#daemon fanfiction

[em-writes-stuff-sometimes]

OMG no way are you going to write an AU of Daemon's visions at Harrenhal??? I know its AAAAAGES away from where you are in the current story but desperate hos wanna kno ;)

Ask, and ye shall receive!

until i bleed myself dry

Note: This is technically using the characters/characterisation I have established in my terms of endearment series, but really you only need to know that the Reader is Rhaenyra's younger sister and that, instead of marrying Laena, he spent a decade ho-ing it up in Pentos before coming home and getting dazzled by his niece before deciding to wife dat gurl.

WARNING: Please note this is dark, dark stuff. Discretion is advised. Please use your judgement wisely before engaging.

Triggers: graphic depictions of violence, violence against children, character d*ath, MAJOR hallucinations, sexual scenes including visibly underaged character/s.

There is something fucking wrong with this place.

Daemon feels like a skittish child as he withdraws to his chambers, covers drawn up to his neck like the fabric will keep away the very worst of midnight evils. He does not know if the steady drip, drip, drip he hears is in his head or if the stone ceiling is cracked enough to let through the rain. Knowing Harrenhal, he would hardly be surprised by the latter. Still, the noise only serves to speed the racing of his thoughts, turning them fearful as he has not felt since the weakness of his youth.

In this moment, he curses his own doings. If he had stayed his hand—if he had held his tongue—the boy would not be dead, and mayhaps you would not be so wroth with him. He would not be alone in this shithole of a keep a world away, chilled to the bone and miserable as he thinks of you warm and safe in your bed with the children. Without him.

When he finally falls asleep, he dreams.

He knows it is a dream, for he can hear your humming. Soft, sweet, the kind of tune you sing to Daeryx after one of his tantrums. His head lifts from the pillow and he finds himself back in your shared rooms on Dragonstone, eyes finding you in the chair by the hearth. Your hair, unbound, shines like molten amber in the firelight, swaying softly as you tend to business that is concealed from his gaze. Enthralled, he rises, making his way to you.

Drip, drip, drip.

He pauses. That sound… it doesn’t belong here. He calls your name. You ignore him. He moves closer, tentative.

“Come look,” you murmur suddenly, startling him. “Come, kepus.”

His feet move unbidden, out of his control.

Bile pools at the back of his throat, gut curdling at the sight of the boy—the boy—cradled in your lap. You and he are wet with blood, and it drip, drip, drips to the floor, echoing eerily. His eyes are open, face petrified, and Daemon realises that the dark at his neck is not in fact a shadow but a gaping wound, made jagged by the weapon used.

You look up at him, skin shining with sweat and expression exultant. “Look at him, kepus. Look at what you made.”

Memory flashes—he brings his son back down to rest beside his daughter on your lap, two moonshine miracles side by side. “Look at them, kepus,” you whisper, spellbound. “Look at what we made”—and his lungs constrict. You make to lift the child up, but the movement jostles his head off its perch, and it rolls to the ground to stop by his feet. He cannot move. He is frozen, horrified.

You smile, tucking the headless corpse under your chin. Gore pulses against your throat as your chin settles to the yawning maw of the child’s open neck. You rock in your seat, a faint squelch each time your shifting weight disturbs the sodden cushion beneath you.

“I love him,” you whisper, lips pressing to where flesh meets innards. Your mouth comes away red. “I love him so much.”

Daemon awakens with a yell. He swallows once, twice, and then—

He leans over the side of the bed, retching violently. When it is over, he curls up on his side, shaking, staring at his hands. They are wet with blood.

It does not take long for terror to settle in his bones like a longtime companion. It follows him each day, in every waking moment, manifesting in strange visions that he knows—he knows—must be untrue, cannot possibly be real, and yet… And yet. There is a sort of verity in them.

Dark Sister feels like a leaden weight at his hip as he stalks the keep, a reminder of his earlier encounter with Rhaenyra. Only she was not the Rhaenyra he knows, and instead a strange sort of blend of child-queen, the face of the girl peering out accusingly from under her father’s too-large crown, exclaiming all manner of hurt as she stepped from the Iron Throne upon which she perched.

“You put me on that throne. And you love me, and you hate me for it. You created me, Daemon. Yet you are now set on destroying me. All because your brother loved me more than he did you.”

And, without warning, he had taken his blade up in arms and struck off her head, a puppet on strings pulled by another. As her body fell, it morphed into the boy again. Jaehaerys. The child he had murdered. He heard your humming even while Simon Strong’s voice filtered through his unconscious mind, alerting him of the raven that just arrived.

The healer woman’s concoctions have helped little. He still wakes to strange noises, still finds himself stalking after his monstrous one-eyed nephew down the halls, only to find that it is himself he is pursuing. He hears the words you yelled at him in that last great quarrel— “get away, leave before you turn on us and murder us like you murdered that boy”—interspersed with the sound of your screams, and perhaps they are the screams you let out when birthing his children, or perhaps they are screams of a different kind, a version of himself making good on the implication of your words, steel in hand and pursuing his love, his life, his blood—

These figments blur with reality to the point that he becomes unsure of what is before him and what exists only in his head to haunt him. He comes to dread the resting hours, only to find their horrors bleeding into daylight. Whatever strange power has come to roost in his mind serves only to bring him torment.

Perhaps this is why he is not immediately suspicious when he comes face-to-face with you once more.

You stand by the window, the dim light filtering weakly over your bare form. Your back is to him, curls spilling to brush the tops of your buttocks. Their gentle sway—the barest kiss to your skin—is tantalising, and his mouth dries even as he watches your neck crane, sly smile tossed back over your shoulder at him.

“Daemon,” you beckon. Like a cuntstruck fool, he is helpless to resist the call.

His hands settle to the familiar divots of your waist, up and up and up to cup the fullness of your tits. You lean into him, a quiet huff of pleasure escaping as his fingers squeeze and his lips fall unbidden to the slope of your jaw. He inhales deeply, stirred even now by the simplicity of your scent, a throbbing line straight to his groin. You turn in his hold, nose nuzzling against his chin.

“You were right,” you say, eyes shining. “You were always right.”

He is under some enchantment, surely, for he is incapable of coherent speech. All he can do is feel the satisfaction heat his veins, allow it to tug at the corner of his mouth. I knew it, he thinks. I knew her will would bend eventually.

You speak still, even as he backs you toward the bed. “Papa was weak. Rhaenyra is weak. Only you are the true blood of the dragon.”

You shift backward onto the mattress, legs parting invitingly. The split of you opens, revealing flushed folds and the teasing glimmer of want, shining slick for his hungered gaze.

“Fearless”—your hand trails down your belly, fingers tracing around your pearl—“brave”—you venture lower, pressing teasingly at your cunt, your lip caught between your teeth—“strong.”

Daemon drops to his knees before you, tongue licking through the spill and catching on your finger. He bullies it out of the way, arms locking around your thighs as he gluts himself on the sweet tang of you, senses clouding and narrowing to a singular point of existence. You grip his hair, the arches of your feet digging against his back.

“It is not my place to question you,” you breathe, twisting and writhing with his ministrations. He watches your face, enraptured by the toss of your head and the shape of your lips as they form moan after moan. Your release is quick, a final sobbing yelp followed by a flood of slick warmth. When your eyes reopen, they are blazing with reverence. Reverence for him. Your knees flex up, your lower half folded almost to your chest. Your cunt contracts, fluttering like the wings of a butterfly. “I live to serve you, my king.”

His head feels heavy as he rises just barely to crawl over you. He frowns. When he lifts his hand to extricate yours from his hair, he finds not flesh, but cool metal. A crown.

“My king,” you coo below him.

Your surroundings are changed. It is not the meagre offerings of Harrenhal that frame you now, but the sumptuous trimmings of the king’s chambers in the Red Keep, only brighter, more lavish than they ever have been. Jewels sparkle at your throat, in your hair, at your wrists. The sheets are molten gold against your silver-pale, and you wind your hips up at him provocatively, catching his cockhead against your opening.

“You belong on the throne, husband,” you say, fist closing around his shaft and pumping once, twice. You lead him back to the core of you, nudging him just inside. “Uncle. My love. And I belong at your side—at your feet—under your body.”

“My queen,” he gasps, driving forward with a grunt, and oh, he has missed you, missed this, missed the clutch of your walls like a mother’s embrace and the sound of your breathy cries as he plunges deep. Plunges home.

“My king,” you call out, rising into him with unrestrained abandon, precious gems clinking frantically with each fevered hitch of his hips against yours. “My lord. My master. I was made for you.”

“Yes…”

“Chain me to this bed, my king.” Your spine arches toward him, hands grabbing for his own and leading them above your head. He takes this for the encouragement it is, pinning your wrists to the pillow and rutting harder. You shout, elbows flexing to no avail. “Give to me my purpose. Give me your heirs.”

He is helpless to stop the noises escaping his mouth, feral and uninhibited, fucking with near painful intent. You take it all, curving yourself deeper, holding yourself more open so that he may lay claim to his conquest. As only a king can.

“And when I have birthed one,” you say, though now it is more a prolonged keening sound, “give me another. Never stop. Oh! Make me—make me take it—”

He does not know if he is imagining it or if it is happening before his eyes, but he can see it: ruling the Seven Kingdoms, sitting the Iron Throne the way his brother never could, striding down the halls of the keep as the commons bow and scrape to their sovereign, bursting into his chambers after small council to find his queen, to find you where you always are, naked in his bed and belly round and leaking milky white between your thighs, for it is his kingly law that the only part you play here is this, waiting for him to find you and fuck you and fill you and keep you, his little niecewifequeenpet—

He snarls, pulsing and burning. You squeal as he pushes past onslaught and straight to violence, bodies colliding so forcefully that his bones ache and his brain feels like jelly wobbling in his skull. What leaves his mouth can only be bestial in nature now. “I’ll make you—”

“Yes, make me take it until I cannot. Until my cunt is ruined by you.” He feels his end rushing up with every word you wail, his joints locking and grinding and gut roiling with the anticipation of it. “Until my womb is destroyed. Until I bleed myself dry, my king. Only for you.”

“Wha—”

The horror of it escapes him, for it is too late: the release crashes on him like a tidal wave, shoving him below its surface and imprisoning him in its current. He makes a noise like a wounded boar, chasing through the high despite the alarm in his mind, so at odds with the soaring rhythm in his loins.

You laugh, tilting welcomingly to receive him. “Make me bleed, my king. Make me bleed like my mother.”

It is enough to chill the heat in his blood to ice, destroying any semblance of enjoyment. But he cannot stop the unsteady eking out of what remains of his peak. He tries, but he cannot stop.

“No,” he says, a contradiction to the enthusiasm of his flesh prison. “No, no, I cannot. No—”

“What do you mean?” you ask, a strange quality to it. A duality. It crystallises into something comprehensible with every word that comes from your lips. All at once, it is not your voice he hears, but something much higher, younger, blending and overlapping with the cadence he recognises. “You already have.”

He looks down as he makes his final groaning thrusts, only to feel his stomach drop through the floor. Your thighs are soaked in blood, his cock sluicing a path through it all the while. All that flesh covered in red, and he glances up, only to see that you are gone, you are replaced by someone so small, so frightfully small, and he realises you are not replaced, it is you, but it is a you he has not seen for well over ten years, eyes wide and frightened and gleaming like game stuck through by an arrow and taking its final breath.

Daemon rears back, but it is too late. You begin to cry. A dark patch spreads out from underneath your broken body, from where he had torn your fragile opening apart. What have I done? he thinks.

“It hurts, kepus,” you say. “It hurts.”

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, fixed to stillness by revulsion. “I’m sorry. I never meant to—”

“But you did,” you insist, childish pout despite your obvious agony.

Your hands reach out, and he leans away, too horrified to touch you—and he doesn’t know if it is you or he that he is more afraid of in this moment—but you are not searching through the air for him, no. Instead, a bundled weight is settled in them, and you bring it into the crook of your arms, gripping it as though it is the most precious of objects. You smooth the fabric from the top of it to reveal a tiny head of silver hair. The babe gurgles and roots at your flat chest, absurd and awful.

“This is what you wanted,” you say, eyes filled with betrayal. “Am I going to die now, kepus?”

Your Grace…

He shakes his head, but he is no fool. You are too little to withstand the sheer volume of blood you have lost if the bedding is anything to go by. He feels it stain his legs. He feels it drying on his cock.

“Your Grace?”

“I will, though. I’m too young. You’ve killed me.” The babe begins to suckle, and you cry harder. Your body isn’t built for this task, not yet, not like this. He wants to protest, to tell you that this is not his work, cannot be, for he has and would never do something so foul, so wholly inhuman, that the you he has gotten with child has only ever been a woman grown, but it is like you know his thoughts for you scoff and say, “You’re lying to yourself. I was always too young. You just refused to see it.”

He stares down at you, immobile, unable to even think. The metallic scent of your life leaving you fills the air, floods his nostrils with stinging heat.

“… Your Grace?”

Daemon jolts, blinking. Ser Simon Strong looks back at him. “Is the duck not to your liking, Your Grace?”

All at once, you are gone. The king’s chambers are gone. He is not even within his dank chambers at Harrenhal. Instead, he sits at the table in what passes for the dining hall here, a plate full of food steaming before him. The smell makes him ill.

“There’s also goose, if you’d prefer…”

He swallows, trying to ground himself in the present. Voices waft all around him, but he finds it difficult to pay attention.

“I’m not hungry,” he says shortly. It sounds stronger than he feels.

A pause, and then—

Simon clears his throat, turning to his companions. “I was saying, given the rather dire news…”

Daemon tries to concentrate. He does. He knows the others are speaking of matters of utmost importance. Of  Rook’s Rest, of his nephew, of the war. But his mind can only turn over his encounter—his vision? His nightmare? Or is it merely truth finally unveiled to unworthy eyes?—with you, the last of your words haunting him near to madness.

“I was always too young. You just refused to see it.”

He has grown restless here, revolving between the frustration of securing an army from those who see naught in him but the very worst and the torment of these terrible visions that seek him out at their pleasure, heedless of his duty or desire. Tedium or terror—when he is entrenched in one, he wishes for the other, and there is always a sick sort of irony in the granting of said wishes. In truth, he is able enough to tolerate the resistance of these riverlanders, insulting as it is. The phantasms that pursue him have almost become too much to bear.

What is worse? The accusations from the mouth of a juvenile Rhaenyra, full of admonishments for the way he’d so thoroughly undermined her claim before she ever got the right to exercise it? The condemnations from Viserys, a retracing of steps trod so long ago, brought to life once more and forcing Daemon to relive the very worst of his brother? The boy’s laughter darting through the stone halls, an ominous prelude to the sickening sound of steel sawing through skin and the rolling of his head, landing always at the feet of the one responsible for his fate?

They are all bad enough as they are, but for the simple fact that they do not surprise him. Monster, they call him, and he wears the name well. In most all aspects, he is a monster. But never has he thought himself monstrous to you.

He has come to despise the sight of you here, sometimes docile and worshipful, sometimes angered and raving. Sometimes you appear as a siren come to lure him to iniquity, and like a fool he always falls into the trap. Other times, you are battered, caged, a shell of yourself. No matter how it begins, the end is always the same: bloodied, beaten, fading from the world, and it is always his hands he finds the cause of it in. A new reminder every time of all the ways he has thought of taking you, owning you, keeping you. Always, he thinks to save you—to protect you. Always, he destroys you.

Just as he thinks himself finally driven to the edge of all reason, the Rivers woman beckons him to the godswood.

“When you came here,” she says, “you were a closed fist. You wished to bend the world to your will. But you’ve discovered, I think, that… this world will not be governed. There are omens here for those who seek them.”

She pauses. The air seems to whisper, to creak in the dark. Daemon suppresses the urge to shiver. Her eyes move to him, an odd little quirk to her mouth. Amusement, he thinks. Or pity.

“You do not scoff?” she asks.

How can he, after all he has seen here? He has been brought to the very edge of sanity by these omens. What irony, it is, after the great complaints he has made of superstition in past weeks (and months, and years).

“I’m no longer inclined to,” is his short reply.

She laughs. “I’m pleased to hear it.”

She stops before the heart tree and turns to him, expression solemn.

“Do you wish, then, to learn what is given to you?” The answer must lie in his face, for he cannot do anything but stare, silent, tense. “All your life, you have sought to command your own fate”—she takes his hand—“but today, you are ready.”

Gentle pressure at his wrist, and something in him knows to move past her, to take those final few steps so that he is close enough to make out the details of the face carved into the wood. His arm raises by itself, acting on its own power, or perhaps some higher power, his fingers brushing bark and the hot pulse of… blood? But he has no time to truly question it for—

He is flying—

No—

He is a raven, staring at the face of a pale-haired man with a wine-dark stain on his face and he flies into the forest, towards an army, only there is something wrong with the soldiers, they are blue and their eyes glow ice-cold and their breath is frosted with death and their bodies carry the look of corpses stood upright once more—

And then the dragons are dead, all of them, the ground wet not with water but with blood and he walks through it, falls straight into the ground and he is drowning, steel plate armour dragging him down into the depths and he looks up at the sky—

A red comet bursts through the air, hot like fire, and he sees eggs embroiled in flame, a girl sat in ash cradling the bodies of three newly-hatched dragons, a whisper of a memory on the air, “we are the only ones able to bring the fire to life… It is the secret”—

And he is before the Iron Throne, suddenly silent.

Rhaenyra stands before the seat. Viserys’s crown is in his hands. She moves toward him, down the stairs of the throne. He hears her speak.

“From my blood…”

But she does not finish. A roaring conflagration engulfs her and she screams, twisting and warping before him, burning, only not, because you step from the flames, unburnt, voice mingling with that of your sister’s, a haunting echo.

“… come the Prince Who Was Promised…”

You are before him, taking the crown from his grasp and retracing the steps your sister took, and then you are stepping over a charred body, Rhaenyra, oh gods, and ascending the steps. You sit. You lift the crown. You place it on your head.

“… and his shall be the song of ice and fire.”

He is on his knees now, right on that final step at your feet. He feels the warmth of you as you bend forward, your palm caressing his jaw. You look otherworldly in the shadow, backlit silver and gold and wearing a king’s accoutrements far better than any of your predecessors.

“You know what must happen now, Uncle,” you say gently, kindly. “You know what you must do.”

He bows his head to kiss your ring—the seal of the king—no, the queen—and then wind is whistling in his ears, chilling him to the bone and spraying his hair about wildly, so much so that he can barely hear the words yelled at him by the boy sitting astride Vhagar.

“You have lived too long, nuncle.”

—and he wrenches away, panting, body collapsing before the heart tree like a puppet with its strings cut. The world comes back to him in fragments: the scent of dirt and woodlands, the sharp sting of cold, the ache in his muscles that has since settled like sludge at the bottom of a river, ever-present and persisting. Finally, finally, he withdraws with hands washed clean, free of his many sins.

At last, he has come to the crux of it. At last, he understands.

He sits at the base of the tree, stunned and overcome, as faint words slither on the breeze, a final knell from the liminal space of prophecy. Your name. A cheer.

“Long live the queen! Long live the queen!”

Read on AO3:

Taglist:

Now in the comments!

To be on the taglist:

Click here to apply for the general taglist! Click here to apply for the terms of endearment taglist!

[aemondsbabe]

summary: your uncle catches you sneaking from the keep and decides you need to be punished, but finds a sweet surprise instead

pairing: daemon x niece!reader

warnings: mature/explicit, 18+ (minors dni!), no use of y/n, afab reader, canon typical incest, infidelity but it's not really mentioned rhaenyra just exists lol, mentions of menstruation, reader is on her period, period kink on daemon's part, blood kink, blood, spanking, mild coercion, oral (f receiving), masturbation (m), slight corruption kink, good cop/bad cop daemon

word count: 4.4k

a/n: this fic is part of a collab with a bunch of my lovely moots! @lady-phasma came to us with an ask about period sex and daemon and, being as lovely as she is, she offered us all the chance to collab on it -- choosing our own characters & how to play the story!

🩸masterlist of everyone's fics here!

all board creds to the lovely @zaldritzosrose ♥️

likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!

❤️my masterlist

🦋find me on ao3!

🌟add yourself to my taglist!

“Uncle, please!” You plead again, though you know it’s useless; your voice carries in the empty corridors of the Keep, “I promise I won’t do it again! I swear it!” 

Daemon merely grunts in response, his grip on your shoulder tightening while he guides you along. You struggle to keep up with his long strides, his quick pace nearly knocking you over; your heart leaps into your throat when you’re finally tugged to a lurching stop.

“In you get,” he says gruffly, leaving you no room to argue as he ushers you into his study, “You and I have much to discuss, little niece.”

Huffing petulantly, you duck under his arm and slowly make your way into the small chamber. Truthfully, it was normally used as storage for the library but since Daemon and Rhaenyra and their sons had been back in King’s Landing, he had all but commandeered it for himself and had ordered that a writing desk be brought into the room. Glancing around at the various high bookshelves, you wince when he finally pulls the door closed. 

“Now,” he drawls, walking around to stand before you, arms crossed over his broad chest, “Do you want to explain to me exactly why I found you sneaking through the halls at this hour?” His violet eyes bore into yours, making you feel flush under his exacting stare. 

“I was merely going to the kitchens!” You murmur defensively, holding his gaze for only a second longer before glancing away, “I just… I was going to get more of the lemon cakes we had at dinner this evening! I know it’s naughty, but I –”

“No,” he cuts you off, voice low and firm as he narrows his eyes at you, no doubt seeing through your lies with ease. “You were being naughty, sweet niece, I dare say that bit is true,” he smirks, hooking a finger under your chin and forcing your eyes up toward his, “But we both know it wasn’t lemon cakes you were after.”

“I-It was!” You try once more, internally flinching at the way your voice cracks.

“This is a very fine dress for simple lemon cakes, then, isn’t it?” His brows raise knowingly while his other hand comes up to pluck at an embroidered sleeve. 

“Well… well it wouldn’t be proper to be out in my night –”

“So, it’s propriety you’re so concerned with now, is it?” He cuts you off again, smirking wildly as he’s hardly even having to work at cornering you, the sweet little thing that you are, “That’s quite funny, seeing as how it’s also very improper for a young lady, a young princess at that, to be out galavanting around King’s Landing all night…”

You balk at that, lips parting in surprise as your brows furrow. “I wasn’t!” You quickly breathe, voice sounding more like a mousey little squeak, “I would never, uncle! I merely… I o-only got dressed to go to –”

“Come now,” he says slowly, voice low but firm, “This isn’t even the same pretty dress you had on at dinner. If you’re going to lie, at least try and be good at it.”

You open your mouth instinctually, a defensive reply ready on your tongue, though you quickly think better of it and snap your lips shut once more, jaws clenched. Your eyes flit away from him and your heart hammers in your chest; you hate the way you can feel blood rushing to your cheeks as you swallow thickly, fighting against the tightness building at the back of your throat, the stinging behind your eyes. 

“Shh, there’s no need for all that,” he murmurs, swiping a thumb beneath your eye to quickly wipe away an errant tear; your breath catches in your throat at how quickly he can shift from intimidating to doting. 

“Please… please don’t tell my mother,” you whine, switching to bargaining instead, “If she finds out, I won’t be allowed out again until I’m married and Gods know when that might be…”

He chuckles at that, a playful smirk on his lips when he shakes his head. “I won’t tell on you, sweetling,” he all but croons, making you relax somewhat until you see a devious gleam in his eyes, “If you tell me what you were really up to. Because I know damn well it wasn’t lemon cakes.”

Your heart sinks again and you chew at your bottom lip for a moment, nervously wringing your hands. You cannot tell him the truth, you know that much but you hardly trust yourself to speak at all, fearing he’ll work it out of you one way or another.

Daemon’s impatient grumble makes you wince. “I was just… just going to a tavern! Honest!” You rush out, squeaking and stumbling over your words like a nervous mouse, “I merely wanted to go out on my own! Just once!”

