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damneddamsy · 14 days ago

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second sight | cregan stark x oc (part viii)

a/n: today on a special angst-fluff episode, war is here. Claere faces off with Sylas and Cregan is pissed as fuck.

"The North remembers," they said, but in the face of dragonfire, memories of ash smouldered in secret.

The saying haunted Cregan Stark’s mind as he stared up at the approaching stone walls of Winterfell, each one steeped in history, in blood, in the scars of northern pride. The wildlings had brought ruin here before, flames that had charred whole villages and left deep wounds in the land and its people.

Now, with Sylas the Grim’s ruthless host threatening their borders, the North knew what it faced—a familiar terror comes to life in a new skin. And yet, this time, that terror was woven with something the North found even harder to bear: Claere. Their frustration with her burned as deep as their fear of Sylas. She was a tempest, one with a dragon’s shadow, and the tempest had now come home.

The ride back from Castle Cerwyn had been tense, Cregan keeping his jaw clenched as Claere remained distant, her silence like a wall. Her eyes held that distant, unreadable look he recognized all too well—the look that told him she was utterly unreachable elsewhere. And when the raven had come, when they’d learned the wildlings had already torn through Queensgate and were now barreling toward Winterfell, Claere’s decision was swift and absolute. She had urged her dragon, Luna, and flown on ahead, faster than any horse could travel, her need for solitude all too clear.

Back home, Winterfell was in turmoil. Word of Sylas’s raiders had spread quickly, stirring panic and outrage among the smallfolk and the highborn alike. Fear clung to the stone walls, and every murmur seemed to echo with the name of the wildling king who rode south of the Wall, the one who dared invoke a queen’s name—a southern majesty who bore a northern title, one that Winterfell was not wholly at ease with. But Cregan had no time for doubt or hesitation. His vassals, his bannermen—they would follow his lead or face his wrath.

In the great hall, the mood was dark and simmering, like a storm straining at its bounds. It has been this way ever since Claere had stepped foot into his home.

Lord Bolton, face sharp as a flint, crossed his arms and let his displeasure be known. “We’re to fight her war now, are we, my lord? Our sons and daughters—our lives spent to drive back the blood she’s drawn? What loyalty do we owe to a Targaryen?”

Cregan’s eyes darkened, his fists tight by his side, but he remained composed. “Our loyalty is to the North. This enemy does not care who reigns here; only Winterfell falls. And you will address Lady Stark with respect.”

Lord Ryswell, his brow heavy with disdain, shook his head. “But it is the White Dread's wings that drew their eye. This Sylas did not come for Winterfell—he came for her. Let her face him with her beast; let her burn them herself. Must we spill our blood to clean up her folly?”

Cregan’s hands trembled, his patience thinning like a frayed cord.

“If you would run when danger calls at our gates, then perhaps you belong south of the Neck, Lord Ryswell,” he spat, stepping toward him with a fury that made the air crackle. “Do not forget who leads here. You’re bound by the oath to fight for the North, and if you turn your back on that now, I will have your head before the wildlings can take it.”

Ryswell tensed, glancing around as other lords shifted uncomfortably. But he did not back down. “This is your queen’s doing, Lord Stark. She must carry the burden she’s brought upon us, and not cower behind our banners while Winterfell suffers.”

With a flash of uncontained rage, Cregan seized Ryswell by the collar, his grip vice-tight, fingers digging into the thick fabric as he hauled the lord off balance. The impact against the stone wall was brutal, echoing in the quiet tension of the hall, and Ryswell’s startled breath hitched, his eyes widening.

Cregan leaned in, his face mere inches from Ryswell’s, voice low and simmering with menace as he hissed, “If you question my wife's allegiance to the North, then you best prepare to prove yours. She has done more for my people than your risen banners.”

Lord Bolton dared to govern order over the Stark court. "My lord, please—"

“Let me make one thing clear." His voice reverberated louder. "I will fight for her, and the North will fight for her—whether you bend or break.”

He released Ryswell, who stumbled back with a dark glare, but Cregan paid no more heed. He swept his gaze over the others, a steely finality in his eyes.

“We stand together, or our realm falls.”

Unbeknownst to them, Claere lingered in the archway of the hall, a palm against the cool stone as if bracing herself against a tidal wave. She had known the risks, known the delicate line she walked when she ventured past the Wall. And yet, in the depths of her mind, she had believed the danger would end there—with her. That it would be her own fate to face, her choice to defend, and her consequence to bear. She had never thought it would ripple out, consuming not only Winterfell but every corner of the North in the threat of savage war. Now, with Sylas the Grim bearing down on them, the cost was spreading like poison through a wound, infecting all she held dear, casting a shadow over the very halls that had given her sanctuary.

The impact of her actions goaded her, as though Winterfell itself whispered its disappointment. She felt her stomach churn as Cregan's voice rang out, his fury cracking against stone and iron like thunder, defiant, desperate to protect her.

“And I will not allow any man here to see that happen.”

But she could feel the resentment in the lords' voices, their scorn a silent sentence upon her. Their words seemed to cut deeper than any northern frost, digging into her heart until the shame became unbearable.

Without a word, she turned away from the door, her footsteps echoing hollowly as she walked into the dim solitude of the hall.

Claere moved through the towering gates of Winterfell as if stepping out from a world she could no longer right. The northern wind tore at her cloak, pulling stray strands of silver hair across her face, but her gaze was steady, her jaw set with silent resolve.

Just beyond the walls, Luna lay blanketed in a thin dusting of fresh snow, her pearly scales glinting beneath as she shook herself free, the icy fragments scattering around her like stardust. Claere approached, running her hand along the dragon’s warm, rumbling hide, fingers tracing the edges of Luna's scales.

"Eman naejot addemmagon se odre," she said to herself and her dragon. I have to pay the price. Only me.

Luna’s golden eyes narrowed as if the dragon understood more than the simple cadence of her words, the fire at the heart of those depths a spark of both promise and warning. The dragon let out a low, vibrating hum, pressing her enormous head down toward Claere in something almost like tenderness. Claere, hands splayed on Luna’s snout, whispered into the space between them, her voice scarcely above a breath.

“Iksan zūgagon, Luna," she admitted in a whisper. "Kessa ao dohaeragon nyke?” I am scared, Luna. Will you help me?

The response was a fierce snort of smoke as if Luna were granting her blessing and all her reassurance. It was not enough.

Dutifully, Claere climbed the ropes of the saddle and mounted her steed, her knees pressing tight against Luna’s warm scales, and then, with a shout that cut the still air—“Soves, Luna!”—they took to the skies. Fly, Luna!

The winds sliced against her, battering her with an unyielding chill as they soared. She had forgone her riding leathers in the haste of her choice, the coarse wind whipping at her skirts and cloak, cutting against her skin. But the discomfort was a faraway thing and such was the spontaneity of dragonblood. She flew fast, intent, her mind ablaze with thoughts of everything she had left behind and what lay ahead. Her vision sharpened as she scanned the frozen lands below, hunting for signs of the enemy’s encampment.

And finally, there—sprawling like some savage scar against the land—a camp of tattered tents and ash-dusted fires spread in defiance of the snow.

The wildlings’ camp was a raw display of grit and disorder, tents lashed together with hide and bone, rings of fire smouldering where warriors gathered in restless clusters. The sight of her shadow looming overhead sent them into frantic motion; men and women darted for weapons, cries ringing out as they readied for the worst. But Claere had no intention of launching fire or fury from above. She descended steadily, bringing Luna’s menacing form to the ground with a long, deafening roar that sent nearby men staggering.

Two wildlings rushed forward, their faces painted in streaks of ash, axes drawn, arrows already nocked in their bows. They moved with lethal purpose, but Claere was unfazed, her gaze like tempered steel.

“I must speak to the one who calls himself Sylas the Grim,” she called, her voice emphatic, tenacious.

She could feel the wild energy of Luna at her back, a silent reminder of the fire she could unleash with a mere command. Her heart hammered in the pause, yet her expression held no threat, no violence. Instead, her intentions were more profound—steeped in duty and sacrifice, fueled by a desperate love that outweighed all her fears. She was not here to rain death but to offer herself to the one who wanted her, the one who had torn peace from her hands.

“Tell him the Dragon Queen in the North is here.”

Claere stepped into the dim tent, the heavy fabric rustling behind her as it closed, sealing her within a space that reeked of sweat, smoke, and damp fur. Her eyes adjusted to the flickering torchlight, revealing a figure looming at the centre—a man so solid and coarse that he seemed an extension of the savage north itself.

Sylas the Grim. He was far taller than Cregan, broad-shouldered and massive, his age betrayed by streaks of grey in his wild mane of red hair. He wore pelts and leathers, smeared with the earth and blood of countless battles and raids, and every inch of him seemed sharpened by a life spent enduring the elements and taking what he desired.

Two guards, as fierce as hounds, lingered on either side of him, but with a single dismissive flick of his wrist, they shuffled out.

"I want her to myself," he said to them.

Sylas’s mouth twisted into a grin that split his face into his bushy beard, yellowed teeth gleaming. His eyes traced her form with a gluttonous curiosity like she were some rare prey he’d finally snared after a long, arduous hunt. Claere moved further into the tent, her posture poised, her gaze inscrutable, her calm an unsettling contrast to the predatory air he exuded.

She dipped into a curtsey, uncertain how a man like this might wish to be addressed. “My lord, allow me a proper introduction. I am Claere Stark, Lady of Winterfell.”

He let out a bark of laughter, coarse and unrestrained. “My lord? Am I your lord? I'll be King Sylas soon enough.” His eyes roamed over her, lingering at her shoulders, then her face, savouring every inch. “You’re too little for a queen. Just a baby. How old are you?”

A faint chill settled into her voice. “Six and ten, my lord. My mother is still the queen.”

Sylas’s smile widened, a feral gleam lighting his eyes. “And you will be someday. You're already a woman.”

The words hung between them, fraught with the ominous weight of his intent. Claere’s pulse quickened beneath her skin, but she remained as marble, knowing his hunger for power, for something beyond the life he’d known, radiated from every gesture. Her dragon, her birthright, the North—these were the spoils he craved. He leaned forward, his massive figure closing in, an aura of raw ferocity emanating.

Sylas's lips twisted into a grin that dripped with satisfaction as he stepped closer, his broad frame casting a shadow that swallowed the light around them. He folded his arms, leaning back with a smug, wolfish glint in his eye.

“Did you fly all this way for me?”

“I did, my lord.” Her voice was measured, smooth—a tempered blade he hadn’t yet managed to dull.

“Oh, I like it when you call me that,” he mused, his eyes glinting with perverse pleasure. “Makes me feel like a god.” He let the words roll over her, savouring each one, circling her like a predator with fresh meat. “So,” he continued, his voice lilting with mock surprise, “you’ve come to beg for mercy, then? The little queen, down on her knees? Not to kill the Stark boy?”

Claere lifted her chin, her expression as serene and cold as winter’s first frost. “You wanted me,” she said, her words quiet, unyielding. “Now you have me.”

A ripple of something feral passed through him, his grin widening into a leer, his pride feeding on her defiance.

“I don't plan on letting go. Now tell me, does the North know it bends to me through you?” His gaze roamed over her, possessive, as if she were no more than a prize he had finally claimed. “I wonder, does the wolf know that his doe strayed into the wild?”

“If you require words,” she replied, “then speak them plainly. But do not think to bait me.”

Sylas let out a bark of laughter, filling the tent with his raw, unrestrained mirth.

“Words, little queen?” he sneered. “No, I’ve got no need for words. Only the strength to take what’s mine.” He took another step toward her, his gaze alight with victory, his looming presence attempting to smother the quiet resolve in her eyes.

"Winterfell,” he paused, his gaze hardening, “the Iron Throne. And with you by my side, the North will rule the South.”

She saw it now, the intent beneath his words, as clear as day: he wanted her claim, her blood, her dragon—and through her, dominion over the entire realm. He sought the legitimacy of her claim, so unlike the Free Folk who lived outside the law. She felt the desire in his gaze sharpen, like a wolf that had tasted blood. Claere remained unbowed, every inch of her regal bearing intact, meeting his eyes with a steady defiance that amused him.

“You're a pretty girl. None are like you past the Wall—shiny things are rare in the white woods,” he mused, lifting a calloused hand to touch the edge of her lip with his thumb. His skin was rough, the gesture slow and deliberate, a feigned intimacy that carried a threat.

“I've heard about your kind. Nasty cunts, you lot. Kings with dragons for cocks. Queens that piss fire. Brother-fuckers. What were you doing out there in the snow, hm?”

His thumb lingered, the weight of it pressing against her lip, but her eyes were deadened, as though she were looking through him rather than at him. His proximity, his words—none of it shook her. She saw him for what he was, a man intent on conquest, and she would not give him the pleasure of rattling her.

“Only what’s trivial to your eyes, my lord,” she answered with measured calm, her gaze unwavering.

“Aye, maybe so,” he grunted, though the words fell bitterly from his mouth. His gaze hardened, refusing to be bested by her poise. “But you were still stupid enough to catch my eye.” His words held the bitterness of a hunter who’d finally cornered the game he’d long sought.

In truth, Sylas had spotted her months before, that slip of silver moving through the snow, a ravishing figure set apart from the northern world. He saw his chance then—a dragon rider alone, his path to dominance over more than just a scattered wildling host. He could claim the North through her, and if fate allowed, the world beyond it.

Finally, he moved his hand away and stood back, his grin widening. “But why’d you come to me? These are my lands now. You could’ve burned all my men from up there with that dragon and saved yourself the trouble.”

Claere gave a small, almost careless smile, the tilt of her head catching the dim candlelight in the tent. “You wanted me, didn’t you?” she replied, her voice smooth, level.

Sylas let out a scoff, though the amusement didn’t reach his eyes. “Came for a good fuck with a king?”

Claere blinked. “I've got that settled, my lord.”

“Ooh. No, no, that’s not it. I see it in those weird fuckin' eyes.” He bent to her eye level, the smell of woodsmoke and something sharper coming off him in waves.

