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dolicekiss · 4 months ago

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From Friend To Foe

PAIRING: Dark!Aemond Targaryen X Strong!fem!Reader

CONTENT WARNING: smut (18+, mdni), noncon, virgin!reader, possessive aemond, friends to enemies, childhood friends, reader is from house strong, dragon riding (also riding Aemond), unprotected sex (p in v), forced kissing, breeding, angst, threats, humiliation, reader has dark hair, hair pulling, slapping, cunnilingus, mention of forced marriage, attempted murder.

SYNOPSIS: Aemond and you were childhood friends, you being the daughter of a lord and him being the Targayen prince. When the Greens and Blacks went against each other, your father’s sworn fealty to the blacks became an obstacle in your friendship and when your father was defeated, army overthrown — you were taken prisoner, kneeled before the Targaryen prince who was once your closest friend.

Swords clashed, dragon roared and knights fell after fighting bravely.

All you could do was sit idle in your room and await the promise of a better future. Only it did not come and when silence haunted the grounds of Harrenhal and everything came to a halt, you were certain your family had lost the fight.

You were mere humans, with no possession of such an almighty being.

Dragons were Gods. To be worshiped and prayed — and one was prominently flying over the remains of Harrenhal.

Belonging to none other than Aemond Targaryen, who was once your beloved friend with whom you dreamt of riding on a dragon.

Aemond had promised you when you were younglings. A promise that once he has claimed himself a dragon, you would be the first person he'd take for a flight.

The irony of the situation broke your heart.

The same dragon had left your castle and people in ruins — Vhagar’s loud wails filling up the sky with terror. You knew very well that now your army had fallen, your father definitely slain, you were going to face the same fate as many women during war did.

A prisoner, meat for Aemond’s men.

The door was slammed open and you turned around in a swift motion, finding your servant standing there. A look of horror adorning her once serene features. “It is done. The Targaryen prince has won and we are the only ones left.”

Tears blurred your vision. You did not remember reaching for the sharp blade which you had placed on your side table, an escape from all the atrocities you would eventually be forced to face by the hands of your own closest friend.

War was war.

And with the stories of Aemond’s cruelty circulating about, you knew very well than to beg for mercy or even expect it. Long gone was the sweet prince who made you promises of protection, a dragon and long lasting friendship.

He was your foe now.

An enemy who had slayed the men of your house, your own blood.

As you attempted to cut your own throat, a hand prevented you from doing so. Guards, of house Targaryen. Your face paled and your tears finally rushed down your face in glossy streaks, your one chance of escape taken from you.

The men restrained you but you screamed, struggled even. To break free and somehow draw the blade closer to your throat, only a small cut and you would disappear. You did not care if this was considered weak, you were willing to do just about anything to keep your dignity and honor.

To not be some slave for a man to put his cock in.

“Stay still, woman!” One of the guards berated you but you didn't listen, worming in their grasp.

“Let me go! Release me, right now.” Your screams echoed in the expanse of your chamber as well as the castle and Aemond heard them too.

He had ordered the demise of everyone, everyone besides you. There was this ache, this need to lay his eye upon you for the first time in awhile. Last time he saw you when you were nine, a beautiful little girl who often came to the red keep with her father — member of the council.

Aemond and your friendship flourished when you defended him against Aegon, comforting him to not lose all hope for a dragon. It was you who encouraged him, who provided him with the mental strength to claim Vhagar.

Your words of strength lingered in the back of his mind when he took claim of the largest dragon.

And now he had caused destruction with the same dragon.

Fate had brought you both to this. Ruined every good thing which was left in his life and he knew that you would never, ever forgive him for destroying your home.

You were kind, loving, sweet. Rebellious too but always stood your ground and believed in achieving justice, by any means. Aemond wondered how you'd grown, how you appeared as an adult now.

Did you braid your dark hair the same way as his Targaryen sister did, since you'd grown so fond of their silver hair? Were your eyes still the same onyx dark as your hair, a stark contrast to his own purple ones and was your choice in clothes still so dreadful? Curiosity pinched at his abdomen.

Your screams boomed through Harrenhal and Aemond felt proud of your resistance, only he had no knowledge of what you were resisting for so prominently.

He had no idea all your desperation and fight was to end your life.

The guards pulled you apart, their blood stained hands managing to rip off the side of your dress which concealed your shoulder during all the commotion to get you to release the blade. You somehow managed to free yourself from one of the guard’s unbearable grip and slashed his face with the blade.

“Ah, you fucking bitch.” He screamed, holding his face with one hand while the other tried to reach for you.

Another guard extracted his revenge, striking you across your face and tugging at the already torn fabric, exposing more of your back.

Your face contorted in pain, wishing to rid yourself off this world. “Don't fucking touch me. Unhand me and I will slaughter you lot like pigs.”

Your threats were larger than your size and some guards found you amusing while some knew you were capable of what you had promised them. A hand reached for your wrist, to tame it but not being able to pry open your clingy fingers around the dagger with all their strength.

Your fingers had paled, losing all their pink hue and the blood had stopped pumping through the small veins. That was how strong your grip around the weapon was.

Being carried down the stairs, your gaze took in the sight of the place that was once your home. Broken and hopeless, you were dragged along to the main hall. Rain pattered over the stones, causing a nauseating feeling in your stomach as you took in the situation of your castle.

Thankfully, your blurry vision did not allow you to take more of the destruction. All you noticed was the daunting figure of your enemy, standing pridefully at the center of the hall, awaiting your arrival.

You were pushed towards someone, forced on your knees and the silky silver strands gave away at the person's identity. Prince Aemond Targaryen stood before you, with his back turned to you and hands clasped behind his back.

You attempted to gather the pieces of your torn dress, holding it over your chest since it was ripped evidently in the back. Aemond upon turning around, did not expect you to be in such ruins. Dress torn apart, dark hair all but a mess and he caught glimpse of the silver rings encircled around your strands.

Now in a complete frenzy.

The same silver you always wore in your hair, around your little braids.

Aemond glanced up at his guards and then back at you, watching you. Demeanor phlegmatic, lips sitting tediously on his face.

You didn't dare to lift up your eyes. It wasn't about possessing enough courage to look him in the eye but having no self control. You knew deep down if you looked at him, you'd lose all control and attack him.

“I don't recall ordering you lot to bring her in such a..” Aemond tilted his head, analyzing the state you were in. “disheveled state.”

“She fought back a lot, my Prince. Intended to cut her throat with that little blade of hers in her hand.” Aemond was slightly taken aback from the revelation but you were right to choose that as an option. Everyone in this room knew what happened to women during war, especially the beautiful ones such as yourself.

The highborns were craved more as they carried noble blood within them.

His one eye fell upon the blade you still held with great vigor in your hand and Aemond nearly snickered. You had not let go of that adamant personality of yours, carrying it with you in adulthood.

Aemond did not like how your beautiful skin was exposed to the lecherous eyes of his guards. This abrupt jealousy even left him bemused for a moment, nonetheless he diverted his attention back to you.

He stepped closer — frame towering over yours and you saw the perfect moment to attack him. A feeble and thoughtless action but it was either succumbing to horrors or extracting revenge. In a fraction of mere seconds, you had risen up from your knees and headed for him with the pointy end of the dagger in his direction.

The guards reached for you and before you could possibly injure the Prince regent, his fingers enveloped your wrist. With potent strength and fast reflexes, Aemond held you in place. A mischievous glint flashed in his one good eye, lips curving up in a malicious smirk.

He saw the raw hatred and hunger for revenge in your eyes — your hand unwavering and stable. You meant the attack. Nowhere was it under the sad emotions of losing your family.

“Bold of you to assume this would work on me, Dōna.” Aemond whispered, face only a few inches apart from yours. Only the dagger separating you. You acknowledged the name he'd called you, from when you were children and the anger inside you was fuelled more. (Sweet)

“Have I not trained in front of you, hm? Did you not see me wield a sword whenever you stayed in the red keep?”

You glared at him. “I will kill you, either with poison or with a dagger. It is my promise to you, tyrant.”

“From raqiros to tyrant? You truly have grown, my Dōna.” He whispered malevolently, his warm breath with its own mind caressing the bridge of your nose, nearly with affectionate. (Friend)

Having spent most of your childhood in the red keep with the targaryens, especially Aemond, he was bound to teach you some high valyrian. You knew what raqiros meant, but he had never unveiled the meaning behind the nickname he gave you. Promising you he would once you two are grown enough.

Aemond looked up from your face to his men who stood on guard. Three of them, big and broad. His eyes raked over their hands and as he imagined those same hands mishandling you, ripping away at your clothes and prying open the corset which held your dress together, his jaw clenched.

“Ser Criston Cole,” he called out and the commander responded, head held high.

Aemond’s hand still prevented you from moving an inch, the pointy end of the dagger only a few inches away from his glistening, pale cheek.

“Behead them.” It was a simple command but it instilled fear in everyone in the room, including you. Even the commander was surprised by such a gruesome order and dared to ask. “Forgive me, my Prince but why?”

Aemond locked gaze with you. “They dared to lay hands on my prize, unveiled her dignity.”

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion as the Commander nodded, passing the order to his other guards. You heard the sounds of constant struggle, similar to yours as their pleas to live fell upon deaf ears.

“My Prince, please! Spare us, we were only acting upon your order!”

They were ignored, as Aemond continued to stare at you. His purple eye dropping to your lips for a second. He released you and you, on instinct, stepped back with the dagger still in your hand. It was proven that combat was definitely not how you could take down the prince.

Aemond had forced you to come along to the premises of Harrenhal, where his dragon rested. Strained and tired from the war she had indulged in. You had never seen Vhagar up close but knew that she was the second largest dragon, her first rider being Visenya Targaryen.

Your lips shuddered the more closer you were pulled next to the sleeping dragon.

“She can smell fear.” Aemond reminded you, staring ahead. “Conceal it unless you wish to burn to ashes.”

You inhaled a deep breath, closing your eyes and hoping to put an end to the growing fear in the presence of Vhagar.

When you opened your eyes, you were more calm now and in the right state of mind to admire the beast’s beauty. She was gorgeous, a shade of bronze mixed with green and blue highlights. Green, fierce eyes staring ahead and you would have congratulated Aemond on claiming a dragon if only the circumstances were different.

“You will ride with me to King’s Landing.”

“I will not.” You spat, taking a step back from him. That didn't seem to please Aemond as he closed the distance between you and grasped your arm, holding you in place. “Yes, you will.”

“I would rather be fed to your hounds than ride with you upon the back of the dragon which destroyed my home.” Your tone was venomous, full of anger and spite. Aemond knew there was no way calming you down or ridding you of your anger, so he did the next best thing that came to mind.

His slim hands slithered across your waist as he picked you up, settling you down on the dragon’s back. Vhagar released a roar and Aemond whispered something to her in high valyrian, causing her to calm down. Her head settling down, to rest.

He moved in front of you, taking a seat as well. “Hold on tight.”

You glued your hands to your sides, completely ignoring him. Aemond released a frustrated growl at your adamant behavior and lack of pliancy. He reached behind to grab your arms with his gloved hands, forcefully circling them around his small waist.

“Let go of me.” You struggled and Aemond looked back at you with irritation all over his beautiful face. “Do you wish to succumb to your death by falling? If so, feel free to let go.”

That was a lie as Aemond had already tied you to him with the brown belt — locking you with him. Even if you were to let go of him, his body weight restricted on his dragon would prevent you from falling and eventually meeting your demise. This was merely to get you to touch him.

To feel you against him, with little to no distance.

Your lips settled in a frown as you tightened your hold around him causing Aemond to grin. He patted his dragon’s back and then spoke. “Sōvēs, Vhagar.” (Fly)

The dragon shifted on its legs, preparing for the flight and you gasped when you felt it move more beneath you. Subconsciously, your fingers gripped the leather tunic of Aemond, chest pressing tightly over his broad back. Terror filled you as the dragon finally took flight, its huge wings flapping and the force of it made you realize how easy it must have been for Aemond to ruin your house.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, closing your lids shut and burying your face in Aemond’s shoulders.

This is exactly how he had anticipated your first ride on a dragon with him all these years, how you'd react to the beast moving and roaring. Your subtle touches, adorable reactions and soft sounds were just as Aemond had pictured them in his mind.

And he was fulfilling his promise to you.

Until now, Aemond never allowed anyone to ride with him. Only you were the exception and as gruesome the enmity between the two of you was, he could not simply suppress the overwhelming feelings he'd always harbored.

“Aemond..” You whispered, as the dragon took flight and it left you screaming. “Aemond! I'm fucking terrified.”

One hand holding onto his seat, the other reached over and settled on your hand around his chest. In an attempt to comfort you as Vhagar flew into the depths of the sky, Harrenhal nothing but a small scenery when you opened your eyes to look down at it.

A lone tear slid down your face.

This was not how you wished to ride with Aemond.

You hated him, disgust all over your face when you noticed how little and inferior everything appeared from up here. No wonder the Targaryens burned people and houses, as they felt superior being this close to Gods than the rest of you.

“Calm down, Dōna.” He said to you when his dragon had finally flew for King’s Landing.

You didn't say anything, only loosened your hold around him after realizing how awfully close were you to him.

Aemond noticed that and didn't like it.

“Vēzot, Vhagar. Vēzot.” Upon hearing Aemond’s command, the dragon changed route and flew high up in the air, going up tearing through the grey clouds. In fear of falling, your arms once again found themselves around the dragon rider’s small waist. (Up)

You had no idea what Aemond had said but it made his dragon fly up, defying gravity and leaving you gasping for air.

With a satisfied smile on his face, Aemond relished in the feeling of power he had over you and the power he'll soon have over others too. It was painfully evident his brother was incompetent and if something were to befall him, it would be Aemond next in line to inherit the throne.

Never did you ever think or expect that you would be brought back to the red keep as a prize, a symbol of victory — a slave most definitely for Aemond after how he behaved last time with the guards last time. He did not allow anyone to look at you, to touch you, besides your maidens who helped you doll up for the Prince.

His possessiveness was very well known to you when you both were children but you had expected him to grow out of it. How foolish of you to assume that.

Aemond was a possessive child. You recalled the time where he had forbade his siblings from playing with you — or when he did not let anyone touch his sword or even wield it. You remembered how the future lord of Casterly Rock was treated only because he had dared to pass a compliment to Aemond’s sword.

You could hear the cheers of the smallfolk and it disgusted you. He only won against you and your family, not the Blacks. It repulsed you how he was supporting a usurper and not the rightful heir. Your father died for the cause of Rhaenyra Targaryen, you would do too in a heartbeat.

You were lead inside the Red keep after the notorious flight with Aemond. The Prince’s orders were to his servants were to lead you to his own chambers and clean you up. You had no idea why, but you were not going to comply easily.

“I am not your mistress.” Your voice boomed loudly in the main hall, causing Aemond’s footsteps to come to a halt. “Neither am I your whore. Kill me because I too support Rhaenyra Targaryen’s claim to the throne. I shall die a honorable death as my father and kin did.”

You had dared to speak to him, like that, in the presence of not only the Queen but even the other council members.

Aemond’s hands balled up into fits. “Take her.”

You were forcefully dragged somewhere while you struggled, piercing screams enough to damage one's ears. Before you were pulled in a corridor, you made a promise. “I will get my revenge, Aemond Targaryen. You shall answer for the blood of my family that stains your hands. I will never forgive you!”

Alicent followed her son, your threats still lingering in her mind. You had screamed them with tremendous agony and will. She worried, for the kingdom.

“Do you believe you would be doing the realm anything good by bringing a blood thirsty enemy here?” Alicent questioned as she followed Aemond into the room where the council took place.

His fists shook, with poorly tamed rage. “She is anything but a weak girl.”

Alicent scoffed. “She is openly screaming threats. Either a fool would do that or a person who has got absolutely nothing to lose, Aemond.”

“Her screams will quiet down once I have managed to put a child in her.” Aemond spat at his mother, placing his sword down on the table.

She was appalled at what her son had evolved into. The monster he'd become and somewhere she doubted her own motherly skills.

You were forced into a beautiful, pale dress – the fabric as thin as a sheer curtain – after your bath. The maids obviously did not provide you with anything which could conceal your body in the see through white dress. It had embroidery done on the front, so it somewhat worked to cover your breasts.

But the longer it extended, the more it revealed everything underneath.

Pieces of your wavy dark hair were pinned behind, some braided with silver rings clipped around.

The maids soon excused themselves, leaving you to your solitude. Your body felt cold from the lack of clothes so you moved over to stand before the fireplace. Arms sliding up and down your frame to warm up yourself.

Truth to be told, you were suffering with trepidation. Were you prepared to sleep, to head to bed? But why in Aemond’s chambers? All sorts of vile and impure thoughts came rushing in your mind as you tried to keep them at bay.

The doors were soon opened and there stood Aemond, in a different set of clothes. You immediately stepped back, albeit him standing far away from you. He noticed that but no matter how many walls you tried to build between you two, Aemond was determined to break and crush each and every one of those.

He appeared enamored with you.

You were nothing less than an angel, standing underneath the moonlight illuminating your frame.

“Is this what you brought me here for, Prince Regent? To dress me up and warm your bed late at night?” You questioned with disgust and Aemond stepped froward.

You immediately retreated. “Do not dare to come any closer. I will not be one of your whores.”

“What makes you think I would let you become one of my whores?” Aemond asked with a soft tone. Your beauty had soothed all his irritation but it also ignited a fire within his core.

“You're a monster.” You whispered. “You have become a tyrant, a beast worse than those dragons of yours. It is a pity.”

Aemond was losing his patience with you. He didn't waste time, snapping and running towards you. The man pinned you against the wall, knocking over a vase resting on a table besides you. Pain bloomed in your back from the hardness of the wall — and being slammed into it.

The targaryen man locked eyes with you and let out a smile of satisfaction, witnessing the fear swimming in your innocent gaze. “Pity? You dare pity me when you are left with nothing of your house, nothing.”

The cruel reminder caused tears to well up in your eyes but your gaze stayed locked with Aemond’s. It did not waver and with all your strength, you pushed him away from you.

“I hate you.” You confessed, tears sliding down your face, a testament to the pain you were battling. “You were my friend, my fucking friend. How could you do this to me, to me? Your fucking Dōna, Aemond.”

When he heard the high valyrian word escape your lips, he growled. You saw him take a step further and this time decided to make a run for the door, trying to crawl over the bed hastily but Aemond was fast, vigilant as he grabbed you.

You fought back, slapping and punching him but it didn't work at all. He shoved his lips against yours and he did not care that you didn't want this. He wanted it, that was all that mattered. Aemond’s tongue forcefully entered your mouth as your hands continuously punched his chest.

He pushed you down on the both whilst staying locked to you, tasting your plump lips with vigor.

Head tilted, he pushed open your thighs and buried his knee between them. Rutting it against your cunt and you released a muffled cry in the liplock, hoping he would show some mercy but Aemond was too far gone.

The pressure on your clit – sheer fabric the cause of you and Aemond’s separation – was intense. A burgeoning need lighting up in your core as you struggled. There was no way you would give in, no matter how much you had admired him when you both were children. You knew better. You were only the daughter of some lord, meanwhile he was the Prince.

The fight for dominance was already won by Aemond as his tongue explored the inside of your sweet flesh. He broke apart from you to gaze upon you, a mess he'd turned you into. Face flushed, lips swollen and bloodied from how harshly he had sunk his canines into them.

Your dark hair with glinting silver in pure disarray, spread about everywhere on the bed. Aemond was fucking drunk and there was no stopping him.

“You said I'm a monster, right?” His voice was eerily low, causing you to panic. “I shall show you what monstrosity I am capable of.”

He tore the dress in a single tug, discarding the two pieces somewhere on the ground. Fear evident in your enlarged eyes as you struggled to conceal yourself with your arms but Aemond held them above your head, his fingers roughly pressing into your skin leaving marks.

“Aemond, please.” Tears fell and Aemond nearly softened.

If you'd been kind to him like how you were in the past, this compromising situation wouldn't have fallen you. He would've let you live, be a maid in the red keep but now, he had to prove it to you.

Just what he was capable of.

“Aemond,” you sweetly called out, hoping it would work. “My prince, don't do this. You do not wish to do this.”

“Too late for that sweet tone, my lady. If you do not wish for worse, I suggest you shut your goddamn mouth and take it.” His voice was so soft, so low but his words were as repulsive and cruel. It was what Aemond had become. A broken boy who sought out solace but was too afraid to ask for it, fearful of seeming weak — yet again becoming a target of his brother’s constant bullying.

In the process of becoming what he hated, Aemond lost you too.

One eye raked over your exposed breasts, full and round. You were no longer the little girl who used to chase him around the red keep, in her long dresses. You had flourished, flowered with grown tits and when his eye fell lower, he inhaled sharply. Plush, meaty thighs greeted them. He recalled how at one point you were as skinny as a boy, with no fat to your lean frame.

Now you had blossomed in a beautiful woman.

Your skin glowed neath the moonlight, your presence basking in its light. It showcased all the little minorities your features carried, what you had become, the delicate beauty that you were.

“You are certainly no little girl no more.” He reminded you, words no less than salt over your sounds.

Tears pearled on your waterline. “And you've grown into a fine man yourself.”

Your words were carried on obvious pain and Aemond pretended he did not catch a whiff of that. You continued, with a wavering voice, drained from all your rebellion and fight. “Fine but cruel, Aemond. I thought you were different, ought to be different. You proved me wrong.”

“Keep your lips sealed.” Aemond commanded, as your words nearly made his will to defile you falter. Being the daughter of a high lord, he was certain your maidenhead was still intact. You were never the type to engage in lecherous actions before the pure promise of a marriage.

Aemond’s rough hands took a handful of your breasts, fondling the fat. Thumbs swiping over your peebles, sending them upright. Undeniable pleasure shot through your body in the form of swarming heat as it settled in your lower stomach. A prominent gasp tore from your parted, swollen lips as Aemond stared at you in adoration.

“They are so full.” His comment about your body your pleasure-clad face form into one of grimace. “I wonder how your cunt looks now that you are older. You were always too innocent to consider our friendship anything more than what it was.”

Your back arched off the bed, the writhing of your hips increasing whenever Aemond rubbed his knee over your tiny pearl. You felt it swell up with need and wanton, a dull ache growing, begging to be burned out. The silver haired male pried your thighs open to lay eye on your pink cunt.

Aemond licked a wet tongue over his lips, his hunger to taste your seemingly delicious core pressing at him. He never once got overwhelmed with the urge to put his mouth on a woman's cunt — as the woman he got involved with whores. He had no interest in tasting something where most men found solace in.

But you were a virgin.

He knew that.

Yet he asked, surely to rile you up. “Has anyone been inside of you yet?”

Your eyes widened at the repulsive question of his. Brows scrunching in disgust and the rosette on your cheeks transcending into beetroot. Before you could control your imminent action, a strike echoed in the chambers. Tears had stalled, replaced with a hateful searing look and when Aemond recovered from the slap and faced you, chills enveloped you. Despite the impact, he was still poised. Eyes sheened with darkness and pure rage, his hand moved to reciprocate the harsh movement.

Only his slap hurt more — a scorching sensation awakening below your skin. A hint of red in the form of a hand imprinted on your face.

“Answer my question.”

You shook your head. Not only had the slap worked wonders to make you more pliant, it also made you realize that what Aemond was capable of.

His fingers ran along the line of your plumped up lips. “Use this pretty mouth of yours.”

“I'm not a low born.” You said through gritted teeth. “I'm chaste. Check for yourself if you are disbelieving of me.”

Aemond let out a scoff, fingers dimpling into your cheeks. The angry pout on your lips along with his hand print left behind on your cheek made you look ten times more endearing to him. “That I plan on doing, my lady.”

Hands lowering to your thighs, fingers dipping in the thickness. Aemond nestled his head between them, eyes gliding over your glistening cunt. It was true that you were still chaste and he was sure of it, there was no need to check it. He softly ran his tongue over your pearl, a sharp breath from you entering his ears.

“I don't want this.” Your tone had a hint of plea in it. “Please, Aemond. It is too repulsive, I cannot—”

Aemond growled. “Cannot, what? You cannot allow my cock inside you? Cannot allow me to put a babe in you? Or won't allow me to simply because I'm Aemond.”

“Targaryen with the largest dragon who put an end to my family line.” You finished, vision blurring. Aemond knew this conversation was pointless to carry and he instead closed his lips around your swollen bud, suckling like it would produce the sweetest of nectars in existence.

You tried to fight him off, pushing at his shoulders with the little strength left in your small fingers to no avail. He sucked with great vigor and your demeanor fell — back rising up from the ruined mattress and hips pushing your mound further into his cage. He pulled back, lapping at your swollen clit over and over again, like a dog in heat. Tears furiously caressed down your face as Aemond’s fingers came to collect your arousal from the center of your folds.

By the Gods, you were a waterfall.

“Never did I think I would grow this addicted to the taste of a woman's cunt.” Aemond whispered, his warm breath shooting jolts of pleasure through you. Your hand on its own accord pressed onto his head, palm flaccid and fingers twisting his Targaryen strands around. “The more I taste you, the more famished I become.”

“G-Get off me.” You somehow managed to utter. You were mortified. How your body ached for him to continue, hand forcing his mouth against your hot heat whilst the heavy fists of your morals thudded on the door of your hazed mind.

All but a futile endeavor to fight back.

Aemond pulled back and reached for his slacks, undoing them. You watched with a dazed out look as he released his cock from the confines of his breeches. His fingers moving to curve under the hem of his shirt, ridding himself of the leather as well as his small clothes.

Left bare and naked before you, your gaze caught Aemond’s searing red cock. Head swollen and shining with leaking cum, veins traced up and down. You closed your eyes, in hopes that the nightmare before you would be over but that was only you losing last remnants of your hope.

“I-It won't fit.” You whispered to yourself, more tears sliding down your temples.

Aemond heard it, despite your voice being a low whisper. He reached over to grab your face between his large hand, fingers sinking into your cheeks. That caused you to flutter your weak lids open, staring back at him with a sheen in your pupils. “It will fit. Your maidenhead is still intact, so it might be painful. But who cares?”

Your bottom lip quivered as Aemond let go, holding his cock. He guided it across your wet slit, pushing its thick head past your folds and pressing into your pearl. Your breath was bated, perspiration dancing on your forehead. Your body had grown completely warm and you wished for someone, anyone to burn down the fire which was ignited in the fireplace.

Aemond gathered your arousal, in soft circulation around your pebble. You whined out, hands slapping at his broad shoulders to put an end to his obscenities. Yet he did not falter, will growing more profound and strengthened to a point of no return.

He soon aligned his cock along your hole with the disgusting intention to defile it and slipped in. Your walls squeezing around his cock head tightly, endeavoring to grow used to the size but Aemond did not wait. He pushed and your tears of sadness had now transformed into tears of pain.

Hot searing pain.

“It hurts, it hurts. Let me go, please let me go.” You cried, screamed even, nails scratching rapidly at his chest. You left evidence of your firmness, of your distaste for such degeneration. Long lacerations formed on a pale canvas as Aemond held you down with one hand circled around your throat while the other had pushed your leg up for more easy and open access.

You were crying relentlessly and it was beginning to annoy the young Prince. “Quiet now, or I will have your tongue.”

“I-It is too p-painful.” You sobbed and this time Aemond landed a tight slap to your other cheek, watching it imitate the shade of the other one. “I said, fucking quiet. If I hear anything other than sounds of pleasure out of these lips of yours, I will toss you to my guards.”

It was an empty threat.

Aemond would never, ever do that. You were for him, only him. Insignificant your view was about him.

You were his prize, a sign of victory.

Still Aemond stalled, not having the heart to pummel his cock fully into you. All he managed was to breach your maidenhead and you were already wailing like you'd been shot with an arrow. He waited it out, letting you grow accustomed to his length and thickness.

Once your agony-clad face recovered and softened, Aemond took it as a sign to move further. Your gummy walls sucking his cock in, caressing the rigid veins. Deeper, and deeper. He went slowly and carefully, which you didn't overlook. You felt him sheath his cock fully into you, arms extended out for him, in complete submission.

Aemond, silently surprised by such vulnerability and submission, took your hands into his and brought them to his nape. “Hold me, brace yourself, Dōna.”

That sweet tone of his.

It nearly warmed your heart but the constant reminder which took at Harrenhal haunted you like a ghost. A cursed bestowed upon you, no escape at all. Aemond melted within you, nestling against your spongey spot of nerves. Your lips fell when he found that sensitive spot of yours.

He didn't waste time pummeling his cock into your weeping cunt, growls of a beast escaping him. You could not bring yourself to look at him. Pulling him closer, you concealed your face within the crook of his neck as your hold clasped around his slender nape — fingers intertwining with silver roots. Aemond had only tried Sylvie, his first and last so when he felt you draw him closer, it ignited a fire impossible to end.

“Gods,” Aemond groaned in your ear, his sharp nose running along your cheek, both hands gripping your flesh. “If I had known laying with you would be this pleasurable, I would have done it when we were younglings.”

Disgust would have made path on yout face it it was not for the pleasure Aemond bestowed upon you. His thick cock head repeatedly bruised your cervix and all you could do was wail, your hold for dear life tightening around him. Aemond found delight on your innocent moans, your sweet little hiccups and sounds of pleasure. He pulled from you, to glance down and felt immense satisfaction at the ring of blood around his length. He had officially taken you, not exactly under the circumstances he wanted but pondering about that was futile now.

His one eye stayed focused on you. Examining the lines donning your forehead, dark brows furrowed and a sheen of sweat sitting on your forehead. Pale cheeks flustered and saccharine sweet lips parted, birthing little sounds.

An epitome of nobility and charm you were.

Aemond pulled out of you, just as you were beginning to reach your pounding climax.

He leaned on the head board of the bed, chest glistening with droplets of sweat. The fire crackling was not helping neither of you to find some cold. “Get on top of me.”

You weakly shook your head.

Aemond’s glare obliged you and you shifted on the bed, crawling on top of him. In the process, you caught the blood of your purity staining the pale bed sheets, as well as your thighs. A burning sensation prodded and you finally did what Aemond asked you to do. The evil man grinned, leaning forward to press a kiss to your temple.

“I'm sure you know your job here.”

Your lips trembled. “I-I am supposed to sit on it?”

Innocently you had voiced that question and Aemond almost cooed. He gave you a simple nod and watched as your cheeks burned with newfound embarrassment. You still did what you were told to, aware that fighting him back on this would only make him revoke the small kindness he'd shown you.

You grabbed a hold of his erect cock — pressing it over your soaked hole. As you slipped down on it, Aemond and you groaned in unison.

Your small hands found support on his bleeding chest, fingers swiping over his nipples accidentally and Aemond let out a choked gasp. The feeling of your walls clamping his cock mixed with the way your fingers brushed over his nipples was enough to send him fucking into you. Thrusting upwards into you while his large hand stayed locked on your hip.

Both of you moved simultaneously, greedily chasing after your own pleasure. Aemond saw a goddess in front of him — a weeping goddess who possessed the cunt of a hungry whore. Your small waist and bare tits bouncing with each move had him obsessed like a dog.

“Fuck, fuck, Dōna.”

He panted like his dragon, matching your pace with his, hand fondling your breasts. He was close but ripping an orgasm through you first was his priority and he was dedicated to it. Aemond felt your cunt squeeze him, watching as your tears fell in little pearls. “I am going to put a babe in you, Dōna. Can you believe it? Your childhood friend putting a babe in you.”

You couldn't even voice out your disagreement, Aemond was bound to do what he promised you. An intense feeling surged in your stomach, your pace slowing down and your sobbing growing more and more. Your orgasm tore through you in the form of essence, as your eyes disappeared behind your lids.

“Aemond, Aemond! Aemond.” You chanted his name out like a mantra and he slapped his cock deeper into you.

He fucking loved how submissive you were being now — entirely at his mercy and neath him. His own climax followed thoroughly, filling your walls with his spend. Spurting our rope after rope of white to fill up your expanded womb. Growls of need and ache echoed in the room and you couldn't stay still anymore, losing all your balance and colliding right in his chest.

Your little body was spent, fatigue and tiredness weakening you. Aemond was quick to wrap his arms around you, shushing you gently while you cried in his chest.

“It's over now.” He reassured but you knew very well that it was not. It was only for tonight that it was over.

Aemond comforted you, holding you against him with his cock still inside you.

“I hate you.” You cried, tears coating his chest as your forehead rested on his muscular chest. Aemond could only sigh, loathing the situation that bad befallen them. He did not resent you as you were the only one who had shown him true kindness.

But the war and throne were far more important.

“Rest, you need it.” He said, an order it was and you felt forced to comply. “Things will be very different from now on, Dōna. I will have the high sept marry us tomorrow, our child will not be a bastard.”

All you could do was weakly stir in his arms at that. There was no way you were willing but it was better than being a slave for Aemond’s guards. Being one man's whore was better than being a thousand’s.

#mimi writes ☆#aemond x you #aemond smut #dark aemond x reader #aemond fanfiction #aemond x reader #dark aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen #prince aemond #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond one eye #hotd aemond #hotd season 2 #house of the dragon #tw noncon #dark aemond smut #house targaryen

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strawberri-blonde · 3 months ago

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Yours to Command - Jacaerys Velaryon

Summary: you don’t tolerate disrespect towards your betrothed and in return he shows you how much he appreciates it.

Warning: smuttttt also I used an app for the Valyrian so if it’s wrong my bad.

Masterlist

“He’s nothing but a bastard-.” The Lord couldn’t even finish his sentence as you drew your sword, crafted from the finest steel, and slashed him across the face from ear to lip.

The room erupted in gasps of horror and surprise as you cut into the man’s flesh. The Lord had been boasting to your stepmother, Queen Rhaenyra, and your father, Daemon, about how you should marry his eldest son, dismissing Jacaerys as an option because of his infamous brown hair. What the Lord didn’t know was that you loved Jacaerys' distinguished curls and his soft brown eyes.

“Watch your tongue as you speak of my betrothed.” Your sharp words echoed throughout the large hall as crimson dripped onto the floor and you approached the fear-stricken man. “For not only is he someone I hold dear to my heart, but he is also your Prince of the Seven Kingdoms and wields a sword better than I.”

“Y/n, that’s enough.” Queen Rhaenyra’s voice cut through your enraged fog, and you felt a familiar pair of hands grip your waist.

You leaned into Jace’s grasp and turned to the queen, who didn’t look angry. Her eyes had a smugness to them, but her face remained professional. Your father, on the other hand, couldn’t contain his smirk, proud of his eldest daughter.

“My queen, I hold you in the highest respect,” you announced, bowing your head to her, then turned back to the crowd of men. “But I don’t tolerate disrespect towards my beloved.” Your eyes narrowed like a viper's with a sharp tongue. “Let this fool be my last warning to you all. As his wound scars over, I want you all to see what the least I can do, because next time I’ll take a note from my father's book and let you keep your tongue.”

The room remained still and quiet as you made sure to look every person in the eye, asserting your seriousness. “Jacaerys, please take your betrothed to her chambers, and we’ll discuss her actions,” she spoke mainly to you, but the sparkle in her eyes told you she wasn’t mad. She was proud that someone stood up for her firstborn.

Jace pressed you against his front, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his scent washing over you and soothing your rage. “Come, my love,” he whispered softly, his voice calming you, though your hard exterior remained unmoved. Keeping a death stare fixed on the bloody face of the Lord, you allowed Jace to lead you out of the council chamber with a gentle hand on your lower back.

As you both walked down the hallway, silence enveloped you, broken only by the clicking of your shoes against the stone floor. Finally, you let out a loud sigh, releasing your frustrations, and glanced up at Jace, who was walking to your right. His attention was already on you, his lips curled into a knowing smile. He was used to your angry outbursts, especially since he knew he was one of the few (besides your late mother) who could calm you.

“I’m sorry,” you said softly as you both continued the long walk to your wing where your and your sisters' rooms were. “I know you can handle it yourself.” Your blood boiled as you thought of the way the older men looked at him, trying to offer their puny excuse of sons your way. “If I offended you, I apologize.”

A chuckle escaped from the Prince's mouth, making you pause in your step. With quick movements, Jace gently pushed you against the wall between two columns and pressed a heated kiss to your lips. You gasped, and he bit down on your parted bottom lip. “Please never apologize for caring for me,” he murmured, his lips barely leaving yours as his eyes bore into your own. “It doesn’t offend me knowing I have a strong woman by my side, willing to cut anyone down for speaking ill of my name.” Jace kissed you again, and you pressed your hands on his chest, gripping the black tunic with gold embroidery sewn into the fabric.

He pulled away to mumble, “I’m proud to be yours. And I can’t wait until you’re my wife.” His words made you melt like butter because you couldn’t wait either. You smiled up at him with sultry eyes.

“I can’t wait to call you husband.” Jace smiled brightly, pressing you back in for a kiss, making both of you smile into the act like grinning fools.

The kiss brought on a sense of excitement that sent chills down your spine, and a soft, almost imperceptible moan escaped your lips when his hands began to caress your waist.

Hearing your soft moans, Jacaerys dragged his tongue along your full bottom lip, making you part your mouth and allowing his tongue to slip in. Your moans grew embarrassingly louder, but they only drove the prince to kiss you harder.

His hands lowered to your hips, and without warning, he picked you up and pinned you to the wall. Your dress slid up to your thighs, allowing you to lock your ankles together, pulling him close until his groin matched your own. The stone wall was cold against your back, but with your betrothed pressing you against his hard, hot body, you had no complaints. Instead, you arched your back, making his stiffness rub against your core, leaving you craving more of this. More of him.

