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idkyetxoxo · 29 days ago

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Cregan Stark - Everyday

Summary - Cregan Stark is the embodiment of power and untamed beauty, a man who commands attention. His wife finds herself utterly consumed by his presence, unable to resist the magnetic pull of her fierce husband. In his arms, restraint is not an option—only surrender.

Pairing - Cregan Stark x reader

Warnings - Sexual content (smut!!)

Word count - 2781

Masterlist for Cregan • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

Anytime I'm alone, I can't help thinking about you. All I want, all I need, honestly, it's just me and you.

My husband is nothing short of a force of nature—a man who commands attention with every step he takes.

I count myself among the fortunate few, graced by a marriage that most maidens can only dream of.

The stars had aligned for me, for I had found my match in a man of extraordinary strength and heart.

Cregan Stark—he was no mere man. He was a vision of raw power and untamed beauty.

His presence alone could steal the breath from your lungs. Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark eyes that seemed to hold the weight of the world, he was everything I had ever desired and more.

A fierce warrior, a devoted lord, and a husband who made my heart race with a single glance.

One morning, as I strolled lazily through the snow-dusted courtyard of Winterfell, I was interrupted by a sight that made my pulse quicken.

There, in the far corner of the yard, was my husband—shirtless, a rarity in this bitter cold.

I stopped dead in my tracks, mesmerized. His muscular frame glistened with beads of sweat, his movements powerful and controlled as he chopped wood with effortless precision.

I watched, captivated, my heart thudding in my chest. The sight of him, so commanding and yet so intimate in his labour, was nothing short of intoxicating.

The snowflakes that fell around us seemed to pause, the whole world holding its breath as I admired the magnificent man before me.

Unable to tear my eyes away, I took a step forward, crossing my arms over my chest as I bit my lip, trying to reign in the desire that surged within me.

"Dear husband?" I called, my voice barely above a whisper, a playful edge to it.

He paused mid-swing, his piercing gaze locking onto mine. A slow, confident smile spread across his face, the kind of smile that could melt stone.

His broad chest expanded as he took a breath, his muscles flexing as he leaned casually on the massive axe he held, as if the task at hand were no challenge at all.

"Yes, my love?" he asked, his voice rich with warmth, the corners of his mouth still tugging upward.

I couldn't hide the way my eyes wandered, tracing the outline of his chest, the faint glisten of sweat on his skin, the strength in his arms that could easily break wood—or any obstacle that came between him and those he loved.

"Why have you taken up such a task yourself?" I asked though I knew full well the answer was likely less about necessity and more about the sheer force of his will.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead with one hand, still holding the axe in the other, and shrugged nonchalantly.

"A mere distraction, my sweet," he replied with a gleam in his eye, effortlessly splitting a log in half, the wood yielding to his strength as if it were nothing more than kindling.

"A distraction?" I teased, unable to suppress the playful glint in my eyes. "Or an opportunity to look so... ravishing?" The words slipped from my lips before I could stop them, and I felt the heat of my own words burn in my cheeks.

His brows arched in that way of his, the one that told me he was intrigued—and perhaps a little pleased with my flattery.

He tilted his head slightly, studying me with that same intensity that made me feel like the only woman in the world.

"Ah, you flatter me, my love," he said, his smile deepening as he set the axe down, clearly aware of the effect he had on me.

And I, utterly lost in him, couldn't help but relish the feeling of being so completely captivated by the man I had married.

The evening had descended upon Winterfell, cloaking the castle in a deep, silvery night. A chill had taken hold of the air, but inside the great hall, the fire burned bright and warm.

The room had been filled with lords and advisors, their voices heavy with matters of war and strategy.

Yet, amid the debates and discussions, there was only one man who commanded the room without ever raising his voice: Cregan Stark.

My husband stood at the head of the table, the very embodiment of authority and strength. His posture was straight, his presence magnetic.

Every lord, every noble in that room, hung on his every word. Cregan's dark eyes flickered with a sharpness that cut through the noise, and when he spoke, his voice was like the rumble of thunder—low, powerful, and impossible to ignore.

He was the Lord of Winterfell, and every inch of him bore the weight of that title with ease. There was no hesitation, no uncertainty in his command. His power was undeniable.

I watched him from the far side of the room, mesmerized by how effortlessly he dominated the space, how easily he commanded respect. His every movement was deliberate, his every glance a reminder of the fire and resolve that burned within him.

His presence radiated strength, and in that moment, I was overwhelmed by the sheer force of his masculinity. He was magnificent, fierce, ravishing, and yet entirely at ease with himself.

When the last of the lords had filed out of the room, their steps echoing off the stone walls, I found myself unable to tear my eyes away from him.

He stood still at the head of the table, his broad shoulders squared, his posture as proud and powerful as a wolf in the wild.

The way he stood, so effortlessly commanding and unyielding, made my heart race.

As the heavy wooden doors creaked closed behind the last of the lords, I knew it was my moment. I crossed the room quickly, my footsteps light, almost hurried, as if I couldn't wait another moment.

Reaching the door, I locked it with a soft click, my pulse quickening as I turned to face him.

Cregan was already looking at me, his brow slightly furrowed in a question. He hadn't moved from his spot, his gaze steady, but there was a flicker of curiosity in those dark eyes.

His expression was unreadable as if he were waiting for me to make the next move.

I stood there for a heartbeat, the air between us thick with unspoken words. I could feel the heat of the fire on my back, but all I could see was him—my fierce, beautiful husband.

He was still dressed in his dark furs, the black of his cloak flowing over his broad shoulders, his chest rising and falling with the steady rhythm of his breath.

He was the very image of strength, of power, and of a man who had conquered not just lands, but hearts—mine included.

I swallowed my voice barely a whisper in the stillness of the room. "Cregan..." His name fell from my lips like a prayer, as if it held all the reverence and awe I felt for him.

His lips curled into that familiar, knowing smile—the smile that told me he knew exactly what I was thinking. The smile that made my heart skip a beat.

"You seem... eager, my love," he remarked, his deep voice low and almost teasing.

I couldn't help but laugh softly, but it was a sound filled with longing, a sound that came from somewhere deep within. I took a step toward him, my eyes never leaving his.

"How could I not be?" I replied, my voice thick with desire, my chest tightening with the magnetic pull he always had over me.

"After watching you command a room full of lords, so fierce and so...ravishing." I paused, the words tasting sweet on my tongue, and then added, "You are something else entirely, Cregan Stark."

He chuckled a low sound that reverberated through me, making my knees feel weak. His gaze softened just a fraction, though the power he exuded never wavered.

"Is that so?" he asked, taking a slow step toward me, the power of his presence like a wave crashing over me.

My breath hitched in my chest as I felt the distance between us close. I could see the glint of amusement in his eyes, but there was something more—a deep, smouldering heat that burned just beneath the surface.

He was just as affected by this moment as I was, even if he tried to hide it.

By the time he reached me, my knees felt like they might give way, and still, he hadn't touched me. I ached for it, for him.

I reached out, my fingers brushing the furs of his cloak, feeling the strength of him beneath my touch.

"You've made me lose all sense of restraint," I whispered, my voice barely audible, yet laden with yearning. I took another step toward him, and now there was no space left between us.

And then, there was no distance left—my body was pressed up against his, my skin alight with the feel of him.

His heat seared through the layers between us, and I wanted to strip them all away, feel the raw intensity of him against me, inside me.

Cregan's eyes darkened, and for a moment, I could see the battle in him—between the man of duty and the man who was all mine.

But before I could speak, before I could beg for more, he moved, his hand gently cupping my face as he leaned down, brushing his lips against mine.

The kiss was slow, deliberate, and impossibly deep. It spoke of everything we'd kept buried, of the wild, untamed hunger that had been simmering between us all along.

In that moment, I knew. There was no resisting him. Not now, not ever.

This man—this fierce, ravishing, untamable force of nature—had consumed me. He had captured my heart, my body, and my soul.

And I would let him take it all.

"I need you," I murmured against his lips, already tearing away the layers of fabric between us, my hands shaking with the desperation that had been building all day. "I need you so bad."

His voice was a dark rasp when he finally responded, the words sending a shiver of anticipation down my spine. "Well, my sweet, I'm in no position to deny you."

In one swift motion, he lifted me effortlessly, his strength making my breath catch in my throat.

He laid me across the dark wood of the table behind us, his eyes locked onto mine, filled with a possessiveness that made my pulse race. "Not now. Not ever."

"Good," I gasped, my chest rising and falling with every breath as he began to kiss his way down my body, his mouth leaving fire in its wake.

My hands roamed over his torso, seeking the hard, aching length of him. When I found it, I stroked him slowly, the sensation sending a soft moan from his lips that echoed in my very soul.

"Please," I whimpered, my voice trembling with need, my eyes never leaving his as I begged for more.

He nodded, his breath shallow, his expression a mixture of control and the primal need that mirrored my own.

He positioned himself at my entrance, and the moment he entered me, I felt it—a flood of satisfaction, of relief, of pure, unadulterated pleasure that washed through every fibre of my being.

The rhythm he set was savage, the power of his thrusts unrelenting. Each movement was a slow burn of bliss, a relentless pleasure that stole my breath, that made me ache for more.

The way he filled me, the way he moved in and out of me with such force, was nothing short of divine.

Loud moans tumbled from my lips as his hips slammed against mine, filling me completely before pulling out entirely, only to do it all over again.

Each thrust, each pulse, was pure ecstasy. I felt as though I was floating, lost in the waves of sensation, consumed by him.

Tears gathered in the corners of my eyes, the pleasure so intense it threatened to overtake me. He saw them, his gaze softening just for a moment before he spoke, his voice low, rough with need.

"Am I hurting you, or can you take it like that, love?" His words were like fire, fanning the flames that already raged inside me.

I nodded quickly, unable to trust my voice, unable to do anything but surrender.

"Please," I finally managed, the word barely a whisper as I clung to him. "Don't stop."

And he didn't.

The world around me seemed to fade away as he continued to move inside me, each stroke sending shocks of pleasure through my entire body until everything blurred into one overwhelming, scorching sensation.

My legs trembled beneath me, unable to keep steady, and I gripped the edge of the table for support, but there was no escape from him, from the power he wielded over me.

He was unrelenting, his thrusts precise, building me higher and higher, teasing me with the promise of something even more.

Each time he withdrew, I felt a pang of longing, a desperate need to feel him deep inside me again, to be filled, consumed. But then he would return to me, faster, harder, taking me to places I didn't even know existed.

My body was on fire, wracked with pleasure, each motion of his hips drawing me closer to the edge.

"Don't hold back, love," he whispered, his voice dark with desire, pulling me closer, his hand sliding between us to trace delicate circles over my swollen, aching clit.

The sensation sent a jolt of electricity through me, and I couldn't hold back the desperate moan that escaped my lips.

"Please, please..." I whimpered, my mind lost in the haze of sensation, my body trembling violently.

"Let go, my sweet," he growled, his own breath ragged as he felt the change in me, as I began to unravel under his touch. "I've got you."

And then, just as I thought I might shatter into a million pieces, he pushed me over the edge. A wave of pure, unadulterated bliss crashed through me, my back arching violently as the pleasure consumed every inch of me.

My body trembled uncontrollably, my legs spasming, my entire being lit up in a way I had never known.

I couldn't stop the cries that spilt from my lips as the climax ripped through me, leaving me breathless, every muscle in my body twitching as the world spun around me.

His name fell from my mouth in a breathless whisper, my body shaking beneath his touch, consumed by a heat that left me utterly undone.

He didn't stop, didn't give me a moment to recover before he was right there with me again, pushing me further, making me feel things I could hardly comprehend.

I was dizzy, disoriented, and yet he made me crave more, made me beg for everything he had to give.

When I finally came down from the dizzying high, my body still trembling, I felt like I couldn't stand.

My legs were weak, shaking beneath me, and I knew there was no way I could move without him. His arms wrapped around me, lifting me gently, as if I were something fragile, something precious, and it only made me feel even more vulnerable, more exposed, more entirely his.

He held me as though I were the only thing that mattered, his touch softening, but the heat in his gaze never wavered.

I was overwhelmed by the intensity of what had just happened, and in that moment, I was completely, utterly grateful.

Grateful that someone like him—someone so beautifully, exquisitely perfect—was mine.

I leaned against him, unable to steady myself, my heart still racing. He kissed my forehead tenderly, his lips warm against my skin.

"You are incredible," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "So beautiful."

I looked up at him, my chest full of wonder, and I felt a soft smile tug at my lips. I couldn't even find the words to express how I felt—how overwhelmingly, impossibly thankful I was for this.

For him. That he, the man who had taken me to the heights of pleasure, who had made me feel more alive than I ever had before, was here with me.

"You're everything," I whispered, my voice trembling with the weight of everything I couldn't say.

And in that moment, I knew I would give him every part of me—my heart, my body, my soul—because he had already taken me beyond anything I could ever have dreamed of.

And he wasn't stopping. Neither was I.

He giving me that good shit that make me not quit, that good shit. Oh, he give it to me, everyday, everyday, everyday.

A/n - This is lowkey feral but like the song—the concept—it's too perfect...the minute the idea formed in my head I basc dropped EVERYTHING to write this so yw xx

Cregan tag list - @veesuguru

#house of the dragon #house targaryen #hotd #hotd x reader #house of the dragon x reader #hotd one shot #hotd season 2 #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd fanfic #hotd s2 #team black #cregan stark #cregan x reader #cregan stark x reader #cregan fanfiction #lord cregan stark #hotd cregan #house stark #cregan x you

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spider-stark · 11 months ago

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PRECIPICE

Aegon II Targaryen x Sister!Reader

Summary - Forced to attend a stuffy ball, you find yourself hiding beneath a table with Aegon.

Warnings - implied targcest as always

Word Count - 4.5k

// masterlist // send me your thoughts //

The delicious aroma of roast mutton is wafting over you as you pass one of the many long serving tables lining the walls of the ballroom. Your gaze drags along the vast spread that has been prepared for tonight; a variety of artisan breads, cooked meats, and candied desserts are laid out upon silver serving dishes.

As you reach the end of the first table, a pile of lemon cakes snag your attention. Neatly stacked atop an ornate porcelain platter, the cakes are coated in a thin glaze that shimmers in the light. Your mouth instantly begins watering at the sight, your stomach growling in a way that would be deemed improper for a Lady.

Beside you, holding a plate that has been loaded with mashed potatoes and honeyed chicken, Jace turns his head to cock a brow at you.

“Hungry?” He asks, chuckling softly.

You suck in a deep breath before forcefully tearing your gaze from the cakes. “Extremely.”

It takes an enormous amount of will power to turn away from the serving table while still empty-handed, but you somehow manage to do just that. Having hardly even walked a few steps, though, Jace is abandoning his plate to rush after you, softly seizing your wrist to keep you from moving any further.

“If you’re hungry, then you should eat.”

His concern is obvious, not only through his tone, but his expression as well. With his furrowed brow and tight-mouthed frown, you’re fairly certain that he’s already considering the consequences of dragging you back to the table and feeding you himself if need be.

Jace had always been that way—not only with you, but with everyone. He was kind hearted and considerate to fault.

“I would,” you smile, shaking your head slightly to dismiss his concern, “but I’m afraid that if I do, I might very well pop right on out of this ridiculously tight corset.”

You wave an idle hand down to your waist, unnaturally cinched by the intricate lacing and boning of the garment beneath your evergreen gown. His eyes follow the motion, tracing along the intense curve, lingering for a moment too long.

The explanation seems to wash away much of his concern, relieved to know that discomfort was the only reason you had chosen to abstain from the treats being served. Even so, a touch of empathy remains, accompanied by the faintest hint of desire gleaming in his amber gaze.

Amber—an unusual color for a boy of Velaryon blood. His eyes were one of the many reasons that your mother, the Queen Alicent, felt so confident in labeling Princess Rhaenyra’s boys as bastards behind closed doors. And, if you were being honest with yourself, you knew that there was likely truth to her claims. Your nephews probably were bastards—but you didn’t particularly care.

Jace was nice to you, and that was all that had ever mattered to you.

He clears his throat, realizing that he had been gawking at your body for far longer than he should. “It looks uncomfortable,” the words spill out without permission, and you nearly laugh when his eyes go wide. “That didn’t come out right, nothing about it actually looks uncomfortable—it looks stunning! I mean, you look stunning! It’s just that, I don’t know, I imagine that having something squeeze you so tightly might be-”

“Jace, it’s okay! Truly,” you interrupt his rambling with a soft giggle. “You should know that I’m not so easily offended,” you playfully chide. “Besides, you’re right. It is quite uncomfortable!”

Actually, quite felt like an enormous understatement. But you didn’t figure that Jace was particularly interested in hearing about how your breasts were aching from being roughly shoved up by the tight garment.

Jace looses a breath, his shoulders sagging in relief. “Then why bother wearing them? Many noble-women go without corsets. Even my mother hardly ever wears one—she believes they’re vile things that only aid in the objectification of ladies.”

Your brows rise, agreeing with the claims of your half-sister. But then you let your attention shift to the dais, meeting the rough stare of the reason why you had been forced into the tortuous garb—your mother.