“You came to kill me,” he said.

“Hmm.” Claere’s lips curved slightly, her smile a barely there promise, tinged with dark certainty. “Fortunately for you, it isn't my hands that bring your death.”

The smile faded from his face, leaving a flare of anger there, a crack in his façade. His eyes narrowed, and before she could move, his hand shot out and twisted in her thick braids, pulling her head back roughly, his face inches from hers. Claere stubbornly smothered a cry of pain in her throat.

“You think that wolf of yours is going to protect you, huh?”

Claere only sighed, her calm as impervious as ever, even as her hair tugged sharply. Her eyes, blank as winter’s endless fields, never left his face, every ounce of his threat barely a breeze against her. And just as he opened his mouth to press further, a shadow passed over the tent, the sound of heavy breathing growing closer—a thunderous exhale, deep as the earth.

“I was born with a guardian.” Claere countered softly. “My dragon is here. The wolf is a blessing.”

Sylas’s fingers twitched against her scalp, but his grip was weaker now, a flicker of doubt creeping into his predatory stare as Luna’s shadow shifted just beyond the tent walls, her breath a low, rumbling growl that vibrated through the earth beneath them.

Claere’s eyes glinted with quiet defiance as she met his gaze, her lips barely moving as she murmured, “I could say the word.” Her voice was silk over steel. “Let her burn us both here, finish this battle before it ever begins. But my husband waits for me—and he’s ready to repay in kind.”

Sylas’s face twisted, a low growl rumbling in his chest. “You think I'm scared of that boy? I killed his Night's Watch commander. I killed all those crows. I rode through the Wall for you, little queen, I don't care if he's shitting bricks when I put my axe in his head.”

“Strange,” she replied smoothly, “that you would bring all these men to capture a single girl before you march on King's Landing.” Her gaze drifted over him, cool and measuring. “Or is that all you can manage, my lord? Three thousand strong, and not a one with the grit to face the boy who stands in your way?”

He sneered, tightening his grip on her hair, another now closed around her neck, yet something in his posture had faltered, his shoulders stiffening. “I don’t need to fight him to take what’s mine.”

“Then why not march to Winterfell yourself?” Her smile was taunting, almost pitying, like a spark dancing in the shadows. “Do you fear he’ll be waiting for you at the gates? Do you fear he'll cleave your head before you can cross him?”

Sylas’s jaw clenched, his dark eyes blazing with something close to fury.

"I've seen Cregan Stark fight," she went on. "He doesn’t tire, doesn’t yield. Your three thousand could be thirty thousand, and it would make no difference. You cannot break him, he is winter itself."

His grip on her hair tightened. “Careful, girl. You’re not as untouchable as you think.”

“But I am,” Claere replied, unruffled, leaning in until her voice was a whisper only he could hear. “You know it as well as I do. Your strength lies in numbers, yet here you are—grappling with a girl and a shadow.” She leaned back, bored now. “Go home, Sylas, if you value the lives of your men. They didn’t come here to die for your pride.”

Sylas’s sneer softened, a slight uncertainty that only strengthened her resolve. He might have come to conquer, but at that moment, it was clear who held the true power in the tent.

A sudden blink released him of hesitation. His fingers roughly released Claere’s hair with a grudging smirk, as though her words had somehow shifted the game in his mind. He let her step back, looking her up and down as if appraising a newfound bounty. A flicker of excitement gleamed in his eyes—a dark eagerness that reeked of arrogance.

“Go on, then,” Sylas drawled, waving her away with a lazy flick of his hand. “Run back to your wolf and tell him I’m coming. No more raiding, no more warnings. I'll take his head his doe and the entire North at Winterfell’s gates myself.”

Claere held his gaze as she stepped back, unruffled, allowing a cool smile to curve her lips. She brushed her hands down her silver curls, arranging them around her shoulders patiently.

“Tell him yourself. I’m certain he’d love to hear it from you. My husband loves a good fight, you see.”

Sylas laughed, a booming, feral sound. “Oh, I will. I’ll bring him to his knees, make him watch while I put a prince in your belly. You’ll forget that Stark soon enough, little queen, or he'll just go deaf from hearing you scream.”

His smile was wide, boastful, but behind it lingered the faintest hint of unease—a silent recognition of the words she’d left with him, like whispers of ice drifting through the heat of his fury.

“Primitive talk from a primitive man. You’d better bring all of your legions, then,” she replied, her voice soft, but her words as pointed as any blade. “You’ll need them.”

“Little silver-haired bitch,” Sylas indistinctly growled under his breath, as if speaking aloud would bring forth the White Dread's fiery ire.

And with that, she politely inclined her head and turned, stepping out into the icy winds with her chin held high, leaving Sylas in the shadow of her dragon’s looming presence, casting him in darkness.

Cregan sat hunched over a sprawling table strewn with hastily drawn maps, half-finished sketches of battle formations, and advice from every corner of his bannermen. Some had urged caution, wary of the wildlings’ numbers and the risk to their forces. Others, bold and battle-worn, advocated for a bold strike north, encouraging him to meet Sylas with all the fire and fury of Winterfell’s strength. Yet for all their words, Cregan found himself constantly drifting back to one thought—to ride north alone, with Ice at his back, and hack down the wildling scourge himself.

The capriciousness of his decision kept him so absorbed he didn’t hear the door open or her soft steps on the stone floor. It wasn’t until she brushed past him, a warm hand resting on his shoulder, that he looked up, startled. All the exhaustion in his eyes fled, a reaction to whenever she graced him with her presence. He sat up straighter, eager to have her close.

Claere. She wore a faint smile, so casual, so beautiful, like she hadn’t spent the last days keeping to herself, hiding in plain sight, avoiding him like winter's fever. Before he could speak, she leaned in and kissed the arc of his cheek.

"Husband," she greeted quietly.

He stilled, pleasantly confused, but found himself responding instinctively, returning her kiss with a soft press of his lips to her temple. She stood beside him, hands clasped behind her back, violet eyes inspecting his plans, her experience an unspoken mystery. A hurricane in the guise of a summer breeze.

Then, he noticed it—a faint, unfamiliar scent. His brow furrowed as he sniffed the air again.

“What is that?”

She held his gaze, placid as ever. “Dragon. I was riding Luna,” she answered, her tone simple, almost childlike. Her eyes sparkled with innocent mischief, but the smell lingered, feral and sharp, more like wild meat than dragon flight.

He looked closer, and that’s when he saw it—a sickly green, darkening bruise hidden under the veil of her silver hair, two thumb-sized marks pressed just below her hairline. He stood up, anxiety overwhelming in a second, reaching toward her, but she sidestepped him smoothly, her gaze sliding to the floor.

“I fell,” she murmured, her voice light as air.

He let out an incredulous laugh, reaching for her chin to tilt her face toward him. “Here I thought you despised lies.”

Claere’s cool, unflinching gaze remained fixed on the floor for a long, unbearable second before she lifted it, unbothered by his anxieties.

"I flew to the wildling camps on the undern. To meet with Sylas the Grim.”

For a heartbeat, there was only stunned silence.

Cregan's hand dropped from her chin, falling to his side as if struck. Finally, when her situation registered, the words came, heated and fierce.

“You what?” Cregan’s voice was low, simmering. He rubbed at his eyes, sighing out, before he pointed to her bruise. "He did that then?"

She nodded. "I pushed him too far. My mistake."

“Are you mad?" he hissed.

She swallowed hard, stroking at the numbing bruise on her neck, and said nothing.

He flouted her concerning remark. "I defended you to my council—to men who would sooner see you gone than risk their lives for you! I’ve called all my banners, raised every able sword in the North—for you—and you thought it wise to stake your life before that wildling scum?”

He looked at her, half-expecting her to flinch under his fury. But she only watched him back, observant, enduring as stone, her lips pressed thin. Her calm only ignited him further.

“I spent hours preparing our defences, convincing them to stand with you, while you—” he clenched his fists—“while you went and met with the very man who could've struck you down with his bare hands. Alone!”

The crack came swift and sharp—a fire flaring to life behind her violet gaze, a flash of defiance as fierce as the flame inside her.

“I don't care, Cregan. I wanted to do the same for you.” she snapped, her silver tongue lashing. “I want to defend you. To protect you, before Sylas. For you.”

A tremor silenced the room. It was the rarest thing, her rage—rare, and somehow more daunting than his. It stole his breath and wiped the words clean off his tongue.

Cregan stared, thunderstruck, a storm gathering behind his eyes. Her words seemed to settle into him only slowly, like a wound too deep to notice at first. Claere’s fingers twitched at her sides, her lips pressed tightly together as if she were struggling to hold back her own words. She looked away, jaw set with a resolve that didn’t quite hide the tension beneath.

He exhaled harshly, dragging a hand through his hair. “Claere…” he began, voice rough with something caught between anger and hurt, “Do you even realize how careless this was, love?”

Her words came out painful. "It's all my fault."

His expression shifted, his initial anger tempered by an ache in his gaze as her admission, bare and raw, settled over the room like the aftermath of a storm.

“It’s my fault,” she echoed, her voice breaking just a little. She didn’t look at him, didn’t dare meet his eyes as the shame tightened in her throat. “I did this. They are right.”

Cregan felt his own frustration melt, a tide pulling away to reveal the harshness of his own words. He moved closer, his arms reaching out but stopping short, hovering as if afraid she’d slip through his fingers.

"Sweetling. Claere," he said, his voice a mere plea. "There's no use in laying blame, especially on you. You know I would raze half these men myself before I let them tear you down."

She shook her head, her hands clenching at her sides. “I've been an impediment for too long. We both know it. I expected things would change with time. Yet I'm playing at something I never will be...” She trailed off, and a heavy silence settled between them, her own helplessness almost unbearable.

Like hell, he would let her forget her worth for a piece of piss.

He reached for her, fingertips tracing the edge of her cheek before coming to rest under her chin, tilting her face toward him with evident resolve.

“The North will fight, but not out of fear or obligation. Because of you,” he declared to her, his voice rough with feeling. “You are of Winterfell now, Claere. And for that, we will fight.”

For a moment, her gaze flickered with uncertainty, her lips pressed tight, yet he held her there in his arms, grounding her with his assurance.

Gently, he brought her into a kiss, his lips brushing hers with a tenderness that spoke of comfort and promise alike. His hands cradled her face, his fingers threading softly through her hair as if each touch could smooth away the weight she carried. The kiss was slow, unhurried, he tasted the salt of her worry and the steel of her will, sensing the guardedness that lingered beneath her quietude. Yet his touch was firm, anchoring, a proof that there was nowhere safer, no one more ready to bear her burdens with her.

When he drew back, he lingered close, his forehead resting gently against hers, his eyes flashed with something like awe, and a low chuckle escaped him.

“You must tell me, how in the gods’ names did you manage to meet Sylas and walk away with but a bruise?”

Claere shrugged with quiet, unassuming grace, her gaze sliding past him as though recalling an idle, inconsequential memory. “I spoke with him, that’s all. Said what needed saying.”

He continued to prod. “That is all?”

“Yes. I simply suggested that if he truly wanted our kingdom, then why he hadn’t contested the King in the North himself instead of raiding innocent villages .” Her eyes met his with a calm intensity. “It seemed only fair.”

He let out a surprised laugh, brows lifting, “Fair? You took his mind off his prize and sent him marching for my gates, thinking he had something to prove?”

She simply pursed her lips, cool and composed, as if she hadn’t, with a few words, diverted the entire course of Sylas’s plan. “A bit of truth and a bit of pride can go a long way with a man like him. I thought you’d understand that.”

Her eyes flashed, calm yet watchful, and beneath her delicate, almost passive demeanour, there was a quiet ferocity that struck him. She had always worn her strength in the subtlest of ways, but in this moment, he saw her for what she truly was—a fierce, unyielding force wrapped in silks and cool smiles.

The words hit their mark—a subtle, artful dig, he had somehow overlooked.

“Why would I understand that?” Cregan’s voice was thick with mock offence, though a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Claere only arched a brow, sidestepping him with an elegance that was more of a dare than a retreat. “Oh, you’ve always had a certain… charm,” she replied, her tone deceptively light. “Men like you, like him—always so confident of their own strength. Pride blinds.”

“Pride blinds, is it? Huh, c'mere, girl. You dare speak to your lord that way?” he challenged, feigning a warning as he lunged forward, catching her around the waist. He lifted her clean off the floor with a mischievous groan, her soft laughter lilting as he spun her in a playful circle.

“Cregan!” Her laughter slipped out in breaths, both startled and, at last, easy, though her hands settled in half-protest against his shoulders. When he set her down, her cheeks were lightly flushed, her smile lingering. It was as if some sense of normality, away from the chaos, had come back into their lives.

“Guess it’s true then,” he murmured, his lips close to her ear. He urged a line of kisses from her ear to her throat, nuzzling his nose into the soft arch of her neck.

She slid her hands up to his neck, scraping her fingers lightly into the hair at his nape. "And you’re just stubborn enough to prove it.”

“I thought I’d married a princess with a pet dragon,” he teased, nuzzling into the soft curve of her neck, “but it seems I’ve got myself a queen with the cunning of a shadowcat.”

She raised a brow, almost daring him to press further. “And does that surprise you, my lord?”

His laughter boomed out, genuine and unrestrained, as he spun her again in a wide circle. "Not one damned bit."

Cregan stood tense in the night, sleep far from him, his silhouette sharp against the faint light filtering in from the slivered moon. The night air was thick with chilling doom, yet inside their chamber, Claere lay curled in quiet repose, her face softened by the kind of peacefulness that had eluded her during the day. It was almost bizarre, the way she could sleep so soundly amid the tension that hung over Winterfell. But perhaps, he thought, this chaos was the very place where she found her solace.

His gaze wandered to the heavy shadows beyond the walls, tracing the dark line of the woods against the horizon. The forests seemed to breathe with a life of their own, brimming with anticipation. He felt it ploughing on his chest, a premonition building like a slow storm.