You could feel Jacaerys breath catch in his throat at the feeling of your body against his, and a small growl escaped his lips as his hips began to grind into yours, and his grip on your hips tightened as his eyes met yours, filled with desire.

“Y/n…we shouldn’t be doing this,” He murmured, but his body continued to betray his words, pressing against you more firmly. “Anyone could see us…”

You slipped a hand behind his head as heat pool in your abdomen and you tugged on his curls making his close his eyes in a short bliss. Your lips curled as you pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth bucking your hips to add friction while your mouth trailed down to his neck pressing mouth open kissed to his pearly skin. “Ivestragī zirȳ ūndegon skoros nykeā sīr called bastard iksos capable hen.” Let them see what a so called bastard is capable of.

A low, almost guttural growl escaped from the Prince’s lips. “Hang va issa, beloved.” Jace secured his grip on you while your hands wrapped around his shoulders, fists clinging to his curls for dear life. “Open,” he commanded. If it were anyone but him or the queen, you would’ve laughed in their face, but for Jacaerys, you’d gladly walk off a cliff if he so desired. Hang on my beloved.

"I'm yours to command, my prince," you responded, your voice low and breathless. You parted your lips, but Jace couldn't help himself and pressed his open mouth to yours. With one hand, he raised your dress higher, his fingers slightly grazing your covered heat before ripping your stockings and excusing your cotton underwear.

When he pulled away, you immediately whimpered but were silenced by his pointer and middle finger shoving their way into your mouth. Your eyes widened at first, but as his brown eyes bore into yours, you began to suck his digits and even swirled your tongue around them. "By the gods, you’re perfect," he began. "And you’re all mine."

He slowly pulled his hand away from your mouth, making sure to caress your bottom lip. With haste, he reached under your bunched-up fabric to tease you slightly by gliding his soaked fingers against the already wet fabric of your undergarments.

"My Prince, please." Jace kissed your lips, hushing you as he pulled your coverings aside and pressed against your mound, sliding into your slick folds. He caressed you up and down, teasing your clit down to your entrance. "Gods."

Your head tilted back, hitting the stone wall in ecstasy as his rough fingers began to circle around your pearl. This wasn’t the first time Jace had touched you there. You both hadn’t been all that patient with waiting until you were wed, but as the honorable gentleman that he is, you hadn’t consummated anything because Jace really wanted to wait until the wedding night. However, that didn’t stop you both from getting your pleasure from other things. If it were up to you, the dragon rider would’ve already had the best ride of his life.

"Jace." You moaned out as he began the motion of figure eights, making your legs shake in delight.

"I love you like this, Princess." His hot breath hit your face as he leaned over you and kissed your parted lips. "When we wed, I plan on taking you in every nook and corner of this palace until you're full of my seed." Your cunt pooled at his words, and Jace could feel how wet you were becoming by the slushing sound his fingers made against your throbbing nerve. "You want that, my beloved?"

Loud moans spilled from your swollen lips as you helplessly nodded, knowing that if you didn’t respond in some way, he’d stop. “Yes,” you managed to get out as your abdomen tightened and your breath hitched, feeling that familiar, eye-blinding sensation start to form. “I can’t wait to be full of your children, letting everyone know what you did to me.” Jace kissed down your neck and sucked on that one spot that made you weak in the knees. “And I want them all to know how much I liked it.”

The prince sucked harder, and without realizing it, you began to yank at his curls, making his desire burn more intensely, especially as your moans increased and became shorter, signaling your very close end. “Cum syt issa, issa jorrāelagon milk issa fingers rūsīr aōha sweetness nyke jaelagon naejot ūndegon ao withering isse pleasure.” Cum for me, my love milk my fingers with your sweetness I want to see you withering in pleasure.

As his fingers continued their steady pace, rubbing against your clit, and his mouth worked against your neck, your body tensed in delight as your orgasm washed over you like a dragon's fire. No words left your parted lips, and you were grateful that Jace pressed his against yours in a kiss, because after that intense pleasure, you just wanted to be engulfed by nothing but him.

"I love you," you whimpered, making his boyish grin return to his face as he slightly pulled his head back to look at you. His hand slipped out from your undergarments, and he pulled your dress back down to cover your exposed thighs, keeping your skin hidden from view.

He sucked his fingers clean before he spoke. “Issa prūmia exists outside issa chest kesrio syt nyke’ve given ziry naejot ao se moment nyke tegon issa laesi va ao.” The brightest smile spread across your face, and as the two of you kissed, engrossed in the love surrounding you, someone clearing their throat made you both pull away like two deer caught by dogs. My heart exists outside my chest because I’ve given it to you the moment I land my eyes on you.

“Aōha valyrīha emagon gotten rōvēgrior, nephew.” Jace's face turned crimson from embarrassment, unlike the oversized pig of a man who had insulted him earlier, whose face was red with blood. Your Valyrian has gotten excellent, nephew.

You glared at your father, Daemon, as the prince carefully set you back on your feet and stood in front of you, nudging you behind him, between the columns. "But could you not corrupt my daughter before the wedding ceremony?" His knowing smirk could be seen over your beloved's shoulder, and he stood tall with his hands laced in front of him.

“Daemon-“ Jace began but your father raised a hand to stop him.

"Please just take her to her chambers before the Queen decides not to marry you a week from today." This news had you clenching Jace's hand, and he smiled down at you because the date hadn't been set yet. "And act surprised when she announces the news to you both, and please, no public displays of your love at least until after the wedding." Daemon shot them a sinful grin before nodding them off and walking past them.

"A week," you whispered with excitement, pulling Jacaerys into a loving kiss, which he returned with just as much enthusiasm. He grabbed your waist, began to pull you from the wall, and spun you around, making both of you laugh with joy.

Hoped you all enjoyed it’s been a while since I’ve written anything but I’m in my Jace era and I’m truthfully scared to be in it because I know my hearts going to be ripped out of my chest.

~ Caroline

#jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys targaryen #jace velaryon #jace targaryen #prince jacaerys #jacaerys x reader #jacaerys x you #jacaerys valaryon x reader #jacaerys velaryon imagine #jacaerys smut #jacaerys targaryen x reader #jacaerys targaryen x you #jace velaryon smut #jace velaryon x reader #jace velaryon x you #jacaerys valeryon #Jacaerys valeryon smut #jacaerys velaryon smut

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entitled-fangirl · 4 months ago

Text

Absolutely not.

Cregan Stark x reader

Summary: Cregan isn't one for tradition.

Warnings: cursing, talks of sex, and consummating a marriage.

A/n: Based on this ask!

Masterlist

..............................................................

"Absolutely not."

The maester sighed and brought a hand to his forehead, "I understand your hesitation, my lord, but the people have requested it."

Cregan let out a forced chuckle, "Ah, and I should let all of the North watch me while I fuck my wife. I think not."

"My lord, it is not ideal, I know-"

"They will learn their place," Cregan finally said as he put his foot down. "If they want a firm leader, then they must comply when he is firm."

Cregan began to walk away in a huff, but the maester followed behind, "It is common practice to have a witness to the consummation. So what if there are a few more than usual?"

" 'So what?' " Cregan paused in his step. " 'So what?' You believe I would let anyone in while I pleasure her? While she is vulnerable? If so, then you are a fool."

The maester opened his mouth, but Cregan had begun to walk away once more.

…

Cregan swung away at a practice dummy with a wooden sword as his betrothed sat a few feet away with a book in her hand.

"It's foolish, you know." Swing. "Thinking I would let them in." Swing. "Fuck the bedding ceremony." Swing. "Perhaps I will just not do it at all." Swing. "Show them that I set the rules." Swing. "If they wish it so badly, they may request it to my face." Swing.

She looked up from her book, "I didn't realize this bothered you so badly, my love."

He panted as he lowered his sword and looked to her, "And it does not bother you?"

"I suppose I haven't thought much about it. My entire existence it seems is to obey my lord husband."

"Even if I will that on you?"

"If he wants an audience of two, five, twenty." She shrugs, "If he wants to fuck me here in the courtyard- how can I refuse him?"

Cregan felt his jaw slack and the sword almost fall from his hand, "You believe so little in me?"

She sighs and sets her book down, "Do not put words into my mouth."

He dropped his sword and took steady steps towards her, "Do you believe that I would let such a thing happen? That I would let all of Winterfell see my wife so exposed?"

He grew closer, "That I'd hike up your skirt to an audience? To let them watch as I trace my hands across your smooth skin…"

Now at the bench she was seated at, he bent down and placed a hand on either side of her body, trapping her in with his face close and his voice quiet but firm, "…and let them see what is mine?"

She felt her breath escape at his proximity now, looking into his bright eyes. "Cregan-"

"-Wrong." One of his hands grabbed her chin to pull her face to him, "I'd never let that happen."

He pulled her face the rest of the way, connecting their lips.

She pulled away, "I am not yet your wi-"

"-Quiet," he growled as he connected their lips again.

His hands moved to her waist, pulling her up to stand. Hers wandered up his chest to his face.

He pulled away for a moment, as if remembering something, "Forgive me, love, I'm filthy-"

She placed her fingers over his lips, "I do not care."

He let out a breathy chuckle and a smile.

…

Donned in his cloak with the promise to be taken into the Stark house and under the Stark sigil, she and Cregan began to walk up to the chambers.

The bedding ceremony.

A group from the wedding followed behind, as per custom.

But as the two newly-weds neared the chamber, Cregan led her into the room and turned sharply in the doorway to glare at the others, "Well?"

One of them stepped forward, "My lord, the be-"

"I know my own customs," He snapped. "Why are you still here?"

"We're to-"

"Leave." He practically growled.

"My lord-"

The door slammed in their face.

…

No one was allowed in the room, but all could tell it had been consummated well by the sounds that echoed down the thick stone walls of Winterfell.

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#cregan stark x you #fanfiction #cregan x reader #cregan stark x reader #cregan stark #game of thrones x y/n #game of thrones x reader #game of thrones imagine #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones #house of the dragon aemond #house of the dragon smut #house of the dragon fanfiction #house of the dragon

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luvsupa · 4 months ago

Text

“SHALL WE RESUME, MY LADY?”

tags: heianera!sukuna, trueform!sukuna x fem!reader, kissing, servants are bullies :(, BLOOD + KILLING, smut-ish (?), ANGST, readers called little one, my lady, my queen, sukuna lovessss reader but doesn’t wanna show it.

w.c: 1.8k

a/n:ITS BEEN LONG SINCE I WROTE PART 3 FOR SUKUNAAA, so pls read (part 1 + part 2) to understand this :p (or don’t 😔)

-part 1 was my first ever story so pls don’t mind the terrible writing 🤕

+ likes and reblogs are appreciative!!

for weeks now, since your intimate encounter with sukuna in his chambers, his words have echoed relentlessly in your mind:

“you belong to me, mind, body, and soul.”

unable to shake his haunting assertion, you find yourself lost in a fog during your duties, drawing the king’s scorn for your clumsiness—pathetic, he silently judges.

you’ve been desperately trying to avoid sukuna, feeling his ominous presence lurking near the servants’ quarters, dangerously close to your room. each night, you pretend to be asleep, hoping he won’t enter.

uraume and the other servants and concubines have noticed your distraction, their whispers and spiteful glances intensifying your growing distress.

just as you’re lost in your thoughts, walking towards the grand kitchen, you feel yourself being harshly pushed—nearly losing your balance. you turn to face the two brunettes who always accompany sukuna in his chambers.

“look at her,” one sneers, her voice dripping with contempt. “she looks even more pitiful than usual. you’d think she’d try harder, especially with tomorrow’s annual gift-giving ceremony.”

your heart drops, and you feel the blood drain from your face as the realization hits you—you had completely forgotten about it. shit.

the other brunette catches your expression and smirks, leaning closer.

“oh, you did not know?” she mocks, her eyes glinting with malicious pleasure. “did you truly forget? lost in your own little world? pathetic. do not think sukuna-sama has not noticed your incompetence. if i were you, i would be prepared to face his wrath tomorrow.”

before you can respond, the brunettes walk away, laughing cruelly amongst themselves. fear grips you as you stand there, contemplating the consequences of your forgetfulness. this time, he might seek to end my life.

sukuna spared your life once before, but now? you’ve truly done it.

⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . *

morning arrives, finding you sleepless and anxious, having spent the night wrestling with decisions on what gift would appease the king of curses. regret gnaws at you—you could have been better prepared.

if only you had listened to uraume’s instructions, you wouldn’t be scrambling now to please sukuna.

a loud groan escapes you, not just from lacking a suitable offering but from the impending threat of losing your life in front of everyone.

your thoughts shatter as your door creaks open. uraume enters, carrying a basket laden with ceremonial attire.

“sukuna-sama will return soon from his mission,” uraume states matter-of-factly, approaching your bedside and handing you the basket. your gaze fixes on the black and gold kimono. “in the meantime, prepare your gift for our king,” they remind you, prompting your heart to skip a beat. you nod gratefully as uraume exits the room.

you linger, captivated by the elegance of the wooden basket. slowly, an idea begins to take shape.

i hope this idea will work…

⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . *

you hurriedly slip into the black and gold kimono uraume handed you, the fabric draping elegantly over your curves as you smooth out its silk folds.

grabbing the basket, you rush out of your room, navigating through the crowded hallways filled with servants, concubines, and guards all preparing to present their gifts to the king.

anxiety grips you as the chatter rises, signaling the ceremony may have already begun. finally reaching the garden, you drop to your knees, swiftly gathering orchids, red camellias, and wisterias.

heart pounding, you carefully arrange the brightly coloured flowers in the basket, leaving space for more. glancing around the vast garden for inspiration, you freeze as you spot a familiar figure in the distance, surrounded by guards and soldiers.

shit.

your pulse quickens as sukuna approaches the estate. you force yourself to calm down, needing clarity to finish your task.

turning to the fruit garden, you ignore the dirt on your kimono as you hurriedly gather peaches, oranges, and pomegranates from the trees, arranging them neatly in the basket.

with your last-minute gift finally perfected, you hope he will at least appreciate the effort. as cheers and applause erupt, signaling sukuna’s arrival, you hasten back to join the line of gift-givers, heart still racing with fear.

⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . *

the ceremony unfolds in a chamber unfamiliar to you, far larger than sukuna’s usual domain, filled with hundreds and hundreds of servants seated on comfortable cushions, rows of expectant faces awaiting the ceremony’s commencement.

as you wait nervously, you glance around at the lavish offerings others have brought—paintings, gleaming gold jewelry, fine silk robes, ancient artifacts, perfumes, and oils. in contrast, your basket of fruits and flowers seems painfully simple.

whispers and snickers ripple through the crowd, directed at your low-value gift, almost insulting to the king, as the laughter grew louder and more pointed. the embarrassment increases, now overwhelming you.

“silence.”

his voice cuts through the room like thunder, instantly quieting the chatter as all heads bow. only you remain defiantly gazing at sukuna from his elevated throne. he looks magnificent, his towering frame draped in a dark cotton robe that accentuates his scarlet eyes—those unsettling eyes that draw you in despite your fear.

“do you consider yourself more worthy than others to not bow?”

his voice pierces through you, shocking you out of your thoughts. you hadn’t realized you were staring at him so openly. a nearby servant nudges your head down forcefully, a silent command to acknowledge sukuna’s authority.

uraume then signals the first row to approach sukuna with their gifts. as he settles into his throne, one of his lower eye fixates on you with a chilling intensity, reminding you of the difference of ground upon which you stand.

the two brunettes, who supposedly despised you, were the first to present their gifts. all eyes watched as they offered lavish amounts of gold and diamonds to sukuna. you couldn’t help but notice the satisfaction that spread across his face, a subtle amusement evident as he casually placed the gift with one of lower arms behind him.

they took their places on either side of his throne, making way for the next in line. as the line shortened, your turn approached rapidly.

you watched with nervous anticipation as sukuna accepted one of the servants gifts— the beautifully sculpted artifacts and golden treasures—

slash!

the servant’s head was cleanly severed, a loud thud echoing through the room. gasps filled the air as the shock spread through the assembled crowd. some of the seasoned servants were used to sukuna’s impulsive acts, but this was the first time you had witnessed such brutality. blood splattered across his face, yet he remained unfazed, awaiting the next offerings.

you covered your mouth, stifling a scream of horror. the fear of becoming the next victim intensified as you compared your gift to the high valued gift he had just received.

how could he appreciate your offering if he did not enjoy the artifacts?

you were on edge, continuously hearing numerous slash and thuds that kept racing your heart. his gaze seemed to linger on you, intensifying your dread.

unaware that it was your turn next, you suddenly found yourself on the elevated floor, your gift clearly visible to all below. laughter erupted among the watching servants, their anticipation of your downfall.

you felt all four of his eyes fixated on you, observing your trembling form, your eyes flickering nervously as you struggled to stay composed. stepping cautiously over a puddle of blood, you nervously approached his throne.

with trembling hands, you presented the basket of flowers and fruits. below, the two brunettes knelt, their mocking laughter ringing in your ears.

sukuna silently observed the basket, his large hands delicately holding the tiny fruits. he plucked out peaches, pomegranates, and oranges with two hands while the other two hands carefully examined the flowers, bringing them to his nose to inhale their earthly fragrance. then, to your surprise, sukuna’s lips curled into a mischievous smile.

“little one,” he said in a low velvety voice that sent shivers down your spine. “you surprise me.”

the crowd exchanged puzzled glances, uncertain of how to interpret sukuna’s unexpected reaction. the two kneeling servants looked up at sukuna in disbelief, their faces turning pale as they realized their own gifts, despite their value, had not elicited such a response.

sukuna carefully placed everything back into the basket, then lifted a ripe peach to his lips. his intense gaze locked onto yours as he took a deliberate bite, savouring the sweetness. loudly humming at the sweet taste.

unexpectedly, two of sukuna’s free hands reached out and gently grabbed your waist. you squealed in surprise at the sudden contact as sukuna swiftly spun you around, placing you on his lap with your back is against his chest. his third hand delicately tilted your chin, looking up towards him.

“‘kuna…” you began, mindlessly calling him by a forbidden nickname. but his lips cut off your words in a hungry kiss. the taste of peach lingered on his lips, blending with the sweet intensity of the moment. his kiss was fierce, brimming with a raw passion.

sukuna’s large hand snakes up to the crevice of your neck, and to your surprise, another mouth formed on his hand, trailing down to suck and kiss a sensitive spot on your neck. a soft moan escaped your lips, muffled by his kiss, and he grinned at your reaction.

the brunettes stared up at the two of you with utter jealousy, never having received such intimacy from their king. the entire room gaped in shock; they had never witnessed the king of curses succumb so readily to a mere servant.

sukuna then pulls away, leaving you dizzy from the closeness. his presence seems to envelop you, making you feel intoxicated by his mere touch. with a gentle touch, sukuna adjusts your slouched posture, his hands holding you firmly against his broad chest. leaning down, he kisses your ear softly.

“you will judge which gift is worthy,” he begins, his closeness making your head spin even more. “if anything displeases you, I will take care of it,” he murmurs, hinting at even more slashes. another hand snaking up to your neck, softly applying pressure to restore your stability.

if anything you feel a rush of arousal.

“i will obey your every command, my queen. i am yours to command,” he declares softly, causing you to whimper in response. gasps fill the room as they witness the king of curses submitting himself to you.

“shall we resume, my lady?”

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jjk fanfic #jujutsu kaisen angst #jjk smut #sukuna ryomen smut #ryomen sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna #sukuna x reader #true form sukuna #heian sukuna #sukuna x you #sukuna x y/n #sukuna smut #ryomen sukuna x you #sukuna angst

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oneeyedlove · 4 months ago

Text

Peace.

summary | you find yourself striding towards Aemond’s chambers to confront him about his behavior at dinner, things take a turn.

pairing | Aemond Targaryen x Strong niece!reader

tags | 18+, MINORS DNI! Unprotected sex. PinV, arguing, mentions of violence, chocking, incest, creampie, cockwarming (?).

wordcount | 4.6 k

note | this is my first time writing smut so cut me some slack plss, english is not my first language and I don’t know if i like this.

The pounding of determined steps echoed through the secret tunnels of Maegor’s holdfast as you made your way towards a certain prince’s chambers. Surprised as you were that your family whistood dinner without altercations as far as they did, the feeling of hope for a truce between the opposite sides of House Targaryen died the moment that word escaped Aemond’s lips. Spiteful litte things he and Aegon were, endlessly searching for a wound to poke at— that was usually found in your brother’s tempers.

Your and your siblings’ bastardy was no secret to any soul who paid attention although it didn’t bother you in the least. Having known fatherly love from three different men as your mother’s only daughter made your upbringing eventul, but it did not stop you from becomig a bright and optmistic young woman. Said optimism being the reason why tonight’s sudden quarrel left such anguish in your heart.

Placed between Jacaerys and Aegon at the dinner table, your finger tracing the rim of the wine cup by your side, you could not help but daydream about the pleasantness of this evening extending itself into daily life. The muffled laughter Lucerys emitted pulled you back into reality and the smile faded from your face at the sight of a pig stowed before the one eyed prince. Your brown eyes met his lilac one as he stood, your pleading gaze exchanged in vain for he said the dreadful phrase regardless.

You blamed him as you paced before the hidden entrance of the silver prince’s chambers, pondering whether it would be wise to burst in unannounced— it most likely was not. Aemond was never one to display his thoughts without an ulterior motive, so invading his personal lounge would be an open attempt at understanding him, a desire you had hoped would remain silent in your heart. Against better judgment, you stepped through the stone wall by his bed. Shivering at the frigidness in your stomach, you took in the room. It looked uneasily tidy as you touched the soft linens on the bed with the tip of your fingers, thinking it was obvious the stoic prince would have an obnoxiously clean chamber. The moment your eyes found the back of his head a breath stuck in your lungs, fearing he would sense your presence.

Seated in the armchair before the fireplace, he twirled a golden coin between his knuckles, watching it’s mesmerizing choreography. Aemond had noted your presence long before you entered his apartments, the sounds of your nervous marching thundered in his ears. However, the hour of the wolf was an unexpected moment for you to come to him. He reckoned you would confront him after the events of dinner, but never would have thought to meet your scolding outside the security of daylight.

You crept further into the chamber, standing a mere five paces behind him as your heartbeat roared in your chest. If the prince had not heard you before, he certainly had now. A smirk hid from your gaze as he placed the coin on the armrest’s leather, Aemond amusingly waited your words.

“Uncle.” Your voice escaped your lips, sounding more hesitant than you intended to.

His body rigid as a pillar, the silver haired man slowly rose to his feet, his shoulders broad and muscular. He took a deep breath as he caught your eyes with his good one, his penetrating gaze watching your every move. When he finally spoke, a familiar, biting tone filled your ears.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, dear niece?”

“I wish to speak about your behavior at dinner.” As much as you tried not to sound as a wounded child, the tartness in your mouth was filled with youthful resentment.

“Are you here to yell at me, then?” He cocked his head, your eyes gleaming under the candlelight as his gaze traveled from your face to your feet, taking in your features.

The prince would never consider himself a foolish man. Every piece of him sculpted through years of exhaustive dedication, he had scraped each flawed aspect of his mind and body until it reached perfection. Aemond had disciplined his thoughts and actions towards any living creature ever since claiming Vhagar, with all but one exception: you. It was pathetic, really, how his tamed heart turned moronic in your presence. Your laughter had welded itself into his soul from the moment he first heard it as a boy, his secret devotion never surrendering to the test of time.

As if a plague crawling inside him, the yearning for your affection clouded his judgment, forcing his dutifulness out of reach. It was easy to hate Rhaenyra and her progeny, his mother had taught him their mere existence was a disgrace to the realm, a sin that tarnished the mighty House Targaryen. Nevertheless, your impertinence in addressing him this way could only lengthen his doubts — the narrative that someone withholding of such kindness and loyalty could be unholy was ludicrous in the least.

"Why must you be insufferable at all times?" You gave in to the infantile urges that plagued you, rolling your eyes at him — being almost a woman grown, it was shameful how he managed to get underneath your skin, even if you did not show it as much as your brothers.

Aemond chuckled darkly, his lips curving up in a twisted smile as he watched you. He took a step closer, his stride slow, calm, much like a hunter stalking his prey. You knew he could hide his boyish petulance far better than yourself and yet a glimmer of irritation from your words could be seen in his lilac eye.

“Did I strike a nerve?” He asked, taking another step closer, his eyes never leaving your face.

“Or are you just sore from me speaking the truth?

"Your jab at my bastardy brings me no pain, Aemond. I have never denied the truth." The boiling in your blood had not come from his insults, you were already used to them.

"The insufferableness I refer to is your need to ruin everything."

“And you expect me to believe that you’re here simply because I ��ruined dinner?’” Aemond chuckled again, his smirk widening at your insolent stare.

"You ruined the chance our family had to start anew, to forget about all the resentment and rage. I am aware of your hate towards Lucerys for maiming you that night at Driftmark, but can't you find it in yourself to forget? We were children." Even as your pleads traveled across the room, your newfound confidence maintained a stern tone in your voice.

His expression changed, a flicker of something grim passing through his eye. His jaw clenched and the smirk disappeared, though he took another step further, his figure looming over yours. He reached a hand out, grabbing your chin and forcing you to look up at him.

“Forget?” He asked, his voice quiet and deadly.

“How do you expect me to forget, when it was your bastard brother who stole me my eye?”

"You lost an eye but you gained a dragon, as you said so yourself.“ You pushed his hand away, releasing yourself from his grasp as you took a step back.

“None of us mourn your eye anymore Aemond, not even your childish self."

Your touch in his hand lingered in his skin, even if it had been brief— to push him away. His thoughts raced through his mind, how could you expect him to forgive it? The incident at Driftmark surely won him Vhagar, but it earned him humiliation and disgust all the same. He could not bear the glares bestowed upon his scar, some filled with pity, others with repulse and fear. Her brother had left him crippled, a prince that would never be whole. In one swift motion, Aemond grabbed your throat, forcing you to stumble backwards until your back hit the pillar beside the chamber’s sitting room. The cold stone pressed against your body as his fingers dug into your skin.

“Do not speak of matters you know nothing of.” He hissed through clenched teeth.

Even as stings of pain cut into the muscles of your neck, you had not flinched, the ire you suppressed for so long consuming you entirely. Your eyes seeing nothing but red, a hand met his face as a loud thud vibrated through the chamber. You had punched him. He recoiled from the hit, his cheek stinging and his face shocked. He brought a free hand up to his face to touch his now bruised cheek. It stung, but something about the feeling made him hungry for more.

“You shouldn’t have done tha—.” He spat his words before you interrupted him.

“Take my eye.” You brought your hands to hold his wrist, hoping it would make him soften his grip.

“Take it. Have your revenge and be done with all this bother.” Your gaze never flickered, staring at him with determination in your eyes.

He was surprised, to say the least. He didn’t expect you to say something like that, and for a moment he just held you in place, his breath coming out in ragged breaths as he looked down at you. The prince studied your face, looking for a sign of deceit, for a hint of fear, but all he found was defiant eyes looking back at him. He grunted, a deep, guttural sound from the back of his throat.

“Is that what you want?” He raised an eyebrow at her.

"I will do what I must to protect my blood. If this will help in mending our family it is a price I'll gladly pay."

“You would do that for your bastard brothers?” He asked quietly, a hint of disbelief in his voice as pressed closer to you, his body trapping you against the wall as he moved his hand from your neck to gently place his fingers on your jawline.

"I would do it for anyone in this family if it gave us peace.“ You said, feeling your skin tingle at his soft touch.

“Even you.”

Truer words had never been said. You had no desire to lose an eye, naturally, but if it was the needed punishment you would receive it without hesitation. If it had to be you, you would do it for your relatives, for yourself, for him. For the boy you loved so dearly, the sweet version of Aemond that was shy and gentle — he deserved better. You knew he was trapped inside of the villainous mask the prince wore but was still there. And you would love him eternally, all of him, all the dark fragments of who he now was. Although, he could never let you. So you would allow your adoration succumb to violence if it would succeed in attaining peace.

The words cut him like an arrow through the heart. He felt his muscles tense and for a moment he was sure he would squeeze your throat and end it right there. But something stopped him, whether it was your words or the fact that having your face so close, gleaming in the soft light of the fireplace, made something inside him soften. He finally found it in your eyes, what he searched for so long — the same cherishing ardor he hid inside himself. His eye flickered desperately in its socket, he had to be sure it wasn’t a dream, a cruel jest his subconscious was playing on him. But it was real. Aemond knew, right then and there, that he could have the whole world at his feet and he would still beg on his knees for you.

He watched your eyes gazing over his face, taking in your expression as his change took place. He saw the way your eyes became hazy, the way your lips parted slightly as if to say something but then closed shut again. He could feel the heat pooling in his lower abdomen, a wave of burning hunger flowing through his veins. Relishing in the feel of your small frame, your breath hitching as your chest rose and fell against his, so innocent and yet calling to him like a siren.

Before you could fathom what provoked his sudden change in demeanor, he clashed his lips into yours. The kiss was rough and desperate, a collision of teeth and tongue as he pressed your body into the wall. You moved your hands to his chest, tiny and soft against the hard muscle. He felt something tighten in his groin and he groaned into the kiss, his tongue desperately searching for more of yours. He tasted you — sweet, like sugarcane and vanilla, and he couldn’t get enough. If he had known how intoxicating your touch would be, he would have indulged in it until he made himself a drunkard.

He pushed his body closer to yours, pinning you completely against the wall, his knee coming between your legs automatically as he continued the hungry assault on your mouth. You weren’t unholy, he could see it now. But if loving you was a sin, he would gladly worship your wickedness.

He placed his hand on the side of your face, his thumb caressing your cheek as he parted his lips from yours. Your foreheads touching as he opened his eye to look for your reaction, your face was flushed, your lips bruised and swollen from his rough kisses — he found the sight unbelievably arousing. You had not expected him to ignore your demand to gauge out your eye, thinking his hatred was everything you could ever have, much less kiss you. The longing and passion emanating from his touch made it clear he had been hiding from you for this long, but there was still a piece of you that needed to be sure.

Your eyes looked up at him, his lips red from friction and his luscious hair messier than usual. You could feel his hardened length on your upper thigh, the feeling sending chills through your body. You wanted him, the gods know you did, but he needed to show you his feelings were honest.

“Tell me this is real.” You said as your fingers traced soft patterns over his black tunic.

He stared at you in confusion for a brief moment, then realizing you had the same doubts he had. A loving smile made its way into his face as he spoke, the once familiar anger that filled his voice was now replaced with pure adoration.

“I need you. I have always needed you.” He whispered, the words twirling out of his lips.

“Then have me.” You said, a new sense of confidence washing over you alongside a heat that pooled in your belly.

Aemond’s eye widened as you kissed him, the action catching him off guard. It took him a moment to process that was you were asking, but when he did; he grabbed your waist and pushed you further into the stone wall. He leaned down, towering over you as he did, and kissed you back. Hard. As a soft moan hit his ear, a wave a desire washed over him. He felt an instinct, a burning need to hear more of those sounds escape your mouth. He wanted to hear you cry and moan and gasp for breath, and he wanted to be the only one to hear it.

Your hands found the back of his head, your fingers interwoven in his silver hair as you pulled him closer. His leg pressed itself again into your core, the heat stemming from your cunt could surely be felt through the fabric of your dress. His fingers digging almost painfully into your hips, he moved his other hand down, grabbing your leg and pulling it over his hip, pressing his body against yours and pinning you there.

He broke the kiss, panting, as he buried his head in the crook of your neck. He nipped and kissed your skin as if he were a starved man. Aemond had treasured you in secret for so long, the feeling of being held in the same regard by you made his head spin — you would be his forever, he had to make sure of that.

The sensitive skin of your neck reddened at each teasing action he bestowed upon it, your body aching in desire. He relished the small gasps and mewls that the simple action of his mouth against your flesh caused you to make. The soft, reddening mark he was leaving on your skin, from his lips and teeth as he marked you as his own, making him more and more possessive with every soft bite. His grip on your hip became more firmer, his hand on your waist digging in, no doubt leaving his mark there too.

You had never been touched like this before and it felt good, the thought of giving yourself to Aemond felt right somehow. Your hands found the metal buckles of his tunic, hastening to undo them and reveal his pale chest. He shivered at the feeling of your fingernails running over his bare abdomen, trails of yearning left behind. The prince could feel himself coming undone at the simple action. He was like a young boy again, his inexperience showing through how he reacted so readily to being touched. He grabbed your wrists with one hand, pinning them above your head against the wall, to stop you from exploring any further. His other hand began to roam over your body, gripping your thigh and moving higher until his hand disappeared under your skirts.

You let out a loud whine as his finger slipped over your drenched slit, waves of pleasure sent through your being. You felt yourself melting as he explored your folds at an ungodly slow pace, the tip of his long finger pressing against your pearl. He let out a soft snicker into your ear as he heard the sound that escaped your lips, a smirk of satisfaction appearing on his own. He nipped at your earlobe as he slowly pushed a long, lean finger into you. He let out a soft huff of air, as he felt how warm and tight you were. He slowly began to move inside you, at the same painfully slow pace. As his thumb began to slowly rub your clit, you were sure your cries had been heard from outside his chamber — and yet you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

Aemond watched as you closed your eyes and opened your mouth, and he smiled at the sight of your pleasure. He watched as your hips slightly bucked to meet his touch, and he took it as a sign to be rougher, and to give you even more. He moved faster and harder as he touched you, his thumb rubbing against you in a circular motion. The prince felt his breathing get shaky as sounds of your whimpers and moans filled his ears. The feel of your body trembling in pleasure, your arms wrapping around him and you scratching the back of his neck brought him nothing but complete ecstasy. He felt your body shuddering as your release washed over you, and he couldn’t help but let out a quiet moan of his own in response, relishing the sounds and the feeling of you being so overwhelmed under his touch.

You let out a cry at the loss of his finger, but he left you no time to argue as he grabbed your shoulders and turned you so your back was pressed onto his chest. The prince found the lacings of your corset, undoing them and revealing your bare skin. He turned you to face him again, the lace that had been covering your chest, was now on the floor and you were only left with your thin shift. He could see your figure through the translucent fabric, could see the rise and fall of your chest as you breathed faster and harder.

He led you, by the hips, over to the bed and slowly pushed you down until you were on your back. Aemond loomed over you, taking a moment to look down, eyes roaming over your body as he admired the sight of you on his bed, flushed, half naked and panting. You looked magnificent, he was sure you were the most beautiful woman in the seven kingdoms — and he reveled in the fact that you were his.

You never took your eyes off him, as embarrassed as you were to have his eyes scan your body like a madman. Watching as he undid the laces of his breeches, you let out a soft gasp as he kicked the fabric alongside his small clothes to the floor, kneeling over you completely bare. He was lean, strong and pale, covered in a fine layer of small white scars — surely obtained through sword fighting. There was a small dusting of silver hair that started at his pelvis and traveled up his abdomen. Your eyes found his cock, long and hard, pulsating with desire.

You furrowed your brows and sat up in the bed, grabbing the end of your shift and pulling it over your head. You saw Aemond’s pupil dilate at the sight of your naked body, feeling a small satisfaction in knowing he wanted you this much. He was mesmerizing, a true Valyrian beauty, and it delighted you to know he was yours.

“I want to see all of you.” You whispered, staring at his eyepatch.

Aemond’s good eye widened as he understood what you meant. He was used to aversion and horror being directed towards his deformity and never thought someone would ever want to see it in such a moment. He hesitated before moving his arm up and seizing the black leather in his hand, letting it fall to the bed. A sapphire eye cut through with a reddened scar stares back at you, the candlelight shining in the deep blue of the gem. You moved your hand to the side of his face and admired him, feeling his uneasiness at being vulnerable before you.

“It is beautiful.” You say as tenderness fills your heart.

The prince wasted no time as he pulled you into a deep kiss. He felt unconditionally happy at your response, the need he held growing stronger as he laid you back into the mattress. His hand cupped your breast, fondling the peak in devotion as the other found your waist. He let out a groan at the touch of his cockhead against your bare cunt, pleasure ripping through his body.

“I cannot wait any longer.” He said in ragged breaths.

You nodded in response and that was all he needed for order for him to give in to the craving he felt for you. He moved his hands and placed them instead on your hips, holding your body down on the bed as he positioned himself on top of you. He looked down at your frame, his heart racing with need and anticipation, as he looked into your eyes.

"Tell me if I need to stop." He said gently, before slowly pushing his hips forward against your body.

You gasped alongside him as you felt his cock stretch your walls, the foreign sensation striking painfully. He kissed you gently as he could feel how your body was adjusting to him, how tight you were around his length, and it made him feel completely overwhelmed. He pulled away from the kiss for just a moment, looking down at you as he slowly pushed deeper inside. You stayed like that for a moment, letting yourself get used to accommodating him.

After what Aemond felt like were hours, he noticed you bucking your hips forward, pleasuring yourself. He smirked at the sight and your hips moving against him made the silver prince feel an insane wave of desire wash over him. He knew you were enjoying it, and it only made him feel hungrier for you. He began to move his hips back and forth, in a slow, gentle back and forth motion at first. Feeling himself almost losing control as he looked down at you, your expression filled with nothing but pleasure and satisfaction.