She’s already watching you when you meet her eye, her lip curled as she sends you a pointed look, silently urging you away from your nephew. It takes a great deal of effort not to shrink beneath the weight of her attention, and you’re beyond grateful for the group of women who shuffle past you towards the dance floor, giving you an excuse to break the hold she has on you.

“I wear it because my mother wishes for all of her children to look their best,” you answer, shifting your focus back onto Jace. “And who am I to disappoint the Queen?”

He notes the sudden callousness of your tone, as well as the way you clasp your hands together at your waist, fidgeting with the golden ring on your index finger. He doesn’t bother asking if you’re okay, however, knowing well enough that you were not—and already knowing why, as well.

You imagine that Jace doesn’t much like your mother; both for her part in the rumors spread about him and his brothers and for the way she has treated his mother.

It makes you upset in a strange way, a part of you always wishing to defend the Queen, no matter how abhorrent her actions. After all, she was your mother—whether you like it or not—and you knew very well that if someone were to try to hurt you or your siblings, then she would gladly lay her life on the line for you.

You were thankful for her; even if her protection hurt, even if her maternal love only exists when your life is at stake.

“Speaking of your siblings,” Jace suddenly notes, veering slightly off-subject as his own stare drifts towards the dais, “how did Aegon manage to weasel his way out of attending tonight?”

Your brows snap together before letting your head snap back towards the dais, managing to avoid your mother’s nasty stare this time by looking to her right, taking note of each of your siblings.

Aemond is sat directly by her side, his posture rigid as his eye scans across the room, alert and on-guard as usual. Next to him is Helaena, leisurely picking at her plate of food and mindlessly bobbing her head along to the symphony being played for court musicians. Daeron, who your mother insisted fly Tessarion here from Oldtown so that he might be present for tonight, is sat next to your empty chair, making idle chatter with those around him.

But Aegon’s chair, sat between yours and Helaena’s, is vacant.

A knot forms in your stomach when you look back at Aemond, his piercing violet eye catching yours, gleaming with a silent order—find our imbecile brother before he makes a fool of us all.

You give him a curt nod before looking away, head whirling as you begin searching the crowd around you for any sign of your eldest brother.

“Simple,” you huff, “he didn’t.”

Jace hums his understanding as you politely excuse yourself, turning away from him to begin shoving through the throng of people filling the room.

You decline invitations to dance and spout excuses as to why you can’t stop to chat as you push past noblemen-and-women from various Houses, trying to maintain the pleasant persona your mother favored while still moving fast enough that you might find Aegon before he finds any new ways to publicly bring shame upon the Targaryen name.

It’s exhausting work—and by the time you have shoved yourself to the other end of the room without finding him, you nearly consider giving up. Your chest hurts and your scalp is itching from being poked and prodded by a dozen or so pins, all of which had been meticulously placed by servants to arrange plaits into a fanciful half-updo.

In many ways, you look like your mother; with your elaborate hairstyle and green dress, the look is tied together by a pendant of the Seven-Pointed Star dangling from your neck.

And, in many ways, you hate it.

Much to the Queen’s dismay, you’ve never much liked the elegant styles preferred by many women at court. No, instead you spent much of your time donning mail with your hair lazily pulled back, joining Aemond for practice in the training yard.

She hated how unrefined you were, how indelicate you were; fearful for how others at court might view you for it, for how much attention you might draw to yourself.

You blow out a sigh, resisting the urge to pull all of the pins from your hair as you will yourself to keep walking, to keep looking for Aegon. A table overflowing with carafes of arbor wine and flagons of ale catches your attention, setting off alarm bells in your mind.

If Aegon were going to choose anywhere to hide at this godsforsaken ball, then it would certainly be in close proximity to the alcohol.

A cacophony of laughter and clinking goblets surrounds you as you approach, scanning over rows of bottles and skimming the faces of those nearby. Spinning your ring on your finger, you walk along the entire length of the long serving table, disappointed when you reach the end of it and find that your brother is still nowhere in sight.

Chewing on your cheek, you fight the urge to pour yourself a drink when you notice a carafe of blackberry wine. The plum colored liquid seems to call your name, singing promises of sweet oblivion, an escape from the restless feeling clawing at your chest.

You’re out of place here in court, and you always have been—you know that, and you worry that everyone around you knows, too.

Sensical enough to recognize that alcohol would likely just exacerbate your current ill-feelings, you shun the carafe and turn towards the grand entrance. Lifting your chin and squaring your shoulders, you try to appear more composed than you feel as you saunter towards the large wooden doors.

If Aegon had snuck off with one of the serving girls, then there was a good chance that he was still somewhere in the hall, either flirting or feeling up their skirts. And, if you were wrong, then at least he had provided you with an excuse to slip away from this mess of a ball.

As you pass by the last serving table, the platters and dishes atop it already thoroughly picked over, you feel someone tug at your dress. You whirl around, a fiery retort already falling off your tongue, fully intending to rip into whoever had found the audacity to touch you without permission—only to find yourself insulting the air.

There was no one there, at least not close enough to have touched you.

For a heartbeat you begin to reel, wondering if you’ve started to lose your mind before feeling the sensation again. A sharp tug at the fabric, just by your knee. Your head snaps down towards your dress, covering your mouth before a gasp can slip your lips.

An arm is peeking out from beneath one of the finely embellished tablecloths, and a well-groomed hand is clutching your skirts. You instantly recognize the hand as Aegon’s, having become intimately familiar with your brother’s touch throughout your life.

Taking a step closer to the covered table, you try to look natural as you hunch over it slightly to get closer to his level, feigning an interest in a half-eaten roast duck.

“What in the Seven Hells are you doing, Aegon?!” Your voice is hushed, not quite a whisper, but low enough so that no one other than him might hear.

Releasing his hold on your skirts, Aegon lifts the tablecloth a little higher, revealing his face. “Get under here,” he tilts his head, motioning for you to join him beneath the table.

“No!”

He swiftly presses a finger to his lips in response to your incredulous shout, shushing you. You stiffen, nervously flicking your eyes to each side, checking to ensure that no one had heard you. Fortunately, the courtiers around you appear far too invested in their conversations and drinks to notice how you appear to have shouted at a roast duck.

Aegon’s lilac eyes are wide, pleading as he shoves the tablecloth up higher, giving you more room to slip beneath it. “Would you just shut up and come?”

It’s the sheer urgency of his tone that piques your interest, although you wish that it hadn’t. You huff out an annoyed sigh, taking another look around the room before gathering up your skirts and sinking to your knees, crawling underneath the table.

Once you’ve successfully sat down beside him on the stone floor, he drops the cloth, shielding the two of you from any prying eyes. The material is thin enough that it allows some light to pass through it, very dimly illuminated Aegon’s grinning face, all urgency having suddenly vanished.

“Welcome,” he almost sounds breathless, the word airy—and utterly unnecessary.

You can faintly see the rosy coloring of his cheeks, a few messy silver waves tumbling across his face, and you’re immediately willing to bet that he’s extremely buzzed. “What are you doing, Aeg?”

Your tone is firm, but there’s a certain gentleness to it that was specially reserved for your eldest brother. While you maintain that you love all three of them equally, it’s undeniable that your relationship with Aegon has always been… different.

He reaches to his side, lifting a carafe from the ground beside him. “Having a party,” he says, raising it towards your face and playfully swirling the garnet colored liquid.

“I’m unsure if you’re aware,” you motion towards the cloth shrouding you from the bustling ballroom, “but our mother has already planned quite the celebration for tonight—and she likely does not wish for it to be ruined by her drunkard son ducking beneath tables like an imbecile!”

Aegon pokes his bottom lip out into a pout. “Why must you assume that I am drunk?”

“Because you’re you,” you drone, cocking your head at him, “and you are always drunk.”

Rolling his eyes, he sits the carafe down on the ground between you. There are only mere inches separating the two of you, both of you squeezing your limbs close to your body to avoid having a foot peek out from beneath the table. Sitting this close to him, you can smell the sweetness of the arbor red of his breath—as well as the faintest hint of sulfur, a sign that he had clearly gone riding on Sunfyre earlier and had failed at washing off the dragon’s strong scent.

You take another breath, inhaling the smell of him into your lungs. It was familiar—comfortable, urging your taut muscles to slacken in his presence.

“And what if I told you that I am sober right now?”

A snort escapes you, sparing him an incredulous look. “Then I would call you a liar,” you tell him, tapping a finger against the rim of the half-empty carafe.

His stare drops down towards it, watching as the liquid ripples when you pull your hand back. When he looks back up, he’s wearing a crooked smile that makes your heart flutter. “Mostly sober, then.”

It’s nearly impossible to stifle your laugh, clamping a hand over your mouth so that you might muffle the sound and prevent passersby from becoming suspicious. The sound only makes his smile grow wider and more genuine, an expression that he graced very few people with.

“I’ll ask again,” you say, speaking only when you're confident that no more laughter will tumble out. “Why are you down here? If mother finds out then she will be furious and-”

Aegon tosses his head back, cutting you off with a groan. “Mother will be furious no matter what,”

Disdain drips from each syllable, thickening the air around you. He didn’t like talking about her much, and you couldn’t blame him for it. Of all your siblings, Aegon had been dealt the worst hand, simply by being born first. He got the brunt of your mothers vile behavior; and you hated that, too.

“Because,” lazily rolling his neck so that he can look at you again, he answers, “I’d rather spend my night under here,” he flicks a hand up, lazily gesturing around himself, “than be forced to sit through even one more tedious speech from some ancient Lord of gods-know-where!”

You bite your tongue, holding back another laugh.

“And,” he continues, nodding in your direction, “I am now saving you from the same mundane fate. You’re welcome.”

“What makes you think that I needed your saving?” You ask, brows rising.

Aegon purses his lips, placing a finger against his chin as he feigns contemplation, studying the intricate styling of your hair, the modest long-sleeved gown, and the Star resting against your covered breasts. “Perhaps it was that our mother has you dressed up as though you’re an aspiring Septa.”

Thinking of the plain women, with their simple gowns and traditional head coverings, you nearly laugh again as you ask, “How many Septa’s do you know that wear corsets and jewelry, brother?”

“None,” he admits, shoulders lifting into an indolent shrug. “Though, if they looked more like you, then I might finally have a reason to attend prayer. Beautiful women would be more than enough to turn me into a pious man.”

A warmth creeps up your neck as blood rushes to your cheeks, unsure if his statement was meant as a compliment—was he saying that he found you beautiful? If so, it shouldn’t have been a particularly shocking revelation. After all, Aegon had complimented you before, many times.

In all fairness, however, most of those times had been when he was thoroughly besotted. He had a habit of sneaking into your rooms and practically draping himself off of you, muttering drunken nonsense about how breathtaking you were. You had never placed much truth in the statements though, assuming that Aegon likely didn’t even recognize who he was speaking to, much less whose bed he had crawled into.

But even if this was a genuine and mostly sober attempt at complimenting you, the flattery of it doesn’t last nearly long enough. Your own insecurity washes back over you far quicker than you like, reminding you of just how unlike yourself you currently feel.

“I do not believe that anything would be capable of turning you into a pious man,” you joke, trying and failing to cover up the melancholy that has settled into your bones. “Not even beautiful women.”

“You could.”

The answer comes far too quick, spilling from his tongue with an eagerness that even seems to catch him by surprise.

“Though, I must say, for as exquisite as this dress makes you look,” his hand reaches across the short expanse dividing you, mindlessly running his fingers along the fabric covering your shoulder, “I much prefer the way look in armor—sweaty skin, messy hair, sword in-hand—all of it.”

Your breath catches in your throat as his touch drifts towards the center of your chest, fingers dragging along the thin chain leading to your pendant, lifting the Star into his palm. He stares at it for a moment before yanking it roughly from your neck, grinning when you yelp. “But this,” he lifts the Seven-Pointed Star slightly, “I absolutely hate.”

With that, he tosses it from underneath the table, sending it skittering across the floor beyond the tablecloth.

Your jaw drops open, a hand pressed against the now-sore spot along the back of your neck. Despite yourself, your lips start to curve into a playful smile. You try fighting against it, try pressing them into a firm line, but fail. “Mother will not be happy about that-”

“She’s never happy,” Aegon interjects. His own expression shifts, the line on his forehead deepening as he says, “Do not let yourself bear her misery. Life is too short—and you deserve more than that.”

A palpable silence is thickening the air, and your breathing seems to synchronize as you simply stare at one another.

Slowly, nervously, you say, “I’m not sure what it is that I deserve,”

“You deserve,” he pauses, lips still parted despite the absence of speech. Then, swallowing back the words that had been building in his throat, he says, “you deserve whatever it is that you want, sister.”

Your hand falls from your neck into your lap, and you avert your gaze, watching your fingers as they fidget with your ring. “And what if I do not know what I want?”

Once, you had thought that you wanted a life like Jaces. A happy life, with a mother that knew how to love you and siblings that hadn’t been raised in fear of their half-sister ascending the throne, taught that their very existence was a threat to her power. But, suddenly, you felt as though you were no longer sure.

Aegon hesitates, watching you carefully. His lilac eyes appear as though they’re searching for something within your own—a hint of recognition, or reciprocation. If he found what he was looking for, then you were unaware. “Then you’ll figure it out,” he sighs, his smile not reaching his eyes. “You have all the time in the world to decide.”

There is something reassuring about his statement, making it resonate with you in a way that you hadn’t expected. You look up, holding his gaze for a heartbeat, then two, and you almost swear that you can see it—the silent invitation, the plea to delve deeper into his words, to decipher exactly what it was that he was promising you.

You have all the time in the world—all the time in the world to decide if he might ever be something you want.

Suddenly you find yourself dancing on the edge of a precipice, chest tightening as you grapple with the idea that, maybe, something more might exist between you and Aegon.

That, maybe, he had always known who he was complimenting and what bed he was slipping into.

That, for him, it had always been you.

“Aegon, I-”

He shakes his head, cutting you off before you have a chance to say something that he fears you may regret. Then, sliding the carafe between you to the side, he scoots closer. “If you plan on staying under my table,” he teases, clearing his throat, “then we need to do something about your hair.”

“I thought you said I looked exquisite?” You stay still as he starts toying with the strands, trying to swallow the tumult of your own emotions.

Aegon’s plucking various pins from your hair, tossing them to the ground. “Yes, but I also said that I prefer your hair when it’s messy. It’s more…” he sucks in a breath, unable to hide the admiration swelling in his chest when he finally exhales, “you.”

Your cheeks are burning hot, and you’re suddenly very thankful for the lack of light around you. On instinct, you almost tell him how your mother wouldn’t agree—but then you think better of it.

“You’re… generous.”

Something about your voice sounds foreign in your ears. You sound nervous—and you’re not used to feeling nervous around Aegon.

His fingers are combing through the plaits forming your updo, his brow drawn taut, framing his lilac eyes, shining bright with concentration. “Generous,” he snorts softly, nails raking lightly against your scalp as he shakes the strands loose, “I don’t hear that one often.”

“Well perhaps you’d hear it more if you weren’t such an ass,” you shoot back, slowly trying to slip back into your usual self.

“Me? An ass?” He’s untangled the final braid, scooting away from you slightly now as he presses a hand to his chest, feigning innocence. “Never.”

Now falling in loose waves, free of those incessant pins, you brush your hair over your shoulder. “Just earlier I heard you telling Lord Grover that if wisdom were measured in wrinkles that he would be named Grand Maester.” You point out, unable to mask your amusement while recalling the old man’s shocked expression.

“Is it not true?” Aegon smirks. “The man is nearly seventy, and his age certainly shows.”

“Lord Grover is only two-and-fifty, brother.”

His brows shoot up, gaping at you. “Tell me that you’re not serious!” When you nod, confirming that you are, he sucks his teeth. “Wow—how unfortunate. He looks positively dreadful for his age, then. I thought that he surely had one foot in the grave by now.”

“Aegon!” You rebuke through your own sputtered laughter, shaking your head at his insolence. “See? This is what I was talking about! If you weren’t so crude then you might get more compliments.”

Swinging his arm back to grab for the carafe, Aegon’s nose scrunches slightly. “Why bother?” He implores, a hint of mischief in his tone. “My crudeness is what you like most about me, is it not? Without it, dear sister, your life would be quite boring.”

Just before he brings the carafe to his lips, he inclines his head towards the tablecloth, emphasizing his words. A reminder—that, without him, you would still be out there, sitting miserably amongst your siblings and being forced to dance with Lord’s twice your age.

There was something more beneath the veil of humor and arrogance, however. A craving that had him tipping the carafe back, hoping that the stinging of the alcohol might numb his gnawing desire for validation—to hear you say that you yes, my life would be boring without you.

“I suppose you’re right,” the admission has him pausing, the carafe lingering against his bottom lip. “Truth be told, I had never put much thought into it before, but you do have a way of keeping life interesting, Aeg. So, I must agree that, without you, my life would be positively dreadful.” Staring at the ground in-between you, you smile before adding, “After all, who else would be able to convince me to risk our mother’s scorn and crawl beneath a table to drink wine and fix my hair?”

There’s a slight tremor in his voice when he speaks, trying to mask the warmth swelling in his chest, “You have yet to drink a single drop.”

“Then I suppose that is the next thing you’ll have to fix,” you say, sticking your hand out towards him, urging him to pass you the carafe. He hands it to you while biting back a grin.