He stays silent for a moment, eyes boring into yours and narrowing just slightly, before he sighs heavily and shakes his head. “What in the world were you thinking?” He murmurs, sounding exactly as he does when he scolds little Joffrey, “Do you have any idea what might’ve happened to you?”

“I would’ve been careful!”

“It’s not about what you would’ve done, naive little thing,” he snickers, making your cheeks flush, “Certainly you’re aware that nearly every man in that wretched city would give to –”

“I’m quite aware,” you interject, snapping in annoyance and shuddering at the thought of what he was insinuating. 

“Careful,” your uncle warned, gaze darkening and growing serious once more, “Don’t take that tone with me, I could very well march you right to your mother; you’ll be lucky to be made a septa if she catches wind of this.”

Your jaws clench and you have to fight the urge to scoff, to roll your eyes. “Well, I don’t appreciate you speaking to me like I’m some idiotic child!”

“Oh, aren’t you?” He huffs, taking a step closer to you, “Only an idiotic little fool would venture into King’s Landing in the dead of night to get up to Gods know what with Gods know who!” 

“I told you!” You bite back, trying to keep your voice steady, “We would’ve been –” 

The air feels as if it’s been sucked out of the room by the time you manage to shut yourself up, though it’s already much too late. Daemon’s head tilts to the side curiously, a sinister smirk on his lips once more, the second you squeeze your eyes shut and internally scold yourself for making such an error.

“We?” 

“Aegon,” you admit after a tense moment, knowing there’s hardly any use in drawing it out further.

“Ah, Aegon,” he drawls, chuckling to himself as he nods, “Letting big brother take you on a tour of the city then?”

“Something like that,” your voice is little more than a whisper while you nervously bite at your lip, keeping your eyes downcast.

“My, my,” you can practically feel the smugness radiating off of him as he circles you, arms behind his back, “An unplucked little flower, galavanting around the city, and with a married man, no less.”

Again, you clench your jaw as anger builds within you, grinding your teeth together while you will yourself to just stay quiet. You can’t help but remember a story Aegon had told you once, years before. At the time, you thought it was nothing more than a rumor, just old family gossip compounded by the murmurings of smallfolk. Now, though, just the mere chance that there may be even a sliver of truth to it makes your blood run hot. 

How dare he.

Daemon snickers again, the sound of it makes you clench your fists. “I do wonder what my dearest brother would think of that.”

“Yes, uncle, what would father think?” You snap before you can help yourself, lips set into a tight frown while you peer up at him.

“I said careful –”

“Because he’s heard all of that before, hasn’t he?” You try, heart skipping a beat when his eyes widen just slightly before quickly narrowing again.

“Watch yourself.”

“No!” You scoff, chest heaving with a righteous rage, “You’re no better than me, certainly no better than Aegon – doing the exact same thing to Rhaenyra! You’ve no right to lecture me in this –”

“I married her, that is the difference,” he says lowly, a harshness to his tone you’ve never heard before; he grips your shoulder with one hand, fingers digging almost painfully into your skin, “I made an honest woman of her, something your drunken cunt of a brother cannot ever do.”

“An honest woman,” you scoff, some part of your subconscious is begging you to shut up but you ignore it, “Honest enough to birth three strong boys, isn’t that right uncle?” 

That’s the final nail in your proverbial coffin – echoing Aemond’s words from earlier in the evening, though you suppose you at least had the wherewithal to not ruin dinner. 

“That’s it,” Daemon snaps, violet eyes burning with a fire that would rival that of the Dragonmont, “I really didn’t want to have to do this, princess.”

Your brows furrow for only a second and you’re silently planning an escape route as he presses against your shoulder, assuming that he’s making good on his threats to parade you before your parents. Your cheek is already pressing against the smooth, dark wooden surface of the desk before you register that he was never pushing you toward the door. 

Flustered and disoriented, alarm bells ring in your head as you squirm against the hand on your back, pinning you down. Your eyes widen when you feel him tugging your skirts up, panic flooding through you when you realize what he’s doing.

“Uncle, please!” You plead, bracing your hands against the desk as you attempt to push yourself up to no avail, “I’m sorry, truly! I didn’t mean it!”

“Enough!” Daemon barks, pulling your skirts up over your backside and letting the fabric bunch in against the small of your back, “You need to be taught some manners, little brat.” 

You hardly have time to take in another lungful of air before his hand is cracking down against your rear, making you yelp even as the pain of it is dulled by the thin fabric of your smallclothes. You fight against his hold all the while, grunting and squirming like a rabbit in a trap. 

Unfortunately, he realizes after a moment that this particular method doesn’t seem to be quite enough. A little panicked yell is wrenched from your lips when you feel his fingers hook into the waist of your smallclothes, making an icy chill run down your spine for an altogether different reason than the threat of pain.

“Uncle Daemon, wait!” You beg, shoving an arm behind your back and attempting to bat away his hand, “Y-You can’t, you mustn’t!”

“Come now,” he scoffs, easily pushing your hand away, “It’s only a backside, sweet niece, you think I haven’t seen one before?”

“It’s not tha –”

“And you seemed more than prepared to let dearest Aegon see much more than that, hm?” He drawls, going to tug at the fabric once more.

“I wasn’t!” You try again, desperate to make him understand, “W-We couldn’t have done anything, anyway!”

“Couldn’t have done…?” He questions, brows furrowing as he finally wrenches your smallclothes over the curve of your rear, tugging them unceremoniously down until they hang at your knees. It’s only then that he sees the issue, unable to keep the smirk off of his face as he hears you whine softly against the desk. 

This is what all that fuss was about? He thinks, eyes trailing over the bright red streaks, tacky on your inner thighs, until they settle on the blood soaked linens folded in the gusset of your underwear. 

“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” he sighs, the hand on your back rubbing up and down in a way that would be soothing in any other circumstance. “Now, what were you saying?” He asks casually, like he’s talking to you about the weather and like your arse isn’t out on display. 

“Aegon… Aegon and I couldn’t have done anything anyway,” you try again, praying he’ll take mercy on you, “Because of, well…”

“Because of what? A little blood?”

You merely nod, flushing so badly that your cheeks tingle as blood rushes to them.

“Oh, you sweet little lamb,” he coos, suddenly bringing a hand down against your rear again, smirking when you yelp at the sting, “Do you think men care about getting their swords a little bloody?”

He doesn’t give you a chance to answer as he smacks you again, easily holding you down when you begin struggling once more. Again, his eyes trail over your slit, heart quickening in his chest while he admires the crimson against your skin. Rhaenyra has only let him have her like this a scant few times, the pains that come along with her monthly blood keeping her from arousal and though he has not given into his cravings, he would be a fool to deny them. 

His jaw clenches as he grits his teeth, spanking you yet again, alternating between cheeks, before soothing the sting with gentle caresses and smirking when you shiver at the soft touch. You remind him of her, you always have, though he’s never voiced it. All youthful vigor, filled with an untamed confidence that only naivety can bring, and with a fiery temper to match – more like your half-sister than you knew. 

Perhaps his desires could be managed in… other avenues. 

He brings his hand down once more, relishing the way you squirm and cry, your delicate skin hot beneath his palm. His member stirs, pressing angrily against the ties of his trousers, when he notices a little rivulet of red running down your inner thigh.

“You know,” he starts, petting his hand over your back while you sob, tears leaking onto his desk, “Many men quite enjoy their women this way, sweet niece.”

He smirks when he hears your breath hitch, swears he can hear your heart fluttering like the wings of a little bird in the quiet chambers. 

“Warm, open… slick,” he drawls, taking a second to squeeze at the soft skin at the back of your thigh, the very tip of his thumb just barely running through a little crimson drip. He brings his hand up, marvels at the dark droplet staining his finger for only a second, before flicking it away with his tongue. 

You gasp, having been watching curiously from the corner of your eye as an altogether different kind of heat swarms your veins. You don’t fight his hold any longer, victim to his spell even as your mind wars with itself. 

“I-It’s messy, though…” You try, your voice sounding unconvincing to your own ears; you swallow nervously when he chuckles. 

“Mm, it’s not all that different from any other honeyed hole, sweet niece,” Daemon soothes, putting your worries at ease while he trails a hand over your inner thighs, licking his lips at the way your tacky skin feels against his fingers, “It can be messy, yes, but… some men prefer mess.”

Do you? You wonder, although you already know the answer, legs spreading unconsciously at his touches. A whine slips from your lips when he moves his hand back up, rubbing it over your still sore backside. 

“Still stings?” He asks, one eyebrow raised. He tuts when you nod, soothing you gently, like the sting isn’t his fault, “Lucky for you, I know just the thing for it.”

“What…?” You question, brows furrowing as you attempt to push yourself up from the desk, only to be pushed back down against it – albeit a little gentler this time. 

“You just relax,” he croons, all traces of the anger from before gone; the fires within him extinguished at the thought of finally getting what he’s missed for so long, “Let uncle kiss it better, hm?”

A shiver goes through you at his words and your breath catches in your throat, eyes wide as you feel him move around you, slinking from his place at your side to your back. Fabric rustles behind you and just as you open your mouth to ask what’s going on, a loud gasp tears itself from your throat. 

Daemon kneels on the floor behind you, bent down on one knee, and leans in, pressing a gentle, feather light kiss against one cheek before alternating to the other. His hands grab at your hips, holding you in place, eyes trained on the side of your head drinking in the little flashes of emotion on your face – shock and uncertainty slowly giving way to a cautious curiosity. He could work with that. 

“Feeling better?” He husks, smirking against your soft skin when he sees you nod, hears the little whimper halfway trapped in your throat. He carries on, pearlescent hair tickling the backs of your thighs each time he leans in, kissing your skin. Eventually, his touches begin to linger, hands rubbing over the sides of your thighs while his tongue licks against you every so often. The soft, patient touches soothe you, tamper your worry, and soon enough pleased little sighs and hums begin filling the room, music to his ears. 

Quickly, he pulls at the ties of his trousers, groaning against the curve where your ass and thigh meet when his member springs free, bobbing against his lower belly. Wrapping a hand around himself, he continues – kissing and licking along the backs of your thighs before finally reaching what he most desires.

“U-Uncle!” You gasp, eyes squeezing shut when he licks into the crease of your thigh, the skin there no doubt smeared with the blood you can feel running down your legs every few moments, painting streaks of red down to your knees. 

Your feeble little warble is drowned out by the deep, throaty growl that leaves him – a man dying of thirst finally finding an oasis in the desert. He nudges at your thigh, panting a low, “Good girl,” when you part them more – as much as your smallclothes, still bunched around your knees, will allow. His head spins thinking of how passionate you’ll become with more experience, already so eager.

“Fuck,” he mumbles, spitting into his palm and grunting while he works a hand over his cock, panting as he admires your flowering center for a moment – your little petals shining, crimson staining your skin nearly all the way down to your knees. He feels like a man possessed, drunk and proud as his cock twitches against his palm. 

Another groan rumbles in his chest when he dives in, all thoughts of being gentle and slow thrown to the wayside as he presses his face against you, uncaring as to whether he can fill his lungs or not. 

“Daemon!” You yelp, hands scrambling over the smooth surface of the desk, mind reeling while you try to find something, anything to hold onto. His tongue is unlike anything you’ve ever felt, eons better than the way your own fingers feel pressed against your cunt in the wee hours of the morning. 

Your chest heaves when he groans against you, tongue toying with the stiff little bud at the apex of your slit for a second before he fucks it into you, all but punching whines and moans from your throat. Your cheeks flush at the sound of it, the slick, wet sounds of his tongue working against you almost painfully loud in the small study. 

His hips rut into his hand as he suckles at your pearl, burying his nose into you while deep moans resound in his chest — head clouded at the taste of you, at the slick feel of your blood against his lips, on his tongue. 

Gods, he’s missed this. 

The fire in his belly builds steadily while he takes what he needs from you, the little throbs your cunt gives around his tongue only serving to push him further and further toward the end. 

“Seven Hells, you taste divine,” he growls, rubbing his thumb over the head of his cock, his other hand tugging an arse cheek to the side, opening you more for him before skimming his fingers over your taut bud, smirking at the way your core clenches. 

“Please, please,” you pant, hips canting against the edge of the desk, breath foggy against the dark wood.

“Don’t worry, sweetling,” he murmurs, licking your taste from his lips, “I’m not done with you yet.” 

Your knees nearly buckle when he licks you again, laving his tongue over the entirety of you – lapping from your pearl almost all the way up to your other hole, the thought of such a thing stealing the air from your lungs. Your mind reels as he suckles at you, core aching from how tightly the knot in your tummy is wound. 

Daemon growls against you, the rhythm of his hand stuttering the closer he gets, stones pulling tight as he nears his end. He can tell you’re close as well from the way you press back against him, rutting on his tongue while breathy little moans tumble, unbidden, from your lips. 

The thought of your wet cunt clenching around his tongue causes his length to pulse again, causes it to leak against his fingers. Gods, he needs that. 

“Ah!” You pant when he redoubles his efforts and presses his tongue as far into you as he can, groan rumbling against you as he nuzzles into your folds, savoring the sweet coppery taste on his tongue. 

He feasts then, hand striping up and down his cock with abandon while he fucks his tongue into you, curling it and pressing it against as much of you as he can while his chin presses against your pearl, pulling loud cries from you. 

“U-Uncle, uncle, I… Gods, Daemon, I’m…” you stutter, words dying on your lips as pleasure threatens to white out your mind. You pant, breathlessly rocking against his face while your body tenses, instinctively preparing for the incoming onslaught. 

He grunts into you, fucking into his fist while his other hand squeezes at your arse. His eyes roll back in his head when he feels you tighten on his tongue, your walls finally beginning to suck at him in earnest. Just as his stones tighten to the point of no return, he smacks his hand against your rear once more, groaning victoriously as the dam finally breaks. 

“Fuck!” You shout, muscles tensing and falling limp all in the same breath as your high slams into you, rough and unforgiving — heightened by your menstrual flux. You can hear Daemon grunting and growling behind you, your cunt pulsing on his tongue. 

Below you, he feels as if he’s ascended to the clouds, stomach lurching like it does when Caraxes takes flight. He groans, long and loud, against you, into you, as his cock throbs, spend splashing down against his trousers, dripping to the floor. 

“O-Oh!” You breathe, hips twitching as he licks over you for a moment more, taking all he can. Your little tired cries make him chuckle as his touches border on overstimulation. He finally takes mercy on you and pulls away with a satisfied sigh, tucking his member back into his trousers as he stands, grunting at the soreness of his knee. 

There’s a heady fondness in his eyes as he lets them trail over you, watching as you catch your breath, limp. “Feel okay?” He asks, petting a hand down your spine before bending to press a sweet kiss against the back of your shoulder. 

You nod, your cheek slick against the desk while you finally start coming back to yourself. “Gods,” you sigh tiredly, blinking the fog from your eyes. 

Daemon chuckles at that, his normally mouthy niece reduced to little sighs. He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and walks to a small mirror on the wall, well really an old, polished placard, but it’ll do. 

His eyes widen when he catches sight of himself, features distorted somewhat in the reflective golden surface, but clear enough to see the blood left on his skin. A smirk grows on his lips and he lets himself admire it for a second, mind flashing back to the aftermath of his victory against the Crabfeeder, before he begins wiping at his skin. 

From the corner of his eye, he sees you beginning to stir, arms shaking as you push yourself up from the desk. He stares at his reflection for a moment, jaw clenching as his heart pangs feebly. 

With a sigh, he walks the few steps over to you and steadies you, pressing a hand to your back. “Careful,” he warns, playful glint in his eyes while he guides you to the spare chair against the wall and coaxes you to sit, not caring if the fabric gets stained, “You’ll give me a complex.” 

Your lips quirk into a smile at that and you chuckle, eyes widening when you finally get a good look at him. “Ohh…” you balk, not expecting to see blood, your blood, trailing down his chin, painting him like a satiated lion, “I’m… I’m sorry…” You murmur, not knowing what else to say. 

“Why?” He chuckles, affectionately carding his fingers through your hair as he blindly wipes at his face a little more, “Did you not enjoy it?” 

“I did…” you admit softly, bashful before him now. Strength seems to find you again and you bend forward to pull up your smallclothes, only to stop yourself when Daemon leans down to do it himself. 

“Then there’s no reason to be sorry,” he says with a sigh, pulling your smallclothes back into place and letting you adjust them to your fancy, “Blood can be wiped away, sweetling.” 

“I’m sorry for what I said earlier too,” you murmur, wringing your hands while the two of you stand together. You watch as he busies himself with righting his clothes, making sure his trousers are tied well and smoothing out his tunic. You can’t help thinking that he looks handsome like this, finally seeing him how Rhaenyra might. 

Nervously, you pull at your skirts, smoothing them out and fidgeting with your bodice. You look up when he clears his throat, surprised to be met with a smile. 

“As I said,” he placed a hand on your shoulder, gentle this time, “Blood can be wiped away, sweet girl.”

thank you for taking the time to read! hope you enjoyed! :)

check out the rest of the pieces in this collab here!

consider adding yourself to my tag list or check out my works on ao3!

[certifiedskywalker]

Three Weddings and Your Funeral (Part 2) - Daemon Targaryen

Anonymous asked: Hi certi, how are you ? I love all you're stories and most you do daemon targaryen characterization justice could you do second part  to Three Weddings and Your Funeral - Daemon Targaryen ?

Before the Dance of Dragons, there was another waltz. You and Daemon Targaryen were always drifting in and out, always spinning about one another without moving at all. Your dance of stillness stretched across the continent; but you thought you ended that dance long ago…Daemon, as always, had other ideas.

Part One

A twig splintered beneath your foot with a sharp, ear-tingling snap. At the sound, you caught your loud, ragged breath in your throat, careful not to add insult to self-inflicted injury. You let your gaze fall to the split thing under your shoe and cursed it in the quiet of your mind before daring to look back up towards the abandoned fishing hut. The storm-toppled tree branch that split its planks would be a warning realized too late. When you did look, its foreshadowing was the furthest from your attention.

“I thought I taught you better,” Daemon chided, slinking out of the shadows cast by the hut. His dark armor and silver hair glinted in the moonlight. Under its glow, he was alive and rippling like the bay waves that lapped quietly at the shoreline. One step in the wrong direction and you would be overcome: dragged under and drowned in him. It didn’t help that his eyes moved like the tide too: wishing and washing up and down your frame. “You look well.”

You swallowed after a long moment, forcing the caught breath into your lungs. “Sneaking about King’s Landing in your shadow hardly constitutes a lesson.”

Daemon hummed, the sound light and affirming, tilted up like the start of a dear song; and there you were, being lulled into the warm ease of familiarity. No, nothing about being familiar with Daemon was warm or easy. It was sweltering and you had somehow forgotten about the heat. It returned to you then, and the memory stung with vengeance. 

“What are you doing here?” Your voice did not waver with the question, which surprised you. Perhaps time weakened Daemon’s ability to drag you under. 

“I could ask the same of you,” he countered. The closed-lip smirk etched onto his features was unmoved by your bravery. “You sent word.”

“And you listened, after all this time.” Daemon lingered in his spot in the sand before he stepped towards you, his expression becoming clearer and all the more taunting. It was as if he knew how you, just hours before, had clutched the parchment and traced his lettering. “Did you ever stop listening?”

Nettle-like memories again: endless, stinging flashes of tourneys and weddings spent at Daemon’s side. So many years spent biding by his beck and call like a hound eager to please. What did you have to show for your dedication? A single kiss, before being left entirely to fend for yourself. How you had loathed his silence then; but, with him stood just a pace away, you found yourself unwilling to give him the satisfaction of the truth.

So, you ignored him and asked again, this time through gritted teeth: “What are you doing here?” 

Daemon cocked his head, his smirk widening ever-so-slightly, and stepped towards you until he was only an arm's length from you.

“Why?”

“Why?” 

“Why did you come to meet me here?” His eyes were dark but not like the pitch night about you. The fire in him shone through as it always had, but it was dimmer than you remembered. At your last meeting, his gaze had been wild, spitting like coals needing air…needing you, however briefly. What had he blamed then?

“Impulse.”

With the word, memory stung Daemon too. His smirk melted into the lines on his face, some old and others new. Impulse made your hand twitch with an itch to reach up and be taken under his current. Then, you could learn those new lines and trace them as you had with his lettering. 

You managed to still yourself, curling your fingers into tight fists. Daemon’s gaze flicked your hands before it settled on your face with a gripping cold. His scowl-stuck lips parted, sealed, then parted again, a hesitation that had you almost gleeful. At long last, you had knocked him off balance; though, he eventually found his words.

“You married,” he snapped, his tone icy and startling, and suddenly you were the one careening. He leaned in, his eyes searching yours for…what you were unsure. “Did you not think I heard?”

Your marriage into House Cox of Saltpans had been no great news, hardly news at all. It, like many a marriage, was strategic: safety from dancing dragons seemed a better bet in the far, underfed reaches of the Riverlands. 

Saltpans was a quality choice in that regard, having been stymied long ago by men who called themselves River Kings and ruled the Bay of Crabs by boat before Aegon conquered by dragon. Left charterless, the town never sprawled into a city, and trade, while present, was limited to the sweet meat of pygmy crabs and seashell beads carved by those living nearer to the Trident. With such limitations, House Cox, as the town’s stewards, had few arms to provide to the war effort, an insufficiency that left it rather uninvolved in combat. 

At most, what you heard of the Blacks and Greens was the distant roars of whichever Targaryen most recently claimed the ruins of Harrenhal. Though, it seemed that relative, personal peace had worn out. The wave of dread that accompanied that realization washed your mind clean enough to clarify the object of Daemon’s searching eyes. How could you?

“I am married,” you replied, your voice barely above a murmur, “as are you, thrice over.”

Daemon scoffed, letting his face turn down and to the side.

“Did you truly expect me to wait for you after all that happened?” 

“Do not think me so foolish,” he snapped, his head lifting to meet your gaze. In his eyes then, you saw the Daemon so many feared, the worst of the man you had loved for so long.

“I knew you to be so foolish, or at least so cruel as to expect that of me.”

“Yes, so cruel,” he stepped towards you as he spoke, his boots sinking to the sand with such heated anger that you were surprised the grains did not turn to glass beneath him. “Cruel, yet I have kept my promise. You, your Lord, and these wretched reaches of the Riverlands have been spared dragon fire. Do you think that was by fate? By the Old fucking Gods?”

He was close enough to you then that his breath kissed the peaks of your face, just as it had so many years ago, on another beach, when he told you of his intentions with Rhaenyra. The aching depth of feeling then… It welled up inside you and spilled onto your lips. “Daemon-”

“It was me,” he finished, his nose nearly knocking yours as he leaned closer. “Nyke jāhor daor ivestragī ao zālagon, and you have not burned.”

Daemon smelled of dragon and sweat, and there was the swelter again. Perhaps it was that familiar heat that pushed you to take that one, drowning step, or maybe you were just exhausted by a dance you thought ended years ago. As if you were with Caraxes, you reached a careful hand up to test the heat of the air about his face. Your palm was immediately met with warmth and Daemon’s cheek as he pressed his face into your skin. 

Your breath hitched at the feeling, but your thumb traced the peak of his cheekbone with a gentleness you feared you had lost when you lost Daemon. Comforted and angling for a different approach, you asked your first question again, gentler than before: “Is that what brought you here?”

Daemon merely closed his eyes and pressed his face harder in your touch. So, you asked another way: “Were you compelled by another impulse to tell me, again, that you have danced about me without my knowing? You have known where I was since my leaving you and, again, shielded me from the hard truth?”

“From war,” he murmured, the edge of his lips tickling your palm.

“The truth,” you asserted, and before he protested, you continued. “How?”

Daemon’s eyes fluttered open and it was as if you were children again, before weddings and feelings and knowing. “When I first took Harrenhal for Rhaenyra. I heard of your marriage from the Strong’s there and sent to have eyes on you.”

“By your own admittance, House Cox is removed from your war. There are no spies here in Saltpans.”

“Anyone can be bought,” Daemon answered, much too simply. 

