#canon baelon targaryen

[sweetestpopcorn]

Hello!! I know that aside from Daemon/Rhaenyra, you are a fan of Baelon/Alyssa. I just wanted to ask, what is your opinion on Viserra, or on the whole Viserra seducing Baelon after Alyssa’s death? Do you think Baelon might have been able to save Viserra from her fate if he had agreed to marry her (even if he didn’t love her)? What is your opinion on this pair?

Hi there :)

Yes, after Daemyra Baelon and Alyssa are definitely my favourite Targaryen couple.

About the rest of your ask, I don't think Viserra fans will like my answer, but I don't quite care for Viserra. I have talked about it in the past that I see Saera and Viserra as very shallow characters with almost nothing to them. They were written as mean girls and that's about it, besides being Targaryens and physically very attractive, I don't actually see any redeeming qualities in them.

Saera at least you could argue was sort of funny, in a heartless, sociopathic Cersei kind of way, and I did admire how she later on in life wanted nothing to do with Westeros or the Iron Throne saying she had her own kingdom was a cool moment. But regardless she was cruel, unnecessarily so (e.g., Tom the Turnip anyone?), and worse with someone much weaker than her which also makes her a sort of coward. Like I said she had many sociopathic traits, and her behaviour itself is very congruent with a sociopathic personality type.

Viserra is a bit better in that regard in the sense that she was not needlessly cruel to anyone weaker than her for fun, even if she poked fun at young men who lusted after her, sometimes in quite dangerous ways (e.g., when she dares them to put their heads inside a dragon's mouth, I think the prize was her V card if memory serves right). But like Saera is mean and cold for the sake of being mean and cold, Viserra is ambitious and cold for the sake of being ambitious and cold.

We are both shown and told she wanted power and to be queen and F feelings and all that, but we are never really given a proper reason as to why. I would guess that being child #10 in a very large family would make you starved for attention, likely importance as well, since her only selling point in that family was being the most beautiful of the sisters. It was (VERY) unlikely she would ever be queen, so maybe because of that it became an ambition of hers? There was also something arrogant about her because of her looks, thinking that that would be enough to just give her what she wanted without having to rely on anything else. In that sense she has no depth, what you see is pretty much what you get and neither is very good or particularly compelling.

So, no, I wouldn't want her to marry Baelon, nor for Baelon to be interested in her. In fact, I loved that he wasn't and that after she spoke in such a nasty way about the sister she thought herself so physically superior too that Baelon gave Viserra a cold hard dose of reality of he's Baelon Targaryen, not a failed Baelon like Tywin Lannister.

Sure that some people find love again in life, and I am all for it. But some people aren't like that, and I found a lot of beauty in that aspect of Baelon's character, of how devoted he remained to the memory of his lady with the mismatched eyes. I would have hated for that to be ruined, especially in the name of such an ambitious and empty character like Viserra. If he was to marry her, whatever the reason, he would not be Baelon because that was a central aspect to his character.

All this aside I did feel bad about how Viserra was treated by Alysanne, almost like she was the final boss Alysanne had to defeat. I think this is a great example at times of George's incongruence with how he writers characters in F&B. Pretty much their end is decided so he just does whatever he has to to get there, at times with little regard with what he previously established. Are we supposed to believe that the same Alysanne who still loved and wanted to forgive Saera, even defended her, would be so cold and mean to Viserra? Sorry, I don't find it the least bit believable. Like show us on the doll where Viserra touched you Alysanne. Regardless of her not deserving this or her cruel fate, I still don't really care about Viserra nor think she had any redeeming qualities.

And that is my take.

Thank you for coming to my Tumblr Ted Talk!

Much love to you <3

[drakaripykiros130ac]

Can you believe that they not only ruined present—time characters, but also characters that have never appeared on the show?

Like Baelon and Alyssa.

They introduced a supposed bastard son of Baelon’s. Laughable. Baelon and Alyssa were madly in love with one another. They would have eyes for no one else. Baelon was never interested in any other woman. And even after Alyssa died, Baelon remained faithful and never remarried. Even when his younger sister, Viserra, threw herself at him, he refused her.

And then what they did to Alyssa…no comment.

[omnipotent-scient]

Prince Baelon Targaryen

The Prince of Dragonstone, at the age of 44, just before his death.

[targaryen-dynasty]

FORBIDDEN TEMPTATION.

Aemond Targaryen x niece!Reader

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT—MDNI; canon typical incest/targcest (uncle married niece), menstrual sex, p in v, fingering, lactation kink

WORDS: 2.1 K

NOTES: Thank you to @lady-phasma and the rest of our little group for this period smut collaboration 😝 and extra thanks to @zaldritzosrose for the moodboard!! I love you guys sm 💕 It was so much fun working with this request. Cheers to the dragon friends🤍

✖️ 𝐚𝐝𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!

A poking ache in your stomach is what pulls you out of your sleep, like a sharp, stinging tug that makes you curl into a bundle, clutching your belly. With your husband still sound asleep right next to you, his snores filling the room, you’re determined to not moan out in pain too loudly, though you’re close to failing. 

“By the Seven,” you whisper, a clear strain to your voice, and when you bring your hand down between your legs, the stickiness you're welcomed with makes you sigh. There’s hardly any light of the moon falling into the room, which makes it difficult for you to make out the source of the wetness that coats your fingers, yet the smell lets you know it’s familiar. Your moonblood. 

“Oh, this can not…” you trail off, moaning through gritted teeth as another jolt of pain runs through your belly. 

Next to you, your husband has been roused from sleep by your stirring and moaning, blinking against the darkness and blearily into the night as he tries to understand what is going on. Propping himself up on one elbow, his groggy voice is laced with worry as he speaks, “what is the matter?”

You shift to lie on your back again, leaning up against the headboard. “I… my moonblood has come,” you say. The realization that it’s just your monthly bleeding does bring you some sense of relief, meaning your husband has not yet managed to put another child in you, but it also concerns you. “It feels like someone is clawing at my belly from the inside out… and I can not remember for it to be so painful before the pregnancy.”

It’s an instinct he’s developed over the course of your pregnancy, something you still catch him doing every now and then, but Aemond‘s hand immediately goes to your belly, rubbing small, soothing circles to somewhat ease the pain. And for someone possessing the blood of the dragon, his body certainly emanates a lot of heat. You’re immediately drawn towards him, melting against his frame, warmth radiating off of his bare chest.

Aemond brings his lips to the crown of your head, wrapping his arms around you. “That was to be expected, was it not?” he asks.

“Yes, but it is quite severe.” You flinch again at the stinging pain, though it is not as sharp with his warm hand splayed over your stomach. “Could you fetch me the maester to ease the pain?”

Your husband’s mind, however, quickly comes up with a different solution. “Well, I have heard and read that there’s another way to ease that kind of pain, my love,” he says, a teasing lilt to his voice. “A more… pleasurable alternative that may not completely rid you of the pain, but certainly takes your mind off of it.”

His words and the innuendo don’t surprise you at all. Ever since he truly has learned what it meant to indulge in the pleasures of flesh with you, he’s turned into a starved beast, desperate to get his fill of you every night until your little Baelon was born, and determined to get you round with his seed as quickly as possible again. The few weeks of rest that had been prescribed by the maester were the most difficult for him, struggling to keep his hands off of you. It was the complete opposite to the way he was while you grew up together; your usually quiet and observing uncle turned into a beast, similar to the one he claimed when he turned ten. 

Aemond’s hand slowly drifts lower, and a small gasp escapes your lips, his fingers dancing lightly over the damp linen of your smallclothes. You look at him, your eyes half-lidded with a mix of pain and desire. “Do you really think… it would help?” you murmur softly, instinctively arching into his touch. The throbbing ache in your belly is temporarily replaced by a pleasant warmth spreading through your core. 

“Oh, I very much believe it will,” he whispers in your ear, his voice low and gravelly. 

A sly smile is on his lips as his thumb brushes over your pearl, making your breath hitch in your throat. Your head tips back into the pillows with a moan slipping past your lips. “Aemond…” you whisper, his name coming out in a mere breath, “please.” 

He is quick to bow his head forward, capturing your lips for a kiss. As he tugs on your smallclothes, you wrap your arms around his neck for support, using the leverage to shimmy out of the damp linen. 

You gasp against his lips as his nimble digits ease into your cunt, and Aemond presses his forehead against yours. Feeling you writhe beneath his touch, he lets out a low groan, a small shiver running down his spine at the wanton sight of his wife on the cusp of pleasure. “Relax, my love,” he rasps. “Let me take care of you.”

His fingers continue their ministrations, his touch gentle yet insistent, never slowing down, and your hips buck into his touch. There’s no denying your desire for him, your need for him. And while he focuses on easing your pain, your focus solely lies on him – or rather his cock. It’s always the same, for his fingers are never enough for you. 

Aemond has pushed his sleeping trousers down to the point he was able to free his cock, thick, hard, and the tip glistening with a few beds of his arousal, indicating just how badly he wants to take care of you. Feeling his knuckles brush your thigh as his fist slides up and down his length, you whimper in anticipation while a strained grunt leaves his lips. 

Without another word, Aemond positions himself between your legs, the motion fluid and practiced. His hands glide over the smooth skin of your thighs, pushing them further apart to accommodate him. 

There is some impatience evident in his movements as he drags the tip of his cock through your soaked folds, causing you to gasp each time it presses against your sensitive pearl. 

“Stop teasing me, Aemond,” you whine, your nerves on fire. 

His lips curve into a smug smirk at your desperate whine. “What’s the rush, my love?” 

Tilting his head forwards, he watches as he circles your entrance with his cock, repeatedly pushing just the tip inside… only to pull out mere moments later. While it drives you insane with lust, it also makes you aware of how slick you are for him – knowing it’s not just your arousal he’s coated in now. 

That realization makes you feel shy, and you momentarily try to squeeze your thighs together to escape his hungry gaze – but to no avail. Tsking, Aemond is quick to pry your thighs apart again, raising a brow. “Do not shy away now,” he warns. “A little blood does not repel me.”

Pressing your lips into a thin line, you nod meekly at his words, and your husband takes that as his cue to continue. Where he usually sheathes him inside you in one, swift thrust, he’s slow and careful to enter you now, making sure you feel every vein and ridge of him on his way inside. You both moan in unison, never getting enough of each other. 

Despite you being quite tense from the sharp pain tugging at your belly, Aemond buries himself inside of you with ease, your moonsblood adding to your slickness. It feels different than usual – you feel different than usual, more sensitive – yet the pleasure it brings is heightened and coaxes you to melt around him. 

Your head tips back into the pillows, but Aemond is quick to bring a hand to the side of your neck, applying a bit of pressure to your chin with his thumb to force you to meet his gaze. There is a slight stutter in his hips as he sets up his slow pace, settling only once he’s found the perfect rhythm. With expert precision, he rolls his hips against yours. Your heels dig into his rear, encouraging him to go even deeper. 

The dull, continuous ache in your belly grows weaker with every thrust, replaced by a warmth that spreads all the way to your limbs, fueled by the squelching sounds of his cock repeatedly disappearing into your soaked cunt. 

Aemond has one hand on your neck and the other positioned on the mattress right next to your head, careful not to put all of his weight on your sensitive body. You take it upon yourself to tug on the low neckline of your nightgown, pulling it even lower to free your heavy breasts from their confines. 

Your body is still providing enough milk to feed an army of children, despite you merely birthing one, and while they are heavy and hard to the touch, wearing clothes has always been a far worse agony. The creamish silk has been damp even before Aemond has touched you, and so it’s no surprise droplets of milk trickle from your darkened buds as soon as your fingers touch them. 

And that is the moment he stops being careful, bowing down to capture one bud with his lips and press his body against yours. It’s a mix between a gasp and moan that slips past your lips, yet it’s enough to make clear the relief you feel. 

The position all but forces him to roll his hips against yours languidly, but neither of you mind for it seems to bring you both enough pleasure. You can feel him suckle on your breast in the rhythm your cunt clenches around his cock. His cheeks dimpled from the suction; he’s propped up on one elbow, using his hand to pinch and roll the other bud between his fingers. 

He alternates between licking and sucking, not keen on wasting just one drop of your precious milk. “Gods, Aemond,” you whine, arching your back against him. You feel him throb inside of you at the despair audible in your voice, spurring him on. 

Your hips move on their own accord now, grinding against his and matching his movements, the pain in your belly and breasts long forgotten as you chase your pleasure. 

A couple of moments pass until you feel Aemond’s breath growing labored, his chest almost heaving with more and more muffled grunts and groans escaping his throat. He is loud – much to your surprise – but your body seems keen at that, the pressure inside of your belly tightening at a rapid pace.

As his lips wrap around your other bud, the knot in your belly snaps. It’s either gripping the sheets or his hair to keep yourself grounded, and you opt for the latter, burying your hands inside of his silver strands. You use the grip to pull him closer to your breasts, more out of instinct than of clear will. 

The sheets below you are soaked with a blend of your arousal and moonblood, trickling out of your cunt and coating Aemond’s cock and the sac of his stones. It’s the tightness of your peak’s contractions that eventually forces the seed from your husband, milking him for every last drop of his spent. His muscles go rigid, yet he hardly withdraws from your bud to release grunts and groans, too drunk on what’s supposed to be for your son. 

He bites down as he spills inside of you, harder than you like considering your whole body is a sensitive mess at this point, but you do not begrudge him – it’s well deserved with how caring and careful he’s been to tend to your needs. 

He buries his face between your now soft and tender breasts as you leisurely ride out your peaks, both your movements slowly, but surely, coming to a stop. You tug on his hair, and the sight of his half-lidded eye and his swollen lips makes you clench around him once more. 

While Aemond swallows a groan, you urge his face towards yours for a kiss, moaning at the taste of your milk on his tongue. Labored breaths fan across each other’s faces as his mouth leaves yours, and you take a moment to stare at each other silently. 

“Is the pain… has it eased?” Aemond’s voice is a hoarse whisper. Panting softly, he sits back on his haunches. 

A small, bashful smile curves your lips, the haze of desire beginning to lift. Your body still thrums with the aftereffects of his endeavors. “I am quite alright,” you reply. “But perhaps we should indulge in a bath. I do believe a soak in hot water may alleviate my discomfort even more, and it seems we have both made quite the mess.”

You notice the mischievous gleam in his good eye. “If that is what my love desires, then consider it done. I shall have hot water brought to our chambers, and then I shall ensure that every bit of your discomfort is soothed.”

[just-some-random-blogger]

Tormented Spirit | 8

Part 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

"Is it such a sin to stand up for yourself?" you mutter as tears blur your vision. The way he reacted was visceral, instinctive even. "You never have to stand up for yourself ever again," says Daemon, reaching a hand to you, "come."

Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!Reader | 3k+ | cw: fem!reader, reader has brown hair, wife!reader, twin!Gwayne, arranged/forced marriage, canon divergence, alternate universe, slow burn, smut (piv, morning sex, come marking?, cock warming) DOWN BAD!DAEMON, DD:DNE, panic/anxiety attacks, daddy issues/child abuse/family problems, mentions/depictions of mental/physical/psychosomatic illness, ye old misogyny, angst, typos, etc.

A/N: this chapter became 6k+ words so i had to split it T_T. at least that means i'll be updating relatively faster lol. i hope you enjoy since all the fluff is here HAHAHAH and if you do, please leave a comment/reblog to let me know <3 <3 <3. once again, the high valyrian is internet translated, so it might be wrong. | cross posted on ao3

@arabellasleopardcoat @prettybiching

Otto nods as he passes a group of clergy members. He makes his way down the otherwise empty temple, eyes forward as he clutches a firm figurine in his hand. He grunts as he gets down on his knees in front of a fresco of the seven pointed star.

He lights three candles in front of him, saying three different names each time. He places the figurine he brought with him beside them. Of course, it wasn't a figurine but a woolen doll. He says another name, your name, then starts this prayers.

"Father, guard my family through this trying time, my son, my daughters... my daughter," he brushes the face of the doll then closes his eyes. "Stranger, put the souls of the departed Queen Aemma and Prince Baelon to rest.

"Warrior, strengthen my daughter and spare her and her unborn child from succumbing the same fate. Mother, grant her comfort and good health through her journey to motherhood. Crone, guide her and grant her good discernment, so that she may not fear the unknown. Maiden, preserve her beauty, her light."

He opens his eyes and stares at the point that represented the Smith. He grits his teeth before sighing in defeat, "Smith, fortifier... mender... I beg," he sighs, "mend her heart. Mend her body. I beseech you. Let not my prayer fall deaf on your ears any longer."

The candlelight before him glows as he waits another day for the answer to his decade old prayer.

Meanwhile, the candles in your room have long been put out, including the one you normally keep lit by your bed. You are first to rouse today, and yet you could not rise from bed, as you were pressed beneath the body of your husband. Daemon sighed contentedly on your chest, one arm and leg draped over you. You have never slept together (or so you think) so you figured that Daemon was probably moved a lot in his sleep, which is how you both ended up in this position.

You stare at the top of his head, continuing to brush through his silver hair. In truth, you did not want to rise. You wanted to stay in this peace, in this stillness. It would not last long, you knew it— you dreaded it.