“Careful,” he warns, “drink too much and you may end up like your drunkard brother.”

“I don't mind,” You mirror his expression, your own lips curving as you raise the glass upwards, the strong scent of the arbor red stinging your nostrils. “I quite like my drunkard brother.”

His gaze burns against your flesh as you tilt your head back, allowing the alcohol to slip over your tongue, and you suddenly realize that you are no longer standing on the edge of that precipice.

You’re falling.

a/n - i was honestly just thinking about jude and cardan hiding under a table in the cruel prince and ended up with this? so yeah, definitely inspired by jurdan content (but y'know... no coup d'etat lmao).

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ilikedetectives · 1 month ago

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Darling of Dock Town

#neve gallus #da veilguard #dragon age the veilguard #virtual photography #gamingedit #pc gaming #video games #screenshot #mine #mydatvedit #mynevegallus #one of my most fav shots 😩

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klaus-littlestwolf · 8 months ago

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Unconsummated -Aemond T.

Aemond finds himself quickly falling in love during the week long celebration of Aegon and Helaena’s wedding. Sadly his perfect lady is already married to a Baratheon. Happily, the idiot has yet to consummate their marriage as he never wanted to marry Y/n Arryn in the first place.

Aemond sets out to take the sweet girl for himself and he will not take ‘No’ for an answer…

It was much too loud for her tastes.

Y/n’s husband lived for parties like this, being honored that he was invited to the wedding of Aegon and Helaena and enjoying himself in every way he could. He was drunk 10 minutes after the ceremony and would be for the entirety of the next 6 days that the week long party went on for.

Y/n left the room as soon as it was acceptable for her to do so, her husband being locked on another noble woman, one who would happily spread her legs for him in a dark hallway later that night and she could do without the embarrassment of that. She ended up locating the library on her walk through the castle and she couldn’t help but stop. The room was huge, 10x the size of her husbands library as his father, his fathers father and on and on before had never been able to read (and neither could her husband).

He forced her to read all of his ravens to him in private as if he believed that no one was aware that he couldn’t read them himself. Y/n ended up knowing quite a lot about the houses and their leaders, her husband threatening to kill her if she ever breathed a private word of it. She was privy to quite a bit of sensitive information because of his illiteracy, knowing that many houses had secretly sworn to follow Aegon as the true born King or people like her husband who were sworn to Rhaenyra as the King commanded. She honestly didn’t care who ran the realm, all Y/n cared about was her small life, her duties, and her children (of which her husband didn’t seem to care to give her). He was too busy with his whores to give her a child.

She found herself a book that interested her, it was a book on High Valyrian which she had always wanted to learn. She had been teaching herself for only about 20 minutes before she heard a throat clear and she jumped up in fear, the book landing on the floor as her eyes met with one purple one staring back at her.

‘My Prince! I am so sorry! I did not know anyone would be here while the celebration went on…’

He stared at her for a moment before responding. ‘No reason to apologize, I understand more than anyone not wanting to celebrate with drunken strangers.’

‘Thank you for your hospitality…I will leave you be then-‘

‘No!’ He insisted, startling her a bit. ‘I’m sorry, I mean no, you don’t need to leave. Please, sit.’ He moved to take the seat beside her, picking up her book and looking at it before smiling. ‘Teaching yourself High Valyrian? Impressive…I am Aemond by the way, might I know my beautiful company’s name?’

‘Y/n Baratheon, my Prince. It is an honor.’

The two of them spent the next 3 hours by the fire in the Library just talking. They got to know each other very well and Aemond even gave her her first lesson in High Valyrian which he admitted she was a quick study at. It wasn’t until Aemond asked about her family that any of their conversation became uncomfortable.

‘You’re married to the eldest Baratheon son, are you not? I knew he had a wife but I did not know he had brought her with him while he-’ Aemond stopped himself as if he was unsure if she knew what her husband was up to.

‘I am aware of his indiscretions. It is how he has always been, nothing to concern yourself with my Prince.’ Aemond’s face was stoic as always but she sensed sympathy like she got from most other people. ‘He never wanted to marry me, his father wanted my name and the alliance of certain supporters. He had hoped marrying me to his son would stop his…activities and make him happy to have a family…he has no interest in such things however and I am left 6 months after our marriage unloved and childless…I’m sorry…you don’t care about that.’ She laughed though Aemond could tell it was hollow.

‘Your husband is an idiot if he does not want you my lady. I have known you for mere hours and I know that you are a smart, kind hearted girl without a judgmental bone in your body. You would be a good mother, of that I am sure.’ Aemond had no clue where that came from. Seeing this girl all alone and feeling unloved was breaking his heart…what is she doing to him?

‘Thank you my Prince, you are too kind.’

Y/n retired not long after, in bed hours before her husband joined her, collapsing into the bed in his clothes and for once she did not move to take care of him, Y/n left him in his clothes and on his chest in the bed.

Her days went on like that for most of the week. She would have breakfast and enjoy a walk in the gardens before finding her way to the library again and spending the rest of the entire day with Aemond. They both made an appearance at the party every night as was expected before abandoning the noisy, drunken mess and enjoying each others company again.

Aemond continued teaching her Valyrian and they could hold conversations now (albeit simple ones) as she was a fast learner. He also told her all about Vhagar, loving her interest in his dragon where most ladies were terrified.

She had raged when he told her of how he really lost his eye, furious that his nephew would do such a thing, all of them. She also condemned the ladies in the court who had made Aemond feel ugly just because of his injured eye. She swore to the heavens that he was one of if not the most beautiful man she had ever seen and she would not take his negative words into account.

Aemond had quickly come to love Y/n and she loved him as well, they both knew but neither of them crossed the line to say it. Though as her husband had never consummated their marriage Aemond had decided that he was going to ask his father to annul the marriage so that he could marry her instead. It would be a good match for his family, Y/n originally being an Arryn, and he knew that her father would take insult from the Baratheons for not taking care of his daughter or making their marriage legal. He was determined to convince her that night, the second to last day of the celebration, however his soon to be Princess never arrived.

Aemond waited for over an hour before searching the party. He found her husband, nearly as drunk as Aegon and with his tongue down a ladies throat but Y/n was not there.

He then left the castle and walked the gardens in search of her as he knew she enjoyed the Red Keeps gardens. After about 5 minutes he found her sitting on a wall overlooking the beach.

‘You are difficult to find, my dear.’ She jumped, turning slightly but not looking at him, turning back to the view.

‘I am sorry my Prince. I have enjoyed our time together but it must come to an end, please forgive me but I wish to be left alone now.’ He was stunned, unsure of how to respond but knowing that he wasn’t about to leave her like this.

‘Whatever I have done, please forgive me Byka Zokla? I do not-‘ (Little Wolf)

‘You have done nothing my Prince! It is I who is in the wrong. I have led you to believe that we could be friends and that was wrong of me. My job is to be there for my husband and I have not been doing my duty-‘

‘Your duty? What about him? He has not taken care of you as is his job as your husband and protector! You’re not waiting on him hand and foot anymore so he is upset, yes? Please? Do not push me away Y/n, I can help you to-‘ he cut himself off as he turned her head to make her look at him and he finally saw what she was hiding from him. Her right eye was black and blue, her bottom lip was split in 2 places and her throat was bruised, clearly in the shape of hands. ‘Oh my Love! No! This will not stand! Come with me.’ He insisted, holding out his hand. She hesitated but he looked down at her softly, giving her time to decide. ‘Trust me?’ After another few seconds Y/n took his hand and allowed him to whisk her off and they arrived in the Small Councils meeting room where the Queen walked in not a moment later having been fetched by a guard for her son.

‘Aemond…what is the meaning of this?!’ Alicent snapped, storming over to the girl and seemingly thinking that her son had done it but she changed her tune when the girl flinched away and hid behind him instead.

‘Mother. This is the girl I spoke to you about, her husband has proved…ungallant. I wish to take her as my bride.’ Alicent was looking over his ladies face when she fully understood what he had said and jerked her head up.

‘My son, she is married already. You cannot just take another man’s wife, even as a Prince of the Seven Kingdoms. You-‘

‘Their marriage has not been consummated.’ She stopped speaking and looked between them in shock.

‘Well…that changes things…she will need to testify it to the King and he will need to annul the marriage before anything else can happen. It will take time. I will speak to the Hand and start the process for it, we will find a room for her here to keep her safe from now on.’ Alicent turned to Y/n and held out her hand. ‘Come, let’s get you out of those dirty, bloody clothes and put you to bed.’

‘I will come and say “Goodnight” in a bit. You have a bath and relax…I will take care of you, I promise.’ Aemond swore, kissing her hand and watching her blush before she walked off with his mother.

Aemond straightened himself as she left the room and turned to head back to the party where he almost immediately found the man he was looking for.

Y/n’s husband was holding a full goblet of wine with his arm around a ladies waist looking quite content. Aemond moved beside him to grab himself a cup of wine, purposefully causing the idiot to bump into him.

‘Fuck! I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.’ He laughed obnoxiously and Aemond found himself wondering how Y/n ever stood being around him at all.

‘Evidently.’ He rolled his eyes and could instantly see that this man didn’t appreciate the action.

‘You may be a Prince but you’re still only a second son, and no where close to Daddies favorite. Watch yourself. I am the head of Storm’s End and soon enough the Vale, you are nothing and even less than that without your Dragon behind you.’ The man was clearly drunk as fuck but Aemond was happy with that. It would make this easier…

Aemond smirked as he leaned in close, the young Tully girl that he had had on his arm long gone, not willing to upset a Prince, let alone the one eyed prince himself. ‘I fucked your wife.’ He mumbled, close enough that only he could hear and he absolutely did.

‘What the fuck did you say?’ He snarled, eyes nearly catching fire in his instant rage but Aemond stayed calm. He needed to control himself for this to work.

‘I fucked…your wife…Gods knows you weren’t doing it. Such a lonely girl, desperate for a man’s affection and all she was given was an insolent child. It’s pathetic. Don’t worry though, soon enough she will be raising my son and she won’t be worried about you anymore.’ The boy was practically shaking in his rage, fists clenched and men were beginning to take notice, several of the women moving to alert the guards so Aemond would need to do this quickly. ‘Give it 9 months and everyone will know exactly who your wife strayed from you with, the silver haired boy suckling on her tits will be evidence enough. I’m sure with enough words to the King I can ensure my son will inherit all of your lands when you die. Too bad you weren’t man enough to impregnate her yourself or y-‘ He was finally cut off by a truly pathetic punch to his face but he played into it, falling dramatically to the ground and biting his tongue, spitting blood out to make it seem worse than it had been.

He was grabbed instantly and held back from coming at Aemond again who smirked up at him, the boy only seeming to now realize what had happened. ‘Chain this drunken fool and take him to the Black Cells for-‘

‘No!’ Aemond snapped, cutting off his Grandsire. ‘It was me that he assaulted and as a Prince of the realm it is my decision what happens to him.’ He declared and though Otto looked at him strangely he nodded nonetheless. He reached out, grabbing the collar of the drunk and yanked him forward, dragging him from the party and outside through the front gate.

‘Aemond-‘

‘He dies tonight, would you like to argue?’ The one eyed Prince hissed at his Grandsire who knew not to argue with him in this state.

Vhagar peeked her eyes open at the sound of men approaching her beach, seeing her rider dragging along a man that was trying very hard to get away or hurt him making her bare her teeth and hiss instantly.

‘Dokimarvos Vhagar! Umbās!’ He spoke to her and she sat her head up and waited for her rider to speak. *Pay Attention Vhagar! Wait!*

‘This is a message to anyone that thinks to defy me or Gods forbid, harm the people I care about. I am not merciful, you can find mercy with my family but not here. Anyone who wants to disagree with this will not end up in the Black cells, but with my Dragon as their punishment!’ Aemond ignored Otto who was trying to stop his rushed decision. ‘Dohaerās Vhagar! Kisās!’ *Obey Vhagar! Eat!*

Everyone watched on as the giant she-dragon lifted her head over the abusive asshole and opened her mouth wide before chomping down on the man and seeming to swallow him whole which had several people screaming and one man actually fainting.

Aemond was proud of himself, he had saved his girl and it barely took an hour.

He quickly made his way back into the Red Keep and up to the room that he knew his mother had put his soon-to-be wife in. As he entered, knocking softly as to not frighten her, he saw her in a sleep shift and he couldn’t help but stare. His girl was beautiful and she was going to be all his now.

‘Did you have a nice bath?’ He asked, moving to pull the blankets back for her and enjoying her soft blush as she crawled into the bed.

‘It was very relaxing. I’ve never had servants to wash me like that before.’ She teased, though Aemond was surprised by that.

‘You are a lady, are you not? How-‘

‘My mother took care of us as children and when we grew she insisted that we were able to bathe ourselves. My husband however, did not want anyone seeing me in a state of undress…it was strange but nice I suppose. A lady could get used to such treatment.’ Her soft laugh was everything Aemond loved as he reached out and cupped the side of her face.

‘You will get used to it. You are to be my wife, and my wife will have the best of everything. I will bathe you myself if it brings you happiness.’ He teased her, kissing the side of her head before standing again. ‘Get some sleep my lady, no one will bother you, you have my word-‘

‘Will you stay?’ She asked and though he was startled he did not let it show, knowing she was still probably feeling afraid after all that had happened, especially now that she’s in a strange place that she’s sure to never leave again. She would need to get used to being his and knowing that she is completely safe here, she would learn to trust what he said when he told her that he would never let anyone harm her again-let alone another husband. Aemond removed his shoes and coat, as well as his weapons before crawling onto the other side and feeling her head rest on his shoulder. He was careful not to touch any of her injuries as he let her drift off to sleep. He knew his mother would be upset at his sleeping here but he didn’t care. Y/n would be his wife by the weeks end and he would give her everything that bitch of a “husband” could not.

Aemond Targaryen Masterlist

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brokenmenswhore · 6 months ago

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not enough jace requests you say? 🧐 how about Jace ends up marrying aegons twin sister as a way to prevent war but the whole time he compares her to baela and is upset since baela was who he was supposed to marry. Reader then overhears what he says about her and realizes it will never be a marriage of love, only duty- so she starts being cold to him and he realizes he messed up

this is formatted as a drabble :)

could have | jacaerys velaryon

pairing: jacaerys velaryon x fem!reader

warnings: just a lil angst

────── ☾ ──────

You were always second-best. You were Aegon’s twin sister, and your family revolved around Aegon. Aegon the eldest, Aegon the rightful heir to the throne, Aegon the pinnacle of the Greens.

You were not simply you, but the better half of him. You were always Aegon’s sister, the other one who shared his birth date. Your side of the family always prioritized Aegon, your mother especially. The closer Rhaenyra got to the throne, the more she wanted Aegon on it.

You did not want your brother on the throne. Being that your minds were connected, you knew him better than anyone, and therefore, you knew better than anyone that he should not be left in charge of ruling an entire realm.

That is why your betrothal to Jacaerys was a positive for you: it prevented a war that would occur if your mother pushed Aegon on the throne. It also allowed for you to reside with the other side of your family, a side that knew Rhaenyra deserved the throne, and a side that could hopefully see you as something other than second-best to Aegon.

You quickly felt like second-best to someone else upon your arrival to Dragonstone.

You felt guilty when your betrothal to Jacaerys was announced. You knew he was already betrothed to Baela Targaryen, and you hoped that another match for Baela would be announced shortly to absolve you of that guilt.

When you first arrived in Dragonstone, you met Baela, and immediately apologized for ruining her betrothal. Regardless of you or Jacaerys’s feelings about the matter, this was not up to you, so you had no choice. Baela understood, and she held no resentment toward you. She cared for Jacaerys, but not marrying him did not mean changing that, so she was alright with it.

Jacaerys, however, was very professional with you at all times. Despite your predicament, there was always a wall up with him. Up until your wedding day, you barely spoke, and when you did, he was Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, never just Jace. Not the way he was with Baela.

You desperately wanted to know the man you were to marry. If you were to spend the rest of your life with him, proving him with heirs, and taking care of his every need as a husband, you wished to get along. You craved a connection that was rarely found, but you were determined.

You would try to catch him reading in the library, alone in his chambers, or getting ready in the morning, but when he wasn’t alone, he was with Baela. You could tell they had a strong connection, and you still felt bad for breaking their betrothal, but part of you was also annoyed. Jacaerys was now your betrothed, and that should be you occupying his time.

You could sense that Jacaerys was upset with your arrangement. He did not avoid you, but did not seek you out.

In his mind, he was subconsciously comparing you to Baela. He was finding any reason to continue being upset about your arrangement. There was nothing practically wrong with you, but he wanted what he had expected his entire life. He wanted what could have been. He would listen to you speak during council, which Rhaenyra insisted you attend due to the influx of information about the Greens you could provide, and he would consider if Baela would say the same. He would try to picture you as his wife, and it would not make his heart swell the way it did when he pictured the same of Baela.

Still, you held out hope that your marriage could be more than a political alliance. You were going to spend the rest of your life with him, and you craved some sort of romantic or lustful connection. He was handsome, that much was agreed upon by most, and you loved his passion and confidence.

He barely spoke to you on the day of your wedding.

