#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.

[dead-scorpio]

I've seen fics where Baelon lives, I've seen fics where Visenya lives. There are even fics where Aegon lives.

Now give me a fic where same happens with Daemon's and Laena's baby.

[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.”

[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.

[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.

[libraryoffandomsuniverse]

Being Rhaenyra Targaryen's husband would include:

Masterlist

Okay this is my 3rd time uploading this, because tumblr was being a whiny bitch. This turned out much longer than I expected and I'm already planning on writing more in this au. I combined book and show canon, although I kept the Velaryons as black. I also renamed some of Rhaenyra's children and gave her 1 more.

This is not team green friendly or kind to Alicent. At all. Reader is a petty bitch who adores his wife and whose love language is murdering their enemies in various secret ways.

Warnings include murder, forced infertility (Viserys), Rhaenyra and Reader scheming for the throne.

You're the oldest son of Rhaenys Targaryen and Corlys Velaryon. Greatness is in your blood.

You're proud - how can you not be? You're the oldest son of the Sea Snake and The Queen Who Never Was, the heir to High Tide and the next Lord of Driftmark. You're the second rider of Silverwing, after Queen Alysanne. You are cunning and clever - everything your parents could wish for in a son. You have a lot to be proud of.

After fighting in the Stepstones and being knighted, you emerge as one of the chief candidates for Rhaenyra's hand.

The brothel incident still happens in this au and Rhaenyra still sleeps with Criston.

When your betrothal is announced, you both agree to do your duty. And although you aren't Daemon or Criston, you are still handsome and a warrior. Doing her duty will not be difficult for Rhaenyra.

You quickly fall in love, much to both your surprise. Rhaenyra falls first, your loyalty and ferocity in defending her sneaks past her defences.

You fall harder, her wit and hidden darkness, the type that matches yours, pulls you in. Her soul speaks to yours and feels familiar on some level.

By the time Jacaerys is born, you're incredibly happy and in love with each other.

Your darling boy is quickly followed by Lucerys, Baelon, Aegon, Gaemon and eventually (after a few years) your twin daughters Visenya and Aemma.

Your royal apartments are rarely quiet because of your children. They adore their mother's hugs, love to hang off your shoulders and follow you both around the Red Keep like little ducklings.

Being the best dressed couple in Westeros. Rhaenyra likes it when you match and often coordinates your outfits to do so. Sometimes it's matching her dress to your doublet, other times it's more subtle like you wearing ruby beads in your locs to match the precious stones in her bodice. It makes her feel like you're on a team and she knows you feel the same way, judging from the little smirk and raised eyebrow you give her when you see her and the maids going through your wardrobes.

You and Rhaenyra love to gossip together. It mainly happens in bed after you make love. She tells you the latest rumours her ladies in waiting told her and you reveal the scandals you heard from your manservant and squires.

You encourage her to be more visible to the common folk. You know that if she has their love, then any attempts to usurp her will fail. Your little family becomes regular fixtures in King's Landing as you explore the city and restart Queen Alysanne's charitable ventures. Rhaenyra starts heading sessions for women to raise any issues.

You know it's working when you hear people talking about the Realm's Delight and the Sea Dragon and praising your efforts in improving their lives.

The sight of you both racing your dragons high in the sky is a frequent occurrence. It started as a way to unwind after the small council meetings. As your family grew, your children joined in, strapped into yours or Rhaenyra's saddles. When they grew old enough and their dragons were big enough, they followed you on theirs.

Dividing your time between Dragonstone and the Red Keep, although visits to Driftmark are also regular events.

Laenor frequently pops in to visit and spoil your children.

Corlys and Viserys both compete to be the favourite grandparent, but you and Rhaenyra know that Rhaenys is the real favourite. For the sake of peace, you won't reveal it.

Despite Daemon and Laena staying in Pentos, you keep up a regular correspondence with them. You even arrange to meet in Driftmark with your children a few years into your marriage. Your children bond quickly, while the adults watch on and tell stories.

Being married to the heir to the Iron Throne isn't easy and there are many people who would see that Rhaenyra never becomes Queen.

As her consort, you consider it your duty to make the path easier for her.

Your first victim is Criston Cole. After murdering Joffrey Lonmouth, you expect him to get punished. The news of Queen Alicent accepting him as her sworn sword leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, particularly when you have to break the news to Laenor.

Along with your pride, one of your greatest attributes is how protective you are of your loved ones. Joffrey was Laenor's lover as well as one of your good friends.

It takes a little while to plan, but one day gossip erupts about Criston being found drunk in a brothel that's particularly debauched, even by the standards of King's Landing.

You seize your chance and tell your goodfather that perception is important, that such a knight like that cannot be allowed to guard the royal family, especially the Queen. Viserys ignores Alicent's protests and Criston is gelded and sent to the Wall.

Speaking of Viserys, you know that any sons he has will be pitted against your wife.

You also know that his health isn't very good.

You decide to help him by giving him a tonic that your mother swears by, along with some lotions and creams. "Two drops of this with your morning meal every day and you'll soon feel better, Your Grace," you persuade him. "And wouldn't it be wonderful if you could meet your future grandchildren?"

Your father told you once you could sell water to a fish, such was the power of your silver tongue.

Viserys' health does improve after taking the tonic and the lotions that are massaged into his skin fix most of his pains.

However you failed to mention that the tonic and lotion both have herbs which cause infertility if used over long periods of time. Your mother only uses the tonic, and does so sparingly.

Viserys and Alicent only have Aegon and Helaena as a result of your actions.

You and Rhaenyra work hard to charm lords and ladies to support your cause.

You go on progress across the realm, flattering and courting all the noble families you meet.

It quickly becomes known that to be one of Princess Rhaenyra's ladies in waiting is a boon for attaining a fortunate marriage. In turn, you surround yourself with ambitious lords and their sons who want to advance their own interests.

It's a delicate dance, but you were taught how to make alliances by your parents, plus your charisma and ability to speak to anyone makes you one of the most popular members of the royal family.

Any attempts Alicent makes to gain allies for her son are countered by you and she can't stand you.

She tried to make Rhaenyra bring Lucerys to her when he was born, but you shut that down. "I wasn't aware that the Queen was in such poor health that she couldn't come herself to meet the newest member of our family," you say with a mocking smile. "The King is already coming to meet his grandson and I'm sure he would wish for Her Grace to join him." The sour look on the Queen's face when she finally arrives, only to find Viserys holding your baby boy, is a sight you'll remember for weeks to come.

You're Rhaenyra's greatest weapon and she despises how popular you are. You weren't supposed to be this politically adept, your children weren't supposed to be that lovely and polite and Rhaenyra was not supposed to be the heir when Viserys already has a son.

She says so to Larys Strong, who decides to do something about it without telling her.

You survive the pathetic assassination attempt because of a loyal servant.

Rhaenyra finds out what happened and she is furious. When she finds out Larys did it? He's a dead man walking.

His body is found in a secluded corridor at the bottom of the stairs. It's fairly obvious that he slipped and fell in a tragic accident - the servants had only finished cleaning and polishing those stairs the day before.

