#fathers of Westeros nobility

[mejcinta]

Complicated And Manipulative Father–Daughter Relationships.

I really enjoy how Alicent and Otto scenes emphasize how Westeros nobility fathers can manipulate their daughters to the point of believing they have broken free when they are in fact still playing into their father's power games.

Like in episode 9 when Alicent calls Otto out for using her like a pawn in her childhood, then goes on to declare Aegon will be crowned in the public eye (a more genius plan Otto had not thought of)....ugh!, that was chef's kiss.

"In certain lights you remind me of your mother," Otto said, with a smug look on his face. He was pleased that his coaching had come full circle, creating a shrewd quick-witted Queen of his poor, delicate little girl. A vulnerable, innocent, grieving girl he SHOULD have protected but instead preyed upon to secure an important position for himself and his House in the game of thrones.

I would like to see father-daughter scenes like these with Rhaena and Daemon, but as a contrast to the Otto/Alicent manipulation game; as Rhaena slowly realizes she can never match up to Daemon's standard of a worthy Targaryen.

Unlike Alicent, Rhaena is freer and eager even to please. There's a naivety there, but also a deep desire to gain Daemon's recognition. It's a manipulation game of sorts, but rather different from Alicent's.

Daemon was as much a plotter as Otto was, using his children like political pawns in the Game he was losing as a result of being relegated in the line of succession when Rhaenyra was named heir in his stead.

When Laena could not grant him sons he swiftly moved to Rhaenyra (a more eligible catch in terms of proximity to the Throne that would go on to give him trueborn male heirs).

We are shown that he treats Rhaena disparagingly compared to Baela, who hatched a dragon and was skilled more or less in combat.

Rhaena will later be sent to the Vale for lack of a dragon (I hope they make some changes to this) and had to grow up without the validation and unconditional love of her father as a result of not meeting Daemon's set standards of Targaryen power.

This could help explain why Rhaena later made choices Daemon would have frowned upon were he alive, marrying men of considerably lower social standing from the Vale and Oldtown (Corwyn Corbray, a widower and Garmund Hightower, a third son); men from regions that Daemon despised with a passion for his tainted history with the Royce's and the Hightowers.

I'm eager to see if the writers will grant Rhaena and Daemon an angle in season 2, to explore their complicated father-daughter relationship just as they did beautifully with Alicent and Otto in those few impactful scenes.

It would be a missed opportunity if they do not.

[stuffedeggplants]

Another aspect to this is that the expectations for how the ideal Westerosi noblewoman should act would heavily punish Rhaenyra even implicitly acknowledging that her Strong children are bastards, which the request to Viserys to legitimize them would do. Honor in Westeros is a pivotal cultural force that both men and women are beholden to, but for women, their honor is tied to their sexuality in a way that it isn't for men.

When it comes out that Daemon and Rhaenyra were "coupling" in a brothel, the main issue for our characters isn't incest or exploitation, it's that Rhaenyra may have lost her virginity (her 'maidenhead') out of wedlock and her honor and value as a woman along with it. Marriage is a political tool; if all of Westeros believes that Rhaenyra has slept with a man outside of marriage, it could be more difficult to marry her off into the most powerful, prestigious houses. This isn't an abstract thing-- by losing the opportunity to form alliances with these houses, you lose access to the resources they command. (Specialized military units, strategic geographic features, the economic power of major trading hubs and shipping lanes, rich farmland that can be worked year-round, etc.) Like Viserys said, perception is everything, and regardless of what actually happened between Daemon and Rhaenyra in the brothel, if the elite class believes that Rhaenyra has acted inappropriately and lost her honor as a woman, the political consequences are real and her reputation and value have been diminished forever. This is not a good look for Rhaenyra as the heir to the iron throne, especially considering how much she's fighting against the gale of cultural expectations already by being a female heir. Her honor needs to be unimpeachable, or at least appear to be so. People can question it privately, but speaking it publicly is a completely different matter because it destroys the image that the ruler is trying to project.

If Rhaenyra asks Viserys to legitimize her children by Ser Strong, it's essentially a public confession that they are indeed bastards. It tells all the major power players that she has broken with the restrictive norms of female sexuality, and has broken the oath of fidelity to her husband that is the marriage contract. Keeping one's oaths is another source of honor and personal respectability, and because Rhaenyra was born female, admitting her sons are bastards is doubly worse for her because of how tightly honor, respectability, and the legitimacy of her as a monarch are bound up with expectations for female behavior/sexuality. Pretty much everyone knows that it's nonsense and that her children actually are Ser Strong's, but with how their social dynamics work, there's no benefit to openly speaking the truth unless you want to delegitimize Rhaenyra and House Targaryen for your own benefit. If you want Rhaenyra on the throne, you need to be furthering and maintaining the perception, if illusory, that Rhaenyra is an honorable woman by Westerosi standards. Her sexual behavior and fidelity to her husband cannot be under question.

Tl;dr - The Westerosi concept of honor is tied to patriarchy and double-standards for female sexuality in such a way that it makes it impossible for Rhaenyra to even implicitly acknowledge the truth of her sons' parentage if she wants to maintain legitimacy as a female political actor and (future) monarch.

I've seen a number of posts both on this website and others saying something to the degree of "Rhaenyra could have just asked Viserys to legitimize the Strong boys!" And while I'm all for being critical of Rhaenyra's decisions, this is not the cure-all that it's made out to be. So what am I gonna do? Write a wall of text about it!

Here in the HotD fandom, people are much more inclined to defend Jace, Luke, and Joffrey Velaryon than they would Joffrey Baratheon or Ramsay Snow. But because prejudice towards illegitimate children is so foreign to most Western viewers, I've noticed that the default seems to be parroting the talking points of their preferred side: either their Targaryen blood is all that matters because Laenor is fine with them, or they're proof that Rhaenyra is unfit to rule because she's trying to pass off Harwin's sons as legitimate.

The "just legitimize them" folks seem to come from both groups, painting it as an easy solution for her problems or calling her stupid for not doing so. They recognize that illegitimacy is a much bigger problem in Westeros than it is for us, but this argument pretty significantly underestimates the scope of that problem.

In the books, Rhaenyra had an extra measure of plausible deniability. Rhaenys was dark-haired, and her sons could theoretically have inherited it from their grandmother. In the show, their race makes it very obvious that they are not Laenor's. Instead of arguing something that is clearly a lie, why not go to Viserys and ask him to legitimize her sons? If Rhaenyra and Laenor presented a unified front on the matter, what's the issue?

Well, asking Viserys to legitimize Jace, Luke, and Joffrey would mean admitting that they're bastards in the first place.

Just as it is treason to question the legitimacy of trueborn heirs, it is similarly treason to pass off bastards as legitimate heirs to the Iron Throne (see: Cersei and her children). Viserys has his head pretty firmly buried in the sand on this issue - his horse anecdote to Alicent is pretty good evidence that he's convinced himself it's a quirk of genetics, not that Rhaenyra is lying, though one could argue that he does know and is just choosing not to say anything (see: how he publicly accepted Rhaenyra's story regarding Daemon and the brothel, but sent her moon tea afterwards). If she went to Viserys and said she's been lying for years and would like her sons to be legitimized please, he would probably pardon her for treason and do it without question, but this is the kind of crime that people get executed for. Massive risk if she's wrong.

If the matter could remain between Rhaenyra, Laenor, and Viserys, then the risk is much lower, but for legitimizing her sons to mean anything, it needs to be public. That means admitting publicly to the lords of the Seven Kingdoms that she has spent years knowingly committing treason, cuckolding her husband, and planning to install illegitimate children as heirs to the Iron Throne and to Driftmark. This is an extremely bad look for the heir to the Seven Kingdoms.

The safest moment to ask, with the least social backlash, would have been when Jace was a baby or small child, when she could call it one horrible mistake and play the penitent who went to her father as soon as she realized he wasn't Laenor's. This wouldn't work more than once, so she would have to take precautions to ensure she has no more children by Harwin. By the time Joffrey is born, that ship has long since sailed.

So let's say that at some undetermined point after Joffrey is born, she goes to Viserys and gets her kids legitimized in a big public ceremony, maybe including a vow to uphold Jace's claim like the one the lords once swore to her. They're legitimate now, and there's a pardon for the associated treason. Why wouldn't this solve her problems?

Many of Rhaenyra's allies are those who see her as the lawful heir, and see supporting her as the right, honorable thing to do. If she admits to years of infidelity and treason, she's going to alienate large portions of that group for moral reasons, pardon or no pardon. It's a serious propaganda loss that gives the Greens plenty of ammunition to accuse her of being a promiscuous lawbreaker. "If she's admitting to treason, what else is she doing that she won't admit to?"

Then there's the fact that conveying legitimacy onto Rhaenyra's sons is not necessarily enough to clear the stigma attached to their birth. A Wiki of Ice and Fire does an excellent job of summarizing it:

There is a certain stigma that comes from being born as a bastard. They are said to be born from lust, lies, and weakness, and as such, they are said to be wanton and treacherous by nature.

They're treacherous "by nature." Is that a ridiculous belief? Yes, absolutely. That doesn't mean it's not a belief that holds sway in Westeros, that will continue to affect her sons. Even legitimized bastards are not fully accepted (see: the assassination attempt on Alyn Velaryon, the bad reputations for all of Aegon IV's Great Bastards, and the admittedly deserved hatred for Ramsay Snow even after he became Ramsay Bolton.) Daemon Blackfyre is the sort of exception that proves the rule - he gathered support through immense personal charisma, but his supporters also weaponized accusations of illegitimacy against his rival Daeron II. While Rhaenyra's sons already face plenty of prejudice as suspected bastards, she's not making their lives any easier by confirming it. Your average Lord Joe in (for example) the Westerlands, who's never met a Velaryon or a Strong, could have shrugged and dismissed the accusations; that possibility is now destroyed. A woman on the Iron Throne is already a hard sell, and a legitimized bastard on the Iron Throne is an even harder sell.

Finally, it would cost her the support of House Velaryon, one of her greatest allies, and remove the Velaryon name from her sons. The Strong boys would be legitimized as Jace, Luke, and Joffrey Targaryen, because of their mother, but once you acknowledge that they have no blood relation to Laenor, they don't get to be Velaryons anymore (no, their great-great-great grandmother Alyssa Velaryon is not enough). That's the way legitimizing bastards works in Westeros, they are treated as though they're trueborn children of their parents (in this case, Rhaenyra and Harwin). There's no real precedent for adoption the way Rhaenyra and Laenor would want to do it.

Corlys was willing to let Luke inherit based on the principle that "history remembers names, not blood," but once you establish for the history books that they're very much not Laenor's and Rhaenyra was cuckolding him (the fact that it's consensual would make it even more embarrassing for House Velaryon, because they live in a culture of toxic masculinity and homophobia), then Corlys is going to drop his support.

Rhaenyra could try to force the Driftmark issue, but she would be playing an extremely dangerous game. In Westeros, you can't just inherit things willy-nilly, there needs to be a connection to the seat in question to begin with (see: Ramsay Bolton needed to marry "Arya Stark" in order to get Winterfell, Robert Baratheon's ascension justified through his Targaryen grandmother). Naming heirs works for when claims start getting messy (see: Daemon vs Rhaenyra, Baela vs Luke-as-Laenor's-son, Robb Stark's heir) but there needs to be a reasonable relation to begin with, and "Because Laenor Said So" is unlikely to pass muster among House Velaryon or most lords of Westeros. If Viserys orders that Luke shall inherit Driftmark without any blood relation, he's setting a dangerous precedent that's going to make just about every lord nervous about losing their own holdings. When you're relying on the lords to support your claim, it's not a great idea to alienate them by reducing their power.

So there you have it. Rhaenyra could theoretically have Viserys legitimize her sons, but it would come at the cost of support for herself and her sons' claim to the Iron Throne. Insisting that her sons are trueborn Velaryons doesn't look like a great strategy, but I think that for Rhaenyra personally it's the best of two bad options.

[idkyetxoxo]

Cregan Stark - Northern Frost Southern Sun

Summary - In the unforgiving North, a Southern princess struggles with her political marriage to Cregan, feeling like an outsider. As she voices her insecurities, their bond deepens, transforming their alliance into a passionate connection that bridges the divide between their worlds.

Pairing - Cregan Stark x Martell reader

Warnings - Sexual content (smut!)

Word count - 2124

Masterlist for Cregan • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

Born into nobility, my life had always felt scripted—a path inked not by my own desires but by the hands of the men around me. 

My father, my uncle, my brother, even the echoes of my grandfather shaped the walls around me. 

As a daughter of House Martell, the rulers of sun-drenched Dorne, my existence was predetermined, my fate a strategy in the game of thrones woven by my father, Prince Qoren Martell himself. 

A Martell daughter, after all, was a prize to be bartered, and he had chosen a formidable match.

He pledged me to Cregan Stark, Lord of House Stark, in the distant, unforgiving North. 

A union as calculated as it was unfeeling, our marriage was intended to bind the desert heat of Dorne with the ice and shadows of Winterfell. 

It was a pact, a quiet promise to fortify our realms and maintain a precarious balance in the ever-shifting powers of Westeros. My father assured me it was for our people, for peace. 

But I knew what the alliance would cost me: the endless winds that sliced through bone, the chill that would burrow into my soul, the lonely shadows that clung to Winterfell's walls like phantoms.

The North was all I had dreaded—an imposing land where silence lingered thickly in the air, and winter settled in more than just the stones. 

Every breath was laced with frost, every glance held a guarded judgment, as if they wondered if this southern-born woman could ever survive in a world so different, so grim. 

And always, there were whispers—"the Dornish wife"—spoken softly yet deliberately, trailing me like spectres through the dim corridors.

Yet amid the cold and the solitude, Cregan Stark surprised me. 

He was not the man I had envisioned: distant and unyielding, a creature as cold as the land he ruled. 

Instead, Cregan had a quiet strength, a kindness that seemed out of place in such a harsh land. He understood, perhaps better than I, the challenges I faced here. 

With subtle gestures and quiet assurances, he tried to ease my discomfort, his attentions more thoughtful than I'd dared hope. He never pressed, but he was there—a grounding presence, a warmth that, little by little, began to soften the edges of my isolation.

A moon had passed since our union. I was neither entirely happy nor entirely sorrowful; I was simply... here. 

Somewhere between contentment and restlessness, caught in a place that wasn't mine yet somehow, piece by piece, was becoming so. 

Winterfell was no closer to being home, but Cregan's attentions made the frigid halls more bearable, his patience an anchor as I drifted, my heart searching for familiarity in a sea of foreignness.

One evening, as twilight painted the snow in hues of indigo and grey, I stood on the balcony, gazing out across Winterfell. 

The frosty landscape stretched endlessly, an ocean of cold where dawn seemed forever on the edge of arriving but never quite here. 

As I watched the endless expanse of snow, I remembered the hot, golden sands of Sunspear. 

In Dorne, the sun-kissed our skin, the scent of ripe figs and sea salt filled the air. Here, every corner held a chill, every shadow seemed to whisper secrets.

In that stillness, I heard a voice—a voice I had come to know well, warm yet edged with the subtle command of a lord.

"What's on your mind?" Cregan's words reached me, low and tender.

Startled, I turned to see him leaning on the railing beside me, his gaze thoughtful. His presence was a welcome warmth, and yet I found myself instinctively closing in, the winter wind cutting through my gown.

"Nothing," I replied, a feeble defence as my voice carried softly into the chill.

He studied me quietly, his eyes catching the slight shiver that ran through me as the wind nipped at my shoulders. 

"Doesn't look like 'nothing,'" he said, his voice low. "You're cold. Come inside." 

Without waiting for my reply, he draped his cloak over my shoulders, guiding me toward the warmth of our chambers, stopping by the hearth as the flames crackled to life.

