#but Viserys waves it all away

[backjustforberena]

RHAENYS & CORLYS, reacting to Viserys's coughing.

[raven-dor]

you are my moonlight

In which gwayne hightower meets his future wife, and his timing is most unfortunate

PAIRING: gwayne hightower x reader, alicent hightower x PLATONIC!reader, rhaenyra targaryen x PLATONIC!reader

WARNINGS: fluff, young love, friends fighting, creepy viserys, horrible timing

WORD COUNT: 3.5k

AN: this could be read as a prequel to come back to me, but does NOT have to be read to understand any context!!

The tourney was in full swing, Y/N sitting eagerly on Rhaenyra’s left. The first two matches had finished rather similarly, with Sir Criston Cole being the winner. What the trio was actually waiting for was Prince Daemon’s match. It was all Rhaenyra had talked about for days and the fact that he’d gifted her a necklace of Valyrian steel, a rare and precious token that many in the realm could not afford. Of course, Rhaenyra and her family were the exception, as they were one of two of the only remaining High Valyrian houses left.  

The knights of the realm lined up before the Prince, the Master of Revels, announced the man himself. “Prince Daemon of House Targaryen, Prince of the City, will now choose his first opponent.” The prince rode down the line, inspecting each knight briefly. He quickly settled on Alicent’s brother, Ser Gwayne. “For his first challenge, Prince Daemon Targaryen chooses Ser Gwayne Hightower of Oldtown, eldest son of the Hand of the King.” 

Alicent grew restless, picking at the skin surrounding her fingers. Y/N wished she could comfort the auburn haired girl herself, but Rhaenyra grabbed her friend's hand quickly, stopping her from further injury. The two men lined up on their respective sides, racing towards each other. 

Ser Gwayne released the first blow to the shock of the stands. Y/N beamed, though she did not know why. She hardly knew the knight, only hearing of him through Alicent when she recalled her childhood. The second round was quick, and at the last second, Prince Daemon lowered his joust in front of the horse's legs, causing it to topple over, taking Ser Gwayne with it. She gasped, a hand covering her mouth. She mumbled, knowing Rhaenyra would not stand for any untoward talk of her uncle. “By the seven.”

Ser Gwayne did not move, and Alicent grew more anxious by the second. Y/N reached her hand out, grasping Alicent's briefly. “He will be alright, Alicent, I know it.” The squires lifted him from the ground, walking him over to the medicine tent. He would be transported later to the sept, Y/N assumed. She would have to visit him and keep him company while he recovered. 

Prince Daemon approached the Royal apartment, and Rhaenyra instantly approached her uncle. “Nicely done, Uncle.” Alicent and Y/N followed suit, still squeamish from the clearly immoral act.

“Thank you, Princess.” Daemon nodded his head. “Lady Y/N.” 

“My Prince.” 

He turned to Alicent. “Now, I’m fairly certain I can win these games, Lady Alicent. Having your favor would all but assure it.” Alicent walked away, and Daemon smiled once more at the ward of the crown. “Next tourney, my lady, I shall ask you.” 

Y/N laughed. “I look forward to that day, my Prince.” 

Alicent returned swiftly, placing her favor on the Prince’s joust. “Good luck, my Prince.” The three girls sat down, waving at the crowd. The tourney had turned sour near after, with three fights breaking out, all ending in death. The knights, who had never seen battle, were bloodthirsty from what she could tell.

Y/N grew nauseous quickly, begging Rhaenyra for pardon so that she did not grow sick. Rushing out of the royal apartment, she decided to visit Ser Gwayne while she still had the nerve. The tent was quiet, with the exception of a few masters concocting ointments. Y/N peaked around the corner, coming face to face with Alicent’s brother. She curtsied, bowing her head. “My lord.” He tried to sit up, but she quickly stopped him. “Please, there is no need to further harm yourself.” 

He smiled gratefully. “I must ask for your forgiveness, my lady; I do not remember meeting you.” 

“I am Y/N of House Hawthorne. A ward of the crown and a friend of your sister’s.” 

“A pleasure, my lady.” He tilted his head. “Has she sent you here then?” 

“Alicent remains at the tourney. I-” She blushed, realizing how foolish it sounded. “I saw your joust, and I wanted to see that you were well. For Alicent’s sake.” 

He nodded, a smirk growing on his lips. “For Alicent, of course. I must say, I have not heard of House Hawthorne.” She smiled, sitting beside him.

“We are located in the Westerlands, my lord, and are sworn to House Lannister.” She looked closer at his wound, wincing. “Your wound looks rather agitated still. Would you mind if I-” 

He shook his head quickly. “Please. I would be most appreciative.” 

She stood, sneaking a cloth and an herb she knew caused numbing. Wrapping it carefully, she dipped the cloth in water, tapping it lightly on his skin. “This should numb the pain, for now, my lord. I’ve known this herb to speed the healing process along quite nicely.” 

He hummed, closing his eyes. “How did you become so well acquainted with such knowledge?” 

“My mother was a trained healer, my lord.” 

“Please call me Gwayne.” He peeked through his eyelids, giving her a kind smile. “You’ve all but earned it.” 

“Very well, my lo- Gwayne.” She nodded. “If I can call you by your name, it is only fair that you call me by mine.” 

He scoffed. “Hardly. That would be highly improper.” 

She raised an eyebrow, still delicately tapping the cloth. “Opposed to what you have asked of me?” 

He nodded, steadfast. “You are a lady. You should be addressed as such.” 

Dipping the cloth back in the water, she laughed. “Hardly.” 

“Using my own words against me.” He laughed back. “My, you are a wonder.” 

“Y/N?” 

She froze, turning around quickly. For some reason Y/N felt guilty, caught even. But seeing Alicent stand at the end of her brother’s bed, her face as pale as the winter snow, made the girl forget her worries. Y/N dropped the cloth in the bowl, rushing to Alicent’s side. “What is it? What’s happened?” 

“The Queen. She’s-” Alicent leaned closer, whispering in her friend's ear. “She’s dead.” Y/N gasped.

“I-” Y/N turned back to Gwayne, waving quickly. “It was wonderful to make your acquaintance, my lord.” The two girls rushed off, leaving the knight thoroughly confused. 

“Call me-” The girl was out of the tent before he could finish his sentence.

The funeral was a somber affair, as to be expected. Alicent and Y/N stood close by to Rhaenyra, staring at the covered bodies. Syrax, the Princess’s dragon, stood at the top of the hill, waiting for its orders. They stood in silence for the better part of an hour before Prince Daemon whispered in Rhaenyra’s ear, no doubt telling her that she would have to be the one to give the order. 

A shiver ran down Y/N’s spine as her friend stepped forward, catching a sob. “D-” Rhaenyra took a deep breath, commanding her dragon. “Dracarys.” 

The yellow fury let out a great blast, effectively burning her mother and brother’s corpses. Rhaenyra turned away, unable to look at her deceased loved ones. Soon after, the crowd dissipated, leaving Rhaenyra, Y/N, and Alicent still standing by the sight. Y/N stayed back as Alicent approached their grieving friend.

“My lady.” 

Y/N turned, smiling lightly at the Hightower. “My lord.” 

“I believe last we met, I asked you to call me by my name.” He smirked. “Or am I mistaken?” 

She laughed quietly. “I believe the herb I applied made you hallucinate, my lord. You never said anything of the sort.” 

He laughed. “I’m sure you would never lie to me, so I shall take your word for it.” 

Y/N looked back at her friends, her heart aching. 

“She is an unlucky Princess,” Gwayne muttered. 

“Yes, indeed. Losing a parent is never easy.” 

“I am sorry.” Y/N turned back to the young knight, confusion etched on her face. “It is just- I assumed that with you being a ward of the crown-” 

“You would be correct. But it has been so long, I hardly remember what it was like to have parents.” 

He frowned. “That is horrible. I lost my own mother just a year ago.” He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, and she tried to ignore the shock that rang through her body. “It is never easy.” 

She shook her head, placing a hand delicately over his. “You are, unfortunately, correct.” 

A cough broke the pair apart, Y/N practically jumping at the interruption. “I could use some company on Dragonback.” Rhaenyra practically whispered. “Would you join me?” 

“Of course.” She turned back to Gwayne, curtsying quickly. “My lord.” 

The two girls walked up the hill, arm in arm. Alicent looked curiously at her brother. “What are you doing?” 

He whipped around, laughing at his sister. “Whatever do you mean?” 

“I only meant to say, you’ve taken a recent fascination in Y/N.” 

“Yes.” He nodded. “And your point?” 

Alicent smiled, shaking her head. “Merely a statement, brother.”

The palace gardens were in full bloom this time of year, and Y/N always found comfort in the little corner with a quaint fountain and an outlook of the ocean. Rhaenyra and she frequented this spot often in their youth, and Y/N needed respite from the high tensions at court. She’d been stuck on the same page for what seemed like hours when a voice broke through her focus. “We meet again.” Gwayne bowed his head, grinning much too widely. “My lady.” 

Y/N made no effort to stand, raising her eyebrows. “I am beginning to think, my lord, that you have been following me.” 

“Not that I am…” He started, sitting at the end of the cushioned chair that she occupied. “But if I was, it might have something to do with the fact that you are still not calling me by my name.” 

She laughed. “Is it that simple?” 

He nodded. “Quite. But do not worry yourself, I’ll wait.” His eyes sparkled. “My lady.” 

Y/N welcomed the challenge; she could sit there for hours, reading and ignoring the handsome knight. She glanced down at her book, ignoring his devilishly handsome smile. “You’ve read that page three times already.” She glared over the top, and he held his hands up in surrender, laughing. “Sorry.” 

She looked back down, flipping the page to prove a point. He sighed, standing and walking over to the daisies that bordered the fountain. Picking the fullest one he could find, he stopped in front of the girl, holding it out. “May I?” 

“I will not wilt at the sight of you because you are a lord.” She stood, closing her book. “I am not a flower like the thing you hold in your hand.” 

He nodded. “You are not.” He raised the daisy, tucking it behind her ear. “You are however, as pretty as one.” 

Her cheeks turned pink, and she murmured. “You flatter me, my lord.” 

“And why shouldn’t I? One should always flatter a beautiful woman when given the chance.” He smiled. “I believe calling me by my name shall suffice as thanks.” 

She scoffed, smacking his chest lightly. “You are quite confident, Gwayne.” 

“You’ll find-” He stopped, his smile brightening ten fold. “You said my name.” 

Y/N nodded, walking away. “I did.” 

He followed after, like a lost puppy. “What shall you do with the rest of your day, I wonder?” 

She shrugged. “I do not know, but it will most certainly be out of your presence.” 

He gasped, holding his chest. “You hurt my heart when you say such things.” 

She laughed, stopping and pretending to check him over. “However will you survive?” 

“I think it is terminal my lady.” 

“And what affliction have you caught, Ser Gwayne?” Y/N forced a giggle back, trying her hardest to behave seriously. 

“Lovesickness.” He sighed. “I’m afraid there is no cure.” 

She stepped closer, a pink dusting her cheeks. “I shall mourn you then.” 

“Well, I’m sure we could-” 

“Y/N!” 

Gwayne had never hated the Princess Rhaenyra more in his life than that moment. She was a generally tolerable girl, and a good friend to his sister, but in that moment she stood between him and you, and he wanted nothing more than to tell her to leave. He stepped away from you hesitantly, bowing quickly. “Princess.” 

The Targaryen made no effort to hide her humor at the situation. “I apoligize for the intrusion. Alicent and I were about to go to the Sept, and I did not want you to think we left you behind.” 

Y/N smiled brightly, waving disapointedly to the knight. “Feel better, my lord.”

Alicent tilted her head, yelling back at her brother. “Better? Are you quite well brother?”

Y/N yet again found herself in the gardens, but this time she was here for the soul purpose of seeing Gwayne. She wore her best dress, had her maid’s put her hair up intricately, and even applied some rouge. Not too much, she wouldn’t want people to think the wrong thing. She was a lady, as Gwayne never ceased to remind her. Sitting carefully on the cushioned chair, she positioned herself towards the entrance, waiting for the familiar mop of auburn hair to peek through. She’d begun to think he wouldn’t show when his familiar tenor broke through the tranquil silence. 

“My lady, I thought I would find you here.” She lowered the book, her stomach fluttering when his eyes widened slightly. “You look-” 

“Gwayne, I-” They both stopped, laughing at their ill timed words. “It seems that we cannot find a moment of peace.” 

He nodded, breaking the distance between them. “I have wanted to tell you something for quite some time now. I cannot seem to summon the words to leave me.” He laughed, but his nerves were evident. “It is just…” 

“Yes?” Y/N smiled, hating how nauseous she felt. 

“I wanted to say that-” 

A loud sob rang through the garden, pulling them out of their haze. Gwayne drew his sword, in case the sob resulted in any trouble. Y/N tried to round the corner before him, but he shook his head, leading her carefully through the hedges. 

“Rhaenyra?” Y/N quickly left her place behind Gwayne, rushing to her friends side. “Are you alright?” 

“She’s betrayed me. I cannot- I can’t-” The princess looked up, glaring at the knight. “Can we go some place else?” 

Y/N nodded, her face visibly disappointed. She walked Rhaenyra out of the gardens, sparing Gwayne one last look, mouthing the words ‘I’m sorry.’

The castle had been throw off it’s axis by the sudden shift within it’s walls. Rhaenyra was no longer speaking to Alicent, which meant Y/N was no longer speaking to Alicent, which meant that the once close knit group of friends were no longer a trio. 

It had been that way since they were children, almost ten years ago. Y/N not speaking to Alicent meant she could not speak to Gwayne, or so she assumed. She and Rhaenyra had not talked about it much since the day it was announced, always leaving a sour taste in the Princess’s mouth. 

Y/N just wished Rhaenyra could forgive her friend for something she had no control over. The Royal Wedding was tonight, and Rhaenyra had insisted that Y/N walk in with the princess, even though she wasn’t family. When Y/N brought this up, her friend scolded her, saying that ‘My father has insisted, I’m afraid. You are his ward, and he has grown to think of you as his own.’ 

Now, she sat beside Rhaenyra while the ceremony took place, sneaking glances at the brides brother. Rhaenyra had picked out Y/N's dress herself, saying that she needed something worthy of a princess. She was not one to argue and let the Princess do whatever she wanted as long as she was distracted from the day at hand.

Arm in arm with the Princess, she dreaded when they finally reached the hall and had to congratulate the ‘happy’ couple. Poor Alicent, married at fifteen, was not something she wished on her worst enemy. Especially to a man twenty years your senior. The doors opened wide, the crowd quieting at the sight of the princess and her companion. Among that crowd was Gwayne, staring at her with desperate eyes. 

Her cheeks turned pink, quickly breaking the contact. Chatter quickly filled the hall once more as Rhaenyra reached the top of the steps, curtsying quickly. “Congratulations, step-mother. Father.” 

Y/N shivered. Rhaenyra's tone was as cold as the Wall. She wanted to curse her friend for making her go after that display. She sunk to the floor, bowing her head. “Many happy returns, My Queen, My King.” 

Viserys smiled gratefully. “Thank you Y/N. You have been a loyal friend to my daughter and wife. I shall not forget it.” 

The young girl nodded, equally disgusted and horrified at what the king had just said. Surely he realized how immoral it was. “Of course Your Grace. I live to serve and provide assistance to my Princess.” 

She released a breath she hadn’t known she was holding, sitting down beside Rhaenyra. “Could you at least have tried to be nice?” 

“I was.” The princess raised an eyebrow, and Y/N almost laughed, realizing her friend was being serious. 

“Of course. A jest, my lady.” 

Rhaenyra laughed. “So formal.” 

“We are at a wedding, Rhaenyra. It would be inappropriate for me to call you anything other than my lady, by the court's standards.” 

“Well I am the princess, and I say you call me Rhaenyra.” 

“Very well.” Y/N smiled, taking a large sip of her wine. “This will be an entertaining night.” 

Besides the occasional snide comment thrown at the obviously overwhelmed bride, the night had been otherwise peaceful. Y/N tried her best to sway Rhaenyra from attacking the queen outright, and she’d been successful. So far. She’d been in the middle of listening to Rhaenyra’s adventure of gathering the stolen dragon egg from her uncle when a cough interrupted. 

“Excuse me, Princess.” The pair turned around to see Gwayne staring at Y/N not Rhaenyra. Odd. He had addressed Rhaenyra, not her. “May I ask the Lady for a dance?” 

Y/N widened her eyes, looking in between the two. She was sure Rhaenyra would say no or burst out in flames from having to talk to Alicent’s brother, but she simply nodded her head, going back to her meal. Gwayne extended his hand, leading her to the dancefloor. He whispered as they moved, keeping in mind the intruding ears that surrounded them. “I have missed your company, my lady.” 

“I have missed yours as well.” 

“I know much has happened since we last spoke, but it has not deterred me. If anything, it has made me realize that I cannot stand to be apart from you.” Her cheeks turned pink for the second time that night. 

“You are very kind, Gwayne.” 

“Yes, well, it is not hard when you are the one I compliment.” He shook his head. “I am returning to Old Town soon. In two weeks time, after my sister settles into her new life.”

Her heart fell, eyes watering. “I hope your journey is swift.” She gulped, mumbling. “I shall miss you in truth.” 

He tilted his head, smiling. If she were not in a public place, she would admonish him for smiling at her pain. “What I mean to say is, I am infatuated with you. And I would like to seek your hand in marriage. From the king of course.” 

She gasped, her eyes widening. “I beg your pardon?” 

“I would like to marry you.” He spoke softly, now fully grinning. “If you would have me. You do not have to say yes, but I assure you, your affection for me will grow with time.”

“With time? Gwayne, I-” Y/N whispered so quietly she wasn’t even sure she’d spoken. “I have already grown to admire you. Much more than a friend should. That is no concern of mine.” 

“Ah.” The knight nodded. “Well, that settles it then.” 

“Settles what?” 

“We are to be married.” 

“Yes, well…” She sighed. “You cannot propose to me at your sister’s wedding. It would be improper.” 

“Damn impropriety.” He hissed, twirling you as the dance required. “Praytell, when would be a proper time then?” 

“Any other day, my love.” 

He stopped in the middle of the dance floor, her face growing red. “Gwayne people are looking.” 

He seemingly did not hear her. “My love.” 

“If you are going to tease me-” 

“You called me, my love.” 

“Gwayne…” She whined, gesturing to the prying eyes. “Can we please leave the floor? People will start to wonder…” 

“I desperately want to kiss you.” 

Thank the Seven the dance ended then. She bowed quickly. “Thank you for the dance, my lord.” Rushing back to her seat, she stared at the table, shock running through her veins. 

“Did he propose then?” 

Y/N whipped her head over, glaring at her friend. “You knew?” 

“Of course I knew. Y/N, I’ve known he was going to propose since I saw him approach you at my mother’s funeral.” 

“Rhaenyra, I’m so sorry.” 

“Whatever for?” 

“I don’t want you to feel betrayed. I had no intention of-” 

“Do not apoligize to me.” She placed her hand in Y/N's. “You are my friend. I am happy for you, truly. He is a good man, he will treat you well. I know it.”

“I haven’t said yes, Rhaenyra.” 

“Yet.” Her friend laughed. “You haven’t said yes, yet.”  

[nebulaafterdark]

Marry Me

Summary : Rhaenyra’s daughter is off limits, but Aegon won’t allow her to marry anyone else. Based off this request.

Aegon Targaryen x Velaryon (Strong)!Reader

Princess Y/N Velaryon is easily the most beautiful woman to grace the seven kingdoms, by all counts of every Lord and Lady.

Alicent reminds her son often, “she cannot speak. There is more to it than the King lets on and we’ve no way of knowing if the same condition will be present in her heirs.”

“Y/N has plenty to say, to those who will listen.” She does not speak with her voice, but through written word, through her eyes, her laugh and her smile.

“I’ve said no.” Alicent snaps, “it is out of the question.” She slams his chamber door shut behind her.

Still Aegon makes it a point to check in with the Princess, to be kind. Even if they cannot marry, surely they can be friends.

This day, she is nose deep in a book when Aegon spots her in the gardens. “What book is that now?” He asks.

Y/N smiles, lifting the bound pages to present the spine.

“A Tale Of Two…” He cocks his head to the side to make out the rest of the title, “Dragons.“

She nods.

“Is it any good?” Aegon wonders, taking a seat beside her in the grass.

Y/N slides the open page into his lap, pointing to a passage on the left.

“A love story,” he realizes.

Y/N stares down at her hands.

Aegon taps a finger to her chin, “you should write a book.”

She shakes her head.

“I would read it.” He tells her truthfully, taking in the full effect of her peach colored gown in the afternoon sun.

The princess returns her attention to the book pages.

————————————————————————

Some weeks later, Cregan Stark arrives from the North, on behalf of his house, to negotiate a potential alliance with the Riverlands which the King has the final say in.

Viserys hosts a feast in Stark’s honor, followed by festivities in the grand hall.

Aegon is polite enough when Cregan comes to collect wine from the table.

“I could not help but notice the Princess while you were dancing.” Stark says, making harmless conversation.

“Y/N,” Aegon smiles, fondly.

“She is beautiful.” Cregan is equally entranced, “I must speak to her.”

“She does not speak.” Aegon reaches a hand out to stop him, with a forced grin.

“To you or to anyone?” Stark continues staring at Y/N over Aegon’s head.

“To anyone,” Aegon tells him. If she did speak, it would be to him first. Not some stranger.

“Well that’s no matter.” He pats Aegon once on the shoulder, “I’m going to introduce myself.”

Aegon stares, eyes wide as Stark crosses the room to Y/N.

Taking her hand in his and bringing it to his lips. “Cregan Stark, your grace.”

Y/N smiles, nodding her head in acknowledgement.

“This is my darling daughter, Y/N.” Rhaenyra says, proudly. Brushing dark waves behind her daughter’s ear.

“It is an honor to make your acquaintance.” Cregan says, “I was wondering if you might like to dance.”

Y/N nods, allowing him to lead her out onto the floor.

Aegon reaches for another cup, drowning his sadness in it.

“That is a fine match.” King Viserys says, watching them from his chair.

“Indeed, Husband.” Alicent agrees.

“Mayhaps a betrothal, in time.” Rhaenyra beams at her father.

————————————————————————

Each day Stark comes to Y/N with an offer of courtship, a new way they might spend time together. He appears to her with flowers, and little gifts he’s acquired from the North. He tells stories of his homeland and the things they might do together, as Aegon plots his murder.

Squeezing his glass so forcefully at supper that night it shatters in his grasp.

“Aegon!” Viserys shouts, as the red wine bleeds onto the dinner table.

Y/N pushes away from the table, rounding the line of chairs to his side. Plucking shards of glass from his skin, with her bare hands and covering his bloody palm with the pristine white fabric of her napkin. She stares at him, expectantly.

Aegon sighs, with a shake of his head. Leaving the dinner table, quietly. Sometimes, it is best not to speak, especially when no one cares what you have to say.

————————————————————————

In the week that follows, Aegon becomes more withdrawn.

Y/N can’t help but think it is something she’s done. Mayhaps their friendship is not something that interests him any longer. Which will make it easier now that Cregan has asked for her hand.

When Alicent gathers her children to break the news that the official betrothal will be celebrated that night, Aegon nearly refuses to attend the procession.

Do they truly expect him to sit there and be merry as Y/N is given away to a near stranger?

Y/N taps her mother’s hand anxiously, before the announcement is made.

“It’s alright,” Rhaenyra assures her, “there’s nothing to be nervous about.”

Y/N shakes her head.

“You must marry, sweet girl. Cregan is a good man, he will treat you well.”

Her eyes plead with her mother.

“Who then?” Rhaenyra sighs.

The woman’s gaze flits to Aegon across the room, staring at her with clenched fists.

Aegon inhales sharply, moving toward her on unsteady legs.

“Don’t you dare.” Alicent catches his arm, but it is too late.

Aegon tears his arm free, Y/N is already moving toward him. Pulled together by some invisible force, neither one can explain. “Y/N, I first wish to apologize for the distance between us as of late.”

Y/N’s eyes soften, alight with a fondness reserved only for Aegon.

“But I do not want some Stark bringing you flowers. I want to do it. I cannot stand the sight of you dancing with him when I want to dance with you. I do not begrudge you happiness but I…I love you and I’d like you to be happy with me.” Aegon drops to his knees, “marry me.”

“Aegon!” Alicent protests, only to be silenced by her husband, the king.

“Please.” Aegon says, ignoring his mother’s outburst.

Y/N tugs at his hand, until he stands. Her eyes searching his.

Aegon cups her face in his hands, chest heaving with nerves. “You will want for nothing so long as I live, I swear.”

Y/N rests her hands over his, nodding.

“Yes?” Aegon stammers, “you’ll marry me?”

Another nod and blinding smile.

He pulls her into his arms. “Thank you.”

Y/N holds him just as tightly, tapping at his back a moment later.

“What is it, my heart?” He pulls back, ever so slightly.

Y/N presses her lips to his, sealing the deal.

[wholoveseggs]

Small Victories

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}

{Daemon Targaryen X Reader} After a tourney in which Daemon places second, he seeks solace from his loss and finds it in his little northern maid.

♡♡ Hello darlings! I'm branching out slightly and writing about a new character {Don't worry, I'm still writing Elijah} xoxo ♡♡

5.3k words - Warnings: smutt, size!kink, rough sex, dom!daemon, slight choking, virgin!reader, northern!reader, servant!reader, pre-dance Daemon, huge power imbalance...

♡♡ Hey! I didn't tag anyone because I'm unsure if you want to read Daemon content. If you wish to be tagged in future Daemon let me know ♡♡

You didn't like the Red Keep, it was too grand for your liking. Even with all of the people in it you still felt alone. At night, you could hear voices echoing throughout the halls, sometimes they were singing or laughing and other times they were screaming or moaning.

You could never tell where the sounds were coming from, it gave the place an odd feeling of being haunted. Ghosts weren't something you put your faith in, but that didn't stop the hair from standing up on the back of your neck whenever you heard a strange sound.

If it was up to you, you wouldn't live here. You would be back in the little cottage you grew up in, far into the north and as far away from King's landing as you could possibly be. It was a funny contradiction, that such a grand place in a warm environment could feel so cold, while a small house in the cold north could feel so full of warmth.

The last thing your mother said to you, was that you should be grateful. That your place in the Red Keep was the highest honor your family could ever hope to receive, and that you should do anything to stay here. To be a lady's maid to the queen, was the highest achievement a low born could achieve.

You tried to be, even though your heart yearned for the snowy landscape of your childhood. You wanted to be happy, you were thankful, but you couldn't help the way you missed the north.

So to try and capture just a bit of personal freedom, you would walk the halls at night. It was the only time you could pretend to be somewhere else, even if it was only for a moment. You would close your eyes and imagine yourself somewhere new and exciting, and when you opened them you would be reminded of where you really were.

Tonight you were in a particularly adventurous mood, there was a tourney the next day for Prince Viserys and his wife Aemma to celebrate their wedding. The Red Keep would be full of guests and it would be loud and full of life, you were sure to be very busy, and so you decided to stay up late and postpone sleep for a few more hours.

There was a room in the library that had a view of the city, one you liked to frequent often. It had a large window and a balcony that was rarely used. It was a nice place to go to clear your mind and think about home.

When you entered, nobody was around except for a cat that was perched on the windowsill. She was a lovely thing with black fur and bright green eyes, the perfect color of a dark forest at night.

"Hello, beautiful." You greeted her with a smile and a light stroke along her back. You looked out the window with her at your side, watching the moon reflect off the ocean and the waves crashing against the shore.

The sound of footsteps behind you made you look over your shoulder, your eyes landing on a man with a face that made you stand up straight and bow your head.

"Prince Daemon." You greeted him, not looking up from the floor.

"Young maidens like yourself shouldn't be out so late." He said, stepping closer to you. You didn't dare move or even breathe, his presence made you feel like you were caught doing something wrong.

"I couldn't sleep, my lord," You answered, not meeting his eyes. This was your first real meeting with the prince, but you knew the rumors that surrounded him.

He didn't respond to your answer, instead, he turned his attention towards the view. Leaning against the window, his posture was dismissive, as though you weren't there. He gave you a side glance that read, 'leave,' and so you did, not wanting to get in his way.

"I apologize, I didn't mean to intrude." You said, walking past him, heading towards the doorway.

"You are from the north," he spoke, still looking out into the water.

"Yes, my lord," You answered, stopping when he started speaking.

"How did you find yourself as a maid in the south?" He asked, looking at you, his eyes piercing through you.

The truth of the matter made you feel shameful, even though it was beyond your control. So you decided to tell him what you've been telling everyone.

"I was given as a gift for our new queen," You said, looking down at the floor.

"Is that what they call it?" Daemon laughed, his laugh was as harsh as his voice, the kind of laugh that could cut you open if you let it. "I heard you were given away as payment for a debt."

Your cheeks reddened and you looked at the ground, your throat closing up at the mention of your family's failure. Pride wasn't something you could afford anymore, but you couldn't stop the words that came out of your mouth.

"I didn't realize that princes were so fond of gossip." You said, meeting his eyes, your words were meant to cut, and they did.

He stood up straight, his expression unreadable as he closed the distance between the two of you, towering over you.

"Ahh, so they did sell you." He smirked, looking down at you. "Whoring can make you better coin… recover a debt quicker."

Your hands balled up into fists and you took a step closer, a defiant glare on your face.

He chuckled and tilted his head, he reached out and touched your chin, his hand was soft but firm as he turned your face to look at him.

"With a pretty face like yours, I'm sure you would make quite a bit of coin," His voice was a purr, a seductive growl that made your insides feel tight. "I could show you a better use for those lips."

His words were shockingly vulgar, his voice was rough and commanding and his eyes were hungry, but you didn't move away, you stayed still. You knew the dragon prince was a scandalous man, but you didn't think he would ever be so bold.

"There is no honor in a whore's coin." You answered, pushing his hand away from your face.

"Is there honor in emptying the queen's chamber pot?" He retorted, grinning slightly at how red your cheeks had become.

"Not all of us have the opportunity to choose what sort of honor we can acquire,” You said, standing your ground as best as you could.

He towered over you, his tall frame casting a shadow that almost completely covered you. He wasn't like the king or queen, who were kind and generous. There was something dark and malicious about him, as though the great beasts of his house lurked just below his skin, waiting to come out.

"You have a smart mouth, little northerner." He mused, his eyes drifting down to your lips. "It's a wonder that the queen has not put a gag in it."

"It's a poor quality I have yet to overcome." You responded, pulling away from him and putting some distance between the two of you.

He watched you move away, his eyes following your movements and the shape of your body, making you feel hot.

"I will think of you when I win the tourney tomorrow." He said, his tone smug and confident. "A sweet northern flower to bring back with me."

"You will be bringing back nothing, prince Daemon." You said, your voice a warning.

He laughed and looked at you, his eyes dancing with mischief.

"We'll see about that."

And with those final words, he left the room. You felt flustered and annoyed, a strange mixture of feelings that confused and angered you. You didn't like the prince, but he made your heart race, his voice and his eyes made you feel a strange sense of heat.

You wanted to be disgusted, and yet all you could think about was seeing him again.

It was a hectic morning, with all the knights and guests arriving, and you were late. Your tardiness had earned you a sharp reprimand from your head maid, but you were too distracted by the upcoming event to care.

The prospect of seeing the prince again was something you weren't sure you wanted, but couldn't stop thinking about.

You didn't like the way his eyes lingered on you, or how he made you feel things that shouldn't be felt. The rogue prince was indeed a fitting title, he was a scoundrel and a liar, a man of dishonor.

You thought that maybe he was the sort of person that the south created, perhaps they took people like you and turned them into someone like him. But then again, he wasn't really a southerner, no, he was a dragon.

The sound of cheers and laughter outside made your ears perk up. The queen was already seated with the other royals in their viewing box, and you were in a nearby tent, preparing more wine and food.

The tourney had just begun, and so far the knights had all performed well. You had only been paying a bit of attention, trying to do your job and keep out of the way.

The head maid was a cruel, vindictive woman, and she had been taking out her frustration on you all day. Her temper was short and her hands were rough, she was the kind of woman that would slap your hands or pull your hair if she was upset. But today she decided to simply make your life miserable with her words.

She gave you the worst jobs and the heaviest items to carry, and when she did allow you to stand and rest, she would hit your feet with her broom and tell you to get back to work.

"Once you are finished pouring wine, I want you to go to the prince's tent and serve him." She ordered, her eyes were sharp and her words were harsh.

"The prince has a squire to serve him." You protested, the idea of facing Daemon again made your cheeks turn red.

"The prince requested a woman's company,” She smiled, her eyes looking at you with an almost wicked satisfaction.

"I believe what the prince is looking for can be found on the street of silk, not among the ladies maids." You countered, hoping to change her mind.

"It's an honor to serve the prince, and he has specifically asked for a northern girl." The head maid was adamant, not willing to let this go.

You clenched your jaw and took a deep breath, biting your tongue as you looked at the floor.

"Very well, madam."

You held back tears as you climbed the stairs to the viewing box, pouring wine into the cups. Keeping your eyes low and only lifting them when absolutely necessary as you made your way down the line of royals.

Everyone began to stir and chat as the final round was announced. You turned to face the arena, watching as the prince mounted his horse, the sight of him made your heart flutter.

He was a handsome man, there was no denying that, his long blonde hair was braided and tied back, and his purple eyes were focused and determined.

His horse was a massive stallion, black as night, and he rode him as though they were one. He moved with a grace and confidence that was captivating.

The final round began, the two men charging at each other. You were nervous and excited, not knowing what to expect.

The clash of steel was the only sound in the air, it echoed throughout the entire arena. The crowd was silent, their eyes locked on the scene before them.

The two men passed each other, once, twice, three times. The tension building with each near miss, until finally the two knights clashed again.

Daemon's opponent had a slight edge over him, being bigger and stronger, but Daemon was quicker. But on the fourth pass, his opponent managed to catch him off guard, sending him flying into the dirt.

The crowd gasped, their hands covering their mouths as the prince's horse bucked and ran, leaving him in the dust.

You winced at the sight, it wasn't a good fall. He landed on his back, hard, and he lay still for a moment, his eyes squeezed shut as he caught his breath.

Only when the head maid cleared her throat did you realize you had been holding your breath.