You thank your wife for avenging you with a sapphire necklace and several rounds of insatiable sex that eventually results in your son Aegon being conceived.

Unfortunately Lyonel Strong takes this as his chance to resign as Hand and return to Harrenhall, something you and your wife are unhappy about. You will miss him and his unwavering loyalty and fairness.

You miss him even more when you find out Otto Hightower is returning to King's Landing to be Viserys' Hand again.

The return of her father emboldens the Queen, although you and Rhaenyra are more than a match for them, both during the Small Council meetings (which you are Master of Ships) and outside them.

Eventually though, you decide to take care of the problem, although your wife cautions you to be careful.

A year after becoming Hand again, Otto Hightower is dead. His health had been declining for some time, even before he returned to King's Landing, but the poison you'd had your spies slip into his furniture and clothing certainly made his end quicker.

You knew he had a food taster, so you had to be careful to make it appear natural. A quiet conversation with Daemon had pointed you in the right direction.

Although it appeared to be natural, you knew that Otto's last days were a living hell. A fitting end for such a man.

With his death, you recommended Viserys make Lyonel Strong Hand again or even name Rhaenyra to be the Hand, as preparation for her future role.

His decision to name Rhaenyra as Hand is one of the only good decisions he's made.

It gives her more experience in governing the realm, particularly when he starts to become more frail.

After several years of this, she is confident in her role. She will be a magnificent Queen and you're truly honoured to be her consort.

[sweetestpopcorn]

reaction of the dead targs to aemma beating viserys and lice’s asses?

-🥯

Let me switch this a bit to "Targaryens reaction to Alicent dying and how they  "welcomed" her":

Aemma:

Also Aemma:

Alyssa Targaryen ft. Daella in the background:

Also Alyssa:

Baelon Targaryen:

Rhaenys Targaryen TQWNW:

Queen Rhaenys:

Viserys I:

[written-in-flowers]

Traditions and Expectations: Pt. 1

Pairing: Aegon II x SisterWife!Reader

Genre: fluff, smut, slice of life

Word Count: 7k

Summary: It is Targaryen tradition for brother to wed sister, as you'd done with Aegon. But with no eligible son for your daughter, you've had to look elsewhere for a betrothal. The question is whether to abide by Targaryen traditions or allow your child to follow her heart?

Tags: chubby!aegon, domestic life, arranged marriages, canon-typical incest, brother-sister marriage, mother/daughter themes, family expectations, hubby/wifey stuff, smut, vaginal fingering, breast play, nipple play, multiple positions.

Tagged: @lovelykhaleesiii

***

Your mother decided you'd be Aegon's wife on your fourteenth nameday. It is customary in Valyrian tradition for the eldest son to marry his eldest sister. As Targaryens, one of the last families who escaped Valyria's downfall, you followed this tradition despite societal and religious norms in Westeros. You being the eldest daughter and Aegon being the eldest son, the betrothal was set and you'd be married when you both reached maturity. Your entire life people  knew you'd marry Aegon. It was simply a fact you'd known growing up. 

But, unlike your mother, you will not have it as easy.

You sat in the cushioned chair on your veranda which overlooked the small courtyard outside Maegor's Holdfast, and pondered on marriage. Down below, your eldest child, Daella, practiced her archery skills on targets in the training yard. Thirteen with cascading lengths of silver hair, Daella had beauty, brains and brawn. She stood tall and slender, a petite waist cinched by a leather belt. She is the epitome of beauty, but also strong and bold. It did not matter how many times you scolded her for wrestling with the stableboys and firing off arrows, Daella still did it. It got to a point that you gave into her adventurous nature, letting her ride off on hunts with her grandfather and uncle and take up archery. 

You watched her taking out arrows from her cloth target, and wondered if her husband will let these passions flourish. Many Westerosi men dislike women who take on "men's sports' '. To them, ladies of noble status should stick to dancing and reading poetry, not participating in archery challenges and learning how to skin animals after a kill. Having a bride who can out-ride and out-shoot them might displease them, therefore ruining any chance of a betrothal. Were your eldest son, Baelon, born first and Daella second, they'd be undoubtedly matched. But Daella is much older than Baelon, who is your third child. Vaelen, your second boy and fourth child, is not a suitable match either. You and your mother concluded that Saera, your second child, would marry Baelon. Vaelen will likely marry the baby in your belly, or another noblewoman. 

This means you need to find a husband for Daella. Most noble marriages are political ones, so naturally you'd want a lord that is close to The Crown and doesn't mind marrying a dragonrider. On the table beside you, you looked at the four scrolls you'd received today. You'd spent ages pouring over the different noble houses in Westeros, searching in vain for a husband that would please your daughter. She wouldn't marry just anyone. You told your mother you wanted Daella to have a happy marriage. You wanted her to experience the love and warmth you often felt with Aegon. In the end, it came down to four possible suitors.

Fourteen-year-old Tymond Lannister was a nephew of Lord Tyland, current Master of Coin. Lord Tyland told you all about his handsome nephew who could wield a sword, battle ax and morningstar. A boy like him, he said, could handle the fiery Daella. His father, Lord Jason, agreed to a possible marriage between his son and Daella. It would benefit both parties: The Lannisters are one of the wealthiest families in Westeros. Having them tied by marriage will ensure the wealth of the kingdom stays intact. 

Twelve-year-old Osric Arryn is the younger cousin of Lady Jeyne Arryn. You heard about his jovial and tender hearted nature from people around him. A husband with a soft heart but a firm hand might intrigue Daella. Lady Jeyne’s reply alluded to them coming to terms over her dowry. Another good match for Daella and the family. The Arryns have a large army as well as The Eyrie, an impenetrable fortress. She will be well protected and cared for there, which mattered to you greatly. 

Thirteen-year-old Edmure Tully is the auburn haired, freckled, strong man you thought Daella may like. You'd seen the boy once at a tourney, standing much taller than most his age with a man's body starting to grow. Being her age, she might relate to him better. His father, Lord Grover, told you while Edmure might seem hard on the outside, he had a heart of gold. A marriage pact with House Tully brings more security to them in the Riverlands. 

All three of them accepted. All three of them are good matches. Yet, it is not these that give you pause. It was the fourth scroll that still remained unopened. You saw the aquamarine seal with the Velayron seahorse stamped in the middle, and hesitated. It had been several years since you’d last seen your nephews, Jacaerys and Lucerys. Since then, Jace has become Heir to the Iron Throne and Prince of Dragonstone, married to Baela Targaryen. Luke lives on Driftmark alongside Lord Corlys, his grandfather, and his bride-to-be, Rhaena Targaryen. 

It cannot be Luke who has reached out to you. You’d recalled hearing about Jace and Baela having children of their own. Admittedly, you couldn’t get the children’s names straight but you knew they had a boy and two twin girls. You picked up the unopened scroll, and rolled it between your fingers. Glancing back into the yard, Daella had switched from archery to axe-throwing. Ser Criston told you she’d become intrigued by it after seeing a man doing it at a tourney for your wedding anniversary. You only asked her to use the smaller ones to avoid injuries. Jace and Baela’s son must be her age. Your father received the news around the time you’d given birth to Daella. But, you might have that information wrong. 