Goosebumps form on your skin when you feel your husband's hand brush over your belly before hooking on to your hip. You begin to feel your heart race as you remember what your father told you the night before.

How could you tell him? How could you possibly tell Daemon that you were with child, when you knew he was so diligent in assuring you would not be? Was it even possible to carry his seed when he never finished inside you?

Against yourself, you remember the day you caught Gwayne kissing a lady behind a curtain, and how you attacked him because you thought he had gotten her pregnant. The poor girl ran away as you beat your twin, and Gwyane defended himself, saying that's not how you do it. You did not know any better, so you told him you did not believe him and nearly forced him to go to your father to announce you would be marrying the lady. He, in turn had to explain what he knew, to both your horror.

You were no fool to believe the words of your stupid twin, so you made it your mission to find out the truth. After sneaking books from the Citadel itself, you read many a book only to find out your twin was telling you the truth.

That was why dread rippled across your skin, for could there ever be a world where Daemon purposefully pulled out and is not angered by this news, where he does not accuse you of infidelity?

You go between worry and peace as you brush your fingers across the prince's skin. You try to convince yourself that all will be well, but each time you do, another part of your mind raises that nothing's ever been well with you. You decide then, even if just for this moment, you will pretend the calmness of your husband will remain.

But the world is cruel, for at this same moment, Daemon awakens.

He stirs with a groan, face rubbing against your sternum. The robe you had on was no longer covering your chest. Your heart races as he looks up at you, his violet eyes still sleepy, "sȳz ñāqes."

You do not understand, but you assume it means good morning, and so you say, "good morning."

Daemon sighs as he pushes himself up, removing his pants. You tense as he comes atop you and kisses your neck. He nudges your head to the side with his own and soon, he pushes your legs apart with his knees.

Your hands come to his hip bones, where you then dig your nails in, making him groan. You whimper when you feel him grind his groin into yours. He is half-hard.

"Sesīr isse ñuha ēdrugon, jaelan ao." Even in my sleep, I want you.

You whimper yet again when he begins to rock against you, digging your nails deeper into him.

"Gīda ilagon," he mutters as he fully parts your robe, repeating in common tongue, "calm down."

You are taken aback by how he pecks your lips once before kissing your neck again.

"Dreamt about fucking your pretty cunny," he mutters lowly between kisses, "wanna make it real."

His words make you ache and throb. In a way, you were comforted by the thought Daemon wanted you, even if it was just your body. You close your eyes and let yourself relax. You sigh against his ear, nuzzling into his shoulder, and brush your hand up his back. As your hands trail to his biceps, his skin breaks out with gooseflesh and a high pitched whimper leaves his lips.

"Fuuuuuuck," he whines out rather pathetically.

There is a languidness to his movements unlike you've ever experienced. His normally brash and pointed demeanor is soft and gentle, his kisses even more so. There is no sense of urgency whatsoever as he rolls his hips against you. If you didn't know any better, you would have believed that he wanted to savor the moment.

He did. He wanted to savor your body, as dreaming of it had him feeling some indistinguishable way. You would never know this though, for he would never tell you.

By the time, you've become shaky and your cunt was absolutely sopping wet because of Daemon's now fully hard cock rubbing up against it, he finally pushes into you, drawing out a deep groan from your throat. You tighten your legs and arms around him and your teeth sink into his shoulder.

Daemon grips your thighs as he thrusts into you. He barely pulls out, seemingly determined to go deeper and deeper each time, wanting— needing to be pressed flush into you. His hands sneak beneath you, fingers raking up your shoulder blades to your nape before tangling into your brown hair. He breathes heavily against your ear as your bodies grow hotter and hotter.

You both remain in this snug position, doing this constricted dance until your bellies begin to burn. He doesn't speed up at all or pull out any more than he already has. You feel your body begin to tense and your climax begin to build, and then, just then, a spirit overcomes Daemon.

The next moment, he has his hand on your jaw, forcing your head back. Just as you reach your peak, he pulls out and thrusts his wet cock on your slick fold, once, twice, until his hard member is soft and twitching. His load shoots out up to your chest and sputters down on your belly, garnering a surprised gasp from you. It's hot and viscous against your skin and you wonder what it would have felt like had he released in you. There's so much of it too.

"Fuck, fuck, fu-" Daemon repeats, thinking the exact same thing you were.

You expect him to roll over, because there is no way he wouldn't after soiling you, but you gasp yet again as he comes crashing down on you, skin sticking with a squelch.

He is arrested by your warmth and wants nothing but to plunge into you again. So, in his greed, he grabs his still twitching cock and pushes it into you, releasing a long and throaty groan as he does so. It makes you tremble and whimper his name. You were not expecting the intrusion, so you brush your cheek against his, hoping he understands to give you a moment of repose before going again.

After a while, though you still felt tender from your orgasm, you brush your cheek against him once more, signaling you were ready for him again.

He does the strangest thing however, and simply brushes his cheek back. He pulls his head back, looking down at you, "litse riña." Pretty girl.

You notice the softness of his violet eyes and knit your brows at it. He is so overwhelming you cannot help but kiss him. There was still remnants of morning breath in your mouths, but neither of you cared.

Daemon is loathed to have you pull away. He leans into your touch as you brush his unruly hair back. You slowly shake your head, "I do not understand, my prince."

"iksā sīr rāpa se bāne," you are so soft and warm. He brushes your noses together, "ñuha ābrazȳrys," my wife.

A line forms between your brows at the foreign tongue. You wait for him to translate as he brings his hand to your cheek. He stares at you for a long moment, thumb brushing your skin.

He makes no attempt to decode the High Valyrian for you, and soon, a knock comes upon your door.

Daemon is instantly irritated as he glares over his shoulder, muttering, "who the fuck is that?"

"My servants. I-"

Before you could even finish, your two servant girls are waking in, and Daemon watches them as they head for your bathroom, horribly and painfully unaware of him. He waits for them to reemerge, and the moment they do, he is instantly screaming, "FUCK OFF, CUNTS! THE DOOR'S CLOSED FOR A REASON."

You hear their gasps, squeals, and apologies before scurrying off, slamming the door behind them as they did.

Instantly, yet again, Daemon relaxes and nuzzles against your neck.

"D-Daemon," you whisper, sinking your fingers into his long hair, "they normally wake me up at-"

"I don't give a fuck," he quips, tightening his hold on you, "they'll know better now."

You clench your jaw and sigh, making mental note to apologize to your girls for the prince's actions.

You begin to doze off, as does Daemon in all his gluttonous glory. The two of you stay in bed until lunch time, which is far longer than you've ever personally stayed.

Arryk, who had been stationed outside your door for a while now, is concerned by this. He raps at the entrance to your room and calls your name. When he receives no response, he peaks inside and inspects the stillness of it all. Unnerved by the idea you were sleeping in, he thinks the worse and walks in, calling your name again. His breath is forced down his throat when he sees the flash of white hair on the bed. He sees a hand rub down a toned back and he immediately reels back, quiet and as quick as he possibly can.

You wake the second time because of the growling of your stomach. It is loud and painful, so much so, it wakes your husband.

He groans, brushing his nose against you, "hungry?"

You huff, craning your neck to look at him, finding his closed eyes, "clearly, I'm starving."

A rich chuckle rumbles from his chest. He opens his eyes and they twinkle with mischief, "I could feed you something meaty."

Your face contorts, "I do not think you'd want me to bite your cock, my prince."

Daemon laughs, hard enough to fully awaken him. He wheezes, and rolls of your chest, "I did-" sigh, "not say it was-" wheeze, "my cock."

You hum, "oh, of course not. Apologies."

Your sarcasm only maddens him further into amusement.

You take this as a chance to wriggle away from him, and so you do. The semen still on your skin is tepid and pasty as it smears against your chests. Your robe is completely lose as you come to a stand. You decide not to dirty your garment with Daemon's seed by covering yourself, so you head for the bathroom with your robe open.

You gasp at the swiftness of how your are grabbed and pulled back. Your body collides into Daemon's chest. Your care for your satin robe if for naught, because it sticks on his come anyway. Daemon's is hypnotized by your scent. He is quick to brush your hair over shoulder and mumble against your nape, "you wound me with your eagerness to flee me, wife."

His hands come to squeeze your breasts and you whimper as you turn to him. You knit your brows and pout, "that is not true."

"No?" he says a little louder than he ought as his emotions slightly get ahead of him, "are you not running from me this moment?"

You frown and fully face him, having to peel your robe off his chest as you do, "I'm simply going to bathe." You stare at his chest, "you've made a mess of me."

Daemon tilts his head, "not nearly enough, in my opinion."

You find the self-satisfied grin on his face, "you should too bathe with me."

"Mmm, well then," he takes your hand, "bathe we shall."

The water that your servants had brought was now cold, but you both made do with what you had. Daemon is simultaneously unsurprised and taken aback by how you tend to him first, he does not know why. You've bathed him once before, and yet it somehow feels different. You scrub his chest with cloth and inspire him to do the same for you. You lean into his touch as he washes you off, and it makes his stomach roll.

He takes a good look at you, your skin, the marks he left on it, your nose, your knees, your hair, everything, and he cannot believe something so... so immaculate, so resplendent could be borne from a man so detestable.

"You are not your father's daughter," he says so casually.

You look up at him, freezing because of his random sentiment.

"You are the gods promise to me. A woman made to sate my fire."

Your brows knit at his words. You tilt your head and it makes him nearly goes mad. How darling you ask, "I sate your fire?"

He hums and pulls you into him, kissing your arm as he did, "stoke, perhaps, is truer."

Your breath hitches when he brings you to his lap. He sighs as he feels your flesh against his, it wont be long until he's hard all over again. He licks a stripe up your left breast, "I am, in fact, insatiable."

Your heart races and he peppers kisses up your neck. You lean your forehead against his after kissing your lips. You whisper in earnest, "I will try."

Daemon pulls back, hands coming to your neck as he looks at you.

"I will try to sate you."

Fuck. The thought should have made him laugh, but it doesn't. It makes him burn. He cannot say anything, for his mouth seeks yours. He kisses your lips and you two sequentially spend another hour or so turning the water warm as it splashes all over the floor.

You're antsy and eager to feast by the end of it all.

You help each other get dressed, and Daemon finds the way you hastily button his doublet ever-so-endearing. When it's his turn to help, he shushes you and rubs your shoulders before securing your corset from behind, "your food will not fly off the window."

You rub your aching stomach, "I pray it flies into my mouth soon."

He snickers as he finishes tying your laces.

You quickly run towards the vanity and hastily begin to brush your still damp hair.

He watches bounce your leg and the faintest of smiles graces his lips. He watches your chest begin to rise and fall rather quickly, and soon his brows furrow. He walks up behind you, "aeritta run." Restless thing.

He takes your hand and your jaw, but it is unlike most times he does so. His touch is gentle. He does not force you to do hand your brush or look forward, but you do. You look at each other from the mirror; your chest continues to heave.

"Paez ilagon," Daemon enunciates, "say it for me, won't you?"

Your brows furrow in slight confusion. You release a breath, "pez ilegon."

"Paez," he corrects.

"Paez."

"Good," he nods, "ilagon."

"Il... Ilagon."

"Rōvēgrior," Daemon leans in and mumbles against your temple, "excellent. Now..." he kisses your temple, "once more: paez ilagon."

You take a breath, doing your best to mimic his accent, "pa...ez i- ... lagon."

"Arlī," again, he motions with his pointer, "speak confidently."

"Daemon."

"You can do it," he tilts his head at your reflection, "paez ilagon."

You sigh and nod your head, "paez ilagon."

His violet eyes twinkle, "rōvēgrior," excellent, he claps his hands, "spoken like a true Valyrian."

You turn to him, breath hitching at the sight of his smile, "wha-"

Daemon takes your face and makes you turn forward.

You look at his reflection and grip your skirt, fearing you'd upset him. But then he begins to style your hair and your butterflies overcome your belly. You try to ignore the thump of your heart by clearing your throat, "what d-does it mean?"

"Paez ilagon is slow down."

"Ahhh," your jaw drops in slight embarrassment, "I see."

Daemon points, "hand me your pin."

You get the hair pin on the vanity and hand it over, "and the other one?"

"Hmm?"

"Ro... roz- rovevegregor."

Daemon tilts his head as he chuckles through his nostrils, a soft smile remaining on his face as he finishes securing your hair in a similar manner he does himself.

You witness all of this and your heart skips a beat.

"Rōvēgrior," he repeats, "try to roll your tongue."

"..."

"Go on."

"RRRRozeofoieve-"

He laughs and takes a hair tie from the table. He quickly does his own hair then takes you by the hand. He ushers you to the door as he continues to chuckle, "we should get you something to eat. You should ill."

You are hypnotized by his melodic laugh. You don't dare interrupt it, so you whisper under your breath, mostly to yourself, "but what does it mean?"

"Excellent," he says, hearing your whisper. He opens the door for you, "it means excellent, gevie."

You do not notice Arryk as you exit your chambers, "but what about that?"

Daemon does not notice him either, "what?"

"Ge- gevie?"

"Gevie?" he repeats.

You nod.

Arryk bows and greets you, "princess."

You turn to him as he bows again, "my prince."

Daemon does not spare him a glance. Beautiful, it meant, but he instead tells you, "it is a secret."

You do not respond to Daemon, but he does not mind. He is fully content to stare at you. You smile at your ward, taking a second to guess who it is, "good morn, ser. Are you... Erryk?"

Arryk examines you, finally breathing a sigh of relief to know you are unharmed. He is also glad to see you are not dressed in attire that... exposes the good works of your husband. In the same second, he notices your said husband, and how keenly is gaze is set upon your beaming form. He clenches his jaw, "nay, your grace. Neither am I my brother, nor is it morning."

"Oh," you purse your lips, "my apologies, dear Arryk."

Daemon quickly pulled out of his haze, raising a brow at dear Arryk, "you may go."

Arryk turns to him.

"I will keep my wife company today," he says, wasting no more time in idle chatter, taking you by the hand.

You both walk off and you offer Arryk a smile and nod in regard.

Arryk clenches his jaw but forces himself to smile back at you. He is uneasy by the prospect, knowing how fickle and volatile Daemon can become regarding you. He stares at your joined hands as you walk away, deciding to trust the prince for your sake.

[melodymidway]

Just a few hard pills to swallow about the Westerosi succession for Team Black stans.

The Greens weren't at all delusional or selfish to expect Aegon to be named heir.

As a matter of fact, the firstborn sons of lords and kings become heirs the moment they were born, and without the need for specification. It doesn't matter if the first wife, or the second, or the tenth, has given birth to said son. So when Otto and Alicent advocated for Aegon's birthright, they asked for a basic thing in their time and society. No matter how much people want to ignore this fact and call Aegon 'usurper', his claim was very real and very strong. This is why he, his sons and his brothers would have found themselves on the Wall at best and dead at worst even if they had adhered to Viserys's whims.

Lucerys has zero claim to Driftmark. And no, being the great-great-whatever grandson of Alyssa Velaryon doesn't make the slightest difference.

Not even legitimisation would have helped Luke retain his Velaryon heirship because he isn't a Velaryon. Period. The argument about his being Alyssa Velaryon's descendant, which is somehow supposed to justify the actual usurpation of the other House's seat, is one of the most nonsensical takes I've seen. Naturally, the noble Houses intermarry all the time. If every lord opened his pedigree and decided that he has a claim to his great-grandmother's family's castle, Westeros would drown in blood. That's why succession laws exist, as unfair as they can be. For some reason, I don't see people saying that Doran Martell should be crowned king because he's descended from Daenerys Targaryen.

Women in Westeros can and do inherit. Rhaenyra isn't special.

As the Andal law goes, a son inherits before a daughter, and a daughter inherits before an uncle. While the male primogeniture is a thing, there's a clear clause of female inheritance. Cersei becomes the Lady of Casterly Rock when her brothers are out of picture. Rhaenys operated on the same law while trying to get her lawful heirship. There are cases when uncles attempt to steal their nieces' birthright (as in the situation with Sansa Stark and her uncle Jonnel), but plenty of women do rule their ancestral seats. Saying that Rhaenyra is the first woman to be named heir is wildly inaccurate.

If Rhaenys had ascended the Iron Throne instead of Viserys, the matters of succession wouldn't have changed.

For some reason many people believe that Rhaenys's ascension would have magically wiped out male primogeniture (same for Jace if he had become king). I'm sorry to disappoint, but Laenor would have been Rhaenys's heir, not Laena. The latter would have been made one only if Laenor had met his canon fate and died with no legitimate issue. As I mentioned earlier, Rhaenys strived to get her inheritance based on Andal law, according to which she does have an advantage over her uncle Baelon and his sons. If she had been the older sister of Viserys and Daemon, she wouldn't have pressed her claim. By the same logic, if Viserys had never remarried, Rhaenyra would have had a legal advantage over Daemon (though Jaehaerys's 'brilliant' management of Rhaenys vs Viserys debate might have gotten in the way).

The Greens are pro Andal law, not anti women in power.