"You are needed in the prince's tent, girl." she commanded, grabbing the jug from your hands and giving you a stern look.

You nodded, taking the tray of food and wine from the table and heading out of the box. Your heart was racing and your palms were sweaty, the thought of seeing Daemon after such a public humiliation was not something you were looking forward to.

The air was alive with the roar of the people, and the thumping of their feet sounded like thunder. They were chanting for the champion, something that would surely upset Daemon even more.

When you got to his tent, you hesitated, taking a moment to calm your nerves. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, letting the noise of the crowd fade away.

You stepped inside, finding him sitting in a chair, his shirt was off and his squire was cleaning a nasty gash on his arm.

"I'm sorry for intruding, Prince Daemon." You said, placing the tray of food on the table and pouring a cup of wine.

"Leave," he barked at his squire, his voice was gruff and his jaw was clenched.

"But my prince-" his squire protested, looking up from the wound he was treating.

"Now."

The boy left quickly, leaving you alone with the brooding prince.

"Would you like some wine, my lord?" You asked, your voice soft and timid, the last thing you wanted was to make him even more upset.

"No," he hissed, his voice sharp as a knife. "Bring me a new shirt."

You did as he asked, walking over to the large chest in the corner. It was full of clothes, the colors and fabrics were fine and beautiful. You selected a clean white shirt and brought it over to him, your eyes focused on the ground.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice was quiet, but it was a demand, not a request.

You lifted your eyes, meeting his gaze. His eyes were cold, the same shade of violet that had captivated you was now a glare.

You did very well, my lord," You tried to reassure him, your voice soft and comforting.

"Is that meant to be comforting?" He asked, his tone was harsh and his expression was a scowl.

"Fine. I have never seen a worse display than the one you put on today," you said, the words slipping from your mouth before you could stop them.

He smiled, then laughed, his shoulders shaking as his amusement grew. Only his brother the king would ever talk to him this way, and here you were, a young low born northerner, mocking him. He didn't know why he enjoyed it coming from you, perhaps it was because your words meant nothing. You were no one, and he was the prince, and yet he found himself intrigued.

"That was quite a show, wasn't it?" He chuckled, the sound was hollow, not at all humorous.

"It was humiliating," you answered, the words escaping before you could stop them.

"Careful," he warned, his eyes narrowing. "You're lucky I find your insolence amusing."

"I thought it was why you had asked for me," you retorted, setting the shirt on the table and taking a step back.

He stood up from the chair, closing the space between the two of you. The air was thick with tension, his eyes boring into yours, his face was inches from yours.

"I didn't lose the tourney," he stated, his voice a low growl.

"You didn't win either," you countered, your cheeks flushed red, your heart racing in your chest.

He smiled, the gesture was almost predatory, he reached out and grabbed your face, his hands were rough and his grip was tight.

"You are quite the mouthy little wench," his words were a harsh whisper, his breath hot against your skin.

You didn't answer, afraid of what he would do if you spoke. He seemed to be enjoying himself, his eyes dancing with amusement as he stared at you.

"On your knees," he ordered, his tone demanding.

"My lord, I-" you protested, trying to pull away.

"Kneel," his voice was louder this time, and you knew that he was not going to repeat himself.

You hesitated for a moment, but he was the prince, and you couldn't disobey him. So you lowered yourself onto your knees, looking up at him, waiting for him to tell you what to do next.

"Is it true that northern girls can take a cock better than southern ones?" He asked, his hand still holding onto your chin.

You didn't know how to respond, his words making your cheeks burn. You could only stare at him, your mind reeling as you tried to figure out what he wanted.

He smiled, and the look in his eyes made your heart race. "Open your mouth, little northerner."

You did as he commanded, your eyes never leaving his. He pushed his thumb past your lips and slowly pressed down onto your tongue, rubbing it in circles before slowly dragging it out.

Your lips parted and your breathing became heavier as he traced his wet thumb across your bottom lip, his eyes fixated on the movement.

"Beautiful." He whispered before sliding his thumb back into your mouth, pushing it all the way into your throat, causing you to gag.

He pulled his thumb from your mouth and wiped the spit off on your cheek before grabbing you by the arms and lifting you up, turning you around and pushing you face first into the table.

"My lord," you gasped, struggling against his strong grip.

Daemon laughed at the look of shock on your face, his cock growing harder at the sight. "See? I knew you would make a great whore," he smirked, his words bringing a flush to your face.

He pulled your dress up, exposing your ass and legs. His hands were rough as he groped you, squeezing your thighs and your cheeks.

You pushed against him, trying to free yourself, but his grip was too strong. He pushed your thighs apart, his hand trailing up to your cunt, his fingers stroking your entrance, teasing you.

He softened at your defiance, a smirk crossing his lips. "I enjoy you, little northerner. Perhaps I should keep you," he mused.

He slid his finger into your cunt, his touch gentle and slow. You whimpered, pushing against him again.

"You would be my little northern flower," he murmured, his finger moving in and out of your cunt, the pace becoming quicker. "A blue rose in my garden."

You were ashamed of how aroused you were, the prince's touch was intoxicating, and you couldn't stop yourself from grinding your hips against his hand. You had never been with a man before and the pleasure he was giving you was beyond anything you had ever felt.

He slid another finger inside of you, his movements quick and rough. You moaned, biting your lip as you felt yourself getting closer to release.

He suddenly pulled away, the sudden absence of his touch made you whimper. He spun you around, knocking objects off the table and pinning you against it. Your hands went to his chest, pushing him back, but his grip was too strong, his eyes filled with lust.

"You're a feisty one," he whispered, his lips trailing down your neck, his hands gripping your ass, lifting you up and pressing you against his hips. "I guess it's true that the fires always burn hotter in the north,"

You shivered as he sucked and bit at the skin on your neck, his teeth scraping across your sensitive flesh, leaving red marks behind. You couldn't help but moan, the feeling was so intense, and the sounds were so sinful.

"My prince... I..." You stuttered, trying to find the words, but he cut you off with a kiss.

The feel of his hands on your body, his lips on yours, his cock hard against you, was intoxicating. You had never felt this way before, this desire, this want. He made you feel like you were drowning in the fire of his touch. He was a dragon, and he would take what he wanted.

You couldn't resist, you gave in, kissing him back, letting his tongue explore your mouth. He smelled of blood, dirt and sweat, a combination that shouldn't have been appealing, but was.

You could taste his lust on your lips, and it made you hungry for more. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pressing yourself closer to him, and he moaned, the sound rumbling in his chest. He was so much larger than you, so much stronger, and you felt so small in his arms.

His hand trailed down your chest, slowly untying the strings that held up your dress, his fingers tracing over the fabric, teasing you.

"Sweet little northern girl," he teased, his voice a low growl. "Are you going to give yourself to me?"

"Yes," you whispered, your cheeks flushed pink.

He kissed you again, his lips rough and demanding, his hand pushing your dress down, exposing your breasts. "You've never touched yourself before, have you?”

"No, my Prince," you whispered, your little hands curled into his chest, your nails digging into his skin.

"That's alright, I'll show you how it's done."

His hands slid down to your thighs, his fingers trailing up, his touch light and teasing. You let out a gasp as his fingers brushed over your cunt, touching a spot that made your body tremble.

"This little spot right here," he said, rubbing his thumb against it, "is the most sensitive part of your body. The more pressure, the better."

You nodded, gasping and moaning as he pressed his thumb against it, circling it. You could feel the heat rising within you, the pleasure building.

"Feels good doesn't it?" He whispered, his voice husky, his lips brushing against your ear.

"Y-yes," you stuttered, your hips moving, grinding against his hand.

He chuckled, the sound sending shivers down your spine.

"Do you like being my little whore, hmm?" He asked, his lips trailing down your neck, his kisses hot and wet.

"N-no," you moaned, pushing him back, trying to fight against him.

He laughed, his teeth nipping at your collarbone. "Liar," he whispered, his tongue licking over the marks he'd made.

His hands reaching down to his waist, undoing his breeches and pulling them off, his cock springing free. You gasped, your eyes wide as you took in the size of him.

He took your hand and placed it on his cock, his eyes burning into yours. "Go on, feel it," he whispered.

Your fingers curled around his cock, your small hand barely able to fit around him. You moved your hand, sliding it down the length of his shaft, his cock thick and pulsing in your hand. His skin was so warm and smooth, his breathing deepening as you began to move your hand up and down, stroking him slowly.

You could see the scars from battle stretched across his chest and torso. Small claw-like marks around his pectoral and a deep line that stretched down the left side of his rib cage. He was a hardened warrior, and you could tell by his scars, he had been through much to get where he was now.

You squeezed his cock, moving your hand up and down, his breathing deepening and his eyes growing hazy. He watched you, his gaze following every movement you made. You were starting to get more comfortable, taking pleasure in watching him, in making him feel good. You found the nerve to press the pad of your thumb against the tip, feeling the moisture leaking from him.

"Good girl," he praised, his voice low and husky.

You felt a wave of pride, knowing that you were pleasing him, that he liked the way you were touching him. You continued to stroke him, squeezing and pulling at his cock, watching his face, seeing the pleasure on his features.

He groaned, his eyes closing and his head tilting back, his breath catching. You could feel his cock throbbing in your hand, and you knew that he was getting close.

He let out a low growl and grabbed your wrist, halting your movements. "If you keep that up, I'm going to spill my seed all over this pretty little dress of yours," he said, his eyes full of heat.

"Is that so, my lord?" You asked, unable to hide the hint of amusement in your voice.

He grabbed your hips and pulled you under him, his body caging you, trapping you beneath him. He was breathing hard, his face flushed, his cock hard and resting on your stomach. His eyes burned into yours, his gaze intense, his hands gripping your hips, holding you steady.

You weren't talking back anymore, he could see the fear in your eyes, the hesitance, and that only made him want you more. His hand went to your throat, applying gentle pressure, a silent warning.

He could feel you trembling beneath him, and he tightened his grip, a primal, possessive urge rising within him. Your small hands pushing into his chest, clutching at his heated flesh.

"Open for me," he growled, his eyes fixed on yours.

You parted your thighs, allowing him to press closer to you. He growled, lifting your legs and wrapping them around his waist, his cock brushing against your cunt. He felt you tighten, your eyes widening with trepidation.

He chuckled, loving how terrified and eager you were at the same time. He gave you a moment, and then he slowly pushed into you. You whimpered, your nails digging into his back, your eyes closed, your face twisted in pain.

"Breathe," he said, rubbing his thumb against your cheek, "it will hurt for a just moment and then I will make you feel good,"

You nodded, taking a deep breath as you felt his cock hit your maidenhead.

"Are you ready, little northerner?" He whispered.

You gripped his forearms and nodded.

He pushed in slowly, breaking through your barrier. You cried out, the pain was intense and immediate. He groaned, the feel of your tight cunt was intoxicating.

He stayed still, giving you time to adjust. Your nails dug into his arms, leaving deep scratches in his flesh.

"Such a pretty, tight little cunt," he growled, nipping at your neck.

You kept your eyes closed, trying to focus on his words and not the pain. He began to move with slow, deep strokes, his cock stretching you, filling you. He was bigger than he felt in your hands, and you swore you could feel him everywhere.

He moaned, his hips rocking into you, his hand still on your throat, making you feel lightheaded. You looked up at him with wide eyes, your lips parted, your cheeks flushed. You felt so full of him, stretched open, the pain and pleasure mixing into one.

He watched your reaction with a smirk, amused by your shocked, satisfied expression. He was moving slowly, enjoying your warmth and the feel of your cunt clenching around him. He knew you were enjoying it, too, your eyes half-closed, a soft moan escaping your lip. Your small frame was arched to his body, your hands holding on to his neck.

You were surprised at his gentleness. You'd heard that the dragon prince liked to rough up women, but he was being as careful as if you were made of spun sugar. You felt so small and helpless underneath him, his large body nearly engulfing yours, and yet he wasn't hurting you. His touch was delicate, reverent. The way he spoke to you, calling you pet names, made your heart skip a beat.

You arched against him, a soft cry leaving your lips as his strokes got faster, deeper, hitting a place inside you that sent a sharp, hot pleasure through you.

"Does my little northerner like her prince's cock?" He said, a laugh in his voice, he began to pick up the pace, pounding into you.

You squeaked and pushed on his chest, the sensations becoming too much. He grabbed your hips and held you still, fucking you hard and fast, his eyes full of fire.

You felt your release rising up inside you, the tension in your body winding tighter and tighter. You could feel yourself clamping down on his cock, the pleasure almost too much, the sweet pain sending you over the edge.

He groaned at the sight of you coming undone, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps as you shattered around him. He could feel the tension in your muscles as your climax tore through you. He slowed his movements, easing out the last waves of pleasure, drawing it out until you were a shuddering, moaning mess.

He was close behind, his thrusts erratic, his breathing harsh. He pulled out and spilled his seed across your stomach, his hips bucking. He pressed his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, a contented sigh leaving his lips. At least he had one victory today.

Your face was hot with shame, your mind unable to comprehend what just happened. The prince's seed was cooling on your stomach and chest, the reality of the situation finally sinking in. Your hands went to your face, covering it as tears came to your eyes, you had never felt so good and so embarrassed at once.

He moved off of you, his eyes locked on yours, a smirk crossing his lips. He looked satisfied, his gaze wandering over your body, lingering on the wetness between your legs, the mess he'd made of you. He tossed you a cloth to clean yourself with. You wiped his seed off your skin, watching him dress, his blonde hair still braided back, his purple eyes full of lust and desire. He was a warrior, a dragon, he was beauty and strength, power and masculinity. He was everything you wanted and feared, a beast who could destroy you.

He gave you a side glance, his eyes full of amusement. "You may go," he said, shooing you away with a hand.

Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment, as you took a shaky breath. You stood up, gathering the pieces of your dress and your underclothes. Your legs were wobbly, and you felt weak, sore, and full of shame.

"Yes, my prince," you said quietly, looking at the floor, unable to meet his eyes.

He chuckled, the sound of his voice making you shiver. "Don't be so timid, little northerner. This is the beginning, not the end," he said, his words sending a jolt of fear and excitement through you.

He was right, this was only the beginning. You were his servant, and he could do with you as he pleased. He would have you come to him whenever he chose, on the warmest summer nights and the coldest winter days. He would take what he wanted, when he wanted.

He was a dragon, and his will was as strong as his blood.

And deep down, you knew you would enjoy it. He was the perfect thing to distract you from the mundanity of your life, the endless monotony of serving others.

Perhaps the Red Keep wouldn't be so terrible, not if it meant serving him.

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

The Blood is Rare

Summary: Aemond has always loathed his niece, and the feeling is very much mutual | Words: 3.3k | Warnings below the cut!

Warnings: a lot of talk of illegitimacy, hatefucking, dubcon, choking, slight knife play, biting, bitta blood, incest (character is described with strong features), p in v sex, baby trapping?

There was no plate at his spot at the table. No knife to tempt him. He would not break bread with those he could not trust.

Like an animal atop high ground, he sits rigid at the head of the table, on the outside unnervingly calm. But he watches with a keen eye the prey that sits at the other end.

She shares many features with her mother. His whore-sister. Her stubbornness, her determined gaze and the nervous twisting of the rings on each of her fingers into the bargain. 

Had she not the dark brown, near-black shade of waved hair atop her head and bright, clear blue eyes of the former Commander of the City Watch, his niece and his sister would look nearly identical.

Unfortunately, they both shared his hatred for them as well.

He loathed the idea of them all. The birth of one mere brown-haired bastard was enough, and yet there were three of them, sat together in unification, as if to put up defences against the opposite side of the table, dotted with the moonlight-silver of Alicent Hightower’s children.

He smirked at the thought that she came mere hours after Jace. That she was unplanned. Unwanted. And yet here she existed, sitting with her eyes fixed on a flickering candle, trying to drown out the laughs, smiles and the oddity that was all of them all gathered together, enjoying one another’s company.

He knew as well as she did. It was the only thing they had in common. That they could see through this charade.

Aemond wondered if she had always seen it. Understood it. The strife that would happen between them. Perhaps she was a dreamer and could envisage the future before it had even happened.

She was a melancholic, hateful little thing. Born with fire and fury.

He supposed if anything, she was still the daughter of a Targaryen.

Aemond swore she was a witch of sorts. For she must have felt his gaze on her, and her clear eyes were illuminated by the dancing flame as they met him. Her expression unchanged.

His smirk grew that they felt the same about each other.

He was the cunt son of Alicent Hightower.

And she was the Strong bastard of his whore-sister.

Not breaking eye contact, she raised her chin, looking down at him over her nose, huffing as she turned away to sip from the cup on her small, delicate fingers.

Stuck up cunt.

The atmosphere shifted considerably as Viserys groaned, a frail hand raised to the injured portion of his face, to which Aemond felt a sick sense of delight. The guards swiftly carried him away by each corner of his chair.

And the gap between Rhaenyra and Alicent seemed to push each side away further. Irreparably so.

His niece did not appreciate his tribute to her and her brothers.

Throughout the evening, she had said few words apart from mumbled whispers to Daemon on her right and Luke on her left. But when Aemond stood to speak, he revelled in her undivided attention. In those angry eyes, he saw not only a loathing for him, but a loathing at the truth of what she was.

A loathing that he was right, and she knew it.

She seemed almost as disappointed as her mother when Jace struck him weakly.

And before Daemon could place himself between the warring factions of their family, he watched the Strong Princess march angrily away, her skirts in her hands, flashing a stern glare before she left.

Her eyes were all he could think about, with her face anchored in the firm grip of his fingers.

He thought she was so small and fragile, that he could just squeeze and break her little jaw, her bones clattering between his fingers like pebbles. And yet she still looked at him with such fire, that only one of Targaryen blood would be able to throw.

She looked at him like he was the most loathsome creature she had ever seen.

The passageway Aemond had her cornered into was stifling and suffocating, forcing them to breathe the same humid air in anger. He saw her face redden where he had her in his grasp, her glossy lips slightly parted to breathe.

“I will extend you the courtesy of assuming there is a very good reason why you have your hands on me like this, Uncle.”

He almost wants to laugh right in her face, despite what she said not meaning to be funny. She is so frail, and yet roars so loudly.

“There is.”

Her jaw muscles tighten in frustration, shuffling backwards though there is nowhere to go.

“Then, I dare say your reason will not be good enough.”

Aemond allows his gaze to roam over her face. Up close, she really and truly is the picture of her mother, with her father's unfortunate features to her disadvantage in her colouring.

“I merely wished to see the colour of your eyes, mandianna.”

“To make some cruel jape no less, I am sure.”

He grins at the way she takes a sharp breath when he tugs her face towards him slightly. And he swears he sees the pupils within the clear blue of her eyes widen as he does, and wonders if he is having the same effect swelling at the forbidden place between her thighs.

“You wound me, sweet niece. A man cannot simply appreciate the beauty of a woman? Does there always have to be some cruel intent?”

“With you, there must be.”

He somewhat loosens his grip on her face, fingers trailing down her neck, the glint of her earrings catching his eye. She visibly shivers at his touch there. 

The most venomous expression sits on her face, and she does not miss a beat. Too clever and witty for her own good.

“Do not insult my intelligence, Uncle. I know what depraved thoughts bat around inside your head, and they are not original. A family trait perhaps.”

He hums, more amused than curious, but perhaps with a smattering of both, “And what of you?”

Her perfect little lips part to speak before his thumb trails down the column of her throat, long fingers wrapped around her neck to her nape. The threat of what he could do making her go quiet.

“What depraved thoughts bat around in your head, sweet niece?”

Silence wraps around them like a rope, tightening with the fibres cracking against their skin. Hot and suffocating all at once. And all Aemond can hear is the steady rhythm of her breathing, his eye wandering down to the necklace perched on her chest as her lungs erratically suck in air.

“It is treason to question my virtue.”

She swallows as his thumb presses on the centre of her throat, as if testing if she is indeed real.

“It may be treason to question your virtue, but it is not treason to question your honesty,” he replies coolly. Aemond can feel her pulse fluttering beneath her skin, the barely-contained rage on her face hidden only by a blanket of courtesy, “a maiden does not allow herself to be alone like this with another man.”

Aemond found himself, a man who had sparred with Ser Criston Cole for a large portion of his life, a man who as a child had claimed the largest dragon in the world and a man who had dealt with the burning pain of losing his eye, and the shame that he carried alongside it, was shocked into brief silence when his niece’s small, delicate palm echoed off his cheek.

It was not the force of it that stunned him so, but rather the shock that she had chosen to do it, with his hand around her neck and his frame blocking her escape.

The little dragon had felt threatened and given him a warning clip.

Aemond felt the warmth bloom on his cheek and smirked. She had slapped him on his bad side, where she knew it would sting the most. For a split second, white, hot pain nipped at the temples of his head as he turned back to face her, and saw that look on her face.

That she knew she’d made a mistake, but was too angry or proud to admit it. 

Or perhaps she was both.

Excitement wriggled and rolled in his stomach at the whimper that escaped her lips, using the force of his grip around her tiny throat to force her back, muscles and bones rolling against the stone walls where she was trapped, and those clear, curious eyes darting back at him with distaste. And he was pleased to see, a sprinkling of horror and panic.

“That was a mistake,” he mused, pressing himself closer to her, his hand firm around her throat despite her own attempting to pry them off him. His other hand reached down, shifting her up the cold wall, and gathered her heavy skirts in his palm, and rucked them frustratingly up towards her hip.

He revelled in the terror that crossed her face, a smirk winding its way to his sharp features.

“How exhilarating,” he pondered, “to take something that you are not willing to give.”

“I will scream”.

“Then scream. I will say it was you who seduced me,” he bit back, watching her face and expressions that crossed them, “And who will they believe? The King’s second son or the bastard daughter of a whore?”

He could feel her breath against his face, soothing the spot where she had struck him not a moment before. Aemond blinked slowly at the woman in his grip, apparently attempting to decide for herself whether it was worth the fight.

Or perhaps something else.

Aemond grinned, “like mother like daughter.”

And he enjoyed the fire it stoked in her eyes.

“You will let me go-”

He shook her neck in his grip, as if to make her be quiet. And it seemed to shock and scare her, for she closed her eyes to steel herself, “And then what will you do? Run? Scream? Or will you do something stupid enough to give me an excuse to make everything you’ve ever said about me, truth?”

Her jaw tightened looking at him, feeling cornered, but a strange ache between her thighs.

“You threaten me, Uncle?”

His dagger sliced the very air between them, pressing the tip to the column of her throat where his thumb had branded her not moments before, tracing the shape of her skin. His niece froze, her breath trembling and her head pressed to the wall, as if to try and pull herself feebly away from threat. 

This very dagger was an extension of Aemond himself. As if his hand were still touching her but with a pointed edge. And he wondered if he sliced her skin, even just a little, would she bleed like him?

There was something there in her eyes as he looked between them. Her breath came in shallow gasps. And Aemond was willing to bet that deep down, beneath the demure veil she hides herself behind, peeking through, that she is wet and ready for him between her silky thighs.

“You are clever, dear niece,” he all but whispers, trailing the blade down to the neckline of her dress, the rich fabric yielding to it, “but not as clever as you think you are.”

She swallowed thickly as his blade teased the tied bindings to her dress, playing with the double-tied knots as if they were strings of a lute, and he was playing her easily. He plucked one, and then two, watching her face the entire time.

“You believe yourself a proper little Princess, do you not?” he asks, his voice low, almost feline in nature, his face so close to hers she can make out the stitchings of his eyepatch, “hair decorated with gold. Fingers adorned with rubies. Wrapped in lavish dresses.”

She flinched as he flicked his wrist, severing the second to last tie holding two sides of her gown together.

“But pull one little thread, and you unravel -” his tone deepens, forcing her to listen to every little syllable, his gaze boring into hers, “-and all you are…is a wanton, bastard, whore.”

She attempted to push his body away, but his dagger clattered to the floor, holding her easily by her wrists, near-painfully pressing them to the stone wall behind her. It happened so quickly. Lips, teeth and tongue fought as if in battle, and Aemond held her there for him, pressing his rapidly hardening length against her clothed womanhood, rolling his hips against hers to search for that delicious, forbidden friction.

It did not seem to him that she was fighting him, but rather fighting how he made her feel.

Her lips were velvety, moist and soft as his anchored hers apart to taste her, once having a split second’s worth it was never enough. Every little breath and whimper and he wanted to make them louder, make her submit, a part of him intoxicated by her when  her teeth grazed his bottom lip, and bit on him, only for her tongue to soothe the area afterwards.

Aemond thought of what would happen, if he devoured her wholly, pressed so hard against her that it was difficult to fathom where either of them began and ended.

His lips moved along her jaw. She smelled of whatever oils were combed through her hair. Camomile and something sweet perhaps. Quickly his hand left her wrist to ruck her heavy skirts up to her waist, feeling her shiver at the touch he left behind with the brief touch of his fingertips where no man had touched before. 

“Fight back,” Aemond dared, a mere whisper against her neck where he left his bruise-like mark.

He met her gaze, looking into her bright eyes and allowed his grip on her to slowly relax, waiting to see if she would push away. Scream and run, as she had previously promised. And while her jaw was still tense and eyes aflame with hostility, he swore he saw her pupils dilate.

“Just get on with it.”

The surging heat in his stomach distracted him briefly from acting cocky, his fingers fumbling to untie his breeches while keeping her elevated. And it felt as if his body was thinking before his mind when he looked between them to see her hefty skirts bunched at her hip, and one smooth leg on display, pulling his achingly hard cock free and tucking himself between the soft haven between her thighs. 

She could pretend she desired him not all she liked, but when their gazes met in fire and fury, finding that in all of their fighting and struggling she was soaking wet, Aemond pushed against her entrance until she welcomed him, sliding within her tight, choking walls with a low groan batted against her neck.

She whined at both the intrusion and his tight grip on her thigh, one hand elevating it so that he could begin pushing up brutally into her. Shame rose to her cheeks as she closed her eyes tightly, finding the wet smack of their skin rousing that tightness in her belly.

It was both embarrassing and hateful that she found herself enjoying this, and that she let him first of all. 

And all she could see above her when she opened her eyes was him, his lips parted to breath as if he was holding some beastly form of himself back, his hair spilling like rays of moonlight over his shoulders with every thrust into her weeping cunt and the way his lone eye never strayed from her expression, not for a second.

That is until Aemond felt as if not only he wanted to own her shame and her body, but wanted to show it too, and leaned forward to graze his teeth on the skin that was now exposed by the ever loosening shoulders of her dress, and sink his teeth in to mark her.

The sound that came from her was between a grunt and a moan, as his position changed the angle of his hips and the blunt head of his cock sparking pleasure deep inside her.

“Fucking…hate you…” is all she managed, feeling the top of his canine break the skin just slightly. Her voice clung to that flat, stoic hatred, and she hated that it sounded as if she were about to fall apart.

If it were possible, he increased the intensity of his movements, pushing up into her mercilessly and drawing feminine, soft whines from her mouth. Sounds he wasn't even sure before his niece was capable of making.

“I adore your fire, sweet niece,” he muses lowly, tracing her jaw with his lips, “I adore how much you think you hate me.”

She does hate him, she tries to think. But every thought that appears is swiftly batted away by the incessant rhythm of his cock pistoning in and out of her, the depraved sounds betraying how she truly feels. An internal war Aemond can clearly see.

“Do you like this? Do you like how much I hate you? How much I want to hurt you?”

Yes.

A thought rung in her mind that she wanted him to hurt her more, so that she could just feel something from him aside from the way he stretched her walls around him so deliciously.

The soreness of his girth is something she had not expected to be a problem, a lapse of thought that she will no doubt be paying for the next morning.

But this, this was a core lapse of morals, surely. Allowing him to do this to her.

His fingers dug into the flesh of her thigh, as if pulling her to meet his cock halfway, feeling the way his body shuddered at the closeness of completion evident on his face.

Aemond grinned wolfishly, “You like this. We both know it.”

He thrusted into her so forcefully that she had no choice but to hold onto him, clinging to his leather-clad shoulder tightly when he met her fleshy end, her insides involuntarily squeezing around him in both pain and pleasure.

His hand came to her neck, clamping down experimentally on her windpipe, and groaning deeply at the way her cunt sucked him in as he did. Forcing her chin up so those traitorous blue eyes met his, he grinned.

Hateful little cunt.

Her peak crept up her spine first, feeling as if the sensation was melting her muscles where they sat inside her body. And then her lips parted in a soundless scream, pitifully moving her hips towards his to encourage the feeling to crest until it rushed out of her with a feeble whine, “uncle…”

Not only was the feeling of her quivering, velvety walls enough to convince him, but the way she called him that while he was so deep inside her, threatening for relief, was so erotic it did not feel depraved in the slightest.

But nothing was better than that wide-eyed, colourful expression of panic, distaste, hate and anxiety when he deliberately planted his seed inside of her. Aemond was sure there was no better feeling, bad intentions or no, her blood felt good on him, his teeth and cock alike.

All he could imagine was what dynasty could be created from such a house of revulsion. To watch this hateful little creature swell with his child, a true Targaryen. Only to put on the same stoic, flat expression which he knew was untrue when he'd fuck her again, and again, and again.

What flame flickered under that expression of hers, he wondered. What stone was hidden in the centre of her peachy, soft exterior. A heart, perhaps.

She didn't have to like it, this dance between them. But when he put her down and watched his spend trickle down her thighs, he would have her come to love it.

She existed for this. Whatever it was. He was sure of that.

“Well, little dragon,” he whispered, “the bastard daughter of a whore, with another growing within her?”

She swallowed around his hand as he tugged her face closer to his.

“Or burn with me.”

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[sourcherryandsprinkles]

Sending Aemond dirty letters by raven while you are away at Dragonstone. She is betrothed to another Lord’s son, but they see each other whenever she visits. He fucks her hard as punishment for sending the letters

Request: Imagine Aemond bejng completely enthralled by reader soft skin and perfumed hair. You can make it a smut if you want to.

Request: Fic request - Luke discovers Aemond x Reader/OC (his sister) having sex outside of marriage

Warnings: 18+, smut, p + v, implied cheating, caught,

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

In honor of the King’s fiftieth name day, lords, knights and their families from all over the realm traveled to the capital for a celebratory tourney. 

The guest wing of the Red Keep was already full when you arrived, forcing you and your family to be moved to the royal quarters. This tourney was going to be massive. 

‘’I heard Lord Tully’s son is participating in the tourney,’’ Rhaenyra said, giving you a knowing look. ‘’You should make a special flower crown in case he wins and ask for your favor.’’ 

The mention of your betrothed left you indifferent. You had seen Lord Tully’s son two times since the betrothal. The first time was during the royal hunt two years ago and the second was at a feast where he asked you for a dance. For you, it was just a dance, but your mother saw an opportunity to offer your hand to the Tully boy.

‘’I am taking Aegon and Viserys to see your grandsire, are you accompanying me?’’ 

You declined and told her you wanted to lay down before supper, feeling tired from the travel. 

‘’Tell Grandsire I will see him later,’’ you added with a sweet smile.

Rhaenyra nodded and you headed to the royal quarters. As you walked down the corridor, you walked past Aemond’s and excitement filled your stomach. You hadn’t seen him in months. You knocked gently, but the prince was unfortunately not there. He must be in the training for the tourney. 

Looking on both sides of the corridor, you saw no guards. Carefully, you pushed the door open and stepped in, writing a small note on Aemond’s desk, telling him to meet you in your chambers after his training.  

You exited Aemond’s chamber quietly, and scurried to your own, a devilish idea sparking up your mind. 

A rush of anticipation coursed through you as you closed the heavy wooden door behind you with a quiet thud. You had no idea how long you had left until Aemond would return, so you disrobed completely, and waited on your bed for him. 

Your hair was down and cascading in waves down your back, accompanied by a few braids at the front to keep it your face — exactly the way Aemond liked. You even added rose oil to your hair in the morning, and put on the earrings he had gifted you for your eight and ten nameday. 

Minutes turned into what felt like hours as you waited, the silence of the room amplifying every creak and distant murmur from the corridors. If anyone were to walk in, they wouldn’t be able to see you from the door. Not right away. The bed had drapes on the bedposts and was situated on the right wall of the room, shielding you completely from the view. 

Finally, you heard footsteps approaching. Your heart skipped a beat as you heard a knock on the door. A second knock followed — your secret signal — and when you didn't answer, Aemond pushed the door open and stepped inside. He closed the door quietly behind him, taking a quick glance around. No sign of you. 

He wondered if he’d missed you or if you were elsewhere in the chambers — mayhaps in the bath. Then, he heard someone clear their throat from the right. Aemond  turned, his gaze narrowing in surprise when he finally saw you on the bed in all your naked glory. He felt his throat go dry and his breeches suddenly felt tighter.

‘’Hello, my prince.’’ Your voice was sweet and innocent, but the smirk on your lips was not.

Aemond stood there speechless, his eye roaming over your body, taking in the sight before him. He thought you looked more beautiful than ever, sitting there against the velvet bedding and ornate cushions waiting for him like a gift. 

He gathered his bearings and stepped closer to the bed. His eye traveled down the length of your body before returning to your face. He’s dreamed of you every night since Heleana’s nameday in the spring; your sweet laugh, the smell of roses on your hair, the pink shade of your lips and the way they felt against this, your perfect and soft breasts, the tightness of your cunt — the most perfect cunt. 

‘’Missed me?’’ you asked.

‘��You certainly did,’’ Aemond returned, slowly walking closer until he was at the edge of the bed, his gaze never leaving your body. ‘’Have you gone mad? Sending me scandalous letters via ravens… What if someone else had read them?’’ 

You let out a soft smirk, unbothered by his reprimand. ‘’Has anyone read them?’’ 

Aemond shook his head, his jaw clenching. ‘’I’d take the eyes of anyone who would dare reading those letters.’’ 

You chuckled, a playful glimmer in your eyes. ‘’Possessive much?’’

He’s been looking forward to the tourney specifically so he could strike at your betrothed without facing consequences. 

‘’You’re a sight,’’ he muttered, his voice hoarse. ‘’Waiting for me like this, bare and ready to be taken…’’ He grabbed your ankles and pulled you to the edge of the bed, right in front of him.

You let out a gasp, your breath catching in your throat at his words and arousal pooling between your legs. You liked it when he talked like this — dirty and possessive. It contrasted with his usual composed and cold demeanor. 