He spoke his vows as if he were giving a political speech. You only saw him smile when commonfolk approached the table to congratulate you two, and you could tell it was disingenuous.

When it came time for the bedding ceremony, you refused to undress. Jacaerys sat on the bed, confusion evident on his face. Even though he said it was important to consummate the marriage, you said you did not wish to force him, and you would simply tell everyone you did your duty. You left the room before either of you began to undress.

Despite your new marital state, things did not change. You tried to reach out to Jacaerys, but he pulled back.

You felt your heart sink when you walked past his chambers and overheard him speaking to someone about you.

“I just cannot help but wonder what could have been if things did not have to change. I will continue to do my duty as a husband, but that is all I have in me.”

You swallowed back tears. You always held out hope that things would shift, even if only a little, but it was hopeless. Your marriage would never be one of love, it would only be one of duty.

Hearing his words confirm it as such was enough for you to decide to pull back. If he had no intention of trying, there was no point in your doing so.

You began to be cold to Jacaerys, giving him the same attention he gave you, which was practically none.

He would greet during the beginning of council meetings, and you would ignore him.

He would pull out your chair for you, like a dutiful husband does, and you would say a simple “thank you” and sit.

You no longer made the effort to ask him how his food was at supper. You no longer made the effort to help him with his clothing pins in the morning.

When you were getting ready to sleep one night, Jacaerys actually spoke to you.

“What troubles you as of late?” he asked.

You acted nonchalant, continuing to brush out your hair. “What do you mean?”

“You seem off.”

“I am simply doing my duty, and nothing more.” You somewhat spat the words out, your tone laced with venom.

Jacaerys was taken aback by your candor. “If that is how you wish for this marriage to be, then so be it.”

You turned in your chair to face him. “I am not the one who wishes for a strictly dutiful marriage, Jacaerys.”

“Meaning?” he responded, “I do not wish to live out the rest of my days in a constant state of nothingness.”

“That is not what you have been saying.”

“To what are you referring?”

You sighed. “Jacaerys, I know you wish you had the opportunity to marry Baela. I am sure she knows it too. However, I do think it disrespectful to so openly complain about our courtship.”

Jacaerys knew what you were referring to. He ran his fingers through his hair, taking a deep breath while you continued to brush your hair in the silence.

“I did not intend for you to hear it,” he spoke.

“Evidently.”

“I know I’ve ruined things.”

You stopped your actions. You put your brush down, standing and walking over to him. “I only wish to please you, as your wife. I apologize that I am not the woman you intended yourself for.”

You touched his hand, holding it in your own briefly before taking residence on the bed.

Jacaerys watched you, unsure of what to do.

“You may join me, if you’d like,” you stated.

Jacaerys sat on the edge of the bed and turned toward you, giving you a small smile.

#jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys targaryen #jacaerys velaryon one shot #jacaerys velaryon drabble #jacaerys velaryon fanfic #jacaerys velaryon x y/n #jacaerys velaryon imagines #jacaerys velaryon x reader #house of the dragon #jacaerys velaryon angst #asks

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gtgbabie0 · 9 months ago

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-Cregan Stark x reader

{Cregan finds you curled up, sleeping in your shared bedchambers}

Enjoy my lovelies💕

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Lord Stark wasn’t unfamiliar with busy days, the type that consumed all of his attention and energy to only leave him exhausted. The endless amount of problems that seemed to grow with each passing hour, it was a tiring feat that he handled with ease.

His duty to his House and the North was admirable, you often find yourself marvelling at how much care he has for every single minute detail that most seemed to not notice. However, his duty to you was tenfold this… perhaps that is why Cregan decided to end his day earlier than usual.

Making the eager escape back to your shared bedchambers, just the thought of you turns him into a ball of giddiness, hidden behind the rugged nature that exudes him.

He forces himself to slow his movements down as he spots you, curled up in the middle of the bed, against the furs in your cotton nightgown. He silently curses the creaky, heavy, door of your bedchambers, the groan it lets out as he closes it shut causes you to gently stir from your sleep.

“Sorry, my dear.” He whispers brows pinched together as he takes off the furs that drape over his shoulders. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

You shake your head in weak protest to his words, rubbing your eyes with a smile at the feeling of him sitting down on the edge of the bed. He admires you for a moment, how the warm fireplace casts an orangey light over your body, painting you like some sort of goddess.

“I wasn’t sleeping… just resting my eyes.” You whisper through a sleep-laden tone, your gaze meeting his own.

With a chuckle he cups the side of your face, his calloused palm resting against your cheek, his thumb smoothing over the space underneath your eyes.

“Really? Then why are you drooling all over the pillows love?” He teases, lips curled upwards into a smirk.

“I did not!” You gasp and he watches you quickly push yourself to sit up and check the pillows, rolling your eyes with a small huff.

“Maybe just a little.” He whispers, thumbing at the corner of your mouth, wiping away the remnants of a really good nap.

You shoot a playful glare up at him, moulding back into your comfortable position. A sigh escapes your lips as his fingers brush through your hair, his fingertips grazing against your scalp soothingly.

His eyes soften at the way you lean into his touch, how your body seems to completely relax once more. “How long have you been ‘resting your eyes’ for?” He asks, amusement threading through his gentle tone.

“A while… I lost track of time.” You reply with an almost sheepish smile, enjoying the way he begins to play with your hair which has become a little tussled from sleep. “I did try to wait up for you…”

“Hmm, that didn't last too long, did it?” He asks, looking down at you with adoration, his chest blooming with warmth as you nuzzle yourself against the roughness of his hand.

“No… but I did try.” You promise, making space for him as he shuffles closer to you, drawing your body to rest against him.

Cregan props himself up on his elbow, looking down at you with a tenderness in his eyes that completely melts you. He watches as you curl up against him whilst he brings the furs over your shoulders to protect you from the harsh winds that continue to howl through the castle.

"I appreciate the effort, my love, but you needn't tire yourself out waiting for me." He responds in a low and soothing tone, leaning down to press a soft kiss against your forehead.

"You know I would never want you to lose sleep on my account." Cregan continues, letting his lips linger against your forehead. His hand comes to rest against your hip, caressing the curve and dip of your waist.

He has always been so sweet to you, putting you before anything else and never once letting you doubt your place in his heart. It was a shock, especially after the rumours you had heard about him when in reality he was a huge softie... at least to you he is.

A moment of silence passes and he thinks you might’ve fallen back asleep, that is until you’re pulling him back down to steal a sweet kiss, which he is quick to deepen. He hums in contentment against your lips at the feeling of your fingers brushing through his hair.

“I’ve missed you today.” You whisper against his lips, the kiss tapering off into small loving pecks.

He grins, caressing your cheek as he pulls back slightly to look down at you. “Well… I’m right here now and I don’t plan on leaving anytime soon.” He replies, his thumb trailing along your bottom lip as he holds your face before capturing your lips once more.

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I need him!

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delulujuls · 8 months ago

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healing sessions | aegon II targaryen

hi, it's been a hot minute since i posted here, the last weeks were pretty intense for me and since i have a summer break now, i would like to start writing again and do it more regularly.

this is something new here and since new episode of hotd dropped, im in my westeros era, so please prepare for something other than my last shots (i will still write for f1, don't worry)

and lemme set this straight, im team black till the day i die but those green bastards are FINE AS HELL lmao. also @alicenthightcwer is author of those gifts

summary: aegon isn't dealing well with his father loss, but gladly there is someone who's gonna do her best to lift his spirit a bit

warnings: it's fluff without basically any plot, sister x brother romance so targaryens at their finest, mentions of death, depression, alcohol, drugs

pairing: sister!reader x aegon targaryen

The news of King Viserys's death did not surprise the residents of King's Landing. Nonetheless, the loss of the kind ruler dealt a painful blow to the city, which seemed to freeze in time with the king's passing. The capital plunged into mourning, and in addition to the banners, black flags were hoisted. Westeros was left without a king.

Viserys's successor, his second child and first son, Aegon Targaryen, had not been seen since the king's funeral. Aegon had lost not just a king but, most importantly, a father who, unfortunately for him, named him the future ruler on his deathbed.

Aegon would have gladly given the throne to Rhaenyra, his older half-sister. He would have done it without hesitation, even placing the crown on her head himself. Unfortunately, his mother Alicent, who was with her dying husband and heard his wish to elevate their eldest son to the throne, decided to fulfill her beloved husband's last wish at any cost.

To be honest, Aegon couldn't care less about being king. The young prince had not left his bed for several days, thick curtains blocking any light from outside. Occasionally, servants were allowed into his chambers, but only with wine and poppy milk. Aegon did not eat, allowed no one near him, and slept. Sleep was his salvation. Even the prostitutes, who once outnumbered the rats in the castle, were no longer summoned. The fiery prince had dimmed.

Alicent knew she needed to give her son time to grieve. She didn't bother him, only inquiring about his condition from the servants who managed to enter his chambers. It was enough for her to know that he was alive. Aegon's siblings dealt with their grief in their own ways, and his condition hardly impressed anyone. Except for Y/N, who, despite her own pain, worried about her brother. Sitting at breakfast, she silently observed Aegon's chair, which remained empty. After her husband's death, Alicent decreed that all meals, not just dinners, be taken together. The firstborn had not appeared at any of them since.

After a silent breakfast punctuated by brief, formal conversations, Y/N stood up and grabbed a plate, filling it with Aegon's favorite croissants and a portion of strawberries. She was done pretending nothing was wrong. This had to end.

"You shouldn't go to him," Alicent said quietly as the servants began clearing the table. "You know him, he'll come out when he's ready."

"Or he'll drink himself to death first," she replied, not even glancing at her mother. Alicent clasped her hands and pressed them to her lips, watching her family fall apart without knowing how to stop it.

Y/N left the dining room and went to Aegon's chambers. She knocked first, wanting to maintain decorum, but knowing it was futile, she grabbed the handle and pushed the heavy door open. Inside was darkness. Only a nearly spent candle by the bed gave off any light; the room looked like a cave. She blindly set the plate on a table, and with arms outstretched, she made her way to the windows. With a swift motion, she drew the curtains, and even she was blinded by the sudden light that flooded in. Not hearing any curses from her brother, Y/N looked over her shoulder. On the large bed, a figure lay curled up, back to her. From the waist down, he was covered with a sheet that blended with his pale skin. White hair in disarray touched the crumpled pillow. Aegon was either in a deep sleep or dead.

Y/N opened the curtains at every window, flinging some open. The room was stuffy, reeking of stale alcohol, sweat, and the sweet scent of poppy milk. She circled the bed, crouching opposite her brother. He was indeed asleep, but his breathing was shallow. His lips were cracked, stained with dried blood. His eyelashes were matted with tears, and dark circles marred his eyes. There was a bruise under his left eye that was different from the ones under his eyes, as it began to fade and turn from purple to green. Y/N remembered her mother, who had been rubbing her hand while sitting at the table for several days. She could only guess that Alicent was trying to shake her son off in her own way.

Aegon slept, lying on his side and hugging himself, seeking comfort only he could provide. Y/N brushed the tangled strands from his forehead and kissed him. Aegon did not stir.

The princess knew he wouldn't allow servants to tend to him. She left the room quietly, asking the maids to prepare a hot bath quickly and silently. Y/N returned and sat beside him on the bed, gently stroking his head.

Aegon wasn't the bad person many thought him to be. True, he was unique, and in a room full of people, he was impossible to ignore, but no one is born evil. Now, Aegon was simply engulfed in darkness from which he couldn't free himself. The slender, sticky fingers of depression had tightened around his throat, allowing only alcohol to pass.

After some time, a maid stood by the bed, whispering that the bath was ready, nervously glancing at the sleeping prince, afraid of waking him up. Y/N thanked and dismissed her, then leaned in and kissed her brother's forehead again.

"Aegon..." she began softly, close to his ear. "Wake up, I have strawberries for you."

He furrowed his brow, feeling her hair tickle his face. At first, he thought it was a dream or a drunken hallucination, but when he felt the urge to sneeze, he wiped his face with his hand. When he opened his heavy eyelids and saw how bright it was, he pulled the pillow over his head.

"I said no one was to come in," he muttered, his voice muffled by the pillow. "I'll have you killed for this."

"It's nice to see you too, considering I haven't seen you in over a week," she replied, sitting back on his bed and placing the breakfast she brought on the table beside him.

Hearing the familiar voice and wanting to ensure it wasn't a drunken hallucination, Aegon removed the pillow from his face, clutching it to his chest. From squinted eyes, his violet gaze spotted a well-known figure.

"Y/N?" he asked hoarsely, his voice betraying that he'd only spoken to chase away servants in the past days.

"Yes, it's me," she nodded. "And if you still want to kill me, you'll have to get out of bed, which I doubt you can do."

Aegon sighed, more of a grunt of dissatisfaction. He wanted to cover his face with the pillow again, but his sister took it and easily pulled it from his arms.

"Did you come here just to make my life more miserable?" he groaned, looking at her with displeasure.

"I came to stop what you thought was the best solution," Y/N explained. "I brought you breakfast and a hot bath."

"I don't want breakfast or a bath," Aegon replied, turning onto his other side. "And you can leave. Tell mother I'm not dead yet."

"I'm not leaving until you get out of bed," she informed him, staring at his back.

"Then enjoy your stay," he muttered, closing his eyes again.

Y/N sighed. She knew it might be hard, but in a few days, she had almost forgotten her brother's character. And Aegon's character was sometimes the textbook definition of a Targaryen.

"I came here because I want to help you," Y/N began, feeling a lump in her throat. "No one talks to each other, and when they do, it's just some fucking formalities. Aemond flies on Vhagar every day, Helaena spends hours in the garden with her books, Rhaenyra has been on Dragonstone since the funeral, mother is banging with Cole at every turn, and I don't even know if you're alive," she said in one breath, feeling tears prickling her eyes. Only when she said it all out loud did she realize what was happening. It wasn't just about informing Aegon; it was about making herself understand. The truth hurt her even more than she expected.

Hearing his sister's trembling and upset voice, Aegon sighed and turned onto his back, sitting up and leaning against the headboard. Only now could his sister see his full appearance. It was the image of a boy deep in mourning and struggling with unimaginable pain.

For a moment, they exchanged looks in silence until Aegon glanced at the nightstand beside his bed.

"Did you bring strawberries?"

She reached for the plate and placed it on the bed next to her brother. Aegon weakly lifted his hand and took one, eating it whole, including the stem.

"Croissants with filling?" he asked, chewing. Y/N nodded again.

"Nut and chocolate," she answered. Aegon silently took a croissant and slowly began to eat.

Y/N quickly wiped her cheeks as two single tears escaped from the corners of her eyes. The young prince looked at his sister, who also seemed different than he remembered from a few days ago. Her hair was still neatly combed, with a few small braids woven into it. The dark red dress, which he thought he had seen her wear before, now seemed to hang a bit loosely on her shoulders and wrinkle at the stomach. The color of the dress reminded him of the bloody cuticles around her nails, which she must have bitten out of nerves. Her face, still beautiful, was now paler than usual, almost as white as her hair. Her swollen eyes lacked their usual sparkle, and her lips seemed to have completely forgotten what a smile was.

"How are you feeling?" he asked after a moment when he had finished eating. Y/N pushed the plate closer to him, and as he reached for another croissant, she only shrugged.

"I'm sad. And I sleep poorly," she replied, staring out the window.

"You know, poppy milk—", "I won't drink it," she interrupted him.

Aegon raised his hands in a defensive gesture, taking another bite of the croissant.

"And you?" she asked, looking at him. "How are you feeling?"

He also shrugged.

"I don't even know. Now I think I feel nothing," he said, looking back at her. "Most of the time I feel nothing, except when a wave of sadness hits, and then I cry like a child until I fall asleep again."

Y/N nodded silently. She could tell that Aegon had spent many hours crying.

He put the last piece of croissant in his mouth and reached for a strawberry, handing it to his sister. She took it and ate it, nodding with appreciation.

"Not bad, right?" Aegon said, seeing her reaction. "Unusually sweet for this time of year."

Y/N let out an involuntary snort, lowering her head. Their father was dead, the country was without a king, the family was falling apart, and this idiot was talking about how great the strawberries were.

"They really are good, I don't know what you mean," he replied, taking the last strawberry and popping it into his mouth. The girl smiled, for the first time in a long while, then looked at her brother.

"I miss you, you know?"

"I'm not dead yet," he said sarcastically, rubbing his face with his hands. Y/N set the plate aside, and Aegon extended his arm toward her, silently inviting a hug. The girl shook her head and stood up.

"Maybe I miss you, but not enough to hug you after so many days without a bath," she replied, nodding her head towards the bathroom.

"You've got to be kidding," he snorted, but she shook her head again and pointed to the bathroom. Aegon sighed and slid off the bed, looking at her reproachfully the entire time. When he stood, the sheet slipped off completely, and he, naked and unbothered, walked unsteadily toward the bathroom. Y/N asked the servants to change his bedding and clean the room while she locked herself in the bathroom with him. As he sat in the water, she perched on the edge of the tub, rolling up the sleeves of her dress.