And these are two different things since, as it had already been said, the Andal law does include a clause of female inheritance. So no, it isn't hypocritical of Alicent to offer to make Baela heiress of Driftmark. Laenor is dead without legitimate children. Laena is equally dead. The circumstances make Baela a very viable candidate for the Velaryon heirship.

[yanderes-galore]

Yandere Aemon Targaryen (jaeh i son) concept

Sure! Naturally I differed from canon in this. You're a member of House Baratheon.

Yandere! Aemon Targaryen Concept

(Son of Jaehaerys I)

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling/AFAB section, Obsession, Manipulation, Possessive behavior, Violence, Coerced betrothal, Forced wedding, Mentions of having kids/Pregnancy (AFAB section), Baelon is an enabler, Blood, Murder, Mentions of bedding, Isolation, Forced relationship.

When you were younger you were quite used to seeing Targaryens.

King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne were known for having many heirs.

Your father, as head of House Baratheon, naturally met with the king for certain affairs.

All Houses sworn to the crown must attend council at some point.

As a result your House was often invited to events.

Such events and meetings allowed you to meet a certain young Targaryen prince...

One who would change your life for the worst it seems.

Aemon Targaryen was one of your first experiences with a Targaryen prince.

He's the third born of the king and is always beside his younger brother, Baelon.

You had encountered Aemon during a banquet when you were young teens... which led to the prince asking you to dance with a smile.

Aemon is strong and tall, easily towering over you when you first meet him.

He's serious, cautious, careful, and modest.

Despite his strength, Aemon was never a very fierce prince.

While he was nice when asking you to dance, you noticed the prince was often very quiet.

It was as though he wasn't very social...

Turns out you were somewhat right.

Later on you learned Aemon was most into books, one day inviting you to join him as a way to get to know you better.

Like most Targaryens, Aemon has a mount.

As you grow close to the prince, you soon meet Caraxes.

The large red long necked dragon was protective of Aemon when you first met the dragon.

Although, as the dragon inspected you... he oddly seemed curious.

It was almost like he didn't see you as a threat...

You had no clue that Aemon's feelings translated to his dragon, you weren't well versed in Targaryen bonds... yet.

Your bond with Aemon started small.

When you visited him in Dragonstone or King's Landing, Aemon was always quick to greet you.

Some servants even say he could be in the middle of a task... only to drop it to meet with you.

Many would say Aemon's close to you, even Baelon would.

You always read beside him, you always watched him train...

It was thought the prince was fond of you, a Baratheon.

You felt a bit... overwhelmed when you heard such rumors.

Fond of you?

Being so involved with a Targaryen sounds... intimidating.

You try not to bring it up... but Aemon's courting only gets more obvious.

Every heir gets betrothed at some point....

As Aemon's one of the eldest and a son, it's only natural that he'd need to be betrothed as an heir.

But Aemon didn't want to take just anyone...

No, as you both grew up beside one another in your younger years, Aemon had always fallen for you.

It may go against his father's wishes... yet his mother supports his decision.

A marriage between you should make Aemon happy... and keep House Baratheon's loyalty.

Really, to you it just felt like politics.

To Aemon, this was true love.

Aemon wouldn't understand why you don't want to marry him.

You parents agree to it, you're already at Dragonstone and King's Landing often enough.

Do you not want to marry the Prince of Dragonstone?

Even Baelon encourages you, feeling you'd be the best consort for his elder brother.

Truth is, the idea of being married to the Targaryen's eldest son scares you.

That's completely understandable, too, as that would mean you'd rule alongside your husband if he became king.

While you find Dragonstone and The Red Keep fascinating places with rich history...

You don't see them as home.

Storm's End is your home as a Baratheon, you feel you have no place anywhere near the throne.

While you find Aemon an appealing prince... You aren't sure if you want to be romantically involved.

You've been scared to voice such concerns, knowing your opinion wouldn't be taken into account.

Even less so if you said you fell for someone else.

Although, when pressed by Aemon, you eventually crack.

Aemon does his best to be understanding, in some ways he's very similar to his father.

He understands you're scared, betrothal can be unnerving.

Aemon's even willing to be patient with you.

However... He isn't calling off the betrothal.

How could he?

He loves you and thinks you'll make a wonderful ruler... you'll bring pride to both of your families.

Aemon loves you with his entire being, he's dedicated and begged his parents to set you up with him.

You'll be wed in a month or two and that's final.

If you have another lover... Well, it's time to cut ties.

It's that or Aemon will do it for you.

He can't have you being unfaithful, can he?

Aemon is nice and considerate... but only gives you the illusion of choice.

He makes it sound like he'll postpone the wedding, that he'll wait until you're ready.

Yet it's never getting canceled.

If you were seeing someone before him, Aemon will most likely want to discuss with them.

If they don't seem to stay around... Baelon also has some words for them.

Although he comes with more blood.

It isn't long before you hear about it, your lover having been cut down in a supposed duel.

You know it's a lie.

Aemon doesn't look concerned in the slightest... and Baelon never seemed to like them.

Dragons do not share.

Aemon is not willing to let another House claim your heart.

He may be considerate and careful...

But he is quite serious when courting you.

Aemon would try to ease you into the betrothal as the days go by

He offers gifts, suggests dragon rides, and overall tries to show that he'll be a good husband to you.

Yet you keep denying him.

Speaking of dragons, Caraxes becomes increasingly used to you.

The dragon knows his rider has claimed you, making the dragon fond of you.

You aren't a Targaryen, not in the slightest, but the dragon never tries to burn you alive.

Caraxes won't let you ride him alone, but as long as you are with Aemon, Caraxes is alert and attentive.

It's as though the dragon and Aemon mirror emotions.

In a similar way, you notice Aemon get more possessive as the wedding date ticks down.

This isn't new for Targaryens... their links to dragons make them go mad.

Aemon is a good man to you.

Although, he begins to lose his patience if you keep trying to run from him.

You cannot run from your responsibility.

Storm's End is no longer your home.

Aemon is adamant on telling you where your home is.

Your home should be with him, by his side.

It's an honor to marry a Targaryen, a dragon rider who rules these lands.

If Aemon had to bind your wrist to him with pretty silks or even cold chains to keep you with him...

He may just do it.

Aemon isn't a very violent man.

He's strong yet always seemed to be one to negotiate unless it wasn't an option.

Aemon would never hurt you, he loves you too much.

He just wishes you'd stop hurting him.

Even during the ceremony Aemon makes sure to keep you where you're supposed to be.

Baelon promises his brother he'll watch you and prevent any escape attempts.

Even if tears threaten to spill from your eyes... Aemon's there to wipe them gently.

He tells you there's no need to cry... you both were destined for this...

Yet you can't bring yourself to be happy... not when Baelon killed your lover... not when Aemon threatened to tie you to his side...

Aemon says he loves you, sealing the deal with a kiss...

Yet you're just scared for what your life is to become.

AFAB Section

After weddings, the bedding ceremony usually commences.

Aemon is gentle during it, whispering sweet nothings as he kisses your skin.

By the end of it he cuddles you close, whispering how you'll be a good queen for him.

The Smallfolk are supportive of your marriage, King's Landing erupting in excitement.

Many are excited for Aemon to have an heir, be that a young prince or princess.

You do your best to put on a smile, to pretend you too are excited to see what the future will bring.

But you aren't the happiest.

Aemon is loving, yet you already had a love.

Now, for the sake of being a queen, you are to have Aemon's heir...

You barely had any time to grieve.

Aemon becomes protective of his wife... but he isn't the only one.

Caraxes can now sense Targaryen blood deep in your system once Aemon beds you.

You are growing a babe and the dragon seems to notice.

Aemon often takes you to Caraxes to get used to his mount.

The dragon, in response, always sniffs and chitters at you.

Aemon then grins, holding his beloved wife close, even as she stares blankly at her stomach.

You may not even know you're pregnant until Caraxes notifies you both.

Which leads to Aemon kissing your forehead, praising you for being his love.

I imagine Aemon would take you to Dragonstone to keep you safe.

It's quieter than The Red Keep in King's Landing.

You don't particularly like it as it makes you feel more isolated than you were.

Aemon is a seemingly good husband to you.

Even if you still dislike him coercing you into being his wife.

Unlike his father, Aemon doesn't mind when you have a daughter.

To him, Rhaenys is a beautiful baby girl, and she's yours.

Aemon would love any babe if you were the one who gave him them.

Once Rhaenys is born, Aemon rarely wants to leave your side.

Even as Rhaenys grows up, Aemon is already introducing her to dragons.

Having Rhaenys is probably the final nail in the coffin for you, now you truly are bound to Aemon.

After all, you can't seem to leave your daughter.

Even as she claims her dragon Meleys... or marries Corlys Velaryon... you adore her, even if you're disinterested in Aemon.

Aemon always talks about how you two should have a son... his grip on your waist tight.

You never say anything, accepting that you belong to Aemon, that you've been claimed by a dragon.

A beast.

I have a feeling even when Aemon dies, you're still tied to Targaryens more than Baratheons.

After all, you have a daughter to look after.

A daughter who loves you very much...

She's all you have now... and deep down... maybe you accept that.

[sweetestpopcorn]

Baby Walserys >>>>> Everything else

Baby Viserys I XD

Alyssa: ……

Baelon: ……I,I will take care of him, no matter what…

Alysanne: you two stop it! That’s how all newborns look!!!!

Decades later

Baelon: my son, there’s something you need to know before you meet ur newborn. They may look…… quite unique

Viserys I: D:

(Rhaebabe born)

Viserys I: look father! My little girl is so perfect 🤩

Baelon (looking down at Rhaenyra’s perfect newborn baby face): ???

[anyca786]

"YOU'RE A MENACE, DAEMON TARGARYEN"

Daemon Targaryen x sister!Targaryen

WARNINGS: canon typical incest/targcest (brother & sister), angst (smut warning: fingering) Daemon being Daemon.

Series

The rocky shores of Dragonstone were transformed into a somber gathering place for the funeral of Queen Aemma and Prince Baelon. The two were laid to rest on pyres, wrapped in white cloth.

Syrax, Rhaenyra's dragon, perched atop a hill overlooking the field, her eyes filled with sadness. Daenys approached her niece, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.

Daemon joined them, whispering in Rhaenyra's ear, "They're waiting for you."

Rhaenyra spoke in High Valyrian. "I wonder if, during those few hours my brother lived, my father finally found happiness."

Daenys' heart ached at her niece's words.

Daemon replied, "Your father needs you more now than he ever has."

Rhaenyra shook her head. "I will never be a son."

After a moment, Rhaenyra stepped forward bravely, her hand clutching Daenys' tightly. Syrax watched as Rhaenyra attempted to speak, but the words caught in her throat. She glanced back at her father, who did not return her gaze. Then she looked at Daenys, who nodded.

"Dracarys," she finally said.

Syrax crawled forward, her breath scorching the air as she ignited the funeral pyres.

Rhaenyra, unable to bear the sight of her mother's body burning, found solace in Daenys' arms. She buried her face in Daenys' chest, sobbing silently. Daenys stroked her hair gently, watching the flames with a heavy heart.

Daemon mourned for his brother and niece, but the look on Daenys' face was a dagger to his heart. He had never seen her so heartbroken.

While Daenys spent rest of the day comforting her niece, Daemon turned himself to the Brothel, surrounded by gold cloaks and sex workers engaged in various sexual activities. Words were sent that Daemon chose to celebrate his own rise.

After Viserys banished him for the stunt he pulled at the Brothel, Daemon stood at the doorway of Daenys' dimly lit bedchamber, his face etched with anger. He hesitated for a moment before entering, his footsteps echoing in the quiet room.

Daenys was lying in bed, wearing only her nightgown. The soft flames from the candles luminating her body. She looked up as Daemon entered, her expression neutral. "Daenys," Daemon began, his voice low.

Daenys closed her book. "What is it?" she asked, her tone expectant.

Daemon took a deep breath. "Viserys is sending me back"

Daenys' eyebrows raised. "Of course he did," she replied, her voice laced with sarcasm. "What did you expect?"

Daemon's jaw clenched. "Daenys, I-"

"You insulted Viserys' dead son, Daemon!" Daenys interrupted. "You played a dangerous game and lost. It's your own fault."

"It was a jest," Daemon retorted, his tone equally harsh. "A harmless jest."

"Harmless?" Daenys scoffed. "You're a menace, Daemon Targaryen."

Daemon's anger flared. "How dare you speak to me like that?" he growled.

Daenys replied, her voice rising, "You're selfish, arrogant, and cruel. You care about nothing but yourself."

She arises from her bed and stands in front of him.

Daemon stepped closer, his eyes filled with fury. "I care about you," he said, his voice low.

Daenys laughed bitterly. "You're a fool, Daemon." she said.

Daemon grabbed Daenys by her shoulders, "Don't you dare call me a fool," he shouts.

Daenys looked at him defiantly. "I will call you whatever I want," she said.

Daemon inched dangerously closer to her. 'Daemon, what-" She didn't even finish the sentence as he slammed her body the against the table. Daenys let out a whimper as loud as the thud of her back hitting the white wood.

"What-" He interrupted her again, "This little body deserves to be fucked until you're crying my name. I want to break you so harshly you feel me for days after for being disrepectful to me. Every time you sit down or walk, you'll remember me," He lifted her up in one swift movement and then setting her on top of the table.

She tries to hop off it but Daemon kept her pinned with a hand on her hip, with his other hand he pull riped the thin layer of the nightgown. He groaned when her soft round breast were set free.

"Dirty girl, wearing these,' He murmured, making her shiver. "Are you wet, princess?" He whispers in her ear.

She squeaks in response, "Daemon, no...we can't," she pleads half-heartedly.

"That's not what your body says, princess,"' he said as his hand brushes up her thigh to her clit, gathering her wetness and circling it slowly.

"Seems you're soaked, babysister," He smirked, "Is this for me?"

She doesn't respond, throwing her head back with a whimper as Daemon pinch her clit softly.

Sinking down, He kisses up her thigh before latching his mouth to her core, his tastebuds exploding with the sweet taste of her.

She moans as he circles her clit with his tongue, pressing a finger into her as well.

"Daemom, please,' she cries out breathlessly but he ignores her, adding another finger into her. He work her clit, inducing a string of moans from her as she tries to wiggle away from him.

"Daemon," she whispers, making him move his mouth away. He rise to his feet again, keeping his fingers inside her.

"What do you want, Princess?" He asks her, tilting his head mischievously, "Do you want me to stop?"

She bites her lip as he changes his angle and pace, stroking her insides deeper than before, "Tell me you want me to stop," He whispered while kissing her soft silky breasts,"Beg me." He starts biting and sucking her nipples hungrily.

She stays quiet, another moan escaping her lips. He increases the pace, making her pant as her walls begin to flutter against his fingers, "What do you want, Princess?" He ask her again as her orgasm threatens.

'I- I want," she drifts off, biting her lip to stop a scream as he adds a third finger. 'You want what?" He taunts her, knowing exactly what she wants from the way her core was throbbing.

"Make me come, Daemon. I-I want y-you" she chokes out in a sob as he increases the pace, sending her body into overdrive. "Your wish is my command, sister," he smirked, sinking down again, licking her clit. She cries out as her orgasm washes over her, her walls squeezing the life out of his fingers as she falls over the edge.

Daemon works her through it, not relenting until she is a panting mess. Standing to his full height, he encapsulate her lips in a harsh kiss, wanting her to taste herself on his lips. "What do you say?" He tilts his head with my eyebrows raised.

She gulps, her eyes wide again with innocence "Sorry,"' she whispers, her face flushing red. Daemon chuckled.

She helps herself off the table, and he watches her as she tries to cover herself with her hands. Before she could do it, He grabbed her hand.

"We're not done, yet," He warned her.

A/N : Double update. Cause I'm ovulating.

[howdoesagrapewrites]

𝐆𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬 𝐓𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐬

Plot: Baela needs some stress relieving before the battle, and who's best than her sweet older sister?

Cw: lovesick!Baela Targaryen x reader, top!Baela x sub!reader, could be Blackfyre!reader but this is not really canon so who cares, smut, fingering, grinding, your usual unhinged medieval sexuality, incest, targcest could be read as internalized homophobia but not really, dirty talk, virginity loss, Baela's POV at first, then reader's POV

Notes: This is not really canon, or important in the Dragon Jaws/Blackfyre series, it's just a little treat

Baela and Y/N were in a tent after a session with the generals of the black army, they discussed the strategy for combat tomorrow. It was late, probably later than it was prudent, after all, no warrior with half a brain would go into war without proper rest; but it was not easy to fall asleep with so much in mind.

The sisters shared a tent, both as a security measure, and one of emotional need. They had spent their whole lives together, missing each other terribly when apart. They would exchange letters and travel on dragonback into the arms of one another, though the tent was missing Rhaena, their other sister, they accepted this gracefully, as it was to keep her safe.

They slept on a big bed (as much as it could be called a bed), usually ending up tangled in the other's embrace. For Baela, it was hard. She was in love with her sister, she desired her. It had evolved throughout the years, but she was sure she loved her sisters from the moment she was able to love. During puberty this feeling grew, it enveloped her, and now, as an adult, it was irresistible. For one, she was grateful she was born a woman, she could shower and dress with her without any shame, stare at her bosom, her perky nipples, her hips, her back, so soft and ready to be marked. She remembered this time during her younger years, where with the excuse of curiosity, she asked her older sister about her developing body, Baela standing naked before her, with her only in her undergarments, both getting ready for bed after swimming on the sea.