You pushed yourself up on your knees and placed your hands gently on his shoulders. ‘’You like this?’’ you asked, looking up at him while your fingers began to unbuckle his jerkin. You pushed it off him, revealing a white undershirt under it, damp with sweat from training. 

He should have bathed before coming to you, but knowing you were at the Keep made his mind spin. His hands reached for your hips, holding onto you, before crashing his mouth on yours. 

You pulled at his undershirt until he fell on the bed with you, losing yourself in his kisses. 

''I need you,'' you said against his lips. ''I need you now.''

Aemond growled in response, nipping at your bottom lip with his teeth. ‘’So impatient, so eager.''

He sat up and pulled his undershirt over his head, revealing broad shoulders covered in muscle and a softly defined chest. Lower, a line of silver hair was going down his breeches. You licked your lips, knowing what was hidden under. 

Not wasting time with his boots and breeches, Aemond unlaced the latter and pulled them down to his mid-thighs, his cock springing up from its confinement. He gave it a few tugs, the tip red and leaking. You reached for it, but Aemond slapped your hand away and commanded you to get on your fours. 

You positioned yourself and waited, the anticipation making your heart race. Your cunt was wet and begging for Aemond to fill it up. 

The bed creaked as he moved behind you, his hands gliding over your hips before gripping them firmly. He teased you for a moment, swiping his finger along your slick folds and giving it a light smack, making you gasp and push back against him. 

Soon enough, the room was filled with the sounds of your mewls mixing with Aemond’s grunts every time his pelvis smacked against your ass. You always found this position too animalistic, but you could feel Aemond’s cock hit so deep inside you that you forgot about the dogs. He gripped your hips tighter, his movements growing more urgent.

‘’Yes, Aemond! Right there!’’ you gasped, your back arching as you felt the coil in your stomach get tighter and tighter. 

Just as you were on the brink of release, the door to your chambers flew open. Lucerys stood, dumbfounded, with his hand still on the latch of the open door, frozen in place. Neither you nor Aemond appeared to have noticed your little brother’s sudden arrival, too caught up in your activities.

‘’Luke!’’ you shouted, when you spotted your brother in the doorway, your eyes wide and startled. 

Behind you, Aemond’s head whipped around to look at the door, his eye falling on Lucerys. Fuck. He thought of pulling out, but Lucerys had already blurted out a ‘’I’m sorry!’’ and shut the door, horrified by what he just saw. 

The poor boy will never erase the image of his sister on her fours with their uncle’s cock drilling into her relentlessly.

—

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[just-some-user-hunny]

Balerion bonded to bastard! Reader

~ In this Scenario, Balerion is still alive and breathing- albeit barely, and with little enthusiasm. He'd remain still in the sand, seafoam lapping at his scales, yet he feels little reason to move. He's old. Ancient, and tired. The rise and fall of his breath is gradual and laboured- slow like the moving tide. Ever since Viserys drew his last breath, Balerion felt as cold as the sea. His days of glory and war are memories grown old, and he is tired. He feels like sleeping forever now, listening to the faint call of seagulls and the noise of crashing tides.

~ Bastard! princess reader captures glimpses of him from her windows view, watching the old beast wither and fade upon the beach like he were a memory fizzling away into the seafoam. At first glimpse through the rain speckled glass pane- she had mistaken him for a large mountain of black rock.

~ now she's frightened, but, intrigued. She is still a child, a scared and desperate one, so she hatches a plan to reach the beach and perhaps ask the dragon nicely if he'd take her back home. (Besides, dragons do look scary, but Caraxes was nice to her. Maybe he'll be nice too?)

~ like a slippery little mouse, one day she escapes during dinnertime. Fueled to seek out the dragon after a one-sided argument with Daemon across the table. Whilst the servants and knights searched the castle grounds for her, she finds herself on the coastline, and beelines towards the mountain of a dragon, Balarion. She doesn't know who he is, all that he's a dragon. Dragons have wings. They can fly. He could take her home, away from these mad people.

~ her courage burns like a wavering candle, tears streaming down her face in distraught and desperation. The sounds of dragons roaring in the dragon pit fizzle her blood, she can hear the troubled songs of Caraxes and syrax in the distance, and it stirs her on to waken the sleeping dragon. Despite her little trembling hands and accelerated heartbeat.

~ Balarion is awoken- disturbed at the sound of a sobbing child. It is such an odd and peculiar sound to his ears, it startles him enough to raise his heavy head from the sand and look down upon a child he has never seen before. Inhaling deeply, he also doesn't recognise their scent. But there is some trace of dragon blood within her.

~ "excuse me, can you take me home? I need to go home, my mummy is there!". She proclaims as loudly as she can. As clearly as her choked up voice allows her.

~ Balarion feels himself grow soft at the sight of the little child- as soft as a dragon can be.

~ He blinks slowly at her, gently lowering his head to move closer. The sudden bravery of a mere child to approach him intrigues him greatly, and a rejuvenation overtakes his body. Suddenly his aching body doesn't feel so tired anymore- his stiffly folded wings that once enveloped the moon, suddenly feel spry and strong.

~ like a mountain unearthing itself from the earth, his massive body groaned and shuddered like a rolling thunderstorm- lifting from the cold evening sand and bubbling salty seafoam. The little girl stumbles backwards clumsily, afraid that maybe she has just prodded a sleeping angry beast, but she is met with no fire or teeth. this large, monstrously large dragon, is bowing his head to her. Like a mighty stag would do for a little fawn.

~ anxious- and brimming with excitement, her hands clasp upon the rough black scales of the sides of his neck. She climbs higher and higher, until she finds herself clambering onto the back of the beast, where an ancient and worn saddle remains. Roughly woven rope that has seen better days, and a simple leather seat awaits before her- and she climbs on.

~ her whole world seems to tilt and shift, like the earth was moving right beneath her feet as Balarion rises with a steady and heavy rumble. The stars are glittering above in the skies, and the cool evening air laps at the waves till they form foamy hills of white upon the dark sapphire waters. her heart is beating loudly and wildly in her chest now, her blood fizzling like lightning, and she stares across the ocean with determination soaring inside her. she's on the dragon now, and he seems eager to fly.

~ grappling the worn thick reins between her small hands, she recalls a word that the pale haired man called out to his crimson scaled dragon before he took off into the sky. The word is foreign, and doesn't quite suit the roll of her tongue. But she speaks it, a command that holds no hesitation.

~ "Sōvēs!".

~ Bastard! Princess had risen high into the sky, clutching for dear life upon the reigns that were held so tight in her hands, her knuckles had turned pale. The wind rushed and soared, and her ears felt like they had popped as they ascended higher and higher across the sea. Balerions' wings were unsheathed like the night sky as they beat against the wind, and although his body was aching and old, he was not brittle or weak.

Salt air rushed over her face like a splash of icy water as they flew over the ocean, and she watched the castle grow smaller and smaller as the wind carried them away.

~ they flew and flew, but Balarion grew weary from the sudden flight, and turned back towards the shoreline. Bastard! princess was at a loss of what to do- for her own stomach was churning at the realisation that she didn't know where she was trying to go. The old dragon seemed to also sense that, and made the decision for the both of them to head back towards the cold stone castle.

~ Awaiting upon the shoreline, was a small army of armoured men, and the white haired man, who wore an astounded expression. His eyes wide, and jaw slack in what could only be described as euphoric horror. The king, Viserys, despite his weak and brittle body, had ordered to be escorted outside to see with his very own eyes as to what was happening. They had heard the uproar of Balerions' wings from within the castle, Daemon had at once thought a sudden hurricane had hit amidst his search for the little girl he had stolen away, haste in his step as Rhaenyra attempted to sternly reason with him - until the unmistakable shrill deep noise of rumbling dragon-song erupted in the distance like thunder. Both adults stilled- their expressions still and astounded.

~ it was until the sudden and panicked cry of a knight that confirmed everyones hesitant thoughts.n

~ "Balerion the black dread has arisen! And the princess is with him!"

~ that was all Daemon needed to hear before he bounded for the exit. With haste.

~ Balerion had returned to the beach, just as the knights had suspected. They fell speechless at the sight of such a large and imposing dragon land back upon the sandy coastline, his energy low, but not gone.

~ Viserys was in utter disbelief, and excitement. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. He had believed he would be the last rider of Balerion the black dread- the last targaryen to mount the beast that once was ridden by Aegon the conqueror, and many other infamous names.

~ The princess's little head of hair and frightful eyes peered down from her towering view upon the dragons back- eyeing the army of knights. Balerion grumbled a growl so low and frightening, it rattled the knights bones in their bodies. Their braced weapons could only serve as emotional support against such a beast.

~ "Dohaeras! Balerion!" Viserys roared in his deep and broken voice, his command did not hold as much power as it used to- but Balerion acknowledged it with an absentminded glance.

~ Eventually, through carefully worded coos and reassurances from young frightened handmaids that beckoned towards the bastard princess- she yielded. Wordlessly, Balarion lowered his head and allowed her to clamber down. Right into the shaking arms of a young woman in servants cloth, who had stood so close to the dragon, she felt her skin take heat and sweat profusely. The frightened and frustrated little girl was exhausted, and hungry. She has eaten very little earlier, picking at breadcrumbs like a little bird, and sipping only a little water. Her head lolled helplessly into the crook of the maiden's neck, weak and tired. the anxious woman backed away quickly.

~ Half asleep, and very upset, the little princess was placed into Rhaenyras' awaiting out-stretched arms. Her own little boys gathered around her like lambs as she petted the girl's back to comfort her. She fell limp, and asleep not too long after, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

~ Balerion watched them closely as they took his new little rider back up to the castle, even following as close as he could reach whilst still on the sand.

~ Viserys was white faced and trembling, a wry smile on his face, whilst Daemon was left expressionless. His palm cradled at the handle of his sword, troubled.

~ "The black dread yielded to her word Daemon- I had not thought that was possible". Viserys muttered.

~ "Neither did I". Daemon uttered back. His voice was even, and calm, yet his eyes held a thousand yard stare.

~ This was not supposed to happen. She was so young- and now with the black dread within her command? There was no saying of what may happen.

To be continued...

[idkyetxoxo]

Two | Enchanted | Aemond Targaryen

Word count - 2400

Warnings - Joust

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"Viserys, I do not like the girl," Alicent muttered under her breath, her sharp eyes scanning the growing crowd below. 

The arena buzzed with the fervour of a Dornish celebration—nobles and commoners alike filled the stands, eager to witness the spectacle of the tourney. 

Sunlight bathed the sand-covered grounds, shimmering off the banners that fluttered in the warm breeze.

Viserys sighed, already exasperated by her complaints. The king's gaze swept across the sea of eager faces, his weariness palpable. He had no patience for Alicent's endless fretting, not today.

"It does not matter whether you like her or not," he replied, his voice clipped, eyes fixed on the arena below. "Your opinion changes nothing."

Alicent's lips pursed in thinly veiled disdain. She flicked her wrist as though swatting away a bothersome fly. 

"She is bashful," she remarked, the word soaked in contempt. "A weakness, a problem waiting to happen. Mark my words."

Viserys turned to her, his frustration flashing in his gaze. "Well, aren't you lucky you're not the one marrying her," he replied dryly, his patience fraying at the edges.

Alicent huffed, folding her arms across her chest, her expression cold as ice. 

"Yes, but you have burdened my son with that fate," she whispered, her voice laced with venom. 

She leaned closer, her words meant for Viserys' ears alone. "Don't think for a moment he'll thank you for it."

Viserys rolled his eyes, waving her off, uninterested in prolonging the argument. 

As their whispered exchange fizzled into silence, my father and I took our seats next to the royal family, our arrival a momentary distraction from their quarrel.

I settled into my chair, my back straight, hands delicately folded in my lap as I surveyed the bustling scene before us. 

The air thrummed with anticipation, excitement rippling through the crowd like a palpable force. 

This was Dorne at its finest—a kingdom alive with the thrill of spectacle, where honour and blood were intertwined.

"Who fights in your honour today, Princess?" Viserys' voice broke through the hum of the crowd, his gaze briefly flicking to Alaric, who stood beside me rather than readying himself in the lists with the other knights.

A slow smirk tugged at my lips as I leaned back, eyes gleaming with confidence. 

"My brother, of course," I replied coolly, my voice laced with pride. "There is no finer swordsman in all of Dorne. His name has crossed every corner of the Seven Kingdoms." 

I cast my gaze toward the arena where Nymor was already waiting, armoured and poised, his presence commanding the space as though he was born to it.

Nymor caught my eye and offered a quick wave, his expression one of cool confidence. He knew exactly what was expected of him, and so did I.

"He is quite skilled with a sword, your brother," Helaena's soft voice cut in from beside me, a gentle contrast to the tension that hung thick between Alicent and Viserys. "But Aemond is one of the best. I've seen him in practice... he's remarkable."

I turned to her with a sharp smile, the challenge in my eyes unmistakable. 

"We will see," I said, my voice cool and unwavering. "But no one has bested my brother yet. He was shaped by Dorne's blood and sand. He fights like a storm."

As the announcer's voice boomed through the arena, signalling the start of the matches, the crowd roared in excitement. A few early contests played out—mere distractions. 

The true spectacle, the event everyone was waiting for, was the clash between Nymor Martell and Aemond Targaryen.

The sun hung high above, casting a brilliant golden light over the tourney grounds as the trumpets blared, marking the start of the joust. 

I leaned forward in my seat, my hands resting lightly on the armrest, eyes glued to the field where my brother rode out. His armour gleamed, the sigil of House Martell emblazoned proudly on his chest, the sunburst of Dorne shining brightly for all to see. 

He moved with the confidence of a man who knew victory was inevitable, every gesture filled with calm certainty.

Across the field, Aemond rode out with a tension that spoke of battle-readiness. 

His silver hair gleamed beneath his helm, his posture rigid and controlled. He was not here for games—he was here for war. 

But no matter his intent, no matter the fire of the dragon behind his gaze, I had no doubt Nymor would make quick work of him.

After all, the stories of my brother's prowess were not just tales. They were fact.

"You seem very sure of yourself," Helaena said softly, her voice almost lost in the roar of the crowd, though her smile held no malice—only quiet belief in her brother.

"I am," I replied, my gaze never leaving the field. "Nymor is the best. Today, Aemond will fall."

The first clash was as brutal as expected. The two horses barreled toward each other, hooves pounding the earth in sync with the beating hearts of the crowd. 

Nymor's lance struck true, hitting Aemond squarely in the chest. The force of the blow knocked Aemond back, and the crowd let out a collective gasp, the impact nearly unseating him.

I smiled, pride swelling in my chest. Of course. This was exactly as it should be. My brother—unstoppable, relentless—was proving why Dorne's warriors were the fiercest in the realm.

Round after round, he dominated, his lance finding its mark with precision and force, each strike driving Aemond closer to defeat. 

The Dornish crowd erupted into cheers with every blow, already celebrating the victory they were sure was imminent.

Viserys glanced at me, his face taut with discomfort. "Your brother is quite skilled," he said, though his tone lacked warmth, and his eyes betrayed the tension gnawing at him.

"Quite skilled?" I laughed. "He's magnificent."

But as Nymor circled for another pass, something shifted. Aemond, bruised but unyielding, gripped his lance with renewed purpose. 

As they charged again, the air between them thick with tension, Aemond leaned into the strike. This time, my brother's lance met nothing but air.

Aemond's lance, however, hit its mark with deadly precision, splintering Nymor's shield and throwing him off balance. 

My heart lurched, disbelief cutting through the certainty I'd felt moments before.

"No," I whispered under my breath, my hands gripping the armrests of my chair.

The crowd grew quieter, sensing the change. Aemond, seizing the moment, struck again—harder, faster—his fury a sharp contrast to the precision of Nymor's earlier blows. 

My brother, the unshakeable, was teetering. 

On the next pass, Aemond's lance slammed into Nymor's shoulder with a sickening crunch, sending him tumbling from his horse. The sound of his fall reverberated through the arena, followed by a stunned silence, then a cacophony of cheers.

I blinked, shock rippling through me. I hadn't even realized I was standing until my father gently pulled me back into my seat. My mind raced, unable to process what had just happened.

My brother—my brother, the unstoppable force of Dorne—was on the ground, defeated. Beaten.

Aegon, somewhere behind me, laughed with smug satisfaction. "I suppose Aemond is better than we thought."

My mouth tightened, words failing me for the first time. 

I wanted to argue, to say something snide or dismissive, but the sight of my brother being helped to his feet below, armour dented and pride bruised, silenced any retort I might have had.

Aemond dismounted, walking toward Nymor with a cold, composed grace, offering him a hand. 

For a brief moment, the two warriors locked eyes, and I knew that though Nymor had lost this battle, he would not forget this humiliation.

Neither would I.

─── ✦⋅♡⋅✦ ───

I sat beside Nymor as the maester worked, carefully tending to his wounds. My fingers drummed restlessly against the edge of the table where I perched, each tap a rhythm of mounting frustration. 

My lips thinned as I chewed on them, eyes fixed on the cold stone floor. Anger bubbled just below the surface, threatening to spill over.

"I cannot believe you lost," I muttered, my voice cutting through the quiet of the chamber, sharp with the weight of disappointment.

When I finally lifted my gaze, Nymor's eyes met mine. They were not the proud, confident eyes I was used to—today, they were clouded with a sadness I had never seen in him before. 

His jaw clenched as the maester tightened the bandage on his arm, and he winced.

"He was... better than I anticipated," Nymor admitted quietly, his voice filled with a reluctant acceptance that only made my chest tighten further.

I scoffed, sliding off the table and pacing across the room. The walls felt like they were closing in on me, suffocating me with the bitter taste of failure. 

"So because he beat you, that makes him worthy?" I snapped, my voice rising with every word. "Worthy of me?"

The thought of it—of being bested before all those watchful eyes, of their whispers spreading like wildfire—made my blood boil.

Nymor looked up, his brow furrowing. "Of course not," he replied, voice steady despite his wounds. "Don't be ridiculous. A single victory does not make him your equal, nor does it make him worthy of you." 

His words, though meant to comfort, only fanned the flames of my anger.

I halted in my tracks, hands planted firmly on my hips as I faced him. "If I refuse this marriage now, after today's spectacle, I go back on my word. Do you know what that means for Dorne?" 

My voice dropped into a harsh whisper. "Do you know what that means for me?"

He remained silent, his face a mask of guilt and resignation. He had no answer, no words to fix what had been broken. 

Nymor had lost something far greater than just a joust today—he had lost the unshakable faith I had in him, in us, in our edge over the rest of them. 

Now, the world felt as if it was teetering on the brink, and there was no one to blame but him.

"One of us lost our pride today, brother," I whispered, my voice a razor's edge. "And I refuse to be the next."

With a heavy sigh, Nymor slumped further in his chair, saying nothing as I stormed from the room. 

The echo of my footsteps followed me down the corridor, each step a reminder of the sting of defeat that clung to me like a second skin. 

My heart pounded in my chest, my thoughts swirling like a tempest. I needed air. Space. Anything to tear myself away from the weight of humiliation.

But I was not alone for long.

"Princess," came a voice, clipped and cold, like ice against the heat of my anger. Alicent.

I froze, inhaling sharply before turning to face her. There she stood, draped in her regal gown, her posture impeccable, her chin raised in that haughty way that made my blood simmer. 

She looked like she had already won.

"Alicent," I greeted my tone a deliberate mirror of her frost, omitting her title with the precision of a dagger. 

Her lips twitched ever so slightly, and I caught the flicker of annoyance in her eyes before she concealed it behind her mask of royal decorum.

Good. Let her be rattled.

Her gaze sharpened as she stepped closer. "I do not like you," she said, her voice a venomous whisper, each word dipped in malice.

I crossed my arms, a wry smile curving my lips. "I do not care," I shot back, my defiance standing tall between us. Her opinion of me had never mattered, and it certainly wouldn't start now. 

She was nothing more than a thorn—an irritation I could easily pluck away.

Her jaw tightened, her eyes flashing with a fury she struggled to contain. "You are to marry my son," she spat, her words biting like cold steel. "And it saddens me to know he will have to endure such a fate."

Her insult was meant to wound, to slice deep, but I did not flinch. Instead, I met her icy stare with a fire of my own. 

"Your son," I began, voice as calm as a still sea before a storm, "may have won today, but don't mistake that for a victory over me." My smirk widened. "He will soon learn, just as you will, that I am not so easily tamed."

Alicent's nostrils flared, her eyes narrowing to slits. She stepped closer, her presence radiating contempt. 

"You speak as though you have a choice," she said, her voice a low, dangerous whisper. "You will marry Aemond, and whatever pride you cling to will be shattered. You will do as you are told, like all women must. You will bend."

I felt the heat rising in my veins, my fists clenching at my sides. 

She was wrong—so terribly wrong if she thought she could command me, mould me into something docile, something weak. I took a step forward, meeting her fury with my own. 

"Do not presume to know what I will or will not do, Alicent," I warned my voice steady but seething beneath the surface. "I am no pawn in your game, nor am I a prize for your son to collect."

Her lips curled into a cruel smile, eyes gleaming with the malice of someone who believed they'd already won the war. 

"You have no power here, girl," she whispered, stepping so close I could feel her breath. "You will marry Aemond. You will bend. And eventually, you will break."

Her words struck like a hammer against steel, but they did not shatter me. 

Instead, they ignited the fire in my soul, the kind of flame that burns until nothing is left but ash. I took a slow step back, my voice trembling with barely contained rage as I hissed, "I will see you burn before I break."

With that, I turned on my heel and stormed down the corridor, my heart pounding in my chest, hands shaking with the fury of the confrontation. 

Her words echoed in my mind, but I refused to let them take hold. I would not bend. I would not break. And I would certainly not let her think she held any power over me.

As I moved deeper into the castle, away from her poisonous presence, the weight of the day threatened to pull me under, but I would not drown. 

My resolve hardened like steel in a forge. This wasn't over.

Alicent Hightower may have thought today was her victory, but she had no idea what storm was coming. 

Not by a long shot.

A/n - Next chapter is going to be insane (probably one of my favourites out of the whole series)... stay tuned!!

Enchanted tag list - @mamawiggers1980 @shilphy87 @esposadomd @targaryendestiel @deepeststarlightmoon

[writingjourney]

Closer to the Gods || Alicent

Years into her marriage Queen Alicent permits only you to share in the more intimate parts of her routine. Despite the deep bond that connects you to Her Grace you are not certain that your feelings are returned – until she shows you.

Pairing: Alicent Hightower x lady-in-waiting!reader

Content: 3.1k words, repressed feelings, yearning, religious guilt, somewhat post-partum alicent, no y/n, smut (wlw, thigh riding, body worship, oral, v fingering, gentle smut), 18+ MDNI

Masterlist – Ao3 link

Her hair smells like citrus. The fragrance, enhanced by the steam of the hot water rising from the surface of her bath, mingles with the one of the perfumed oils that slick your hands as you weave them through her tresses. The scent makes you light-headed, as does the sight of her bare skin above the water. Her Grace sighs deeply when you massage her scalp, leaning into your touch with all the weariness she carries. You breathe her in, subtly, applying some pressure to her temples where you know her headaches to linger.

Born into a lesser house you were sent to be raised at court at a young age, a token of loyalty after the coronation of King Viserys. However, life at court changed after the death of his first wife and as a lady-in-waiting you soon became the new queen’s favourite. Ever since the birth of her first son she keeps you closer than any of the other ladies, allows you to take on the more intimate chores such as dressing and undressing her, brushing and washing her hair, keeping her company during the late hours of the day, singing and more often than not reading to her. Two years into her marriage now the queen will allow only you to take care of her in such a way and send away her servants once the more menial tasks such as filling the tub have been completed.

By now you know her whims and preferences better than your own. You feel an intimate affection for her Her Grace and it translates into the gentleness with which you touch her. Most evenings it is only you and her – unless the king requests her presence. Those nights you spend thinking of her in her soft white nightdress with her auburn hair falling in waves over her pale breasts underneath. You try to distract yourself from the thoughts of him touching her smooth skin, lacking the gentleness you know she desires. No one else but you is allowed to see her in any state of undress, let alone touch her. But he simply takes what he wants, what he thinks he is owed by right of being her husband. By right of being the king. Would that you could give her what he does, but you can never sire a son, you could never be anything but what you are now.

In front of the fire with your hands covered in scented oils you feel a shameful heat rising to your face, the immoral thoughts of replacing her husband a constant source of guilt. Rinsing her hair, you finish your routine. The water has cooled down and you know Her Grace will want to retire soon. During these moments she prefers solitude, as she told you once, dedicating herself to prayer or silent contemplation.

“I will have the servants remove the tub.” You absent yourself from her side, drying your hands on a piece of cloth. “If that would be all, Your Grace, I shall retire for the night.”

You are already turned around, placing her nightdress on the nearby table. Your hand traces the delicate ornaments of Myrish lace when her voice reaches you again. “Wait.”

You hear Her Grace stepping out of the tub and keep your gaze lowered respectfully. Once her robe is fastened around her narrow waist you dare look up again. She approaches you on bare feet, drops of water glistening on her skin like morning dew on the petals of a soft pink rose.

A damp thumb comes to swipe along your cheekbone as she considers you, soft eyes roaming your face. “You look lovely with your cheeks flushed.”

Her lip trembles as she says it, as though the confidence she displays is nothing but an act. Your queen has complimented you many times before but never in a such a way that you feel her words caressing your very soul. For a moment you are quite out of breath.

Her fingers dance along your collarbones then, toying with the seams of your dress. “I do not know why you should be allowed to see me and yet I am deprived of the same pleasure.”

“My queen, I do not know–”

Her face falls as she misreads your words for rejection. You catch her hand before she manages to tear it away and press it to your heart instead. Looking down you see that she must have been biting her nails again, her skin red and scabbed where she pulled at it.

“What I mean is…” You feel tears gathering in the corners of your eyes, the sting of insecurity and hesitation. “I am not much to look at. Not compared to Your Grace.”

She shakes her head, dismissing your words. “Call me Alicent.”

“I would not–”

“Please, for once let us not hide behind curtesies. I have grown tired of it, I have grown tired of you leaving when I want you the most.”

Her words claw their way underneath your skin, your heart racing at the implicit confession. You always thought your feelings to be unreciprocated, that Her Grace merely considers you a companion, perhaps a friend. But her eyes are wet with unshed tears, her hand pressing against your aching chest as though she is trying to reach inside.

“You would truly want me?” you ask, your voice barely audible.

“Every night you leave,” she says and it sounds like an accusation, laced with pain and longing.

“But Your Grace, you wished it so– I did not–”

“I know,” she interrupts. “I know.”

Her other hand moves to cradle your cheek, wiping a stray tear from your skin. She looks away for but a moment, as if to collect her thoughts, and when your eyes meet again her gaze is fierce, determined.

“I have tried to repress my feelings,” she says, her lips trembling again. “But I cannot stop– I cannot stop thinking about you. When you are not here I have to restrain myself not to call for you. I have to fight off the urge to run to your chambers to be near you. I am… so tired of pretending.”

You lean into her touch, closing the gap between you to rest your forehead against hers. “So am I, Alicent. So, so tired.”

“It is sin,” she whispers, brushing her nose against yours, her fingers ghosting over your lips. “To covet another, to covet–” Her words trail off, the thought left unspoken. “And yet I never feel closer to the Gods than when you touch me.”

Your queen swallows the air between you when she presses her lips to yours. Tentative and searching her mouth moves against yours with a softness that almost pains you. She tastes like sweet wine, smells of lavender and citrus. Unsure where to touch her you mirror her movements, stroking along her warm cheekbone, tracing the line of her jaw down to her neck where a few droplets of water have gathered. Your other hand still holds hers against your chest but then she slides it upwards to grasp your throat and you gasp into her mouth, warmth pooling into your belly. Her tongue grazes yours and she winds her fingers around the curve of your neck until they press against your spine and she can pull you in closer, lips firm and bruising.

You can feel her body through the garments between you, soft and pliable. She deepens the kiss and you get dizzy, your head spinning at the taste of her. The sensation is new, thrilling and addictive. When you break away she glances down at your dress and you make to untie it, glad to have chosen one that is not quite so hard to take off.

In your shift, you feel well-nigh naked. The cool sea air has goosebumps spreading all over your body, a breeze streaming in through the wide windows that overlook Blackwater Bay. Alicent takes you in, her eyes following her hand that drags the neckline of the sheer fabric down your shoulder until her fingers dance across your bare skin. The loose undergarment falls once it slips from your arm and you are fully bared to her. Instinctively, you cross your arms in front of your chest but she soon takes your wrists to pull them down.

“You are beautiful,” she whispers. “Do not hide from me. I have longed to see you as I have felt seen by you for a long time. Let there be nothing between us from now on.”

You nod and she unties the robe around her waist and lets it fall from her shoulders, silky fabric pooling at her feet in iridescent waves. Even though you have seen her bare many times before this time feels different. You do not have to hide your admiration, do not have to worry that she might catch you staring. Instead you allow yourself to revel in the sight of her, a body that has never truly been her own, changed from the months she carried her child, from the way she lent it to the king so he might have his son at last. Even though she does not look much changed when she is wrapped in her beautiful gowns you are witness to the subtle changes she wears underneath, the lines that run across her abdomen where her skin used to be stretched, her hips fuller and her breasts hanging lower than they used to.

To you, she is even more beautiful than ever before.

“May I kiss you?” she asks. The answer is a desperate nod.

She is more bold this time, even if you still hesitate, still wonder how you can ever touch her freely when she is your queen, when she can never truly be yours. The apprehension soon dissipates when you get drunk on the taste of her, of the feel of her soft curves following the shape of your own when she pulls you close. Her nipples brush yours and you moan wantonly, craving her so much that the feeling is akin to physical pain. Your whole body is burning, melting, your blood hot and heavy as it gathers between your legs.

You tentatively begin to run your hands over her body, following the line of her hips over her lower back, then up the ridges of her spine. She shivers underneath your fingertips, the same goosebumps that cover your body spreading across her still damp skin. As her tongue flattens against yours, her own hands curling firmly around your backside, you cannot hold back the desperate whimper that falls from your lips.

“I want you,” she whispers into your mouth. “I want all of you.”

“I am yours, Alicent,” you say. “I will always be yours.”

She breaks away and takes your hand to lead you over to her bed. Your lips are already swollen, your mind clouded by your need of her. She gently pushes you onto the soft mattress, expensive, silken fabrics welcoming you in her space. It feels too intimate, to be here, to lay where she lays. When she comes to rest on top of you it is like a vision from the Heavens, her slowly drying curls falling like a veil over your face until it is only you and her, breathing in tandem as the world around you blurs into nothingness.

Her mouth is hot when she kisses you and you meet her eagerly, pull her down until your bodies touch and you feel her weight on top of you. She moves her leg between yours, her thigh pressed against your core, and you whimper as the warmth of her touch spreads within you. A throbbing pain settles there and you cannot help but cant your hips to rub against her, soon grinding more feverishly as her tongue delves into your mouth. Alicent's hands roam your body but you hardly take note of each individual touch, so focused on the pleasure that builds inside of you.

"Please," you whisper, inching ever closer to a tipping point, your lungs struggling to inhale enough air.

Alicent looks down at you through heavy-lidded eyes, as though she wants to fully take in your reactions, helping you along as she presses her thigh firmer against your cunt, fingers teasing at your nipples. You gasp, forgetting to breathe as the pleasure tears through your body in hot tingling shudders. Alicent swallows your moans with her mouth, reaching between your legs now to feel your release, two fingers pressed against your wet core until they enter you easily. She carries you through your crest with slow rolls of her hand but soon the pressure builds again and you clench around her intrusion, unable to hold back.

When the rolling waves of pleasure finally subside, kisses turn slow and aimless and you take a moment to calm your racing heart. Alicent presses her lips to your face and neck with an ardent intensity while you hold her in your arms, fingers curled around her thigh. You can feel her arousal dripping against your fingertips and begin to stroke her there, revelling in the gasps she releases against your skin. The gentleness with which she touches you sends tears to your eyes, for what you are not quite certain. Perhaps it is the realization that you have never been loved like this, the fact that it is your queen, the woman you have been dreaming about for years, who holds such affections for you.

"Alicent," you say and she lifts her head to meet your gaze. "Please, I want to taste you."

At first she seems hesitant, almost like the young girl she used to be, uncertain whether your intentions are true. But after a moment she seems to come back to herself and remember who you are, her gaze softening, gaining confidence and trust. She settles on her back beside you, propped up by silken pillows with her skin glowing like embers, draped in the faint light of the fire and a dozen candles.

She is beautiful with her lips swollen by your kisses, her pale breasts exposed and hardened, a faint line of hair leading from her belly button to a thicker tuft at the apex of her thighs. You admire her for a moment, kneeling in front of her with your limbs still trembling in the aftermath of your pleasure. What love you held for her before this night has grown insurmountably and you believe with all your heart that this cannot be sin, that it cannot be wrong when it is nothing short of worship.

You gently spread her thighs, revealing her to you fully. Reverent kisses to the insides of her knees, down her thighs that feel so soft against your lips. She moans when you caress a particularly sensitive spot and the sound is like music, urging you to leave more kisses all over skin, following the lines on her abdomen up to her breasts. You take one into your mouth, sucking gently at her hardened nipple until it is pink and swollen. Alicent weaves her fingers through your hair, the other hand caressing your shoulder. Her hips buck, wanting for attention, and you finally succumb and settle at her core.

With your eyes locked on hers you leave a kiss on her mound. Alicent links her fingers with yours and presses your intertwined hands to her abdomen as if to ground herself. Her other hand brushes a stray curl from your forehead. You slowly press your mouth to her cunt, tongue dipping between her folds to taste her. She moans again, louder this time, and you continue to attend to her, dipping your tongue into her and kissing every part you can reach. You forget yourself after a moment, lost in the whimpers and gasps that fill your ears, her soft skin and sweet taste.

As her pleasure builds, Alicent's hand fully tangles in your hair and she pushes your face deeper against her, her other hand gripping yours so tight that you begin to feel a distant pain. You cannot help your own wanton moan, wanting to make her feel like she made you feel. As you focus on her pearl, applying gentle pressure to her most sensitive areas, you use your second hand to spread her folds and dip your finger into her entrance. When you meet no resistance you add a second one and begin to rub them back and forth inside of her. It does not take long until her hips stutter as she rolls them against your face, the music falling from her lips now muffled by her hand.