“Ah, there you are, my love.”

Aegon appeared from behind you, hands behind his back and a grin on his face. He gave you a soft peck on the cheek, and took the chair opposite you. A maid served him a cup of wine, which he drank from right away. You continued staring at the scroll in your hand, afraid to open it. You know what will be written inside. No doubt it was your sister, Rhaenyra’s, idea. A part of you considered the idea since Rhaenyra will one day be queen, and with Prince Daemon at her side, your entire family may be at risk. 

“How are the children?” he asked you, looking down into the yard where his sons trained with Ser Criston. 

“Fine. Daella’s aim is improving impressively,” you answered absentmindedly, not fully focused on him. 

“Hm,” he nodded, “Vaelen’s swing is improving as well. I know he mopes about his sword training, but I told him it’s important for the sword to be as sharp as the mind.” 

“Aegon.”

“Wife?”

“Jacaerys…He has a son, doesn’t he? I remember Father mentioning it once or twice before.”

“He does,” he said cautiously, holding a cheese cube in his hand. “I believe his name is…Gods, what is it?” he racked his brain for a moment, then said, “Aerys? Aenys? I don’t remember exactly. It starts with an ‘Ae’. Why do you ask?”

“I received a raven from Baela this morning,” you told him. 

He popped the cube in his mouth, then actually looked over at you. Seeing the worry on your face, he asked, “And what does it say?” 

“I am not certain,” you said. “I haven’t opened it yet.”

He picked up the scroll from Lord Jason, read it, then said, “Marriage proposals?” 

“From Lannister, Arryn and Tully,” you told him. “They all agreed to make terms.”

“And that one is from Baela?”

“Yes,” you showed him the small paper with its seahorse seal. 

“You wrote to them?” he asked, bemused. 

“I had not. It came this morning with the others.” 

Aegon looked at you, then said, “Are you going to read it?”

“I can’t,” you said, shooting out your hand to him, “You read it.”

“Darling, I do not see what the harm is in reading a letter,” he chuckled. Aegon took the scroll from you, and broke the seal. Your stomach churned when he read the first word, “Dear Princess YN, I hope this letter finds you and your family well. My sister, Rhaena, informed me that you and Aegon are making plans for a marriage pact for your daughter, Daella. As you know, Jacaerys and I have a boy who is her age named Aeron-Ah, yes, that’s the boy’s name!-” Aegon snapped his fingers with a satisfied smile, “I propose a marriage between our two houses. I understand the relationship between our families has been detached for several years. But, I have very fond memories of our youth, and I hope with this union we can begin to repair that breakage between us. My lord husband and I will be arriving in King’s Landing in a fortnight for Prince Baelon’s birthday tourney-Who told them about it? Did you?”

“Certainly not. It must’ve been Father or Rhaenyra.”

“Hm, I suspect as much. ‘I will be more than happy to discuss possible terms with you then. I eagerly await your response. Signed, Baela.’ Hmpf, how informal of her.”

‘Memories of our youth’. What memories? When Luke cut out your younger brother’s eye and never received punishment? When Luke and Jace teased Aemond for not having his own dragon? All the numerous times that your father favored Rhaenyra and any of her offspring over you and your siblings? You’d gone your entire life being told that when Rhaenyra ascended the throne, your family was a challenge to her rule. The eldest of Viserys’s children from his first wife, he’d proclaimed Rhaenyra his heir. When Aegon was born, he should’ve immediately been named heir to the throne, but he wasn’t. Now, Aegon showed no interest in being king and never mentioned a desire for it. But, with her husband Prince Daemon in her ear, Rhaenyra might feel threatened by Aegon and his four children. 

Your children. 

Not only your children, but your sister, Helaena, and brother, Aemond, too. Their children, twins Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, young Maelor, and baby Rhaenor.

Your uncle and Rhaenyra’s husband, Prince Daemon, is not well known for his kindness. 

“What is your decision, love?” Aegon asked you, putting the letter with the others. “Marry our daring Daella to one of these lords or the unremarkable son of Jacaerys Velaryon?”

You looked out to the yard once more. Daella stomped her foot in frustration as her axe missed the target completely. A picture of Daella meeting Aeron and finding him insufferable came to mind. Your daughter got along well with most girls and boys she met, being sociable and charming to everyone. But, when she did not like someone, she made it very obvious. Sometimes too obvious. What if she met Aeron and disliked him? On the other hand, what if she didn’t? It’d be ideal for everyone involved. It is the most obvious choice. Everyone will say so. So, why were you so hesitant to say ‘yes’?

“I want her to be happy, Aegon,” you told him softly. “I want her to find love and happiness as we have. I don’t want her shackled to a man she isn’t at least fond of; having children out of duty instead of desire.”

“I am afraid, my dearest,” he took your hand gently in his, “That our union is incredibly rare in this family.”

“That’s not true,” you replied, finding comfort in his touch, “There is Aemond and Helaena as well.” 

“Alright, then somewhat rare.” 

“Mother, Mother!” 

A voice caught your attention from behind and you turned to see Saera appear. In a dress of cream and gold, she reminded you of princesses in fairytales. Her silver curls tied into a simple plait down her back, her violet eyes struck most people immediately. So much like her father’s, but he insisted she resembled you. Saera, eleven years old, came rushing up to your husband, and sitting in his lap. She beamed at you as she spoke. 

“I had my dress fitting for Baelon’s nameday,” she said. “Grandmother helped me pick out the colors for it.”

“Oh, was that today, love?” you asked her, slightly disappointed. You looked over your shoulder to see your mother walking in after her, in a gown of emerald green and black. Her signature Hightower color. “Mother, why did you not say anything?”

“You had more important matters at hand,” she answered, kissing the top of your head before taking up a wine cup. She spotted the letters on the table. “Any agreements?”

“They all accepted,” you told her. “There is one that has surprised me, however.”

“Oh? Who?”

You handed her the letter, “Baela Velaryon. She and Jace have a son Daella’s age.”

“Is Daella getting married?” asked Saera, who took up a bread with strawberry preserves on it.

“Not yet,” Aegon told her, playfully taking a bite of her bread to which she whined. “But, your sister is of age for betrothal and your mother has insisted we decide this very second who it will be.”

“It does not need to be ‘this very second’,” you replied. “I have received responses from Lords Lannister and Tully, as well as Lady Arryn. Any of their sons would make a suitable match for Daella, and their alliance could benefit our house. But then, I received Baela’s proposal.”

“And it gives you Pause.”

“It does.”

“Why, Mother?” asked Saera, smearing jam around her mouth as she finished her bread.

“It is complicated to explain, dove,” you told her kindly. “You’ll understand when you are older.”

“Saera, love,” Aegon said, lifting her from his lap, “Why don’t you go with Dyana to see your cousins, hm? I’m sure Jaehaera would love to see your doll collection.”