"I just can't know if they will get like yours, can you look at me?" She timidly asked. Y/N just caressed her curly hair, and said "It's normal, they look normal. They just might be small, that's lovely too" she said, innocent to the hormone-filled train of thought Baela was conjuring. Y/N topped it off with words that would be repeated over and over in Baela's head for years to come: "You can't tell anyone this, but you and Rhaena are the most beautiful Targaryens to have ever lived" they laughed and Baela felt butterflies erupt in response to her gentleness.

And now, Baela can't sleep thinking about that, she wants her, if not now, when? When will they ever find a better place and time to have each other? Probably many more, Baela thinks, however, what matters is that after years of simmering, her lust has come to a boil.

"Y/N" she calls

"Ahem?" She responds, sleep filled voice

"Have you thought about the end of the war?" She asks, snuggling her body close to hers, Baela is hugging her from behind, the bed feels warm

"I guess we all have"

"I'm fighting like a man" Baela stated "But once the war ends, I won't have the power of a man"

"I think we all want the power of a lord. Lord Baelon, how does that sound? I think it has a nice ring to it" said the oldest "How about me? How would my name sound as a lord?"

"Hmm... I'd like you to remain a lady" Y/N made a curious noise at Baela's words, and then noticed her hand going lower, from the side of her chest, to her waist. "That way... You would be lord Baelon's wife, keep the blood of the dragon pure" her hand hands reached for the buttons in her nightgown. "I would share you with Rhaena" she stopped to think of a fitting name for her sister "Lord Rhaegar, that would be nice... But she can be a lady too, what matters is that I'll have both of you"

Y/N aids Baela with the unbuttoning of her blouse, guiding her hand to her bare skin "I'm not liking it too much, you are cocky, I would like to marry a gentle lord" she says that, but she's undressing for Baela. "Remain a lady, for me, sister, I do not need more"

"I do" Baela says, flipping you on your back, looking deeply into your eyes from above, her hair tickles your shoulders as they fall like a cascade

She closes the distance and kisses you like a starved animal, like a dragon. She's fire, so are you. You devour each other, you grab her curls to trap her, she moans when she feels your nails massage her scalp. You break the kiss to gasp for air, Bae looks dizzy and lovestruck, all of her bold attitude is now gone.

Her hands touch your sides softly, and you nod so she can go ahead. Her palms are soft, but there's an undeniable roughness thanks to the dragon reins she holds onto.

Baela kisses your neck, by this point, your torso is bare, you get goosebumps from the cold air around you. She kisses all the way down to your navel, your underpants are tied with baby blue ribbons, and Baela softly tugs them down.

"It's not enough" she whispers in your ear as she exposes your cunt

You softly sigh as her slender fingers play with your folds, gathering the slick and rubbing your clit with it. She keeps kissing you, and teasing your hole with her finger, not quite fucking you with it. You enjoy it until you don't, and start shamelessly grinding against her, you get a little louder, whining "Lady Baela" and biting your lip in hopes of seducing her. She can't resist, and slowly inserts only her ring finger, slowly pumping in and out of you.

Soon the pace quickens, but you both agree is not enough, and Baela is shivering with the desire to be touched too. Mid-making out, she asks you to sit up.

"I have an idea, just-" she undresses too, with your eager help she lays down, resting her head on the pillow, now naked. She motions you to sit on top of her. You slowly lower yourself with Baela guiding your hips to where she wants them to be, both of you giggle with the tender awkwardness of both your cluelessness.

Your pulsing cunt comes to grind on top of her, you experimentally move, and are rewarded with a a breathy moan from Baela. You build your pace, wiggling your hips and riding her pussy, you start slow, feeling her clit and folds rub with yours, at first it's too intense, and your eyes get wet with tears from pleasure. But then it's not enough, and you ride her like it's the last thing you'll do, it gets difficult to hide your moans, but you think anyone would know what's happening, based on the wet clapping sounds of skin of skin.

It gets slippery with slick, and your hips get tired, but Baela's voice demanding more is just too intoxicating. You come and collapse on top of her, but she's still rolling her hips and sucking on your neck, you plead for mercy, but she's as ruthless in bed as in the battlefield, so after you momentarily stop, she bites you. "Did I say you could stop?" You are in fact tired, but just listening to her commands has you clenching, so your lower body gets a mind of its own and keeps moving to satisfy your sister. You know that you would probably see the sun arise before Baela had her fill of you.

...

"Y/N" she calls, this time she doesn't wait for an answer, as she knows you're awake "You will not marry anyone, you'll wait for me"

You get a little sad, you know that you can never marry Baela, and don't know exactly what she means "Yet you will marry Jace" you say, maybe a little too hurt

"I will" Baela makes you look at her in the eyes, as she promises you this "But I will make him take you as a wife too, you will not marry until that happens" she's tender, but you are aware she's being dead serious. Jacaerys taking a second wife? A bastard one at that? It sounds too fantastic, and you would like to live in that fantasy, but your mind will not let you.

"Trust me, Y/N."

"I don't think many would accept it"

"Then I suppose Moondancer will have grow fat from too many nobles"

[murmel-malt]

Hedaera Targaryen - 97 AC

Viserys Targaryen x Hedaera Targaryen (OFC) prev / next wordcount: <1k summery: my answer to the question: what if Viserys and Daemon had a little sister? canon divergent dance of the dragons au featuring canon and original characters.

chapter summery: Four years after her own wedding, Hedaera attends her cousin Aemma’s wedding to her brother Daemon and ruminates on what has happened since she married Viserys.

A/N: note that english is not my first language so there will probably be some grammar mistakes.

97 AC - Kingslanding

Daemon and Aemma’s wedding is nearly as grand as her Viserys’ had been. Once again the great hall is filled to the brim with decorations and guests and music and conversation, and the long table for the royal family at the foot of the Iron Throne to preside over the masses. The tables are laden with the finest food and Aemma is decked out in white and light blue and the silver circlet holding her veil in place, is matching the one on Daemon’s head. She looks happy Daera thinks; a far happier bride than she had been four years ago.

They are older now; Aemma being five and ten and Daera three and ten. She doesn’t feel very different, but everyone is telling her that she is now almost a woman, grown and ready to fulfill her wifely duties. She has yet to be pushed into the marriage bed, despite having flowered and plans to avoid it for as long as possible. Which probably isn’t for that much longer. The King is getting impatient, according to her Lord Father. But they will have to force her if they want her to share Viserys’ bed. There’s not a bone left in her that wishes to please any of her grandparents or father anymore. Instead they should be pleased that she has not run off or thrown herself from some tower. She has thought about it on occasion. Both about running away and throwing herself from the highest tower of the Red Keep. About the latter only in her darkest moments though and only twice.

The Queen and her Lord Father seem to have finally understood the consequences of their actions. No longer is Daera referring to them as Grandmother or Father, Alysanne is ‘her Grace, the Queen’ and she had flinched as if struck the first time Daera had addressed her this way. Her Father simply is ‘Prince Baelon’ and there is always a distance between them now, physically and emotionally. Everytime Daera looks into their eyes and sees the pain her behavior inflicts on them all she can think is: “Good. I hope this hurts you as much as you have hurt me.” She no longer feels guilt over these thoughts. It was them that hurt her first, now they simply reap the fruits of their hard labor. 

The King is the only one who doesn’t care and Hedaera now thinks that he never cared to begin with. Not about her or about any of his daughters. She barely knows any of them but she has heard stories about them. How Viserra had been so desperate to avoid being sent North that she had tried to seduce Hedaera’s father. Baelon hadn’t helped her either. He had stood by his father’s decision, a loyal son to King Jaehaerys at the expense of his sister.

Viserys will be different when he is King, Hedaera decides. For one, she cannot imagine him ever being as scary as Jaehaerys; the thought is so ridiculous it nearly makes her laugh. Her brother just doesn’t have that air about him. Not now and not ever, she is afraid. Daemon even at four years younger can be scarier than Viserys; and Rhaenys, too. It is a very unfortunate thing that only the future king does not. Perhaps she as his Queen will have to make up for it. She puts the thought aside. She will not let her brother’s shortcomings ruin her mood. 

From her seat beside Viserys she gazes across the hall instead, making note of the attendants and testing herself if she can remember all the names belonging to the faces and sigils on display. Many of the guests are Vale Lords, which is not a surprise given Aemma’s father Rodrick was Lord Paramount of the Vale. She imagines his recent death is still weighing on her cousin but the celebrations seem to have lifted her spirit. Not even Daemon seems able to dampen it, and apparently he hasn’t even tried. On the contrary, he looks almost happy, if Daera is to judge. 

He has generally been more agreeable ever since he had claimed Caraxes last year. He is the only one of them that has a dragon now after Balerion’s death only a year after Viserys had claimed him. Some had taken it as a bad omen and that Viserys might turn out to be a bad king or something ridiculous like that. The dragon had been old, simple as that; and eventually even dragons died. It was only a matter of time. And honestly, Hedaera doesn’t need the death of a dragon to know that Viserys might not be a good king, she simply knows her brother.

Daera hadn’t even been allowed to try to claim a dragon. Four years ago they had told her that she was too young, now they pretended that as the future Queen and mother it was too dangerous for her. It was a weak excuse but she had no power to argue or contest it. Another reminded how powerless she was. Viserys of all people had comforted her, telling her that not having a dragon wasn’t so terrible and that perhaps it simply wasn’t her time yet. It had been a nice gesture and had actually helped a little bit but it still stung whenever Daemon talked about Caraxes.

It made her feel less than and that was infuriating because she knew she wasn’t. She was a Targaryen, the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and if she did not get to have a dragon, well, then she would have to become the dragon.

a/n: this is a short one. sorry people.

[omnipotent-scient]

Not TG fans thinking Alyssa Targaryen would support Aegon??? Because ‘she is a boy mom’????? And who do you think are the boys she's mom to are? Rhaenyra's two big supporters. Alyssa had two living sons Daemon and Viserys, those two loved Rhaenyra to no end. Alyssa for a fact would stand with her sons before anyone else.

Baelon as well, Rhaenyra was his only living grandchild, who came after miscarriages and stillbirths. And a girl too, this man is said to have wanted a daughter. He was a mama's boy, always by his mother's side till her death. Loved this dead wife for years, till his last breath. Loved her more than life itself.

[importantchaosgiver]

Where Loyalties Lie:

To The King

Summary: (Y/N) can't stay hidden for long. And when she is taken to the king, she gets an unexpected turn of events...

Warnings: Canon typical swearing, mentions of nudity

Masterlist

******

Two days. Baelon, Aemon and the guards hadn't found (Y/N) for two days. They had asked and most did say they've seen a girl of her description, but most didn't know about her or just saw her in passing. This girl was smart and quick. Aemon admired the child for her skill at such a young age. Being able to hide from a king's order wasn't something most people could do, especially when in the heart of the city. Baelon then went to a fruit stall. "Have you seen a young girl around this tall with (h/c) hair by any chance?" Baelon asked for the umpteenth time that day. He was quickly growing tired of searching, but Jaehaerys did ask of it. "Oh, yes. I do, my prince. She's the young lass who helps us set up from time to time," the man said. "Yes, she a lovely little girl," the woman added. Baelon perked up as Aemon walked over. "What's her name?" Aemon queried, finally glad they were getting somewhere. "Oh, I am sorry, my prince. That isn't something we know. But you can find her mother on the Street of Silk. The woman you'll need to look for is (M/N)," the woman explained. "She's a whore's daughter?" Baelon muttered to Aemon as they gave thanks to the vendors and began walking. "And a bastard no doubt. This girl gets more and more intriguing," Aemon said quietly in return.

When they came to the Street of Silk and to the brothels, it was noticeably more quiet during the day than how it was at night. So, they went from building to building, having to endure the working ladies in skimpy dresses or nothing at all. Until, finally, they got somewhere. "If you're looking for (M/N) go to the farthest room down that corridor," a woman explained, giving the two princes sultry looks, only wearing a mesh skirt. They nodded and began walking in the given direction, avoiding the people enjoying their time. When they got to said door, it was noticeably more isolated as they entered without knocking. The woman quickly stood up, looking at them as she realised she was in the presence of Targaryen royalty. "(M/N)?" Aemon asked. "Yeah. How can I help you?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest, wearing a sheer shift. "We're not looking for some time. We are looking for whom we've been told is your daughter," Aemon said. That got (M/N)'s attention quickly. "What's she done?" she whispered. "Nothing wrong. Although, the king is asking she be brought forth," Baelon said, eyeing her up and down. "Since when did whores care about their children?" he asked. (M/N) quickly put on some more modest clothing. "She's a child. She doesn't deserve to know my occupation. All she knows is that she's a bastard. But she doesn't let that stop her," she said firmly. "Aye," Baelon muttered. When they left, a couple of guards followed as (M/N) lead them out of the Street of Silk.

When they came to a small house, they went inside. There was (Y/N) holding a book with an elderly man pointing at words. They stopped and looked up. (Y/N) gulped upon seeing the princes. She had been found. "(Y/N), the princes would like to talk to you," (M/N) said gently. "Please, don't run. I would not like to repeat the other day," Aemon said calmly, seeing her stand up. "The king would like to see you, lass," Baelon said, bending down to her height. "I honestly meant no harm," (Y/N) whispered meekly. "I know. Now, come along, child," he said, the guards stepping forward. Her mother watched in worry as (Y/N) was lead from her home, two guards either side of her, a hand each on her shoulder just in case she decided to run.

She felt her stomach churn in anxiety, her throat tighten as it became difficult to swallow. She wrung her hands nervously as she was walked to the gates and into the Red Keep. It was even bigger closer up. She was lead through many confusing twists and turns until she was lead to two large doors. They opened and (Y/N) felt like her legs were about to give way. The entire court was there. The princes went in as the guards gently walked her inside. The men and women of court whispered and muttered. This girl saved Prince Viserys? This bastard, grubby common girl? When the guards stopped, she stopped and lifted her gaze. Her eyes found King Jaehaerys on the famed Iron Throne. It looked even more intimidating now that she stood before it. It's many blades forged by dragonfire and the blades of Aegon the Conqueror's enemies. She had seen paintings of the throne, but it didn't prepare her to be stood before it.

Jaehaerys recognised (Y/N) from the brief time he saw her in the Dragonpit. He stood up from the throne and walked down to stand in front of her. The guards let go of her shoulders and stepped back. (Y/N) gave a curtsy in respect of the king who gazed down at her with kindness. "You saved my grandson, little one. I thank you," he said gently. "I-I... there is no need to thank me. I only did what I thought was right. I only meant to help and protect," she whispered. Almost so quiet, no one heard it. It made Jaehaerys chuckle softly as her bent down to her height. "You are a shy one. But, I saw a pure courage in your eyes. Courage and bravery I have not seen in years, little one. What's your name?" Jaehaerys asked softly. "(Y/N) Waters, your grace," she muttered. "Born out of wedlock," he whispered. Baelon muttered into his ear about her mother too. Jaehaerys nodded in understanding. Then, he gently took (Y/N)'s hand. She lifted her head in shock and Jaehaerys managed to see her eyes and see into her soul. And he could tell, her heart was pure. Despite the scrutiny she would face as a bastard child, her heart was true and pure, untainted. He saw the truth in her eyes of (e/c) and knew she was something rare. He then thought back to a dream he had as a young man.

He dreamt of a woman with (h/c) hair wearing a white cloak, bearing the sigil of House Targaryen, holding a sword of Valyrian steel. The woman he dreamt of had been stood on the walls to the city, her sword soaked in blood, a cut along her face. He remembered how the sun shone behind her as if the gods wanted it. Jaehaerys called this dream, the White Saviour. Because his dream predicted that a warrior would protect the realm. And the courage, truth and purity he saw in the eyes of the woman in his dream was the same as what he saw in this child.

Jaehaerys straightened up and looked at the court. "I have decided that (Y/N) Waters shall be honoured for saving my grandson. It is my wish, my will and my order that she is to be trained in the ways of a knight," he announced. Everyone gasped. Even (Y/N) was stunned. She becoming a knight?! Trained as one?! But, she was a girl! All around the court, people had different reactions. Baelon and Aemon was surprised, but actually thought it made some form of sense, Viserys was shocked, Daemon found it hilarious that a girl would become a knight and -ultimately- fail, Jocelyn and Rhaenys felt pride that a girl could have the opportunity to prove the norm wrong and somewhere, in the corner of the throne room, Otto Hightower narrowed his eyes at the girl. This wasn't coincidental. Jaehaerys knew something they all didn't. It was clear in the Old King's eyes. That twinkle... something he knew would affect the realm for all eternity...

******

Okay, I'll admit, I've been sitting on this idea for a while. So I don't know how many regular updates there will be, but I'm really enjoying writing this. I hope you enjoy it too.