You can feel her release as though it is your own, her muscles clenching around your digits, her release wet on your tongue as her whole body shudders. You continue until she pushes your face away, looking up at you see chest rising and falling rapidly, her brow damp and lips parted. A sense of deep bliss settles inside of you at the realization that you made her feel such pleasure, that she allows you to see this intimate side of her that you are not sure anyone else has ever seen.

She releases your hand to brush her hair back and you sit back on your heels to clean your face, taking in the sight of her without shame this time. You are not sure you could leave her now, not sure if you could ever have enough of her, already feeling the need again to touch her, kiss her, worship her.

After a moment Alicent reaches out, her hand wrapping around your wrist before she pulls you toward her. Curling against her side you sigh at the softness of her body, hiding your face at her neck. She welcomes you, arms slung around you tightly as you notice her calming down more and more. You are exhausted, in a way, and yet you are not sure that the night will come to an end so soon. Her hand in your hair and the fingers trailing the curve of your breast remind you that she has not had enough of you either.

For the moment you are both content holding the other close. You breathe in the scents of her bath, listen to the slowing rhythm of her breath. Alicent trails gentle kisses along your brow, then her arms tighten around you and her mouth comes to rest by your ear.

"Promise you won't leave again."

You pull back, shifting to bring your mouth back to hers. “Promise you won’t make me.”

Thank you so much for reading! Kudos, comments, reblogs etc are as always much appreciated but most of all I hope you enjoyed the story ♡

Masterlist – my Ao3

[the-fiction-witch]

Little Sister P2

Media - House Of The Dragon Character - Aegon Targaryen Couple - Aegon X Reader Reader - Y/n Targaryen (Daughter of Viserys and Alicent) Rating - Smut Word Count - 2409

Aegon took Y/n to his chambers making the maids bring her things so they could get ready together, the servants ran a hot bath which she took first of course, Aegon watched as Y/n eagerly undressed and climbed into the bath, a smirk on his face as he admired her form. He couldn't help but feel a sense of pride, knowing that he was betrothed to her,

"You know, little sister, if we keep this up we might never make it to dinner." He laughs and began undressing himself, tossing his clothes over a nearby chair.

"why? Will we play too much?"

Aegon chuckles as he steps into the tub with her, the warm water surrounding them both. He sits opposite Y/n, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Yes. We might play too much. If that happens, I'll be content to keep you in my chambers instead. No way I want to attend some boring dinner with my mother if I can have you all to myself all night."

she giggled as he climbed into the bath with her she splashed in and kicked at him, Aegon laughs and splashed her back, his laughter echoing off the walls of the bed chamber.

"Oh no, the splashing game! We haven't played this one since we were children." He smiles, enjoying the innocent fun they were having. He splashed her back, sending waves of water her way, as they continued laughing and playing like kids.

she giggled hysterically splashing and kicking till she got tried or just bored and jumped on him cuddling up into his chest "will we have bath cuddles when we're married?"

Aegon wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close and holding her tightly against his chest. He nuzzled her neck, planting soft kisses along her skin. "Of course, my little sister. When we're married, we'll have baths together whenever we want, cuddles and all. We'll have everything we've ever dreamed of and more." He smiles, imagining their future together, filled with love and happiness.

"ummm! Can we have big sleepovers?"

Aegon chuckles, enjoying her innocent enthusiasm. "Yes, we can have big sleepovers, little sister. Every night, if you want. We'll curl up together in our bed, wrapped in each other's arms as we dream the night away. And in the morning, we'll wake up to each other's smiles and share all sorts of cuddles and kisses."

"ummm!" She squeezed him "and play times?"

Aegon grins, tightening his hold on her and planting another kiss on her neck. "Oh, plenty of playtime, little sister. We'll have all the playtime we could ever want. We'll explore every inch of each other's bodies, and we'll find new ways to pleasure each other that we could only dream of. We'll make each other feel things we never thought possible and we'll grow even closer than we already are."

"and babies?!?"

Aegon chuckles, a warm smile spreading across his face. "Yes, my love. We'll have babies. Many, many babies. We'll fill our castle with tiny, wriggling, giggling Targaryens and we'll watch them grow and play together, just like we do. Our children will be the most beautiful, most cherished, most fearsome children in all the Seven Kingdoms, and we'll love them more than anything in this world."

"ummm... I want a hundred babies"

Aegon laughs wholeheartedly, clearly amused by her boundless enthusiasm. "A hundred, you say? Well, my little sister, you're certainly ambitious. But let's start with just a few, shall we? We'll make a few beautiful, strong, healthy children, and then we'll see where it goes from there. Maybe we'll even reach a hundred in time, who knows?"

"okay..." She nods "can we have a sleep over after dinner? Pretty please"

Aegon smiles, running his fingers through her hair. "Of course, my love. After dinner, we'll have all the sleepovers you could ever want. we'll have all night together to cuddle, play, and dream. And we'll start planning our future and the family we're going to have. "

She nodded and finished up her bath before she climbed out drying off and wandering around his chambers nude as she waited for the maids to bring her dress and do her hair

Aegon watched her move gracefully around his chambers, admiring her naked form as she waited for the maids to bring her dress and ready her for the evening. He stepped out of the tub, wrapping a towel around his waist. "You look so beautiful, little sister. Just standing there, so free and unabashedly yourself. I could spend hours just watching you move like that."

"ohh? I like walking around like this my dresses can be very uncomfortable so sometimes in my chambers, I just spent all day like this"

Aegon nodded, understanding her point. "I can only imagine how uncomfortable those dresses must be, especially given your...uh...curvature and how most dressmakers seem to think all women are the shape of planks. Perhaps I'll commission some new clothes to be made for you. Something more... accommodating... and yet still regal and befitting of a princess, of course."

she giggled and nodded, jumping on him to sit on his bed cuddling for a while

Aegon chuckled as she cuddled up to him, enjoying the closeness and warmth she provided. He held her tight, running his fingers through her hair. "Do you think our children will inherit your fiery spirit and beauty, my love? Or do you think they'll take after me?"

"I don't care so long as their babies" she giggled nuzzling into his chest but she stopped and giggled even more

Aegon chuckled, enjoying her giggles and nuzzling. He planted a light kiss on the top of her head. "Well, babies they will be, that's for certain. But it's not just about being babies, little sister. They're going to be Targaryen babies, and as such, they'll need to have the right blood, the right spirit, the right look, and the right fire. After all, we're bringing them into a family of greatness, and they'll need to live up to our expectations and our legacy."

she ignored his words and giggled "You sword things it's playtime again" she giggled moving her hips a little as even though the towel it was obvious he was hard again,

Aegon chuckled, feeling her shifting hips as she giggled. He raised an eyebrow in amusement, a smirk on his face. "Playtime again, is it? You're always so eager to play, aren't you, little sister? But we can't keep playing now. We've got to get dressed and presentable for dinner with our mother. We wouldn't want her to suspect what we've been up to in here, would we?"

"but Aegon..." She whined moving the towel away so she could rub against his hips with her own

Aegon smirked, biting his lip as he felt her rubbing against him, the towel doing little to conceal his arousal. He tried to remain somewhat composed, attempting to be the responsible one. "Little sister, we mustn't. We've got to get ready...oh gods, you're making it difficult to think straight."

"please" she begged "just a little playtime aegon. Please my master" she toyed with him making sure he felt as her cunt rubbed on his cock though the thin towel,

Aegon groaned, his resolve weakening at her eager pleas and her touch. The feel of her intimate rubbing against him was almost too much to resist. "Y/n, you temptress... You're a mischievous little one aren't you? How can I say no to those pretty eyes and those pleading words? Fine...a little playtime. Just enough to... take the edge off."

she nodded excitedly almost ripping the towel away and moving herself over him taking him in her hand and wasting no time moving him inside her, she moaned loudly and she happily began to bounce

Aegon groaned loudly as he slipped inside her cunt, the sensation of her bouncing on him taking his breath away. Aegon gripped her hips, helping her set a steady, rhythmic pace.

"Aegon!" She begged her hands on his stomach as she gets faster

Aegon groaned again, the pace quickening and intensifying his sensation. He reached up to caress her face, his gaze fixed on her with a mix of lust and adoration. "Y/n...you feel so good...so right. You're...my perfect little sister...my everything..."

She pulled on his wrist moving his hand down from her face down her neck to cup her breast as she moved,

Aegon groaned again, the feeling of her flesh beneath his fingers only amplifying his desires. "Gods, I love you" he panted out, his breath coming in heavy breaths as she continued to move on him, pleasure coursing through his body like wildfire

she continues happily often giggling and screaming out for him "my master..." She cooed

Aegon's heart raced as he looked at her, her sounds of pleasure and her words sending waves of desire through him. "Yes...your master..." he groaned. "I'm all yours, my little sister." He pulled her closer, his hands roaming across her skin, touching and caressing every inch he could reach.

Suddenly the door opened to the maids coming to get them ready but of course immediately saw the two having sex

Aegon had been so caught up in the moment with Y/n that he hadn't heard the door open. The sound and the sight of the maids entering the room brought him back to reality with a jolt. "What! What are you doing here!? Is there no privacy in this castle? Can't we have a moment without unwelcome interruptions?" Aegon's voice was sharp and annoyed, as he sat up but his body still intertwined with Y/n's his hands still on her and she still bounced.

She maids went back outside without a word and as soon as they did,

Aegon's annoyance quickly turned to pleasure and surprise as he felt her reach her orgasm, her scream echoing in the room. "Oh gods...Y/n...you're incredible" he gasped, overwhelmed by her intensity and passion. He held her tightly, his own body teetering on the edge of release as she tightened around him. As the sensations washed over him, Aegon felt his own release building up. The intensity was almost too much to bear "Oh gods, I can't hold back anymore" he groaned, his body tensing as he reached his own orgasm, sending his seed deep inside her with an intense mix of pleasure and frustration,

she giggled her hips and legs trembling as she felt him lay his seed in her "umm baby number one?" She asked stroking her tummy,

Aegon chuckled breathlessly at her comment, taking a moment to recover from their shared release "I hope so, little sister. Nothing would make me happier than to watch you carry and bear our children. A whole castle full of Targaryen princes and princesses." He lifted her chin, kissing her softly and nuzzling her neck.

She smiled and kissed him too before she jumped out of bed and called the maids back who quickly came in to begin prepping the two for dinner.

Aegon groaned, reluctantly leaving the bed and joining her in getting ready. He still wore a grin, the memories of their intimate moment still fresh in his mind and the anticipation of the future still running through his veins. He glanced at her every now and again, sharing secret smiles with her as the maids fussed over them, dressing them up for the evening's events.

Y/n sat on the bed given she had no vanity as she was in Aegon’s chambers as the maid did her hair braiding it beautifully even as Y/n sat nude clearly something the maid was used to,

The other maid made a fuss of Aegon trying to clean his hair and nails, But Aegon chuckled at the image of Y/n, sitting nude on his bed, completely comfortable in her own skin while the maid fussed over her hair. He took a moment to admire her, his eyes roving over her curves and smooth skin. "Do you always sit like that while maids tend to your hair, little sister?" he teased, a smirk on his face.

"mhm" she nodded "humm?" She asked noticing the dress that had been brought for her the dress was black, not green.

Aegon looked at the clothes the maid had laid out for him and again all black no green "What is this? Why have you laid out only black clothes for us, maid? Where is the green? Where are our house colours?"

"your mother insisted Prince Aegon. Your half-sister princess Rhaenyra is coming to dinner with her family and your father insists on a swap of colours you shall wear black than green" the maid explained

"Very well," he sighed. "If my father has commanded us to wear black tonight, then black it shall be. But make sure you lay out our green clothes for tomorrow. I want everyone to know who we are and that we're not to be messed with."

Y/n dressed too, into a beautiful black gown but her maid did shoot Aegon a glare when dressing Y/n into her undergarments given she has to clean some spilt seed on her leg

Aegon watched as Y/n's maid dressed her into the black gown, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features as he noticed the maid's glare. He knew what she was cleaning up, given their earlier activities. "Is there a problem, maid?" he asked bluntly, raising an eyebrow in challenge.

"no Prince Aegon" the maid nodded

"Good." Aegon turned his gaze to Y/n, admiring her in the black gown. He couldn't help but notice how sweet she looked,

"You look stunning, Y/n," he said, walking over to her and taking her hand. "Black suits you far more than it suits me."

"humm... I don't like it" she pouted "We should wear green"

Aegon sighed, the frown returning to his face. "I know, little sister. I agree with you. We should be wearing green tonight. But our father has commanded us to wear black, and there's nothing we can do against him. Believe me, I've tried."

she hummed and grabbed a green belt from his wardrobe and wrapped it around him, she then grabbed only her green jewelry as a silent way of showing her annoyance

Aegon couldn't help but smile at her small but rebellious rebellion. He appreciated her insistence on maintaining their Targaryen identity, especially against his father’s orders. He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her close to his side. "You're as willful as ever, little sister," he whispered in her ear. "But I suppose that's what I love about you. Thank you for honouring our house colours, even if it's our little secret."

she smiled and the two shared a passionate loving kiss before heading down to the dinner. 

[endless-ineffabilities]

this world was never meant for a fire like yours (part 4/5)

Daemon Targaryen x modern f!reader

word count: 6k

series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist

series synopsis: After a fatal injury on the battefield, Daemon wakes up in a foreign land - our world (where GoT / HoTD does not exist). He meets the reader, a nurse who tends to him and helps him navigate everything. They grow close, and slowly, but unequivocally, fall in love.

themes/warnings: language, separation, intense yearning, actual bonding between Daemon and Vizzy, magic use, manipulation

September 2023 / the 9th Moon, 113 AC

The fire in the hearth flickers weakly, casting shadows on the stone walls in Daemon’s chambers. His fingers drum restlessly on the arm on his chair, his mind elsewhere.

Across from him, Viserys is lounging calmly, the faintest smile playing on his lips. He had invited himself in Daemon’s company, under the pretence of discussing the plans of the Realmwalkers. And they did just that, but the King’s eyes remain bright with amusement—a cruel irony, given his brother’s predicament.

Daemon has been back from Korzion for several moons, and he yearns for you to such a degree that it lingers like an ache in his bones.

“So, what was this other realm like?” Viserys breaks the silence, his voice curious. But Daemon mistakes it for taunting. 

“What was it like?” Daemon repeats, his voice a low rumble. He can feel his temper rising, as it almost always does when anything related to you is mentioned. When he has to speak of you, and be reminded that you are an entire world away.

Viserys leans forward, with a boyish eagerness to listen to tales of distant lands. “We never did get to have a proper discussion, brother. I would love to know. The… priestesses… called it the Realm of Steel. Now what does that mean? And its inhabitants are connected to devices? That must have been odd, indeed.”

Daemon stares at the fire, its fading warmth doing little to soothe the melancholy creeping into his thoughts. “You saw it.”

“Why, yes, brother,” Viserys nods thoughtfully, reclining again. “In the brief whisper of a moment that I spent in that realm, I was certainly able to familiarise myself with their ways.” His tone is clearly teasing, but Daemon finds no humour in it.

Daemon clenches his jaw, forcing the words out. “The only thing worth mentioning from the realm, the one thing that would have kept me there—”

“—is her, as you have mentioned before.” Viserys cuts in smoothly.

Daemon glares at his brother icily, his jaw clenching.

Viserys’ smile only widens. “Must you be so cross?” 

“I am not cross,” Daemon responds petulantly. “I am mourning.”

Viserys waves a hand dismissively, as though swatting away a trivial complaint. “You will see her again!”

“And until then, I will remain in mourning.” The finality in Daemon’s tone seems to sober Viserys, if only for a moment. 

“Daemon, you and your penchant for theatrics,” Viserys says, leaning back in his seat, indulging in a private jibe only he understands.

“Are you mocking me?” Daemon’s voice drops to a dangerous whisper. For all his love for his brother, there are moments—far too many moments—when Daemon considers drawing his blade, simply to see if Viserys would still be so smug with Dark Sister at his throat. 

Viserys holds up a hand in a placating gesture, though his eyes still sparkle with mischief. “What if I am? Will you strike at your King?” When his brother merely glowers at him, he continues, “There was something on her table. It possessed a dark hue, with a sheen to it. It looked stiff and peculiar…”

“Aye, she calls it a laptop,” Daemon says, his voice turning softer. He could see it so vividly in his mind—the glowing screen, the smooth surface of the strange object that seemed to hum with a life of its own. You had been understanding when he broke the one you owned originally in a fit of desperation, when the sentient overlord in the object called Google offered no answers.

Viserys’ face twists with confusion. “A lap… top?”

Daemon chuckles darkly at his brother’s obliviousness. “I called it a magic box at first.”

Viserys laughs out loud, the sound filling the chamber. “A magic box?”

“Pray tell,” Daemon drawls, “are you simply going to echo every word I utter?”

“Forgive me, brother,” Viserys says, his laughter dying down. “I am simply… amused.”

Daemon turns to face the hearth, the smirk that tugs at his lips growing impossible to hide. It was absurd, really—the man he had become in that world. A prince, warrior, and dragonlord brought low by strange, glowing boxes and foreign jargon that tumbled awkwardly from his lips. 

But you… you had made him feel like none of it mattered. In your arms, he wasn’t so out of place. 

Daemon sits silent for a moment, the memory of your time together tugging at him as he stares blankly into the flames. His lips twitch into the rarest of smiles—something soft and affectionate, uncharacteristic of the Rogue Prince.

“I nearly set fire to her home once, trying to cook us supper.”

Viserys raised an eyebrow. “You? Cooking?”

“I was so determined. Yet I managed to make a complete mess of something they call pasta. She ended up fixing what I ruined.”

“She must possess the patience of the Mother herself.”

Daemon hums in affirmation. You were a marvel, an anomaly, because you took him in—a complete and total stranger. You saw him, accepted him… and you loved him.

You love him still, Daemon hopes.

“She once took me to this…gods, what did she call it?” Daemon waves a hand vaguely, trying to summon the word from his mind. “A farmer’s market. A market without any actual farmers, mind you. Just a sea of stalls with trinkets and food. She insisted we buy strawberries, and they were strange—too sweet—but she fed me one anyway. Right in front of everyone.” He chuckles at the thought. “We were walking along, her hand in mine, not a care for the smallfolk surrounding us.”

Daemon’s eyes glaze over with a fondness that was rare for him, as he continues sharing more of your world with Viserys. He speaks of how you worked as something called a nurse– a healer—but you were far more skilled than even the Grand Maester himself. He shares how you introduced him to coffee—some bitter, muddy brew he loathed at first but came to crave due to its association with early mornings spent nestled with you on your couch. And how you made him try pizza, which he found oddly addictive.

“She insisted on doing things,” he says, shaking his head as if he still couldn’t quite believe it. “Not just ruling or politicking. Simple things. Like spending hours in a bloody shop trying on clothes that I did not need. But... It made her smile. And I would have done anything to see that smile.”

For a moment, the tension between them lifts, and Viserys watches his brother with an expression somewhere between disbelief and amusement. Daemon, the fearsome warrior, enchanted by something as lowly as venturing into a mundane market, utterly captivated by a woman who lived a life so unlike anything he had ever known.

But as Daemon’s musings grew quieter, his gaze hardened again, the sweetness slipping away. “Enough of this,” he says gruffly. “We must direct our attention on how I will be with her once more.”

October 2023 / the 10th Moon, 113 AC

The hospital’s antiseptic scent wraps around you like a damp cloak as you trudge through the hallways. Every beep of the machines and the chatter of your fellow nurses feels like a reminder of the normalcy you are desperately trying to hold onto. Little do they know, you are living a life that has been effectively tinged by dragonfire. 

You don’t quite feel like a beacon of hope; more like a walking, talking paradox. You try to save lives while secretly plotting how to summon a Targaryen prince from his world.

Your mind flickers to Daemon as you begin your shift. His silver hair, that smug smile, the way he made you feel like you were the only person in the world — any world. If only he was back at your apartment to welcome you after your rounds, maybe things wouldn’t feel so heavy. But alas, you’re stuck in scrubs and not some elegant and puffy gown like those worn by the noble ladies in his kingdom. 

Hours pass, and after a particularly exhausting shift, you finally make your way to Dessa’s apartment, your mind buzzing with excitement. She is an odd mix of energy and seriousness, her presence a grounding force. The moment you enter her living space, you’re assaulted by the scent of herbs and spices, the walls adorned with what looked like genuine dragon scales. Or maybe they’re just really expensive home decor from an antique shop? Who could say?

“Ready for another night of magical chaos?” Dessa asks, grinning as she sorts through her collection of peculiar knick-knacks.

“Chaos is my middle name,” you quipped, waving a hand dramatically. “At least it is now, thanks to you.”

“Just what I want to hear, my child. And I am honoured to be your guide through this madness.” She picks up a sliver of moonstone and winks. “Shall we start with the moonstone or the raven’s feather this time? Or should we just sacrifice a bloody goat and see what happens?”

You snort at her dark humour. “Let’s stick to the gemstones for now. I’m not ready for gruesome sacrifices.”

Dessa grins as she hands you the moonstone. “Good choice.”

The two of you settle in for your practice, the atmosphere thick with magic and your unspoken hopes. You take a deep breath, recalling the steps that would lead you to Daemon. This is your chance to strengthen your connection, to reach through the veils of reality and grasp him once more.

“Envision your destination clearly,” Dessa instructs, her voice encouraging. “You don’t want to end up in the middle of the Dothraki Sea.”

You laugh nervously, though you’re unsure what or where a Dothraki is. “Right.”

“Priorities, my dear.”

You prick your palm with the moonstone, and the sharp pain jolts you into focus. The blood meets the raven’s feather, and you begin to chant in High Valyrian. The words roll off your tongue, you can feel the energy building, swirling around you like a hurricane, almost intoxicating in its intensity.

But as the ash begins to swirl around you, that familiar sensation of panic surges in your chest. You focus harder, envisioning Daemon, and that wicked smile of his that haunts your dreams. The way he smells, the way he tastes. Just when the memory is strengthened in your mind, a wave of fatigue crashes over you, and everything immediately falters.

“Dessa, I—” You gasped, collapsing against the couch. “I can’t… It’s too much.”

“Take a breath, you can do this,” she urges, but the energy flickers out like a dying flame. “We can try again.”

“I’m starting to feel like a joke,” you mumble dejectedly. Are they sure that you are one of them? Maybe this was all a fluke.

But you try once more and you fail. Over and over. Each attempt feels more hopeless than the last. You could practically hear Daemon's mocking laughter in your head, though you knew he wouldn’t be so cruel—not to you. 

“Let’s take a break,” Dessa suggests, concern knitting her brow. “You’re pushing too hard. It’s not a race.”

But all you could think about was the chasm of distance that lay between you and Daemon. “I just want to see him. I want to feel him.”

After the long night of failure, you trudge home, fatigue pulling at your limbs like lead. You slump onto your bed, staring at the ceiling. The room feels empty, devoid of magic and warmth and Daemon. The excitement that had buoyed your spirits is now like a distant memory.

Just as you begin to drift off, the memory of Daemon flickers behind your eyelids. Suddenly, something sparks within you, igniting the embers of your determination. You shoot up, adrenaline surging through your veins. The thought of giving up is unbearable. The very real possibility of losing him for good is enough to pull you out of your rut.

With a newfound sense of purpose, you gather the same tools from earlier, the moonstone and raven’s feather, and focus your thoughts. You envision Daemon, standing with him in the middle realm.

This time, your heart races not with self-doubt and gloom but with renewed hope. “I will find you,” you whisper to yourself. “I will.”

You prick your palm again, reciting the chant with a fervour you didn’t know you possessed. The energy swirls around you, coiling and tightening, feeding off your will. The feather turns to ash, and the world around you begins to shimmer and crackle, and with a rush that sends a thrill through your core, you feel yourself being pulled into the connection. The fog envelops you, and suddenly, you reach it.

But it isn’t just the middle realm. It’s everything you wanted, everything you long for. 

And then, just like that, he appears. His silver hair gleamed in the soft light, his eyes locking onto yours with a mix of surprise and wonder.

“This is real?” 

Your voice comes out soft, hesitant. You’re unsure if you’re speaking to Daemon or to yourself. 

Your senses are overwhelmed, and you feel somewhat floaty, as if you’re nowhere at all. Perhaps you are nowhere, not in your realm and not in Daemon’s, but somewhere in the middle. Everything feels so distant and dreamlike as you glance around, taking in the fog that seems to curl around the furniture, draping your bedroom in a surreal haze. 

“Am I doing this?” You murmur in disbelief. “Is it working?”

Daemon doesn’t answer immediately. He stands frozen, his eyes wide and burning with an intensity that nearly undoes you. Then, something in him breaks, and he charges forward with a purpose, as if nothing else in the world matters but closing the space between you.

He grips you, his hands rough, desperate, holding onto whatever part of you he can—your face, your hips, your hands. His touch is possessive, like a man who fears he’ll lose you again. His lips crash into yours with a raw hunger, and it’s as if the entire world melts away, leaving only him. Your Daemon.

“My darling,” he breathes between kisses, his voice rough with desire. “All of this is fucking astonishing, and we can certainly marvel at what you can do to no end, but quite frankly, right this moment I could hardly bring myself to care.”

His lips devour yours, moving against your mouth with a ferocity that leaves you breathless. He kisses you as if it’s been years, as if this moment might be the last chance he’ll ever get. And for a brief second, the sensation overwhelms you — the smell of him, the feel of his hands gripping you with such raw need. Your fingers tangle in his silver hair, pulling him closer as if you could merge your two bodies together.

Daemon is not one to waste time, that’s for sure. His lips trail down your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin of your collarbone as you arch into him.

“I miss you,” you breathe, as he kisses the hollow of your throat.

“As I you, my love.” Daemon purrs, breathing you in. “You simply have no idea…”

But even in the heat of his touch, the fog surrounding you reminds you of the truth. This moment, as real as it feels, is a trick—a fragile connection. You feel him, but not entirely. His body presses against yours, but there’s something missing. You can’t feel the warmth of his skin, can’t hear the familiar rustle of his breath against your ear.

It’s not enough.

“Daemon… this is…” You try to voice out your concern, despite the moment. Dessa was right, your corporeal forms cannot meet through your projection; the two of you stand in your bedroom, but everything seems to be enveloped in a thick haze. If you press hard enough, you think your fingers will simply pass through Daemon as if he were a spectre. You realise that he knows this, too, but chooses to ignore it. 

He tries to brush it off, tries to ground you in the present. “This is the closest we’ve been in far too fucking long, my love.” His voice cracks slightly, his frustration bleeding through. “It would have been sooner if those cunts made greater effort to—”

You snort, confronted once more with how brash he can be. “Daemon, those cunts? Really? I am one of them, you know. Besides, it’s not their fault.”

“Oh, you know what I mean,” he mutters, his lips tugging into a slight smile as he rests his forehead against yours. His hands roam your back, pulling you impossibly closer. “Let me have this. Have you. I need you.”

He’s right. In physical form or otherwise, he is still your Daemon. And you have craved each other too much to be denied any kind of reunion.

“Okay.” Your hand reaches up to cradle his face, and he leans into it. He then looks around, appraising your chambers, as he used to say.

“Nothing has changed.” He hums, while holding you tightly to him, as if he’s afraid that you might dissolve into the fog. “What is this now? Ever the reader, my heart.” He reaches for the crisp, new paperback novel lying on your dresser. 

You snort softly. “Oh, that’s… yeah, someone lent it to me.”

“It certainly does not seem too suited to your tastes.” His tone is bemused, and he turns the book over in his hand. 

You let out a humourless laugh. “Astute observation. It’s my neighbour’s. He apparently thought I needed something new to read.” When he gave you the book, Tom happily explained how he thought you should, “…expose yourself to other things. Things you possibly haven’t tried out before. New films, books, friends. You know to help you forget all about…”

Daemon’s eyes narrow slightly, the shift in his posture immediate, almost imperceptible, but you’ve always been able to read him. He lowers the book slowly, his gaze hardening with suspicion. “Your neighbour — what was he called? Tim?”

“You remember his name, Daemon.” You roll your eyes at your lover, and his poorly-veiled jealousy. You were one and the same.

Daemon’s lips curl, a wolfish grin spreading across his face. “You have been letting him inside your house?” His voice drops an octave, the dangerous undertone unmistakable. His hand rests on your waist, possessive, reminding you that you are his.

You nod slowly, carefully. “He’s been visiting every now and then. It’s not a big deal.”

Daemon tilts his head, his smirk darkening into something more sinister. He leans in close, his lips brushing your ear as he whispers, “Has that mongrel taken my place, dearest?”

Your breath catches in your throat, his words sending a jolt of heat through your veins. There’s an unspoken challenge in his voice, and your heart races in response. But you don’t back down.

With a calm you don’t entirely feel, you lift your chin and meet his gaze, eyes locked in a battle of wills. “Has any lady taken mine? In that amazing, grand realm of yours, Prince Daemon?” Your fingers slip beneath the collar of his tunic, the soft fabric yielding to your touch as you ghost your fingertips across his skin.

 Only Daemon has ever been able to elicit this out of you.

He enjoys the way you directly meet his eyes, unwavering in your stead. No one ever looked at him in such a way; not one has ever seen him as you do. Daemon has always inspired fear and intimidation in others. Those who find themselves comfortable enough to hold a conversation with the Rogue Prince tend to feel ill at ease or on their guard. As if he might turn on them at any moment. 

People usually mosey up to him because of a favour. Because of his status, his reputation. Because they want something out of him. 

But not you. No. Daemon knows that he has only ever inspired love in you.

Well, that and what might have been absolute surprise followed by wariness, when he was suddenly sprung into your world, injured and in a coat of full armour.

He chuckles, a low, throaty sound, before kissing you again, slower this time, savouring the feel of your lips against his. The kiss is deep, full of promises and unspoken words, and when he pulls away, he whispers, “No one can ever replace you.”

He has never been a devout man, but in that moment, he curses all the gods that you two are apart. Meeting in this middle-realm is insufficient. He feels you, somehow. But he does not feel you truly, not the goosebumps on your skin and the hitches in your breath. You are there, but you are not. 

But it will have to do. For now.

“Is this ailing you? Sustaining a connection like this, in this place?” Daemon asks, his brow furrowed in concern.

You shake your head. “Not really,” you admit, though there’s a heaviness in your limbs that you know will come crashing down later. “Dessa says I’ll feel quite exhausted afterward, but it shouldn’t take too big of a toll on me. At least, it’s not as bad as when I will actually be able to transport myself fully. I’m learning the ropes, and there’s a lot to learn. I mean… this is fucking insane.”

Daemon’s eyes flicker with something unreadable—pride, awe, something deeper. “And here you thought me extraordinary. When it was you all along.”

“Hardly.” You smile in return. “I’m not the only one, it seems. And, my great-grandmother… she was from your world.” 

He brushes a stray strand from your face.

Suddenly, the memory of that first night hits you, and maybe you had already known then. Maybe you had always known.

“The Rogue Prince and his Realmwalker. We were always meant to find each other.”

Tears prick at your eyes, and you blink them away quickly, unwilling to break the fragile spell that’s bound the two of you in this moment. “Always,” you whisper, the word filled with every ounce of longing you’ve carried for him.

But then panic grips you as the fog begins to dissipate. You can feel your magic waning, the connection fraying. 

“Daemon!” you call, but his figure fades quickly.

With a sudden rush, you're pulled back into your realm, losing him once more. 

“Fuck!” Daemon curses aloud, his voice echoing through the empty tower. Treesa, ever watchful, takes a cautious step back, unsure whether to comfort or retreat. She’s seen Daemon angry before, but this—this is different.

“My prince?” she inquires softly. “I felt the shift. She made contact, didn’t she? You saw her?”

He shoots her a dark glare, emotions swirling within him. “Get out,” he growls, the anguish unmistakable in his tone as he wrestles with the loss of you.

“She will find a way,” Treesa says, her voice filled with conviction, just before walking through the doorway. 

He wonders what you’re doing now. Are you just as exhausted, lying back in your bed, trying to regain your strength after the toll of the projection? He imagines you staring at the ceiling, thinking of him, feeling the same ache in your chest that he feels now.

He curses under his breath again, fists clenching at his sides. 

This is unbearable.

December 2023 / the 12th Moon, 113 AC

The clutter of your apartment feels oppressive, and you feel as if you don’t recognise it anymore. Like it’s no longer yours, but not only because of Daemon, but because of everything you've been going through in the past month.

 Shadows cling to the corners, stretching out as the waning light filters through the window. Shards of moonstone and ashes are strewn across the floor, remnants of failed attempts, each one a testament to the desperation that fills the air. In the centre of it all, you stand, your palm decorated with pinpricks of blood.

Dessa, once a nurturing figure whom you thought you can lean on, has become an intense shadow, her eyes blazing with expectation. “Again,” she commands, her voice unwavering.

You take a deep breath and force yourself to focus. You feel the familiar warmth of your magic stir within you, a fountain of energy waiting to burst forth. “I can’t keep doing this,” you admit, your voice strained. “I’m exhausted.”

Dessa’s expression hardens, her lips pressing into a thin line. “You must,” she insists, her tone sharper now, laced with an urgency that makes your stomach churn. “Time is running out. You need to learn to harness your power. It’s the only way to reach Prince Daemon.”

A flicker of anger rises within you, as it had several times before. On one occasion, you had nearly screamed in an outburst, saying, “If it’s that important, why can’t you just transport me to Westeros yourself? You’re the one with the experience.”

The air had grown thick as Dessa’s eyes flashed with something dangerous. “If I could, don’t you think I would have done it already? It takes immense power to transport another Realmwalker, and it might harm me in the process.”

You felt a wave of guilt wash over you. Dessa has sacrificed so much,  and it’s not fair to place your own frustrations on the woman who has dedicated herself to training you. Yet, beneath the guilt lay an undercurrent of anger—a rising tide that threatens to drown you in self-doubt. 

“I’m tired of feeling weak,” you finally admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

Dessa’s expression softens for just a moment, but it quickly hardens again. “Weakness is a luxury we cannot afford,” she replies, her voice firm. “Every moment you hesitate, you risk losing him forever.”

The words strike a chord, igniting a fire within you. You feel the heat of your magic surge, almost instinctively. It catches you both off guard, your energy force spilling out unbidden. 