His features went startlingly grey as if remembering a time buried under the sea’s stone bottom, and his eyes fell past you, seeing through the sediment of time. Just like that, Daemon was far from you again. Within your grasp yet entirely out of reach; but there were no arms of another brilliant bride for him to run into. He was, for however long you could stretch this moment, only with you, and how right that felt.

Right, but you knew that, with all he had confessed, you should feel violated, exposed. You should be scathing and demanding an apology. No, you should be demanding that he leave. You and Daemon were married after all, not to each other. Never to each other.

That thought, as it always had, pulled you out from under the tide of him. “You did not answer my question.”

“I did,” he said, his voice alarmingly soft as his gaze flitted back to you. “I have protected y-”

“No, Daemon,” you interrupted, your hand falling from his face. He went rigid immediately, his posture straightening as if shocked by a stabbing blade. The heat of him lingered, but the comfort you had taken in it was gone. “Why are you here, after all this time and everything you have done? If you knew I was here for so long, why not come to me sooner?”

Daemon just stared at you, his sharp eyes and features unyielding. You drank in the sight of his steadfast expression, unsure of how long it would be before you saw it again and too sure that Daemon would leave without giving even a moment’s notice. It was then you saw his armor again, but this time, you saw past the shine of it. You saw the scorch marks, the scratches, each new, like the line in his face. A different sort of heat rushed like a wave against you, nearly knocking you over.

When you looked up at Daemon again, tears stinging in your eyes, he knew that you understood. “I’ve come to take Harrenhal for the last time.”

“The last time,” you echoed grimly, your tears falling freely.

“I wrote to you and then to Green’s own kinslayer,” he winced as if the word struck him before pivoting in his speech. “I am to face Aemond.”

Then, it was your eyes that searched Daemon’s. Your object: fear. When you found no trace, more tears streamed down your cheeks, but Daemon quickly raised a hand to wipe them away. Despite the tenderness of his touch, the pad of his thumb was rough against the apples of your cheeks. Had he ever been soft? You couldn’t recall a time he wasn’t all rough edges.

“He will have Vhagar,” you murmured as the tips of his fingers skimmed the edge of your lips.

“And I will have Caraxes.”

“Daemon, he is swift and fiery, but Vhagar is-”

“I know,” he interrupted, his hand cupping your face. His thumb rubbed against your cheek and, despite the shadowy loom of a stacked fight, Daemon smiled. “Do you remember our first meeting?”

All thoughts that consumed you were of your last meeting, your parting words a terrible echo in your skull…it will be your funeral. How could he be smiling?

“It was Viserys and Aemma’s wedding,” Daemon pressed on, “and you were waltzing with some hoary goat. Do you remember?”

You stared at Daemon, trying to place his smile and intent. Your funeral. You shook your head as you were unable to think of anything else but Daemon’s doom.

“Old fool kept leaning on you. Too frail maybe, or ripe with lust, I never did know which. All I knew is that I needed y- I needed to intervene,” Daemon cocked his head and leaned towards you. His breath fanned across your face as he asked in a whisper: “Do you remember how?”

The question had you drowning in him as if it were the first time. “You came in like the sea and washed me away into the rest of the waltz. You led,” you sniffled through a bitter smile, “rather poorly, I recall.”

“Yes, well, if you recall, I despise weddings. I never intended on enjoying myself, it jarred me.” Daemon brushed the tips of his fingers through your hair slowly, savoring the feel of those strands of you against his skin. “Though, I do like to think we have been dancing ever since then. Married in our own way, without the garish decor and ghoulish crowd.”

“Daemon-”

“So, if you find it in yourself, I would like to dance a touch longer.” He took a step back and let his hand slip from your face just to let it hang in the air between you. An offering you could not refuse.  

The time for words having passed, you took Daemon’s hand and let him lead you until dawn broke at the edge of the Bay of Crabs. When the first rays of Sun kissed the sand, he let the hand holding yours fall while the other remained wrapped about your waist. He pulled you against him until you were sharing the same air, and you could not imagine a day to come where you did share the world with him.

“I cannot turn from you again,” you whispered, your lips brushing against Daemon’s as you spoke. His hand held you tighter.

“You will not have to,” he replied, before kissing you at last. There was no rush to his kiss, despite the distant cries of a battle-hungry Caraxes. There was only Daemon’s last, perhaps only, bit of softness; saved for you. Lips still locked, he spun you in the sand. 

When you parted and opened your eyes, you saw, past Daemon’s shoulder, the shoreline castle seat of House Cox. Quickly, you refocused on the man before you, wishing you could drown in the pools of his eyes as you had done in the past, in those moments that stretched just long enough. All steps in our dance.

“I’ll go,” Daemon said, his tone gentle but his words an order. “Then, after a while, you will go.”

“What if I do not listen this time?”

Daemon let out a breath of a laugh, one heavy with knowing but sweet enough to make you hope. Perhaps you were the fool. “We both know that you will.” “Just this last time,” you murmured. “After this, you are to listen to me.”

“Of course, issa jorrāelagon,” Daemon leaned up and kissed your forehead. The swelter eased with the act and you felt your stomach twist. He took a step back and smiled. “Of course.”

Then, Daemon Targaryen kept his last promise to you: he turned away. 

[valleyof-goldenlilies]

The Gingerbread Kerfuffle - Modern! Daemon Targaryen x Reader

Summary: Seeking your husband's help in baking gingerbread turns out not be the roaring success you had hoped it would be.

Pairing: Modern! Daemon Targaryen x AFAB! Reader

Warnings: profanity, p in v sex, degradation, cunnilingus, spanking, overstim, tiddy play, rough sex, slight daddy kink if you squint, she/her pronouns used

Word Count: 1.75k words

A/N: hoe hoe hoe! a very merry late Christmas and Happy New Year in advance from me to you :) Daemon girlies, you are up first 😋 i hope you enjoy!

lovely dividers credited to @firefly-graphics !

“And what exactly is the difference between these two?” Daemon’s disgusted voice broke you from your focus as you focused on beating the milk and sugar. You sighed, turning to face Daemon as he held up the bag of flour and baking powder, looking confused. 

Why in the Seven Hells did you think it would be a good idea to try and rope your husband into helping you to bake gingerbread cookies? 

If it weren’t for the two twin girls soundly asleep upstairs in their beds, eagerly awaiting for your household’s traditional gingerbread cookies, you might have laughed until you woke the whole neighbourhood by now. 

“This, my dearest husband,” you took the bag of flour from his hand, “Is the flour. Or all-purpose flour as we call it.” 

“And what are its purposes?” Daemon inquired, a scowl on his face as his gaze flickered between the baking powder and flour. 

You paused, “I…actually don’t know,” you admitted. “It’s just essential.” Daemon scoffed, “Darling, are you sure you know how to bake?” You shoot him a glare. “Who’s the one struggling to tell the difference between flour and baking powder, darling?” You moved to check on the mixture in the mixing bowl. Your husband came up behind you, hopefully not to ask another question about the difference and functions of baking ingredients. 

Arms encircled you, as Daemon buried his face in your hair, inhaling your sweet floral scent. “You know…” Daemon murmured, hands creeping towards the front of your shorts. “I might not understand anything about baking, but you sure look sexy as hell while doing it.” 

“Mmm,” you hummed, playing along as Daemon continued kissing your neck. “Daemon, the girls.” 

“Won’t hear a thing,” Daemon concluded, trying to tug off your shorts. “As long as you’re quiet, darling.” 

You smirked, pressing yourself up against him. A groan and his hardness pressing against you made you know you had succeeded, causing your smirk to widen. “Come on, darling, what do you say?” Daemon murmured, hands grazing over your pussy over your shorts. “Let me fuck you?” 

“Hmm,” you pretended to consider it. “I say…help me roll up the dough into two balls, you dirty dog.” You spun around, pushing him off you gently. 

Daemon raised an eyebrow, a smirk forming on his lips, looking not at all bothered by your rejection. “I know what other two balls you can play with-'' He laughed as you shoved the mixing bowl in his arms, looking at him sternly. “Less dirty talk, more rolling please. I’d actually like to get some sleep before having to wake up early to bake these tomorrow.” 

“Yes, madam,” Daemon responded in a sly voice, as you narrowed your eyes at him. 

The two of you made fast work of it, rolling the dough into two balls, before putting them in the fridge. You let out a sigh of relief as you began washing up the bowls in the sink, it was only 11 o’ clock, which meant that the two of you could get in eight hours of sleep before having to wake up tomorrow to bake the cookies. 

When you finally finished washing up, you wiped your hands on the kitchen cloth, brows furrowing a little. It was quiet…too quiet. 

“Daemon?” You called out, scanning the kitchen for your oversized man toddler. You had asked him to put the ingredients back into the pantry, but the man was nowhere to be seen. “Daem-“ 

You let out a squeal as strong arms scooped you up, bridal style. Daemon carried you like you weighed nothing more than a rag doll, briskly walking up the stairs to your shared bedroom. 

“Daemon, what are you-“ you squealed again as he tossed you onto your bed roughly, immediately climbing over you and removing his sweatpants. “You think it’s funny, hmm?” Daemon lifted an eyebrow as he continued undressing himself, then moving to undress you. “Teasing me like a brat in the kitchen, acting all smart with me in the kitchen, like you’re better than me hmm?” 

You stifled a giggle, coyly trailing a finger down Daemon’s abs. “Well, to be fair, you were the one who confused sugar for salt. I think I-“ You yelped as Daemon flipped you over onto your stomach, landing a harsh smack on your ass. “Not so feisty now, are we?” He taunted, spanking you again. 

You choked on your breath as he continued spanking you harshly, but the inner brat in you refused to submit. “Says the man who doesn’t know the difference between a spatula and a whisk,” you mocked, sticking up your ass even more, leaning into his touch. 

Daemon growled, hand landing on your ass so harshly that it made you yip in pain. He immediately moved to cover your mouth. “Shh, little whore,” he said condescendingly, smirking down at you. “Don’t want to wake the girls, don’t you?” 

You were about to argue back, but then Daemon, clearly having had enough of your bratty attitude, thrust into you harshly from behind, making you scream into his mouth. He rubbed your back soothingly with the other hand, shushing you like you were a small child. “Shh, shh, I thought you said that we shouldn’t wake the girls, yes?” Daemon’s words were mockingly sweet, as he began pumping into you leisurely. He still kept his hand over your mouth, muffling any of your moans and cries as he fucked you. He groaned as you clenched tighter around him when he went faster, his hips snapping into yours. “Oh, the little whore likes it when I treat her rough like this, doesn’t she?” Daemon taunted, emphasising his words by thrusting into you when he called you a little whore. “Likes it when her daddy just fucks her with no care in the world, doesn’t she?” 

You nodded eagerly, and Daemon smiled wolfishly at that, planting kisses down your neck down your spine. “Such a good fucking girl, mmm, all for me,” Daemon smacked your ass lightly a few times, groaning at the erotic sound of skin slapping on skin. 

You felt a heated whisper against your ear, as Daemon grazed his lips against your ear, making you shiver. “And do you know what good girls get, sweetheart?” Daemon pulled back with a smirk as he watched you with mock pity. “Oh yes, my hand is still around your mouth. Tsk, how silly of me to forget.” He relished in the indignant “mmph!” noises he heard from you in response. 

“I’ll tell you the answer, sweetheart,” Daemon said blandly, like he wasn’t currently ploughing into you right now with the vigour of a bull. “Good girls get to cum, sweetheart.” With that, his other hand went down to your swollen pearl, rubbing it with his thumb. He laughed as he heard your noises becoming more and more needy, letting out a sated sigh as he felt you cum on his cock, your walls tightening around him as you did. 

“Oh, beautiful,” he leaned down and kissed you, taking note of how out of breath you were as he released his hand from your mouth. A smug smirk flickered on his lips. You were shaking so badly…

Too bad he wasn’t known for being “The Merciful” in the business world. 

You yelped when Daemon flipped you over. Your back hit the cool sheets, but they provided little relief as Daemon seized your legs, forcing them to wrap around his waist as he continued thrusting in you. Cries of pleasure fell from your lips as Daemon’s hot mouth went to suck on your swollen, hardened nipples, biting them lightly and delighting as you writhed under his tongue. 

“I can’t come again, Daemon, please,” you cried out, as Daemon’s pounding grew more and more intense and you felt the familiar coil in your stomach again. Daemon released your nipple with a wet pop, and looked menacingly into your eyes. 

“Yes, you can. You little slut.” 

Daemon lowered his mouth back onto your heated, sweaty skin again, this time devoting his attention to your neck and collarbone, while his hands came up to play and fondle with your tits, squeezing them. You let out a strangled moan as you came again, as Daemon flicked his thumb at your hardened bud. 

You had hoped that Daemon would let you go after that, but your husband had other plans. Your head initially lolled back against the pillows in exhaustion, but it snapped up again as Daemon spread your legs even wider. “What…”

A wicked grin was all you saw before Daemon dived between your folds, eagerly licking up your wet, swollen slit “No, no, no more,“ you cried out, hips bucking off the bed as you tried to pull yourself away from his hot, needy mouth, but firm hands gripped your hips tightly, preventing you from moving an inch more. 

You were always the sweetest thing Daemon had ever tasted, and he especially loved eating you out after your orgasms, with your legs shaking and barely managing to keep a hold of your sanity as he ravished you with his mouth. 

When you felt his skilled tongue flicking at your clit, you could feel your orgasm approaching again, your body trembling in preparation for it. “Daemon, I can’t, I can’t-“ A strangled moan tore from your throat as you came, squirting Daemon’s face and tongue with your juices. Daemon chuckled darkly against your folds, refusing to stop until he had licked up every trace of your cum. 

Exhausted after the three orgasms wrung from you, you collapsed back on the pillows. You felt a finger running along your overstimulated slit, as Daemon pulled himself up to you again, kissing you sweetly, a stark contrast from his former ravenous, wicked demeanour. 

Daemon pushed his finger into your mouth, giving you a simple command. “Taste yourself, darling.” Your tongue hesitantly darted out, sucking your own juices off his finger. A sigh emerged from your lips, and Daemon smiled, kissing your forehead. “Is it over now?” you mumbled softly, eyes fluttering shut. 

“Mmm,” Daemon hummed, looking down at your blissed out, fucked out state. “I think you’re forgetting something, darling.” 

You opened your eyes, looking confused. Eyes darting to the clock on the wall opposite your bed, your brows furrowed. “Merry…Christmas, love?” 

Daemon burst out laughing, hand trailing down to play with your nipples again. “Not that, darling,” he whispered, a devilish grin on his face. “I still haven’t come yet, haven’t I?” 

Oh, fuck.

Daemon General Taglist: @aiyaiy @kmmg98 @norestfortheshelbywicked @hb8301 @hc-geralt-23 @babypink224221​ @mckenziewhite2005 

let me know if you wish to be added to a general taglist for daemon related works or just my works in general in the comments below or through this form! :) 

thank you for reading! if you liked it, likes, comments and reblogs are always highly appreciated! merry late xmas guys 😘🎄

[frost-queen]

My only love (Reader x Daemon Targaryen)

Requested by:@hwangrimi ,Forever tag:@missmelodramatic, @merlin-dahlia, @alex--awesome--22, @elllie-does-the-posts, @floatlosers, @merlieve, @queen-of-books, @glimmering-darling-dolly@denkisclown, @wildieflower, @meyocoko, @bubblybrianna, @justanothercoco@subjecta13-thefangirl, @m-rae23, @harleyquinnswifeyfrfr, @swampthing07, @melsunshine, @panhoeofmanyfandoms, @venomsvl, @the-uncoordinated-house-cat, @rosecentury,  @imagines-by-her,  @evilcr0ne, @vviolynn

The candles lighted up the diner table when you entered the room. Daemon already sitting at the head of the table. He lifted his head up at the sight of you. – “My wife!” – he declared with open arms. You curtsied before him. One of the servants came nearer when you moved closer to the other head of the table. The servant pulling your chair back as you readied yourself to sit down. – “No! no!” – Daemon called out startling you. – “It’s all wrong.” – he said making you look confused.

He tapped his fingers at the side of the table. – “I want you to sit here.” – he proclaimed. With a snap of his finger got the servant in action. Picking up your chair and bringing it around the table near your newly wed husband. – “Come Y/n.” – he called you over with a gesture. Slowly you got in motion not used to it. You were always taught to eat as far as possible away from your husband.

Just so you could never disturb him. Him asking you deliberately over felt a bit out of scene. The servant pulled the chair back as you went to sit. Feeling a bit nervous you kept your hands under the table, fidgeting a bit with your dress.

Daemon reached for your hand underneath the table, taking it in his. He then pulled it upwards in sight. – “I’ve missed you.” – he said making you smile bashful. Your heart fluttered when he kissed your hand. – “Daemon.” – you whispered smiley.

“What can’t a man show his wife how much he loves her?” – he asked rhetorical with a smirk. – “You may.” – you replied leaning in closer to him. He leaned in as well, letting his lips brush against yours. Pulling back he eyed the guard standing by the walls. – “How has your day been Daemon?” – you asked picking up your fork and knife. Daemon set his elbow on the table, smirking your way. – “How was yours ñuha jorrāelagon?” (My love).

You smiled bashful. – “Extremely boring without your presence.” – you replied. Daemon took your hand setting a kiss on it. The two of you began to eat the coarse. A silence falling over the hall. Daemon couldn’t keep his eyes from you. Constantly smiling your way and winking whenever you caught his gaze. It was rather sweet of him. Seeing how full of love he was gazing your way.

Halfway through diner busted the doors open. Daemon quirked his eyebrow up watching one of the guards whisper something to another one standing close by the door. You furrowed your brows seeing him clear his throat and let the guard pass. – “Prince Daemon.” – the guard addressed coming closer to the table. He bowed deep to him. – “Princess Y/n.” – he then said bowing to you. – “Speak. Out with it.” – Daemon answered slightly annoyed.

The guard gestured with his hand at the letter he was holding. Daemon dropped his fork with a loud sigh. Signaling the guard over. The guard walked around the table to him. – “A letter from…” – the guard spoke unable to finish his sentence as Daemon had snatched the letter away. He then waved the guard away. Daemon noticed the seal sighing loud.

He placed the letter aside making you frown. – “Are you not opening it?” – you asked curious. Daemon cut his meat rather aggressively. – “I already know what they ask.” – he muttered out, taking a bite. – “May I?” – you asked. Daemon nodded allowing you to open his letter. You noticed the seal, but not recognizing it immediately. Cracking it open, you unfolded the letter. Reading quickly whilst your husband kept eating.

“You are being summoned to war?” – you stated lowering the letter. Daemon scoffed. – “The bastard’s can’t manage without me.” – he mocked with a taunting chuckle. – “I rather not go…” – he said looking over to you. – “I’d rather stay here with you.” – he took your hand bringing it closer to him over the table. You placed your hand on top of his. Daemon looked briefly up to the ceiling. – “But I have no choice. If those cunts want to win the war, they’ll need me.” – he laughed.

Daemon and you finished your meal, heading to your quarters afterwards. You sat on the bed watching Daemon pack some essentials. – “I hope to burn those bastards quickly so I can return back to you ñuha jorrāelagon.” – he spoke looking over his shoulder to you. You took a deep breath, knowing how long these kind of wars could take. – “Just come back home safely.” – you told him.

It could at least take months, even years for a war to die out. All that time without your husband. It would be a change even for him. – “Daemon…” – you started feeling a bit nervous to out it. He hummed loud continue to pack. You took a deep breath, fidgeting with your fingers.

“If… if in your time away… you… you crave other women I would not blame you. I understand a man has his desires.” – you told him. Growing up you were always told that you were expected to know that your husband would cheat. It was such a common aspect among the royals, you just had to accept it. Daemon stopped, his eyes widening. – “What did you just say?” – he asked slightly in shock.

“That… that I wouldn’t hold it against you if you desire other women. It is what all husbands do… is it not?” – you suddenly questioned your own beliefs from his response. Daemon dropped whatever he was holding, walking over to you. He came standing before you, cupping your cheeks. – “ñuha jorrāelagon iksā ñuha mērī mēre.” – he spoke making you tilt your head confusingly.

Daemon tilted your head forwards to kiss it. – “You are my only one.” – he repeated in a common tongue for you to understand. – “I do not crave any other women. I only crave you!” – he spoke, placing a kiss against your cheek. – “I am quite offended you assumed.” – he went on. You swallowed looking ashamed down.

“It is what everyone around told me. That I should accept cheating from my husband as it is what every man does.” – you told him. – “Not this man… not me… for you are my dying breath. My fire, my desires. Y/n my love I only burn for you.” – You smiled upon hearing those words. He tilted your head back, pressing his lips tenderly on yours.

------------------------------------------

Read more of my fics on my Masterlists!  

[its-actually-minicika]

Imagine 03 (18+)

A shaky hand went to his aching cock. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down in quiet surrender. The heat waves of immediate pleasure sent a shiver down his lithe spine, and droplets of precum pooled at the base of his shaft, coating his veiny hands and running over his whitened knuckles.

Aemond's eye was closed in utter concentration - he focused desperately on the task at hand, on the image that was forming behind his clasped eyelid.

You.

Oh, how he throbbed for you. How he needed you.

The things he would do to feel your skin against his. The thoughts he beared for you - sinful enough to make even the least pious of Septas writhe and beg for forgiveness through tear-stained cheeks.

As his hips began moving in unison with his leisure pumps, the man let out a low growl, and he slowly arched his back off the satin of the ruined sheets.

"Fuuuck..." He sighed into the peaceful night, and soon found himself speeding up his ministrations.

He was close. Oh so close to his fourth release of the night - but no matter how much he teased his stones, or brushed his thumb over his weeping slit, the momentary relief just wouldn't heed his call.

"Hobaenka issa... hobaenka nopāzma." He cursed under a strained breath, as he slowly rose onto his forearm, to properly fuck his hand.

"Qrugh... Nyke jorrāelagon naejot māzigon sīr quba..."

A frustrated sigh parted from his swollen lips.

This simply wouldn’t do. Not anymore.

By the Gods, he needed you.

He needed you, but he wouldn't dare have you. At the very least, not yet.

You were a vision of the Maiden, a Lady pure, and good, and kind.

He would be proper and thoughtful about it. He would marry you. And fuck you. And breed you. And mark you.

He would take his time with you. Be balls deep inside of you. Fuck you gently, or make love to you roughly - in whichever way you wanted, you needed, you pleaded.

Indeed, he would be yours to command. And he would dedicate himself to learning all the intricate ways to please you. Make you come on his tongue, tens of times before he'd even think to tease you.

He would teach you how to make him happy. He would teach you how to ride and suck him.

The Targaryen Prince couldn’t tell what posessed him to get up from the comfort of his bed, and venture into the empty lanes of the Street of Silk.

Neither could he tell what sparked his interest towards the rear-end brothel - a brothel he knew his sorry brother and uncle eagerly frequented, as well.

He just prayed and hoped he wouldn't bump into neither one of the two on that cursed night.

The figure of a plump woman rested at the hilt of the oak door - the debaucherous sounds of slick and flesh that slapped against each other rang from the other end of the Pleasure House back to his tainted ears.

Tens of whores flocked to him, baited on by his silver locks of hair - the gratuitous allure to the heavy pockets they grew so accoustomed to.

A new line of girls was formed and dismissed each minute. For Aemond Targaryen had his own paculiar tastes.

The first to go were the women who failed to possess a similar hair and eye colour to yours. Swifty followed the ones who were too tall, too lean, too stubby.

None of them were good enough. None of them were you.

The owner's patience was wearing thin, as was his very own. Perhaps coming down here was a mistake. Perhaps he'd find better release with the aid of his right hand.

And just as he was ready to depart from the dismal scene, the sound of giggles flooded the entire room.

Could it be...?

But it wasn't.

And yet...

The sight of his uncle ought to have vexed him. Embarrass him to no end, given the position he'd been viciously caught in - yet long gone were the dutiful son, the responsible Prince, and the honorable man within him.