“Why can’t I stay?” she moped, getting off his lap but not leaving. “I want to know who Daella’s going to marry.”

“You’ll hear about it when we’ve made a decision, alright?” he promised, kissing her forehead. “Now, go. Dyana…”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Saera reluctantly left with the maid, and left the three of you alone. “Father will approve of the match highly,” you told her, returning to the conversation at hand, “And so will Rhaenyra. I bet anything this was all her doing.”

You thought about your elder half-sister. Rhaenyra was the daughter of Gemma Arryn, your father’s first wife. When she passed, King Viserys assumed he’d never remarry or have more children, so he named Rhaenyra heir to the throne. But then, he wedded your mother, Alicent Hightower. Any sensible king would’ve saved everyone the headache and named Aegon heir, but not your father. He valued Rhaenyra and her bastard sons more than any of his other children. He’d never do or say anything against her, no matter how severe the crime. You bitterly remember the night Aemond lost his eye in a fight with Jace, Luke, Baela and Rhaena. Your father should’ve demanded an eye for an eye or at least a serious punishment be dealt. But no. He told them to apologize and leave it at that. He’d never do anything to upset his precious Rhaenyra. It’d broken your heart when you visited your father’s sick bed, hoping to read to him, and in a medicated haze he’d called you ‘Rhaenyra’. When she had Jace, Luke and Joffrey, it became obvious they are not true Velaryons. They did not have the skin or hair of their father, Lord Laenor, but instead the coloring of Ser Harwin Strong. Commander of the City Watch.

This only soured the relationship between your families.

That resentment in you did not want your eldest daughter, your first born child, married to Rhaenyra’s grandson. Yet, the looming threat of Prince Daemon crossed your mind. If his grandson married your daughter, Rhaenyra will no doubt cherish any children they have.

“Princess Rhaenyra means well,” your mother said, taking Aegon’s seat when he offered it to her. “She will be our queen one day, whether we wish for it or not. I do not need to remind you that Prince Daemon-”

“-I know, Mother,” you cut her off, not wanting to hear it out loud. “Rhaenyra…She is quite lovely to the children…”

“She adores them,” she agreed. She paused for a moment, “She put forward the coin for Saera’s and Daella’s nameday gowns.”

“What?” This caught both you and Aegon off guard.

“She has?” asked Aegon.

“She has,” she nodded. “She said princesses of the realm should always be dressed in fine splendor.” She looked between the both of you, then back to you, “YN, listen to me. Do not make the mistakes I have made when it comes to your children-”

“-Mother, you’ve never-”

“-I have,” she insisted. “Don’t pass down whatever grievances you have with Rhaenyra’s family to your children. They’re young. They should be playing and growing alongside their cousins, not being separated from them. A marriage between Aeron and Daella might work out for everyone.” When she saw you and Aegon unconvinced, she said, “Besides, it is tradition. The King will insist upon it should Rhaenyra bring it up.”

You wondered where this advice came from. During your girlhood, your mother constantly grumbled about ‘Rhaenyra’s sons’ and their baseborn features. It’d been her who often questioned their birth in private. Yet, since Rhaenyra’s return to King’s Landing, you noticed the pair becoming much closer these days. You’d spotted them walking in the gardens, sharing meals together, and working together to better the kingdom. You wondered what transpired to bring about this forgiveness and unity. Perhaps you can do the same. You gingerly accepted back Baela’s letter, and thought on it more. Baelon’s tenth nameday celebration would be in two weeks. You had plenty of time to think over your answer.

“Invite them all,” Aegon declared, picking at more cheese on the table.

“Invite who?”

“Lannister, Arryn, Tully, and Velaryon,” he said. “Daella can meet all their sons and see if she likes any of them.” Neither you or your mother said anything, he went on, “You said you wanted Daella to find love and happiness. She can only do that if she’s given multiple options instead of one. You’ve always been the romantic one out of us, and what is more romantic than finding love at a tourney?”

“Aegon…”

“YN, you know Daella. If we tell her to go left, she goes right. If we tell her the sky is blue, she’ll tell us it’s green,” he continued. “If we happen to invite all these suitors, she might take to one of them on her own.”

“She’ll suspect something.”

“She won’t if we all keep it to ourselves,” he responded with a smirk. You sometimes forget your husband’s cunning nature. 

“Aegon has a point,” your mother told you. “Invite them all and we will see if she takes to any of them.” 

You mulled it over in your mind, then nodded, “Yes. That seems the best route for this.”

“Ah! You fool, that hurt! Father!”

Vaelen’s contemptuous voice came from down below, and you saw your youngest sprawled on the ground at his brother’s feet.

“Well, get up and hit him, Vaelen,” Aegon called back.

“I’m tired!”

“Your opponent isn’t going to care,” he said. He grunted and put down his wine cup. “Time for me to intervene,” he looked over at you, “Write to them and personally invite them. Have the seamstress make her a special gown, and the jeweler can fashion a tiara for her. Something golden with rubies. Maybe sapphires or emeralds to stand out-”

“-I will see it is done, Husband,” you laughed, “Go see to your sons.”

He kissed you one more time before going down to the yard. Aegon lifted Vaelen to his feet, handing his sparring sword back to him, and spoke to Ser Criston. 

You spotted Daella standing with Aemond, who was helping her pick out a selection of knives instead of axes. Aegon was right. A strong-willed girl like Daella won’t accept a marriage pact because she’s told to do so. If you wanted her to have a happy marriage, she’d need to find it on her own.

“I know you don’t like to admit it,” your mother began, drinking from her wine cup, “But Aegon is right.”

“Mother, how did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Decide Aegon and I would be right for one another. At any point during our childhood, you could have decided to not marry us, but you did.”

Your mother stared at you for a moment, then she confessed. “I did not decide right away,” she told you. Seeing your raised eyebrows, she nodded, “Yes, that is a myth. I told your father I wanted to wait before announcing your betrothal. It’s a Valyrian tradition to wed brother to sister, so it made the most sense. But looking back on my own marriage and marriages of those around me, I was hesitant on my decision. I didn’t want my daughter to suffer a loveless marriage, never knowing true companionship or romance. I worried you might end the same way as I did with Aegon.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Aegon used to bawl his eyes out whenever we took you into another room. Your wet nurse would set you on the ground, and you’d immediately crawl over to him. As you grew, I saw how you behaved around one another. You enjoyed each other’s company over people at court. You spent nearly every waking moment together and refused to be apart for more than a few hours.” She smiled softly, looking out into the yard, “One day, I sat up here with your father while your brothers trained in the yard. You came out with Helaena, and you stood right there,” she nodded to an open spot that overlooked the yard, “And watched him. You didn’t say anything, or make yourself known to him. You simply watched him with this soft smile on your face, full of complete content.”

You nodded, vaguely remembering a day similar to that. “Then he noticed me there,” you finished for her. 

“And the smile that you both shared,” she grinned, “Made up my decision. You stared at one another, fondness and love in your eyes. He then said, ‘Princess, my opponent begs for mercy. I shall make it your decision to spare him or deny him.’”