"I don't belong," I murmured, staring into the fire. My fingers traced the thick Northern fabric of my gown—a cloth I'd hoped would make me feel less like an outsider. 

The weight of the words hung between us as if spoken aloud for the first time, stirring the silence in the dim room.

"What do you mean, my love?" Cregan's voice broke the quiet, a softness I hadn't expected. 

He turned to face me, his eyes searching mine with a rare vulnerability as if my answer mattered more than the words themselves.

I took a long, steadying breath, watching the flames dance and trying to gather the right words. 

"They still see me as different," I whispered. "A stranger, from a land they neither know nor trust. I try to blend in, to be... what I think they want. But sometimes, I wonder if they'll ever truly see me as one of their own." 

My voice trembled as the truth spilt out, deeper than I'd intended. "They whisper, Cregan when they think I can't hear. They don't trust me. And some days, I'm not sure they ever will."

Cregan listened in silence, his gaze steady and unwavering. 

Without a word, he reached for my hand, his calloused fingers rough yet gentle as they enveloped mine, grounding me in the midst of my insecurities.

"Give them time," he said softly, his voice like a balm. "The North can be as harsh as winter itself, slow to warm, but it's not unyielding." 

His hand lifted my chin, guiding my gaze up to meet his. In his eyes, I saw not just kindness, but an unwavering strength, as if he could will my doubts away by the force of his conviction alone.

"You belong here, with me," he said, his voice a quiet promise. "No whispers or frost will ever change that."

I felt his words settle over me like a cloak, their warmth reaching parts of my heart I hadn't realized were cold. But still, uncertainty lingered, stubborn and unrelenting. 

Perhaps sensing my hesitation, Cregan shifted closer, his presence wrapping around me like an unbreakable fortress.

He cupped my cheek with a tenderness that both surprised and soothed me. 

"You are the heat I've always been missing," he murmured, his voice low and thick with meaning. 

Slowly, his hand drifted down, sliding under the folds of my gown with a touch that sent a shiver through me—a sensation born not of the cold, but of something deeper.

"What are you doing?" I asked, a laugh escaping as I fought back my nervousness.

"Showing you." His voice was gentle, a playful glint in his eyes. "Showing you that you belong."

With a tender confidence, his hands moved, sending ripples through me that melted the tension from my body. 

His touch was warm and steady, his fingers tracing up my sides, and for the first time since coming to the North, I felt my fears begin to ease as if his presence alone could erase them. 

The doubts, the whispers—they all faded as his hands explored, each caress a quiet reassurance.

His gaze held mine, unwavering, and in that moment, there was an intimacy that transcended touch, a promise woven in the quiet between us. 

He leaned in, his lips finding mine, capturing them with a gentleness that made me feel like I was being seen for the first time. His kiss was both soft and fervent, his lips warm as they moved against mine, igniting a fire that outmatched any northern hearth.

As his hands roamed over my body, rough and calloused from years of wielding steel, they were uncharacteristically gentle, tracing the lines of my skin as if memorizing each curve. 

His fingers held a kind of reverence, as if I were something precious, not just the wife bound to him by a political alliance but a person who was cherished.

In that moment, he lifted me, guiding me slowly towards the bed, never once breaking the kiss. 

I felt myself sink into the softness of the furs as he laid me down, the flickering fire casting its amber glow across the room, cocooning us in its warmth. 

There was a tenderness in his touch as he caressed me, his movements slow and purposeful, each gesture a quiet declaration.

The world outside the chamber ceased to exist; there was no cold, no looming suspicion, no whispers echoing down the corridors. 

Only Cregan and the fire between us, burning bright and fierce.

His lips trailed down my neck, each kiss a spark that sent warmth radiating through me. He paused, his gaze seeking mine as his hand found the ties of my gown, his touch both reverent and questioning. 

I met his eyes, giving him the permission he silently sought, and with careful, deliberate movements, he began to untie it, each pull of the fabric a slow unveiling.

As the gown slipped away, leaving me bare before him, I felt no vulnerability, only an overwhelming sense of being cherished. 

Cregan's eyes held nothing but admiration, and in that look, he banished every doubt, every whisper that had haunted me since I'd arrived in the North.

"You're beautiful," he murmured, his voice raw and thick with emotion. "So beautiful."

His words soaked into me, warming those fragile places hidden within, and I felt myself drawn to him, my fingers threading into his hair, pulling him close. 

His warmth was a balm, a grounding presence I needed as his lips found mine, slow and deliberate, speaking promises only we could hear.

With a practised, fluid ease, he shed the last of his clothes, his gaze never breaking from mine. 

His bare skin met mine in a press that was both electric and soothing, each inch of contact igniting a surge of feeling, of completeness that made me gasp. 

His hands traced down my sides, exploring the curves and lines of my body, as if they held secrets he'd yearned to know. 

Every touch, every brush of his fingers sent shivers across my skin.

He lowered himself, aligning our bodies with a reverence that made my heart ache. 

When he settled between my thighs, his touch shifted, moving from a delicate exploration to a quiet, steady possession. 

His grip on me tightened, anchoring me beneath him, and his eyes held a ferocity that was matched by the tenderness in his touch. He was wholly mine, and I, his.

"You're mine," he whispered his voice a low growl that sent a thrill through me. "Mine."

"Yes," I breathed, my fingers pressing into his shoulders as I clung to him, letting myself believe it. "Yours."

He moved with a deliberate rhythm, each thrust a declaration, an unspoken vow that silenced the doubts within me. 

Every part of me, every fragment I thought too broken to matter, felt seen, treasured. 

The warmth grew between us, winding up in intensity as he continued, his movements steady, yet laced with a simmering need that built with each passing moment.

His hands roamed over me, possessive yet reverent, fingers tracing gentle lines along my skin. His lips left trails of warmth, soft whispers mingling with our breaths. 

The connection between us thrummed with a strength that felt sacred, binding us beyond words, deeper than the physical.

Our rhythm intensified, his hands gripping my waist, his lips capturing my moans as we chased the rising wave together. 

The air was thick with the sounds of our bodies, the soft crackle of the fire, the murmurs of our whispered names.

In that moment, there was no North or South, no whispers of "the Dornish wife." There was only Cregan and me, bound together by a love that had taken root in the most unlikely of places.

When the climax came, it hit with a force that left us breathless, a bliss that surged through us like fire and water, fierce yet softening. 

He held me through it, our breaths mingling as we trembled in the aftermath, our hearts beating as one.

Cregan collapsed beside me, his arms wrapping around me as he pulled me close. We lay there in the afterglow, our bodies entwined, the fire casting a soft glow over us.

"You belong here," he murmured, his voice a soothing balm to my soul. "With me."

"I do," I replied, my heart swelling with a newfound certainty. "I belong with you."

As I drifted off to sleep in his arms, I knew that no matter the challenges we might face, we would face them together. 

The North might be cold and unforgiving, but with Cregan by my side, I felt a warmth that could withstand any storm. 

And in his embrace, I found not just a home, but a love that would endure.

A/n - I am such a sucker for any Dornish reader works 😝

Cregan tag list - @veesuguru

[novaursa]

Web of Gold (royal wedding)

- Summary: Alicent could only watch as you handle her son like a lioness who plays with her food.

- Pairing: lannister!reader/Aegon II Targaryen (+Aemond Targaryen?)

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: aegon is jealous

- Next part: honeymoon

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @purple-1995 @thisbiann @whiteoakoak

- A/N: The last part was skipping from present to past. I forgot to mention that. It has been fixed now.

The grand hall of the Red Keep has never looked so splendid. Golden tapestries hang from the walls, catching the light from the myriad of candles that bathe the room in a warm, shimmering glow. The floors are strewn with rich red and gold carpets, their colors a perfect match for the union taking place today—a union that has the blood of the dragon and the wealth of the lion entwined.

Your wedding to King Aegon II is nothing short of a spectacle. All of the nobility of Westeros is in attendance, their finery dazzling, but none more so than the families of the bride and groom. The Hightowers and the Lannisters are well represented, their seats in the front rows filled with dignified faces that watch every movement with keen interest.

At the head of it all stands Aegon, his usually unruly silver hair smoothed back for the occasion, though he still carries that familiar smirk as if he's already thinking about the revelry that will follow. He’s dressed in a regal black and red ensemble that reflects his Targaryen heritage, but with touches of gold embroidery—no doubt a nod to your Lannister lineage. As you approach down the aisle, his eyes are fixed solely on you, and his smirk softens into something more genuine, more admiring.

You, in turn, glide down the aisle with all the grace expected of a Lannister bride. Your gown is a masterpiece, shimmering gold and crimson silk, with intricate embroidery that mimics the flames of dragons and the roaring lions of your house. The entire court seems to hold its breath as you make your way toward Aegon, your steps light and confident, a smile playing at your lips.

Behind you, your uncles, the infamous Lannister twins, Tyland and Jason, follow with their usual contrasting expressions. Tyland, ever the composed and political one, watches the proceedings with an air of satisfaction, knowing how well this match bodes for the Lannister name. Jason, on the other hand, appears more relaxed, casting admiring glances around the hall and clearly enjoying the pomp and grandeur of it all. He leans over to Tyland at one point, whispering something, likely a comment on the opulence of the Red Keep, which Tyland responds to with a curt nod, his face impassive.

At the altar, Dowager Queen Alicent stands beside Otto Hightower, her father, both of them watching the ceremony with varying degrees of restraint. Alicent’s expression is one of controlled politeness, though there’s a tightness around her eyes that betrays her discomfort. She still hasn’t entirely warmed to the idea of her beloved son marrying someone who so effortlessly draws his attention away from her. Otto, however, seems entirely pleased, his hands folded neatly in front of him, his sharp eyes scanning the room as if mentally counting the alliances being forged today.

Aemond stands beside his brother, his face a mask of impassivity, though you know him well enough by now to catch the faint flicker of amusement in his eye. No doubt he finds the spectacle of Aegon getting married as something of an ironic twist, considering how hard Aegon fought to maintain his so-called "freedom." Aemond’s hand rests lightly on the hilt of his sword, as always, a silent reminder of his ever-watchful nature.

Helaena is there too, her dreamy expression focused on something far beyond the festivities, though she smiles softly when you pass her by. She’s dressed in a lovely gown of pale blue, her hair adorned with delicate silver ornaments shaped like butterflies. She murmurs something to herself, perhaps a quiet blessing for your future, though it’s impossible to tell for sure.

As you finally reach Aegon’s side, the High Septon Eustace begins the ceremonial words, his voice echoing through the hall. You can feel the eyes of the court on you, but your focus remains on Aegon, who is staring at you with a look that’s equal parts admiration and barely restrained mischief. His hand, warm and steady, slips into yours as you both face the High Septon, the weight of the crown on your head a constant reminder of the power this union represents.

“Do you, Aegon Targaryen, take Y/N of House Lannister to be your lawful wife, to honor and protect, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?” the High Septon intones.

Aegon’s grin spreads wide across his face, a flash of amusement dancing in his eyes. “I do,” he says, his voice rich with confidence, though there’s a playful edge to it that makes it clear he’s already thinking of what comes after the ceremony.

“And do you, Y/N of House Lannister, take Aegon Targaryen to be your lawful husband, to honor and stand beside, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

You meet Aegon’s gaze, the room around you momentarily fading as you reply, “I do.”

The High Septon raises his hands in blessing, proclaiming you husband and wife, and the hall erupts in applause. Aegon, ever the dramatic, doesn’t wait for the formal conclusion before leaning in to kiss you, his hands cupping your face as if you’re the only person in the room. The kiss is bold, full of the reckless passion Aegon is known for, and the court watches with varying degrees of approval and amusement.

Tyland and Jason exchange glances, Jason stifling a chuckle while Tyland remains impassive, though his eyes gleam with pride. They know the political weight of this match—House Lannister is now further entwined with the crown, and their power has only grown.

Alicent, however, watches the display with barely concealed annoyance, her lips pressed into a tight smile. She claps politely, though there’s a stiffness to her movements, a reminder that, in her mind, no one could ever truly be good enough for her precious son. Otto, on the other hand, seems entirely pleased, his eyes flicking toward Alicent as if to gauge her reaction, though he remains composed.

Aemond watches the kiss with a raised brow, a flicker of bemusement crossing his features. He shifts slightly, as though resisting the urge to roll his eye, though a small smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.

The rest of the court stands, applauding as you and Aegon turn to face them, now husband and wife. You can feel the weight of expectation on your shoulders, but you stand tall, regal, with Aegon by your side. The cheers of the courtiers fill the hall, a cacophony of voices celebrating your union, and for a moment, it feels as though you and Aegon have already won over the entire kingdom.

As the feast begins, Jason Lannister raises his goblet in a loud toast. “To King Aegon and his golden bride! May their union bring strength to the realm!” His voice booms across the hall, earning cheers and nods of approval from the Lannisters in attendance.

Aegon, never one to miss an opportunity to revel in attention, raises his own goblet and smirks at you. “And may she forever spoil me with her affection, wine, and… other delights.”

The court erupts in laughter, and you can’t help but laugh too, casting a glance at Aemond, whose eye twitches in amusement, though he’s quick to hide it behind another sip of wine.

The night is long, filled with feasting, laughter, and the clinking of goblets as alliances are silently solidified with every toast. And as the evening draws on, you and Aegon bask in the glow of your new roles—King and Queen, dragon and lion, forever entwined in the history of Westeros.

The grand feast is in full swing. Laughter echoes off the vaulted ceilings of the Red Keep’s great hall, the clink of goblets and the shuffle of servants bringing more trays of roasted meats, fruits, and breads filling the space. At the high table, you sit next to Aegon, who is already well on his way to being pleasantly drunk. His cheeks are flushed, his laughter a little too loud, and every so often, he leans in to whisper something entirely inappropriate in your ear—something about what he intends to do later, no doubt—but you smile and nod, indulging him.

Across the table, Helaena sits quietly, her dreamy eyes fixed on the flickering candlelight as if it holds secrets only she can see. She picks absentmindedly at her plate, her fingers twirling a piece of bread like it's a delicate piece of embroidery. You catch her eye and smile warmly.

"Helaena," you say softly, leaning toward her, "are you enjoying the feast?"

She blinks, her gaze shifting to you as if coming back to the present from some distant dream. Her lips curve into a small, sweet smile. "It’s beautiful," she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper. "But the butterflies… they’re dancing too close to the fire."

You pause, tilting your head, unsure whether she’s speaking in metaphors or if this is just one of Helaena’s usual cryptic musings. Either way, you smile back. “I’ll be sure to keep an eye on the butterflies, then.”

She giggles softly, her fingers finally releasing the bread as she takes a sip from her goblet. There’s something endearing about Helaena, her quiet innocence standing in contrast to the rowdy festivities around her. You find her company refreshing—though you’re well aware that others find her eccentric nature unsettling.

As you pour another cup of wine for Aegon, who is now thoroughly engaged in a one-sided conversation with Ser Criston about something involving dragons (though Criston’s blank stare suggests he’s only pretending to listen), you feel a sharp gaze on you. Without even looking, you know it’s Alicent.

You glance up to find her watching you with that familiar tight-lipped expression of disapproval. Her hands are clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles have gone white. It’s clear she doesn’t appreciate the way you cater to Aegon’s whims, particularly when it involves filling his goblet over and over. But tonight, she says nothing, her lips pressed into a thin, sour line as she watches you with silent judgment.

You flash her a smile, sweet as honey, and deliberately pour Aegon’s cup a little fuller than necessary, making sure the wine sloshes right to the rim. He grins up at you with a sloppy, grateful smile, lifting his goblet with an exaggerated flourish.

“Ah, my perfect queen!” Aegon slurs, raising the cup in a toast that sends a bit of wine splashing over the side. “Always knows exactly what I need.”

You pat his hand and nod, biting back a laugh. “Yes, my love. Always.”