[daemonsdivorcerock]

Hello! Can you write a Daemon saving Child! Reader from falling off a cliff, something similar in maleficent , but the child gets distracted by Caraxes.

SUMMARY: the request (slightly altered)

REQUESTED: yes/no

PAIRING: platonic!daemon targaryen x child!reader (ft. caraxes)

AUTHOR’S NOTES: my first request! was extremely thrilled to receive this. thank you very much anon :))) also love the film “maleficent”. i hope you don’t mind but i slightly altered the request to be a pre-canon one-shot for my series “the shrew of king’s landing”, reader is six/turning seven and daemon in his late twenties. sorry this took so long to make.

WARNINGS: near-death experiences, dragons, pre-canon, allusions to future relationships, NO PEDOPHILIA HERE Y’ALL, daemon being daemon, soft!daemon etc

•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•

IN CHILDHOOD, PRINCESS (NAME) TARGARYEN WAS NOTORIOUSLY RECKLESS AND CURIOUS. She greatly admired her uncle, Daemon Targaryen. He was her role model. Everything about him just seemed so fascinating to the eight-year-old princess, to the chagrin of her father, the-then Prince Viserys Targaryen.

He wielded the sword of their ancestor Visenya Targaryen, Dark Sister. He sneaked her slices of cake when her father wasn’t looking. He brought her presents from his travels, including an extensive collection of books.

Her mother, Aemma, had chosen to stay back in the Red Keep with her four-year-old sister, Rhaenyra. Her great-grandfather, the King Jaehaerys, adored his granddaughters. Her grandfather, Prince Baelon, had also opted to join his son and granddaughter on their trip to the Dragonpit.

The Dragonpit fascinated the dragonless Princess. Her heart ached at her lack of a dragon. Rhaenyra’s dragon, Syrax, had been raised in the cradle with her. Was it so unfair of her to covet her own dragon after the egg placed in her cradle had died?

Caraxes was a towering dragon, scaled a crimson colour. He wasn’t the prettiest of dragons but he was fascinating. Her grandfather, Baelon, was his rider. But the dragon that fascinated her the most was Meraxes, the dragon ridden by Rhaenys Targaryen during Aegon’s conquest, a white-scaled dragon with peering, crimson eyes.

They’d chosen to picnic near a cliff close to the Dragonpit. Baelon was busy speaking with Daemon when the young princess walked curiously over towards the edge, harmlessly chasing a butterfly.

She bordered on the edge of the cliff, her childlike, innocent laughter echoing and catching the attention of her uncle and grandfather. Just in time, Daemon swooped in and saved her, grabbing her by the back of her dress and tugging her back, into her arms.

Unaware, (Name) giggled at her uncle, trying to grab his silver locks. He merely huffed and held the young Princess close to his chest. “You, little one, will be the death of me one day,” Daemon huffed, as (Name) wriggled out of his grasp and ran away towards another butterfly.

[just-some-random-blogger]

The Salt In My Blood

You were the beloved Jewel of the Realm, the youngest Targaryen born to Alyssa and Baelon. Though your nature resembled more a lamb rather than a dragon, you posed a threat at court, for a single word out of your mouth inspired a thousand actions from The King and The Rogue Prince. Thus, your match with the Lord of the Iron Islands.

Daemon Targaryen x Targaryen!Reader x Dalton Greyjoy | 6k+ | cw: fem!reader, targcest (sister!reader), reader has valyrian features (silver hair, violet eyes), power imbalance, graphic depictions of violence/assault/murder/death, canon divergence/inaccurate timelines, ye old misogyny, fuckedupedness of men, smut (dub con, loss of virginity, piv, biting, marking, breeding kink, corruption kink, baby trapping, cockwarming, cunnilingus), internet translated high valyrian, angst, social commentary, typos, etc.

A/N: !!mind the warnings!! This is really yucky because it is. all men do is hurt women. Also I did basic research for Dalton Greyjoy and just used him cuz I needed a character. idk what he's actually like and I'm 99% sure this timeline doesn't add up so, just roll w it ok? Ok. If my internet translated high valyrian sucks, well, it be like that. And surprise surprise i made another song for a fic because i should make use of my music degree while im jobless 💔 my heart goes out to @arabellasleopardcoat because her fic capital really poked my brain and got me fired up enough to write/create again, even if just for this fic. i love you.

Tagging: @pinksirensong @aralezinspace @sloanexx @delicious-xx @deniixlovezelda @targaryenmoony @risefallrise @thebullship @sa3losa @sloanexx @azperja @happilyhertale

Father, father, shining star, save my brother from the war. Mother, mother, hold me close. I fear brother won't come home. So, I pray, night and day, I do my duty here. Find me, oh [a] husband, so fierce with not a fear. Father, father hears my prayer. Mother, mother dries my tears. All my strife ends tonight for my husband's here.

"But what if someone sees," you whisper.

Daemon clutches your hand tighter as you hurry down the hall. He looks over to you, your expression matches your shaky voice.

Perhaps, had the conditions been different, he'd be softened by your words. The ferocity of his protectiveness would have made him stop in his footsteps and clutch your cheek. Perhaps he would have promised to safeguard you.

But these conditions did not elicit such urges from him. No. It stoked the fires bacchanal in his gut. The stolen taste of your honeyed lips in the garden was not enough.

Daemon finally brings his darling sister into his bedroom, and there, he answers you, "who would dare spy on the king's heir, the prince of the realm?"

Your breath quickens at the sound of your brother locking the door.

The prince of the realm stalks over to you, a dragon gazing upon a meek lamb.

Again, you whisper, "what if someone finds out?"

Daemon could growl. He almost did as he grabs your waist and sinks his head into the crook of your tender neck. You don't even react when he does this, save for your gasp.

Oh, how like you, how docile and doe-like, never one to raise your voice, or fight back, especially not with him.

"Let them find out, sister," he claws your clothing, "then they will not steal you from me."

You are so pliant as he squeezes you, so soft as he roughs you back to his bed. You let him handle you like he did your dolls growing up. He treated them with less than a quarter of the gentleness you would; they'd end up tattered and broken because of him by the end of your playing session, much to your heartbreak.

Though you cried about it, you never once held it against him, because each time, Daemon would wipe your tears and apologize. He liked breaking your dolls. He liked being your comfort.

He knew without a sliver of doubt you'd let him do the same to your body. You'd let him break you, then kiss the tears off your cheeks. You'd let him, for he was your star, and you were his doll.

Daemon presses you beneath him. He lays you down where he sleeps. He kisses you, the way he has sometimes imagined he would while touching himself, or while in the arms of another. His long, silver hair cascades down his shoulder, joining your long, silver hair that's spilled on his pillows.

For so long, he's denied himself of you, because you were too pure, too darling to be tainted.

You whimper as he pushes your skirts up, bunching them by your ribs.

But now, it's all different.

His mouth suckles its way to your neck.

"Daemon."

Now, it's not about denial. It's about what's right. It's about what you deserve.

"Daemon-" you whimper when he reaches into the waistband of your smallclothes, "-wait."

He breathes hotly against your jaw. He grabs your knees and parts them for himself.

You push his shoulders back, catching his attention. He is displeased, and not even your glassy eyes could quell it. He warns you with an annoyed sound.

You gulp but mutter anyway, "this is wrong."

"Wrong?!" snaps he.

You tense at his anger, yet even then, you caress his cheek gently, "I am to be married to Lord Dalton Greyjoy."

"And you would have me believe you want him?" Daemon quips, "that you do not want me?"

You push yourself up on your elbows. Tears begin to spill from the corner of your eyes, "Daem-"

"Why do you think I am doing this?" He pushes himself against your core.

You whimper at the contact. He is hard.

He grabs your wrists and pins them to your sides, "I do this for your sake, little girl. To save you from your prison."

You gulp and blink rapidly, your silver lashes lace with tears.

The slightest semblance of remorse flashes on your brother's face.

With your head lifted, you watch as Daemon brings his hands to your ankles instead. He rids you of your shoes and chucks them over his shoulder.

Slowly, he strips you naked until you are left in nothing but the jewelry and the stockings he bought you once before.

You cover your breasts, and he lets you while he kneads at your slightly parted thighs.

His eyes are glued on your womanhood, on the curls that don't see the light of day and the flesh that's never been touched by a man.

Daemon clenches his jaw as his fingers inspect the heat there. The two digits find molten wetness flooding your entrance. You make a breathless sound and squeeze your thighs, trying, with pointless effort, to stop him. His eyes flick to your face, the look of embarrassment, of shock, of pleasure visible to him. He debates forcing your legs.

He licks his you-coated fingers and tuts instead, "open."

You look at him, your Daemon, with a faint line between his brows. You close your mouth and lick your lips. Your hands find their way back to your breasts.

The sight is maddening, especially with how the jewel of your necklace looks between the squished mount of flesh.

"Open," he commands with less patience.

Daemon watches his darling princess part her legs for him. His trousers strain more than it did already.

He watches you closely and motions with a finger to your chest, "those too."

You do not immediately comply. In fact, you look at Daemon with pleading eyes. He raises his brows at your bratty demeanor, and shakes his head, "are you disobeying me?"

You see the threat in his eyes.

"Kessa nyke mazverdagon ao rūnagon aōha dīnagon?" Shall I make you remember your place?

You shake your head and pipe softly, "daor." No.

Finally, you reveal your breasts to him.

He smirks, "good girl."

Your brother kneads your delicate flesh and grinds his clothed groin against your weeping cunt. The sound you emit makes the feel of the clothes on his skin unbearable.

He grabs your hands and places them on his waistband. He looks down at you as he rids himself of his top. By the time his burning chest is free, you've gotten half the wits to undo his breeches.

His eyes don't leave you as he takes off his shoes.

You timidly pull his pants down, sitting up slightly as you do. You make a soft sound when his manhood flings free. Daemon shoves you back and does the rest himself.

"Daemon. I don't think-"

Your voice is crushed by the feel of his cock sliding into you. A rush of heat ripples through your body. He leans down and kisses your shoulder as you whine.

"Enough," he pants. He uses all his restraint not to fuck you dumb then and there. He grabs your thighs, pressing them into your chest. He can feel your tension. If he fucks you now, he could leave you unable to walk straight. But as sweet as that sounds, he doesn't actually want to hurt you, not that way.

Daemon sinks down to your jugular and kisses you there before he brings his hungry mouth to your breast. He sucks and nips, imagining it being heavy with milk for his babe, the babe he'd put into your belly.

The thought makes his moan and rut his hips.

You make a strained sound and your hands push at his arms. You call his name again, soft and shaky.

Daemon tries to ignore you, his palm coming to your lonely breast on the other side, but the persistent call of his name makes him sigh.

He lightly grazes your nipple before he releases your flesh. He trails kisses up your skin until he lands on your face, your face, which was now wet with salt.

"You need to relax. Mmm?" he coos, kissing your lips, "skoro syt gaomagon ao limagon? Hm?" Why do you cry?

You adjust beneath him, repositioning your thighs, digging your fingers into his nape. You whimper, "lēkia."

Daemon's belly burns. Look at you, crying for your older brother.

"Kessa, ñuha hāedar?" Yes, my little sister?

"Iksan zūgagon," you mutter, tears streaming down your temples. Your nails scratch up his scalp. I am afraid.

Daemon, selfish as he is, does not like the fact that leaves your lips. His brows furrow. He rubs your thighs in an attempt to comfort you. He kisses the corner of your lips, "hen lēkia?" Of your older brother?

You shake your head quickly, rubbing your thumb on his jaw.

His brows furrow tighter. His hold on your thigh tightens, "hen bona Āegenka Āzma?" Of that Iron Born?

You stay still. You take a moment before mumbling, "Viserys said I should marry him for my own good-"

"Fuck that cunt Viserys," he spits angrily.

Your lips quiver.

The anger in Daemon's chest dissipates as you rub the deep line between his brows. He props himself up, sinking a hand by the side of your head. He looks down at you.

"You cannot protect me forever," you whisper, finally relaxing beneath him.

Daemon watches as you lick your lips.

You gulp, "I am a Targaryen princess. I have duties to the realm, to my family."

"Your duty is with me," he grabs your hand, bringing it to his chest.

Your violet eyes sparkle as you examine his features. You tuck the long tresses that block his face behind his ear. Your belly ignites at the fierce beauty of your beloved brother.

"I burn for you," Daemon says, "I know that you burn for me."

"But Daemon-"

The gentle thrust of his hips stifle your words.

You whimper and instinctively mold your body against him. Your legs tighten around his torso as his thrusts grow more and more confident.

"Enough," Daemon repeats this time softer, head sinking back into the crook of your neck, "you have always belonged to me, and you know it."

Daemon kisses you, delighting in the gasp you give when he plays with your pearl. He muffles the sound of your mewls with his mouth.

"They insult us all by daring to mix dragon blood with fucking sea squid," he pants, "you were meant to carry my seed, be my bride."

You moan, feeling a foreign force in your belly.

"I will not let that sewer monster be the one to make you a woman," Daemon licks a stripe up your neck.

You tangle your fingers into the roots of his hair, "Daemon."

His nails scratch up your sides, "twas I that watched you blossom into womanhood, tis I that should be the one to take it."

Neither of you speak after he says this. You both simply whimper, wordlessly agreeing your bodies were made for each other.

The prince had not a single care in the world. He urges you to scream out to him with the flick of his pelvis. He didn't care if anyone could hear, neither did he care that anyone would see the viscious marks he was leaving all over your throat.

You were better than he had ever imagined, and he was determined to make you his. He was intent on emptying his stones, over and over again, until you could take no more, until you were too exhausted to leave, until your body had no other choice but to carry him a child.

And when he finally does spill into you, coming with a grunt and a soft, "you're mine," you, the virgin princess finally understand the fuss over sex, and reply to him with an, "I love you."

Daemon fucks you until his bed is soiled with a mix of your come. He fucks you until every minute movement from him makes you shiver and whine. He fucks you until your skin is marked with tender bites. He fucks you until you beg for respite, and then he keeps himself inside you after.

You were a worn little thing, and yet you managed the energy to still cling to him as you dozed off.

He kisses your temple and sleeps soundly, knowing he's done it, he's made his claim; you were his. That was irrefutable. Only a madman would deny him of you now. He basks in the pleasure of your body, and in the knowledge his baby sister so wholeheartedly trusted in him to let him do this.

One can only imagine, then, the mortified horror you felt when you were given to Lord Greyjoy anyway.

This was not part of the plan. You were meant to meet Daemon. He told you you were going to speak to the king together, and yet here your eldest brother was, ushering you towards your captor-husband to be.

"My princess," Dalton says, reaching a hand to you.

You stare at his glimmering eyes, finding nothing but malice and lust behind them. You turn to your brother for help. You do not want to touch this man.

Viserys offers you none and looks away. It hurts when he does so, especially since he does so with such apparent scorn. He smiles at Dalton, "greet your lord. You will soon be wed to him, sister."

You muster enough artificial interest to smile. Goosebumps form on your skin when he kisses the back of your hand.

He notices and chuckles, rubbing where he kissed, "such demureness. Do not be frightened of me, my dragon. I would not hurt such a pretty thing."

You clasp your hands together after he releases you.

"Not unless you ask," he adds, bursting into a laugh.

Neither you or Viserys return the amusement. In fact, the latter's face contorts at the distasteful joke. His nostrils flare, "you dare jest such uncouth things in front of your king?"

Dalton Greyjoy is unbothered, but stifles his laughter. He clears his throat and bows, "my apologies, my king. Tis the Ironborn in me. I cannot help my nature, much like you cannot help yours."

You feel light headed the entirety of this interaction. The room feels like it was closing in on you, and you kept glancing at the door, praying that your other brother free you from this torment.

He does not. He does not come. In fact, you do not see Daemon anywhere the entire day.

Dalton keeps you by his side, taking your arm in his as he makes you stroll him around the Red Keep. You do so, of course, no matter how strong the urge to run away and hide from him was. The entire time, Dalton recounts his stories of battle, his stories at sea, his stories of life. He's sincere enough, but you are not interested in the slightest.

"I think you'd enjoy the feel of sea salt against your skin, just as much you enjoy the whip of the clouds," he grins with genuine enthusiasm.

Any response you have is put out by his next words.

"I can introduce you to my salt-wives."

"Salt-wives?"

"Aye," he says proudly, "I'd say I have about twenty, but I cannot assure you its accuracy."

You are horrified. Finally, you have the gall to pull away, "what?"

Dalton chuckles, somehow amused, but his brows furrow, as if irritated, "we Ironborn keep salt wives in our ships, to give us comfort and warmth when the sea gets too rough. Is this princess so sheltered to not know this?"

You curdle when he reaches for your neck.

"You needn't be jealous. You'd be my one and only rock wife."

You scowl at his condescending tone, "I thought that was just a wives' tale."

He laughs. It is rich, amused, and foreboding. He shakes his head, "it's about as much of a wives' tale as your dragons are, princess."

Later that night, you weep at the king's feet, begging him not to marry you off to such a man.

Viserys does not hear it, and it is only then that Daemon finally appears.

When he does, it's as if the gods themselves breathed life into you. Quickly, you run into him and sob into his chest.

