it would be too much at the moment.

Maybe, you did remember and knew more than you thought.

By the time dinner was served, you felt a weight lift from your shoulders, as though finally sharing your story had brought you some peace.

#mortal kombat #mortal kombat x reader #kung lao x reader #lord liu kang #mk1 x reader #raiden x reader #bi han #johnny cage #johnny cage x reader #kenshi takahashi

63 notes · View notes