“And then I said to show him no mercy,” you laughed, remembering a young Aegon, long-haired and skinny, standing where Baelon did now. 

“Aegon would do anything you asked of him,” she said. “Daella will find a similar love one day. Whether it be with one of the suitors or someone else entirely, she will have it.” 

“Mother, did you see that?!” Daella’s voice called from the yard, beaming at you excitedly. “I hit the center! Look!”

You saw the thin blade stuck halfway into the target, and smiled at her, “Wonderful, darling. You’ll be an expert with your uncle’s instruction.” 

She went back to her knife throwing, and you put aside any thought of arranged marriages and family feuds for the moment. You did have a nameday to plan, and invitations to send out. 

“What does Saera’s gown look like?” 

****

Knights, hedge knights, sellswords, and lords came from all over to attend Prince Baelon’s nameday tournament. You spent days planning feasts and gatherings that will happen throughout the week. Not only did each day have its own competition and accompanying feast, but the final celebration included performances by singers and mummers, magicians and animal performers, and several courses. You told the small council you’d spare no expense for your son’s tenth nameday. It would be a nameday to rival them all. 

Yet, while handling all these duties with your pregnant belly, the thought of Daella’s marriage proposals loomed over your head. Neither you or Aegon brought up the subject around her, but she seemed to suspect a plot nevertheless.

“Lord Tyland visited the training yard this morning. He complimented my knife throwing skills,” she said to you at dinner the night before the tourney, “He said he couldn’t wait for me to meet his nephew, Tymond.”

“Well, he is very fond of his nephew, Daella,” your husband said first. “He talks about him as if he is the boy’s father. Perhaps he is hoping you two will meet and get along.”

“I wonder why he might have that idea,” she looked pointedly at you, “Mother?”

“The Lannisters have always been an ambitious family,” you told her. “Lord Tyland most likely hopes you will meet his nephew and grow fond of him. You are a Princess, after all. The King’s granddaughter and Prince Aegon’s daughter. Maybe he hopes a Lannister-Targaryen marriage would bring his family great fortune. Do not think anything of it, love.” 

“Mother, I am fully aware that I have flowered now and am of marrying age,” she said to you. 

“What does ‘flowered’ mean?” asked Baelon, chewing on string beans. 

“It means she’s a woman,” said Vaelen. “I read it in a book.”

“Boys,” Aegon hushed them. “Yes, darling, you have flowered and are of marrying age, but your mother and I don’t plan to marry you for a long time. I recall telling you never to grow up so then you’d never marry and leave me, but,” he shrugged, drinking his wine, “Here we are.”

“You may have flowered, but you are still too young for marriage in my book,” you added. 

“Not too young to make arrangements for me, though,” she retorted, cutting into a slice of beef and eating it. “Whoever he is, I won’t marry him.”

“Whoever who is?”

“Whoever you’ve both chosen for me,” she said. “I won’t do it. I don’t want to get married.”

“You are a princess of the realm,” you responded, “Marriages not only help politically but also continue our bloodlines and names. It is your duty as a princess and a Targaryen to marry to protect and continue-”

“-I don’t want to,” she snapped. “I won’t go through with it. I don’t want to get married to some stupid lordling who can’t find his backside with both hands.” 

“No woman does,” you told her, “But as women of the realm-”

“-Surely there is more to being a ‘woman of the realm’ than marrying and having babies,” she remarked. “Why must we be stuck in this one role in life when there is so much more we can offer? Look at all women throughout history. Princess Visenya. Princess Rhaenya. Nymeria of Dorne. Look at Nana. Look at Aunt Rhaenyra. They’re both on the King’s council and have his ear. They’ve contributed more to the world than having babies.”

“Nana only became the queen because she married the king,” you said. “Rhaenyra may be the heir, but she married Ser Laenor and had children of her own. All the women you named married and had children to continue their legacy. How can you expect to continue a legacy without marriage or children of your own? Do you plan to live forever?”

“I won’t get married,” Daella repeated, having no real answer to your question. 

“You will,” Aegon said more firmly, “We all have our part to play in this world and yours will be to marry.”

“No.”

“Yes.” 

“No.”

“Daella,” he groaned, “You are a princess. Some would say you’re born for this.”

“Was I now? I thought I was born because you and Mother wanted children; not because you must have them.”

“We did want to have you,” you implored her, “But it was also expected that we would. Daella, we’re not doing this to upset or hurt you. It is what every princess does: I did it. Helaena did it. Your sister will do it after you.”

“I don’t care who has done it before me,” she said, no longer focused on her meal. She stood up suddenly, “You can’t make me.”

“Daella…”

She spun around and left the hall. You leaned back in your chair, feeling dejected and defeated. Your eyes met Aegon’s. 

“Will I have to get married one day, Mother?” Saera asked you, pushing her vegetables around on her plate. 

“No,” Aegon said, “Because you vowed you’d never grow up and leave me. A Targaryen must keep to their word.” 

He tickled her side and the mood in the room lifted. Yet, Daella’s forceful words stuck with you. You knew she’d never take kindly to the idea of marriage. Your daughter is a free spirit, a bird that wishes to fly untethered to any solid thing. A part of you felt guilty tying that bird down, but it did not need to be so. Aegon’s warm hand taking up yours caught your attention. You met his eyes, and saw the softness in them. 

“I will speak with her,” he said, moving to stand. 

“No, no,” you shook your head, standing up before him. “I will speak to her. This is a woman’s conversation, Aegon.”

He conceded, nodding and returning to your other children. You bent to kiss him, then left the hall towards Daella’s bed chambers. Rays of moonlight still shone between the pillars coming from the open courtyard, a cool breeze coming in from the city. This did nothing to distract you from your worries. Daella seemed to believe marriage stood in the way of her future greatness. She needed to know that it is not so. As you reached her room, you heard the faint, melodic voice from behind the door. Singing. Daella’s light singing voice reached you and you smiled. With a gentle knock, you opened the door. 

“-I dream of fair maids of summer, with flowers in their hair-” you heard her sing quietly at her vanity, brushing a comb through her silver curls. 

“-I dream of maids of winter, with snow in the air,” you sang after her, walking into the room with a disarming grin. 

Her eyes found yours in the mirror, and her face soured. She stopped singing at once, pretending to be focused on her hair. You shut the door and approached her. Neither of you said anything as you took the brush from her, and began undoing her braids for her. Her curls went through your fingers like silk, shining in the faint candlelight glow. 

“A bard sang that song on my wedding day, you know,” you told her, starting to gently run the comb down her hair. “It’s where I first heard it. I loved it so much, I asked him to sing it a second time. I thought it was such a beautiful song-”

“-I don’t want to get married.”

“As you’ve stated previously,” you nodded. “If you do not wish to be married, love, then what do you want?” 

Daella did not speak right away. You saw the desire to speak plainly inside her, wishing to pour herself out to you. Though, the fear of being rejected or dismissed in favor of your own wishes disagreed with this. “You can tell me,” you assured her, looking at her in the mirror. 