Then it came—the steady, unmistakable drumming of many hooves and, seconds later, the crackling glow of fiery beacons lighting the night. The panic was quick, the sentries efficient, but somehow, Cregan had known. It was as though he’d been waiting for it all along.

He reached for Ice, his grip steady on the ancient sword’s hilt, and started toward the door. His stride displayed his finality, purposeful toward the death that came for him.

Sylas was here sooner than he’d expected, but in a way, the sooner, the better.

The crunch of hurried footsteps sounded from the corridor, and a guard approached, his face pale under the torchlight. “Lord Stark! Sylas the Grim… he’s come alone, my lord. Just rode up and called for you. What are your orders?”

Cregan’s eyes narrowed. The arrogance—or the conviction—it took to ride unguarded to Winterfell’s gates spoke of Sylas’s brutality and audacity, a message he knew all too well from his Free Folk brothers.

But then, a thought struck, clear as the northern wind. That meant Claere’s plan had worked—her brilliant, precarious little gamble had actually lured him here.

“Alone,” he murmured, almost to himself, and a fierce grin ghosted across his face. His clever Claere had managed to provoke the beast to come alone, his defences abandoned. Sylas had foolishly fallen for it.

With a calm that belied his steely resolve, Cregan replied to the guard, “Open the gates. If he came for a reckoning, then I’ll meet him myself.”

He felt the chill in his blood turn to iron as he stepped into the night.

thank you for reading! I'm so sad to be nearing the end :(

question for my loveliest people: who do you imagine as Sylas the Grim? I imagine someone with the same features (but nowhere as close in character) as Tormund Giantsbane.

[ taglist: @pearldaisy , @thatkindofgurl , @theadharablack , @cherryheairt , @beingalive1 , @oxymakestheworldgoround , @tigolebittiez , @cosmosnkaz , @lv7867 , @piper570 , @danikasthings , @acsc8 , @justdazzling ] -> thank you for your endless support everyone!

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duskydrawings · 1 year ago

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Sooo I've been gone for a while and this is why (symptom of hanging out with like-minded hk fans who enable me — you know who you are 🫵)

Mixed pot. I had like 100+ doodles but these are the choicest cuts. It's mostly funnies but also more serious drawings. I hope some of you get a good giggle out of this or shake your head in disbelief 👍

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shesjustanothergeek · 4 months ago

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The Gods We Can Touch Chapter Four: Before the Storm

|Aemond Targaryen x Strong!Reader|

Masterlist of Series

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

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

Author's Note: Hello everyone! How are we doing after the last chapter? I went on a vacay and enjoyed some time with my family and dog, but now we're back to business. I wanted to say that I'm not a literary genius. Later in this chapter Helaena says some lines from a piece of work by Hélène Cixous called Love of the Wolf. I'm not taking credit for her work by any means, but I couldn't help myself not to add it. It was just too perfect. Well, anyways, thank you for reading!

Chapter Warnings: mentions of childhood SA and trauma related to it, sexism, bullying.

Birdsong accompanied you in your daily lessons with Septa Marlow, her parchment-thin flesh wrapped over her shaking bones as she pointed to the large map of what you assumed was Westeros. It wasn’t that you couldn’t identify the outline of your own country. You didn’t care. The tiny sparrow that decided to make its nest on the branch of an oak tree outside the tutor room window was far more interesting.

You could hear the sounds of swords clashing outside over the creature’s call, an added instrument into the melody of the Red Keep. There was no doubt your brothers and uncles were practicing their swordplay, Ser Criston teaching the pairs of children. How you longed to be out there with them, with your family, with your twin, learning of things much more exciting than what region of the country produced the most red wine.

You only wanted to see them and to be entertained. It wasn’t that you wanted to learn the sword, though you wouldn’t say no should someone ask.

But this resulted from the actions from the previous day when you disobeyed the Dragonkeeper’s commands. It surprised you when your mother failed to mention how your brothers and Aegon gave Aemond a pig, but you weren’t planning to go out of your way to tell on yourself and receive any more repercussions. You were already confined to the castle walls and forbidden from seeing your dragon for the next sennight. You couldn’t imagine what your mother would have done in response if she knew.

“Princess, pay attention,” the old crone’s wavering voice commanded, causing you to jolt.

You attempted to follow her instructions, rattling off the names of Houses and their most profitable exports, but metal clanging stole you from your duties once more. Why couldn’t you be with your brothers and uncles? You understood that today’s extra lessons were a punishment, but why couldn’t you join them? You and Jace were the same age, though you were a few moments older, and Luke was younger.

You could comprehend the importance of learning such knowledge, but your brothers were able to understand this and swordsmanship. Why could you not? Seeing as your mother had not learned it, you did not believe it was a skill you needed. This was the only thing that separated you from Jace, and you hated it.

Suddenly, everything went silent. The birds, the clang of steel, your mind halted into a noiseless silence, leaving the only sound of Septa Marlow’s droning, shaky voice. Screams you knew belonged to Aegon and the shrieks of your younger brother, Jace, briefly sounded, causing your feet to twitch in the direction of the sound. You knew your brother. That was not a noise of happiness but one of determination and fear, but once again, it plummeted into silence.

Then, it erupted. Shouts and thick, repeated thumps of what could only be skin on skin replaced the dull thudding of swords, only this time, it was of grown men.

Disregarding your Septa’s scolds of disobedience, you stood, rushing from the creaky wooden desk and chair with a soft wince from the pain between your legs. You ran to the window, face pressed against the glass, to see the situation unfold.

Ser Harwin kneeled over a man in polished armor you couldn’t see as he drove punch after punch into the man’s face. It was a member of the Kingsguard, judging by his attire as onlookers gathered around the two of them, attempting to remove Harwin from his victim.

Why would Ser Harwin be attacking a Kingsguard?

You pressed your face closer to the glass, fogging it with your breath. Soon, your mother’s protector was thrown off, revealing a bloodied, smug Ser Criston Cole, a proud smirk on his tan face as he spat viscous scarlet liquid. Ser Harwin spewed words of anger you couldn’t hear as you observed with wide eyes from above.

“Princess!” Marlow shouted, stomping her slippered foot in exasperation. “Return to your seat at once.”

“Ser Harwin is attacking Ser Criston!” you countered with a whine as you disregarded her demands. Without thinking of the consequences, you ran for the exit only to be met with the face of your sworn shield, halting you from seeing the commotion.

You were stuck. These were the repercussions of your actions, and now you had to sit in dull solitude with a Septa so old that your mother had her as wild possibilities ran through your head as to why Ser Harwin Strong attacked Ser Criston Cole.

Finding where your uncle Aemond spent most of his time was effortless. He was unlike the rest of you, who loved to be outside in the dirt, running about the gardens as you and your brothers played any game you could think of. Aegon and the trio of you teased Aemond for the fact that he was different in this way, your eldest uncle impressing the idea that his brother’s likes of science, math, history, and philosophy were weird for a child. You also enjoyed subjects similar to your uncle’s, thirsting for knowledge of everything related to herbs, flowers, and other plants, but you never brought it up. Aegon would undoubtedly tease you for it if he knew.

Aemond’s interests weren’t typical, but you didn’t see it as something to look down on him for. But since Aegon did, you had no choice but to agree.

The library in the Red Keep was a lonely and shadowy place, rarely visited by anyone, not even the servants. The absence of lit candles or a crackling fire contributed to the eerie atmosphere, creating a sensation of fear that seemed to grip your very core as you stepped inside, as though you were venturing into an endless void of darkness. Despite the unsettling ambiance, you summoned your bravery, clutching your cherished collection of fairy tales for comfort, and gained the strength to push open the library doors. The sound of metal clanging echoed in the silence.

Motes of dust swirled in the beams of light pouring through the windows as you combed through the towering wooden bookcases. Your search was targeted and honed on a particular individual who, besides Lord Lyonel Strong and the rest of the council members, was known to make regular visits to this room. It was just a matter of time before you laid eyes on him.

After the sixth tall hickory bookshelf, you found Aemond resting on a window seat filled with lush fabric cushions, the sunbeams casting him in a yellow glow. You took a step forward, hesitating as you thought about how your uncle would react to your goodwill gesture. Despite anticipating his initial skepticism and harsh words, you held onto hope that persistence and authenticity would eventually make him see you for who you are.

You wished for it to be true.

“Have you come to mock me again, niece?” Aemond asked, interrupting your indecision with his nose still in the pages.

You swallowed as your mouth became dry, stepping out to reveal yourself fully. “No, Aemond. I came to read,” you replied, taking a gasp of air and summoning courage, “with you.”

Your uncle’s attempt to mask his surprise was unsuccessful as his eyes widened in astonishment. He quickly glanced at you and returned to his book, hoping to conceal his reaction.

His usual scowl deepened, pulling down at his freckled cheeks as he interrogated. “Why?”

A lopsided grin scrunched your plump cheeks upwards to crinkle your eyes as you shrugged. “Because I want to.”

Aemond flipped onto the next page with a skeptical face, yet his violet orbs never moved from the same spot. You had his attention. Hiding a victorious grin, you stepped towards him before he could protest, plopping onto the pillows beside Aemond. He quickly recoiled in exaggerated disgust, as if you were no more than an annoying fly that landed on his arm as he slammed the tome shut and briskly left.

This was an expected outcome, and you hurriedly chased after him, your shorter legs struggling to keep up with your uncle’s pace as he fled around a corner from your attempted act of bonding. You understood this was not a simple task and already built the mental stamina to outlast Aemond’s antics as he jumped down the stone steps of the Keep two at a time.

Eventually, he managed to escape you, his notable mane of blonde hair disappearing before a crowd of courtiers in the courtyard.

You huffed a sigh as you observed the sea of people, sweat stinging your privy part, but you ignored it, standing on the tips of your toes to peer over the wall of the pale redstone landing above the yard.

Suddenly, you spotted him at the far end as he caught your gaze, violet eyes widening in horror as if he saw one of the monsters from your stories. He turned away. His confident walk soon turned to a worried jog as you ran as fast as your limbs could carry you, shoving your way through the throng of people. You were used to playing chase with your brothers. Doing it with your uncle was the same, if not more manageable, with the help of his iconic hair and green garbs.

As you reached the area where you spotted your uncle, he was nowhere to be found, and you turned, looking across the vast meadow of the court that ebbed and flowed like the swaying of a wheat field, focused on their afternoon destinations. None of them paid any attention to the two dragon royals, both more than a head shorter and too self-absorbed to care.

With a sharp yelp, you fell to the ground, soiling your gown and dropping your book on the packed dirt as you caught yourself with your palms. They ached at the impact, tiny rocks embedding into your soft skin as you swiftly turned to the person who shoved you and saw no other than your uncle Aemond staring over you with rose-dusted cheeks. His arms securely bound his book to his chest as he looked down upon you with his nose, catching his breath and taking three paces back before you righted yourself.

“Why are you following me?” your uncle shouted down at you as he attempted to make his voice sound like a grown man.

You huffed as you swiped the dirt from your turquoise dress, gritting your teeth to control your frustration. This was one of your nice ones! Of course, Aemond would ruin it. Your mother would surely scold you when she found out.

“I told you I only wanted to read!” you screeched with a stomp of your foot as your arms flew into the air, flailing wildly. “And now you’ve ruined my favorite collection! The spine is loose and the pages are dirty!”

Aemond said nothing as you studied the now-tattered book before you. Every night, Ser Harwin or your father read a short story from this as you sat atop their laps, drifting off into a restful sleep filled with dreams of nymphs playing in a forest creek. Your book, too, was ruined—another consequence of wanting to be kind to your uncle.

“What’s it about?” he suddenly asked, prompting your watery eyes to move to him. The blush that covered Aemond’s face deepened, now traveling to his ears and throat as he dug his nails into the leatherback of his tome. He looked almost pained to inquire about anything that had to do with you.

Your first instinct was to bite with sharpened fangs of hurt, but you stopped, remembering your goal as you batted your watery lashes in disregard. “It was a volume of different stories,” you sighed with disappointment, afraid that if you showed any other emotions, you would revert to your old ways.

“I see.”

You stared at Aemond expectantly, waiting longer than what was proper for him to continue any sentence or explanation. Still, he did not, only observing you with a calculating expression. The low murmur of bustling court members filled the long silence, the occasional gust of wind and rattling metal low in the background. When your uncle refused to proceed with the conversation, you opened your mouth to do it for him, but much to your chagrin, he turned away before you could, not speaking a word as he kicked pebbles with his boots.

You scoffed in response, stunned and appalled by his actions. For a brief moment, one that didn’t last longer than a blink, Aemond showed kindness to you. You felt like an idiot for believing in that small part that thought last night changed your standing with Aemond, yet a ray of hope still lingered in your chest like the flame of a burnt wick on a dwindling candle.

You sighed in frustration as you looked over the worn and tattered pages of the stories. The determination you once had dwindled, and you couldn’t shake off the feeling that you deserved this. Memories of mocking Aemond’s odd behavior of the pig and making fun of him with your brothers and Aegon weighed heavily on you, intensifying the shame. A soft sigh of defeat escaped your lips as you reflected on your actions.

Ser Harwin was leaving you. After his fight with Ser Criston in the training yard, he was stripped of his title as Commander of the City Watch and was sent back to Harrenhal the next day. You were devastated, fat tears running down your hot cheeks as he said farewell to you, Jace, Luke, and Joffrey before sleep.

Harwin had been with you since before you were born. He was there to help sort out quarrels between you and your brothers whenever one stole toys and refused to share. Harwin accompanied you to your lessons when your brothers were learning the art of swords or hunting. He taught you how to ride a horse when your father was out at sea with your grandfather Corlys and dried your tears whenever Aegon and Aemond were harsh. Ser Harwin was family as far as you were concerned, and returning to the Riverlands was akin to losing a member because Ser Criston claimed he cared too much about you and your brothers only to be a sworn protector.

You weren’t blind to the rumors surrounding your parentage and the resemblance to the Commander of the City Watch. It was all your uncles could do not to bring it up each moment they laid their Valyrian eyes on you. The word bastard haunted the now four of you wherever you went, a cloak of shame that threatened to devour your girlish body whole.