In the stead of cowering away and leaving the brothel in a hurried conflict, Aemond's eye trailed over Daemon's whore, drinking in her every feature. A rumbled moan etched its way from his tightened throat.

Her skin bared your complexion. Her eyes held in the very same shade of luring pigment. Her hair, despite being of a lighter colour, fell perfectly over her shoulders - much like your own used to when you let it down during the cold winters.

Before he knows it, Daemon's hand wraps itself around his shoulder.

He wordlessly allows it.

"Beautiful, isn't she?" The Prince's voice erupts in a low purr. "It's unbelievalbe how much she looks like her."

His uncle plays with her loose strands of hair, and sends her his nephew's way through the musings of a laugh and rough spank on her rear end.

Aemond wouldn’t sheathe his cock within her. He needs not use what thousands have used before him - and his seed should take only in you.

Her mouth and warmth are enough to satisfy him. Aemond cums with your name upon his lips; shouted so hopelessly, that the whole of Westeros would hear him.

He pays her handsomely for her service - and swears to never step foot inside that wretched place again.

But it is far too late.

For the rumours spread and quicken.

He finds that your tourmenting eyes never rest over his face again. You make yourself scarce, unseen. He sees it in the way you huff your breaths out, in the way your pale cheeks redden - you know. And you are disgusted with him.

He seizes you once, in a secluded corner of the Red Keep. He tries to explain - deny - all that you might have heard from the gossips of the Court. But you purse your lips together and sway your weight from one foot to the next.

Defiantly, you avert his gaze.

Scared, you make your way around him.

And when you must find reclusion from him, it is Daemon who offers you sanctuary. It is his arms that snake around you, his hands that caress your cheeks. It is his voice that whispers inside your ear. It is the Lord of Fleabottom who poisions you against his will.

Translations of High Valyrian:

"Hobaenka issa... hobaenka nopāzma." = Fuck me... fucking hell.

"Qrugh... Nyke jorrāelagon naejot māzigon sīr quba..." = Shit... I need to cum so badly...

[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

Lord Flea Bottom's Heir: A Silver Dragon Story

Word Count: 1334

Story Summary: Daemon had expected to be welcomed with the news of his wife's demise when he returned to King's Landing. Instead, he is greeted with the decidedly unwelcome news that the Bitch was to give him an heir. His plans to finally take Rhaenyra to wife thoroughly dashed, he leaves the Red Keep behind to wallow in his own domain: Flea Bottom.

Ignored by her father, and alone following the death of her mother, she is raised in King’s Landing alongside her cousin, Prince Aemond Targaryen. As they grow, the two find themselves indelibly bonded. But their lives are far from the fairy tales they read, and as tensions in the family rise, they find their paths may diverge.

Will they be pulled apart when the dragons dance?

This is a spin-off POV from my main Aemond/OC story, The Silver Dragon. But it can be read as a one-off, standalone look into Daemon's mind.

Warnings: Allusions to rape. Daemon being a dick.

Author's Note: Oof, it was hard to write such mean things about Rhea. Forgive me!

Series Masterlist

Lord Flea Bottom's Heir

The stench of Flea Bottom was invigorating. The competing smells of ale and wine and sweat and sex sent a thrill through his blood. Even the reek of tallow candles and vomit in the streets was as comforting to him as the smell of a warm fire and a hearty meal was to most. It made him want to drink until he finally felt full, fight until there was no more blood to spill, and fuck until there were no virgins left in all of King’s Landing.

It was, after all, his domain. He was Daemon Targaryen, Lord Flea Bottom.

So why could he not get his ass out of this godsdamned chair?

He had sat down over an hour ago and had yet to finish even his first pint of ale. The gold cloaks he had brought along with him – only the handful that remained that hadn’t been corrupted with “righteousness and honor” by their insufferable new Lord Commander Strong – had already provoked various brawls, but none tempted him enough to join. And while several lovely whores had come his way, he had turned them all down.

Daemon couldn’t get his mind off his Bronze Bitch.

He would never get hard so long as she was in his head.

She had sapped him of his desire to drink, as well. There was no telling where his mind may go should he let himself get drunk while thinking of her.

And though he would like nothing more than to pummel the next person to look at him wrong into the ground, he couldn’t.

The last time he had tried to break someone – to break her – he had failed spectacularly.

It was supposed to be quick and easy. He would fly to the Vale one last time, when he was sure she would be alone, and rid himself of the bronze shackles of his marriage. Finally, he would be free to take the wife he truly wanted. The wife he deserved.

But then the fucking horse hadn’t done the job. There was no reason why not; it was an obscenely large beast. It had certainly made quite the meal for Caraxes.

He had been content to let her die where she lay. To allow the elements of her beloved Vale to take her. Her boring, soggy, primitive, sheep-ridden Vale.

Gods, what an agonizingly dull place. He had only lasted weeks in her pitiful excuse for a castle before he went out of his mind with boredom. The Bitch had been smart enough to give him leave to do as he wished.

She hadn’t been smart enough to keep her mouth shut, however.

“I knew you couldn’t finish.”

A Bitch indeed.

He had run hot enough with anger that he’d gotten hard, a feat he never thought to accomplish when faced with his wife.

That had been the greatest disappointment when they finally met on their wedding day. She was old and ugly. At least ten years older than him – he’d never bothered to find out exactly.

Her many hours spent in what little sun appeared in the Vale had aged her prematurely, so her painfully plain face was tanned and rough, and bore many lines. Her dull gray eyes were too far apart and framed by thick, bush brows, her lips too small, and her nose pointed up like a pig’s. Even her hair was unappealing. As bushy as sheep’s wool and the color of burnt wood.

In short, she was precisely what a virile young man of twenty, a Prince of the Realm and the Blood of the Dragon, did not want for a wife. And yet, he was stuck with her.

He still was.

Dropping her off at her pathetic keep was supposed to be the final insult. To paint the “Warrior Lady of Runestone” as no more than a damsel in distress. So that in her last hours, she could wallow in the knowledge that she would only be remembered as the poor girl rescued by the Prince.

But she hadn’t. Fucking. Died.

Maybe there was some magic in those stupid little Runes.

And still, that wasn’t the worst of it.

He was supposed to be free, and now, he had never been more shackled to the cunt.

“I hear congratulations are in order, my Prince,” Mysaria’s accent was perhaps the most gentle thing in Flea Bottom. But today, it grated in Daemon’s ears.

He took a great gulp of his ale. Bitter, but bracing. “Condolences would be better appreciated.”

Mysaria took the seat across from him. She had continued to do well for herself, judging by her clothes. Only the most influential whores showed that little skin. “As I recall, you were once quite eager to have children of your own. Heirs to strengthen your claim.”

“Heirs, yes,” Daemon conceded. “Bitch-spawn, not so much.”

“I see,” she smiled politely, but he could tell his words bothered her. For a woman who assured her own barrenness, she was quite protective of children. “So, you are not here to steal another egg, then.”

“No. If she doesn’t die before the runt is born, it can claim a dragon for itself – if it’s worthy of it, which I doubt.” He chuckled as a dark thought entered his mind, the kind he could only voice here in his vile little kingdom. “Sheepstealer may be a good fit. Though for a child of the Vale, ‘Sheepfucker’ would be a more apt name.”

Mysaria did not laugh with him.

“Oh, come on,” he sighed. “That was funny.”

She only frowned. “No matter your opinion of the mother, this child will still be yours. Your family, Daemon.”

He scoffed, turning away from her. But she did not relent.

“You have always been so careful not to leave bastards in your wake,” she insisted. “Yet now that you have the chance of a trueborn heir, you have no interest. I know you better than perhaps anyone, my Prince. But I do not understand this.”

Daemon scowled, his brow forming a hard line over his violet eyes.

“Whatever this child is, it’s worse than a bastard. Because it’s hers, and I hate her. I don’t want to live my life being forced to look at whatever crawls out of her wretched cunt. I don’t care if it is the very image of me – of a trueborn Targaryen. Because it will be, and will always be hers.”

He leaned forward, close enough that even the White Worm showed a glimmer of fear. “I have spent nine years of my life chained by my ‘marriage’ to that Bronze Bitch. The very worst thing I can imagine is having to live the rest of my life tied to her because my seed somehow found purchase in the arid desert of her womb.”

Even after all the years he had spent with her, he could not tell whether it was pity or disdain that now sparkled in Mysaria’s eyes. Perhaps both.

She stood and refilled his mug. “If she makes it through the pregnancy, she will not survive the birth.” When he raised an eyebrow in question, she clarified. “I have heard vivid accounts of her wounds. Tell me, was that you or Caraxes?”

“Bit of both, I suspect,” he snickered. “It is dangerous to ride a dragon without being properly strapped to the saddle. I must have forgotten.”

“I have only one last question.”

He gestured for her to go on. However personal and maddening this had gotten, it was at least mildly entertaining. A vent for his frustrations.

“Why give her your seed? Even to humiliate her, why take that risk? Why not just kill her?”

Silence fell in their little corner of the brothel.

“That was three questions.”

“Yes, but I seek only one answer.”

Daemon’s eyes grew ever dark. It was a darkness only a Targaryen with dragonfire in his blood could muster. The darkness that had made Visenya and Maegor, and many of his ancestors before, so fearsome.

“She mocked me.”

[darlingofvalyria]

new masterlist means a new fic is dropping soon 😽

that's actually not accurate, i just finished off this daemon piece and thought ya'll might like a sneak peek hehe

this is specifically for the fun besties inn bastards of blue who had a fun time with the little daemon cameo ahahah!!

this is set in the same world as hightower green but in an au— au inside of an au, we're au-ceptioning, besties — and i don't think i've laughed this much at what i've written. not in a funny haha! kind of a way, but in a wtf am i doing kind of way ahahah!!

anyways, yep, dropping tonight before bed, god i'm so productive ya'll idek who i am anymore

its cos im not going to be able to write this weekend lol

[em-writes-stuff-sometimes]

gevivys (beauty) │ Chapter 6: Fury

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: Daemon returns to King's Landing after ten years in exile, intent on rekindling his affair with Rhaenyra. He wasn't expecting you - the revelation changes everything.

Hello, everyone! I know, I know - yeeting these out, aren’t I? A small change of plans, in that this one is the OG Chapter 4 split in half; I’m THIS close to having Chapter 7 done, too, and after that, it’s minor edits to the existing work. I’ve done the major reworking for this instalment, so yaaaaay! Only gotta rephrase/add slight things to upcoming chapters to make it all round out cohesively. As always, thanks to my slap daddy @ewanmitchellcrumbs​ for reassuring me that this makes sense! YAY!

TRIGGERS: incest, purity culture, violence, age gap, dubious consent.

Luring you in is easier said than done.

He finds you when and where he can, your seemingly untraceable movements easily resolved through quick conversation with Harrold Westerling, the Lord Commander himself. A stolid, serious man, he’d taken little issue to his prince’s request, providing Cole’s whereabouts with an ease that speaks to the white cloak’s acclimatisation to your routine. He does not particularly enjoy searching you out by means of the stormlander knight, but needs must.

Daemon does it all, too. He spends what time he is able in your company, taking care not to press his suit too forcefully and scare you off; he regales you with tales of his nobler deeds and escorts you to meals with your family; he unearths his old stockpiles of accrued riches and selects the few among them he thinks you might like; he plies you with adulation and declares you to be the fairest maiden in all the known world, the envy of every creature fortunate enough to lay eyes upon you. He gives this endeavour all the effort he possesses, more so than any past conquest, for you are infinitely more valuable than some cheap fuck, and he is so sure that you will receive his attentions with a sweet smile and a ready spirit, all too willing to take the hand he is silently offering with every look and every word, urging you to accept him and—

And nothing. It drives him mad. So distracted is he that he begins to draw further and further away from his old associates, declining their entreaties wherever he might. The most recent occasion had left a rather sour taste in his mouth.

“Come on, man! Where is your head tonight?” Dargood asks, leaning across one of his many acquaintances to yell over the din. “You’ve not said a word all evening!”

Daemon lifts the tankard and takes a lengthy draught. “Ah—perhaps you bore me, then.” A wan smile curves as their gathered companions roar with laughter.

Truthfully, he’s been avoiding the lot of them. They desire little else than to drink and fight and fuck. While his taste for such pastimes hasn’t exactly waned, his enthusiasm has taken a great blow. He can only presume it has something to do with you, blasted tempting girl you are. Each time he resigns himself to one of these outings—each time he must playact at interest in the whores Dargood parades before him in yet another reputed establishment—all he sees in his mind’s eye is your face, wounded disappointment clouding your beauty and transforming it into something haunted and sorrowful.

Kettleblack snorts. “Of course he’s bored, what with his Delight waiting for him in the keep! Probably wishing he was back in her right now!”

“Or is it his Delight in that shithole that he’s craving?” Hollard asks. The reminder of the whore—of that embarrassingly public affair in which he’d shouted your name in a fucking brothel, of all places—churns in Daemon’s gut.

He looks suspiciously towards Dargood, who shrugs innocently. Dargood had been the only one to pay attention as the whore had led him away and up the stairs; and, when he’d lurched from that shabby chamber after spilling himself like a green boy, he’d come across the other man loitering in the hall outside, expression alight as though he’d just learned some great secret.

He’d have to impress the importance of silence upon his longtime comrade a little more forcefully, it seems.

“Whatever will he do—two silver-haired lasses ready to spread their legs for him?” One of the men whose name he cannot recall grins, revealing his missing front teeth in all their hideous glory. Eyes glittering meanly, he adds, “Who has the time?”

Daemon dislikes the turn in conversation. “Now, now, lads,” he says with a conceited sneer, though his heart isn’t in it. “It’s poor form to tell tales of the royal bedchamber. Or one’s exploits in them.”

“Lucky bastard!”

He levels a look at this unknown. “I assure you, my mother and father were wed.” The manner in which he emphasises it, with a raise of the brow to accentuate, leaves no man unaware of his intent.

“Oi!” he exclaims, indignant even as the others guffaw. “What exactly are you suggesting?”

“Nothing at all. Only, they say bastards have a certain”—here, Daemon pauses and lets his gaze travel assessingly over his form, settling back with a smirk after completing his observation—“ look about them.”

Uproarious mirth follows his pronouncement, though it did not nearly warrant the volume with which the varied cackles and chortles now ring in his ears.

Hollard slaps his back, guffawing all the while. “Stop terrorising him, my prince! He’s wroth enough as it is, what with you getting to tumble two Valyrian whores!”

“One cost me a single silver.” Daemon waves him off drolly. “You’re welcome to her. The other”—he thinks of Rhaenyra’s penchant for glittering jewels with a snide sort of affection—“well, you cannot afford her.”

“Tell you who I’d like to have a go with, eh,” Kettleblack slurs, having been in his cups for far longer than the gathering had taken place. “Our People’s Princess.” Daemon’s chest tightens at the mention of you. “Reckon she’d be a first-rate fuck, don’t you?”

“Mm.” Dargood smacks his lips after slamming his tankard back on the table, an unreadable stare trained upon his prince. “She’s a shy little thing, isn’t she? Thought the confident ones were your type.”

“If there’s a cunt between its legs, it’s my type.” This ignites a wave of jeers and more than one crass comment about whether or not he’s taken up horse-fucking. “Oh, fuck off!” Kettleblack says irritably. “Not what I meant. Besides, she’s a looker. None of you would refuse, surely! Can you imagine? The sound of her—”

He’s speaking before he even realises. “That’s enough.”

The harshness in his voice spurs them all to an abrupt silence.

Daemon had left not long after, unable to stomach spending longer than he had to their presence. Their ribald banter was by no means the most vulgar it had ever been—in fact, it was positively tame in comparison to some of the sentiments expressed in past encounters—but hearing them discuss you so crudely made him uncomfortably aware of how tasteless many of his own thoughts of you had been.

After this disturbing epiphany, he seeks distraction by throwing himself ever more into the task of winning you over, only to be thwarted at every turn.

His flattery is for naught. Your lips curve up shyly when you look at him, but so too does this occur when any other compliments you. You absorb yourself in his stories, probing where you will and exclaiming in pretty ahs of girlish fascination, but so too does this happen when your half-sister natters on about her own day to your keen ear. You accept his gifts with earnest solemnity, clutching them to you as a child with a prized doll, but so too do you hold tight the flowers young Jacaerys presents to you after a morn spent in the sun.

Ever agreeable, ever kind, ever polite you are to his overtures—but you do not warm to him in the way he expected you to. The way he wishes you would. In truth, he isn’t entirely sure you are even aware of his motives, for you do not regard him with the same hesitance you do the Tyrell lord or Lannister or your idiot brother. Is that a terrible thing? he wonders. It is not as though you particularly like any of them. Nonetheless, he remains, frustratingly, your uncle and nothing more.

This is partly his own fault, he knows. The court had once had its pleasure in the scandal wrought by Daemon’s calculated seduction of Rhaenyra, obvious to all but the king himself—and what had resulted? His banishment, her ruination, his years in exile and her marriage free of passion. No such occurrence is to be the conclusion of this attempt. Thus, he is resigned to stepping out from the shadows, conducting his business in the safe light of day. Never once does he dare to hint at anything less than what is proper in the presence of others—and never once does he dare meet with you alone. There can be no errors this time.

As such, his suit remains overlooked. He can do nothing else but persist, waiting for you to finally realise his intentions.

How tedious it is to lower himself to such a competition with no real opponent! He is the only one worthy of your pedigree, a man of high enough birth that you would not be ridiculed by wedding below your station. A man who could ensure you kept your familiar life in King’s Landing with your family, who could garb you in the finest velvets and silks and jewels this side of the Narrow Sea, who could give you trueborn Targaryen children worthy of your royal womb.

And yet, strangely, wooing you excites him. For all his many pursuits and passions, he had never once played the role of valiant suitor, and the sight of your pleased face as he offers you presents or walks you around your garden in amiable conversation tugs at a long-buried part of his soul. He wants to be your hero, wants you to worship him. In the bedchamber, yes, but also on his arm for all to see, to know that he has won your affections as assuredly as he has won your hand.

It is this that goads him to seek you out today.

You had welcomed his presence in the dank library, the scent of stale leather and rotting parchment permeating the echoing space. It’s fucking cold, too, in a tower so high up in the Red Keep he can swear the air feels thinner. You’d pulled out your winter furs, draping them over your shoulders to stave off the chill, and he’d noted with amusement that you’d done the same to your guard. Ser Crispin is fetchingly shrouded in flaxen hide, complementing his armour rather stunningly. His attempts to get a rise from the man at this had failed, with the cunt obstinately refusing to acknowledge his existence.

“Finnaan anha ezak sewafikh,” you say, grinning at the dubious twist of his lips. He has come to find that, for all your solemnity, it is easy to amuse you. “Go on, kepus—try.”

“Finnaan… anha—ezak swafeek.” He grimaces at the words as they leave his mouth. The flavour feels distinctly wrong.

“Seh—wa—fikh.” You correct him gently, nodding at him to try again.

Your Ser Lysan Marios is in the corner of the room, chin to chest as he snores in the only comfortable chair in the room. He truly is an old man. With dark skin and white hair, Daemon has never seen a person with so many lines on their face, looking more like the craggy hills of his dead bronze bitch’s prized Runestone than actual human flesh. A man of acuity and hilarity, it is no wonder you enjoy his company.

“It is best to let him rest,” you had said as the man’s lids had drooped and his head had lowered forward, slumping in his seat. “He has been unwell lately—I worry for him.”

You had since obliged with his entreaties to teach him some phrases in Dothraki. It is a hard-won process. His jaw and tongue are unused to situating themselves for throaty dialogue, being far too used to the lyrical fullness of his ancestral native speech, but it is entirely worth it to watch your sweet face light up.

“Sewafikh,” he says. 

You gasp excitedly, wiggling in your seat. “The whole thing!”

“Finnaan anha ezak sewafikh,” he says, smirking at you when you clap. He can’t help but find you endearing in your joy, eyes shining and smiling bright. “Now, little girl—what have you just made me say?”

“I thought you would find this phrase most useful.” You grin impishly. He narrows his eyes at you.

“And this useful phrase is?” His brow quirks.

You’re already giggling. “You can now ask ‘where can I find the wine?’ should you discover yourself surrounded by a khalasar.”

A startled guffaw bursts from him at your cheek. You are a surprisingly witty little thing, and he has found himself more and more charmed with each hour he spends in your presence. A consummate royal youth, you are exceedingly well-versed in the politics of social niceties, navigating your exchanges so expediently that he has learned he must actively work to keep up.

“Impudent brat.” He chuckles, eyeing you as you catch your breath and making a list of all the parts of you he intends to get his hands on when you are his. 

Curls of silver bundled into a braided coiffure, strands threatening to escape—and he finds this more and more apt a metaphor for your character, a timid little bird just waiting to be set forth from its cage. The damnable temptation of your throat thankfully encircled with the abundance of precious stones forming the Valyrian steel necklace he had gifted you some days prior, a welcome respite from being besieged by the involuntary seduction of pale skin. Voluptuous waist and widened hips in perfect shape for his hands to span. Rounded cheeks and pouty pucker and dewy-eyed gaze…

You are a maiden strumpet waiting for her first lesson in the art of carnality. He is determined to be your instructor in this. Your only instructor.

“Here,” Daemon murmurs, withdrawing the reason for his visit from under his chair. He leans forward and places the item upon the desk before you.

You had paid little attention to the wooden case tucked under his right arm as he sauntered in, instead keeping your eyes fixed upon his as you uttered a courteous greeting, mildly perplexed as you always are when he seeks you out. He watches you as you open the chest now and lift out the carving inside, the same size as the little book before you. Your small hands turn the object curiously as you ogle the fine details of the gift, a soft little gasp of wonder escaping bow-lips.

You glance back at him. “Is this Caraxes and Athfiezar?” you ask softly.

He nods.

It had not taken long to realise your partiality lay less along the lines of ostentation and more meaningful simplicity. He’d only need to recall your lacklustre enthusiasm for Jason Lannister’s lion pendant to form such a notion. (Though, it may very well be that the gift had come from Lannister that had inspired such indifference, he thinks amusedly.) He had solicited the services of a common toymaker entirely by accident, having taken notice of the man’s goods during a nightly stroll through the city. 

Daemon had been absent-mindedly making his way back from that eve of tension with Dargood and his crooked companions, only to find that his feet had taken him entirely past the route to the keep. Instead, he’d moved north along the kingsroad to Cobbler’s Square, idly observing the shopkeepers flog their wares along the street. One look at the stall upon which were arranged brightly-coloured carvings—an array of lions and horses and dragons, of knights and ladies and kings in an assortment of sizes, shapes and poses—and he had known that the skill of the man would be something you’d enjoy, honest and artful. The peasant had been overawed when met with a request from the Prince of the City, eagerly accepting the task of producing a miniature replica of your dragons.

The man really had spared no detail, he muses as he surveys your inspection of the sculpture. It is truly a fine piece, carefully depicting his crimson mount snarling and wound around the central figure of your own reptilian steed. They are posed as though they are about to take flight. From the whittled minutiae to the meticulously applied paints, it is a worthy representation of the pair. He would have to make further commissions of him.

“It is beautiful, Uncle,” you breathe, running the tips of your fingers over the hewn surface in concealed awe. You are careful not to disturb the layers of colour affixed to the wood. “I love it. But you should not have bought me anything”—you look back up at him with a frown as your hand lightly reaches up to touch his previous gift fastened at your nape—“for you have already given me something very valuable.”

(“I will treasure it,” you had said, stunned wonder muted by the veil of decorum. He has yet to see you without it. He likes to view it as almost a brand marking you as his.)

Cole is glaring at him from the entry to the library. Daemon sneers, lip twitching in smug enjoyment as the man looks away.

“Why ever not? I was thinking of you,” he asks gently, reprovingly. If I push too hard, she will withdraw. “I enjoy giving you things. Allow your old uncle to indulge, sweet girl.”

You smile unbidden, a flush blooming on the tip of your nose.