She reached for the nearby comb and slowly began to untangle his matted hair. They both remained silent, as words were completely unnecessary at that moment. After a while, she put the comb down and picked up the sponge, wetting it and pouring water over his hair. Aegon closed his eyes and tilted his head forward.

Y/N grabbed the soap and lathered it in her hands, adding a few drops of lavender oil. Aegon smiled as the familiar, pleasant scent filled the air, while she began to wash his hair. He sat there with his eyes closed, allowing his sister to take care of him. Aegon felt that of everyone in the family, only Y/N truly cared about him. Despite being the second youngest sibling, just after Helaena, he had always gotten along best with her. They were almost inseparable, always sitting together at feasts, stuffing sweets into their pockets to eat later in the garden when they managed to escape the table. Rhaenyra, their half-sister, was always the oldest and most composed. Aemond, younger than Aegon, was calm and collected but could stab a knife into someone’s neck without blinking if provoked. Helaena lived in her own world, surrounded by books, flowers, and maesters who had tried to help her ever since they noticed something was off with the growing princess. Aegon was often irreformable, acting and speaking first and thinking later. When he was younger, he was incredibly unruly, the mastermind behind every wild idea that Y/N almost always eagerly supported. The young princess loved her brother, who always tried to make her smile. Aegon loved his sister and knew that of all the people in the castle, she was the only one he would kill for and die for either.

Young prince winced quietly when Y/N, massaging his tense shoulders, ran her thumb over a particularly tight muscle.

"You're as hard as a rock," she said, continuing to massage his back. Aegon smiled to himself.

"Not quite yet," he joked.

She rolled her eyes and soaked the sponge again, rinsing the soap off his back with warm water. As she got up to stoke the fire, Aegon submerged himself in the water, washing the soap off himself and his hair. After a moment, he sat up straight and wiped his face off, leaning on the sides of the tub. He silently watched his sister, whose silhouette was highlighted by the flickering fire in the fireplace. Her white, slightly wavy hair cascaded down her back. The young prince smiled and bit his lip. Blood of my blood.

When Y/N finished tending to the fire, she stood up and dusted off her hands. She looked up, feeling her brother's gaze on her. He watched her in silence.

"Care to join?" he asked, glancing at the tub before looking back at her.

She shook her head, stepping closer and looking at the murky water. "I think I'll pass this time."

Aegon extended his hand toward her, and she gave him hers, which he pressed to his lips, planting a wet kiss on her skin. She smiled at his gesture.

"I'll go dismiss the servants," she said, stroking his cheek. "Make sure you wash away all the sadness."

The princess left the bathroom and returned to the chambers. They looked much better now, with two servants finishing changing the bed linens. When they were done, she thanked and dismissed them. She approached the large wardrobe, looking for clean clothes for her brother. She planned to get him outside for a walk, even if just a short one.

She placed the clothes on a chair and sat on the bed, running her hand over the freshly made bedding. Shortly after, Aegon emerged from the bathroom, not bothering to cover himself with even a towel.

When he stood in the doorway, Y/N involuntarily looked up at him. She looked him up and down, causing Aegon to smile.

"Like what you see?" he asked, approaching the bed without taking his eyes off her.

"I'm just checking if you washed yourself properly," she retorted, lifting her head to meet his gaze when he stood right in front of her.

Aegon still wore a faint smile as he cupped her face, his thumb stroking her cheek. His pale skin had gained a bit of color from the hot bath, but he had goosebumps from the cool, fresh breeze coming through the windows. The dark circles under his eyes were still visible, but his gaze was now clear and certain, darkening as he was looking at his sister.

"I missed you too," he said after a moment of silence, during which they exchanged looks. He brushed his thumb over her lower lip. "Make love with me."

It wasn't a command or even a request. It was a quiet murmur filled with desperation, almost sounding like a plea. Aegon needed to feel her warmth, needed to feel something other than the alcoholic breath of death that placed cold kisses on him.

She silently stood from the bed, and before he could say anything, she touched his cheek and kissed him. Aegon wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close, returning the kiss. Blindly, he started to fumble with the ties of her dress, but seeing his struggle, she began undressing herself. He cupped her face in his hands, kissing her tenderly. When she loosened her corset, Aegon grabbed the bottom of her gown and quickly pulled it over her head, tossing it aside. She shivered at the sudden chill but soon felt Aegon's warm body against her skin. He smiled into her mouth.

"You're so soft," he whispered between kisses, holding her tightly as if he wanted to lock her inside his ribcage. "Go on, lie down."

She obeyed, positioning herself comfortably on a pile of pillows. Aegon hovered over her, kissing her gently. Their hands tangled in each other's hair, touching and grasping every bit of skin they could reach. Lips swollen from kissing released soft sighs and moans mixed with tender words.

Aegon could be gentle, delicate, and caring. He wasn't like this with the whores he sometimes brought to his chambers to relieve himself and kill boredom. But he loved his sister dearly and would never harm her.

The young prince couldn't remember the first time his sister came to his chambers and stayed the night. It was probably before their father's illness. One autumn, Aegon caught a terrible cold. He couldn't sleep at night, and his cough kept the entire western wing of the castle awake. One night, a sleepy Y/N went to his room, silently took the nearby laying ointment, sat on his hips, and began rubbing it on his chest. Aegon, feverish, thought he was hallucinating. But when he woke up the next morning and saw his naked sister asleep in his bed, he knew the events of the previous night hadn't been a fever dream.

Now, too, Aegon had to think twice if the soft body in his arms was really there or just a trick of his drunken mind.

"Are you real?" he whispered, pulling away from her lips and looking at her face.

"You'll have to find out for yourself," Y/N replied just as softly.

Aegon smiled involuntarily and hurriedly disappeared between her thighs.

At dinner, not only Aegon's chair was empty. The chair next to his, Y/N's, was also vacant.

Aemond glanced sideways at his sister, who tried to hide her smile behind her hair. Otto looked at her as well, then at her mother.

"Helaena?" Alicent spoke, looking at the blushing face of her daughter. "Is something wrong?"

"Aegon is feeling much better," she said. The young princess knew this first because the garden she particularly liked was just below her brother's chambers, and the windows, this time, were wide open.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen x reader #house of the dragon #hotd #aegon the second #hotd fanfic #hotd one shot

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obibail · 2 months ago

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"Still not helpful."

#thought i'd have to go back and record this but turns out i already recorded it #this being the one (?) time he uses that nickname is so funny. hit him with the exasperated long-suffering voice and everything #tfw your husband admonishes you in front of people for being shitty. significant other more like significant bother #but it's also such a good scene in general. i love that the game has them at opposite ideological ends #(even if its just to further complicate/bolster the choice being made)#ashur despite being a resistance leader isn't politically revolutionary at least not in the same sense as tarquin #who obviously sees the necessity of armed struggle and violence to force change in a highly stratified society. very fanonian *gets shot*#something something inherent ideological differences re: class struggle when you're at the top vs at the bottom #two very different vibes in these tags. anyway im cool and fine about them actually #dragon age #dragon age the veilguard #datv #datv ashur #the viper #datv tarquin #datvedit #ashur #tarquin #veilguard #**da #viperquin

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hisfavegirl · 26 days ago

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Battle Of Desire - Maegor Targaryen x Sister!Reader

Summary : Maegor the Cruel. King of the Seven Kingdoms. Your brother. Your obsession. For years, you had watched him from the shadows. Admired him. Desired him. Even when others whispered of his brutality, his ruthlessness, you had seen him for what he truly was—a king who would not bend, would not yield. And more importantly, a king who deserved a queen unlike any other. And who better than you?

Word Count : 11.9k

Warning : Targcest (brother-sister), Sex before marriage, Rough Sex (more like animalistic to me), P in V, Dom!Reader, Dom!Maegor, Chocking.

Maegor Targaryen Masterlist.

House Of The Dragon Masterlist.

and also big thanks to @zaldritzosrose for let me using yours beautiful dividers 🫶🏻.

The Red Keep stood tall, its freshly renovated walls gleaming under the sun, a fortress of power and dominance—just like its ruler. You walked through its halls, the sound of your footsteps barely audible against the distant clang of swords. The scent of newly polished stone and burning torches lingered in the air, a reminder of the blood and sweat that had gone into rebuilding this stronghold. His stronghold.

As you stepped onto the training grounds, your gaze was immediately drawn to him. Maegor.

He stood in the center, his massive frame towering over the three guards he was sparring against. Sweat glistened on his bare chest, his muscles flexing with each powerful movement. His Valyrian steel sword moved like an extension of himself—swift, deadly, and precise. One guard lunged; Maegor sidestepped effortlessly, bringing his sword down in a brutal arc that sent the man sprawling onto the ground. The second barely had time to react before Maegor twisted, kicking him hard in the stomach, sending him crashing into the dirt. The third hesitated for a brief moment—that was his mistake. With a single strike, Maegor disarmed him, his sword clattering to the ground.

You tilted your head, watching him with quiet intensity. He is magnificent.

He was your brother, but the way your heart pounded at the sight of him was anything but familial. You had known for a long time now that your feelings for Maegor went beyond what they should. He was brutal, terrifying, and ruthless—but to you, he had always been something more.

The last guard scrambled to his feet and, despite knowing he had already lost, attempted one final attack. Maegor barely even looked as he caught the man’s wrist and twisted, forcing him to his knees with a pained grunt. With a smirk, Maegor finally released him, turning his gaze toward you.

His sharp, violet eyes met yours, and for a moment, the world around you faded.

"You've been standing there for some time," he remarked, his voice deep and rough from exertion. He took a step toward you, sword still in hand. "Enjoying the sight?"

You felt the heat rise to your cheeks, but you held his gaze, refusing to look away. "Should I not admire the strength of the King?"

A slow smirk curved his lips, a dangerous glint flashing in his eyes. "Admiration is one thing," he murmured, closing the distance between you. "But you—" He reached out, his fingers brushing a stray lock of silver hair from your face. "You look at me differently."

Your breath caught. Does he know?

"And how do I look at you, Maegor?" you challenged, your voice barely above a whisper.

His smirk widened as he leaned in just enough for you to catch the faint scent of steel and sweat. "Like you want me."

Your pulse quickened, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of a flustered reaction. Instead, you tilted your chin up, meeting his gaze with unwavering resolve. "And if I do?"

For a brief moment, something flickered in his expression—something dark, something hungry. Then, just as quickly, it was gone.

Maegor chuckled, stepping back slightly, though his eyes never left yours. "Careful, little sister. If you tempt a dragon, don’t be surprised when you get burned."

You inhaled sharply, watching as he turned and walked away, leaving you standing there with your heart hammering in your chest.

You had always known that Maegor was dangerous. But now, you knew something else.

He had noticed.

The corridors of the Red Keep were eerily quiet as you made your way to your mother’s chambers. The torches lining the stone walls flickered, casting long shadows as you walked. You knew she would be there—she rarely left her rooms these days, preferring the solitude of her own space over the constant tension of the royal court. Where once she had sat beside Maegor in the council chambers, her presence a silent yet commanding force, now she withdrew, as though the weight of everything had finally caught up to her.

As you stepped inside, the warmth of the fireplace greeted you. The scent of burning wood mixed with the faint aroma of herbal tea. Your mother, Visenya, sat in her high-backed chair, her posture as regal as ever despite the softness that age had begun to bring. She cradled a cup of tea in her hands, the steam rising gently, her sharp violet eyes flicking up to meet yours the moment you entered.

“You have been spending much time in the training yards,” she remarked, not as a question, but as a statement.

You exhaled softly, closing the door behind you before crossing the room to sit beside her. “I like watching him.”

Visenya’s expression did not change, but something in her eyes darkened. “I know.”

A silence settled between you, broken only by the distant crackling of the fire. She took another sip of her tea, then set the cup down on the small table beside her. When she finally turned to you fully, her gaze was unreadable, but her voice was firm.

“This obsession of yours with Maegor,” she said, “it must end.”

Your breath hitched slightly, but you masked your reaction well. Still, she knew. Of course, she did. Nothing ever escaped your mother’s notice.

“Why?” you asked, your voice steady despite the weight in your chest.

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Because it is dangerous.”

You scoffed. “Maegor is dangerous to everyone.”

She shook her head. “That is not what I mean.”

Her gaze was piercing now, cutting through the silence like a blade. “You think I have not seen the way you look at him? The way you watch him as if he is the only thing that exists in this world? You are my daughter, and I know what is in your heart, even if you do not wish to admit it.”

You clenched your jaw, your hands tightening into fists in your lap. “And if I do admit it?”

Visenya’s expression did not waver. “Then you must let it go.”

Anger flared in your chest, but it was not just anger—it was frustration, desperation. “You want me to deny what I feel?”

“I want you to understand the reality of what you feel,” she corrected. “Maegor is a man who takes what he wants. If he has not yet taken you, it is because he chooses not to. You may think yourself different from his other wives, but you are not.”

Your nails dug into your palms. “I do not care about his other wives.”

“And yet they exist,” Visenya said sharply. “They are proof that Maegor’s heart is not yours alone to claim.”

You stood abruptly, your pulse pounding. “He is my brother.”

“He is your brother,” she echoed, rising to her feet with the same quiet grace she had always possessed. “And he is my son. Do you think I do not love him? Do you think I do not see what he is becoming?”

You swallowed hard, but she did not stop. “I forged him into what he is. I guided his hand toward power because that is what was necessary. But you—” she took a step closer, her gaze softening for the first time—“you do not need to be caught in the fire of his making.”

You felt your breath tremble as you exhaled, your resolve wavering under the weight of her words. “You do not understand.”

“I understand more than you think.” She reached out, cupping your face gently in her hands, her thumbs brushing against your cheeks as she studied you. “You are not the first Targaryen to burn for another. But love alone will not tame Maegor. He does not rule with love—he rules with fear. And fear is no foundation for what you seek.”

You closed your eyes, swallowing the ache that had lodged itself in your throat. “I do not seek to tame him.”

“Then what do you seek?”

You opened your eyes and met hers, the truth slipping from your lips before you could stop it.

Him.

Visenya sighed, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead before pulling away. “You will only hurt yourself,” she murmured.

But as she turned back to her chair, you knew that the words, though meant to dissuade you, would do no such thing.

Because no matter the warnings, no matter the risks—you had already made your choice.

The thought lingered in your mind long after you left your mother’s chambers.

She did not understand.

She thought she could dissuade you, that her warnings could cool the fire burning within you. But she had forgotten something—you are her daughter. You share the same blood, the same ruthlessness, the same hunger for power. And Maegor? He is the only one who has ever matched you in that.

You moved through the halls of the Red Keep, your steps slow but certain. The Keep had been reforged under Maegor’s rule—stronger, darker, impenetrable. Just like him. It stood as a testament to his will, towering over King’s Landing like a beast ready to devour all who opposed it.

It was fitting.

Because the man who ruled within it was no different.

As you entered the training yard once more, you saw him, just as you had earlier. Maegor stood in the center, surrounded by the fallen bodies of his sparring partners. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling beneath the blackened steel of his armor, his greatsword still dripping with sweat and dirt. He looked like a war god, a dragon in the shape of a man.

He turned at your approach, his violet eyes locking onto yours.

“You return,” he noted.

You tilted your head, amusement flickering in your gaze. “Should I not?”

Maegor scoffed, tossing his sword aside. “You should not be here at all.”

“And yet, here I am.”

A smirk tugged at his lips. He took a step closer, and so did you.

The others in the yard knew better than to remain. Guards, knights, even the few spectators quickly dispersed, leaving only the two of you beneath the setting sun.

Maegor studied you for a moment before speaking. “Our mother has words for you, I assume.”

You let out a soft laugh. “She does.”

“And?”

You shrugged. “She thinks I should forget you.”

His eyes darkened, something dangerous flashing across his face. “And will you?”

You smiled, slow and knowing, stepping closer until there was barely any space between you. “Do you think I will?”

He did not answer immediately. Instead, his gaze roamed over you—your face, your lips, the bare skin exposed at the collar of your gown. His fingers twitched at his sides, as though resisting the urge to reach for you.

He had always resisted.

But you could feel it—he was tired of resisting.

“You already have many wives,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “And none of them bear the blood of the dragon.”

He inhaled sharply.

You leaned closer, your lips just barely brushing against his ear. “You are the King, Maegor. You take what you want.”

His jaw clenched. “And what if I want you?”

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, a victorious smirk curling at the edges of your lips.

“Then take me.”

The words hung between you like an unspoken challenge.

For the first time, Maegor did not fight it. He did not hold back.

His hand shot out, grasping the back of your neck as he pulled you against him. His lips crashed onto yours, hard and claiming, as if he were sealing his decision in that very moment.

It was not soft. It was not gentle. It was possession. And you welcomed it.

You didn't care about the gazes of the servants and guards when Maegor carried you to his room, you didn't even care about the whispers that would stick to you the next day. he closed his bedroom door with his foot and threw you on the bed.

The heavy clang of Maegor’s armor hitting the stone floor echoed through the chamber. One by one, the blackened steel plates fell away, exposing the powerful, battle-hardened body beneath. His every movement was deliberate, his sharp violet eyes never leaving yours as he rid himself of the barriers between you.

Your breath was uneven, your pulse quickened. Not from fear—never fear—but from anticipation. From the raw energy crackling between you, something that had always been there, simmering beneath the surface.