Jace often raised concerns about who your birth father was, but he was never brave enough to ask your mother about it. It was an open question of uncertainty that never seemed to find the correct answer, yet, no matter what, you knew that even if you were not of Laenor Velaryon’s blood, they could never deny that you were your mother’s. You were a Targaryen, just like your aunt and uncles, and that was something that could never change.

“Be good to your mother. I’ll visit when I can,” Ser Harwin said tenderly, kneeling before you, Jace, and Luke as your mother cradled Joffrey. He stood with a grunt as he observed the four of you, a misty look in his eyes that you could mistake for tears. “But that may be some time.”

Sobs stained the white cotton sleeves of your nightgown gray, sniffling as you wiped away more snot and salty water. You would miss Ser Harwin terribly, and he knew that, but that did not make this any less painful as you clung to Jace’s side and he, your mother.

“I will return. I promise,” Harwin expressed with a gravelly voice as he tenderly brushed loose strands of your hair that hid your wet eyes. You listened to the same voice as you sat on his lap, resting your head upon his chest as he read you and your brother’s fairy tales before bed.

Harwin would tell no more stories in that deep, rumbling tone that soothed your soul beyond measure, and you felt your heart crack more at the thought.

Harwin moved to say his final farewell to Joffrey and your mother, kissing the babe’s forehead as you buried your face in your brother’s neck. “You will be a stranger when we meet again,” he said to the bundle of fabric that cooed in your mother’s arms.

And that was true, not just for Joffrey, but for all of you.

Ser Harwin bid goodbye to your mother with a simple “princess” as they shared a long, meaningful glance with layers of emotion and scores of history behind them. He said no more and gathered his sword, swinging it over his shoulder as you released a cry, running to the comforting embrace of your mother’s bed. You could no longer watch Harwin as he left your life, a new wave of sobs taking over as you shoved your face into her feather pillows. It smelled of her, home, and happiness—fresh lavender and sage on expensive cotton sheets.

Despite your mother’s reassurance that you would see Ser Harwin again someday, you could not help but feel like this was a death sentence. As if you stood in front of his coffin and buried him beneath the dirt and worms yourself. He would no longer be the sworn shield he was when he left at this very moment, as you heard the sound of hurried footfalls exiting the room.

Luke followed you to the wide bed, tucking himself into your side and resting his temple on your chest as you both cried in an agonizing yet loving embrace. You could hear Jace talking to your mother outside the doorway, little Joffrey babbling as she softly bounced him in her arms. Whether it was to comfort your babe brother or her, you did not know.

“Is Harwin Strong my father? Am I a bastard?” you heard Jace ask. His fierce and unwavering inquiry only made you sadder. On instinct, you covered Luke’s ears as he hiccuped into your chest. He did not need to have doubt burrow into his mind at such a young age.

Your mother was silent. The only sounds coming were from you, the soft crackles of the fire in the hearth, and your little brother’s heaving breaths as you struggled to cope with the loss.

“You are a Targaryen. That is all that matters,” she finally answered, tone strong. Her words were rehearsed and practiced, and they did not quell the thirst for the truth in either you or Jace.

Your barely younger brother returned to the room. His thin lips downturned, and his head hung low as he sat on one of the plush settees littering the area. You could tell he was unsatisfied with your mother’s response, as were you, but he understood he would get the same reply should he push the matter. Your mother followed in soon after, observing the three of you with tired yet loving eyes.

The same question was on your lips, threatening to break free at any moment, lilac orbs landing on your brown ones as she stared at you with your newest brother still in her arms. She was not inclined to answer, and yet you knew. It was written plainly in the fine lines of her face, the slope of her nose, and how tears lined her lashes as your mother inhaled a fierce, shuddering breath. Much like her, you refused to say the words aloud, electing to bask in the grief-stricken sadness that enveloped your family.

The hour of the owl was upon you before you finally went to your chambers, unable to find rest in your kin’s arms. Your brothers choose to stay with your mother inside hers as their tiny bodies pressed against each other after the tears have long dried.

The halls and corridors of the Red Keep were noiseless as you trekked through them with keen eyes. The portraits of your ancestors you passed daily seemed to follow you with their purple gazes, their accusing stares boring shame into your soul and setting your hair alight.

Alicent’s warning rang through your head as the squeak of a rat sounded, her rich voice echoing inside until it was all you could hear. The end could not come fast enough as you shut the large wooden doors to your, Jace’s, and Luke’s shared quarters, swiftly hiding under your blue bed sheets, heart hammering in your chest.

Your bed was cold and safe, and your pulse calmed steadily. Now, more than ever, the uncertainty behind your birth was thrust before you.

It was always easier to deny the fact that you were most likely a bastard than it was to accept it. Those who accused you did not understand that they weren’t only saying your blood was not Laenor Velaryon but that you and your brothers were a sin, your very existence an insult to House Velaryon, the king, and to all those who dutifully suffered unkind marriages.

Bastards were not heirs. They were creations purely out of selfish lust and desire.

It called into question all four of your legitimacy of inheritance. None of you had claims to the thrones or titles you were set to receive upon the death of your parents, and no prospects would want to wed a bastard should you accept it.

You understood why your mother did not admit the words allowed in the confidence of the now four of you. If you spoke them into existence, it would only make them real. It left you no choice but to deny, deny, deny until your tongue withered and lips fell off. Living a life of refusal of admittance would be difficult. Still, it was the only way to ensure you and your brother’s places would be secured until the Stranger decided to take another companion.

The empty well of tears soon filled once more as you sighed deeply in surrender to the turbulent path ahead, tucking your hand underneath your pillow for the relief of rest, but unfortunately, it did not find you.

Your vanity mirror shined like a beacon in the darkness, reminding you of that night. You still needed to move it back to its original place and give your maids the excuse that you wanted to see what it would look like there. It was a lie.

The idea that Aegon knew of a passage into your rooms haunted you when you set foot into the space. You were scared, anxious, no… terrified that your eldest uncle would waltz into your bed chamber at any moment. The unknown was what frightened you—of what he would do. The notion that he could enter pushed you to rise from bed, planting the soles of your feet onto a maroon Myrish rug as you grabbed the legs of the vanity and pulled it back into place. You would have to think of another lie to tell your maids.

“Why is Uncle Aemond unkind to us?” a timid voice rang out into the once private space.

Nearly jumping out of your skin, you turned to see Luke with a wooden toy dragon curled into his tiny fist. It looked as if he had just awoken from sleep minutes ago, which you assumed was the case judging by his messy hair and crusted eyes. As you caught your breath, clutching the skirt of your pale gray nightgown, you disregarded any questions about why he was here instead of your mother’s room.

“I’m sure he doesn’t mean to be,” you answered as your racing heart calmed. “Why do you ask?”

“I saw him push you over in the courtyard,” he ardently explained, his dark brows rising against his pale skin. It reminded you of your father when he tried to speak earnestly with the three of you, yet Luke’s boyish voice had no similarities to his.

You sighed, recalling the now ruined book you hid in your trunk alongside your tattered dress. “He was angry.”

You did not want to tell Luke about Aemond’s rejection, as the embarrassment was still fresh. He would no doubt try to tell you how you were wrong for attempting to befriend him after the mean things he’d said to you all your life.

“He’s always angry, but we haven’t done anything,” Luke countered with a frown on his small lips, fiddling with his fingers at his sides.

You paused for a long moment, unsure of what to say. The three of you were not nearly as cruel to Aemond as Aegon was. Your mother raised you to be kind to your uncles and aunt no matter what they did to you, and while you were not perfect, any jokes or rude remarks were not made with the intent to hurt him. With a great sigh, you lead Luke in front of the gated fireplace, where a collection of your toys rests in the orange glow. He picked up a polished wooden horse, running his tiny thumbs over the varnish as you spoke.

“I think he believes we don’t belong here,” you said. The explanation was vague, and it irked you beyond measure. The truth of your words threatened to surface like an apple thrown into a barrel full of water.

“We live here. This is our family,” he replied in confusion, dark eyes so wide you could see the entire white. He wasn’t wrong, yet the truth of the matter clawed at your throat to become free.

“We don’t look like Targaryens. You must have noticed.” You could not stop the words from being said. You were such a good liar. Why was it impossible to lie about this?

“You mean our hair?” Luke questioned with a tilt of his head, scratching his scalp in confusion with one of the wooden toys.

You didn’t want to tell him and put the burden of knowledge onto your younger brother that you and Jace were cursed with, but it was something you understood would follow the now four of you for the rest of your lives.

Luke was still younger than you, yet his simple statement of your hair tested your last bit of resolve. “Our hair, eyes, and everything!” you exclaimed exasperated.

“But I have a crooked little finger like Mama,” he reasoned with the raise of his hand, showing his small digit. You deflated, sighing a drawn-out breath to calm your temper as you picked up one of your rag dolls from the pile.

“A crooked little finger isn’t enough,” you decided to say as you stroked the button eyes on your toy. Why couldn’t he comprehend that no matter how many similarities you had to your mother, the fact of who your father was remained uncertain?

“Well, if we aren’t Targaryens, where did we come from?” The sap inside the fire popped, startling you and your brother as you stared into the flames.

You were Targaryens. That much was obvious. You cannot fake exiting your mother’s womb. It was the matter of your father that sparked rumors, but you did not want to give Luke any more thoughts over the subject, coming to accept that he was not old enough to understand what your uncle was being mean about.

“We were born here. Mama is our mother, but there’s something else and Aemond knows it,” you answered obscurely, clutching your dolly into your chest as the night air howled outside the glass windows.

It felt like the Keep was listening to your conversation, the walls groaning in response to your words. The very castle you lived in understood the truth, and the pressure of it weighed heavily on your soul. Just like the paintings of your ancestors, the Red Keep knew of your shame.

“I do not wish to be different,” Luke confessed with dejection, too sad for your liking, as he stopped playing with the toys.

You didn’t want to cause anyone’s sadness, let alone your brother’s, and you frowned, taking Luke’s hand in yours and scooting across the floor to hug his side.

You loved your family more than words could describe as you held your younger brother closer. Jace, Luke, and now Joffrey did not deserve the torment they would face for the rest of their lives at the hands of your uncles and the court. As the eldest, it was your responsibility to protect them from things your parents could not, to take care of them and dry their tears, not to burden your mother or father, but this was something you understood you could not fix, yet it did not deter you from trying.

“Nor do I,” you finally spoke, holding Luke close to your heart and kissing him on his cherubic cheek. “So let us be good children and please those who love us so they may forget what we lack. Come. It’s time for bed.” Your mother would say that as you took your brother by the hand and led him to your bed.

If you couldn’t change what people said, you could at least change the contents they discussed.

You would excel in your place as the unspoken heir and accept your duties no matter what with your shoulders back and your chin held high. You would learn the history of your ancestors, the politics of your country, and whatever else you believed was dutiful to prepare yourself for the responsibility you would inherit after your mother. Not feeling the same fear you did earlier, now with your younger brother at your side, you pulled the covers over both of you as Luke snuggled into your side’s comforting embrace.

Aemond felt he lacked something compared to his siblings, niece, and nephews. Some of him believed that if a dragon hatched from his egg, or he claimed a living one, things would be different from how they were now. He would not be the subject of people’s taunts nor feel the prominent sensation of inadequacy that weighed on his soul, but it seemed as if Aemond was destined to suffer within the shadows of his family’s success no matter how hard he tried to step out of it.

His older brother possessed the skills of conversation and humor he didn’t have and constantly teased him for it, though Aegon was not without faults. His brother would tell him to stop being a “twat,” to get his nose out of books, and that he was dull, sullen, and far too severe for his age.

Because of this, Aegon preferred to spend time with Jace, Luke, and his niece, but it didn’t help that they were much easier company. His half-sister’s children seemed to have a bond closer than his siblings, each with dragons, which was the one thing he didn’t possess. Aemond would never admit he was jealous of his niece and nephews, for that would mean that he saw them as equals of comparison, which was something they weren’t. They were beings of lesser standing, though they thought themselves on par, as they had been raised with the same extravagance he was.

Aemond knew you would be looking for him the next day as he watched you skip to the library the following morning, your smile so bright on your face that it made him sick. Seeing how the joy fell from your face when you saw he was not there gave him a deep sense of satisfaction.

Did you think him stupid?

He could see the telltale signs of tears welling in your eyes as you realized your hidden plans of ridicule were foiled: the scrunch of your dark brows, rapid blinking to get the droplets at bay, and then the pursing of your lips. This time, you held firm and refused to let your emotions guide you. At least, that was what Aemond believed as he observed you exiting the library deep in thought.

He knew you would not give up so easily, and instead of taking solace in his usual places of inhabitant and risking you finding him, he chose to watch you. You could not see him if he was three steps ahead. Aemond was glad that you weren’t nearly as bright as you believed, and as long as he stayed out of sight, he could be sure you wouldn’t bother him. The irony of the situation that he would now be following you to avoid you didn’t matter, and he certainly wasn’t concerned about your well-being after what Aegon did, either.

You were as foreign to one another as Old Valyria; there was no reason for him to care. Aemond would do this every day for the rest of his life if it meant he would never have to spend a moment with you again.

“Brother, what are you doing?”

Helaena’s voice drifted through the halls like summer wind through tree leaves, startling Aemond as he watched his niece’s dark head disappear around a corner. Her fair blonde locks, a copy of her brother’s, were braided around the crown of her head, a tiny metal cage in her lithe fingers, and a curious expression on her visage directed towards him.

“You’re avoiding her,” Helaena declared with a resolute lilt to her tone, taking the insect out of its confines. “After what has been stolen.”

Aemond stared at his sister with perplexed eyes, quickly looking to ensure you had not heard the conversation and came to investigate.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Aemond said distractedly, wringing his hands at the pit of unease in his stomach.

There was no possibility that she knew what occurred during the night. Aegon would never willingly admit something like this, and you would undoubtedly keep what happened a secret, seeing as you refused to tell your mother in fear of punishment.