Alicent’s expression tightens even further, but she still says nothing, clearly choosing to hold her tongue rather than cause a scene at such a grand occasion. Her frustration, however, is palpable.

With Aegon now thoroughly distracted by his wine and the increasingly nonsensical conversation with Ser Criston, you take the opportunity to slip away for a moment. The noise of the feast dulls slightly as you move toward the quieter end of the hall, where Aemond stands, ever the watchful observer, his gaze scanning the room like a hawk searching for prey. He doesn’t sit—Aemond never seems to relax the way Aegon does. Instead, he stands with a goblet of wine in hand, his tall frame as rigid and poised as ever.

As you approach, he glances at you, his single eye cool but alert, that faint smirk already playing on his lips as if he knows exactly why you’ve come.

“Your husband looks quite… spirited this evening,” Aemond says, his voice low and smooth. His gaze flickers to where Aegon is now halfway through another story, clearly embellishing the details for the benefit of anyone still bothering to listen.

You chuckle, standing beside him, your fingers brushing the stem of your own goblet. “Yes, well, that’s to be expected, isn’t it? A wedding and an endless supply of wine—it’s a dangerous combination for Aegon.”

Aemond’s lips twitch with amusement. “Dangerous for him, perhaps. More tiresome for the rest of us.”

You raise your goblet slightly, giving him a sidelong glance. “I suppose you’re used to enduring such… tiresome things, aren’t you, Aemond?”

His eye narrows slightly, a knowing glint in it. “I endure what I must. Though some things…” He pauses, his gaze lingering on you for a fraction longer than necessary, “are more tolerable than others.”

You hum in response, your lips curving into a small, playful smile. “How kind of you to say. And here I thought you preferred your solitude over any company.”

Aemond sips his wine, his eye never leaving yours. “Solitude has its merits. But there are certain… exceptions.”

The weight of his words hangs in the air between you, subtle but unmistakable. You glance back toward Aegon, who is now attempting to stand, swaying slightly as he raises his goblet in yet another toast, clearly drunk beyond reason. The sight is both amusing and pitiful, and you can’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for your new husband. But at the same time, the pull of Aemond’s presence is undeniable, the tension between you two thickening with every passing second.

“And would I be one of those exceptions?” you ask softly, turning your attention back to Aemond. Your tone is light, teasing, but there’s a sharper edge beneath it.

Aemond’s smirk deepens, his gaze darkening as he lowers his goblet. He steps closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “You already know the answer to that.”

Your heart quickens, but you keep your expression neutral, unwilling to give too much away. This dance between you and Aemond has been ongoing for some time—never spoken of directly, never acted upon, but always there, clawing just beneath the surface. And tonight, with Aegon too drunk to notice, the tension feels sharper than ever.

Before you can respond, Aegon’s voice cuts through the room, loud and slurred. “Y/N! Where are you, my queen? Come! We must… celebrate!”

You bite back a laugh, casting Aemond a glance that’s equal parts amused and exasperated. “Duty calls,” you say, stepping away with a sigh.

Aemond’s eye follows you as you move back toward Aegon, the weight of his gaze lingering on you like a silent promise.

[goodqueenaly]

Had Robert not been so vehemently anti-Targaryen (say the rebellion happens because of taxes and loss of noble privileges and not deeply personal vendettas) then would it have been likely that Robert would have taken the Targaryen name and let Stannis/Renly continue House Baratheon?

But Robert’s Rebellion did happen because of the loss of noble privileges - or, more specifically, the attempt by the crown to remove those privileges from its aristocratic vassals. Don’t let Robert’s personal hatred of Rhaegar mislead you - the responsibility for the Rebellion lies squarely on the shoulders of Aerys II. It was Aerys who had, through the murders of Rickard and Brandon Stark as well as those of Brandon’s companions and their fathers (plus the call for the heads of Ned and Robert) had asserted that the rights and privileges of the nobility were literally a joke - that every aristocrat in Westeros could be killed by the king at any time, for any reason, with no right of appeal. This was the reason Jon Arryn - not, remember, Robert only or even primarily at this moment - raised his banners against the king - because the king had shown that he, Aerys, was a tyrant who needed to be stopped before he destroyed all the rights of the Westerosi aristocracy.

Remember also that Robert’s Rebellion did not start with the intention or end goal of crowning Robert. Whatever the southron ambitions bloc had planned to do vis a vis the Targaryen crown - and I do think one of the aims may have been to use Robert’s bloodline claim as a way of bringing the Targaryens to the bargaining table for a rewriting of the power dynamic between liege and vassals - Robert was not acclaimed king in the Vale, or at the dawn of the Rebellion. Indeed, it was only shortly before the Battle of the Trident that Robert was recognized by his fellow rebels as the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. Having seen Aerys II’s commitment to tyranny, and then learned ahead of the Trident that Rhaegar was marching in public, martial support of his father’s tyranny, the rebels appear to have decided that any continued attempt to operate within the Targaryen monarchy was futile. The rebels needed a new king - and the only real option was Robert.

Robert’s Rebellion was not simply a case of Robert getting so angry that Rhaegar ran away with Lyanna that he beat up every Targaryen until he could put the crown on his own black-haired head. This was a political uprising by a faction of the aristocracy that had been germinating at least for the better part of three decades, and whose origins, I would argue, may have stretched back nearly a century. If Robert was acclaimed king in no small part because of his Targaryen heritage, and if he retained elements of the Targaryen monarchy for the sake of continuity - the Red Keep and its Iron Throne, for example - his was nevertheless its own dynasty, claiming its right to rule by the acclamation Robert had received on the eve of the Trident rather than merely the ordinary manner of succession.

[victoriadallonfan]

Fanfic I Will Never Write: DC Trinity in A Song of Ice and Fire

Batman:

House Wayne was an old family with nebulous connections to the Wents, prosperous and fair to their smallfolk by all accounts. Everything changed when Robert's Rebellion hit Westeros, splitting the seven kingdoms apart.

Wanting to ensure loyalty, Aerys had several boys of noble houses under his "protection" to ensure total loyalty, trapping Bryce Wayne in a cell filled with bats. When the Lannisters betrayed the Targaryens and attacked King's Landing, most of the Waynes and their servants were slaughtered, barring their wily Maester Alfrick.

Bryce of House Wayne became an orphan after this, his house diminished in standing from Lord to Knighted, a dark boy under the bright family sigil of a robin escaping a well.

He would never forget the injustice he experienced under the Targaryens, the Lannisters, and many Houses after the rebellion.

Bryce would grow over the years, training under Maester Alfrick and the eccentric Maester Lucious in all manners of skills and tinkering, but he needed more. He would travel to Essos, studying the ways of alchemy, assassination, and more, earning his chains (if unofficially).

His association with Talya, a mysterious assassin turned witch-advisor, would spur him into using the fear of "supernatural" tricks to his gain.

He would also, however, learn that his skills and mortality limit what he aspires toward. He is but one man, if a skilled one, and the seven kingdom needs more than one dark knight.

They need the myth, the terror of the Batman.

And so, he creates him.

Or rather, them.

Batmen he recruits from Essos and Westeros, trained by and with himself, each with their own specialties. A small organization of war orphans he rescued are trained as the Robins (in remembrance of his family sigil), led by Bryce's natural born son, and work with networks of forgotten and overlooked children/homeless to establish spy networks and uncover rumors of corruption.

Where the Robins focus on filtering out the corrupt systems within smallfolk communities, the Batmen hunt and terrify the nobility, focusing on humiliating them publicly or revealing their dark secrets to the world.

The Dark Knight, Vengeance, Batman appears everywhere and nowhere, with Bryce Wayne at its cowled helm of power.

(Plausible side characters to include: (Wo)Man-Bat via a Went controlling bats, the Red Hood as a rival vigilante, Prometheus aka The Smith as a man who seems to have found a cache of Valyrian armor and trinkets, Court of Owls/League of Shadows for obvious reasons)

Wonder Woman:

When Lady Nymeria settled onto Westeros, not all of her ships survived the trip. One particular brutal instance had a hundred ships taken by a violent storm, assailed by Krakens due to the many, many who drowned.

What was once thought lost to the cruelty of nature and gods, instead found refuge on a small island hidden by the storm! These refugees of Nymeria's legion were quick to found their home, Rhoyneria, and grow their own warrior culture.

The current Queen of Rhoyneria was unfortunately unable to produce an heir, and there had been growing suspicion that her husband was gathering support to depose her. Praying by the river to old gods of her ancestors, in her grief, she sculpted a child from the river clay.

It was much to her shock - and to the Kingdom as a whole - she returned with a living, breathing infant. A miracle of the gods, she was proclaimed, and named Dyanna heir to Rhoyneria.

It became clear to all that Dyanna was not that of a normal child: faster, stronger, more analytical than her age would present, and a strong sense of justice. She was the darling of the people.

But not to everyone. Some feared her power, feared that she was not truly human, but some demon in disguise. The Queen's father hated her for not being a true heir and stoked these flames, knowing his wife loved him too much to see past his pleasant exterior.

It is no surprise really that civil war broke out and Diana was left with a ruined kingdom in flames, her mother dead, and father fleeing with his loyalists to parts unknown (though she would assume he died trying to escape the storm). She would have died alone on that island, had not a Sword Dancer by the name of Trevyr wash up ashore with a small ship many years later, rescued by Dyanna.

Nursing him back to health, they bonded and learned of each other's worlds, and it seemed providence found her: Her father had become an infamous pirate and slaver, haunting the seas.

Fueled by the injustice, Dyanna vowed to assist Trevyr is getting back home, and armed herself with the remnants of the Queen's armored attire: Old Valyrian bracers and tiara, Rhoynar breastplate and pyterges, and a lasso blessed to strike true of any target she aims at according to legend.

As she escapes her island and encounters the world beyond, Dyanna earns her reputation battling against the many pirates of Essos and Westeros, freeing slaves and raiding Slavers Bay, and always hunting for her father no matter where he flees.

(Plausible side characters to include: Ares working through priests of old war gods, Cheetah as a warg user, Giganta as a female giant raider)

Superman:

Valyria was dying.

The Targaryen's had foreseen that much and fled some time ago, mocked by their peers and betters for their cowardice. No one paid mind to their prophecies, especially not one that could not be replicated by other Blood Mages.

One family, who's surviving name exists in recovered manuscripts only as the -el-, learned the truth. Alchemists who worked within the fires and oversaw the labors of hell, and realized too late what would happen.

Valyria was doomed.

In a panic, they worked to finalize their experiments, the ultimate bond between man and dragon. A hint of promise that existed only in the miscarriages of Valyria. Something more than a mere dragon rider... in theory.

An egg larger than the average dragon's. The culmination of Valyria's might, that they would take with them as they fled to other islands.

Intelligent, brilliant, but not enough. Not nearly enough to accurately predict the Doom.

They did not notice oblivion when it struck them, as a mercy. They were wiped out in moments.

The egg and its protective case, however, was not. Time in this Doom of Valyria, did not flow like a river, but rather a scorching eruption of ash; no control.

All that is to say, a young farming couple on the coast of the Westerlands happened upon a glistening, red hot container on the shore nearly 300 years later. Within that container was parchment paper of Old Valyrian quality, some regal gowns, and shells of an egg... with a wailing child inside.

Decades later, raised under the demure and softspoken Kents, Clarkwell found his life turned upside down when a small fire nearly killed the stable girl he befriended. He leapt into the flames, screaming as beams fell around him, fear for his friend pushing past his own.

When he pulled her from the fire, she was lightly burned and unconscious, but otherwise safe. Clarkwell, however, had changed.

His flesh had hardened, alternating sapphire, ruby red, and gold scales prickling atop his body. His fingers ended in gnarled claws, his eyes could see the heat of his friend's body... and as he fled in horror, fear, and awe, the last of his flaming shirt coming apart, long blood-red wings unfolded from his back.

Terror slowly crept to curiosity and then to wonder as he leapt, gliding through the air with the help of legs far more powerful than a mortal mans. His bellowing laugh let out a gout of fire.

He was found by his parents in the stable as the scales slowly sloughed off, mouth smoking, and any fears of what they'd say were quashed by their embrace (with a touch of sting from heat). They explained to him his true origins, the remnants of the parchment, and regal gowns of silver and black.

It didn't matter. He had his family here now. And it wouldn't be likely that he'd ever take this draconic form again.

Three weeks later, a group of traveling men - many would claim to be underlings of the infamous Mountain that Rides - would sack village that Clarkwell happened to be passing through, setting it ablaze to blame on bandits (technically correct).

From the fire of a burning field leapt Clarkwell, almost birdlike as he glided over the monstrous men, before landing between them and the remaining survivors.

Clarkwell winced at the blades and maces that hit him, but they did not break his scales. Metal armor tried and failed to resist his claws and he picked up and threw men aside. Horses were too slow for his legs and wings. He rounded them up, binding them with iron that he welded with his fiery breath, and left them to the people of the village.

This would not be the last time that he would need to take on the identity of the Dragon Man

(Plausible side characters to include: Lex Luthor as a Maester who hates magic and dragons, Doomsday as a Valyrian mutant that later washes ashore elsewhere, Steel as a blacksmith that builds a suit of armor based on the remnants of valyrian armor)

[hikarimiyanaga]

The Queen's Bride (Part 4)

Warnings : Omegaverse. Stark!Reader. Omega!Reader x Alpha!Daenerys Targaryen. Modern!AU.

Taglist : @kelloggs4cereal

You pace around the mansion's living room.

Even though you had class today, you opted to skip in order to know Sansa's second gender first. Your sister is more important than anything else.

"Mom! I- Y/N! You're back?" You smile at her.

"Yeah, just for a bit. How did your test go?"

"Beta. I am a beta." You sigh in relief and hug her tight.

"Good for you, my baby sis!"

"What- I'm not a baby." She pushes you away.

"Sansa, you are to me. Tonight, we celebrate! I'm taking everyone to your favorite restaurant!"

"With dad's money?" You wink at her.

"My own."

The truth was, you and Tyrion have a lucrative business. You guys help high school students cheat. It wasn't an ethical business but it did fill your pocket and secret bank account.

It also helps that your father has given you free reign on your allowance that is refilled monthly.

-

As you promised, you did take everyone except your mother, father and Robb as they were all busy.

"So what is the occasion, big sis? Why take us here?" Rickon asks and you smile at him.

"This is for your big sis's freedom!" You grim then turn to Sansa. "At least you get to have decisions regarding your marriage and your course. Do not choose any of the Lannisters even if they offer. I will kill you in your sleep."

"How about the Targaryens?"

"No. I'm already marrying one of them."

"Theon?" Arya asks innocently and both you and Sansa gag.

"Ew. We grew up with him. Borderline incest."

"Then who?" Sansa asks and you grin.

"Grow old without anyone."

"Y/N!" She slaps your arm and you laugh.

"Just stop looking at Westeros' Nobility and we're good."

"Are you oppose to any second gender?" You shake your head at that.

"No. Choose anyone you like."

"Okay." She leans on your shoulder and you pat her head.

"Come on, Sansa, order up. I can pay for everything if you want."

"No. Just because we brought Arya doesn't mean we can eat everything." You chuckle then turn to the other three.

"Choose anything you guys like, okay?"

"Even dessert?" Rickon asks, clearly excited.

"Yes. But that's after a meal. Eat up first."

"Okay!" Rickon says as he scans the menu.

-

It was an eventful evening. You had fun with all of them before all of you went home to the Stark Mansion.

You came inside carrying an asleep Rickon, a very sleepy Arya, and a barely awake Bran. Thankfully, Sansa is still awake.

"Looks like you guys had fun." Robb greets you and you roll your eyes at him.

"Too bad, you weren't there. Jerk." He laughs at that.

"Hey, someone had to man the company."