“Aemond.” You let out.

He could feel the desire within him become almost uncontrollable as he heard your lustful words. He felt a rush of adrenaline running through him as he looked down at you, your body underneath him, and all he could think about was how good you felt. He pulled his hips back and pushed forward again, this time with a little more force and speed than before. And again, and again, until he was completely lost in the sensation of you and the feeling of having you underneath him.

You were in pure ecstasy, lost in the feeling of being with him. The sound of his heavy breaths and the pleasure filled sounds leaving his mouth made your body shiver in response. He continued to move his hips, back and forth in a rougher and faster pace, holding you closer to him as you felt the tightening in your belly grow more and more intense. You wrapped your arms over his shoulders, scratching his back to mark him as he did you.

The memories of your childhood together filled his mind. How you would read together in the library, how you defended him from his brother and yours and especially how you laughed so easily in his presence. He loved how you were filled with so much joy, a true beam of sunlight inside the Red Keep. He knew then how you would intertwine yourself into his heart and take it for yourself — and he let you.

Aemond could feel his climax growing closer, the feeling of your full breasts against him and your body shaking in response becoming too much to hold back. He felt like he had died and found himself in the greatest of heavens, all he wanted to do was surrender himself completely to the moment.

"I’m close." He said faintly, his breathing ragged and his heart beating faster with every passing second.

Your tightened your grip on his back, your nails digging into his skin, filling him with a mixture of pleasure and pain. It was just the right thing to send him over the edge, to make his body give in completely. He let out a low, guttural moan as he felt himself reach his peak, and he felt both your bodies shake in response to the overwhelming euphoria that washed over them. He sent a few more thrusts inside you, your walls clenching as you took his seed.

You two stayed that way, a mess of sweat and disheveled breaths as you rode out of your trance. His hand drew patterns on your outer tight while you ran your fingers through his silver locks, both hearts brimming with love. You longed for each other in secret for years, miserable at the thought of having the other’s hatred to call their own. But now, caged in a chaos of limbs over the soft linens of his bed, it all felt far away, for he was yours and you were his.

“I love you.” He mumbled against your skin.

“I love you as well.” You answered, a soft smile on your lips.

There could never be a truce over the divide that wedged itself between the sides of mighty House Targaryen, but you would be each other’s peace.

From now until death parts you.

#aemond targaryen imagines #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond one eye #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen #hotd x reader #hotd #house of the dragon #ewan mitchell

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astrxq · 4 months ago

Note

I watched Damsel with Millie Bobby Brown, and I was thinking it would make a great Jace x reader story, if you're taking requests. Something like him being the prince who has to fake a wedding and then offer her as a sacrifice on the mountain to the dragon, but ends up falling in love and decides to rescue her. Or maybe he is the dragon that is cursed, and would only return to human form if he found his soulmate, in this case the sacrifices (the girls were thrown into the dragon's pit) because otherwise he would burn down the city, just like in the film. - 💜

The Dragon's Bride

jacaerys velaryon x fem!reader

words: 17k (oops?)

notes/warnings: non-canon events, description of blood/cuts (blood oath), religious guilt (jacaerys), kissing, angst??, slight ooc jacaerys and rhaenyra, mentions of death, animal death, jace's council SUCKS!!!

The weight of duty had never felt heavier on Prince Jacaerys’ shoulders as he stood before the ancient weirwood tree in the godswood of the Red Keep. The face carved into the trunk seemed to watch him with knowing eyes, judging his every thought and action.

Jacaerys ran a hand through his long-curly hair, and took a deep breath. The task before him was one he had dreaded since childhood, a burden passed down through generations of his family. As the heir to the Iron Throne, it fell to him to carry out this grim duty.

“My prince,” a voice called from behind him. Jacaerys turned to see one of the maesters approaching, his chain clinking softly with each step. The old man's face was etched with concern. “The Small Council awaits your presence. It is time to begin the selection process.”

Jacaerys nodded, his eyes clouded with resignation. “I'll be there shortly.”

As the maester retreated, Jacaerys cast one last glance at the heart tree. “Give me strength,” he whispered, though he wasn't sure if he was addressing the old gods, the new, or simply the universe itself.

The walk to the Small Council chamber felt like a march to his own execution. Each step echoed through the stone corridors, a countdown to a fate he couldn't escape. When he reached the ornate doors, he paused, steeling himself for what was to come. With a deep breath, he pushed them open and entered, two soldiers walking behind him.

The room fell silent as Jacaerys took his seat at the table.

Queen Rhaenyra spoke first, her voice steady. “My son, The dragon of Dragonstone grows restless,”

Jacaerys nodded, his throat tight. Still silent.

Ser Alfred leaned forward, his eyes sharp. “The tradition is clear, Your Grace. Prince Jacaerys must choose a lady from among the noble houses of Westeros. He will wed her in a ceremonial marriage, and then...” He trailed off, the unspoken fate hanging heavy in the air.

“And then I must take her to the dragon,” Jacaerys finished.

Lord Corlys, ever the pragmatist, spread a collection of scrolls on the table. “We have compiled a list of suitable candidates from houses loyal to the crown. Each lady comes from a family of impeccable lineage and has been deemed worthy of this... honor.”

As Jacaerys looked at the names before him, he couldn't help but feel a wave of nausea. Each name came with a charcoal drawing of the girls. These were not just names on parchment; they were living, breathing young women, each with hopes and dreams of their own. And he was to choose one to condemn to a terrible fate.

“May I have some time to consider?” he asked, his eyes meeting his mother's.

Queen Rhaenyra hesitated. She nodded, her expression softening slightly. “Of course.”

As the council members filed out of the room, Jacaerys remained seated, staring at the scrolls before him. The weight of his task pressed down on him, threatening to crush his spirit entirely.

Jacaerys stared at the scrolls spread before him, each one bearing the name and likeness of a young woman whose fate now rested in his hands. The charcoal drawings seemed to come alive under his gaze, eyes filled with hope and innocence that he would soon extinguish. His fingers trembled as he reached for the first scroll.

Jacaerys felt his breath coming faster, his heart pounding in his chest. One by one, Jacaerys examined the scrolls, each lady's face burning itself into his memory.

As the hours wore on, the faces began to blur together, a parade of innocent lives that he was tasked with judging. Who among them deserved this fate? How could he possibly make such a choice?

Jacaerys stood abruptly, pacing the length of the chamber. He ran his hands through his curly hair, tugging at the strands in frustration. The weight of his duty pressed down on him, threatening to suffocate him where he stood.

A knock at the door startled him from his thoughts. “Enter,” he called, his voice hoarse from disuse.

A servant girl entered, carrying a tray with bread, cheese, and wine. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” she said, bobbing a curtsy. “The Queen thought you might need sustenance.”

Jacaerys nodded absently, gesturing for her to set the tray on a side table. As she turned to leave, he caught sight of her face – young, perhaps a few years younger than himself.

“Wait,” he said, causing the girl to pause at the door, worried. “What is your name?”

She turned, surprise evident on her face. “Myra, Your Grace.”

“Myra,” he repeated, studying her. “Tell me, Myra, if you had to choose someone to... to face a great danger, how would you decide?”

The servant girl's eyes widened, clearly taken aback by the question. She fidgeted with her apron, considering her words carefully. “I... I suppose I would choose someone brave, Your Grace.”

Jacaerys nodded slowly. “And if all the choices seemed equally brave?”

Myra bit her lip, then said softly, “Then perhaps... the kindest one, Your Grace.”

With those words, she curtsied again and slipped out of the room, leaving Jacaerys alone with his thoughts once more.

He returned to the table, looking at the scrolls with fresh eyes. Brave and kind – could he discern those qualities from these brief descriptions and charcoal portraits?

As he sifted through the scrolls again, one caught his eye. He had overlooked it before, distracted by the more prominent houses. But now, something about it called to him.

Your name was written at the top in elegant script, followed by a brief description of your house and accomplishments. But it was the portrait that held his attention. The artist had captured a certain light in your eyes, a hint of a smile that spoke of warmth and courage.

Jacaerys found himself reading your description more closely. You were not from one of the great houses, but your lineage was respectable. What stood out were the small details – your love of books, your kindness to those less fortunate, the way you had once stood up to a local threat to protect a younger child.

He closed his eyes, trying to imagine you facing the dragon. In his mind's eye, he saw you standing tall, afraid but unbroken. He saw kindness in your gaze, even in the face of such terror.

Opening his eyes, Jacaerys looked at the other scrolls once more. Each lady was worthy in her own right, each life precious. But something about you called to him, a feeling he couldn't quite explain.

With a heavy heart, knowing the fate he was condemning you to, Jacaerys set your scroll aside. He had made his choice.

As dawn broke over King's Landing, painting the sky in hues of pink and gold, Jacaerys stood once more before the heart tree in the godswood. He pressed his palm against the rough bark, feeling the ancient power thrumming beneath.

“I've chosen,” he whispered to the carved face. “Gods help me, I've chosen.”

Jacaerys had never been one for prayer, nor had he put much stock in the gods, old or new. As a prince of the realm, his education had focused on matters of state, the intricacies of court politics, and the art of war. Faith had always seemed like an afterthought to him, a crutch for the weak. But as the time for this grim tradition approached, he found himself drawn to the godswood more and more frequently, seeking solace in the ancient silence of the heart tree.

The sound of a throat clearing shook him out of his thoughts, the same maester who had long-ago taught him to translate High Valyrian stood with his arms to his sides. “Emagon ao reached iā decision, ñuha dārilaros?” [Have you reached a decision, my prince?]

Jacaerys’ brows furrowed in deep contemplation.

“Eman,” [I have,] Jacaerys finally spoke, his voice carrying the weight of his decision. He glanced once more at the ancient weirwood, as if seeking guidance from the silent face carved into its trunk. “Prepare iā vōljes.” [Prepare a raven.]

The maester nodded solemnly. “To whom shall I send it, Your Grace?”

Without another word, Jacaerys reached for his pocket, pulling out the folded scroll with your name on it. He stared at it for a few seconds before, with an attempt of a steady hand, he handed it over.

The news of Prince Jacaerys' choice spread through the Red Keep like wildfire. Whispers filled the corridors, a mix of curiosity and pity for the unknown girl who had been selected for this “honor.” In the days that followed, preparations began in earnest for your arrival and the ceremonial wedding that would precede the grim journey to Dragonstone.

Jacaerys found himself both dreading and anticipating your arrival. He had made his choice, but the reality of what that meant hadn't fully sunk in yet. As he went about his daily duties, he couldn't shake the image of your portrait from his mind – the light in your eyes, the hint of a smile that had drawn him to you.

Every time he’d walk the halls, silence would follow, awkward stares from the staff and sometimes a hushed whisper that he’d pretend not to hear.

“Can you imagine? Poor thing, chosen to face the dragon,” he overheard once, making him clench his fists in frustration. “She's just a girl, freshly two tens of age.” another voice murmured sympathetically, but it offered him little comfort.

Despite the weight of duty pressing down on him, Jacaerys couldn't bring himself to discard the drawing. Instead, he kept it close, hidden away in a drawer beside his bed. Every night before he slept, he would retrieve it and stare at your likeness by the dim light of a candle. It wasn't a gesture of admiration or affection, but rather a self-imposed penance, a reminder of the destiny he had sealed for you.

In the quiet moments of the night, when the castle slept and he was alone with his thoughts, Jacaerys would silently plead to the gods. He didn't kneel before the heart tree anymore; he didn't utter formal prayers. Instead, his appeals were whispered in the darkness of his chamber, words of regret and sorrow that mingled with the flickering candlelight.

“Istin sagon punished isse ōdres syt se rest hen ñuha tubissa, syt eman ōdrikagon iā innocent.” [I must be punished in pain for the rest of my days, for i have hurt an innocent]

The court continued its whispered discussions about the impending ceremony, but Jacaerys withdrew further into himself. He attended council meetings and performed his princely duties with a stoic demeanor, hiding the turmoil that churned beneath the surface. There were moments when he almost reconsidered, when he almost resolved to defy tradition and spare you this fate. But each time, the weight of his lineage and the expectations of his people bore down upon him, forcing him back into the role he was destined to play.

The night before you were set to arrive, Jacaerys couldn't sleep. He paced his chambers, his mind racing with thoughts of what was to come. As the first light of dawn began to creep through his windows, he’d realized he hadn’t had a blink of sleep.

He stood at the window of his chambers, watching the sun rise over King's Landing. The city was already stirring, unaware of the personal turmoil of its future king. As he gazed out at the sprawling streets and towering buildings, Jacaerys couldn't help but notice the big blob of citizens, all awaiting at the stair’s entrance of the Keep,

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. “Enter,” he called, turning from the window.

A servant stepped into the room, bowing deeply. “Your Grace,” she said softly, “the Lady has arrived.”

Jacaerys nodded, his heart sinking at the news. The moment he had been dreading was finally here. He turned back to the window, taking one last look at the city before steeling himself for what lay ahead.

“Thank you,” he said to the servant, his voice steady despite the turmoil within. “I will be down shortly.”

As the heavy door closed behind her, echoing through the halls, Jacaerys took a deep breath, his mind racing. Finally, with a last, steadying breath, Jacaerys left his chambers and made his way down to the courtyard. The walk felt like a dream, each step echoing in the silent corridors of the Red Keep. Servants and guards stepped aside as he passed, their eyes filled with a mixture of respect and pity.

As he approached the grand entrance, he could hear the murmurs of the crowd outside. The people of King's Landing had gathered to witness the arrival of the chosen lady, their curiosity palpable in the air. Jacaerys squared his shoulders, bracing himself for the spectacle that awaited, his mother’s hand on his shoulder as a small-support for him.

As Jacaerys stepped out into the courtyard, the murmur of the crowd hushed to a reverent silence. Nobles and commoners alike pressed forward, eager to catch a glimpse of the prince and his chosen bride.

Jacaerys felt his breath catch in his throat as he laid eyes on you for the first time.

You were even more striking in person than your portrait had suggested. Your eyes, bright and intelligent, scanned the crowd before settling on Jacaerys.

Prince Jacaerys was beautiful, his long curly hair framing his face, his eyes intense as they met yours. You couldn't help but notice the dark circles under those eyes, the weariness that seemed to hang about him like a cloak.

Jacaerys descended the steps slowly, each movement deliberate and controlled. As he approached, you sank into a deep curtsy, your gaze lowering respectfully. “Your Grace,” you said, your voice steady despite the enormity of the moment. “I am honored by our betrothal.”

For a moment, Jacaerys found himself at a loss for words. He turned to look at his mother with a confused look on his face. You didn’t know? The Queen shook her head at him, so lightly that only he could notice.

He reached out, gently taking your hand and helping you to your feet.

“My lady,” he said softly, loud enough for you to hear but not for the eager crowd.

The murmurs of the crowd faded into the background as Jacaerys led you through the courtyard, his mother Queen Rhaenyra by his side and your family next to yours.

“Your Grace,” Jacaerys whispered, eyeing his mother. “I was not told that my betrothed didn’t know of the… arrangement.”

Queen Rhaenyra's gaze softened as she walked beside Jacaerys and you, the procession moving towards the Great Hall where the formalities would take place. Her voice was low, meant only for her son's ears amidst the murmurs of the courtiers and the lingering hush of the crowd.

“My son, there are matters of tradition that sometimes defy explanation,” she began, her tone tinged with empathy. “It is the way of our world, and you know as well as I do the weight of duty that rests upon us.”

Jacaerys glanced at his mother, a mixture of frustration and sorrow flickering in his eyes. “But she should have been informed,” he murmured quietly, his grip tightening subtly on your hand. You didn’t pay it any mind, as you were occupied speaking to your father, who reminded you – once again – of your duty to bring the Prince a babe to be the heir to his throne.

“I understand not telling the common folk, but, her?” He hushedly spat out, almost glaring at his mother, “She is to be fed to a dragon.”

Queen Rhaenyra sighed softly, her gaze turning ahead as they approached the Great Hall's grand entrance. “She will come to understand her role in time, Jacaerys. As will you,” she replied, her voice tinged with a hint of regret at the sight of her son’s worry.

He stole glances at you, trying to gauge your feelings, silently hoping that somehow, you might find a way to forgive the circumstances that had brought you both here. Once you sat at the Small Council table, ready to speak of the marriage that would take place in merely a few weeks, the room fell silent. You glanced around nervously, acutely aware of the attention shifting towards you and the Prince that sat straight by your side.

“My daughter knows her duty,” Your father started, making one of the maesters clear his throat in discomfort, Jacaerys glared at the old man. “She is healthy, and able to bring a babe to the world.”

You nodded, trying to hide the tremble in your hands.

Jacaerys turned his head to look at you, your furrowed brows as you listened to his mother explain how the ceremony of your wedding was going to play off. He clenched his fists on the table, trying to hide his overwhelmedness by taking a long sip out of his wine.

The meeting was a blur for Jacaerys, his mind not allowing him to pay attention to any of the preparations, all he could think about was the innocent look on your face, unknowing of your fate, and the stern look of his own Council, awaiting for the day to come.

Eventually, after having had enough of listening to your families’ planning, he stood. “Excuse me,” he voiced, offering his hand for you to take as the room fell silent. “Me and my betrothed will leave you to it, we will walk together.”

You glanced around nervously, uncertain of the proper protocol, but your father nodded in approval, prompting you to take Jacaerys' hand. His hand was cold, he rushed the two of you out of the room and out to the gardens, he didn’t speak until you stepped out of the Keep.

“You know,” he began, breaking the silence, “I used to spend a lot of time here as a child. My mother would bring me to the gardens to escape the formality of court. It was my sanctuary.”

You listened intently, intrigued. “It's beautiful,” you replied softly, glancing around at the serene landscape. “I can see why.”

“I apologize for the abruptness back there,” he began, his voice soft but tinged with a hint of urgency. “It's... overwhelming, all of this. I wanted to give us a moment away from all the... planning and discussions.”

You glanced at him, noticing the tension in his jawline, the weight that seemed to press down on his broad shoulders. His gaze was distant, as if wrestling with thoughts beyond the present moment.

“I... I wanted to ask how you are,” he continued, his tone tentative. “This must all be quite... unexpected for you.”

“It is... a lot to take in,” you admitted quietly, choosing your words with care. “But it is an honor to marry the Prince.”

Jacaerys nodded, though his expression remained troubled. He attempted to push down the burning feeling in his stomach, the guilt eating at him.

Silence fell between you for a moment, the distant sound of birdsong and the gentle rustle of leaves providing a backdrop to your conversation. Jacaerys seemed to gather his thoughts before speaking again.

“What do you enjoy doing?” he asked suddenly, his curiosity genuine. “Aside from the obvious duties and expectations... What brings you joy?”

The question caught you off guard, but you appreciated the chance to speak of something beyond the weight of your impending marriage. “I love books,” you confessed with a small smile. “I used to sneak away to a small library in our keep,” you confided, a hint of nostalgia in your voice. “It was quiet, away from the noise of daily life. I could lose myself in the pages for hours.”

He almost sighed when he saw a small smile creeping on your face as you spoke of your memories. “That sounds wonderful,” he said softly, his voice tinged with melancholy. “I... I hope you'll find some comfort in the library here, during your stay.”

You nodded, grateful for his consideration. “I look forward to exploring it. Do you have any favorite books or subjects, Your Grace?”

Jacaerys seemed to relax a bit at the change of topic. “Please, when we're alone like this, call me Jacaerys,” he said with a small smile. “And yes, I've always been fascinated by the histories of Old Valyria. The tales of dragons and ancient magic... they're quite captivating.”

“Jacaerys,” you repeated, testing the name on your lips. “I'd love to hear more about that. We don't have many books on Valyria where I'm from.”

He brightened a bit. “Really? Well, there's this one volume about the Doom that's particularly interesting. It theorizes about what might have caused it.”

As you walked, Jacaerys began to explain some of the theories, his hands moving animatedly as he spoke. He aimlessly walked you to the library, you followed his steps as he spoke. You couldn’t help but notice the looks the servants gave you, almost pitiful, as you walked past them.

Some whispered, covering their mouths with their hand so it would stay a secret. Jacaerys didn’t pay it any mind, his hand moving to lock both of your index fingers as he kept spitting out everything he’d learned about the Doom’s theories.

As you entered the grand library, your eyes widened in awe. Shelves upon shelves of books stretched as far as you could see, their spines glinting in the soft light filtering through high windows.

Jacaerys watched your reaction with a small smile. “Impressive, isn't it? I thought you might appreciate it.”

You nodded, still taking in the sight. “It's magnificent. I could spend years here and never read everything.”

Jacaerys led you deeper into the library, his fingers still lightly entwined with yours. “Let me show you some of my favorite sections,” he said, guiding you through the towering stacks.

As you walked, Jacaerys pointed out various tomes and scrolls, explaining their significance. His enthusiasm was infectious, and you found yourself relaxing, asking questions and sharing your own thoughts.

“Here,” Jacaerys said, pulling a large, leather-bound volume from a shelf. “This is the book on the Doom of Valyria I mentioned. Would you like to look at it together?”

You nodded eagerly, and Jacaerys led you to a nearby reading nook. As you sat side by side, heads bent over the ancient text, the weight of your circumstances seemed to lift momentarily. For a little while, you were just two people sharing a passion for knowledge and history.

You recognized High Valyrian words you’d learned here and there, but were grateful that Jacaerys patiently explained the meaning of each passage aloud.

“Se sīr īles foretold ondoso se scribes hen Valyria bona se vējes would māzigon bē īlva, heralded ondoso iā rōvēgrie shaking hen tegon se iā sȳndror bona would swallow se vēzos.” [And so it was foretold by the scribes of Valyria that the Doom would come upon us, heralded by a great shaking of the earth and a darkness that would swallow the sun.]

His voice resonated softly in the library's hallowed silence, you’d noticed his tense demeanor from hours earlier had eased into a more relaxed and gentle attitude.

As the families concluded their meeting in the Great Hall, the formalities of the betrothal were settled. You were to remain at the Red Keep under the watchful eye of Queen Rhaenyra and her court, preparing for the ceremonial wedding that would precede the journey to Dragonstone. Jacaerys escorted you back to your temporary chambers, a solemn air hanging between you.

Inside the quiet sanctum of your quarters, away from prying eyes, Jacaerys finally allowed his guard to drop. He paced restlessly, his fingers running through his hair in frustration. “I'm sorry,” he blurted out suddenly, his voice thick with emotion. “I don’t want you to miss your home.”

You watched Jacaerys with concern, his sudden outburst catching you off guard. “Your Gr- Jacaerys,” you corrected yourself, remembering his earlier request. “It's alright. I knew when I was chosen that I would have to leave my home behind. It's part of my duty.”

He looked like he wanted to push the conversation, to speak his mind, but he simply shut his mouth and nodded once. “Very well.”

An awkward silence fell between you. There was clearly something unsaid hanging in the air, but neither of you seemed willing or able to address it directly.

Finally, Jacaerys cleared his throat. “I should let you rest. It's been a long day, and I'm sure you'd like some time to settle in.” He moved towards the door, then paused, turning back to you. “If you need anything, anything at all, please don't hesitate to ask. I want you to feel at home here.”

That night, Jacaerys found himself staring at the canopy above his bed, unable to find solace in sleep once again. The events of the day weighed heavily on his mind, particularly the encounter with you, the chosen lady whose fate he now bore responsibility for. He tossed and turned, unable to shake the image of your face – bright, hopeful, and utterly unaware of the doom that awaited you.

He sat up abruptly, running his hands through his hair in frustration. “Gods, forgive me,” he whispered into the stillness of the night. He repeated what he did each night, the only sounds in the room being his own whispers.

As Jacaerys whispered his nightly plea for forgiveness, the weight of his decision pressed down on him more heavily than ever before. Meeting you in person, seeing your bright eyes and hearing your voice, had made the reality of his choice painfully tangible.

It was a cruel twist of fate that someone with such a love for knowledge and life should be destined for… He couldn't even bring himself to think the words.

Unable to find peace, Jacaerys rose from his bed, wrapping a cloak around his shoulders to fend off the chill of the night. He left his chambers quietly, the corridors of the Red Keep almost deserted at this late hour. Only the occasional guard patrolled the hallways, their presence a silent reminder of the ever-watchful eyes of the realm.

He found his feet leading him to the godswood once more, drawn to the ancient heart tree that had witnessed so much over the centuries. The rustling leaves seemed to whisper secrets as he approached, the carved face staring down at him with its perpetual expression of knowing.

“Why have you done this to me?” Jacaerys asked, his voice a broken whisper. “Why have you placed this burden on my shoulders?”

The tree, of course, offered no answer. It stood silent and stoic, a testament to the countless generations who had sought its guidance and solace.

“Old gods,” he whispered, his voice trembling, “I don't know if you can hear me, or if you even care. But I need your guidance. I need to find a way to fulfill my duty without losing my soul in the process.”

The face carved into the tree seemed to watch him with those same knowing eyes, offering no answers, only silent judgment.

Jacaerys sank to his knees before the heart tree, the weight of his duty pressing down on him with unbearable force. The faces of the young women whose fates he had held in his hands swirled in his mind, but it was your face that haunted him the most. The way you had looked at him with trust and curiosity, unaware of the doom he had chosen for you.

The Prince had fallen asleep at the feet of the heart tree, woken up by his Queen’s scolding gaze and her sharp voice as she shook his arm. “Wake up, Jacaerys!” Queen Rhaenyra's voice cut through the early morning stillness of the godswood. Her hand shook his arm gently but insistently until he stirred, groggy and disoriented.

Jacaerys blinked up at his mother, the reality of where he was and what awaited him crashing back with painful clarity. “Mother – Your Grace.” he murmured, rubbing his eyes as he rose to his feet, feeling the ache in his bones from sleeping on the hard ground.

“You should be resting in your chambers, not sleeping out in the godswood like some lost soul!”

He hummed, throat sore from the cold air of the night, as his Queen dragged him inside holding onto his wrist. Jacaerys followed his mother back to the Red Keep in a fog, the events of the previous night and the weight of his decisions still heavy on his mind. Queen Rhaenyra's scolding was just a distant echo to him as they walked through the quiet corridors, servants bowing respectfully as they passed.

They walked by the Grand Hall, he managed to makeout your sitting figure, all alone, with a full plate in front of you as one of the servants poured juice into the cups. At the loud, angry steps that scurried in the hall, you lifted your eyes to meet his for a split moment before he was dragged away to his own chambers to compose himself.

“Your betrothed is sat at the table, waiting, and you’re out asleep in the gardens.”

Jacaerys felt a pang of embarrassment as he remembered the fleeting glance he had exchanged with you through the grand hall. It was bad enough to be caught by his mother and scolded like a child, but to have you witness such a moment of vulnerability added another layer of discomfort.

Once safely within his chambers, the embarrassment deepened. He leaned heavily against the door, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath to steady himself. He readied himself, not bothering to call the servants, and approached the Great Hall.

It was silent, all he could hear as he walked in was the sounds of his youngest siblings playing with their food. Approaching you, he felt a knot tighten in his stomach. You looked up as he approached, your expression a mix of curiosity and apprehension. Jacaerys cleared his throat, unsure of how to begin.

“My lady,” he began softly, “I apologize for my absence.”

You looked at him, your eyes searching his face for understanding. “It's quite alright,” you replied with a small smile that didn't quite reach your eyes.

He noticed a thick book sitting next to your feast, the old worn-out cover with the carved in title he recognized from the section he’d shown you the day before. “The Doom of Valyria,” Jacaerys noted with a slight surprise, gesturing towards the book. “You found it interesting?”

You nodded, a genuine spark of enthusiasm brightening your expression. “I figured we could look at it together. I thought it might help me understand more about... well, everything,” you admitted softly, your gaze flickering briefly to the book before returning to meet his eyes.

Jacaerys nodded, feeling his mother’s eyes move to him in a warning. Don’t get attached.

He didn’t initiate another topic of conversation, casting the room in silence while you had your breakfast. The Queen stood, taking her youngest son into her arms while two other servants followed behind with the other kids, leaving you alone in the Hall.

“We can look at it now, if you wish.” he spoke, hand reaching for the book once he’d finished drinking his cup. You nodded eagerly, grateful for the opportunity to delve into something other than the weighty expectations of your impending marriage. You both moved to a quieter corner of the Great Hall, away from the prying eyes of the courtiers who lingered nearby.

Jacaerys settled onto the floor, patting the space beside him. “Come on, it's more comfortable down here,” he said with a grin.

You laughed softly, gathering your skirts as you joined him. “If anyone walks in, they'll think we've lost our minds.”

“Let them,” Jacaerys chuckled, opening the book across both your laps. “Now, where shall we start?”

Your eyes skimmed the pages, landing on an illustration of a great city. “What's this?”

“Ah, Old Valyria at its height,” Jacaerys explained, his finger tracing the intricate drawing. “See those spires? They say they were forged by dragonfire.”

“It's beautiful,” you murmured, leaning in closer. Your shoulder brushed against his, and you felt a small thrill at the contact.

Jacaerys turned his head, his face now inches from yours. He hummed before he cleared his throat, a smile playing at his lips. “Did you know they had a saying? 'Valar morghulis.'“

“What does that mean?” you asked, tilting your head curiously.

“All men must die,” Jacaerys translated, his voice low.

You raised an eyebrow. “Cheerful bunch, weren't they?”

He chuckled, fingers playing with the edge of the page before turning it. The text was dense with Valyrian history and conjecture, but Jacaerys patiently translated and explained each passage to you.

After a while, as if unable to contain his turmoil any longer, Jacaerys cleared his throat softly, breaking the companionable silence. “My lady,” he began, his voice tinged with regret, “I must apologize once more for my absence this morrow. It was... inconsiderate of me to leave you waiting.”

You looked up from the book, meeting his gaze with a mixture of surprise and understanding. “Jacaerys, it's alright,” you assured him gently, “And, please, you must call me by my name as well.”

He nodded once, turning his head to the book again, then back at you, “I wasn’t… out, I fell asleep in the gardens.”

You felt a small wave of relief wash over you and tilted your head slightly, studying his expression. “It must have been a rough night,” you said softly, empathizing with the weight he carried. “I understand.”

“I didn't mean for you to witness me like that. It was... unbecoming.”

“It is only human to seek solace,” you replied gently, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Even princes need moments of peace.”

He nodded, a faint smile touching his own lips in return. You hummed in thought at Jacaerys’ silence, a beat passed, “If I am to marry the prince, I shall better my High Valyrian.”

His face tensed, holding back a frown at the thought of you not having enough time to learn the language before… the day. “I can assist you with that, if you'd like,” he finally said.

You felt a surge of relief at his offer. You turned your head to the book, focusing on Jacaerys’ explanation once again. Before he could continue, the sound of footsteps echoed through the hall. A servant appeared, bowing low.

“Your Grace, my Lady,” he said, lying through his teeth, “The Small Council requests Prince Jacaerys' presence immediately.”

Jacaerys sighed, the weight of his responsibilities settling back onto his shoulders. He stood, offering you a hand to help you up as well. He gave you a small smile before closing the book and handing it off to you.

“I am sure there is a High Valyrian dictionary somewhere, feel free to roam the library.” he said finally before turning to follow the servant to his awaiting family.

You watched Jacaerys leave, the book heavy in your hands. His sudden departure left you feeling oddly bereft, the warmth of your shared moment fading as quickly as it had come.

With a soft sigh, you made your way back to the library. The vast room felt different now without Jacaerys' presence – larger, more intimidating. You wandered through the towering shelves, searching for the dictionary he had mentioned.

Finally locating the book, you settled into a comfortable chair near a window. Sunlight streamed in, illuminating the pages as you began to study.

Hours passed, the light shifting as the sun traversed the sky. You had made some progress with your studies, but questions continued to gnaw at you. You tapped your foot repeatedly on the ground as you stared at the closed doors of the Small Council in the distance, having seen Jacaerys walk out hours before but having been too slow to catch up to him before he left for his chambers again.

As evening approached, a servant appeared to escort you to dinner. You followed, your mind still churning with unanswered questions. The dining hall was quiet, with only a few courtiers present. Jacaerys was noticeably absent.

“Where is Prince Jacaerys?” you asked the servant as she poured your wine.

“Still in council, my lady,” she replied, her eyes darting away quickly. “They've been at it all day.”

You nodded, picking at your food without much appetite. The absence of Jacaerys only heightened your sense of unease. Something was happening, something beyond the typical preparations for a royal wedding.

You retired to your chambers, the High Valyrian dictionary tucked under your arm. As you prepared for bed, you muttered to yourself the few words you’d memorized.

“Dārilaros Jacaerys,” [Prince Jacaerys] “Iksi naejot sagon dīnagon.” [We are to be wed.] you repeated softly to yourself, the unfamiliar words echoing in the quiet of your chambers. The weight of those words, of your impending marriage to Prince Jacaerys, hung heavily in the air.

You’d figured Jacaerys had begun to ignore you, a week went by and the servant’s lie about the Small Council no longer held up. A week had passed, each day stretching out with an almost unbearable tension.

Every day, you found yourself in the grand library, delving deeper into the pages of history and language, trying to distract yourself from the growing unease. You studied diligently, but your mind often wandered back to Jacaerys, how every time you walked past him in the halls he’d turn his head, how he’d scurry away after having spent the meals in silence with his family and you sitting next to him.

The whispers and pitying glances from servants and courtiers alike only added to your discomfort.

One evening, as you sat in the library poring over your High Valyrian studies, you heard the soft sound of footsteps approaching. Looking up, you saw Jacaerys standing at the edge of the shelves, his expression a mixture of guilt and hesitation.

He called your name softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I... I hope I'm not disturbing you.”

You shook your head, gesturing for him to join you. “Not at all, Your Grace. I've been hoping to speak with you.”

Jacaerys moved closer, taking a seat across from you. His eyes fell on the open books spread before you, and a small smile tugged at his lips. “You've been studying diligently, I see.”

“Yes,” you replied, meeting his gaze.

Jacaerys once again fell into silence. His small smile faded, replaced by a look of deep concern and inner turmoil. The warmth that had briefly appeared in his eyes dimmed, shadows of worry creeping back into his expression. You watched as he seemed to retreat into himself, his posture stiffening, his gaze growing distant.

Despite your hopes for a longer conversation, for a moment of genuine connection, Jacaerys soon excused himself. His words were polite but hurried, his tone apologetic yet firm. As he left, you felt the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air between you. Once more, you found yourself alone with your books, the silence of the library seeming to mock your growing frustration.

The pattern continued throughout the weeks, becoming a painful dance of near misses and avoided glances. During meals, Jacaerys would keep his eyes fixed on his plate, responding to questions with short, noncommittal answers. His shoulders would tense whenever you entered a room, and he would find reasons to leave shortly after.

In the corridors of the Red Keep, your paths would cross, but any hope of conversation was quickly dashed. Jacaerys would offer a hurried nod, his pace quickening as he passed by. You began to feel like a ghost in your own home, unseen and unheard by the very man you were to marry.

As evening approached and the anticipation of the upcoming wedding ceremony weighed heavily on your mind, the silence became unbearable. The thought of entering into a union shrouded in such secrecy and distance filled you with dread. Questions swirled in your mind, each unanswered inquiry adding to your growing resolve.

You decided you couldn't bear the silence any longer. The need for answers, for some semblance of understanding, outweighed your fear of confrontation. With determination setting in your jaw and courage steeling your spine, you made the decision to seek out Jacaerys and demand the truth, whatever it might be.

Just before bedtime, you spotted Jacaerys walking down the hallway towards his chambers. Gathering your courage, you called out to him.

“Issi ao dobōtēdrā nyke?” [Are you ignoring me?] Your pronunciation was still rough, but he wouldn’t tell you that.

Jacaerys froze at the sound of your voice, his hand resting on the handle of his chamber door. He turned slowly, his eyes wide with surprise at your use of High Valyrian. For a moment, he seemed to struggle with how to respond.

“No,” he said softly, his voice barely audible in the quiet hallway.

You stepped closer, your frustration evident in your posture and the set of your jaw. “What is it, then?” Your words were stilted, nerves eating at you. “The wedding is tomorrow, Jacaerys. I've been left in the dark, treated like a ghost in these halls. The servants whisper about me, everyone looks at me like they pity me. And my own betrothed ignores me.”

Your outburst seemed to startle him. He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture you'd come to recognize as a sign of his distress. “You're right,” he said finally, his shoulders sagging. “I apologize.” Jacaerys hesitated, clearly wrestling with his thoughts. “I... I'm sorry for my behavior. It's not fair to you.”

You stepped closer, your frustration bubbling over. “No, it's not. We're to be married tomorrow, and I barely know you. Everyone in this castle looks at me with pity, and you can't even bear to speak to me. What am I supposed to think?”

Jacaerys winced at your words. “It's complicated,” he said softly, avoiding your gaze.

“Then explain it to me,” you pressed, your voice rising slightly. “I've left my home, my family, everything I've ever known. The least you could do is tell me why you've been avoiding me like I'm afflicted with greyscale.”

“I cannot do that,”

You huffed, he ran a hand through his hair again, clearly agitated. “I can't... I can't tell you everything. Please, try to understand.”

“Understand what?” you pressed, your patience wearing thin. “That my future husband would rather pretend I don't exist? That everyone in this castle looks at me with pity, and I don't know why?”

Jacaerys opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again, shaking his head. “I'm sorry,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “I truly am. But I can't... I can't do this right now.”