Helaena was silent as she observed the olive-and-brown grasshopper in her palm, petting it with her index finger before it tried to jump away. She held the open metal cage in the bug’s intended direction, and it landed inside, swiftly flicking the door shut before it could attempt to escape again.

“Tis our fate, I think, to crave what is given to another. If one possesses a thing, the other will take it away,” Helaena declared with the furrow of her blonde eyebrows, the insect thumping against the metal bars as she looked at her younger brother.

Her words were cryptic, and Aemond felt a bead of sweat run down his spine as he observed his older sister. He didn’t understand what she meant. She intensely focused on it, so he assumed it was about the grasshopper. Aemond wordlessly shrugged, disregarding his older sister’s vague observation as he peered anxiously at where he last spotted you.

“Tis not difficult for the ewe to love the lamb. But for the wolf?” Helaena began again, standing beside her brother with a soft swish of her satin skirt. “The wolf’s love for the lamb is such a renunciation, it’s the wolf’s sacrifice—it’s a love that could never be requited. This wolf that sacrifices its very definition for the lamb, this wolf that doesn’t eat the lamb, is it a wolf? Is it still a wolf?”

Aemond paid no attention to her now as Helaena spouted what he felt was nonsense and decided to push forward in search of you, ensuring with noiseless strides you would not see him once he got close.

Helaena was someone he felt was misunderstood like him, but now was not the time to go on with poetry and riddles.

“But sometimes it’s the wolf that falls into the jaws of the lamb. Out of love, the wolf falls backward into the circle of fire. It goes around fast. It so happens that the lamb catches the wolf,” Helaena continued, her voice soft like morning spring rain as she followed her vexed younger brother. She was inside her world, purposely or ignorant of her brother’s frustration.

“There is no greater love than the love the wolf feels for the lamb it doesn’t eat.”

Aemond groaned, losing his temper, which he rarely did in the presence of his sister. His niece had irked him, causing his heartbeat to quicken and his lungs pant.

“Helaena, will you please stop with this nonsense? I have important matters to tend to,” Aemond barked hushedly as a servant passed by, blocking the sun from the windows.

Any other day, he would allow his sister to speak for however long and about whatever she wanted, but this was not one of those times. You could happen upon him at any moment, and the prince did not want to risk the chance of a repeat encounter.

Helaena refused to listen to him as her musings became louder and sharper as if she was trying to convey a point without the proper words, no doubt alerting you and everyone else in the Keep to where he was. Aemond felt the blanket of defeat shroud his figure as the sound of light hurried footfalls sounded in the hall.

“The lamb loves its wolf. The wolf turns white and starts quivering out of love for the lamb. The lamb loves the wolf’s fragility, and the wolf loves the frail one’s force. The wolf is now the lamb’s lamb and the lamb has tamed the wolf,” his sister concluded, violet-eyed with an understanding she attempted to impart onto Aemond with the harsh squeeze of her digits on his arm.

He gasped, his brows arched in pain from Helaena’s sharp nails piercing through his tunic, and tried to wretch his arm free with a panicked grunt, but to no avail. Before he could blink, your pitched voice pierced Aemond’s ears, and he felt like they would burst.

“Uncle! There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” The loose strands of your neatly styled hair bounced with every step as you approached Aemond with a broad grin on your lips. “I was hoping we could read today. I chose a book I think you would like. I know you don’t enjoy fairytales.”

“Love blackens the lamb, leaving fire and blood to light their way,” Helaena whispered, her violet gaze directed towards the tall window as a bird flew past. She released Aemond’s arm as if she suddenly realized she still had it. She looked back to her grasshopper, wordlessly displaying it for you to see.

“Oh, is that a new one Helaena?” you asked with a bright curiosity in your tone. Aemond didn’t believe you truly cared about his sister and her bugs, curling his lip in disgust at what he thought were false niceties. “Where did you find it? We’ll have to go there sometime to see if there are more!”

You didn’t care about Helaena and her hobbies. You were more like Aegon and made fun of her for the bugs she collected. At least, that was what he had in his mind. Aemond felt conflicted as he watched his sister nod in agreement, asking when your punishment was over so you could spend time together again.

When he noticed Helaena’s faint smile as she left, grasshopper in tow, a warmth blossomed inside his heart. His sister only showed happiness when she truly felt it, not to be polite like most, and it caused Aemond to turn to you, his face pale. You were his annoying, spoiled, bastard niece who got anything she wanted, so why were you not acting like it?

It felt like butterflies were inside your stomach as you took another step toward Aemond, a book clutched to your chest like before. Aemond watched as his sister left the two of you alone without a word, like she was in a world of her own. He wanted to reach out to her to be not alone with his dreadful niece, but Helaena was gone as quickly as she emerged, leaving her younger brother with the girl he hated most in the world.

“I have a book I think we both would like today, uncle. It’s one about the warrior Queen Nymeria and her journey to Dorne,” you announced, a slight sway in your step as you tried to quell your anxiety.

Aemond huffed as he looked for a way out of this and sighed in defeat when he found none, clenching his thumbs inside his palms to control the ire that swelled in response. Your uncle didn’t want your pity or your friendship. He knew you were only spending time with him since you didn’t wish to Aegon and could not be with your brothers because they were in their lessons. You would have never done this if his eldest brother could control his impulses. It made him feel like a second choice, another painful reminder that he was always second to his kin, yet not good enough to be a spare.

Walking away in surrender, he led you back to the library, where no one would see the pair of you, and the sun provided the only light. He knew Aegon would tease him beyond what he could take if he saw you together, and after that night, Aemond did not want to see him anyway.

You set the book of Queen Nymeria’s adventures on a dusty wooden table and giggled as you fanned the air. Aemond was not amused, sulking in the chair beside you as he opened the leather back of the book. You sat next to him, shoulders touching, ignoring his reaction. He mockingly covered his mouth as if he smelled something terrible when he inhaled the citrus scent on your skin. This made you feel a bit upset, but you tried to hide it by tugging at your dark hair and avoiding his gaze.

You read the first page together silently. It stated how the queen looked, how beautiful she was with long, flowing, swarthy hair cascading down her waist with sturdy hips, her skin a smooth, youthful complexion with brown eyes to match. Yet still, she was a fierce warrior with an indomitable spirit who led her men into battle and took no cowards. You imagined you would be like her when you grew up, a beautiful warrior queen who ruled her kingdom with an unwavering though gentle and cunning fist, who people loved and respected her rule.

“Can I turn it?” Aemond asked dispassionately, cutting through the silence. You hadn’t realized you had been so lost in your daydreams that you had not retained a single word written on the page, but to not make your uncle perceive you lower than he already did, you nodded.

You leaned closer to the pages before you decorated them in elaborate colors of blue and red, studying the new page and picture. Aemond glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, unnoticed by you as you were lost in the vast expanse of your mind, your cheek right next to his.

He was surprised at how different you were, apart from the apparent fact of age and sex. His eyelashes were almost white and translucent, while yours were black, long, surrounding dark eyes that glistened with natural wetness that threatened to suck him into their depths if he stared for too long. Aemond’s skin was pale and dusted with sun kisses, yet yours was plain, flushed, and full of life, your lips more defined and moist than his. You possessed a pug nose matching that of your brothers rather than his aquiline one, a softer, more plump face than his, as Aemond’s was more defined even for his age. His hair, the color of Targaryen’s, the white you didn’t have a hint of and mocked you for, was visible proof of who your father was.

Though Aemond immensely enjoyed pointing out the idea that you were a bastard, he reluctantly realized that you weren’t unattractive, at least by Westerosie standards.

“I will be like Nymeria when I am queen,” you announced to Aemond, breaking the silence. He gave you a sidelong glance and sighed. It wouldn’t hurt if there were some conversation between you. It didn’t seem like you would be mean to him, and he supposed you were indebted to him after all.

At your hopeful expression, your uncle didn’t have the heart to tell you that neither you nor your mother would rule the Seven Kingdoms. Women were not fit to rule and carry such a burden. They were too gentle of creatures to make the harsh decisions that ruling required.

“Are you certain you’ll be a good ruler? You can barely get your brothers to listen to you. What makes you think the Lords of the realm will?” Aemond questioned with a trace of bitterness you couldn’t understand the cause of.

Turning to him with a face painted with a serious expression, your brows scrunched together and lips tight in a severe line as you took his hand. “Just as Nymeria burned her ships to prevent any cowardly men from fleeing, I will burn all those who try to hurt my family and oppose my reign.”

You stated the words with such a decisive coldness that it caused Aemond to shiver. He was shocked and in awe at your declaration, stunned into silence filled with momentary admiration. Aemond never imagined that would come out of your mouth. He always pictured you as soft-hearted when it came to violence, having seen you cower when Aegon would hit your brothers too hard when training.

“What would you do if they didn’t allow your mother to be queen? You wouldn’t have the power to do that,” your uncle reasoned, giving you a devoted attention he never gave before. It made you pause.

“Perhaps I was a bit rash,” you reasoned with the gentle tug of your hair, letting go of Aemond’s hand in nervousness. He swiftly snatched it back before you could think, a surge of excitement rolling in the pit of your stomach with the action. “It wouldn’t only be me, though. I would have Jace, Luke, and Joffrey when he becomes a rider. We would help our mother if anyone tried to prevent her, and I would have my husband, too. He would be my Mors Martell and help me conquer all of Dorne!”

You looked at Aemond with uncertain eyes as your gaze flicked from him to the open book the two of you barely read.

“You mean Aegon. Someone with a dragon,” he countered snidely, turning his flushed cheeks away from you.

“No,” you snapped quicker than you could have imagined. “I don’t want Aegon to be my husband.”

Aemond needn’t ask why.

You hadn’t heard your eldest uncle’s name since that night, and hearing it made something within you break. You despised Aegon for his actions. Did he feel entitled to mistreat you because of the betrothal plan? It filled you with blackened fury. You took a quick breath to calm yourself and looked to Aemond, who appeared remorseful.

“You don’t need a dragon to be powerful,” you explained with a gentle tone, but Aemond only scoffed.

“That’s easy for you to say when you have one,” he bit, causing the tips of his ears to grow pink in anger.

You attempted to hide your huff of annoyance at his sulking but failed, rolling your dark eyes as you answered him honestly. “I do believe you’ll have a dragon one day. There are too many around for you not to. You just need to find the right one, but even if you don’t, there are other ways to have power. You could ride with me and Gaeli, too, if you like? If you never claimed one.”

It was an offering of peace, of goodwill, telling your uncle without the words that you were sorry for having played all the jokes you did on him for not having a mount. You wanted him to know he was welcomed into the world of dragons without one, that you would still see him as an equal, if not better than you in some aspects. He was already showing prospects of being a fine warrior.

“Really?” Aemond perked, violet eyes setting alight with happiness you had never seen him show. He felt childish, but he couldn't help it. You offered for him to ride a dragon!

You giggled, unable to hold your joy back as you bobbed eagerly. “Of course, Aemond! As soon as Gaelithox is large enough to ride you will be with me. We can learn together for when you finally mount one!”

It was the first time you saw your uncle smile with genuine, untainted mirth, displaying a set of dimples you didn’t know he had. The pair of you fell into a deep conversation long into the late evening, causing your mother to pace with nerves until you returned, discussing thoughts of the future, of what dragons Aemond could claim, and how, if he never bonded with one, you would make him feel as if he was a dragon rider like the rest of your family.

The following days, Aemond rose with the sun, a sensation he had never felt before in the pit of his stomach as his servant dressed him in traditional green garbs.

Excitement.

He was filled with eager anticipation for the days ahead now that he had something positive to look forward to. It was something only he had now. In a way, though Aemond would never admit it, for it was such a horrendous thought that brought him great shame, he was glad that Aegon raped his niece. If he hadn’t, Aemond would never have gained one of the two things Aegon had that he didn’t.

First, he took the companionship of the only person who steadfastly supported his old brother. Next, all Aemond had to do was acquire a dragon, and finally, he would be equal to Aegon, if not better.

As Aemond traveled the halls, understanding full well that he could read within the privacy of his chamber, he went to the library to read ever since he and his niece shared words of the future. He met you in the same place in the library after your lessons, whether to read, chat, or enjoy the peace of the other’s company.

Though Aemond was proud that he took something from Aegon, he was afraid that his brother would see you together one day, but Aegon never ventured into the noiselessness of the library. The eldest son had never been much of a student.

You typically sparked conversations, and Aemond would answer back in kind. It made him feel better about himself—more of a man to have someone solely seek his attention and knowledge in a way no one else had before. Aemond always ended the day with a pleasant flutter in his heart and tingling in his fingers for what tomorrow would bring.

One night, as Aemond lay fast asleep with visions of the sun blinding his eyes, green scales, and a head of dark hair that flew in the wind, he woke with a start to the sound of his chamber doors opening. He feared it was Aegon and his nephews who were once again trying to make a mockery of him.

He rose within the lush emerald bedsheets, terrified, as the torchlight shone from the hallway, outlining the figure in the door frame. The person stepped forward with a loud creak of the metal hinges.

“Aemond?”

He heard the quiet mumble, the voice softer than that of the feather pillows he lay his head on at night. Aemond could barely see your silhouette in the darkness, squinting with sleep-clouded eyes to ensure it was you. He could hear your soft sniffles and quick breaths as concern hastened his heart.

“Can I sleep with you?”

You could hear your uncle shift on his bed, mind still reeling from being woken up from a deep slumber. The silence stretched long between you and Aemond, and you feared he might refuse your plea for comfort.

“What? Why?” he hissed with venom. There was no privacy from Aegon here. At any moment, his older brother could walk into his room and see you conversing. He didn’t need another excuse to be ridiculed. You had to leave now.

Your hiccups were loud at his rejection as you wiped at your tears, unable to form coherent sentences as sobs racked your lungs. “I…I had a dream. Ae-gon came… back. He hurt me again, and I… I couldn’t…” You cried, palms scratching at your scalp as you tried to speak.