"Sure, you did." You carry Rickon up to their room while dragging Bran. "Bran, just a few more steps, okay? I'll help you guys change into pajamas."

"Thanks, sis." You sigh in relief as you reach their room and deposit Rickon in his bed.

"Come on, dude. Toothbrush then change. I'll help you find your clothes." Bran nods at that then he goes in the bathroom. You get their change of clothes and place Bran's on his bed. Then you carefully changed Rickon's clothes. Bran finishes up in the bathroom and changes into pajamas. He yawns loudly and smiles at you.

"Thanks for the fun night, sis. Goodnight."

"You're welcome, Bran. Goodnight." You kiss his forehead and tuck him in. "Sweet dreams, little brother." Bran sleeps with a smile on his face. You go downstairs and see a now sleeping Arya on the couch.

"Hey. Who are you texting?" You ask Sansa as you carry Arya.

"Margaery. She's also a beta." You hum.

"The Tyrells, huh?"

"Yeah. She's asking about you too." You raise an eyebrow at her.

"Me????"

"Yeah. You're taking knightho-" you cover her mouth and frown.

"Stop. Father doesn't know. Your room. Now." Sansa nods and goes to her room while you carry Arya to hers. You tuck her in quickly and go to Sansa's room.

"Dad doesn't know?" You shake your head as you close the door.

"Mom doesn't either. They both think that I'm only taking management."

"Why are you hiding it from them?"

"Because they only want management for me." You sigh as you sit besides her.

"Why?"

"Because I'm a weak omega." Sansa tilts her head at that.

"Weak? You?" You nod at her. "Does mom and dad need glasses????" You chuckle at her comment and pat her head.

"Everyone keeps thinking that omegas are only good for well-"

"Breeding?" You glare at her. "What? Margaery told me."

"Do not ever say that word again. Got it?" Sansa nods. "But pretty much, yeah. Why do you think one of the Targaryens are willing to marry me?"

"Because you're awesome?" You shake your head at her. "Omega?" You nod and smile at her sadly. Sansa has never seen you so sad.

"An omega from one of the noble families is considered a rarity. After all, Alpha and Beta bloods are much stronger. So they fought for me."

"Is that why you didn't want me to be an omega?" You nod at her.

"It's much better to be married by love than by being a trophy." You couldn't help the tear as it fell from your eye. Sansa panics now. You're her big sister and she has never seen you cry, not even when you get scolded by Ned or Catelyn. "I'm okay." You assure her as you wipe your tear. "Father might choose someone for you but I'll fight him every step of the way, okay? You, Arya, Rickon and Bran deserve freedom."

"What if they become omegas too?"

"By then, I'll be a Targaryen so-" you sit beside her. "So I can protect them." Sansa hugs you and you hug her back.

"I'll choose someone good, sis." You smile then kiss her head.

"That's all I want, little sister."

-

You get back to your class the next day.

Oberyn raises an eye at you.

"Did you get fucked all day yesterday?" You glare at him as you sit.

"Do tell, how the hell did you get into that conclusion?"

"Well, you've been wearing that outfit since two days ago." You look down and realize that he was right.

"Yesterday was Sansa's result day."

"Oohh. Do the Starks have another omega?" Oberyn says loud enough and almost everyone in the class looks at the both of you. Everyone here wants to know if there is another omega from the Starks that'll be fought for by every noble house in Westeros.

"No, dear loud mouth." You pinch his arm, pretty annoyed by him. "She's a beta." Everyone else looks away when they hear the disappointing news. Oberyn slaps your hand away and you glare at him.

"You must be relieved then?" You nod.

"So much."

"Congrats on her freedom, then." You smile as you nod then you bring out your notebook for the class.

-

You were about to go home when Daenerys sees you and takes you away. You look confused as she just looks at her phone.

"Where are we going?"

"Gala."

"Huh?"

"It's one of the Baratheon's birthday or something. The daughter of the eldest?"

"You mean Shireen?"

"You know her?"

"I met her before. Why are you going? Aren't the Baratheons your enemies?" You recall the bad blood between them.

"Still, I have a responsibility. Or did you really think the "heir" will come?"

"Ah. Okay. But I have nothi-"

"We'll pick up a suit and dress on the mall."

"You thought of everything." You deadpan at her and Daenerys smiles at you.

"You can't escape."

-

You arrive at the Baratheon's villa and unbutton the collar of your suit. It was suffocating the air out of you.

"We're here." You help Daenerys out of the car and hum.

"Do we have an invitation? the Baratheons can be picky about their guests." You still remember the one time you attended a gala of theirs without Robb and they rudely kicked you out.

"I am a Targary-"

"Yeah, that won't work here." Daenerys was about to refute you when-

"Y/N!" Someone calls out and you were suddenly lifted off.

"Ah! Uncle Robert!?" You struggle against the big man and glare as you find your footing.

"It is you!" Robert slaps your back and you feel like your spine broke. Jeez, the strength of this man.

"Yes. I didn't know it was Shireen's birthday today."

"It is. One of the reasons why I came home."

"What? Are the brothels not treating you well?"

"Ah, this jerk!" He slaps the back of your head and you rub it in pain.

"Y/N. Who-"

"Ah, this must be Daenerys! Your fiancé, right?"

"She is." You admit and sigh. "Daenerys meet Robert Baratheon. Unmarried. Although he has countless kids. Commander of The Baratheon Forces. And my father's best friend." Robert laughs at your introduction.

"Nice addition of titles, young one. You learned well."

"Is Gendry okay? He should be in high school, right?" Gendry and Shireen were the cousins from the Baratheon that you didn't mind talking to.

"He is. He likes Sansa, did you know?" You pale at that. As much as Gendry was a good person, you still didn't like the thought of high school romance, specially when it involves one of your younger siblings. "Maybe we'll finally be family!" He laughs wholeheartedly while you politely nod.

"We should get inside." Daenerys can feel that you are uncomfortable with the current topic so she tugs your arm.

"Right. It was nice talking to you, Uncle."

"Go. Tell your father that I will see him soon." You nod at him and escort Daenerys to the door.

"Sorry about that." You open the door and Daenerys just nods.

-

"So you're pretty close with the Baratheons?"

"No. Only Uncle Robert. He's kind of seen as a separate entity."

"And why is that? He is the middle child, is he not?"

"True, but he doesn't like to be in the family mansion. Or be associated with his siblings that much."

"Why?" You shrug at her.

"I don't know the particular details but some say bad blood between the three."

"I see."

"Y/N!" Shireen runs through the crowd and hugs you.

"Hi, cousin. Happy Birthday."

"Yeah! Although you did celebrate with me two days ago."

"Yeah. But I also got dragged to this gala." Shireen giggles.

"Who dragged you?"

"Hi there. I'm Daenerys. Her fiancé." Shireen looks at you.

"Fiancé? But Y/N! You promised me." Shireen gets teary-eyed and you panic.

"Huh!? Wait, wait, don't cry? Shireen? What promise?"

"That I'd be the one you married!" You chuckle and ruffl her hair.

"Not happening, little cousin, and besides we had a condition, didn't we?"

"Yeah." She sulks and crosses her arms.

"And? What was it?"

"That you'll only do it when you're a beta."

"Good girl!" You ruffle her hair even more and she pouts at you.

"Do you like her?" Shireen points at Daenerys as if she wasn't there and you chuckle as you bring down her hand.

"Yes. Incredibly so." And you realize as you say it, that it was the half-truth. You fell in love with her at first sight but you also knew why she wanted to get married to you.

"Then, uh-, Daenerys!" You beckon her closer as Shireen holds out her hand.

"You win! But um- don't you dare break Y/N's heart!" Dany forces a smile on her face as she shakes Shireen's hand.

"I promise."

-

The gala ends around midnight and you take off your jacket as you board Dany's Limousine.

"Not close to the Baratheons?" She asks and you nod.

"Not really. Shireen is special. She's the only one in that mansion that doesn't have a malice bone in her body."

"Do you like her?"

"As a cousin, yes. She's inquisitive and a reader like me."

"Are you in love with her?" You look at Daenerys with a dumfounded expression and she glares at you. "Answer me!"

"The fuck? No! Not at all! She's my little cousin, for the gods' sake!"

"We all know how famili-"

"Do not even say it. It's making me feel disgusted." You shudder as you even think about hearing the word.

"So, do you like someone?" You raise an eyebrow at her.

"What?"

"Like- you want to date them or something." You shake your head.

"None at all. Being an omega meant everything was going to be chosen for me. Even the people I hang out with. No more betas or Alphas. No more close friends. Just need to find me a suitable fiancé." You successfully hide the bitter tone in your voice but not the way you clenched your fist.

Daenerys, thankfully, stop questioning you and just drop you off at your apartment building.

'As if I ever had a choice.' You think as you board the elevator. 'I wonder how that'll be.'

-

A/N:

AS PROMISED!! YAY!!

Writer's block defeated once again... For how long, I don't know.

Also, I got a job! So that's cool!

[rynnthefangirl]

Okay, okay, I gotta be honest with y’all— I am low key a Larra Rogare defender.

Like yes, Viserys did not deserve what happened to him. He should never have been wed and bed by a 19 year old when he was 12, that is absolutely awful and disgusting. And nor did he deserve to be abandoned by his wife, from what we see of him it seems like he really did try to be a good and loving husband.

But Larra was not the one who asked to be in that situation! Her father forced her to marry Viserys, she didn’t have a choice in the matter. Yes, she could have waited to consummate the marriage, but even then you know her father was pressuring her to get with child. Should anything happen to Viserys, a child would ensure that House Rogare’s connection to the Iron Throne would remain. And she wasnt like some 40 year old woman— she was 19! She was still a teenager herself.

Then she is forced to leave her home and everything she knows and loves to come to a foreign land… where everybody fucking hates her. And don’t get me wrong, Larra 100% could and should have made more of an effort. Her disdain for Westerosi culture and snobbish elitism did NOT help her situation, and I think she chose to wallow in her bitterness and contempt instead of trying to make the best of her situation.

But even still, I’m sure it was very difficult, and some of the stuff she is most hated for I can’t even fault her for. Of course she would want to keep her own gods! They mean something to her, just as the Seven do to the people of Westeros! But rather than acceptance and tolerance, the nobility of westeros just despise her, spreading rumors and hate. And it all culminates with them literally trying to kill her! Her father dies, her House is collapsing, her brothers are arrested, and now the Kingsguard themselves are laying seige to Maegor’s Holdfast to arrest and kill her, with only two teen boys and Sandoq to defend her. Then afterwards, her brothers have to leave, and she is left alone to care for three children she never even wanted, one of them being baby Aegon the Unworthy, who was no doubt an utter menace of a child.

I think she was a miserable and frustrated woman, who like so many was forced into a marriage she never wanted to be in. It’s easy to demonize her because in this case the arranged marriage was to a young boy— an obvious victim. But that doesn’t mean that Larra had any more say than if her father had forced her to marry a 60 year old man. Lysandro Rogare was the real villain do that situation, and Larra was a victim of first her father’s orders and later of the xenophobia of Westerosi nobility and Unwin Peake’s schemes. I think eventually she just got fed up with it all, felt like she couldn’t do it any more, and left. It’s just awful that Viserys had to suffer so much in all this mess as well. But I can only blame Larra so much.

[dwellordream]

female adultery in ASOIAF and why it's not akin to modern day cheating

frequently fans insist on treating adultery within the world of ASOIAF as it it were the same as modern day infidelity. this, of course, ignores the fact that most marriages among the nobility of Westeros are arranged.

this does not mean every marriage is miserable, of course, but there is significantly less emotional attachment between the couple beforehand, unless they have known one another since childhood.

with that said, fans quite often do use this argument in defense of adultery- not for wives, but for husbands. a frequent claim put out is that men like Rhaegar, for example, don't owe their wives any loyalty because the marriage was not their choice. while technically, yes, no one is mandated to love their spouse or to respect an inherently broken marriage system, this ignores the fact that a woman like Elia is not free to carry on an affair the way her husband would be. women's bodies and sexualities are far more policed than men's in Westeros.

even with her husband's permission to take a lover on the side, most women would face extreme social ostracization and scorn if they were found out to be having affairs. and especially for the wives of princes and kings, this carries the weight of treason, because it puts into question the parentage of any royal heirs. Elia could have been outright killed if she was found to have a lover, regardless of Rhaegar's personal feelings on the matter.

the vague exception to this rule would be in the case of a woman like Genna Lannister, who is considered to have been forced to marry 'beneath her station', to a Frey, and thus, the jokes and insinuations that she may be cheating on Emmon do not carry quite the same weight. yet even so, I doubt Genna Lannister would ever openly announce she had a lover or directly discuss having an affair with her husband.

to go back to my original point, I am far more interested in female adultery than male. this is primarily because one of the few ways most Westerosi noblewomen can fight back against a forced or arranged match, or against an abusive or neglectful husband, is to secretly pursue their own pleasure and ambitions with a lover.

that is not to say that I think cheating is moral in these situations, but it is certainly not the same as a modern day woman having a fling while her husband is oblivious. a woman like Cersei, for example, did not choose to marry Robert. she was initially happy to become queen, but she quickly became disillusioned with her marriage, and Robert proved an extremely abusive and contemptuous husband.

Cersei cannot divorce or leave Robert, and even if she attempted to, would likely lose all contact with her children. nor does her family support the idea of her ending her marriage. given these parameters, Cersei cheating on Robert is simply not the same as it would be in a modern AU.

similarly, Rhaenyra is often bashed by the fandom for likely carrying on an affair with Harwin Strong during her marriage to Laenor. while there is zero indication in F&B or HOTD that Laenor was ever abusive or cruel to Rhaenyra, we know she did not freely choose to marry him. while HOTD presents the match as something Rhaenyra accepts and tries to use to her advantage, in F&B, Rhaenyra initially strongly protests the marriage until her father threatens to disown her if she does not accept Laenor as a husband.

in F&B, Laenor and Rhaenyra's marriage is depicted as stable but distant. the couple does not spend much time together and while Laenor appears to have tolerated Rhaenyra's relationship with Harwin, and to have had his own lovers, he obviously expected Rhaenyra to still have children who would be publicly presented as his offspring.

outside of any arguments over Rhaenyra's actions during the Dance or her time as reigning Queen, was Rhaenyra wrong to pursue a relationship outside her marriage, and to claim the children from that relationship as legitimate? I don't think so. 'legitimacy' is a construct of the feudal system in ASOIAF. while this doesn't mean it doesn't cause real trauma and pain, both to children raised knowing they are bastards, children who are accused of being bastards, and women who are expected to silently tolerate their husbands potentially pitting their own children against one another, it is not, actually 'real'.

Rhaenyra's sons are still her sons. her sexuality and personal autonomy shouldn't, outside of the context of the story, actually be something she is judged on. so it is strange to me when people insist that Rhaenyra having an affair or claiming her sons as legitimate is openly tyrannical or malevolent. there is plenty to criticize her character on- much as there is plenty to criticize Cersei on- but choosing to defy the institutions around her is not one of those critiques that should be valid.

[megsironthrone]

More Than Any Throne

Based on this request: may i request a ramsay bolton x targaryen! reader? they are opposites since she is fire and he is ice and she is kind while he is well.. ramsay. he comes to essos to request her help in conquering the north (much like yara came to daenerys) and they end up ruling side by side, and ramsay doesn’t anticipate it but he actually loves her more than the throne?

Here you are! *Familiar Characters are NEVER mine!*

Warnings: None??

Pairings/Characters: Ramsay Bolton x fem!Targaryen reader

Ramsay stared up at you as you sat on your throne. For a queen of fire, you regarded him with such an icy expression it almost made him shiver. "I have heard of you, Lord Bolton. Of your betrayal of the Starks and the Greyjoys. I have heard of the murder of your father by your hand. Word of your horrible deeds has spread far and wide. I see no reason to trust you, especially not enough to form an alliance."