With that, he turned and retreated into his chambers, leaving you standing alone in the hallway, your frustration and confusion only growing.

You stared at his closed door for a long moment, anger and hurt warring within you. Finally, with a huff of exasperation, you turned and stormed off to your own chambers.

In your chambers, you paced restlessly, the events of the evening replaying in your mind. Jacaerys' evasiveness had left you feeling isolated and uncertain, the weight of unanswered questions pressing down on you. You glanced at the High Valyrian dictionary on your bedside table, its pages now familiar but offering no solace.

You’d fallen asleep quickly, the sound of hurried footsteps woke you and only then did you realize it was already dawn. A flurry of activity surrounded you. Servants bustled about, preparing you for the ceremony. You donned the gown chosen for you, feeling more like a doll being dressed than a bride preparing for her wedding day.

Jacaerys refused to meet your eyes once you stood in front of each other, the privacy of the ceremony surprised you, only his family present and a few of the maesters. Words felt like a blur, you looked down at your hands that were wrapped in his, the priestess’ speech didn’t make you pay any more attention than you already were, too focused on hoping for this to end soon.

“May the gods bear witness to this union. As you now pledge your troth to one another, let it be known that your fates are bound by blood and by honor.”

You only snapped out of your haze when you felt Jacaerys’ warm hands leave yours, and reappear in your line of sight with a silver knife. He held one of your hands, placing it on his before drawing blood, thinning the action careful to not hurt you. Then he moved the blade to your lips, a small, simple cut to them before he handed you the tool.

You did the same, mirroring his every move, he shut his eyes when your cold blade reached his mouth, barely reacting to the cut. Then, a kiss, like the priestess called. Jacaerys cupped your cheek, his bloodied hand holding onto yours, and the taste of blood quickly filled your mouth. It was a slow kiss, just one, and he pulled away with a sigh.

His thumb ran over your cheek once more before he took a step back, offering you a handkerchief to stop the bleeding. You dabbed delicately at your lips with the handkerchief, your mind reeling from the sudden intimacy of the kiss. Jacaerys' touch lingered on your cheek, leaving a tingling sensation.

The ceremony concluded with ceremonial words and blessings, but as you stood beside Jacaerys, you couldn't shake the feeling of disconnection between you. His demeanor remained distant, his eyes often flickering away whenever you sought to meet them.

After the formalities, you found yourself in a small antechamber adjacent to the grand hall where the ceremony had taken place. Jacaerys was silent as attendants bustled around, preparing to escort you away from the ceremony.

“Jacaerys,” you began tentatively, searching for some semblance of understanding or connection, “Can we talk?”

His shoulders slumped, eyes carrying a tire and sadness heavier than the one you’d been seeing for the past weeks. He didn’t hear you, at least that’s what you told yourself as he stood and walked away from you once again, leaving you sat with the stained handkerchief in your hands.

You huffed, anger running through you as you hurried after him. You find him at the heart tree, its ancient branches looming over him like silent sentinels. Jacaerys stood before it, his hands clenched at his sides, his gaze fixed on the carved face of the tree. His expression was haunted, burdened with the weight of secrets and responsibilities. He mumbled in High Valyrian words that you had still not learned on your own.

“Jacaerys,” you called out softly, approaching him cautiously. He turned to you, his eyes weary. “I didn't mean to startle you,” you continued, your voice gentle yet tinged with the frustration that had been building within you for weeks.

He sighed heavily, “I thought you might come,” he admitted quietly, his voice barely carrying over the rustling leaves of the godswood.

“Why won't you talk to me?” you asked, your voice breaking slightly with emotion. “We're married now, Jacaerys. Avoiding your wife is far harder than avoiding your betrothed.”

Jacaerys turned to face you fully, the weight of his responsibilities etched deeply into his expression. His gaze softened as he took in your presence, the frustration in your voice not lost on him. “I didn't mean to shut you out,” he began, his voice tinged with regret. “I am sorry.”

You stepped closer, standing beside him beneath the ancient heart tree, its presence casting a tranquil yet solemn atmosphere around you. He didn’t speak, both of you staying silent while he shut his eyes, the weariness still evident on his face.

“Do you come here often?” you broke the silence once it got too quiet, too tense.

He nodded, “I do,”

“I didn’t know you were faithful to the gods.” you stated, hand moving to touch the tree, his eyes followed your movements carefully.

He hesitated, his gaze drifting from your hand on the tree back to your eyes. “I seek guidance here,” he admitted quietly, his voice carrying the weight of vulnerability. “It doesn’t always come to me, but-” he stopped talking, shrugging before he let his hand fall from the tree, yours following suit.

“Mother said it would be easier to avoid you,” he mumbled, his voice seemingly weakening. You found yourself reaching out to him, your hand brushed against his, fingers intertwining gently as you stood beneath the heart tree together.

“What would?”

“The marriage, everything, I don’t know.”

Jacaerys didn’t pull away from your touch, though his expression remained guarded. His hand felt warm in yours, the tension in his shoulders gradually easing. The quiet of the godswood enveloped you both.

“But we’re married now, Jacaerys.” you murmured softly, squeezing his hand gently.

Jacaerys' expression softened, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Can we start anew?”

“I would like that,” you said, returning his smile. A comfortable silence fell between you, the tension of the past weeks beginning to ease.

“Perhaps,” Jacaerys suggested hesitantly, “we could continue our High Valyrian lessons together? I've missed our time in the library.”

Your face brightened at the suggestion. “I'd like that very much. I have so many questions about the Doom of Valyria that I've been saving up for you.”

Jacaerys chuckled, a warm sound that you realized you'd missed hearing. “Well then, we'd better get started.”

With a tight hold on your hand, he pulled you gently towards the castle. As you walked back together, a sense of cautious optimism filled the air between you. The silence was no longer tense, but contemplative, as if you were both considering the new beginning that lay ahead.

Entering the grand library, Jacaerys guided you to the familiar corner where you had spent so many hours studying together. He selected a few books from the shelves, their leather bindings worn with age and use. As he set them down on the table, dust motes danced in the sunlight streaming through the high windows.

Jacaerys looked up at you, his expression softening as he met your gaze. “I chose a few books that might interest you,” he said, his voice gentle. “But perhaps we could talk about these past weeks. I’ve missed you, you know?”

Jacaerys' words hung in the air, the unexpected admission causing a flutter in your chest. You settled into the familiar chair beside him, the scent of old parchment and the quiet rustle of pages creating a comforting cocoon around you both. Despite the turmoil of the past weeks, this small corner of the library had become a refuge, a place where the outside world and its burdens seemed to fade away.

You looked at Jacaerys, his expression open and earnest, the guarded demeanor he had worn like armor slipping away. “I've missed you too,” you replied softly, the truth of your words resonating in the silence that followed.

He gave a small, grateful nod, his fingers absently tracing the edge of one of the books. “Have you been studying on your own?” he began, his voice tinged with regret.

You shrugged, “Hm, There was no one to teach me,”

“There are plenty of maesters, they taught me and my brothers-”

“Nobody in this castle really speaks to me, other than you, now.”

Jacaerys' eyes filled with a mixture of guilt and sorrow at your words. He opened his mouth to respond, but closed it again, seemingly at a loss. The silence between you grew heavy, the air thick with unspoken words and emotions. “It’s alright,” you interrupted his thoughts, “Have you any favorite spots in the Keep?”

Jacaerys smiled at your attempt to lighten the mood, clearly grateful for your effort. “I do, actually,” he said, a hint of enthusiasm returning to his voice. “There's a balcony overlooking Blackwater Bay. It's quiet and the view is breathtaking, especially at sunset.”

You nodded, intrigued. “I'd love to see it. Perhaps we can go there sometime?”

Jacaerys' smile widened, his eyes brightening. “I'd like that very much. How about after our lesson today?”

“That sounds perfect,” you agreed, a grin plastered on your face.

Jacaerys began explaining the text, his voice steady and patient. As he spoke, you found yourself not just listening to the words, but also watching him – the way his eyes lit up when he talked about something he was passionate about, the way his fingers moved delicately over the pages. You pretended not to pay any mind to the arm he’d draped over your chair half way through the page you were on at the moment, his fingertips moving up and down your arm and playing with your hair every now and then.

Time seemed to fly by, and before you knew it, the afternoon sun had dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the library. Jacaerys glanced out the window, then back at you. “Shall we go, then?” he asked.

You nodded, feeling a flutter of excitement. Jacaerys led you through the winding corridors of the Red Keep, his hand in yours, the path becoming more familiar with each step. Finally, you arrived at the balcony he had described.

“It's beautiful,” you murmured, gazing out at the water sparkling under the setting sun.

Jacaerys nodded, his eyes on you. His hand moved to your backside, gently resting there, he drew you closer, wrapping his arms around you in a comforting embrace. You leaned into him, feeling a warmth spread through you at his touch.

“We could go on a walk after supper,” Jacaerys whispered, his voice barely audible above the soft sounds of the waves.

For the first time since arriving at the Red Keep, you felt a glimmer of what could be between you and Jacaerys.

With a soft sigh of contentment, you turned to Jacaerys and met his gaze, your heart lighter than it had been in weeks. “A walk sounds nice.” you said, your voice filled with newfound determination and a hint of excitement.

The weeks that followed were a gradual thawing of the ice that had formed between you, a slow but steady warming that began to transform your arranged marriage into something more.

True to his word, Jacaerys resumed your High Valyrian lessons in the library. What started as stilted, formal sessions soon evolved into hours of animated discussion and shared laughter between the two of you, melting away the image of duty-headed Prince Jacaerys. You found yourself looking forward to these moments, eagerly anticipating the smallest hint of time you would spend together.

“Skoros iksis aōha glaesagon uttoma raqiros?” [What is your favorite animal?]

You pondered for a moment, searching for the right words. “Ñuha glaesagon uttoma raqiros iksis... zaldrīzes? Hen se tembyr.” [My favorite animal is... dragon? From the books.]

Jacaerys' smile faltered for a brief moment, so quickly you almost missed it. But then he was grinning again, praising you. “That was really good.”

Moving on, he flipped the page, continuing the lesson as you practiced more High Valyrian together. His patience and encouragement helped you gain confidence in both the language and your interactions with him.

Outside the library, your walks with Jacaerys became a routine. He showed you hidden corners of the Red Keep, sharing stories of its history and his own childhood adventures. You, in turn, shared tales of your own homeland, finding common ground in unexpected places.

As the days passed, you began to see a different side of Jacaerys. The brooding, distant prince was replaced by a man with a quick wit and a passion for knowledge that matched your own. You discovered his love for astronomy, often finding him on the castle's highest tower, charting the movements of stars and planets.

One clear night, he invited you to join him. As you climbed the winding stairs, your heart raced with a mixture of exertion and anticipation. When you reached the top, Jacaerys was waiting, a bronze tube in his hands gleaming in the moonlight.

“I thought you might enjoy this,” he said softly, gesturing for you to look through the eyepiece.

“What is it?” you asked as he handed it to you, you inspected it, mirrored his moves and looked through it.

“To look at the stars,” he came behind you, hands covering yours. Jacaerys stood close behind you, his breath warm on your neck as he pointed out constellations and explained their mythologies that he’d read about in books. You found yourself acutely aware of his presence, a warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the summer night.

These moments of closeness became more frequent as the weeks went by. You would catch Jacaerys watching you with a soft expression when he thought you weren't looking. His hand would linger on yours a moment longer than necessary when passing you a book. The air between you began to crackle with an unspoken tension, a growing attraction neither of you dared to acknowledge openly, even as husband and wife.

Jacaerys kept visiting the heart tree, his begs for a punishment getting bigger and bigger as he got to know you, the weight of the fate he’d put you up to too strong for him to bear.

After a particularly tense council session, you found Jacaerys in the godswood, his head bowed before the heart tree. You approached quietly, not wanting to disturb his contemplation.

“You can join me, you know?” he said without turning, a small smile in his voice. “I always know when you're near.”

You moved to stand beside him, your shoulder brushing against his. Jacaerys was quiet for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the carved face of the weirwood. “They ignore me, I think,” he mumbled. “The gods.”

You listened quietly, feeling the weight of his words. The godswood was serene around you, the rustling leaves and the faint whisper of wind creating a backdrop to Jacaerys' contemplation. You didn't interrupt, letting him speak at his own pace.

“I've prayed for guidance, for clarity,” Jacaerys continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I've received nothing. No sign, no answers.”

The vulnerability in his voice tugged at something inside you. You glanced at the heart tree, its solemn face seemingly watching over both of you. “Maybe the gods speak in ways we don't always recognize,” you offered gently. “Or perhaps they're waiting for you to find your own path.”

Jacaerys sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I'm not sure I know what that path is anymore.”

He trailed off, frustration evident in the set of his jaw. You reached out, cupping his face gently in your hands. “Jacaerys,” you murmured.

For a moment, it seemed as though he might tell you everything. His eyes searched for yours, filled with a longing that made your heart ache. But then, as quickly as it had appeared, the moment passed. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours.

“I don’t want you to suffer,” he whispered, his breath warm on your skin. You sighed, running your palm over his chest and holding his hand. “Have you been sleeping?”

He nodded, “Yes, a little,” Jacaerys admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. His hand tightened around yours, seeking comfort in your touch. “I find it hard to rest sometimes.”

You nodded sympathetically, your thumb gently tracing circles on the back of his hand. The godswood was peaceful around you, the soft rustle of leaves and the distant song of a bird filling the air.

“Come on.” you mumbled, tightening your hold on his hand to walk him to his chambers, hoping that sleep would make his worry go away.

The atmosphere in the council chamber had been tense for days. The air was thick with anticipation, the kind that only comes when a significant decision hangs in the balance.

Jacaerys sat at the head of the table, his expression solemn. Beside him, Queen Rhaenyra watched with a mixture of maternal concern and royal composure.

“Prince Jacaerys,” one of the maesters began, his voice steady but with a note of urgency. “The time has come to finalize our preparations. The court and the realm await your decision regarding the next steps. Dragonstone must be prepared to receive its... visitor.”

Jacaerys clenched his jaw, feeling the weight of their eyes on him. He had known this moment was inevitable, but that did nothing to ease the dread that coiled in his stomach. He looked to his mother, seeking any sign of support or reprieve, but her face remained unreadable. She had taught him well about the burdens of leadership, but this was a trial he had to face alone.

“My lords,” he said finally, his voice betraying none of the turmoil within him. “I understand the importance of tradition and the necessity of the ritual. However, the lady is... not ready.”

Ser Alfred, ever the traditionalist, did not miss a beat. “Your Grace, the ritual must be completed as dictated by our customs. The dragons are restless, and we cannot afford any delay. Dragonstone awaits her arrival.”

Jacaerys's hands tightened around the armrests of his chair. He had expected resistance, but the reality of it was far more daunting than he had imagined. The council's resolve was unyielding, their eyes reflecting the hard truth that duty often demands sacrifices.

“Can’t the dragon be fed… sheep, or pigs?”

“The tradition is sacred, Prince Jacaerys. It is through these rituals that we maintain our bond with the dragon and ensure it’s calm. To suggest an alternative is to risk breaking a chain that has bound our house for centuries.”

Jacaerys felt the pressure mounting, the room closing in around him. He looked to his mother once more, her face a mask of calm. But there was a flicker in her eyes, a silent communication that only he could interpret – a plea to tread carefully.

Queen Rhaenyra finally spoke, her voice smooth and commanding. “The Prince raises a valid point. However, the choice has already been made, the preparations have already begun in Dragonstone.”

Jacaerys’s heart sank at his mother’s words. The finality of the preparations being underway in Dragonstone echoed the inevitability he had been trying to avoid. The room seemed to close in on him, the expectations of his ancestors and the weight of the realm pressing down on his shoulders. He pressed his lips tightly together, grinding his teeth in frustration.

The council resumed their discussions, the tension palpable in the air. Jacaerys listened as the members debated the logistics of the journey to Dragonstone, the protocols to be followed, and the necessary preparations for the lady. Every word felt like a dagger twisting in his gut, each mention of the ritual reinforcing the grim reality he wished to avoid.

He was being ignored by his own Council, his mother and queen quietly sipping her wine as she stole glances at him.

The same maester from before concluded, “We will proceed as planned. The bride will be escorted to Dragonstone, and the ritual will be conducted according to tradition. We cannot afford to falter.”

The meeting adjourned, and the council members rose from their seats, their conversations continuing in hushed tones as they filed out of the chamber. Jacaerys remained seated for a moment, his mind racing with the weight of their decision.

He rose from his seat and made his way to the godswood, seeking solace in the ancient silence of the heart tree once again.

The walk to the godswood was a blur, his mind consumed by a whirlwind of emotions. When he finally reached the heart tree, he pressed his palm against the rough bark, feeling the ancient power thrumming beneath his touch. The carved face seemed to gaze back at him, its expression inscrutable.

“Why do you remain silent?” Jacaerys whispered, his voice barely more than a breath carried away by the wind. “Do you not see the weight upon me? The burden of tradition threatens to consume everything I hold dear.”

The heart tree offered no answers, its carved face unmoving, its eyes seeming to gaze through him rather than at him. Jacaerys felt a pang of bitterness and betrayal at the feeling of being helpless, of being ignored by his gods and by his people.

He turned away from the heart tree, pacing restlessly amidst the tranquil setting of the godswood. The gentle rustling of leaves and the soft murmur of the wind offered no comfort. His thoughts raced, his mind replaying the council meeting and the inevitable march towards tradition that seemed to crush any hope of a different outcome.

In that moment of turmoil, his thoughts turned to you – the one person who could ease the burden of his troubled heart. He longed to see you, to escape the suffocating confines of duty and council chambers, to find solace in your presence. You were a beacon of warmth and understanding amidst the cold realities of court politics and ancient rituals.

Without hesitation, Jacaerys made his way back to the Red Keep, his steps quickening with purpose. He sought you out, driven by a need to be with someone who understood him, someone who could offer comfort without words.

Boredom had driven you to the library once again, the Red Keep not having many other activities to keep you occupied while your husband was in the Small Council. The chatter of the Small Council meeting echoed in your mind, their discussions on matters of state and tradition dulling your senses. You recalled Jacaerys' words earlier in your betrothal, his gentle encouragement to explore the library freely, to find respite from the formalities that governed court life.

As you browsed the shelves, your fingers trailing along the spines of ancient tomes, a small, leather-bound volume caught your eye. It was tucked away in a corner, almost hidden behind larger books. Curious, you pulled it out, noting the lack of a title on its worn cover.

Settling into your favorite reading nook by the window, you opened the book carefully. The pages were filled with elegant High Valyrian script, the ink faded but still legible. Your heart quickened with excitement at the challenge of translating this mysterious text.

As you began to read, deciphering the archaic language with the skills you had honed over the past months, the content of the book slowly revealed itself. It appeared to be a chronicle of Targaryen traditions, dating back to the family's origins in Old Valyria.

Your translation was slow at first, but as you progressed, certain phrases began to leap out at you. “Se zaldrīzes demands iā jorrāelagon...” [The dragon demands a sacrifice...]

Your brow furrowed in concentration as you continued, your heart beginning to race as the true nature of the text became clear. “Hen tubis naejot tubis, se dārilaros iksis naejot ōdrikagon iā riña naejot se zaldrīzes...” [From time to time, the heir is to choose a lady for the dragon...]

With trembling hands, you turned the pages, your mind reeling as you pieced together the full horror of what you were reading. The tradition, passed down through generations of Targaryen rulers, of sacrificing a young woman to appease their dragons. The ceremonial marriage, followed by a journey to Dragonstone, where the bride would meet her fate.

As the full implications of what you had discovered washed over you, a cold dread settled in the pit of your stomach. Suddenly, Jacaerys' behavior, the pitying looks from the servants, the whispers that followed you through the halls – it all made terrible sense.

You were not just a bride. You were a sacrifice.

The book slipped from your numb fingers, falling to the floor with a dull thud that echoed in the empty library. Your mind raced, trying to reconcile the Jacaerys you had come to know – kind, intelligent, affectionate – with the man who had chosen you for this grim fate.

As the shock began to give way to a mixture of fear and anger, you heard footsteps approaching. Looking up, you saw Jacaerys entering the library, his face lighting up when he saw you. His expression softened as he took in your familiar presence – a book in your hand, and a furrowed look on your face. But as he drew closer, his expression changed, noticing the pallor of your face.

“What's wrong?” he asked, concern evident in his voice. “Are you feeling ill?” He knelt beside you, reaching out tentatively, as if unsure whether to touch you.

You recoiled slightly at his approach, a surge of conflicting emotions welling up inside you. Tears continued to flow unabated down your cheeks as you struggled to find your voice, to articulate the turmoil that gripped your soul.

He reached for your hand again, this time more insistently, but you pulled away, the sting of betrayal cutting deep. “You... you chose me,” you whispered, your voice laced with accusation. “To be sacrificed.”

He recoiled as if struck, his own eyes filling with tears of remorse and helplessness.

You stood there, your body trembling with a mixture of fear and anger. The sight of Jacaerys, once a source of comfort, now filled you with an overwhelming sense of betrayal. Your eyes, brimming with tears, darted around the room, unable to settle on his face for more than a moment. The urge to flee, to put as much distance between yourself and this man who had deceived you, was almost overpowering.

“How... how could you?” you finally managed to choke out, your voice barely above a whisper. The words felt thick in your throat, as if your body was physically resisting the act of speaking to him. Your hands shook as you clutched the book to your chest, a tangible reminder of the horrifying truth you had uncovered.

Anger bubbled up inside you, mixing with the fear and hurt. It manifested in the way your jaw clenched, in the tightness of your shoulders. You wanted to scream, to rage at him for his deception, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, hot tears spilled down your cheeks, a physical manifestation of your inner turmoil.

You took a step back as Jacaerys moved towards you, your body instinctively recoiling from his presence. The man before you now seemed like a stranger, far removed from the gentle, caring husband you thought you had come to know. Your breath came in short, sharp gasps as panic began to set in.

“Stay away from me,” you managed to say, your voice cracking with emotion. The betrayal cut deep, a wound that felt almost physical in its intensity. Your mind raced, replaying every moment, every kind word and gentle touch, now tainted by the knowledge of your true purpose.

Your eyes, wide with fear and glistening with tears, finally met his. In that moment, the full weight of your situation crashed down upon you. You were trapped, bound by tradition and duty to a fate you never asked for, chosen by a man you had begun to trust and even love. The realization left you feeling hollow, your anger giving way to a deep, aching despair.

Jacaerys' face contorted with anguish. He took a hesitant step towards you, his hand outstretched, but you flinched away violently.

“Please,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “Let me explain. I never meant to-”

“To what?” you spat out, finding your voice again. The words came out in a rush, fueled by fear and rage. “To lie to me? To condemn me to death? What exactly didn't you mean to do, Jacaerys?”

“I thought I knew you,” you continued, your voice breaking. “I thought... I thought what we had was real.”

Jacaerys' face crumpled at your words. “It is real,” he insisted, taking another step closer. You backed away, your back hitting the bookshelf behind you. “Everything between us, every moment – it's all been real. I swear it.”

You shook your head violently, unable to reconcile his words with the horrifying truth you'd discovered. “How can you say that?” you demanded, your voice rising hysterically. “How can any of it be real when you've been planning my death this whole time?”

Jacaerys’s expression twisted in agony as he absorbed the impact of your words. He stood rooted to the spot, a few steps away from you, his hand still outstretched as if hoping that a simple gesture could bridge the widening chasm between you.

“I never wanted this,” Jacaerys began, his voice barely above a whisper, choked with emotion.

You shook your head vehemently, tears streaming down your face. “You chose me.” you spat out, your voice cracking.

“No, that's not what I-”

“Then what?” you demanded, your voice rising. “What exactly was your plan? To make me fall for you and then feed me to a dragon?”

Jacaerys's face contorted with pain. “I've been trying to find another way. I've been fighting the council, trying to change things-”

“And failing!” you interjected, your fear and anger boiling over. “All while lying to me every single day!”

“I wasn't lying to you!” Jacaerys protested, his voice rising to match yours. “I was trying to protect you!”

“How can I believe anything you say now?” you cried out, your body shaking with sobs.

Just as Jacaerys opened his mouth to respond, a sharp knock at the library door interrupted your heated exchange. You both froze, turning to see a servant entering hesitantly.

“Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” the servant said, bowing low. “The Small Council requests your immediate presence. They wish to begin preparations for... the journey.”

The servant's eyes flickered between you and Jacaerys, clearly sensing the tension in the room.

You sobbed at the mention of the event, even servants keeping secrecy of your fate.

Jacaerys clenched his jaw, he turned back to you, his eyes pleading. “Please, we need to talk about this. Let me explain-”

But you were already backing away, seizing the opportunity of the interruption to escape. “I wish to be left alone,” you said, your voice trembling. Without another word, you brushed past the confused servant and fled from the library.

Jacaerys stood frozen for a moment, watching as you fled, your sobs echoing through the hallways. His heart ached with the weight of his own guilt and the fear of losing you completely. Ignoring the servant’s continued bowing and murmurings, he sprinted after you, desperate to make you understand.

He reached your chamber door just as you slammed it shut, the sound reverberating down the corridor. He pressed his palms against the heavy wood, his forehead resting against it as he tried to steady his racing heart.

“Please, let me explain!” he called out, his voice thick with desperation. “I know you're hurt and angry, but you need to hear me out!”

Inside, you sank to the floor, your back against the door, tears streaming down your face. Your body shook with silent sobs, the enormity of the betrayal crushing down on you.

“Everything I've done,” Jacaerys continued, his voice muffled through the door, “I've done to protect you. I never wanted to deceive you. I never wanted any of this. But the council, the traditions... they're suffocating us both.”

His words felt like they were trying to reach you, trying to penetrate the thick wall of pain and anger that surrounded your heart. But the fear of your impending fate and the betrayal you felt were too overwhelming.

“Please, you have to believe me,” he begged, his voice breaking. “I love you. That love is real. And I will find a way to save you, I swear it. Just give me a chance to make this right.”

You hugged your knees to your chest, your mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. The pain, the fear, the betrayal – they were all so raw, so immediate. But beneath it all, a small part of you wanted to believe him, wanted to believe that the man you had come to care for was not the monster this situation painted him to be.

“I don’t know how to trust you again,” you whispered, knowing he couldn’t hear you through the thick door.

“I'll do whatever it takes,” Jacaerys vowed, his voice trembling with determination. “Just... don't shut me out. Please.”

The silence that followed was heavy, the air thick with the weight of his words. You stayed where you were, torn between the deep love you had started to feel for him and the horrifying reality you had uncovered. The choice to let him in or to push him away entirely seemed insurmountable in that moment.

With that, he pressed his hand against the door one last time, as if trying to offer some semblance of comfort through the barrier between you, before turning and walking away, leaving you alone with your thoughts and your heartache.

When he entered the room, the council members were already deep in discussion, their hushed voices filling the space with an air of urgency. They looked up as he entered, some with mild surprise, others with impatience.

“Your Grace,” the maester began, “we are ready to pick up from where we left off earlier. We were just finalizing the preparations for the journey to Dragonstone.”

Jacaerys clenched his fists, his frustration barely contained. “This madness must end,” he declared, his voice shaking with a mixture of rage and desperation. “We cannot continue with this barbaric tradition. There has to be another way.”

They looked at him as if he was a loose-tempered child, their expressions a mix of annoyance and dismissal. Jacaerys stood firm, his eyes burning with intensity as he faced the council that seemed so indifferent to his pleas.

“Your Grace,” the man interjected, his tone patronizing, “tradition is not something to be discarded lightly. It is what binds us to our heritage, what ensures the stability of our rule. The dragons demand their due.”

Jacaerys shook his head in disbelief. “Is that all you see her as? A 'due' to be paid?” His voice cracked with emotion, his frustration boiling over.

One of the maesters, an older man with a stern look and a long gray beard, spoke up with a dismissive tone. “Your Grace, emotions have clouded your judgment. The girl is but a vessel for the ritual, a necessary sacrifice for the greater good of our house and the realm. Your sentimental attachment to her blinds you to the realities of our traditions.”

Jacaerys's jaw clenched, his fists tightening at his sides. He could feel his anger rising like a tidal wave, threatening to overwhelm him. “You dare speak of my wife like that again and I shall have your tongue for it.”

The maester who had spoken before, undeterred by Jacaerys's threat, leaned forward with a smirk playing on his lips. “Your Grace, threats will not change the course of history. The traditions of House Targaryen are not to be trifled with, even by a king.”

“The dragon will be fed sheep, or pigs, or cows. I do not care for what it is, just not an innocent, not her.”

The council members glanced at each other again, murmuring amongst themselves in low voices. They seemed to reach an unspoken agreement, their gazes finally settling on Jacaerys with a mixture of pity and resignation.

“Your Grace,” the maester said with a sigh, Jacaerys shook his head, turning on his heel and storming out of the council chamber, leaving the members behind in a stunned silence. All heads turned to look at the empty seat of the Queen, who was absent from the meeting to be with her children.

The preparations proceeded.

Outside the chamber, he paused for a moment, leaning against the cool stone wall to catch his breath. His thoughts turned to you, his heart aching with the fear of losing you to the cruel tradition that dictated your fate. He couldn't bear the thought of what awaited you on Dragonstone, of the horror you must feel now that you knew the truth.

With a deep breath, Jacaerys pushed himself away from the wall and began to walk briskly through the corridors of the Red Keep. His steps were purposeful, driven by a desperate need to find a way to protect you, to defy the council's decree despite their authority. His mind raced with plans and strategies, each one more daring than the last.

As he passed by servants and guards, he saw the pity in their eyes, the whispers that followed him like a shadow. They knew of the impending sacrifice, of the council's decision, and of his futile attempts to defy it. Yet, despite their sympathy, Jacaerys knew he couldn't rely on anyone else to challenge the council openly. The risk was too great, the consequences too dire.

Finally, he reached the familiar door of your chambers. His hand trembled slightly as he lifted it to knock, unsure of how you would receive him after your confrontation in the library. He knew he had hurt you deeply, that his actions had shattered the trust you had begun to build between you.

Before he could knock, however, the door swung open suddenly. The sight of you standing there, eyes red from tears, took his breath away. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the weight of everything unsaid hanging heavy in the air between you.

He whispered your name, almost as if it was a secret, his hands reaching out to attempt to hold yours. You moved away, “I only wish to go to supper, the Queen is waiting.”

Jacaerys swallowed hard, his throat tight with unspoken words and unshed tears. He knew you were still hurting, still grappling with the betrayal he had inadvertently caused. The thought of losing you, of facing the council's cold and calculated decisions alone, sent a wave of despair crashing over him.

“I... I will not keep you.” he murmured finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded slightly, your gaze flickering to the side, unable to meet his eyes. The pain and confusion swirled within you, making it difficult to think clearly or to know what to say next.

Stepping back from the door, you slipped away from him, the distance between you feeling insurmountable. Jacaerys watched you go, his heart heavy with the knowledge that he was losing you, at least for now.

The walk to supper was silent and uncomfortable. Each step felt like a burden, the weight of your emotions threatening to overwhelm you. Servants passed by, casting sympathetic glances your way, their whispered conversations barely registering as you made your way to the dining hall.

“My dear,” she greeted you warmly, though her eyes held a hint of concern. “I trust everything is well?”

You managed a tight-lipped smile, nodding slightly. “Yes, Your Grace,” you replied softly, avoiding her gaze.

Sensing your need for space, she made no further inquiries, allowing the meal to proceed in an uneasy silence.

Throughout supper, you picked at your food, the taste of bitterness lingering on your tongue. The empty seat beside yours, your husbands, felt like a void, a stark reminder of the distance that had grown between you. You glanced at it occasionally, half-expecting Jacaerys to appear, to fix it all with a snap of his fingers. But he did not materialize, leaving you to wrestle with your conflicted feelings alone.

Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, with her regal bearing and perceptive gaze, had always been keenly attuned to the emotional currents of those around her. As she observed you across the table during supper, she noticed the tension in your posture, the haunted look in your eyes, and the way you absently picked at your food.

Her own son's absence did not go unnoticed either. The empty seat beside you seemed to cast a shadow over the otherwise elegant atmosphere of the dining hall. Rhaenyra's eyes flickered towards it briefly, a fleeting moment of concern crossing her features before she schooled her expression into one of serene composure.

After a quiet and tense supper, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen rose gracefully from her seat, her gaze lingering briefly on the empty chair beside you before she moved towards the doors of the dining hall. Her steps were measured, her presence commanding even in the subdued atmosphere.

As she exited the hall, servants darted forward to attend to her, but she waved them off with a subtle gesture. Instead, she continued down the corridor that led towards the private chambers reserved for the royal family. Her mind was focused on one thing: finding her son, Jacaerys, and offering him whatever support and counsel she could in his time of need.

Rhaenyra found Jacaerys in his private study, poring over ancient tomes and scrolls that spoke of the history of Dragonstone and the ancient rituals of House Targaryen. He looked up as she entered, his expression a mixture of determination and weariness.

“Mother,” Jacaerys greeted her, his voice subdued yet filled with a quiet resolve. Queen Rhaenyra closed the door behind her, the quiet click echoing softly in the study as she approached her son. Jacaerys stood by his desk, surrounded by the weight of ancient knowledge and the burden of his current dilemma. His eyes, weary and troubled, met hers as she drew near.

Rhaenyra took a deep breath, her mind racing with possibilities. “The dragon must be fed, as tradition dictates.”

“No-” he interrupted.

“Jacaerys, listen to me,” she began softly.

He closed his mouth, frustration still evident on his face as he glared at the floor, refusing to meet her eyes.

“Ten sheep, as a symbolic gesture to fulfill the dragon's hunger. It will appease the tradition without sacrificing an innocent life. Like you said.”

Jacaerys remained silent for a moment, his jaw clenched as he mulled over her words. The weight of the decision pressed heavily upon him; he wanted desperately to protect you, yet he also feared the council's resistance to any deviation from the established ritual.

“It's risky,” he finally admitted, his voice tinged with uncertainty. “But if there's even a chance...”

“We must take it,” Rhaenyra affirmed, her voice gentle yet firm. “I feel your heavy heart, my son. You are hurt.”

Rhaenyra's words cut through the turmoil swirling in Jacaerys's mind, her understanding of his pain offering a momentary comfort amidst the uncertainty.

“I can't bear to lose her, Mother,” Jacaerys confessed quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “She trusted me, and I... I betrayed that trust.”

Rhaenyra reached out, placing a hand on his shoulder, a gesture of maternal comfort. “Love makes us vulnerable, my son,” she murmured softly. “But it also gives us strength. You must believe in that strength now, for her sake and for yours.”

The day dawned with a heavy pall hanging over Dragonstone, the air thick with anticipation and dread. Servants moved about the castle with quiet efficiency, their expressions somber as they attended to their duties. Among them, preparing for the ritual that loomed ahead, was you.

Your mind felt numb, detached from the reality of what was to come. Every brush of the comb through your hair, every adjustment to your gown felt surreal, like you were watching someone else's life unfold. The knowledge of your impending sacrifice weighed heavily, a constant, gnawing ache in your chest that refused to abate.

Jacaerys, your husband, moved through the chambers with an air of quiet resolve. His eyes, usually warm and reassuring, now held a depth of sadness you couldn't bear to meet. He had sworn to his mother to keep the plan involving the sheep a secret, and despite the rocky state of your relationship, he ached to tell you.

As the time drew near, you found yourself seated beside Jacaerys in the carriage bound for the dragon pit. The journey was quiet, the clatter of hooves against cobblestones the only sound breaking the heavy silence between you. His presence beside you was both a source of solace and a reminder of the fractured trust between you.

You stole glances at him occasionally, noting the tension etched in his features, the way his hands clenched and unclenched in his lap. There were words unsaid, wounds still raw and unhealed, but in this moment, facing the inevitable, you craved for his comfort.

Silently, you reached to place a hand on his thigh, stopping his leg from moving up and down in anxiousness.

He turned to look at you, his eyes searching yours for understanding, for forgiveness. The weight of his secret, the burden of the deception he had carried to protect you, threatened to crush him. Yet, in that moment, your touch grounded him, reminding him of the love that still flickered between you despite everything.

You held his gaze, your own eyes reflecting a mix of sadness and longing. Words seemed inadequate in the face of what lay ahead, in the face of the unspoken turmoil between you. But your touch spoke volumes, a silent reassurance that even amidst the chaos, you were still connected.

Jacaerys covered your hand with his own, his touch gentle yet firm. His thumb traced soothing circles on the back of your hand, a gesture of comfort and apology. There were no words to express the depth of his regret, the anguish of seeing you face such a fate.

“I will fix this,” he promised in a whisper. You frowned at him and he felt his heart drop once again, your trust for him was fully gone. “I swear it.” he murmured against your hair, his voice hoarse.

You withdrew your hand from his grasp, the gesture a silent but clear indication of the distance that had grown between you. His heart ached at the loss of your touch, a physical manifestation of the emotional rift that now divided you. You remained silent, the weight of his promise echoing in the space between you.

As the carriage finally reached its destination, the stark cliffs of Dragonstone rose ominously before you. Servants hurried to prepare for the landing, their movements efficient and solemn. The dragons' presence loomed in the background, a constant reminder of the ancient forces that governed their lives.

Jacaerys helped you disembark from the carriage, his touch tentative yet filled with an unspoken plea for forgiveness. You stood side by side, facing the imposing fortress and the council that awaited your arrival.