“Go sleep with Jace,” he retorted, ready to return to bed. Spending time together privately was one thing, but this was invading his space, his place of solitude without siblings or nieces.

“I can’t! He and Luke have been sleeping with Mama since Ser Harwin left,” you babbled in despair, glancing over your shoulder as if the monster called Aegon would emerge from the shadows and devour you whole.

Your desperation stung Aemond's heart, and sympathy clouded his sense that the fear you felt was something he, too, experienced. After a long pause, your uncle shifted to the side, noiselessly lifting his sheets and making room beside him.

Breathing a loud sigh of relief that reminded him of a fish gasping for air, you closed the door, running to Aemond’s bed and immediately clinging to his side. He knew you to be affectionate, but he still carried concern in his mind. Yet how you trembled like a frightened fawn, told him this was not a rouse. You were sincerely terrified that your eldest uncle would return and no one would stop him this time.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I know you don’t like me,” you sobbed into your uncle’s green nightshirt, gripping the fabric so tight that Aemond worried it would rip. “Please, please, please don’t let him hurt me again, uncle. I can still feel it between my legs.”

Aemond froze at the sudden burst of intimacy, slowly wrapping his arms around your quivering body. Despite the context of the situation, having you so close sent a pleasant tingling down the base of his spine. He tried to focus on your breathing, waiting for it to calm down before he spoke again.

Though he was beginning to tolerate your presence, having you within his bed chambers was not something he wanted.

Aemond recalled the last time you experienced panic like this, a type too intense for your body to manage, ripping your hair straight from the root in response. He hated to realize he didn’t want you to suffer like that again, and unconsciously, he began to stroke the crown of your head.

It felt good to be needed, so desperately wanted by someone that they tried to crawl inside him, seeking protection, and Aemond felt an overwhelming urge to protect you how a wolf does its pup. He would shelter you from all monsters and people that sought you harm so long as you returned to him with the same wet eyes and arms full of love.

When you finally relaxed, no longer shaking like a leaf in the autumn wind, he spoke, praying that your exhausted mind would forget his confession in the morning.

“When I have a dragon he will not hurt you so long as you’re with me.”

Masterlist of Series

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Oh, sweet prophetic girl. You know so much yet can do so little. Cursed with the knowledge of what will come and what has yet to be. Let's all pour one out for Helaena, besties.

I hope this chapter makes up for how sad the last one was. I love writing for angsty young Aemond. As always, thank you for reading!

Tagged Peeps: @millies0bsimp , @britt-mf , @marvelescvpe , @haikyuusboringassmanager , @discofairysworld , @lottiemsgf , @nessjo , @fiction-fanfic-reader , @qvnthesia , @hotvillianapologist

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sonicexelle-junkary · 5 months ago

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I can’t stop thinking about them dear lord.

#art #fanart #sketches #oc art #ship art #sonic horror au #COTH au #zepperaith the dreamer #monolith the echidna

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httyd-art-requests · 6 months ago

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You guys love sending me Terror Mail (which I appreciate), but have you guys ever wondered who delivers those letters to me?

Well wonder no more! Introducing my two little helpers...

... Firefly and Deadlight, certified Terror Mail experts! Just don't look too closely at their certifications.

Firefly (he/him) - Deadlight (she/her)

Not a guarantee that I can get back to daily posting just yet, but I thought I'd give you guys a little treat in these trying times. I've been meaning to draw these little goobers since I had the idea a couple weeks ago, and I finally got around to it!

(I drew this one on my laptop, hence the change in style)

#httyd #how to train your dragon #httyd fanart #httyd terrible terror #oc: firefly #oc: deadlight #dreamer (me)

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alwaysdreamer-u · 9 months ago

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Red has never being his color, but he keeps going for it.

↬Commissions || KO-FI ↫

It has being a while since I drew him properly, last time I had a chance to draw him was during the OC-tober challenge, and that was actually the first time ever I drew him the way he deserved it uwu.

Anyway, I wanted to draw something dramatic with him cause I felt like doing it hehe.

#I love that he looks like a villain #also this feels like the cover of a comic or what?#lmk oc art #lmk oc #lmk monkey oc #oc #always dreamer art #dreamer's oc

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myebi · 4 months ago

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happy birthday aheran!! you are loved, no matter the universe 💛💐

#barn owl oc #vampire oc #french art #french artist #french artwork #french comic #dreamers #dms i #dreamers comic #vampire au #aheran #heidi #reim #ocs #oc #myeart

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creganslover · 3 months ago

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Hello!! First of all I loved your Adam de Hull fanfic you wrote. I know you wanted requests to be specific so I will do my best. Could you do a (Hurt/Comfort) fanfic in which (male) OC, an old friend of Helaena Targaryen, with her is in love with, hears her scream during a nightmare about Blood and Cheese and cuddle with her to sleep since all her family seems to have better things to do? Thanks in advance and sorry if it's too or too little specific or if my english is not perfect.

hellish dream, helaena targaryen x male! OC! Velaryon! Reader

wc: 1.8k

warning/s: the dance doesn't happen, they're a functioning family, canon-typical incest, slight angst from helaena's nightmare, pining, hurt/comfort, not beta read

note: your request is perfect! and if you don't mind, I had altered it a little and I hope it's up to your liking! thank you <3 likes, reblogs, and feedbacks are greatly appreciated.

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

Sleep was futile for Aerys Velaryon tonight within the Red Keep.

It could possibly have been due to the fact that he had not walked in these walls for quite a few years now, perhaps the last time being when he was but one and ten if he recalled, before having moved to Dragonstone where he grew up. Though being back in King’s Landing with his family had its perks, specifically where he was able to reconnect with Helaena, and her brothers Aegon and Aemond, the same goes with Aerys’ own brothers, Jacaerys and Lucerys.

All of them had been tied together in youth, getting into all sorts of mischief, mostly due to Aegon, with Jacaerys following suit, then Lucerys, and reluctantly, Aemond. Aerys had been known to participate in their occasional prank pulling or banter, however he often stayed behind and watched, yet this does not mean he would refuse a challenge or two.

That’s when once Helaena had found Aerys sitting on the steps by the grounds of the Red Keep, an amused look on his face as Aegon and Jacaerys had been placing a bet on who could win in a game of tug-of-war on the mud between them and their brothers, and that the losers would follow whatever the victors asked.

Aerys had barely engaged with Helaena before as she had been often with herself and within the confines of her chambers, and when she had approached. Unbeknownst to Aerys, an iridescent beetle had settled upon his shoulder, shining a metallic red. The young girl had spoken right beside him which- honestly- made him jump as he wasn’t alerted of her presence, then catching sight of her as Helaena pointed at his shoulder.

“It likes you.”

It was a simple phrase, yet it had budded a friendship between Aerys and Helaena. It seemed they had both bonded over their like and amusement for being observant, Aerys indulging in Helaena when she had seeked for him the following weeks when she felt it, to show a new critter she had in her collection, or whether it was a finished needlework, in which Aerys had always praised Helaena for and had always made time for her despite the demands of his lessons as a prince.

They were good childhood friends, Aerys even defending Helaena from Aegon’s unnecessary jabs until their family had ultimately parted with Aerys’ mother Rhaenyra Targaryen moving to reside in Dragonstone, therefore grew in their separate ways.

Moving forward to the present, Aerys had found himself tossing and turning in his given chambers in the Red Keep, before he sighed, sitting up and moving out of bed, rubbing at his face in frustration. His feet had taken him to one of a small chest sitting on his table, fingers fiddling with the lock as it creaked open.

There he pulled out a cloth, not just any cloth, but an embroidery of his dragon, Skysplitter, given to him by Helaena when they had last met. Even though they had glimpsed each other earlier in the dining hall after such years passed, neither had made a move.

It was understandable since they were now both grown into a man and woman. Despite that, Aerys managed to give Helaena a smile, in which the latter only pursed her lips and averted her gaze from him in shyness.

However, it felt as if no time had changed when the cousins Targaryen and Velaryon boys had gotten together, the whole feast spent catching up and having to tolerate Aegon’s jokes and reliving the memories of their childhood now over cups of wine.

Aerys dragged his thumb down onto the fabric, its threads smooth and firm, Helaena had put much work and detail into it possible, even for its small size, it had depicted Skysplitter’s silver-red scales, wings spread and tail curled.

It sent Aerys’ mouth quirking to a boyish grin, shaking his head, in all their time apart, he had not been able to let Helaena out of his thoughts, always lingering in the back of his head, even thinking about her had his heart hammering against his chest, begging to be let out so it could find its way to where it wanted to belong.

Aerys then placed the embroidery back into the chest, shaking himself out of his foolish thoughts, closing the chest with a thud and clicking it shut, before deciding to venture out the halls, throwing a robe over on his shoulders to beat the cold that managed to seep into the castle in the night.

Mostly everyone should have been asleep now, his family in their own respective chambers.

Then as he had moved up the stairs, trying to challenge himself if he could remember the way to the balcony where he and Helaena often spent time together.

Passing by large intricate doors, with guards nowhere in sight, there was a noise making Aerys halt in his steps, eyes meeting the handle. With brows knitted, Aerys knew he should not intervene, and that it was probably something else.

As he made to continue in his steps again, there was a gasp followed by a short yell, muffled through the doors. Aerys instincts kicked in, grabbing at the large door handle, pulling it open imagining someone was in need of help when darkness greeted him, except for a few candles lit.

There were no signs of trouble, though only then Aerys realized it was another sleeping quarters, based on the heap on the bed. Aerys blinked back, he should turn away now, or it would have been a cause of immodesty for him to be found within another’s bedroom.

Yet before he could turn back again, the voice was much clearer this time, and in distress. “No, no, not him- please!”

Helaena.

Aerys inhaled a sharp breath as the realization of being in Helaena’s quarters hit, and she was there struggling with a nightmare, with no guards posted to alert her family of it. The longer she cried, Aerys broken free from his stupor as he approached where she lay on the side of the bed, hand immediately darting as he spots Helaena’s face scrunched, a stray tear rolling down her cheek in her sleep as she tossed, trying to fight her way out of the nightmare that had a hold on her.

“Helaena, Helaena, wake up.” Aerys urged, squeezing at her shoulder and trying to shake her awake. It took a few tries with Aerys’ tone deepening in concern before Helaena had jolted awake, sitting up and looking frantically, gesturing and managing to grab a hold of Aerys’ arm, her eyes wide and stricken with grief and panic as she called out for her twins that she did not have at the moment.

“Where are they? My- my children! Jahaerys, Jahaera- oh Jahaerys…” Helaena said, breathily, seeming as if the air had been knocked out her lungs as she was a mess, tears freely rolling down her flushed cheeks of her creamy skin.

“Helaena.” Aerys voiced firmly, Helaena gasping for air as her body shook, looking at him, mouth parting open and closed as she registered his presence. “Aerys.” She replied, almost in relief, without thinking, pulling him in an embrace, sending him to be sat upon her bed, face buried in his chest, grasping at his robes.

Only then Aerys realized how cold Helaena had been, in turn wrapping his strong arms around her delicate form, though his heart beat faster than a horse could run. Aerys rubbed up and down her back, careful of where he situated his hands as he slowly rested one upon the small of her back, the other shy of just touching her waist.

“Shh, you are alright, there is no harm here.” Aerys comforted as Helaena’s shaking body soon started to relax, this here, Helaena being in his arms had felt right, as if something had shifted in the stars.

“No harm will come to you, I swear of it.” Aerys voiced in a fleeting thought. Helaena stayed buried in his chest, arms clinging around him as she steadied her breath with the help of Aerys.

“They, they took him from me, Aerys.” Never had Aerys heard such fear in her voice, Aerys knew better than to prod when Helaena was clearly distressed. “No one will take anything from you, Helaena.” He responded. He had spent a few minutes ensuring Helaena had come back down from whatever dreams plagued her mind.

Once Helaena had gone quiet and was now breathing normally, with Aerys rested back on the bed, leaned back against the headrest with Helaena laying her head on his chest now. Aerys absentmindedly traced patterns on her arms through her sleeves of her chemise, before propriety had struck his mind like a blacksmith would hammer a forged sword.

Shifting, Aerys waged a war within his mind, a part of him selfishly wanted to stay, another deemed that he had done his part and must now leave Helaena alone before he could get in trouble and drag her with him.

“I think I must go, Helaena.” Aerys carefully voiced, moving and slowly trying to detangle himself from her, reluctantly.

“Must you really?” Helaena croaked and Aerys felt his composure fracture. He had long avoided looking into Helaena’s face and he made the mistake of doing so now, gazing down at her to find her eyes still puffy and red, eyes conveying more emotions than she spoke.

“I… I would not want to get you in trouble.” Aerys swallowed down. “You could leave before the sun shows…” Helaena suggested before she was tugging onto the sleeve of Aerys’ tunic. “Tell me what endeavours have you sought to do in your years at Dragonstone?” She added, liking to hear more of Aerys’ voice which had managed to calm her tonight.

Thus with Aerys taking a quick glance out into the window of Helaena’s chambers, calculating that he likely had a few more hours before the keep would come alive again, he obliged.

“-you should have seen the look on poor Lucerys’ face when he had first rode on Arrax.” Aerys could fondly remember having to steady the youngest on his feet when he got back down onto the ground, unable to even jest with his brother in between laughter.

As he looked down at Helaena, he found her fast asleep, curled up against his side, a hand splayed on his abdomen, stirring feelings he had held back for so long with them in this position. Smoothing a few stray hairs away from her face, smiling dearly when Helaena’s nose would scrunch in turn, he placed a featherlight kiss upon the crown of her silver head.

Whatever the Gods had in store for them now, Aerys vowed that in time and come whatever may, one way or another, was going to ask for Helaena’s hand.