          Ramsay knew he had to say something and quickly before you had his head. He was nothing if not quick-witted. "Queen Y/N, I too have heard of you. Tales of your kindness and compassion have reached far across the Great Sea to Westeros. I know my reputation. Even if I should gain the Iron Throne, the people would not accept me. I would be assassinated the moment the crown was on my head." You arched a brow.

          "You aren't exactly helping your case, Lord Bolton. Flattery may work on my sister and most definitely would have worked on my brother, but I am not them. Why should I not let you return to Westeros for your, most likely, inevitable assassination then cross the sea to take the throne for myself?"

          "Because then the people of Westeros would believe that you too are cruel. What sort of queen allows a potential ally to run to his death when she could stop it? That is what the people would say. Together, we could rule side-by-side. You would be returned to your rightful home as the true heir to the Iron Throne and the people would love you. And you can sway them in my favor as well. If the kind Targaryen queen could love the ruthless, mad dog Lord Bolton, there must be some good in him. They would accept and follow us both as their rulers. But I cannot-" Ramsay cut himself off for a moment. He hated sounding so weak, but he needed to do this. "I cannot do this alone. I need someone like you by my side."

          You let out a huff. "Prostrating yourself before me does not suit the 'Mad Dog', Lord Bolton. Once again, your words of flattery mean nothing to me." Ramsay felt himself growing frustrated. You were supposed to be swayed by him, but you weren't. You showed nothing toward him except amusement.

          It grew quiet in the hall as your Hand whispered in your ear. You hummed and nodded slightly. For a few moments, you watched him as Ramsay grew more and more irate. It was becoming difficult to keep his temper in check. After a while, you hummed again. "You've amused me, Lord Bolton. That's not an easy feat. I will consider your proposition and inform you of my decision in the morning. You are free to explore Essos, with an escort, of course. Or you may choose to retire to the chambers I keep for visiting nobility. Until morning." With that, you stood and swept from the room, leaving Ramsay utterly confused and, maybe a little bit impressed.

          The next morning, Ramsay entered the dining hall to find you already waiting for him. He bowed to you and you smiled at him. "Lord Bolton," you greeted with a warmth that had been missing the day before. Once again, Ramsay was utterly confounded by you. You sipped your drink before speaking again as Ramsay sat down. "Though your proposal was…ridiculous, to say the least, I accept." Ramsay blinked stupidly for a moment.

          "What?"

          "I will sail to Westeros with you and rule, as equals, by your side." Ramsay began to smile, but you continued, "Know this, however. If you betray me in any way, I will destroy you. Bear in mind that my sister is not the only Targaryen with dragons. My reputation may be one of kindness and compassion, but I will answer betrayal and harm with ruin." This time, Ramsay did smile.

*time skip*

          Ramsay glanced at you across the table as you broke your fast together one morning. The stress of ruling over Westeros had done nothing but enhance your beauty. If possible, you had grown more confident, stronger, and intelligent since coming over from Essos. You lead the people compassionately and held Ramsay's temper back whenever possible. People respected you and feared him and the dragons. It worked well for you and Ramsay, to his surprise, found himself caring more for you than for the throne he'd fought for.

           "You're staring, Husband," you stated, hardly looking up from the scroll in front of you. "Am I not allowed to look at my wife? My queen?" You rolled your eyes, but smiled nonetheless. "I am only your wife and queen because you wanted the throne and knew there was no other way to get it. So either you're forming some devious plan, or you've come to the realization that you've fallen in love with me."

          Ramsay blinked in surprise. The man had prided himself on keeping any and all emotions under wraps. Did he love you? He had his throne, but would he give it up for you? Yes. In a heartbeat, he would. Did that mean he, for the first time in his life, was actually in love?          

A soft laugh from you broke Ramsay from his thoughts. He looked at you again. "Did you think you were hiding? Ramsay, my darling, you forget that I have been able to see right through you from the moment we met." You pushed your chair back and rose to your feet. As you passed by Ramsay, you placed a hand on his shoulder. "There is nothing wrong with admitting that you're in love, Ramsay." You squeezed him lightly before moving to leave the room. Ramsay stood and turned to watch you leave. "Oh, and Ramsay?" you called over your shoulder, "I love you too." Ramsay stood still for a moment as his brain processed what you'd said. Once he snapped out of it, he was instantly running after you, intent on spending the rest of the day getting you to ignore your duties and spend time with him.

(a/n: I hope you like it!)

Forever Tags: @fizzyxcustard @brewsthespirit-blog @etherealpotter @line-viper @cd1242 @frozenhuntress67 @smalltownbigheart @gruffle1 @supernatural4life2022 @asgards-princess-of-mischief

[kataraavatara]

No, Corlys and Otto did not do the same thing here.

And this is in no way defending Corlys, so please don’t twist my words. These things are both awful, one is just worse.

Look at Laena and Viserys. Corlys and Rhaenys openly approach Viserys and say they have an offer of marriage. Laena and Viserys then take a walk outside, where they’re both visible to lots of people, including her mother.

However, Alicent is instructed by her father to visit Viserys “in his chambers” ie alone and without supervision. While Viserys is definitely a creep for marrying his daughters best friend, I (and I would also say Otto) don’t believe he would ever force himself on Alicent or that anything “untoward” would happen, and nothing physical did happen between them. But that absolutely would not stop the rumors that something happened from springing into existence, just like they did in F&B. There’s no way to keep these “meetings” a secret. In the best case scenario, Alicent marries Viserys and people whisper about the circumstances under which it took place. Worst case, Alicent’s reputation and chance to make a decent match is ruined.

Although obviously both these scenarios are disgusting, the Velaryons being very clear about their intentions and having it take place in a public setting is much more “honorable” in Westeros than Otto essentially telling Alicent to sneak around with the king and gain his trust. Although Laena is rejected by Viserys as a match, it doesn’t negatively affect her standing or reputation. This is not the same for Alicent.

Let’s go back to our worst case and say that Alicent’s “Vizzy Visits” become a scandal- while we, a modern audience, recognize fifteen year old Alicent is a victim, Westeros is a society that A) Regularly practices child marriages, at least among the nobility and B) Sees sixteen as the age of adulthood. Alicent would 100% be painted as an evil seductress who seduced the poor grieving king- hell, a lot of people in the fandom paint her that way in the 21st century! Otto, in an attempt to save face, could easily throw her under the bus. “Omg I can’t believe my daughter engaged in such scandalous behavior, things just haven’t been the same since her mother died :( poor me, pls don’t be mad, I had no idea.” If it’s Otto’s word vs Alicent’s, people will believe Otto.

Not to mention how aware he is of her friendship with Rhaenyra. And yes, Rhaenyra is just as much a member of Westerosi society as everyone else. She does not have the 21st century view of things we do. She at 14 has the responsibility of being heir to the Iron Throne with people swearing oaths to uphold her succession. Even if Alicent told her afterwards her father forced her into it, she just wouldn’t (and didn’t) understand- to her, Alicent and her both are becoming adults now and handling adult responsibilities and are accountable for their actions. Rhaenyra is headstrong, rebellious, and fiercely protective- “Because my dad told me to” is not going to cut it as an excuse. Otto knew this would ruin her friendship with Rhaenyra and didn’t care.

Now, the above analysis is mostly about the secrecy of it all. Rhaenyra didn’t seem to hold any ill will towards Laena in particular, which is why I believe her anger was as much about the secrecy of it as it was at the actual marriage itself. I think if Alicent was like “hey, my dad wants me to marry yours” there’s not much I can really do about it” she’d still probably balk but be much more accepting and sympathetic.

Now, look how they’re respectively dressed. Laena just has much more fabric covering her, with the cape sleeves and two layered dress, while Alicent’s is pretty form fitting. Not to mention the creepy incestous undertones when Otto instructs her to put on her mother’s dress and says how much she looks like her mom.

While both fathers are disgusting for doing this, Otto put his daughter in a much riskier situation where the question wasn’t if there would be fallout, just how much fallout there would be. By never formally and publicly declaring his intention to present Alicent as an option for the new Queen Consort, he put Alicent’s reputation and livelihood at stake in a way Laena’s was not. And this is not to take away from how inappropriate Laena’s situation was for a little girl. This is just to say-

When the bar is literally in hell, Otto Hightower finds a way to keep digging.

[thephantomcasebook]

What’s the logic for HotD pretending that Alicent being in a relationship with Criston is the height of scandal. She’s the Queen Mother as far as Westeros is concerned she can retire. She did her job- bore several heirs, raised them, the heir now King is married with an heir of his own. If Alicent wants to do a soft retirement attended to by her long time bodyguard well that’s her business.

Because most people don't know history or understand aristocratic and noble traditions, spoken and unspoken, that exist not only in Westros but in actual real life.

When it comes to arrange marriages in aristocratic settings, it is genuinely understood by both participants that there is an unspoken contract that states that you're loyal to your spouse in public, that you are loyal to your family, and that you will do your duty to your family and your line of succession.

However, once that duty is discharged and or achieved that you are free to pursue other ends and relationships, as long as you follow the rules of the societal conventions.

And no, that is not just for men, it is for both men and women - so there is no "muh feminism!" in these arrangements.

Once a noblewoman gives birth to an heir, a spare, and a daughter of which to use to bargain for more connections to other noble houses, the wife is now free to pursue romance and dalliance's with other men, as long as she sticks to the unspoken social arrangements.

That means not making a spectacle of the Romance in public, being discreet in the affair as to not embarrass one's spouse, and to keep up the appearance of fidelity of the marriage, and you will never - EVER - takes sides against your spouse in favor of your lover.

This was and is still so common among the upper-classes that it is genuinely and widely accepted that the younger children of a Noble House or Aristocratic family are illegitimate children of random affairs had by the Lady of the House. It is not uncommon for aristocratic Great Ladies to have two or three children in the beginning of their marriage and then later in life - Late 30's to Mid 40's - to have more children, with the understanding that these children are not her husbands.

This is such an established rule in European Aristocratic Societies - Especially British High Society - that it is a cataclysmic social faux pas, black listing offense, to point out or comment on the likeness of younger children to their elder siblings or - if you're really fucking ignorant - their father.

With all this said, no one, and I mean no one, would blink in King's Landing or in any court in Westros, that Alicent and Criston are having an affair. The existence of Aegon, Aemond, and Helaena gives Alicent a free pass in the eyes of the nobility to pursue romance and intimacy with Criston. People would not at all be shocked by it, in fact, they'd probably expect it. And if Daeron is not Viserys son, that still wouldn't shock anyone at all. They simply just wouldn't acknowledge it at all. People don't expect Kingsguard to keep their vows and they certainly don't expect people in arranged marriages to stay faithful.

The issue with Rhaeynra is that she is not following the rules of society ... at all. She immediately jumped to having affairs and birthing bastards without doing her duty of producing legitimate heirs to both the Iron Thrones and to House Velaryon first. The reason nobody cares about illegitimate younger children is because they don't inherit anything, their presence doesn't usurp what is rightly the legacy of the Lord of the land or master of the estate. Having bastards and letting them steal the inheritance of the noble family you're supposed to be serving through contract with society and God(s) is spitting on the fabric and social contract of which everyone plays their part in.

Rhaenyra thinks that just because they're her children, that it gives her the right to break conventions that keep their society glued together. And we see at the end of the war just what happens when her direct actions breaks the fabric of that society and the fate that befalls her and Joffery.

The Alicent and Criston manufactured drama is based on the false assumption that them hooking up is a moral sin in the eyes of everyone, when, in reality, no one would care but Alicent and Criston from the torment of their own conscious.

Also that somehow Aegon, Helaena, and Aemond would somehow be shocked or angered by this is fucking laughable. Criston Cole is the closest thing to a father that Alicent's children have ever had. Criston and Alicent have been inseparable for eighteen years. The show already hinted in 1x09 that Aemond already knows about Alicent and Criston. All the Green kids probably suspect it if they don't outright know about how their mother feels about their pseudo-father.

In the end, it's a failure of the writers to understand the social rules of high society in medieval era Europe and to convey that to a really dumb normie audience that just assume that what Alicent and Criston are doing is evil and wrong, when - in reality - no one would blink at all at it.

Cause, unlike Rhaenyra, Alicent already did her duty to Viserys and House Targaryen.

[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

The Silver Dragon (3)

The Bench

On Arianwyn’s tenth nameday, a grand reception is held in her honor. Though most guests are not in attendance for the Lady of Runestone, but rather the Princess Rhaenyra, who is mere weeks away from giving birth. But Arianwyn does not care, for Aemond is there. And he has a present for her.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OC (Daemon and Rhea's daughter)

Warnings: none

Author's Note: This chapter just had minor edits. I've realized that in early chapters I kind of jumped around with POVs, so I've fixed that. Enjoy!

Series Masterlist - Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

The nameday celebrations for Aria were far humbler than those for her cousins who held the titles of prince and princess. It drove Aemond mad, for she surely deserved at least an equal celebration, if not grander. But she was still the daughter of a prince and a favorite of the queen. So, on her tenth nameday, a grand reception was held in her honor.

While formal invitations for her past celebrations were sent to all the noble houses of Westeros, only House Royce and their bannermen from the coast of the Vale had dutifully journeyed to the capital to observe the occasion each year. The rest of the court came and went as their own agendas dictated. Indeed, while many were in attendance this year, Aria was not the reason why.

Rhaenyra was with child once again. Though still weeks away from the birth, the nobility of Westeros was eager to ensure their presence at the birth of the newest Targaryen. Aemond and Aria had finally learned why.

Jacaerys and Lucerys were bastards. It meant Laenor was not their father, and their mother was a whore.

It was not hard to see it, now that he knew. Neither had the white hair or violet eyes of a Valyrian child, but rather hair as black as raven’s feathers and eyes a deep brown, like muddy water. Had it been just Jacaerys, perhaps the court could have overlooked his common appearance. After all, his presumed paternal grandmother, Rhaenys Velaryon, was half Baratheon. But even the Queen Who Never Was was blessed with the violet eyes of her father’s house.

When Lucerys was born looking as ordinary as his brother, the court began looking beyond her husband’s family. Most eyes fell upon her sworn protector and Lord Commander of the City Watch, Harwin Strong. The son of the Hand sported the same coloration as the young princes and often visited their rooms in Maegor’s Holdfast when he visited the Red Keep for Small Council meetings – despite the two towers being on opposite ends of the castle.

But while it was clear for all to see, their bastardy never left whispered conversations in empty corridors. At least, not anymore. Not since Ser Evin Tascer had ended an evening of heavy drinking on a cart to the Wall – without a tongue. But the gossip persisted, though out of the king’s earshot. His mother had forbidden him from mentioning it in public.

That didn’t stop him from teasing them about it in private. It was rightfully deserved after all they’d done to him – and obviously true. He only ever felt bad about it when Aria found out and scolded him.

Many suspected Rhaenyra was purposeful in avoiding another pregnancy. After all, the princes were born only a year apart, and Lucerys was already nearly six years old. With no miscarriages or other devastating accidents reported and the princess still young, there seemed to be no other explanation.

But now she was again with child, and every noble in Westeros waited with bated breath to look upon the babe – and its hair. As the birth neared, more and more nobility descended on the capital to ensure they were among the first to know. It just so happened that Aria's nameday coincided with the deluge of Westerosi nobility.

But Aria had not once mentioned that it bothered her. The gardens of the Red Keep were bursting with nobles in colorful and elaborate clothing adorned with glimmering jewels. Aemond was more than content to let her pretend it was all for her – it was his way of protecting her.

After all, it was her nameday, one of Aemond’s favorite days of the year. On this day, he got to spend the whole day with her without having to go to the Dragonpit. And she smiled so much. It was also one of the few times they got to see her cousin, Ser Gerold, who always encouraged their research and praised their dedication to learning about their family histories.