“You are not old, kepus,” you whisper, refusing to look at him, and a thrill tingles at the top of his spine at your receptiveness.

He is about to respond when there is a knock upon the door. It reverberates through the room, the bare stone floors serving to propel the noise around. Cole opens it to reveal the mousy form of a servant girl, the plain red linen of her dress and the cream caul adorning her head denoting her as one of the royal staff members. She colours as she notices his presence, quickly glancing away.

“Forgive me, princess,” she says, bobbing a curtsey to you and lowering her head, “but the Lord Tyrell is awaiting your presence.”

He seethes internally as you resignedly stow away his gift, giving it a final caress before latching the box closed. Fucking Denys. He’ll be damned if you dare entertain the notion of wedding that flowery cunt, all too eager to bend over for the Hightowers as he is.

“I’ll escort you, niece,” he chooses to say, solicitously stowing the chest under his arm once more as he heads off your weak protestations. He walks around the desk to offer his arm to you.

“I think you’ll find that I will be escorting her, my prince,” Cole says stiffly, striding forward several paces. The knight stops when you turn to face him.

“Actually, Ser Criston—could you ensure that Ser Lysan makes it safely back to his chambers?” You beseech him quietly, and from the look of the man, he has no doubt you are gazing up at him with wide, imploring eyes. It is entirely too winsome an expression on you, and he deliberates whether there is a being alive or otherwise who could resist the power of your pleading. “I would hate to awaken him, and my uncle can surely manage to escort me to my sister’s solar to meet with Lord Denys.”

The fastidious man insisted on meeting you for tea, of all things. Fucking ridiculous. Loath to leave you to contend with the obnoxiousness of his presence alone, Rhaenyra had insisted on playing host to the courting. Needless to say, the food and drink were to be the best part of the event each time he paid a visit to you.

Cole nods yieldingly as you thank him, sighing a defeat as he steps back and allows you to pass with Daemon.

Your hand is firmly wrapped underneath his arm, grip tight. The journey is quiet, and he notes that you have retreated into yourself once more. Though he hates to see you unhappy, he cannot deny how well it bodes for him that you are.

“Chin up, sweetling,” he whispers conspiratorially to you as you approach the Princess of Dragonstone’s solar—the room adjoining the chambers of the royal heir to the right—and stop.

You smile weakly at his attempt to cheer you, though it does not reach your eyes, as he knocks on the door for you. Rhaenyra appears in the opening, her countenance morphing into perplexity at the sight of you and Daemon. It is clear she had been expecting Cole instead.

“Uncle,” she says with a wrinkle of confusion. “I didn’t think—why are you here?”

Her gaze shifts between you and him, noting the grip of your hand upon his arm and the manner in which he is angled toward you.

“Cole’s been tasked with an obligation by our princess,” he replies, and it is a breath of fresh air to be able to look her in the eye and feel nothing but affection and the throb of old guilt and hurt. The desire has finally worn itself out, though the memory of it still lingers. He supposes you may have had something to do with that. “I felt it best to accompany her to your rooms myself.”

Rhaenyra nods, brow raised and mouth pressed in a thin line as she opens the door wide to let you both in. You whisper a small thank-you to him as you slip away from him, politely moving forward for the visitor to make his introductions to you.

Denys Tyrell is surely the most repulsive man to grace Westeros, Daemon thinks disfavourably.

The man stands aimlessly in the centre of the room, appearing to be idly examining the tapestries depicting the Targaryen Conquest adorning the walls. A stout, rotund lad, he is encased in a garish, ill-fitting doublet of pale sky brocade with gold flowers, straining mightily at the buttons. His features are diminutive among ruddy flesh, save for the huge, meticulously groomed moustache decorating his upper lip. The son of the late Lord Matthos, he is probably one of the few suitors close enough in age to you to bond with over the delight of being young.

And yet, he is still not good enough for you.

“Princess.” He bows dramatically, a ridiculous flourish of the hand punctuating the finish.

Daemon has to restrain the urge to scoff at the fawning grandiosity of the gesture. He observes with half-hearted intrigue as the lad’s eyes flick to him and his lip curls in an abortive sneer before quickly returning to you. Another one of his ‘supporters’, he expects.

You politely tip your head and engage in small talk, asking after the quality of his lodgings and the welfare of his family in a manner that suggests you have gotten this routine perfected over the course of these meetings. He wants to roll his eyes as the man brightens, loudly beginning to chatter his poor niece’s ear off.

“Daemon,” Rhaenyra hisses from next to him.

Glancing over at her, he sees she has a forbidding look upon her face as she jerks her head towards the open door. Bemused, he follows her out of the room, casting a brief look back at you as you engage in conversation with your suitor. Flowery cunt.

Rhaenyra shuts the door quietly before rounding on him in the middle of the hallway.

“What in the name of the Seven are you doing, Daemon?” she asks, looking around quickly for any loiterers. The corridor is silent.

“Can I not walk with my own niece now, Rhaenyra? You really must apprise me of the new laws. I wasn’t aware that it was now a crime to chaperone my own blood—”

“Oh, do shut the fuck up.” She scoffs, waving her hand toward the closed door. “Finding her all over the keep? Staring at her constantly? The gifts? The flattery?” She steps forward threateningly, though her womanly disposition and her lack of height serve to diminish the effect. “She has told me all about it—I know what this is.”

He smirks down at her, arms crossing. “And what do you think this is, then?”

Her hand clenches into a fist. He wonders, entertained, if she would dare to hit him. “Do not play the fool, Uncle. It doesn’t suit you. I will not let you spoil my sister the way you did me.”

He scoffs. “As I recall, princess, I took no part in your spoiling.” He is callously satisfied by her spreading flush at the imputation of his words.

Oh, yes. I know about Cole.

He continues, timbre colouring with aggravation. “And I have no intention of ruining her.” Well, not yet—not until the wedding night. “Why does everyone in this fucking city always assume the worst of me?”

“Because that is what you do!”

She has escalated to a near yell now, whipping around in her frustration, the end of her braid lashing across his chest with a thump as she moves away. When she turns around, her eyes are bright with the gradual swell of moisture.

“You pick a target, lay them thick with pretty words and affection, and then cast them away when you have grown bored. You do it with Father, with your lickspittles and your precious City Watch, with your whores and your women… You did it to me, and now you are going after my sister—”

It infuriates him to hear her slander his character so thoroughly, for all that it is true. Perhaps it is this fact that upsets him more.

“Is that jealousy I hear?” he asks cruelly, turning the attack upon her. He presses forward, allowing the fury to infuse his step, his words, his countenance. “Such a bitter shrew you’ve become. It’s no wonder I’ve moved on to more enjoyable pastimes. After all, your sweet sister really is exquisite—she’ll make a fine little bride for me.”

He watches with vicious gratification at the unmitigated outrage that overtakes her.

“How dare you—”

Suddenly, the door opens. Lord Tyrell steps into the doorway, lip curled and cheeks red. “I believe this meeting is at an end, princess.”

The man sneers, shoving past him as he exits. Behind him, Daemon can see your distress clearly. You are still in the middle of the solar, wringing your hands and biting your lip, refusing to look at anything other than the floor before you.

Rhaenyra tries to gather herself in affecting a disposition of regal indifference, though the cracks in her façade are clear to see. “You are leaving so soon, my lord? I am sure my sister would so enjoy—”

“I think I understand what the princess… enjoys.” He scrutinises you, then turns to Daemon and looks him over disdainfully. The insinuation is obvious. It is clear that he and Rhaenyra have been quarrelling louder than intended. “And who she enjoys it with. I’ll suffer no harlot as my wife, royal or otherwise.”

How dare he. How fucking…

It is a flagrant offence to one so pure as you. Of all the women in the city, you deserve such affront least of all.

At the sight of tears welling in your eyes—brows drawn, lilac blurred by the tear-sheen collecting on your lashes, “will I ever see you again?”—the familiar, burning fire of rage overtakes him completely, the dam bursting and breaking as he swings his fist directly into the foppish lord’s face.

“How dare you insult the princess’s honour!”

 The bestial part of his nature revels in the satisfaction of feeling the man’s flesh tear under the force of his knuckles as he drags him to the floor, of feeling the grinding frisson of pain in his bones as they collide with the insipid cunt’s nose. The blood spills hot and wet over that ridiculous outfit, over his fists and clothes, spraying over the floor. The lord can only cry out as Daemon rains down punches upon him, seeking to erase the image of the man who’d dared to malign you so. The Rogue Prince thinks he can hear voices, but the sound is muted, muffled, like listening to a scream underwater.

“You stupid piece of shit, how dare you—”

He aims for Denys’s nose, hoping to smash it in entirely, when he is abruptly dragged off the man and forcefully shoved away. He presses forward wildly, attempting to finish his mission, straining against the hold of Breakbones—and by the gods, the Strong boy really lives up to his name, does he not?—until he takes in the sight before him.

He slows as he views the scene. The Tyrell attendants have run in to kneel next to their lord with rags already mopping at the blood oozing from his face, Ser Willas Fell and Ser Rickard Thorne of the Kingsguard stand with hands on pommels, and several servants are looking on with curiosity and fear at the sight before them.

And you. You are enfolded in the arms of Rhaenyra, a look of abject horror on your sweet face. His heart clenches.

—the horror in your expression feels like the edge of a blade carving to his very soul. “But… you promised—”

This is not what he wanted. He has made you fear him, he can see it. He knows you are afraid. How could he? How could he?

“The prince attacked me—this is the gravest of abuses, ser—” cries Lord Denys in response to Ser Rickard’s quiet inquiries, clutching a cloth to his swelling and bloodied eye.

I have to get out of here, he thinks rashly, pulling out of the City Watch commander’s hold and spinning away, stalking out of the hall—

“My prince, you cannot leave while—”

“Daemon, stop—”

“Kepus—”

He runs.

Read on AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/42100623/chapters/121060219

Taglist (😭 thank you!):

Now in the comments!

To be on the taglist:

Click here to apply for the general taglist! Click here to apply for the terms of endearment taglist!

[nyaerys]

Read it, it’s kinda good.

[certifiedskywalker]

Three Weddings and Your Funeral - Daemon Targaryen

Anonymous asked: Hi ilove ur writings so much ur so talented im so happy that ur back again, if ur taking requests could u please write one daemon targaryen with hightower reader or reader having feelings for him but he marries laena and afterwards rhaenyra also with something like betrayal during the dance i know im just rumbling but i trust you would make a masterpiece ur so good with ideas and words thank you.

AN: Thank you so much! Also, this is a great request with so many possibilities! So great, that I ended up writing two fanfictions for our Daemon boy! Keep an eye out for that and enjoy!

Before the Dance of Dragons, there was another waltz. You and Daemon Targaryen were always drifting in and out, always spinning about one another without moving at all; and your dance of stillness stretched from King’s Landing to the beaches of Essos, even the heat of Dragonstone.

“I despise weddings.”

“You despise this wedding,” you corrected.

When you received no quip in response, you looked over. Daemon’s eyes were elsewhere, skewed toward the center of the Throne Room. There, all around really, gold decor clashed with Velaryon sea green and silver, all while bathing the black and blood red of House Targaryen in warm decadence. But you knew that it was the dot of white at the heart of it all on which Daemon was caught. You were caught on him.

“She seems content.”

You leaned forward slightly as you spoke, allowing your gaze to trace the side of his face as he looked out upon the dance. The corner of his mouth was weighed downwards, expression heavy with a fiery sort of melancholia that was uniquely Daemon’s. You had seen it only a handful of times before, namely whenever Viserys banished him from King’s Landing; though, you liked to imagine that part of the heft had to do with how leaving meant leaving you.

“Seems,” Daemon grumbled, head lulling back to face you. When he saw you, his expression softened and you felt your chest tighten at the sight. “And it seems you, yourself are the furthest thing from content.”

He reached out a hand and brushed a stray strand of hair away from where it had fallen against your forehead. It took every small, burning stretch of will that you had to keep from leaning into Daemon’s touch. You stilled yourself against his gentleness and put on a stiff smile.

“Why do you say that?” You straightened your posture to reach for your chalice and Daemon’s hand fell away from your face as you took a long, hearty sip. 

It was then Daemon’s turn to lean in, his voice becoming a whisper that only you could hear. “For if you were in a wedding mood, you would be charming your adoring masses, jorrāelagon.”

He tipped his strong chin to the right and you followed the gesture’s path with your tipsy gaze. The sight that greeted you was a handful of nobles from across the southern sphere of Westeros, all eyeing you, Ladies and Lords alike. When the masses noted your attention, they dropped their cheer and turned in on themselves, whispering just as Daemon had to you. Letting out a sigh through your nose, you leaned into him once more.

“I believe they are adoring my spot beside the Rogue Prince,” you met Daemon’s eyes as his moniker left your lips. You found fire in the brightness that gleamed in his irises and it shot through you like something wild. 

“Well,” he drawled softly, “then their desire is sorely misplaced.”

You watched as Daemon too reached for his chalice and took a swig. With no regard for decorum, he leaned back in his chair and threw an arm out the back of yours. His warmth licked the back of your shoulders, through the thin garments that you hung on your frame to fit in with the surrounding affair. For a moment, you wish that you cared as little as Daemon did, wished that you could recline and decline the reality of custom.

But that wish lasted only for that moment as Daemon turned back to look towards the center of the room, to the white dot, and you saw that you were wrong. His chest heaved with a deep inhale that finished with a shudder, and when he set his chalice back down, his hand immediately curled into a white-knuckled fist. Daemon cared too much.

Just you were about to reach for his hand, in the hopes of melting his anger, of easing whatever ache, the Rogue Prince moved. Your outstretched fingers fell to the carved tabletop as you watched Daemon clamber to his feet. 

“I need more wine,” he mused, craning his neck to the side to give you a smile. “In the name of contentment, of course.”

You could not help the mirrored smile that spread across your lips. “Of course.”

Daemon gave you a wink and set off. You watched him, as much as you could, as he cut through the swirling crowd of clashing color. When you lost sight of him completely, you let your eyes fall back to the table where Daemon’s still half-filled chalice sat. Alarmed by the lingering pool of Arbor Red, you looked back to the crowd, eyeing the gaps between bodies.

The last clear glimpse you caught before retiring for the evening was one of Daemon circling Laena Velaryon, who was a vision in her gown of silver and gold.

You clung to Daemon, your arms wrapped desperately tight around his taut torso and face pressed into the space between his shoulder blades. He smelled of sun, freshly poured wine, and dragon. Though, you blamed Caraxes for the ladder. 

The Blood Wyrm writhed beneath you as he soared against the Narrow Sea. You did not dare to look out across the blue vastness, knowing too well that the sight would send you tilting to and fro. No, you much preferred the dark behind your eyelids. Your stillness also had the benefit of an excuse to be so close to Daemon.

For that alone, some part of you, not knowing fear, wished Caraxes would never land.

Eventually, he did, with his spindly limbs sinking slightly on impact. You jostled, with the front of your body pressing entirely against Daemon’s back. Heat spread to the farthest reaches of your limbs and whipped back to your face where it burned beside embarrassment. Yet, you clung to Daemon still as Caraxes wiggled about. 

You opened your eye a crack and were greeted with the strong slope of the Rogue Prince’s shoulder. Peeking just over that, you saw what was to blame for the dragon’s unusual unsteadiness. Sand.

“Paez sir, Caraxes. Paez, syt īlva jorrāelatan mēre.”

With your closeness, you felt the low rumble of Daemon’s voice as High Valyrian fell from his lips like a song. Or perhaps like a lullaby as Caraxes, hearing it, seemed to set himself into a balance on the shifting sands. He lowered his worm-like body and the sun-soaked ground rushed up toward you with the movement, tricking your senses into a false fall.

Your hands curled into fists, fastening Daemon to you as your body braced for impact.

“Ao sagon ȳgha,” you heard and felt him say, accompanied by one of his hands reaching around to rub your back soothingly. “You’re safe.”

Daemon held you steady until Caraxes settled entirely with the gentlest of thuds. The dragon let out a nasally, high-pitched cry as if to tell his riders to dismount, and, based on how quickly his hand fell away, Daemon was quick to appease his beast. 

“Here, hold here,” you felt his hands guide yours. The skin of his palms was rougher in comparison to yours, with years of battlefield callouses and countless burns. He folded your fingers over something hard and your barely open eyes saw the red, horn-like scale you then held. “You have him?”

You nodded and Daemon huffed, his hands racing up your arms to your face. He cupped your cheeks and tilted your head up so that, even through the sliver of your eyelids, you could see his seriousness. 

“I need to hear you say it.”

His tone had you open your eyes more fully. “I have him.”

Daemon smiled and then, with practiced ease, slipped down off of Caraxes. You saw him, how small he looked standing on the sand from where you were, still sat on his steed. Once he too found balance, Daemon threw his arms up to you. 

“Come now, I have you.”

You were too in your head to call back down. Instead, you focused your efforts on swinging your legs off to one side of Caraxes without letting your hands slip from his bumpy scale. When you finally positioned yourself for your descent, you saw Daemon’s grin widen.

“I have you.”

The tilt of his tone sounded like his smile and you nearly forgot that you were perched upon a fire-breathing beast. Only when you tried to take a step toward Daemon did you remember that fact. Your foot slid along Caraxes' smooth scales until you landed on a protruding bone or some other growth. You had to bite back a yelp at the slip.

“Paez, slow, issa jorrāelagon,” Daemon called up and you shook your head.

“I’m no dragon, I don’t understand.”

“Oh, jorrāelagon, you understand more than you know,” Daemon said, his grin widening. “Now, fall to me.”

Forgetting again and, seeing only Daemon, you fell, really fell. Immediately, you felt his hands, warm and large, on your waist as he guided you to the sand. Your own hands gripped his upper arms as you fought to find balance, and you felt the muscle there, even beneath the thick fabric of his tunic sleeves. Though, when Daemon dropped his touch, you did too.

“I recall you enjoying rides with Caraxes. You’ve grown stiff since it seems.”

“We were both younger then,” you pointed out, releasing a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, “and, yes, less stiff. But one factor in my flying hasn’t changed.”

Daemon raised a silver-blond brow at you. “And that is?”

“You. My flying is always at your behest.”

“Yes, well,” Daemon raised his hands for Caraxes and, like a loyal hound, the dragon turned his snout into his rider’s touch. “I always have good reason. Here, give me your hand.”

“Daemon-”

“Here.” His hand was already on yours, spreading your fingers out to pet Caraxes. Under your palm, you felt his massive, heated breath, like a living flame. If it were not for Daemon’s hand lingering atop yours, you would have stared at the Blood Wyrm in awe. Instead, your eyes were fixed on Daemon, how bright his expression turned, no melancholia in sight, at your appealing to the beast. 

“If I did not know better, I would think you a Targaryen for how Caraxes bends to you.”

In unison, your and Daemon’s hands fell once more as you both turned towards the voice. Walking down from a dune, Laena, still sea green and silver, walked over. Her curls bounced and blew in the breeze, her stride like waves. She was part of the beach, pulled right up from the sea and sand.

“My dear,” Daemon said, moving to meet her while you stalled by Caraxes, who cooed like a saddened pheasant. “I’ve returned with our witness.”

Your brows furrowed at the term, at their tight embrace, how Daemon held her. “Witness?”

Even with a handful of paces between you, you could see Daemon’s smile. It was not bright or breath-catching, but it was there all the same. Just as his arm was there, snug around Laena’s waist, holding her to his side. How far from you Daemon seemed.

Even further when he answered, so painfully simply, “you the witness to our elopement.” 

You thought your legs gave out for a moment like you were falling yet again; but when you reached out to brace yourself, your palm met the bumpy head of Caraxes. He nudged you with his huge red snout and a glint in his amber, serpentine eye reflected the ache that suddenly claimed your chest. Tears sprang from your eyes at the beast’s sympathy, but when you looked back to Daemon and Laena, their worried faces, you smiled through it.

“I’m honored.”

You should have known that accepting an invitation from Daemon Targaryen was a mistake. Seemingly ceaseless years of heeding his call had acquainted you with the subsequent pains of your dutiful answer. Yes. Yes, Daemon, I’ll meet you there.

Once there, Daemon would tear out your heart and skewer its still-beating flesh on the sharpest edge of Dark Sister. So routine this waltz was, that your chest had begun to ache whenever you caught sight of the shining, Valyrian Steel of the ancestral House Targaryen blade. It had started long before you first noticed it, when Daemon dragged you to Princess Rhaenyra’s wedding to Laenor, and had endured in the years after Daemon’s own wedding to Laena. Yet, despite this rife history and your better judgment, you always answered. Yes, Daemon, I’ll meet you there.

“It's been too long since my last visit.”

As the words left your mouth, you cringed at the taste of them. It was the sentimentality of them. How many times had you met him here, on the heated shores of Dragonstone? Apparently, enough times to remember it like a far-off home to grow misty-eyed over. You hated it, this tie, but you loved it too. Such a duality also applied to the very man who had called you back to Dragonstone. 

“It has. The halls have missed you nearly as much as myself,” Daemon said, inky charm dripping from his tongue. His smile loosened any tightening ache in you, in the sore core of your chest. When he extended his hand to help you off the dock, it was as if you never ached at all.

“Dolling out the flattery already? My, I must be in for it.”

The brightness of Daemon’s expression wavered for but a moment, a fall undetectable to the untrained eye. You knew him better than most. 

“Daemon?”

He dropped your hand as soon as your shoes hit the sandy shore. “Let us walk the beach and…talk for a while.”

“Let’s,” you said through slightly gritted teeth. 

Naturally, you fell into step beside Daemon and tread quietly for a few paces. As the noise of the dock grew softer and softer, you grew anxious. With Daemon, silence was like a sin: pervasive and punishable by sharing the hard truth caught in his mouth. His words were like knives sometimes.

When only the sea could be heard, you spoke up. “How are you faring? Your daughters?”

“They are well, well enough to send me ravens about their exploits, their lessons. I am well enough to read them, sometimes enough to write back.”

You nodded, remembering fondly the feel of parchment between your fingers. “Baela sent a raven to me, a fortnight ago now. She asked if I had heard from you after Laena-”

“She has always thought the world of you,” Daemon interrupted. “Whenever I told her how you fly with me on Caraxes, Baela needed to fly with me too, right then, to be like you.”

“She is her father’s daughter, with all that impulse,” you quipped, knocking your shoulder teasingly against Daemon’s. “And all that feeling. She is worried for you, she wrote me so.”

Daemon went quiet then, stalling in the sand as you continued on. You took only two more steps past him before you realized he was caught on your words. When you looked back, Daemon’s eyes were focused downward, brows furrowed in thought maybe. Or feeling.

You took a step back to start the close the distance between you. “Daemon, what are you not telling me? Please, I have not heard from you in months.”

“Feeling. Impulse,” he seemed to spit out the words. “It is all fire, it is all my blood.”

“Daemon,” another step and you were reaching for him. He let your hands fasten about his forearm, pulling it straight against his side. You clutched him, trying to ground him. “Tell me.”

“You have not heard from me for you are one of the few I fear judgment from,” Daemon said at last, his crystalline eyes meeting yours with such a heavy, sad seriousness that his very irises appeared darker. “I do not fear lightly.”

You shook your head, “you have nothing to fear from me.”

Daemon’s fear hand rose up then, as you clung to his other arm. His fingers moved, brushing over the peaks of your face with such delicacy that your nerves abated. As if Daemon were right about the pre-Doom Valyrians and their magic touch. His hand fell before you thought to tell him as much.

“Yet I do and it is infuriating,” he growled, “because you should be nothing to me…but you are everything.”

Then, it was your turn to drop your hands. A renewed ache claimed you and heat rose to your face with a vengeance. You took a step back and watched Daemon’s face twist in a way you had never seen before. Fear.

“I am to wed Rhaenyra.”

There was that sin of silence again, accompanied by the subsequent pains of answering an invitation from Daemon. “Rhaenyra.”

“It is a union-”

“This has been a long time coming,” you said, the ache embittering you. “Am I here to be your witness again, like some beck-and-call hound?”