The air crackles around you as your power begins to swell, something that demands to be unleashed. Your connection to Daemon calls to you, guiding you through the storm. And for a moment, you stand on the precipice of something immense.

“Channel that feeling!” Dessa encourages. “Let it guide you! You’re capable of so much more than you realise.”

With a determined breath, you extend your hands, feeling the now-familiar rush of energy coiling within you. You recall the incantation, the rhythm of the words echoing in your mind, and you begin to chant.

Dessa watches, her expression shifting from pride to mania, and you catch a flicker of something darker behind your mentor’s facade. The obsessiveness in her eyes, the way she leans in closer as if willing the magic to surge faster—it’s unsettling.

“Keep going!” Dessa urges, her voice now tinged with a hint of urgency that hints at deeper stakes. “You’re almost there!”

Your pulse races, the magic thrumming through you like a living entity. But you can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong. It feels like a game of cat and mouse, where you are the latter, running from unseen predators lurking in the shadows.

You feel the world around you dissolve, and in the swirling chaos, you steel yourself for what lies ahead. 

With a final surge of strength, you push yourself into the void. 

You are no longer in your apartment.

The familiar surroundings of your measly apartment have vanished, replaced by a darkness punctuated by the soft glow of stars overhead. A cool breeze brushes against your skin, carrying the earthy scent of pine and damp soil. As your heart races, a thrill courses through your veins—you’ve done it. 

You’ve Realmwalked, so to speak, and the woods you stand in are unfamiliar, but you sense that you’ve landed in Westeros. Hopefully, close to where Daemon is, if your visualisation proved effective. 

But something feels off. As you stand there, trying to catch your breath, an uneasy sensation creeps into your chest. There’s something lurking in the shadows. Something—someone—is watching you. 

With quick, purposeful steps, you begin making your way through the dense trees, senses heightened as you listen to every rustle of leaves, every whisper of wind. The path before you is faint, but you follow it, hoping it will lead you closer to Daemon. The thought of him fuels your determination, but the further you walk, the deeper the sense of unease sinks into your bones. The woods feel alive, as though the very ground beneath your feet is shifting. Something is wrong.

Then, as if answering your fear, a figure steps out from the shadows. She’s tall, with sharp, regal features and eyes that seem to pierce through the darkness.

You freeze, heart pounding in your chest. 

“You are finally here,” the stranger says, her voice smooth yet dripping with sinister intention. “We have been waiting for you.”

Panic rises in your throat. “Where… where is Prince Daemon?” The question flies out of you.

Her lips curl into a predatory smile as she steps closer. “You have come to us, just as we hoped. Dessa was right. I can… feel you… and you are more powerful than my sister made you out to be.”

“What do you want from me?” you demand, though a part of you already knows the answer. If Dessa is her sister, this can only be Treesa or Verness. Realmwalker too, from what little you’ve heard of them. 

There’s something deeply unsettling about the way she looks at you—like you’re not a person but a weapon, an object, something to be used.

“The time has come to fulfil our plans,” Treesa replies, her smile chilling as she closes the distance between you. “You were the last Realmwalker in Korzion. Your power is vital for what is to come.”

“I won’t be part of your plans. I just came here for Daemon,” you spit, taking a step back. But as you do, you feel the weight of Treesa’s magic press down on you, nigh inescapable.

“You do not have a choice,” she says, her voice soft and musical, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. “You are part of something much bigger than you can comprehend. You cannot escape it.”

And then it hits you. This was a trap all along. You were led here—by Dessa, by their lies—and now they have you. All the training, the pushing, it was never about helping you find Daemon. It was about getting you here, into their hands.

Before you can react, Treesa makes her move. With a flick of her wrist, a sudden wave of magic surges toward you. Your entire being feels heavy as the force of it pulls you down. You try to fight it, adrenaline roaring through you as you attempt to run, but it’s too late. She has the upper hand.

Treesa steps closer, her voice laced with satisfaction. “You are ours now.”

Your vision blurs as Treesa’s magic takes hold, and suddenly, everything becomes fuzzy.

“No,” you mumble weakly, your body collapsing against the cold, damp earth. “I won’t let you…”

“Let me?” she laughs mockingly. 

Just as you succumb to nothingness, you mumble weakly, “Daemon will find me...”

Not far from the edge of the woods, a few smallfolk huddle near their huts, tending to their evening fires. The sky above is painted with the deep coating of the midnight hour when they notice something strange—a woman, dressed in unfamiliar garb, struggling against another in the distance. They don’t dare get too close, but they watch, wide-eyed, as the second woman drags the first into the shadows of the trees.

A few whispers are exchanged, and soon, one of the men runs off to report what he’s seen to the Gold Cloaks.

Hours later, word reaches the Red Keep. The rumour travels quickly—Gold Cloaks to the Kingsguard, the Kingsguard to the Hand, and finally, it reaches the ears of King Viserys himself.

He listens with a frown, trying to make sense of the strange report. But it isn’t until Daemon enters the room that everything clicks into place.

Daemon’s expression shifts the moment he hears the tale. The description of the woman—the unfamiliar clothes, her behaviour—it all points to one thing, one person.

You.

“She is here,” Daemon says, voice tight with certainty. “I know it.”

Viserys looks at him, startled by the sudden intensity in his brother’s voice. “Do you truly believe so?”

Daemon nods, his heart pounding. “She has to be.”

Before Viserys can respond, the heavy doors of the throne room swing open. Otto Hightower enters, purposefully striding towards the gathering at the head of the room.

“Your Grace,” Otto begins with a slight bow, his eyes flickering over Daemon. “There has been another incident. The priestess Treesa… She is nowhere to be found within the Red Keep. Her chambers have been emptied, and we also questioned the servants, to no avail. She is no longer here to be subject to questioning.”

Daemon’s jaw tightens, a fury building inside him. His voice is cold, his temper barely contained. “When did anyone last see her?”

“in this previous twilight's hours,” Otto replies. “Since then, there has been no sign of her. I have sent guards to roam the keep, but nothing.”

Daemon lets out a harsh laugh, though there’s no humour in it. “Of course she is gone. Mayhaps they have been planning this the whole time. And we let them.”

The realm feels unsteady beneath his feet, the ground trembling with the potential for chaos. Do they not know who he is? Are they not afraid of what he is capable of? Even devoid of sorcery and magic and whatever fucking trickery those priestesses have devised, he is still Daemon Targaryen.

“Prepare the men,” he orders, voice sharp and decisive. “We will search every inch of the Seven Kingdoms until we find her.”

If they think they can take what is his, they will learn that he is not called the Rogue Prince for nothing. 

And he will find you.

*flashback* February 2023 / the 2nd Moon, 113 AC

One chilly evening, you decided to introduce Daemon to the concept of proper movie night. You had gathered a few classics, a mountain of blankets, and an assortment of snacks that would put any royal feast to shame.

“I still cannot believe that this is how you spend your evenings, ” Daemon mutters sardonically as he examined the spread.

“You know it. It’s all about relaxation and enjoyment,” you replied, tossing him a handful of popcorn.

You settled onto the couch, and as the opening credits rolled, Daemon found himself surprisingly captivated, laughing at moments that you found endearing.

“What sorcery is this?” he exclaimed after a particularly action-packed scene. “How can a mere flickering light command such power?”

“It’s all about storytelling,” you explained, leaning closer. “It takes you away from your world, even if just for a moment.”

He turned to you, his expression softening. “And what story do you wish to escape to, my love?”

As you paused to consider his question, you felt a warmth spreading within you. The film played on, but your mind raced to find the right answer. For the first time in your life, you realised that maybe, just maybe, you didn’t want to escape to anywhere anymore. 

You glanced at Daemon, his eyes reflecting the light from the screen, a small smile dancing on his lips. In this shared space, enveloped by blankets and laughter, you understood that he had become a part of your story. Whether it be in distant lands or magical realms, or simply in the confines of your apartment, if he was with you, then it would be an adventure.

It would be a tale worth telling. 

“I think,” you said softly, as you faced the screen with a faraway look in your eyes, “I’ve found a place where I want to stay.”

Daemon’s brow furrowed slightly, and he studied you with a look that suggested he understood more than you had said.

“As do I,” he replied. 

series taglist: @omgsuperstarg @moonmaiden1996 @iilsenewman @padfootsvixen @teapartydreams @sleephereicome @dixie-elocin @simplymurdock @cecespizza01 @imissyoudarling @rentsturner @itevilhag @kindaslightlyacidic @naelys-the-aster @zoleea-exultant @moongirl27 @schniiipsel @dreaming-for-an-escape @llovinjoonie @outocean @caspianobsessed @grimistangel @ladespedidas @nanabarnes @luckythirtxn97 @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 @stella-cadante @milber32 @canvashearts @nitimurinvetitumsposts @kryzeira @captainweirdo42 @eternallyvenus @fuzzybunny83 @cookielovesbook-akie @queenofshinigamis @avadakadabra93 @rebeccawinters @partypoison00 @misspendragonsworld @praline357 @mysingularitybts @milber32 @rikishima19 @ivvypg @novellaquill @fan-goddess @ayamenimthiriel @uniquecroissant

Some notes in the margins...

This chapter was a bit dry, I must admit. But consider it as a setup for the fiasco that is the finale, which will be 18+. Just a heads up.

Any guesses on what will happen? As always I am keen to hear your thoughts 🖤

[novaursa]

The Price of Fire (Final Chapter)

- Summary: It was by grace of the gods that firstborn child of Viserys I and Aemma was born a boy and he lived. And all of the rest, scholars will later say, is by power of something more malevolent in kind.

- Paring: male!reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: 17

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @mrsjohnnysuh @your-favorite-god

King’s Landing looms ahead, the sprawling city spread out beneath you like a sprawling beast, its narrow, twisting streets a maze of stone and shadow. Silverwing soars above it all, her powerful wings beating against the wind, her silver scales gleaming in the midday sun. The Sept below, a vast and imposing structure of pale stone and stained glass, stands as a symbol of the Faith’s influence—a symbol that is about to be obliterated.

You guide Silverwing down, your heart a steady, unyielding beat in your chest. The wind whips past you, carrying the distant sounds of the city—cries of alarm, the tolling of bells, the shouts of people fleeing as your shadow falls over them. You can feel Silverwing’s anticipation, the simmering rage that mirrors your own as she descends, her massive form casting a dark shadow over the grand edifice.

“Dracarys,” you whisper, the word a deadly promise, a sentence of destruction.

Silverwing’s roar splits the air, a sound of pure, unbridled fury. Her jaws open wide, and a torrent of flame erupts, a searing wave of heat and fire that engulfs the Sept. The stained glass windows shatter in an explosion of color and sound, shards raining down as the stone walls crack and blacken under the onslaught. The air is filled with the acrid stench of burning wood and melting metal, the screams of those inside drowned out by the roar of the flames.

You guide Silverwing lower, her claws tearing into the roof as she lands, the stone buckling and crumbling beneath her weight. The flames surge around you, the heat searing, the smoke rising in thick, choking plumes. Below, the once grand interior of the Sept is a blazing inferno, the pews and altars consumed by the relentless fire, the sacred tapestries reduced to ash.

Silverwing roars again, a fierce, triumphant sound, and you raise your sword, the blade gleaming in the light of the fire, a symbol of your wrath, your vengeance. “This is what you deserve!” you shout, your voice carrying over the roar of the flames, the destruction. “This is the price of betrayal!”

The city watches in stunned silence, the flames casting eerie, dancing shadows over the rooftops and walls. The Sept, once a place of worship and power, is now a blazing ruin, the Faith’s hold over the city crumbling to ash.

You pull Silverwing up, her wings beating against the smoke-filled air as she rises above the burning structure. Below, the flames continue to rage, the fire spreading, the screams of those trapped inside a haunting counterpoint to the crackling of the inferno.

Your gaze sweeps over the city, taking in the chaos, the panic. This is your city now. The city that once a cheered for you now screams. And you will drive every last remnant of the Faith from it, root and stem, until not even a whisper of their influence remains. And they will scream more.

With a final, defiant roar, Silverwing turns, her powerful wings carrying you away from the smoldering ruins, back toward the Red Keep, where the rest of this grim play is set to unfold.

Within the high, forbidding walls of the Red Keep, the atmosphere is charged, every face pale, every movement edged with fear. Rhaenyra strides through the corridors, her presence a storm of barely contained fury. Daemon walks beside her, his expression that of cold determination, Dark Sister at his hip, ready for whatever comes.

They reach the throne room, the doors swinging open with a heavy, echoing thud. Inside, Aegon sits slumped on the Iron Throne, his crown askew, his face drawn and haggard. Alicent stands before him, her hands clenched in front of her, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and defiance. Beside her, Helaena clutches her children close, her face pale and tear-streaked.

Rhaenyra’s gaze sweeps over them, her eyes hard, unyielding. She steps forward, her voice ringing out clear and cold. “It’s over, Aegon. The city is ours.”

Aegon lets out a bitter, broken laugh, his head dropping back against the cold metal of the throne. “Is it?” he mutters, his voice filled with a hollow mockery. “You have the city, but at what cost?”

Rhaenyra ignores him, her attention shifting to Alicent, who takes a shaky step forward, her face taut with desperation. “Please, Rhaenyra,” she begins, her voice trembling, her eyes pleading. “For the sake of my children, for my grandchildren—”

“It’s not up to me,” Rhaenyra cuts her off, her voice sharp, final. “I am not the one who will decide their fate.”

Alicent blinks, confusion and fear flickering across her face. “What do you mean?”

Rhaenyra’s gaze is steady, unyielding. “It is for my brother-husband to decide. He will decide their fate as he decides the fate of those who betrayed him, who crowned you king in his place.”

Alicent’s face drains of color, her hands trembling. “Please,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “You must stop him. He’ll destroy us all.”

Rhaenyra’s expression doesn’t change, her eyes hard and cold. “He’s finishing what he started. He’s driving the Faith from this city, from his throne. And when he’s done, he’ll come here. And then we’ll see what justice is to be done.”

Daemon steps forward, his gaze locked on Aegon, his voice low, edged with menace. “You thought you could steal the throne, and there would be no price?”

Aegon’s eyes meet his uncle’s, a flicker of defiance in their depths, but it’s weak, hollow. “What would you have me do?” he mutters, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Kneel?”

Daemon’s smile is a thin, dangerous thing. “It’s too late for that, boy.”

The room is silent, the weight of the moment pressing down on them all. Alicent’s eyes fill with tears, her hands clutching at her skirts as she looks from Rhaenyra to Daemon, her voice trembling. “Please… please, I’m begging you…”

Rhaenyra turns away, her expression closed, unreadable. “It’s out of my hands.”

And as the tension thickens, as the silence stretches, you can feel it—the storm building, the moment before the strike, before everything changes forever.

And soon, very soon, the fate of King’s Landing will be sealed in blood and fire.

The heavy, iron-studded doors to the throne room creak open, the sound echoing through the vast, silent space. You stride in, your armor stained with soot and ash, the scent of smoke clinging to you like a second skin. The flames from the Sept still linger in your eyes, a searing, fierce light that draws the gaze of everyone in the room.

Rhaenyra and Daemon stand at the base of the Iron Throne, their faces a mixture of relief and resolve as they watch your approach. Behind them, Alicent and her children are gathered, their expressions ranging from fear to defiance. Aegon sits slouched on the Iron Throne, his face pale, his eyes hollow, his fingers drumming nervously against the armrests.

In your hands, held with reverence despite the blood and grime that stain your gloves, is the crown of Visenya Targaryen, its silver and black jewels gleaming dully in the low light of the throne room. You come to a stop before Rhaenyra, your heart steady, your gaze locked on hers.

“Rhaenyra,” you say, your voice carrying through the stillness. “I found this in the ruins of the Sept.”

Her eyes widen, the breath catching in her throat as she stares at the crown, a mix of sorrow and pride flickering across her face. You step closer, your hands trembling slightly as you raise the crown, placing it gently upon her head. The cold metal settles against her brow, the weight of it a testament to her birthright, to her strength.

“For you, my Queen,” you murmur, your voice filled with a fierce, unyielding love. “For Visenya.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes shine with unshed tears, her hand lifting to touch the crown lightly, her gaze never leaving yours. “Thank you,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “For everything.”

You nod, your heart swelling with a fierce, protective pride, and then your gaze shifts, your eyes hardening as they fall on Aegon, still slumped on the Iron Throne. He looks up at you, his face tightening with fear, his body shrinking back as if trying to meld with the twisted metal of the seat.

You take a step forward, your gaze locked on Aegon, the silence in the room crackling with tension. Aegon’s eyes dart around wildly, his fingers gripping the armrests of the throne so tightly his knuckles turn white.

“Brother,” he begins, his voice wavering, but whatever words he’s trying to find seem to choke in his throat.

You ignore him, your steps slow, deliberate, your gaze never wavering. You can feel the eyes of everyone in the room on you, the air thick with fear and anticipation.

Alicent moves suddenly, her face stricken, tears brimming in her eyes as she steps into your path, her hands outstretched, a desperate, pleading gesture. “Please,” she begs, her voice cracking with desperation. “Don’t do this. I know… I know there’s still a part of you left from when we were young. I know you remember.”

You pause, your eyes meeting hers. There’s a flicker of something—an old memory, a distant echo of a time when things were simpler, when you were different people. But it’s buried beneath the weight of all that has happened, beneath the anger and the loss that have shaped you into the man you are now.

Your gaze shifts past her, to where Helaena stands, clutching her children close, her face pale and tear-streaked. The sight of them tugs at something deep inside you, but it’s not enough to sway you, not enough to pull you back from the path you’ve chosen.

“Step aside, Alicent,” you say quietly, your voice steady, though there’s a dark edge to it, a finality that sends a shudder through her. “This is not your choice.”

Alicent’s face crumples, her hands trembling as she reaches out, her fingers brushing against your arm, her voice breaking. “Please… they’re just children. He’s your brother.”

You pull away, your eyes hardening as you push past her, your steps sure, your gaze fixed on Aegon. The athmosphere in the room is suffocating, every breath a struggle as you ascend the steps toward the Iron Throne, your heart pounding with a fierce, unyielding resolve.

Aegon stares at you, his expression set in fear and confusion, his mouth working soundlessly as he tries to find words, to find some defense against the storm bearing down on him.

“Please, brother,” he finally whispers, his voice breaking, his body hunched as if to shield himself from your wrath. “I didn’t want this. I never wanted any of this.”

You stop before him, your eyes cold, unyielding. “And yet you took it,” you say softly, the words heavy with all the bitterness, all the betrayal that has brought you to this moment. “You took what wasn’t yours.”

Aegon’s face crumples, his body trembling as he shrinks back, his eyes wide with terror. “I was pushed… they made me—”

“No more excuses,” you cut him off, your voice a sharp, unforgiving blade. “You took the crown, you took my throne, and now you will face the consequences.”

The room is silent, the air thick with the weight of what’s to come. You can feel the eyes of everyone on you, can feel the fear and hope and anger swirling around you like a living thing.

And then, with a slow, deliberate motion, you reach out, your hand closing around the armrest of the Iron Throne, your gaze never leaving Aegon’s.

“It ends here,” you say, your voice steady, implacable. “The time of the usurper is over.”

The silence that follows in the throne room is suffocating, each breath held in a suspended, uneasy stillness. Aegon sits rigid on the Iron Throne, his knuckles white as he grips the armrests, his eyes darting around the room, fear and confusion written across his pale face. Alicent remains frozen, her expression stricken, Helaena clutching her children, their soft sobs echoing in the stillness.

You turn away from Aegon, your voice carrying a calm, implacable authority as you speak to the guards positioned around the chamber. “Take them to their chambers,” you order, your tone brooking no dissent. “They are to remain there, under watch, until I decide their fate.”

Aegon’s breath leaves him in a shuddering exhale, his shoulders sagging as if the weight of the world has suddenly fallen upon them. He looks up at you, his expression a twisted mix of relief and resignation. “Thank you…” he murmurs, his voice trembling, but you ignore him, your gaze already moving to the next battle ahead.

Daemon steps forward, his presence a looming shadow of grim determination. “Aemond is still at Harrenhal,” he says, his voice carrying the barest hint of a challenge, his eyes fixed on yours.

You nod, your mind already racing ahead, the thought of your younger brother a burning coal in your chest. “I’ll deal with him,” you say, your voice steady, your resolve unyielding.

Daemon’s eyes narrow, the muscles in his jaw tensing. “You almost died last time,” he reminds you, his voice hard, his concern thinly veiled behind a mask of irritation. “You know what Vhagar is capable of. Let me go. I’ll handle Aemond.”

“No,” you say firmly, your gaze meeting his, a silent, fierce determination in your eyes. “I need you here, Daemon. To hold the city, to keep order. If anything happens to me…” You let the words hang, the unspoken possibilities stretching between you.

Daemon’s expression darkens, his eyes searching yours, his mouth tightening with frustration. “You’re risking everything,” he says quietly, the words almost lost in the cavernous silence of the room. “There’s no telling what that mad dog will do. You need to think this through.”

“I have thought it through,” you reply, your voice a low, controlled burn. “Aemond won’t stop. He’ll keep coming, keep fighting, until one of us is dead. This has to end. And it has to end now.”

The room seems to close in around you, the weight of your decision pressing down, the air thick with tension. You can see the worry in Daemon’s eyes, the anger, the fear he’s trying so hard to hide. But you also know he understands—better than anyone—the cost of inaction, the price of hesitation.

He exhales sharply, his gaze flicking away, his jaw clenching. “And if you die?”

“Then you’ll do what you have to,” you say, your voice softening, the edge of command giving way to something deeper, something raw. “You’ll protect Rhaenyra, the children, the throne. You’ll finish what we started.”

Daemon’s eyes snap back to yours, his expression fierce, almost defiant. “You’re not dying,” he says, the words a low, harsh growl. “Not like this. Not to him.”

You reach out, gripping his shoulder, the contact solid, grounding. “I’ll be careful,” you promise, a ghost of a smile touching your lips. “But this ends now.”

He looks at you for a long moment, the storm of emotions swirling behind his eyes, and then, with a reluctant nod, he steps back, his hand falling away from the hilt of his sword.

“Fine,” he mutters, his voice thick with reluctant acceptance. “But if you come back with so much as a scratch, I’ll kill you myself.”

You chuckle softly, the sound incongruous in the tense, heavy air of the throne room. “I’ll hold you to that.”

With a final glance around the chamber, your gaze lingering on Rhaenyra, who stands watching, her eyes dark with worry and understanding, you turn and stride from the room, your steps echoing through the silence, the weight of what you must do settling on your shoulders like a shroud.

This is it. The final move in a game that has cost so much, that has left so many scars. You know what you must do, what must be done to end this. To bring peace, or at least, something resembling it, to the realm.

And as you step into the cool, shadowed corridors of the Red Keep, the roar of dragons echoing faintly in the distance, you let yourself feel, just for a moment, the fear, the uncertainty. And then you push it aside, your heart steady, your mind clear.

This will end. One way or another, it will end. 

The sky above the God’s Eye is a vast expanse of dark clouds, roiling and churning like the surface of the lake below. The air is filled with the promise of rain, the scent of the storm mingling with the tang of smoke and ash still clinging to your armor. Silverwing’s powerful wings beat rhythmically beneath you, carrying you higher, closer to the heart of the approaching tempest. You know what awaits you in the storm—Aemond, Vhagar, and the final reckoning that has been a long time coming.

You spot them in the distance, a dark silhouette against the storm clouds, Vhagar’s enormous form dwarfing even the vastness of the sky. She is a beast of legend, her wings stretching wide, her body coiled with lethal strength, and Aemond, perched atop her back, is a small, dark figure, his gaze already fixed on you, even from this distance. The sight sends a surge of anger through you, but you force yourself to remain calm, focused. This is what you came for. This is how it must end.

Silverwing roars, her voice a defiant challenge that echoes across the skies, carrying through the thick, stormy air. She pulls back her wings, gaining altitude as you approach, your gaze locked on the monstrous form of Vhagar, her ancient eyes gleaming with a dark, terrible intelligence. Aemond’s face is set into grimace of rage and something else—anticipation, a fierce hunger for the battle he knows is inevitable.

You draw Blackfyre, the blade heavy and familiar in your hand, the dark steel gleaming in the flickering light of the approaching storm. The wind whips around you, tearing at your cloak, but you hold steady, your focus narrowing to the task ahead, to the fight that will determine everything.

“Come on, Aemond,” you mutter under your breath, your voice swallowed by the wind, the storm. “Let’s end this.”

Silverwing surges forward, her wings cutting through the air with a powerful beat, her body coiling and tensing, ready for the clash. Vhagar responds with a deafening roar, her jaws snapping open, flames licking the edges of her teeth as she dives toward you, her massive form a terrifying sight against the darkened sky.

“Dracarys!” Aemond’s voice carries across the distance, his command a whipcrack of fury, and Vhagar unleashes a torrent of flame, the searing heat turning the air around you into a furnace.

“Dive!” you shout, leaning forward, urging Silverwing into a sharp, gut-wrenching descent. She responds instantly, her body twisting and folding as she drops, the flames barely missing you, scorching the air above your head. The force of the dive tears at you, your vision narrowing as the ground rushes up to meet you, but you hold on, gritting your teeth against the pull of gravity, the force of the descent.

Silverwing levels out, her wings beating furiously as she skims the surface of the God’s Eye, the water churning beneath her, the spray dampening your face. You glance up, your gaze tracking Vhagar as she follows, her massive body plummeting toward you, a dark shadow against the storm.

You pull Silverwing up, her wings straining as she climbs, spiraling upward, the water spinning away beneath you. Vhagar follows, her roars shaking the air, her massive form closing in, her claws outstretched, her jaws snapping. You twist in the saddle, raising Blackfyre, the blade catching the dim light, a stark contrast against the darkness of the sky.

Aemond’s face is a mask of fury, his eye blazing with hatred as Vhagar closes the distance, her jaws snapping at Silverwing’s tail, her breath hot and foul. You can feel the heat of her flames, the searing intensity of her rage, but you don’t flinch, your focus locked on Aemond, on the end that is coming.

“Is this what you wanted, brother?” you shout, your voice raw, your words a challenge thrown into the wind, the storm. “Is this the price you’re willing to pay?”

Aemond’s laughter is a harsh, jagged sound, echoing through the storm. “You’ll die here, just like you should have above the Storm’s End,” he snarls, his voice filled with a cold, pitiless fury. “You’ll fall, and your family will burn.”

You grit your teeth, your anger surging, the fury of his words igniting something deep and primal within you. “Not today, Aemond,” you growl, your grip tightening on Blackfyre. “Not today.”

Silverwing roars, her voice a furious, defiant challenge, and she dives again, her body twisting, her wings folding as she drops beneath Vhagar, the wind whistling around you, the ground a blur beneath your feet. You shift in the saddle, raising Blackfyre, the blade gleaming darkly as you aim, your heart pounding, your mind clear.

“Dracarys!” you shout, your voice a command, a promise.

Silverwing’s jaws open, and a torrent of flame erupts, a searing, blinding wave of fire that engulfs Vhagar’s side, the heat of it turning the air to steam, the sound of it a deafening roar that drowns out everything. Vhagar roars, her body turning, her claws slashing through the air, but Silverwing is already moving, her wings beating powerfully as she pulls away, the flames still licking at Vhagar’s scales.

Aemond curses, his voice a harsh, guttural sound, and Vhagar lunges, her massive jaws snapping, her claws tearing at the air. Silverwing twists again, her body coiling, her wings beating furiously as she dodges, her movements fluid and graceful despite the size difference.

You see the opening, a fleeting moment where Vhagar’s massive body shifts, exposing Aemond, his face twisted with rage and frustration. You don’t hesitate, your hand steady as you raise Blackfyre, the blade poised, your heart a steady, unyielding beat.

“This is for my son you wanted to slay!” you roar, your voice carrying over the storm, over the chaos of the battle, and you hurl yourself from the saddle, the wind tearing at you, your body hurtling toward Aemond, Blackfyre gleaming in your hand.

Time seems to slow, the world narrowing to this single moment, this final, irrevocable act. You see the flash of shock in Aemond’s eye, the sudden, dawning realization as you close the distance, your blade aimed straight for his heart.

Blackfyre strikes true, the blade piercing Aemond’s armor, sinking deep into his chest. His eye widens, his mouth opening in a silent scream, his body jerking as the steel drives home. The impact knocks you both from the saddle, Vhagar’s roar of fury and pain a deafening, all-encompassing sound as you fall, the wind tearing at you, the world spinning in a dizzying blur.

You feel Aemond’s body convulse beneath you, his blood hot and slick on your hands, his eye staring up at you, wide and uncomprehending. There is no more hate, no more fury—only shock, only pain, only the cold inevitability of death.

The water of the God’s Eye rushes up to meet you, a dark, churning expanse, and you feel the impact, the icy cold engulfing you, pulling you down, down into the depths. You hold on to Blackfyre, the blade still buried in Aemond’s chest, the weight of him dragging you both down, the world fading to black around you.

And then, there is nothing but the cold, and the dark, and the silence of the deep.

An Excerpt from Fire and Blood by Archmaester Gyldayn

The Reign of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen and the Aftermath of the Dance of the Dragons

With the death of Y/N Targaryen, eldest son of King Viserys I, in the skies above the God’s Eye, the Dance of the Dragons reached its final, bloody crescendo. His confrontation with his half-brother, Prince Aemond Targaryen, and the destruction that followed their deadly clash, marked the beginning of the end for the bitter war that had torn the realm asunder. Yet, the consequences of his life and actions would continue to ripple through Westeros for generations to come.

Rhaenyra’s Reign and Legacy

Following her husband’s death, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen held the Iron Throne, her claim uncontested for a time, though her rule was fraught with tension and unrest. The death of King Y/N left her heartbroken and enraged, but she remained resolute in her determination to rule in his memory. Rhaenyra's reign, while short-lived, was marked by a period of brutal consolidation of power.

The destruction of Oldtown, the ancient seat of the Hightowers, and the burning of the Citadel sent shockwaves throughout the realm. The loss of so many maesters and the destruction of centuries of knowledge left a scar that would never truly heal. The Faith of the Seven, deeply weakened by the annihilation of their central seat of power, was forced into a position of subservience, the remnants of their once formidable influence shattered.

For years, Rhaenyra ruled with an iron fist, her sons—Jacaerys, Lucerys, Joffrey, Aegon, and Viserys—by her side. It was said that she kept Visenya’s crown close, a reminder of the sacrifices made and the blood spilled for her throne.

The Fate of Prince Daemon Targaryen

After the tragic death of King Y/N Targaryen above the God’s Eye, Prince Daemon Targaryen, his uncle and closest confidant, was left to navigate the aftermath of the war that had claimed so many lives. Known as the Rogue Prince, Daemon’s life was marked by bold decisions, fierce loyalty, and unyielding ambition. The loss of his nephew and the violent end to their shared struggle left an indelible mark on the man who had once been the scourge of the Stepstones and the terror of Oldtown.

Daemon's Role in the Aftermath

With Rhaenyra on the Iron Throne, Daemon took up the mantle of protector and enforcer of her reign. As the queen’s most trusted general, he was tasked with maintaining the tenuous peace that had settled over the realm. His presence in King’s Landing, commanding the loyalty of the City Watch and wielding the fearsome authority of his dragon, Caraxes, kept potential dissenters at bay. Despite his age, he remained a formidable figure, his sharp mind and ruthless disposition ensuring that no one dared openly challenge Rhaenyra’s rule.

Daemon's ruthlessness in quelling rebellion, particularly in the aftermath of the war, became a source of both fear and respect. He was instrumental in crushing the remnants of Green loyalists and those who still harbored sympathies for the late Aegon II. His actions were decisive and often brutal, his reputation for dealing harshly with any who threatened his family solidifying his position as Rhaenyra’s enforcer.

The Decline of Daemon Targaryen

As the years passed, the fire that had driven Daemon began to wane. The loss of his nephew and brother-in-arms, combined with the weight of his own advancing age, left him increasingly isolated. Those close to the prince spoke of his growing melancholy, a shadow of regret that seemed to haunt him. The Rogue Prince, once so full of life and passion, began to withdraw from the court and the world he had helped shape.

In his later years, Daemon spent more time at Dragonstone, where he had first made his mark as a young prince. He took solace in the company of his daughters, Baela and Rhaena, and in the memories of his lost loves and lost battles. The fiery spirit that had once driven him to lead men into battle, to carve out his own kingdom in the Stepstones, and to burn Oldtown to the ground in vengeance, seemed to flicker and fade.

The Final Flight of the Rogue Prince

It is said that in the end, Daemon’s last act was one of defiance, an echo of the man he had always been. Mounting Caraxes one final time, he took to the skies above Dragonstone, his dragon’s roars echoing over the island. Where he flew and why is the subject of much speculation among the chroniclers of the time. Some say he flew to the site of the God’s Eye, the place where his nephew had fallen, seeking some form of peace or perhaps simply to rage one last time against the cruel hand of fate.

Others whisper that he flew west, to the lands beyond the Sunset Sea, chasing some distant, unreachable dream. Whatever his final destination, Prince Daemon Targaryen was never seen again in Westeros. Caraxes, too, vanished from the skies, leaving only rumors and legends in his wake.

The Fate of Alicent Hightower and Her Children

After the fall of King’s Landing, Dowager Queen Alicent and her remaining children were confined to their quarters in the Red Keep under constant watch. It was here that the woman who had once been the power behind the throne slowly withered away. Alicent, stripped of her influence and wracked with grief over the loss of her son Aemond and the destruction of her ancestral home, spent her remaining days in isolation, her pleas for mercy unanswered by Rhaenyra.

Aegon II, who had briefly held the Iron Throne, was imprisoned and remained a shadow of his former self. The torments of his mind, compounded by the separation of his dragon Sunfyre and the crushing weight of defeat, left him broken. He spent his final years in a gilded cage, watched over by guards who once knelt before him as their king. His life ended quietly, his body found cold in his chambers, the crown of Aegon the Conqueror resting beside him—untouched and unworn.

Helaena Targaryen, gentle and soft-spoken, was spared much of the cruelty that befell her mother and brother. Allowed to live out her days in the Red Keep, she devoted herself to her children, her love for them a rare light in those dark days. She passed peacefully, though some whispered of a sorrow that had never left her eyes since the day the dragons came.

