#daemon fic in progress

[aeralux]

Me spending hours on the Westeros Wiki so my fics actually make sense canonically and according to the worldbuilding of R. R. Martin...

It's tough out here

[dragonladies]

writing fuck ass aus for clipped wings is my burden and irl oomfie steph is the devil hunched on my shoulder

[swordgrace]

❝ 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐧-𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐡. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: as handmaiden to rhaenyra targaryen, you have stood ever-faithfully by her side, through the brewing storm. loneliness seems to tether the two of you together.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: rhaenyra targaryen x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 10.0K (not sorry)

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), power imbalance (not in a bad way), age gap (legal), infidelity, mentions of rhaenicent and daemyra, rhaenyra is bisexual, internalized homophobia, lots of making out, groping, biting, dry humping, risk of getting caught, fingering (fem!rec), breast play, cunnilingus, oral sex (fem!rec), rhaenyra is a soft pleasure dom, aftercare + sweet ending.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: first wlw fic & first time writing for rhaenyra, please be gentle! ngl I loved writing this so unbelievably much, I would love some requests for her! I hope you all enjoy, I’m really proud of this one and it’s def more meaningful to me as a queer woman! ❤️

TEMPESTUOUS TIDES RAGED WITHIN A CERULEAN OCEAN, WAVES KISSING THE CLIFF SIDES OF DRAGONSTONE, AN ANCIENT CITADEL HELD ALOFT BY ARCHAIC STONE. SALTWATER MIST HUNG HEAVY UPON THE BREEZE, A MIDDAY SUN GLISTENING OVERHEAD, BLANKETING THE SEASON IN GLITTERING RAYS OF VIBRANCY.

In the wake of usurpation, the realm was torn asunder, thrust into the wake of a war that had already consumed lives — lives that needn’t be lost. Upon the knife’s edge of chaos, Rhaenyra had felt more alone than ever before.

Loyalties were fickle; some bought, others severed. As days progressed, she had felt more frayed than ever, stretched too thin. Bloodthirst had already consumed the life of her beloved Lucerys and Prince Jaehaerys II, a needless slaughter.

The day had progressed at a sluggish pace, between council meetings and correspondence with Jacaerys. Poised within an ornate chair, she remained sequestered within her chambers, lingering beside the window, left ajar.

Betwixt her fingers, she cradled the crown of Jaehaerys the Conciliator, once the emblem of a peaceful Targaryen regime — formerly placed upon the brow of her late father.

Recent occurrences had forced her to face an ugly preponderance; did the crown fit upon her own brow as it had for so many others before her?

Had her father never been so brazen as to break hundreds of years of tradition, Lucerys might still live, and the realm at-peace. Rhaenyra lived with the knowledge that a greater war lingered beyond, hidden within the shadows — the Conqueror’s dream.

With Daemon gone to play King-Consort in the Riverlands and Jacaerys determined to gain the allegiance of the Freys, it was as if she were standing alone upon an island. Rhaenys could only console her so much before such wise words lost their luster.

Even Elinda herself was away; and that left you, bound to the Queen’s side.

Raised within a lesser house who had sworn their allegiance to Viserys’s true heir, your servitude to Queen Rhaenyra had been one of the greatest honors of your lifetime.

With her half-brother now sitting the Iron Throne, conflict chafed at the realm, cruel tendrils seeking to spread across the land; an embittered war of kin against kin. Such strife was felt by all within Dragonstone, including yourself.

Tension seemed to linger within the Queen, a terse countenance interlaced with an underlying melancholy. Grief still clung to her; the passing of Lucerys, the passing of her stillborn daughter. With Daemon away and their relationship fragmented, you often felt concerned for her wellbeing.

It was expected of her, to remain headstrong — to shoulder the weight of responsibility, the curse of a crown so heavy that it nearly obliterated her. However, you were privy to her strength, a resilient determination to seize her birthright, come what may.

Summoned to her chambers, your knuckles tapped against ancient wood, iron-wrought doors groaning in protest. The creaking reverberated throughout the hall of stone, slivers of sunlight dancing across the floors.

“My Queen,” A soft cough bubbled from your throat, effectively fracturing her ruminations. Lilac hues drifted from the tarnished crown to you, sharp features bathed in the midday glow. “You summoned me.”

Rhaenyra had become something of a friend to you, if that term were appropriate for a monarch. In her own perspective, you were a shrewd maiden; comely and polite, loyal without fault. Conversation had felt effortless with her, and oftentimes, she confided in you without question.

The strife she faced was immense, and to you, she seemed exceptionally lonely, a notion that you were empathetic to. Despite the differences in histories and the lives you led, you were not bereft of your morality.

Rising from her seat, the Queen regarded you with an indiscernible expression, some amalgamation of warmth intermingled with something forlornly. A cordial smile crossed her features, fading as soon as it had appeared.

“Yes,” Placing the crown upon the window’s ledge, she smoothed her palms over her gown, a rich hue of burgundy, trimmed in draconic patterns of silver. “I wish for you to accompany me to the archives. I’ve much reading to do.”

Targaryen histories were not unfamiliar to her, and yet, it proved a worthy distraction in the face of such uncertainty. Rhaenyra hoped that it would better serve her reign, to know of the Conqueror’s Dream, of the coming war in the North.

“Of course, your Grace.” Devotion was a mere understatement when it came to that of your Queen; you admired her all the same. She carried herself with a dignified strength that you yearned for, a poise becoming of a ruler.

Stepping aside, you made a berth for Rhaenyra, allowing her to pass before you flocked to her flank. The Queensguard prepared to accompany you, causing the Queen to halt in her tracks.

“We needn’t be accompanied.” Rhaenyra’s sharp announcement was enough to rattle both men, Ser Darklyn and Ser Marbrand taking careful steps back, posted outside of her chambers. With a soft hum, the Queen continued, her gait measured as it came to slow.

Oftentimes, you were behind her, commonplace for a lady of your station. Much to your bewilderment, she had let her pace come to a leisurely crawl, keeping in-stride with you. “Your Grace, do not trouble yourself with …”

“Nonsense,” A brief sigh unraveled from her lips, hands poised before her, occasionally gathering her skirts to descend a flight of stairs. “I cannot speak with you if I am far ahead.” It was a welcome change-of-pace for you, admittedly.

Neglecting to protest her request, you nodded, allowing yourself to dutifully walk by her side. For a moment, you remained silent, afraid to speak your mind. “As you wish, your Grace. If I may inquire, what is the reason for our visit to the library?”

“You have already inquired,” A teasing lilt clung to her tone, a cadence that oozed with grace. She was ethereal, whimsical to behold, in truth. You had never glimpsed upon a woman as beautiful as she, lilac hues possessing a faint shimmer. “It is a distraction, reading; I can only stomach so much of my chamber walls.”

A peculiar heat crawled along the nape of your neck, hands folding themselves together as you made for the library. “I am sure that the constant scenery can become mundane for you, my Queen. I should hope that this venture offers you solace.”

Solace — Rhaenyra had not felt such a sensation in many years, merely a facade. For much of her life, it had been hallmarked by tragedy and betrayal, and yet, she knew what privilege she had, even still.

Lucerys’s passing had left a void within her, chipped away by Viserys, by Visenya, who never drew her first breath. Grief followed her like a haunting spectre, nipping at her heels, allowing its gnarled tendrils to wrap around her heart.

Attempting to brave the tumultuous storm of melancholy tested her at every turn, and each day, the pain only seemed to ebb and flow. This war had already taken much from her — Rhaenyra wondered how much more it would cost her.

A sheen of sadness shimmered within her gaze, drawn toward the distance, as if she were remembering. You feared that you had spoken out-of-turn, lips parting as you cleared your throat. “Forgive me, your Grace — I did not mean to offend.”

Rhaenyra seemed dismissive of your apology, as the two of you entered through arching doors, marked by flickering braziers. Dragonstone’s library was rather impressive, scaling walls filled with ancient tomes and scrolls, pieces of the past all kept within one sanctuary.

“You did not offend, sweet girl.” The warmth of her affectionate moniker made your stomach tremble with butterflies, a sensation you seldom felt.

It was not your responsibility to bear the brunt of her pain, and Rhaenyra knew this. Your words were of good intent, tidings of peace, if that were even attainable. She recalled what it was like when she was your age — times were simpler, then.

Following her into the labyrinth of parchment, it seemed that she had already made a temporary residence here. A large, ornate desk had already been organized with historical volumes and various papers, one that she had made consistent use of.

As she lowered herself into one of the numerous chairs, you curiously ogled the many shelves, wishing that you had enough time to read it all. Possessing a passion for literature, you wondered what hidden gems rest beneath the mountainous weight of parchment.

The hall remained quiet, save for the distant song of the tides, the air carrying the distinct scent of dust-laden paper. Braziers crackled with smoldering embers, daylight pooling in through stained-glass window panes.

Rhaenyra’s gaze flickered to you, silently wandering the numerous shelves that scaled to the ceilings. “You are welcome to read whatever you wish,” Bewilderment etched itself into your features. “Most of these texts have seen better days.”

It felt like a sin, laying your hand upon anything in this library — it was all above you, a mausoleum of Targaryen histories and beyond. “That is a thoughtful offer, my Queen, but I do not believe that it is appropriate for someone of my station …”

A soft huff tore past her parted lips, a glint of amusement heavy within lilac hues. With a dismissive sound, she shook her head. “I believe that it is appropriate. They shall find no use, otherwise.” A lighthearted lilt permeated her tone, and you promptly curtsied.

Gratitude seeped from every pore, lips curling into a gentle smile. “You have my thanks, your Grace.” Curiosity got the better of you, gaze lingering over many texts, until one in particular seized your attention.

It was a lightweight volume, riddled with dust, careworn from the passage of time. Its tattered pages contained plenty of material regarding the history of dragons, something that perplexed you to no end.

Prying it from the shelf, you moved to sit, dusting your fingertips across the book’s dilapidated cover. The color had faded, showing signs of age, but you persisted. Much of the script was written in High Valyrian, a language that you knew pieces of, a puzzle indiscernible to you.

Rooted behind the sturdy expanse of an ornate table, Rhaenyra observed you, even still. Violet hues brazenly rake across your hands; delicate yet hardened, like that of some precious jewel.

Beauty clung to your youthful features like the first breath of spring, vibrant and warm. It was your heart that oozed with a brightness, the same was your countenance. She had grown fond of you, perhaps too fond, suppressing lingering feelings.

The mass of parchment beneath her palm suddenly loses all of its meaning. It is the stare of a dragon, one that unknowingly covets something that does not belong to her. Trapped within the cage of her own thoughts, the Queen does not register the inquiry that floated from your lips.

A tendril of shame festers within her, then and there. Rhaenyra exhaled, jaw terse as she regarded you with a kindly disposition, albeit a touch strained. It was the same shame she had felt when she first held Alicent’s hand, when she had bed Harwin Strong; something forbidden.

Whatever she began to feel, she knew that it was somewhat an extension of her loneliness; her sons away, Daemon drowning in the fire of his ambition, Rhaenys to Driftmark.

“Your Grace?”

“My apologies,” With a distant smile, lilac hues briefly avert themselves, as if attempting to remain innocuous. “I have felt strained, as of-late. It is something that I should not subject you to.”

Words sizzled upon your tongue, begging for freedom as you sat straighter, your gaze tearing itself away from the book. “I do not intend to speak out of-turn, my Queen, but I would consider you something of a friend — you have not subjected me to anything.”

True, pious friendships seemed difficult to obtain for her, most having passed, others now turncoats in the wake of the Greens’ reign. A flicker of appreciation settled within her eyes, fingertips brushing across a bound scroll.

Rhaenyra had confided plenty in you, professed doubts and insecurities, spilled her heart and let it bleed onto her sleeve; there was nothing truer than that. “You have my gratitude — truly.” Her voice was gentle yet regal, a lull that often enticed you.

“You needn’t thank me, your Grace. I know that you have been pressed beneath an oppressive weight, a burden that I do not fully understand. Your strength does not go unnoticed.” Sympathy clung to each syllable, a sentiment that she clung to, heart stirring within her breast.

A brief hum escaped her, one that bordered upon sardonic as she toyed with a piece of parchment. “I do not often feel as strong as I should,” Her confession was wrought with dismay. “I know that many would view my inaction as a weakness.”

Daemon had urged her to act — to kill, to burn, to obliterate — Rhaenyra had not found it within herself to conform to such intentions. She had little desire to rule over a kingdom of ash, let alone bloodletting when so much had been spilled already.

Some sliver of her desired that — bloodlust, revenge, the heads of usurpers upon spikes.

It would always be part of her, something she had learned to acknowledge. Meeting your gaze, her jaw tensed somewhat, considering her next words before you cut through the tenuous silence.

“Strength is not always found in our actions — sometimes it is the things we do not follow through on, our temperance,” A brief pause; your hands folded together atop your book. “A sound leader considers the counsel of those around her, and herself — and you have done just that.”

Rhaenyra considered you in silent observation, mauve hues flickering over you with a thinly-veiled admiration. “If only so many thought as you did,” Her smile was forlorn, heavy with doubt. “I often wonder if the throne truly is my birthright.”

“I did not know your father, your Grace, but from what I’ve been told, he never faltered from naming you heir — it is your birthright,” Nails began to dig into the book’s fragile spine. “Despite what opposition lingers, you are the Queen this realm deserves.”

It was a satisfying feeling, to be believed in, to be beloved — Rhaenyra seldom felt such sensations in recent weeks, often undermined at each turn. She seemed to subtly preen beneath the genuine weight of your words, warmth fluttering throughout her sternum.

“You have my thanks.” With a solemn lament, the Queen’s incendiary gaze remained transfixed upon you, features blanketed by a warm smile. She found you to be comely, a young maiden who desired purpose in the world.

“Of course, my Queen,” Words stilled upon your tongue, a bout of hesitancy gripping you before you continued. “To have a woman sit the Throne would mean more than you could ever imagine to so many, including myself.”

Men had always sat upon the Iron Throne, but Rhaenyra’s opportunity to strike down a longstanding tradition was at-hand. She had often detested the roles laid before her in her youth — betrothals, marriages, stripped of independence.

She could seldom imagine what women endured, especially those less fortunate than herself. Your circumstances were something similar — serving at her side had spared you from a potential betrothal, something that you had little desire for.

Rhaenyra considered your words — what importance they held, the implications. Should the war be won and her crown reclaimed, she wondered how much it would mean to the smallfolk, to denizens like yourself.

“I should hope that I am worthy enough for it,” It was the wisp of insecurities breathing life into her words, and she shook her head. “I apologize — I do not wish for this conversation to be so dour.” She uttered, stress residing within her visage.

Perplexed, your head cocked to one side, as if she had said something blasphemous. “There is no one worthier, my Queen,” Lips fleetingly curled into an amiable, reassuring smile. “You needn’t apologize for it, either. I know that these last few weeks have not been kind to you.”

A sharp pang of aching melancholy festered within her heart, a raw reminder of loss, of love’s rage. Rhaenyra seemed to grow distant for a moment, as if attempting to compose herself for the sake of your conversation.

Growing quiet, you wondered if you had sorely overstepped her boundaries with such words, able to feel the forlornly frustration wafting from her. In truth, you also felt more alone than ever — your father was away, family scattered to the winds.

The Queen was the only source of companionship you had, and despite being bound by duty, you thoroughly enjoyed her presence. Time had withered the tenuous air between you both, weathering away your initial intimidation until the both of you spoke freely.

Rising from her seat, Rhaenyra’s measured steps rounded the table, coming to lean against the edge as she peered at her hands. “I feel as if I haven’t had a moment’s peace to properly grieve, as if duty demands I must press on.”

She mourned who her daughter could’ve been — something fierce, someone kind, and she mourned who Lucerys was, gentle and just. Their weight within her heart felt heavy, a raw reminder of their passing.

“When my sister died, kind words seemed fleeting — everyone seemed too preoccupied with replacing her, with what came next, instead of acknowledging the void that she left,” As you spoke with such sympathy, Rhaenyra’s eyes softened. “I felt much the same, left without a moment to mourn what I lost.”

As you moved from your seat, your gaze seemed drawn to the midday sun pooling in from the windows, catching flecks of dust through the glittering rays. The book felt incredibly weighty within your hands, no longer holding the significance that it had moments prior.

“I am sorry for your sister,” She uttered, pale brows furrowing together. Dismissive of it, the Queen cleared her throat. “I am no stranger to loss,” Rhaenyra lamented, her smile a saddened one, lilac hues following you with an unusual intensity. “It does not make things any easier, I’m afraid.”

With a brief shake of your head, your head canted toward the ground, averting her stare. “It does not — I hope that peace finds you, my Queen. You’ve endured much, and yet, you remain resilient.”

Rhaenyra felt soothed by your words, a kindness that seemed lacking within her counsel as of-late. There was a semblance of ease, at your side. “I must thank you, for speaking to me — it does some good to converse in this way.”

A bubble of laughter slipped past your lips, a fleeting sound that seemed heavy with a sense of contentment. “You needn’t continue to thank me, your Grace. I value this just as much as you do — you are the only voice I’ve heard in these last few days.”

A rare smile graced the Queen’s features, hauntingly beautiful, ethereal like the rest of her. It waned as soon as it had appeared, but you clung to it nonetheless. “I’ve grown rather used to yours.” She remarked, tone bordering upon precociousness.

Tendrils of fire began to seep into your belly, skin crawling with an unnatural warmth. It was sinful to allow yourself to be smitten by the Queen, a woman married, a mother, but it became difficult to ignore the stirring within your chest.

“I should hope it hasn’t become grating for you, your Grace.” With a feeble attempt at deflecting her subtle compliment, your fingers twisted together, interwoven atop the book’s spine. Whatever sentiments surged within you, any attempt to suppress them were futile.

Rhaenyra hummed, head cocking slightly to one side. “Quite the opposite — it eases my heart.” A haze of tension permeated the space between you both, one that seemed to linger.

Swallowing the growing lump that formed within your throat, you appeared flattered, lashes fluttering and your countenance demure. “Thank you, your Grace,” A pause gripped you, and with carelessness, you continued. “I look forward to your company each day, in truth.”

Despite the innocuous nature of your statement, there was something deeper laced within — a yearning, a gnawing ache. Whatever you felt for your Queen, it was steadily transcending all bonds of propriety, a scourge upon her honor, and yours.

In the spirit of transparency, Rhaenyra felt something lurch within her, a desperation; vanquishing loneliness. Growing close to you was not a mere accident, and she felt lecherous in her own desires, not wanting to soil this nurtured companionship.

It was your candor and tenderness that beguiled her so, a gentler hand — kinder than Daemon, softer than Harwin, and lacking Alicent’s callous betrayal.

A brief hitch formed within her throat, subtle in the face of her usual poise, pale brow furrowing in contemplation. Whatever she felt for you, it began to simmer to the surface, like the violent swell of a tempestuous tide, dragging her beneath the squall.

With a steady exhale, Rhaenyra had stepped closer, well within arm’s reach of you. “As I long for yours,” She uttered. “You’ve been a spot of light in such times of darkness.” Exuding restraint, she looked to you, countenance swirling with an amalgamation of emotions, some indiscernible to you.

Longing seemed too powerful a word, something that evoked a twinge of bewilderment from you. The lull of her cadence subdued you, a rush of heat licking from the nape of your neck to the base of your spine.

The weight of repressed sin hung heavy within your heart, akin to that of an anvil. Such sentiments had plagued you for as long as you could recall, thoughts stretched thin with fantasies that the Faith of the Seven often outlawed.

Yet, when you caught a glimpse of Rhaenyra, none of it felt sinful — it was as if you were burning, basked within a pleasant heat. Her beauty was divine, a goddess swathed in dragon’s scales, violet hues seemingly boring into you, attempting to pick you apart at the seams.

“It is difficult not to feel such isolation,” The confession that spilled from your lips mirrored her own inner turmoil. “Aside from yourself, Elinda, and the Kingsguard, I’ve often felt like a stranger, a ghost shambling about within these halls.”

If you were brazen and emboldened, you might’ve continued, lavishing your Queen with sweet words. You nearly imparted upon her that she had made you feel such invigoration, no longer a spectre — and it all felt so untoward.

“You aren’t alone,” Rhaenyra exhaled, allowing a sliver of tension to unfurl from her shoulders. The silence that had passed between you was nearly exhilarating. “I’ve felt it too, after Daemon departed — more than ever before, in truth.”

Daemon was an enigma — an arrogant enigma, one that had brought both love and suffering into Rhaenyra’s life. His abandonment and ambition were sore subjects as of-late, and she thought of him as a concerned wife would; nothing more.

“You have my sympathies, your Grace,” It seemed to be some pull you had towards one another, strings of fate tethering you to her. Rhaenyra had sluggishly circled about, coming to halt by your side. “Trust that you shall always have my shoulder to lean upon, no matter the storm.”

Whatever action proceeded your words seemed wholly involuntary, as if you were acting upon the stirring within your heart. Brazenly, you had reached for her, unable to stop yourself as your hand slipped against her forearm.

Your comfort and reassurance had ensnared her long before your digits graced her arm, a fire rousing within her. Her heart stuttered, gooseflesh permeating the back of her neck at the briefest sensation, and she did not recoil.

A noticeable shift began to stir, tension simmering to life like that of an open flame, permeating the air around you. Rhaenyra gazed at you longingly, wordlessly reaching for your waist, slender digits curling into the fabric there.

Bewilderment entangled with exhilaration scrawled across your countenance, breath hitching within your throat as she stepped closer. The silence was deafening, wrought with the onslaught of something foreign, something thrilling.

Slowly, your hand began to crawl from her forearm to her shoulder, the neckline of her gown encrusted with jewels and draconic patterns. Rhaenyra did not stop you from continuing, shivering as the silky pads of your fingertips ghosted along the column of her throat.

“My Queen, I …” A sudden fear gripped you then, as if this had carried on to the point of no return. This was the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and you were merely a handmaiden. All bonds of impropriety shattered, besmirching her honor; you would be executed.

Before your weak declaration of protest could be vocalized, she drew you closer still, any sliver of space fading between bodies. Words turned to ash, floating away into the dust-laden library as her lips pressed against yours.

The kiss was brief, dancing upon the thin line of restraint as Rhaenyra drew back, lilac hues half-lidded. She dared not press you further, caressing against the small of your back as you attempted to regain your composure.

It was you she waited for, gauging to see if you wished to continue. Instead of executing caution, you broke upon the blade of temptation, mouth returning to hers after a moment of hesitation. Your kiss lacked experience, sheepishly mimicking her movements.

A sharp exhale ripped through her lungs, pale brows creasing in concentration as she reciprocated your kiss, blinding you with a flurry of passion. She held you close, caging you in against her, able to smell the faint perfume that dabbled your collarbone.

A soft, trembling gasp escaped you as her palm moved to cup the nape of your neck, thumb stroking beneath your ear. Each kiss was akin to a blaze of wildfire, tearing through you with all of its heat and ardent intensity, enough to scorch your flesh.

Clamoring fingers moved to drape themselves over her shoulders, interlocking against the top of her spine, able to graze across her bare skin. Rhaenyra did not relent, grasping you fiercely, as if asserting her claim as she tilted her head, deepening your fervent entanglement.

Some dizzying haze washed over you then, bitten by desire, by devotion. Lips untethered themselves from hers as you pressed a string of kisses against the sharp line of her jaw, and then to her throat. A hum of approval left the Queen, the bridge of her nose buried into your crown.

Reverence seeped into each and every ministration, as if you were worshiping her — and she deserved nothing less. Strings of passionate kisses feathered themselves across her neck, evoking a myriad of pleasurable sounds from Rhaenyra.

Arousal began to mount between your thighs, warm and heady as friction crackled, your back digging into the ornate desk. Despite your glaring inexperience, it became easier to chase after baser instincts, belly sloshing with molten heat.

As you littered her flesh in constant kisses, you felt her palm cup the base of your skull, digits sinking into your tresses. It was her other hand that had tantalizingly danced along your spine before groping your hip, nails catching upon fabric.

Wordlessly, she guided your lips back to hers, thumb caressing your jaw as mouths collided once more. A simpering moan ripped through your diaphragm, lost within the divine labyrinth of her lips.

Deep-seated repression had festered to the surface, unorthodox desires that had brought you ruin and scorn, now laid bare before your charge. It felt wrong to indulge yourself in this way, but in-turn, you had felt so liberated.

Passion blossomed like an untamable thicket, consuming the both of you; hunger followed suit, a tempting shadow. You had not experienced a kiss like this — Rhaenyra was practiced yet unbound, showing little restraint in the face of your own hesitation.

It was then that you felt the feather-light pressure of her thigh split between your legs, briefly grazing your nethers. A sudden shiver gripped you, and you nearly stumbled in your actions, lips clamoring for hers, longing to be near her.

The thunderous groan of wooden doors intercepted the both of you, as you immediately tore away from your Queen as if you’d been scorched. Writhing from between her body and the table, you relocated towards the numerous shelves, heart beating like that of bird’s wings.

“Your Grace, there has been word from The Twins — your son has delivered a missive.” Ser Darklyn announced, standing at the top of the steps, gazing down upon Rhaenyra. Her composure hung by a mere thread as she nodded, hands clenched within her skirts.

“Thank you, Ser Steffon. I shall join you momentarily.” Rhaenyra echoed, features warmed by a shade of scarlet. Mauve hues searched for you, cowering beside a shelf before you swiftly curtsied before her.

Desiring to make a swift exit as to deal with the aftermath of your own dishonorable actions, you swallowed the lump within your throat. “Your Grace, I shall be taking my leave.” Scuttling about, Rhaenyra did not have an opportunity to get in a single word before you’d disappeared from the archives altogether.

Surely, you had misinterpreted things.

As a star-laden penumbra lingered over Dragonstone, you had excused yourself for the evening, allowing another handmaiden to assume your duties. Guilt and shame had ripped through you for the rest of midday, a torrent of sin that threatened to obliterate you.

Strewn across your bed within the underbelly of the servant’s quarters, you were faced with the raw realization of desire.

Throwing yourself at the feet of a woman whose birthright transcended you was unbecoming, untoward; a manifestation of years of seeking purpose, seeking yourself. It was wrong of you to drag the Queen into your own repressed fantasies, ones that you thought you’d buried.

Through the coolness of dusk, you hoped to find some peace in the blanket of slumber, but even that seemed to evade you. It was not yet the hour of the bat, and you felt your body cringe at the sound of the door opening.

“The Queen has asked for you.” Sera crooned, politely shutting the door behind her. Dread seeped into your stomach, and you feared that you had overstepped all boundaries, tarnished honor beyond all recognition.

With limbs like anchors, you slowly clamored from your cot, dressing yourself in your burgundy trappings. Between midday and now, you had freshened up, binding the gown around you as you prepared to make the arduous journey to your Queen’s chambers.

The trek was perilous, as if all time had stood still, and you were left to slog through the growing storm. It was trepidation that gripped you, a gnawing worry that this was all some grave misunderstanding — you prayed that you wouldn’t lose your head.

As you stood before iron-wrought doors, bedecked in the roaring heads of dragons, you noticed the lack of lingering Kingsguard. They were posted elsewhere, further down the corridor, much to your bewilderment.

With a shrewd knock, you heard the command of your Queen from within, beckoning you to enter. Slipping past the set of massive doors, you turned to close them, posture unnaturally rigid as you awkwardly shuffled further into her chambers.

Rhaenyra sat before the hearth, pale tresses unbound from their intricate braids, spilling over slender shoulders. An evening gown of silver clung to her, rich silks from Pentos, shrouded by a robe of a dark cerulean, embroidered with a draconian motif; you had never seen anyone more beautiful.

She ripped the air from your lungs as if she had stolen it herself, poised within a high-backed seat, violet hues drifting away from the flames. The Queen turned enough to catch a glimpse of you, doe-eyed and clearly feeling the weight of nervousness.

“Your Grace, I … I have come to beg for your forgiveness,” You felt as if you were going to wretch, fingers twisting together as you watched her stand, arms loosely folded across her chest. “What occurred today was unbecoming of my station and a stain upon your honor.”

Rhaenyra regarded you with a gentle intensity, eyes swirling with a thinly-veiled adoration. You hadn’t done anything wrong — nothing that she didn’t want, hadn’t dreamt of. Neither she nor you had done anything like this, outside of mere fantasy and years of repression.

She stepped closer, hoping to dissolve your bout of anxiousness. “It is I who should be begging for forgiveness, sweet girl,” She uttered, cadence whimsically smooth, a brilliant lull. “I should have inquired if you wanted to indulge before acting upon my own desires.”

Shock rippled through you, heart hammering like the tides breaking upon rock, and you swallowed once more. “Indulge? My Queen, I — I shouldn’t, I am your servant,” Gods help you — you desired her in a way that shook the foundations of the earth. “Your husband, he …”

“Daemon is not here,” Rhaenyra moved closer, pale brows furrowing as she reached for you, palm cupping your jaw. “You are an equal to me — I would wish for you to stay with me, though I would honor your wishes, whatever you choose.”

The swell of fondness that glistened within her eyes was purely genuine, not born out of desperation or loneliness. She wanted you; craved your beating heart, longing for you like sun-warmed earth.

“It feels sinful to want to stay,” With a wisp of a murmur, you shuddered as silken fingertips brushed over your flesh. It was gentle, loving — something that you felt wholly undeserving of. “And yet I do not wish to leave your side.”

Faith had kept you shackled to misery for so long, and now, Rhaenyra saw you as you were and accepted you for it, loved you for it. She could see the war that waged within you, written so clearly upon your countenance.

It was the same anguish she once saw in Laenor, and she did not wish to see it blossom within you, either. Rhaenyra once felt as you did, with Alicent — such sentiments for her old friend had waned, but the core desire had remained intact.

Disarmingly tender, the Valyrian Queen began to guide you deeper into the comforting recesses of her quarters, a room that you were intimately familiar with. Beside the hearth, you steadily began to relax — just a sliver.

“You are not a sin, sweet girl — none of this is sinful.” Rhaenyra murmured, thumb caressing the curve of your jaw, soothing your inner turmoil. That affectionate moniker of hers had tugged at your heartstrings, uprooted you and everything you thought you knew.

Relief washed over you then, and you turned, lips pressing against her palm. Silence hung heavy, taut with a burning tension as she drew you closer as she had in the archives, lips sealing themselves against yours.

Whatever restraint you had exuded prior had begun to dissipate, splintering at the seams as you clung to her like that of a drowning woman. Your hands clumsily found their purchase atop her shoulders, able to feel her digits sink against your hips, one palm splayed across your lower back.

A moonlit gloom pooled in from stained-glass windows, procuring a glittering array of light across stone floors. Firelight danced from within the hearth, its tendrils illuminating you, blanketing her in a peculiar glow, like that of a dragon.

Two hearts grasped at one another, clawing for a shred of reprieve, of affection — you were endlessly greedy, starved of adoration.

Rhaenyra savored your taste, saccharine and one of sheer piety, a rarity in the realm’s current state. A twinge of nervousness permeated your every move, as if you were afraid to allow desire to unfurl, something that she sympathized with.

Vigor seeped into her kiss, growing in intensity as she caged you in against her, head canting enough to deepen your entanglement. A breathy exhale emerged from betwixt your lips, pitched with a desirous thrill that swallowed you whole.

Withdrawing yourself, the flush of ecstasy clung to your flesh, the first whisper of an ardent heat. Violet hues regarded you with a fondness, oozing sensuality and protection. Her palm idly circled over your spine, allowing you to take your time with it all.

“You are more beautiful than the heavens themselves — the envy of a thousand stars,” As the soft-spoken compliment slipped from your lips, Rhaenyra hummed, mouth twitching into an amicable smile. “My Queen.”

“You discredit yourself, surely,” The Targaryen pressed her lips to your brow, and then to your jaw, reveling in the quiver of your sigh. “I find you captivating, sweetling.” Warmth tore at your bones, elation rippling through you as you preened beneath her alluring words.

Gods, to be cherished, to be wanted; it transcended duty, that of infatuation. Ardor scorched your flesh, a searing fire of your Queen’s adoration, a flame that you happily burned within.

Beneath your breast, the thrumming of your heart rattled against your sternum, causing you to shiver with a thinly-veiled euphoria. Practiced digits began to map your delicate features, still alight with the vibrancy of youth, thumb stroking across your lower lip.

An amalgamation of desire and zeal glistened within lilac hues, mirroring your own countenance, doe-eyed and brimming with devotion. Gathering what threadbare confidence you had, your lips found hers once more, a bruising kiss that overflowed with passion.

Rhaenyra was no stranger to pleasure, well-adept at knowing the body of another, including her own. She handled you with utmost care, allowing you to act on your own accord, without her influence. It made her burn for you all the more.

It was then that your courage spurred onward, palm drifting from the nape of her neck toward her bosom, sheepishly cupping her clothed breast. A low hum of satisfaction slipped from her lips, approval scrawled upon ethereal features.

Guiding you toward the velvet-cushioned seat, it was Rhaenyra who lowered herself to sit, noticing the sheepish expression you bore. “Do I frighten you, sweet girl?” The Queen’s tone held a playful lilt to it, head canting to one side.

Intimidated, not afraid, you thought, stomach churning with a volatile heat. “Not at all, your Grace. I — I suppose it seems cruel of me to not focus upon your own pleasure.” With your meek confession now spilled, Rhaenyra’s lips began to curl into an assuring smile.

“Rhaenyra,” She corrected; perhaps abandoning formalities would ease the tenuous barrier still lingering between you. “Pleasure is a shared sentiment, I assure you.” Beckoning you forward, she extended her hand to you, inviting you to sit within her lap.

A heavy exhale lingered within your ribs, and you stepped forward, sinking into her lap without question. You felt smitten beneath her smoldering stare, one that brazenly admired you, absorbing every facet of your beauty.