#helaena targaryen #helaena targaryen x reader #helaena targaryen x male reader #helaena the dreamer #hotd helaena #hotd helaena x reader #house of the dragon #house of the dragon x reader #house of the dragon x you #house of the dragon fanfic #hotd fanfic #hotd season 2 #hotd x you #hotd x reader #hotd x oc #hotd x male reader #queen helaena

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how2bmotorized · 6 months ago

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i be arting ( @jeebusmeebus be in mai dreams smh)

#regretevator #my art #regretevator art #regretevator roblox #regretevator oc #roblox oc #regretevator fanart #regretevator infected #this 1 is not ship art #this is dream art.....#i be the dreamer fr

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valaenatargaryensdragon · 1 year ago

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A Dragon's Wedding

pairing: Fanon!Halaena Targaryen x Male OC

summary: The wedding of Helaena and Rhaegal is finally here. And so is the wedding night.

Word count: 5,5K

Warnings: Fluff, incest, mention of alcohol, mention of blood, smut, P in V, Fingering, Cunnilingus, Slight breeding kink

Masterlist 1

Masterlist 2

The air in Rhaegal's chamber was charged with anticipation. The grand stone walls of Dragonstone cast a cool, muted light on the scene within. Rhaegal Targaryen, the soldier prince, stood before a polished mirror, his mismatched eyes capturing a flicker of excitement he would never admit to anyone.

One eye was a striking amethyst, inherited from the Targaryen line; the other, a piercing shade of blue, a unique feature shared with his mother. His tall, lean figure bore the marks of a warrior, a testament to his years of rigorous training. Silverlight, his sword, hung proudly on his belt, a symbol of his skill and valor.

As he stood in front of the mirror, Rhaegal's platinum-blonde hair cascaded down to just below his shoulders, its shimmering strands the color of dragonfire. He had chosen to leave it loose, refusing the intricate braids and embellishments favoured by others on this momentous occasion.

In the corner of the room, his chosen servant, a trusted figure who had been by his side through countless battles, worked diligently to fasten the intricate clasps of his royal wedding attire. Rhaegal's preference for privacy was clear; he had allowed only this one male servant to assist him in this most intimate of moments.

Rhaegal maintained his stoic demeanour, his face an unreadable mask. He was a soldier prince, after all, and emotions were best kept hidden, especially on a day as significant as this.

As the servant carefully adjusted the royal cloak bearing the Targaryen sigil on his shoulders, Rhaegal couldn't help but steal a glance at the ornate wedding attire laid out on the bed. It was resplendent in shades of crimson and black, meant for a princess of House Targaryen. Today, Helaena would become his wife, his partner in the intricate dance of politics and power.

While excitement bubbled beneath his stoicism, he held onto the discipline that had guided him through countless battles. Rhaegal Targaryen was ready, but he allowed no one, not even his future bride, to see the depth of emotion that lay beneath the surface.

And so, as he prepared to embark on this new chapter of his life, the soldier prince stood tall, a symbol of strength and composure, ready to face whatever challenges and triumphs lay ahead in his union with Princess Helaena Targaryen.

The room was filled with a quiet sense of purpose as Rhaegal's servant finished fastening the last clasp on his royal attire. The cloak, bearing the Targaryen sigil, lay perfectly across his broad shoulders.

Rhaegal, with his platinum-blonde hair framing his strong, chiseled features, surveyed his reflection in the mirror one last time. He nodded, satisfied with his appearance, though his mismatched eyes held a hint of apprehension.

"Thank you," he said to the servant, his voice measured and controlled. The servant bowed respectfully and exited the room, leaving Rhaegal alone with his thoughts.

With practiced precision, Rhaegal slid Silverlight into its ornate scabbard, feeling the familiar weight of his sword. It was a companion he had trusted on countless battlefields, and today, it symbolized his readiness for the intricate political battles of the Targaryen court.

As he turned away from the mirror, his gaze landed on the wedding attire laid out for Helaena, a resplendent vision of crimson and black. The sight reminded him of the significant role they were to play in the intricate dance of the Targaryen dynasty.

Rhaegal's stoic facade remained firmly in place, but deep within, he couldn't deny a surge of anticipation. He knew that today marked the beginning of a new chapter in his life—one that held both challenges and triumphs. His marriage to Princess Helaena was a political alliance, but he couldn't help but wonder what the future held for them as husband and wife.

With one last glance at the mirror, he took a deep breath, his resolve unwavering. Today, he would stand before gods and men, pledging himself to Helaena, a princess of House Targaryen. As the soldier prince, he understood the importance of the union, and he was determined to fulfill his duty with honor and dedication.

Rhaegal exited the chamber, his steps steady and measured. The ceremony awaited, and he would face it with the same composure that had guided him through battles and challenges in the past. The soldier prince was ready for the next chapter of his life, even if the depth of his emotions remained hidden beneath his stoic exterior.

As Rhaegal stood ready, the weight of tradition and duty pressed upon his shoulders. His mismatched eyes, one amethyst and the other blue, held a depth of determination as he prepared to marry Princess Helaena Targaryen, a union that would bind two Valyrian souls together.

But Rhaegal was adamant that their marriage would honor their Valyrian heritage. They were dragons, descendants of the old Valyria, and their union deserved to be celebrated in the ancient Valyrian way.

In the chambers where Helaena awaited, a sense of quiet reverence filled the air. The ceremony would be performed before the crowd in the Throne room, a sacred place that had witnessed countless Targaryen unions.

Rhaegal, in his resplendent attire, made his way to the Throne room, where the room buzzed with excitement from the guests who were probably witnessing a Valyrian wedding for the first time. The quiet murmurs of guests could be heard as they gathered, eager to witness the Valyrian wedding.

As the ceremony began, the Valyrian words of binding echoed through the air, resonating with centuries of tradition. Rhaegal and Helaena exchanged vows in the ancient tongue, their words carrying the weight of their house and their legacy.

The hushed gathering of Targaryen family and trusted allies watched in awe as the Valyrian wedding ceremony unfolded. The air was filled with the weight of tradition, and the Valyrian words of binding echoed through the Throne room.

The Valyrian ceremony continued with the offering of ancient Valyrian symbols—a silver chalice filled with the purest Dragonstone wine and a dragon's egg, symbolising the fire and blood that flowed through their veins. As the sun's rays filtered through the leaves, casting a warm glow over the couple, they each took a sip of the wine and touched the dragon's egg, a powerful symbol of their bond and destiny.

Rhaegal and Princess Helaena Targaryen, their amethyst and sapphire eyes reflecting the ancient lineage of Valyria, exchanged vows in the venerable tongue of their forefathers. Their words carried the resonance of centuries of Targaryen history, binding them together in a union that was as enduring as the Valyrian steel their house prized.

With half of Westeros as their witnesses, they sealed their vows with a kiss, a symbol of their commitment and love. The Targaryen sigil, a crimson dragon on a black field, was emblazoned on their garments, a testament to their shared heritage

With the blessing of the measter, the Valyrian ceremony was complete, and Rhaegal couldn't help but feel a profound connection to Helaena as they stood together before gods and men.

But they were mindful of the complexities of their world, where the Green Queen held sway. To honor both their Valyrian heritage and the political realities of their time, Rhaegal and Helaena decided to host a second ceremony, a Seven wedding, for the benefit of the Green Queen and her court.

After the Valyrian ceremony, the couple, still resplendent in their regal attire, where the Seven wedding was to take place was the same as the Valyrian Wedding.

Rhaegal's eyes, held a subtle blend of tradition and compromise. He understood the necessity of diplomacy in their world, and so he would entertain the Green Queen with grace and dignity.

The Seven wedding unfolded with the grandeur and opulence that was expected in the Targaryen court, pleasing the Green Queen and her supporters.

Through the day, Rhaegal and Helaena navigated the delicate balance between honoring their Valyrian roots and appeasing the political forces at play. It was a testament to their adaptability and strength as a couple, bound not only by love but also by the intricate web of Targaryen politics.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm, orange glow over Dragonstone, Rhaegal and Helaena, united in both Valyrian and Green ceremonies, faced the future as husband and wife. Their love, their traditions, and their compromises were the foundation upon which their journey would unfold, a testament to the complexities of their world and their enduring commitment to each other.

The Throne Room of the Red Keep was transformed into a grand banquet hall, its towering iron throne overshadowed by the opulence of the occasion. The long, feasting tables were adorned with rich crimson and black banners, the colors of House Targaryen, and dragon motifs adorned the walls.

Rhaegal Targaryen, resplendent in his crimson and black attire, did not leave the side of his new wife, Princess Helaena Targaryen. She was a vision of Valyrian beauty, her flowing gown as ethereal as dragonfire, her eyes shimmering with joy.

The guests, an assembly of Targaryen kin, noble lords, and ladies from various houses, gathered to celebrate the union of the soldier prince and the princess. The atmosphere was filled with excitement and anticipation as they enjoyed the lavish feast.

As the evening progressed, Rhaegal led Helaena to the center of the Throne Room, where a space had been cleared for dancing. The couple stood together, their eyes locked, lost in the moment as they prepared for their first dance as husband and wife.

The soft strains of a Valyrian melody filled the air, and they began to move gracefully across the polished floor, their movements synchronised as if they had been dancing together their entire lives. The Throne Room seemed to fade away, leaving only Rhaegal and Helaena in their world of shared happiness.

As they danced, their connection deepened, and Helaena couldn't help but blush whenever their eyes met. Rhaegal, always composed and stoic, found himself enchanted by her beauty and grace. He whispered words of affection and love, meant for her ears alone, as they swayed to the music.

Slowly, other couples joined them on the dance floor, celebrating their union and the joyous occasion. The Throne Room came alive with the revelry of lords and ladies, their laughter and merriment echoing off the stone walls.

Rhaegal and Helaena continued to dance, their love and unity on display for all to see. In that moment, surrounded by the grandeur of the Red Keep and the warmth of their guests, they knew that their union was a cause for celebration, a testament to the enduring strength of House Targaryen.

As the night wore on and the feast continued, Rhaegal and Helaena remained inseparable, their bond deepening with each passing moment. Their Valyrian wedding had marked the beginning of their journey as husband and wife, and the celebration in the Throne Room was a testament to their love and the joy it brought to those around them.

In the Throne Room of the Red Keep, Rhaegal Targaryen and Princess Helaena Targaryen took to the center of the polished floor, bathed in the soft, flickering glow of dragon-themed candles. Their eyes locked, and they began to dance to the enchanting strains of a Valyrian melody.

Amid the grandeur of the Throne Room, Rhaegal leaned in, his voice a tender whisper that only she could hear over the music.

"You look radiant tonight, my love," he murmured. "Every star in the sky must be jealous of your beauty."

Helaena blushed, her smile brightening. Their movements were graceful, their bodies swaying in perfect harmony as they danced.

"And you, Rhaegal, are the most dashing soldier prince to ever grace the Red Keep," she replied with a fondness in her voice.

As they twirled, Rhaegal continued to whisper, his words filled with humour and love.

"Do you remember the time we met in the courtyard, and you tripped over your own gown?" he reminisced. "I thought you were trying to impress me with a dance move."

Helaena giggled, her laughter like a melodic tune. "You caught me before I could fall flat on my face."

Their laughter mingled with the music as they danced, their worries and the weight of their roles momentarily forgotten.

"Of course, I couldn't let you face that humiliation alone," Rhaegal chuckled. "It's a soldier prince's duty to save princesses from tripping mishaps."

Helaena's eyes sparkled as she remembered that day. "And you did so gallantly."

Their banter continued, Rhaegal ensuring that their minds were focused on the joy of the moment, not the expectations of their wedding night.

"And speaking of duties, my love," he said softly, "let's not think about the wedding night just yet. Tonight, we celebrate our union with joy and merriment."

Helaena nodded in agreement, her gaze locked onto his. "Agreed, Rhaegal. Let's savour this moment and the love we share."

As they danced, their whispered jokes and words of love created a bubble of happiness around them. The Throne Room seemed to fade away, leaving only the soldier prince and the princess in their world of shared laughter, love, and celebration.

Amid the splendour of the Throne Room, Rhaegal and Helaena's dance continued, their steps perfectly synchronised to the Valyrian melody that filled the air. Their eyes remained locked, and the world seemed to fade away as they danced together.

Rhaegal's voice, soft and filled with devotion, found its way into the quiet moments between the notes of the music.

"I promise you, Helaena," he whispered, his gaze unwavering, "I will protect you until the end of my days."

Helaena's heart swelled with emotion at his words. She knew what he meant, though the name went unspoken. It was a vow of love and commitment that extended beyond the dance, beyond the festivities of this night.

In that moment, she felt safe in his arms, secure in the knowledge that Rhaegal would always stand by her side. She smiled, her eyes shining with unspoken gratitude.

Their dance continued, and Helaena chose not to mention the looming uncertainties that hung in the air. She knew that with her father's passing, the realm teetered on the brink of war, a reality that could not be ignored. But tonight was for celebration, for love, and for the promise they held in their hearts.

As they moved gracefully across the floor, their unspoken understanding and the bond they shared deepened. It was a testament to the strength of their love and their willingness to face an uncertain future together.

In the midst of the joy and laughter that surrounded them, Rhaegal and Helaena's dance carried with it the weight of their unspoken vows and the unbreakable bond that would carry them through whatever challenges lay ahead.

As the hours of celebration unfolded in the Throne Room of the Red Keep, revelry and merriment filled the air. The festivities seemed endless, but the joyful atmosphere took an unexpected turn when Aegon, fueled by the excesses of wine, made a brash announcement.

"It's time for the bedding ceremony!" Aegon declared, his voice slurred with drunkenness.

The revellers, caught off guard, erupted into cheers and laughter, as was the tradition in many Westerosi weddings. However, the atmosphere quickly shifted when some of the more enthusiastic guests began to approach Rhaegal and Helaena, intent on taking part in the customary undressing of the bride.

Rhaegal, ever protective of his new wife, swiftly pulled Helaena away from the advancing guests. With determination in his mismatched eyes, he guided her through the maze of well-wishers and out of the Throne Room.

They arrived at the chamber they were to share from that night on, a haven of privacy away from the revelry. Rhaegal's stance was unwavering, and his voice held a firm edge.

"No one will enter this room," he declared to anyone who dared to approach. "I'll cut off the balls of anyone who attempts to step across this threshold without our consent."