Daeron Targaryen, the youngest and only survivor of the old king’s sons, was missing for years after the fall of Oldtown and the death of his dragon Tessarion. It was rumored that he had fled to Essos, the scars of war etched deeply into his heart. He never returned to Westeros, and his fate remains one of the many mysteries left in the wake of the Dance.

The Legacy of King Y/N Targaryen

The war on the Faith waged by King Y/N forever altered the relationship between the Iron Throne and the Seven. The destruction of the Starry Sept and the Citadel not only broke the Hightower’s influence but also diminished the power of the Faith of the Seven to challenge the Crown. His brutal campaign, while criticized by many as an act of barbarism, effectively cowed those who might otherwise have stood against Targaryen rule in the name of the Seven.

The maesters of the Citadel, decimated and scattered, struggled for years to rebuild. The loss of so many records and the erasure of much of their accumulated knowledge left a void that could never truly be filled. The Citadel became more cautious, its influence waning as the memory of dragonfire over Oldtown haunted its halls.

The smallfolk, left in the ashes of their burned city, spoke of King Y/N with a mixture of fear and reverence. He was both the dragon who had laid their homes to waste and the warrior who had avenged his daughter, Visenya. His legacy, like his life, was marked by fire and blood, his name etched into the annals of history as one of the most ruthless yet undeniably effective Targaryen princes.

The Line of Succession

After Rhaenyra’s death, her eldest son, Jacaerys Targaryen, ascended the Iron Throne as King Jacaerys I Targaryen. His reign, though challenged by those loyal to the memory of Aegon II, was one of relative stability. He was known for his efforts to heal the scars left by the Dance and to restore the fractured realm his parents had fought so fiercely to claim.

King Lucerys, Jacaerys' younger brother, succeeded him, and his rule was marked by a more peaceful consolidation of the Targaryen legacy, though his life was overshadowed by the tragedies of his youth. The remaining brothers, Joffrey, Aegon, and Viserys, played significant roles in the court, their presence ensuring that the Targaryen line remained unbroken, their family ties unassailable.

Conclusion

The Dance of the Dragons left the realm scarred and divided, the shadow of the conflict lingering long after the final dragons had vanished from the skies. Yet, it also forged a new era, one in which the Targaryen dynasty emerged both weakened and strengthened, their hold on the throne unchallenged but their losses incalculable.

The legacy of King Y/N Targaryen, his war against the Faith, and the burning of Oldtown remain topics of fierce debate among the maesters and lords of Westeros. Was he a tyrant, a madman driven by grief, or the necessary fire that cleansed the rot from the realm? Perhaps he was all these things, and more.

But one truth remains unchallenged: the fire he unleashed, the blood he spilled, and the throne he fought to defend shaped the destiny of the Seven Kingdoms, and the echoes of his actions will reverberate through the histories of Westeros for generations to come.

[hopesworlld]

౨ৎ princess of the realm ( prelude )

౨ৎ 𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 — aegon targaryen x aemma velaryon

౨ৎ 𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿���� — the birth of princess aemma velaryon

౨ৎ 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁 — 693

౨ৎ 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 — graphic depictions of child birth, swearing

౨ৎ 𝗵𝗼𝗽𝗲 𝘀𝗽𝗲𝗮𝗸𝘀 ! — making a new series, bitches ! the feminine urge to want to fix aegon is real so here i am with the prelude ! no aegon yet but he'll be here soon i promise !

heart of the dragon series

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A harrowing scream tore through the frozen air, shattering the silence and plunging the room into chaos. 

Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, the Realm’s Delight, first-born daughter of King Viserys I and Queen Aemma, and future heir to the Iron Throne sat hunched over. Silvery blonde hair clinging to her face, tears running down her cheeks as she clutched her swollen stomach. 

“You have to push, Princess,” One of the handmaidens cries, watching as Rhaenrya’s head falls back, sweat coating her brow, blood seeping from between her legs. 

The princess let out another cry, hands clasping at her headboard, straining so harshly her legs were trembling, lips split and broken as she sucked in harsh breaths of air. The Maester quickly crossed the room, body clad in deep smokey gray robes, settling himself between the Princess’s legs as she forced herself to push once again. 

“Gods,” Rhaenyra screeched as her handmaiden gently dabbed her forehead with a wet cloth, dapping away the perspiration that pooled there, carefully tucking the Princesses silvery blonde hair from her eyes. 

“I can see the head,” The Maester exclaimed, “Princess, you need to push harder,” He said, and the woman’s jaw clenched, violet eyes blazing with the flames of the dragons.

“I am fucking pushing,” She spat, knuckles turning white with the force she was gripping her bed frame as she let out another groan, pushing once and gasping for air frantically, before pushing once again. A horrific tearing feeling welled between her legs, so intense her vision went hazy, and then there was crying. There in the Maester’s arms with a writhing babe, all pink skin and blood. 

“It’s a boy, Princess,” The Maester smiled, Rhaenyra gasped, eyes fixed upon the tiny thing that he been nestled in her womb only minutes before, her hands coming out to reach for the child, her first babe. They lay him against her breast and his wails fell silent. For a moment all was calm, then came another harsh pain to her stomach that made Rhaenyra jostle her new babe, a restrained groan falling from her lips. 

“The afterbirth,” One of the handmaidens whispered, gently reaching out to take the babe, the Maester snipping the cord that connected mother and son swiftly before turning back to Rhaenyra, the princess was rigid, legs spread, blood coating her thighs, eyes darting between her new born son and her stomach, still aching with pressure. 

“There’s another,” The Maester gasped, dropping back down, watching as the head began to crown.

“Another?” Rhaenyra sobbed, eyes rolling back as another wave of pain overtook her. 

“Yes, Princess, I can see the babe’s head,” The robed man said. Instantly the handmaiden’s fell back to the princesses, clutching her hands and supporting her into a sitting position as she cried out, pushing out the second babe with considerable more ease than the last. 

“A girl,” The Maester announced, “You have a daughter, Princess,”

Sobs tore from Rhaenyra’s lips as they now placed her daughter upon her chest as they had done with her son only minutes before. The baby did not cry, but her violet eyes were wide and alert, little arms flailing around as she stared at her mother. 

“The other,” Rhaenyra whispered, “The boy, bring me the boy,” She said, tearing her eyes away from her daughter for just a moment until her son was also placed in her arms, the two babes silent as they nestled againt their mother. A brilliant smile breaking across her cracked lips. 

“Twin’s,” She whispered in disbelief, planting a delicate kiss on each of their heads. “Oh my sweet loves,” The Princess was enamoured, staring at her two children with nothing but love, she had never felt anything quite like this, complete and utter contentment with the two babes in her arms. 

“Jacaery’s,” She pronounced to the boy, with a shock of dark hair and deep brown eyes. “Aemma,” She whispered to her little daughter, considerably smaller than her twin. 

The Seven Kingdom’s sang, a new Prince and Princess of the realm had been born. Prince Jacaery’s Valaryon, and Princess Aemma Valaryon, the Princesses heirs once she came upon the Iron Throne. 

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[sapphire-writes]

Playing with Fire

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Reader x Aegon II Targaryen

summary: You travel to the capital, as Prince Aegon intends to take a wife at the command of the King. Much to your surprise, more than one Targaryen prince catches your eye.

warnings: none for this part other than some sensual themes

word count: 4k

A/N: as Katherine Pierce once said, "it's okay to love them both😏"

masterlist

King Viserys announced a ball, to be held within the Red Keep, crafted for his eldest son Aegon to choose a bride. Maidens traveled from all corners of the seven kingdoms and beyond, to attend and vie for Prince Aegon’s affections. You were to be no exception, much to your displeasure. 

Your family had carted you off to the capital, though you put up quite a fight. You did not wish to marry yet, let alone marry Prince Aegon. You had heard nothing but promiscuous rumors about him from ladies returning from their times in the capital. 

Nearly all returned with a story about Prince Aegon; stealing to their rooms in the night or pulling them to darkened corridors only for them to leave with lips bruised from kissing and ruffled skirts. The prince was said to be quite lustful and gluttonous. 

You would listen, eyes wide, as they recalled their stories with blushing cheeks and girlish giggles. One lady even showed the lovebites Prince Aegon had adorned her neck with, pushing back her hair and revealing the purple bruises that had just begun to fade to a deep jade color. 

Prince Aegon was reminiscent of a wolf in your mind, or perhaps a dragon like that of his house sigil. An all-powerful creature who devoured whomever he desired. 

Alas, as the only daughter of your family, it was time for you to find a husband. A prince was too enticing of an offer for your family to keep you at home. You simply would have to avoid Prince Aegon and hope he would not take a liking to you. You figured it should be easy enough to do, he would surely be preoccupied with the dozens of ladies who had come for him.

Still, the night of the ball you found yourself clinging to the corners of the room. Your mother had traveled to the capital with you and was eager to present you to the dragon prince. She had a new gown tailored for you, the soft pink color of a rose from the Reach. Your hair was done in an elaborate style, with silver pins that shone like stars in the candlelight. You slouched into the crowd, spotting her looking for you. 

“Seven hells,” you murmured to yourself, ducking behind a servant carrying a tray of empty goblets. You can hear her voice above the music, calling your name. The serving girl gives you a startled look and you smile at her, apologetically.

You moved swiftly to avoid her, taking cover behind Cassandra Baratheon who is eagerly looking for Aegon. She glances down at you, blue eyes narrowing. She looks breathtakingly beautiful, clad in a sapphire-colored gown that matches her eyes, and makes her pale skin luminescent. Her dark hair is pulled back from her face, spilling down her back. Cassandra has come dressed the part of a princess. 

“What are you doing?” she asks, nose wrinkling. She waves the fan she holds, the fabric matching that of her gown. She barely acknowledges your presence, long neck craning over the crowd hunting for Prince Aegon. 

“Hiding,” you hiss, looking around nervously. Cassandra rolls her eyes folding her fan and whacking you with it on the arm. 

“Ouch!” you yelp, swatting at her. 

“Get away from me!” she scolds, “you shall make me look foolish!”

You make a face at the Baratheon, sticking out your tongue, before dashing to the opposite side of the room. You had briefly resided in Storm’s End when you were a child, as a ward to the Baratheons. Needless to say, you and Cassandra did not get along well. 

You heard your mother’s call once more and panicked, as the crowd began to part. Glancing to your left, you spotted a long table covered with food for grazing guests. The tablecloth was long and dusted against the floor. In your panic you dropped to your knees, and climbed under the table, fixing the tablecloth behind you. 

You exhaled a deep breath as you pushed yourself back, sitting completely under the table. You could hear the crowd around you, but you were hidden. Well, almost. In your haste your slipper had come off, and it lay sticking halfway out from under the table. 

Your eyes widened as you reached for it before it was pulled from your sight. Lifting the table cloth you stuck your head out to address the thief. 

Prince Aemond stood inspecting your slipper, brows furrowed in confusion. He looked very regal, in an outfit such a deep, rich green it almost appeared black. Gold trimmed the cuffs of his sleeves, and down the front of his shirt. You were admiring him until his violet eye met yours.

You had heard of the accident that happened to Aemond when he was a boy but you had never met him. A deep scar marred half his face before disappearing underneath an eyepatch and reappearing through his brow. Aemond’s face twisted in confusion as he looked down at you. 

“What are you doing, my lady?” he asked, voice stiff but polite. He spoke as though he could not be bothered by your foolishness. 

“Please, my prince,” you said in a hushed whisper, reaching for your shoe. Aemond did not move, still perplexed. You could hear your mother’s voice, as she chatted, followed by Cassandra Baratheon’s irritating call. 

“Why are you under- ooof!” 

Aemond was not someone who was easily surprised. But surprise him you did. Without thinking you slammed your hand into the hard muscles of his stomach, grabbing his shirt. The prince doubled over and you pulled him under the table with you. 

Aemond looked at you incredulously, shocked that he was overpowered by a maiden.

“I do apologize, my prince,” you said in earnest, hoping he would spare you his fury. You wore a desperate expression on your face, your eyes pleading. People had lost their hands entirely for putting them upon royalty, and you were rather fond of your extremities. You continue to stare at him, eyes wide, as you are crouched on your knees. 

Aemond had no idea who you were, other than some noble lady. His lips parted as he watched you, his hand still holding your slipper. Your eyes dropped to it. 

“May I have my shoe?” you asked, and Aemond jerked his head in a nod, but did not return your slipper. He felt very confused with the entirety of the situation. Aemond was not used to such tomfoolery. 

“My lady,” he began, “why are you hiding under a table?”

You wet your lips, eyes still nervous. You swallow before answering, still nervous that the prince may drag you by your hair to the nearest black cell. 

“I am hiding.”

“That is obvious,” he said, the corners of his mouth turning upwards, “from whom?”

“My mother,” you say, flinching as a shadow moves past, “she wishes to introduce me to Prince Aegon.”

Aemond hums, tucking a knee towards his chest and resting his arm atop it. He does not need further explanation. His eye roams over your form, over the dress you wear, and the layer of sweat that coats your forehead and throat from your antics. Your hairstyle is disheveled, several pins seem to be out of place, but the ones that remain sparkle in the light that sneaks through the tablecloth. 

You meet his eye and feel your cheeks turn red at his attention. He is devilishly handsome, with his silky, long silver hair and purple eye that seems to peer into your soul. The eyepatch and scar only make him seem more dangerous, causing your palms to sweat nervously. 

“I apologize, it was rather rude to involve you,” you tell him, glancing towards the floor.

Aemond chuckles, the sound coming from deep in his chest. You smile weakly at the sound, having not expected it. 

“This is the most interesting thing that has occurred all evening,” he assures you, “unless, of course, you count Lady Tyrell’s gown mishap.”

He watches your eyes widen and mouth open at his shared gossip. Aemond smiles, happy to have engaged you. He watches as the nervousness begins to fall from your face, and your shoulders relax. 

“What happened?” you ask, brows lifting in curiosity. 

“One of her sleeves caught on Lord Manderly’s broach, and tore,” he tells you, watching you cover your mouth to stifle your giggles. 

“Disasterous indeed,” you snicker and Aemond feels his lips tug into a smile. You laugh once more at the thought. A moment goes by, the pair of you sitting in silence. 

“You are free to leave my prince,” you tell him, “I do not mean to hold you, hostage.” 

“It is quite alight,” he says, earnestly, “I am enjoying the distraction.”

Aemond found this whole affair a slap in the face. Aegon was not interested in marriage, nor was he suited for it. He would rather indulge with any lady, servant, or whore he could get his hands on. 

Yet their father insisted on this spectacle for Aegon to take a wife. If he did fail to do so, Aemond knew the small council was plotting for Aegon to marry their sister Helaena. Aemond did not know which plan he hated more. 

A hand reached the edge of the tablecloth and your mother’s face became visible. Behind her stood a smirking Cassandra Baratheon. 

“Y/N,” your mother hissed, pulling you from under the table. Embarrassment was evident in her voice and you hung your head as she scolded you. 

“There, I told you Lady (Y/L/N),” Cassandra said, in a nasally voice. You scowled at her, as her face twisted in confusion as Aemond exited the table behind you. He stands holding his arms crossed behind his back. You did not realize how tall he was, he towers above you. 

“She behaves like a child,” Cassandra snaps, a shrewd smile on her lips. 

“You are a horrible cow, Cass,” you hiss at her, causing her to sneer. The look fades as she takes in Prince Aemond behind you and she bats her lashes, fanning herself. 

“Oh, my,” your mother said, looking towards Prince Aemond, “your grace.”

She begins to curtsey but Aemond waves her off.

“No need, my lady,” he told her, offering you both a smile, “I was just delighted by your daughter’s company.” Aemond holds your slipper out to show your mother. You glance towards the floor, your bare foot hidden under your skirts. 

“The lady simply lost her slipper, it rolled under the table you see,” he lies to your mother, who nods at his words. A starstruck expression is plastered on her face as she gazes up at the handsome prince. A dreamy smile plays on her mouth. 

You purse your lips, fighting a smile that threatened to appear. Aemond turned to you then, violet eye gleaming, as though acknowledging the secret he kept for you.  

“May I?” he asked, gesturing towards your foot. You nodded and he knelt before you. Aemond curled his hand around your ankle, lifting your foot from the floor and helping you inside your slipper. 

“There,” he said, looking up at you, “no harm done.”

You hear Cassandra scoff behind you, but your mother looks pleased. 

“Thank you, my prince,” you tell Aemond, as he stands. You feel fluttering in your stomach as he holds your gaze. Your ankle tingles where his hand has been.

“I do hope we run into each other again, during your stay in the capital,” he tells you.

“I should like that, very much, my prince.”

“Aemond,” he insists. 

“Aemond,” you say, enjoying the sound of his name on your tongue, with no titles attached. You smile tentatively as his name lingers in the space between you. 

Aemond bids your mother farewell and departs toward the other side of the room. Your mother locks her hand around your arm. 

“That is not the prince we came for,” she scolds, but you can tell Aemond still has her flustered. Her face is flushed, as though she is remembering her youth. She fans herself with a gloved hand. 

“You are blushing, mother,” you tease and she shoos you away, “where is Prince Aegon then?”

You glance around the room, and the only other silver-crowned head you spot is that of Princess Helaena who is engaged in a dance with her grandsire. Your mother instructed you earlier to befriend the princess, something she would surely remind you to do on the morrow as well. 

“You are too late,” Cassandra calls, fanning herself once more. You roll your eyes at her eavesdropping. Ever the nosy gossip, Cassandra is. 

“The prince has left for the night. I assume he found someone to entertain him,” Cassandra says, feigning that this does not bother her. You see through her though; Cassandra believes she is already married to Aegon in her mind. 

You flush at her words. Targaryens seem to have insatiable appetites. You bring your gaze back to your mother who frowns. 

“Do you hear how she talks of him?” you ask, “do you truly wish a man like that for me?”

Your mother scoffs at your concerns. 

“He would give you a dozen children then, several grandchildren for me,” she says, patting your arm. Your eyes widen in horror at the thought. Your mother has no qualms with you marrying a lecherous man, then. She sees your expression and gives you a look of a mother’s aggravation. 

“Do not look at me like that,” she tells you, “you need not be scared of the marriage bed.”

“Easy for you to say,” you tell her, sighing, “you are not a maiden.”

“I was once,” she says, tone hardening, “when the time is right, I shall tell you all you need know. It need not be frightening.” 

You remember the bruises on the lady’s neck and know your mother must be lying to you. How could they be born of something pleasurable? 

“May I go to bed, now that the prince is gone?” you ask and your mother sighs, before shaking her head. 

“I have been without your company all evening, you shall stay a while longer.”

You stay much longer than you intend, getting lost in gossip with your mother and other lords and ladies of court. You are even able to introduce yourself to Princess Helaena, who captures your attention with her latest fascination with an insect found on the islands of the Jade Sea. She had been reading about it, and her eyes lit up when talking about it.  

The hour is late when your mother leaves you to retire to the guest chambers you share. You linger behind to hear Lord Beesbury finish a tale. You find yourself wandering the Red Keep, searching for your chambers. 

You pass by several goldcloaks who murmur to you, politely. You yawn, as you turn a corner, walking down a corridor lit by recently revived torches. The servants of the Keep must have been told to refresh them with all the late running festivities. 

A noise catches your attention; the squeaking hinge of a door being opened followed by a giggle. The shape of a lady appears, her green dress sparkling in the light. She has red hair, and you recognize her but cannot recall her name. Your eyes widen as she smiles, hand outstretched behind her, holding onto someone. 

She pulls her partner towards her, and your eyes nearly pop out of your skull. The silver hair is unmistakable. His hair is shorter than his brother, though he wears a similar outfit to that of Aemond. His shirt is untucked and you notice the laces of the lady’s corset are loose, as though restrung in haste. Prince Aegon grins as he reaches to cup the lady’s cheeks, covering her lips in a passionate kiss. 

You stand frozen and unnoticed by the pair, entranced by their embrace. The lady makes a whimpering noise as Aegon’s hand slips down her throat, the other holding her waist against him. He removes his lips from hers, only to bring them to the side of her throat. Your lips part as you watch him kiss her neck as though it were her lips. The lady seems to enjoy this, tangling her hands in his short locks.

You are so hypnotized by Aegon’s actions, you don’t notice when the lady’s eyes open to a half-lidded stare. Her eyes widen as notices you observing them. The lady shrieks, pushing Aegon away from her. 

“What?” he grumbles, as the lady smoothes her skirt, fleeing the scene with a reddened face. Aegon watches as she rushes by you, his violet eyes meeting yours. 

Your eyes are wide, lips parted in shock, and you feel as though your feet are rooted to where you stand. Though your mind is telling you to run away, following the fleeing lady, you stare at the prince. Aegon stands shorter than his brother, his shoulders slouched in a carefree manner. His hair is wavy, the strands ending near his jaw. Like his brother, he is painfully handsome. A curse all Targaryens seem to bear. 

Aegon wets his lips, which are a shining feature of his face. Reddened and plumped from kissing, begging to be kissed again. It is as though the gods molded them for kissing and kissing alone. Aegon’s mouth opens, and his brows come together, as he takes a lazy step toward you. 

“I do not know you,” he says, his lips downturned into a pout. You swallow hard.

“I am Lady Y/N, my prince,” you tell him, clasping your hands in front of you, trying to stop them from fiddling nervously. 

“Lady Y/N,” he says your name slowly, as though tasting it. “I did not see you at the ball.”

“I was there, my prince,” you tell him, knowing your efforts of avoiding him were in vain, “it appears I did not make an impression.”

His lips turn into a smile, revealing a row of shiny white teeth. He runs his tongue over his bottom lip drawing your eyes toward his mouth.

“I should bid you goodnight, my prince,” you say urgently, turning to leave. 

“Wait!” he calls, a quickens his steps until coming to face you. 

His eyes narrow, a smile still playing on his face.

“How did I not see you?” he asks, “I always remember a pretty face.”

You feel your face flush. No matter how much he frightens you, flirtation with a prince is not something you are used to. 

“I do not know, my prince,” you tell him, flustered by his compliment. 

He sinks his teeth into his lower lip as though enjoying how you squirm beneath his gaze. 

“Come have a drink with me,” he offers, “and we can review your evening, and why we did not make each other’s acquaintance.”

Insatiable indeed. The prince was just with a maiden, and yet here he stands, planning his next course. He holds out a hand to you, a glimmer of mischief in his eye. You can picture the ladies who stood in your shoes before you, who said yes to him. Who indulged him in the pleasures of the known world. You could do so too if you so desired. His voice is inviting, a sensual caress. 

“May I speak freely, my prince?” you ask and he nods, curiously.

“I am quite frightened.”

Aegon’s head snaps back at that. 

“Frightened?” 

You nod. 

He takes a step back from you, hands held out in surrender. 

“There is no need to be frightened, my lady,” he tells you, “I wish you no harm, only the pleasure of your company.”

Your breath comes out shakily. 

“I do not wish you to bed me,” you tell him, rushing out the words, “I do not wish you to take my maidenhead.”

Aegon’s eyes go wide as saucers and he releases a laugh, before shushing you. 

“My lady, we are in a corridor,” he says, looking around as though you’ve made a foolish assumption. Your mouth opens and closes like a fish. 

“I have heard stories,” you tell him and he frowns, though there is amusement in his eyes. 

“Oh, you have?” 

“Yes,” you say, growing annoyed with him, “that you lure helpless maidens into your bed, OR any place that suits you.” You gesture to the corridor you stand in. A bed, a wall, probably on dragonback. It likely did not matter.

Aegon laughs again, a pink blush dusting his cheeks. No one has spoken to him of his reputation so directly before, outside of the members of his family. 

“How lustful of me,” he says, a grin stretching from ear to ear, “you paint me as such a wanton creature Lady Y/N.”

You raise your brows. Aegon stands before you, unashamed. It must be so easy for a prince, to be a man in this world. He is so relaxed with the conversation about his promiscuity. 

“You just had a lady in your company,” you accuse, “and now you look at me like that?”

“Like what?” he asks, leaning against the stone wall, as though the conversation was entirely natural to him. You laugh, breaking his gaze, before looking at him once more. He raises a brow, eyes still half lidded, intrigued. 

“As though you are a man starving, who has happened upon a feast,” you say, laughing at the ridiculousness of it gesturing to the space between you.  

Aegon gives you a once-over with his eyes before answering. A tingle rolls down your spine as his eyes take in every inch of you. You feel naked under his gaze. 

“Perhaps I am famished,” he tells you, and your entire body feels like it is on fire. He is very good at this, and you suddenly realize what makes women want to crawl into bed with him. If this is anything like what pleasure awaits the marriage bed, perhaps your mother was right. 

Aegon wets his lips when you do not answer, tilting his head against the wall, and exposing his neck to you. You watch the apple of his throat bob up and down and have a sudden urge to place a kiss on it. You roll your shoulders back, steadying yourself.

“Yes well,” you stutter, trying to find words, “perhaps there are leftovers from the feast.”

“Are you in the capital long?’ he asks suddenly changing the subject. You blink, the room suddenly seeming uncomfortably warm. 

“Yes, my prince, at least-”

“Good,” he interrupts, pushing off the wall and walking towards you. He comes to stand face to face with you, so close you can feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the sweet wine on his breath from the feast and something else; something rich and smoky that makes you want to bury your face in his chest and inhale. 

“I shall have that drink with you,” he says, eyes locked on yours until the final word he speaks. Only then does he drop his eyes to your parted lips, before bringing them back to your eyes. He flashes you a smile, before continuing his leave in the direction you came. 

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he calls and you turn, confused by his exit. There was something in the air between you that promised something more. The tension gnawing at you. Aegon has begun walking backward slowly, so he could face you, a smirk on his lips, as he takes in your expression. You feel your thoughts are not safe around him. 

“Goodnight, my prince,” you manage to choke out, head spinning from the interaction. 

“Aegon,” he insists.

“Aegon,” you repeat and he tilts his head back, as though enjoying hearing you speak his name. 

Then he turns on his heel and is gone. 

When you finally make it to your chambers, the sky has begun to lighten with the promise of imminent sunrise. You lay in bed, thoughts racing and heart pounding. Your dreams are restless, filled with dragon princes with silver hair and lavender eyes.

[daenerysaizie]

𐔌 . ⋮ REALM’S DELIGHT .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

MK1 x Targaryen!Reader

Note:

Game of Thrones concept included in MK 1. Even though, Game of Thrones is kanonically a show in the MK world (shown in the DLC), in this fanfic it’s not lol. Also, I will be changing plots and details for the both. Will get confusing as I’m not an experienced writer and yes :3 OH! You’re also basically Daenarys, sharing the look of classic Valyrian (only hair and eye color) and characteristics. If you don’t know anything about Game of Thrones, don’t worry I will explain it in the fic? But do realize it’s heavily rewritten so it’s not the same as the kanon one. Heavily inspired by “Kombat Hearts” by @ilykirara and “New Era” by @atlasofthestaars . I love this two fics so so much<3 female reader? But read however you like.

Edit: changed the story lil bit to fit the flow🩷

Chapter 1 — Everytime a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin.

In the year 283 AC (After Conquest) on Dragonstone, Westeros, a storm raged, with fierce winds and crashing waves echoing the pain that consumed Queen Rhaella. She lay in labor, her face pale and drawn, haunted by fear—fear of soon losing a husband to his madness and sons to a brutal world. Yet, she clung to her strength, whispering, “This child is of House Targaryen,” as though breathing life into the fire in her womb.

At the storm’s peak, the child was born—a girl with silvery hair and eyes like amethysts. Rhaella looked upon her newborn daughter with a bittersweet smile. Her breaths grew shallow, each one softer than the last, yet her gaze held firm. She would not yield to death, not yet. Her lips parted, and with a fragile voice, she spoke her child’s name—a final act of love and defiance.

—

They called you Stormborn. The youngest child of King Aerys, princess of Dragonstone—a darling of the fortress that rose dark and forbidding from the rocky, windswept island, surrounded by an endless sea. In your early years, you grew up there, often found by the beach, close to the waves, with sand in your hair and the scent of salt in your nose. You loved the sea; it made you feel free. The cold, unyielding stones of Dragonstone comforted you, and to your young eyes, this was home. Warm and protective.

You were never alone. Upon your mother’s death, the King, your father, appointed guards and servants to remain by your side at all times, just as he had for Viserys, your elder brother. Before you or Viserys, Queen Rhaella had suffered multiple miscarriages and stillbirths. This led the King, who was starting show signs of insanity, to suspect her, and he sent her away to Dragonstone from King’s Landing. He would visit her only after executing someone by fire.

Raised on the island, you knew little of the world beyond—King’s Landing, the Seven Kingdoms, or even your eldest brother, Rhaegar, whom you met only twice. You have met your father supposedly just once, when you were a babe. Viserys was your only guide, the voice that taught and reassured you. Sharing quite the big of age gap, he knew beyond the misty, cold walls.

When conditions grew too dangerous, you were too young to understand why you had to leave.

“Brother, please come with me. I’m scared,” you whispered, clinging to him. Viserys held you tightly. “I must stay. I am the Prince of Dragonstone, It is right for me to stay,” he replied, pressing a small bag into your hands. “Sister, I promise I’ll bring you back home. Protect this at all costs. It is the crown of King Jaehaerys I.” You clutched the bag close, nodding.

A man with clad in blue took your small hand and led you away from the only home you’d known to a place far, far away. Clutching the bag with the crown, you looked back at your brother for a final look. The maids and servants who had raised you weeped as they watched you leave.

In time, you would soon forget the feel of home and the memories it bore, but never the promise your brother made or the vow you’d taken to guard the crown.

—

You stayed at a placed called the Lin Kuei when you fled from home. The Lin Kuei's former Grandmaster knew your father personally. How? You didn't know. All you knew was that the Grandmaster was kind enough to lend a hand to your father and save his only daughter. "Do you know why you are here, little dragon?" He bent down to your toddler body. You gripped the golden crown to your chest. "Home is dangerous." you replied as you looked at the Grandmaster. He had the face of a strict man, but deep in his eyes, you could see honor and kindness burn. He hummed as he nodded, "You will be safe here." he told you as he put his hand on your head. And you were, for years.

Obviously, being in the clan, you were destined to meet the three sons he had. You became close to the youngest one, Tomas. He bore almost the same burdens as you and understood your pains and discomfort. Eventually, you got close to Kuai Liang too. He took care of you and guarded you away from the clan's considerably cruel side. However, as for Bi-Han, you never got the chance to get close. He was heir to his clan, making him busier than his brothers. To your memory, he was cold and strict, stricter than his father. The only vivid memory you have of him is him asking you how your hair and eye color were so... different. You could not give him an answer that satisfied his curiosity.

As you got older, when you showed the sign of maturity in body and mind, you were sent away once again. Somewhere much safer and peaceful. According to the former Grandmaster, the clan was not made for you; you were meant to live a life that was peaceful, not a life to become a skilled warrior. Thus, Madam Bo, a former Lin Kuei warrior, took you to the village where she resided. You would keep contact in with the Lin Kuei brothers through letters. Though, the last letter you got from was a year ago now.

You lived with Madam Bo for many years now. She taught you everything you needed to know, from tough love to combat (for self defense). You remember the moment she brought you to Fengjian as clear as day. The night was as silent as death when she brought you to this quaint village. Her horse's gallops echoed through the stillness, bringing little bit of life to the sleeping village. She had you firmly seated in front of her on her horse, your hair skillfully concealed beneath her deep purple scarf. Madam Bo took great care to inform you of the local norms and the dos and the don’ts. She explained that your unique features, which were considered royal in Westeros and the Essos, would seem different and will be only met with curiosity. You were also strongly advised to not speak of your old home or family name.

Through Madam Bo, you were able to meet Kung Lao and Raiden. "Thick-skulled boys," she would call them. Growing up, the three of you sparred, trained, and played together. Being homeschooled, Raiden and Kung Lao were diligent in ensuring that you didn't miss out on any fun experiences. After grueling training sessions, the males took turns to take you out for treats. In return, you helped them with various tasks around the farm. This included harvesting the freshly grown vegetables, a labor of gratitude from you. They were also vigilant in ensuring that no boys with ‘ill intentions’ ever bothered you with courting or whatever. Whenever you insisted you could handle yourself, they would respond with a confident "I know," followed by a statement that they knew even better because they were males. In retort, you would often ask, "In that case, should I be cautious of you two as well?" to which they would simply shut down.

—

It was early in the morning, 5 AM to be exact, as you sat on your bed staring at the golden crown in your hands. It was the last thing you had that represented your family's existence and was evidence of your royal heritage. The crown had a large sigil of a three-headed dragon at its center, while seven smaller gems of different colors decorated the rest. You had the same dream again. At this point, you could recall every detail.

"BURN THEM ALL! BURN THEM ALL!" A hoarse, old voice boomed through the room. An old man with a long white beard and crazed eyes yelled, ordering his pyromancers (who used some kind of chemicals to start major fires) while he sat on the Iron Throne, a seat made from thousands of swords. The pyromancers hesitated. It was your father who sat on the throne, though you didn’t know it was him; his unmistakable Valyrian looks—white hair and purple eyes—gave it away. He continued to yell until one of his guards, a golden-haired man with blurry face, drew his sword, stabbed him in the back, and slit his throat. The golden-haired guard watched your crazed father bleed to death as he sat on his throne, yet your father still whispered the same thing as he bled on the floor: "Burn them all."

You ponder if the dream was a real event or not. After all, you were never there to witness this event, and you were extremely young when you fled from home. Plus, you had no memory of ever meeting your father or what he looked like. What if it was a cruel joke your mind played?

"No use thinking about it," you whisper to yourself as you put away the crown into your nightstand's drawer. With one swift move, you get up to get ready for the day. After all, you had so much to do. You start your morning routine and change from your nightgown into more proper clothes for the day.

—

The day went by rather quickly. From getting fresh vegetables and produce early in the morning to serving customers until closing time, the day went smoothly. Almost too smoothly. You sigh and hum as you watch your two friends put away food like vacuums, with Kung Lao doing most of the work as usual. It was amusing - how did his stomach not burst? It was superhuman, you swore. Soon, you saw Madam Bo approach the two with a massive bill in her hand. Poor Raiden and his wallet.

Despite closing hours arriving, a few drunken uncles from the village stayed behind. One made a mess on the bottom floor, which you had to clean up. You mopped the floor as the drunken man apologized. "Ahhhh, I'm sorry! Here, here, have this," he slurred his words as he handed you an unopened bottle of beer. You shook your head and refused his token of apology. You chuckled inwardly as you washed away the mess from the floor.