From the distance, you could see the beast, a dragon stood tall before the castle, many men parading around it holding sticks to prevent it from causing any damage other than his feast, you.

Jacaerys’ gaze moved to his mother, her arms crossed over her chest as she gave him a stern nod, telling him that the sheep were hidden, prepared to replace you just as they’d planned.

The servants moved away, maesters following behind as the hair walked you to the dragon, just like it was written in the books of tradition. Jacaerys was supposed to leave you standing in front of the dragon, leave and hide away in a corner before shouting the known command for you to be burnt. A private tradition for only husband and wife, for heir and sacrifice to see.

Your body shook in fear as you walked behind your husband, your hand grasping onto his red cape. He reached behind his body, his hand holding yours in hopes to calm you.

The dragon loomed ahead, its scaled form bathed in sunlight that glinted off its massive wings and claws. Men with sticks stood guard around it, their wary eyes trained on the beast as well as on you and Jacaerys. They stepped away once the Prince approached.

Jacaerys's steps faltered briefly as he glanced back at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of pain and determination. He squeezed your hand reassuringly, his grip firm yet gentle, a silent promise of his unwavering resolve to protect you at any cost.

As you approached the dragon, the enormity of the moment threatened to overwhelm you. Images from the ancient books of tradition flashed through your mind—husbands and wives standing before dragons, the command to burn uttered in hushed reverence. It was a private ritual, a solemn duty passed down through generations, and now it seemed poised to consume you.

You and Jacaerys were left standing on your hand, your hand clasped tightly in his as you tried to even your breaths.

The dragon's gaze shifted, its attention momentarily drawn away as it sensed movement in the shadows. Jacaerys's breath caught in his throat, his grip on your hand tightening instinctively. For a fleeting moment, hope flared within you, a glimmer of possibility that the plan might succeed, that the ancient beast might accept the substitution.

But as the dragon turned back to you, its eyes narrowing with curiosity, the moment of truth arrived. Jacaerys turned to look at his mother, rushing with one of her maids behind her, and the promised sheep gathered. He couldn’t help the sigh of relief that washed over him, his hand letting go of yours to hold onto your waist and push you close to him as he quickly dragged the two of you away from the beast’s hungry eyes.

Together, you moved swiftly through the courtyard, away from the dragon and towards the safety of the castle's empty interior, the council already having left for their journey back to the Keep. Jacaerys's grip on your waist remained firm, his touch a reassurance of his steadfast protection in the face of danger. His mother kept pace beside you, her expression unreadable but tinged with a glimmer of pride in her son's daring defiance of tradition.

As you reached the threshold of the castle, Jacaerys finally allowed himself a moment to breathe, his gaze sweeping over you with relief and lingering concern. The weight of what had transpired hung heavy in the air, the daring gamble to spare you from the dragon's maw a testament to Jacaerys's unwavering determination and love.

Inside the safety of the castle walls, away from the dragon's menacing presence, Jacaerys pulled you into a tight embrace. His voice, thick with emotion, whispered words of gratitude and apology against your hair. You clung to him, the rush of adrenaline giving way to overwhelming relief and the beginnings of forgiveness.

From afar, you could hear the Queen voice the command, you watched in silence – as Jacaerys clung to you – the dragon spitting fire at the animals, the two women hurrying out of the way while it ate at the sheep.

You felt a sob leave your throat at the sight, turning your body to fit into Jacaerys’ as you incoherently mumbled words of gratitude, his lips brushing against your skin every time he spoke caringly at you, apologizing, thanking the gods.

“You're safe now,” Jacaerys murmured against your hair, his voice thick with emotion. “I'm so sorry you had to go through this. I never wanted any of this for you.”

“Please... Please forgive me. I know I don't deserve it, but I swear to you, I will spend every moment proving myself to you.”

You buried your face in his chest, overwhelmed by conflicting emotions. His words of remorse and desperation washed over you, mingling with the relief of surviving the ordeal.

“I'm so sorry,” Jacaerys continued, his voice choked with emotion as he whispered. “I should have told you everything from the beginning. I never meant to deceive you, to put you through this. Please, I beg you... take whatever time you need. I understand if you can't ever forgive me.”

You felt his words reverberate through your chest, each syllable heavy with remorse and love. His vulnerability touched your heart, reminding you of the man you had fallen in love with despite the secrets that had threatened to tear you apart.

“I need you to know,” Jacaerys whispered, his fingers gently caressing your back. “I love you. More than anything. And I will spend the rest of my life proving it to you.”

You leaned in, your lips brushing against his in a tentative, exploratory kiss. It began as a whisper, a soft meeting of lips that conveyed all the unspoken words – the apologies, the gratitude, the hope for a future together. The taste of salt from lingering tears mixed with the sweetness of relief, creating a bittersweet sensation that only deepened the connection between you.

Jacaerys responded with an enthusiasm that spoke volumes. His arms encircled you, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your bodies. The kiss deepened, filled with a yearning that transcended the physical, binding your souls together in a moment of deep intimacy.

His lips moved against yours with a gentle urgency, pouring out his heart in the touch of his mouth on yours. In that embrace, amidst the echoes of their shared ordeal, you found solace and strength in each other's arms.

When you finally pulled away, a soft smile graced Jacaerys' lips, his eyes shining with gratitude. He rested his forehead against yours, his hands tenderly caressing your cheeks as if trying to imprint the moment into memory. You nestled into his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart against yours.

“One step at a time,” you mumbled, catching from the corner of your eye, the hint of a smile fighting to appear on his face.

Together, you stood in the quiet sanctuary of the castle, your bodies pressed close as if seeking solace in each other's presence. The weight of what had transpired hung in the air, but so did a glimmer of hope – a hope that with time and effort, your love could mend the fractures that had threatened to break you apart.

Jacaerys seemed unconcerned with the Council's potential reaction to his and his mother's defiance of tradition, wholly absorbed in the moment. His thoughts were consumed by your scent and the significance of your first kiss since your wedding. He silently hoped it marked the beginning of a new normal, regardless of the Council's opinions upon your return to the Red Keep.

taglist: @smurfelle @earth4angels @elliaze @sillylittlepenguin181818 (taglist link is on pinned!)

#jacaerys targaryen #jacaerys targaryen x reader #jacaerys velaryon x reader #jace velaryon #prince jacaerys #hotd jacaerys #hotd #house of the dragon #harry collett #jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys x reader #Jacaerys Velaryon one shot

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targaryenrealnessdarling · 2 months ago

Text

In the Wake of Silence

Aemond x unnamed wife | HOTD Big Bang

Summary: Aemond and his wife endure a loveless, arranged marriage. His wife, haunted by bearing witness to the events of Blood and Cheese, seeks respect and support from her indifferent husband. The Prince, troubled with his own demons that triggered the Dance, struggles to meet her basic needs. Political intrigue and personal grief threaten to tear them apart, but his wife demands recognition and partnership, a fraught path, hoping to find respect where love has failed. | Word Count: 8.8k~ | Warnings: angst, child death, spoilers for hotd s2 ep 1, dub-con, mentions of miscarriage, canon-typical violence/misogyny

A/N: my submission for this year's HOTD Big Bang! Thank you to the lovely @ewanmitchellcrumbs for the artwork, and for organising the event alongisde @emilykaldwen. Please do show all the love for other lovely writers/artists over @hotd-bigbang, you're all in for a treat!

The first light of dawn barely touched the horizon as Aemond Targaryen slipped back into the Red Keep. His movements were stealthy and deliberate, the echoes of his footfalls swallowed by the cold stone corridors. The scent of the brothel, flesh and sweat, still clung to him, a reminder of the night’s escape from the relentless pressures of court and marriage.

As he approached his chambers, the atmosphere within the Keep struck him as strange. It was too noisy, too chaotic for the early hour. The usual stillness of the dawn was replaced by the frantic rustling of armoured feet and the distant, muffled cries of distress.

Turning a corner, Aemond's sharp gaze took in a disturbing scene. Members of the Kingsguard were dragging servants and courtiers from their rooms, shouting orders and spreading panic. The confusion and terror were palpable, a stark contrast to the serene darkness he had left behind.

"What in the Seven Hells is happening?" he muttered to himself, quickening his pace.

Aemond's mind raced, trying to piece together the reason for such commotion. He rounded another corner and saw more guards, their expressions grim and unyielding as they secured the doors of the royal nursery. His heart skipped a beat, an inexplicable sense of dread washing over him.

His steps became more urgent, the clamour growing louder as he neared his chambers.

He pushed open the doors and immediately noticed something was amiss. A draught hit his face, a wall he had never known was in fact a doorway was standing ajar. His eye scanned the room, taking in the disorder. His belongings had been disturbed, gold coins taken haphazardly from the table. Papers were scattered, and the lingering scent of unfamiliar presence clung to the air. Something rancid.

His expression remained impassive as he made his way through the halls. Kingsguard rushed by him, towards Helaena’s chambers as well as maidservants with newly washed blankets. When he reached his mother’s chambers, Ser Criston gave him a grave look, but stepped aside. Inside, his mother was bent over her table, her long chestnut hair falling in waves either side of her face to hide her moist eyes and sheer exhaustion. His grandfather, Otto, was seated, his spine as straight as his face.

At the sight of him, his mother paused, her eyes filling with a mix of relief and fear.

“Aemond,” Alicent began, her voice trembling.

His eye flickered about the room, a habit, taking in the darkness that lay within her chambers, in his blind spot the drapes still pulled tight to push out the sun, the rumpled bed sheets.

“Mother,” he answered, “what has happened? My wife–”

Alicent’s face paled at the thought of having to revisit the hellish night she had only just left behind. “They came in the night. For Helaena’s boy…” she trailed off, “Jaehaerys is dead.”

Aemond’s blood ran cold, the weight of her words sinking in. His mind flashed back to his ransacked chambers and the passage he had found ajar. A passage even he had not known existed.

They had come looking for him.

And when they could not find him…

“And my wife?”

Alicent wiped her cheeks gently, inhaling as if to draw strength, “she was there, with Helaena and the children…”

The realisation hit Aemond like a blow. The assassins had been mere steps away from her. The thought of his wife in such proximity to danger, witnessing the horror of Jaehaerys’ murder, was almost too much to bear. The indifference he had maintained toward her now felt like a cruel and taunting weight.

“We must not be shaken by this,” Otto insisted, somewhat firmly, coldly. “We need to remain strong and act decisively."

“Not be shaken? They murdered my nephew, and my wife was there. This is no small matter.”

Otto’s eyes narrowed, his tone becoming sharper. “And that is exactly why we must remain composed, Aemond. Panic will only serve our enemies. We need to show them that we are not easily broken.”

“They came for me, Grandfather. When they could not find me, they killed an innocent child. My nephew. My wife could have been next.” His words were like arrows, laced with poison. “And how fares the King? Is he as composed as you wish?”

“The King’s composure is of no concern to you, Aemond. Your duty is to protect this family and this realm, not to question the King’s state of mind.”

“You speak of strategy while my family bleeds.”

There was a marked silence. Aemond was wound tight. His grandfather, while known for his clever strategy and had served many Kings as Hand at this very moment, was as detached emotionally as one could possibly be, and only saw how this tragedy might benefit their claim.

“And where was our Kingsguard while all this took place? Where was our vigilance when they slipped through our defences?”

He noted his mother’s still stance, her eyes unmoving from a single spot in the room, her hands, needing something to do, rose to her necklace, tight with worry and anxiety.

Otto said nothing for a moment. “We shall not be caught off guard again. Every measure will be taken to ensure our security.”

“I am sure your grandson will thank you for it now,” Aemond shot back.

“We will protect the ones who remain,” Otto retorted. “But we must do so with clear minds and steady hands. Emotions will not serve us in this fight.”

A tense silence hung between them, the air thick with unspoken words and clashing wills. Alicent stepped forward, her voice a fragile thread of calm amidst the storm. She took his hand, so large in her own it seemed near impossible that he could possibly be her son. Her large brown eyes were misty with tears.

“The Hand is right. We must be united in this,” she uttered quietly, trembling.

All Aemond could manage was a tired sigh. There was no use argumentation. For better or for worse, his grandfather was the King’s Hand, and if the King was indisposed, incapable of making rational choices, the members of his court had no choice but to obey.

“Where is my wife?”

Alicent hesitated, her expression pained. "She is with the maester," she finally replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

“She is hurt?”

"No,” was her quick answer, “but do treat her gently," she said softly.

His frustrations at that moment were only tempered by the knowledge that she was not harmed. The relief briefly gave way to unease at the knowledge of what his wife had witnessed a night he himself was pressed to another woman’s flesh.

He moved, walked, existed, for some time without really realising.

"She witnessed the attack, my prince," the maester began, his voice steady despite the gravity of his words. "She was with Queen Helaena and her children when the assassins struck. It was a brutal and sudden assault. She managed to escape physical harm, save a small cut on her neck I have treated, but the emotional toll is severe."

"She is in shock," the maester continued, his gaze sympathetic. "Physically unharmed, thankfully, but emotionally... she has endured a great trauma."

Aemond nodded tightly. His mind raced at the thought that he had been out of harm’s way while his family and blood suffered horror beyond comprehension in their own home.

"Is there anything else?"

The maester hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "There was some... spotting," he finally said, his tone gentle yet hesitant. "Not indicative of her cycle. It may have been due to the stress and trauma she endured."

He couldn’t deny the slight sinking of his heart at the implication. Understanding the maester’s unspoken words, that his wife may have even been with child, added yet another devastation to the evening’s toll.

The maester nodded towards a door. "She requested to be alone. I advised her to rest, but she insisted on waiting for you."

Aemond swallowed hard, steeling himself for the sight of his wife, knowing that the rift between them had deepened with each passing moment of his absence. Of his continued absence, in their marriage.

He entered the chamber as if navigating a dragon's lair. It was dark with the curtains drawn, the only light coming from the dim glow of the hearth. Her figure was seated by the mantle, her back to him, still in the same dress she had worn the evening before.

He called out to her, but she did not face him.

“How kind of you to return from your nightly excursion.”

Aemond felt the hot frustration at the nape of his neck, his defences prompted. His jaw tightened at the accusation in her tone. “I had matters to attend to,” he said coldly, not bothering to disguise the edge in his voice.

“Matters,” she echoed in disdain.

“What I do in my leisure is my business. You know this.”

She finally turned to face him, her eyes blazing with anger and hurt. “While you tended to your 'business,' I was here, witnessing the murder of our nephew. Is the first thing you have to say to me a poor excuse for your absence? And not perhaps a soft word in grief and comfort?”

Aemond’s expression remained stony, though a flicker of unease passed through his eyes. “I know what happened, and it should never have come to that. But do not think to judge me for seeking solace elsewhere.”

Her face crumpled somewhat, the pain evident in her eyes deepening, “I do not judge that, Aemond. I simply ask for respect and loyalty–”

“I have given you my name and protection–”

“It is not enough!” She rose her voice, which seemed to suck all the energy from her lungs, “not when I am left to face these horrors alone. Your sister lost a child. As did I–”

Her mouth pulled shut, her eyes drifting as if she had said too much for her frail heart.

His eye narrowed, a mixture of shock and defensiveness flashing across his face. “I did not know.”

She looked away, her shoulders slumping in defeat. “Of course you didn’t. You were too busy with your whores to notice.”

“Mind yourself–”

“Or what?” She snapped, “you will ignore me? As you always have done? Ignore your responsibility to your family? To me?”

It was rare she was ever able to best him with her words alone. But her next ones rendered the tall Prince completely silent.

“You have never been here, truly. I have been married to a ghost, a shadow that drifts in and out of our chambers but is never truly present.”

The weight of her words hung heavy in the air, the silence between them filled with the echoes of their shattered relationship. Aemond’s expression softened for a moment, a flicker of something almost like regret in his gaze, but it was quickly replaced by cold resolve.

“I am a Prince of this Realm. My duties extend far beyond you. This marriage. You will have to accept that.”

It was a neat trick Aemond did often, he would open his mouth and Otto Hightower’s words would slip out between his lips.

She closed her eyes, a single tear slipping down her cheek. “Then go. Do what you must. But do not expect me to wait for you, not anymore.”

Aemond hesitated, his hand twitching as if he wanted to reach out to her but didn't know how. The door closed with a resounding thud, leaving her alone in the darkness, the weight of their broken marriage heavy on her shoulders.

Why must it solely have been her burden to bear.

So she remained, the dim light from the hearth casting long shadows on each wall and tapestry. Her mind wandered aimlessly through her grief, reliving the horrors of that fateful night. The sounds and visions of her memories fueled the terror that gripped her even still. The pain of her own lost pregnancy, discovered too late, was a dull, constant ache in her heart. The exciting, blossoming swell of motherly intent had been snuffed out as quickly as it had been lit.

And the loneliness of her failed marriage only deepened her sorrow.

“The Mother knows.”

She blinked hard, but still heard the firm knock at the front of her mind. Two foreboding men who clearly did not belong in those parts of the Keep, one pulled harshly at Helaena’s arm, the other grabbed her from behind, yanking her to her feet. A cold blade pressed against her throat, and she gasped, her eyes wide with terror. Helaena let out a muffled scream as Cheese, smaller but no less menacing, held a knife to her neck. Two pairs of frightened white eyes flickering terrified in the darkness.

“She’s the Queen,” the smaller figure, dark curls stuck to his forehead, sneered against Helaena.

“A son for a son, he said. Well, does she look like a fucking son to you?”

She winced, his palpable violence felt through the pressure of the blade to her throat. Her breath felt like fire, her throat dry, the words spoken between the two men felt as if they were conversing in a language unknown to her.

“Prince Aemond ain’t here,” the other let out a cruel laugh, gesturing to the two cots with Helaena’s twins somehow sleeping deeply through the struggle. “We need to get our head and get out.”

Helaena could barely utter words, just winces and whimpers for mercy.

The man behind her was reluctant to release his grip. And through her body, an equally trembling voice broke loose.

"If you wish to hurt Aemond, take me," she said, her voice steady despite the terror coursing through her veins. "I am his wife. My death will wound him deeply."

She felt her breath still, two fierce blue eyes, shimmering with violent need, met hers from over Helaena’s shoulder. “So much loyalty for a man who is not even here to protect you. How touching.”

The man behind her peered at her face, his foul breath hot against her skin in a way that made her skin crawl. “So, you are the wife," he sneered, the cruel smile returning. "But we were promised a son. One who carries Hightower blood. You are useless to us.”

Helaena whimpered, her eyes darting to the cots where her children slept soundly, unaware of the nightmare unfolding around them. The smaller of the two pressed his blade a little harder against Helaena’s neck, drawing a thin line of blood. "Maybe we should kill them all," he suggested, his voice dripping with malice. "Just to make sure we don't miss the right one."

The larger laughed behind her, a low rumbling sound the deepest in the Seven Hells. “Imagine his pain when he finds her body cold in his bed." He loosened his grip slightly, letting her feel a false sense of relief before tightening it again. "Or maybe we should kill the boy first, let her watch the consequences of her husband’s crimes.”

She was only let go then, her neck aching as blood rippled to the surface, a superficial cut, but one that stung nonetheless. She watched with wide eyes, unease. The blade that was at her neck caught the light of the candles briefly.

“They both look the same. Which one’s a boy?” he asked with a trembling excitement.

No.

Two hooded eyes, craving bloodshed and death, turned to Helaena, who stood similarly vulnerable. “The Mother knows.”

The room seemed to tilt and sway, the walls closing in around her, sounds muffled as if her ears were submerged underwater. She saw Helaena’s tear-streaked face, the anguish in her eyes as she was forced to point out which of her children was the boy. The assassins crowded the bed, dark shapes looming over the small, innocent form lying there.

Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat a painful reminder of her helplessness. She wanted to shout out, to offer herself in place of the child, but the reality of her situation silenced her. Perhaps the smallfolk knew too well that Aemond cared little for his wife. That her sacrifice would mean nothing.

It felt like a nightmare, each moment stretching into eternity. She followed behind Helaena, Jaehaera hugged to her tiredly, limbs heavy with dread. The corridors blurred together, each step a struggle against the overwhelming sense of doom. As they neared her chambers, she broke away, her heart pounding with a desperate hope that Aemond had returned.

She burst into her chambers, the door slamming against the wall with a resounding crash. "Aemond!" she called out, her voice trembling with panic. The silence that greeted her was deafening, a void that swallowed her cries. Her breath came in ragged gasps, the weight of the night's horrors pressing down on her. "Aemond!" she screamed again, her voice breaking with desperation.

But the chambers stood empty. She stood there, the cold emptiness of the room closing in on her, offering no comfort, no solace. Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat a painful reminder of her solitude. She stumbled forward, calling out his name once more, her voice echoing off the walls. "Aemond, please!"

The darkness seemed to close in around her, her hopes extinguished like a dying flame. She sank to the floor, wrapping her arms around herself, trembling violently. The silence was unbearable, a stark contrast to the chaos that had engulfed her only moments before. "Aemond..." she whispered, her voice barely more than a choked sob.

The tapestry on the far wall was slightly askew, the ends flailing in the draught. A cold realisation washed over her. This was where they began. This is where the assassins had come in. A sick sense of vulnerability swept over her, making her stomach churn. They had been here. She was not safe anymore.

Her heart raced faster, and she felt a sudden, sharp pain shoot through her abdomen, doubling her over in agony. She gasped, clutching her stomach, the intense cramp sending waves of nausea through her body. The pain was unlike anything she had ever felt, a searing agony that stole her breath and left her gasping for air.

"No," she whispered, her voice breaking with a new kind of desperation. "Please, no."

But the loss was immediate.

She whispered Aemond's name one last time, her voice a fragile thread in the vast emptiness.

A gentle voice broke through her trance, pulling her back to the present. “My dear, can you hear me?”

She blinked, the room coming into focus. Alicent, her mother by marriage, was seated before her, concern etched deeply into her features with a drink cradled in her hand. Her dress was different, her hair braided in a manner that did not resemble that terrible evening.

How many days had passed? What had she eaten? Had she seen Aemond since that morning?

It was frightening, to exist without remembering.

Alicent repeated her name softly. “I’ve been calling your name.”

She turned to look at her, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. “I apologise, I... I was just thinking.”

Alicent sighed. “I know, dear. I cannot imagine the pain you’re in. But you mustn’t let it consume you.”

She nodded, but couldn't help but feel both frustrated and powerless. How could she not allow this to consume her, when she could still feel the twisting in her chest and the hollowness that had deepened since that night. “Of course.” Was all she said.

Alicent gave her a sympathetic smile, reaching out to gently squeeze her hand. “You’ve endured so much. More than anyone should have to bear. And I know it feels impossible now, but time will help.”

It felt as if ‘time’ was merely Aemond's mother's way of shifting responsibility. As if the effort were not needed in this mortal realm, and decided entirely by the Gods.

It was unfair, she thought. To have been abandoned by them in her time of ultimate need.

Alicent retreated, shrinking as she felt her despair, “Helaena is deeply hurt. She is sensitive, and this tragedy has cut her deeply, naturally,” Alicent trails off. “Perhaps you might go and see her. It might help both of you.”

Would Helaena even want to see her? She had not tried, reasoning that she and the King had enough to deal with. The death of their child. One another. The dark omen that loomed over the Keep.

She had not wanted to intrude on her suffering, despite feeling it so profoundly herself.

“Aemond has his own way of dealing with grief,” Alicent added suddenly, “it may not be the way we wish, but he is still young and finding his path. His responsibilities weigh heavily on him.”

She could have laughed. The only decent smile she would have broken in an age. Responsibilities.

It seemed the Dowager Queen truly had no idea what any of her own children were thinking or doing at any given time. And for that, she could not help the simmering resentment.

She masked it simply with a polite nod, acknowledging but not believing. Alicent’s face tightened with the strain of balancing her loyalty to her son and her compassion for her.

“I understand your grief, my love. I truly do. But you must try to understand his burdens, as difficult as that is. He has a duty to the realm, and sometimes that means... sacrifices.”

Her eyes were dry from nights of endless crying, and she felt them strain as she turned her head to Alicent, as if she could not quite believe what she had said. As if Aemond's words were perfumed and spilling from his mother's mouth.

“And that is what I am?”

“You are a part of this family, and we must all find a way to support each other. I cannot excuse his actions, but I can ask for your patience and understanding. For all our sakes.”

It was not an answer to her question. Merely a dismissal. She swallowed hard, the bitter taste of resignation settling in her throat.

For a moment, she stared down into her cup of warm tea, untouched. Watching the rich brown ripple, for she could not stand to look into the bitter shade of Alicent's any longer.

“It is all I ask,” Alicent uttered gently, as if she was aware of the tentative string she walked upon.

She nodded slowly, the weight of expectation pressing heavily upon her. She forced herself to meet Alicent's gaze, searching for any sign of genuine compassion or understanding. There was some, but it was overshadowed by the stern duty that ruled the Dowager Queen.

Alicent gave a sympathetic smile, “you have shown great strength, my love.”

She nodded again, though she felt anything but strong. The days had blurred into nights, and each moment seemed to stretch endlessly before her, a relentless parade of sorrow and duty. She was exhausted, worn thin by grief and the constant strain of maintaining a facade of normalcy.

Where was strength, in witnessing a brutal crime?

Where was strength, when losing a child that had barely lived?

Where was strength, in the waning tide of a failing marriage.

She had said to Aemond that it felt as if she were married to a ghost. But the more time went by, Lords and Ladies tiptoeing around her, their glances quick and measured, she felt very much the ghost herself. As if they see her, feel her presence, but do not hear her speak or breathe as if she were alive.

As much as she did not value the Dowager Queen's opinion of Aemond and their marriage, she struggled to cope with the unending trauma of her presence for Prince Jaehaerys’ murder. The nightmarish memories haunted her days and nights, an ever-present shadow that refused to fade. Each scream, each drop of blood, each moment of terror replayed endlessly in her mind. The palace that had once been her home now felt like a prison, its walls closing in around her.

The loss of the pregnancy was distant, but she still felt the fresh kick of it as if it were recent. It was a silent, aching sorrow, compounded by the knowledge that Aemond, the father, remained indifferent. The possibility of what could have been gnawed at her, the child a symbol of hope now lost forever.

With the child, she could at least have been useful, she reasoned. Her duty would remain paramount. But as Aemond grew less and less present, slipping into the arms of those he would rather share the warmth of his flesh with, it seemed less and less likely he would wish to try for another child with her.

Yet another thing her husband could take away from her. Her purpose.

The absence of this feeling had made her desperate for reconnection. She visited Helaena's chambers every day, requesting the Kingsguard stood straight at the door if she might speak with the Queen. But every time, he said the same thing.

“The Queen requests to be alone at present.”

Each visit, each attempt, ended in heartbreak. The closed doors and silence were a painful reminder that while she was not alone in her suffering, but also not welcome in her attempts to bridge their mutual anguish.

She felt her heart lurch into her chest when she returned to her chambers, finding an unfamiliar presence rummaging around the ornate oak cupboards. The figure, however unseen in this part of the Keep, possessed the silver moonlit hair she knew so well, but short, unkempt and choppy.

Her shocked gasp seemed to draw the King’s attention, and he turned, his clothes askew, face swollen and sunken from tears and wine consumption.

“Y-your Grace–” she found her words, giving a polite curtsy, trying to calm the hammering of her heart.

“Apologies for the intrusion,” he muttered, twirling a newly found decanter of wine in his hand. “The servants will no longer allow me to have my fill.”

She swallowed, her hand dropping from her chest, away from her thrumming pulse. “Of course, Your Grace. Help yourself at your leisure.”

Aegon’s gaze finally met hers, and for a brief moment, she saw the depth of his anguish. The loss of his son had shattered him in ways that wine alone could not mend. He took a long, unsteady sip from the decanter, the liquid sloshing slightly as his hand trembled.

“Is there anything I can do to help, Your Grace?” She asked softly, unsure if her presence was a comfort or a burden.

Aegon let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Unless you can bring back the dead, there is little anyone can do.”

Silence fell between them, heavy and poignant. Aegon’s words lingered in the air, a cruel reminder of the shared grief that bound them both. He realised, too late, that his careless remark had cut deeper than intended. He had lost a son, but she, his sister by marriage, had also felt a profound loss.

Aegon cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “I... I apologise. That was thoughtless of me.”

She shook her head, her expression softening. “We all speak from our pain, Your Grace. I understand.”

Aegon leaned against the table, his eyes bloodshot. “Where is Aemond?”

She hesitated, her gaze dropping to the floor. And that seemed an answer enough. She felt her cheeks get hot, in his presence, the guilt seemed to grow and grow.

Why could it not have been her that night. She has mulled over the question several times.

“I am sorry…” she choked out, wiping her cheeks when moisture nipped at her sensitive skin. “I could— could have done more—”

Aegon’s expression softened, the bitterness in his eyes giving way to a rare moment of understanding. “It was not your fault. None of this is your fault.”

There was a beat of silence as he approached, the decanter hanging lazily in his grip at his side. He looked exhausted, as if all the fight had left him.

“I thank you…for being there for Helaena and Jaehaera,” he murmured, as if the Keep’s walls had ears, “my sister has a gentle temperament, and you are much like a natural born sibling to her.”

The silence that followed was heavy with shared pain and an unspoken understanding. For a moment, their grief became a silent bond between them, a fragile thread of connection in the midst of their suffering.

Her voice broke the silence softly. “I only wish I could do more, Your Grace.”

Aegon opened his mouth to reply, but the appearance of Otto Hightower in the doorway halted him. Aegon’s eyes widened slightly, and he quickly hid the decanter behind his back, trying to conceal it. With a curt nod to her, he slipped out of the chamber, leaving her alone with Otto.

She surmised perhaps, Otto had given the King a sharp gesture, inviting him to leave. And she steeled herself for the man's oppressive and yet firm presence, and turned to face him.

Otto stepped into the room, his gaze sharp and calculating. He glanced at her, noting her flushed cheeks and the way she quickly composed herself.

“I hope I am not interrupting.”

She shook her head, the brief moment of awkwardness fading. “Not at all.”

Otto’s eyes swept over her, lingering momentarily before returning to her face. “I came to ensure you are managing well under the circumstances.”

Just what reaction might he expect from her? To be scaling the walls with madness?

“It is said that people often find unexpected strengths in times of hardship, though it seems some have less experience in harnessing them.”

Her fingers tightened where she held them in front of her and tried her hardest not to mirror the feeling in her expression. “The weight of grief is heavy.”

“Indeed. It is important to remember that appearances can be deceptive. And, it would be unfortunate if this…response were to become an impediment rather than a motivation.”

Her shaky exhale did little to ease the tension in her body.

“I appreciate the reminder, Lord Hightower.”

Eager to see the back of him, she made no attempt to offer wine or tea. She did not want this emotionless, self-serving attitude to further darken the doorway of her chambers.

And she thought as she listened to the Lord Hand’s footsteps echo softly down the hall, that she now realised where her dear husband inherited this trait.

Aemond lay in the dimly lit room of the brothel, the scent of incense mingling with the faint aroma of sex and wine. His eye drifted shut at Sylvi's fingers through his hair, running the silver strands through them as if it were silk illuminated by pale moonlight.

Sylvi, with her deep, knowing eyes, watched him closely. She had always been good at reading him, understanding the depths of his turmoil without needing words.

“You are troubled,” she said softly, her voice a soothing balm in the quiet room.

“None more than is usual.”

“Tell me,” Sylvi countered, not letting him evade the truth.

“Daemon sent them to kill me,” Aemond’s voice was low, but his attention seemingly elsewhere, “I was out.”

“You were with me,” Sylvi reminded him, her fingers still tracing soothing patterns on his scalp.

“In truth, I am proud that he considers me such a foe. That he seeks to murder me in my bed.” Aemond’s voice held a mix of pride and bitterness, the conflicting emotions evident in his eyes as he looked up at her. “He is afraid of me.”

“As well he should be,” Sylvi said with a sickly smile, her fingers pausing for a moment, her body leaning closer to brush her breath against his lips. “The boy has grown into a man.”

“No. Not here.” Aemond pulled away from her intimacy, creating a physical and emotional distance. Sylvi sensed there was another truth Aemond was not displaying, and there was a thin, tentative line she had to tread as the man before her curled his legs to his chest.

“And what else?” she inquired, making no attempt to touch him.

Aemond’s gaze dropped to the floor, his fingers clenching and unclenching as if trying to grasp an elusive thought. The room felt colder, the flickering candlelight casting long, unsteady shadows on the walls. His usually composed facade was cracking, and the turmoil within him was evident in the tension of his jaw and the furrow of his brow. He struggled to find the words, each breath he took seeming heavier than the last.

“They came for me. When they couldn’t find me, they killed my nephew. And my wife... she was there to witness it all.”

"That must be an unimaginable burden to carry."

Aemond continued, his voice growing harsher, as if he expected Sylvi to be more…insistent of his guilt. “I was supposed to be there, but I was not. I was here. And she... she suffered because of it. My sister also.”

But there was little the other woman could say to quell the storm within. It was a complicated one, as it was always with Aemond she had begun to find out. While it was clear there was no love in this tumultuous marriage, the thought that she had endured such trauma while he was away, seeking solace in the arms of another, gnawed at him relentlessly. His absence had cost his family dearly, and the weight of that realisation was almost unbearable.

“And how do you feel?” she asked softly, her voice barely more than a whisper.

“How do you think I feel?” he snapped. He took a deep breath, trying to rein in his temper. “I am angry. My wife slips further into grief, not that she was ever truly close to me. And I do not know how to reach her.”

“Anger is natural, given everything that has happened.”

He shakes his head, the words seem empty. “And what is to be done about it. She lost a child that night,” he recalled bitterly.

Sylvi regarded him with a knowing look, her eyes glimmering softly in the dim light. Her voice was gentle, almost melodic as she spoke.

“Perhaps, if she were to fall with child again, it would lift her spirits.” There was no recognising the subtle manipulation in her voice, nor did he realise the depth of what he had just revealed. He simply nodded, lost in his thoughts.

Sylvi’s fingers traced patterns on his arm, her touch light and soothing. She was planting a seed, one that could lead to healing or further heartache, depending on how it grew. “You have the power to change things, Aemond. You can give her hope again.”

“I do not know if I have hope to offer her.”

Sylvi tilted her head slightly, her eyes studying him with a blend of sympathy and curiosity. “She is your wife. She is still your responsibility. Even if you don’t love her.”

Aemond’s face hardened, a bitter edge creeping into his voice. “Love is for peasants who wish to fuck without sin.”

Sylvi's gaze softened, though there was a hint of steel beneath her calm exterior, and perhaps a catching of some offence. “And what of duty? Even in the absence of love. And perhaps, through fulfilling it, you might find something worth holding onto. New life can often pave a new path.”

Aemond’s eyes narrowed, but the weight of her words hung heavily in the air, the hollow ache of his failure sitting like a stone in his chest.

“I suppose duty is all that remains.”

The conversation with Sylvi weighed heavily on his mind, her words about duty and new life echoing in his thoughts. As he reached the door to his wife's chambers, he hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering over the handle before he finally pushed it open.

She was sitting by the window, staring out at the darkened sky. She didn’t turn to look at him as he entered, her grief-stricken face illuminated by the moonlight. The room was silent, save for the soft rustling of the curtains in the night breeze. He watched her for a moment, noting the listlessness in her movements, and he took a deep breath, steeling himself for the conversation he had been avoiding.

“I need to speak with you.”

She looked up from where she sat by the window, her eyes dull and unresponsive. “What is it, Aemond?”

He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “We need to try again. For a child.”

Her reaction was immediate, her eyes flashing with a mix of disbelief and anger. “You cannot be serious.”

“I am,” he replied, his voice steady. “We have a duty to our house, to ensure its future.”

“Duty,” she spat the word like it was poison. “Is that all you ever think about? Our child, the one I lost, does it mean nothing to you?”

Aemond’s jaw tightened. “It is not about that. It is about moving forward. We cannot dwell on what we have lost forever.”

She stood, her hands trembling with the force of her emotions. “You think I have not tried to move forward? Every day I wake up and try to put the pieces of my shattered life back together. But you... you have not been here. You do not understand what it’s like.”

His eyes narrowed, a flicker of frustration crossing his features. “I have my own burdens. My own ways of dealing with them.”

“By disappearing to the brothels every night?” she shot back, her voice rising.

He had never seen his wife like this, never. With her, there was an element of submission she had always offered, and she never complained, not once, before. Her eyes were so expressive he could read them like a tome. And in this moment, when she had said what was at the forefront of her mind, something she would dare not voice mere moons ago, he watched as her mouth slipped shut and she shrank back in on herself, sensing her words had widened their ever-expanding emotional chasm.

She looked upon him as if she were afraid of his response. But expectant.

Aemond took a step closer, his expression hardening. “This is not just about us. It is about our family, our legacy. We need to try again.”

Her shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of her. “I cannot snuff my pain out like a flame, Aemond. I cannot…pretend everything is well and start over like nothing happened.”

“I am not asking you to forget,” he said, his tone softening slightly.

But he was asking her to cast it aside. And for what?

“Why, Aemond…” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Why do you care so much about an heir when you cannot even care about me?”

The silence that sat between them was an ugly one, borne of years of regret and guilt, like a festering wound that refused to heal. It stretched and twisted, warping the air between them, heavy with unspoken truths and broken promises. The weight of it was suffocating, pressing down on their chests and stealing the breath from their lungs.