He arrived at King’s Landing as always, with a carriage overflowing with gifts. As usual, a great number of these were ancient artifacts of House Royce. After ten years, her quarters nearly rivaled the vault at Runestone.

Of course, he also brought her new novelties—books filled with fantastical illustrations depicting fairy tales and historical tales alike; carved wooden toys painted in the colors of their house that, at this point, she was decidedly too old for; dresses of the finest silks and brocades; and jewels of all kinds set in gold, silver, and, naturally, bronze.

Aemond knew his present would outshine it all. It was not a relic of her family nor a decadent new creation. It was old, yes, but humble in appearance.

He had slipped into her rooms earlier that morning, his gift wrapped in simple brown parchment and clutched tightly in his arms. As the second son of a King, he’d become accustomed to being looked over and learned to turn it to his advantage. So it was easy for him to slip past Aria’s guards and her lady’s maids to make his way to her dressing room.

She sat at her vanity, holding various jewels up to her neck, her eyes scrunched as she assessed each one against her black and bronze dress. Aemond slipped from behind a wooden screen as she picked up a delicate silver chain dripping with diamonds. Her grey eyes spotted the movement in her mirror, and she met his gaze through the glass.

“Happy nameday, Aria,” he whispered, a gleeful smile on his face.

Her smile quickly matched his, and she whipped around on her seat, the diamond necklace clattering forgotten on the vanity. “Is that for me?” she asked, pointing at the package he held.

Aemond nodded, running up to meet her. She immediately tore into the paper like a dragon eviscerating its prey. He laughed, more excited about giving her this gift than he had ever been to receive one himself.

It was an old book, a thoroughly unimpressive tattered tome. The binding was linen—not leather—and had not weathered the years well. The fiber had degraded so much in places along the spine that the reed and twine holding the pages together were visible. The pages themselves were yellow with age, stiff, and uneven. It was unclear whether they had been torn through centuries of use by countless users or cut that way originally by an inexperienced craftsman.

He knew that all that would matter to Aria was the title: Deciphering the Runes of the First Men.

“Where did you get this?” She asked, eyes wide and mouth agape – precisely the reaction Aemond had hoped for.

Their routine of visiting the castle library to research their families' histories had continued, but over the years, there were questions that even Orwyle could not answer. Many pertaining to the Runes of the First Men. The Runes that appeared on many of Aria’s belongings and gave her keep its name. Orwyle had corresponded with his colleagues in Oldtown over the years to try and answer their questions. However, information on the Runes was scarce, even in the regions of Westeros that still clung to that history.

But now, on the morning of her nameday, she at last held a book that may contain the answers she sought. Setting the book carefully on her vanity, she leaped from her vanity stool and straight into Aemond’s arms, her question entirely forgotten.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she squealed, holding her cousin so tight he struggled to breathe. “I hardly even need the party anymore. You’ve already made this the best nameday ever.”

Aemond hugged her back, face flushing at her gush of praise. “I don’t think my mother would approve. She’s spent weeks planning the party.”

Aria withdrew from the hug, sighing dramatically. “Fine. If we still have to have the party, help me choose a necklace so we can go and get it over with.”

She returned to the vanity, smiling mischievously at Aemond in the mirror. Still laughing, he sat beside her and began rifle through her jewelry box.

Hours later, in the gardens, Arianwyn impatiently fiddled with her necklace. Aemond had chosen one of braided bronze and silver chains, with a smattering of various jewels woven in. The day was growing hot, and Alicent and Gerold relentlessly continued to lead her throughout the party and present her to so many people that her head started to spin.

She was finally granted a reprieve when a servant pulled Alicent aside to discuss the alarming rate at which the pastries were disappearing from the table. As soon as her Aunt’s attention was off her, Arianwyn thanked Ser Gerold for coming and ran to the other end of the garden as fast as she could.

Helaena and Aemond sat on a bench together against the garden wall. Entirely disinterested in the party, they watched honeybees land clumsily on the plate set between them, lapping up droplets of the sugary punch Helaena poured for them.

“There are only ten now,” Helaena said when she sensed her cousin’s presence, though her eyes remained steadfastly focused on the plate. “But a few moments ago, there were twenty-one.”

Arianwyn smiled, glad she had arrived after most of the bees had left. “Do they like the punch?” This conversation was already far more interesting than any she had with any of the other party guests.

“They do,” Helaena said, tipping her goblet to spill more on the plate. “But when they fly away, they seem clumsier than usual.”

Aemond laughed, looking up from his sister’s experiment to his cousin. “Of course they are. They’re drunk, Helaena. There’s wine in the punch.”

Though Helaena seemed horrified at the prospect, Arianwyn couldn’t help but laugh. “If you give them enough, they may start acting like Aegon.”

At this, Helaena at last joined in the laughter. But it did not last long.

As if summoned by the sound of his name, Aegon emerged from the crowd, Jace and Luke trailing behind him.

“Were you saying something about me, dear Aria?” He drawled. Like the bees, he was already quite wobbly. “You know it’s not nice to gossip.” He pursed his lips before chuckling, the two younger boys joining him. Luke dropped his head as he laughed. Jace smirked, looking directly at Arianwyn.

Aemond began to quiet. His smile faded, and he turned his head down, staring at his hands. Arianwyn would not allow this on her nameday.

“We’re simply having fun at my party, cousin.” She said, venom sneaking into her voice. She stepped slightly in front of Aemond. “Are you?”

Aegon scoffed, “As much as I can, I suppose. Though I can’t say the conversation has been particularly stimulating. Most of the people here only want to talk about Rhaenyra,” he spat the name of his sister as if it were a curse, “and the others about you.”

“It’s my nameday,” she snapped back. “Why should they not be talking about me?”

Aegon’s smile grew unsettlingly wide. Taking another deep swig from his cup, he moved closer to her, so close she had to crane her neck to look into his eyes. “Do you know what they’re saying, Aria?”

She felt her face flush with anger. Aegon had few talents, but his careful cruelty was undoubtedly one of them.

“I’ll give you a hint. They aren’t talking about that garish bronze armor your cousin brought you. Though I’m not sure why –  it’s truly horrendous.” He looked back at Jace and Luke, signaling them to laugh. They did.

When Arianwyn continued her silence, Aegon leaned down, his face close enough for her to smell the alcohol on his breath. “Ten is an important number, cousin. You’re not just a girl anymore. You’re well on your way to becoming a woman.” He reached to touch her cheek, but she slapped his hand away, baring her teeth.

“Do you wonder why my mother has been parading you around like a prize mare? Today is the day you officially go to market, Aria. As soon as your father finally acknowledges you even exist and agrees to a deal, you’ll be shipped off to the highest bidder. If you’re lucky, he’ll be kind enough to not bed you until you’re older.”

Arianwyn shrieked in anger, gathering all her strength to push Aegon away from her. He just laughed as he stumbled back. She wanted to hit him more, hit him harder, but she did not want to make a scene at her own party – it would just give him more reason to mock her.

“Come, Aemond,” she commanded, seizing his hand. “I’m tired of the party. Let’s go to the library.” He did not argue, letting her drag him off the bench without resistance.

With his fun over, Aegon left the bench and returned to the throng of people, his two raven-haired lackeys close behind. Only Helaena remained, and two of her honeybees. She dipped a finger into the punch, letting one of the insects crawl onto her fingernail to drink.

“The silver mare shall never be sold,” she whispered.

Taglist: @heartb8k2 @queenofshinigamis @leptitlu @xxxkat3xxx @malfoycassimalfoy @lokiofasgard12

[novaursa]

The Dragon's Right (11)

- Summary: It was by grace of the gods that firstborn child of Viserys I and Aemma was born a boy and he lived. And all of the rest, scholars will later say, is by power of something more malevolent in kind.

- Pairing: male!reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 5 800+

- Previous part: 10

- Next part: 12

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The Sept near Casterly Rock was a grand structure, its towering spires reaching high into the sky, casting long shadows over the golden hills surrounding the Lannister stronghold. The sun was bright in the sky, its warm rays cutting through the otherwise somber mood that lingered inside the Sept itself. The vast interior was filled with the nobility of Westeros, all gathered to witness the union of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and Lord Jason Lannister. It was an event that had drawn powerful lords and ladies from every corner of the realm, eager to see one of the most important political marriages of the age.

The Sept was decorated lavishly, with red and gold banners hanging from the high arches, the Lannister colors boldly displayed alongside the dragon sigils of House Targaryen. Flowers were strewn along the aisles, filling the air with their fragrance, a stark contrast to the heaviness of the occasion. Seated in the front rows were the most prominent figures of the realm, their faces a mixture of anticipation and curiosity, but there was an undercurrent of tension beneath the gilded ceremony.

Jason Lannister stood at the altar, dressed in the finest silks and gold, his lion sigil prominently displayed on his chest. His posture was proud, his expression smug, as though this marriage were another jewel in the Lannister crown. His twin brother, Tyland, stood beside him, his face more composed, though his eyes gleamed with quiet satisfaction. Jason’s gaze, however, frequently flickered toward the entrance, waiting for the arrival of his bride. It was clear he took great pride in having won the Targaryen princess, even if she had not come willingly.

Whispers echoed through the Sept as the ceremony was about to begin, the lords and ladies murmuring to one another, casting curious glances toward the entrance. They had heard the rumors, of course—rumors of Rhaenyra’s defiance, of her refusal to bow to the will of the Crown and be married off like a prize. But here they were, all gathered to see it happen, to see if the wild princess could truly be tamed.

Suddenly, the great doors at the far end of the Sept swung open, and all eyes turned as Rhaenyra Targaryen entered.

She was resplendent in a gown of deep red and black, the colors of her house, the fabric embroidered with intricate dragons that seemed to swirl around her as she moved. Her hair, pale as silver, was pulled back into an elaborate braid, adorned with small gems that caught the light. The gown flowed around her like molten fire, her figure regal, but it did nothing to soften the sharpness in her expression.

Her face was set in a mask of cold defiance, her violet eyes scanning the crowd with thinly veiled contempt. She walked slowly down the aisle, her steps steady, but each movement carried a weight of rebellion. She was not walking toward her future; she was walking toward her doom, and everyone present knew it. Her gaze flickered toward her father, King Viserys, who sat near the front, his expression one of barely concealed disappointment. Rhaenyra shot him a sharp look, filled with anger and betrayal, the tension between them palpable even from a distance.

The whispers grew louder as she approached the altar, her displeasure clear for all to see. It was no secret that she had been forced into this marriage, and her rebellion was written in every step she took. She refused to look at Jason Lannister, whose smirk remained firmly in place, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. To him, this was victory.

As Rhaenyra reached the altar and stood before the Septon, her hands clenched tightly around the bouquet of flowers she held. Her chest rose and fell with the weight of her fury, but she kept her composure, her face set in stone. The Septon stood before them, draped in the white and gold robes of his office, the Seven-Pointed Star gleaming on his chest. He raised his hands, his voice loud and booming as he began the ceremonial rites.

“Before the eyes of gods and men, we gather to join this man and this woman in marriage, to bring together the houses of Targaryen and Lannister,” the Septon intoned, his voice echoing through the great hall.

But even as the words filled the Sept, Rhaenyra’s mind was elsewhere. She barely heard the Septon, barely registered the murmurs of the crowd, the weight of her situation pressing down on her like a boulder. Her eyes flicked toward her father again, her heart burning with resentment. How could he have done this to her? How could he have forced her into this farce?

Jason glanced at her, his smirk widening as if he could feel her resistance, and Rhaenyra clenched her teeth, her grip tightening on the flowers until the stems dug into her skin.

Suddenly, there was a loud thud from above, and the entire Sept seemed to shudder. The ground beneath their feet vibrated, and dust began to fall from the high ceiling as the massive structure groaned under the sudden impact. Gasps of shock and alarm rippled through the crowd, lords and ladies looking around in confusion.

“What was that?” someone whispered, their voice filled with fear.

The Septon paused, his eyes widening as he looked up toward the ceiling, where more dust and debris began to trickle down. The Sept shuddered again, the sound of stone grinding against stone filling the air. The once orderly crowd began to stir, whispers growing louder as panic started to take hold.

“Something’s on the roof!” a man shouted from the back, his voice trembling.

Jason Lannister’s smirk vanished, replaced with a look of confusion as he glanced at his brother, Tyland. “What in the Seven Hells is happening?”

Rhaenyra’s eyes snapped upward, her heart pounding as she felt the familiar rumble in her chest. The ground beneath her feet trembled again, and this time, the shaking was stronger, sending more debris falling from the ceiling. The crowd, sensing the danger, began to rise from their seats, voices rising in panic.

Another thunderous impact rocked the Sept, and now it was clear—something massive had landed on the roof, and whatever it was, it was not gentle. The ancient stone groaned under the weight, cracks beginning to form along the arches of the ceiling, and the once majestic hall began to crumble.

The Septon backed away from the altar, his voice trembling. “This… this is an omen…”

But before he could finish, a loud, piercing roar echoed through the air, shaking the very foundations of the Sept. Panic erupted, people screaming and scrambling toward the exits as the ceiling above began to crack and crumble, chunks of stone falling to the floor.

Rhaenyra stood frozen for a moment, her eyes wide, her heart racing. She knew that roar.

And she knew exactly what—or rather, who—had just arrived.

The piercing shriek of a dragon cut through the panicked cries inside the Sept, echoing off the stone walls as if the very gods themselves had arrived. Rhaenyra’s heart leaped in her chest at the sound—it was unmistakable. Silverwing. You had come, just as you had promised all those moons ago. The ground beneath her feet trembled with each movement of the great dragon above, the stone walls groaning under the immense pressure. Chaos erupted around her as lords and ladies screamed, scrambling for the exits, their finely embroidered cloaks and gowns tangling as they tried to flee.

Rhaenyra's eyes darted around, searching for a way to escape the suffocating madness. She had to reach you. The ceremony was forgotten, the image of Jason Lannister and the Septon dissolving into the chaos. Without hesitation, she pushed past the panicking nobles, her heart racing as she ducked through the panicked crowd. She could hear her father’s voice shouting her name over the din, “Rhaenyra!” but she didn’t stop.

She had no time for explanations. All that mattered was getting to you.

Behind her, Jason Lannister shouted as well, his voice rising in anger, “Where do you think you’re going, Princess?” He lunged forward to follow her, but the crowd surged between them, cutting off his path.

The Kingsguard, stationed near the aisle, saw her running and immediately gave chase. But Daemon, standing casually near the edge of the Sept with his arms crossed, watched the chaos unfold with amusement. As the guards ran past him, Daemon shifted subtly, stepping in just the right way to trip them. One guard stumbled into a pillar, his armor clattering against the stone, while the other fell flat on the floor, his sword sliding across the polished marble. Daemon smirked and gave Rhaenyra a small nod, knowing she would understand. He wasn’t letting anyone stop her today.

Rhaenyra pushed through the grand doors of the Sept, her breath coming in short gasps, her heart pounding wildly in her chest. The sunlight hit her face like a slap, the chaos of the Sept replaced by the sight of Silverwing descending, her massive wings outstretched, stirring up the dust and dirt around her as she landed just outside. You were atop her, your silver armor gleaming in the sunlight, and the sight of you filled her with a sense of relief so strong she almost forgot to breathe.

You locked eyes with her as Silverwing let out another fierce roar, sending waves of heat into the air as her claws scraped the ground.

"Brother!" Rhaenyra gasped, running toward you as if her life depended on it. The wind from Silverwing’s wings whipped through her hair, but she didn’t stop. She had been waiting for this moment for what felt like an eternity.

“Rhaenyra!” you called down, your voice filled with urgency as you extended a hand to help her up onto Silverwing’s saddle.

Without a second thought, she took your hand, her fingers gripping yours tightly as you hauled her up, pulling her onto the saddle behind you. Her gown tangled beneath her as she climbed, but she didn’t care. The feel of the leather beneath her and the solid presence of Silverwing’s powerful body beneath her legs was enough to make her forget the world below.