Suddenly, Madam Bo came down to the bottom floor and crashed into the table, breaking it. She was unconscious. "Madam Bo?!" you exclaimed in horror. The drunken uncles behind you seemed to sober up and stare. You looked up to see the culprit with wide eyes.

The man with very familiar hair jumped down to the floor, landing next to Madam Bo's unconscious body. He wore mask that covered his face. Your chest tightened as fear clouded your mind for her. You tried running towards her as the previously drunken guy, now sober from the shock, grabbed your wrist. "Are you crazy!? He's going to kill you!" he whispered as he tugged you, preparing to run. "Go" you whispered back to him. The once-drunken guy thought for a moment and let your wrist go when he saw your determined face. He dashed out of the place with a few other people. You still gripped the mop in your hand as the man approached you. He had grey hair that reminded you of Tomas from your childhood. Was it truly him? You hadn't seen the man for years!

"Surrender to the Lin Kuei! Or end up like her," he replied as he prepared his karambit, aiming it at you. It is him! Is this what the Lin Kuei does now? you thought anxiously. "I thought the Lin Kuei protected people from harm. I never thought you would stoop this low," you spoke calmly, with a hidden wobble in your voice. How could your childhood friend do this?

Kung Lao and Raiden shout your name from the floor above after taking out the other members of the clan. They try to go down to help you, but Bi-Han and Kuai Liang stop them in their tracks. "You interfere with Lin Kuei business. Leave, or face our wrath!" Bi-Han warns as he dramatically stands on the rooftop. Kuai Liang approaches the two with his weapon from behind, swinging it in the air. "Abandon Madam Bo and her? Not happening," Kung Lao replies. After his reply, Bi-Han launches himself at Raiden while Kuai Liang grabs Kung Lao, pulling him towards himself as he yells ferociously, "Get over here!"

Tomas slowly approaches you with his karambit, closing the distance between you two, as if he were a hunter and you were his prey. You contemplate your actions as you grip the mop tighter until your knuckles turn white. When the gap closes, he swings his karambit at you. You dodge his attack and use the tip of the mop to strike his stomach multiple times before hitting him hard on the head with the mop's end. He falls down. "No, it can't be that easy," you think to yourself as you look at his ‘unconscious’ body. Emotions surge through you the more you look at him, unsure how to feel, but you take the result for granted, leaving the mop near his head and running towards Madam Bo.

The noises around you seem to blur as you barely breathe. You gently turn her body to see her, and your hands shakily brush her face to sweep away the strands of her hair. "Madam Bo?" you whisper with great worry and fear. Soon enough, Kung Lao and Raiden come running down to you. They ask about your condition first before turning to Madam Bo. "Oh no. Is she—" Kung Lao is cut off when Madam Bo suddenly opens her eyes and looks at you three. "Dead? Not yet." You three can hear the playfulness in her voice as she stands up. You and Raiden are quick to help her, but she brushes away your hands as she swiftly lights up her cigarette. "Madam Bo, how are you—" Kung Lao gets interrupted again. Raiden points at the stairs, "Guys!"

"So, Madam Bo, are they ready?" A man comes down as he takes his hood off, revealing his glowing eyes and chiseled face that bears a small, proud smile. You notice it's the same man who caught your attention earlier today. Madam Bo was fondly standing at his table as she served him tea. You anxiously fidget with the ring on your middle finger. Raiden notices your fidgeting and gently takes your hand, holding it firmly with care.

Madam Bo stands in front as if to present you three. "These two are a bit thick in the head, perhaps... But they are ready," she says, referring to Raiden and Kung Lao. "However, I did not think my child would be included in the exam," she chuckles as she glances at you.

"His eyes are glowing," Raiden blurts out to Kung Lao, who is on his right side with you on his left, still holding your hand.

"I am Lord Liu Kang, God of Fire and Protector of Earthrealm," the man with glowing eyes introduces himself as he connects his hands together and folds his arms. In response, you gently let go of Raiden's hand to bow to the god. "God? Earthrealm?" Kung Lao asks with curiosity as Raiden observes the god, silently mourning the loss of contact with your hand.

"Madam Bo has been preparing you for this moment since you were boys. Today you have proven worthy of joining my champions," he explains further.

"This fight was a test?" Raiden asks. The god smiles and nods, "Of your ability and character, yes. Bi-Han, Kuai Liang, Tomas," he calls out to the Lin Kuei members. Bi-Han and Kuai Liang come down the stairs while Tomas, who was already on the same floor, stands up and positions himself behind the god.

"So these three aren't thugs?" Kung Lao asks suspiciously, eyeing them. You can only send an apologetic look to Tomas, who returns it with soft eyes.

"The Lin Kuei is a centuries-old clan dedicated to Earthrealm's defense," the god explains.

"You keep saying Earthrealm. Don't you mean Earth?" Raiden asks, confused. Madam Bo chuckles as you smile. You already possessed a little information of this topic. "You boys have so much to learn," she says.

"Earth is only part of Earthrealm. Earthrealm itself is one of many realms. Together they comprise the whole of the universe," the god explains, gesturing with his hands. "The realms can be fierce, bitter rivals. That's why we need champions to defend ours," Madam Bo adds. "The time draws near for the grand martial arts tournament between Earthrealm and the realm of Outworld. Held once each century, it allows each realm to demonstrate its strength. While our realms are at peace, there are Outworlders who would prefer us to be at war. Our victory in the tournament will... temper their zeal," the god concludes.

Madam Bo turns to the boys and partially to you, "I've taught you everything I can. You must finish your training with Lord Liu Kang," she informs them.

"More training? These three couldn't defeat us," Kung Lao asks skeptically. At his remark, Bi-Han scoffs audibly, which makes Madam Bo chuckle along with him.

"They were pulling their punches," she explains. You nod at her words as you remember the Lin Kuei being so formidable and strong. "Had we not held back, you would not have survived," Bi-Han says proudly and threateningly, stepping forward slightly. Lord Liu Kang blocks his way and interrupts him. "Come. The monks at the Wu Shi Academy await to continue your tutelage." The god offers the choice, which Kung Lao accepts without hesitation.

"And you, Raiden?" the god asks. Raiden hesitates, "Leave Fengjian? I'm needed here," he replies. Madam Bo steps in, "Earthrealm needs you, Raiden. You'll best serve the village by being one of its champions," she assures him. After considering for a moment, Raiden agrees to the god's offer with a simple "I understand."

"How about you? You have proven yourself to be worthy as well," the god turns to you as he utters your name. You, who had been silent the whole time, gape at his question. You point towards yourself, "Me?" you ask, to confirm. Madam Bo chuckles. "Come on! You heard the god. The three of us could train together like we always did!" Kung Lao says as he steps forward towards you as Raiden nods in agreement. You were unsure. "But I do not fight well and I cannot leave Madam Bo." you answer bluntly. At your words, Madam Bo chuckles as she pushes you towards the god by your waist. "Forgive me, Lord Liu Kang. As you can see, she is timid, obedient, and so humble. But she has the spirit of the dragon." she says. The god and everyone else only looks at you and awaits your answer. You sigh and nod, which earns a proud smile from Madam Bo.

"Excellent. I will join you soon. First, there are other champions I must gather," the god says.

—

Lord Liu Kang departed the tea house to gather his other champions with Kung Lao and Raiden shortly after him, to prepare for the Wu Shi academy.

The Lin Kuei stayed behind to clean up the aftermath of their physical test, during which you exchanged subtle glances with them. It had been over a decade since you last saw them, and they had transformed from boys into men, now towering above you easily. Their faces had become more defined and chiseled, contrasting the young boys you remembered.

“You dyed your hair.” Tomas remarks as he approaches you. You were setting the chairs upside down on the table to sweep any debris or broken objects. “Ah, I had to” you return his greeting with a warm smile and stand up straight. A moment of silence hangs between you, filled with the unspoken words and nostalgia.

“You and your brothers haven’t written for a year now. Why?” You ask with curiosity. As you ask about the lack of communication from the brothers, Tomas chuckles softly and explains, “Many more new initiates. How about you? You haven’t written to us as well,” He then turns it back on you, wondering why you haven't written either. You answer in a soft voice, your smile revealing a hint of melancholy. "Life hasn't changed much for me," you reply. "I didn't want to bother you or your brother."

Tomas can only hum in response and before you could speak. “We will leave” Bi-Han commands, followed by Kuai Liang, as he walks up to you and Tomas. You immediately bow to them in greeting, and Bi-Han responds with a nod. Kuai Liang, on the other hand, returns your greeting with a slight bow.

"It was lovely seeing you three again," you say, your smile lighting up the conversation. "I hope we'll meet more in the future." There was happiness in your voice as you express this sentiment, despite the awkwardness, it was still refreshing to be in their presence. Kuai Liang responds with a simple, but sincere "I agree." Bi-Han quickly guides his brothers and the members of the clan out of the tea house, after finish repairing.

As the repair work on the tea house concludes, you realize that the only task left is the chore of cleaning. With a sigh, you mentally prepare yourself for the tedious process of scrubbing and tidying up, accepting the fact that it's part of your responsibilities. Madam Bo helped you, as always.

[madamabelladonna]

𝐁𝐚𝐧𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐖𝐡𝐬𝐢𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Young Lady Dayne captivated the feast held by King Viserys in honor of his grandson, her presence and dance stirring much interest among the court. The murmurs of a possible union between the Seven Kingdoms and The Principality of Dorne swirled in the air, though beneath the revelry, rumors threatened to unravel such hopes. 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: Jealousy, Criston 'Rice Krispy' Cole, Rumors, Blood, Fighting, Doubt 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The sun beat down mercilessly on the field, the clang of metal ringing out as one knight after another thundered across the jousting lane, their lances held firm. The air buzzed with the tension of each collision, the cheers of the crowd swelling like a wave each time two mounted warriors clashed.

Dust flew up from the hooves of their horses, and the ground shook with the force of the charges. Splinters of wood burst from the shattered lances, and the crowd roared. Knights that missed their marks wheeled around for another attempt, fresh lances thrust into their hands by eager squires, eyes wide with anticipation.

Most contests were settled swiftly. A single blow often sent one knight tumbling from his steed, his armor clattering loudly as he fell to the earth. The victor paraded triumphantly while the vanquished was left sprawling, sometimes unconscious, sometimes worse—lifeless.

The ground had already claimed several today. Their bodies were dragged away, while the winner would bask in the moment, trotting proudly toward the stands where a lady’s favor awaited.

It was brutal, yet the crowd relished it. Blood, broken shields, and the scent of sweat mingled with the afternoon air, intoxicating the onlookers who howled for more. It was hardly what you imagined as a fitting celebration for a name day. But then, war was never far from sport.

Another knight crumpled to the ground, and his opponent—the victor—didn’t hesitate to prance his horse over the fallen man, barely missing trampling him underfoot. The crowd roared its approval, unconcerned with the fate of the fallen.

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat. If a knight survived the fall, the contest turned into a duel on foot, steel against steel until one yielded—or bled out. The tournament showed no mercy.

Ser Criston Cole, in all his egotistical glory, was next. His white armor gleamed beneath the sun, a stark contrast to the blood-soaked dirt beneath him. He faced a knight of House Darklyn, their sigil clear on his tattered shield.

Cole lowered his lance, charging with such ferocity that the impact shattered the Darklyn knight’s shield to splinters, the wood and metal flying into the crowd as gasps erupted from the onlookers.

Without hesitation, Cole turned his horse, readying himself for another pass. This time, there was no contest—the Darklyn knight was dispatched with brutal efficiency, crumpling to the ground as Cole reined in his steed.

He removed his helmet, revealing a self-satisfied smirk as he sauntered toward the Royal Box. “I ask for the favor of the Queen Consort, Alicent Hightower,” he declared, his voice ringing out across the arena. The smirk on his lips was unmistakable, a show of arrogance that made the moment all the more uncomfortable.

Queen Alicent stood gracefully, her cold gaze sweeping over you, Jacaerys, and Lucerys before landing on Criston. The air between her and the Royal Box was frosty, her movements measured as she descended the steps to meet him. Her gown, rich green silk, shimmered as she approached. She slid her favor—a delicate ribbon—down the length of Criston’s lance, her eyes dark and unreadable.

“I wish you luck, Ser Criston,” she said coolly, her voice sharp enough to cut. The look she gave him was clear: win, or else.

She returned to her seat beside King Viserys, leaving an uneasy tension in her wake. You exchanged a glance with Jacaerys, who sat beside you, his brow furrowed. “Did you make a favor?” he asked quietly, his gaze flicking to the small bundle beside you.

You had. A small token woven from purple larkspurs with Isla’s help. Yet, you doubted any knight would ask for it. You were only seven years old, far too young for the attention of knights seeking favor. Courtship, after all, was a part of this tradition, and no knight in his right mind would seek a favor from a child.

“I did,” you admitted, nodding toward the carefully crafted ribbon beside you. “But I doubt anyone would ask for it.” If Merek had participated in the tourney, the favor would have undoubtedly been his. He was your older brother, after all, and there was no knight you trusted or admired more.

You could already picture him astride his white steed, his silver armor gleaming in the sunlight as he charged with the grace and strength that came so naturally to him. Merek was the Sword of the Morning, and though he bore the weight of his title with quiet dignity, his presence commanded respect on the field.

Jacaerys shifted in his seat, glancing at the purple favor. “I’ll take it,” he said, his words abrupt, but his tone sincere. The suddenness of the offer made you blink in surprise.

A laugh escaped you. “You’re not even in the tourney.” But there was warmth in your voice. The idea of Jacaerys taking your favor, even if it served no purpose, made the rejection of it by others sting less.

Jacaerys smiled, his hand brushing yours. “If no one else asks for it, I will,” he promised. You smiled softly, nodding as the next match was announced. Ser Harwin Strong, the Breakbones, was up, facing a third son of House Footly. As the knights prepared, you glanced once more at Jacaerys, feeling a small swell of warmth.

Even if the world overlooked your favor, he wouldn’t.

The roar of the crowd surged as Ser Harwin Strong, known as Breakbones for his unmatched strength, readied himself for the next tilt. His massive frame loomed over his horse, the dark steel of his armor gleaming ominously under the midday sun. His opponent, the Footly Knight, looked small in comparison, the colors of his house pale and fragile against Harwin’s imposing presence.

You leaned forward slightly, your heart quickening as the two knights prepared to charge. The banners of both houses fluttered in the breeze, but the crowd's excitement was palpable—they knew who the favorite was. The Footly knight lowered his lance, the wood trembling in his hands. Across the field, Harwin’s lance was steady, aimed directly at the center of his opponent's chest.

A horn blared, and the knights surged forward. The ground shook beneath the horses’ hooves, a rumbling that vibrated through your feet and up into your chest. The Footly knight made the first move, but his aim faltered.

His lance grazed Harwin’s shield, but before he could recover, Harwin’s strike hit true. The impact was thunderous. Wood splintered as Harwin’s lance shattered against the Footly knight’s armor, sending him sprawling to the ground in a tangled heap of metal and dust.

The crowd erupted into wild cheers, the noise almost deafening as Ser Harwin rode victoriously to the center of the field. His helmet gleamed in the sunlight as he dismounted with ease, casting a glance toward the royal box. There was no hesitation in his step as he walked toward Rhaenyra, his broad shoulders cutting through the sea of spectators.

Your breath caught as the crowd fell silent, watching with bated breath. Harwin removed his helmet, his dark curls tumbling free, a confident grin on his face. His gaze was fixed solely on Rhaenyra as he knelt before her, offering his lance in a gesture that made the meaning of his request clear.

"I ask for the favor of the Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen," Harwin said, his voice booming enough to carry over the arena. Rhaenyra, seated regally beside Laenor, allowed a small smile to play across her lips.

The wind tugged gently at her silvery blonde hair, but her eyes never left Harwin. Slowly, with the grace befitting a princess, she stood, her gown of black and red shifting like molten fire as she descended the steps to meet him. The crowd watched in silence, hanging on her every move.

When she reached him, Rhaenyra carefully tied her favor—a ribbon of deep crimson—around the shaft of Harwin’s lance. The moment felt intimate, even among the throngs of onlookers. Her fingers lingered briefly on the silk, and there was an unmistakable spark in her eyes as she looked down at him.

“I grant you my favor, Ser Harwin,” she said, her voice soft but filled with unmistakable warmth.

The crowd roared again, but this time, there was something different about their cheers. The favor of a princess was not something to be given lightly. You could feel Jacaerys tense beside you, his gaze flickering to Rhaenyra and then back to the field.

He seemed to understand the significance, as did everyone watching. Ser Harwin rose to his feet, a glint of triumph in his eyes as he accepted Rhaenyra’s favor, his lips curling into a knowing smile.

If it were not for King Viserys’s unwavering protection, the whispers would have turned to open accusations. The legitimacy of Jacaerys and his younger brother, Lucerys, was questioned by many. Though Laenor Velaryon claimed them as his sons, they bore none of the striking Targaryen features—the platinum blonde with a metallic sheen hair, the violet eyes.

Instead, they seemed to favor the strong, dark looks of House Strong. The resemblance was too glaring for some, yet no one dared to utter such suspicions aloud. To question their parentage in the presence of the king was to court death. King Viserys made sure of that, and the court had learned to bite their tongues, lest they lose them.

Beside you, Jacaerys turned toward Lucerys, who was blissfully unaware of the tension that hung in the air. His younger brother, still innocent in the ways of court politics, grinned widely, his eyes shining with admiration for the man who had just bested his opponent in the lists.

"Ser Harwin is really the strongest man in the world!" Lucerys sounded, his voice filled with boyish enthusiasm. His words rang out, innocent and pure, as if the truth of Harwin’s strength was all that mattered to him.

Jacaerys, however, remained silent. He had grown up with those whispers—whispers that gnawed at him like a festering wound. Though he never spoke of it, you could see the weight of those rumors in his eyes. He had heard them all his life, questioning who his true father was. 

You caught his faint smile, a weak attempt to mask the uncertainty that lingered beneath the surface. When his gaze met yours, you could feel the silent plea for reassurance. Jacaerys had always sought comfort in you, a steady presence amidst the doubts that shadowed his existence.

You clutched Jacaerys’ hand with both of yours, squeezing it gently but firmly. “My prince,” you said softly, your voice steady and sure. Despite being of the Principality of Dorne, your House Dayne sworn to Martell, it made no difference. Jacaerys—whether he looked Targaryen, Velaryon, or even Strong—would always be a prince in your eyes.

His eyes flickered toward yours, searching for reassurance in your face. You gave him a slight shake of his hand, grounding him in the moment, and in your loyalty. In a world where bloodlines and appearances could doom a man before he even spoke, your allegiance was clear. Jacaerys Velaryon was the prince you followed, and no amount of courtly whispers would change that.

A faint, grateful smile tugged at the corner of his lips, though the weight of his unspoken doubts lingered in the air. He nodded, just enough to let you know that your words had reached him. And though he had never voiced his fears aloud, the unspoken truth lay between you, heavier with each passing day.

But no one could question his blood. Not when he had a dragon. The birth of Vermax from his cradle had silenced many of the rumors, at least on the surface. Dragons only hatched for those with the blood of Old Valyria, and Vermax had bonded with Jacaerys from the moment the egg cracked open.

That, at least, was proof enough for many that he carried the blood of House Targaryen. And more than that, he was the heir, destined to follow in his mother’s footsteps, whether the realm accepted it or not.

He was a prince of the realm. And his dragon would be a reminder to those who doubted him that he was, indeed, of the blood of the dragon.

The tournament field as the final match loomed on the horizon. The air was thick with the mingling scents of earth and sweat, each breath heavy with anticipation. The crowd’s roars rumbled like distant thunder, an ominous reminder of the spectacle that was about to unfold. Today’s contest was no mere exhibition—it was a clash of titans, a contest between the sworn shields of the heir and the queen.

Ser Criston Cole, the Queen’s Sworn Shield, stood tall and unyielding in his polished ivory armor. His presence was a beacon of steely determination, his eyes like flint, scanning the field with a single-minded focus. His reputation as a fierce and relentless fighter had preceded him, and his confidence seemed almost to radiate from his very being, burning brightly in the fading light.

Opposite him, Ser Harwin Strong, the Heir’s Sworn Shield, waited with the raw, untamed intensity that had earned him the fearsome title of Breakbones. His armor, dark and imposing, contrasted starkly with Criston’s gleaming ensemble. Harwin’s eyes burned with a fierce resolve, the promise of brutal force evident in every line of his powerful frame.

As the horn blared, signaling the start of the final match, the knights charged with a thunderous roar that shook the very earth beneath them. The ground trembled beneath their steeds, their hooves pounding in a rhythmic fury. Lances were held high, their deadly points aimed with lethal precision.

The collision was monumental. Criston’s lance met Harwin’s with a splintering crash that reverberated through the arena. The impact was so intense it felt like a shockwave, rippling through the ground and the air. The crowd's cheers crescendoed into a fevered roar, a cacophony of excitement and tension that seemed to envelop the entire field. The clash of metal rang out like a grim symphony of war, echoing through the stands.

Criston’s shield shattered under the relentless force of Harwin’s assault, the fragments scattering like broken glass. With a roar of fury, Criston pressed forward, desperate to regain control, but Harwin was relentless. His lance, now bereft of its shield, struck with a decisive blow, unseating Criston from his horse with a resounding crash. The Queen’s Sworn Shield hit the ground hard, the clang of his armor echoing sharply as he struggled to rise, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

The crowd fell into a tense hush as Harwin dismounted with purposeful strides. “Bring me my sword!” he barked to the squire waiting at the side. The boy scrambled to obey, his face a mask of urgency. Criston, rising from the ground with visible effort, reached for his morningstar, which had been retrieved by another squire. The match had shifted, now turning into a fierce duel of skill and willpower.

You, Jacaerys, and Lucerys sat close together, your hands clasped tightly, the unity of your grip a small comfort amidst the escalating tension. You could feel the steady pulse of your heartbeat in your fingers as you held on to them, your gaze unwaveringly fixed on the arena.

Lucerys turned to you, his face a picture of anxious worry. “He’ll win…won’t he?” he asked, his voice barely more than a breath. His eyes were wide, reflecting the weight of the moment, the uncertainty that clung to him as the match transitioned into a grueling contest of arms.

You bit your lip, the anxiety evident in the gesture, as Criston Cole swung his morningstar with a vicious intent that spoke volumes about his desperation. Each swing was a brutal testament to his skill and aggression, the weapon cutting through the air with a deadly grace. The determination in Criston’s eyes was palpable, and each strike was a calculated effort to subdue Harwin.

“I…I don’t know,” you replied, your voice trembling slightly as you squeezed Jacaerys’ hand tighter. You found yourself praying to the Warrior, only hoping that Harwin’s formidable strength and unyielding spirit would see him through to victory.

Criston’s morningstar whirled through the air, its menacing arc aimed to deliver a crushing blow. The sight of the weapon, swinging with such force and precision, made your stomach churn with unease. 

With a determined roar, Harwin pushed through Criston's defense. He deflected the morningstar with a powerful swipe of his sword, then, with a forceful thrust, drove Criston back. The Queen’s Sworn Shield stumbled, his armor clanking loudly as he struggled to maintain his footing.

Harwin’s next strike was decisive. With a roar of triumph, he swung his sword in a sweeping arc that caught Criston off balance. The blow landed with a resounding crash, and Criston was sent sprawling to the ground, his morningstar flying from his grasp. The impact was so forceful it seemed to echo through the arena, the crowd erupting in a roar of astonishment and excitement.

Criston hit the ground hard, his armor ringing with a loud clang as he tried to rise. His breath came in ragged gasps, his once-proud figure now battered and humbled. Harwin stood over him, his chest heaving with exertion, the gleam of victory in his eyes.

The crowd watched in breathless silence as Harwin raised his sword high, a gesture of both triumph and challenge. “Yield, Ser Criston!” he bellowed, his voice carrying across the field with a commanding authority.

Criston, his pride bruised but his spirit unbroken, nodded in acknowledgment. “I yield,” he shouted back, his voice strained but clear.

A triumphant cheer erupted from the stands, the roar of the crowd a deafening wave that surged through the arena. Harwin’s supporters hailed him as the victor, their cheers mingling with the clatter of armor and the sound of clanging swords. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows over the field as the final moments of the match played out.

You, Jacaerys, and Lucerys sat side by side, your hands still clasped tightly. Lucerys’s eyes were wide with a mixture of relief and awe, his earlier anxiety replaced by a smile of triumph. “He did it!” he exclaimed, his voice full of youthful excitement.

You and Jacaerys exchanged a lighthearted laugh as Lucerys's exuberant cheers filled the air. The excitement was palpable, his shouts blending into the collective roar of the crowd. You leaned closer to Jacaerys, the warmth of his presence a comforting anchor amid the sea of elation.

“He deserves to be called the Strongest in the Realm,” you whispered, your breath warm against his ear. Your words were meant to be reassuring, a quiet acknowledgment of Harwin’s remarkable victory. You glanced towards the victorious knight, who was now basking in the adulation of the crowd.

If any shadows of doubt about Jacaerys’ parentage lingered, if the whispers of Ser Harwin being his father held any truth, then today was a moment to be proud of. Harwin’s prowess was undeniable, a testament to strength and honor that transcended mere rumor.

Jacaerys’ eyes softened, and he leaned his head gently on your shoulder, a gesture of trust and comfort. The weight of the day’s tension seemed to lift as he allowed himself a rare moment of relaxation. “Yeah,” he murmured, his voice carrying a note of relief.

The tournament, with all its intensity and spectacle, was finally drawing to a close, and the satisfaction of Harwin’s triumph seemed to ease the burden of the day. You could feel the warmth of Jacaerys’ breath against your neck, the cheers of the crowd faded into a distant hum as you shared this quiet moment together, the world narrowing to just the two of you and the simple joy of the tournament’s end.

Harwin strode over to the Royal Box, where Rhaenyra sat with the regal poise that had become her signature. The queen’s eyes met his, a glimmer of pride and relief shining through her composure. With a deep bow, Harwin presented her with the lance, its shaft still adorned with the crimson ribbon she had bestowed upon him.

“Your Grace,” he said, his voice ringing clear in the twilight, “I crown you the Queen of Love and Beauty.”

The words hung in the air, a declaration of triumph and honor. Rhaenyra rose from her seat, her gown flowing like a river of flame as she stepped forward. The crowd’s cheers swelled, a roaring tide of approval and adoration.

As she accepted the crown of victory from Harwin, her smile was radiant, the culmination of her victory and the culmination of a day steeped in fierce competition and honor.

As noon arrived, the festivities continued in full swing. The field had quieted after the grand tournament, and now, amidst the lingering echoes of cheers and laughter, you, Jacaerys, and Lucerys found yourselves caught up in a playful game of tag. The warmth of the sun kissed your cheeks, and the gentle breeze rustled through the trees, adding a lively backdrop to your impromptu game.

Jacaerys and Lucerys darted around the garden with youthful exuberance, their laughter ringing out like a merry chime. You, equally spirited, chased after them with determined glee, your dress swirling with each quick step. The game was a joyful reprieve from the grandeur of the tournament, a chance for the young princes to unwind and revel in the simple pleasure of play.

The air was filled with the scent of blooming flowers and the faint aroma of feast preparations. In the distance, the sounds of nobles conversing and glasses clinking hinted at the festivities to come. Tonight’s grand banquet in the Throne Room was anticipated with great excitement—a celebration of Jacaerys’ eighth name day that promised opulence and splendor.

As you played, nobles from across the Realm mingled and drank merrily in anticipation of the evening’s festivities. The garden was abuzz with conversation, their voices a blend of animated chatter and laughter.

Many had brought their young daughters, hoping to catch the young prince’s eye. However, despite their efforts, their attempts seemed to fall flat. Prince Jacaerys, blissfully unaware of their designs, was absorbed in the joyful company of a certain Lady of House Dayne—namely, you.

The nobles’ eyes followed the game with a mixture of curiosity and amusement, but it was clear that the prince’s attention was fully engaged with you. Jacaerys’ infectious laughter and genuine delight were focused entirely on your shared game, his gaze rarely straying from your smiling face.

The nobles’ reactions ranged from curiosity to thinly veiled disapproval. They whispered amongst themselves, casting sidelong glances and speculating on the motives behind House Dayne's presence. Their murmurs hinted at a simmering bitterness, directed not only at you but at the perceived intrusion of a Dornish girl so close in age to the prince.

It seemed as though their animosity extended to their own daughters, who had envisioned themselves as potential princesses. Their aspirations were now thwarted by your presence—an outsider from a land they considered beneath them.

Your hand connected with the back of Lucerys, and he squealed in delight. “You’re it!” you called out, your voice full of playful mischief as you darted away. The younger prince’s face lit up with a competitive grin as he set off in pursuit of Jacaerys.

Lucerys, his small legs pumping with energy, chased after Jacaerys, who was laughing and shouting, “Don’t go after me, go after Wren!” The words came out in a burst of breathless laughter as Jacaerys veered off to the side, making a feint in your direction before doubling back to avoid the eager pursuit.

You ran across the garden, your heart racing with the thrill of the game. The lush greenery and the vibrant flowers blurred past you as you increased your speed, though you could feel the weight of your dress pulling against you.

The fabric, though beautiful and rich, was heavy and cumbersome compared to the lighter dresses you were used to in Dorne. The heat of the sun and the effort of running in such attire left you panting, your breaths coming in short, quick bursts.

Finally, you slowed to a halt near a cluster of blooming lilacs, their fragrance mingling with the earthy smell of freshly cut grass. You bent over, hands on your knees, and gasped for air. The warmth of the sun felt pleasant on your flushed face, but you couldn’t help but think how a lighter dress would have made this chase far easier.

The fabric of your gown clung slightly with sweat, and you could almost hear the distant laughter of Jacaerys and Lucerys, now engaged in their own game of tag. You took a moment to catch your breath, the gentle rustle of the breeze through the trees and the distant clinking of goblets at the banquet setting a serene backdrop to your respite.

"It was insult enough for her son to become heir, but for her to openly display such depravity amongst the public, shame upon her!" The voice was sharp, cutting through the afternoon air like the hiss of a drawn blade.

You froze, the playful smile that had lit your face moments before draining away. Heart pounding, you ducked instinctively into a dense cluster of bushes nearby, the prickly branches tugging at the fabric of your dress as you crouched low. The rich scent of damp earth filled your nose, mingling with the sweet fragrance of the lilacs that bloomed around you. Hidden among the foliage, you strained to listen, your breath shallow, afraid to even let the rustle of leaves give you away.

The voice had been unmistakable—Queen Alicent. Her words were laced with venom, the indignation clear in every syllable. You peeked through a gap in the branches, your heart sinking further when you spotted her in the distance. She stood tall, queenly in her emerald and gold, her face set in an expression of disapproval so stern it looked carved from stone. Walking beside her, his expression a mirror of her displeasure, was Ser Criston Cole.

His hand rested lightly on the pommel of his sword as they moved through the garden, their steps slow and deliberate, as though the weight of their conversation was not meant for anyone else’s ears.

Yet here you were, an unintended witness. "It is unseemly, Your Grace," Ser Criston said, his voice a low rumble of agreement. "To flaunt her... indiscretions so brazenly. The Princess has no shame. And neither do her children."

A chill slid down your spine at his words. You felt a surge of anger rise in your chest, but the fear of being caught held you fast. You bit your lip, blood pounding in your ears as their conversation continued. "Her children," Queen Alicent said bitterly, her voice almost trembling with anger.

"Bastards, every one of them. The realm knows it. I know it. She knows it. Yet, the King... he refuses to see what is right in front of him. Or worse, he sees it and does nothing."

Criston glanced around as if wary of unseen listeners, though neither he nor the queen had yet spotted you. "King Viserys would rather blind himself to the truth than admit it, Your Grace. But the people... they are not so easily deceived. They speak of it in the streets, in taverns. They whisper, louder with each passing day."

"Whispers," Alicent spat.

"What good are whispers when the crown ignores them? It emboldens her, you see? She flaunts her children as if they are the trueborn heirs of House Targaryen, as if Laenor ever fathered them. The insolence, the arrogance..."

Your hands curled into fists, nails digging into your palms as you listened. The tension coiled in your chest like a serpent ready to strike. The Queen's words were filled with poison, dripping with the bitterness she had long harbored. They were not just idle complaints; they were accusations, a deliberate attack on Princess Rhaenyra and her sons—your friends.

Your friends… you thought of Jacaerys and Lucerys, laughing so carelessly only moments before. How could they know the weight of the hatred that simmered so close to the surface, the contempt that their mere existence seemed to inspire in the queen and her sworn shield?

“Then there is that Dayne girl,” Queen Alicent said, her voice laced with an undertone of disdain as she picked at her fingers. Her gaze was distant, as though she were scrutinizing a troublesome stain on her own gown. “I would have taken her under my wing myself, considering how I sympathize with her plight—leaving her home in Dorne and all. Yet, of course, Rhaenyra has already done so.”

Her lips pursed in frustration, and she bit at them, a habit you had noticed in moments of deep irritation. “It’s quite the scandal,” she continued, a bitter edge sharpening her tone. “Talk about a union between her and Jacaerys—an idea I believe was suggested by the King himself, if memory serves.”

Ser Criston Cole, ever the silent sentinel by her side, shifted his weight slightly, his expression unreadable. “Yes, Your Grace,” he replied. “Such a union would indeed bring together significant houses, and the notion of cementing alliances through marriage is not lost on the court.”

Alicent’s fingers drummed lightly on the hilt of her sword, a sound that seemed to echo with her frustration. “It’s not merely a matter of alliances,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, almost as if she feared someone might overhear. “It’s the audacity of it. Here we have a Dornish girl, a mere child from the desert, paraded around as though she were of equal standing to the Targaryens themselves.”

She shook her head, her eyes narrowing with barely concealed animosity. “And to think that Viserys, in his infinite wisdom, would even entertain the notion of binding Jacaerys to her. It’s an insult to the very fabric of our house and the integrity of our bloodline.”

Criston’s eyes flickered with a hint of concern. “Your Grace, the King’s ideas often seem to defy conventional wisdom. Perhaps he sees something we do not.”