“Jorrāelagon,” he shook his head and continued quickly, “ao se eman issare umptan va se egros hen jēda, va moriot māzis se jāre. Iksā tolī sȳz naejot sagon tied naejot nyke-”

“Speak plainly, Daemon,” you snapped. “Do not hide behind that godsforsaken language.”

Seemingly fueled by your own anger, Daemon lunged towards you, closing the gap once more with his hand grabbing at your chin. Despite the rushed roughness of his movement, his very touch, like before, was gentle. It bordered on careful, even as he made you meet his eyes.

“Love,” he paused, his tone cold; an objective translation. “You and I have been stayed on the edge of time, always coming and going. You are too good to be tied to me…kesan daor ivestragī ao zālagon. I will not let you burn.”

He held your chin still as the last words fell from his lips. His lips. Daemon was tantalizingly close and with the music stopping, your dance together finally ending, the urge to lean up the last stretch to kiss him was overwhelming. It washed over you like the tide, the very one that nipped at your heels as Daemon held you; though it did nothing to quell your rising anger as you realized…

“And you knew of my feelings for you, this- this entire time?  You lead me along with invitations to be at your side while knowing You bid me attend your wedding while knowing, and you tell me of another on the horizon?” You wrenched yourself from him, “How dare you?”

“Like you said, all that impulse. I did not think, I only wanted.”

“Now you aim to control by wedding your niece and directing my fate? You will not let me burn, but you will turn yourself to ash over a throne that will never be wholly yours? It will be Rhaenyra that sits it, not you.”

The truth incensed Daemon, who charged at you, hands reaching once more. His fingers dug into the fabric and flesh about your hips as he pulled you flush to him. You had nowhere to look but at him. You had nothing else to feel but his heat.

Then, his lips. His lips were closed about yours in a rushed, manic union of flesh. Daemon’s hands squeezed at you, pulling you impossibly close as the kiss grew deeper. His tongue knocked against yours wildly. Wanting. Wanted.

Daemon wanted you, but you ached still, and the ache drove you away.

You leaned back, your lips falling from Daemons. He chased after them, pecking the corner of your mouth, entreating you for more. You gave him a taste, a softer kiss, but it wasn’t enough. At least, not enough for you.

“What does this mean, Daemon?” You opened your eyes but saw that his were still closed. His breathing was still sharp, still quick. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he breathed, resting his forehead against yours, “just as it doesn’t matter who sits the Iron Throne. Like fire, it is my blood.”

You swallowed, hoping to distract yourself from the stinging tears behind your eyes. “And it will be your funeral.”

Daemon opened his eyes then and met your gaze. “I know.”

You pressed your forehead against his a touch harder, a not-quite-a-kiss-kiss, before you pushed his hands from your hips and turned away from Daemon Targaryen for the last time.

[valleyof-goldenlilies]

Se Zaldrizoti' Prumia - Chapter 9: The Ticking of Time

Chapter 9: The Ticking of Time

The primal urge to survive oft drives decisions made in haste.

Se Zaldrīzoti' Prūmia Masterlist | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 |

HOTD Masterlist | Main Masterlist | 

Warnings: Slight angst, Otto Hightower, flashbacksssss

Word Count: 8k words

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire and Blood characters, save for Y/N Tyrell, although I did expand on their characterisation, which might deviate from canon. All credit for the characters goes to George RR Martin and the showrunners of HOTD. The GIF above is also not mine, original credit to the creator is stated above. Go check them out! 

A/N: Happy Christmas Eve to all who celebrate! Finally, the long awaited chapter 9. I hope you enjoy! (and psst, a small Christmas surprise coming soon! Unfortunately, it's not chapter 10, but hopefully you'll be as happy ;)

lovely dividers by @firefly-graphics !

The smell of rose oil permeated the air of Queen Alicent’s chambers, and the sounds of Aegon smashing his wooden dragon toy against his wooden tower toy could be heard, as the boy made roaring noises. Alicent watched the scene with slight amusement, as Helaena sat on her lap, docile, a rare moment of serenity. It was much needed, especially after the recent scandal that rocked the Red Keep and her contentious conversation with Rhaenyra a week prior.

Speaking of serenity…

Alicent trailed her gaze to a forlorn looking figure, sitting next to Aegon on the lushly woven Myrish carpet, her skirts splayed as she absentmindedly fiddled with a wooden dragon toy. 

“You’ve been quiet,” Alicent noted, trying to breach your diminished figure. She hesitated on whether to verbalise what she knew your mind was occupied with, “Are…are you still angry at Prince Daemon’s latest transgressions?” 

Once again, the tranquillity of nightfall had descended upon the Red Keep. The King’s solar was empty after the boisterous dinner that Viserys was lording over, elated to have his brother by his side again. Viserys and Rhaenyra had long since retired to bed, and now, there was only you and Daemon. 

Daemon lay sprawled on the large settee, looking bored as he twirled a newly forged dagger in his hands, gifted by his ever generous brother to celebrate his return. The firelight glinted off the large ruby set in the pommel, and he weighed it between his hands. Not Valyrian steel, like Dark Sister was, but he tended to cherish any gifts his brother gave that were not disappointment or frustration. Which was a rarity. 

Daemon’s bored gaze trailed to your figure, looking far too relaxed as you sat on the other end of the settee, face burrowed in a heavy tome. Daemon groaned, trying to get your attention and stop reading that godsforsaken book, but you only hummed, nonchalant, flipping to the next page. Daemon narrowed his eyes. 

Your attention was fully invested in a chapter about the medicinal properties of hemlock in the newest tome you had successfully bribed the maesters for, when a sudden poke at your cheek caused an indignant noise to be elicited from your throat. “What in the Seven Hells,” you snapped your tome shut to glare at Daemon’s smug face, resting so close to your lap it made your heart thud in your chest. “Are you doing?” 

“Trying to get your attention,” he said simply, putting his dagger down onto the tea table. 

You levelled an unimpressed look at him. “And that required you to poke me in the cheek? What are you, five?” 

“Perhaps.” 

You huffed, vexed, picking up your tome again. “Byka zaldrizes, I gave up precious time that could be spent doing something else just to spend it with you. Surely, you can spare this forlorn prince of yours some of your attention.” 

“Well, no one asked you to,” you said drily, your eyes flickering as they darted between the lines. “And we all know that your time will be spent mucking about in the Street of Silk, in some unlucky whore’s bed or getting drunk in your cups like some undignified ruffian.” 

“Anyone who has the good fortune of bedding me is touched by the gods themselves,” Daemon’s snarky tone made you roll your eyes. Him and his overinflated ego. “And your assumptions wound me, byka zaldrizes. Do you not trust that my time in the Stepstones have made me more mature?” 

Daemon was delighted by you putting your book down again, only to be greeted by your deadpan stare. “...are you still in possess of a cock?” 

Daemon cocked a brow, eyes shifting down as if pretending to check. “I do believe so, yes. It would be a tragedy if I wasn’t.” You flashed him a sweetly sardonic smile, “Then I do believe no more needs to be said.” 

Daemon groaned when you returned to reading your book, debating on the merits of just slapping it out of your hand. It would result in some very colourful language bursting from your lips, but it would be fun. 

“Truly, your faith in me is awe-inspiring,” Daemon remarked sarcastically. “And what if I said that this time I promise to stay for the foreseeable future?” 

You tilted your head to the side, detracted from your book once more. “Somehow I do not believe that. Trouble always seems to find you one way or another.” 

Daemon rolled his eyes, flashing you a devastatingly handsome grin that you had to fight a strange squirming sensation in your stomach. “Then I swear to the Seven Gods that I will stay out of trouble. I won’t curb my excursions to Flea Bottom of course,” Daemon added, seeing your incredulous look. “A man does have his urges. And you know of my nature.” Daemon smirked. “But I think I’m capable enough not to commit another act that would warrant exile. Don’t you think?” 

Your answering laugh echoed throughout the solar. But for a brief moment, you had believed him. After all, what more trouble could Daemon possibly incur? 

You finally broke out of your empty daze, letting out a low, slightly hoarse laugh. “I am. But he is not the only object of my ire,” you admitted, sighing as you lowered your eyes to where Aegon was banging his wooden dragon against the carpet. Thank the Seven it was soft or he would’ve dented the dragon by now. 

Confusion wrinkled Alicent’s features, but then her eyes shone with comprehension. “...are you perhaps feeling some anger towards Rhaenyra?” 

Your head snapped up, a slightly horrified look painted on your face. “No, of course not. Daemon is fully to blame for this situation.” 

You took a deep breath, feeling shame course through you like boiling water through your veins. You had known, that in some awful way, your conversation with Rhaenyra had indirectly led to the explosion of this scandal. Now, Daemon was exiled again - though you couldn't care less about that - Rhaenyra’s virtue had been called into question, and she was forced to hastily wed Ser Laenor. And the guilt had been eating you alive ever since. But you had not known your harmless words would lead to such a catastrophic end. ‘I am not cut out for this,’ you thought glumly to yourself. ‘That wise paragon of advice I was trying to emulate. I never was any of that.’ 

‘How foolish of me to play at a role I lack the foresight for.’ 

Nonetheless, your thoughts returned to the person who is mainly to blame for this situation.  

‘Stupid, stupid Daemon,’ you cursed in your head, fingers tightening around the wooden dragon toy. ‘How stupid of me to believe that he could’ve changed, that he couldn’t sink any lower. Stupid, stupid, stupid.’ 

At least one somewhat good thing had arisen out of this mess. The ‘resignation’ of Otto Hightower. 

Though many knew it was just a term meant to preserve the dignity of the former Lord Hand. 

You were not sorry to see the man go - you had disliked him ever since his orchestration of the debacle with Alicent and Viserys years ago. However, you were sorry to see Alicent’s distraught state for the past few days. You understood her - she was all alone now, this was almost as great of a loss to her as Aemma’s loss to you was. Being bereft of a figure of comfort and support. 

You studied Alicent, noting the slight eye bags under her eyes. You made a mental note to brew her a stronger chamomile tea - both to alleviate her stresses after pregnancy and to improve her quality of sleep. 

A sudden knock sounded at the door, and Alicent’s older cousin and one of her ladies-in-waiting, Malena Hightower, entered the room, curtsying. “Your Grace,” you were surprised when Malena turned to you instead. 

“Lady Y/N…a messenger came by earlier. He wished for me to convey the Hand…I mean, Ser Otto’s,” Malena recovered from her bluster with a slight flush, but you noticed Alicent’s face briefly crumple when she heard her father’s title reversion back to Ser. You felt a twinge of sympathy. “He wished for me to convey that Ser Otto wishes to have a discussion with you.” 

The clattering of a teacup on the floor startled the both of us. Alicent looked embarrassed at her clumsiness, as a servant rushed in upon hearing the noise. “Pardon me. Malena, did my father disclose the reason why he wishes for an audience with my chief lady-in-waiting?” You were unnerved by Alicent’s uncharacteristic sharp tone. It was like…she was angry at her father. 

Malena looked similarly unnerved. “Your Grace, I apologise. I do not know. The messenger just said that Ser Otto requested for Lady Y/N’s presence in his study whenever she was available.” 

Alicent kept a calm facade, but inside, her heart was thumping like a surge of wild animals. ‘Is what I have been fearing about to come true? Y/N-’ Alicent swung her gaze to yours, where you were conversing discreetly with Malena. 

“Thank you, Malena. If the messenger is still there, tell him I will be with him momentarily.” Alarm surged through Alicent’s body. She quickly handed Helaena over to the startled servant who had just finished picking up the shattered cup and disposed of it, stepping towards you. 

“Y/N, I do not think you should go.” The words were out of her mouth before she could suppress them. Perplexed, you stared at the younger girl, noticing her panic. It unsettled you. 

You tried to shoot her a reassuring smile. “Alicent, Your Grace-” Alicent immediately motioned for Malena and the servant holding Helaena to retreat out of the room when she noticed you addressing her by her title. They evacuated the room with haste. 

Alicent seized both of your hands in hers, a gesture that startled you with its intensity and urgency. “No, do not go. Please,” she begged, her eyes flickering with a violent storm of conflicting emotions. She knew she should be obedient to her father, and that the meeting could be harmless, but a wrenching gut feeling told her it was not so. 

You looked worried: what exactly had gotten into Alicent? It was unlike her to break her composure, and by such a simple request. Alarm bells began tolling in your head, and just as you were about to tell her that you wouldn’t go, a knock sounded at the door, and you and Alicent promptly broke apart from your intimate stance. 

Malena re-entered the room, along with a man you recognised as one of Otto’s household knights, Ser Garrick Pommingham. This was bad. Alicent made a strangled noise in her throat as she beheld Ser Garrick. It was serious enough that her father had sent a household knight to deliver the message, but Ser Garrick? He was one of her father’s oldest household knights, and fiercely loyal and trusted by Otto. It was clear that the invitation was not one that both you nor Alicent had any say in. 

“My Queen.” Ser Garrick bowed reverently to Alicent, before turning to you and giving you a smaller bow. “Lady Y/N. Shall I escort you to my liege?” 

Any of Alicent’s protests were immediately silenced, as she wrung her hands helplessly. There was no fighting against Ser Garrick, who was an extension of her father, and a bull-headed man at that - always priding himself on completing all his tasks to perfection. 

You knew as well, so you could only give Alicent a small, reassuring smile, trying to comfort her. Steeling yourself, you turned to Ser Garrick with a composed smile.

“Lead the way, Ser.” 

The Tower of the Hand had been the site of a flurry of activity over the past few days, as various servants and household knights bustled in and out of the rooms, carrying and loading up boxes of belongings into carriages to be transported back to Oldtown. 

Otto watched his servants move his things out of his nearly vacant study with an oddly impassive look, as he stewed in his own thoughts at his dismissal. He never thought that he would take up residence in Oldtown ever again, but how quickly the tide could be changed here in King’s Landing. 

The sound of a knock at the door roused him from his thoughts, and soon enough, his loyal household knight, Ser Garrick, showed in the guest he had been expecting. 

“Ah, Lady Y/N. I thank you for coming on such short notice.” 

You entered the room, the skirts of your rose pink gown swishing as you moved into the study. Wariness was woven in every bone of your body, your muscles taut with tension. “Ser Otto,” you nodded at him, not missing how the former Hand’s frame turned stiff at the reversion of his title back to Ser. 

“What matter has caused you to ask me to your study at such a busy time?” 

Otto took a seat at the lavishly appointed chair at his desk. The same desk where he had spent so many nights toiling for King Viserys. Though the chair could no longer be called rightfully his, he leaned into it, gesturing for you to take a seat. Which you did so, though not without reluctance.

"I do not wish to take up too much of your time, as my own time is precious too," Otto stated, his voice blunt as he leaned forward and drummed his fingers on the oak of the desk.

"I have a proposal for you." 

A frown furrowed your eyebrows, but you tried not to show it, smoothing out your skirts instead. “And what is that proposal? I am most interested to hear it.” 

Otto smirked slightly at the small note of sarcasm he detected in your voice. Normally, he would be irked at such disrespect, but it was evident from this that you wished not to play any games. ‘A woman who cuts straight to the chase,’ he thought to himself. ‘No wonder Prince Daemon was drawn to her.’ 

It made things much simpler anyway. 

“I’d like to ask for your hand in marriage,” Otto stated bluntly as he waited for your reaction. 

Meanwhile, you were frozen, as if roots had suddenly sprung from the ground and trapped you in the chair. ‘My hand in marriage?’ The words echoed through your brain. You suddenly recalled Alicent’s guilt stricken expression as she watched you leave her apartments. 

“Ser Otto,” you said quietly. “Surely you are jesting.” 

Otto looked unruffled at that. “I do not jest about such matters, Lady Y/N.” You let some of the incredulity you were feeling slip into your expression. “Allow me to explain the merits of our match,” Otto said calmly, leaning back into his chair. 

“Though I am ashamed of having done so, I had overheard your shouting match with your father at the Kingswood many moons ago.” This made you wince. You did not blame the man, the both of you probably shouted loud enough that those at the Wall could hear you. 

“I understand you are seeking a match, by the end of this year in fact. Which is less than two moons away,” Otto observed you as you tried not to squirm under his intense gaze. “Quite a pressing predicament.” 

Otto sighed. “I know, my dismissal has not made me the most…appealing of matches. What with my status as a second son, standing to inherit nothing short of some wealth and meagre land holdings. However, as you well know, you are not the most appealing of matches as well.” 

When you looked offended, Otto only went on blandly, “Please, do not take offence, Lady Y/N. My words do not come from a place of malice. It is true though, is it not? While you are lovely, your age is not one to be overlooked. You are turning- twenty six? Twenty seven this year? Many lords in Westeros consider this to be well past your prime.” Otto’s eyes glinted. “And the reputation of your…ah, headstrongness, is well known across the Seven Kingdom. As well as your long string of marriage rejections.” 

Otto shrugged, “That aside, think pragmatically. I am moving back to take up residence in Oldtown once more. Should you go with me, you would be much closer to home than here in King’s Landing.” Otto could still see the dubiousness in your eyes, and he knew he had to sweeten the deal up a little more. “And besides, I would not require any children of you.” He knew he had you again when your gaze shot up from looking down fixedly at the wood of his desk. “I am already a widower, with a daughter as Queen and four other strong sons. You would be under no pressure to produce heirs for me. And as a second son, my children stand to inherit next to nothing anyway. Moreover, if you are worried of any mistreatment, fret not. You are my daughter’s dearest companion, and a mother figure to her too. I will treat you with utmost respect” 

You eyed him warily, finally speaking up. “You’ve stated many demerits of this match as well, Ser Otto. Do you truly think it worth it for the both of us to pursue such a match?” 

Otto’s eyes glinted. She was more crafty than he thought. He would have to hammer down the point a little. “Though my inheritance is not rich in titles, I can assure you, it is not something to be overlooked. You would live comfortably, and be free to pursue any of your interests. I heard from the Maesters that you have an interest in healing and scholarly affairs. What better place to expand your knowledge than in Oldtown, home of the Citadel and some of the finest minds in Westeros?” 

Your gaze sharpened at that, he clearly had been keeping tabs on you for a while now. Though his offer was not without temptation of its own. “But why me?” you pressed. “As you have said, I am past my prime and have a wild temper at that. The only merits I possess are my lineage and heirship to Highgarden, and my father has already taken a new wife, so that hangs in the balance as well.” 

Otto smiled, “And that alone is enough.” Otto stood up, slowly walking over to your chair. He took your hand gently, and kissed the back of your hand softly. A frown was etched on your lips, and Otto knew it was best to let the matter go. For now. 

“I shall give you some time to consider it,” Otto rumbled softly, helping you out of your chair. “But the clock is ticking, Lady Y/N. Both for you and I. Once I depart for Oldtown in a few days, the offer shall be rescinded.” His expression was one of faux concern. “And do you truly believe that you would be able to find any other man of suitable standing to court you before your father’s deadline?” 

‘Even now he was not telling the truth, and trying to use wily means to stoke your deepest insecurities to his own gain,’ you thought, regarding the man before you in disdain. The both of you knew the truth of why he sought your hand, not out of compassion or sympathy, but to climb his way back up the political ranks. All of court knew how close you were with the members of House Targaryen, and that you were an ear of the King. otto was clearly trying to use you for his own designs, the same way he had used Alicent, and foist Aegon up onto the Iron Throne, whilst gaining more influence over Viserys - as if he hadn’t have enough already. Disgust pulsed through you. 

You shot Otto a haughty look, brushing off his hand. “This is still a personal matter, Ser Otto, and I mislike the tone of your voice. As a stranger, you would do well to refrain from making comments on my personal life.” 

Otto nodded stiffly. “Of course. I apologise. I overstepped. Shall I escort you back to my daughter’s chambers then?” 

“No need, thank you.” You were eager to put as much distance between you and Otto as soon as possible. And you couldn’t possibly see Alicent with your mind in such a jumbled state. You bowed your head stiffly, “I bid you farewell, Ser. I will…consider your proposal.” He nodded, but you could see his gaze was filled with calculation as you turned your back on him and walked away. 

“Lady Y/N.” Otto’s voice halted you just as your hand was on the door handle. “Just a question.” 

“Do you really think that staking your bets on Prince Daemon would result in a good end?” You stilled, turning around to face him yet again. Your eyes met his cool green ones. “I do not understand what you mean, Ser Otto.” 

“What I meant was,” Otto’s voice was blunt. “I do not think marrying Prince Daemon would bode well for you, if you wish to be closer to the centre of power.” 

You stared incredulously at him, swivelling around to face him fully once again. “I’m afraid you have it all wrong, Ser. I never had that sort of intention.” 

“Ask yourself, do you really believe that?” Otto’s voice was challenging. “Because I do not think you know your heart well enough..”

Astonished and angered by his boldness, you took a step back closer to the door. “Forgive me, Ser Otto, but I do not think you would know my heart better than I do.” You turned to leave, pulling open the door. 

“Search your heart deeply, Lady Y/N,” Otto called out. “You will find my words will ring true.” You didn’t respond, instead choosing to shut the door firmly behind you, leaving Otto Hightower and his delusions of grandeur behind. 

The Red Keep was blessed with a particularly pleasant chill this day, in the midst of a harsh autumn and an impending harsher winter. But you couldn’t bring yourself to admire the red and russet leaves as you normally did, instead wandering aimlessly around the Red Keep like a wraith. 

It was completely absurd for Otto Hightower to think that you got close to Daemon for ulterior motives. Marriage? With that insufferable punk? You snorted. You could barely stand his presence most of the time, let alone marriage. 

It was strange, however. Daemon had always been handsome, dangerously so, and charming, and that had never had an effect on you in the least. But ever since Aemma’s death…ever since his return from the Stepstones. You couldn’t lie, there was something there. The first stirrings of a fire. 

Well, that fire would never burn on damp logs anyway, and that was all thanks to Daemon’s stupidity. You grumbled to yourself, shuddering that you might have carried a torch for Daemon fucking Targaryen. 

You decided to venture into one of the courtyards found in the Red Keep. Perhaps some greenery would restore your senses, and provide a balm for your dilemma. Whatever were you supposed to do? There was no escaping the fact that it was nigh impossible to find a good match within two moons, one that would satisfy both you and your father’s expectations. But was marrying Otto Hightower really your only option? In all your worst nightmares, you never imagined that it could get so bad. While you did not share Daemon’s intense hatred for the man, the man made your skin crawl, with his pleasantries disguising a shrewd mind of warped traditional beliefs. 

‘Could I really be happy with a man like that?’ 

Lost in thought, you didn’t realise you had company until you caught sight of a tall figure with blonde hair, sitting under the shade of a huge willow tree, an intent expression on his face as he sketched away on a piece of parchment. Curious, you approached the lone figure to get a closer look. As you stepped closer however, your heel crunched on a branch, causing the mysterious stranger’s head to snap up. Your eyes snagged onto the sigil pinned to his tunic. 

A Beesbury. 

You inclined your head apologetically, “Beg your pardon, I did not mean to disturb you.” The young man from House Beesbury laughed, scooping up his parchment before walking towards you and bowing. “Lady Y/N. Do not apologise, my day has been made infinitely better by your presence.” 

You let out a small chuckle at his flattering, giving him a discrete once over. Exactly who was this man? Clearly you were not subtle enough, given the fact that he bowed once more, placing a hand to his chest as he did. “You must forgive my rudeness, my lady. My name is Alan Beesbury. My father, Lord Lyman Beesbury, serves on the Small Council as Master of Coin.” You let out a surprise “Oh!” before dipping your head politely. “Ser Alan. You must forgive me, I did not recognise you.” 