And now, finally, there were no more obstacles.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, watching him as he removed the last piece of his armor. His chest rose and fell with deep, measured breaths. The torchlight cast flickering shadows over the harsh lines of his face, highlighting the controlled restraint in his expression.

“You knew this would happen,” he said, voice dark and thick with something unspoken.

You tilted your head, a slow, knowing smile curving your lips. “Of course.”

His jaw clenched, his eyes burning with something primal. “I should not want you.”

You arched a brow. “And yet, you do.”

A low growl rumbled in his chest. In two strides, he was upon you, his hands bracing on either side of you as he loomed over you on the bed. “You test me.”

You looked up at him, unafraid, reveling in the tension that coiled between you like a dragon ready to strike. “I know.”

His eyes flicked to your lips, then back to your eyes. “This will change everything.”

You reached up, your fingers tracing the sharp edge of his jaw, feeling the tension beneath his skin. “Good.”

That was all it took.

With a sound between a snarl and a groan, his mouth crashed onto yours, swallowing the triumphant laugh that bubbled in your throat. His kiss was nothing short of a conquest, demanding, claiming. But you met him with equal fervor, fingers tangling in his hair, nails digging into his shoulders as you pulled him down against you.

The weight of him was intoxicating. The heat of him burned through the layers of your gown, through your very skin.

His hands roamed your body, mapping every curve, every dip and rise as if he were learning you by touch alone. And then, with one sharp tug, he ripped the fabric apart, exposing you to the cool air of the chamber.

A gasp escaped you, but he did not give you time to recover. His lips moved from your mouth to your throat, teeth grazing your skin, marking you as his.

“You knew,” he murmured against your pulse, his breath hot and uneven.

You shivered beneath him. “Yes.”

His hand slid down your waist, gripping your hip, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise. “And you wanted this.”

You arched beneath him, pressing your body against his, daring him to do more. “Yes.”

His fingers tightened around your throat, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you of the power he held—the power you had willingly walked into. Yet, you only smiled, tilting your head slightly, challenging him.

“You think you know me so well,” Maegor murmured, his voice rough, dangerous.

“I do.” Your voice was steady, unwavering.

His thumb traced the delicate line of your jaw, his grip firm, possessive. “Then you should know I do not take well to being manipulated.”

You laughed, soft and knowing. “Is that what you think this is? Manipulation?”

His eyes darkened, flickering with something unreadable. “You ask me to make you my queen.”

“I ask you to make me your equal.” You leaned closer, your breath warm against his lips. “You and I—we are the same, Maegor. We take what we want, regardless of who stands in our way. You rule through fear, through fire and blood. And I…” Your fingers ghosted over his bare chest, tracing the scars earned through years of battle. “I understand you in ways they never will.”

His grip on your throat flexed, his gaze searching yours. “They will never accept it.”

“They do not need to.” Your voice dropped to a whisper, intimate, coaxing. “We are dragons, Maegor. Let them burn.”

A slow smirk curved his lips, but it did not reach his eyes. “You seek power.”

“I seek you,” you corrected. “And I do not share what is mine.”

He studied you for a long moment, weighing your words, the certainty in your voice. Then, his grip loosened, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair. He pulled you forward, forcing you to look up at him, forcing you to see the storm raging behind his violet eyes.

“You will regret this,” he said lowly.

You smiled, unshaken. “No, I won’t.”

His lips crashed against yours, fierce and demanding, as if he could make you take back your words, as if he could make you yield. But you kissed him back just as hard, your nails digging into his shoulders, drawing him closer.

The battle for dominance raged between you, but you both knew the truth—this was no conquest. This was fate.

When he finally pulled away, his breath was ragged, his pupils blown wide. He looked at you as if he had finally, truly seen you. And for once, Maegor the Cruel was at a loss for words.

Then, a slow, dangerous smile curved your lips. “Marry me, Maegor. Crown me, and let us rule together.”

His chest rose and fell with deep, measured breaths. Then, finally, he murmured, “If I take you, there is no turning back.”

You held his gaze, unwavering. “Then don’t hold back.”

And just like that, the last of his restraint shattered.

Maegor was not a man who lost control easily. He was a conqueror, a warrior, a king forged in fire and blood. But with you, it was different. You saw it in his eyes—the way they darkened, the way his breath hitched as your fingers tangled in his hair, the way his body tensed as if fighting a losing battle.

"You hold yourself back," you whispered, pulling his hair back just enough to expose the sharp lines of his jaw, his throat. "Why?"

His teeth clenched, his grip on your hips tightening as if to steady himself. "Because if I don't—"

"You will," you interrupted, your lips brushing against his ear, your voice nothing but a sultry murmur. "You will lose control, and you will give in to me."

Maegor growled, a deep, guttural sound that sent shivers down your spine. "You do not command me."

You smirked, leaning in closer, pressing your body against his. "Don’t I?"

And that was it—the final push, the last thread of restraint snapping. With a snarl, Maegor's hands gripped your thighs, and in one swift motion, he had you beneath him, his body pressing into yours with a force that stole the breath from your lungs. His lips crashed against yours, all heat and hunger, all dominance and possession.

"You play with fire," he rasped against your lips, his voice thick with barely restrained desire.

"I am fire," you countered, your fingers digging into his scalp, pulling his hair once more.

The growl that escaped him was primal, his muscles flexing as he slammed into you with a force that had you crying out in both pleasure and triumph. You had pushed him to the edge, and now he was falling—dragging you down with him.

His pace was punishing, his grip unrelenting, his mouth everywhere—your neck, your collarbone, your lips. He was branding you, marking you as his just as much as you had claimed him for yourself.

"You wanted me like this?" he growled, his voice hoarse as he thrust deeper, making your back arch off the bed. "You wanted to break me?"

You gasped, your nails raking down his back, feeling the ripple of his muscles beneath your touch. "No," you whispered breathlessly, your lips curling into a wicked smile. "I wanted to free you."

Maegor let out a sharp breath, his forehead pressing against yours as his movements grew rougher, more desperate. "Fuck," he muttered, his voice breaking into a groan as he buried himself deeper, forcing another cry from your lips.

You laughed between your moans, delighted by the fact that you had unraveled him so completely. "That’s the man I wanted," you murmured against his lips.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes burning with something wild, something dangerous. "And you are mine," he declared, his voice a raw promise, a vow sealed in sweat and fire.

You pulled him down into another bruising kiss, your legs tightening around his waist, dragging him deeper, demanding more. "Then prove it," you challenged.

And gods, did he.

Maegor pinned your wrists above your head, his grip unrelenting, his body a force you could no longer control. The smirk on his lips was triumphant, cruel, his amusement unmistakable as he watched you tremble beneath him.

"Where is she now?" he taunted, his voice deep and laced with satisfaction. "The little viper who dared to play with dragons?"

You gasped, your back arching as he found that spot again, the one that made your body betray you completely. A whimper escaped your lips, and Maegor chuckled darkly, his gaze burning into yours.

"You were so bold before," he mused, leaning down, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Teasing me, taunting me. But now?" He pressed a slow, deliberate thrust that had you biting back a cry. "Now you have nothing to say?"

Your hands strained against his grip, but it was useless—he was too strong, too unyielding. You wanted to fight back, to retake control, but he wasn't letting you. And that only made your desire burn hotter.

"Admit it," he murmured, his free hand trailing down your body, his touch deliberate, tormenting. "You wanted this. You wanted me to break you."

Your breath hitched, your body reacting before you could form a proper response. The way he moved, the way he owned you in this moment, left no room for anything but raw, helpless pleasure.

"You can't even deny it," he chuckled, his tongue flicking over the shell of your ear. "You're shaking for me, falling apart under my hands. Tell me, little dragon—" his teeth scraped against your throat, his next thrust making stars explode behind your eyes. "Do you still think you can control me?"

Your pride warred with the overwhelming sensations flooding your body. You wanted to deny him, to tell him you still held the upper hand—but the way he had you now, completely at his mercy, made it impossible.

Still, you forced yourself to smirk, even as your voice trembled. "Perhaps I let you win this time."

Maegor stilled, his grip tightening around your wrists, his eyes narrowing with a dangerous glint. "Let me?"

A flash of something dark and thrilling passed between you. His expression twisted into something feral, something ruthless.

"Then let's see," he growled, lowering his body over yours completely, pressing you into the mattress, "how much more you are willing to give me."

And then, with one punishing snap of his hips, he shattered you completely.

Maegor let out a deep, guttural growl when he felt your teeth sink into his flesh, his body tensing above you. His grip on your wrists tightened, but you didn’t care—you had marked him. You had left something on him, a reminder that you were not merely his to conquer, but that he belonged to you just as much.

A slow, satisfied smirk spread across your lips as you pulled back, admiring the red mark blooming on his neck. "There," you murmured, your voice thick with pleasure and triumph. "Now everyone will see that even the mighty Maegor the Cruel is claimed."

His breath was ragged, his silver hair damp with sweat as he loomed over you, his body still moving, still demanding. His free hand came up to grasp your chin, forcing you to look into his darkened eyes. There was something dangerous in them, something feral—but also something deeply satisfied.

"You think that makes me yours?" he rumbled, voice low and threatening, but you could hear the amusement laced within it.

You tilted your head despite his grip, your smirk widening. "Are you saying it doesn’t?"

Maegor bared his teeth in something between a grin and a snarl. "Foolish girl," he muttered before capturing your lips in a searing kiss, all teeth and dominance, as if trying to consume you. His thrust became rougher, more determined, his body pressing you deeper into the mattress, ensuring you had no escape.

Yet still, your gaze burned into his, your challenge unwavering. You knew him—you knew how to play this game, how to make him feel in ways he never had before.

"You are mine," you whispered when he pulled back for air, your breath mingling with his. "Whether you admit it or not, Maegor."

His eyes darkened further, something unreadable flickering in them. Then, suddenly, he released your wrists, his large hands gripping your waist instead.

"Then prove it," he growled.

Before you could even process his words, he had flipped your positions, your body now straddling his. The sudden shift made you gasp, your hands instinctively planting themselves on his chest for balance. His smirk returned as he watched you, his grip firm on your hips.

"Show me," he demanded. "Take what you claim as yours."

Your heart pounded, your breath unsteady—but you refused to hesitate. If he wanted proof, you would give it to him.

With a slow, deliberate roll of your hips, you set the pace, your movements confident, knowing exactly how to drive him mad. His hands trembled against your skin, his jaw clenched as he let you lead, his self-control hanging by a thread.

"You are mine," you echoed, watching as his breath hitched, his grip tightening. "And I will never share you."

Maegor’s growl vibrated through his chest, his restraint slipping. His hands guided your movements now, meeting your rhythm with his own. "Then you had best make sure no one can ever take me away from you."

And with that, the battle between you continued—one of fire and desire, of dominance and submission, of two dragons unwilling to be tamed by anything but each other.

You sat atop him, your silver hair cascading over your shoulders, your body moving with deliberate confidence. Maegor, beneath you, was a vision of restraint and frustration. His head was thrown back against the pillows, his jaw clenched, his hands fisting the sheets beneath him as he fought the primal urge to take what he wanted. What you had denied him.

His breathing was ragged, his powerful chest rising and falling as he struggled against the command you had given him. Do not touch me unless I allow it.

And Maegor had obeyed. But his patience was wearing thin.

Your fingers trailed up his arms, over the scars that marked his battles, before settling around his throat. Not tight enough to hurt—just enough to claim.

His eyes snapped open, locking onto yours. The violet depths burned with something dark, something dangerous, something hungry. His lips curled into a smirk, though his voice was rough when he spoke.

"Do you think you rule me, little dragon?" His words were mocking, but there was an edge of something deeper—curiosity, even admiration.

Your grip on his throat tightened slightly, your nails digging into his skin just enough to make him swallow hard. "I know I do," you whispered, leaning closer, your breath ghosting over his lips. "You are mine, Maegor. No one else."

A deep, guttural growl rumbled in his chest, his muscles tensing beneath you as if ready to throw you down and reclaim control. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. You had stripped him of that power tonight, and you both knew it.

"Arrogant," he murmured, though there was something like admiration in his voice. "Just like me."

You smiled, tilting your head slightly as you pressed a slow, taunting kiss to his jawline. "That is why we belong together."

His hands twitched, his restraint fraying at the edges. You could feel the battle raging within him—the war between his desire to dominate and the intoxicating thrill of surrendering to you, just this once.

"You tempt fate, sister," Maegor warned, his voice hoarse. "You do not know what I will do once I break free of your chains."

You pulled back slightly, meeting his gaze with unwavering certainty. "Then break free, Maegor."

His breath hitched. His body coiled beneath you like a dragon ready to strike. But still, he did not move.

"You see?" you whispered, pressing your lips just above his pulse point, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your touch. "Even you cannot deny me."

His head fell back against the pillows with a low, frustrated groan, his fingers digging into the sheets as he surrendered—completely.

And you smiled. Because tonight, Maegor the Cruel belonged to you.

Maegor’s grip on the sheet tightened for a brief moment before he let out a sharp exhale, his head falling back against the pillows. His jaw clenched, muscles tensing beneath your fingers as you moved with deliberate, confident grace, your hands now firmly planted on his broad shoulders.

"You’re playing a dangerous game," he growled, his voice hoarse, strained. His hands flexed at his sides as if resisting the urge to seize control.

You smirked, leaning down so that your lips brushed against the shell of his ear. "Am I?" you whispered, tilting your head slightly to press an open-mouthed kiss against his jawline, feeling the way his body trembled in response. "I think you’re just not used to someone telling you no."

His growl deepened, but still, he did not move to stop you. You could see it in his face—the battle between his need for control and his hunger for you. He was Maegor the Cruel, a man who took whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. And yet, here he was, allowing you to dictate the pace, letting you be the one in control.

You rolled your hips once more, slow and unrelenting, watching as his fingers dug into the sheets. His nostrils flared, his darkened violet eyes locked onto yours with a mixture of frustration and unbearable desire.

"Do you hate this?" you teased, dragging your nails down his chest, watching the way his muscles rippled beneath your touch. "Being beneath me?"

His eyes flashed, his lips parting as if to snarl some sharp retort—but then you moved again, and whatever words had been forming in his throat died on his tongue.

A deep, shuddering breath escaped him, and for a moment, his grip on control faltered. His hands twitched toward your hips before he caught himself, fists clenching instead. You laughed—low and victorious.

"Poor, poor Maegor," you crooned mockingly, running your fingers through his damp silver hair. "Always so strong, so unyielding… And yet here you are, trembling beneath me."

His patience snapped.

In the blink of an eye, his hands shot up, seizing your wrists and flipping your positions before you could even gasp. Your back hit the bed, your head spinning. His body caged yours beneath him, his fingers wrapping around your throat as he loomed over you, his expression a mixture of fury and unrelenting hunger.

"You truly think you can tame me?" he rasped, his voice thick with something between fury and raw, unfiltered desire. "That you can toy with me without consequence?"

You smirked up at him, your breath uneven, but your confidence unshaken. "I know I can."

His expression was unreadable for a moment, his lips slightly parted, his breath heavy. Then—slowly—his mouth curved into something dangerous, something almost proud.

"You will regret this," he warned.

But even as he said it, his lips descended upon yours once more, and you knew—there was no regret to be had.

Maegor did not hold back. His grip on your hips was ironclad, his movements relentless, driving you further and further into a state of pure, uncontrollable sensation. Your nails clawed at his shoulders, your voice breaking into incoherent pleas as he continued to push you beyond your limits.

His dark violet eyes glowed with something triumphant, something wicked. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he leaned down, his breath warm against your ear. "What happened to all that confidence, little one?" he taunted, his voice dripping with amusement. "Where is the fearless woman who thought she could tame me?"

You could barely breathe, let alone form a response. The intensity, the overwhelming sensation, it was too much. Your body betrayed you, trembling violently beneath him, your fingers clutching at him as if he was the only thing keeping you grounded.

Maegor chuckled darkly, his hand sliding up to cup your throat, his thumb brushing lazily over your racing pulse. "So fragile," he murmured mockingly, tilting his head as he observed you. "And yet, you truly believed you could best me?"

You whimpered, your eyes fluttering shut for a moment, only to snap open when he suddenly stilled.

A sharp gasp left your lips as you found yourself teetering on the very edge of oblivion, your entire body burning with frustration. Your hands fisted against his chest, your breath ragged. "Maegor—"

His smirk widened. "Ah, so you do know how to beg," he mused, his grip on your throat tightening ever so slightly, just enough to make your breath hitch. "Say it again."

Your pride warred with your desperation. You wanted to defy him, to prove that you were still in control, but gods, the way he held you, the way he owned you in this moment—it shattered any semblance of resistance you had left.

"Please," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

His eyes darkened, his smirk fading as something more primal took over. He leaned in, his lips brushing against yours, his voice a low, possessive growl. "Good girl."

And then, without warning, he moved.

A scream tore from your throat as he pulled you under, into a world where nothing existed but him—the weight of his body, the heat of his skin, the sheer power he wielded over you so effortlessly. Your vision blurred, your mind spinning as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you, leaving you utterly undone beneath him.

Maegor watched you with satisfaction, his expression one of absolute victory. He slowed, his hands running possessively down your trembling form, as if to savor the sight of you like this—wrecked, breathless, completely his.