Foreheads grazed against the other, warmth drifting between bodies as you stole another kiss from her, one that nearly dazed her. Rhaenyra kneaded into your curves, feeling your silken fingertips gently push against the front of her robe.

With renewed confidence, you palmed at her breast, able to feel the swell of soft flesh through her nightgown. A stifled sigh escaped the Queen, whose desire had grown tenfold, raging like a tempest within her.

Prying your lips away, you kissed beneath her jaw, allowing yourself to follow after instinct, planting a string of heated kisses along her neck. With your other hand, your digits twisted into the fabric beside her knee, pulling it up along her legs.

Rhaenyra shivered with a pang of ecstasy, adjusting you enough upon her lap, allowing the silken material to bunch around her thighs. With incessant tugs of your own stiff garments, she wished to see you with less obstructions.

“Relieve yourself of this,” The sultry lilt of her tone made you gasp, insides filling with a searing liquid, beginning to ooze between your thighs. “I wish to see you.” Little more than a soft purr, you were swift to obey her command.

Untethering the thick, crimson robe, you allowed the garment to flutter to the stone, leaving you in a threadbare shift, one that left little to the imagination. You nearly buckled beneath her hawkish gaze, one that openly bled with ardor and a twinge of possessiveness.

Admiration glittered upon her visage, the very image of beauty, a goddess incarnate. A shiver gripped you as she traced your spine with her fingertips, palm coming to knead against your haunch. Reverence oozed from her embrace, making you feel at-ease.

As your palm cupped her breast, threatening to delve beneath the gossamer of her nightgown, the other remained poised atop her knee. With a fistful of fabric, you allowed your fingertips to dance against the bare flesh of her thigh.

Rhaenyra looked to you, silently beseeching you to continue, allowing you to explore as you pleased. Her lips sought the delicate plane of your throat, pressing a series of kisses beneath your jaw to start, fingers sinking into your derrière.

A sharp exhale punctured your lungs, wrought with exhilaration as your hand continued its path, caressing along her thigh, seeking the warmth between her legs. Sheepish still, your touch was disarmingly gentle, as kind as springtime, yet succeeded in making your Queen shiver.

This sweetness you possessed was something Rhaenyra reveled in, your tenderness a welcome respite. A low moan quaked from her lips as your digits nimbly danced over her nethers, features warming with a twinge of excitement.

As the defined bridge of her nose grazed over your jugular, you began to touch her with more urgency this time. Delicate fingers began to slip against her cunt, ministrations somewhat unsteady as you attempted to find your rhythm.

Kneading against your derrière, Rhaenyra huffed, the sound a pleasurable one as she continued to kiss your neck. Softness had grown into the flame of desire, ardor simmering in the space between your bodies, enough to make you shiver.

“Rhaenyra,” A sigh of ecstasy tore past your kiss-swollen lips, and she preened at the sound of her name. It was heavenly, uttered with such reverence, such adoration. “Gods, you are enchanting.” You murmured.

A soft moan left you as she kissed the dip between your throat and shoulder, lips pursing enough to leave behind a token of her affection. It was etched into your flesh like a brand — and you wanted more.

It was then that her hand tangled against the collar of your shift, peeling the fabric aside, unveiling your breasts to her. The sight was a feast, a kindly beauty that the Targaryen had become rather infatuated with. Her lips were soon to follow, kissing a hot trail across your collar.

Hips urged against your hand as you stroked eager circles against her core, thumb finding its way to the sensitive bundle of nerves. A sharp, dizzying gasp inhabited her throat, a punctuated sound that nearly made you pause, if it weren’t for her soft moan.

Admittedly, she was starved for contact, having wished for a kinder embrace for some time. It was often your heavenly hand she’d dreamt of, the vibrancy of your smile, the reverence that often oozed from your tongue.

Mapping each curve of her body, each tick of pleasure, you only desired her more than you thought possible. Want only seemed to grow in her wake, her embrace leaving behind a trail of fire, smiting you to little more than wanton ash.

Kissing towards your bosom, Rhaenyra gingerly cupped your breast, able to feel your body keen into her caress. A practiced thumb flicked across your nipple, mouth continuing to blaze over your flesh, kiss after kiss until she neared your chest.

“You drive me to madness.” Rhaenyra’s utterance emerged as a breathy sigh, whispered into your flesh like some prayer. Butterflies erupted within your stomach, accompanied by a churning of molten heat. A hitch formed within your throat, features warming.

Slotting yourself atop one of her thighs, it allowed you some advantage, digits continuing to glide along her cunt. A myriad of low, sonorous moans left her, smothered against your sternum as she turned, taking one of your breasts into her mouth.

A startled whine rippled through you, torn asunder by bliss on all sides, pleasure becoming a mutual experience. Adroit lips began to pepper your breast with soft kisses, pursing around the pliant mound as she drew forth a cry of delight from your mouth.

Despite the satisfying distraction, your ministrations refused to cease, digits gaining both fervor and confidence. You continued to let your fingers rock against her nethers, thumb toying with the pearl of her cunt, enough to make her writhe.

Wanton sighs and breathy moans inhabit the space between your bodies, charged with a zealous desire. As if possessed by invisible strings, your hips lurched forward, gently rocking yourself atop her thigh. Friction simmered in the wake of your movements, arousal seeping between your legs.

Yearning lips trailed from your breast to the valley between, kissing along your flesh until she found your throat once more. Rhaenyra exhaled desire, unable to withhold the blissful noises that tore past her mouth.

“Do not stop,” With a poignant command, spoken through a soft exhale, you heeded the words of your Queen. Allowing your digits to dip lower, two fingers gently prodded against her core, the pad of your thumb caressing her pearl. “There.”

Her voice had often beguiled you so, whimsical and ethereal, as if it were from a distant dream. Now, it was strung-out with desire, a touch husky, as smooth as that of a crystalline dusk. She pressed a kiss beneath your jaw, her own wrought with tension as her hips urged forward.

Foreheads brushed against one another as you rocked yourself atop her thigh, the friction sending shockwaves through your belly. It grazed against your nethers, forcing a soft sigh from your lips, fingers teasing her cunt.

It was then that you dipped forward, evoking a groan from Rhaenyra, whose mouth shifted to claim yours in a dizzying kiss. A fervent flame crackled between, like that of a wildfire, seeking to consume everything in its path.

She tasted of fire, a sting of citrus and a hint of some honeyed swill, her tongue gently seeking entry into your maw. Without protest, you allowed her in, kiss after kiss being lost between you both, her palm shifting to seize the nape of your neck.

“Your Grace,” A pleading moan thrummed from your throat, tapering off into some hapless whine as she groped at your backside once more. The title had made her head spin, filled with some arduous haze as she careened into your touch. “Please.”

It was a ceaseless clash of lips, teeth, and tongues, a ballad of a blossoming adoration. Beneath your breast, your heart galloped with excitement, fingers easing in and out of her cunt, desperate to please her.

A subtle ‘fuck’ escaped Rhaenyra, muttered from beneath her cacophony of moans, and you barely caught it. Gooseflesh born of exhilaration raked down your spine like that of a tidal wave, and you shuddered within her firm grasp.

“Gods.” Rhaenyra groaned, feeling herself clench around your slender digits, grip hard enough to leave bruises against your haunch. Your thumb continued to toy with her pearl in languid circles, again and again.

For one seemingly so inept, you possessed a peculiar keenness, as if you were attuned to her physique already. She craved you as one craved for a gust of air, her ache marrow-deep, a heart’s call that echoed your name.

As she approached her climax, her teeth briefly grazed your lower lip, sealing yours in another blistering kiss. It ripped through you like talons, a bliss that nearly overwhelmed you. Ensuring that you reciprocated, you returned her kiss, lungs searing with a pleasant burning.

Bathed beneath the intermingled glow of both the moon and hearth, she appeared to you as some deity, a goddess of beauty. Never before had you seen someone as resplendent as she, the Queen, veins imbued with dragon’s fire.

A soft gasp took up residence within your lungs, emerging as a gentle tremble, one that seemed wrought with awe at the sight of her. Even through your state of wonder, your digits did not stop, obeying her command.

Violet hues were half-lidded in a state of bliss, momentarily shifting to seek your gaze, as warm as that of midsummer. Her lips parted then, body writhing beneath you as her pinnacle wracked her with such force.

As she came undone upon your hand, you nearly melted at the sight, features warming in the wake of her release. Honeyed arousal wept from her core, coating your digits in her nectar as you pleasured her even still, allowing yourself to slow down.

Tendrils of perspiration glistened upon her brow, likely due in-part to the close proximity of the waning firelight. Rhaenyra exhaled, face nudging against your own as she captured your lips in a bruising kiss, disarmingly tender.

Passion lingered still, momentarily subdued as she composed herself, feeling her thighs twitch, body caught within the afterglow. “You are rather mesmerizing,” Her regal cadence filled your belly with a familiar fire. “Sweet girl.”

“I didn’t cause you harm, did I?” For your own sanity, you hoped that she was well-satisfied and comfortable. The hint of a smile crossed her features, mauve hues raking over you, not quite finished with you yet.

“Quite the opposite,” Soothing your brow, the Queen placed a lingering kiss to your jaw, palm smoothing along your spine. “Though, I am not yet satisfied.” With a desirous lilt, her sultry purr made you clench your thighs together.

Fearing you weren’t good enough, you nearly blubbered some pitiful apology until she eased you off of her lap, gently guiding you toward her bed. A twinge of bewilderment rippled through you; you did not expect to share her bed with her this evening.

Neglecting to inquire further, Rhaenyra coaxed you to sit along the edge of her feathered bed, watching as you lowered yourself without question. She stood over you, soft palm cupping your chin as her thumb sweetly traced over your lower lip.

As if acting upon instinct, you kissed the pad of her thumb, careening into her tender embrace. She bent down, pressing her mouth to yours once more, allowing you to linger within your passionate entanglement.

“You are exquisite.” Your reverence was thinly-veiled, seeped in adoration as you sighed into her mouth. Rhaenyra cherished every word that escaped you, forehead momentarily pressing to yours before she withdrew.

“As are you,” It was then that the Queen knelt before you, an act that took you by complete surprise. Before you could attempt to refute this position, she began to inch your skirts along your thighs, fabric pooling around your hips. “May I?”

The Queen asking for this — it did not feel proper, but you were not one to interfere with her indulgences. “Y—Yes,” With a bumbling stammer, you swallowed the lump of excitement within your throat. “Rhaenyra …”

Wordlessly, her answer was emblazoned as a kiss, sealed against your inner thigh. Fire blossomed from mere contact, and you couldn’t help but gaze down at her with complete and utter ardor. This love you had for her transcended that of duty, one considered forbidden.

Rhaenyra had fantasized about this more often than she cared to admit, knowing fully well that you hadn’t had the pleasure of experiencing it. There was a power she felt even when kneeling between your thighs, pressing a trail of kisses towards your aching nethers.

Her tongue raked embers over your cunt, sluggish and exploratory as she gathered her bearings. She had not done something like this before, other than what had been done to her. Rhaenyra watched you squirm, hands desperately fisting at the sheets on either side of you.

The sharp bridge of her nose buried itself against your mound, brushing along your slick petals. It was as if you were an unfurling flower, and she, the bee; your taste was ambrosial, something that filled her mouth with such sweetness.

Keeping yourself from crying out, you moaned, mouth agape as your hips involuntarily urged forward. Her tongue greeted you with a slow lap, tracing along your core as she delved further, visage slotted between your thighs.

Dexterous hands danced across your flesh, over your legs as she anchored her grip there, violet hues occasionally flickering towards your countenance. Your expression had contorted into a look of complete and utter bliss.

It felt horribly wrong of you, sitting here while your Queen knelt, but you dared not interrupt her now. Each stroke of her tongue brought you to heel, legs rattling like wind-stirred leaves as wave after wave of pleasure flooded throughout your body.

Rhaenyra shared in your bliss, reveling in the way you’d reacted so viscerally to her lips, which only served to make her confidence swell. A low hum resonated from her throat, ministrations imbued with an endless passion.

Throaty whines erupted in a cacophony from your mouth, followed by constant sighs of ecstasy. Her hands continued to smooth over your thighs, keeping your legs parted as her tongue tantalizingly raked over your entrance.

As your cunt clenched pathetically around nothing at all, you felt as if you were drowning within an ocean of bliss, eyes nearly closed. It was a sensation unlike any other, her lips peppering a string of greedy kisses to your slit.

She let your legs find rest atop her shoulders, nightgown having loosened upon her frame. Her pale flesh was akin to a canvas — unblemished, pearlescent, nothing short of perfection.

Lilac hues beseech you to steal a glance, gazes locking together for only a moment. The mere sight of her feasting upon the wellspring between your thighs made you whimper, teeth snagging across your bottom lip. The incendiary nature of her ogling fills you with a feverish heat.

Adept with her tongue, Rhaenyra hums again; a low, contented sound that causes your fingers to claw at the sheets. Lapping at your core once more, her nose briefly grazes over your pearl, causing you to shiver around her, wrought with desperation.

“Rh—Rhaenyra,” A noisy moan tears past your lips when you feel her tongue circle over the pearl of your cunt, hips lurching forward. You feel strange, begging for her mouth, but she seems to derive plenty of satisfaction from it. “Gods, do not stop!”

Melting within her grasp, you had not known pleasure like this before, never thought it possible to collapse beneath her touch. Sin had washed away, swept out into the tides, leaving only your sentiments for her — devotion, love.

Each stroke of her tongue is akin to the searing of a wildfire, volatile and burning, with enough force to send you to your knees. Hunger revealed itself like some long-hidden shadow, unfurling in the wake of your own desire and that of your Queen’s.

It felt exhilarating, to be wanted in this way, to be cherished, worshiped. Impulse drove you as one hand skittered from the silken sheets, reaching for her hand, slender digits interlocking atop the meat of your thigh.

Holding you close, Rhaenyra continued to greedily seek your cunt without pause, ceaselessly lapping over your core. It was then that her mouth sluggishly relocated, mauve hues momentarily fixating upon your countenance as her lips gingerly pursed around your pearl.

A gasp ripped through your diaphragm, body suddenly wracked with an overwhelming wave of ecstasy. As she toyed with your clit, suckling upon the sensitive clutch of nerves, you were left reeling, other arm keeping yourself afloat.

Whatever had pushed you over the brink, you were uncertain, feeling your hips jolt forward once more. Rhaenyra continued to shower your nethers in lap after greedy lap of her tongue, intermingling with brief circles over your pearl.

Buckling beneath the weight of your mounting arousal, your body succumbed, as if a barrier had been obliterated within you. A surge of heat flooded your insides, pooling between your thighs as you quivered in the aftermath.

A white-hot rush of ecstasy swarmed you, voice tapering off into incoherent praises and wanton moans, filling her chambers with your delight. As nectar oozed from your weeping slit, she teased you further, tongue slowing to a crawl.

Your chest burned with exasperated sighs as you fought to regain your composure, beginning to settle from the onslaught of your release. Perspiration lingered along the column of your spine, body bitten by the sting of desire.

Rhaenyra withdrew, pressing a string of feather-light kisses along the inside of your thigh, her grasp upon your hand beginning to loosen. Her tongue absentmindedly wet her bottom lip, rising from between your legs in order to capture your mouth with hers.

The kiss made you deliriously warm, dizzy as you clung to her as if you were drowning, able to taste yourself upon her tongue. “You are exemplary.” Her regal lull was akin to music, stroking every part of your mind as she slipped away.

High praise made you preen, happy that she seemed satisfied with you. It was a first — and it felt liberating to finally shed the shackles of your longstanding repression. You watched as she moved to drag a warm cloth over her face, ridding herself of sweat.

Exhaustion hit you then and there, and you stood enough to adjust your skirts, preparing to go and find your crimson robe.

“Stay awhile longer,” Rhaenyra’s cadence was disarmingly tender, inviting you to share her bed. The dusk was still young enough, the hour of the bat not yet upon you. “Unless you have business elsewhere.” She did not dare to interfere with your duties, no matter how much she wanted to.

Smitten, you sank back down onto her bed, growing flustered in the wake of such carnal acts. Admittedly, you half expected her to dismiss you once you were finished, but you were delighted to be proven wrong.

Warmth continued to coalesce between your thighs, a burning reminder that would likely linger for weeks to come. She noticed your sheepish behavior, crossing the threshold once more to join you on her bed, coaxing you into her embrace.

As she laid down, your cheek pressed flush to her collarbone, allowing an arm to drape around her, cradling her close. Rhaenyra welcomed your embrace, her hand finding yours, slender digits idly toying with your own.

“Your Grace, I … I hope that I satisfied you well enough,” Your nervous murmur ensnared her attention, lilac hues flickering over your worried visage. She cupped your cheek, pale brows furrowing together. “This is so very new.”

“I care little for satisfaction, sweet girl,” Rhaenyra corrected, turning just enough to prop her head up with one palm, sheets drawn around the both of you. The older woman looked upon you with a thinly-veiled affection, fondness only growing in the afterglow. “It is you I care for.”

A hitch formed within your throat, lashes fluttering as you held her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “As I care for you, your Gr — Rhaenyra,” Catching yourself, your lips twitched into a warm smile. “You’ve made me feel as if I am worthy of love.”

Untangling your hands, she reached to cup your face, thumb dragging over your cheekbone and beneath your eye. “You are beyond worthy of such sentiments,” With a soft exhale, Rhaenyra moved closer, until space had all but dissipated. “You shall have mine.”

“As you have mine own.” You whispered, garnering the courage to kiss her first, mouths seamlessly melding together, as if made to mold to one another. She savored your lips, caressing the nape of your neck as she brought you into the heat of her chest.

Rhaenyra had loved, and loved again throughout her lifetime — Alicent Hightower, Harwin Strong, Daemon, and now, you. She loved Daemon still, and yet she allowed her heart to simply grow, let it bend and expand until she had made enough room for you.

[galactic-rhea]

Do you have any prequel-era star wars fanfiction recommends? Love your comics!

Ayy, thank you, anon!! Okay, sounds funny but I actually tend to read much more about the OT era, but! -cracks knuckles- Here we go:

Cytokinesis and Star Birth by @tranakin-skywalker They're so good that I haven't progressed on reading them just because I need to nom them slowly and savour every single paragraph, top tier stuff for real.

A Rush of Blood to the Head , Antediluvian , Do not Stand at my grave and weep by asparagus writes angsty and very good, particularly love Padmé's characterization there!!

A vile hunger for your hammering heart by @wlwanakin because I swear this is the only acceptable 'Padmé with a knife on Mustafar' take ever and is also so sad it made me cry, good stuff goood stuff!

Now I want my letters white again, by @ozvezdja Masterclass writing right here and yet another case of 'I need to nom on this so slowly to taste it because that's how good it is' , Padmé and Anakin being...Well, them, in a world where Sheev actually died and now they have to live a much more normal life and all through the eyes of Sola Naberrie, who's a bit too normal for general SW crazyness.

Dust to dust by straight_up_gay I dunno if you have seen my ramblings and ideas for a daemon/familiars AU, but when I did moot charlie sent me this fic and oh boy is good.

The Top Left Drawer (linking specifically chapter 58 since is a collection of oneshots and drabbles, but I suggest checking they all because the writing is funny and really nice! Chapter 58 is a timetravel vaderdala AU and is wonderful ahaha) and Enemy Brothers by @batrachised

It's quickier and easier to eat your young by orojiratsu (timetravel AU where Vader's conscience returns to inhabit Little Ani's body and oh man)

Programed to dream by ghostwriterofthemachine (This one is SO VERY ANGSTY and messed up and good and sad and UHuhuhhhhhh i want to bite the walls. Anakin's suffering and dehumanization has me <3333)

A trick of the light by @jewishpadmenaberrie Vader managed to raise Padme from the dead, yayyy!! And now she wants to eat brains, he still loves her dearly, huh.

If you fancy rexanidala or more funky rarepairs and big canon divergences, I suggest to check @phoenixyfriend 's AO3 because she has SO MANY stories, for days.

Also if you like Sabé, you should absolutely check @bettyxrosex 's fics, Sabé and Anakin are so unwell lmao, is like the scary dog privilege, but both are the dogs, dog x dog dynamic or something

And for really, reaally heavy angst (and do mind the tigger warnings on this one because is really messed up) Five Peggats Each by @kenobster !! Anakin and Obi-Wan are trapped by slavers. Nothing good happens except that they -gasps- TALK. TO EACH OTHER.

[novaursa]

The Golden Court (wayward daughter)

- Summary: You were taken from the royal court by your father when you were a child. Now you return as a woman grown from exile. A woman that ignites fires in her wake.

- Pairing: Jason Lannister/targ!reader/Tyland Lannister

- Note: Adult themes will progress more and more as chapters go on. This fic is pure filth and I make no apologies for it. You have been warned.

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (nothing drastic yet, but it will be later)

- Teaser chapter, if you wanna know the gist of this story: the golden court - sneak peek

- Next part: what we are

- Tag(s): if you want to be tagged in future chapters, let me know.

The Great Hall of the Red Keep thrummed with music and revelry, the air heavy with the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine. Laughter echoed off the high vaulted ceilings as lords and ladies twirled in intricate dances beneath the flickering glow of a thousand candles. The wedding feast of Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon was a grand affair, a union meant to secure the loyalty of two powerful houses. Yet, amidst the splendor, a storm loomed on the horizon, one that would silence the hall and shift the course of the evening.

You had not set foot in King’s Landing for years. The weight of the Red Keep's walls and the accusing stares of the court had been left behind when your father, Daemon, whisked you away into self-imposed exile. He had been your shield, your guide, and, in some ways, your accomplice. You had grown into a woman in the shadows of your dragon, Haelle, and in the freedom of distant skies. But now, with your uncle Viserys perched on the Iron Throne and whispers of ambition and discontent filling the realm, Daemon had decided it was time to return. And, as always, you were by his side.

The massive doors of the Great Hall creaked open with a groan, the sound cutting through the din like a blade. Heads turned as two figures strode through the entryway. Daemon, clad in black and red, exuded his usual air of defiance. But it was the figure at his side that drew the sharp intake of breath from the gathered lords and ladies.

You stepped into the hall, every inch the Targaryen princess. Your gown, a masterpiece of dark crimson silk and black Valyrian lace, shimmered like dragonfire with every step. The neckline dipped daringly low, exposing the delicate curve of your collarbone, where a necklace of Valyrian steel and rubies rested. Your hair, the pale silver of your Valyrian heritage, cascaded down your back in intricate braids intertwined with thin chains of gold. But it was your face, striking and ethereal, that silenced the room. You had been beautiful as a child, but now, as a woman grown, you were devastating.

Beside you, Daemon smirked, clearly relishing the stunned silence. He guided you toward the royal table, where Viserys sat at its center, flanked by Alicent in her green gown and Rhaenyra in the traditional white and red of House Targaryen. Laenor Velaryon sat stiffly beside his bride, his expression unreadable.

“Daemon,” Viserys said, his voice tight with barely concealed irritation. “You were not invited.”

“Brother,” Daemon replied smoothly, his tone casual, as if he were commenting on the weather. “Surely you wouldn’t deny me the chance to celebrate my dear niece’s wedding?”

Viserys’s gaze shifted to you, and his expression softened, though it remained cautious. “And you brought… her.”

“I did.” Daemon’s hand rested lightly on your arm. “Surely you remember my daughter, your niece. Y/N, who has grown into quite the lady.”

You curtsied gracefully, your eyes locking with Viserys’s. “Your Grace.”

The king’s mouth opened as if to speak, but no words came out. Alicent’s lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes flickering between you and Daemon. Rhaenyra, however, looked less composed. Her gaze lingered on you, her cousin and near-contemporary, with an emotion that was difficult to read—relief, perhaps, or jealousy.

“Where have you been?” Rhaenyra finally asked, her voice breaking the silance. “You disappeared.”

You smiled faintly, a touch of mystery in your expression. “With my father. He thought it best for us to see the world beyond the confines of court.”

“Court missed you,” Rhaenyra said, though her tone suggested otherwise.

Viserys cleared his throat, his kingly composure returning. “You are family,” he said, gesturing to the empty chairs near the high table. “Sit. Join us.”

Daemon inclined his head in mock gratitude, his smile sharpening. “Your hospitality knows no bounds, brother.”

The two of you ascended the dais and took your seats, the eyes of the hall following your every movement. As you sat, the murmurs began anew, hushed whispers rippling through the crowd like wildfire.

“Is that truly Daemon’s daughter?”

“By the gods, she’s as beautiful as a queen.”

“What does this mean? Why has Daemon returned now?”

The conversation at the royal table was strained at first. Alicent barely looked at you, her fingers tightening around the goblet in her hand. Laenor, though polite, seemed unsure of how to address you, his glances brief and cautious. Rhaenyra, meanwhile, seemed torn between curiosity and wariness. Only Viserys seemed genuinely pleased to see you, though his concern for Daemon’s motives was evident in the tightness around his eyes.

“Your dragon,” Viserys asked at one point, leaning forward slightly. “Haelle, wasn’t it? The Nightmare Queen, they call her. How is she?”

“She is well,” you replied. “We flew in this morning.”

The statement hung in the air, a quiet reminder of the power you wielded. Dragons were more than mere beasts; they were weapons, symbols of House Targaryen’s dominion. And Haelle, with her black-and-gold scales and fiery temper, was a creature of legend.

“It’s good to see you, Y/N,” Viserys said finally, his tone softer. “You’ve been gone too long.”

You inclined your head. “Thank you, Uncle.”

Daemon smirked at your politeness but said nothing, letting the silence fill the space where a more cutting comment might have fallen. The anxiety remained, an undercurrent beneath the music and laughter that resumed in the hall. Yet, as you sipped your wine and observed the court with an air of detachment, you knew one thing for certain.

You were back. And the realm would never be the same.

The Lannister table, seated to the right of the royal dais, was an island of golden splendor amidst the sea of colors in the Great Hall. Goblets of Arbor wine gleamed in the candlelight, and plates piled with delicacies were spread before the lions of Casterly Rock. Yet the chatter at the table had grown subdued, as the shock of Prince Daemon and his daughter’s entrance rippled through the hall. All eyes had turned toward the royal table at the dramatic reappearance, and among the Lannisters, curiosity was no less keen.

Jason Lannister leaned back in his chair, swirling the wine in his goblet as he studied the Targaryen princess from afar. His green eyes lingered on her, taking in her striking features and the way she carried herself with an effortless grace. She had a presence that filled the hall, one that seemed to command attention without effort. It was clear she was her father’s daughter, but there was a softer quality to her—a beauty both ethereal and dangerous. A dragon in a girl's skin, Jason thought.

Beside him, Tyland Lannister had resumed eating, though his movements were measured and deliberate, his expression betraying his thoughts. Unlike Jason, who brimmed with confidence, Tyland’s demeanor carried a wariness, as though anticipating the trouble that always seemed to follow Daemon Targaryen.

It was Lord Alton Lannister, their elder cousin, who broke the silence. “Well,” he said, lowering his cup and looking toward Tyland, “you’re on the Small Council. Surely you know—when was the last time the princess graced the court?”

Tyland paused, wiping his mouth with a silk cloth before answering. “Not since she was a child,” he replied. “I doubt she was older than ten or eleven when Daemon left.”

Alton let out a low whistle. “And now she returns, fully grown and radiant as the Dawn. The court must be in a frenzy.”

Jason smirked, setting down his goblet. “Frenzy is one word for it. Look at them—they’re still whispering about her. The Nightmare Queen, isn’t that what they call her dragon? A name like that has a way of capturing the imagination.”

“Names like that breed fear,” Tyland interjected, his tone clipped. “She is bonded with a dragon said to rival Caraxes in ferocity. The Nightmare Queen is no empty title.”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “You make her sound like a menace. She’s a young woman, not some beast.”

Tyland met his brother’s gaze evenly. “A young woman raised by Daemon Targaryen, no less. Don’t let her beauty fool you, Jason. She’s her father’s daughter through and through.”

Jason chuckled, leaning forward on the table. “And what’s wrong with that? I’ve always found Daemon… entertaining.”

“Entertaining until he decides he doesn’t like you,” Tyland said, his voice lowering slightly. “If you think you’ll charm her, be careful. You may find her less receptive than the ladies you’re used to.”

Jason’s smile widened, a glint of mischief in his eye. “Now, Tyland, when have you ever known me to back down from a chaellenge?”

Tyland sighed, setting down his fork. “I’m merely saying, tread lightly. The Targaryens are not like the women of the Westerlands. They play their own games, and they play them well.”

Jason didn’t respond immediately, his attention drawn back to the royal table. The princess sat beside Daemon, her posture regal and unyielding, her expression serene as though she were utterly unaffected by the stares and whispers. She sipped her wine with an almost deliberate grace, her eyes occasionally flicking to the crowd as if assessing the room. Even from this distance, Jason could feel the pull of her presence.

“I intend to offer my congratulations to Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor,” Jason said at last, adjusting the collar of his finely embroidered doublet. “And while I’m at it, I might take the opportunity to exchange a few words with her.”

Alton raised an eyebrow, his expression amused. “Brave of you, cousin. You’d risk the wrath of Daemon Targaryen for a chance to speak with his daughter?”

“Daemon isn’t the one I intend to speak to,” Jason replied smoothly. “Besides, if I let him intimidate me, I’d hardly be worthy of the name Lannister.”

Tyland shook his head, exasperation flickering in his eyes. “You never listen, do you?”

Jason shrugged, a confident smile playing on his lips. “You worry too much, brother. A lion knows when to strike.”

He rose from his seat, straightening his shoulders and smoothing his doublet. His golden hair caught the light as he prepared to make his way toward the royal dais, his movements deliberate and self-assured. Tyland watched him go, shaking his head once more but making no move to stop him. The rest of the Lannisters exchanged looks, some amused, others skeptical.

As Jason began his approach, the hall seemed to recover its rhythm, the music resuming its lively pace and the hum of conversation rising once more. Yet amidst the revelry, the presence of the Targaryen princess remained a focal point, her return an unspoken reminder of the power and danger that lurked beneath the surface of this seemingly joyous occasion.

And Jason Lannister, ever the bold lion, was about to step into the dragon’s den.

The hum of the hall seemed to fade into the background as Jason Lannister made his way toward the royal table. His steps were measured, his shoulders squared, and his golden lion-emblazoned doublet shone in the candlelight, catching more than a few admiring glances from nearby ladies. But Jason’s focus was singular. His eyes fixed briefly on Rhaenyra and Laenor, seated in their places of honor, before flickering to you, the Targaryen princess whose presence had thrown the entire hall into a hush mere moments ago.

As he approached, Daemon’s gaze caught him first, those dark violet eyes narrowing slightly, as if already weary of the encounter. But Jason was not easily cowed, and with a disarming smile, he dipped into a bow before the royal table, addressing the newlyweds first.

“Princess Rhaenyra, Ser Laenor,” he began, his tone warm and practiced. “Allow me to extend my sincerest congratulations on this joyous occasion. House Lannister is honored to celebrate your union, which I’m certain will only strengthen the realm.”

Rhaenyra’s smile was polite, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Lord Jason, your presence here is noted,” she replied, her tone cool but courteous.

Laenor, for his part, seemed distracted, his gaze darting to you and Daemon before quickly returning to his goblet. He managed a half-hearted, “Thank you, my lord.”

Jason’s smile didn’t falter as he straightened, though his true intent was clear as his gaze shifted toward you. His smile softened, taking on a charm that had won him many admirers in court. “And Princess Y/N,” he said, inclining his head toward you. “It is a rare and welcome honor to see you back at court. Your presence graces this hall.”

Your eyes lifted to meet his, and for a moment, you said nothing. The weight of your gaze was like the lingering heat of dragonfire—intense, unyielding, and wholly unnerving. Jason felt a flicker of unease, but he quickly masked it, maintaining his confident demeanor.

“It has been some time, Lord Jason,” you replied at last, your voice smooth and measured. “I suppose much has changed since my departure.”

Jason chuckled, sensing an opportunity to engage you. “Indeed, much has changed,” he agreed, his tone light. “Though I must say, some things remain constant—such as the splendor of House Targaryen. You remind us all of its magnificence.”

Your lips curved into a faint smile, though it was hard to tell whether it was amusement or something else entirely. “You flatter me, my lord.”

Jason took the smile as encouragement and pressed on. “It is not flattery, my princess, but truth,” he said smoothly, leaning in slightly as if to draw you into a more intimate exchange. “You are the very image of Valyrian grace. I can see why the court is so captivated by you.”

Before he could say more, Daemon shifted in his seat, the subtle movement enough to remind Jason of the dragon that hovered nearby. Jason glanced at the prince briefly but found Daemon watching him with a faint smirk, as if curious to see how far he would go.

Jason returned his focus to you, determined not to let Daemon’s presence unnerve him. “I imagine the world beyond King’s Landing must have been quite the adventure,” he said, his voice turning conversational. “I wonder if you ever found anything to rival the beauty of our court.”

You tilted your head slightly, your expression thoughtful. “I have seen many wonders, my lord,” you replied, your tone almost wistful. “The ancient cities of Essos, the hidden isles of the Summer Sea… and, of course, the freedom of the skies atop Haelle. But beauty, I have found, is subjective. What some call magnificent, others might see as… fleeting.”

Jason blinked, unsure whether to take the comment as a compliment or an insult. Still, he pressed on, determined to regain control of the conversation. “Fleeting or not, beauty is worth cherishing while it lasts. And if I may be so bold, Princess, your presence here tonight is a reminder of that very truth.”

The faint smile on your lips grew ever so slightly, and for a moment, Jason thought he had succeeded in charming you. But then you spoke, your tone laced with an edge so subtle it took him a moment to catch it.

“Such eloquence, Lord Jason,” you said softly, your eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “One might almost think you rehearsed it.”

Jason’s confident smile faltered for the briefest moment. The barb was so delicately delivered that it took a beat for him to fully grasp it. Around you, the conversation at the royal table continued as if nothing had happened, but Jason felt the sting keenly, though he hid it well.