Ser Alan smiled brightly, unbothered. “Tis alright, my lady. Granted, I have never been introduced to you in a formal setting, so it is understandable you do not know me.” “How did you recognise me then, ser?” you inquired. “I visited Highgarden with my father a few years ago, and caught sight of you with your lord father. I deeply regret that I was not able to make your acquaintance then. Although it seems,” Alan grinned, his eyes dancing with mischief, “That I am lucky enough to behold your beautiful visage once more, my lady. You have only grown lovelier throughout the years.” You couldn’t refrain from snorting lightly, “You have quite the honeyed tongue, ser.” “Well, it is a useful skill at court. And to charm the ladies I have taken a fancy to.” he winked. “Would you grant me the honour of your company, my lady? It has been naught but two days since my arrival, and I find that I am in need of a guide to this vast keep.” An amused smile graced your lips, as you thought about his offer. He might be a flirt, and awfully forward, but he seemed a jolly enough fellow, and it would be rude to reject his company. And…it would be a good distraction. 

“I am at your disposal, ser.” He gallantly offered you his arm, and you took it. As you strolled through the hallways of the Red Keep, passing servants shot you strange looks, but you ignored them. “So, what brings you to the Red Keep, ser?” “Ah, my lord father summoned me to court to attend the upcoming nuptials for Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor Velaryon.” Alan made a face that was so offended you couldn’t help but let out a laugh. “He also thought it a good window of opportunity for me to find a lady wife.” 

“Oh,” was all you could say, your mind going back to your unpleasant conversation with Otto Hightower. Not wanting to seem impolite, you quickly added, “I wish you luck in your search, ser.” He smiled, although the joy did not reach his eyes. “Thank you, my lady. You are too kind.” 

 Ser Alan halted abruptly, startling you when you noticed you had stopped next to a flowering bush. Carefully, he plucked a gorgeous, striking yellow rose, moving to tuck it behind your ear. “A magnificent rose, befitting a charming lady as yourself, my lady.” You couldn’t help but laugh a little at his spontaneous show of chivalry. “I have to admit, ser, that you are the first man who has shown me this courtesy. I thank you most humbly.” 

“My father has always educated me about the importance of courtesy, especially to a lady.” Ser Alan shrugged, a sheepish grin painted on his features. “So long as it makes you happy, milady.” You strolled through the garden, chatting as he inquired about your life at court, which you happily indulged. Gradually, you forgot about Otto Hightower and Rhaenyra and Alicent as you conversed with him, too lost in trading anecdotes and playful jabs with each other about some rather insufferable personalities at court. You realised you found his company rather pleasing: he was attentive, and clearly a gentleman, but not to the extent where it was ridiculously cheesy. He wasn’t dreadful company either, he seemed sincere to get to know his talking companion, instead of endlessly bragging about himself or his long list of achievements. And behind his sweet words, he also hid a sharp sense of wit and humour. He was an ideal husband, the thought struck you like lightning. You could feel the cogs in your head begin to turn. You might have just found a way to escape Otto Hightower’s offer after all. 

“May I confess something, my lady?” Ser Alan’s voice interrupted your thoughts. “You may speak freely with me, ser.” you hesitated, before asking him, “Is it alright if I call you Alan, instead?” 

Ser Alan’s eyes widened, and you were a little afraid you had pushed your boundaries a little too far, but he soon broke out in a genuine smile. “If only I can call you Y/N in return, my lady.” You found yourself returning his smile with one of your own. “Then it is settled then. What were you going to say, Alan?” “To be honest, Y/N, I was extremely elated to run into you today.” Catching sight of your puzzled face, he hurriedly rushed to explain, “You see, I had sent a few marriage proposals to you before. Well at least my father has. I thought you quite brilliant despite my brief encounter with you at Highgarden. You radiate warmth, even at first glance, and I was rather drawn to you. Which was why I was so happy to have been able to have the fortune to bump into you here today. The Seven have truly blessed me.” 

“I see…” you murmured. “You are rather forward, aren’t you, Alan?” Alan looked unashamed of that. “I am a firm believer that being coy often robs us of opportunities in life, Y/N.” An amused smile twitched at your lips, “A bold philosophy, though certainly a wise one.” You took some deep breaths, debating on the gamble you were about to take. It was risky as hell. You barely knew anything about the man. It could end in disaster. But then again, your recent track record of decisions had led to bigger disasters than this. 

‘And do you truly believe that you would be able to find any other man of suitable standing to court you before your father’s deadline?‘

How life could change with just one decision. 

“Alan.” you began slowly, swallowing as you braced myself. 

“Yes, Y/N?”

“...does your marriage proposal still stand, by any chance?” 

Throughout your time at court, you had not been well acquainted with Lord Lyman Beesbury. A jolly enough man, and sharp of wit and tongue despite his old age was all that you knew of him. 

What you did not expect was how excited the man could be. 

“Oh, this is fantastic, wonderful news,” Lord Lyman exclaimed, grabbing your hands and shaking them vigorously. You looked over to Alan with a bewildered expression, and he simply smiled and mouthed, ‘He’s always like this. Don’t mind it.’ 

“To think my son would finally settle down, and to Lady Tyrell at that,” Lyman continued to ramble on, and you were a little worried that the old man might collapse from the joy. “A fine, fine choice you’ve made, son. A fine choice. I couldn’t be prouder…” 

You were mortified at how eager Lord Lyman seemed to be at the prospect of your marriage, but inside, you were secretly relieved. Otto Hightower had not sent word after news of your engagement with Ser Alan had disseminated through the castle, in no part thanks to the gossips who sniped at how the two of you barely had a courtship before your engagement. You had heard many whispers and murmurings of how desperate you must be to be driven to this point, but you didn’t care. You would take marrying Ser Alan any day over Otto Hightower.

No one was, of course, happier than Lord Matthos Tyrell at the word of his daughter’s engagement. From the way the reply to your letter had a few suspicious stains here and there, it seems a few tears had been shed. You could only muster a small smile at that, however. 

Alan had been the perfect gentleman over the past two weeks, showering you with gifts such as flowers or jewels - as fitting a suitor does to a lady - spending time with you, taking strolls with you, oftentimes visiting you while you were carrying out your duties as lady-in-waiting to Alicent and the like. Time after time, you would find Alicent’s gaze trailing across Alan doubtfully, like she was trying to scrutinise him for any signs of ill will, but you had reassured her in private that he was wonderful. But all she had to say was: 

“It is in human nature not to show who they truly are until later on, Y/N. I am just concerned.” 

Alicent’s words made you a little ill at ease, as you knew as much. You’ve heard so many horror stories over the years from ladies whose husband’s affections for them evaporated like morning dew upon their marriage after all, and seen enough examples. 

But you had made your gamble, and you must live with the consequences. No matter how dire they may be. 

The candles in the King’s private bed chambers and living space flickered as the doors opened with a loud creak, and you stepped in quietly. The room looked empty, and so you decided to walk around for a bit. 

And that’s when your heart nearly stopped. 

There she was. 

Rendered in vivid oils, the likeness of Aemma stared out at you with that gentle, comforting smile. Her visage encased within an intricately carved gold frame with dragons, and a makeshift shrine with candles decorated her portrait. Your heart was suddenly gripped with unbearable pain. 

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Viserys’ voice rang out from behind you, as he walked slowly to stand next to you, staring almost reverently up at her portrait. You couldn’t speak, your throat was closing up at the threat of tears that threatened to overwhelm and spill out from your eyes. You tilted your head down, unable to look anymore at that familiar, haunting smile. 

The press of a small white candle into your hand startled you. Viserys regarded you with a knowing sadness. “I thought you might like to honour her. We haven’t…done so in a while. Together as a family.” 

You nodded, not trusting your voice right now. Gingerly, you reached over and lit the candle, placing it on the shrine. You bowed your head, thinking of how much things have changed ever since her passing. How much you have had to change. 

“She would be so pleased to know that you were getting married,” Viserys lamented, gently touching oil-painting-Aemma’s hand. “From what I can recall, it had always been one of her greatest wishes to see you happily married.” 

You offered him a hollow smile at that. The joys of marriage had not yet made itself known to you, if you were even capable of it. And now, your head was too occupied with memories. 

“You’re in a terribly grumpy mood,” Aemma commented, as she reached for a roll of warm buttered bread to go with her third cup of tea. Her light blue eyes were filled with amusement as she watched you prop your head up from where you had lain it on the table, a disgruntled expression on your features. “Dare I inquire for the reason?” 

“Father has sent me another list of eligible bachelors,” you grumbled, helping Aemma refill her teacup, which she sighed exasperatedly at that. When it was just the two of you alone, she preferred for you not to serve her as lady-in-waiting, instead being more at ease and natural with her as her friend. But despite your attempts at overturning this habit, you found yourself unable to. Touch and small gestures were how you expressed your feelings after all. 

“From which kingdom is it for this time?” Aemma asked in a joking tone, putting a strawberry tart in her mouth as she stroked her small baby bump that had begun to show after four moons. 

“The Stormlands this time,” you sighed, dispiritedly popping a tart with an unknown yellow fruit in your mouth. The tangy sweetness, yet slight sourness of the fruit made you cheer up a little. 

“That’s a mango tart. Some merchants from the Summer Isles exported it to us,” Aemma explained, carefully noting your expression. 

“I wish I could live in the Summer Isles,” you sighed, popping another one of those tarts into your mouth. “And be done with all this bother. For Seven’s sake, I’m only twenty one. There’s still plenty of time.” 

“Yes, for you to develop wrinkles,” Aemma jested, letting out a laugh at your mortally offended face. “My queen, is it customary for you to insult your subjects in their time of distress?” You asked with faux hurt in your voice. 

“Perhaps I am a secret tyrant,” Aemma smirked slightly, lifting her teacup to her lips. “I am serious though, Y/N. You've been by my side as my lady-in-waiting for nearly two years, and we have known each other since we were children. You watched me get married to Viserys, be crowned as Queen, and giving birth to Rhaenyra. When will I get to witness some of your happy moments?” 

You gave her a deadpan look. “Aemma. I truly see no joy in getting married now. I’m still too young.” Aemma tried to hold in a sigh. “”And when will that be? Moons later? Years? A decade? When you’re old and grey?” 

“When I am ready, Aemma.” You stated, voice tinged with determination. “But when?” Aemma pressed. “Not to fear, I will definitely get married sometime during your lifetime,” you reassured her in a joking tone. “Perhaps when you’ve lived to seventy years…” 

Aemma threw the throw cushion she was holding in her lap at you, and you caught it, laughing, as Aemma shook her head in fond exasperation. “You’re insufferable.” 

Aemma looked at you, laughter dancing in your eyes as you changed the topic back to how you were going to answer your father’s newest letter. A wistful smile tugged at the corner of her lips. 

Do whatever you want, Y/N. I just hope that you will never sacrifice your happiness for the sake of something else. 

A small tear plopped to the weathered ground of the King’s chambers as you managed to choke out, “She would be. I just wish…she could be here to see it.” 

Viserys had a slightly guilty look on his face as you turned your gaze back to the portrait, confronting all the painful, bittersweet memories in all their blazing intensity. 

It was time to stop running. 

“When did you get this portrait commissioned?” The small semblance of a smile appeared on Viserys’ face again. “It is a story in itself, actually. Back when Aemma was…” Viserys’ voice hitched. “Pregnant…with Baelon, I had commissioned an artist from Volantis to paint it, as a gift to Aemma. Honouring her for giving us our-” Viserys choked up, his voice cracking. “For giving us our son.” 

Your fists clenched slightly. “And then when Aemma…I was so lost. I couldn’t bring myself to look at any portraits of her, so I stopped work on the painting.” Viserys looked like he wanted to pull portrait Aemma out of the frame she was trapped in, by sheer will of anguish. 

“But I had a change of heart. Three months after I named Rhaenyra as heir, I had moved on. I finally felt…peace. Like I have taken a step to atonement. So I gave word for the artist to continue, wanting to place it in the Gallery of Dragons after it was done.” The Gallery of Dragons was an art gallery in the Red Keep which honoured previous Targaryen rulers and royals who had passed. “But then he died when Alicent and I married.” 

“Oh dear,” you murmured softly under your breath, and Viserys let out a ragged laugh, before bursting into a fit of coughing. You moved to help him to a chair, but he held out a hand, his focus on Aemma. 

“I thought it a sign from the ancestors, from the Gods, that I should let go,” Viserys voiced out tiredly. “And so the painting remained untouched, and I thought I’d never see it to its finish. That the chapter would remain closed forever.” 

“Then when Helaena was born, the head royal artist decided to take on the job.” “Why?” You asked. You knew that the head royal artist, an old kindly man, had deeply revered Queen Aemma, for he was of the Vale and Aemma had brought him to court as part of her entourage, where he quickly rose up in the ranks. His previous occupation as a woodworker apparently served his artistic abilities well. 

“He was in his final days, and he wished for that to be the last painting he ever did.” Viserys smiled, his head drooping. “And I am glad he did.” 

Silence fell over the room as you two continued admiring the painting of your beloved Aemma. “Her eyes seem imbued with life, don’t you think?” You mentioned in a soft voice. “It’s like she is about to start talking any second now.” Viserys let out a hoarse sounding laugh, coughing again. This time it sounded more serious, but he waved away your concern all the same. “They are. The artists did a good job.” 

You were surprised when Viserys shuffled away to a chest on a table, rummaging through it before taking something out. It turned out to be some strange looking thin red sticks. 

“In Old Valyria, while there were many gods that people worshipped, the way they honoured their dead were the same,” Viserys explained quietly, handing you a stick, which you took, bewildered. “They would light it, then bow three times before the deceased’s portrait. It was said that a soul connection would then be forged between you and the person you were mourning, and you could convey a message to them.” 

“It sounds…” you tried to find the words to describe it. “...poetic.” 

“I thought so too. Shall we?” 

The two of you lit up the sticks, and a sweetly smoky smell emitted from them as they were lit. you followed Viserys’ lead, bowing your head three times, before closing your eyes. 

You hesitated on what to say, but eventually settled on, ‘I’m getting married, Aemma. I wish you were alive to witness it…but I know you would be delighted in the afterlife. I hope you are doing well.’ 

‘I hope you’ve seen how much I’ve grown. I hope you’re proud of me.’ 

“Are you happy, Y/N?” Viserys’ voice broke you out of your thoughts. For a moment, you look lost at what to respond. Were you happy? Though you didn’t feel the typical, dizzy excitement that the poets talked about when getting married, you felt something steady, something reassuring. Contentment. 

“I am.” 

“Truly?” Viserys’ pressing made you hesitate a little, but you pulled a smile on your face and answered. “I am. Really. Alan is a good man, and I am ready to begin a new chapter in my life.” 

Viserys finally began to relax, the tension visibly seeping out of his muscles. “Then I am most pleased for you. Though I never envisioned you to marry, and a selfish part of me wishes you would not have to leave this court, I am happy for you.” 

You bowed, a gesture of gratitude. “Thank you, Viserys. It means a lot to me.” 

His next words made you temporarily stunned into silence however. “Of course, I have also prepared your dowry. I have made sure that while it is lacking compared to Rhaenyra’s, that it is not to be underestimated. A ransom of jewels and gold as well as some antiques - Lord Beesbury does love his antiques. Some of those diamonds and sapphires are the finest I have ever seen.” 

Your mouth was agape. “Viserys, there is no need for you to-” Viserys talked over you, taking your hand. “But there is.” He looked at you with heartfelt gratitude and affection. “You are family to me, Y/N. It is the least I can do for you, for such a momentous occasion.” 

Your gaze softened as you began tearing up. “I cannot accept this. My father is already-” “I know, Y/N,” Viserys silenced you again. “But it’s not just for your dowry. Majority of the jewels and gold are for you.” 

You were now even more horrified and confused than before. “For me?” Viserys regarded you with a fond exasperation that almost made you weep at his similarity to Aemma’s. “For you, you silly goose. In the event…you are unhappy with your match, those jewels and gold should be sufficient for you to start a sizeable fund of your own. And of course, I will welcome you back to court with open arms at any time.” 

You couldn’t see past the blurry haze of tears and the painful throbbing of your heart, but the next thing you knew, Viserys was hugging you tightly back as you embraced him, choking with quiet sobs. He was crying himself a little too. “I only hope that you will be happy for the rest of your days, Y/N,” Viserys murmured, gently patting your back. Your body shook with violent sobs. “I…will. I promise. I thank you most gratefully for your generosity.” 

The two of you stayed like this for a while, before you awkwardly broke apart when the tears had stopped flowing. “The hour is quite late,” Viserys noted, feeling a little fatigued. You smiled weakly, still reeling from the shock. “That it is. I should be returning to my chambers then.” 

Viserys nodded, looking at you with fondness in his gaze. “Of course. You must still help me plan for Rhaenyra’s upcoming nuptials. And for your own. I would not want to impose on you any further.” 

You curtsied slightly, “Then I shall retire for the night then.” You hesitated, looking at Aemma’s portrait one last time, many thoughts running through your head. A final goodbye. “Good night, Viserys.” 

Viserys watched her leave, and the world suddenly seemed darker, much heavier. Like it had been since Aemma died. Coughs shook Viserys’ body, and he wearily took out a handkerchief to cover his mouth, careful not to let his spittle fly. A crimson stain slowly pooling at the white cloth was all he saw when he removed the handkerchief from his mouth. 

‘And now, I am alone once more.’ Viserys thought grimly, looking back at Aemma. ‘My last reminder of you is gone, and only Rhaenyra remains now. My strength, and my consolation. And my regret.’ 

Somewhere far away in Pentos, the squawks of a raven could be heard as first light broke across the city. Daemon Targaryen awoke, hair tousled and a disgruntled expression on his face, despite last night’s pleasures. He had dreamed of her. Again. It seemed she was a wraith plaguing his mind ever since that fateful day in Flea Bottom. 

His annoyance rose tenfold when he stalked up from his bed to receive the messenger raven. Unfolding the parchment, he took note of the familiar, rather wonky scrawl of someone who had only learnt to write recently. His eyes trailed over the words ‘the Hand has fallen from his high horse’, and he scoffed, smugness lining his features. The next two lines gave him pause, however.

‘The Princess has been betrothed to Ser Laenor.’ 

‘Lady Y/N Tyrell has been betrothed to Ser Alan Beesbury.’ 

‘From your loyal companion, Mysaria.’ 

Se Zaldrizoti' Prumia Taglist: @drwho-ess @graniairish @urmomsgirlfriend1 @thelittleswanao3 @animelover18 @llovinjoonie @gracielikegrapes @salembridger @itszzmoon @kmmg98 @travelingmypassion @zae5 @norestfortheshelbywicked @soleilgrec @anehkael @midnightprincess18 @lilith--666 @saay-karani @dumbhxeredrose @syviiss @nyenye @ahristata​ @hiraethrhapsody @babypink224221 @mckenziewhite2005 @justrybca @omgsuperstarg

Daemon General Taglist: @aiyaiy @kmmg98 @norestfortheshelbywicked @hb8301 @hc-geralt-23 @babypink224221​ @mckenziewhite2005 

those who are bolded are those who couldn’t be tagged! let me know if you wish to be added to the taglist in the comments or through this form! 

A/N: One more chapter until the end of Act I!!! AAAHHHHHH. I deeply apologise for my repeated promises to publish only to chicken out at the end, so I shall now refrain from making promises that I cannot make 😭 I hope to get Chapter 10 out before 2024 officially hits (new year new me lol), but no promises there. I'll do my best, however!

As always, thank you for reading this far! Let me know what you thought about this chapter in the comments 💕

[just-some-random-blogger]

Nah daemon isn't a villain hes just a pathetic meow meow who acts on his impulses and needs lots of intensive therapy

Kiss It Better

Daemon Targaryen x Reader

Summary: If you love someone, show them. If you're feeling broken, cry. And so if someone you love asks, 'are you alright', when you shed your tears, do not feign falsehood so not to worry them. After all, what point is it to fake your temperament to your love who's memorized you like verse and would burn the world if your tune ever soured?

Word Count: 1k+

Warnings: gender neutral reader, war criminal daemon™, yn having a bad day (aka me), hurt/comfort?, fluff, typos, etc.

A/N: hello. im not having bad day per se, its mostly just that i find myself unable to do anything creatively, which is horrible considering im a music major and its our midterms and i have to do creative stuff. and i also have many reqs waiting to be done. anyway, writing this to manifest daemon to come into my life and kiss it better, also as like... a palette cleanser. hopefully i can write reqs soon <3 Tagging: @pinksirensong @aralezinspace @deniixlovezelda @targaryenmoony @risefallrise also @sloanexx because you said you watch hotd now you can read my hotd fics too <3

"You there," Daemon calls the attention of a passing servant, "have you s-" he is caught off-guard when the tiny woman makes haste before he could finish his statement. The prince watches as she flees.

Well, it was not out of the ordinary for servants to shudder under his gaze and quiver at his requests in certain moments, but he was not particularly threatening today... at least not yet. Daemon would say he woke up particularly chipper actually, so he had no idea as to why that girl fled.

No matter.

Again, he was in a good mood, he can simply go about and continue looking for he was looking for-- his fire, his heart, his love.

What cruel ridicule it was of the gods to make his person precisely opposite to him on this day.

Much like other instances, Daemon was successful in finding his beloved in a place that he often did. And so upon opening the library doors, he was both relieved and concerned to see his darling sprawled in the middle of the room, looking up to the ceiling, sprawled out like a starfish, as though it was the meaning of life.

Daemon's brows knit at it.

You were on your back, arms and legs stretched out. He did not think that the carpet was clean enough for your current use. He made internal note to have someone clean it later.

He turns over his shoulder, aware of how much talk your position on the floor would elicit from blabbermouths, and closed the door behind him.

He turns back to you as you sigh; you sighed so deeply as though you were plagued with many troubles. And so the prince reacted the way he normally did, he snorted under his breath and shook his head. He did not doubt that you were likely overanalyzing whatever chronicle it was you found entertainment in this time.

Daemon places his hands behind his back and walks over to you. The concern in him reemerges when you don't at all even move in your place, but then he supposes you knew it was him that was approaching, thus did not bother, since there was no threat.

"Mmm," he leans slightly forward, "you enjoying yourself down there, my love?"

You do not move an inch, save your pupils that dart to him.

Daemon finds himself chuckling under his breath. He raises his brows, "what would you have done if it were not me that walked in, and it was one of the maesters?" He clicks his tongue, "not even I can save you from your beloved teachers."

A lie. He would never not save you from anything.

You furrow your brows a fraction. You retort as though you were offended, "I knew it was your footsteps, Daemon."

Daemon straightens up, allowing his hands to fall to his sides, "that does not answer my question but I shall take it."

The prince then walks over you, heading to the chair near the lit fire place. Daemon sits down and watches. You are still like a log on the floor. He leans on the backrest and sinks into his seat, widening the gap between his legs as he looks out to you.

He calls out your name.

He narrows his eyes when you do not answer.

He calls out again, and by the third time, he finds offence and bangs on his armrest. He sighs when you still do not move still.

Daemon shakes his head, "come now, you hammy babe. Pick yourself up before I drag you over by your heels."

He waits a moment. He waits for your response. Nothing comes. He crosses his arms at your deviance.

"Will you make me repeat myself?" he words slowly.

Still, nothing.

He growls your name out.

Finally, you growl yourself and turn to him. Daemon raises his brows in response. You grumble something under your breath as you begin to shuffle and sort yourself up until you were on your feet.

Daemon watches as you walk over to him. He hides his pleased smile by tutting at you and clicking his tongue, "are you giving me attitude?"

You roll your eyes, "no, your grace."

Daemon tilts his head up and places his hands on the armrest once you're before him, "you just rolled your eyes."

"It's a show of affection, my prince."

He masks his amused breath with a sigh. He tilts his head to the side, "very well. I will allow it," he pats his thigh, "now sit on your throne."

Daemon is pleased that you do not roll your eyes and in fact release a chuckle. And so by the time you claim your spot, legs dangling on the right side of the chair, head by the left side of his, he kisses your neck and pulls you into him by your thighs, "better, is it not?"

Daemon exaggeratedly swats at your clothes, "you're filthy now."

You sigh in response. He knits his brows when he spots the pout upon your lips. Daemon pulls his head back and takes your cheek into his palm. Surely, you did not react like this because of his jest.

"Was the plot your your most recent read so tragic that you're so woeful?"