"You will never win against me," he murmured, pressing a searing kiss to your parted lips. "No matter how much you fight it, no matter how much you pretend to have control."

He pulled back just enough to meet your dazed, unfocused gaze. His fingers brushed against your cheek, almost tenderly. "You belong to me," he whispered. "And I will make sure you never forget it."

Your body trembled violently, your senses consumed entirely by him. Maegor had torn away every last fragment of control you thought you had, leaving you at his mercy—breathless, shaking, and utterly undone beneath him.

Yet, despite the exhaustion, despite the way your limbs felt like they no longer belonged to you, something deep inside you refused to surrender. You were a dragon, just as much as he was. And dragons did not bow so easily.

As the final waves of pleasure coursed through you, your arms wrapped tightly around his broad shoulders, your nails digging into his skin, marking him just as he had marked you. "Maegor—" His name escaped your lips in a desperate cry, raw and unrestrained, and the sound of it seemed to push him over the edge.

A guttural growl tore from his throat as he gave in to his release, his entire body tensing above you. His grip on your hips tightened, his fingers pressing bruises into your soft flesh as he buried himself deep, claiming you in the most absolute way. His forehead pressed against yours, his breath ragged and uneven, his lips parting as if he wanted to say something—but words failed him in that moment.

For a long time, neither of you moved. The only sound in the dimly lit chamber was the heavy rise and fall of your breathing, the lingering echoes of your shared pleasure still hanging in the air. His weight pinned you to the bed, warm and solid, as if he had no intention of letting you go.

You felt his lips brush against your temple, an almost tender gesture, so different from the ruthless dominance he had just shown. His hand slid up your body, fingers tracing along your collarbone before cupping your face. He tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. His violet eyes were dark, still clouded with the remnants of desire—but beneath that, there was something else. Something deeper.

"You are mine," he murmured, his voice rough but certain. "And I will never let you go."

Your lips parted, but before you could respond, his mouth was on yours again, claiming, demanding. There was no space for hesitation, no room for doubt. He wanted you to understand that this—you and him—was not something temporary.

When he finally pulled away, his gaze swept over your face, as if committing every detail to memory. "Say it," he commanded, his voice softer now but no less insistent. "Say that you belong to me."

A part of you wanted to resist, to challenge him as you always had—but you knew the truth. You had belonged to him long before this night, long before either of you had dared to act on what had always simmered between you.

Your fingers traced over his jaw, your touch gentle, almost reverent. "I am yours, Maegor."

A slow, satisfied smirk curled his lips. "Good," he murmured, pressing another kiss to your lips, this one lingering, possessive. "Because I would burn the world to keep you."

The air in the chamber was thick with the scent of fire and sweat, of desire finally unleashed after years of restraint. You lay beneath Maegor, your body still tingling from the aftermath of what had just transpired between you. Your breaths mingled, your limbs tangled together, but what consumed you now was not just the physical pleasure—it was the undeniable truth that, after tonight, everything had changed.

Maegor had always been an enigma, a man of steel and fury, forged in the crucible of war and ambition. He had many wives, many women who vied for his attention, but none of them were you. None of them had shared his blood, his fire. None of them had challenged him the way you did.

And tonight, for the first time, you saw the shift in his gaze. He no longer looked at you as just his sister. He no longer saw the child who had once trailed after him in the halls of the Red Keep. No—now, he saw you, the woman, the dragon who had dared to claim him as her own.

Maegor ran a hand through his hair, his chest still rising and falling heavily as he leaned on his forearm above you. His violet eyes bore into yours, searching, filled with something unreadable. His fingers ghosted along your jaw, his thumb brushing against your lower lip. "You planned this, didn't you?" His voice was low, rough, but there was amusement beneath the accusation.

A slow, knowing smile curled at your lips. "I have always known what I wanted, Maegor," you whispered, tilting your head slightly. "And I do not lose."

His smirk widened, but there was something dangerous in the way he looked at you now. "Neither do I," he countered, gripping your chin and forcing you to hold his gaze. "Do you know what you have done?"

You reached up, trailing your fingers over the scars on his chest, feeling the heat of his skin beneath your touch. "I have taken what is mine."

A sharp breath left his lips, his grip tightening for just a moment before he let out a low chuckle. "So bold," he murmured, shaking his head. "So foolish."

"Foolish?" you echoed, arching a brow. "Or brave?"

His eyes darkened at that, and in one swift motion, he rolled you onto your back again, his weight pressing you into the furs beneath you. "Reckless," he corrected, his lips ghosting over yours. "You think you can have me all to yourself?"

Your nails dug into his back, a smirk playing on your lips. "I do not think, Maegor. I know."

He inhaled sharply, his fingers tangling into your hair as he pulled your head back, exposing your throat to his burning gaze. "You do not command me."

You let out a soft, breathless laugh. "And yet, here you are…"

A growl rumbled in his chest before his lips crashed against yours again, fierce and demanding. It was a battle neither of you would ever surrender.

As the night stretched on, as your bodies and wills clashed again and again, you knew one thing for certain—Maegor the Cruel had finally met his match.

You barely had time to register what was happening before you were yanked harshly from Maegor’s warmth. The lingering haze of exhaustion and pleasure still clung to your body, but the sudden forceful pull on your wrist had you snapping awake instantly.

A sharp gasp left your lips as you stumbled, barely catching yourself before falling completely. Your eyes darted to the woman standing before you, her grip on your arm firm, her expression twisted in anger.

It was Tyanna.

Her dark eyes burned with fury as she glared at you, her jaw clenched so tightly you could see the tension in her face. Behind her, you noticed the door to Maegor’s chamber was wide open, the hallway beyond it filled with the hushed murmurs of curious onlookers. Servants, guards, and even some of the other wives peered in, their faces a mix of shock, curiosity, and amusement.

You pulled your arm back forcefully, shaking off her grip as you straightened your posture. The silk sheets pooled around your waist, leaving your bare skin exposed to the cool morning air, but you refused to show any sign of weakness. You lifted your chin, meeting Tyanna’s glare with a calm, almost lazy defiance.

"You dare touch me?" you asked, your voice smooth and even, though there was an undeniable edge to it.

Tyanna scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest as she sneered down at you. "I should be the one asking you that," she spat, her eyes flicking toward Maegor’s still-sleeping form. "You think you can just crawl into his bed like some common whore and take what belongs to us?"

A slow smirk tugged at your lips. "I did not crawl, Tyanna," you corrected her coolly, brushing a strand of silver hair behind your ear. "I was carried."

Her face darkened in an instant.

"You think this is a game?" she hissed, stepping closer, her voice low and venomous. "You are nothing more than his latest amusement, a passing distraction."

You hummed, tilting your head. "A distraction that kept him entertained all night, it seems," you mused, glancing at the marks Maegor had left all over your body. "How unfortunate for you."

Tyanna’s hand shot out as if to slap you, but before she could strike, another hand caught her wrist mid-air.

A deep, warning growl filled the room.

Both of you froze.

Maegor.

His grip on Tyanna’s wrist was bruising, his expression a storm of barely contained rage as he loomed over the both of you. The golden morning light streamed in from the window, illuminating the sharp lines of his face, the unmistakable power in his form. His dark violet eyes flickered with fury as he turned his gaze to Tyanna.

"Touch her," he said, his voice a dangerous whisper, "and I will rip the flesh from your bones."

Tyanna stiffened, her eyes wide with shock. "Maegor—"

"Silence."

His command was absolute.

You could see her struggling to maintain her composure, but the raw authority in Maegor’s voice left no room for argument. He did not release her wrist immediately; instead, he tightened his grip just enough to make her wince before shoving her away.

She stumbled slightly, but recovered quickly, glaring at you one last time before turning on her heel and storming out of the room, her skirts billowing behind her.

The silence that followed was heavy.

Maegor exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples as if the mere presence of his wives exhausted him. He turned back to you, his gaze raking over your exposed form before settling on your face. His expression softened—only slightly, but you noticed it nonetheless.

"You have a habit of causing trouble," he muttered, reaching out to brush his fingers against your jaw.

You smirked, leaning into his touch. "And yet, you never seem to mind."

His lips quirked upward in amusement before he suddenly grabbed your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze fully.

"Let them be jealous," he murmured, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. "Let them burn with it."

Then, with a satisfied hum, he pulled you back into the bed, wrapping an arm around your waist possessively.

"You are mine now," he whispered against your skin. "And I do not share."

The laughter that filled the chamber died instantly as the heavy doors swung open.

You barely had time to react before the towering figure of Visenya Targaryen stood framed in the doorway, her presence alone enough to suck the warmth from the room.

She did not need to shout.

She did not need to brandish Dark Sister.

She did not need to utter a single word.

Her silence alone was a blade at your throat.

Maegor’s lips stilled against your skin, his body still covering yours protectively, but he did not move away. Instead, his grip on you tightened, his muscles tensing as he turned his head toward your mother. His violet eyes met hers, unreadable yet unwavering.

Visenya’s gaze was cold, calculating, as sharp as the sword she wielded. Her face betrayed no emotion, save for the slight furrow of her brow—the only indication of the storm that brewed within her.

A long silence stretched between the three of you.

Then, finally, she spoke.

“Get up.”

Her voice was not loud, but the weight of command in it was absolute.

You did not move.

Neither did Maegor.

His grip on you only tightened.

Visenya’s eyes darkened as they flicked between the two of you, her lips pressing into a thin line. She stepped forward, each movement precise, measured. When she spoke again, her tone was clipped, biting.

"Are you truly this foolish?" she asked, her gaze burning into you. "Or have you simply gone mad?"

Your fingers dug into Maegor’s arm as you sat up, but you did not look away. "Neither," you answered calmly. "I know exactly what I am doing."

Visenya’s expression remained unreadable, but you saw it—the flicker of something dangerous in her eyes.

"Do you?" she murmured.

You held her gaze.

"Yes."

Her lips curled, not quite into a smile—more like the ghost of something cruel.

"You believe you are above consequence," she mused, stepping closer. "You believe your blood, your name, will protect you from the fury of those who will see this as an affront."

You tilted your chin, refusing to cower before her.

"I believe," you said slowly, "that I am the only one worthy of him."

That made her pause.

Maegor let out a low chuckle, his grip on you loosening slightly as he leaned back against the headboard, watching the exchange with amusement. His mother’s gaze flickered to him, as if to gauge his reaction, before she exhaled sharply through her nose.

"Is that what you think?" Visenya asked, arching a brow.

"It is what I know," you corrected.

For the first time, her expression shifted. Not anger. Not disappointment.

Something closer to intrigue.

She studied you for a long moment, the firelight casting shadows across her sharp features. When she finally spoke again, her voice was quiet, but the edge remained.

"Rise," she ordered.

You hesitated only for a moment before Maegor moved first, pulling you up alongside him. The silk sheets pooled around your waist as you sat up fully, facing your mother without shame, without hesitation.

Visenya’s gaze flickered briefly to the marks along your skin—the proof of what had transpired between you and Maegor the night before.

She did not look surprised.

She did not look pleased, either.

Instead, she simply clasped her hands behind her back and said, "Dress yourself. We will speak in the Tower of the Hand."

Then, without another word, she turned and strode from the room, leaving the heavy doors open in her wake.

The moment she was gone, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Maegor was still beside you, his hand tracing absent patterns along your thigh. You turned to him, finding his lips curved into something between amusement and satisfaction.

"She did not say no," he mused.

You smirked. "Not yet."

He chuckled, his hand tightening around your waist as he pulled you closer. "Then let us ensure she never gets the chance to."

You walked beside Maegor, your pace measured, your head held high, as if the weight of every whispered word around you did not exist.

The halls of the Red Keep were alive with murmurs—maids clutching their cleaning rags, their eyes wide with scandalous delight; courtiers pausing mid-step, turning to murmur behind their hands as their gazes flickered between you and Maegor.

They were not subtle.

Some did not even bother to whisper.

Yet you paid them no mind.

You had chosen your gown deliberately. The dark velvet fabric clung to your form, the heavy embroidery glinting under the torchlight. The neckline—low enough to reveal the bruises Maegor had left upon you—was not an accident, nor was the way you allowed your hair to tumble freely over your shoulders, rather than pinned in the modest fashion expected of noblewomen.

You wanted them to see.

You wanted them to talk.

And they would.

Maegor, at your side, was silent but imposing. His presence alone sent a chill through the air, making those in your path step aside without hesitation. His dark armor gleamed, his black cloak billowing behind him as he walked, his hand resting idly upon the pommel of his sword.

He did not look at you, nor did he acknowledge the stares—but you knew he was aware of them.

Just as you were.

And when you finally reached the doors to the chamber where Visenya awaited, he turned his head ever so slightly, his lips curving in the faintest of smirks.

He was enjoying this.

The tension.

The spectacle.

The knowledge that every person in this castle now knew that you belonged to him.

He reached for the doors and shoved them open without hesitation.

Inside, Visenya stood near the hearth, her hands clasped behind her back, her silver hair catching the firelight. She did not turn as you entered, but you could feel the weight of her presence, the sharpness of her mind already dissecting your every move before you even made them.

"You are bold," she said at last, her voice measured, calm. "Perhaps too bold."

You stepped forward, your chin lifted. "You did not summon us here to discuss my wardrobe."

That made her turn.

Her eyes—those same sharp, calculating violet eyes that you and Maegor shared—landed upon you first. They lingered on the marks upon your skin, the way your gown so purposefully displayed them.

Then, slowly, she shifted her gaze to Maegor.

"You should have more sense than this," she told him. "But perhaps I overestimated you."

Maegor did not flinch. He did not look away. "You overestimate your own authority, Mother, if you think to dictate whom I take to my bed."

Visenya exhaled sharply through her nose, her lips pressing into a thin line.

"This is not merely about a bed, and you know it." She turned back to you. "What is your endgame, child? What exactly do you hope to gain from this?"

You held her gaze.

"I do not hope for anything," you said simply. "I will have what is mine."

Her brows lifted ever so slightly. "And what, pray tell, do you believe is yours?"

You glanced at Maegor then, at the way he stood beside you, solid and unmoving, his hand still resting upon his sword as if daring anyone to challenge his right to be at your side.

Then, with the confidence that had been carved into your very bones, you turned back to Visenya and answered:

"The throne."

Silence.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the crackling of the fire.

Then—slowly, very slowly—Visenya smiled.

It was not a warm smile.

It was not a pleased smile.

It was sharp. Calculating.

Like the first flicker of a flame before it consumes everything in its path.

She exhaled softly and stepped closer, so close you could see the faint lines around her mouth, the weight of years spent shaping the destiny of House Targaryen.

"If you wish to wear a crown," she murmured, her voice almost gentle, "then you must be willing to bleed for it."

You did not blink.

You did not waver.

You smiled.

"Then let the bleeding begin."

Visenya's words hung in the air like a blade suspended by a thread.

"I should have agreed when your father wanted you to marry Aenys."

The room fell into a heavy silence.

Maegor’s jaw clenched so tightly you could hear the grind of his teeth. His hand, still resting upon the pommel of his sword, curled into a fist. The flickering firelight cast deep shadows upon his face, making him look even more menacing than usual.

You, however, could only stare at your mother, shock momentarily robbing you of speech.

"Aenys?" you echoed, as if you had misheard her.

Visenya did not waver. "Yes. He was our brother’s son, of pure Valyrian blood. A match that would have been appropriate—unlike this… madness."

Madness.

She was calling this madness.

She, of all people.

You almost laughed at the irony.

"You—" Maegor’s voice was a low, warning growl. "You would have given her to him?"

Visenya’s expression remained unreadable. "It would have been better than what she has chosen for herself."

A muscle twitched in Maegor’s jaw. His grip tightened upon his sword.

You saw the way his shoulders tensed, the way his nostrils flared—the barely restrained rage simmering beneath his skin.

And yet, beneath that rage…

There was something else.

Something dark and possessive and utterly furious.

You swallowed, regaining your voice. "You would have had me wed a man who would sooner hide behind his councilors than make a decision for himself?"

Visenya’s gaze flickered back to you. "Aenys was weak," she admitted. "But he was still our blood. And a union between you and him would have ensured—"

"Would have ensured that I spent my life shackled to a man unworthy of me." You lifted your chin, voice sharp. "Would have ensured that I wasted away in the shadows while he simpered before the lords of Westeros."

Visenya exhaled sharply. "And now you would shackle yourself to Maegor instead?"

At that, Maegor let out a low, mirthless chuckle. "No," he murmured darkly, stepping closer. "She does not shackle herself to me." His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your wrist in an iron grip. "She belongs to me."

A possessive declaration. A claim.

One that left no room for argument.

Your heartbeat quickened.

Visenya’s eyes darkened. "Belongs to you?" she repeated, her tone edged with something unreadable. "Is that what you believe?"

Maegor smirked, tilting his head. "I know it."

Visenya inhaled slowly, measuring his words—measuring you.

"And you?" she finally asked, her gaze settling upon you.

You met her stare without flinching.

"Yes."

A single word. Steady. Unshaken.

Visenya studied you for a long moment, and for the first time, something flickered in her gaze.

Not anger.

Not disappointment.

But recognition.