“I want to travel, Mother,” she told you, imploringly. “I want to see the world; go across the Narrow Sea and see the Free Cities and meet different people, and see different cultures. I want to go about the realm on my dragon, seeing my grandfather’s kingdom and meeting his subjects. You and Father used to go into the city all the time-”

“-Yes, but we still married,” you interjected. “My love, you do not have to choose one life or the other. Being married…” you took a breath, pausing your brushing to think. You never imagined having this conversation. You merely accepted your cards when your mother dealt them. “Being married isn’t being tied down to one place. It is not a prison sentence. It’s having a companion. It’s having someone to share those dreams with. You can still have a full and rich life whilst having that other person. Look at your father and I, we betrothed and still saw wonders together.”

“The Street of Silk is not a worldly wonder, Mother,” she drawled. 

You tapped her shoulder sharply, “I meant the times that we went dragon riding together.”

“Where did you go?”

“Everywhere,” you answered. “We went as far as The Wall once. I told your father I wanted to see the world, and he promised me we would. Yes, we still visit our old stomping grounds from time to time, but that is nothing compared to our progress around the realm.” 

“You? You and Father went on a progress together?” she looked back at you in disbelief. 

“It’s originally been your grandmother’s idea,” you’d finished brushing her hair, but did not stop. You fondly remembered you and Aegon seeing the different castles and meeting the lords and ladies of the land. “Your father disliked the idea since courtly duties bore him to tears, but I told him it could be fun. We’d meet different people, and see new things. We went to The Wall to meet the Night’s Watch. We saw Winterfell and the big heart tree there. We went to the Maidenpool, and saw The God’s Eye from a distance. We visited The Twins. It was lovely. 

You finally stopped brushing and told her, “Being married does not mean you’ll be forced to stay in one place. You’ll have someone else to share those new experiences with and grow together from them. It’ll bring you closer to them.”

“I doubt it,” she scoffed. “You’ll marry me off to some insipid little lordling who will insist on keeping me locked in a castle, having his babies and running his household for him.”

“No,” you replied. “I planned on marrying you to a man of your choosing.”

This information caught your daughter off guard. “You did?”

“I did,” you nodded. “At first, I will admit I sent out propositions to certain lords and ladies who have sons your age, but I’d intended for you to pick at your own leisure. You are not as fortunate as other Targaryen women to have ready-made brother-husbands,” you lamented, “But I hope you may find happiness like I did with your father. As with songs, I cannot pick that for you. You must choose whether you like them or not. 

“Your brother’s nameday celebration will be a good chance to not only find a possible match, but perhaps make friends and allies outside of King’s Landing. Lord Beesburry has a granddaughter who also enjoys songs and dancing, and Lord Rosby has two who are fond of horses like you.” You put your hands on her shoulders, and said, “Do not worry about marriage for now, my love. Go to the tourney, seek out happy nights and enjoy your youth as I did.”

She smiled at you, the expression reminding you of your Aegon. “Thank you, Mother.”

You kissed her cheek and hugged her from behind, smelling the lavender in her hair. You left her to finish preparing for bed, and walked alone to your own chambers. Taking a seat at the vanity, you stared at yourself in the mirror while undoing your hair. You and Aegon took your progress right after your wedding. You’d never left home before, and you’d always wanted to see the world beyond King’s Landing. The promise of adventure and excitement encouraged you to take the leap into the unknown. Flying Moonfyre with his Sunfyre nearby, you felt like you could take on the world. 

“How is she?” Aegon walked into your chambers, finding you by the vanity. 

“Better than before,” you told him. “I explained to her that marriage isn’t the end of your life. You can still enjoy it while being with another person.”

He snorted, “Forgive me, my love, but I’m afraid not many lords would agree with you.”

You put down your brush and leaned on your elbows on the table. Head in your hands, you knew he was right. Adventure is not something lords think about unless they mean about themselves, while their wives stay home. “I suppose I can only pray then,” you decided, “That she finds what she wants.”

“It is the only thing we can pray for,” he said, coming up behind you and kissing your neck. “I sent the maids away for the night. Dyana and Myra are seeing the children to bed.”

You turned in your seat, smirking up at him, “Is that so? I wonder what reason you’d have to do such a thing. Myra needs to help me undress.”

His fingers ran up your back to the strings of your gown, “Undressing you should be my responsibility.” 

He cupped your chin to kiss you lightly, then gradually continued until your lips locked together. “And it’s the only responsibility you’ll readily agree to,” you teased, standing up and kissing him.

“That and the children.”

“And the children,” you agreed. 

Arms wrapping around you, you felt him deftly untying your dress, the cool night air brushing on the warm skin. You kissed him tenderly while undoing his belt, letting it fall to the ground. Unbuttoning the front of his jerkin, you slipped it from his shoulders to reveal the thin white undershirt. Aegon peeled off your gown down to your shift and bodice, which he undid with deft, swift fingers. That subtle heat you knew well started building in your lower stomach as he kissed down your neck to your collarbone; you felt up his arms to his shoulders, giving a light squeeze out of habit. 

Much like you, Aegon appeared to gain a few pounds himself, no longer the lanky boy he’d been in his youth. Not that you cared in the slightest. You ran your hands down his chest to his breeches, where you untucked his shirt and removed it. He pulled at your shift until you became bare in front of him; his hands pawed at your hips and backside while kissing you deeply. A soft moan filled your mouth as his tongue slid inside, you untied his breeches and tugged them down until they fell on their own. You reached down for his cock while he grabbed at your breasts, groaning softly at the hand wrapped around his shaft. Then, he started walking you backwards towards your bed.

Falling down onto the soft mattress, Aegon’s lust burned hotly. He left soft kisses along your throat to your breasts, which he grasped gently. You whimpered, feeling him take position above you, his semi-erect cock against your bare sex. His cock twitched in your hand in every stroke, and you felt him grow harder and harder. Aegon suckled your breasts, rolling his tongue around each one before giving a delicate suck. You whined at the tenderness just as much as the roughness. One hand still on your breast, the other slipped past your belly to your sex, which dampened at the anticipation of his touch. Two fingers started sliding up and down your slit, dancing over the folds while yours did so along his member. You moaned at the fingers dipping amongst them to your clitoris, where your pleasure spiked inside you. It throbbed against his fingers, a thing he noticed and responded with a roll around your clit. Aegon never failed to pleasure the most intimate parts of you; he knew exactly how to get the fires burning within you, stoking them like logs inside a hearth. He groaned against your skin, gradually bucking his hips into your hand. You repaid the act with tender squeezes from hilt to head, using beads of precum to slicken his length.

“It’s too bad you already have one in there,” he grunted, pecking across your breasts to flick his tongue over one of them. “I’d love to give you another right now.”

"It is a shame, truly," you replied in a laugh, free hand going up into his hair and tugging the wavy curls. This move brought him back to your lips, which immediately locked with yours. "I never say 'no' to you filling me; not since our wedding night, when you took me over and over again just to make sure it took root inside me."

"Well, everyone made such a big fuss over it," he smirked above you. "I thought I might as well be thorough."