Recovering quickly, he gave a polite laugh. “Perhaps I’ve simply had the good fortune to be inspired,” he countered, bowing his head slightly. “In any case, I hope to continue our conversation another time, Princess. Perhaps under less… formal circumstances.”

You inclined your head, your smile unwavering. “We shall see, my lord.”

Jason lingered for a moment longer before stepping back and offering another bow to the table. As he turned to leave, he felt the weight of your gaze on him, though whether it was one of amusement or dismissal, he couldn’t quite tell. Behind him, Tyland’s words echoed faintly in his mind, a warning he had been too proud to heed. For all his charm and confidence, he realized, you were not a woman to be easily swayed—or easily fooled.

Jason Lannister returned to his seat at the Lannister table, his movements brisk and his expression carefully neutral. He lowered himself into his chair with the practiced ease of someone who refused to show any hint of disappointment, even if the exchange had not gone entirely as planned. He reached for his goblet, taking a measured sip of Arbor gold, before setting it down with a faint clink against the polished wood.

Tyland, who had been watching the royal table with narrowed eyes, wasted no time. “That didn’t look promising,” he remarked, his tone as dry as the wine in his own goblet. He cut a piece of venison and brought it to his lips, his movements unhurried but precise, as if his focus wasn’t entirely on his meal.

Jason shot his younger brother a sidelong glance, leaning back in his chair. “You always were a pessimist, Tyland. I thought you’d have more faith in me.”

Tyland smirked faintly, shaking his head. “It’s not a matter of faith, Jason. It’s a matter of practicality. You shouldn’t be doing this—not now.”

“And why not?” Jason chaellenged, his voice low enough to avoid carrying beyond their table. He gestured toward the royal dais with his goblet. “She’s a princess of the blood, a rare beauty, and clearly one of the most captivating women in the hall. Why shouldn’t I take the opportunity?”

Tyland set down his knife and fork, folding his hands neatly in front of him as he turned his scholding gaze on his older twin. “Because you’re negotiating with Lord Westerling for the hand of his daughter. Or have you conveniently forgotten that? Word reaches far and fast in court, Jason. You wouldn’t want him to think you’re… distracted.”

Jason scoffed, his lips curling into a grin that bordered on arrogant. “Distracted? Lord Westerling would count himself lucky to have me as a son-in-law, and he knows it. Besides, it’s just conversation. I’ve done nothing improper.”

“Yet,” Tyland countered, his tone pointed. “But Daemon Targaryen doesn’t need a reason to take offense, and the princess—”

Jason cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Daemon can posture all he likes. He doesn’t intimidate me. As for the princess…” He trailed off, glancing toward the royal table where you sat beside your father, your expression calm but unreadable. “She’s intriguing, Tyland. You don’t meet women like her every day.”

Tyland didn’t respond immediately. His gaze followed his brother’s, settling on you for a moment too long before he quickly looked away. He reached for his goblet, swirling the wine absently as he spoke. “She’s intriguing, yes. She’s also dangerous. You saw how she handled your charm—it didn’t take much for her to put you in your place.”

Jason chuckled, though there was a slight edge to it. “She’s sharp, I’ll give her that. But that only makes the game more interesting.”

Tyland sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This isn’t a game, Jason. You’re playing with fire, and I don’t just mean Daemon. She’s not some simpering Westerlands maiden who’ll swoon over your pretty words. You’ll get burned.”

Jason’s grin widened. “Maybe I like the heat.”

Alton, who had been quietly observing the exchange, finally spoke up, his tone amused. “It’s rare to see you so persistent, Jason. Most women are won over before you’ve even said a word. But the princess… she’s a different breed.”

Jason leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “That’s what makes her worth pursuing.”

Tyland frowned, his gaze flickering to the royal table once more despite himself. He couldn’t help but study you—the way the candlelight caught the silver in your hair, the way you held yourself with an air of quiet confidence that seemed to make the very air around you heavier. There was something magnetic about you, something that made it hard to look away.

“And you?” Jason asked suddenly, catching Tyland off guard. “Why do I get the feeling you’ve been stealing glances at her too?”

Tyland’s jaw tightened, and he straightened in his seat. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Jason smirked, his expression turning teasing. “Oh, come now, Tyland. You’re usually so composed, but I’ve seen the way you look at her.”

Tyland didn’t respond, instead lifting his goblet to his lips to avoid further comment. Jason’s grin only grew, pleased to have struck a nerve.

“You know,” Jason continued, his tone light but laced with mischief, “if I weren’t careful, I’d say you’re as captivated as I am.”

Tyland set his goblet down with a touch more force than necessary, fixing his brother with a stern look. “I’m not captivated. I’m cautious. Someone has to be.”

Jason laughed, a rich, deep sound that carried a note of triumph. “Well, cautious or not, I’ll take my chances. Life’s too short to ignore an opportunity like this.”

Tyland shook his head, but his gaze flickered toward you one last time, lingering just long enough to betray his thoughts. Whether he would admit it or not, Jason wasn’t the only one drawn to the princess at the royal table. But unlike Jason, Tyland understood the risks—and he doubted his brother had the skill or patience to navigate the storm you represented.

The music in the Great Hall swelled, the first notes of a lively melody filling the space as dancers took to the floor. The tension that had lingered after your and Daemon’s arrival was beginning to dissipate, drowned in wine and merriment. Yet, as laughter and conversation filled the air, your mind remained focused, your senses attuned to the atmosphere around you.

Seated beside your father, you swirled the deep red wine in your goblet, observing the court with the detached amusement that Daemon had taught you well. The weight of curious and lingering stares had not diminished. You had spent years away from court, but here, in the heart of the Red Keep, your absence had only made you more of a mystery—one that lords and ladies alike sought to unravel.

Daemon leaned slightly toward you, his voice low and laced with amusement. “Well, that was a performance.”

You took a measured sip of your wine before glancing at him. “You expected anything less?”

His smirk deepened. “From you? Never.” He lifted his goblet in a silent toast. “But I must say, you handle lions well. I think Jason Lannister thought he had you ensnared.”

A small smile played at your lips as you turned your gaze to the Lannister table, where Jason had returned to his seat, wearing his usual mask of confidence—though you had seen the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes when he realized your words had been a well-placed barb. “He thinks himself a master at the game,” you mused. “But he underestimates his opponent.”

Daemon chuckled, clearly pleased. “Good. You should keep them all on their toes. Let them wonder where they stand with you.” He glanced toward the royal table, where Viserys sat observing the scene with an expression of quiet thoughtfulness. “And speaking of those who wonder…”

You turned just as Viserys shifted toward you, setting aside his goblet and offering a warm, albeit cautious, smile. “Y/N,” he said, his voice rich with something akin to relief. “I must say, it gladdens me to see you here again. It has been far too long.”

You inclined your head respectfully. “It has, Uncle.”

He studied you for a moment, as if searching for traces of the girl he once knew beneath the composed woman before him. “I had often wondered how you fared,” he continued. “I sent letters, you know.”

You did know. They had arrived in the Free Cities, where you and Daemon had spent your exile, yet your father had always intercepted them before they reached you. Not out of cruelty, but because he believed that no good would come from lingering attachments to the court you had left behind.

“I never received them,” you said, not unkindly.

Viserys’s expression darkened slightly, his gaze flickering toward Daemon, who merely smirked and took another sip of wine. The animosity between the brothers was ever-present, a wound that had never truly healed.

“I see,” Viserys murmured, though it was clear he didn’t. He exhaled slowly before offering a gentler smile. “I trust you have been well, then? Daemon’s company… agrees with you?”

You glanced at your father, his expression unreadable, before nodding. “I have seen the world beyond these walls,” you replied. “Traveled farther than most lords could dream. It has been… enlightening.”

Viserys nodded, though something in his eyes hinted at regret. “Still, you are family,” he said after a moment. “No matter the distance, that will not change.”

You offered him a small smile, and for now, the conversation seemed to settle. The king looked relieved that you had not outright rejected his attempts at connection. But you knew this was only the beginning. You had returned, and there would be more conversations, more questions, more attempts to weave you back into the court’s web.

The music swelled, and the first couples began to take to the floor, the polished marble reflecting the flickering candlelight. The dance was one of tradition, one expected at any grand feast—a display of grace, skill, and status. You watched as Rhaenyra and Laenor stepped forward first, the newlyweds taking their place at the center as the hall erupted in applause.

Daemon leaned toward you again, voice tinged with amusement. “I wonder how long before someone dares ask you to dance.”

You exhaled a quiet laugh, resting your chin against your knuckles as you observed the growing number of couples joining the dance. “I imagine they are debating whether it’s worth the risk.”

Daemon grinned. “Good. Keep them guessing.”

From across the hall, you caught sight of Jason Lannister rising from his seat, his movements deliberate. Tyland, still seated beside him, muttered something that made Jason roll his eyes before shaking off his brother’s words and adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves.

You already knew his intention before he even turned toward the royal table.

Daemon noticed as well, smirking as he leaned back in his chair. “And the first lion dares to approach the dragon once more.” He tilted his goblet toward you. “Shall we see how long he lasts this time?”

You merely smiled, watching as Jason made his way through the crowd with the easy confidence of a man who had never known rejection. The game had begun, and you intended to play it well.

Lords and ladies subtly shifted in their seats, eyes drawn toward him—some with curiosity, others with mild surprise. It was one thing to exchange words over wine, but to boldly approach the royal table twice in one evening was a statement.

Daemon had already noticed, of course. He exhaled a small chuckle, sipping at his wine as though thoroughly entertained. “Persistent,” he murmured. “I’ll give him that.”

Jason reached the royal table and bowed slightly, his golden hair gleaming under the candlelight. His lion-embroidered doublet fit perfectly over his broad frame, the confidence in his stance unmistakable. But there was something in his gaze as he met yours—not just admiration, but amusement, perhaps even chaellenge.

“Princess Y/N,” he greeted smoothly, his tone warm and inviting. “I find myself drawn back to your company so soon. I hope you will forgive my lack of restraint.”

Your lips curled in a faint smirk. “Is restraint something you struggle with, my lord?”

Jason chuckled. “On occasion. Especially when it comes to remarkable company.” He straightened slightly, offering his hand. “Would you grant me the honor of a dance?”

There it was. The unspoken question that had lingered in the air, the moment that so many lords hesitated to seize for fear of stepping too close to the fire.

You regarded him for a moment, tilting your head slightly. “Are you a misogynist, Lord Jason?”

There was a brief flicker of confusion before Jason laughed, rich and unbothered. “Not in the slightest, princess. Why do you ask?”

You leaned back in your chair, amusement gleaming in your violet eyes. “Because I cannot think of another reason why a man negotiating a betrothal would be so bold as to pursue another woman so publicly. Either you do not value the girl you are meant to wed, or you do not value women at all.”

A ripple of amusement passed through the royal table—Daemon smirked into his goblet, while Alicent, who had been quietly observing, arched an intrigued brow. Viserys, for his part, let out a slow sigh, though he did not intervene.

Jason, to his credit, did not flinch. Instead, his green eyes gleamed with something sharper, something entertained rather than insulted. “Or, princess,” he countered, “perhaps I simply value the things that are rarest.” His hand remained outstretched, unwavering. “And you are the rarest woman in this hall.”

Daemon’s smirk faded slightly, his fingers tapping against his goblet. His gaze flickered to Jason’s outstretched hand before landing on you.

“Careful, Lannister,” he drawled, the sharp edge in his tone unmistakable. “You might think yourself a lion, but there are creatures far deadlier than you in this hall.”

Jason turned his head, locking eyes with Daemon. And for the first time that evening, there was no humor in his expression. “I am well aware of the dangers, my prince,” he replied smoothly. “But I do not fear them.”

A breath of silence passed between them. It was brief, but it carried weight. Jason had made his move, and Daemon was weighing whether to let him take the step forward or crush him where he stood.

You watched them both, feeling the tension coiling in the space between them. Then, with deliberate grace, you reached forward and placed your fingers lightly in Jason’s palm. His grip was firm yet careful as he helped you to your feet.

Daemon’s eyes darkened slightly, but he said nothing. Instead, he lifted his goblet again and took a slow sip, though you could feel the unspoken warning in the way he watched Jason.

As the music swelled, Jason turned to you, amusement flickering back across his features. “I must say, princess,” he murmured, guiding you toward the dance floor, “you do know how to make a man work for his victories.”

You smirked, allowing yourself to be led. “Then tell me, Lord Jason,” you mused, “what makes you think this is a victory?”

His chuckle was soft but confident. “Because you’re dancing with me.”

And with that, the two of you stepped onto the floor, the world around you watching as a lion and a dragon met in a game of fire and gold.

Tyland Lannister sat back in his chair, watching with a carefully neutral expression as Jason led you onto the dance floor. The golden embroidery of his brother’s doublet caught the flickering candlelight, gleaming as he moved with a lion’s confidence, his hand resting firmly on your waist. You, however, were more difficult to read. Though you followed Jason’s lead with practiced ease, your expression remained poised, your violet eyes unreadable.

A soft scoff came from his left. “Bold of him,” muttered Ser Stafford Lannister, one of their cousins, his voice laced with amusement as he sipped at his wine. “Even bolder of her.”

Lord Alton Lannister, seated across from them, chuckled under his breath. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Jason is trying to court her right in front of the entire court.” He swirled his goblet, his gaze flickering between the dancers and Tyland. “Should we expect a royal announcement soon, Tyland? Perhaps to a princess of Valyrian blood?”

Tyland exhaled slowly, his fingers drumming against the table. “If that were Jason’s goal, he should have chosen a safer conquest,” he remarked dryly. “Daemon Targaryen is not a man who takes kindly to men sniffing around his blood.”

Ser Stafford snorted. “Daemon doesn’t take kindly to anyone. And yet Jason dances with his daughter without a sword between them. That must count for something.”

Tyland’s gaze flickered back to the dance floor. Daemon was watching from the royal dais, his fingers tapping against the stem of his goblet. The smirk on his face did little to hide the sharp edge beneath it. He was letting Jason dance with you—but how much further he would let things go was another matter entirely.

“You can’t deny she’s a prize,” Alton continued, leaning forward with interest. “Look at her. She walks like a queen, and gods, that dragon of hers—Haelle. That alone makes her the most dangerous woman in the realm.”

“She is the daughter of Daemon Targaryen,” Tyland said, taking a measured sip of his wine. “Dangerous is in her blood.”

“Exactly,” Stafford said, shaking his head with a small grin. “And Jason, the reckless fool, is dancing straight into the fire.”

Tyland sighed, eyes narrowing slightly as he studied his brother’s movements. Jason was a master of charm, that much was undeniable, but you… you were different from the women who usually fell so easily under his spell. You held yourself with an authority that even Rhaenyra, the realm’s heir, could not match. There was something in the way you looked at Jason—not with shyness or demure flirtation, but with the same calculating assessment one might give a potential adversary.

And yet, you danced with him.

“She’s testing him,” Tyland murmured, more to himself than to the others.

Alton turned his head. “Hmm?”

“The princess,” Tyland elaborated. “She’s seeing how far Jason will go before he realizes she’s the one holding the leash.”

Stafford chuckled. “And what happens when he finds out?”

Tyland took another sip of his wine, watching as you leaned in slightly, murmuring something into Jason’s ear. Whatever you said made his brother grin, though there was a flicker of something else behind it—surprise, perhaps. Maybe even intrigue.

“He’ll keep playing,” Tyland said finally. “Because he won’t believe he can lose.”

Alton smirked. “And do you believe he will?”

Tyland’s gaze remained locked on the dance floor, watching as Jason twirled you, your silver hair catching the candlelight like molten starlight. The entire hall watched you—some entertained, others wary, but none indifferent.

The game had begun in earnest.

And Tyland, for all his caution, wasn’t sure if his brother realized just how dangerous his opponent truly was.

The dance between you and Jason was a slow, deliberate thing. Each step, each turn, each brush of his hand against your waist was performed under the scrutiny of the entire court. The Great Hall was alive with music, the lively melody filling the space, yet there was a tension beneath it—a quiet, anticipatory hum that carried through the crowd as they watched a lion and a dragon circle one another.

Jason led with confidence, his grip firm but not overpowering, his movements practiced and smooth. He was a man who knew his own appeal, who had likely charmed many a woman with his easy smile and golden tongue. But you were no wide-eyed lady from the Westerlands, no soft-spoken courtly maiden easily swayed by flattery and gallant words. You moved with effortless grace, matching his every step, a silent reminder that he did not lead this dance alone.

Jason leaned in slightly, his breath warm against your ear as he spoke. “I must admit, princess, you’ve caught me at a disadvantage.”

You arched a delicate brow, tilting your head just enough to meet his gaze. “How so, my lord?”

His lips curled into a smirk, his green eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “You spoke of my betrothal negotiations as though you were seated at the table yourself. I find that rather intriguing.”

You allowed yourself a slow, knowing smile. “Only a fool would return here without learning everything about this den of vipers.”

Jason let out a short, surprised chuckle. “Vipers, is it? And here I thought you might still see this court as home.”

Your fingers tightened slightly where they rested in his grasp. “Home,” you mused, letting the word roll off your tongue as if testing its weight. “Such a delicate thing. So easily turned into a cage if one is not careful.”

Jason hummed in thought, his grip on your waist pressing slightly firmer as he spun you, your silken skirts fanning out in a swirl of deep crimson and black. The movement was effortless, controlled. He was good at this—dancing, charming, making women feel as though the world revolved around him.

But you knew better.

“I wonder,” Jason mused, his voice dropping just enough for only you to hear. “What else did you learn, princess? Do I have other secrets I should be concerned about?”

You tilted your head, watching him through half-lidded eyes as you allowed a playful smirk to grace your lips. “That depends. Should I be concerned about how many women’s fathers you have sat across from, promising them the honor of being Lady of Casterly Rock?”

Jason barked a quiet laugh, his grip on you tightening for a fraction of a second. “Now that is an unfair assessment,” he mused. “It is not as though I am in the habit of making such promises. Just one or two… perhaps three.”

You smirked, tilting your chin up as you let him guide you through another turn. “How noble.”

“I am nothing if not honorable,” Jason quipped, though his grin betrayed his amusement.

You exhaled a quiet laugh, the sharp gleam in your violet eyes never dimming. “And yet, despite all this honor, here you are,” you murmured, your voice as smooth as silk. “Dancing with a woman who is not among those negotiations.”

Jason’s smirk deepened. “I am an opportunist, my princess. It would be a crime to let such a moment slip away.”

You studied him for a long moment, the dance moving through another slow, deliberate step. His confidence was unwavering, his charm effortless. But there was something else beneath it—curiosity, perhaps even fascination. He had danced with many, of that you were certain, but you were something different.

You leaned in just enough that your lips nearly brushed his ear, your voice barely above a whisper. “Tell me, Lord Jason, do you dance with all the women you court so publicly?”

Jason’s breath hitched for the briefest moment before he recovered, his smirk sharpening. “Only the ones who make my blood run hot.”

Your smile was slow, calculated. “How fortunate, then, that I am not in the market for a husband.”

Jason chuckled, his fingers pressing against your lower back as he guided you into another turn. “A tragedy, truly,” he said smoothly, though his voice held a thread of something more—something bordering on chaellenge.

You did not respond immediately, letting the music fill the brief silence between you as the two of you moved in perfect sync. Around the hall, whispers floated between courtiers, lords and ladies speculating, watching, assessing.

You knew what they saw.

A lion circling a dragon.

Jason, ever the confident rogue, thought himself the predator in this game. But you could see it now, in the way his grip tightened just slightly when your body brushed against his, in the way his eyes gleamed with something dangerously close to intrigue. He had entered this dance thinking to seduce a princess.

Instead, he was the one being ensnared.

And gods, he was enjoying it.

As the final notes of the melody rang through the Great Hall, the dance drew to a close. Jason's grip remained firm for a moment longer than necessary, his fingers warm against your waist, as if reluctant to let you go. But you had already decided the game would not be his to control.

With a graceful step back, you withdrew from him, dipping your head ever so slightly in acknowledgment. “A fine dance, my lord,” you murmured, your voice smooth as silk, deliberately impersonal despite the intensity of your earlier exchange.

Jason smirked, sensing the shift in your demeanor. You were retreating before he could press his advantage further. Clever girl.

“The pleasure was mine, princess,” he replied, his tone laced with amusement.

You turned before he could say more, stepping away from the golden lion and back into the sea of onlookers. And that was when the court descended upon you.

Like vultures drawn to fresh meat, lords and ladies swarmed, eager to claim a moment of your attention. Some came with flowery compliments, others with thinly veiled curiosity, their eyes hungry for any morsel of information about you.

“It has been far too long since we have seen you at court, Princess Y/N.”

“You dance as if the gods themselves had shaped you for it.”

“Your father must be proud to have raised such a striking lady.”

Questions came next, wrapped in silk but cutting as Valyrian steel.

“What has brought you back to King’s Landing?”

“Do you intend to remain at court?”

“Has His Grace spoken of a match for you yet?”

The last question was the one whispered most eagerly, rippling through the gathered nobles like a slow-burning ember. Because that was the heart of it, wasn’t it? The game of marriage, alliances, and power. A dragon returned to the Red Keep was no small thing, and they all wanted to know where you would fall on the board.

You answered them with practiced ease, offering smiles without true promises, words with just enough weight to keep them wanting more. You had spent years away from court, but the game had not changed. If anything, you had learned it better than ever.

Jason Lannister strode back toward his seat, his smirk wider than ever. He could still feel the ghost of your touch, the way your body had moved with his. He poured himself another cup of Arbor gold, feeling the eyes of his kin on him.

“Well?” Alton Lannister asked, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Shall we expect a royal announcement soon, Jason? Or did she turn you into cinders?”

Jason let out a rich chuckle, lifting his goblet in a mock toast. “I’d say I handled myself rather well,” he said smugly, taking a deep sip of his wine. “She did not burn me, nor did she bite. That, dear cousins, is a victory.”

Ser Stafford scoffed, shaking his head. “A victory? You think one dance is a conquest?”

Jason leaned back, grinning. “One dance is the start of many things. She did not deny me, did she?” He gestured toward the court, where you stood amidst the nobles, captivating the entire hall. “They may all be circling her now, but I had her first.”

Tyland, who had remained quiet during Jason’s boasting, exhaled sharply before finally speaking. “You’re a fool.”

Jason turned his head, raising an amused brow. “Oh?”

Tyland’s expression was tight, his hands clasped before him as he leaned slightly forward. “Daemon Targaryen was watching you like a hawk the entire time. If you truly think he will let you dance with his daughter freely, you’re more arrogant than I thought.”

Jason chuckled, clearly unbothered. “Daemon is many things, but he is not blind. He knows what his daughter is—she’s a prize, and he knows men will seek her. What better man than a Lannister?”

Tyland’s jaw tightened. “You’re playing with fire, Jason.”

Jason merely smirked, swirling his wine. “I rather like the heat.”

Tyland let out a sharp breath, his patience thinning. “You do not understand what you’re dealing with,” he said, voice low and edged with warning. “She’s her father’s daughter through and through. If you think you can win her with empty flattery and boasts, you’ll find yourself sorely disappointed.”

Jason tilted his head slightly, studying his brother. Then, to Tyland’s irritation, his smirk only widened.

“Is that what’s bothering you, little brother?” Jason drawled, his tone mockingly thoughtful. “You’re jealous because you didn’t have the courage to approach her first?”

Tyland’s expression darkened, his fingers tightening around the goblet before he set it down with deliberate force. “Do not be ridiculous.”

Jason chuckled, leaning closer. “Oh, come now, Tyland. You watched her just as much as I did. And yet, I was the one who walked up to her. I was the one who danced with her while the whole court watched. You? You sat here and brooded like a scolded child.”

Tyland’s nostrils flared, but his face remained composed, his eyes cold as steel. “I am cautious,” he corrected. “Something you seem to lack entirely.”

Jason grinned. “And where has caution ever gotten you, brother? Sitting at council meetings while the rest of us play the real game?” He took another sip of his wine, shaking his head. “You’re always so careful, Tyland. So restrained. But tell me, how long will you sit on the sidelines while I enjoy the spoils?”

Tyland said nothing, but the look in his eyes was dark and unreadable.

Jason laughed, slapping his brother’s shoulder before leaning back in his chair. “Ah, don’t sulk. There are plenty of ladies in court who’d welcome your attention.” He tilted his head toward you, watching as you effortlessly navigated the growing circle of nobles vying for your favor. “But that one? She’s mine.”

Tyland didn’t respond. He simply reached for his wine and took a slow sip, his expression unreadable. But something in his grip, the way his jaw tightened ever so slightly, told Jason that his words had struck their mark.

And that, perhaps, his younger brother was not as unaffected as he wished to appear.

Meanwhile, during the dance

The Great Hall shimmered with candlelight, laughter, and the hum of conversation as the wedding feast carried on. At the center of it all, King Viserys I Targaryen reclined in his seat at the royal dais, watching the court dance and revel. The unease that had settled over their table when Daemon arrived with you had lessened now that you had stepped away, but a shadow still lingered over his features.

Beside him, Queen Alicent sat stiffly, her green gown immaculate, her lips pressed into a thin line as her gaze flickered between Viserys and the court below. On the dance floor, Rhaenyra and Laenor moved gracefully in tandem, their laughter light and effortless, as if for one night, at least, they could play the part expected of them.

Daemon, lounging in his seat across from them, swirled his wine lazily in his goblet, his expression unreadable. His presence was as unwelcome as ever, but he looked utterly unbothered by it, his smirk never quite fading.

Viserys exhaled slowly, setting down his goblet. The weight of the crown felt heavier than usual tonight. With you away from the table, he finally allowed himself to speak more freely.

“She looks just like her mother,” he muttered, almost to himself, as his eyes followed you amidst the courtiers.

Daemon’s smirk faltered for the briefest moment.

Viserys glanced at him, his expression unreadable. “I have not seen that face in years, and now… it’s as if Daena walks among us again.”

A muscle ticked in Daemon’s jaw. He brought his goblet to his lips, taking a slow sip before answering. “She is her own woman, brother.”

“Perhaps,” Viserys allowed, though his voice remained distant, thoughtful. His eyes traced your movements through the hall, watching as lords and ladies swarmed around you, eager for a moment of your time. “She was meant to be my daughter’s sister by marriage,” he mused. “A match for the son Aemma and I never had.”

Daemon scoffed softly, swirling his wine. “And if Aemma had birthed a boy, do you truly think he would have been worthy of her?”

Viserys turned sharply at that, his expression darkening. “That was the plan.”

Daemon leaned back in his chair, smirking again. “Plans change.”

Alicent, silent until now, finally spoke, her voice measured but firm. “The princess has returned to court,” she said carefully. “Surely, Your Grace should consider her future—what will become of her?”

Viserys rubbed a hand over his brow. “She has just arrived, Alicent. Must we already speak of alliances?”

“Is it not prudent?” Alicent replied, ever the queen, ever practical. “She is a woman grown. And a princess of your blood. If her hand is left unclaimed, lords will fight for it soon enough.”

Daemon smirked, turning toward her with something dangerously close to amusement. “Is that concern I hear in your voice, good-sister?”

Alicent’s fingers tightened around her goblet. “I merely think the matter should not be ignored.”

Viserys sighed, watching you again as Jason Lannister spun you in a graceful turn. He could see the murmurs it was causing, the way the court whispered at the sight of a golden lion dancing with a dragon.

Daemon followed his gaze, his smirk deepening. “The Lannister seems eager,” he mused. “Would you have her as Lady of Casterly Rock, brother?”

Viserys frowned. “Jason Lannister is a braggart.”

“He is a powerful braggart,” Alicent interjected. “And wealthy.”

Daemon chuckled. “Oh, now this is amusing. Tell me, Alicent, do you think a Lannister would know how to handle her?” His voice was full of wicked amusement, and something else—something sharper.

Alicent stiffened at his tone. “It is not a matter of ‘handling’ her, Prince Daemon. It is a matter of what is best for the realm.”

Daemon scoffed, setting his goblet down with a soft clink. “What’s best for the realm?” He gestured toward the dance floor, where Jason was clearly reveling in his own success, his confidence growing with every turn of the dance. “Tell me, then. Would you see her given to a man whose greatest skill is pouring gold over his problems?”

Viserys exhaled sharply. “Enough.”

Daemon tilted his head slightly, watching his brother carefully. “Then tell me, brother—what is your plan for her?”

Viserys did not answer right away. His fingers tapped against the armrest of his chair, his gaze heavy as he studied you once more. “I don’t know yet,” he admitted at last. “But she is my niece, and she deserves a choice.”

Daemon’s smirk was slow, knowing. “A choice, you say? How generous.”

Alicent’s expression was carefully neutral, but there was something in her posture, the way she held herself, that spoke of unease.

“She is a woman grown,” she said again. “And no woman of noble birth has complete choice.”

Daemon leaned forward slightly, resting an elbow on the table, his gaze locked on hers. “You would know, wouldn’t you?”

Alicent’s jaw tightened, but she said nothing.

Viserys pinched the bridge of his nose, his patience thinning. “Daemon, must you always—”

“I’m merely stating the truth, brother.” Daemon’s voice was light, but his eyes were cold as steel. “We all make sacrifices, do we not?”

A beat of silence stretched between them.

Finally, Viserys exhaled, turning his attention fully back to the scene before them. The music was changing, signaling the end of the dance. Jason Lannister, looking immensely pleased with himself, was guiding you back toward the gathered nobility, where the next wave of suitors waited eagerly for their chance to approach.

The sight made Viserys feel… uneasy.

“She is the last of Daena’s blood,” he murmured, almost to himself. “She deserves more than to be a prize to be won.”

Daemon tilted his head slightly, his smirk fading for the briefest moment. “Then let her decide, brother.”

Viserys sighed again, rubbing a hand down his face. “I will speak to her.”

Daemon smirked. “Do that.”

Alicent sipped her wine in silence, her gaze lingering on you for a moment longer before she turned her attention elsewhere.

And so, the night continued, but in the shadows of the revelry, the pieces of a greater game had already begun to shift.

The morning sun bathed the Red Keep in golden light, cutting through the remnants of the previous night’s revelry. The Great Hall was quiet now, the last traces of spilled wine and crushed flower petals having been swept away by servants at dawn. Yet, in the lingering hush of the castle, whispers of the wedding feast remained, carried in the murmurs of courtiers and the amused glances exchanged in the corridors.

You had taken refuge on one of the open balconies overlooking the courtyard, reclining lazily against the carved stone railing. The air was warm but pleasant, a soft breeze lifting strands of your silver hair as you gazed at the sprawling city below. King’s Landing was loud, restless, always teeming with life—but from up here, it all seemed small, distant.

The events of the previous night had left you amused, entertained even, but not surprised. The court had flocked to you as expected, eager to assess, to charm, to scheme. Jason Lannister had danced with you beneath the watchful eyes of the realm, playing his game with all the confidence of a man accustomed to winning. And yet, even he had sensed that the victory was not his alone to claim.

A sudden clack of boots against the stone floor drew your attention, the measured rhythm cutting through the quiet. You turned your head slightly, expecting yet another bold lord eager to test his luck.

And then, you sighed.

“Of course,” you muttered, tilting your head as you watched the approaching figure. “There’s another one.”

Tyland Lannister came to a slow stop, his expression betraying nothing as he studied you. Unlike his brother, he did not smirk, did not grin like a man too confident in his own charm. His stance was relaxed, his hands clasped neatly behind his back.

He inclined his head slightly. “Princess.”

Your lips curled in a faint smirk. “I should have known House Lannister only moves in pairs.”

Tyland exhaled a quiet chuckle, stepping closer but maintaining a respectable distance. “An unfortunate reputation, I admit.” He tilted his head slightly, studying you with a level gaze. “Though I’d wager most would consider twice the attention from our house a compliment.”

You gave him a slow, assessing glance. “Would they?”

He did not answer immediately, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make his presence feel intentional rather than coincidental. Then, with the same calmness, he spoke again.

“Tyland Lannister,” he said smoothly. “In case you tire of calling me ‘another one.’”

Your smirk deepened. “And I suppose you are here to make your own attempt at charming me?”

His expression did not shift, nor did he reach for dramatics the way Jason would have. Instead, he merely gave a small shrug, as if the matter was of no true consequence. “Would you like me to?”

That was… unexpected.

You narrowed your eyes slightly, intrigued. Unlike his brother, Tyland did not seek to overwhelm with wit or flair. His confidence was quieter, subtler, a blade hidden beneath silk rather than one displayed openly for admiration. He was not playing Jason’s game. He was playing his own.

Interesting.

You leaned back against the railing, tilting your head. “And if I said no?”

Tyland didn’t hesitate. “Then I would simply continue on my way to the council chamber.”

Your smirk did not fade. “How dutiful.”

“I try,” he said, though there was a flicker of something behind his words.

You exhaled, shaking your head slightly. “Two Lannister brothers,” you mused. “One comes to me with theatrics and golden smiles. The other appears as though he could take or leave the interaction entirely.” Your violet eyes gleamed with amusement. “Tell me, Lord Tyland, which approach do you think is more effective?”

Tyland studied you for a moment, his gaze steady. Then, with deliberate slowness, he stepped forward, close enough that the space between you was no longer so impersonal.

“I suppose that depends,” he murmured, voice lower now. “Would you rather be chased, princess?”

You arched a brow, your fingers tapping idly against the stone railing. “Is that what Jason was doing last night?”

Tyland’s lips quirked slightly. “Jason is… determined. But determination does not always yield success.”

You exhaled a quiet chuckle, tilting your chin up slightly. “And you? Are you determined?”

He watched you carefully. “Not in the way my brother is.”

Your smirk deepened. “How fortunate. I was beginning to wonder if I should expect a marriage proposal before midday.”