“Hold on!” you shouted over the sound of Silverwing’s wings beginning to flap, preparing to take flight once more.

Before Silverwing could ascend, a roar echoed from the skies above. Syrax. Rhaenyra turned her head just in time to see her golden dragon soaring overhead, her wings outstretched as she circled, waiting for her rider to follow. A bond between dragon and rider that could never be severed.

From the doors of the Sept, Viserys stumbled out, breathless, his hand clutching his chest as he tried to call after his daughter. “Rhaenyra!” he shouted again, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and anger. His health had been deteriorating, and the strain of running out of the Sept left him gasping for breath, but he pushed forward, determined to stop her.

The king halted abruptly as he saw you, his son, for the first time in two long years. His face was a mixture of shock and disbelief as he stared up at you, sitting tall atop Silverwing. The reunion he had imagined was not like this. His eyes, wide with emotion, met yours for a brief moment, and in that glance, you saw everything—relief, sorrow, and the knowledge that things had changed far more than either of you had expected.

Alicent rushed to his side, her gown sweeping the ground as she took her place next to the king. Her breath hitched as her gaze shifted from Viserys to you, her eyes widening with realization. You had returned—but not for her. No, you had come for Rhaenyra. For your sister, for the woman you had always protected. She knew then, in that instant, that whatever hope she had harbored of your affection, whatever foolish dreams she had let linger, were gone.

Her face twisted in a mixture of shock and resentment, though she hid it well, standing dutifully at Viserys’s side. She had been left to endure her fate in silence, to bear the weight of the crown’s decisions without complaint. But Rhaenyra, as always, had found a way out.

Silverwing’s wings beat heavily as she lifted into the air, the powerful gusts of wind scattering dust and leaves across the courtyard. The people from the Sept, now spilling outside, watched in awe and terror as the great dragon ascended into the sky. Syrax let out another piercing roar as she followed closely behind, her golden form cutting through the clouds.

You turned to look at Rhaenyra as the two of you soared higher, away from the madness below. Her arms were wrapped tightly around your waist, her face buried against your back, but you could feel the tension in her body begin to ease. She was free now, at least for a moment.

“You came,” Rhaenyra whispered, her voice barely audible over the wind. “I knew you would come.”

“I made you a promise,” you replied, your voice steady as you guided Silverwing higher into the sky, away from Casterly Rock, away from the Sept. “I’ll always come for you.”

Rhaenyra tightened her grip on you, her heart racing, but for the first time in months, it wasn’t from fear or anger—it was from relief. Together, you and Rhaenyra flew, with Syrax trailing close behind, the roar of the dragons echoing through the skies as the people below watched in awe.

The Sept of Casterly Rock, once filled with nobles and royalty, now stood silent and stunned as the two Targaryens flew away, leaving nothing but whispers of rebellion in their wake.

The winds howled around Dragonstone as Silverwing descended onto the rocky terrain near the ancient Valyrian chapel, her massive wings folding with grace as she landed softly on the ground. The air was thick with the scent of the sea, and the sky above was a deep shade of crimson as the last rays of sunlight dipped below the horizon. The island felt almost otherworldly, shrouded in mist and history, a place of old magic and forgotten traditions.

Syrax followed shortly, her golden form cutting through the sky before she landed on a high perch, her piercing eyes watching over her riders with a protective gaze. The dragons, majestic and powerful, seemed to sense the gravity of the moment, their usual restlessness subdued as if in reverence to the events about to unfold.

You dismounted Silverwing first, your boots sinking into the loose gravel as you turned to help Rhaenyra down. The flight had been long, and the winds had battered her appearance, her once-perfect braids now unraveling, her gown wrinkled and slightly torn. But to you, she was still as radiant as ever. She looked up at you, her violet eyes filled with emotion, a mixture of relief, hope, and love. It was the first time you had truly looked at one another in two long years, and in that moment, the world seemed to stop.

Your hand reached out, fingers brushing gently against her cheek, caressing the soft skin as if to reassure yourself that she was real, that this moment was not a dream. Rhaenyra leaned into your touch, her breath catching in her throat as your eyes locked, the intensity of your shared bond clear in the silence between you.

“I’m here,” you whispered, your voice low but firm, as if the words held all the promises you had made and kept. “I’m always here for you.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears, but she quickly composed herself, her lips curling into a soft smile. “I knew you’d come.”

You held her gaze for a moment longer before you gently took her hand in yours, guiding her toward the ancient chapel that stood on the cliffside, overlooking the churning sea below. The chapel was old, far older than any other building on Dragonstone, its architecture a testament to Valyria’s glory, carved from black stone with intricate designs depicting dragons and flames. It had been abandoned for centuries, used only for the rarest and most sacred of Valyrian rites.

Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of incense and saltwater. The flickering light of torches illuminated the stone walls, casting long shadows that danced like ancient spirits. At the far end of the chapel stood the Dragonkeeper, an elderly man whose skin was weathered by time, his long silver hair tied back in a neat knot. He wore the traditional robes of old Valyria, a deep shade of crimson and black, with a silver dragon embroidered across his chest.

He greeted you both with a solemn nod, his eyes filled with the weight of tradition and duty. “Prince Y/N, Princess Rhaenyra,” he said, his voice gravelly but reverent. “You have come to be wed in the ancient rites of our ancestors.”

Rhaenyra stood beside you, her hand still firmly in yours, her heart pounding in her chest. This was what she had dreamed of—the only marriage she had ever wanted. Not to Jason Lannister, not to any of the suitors her father had paraded before her, but to you, the brother who had always stood by her, protected her, loved her.

The Dragonkeeper gestured for you both to step forward, toward the altar, which was adorned with ancient Valyrian relics—dragons carved from obsidian, vials of dragonfire, and a single silver chalice filled with wine. The flames of the torches reflected in the obsidian, creating an almost ethereal glow that bathed the entire chamber in an otherworldly light.

“By the old customs of Valyria, where dragonlord and dragonrider were bound not only by blood but by fire, you stand here today to unite your lives,” the Dragonkeeper began, his voice echoing through the empty chapel. “Fire and blood, as it has always been, will seal your bond before the gods and dragons.”

He extended his hands toward you, and from a hidden compartment within his robes, he produced a small dagger—the blade was Valyrian steel, its edge sharp and gleaming in the firelight. He handed the blade to you, his eyes locking with yours. “As is tradition, your blood will bind you.”

You took the dagger in your hand, its weight familiar and ancient, and turned toward Rhaenyra. She met your gaze with unwavering trust, her eyes never leaving yours. Without hesitation, you gently took her hand, holding it steady as you pressed the blade to her palm. The sharp steel cut through her skin with a precision that was both swift and ceremonial, a single drop of blood welling up from the wound.

Rhaenyra didn’t flinch, her eyes burning with determination as she watched you. You handed her the dagger, and she did the same for you, the blade gliding across your palm, a mirror of the mark you had made on her.

The Dragonkeeper stepped forward, holding the silver chalice beneath your hands. “Blood of the dragon,” he intoned, his voice low and reverent, “from the same bloodline, from the same fire.”

Together, you pressed your hands over the chalice, letting the blood drip into the wine, mixing with the ancient liquid as the flames around you flickered and danced. The Dragonkeeper took the chalice and raised it above his head.

“From this union of fire and blood, let no man tear you asunder. By the will of the gods and dragons, you are now one.”

He lowered the chalice and handed it to you. You took it in your hands and brought it to your lips, tasting the metallic tang of the blood mixed with the wine. Then, you handed it to Rhaenyra, who drank deeply, her eyes never leaving yours.

The Dragonkeeper stepped back, his hands raised in final blessing. “You are wed. Let the dragons bear witness, and may your union be strong, unbroken by time, as Valyria once was.”

As the final words were spoken, the air in the chapel seemed to hum with an ancient power, a presence that filled the space around you, binding you and Rhaenyra together in a way that no other ceremony could.

You turned to her, your hand still clasped tightly in hers, your hearts beating as one. Her face, despite the disheveled state caused by the flight, was radiant, her violet eyes gleaming with a mixture of triumph and love. Without a word, you leaned forward, pressing your forehead against hers, a gesture more intimate than any kiss. In this moment, words were unnecessary.

“I love you,” Rhaenyra whispered, her voice barely audible, as if the very walls of the chapel were not worthy of hearing such a declaration.

“And I love you,” you replied, your voice thick with emotion.

The ancient flames flickered as you pulled her closer, your hands still intertwined, the bond of fire and blood sealing your union as husband and wife.

Outside, Silverwing and Syrax roared in unison, their mighty cries echoing across the cliffs of Dragonstone, the sound carrying on the wind like a herald to the gods.

The Valyrian wedding had been completed. The blood of the dragon was bound once more.

The grand courtyard outside the Sept was a flurry of stunned and panicked nobles. The once-anticipated wedding of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and Lord Jason Lannister had dissolved into chaos in a matter of moments. Eyes lifted to the sky, where Silverwing, with Rhaenyra and you on her back, flew higher and higher, disappearing into the distance toward Dragonstone, Syrax trailing close behind. The sound of Silverwing's powerful wings still echoed faintly in the air, but the shock remained heavy in the courtyard.

King Viserys stood rooted in place, his hand resting on his chest as his breath came in labored gasps. His gaze was fixed in the direction of his children’s departure, his eyes distant as if already resigned to the inevitable. He had watched you fly away with his daughter, both of you slipping from his grasp like sand in an hourglass. His children—both of them, so intertwined by blood and fate—had rebelled together, and now they were gone.

Jason Lannister emerged from the Sept, his face red with fury, his hand clenched so tightly around the hilt of his sword that his knuckles turned white. His twin, Tyland, stumbled out behind him, still dazed from the sudden turn of events, his usually calm demeanor shattered by the sight of you taking Rhaenyra away. Jason's eyes blazed as he stormed toward Viserys, his voice loud and full of indignation.

“Your Grace!” Jason spat, his voice carrying across the courtyard. “I demand that my bride be returned to me! This is an insult to House Lannister. I will not stand for it!”

Tyland, his composure slowly returning, reached out a hand to his brother, trying to calm him. “Jason…” he began, but Jason shrugged him off, his fury unchecked.

Before Viserys could respond, Daemon Targaryen, who had been standing off to the side with Lady Laena Velaryon at his arm, let out a scoff loud enough to draw the attention of those around him. His silver hair gleamed in the sunlight, and his smirk was as sharp as ever as he stepped forward, his arm loosely draped around Laena’s shoulders.

“Your bride?” Daemon drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “It seems, Lannister, that my nephew came for what was his and took it. He did what any dragon would—he claimed what belongs to him.” His violet eyes gleamed with amusement as he surveyed the angry Lord Jason. “You should be thankful this farce is finally over.”

Jason's face turned even redder, veins bulging in his neck as he glared at Daemon. “I will not tolerate this mockery! Rhaenyra was promised to me!”

Daemon chuckled, the sound low and mocking. “Promised? By whom? Your coins and titles? Dragons do not care for gold, Lannister. My nephew and niece have decided their own fate, it seems.”

Laena stood beside Daemon, watching the exchange with a cool expression. She was poised and composed, clearly more intrigued than surprised by what had unfolded. Her dark eyes flickered toward the sky where the dragons had disappeared. “It seems the dragons have chosen their own path,” she murmured, almost to herself, her lips curving into a faint smile.

Otto Hightower stepped forward, his face tense, his mind already calculating the ramifications of what had just occurred. He turned toward King Viserys, his tone carefully measured but insistent. “Your Grace, this... act of rebellion by your children cannot go unanswered. If we do not act swiftly, the realm will begin to question your authority. House Lannister will not be the only one demanding answers.”

Viserys remained silent, his gaze still fixed on the distant horizon. The weight of his crown and the crumbling control over his family weighed heavily on him, the burden etched into the lines of his face. He could feel the eyes of his council on him, waiting for his decree. Waiting for him to bring order to this chaos.

“Your Grace,” Otto pressed, his voice more urgent now. “If there is any chance of changing Rhaenyra’s mind, of preventing her and your son from... doing something that could destabilize the realm, we must act. Now. We cannot allow this defiance to go unanswered.”

Jason, still seething, nodded in agreement. “The crown must uphold the promises it has made, Your Grace. House Lannister demands retribution for this insult.”

But before Otto could continue, Viserys lifted a hand, silencing the crowd around him. His face was pale, his hand trembling slightly as he took in a slow, deep breath. His eyes, weary and filled with sorrow, finally turned toward Otto and the assembled nobles.

“No,” Viserys said quietly, but with finality. His voice, though soft, echoed in the stunned silence that followed. “I will not stop them.”

The nobles exchanged shocked glances, whispers immediately breaking out among the gathered lords and ladies. Otto’s mouth fell open slightly, and Jason’s expression turned to one of disbelief.

“Your Grace,” Otto began, trying to keep his voice level, “this is not—”

Viserys cut him off, his voice firmer this time. “I will not chase my children down like criminals. My daughter… and my son… have chosen their path. And I will not stop them.”

Jason stepped forward, his voice rising in frustration. “This is madness, Your Grace! You’re allowing your heir to defy your will and to steal away with the woman promised to me!”

But Viserys didn’t respond to Jason. His gaze remained distant, filled with a deep sadness, as though a part of him had already accepted what had transpired. His hand, still trembling, fell back to his side, and he turned away from the gathered nobles, the weight of the crown heavier than ever.

Otto’s face tightened with frustration, but he didn’t dare press further. The king’s decision had been made, and despite the chaos it would surely cause, Viserys was unyielding. The silence that followed was deafening, save for the whispers of the lords and ladies who could scarcely believe what they had just witnessed.

Daemon, standing off to the side, let out a low chuckle, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Well,” he said, his smirk widening as he turned to Laena. “It seems the crown is more flexible than we thought, my love.”

Laena raised an eyebrow but said nothing, her amusement mirroring Daemon’s.

As the crowd began to disperse, the tension still thick in the air, Otto stepped closer to Viserys, his voice lowered so that only the king could hear him. “Your Grace, this will have consequences.”

Viserys glanced at him, his expression one of quiet resignation. “It always does, Otto.”

But for the first time in a long while, Viserys had chosen to side with his heart rather than his crown. And the realm, for better or worse, would have to live with the consequences of that decision.

The air in your chambers at Dragonstone is filled with the scent of fire and salt from the sea that laps at the fortress’s shores. A soft, golden glow flickers from the hearth. The chill of the evening is driven away by the warmth of your body, of her body, and the moment you've both craved for so long stretches before you, heavy with anticipation.

Rhaenyra stands before you, still adorned in the remnants of her Valyrian wedding attire. The delicate fabric clings to her figure, and you can’t help but marvel at her beauty, your wife now, in every sense. Her pale hair cascades like molten silver over her shoulders, loose and wild, a stark contrast to her earlier regal appearance. Her violet eyes, so much like your own, burn with intensity as they meet yours.

It has been a long road to this moment — years of stolen touches, whispered confessions in darkened corridors, and glances that lingered far too long for any brother and sister. You’ve always known, though. From the moment you both understood what it meant to be Targaryen, to be dragonkind. Bound by fire and blood.

Yet, it was tonight — after the ceremony, after the sacred words spoken in High Valyrian — that the weight of the bond truly settled upon you both. You are husband and wife now, joined in the eyes of the gods of Old Valyria.

And now, finally, here you stand, ready to consummate that bond in the most intimate of ways.

Rhaenyra steps closer to you, her fingers trembling slightly as they reach for the clasps of your tunic. You catch her hands gently, your thumb brushing over her knuckles.

"You need not rush, Rhaenyra," you say, your voice low, thick with the emotion of the moment. "We have all night. We have forever."

She smiles at that, a rare softness gracing her lips, though there’s a hint of something else in her gaze — something vulnerable.