He opened his mouth to speak, but words failed him, leaving only the bitter taste of unspoken confessions. He could almost hear the whispers of the smallfolk, the cruel gossip that had spread like wildfire through the castle walls, rumours of her inability to bear a child, seeded by a careless word in a brothel. The knowledge of it gnawed like a disease, a constant reminder of her perceived failure, exacerbated by Aemond’s apparent indifference.

Aemond’s gaze was hard, his jaw set in a rigid line. The vulnerability he had shown moments before was gone, replaced by the cold mask he wore so well. “Because it is what is expected of me,” he replied, the edge in his voice returning. “We all have our roles to play. I must ensure our future, whether I like it or not.”

He began taking off his doublet, the heavy garment sliding off his shoulders with a practised ease. The action was mechanical, almost detached, and it sent a shiver down her spine as she realised his intention.

"So soon...?" she said quietly, blinking the moisture from her eyes. Her voice was barely above a whisper, heavy with the weight of her sorrow.

Aemond paused for a moment, his hands stilling on the laces of his shirt. He looked at her, truly looked at her, and for a fleeting moment, something akin to regret flickered in his eyes. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced once more by the cold determination that had come to define him.

“We cannot afford to wait,” he said, his tone softer but no less resolute.

Her heart ached with a sorrow so profound it felt as if it might swallow her whole. She wanted to scream, to rage against the unfairness of it all, but she knew it would be futile. Instead, she simply nodded, the movement small and resigned. She moved to the bed, the weight of her grief pressing down on her with every step and when Aemond joined her, the distance between them became palpable even in their proximity. There were no tender words, no gestures of comfort; just the cold, stark reality of their duty. His touch, impersonal.

She tried to steel herself against the emotions that threatened to overwhelm her, knowing that this act was not born of love, but of necessity. And in that moment, the chasm between them seemed wider than ever, a silent testament to the love they had never truly known.

He did not look at her, did not seek her eyes. His mind was elsewhere, already thinking of the future he was so determined to secure. When it was over, Aemond pulled away, the silence between them more deafening than any words could have been. He dressed quickly, his movements efficient and unfeeling. She remained where she was, her body and spirit drained.

Her own form felt nothing like her own as she righted herself to sit up, pushing her skirts back down her legs, armouring her skin as if she needed protection over every inch of her. Aemond stood, his back to her, barely a silver hair out of place, fastening his breeches with a meticulousness that seemed almost cruel in its precision.

“Do you find comfort in their arms because you cannot stand to be close to me?”

Aemond's shoulders tensed, but he did not turn to face her. “I do not know what you want of me,” he replied, his voice distant and cold, like the draught seeping through the cracks in the ancient stone.

“I want to be respected as your wife. Your equal.” Her plea hung in the air, laden with the weight of unmet expectations and unfulfilled promises.

“I cannot change what has happened. I did not know how to be there for you then, and I do not know now." He finally turned to face her, his gaze meeting hers with a mix of frustration and resignation. “I do not know how to be that man. I have failed you, and I may continue to fail you. But I will try to respect you as my wife, if nothing else.”

Her shoulders slumped under the weight of his words, the fight draining out of her. The acceptance in her voice was tinged with a profound sadness, the acknowledgment of a life destined to be lived in the shadow of duty rather than the light of love.

“Very well. If that is all I shall ever be.”

Some time passed, each day blending into the next in a haze of routine and muted sorrow. Servants and guards whispered as she passed, their sympathetic glances and hushed tones adding to the heavy silence that surrounded her.

The bloom of spring flowers went unnoticed, their colours a stark contrast to the grey fog that seemed to envelop her mind. She was supposed to track the days, to know when her moon blood should come, but time had lost its meaning. The markers of her cycle were swallowed by the same darkness that claimed her thoughts.

“The summer of a woman's years is a short season. It passes by in the blink of an eye. Toyed with by this momentary value.”

Her mother had always been blunt about her words. But now, more than ever, with the taunting explosion of colour and vibrancy outside, she felt as if her season was closing in, like a prison she could not fight.

Some evenings, as she sat alone in her chamber, she felt a familiar ache low in her abdomen. It was a dull, persistent pain, one she knew all too well. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath as she tried to steady herself. Was it her moon blood, or was it something else? The uncertainty gnawed at her, but she could not bring herself to seek answers, to go to the maester to confirm. The prospect of hope was too painful, the fear of disappointment too great.

Life or loss. There was an element of control she could grapple to, by simply not knowing.

As usual, her Lord Husband remained absent from her life. Perhaps it was just as well she did not know, and that he did not inquire.

It was a pleasant enough evening in any case, spent mostly by the fire, the light of the flames serving to assist her in the delicate art of her embroidery. A pastime she would otherwise spend with Helaena in days passed. Since calling to her chambers most days in the immediate aftermath, in truth, she had rarely tried to urge her to accept her presence. Reasoning that in time, perhaps the troubled Queen would make her way back to her, in body and soul.

She felt her whole jump in her seat in shock, the door to the chambers swinging open and then shut with a loud thud. For a short moment, it brought her back, the horror making her heart hammer against her ribs, fully expecting to see two figures darken her doorway once more.

But her wide eyes only looked upon the lone figure of her husband, his face a mask of anger and humiliation. As usual, he had ignored her presence entirely and went straight to the decanter on the table, pouring himself a generous measure of wine. Unusual behaviour from her distant husband. He sat down heavily in the chair by the hearth, taking a long drink, his movements tense and jerky.

She knew better than to ask, given the state of their fragile bond. Fearing perhaps the reaction she would receive. Instead, for a moment, she watched him silently from the corner, her own heart heavy with grief and pain. Despite her suffering, she felt an irresistible pull to reach out to him, to try to soothe the anger radiating off him in waves, almost palpable in its intensity.

Her steps were soft and deliberate as she approached him cautiously, each footfall muted on the cold stone floor. The air between them felt charged, thick with tension. Aemond didn’t look up from the drink in his hand, his gaze fixed on the swirling crimson liquid. His fingers gripped the glass with a white-knuckled intensity, as if the drink was his only anchor in a sea of turmoil. She reached out tentatively, her fingers brushing lightly against his shoulder. The contact was gentle, but he stiffened, his posture becoming rigid under her touch. Yet, he did not pull away, a silent sign that he was at least willing to tolerate her presence.

“You do not have to,” Aemond muttered, his voice low and strained, a mixture of resignation and weariness. “I have given you no reason to.”

“I know,” she replied softly, her voice barely more than a whisper. The words were simple, but they carried the weight of her empathy and unspoken concern.

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, the movement slight but significant. A flicker of something unidentifiable crossed his features, perhaps it was vulnerability, or perhaps a fleeting moment of regret. She met his gaze with unwavering softness, her eyes reflecting a deep understanding that transcended the barriers between them. The lines of her face were etched with sorrow, yet there was a tender resolve in her expression.

With a hesitant motion, Aemond took her hand, his grip warm against her chilled skin. He turned his face into her hand, not kissing it, but letting the skin rest against his lips in a gesture that was both intimate and detached. As if he was silently thanking her for her presence, for her effort to reach out despite the emotional chasm that lay between them.

She let her hand fall away slowly, stepping back to give him the space he seemed to need. The small, almost imperceptible shift in his posture, a release of some of the tension, indicated that her gesture had made a difference, however slight.

Aemond took a deep breath, the sound escaping his lips like a weary sigh. The tension in his body eased slightly, and he became aware that while they might not be aligned in love, his wife understood him in a way few others did. She grasped his pain and anger, and she reached out to him despite everything that had transpired between them. He gave her a small nod, a silent acknowledgment of her attempt to bridge the gap between them, a gesture that spoke volumes more than words ever could.

She returned the nod with a gentle inclination of her head, her eyes meeting his with a flicker of hope and understanding. They didn’t need many words; the shared silence between them was enough to convey their fragile understanding, a tentative first step toward mending the rift between them. The quiet was a balm, a soft promise of potential reconciliation, though it remained unspoken.

Her heart seemed to lift, the rest she received later that evening somewhat fruitful. And though Aemond left in the early hours of the morning the next day, she recognised that he no longer visited the brothel, busying himself instead in the library most evenings. It was a small victory, but one she clung to, rightly or wrongly.

The servants were even more palatable that morning, with sweet words and even sweeter smiles for her. Dressed in a gown she favoured the most, she felt her mood ripen.

She was gently roused from her reverie by the sound of quiet footsteps approaching her chamber door. A soft, hesitant knock followed, and the door creaked open. Standing in the doorway was Helaena, the Queen, accompanied by her only living child, Jaehaera. The sight of them was a poignant reminder of both the life and loss that threaded through their lives.

Helaena’s eyes were red-rimmed but held a glimmer of resolve and determination. Her composure was fragile, but there was a soft strength in her presence. Her heart ached at the sight of them.

“Sister.”

She rose from her seat, her movements slow and deliberate, a sign of the emotional and physical exhaustion that still clung to her. Helaena stepped into the room, her gaze meeting hers with a quiet understanding.

“I thought we might spend the day together,” Helaena said, her voice steady. “As we used to.”

Her eyes softened as she looked at Helaena and Jaehaera. The gesture was more than kind, it was a lifeline extended in a sea of shared sorrow.

“I would like that very much,” she replied, her voice barely more than a whisper, yet imbued with genuine warmth.

For a while, the three women sat together in silence, the room filled with the soft murmur of their breathing, the occasional rustle of fabric and the icy dropping of a needle. It was a quiet that spoke of shared pain and tentative hope, a small balm for their wounded souls. Helaena rarely spoke, apart from the quiet mutterings she herself was used to in her dreamy presence.

They, Helaena and Jaehaera, were a reminder that there were still threads of connection and understanding that bound them together. The day held the promise of comfort and perhaps, slowly, the possibility of healing.

From the doorway, Aemond watched them, his face was an unreadable mask, but his expression betrayed a depth of emotion, regret, longing, and a faint glimmer of hope. His gaze lingered on his wife, who held Jaehaera with a tender protectiveness, and on Helaena, whose hazy mutterings were soothing musings to the silent exchange of grief and solace.

He took a step back. For the first time in a long while, he felt a stirring of something he could not quite name, a hint of what could be if he only allowed himself to reach out and grasp it.

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@blairfox04 @buckybarnesb-tch @castellomargot @cl-0-vr @eddieslut69

@emmaisafictionwhore @eponaartemisa @hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @justbelljust

@minholy223 @mochi-rose@natty2017 @nenelysian @nixiefics @primonizzutto

@qyburnsghost @randomdragonfires @risefallrise @sheshellsseashells

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anarcho-catboyism · 7 days ago

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I know y'all will want to run out and blame leftists and minorities for this election but just because you're involved in an echo chamber of leftist thought online doesn't mean that's the reality of the average American voter.

Leftisim is not a large enough group in the US to have won this election. They can certainly influence elections, they can influence voter count. We had an absolutely huge turnout of voters, huge lines at polls, tens of thousands of mail in ballots, and we still ended up with a red state majority.

Did it ever occur to you that the reason Kamala was advertising more right wing views on immigration and trans rights was because she was following a voter block?

Thats what you do as a good politician you find the voter block and you try to appeal to them. She wasn't saying these ideas out of the blue, she is targeting the ideas of the current democratic voter block.

The truth is the current, majority voter block of America is right wing to a degree, and one issue voters. They're privileged enough to not care about issues like Abortion, but working class enough to complain about the gas prices, and American enough to be weirded out by a woman in office.

A majority of america leans right wing, and whether we like it or not, more people than we wanted decided that Trump appealed to them in some bullshit way. Progressive Democrats in America are further right wing that previous, and it's coming to further bite us all in the ass.

Does this mean voting was useless? No.

Does this mean it was our faults? No, the fault lies squarely in Republican propaganda pushing the public further right wing. Just because tumblr and other socials were doing a great job with pushing information about Project 2025 and such doesn't mean that the average person, even the average conservative, knew what that was or any other politic ideas past surface critiques.

The most we can do now is to keep going and to help each other out, and have each other's backs. If you want another candidate to have a chance, start campaigning now, not a few months before the election. If you can help people escape, do it now. If you can set up support, do it now. The time is now for doing what we can to mitigate damage.

Stop blaming people for what is the unfortunate and scary truth that America is a right wing country, and start helping the people we can help.

#leftist #leftism #anarchy #anarchism #lgbt #anarchist #socialism #socialist #queer #communist #gay #vote #presidential election #elections #election 2024 #us politics #us elections #kamala harris #kamala 2024

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amethystwrytes · 3 months ago

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Of Course, Professor

Pairing: Law Professor!Lee Know x Female Reader

Genre: Smut. Romantic-ish. Basically just porn with a hint of plot tossed in so I don’t just keyboard smash sex stuff on the page and feel bad about myself. 18+.

Summary: The law professor everyone is scared of generously offers to help you with your school work.

Warnings: There is explicit language. There is explicit sex (oral, penetration, teasing, edging, cumshot). There is a Professor/Student relationship, and IRL I do think that’s super inappropriate BUT this isn’t real life and I promise everything is very consensual, there’s no like “give me sex and you’ll get an A” kinda stuff, so, it’s all very much in my own personal scope of comfort. I wouldn’t write anything I felt was yucky. If any of that rubs you the wrong way though, that’s totally fine, and this one isn’t for you which is completely okay.

A/N: So, once upon a time in my undergrad years I was determined to be a lawyer. For a solid academic year I changed my major to Paralegal Studies because I figured that would be a perfect foundation for law school (smart, right?). Except like, three months in I was miserable and hated everything about it and realized that it absolutely couldn’t be me. I ended up having a similar discussion with my academic advisor/professor - except I didn’t end up fucking them - not that professor anyway (kidding). I always wanted to write a story about that awful year, and now I have - kinda…sort of. With a twist of delicious Lee Know and forbidden love. Yum.

“Can you stop please?”

You look at the girl sitting next to you in class. Her name completely escapes you but her eyes are burning lasers at the pen you’ve been clicking nervously in your hands.

“...Sorry…”

You apologize and gently set the pen down on your desk. Professor Lee is taking his sweet time passing back the most recent term papers and you dig your nails into your palm in anticipation of your grade.

To say you’re struggling in his Civil Procedures course is an understatement. In fact, you don’t seem to be doing well in any of the classes you’re taking this semester. The voices of your parents condescendingly telling you “Law School isn’t for everyone and that’s okay,” sound like they’re playing on repeat in an echo chamber.

If you bomb this paper you’re out. You stayed up almost all night last night going over the pros and cons of dropping out. You went back and forth so long fighting with yourself that you fell asleep thinking about it, and when you woke up the only thing you could think of was letting the universe give you a sign.

You had worked on your term paper for weeks, carefully piecing it together, you spent so much time in the library that you now know the TA who works at the help desk on a first name basis. So if you flunk it, there’s your magical sign.

“Ms. ___,” Professor Lee sets your paper face down on the desk - bad sign. He leans down just a tad, “Why don’t we meet in my office after class?” - even worse.

“Yes, Professor,” you nod. You think about not even flipping the stapled monstrosity over, but curiosity gets the better of you.

There it is, a painful 55% staring back at you in thick, blood-red marker. You spare yourself the trouble of pouring over the thinner red notes made in the margins of every page. You can’t help the tears of frustration that pool in your eyes.

“Everyone enjoy your break and the time spent with your families, when we return we’ll begin our discussions on Summary Judgement, so please make sure you complete the reading outlined in the syllabus before we see each other again. Dismissed,” Mr. Lee nods and the ruckus of chairs against linoleum and exasperation fill the room.

Mr. Lee’s office is four floors above the classroom, so you have a few minutes to spare - which you spend in the restroom crying, drying your eyes, then crying again.

You’re dropping out of Law School. All that work, all that trying, all those late nights - and don’t even start on the amount of money spent on coffee and tuition and fucking textbooks and…you start sobbing again.

“How did you do?” Seungmin asks when you emerge from the ladies room, his face immediately contorts into a painful frown at your red, puffy face, “That bad huh?”

“I can’t really talk Seungmin,” you take a deep breath, “I’ve got to go meet Lee in his office before his next class begins.”

“Fuck,” Seungmin frowns even more, “That man scares the shit out of me.”

“Thanks,” you say, “That’s helpful.”

“Sorry. We’re all heading to the Coffee House before everyone starts driving home for the break, do you want to come? After your meeting of course,” he asks.

“Not today,” you shake your head, “but thank you for asking.”

He gives you a sympathetic look and your shoulder a tiny squeeze.

You stand outside Professor Lees office for a few moments, gathering yourself. Professor Lee makes everyone nervous. He’s a hard instructor, emotionless sometimes, so direct it’s painful, and it doesn’t help anyone that he’s also devastatingly attractive. He’s a giant walking slab of intimidation.

You softly knock on the door and he looks up at you from over his glasses as he types something.

“Ah, Ms. ___, there you are. Come, sit down,” he instructs and you slide through the doorframe and slouch in an old green armchair across from his desk.

“Just give me one second,” he says slowly as he continues typing, “alright.”

“I’m sorry sir, for the term paper, I should have done better,” you offer up, electing to go ahead and fall on your own sword.

“There’s no need for apologies Ms. ___, a waste of time in this kind of situation. I would like to speak to you about your grades this semester though. After I graded your term paper, I reached out to some of my colleagues - some of your other professors - and they all had similar reports to give me, can we talk about that?”

You sigh, fanning out your fingers over your thighs, “Please, Professor, you mentioned a moment ago about time wasters - and I don’t want to waste anymore of your time - I’ve decided to drop out of law school.”

The defeat you feel just saying the words out loud to someone is enough to bring tears back, but you fight them off. You will not cry in Professor Lee Minhos office. Absolutely not.

Professor Lee purses his lips and nods, “I think that’s probably for the best.”

Your jaw drops, “Aren’t you supposed to encourage me to do the opposite? To try harder or something?”

“Miss ___, I fear if you tried any harder your hair might burn out from the roots,” he smiles and if you weren’t so shocked, you’d laugh at the first joke you’ve ever heard him utter.

Before you can think of something to say, he produces a file folder from his drawers and smacks it on the table making you jump.

“These are all the papers you’ve written for my class so far this semester. Your papers intrigue me Miss ___.”

Intrigue? That’s a funny word to use for ‘disgusted and disappointed beyond imagination.’

“But you-,” you begin to point out that the highest grade he’s ever given you on a paper was a 68%. Far from intriguing.

“But…as legal writing? They’re all absolute trash,” he tells you. “What intrigues me about them is the way you write, it’s quite good, every time I read one I feel like I’m in the room with a friend who’s trying to sort of explain law to me, the problem is you just don’t think, rationalize, or talk like a lawyer. I noticed in your transcript that your undergraduate degree was in education, and you had a 4.0 GPA. I can’t help but wonder, Miss ___, what career are you looking for?”

“A��a lawyer,” you say in a quiet voice, staring at a knick on his desk.

He looks skeptical as he leans back in his chair, “Why?”

“Because…” oh fuck it all, you may as well just say it, “because my father, my mother, and my older brother are all lawyers, who went here.”

“I see, so one could deduce that you wanted to be a lawyer because they wanted you to be one, they expected it of you?” he concludes.

You smile comically, the truth is much more pathetic.

“No, actually, they all told me I couldn’t do it. They told me I wasn’t smart enough, sharp enough, bold enough. I wanted to teach art to school children, but when that’s exactly what I elected to study, their comments started. I was just a private joke between the three of them, and I hated it, so I wanted to show them that I could be a lawyer.”

“You came here to study law out of stubborn spite?” he reiterates.

“Yes sir, I did,” you look at your lap and play with a rogue string from your sweater cuff.

“That’s quite impressive, Miss ___, to go through all that trouble, strife, and money to do something you have no interest in just to best your family.”

“Well when you say it like that I sound like a psycho,” you laugh timidly, trying to keep the sludge of humiliation down.

“I don’t think you’re a psycho, I think you’re a bright woman who wanted to show her family they were wrong, but just ended up making herself miserable,” his expression is soft, almost understanding. “However, as your professor, I don’t think I could recommend continuing with law school. This is your first year, with first year level studies, and you’re struggling this much all for something you don’t even want, it will only get more difficult from here.”

You nod, “You’re probably right sir,” you stand, “I should get to the admin office before they close for the break, I’m sorry for wasting your time,” you give him a respectful smile and grab your bag.

“Miss ___,” he motions for you to sit back down, “First of all, you’ve not wasted a single second of my time. Second, I don’t recommend dropping out right now, I think you should finish this semester at least.”

“You just said…”

“I said I don’t think you should continue with law school, and I don’t. However, we’re past the official mid-point of the semester, the cut off to withdraw for a full refund of tuition was last week, if you go now you’ll never get that money back.”

You plop back down in the chair, even more defeated, “I didn’t realize that,” you drag your hands down your face in frustration, “shit.”

Professor Lee chuckles, “I do have an alternative plan for you, if you’re willing to hear it and put in the work,” he offers.

You sit up straight, “Yes, of course sir.”

“I suggest you finish this semester, and I will help you - starting with rewriting your latest term paper. I’ll even try to assist you with some of your other courses, if you’d like. If we work diligently enough, you can finish this semester with an acceptable GPA, that keeps your academic record away from probation or academic expulsion,” he explains.

“You would do that?” you ask in disbelief.

“Well, of course, I am a professor after all. What sort would I be if I wasn’t willing to help my students?”

“I don’t know what to say Professor,” you smile, “that’s too generous.”

“It’s not a problem Miss ___. Now, let’s talk strategy, I assume you don’t plan on spending break with your family?” he guesses.

“No sir, they’re too busy anyway, I plan on staying in my apartment off campus during the break,” you answer.

“Splendid. This evening I have a night class to teach, but perhaps we could meet tomorrow? The library will be closed for break, but my students enjoy meeting up together at that coffee place downtown, uh, Coffee Shack or something,” he struggles.

“The Coffee House?” you help him and try to hold back a grin.

“Yes, would you like to meet there, say, 1PM tomorrow afternoon? We can go over some of your papers together and I’ll help you with your legal writing technique,” he asks.

“Yes, I’ll be there sir, I really can’t thank you enough, truly I appreciate this,” you tell him.

“I look forward to it, Miss ___.”

📖 ❤️

You adjust your backpack as you walk towards the Coffee House doors. You packed your laptop, all your text books, notes, and a few other things because you weren’t sure what Professor Lee would want to cover. The weight of it all is dragging you down and you have to hunch over a bit to balance it.

“My goodness, here, let me get that for you Miss ___,” Professor Lee greets you at the door, he seems to have already picked a table near the front and grabs your bag with a grunt. “Did you pack your entire house?” he teases.

“I didn’t know what you’d want me to bring, so I brought all my school things,” you laugh.

“Well, I suppose it won’t matter that the library is closed since you brought it with you,” he chuckles and you take the seat beside him.

“Should we start?” you open your laptop and power on.

“I thought perhaps you’d like a beverage?”

“Oh,” you look behind you at the register, “Yes, I suppose we should caffeinate,” you smile.

“What would you like?” He stands up and brings his wallet out.

“Oh please sir, let me pay, it’s the least I could do for all of your help,” you beg.

“Nonsense, as much as I love to argue Miss ___ I don’t see the point over a cup of coffee, what would you like? Are you hungry?”

“No, I ate lunch before coming, just a latte for me, small,” you concede, “and thank you…again.”

He smiles and departs from the table. You watch him in the line from where you sit. Seeing Professor Lee like this feels…different. In a less formal setting he’s almost approachable, and you’re starting to see things about him that you don’t in class. Like his generosity, and kindness, the man even has a sense of humor and you think of texting Seungmin about it but stop yourself. You want to keep this all a secret. You don’t want anyone knowing that you’re in such desperate need of assistance with your courses, but also you want to keep this side of Professor Lee to yourself.

You could think of worse ways to spend your Saturday afternoon than with an attractive law professor who’s willing to help you pass your classes. You wonder if he’s aware that all his students find him so hot, or if it’s something that’s never occurred to him. He doesn’t wear a ring on any of his fingers, which tells you he isn’t married, but that doesn’t mean he’s single. You can’t imagine that he’s not seeing anyone. In class he’s usually got on some academia aesthetic looking suit on, lots of tweeds and browns - today he wears a fitted pair of jeans, and a navy sweater with a white collared button up fashioned underneath, the sleeves pushed up his forearms. His jet black hair isn’t styled like it usually is in class, and hangs long and loose around his face. He looks like such a boyfriend…

You blush and go back to focusing on your laptop. What the hell was that? He’s your professor. Which is actually kind of enticing…

You press your lips together and roll your eyes at yourself. Stop with the intrusive sexual thoughts about Professor Lee - the man is trying to save your ass, not spank it - having inappropriate daydreams, no matter how justified they may be, is unacceptable.

“Here we go,” he comes back to the table and sets two mugs on the surface as he takes his seat again.

“Thanks,” you smile politely, trying not to look at him. If you don’t look at him, maybe you won’t think about how cute he is and instead focus on what you ought to be: your failing grades.

“So, let’s start with the main issue of your papers. Writing, in the legal sense, is cut and dry. It’s all about facts, findings, and nothing expressive or personal, which is where you seem to have the most trouble,” he begins and you try to absorb the information instead of noticing the way his lips look while sipping his coffee.

This endeavor may be harder for you than just pulling your grades up.

📖 ❤️

“I think that was a very productive first meeting,” he says optimistically as you start piling things back into your backpack.

“I think so too,” you nod. Productive, yes - but now the real work begins and you’ll have to go home and actually re-write the damned thing.

Professor Lee carries your backpack out the door, “Where’s your car?”

“Oh, it’s at home, I just live a few blocks away,” you point in the general direction of your apartment.

“You mean to tell me you carried this while walking from your house?” he holds the backpack with two hands for dramatics and you giggle.

“It’s not that terrible, how long has it been since you were carrying books around, Professor? Surely you remember the struggle,” you tease.

“I suppose it’s been a bit, here,” he reaches in his pocket and the SUV beside you beeps, he opens the passenger door, “I’ll drive you home so you don’t have to endure the struggle.”

“I couldn’t ask you to do that sir,” you shake your head.

“It’s fine, it’s a small college town Miss ___, I can get literally anywhere in less than five minutes, especially since the majority of students are gone this week. Let me be chivalrous for you,” he smiles and you melt a little bit.

“Well, if you insist,” you look up at him as you slide into the passenger seat.

“I do,” he closes the door, then places your bag in the backseat before coming around to the drivers side.

“Are you always this difficult, Miss ___? Or are you just trying to be overly polite because I’m your professor?” he asks when you point him down the street towards your apartment.

“Difficult, sir?” you look at him wide-eyed.

“Mmhmm,” he nods, “You didn’t want me to buy your coffee, you nearly refused my ride home electing to carry a small library on your back while you walk,” a look of panicked concern washes over his face and he looks over at you, “This isn’t making you uncomfortable in any way is it? Being alone with me?”

“No! No, absolutely not,” you assure him, though you wager that your thoughts about him would certainly make him uncomfortable. “I’m just so incredibly grateful for your help, and you continue to go out of your way for me. It’s just never something I…” you stop yourself.

“Never something you what?” he presses.

You laugh awkwardly, “It’s just not ever something I expected from you, given your reputation with the other students.”

“Ah, yes,” he sucks his teeth, “My reputation of being an uptight jerk who doesn’t like anyone.”

“I would never use those words sir,” you tell him.

“You might not, but I have the internet too, I’ve seen the threads about me on social medias,” he shares.

“You read those?” your voice raises at least three octaves.

“Of course, I’m only human, curiosity gets the best of me from time to time.”

“I don’t participate in those conversations,” you shake your head, “I understand that it’s only natural for students to want to know about the personalities of their upcoming professors, but the bias that occurs in those threads is absurd.”

“I agree, though sometimes they can be helpful, to my ego at least,” he laughs.

“How so?” you wonder, because you don’t remember seeing anything about his classes online that would feed his ego.

“Some of my students may not like my personality, but they like looking at me,” he grins.

“Professor Lee! That’s scandalous,” you laugh and playfully smack his shoulder.

“What?” he laughs with you, “I’ve got to take something positive from it! 75% of those comments are atrocious, but I’m quite proud that I scored three hot peppers on the professor hotness scale.”

“Oh my God,” you cover your mouth, “I cannot believe I’m sitting in your car having this conversation,” you giggle.

“Is this your building?” he points.

“Yes, it is.”

He parks on the street and you take a deep breath when he exits the car. He knows his students think he’s hot, and now he knows that you know he knows. You pat yourself on the back for indicating you’ve never participated in those threads before the conversation took a turn towards hot peppers. Though you are 100% guilty of voting for his peppers.

He opens your door, hanging your backpack across his shoulder.

“I’ll walk this up for you,” he offers and you swallow hard.

“Sure,” you smile, your heart pounding out of your chest. Professor Lee Minho is about to see the inside of your apartment. You try to recall the state you left the place in. You remember doing your dishes before you left, but that’s about the only productive thing you can remember doing today.

You unlock your door and flip the lights on. Your art supplies are everywhere, and you have a bag of laundry by the door because you plan on hitting the laundromat this evening. In trying to move it out of the way you knock it over, a pair of your underwear spilling out onto the floor right at his feet as he walks through.

“Jesus,” you mutter, humiliated, as he looks down at you grabbing up the black lace thong and shoving it back into the bag.

To your utter relief, he says nothing about your undergarments. He sets your backpack down and looks around.

“Can I offer you anything to eat or drink?”

“Did you do all these?” he walks forward into the room towards the area you dry your paintings in. Canvas after canvas sits up against the wall, some completed, most unfinished.

“Oh, yes,” you say, walking up beside him, “This semester has been really frustrating for me, and painting helps.”

“Well, they’re beautiful, truly - you’re quite talented,” he looks down at you, “I can see why teaching art is a passion for you, you’ve certainly got quite a knack for it.”

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

“Teaching is very rewarding,” he adds, “I think that you should pursue your original dream Miss ___. You’ve clearly got a lot to offer the world,” he smiles down at you and you catch his gaze, a few quiet seconds pass as you look into his dark eyes.

“You could just call me by my first name, ___, if you wanted,” you say softly, “and um, thank you, for complimenting my art.”

“You’re very welcome, ___,” he responds, staring at you again. You watch his eyes flit down to your lips and your heart speeds up again. He suddenly clears his throat and looks back at the paintings, “I think we should make the most of the week, since classes aren’t meeting, this is a perfect time for you to catch up with your studies. Tomorrow is Sunday, which is the day I typically devote to catching up on grading, and I do have midterm grades to enter. Perhaps Monday?” he asks.

“Monday, yeah. That works, um, I have a shift at work on Monday morning, but I’ll be free after 3PM.”

“Perfect, we could meet at the Coffee House again, around 4:30?”

“Yeah, that sounds good.”

“Great,” he begins walking back to the door, “and, um, while we’re together - working on your coursework I mean - feel free to call me Minho. However when classes resume, it’s probably best to address me as Professor Lee.”

“Of course, Professor,” you agree. “Thank you, er…Minho…for everything today.”

“You’re most welcome,” he opens the door then pauses, turning his head slightly in your direction, “Nice panties, by the way. See you Monday!”

You stand there, speechless, staring at the closed door.

📖 ❤️

Monday afternoon you can’t help but notice that Professor Lee - Minho - sits closer to you at the table in the coffee shop as he helps you study for one of your other classes. You don’t blame him, truth be told, you spent over an hour after your shift at the bookstore getting ready, hoping he’d look at you the same way he did Saturday. You are, without a doubt, down bad. To impress him even further you’ve got a surprise for him.

“I re-wrote my term paper,” you blurt as the two of you are clearing up the table after studying.

“Already?” he looks at you.

“I worked on it all night Saturday, and most of the day on Sunday. Do you want me to email it to you?”

“Absolutely,” he smiles, “Good girl.”

Fuck off, he did not just say that. You bite down on your lip and your thighs press together as you bring up your student email. You attach the file and send it to him.

“It should be in your inbox the next time you check,” you say…like a good girl. Swoon.

“Great, um, I was wondering - and just tell me to shut up if you want to - but I was wondering if you had plans this evening?”

Your heart grows wings and begins to fucking fly.

“No,” you shake your head, “I have zero plans for a Monday evening in a town that’s practically shut down.”

He chuckles, “Right. So, would you want to join me for dinner maybe?”

You at least pretend to mull it over instead of just shouting YES in some unflattering, desperate tone.

“Where were you planning on eating?” you ask.

“There’s a really nice place I like, it’s about a twenty minute drive out of town, but the food is impressive, never had a bad dish there,” he shares.

“I am hungry,” you say, “I’d love to.”

“Good, shall we?”

📖 ❤️

“Are we celebrating anything special this evening?” the waiter asks as he sets two glasses of water down, “A first date? An anniversary perhaps?”

“No.”

Both of you answer him at the same time, and try to hold your laughter in when the poor man looks taken back.

“Okay,” he says, “Can I get you all anything to drink from our wine or cocktail menu?”

“I’ll have a glass of this pinot, chilled, please,” you point to the wine and the waiter writes it down.

“I’ll have the same,” Minho smiles.

“I’ll get those right out.”

Minho bites his lip and stares down at the tablecloth, you frown.

“Is everything alright?” you ask.

“Everything’s fine,” he says, “I’m just trying to remind myself that nothing inappropriate is happening here, I’m having dinner with one of my female students, but you are an adult and so am I and it’s fine.”

“I won’t be your student after this semester,” you point out, “I don’t know if that’s helpful or not though.”

“It is,” he nods, then tilts his head, “yet somehow I still feel like I’m misbehaving.”

“It’s only food, how is that misbehaving?”

“It’s not what I’m doing,” he bites his lip again and looks up at you, “It’s what I’m thinking.”

You take a sip of water, your body practically vibrating with curiosity, “What is it that you’re thinking, exactly?”

“Things that I shouldn’t be thinking about my student,” he says quietly.

“This isn’t high school, Professor, this isn’t even undergrad. Don’t be harsh on yourself, I’m sure whatever you’re thinking about isn’t a bad thing,” you point out, hoping you sound cool and collected and not like you’re ready for him to take you right on this table.

“So if I was thinking about fucking you after class in my office, across my desk, that wouldn’t be a bad thing?”

You nearly choke on your water. Before you can respond the waiter returns with your glasses of wine, not a moment too soon.

“I’ll let you guys look over the menu and come back in a few minutes.”

You clear your throat once the waiter is gone, “I think fucking me on your desk would probably be inappropriate,” you smile, “especially to your neighboring colleagues. I have quite a mouth on me,” you say, opening your menu.

You can feel him staring at you. “I’d very much like to hear it.”

“Maybe you will, I guess we’ll see,” you shrug.

The smile that spreads across his face is so dangerously mischievous, your clit throbs where you sit and you shift uncomfortably, only making it worse.

📖 ❤️

The sexual tension between the two of you could be cut with a knife as you make your way back to his car. You reach for the door handle, but he grabs your arm and spins you around, your back pushed up against the door.

His lips crash against yours, arms caging you in which is completely fine by you. You bury your fingers in his hair on either side of his head but he pulls away.

“I want it to be clear I have never had any kind of sexual relationship with a student, ever,” he says quickly, then his lips are against yours again.

“I believe you,” you manage between lips and tongues.

He pulls away again, “And the only reason I’m pursuing this is because I can’t fucking resist you and you’re not going to be my student again after this semester,” he adds, then more kissing.

“Got it,” you mumble into his mouth.

Again he pulls away, “Seriously, even if you don’t quit law school I can never have you in class again, okay?”

“Yes! Fuck that place, I’m done, and even if I wasn’t - I wouldn’t take you again, you’re an uptight jerk of a professor, remember?” you tease him, then desperately pull him back onto your lips.

He shoves you harder against the car, his knee coming between your legs and you press yourself down on his thigh. You moan softly into his mouth and his hand smacks the side of the car.

“Get in, fuck, please get in the fucking car.”

He scrambles around to the drivers side as you jump in.

“Your place or mine?” he asks, turning the ignition.

“Which is closer?” you ask, pulling the seat belt so hard and quick that it locks up.

“Uh…mine… mine I think.”

“Then there’s your answer,” you tell him.

Five minutes of him burning rubber down the highway is too long for you not to be touching him. You reach over and caress his thigh through his jeans, moving higher and higher until you find what you’re looking for in the darkness.

He hisses as you stroke and massage his hard length through the fabric.

You unbuckle your seat belt, “Are you as good a driver as you are a professor?”

“I…why?”

You scoot as far as you can and lean over, undoing the button and zipper of his jeans, sliding your hand through the opening of his boxers until you feel the warm, velvety skin of his cock in your fist.

“Oh fuck…oh my fucking…” he pants, his knuckles turning stark white around the steering wheel.

You unbuckle his seatbelt as well and help him get it out of the way before pulling his cock from the confines of his jeans.

You stroke him a few times, then let a glob of spit drip from your lips onto him so you can continue stroking more comfortably.

“God…”

You take him in your mouth and suck, running your tongue over the tip. The way he’s nearly whimpering, eyes so wide on the road, delights you. You put your mouth on him again, taking him deep in your throat, taking turns stroking and licking.

“I’m going to cum,” he whispers hoarsely after several minutes, “I don’t have anything to…” he looks around frantically but you shake your head, popping your mouth off of him momentarily.

“I can take it,” you whisper, then suck him between your lips once more. You can feel the base of his cock twitch and brace yourself, spurts of hot cum follow seconds later and you take it all from him greedily, swallowing then wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

“Holy shit,” he says through clenched teeth. “That was so fucking hot.”