"You are a fool," she murmured. "Both of you."

You said nothing.

She sighed, running a hand over her temple as if you had given her a headache. "Do you even understand what you invite upon yourself?"

You held her gaze. "I understand more than you think."

Visenya shook her head. "You think you understand. But power is not given—it is taken. And once you take it, there is no going back."

You did not hesitate. "I do not intend to go back."

A beat of silence.

Then Visenya exhaled softly, something almost like resignation flickering across her face.

"You will regret this," she murmured. "Both of you will."

Maegor smirked. "Doubtful."

Visenya stared at him for a long moment, then at you. Then, without another word, she turned and strode toward the doors.

But just before she exited, she paused.

"You should pray," she said over her shoulder, "that you never find out why I wanted you to wed Aenys instead."

And then she was gone.

The room remained heavy with her words.

You turned to Maegor. "Why would she say that?"

He was still staring at the door, his jaw set.

Finally, he exhaled and looked at you.

"Because she knows," he murmured, stepping closer, his hands settling upon your waist. "That I do not intend to share what is mine."

His grip tightened.

His gaze burned.

And despite the warning still lingering in the air—

You smiled.

The doors to the council chamber swung open with a resounding thud, and the air inside shifted, thick with tension as you and Maegor stepped inside.

Every eye in the room turned to you.

The lords of the realm—the men who had served under your father, Aegon the Conqueror, and now bowed before his son—stared at you in stunned silence.

Their gazes flickered between you and Maegor, their shock evident, though none dared to speak first.

For they knew who you were.

You were not just Maegor’s sister.

You were the daughter of Aegon the Conqueror and Visenya Targaryen. A dragon born of dragons.

And now—now—you were something more.

Maegor strode to the head of the table, his presence commanding as he turned to face them all. His hand, large and possessive, rested upon your lower back, the warmth of his touch burning through the fabric of your gown.

He did not wait for anyone to find their voices.

"I have summoned you all here to inform you of a decision," he declared, his voice a low rumble of finality.

Your lips curled into a slow, satisfied smile as you watched them shift uncomfortably in their seats.

"The women who call themselves my wives," Maegor continued, his tone edged with disdain, "are no longer so. As of this moment, I renounce them. I annul every marriage."

A ripple of shock swept through the chamber. The lords exchanged uneasy glances, but none dared to interrupt.

You could hear the sharp inhale of Lord Rogar Baratheon, see the way Lord Tully's hands twitched upon the table. Even Lord Celtigar, one of the most loyal supporters of House Targaryen, looked taken aback.

But Maegor was not finished.

"In their place, I will take one wife."

He turned his head slightly, his gaze locking onto yours.

Your breath hitched.

Not because you were surprised—no, this was what you had wanted.

This was what you had orchestrated.

But because, in this moment, standing beside him as he declared to the realm that you were his—

You felt it.

You felt the power shift.

The inevitability of it.

"The woman I will wed," Maegor continued, his voice dark and possessive, "is my sister."

The chamber erupted.

"My king —!" Lord Baratheon shot to his feet, but he was silenced by the sound of Maegor unsheathing Blackfyre and slamming it against the table.

The great Valyrian steel blade sent goblets spilling over, the clang of metal against wood ringing through the air like a war drum.

The lords flinched.

You did not.

Maegor’s eyes burned as he surveyed them, daring them to challenge him.

"I am your king," he reminded them coldly. "You will not interrupt me again."

A thick silence fell over the room.

Even Lord Baratheon, still standing, hesitated before slowly lowering himself back into his seat.

Satisfied, Maegor continued.

"There is no woman in the realm more worthy of my throne than my own blood," he declared. "No one more fit to rule at my side than my own sister. A dragon belongs with a dragon."

Your heart pounded as his words wrapped around you, solidifying the reality of what you had fought for.

The lords were stunned into silence, their minds scrambling to grasp what this meant—what you meant.

And then, finally, someone found their voice.

"Your Grace," Lord Tully said hesitantly, his face pale. "The Faith—"

Maegor turned his burning gaze onto him. "The Faith will bend. Or I will break them."

A chill swept through the room.

Everyone knew what that meant.

The memories of the last Faith uprising were still fresh—bodies impaled upon spikes, the Great Sept desecrated, the streets of King's Landing running red with blood.

No one wanted to challenge Maegor on this.

No one could.

And so, they remained silent.

You smiled.

Because in this moment—

You had won.

Maegor turned to you, his dark gaze locking onto yours, his lips curling into a smirk.

"You will be my wife," he said, his voice lower now, meant only for you. "And you will rule at my side."

Your hand reached up, fingers brushing his jawline, tilting his face toward yours.

"And I will never share you," you whispered back, your eyes alight with triumph.

Maegor exhaled a slow, deep chuckle, his grip tightening upon you.

"Then it seems," he murmured, "we understand each other perfectly."

As the heavy doors of the council chamber slammed shut, the lingering echoes of Maegor’s decree still clung to the air like a storm waiting to break. The lords had left in silence, their faces pale, their minds racing with the weight of what had just transpired.

But you—

You remained.

Alone with him.

Maegor leaned back in his chair, the great seat carved for kings, his fingers drumming against the armrest. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—those dark, molten pools—were fixed upon you, watching, waiting.

A slow smile curled upon your lips.

With deliberate steps, you approached the long table that had been the site of so many political discussions, so many power struggles—where the realm had just learned that you had triumphed over them all.

You placed one hand on the polished wood and then, with a graceful ease, lifted yourself onto the table, sitting directly in front of him, your legs on either side of his.

His gaze darkened.

Maegor’s hands found your waist instantly, his grip firm, possessive, pulling you closer until there was nothing but breath and heat between you.

Your arms slid around his neck, fingers threading into the thick silver strands of his hair.

"That went well," you mused, tilting your head, your voice laced with amusement. "They did not dare to argue for long."

Maegor let out a low chuckle, one of satisfaction. "Because they fear me," he murmured against your skin, his lips grazing the sensitive point of your jaw. "As they should."

You hummed in agreement, your nails lightly scraping against the back of his neck, sending a shiver down his spine.

"And now," you whispered, leaning in until your lips nearly brushed his, "they will fear me as well."

Maegor’s grip tightened.

"Good," he rumbled. "Let them."

His hands slid down, rough palms pressing against your thighs before gripping your hips, pulling you forward until you were flush against him.

"You did not even hesitate," he said, his breath warm against your lips. "Did you ever?"

You laughed softly, brushing your nose against his.

"Never," you admitted. "You are mine, Maegor. And I do not share."

His pupils dilated at your words, a growl of approval escaping him.

"Neither do I."

Then his lips crashed against yours, and you let yourself be claimed—just as you had claimed him.

The fire between you and Maegor was not one that could be tamed. It was raw, untamed, a hunger that no one else could ever understand.

His lips crashed against yours once more, neither of you willing to yield, both fighting for dominance in a battle that neither truly wanted to win. His hand slid up your back, fingers pressing into your spine as he pulled you impossibly closer. The warmth of his body, the sheer power of him, sent a shiver down your spine.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging hard, making him groan against your mouth. It was a sound of frustration and pleasure all at once. His hands tightened on your waist, his grip possessive, almost punishing.

"Still trying to control me, little dragon?" he murmured against your lips, his breath hot, teasing.

You smirked, your nails scraping against the back of his neck. "You belong to me, Maegor. Do you doubt it?"

He let out a low chuckle, one filled with dark amusement. "I do not doubt it," he admitted, his lips trailing along your jawline, down to the curve of your neck. He bit down—not enough to hurt, but enough to make you gasp. "But you belong to me just the same."

Your head tilted back as his mouth worked its way lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses down your throat. Your heartbeat pounded against your ribs, a rhythm that matched the fire burning in your veins.

Your legs tightened around his waist, your body molding against his as his hands roamed, his touch leaving trails of heat wherever it landed. You could feel his breath against your collarbone, feel the way he fought to keep his control intact.

"You are holding back," you whispered, your fingers threading through his silver hair, tugging once more. "Why?"

Maegor growled, his hands gripping your waist harder. "You test me," he murmured, his lips pressing against your skin, his breath warm, teasing. "You have always tested me."

"And you have always loved it."

His eyes met yours then, dark and filled with something deeper than mere desire.

"Yes," he admitted, his voice low, dangerous. "I have."

Then, with a sudden movement, he lifted you off the table with ease, carrying you as if you weighed nothing. You gasped, your arms tightening around his neck as he turned, stalking toward his chambers with a determination that sent a thrill down your spine.

"Where are we going?" you asked, though you already knew the answer.

He smirked, his grip tightening on you. "To make sure the entire Red Keep knows exactly who you belong to."

Maegor was never a patient man. You knew that better than anyone. And yet, as you lay beneath him, watching his fingers fumble in his urgency to rid himself of his armor, you couldn’t help but laugh.

His head snapped up at the sound, eyes narrowing. “You find something amusing?” His voice was a growl, low and dangerous, but there was a glint in his eye—a flicker of something that was reserved only for you.

You reached up, brushing a strand of damp silver hair away from his forehead. “Only that the mighty Maegor the Cruel is in such a hurry,” you teased, your fingers grazing along his jawline. “Where is your control, brother?”

His hands found your wrists before you could move away, pinning them to the mattress on either side of your head. The sudden force made you gasp, your amusement flickering into something else—something deeper, darker.

“My control?” He leaned down, his breath hot against your ear. “It is you who shatters it every time.”

You shivered as his lips brushed against your jaw, trailing down to your throat. His teeth grazed the sensitive skin, his grip on your wrists tightening as your body arched beneath him. He was fire—burning, all-consuming—and you had always been drawn to the flames.

“I should make you beg,” he murmured against your skin, his voice rough with restraint.

You tilted your head, a smirk curving your lips even as your pulse raced. “And yet, here you are, trembling with need.”

Maegor let out a low growl, his fingers curling around the fabric of your dress. With one sharp tug, the fine material tore, slipping from your shoulders like silk.

“Careful, brother,” you purred, your breath hitching as his lips found the curve of your collarbone. “You might just lose yourself.”

His golden eyes met yours, dark and smoldering. “I already have.”

And then, with a force that stole the breath from your lungs, he claimed you—wholly, utterly, as if he had been waiting for this moment his entire life.

Maegor moved with a brutal, unrelenting pace, forcing a sharp gasp from your lips. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, holding on as he claimed you with the same ruthless determination he wielded in battle.

His grip on your hips tightened, ensuring you had nowhere to go—not that you wanted to escape. Your legs wrapped securely around his waist, locking him in place. The motion made him groan, his head falling to the crook of your neck.

“Fucking,” he muttered under his breath, his voice rough, strained.

You couldn’t help but laugh, though it was breathless, tinged with the heat coursing through your veins. “Losing control already, brother?”

His teeth found your throat in response, biting just hard enough to leave a mark before soothing the sting with his tongue. You shivered at the sensation, fingers tangling in his hair as he moved.

“You provoke me,” he growled, his breath hot against your skin. “Every damn time.”

You tilted your head, giving him better access, enjoying the way he took exactly what he wanted. “And yet, you always give in.”

Maegor pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. His eyes were dark, filled with something that sent a shiver down your spine. “You will be mine.”

You smirked, running your nails down his back, delighting in the way his muscles tensed beneath your touch. “I already am.”

The words sent him into a frenzy, his movements growing more intense, more desperate. His control—so carefully maintained in every other aspect of his life—was shattered here, with you.

And gods, you loved knowing that no one else could ever break him the way you did.

Maegor straightened, pulling your hips flush against him with a sudden, forceful grip that tore a sharp cry from your lips. He laughed—low, dark, victorious—as he held you there, refusing to let you pull away even an inch.

"Look at me," he commanded, fingers grasping your chin, forcing your gaze to meet his.

Your breath hitched, body trembling, but you refused to surrender so easily. Even as he held you, as he dominated you, you still wanted to push him, still wanted to fight.

"You think you’ve won?" you taunted, voice uneven but defiant.

His grip on your chin tightened ever so slightly, his smirk widening. "I know I have."

You clenched your jaw, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of your submission. But Maegor knew you too well—he could see the struggle, the way your body reacted despite your mind’s resistance.

"You fight me," he murmured, eyes gleaming with something dangerous, something hungry. "But you want this. You always do."

Your nails dug into his arms, your chest rising and falling with every rapid breath. "And you need me to want it," you shot back, voice shaking. "Because without me, you're nothing."

His expression darkened, but instead of anger, it was something far more dangerous—something primal. His hold on you became firmer, possessive.

"You think you control me?" he whispered, his breath hot against your lips. "You think you own me?"

You smirked, despite the way your body quivered in his grasp. "I know I do."

That was his breaking point. With a low growl, he moved—fast, overpowering—his mouth crashing against yours as he silenced your defiance the only way he knew how. You gasped, but he swallowed the sound, deepening the kiss, pouring every ounce of his dominance into it.

Maegor would never yield. He would never bow. But neither would you.

And that was why he would always come back to you.

Maegor’s roar of anger echoed through the chamber as the heavy wooden doors burst open, slamming against the stone walls with a force that sent a gust of cold air rushing into the room.

You barely had the presence of mind to register what had happened before laughter bubbled up from your lips. It was sharp, mocking, delighted, because standing in the doorway, frozen in shock and horror, were the women who had once called themselves his wives.

Or rather, his former wives.

Tyanna’s dark eyes were wide, disbelief flashing across her sharp features as she clutched the doorframe. Jeyne’s hand covered her mouth, her soft, delicate face drained of all color. And poor Ceryse— hands curled into fists, trembling as she stared at you, at him, at what the two of you had become.

"What," Maegor snarled, his voice like rolling thunder, "do you think you’re doing?"

The weight of his fury struck them hard. Even Tyanna, who had always been the boldest, flinched under the intensity of his glare.

"We—" Jeyne tried to speak, but her voice cracked. She swallowed thickly and straightened, eyes flickering between you and the man who now held you so possessively. "We heard rumors, Maegor. That you—that she—"

Her words failed her, but the meaning was clear enough. They had hoped, perhaps, that the whispers had been false. That the court had exaggerated. That there was no way their husband—their king—could be found in such a compromising position with his own sister.

But the truth was laid bare before them.

You, tangled in Maegor’s embrace, your skin still flushed, your body still trembling from the intensity of your shared pleasure. Him, his arm wrapped around you, holding you to him like a claim that no one could challenge. The scent of sweat and passion still lingered in the air, thick and undeniable.

You tilted your head back against Maegor’s shoulder, looking at them through half-lidded eyes, utterly unbothered. "Now you come running?" you mused, amusement dripping from every word. "How pathetic."

Ceryse took a step forward, her body tense with rage. "You’re his sister!" she spat, voice shaking. "This is—this is madness!"

You sighed, rolling your eyes. "Is it? Because to me, it looks a lot like destiny."

"You’ve bewitched him," Jeyne whispered, staring at you with something close to fear.

At that, Maegor laughed. It was a low, cruel sound, reverberating through his chest as he held you tighter. "Do you take me for a fool, Jeyne? You think I do not choose this?" His voice dropped into something even darker. "You think I would let anyone—even her—command me?"

Tyanna’s lips parted slightly, a flicker of something unreadable flashing across her face. But Ceryse wasn’t so easily silenced.

"You promised me," she hissed, stepping forward again. "You promised me you would honor our vows."

Maegor’s expression was unreadable, but you felt the tension in his body shift—something hard, something dangerous. "And now," he said coldly, "I break them."

Ceryse let out a sharp, wounded breath.

Jeyne was the first to recover, her gaze dropping to the floor as she took an unsteady step back. "So it’s true," she murmured. "You mean to cast us aside."

"I already have," Maegor corrected, his voice void of any remorse.

Tyanna was silent. But the way her hands curled into her skirts, the way her gaze darted to yours, full of dark calculation, told you that she was already plotting her next move.

You, however, had no such worries.

Instead, you merely smirked, turning your face up to look at Maegor, your fingers tracing absent patterns over his bare chest. "Tell me, my love," you purred, voice dripping with mockery, "shall I have them thrown out? Or shall we let them stay and watch?"

Ceryse recoiled as if struck, and Jeyne let out a horrified gasp.

Maegor exhaled sharply through his nose, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He liked your cruelty. He liked that you enjoyed this as much as he did.

But he was not a man of patience.

"Get out," he growled, his tone brooking no argument.

Jeyne was the first to obey, turning on her heel and all but fleeing from the room. Ceryse lingered for just a moment longer, her hands trembling, her blue eyes filled with unshed tears—then she turned sharply and stormed after her.

Tyanna, however, was different. She lingered, her dark gaze locking with yours, a knowing smirk playing at her lips.

"You may have him now," she murmured, voice slow, measured. "But we shall see how long you can keep him."

And then, without another word, she slipped away into the shadows, disappearing into the halls beyond.

Silence fell over the room.

Then Maegor sighed, pulling you against him once more, burying his face in your hair. "Fools," he muttered darkly. "All of them."

You laughed softly, nuzzling into his warmth. "Let them talk," you whispered. "Let them watch."

Maegor’s grip on you tightened, his lips brushing against your ear. "Let them fear."

And they would.

Because after tonight, the world would know—Maegor the Cruel did not love, did not belong to anyone.

But you… you were the exception.

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