His words were a stark reminder of his authority and his determination to protect Helaena's dignity and their shared moment. The threats hung in the air, a clear warning to those who might seek to invade their privacy.

Inside the room, Rhaegal closed the door behind them, creating a barrier against the world outside. He turned to Helaena, his expression softening.

"No one will intrude on our union," he assured her, his voice gentle. "We decide when and how our wedding night unfolds."

Their love and respect for each other were evident in that moment, as they stood united against the expectations and pressures of tradition. Together, they were ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead as husband and wife, on their terms, in their own time.

In the dimly lit chamber, Rhaegal and Helaena stood facing each other, the weight of the evening's events still hanging in the air. Helaena, poised to undress as per tradition, hesitated at the threshold of their new life together.

But Rhaegal, ever considerate and attuned to her emotions, gently placed a hand on her arm, stopping her.

"We don't need to do anything tonight," he murmured, his mismatched eyes filled with understanding and love.

Helaena, overcome with emotions, felt a surge of gratitude and affection for her husband. In that tender moment, she leaned forward and kissed him straight on the lips. Their kiss was a sweet, heartfelt embrace, a testament to the depth of their connection and the love that had blossomed between them.

As they pulled away from the kiss, their eyes locked once more, and Rhaegal's hand gently cupped her cheek. In that moment, they understood that their love would guide them through the complexities of their world, and their wedding night, as significant as it was, could wait for a time when their hearts were ready.

In each other's arms, they found solace and comfort, a sanctuary of love and understanding. As they prepared to embark on the journey of marriage, they knew that their bond would be the foundation upon which they built their life together, a testament to the enduring strength of their love.

Much to Rhaegal's surprise Helaena deepened the kiss, her hand reaching up to touch his cheek, fingers moving through the very little stubble he let grow. Her lips were so soft and tasted of strawberries from the tarts he watched her eat happily during the feast.

"Hel, we don't have to" Rhaegal tried assuring her again. She smiled pulling away a little. Rhaegal thought she would stop then but what surprised him when she began undoing the bodice of her dress.

"But I want to" She muttered, blushing furiously. Seeing the tremble in her hands, Rhaegal reached over taking both of her hands into his and pulled them up to kiss them both.

"Alright, but do tell me to stop when you feel uncomfortable or in pain or just simply want to stop" Rhaegal did not proceed from there until she gave him a nod.

Rhaegal leaned down claiming her lips gently, not wanting to overwhelm her anymore. He let go of her hands to wrap them around her waist instead and pulled her closer to his body. Helaena's hand moved to hold his muscular biceps as she tried to imitate the way his lips moved and kiss him back.

Rhaegal with careful movement began removing Helaena's heavy wedding dress, one piece at a time until she was left only in her linen. He groaned at the sight of her perky nipples peaking through the white fabric. A small spot was also present at the front of her linen showing her arousal.

"You look delicious, dōna vaokses" Sweet spider. Rhaegal murmured with his gruff voice. Helaena clenched her thighs at the sound of his voice, at the nickname he had given her, sweet spider? Her favorite insect? It was too much.

"Kepus" Uncle. Helaena whispered her plea. Rhaegal smiled sweetly down at her. He crouched down slightly to place his hands behind her thighs before standing up again straight. Helaena squealed a little as he pulled her up with him, her legs moved to wrap around his waist for support and her arms wrapped around his shoulders. She blushed when she heard laughter behind the door, people were listening in on them.

"Ignore them, dōna vaokses" Rhaegal whispered. Helaena nodded slightly and looked down at him instead of the door. She leaned down and captured his lips with her own missing the feeling of his lips.

Rhaegal moved towards the bed and gently moved to kneel on it before laying her on her back on it. He remained on top of her. His hands moved down to feel her thighs pulling them off his waist, his hands grabbing at them, kneading the flesh wanting to feel more of her soft skin.

His lips trailed down to her neck, placing gentle kisses, she deserved nothing but kindness, she was a gentle soul. She deserved nothing but the best.

Helaena's breathing picked up as Rhaegal trailed down to kiss down to the neckline of her linen. A gasp tore through her lips when his fingers ripped the edges and ripped it right down the middle. Rhaegal chuckled at her reaction and looked up watching her face. Her eyes looked dazed almost. Her fingers ran through his loose hair, playing with the strands before grabbing a fist of it gently and pushed his head closer to her flesh.

Rhaegal obeyed and resumed kissing down to her breasts. They were perfect, she was perfect, that was all Rhaegal could think of. His lips trailed around her right breast before taking her nipple into his mouth. She moaned arching her back wanting to shove more of the flesh into his mouth. His hand moved up her bare stomach to grab the other breast and give it some attention.

"Kepus" Helaena whimpered. Her hand trailed down to his shoulder pulling him closer, frowning when she realised he was fully clothes still.

"Too much clothes" She whispered. Rhaegal let go of her tit with a pop. He sat up on his knees and began unbuttoning his shirt. Helaena watched with hooded eyes as Rhaegal shed one piece of clothing after the other.

"Gevie" Beautiful. She stated, sitting up to run her fingers from his shoulder to his belly, where it was littered with scars he gained through the years.

"You think so, dōna vaokses?" Rhaegal asked with a teasing smile. Helaena noticed that she had spoke out loud, blushed furiously. Rhaegal claimed her lips in a second pushing her back to lay fully on her back again.

"You are much much more Gevie, sweet Helaena" Rhaegal muttered against her lips. He slowly slid down littering kisses in his wake. Helaena's head fell back when he reached her breasts again.

He gave them the loved they deserved, kissing, kneading and littered them with bruises for people to see tomorrow, he will make sure she will wear one of his many gifts, a dress with a low neckline to show his marks off. So men would back away and never even think about coming near his wife ever.

His lips continued down to her belly, he pushed his tongue in her belly button teasing her. Helaena moaned, her fingers grabbing at his hair when he wet a sensitive spot she did not know was sensitive in the first place. Rhaegal smirked in victory and moved on.

He kneeled down on the floor, face to face with her crying cunny. He pushed her knees apart to show more of her beauty. Helaena's breath hitched in her throat, raising her head to watch his reaction.

Rhaegal winked at her before diving in. His tongue licked a long strip up her slit. Helaena's head fell back again on the mattress, she has never touched that area before, having been warned many times by her mother before.

Rhaegal found her swollen pearl with ease, it was just very swollen and ready to be devoured. He sucked at it earning a loud moan from Helaena. He moved down prodding at her hole with the wet muscle of his tongue.

"Kepus" Helaena begged. She sounded so sweet, she sounded so desperate. Rhaegal did not make her wait and pushed his tongue inside of her. Moaning at the taste of her cunt, the vibrations sent shockwaves through Helaena's body.

"You taste so sweet" Rhaegal complimented. He moved one of his fingers to touch her whole. Her whole body tensed at the feeling.

Rhaegal shushed her before slowly moving his finger inside of her. Tongue toying with her pearl to ease the discomfort. Helaena's grip on his head tightened but she did not protest. Rhaegal waited for her to stop him but after a couple of minutes it was obvious she was not going to.

"Good Vaokses" Spider. Rhaegal praised, he wiggled his finger inside of her in search of the rough spot all women had but not all men found.

The second he touched it Helaena's whole body jerked in shock. She has never felt such pleasure before in her life. Rhaegal slowly pushed a second finger inside testing the waters. Helaena's legs tried to close around him but his free hand pushed her leg open and she forced the second one open.

His tongue resumed it's torture on her pearl, he wanted this experience to be as pleasant as possible for her as it will be for him. His cock was throbbing but he did not touch it, no he wanted it to last and he will try as hard as possible to make it last.

"Helaena" He muttered against her pearl. Helaena's body jerked with the vibrations of his voice. Her breathing grew even more shallow.

"So full" She whimpered. A buzzing like feeling started taking over senses. Rhaegal smirked victorious as she orgasmed on his tongue and fingers not even knowing what was happening.

"So good" She cried, her back arched off the bed. Rhaegal's ear buzzed with anticipation he could barely hear the cheering outside of the room.

"Good Vaokses" Rhaegal pulled away from her cunt and climbed on top of her. Helaena looked at him with eyes full of love. He couldn't help but kiss her, she was just so beautiful. She moaned when she tasted herself on his lips.

"Ready?" He asked her. Her eyes trailed down to his throbbing length, eyes widened at the sight. She gulped but nodded her head either way.

"Tell me to stop if you want me to" He reminded her. Helaena took a deep breath and nodded.

Rhaegal groaned as he grabbed the base of his cock, he was sensitive even to his own touch after refusing himself pleasure for so long. He placed the tip on her pearl rubbing it slightly, moaning slightly at the feeling of her flesh on him. Helaena placed her hands on his shoulders preparing herself mentally.

After gathering enough of her wetness to cover his entire length he began pushing in the tip. Helaena groaned at the feeling, his fingers were nowhere near as big as his cock, even just the tip. He pushed himself inside of her inch by inch. Groaning when she latched her teeth to the flesh of his shoulder, but he did not dare complain because she was in much more pain than him.

"Uncomfortable" She whimpered. "So full" Rhaegal stopped all movement once he was full sheathed inside of her tight virgin cunt. He wanted to cry out with pleasure at the feeling but held himself back.

"Fuck" Came the word out of his mouth involuntary. Helaena nodded slowly giving him permission to continue. Rhaegal let out a loud moan by accident when he pulled out and pushed back. Helaena tensed when she heard the cheering yet again but soon forgot all about it with the rocking of Rhaegal's hips.

"More" She begged, eyes growing teary with pleasure. Rhaegal obeyed her, he was like a puppet now, he was fully cunt drunk, he was her slave and she knew nothing of how to control him. If she asked him to kill the whole world, he would mount Vyraxes and burn the world for her.

"Fuck, tightest cunt I've ever fucked" He groaned in her ear. Helaena's moans grew in volume, her arms pulling him closer, in search of his lips to silence herself.

Rhaegal lost full control at the taste of her lips, his hips went from rocking to fully slamming against hers. His hips snapped with no rhythm except lust desire.

Rhaegal swished his spit inside of his mouth before pushing it inside of her mouth. Helaena moaned not expecting to find spit swapping attractive but her body spasmed with the pleasure of it.

"Close" She whimpered against his lips. Rhaegal watched her face contract with pleasure. Her legs began shaking by his sides, her hands holding fists of his hair or flesh, eyes rolling back.

"Come on dōna vaokses, come on my cock" Rhaegal encouraged. Helaena cried loudly, body shaking, head falling back. Her cries turned to screams of pleasure, she wanted to stay in this moment forever.

"I'm gonna fill you up to the brim, you will be dripping my cum for weeks" Rhaegal growled. Helaena wanted nothing else, she found nothing else more desirable.

"Fill me up, kepus, give me a child, kepus" She cried. Rhaegal had half a mind to cover her mouth so no one would hear, those words were for his ears alone but then he wanted the entire world to hear, he wanted them to know who she belonged to.

"You want my child?" Rhaegal teased. One of his hands trailed down between their bodied finding her pearl. He tweaked it with care and love. Helaena let out a surprised scream, a scream Rhaegal was more than happy to go deaf listening to.

"Yes let me make you a kepa, kepus" Father, uncle. Helaena cried. Her beautiful curly platinum hair was around her head like a halo and Rhaegal wished for their children to have her hair shade instead of his. Hers was more beautiful, despite the little difference.

"Kepus" She begged, body spasming with a third orgasm. The tightness of her walls threw Rhaegal over the edge. He let out a deep growl as he spilled himself inside of her, painting her walls white. He hoped his cum would take and make them a beautiful child.

"Kepus" Helaena whispered. The cheering outside grew in volume when they could no longer hear their moans or the bed banging against the wall.

"Shhh, dōna vaokses" Rhaegal shushed her. He kissed her forehead as he pulled out of her red and swollen cunt. Helaena sniffled a little at the movement. Rhaegal moved to help her out of the shredded linen she wore still. There on the bottom was her innocence blood.

Rhaegal caring not for modesty walked over to the door and opened it a smidge to keep Helaena's naked form hidden, behind the door stood a group of men from other houses including Aegon, the queen and a smirking Daemon and maester.

"Leave" Rhaegal ordered throwing the linen in the face of the maester who pulled it away with disgust. The crowd cheered at the sight of the blood, not like Rhaegal's sweaty face and wet hair was enough proof of what was happening behind the door or the noises and moans.

"I said leave!" Rhaegal yelled when no one moved. The crowd still cheering did not grow disheartened but moved to leave the couple. The queen stayed a little longer trying to look into the room but Rhaegal slammed the door in her face after saying quickly "She is alright".

As Rhaegal retreated to their shared bed, the soft glow of candlelight casting a warm ambience in their chamber, they settled in, their hearts still racing from the emotions of the day. Helaena, exhausted and on the verge of sleep, welcomed Rhaegal's comforting presence.

Rhaegal curled up beside her, his arms wrapping around her as they lay in each other's embrace. He pressed a gentle kiss to her temple, his lips barely grazing her skin.

"Rest now, my love," he whispered, his voice a soothing lullaby in the quiet of the night. "Close your eyes, and let the dreams carry you away."

Helaena's eyes fluttered closed, her body relaxing against his. She listened to the cadence of his voice, feeling safe and cherished in his arms.

Rhaegal continued to whisper, his words filled with promises of a bright future, a future where their children would be silver-haired like them, beautiful like her, smart and intelligent like her, and strong like him. His hands moved gently across her stomach, his touch a silent prayer for the children they hoped to bring into the world.

"You and I," he murmured, "we will build a life filled with love, laughter, and the pitter-patter of little feet. Our family will be a testament to the love we share, a legacy of House Targaryen."

As he spoke, the weight of the day's events seemed to lift, replaced by the anticipation of the life they would create together. In the quiet of the night, their hearts beat in unison, and the promise of a future filled with love and family guided them into the realm of dreams.

Wrapped in each other's arms, they embarked on this new chapter of their lives, their hearts full of hope and love, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead.

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