“Thank you,” you grin, pulling down the visor so you can fix yourself in the mirror. The “kiss proof” lipstick you wore today is evidently not “road head proof” and you clean up the edges of your mouth.

He reaches over and grabs your hand in his, squeezing and rubbing the back of your hand with his thumb while he speeds down the road.

📖 ❤️

The door to Minhos apartment isn’t even locked before he shoves you against it and presses his mouth to yours.

“I want to make you feel so fucking good,” he whispers, trailing kisses down your neck. He drops to his knees and unbuttons your pants, pulling them down your legs. You kick your shoes off so he can get the pants off completely.

He looks up at you and grins, tracing the lines of the black lace thong that toppled over at your apartment, “I was wishing very much that I’d get to see you in these,” he says, pressing his tongue against the tiny bit of cloth.

You gasp at the way his lips move, teasing and licking through the thin lace, “Are you really going to eat me out against the door?”

“Mmm,” he moans against your clit and your legs jerk, “Yes,” he says hooking his fingers in the strings and pulling the soaking wet cloth down your legs.

“No patience at all Professor, I’m shocked,” you tease.

“So… you can call me Minho,” he smiles, kissing and licking trails back up your legs, “but in class and when I’m fucking your pretty pussy feel free to use Professor.”

“Absolutely Professor Lee,” you rest your head against the door as his tongue wiggles between your slick. “Fuck!”

He finds your clit and wraps his lips around, gently sucking. You lay one of your thighs over his shoulder and try to steady yourself while he laps and sucks you off. You grab his hair with your fingers and move with him, fucking his face and listening to the delightful slurping, wet sounds erupting through the quiet room.

“Oh…just like that, right there,” you whine when he begins to softly lick the perfect spot, “fuckfuckfuck…yes!” you release his hair from your fist and hold yourself against the wall as your legs begin to quake, cunt throbbing in rhythmic spasms as he milks you with his lips.

“Oh my god,” you groan, trying to stand straight. He finally gets around to locking the door then picks you up, carrying you down a hallway. He pours you onto the bed and you watch as he strips himself of clothing, you follow suit, though half your outfit is in his foyer.

You lay back, bottom lip between your teeth as you watch him crawl over you, positioning himself between your legs.

“You’re sure this is okay?” he whispers, pressing his forehead against yours, the head of his cock leaking against your open cunt.

“Yes, fuck, yes I want you,” you assure him, nails digging into his shoulder. He makes a gruff noise deep in his throat and lines himself up with your opening. You wrap your legs around his waist, encouraging him to push into you and he does, slow and deep. You both moan into each other at the sensation of it.

Slowly he begins to move quicker, still deep, but urgently. The sound of skin against skin intoxicating. He sits up a bit, your hips coming with him and he grabs them, using you as an anchor to thrust into you.

“Minho…” his name comes out as a whisper, your eyes screwed shut. “So close…”

“No, no,” he tsks, slowing down and pulling himself out, pushing the head of his cock against your clit. “I’m not done with you yet.”

He slides his cock against you until you start squirming beneath him, your clit still sensitive from his front door excursions. “Please? Fuck…” you whine loudly.

“You want it?” he asks in a growl, stuffing himself inside you then pulling out again.

“Yes! Yes! Please!” you cry, your nails scraping against the sides of his legs.

“Are you sure baby?” he smirks, pushing into you and pulling out slowly several times. Your orgasm begins to build again and you meet his thrusts with your hips, chasing it. Until he pulls out again.

“What are you doing?” you groan, half laughing and out of your mind.

“Beg a little,” he urges, teasing your entrance with the tip of his cock but pulling away every time you try to push against it.

You snap your eyes open, the sight of him looking down at you makes you unhinged. “Please, Professor Lee, please let me cum,” you say it as sweetly and earnestly as you can muster.

His eyes practically roll back in his head as he lines up with you again and pushes in deep, his hands fly back to your hips and he drags you on and off his cock until your vision goes white with the most intense orgasm you’ve ever had.

“Sit up, please,” he begs breathlessly as he pulls away, stroking himself. You do as you’re told and watch as his lips part, his hand stills and shots of pearly strings shoot across your breasts.

“Hold on,” he says when he can move again, then disappears behind a door, emerging a few moments later with a warm damp hand towel. He kisses you deeply as he cleans his cum off your chest.

“That was so fucking good,” you whisper, taking his face in your hands.

“Yes,” he sighs, pulling you down beneath the blankets with him, “Yes it was.”

He holds you close to him, your eyes getting heavier, “I think my books are still in your car. We could go over the paper on tort law I bombed over breakfast tomorrow?”

He chuckles and nods, “It’s a date.”

📖 ❤️

You sit in Professor Lees classroom as he passes back the latest exam. Term is almost over and everyone seems to be reeling with nerves around you.

He slows beside your desk and lays your test down, “Much better, Miss ___, much better.”

Seungmin looks over at your test, “Hey! Not bad,” he smiles cheerfully.

“I’ve had a lot of help this semester,” you smile.

At the bottom of the last page you read the note of thin red ink,

See you at my place tonight?

The End

Endnote:

I am in my Lee Know slut era. I will not be taking questions about my worship of him at this time, thank you. As always, if you made it far enough to read this, please accept my virtual smooch.

Also as always this is unbeta’d bc that’s typically how I roll so it could be absolute trash but that’s okay bc we’re just having fun.

#skz fanfiction #Lee know fanfiction #skz smut #lee know smut #Lee Minho #skz romance #Lee know romance #Lee Know x reader #fanfiction #stray kids

718 notes · View notes

lizzyiii · 1 month ago

Note

I LOVE THE DRAGONS TREASURE

Please tell me she claims a dragon

Uhhhh, well why don't you read and see...

The Dragon's Treasure (2)

pairing | young aemond targaryen x niece!reader

word count | 8.5k words

summary | ‘You leaned into the Queen’s side, the comforting warmth of her presence allowing fresh sobs to escape. All you could think was how it felt to be given away by your mother, as confusion and sorrow swirled in your heart like a storm.’

tags | ANGST, ANGST AND MORE ANGST, targaryen incest, reader is described to have silver hair and lilac eyes, depression, suicidal thoughts, as always reader is a sensitive queen 👑, reader really goes through it

a/n | I'm SO SORRY this took so long. Also I couldn't put everything in here or else it could've been like 15k words, so guess whatttt, there will now be A PART 3, which will be the final part of this which WILL have a HAPPY ENDING. Anyway enjoy

likes, comments, reblogs are always appreciated ✨

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 1 is 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 — 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 — 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 3

Laenor’s frustration hung heavily in the air, a palpable tension that seemed to reach out and envelop the room. "How could you do this, Rhaenyra?" he hissed, his voice a mix of anger and disbelief. He paced across the chamber, the sound of his boots echoing against the stone walls.

Rhaenyra, seated beside you as you lay asleep, cast her gaze downward, her expression shadowed by shame. Her injured arm was pressed tightly against her chest, while her other hand delicately brushed aside the strands of hair that fell across your serene face.

"It was the only way to preserve the fragile peace, Laenor," she replied softly, her voice barely a whisper, yet heavy with sorrow as she focused on you.

Laenor’s frustration erupted once more as he countered, "By giving away our daughter?" His tone was hushed, yet the anguish etched across his features spoke volumes.

"And what do you call your intention to abandon her?" Rhaenyra's retort was fierce, her eyes flashing with a mix of defiance and hurt.

Laenor's gaze dropped, shame washing over him. He clenched his jaw, the weight of truth too heavy to bear. It was true—after much debate with Rhaenyra and Daemon, the decision had been made to stage his own death, allowing him the chance to flee with Qarl. The thought churned within him like a storm. "You should’ve spoken to me first," he murmured at last, his voice softer, tinged with the ache of sorrow.

"Mother," your weak voice echoed in the chamber, silencing the hushed argument between your parents.

A sharp pain throbbed in your head, the remnants of a distant ringing lingering like a ghost. With great effort, you began to sit up, but your mother gently urged you back, her voice soothing yet urgent, "My love, settle back. Do not strain yourself."

The world around you remained a blur as you blinked, trying to shake off the fog that clouded your mind. "What—what happened?" you managed to ask, your voice soft and uncertain.

Your gaze wandered to the window, where the soft light of dawn poured in, painting the room in warm hues. "What is the last thing you remember, my sweet?" your father asked from your other side, concern etched upon his features. You turned to him, puzzled, noticing the deep worry in his eyes.

Closing your eyes, you grasped at the fragments of the night that felt just out of reach. "Jace woke me, and then—there was a fight," you stammered, urgency clawing at your chest as you opened your eyes wide. "Is everyone alright? Is Aemond alright?"

Your mother’s lips pressed together as she exchanged a troubled glance with your father. "Your brothers and cousins are fine," she began carefully, "but… Aemond lost his eye."

Your heart plummeted at her words, and tears brimmed in your lilac eyes as memories flickered like a dim flame. "Luke?" you whispered, your voice barely above a breath.

“Yes,” your mother whispered gently, searching your eyes with a steady resolve, “but he only acted to protect Jace from Aemond.”

“No,” you breathed out, shaking your head in denial, desperation threading through your voice, “Aemond would never truly hurt Jace.”

“But it’s alright,” Rhaenyra interjected, dismissing your words with an air of resignation. “Aemond said that Vhagar was worth the sacrifice.”

Worth the sacrifice? You struggled to comprehend how anything could justify the loss of an eye. A deep longing stirred within you to see Aemond, to confirm that he was truly alright. Your gaze flitted anxiously between your mother and father before the memory of the loud commotion that had pulled you from your sleep surged back. “Why were you and Father fighting?”

Your father arched an eyebrow, turning his attention to your mother with an air of expectation, “Well, Rhaenyra?”

Your mother offered a strained smile, her hand gently brushing your cheek as if to shield you from any remaining tension in the air. “To ensure peace between our families, the Queen and I have decided to betroth you to Aemond. You will wed when you turn seven and ten. But do not fret, dear one; you and Aemond are the closest of friends.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but your father’s sharp voice cut through the air. “Rhaenyra, tell her the rest.”

With a small sigh, your mother looked away, a shadow passing over her face. “During your betrothal, the Queen insists you stay in the Red Keep.”

Feelings swirled within you at the thought of being promised to Aemond. Yes, he was your dear friend, but never had you envisioned him as your husband. As memories of the past returned—those cruel words Aemond had hurled at your cousins and brothers—you felt a knot form in your stomach. Yet, a flutter of hope ignited in your heart as you looked up at your mother. “Does that mean we’re going home?”

Your mother’s eyes widened, confusion washing over you as you noticed tears pooling within them. “No, my treasure,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “We shall remain in Dragonstone while you live in King’s Landing.”

The air seemed to thicken around you, and your heart felt like it had cracked open at her words. "What?" You clutched her tightly, burying your face against her soft dress, your voice muffled as you pleaded, "I don’t want to be away from you."

“It will be alright,” Rhaenyra whispered gently, pressing her lips to your brow. “We will write letters every day, and you will come visit us at Dragonstone.” You could hear the tremble in her voice, even as she held you close, tears started to shimmer in Rhaenyra’s eyes, her heart aching as she cradled you in her arms, trying to soothe both your sorrow and her own. “All will be well, I promise.”

It was the only path left before her. By sending you to the Greens, she hoped to weave a thread of peace, to quiet their unrest, and when the time was right, she would reclaim you from their grasp.

You pulled back, your little nose pink and tear-streaked cheeks glistening with sorrow as your gaze fell upon her injured hand. “What happened to your hand?” you asked, concern etched across your cherubic face.

Rhaenyra fought back the urge to weep at your innocent worry. Even through your own heartbreak, you were thinking of her. She offered you the best smile she could muster, brushing a thumb softly against your cheek as she kissed your forehead. “It’s naught to trouble yourself over, my love.”

Her eyes drifted toward Laenor, who stood nearby, his face a mask of despair as he looked down at you.

"I do not wish to leave, please, Father, do not make me go," you whimpered softly, clutching at him as he carried you toward the Driftmark courtyard, where a carriage awaited to take you away. You had heard that Helaena, Aegon, and Aemond had already set sail on a ship, so you would be accompanying the Queen.

"I trust your mother’s wisdom," his voice was gentle. "You know that I love you, don't you?"

You nodded quietly, burying your face into the comforting crook of his neck, seeking solace from the storm brewing in your heart. Laenor paused, his hands steadying you as he whispered, "Look at me, my sweet. I've come to a most profound realization."

With a flicker of curiosity, you lifted your head, your sad lilac eyes searching his face, "What is it?"

He regarded you with a deep, thoughtful gaze for a moment before speaking, "That nothing and no one shall ever hold my heart as you do." He leaned closer and pressed a tender kiss upon your nose, a gesture meant to seal the words in a bond of love, "You are and will always be my greatest love."

At his declaration, your lips quivered, and hastily you retreated into the comforting warmth of his embrace, hiding your face against him once more.

You felt him exhale softly, the sound laced with an emotion you could not name, before he asked with a quiet sincerity, "Do you wish for my happiness?"

"More than anything, Father," you replied without hesitance, your voice a whisper wrapped in sincerity.

With your head nestled against him, you were unaware of the tears that brimmed in his eyes. He brushed his lips gently across your brow, murmuring softly, "Good, that’s good.

As you and your father finally stepped into the sunlit courtyard, you turned your gaze to take in the bustling crowd.

Your cousins, Baela and Rhaena, stood close by, flanked by your grandparents, Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys. A frown crossed your face as you spotted your great uncle Daemon standing beside your brothers and mother too close for your liking. Opposite them, before the grand carriage, stood Queen Alicent, her expression poised as she appeared to await your arrival.

With a gentle motion, your father set you down before your mother. As you looked up, you noticed Jace and Luke actively avoiding your eyes, their faces averted. Your mother knelt before you, her hands tenderly cradling your cheeks. "Do not fret, my sweet treasure. We shall be together again soon."

At her comforting words, fresh tears welled in your lilac eyes as you suddenly launched yourself into her embrace, clinging to her waist and burying your face in the soft fabric of her skirts. "I don’t want to go!" you cried out, your voice breaking.

Your small hands tightened around her skirts as you felt your father’s gentle persistence in trying to pry you away from your mother, and you protested fiercely, "No, I won’t go! You can’t make me!"

Your mother, her heart heavy with sorrow, cupped your cheeks in her hands, trying to soothe your tempest of emotions. “Hush, my love,” she whispered, her voice a tender balm against your distress.

Around you, pitying gazes flickered like candle flames—your grandparents’ melancholic expressions, your cousins’ shared discomfort. Jace’s eyes glimmered with unshed tears while Luke, overwhelmed, covered his ears, trying to drown out your wails. Rhaenyra felt a crack in her resolve as she listened to your sobs, contemplating possibly halting your betrothal. But then, a steady touch on her shoulder drew her attention. It was Daemon, giving her a firm nod, a silent promise of encouragement.

Steeling herself, Rhaenyra placed her hands over your tiny fists, carefully prying you away from her gown. She lifted your small face to meet her gaze, her voice steady despite the turmoil within her. “You must perform your duty to the crown,” she said firmly, the weight of her words grounding her as she continued, “You are a princess now—act like it.” Each word felt like a dagger to her own heart, yet she managed to keep her voice steady, unwilling to let her emotions betray her in front of the others.

You looked up at her, your large, glistening eyes begging for understanding as you bit down on your lip, desperate to stifle your cries. It was then that you felt a soft hand on your shoulder and you saw your mother’s once-kind eyes harden and her lips set into a determined line.

Behind you, Queen Alicent's voice rang out with gentle authority, “Do not worry, sweet princess. We shall take good care of you.”

With one last lingering gaze at your mother, you allowed the Queen to lead you away. As you settled into the carriage alongside her and your grandsire, the weight of your sadness enveloped you once more. You leaned into the Queen’s side, the comforting warmth of her presence allowing fresh sobs to escape. All you could think was how it felt to be given away by your mother, as confusion and sorrow swirled in your heart like a storm.

Aemond's heart was heavy with worry. No, it wasn’t just worry—it was a deep, gnawing distress that coiled in his chest like a serpent.

The thrill of claiming Vhagar had filled him with such joy, he had felt as if he could touch the moon itself. The moment he soared through the skies on the back of the great dragon, he had thought only of you, eager to share the monumental news. In his mind, you would have clapped your hands and laughed with delight, celebrating the bond forged between rider and beast.

But fate had other plans. Just when he imagined your bright smile lighting up the sky, your brothers and cousins had to swoop in, like crows scattering the sunlight.

He could still picture the way you had stared at him, your eyes wide, but not with excitement. No, there was something else in your gaze—hurt. Aemond’s heart twisted painfully. What did it matter that he had claimed Vhagar? Didn’t you understand? He had done it for both of you, to lift you higher, to make you proud.

And just when he thought things couldn’t get worse, the air crackled with tension. Your stupid cousin had lunged, and in that moment, everything exploded into chaos. And then much worse — his bastard nephew had struck you. It didn’t matter if it was an accident or a deliberate attack; Aemond saw only red. All he could think of was defending your honor, standing up for you. But that brave impulse led to disaster—the sharp, searing pain of loss as your bastard brother struck him down, taking his eye and leaving an aching void in its place.

The pain was unlike anything Aemond had ever known. As the sharp impact seared through him, a crimson tide flooded down his cheek, hot and frightening. For a fleeting moment, fear clawed at his insides; he truly believed he would not survive this. The world around him dimmed, distorted by the sudden absence of sight, as the maester began to stitch the ravaged flesh, one painful tug at a time. In that disorienting haze, it felt as if all the light had been extinguished, leaving him vulnerable and alone.

In the throng of shouting, his mother alone stood as his shield, her voice rising powerfully over the din. Where was the king? His father seemed indifferent, preoccupied with the whispers of bastardy that tainted his grandson's names, ignoring his son’s suffering. Aemond felt a pang of betrayal deep in his heart, a bitter realization that the bonds of blood carried chains as much as love.

But more damning still was your stillness. You lay unconscious atop a small cot, the aftermath of your collision against a stone wall. His worry for you gnawed at his mind, a relentless ache more piercing than the wound that marred his face. Around him, the fighting raged on, but all it did was intensify the throbbing where his eye had been, and in desperation, he called out, declaring that his lost eye was a worthy sacrifice for a dragon—any dragon.

Then his mother came to him, her expression conveying hope. She spoke of a betrothal, weaving a promise between the two of you like a delicate thread. In that moment, Aemond's heart swelled with a light that eclipsed the agony gripping his face.

You would be his wife; destined to stand at his side forever. It was a beautiful twist of fate meant to be, a binding forged that made him forget, at least for a heartbeat, that he was now a boy with only one eye.

But now, after a fortnight spent back in the imposing halls of the Red Keep, he still had not laid eyes on you since that fateful night in Driftmark. At first, his mother had told him you were too distraught, struggling to settle back in King’s Landing without your mother and siblings. Aemond could understand that; he knew how deeply you loved his sister, though he had no clue as to why.

Yet, days passed, and the weight of your absence grew heavier. Then, the letter arrived. A letter relaying how your father, Laenor Velaryon, had been murdered. His mother, with a grave expression, had explained that you were in no condition for visitors, grief stricken and devastated. Aemond felt a surge of frustration mixed with a pang of empathy. How could he possibly comfort you from afar?

Despite his mother’s warnings, he refused to be deterred. Each day, without fail, he ventured to your chambers, his heart pounding with hope and desperation. Each time, he was met with the same stony refusal from your sworn shield, Ser Rowan. The knight’s demeanor was unwavering, his expression a mixture of duty and pity that only fueled Aemond’s determination.

With a final, resentful glance at the shield that stood between him and you, he turned away, but not before giving your door a lingering look—his heart aching to see you, to offer even a word of solace.

That’s when a cunning idea sparked in his mind. He recalled the tales of Maegor the Cruel, who, in his paranoia, had carved secret tunnels through the very walls of the Red Keep. Perhaps, just perhaps, he could find a way in. Aemond’s pulse quickened at the thought of sneaking through those hidden passages, unseen and unnoticed, until he could finally stand before you.

He took a deep breath, his determination solidifying. No more waiting, no more barriers. He would find you, even if it meant crawling through the dark, twisting shadows of the Red Keep. You were destined to be together, and he would not allow the two of you to be apart any longer.

It had taken Aemond a full week—seven days of frustration, of feeling like a fool. He had spent those days pacing the cold stone walls of the Red Keep, touching every surface in hopes of discovering one of the fabled tunnels of Maegor the Cruel. They said the king had built secret ways throughout the castle, but Aemond had no guide, no map. Only his determination kept him searching. Then, at last, he'd found one—hidden behind a grand tapestry depicting dragons in flight.

Excitement had quickly turned to terror. Once inside the dark, winding passageways, Aemond realized he was hopelessly lost. The stone walls seemed to close in on him, their narrow confines suffocating. Hours passed before he finally stumbled out, breathless and covered in dust, into the kitchens. The sky outside had turned to night, and his stomach gnawed at him from hunger. He looked a sight—dirty, disheveled, and no closer to his goal.

The next time, he would not make the same mistake. He had prepared this time, studying the first tunnel he’d discovered and memorizing the paths it led to. He knew now how to navigate these secret ways, and his heart raced at the thought of where they might lead him.

Tonight, he sought your chambers.

Quiet as a shadow, he slipped through the concealed door in the wall, pushing it open just enough to sneak inside. His eyes darted around the room before he found a hiding place behind a tall dressing screen. From there, he could see only part of the room.

Aemond stood quietly behind the carved wooden screen, peering through the delicate patterns to catch a glimpse of his mother, Alicent. She sat beside the bed, where you were hidden beneath a heavy blanket, your figure barely visible. He strained to hear the conversation, his curiosity mingling with worry.

"You must eat, my sweet princess," Alicent's voice trembled slightly, though she tried to keep her tone soothing. Her words echoed through the chamber, filling the air with tension that made Aemond's heart tighten.

He frowned, sensing the tension in the room, the weight of his mother's concern. But you gave no answer, not even a whisper, and the silence only deepened his anxiety.

"If you do not eat," his mother continued, her voice sharper now, filled with urgency, "you will waste away. You will die."

Aemond swallowed hard. He hadn’t known it was this bad. He pressed himself closer to the screen, his young mind racing. What could he do? How could he help?

The silence finally broke, but the sound of your voice was weak, and it made Aemond's stomach churn. "I do not care," you said, the weariness in your tone hanging in the air like a shadow. Aemond frowned deeply, his heart racing. It sounded as though you hadn’t spoken in days.

"I wish to be with my father," you whispered, and Aemond felt the words like a blow. His hands clenched at his sides as his chest grew tight.

Queen Alicent gasped, her hand fluttering to her chest. "Princess..." she murmured, her voice barely above a breath.

A heavy silence lingered for a few moments, only broken by the sound of Alicent’s soft sigh. She leaned forward and gently caressed your brow, her fingers smoothing your hair with a mother’s care. "I shall return later," she said softly, though there was a hint of sadness in her tone. "Perhaps by then, you will be in better spirits."

She rose from the bed, her gown rustling softly as she turned to leave. Aemond stayed perfectly still, his breath held until his mother had exited the chamber, her footsteps fading down the corridor. Only then did he dare to move, waiting a moment longer before stepping out from behind the screen, the weight of your words still heavy on his mind.

Aemond swallowed hard, his throat tight as he stepped cautiously toward your bed. The tension in the room made the air thick, and his hands had already begun to tremble. He cleared his throat, though it did little to ease the nervousness tightening his chest. "Niece," he called softly, hoping the word might draw some warmth from you.

But you lay there, still as stone, offering him no sign that you’d heard. His heart quickened, not just from excitement but from something colder—apprehension. "It is me, Aemond," he said, trying again, this time louder, as if his voice could somehow break through the wall you had built around yourself.

"Leave," you croaked, your voice rough from disuse. The word, though weak, struck him like a lash.

Aemond’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he edged closer to your bedside despite the rejection. His heart ached at the sight of you, eyes barely open, a sliver of sharp lilac staring back at him with the irritation of a cornered animal. He swallowed hard, struggling to find the right words. "I know you are in pain—"

"Go away," you interrupted, your voice fragile, cracking under the weight of your sorrow as you pulled the covers over your head, shielding yourself from him, from the world.

Aemond stood frozen, his brow furrowing deeply, the sting of your words sharper than he expected. He clenched his fists at his sides, feeling the vulnerability he had tried so hard to bury rise to the surface. His voice was barely above a whisper as he let slip the truth he had kept locked away. "I… I’ve missed you."

Your silence stung worse than anything you could have said. Then, muffled beneath the covers, you spoke firmly, your voice laced with bitterness. "Leave me be, Aemond."

Desperation took hold of him. His face grew hot as he reached out toward the blanket that hid you, fingers trembling. "Please," he whispered, voice cracking, "just speak to me. Let me help you."

Suddenly, the covers flew back, and you sat up, your face twisted in an anger that made Aemond step back as if he had been struck. The look in your eyes—sharp, hateful—was something he had never seen before, not directed at him. "Now you wish to help?" you spat, your voice ringing through the chamber, venomous and cold. "You’ve ruined everything, Aemond."

His heart pounded painfully in his chest. "What?" He stared at you, confusion clouding his mind. What had he done?

"Because of your selfish ambitions," you snarled, your voice rising with every word, "my mother had to give me away. If it weren’t for you, I would still be with them—still be with my father!" Tears brimmed in your lilac eyes, the sight of them making his stomach churn.

Aemond felt like the floor had dropped from beneath him. How could this be his fault? He didn’t understand. "Niece—please," he whispered, but his voice sounded small and powerless, even to himself.

Your breaths came in ragged gasps, and when you spoke again, the words shattered him. "I hate you, Aemond. And I will hate you for the rest of our lives." Your voice broke as the tears finally fell, streaming down your cheeks. "Now go!"

Your scream echoed through the room, and Aemond felt wetness on his own cheeks. His chest tightened, and the lump in his throat grew unbearable. He flinched as he heard your knight call for you from outside the chamber, likely drawn by your raised voice.

Breathing heavily, Aemond glanced at you one last time, your tear-streaked face seared into his mind. His body moved on instinct, turning away, his feet carrying him swiftly back toward the secret door he had come through. His heart was heavy with a pain he had never felt before, not even when he had lost his eye, and as he slipped away, the weight of your words followed him into the darkness.

Queen Alicent paced the length of her chambers, her mind in turmoil. She had never anticipated this outcome when she brought you to the Red Keep, far from Dragonstone, far from your mother, Princess Rhaenyra. She had believed that under her guidance, you would flourish. As her ward, betrothed to Aemond, your closest companion, she imagined you would grow into a graceful, dutiful princess—one who would restore the honor of House Targaryen, untarnished by the reckless whims of your mother.

In her heart, Alicent had even dared to hope that you might surpass Rhaenyra, earning the love of the people as the true 'Realm’s Delight.' But those dreams now seemed distant and foolish.

It had all gone wrong.

Alicent had grossly underestimated the bond you held with your mother, the Princess. The spirited, joyful girl she had known—the one who ran through the halls of the Red Keep with Aemond at your side—had withered before her very eyes. In mere weeks, you had become a ghost, hollow and silent, consumed by grief and loneliness. Being torn from your mother’s side, followed by the sudden news of your father’s death, had shattered something deep within you.

Alicent was powerless. She could feel the weight of her failure pressing down on her, and it terrified her. You had stopped eating, and each time she visited your chambers, the sight of you grew more distressing. Your once-cherubic face had grown gaunt, your cheeks hollow, and the dark rings under your violet eyes seemed to deepen with every passing day. The life that had once shone so brightly within you was now dim, fading with each moment that you refused to take nourishment.

In truth, Alicent no longer cared about the feud between her and Rhaenyra. She no longer saw you as a pawn in the game of succession, a princess bound to her son. All of that had crumbled in the face of her growing fear for your health. She couldn’t stand by and watch you waste away, not like this.

She had tried everything—soft words, coaxing, but nothing had worked. You remained trapped in your sorrow, unreachable, silent. Desperation clawed at her heart, and in that desperation, she did something she had not imagined she would ever do.

Alicent sat at her desk, trembling hands grasping a quill as she penned a letter to Princess Rhaenyra. She pushed aside her pride, her anger, her fear of what this might mean for the tensions between their families. None of that mattered now. Only you mattered.

“Princess Rhaenyra, your daughter is unwell,” she wrote, her heart heavy with each stroke of the pen. “I ask—no, I beg you to come to the Red Keep at once. She needs you. I fear that without her mother, she may not survive this grief. Please, come swiftly.”

The letter was sealed with wax, her hand shaking as she pressed the Targaryen sigil into it. For once, Alicent did not think of herself, nor of the coming war over the Iron Throne. She only thought of the fragile girl with lilac eyes, fading away in the chambers of the Red Keep.

"Send it," she ordered the servant, her voice tight with emotion. "Have the fastest raven dispatched to Dragonstone."

But a week had passed, and there had been no response. Alicent cursed Rhaenyra’s negligence. How could she ignore such a plea? How could she allow her own daughter to wither away in the Red Keep, as if you were some pawn to be discarded?

What Alicent did not know was that the letter had never reached Rhaenyra’s hands. No, it had fallen into the possession of Daemon Targaryen. The Rogue Prince had taken one glance at the letter and, with a smirk of indifference, tossed it into the flames of the hearth. In his eyes, you were of no use to him. Another heir of Rhaenyra’s blood, one more obstacle between him and his ambitions for his own children. Let the girl perish, he thought with cold calculation. It was one less threat to his plans for the Iron Throne.

Alicent, unaware of this, grew more anxious with each passing day. No response from Dragonstone. No sign of Rhaenyra. She could not wait any longer. In her desperation, she turned to another—a hope that perhaps your dearest friend, Helaena, might reach you where others had failed. Helaena, her sweet daughter, only three years your senior, had always been close to you, sharing dreams and secrets in happier times.

Alicent clasped her hands together as she stood outside your chamber, her nerves taut. She turned to Ser Rowan, your sworn knight, who had guarded you since your first breath.

"Any change today?" she asked, though her voice betrayed little hope.

Ser Rowan, his face dark with guilt, shook his head solemnly. "No, Your Grace. She has not stirred."

Alicent’s lips pressed into a thin line, and with a nod, she pushed open the door, Helaena trailing close behind. The chamber was as it always was—quiet, heavy with the air of grief. You lay in the bed, as still and silent as if the world outside had ceased to exist.

Alicent cleared her throat, trying to inject warmth into her voice. "Princess," she called gently, "I’ve brought a guest for you."

You did not stir. You did not acknowledge her at all. It was as if the words had fallen into an abyss.

Alicent’s heart sank. She glanced down at Helaena and gave her a nod of encouragement. Perhaps, just perhaps, her daughter could say what she could not.

Helaena moved slowly, her steps light as she approached your bed and sat beside you. She said nothing at first, simply humming a soft, melodic tune under her breath. From the small chest she had brought, she carefully lifted something between her fingers. The sight of her silent actions caught your attention, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, your small head peeked from beneath the covers, your curiosity piqued.

Alicent held her breath, hope blooming in her chest.

Helaena continued to hum as she gently played with the small creature in her hands, a soft smile on her lips. After a few moments of silence, you finally spoke, your voice weak and quiet. "What's that?"

Without glancing at you, Helaena murmured, "Buprestidae."

Your face scrunched in confusion, and Helaena, with her usual dreamy tone, elaborated, "It is more commonly known as the jewel beetle."

Your eyes widened in quiet wonder as you gazed at the shiny emerald insect in her hand. Its iridescent shell shimmered in the dim light, captivating your attention. "It’s very pretty," you whispered.

A faint smile touched Helaena’s lips. "My books say it is one of the most beautiful insects in the world," she said gently, her voice filled with affection as she watched your interest grow.

"Wow," you breathed, your small voice barely audible. Then, with a glimmer of your old self shining through, you looked up at Helaena, your lilac eyes filled with a trace of life. "Will you tell me more about them?"

There was a brief pause as Helaena's eyes drifted toward the untouched tray of food sitting beside your bed. She tilted her head slightly, her voice soft but firm as she made her quiet bargain. "I will... but only if you finish your soup."

Alicent’s heart pounded in her chest as she watched you hesitate, the tension in the room thick. She held her breath, praying to the gods that you would comply. After a moment of silence, you reached for the bowl and, with slow, deliberate movements, lifted the spoon to your lips.

Alicent nearly wept in relief as you began to eat, her heart lightening for the first time in what felt like ages. Helaena, true to her word, continued in her calm, melodic voice, speaking to you as you slowly finished your meal.

"Most jewel beetles are active during the day," Helaena explained, her tone soothing, "and they spend the night nestled beneath leaves or in the bark of trees. Their shimmering colors help them attract mates, especially under the bright sunlight, which makes their beauty shine even more..."

Alicent stepped back, her gaze lingering on you as the weight on her chest finally began to lift.

You found solace in Helaena’s presence, though at times her words felt like riddles, their meaning drifting past you like the wind. Still, there was something calming about her company, something soft and soothing in the way she moved and spoke. Her visits had become the brightest part of your days, a welcome distraction from the deep sorrow that still gripped you.

The ache of being separated from your mother, weighed heavy on your heart. You missed her fiercely, and the news of your father's death had only deepened that sadness. But when Helaena was near, for just a little while, the burden lightened. Her quiet, gentle presence helped you forget, even if only for a fleeting moment.

Today, the two of you sat in the warm light of your solar. Helaena perched on the chaise, her hands busy with her embroidery, weaving delicate patterns into the fabric with practiced ease. You, content with your own thoughts, sat nearby with parchment spread before you, sketching the insects Helaena had shown you in previous days. The jewel beetle, with its shimmering emerald wings, was your favorite to draw.

As your hand moved across the parchment, your mind began to drift. Your thoughts slipped away from the beetles and the quiet peace of the moment, wandering back to the last time you had seen Aemond. You could still see the hurt etched on his face, the way his expression had crumpled when you yelled at him in your grief. Your words had been sharp, and though part of you still clung to the anger, another part felt something different. Guilt. Regret.

You had missed him—more than you wanted to admit. Since you were a babe, it had always been you and Aemond, bound by blood and by the shared weight of the Targaryen legacy. You had thought that, no matter what, it would always be the two of you against the world. But then he had claimed Vhagar.

Everything had changed after that. He had left you behind, the only one of your kin without a dragon. And more than that, he had spoken cruelly, lashing out at your brothers and cousins with venom you had never seen in him before. His words had cut deeper than any sword.

But now, as you sat in silence, you couldn’t help but wonder if you had overreacted. Yes, Aemond had been harsh, and yes, he had taken Vhagar without thinking how it would make you feel. But could one misstep, one painful choice, truly undo the bond you had shared for so long? Was your friendship, your connection as kin, so fragile that it could be shattered by a single moment of anger?

You paused, the charcoal in your hand hovering over the parchment as you considered. You missed him. Truly. And perhaps, deep down, you wondered if he missed you too.

"I do not wish to marry Aegon."

You looked up in surprise, her words catching you off guard. The castle had been alive with preparation — maids sewing new gowns, cooks laboring over feasts, and courtiers whispering about the upcoming union. You knew it was common among your kin for Targaryens to wed each other, like your great-grandparents, King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne, who were siblings. But still, the thought of Helaena marrying Aegon unsettled you, and now it seemed to trouble her too.

You knew why, of course. Your uncle Aegon was cruel, more interested in wine and women than anything else. He frightened you sometimes with the way he looked through people, as though they didn’t matter at all. You couldn’t imagine him as a kind husband.

"Why don’t you tell the Queen?" you asked, leaning forward on your seat, your eyes wide and hopeful. "Tell her you don’t want to marry him."

Helaena didn’t look up, her gaze fixed on her embroidery as her needle moved with careful precision. “Mother says it is our duty,” she murmured softly, almost as if speaking to herself. “To keep the blood pure. But... I don’t believe I shall be happy.”

The way her voice wavered made your heart tighten. Without thinking, you blurted out, “What if we leave?”

Helaena blinked, her head turning slowly toward you, confusion clear in her violet eyes. “Leave?” she repeated, her tone soft and bewildered. “I do not understand.”

“What if we just left?” you said again, more firmly this time, your words coming quicker now as the idea took shape in your mind. “We could fly away. Dreamfyre is strong. We could ride her across the Narrow Sea, go somewhere far away where no one could find us.”

For a moment, Helaena only stared at you, her needle paused in mid-air. “Niece...” she began, her tone hesitant, unsure.

“Yes!” You leaped to your feet, your excitement bubbling over as you grabbed her hands, your small fingers wrapping around her delicate, unmarked ones. Your hands were still smudged with charcoal. “We could see all the wonders of Essos — the great temples, the golden fields! We would eat cakes every day and never have to worry about anything.”

Helaena’s eyes softened, though a flicker of something uncertain lingered there. “And what of coin?” she asked after a pause, her voice gentle but cautious. “How would we live?”

You waved your hand dismissively, grinning. “We have a dragon, Aunt Helaena! We wouldn’t need anything else. Dreamfyre could take us wherever we wanted. No one could stop us.”

But Helaena’s gaze grew distant again, her lips pressing into a thin line. “We would be leaving our family behind,” she said, barely above a whisper.

Your smile faded as you sat back down beside her, your shoulders slumping slightly. Your mother had already left you behind when she sent you to King’s Landing. You had not seen her in months. Aemond… well, Aemond had Vhagar now. He didn’t need you anymore. He’d probably already forgotten about you.