You look up at him, pout intensifying, "I can't read, Daemon. I haven't read anything in weeks," you reiterate with much more stress, "I. Can't. Read."

He knits his brows tightly before raising them. He watches as you crash your head into him. He looks at your frustrated face, finding his own copying the expression, "well, I never thought you of all people would forget such a skill, but if I must, I will teach readily, starting from the alphab-" he cuts himself when you begin to push yourself off him. He breaks into a laugh, hooking his arms around you, "alright, alright, ñuha jorrāelagon, perhaps it wasn't very funny of me."

You find yourself quickly unable to move against him when he manages to lock you in place. When he releases you, you give him an unamused look. He gives a lopsided smirk, "I say, it was, in fact, hilarious."

You watch him with an annoyed expression as his body pulses with his laughter. You roll your eyes, "I'm glad you find this amusing."

"Of course it's amusing," he chuckles, "you're awfully dramatic about it, my whiny baby."

You scoff, flicking his nose, "says the boy who landed Caraxes on the roof of the Lord who asked me to dance."

You continue to rant about it as Daemon yelps, clutching his nose before clutching your jaw, "that hurt."

"Oh, please," you hiss, "you're so dramatic about it," you mimic with an exaggerated Daemon impression.

He snorts then grunts. He takes his turn rolling his eyes.

You stick your tongue out to him in spite and headbutt his shoulder before nuzzle into the crook of his neck, "doesn't feel nice, now, doesn't it?"

Daemon leans his head against yours, "it feels nice when I do it you though."

You hum, "and that says a lot about you."

For a moment, you both enjoy the feel of the other. You enjoy the sound both your bodies emit, the warmth, the familiarity. Daemon begins to massage your scalp, "are you truly so torn about not being able to read books?"

In truth, it was a ridiculous question. Daemon knew that sometimes even he stood nothing against bound pieces of paper in your eyes. He's glad you explain your emotions to him anyway.

You huff, "it's... it's just so frustrating. I want to read something. I want to read something so badly, but at the same time, I can't bring myself to do it. The idea seems exhausting, daunting, even"

After admitting this, you turn to Daemon. Your face twists at his expression, seemingly so genuinely appalled by the thought and so very truly trying to make sense of it all.

You let out a laugh as you brush the lines of his face away with your thumb. He immediately softens at your affection. He blinks, "perhaps it would be better if you stop reading for a while then."

"Daemon, I haven't."

"Well, stop thinking about wanting to read."

You knit your brows at him as he continues, "maybe your mind is tired of reading the same stories over and over again."

You snort, "I barely make sport of rereading my favorite stories. I'm afraid I won't like them anymore if I do."

"Then if that's the case," Daemon says, "reread something."

You watch as he brushes his hands on your thighs, "if new stories are too daunting, then something old will comfort you, surely. After all, you already know what happens. It takes less work, since you won't be thinking about what happens next anymore."

For a moment, you look at your prince, your rugged prince who had no place for reason when it came to certain matters of you, your darling that flew to the North on a whim because you mentioned there was were tomes there that you had always wanted to borrow, your Daemon that broke a pageboy's arm in anger because he accidentally spilled hot soup on you. He seldom made sense, and yet here he was, offering you all the sense he's got.

Of course, his lack of sense you had to make up for, as you personally apologized to the Starks for the theft of their beloved books, and, of course, you tended to the poor boy Daemon injured yourself while apart from offering a much needed generous compensation.

You look at him and feel your stomach mush at his gentleness.

"You don't think I've gone mad?" you mutter.

Daemon's face scrunches. He opens his mouth for a moment before speaking, "do you honestly believe something like this would make you the mad one between us?"

You laugh. You laugh because he's right. You laugh into his shoulder, curling into a ball of delight. You laugh at yourself when your Daemon pointed out how ridiculous you sounded, then you offer in between your giggles, "it's quite mad for me, don't you think?"

Daemon leans into you and pulls you close. Warmth sprawls all over him when you wrap your arms around his torso and kiss his jaw. He releases a deep sigh, shaking his head slowly "oh, yes. You're caught. How utterly tragic."

You knit your brows, stealing a look at him as he continues, "I've not yet made you a Targaryen, and yet here you are, slipping into madness," he raises a brow at you, "I ought to do something about it, shouldn't I, my sweet little lunatic?"

You huff and slap at cheek lightly, "don't call me that."

Daemon chuckles then growls before kissing you on the lips. Your mind slips into a haze at the feel of his mouth. He pulls back and grips at your thigh, "Pardon me. I meant my insanely massive lunatic."

[its-actually-minicika]

WHAT'S COMING THIS MONTH

Lol I couldn't post anything this weekend

Beauty and the Beast AU

(Aemond x Reader)

What to expect in the long run: multiple chapters, really really REALLY long slowburn, some Daemon x Reader if you squint, unhinged Aegon that's somehow smoother in the art of swooning than Aemond himself, yes we're sticking to the OG but i'm still adding stuff from the 2017 version + my own personal spin to it

White Lotus AU

(Aemond x Reader)

What to expect in the long run: possibly multiple chapters (a maximum 4), modern!Aemond being an asshole yet somehow staying in character, Alys Rivers makes an appearance in this one, ANGST., cheating, adults making really bad decisions for twistedly selfish reasons

Sullied Honor

(Aemond x Reader x Daemon x Jace WOW AREN'T YOU POPULAR)

What to expect in the long run: oneshot (hallelujah), ONE BED TROPE ONE BED TROPE ONE BED TROPE, jealous Aemond, smutty action, technically a continuation for my 3d Imagine;

[asumi2020202]

Blessing disguised as a Curse

Pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x Targaryen!reader.

A/N: After the 1st episode of season two I'm currently obsessing over Jacaerys. So, many Jacaerys stories will be uploaded as well as Aemond cuz I Love him too. Thank you for reading this fiction.

Summary: You were Alicent's daughter. Younger than the three, Aegon, Aemond and Helaena but older than Daeron. After returning from Dragonstone, Rhaenyra proposes a marriage pact between her eldest and you. A man your mother had warned you about.

___________________________ฅ⁠^⁠•⁠ﻌ⁠•⁠^⁠ฅ______

People and gatherings made you nervous. Anxiety coursed through your veins everytime someone started a conversation with you. Solitude was what you preferred. Your comfort was your sister and by some means her bugs as well.

Your mother warned you of the people that were coming back to Kings Landing. She told you to keep distance from them. Though you paid almost no mind to her words which were half controlled by your grandsire, you couldn't help but ponder about those people she talked about.

You knew them from the start before they fled to Dragonstone after taking your precious brother's eye. You had felt hatred towards them but 'what if they change?' You had thought countless of times.

You loved your siblings more than anything. Having a father only by name in the court and a stranger in the halls as he supported your half-sister with everything she had done even if it was killing someone.

You love them. You tried to be there for them through everything. You love Aegon even if was arrogant and misbehaving. You love Aemond even if he wanted revenge. You love Helaena even if she is called weird by others and is obsessed with bugs. You love Daeron even if you have almost no memory of him left.

_________________________________________

You were playing with little Jaehaerys and Jaehaera while Helaena was telling you more facts about bugs. She loved that her baby sister also had interest in her bugs and helps her catch them.

"Did you know that butterflies join their bodies together to reproduce?" Helaena asks you meeting your gaze.

"Really? I used to think they flap their wings together." You reply as you played with Jaehaerys while little Jaehaera sat on your lap.

"Hmm. The male butterfly often dies soon after they mate." Helaena spoke as her gaze shifted back on her embroidery.

"So then the female butterfl-" you were going to reply when the doors opened to reveal your mother.

Both you and Helaena looked up at her while the children were escorted away by the maids. " They have landed. Remember what I have told you my sweelings. Be on your best behaviours." Alicent spoke.

"Yes mother we understand " you replied speaking for both you and your sister. Alicent left the room after nodding at you.

_________________________________________

After meeting with her daughters, Alicent left their room. A maid informed her that Princess Rhaenyra had wanted to meet with her.

Alicent let the maid guide her to the room where Rhaenyra was present. When they reached the place, the maid opened the door to let the Queen inside.

Alicent was met with Rhaenyra. She could tell just by the looks that Rhaenyra was pregnant.

"It has been too long since we were granted the chance to converse" Alicent spoke, breaking the silence.

"Indeed it has been. I know you were busy with the royal matters at hand, so I asked for you at a time when you would be free." Rhaenyra replied looking into Alicent's eyes.

"Is there any important matter that you wish to discuss with me?" Alicent asked.

"Yes, there is one actually. The rift between us has lived far too long. I propose a marriage pact. My son Jacaerys will inherit the Iron Throne after me. Let my son and your youngest daughter be betrothed together so they shall rule together.

We are one family. And long before that we were close friends." Rhaenyra said and looked at Alicent for an answer.

"I sh-" Alicent was going to speak but Rhaenyra interjected.

"This marriage will help us reconcile with each other." She said.

"I shall think of it and give you your answer after the feast tonight." Alicent replied. "Thank you your grace." Rhaenyra smiled at her.

_________________________________________

Alicent had requested an audience with her father after meeting Rhaenyra to discuss about the marriage.

"Father I can't just sacrifice my child." Alicent pleaded. "I know Alicent but this marriage can help us take the throne and make Aegon the king." Otto reasoned.

"Tell Rhaenyra that you agree to this proposal. If y/n is married to her son then it will be easier to control them. When the throne is returned to the rightful heir, it will be easier to prevent war." Otto continued.

Alicent feeling defeated, agreed to her father's request.

_________________________________________

You were in your sister's chambers, waiting for her to get finished dressing up so you both could attend the feast together.

Your dress was simple yet the details on it were impressive. It was was a navy blue dress with golden details. It made you look ethereal.

When Helaena was done, the both of you left the chambers together. Holding tightly onto the hands of your sister as the maids escorted you to the feast hall.

All were seated at the table only getting up when Viserys arrived before sitting down again.

You were seated on the right side of Helaena as Aegon sat on her left. Aemond sat at the end of the table. Rhaena and Baela sat on your right. Starting small conversations which you could connect to and laugh with them.

You were trying hard to not feel nervous. You couldn't really face upfront only talking to Rhaena, Baela and Helaena.

Jacaerys had never thought you to be so beautiful over the years. When he first saw you after the years, he hadn't believed it was you. Only five and ten yet you were the most beautiful lady in his eyes. He had seen you accidentally when he was watching Aemond train, you stood in your balcony gazing at the sky. It was he who actually reasoned with his mother to marry you to him.

He couldn't take his eyes off of you during the feast. The way the dress showed your curves. The way you white hair was style. The necklace on your neck. He was in love.

You on the other hand couldn't even meet his gaze after what your mother told you.

'His brother took your brother's eye, who knows if one day he comes and decides to bring harm to us as well.' she had said.

Jace got up, walking upto you. Lending his hand forward, asking for a dance. You looked at your mother who just nodded. After which you had accepted his hand.

He led you to the side. The music had started. As you both started to dance. He didn't seem so bad. He seemed gentle, offering you bright smiles to which you just gave some small ones.

He looked different. Different than how your mother described him. Ruthless, arrogant, selfish and such.

After the feast, when the children went to their designated chambers, Alicent told Rhaenyra that she had accepted the marriage proposal. That she would try to forget the past and reconcile with her.

The two women decided that they shall break the news to the children and the king next morning, bidding each other a good night.

_________________________________________

You woke early as usual. Your maids had prepared you for the day. A knock on the door took your attention.

It was Jace.

The one who you felt some type of attachment to after the previous feast. He stood infront of your door as he said "Our mothers have requested an audience with us at the King's chambers. I was asked to inform you and take you to them."

"Very well then my prince, let us leave at once." You replied, getting up from your seat and walking down the corridor with him.

'My prince?' oh how sweet it sounded coming from your mouth. But he didn't want 'my prince', he wanted 'husband'.

He knew why they both were called, his mother told him yesterday night before he fell asleep. That the two would be married soon.

Upon arrival at the King's chambers, you greeted your mother, Rhaenyra and the king.

"Ah you've arrived. Do sit. Your mother and I have agreed on something and we wish for your answer as well." Rhaenyra said giving a smile while holding hands with Alicent like she used to when they were children.

You nodded your head as a sign for her to continue speaking.

"We have decided that you and my son Jace shall be betrothed together for the harmony of our family. Your mother has agreed and so has Jace but I wish for your answer." Rhaenyra finished her saying.

"It is a most judicious proposition. Wouldn't you agree daughter?" King Viserys who was resting in his armchair spoke up.

You looked at your mother, who stared at you and offered a smile and then to Jacaerys who looked around your face to find any kind of rejection.

You looked up at Rhaenyra, anxiety flaring through and spoke "if it can help the family be whole again and please my mother then I shall agree."

Rhaenyra's face brightened as did Jace's. Alicent only nodded.

"Well then. I believe we can start with the preparations right away." Rhaenyra said getting up to hold your hands as you looked up to her.

_________________________________________

"You've warned me my entire life about them mother, and now you simply marry me off to him. I don't get you." You spoke to your mother calmly.

"Sweetling, I know it is difficult for you but it is for the greater good. It is to uphold the realm and make peace." Alicent reasoned while placing her hand on your face.

No other word was spoken as you went back to your chambers.

You liked Jacaerys after the events of last night but you couldn't help but worry about what your mother told you. You couldn't help but worry about your siblings, you would have to leave your home and go to Dragonstone with them.

_________________________________________

Three days since that day, your wedding was held. You and Jace cut your lips and the your palms. Holding your hands together, you both drank from the same cup with your other hands. The septa reciting the vows the both of you had to take.

Your families bear witness of the event. Of the love that was to blossom.

After the feast that was held, you left for your now shared chambers in the red keep.

Jacaerys came in a moment after you. You felt nervous. It was your first night together. As if a miracle, he sense your nervousness.

"Is something bothering you dear wife? You even left the feast early." He asked softly not to startle you.

Wife. Oh how you knew you will love him just from how that word slipped from his mouth.

"It is nothing lord husband. It's just that I don't fare well in gatherings. I find solace in solitude." You reply back.

"Well I hope that from now on I can be your solace." Jacaerys replied with his bright smile as he came closer to you. Your chest almost touching his lower chest.

He was tall. You had tilt your head up to meet him. You didn't move aside as he cupped your cheeks and looked at your for permission.

As you nodded, he took the sign and kissed you. You both had consummated that night for the first time.

________________________________________

The day came when you had to leave with them to Dragonstone. You would eventually come back when Rhaenyra would be crowned.

You stood before your siblings and parents, kissing the cheeks of your siblings. "Will you come back soon?"

"Of course my little cuddle bears." You said as you crouched down to meet the level of your nephew and niece.

You climbed on top of your dragon, Moonfyre as they all bid you farewell. You heart saddened as you thought that Helaena would be alone now with Aegon ignoring her. Aemond might not even apply his ointments properly. And your mother.. would be lonely.

Moonfyre sensed your worry and sadness, letting out a low groan. She was as beautiful as the night. A white dragon whose color slowly went from white to grey. Eyes as bright as the moon, earning her name when she hatched.

_________________________________________

Viserys was dead. It had been moons since you left. A raven had informed Rhaenyra that her half brother Aegon had usurped the throne.

The weight of the matter forced her to go in labor. Her child was a stillborn. It pained her. You knew it tore her from the inside but she had to focus one the matters at hand.

Ser Eryyk had came with the crown of King Jaehaerys I. Daemon crowned her as the queen as all bowed. Otto came to make peace with them which resulted in rejection straight up in his face.

She sent her sons to earn the favor of other houses.

_________________________________________

"Y/n" you heard her call you from the back as stood near the stairs of Dragonstone, gazing at the sea.

"Come walk with me" she told you. As you both went down the stairs to the beach, you both had a gentle conversation.

"Do you wish to switch sides? I would not blame you if you do for they are your family." Rhaenyra spoke.

"All my life, I've seen them being neglected. By both father and mother. I was their and still am their comfort source.

Aegon always told me that he will not sit the iron throne. He told me that being a king will only hold him down in one place, and that he wishes to fly free like a dragon." You pause, looking at her eyes while gently holding her hand before continuing.

"And now they tell me that he has Usurped the throne. That he is now the king and that he now rules. That doesn't seem like the Aegon i know." You told her as she looked at you and nodded her head.

_________________________________________

You stood in the middle of Rhaena and Baela as see someone tell Rhaenyra a few words as she broke down.

She turned around, her eyes filled with rage and sorrow.

Lucerys was dead. Vhagar attacked him.

You felt helpless. Did your brother intentionally kill the Heir to Driftmark? You knew he had a deep hatred for Lucerys for taking his eye. But he wouldn't go as far as to kill him.

A raven had been sent to Jacaerys, informing him of the news. You couldn't face the queen. She knew you were innocent but that cannot pardon the sin of your brother.

You had began to open up but now your alone again. The little child seeking solitude. Hiding from people.

_________________________________________

A raven had arrived, delivering a letter to you. It was from the Red Keep. It was Aegon.

Dear Sister,

I know what has been done cannot be changed, but Aemond didn't actually wanted to kill Luke. It was grandsire. He got in his head like mother. He lost control over Vhagar.

I don't wish to rule. They told me that inorder for Rhaenyra to rule, she would have to kill us. That she would kill us all to secure the throne for her and her son. Grandsire said the same thing to Mother the other day, I had overheard it.

This war shouldn't happen. It will tear all of us apart. We are not the enemy of the blacks nor are they ours. Our enemy is Otto Hightower. He wants to rule the kingdom indirectly by being the hand.

Tell our half sister that we must work together. That I am willing to lay down my throne. She will be the Protector of the Realm. I know this is a crucial time for you but stay safe.

-Yours truly

Aegon.

You didn't know what to say. You were Alicent's daughter, who would believe you. They might consider you a traitor as well. You clutched the letter to your chest.

You walls finally broke. You broke down on the bed. It was him from the beginning. Otto Hightower. Anger and pain surrounded you. You cried as you brought your knees to your chest and hid your face there.

The door slowly opened which you hadn't noticed. It was Jacaerys. He had a melancholy look in his eyes as well as of guilt and hatred.

He hated seeing you cry. His Lady Wife. He gently put his head on your back. You looked up to meet his gaze with a tearful look.

The way he looked broke your heart. He looked used and betrayed. You got up and met his gaze again never letting go of the letter.

"Lord husband-" you started but he shakes his head as a no.

"Don't. Don't speak." He tried to say it normally but it came out cold as he walked towards the desk in your room to perhaps look for something.

"Please listen to me. He is innocent. I got a ra-" You started again but got cut off.

""Innocent?! He killed my brother! How can you possibly call him innocent?! My brother went as a messager. He vowed not to fight and Your Brother!..... Took advantage of that!" He screamed at you. For the first time. You had never seen him so angry even when your brothers teased him. He looked at you with hatred.

Tears flooded your vision again. He had never raised his voice at you. You knew it was due to the loss of his brother but that didn't hurt any less.

"I understand your pain. But you must listen to me! At least once hus-" you reasoned which angered him further.

"How can you understand My pain?! T'is I who lost my brother not you. And whats there to listen to? That your brother killed him accidentally?!

Tell me. Were you also a part of this? I truly thought you had loved me. But it seems you're the same as well!" He shouted again coming closer to you.

"I truly do love you. Please believe me!" Your tears flowed freely.

"No you don't. Tell me... Was this marriage also a scheme of you and your family?! Shut up, just shut up for once!"

Your eyes went wide. He wanted you to shut up. You were bothering him. He doubted your love for him. His own eyes widened a bit when he realised what he said. He left the chambers in a hurry not wanting to discuss about this further.

Your chest felt tight. You couldn't breathe properly. You had trouble while trying to inhale the air.

_________________________________________

As Jacaerys left the chambers, he felt as if his clothes were too tight for his body. He saw Baela and Rhaena bringing your food to your chambers like they have been since the day they received the news of Luke.

They nodded at him as he reciprocated.

As they went inside the chambers, a scream could be heard. Possibly from Baela. It could be heard from all the corners of the castle.

Jace heard it before anyone else as his heart stopped. He rushed straight back to the shared room as he saw Baela cradling your unconscious, small form to her chest while Rhaena panicked and told the maids to call for the maesters.

His breathing stopped as he saw his mother and Princess Rhaenys enter the room along with the maester and maids. His mother looked at him as his eyes filled with tears.

First he lost Lucerys he can't lose you too. He didn't mean anything he said.

_________________________________________

Jacaerys paced around the hall infront of your room. He watched as Rhaena guided his little brother Joffery to his room. Joffery was fond of you which warmed Jace's heart.

As the maesters came out both he and Rhaenyra stood up.

"How is she?" He asked them.

"She has a heavy fever. It possibly happened due to excessive stress. She must have bed rest. " The maesters spoke before leaving.

_________________________________________

It had been 2 days. You were yet to wake up. Moonfyre's cries and wails could be heard from everywhere. She was uncomfortable. Her bonded sister was not well and she could sense it.

Jace held your hand as he apologized over and over again. His tears wetting the sheets.

Your eyes slowly opened. Adjusting to the bright light. Jace looked up to see you now wide awake, trying to sit up.

"No no lay down. You need rest. The maester said you were stressed." He said. His voice quivering.

"Don't cry. I understand your part. I'm sorry I am not what you wish for. I know you wouldn't want to be with a murderer's sister. Hence I give you full permission to take a second wife." You gently said while looking at him.

"No shut up." He said lowly not believing what you said. "I didn't mean anything I said that day. I am sorry." He spoke.

You looked out the window remembering the last time he had asked you to shut up. Tears again filled your eyes which you blinked away but Jace noticed.

"My love i didn't mean it that way. Please believe me." He pleaded shaking his head as held your hand tight.

News spreads fast in the castle. A maid had informed the rest that you were awake. Daemon was with Caraxes and lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys were somewhere on the beach.

Rhaenyra, Rhaena and Baela came to the your chambers. The sisters came beside you as they held onto your hand.

Even though you were the daughter of their enemy, they loved you. You were different.

Rhaenyra looked at her son before turning her gaze to you. She felt disappointed in her son after she learned about the argument.

You asked Rhaena for the letter kept on your bedside table as your body was too weak to move. You probably need a few more weeks to be healthy again.

You asked her to give it Rhaenyra.

As Rhaenyra opened the letter and read it's contents, she felt clueless. She didn't realise the state of the other side. Her companion was manipulated from the start.

She held your hand and gave you a sad look. She handed the letter to Jace as she thought that he should read it as well.

His heart broke. You tried to tell him everything but he refused to listen. You tried to explain everything but he only badmouthed you.

Rhaenyra promised you that Otto Hightower will be punished and that none of your siblings would be harmed.

_________________________________________

Calling of your name came from two bubbly voice as they ran to you. You crouched down and opened your arms. The force of your nephew and niece's weight made you fall flat on your butt.

Jacaerys smiled as he saw the reunion. Infront of him stood your four siblings whom you kissed on the cheeks and hugged after getting up.

It was Rhaenyra's official coronation day. Otto Hightower was beheaded for his schemes against the crown.

Rhaenyra and Alicent were finally together again after Rhaenyra found Daemon with Nettles.

All of the royal family stood as King Jaehaerys' crown was placed upon her head. All gave their respects to their first queen.

Jacaerys held your hand tight as he smiled at you which you reciprocated.

_________________________________________

As night fell over kings landing, you and Jace retired to your new shared chambers.

"Husband. Join me in bed." You requested. Your body glowing in your night gown because of the moonlight.

"Of course avy jorrāelan." Jace replied as he climbed on top of the bed and over your body, pinning you down.

He kissed you passionately as one of your hand cupped his face while the other held onto his neck for support.

His naked chest glowed like yours in the moonlight.

"You are most precious thing I have my love." He said as pulled away from your lips.

"And you, my lord husband, came in my life like a blessing disguised as a curse." You said as you both looked at each other and hungrily kissed each other.

The two of slept a long time after consummating the entire night.

He truly did came in your life like a Blessing disguised as a Curse.....

-Lillian