Daemon holds you tightly and glares at the king, "what have you done to her?"

Viserys scoffs. The dark room, illuminated only by the fireplace and a few lit candles, feels to him like it's darkened because of Daemon. He shifts where he sits, "I? I found her a husband."

Daemon's eye twitches, "you gave her to me! You said it just this morning."

You look up at Daemon, hopeful at the sound of his words.

"I said I would think about it once you report your patrol at the City Watch to me."

Daemon releases you to impose on his brother, "I kept your city clean from crimes and safe for the people."

"And where did you go after?" Viserys narrows his eyes.

You rub your arms as you watch your brothers argue.

Daemon does not respond.

Viserys turns to you, "tell your beloved sister where you went after your patrols."

Daemon does not move.

Your chest tightens at the silence, "... Daemon."

The said man opens his mouth, "I went to get a dri-"

"A whorehouse!" Viserys blurts, rising from his seat to glare at Daemon. He turns back to you, pushing past him, "I would know. I paid every whore in Fleabottom to seduce him."

Your heart leaps into your mouth, "w-what?"

Daemon is stunned.

"See now," Viserys is close enough to clutch your cheeks, "your beloved brother is a man like all the rest. No more is the dragon righteous than the kraken."

Your eyes begin to fog with tears. Your hands begin to tremble. Why was he doing this to you?

"Greyjoy is no less a dog than the rest of us. He at least, is honoring a tradition. Daemon honors only his cock."

You turn to Daemon, hoping to find this was not the case, but his expression says it all. You let a pained whimper, "you teach me so cruelly, brother."

"I teach you," he swipes your tears with his thumbs, "for your own good."

"You fucking--"

You scream in terror as Daemon lunges at Viserys. You reel back and watch as the two crash down to the floor, the younger of them finding the upper hand. They roughly struggle against each other.

You can no longer remain simply screaming when Daemon grabs Viserys by the collar and slams him repeatedly against the ground, especially not when Viserys claws at Daemon's face to get him off. You dash forward just as the guards order the prince to stop.

It only takes another scream from you, begging them to stop, for the kingsguards to burst into the room.

You grab Daemon's arm, and out of instinct, he swats you back, hand hitting your nose with rage powered force.

You shoot back into a kingsguard, feeling your face throb in pain. You swipe your philtrum and find red on your fingers.

It takes Viserys screaming your name for Daemon to stop and realize what he's done.

The impact of hitting the armored man makes your back twinge, but it does not hurt nearly as much as the back handed hit you received from your brother.

The kingsguard catches you and stands you upright. He quickly asks if you are alright, but doesn't wait for an answer because he's then shoving Daemon back, putting himself between him and you when he tries to come near.

Daemon glares in offence.

"Throw him in the fucking dungeon," Viserys spits out as he is helped up by another guard.

Daemon fights back, but is no match against three guards.

He screams your name as he is dragged off.

You clutch your face as he tells you he didn't mean to hit you. You face throbs as he tells you he loves you, and only you.

For once, you doubt his words.

Viserys comes to your side, placing a gentle hand in your shoulder. You watch as he commands a servant to get something for your injury.

He clutches your cheek that was struck and sighs, "if you wed the Red Kraken, you will strengthen our hold on the Iron Lands. Dalton Greyjoy is a formidable warrior. I couldn't think of a more capable man to safekeep the Jewel of the Realm."

As he stroked your hair, you realized that Viserys was right. It didn't matter who it was, all men were the same. When your septa warned you of men's depravity, you believed your brothers to be the exception. Now, you knew exactly why you were called-

"Little lamb," Viserys coos, "I only want what is best for all of us."

You were too naive to believe in good things.

And so you marry Dalton Greyjoy the next day.

The haste with which the wedding is prepared is to prevent you from changing your mind, you figured. That, and to keep Daemon in prison for the least amount of time.

Part of you wanted to visit him, but part of you wanted him to suffer. In the end, you realized you were too weak to behold your brother as a prisoner.

Daemon screams and bangs at his bars, demanding he be released. But the prison guards have handled worse and throw cold water at him to shut him up.

He knew by the time he was free, he would be too late to stop your marriage, but still, he meticulously planned what he would do the moment he was.

That night, after the wedding festivities were over, Dalton takes you to your room and makes you his wife.

"It's been a while since I've had a virgin," Dalton says, caressing your cheek, "don't worry, I will be gentle."

You want to scream, you want tofight him back, but you remember you're not a virgin, and fear paralyzes you. You mumble, "m-my dragon riding."

Dalton pushes back bour silver hair and kisses your shoulder.

You can't help but think of Daemon in this moment, but it makes you feel sick, and so you will him out of your head. You mumble again, "my dragon riding may taken my womanhood."

Dalton pulls away and stares at you for a moment.

"I- I was told as a child, it happened to many Targaryen princesses."

He pulls his hands, which were on your hips, away then shoves you down on your bed. He smirks as he undoes his clothing, "then I can be rough with you, aye?"

You quiver at his gaze.

He laughs, shaking his head, "didn't I say I would not hurt you? Unless under your request?"

You inch back as he crawls over. He grabs your ankle, then the other, causing you to panic. You instinctively kick him off, but instead of being deterred, he is excited.

"Sh, sh, sh," he hushes, "it will not be unpleasant, my dragon."

Your skin pricks with gooseflesh when he removes your shoes, your socks, then sneaks his hand up your skirt.

You whimper and turn away, finding you could no longer kick back when he seizes your knees.

"Please-"

"Shhh," he hushes, giving you the first solemn look he has this entire day he's been smug, "I've had much practice from my salt wives. You, my rock wife, will taste the fruits of my practice... as I taste you."

You gasp when he suddenly rips your underwear off.

"I swear to you, your body will enjoy it, even if your mind wants you to believe otherwise."

You muffle your mouth with your palm when you feel Dalton sink in between your thighs.

He was right.

The entire time he touches you, it feels like your skin was being scorched. Your heart was not in it, but your body twisted in pleasure. You hated that you longed for Daemon, even after the fact you were not enough for him; he was still the only one you, and this moment proved it.

You were brought to tears at how pathetic it was. Tears streamed as you reached your peak, one of the many you receive from your... husband.

He handled you with carnal instinct, just as Daemon did, but unlike him, Dalton did not kiss your tears. In fact, he did not kiss your face once. It is you that initiates such a thing, amidst the throes of your lewd pleasure. He grabs your jaw when your lips connect, and quickly releases his load into you after.

Your peak is cut short because he pulls out just when you reach it.

You watch as he rolls over and goes to sleep without another word.

The next morning, the servants call you Princess Greyjoy and it haunts you.

"No need to look so sullen, wife," you hear over your shoulder.

If the cold from the early morning wasn't enough to make you shiver, the kiss on your shoulder was.

The ship rocks as you tear your gaze away from King's Landing, King's Landing that looked so tiny now from where you stood. A sea of tears laid between you and the home that will never be yours again. You turn to Dalton. He leans his elbows on the edge of the ship and looks up at you, "we can do many things to liven your mood."

You watch him as he rubs your hips. Your stomach curdles but you manage to offer a smile, "I... am flattered, but I do not want to distract the captain of this ship."

Dalton chuckles and straightens up, "trust me. The crew would appreciate it if you did."

You squeak when he yanks you into him.

"Right boys?!" he calls loudly, "shall I make a salt wife out of my rock wife?!"

The crew cheers and it makes your skin burn in mortification.

The next thing you know, you are thrown over his shoulder. He slaps your ass and takes you to his quarters. The crew laughs as he does.

You helplessly grunt when he drops you on his bed-- your shared bed. You silently peer up at him as he stares at you. You are relieved he paces across the room, towards his table. He grabs something and chucks it at you. You flinch but manage to catch it.

He sits on the table as you inspect the pouch. You open it, finding herbs inside.

"I heard you've been drinking that," he says.

You look up at him.

"Haven't you?" he asks.

You smell it and wretch. It smells exactly like-

"Moon tea," Dalton says, making your blood run cold, "for the bastard in your belly.*

You are frozen in your spot. Your stomach drops when he stands and walks over. He grabs your chin. It is not harsh, but it strikes fear in you anyway.

"I asked you a question, wife."

You open your mouth, but no words come out.

"HAVE YOU BEEN TAKING THE FUCKING TEA OR NOT?" he screams, grabbing your neck.

Your hands fly to his grip. Your fingers attempt to pry him away.

You wheeze when he squeezes you. Your flail your legs and try to kick him off. You can't. Just as your vision begins to go dark, he releases you. You fall onto the bed and frantically try to catch your breath. You cough and hear him smash things around the room.

And so you behold the man who said he would not hurt you unless you asked him, brutalize the furniture.

You think your chances are better in the sea rather than on this boat. You slowly maneuver towards the door while he is distracted. Just as you are about to sprint, he grabs you and throws you back down on his bed.

"You stupid slut!" he screams, "you think you can run?!

You try to scream for help, but the pain in your throat when you try to stops you. Not a second later, you scream anyway.

He slaps you across the face, promptly silencing you. The sting is ten times worse than what Daemon did.

"I was promised a Targaryen princess, not some whore of a dragon!" he screams, kicking the chair by his desk across the room.

You feel lightheaded. You see double.

He laughs angrily, shaking his head, "dragon riding, my arse."

Indistinguishable sounds leave your lips.

Your heart drops as he storms over.

"Who's the father of your bastard child?!"

"ANSWER ME!" he demands, grabbing your shoulders, dragging you to your feet. Your head recoils at the sheer force of it. You take a moment to steady your head.

Your eyes search Dalton's enraged features, hoping to chance upon a sliver of compassion... in vain. The sound that leaves your mouth is response to the bruising squeeze of your arms. You cannot help but whimper as tears stream down your cheeks, "you're hurting me."

He is further angered by this. He gives you a powerful shake. Your head lashes back again and you scream.

"Give me a name!" erupts the lord.

You no longer have it in you to hold your tongue, and so you confess, "Daemon!"

Dalton releases you. He is repulsed, "your brother?" He scoffs, "you revolting, little worm," he slaps you again, making you lose your balance.

Before you crash into anything, he grabs you and keeps you upright. You can feel your cheek and lips swell at his assault. You taste iron on your lips.

"And here they had me believing you were some meek lamb," he laughs dryly, brushing your hair back, "you're nothing but a whore, grown from perversion and abomination."

Your expression hardens. You glare at him and rebut, though your head was pounding, "and your sea rituals are more righteous than my family traditions?"

Without another word, Dalton shoves you back, propelling you into his desk. Your skull crashes against the edge with a horrendous thud.

You fall limp onto the floor. Dalton cares little if you were dead or unconscious. He walks out of the room right before he can witness the red staining your white hair.

Dalton is no fool. He knows better than to disfigure a Targaryen princess.

He walks towards the wheel of the ship and continues the course to what his crew believed to be a shortcut to home. In truth, he was bringing the ship to its doom, to face you with with a trail of the sea.

He would crash the ship into a chokehold of rocks, and if you survived, if he found your floating body, he would keep you, as you proved your resilience. But if you were swallowed into the depths, if he was unable to find you in the debris, he would praise the Drowned god for your riddance.

The same want with his crew.

Of course, there was a bit of this that felt like suicide, but he knew he was too vengeful to die, so he knew he had nothing to fear.

When the Greyjoy ship finally reached the rocky pass, Dalton was promptly warned of the danger by his lookout, who he obviously ignored.

He ordered to hoist the sails, and, blindly, the crew followed, even through apparent worry.

It didn't take very long after for the ship to crash into the cliffs.

The crew clamors. They scream and panic, turning to their captain that could not care less. He pretends to steer them to safety, but he actually slammed them further into their demise.

The deck begins to crumble. The mast snaps. The sails break off. Dalton calls to abandon ship.

The crew don't need any more convincing.

One by one, each man for their own, they try to escape with their life.

By the time Dalton jumps off the ship, the thing is half submerged in the water, crumbs of it on the side of a rock.

It was pure chaos.

Dalton swims far enough from the destruction, and knows his god smiled upon him and his decision when he sees a large wooden slab he can climb on.

He does just that and looks out to his crew, helping the ones that manage to swim over, commanding the others calling for help to simply swim or drown.

He looks around, trying to make out a body of a woman, a blob of a dress, a head of silver hair in the aftermath.

"My wife," he screams, "has anyone seen my wife?!"

He wasn't concerned, of course. He just wanted to know his fate as a husband, but this did make for a good alibi.

His surviving men look and swim around for you. They find no trance.

Dalton presses his lips, "little dragon couldn't fly away."

They take refuge on a cliff. Lord Greyjoy tells his crew not to bitch and panic because they will surely be found by a passing ship soon enough.

He had planned this shipwreck after all.

By the time Dalton and his remaining men were saved, a flash of red circled in the setting sky, hovering over the massive rock that held the shipwreck that bore the sigil of Greyjoy.

Caraxes screeches as his rider commands him to get closer to the scene. The dragon hesitates but eventually lands on the cliff. Waves crash upon the area, causing the beast to bleat when he is wet.

Daemon is frantic as he gazes upon the destruction. He is distressed unlike he's ever been. His voice is distinctly desperate and hysterical. He screams out your name, even though it was nothing against the roar of the splashing waves.

He heaves heavily as he erratically decides to dismount and jump into the water.

As he wades, he tries to convince himself that what he was doing was for naught-- perhaps you were not here to begin with. But the gut feeling was overwhelming; it was sickening.

He tries to believe that bottom feeder, Greyjoy, saved you before his ship crumbled. He tries to convince himself that cunt's lust for you was enough reason to keep you alive.

But he remembers the servant he threatened with a knife whilst demanding to know which route your ship would take. He thinks of how he almost shit himself while confesssing to Daemon that Greyjoy planned to pass through a rocky region as a shortcut. But Daemon's flown over that area, and knew it was out of the way to the Iron Islands.

After squeezing out what's left from that servant, Daemon's face falls when he mentions that rusted octopus had an argument with a servant girl that came to serve the princess a cup of tea.

Daemon was no fool. Dalton was a butish barbarian. If he found out you were drinking Moon Tea, he would do his worst on you for blemishing his pride.

And so he swam. Daemon swam, dove down, and searched for your body until he had to stop because Caraxes was getting restless. He commanded him to calm down, but he could only do it so many times until he, himself, was the same.

He eventually gets back on Caraxes. Daemon can't bring himself to leave just yet however, and finds himself praying to whatever god out there to return his love back to him.

Caraxes circles the area one last time before heading off. For some reason, Daemon feels the urge to check underneath a large slab of shattered wood. He commands his mount to lift it, and the dragon screeches as he does what he can with his hind legs.

The sound that leaves the prince's mouth is what could only be described as pure anguish.

A head of silver hair floats up and wafts in the water along with a tattered dress. Your body garnered a horrid tone of grey and you were missing your shoes.

Daemon cannot contain the tears that gush out of his eyes.

Caraxes carries your body in his claws all the way to the Keep.

The way in which he commands his ride to set your body down is frantic and incredibly detailed. Part of him realizes Caraxes probably recognized you, considering the way he laid on his belly and sniffed you as Daemon buckled to his knees and lamented over your frigid body.

He speaks to you in High Valyrian. His salty tears drip on your salt water drowned body. He promises he will never trick you, never argue with you, and never make you cry ever again if only you open your violet eyes.

He rocks back and forth with you in his arms, unsure which of you he was soothing by doing this.

He swears he will turn the sea red with blood and burn the whole Iron Islands to avenge you.

He is incredibly uncomfortable of the chill of your skin. He shakes his head, telling you dragons must not be kept cold. He kisses your face in an attempt to warm it up. He recounts a time where you accidentally spilled candle wax on him, burning his skin, and tells you that you still need to make up for your offence. He tells you he will forgive you if you simply hold him back.

Viserys had to account for three dragons by the time he found out what was happening, one was Daemon, whose grief morphed into murderous spite. He threatened to slay anyone who wanted to take you from him. Not again. Another was Caraxes, who refused to leave his heartbroken rider's side. The last was your dragon, who felt the loss of your connection, and went into a rabid state mourning.

It takes 5 people to secure your dragon in the pit, 5 people to subdue Caraxes, and 3 people to separate Daemon from your corpse.

The king takes a moment to clutch your hand. His face flinches. Where once your hand was so warm, no warmth now remained. He steps back and watches the maesters cover your body and take you away.