He kissed you right as he slipped two fingers into your fluttering sex. You kept yourself spread out for him, grinding against his hand to get it deeper inside you. It reminded you of all the times you'd both scurried off together to dark corners of the castle, heat in your cheeks and hunger fueling your desires. You remembered your journey around Westeros following your wedding, and all the places you'd coupled throughout the kingdom. A majority of them started exactly like this. 

"Remember Maidenpool, love?" you asked, your thumb rubbing the underside of his tip. 

He smiled, "Do I? I recall it often." He kissed you, tongue flicking over your bottom lip before giving a tender tug. "When you pretended to be a maiden again, flustered and ready to be deflowered by me..." he stopped touching, and pushed your thighs further apart, kneeling up and away from you. Hands on your knees, he lifted them up slightly and said, "I don't believe I've fucked you as hard since then."

You then sneered at him, fingers trailing down his front to his cock again, "But, Your Grace," you pouted, "Shouldn't you be careful with me? I have never gotten this far with a man before."

Aegon let out a shaky moan, and plunged himself inside you suddenly. Your body took a moment to adjust, but as he started thrusting pleasure and desire bursted inside you. Grabbing your hips, Aegon kept you in place in each push. You could feel his exact length and girth stretching and filling you every time your bodies met. It became a sensation you enjoyed. 

"Your Grace," you whined, cupping your breasts to pinch your nipples, "Your Grace, please don't stop. Nobody's ever fucked me this way before. It feels so good."

He chuckled, violet eyes looking down at you in unfiltered lust, "Is that so? I find that hard to believe. A beauty like you has never had cock before?" he started pounding you faster, your breasts bouncing from the force and the sound adding to your grunts. "Not even an inch?"

"N-No, Your Grace," you replied. His tip started prodding your center, making you see stars as the orgasm slowly built inside. "No, never. Your cock's the only one I've-I've ever had." You started rubbing your clit in time with his thrusts, keeping your breasts together with your arms so they continued bouncing. The light brush against your sensitive clit added to your pleasure. "Please, Your Grace, keep going. Don't stop. I want you to make me yours."

"Gladly."

He rolled you onto your front, face in the pillows, and entered you again. Aegon held onto your waist as you both met in the middle. The wet sound of his balls hitting your sex drive your passion further down. Just like in Maidenpool, and every time since, Aegon kept his strokes steady and deep. Hands reaching around to grasp your tits brought you up to a kneeling position, locking you close to him as he bottomed up into you. This new position made you see stars. Your sex tightened around him, your clit throbbed at his touch, and you didn't hold back your moans. The repeated, whispered phrase, 'Your Grace', amplified his arousal and you knew it considering his shaky breathing and low groans. 

Your orgasm came all at once, quaking your thighs and tightening your grip on Aegon's arms as he kept you firmly in place. It blinded you to everything around you; Aegon became the only real thing in the room. Normally, you kept your volume down to not disturb anyone, particularly your children, but not tonight. Not now. Not when Aegon's thick shaft and reddened tip brought you to the end of your climax. His own soon arrived, his cock slipping out with a wet pop, and hot streams spilling onto your inner thighs. Mouth pressed to your shoulder blade, you could feel the vibrations from his throat against you. You held him close until he'd finished, dick still twitching against your thighs. 

You both stayed in that position for several seconds, your warm bodies climbing down from the peak in every quivering breath. You collapsed onto the bed in exhaustion. The pregnancy made everyday tasks tiring, and sex only worsened the fatigue. Aegon's arms snaked around your waist as he brought you close to his chest and kissed your shoulder. You thought of the sticky substance sliding around your thighs, knowing you should wipe it away but not having the strength in your arms to do so. So, therefore, your husband did it for you, however lazily his ministrations. 

"Daella will be fine," he said, tossing the cloth aside. "She is a smart girl. She would never choose an empty-headed boy or a brute. If she happens to pick the Velaryon boy, well…accidents happen all the time.”

“Aegon,” you kicked him lightly and he laughed. 

“I only jest, my love,” he assured you, kissing your neck. 

“But, if she were to pick Jace’s boy?”

“If he makes her happy and treats her well, then I suppose I shall live with it.”

You shook your head in a laugh, intertwining your fingers with his to bring to your chest. Tiredness nearly drowned out the worries turning in your mind. Your childrens’ happiness is all you’ve ever cared about. This should not be any different. Daella will pick the right choice, and you’d side with whatever decision she made.

***

A/N: wow, it's been a while since I've written anything hotd. If you can't tell, this is part of my dad!aegon universe lol I hope you enjoyed this and give it a little reblog or a like.

[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.

[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.

[targaryen-dynasty]

A FINE LINE (BETWEEN LOVE AND HATE).

Daemon Targaryen x female!Reader

"I would rather feed my sons to the Dragons, than have them carry shields and cups for your drunken, usurper cunt of a King." Your husband’s words still lingered in the back of your head and drove you mad with fury. 

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT-MINORS DNI; non/dub-con, canon typical incest/targcest, p in v, size kink, choking, size difference, oral (fem receiving), darkish Daemon Targaryen

WORDS: 1.9 K

“I would rather feed my sons to the Dragons, than have them carry shields and cups for your drunken, usurper cunt of a King.” Your husband’s words still lingered in the back of your head and drove you mad with fury. 

Two guards pushed the doors to the Chamber of the Painted Table open to reveal your husband standing in front of it with several members of your small council standing besides him, studying the map. Upon your arrival, everybody bowed their heads, muttering distinct “Your Grace’s” until your voice shushed them. “Leave us,” you announced, an unfamiliar sternness laced within your voice. 

Once the doors fell shut and everyone was out, there was no holding you back. 

You charged at Daemon, fury blazing in your lilac eyes. “You would do what!?” You all but yelled, and as if he was surprised by your outburst, the second son of Baelon Targaryen had to take a step back. “Feed your sons to our Dragons just to not have them at Aegon’s court?”

While the thought of Baelon and Viserys being present at the court of your half-brother was angering you, too, the thought of their father recklessly mentioning to feed them to Caraxes and Silverwing was frightening you. 

Deep down you knew he would never go that far, but just that he deemed it appropriate to say something like that made your blood boil. Especially in front of the traitor Hand, Otto Hightower. You had married the so-called Rogue Prince back then, yes, but that did not mean he had to show that demeanor towards his children. 

You stood between Daemon and the Painted Table, standing so close to him, your nose was almost brushing against the column of his throat with your head tilted upwards. 

“Have you lost your mind!?”

In an instant, Daemon had herded you against the large table, the edge of it pressing firmly into your arse. The gleam in his eyes was mischievous, indicating that–even though you were the Queen–he was your husband and secretly the one in charge. 

“Do not be an insolent brat,” chided his deep voice, sending a shiver down your spine. “You and I know we would never take it that far.”

You scrunched your nose in what one could muster as disgust at his choice of words and his demeanor towards you. “I dare you to speak about us in that consideration again,” your voice was sharp. “It was not I that said those things.”