Tyland let out a quiet breath of amusement, but he did not press further. His restraint was noticeable—calculated, even. Jason had filled the air with words, but Tyland allowed the silence to breathe, his presence speaking for itself.

You watched him for a moment, then let your gaze flick toward the corridor leading to the council chamber. “You should be going, should you not?”

His head tilted slightly. “Are you dismissing me, princess?”

You exhaled, shaking your head slightly. “No, my lord. I am simply wondering how long you plan to stand here, feigning indifference while ensuring I remember your name.”

Tyland’s expression remained unreadable, but you caught the flicker of amusement in his green eyes.

“A fair observation,” he admitted. “Perhaps I should take my leave before I become predictable.”

You leaned slightly closer, your voice barely above a murmur. “It is far too late for that.”

For the first time, Tyland’s lips twitched in something that almost resembled a real smile.

He inclined his head. “Until next time, princess.”

And with that, he stepped away, his movements as measured as before, as if the interaction had been nothing more than an afterthought.

But as you watched him go, your smirk did not fade.

Unlike Jason, Tyland had not sought to impress you.

And that, you thought, might have been his most impressive move of all.

[shesjustanothergeek]

The Gods We Can Touch Chapter Eight: The Lord of the Tides

Masterlist of Series

Summary: The older twin of Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, you were a picture of the maiden, untouched and untainted by man's sins. At least, that was what Alicent Hightower believed when she held you in her arms moments after her old friend's labors. You were her shining light, her dream. Though you were never hers, she believed you were meant to be.

What will become of you as time passes and the Queen's shining light grows within the blackened darkness? Will her eldest son's morbid fascination with the light burn the realm? Or will her second son's obsession with the only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen change the course of the Seven Kingdoms as we know it?

Author's Note: Hello, everyone! I'm posting a chapter within two weeks and not a month? What sorcery is this? Anyway, thank you for staying with me through these chapters. We're getting to the juicy stuff here soon, which will be very angsty. I also want to remind everyone that this is a dark fic that deals with suicide, SA, and severe mental illness. You'll hate some of these characters and their actions and have questions about them as the story progresses, but everything has a reason, and it'll all tie together eventually. Just have faith, babes.

Chapter Warnings: misogyny, eugenics, mentions of and trauma related to COCSA, suicidal ideations, severe mental illness, self-deprecating thoughts, and sexual harassment.

The Great Hall echoed with the clamor of anxious voices. The petition summoned all the court members, seemingly attempting to embarrass your family publicly. Although hearings like these did not necessitate the presence of all the Lords and Ladies, they were all there, rendering the open space oppressively stuffy and cramped. The Iron Throne commanded attention with its imposing presence. Fashioned from the melted swords of Aegon the Conqueror’s enemies, it formed a seat that threatened anyone who ventured too close to its pointed metal surface. 

Daemon was conversing with your mother, and his strong fists clasped over his stomach as he leaned in to speak into her ear. Luke stood by her side, picking at his slender fingers while cowering beneath his cloak. You felt sorry for your younger brother. He didn’t want to be the Lord of the Tides and despised the idea so much that it became a fear of the sea. Part of you believed that Jace should inherit the Driftwood Throne since he was the second-born, but your mother’s advisors pressured that if Jacaerys married you, he wouldn’t be able to rule the Seven Kingdoms and High Tide, so Luke was next in line.

Your stepsister Rhaena was seated on the other side of you and Jace. You glanced at her slender form, noticing her white hair knotted into thick, cylindrical locs piled atop her head. She nodded toward your brother, who looked at his shoes with an undignified pout. You stepped forward, wrapping an arm around Jace’s body. He tried not to show how your gentle actions comforted him in front of the onlookers, subtly leaning into your side.

The hairs on your neck prickled as if someone was watching you closely. You caught a glimpse of your eldest uncle’s sullen face meeting yours. Aegon’s looming stare was fixed on you and your connection with your brother, his lips curving into a frown. Some of you wanted to return his stare with mockery for his audacity, but you held your decorum, fearing what his anger could entail if you went too far. Years ago, you experienced his kindness, leaving an irreparable scar on your soul.

You sensed the anxiety rising at the mere thought of having to confront your eldest uncle once more. Despite six years having passed, the wounds still feel fresh. Clutching Jace tightly to your side, you battle the overwhelming temptation to seek solace within his luxurious robes as a torrent of memories came rushing back as the petition commences.

“Though it is the great hope of this court that Lord Corlys Velaryon survives his wounds,” Otto Hightower spoke, his voice booming across the Great Hall, “we gather here with the grim task of dealing with the succession of Driftmark. As the Hand, I speak with the King’s voice on this and all other matters.” You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. 

“The Crown will now hear the petitions.”

Aegon felt a surge of frustration as he watched you avoid making eye contact, unable to bear the sight of you being affectionate with someone else. You had been his closest ally until Aemond’s actions shattered everything. With a scowl, he directed his gaze toward the ground and decided to converse with you about the years past. The eldest Prince was resolute in his determination to make you see that he was not the one at fault.

“Ser Vaemond of House Velaryon,” the Hand spoke, announcing the challenger to the room.

The individual accountable for this incident stepped up, adorned in an opulent doublet of rich velvet in a deep navy shade, almost black. He briefly acknowledged the presence of Lord Corlys’s wife. As he drew nearer, you found yourself in the presence of Ser Vaemond for the second time in your life. His facial hair displayed a striking blend of salt and pepper, evidence of the many decades of life experience that distinguished him from you.

“My Queen,” he greeted with a nod, “my Lord Hand.” Luke visibly bristled at his Great Uncle’s voice, retreating further into his cloak and your mother’s comforting presence. 

If the Gods were fair beings, they would strike Lord Vaemond down where he stood for daring to spout treasonous lies before the Court. The mere petition was a ploy to publicly embarrass and cast doubt upon your mother’s claim as heir to the Iron Throne. This was why he chose to pounce like a lion in wait for its prey onto the opportunity of his older brother getting injured. It was as if Lord Vaemond had already declared his brother dead before he returned to his bed. You were raised by a second son and understood too well of their lusts for what the eldest sibling had. 

As you tightly gripped Jace’s hand, you made a solemn vow to take the necessary action, not just to protect your family but also for the greater good of your kingdom. This would be the first time you would employ your extensive knowledge of herbs and medicinal practices for a malevolent purpose, but you were willing to do whatever it took for their sake. Throughout history, many distinguished individuals have fallen victim to choking on wine or food, which has proven fatal for even those of lesser stature.

“The history of our noble houses extends past the Seven Kingdoms to the days of Old Valyria. For as long as House Targaryen has ruled the skies, House Velaryon has ruled the seas. When the Doom fell on Old Valyria, our House became the last of their kind.” You glanced at your mother while Vaemond droned eloquently, her regard downcast with a disapproving smirk. “Our forebears came to this land, knowing they would fail; it would be the end of their bloodlines and name. I have spent my entire life defending my brother’s seat. I am Lord Corlys’ closest kin, his blood,” the second son petitioned. 

Out of the corner of your vision, you spotted Princess Rhaenys, her stare boring holes into the back of her good brother’s skull. Your worries that the Queen Who Never Was would not side with Luke and his claim lessened as you noted the irritation on her face, the fury at Vaemond’s claim that he had the right to be Lord of the Tides and not her, as if her rule during Corlys’ absence meant that the Driftwood Throne was not in safe hands until Luke was ready.

Otto stared at the man with a neutral expression, but his eyes betrayed his genuine emotions. Arrogance and pride shine through, revealing his bias. “It’s a true, unimpeachable blood of the House of Velaryon that runs through my veins.”

“As it does in my son’s, the offspring of Laenor Velaryon,” your mother interrupted, causing everyone in the room to direct their attention to her. “If you cared so much about your House’s blood, Ser Vaemond, you would not be so bold as to supplant its rightful heir. No, you only speak for yourself and your own ambition-”

You sucked in a nervous breath, your gaze flickering to your mother as you scratched at your scalp. She knew better than to interrupt during a petition to the Crown. She would have scolded you for such an act. Perhaps since it wasn’t her father, she felt the ability to speak out of turn was appropriate. Even the daughter of the King wasn’t allowed such liberties.

“You will have a chance to make your petition, Princess Rhaenyra,” the Queen interrupted, causing your simmering vexation to spike into a rolling boil. “Do Ser Vaemond the courtesy of allowing him to be heard.”

You understood Queen Alicent’s opinion but couldn’t quell the rise of frustrated tears at her words. It was not her place to order your mother. She was a wife to the King, a consort, and whatever jurisdiction she had was given to her by a man. She held no real power, and remembering that would do her well.

As if Alicent heard your thoughts, her amber eyes flicked to you. You felt your stomach lurch as the bread you had earlier threatened to decorate the stone floor. You did not like the Queen after what she did to your mother and her obsession with you. Her possessiveness was something you never understood, nor did you want to. Whatever the Queen had twisted and distorted you to be inside her mind was not something you desired to give fruit to, disregarding her pleading looks as you focused on the Lord before you. 

Ser Vaemond turned to stare smugly at Rhaenyra, continuing with his rant of blood purity and superiority. “What do you know of Velaryon blood, Princess? I could cut my veins and show it to you, but you still wouldn’t recognize it.”

A tugging at your bell sleeve brought your attention to Jace, noting how you unconsciously scratched at your scalp. Suddenly, you realized that in the moment’s intensity with Aemond, you had dropped your headpiece in the hall. Swiftly nodding that you were all right, Jace began to stroke the back of your clenched knuckles in a silent gesture of support. Your hand had long forgotten its comforting touch as it blanched from ire.

“This is about the future and survival of my House, not yours,” Vaemond finished, staring hard at your Luke as you cringed.

Jace did not let the Lord or the three people frighten you for long, subtly shifting to block him and all other stares from view like the moat of iron spikes surrounding Maegor’s Holdfast. Why were they all looking at you? The Lords and Ladies. Alicent, Aegon, Aemond, and Helaena. You silently willed them to stop, but it was for naught. 

The Lord turned from Luke, his prideful grin duller as he addressed the Queen and Hand. “This is a matter of blood, not ambition. I place the continuation of the survival of my House and line above all. I humbly put myself before you as my brother’s successor,” Vaemond finally concluded, taking a few steps back, “the Lord of Driftmark, the Lord of the Tides.”

“Thank you, Ser Vaemond,” Otto concluded atop a throne that was not his as the second son gave one last grimace toward your family.

With the retreating of the Lord, you were given the perfect view of the Green children, the eldest still very much disinterested in what was happening around him, shifting on his feet as if he was itching to leave the room, which you supposed was true. The second child was attempting to dissociate from the world around her, uncomfortable with the animosity between the two houses, her golden dress the opposite of her appearance. The third and final member seemed to match his Mother and Grandsire, an air of superiority radiating from his toned body that sent shivers to your core. 

“Princess Rhaenyra,” the Hand called, “you may now speak for your son, Prince Lucerys Velaryon.”

Your mother approached before the steps of the Iron Throne, her body language openly depicting her ire at the whole matter. Her complete disregard for the seriousness of the situation caused you to crack a smile, looking at Jace in an attempt to lighten the mood.

“If I am forced to grace this farce with some answer, I will start by reminding this court that nearly twenty years ago in this very room-”

Your mother’s remarks were cut short by the creaking of hinges, the grand doors to the Great Hall opening to reveal the rhythmic tapping of a cane.

“King Viserys of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of The Andals, the Roynar, The First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”

Gasps echoed through the expansive room as all eyes turned to your mother. She gazed in astonishment as her father appeared in public for the first time in years. The King of the Seven Kingdoms, half his face concealed by a golden mask, made his way across the grand throne room, causing a stir among the onlookers.

You recalled that six years ago, there was only a tiny sore on his cheek, such a minuscule gash that festered and grew to eat away at his flesh until you could see the rotting teeth within his skull. Tears pricked at your eyes as you listened to the steady tapping of your Grandsire, your heart unable to watch the hunched figure.

The Hand seemed more shocked than any. His stoic face of pride morphed into one of stunned surprise as your Grandsire made his way to the bottom steps of the Iron Throne. 

“I will sit on the throne today,” the King rasped, his entire weight resting on the dragon head of his walking stick.

“Your Grace,” Otto reluctantly acknowledged, gaping wide as he took his place next to his daughter and her children.

A kingsguard quickly rushed to the side of his ruler, briefly assisting before Viserys weakly shoved him away. You couldn’t watch this—watch someone once so full of joy and love for his kin struggle to walk the stairs of his ancestors as you nestled your face into Jace’s shoulder. The sound of fallen metal echoed in the room, bringing your attention upward. Your Grandsire’s crown had fallen onto the stairs before the throne as a quiet grunt of discontent puffed past his chapped lips. Daemon was behind his brother before anyone was the wiser, assisting the last remnants of his late parents’ love to his ruling seat and placing the golden Crown of Jaehaerys on the remaining tatters of silver hair.

While you indulged in a lavish meal of quail and lamb on the breathtaking island of Dragonstone, you could aid him, but unfortunately, you were unaware of his plight. Overcome with remorse for not setting aside your troubles to support your Grandsire, you shed tears uncontrollably.

“Sister, you’re crying,” he whispered below the shell of your ear. You nodded silently, whipping away the stray water that collected on your warm cheek.

Jace knew your strong aversion to displaying any hint of vulnerability through tears. He recognized that you viewed it as a manifestation of a perceived girlish weakness that you deemed incompatible with your role as heir to the Seven Kingdoms. He felt helpless as he witnessed you, unable to offer the solace he longed to provide.

Staring at both of you with a fierce scowl across his narrow pink lips, Aemond believed you deserved to experience pain. However, he struggled with his emotions, attempting to quash the pang piercing his dark heart. Aemond envisioned himself as the unyielding pillar, braving the tumultuous waves during a tempest at sea. He saw himself as your shelter from the salty waters, ready to wipe away any tears that adorned your skin. Jacaerys was far from being a man deserving of a princess, unlike…

The Prince’s chest rumbled with a grunt of discontent as he resisted completing his thought despite knowing the truth in his heart. Upon hearing the sound, Aegon glanced at his brother with a perplexed expression and followed his line of sight with a mix of understanding and bitterness, forming a frown on his face.

“I must admit my confusion,” your Grandsire spoke, his frail voice reverberating through the high walls of the hall. “I do not understand why petitions are being heard over a settled succession.” You did not need to look at Vaemond to see his outrage. You could sense it from where you stood twenty paces away, your tears slowly drying as you gazed at the disappointed Queen. “The only one present who might offer keener insights into Lord Corlys’ wishes is the Princess Rhaenys.”

Everyone turned to the woman as she processed her cousin’s words. “Indeed, your grace,” she nodded, taking a moment to look at her brother-in-law. 

Eyes followed the Queen Who Never Was as she spoke, her voice so smooth and elegant you felt envy for it at the back of your mind. “It was ever my husband’s will that Driftmark passes through Ser Laenor to his trueborn son, Lucerys Velaryon. His mind never changed.”

The atmosphere in the room was charged with a tumult of emotions. Anger, betrayal, shock, and relief swirled around the Great Hall like a powerful storm. Ser Vaemond was furious, deeply hurt by his good sister’s words. To him, being a true Velaryon meant everything, and he couldn’t bear the thought of his bastard nephew, born from a woman pretending to be virtuous, tarnishing his family’s name and the honor of the realm. He was resolute in his refusal to accept this situation. Vaemond’s bloodline was solid and pure, unyielding like the sea.

“Princess Rhaenyra has informed me of her desire to marry her son Jace and Luke to Lord Corlys’ granddaughters, Princess Baela and Rhaena. A proposal to which I heartily agree.”

The speed at which your head whipped towards Jace was almost otherworldly, nearly causing you to stumble. His face reflected your shock, his mouth hanging open like a fish before he turned to glance at your mother. A serene smile graced her pink lips, and she quickly lowered her gaze while placing a protective hand over her swollen stomach.

Apart from your mother, no one else seemed to share the same sense of pride. The Queen’s expression soured even more than you thought possible, and the Hand remained stunned by the sudden turn of events as you withdrew your hand from Jace’s.

Aegon had suddenly perked up at the revelation, uncharacteristically grinning as he watched the drama unfold while Aemond observed your misfortune with barely concealed satisfaction. You couldn’t pinpoint why he had an abrupt interest in the conversation. He no doubt enjoyed the misfortune of others, even if it was his kin. 

“Well,” the King spoke, his breathing now calmed, “the matter is settled. Again. I hereby reaffirm Prince Lucerys of House Velaryon as heir to Driftmark, Driftwood Throne, and the next Lord of the Tides.”

The entire family breathed a sigh of relief, their shared sense of burden and responsibility slowly dissipating as they watched the weight of the future shift onto the Greens. In that moment, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of guilt for not shouldering the load yourself. Princess Rhaenys, with an almost irritated yet dignified stride, stood beside her eldest granddaughter, her presence exuding a complex mix of annoyance and pride.

Though you hadn’t moved from your spot beside your twin, you felt like a league away from him, gaping blankly at the glistening steel swords running over the steps like a river. The longer you studied them, the more they began to contort, seeing viscous crimson liquid melt down the blades. The future you had planned with your brother was impaled to the hilt. 

A scoff cut through the moment of joy, your head directed to the sound. “You break the law, centuries of tradition to install your daughter as heir,” Vaemond spoke, venom laced within every syllable. “But you dare tell me who deserves to inherit the name Velaryon. No. I will not allow it.” 

Your brown orbs flickered from the man to the King. “Allow it?” Viserys echoed, testing the word on his dry tongue. “Do not forget yourself, Vaemond.”

The thick, oppressive silence enveloped the scene, defying even the sharpness of Darksister’s blade. Every individual present held their breath, their anticipation palpable as they waited to witness the outcome.

“That is no true Velaryon and certainly no nephew of mine!” the second son shouted, causing everyone to jump in fright.

“Go to your chambers,” Rhaenyra ordered you and your brothers before swiftly turning her attention to Vaemond. “You have said enough.” 

None of you obeyed.

“Lucerys is my true-born grandson,” your Grandsire declared. “And you are no more than the second son of Driftmark.” 

“You,” Vaemond stated, taking menacing steps forward, “may run your House as you see fit, but you will not decide my future. My House survived the Doom and a thousand tribulations besides.” 

He turned to your family, feet firmly planted with the grip on his longsword. Your look stared fire at his, jaw clenched as he spat his vitriol. “And Gods be damned, I will not see it end on account of this…” 

You arched your head to the side, eyes widening in defiance as you silently urged him to speak the words that yearned to escape his lips. However, he disregarded you, considering you nothing more than a mere girl in a world dominated by men, a lost cause. You resolved to shed any lingering guilt about your intentions at that moment.

“Say it,” Daemon’s soft and menacing timbre whispered.

Onlookers scrutinized with bated breath as Vaemond considered his words, his gaze flickering from your father to you, Jace, your mother, and Luke. A sneer slowly pulled his lips, righting his posture as he bellowed.

“Her children are bastards!” 

You inhaled a near-inaudible growl from your throat as you took a charged step forward, only to be yanked back by Jace before you could do something you would regret. Soft murmurs sounded, the Greens all sharing the same look of begrudging disappointment. Jace seemed just as furious as you, his lips curling into a snarl.

“And they,” he glared at you, then at your mother, his jaw tensing, “are whores.” 

Your gaze immediately flicked to Aegon and then Aemond, your body independently moving as the crowd gasped. Aemond’s eye was no longer bright purple but a near black, shining like dragonglass shards. Despite this window into his soul, his outward appearance reached an unusual sereness. Thin lips parted as you noticed the faintest twitch, a tic you realized indicated his rage. 

“You have said your piece, Lord Vaemond,” Queen Alicent declared, fists humbly clasped over her clothed emerald green stomach. “The king has affirmed his decision, and you will do well to respect it without saying lies about the young princess.”

Did people know of what happened between you and Aegon and that of your brother? 

They couldn’t have. You took steps to ensure your image to the public aligned with their ideals. You studied in the Citadel, for Seven’s sake! Your mind raced with the possibility of your secrets being discovered, the chance that the realm would know of your sins before marriage. At the time, it did not seem to be a mistake as you and Jace believed you would be married, but now, just as it seemed like all things did, it slipped through your fingers like the sand that lined the shores of Blackwater Bay.

Aemond watched as you mindlessly attempted to run toward Vaemond like a combat-trained man. He thought it would be entertaining to watch you claw the Velaryon Lord’s eyes out and contemplated in admired silence how reckless you could become when enraged, wondering how far that wrath would take you.

You were unable to hear the sound of raised voices expressing articles of treason, threats of violence, and the unsheathing of a sword until you felt blood splatter on your cheekbone, seeing the sliced head of Vaemond Velaryon laying a few paces from your feet. Jace pulled your face to his chest as you gasped in shock, clutching his arms like he was the only thing keeping you grounded in this moment of grotesque insanity. 

“He can keep his tongue,” Daemon declared, looking at the limp corpse below.

Studying his uncle in brief awe, Aemond’s violet eye flickered from the decapitated corpse to that of the assailant. He moved to see Jace’s feeble attempt at protecting you from the gore that lay leaking into the stones, mouth curling in disdain as he scoffed. Your brother was to be the one to protect you from harm, physical or emotional, yet he was incapable of doing that.

Momentarily, Aemond thought of coming to your side, knowing that he was a worthy enough man to be what you needed, and if not that, then only to spite Jacaerys. He shook the fleeting thought away with a grunt, scorn filling his heart. 

“Disarm him!” The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard yelled, his fellow members drawing their weapons.

You chose who you thought worthy that night on Driftmark when you stood by idly as Luke ripped his eye from the socket.

“No need,” your stepfather cooly protested, wiping the blood of his kin from his blade and exiting the room.

Your eyes could not leave the bleeding form of Vaemond Velaryon, the top half of his dreaded white hair discarded as the crimson liquid pooled around him. Viserys groaned above, collapsing onto the Iron Throne like a sack of bones from the effort of living. Alicent and your mother ran to his aide.

“Niece.”

You expected to see Aemond come and continue his taunts from before, but instead, you saw Aegon standing before you, his square face etched with worry. You would have thought him handsome had he not done what he did and become the man he had become as you merely stared at him, your mind blank and body numb. 

How could he show you such concern, knowing how much pain he caused you? What could you say to him after everything that transpired? After he effectively distorted the pure view of your world into betrayal and anguish. He most likely wanted to use you as he did to the maids of the Keep. You thought you might as well let him. That was how you felt now that the one man you willingly gave your body to with the expected outcome of marriage was bound to another. That same disgusting sensation you had the following days after your assault came rushing back as if you were that scared little girl again.

You did not want to feel that weak again and parted your lips to speak the venom he deserved to hear. Suddenly, you found your throat too dry as you swallowed the air instead. Aegon extended a hand to yours in what you believed to be a comforting gesture, fingers brushing each other as terror surged through your limbs. 

Your sights glanced at the corpse as the hilt of Vaemond’s sword glinted in the light. You could end this here and now. End the torment. End the constant uncertainty that would be your mother’s secession. Your demise would be of no consequence.

“Sister,” Jace called, his tone clipped and brown eyes wide. The same eyes you had looking back at you. “Mother wants us in our chambers to prepare for supper.” 

You recoiled as if your limb was scorched when you swiftly pulled it away from Aegon. With a curt nod to your twin, you allowed him to take you. Walking out of the Great Hall, you made a conscious effort not to glance back, keenly aware of the intensity of Aegon’s piercing stare as it followed the contours of your womanly form. You were sure that this encounter wouldn’t be the last, and the prospect of it propelled you to seek solace in the comforting embrace of your twin.

The twilight had descended upon King’s Landing, casting the city in a hazy glow. Despite the late hour, the flagstone streets teemed with activity as revelers roamed for company, their laughter mingling with the clinking of coins. Meanwhile, you found yourself clutching a goblet of fiery spirits, hoping to steady your frayed nerves as you sat between your imposing eldest uncle and your sweet twin.

The dining hall exuded an air of palpable tension, with hushed conversations among family members punctuating the room as servants bustled about, preparing for the day’s last meal. Everyone waited in quiet anticipation for the arrival of the King, their faces adorned with joyous and restrained smiles, marking the festivities of new beginnings. However, amidst this atmosphere of hopeful anticipation, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of disquiet. In mere hours, it seemed as though everything you had worked for was unraveling before your eyes.

You were intended to enter into matrimony with Jace just as Visenya married her younger brother Aegon. As twins, you shared an unbreakable bond, with one heart and one soul inhabiting two bodies. No other individual in existence was as ideally suited for you.

As you watched your brothers’ interactions with their betrothed, you couldn’t help but notice the sour expression on your face. Each brother was dutiful and respectful, engaging in hushed conversations with their betrothed about the future and what it might hold. You felt a mix of confusion and offense as you pondered why Jace had swiftly embraced being bound to another after spending years with you as his unspoken wife.

Your eyes locked with Aemond’s from across the opulent room as he conversed with his brother, a sly smirk on his lips. He seemed to revel in your displeasure at taking your brother from you. With an exasperated sigh, you leaned back in your ornate high chair, surveying the sumptuous spread of food before you, each dish tempting you with its rich aromas and vibrant colors.

Growing increasingly impatient for your Grandsire’s arrival, you couldn’t resist the allure of a plump, purple grape sitting on the nearby platter. As you reached for it, your mother reprimanded you.

The air was heavy with the scent of wine as you had already consumed three cups before the arrival of the King, his face wearing a grim expression. Your Grandsire was brought into the grand hall, seated on a makeshift throne, and everyone in the room rose in respect for his position. His crown, a symbol of his authority, had been long forgotten as he was placed between the Queen and your mother. You noticed sores on him that you hadn’t seen before, standing out more prominently in the grandeur of the dining hall. The sight made your eyes prickle with the threat of tears, and your stomach churned with unease.

Despite being seated, he leaned heavily onto his cane, the weight of his extravagant Targaryen robes bearing down on his frail body. You fought back tears, refusing to show any vulnerability in front of those who held little respect for you.

“This is an occasion of celebration, it seems. My grandsons, Jace and Luke, will marry their cousins Baela and Rhaena, further strengthening the bond between our Houses,” your grandfather began, a thick rasp to his voice. “A toast to the young Princes and their betrothed. May you find yours yet, granddaughter.” 

You sat there, forcing back your tears and lifting your glass as the joyful cheers filled the room. The dreams you had shared with Jace seemed to shatter with each sip of wine. Despite the celebratory atmosphere, Jace’s fleeting smile towards Baela deepened your sense of loss. It wasn’t their engagement that bothered you, but rather the uncontrollable circumstances that had brought it about. Still, some of you couldn’t help but resent the pair.

A sudden rancid sweetness wafted into your nose as you saw Aegon lean over you, wrapping his hand around the back of your chair and whispering to your twin. 

“Well done, Jace. You’ll finally get to lie with a woman,” he teased with a lopsided grin. You observed him with wide eyes that danced from your uncle to your twin, hyper-aware of every breath and twitch of his limbs.

Jace stiffened beside you as he clenched his fist atop the table, barely containing his ire. It was only a matter of time before he lost his patience. You saw his hand move to connect with yours like always when he was stressed, but you moved to place it on your lap, instinctively turning your face away from his. 

“It seems your twin doesn’t share the same sentiment,” Aegon softly declared so only the two of you could hear, lips moving into a downward smirk as he watched the silent dispute between siblings, victoriously sitting upright in his seat.

“Let us toast Prince Lucerys as well. The future Lord of the Tides,” your Grandsire continued as you felt the touch of another. Your posture became stiff as Aegon’s fingers wrapped around yours in a vice-like grip, no doubt only to spite Jace as you struggled to break free without causing attention.

Taking advantage of the momentary quiet, your eldest uncle mocked Jace again, moving your hand so he could see it. “You do know how the act is done, I assume? At least in principle. Where to put your cock and all that?”

Rage welled inside your chest at Aegon’s words, and you feared as you looked into your brother’s eyes that he would spill your affairs in anger. Without thinking of appearances, you dug your nails into Aegon’s hand, causing him to yelp as he released you. 

“You can play the jester as you wish, but hold your tongue before my betrothed,” Jace noiselessly snapped in return as your uncle hummed in acquiescence, cradling his injured hand and wounded pride.

Aemond’s eye was trained on the scene before him as he intently observed the three of you. His face remained a practiced impassivity; the only sign of his inner emotions was his finger wrapping on the table. Aemond took a sip of his wine to disguise his chuckle. His brother should know better than to test you. Even as children, you were not one to take things idly.

“It both gladdens my heart,” the King spoke, his voice straining without much effort, “and fills me with sorrow to see these faces around the table, the faces most dear to me in all the world.” Viserys looked toward his left, your mother, stepfather, and brothers in his sight. Your hand gripped the stem of your glass, ignoring the heated glares from across the table. “We’ve grown so distant from each other in years past.”

You forced yourself to hide the scoff at his words, taking another long drink. And why would that be? Perhaps it was because of the Queen’s unwavering grudge against your mother that festered into a hatred of her mere existence, his son raping you at such a young age you didn’t understand what it was, or the permanent injury of a young boy that never received the justice he deserved.

Viserys paused his speech, wheezing and supporting his weight on the table as a hand came to remove his mask. The sight was nothing you could have imagined. The space where his bright purple eye should be was a hollow hole of partially healed and rotting flesh. The wound on his cheek had eaten away at the skin and muscle, revealing his decaying grey teeth.

“My face is no longer handsome if it ever was.” Phlegm was stuck within your Grandsire’s throat, creating an almost repulsive noise as he spoke. “Tonight, I wish you to see me as I am. Not just a king, but your father...”

Aegon met the regards of a man who was his father only in name. His glare was dark, filled with anger you had never seen before, yet Aemond couldn’t bear to look at what he became—his father’s desperation, his mouth curling into a sneer. 

Pain radiated suddenly from your lap, stare snapping to see your eldest uncle’s hand unexpectedly gripping your thigh, his digits digging into the flesh. It was in retaliation as you attempted to pry him off, but it was useless as Aegon secured his grip, no doubt leaving bruises in his wake. You bit your lip, concealing the painful scowl that curled your lips and arched your brows. It was hard to focus on anything other than your skin aching to be free of your body, not wanting to cause a scene.

“...who may not walk for much longer among you. Let us no longer hold your feelings in your hearts. The Crown cannot stand strong as long as the House of The Dragon remains divided.”

Aemond’s single violet eye turned to you, your stares locking with thousands of unsaid emotions, unsaid truths as you fidgeted, trying in vain to remove Aegon.

“Set aside your grievances!” Viserys declared passionately, startling those at the table and causing you to break your revere momentarily. “If not for the sake of the Crown, then for the sake of this old man who loves you all so dearly.”

Silence fell across the table as the King stumbled into his seat, the metal of his mask and cutlery clanging as Alicent dutifully came to his aid. Your mother stood abruptly, not giving the room to process the King’s words as her chair scraped against the stone floor. With a goblet in her hand, all eyes turned to her.

“I wish to raise my cup to her grace, the Queen,” she started, her eyes downcast. You watched your mother skeptically, brown orbs flickering from her to Alicent. “I love my father, but I must admit no one has stood more loyally by his side than his good wife.”

The Queen stared at her old friend, so full of emotions. Years of harbored pain and resentment from events you did not know, bleeding from her chest and onto her finely tailored green dress.

“She has tended to him with unwavering devotion, love, and honor; for that, she has my gratitude. And my apology,” your mother concluded, returning to her seat.

You felt like you were intruding on an intimate moment between lost lovers, the happy moments of their history flashing before each of their minds’ eyes. Turning to Aemond again, you realized he did not remove his stare from you. His ametrine eye was a glassy pool, yet his face was stoic to everyone. You were sure you mirrored him, though you were not as skilled at hiding emotions, your chin slightly quivering.

“Your graciousness moves me deeply, Princess. We’re both mothers, and we love our children. We have more in common than we allow,” Alicent confessed, her voice barely stuttering. “I raise my cup to you and your House. You’ll make a fine Queen.”

Otto’s disapproving stare did not go unnoticed by you, and Aemond reflected on his expression. Each person raised their goblets individually, taking sips in honor of their current and future Queen.

Aegon threw his drink back twice, going for a third time, but stopped once he caught sight of you. Droplets of Arbor Gold slipped past your lips, and you lurched forward to see the liquid before it ran down to the aperture of your chest. The Prince swallowed audibly, his throat clicking as his trousers grew tight.

Memories from your childhood of meals spent with your eldest uncle where he would wipe whatever remnants you had on your mouth came flooding to mind. You realized then that these gestures were not ones of kindness but a sick, disgusting act that he used to groom you and take pleasure from. Gripping the pristine knife that rested atop the fine mahogany table, you dreamed of having his blood spewing from between his lips as you plunged it into his neck. 

Taking another swig of your wine, you felt nothing but dry air hit your moist tongue. Aegon noticed it, smiling in an almost feline nature as he took the glass from you. 

“Worry not, niece. May your mouth never run dry in my presence,” he declared and went to the pitcher between Baela and Jace. “I regret the disappointment you will soon suffer,” you heard him whisper into your cousin’s ear. “But if you wish to know what it is to be well satisfied, all you have to do is ask.” 

The clatter of cutlery sliced through the air as your brother stood, all eyes turning to him. You tried to placate Jace as he clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white and ignoring your kind touches. Everyone watched with keen eyes as on the other end of the table, Aemond stood, seeming to size up with your brother like a cat arching its spine. Placing your cup of wine in front of you, Aegon sat, dragging his fingertips across your neck and making you shudder in disgust. 

Realizing that Jace had captured the attention of everyone surrounding the table, he cleared his throat, stalling for time. You glanced at him with an uneasy feeling, looking back to Aemond as he refused to sit.

“To Prince Aegon and Prince Aemond. We have not seen each other in years, but I have fond memories of our shared youth,” Jace began, and you struggled to keep your incredulous expression at bay. “And as men, I hope we may be friends and allies. To you and your families, good health, dear uncles.” 