[asvterias]

𝖢𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝟦: 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖧𝖾𝗂𝗋𝗌 𝖳𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍

the cast // series masterlist

chap. 1 || chap. 2 || chap. 3 || chap. 4 || chap. 5

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Canon-Divergence, Targ!Cest, Typical Misogyny, Neverending Doubts and Insecurities, Brief Mention of Pregnancy Death, Hardcore Sad Daddy Issues, Mentions of Abuse (Slapped), Mentions of Adultery, Discussion of Paternal Bastardy, Rhaenys is MOTHER!!!, One-Sided Jealousy (For Now), Kinda Possessive!Rhaenyra, Typical-Period Homophobia, Implied Mentions of Same-Sex Romantic Relationships, Blood & Gore, Bloody Violence, Daemon AGAIN!!! & Another Conversation with Daemon

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Teen!Rhaenyra Targaryen ✘ Fem!Velaryon!Reader, Teen!Alicent Hightower ✘ Fem!Velaryon!Reader, Platonic!Velaryon!Siblings ✘ Older!Sister!Reader, (Mention) Platonic!Queen Aemma ✘ Fem!Velaryon!Reader, Platonic!Rhaenys Targaryen ✘ Eldest!Daughter!Reader, (Brief) Ser Borros Baraethon ✘ Fem!Velaryon!Reader, (Brief) Platonic!Corlys Velaryon ✘ Eldest!Daughter!Reader, Ser Gwayne Hightower ✘ Fem!Velaryon!Reader, (Brief) Platonic!Daemon Targaryen ✘ Second-Cousin!Reader, (Indirectly) Ser Criston Cole ✘ Fem!Velaryon!Reader

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: The Heirs Tournament is finally being celebrated with the many of the lords and ladies across the Seven Kingdoms. It’s a happy event, meant to entertain while anticipating Queen Aemma’s labours.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 6.4k+

𝐓𝐚𝐠 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭: @username23345 @fae-the-wanderer @hippivanhan34 @harjasblog @feyresqueen @ithemaduh @poopietomuch @yelenaslyubov @chittakii @flowerluzx @laiahernandeeezzz @dvrkhcld @lizzieswife101

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: Please don’t be a silent reader and interact within the chapter! If you wanna be tagged in this book, comment below and say ‘future tag’! Also go check out my tiktok page @/localgirlie, where I post videos relating to this fanfic!

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 (𝟐): Sorry for posting once a month, school has been hectic but since Christmas break is here, I hope to post more frequently this month. This goes for both this book and ‘Her Pretty Girl’.

🌊 ✘ 🔥

𝖢𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝟦

𝖲𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖮𝗇𝖾: 𝖤𝗉𝗂𝗌𝗈𝖽𝖾 𝖮𝗇𝖾

𝟏𝟏𝟏 𝐀𝐂

𝘒𝘪𝘯𝘨’𝘴 𝘓𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨

The Heirs Tournament was held the next day, many visitors had traveled long and wide to be present at these games. Supposedly, if all goes well, then this might be the biggest event of the year. Regarding Queen Aemma’s labor of Prince Baelon goes without a hitch.

You were seated right in between your younger siblings and best friends. Laena looked at you with a hesitant smile, trying to establish a cool facade for appearances. Maybe, some slight approval too, your close sister bond tugged at both heartstrings.

She admired you wholeheartedly, always seeking reassurance in your presence whenever she could. For her, your biggest assurance was allowing her to join you on Dragonback with Silverwing. Still, two and one, she hadn’t yet claimed a dragon, becoming a proclaimed dragonrider like the rest of her family. It made her feel like the overlooked one in the family.

You knew your sister and could see right through her. It was no use trying to hide her fear from you, her habits were sequential. With the frantic darting eyes, weary of your surroundings, the anxious playing with your silver hair, eventually desperately reaching out to clutch onto the nearest comfort.

It was one and the same, was it an annoying habit? Perhaps so, but observance is key.

How do you know this exactly? Because you reacted the same way and continue to this day, but now just more reserved.

Intertwining your hand with hers, she gratefully accepted, tightening her grip on the ounce of support.

“Everything‘s gonna be fine, Laena, it’s just a game.” You reassured your younger sister, feeling her hand slip away and grasp onto your wrist instead. Her grip was still steadily stiff, so nothing beyond your limit.

Laena nodded firmly, eliciting a tiny smile as Laenor nudged her shoulder, telling his sisters to pay attention. Both silver-haired girls gently huffed at their brother’s words but shifted in their chair while Laena’s grip slowly eased on your wrist.

“Be welcome! I know many of you have traveled long leagues to be at these games,” King Viserys announces to the various audiences, “But I promise, you will not be disappointed. When I look at the fine knights in these lists, I see a group without equality in our histories,”

During King Viserys’ speech, Rhaenyra snuck to her seat, glimpsing at her father’s irritated expression at her tardiness. Laena and Laenor are seated at your left side with Alicent and Rhaenyra seated at the right side, leaving you in the middle.

“And this great day has been made more auspicious by the news that I am happy to share: Queen Aemma has begun her labors!”

At his announcement, the crowds erupted into loud cheers and applause.

“How was Queen Aemma?” You lightly asked the Princess.

“She’s scared, and she thinks I don’t know it.”

“Your mom will be fine,” A soft reassured shoulder pat doesn’t give the desired effect because her tense touch only strengthens.

“You swear it?” She hesitantly asked, tone tinged with despair and hope and glossy eyes filled with trepidation, seeking reassurance unwavering in the slightest.

At her hesitation, a frown easily overtakes your lips, the same hand slides down her shoulder and places a hand over hers. For once, a cheeky smile and flirtatious phrases couldn’t ease the intensity of this current crisis. No distraction can overtake this crisis.

This wasn’t a promise between two friends. It was a promise of someone’s life, A Queen’s life, your dearest friend’s mother’s life. You couldn’t promise her life to be spared, you weren’t blessed with being a rare dreamer in the Targaryen lineage. You were like no other, a firstborn Velaryon child of your parents, unaware of the future that awaits.

Before you could reply to her, The King abruptly cut you off with the rest of his speech. Luckily, there was no way to promise what she so desperately wanted to hear from your lips.

It wasn’t your place nor obligation to speak on the Queen’s fate.

You kept it as such, remaining silent, gently rubbing your thumb over her hand. Upon your kind gesture, Rhaenyra’s body immediately tensed, her eyes momentarily widened, and her chest slowly heaved from receiving your silence.

Very abruptly, her eyes flickered to her father and settled on the young Velaryon girl before retracting her hand onto her lap. A frown appeared at the simple revulsion, but her worrisome eyes and constant small twitch of her eyebrows gave her real emotions away.

It wasn’t purely intentional, no she could never offend you. She was lost in her head. Lost in her swirling thoughts of the only two possibilities that her Queen-Mother would soon be facing. Either life or death, Aemma would be subjected to, there’s no in-between.

If she remained focused on the tournament, plastering on a smile for the audience’s sake, then maybe her mind would disregard her mother’s eventual fate. Establish a higher sense of reassurance, both in a mental and emotional form.

Perhaps, she wishes this was all a dream. Oh, how she so desperately clung to this being a dream.

Her royal mannerisms were practiced to a certain extent, clearing her throat and maintaining her regal composure, gazing outwards of the festivities. While her inner turmoil runs freely chaotic, attempting to break through Rhaenyra’s fake facade of normalcy.

“May the luck of the Seven shine upon all combatants!”

Without any further ado, you faced forward in your seat, viewing the tourney’s initiation.

The first two combatants were House Tarly and an unspecified Dornish knight. Just like that, the opposing knights competed, their horses speeding past the jousting lane, aiming to knock the other down first to claim their win.

An unnamed knight won the first round, harshly knocking down the Tarly knight, gaining the first victory.

“A mystery knight?” Rhaenyra asked, now intrigued, observing the guard who curtseyed and retreated with his horse, finishing his round.

“No, a Cole of the Stormlands.” Alicent corrects the Targaryen girl.

“I’ve never heard of House Cole,” You shake your head, “Is there even a House Cole?”

“Not to my knowledge, I presume.” Rhaenyra fiddles with the golden bracelet, seemingly acting disinterested so early in the game.

“Princess Rhaenys Targaryen. I would humbly ask for the favor of ‘The Queen Who Never Was’.” A Baratheon man, Ser Borros called on your mother. He held his jousting stick upright in one hand and in the other was his family symbol shield.

The older Targaryen Princess stood up, earning the audience applause as she walked forth, alongside you.

“Good fortune to you, cousin,” Your mother bid the fellow man and slid the floral wreath down the stick. Although her smile didn’t match her eyes, she kept her composure, like a true Princess would.

“I would gladly take it if I thought I needed it.” He smugly boasts with a taunting grin.

“Arrogant asshole,” You muttered, glaring down at the knight.

“Hush now, dear daughter.” Your mother calmly spoke, patting your hand to heed yourself.

“What did you say, Lady Y/N?” Ser Borros asked with a blank confused stare, head tilted with an unsure smile.

“I said you’re an arrogant asshole whose pride will cause his loss,” You repeated with an annoyed expression.

His reaction was a hilarious mixture of offense and embarrassment, probably not accustomed to such brashness from a woman.

You loved defiling men’s egos, it brings a certain level of satisfaction that nobody else can achieve.

Your head tilted in fake coyness, eyes piercing down at him. “Shall you like me to repeat myself, Ser Borros?” Now, you were taunting him as he did your mother. You flashed him a wicked grin, fingers strumming against the balcony railing.

“There will be no need, My Lady.” He mutters, casting his eyes downwards to the dirty ground.

“I thought as much.” You sneered, moving away from the ledge, “Have fun, don’t pull a muscle or stop your pulse. Either way, it won’t affect me.”

Was the final words you spoke to him before he rode off to the game.

“Y/N.” Smiling in contentment, attention solely focused on the game.

You turned, staring at her, “Yes, mother?”

“Why does your left cheek look swollen?”

You remained silent, the earlier bravado shimmering from your expression as hesitation formed, affecting any forthcoming words.

Rhaenys reached out a hand, her tender fingers gently patted your cheek, her maternal instinct coming into action. She paused, rubbing over the soft flesh of your cheek, frowning as she continued before slowly noticing the swollen skin, turning your left cheek to her gaze.

Your heart skips a beat, the subtle touch rushing back through your mind. Her soft tender fingertips brushed over your cheek, a stark contrast to the harsh slap inflicted upon you, just a night ago.

The stinging resided later on through the night, but the swelling formed earlier this morrow. Your maids had treated it with a simple cure, expecting the aftermath to subside by now. Clearly, it didn’t subside despite your wishful thinking.

You held your breath, hoping ignorance skips over her, and proceeded on as if nothing.

“You can tell me anything, you know that, right?”

Instead of answering the dreadful question, your body immediately turned at the exit and quickly sauntered there. Once you left the royal box, standing on level ground and anxiously pacing around to ease the impending nerves.

Another anxious exhale left before your mother’s voice is heard again.

“Are you okay, my dearest?”

“Yes, mother, I’m fine.”

She squints her eyes, doubting your statement and completely unconvinced. A few footsteps approached closer and she was a mere distance away, an arm’s length at best.

You’re her daughter, she’s always aware of your antics, ever since born in the cradle. She knows every single one of your tells, especially when you’re lying to her. Be it as may, your mother refused to permit another dramatic exit until she received an honest answer.

The truth, and nothing short of the sort either.

Unless…you wouldn’t inform her of your troubles? Determined to keep your troubles hidden away from her eye, whether to lessen her worry or possible wrath towards the guilty person. Possibly, who hurt you, and their reasoning for taking such a drastic measure?

“I can tell when you’re lying, Y/N.” She lowly spoke, still observing the swollen cheek, carefully not bothering it.

Quickly brushing her hand from your cheek, another scoff passes her lips at your reluctance to answer. To answer the truth, who’s responsible, and when this altercation occurred.

“Very well trust, I will find out who’s responsible and surely will reap the consequences. No one lays a hand on my children and thinks they’re getting away with it.”

“Mother, please, don’t make a big fuss.”

“Whoever hurt you is a big fuss. Rest assured, they will be dealt with accordingly.” Princess Rhaenys promised, her voice eerily cool and guard. “There’s no one I love more than my three children, always remember that. You, Laena, and Laenor are my whole world, and I’d burn anyone who’d bring harm to any of you.”

“You speak as if you knew who did this.”

“Whoever did this is a fool,”

“If…I tell you…you might think of me so differently, I’m afraid you won’t believe me.”

“I am a woman of my word. I will always believe you first, no matter what your thoughts rely on.”

“Me and father talked, eventually transpiring into a full-blown argument as always. I found out a secret, which he didn’t like. I yelled that our family would be better off without him…and that’s when he slapped me.”

“Secret. What kind of secret?”

“The family threatening kind.”

“Make haste and tell me the secret.”

“Please, mother, it’ll only hurt you more.”

“Do what you must, Y/N. I can handle it, I promise.”

“….Father also cheated on you, twice with the same woman. He has two bastard boys born and raised in Driftmark.”

“…Your father did this to you?” She stuttered, gaping slightly, fully doused in astonishment, unable to fully process the information. Possibly, it wasn’t true, right? To know that her husband had laid a hand on his own daughter. Surely, there’s no reason for you to lie about this bitter altercation either. “And he told you to keep his adultery secret, placing that heavy burden on you.”

“Yes, he did, but–“

“When?” She ignored any and all excuses spewing from her eldest daughter.

“It doesn’t matter when–“

“Stop speaking as if to defend your father when he’s the reason you’re hurting like this. He forced you to keep a burdening secret and hurt you all in the same night.”

“Last night, he told me not to speak of it, especially to you. If he found out I told you, mother, I’d never hear the end of it.”

“Let us be done with this conversation, I will handle your father.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Do not fret for your father anymore, be fearful of the actions inflicted upon him for doing such a disgraceful act to his own daughter, nonetheless.” She shook her head, with a solemn expression, gently tugging a loose silver hair strand behind your ear, coming up to hold your chin. She stared at you with an uneven smile, a certain head tilt, reminiscing on how alike you resembled both of her parents, your grandsires.

“Your grandsire wouldn’t see this treachery, he would have loved you. Both of them would have.”

“Is that why you named grandmother after me?”

“Of course, your grandmother wanted to hold a namesake for my first-born daughter. She went livid after discovering its other usage as a middle name instead.”

“She did?”

“Yes, she did.” Your mother chuckled in remembrance before completely icing out her heartwarming features, “But if he ever lays another hand on you, tell me immediately. Do you understand me, Y/N?” A slight twitch of her lips pulled together into an earnest tone and neutral expression.

“I understand mother, I will.”

“Oh, my darling girl. Thank you for telling me this.” She smiled, pulling you into her side, briefly kissing your forehead. “Come along, let’s return to the tourney.”

You complied with her wish, both walking back into the royal box, feeling relieved after confessing your temporary troubles.

“Explain yourself.” Your father gruffly demands, glaring you down. “What was the reason for your charade of running away?”

The Princess-Mother exchanged secret glances, telling you to remain quiet and stay your ground, much to Corlys’s dismay.

“Answer me, now, young lady.” He leans forward, hastily latching onto your wrist, very tightly. A shuddering whimper escaped your lips, feeling his cold touch claw their ugly marks onto your brown skin, but your mother quickly swats his hand away from yours.

“Oh, I wouldn’t be worrying about Y/N for the time being.” She finalized, allowing Corlys’ realization to seep in.

“What does that mean, my beloved?” He asked, switching glances between his wife and daughter.

Princess Rhaenys chuckles lightly, retreating to her own chair beside your father. “Go along, my dearest, I’ll handle this now, you’ve done your part.”

A simple head nod was all the confirmation needed, turning around and returning back. By the time you reached your seat, two rounds had already passed by the same undefeated Dornish knight.

“Are you okay? What was the cause of your abrupt departure?” Rhaenyra asked, resting her hand above yours. The worry is visible in her porcelain features, eyebrows tugged in discontentment at your sudden aloofness.

Alicent pitched in, concern lacing her features, “Is something wrong, Y/N?”

Your silver hair sashayed, tickling the exposed skin, gesturing over to your parents. “No, no, just had a much-needed talk with my mother. She clarified a problem I had.” A simple answer to a well-complicated question.

“I hope everything goes well,” Alicent encourages, unaware but remains hopeful of the situation. You refocused your attention onto your two friends, happily content with the situation being thoroughly handled.

“As do I,” You grinned, fiddling with your bracelet before staring at the other two highborn ladies, “So, tell me, what’d I miss?”

“Lord Stokeworth’s daughter is promised to that young Tarly squire,” Rhaneyra informed her two dearest best friends.

“Lord Massey’s son?” You questioned as your cousin hummed in agreement.

“They’re to be married as soon as he wins his knighthood.”

“Poor girl,” You muttered, rubbing your forehead.

Most of the time, marriage was a scary commitment. So once you’re married, there’s no way out, unless the spouse dies earlier than expected.

“Best get on with it.”

“Why?”

“I heard that Lady Elinor is hiding a swollen belly beneath her dress.” Alicent exposed the scandalous secret with a teasing smile, observing the shocked looks she received upon it.

“You’re jesting?”

“I’m not.” She clarified, returning her focus to the ongoing game.

The sound of galloping hooves, commotion from the audience, and crunching metal is all audible to you at this moment.

“What do you know about this Ser Criston Cole, Ser Harrold?” Princess Rhaenyra asked the kneeling Kingsguard behind her.

He answered, “I’m told Ser Criston is common-born, and has a twin brother named Ser Connor, son of Lord Dondarrion’s steward. But other than that, and the fact that he’s just unhorsed both of the Baratheon lads, I really couldn’t say.” The older man concluded, rising and leaving.

••••

Ser Gwayne, poised right beneath the opening of the booth, helmeted head, and lance tipped upwards. He was staring at you piercingly, but you ignored it, making him anticipate longer than necessary.

“I would be lucky to have the blessing of Lady Y/N Velaryon.”