Alicent’s gaze turned sharp, her frustration boiling over. “Perhaps,” she conceded, though her tone was far from forgiving. “But let us not forget the power of perception. The court’s eyes are sharp, and the whispers grow louder by the day. If Rhaenyra were to secure such an alliance, it would not only bolster her position but undermine ours.”

You shifted slightly in the bushes, trying to get a better view, but the dry leaves underfoot betrayed you with a sharp crunch. Both Alicent and Criston turned sharply in your direction, their eyes narrowing as they scanned the garden.

Your heart nearly stopped. For a terrifying moment, the piercing gazes of Queen Alicent and Ser Criston Cole swept over the very spot where you crouched, hidden among the shadows of the lilacs. The branches and blossoms rustled faintly, as though whispering their own secrets, and you held your breath, praying to the Old Gods and the New that your concealment was sufficient.

Criston Cole, his armor glinting ominously in the dappled sunlight, stalked closer to the bush you were hiding behind. Panic surged through you as his shadow loomed near, and before you could make a move, a strong hand suddenly clamped down on your shoulder.

You flailed instinctively, a muffled gasp escaping your lips as you were dragged roughly to the side. “Shhh,” a voice whispered urgently, the sound barely more than a breath against your ear.

You looked up in bewilderment, the initial shock fading as you met the gaze of Prince Aemond. His distinctive head of frosty silver hair, streaked with soft blonde undertones, gleamed in the filtered sunlight. The scent of fresh parchment and cedar wood—a blend both subtle and distinctly regal—permeated the air around him.

Aemond’s eyes, sharp and assessing, locked onto yours with a mixture of concern and determination. His grip on your hand was firm but gentle, a contrast to the tension that rippled through the garden. “We need to move,” he said in a low, controlled voice, his gaze flickering back towards the path the Queen and Ser Criston had taken.

Before you could fully process what was happening, he guided you swiftly away from the bush, pulling you into the cover of a nearby alcove shrouded in shadow. The scent of the garden’s blooming flowers mingled with the cedarwood aroma of Aemond’s presence, creating a disorienting blend that heightened your senses.

In the relative safety of the alcove, Aemond’s expression softened slightly, though his eyes remained vigilant. “You should not be here,” he said quietly, his voice a hushed murmur as though speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile cloak of secrecy surrounding you. “It is dangerous, and you have overheard something that could stir trouble.”

Your mind raced as you tried to gather your thoughts, the gravity of the overheard conversation sinking in. “Prince Aemond,” you said, struggling to maintain a steady voice. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I was just—”

Aemond held up a hand, silencing you with a gesture. His eyes, cold and assessing, bore into you with an intensity that belied his calm demeanor. “Now that you know the truth,” he said, his voice a low, deliberate whisper, “are you going to continue befriending Rhaenyra’s sons?”

The question hung in the air, heavy and accusatory. You stared at him, confusion and hurt mixing in your gaze. Was he suggesting that your friendship with Jacaerys and Lucerys was not genuine? Was he implying that the only reason you spent time with them was to advance your position or gain favor?

The warmth of the garden seemed to drain away, leaving behind a stark, uncomfortable chill. The once vibrant colors of the blooming flowers now seemed muted and distant, as though the very essence of the garden had shifted with the weight of Aemond's question.

You hesitated, grappling with the weight of his words. The delicate balance of your position in the court, the playful game you had enjoyed moments ago, and the whispered secrets you had overheard all seemed to converge in this singular, daunting question.

“Of course I am,” placing a hand over your heart, your voice trembling slightly. “They’ve been nothing but kind to me. Jacaerys and Lucerys, they—” You faltered, searching for the right words, “—they see me as a friend.”

Aemond’s expression remained inscrutable, but a flicker of something—perhaps curiosity or concern—passed through his eyes. “And if it were to be known that you are associated with them, do you understand the potential repercussions?” he asked, his tone sharp but not unkind.

You nodded, feeling the weight of his words sink in. “Yes,” you replied, though the full scope of the danger still felt like a distant, abstract concept. “But friendships, especially with them, mean something to me. I’ve come to care for them.”

Aemond studied you for a moment longer, his gaze unwavering. “Be cautious,” he finally said, his voice softening slightly. “The court is a treacherous place, and allegiances are often tested. If you value your safety and your place here, you must tread carefully.”

With that, Aemond stepped back, his presence receding into the shadows once more. 

Isla and Sienna worked diligently as you stood before the grand mirror, their skilled hands adjusting your gown with practiced care. The dress, a mesmerizing shade of amethyst, seemed to shimmer with every movement. Layers of delicate tulle cascaded down to your ankles, creating an ethereal effect as if you were cloaked in a sky adorned with twinkling stars. Embedded within the fabric were tiny stones that caught the light, making the gown sparkle like a constellation.

“You’ll be the most beautiful lady at the ball, my lady!” Isla gushed, her eyes sparkling with admiration. Her excitement was contagious, filling the room with a noticeable sense of suspense. The gown, with its delicate shimmer and graceful flow, was indeed a sight to behold.

Sienna, whose gentle smile reflected in the mirror, stood beside Isla, her hands smoothing out the final creases. She was a recent addition to your service, brought to you by Rhaenyra, who had insisted that you should have more than one maid to attend to your needs.

Sienna’s experience was evident in her graceful movements and the ease with which she handled your gown. “However did you find a dress like this?” she asked softly. Her voice was tinged with awe, and it was clear from her tone that such opulence was a novelty to her, given her experience with the more austere fashions of the Red Keep.

Isla glanced over her shoulder at Sienna, her pride evident. “Lord Julius had it commissioned and shipped here just for her ladyship!” she announced, her words imbued with a touch of reverence. “He wanted her to have something truly special for the ball.”

Sienna’s smile widened, her appreciation clear. “It’s magnificent,” she said, her gaze lingering on the gown’s sparkling stones. “I’ve seen many exquisite gowns in my time, but this… this is something entirely different.”

You stood in front of the mirror, the gown’s elegant layers shifting with each breath you took. The combination of the shimmering fabric and the intricate design made you feel as if you were floating in a sea of stars. The light from the flickering candles danced across the gown, casting gentle shadows and highlighting its every delicate detail.

The two maids continued their adjustments with careful attention, ensuring every pleat and seam was perfectly in place. The soft rustle of the fabric and the occasional murmur of their voices filled the room, creating a sense of calm amidst the excitement.

A knock resonated through the room, and Sienna gracefully moved to answer it. She opened the door, revealing Ser Merek standing in the hallway. His attire was a striking reflection of Dornish elegance, though carefully tailored to avoid any undue attention from the more conservative lords and ladies. The deep, rich colors and intricate embroidery of his outfit paid homage to Dornish style while blending seamlessly with the more restrained fashions of the court.

“Ser Merek,” Sienna greeted with a respectful bow, her voice carrying a note of reverence. The soft rustle of her skirts and the faint scent of lavender lingered as she stepped aside to let him in.

Merek stepped into the room, his gaze immediately drawn to you. His eyes softened with a mixture of pride and admiration as he took in your appearance. He adjusted his cuffs with a practiced flick, then turned his full attention to you, a warm smile spreading across his face.

“Don’t you look lovely, sister,” he said, his voice rich and sincere. His compliment was accompanied by a look of genuine pleasure, reflecting his approval of the effort that had gone into your ensemble. The way he spoke conveyed more than mere words—it was a heartfelt acknowledgment of the transformation you had undergone, and a sign of his supportive presence.

You returned his smile, feeling a surge of affection and gratitude. The bond between siblings was evident in his gaze, and his words were a comforting reassurance as you prepared for the evening’s events. The room seemed to brighten with his arrival, and the warmth of his praise added a final, reassuring touch to the preparations.

“Thank you, Merek,” you replied, your voice steady but filled with warmth. “I’m glad you think so.” Merek’s eyes crinkled at the corners with a fond smile.

Sienna and Isla flitted around you, their fingers deftly working through your hair, which had been left loose and free as you had requested. They brushed and arranged it with practiced ease, their delicate touches a contrast to the more intense preparations you had undergone earlier. The final touches involved a collection of silver hairpins, each one set with small, glittering stones that caught the light and added a subtle shimmer to your appearance.

As the two maids carefully pinned your hair, your thoughts wandered back to the unsettling conversation you had overheard between Queen Alicent and Ser Criston Cole. The implications of their words hung heavy in your mind, the weight of their discussion about alliances and marriages casting a shadow over the otherwise festive mood.

You cleared your throat, the question slipping out before you could fully consider it. “Am I set to marry?”

The question hung in the air, and the room fell into a stunned silence. Sienna’s hands paused mid-air, the silver pins she held momentarily forgotten. Isla stopped her brushing, her eyes wide with surprise. Merek, who had been adjusting his own attire, looked as though he had been struck dumb, his mouth slightly open as if he had choked on his words.

Merek’s reaction was the most pronounced. His usually composed demeanor faltered as he struggled to regain his bearings. His eyes widened, and he cleared his throat with a conspicuous cough, his face flushing slightly. “What... what makes you ask that?” he finally managed, his voice tinged with a mixture of confusion and concern.

In the world of highborn families, where alliances were often forged through marriage, the idea of being betrothed wasn’t entirely unexpected. Children your age were frequently betrothed, their futures often decided long before they could voice their own desires.

It was a common practice among the highborn, designed to secure alliances and preserve bloodlines. You imagined that, in all likelihood, you would be wed to another house from Dorne—perhaps one of the Yronwoods or Allyrions. Your mother had been a Manwoody before marrying your father and adopting the Dayne name, so aligning with another prominent Dornish house seemed plausible.

Sienna and Isla exchanged uneasy glances. Their hands had paused mid-motion, the delicate hairpins momentarily forgotten as they awaited your explanation. The festive atmosphere that had once filled the space now felt distant, replaced by the knot of uncertainty that your question had stirred.

You shrugged your shoulders nonchalantly, attempting to downplay the gravity of the situation. “Just curious is all,” you said with a casual air, carefully omitting the specific details of the conversation you’d overheard about the potential marriage between yourself and Jacaerys.

Your gaze met Merek’s in the mirror, and you offered a reassuring smile, though the lingering worry in your eyes belied your outward calm. Merek, his expression softening, nodded with understanding. “Curiosity is natural,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of sympathy. “But any decision regarding marriage would involve you, and your wishes would be taken into account.”

Merek’s eyes locked with yours through the mirror, his gaze a steady anchor amidst the whirlpool of your thoughts. The warmth in his eyes was a comfort, though it was clear he was not entirely at ease with the notion of you contemplating marriage at such a tender age.

“You still have a long ways to go before worrying about such things,” he said, his voice carrying a mix of reassurance and playful exasperation. As he spoke, he reached over and gently pinched your cheek, his touch light but affectionate. “You’ll have to cease eating cakes if you wish for your betroth not to run away,” he teased with a grin that softened the serious edge of his words.

The hint of a smile tugged at the corners of your lips, even as you felt the familiar warmth of a flush creeping up your cheeks. With a playful huff, you slapped his hand away. “Hmph! Says the one who’d try to use me to garner attention from the ladies back home,” you said, rolling your eyes at the memory of his mischievous schemes.

Merek’s laughter, rich and warm, filled the room as he gave a slight bow, his expression a mix of amusement and affection. “Guilty as charged,” he admitted with a grin that spoke of shared secrets and familial bonds. His eyes sparkled with a touch of mischief, reflecting the light of the candles that flickered softly around you.

He extended his hand toward you, the gesture both elegant and inviting. “Shall we go?” he asked, his tone light but filled with genuine warmth. You took his hand, feeling the reassuring firmness of his grip. The touch was steady and grounding, and you walked with Merek toward the ballroom.

“House Dayne of Starfall!” The herald's voice rang out through the great hall, carrying the announcement with a resounding clarity that cut through the low hum of conversation.

You and Merek descended the sweeping marble steps, each step echoing softly on the polished stone. The grandeur of the hall was a feast for the senses: the air was rich with the aroma of roasted meats and spiced wines, and the flicker of countless candles cast dancing shadows upon the walls.

As you approached the King and his family. King Viserys sat at the head of the long, ornately decorated table, his presence commanding and regal. Princess Rhaenyra, elegant in her black and red dress which was adorned with golden embroidery, flanked him with a poised grace. They were the focal point of the room, and the murmurs of the assembled guests fell into an expectant hush as you and Merek presented yourselves.

You executed a deep curtsy, the layers of your amethyst gown swirling around you like a cascade of twilight stars. Merek followed with a respectful bow, his demeanor both polished and genuine. “Thank you for inviting us to such a grand event, Your Grace,” Merek said, his voice carrying the appropriate blend of formality and warmth. “House Dayne wishes good fortune upon Prince Jacaerys.”

King Viserys acknowledged the greeting with a nod, his expression a blend of courtesy and benevolence. Princess Rhaenyra offered a smile, her eyes reflecting a hint of the pride she must have felt for her son. The air around the high table was thick with the scent of rich wines and the subtle perfume of royal guests.

You scanned the hall, noting with a slight frown that Jacaerys was not yet present. The feast, being held in his honor, seemed incomplete without him. Perhaps he would make his appearance once all the guests had arrived and settled.

As your gaze swept across the high table, you caught sight of a familiar figure. Lucerys, sitting at one end of the table, waved enthusiastically in your direction. His smile was bright and genuine, and he mouthed something you could just make out through the distance and the murmurs of the crowd:

“You look very pretty.”

King Viserys's voice carried through the vast, candle-lit hall, his words imbued with the gravitas of his position and the warmth of his intentions. “We are most honored to have House Dayne present on my grandson’s eighth name day,” he declared, his gaze sweeping over the room with a paternal pride.

“It fills me with joy to witness that the relations of the Seven Kingdoms and Dorne are healing after many years of conflict. This bodes well for a new era of peace and unity.” His statement was met with nods of approval from many, the atmosphere charged with a sense of hope and renewal.

The King’s eyes then settled on you with a glimmer of mischief and expectation, as if he were a stage player delivering his lines with deliberate effect. “And perhaps in the future, House Targaryen and House Dayne will develop a closer relation as well.”

The air in the Throne Room grew thick with tension as his words hung in the air. The room fell into a hushed silence, broken only by the faint rustle of fabric and the clinking of glasses. Queen Alicent's posture stiffened noticeably, her face a mask of barely concealed displeasure. Her fingers, clasped around her wine goblet, tightened until her knuckles were white.

You and Merek stood at the center of this charged moment, caught in the spotlight of royal intentions. The weight of the King’s words pressed down upon you, making the room feel both grand and claustrophobic. Merek’s face was a study in surprise and discomfort, his usually composed demeanor momentarily faltering. He glanced at you, a mix of concern and confusion in his eyes, recognizing the gravity of what the King had implied.

Merek had always been aware of your growing friendship with Jacaerys, but he had dismissed any notion of significance, considering it a mere product of youthful camaraderie. The sudden shift in royal discourse, however, made the possibility of a betrothal not just plausible but imminent.

You shifted slightly, trying to process the implications of the King's words amidst the stifling atmosphere. The murmur of the nobles, who had resumed their conversations with a blend of curiosity and speculation, served as a backdrop to your introspection.

To spare you from the growing discomfort, Princess Rhaenyra's voice cut through the silence with the practiced ease of someone well-versed in courtly charm. “What a beautiful dress you’re wearing, Lady Dayne,” she remarked, her words laced with genuine warmth. Her gaze swept over your gown, the amethyst fabric shimmering in the flickering candlelight.

Her smile was gracious, her tone kind, but as her eyes met yours, you detected something just beneath the surface—something that made your heart quicken in unease. It was subtle, the way her lips curved ever so slightly, a hint of amusement or perhaps knowing.

You couldn't quite place it, but an inkling tugged at your thoughts, as if she were privy to something you were not. The murmur of the court continued around you, but in that moment, it felt as though the world had narrowed to just you and Rhaenyra. Her eyes, sharp and watchful, lingered for a heartbeat too long.

Swallowing your sudden apprehension, you placed a hand over your heart, the weight of the dress grounding you in its luxurious folds. “You are far too kind, Princess,” you replied with a humble nod, your voice steady though your mind raced.

For a fleeting moment, you wondered if Rhaenyra knew more than she let on—about the King's earlier words, about your growing friendship with Jacaerys, about... something. But just as quickly as the thought appeared, you brushed it aside. You were overthinking, surely. This was a feast, a celebration, and Rhaenyra’s compliment was nothing more than that—a simple, well-meaning gesture.

You straightened your spine, forcing a smile to your lips, but the air felt heavier now, every glance and word weighed with unspoken meaning. Merek gave a slight nod, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, and guided you toward your seats. You moved gracefully, though the subtle tension in your limbs betrayed your inner unease.

As you settled into your place, the herald continued announcing house after house. The lords and ladies of the Crownlands came first, draped in rich velvets and brocades, their sigils gleaming in the firelight. They made their bows and curtsies to the King, offering blessings to Prince Jacaerys. The Stormlanders followed, their appearance more rugged, though no less proud, each house carrying the weight of their legacy with them.

You watched it all with a detached fascination, though your mind drifted in and out of the ceremony. The colors and crests blurred together—the bold gold of the Westerlands, the deep reds of the Riverlands, the cool grays and blues of the Vale. Their words all echoed the same formality, their faces wearing masks of courtesy and ambition.

Merek leaned toward you slightly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Sister, feign indifference." His gaze met yours, cautious yet reassuring, a silent warning beneath his words. The ripple caused by King Viserys' statement had drawn too many curious eyes in your direction, some filled with intrigue, others with calculation.

You inhaled deeply, steadying yourself. Merek’s advice was not just a brother's concern; it was a shield, a reminder that in a room full of powerful families, every glance could hold hidden intent. You kept your posture relaxed, offering only polite smiles and nods, though you could feel the weight of those watching, assessing.

The laughter and chatter of the hall seemed distant now, muffled under the heavy awareness that hung in the air. You could sense Queen Alicent's gaze linger longer than most, the sharpness in her eyes unmistakable even across the room. Rhaenyra, too, was watching, though her expression was softer, unreadable.

You turned your head slightly, pretending to admire the tapestries along the walls, letting your indifference show. “I suppose I’ll have to get used to that,” you muttered under your breath, just loud enough for Merek to hear. His hand briefly touched your arm, a silent gesture of support.

“You will,” he said quietly, his tone steady. “But not alone.” The clink of goblets, the murmur of voices, and the soft shuffle of gowns and cloaks filled the silence between you.

The trumpets blared, their sharp notes cutting through the murmur of the hall, and in an instant, every noble rose from their seats, the rustle of silks and velvets filling the space. The drums followed a deep, rhythmic pulse that echoed through the corridors of the Red Keep, reverberating in your chest.

You stood with Merek, your gaze drawn toward the grand entrance where the music seemed to crescendo. Every eye was fixed on the doorway, the anticipation in the room palpable. The air felt charged, thick with expectation. The banners of House Targaryen, crimson and black, fluttered above, their three-headed dragon catching the candlelight.

Whispers surged through the crowd like the distant rumble of a coming storm as the heavy wooden doors groaned open. All eyes turned, the once-muted conversations now reduced to anxious breaths and darting glances. You couldn’t help but fiddle with the hem of your dress, the amethyst fabric slipping between your fingers as the herald stepped forward, clearing his throat with a cough that echoed in the vast hall.

“Announcing!” The herald’s voice rang out, cutting through the tension like a blade through silk. His chest swelled as he prepared to speak, and you could feel the weight of the moment pressing down upon you. The gathering stilled, every noble straining to hear.

“Prince Jacaerys Velaryon of House Targaryen!”

The announcement reverberated across the Throne Room, and for a heartbeat, time seemed to hang suspended. Your gaze, like everyone else’s, was fixed on the grand doorway. The flickering torchlight illuminated the dark hall beyond, casting long shadows as Prince Jacaerys stepped into view.

Jacaerys moved with a grace beyond his years, the poised elegance of a prince who bore the weight of legacy with every step. His cloak billowed behind him, the silver dragon of House Targaryen intertwined with the seahorse of House Velaryon, the sigils catching the light and drawing the eye.

But it wasn’t the familiar black and red of his Targaryen blood, nor the silver and sea green of Velaryon that stirred the crowd.

There were whispers, soft at first, then rising like the hum of bees in the summer air. A few gasps punctuated the silence that followed. Your breath caught in your throat as you noticed it too. His doublet wasn’t the colors of his houses.

It wasn’t black.

It wasn’t red

It wasn’t silver or sea green.

It was…

“Amethyst.”

The same shade as the gown you were wearing.

Your heart skipped a beat as realization struck. This was no coincidence. The entire room seemed to hold its breath, watching you, then him, then back to you. Eyes darted from noble to noble, trying to read into the meaning of it all. Even Merek, standing rigid beside you, couldn’t conceal his confusion. You could feel the weight of a hundred questions without a single word being spoken.

If you and Merek had seemed a coordinated pair, then you and Jacaerys were two gloves of the same hand. The deep amethyst of his doublet mirrored your gown so precisely that it felt intentional—no, it was intentional. The shimmering stones in your skirt caught the light just as the embroidery on his chest did, as if you were meant to stand beside him, not apart.

The whispers grew louder now, like ripples spreading across a still pond, each one carrying more weight than the last. You could feel the eyes of the room shifting between you and Jacaerys, reading into every stitch, every thread of your matching attire. Even the King’s earlier remark about future ties between House Targaryen and House Dayne suddenly felt less like idle conversation and more like an unspoken declaration.

Merek stiffened beside you, his fingers tightening into a fist. He leaned closer, his voice a low murmur. “What game is this, sister?” But you had no answer, only a growing sense that the night had been carefully orchestrated, and you were unwittingly part of its grand design.

King Viserys stood, his commanding presence drawing all eyes to him. The room fell into a heavy silence as he raised a goblet, its ornate surface catching the flickering light of the chandeliers. His voice, though softened by age, carried the weight of authority and warmth.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the court, esteemed guests from every corner of the realm,” Viserys began, his gaze sweeping across the gathered nobility.

Viserys raised his goblet higher, his expression one of pride and hope. “Let us toast to Prince Jacaerys. May he grow in wisdom and strength, and may his future be as bright and illustrious as the stars that grace the night sky.”

At his signal, the herald called out, “To Prince Jacaerys Velaryon!” The guests rose, their voices joining in a chorus of toasts and cheers. The clamor of glasses clinking together rang out like a joyful symphony, mingling with the soft rustling of fabric and the low hum of conversation.

The room’s applause swelled and reverberated like the roar of a distant sea, its waves crashing against the walls and echoing through the hall. You took a delicate sip of your apple cider, its cool sweetness offering a brief respite from the charged atmosphere. The music began, a stately melody drifting through the air like a gentle breeze.

From across the room, you caught Jacaerys’ gaze. Rising gracefully from his seat, he made his way towards you, each step deliberate and assured. His cloak, adorned with the intricate sigils of Targaryen and Velaryon, seemed to flow behind him like a river of dark velvet.

You could feel the weight of the room’s collective gaze upon you, the air thick with expectation. Jacaerys’ approach was like a beacon cutting through the murky sea of guests, drawing all eyes toward the center of the hall where the dance floor awaited.

As he reached you, Jacaerys offered a courteous bow, his hand extended in a gesture both refined and familiar. His smile was warm, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of the tension he carried from the evening’s earlier events. “My Lady,” he said, his voice carrying a note of earnest charm,

“May I have the honor of this dance?”

You placed your hand in his with a nod, feeling the firm yet gentle grasp of his fingers. The touch sent a pleasant shiver through you, a stark contrast to the chill of the cider still lingering on your lips. The music swelled, and Jacaerys guided you onto the dance floor.

As you moved in time with the rhythm, the world around you seemed to blur, leaving just the two of you amidst the swirl of melodies and the gentle rustle of your gowns. The tension of the evening gave way to a moment of shared grace. Jacaerys’s movements were fluid, his steps precise and confident as he led you through the dance.

Every glance and touch felt magnified, the connection between you both seeming to bridge the space between the grandiosity of the feast and the personal intimacy of the dance. The dance floor was bathed in the soft glow of chandeliers, casting a golden hue over the scene. The scent of roses and polished wood mingled in the air, heightening the sensory experience.

As you twirled and swayed, the music swelled to its crescendo, the notes wrapping around you like a cocoon. For a brief, timeless moment, you were no longer a guest at a grand feast, but simply two young souls enjoying the delicate art of the dance.

Jacaerys led you into a graceful turn, his hand steady on your waist as the music lifted and carried you both across the polished floor. The swirl of your gown, with its amethyst hues catching the light, mirrored the soft shimmer of his doublet. It felt as though you were two stars orbiting within the same celestial dance, perfectly in sync.

Around you, the room blurred into a haze of vibrant silks and whispering nobles, but all you could focus on was the rhythm beneath your feet and the steady beat of Jacaerys’s presence. His feet were careful but uncertain, his gaze focused on the floor more than on you, as if he feared stepping on your toes.

You tried to ease the tension by smiling at him, your own movements light and practiced. “You’re doing fine,” you whispered, your voice soft with reassurance.

Jacaerys glanced up at you briefly, a flicker of a smile crossing his face before he looked down again. “I’m trying not to trip,” he admitted, the slightest hint of embarrassment in his tone.

You stifled a small laugh, squeezing his hand gently. “You’re doing much better than the last time we danced. Remember? You stepped on my foot, and we both fell into the fountain.”

A grin tugged at Jacaerys’s lips, his confidence boosted by the memory. “I’m trying to forget that part.”

The music swelled, and you guided him into a simple turn, your movements practiced and sure. Around you, the hall seemed to melt away—draped banners of black, red, and green blurring into the background. The curious eyes of the nobles seated at the tables were far less intimidating when you focused only on the dance.

For a moment, Jacaerys looked up, meeting your gaze properly. His smile was softer now, more genuine, as if he felt a little less burdened by the expectations of the night. “You look really nice,” he blurted out, his face turning a little red as soon as the words left his mouth. “I mean—your dress.”

“Was it your idea to match?” you asked, still perplexed as to why Jacaerys had chosen to wear colors so starkly different from the usual Targaryen black and red or Velaryon silver and sea green. The deep amethyst of his doublet mirrored your gown in an almost uncanny way, as though the two of you had been planned as a pair for the evening.

Jacaerys, cheeks flushed from the dance and the weight of so many eyes on him, shook his head. He glanced subtly toward the high table where his mother sat, watching you both with an approving smile. “It was Mother’s idea,” he admitted quietly, as if sharing a secret.

His hands found yours again, guiding you through another slow turn. “She said it would... 'symbolize unity,'” he added, though his tone suggested he wasn’t fully sure what that meant. “Besides, why do you think Sienna was brought into your service?”

The name caught you off guard, but the memory clicked into place—the handmaid who had been brought to your side by none other than Princess Rhaenyra herself. You hadn’t questioned it at the time, thinking it a gesture of kindness, but now you felt a different kind of unease creeping into your mind.

Your brows furrowed, and you nearly missed a step in the dance. “Her Highness arranged for Sienna?” The realization was unsettling. The Princess had always been kind, treating you with warmth whenever you came to the Red Keep, but there was something unnerving in the way Jacaerys said it now—something that suggested this was more than a mere gesture of friendship.

Jacaerys, noticing your brief stumble, steadied you with a firm hand on your waist. His expression was a mixture of concern and a boyish pride that he could guide you, even in this moment of awkward revelation. “To aid you, of course,” he said. “Mother thinks of you often... more than you might realize.”

You blinked, your mind racing. Was this part of a larger plan? Rhaenyra had always been politically astute, and House Dayne’s ties to Dorne made you valuable. Where you really being played with?

The final notes of the song echoed through the hall as Jacaerys gently led you through the last steps of the dance. His hand, warm against your waist, guided you effortlessly, though both of you were still weighed down by the silent undercurrents of your conversation. You curtsied as the music drew to a close, your heart pounding not from exertion, but from the implications of everything you had just heard.

Jacaerys released your hand with a graceful bow, a fleeting smile playing on his lips, though his eyes still carried that guarded, knowing look. “You danced beautifully,” he said, his voice soft, though his words felt like they were trying to patch over something much larger.

You nodded in return, trying to ignore the way your mind kept circling back to his earlier comment. "As did you, my Prince," you replied, falling into formality as you curtsied again, your gown swaying gently around your legs.

Before you could exchange another word, more children began to gather on the dance floor, their laughter breaking the tension. Lucerys, grinning widely, bounded forward, pulling a reluctant Baela along with him. "Come on!" he called to Jacaerys, eyes sparkling with excitement. “Don’t leave me out here alone!”

The sight of Lucerys, eager and carefree, brought some levity to the moment. Jacaerys chuckled, glancing at you as if to say duty calls, before stepping toward his brother. You followed suit, grateful for the distraction. The herald announced the next song, and soon the hall filled with the sound of flutes and harps, their light, playful melody coaxing more of the noble children from their seats.

Children from the noble houses of Westeros—Baratheons, Lannisters, Masseys, and even a few other minor houses—joined in, their laughter a strong disparity to the silent, watchful eyes of their parents at the tables. You soon found yourself spinning and twirling with other children as the music picked up pace.

The significance of the earlier conversation, the tension at the high table, even the calculating stares from the adults, faded away, replaced by the giddy rush of movement. Your feet slid effortlessly across the smooth stone floor, your gown billowing around you as you spun with one child and then another.

You twirled once more, the world around you spun in a blur of colors—golden candlelight, shimmering silks, and the vibrant tapestries that adorned the walls. Yet, even in the midst of this joyful dance, you couldn’t shake the lingering feeling that something larger was at play. It clung to the edges of the evening like a shadow, always there, just out of sight.

You cast a glance toward the high table where Queen Alicent and Princess Rhaenyra sat, their eyes following the movements of their children—of you.

The music continued, the rhythm shifting to a slower, more deliberate pace, the laughter and chatter of the children softened, replaced by quieter movements and more formal steps. You had just caught your breath when a figure approached from the side, moving with a grace and purpose that immediately drew the attention of everyone around.

Aemond, his champagne blonde with silver frost hair catching the candlelight, stepped forward. His presence commanded silence, the playful energy in the room instantly shifting to something more subdued. He was taller than most boys his age, with an intense gaze that made him seem older than his years. 

He stopped in front of you, bowing with an elegance that felt rehearsed, but there was something genuine in the way he extended his hand. “May I have this dance, Lady Dayne?” His voice was soft, smooth, his eyes narrowing at a certain direction behind you.

You hesitated for only a moment, your eyes flicking to where he was looking only to find Jacaerys standing there, his face unreadable, though his jaw clenched slightly as he watched. But there was no reason to refuse—Aemond was a prince after all, and you knew it would be improper to deny his request.

You nodded, placing your hand in his. “Of course, Prince Aemond.”

The music swelled around you, soft and flowing, as Aemond expertly guided you into the steps of the dance. His gaze never wavered, watching you closely as if weighing his next words carefully. “You’ve become quite the centerpiece of tonight’s festivities,” he remarked quietly, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

“The colors you and Jacaerys wore have not gone unnoticed.” His hand rested lightly at your waist as he guided you through the steps, his touch careful, though his posture was rigid, controlled.

You glanced at him, unsure of his intentions. There was a weight to his words, a subtle hint of something more beneath the surface. “It was a surprise to me as well,” you replied cautiously, keeping your tone neutral. “His mother arranged it.”

Aemond nodded, his expression unreadable as he spun you in a graceful turn. “It seems there are many surprises in store tonight. I wonder how many of them were planned without your knowledge.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly, sensing that his comment held more meaning than simple small talk. He had always been an observant boy, more reserved than the others, and his words often carried an edge of insight beyond his years.

The two of you danced in silence for a moment, the music filling the space between you, before Aemond spoke again. “It is rare for someone from Dorne to be invited to such a grand feast. I imagine your presence here is... significant.”

You felt a shiver run down your spine, though you weren’t sure why. The Targaryens were a powerful family, but Aemond’s words carried a weight that suggested he was offering more than mere conversation. “I suppose that’s for my older brother to know,” you said carefully, trying to deflect his probing. “I am here only to enjoy the festivities.”

Aemond’s smile tightened slightly, though his eyes never left yours. “And yet, I find myself curious. House Dayne holds great influence in Dorne. Perhaps, in time, your presence could sway more than just the opinions of the court here.”

You blinked, surprised by his candor. Was he truly suggesting what you thought? Aemond’s hand on your waist tightened ever so slightly as he led you into another turn, his voice dropping to a whisper. “There is strength in aligning oneself with the right people, Lady Dayne. The Greens have long valued loyalty, and we reward those who stand with us.”

The implication hung heavy in the air, and you struggled to keep your expression neutral. Aemond was not just offering friendship—he was subtly suggesting something far deeper. The Greens, led by Queen Alicent, were vying for influence against Princess Rhaenyra and her supporters, the Blacks. His offer, veiled as it was, spoke volumes.

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his words settle over you like a cloak. “You speak of alliances,” you said quietly, meeting his gaze. “And yet, I am but a girl from Dorne.”

Aemond tilted his head, a small smirk playing on his lips. “A girl from Dorne, yes. But a girl who is clever, who understands more than she lets on.” His tone softened slightly, almost... earnest. “Perhaps we could be friends, Lady Dayne. I would value that greatly.”

Before you could respond, the dance came to an end, the music fading as the other children returned to the floor. Aemond released your hand with a formal bow, but his eyes lingered on yours for a moment longer, his meaning clear even if unspoken.

You opened your mouth to reply, but before you could say anything, Jacaerys was at your side, his expression darkening as he stepped between you and Aemond. “I believe this is where we part ways, Uncle,” Jacaerys said, his voice cool, though there was an undercurrent of tension that was hard to miss.

Aemond regarded his nephew with a quiet smirk, unruffled by the interruption. “Of course, my Prince,” he said smoothly, inclining his head. “I wouldn’t dream of keeping Lady Dayne all to myself.”

Without another word, Aemond turned and walked away, his figure disappearing into the crowd of dancers. You could still feel the lingering weight of his words, and Jacaerys’ sudden presence beside you only heightened the tension.

“Are you alright?” Jacaerys asked, his voice softer now, though there was a flicker of jealousy in his eyes. His hands, still warm from the previous dance, hovered protectively near your own, as if to remind you of where your loyalties should lie.

You nodded, though your thoughts were far from settled. “Yes,” you replied, offering a smile to reassure him. “Just a dance.” But even as you said it, you knew that Aemond’s words would stay with you long after the music ended.

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