He concluded the toast as he and the rest raised their cups to their worried lips. Playfully, albeit awkwardly, Jace punched your eldest uncle in the shoulder as you struggled to keep your laughter at bay, sinking your teeth into your lip.

“To you as well,” Aegon begrudgingly replied, and you flicked a mocking look at him. He refused to meet you.

The screech of a chair sounded in the dining hall, and you turned your head to see your sweet Aunt Helaena abruptly standing with her cup in hand. “I would like to make a toast to Baela and Rhaena. They will be married soon. It isn’t so bad. He mostly ignores you, except sometimes when he’s drunk.”

Daemon’s chuckle pierced through the unease, the three full goblets of wine gone to your head as you stifled one of your own, hiding it behind your digits. Aegon refused to meet anyone’s gaze, finding his half-eaten plate much more interesting than the people before him. Helaena looked to you for support, ensuring that what she said was good as you smiled. You forgot how much you cared for your aunt and admired her thinly veiled jab at Aegon’s lack of duties.

Supper commenced, and you wasted no time feasting, eating the savory vegetables cooked in butter and smothered in rich spices. Smoked cheeses, both hard and soft, found their way to your plate, nearly moaning at their hearty combination with slices of meat. The frigid environment from before left and was replaced with the warmth of laughter and music. Even the old King himself wore a smile on his cracked grey lips.

You ignored the piercing regard burning your face, focusing on your mother and stepfather. Daemon whispered something into your mother’s ear, gently grasping her lithe fingers as she giggled, and a blush bloomed. The sight caused an ache to rise in your chest. The hollowness of your heart knocked on your ribs. You longingly desired to find a love like theirs. Your brother was stolen from you to secure all your inheritances, and while you understood it, nothing could make the hurt lessen.

Ignoring the fist cinching around your lungs, you downed your half-empty goblet of Arbor Gold, summoning a servant to refill it. You did not want to feel like this anymore—the ache, the throbbing in your head and heart. It was too much to bear. In the times of your melancholia, days were spent with a swirling storm of thoughts and memories of your childhood in the Keep—the bullying, your rape, to that of Driftmark filled with blood and boyish screams. They plagued your mind like a disease, culturing into an amalgamation of sadness, rage, guilt, self-mutilation, and isolation until you no longer wanted to live.

Jace rose from his seat with a groan from the wood and excused himself from his betrothed. You thought he might offer you a dance; he knew how much you loved to do so, but the idea sank like the food past your lips as he went to Helaena, extending a hand. Aegon stared at the pair as they went to the open space, his face one of surprise as you brought your cup to your lips, swallowing a smirk. It served him right. His treatment of Helaena, or lack thereof, was appalling. Though he may not be in a marriage of love, she was still his sister and the dreamy-eyed Princess deserved more.

A glimmer of gold suddenly drew your gaze, jolting you from contemplation. Viserys' magnificent mask gleamed in the flickering candlelight, his head tilting to one side as he visibly battled a wave of pain. Without hesitation, Queen Alicent signaled for the guards to accompany him back to his chambers. You observed with a concerned expression trailing behind as they carefully took the ornate wooden throne out of the grand dining hall. 

You caught Aemond’s gaze. It was impossible not to as it flicked from Helaena dancing to you. He looked like a barely concealed storm about the burst, as if he debated whether to slit your throat because of your existence or continue what he had started in the corridor. Your uncle had changed so much within six years that you didn’t recognize him, and you supposed it was the same for you. Two people who grew so close were suddenly torn apart by an unfinished tragedy where anger was left to decay until its rot took control. 

You worried that things would never be able to be put aside like your Grandsire wished if this wall of silence and grudges was not destroyed. Hate between your families would stay the same and cause the successful usurpation of your mother’s rightful throne. Deciding to swallow your pride and hurt, you stood, wanting to extend the broken branch of goodwill to Aemond, but Aegon refused to let you move. His arm pushed you back down into your seat with a look that sent tears of shocked terror into your eyes. You felt helpless under his gaze as a thinly veiled look of madness replaced a toothy grin gleaming in the candlelight.

“Won’t you give the courtesy of a dance, niece?” he asked with a dangerous lilt that hinted at something more. There was no room for refusal as he hoisted you from your chair. This was undoubtedly a jab at Jace for inviting Helaena as you watched your twin halt his movements. 

Ever since Aegon was a boy, he has been awful when sharing what he thinks is his. You recalled the many times you would ask to play with his wooden toys only to get smacked in the head with it or worse. It was as comforting as it was unnerving that parts of him were still the same.

Eyes flicking at Aemond, you pleaded for him to stand and make good on his promise to protect you from your eldest uncle, but he remained still, unmoving like the statues you compared him to. You were right here, mere steps away and by his side. He could insert himself and put an end to Aegon’s torture. After all, you would be indebted to him if he did, and what more could Aemond possibly desire than to have his bastard niece that he so despises at his mercy? 

“Aemond still hates you for what Luke did,” Aegon softly declared as you moved your attention to him. “I’m not. My ire is directed at those who caused this hatred to fester between us. You and I were friends once.” 

“Indeed, once. ‘Twas long ago now,” you quipped with venom like the pit vipers in Dorne.

Your uncle was a skilled dancer despite the plethora of alcohol he drank, twirling you with a grace you did not possess as you stumbled from nerves and firewater. Aemond did not know where to focus, gaze flicking from Helaena and Jace to you and Aegon so fast that he felt disoriented. He didn’t understand why he was so concerned. It wasn’t like he could do anything to separate you and his brother without acquiring Aegon’s jests hours later, yet he couldn’t control his anxiety as his finger nervously tapped the wooden table.

Bringing you close as you tripped, Aegon pressed your body against his as you felt the real reason behind his words, swaying to the music that made you want to scream and pull your hair from its roots.

“Things could return to how they were before. We could ride our dragons together, visit far-off lands, and spend our days in the Godswood eating those orange cakes you like. We’d be friends and even more so. Would that not be splendid?” the eldest Prince suggested with a grin.

There was nothing for you to do but endure this for the sake of appearances as you caught sight of a pair of amber eyes watching you, a slight upturn to her plump lips. Queen Alicent knew what her son did to you yet observed with a smile that you could interpret as one of maternal love. It enraged you. She was no better than her son. You hated her beyond words for the times you ever thought of her more than another Lord who cared not for the struggles of women.

Aemond no longer held his attention on you but that of Jace and Helaena, seeming to be unbothered by your childhood rapist and bully putting his hands in places that would be a sin. He would not save you now. It was up to you to defend yourself once more.

“You ended whatever smidge of camaraderie we had when you debased me at the top of Maegor’s battlements,” you spat as you moved away from him, only for Aegon to bring you back into another elegant dance. The Prince rolled his purple eyes, the indigo circles underneath them becoming prominent.

“We seem to have different recollections of that night,” he exasperatedly sighed as if you were nothing more than a child bothering their parents with unfounded fears. “I recall how we as children laughed and drank beside each other and how you said, yes, as I slipped my hand betwixt your thighs.”

Gasping, you shoved Aegon away as his hands traveled past your navel, suddenly hearing a chair screech in response. Aemond stood with his body squared toward the two of you as the room went silent. All twelve faces turned to him. You stared with bated breath as Aegon slipped his hand across your back, returning to his chair and taking a nonchalant sip of his drink.

Would Aemond finally stand against Aegon for all the wrong he committed to the both of you? 

Pleading wordlessly, your body flushed as he stared unabashedly, tears of intensity pricking your eyes. The light of hope inside your chest was snuffed out as the servants brought a roasted pig onto the table. Luke could not contain his immature giggles as it was placed before Aemond, reminding him of the cruel jape he, Aegon, and Jace did. Whatever anger Aemond felt at his older brother soon turned into one of injustice for what Luke did all these years ago. You thought your younger brother knew better than this and sighed in defeat, all prospects of an amiable future between the Greens and Blacks disintegrating.

“Final tribute,” Aemond began, a lethal sway to his words. “To the health of my niece and nephews. Jace, Luke, Joffrey, and the Gods’ Light.” Your uncle’s single eye traveled to each of you, a stare so severe you felt yourself recoil inside of your being as you ran an unconscious hand through your scalp. “Each of them is handsome, wise, virtuous, and…” 

Aemond stuttered as he came to you, making the fatal mistake of losing himself within the depths of your comforting irises. He could see the water collecting at your lashes as your eyes turned into murky pools, threatening to drown him if he stared for a moment longer. He directed his attention at Luke, his ire becoming apparent as memories of your brothers and Aegon’s laughs bounced off the Dragonpit walls, soon turning into screams and red covering his vision. He felt the pain of losing an eye as if it was happening again and tightened his fist around his goblet, forcing the pain to fuel his rage. 

“And strong,” Aemond concluded as you released a disappointed sigh, focusing on anything but your uncle. “Come! Let us drain our cups to these four strong children.”

You understood what he was trying to do without speaking. His hurt was so fierce that it blinded all sense, leading him to react rashly. Aemond was forcing you to choose between your family and your affection for him, a situation that the Prince knew would play out as before. You knew what was expected of you; it was the same as last time. You would always choose your family over him. Duty was a sacrifice; you must sacrifice the memories of a bright-eyed boy with freckled cheeks and a love for reading and stolen kisses. The Aemond was no longer there, and you needed to accept that.

“I dare you to say that again,” Jace proclaimed, his chin held high and shoulders back. Your brother was ever the picture of a strong king, sending a warmth to your heart that was crushed with reality. 

“Why? ‘Twas only a compliment. Do you not think yourself strong?” Aemond jabbed back as your head snapped to him. He could make whatever cruel taunts he desired at you but would not bring your brother into this. 

“A man lies dead for spouting such lies. What do you think will happen to you?” you snapped a vicious clip to your words. Before Aemond could respond, your brother stormed to him without a second thought, chest to chest, as his fist slammed across Aemond’s cheek. 

Gasping in surprise, you went to the two of them as you saw Luke’s face become one with a plate of food, hesitating for a moment until your twin was shoved to the ground. You marched toward Aemond with fire in your veins and an intent to harm as shouts erupted from your mother and Queen Alicent for everyone to stop. You all ignored them, Aegon swiftly coming behind you, lifting and swinging you by the waist as if you were no more than a doll. Jace tried to reach for you, but your uncle spun around, giggling in your ear at your attempts to break free as you became nauseous.

You realized this was all a joke to Aegon. He truly did not understand that what he did to you as children was wrong. 

Aegon couldn’t hide the excitement in his stomach at having you so close once more as you squirmed in his hold, burying his nose into your neck with a grin. He wondered if you would writhe like this if he had you naked between his bedsheets. 

Soon, the guards draped in metal armor and red robes pulled Jace and Luke away from their uncles as Aegon came face to face with Daemon. Unlike Aemond, your eldest uncle was not one to challenge others to fisticuffs as his laughter ceased. Your stepfather need only to flash your uncle a look for him to let you go, raising his arms in surrender as Daemon observed you to ensure you weren’t hurt. 

“Why would you say such a thing before these people?” you heard Queen Alicent hotly scold Aemond, looking behind his lithe shoulder to where your mother held your body close to hers. 

Scoffing, your uncle cocked his head, staring down at his mother with a challenging look. “I was merely expressing my pride in my family, mother. Though it seems my niece and nephews aren’t quite as proud of theirs,” he enunciated pointedly, glancing to where the three of you were restrained. 

“I’ll cut out your tongue!” you shouted as Jace broke free from the guards, coming behind you in support. Daemon halted you in your tracks, his touch gentle yet firm as he placed a hand on your arm. As you paused to regain your composure, you couldn’t help but notice the deep creases on his forehead, a sign of his genuine concern. You shrugged off his touch, refusing to succumb to paternal overtures because he intervened when Aegon was rough with you.

Your mother looked to the floor, a dejected expression on her porcelain features you couldn’t understand before she spoke to the three of you. “Go to your quarters. All of you, now.”

As you and Jace made your way out, you couldn’t help but notice the tense standoff between Daemon and Aemond. Your stepfather, casually leaning on his hips with one hand resting on the hilt of Dark Sister, exuded an air of calculated confidence. 

Standing in the doorway, you felt a flutter of anxiety in your heart, wondering what would unfold between the two men. You were curious to know if the two Targaryen men decided to brawl and whether you would go to your uncle or stepfather. There was a palpable sense of anticipation as Daemon glanced at where you stood, expressing a knowing look deep within his lilac eyes. He had already sent one person’s loved one to the Stranger. What was one more?

Sharing a look of frustration from you to your stepfather, Aemond grunted in displeasure, following your steps out of the dining hall. Jace checked himself into your shoulder as he forced you forward, refusing to let you dwell on the scene behind you. 

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I know we're upset with Aemond's behavior, but it'll make that character arch much sweeter. We can only have the enemies-to-lovers trope with them being enemies first! I feel bad for the poor MC. First, she's forced to return to the scene of a traumatic experience, forced to see her rapist, and then finds out the man she thought she was going to marry her whole life is engaged to someone else! Baby girl is going through it. Let's get this girl some therapy. (⁠｡⁠•́⁠︿⁠•̀⁠｡⁠)

We're starting to see how Aegon and Alicent might have begun to harbor some unhealthy traits regarding our reader. Don't worry. It'll get much worse from here on out! Thank you so much for reading!

Tagged Peeps: @millies0bsimp , @britt-mf , @marvelescvpe , @haikyuusboringassmanager , @discofairysworld , @lottiemsgf , @nessjo , @fiction-fanfic-reader , @qvnthesia , @hotvillianapologist , @p45510n4f4shi0n , @theendlessvoidofdarkest , @readerselegance , @gothamgurl2024 , @aleemendoza2425-blog , @vaylint , @ln8118 , @prettyduckling22 , @primroseluna , @baybaybear1

[tossawary]

I've signed up for FTH 2025! I'll be offering fanfic, either an entirely new work or a remix of an old work (AU, prequel, sequel, alt POV, and so on), for SVSSS or any fandom I've created for before. For me, this covers both my AO3 works (including anything I've used for a fusion AU) and pretty much any fandom that I've blogged about here, posting either fic ideas or meta.

So, if there's some SVSSS fic idea I posted about here years ago but never wrote, or some particular rarepair you're hungry for, here's an opportunity to get me to write it for you! I'll keep people posted as to when the auction starts. In the meantime, here's a list of fics that I've written for previous fan events! ❤

Fandom Trumps Hate 2022

forgiveness for whose sake? (48k words) - SVSSS - A post-canon companion story / extended epilogue for "pride is not the word I'm looking for" full of alternate POVs.

love to the ones I've never met (82k words) - SVSSS - A companion story for "pride is not the word I'm looking for" in which the world of PINTWILF meets the in-progress world of SVSSS and causes more canon divergence.

hey, share the weight a little (70k words) - SVSSS - A pre-canon canon divergence story in which disciple Shang Qinghua becomes friends with and then falls in love with Yue Qingyuan.

Sit With Your Soul (61k words) - SVSSS - His Dark Materials AU. Shen Yuan transmigrates in as the original Shen Qingqiu's daemon.

Yuletide 2023 (also working off of a prompt from someone else, anonymously)

Legends That Live On (10k) - Nimona - A post-canon story in which Nimona, Ballister, and Ambrosius visit a cultural landmark / old graves together.

MXTX Remix 2021 (anonymously remixing someone else's story, of my own choice from their existing works)

this point of pale light (18k) - SVSSS - A space opera AU (partially "Star Wars" inspired) in which Shen Yuan and Shen Jiu share a body and face Shen Jiu's past. Liushen pre-slash.

MXTX Remix 2024

learning joy (12k) - SVSSS - AU in which Shen Yuan never read PIDW and doesn't know what's going on, but manages to become close to Luo Binghe anyway.

Moshang Big Bang 2023 (prompt was of my own choosing)

Servant to a Different King (151k) - SVSSS - Canon divergence in which Shang Qinghua became Tianlang-Jun's servant instead, helped save Su Xiyan, and now ten years later, the Demon Emperor is trying to play matchmaker for Moshang.

MXTX Big Bang 2021 (prompt was of my own choosing)

Catch a Falling Star (122k) - SVSSS - A "Stardust" AU in which Shen Yuan falls into the world of PIDW as a fallen star, but everything is already not following the plot. Bingliushen road trip.

Moshang Week 2020 (prompt was of my own choosing, no strict deadline)

it must follow, as the night the day (26k) - SVSSS - AU in which Shang Qinghua is a demon and Mobei-Jun is human, and they still stumble into a master-servant relationship.

Moshang Week 2021

Nothing to Me, Nothing to You (60k) - SVSSS - A "MDZS" AU for Moshang, in which teenage Mobei-Jun and Shang Qinghua meet at the Cloud Recesses during guest lectures.

[ladylokianna]

You will be me.

Characters: Targtowers brothers, but mostly Aemond (quite OOC). Warnings: 18+, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, mention of child death and child trauma, mention of death, sleep paralysis and panic attack, Aegon being a good brother and a good husband. Aemond a bit softer than usual, but I'm a softie for his soft side even if this is buried deep within him. Notes: I had outlined this little fic a month or so ago but it had been lying silent in my work in progress folder for a lack of inspiration and because I'm currently absorbed by another Hotd project. Except that a message from @lyssaelisa [this is for you, btw 💙] about Aemond's supposed (and perhaps nonexistent) uncle-like inclinations led me to pick up the draft again and torture this poor wretch some more just because I can.

PLEASE DON'T REPOST and please be gentle, english is not my first language and I'm quite rusty.

Words:3515 (also on AO3) Dividers: as always, the dragon divider belongs to @zaldritzosrose the thin green dividers belongs to @targaryen-dynasty

The shield creaks under the pressure of the spiked mace before shattering into several pieces with a sharp clang: he raised it at the last moment, just a second before the blow vibrated by Ser Criston landed on his skull instead of on the wooden shield.

He gets up quickly, furiously throwing what remains of the shield to the side, noticing the chattering and astonished exclamations of the courtiers observing his daily training only when the ringing in his ears finally subsides. In addition to the astonished gaze of the spectators, however, he notices that the attentive gaze of his mentor is also upon him.

"You are not focused." 

Criston's voice, stern but veiled with concern, comes to him muffled, distant, as if he were speaking to him through a wall.

"...what?"

"That blow could have killed you. Whatever the distress is, you must keep it at a distance when you have a weapon in your hand! Need I remind you that we are no longer playing with wooden swords?"

No, there was no need: for him the time for childish games has been over for years, though perhaps it would be more accurate to say there was never a time for him to play. "I don't know about you, Ser Criston, but I have a very different idea about play." he replies coldly. He politely declines with a nod of his head the shield a young page is handing him and grabs the sheath of his sword leaning against the wall, placing the weapon back in it as the chattering stops abruptly. "We are not done." "You are not, I am."

He walks through the courtyard with wide strides, returning into the castle and ignoring anyone who stands on his path, to lock himself in his rooms, locking every access.

He does not want to see anyone.

He does not want to hear anyone.

He ignores Ser Criston who has reached him, he ignores his mother, he even ignores Aegon who is trying to figure out what has gotten into him.

They are all outside his door, but he answers to no one.

He has been staring at the ceiling and its elaborate patterns for a while now: physically he's in that room, but with his mind he is wandering elsewhere. To the beach at Driftmark where it all began, to Vhagar's reaction above the skies of Storm's End and Daemon's retaliation, to Helaena's tears and Aegon's shattering rage. Perhaps they don't say it openly, no one dares, but somehow he knows that he is the one everyone blames for the massacre.

An unpleasant taste of acid rises up in his throat, and the burning sensation that follows brings him abruptly back to reality: he suddenly recovers, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand and only then remembering that he is not in his quarters, but in Sylvi's personal room at the brothel. There are no secret passages left open, no stolen coins, no more stench of piss and garlic of whoever tried to kill him.

"...Aemond?"

He averts his gaze from the ceiling and lays it on Sylvi, then observes, somewhat angered, how his body has decided to betray him despite the fact that usually the mere thought of her soft, welcoming forms is enough to ignite his senses.

"Sorry." he mumbles as if to apologise, resisting the urge to reach for the sheets to cover himself.

He feels Sylvi's warm hand moving up his thigh and stopping just above his groin, her lips brushing his stomach: she smiles at him understandingly and brings her hand back between his legs, trying once more. In vain.

"That's enough." he stops her gently, and Sylvi lies down by his side, waiting.

"What troubles you? If you wish to talk, I am willing to listen." she tells him, stroking his cheek affectionately. That touch reminds him of the first time he was in that room, of the thirteen-year-old boy he was and how understanding she was with him, to the point of lying to Aegon. If he got close enough, he would immediately remember the scent of her skin: a mixture of refined oils and something he can't describe but has always found soothing. "You're safe here."

It would be good to believe it, and the thought is so tempting. But if it was that easy for two henchmen to make it undisturbed all the way to the royal quarters of the Red Keep despite the guards, they would find no obstacle there.

"You can stay, you know."

He would do it again if he could. To remain all night, to abandon himself to her attentions and not think about anything, to let her take care of him. He shake his head and got out of bed, quickly dressing himself and handing her a bag of coins.

"... I think you are mistaken, my prince." says Sylvi. "I have done nothing of what you expect of me."

"Take it." he tells her, waiting for the woman to take the pouch from his hand: he has never treated her like a whore, never liked the idea of treating a woman as he has seen many other clients do, who humiliate brothel girls by throwing their fees on the bed, or worse on the floor.

Every woman is an image of the Mother...to be spoken of with reverence.

Sylvi gives him a smile and a nod, grateful, and looks at him as he adjusts the patch over his missing eye and the sapphire that fills his socket; somewhere in him still lives the tender, awkward little boy she met years before.

"Hmm?"

Sylvi's clear, intense eyes conceal something he can't recognise, and he doesn't know either what he hoped to find from her that evening, whether closeness and understanding or the temporary oblivion that pleasure offers.

"Thank you." was Sylvi's reply, in a whisper.

"That's fine, no need to thank me." he simply responds, before pulling the hood over his head.

Jaehaerys' bed has already been removed, as if that child had never existed.

But he has seen the blood-stained sheets, he has seen the mattress soaked in his nephew's blood, he has seen the horror of that night in Helaena's eyes, and in the fury with which Aegon tortured the slaughterer. He still has in his nostrils the sulphurous smell of Sunfyre's flames and the acrid, unnatural smell of a burning human body.

He stops at the threshold of the room, uncertain whether to enter or not: two grieving parents, one in the other's arms, Aegon's eyes red and veiled with grief.

Helaena's, dull. She merely remains motionless in Aegon's embrace, not reacting as he strokes her head, her hands entwined on her lap.

"...I wanted to spare you that procession but they didn't listen to me. Say something Hel, please. Come back to us, we need you."

He moves a step backwards determined to leave them alone not knowing quite what to do or say, and it is then that he felt two small hands grasp his: he lowers his gaze to meet Jaehaera's bright eyes, and in those eyes he reads too many questions he does not know how to answer because he knows there is no answer.

She gestures for him to take her up in his arms and he does so without hesitation, holding his niece close to him.

"What's wrong?" he asks her, without however receiving an answer, but only a glance and a caress on his cheek. A second later, Jaehaera takes his face in her small hands, resting her forehead against his. "Are you unwell?"

He does not dare to ask her if she is afraid, for he feels it: there is a tremor in Jaehaera's slender little body that is impossible to ignore.

"She no longer speaks, Aemond." Aegon begins. "My little girl doesn't speak anymore."

She hasn't spoken since that night, he explains to him shortly afterwards, ever since she saw the two men in the room and heard her brother die. Orwyle did all he could to help her, but certain mental pains are not as curable as physical ones.

Suddenly Jaehaera spreads her arms as if to imitate a pair of wings, and touches her chest.

"Morghul is still a little puppy, sweetheart, he's not yet ready to fly." Aegon interjects. But Jaehaera shakes her head, pointing a finger at Aemond's chest and redoing the same gesture with her arms. "You want to fly with your uncle?"

He looked at Aegon, then nodded approvingly, but waited for Helaena to give her permission with the child still in his arms.

All the way outside the royal chambers, Jaehaera does not take her eyes off him: she does not know it yet, but there is so much of her mother in her. The affection he reads in their eyes, the trust they put in him, their innate gentleness.

"You never flew with Vhagar before, didn't you? No, of course you didn't. She's huge, but she's good, you'll see."

When they arrive at Vhagar's, Jaehaera stretched out both arms towards the dragoness, giggling the same moment his majestic beast turns her head to look at them and let out a snort.

"Rytsas (hello), old friend." he smile, putting Jaehaera down. "Careful sweetling, let her sniff at you, there's no need to be afraid."

Soon, however, he notices that there is not an ounce of fear in her eyes: she lets Vhagar sniff her and then reaches out for her again, wanting to touch her.

"Give me your hand." he tells her, laying her little hand on Vhagar's muzzle and covering her with his own. "Can you feel her warmth? Yeah? You will feel Morghul's too. Look, she's watching you."

That ill-fated night had left a deep mark within her. Yes, the Red Keep was no longer a safe place -if it ever had been- and lately all it took for Jaehaera was a louder-than-normal noise to make her tremble with terror, but not with dragons. Never, with them. She must felt safe because unlike men, dragons were never purposefully evil.

"You are still too young to understand what I'm saying, but you're going to have a very strong bond with your dragon, Jaehaera. No other beast will understand you as thoroughly as Morghul will do with you: not a dog, not a cat. Nothing but your dragon." he say. "It will be beautiful, you'll see, beyond any imagination."

When he gets up again, he notices that Vhagar's eyes are now on him, and that she is looking as if she wants him to understand something.

"What? Come on, old girl, I'll take you to stretch your wings."

When he lifts Jaehaera onto the rope ladder, he assures her to stay calm because if she ever slips, he will be ready to catch her.

"Remember to fasten yourself to the saddle when one day you'll fly with Morghul, hm?"

She nods at his words, then leans forward, holding on to the saddle straps as her father had already shown her when she rode Sunfyre with him, leaving the handles free.

"Do you remember the command? Yes? Do you want to say it for me?" he asks her. Jaehaera looks at him, but remains silent. "That's okay, hun. You'll say it next time."

It took him a couple of moments to notice the figure next to his bed: he quickly grabs the dagger he keeps under his pillows and draws it, ready to strike a slash without a second thought.

"Jaehaerys!" he exclaims relieved, lowering the blade. "What are you doing here? You should be abed."

The nephew stares at him for a long time, without uttering a word.

"Are you alone?!" he asks him, stupidly. It is not that difficult to get lost around the Red Keep, especially for a child of his age, unaccompanied by anyone. "Did you get lost?"

He made a mental note to himself to point out to the nanny that she should pay more attention and prevent children and especially the heir to the throne from wandering around the castle without proper supervision.

Jaehaerys stretches out a small hand towards him, continuing to look at him insistently, letting him know that he is not there by mistake, he has reached his rooms on purpose.

"Let me accompany you back to your room." Aemond sighs, pulling the blankets aside and slipping on his boots. Jaehaerys takes his hand and guides him out of his rooms, through corridors plunged in darkness. Although he knows every corridor, every passageway, every inch of the Keep like the back of his hand, at some point -and he couldn't even say when-, Aemond loses his orientation, allowing himself to be led into an unfamiliar room illuminated by the faint light of candles and filled with the smell of beeswax and essential oils.

"Why have you led me here?"

The child points the table at the other end of the room, on which the veiled figures of the Silent Sisters, that he only seems to notice at that moment, have prepared a body awaiting its final journey. Inside a basket, beside the table, a sack stained with blood. And then, apart the smell of wax and oils, he could smell the metallic stench of blood and the darker one of death.

He still remembers when Daemon beheaded Vaemond Velaryon in the throne room, during that pathetic hearing, he remembers the strange and disturbing sound of Dark Sister making her way easily into Vaemond's flesh, he remembers the pool of blood on the floor and Helaena's horror-filled gaze: those moments, she confessed to him one day, often haunts her.

He took the hem of the cloth and lifts it slowly, discovering that the body lying there is too small to be the one of a man of the same size as Ser Velaryon, and Jaehaerys nods, as if to induce him to discover who is hiding under those bandages.

Seized by a strange sensation he obeys, drawing his dagger and unhesitatingly cutting through the bandages enveloping his head until the face of the body is revealed.

No, it was not Vaemond Velaryon, summarily executed for speaking a truth known to all and feared by his half-sister, but Jaehaerys.

He lets his gaze wander only a moment over Jaehaerys' pale little face before turning his head away, lest he should look at his coarsely stitched head, his bloodless lips and his features contracted into a perpetual grimace.

"No." he murmurs. "No, Jaehaerys, no. It... it can't be."

He was standing there beside him, they had just walked together. A couple of days before, they had spent an entire afternoon in the gardens, keeping Helaena ad Jaehaera some company.

"Don't pretend to be sorry, Uncle. Now look. Look at me." his nephew tells him, in a commanding tone and with words that for obvious reasons still don't suit him: something prevents him from looking away, and all he can do is standing there, looking at the corpse of an innocently dead child. "Look at what your actions have led to."

Admittedly, he had never been good at expressing his feelings, but the Gods knew that deep inside him he still loved those children.

He looked away as soon as Jaehaerys allowed him to, feeling his head heavy and his heart about to burst in his chest.

"Are you not satisfied, Aemond?" and it is his voice that is speaking to him. On the table, instead of Jaehaerys, is now him. The bloodless lips are his, the milky eye his, the pallor of death is on his skin. "One less obstacle in our path. One less."

"One less?" he repeats.

The corpse rises from the table and slowly gets closer, until he smells the revolting stench of its rotting flesh and looks into that vitreous eye. Its clothes are ripped and dripping with water, as is its hair, which seem entwined with what looks like... seaweed? In the left orbit, instead of sapphire, blood encrusts.

"Stay away from me!" exclaims, drawing his sword, and he receives in response a guttural laugh that vibrates deep into his gut.

"Your sword won't do you any good. I cannot stay away from you, Aemond, and you cannot stay away from me. I was you, and you will be me."

He swings the sword without a second thought, plunging it through the corpse or whatever that thing is with such vigour to sinking the blade to the hilt.

"Apparently you keep acting without thinking first..."

"I want the crown, but I never wished Jaehaerys to die!" he hisses, twisting the blade over and over as if to emphasise the point.

The other leans towards him.

"Keep telling yourself that. But we both know your heart is blacker than death." he whispers in his ear, laying a hand on his chest.

Aemond feels himself being pushed backwards,unable to put up any resistance. One step after another until the other pushes him sitting down.

He is in the throne room now, sitting on the seat that belongs to Aegon.

"This is what we crave, Aemond. This is what we long for. We are the younger brother who studies history and philosophy, we, who trains with the sword, we, who rides the largest dragon in the world. We should sit here. We earned it."

His reflection places the Conqueror's crown on his head and takes his face in its hands.

"King Aemond Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, Rhoynar and First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. This is what you long for. The throne, the crown, the power. Take it, Aemond. It's ours. It's yours."

Panic takes very few moments to take hold of him: he is awake, his eyes are open, but not a single muscle in his body responds to his commands. He feels his limbs heavy and wants to move and scream, but he cannot. He is trapped in his own body.

One less, Aemond.

Those words are echoing in his head in a kind of horrendous lullaby, and his body, already drenched in sweat, begins to shake violently. His breath is short, his heart is pumping like that first time he flew over Vhagar.

This is what you long for. The throne, the crown, the power.

Take it, Aemond. It's ours. It's yours.

He is no longer in the throne room, he is no longer in the Silent Sisters' chamber, but everything is whirling madly and the ringing in his ears intensifies as the seconds pass.

Is he about to go mad or is he about to die?

When he manages to move his legs again he gets out of bed, but his head throbs so loudly that he can no longer keep his balance and is forced to his knees, his hands pressing on his ears.

He catches his breath realising that he has been holding it involuntarily for several seconds, then he screams with all he had left in lungs: all the pain he has had to swallow and hide since he saw Jaehaerys' head in the sack and, afterwards, his funeral pyre.

He knows there is no time to call for help, and even if there were, who would ever come to his rescue?

Not his mother, that he has disappointed.

Not Aegon, that he should have supported.

Especially not Helaena, that he should have protected.

He will die there, on the floor of his rooms, crushed by the weight of a guilt that no one will ever be able to quieten.

I couldn't have... I couldn't have...

He keeps repeating it, his voice so faint that it disperses among the frantic pounding of his own heart.

He doesn't hear the door to the secret passage opening, nor the rustle of robes, but he still trembles uncontrollably even when he feels the warmth of two arms holding him and bringing him back to reality: it is Helaena, he recognises her by the affection she usually shows him, by the way she holds his head against her shoulder and brushes his damp hair away from his sweaty forehead.

"I'm sorry." he moans, without strength.

"It's not your fault."

"Let the Stranger take me." he adds clasping his dagger to his chest, when Helaena pulls him away to dive her worried gaze into his. "Let me… let me go..."

Helaena just hold him, but Aegon is everything that gentle. He tore the dagger out of his hand and slaps him twice on the cheek, grabbing his chin with rage and forcing him to look at him. In his eyes he has a burning look.

"Look at me, you twat. What the fuck were you thinking? Try it and I'll kick your arse all the way from hell, you hear me? Don't mess with me, Aemond. Whatever it is, don't you dare give up. Get your shit together, that Dragonstone cunt has to pay and I fucking need you. Because it's not your fault."

It's not your fault.

[notyourhetloki]

good for you (Daemon x Hightower!Reader)

Reader: she/her (Fem!Reader)

/NSFW Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!Reader/

A/N: Hello hello hello! I present to you my newest obsession… another morally grey character yaaayy but for real, I love this show so much and I hope you like the premise of this fic! I must admit that this is not an original idea but I hope it's different enough from the other fics I saw… anyway! Requests will be open soon (and this time I mean it) ok byee xoxo Also, I used this site to translate my Valyrian texts, and all Valyrian dialogue will be written in bold.