Alicent gave a faint smile, handing the floral wreath as you stood up while Rhaenyra rolled her eyes at the interaction. With her eyes intently trained on your moving figure towards the banister as you allowed the floral wreath to slide down on his jousting stick. The Princess held her head high, an unamused look smeared across her face, sizing up the Hightower man from her seat.

He appreciates your favor, aware of the fact you could have refused his offer and embarrassed him simultaneously.

“I wish you the best of luck, Ser Gwayne.” You hesitantly smiled.

“Thank you, Lady Y/N.” He dips his head toward you.

“Of course, Ser Gwayne. Alicent speaks highly fair about you, it’s a shame we’ve never been formally introduced.”

“Why, yes, it is, My Lady.” He responds, “I hope she speaks nothing that precedes me.”

“Be at ease, she’s perfectly described you.”

“Perfect is hardly the word.”

“To my eyes, it is.” You replied with a tilted head, eyes sparkling in admiration, “Those Hightower genes are truly impeccable,”

“You flatter me, my Lady.”

“That was my true intention, was it not?” You lightly teased, a small smirk tugging at your lips.

A chuckle is earned from your direct flirtation as he goads his horse back into position. You stand at the ledge, lost in the thought for a few seconds, mindlessly staring at the eldest Hightower child and finally taking a seat again.

“He’s easy on the eyes, isn’t he, Laena?” You commented with your blushing sister, eagerly agreeing.

“I suppose he is,” Laenor mumbles, stretching his head for a better view of Ser Gwayne.

His words were low and mumbled, drowned out by the other highborns, but not enough to fly over your head.

Definitely talking with Laenor afterward about his newfound interests.

“Giving him your favor is one thing, but to initiate conversation during a tourney game so another.” Rhaenyra grits out, igniting a spark of jealousy within her veins. From the simple sight of your attention focused on Ser Gwayne, the Princess immediately felt threatened, that same aspect left her puzzled.

What was she jealous of? She had no jurisdiction over whoever you interacted with. You were allowed to interact with other men and flirt if you wished.

Usually, The Targaryen Princess kept her calm cool composure surrounded by her loyal subjects and the court. She profusely allowed her emotions freely when regarding you. You were neither a lowborn nor a standing stuck-up highborn. You were a Velaryon, a close friend of hers, and her dear favorite cousin. So she’ll be damned if a Hightower, nonetheless, be captivated by your presence or compliments, specifically reserved for her. Besides, it’s not like she’s making a physical motion to openly express her love for you.

She couldn’t if she truly wanted to.

However, calm water balances out a raging fire, and the two young girls do exactly that. For the most part, you doused out the fiery dragon underneath her royal persona.

“Jealousy is a strong suit on you, my princess.” You whispered, engaging in her jealous banter.

“You must confuse my jealousy for distaste.” She rebutted, avoiding your gaze entirely. The Princess had a better chance of lying to herself than you.

“How so?” You asked, further teasing her for pure entertainment, “He’s a respectable lord, although he’s Otto Hightower’s son. Alicent speaks nothing ill of him, so he’s an honest man.”

“Sounds like you wish to marry him,” Rhaneyra huffed, irritably at the mere prospect.

You rolled your eyes playfully, “Ser Gwayne is an honorable man, if he happens to be one of my suitors, I will accept his hand.”

Ser Gwayne and Ser Connor face each other on different sides of the jousting line, readying their horses and sticks.

“Without consideration? Otto will be your father-in-law. Have you thought of that possibility?”

“Nevermind that, someone will finally defend Alicent against her ass of a father.”

At the ready, both horses ran ferociously forward while the knights prepared to fight, ultimately knocking one of their horses. Ser Gwayne gains the upper hand, knocking Ser Connor down off his horse and winning that round.

You chuckled, clapping loudly intrigued by Ser Gwayne’s performance as he turned to the Velaryon girl, dipping his head in advance before galloping off.

“He won,” Alicent claps her hand joyfully, the concern flowing into an overcome enthusiasm for her brother’s victory. “All thanks for your favor, Y/N.”

“Yeah, he did all the work, Ali.”

“Nevermind that.” She giggles.

“You’ll marry the first person who shows you the slightest bit of attention?” She questioned, a dumbfounded look on her face matched the incredulous question.

A quiet hum escapes your lips, eyebrows raised in amusement as your gazes finally connect. The eye contact was intense, everything about your observance of her was intense. It made her feel seen in a way she never felt before.

Was her growing feelings towards you and her Uncle the same? No, it wasn’t, but she loved you both, just in very different ways.

With you, it’s beyond describable for every moment spent together, the secret but loving encounters, your charisma enticed her but your unconditional love and loyalty made her obsessed. Nothing to compare those fleeting moments given by her Uncle Daemon, or her infuation laid deeper than mere attraction for the older man.

“Technically if I were to marry the first person who has most of my attention, it’d be you, Nyra.”

Her eyes widened at your bold proclamation, heart hammering in pure adoration, “What…did you just say?”

“I give you the most attention, so to answer your question, I’d marry you, we’d be wives. Based on your reaction, I infer that wasn’t the first you’ve thought of us being married.”

“Is your answer still hypothetical?”

She felt the urge to ask while hoping to not be discouraged by the answer.

“Would you wish for my answer to be hypothetical, Princess?”

A small smile of relief crept onto her face but quickly masked it when your attention was diverted elsewhere.

“Stop getting into my head, Lady Y/N!” She exclaimed, almost accusatory as if having the gall to be offended. The Princess didn’t stray away from such thoughts, especially to similar thoughts regarding you.

“No, I like doing that, it’s quite amusing to see you flustered.”

She swore to the God’s that you’re the most infuriating yet stunning girl that ever existed in her lifetime.

“Be quiet,” She huffed, deciding to end their banter until the tournament was over.

“Of course, whatever the Princess wishes,” You teased, returning your gaze forward at the continuing and now brutal bloody tourney game. “Although I must say, Princess, I’m quite flattered at the mere prospect.”

“I thought I told you to be quiet,” She commanded, yet her tone held no conviction.

“My apologies, my Princess.”

“What did you say?”

“My Princess.”

“You never called me ‘My’ Princess,” Rhaenyra claims, perking up in the chair.

“Well, it’ll be a growing habit of mine, if you prefer, My Princess.”

“Yes, I would.”

“So be it.” A humorous finalized statement caused a barely visible blush on Rhaenyra’s face. By God’s good graces, your laughter sounded heavenly to her ears and your gleeful expression with a genuine smile made her completely vulnerable.

Unknowingly, Rhaneyra kept her gaze lingering on you, staring mindlessly at every feature, and aspect on your face. The Princess swore your beauty is certainly unmatched by any other highborn lady in court. In her opinion, every highborn lady is incomparable to the Velaryon girl in every way.

The constant beating drums brought Rhaenyra out of her daydreams, adoringly admiring the girl beside her. Embarrassingly enough, Rhaenyra felt the blush creeping upon her cheeks, messing with her movements as she toyed with the gifted bracelet.

A new banner is added, The Targaryen symbol of a three-headed dragon. New kinds of commotion get increasingly loud at the introduction of a Targaryen entering the tournament.

“Prince Daemon of House Targaryen, Prince of the City, will now choose his first opponent.” The tourney announcer yells.

Prince Daemon gallops on his horse, dressed in Targaryen colors, wearing a fancy steel black headgear. He observes the thirteen knights lined up, his lances pointing downward until he picks an opponent. Once he stops, his attention is stuck on a familiar knight, pointing to Ser Gwayne Hightower.

“For his first challenge, Prince Daemon Targaryen choose Ser Gwayne Hightower of Oldtown, eldest son of the Hand of the King,”

“This can only end so well,” You mutter sarcastically despite the underlying pit of worry forming in this particular round.

Daemon initiates the game, quickly galloping forward as Ser Gwayne follows in pursuit. During his first attempt, Ser Gwayne manages to overtake Daemon’s attack, giving silent relief to his worried sister. Now, for the second attempt, Ser Gwayne is unable to dodge Daemon’s unfair attack, sticking out his lances directly against the other horse’s legs. Ser Gwayne and his horse harshly collapse onto the ground from the sudden impact, remaining still for a moment too long.

The gasps of the audience alike matched Alicent’s own for her older brother, creating a chaotic scene for everyone to gape in astonishment and concern.

You abruptly stood up, startling both friends, causing Alicent’s tender grip on your wrist to falter, only alleviating the worry for Ser Gwayne. The Velaryon girl leaned against the balcony, visibly displaying a concerned expression as you gripped the handlebars, “Somebody help him! Don’t just stand there and gawk, be of assistance!”

At your stuttered demand, a few men rushed over to the injured knight, removing him from the scene as his horse scampered away.

You glowered down at the Prince, who glided in front of the royal box, holding his joust sword and maintaining a smug look. Keeping the tense atmosphere silent, displaying a neutral face, refusing to give Daemon the satisfaction of his constant attempt at being a nuisance.

Did it work? Hmmm…not for long. But you did your best to remain indifferent.

Finally, the tense atmosphere dispersed between the two brazen dedicated Targaryen family members when Rhaenyra and Alicent joined at your sides.

The Princess speaks, solely impressed, “Nicely done, Uncle.”

“Is it though? He played dirty.” A skeptical glare is thrown his way.

“It’s a game, Lady Y/N. Why does it matter if I played dirty? Some knights were brutally murdered and all I did was obtain the ultimate goal; knocking my opponent off his horse. You don’t condemn those other knights for their misdeeds.”

“Of course, you can correlate with being dirty, my Prince. It’s like second nature to you.”

Daemon’s expression changed, a flicker of annoyance flashing across his features, trying to pester any nerve possible. “You have quite a sharp tongue, ever since the day we met,” His sickly sweet, but overall condescending tone made your stomach churn in unease.

Trying your hardest to remain indifferent, you clenched your jaw, voice slightly strained, “So do you, my Prince, but I reckon your lady-wife has the pleasure of never feeling yours.”

He ignored the last jab given and acknowledged his niece’s words, “Thank you, Princess.”

“Very mature, my Prince. Ignoring people is another one of your stupid strengths.”

“Do you have an urge to pester every man? I thought my cousin taught you better than to disrespect men.”

“She did,” You hummed in agreement, “Sadly, I haven’t met a true man as of yet, so my respect isn’t due. Just boys pretending to be men, but their actions always expose the truth.”

“Ah,” He tutted, “Perhaps when you’re faced with marriage and a husband, you’ll know a true man.”

“Perhaps when you stop entertaining your whores and return home to your lady-wife. She might finally be married to a real man who doesn’t run away from his responsibilities. So when your marriage issues finally die down then come gloat all of the wonderful ways that I should respect every man, possibly my future husband.”

“You’ve grown easily agitated today, Lady Y/N.”

“Really? I wonder why.”

The Princess sent a warning glare your way.

“Me too,” He coyly smirks, “Is that all?”

A sharp jab to your elbow ceased all of the unnecessary insults towards Prince Daemon.

Your first instinct was to comment on another true insult, why wouldn’t it be? Were you allowing him to have the last word?! Precisely not. Every other commoner and highborn may swoon at his presence but your only emotion bubbling up was pure repulsion.

He did nothing but prey on your dear cousin, Rhaenyra, whether she failed to realize it. Out of all his past actions, his creepiness took high priority, increasing your protectiveness of Princess Rhaenyra.

“For now,” You concede, a hint of disappointment creeping into your words.

“I’ve thought as much,” He kept that stupid cunning smile, redirecting his gaze to your naive auburn friend. “Now I’m fairly certain that I can win these games, Lady Alicent. Having your favor would all but assure it,”

You groaned, an annoyed persona quickly disposed of by a warm fluttering sensation in your stomach when Rhaenyra reached out to hold your hand.

Alicent hesitantly glances and turns around to grab her floral wreath, bestowing it on Daemon’s lance.

“Good luck, my Prince.”

A disgruntled expression fully hinted at your upcoming words, “There was no reason to knock both Ser Gwayne and his horse down, he could’ve been seriously injured.” You informed the reckless Prince, yet as always he pays no mind heed to his unjust action. One hand squeeze was only enough to encourage your reckless behavior, certainly not the Princess’ planned intention.

Well….the point is your patience was certainly limited and Daemon was highly aware. Trying to hold the brewing insults within your mind to your greatest extent wasn’t an easy task. No, it wasn’t.

Indirectly, someone else was bound to get hurt, especially if Prince Daemon was involved. Today was a prime example made with Ser Gwayne Hightower. Speaking of the familiar young Hightower man, you’d have to visit him before he returns to Oldtown.

“It’s just a tourney game, Lady Y/N. Try not to take everything to heart.”

Irritated by his contradictory phrase, you clicked your tongue and continued, seemingly speaking the unburdened truth of the Targaryen Prince.

“If you only think with your brain instead of your hands, maybe we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Maybe so, but here we are.”

“I’m sure you flatter all of your whores and lickspittles the same, don’t you? If no one has the heart to tell you this, then I will, not to be spoken lightly either. Those whores only indulge in your activities because of the money you pay them, not the unnecessary tool attached to your lower regions.” Your eyes narrowed in coyness, false pleasantries bouncing off your lips while picking at your fingernails. “Besides, I feel even more sorry for the whores, having to deal with an immature Prince, almost 50, such as yourself. I believe you’re the least of their worries anyways.”

“Y/N!” Both Rhaenyra and Alicent whispered-yelled, chastising you for such boisterous language, very unbecoming of a highborn lady.

“What? We all know it’s true, I’m just brave enough to say so.” You shrugged, uncaring for their surprised reactions. The Velaryon girl smoothed out her dress and gazed down at the Prince. “To each their own, right?”

“No worries, Lady Y/N. Your brazen attitude is quite humorous to me.”

“You jest, Prince Daemon. Do you think that I’m doing anything for the likes of you? Has all the wine finally gotten to your head?” The Velaryon girl retorts in defense, almost disgusted by the mere presence of the Targaryen Prince. Much less, doing anything for his likeness.

Afterward, the enjoyable tourney game quickly became bloodied, thirsting for only one winner per game. If a knight won, their opponent completely blindsided by an envious fit of rage would shamelessly kill the other. So, a sense of meaningless superiority would shortly linger and quickly fade away.

The entire ordeal is ridiculously stupid anyway. It was just a game, not defined by your weaknesses and strengths. However, some knights took the major offense of losing, whether it was their manhood, simple arrogance, or simple sanity. No matter the reason for their vindictive behaviors, they all spoiled the tournament for young eager onlookers.

Laena grabbed onto your wrist for comfort, hoping to shield her eyes from the tedious gruesome sights while Rhaenyra comforts an anxious Alicent.

“Ser Criston Cole will now tilt against Ser Daemon Targaryen, Prince of the City!”

Both men stood at their starting position across the lane, firstly breaking their lances, quickly retrieving another one, and continuing again. This time, Ser Criston gains the upper hand, sending Daemon across the railing, and ending up on the ground.

Frustrated by this, Daemon embarrassingly stands up, being handed a sword and Criston’s choice of weapon is a morningstar.

“Daemon Targaryen wishes to continue in a contest of arms!”

The fight vigorously pursued, both men using their weapons, seeking their opponent’s weakest physical points. As their fight progressed, so did your disinterest, especially during Daemon’s lucky attacks, and Criston’s eventual defeat, sprawled out onto the ground. While Daemon gloats, and roars to the spectators, celebrating his victory, immensely enjoying the moment.

Using the element of surprise, Ser Criston knocks Daemon onto the ground with his weapon, kicking away the desperate crawling Prince’s sword. Eventually, Prince Daemon yields, proclaiming Ser Criston’s victory and earning an impressive reputation from the crowd.

Hurriedly rising to your feet, Alicent tugged you and Rhaenyra alongside her, standing at the banister, attention primarily focused on the knight below.

“Gods, he’s Dornish.” A startled yet curious Alicent claims, briefly glancing at the two girls.

“I was hoping to ask for the Princess’s favor,” He suggests, discarding his helmet and revealing his true identity.

You hummed, analyzing the man below, quite unimpressed but rather curious.

For a moment, Rhaenyra contemplates whether to indulge the suggestion and chooses the latter. Urgently, she grabbed the last red floral wreath, and leaned over the banister, tossing it down using better aim.

The Dornish knight catches the floral wreath, nodding in understanding.

“I wish you luck, Ser Criston,”

“Thank you, Princess.” He acknowledges the gesture and walks away.

In addition to new handsome competitors and possibly a new royal babe born, many interesting occurrences transpired. Now, Rhaenyra will finally have a younger sibling to spoil and teach them her rebellious tendencies.

Hopefully, Queen Aemma’s labors aren’t excruciatingly complicated as your intuition suggests.

Everything will be fine. The Queen will be fine and so will the Princess. So will the entire Royal family. Nothing possibly can be so life-altering in the birthing chambers that King Viserys is unable to control.

Simply, you refused any other possibility other than Queen Aemma’s survival, whose, sadly been accustomed to such painful circumstances before.

Right now, keeping Rhaenyra distracted is your main priority, which is to be taken very seriously. This surely is a day to remember, for better or for worse, it’s uncertain to assume.

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