“Gaoman daor care skoros emā vestās iā daor,” Daemon spat with venom laced within his voice, yet the slight twitching of his mouth indicated that he was amused by your fury. I do not care what you have said or not. “Nyke vestan ziry se nūmāzma ziry.” I said it and I mean it. 

“That Hightower cunt does not deserve the satisfaction of extinguishing your claim to the Iron Throne, and having our children run around court as that halfwits squires. Dārilarossa issi.” They are Princes. 

His large hands had made themselves at home on your waist, squeezing your flesh in a not-so-gentle manner to distract you from the topic at hand. But even though you gasped, it did not quite work. 

You released a dry chuckle, only for him to clasp one hand around your throat instead. If it wasn’t for the unpredictability of his actions and words, you would have found it charming how he switched between the common tongue and High Valyrian while he spoke. But there was little to no charm whenever the Rogue Prince stood in front of you.

“Bisa iksis daor aōha iderennon naejot mazverdagon,” you warned with a strained voice, though you made no attempt to free yourself of his grasp–something in you clearly enjoyed that side of him. This is not your choice to make. 

It seemed your words had hit something in him, because without saying anything else, he hoisted you up to sit upon the Painted Table, the warmth of the candles beneath seeping through your gown, and pressed your back flush down against the surface. 

“Gaomagon nyke jorrāelagon naejot ivestragon ao bona ziry olvie olvie iksis ñuha iderennon?” His looming presence leaned forwards, towering over yours. With his tight grip on your throat you were not able to move, pinned to the table. Do I need to remind you that it is very much my choice?

“Kostilus,” you retorted, the same mischief flickering in the lilac of your eyes, that previously shone in his. Perhaps.

A smug smirk spread across Daemon’s features, and soon enough, he covered your mouth with his, licking into yours and kissing you deeply, standing in stark contrast to his previous demeanor. He waited until you were short of breath, forcing air into your lungs. “You are just as desperate as the other whores before you.” 

When no response was forthcoming, Daemon loosened his grip on your throat slightly, letting you catch your breath. 

You bared your teeth at him, but as much as you had to say, eloquence was not a strength of you in that moment, especially when he put you on one level with the countless women he had taken before you, “Nyke vēdros ao.” I hate you. 

It was Daemon’s turn to chuckle, cocking an eyebrow at you. Deep down he knew you didn’t mean it, not when you always reminded him of just how much you needed and loved him. “Kesā vēdros nyke sīr olvie tolī istin iksan gaomagon lēda ao,“ he teased, raising an eyebrow at you. You will hate me so much more once I am done with you.

With one hand curled around your thigh–the skirts of your dress long bunched around your waist–he pulled you just a tad closer towards the edge of the table and into contact with his body, his hard member pressing against your clothed mound. 

Defiantly, you buried your hand inside the tresses of his silver-blonde hair, dragging him down against your mouth. The kiss was sharp and hard, a scrape of teeth and the taste of blood which caused Daemon to growl against your lips. 

He deepened the kiss and allowed your other hand to make quick work of the laces in the front of his breeches, freeing his hard member from its confines as you pushed his breeches barely down enough to free his stones as well. 

When he withdrew his lips from yours, you couldn't stop yourself from pouting, followed by him tsking at you as if he was scolding a child. “Keligon bona.” Stop that. 

Without sparing you another glance, he all but tore your smallclothes off your body, exposing your slick core to the cold air of the large chamber. As his finger brushed your mound, you bucked into his touch. “So wet, so needy, and not so bold anymore, mh?”

You huffed in return, and when your husband leaned forwards again, trailing hot kisses over the exposed skin of your low-cut neckline, you clasped your arms around the back of his neck to keep him right there. 

The tip of his cock dragged through your folds in a teasing manner, barely pushing in only to pull out right away. 

You were desperate for him to take you right there, and with the heels of your feet coming up to dig into his arse, it was you who forced him into your tight core in one, solid push. As Daemon groaned against your skin, you shuddered, arching your back into his body. 

His cock stretched and filled you exactly how you craved, every notch and vein palpable and brushing the sensitive spot within your core. 

With him being entirely in your grasp, it was your task to move, rocking and rolling your hips against his to get the angle just right, to seek the place that made you see stars. His hands settled on your thighs, gripping hard enough to surely leave some bruises. 

Each of his grunts and groans was muffled by your skin, his mouth occupied with sucking and nibbling on it, leaving marks he would trace with his tongue in their wake. 

The thrusts of his hips were off rhythm with your ministrations, meeting halfway but still amplifying the pleasure you both felt. 

As he fisted your hair to tug your head sharply to the side to grant himself even more access to your neck, you gasped, the sound quickly replaced by a quiet moan.

“Nyke iēdrosa gaomagon daor shijetra ao.” I still do not forgive you. 

Daemon chose to say nothing in return, which angered you even more. Tugging as harshly on his hair as he had tugged on yours before, you dug your nails of the other hand into the back of his neck, claiming him in your own way. 

His other hand splayed across your belly, slowly grazing down to the apex between your legs, seeking your little bundle before his fingers started to circle around it. 

You were so close and ground your hips against his fingers, reveling in the way he seemingly lost himself in the pleasure, too. 

And then, a stinging sensation washed over you as Daemon pinched your pearl, the pain intense enough to have you peaking a few moments after. “Daemon!” You exclaimed a bit too loud, the following sounds shushed by his lips on yours. 

Maybe it was the way you spoke his name in such surprise and despair, or maybe it was his own desire for you and the sweet relief, but his peak hit him shortly after yours, hips arching up as he spent himself inside of you. 

Shards of pleasure, as sharp as the blade of Dark Sister, prickled through your body, intensifying with the twitching and throbbing of his cock. It shuddered through you like the repercussions of both your peaks, his panting just as loud as yours. 

With one hand braced next to your waist, he propped himself up and studied your features with his softened gaze turning back to something sterner in the blink of an eye. You reached to cup his cheek with one hand, gently squeezing it to remind him of what you had said, and he just scowled at that.

“Emagon ao ryptan skoros vestan?” You asked as there came no reply. Have you heard what I said?

“Eman,” he said in an annoyed manner, tilting his head sideways. I have. “Kostilus kesan ērinagon ñuha dāria toliot lēda bisa.” Perhaps I can convince my Queen with this. 

Daemon pulled out of you, tugging his flaccid cock back into his breeches, before he sank to his knees in front of the Painted Table—face on one level with your cunt. He admired the way his seed oozed out of your core, forcing it back inside of you with the pad of his thumb pushing it in.

You propped yourself up on your elbows to watch him carefully, and the wink he flashed you sent shivers down your spine, more so when his mouth found your cunt. 

The chuckle he released as you gasped vibrated through your core, diminishing the uncomfortable feeling of the overstimulation and igniting a new heat to fill your veins.

His tongue swirled over your pearl before he closed his mouth around it to suck, and your legs were draped over his shoulders as his tongue sent a burning pleasure straight through your core again, making you desperate for more. 

Maybe his words were not as bad as you had thought after all.

[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

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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...

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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.