Warnings: Use of (Y/N), age gap, reader is described as shorter than him, reader has long hair, praise kink, masturbation, handjobs, the timeline doesn't make any sense sorry, Daemon is not married.

Word Count: 4.8k

—

You were only twelve when you first met the Rogue Prince, the uncle of your best friend Rhaenyra. He asked for your name and when you told him, he immediately scoffed.

You were a Hightower, youngest daughter of the Hand, Otto Hightower. Daemon did not care for that, holding a strong grudge for your father that naturally extended to you and your family.

But Rhaenyra loved you, you were inseparable and no amount of prejudice could change that. Trying to separate you both was of no use, Daemon realized... so he coped.

You and Rhaenyra were studying at the library, she insisted on teaching you Valyrian but you were struggling a bit with the pronunciation. "Ziry iksos iā gevie tubis." (It's a beautiful day.) You repeated, and after your second attempt, you heard a foreign voice coming from behind you.

"Ȳdra daor sesīr sylugon, riña. Ao sagon quba rȳ ziry." (Don't even try, girl. You're bad at it.) It was Daemon, strolling in your direction.

"Uncle! Don't be mean!" Rhaenyra exclaimed, putting one of her arms around you as you both turned to look at the man.

You managed to understand most of his words and did not appreciate them. "Doesn't hurt to practice, my prince. I'm still learning after all..." He scoffed once more.

"It's time for your lessons, niece. And I wouldn't like to have your little friend around." The prince said without much regard for you. He tutored Rhaenyra in Valyrian, but this time she objected to it.

"Please, uncle! Let (y/n) stay for the lessons! She is learning as well..."

With much insistence, he complied... but he did not seem happy.

Because your father was busy with the king and tending to his favorite daughter, Alicent, he never cared enough to know about these tutoring sessions. So a year went by and you still accompanied Rhaenyra in her lessons, for Daemon's dislike.

He would make sure to choose the most complicated texts, dense with words he knew you wouldn't know. But to his dismay, you would only get better and better. Your almost perfect pronunciation caught him off guard one day, taunting him in a sarcastic tone.

"Skoros tembyr kessa sagon hembar, ñuha dārilaros?" (What book shall be next, my prince?) Your soft-spoken words made his blood boil in anger, not liking to admit you were getting good at the language. A Hightower... speaking Valyrian... that was absurd.

But with time Daemon grew accustomed to it, challenging you with new texts and harshly correcting you once you made an error. You were making progress, and deep down that satisfied him.

Another year would pass... and another. Your tutorship with Daemon only served one purpose: to show off to him. He began to enjoy your witty responses and overall demeanor, scolding you if you missed a lesson. He would never admit it, but he grew fond of you.

And he would make your life a living hell because of it.

One night, on your 15th birthday, you couldn't sleep. Escaping from your chambers, you moved swiftly to the library once more in search of more Valyrian texts. You wanted to impress your tutor, prove yourself to him, and you would make big efforts in order for that to happen.

"Skoro syt issi ao kesīr?" (Why are you here?) A familiar growly voice echoed through the empty halls. Daemon was hiding in the shadows, standing still in between shelves.

You responded in Valyrian, proud of your clear pronunciation. "I could not sleep."

The prince took slow steps towards you, the lit fires from torches illuminating his angled face. He looked intimidating, but you weren't scared of him. You were intrigued, fascinated by his nature... even though he clearly disliked you, you couldn't bring yourself to pull away.

"A young girl such as yourself shouldn't be wandering around the castle at this hour. What will daddy do if he finds out?" Slowly getting closer, Daemon taunted you with his words. Your heart hammered in your chest, too nervous at the fact you were alone with him for the first time.

"He won't." You retorted. He was at arms reach now, looking you in the eyes, hands behind his back.

"Be careful, Hightower. You don't want to get into trouble, do you?" His sarcastic tone and the way he called you by your last name made you extremely angry.

"I'm just here to get a book. Any recommendations, my prince?" You retorted harshly. Completely eloquent in the language, you made Daemon stand in shock, defeated.

"You really turned out to be good, didn't you, girl?" His voice a mere whisper, staring at you as you felt your heart skip a beat. He had finally acknowledged you somehow, and that was a victory you would cling to.

"I got something for you." Daemon continued, not caring to speak in Valyrian anymore. He turned around and reached for a book up on a shelf and handed it to you. It was a storybook, perhaps fictional.

"A children's book?" You asked in confusion. "My Valyrian is not so basic, my prince."

"You will see this is no basic book, Hightower. The Valyrian in it is quite complex." You looked through the pages and admittedly, it was quite a difficult read.

"Rhaenyra has spoken the language since she was an infant and still hasn't read this book." You looked at him in alarm, not knowing what to make of his words. "Take it as a challenge... Hightower."

And after those last words, he marched out of the library, leaving you alone.

You managed to read the book in one week with much research, and you were feeling exceptionally proud. But when the time came to have your tutoring session, Daemon was nowhere to be found. Rumors had begun circling the Red Keep, saying that he had been exiled or that he was fighting in a war... you couldn't know for sure.

It was true you felt a certain unease around the prince, he made sure you knew how much he despised your family and belittled you at any opportunity... but you couldn't help but feel a little enthralled by him. He was a handsome, intelligent man with a bad temper, and deep down you craved his attention. So for him to disappear like that was, indeed, quite an unfortunate event for you.

────୨ৎ────

Years had passed and you had just come of age. Turmoil had risen inside the Red Keep, and when you heard the news, you felt your breath hitch.

Prince Daemon had returned from the war victorious, and the king was very content. Rhaenyra couldn't hide her excitement and neither could you, giggling with your friend about her uncle's expected return.

You didn't see him for the first few days, not until you crossed paths in a secluded hall. His white hair was short then, wearing red and black clothing as he seemed lost in thought... but when he saw you, he immediately stopped his walk.

The way he looked at you... he examined every inch of your body, slowly making his way up towards your face. It made you feel things you couldn't quite decipher, made heat spread through your whole body.

"My prince." You bowed and then proceeded to maintain eye contact, but it was proven to be quite difficult.

"Hightower." He wasn't accustomed to saying your first name and you were used to it at that point, but the way he called you always felt like an insult.

"I'd like to congratulate you on your victory." You offered, and he slightly lowered his head in response.

"You've changed." The change in language caught you off guard, suddenly aware of your past tutoring sessions, you would make sure to show him you hadn't forgotten. "You've... grown. You're not a little girl anymore, (y/n)."

Your name finally coming out of his lips like that made you shiver. Trying to ignore the heat growing inside, you looked at his face in awe. His intense eyes pierced through you, his parted mouth breathed deep slow breaths. He looked predatory, and that made you spiral into feelings you had never felt before.

"You barely changed my prince, aside from the hair. It looks hideous." You dared to say, trying to provoke him in some way... and it worked. He lowly chuckled, the sides of his mouth forming a grin you were sure you had never seen before. It made your heart skip a beat.

Before Daemon could respond, your father Otto walked in from behind him. "Daughter?"

The prince didn't even turn around to greet your father, instead, he gave you one final look and kept walking, passing by your side.

You sighed, not knowing you were holding a breath. "Yes, father?"

"Why were you talking to... him?" He tried to maintain composure, but you knew he deeply disliked Daemon just as much as the prince disliked him.

"I was congratulating him." You didn't lie.

"Please, (y/n), try to maintain distance from him. That man is certain danger and I don't want him corrupting your mind with foolish conversation. Understand?" Otto said while holding the sides of your arms gently, voice full of worry.

"Yes, father." You assured him... but it wasn't a promise.

He looked at you and sighed in relief, taking a moment before speaking what he had in mind.

"Soon you'll be wed to a good lord and you'll make me very proud, my child. The time has come, I'll begin preparing your courtship tomorrow."

You stood in horror, eyes watering at his terrifying words. "But, dad-"

"Please do not contest, (y/n). You're already a woman, you must get married soon. Now, off you go... I have many tasks to tend to."

────୨ৎ────

You didn't tell anyone, not even Rhaenyra, but that night you planned on fleeing.

Gathering some clothes, food and water, you sneaked out of your chambers and managed to get into the stable. As you were about to get on your horse, you heard his voice.

"Where do you think you're going, Hightower?" Daemon was right behind you, his voice startling you. Quickly turning around, you angrily confronted him.

"You followed me?" Confusion took over you, not knowing what to make of that situation.

"You are easy to follow. Stealth is not your strongest ally." He was just trying to irritate you at that point, and you couldn't help but shout at him. "Why?!"

"I was interested in knowing why the daughter of the Hand was trying to flee the castle? Perhaps you're a little traitor, that wouldn't surprise me." His words cut deep within you, making you boil with rage.

"I'm not a traitor! I just don't want to marry an ugly old lord and doom my life forever! And be sure, my prince, I'm not going to let that happen." You rose on your horse swiftly but Daemon was quicker, getting a hold of the reins and holding the animal in place.

"Get down. Now." His stern and severe demeanor sent chills down your spine, but you weren't going to give up so easily.

"Pardon me, my prince, but I must remind you that you don't own me."

Daemon didn't enjoy that, even though he appreciated your wits. He took a deep breath and continued. "Get down now, girl. Or you'll regret making this stupid decision."

You knew he was right, you were going to regret it. In reality, you were terrified... you had nowhere to go and the Red Keep had been your home since you could remember. There was no escaping your fate, and that brought tears to your eyes.

You slowly descended your horse, trying to hide the tears falling down your face. Daemon promptly turned you towards him, directing his hands to hold the sides of your arms and holding you in place. He squeezed lightly, the pressure of his touch grounding you.

When you finally made eye contact, the prince had a certain fury in his eyes. "Your cunt of a father wouldn't dare to sell you to an ugly old lord." Daemon whispered, mostly to himself. He was towering over you, incredibly close and intimate... you stuttered on your next words.

"You of all people know well of what my father is capable of."

He looked fierce, enraged as he clenched his jaw. A sudden wave of incredible anger washed over Daemon, but he wouldn't dare to acknowledge his feelings.

"Go to bed, Hightower. It's late already." Was what Daemon said before distancing himself, the ghost of his touch remaining for a few moments. "Search me tomorrow night in the library, I'll be waiting." And with that, he was gone.

You embraced yourself, trying to mimic the pressure of his grasp. The ghost of his hands lingered as you realized, he had never touched you before.

That night you went to bed crying.

────୨ৎ────

You put on a pretty dress just for the night, and you weren't quite sure why. Your excuse was that you had to be a good student and respect the presence of your tutor, but inside you knew... you just wanted to look good for him.

After descending the stairs to the library, you found Daemon already waiting for you.

"At least you’re on time." His voice reverberated in the room, dominating it with his presence.

"My prince… I brought something for you" You offered, closing some distance between you. When you showed him the object you brought, he immediately recognized it. It was the book he had given you as a challenge, many years ago.

"This book... did you manage to read it?" Daemon looked at you with curious eyes.

"Countless times, I already know the meaning of every word in it." Your proudness stamped on your expression.

A grin appeared on his face, he seemed very pleased. "Sȳz riña." (Good girl.) He hissed.

The words had a surprising effect on you, heat spread all over your body... especially in between your legs. Feeling your face turning red, you rapidly turned around and leaned on a shelf, your back facing the prince.

You heard him chuckle lightly and realized he was moving closer, standing right behind you. He moved one strand of your hair that was falling in front of your shoulder and pulled it back gently, the light sudden touch sent shivers down your spine.

Heat was pooling at your core, breathing was quick and erratic... it was useless to deny the effect he had on you.

Deamon whispered in your ear, his deep voice holding you in place. "But there are still many things to learn, Hightower." Moving another strand of hair, he continued. "I could teach you so many things..."

His last words felt like venom spreading through your body, and you were curious to know his intentions.

"Like what, my prince?" You said softly, innocently.

"Whatever you'd like." Another whisper, this time even closer. His lips barely touched your ear, and you shivered.

The possibilities were endless, he could teach you anything, right? So you finally turned to face him, his tall frame towering over you... he was especially close.

"I-I’m… I would… I would like to know more informal language. Words not often used in the texts." You tried to maintain a silent tone of voice, due to the nature of the encounter... and because you suddenly felt extremely shy in his presence.

Daemon smiled, matching your tone while bringing his hands behind his back. "I see… do you have specific words in mind?"

"Hm… insults like… scoundrel or bastard or…" You couldn't bring yourself to say it, but you knew what type of words you truly wanted to learn... you just hoped the prince understood what you meant.

"Or...?" He pressed with an amused expression.

"T-The word you usually use to refer to my father." Offering in defeat, you looked at your feet in shame.

Another chuckle came from the man's mouth, you could hear the satisfaction in his voice. "You mean... cunt?"

You looked up at him, he had a terrible grin splatted on his face. You nodded, confirming his suspicion.

He stood victorious while staring at you with much intensity, head turned to the side like a puppy. "Very well."

────୨ৎ────

You couldn't shake that feeling away, the feeling of being surrounded by Daemon. His brief touches lingered on your skin even after they were gone, desire burning away at your core.

The way he spoke to you, saying such dirty words in Valyrian and expecting you to enunciate them right... you repeated them again and again just to make sure you were correct, and he seemed to be enjoying himself way too much.

You left the lesson with a scarlet red face, embarrassed at the things he made you say... but with heat between your thighs.

The next night you were expected to meet at the library once again to continue your studies, but you had other plans in mind.

That heat was too much to bear, imagination running wild leaving you distracted throughout the whole next day. You needed release.

So when the time came for your encounter, you decided not to go. Instead, you stripped bare and hopped on your bed. You put a pillow between your thighs and started to ride it, seeking sweet relief.

In the meantime, Daemon was growing impatient... so he decided to go after you. He was irritated at your absence and wanted to scold you for it.

But after what he saw when he slowly opened the doors to your chambers, he was left speechless.

You had your back facing him, bouncing on top of a pillow and moaning softly. Your bare back and ass were a delight for his eyes, hair loose and following your movements.

Daemon sat on an armchair directly behind you and continued watching and admiring the view, his growing erection tight in his trousers.

You were almost there, tension building up and tightening your core. You couldn't hold yourself back, all of your mind was taken by visions of him. "D-Daemon... Daemon..."

The prince couldn't help but chuckle, ecstatic at the sound of his name coming from your mouth. An exceptional and welcome surprise that left his mouth agape.

His laugh caught you off guard, making you turn with a shriek. You pulled the covers to hide your chest but he had already seen too much, making you turn red with shame.

"W-What are you doing here?!" You breathlessly said, trying not to scream. No one could see you in that situation, especially with Daemon in your room.

"So that's what you've been up to... a good reason to skip lessons indeed." His predatory eyes stared at your exposed legs, traveling up to meet your eyes. "Touching yourself... thinking about me... how indecent."

"I wasn't- I was not touching myself!" You protested, hiding yourself in shame.

"Oh, alright. You were humping a pillow... serves the same purpose, does it not?" Daemon mocked you, gesturing at the pillow you abandoned next to your legs. "Probably made a mess..."

"Why are you in my chambers?!" You deflected, not wanting to admit your doings.

"I just wanted to confirm the reason why you decided to avert your lesson tonight." He lifted his hands in defeat. "But I see you have more important matters to tend to."

As the prince lifted his hands, you were able to catch a glimpse of his crotch. He was hard, you could see the bulge of his member through his pants.

Daemon caught you staring and gave you a vicious smile. "See something you like, Hightower?"

You swallowed as your mouth started to water, fantasies of him running wild inside your head. You wanted him, and apparently, he wanted you just as much.

"For someone who used to despise me, you seem very content to see me." You decided to taunt him. Even though you were ashamed of being caught in such a manner, you wanted to get what you could from that situation.

"I don't despise you." Daemon admitted. "You irritate me, yes, and your father is a cunt, but..." He seemed to consider carefully his next words. "you were always my favorite."

Electricity ran over your body, a wave of shock immobilizing you. His words... hearing him say you were his favorite filled you with pride. But you didn't feel completely victorious, but curious at best.

“You never treated me as your favorite.” You retorted, remembering the times he would scold you and insult you during lessons.

“Let me make up to you then..." Daemon looked especially predatory, eyes fixated on your body... he was up to no good. "come sit on my lap.”

You softly gasped, surprised at his command. Of course, you wouldn't obey him so easily... but your body betrayed you, wetness pooling between your thighs at the thought of getting on top of him.

“I’m not one of your whores, Daemon.” His name rolled out of your tongue mistakenly, and you soon regretted it when you saw the prince's expression.

“If I wanted to take you as a whore I would have done so ages ago. I had plenty of opportunities.” His stern tone of voice made you shiver once again. He was right, he did have many opportunities... maybe he just needed to know that you desired him.

So you decided to show him how you truly felt.

Slowly, you got up from the bed, letting the blanket that hid your body fall to the floor. Carefully you approached the prince, who observed you in awe.

"Come straddle my thigh, dear. It will feel much better than a pillow..." Daemon muttered, patting his left thigh as an invitation.

You gladly obeyed, mounting on his thigh like a pony with your face facing his. Daemon could already feel your wetness through the fabric of his pants and that made him smile.

"So eager for me, aren't you?" He brushed his rough hand on your cheek, then neck, then one of your breasts. You moaned softly at his touch, never imagining Daemon could be so gentle. His other hand stayed behind your back, grounding you. "Move now, ride me."

And you did as you were told, starting to grind on his upper leg. The friction felt delicious on your pearl, heat building up at your core. You moaned and moaned, not able to maintain eye contact. It felt like too much, a sense of satisfaction and shame ruling at the same time.

"Ñuha gevie riña..." (My beautiful girl...) Said Daemon while exploring your body with his hand. "Ao sagon sīr sȳz syt nyke." (You're so good for me.)

His praise went straight to your sex, you wanted to hear more... wanted to be a good girl for him.

"D-Daemon." You moaned softly, and he couldn't resist any longer. Grabbing a fistful of your hair, he pulled you into a rough, bruising kiss. Your tongues danced in each other's mouths as you tried your best to maintain rhythm.

You took the opportunity to feel his hard member, still trapped in his trousers. He groaned in your mouth, pulling back slightly to speak into your parted lips. "You enjoy my praises, girl? Would you like to hear more?"

"Y-Yes... please..." You finally looked at his eyes, pupils blown wide with desire. His hair was disheveled, lips plush from kissing... he looked so good.

"Take my cock out." He ordered, and like a good girl, you obeyed.

Freeing his member from the layers of fabric, you realized how big he was. Soon your imagination started to go places, fantasizing about how it must feel to have him inside you.

"Now stroke me... like this." His big hand cupped yours and made its way around his cock, guiding you on how to pleasure him.

Soon you found a rhythm, grinding on his thigh while stroking him, and you soon found yourself close to orgasm once more.

"Good girl, just like that." He would say, and with every thrust of your hips you felt it growing, the energy that built up inside you.

"Daemon... Daemon..." You pleaded while looking him in the eyes, knowing how close you were just then.

"Come for me, dear... come for me, (y/n)." Your name coming from his lips was what you needed to finish. Waves of pleasure washed over you as your climax reached its peak. You shouted his name and soon realized how loud you were being, face red in shame and bliss.

Daemon held you in place, anchoring you as you recovered from your high. Your breaths were still frantic, and soon your dizziness started to fade.

"Are you well?" He asked, you nodded. "Go onto your knees, then." His direction was clear, but you didn't know the reason for such a command.

You slowly made your way onto your knees, slotting yourself between his open legs, the mess you made on his thigh in full display now.

His member was close to your face then, and you couldn't hold yourself back. Enveloping your hand around his cock once more, you looked up at Daemon's face before you started to stroke him.

His mouth was slightly agape as he was deeply breathing, almost panting at the sight of you. "What an obedient girl you are for me, (y/n)." Again, the sound of your name made you feel things.

"I-I just..." You felt like confessing, emotions taking over you. "I just want to be good for you, my prince..."

Daemon smiled wickedly, stroking your cheek gently as he leaned down to face you. "Open your mouth, then." You immediately complied, tongue darting out obscenely as you maintained eye contact. "Oh my..."

His thumb traveled to your mouth and pressed on your tongue, you instinctively sucked the digit and he hummed in approval.

"That's my girl... now, keep moving." Your hand worked fiercely on his member, but the friction slowed you down... until you had an idea.

You stopped for a moment and Daemon looked at you in disapproval, but you quickly made your way into your sex. You smeared your wetness into your palm and only then continued to stroke him, coating his member with your slick.

"Ha..." Daemon let out an approving sound, then chuckled darkly in satisfaction. "Vaogenka riña..." (Dirty girl...)

You smiled slyly at him before opening your mouth again, showing him how ready you were.

"So needy, huh?" He teased, making you blush fiercely. "So eager to swallow my seed..."

And with that, he finished with a groan. Strings of his cum made their way into your tongue and chin, and you swallowed his taste like you'd been starving.

"Sȳz riña... sȳz riña." (Good girl... good girl.) Daemon panted, caressing your hair and smiling at you.

"Kirimvose, ñuha dārilaros." (Thank you, my prince.) You whispered, leaning up and joining your lips into a kiss. It was slow, passionate and he could taste himself in your tongue.

"Hmm." You whimpered into his mouth as his hands made their way to your ass, grabbing at the soft skin of your cheeks there.

Daemon pulled back slightly, only enough so he could talk into your lips. "I'll fully take your maidenhood, one day... hear those sweet sounds you make while buried deep inside your cunt."

His obscene words made you gasp, heat spreading inside your core again, To even imagine that... made you feel hot all over.

"You'd have to wed me before that happens." You teased, but Daemon had a serious look on his face.

"I'll see what I can do." Was his response, and a sense of urgency hit you like a brick. Did he actually mean that?

Marrying Daemon... the prince, your tutor, your best friend's uncle! Not even in your wildest dreams you had thought of that possibility, but now...

No, you couldn't have your hopes up. He was only taunting you, right? That was what you thought.

────୨ৎ────

You would never forget the somber expression on your father's face when he told you the news. You were officially bestowed to Prince Daemon, as per the request of the king himself.

"You asked your brother for my hand in marriage?!" You exclaimed in shock, questioning the man you would soon call 'husband'.

"Would your father accept me if I didn't?" Daemon said calmly, contrasting your agitated self.

You were still a bit stunned at the news but deep down felt a happiness you couldn't hold back, smiling at Daemon with true contentment.

He grinned back at you, lifting his hand to hold your chin gently. "Aderī kesā sagon ñuha ābrazȳrys." (Soon you will be my wife.)

Lowering himself to your height, he kissed you slow and tender. When you finally let go of each other, you whispered to him. "Se kesā sagon ñuha valzȳrys." (And you will be my husband.)

—

[elodieunderglass]

🎀

Fanfic ask game: https://www.tumblr.com/elodieunderglass/769295248269705216?source=share

“🎀 how do you decide when something is done?”

That’s such a good question, thank you! I know where I’m going with my (recent) fics because they’re all mechanisms.

They’re like a little clockwork item that I hand to you, and when you wind it up, it Does Something. It opens up to show you something inside, or it unfolds to be something else. Or it’s a puzzle box with something exciting. Sometimes it mostly just shows you how it’s made. Sometimes it’s a jack-in-the-box and the surprise is just that it goes “pop” and makes you laugh.

It’s important that the construction be witty. In addition to the overall mechanism working properly, it’s important to me that it be done in a stylish way. Even if I don’t pull this off, I know it’s done if it’s managed to meet the goal of the mechanism and also be a bit collectible and stylish.

This is how the jokes are supposed to go off in your brain:

Anyway, I know they’re done when the mechanism works!

Sharpe’s Daemon is a very quick character study set up so the last line hits like a punch: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58673878 It’s supposed to be satisfying and funny and make you go OH NO. I knew it was done because it does this! All the writing before the punchline is there to make the punchline happen. It was written with the ending in mind: once the ending was achieved, the fic was done, and ready to be served!

The absurdly ambitious Strange Pilgrims (Good Omens) is many things, but one of them is “two interlocking spirals, one black and one white. It is about how the universe, the depicted ship, and all the small things are also in this shape - the love between the characters being the same geometry as the underpinning physics of the galaxy etc etc etc” https://archiveofourown.org/works/19368694/chapters/46082842 so it SLIGHTLY bothers me that the earlier-written chapters are weaker and unbalanced it! Also, when they announced there was going to be a Good Omens season 2, I was so disgusted that I had to scramble madly to finish the damned thing early ( it initially had a shape that could support the development of a sequel. They would have been very pretty next to each other but MY 123k baby is a Pratchett love letter, not advertisement for some other guy.) that’s why it has the absolutely unhinged Choose Your Own Adventure multiple-ending mechanism, where you select a glitchy tarot card to get “your” ending, and you can choose to stop there or interlock it further. I have not seen that done before and I CAN SEE WHY PEOPLE DONT DO IT.

His Delicious Materials (Dungeon Meshi) https://archiveofourown.org/works/56658973/chapters/144024799 is a work in progress and actually has me puzzled because the intention of the mechanism may have changed! It was scoped as a gift, but - I am so touched by this - other people like it too, and I may have to do one route for the original recipient and another for the other readers. Like the person it’s for would enjoy a cuckoo clock, but the people reading it are going “oh this is a GREAT music box” and I’m like oh dang, it WOULD be a very effective music box.

Weasel Heart in Defiance (Dungeon Meshi but as an argument with Tolkien) https://archiveofourown.org/works/60074548/chapters/153284221 is going to be 125k in order to set up an ending scene in which - having spent 125k with these idiots in their silly world - you cry. And you go THANK YOU ELODIE I GET IT. And it sets off a Halfling Revolution in your heart. That scene’s already written, and the rest of it is just colouring in. That one is already done, basically.

[rhymeandrythm]

Making an on going list of all my fics on ao3 for easy acess

Finished:

A Soul Indebted: Rating: M | Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Main Paring: Lucemond (Aemond Targaryen/Lucerys Velaryon) | Short Version of Desc: Aemond feels guilty about killing his beautiful nephew, so he lets Luke come to collect his debt.

The Death of Creation: Rating: M | Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Main Paring: Lucemond (Aemond Targaryen/Lucerys Velaryon) | Short Version of Desc: Lucerys becomes Aemond's obsession, his muse, and his fantasy.

Fire, help me forget: Rating: E | Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Main Pairing: Lucemond (Aemond Targaryen/Lucerys Velaryon) | Short Version of Desc: Aemond is in Harrenhal, everything plays out the way it did for Daemon, except it's his nephew who watches him from within the cursed stones of this horrible, horrible, place.

Lead Me Back Home: Rating: T | Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply | Main Paring: No Romantic paring. | Short version of desc: The ghosts in the pit of her belly were acting up again. Twisting and churning and weaving together until they became too much for her body to hold, and they erupted through her throat. A oneshot in the series connected to Devil's Maker.

But there was no sound: Rating: T | Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply | Main Pairing: Lucemond (Aemond Targaryen/Lucerys Velaryon) | Short version of desc: "Now that I think about it, it is quite fitting. A collar would look good on you.” Aemond had shrugged him off after that and punched him in the nose. A one short in the series connected to Devil's Maker.

In Progress:

Bitter Sweet: Rating: M | Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Main Pairing: No main focus ships but there is Rhaewin (Rhaenyra Targaryen/Harwin Strong) | Short Version of Desc: Everybody around Aemond is magical, and Rhaenyra swears magic runs through his blood just as thick as the rest of them, yet he his the only one in his family without any abilities. He deems it unfair. Until he is given a book of Dark Magic.

Devil's Maker: Rating: E | Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Main Pairing: Jacegan (Jacaerys Velaryon/Cregan Stark) | Short version of Desc: Jace is a vampire, Cregan is a cannibal, and they kill people in a small town using cattle farming as their cover. What's the worst that could happen?

----

This will change over time! Bother me with any questions or comments

[lokisprettygirl]

Rain to his Fire (Modern! Daemon Targaryen x Female Reader) (Non Canon 80s Au) (18+)

Read chapter 3 here // Series Masterlist

Chapter 4

Summary: Things heat up between you and Daemon.

Warning: 18+, smutty scenarios, crude language, discussion of mental health (it's a fic based in a mental health facility), mention of physical assault, the fic would contain several mentions of several disorders like mpd, did etc, if something triggers you don't read, smoking.

“American avocet…nope” you mumbled under your breath as you flipped through the pages of the book All birds in the world. You often didn't find yourself in a library so this was new for you as well. You were trying to match the feathers Daemon had given you with an existing bird but so far you had failed to accomplish your goal, and not to forget that you were still hung up on the letter A and it would take weeks to finish researching the book.

At first, the thought of simply asking Daemon what type of bird the feather belonged to had crossed your mind. But then you remembered that he believed himself to be a dragon, and he'd continue to claim that the feathers belonged to him.

You folded the corner of the book to bookmark the page as you didn't want to lose the progress, then you got up and placed the book back on its designated shelf.

As you approached the librarian Corlys he gave you a small smile and you couldn't help but feel sheepish.

“Finished reading?” He asked you so you chuckled, Corlys knew your mother really well, most of the older employees did so he was really always kind and warm to you.

“Ummm can I ask you a question?” You asked him with a tinge of hesitation so he looked at you curiously, his brows raised in anticipation.

“Of Course..anytime dear”

“Uhhh you have been around here for decades so I was wondering if you knew anything about this area habituating exotic birds around here because I found this feather on my window and it made me curious” you gave him the black streaked feather Daemon had offered to you as an apology, of course you didn't tell Corlys the truth. For some reason you didn't want to show him the pure silver one he had placed in your palm last night, it just seemed too precious.

“Let me see” he mumbled under his breath as he pulled up his glasses to inspect the feather and you could tell he was confused,

“I would have said that it resembles a pelican but you won't find them here, besides it's too large to be a pelican's. Are you positive that it's a genuine feather and not a decorative item?”

He asked you and you didn't really have an answer for that because honest to god you didn't even know where the feather had come from or if it was genuine or not.

“You can buy these in shops?” you asked him with a puzzled look on your face so he smiled.

“You can buy anything these days” you nodded as he said that before you mumbled a good day to him and stepped out of the Library.

As you entered your room, the first thing you did was open your drawer to look at the silver feather again. It was soft to the touch and didn't feel fake at all. You couldn't stop thinking about Daemon and his mysterious ways. You felt like he was messing with you and must have bought these feathers to add to his mysterious image. Why didn't you think of this in the first place? Perhaps a part of you just wanted to believe that he was something special, something that was too good to be true.

It was your day off so you hadn't really seen him all day, not even a glimpse. After what he had done last night and as much as you had enjoyed him touching you like that, you were afraid he'd make a habit out of it. So when you laid down in bed at night, your ears remained perked for any sign of movement outside your door but fortunately you didn't hear anything.

And unfortunately it did make you feel a bit disappointed.

As you entered Daemon's room the next morning, you noticed that he was still sleeping. Wanting to turn on a lamp, you reached around the bed and felt something under your feet. Looking down, you saw a pile of hair matching Daemon's hair color. At first, you thought he had cut his own hair, but then you realized that his hair was still the same length as it was yesterday. You were confused and couldn't understand where this hair had come from. It was long, at least 12 inches, which could easily be used to make a proper wig.

Every other day this man had something in his store to mess with your head.

You were in the middle of collecting the hair from the floor when you heard him roll around in the bed and turn on his back, as his eyes met with yours, he raised his non-existent eyebrows and gave you a smile.

“What is this?” You asked him as you picked up a lock of the hair so he rubbed his eyes,

“Well good morning to you as well lady” he mumbled in his groggy ‘I just woke up’ voice so you sighed and got back to cleaning.

“Don't get up if you're not wearing clothes underneath the sheet” you warned him so he chuckled in response.

“Yes mam, anything else?”

He asked you politely but your mind was still confused about the long silky beautiful hair you had found just now.

“What is it? Daemon? What is this?” You asked him again, agitation visible in your voice so he propped himself on his elbows and stared at you. You could see his abs flexing as he craned himself up but this wasn't the time for you to get distracted, there was no time to get distracted by a patient anyways.

"It's my hair... they grow longer when I am able to fully shift into my natural form which I did somehow last night. I have to cut them off with my own nails afterwards.” he mumbled as if he hadn't said the most unbelievable thing ever so you stared at him for a moment in complete disbelief. What were you expecting anyways?

“Okay ..why can't you just keep the hair, why do you have to cut it?” You asked him a follow up question instead of dismissing him like you had done previously so he smiled.

“It's a bit of a hassle..look at it” he told you nonchalantly.

“You're a weird man Mr. Daemon–” you mumbled in disbelief so he chuckled in response.

“Bonkers..innit?”

As you took the broom to the other side of the room you found a few more feathers and sighed. At this point, you had narrowed down the possibilities to two main scenarios. One theory was that he purchased these items beforehand and he was just playing a cruel prank on you. The other possibility was a lot more outrageous to consider. What if he really was a dragon or humagon or a Draman? That would explain the feathers, the hair, and so many other things that didn't quite add up.

But that was just crazy, right? You sighed and shook your head, trying to dismiss the thought from your mind.

Later on, Daemon was taken to see Doctor Lisa for their session. He couldn't believe that Vis had allowed it, but he had a feeling that the bastard was watching from the other side of the mirror. He was then escorted to the middle of the room and was told to sit. A guard cuffed his hands behind the chair while Doctor Lisa took a seat just a few feet away from him.

“You can leave Jacob” Lisa said to the guard so he nodded before he left the room to just two of them.

“So Daemon, good afternoon, how are you feeling?” She asked him as she gave him a warm smile so he chuckled in response.

“What is this, what's going on?” Daemon questioned her so she gave him a comforting smile again.

“You have been making good progress and I just wanted to speak with you about how you were feeling”

She mumbled politely so he looked at her up and down, his gaze intense, piercing into her soul as if he was trying to read her intentions.

“How am I feeling while I'm cuffed like a criminal? You tell me darling, how am I supposed to feel?” Daemon spoke, with a rough and husky tone, almost challenging her. His sharp eyes peered intensely at her, making her squirm in her seat, for a psychiatrist she sure seemed easy to manipulate.