“They don’t care about our happiness,” you said softly, trying to convince yourself as much as Helaena. “Why should we care about theirs?”

Helaena turned her face away, her expression distant, as if lost in her thoughts. Her lips moved slowly, forming words that you didn’t quite understand, though her tone was soft and strange, like a distant lullaby. “As shadows stretch and sky turns cold, fear within, like dusk, takes hold. Alone you stand, though hearts may yearn, in darkness waiting will light return."

You blinked, completely baffled by her words, but you simply shrugged and smiled brightly. “I’ll take that as a yes!”

Helaena’s head snapped back to you, her eyes widening in alarm. “Wait—”

“We’ll meet tonight at the Dragonpit!” you declared, bouncing up from your seat, your excitement renewed. “I’ll go pack my things!”

Before she could say another word, you were already running toward the door, your heart racing at the thought of your grand adventure. You didn’t hear Helaena call after you, nor did you see the torn, pained look that crossed her face as she watched you leave, uncertainty clouding her gaze.

Sneaking out of the Red Keep was, by far, the most reckless thing you had ever done in your ten years of life. Well, perhaps not the hardest, but it certainly felt like it as you plotted how to send Ser Rowan, your sworn shield, on a task that would occupy him long enough for your escape.

Stepping out of your chambers after so long, you saw Ser Rowan look at you with wide eyes, as though he had seen a ghost. It had been months since your return and you had not left your chambers since. your presence at such an hour clearly startled him.

“Ser Rowan,” you began, trying to keep your voice even, “could you fetch me some strawberry cakes from the kitchens, please?”

It was the middle of the night, and you knew full well that no one would be stirring in the kitchens at such an hour. Ser Rowan frowned at first, his brow furrowing with concern.

“Might it wait until morning, my princess? Surely—”

You interrupted with wide eyes and a slight pout, a trick you had learned from watching your mother use many times. Ser Rowan sighed, defeated.

“As you wish, my Princess,” he said with a small bow. “I shall return as swiftly as I can.”

As soon as he disappeared down the corridor, you darted back into your chambers. Your hands moved quickly, fastening a dark cloak over your nightgown, pulling on your boots, and securing a small satchel around your waist. Inside the satchel, you placed the few things you could not bear to leave behind—a few trinkets, a drawing of your family, and the little wooden dragon Aemond had carved for you.

Heart racing with excitement, you slipped out, careful to avoid the guards as you moved silently through the Keep. You kept close to the stone walls, where the shadows were deepest, and prayed no one would see your small figure darting from one corner to the next.

Somehow, by sheer luck or skill, you made it past the castle walls. You retraced your steps, recalling the times you had secretly followed your brothers, Jace and Luke, on their way to their dragon lessons. The path to the Dragonpit came to you as if you had walked it a hundred times before.

The pit was dark and silent, save for the occasional low rumble of a sleeping dragon. You knew you should have waited outside for Helaena, but your curiosity won out. The thrill of being here alone, surrounded by the presence of dragons, was too great to resist.

The deeper you ventured into the pit, the more your heart pounded with a mix of fear and awe. And there, before you, stood Dreamfyre, Helaena’s dragon. Even in the dim light, her blue scales shimmered like precious gems.

You gasped, startled, as Dreamfyre let out a heavy breath, a plume of smoke curling from her nostrils. The sudden movement made you cough, and Dreamfyre’s eyes flickered open. For a terrifying moment, the great beast stared at you with narrowed eyes.

You froze, holding your breath, certain that you had made a grave mistake. But after what felt like an eternity, Dreamfyre closed her eyes again, seemingly uninterested in you. Slowly, you let out a breath of relief, the tension easing from your shoulders.

You had not anticipated how long it would take for Helaena to arrive. The excitement of your escape began to fade, and the long wait in the cold of the Dragonpit made your eyelids heavy. Without thinking, you found yourself sitting against Dreamfyre’s rough, warm side. Her body heat was comforting, and before long, your head drooped, sleep threatening to take you.

Just as you were about to doze off, the sound of footsteps echoed through the pit. You jumped to your feet, hastily smoothing out your cloak and dress. Heart racing once more, you called out eagerly into the darkness.

“Helaena? Is that you?”

But the voice that responded was not hers.

“No, it’s me.”

A surge of confusion washed over you as Aemond stepped into view, a torch held high in his hand. The flickering light cast sharp shadows across his face, illuminating the scarred half hidden beneath his eyepatch. The sight of him, standing there with his frown and fierce gaze, made your heart drop. You hadn’t seen him since that terrible confrontation, you had not even noticed his injury. And now, seeing him like this, the guilt and confusion from that night flooded back.

You swallowed hard, your voice quivering as you asked, “Where is Helaena?”

“She’s back in the Red Keep, where you should be,” Aemond replied, his tone firm and commanding.

He hadn’t seen you in months, and though he felt relief to see you healthy and well, there was also a deep, gnawing hurt inside him. He had been shocked when Helaena told him of your plan to run away, and that pain twisted in his chest. You, his betrothed, were going to leave him behind so easily. And as much as he would have never admitted it aloud, if you had asked him to join you, he would have gone without hesitation.

Hurt flashed in your eyes, and your lip began to tremble. “Why isn’t she here?” you whispered, your voice barely holding together.

“She told me about your plan,” Aemond said quietly, his violet gaze never leaving you. “She sent me here to tell you that she has changed her mind.”

“No,” you shook your head fiercely, your voice cracking. “No, she wouldn’t do that.”

“She realized what you were doing was wrong,” Aemond said, stepping closer, his voice calm but stern. “The two of you have duties —”

"That's so easy for you to say," you snapped, your voice suddenly sharp and filled with anger. Neither of you noticed Dreamfyre’s eyes slowly opening at the sound of your raised voices. Tears welled up in your lilac eyes as you shouted, "You’re not the one being used as a broodmare! A mere vessel for heirs!"

Aemond flinched, pain crossing his face. He reached a hand out towards you, trying to soothe you. “Niece—”

But you stepped back, tears spilling down your cheeks as you slapped his hand away. Without another word, you turned and ran, your feet flying across the stone ground as Aemond’s voice echoed behind you.

But you didn’t stop. You ran through the Dragonpit, tears blurring your vision as you navigated the winding paths. Your heart pounded in your chest, and you could hear Aemond’s footsteps behind you, but you pushed forward, taking every shortcut you knew to avoid him.

When you finally reached the Red Keep, your legs were aching, and your breaths came out in sharp gasps. You felt utterly betrayed, the sting of Helaena’s broken promise cutting deep. Your ribs ached as you hurried back to your chambers, your sobs the only sound in the cold, empty corridors.

Then, as you turned a corner, you collided with Ser Rowan, who had just returned, a tray of strawberry cakes in his hands. The tray clattered to the ground as he caught sight of your tear-streaked face, his eyes widening in alarm.

“Princess!” he exclaimed, dropping to one knee in front of you, his eyes scanning you for any sign of injury. “Are you hurt?”

But instead of answering, you flung yourself into his arms, wrapping your arms around his neck and sobbing into his steel-clad shoulder. The weight of everything crashed over you—your mother’s abandonment, Aemond’s actions, and Helaena’s betrayal. It all felt too heavy to bear, and in that moment, Ser Rowan was the only one who hadn’t turned his back on you.

You clung to him, crying into his armor, while the castle around you remained cold and silent, just like the hearts of those you had once thought loved you.

So what do you think about that reader/rhaenyra parallel I snuck in?

“we could ride her across the narrow sea, go somewhere far away where no one could find us. we would eat cakes every day and never have to worry about anything.”

—reader

“i want to fly with you on dragon back, see the great wonders across the narrow sea, and eat only cake.”

—rhaenyra

TO BE CONTINUED...

Names that are in bold are ones that couldn't be added :(

@evernores @jouryuu @dbd-mommy @g-cf2020 @sl-ut @radiantdanvers @sillysillygyalsmh @callsignwidow @missyviolet123 @thelastemzy @lechat-rouge @sonichkkaaascreams @djarinsstuff @yovrnewromantic @strawberymilktea

#aemond targaryen x reader #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #hotd aemond #aemond one eye #aemond x you #hotd fanfic #hotd #hotd x reader

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novaursa · 2 months ago

Text

The Broken Crown (1/2)

- Summary: Aegon the Conqueror's youngest sister, Y/N Targaryen, once bethrohed to Torrhen Stark, is forced into a marriage with her brother after he calls off her engagement out of jealousy. Struggling with her lost future and the life she never wanted, she repeatedly refuses Aegon's attempts to consummate the marriage. When she tries to escape to Essos on her dragon, Visenya intercepts her, and Aegon, in an act of control, chains her dragon to prevent any further rebellion, leaving her feeling trapped and broken.

- Paring: sister!reader/Aegon I Targaryen

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Word count: 6 200+

- Next part: 2

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @fiction-fanfic-reader @fireandblood-mharmie @poisonedsultana

- A/N: Unexpected post. Let's see how it goes.

The wind howls outside your chambers, filling the air with the distant sounds of restless dragons, their cries melding with the deep, rolling growl of the sea beyond Dragonstone. The fire crackles in the hearth, sending flickers of light dancing across the walls. You sit alone, staring at the flickering flames, lost in thought. The glow reflects off the dark red and gold silk of your gown, the rich colors echoing the deep hues of Tesaerix's scales.

It has been weeks since your marriage to Aegon—your brother, your king—and yet your chambers remain cold. You know why he comes to you. You know what he desires. Yet every time, you turn him away, the bitterness of your broken future thick on your tongue.

You were supposed to be wed to Torrhen Stark, the former King in the North. A marriage of fire and ice, binding the Targaryens to the cold and ancient lineage of the Starks. You had imagined a life in the North, the fierce honor of the Starks, the warmth of a hearth shared between husband and wife, and the promise of a family. Torrhen would have been yours and yours alone. His loyalty and affection were clear in every letter, in every word whispered between couriers.

But Aegon... Aegon grew jealous. He called off the betrothal without a word to you, with a simple, royal command. And now, you sit here, a queen in name, yet more of a pawn than ever before.

The door to your chambers opens softly, the sound of boots upon stone barely audible over the crackling of the fire. You do not turn. You know who it is.

"Y/N," Aegon's voice rumbles low, rich with the quiet authority of a conqueror. He does not have to ask permission to enter; this is his castle, and you are his wife.

"You shouldn’t be here," you say quietly, your eyes still on the flames. "Not tonight."

"And yet, here I am." His voice is closer now, and you feel the heat of his presence behind you. "You’ve denied me time and time again."

You stand, your hands tightening into fists at your sides, still refusing to face him. "Because this was not meant to be. You took my future from me, Aegon. Torrhen was—" Your voice cracks, though you try to hold your composure. "I was meant to marry him. I was meant to be his only wife, to have his children. You stole that from me."

Aegon steps around to face you, his violet eyes, so like your own, burning with a mixture of frustration and something deeper. His silver hair, shining in the firelight, falls loosely about his shoulders, making him seem more a dragon than a man.

"You speak of duty as if you do not know it, sister," he says, his voice softer now, though no less commanding. "Do you truly believe you could have lived in the North? Away from your blood? Away from me?"

His words send a chill through you, a reminder of the bond that ties you both. You were born into the same fire, raised together, shared in the same dreams of conquest. But his love, twisted as it has become, feels like chains wrapping around your heart.

"I would have learned," you whisper, your throat tight. "For Torrhen, I would have made a home there."

"And you would have grown cold," Aegon replies, stepping closer, his hands reaching out to grasp your arms. "The North would have frozen the fire in your blood. You belong with me, Y/N. We were meant to rule together."

You yank your arms away from his grip, taking a step back, your eyes blazing. "No, Aegon. You and Visenya, you and Rhaenys, were meant to rule. I was an afterthought. You married me out of jealousy, not love. You couldn’t bear the thought of me in the arms of another man."

Aegon’s jaw tightens, and for a moment, you see the flicker of anger in his eyes. He steps forward again, but you hold your ground.

"You speak as though I do not care for you," he says, his voice dangerously low. "I made a banner in your honor. You fly your own colors, the colors of Tesaerix, because you are more than just my wife. You are my queen, my equal."

"I never asked for that," you snap, your voice rising, the pain and anger finally spilling over. "I never wanted a crown, Aegon. I wanted a life. You took that from me when you sent Torrhen away."

He is silent for a long moment, his eyes searching your face as if looking for some hint of the sister who once stood by his side, unwavering in her support. But that girl is gone now, replaced by a woman hardened by the reality of her fate.

"Perhaps," he says finally, his voice softer now, almost resigned. "But we cannot change the past. You are mine, Y/N. Whether you accept it or not."

You turn your back to him again, the weight of his words pressing down on you. You hear him move toward the door, his boots heavy on the stone floor. For a moment, you think he will leave. But then, his voice breaks the silence once more.

"One day, you will come to understand why I did what I did. And when that day comes, I will be here. Waiting."

The door closes behind him, the sound echoing in the stillness of your chambers. You are left alone once more, the fire burning low, its warmth doing little to chase away the cold that has settled deep in your bones.

You sink to the floor before the hearth, staring into the dying flames, and wonder if there will ever come a day when you can forgive him—if you even want to.

The grand hall of Dragonstone feels heavy with silence as you sit at the long, stone-carved table. The walls are adorned with tapestries depicting the glory of Old Valyria, the ancestors watching with cold, lifeless eyes. You sit between Rhaenys and Visenya, with Aegon at the head, his silver hair gleaming in the candlelight. The air is thick with the unspoken weight of your marriage, lingering over the table like a shadow.

The food before you remains untouched. Plates of roasted meats, rich gravies, and spiced wine fill the room with tempting aromas, but you have no appetite. Your mind is elsewhere, churning with thoughts of the future that was stolen from you. Torrhen’s face, sharp and distant like the North itself, lingers in your memory.

Visenya breaks the silence, her voice sharp and direct, as is her way. "Y/N," she says, her violet eyes piercing as they settle on you, "when will you finally do your duty to our brother?"

Her words hang in the air, and you feel the weight of everyone's gaze upon you. Rhaenys shifts beside you, her warm, gentle nature a silent contrast to Visenya's cold command. You take a slow breath, gripping the edge of your goblet, the cool metal pressing into your palm.

"If this is about duty, sister," you reply, your voice calm but edged with steel, "then Aegon should come to you. Isn’t that what you care for most, Visenya? Duty?"

Visenya’s eyes narrow, her lips a thin line. "It is our duty to secure the future of our house. You were born for this. You were married for this."

"I was married," you cut in, the words sharper than you intend, "because our brother couldn’t stomach the thought of another man having me." Your gaze flickers to Aegon, who has remained silent, watching the exchange with his usual unreadable expression. "Or is that something none of us are supposed to speak of?"

Rhaenys’ soft, musical voice tries to ease the tension. "We are family, Y/N. Aegon is trying to—"

"To what?" you interrupt, turning your gaze on her. "To make me love him as you do? If our brother seeks love and soft caresses, he should come to you, Rhaenys. You always give him what he desires, don’t you?"

Rhaenys flinches at the harshness of your tone, her eyes lowering to her untouched plate. You almost feel a pang of guilt for your words, but the storm of emotion inside you doesn’t let you stop.

Aegon’s gaze finally lifts from his plate, meeting yours. His violet eyes, usually so hard to read, flicker with something—anger? Hurt? Perhaps both. But he says nothing, allowing the silence to deepen, allowing you to stew in the consequences of your words.

Visenya’s voice cuts through again, colder than before. "You may think you are different from us, Y/N, but you are not. We all carry the same blood. We all have the same purpose. Do not forget that."

You push your chair back abruptly, the scraping of wood against stone breaking the silence. The sound echoes through the hall, reverberating off the high ceilings. You rise, standing tall, your hands clenched at your sides.

"I haven’t forgotten," you say, your voice bitter. "But perhaps I was never meant to be part of this."

Without another word, you turn and leave the table, your untouched meal forgotten behind you. You walk swiftly through the hall, your footsteps muffled by the heavy carpets, and once you pass the threshold, the cold air of Dragonstone greets you like a slap. It chills your skin, but you welcome it. It’s a reminder that despite everything, you are still free to make some choices. Even if only in small rebellions.

As you make your way down the corridor, the sounds of your siblings fade behind you. You are alone once more, with nothing but the distant cries of dragons and the pounding of your heart to accompany you.

The hall feels emptier once you’re gone, the echo of your departing footsteps swallowed by the vastness of the space. For a long moment, no one speaks. The air is filled with your absence, and the untouched food on your plate remains a quiet accusation of all that was left unsaid.

Aegon sits motionless, his hands resting on the table, fingers curled around the goblet he hasn’t touched. His shoulders slump slightly, the weight of something far heavier than a crown pressing down on him. His face, usually impassive and stern, is now unguarded, a mixture of frustration, pain, and an unfamiliar vulnerability etched into his features. The Conqueror, the dragon lord, looks fragile—broken, even.

Rhaenys watches him, her eyes full of concern, though she remains silent for once. Her gentle attempts to soothe the tension earlier had been met with resistance, and now she seems at a loss, her gaze flicking between Aegon and Visenya. Her hands rest lightly on her lap, fingers trembling just slightly as she resists the urge to reach for Aegon.

Visenya, on the other hand, is still as stone. Her lips are pressed into a thin line, and her eyes remain cold, unreadable. The eldest of you, always the embodiment of purpose, of resolve, watches Aegon closely but makes no move to comfort him. Her hands, wrapped around her knife and fork, remain steady, continuing her meal as though nothing had happened, though she chews slowly, her eyes calculating.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Aegon’s voice breaks the silence, though it is barely more than a whisper. "She hates me."

His words hang in the air, and for a moment, no one speaks. Aegon’s grip tightens around the goblet, and one can see the whiteness of his knuckles as though the tension might shatter the cup. His head is bowed, and for the first time, he looks… lost.

"She does not hate you," Rhaenys says softly, her voice thick with sympathy. "She’s angry. Hurt. But hate?" She shakes her head, her dark curls catching the firelight. "That is not what this is."

Aegon’s lips twitch, a bitter smile flickering at the corners. "She does not love me, Rhaenys. And she never will."

Visenya’s voice is sharp, cutting through the fragile moment like the edge of a blade. "Love is not why she was wed to you, brother. Love was never the purpose." She sets her knife and fork down deliberately, the clink of metal against the plate unnervingly calm in the face of Aegon’s turmoil. "You knew that."

Aegon’s head lifts, his eyes wet and shining with unspoken emotions. He looks at Visenya, his usually hard gaze pleading now, searching her face for some kind of answer. "But I wanted it," he says, the words rough, torn from somewhere deep inside him. "I wanted her to love me, as she would have loved Stark. Is that so wrong?"

Visenya’s expression doesn’t change. Her voice remains cold, unwavering. "You are her brother, her king. You were never meant to be her lover in the way you want."

Rhaenys, sensing the deepening wound, reaches across the table, her hand hovering just above Aegon’s arm. "She’s young still, Aegon," she says softly, her voice filled with her usual warmth. "She has not yet come to terms with her place. In time, perhaps…"

Aegon pulls away from her touch, his hand falling from the goblet to rest heavily on the table. "No," he mutters, shaking his head. "She will never come to terms with this. She will always look at me as if I am the one who destroyed her life." His voice breaks slightly, and he presses his palms into his eyes, as though trying to hold himself together, to keep the pain from spilling out.

"Then stop chasing her love," Visenya says, her voice devoid of sympathy. "Do your duty. Take her to your bed, sire her children, and end this farce of a romance you have created in your mind."

Aegon’s hands drop from his face, and he looks at her, stunned. "Is that all you see in this? Duty?"

Visenya’s eyes meet his, cold and unwavering. "That is all there ever was for us."

The silence that follows is deafening, broken only by the crackle of the hearth. Aegon turns his gaze to the fire, his shoulders sagging even further under the weight of Visenya’s words. The great conqueror, the king who united the Seven Kingdoms, is reduced to this—a man who sought love from someone who could not give it.

Rhaenys, her heart breaking at the sight of her brother in such despair, shifts in her seat, but she knows that no words of hers will soothe him now. Aegon has always carried the burden of their dynasty alone, but tonight, it has grown too heavy, even for him.

"You have us," Rhaenys says quietly, though her voice trembles with emotion. "You will always have us, Aegon."

But Aegon does not respond. His eyes remain fixed on the flames, and for the first time in your life, you see him not as the Conqueror, not as the dragon lord who tamed the world, but as a man—lost and alone in a castle full of people who love him, yet none who can give him what he truly desires.

And so the meal continues in silence, the clatter of cutlery and the crackling fire the only sounds in the hall. The untouched plates before you all bear witness to the shattered remnants of your family’s fragile bonds, while outside, the wind and the sea howl against the ancient walls of Dragonstone.

The sea winds howl outside your chambers, the sound haunting and relentless, like the cry of some distant, wounded beast. You sit by the open window, gazing out into the dark night, the vast ocean stretching far beyond the horizon, endless and full of promise. Your mind wanders to Tesaerix, resting in her lair below. You imagine her golden and cream scales shimmering in the moonlight, the crimson undertones beneath them gleaming like freshly spilled blood. She is your escape, your one chance at freedom.

You toy with the thought, turning it over and over in your mind—leaving this place. Far from Dragonstone, from Westeros, from the suffocating weight of duty and broken promises. Essos calls to you like a whisper on the wind, a distant land where dragons are still revered and feared, where you could carve out a life for yourself far from Aegon’s reach. You could mount Tesaerix tonight, ride her across the Narrow Sea and never look back.

The idea pulls at you, tempting you more with every passing moment. To be free of this cursed marriage, free of the bitter silence and the constant reminders of what you’ve lost. But it’s not just the present that haunts you—it’s the past, the memories of a love that was torn from you before it had the chance to bloom.

Your mind drifts back to Torrhen Stark, the man you were meant to marry. The King in the North, a man of honor and quiet strength, so different from the fire and chaos of your family. You think of the first time you met him, after he had bent the knee to Aegon. He had refused to take you as a war prize, refused to make you his by conquest, despite the whispers of your brothers. He had chosen to see you as something more, as someone worth knowing, worth loving.

You remember the way his eyes had softened when he looked at you, the way his gruff voice had gentled whenever he spoke your name. It had been a brief time, but intense—your feelings for him had grown quickly, like a wildfire racing through a dry forest. You’d fallen in love with him, hard and fast, and he with you. It was supposed to be an alliance not only of fire and ice, but of hearts.

You can still hear his deep, steady voice, promising you a future in the North. A future where you would be his only wife, where you would bear his children, where you could have the kind of life you dreamed of—one filled with love, respect, and loyalty. It had seemed perfect, a rare gift for someone of your blood, born into a family where duty always outweighed desire.

But then Aegon had taken that from you. He had changed his mind as suddenly as a storm sweeping over the sea, without explanation, without reason. One moment, your future with Torrhen had been certain, and the next, it was gone. Aegon had called off the betrothal, declaring that you were to remain in Dragonstone and marry him instead.

Your world had shattered in that instant. The life you had planned with Torrhen, the love you had begun to build, all of it ripped away before it had the chance to take root. You had cried out, fought against it, pleaded with Aegon to reconsider, but his decision was final. The bond between fire and ice, the life you had dreamed of in the North, vanished like smoke in the wind.

The memory of Torrhen’s face, when you told him of Aegon’s decision, still haunts you. His features had hardened, the quiet grief in his eyes breaking your heart all over again. He had not blamed you; how could he, when you had been as much a victim of your brother’s jealousy as he had? But the pain in his silence had cut deeper than any words could have.

You wonder, sometimes, what might have been. What your life would be like now, had Aegon not interfered. You can imagine yourself standing beside Torrhen in Winterfell’s great hall, the warmth of a fire crackling in the hearth, the cold winds of the North howling outside but unable to touch you. You would have had a home there. A real home, with Torrhen by your side, with the love you had begun to build blossoming into something strong and unbreakable.

But here, in this cold, dark castle, you are alone. You are Aegon’s wife, yes, but in name only. There is no love here, only duty, only the weight of expectations and a future you never wanted.

Your gaze shifts to the sea, the waves crashing against the cliffs below. The pull to leave is stronger now. You imagine the wind whipping through your hair as Tesaerix soars above the clouds, the world falling away beneath you as you fly far, far from here. Essos, the Free Cities, perhaps even beyond the Shadow Lands. Anywhere that is not here, anywhere that is far from the suffocating grip of your brother and the life he has forced upon you.

You stand, the cool night air brushing against your skin as you move toward the window. Tesaerix waits, her powerful wings and fiery breath ready to carry you to freedom. All it would take is a single command, a whispered word, and you could be gone. You could leave this place behind, leave Aegon and Visenya and Rhaenys and the weight of their expectations, and start a new life far from the shadow of the Iron Throne.

But then Torrhen’s face flashes in your mind again, and you falter. The North is lost to you, but would running away truly be any better? Would it bring you the peace you crave, or would it only leave you even more adrift, without even the faint hope of reclaiming what was taken from you?

Your hand rests on the stone window ledge, cold and hard beneath your palm. The choice stands before you, vast and open like the sea. Stay and endure, or fly away and risk everything for the chance at a new beginning.

For now, you remain. The wind howls, but the decision is not yet made.

For two weeks, Aegon comes to your chambers each night, his steps soft but purposeful as he approaches the door. You always hear him before he arrives, the distant echo of boots on stone corridors signaling yet another attempt. Every time, he brings something—a token of affection, as if material offerings could mend the chasm between you.

At first, it is fine silk from distant lands, robes embroidered with dragons and flames, the kind of luxury that would make others swoon. Then, he brings rare books, scrolls of knowledge written in the ancient Valyrian tongue, words meant to remind you of your shared heritage. One night, he brings a necklace of rubies, its deep red glistening like dragonfire in the low light. The next, a golden ring with the Targaryen sigil engraved on it, a symbol of the dynasty you are bound to by blood and duty.

Each gift you receive with a polite, distant nod, setting them aside, your heart unmoved. The weight of his gaze is always upon you, a mixture of hope and frustration lingering in his violet eyes. His words are softer now than they were in the beginning, his anger quelled, replaced by a quiet desperation. He is trying to win you, but the harder he tries, the more distant you feel.

The final gift he brings is a crown—delicate, finely crafted, with jewels of crimson and gold embedded in the pale metal. It is beautiful, a queen's crown, meant to match his. When he places it on your lap, he watches you with an intensity that makes the air thick between you, waiting for something—for approval, for gratitude, for love.

But you only stare at it, unmoving.

"This is yours," he says, his voice almost pleading now. "You are a queen in your own right, Y/N. Not just my sister, but my equal. You deserve this."

Your fingers brush the cold metal of the crown, but it feels like chains, not a symbol of power. You lift your gaze to meet his, your voice steady but firm. "I never wanted a crown, Aegon."

The hurt flickers in his eyes, but you have nothing left to give him. He leaves, the crown sitting abandoned on the edge of your bed, gleaming in the dim light as if mocking you.

One day, his words change.

Aegon enters your chambers, but there is a new tension in the way he moves, a sense of finality in the air. He doesn't bring a gift this time, only the weight of a decision made. You watch him, already knowing something is different.

“We leave for King’s Landing soon," he says, his voice more formal than it has been in weeks. "Aegonfort is ready for us. It will be our new home, where we will build the future of our house."

You feel the words like a cold wind sweeping over you. Aegonfort, the seat of his conquest, the beginning of the new kingdom he is carving out. The idea of leaving Dragonstone—leaving the sea, the cliffs, the only place you’ve ever truly known—sends a chill down your spine. Aegon might see King’s Landing as his victory, but for you, it feels like another cage.

"I don’t want to go," you say, your voice flat, devoid of emotion.

Aegon pauses, as if he didn’t hear you properly, as if he can’t comprehend that you would refuse. “You have to go,” he says slowly, as though speaking to a child. "You are my wife, my queen. You belong at my side."

You rise from where you’ve been sitting, facing him fully, your heart racing with the surge of rebellion that has been growing inside you for weeks. "I belong here," you say, gesturing to the stone walls, to the island that has been your sanctuary, even in the darkest times. "I do not want to go to King’s Landing, to sit in that castle you built, watching you and Visenya and Rhaenys pretend that everything is perfect."

He steps toward you, his face tightening, a flash of anger returning to his features. "You think you can remain here, alone, while the rest of us build our kingdom? This is not a choice, Y/N. You are my wife."

"I never wanted to be," you snap, the words finally breaking free from your lips, bitter and sharp. "You made me your wife, but you never asked me what I wanted. You took me from the future I could have had, from Torrhen—"

"Stark, again? Torrhen is not your future," Aegon interrupts, his voice hardening now. "I am."

"You stole my future, Aegon," you retort, your voice trembling with the weight of your grief. "You took away the one thing I had, and now you expect me to be grateful for this life you’ve forced upon me? You expect me to follow you to your new castle and wear this crown and play the role of your queen?"

His jaw clenches, and for a moment, he says nothing. The silence stretches between you, tense and suffocating. Then, slowly, he steps back, his eyes dark with something you can’t name—anger, yes, but there’s more. Regret? Hurt?

“You will come,” he says finally, his voice low and rough, almost a whisper. “Whether you wish it or not, Y/N. You will come with us.”

You turn away from him, your back to the man who has taken everything from you. You hear him leave the room, his footsteps heavy and final, but the emptiness he leaves behind feels like the deepest cut of all.

You are alone once more, staring out the window at the distant sea. Tesaerix calls to you from the depths of your soul, her distant roars echoing in your mind. The thought of running away comes back to you, stronger now than ever. But for now, you remain, standing at the precipice of a decision that could change everything.

The sun is high in the sky as you and your siblings take flight, the winds rushing past as your dragons soar over the shimmering sea. Below, the jagged cliffs of Dragonstone grow smaller with every wingbeat. Tesaerix flies gracefully beneath you, her golden and cream scales glinting in the sunlight, the deep crimson undertones flickering like blood in the wind. For a moment, you feel weightless—free. The burden of your marriage, of your crown, seems far away in the skies.

Ahead of you, Aegon leads the way on Balerion, the massive black dragon casting a long shadow over the sea. Rhaenys is beside him, her Meraxes keeping pace, and to your left flies Visenya, Vhagar’s powerful wings slicing through the air. The three of them are focused on King's Landing, their eyes set on the growing kingdom they are about to build. But your heart is elsewhere.

You glance down at the sea, endless and blue, stretching toward Essos. The temptation has been gnawing at you for weeks, the thought of breaking away, of flying far from here. Away from Aegon, from the fate that has been thrust upon you. The wind rushes through your hair as you tighten your grip on Tesaerix’s reins, your mind made up.

With a subtle shift in pressure, you command her to turn, pulling away from the formation. Tesaerix tilts her wings, veering off course, away from King’s Landing, away from your brother. Your heart races, a mix of fear and exhilaration filling your veins as you set your sights on the horizon, where the lands of Essos lie in the distance, beyond the reach of Aegon’s grasp.

Behind you, Aegon’s voice rises above the wind, calling your name, desperate and commanding. “Y/N! Turn back!”

But you don’t. You don’t even glance behind you. The sound of his voice fades as you fly farther, the space between you growing wider with every passing second. Tesaerix roars beneath you, as if sensing your resolve, her powerful wings beating faster as she surges toward freedom.

For the first time in what feels like an eternity, you feel alive. The weight of duty, of marriage, of everything that has kept you chained to this life begins to slip away, carried off by the wind. The open skies of Essos call to you like a promise, and for a brief, fleeting moment, you believe you might make it.

Then you hear the deep, thunderous roar of Vhagar.

Visenya.

You glance over your shoulder, and there she is—Visenya, fierce and relentless, closing the distance between you with terrifying speed. Vhagar, far larger than Tesaerix, cuts through the air with powerful, determined strokes. Visenya’s face is set in cold determination, her eyes locked on you with the same intensity she wears in battle.

“Y/N, stop!” she commands, her voice cold as steel, cutting through the wind like a blade. Vhagar roars again, a sound so deep and menacing it sends a shiver down your spine. But you do not stop. You push Tesaerix harder, willing her to fly faster, to escape the inevitable.

But Visenya is not one to be outrun.

Vhagar catches up, pulling alongside you with terrifying ease, her massive bulk dwarfing Tesaerix. Visenya leans forward in her saddle, her voice filled with authority. “Turn back, Y/N! Now!”

Your jaw clenches, your heart pounding in your chest. You meet her gaze for a moment, the defiance in your eyes clear. But Visenya does not waver. Her eyes are cold, unforgiving, and in that moment, you know she will force you back if she has to. She will not let you leave.

The wind whips around you as you pull Tesaerix to slow her flight, the moment of freedom slipping away from you as Vhagar looms beside you, a reminder of the chains that bind you. Visenya’s gaze does not leave yours, and she waits—waits for you to surrender, to accept the inevitable.

With a heavy heart, you tug on the reins, guiding Tesaerix back toward King’s Landing. The dream of escape fades into the distance as you turn, the pull of duty dragging you back toward the life you never wanted. Visenya does not speak again, but her presence is a silent command that you dare not disobey.

As you fly back toward Aegon and Rhaenys, the open skies of Essos behind you, the taste of freedom lingers on your tongue like ashes.

The moment Tesaerix touches the ground, the reality of your failed escape crashes down upon you like a wave. Her powerful wings fold at her sides, but there is no pride in her stance now—only the stillness of submission, forced upon you both by Visenya and Vhagar’s dominance.

You barely have time to catch your breath when Balerion descends, the great shadow of the Black Dread falling over you. His monstrous bulk blocks Tesaerix’s path back to the skies, his massive wings spread wide like an impenetrable wall. Aegon sits atop him, his expression dark, stormy, and unreadable. Rhaenys and Meraxes circle high above, silent witnesses to your humiliation.

The ground trembles as Balerion lands, his roar a deep, earth-shaking sound that makes the ground beneath your feet vibrate. You can feel Tesaerix shifting beneath you, uneasy but still under your control—for now. But even she can sense the finality of what is about to happen.

Aegon swings down from Balerion’s saddle, his steps heavy as he approaches you. His face, usually so composed, is a mix of anger and something close to disbelief. When he speaks, his voice is low, cold. "You would abandon us. Abandon me."

Your heart pounds in your chest, each beat like a hammer against stone. "Aegon, I—"

"You fled from your duty, Y/N," he interrupts, his voice growing harsher. His violet eyes bore into you, as if he’s searching for some understanding of why you would run. "What were you thinking? Were you going to Essos? Were you going to leave us all behind?"

His words cut deep, the sharpness of his accusation stinging more than you expected. But you lift your chin, defiance still burning in your chest. "You took everything from me, Aegon. You took my future, my choice, my life. I wanted to escape—to find something that was mine."

For a moment, his expression softens, as though he might understand. But then, his gaze hardens again. He turns to the soldiers who have gathered nearby, his voice carrying a command that makes your blood run cold. "Chain her dragon."

You feel the words like a physical blow. "No." Your voice is a whisper at first, and then louder, desperation filling it. "No! Aegon, you can’t—please, don’t do this!"

But he does not waver. The soldiers begin to move toward Tesaerix, and she growls low in her throat, sensing the threat. You scramble down from the saddle, running to stand between the men and your dragon, your heart pounding in your chest. "She’s done nothing wrong! You can’t punish her for what I did!"

Aegon’s face is hard, his jaw set. "She’s your dragon, Y/N. You tried to flee on her back. This is to ensure it doesn’t happen again."

"I’ll stay, I’ll do whatever you ask, just don’t chain her," you beg, your voice cracking with desperation. You look into his eyes, hoping—praying—that somewhere inside him, the brother you once knew still exists. "Please, Aegon. Don’t take her freedom. She’s not like Balerion or Vhagar—she’s mine. Please."

But your pleas fall on deaf ears. His gaze flickers, but his resolve does not falter. "This is for your own good. You will not leave us again."

You watch in horror as the chains are brought forth, heavy iron links meant to bind Tesaerix’s limbs and wings. She lets out a deep, angry roar, thrashing against the soldiers who dare approach her, but they move swiftly, well-practiced in subduing dragons. The weight of the chains soon drags her wings down, grounding her in a way that feels like a betrayal to everything she is—a creature of the skies, bound to the earth like a prisoner.

You fall to your knees, tears streaming down your face as you reach out to touch her, your hand trembling as it presses against her warm scales. "I’m sorry," you whisper, your voice shaking. "I’m so sorry."

Tesaerix rumbles softly, her eyes meeting yours, but there is a sadness in her gaze, a reflection of the helplessness you both feel.

Aegon watches from a distance, his expression unreadable now, but you can see the faint trace of guilt in his eyes. He turns his back to you, as if unable to bear the sight of your anguish.

Visenya remains mounted on Vhagar, her gaze sharp and unyielding. She offers no comfort, no sympathy. This is what must be done in her eyes, a necessary lesson in control. Rhaenys, still observing from above, does not intervene either. Her silence speaks volumes, but her presence feels distant, like she is struggling with the sight of your suffering.

The chains rattle as they secure the last link, the sound like a death knell in the still air. Tesaerix lowers her head, defeated, and your heart shatters along with her spirit.

You rise slowly to your feet, wiping the tears from your face with trembling hands, your eyes hollow as you look at Aegon one last time. "You’ve broken her," you say, your voice barely more than a whisper. "Just as you’ve broken me."

Aegon does not respond. He does not even turn. And in that moment, you know that the brother you once loved, the brother who might have understood your heart, is gone—replaced by the conqueror who cannot allow defiance, not even from his own blood.

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