“What's bothering you the most right now?” His lips puckered as she questioned him,

“Come closer and perhaps I'll humor you” he leaned forward to stare at her and she opened her mouth to say something but she felt at loss of words, there was something about him that made her speechless, the glint in his eyes made her uncomfortable but also drew her in..

“Doctor Vis told me that you have always had trouble with your sense of identity and-” before she could finish her sentence he had cut her off,

“Uhhuh when did he tell you that? While he had you bent over his desk this morning or???” he continued, his eyes flashing with anger. Lisa flinched at his words, taken aback by his sudden outburst.

“Daemon you're being inappropriate” she intervened but he cut her off immediately.

“Mmmm but I'm speaking the truth. Am I not? You're married but here you are fucking another man and at the same time so willing to spread your gorgeous legs for a patient sitting in front of you-”

He was amidst his contempt-filled speech when he was dragged up from his seat and punched right in the face but instead of cowering down he let out the sort of laughter that made Doctor Lisa scared. Quickly, Lisa grabbed onto Vis's arms, trying to calm him down as he stood over Daemon, his fists still clenched in anger.

“Let it be.. he's not well, it's not his fault” she said to him so Vis glared at him as he called in the guard to take him away.

“Everytime I think he's making progress he goes on and does something like this” Vis said as Daemon was taken away from the therapy room but Lisa seemed upset with Viserys instead. How did Daemon know of their affair?

“What? He must have seen the wedding ring and made a baseless assumption, that's what he does, he's very observant..always has been” Vis clarified to her but she was so furious that she walked away from him.

As you stepped out of room 390 after cleaning, you noticed Jacob dragging Daemon to his room. As they came closer you realized that his cheek was bleeding. What had he done now?

As soon as Jacob was gone, you looked around carefully before entering Daemon's room. He was already on the bed with a towel pressed against his bleeding cheek, his eyes closed and his body tensed up, clearly in pain.

“What happened?” You asked him as you approached him so he looked at you sharply. His eyes seemed dark and brooding, moments of such intensity always gave you a weird sensation in the pit of your stomach.

“Why do you care?” He asked you so you shrugged in response.

“Because you're bleeding and I'm concerned about your well being as a patient” you told him so he chuckled in response.

You watched in shock as Daemon got up from his bed, tossing the towel into the corner of the room before approaching you like a predator. Instinctively, you took a step back, your heart racing as you kept moving behind until you had hit the wall.

As Daemon reached closer to you, his fingers wrapped around your waist, and he placed his head between the crook of your neck. You could feel the blood from his cheek smearing against your skin, but that was the least of your concern. The proximity was affecting you in more ways than one, and you weren't sure how to react. You were on duty, after all, and it would have been inappropriate to touch him.

But then he seemed so hurt and distraught, his breathing heavy as he sniffed you constantly, you remembered him telling you that it was calming for him, your scent. What was this man made of? You had never met anyone as animalistic in his approach as Daemon was.

And to prove your point further he let out a purring noise as you curled your fingers around his neck and scratched his scalp. You had never heard a man purr like this, how was he doing it?

“Calm down..” you mumbled softly so he pulled away and glared at you as let out a small growling noise, using the sleeve of your cardigan you wiped the blood off his cheek before you grabbed his forearm.

“How can I be calm when my thoughts are filled with images of you in compromising positions” he smirked as he spoke so you rolled your eyes even though his words made you feel aroused.

“Come with me” You dragged Daemon by the arm as you led him out of his room and down the hallway. As you passed by the other patients and colleagues, you noticed their shocked expressions. You didn't care, though,he was hurt and in need of medical attention, you didn't care about whatever he had done to receive this treatment.

As you reached the clinic on the second floor the nurse took one look at him and made him sit down to patch up his wound.

“Are you hurt as well?” She asked you as she looked at the blood on your neck so you shook your head and asked for a medical wipe to clean the blood and you constantly felt his eyes on you, he kept staring at you and a part of you wanted him to look away, you didn't like it when he was looking at you like that as if he wanted to devour you whole.

Once he was patched up, you asked him to walk with you, it was lunchtime and you had to be in the cafeteria for your duties but on the way you bumped into Dr Vis instead and it instantly raised your blood pressure up, and definitely not in a good way.

“What is going on here if I may ask?” He questioned you, his voice strict and tone authoritative.

“The patient seemed wounded so I took him to the nursery” you answered him so he smiled but his smile never felt genuine, it never really reached his eyes, everytime you looked at him these days you felt a sense of foreboding wash over you.

“Where are you taking him now?” he asked as he crossed his arms behind his back like a school teacher.

“Cafeteria..it's lunch time for patients” he let out a small laughter as you answered him.

"No need for that. His lunch privileges are revoked for the day, and he will spend it gardening instead," Dr Vis declared, his tone firm and unrelenting. You looked at him in disbelief, not understanding why he was being punished so severely. "Once you have completed your duties, I want you to supervise him as he plants hundred hydrangea seeds in the back garden," Dr Vis ordered. "Any less than that and he will not be served dinner tonight," he warned, his eyes still locked on Daemon's as if he was taunting him

“Why me?” You asked him and that made him turn his head towards you

“Pardon me?” He glared at you so intensely that you didn't want to elaborate and question as to why he wanted you to watch him suffer when a guard could have done this job more appropriately.

“Nothing..I'll be free in an hour doctor” you mumbled politely so Doctor vis gave you a smile and watched you walk past him and Daemon..

“You really think I'd make your life easier while you're acting up?” He asked Daemon as he grabbed his arm to lead him to the back garden.

You turned to see Daemon one last time before he was escorted away, his gaze fixed on you with a mixture of confusion and hurt. You took a deep breath and made your way to the cafeteria, feeling a sense of unease settle over you. You couldn't shake the feeling that punishing a man of that size for so many hours without food was cruel and not to mention extremely inhumane..

Once you were free of your duties, you went to the pantry and wrapped up a sandwich carefully before placing it into the pocket of your cardigan.

As you reached the back garden, he was on his knees digging small holes for the seeds and it made you want to hug him and comfort him. You looked around and didn't find anyone else there, not even Dr. Vis.

“Why are you being punished?” You asked as you sat down on the nearest garden chair so he looked your way and took a few sniffs “Asks the one breaking the rules herself”

You looked at him confused as he said that.

“What do you mean?”

“That sandwich in your pocket can land you in big trouble darling” he mumbled as he got back to work so you sighed. How was he able to just guess these things? Perhaps he had some sort of psychic intuition or maybe he was just observant like that.

“What did you do?” You asked him again so he chuckled in response.

“Pissed off someone and got punched”

“Why do you do it Daemon, it's not going to make your life any easier?”

“I can't help it, when I feel something.. I say it.. subtlety isn't in my nature”

As he spoke, a realization dawned on you, he was really honest and straightforward, even if it got him into trouble.

“Don't you miss your family out there?” You asked him a personal question so he shook his head

“Why not?” you questioned again hoping to get more information about his life before he got here.

“Lost mum when I was 4, father was never around, older brother raised me but I'll never satisfy him, I'd never be what he wants me to be” his voice sounded heavy with sadness and perhaps under different circumstances you could have offered him a hug.

“I'm sorry, I know what it's like to lose a parent” you mumbled as you picked on your nails again so he turned his head to look at you.

“Your mother wouldn't want you to fuel that nasty habit”

And you stopped picking immediately

”She worked here, didn't she?” He asked you so you nodded in response, he must have heard about it somewhere.

“How did she die?” He asked you so you sighed, you never liked thinking or talking about it.

“She died here.. heart attack they said”

“And you believe that?” He asked you so you looked at him confused

“What else should I be believing?”

“I don't really know yet”

“You're so strange you know that” you couldn't help but smile.

“Is that a bad thing?

“No ..it's not” he gave you a warm smile as you said that. You watched as he spent the next hour diligently planting 100 hydrangea seeds. After he was finished, you had to report it to Dr. Vis before Daemon was allowed to go back to his room and rest.

“Eat this, there's still time for dinner” you passed him the sandwich so he looked at it with a mixture of gratitude and curiosity before taking a bite and savoring the flavor.

Later that night as you finally got in bed you had even more puzzling questions than you had a day before. The feathers, the hair, how he was so intuitive, how he was burning so hot all the time, nothing made sense to you. There was something wrong with him but you weren't able to figure it out.

You had almost drifted into sleep when you heard a knock on your window and your heart went still. As you sat up you couldn't really believe your eyes, Daemon was on the other side of the window, standing so daringly on that narrow ledge. He was absolutely crazy, you couldn't even deny it anymore.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You asked him as you pulled your window up and pulled him inside carefully so he won't fall down to his death.

“Everything” he mumbled as he cupped your cheeks and you froze in your spot, how did he even get up here? Sure you lived a floor up but one would have to know how to walk on walls to directly reach the window.

“How did you get up here?” You asked him sternly so he placed his forehead on yours to calm down, his jaw clenched in anger in frustration.

“You ask stupid questions darling”

He pulled away from you and walked past you so you glared at him.

“Stupid? Is it stupid for me to want to know how you climbed up a floor and ended up outside of my window in the middle of the night?” You crossed your arms so he tilted his head as if to mock you.

“It's common sense really which you don't seem to have or perhaps denying it all makes you feel normal about yourself”

You glared at him in bewilderment as he said that.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” You asked him so he approached you and grabbed your hands on his own before he locked them behind your back, you were starting to get used to how physical he could get with you.

“Denying the truth makes you feel sane, it makes you believe that you're different from these people you tend to all day long. Am I wrong, hmm?” He asked you so you looked up at him

“Are you calling me crazy?” You asked him so he snickered in response.

“No no no no..I'm merely suggesting that perhaps you're gullible, only capable of seeing things from a shallow perspective, despite my numerous attempts to show you the truth”

“And what is the truth? That you're a half fucking dragon?” your voice raised in a mix of anger and confusion.

For a moment, you thought he was going to lash out at you as his grin faded into a scowl. Instead, he answered calmly,

“Perhaps i am”

“Then show me, become one, right here right now” you challenged him and his jaw clenched

"It's not that easy," he snarled, his jaw clenched in anger.

"Why not?" you pressed him, your voice shaking with frustration.

"It's not," Daemon repeated, his tone barely above a whisper, as if he were ashamed of his inability to show you the truth.

"Well, then you need to stop with your bullshit," you snapped, your anger evident in your every word. "And stop coming into my room like this, you'd make me lose my job,”

Your breaths were getting heavier as you spoke angrily, it was part anger and part your close proximity with him.

“Is that what you really want? Want me to leave you alone?” he asked you with irony dripping from his voice.

“Yes” you mumbled sharply so he let go of your arms and instead of using the window he used the door to step out, he didn't give a fuck about being caught honestly.

Next morning you didn't even attempt to clean his room but when he didn't come out for lunch or tea time in the evening you couldn't stop yourself from checking up on him.

So, after taking a shower and changing into a dress, you cautiously made your way to his room and knocked twice on the door before stepping inside.

As you entered the room, you found him sitting upright on the bed in the darkness like a creep, with the only light coming from the bathroom. He had his elbows placed on his thighs, his chin situated on his clasped fingers and he was staring into the bathroom even though he was clearly aware of your presence

“I thought you didn't want to see me anymore” he mumbled as he kept staring into the bathroom so you approached him and stood in front of him, blocking the only source of light, you kind of looked like an angel to him with the glimmering shine of light surrounding you.

“Go downstairs, it's dinner time” you mumbled softly so he looked up at you and smiled.

“I'm sorry I got so ..heated last night” he mumbled softly as his eyes raked over your figure, your shift was over and he noticed the green dress you had worn, he brought his hand forward and ran it over your shin so you stepped back a little as his touch sent a shiver down your spine.

Despite the tension between you two, it felt like there was an unspoken bond that had developed over the past few days.

“Can't stay away from me can you?” he asked, smugness palpable in his voice. You could feel your hands clench into a fist but definitely not from anger.

“I'm just worried about you as a patient” you mumbled softly, almost seductively, he was such a bad influence on you.

“Mmmhmmm” he mumbled as he trailed his fingers up your bare skin but as soon as he had touched your bare thigh under the dress, you slapped his hand away.

“You're being inappropriate” you looked him in the eye as if to warn him but as his hands went under your dress again you involuntarily placed your hands on his shoulder, fingers digging into his flesh, eyes rolling back into your head.

“I have been inappropriate with you since the very first day” you let out a moan as his fingers danced back n forth, caressing your soft flesh near the inside of your thighs, his touch almost made you want to lose it all, every nerve in your body felt altered.

Your opened mouth and the look on your face only turned him on beyond belief,

He placed his other hand on your waist and pulled you closer to his face and then he pressed his nose against your clothed intimate area, your fingers curled around his neck as you let out a deliciously tortured moan that you had been suppressing all your life.

“Ohh you smell good enough to eat darling”

He breathed in deeply and let out a growl as your arousal filled his senses, fingers trailed under your dress again and this time he caressed the back of your thighs, his fingers moving upwards slowly to caress those plump cheeks but he was holding back. It took everything in him to not throw you onto his bed and make you belong to him, he had to control for your own sake.

He wanted to ruin you very slowly, more and more every passing day, make you so desperate that you'd beg for him to touch you.

Suddenly the intimacy of the situation was too much for you, and you felt the tears welling up in your eyes, that's when you backed away from him, pressing yourself against the wall so he got up and approached you. He didn't want you to feel afraid of feeling things, he didn't want you to be so scared of feeling intimacy.

“Calm down sweet girl” he mumbled as he grabbed your chin to make you look him in the eye.

“I can't..I can't breatheee” you mumbled quietly so he kissed the tip of your nose,

“You can..keep looking at me”

“No this is wrong ..it's so Wronggggg..I'm being so bad and so wrong” he could tell that you were feeling overwhelmed so he cupped your cheeks and caressed your cheek with his fingers.

“Shhhhhhh darling shhhhh” he whispered as he wrapped his arms around you and finally pulled you into a hug, a proper hug, his body felt hotter than the sun as you got on your tip toes and placed your head between the crook of his neck, but it did calm you down a little. You had never been embraced this way so you couldn't even decipher what you were feeling in the moment. Once your breathing had calmed enough you pulled away from him to look at him.

“What's bothering you more, the fact that it's forbidden or just the idea of being touched by a man?” He asked you as you pulled away slightly, his thumb ran over your cheek as he wiped your tears, he found you adorable when you acted this way, the urge he had felt to protect you that night only became stronger in that moment.

You couldn't bring yourself to answer immediately, feeling your mouth go dry but then you responded meakly.

“Bothhhhh”

“When was the last time you touched your cunt darling?” You raised your palm up to plant it on his lips as he asked you such a dirty question like that.

“Shut up ..you can't talk to me like that” you had intended for your voice to come out as a warning but then it sounded as if you were teasing him instead.

“What about dirty movies hmm? Ever seen one? Ever watched a man fuck a woman? Or a woman sucking a man's cock?” he mumbled as he grabbed your hand and placed it on his bulge, your heart almost stopped beating at the gesture, he was so..hard and huge, it made your head spin.

“Please Daemon” your voice barely came out in a whisper so he smirked in response.

“Why are you so timid hmm? Did you get caught? Mumma caught you touching yourself as a teen?” You slapped him lightly on the cheek so he snickered.

“Once she did..but that's not the reason” you told him honestly as you didn't want to play games, you didn't know how to do it. Him on the other hand, you couldn't tell if he was really interested in you or just plain bored. His gentle touch felt both soothing and alarming at the same time, like he was trying to lull you into a false sense of security.

“Tell me the reason then” his voice was firm as he questioned you.

“I don't feel it..i have never felt sexual attraction before” he looked at you as if he was not surprised but at the same time he seemed curious.

“To a man?”

“To anyone.. I don't feel attraction, i don't picture myself kissing anyone or doing other things with them..i haven't done it all my life” you had never told anyone about this, and you knew you shouldn't have been revealing such personal things to him, a patient nonetheless, but you couldn't help yourself, you were so painfully aroused right now that it hurt.

“Then what do you think of when you're grinding your pretty cunt against a pillow at night? Hmm?” His breath was hot against your face as he murmured and you were only able to moan in response.

“You haven't thought about anyone in your life..Until I got here, you have been thinking about me since then and I know that” he mumbled confidently so you shook your head even though you looked stupid doing it. You had to control yourself, you knew you had to.

“You're so full of yourself” you mumbled like a bratty child, making him smirk

“Uhhhuh and don't you want the same? Don't you want to be so full of me as well?”

“No.”

“Very convincing..Fucking is in human nature darling, that's how we have evolved, and you want to get fucked i know” he told you as he brushed his thumb over your lips “But that's not enough for you is it? It's not.. you want to be loved, you want to be swept off your feet and serenaded, you need a man to show you what romance feels like” you couldn't help but smile genuinely as he said that.

“Too bad you're a dragon”

As much as he wasn't expecting the quip when he was trying to seduce you he did appreciate the humor.

“Half dragon. Half man. Don't fool yourself sweet thing”

You got on your tip toes and kissed his bruised cheek before you pulled yourself out of his grip to leave his room.

On the way out you noticed that the bars on his windows were pulled apart, making you stop in your tracks and you turned around to face him once more. You knew he was strong, but only someone with a level of superhuman strength could have done that.

“Make me believe that you are what you think you are, if you care about me, make me feel it, if you think my eyes are closed then open them for me, if you want me to be your friend and believe your truth, show me the truth, show yourself to me” you said to him confidently and a smile curved the corner of his mouth.

“Aren't you afraid I'd drive you as insane as I am?” You chuckled as he said that, there was a touch of threat and intimidation in his voice.

“You scare me but I like it Daemon” you gave him a sultry smile before you finished your sentence “That's what I think about when I'm pleasuring myself at night”

😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏

Taglist

@anukulee @ammo23 @littledark11 @stupidthoughtsinwriting

@daenny-t

[gwenllian-in-the-abbey]

What are some pro-team green fanfics you would recommend?

Ohh I've been meaning to recommend a few! Most of these are Aegon-centric because I'm generally more interested in him than Aemond, but there are a couple Aemond fics in here as well, and at least one that's Alicent centric.

a poison tree by @branwendaughterofllyr is a Dance retelling in which Daemon and Viserys' younger brother Aegon lived and had a daughter, and that daughter ended up being raised with the green children. Branwen tells a compelling story with great attention to historical detail, and although the story is green leaning, I feel it is fair to both sides. It has many POVs and really tells the story from many different angles, some some reliable than others.

My co-author @aifsaath's series The Skies Are Always Red Above Valyria is an entire Dance retelling that starts with Alicent as a lady at court before her marriage but eventually will progress to the Dance itself (and involves our beloved Baela/Aegon pairing). Aife's fics always feature impeccable worldbuilding and lush descriptions, so check them out.

The Wrath of the Queen by @florisbaratheons has just started but is very promising, featuring a more proactive Alicent who gets a cooperative if reluctant Aegon on board with her plan to put him on the throne following Driftmark, as well as fully fleshed out versions of the Baratheon and Lannister sisters. After seeing Cassandra Baratheon and Jason and/or Tyland Lannister cast as antagonists in dozens of Dance fics it's nice to see them get a fair shake.

The Dog Days Are Over is a Aegon/Helaena fix-it by @franzkafkagfn which they escape to Essos to start over with the kids. She also has another Aegon/Rhaenyra fic that is I'd say slightly more green slanted simply because much of the rest of the canon black faction doesn't exist per se.

This one has been on hiatus awhile but In The Ripe and Ruin by @kingsroad will forever have my heart as the first OC fic I ever got into, featuring gorgeous worldbuilding and one of my favorite iterations of Aegon. He's awful but also incredibly endearing. According to the author it's not going to be super canon divergent, and OC is Aegon's mistress through the Dance! Crossing my fingers that the author returns soon!

Would That They Were Not is a one shot by @navree that deals with Blood and Cheese and Aemond's feelings of guilt in the aftermath. It's heartbreaking! Blood and Cheese happens here the way it does in the book so if the show ends up changing it and you want an idea of how it might have gone down, this one is very faithful.

1968 is a modern AU by @inthedayswhenlandswerefew In which the wife of presidential candidate Aemond Targaryen, who is running against Richard Nixon in the 1968 election, forms a connection with the family screw up, his older brother Aegon. This is technically a readerfic (hear me out!), although I'd really call it a 2nd person POV because the "you" is a fully fleshed out character more so than a reader insert. I do not usually go for readerfic but opened this on a whim because the history teacher in me saw the premise and went "what on earth" and proceeded to be blown away by delicate character work, symbolism, and gorgeous prose. I actually got several friends who do not usually enjoy Dance fic OR readerfic fully invested in this one. Is it pro green? I guess? It's not set in Westeros and Aemond is a real POS but Aegon is lovely and the blacks don't really feature so I think it counts.

[celinamarniss]

Year in Review

In 2024 I posted 4 fics at 53,035 words.

Previous years:

2023: 4 fics at 58,153 words

2022: 4 fics at 45,096 words.

2021: 3 fics posted, 55,788 words.

2020: 7 or 10 fics posted, 125,738 words.

2019: 7 fics posted, 72,149 words.

2018: 7 fics posted, 87,752 words

2016: 9 fics posted, 51,643 words

2017: 9 fics posted, 115,336 words

2016: 9 fics posted, 51,653 words

In total, 52 fics posted to Ao3.

Thrones, Dominions

31,420 words, explicit, Thrawn/Mara/Luke

I finally wrapped up the Triumvirate verse with a big flashy finale (and bound it, too). I started Triumvirate in 2019, which means I've spent six years on this series, and that blows my mind a little. (a lot).

Will there be more Triumvirate stories? I genuinely hope that other writers will take up the torch and write more fic for all fans of the series. I’m not sure if I’ll write any more myself. It could happen. But for now, I’m happy to let this series rest.

An Oral History of the Ewok Bikers of Endor

4,115, gen, an Uncommon Hazards fic

I pitched three story ideas to the From A Legends Point of View fic collection, and this is the concept they accepted. It takes an idea from the Uncommon Hazards series, that post-Endor, Ewoks have immigrated to Coruscant and started an illegal swoop racing industry.

As I began to write it, I realized that the fic challenge required 5k and this story wasn't much more than a 3k concept. I stretched it out to 4. I'm not sure that this story was exactly what the mods had in mind, but it was fun finding ways to bring in characters and reference different types of media.

A Smuggler’s Guide to Joining the Rebellion

14,355 words so far, gen, the sequel to The Things You Find on Tatooine.

I wanted to get this fic through all of ANH by the end of the year, but my brain didn't cooperate and I ran out of time. But Smuggler's Guide has been a fun distraction to carry through into 2025.

The Coruscant Job

3,145, gen, Fenig Nabon/Ghitsa Dogder

Who? you may ask. Why, the super obscure con artist team that appeared in three short stories in the 90s. AKA the Fenig Nabon/Ghitsa Dogder fic literally no one asked for, because no one even knows who these characters ARE. This was another idea I pitched to the FALPOV challenge, and while it wasn't selected, I wanted to write it anyway. It turns out that was a good decision, because what I wrote wouldn't have followed all of the FALPOV rules. (My idea moves their timeline forward and retcons the story “Credit for Your Thoughts.”) 

GOALS FOR 2025

Finish A Smuggler’s Guide to Joining the Rebellion (teen, Luke/Mara) The ongoing project. Progress: five chapters posted, uhhhh lots of scraps and and partial drafts in a doc.

Lando Calrissian and the Jewel of Andara (gen, Lando/Karrde, Luke/Mara) The Lando and Mara heist romcom I’ve been promising forever. Will 2025 finally be this fic's year??? at this point, I don't even know. Progress: three chapters drafted, but in need of heavy revision.

Experiments (teen? Luke/Mara) I honestly started to think this fic was dead dead, but this year I dusted off the old files and finished drafting the first two chapters. What happens next? I'm not really sure. I feel like this period/setting (Mara on Coruscant post TTT, pre Yavin) has already been well-worn by other fics recently and I don't know if there will be any interest in it. If I keep going, I'll have to come up with a outline and figure out what I want to do with the fic. Progress: two chapters drafted, but they may need to be merged into one chapter.

Other fics on the backburner:

Courtship remix

Daughter of the Rain and Snow (dead???)

More daemon fic! (I always want to write more daemon fic)

[novaursa]

The Golden Court (what we are)

- Summary: You were taken from the royal court by your father when you were a child. Now you return as a woman grown from exile. A woman that ignites fires in her wake.

- Pairing: Jason Lannister/targ!reader/Tyland Lannister

- Note: Adult themes will progress more and more as chapters go on. This fic is pure filth and I make no apologies for it. You have been warned.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Previous part: wayward daughter

- Next part: the hunt

- Tag(s): @scarletdfox

The chamber was cool despite the warm morning light filtering in through the arched windows, the scent of parchment and candle wax thick in the air. The Small Council had convened early, their seats already filled as they waited for King Viserys I Targaryen to begin.

Tyland Lannister entered quietly, his stride measured, his expression composed. The moment he stepped inside, he could feel the weight of the conversation already brewing. The tension was subtle but unmistakable, lingering in the air like a brewing storm.

At the head of the table, King Viserys sat in his usual place, his fingers drumming idly against the armrest of his chair. His face, though lined with years of rule, betrayed his exhaustion. Beside him, the Hand of the King, Otto Hightower, sat poised as ever, his eyes flickering toward Tyland as he took his seat.

Lord Lyonel Strong offered him a curt nod, while the elderly Lord Beesbury, ever half-lost in his own thoughts, mumbled something under his breath as he adjusted his spectacles. Lord Jasper Wylde, remained silent, his expression unreadable. Grand Maester Mellos, hunched over his usual array of scrolls and vials, barely acknowledged Tyland’s arrival.

The council chamber doors shut behind him with a low thud, signaling that the meeting was about to begin in earnest.

Viserys exhaled heavily, rubbing his temples before finally speaking.

“Let us be done with pleasantries,” he muttered, his voice heavy with lingering fatigue from the previous night’s revelry. “We have much to discuss.”

Otto nodded in agreement, ever the vigilant advisor. “Indeed, Your Grace. The matter of Prince Daemon’s return to court is of great concern.”

Tyland remained silent, listening.

Viserys’s mouth tightened at the mention of his younger brother. “Daemon has returned before,” he said, though there was little conviction behind it. “It is hardly a new occurrence.”

Otto’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Yes, but never with his daughter in tow.”

The room shifted slightly at that, an unspoken ripple of unease passing through the gathered lords. It had not gone unnoticed—Daemon Targaryen arriving without invitation, his daughter beside him, as though they had never been exiled at all.

Lyonel Strong leaned forward, his voice even. “Prince Daemon’s return alone would be disruptive enough, but the princess… she has already begun drawing attention. If last night was any indication, she will be the subject of much speculation.”

Otto’s expression darkened slightly. “Her presence is more than just disruptive—it is a calculated move. Daemon does not act without purpose.”

Tyland finally spoke, his voice measured. “And what purpose do you believe he has?”

Otto turned his sharp gaze on him. “Daemon is a man who thrives in chaos, my lord. He seeks power where he can, influence where he must. His daughter is no exception to that.”

Tyland met Otto’s gaze evenly, not blinking. “She is a woman grown now. A dragonrider. A player in her own right, whether her father wills it or not.”

Otto studied him for a moment before continuing. “All the more reason to tread carefully. We have seen what happens when a Targaryen with a dragon and ambition is left unchecked.”

Viserys exhaled, his fingers tightening around the armrest. “She is my niece.”

“She is also her father’s daughter,” Otto countered, not unkindly. “And that alone makes her dangerous.”

A moment of silence fell over the room.

Lord Beesbury cleared his throat. “And what… what do we intend to do about it?”

Lyonel Strong folded his hands atop the table. “The princess has been away from court for years. Many here do not know her. If she remains, the lords will begin to question—who is she? What is her role? What does Daemon want for her?” He paused, glancing at Viserys. “And most importantly… what does Your Grace intend for her future?”

Viserys did not answer right away. He stared down at the table, deep in thought, his face unreadable.

Otto’s gaze flickered toward him before speaking again. “The time will come when a match will need to be made. If she is left unwed, the court will speculate. And if she is allowed to choose freely…” He hesitated. “Well, we may find ourselves with an outcome that does not favor the stability of the realm.”

Tyland tilted his head slightly. “And what match would you suggest, Lord Hand?”

Otto glanced at him, then back at Viserys. “A noble house, one of proven loyalty. One that ensures her station does not become a threat to the crown.”

Tyland chuckled softly, shaking his head. “That will be quite the task. Did you not see how the lords reacted last night? They are not concerned with ‘stability.’ They are watching, waiting, eager to stake their claim.”

Viserys pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly. “I will speak to her.”

Otto nodded. “That would be wise, Your Grace.”

The room fell into momentary silence.

Grand Maester Mellos, who had been silent throughout the discussion, finally cleared his throat. “It is worth remembering that while the princess may be a daughter of Daemon, she is still of royal blood. If properly guided, she could serve as an asset, not just a complication.”

Tyland leaned back slightly, watching as Viserys mulled over those words. He could see the conflict in the king’s expression—the push and pull of duty, family, and the ever-present ghost of the past.

After a long pause, Viserys finally spoke.

“She is family,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I will not see her treated as a piece to be moved without her will.”

Otto’s face remained impassive, but there was something in his eyes that suggested disagreement.

Tyland merely smirked to himself, watching the moment unfold.

Daemon’s return had already begun shifting the tides of court.

And his daughter?

She was the storm no one had yet decided how to weather.

The corridors of the Red Keep were quieter in the afternoon, the heat of the day settling into the stones. The earlier bustle of courtiers had thinned, leaving only the occasional servant moving swiftly through the halls, their heads bowed as they went about their tasks.

Jason Lannister moved with the ease of a man completely at home, his golden doublet catching the light as he walked with a casual stride. He had spent the morning exploring the castle, reacquainting himself with the capital’s many pleasures—fine wines, finer company, and the endless whispers of court.

But there was one particular pleasure he had yet to indulge in today.

Turning a corner, he spotted exactly who he was looking for—Tyland, his ever-dutiful younger twin, standing near one of the inner courtyards, seemingly lost in thought. Jason’s smirk widened as he approached.

“Ah, there you are,” Jason called out, clapping a hand on Tyland’s shoulder as he came to stand beside him. “I was beginning to think you’d locked yourself away with that dreary council of yours.”

Tyland gave him a measured glance but said nothing immediately, already wary of whatever his older brother was about to say.

Jason exhaled, stretching slightly before rolling his shoulders back. “I’ve decided,” he announced grandly, as if declaring some great victory.

Tyland raised an eyebrow. “Decided what, exactly?”

Jason grinned, turning to lean casually against the stone railing of the courtyard. “That we’re staying. The whole family. I see no reason to return to the Westerlands so soon when there are so many… sights to enjoy here in the capital.”

Tyland let out a slow breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Jason—”

Jason waved him off before he could finish. “I know that tone. Spare me the lecture, brother. We both know what I’m doing, and I see no reason to be subtle about it.”

Tyland crossed his arms, regarding him carefully. “And what exactly do you think you’re doing?”

Jason smirked. “Enjoying myself.” He tilted his head, his green eyes gleaming with mischief. “And what of you? Have you enjoyed yourself today, or have you been locked in that gods-awful council chamber since morning?”

Tyland hesitated for half a beat—just enough for Jason to catch it.

Jason’s smirk faltered slightly, suspicion flickering across his features. “Tyland.”

Tyland exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “I spoke with her.”

Jason blinked. “You what?”

“I spoke with the princess,” Tyland repeated, his voice even.

Jason straightened slightly, his smirk fading into something unreadable. “When?”

“This morning,” Tyland said smoothly. “I was on my way to council when I spotted her on the balcony overlooking the courtyard.”

Jason’s expression shifted, a mixture of surprise and something else—something sharper. “And you approached her?”

Tyland met his gaze evenly. “Should I not have?”

Jason let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Well, that’s unexpected. My ever-cautious brother, speaking to the dragon herself?” He smirked. “And here I thought you were content to watch from a distance.”

Tyland didn’t rise to the bait, his gaze steady. “Unlike you, I have no need for theatrics.”

Jason chuckled, though there was something calculating behind his eyes now. “And what exactly did you two discuss?”

Tyland tilted his head slightly, studying his brother. “Oh, nothing of consequence,” he said smoothly. “A little talk of House Lannister’s twin affliction, as she so aptly put it.”

Jason huffed a laugh at that. “Sounds about right.” But then he narrowed his gaze slightly. “And? What did you make of her?”

Tyland took a moment before answering, his voice measured. “She’s intelligent. Cautious. But she enjoys the game just as much as you do.”

Jason grinned. “Oh, I never doubted that.”

Tyland let out a slow breath. “She’s also watching us, Jason.”

Jason leaned in slightly, his smirk returning. “And?”

Tyland sighed, shaking his head slightly. “And I don’t think you realize just how much she already knows.”

Jason exhaled, pushing off the railing, a satisfied look crossing his face. “That only makes the game more interesting.”

Tyland’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t argue.

Jason clapped him on the shoulder again, his grin widening. “Well then, little brother, let’s see which one of us she enjoys more, shall we?”

And with that, Jason strode off, leaving Tyland standing in the courtyard, watching as his brother disappeared around the corner.

He exhaled slowly, shaking his head.

This was going to be trouble.

The private dining chamber of the royal quarters was far quieter than the Great Hall had been the previous night. There was no music, no roaring laughter or the clinking of goblets raised in boisterous toasts. Instead, there was only the quiet hum of conversation, the soft scrape of silverware against polished plates, and the ever-present unease that had settled thick in the air like a storm waiting to break.

You sat at the long table draped in deep crimson and black, the colors of your house, though the setting felt anything but warm. Across from you, Queen Alicent sat stiff-backed, composed as ever, her green gown pristine, her expression carefully neutral as she picked at her meal. To your right, Rhaenyra sat stiffly, her gaze flickering toward you every so often, her lips pressed into a thin line. Laenor Velaryon sat beside her, his posture more relaxed but his expression unreadable.

At the head of the table sat King Viserys, his presence ever commanding, though his face bore the weariness of a man who had ruled for too long and suffered too much. He had insisted on this meal—a gathering of family, an attempt to foster unity.

And beside you, lounging in his seat like a dragon at rest, was Daemon.

He had said little since the meal had begun, content to observe, sipping from his goblet with that ever-present smirk playing at his lips. But you knew him well enough to recognize the glint in his eyes. He was enjoying this—this tension, this silent war of glances and unsaid words.

You, however, were growing bored.

“So,” you finally spoke, your voice smooth and unhurried as you cut into your meal. “Is this how all royal family dinners go? So full of warmth and laughter?”

Rhaenyra’s knife clinked against her plate as she set it down a touch too forcefully.

Viserys sighed, rubbing his brow. “This is meant to be a meal, not a battlefield.”

“I wasn’t aware anyone was fighting, Uncle,” you mused, taking a sip of your wine. “Perhaps I should have arrived with a sword.”

Daemon chuckled into his cup.

Alicent lifted her goblet, her eyes cool as she regarded you. “You are our guest, Princess. No one here is your enemy.”

You smiled, tilting your head slightly. “Oh? I wasn’t aware I needed enemies to be unwelcome.”

Rhaenyra let out a slow breath, finally turning to face you fully. “You disappeared,” she said bluntly. “For years. No word, no letters, nothing. And now you return with him, sweeping into court as if you had never left.”

Daemon smirked at that, but you simply regarded Rhaenyra with a measured gaze.

“I was with my father,” you said simply. “You know how he is.”

Rhaenyra scoffed, glancing toward Daemon. “Oh, I do.”

Daemon merely smirked, unbothered. “And yet you’re still surprised by my sudden return, niece?”

“It’s not just your return,” Rhaenyra shot back, her gaze flickering toward you.

Viserys sighed heavily. “Enough of this. You are family.” He turned to you, his voice softer. “Your absence was felt, Y/N. I am… relieved to have you back at court.”

You inclined your head slightly. “That is kind of you to say, Uncle.”

Alicent sipped her wine, watching the exchange. “There is much speculation about your return, princess,” she said after a moment. “Many are curious as to what has brought you back now.”

Daemon let out a soft laugh. “Oh, I’m sure there’s plenty of speculation.”

Alicent’s gaze flickered toward him, unreadable. “Should there not be?”

Viserys sighed again, his fingers tightening around his goblet. “Must we speak in circles? Daemon has returned, and so has his daughter. That is the end of it.”

Laenor, who had remained silent thus far, finally leaned forward slightly, his expression mild. “Is it, though?”

The table fell quiet for a beat.

You smiled at him, appreciating the unexpected honesty. “A fair question.”

Rhaenyra frowned, still clearly unsettled. “You cannot deny that your arrival has… changed things.”

Daemon smirked. “Good.”

Rhaenyra’s jaw clenched slightly before she turned back to you. “And what is it that you want, cousin?”

You studied her for a moment, considering the weight of the question. The truth was, you had not yet decided. You had returned, yes—but to what end?

For now, you simply smiled, reaching for your goblet.

“I suppose,” you mused, “I’ll just have to see what this court has to offer.”

Daemon chuckled, raising his cup in a silent toast.

Alicent’s gaze remained fixed on you, her expression unreadable.

Viserys exhaled, clearly exhausted by the entire conversation.

And Rhaenyra?

She watched you closely, suspicion and uncertainty warring behind her eyes.

The game had begun in earnest.

Daemon had always been a man who moved in shadows when it suited him, and the corridors of the Red Keep were the perfect hunting grounds. He walked with measured steps, his hands clasped behind his back, the rich black and red of his tunic blending with the dimly lit stone. He was a dragon, but he knew how to be a wolf when needed—silent, patient, watching his prey before striking.

And today, his prey was Jason Lannister.

The golden-haired lord stood near one of the great stone archways that overlooked the sprawling gardens below. He wasn’t trying to hide—no, that wasn’t Jason’s style. He leaned casually against the stone railing, one ankle crossed over the other, an air of confidence about him that was so distinctly Lannister.

But Daemon was not blind to what had drawn the man’s attention.

There, in the royal gardens, you sat among a small gathering of noble ladies. They surrounded you like moths drawn to a flame, their eyes eager, their words undoubtedly laced with thinly veiled flattery. Some sought your favor, others your friendship, and a few, no doubt, merely sought to know you, to see if the woman behind the legend lived up to it.

Jason, however, was not merely watching. He was assessing.

Daemon could see it in the way the Westerlander’s green eyes followed you, the way his gaze lingered a fraction too long when you tilted your head in amusement, the subtle smirk that played at his lips whenever you spoke.

The lion had found something worth hunting.

And Daemon did not like that one bit.

With a slow smirk curling his lips, Daemon stepped forward, breaking the silence. “Enjoying the view, Lannister?”

Jason did not startle—Daemon had expected as much. Instead, the man turned his head slightly, his smirk deepening, as if he had been expecting this confrontation.

“Prince Daemon,” Jason greeted smoothly, inclining his head. “And here I thought you only skulked about in council chambers and feasts. Nice to see you stretching your legs.”

Daemon’s smile sharpened, though there was no warmth in it. “And here I thought lions only prowled in the Westerlands.” His gaze flickered toward you, still deep in conversation with the ladies below. “Yet here you are. Sniffing a little too close around my daughter’s skirts.”

Jason chuckled, low and rich. “A rather crude way of putting it, my prince.” He turned fully toward Daemon now, resting one hand on the hilt of his belt—not in a threat, but in the casual manner of a man who had never felt threatened in his life. “I prefer to call it… appreciation.”

Daemon let out a soft huff of amusement, though there was no humor in his eyes. “Is that what you call it? Standing here, watching her like a lion watching a doe in a meadow?”

Jason tilted his head. “I think you underestimate your daughter, my prince. If she’s anything like you, she’s no helpless creature.”

Daemon’s smirk returned, but this time, there was something colder behind it. “She isn’t.” He took a slow step forward, his voice lowering just slightly. “Which is why she has no need for golden-haired flatterers who think themselves clever.”

Jason met his gaze evenly, utterly unshaken. “Oh, but I am clever, Daemon.”

The use of his name—not his title—was deliberate. A provocation.

Daemon let the silence stretch between them, letting Jason feel the weight of his gaze, the unspoken threat behind it.

But Jason Lannister did not cower.

If anything, the smirk playing at his lips only widened, his green eyes glinting with something dangerously close to amusement.

“I see no harm in a little conversation,” Jason continued, tilting his head toward the gardens. “The princess is an… intriguing woman.”

Daemon let out a slow exhale, stepping even closer, lowering his voice to something almost mockingly conspiratorial. “Let me explain something to you, Lannister,” he murmured, his tone deceptively smooth. “You may think yourself charming, and perhaps in some other world, some lesser court, that might be enough.”

His eyes darkened.

“But if you think for one moment that I will allow my daughter to be toyed with by some lion cub who collects women like trinkets, you are sorely mistaken.”

Jason merely smiled, unconcerned. “A father’s love is admirable.”

Daemon chuckled, slow and dangerous. “No, Jason. A father’s wrath is what you should be worried about.”

Jason exhaled, shaking his head in mock exasperation. “Tell me, my prince,” he mused, “do you think you can dictate who she speaks to forever?”

Daemon’s smirk did not fade. “Not forever. Just long enough to keep men like you from getting ideas.”

Jason laughed then, a rich, genuine sound. “Then you’ll have your work cut out for you, my prince.” He leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice. “Because I already have ideas.”

Daemon’s eyes flickered, something dangerous stirring behind them, but Jason merely inclined his head slightly, stepping back with an easy smile.

“No need to look so murderous,” Jason said lightly. “I like a chaellenge.”

Daemon exhaled through his nose, shaking his head with a low chuckle. “Fool.”

Jason merely grinned. “Perhaps. But fools have all the fun.”

With that, the lion turned, strolling down the corridor with the ease of a man who had not just received a warning from the Rogue Prince himself.

Daemon watched him go, the smirk never quite leaving his face, though his fingers twitched against the hilt of his sword.

Let him play his little game.

Let him think himself untouchable.

He would learn soon enough.

After all… dragons always devoured lions in the end.

The gardens of the Red Keep were bathed in warm afternoon light, the scent of blooming roses and citrus trees lingering in the air. Beneath the shade of an intricately carved pavilion, you sat among a gathering of noble ladies, their soft laughter and gentle conversation weaving through the breeze.

They had flocked to you like doves to a falcon, eager to gain your favor, to see if the princess who had stolen the attention of the court would be generous in her company. Some sought gossip, others whispered of potential alliances, and a few merely basked in the presence of someone whose name already held weight beyond the capital’s walls.

But then he arrived.

Jason Lannister strode toward your gathering with all the self-assurance of a man who had never known rejection. The sun gleamed against his golden hair, and his embroidered doublet—deep crimson with golden lions stitched into the fabric—fit perfectly over his broad frame.

The moment the ladies saw him, the air shifted.

A few of them exchanged delighted glances, some straightened their postures, and one let out a breathy “Lord Jason” as he neared, her voice filled with unbidden admiration.

You, however, remained perfectly still, your expression as smooth as polished Valyrian steel.

Jason, of course, noticed.

His smirk widened as he came to a stop before you, placing a hand over his heart in a dramatic bow. “Princess Y/N,” he drawled, his deep voice laced with amusement. “I was just telling my dear brother that the gardens were lacking something today. Now I see it was you.”

The lady nearest to you blushed furiously, giggling behind her hand.

You tilted your head slightly, unimpressed. “How fortunate, then, that I am here to remedy the tragedy of your afternoon.”

Jason chuckled, unfazed. “Ah, but there is another tragedy yet to be resolved.”

One of the ladies leaned forward slightly, eyes gleaming. “What tragedy is that, my lord?”

Jason exhaled dramatically, shaking his head. “The most grievous of all, my lady—our dear princess is without proper company.”

The ladies gasped softly, glancing between you and Jason with delighted curiosity.

You arched an elegant brow, setting your goblet down with deliberate ease. “Is that so?”

Jason grinned, taking a slow step closer, his green eyes gleaming with mischief. “It pains me to see a woman of your stature surrounded by girls and boys who cannot possibly understand what it means to stand beside someone worthy of you.” His voice dropped slightly, the edge of seduction slipping into it. “A woman like you deserves a man, not a boy playing at courtly games.”

A murmur of scandalized delight spread through the gathered ladies. One of them let out a soft “Oh my”, while another fanned herself subtly.

But you did not blush, nor did you react like the others.

Instead, you regarded him lazily, amusement flickering in your violet eyes.

“Tell me, Lord Jason,” you murmured, voice smooth as silk, “do you know why my she-dragon is called the Nightmare Queen?”

Jason tilted his head slightly, sensing the shift in your tone but clearly intrigued. “I can’t say I do, princess.”

You leaned forward just enough that your voice carried only to him, your lips curving into a slow, knowing smile.

“She has developed a taste,” you whispered, “for man-flesh.”

A few of the ladies nearby gasped softly, their eyes widening in half-fear, half-fascination.

Jason, however, merely let out a rich, unbothered chuckle. “Is that so?” He crossed his arms, tilting his head as if considering your words. “Well, I know nothing of your dragon, but if it is you who wishes to feast…” His smirk deepened, his green eyes dark with meaning. “Then by all means, princess—devour me.”

The ladies gasped again—this time much louder. One of them turned completely red, another let out a nervous giggle, and a third fanned herself more aggressively.

You exhaled a quiet laugh, your gaze never leaving his.

He was bold.

Reckless.

And utterly unashamed.

The perfect opponent.

You let a slow, teasing smile curl your lips. “A tempting offer, my lord.”

Jason leaned in slightly, his voice dropping. “Then I await your bite.”

The ladies nearly swooned.

You tilted your head, your fingers tapping idly against your goblet as you watched him. “Tell me, Lord Jason—are you always so eager to be eaten alive?”

His smirk widened. “Only by creatures worthy of the feast.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “A dangerous philosophy. Some things—once devoured—do not return whole.”

Jason’s eyes gleamed. “Then let me be broken, princess.”

The words hung between you, thick with implication.

And then, just as smoothly as he arrived, Jason stepped back, offering you an easy grin before turning to leave.

The moment he was gone, the ladies exploded into whispers, their faces flushed, their voices breathless.

You, however, merely smirked, lifting your goblet once more.

The lion was playing dangerously close to the dragon’s fire.

And you?

You were enjoying it.

The Red Keep’s high corridors overlooked the gardens below, granting an unobstructed view of the court’s daily affairs. The vantage point was often used for quiet conversations, unseen observations, and, in this case, a thorough study of Jason Lannister’s latest folly.

Tyland stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his green eyes fixed on his brother as he made his grand approach toward the princess and her gathering of ladies. His older twin moved with the confidence of a man who had never lost anything of consequence in his life—grinning, charming, effortlessly arrogant.

Beside him, Lord Jasper Wylde, leaned on the railing, his dark eyes keen as he observed the scene below. Unlike Tyland, who merely watched, Jasper’s expression soured slightly, his lips pursing in disapproval.

“He’s going to ruin himself,” Jasper muttered, shaking his head.

Tyland exhaled through his nose, glancing at the older lord. “You think so?”

Jasper scoffed. “I know so.” He gestured toward Jason with a flick of his fingers. “Your brother does not seem to understand that Lannister pride will only carry him so far. He is playing a dangerous game.”

Tyland said nothing for a moment, his gaze flickering back to where Jason had now inserted himself into the princess’s circle. The ladies swooned at his arrival, their eyes lighting up as if the sun itself had chosen to descend upon them. But the princess?

She was unbothered.

She played along, yes, but there was no true awe in her gaze. No softness. No submission.

Tyland’s fingers curled slightly.

Jasper sighed. “Jason does not seem to realize that this is not some naive Westerlands maiden who will swoon at his every word.” His tone was edged with irritation. “She is a Targaryen. Worse, she is Daemon Targaryen’s daughter.”

Tyland hummed, unimpressed. “Jason enjoys a chaellenge.”

Jasper let out a humorless chuckle. “Then perhaps he should have chosen one that does not come with a dragon attached to it.” He paused before adding dryly, “Or a father who is liable to cut his throat while he sleeps.”

Tyland allowed himself a small smirk at that. “Daemon has likely already issued a warning.”

Jasper exhaled sharply. “And Jason, fool that he is, will ignore it.” He straightened slightly, shaking his head. “Your brother is not thinking, Tyland. And I suspect that you know it.”

Tyland sighed, his hands tightening slightly behind his back. “Jason does what Jason wants.”

“Yes, and what Jason wants is going to alienate his own vassals if he is not careful,” Jasper said pointedly, his tone shifting toward something far more serious.

Tyland turned his head, watching the older lord closely. “Meaning?”

Jasper gave him a knowing look. “This would not be the first time he has set his sights on someone he should not.”

Tyland said nothing.

Jasper let out a slow breath. “He has already delayed a match once before. Lord Westerling’s daughter is still waiting for an answer, and that is only one of several houses he has courted.” His eyes flickered back to the scene below, where Jason was now leaning in dangerously close to the princess. “If he spurns yet another potential marriage for a woman he will never have, he may find that his vassals are far less patient than his pride allows.”

Tyland frowned, considering that. It was true—Jason had entertained matches before, played the game of alliances with practiced ease. But each time, he had drawn it out, lost interest, moved on.

And now, he was fixated.

On a woman who would never belong to him.

Tyland exhaled slowly. “I will speak with him.”

Jasper gave him a skeptical glance. “Will he listen?”

Tyland hesitated before shaking his head slightly. “No.”

Jasper snorted. “Then at least be there to clean up his mess when it all falls apart.”

Tyland’s jaw tightened slightly, his gaze locked onto his brother below. Jason was grinning, utterly unbothered, as he flirted openly with the most dangerous woman in the realm.

Tyland already knew the answer to his own unspoken question.

This would not end well.

Another day had passed in the Red Keep, but you remained at the center of its restless court. The whispers had not faded since your arrival. If anything, they had grown—multiplied in corridors and feast halls, in the idle conversations of lords and ladies who watched, waited, speculated.

Tyland had told himself he was merely observing, as any careful man would. But each time his gaze lingered upon you, each time he found himself noting the way the court moved around you—how men’s eyes followed, how women’s tongues sharpened—he began to wonder if he was watching for reasons he would rather not admit.

And today?

Today, you made it all the more difficult to feign disinterest.

He was walking toward the council chamber when he first spotted you. Fresh off your dragon, dressed for the skies rather than the court.

Your attire was nothing like the soft silks the ladies of court favored. The supple black riding leathers clung to your form, stitched with Valyrian steel-threaded clasps that gleamed against your shoulders. The deep crimson cape you wore—fastened with a dragon-shaped clasp at your throat—shifted with each step, the fabric catching the light like molten fire.

Your silver hair, usually arranged in intricate braids, was looser now, wind-tossed and slightly wild from your flight. There was a flush to your skin, a sharpness in your violet eyes—a woman who had just conquered the skies and returned to the earth only because she had chosen to.

It was no wonder you turned more than a few heads as you strode through the Red Keep’s halls.

Tyland noticed how the lords who lingered in the corridor paused, their conversations faltering as their gazes flickered toward you. Some of them tried to be subtle. Others made no effort at all.

Tyland’s fingers curled at his side.

It was not jealousy.

It was… something else.

And that was what troubled him.

So, without fully thinking, he adjusted his stance, slowed his pace, and intercepted you.

“Princess.”

The single word was smooth, casual, slipping into the space between you before you could vanish around the next corner.

You exhaled softly, as if only slightly exasperated, before turning your gaze upon him.

“Lord Tyland,” you murmured, tilting your head slightly. “You do seem to appear when I least expect it.”

Tyland smirked faintly, though his composure remained as measured as ever. “Perhaps I enjoy catching you off guard.”

You arched a brow. “You and your brother both.”

Tyland’s smirk remained, but there was something sharper in his gaze now. “Ah, but Jason enjoys announcing himself. I prefer… subtlety.”

You let out a quiet hum, studying him. “Is that what this is? Subtlety?”

His gaze flickered briefly—just briefly—over you, taking in the sheen of leather, the way the cape still fluttered slightly from your movements, the lingering scent of dragonfire that clung to you.

Something stirred in his chest.

Something unwanted.

He did not let it show.

Instead, he exhaled slowly, his smirk barely shifting. “It is merely a conversation, princess. Nothing more.”

You smiled then—slow, knowing.

Tyland knew better than to be charmed by it, but gods, you were dangerous when you looked at a man like that.

“A conversation,” you mused, stepping closer, though there was no hesitation in your stride, no shyness in the way you met his gaze. “And what does the second lion wish to discuss today?”

Tyland tilted his head slightly. “You turn quite a few heads, you know.”

Your smirk widened slightly. “And?”

“And,” Tyland continued, keeping his voice light, “I imagine it must be exhausting.”

You laughed then—soft, amused, as if the notion of exhaustion had never once crossed your mind.

“Oh, my lord,” you murmured, voice like smoke and silk, “you have no idea.”

Tyland almost smiled at that. Almost.

You shifted slightly, adjusting the clasp of your cape, though your eyes never left his. “And what of you, Tyland? Have you come to offer me rest?”

Tyland studied you for a moment longer than he should have.

Then, with deliberate slowness, he reached forward, catching a single strand of wind-tossed silver hair between his fingers, tucking it neatly behind your ear before pulling his hand away as if nothing had happened.

He felt you still, just slightly.

His voice was lower now, quieter.

“I imagine a woman like you does not need a man to offer her anything.” He paused, his green eyes glinting. “But I do wonder… if you ever let one try.”

A chaellenge.

A trap.

And the way your lips curved told him you had seen it coming.

You leaned in slightly—not enough to close the space entirely, but just enough that he could feel the faintest brush of your breath as you spoke.

“Careful, Tyland,” you murmured, your tone dangerously smooth. “I am beginning to wonder if you are the Lannister I should be watching.”

Tyland smirked, stepping back with an easy grace, his expression unreadable.

“Perhaps,” he said simply.

And then, just as casually as he had approached, he inclined his head and walked away—leaving you standing alone in the corridor, the scent of dragonfire still lingering between you.

His heart was beating faster than he would have liked.

But if you had noticed?

You did not let him see it.

The Lannister quarters within the Red Keep were as grand as one might expect for the wealthiest house in Westeros. The golden lions of Casterly Rock adorned the walls, rich tapestries woven with crimson and gold draped elegantly, and the scent of fine Arbor wine lingered in the air, mixing with the occasional trace of scented candles and spiced meats.

Tyland had barely stepped inside before he heard Jason’s voice—loud, confident, boasting.

“I swear, the princess is fire wrapped in silk,” Jason declared, leaning back into his chair, a goblet of wine in hand, his smirk practically carved into his face. “It would take a true man to handle her properly. Someone who knows how to tame a creature like that.”

A ripple of laughter went through the gathered Lannister men. Their cousins, uncles, and bannermen had all found their places around the chamber, indulging in drink and conversation after the long day. Some were amused by Jason’s boldness, others envious, but all were intrigued by the subject of his attentions.

Lord Alton Lannister chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re playing with fire, cousin. The king will make a match for her soon enough. I doubt he’d consider a lion worthy of his dragon-blooded niece.”

Jason exhaled, waving a hand dismissively. “Then he is a fool. And what is the alternative? Some dull, proper lordling with no idea what to do with a woman like that? No, no—I see her for what she is. She is meant to be worshiped.” He took a sip of his wine before adding with a wicked grin, “And I would gladly kneel at her altar.”

Another round of knowing laughter erupted, but Tyland merely exhaled, pressing his fingers to his brow before striding further into the room.

“You sound like an idiot,” he announced dryly, drawing the attention of the room.

Jason, far from offended, merely grinned. “Ah, but an idiot who enjoys himself.” He gestured toward the goblets of wine on the nearby table. “Come, brother, you look like you need a drink.”

Tyland ignored the offer, fixing Jason with a pointed look. “Do you have any idea what you are saying?”

Jason smirked. “Oh, I have many ideas, brother.” He leaned forward slightly, his green eyes glinting. “Some more improper than others.”

More laughter.

Tyland clenched his jaw, but Jason wasn’t finished.

“She has spirit, Tyland,” Jason continued, clearly enjoying himself. “A woman like that doesn’t just lie back and take whatever a man gives her—no, no. She expects to be challenged. Pushed.” He exhaled, shaking his head as if lost in some delicious thought. “And gods, if she ever lets me into her bed, I would make sure she—”

Tyland’s patience snapped.

“Enough,” he said suddenly, his voice cutting through the laughter.

The room stilled, eyes flickering between the two brothers, sensing the tension shift.

Jason blinked, then tilted his head, amusement still dancing in his expression. “What’s this?” he mused. “My little brother has grown protective?”

Tyland exhaled through his nose, forcing his voice to remain steady. “I am merely warning you, Jason. You talk like a man who believes he is owed something. She is not one of your playthings from the Westerlands.”

Jason’s grin widened. “Of course not. She’s far more entertaining.”

Tyland’s jaw clenched. “And what happens when she tires of your entertainment?”

Jason chuckled, clearly unfazed. “Then I will simply enjoy the time she grants me.” He took another sip of his wine before adding, “And if I play my cards right, perhaps I’ll teach her a few things too.”

Tyland’s grip on his belt tightened, his nails pressing into the leather.

Jason’s gaze flickered over him, and for the first time that night, something shifted in his expression.

He studied Tyland.

Then, slowly, his smirk returned, but there was something different behind it.

His voice lowered slightly. “Or perhaps… you’re upset because you wish to be the one to teach her.”

Tyland’s breath stilled.

A few of the men exchanged glances, sensing something beneath the surface, something that had not been spoken but had been felt.

Jason leaned back, sipping his wine leisurely, his grin never fading. “Tell me, brother,” he murmured, “did you happen to see the princess today?”

Tyland’s stomach tightened.

He did not answer.

Jason hummed, watching him closely. “Because I did not. And yet, I have the strangest feeling that you did.”

Tyland met his brother’s gaze steadily, his face a mask of calm.

Jason smirked, as if that was all the answer he needed.

Then, with a soft chuckle, he took another sip of wine.

“Well, well,” he mused. “Perhaps this game is more interesting than I thought.”

Tyland said nothing.

But for the first time, he realized Jason wasn’t just playing anymore.

He was watching.

And worse?

He had seen something Tyland didn’t want him to see.

The air in the royal stables was thick with the scent of hay, leather, and the lingering musk of horses. The late morning sun streamed through the high, open doors, casting long shadows over the stalls where the finest steeds of the Red Keep were tended to.

You stood near the wooden railing, clad in riding leathers, the supple material molding to your form, emphasizing every sharp and soft line. Your gloves were tucked into your belt, your hair loosely braided, the strands still touched by the wind.

You had sent for your horse to be prepared. You intended to ride through the streets of King’s Landing, to the Dragonpit, where the keepers awaited.

But you were not alone.

You felt his presence before he even spoke.

Jason Lannister was a bold man, but he was not subtle—not in his approach, nor in his intentions.

“I had a feeling I’d find you here,” his voice came from behind you, smooth as Arbor wine, rich with amusement.

You sighed, turning slightly, your lips curving into a slow, mocking smile. “Lord Jason, do you make it a habit to stalk women who do not require your presence?”

Jason smirked, stepping further inside, the dusting of hay barely crunching beneath his boots. “Stalking implies secrecy. I am merely pursuing—there’s a difference.”

You turned fully now, your arms crossing as you regarded him lazily. “Is that what this is? A pursuit?”

Jason’s green eyes gleamed, his gaze flickering over you—not with the admiration of a courtly knight, but with something darker, something hungry.

“Does it not amuse you, princess?” he murmured, stepping closer. “The way we circle each other? The way you let me test your patience, and yet—” His smirk deepened, his voice dropping slightly. “You never truly stop me.”

You exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking your head slightly. “Oh, Jason,” you murmured, “do you think this is your game?”

Before he could answer, you stepped forward, closing the space between you, just enough that he could smell the faint trace of dragonfire and salt that always lingered on your skin from the skies.

Jason’s smirk faltered for the briefest moment, just enough for you to see that flicker of something unsure beneath his confidence.

And then, with deliberate ease, he moved—fast.

His hands found your waist first, then your hips, and with one deliberate movement, he turned you, pressing you firmly against the wooden wall of the stable.

Your breath did not hitch.

Your pulse did not stutter.

You merely smiled.

Jason was so close now that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your jaw, the scent of wine and spice clinging to him. His hands, broad and calloused from swordplay, slid upward, grazing over your waist, tracing the curve of your ribs, before settling—one at your throat, the other at your breast.

He exhaled through his nose, his grip firm, his thumb brushing over the swell of you as he dipped his head, pressing his lips to your jaw.

Your smirk did not fade.

“You’re awfully quiet now, lion,” you murmured, tilting your head slightly, granting him more access, feeling the way his grip tightened at your compliance.

Jason chuckled, but it was strained, his voice lower now, thicker.

“You play with fire, princess,” he muttered, his lips trailing from your jaw to the sensitive spot just below your ear. His hand shifted, gliding lower, past your breast, down, down—until he was cupping the heat between your thighs, his fingers pressing, testing.

For the first time, he felt it.

The slight twitch in your breath.

The way your muscles tensed—just for a fraction of a second, just enough that he knew you were not entirely unaffected.

Jason smirked against your skin. “Oh?” he hummed, his fingers pressing more firmly, parting the leather just enough to tease. “Is that a reaction, princess?”

You exhaled slowly, your hands finally moving—one lifting to grasp his wrist, your nails digging in just enough to make him hiss slightly.

Your lips curved.

“There is no victory in making a woman allow something she has already decided to permit,” you murmured. “You mistake this for power, Jason.”

Your fingers tightened around his wrist, just enough to remind him that you were letting him have this—letting him touch, letting him take—but at any moment, you could end it.

Jason inhaled sharply, his pulse thundering beneath your fingertips.

And then—

“Oh—! Oh, gods—my lords!”

The voice startled neither of you.

A stablehand, young, wide-eyed, horrified, stood frozen just a few feet away, his arms still half-lifted as if he had been coming to bow but had suddenly been struck speechless.

Jason huffed a laugh, completely unbothered, not even pulling away immediately, though his grip did loosen slightly against your thighs.

You, too, did not flinch.

You merely straightened slightly, shifting just enough that Jason had no choice but to release you.

“Stableboy,” you said smoothly, as if you had been merely discussing the weather, “is my horse prepared?”

The boy stammered, his face beet-red, his hands trembling slightly. “Y-Yes, princess!”

Jason grinned, exhaling deeply before finally pulling back, though his fingers trailed down your arm in the process, as if reluctant to let go.

“Well,” he murmured, brushing off the front of his tunic, his arousal still evident, “I do believe you’re needed elsewhere, princess.”

You smiled, adjusting the collar of your riding leathers with deliberate ease, as if his hands had never once touched you.

“Yes,” you mused, tilting your head. “It seems I am.”

And with that, you turned, stepping past Jason without another word, your footsteps unhurried, your poise immaculate, leaving him standing in the dust and hay with a wicked smirk still plastered to his face.

He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his golden hair.

Then, with a chuckle, he muttered to himself,

“Gods help me, but I do love a slow death.”

...

The air in the Dragonpit was thick with the scent of sulfur, old stone, and fire. The great domed structure loomed over you as you approached, its towering walls cracked with the scars of centuries, the weight of history and power pressing upon the bones of the ruined cathedral.

The Dragonkeepers awaited inside, clad in their dark robes, their staffs resting against their palms as they stood in silent reverence. They had long grown accustomed to your presence, but still, they moved carefully, their gazes flickering toward the great beast that lay within the shadows of the pit.

Haelle.

Your Nightmare Queen.

A dragon of menace and shadow, a creature sculpted from the depths of Valyrian nightmares, her black scales gleamed with an eerie sheen, the deep onyx ridges edged with molten gold that shimmered like burning embers. The horns that crowned her skull twisted in wicked arcs, jagged and menacing, gilded in gold that caught the light when she moved.

Her eyes, the color of molten metal, narrowed as she watched you enter, their predatory gleam assessing—not out of distrust, but because Haelle trusted no one easily, not even her own rider.

Her wings, vast and leathery, were stretched halfway open, the golden membrane within them rippling like liquid fire. The ridges of her spine—jagged, serrated, built for tearing through flesh—rose and fell as she shifted, her powerful tail coiling around the base of the pit, tipped with a spined club that had shattered bones of both beast and man alike.

She was ferocity made flesh, a dragon that rivaled even Caraxes in wrath, and where Daemon’s Blood Wyrm was lean and serpentine, Haelle was monstrous, built thick with muscle, a creature of raw force, forged for devastation.

The Dragonkeepers remained still, their gazes downturned, their hands steady, though you did not miss the faint tremor of respectful fear. Haelle was not a dragon who could be commanded—she allowed herself to be followed. She was your dragon, and your dragon alone.

You approached with measured ease, the remnants of your earlier encounter with Jason still humming in your skin. There was no fluster in you, no unsettled breath—only the quiet thrill of knowing you held the reins in the game being played.

Jason was a lion, arrogant and reckless, but predictable.

And Tyland?

Tyland was a far more interesting beast—one who stalked rather than chased, who measured his movements carefully, who watched with more intensity than he would ever admit.

But no matter how different they were, they shared one truth.

They were both watching you.

Haelle let out a low, rumbling exhale, the sound reverberating through the pit like rolling thunder.

You smiled, reaching out as your fingers brushed against the warm scales of her snout.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” you murmured.

The dragon’s breath came hot against your skin, her forked tongue flickering for just a moment before she huffed, shifting her massive frame. Her claws, each the size of a man’s forearm, curled against the stone, the scrape echoing in the vastness of the Dragonpit.

One of the Dragonkeepers, an older man with deep-lined skin and Valyrian silver hair, cleared his throat softly.

“She is restless today, princess,” he noted carefully.

You glanced back at him, amused. “She is always restless.”

Another rumble, this time more like distant thunder, as Haelle’s tail lashed once, striking the ground with a force that made the very stones shudder. The keepers did not flinch, but you could feel the unease in them.

You chuckled, turning back to your dragon. “Men,” you whispered to her. “They truly do not understand us.”

Haelle let out something akin to a huff, though you could have sworn there was something smug in it.

Yes.

She felt it too.

The game was only just beginning.

And you were already in control.

[thebigbadbatswife]

Kinktober 2023 Masterlist

Welcome to my Kinktober 2023 masterlist! Beneath the read more you find the list of days/prompts and, as the month progress, I'll add links to its respective day. Happy reading and hope you enjoy! Obviously as this is kinktober ALL fics are 18+ only, please respect that!

Day 1 - Pegging (Bruce Wayne x F!Reader)

Day 2/4 - Titfucking & Prostitution (Daemon Targaryen x F!Reader)

Day 3 - Hate Sex (Arkham Knight!Jason Todd x F!Vigilante!Reader)

Day 7 - Virginity (Knight!Bruce Wayne x F!Reader)

Day 10 - Praise Kink (Oliver Queen x F!Reader)

Day 12 - Somnophillia (Bruce Wayne x F!Reader)

Day 13 - Size Difference (Jason Todd x F!Thief!Reader)

Day 16 - Double Penetration In One Hole (Bruce Wayne x Oliver Queen x F!Reader)

Day 19 - Exhibitionism & Voyerism (Diana of Themyscira x F!Reader)

Day 24 - Sex Toys (Bruce Wayne x F!Reader)

Day 26 - Masturbation (Bruce Wayne x F!Reader)

Day 27 - Double Penetration In Two Holes (Bruce Wayne x Selina Kyle x F!Reader)

Day 28 - Body Worship (Bruce Wayne x F!Reader)