"I know," she whispers, stepping closer still, so close that the warmth of her body reaches you. "But I’ve waited long enough to have you like this, truly. I don’t wish to wait any longer."

Her hands slip free of yours, and with careful, deliberate motions, she begins to undo your tunic. The fabric slips from your shoulders, revealing the hard planes of your chest, the scars that mar your otherwise flawless skin, souvenirs of the battles and skirmishes at the border of Dorne. Rhaenyra’s eyes trace them, her fingers following the paths of old wounds.

Her touch is reverent, and she says nothing for a long while as she explores your body. Her fingers linger on the deepest of scars, the one that runs across your abdomen, the memory of an enemy's blade.

"This one," she murmurs, her hand pressing lightly against the raised flesh. "Does it still pain you?"

"Not anymore," you reply, your hand coming up to cup her face, lifting her gaze to meet yours. "Not when you touch it."

Rhaenyra’s breath hitches at your words, and you see the desire in her eyes deepen. She leans into your touch, her lips parting as she exhales a shaky breath.

"I am sorry," she whispers, her voice trembling with the weight of the confession. "Before you left for Dorne, we argued. And I regret it."

"I know," you say, brushing your thumb over her lower lip. "But it doesn't matter now. This is where we were meant to be from the start."

She nods, a tear escaping her lashes, though it’s not one of sorrow. You kiss it away, tasting the salt on her skin as your lips move to her cheek, her jaw, and then finally her mouth. The kiss is slow, languid, a promise of what is to come. Her hands are in your hair, tugging gently as she pulls you closer, her body pressing against yours, warm and soft.

You can feel her heart racing beneath your touch, and yours beats in time with hers as you guide her back toward the bed, the silken sheets cool beneath your fingers as you lower her onto them. Rhaenyra watches you with half-lidded eyes, her chest rising and falling with anticipation as you strip away the last of your clothes.

When you turn your attention to her, you take your time, untying the intricate knots that hold her gown in place, layer by layer. She shifts beneath your touch, her body trembling with each brush of your fingers, until finally, she is bare before you, the soft glow of the fire casting her skin in a golden hue.

"Beautiful," you murmur, your voice reverent as you kneel before her.

She reaches for you, her fingers curling around your wrist as she pulls you down to her, and you follow willingly, pressing your body against hers, the heat of her skin igniting something primal within you.

For a moment, neither of you move. You simply lie there, holding each other, breathing in the scent of each other’s skin, feeling the steady thrum of life between you.

"You’re mine," Rhaenyra breathes, her lips brushing the shell of your ear. "And I am yours."

You answer her with a kiss, deeper this time, more urgent, your hand sliding down her body, feeling the curve of her waist, the softness of her hips, until you reach the place where she is already warm and wet for you.

She gasps into your mouth, her nails digging into your back as your fingers slip inside her, her body arching beneath you.

"Please," she whispers, her voice strained. "I need you."

And so you give her what she asks for, positioning yourself between her legs, your heart hammering in your chest as you finally press inside her, slow and steady, until you are fully seated within her warmth.

Rhaenyra lets out a soft cry, her hands clinging to your shoulders, and for a moment, you both simply hold still, lost in the sensation of being joined, of finally being one.

Then you move, gently at first, then with increasing urgency as the need to feel all of her overtakes you. Rhaenyra meets your movements with equal fervor, her body rising to meet yours with every thrust, her cries growing louder with every passing moment.

The room is filled with the sound of your bodies, the crackle of the fire, the soft whisper of your names on each other’s lips.

When you finally reach the edge, you bury your face in her neck, your teeth grazing her skin as you spill yourself inside her, her body trembling beneath yours as she follows you into bliss.

You stay like that for a long while, wrapped in each other’s arms, your bodies still connected, your breathing slowly returning to normal.

"I never want this to end," Rhaenyra murmurs, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back.

"It won’t," you promise, pressing a kiss to her temple. "This is just the beginning."

And as you hold her close, the two of you tangled together beneath the warm embrace of the dragonlord's legacy, you know that you will keep that promise. You are bound by fire and blood, and nothing, not even the gods, will tear you apart.

[goodqueenaly]

Considering the public version of Baelish and Sansa's situation, as in him being a doting father to his only child, albeit illegitimate, does it raise some perplexity among the Vale nobility that he wouldn't ask for a legitimisation? Alayne is his only child, he's unmarried at the moment, and any male heir he could have in the future would preceed her anyway. Or is legitimisation done exclusively in cases of emergency, aka when literally no other legitimate heir is available?

It’s worth emphasizing that legitimization is a relatively pretty rare process: of the dozens of acknowledged bastards we know of in the history of Westeros, only two (outside the blanket legitimization issued by Aegon IV on his deathbed) have ever been formally legitimized (three if you count Jon Snow, who was all but certainly legitimized by Robb’s will but whose legitimized status is not yet widely known in-universe). Importantly, in each of those cases - Ramsay Snow, the sons of Marilda of Hull, and Jon Snow - the legitimization came about specifically because the lord or king in question had no surviving legitimate son to inherit after him (at least officially - I very much believe Mushroom’s assertion that Corlys was the biological l father of Addam and Alyn of Hull). (Again, Aegon IV is the exception here - I don’t even think he was really trying to push Daemon as his alternative heir - but I believe Aegon’s move was a sort of final “fuck you” to the future King Daeron II, a last petty stab at the son he hated rather than a genuine politico-dynastic decision by the dying king.) Likewise, only Aegon IV ever chose to legitimize a daughter (and again, only in the context of a blanket legitimization); even Oberyn Martell, for example, who held out each of his daughters as his own far earlier than Littlefinger was supposed to have done for “Alayne” (and indeed, lived with the mother of his four youngest daughters as effectively a married couple in a nuclear family), never apparently sought to legitimize any of them. Nor indeed should it be forgotten how serious a process legitimization is: only a king can legitimize a bastardborn Westerosi, and once so legitimized, both that person and his (or her) descendants would be legitimate forever.

So far from the assembled aristocracy of the Vale finding it odd that Littlefinger would not be pressing for Sansa-as-Alayne to be legitimized, I think these aristocrats would be surprised, even shocked if Littlefinger tried to make his “daughter” legitimate by royal decree. After all, the public narrative about “Alayne Stone” is that Littlefinger didn’t even know of her existence until very recently - when “at [her] flowering [“Alayne”] decided [she] did not wish to be a septa and wrote to [Littlefinger]”. While Littlefinger might have publicly recognized Sansa-as-Alayne as his daughter, and treated her relatively well by Westerosi standards (remember, this is a world where Lord Hewett made his own extramarital daughter a house servant to his wife and their children), Alayne’s social position is at best a liminal one - able to act in some ways as the lady of the Arryn household, but in other ways (as Littlefinger, Myranda Royce, and Harry Hardyng all remind her) very much considered the inferior of her blue-blood neighbors. Moreover, I think many in the Vale would anticipate that Littlefinger - now Lord of Harrenhal in addition to being Lord Protector of the Vale and the richest thief man in Westeros - would marry and produce legitimate (male) heirs of his own; indeed, Myranda teases Sansa-as-Alayne on this point, remarking that Littlefinger “needs a pretty young wife to wash away his grief” and that he “could have his pick of half the noble maidens in the Vale” (including, as she later jokes to Sansa-as-Alayne in TWOW, Myranda herself). In turn, the idea that Littlefinger, having such standing, would choose to go through the significant effort of petitioning the king to elevate a bastard teenage girl as his heiress, when he himself could marry a suitably aristocratic bride and have a legitimate son of his body to succeed him, would so grossly contrast with the patriarchal and classist socio-political expectations of Westerosi aristocracy that I think the move would cause nothing but muttering and suspicion.

What Littlefinger wants to avoid most of all with Sansa-as-Alayne is undue attention being cast on her, at least until Littlefinger himself feels ready to reveal her as Sansa Stark. Indeed, this was the entire purpose of choosing a bastard disguise for Sansa in the first place: when Sansa suggests that she could portray herself as “the trueborn daughter of some knight in [his] service”, Littlefinger reminds her that “[s]uch a tale would draw unwanted questions”, while then noting that “[i]t is rude to pry into the origins of a man's natural children”. Therefore, Littlefinger’s treatment of Sansa has to fit within the socio-political expectations of Westerosi and specifically Vale aristocratic life - which is to say, not promoting bastards above their station (again, according to the rules imposed by the elites in this society). No one, I think, would expect, much less encourage, the rich and powerfully landed widower Littlefinger to hold out his bastardborn “daughter” as his heiress, still less to go through the process of legitimizing her; better, for Littlefinger’s scheme at least, to leave her as a recognized but still illegitimate child, and trust in polite society’s reluctance to pry further, rather than foster speculation by taking the unorthodox move of pressing for her legitimization.

[madame-fear]

How about a fic where y/n is not nobility but is a daughter of a businessman who deals with shipping things around westeros. In one meeting her father and corlys are working on things and luke, as the next lord of the tides is aprenticing to learn about his responsibilities but he's not learning anything at all when the businessman's daughter is there, also aprenticing under her father 😍

*ೃ༄ 𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐒 .ೃ࿐

★ amira speaks! : hello honey! sorry it took me some time on getting this finished,, i apologise beforehand if it’s rather short, and since i wrote it heavily sleepy and tired, i really do hope it was what you expected. 💕 — summary : [ — ✧ request ] — word count : 1.8k

— pairing : lucerys velaryon x shipping businessman daughter!reader — genre : fluff.

Sailing through the seawaves was something you’d been used to ever since you had memory. Your father, being a businessman that shipped all sorts of things throughout Westeros and particularly for certain royal Houses, constantly took you with him to every important meeting. After all, you were his one and only child, and you had to know how to properly keep the shipping business functioning once the responsability officially fell into your hands.

Soft, cool breeze gently swayed bits of your hair as you arrived to Driftmark, accompanying your father to meet the current, and future young Lord of the previously mentioned location. House Velaryon was one of the greatest Houses, being known for it’s rich maritime heritage and it’s great fleets. They have great knowledge on how to sail through the Narrow Sea, and the vast ocean. And with your father being well known for his great wisdom on trading, shipping for foreigner markets and throughout the entirety of Westeros as well, both House Velaryon and your own family greatly benefited from each other for each other’s respective businesses.

The people from Driftmark, the very moment you arrived, joyfully hosted you with great pride and kindness. Being fairly new to the shipping business, still apprenticing under your father, you remained as glued as possible to him. Despite always remaining quiet, attentively observing the way your father negotiated with whomever wantd to make business with him, you never considered yourself to be a timid person. Often, you were very polite and kind with whomever your father made business with.

But of course, this particular major meeting between your father and Lord Corlys Velaryon was different. Of course, it wasn’t only special because this time it was the grand House Velaryon the one you were making business with — but rather because, as expected, Lord Corlys’ grandson, Lucerys Velaryon, stood by his grandsire’s side; much like you stood next to your father quietly. And it was only natural for him to attend the meeting as well, as he was to be the future Lord of Driftmark. Lucerys was the future heir, like you were your father’s future heir. It was slightly awkward to admit it, but you could feel a tinge of shyness growing on you the moment you spotted him, noticing his sweet, vivid green hazel eyes.

The young Velaryon Prince seemed to be rather meek and awkward around you from the very first second you were introduced to one another. A faint rosy hue crept on his pale cheeks, mimicking your own fluster. Most certainly, you were very pretty — and there was no denial in that. How delicate his features were and how gentle he behaved when greeting you didn’t pass unnoticed at all, as well, and you could feel your heart slightly thumping loudly against your chest. Don’t behave strangely, you kept reminding to yourself mentally, realising you were becoming shy around him.

As the meeting officially started by getting inside of Driftmark and getting introduced briefly by the surroundings, both Lucerys and you followed your eldests from behind, attentively listening to how they chatted about the things they would ship and trade across the Narrow Sea, and Westeros.

Walking closely by Lucerys’ side, you couldn’t help but discreetly steal glances at the shy boy next to you, trying to catch his eye. He appeared to be deep in thought; or perhaps focused on the meeting himself, but really, Luke simply could feel your gaze timidly lingering on him, and felt too overwhelmed to even dare to dart his stare back to you, and engage in a conversation properly instead of being dead silent, following your father and his grandsire like lost puppies. The voices and occasional chuckles coming from the two men as they arranged some things to ship around leisurely faded away, being some sort of background noise for you.

Often, when following your father to his business meetings, you were never the type of person to easily lose your concentration on what truly mattered; which was, negotiation and managing the shipping business just as perfect as your father did. But this time, you could feel yourself too... Focused on your own steps without listening a word of what they were saying, and noticing the heavy awkwardness lingering between Lucerys and you, continously having each other grasping arms when you walked.

Part of you longed to initiate a conversation with the young Velaryon, and yet, you were too afraid of making things far more embarrassing than they already were for both of you. And, the one to break the ice for once and for all, was Lucerys.

His arms were hidden behind his back as he walked leisurely behind of his grandsire, and by your side. You were so distracting and overwhelming, but all of that in a good way, as you seemed charmingly delightful. Luke cleared his throat faintly, “You must be apprenticing under your father as well, my Lady, are you not?” as Lucerys craned his head to stare at you, he felt startled to see you so closely, fixing your beautiful eyes on his own. It felt as if his heart was going to melt right there, which made him have to gain courage and strength to not stutter right there.

“I am indeed, my Prince.” you replied, with a little timid grin tugging at the corner of your lip. “My father has been trading and shipping all sorts of things with many noble Houses throughout Westeros, and I have been following his steps ever since I have memory.” fortunately those words seemed to roll smoothly off your lips, being at the brink of feeling like you would begin stuttering.

“House Velaryon has been no exception today.” a toothy grin appeared on his lips, as your own quivered into a wide smile as well. “Both my father and I feel tremendously grateful. I must admit, I know everything that there is to be known about your House, my Prince.” those words spurred naturally from your lips, immediatly gazing down at your feet as you kept walking by his side, in a poor attempt to cover the fluster on your face that slowly intensified with a notorious crimson shade. His hazel eyes were fixed on you, feeling almost like a little boy with a growing crush.

As his Grandsire stopped walking rather abruptly to show your father something that seemed related to House Velaryon, both of you simply stood behind of them. Your hands were clasped together in front of your body, standing in front of him, managing somehow to gaze deep into his eyes.

The feeling of butterflies fluttering their wings softly on his chest appeared at the way you stared at him, “You do?” was all he managed to reply in a quiet tone, keeping his arms behind his back. “I feel honoured to hear you say so. Thank you.” he replied. It was meant to be a thought to himself, but it came out as a faint murmuring to himself, yet loud enough for you to hear. You snickered, nodding in agreement. “I do, my Prince. It’s safe to say, House Velaryon might be my favourite of all the noble Houses I ever met.” you continued, despite still feeling a bit awkward around him. Not in a bad way, of course, but rather, in a way that made you not focus about whatever responsabilities you had and just concentrate on having a good impression on him. And Gods, he was obviously doing the same.

Being the future Lord of Driftmark, he knew he had duties and responsabilities to fulfill, and constantly comply to. But it was so incredibly difficult not to focus on those beautiful features of yours, swallowing nervously. “I believe your great fleets, knowledge of the vast sea, and your honour and loyalty are the things that make just feel too tempted to keep reading about the traditions of your House.” you said, tilting slightly your head to the side, offering him a little proud grin after letting him know you had previously informed yourself about the values of his House.

The crimson hue on your cheeks seemed to creep across the rest of your face, noticing his own doing the exact same. “I see,” he replied meekly, daring to lean a bit more near towards your body with his own. Discreetly, he licked his dried lips in a swift motion. He was not the most courageous one when it came to talking to girls his age, nor expertise, but for you, Luke felt bold enough to try and approach you. “Well, then, perhaps... You could come visit us more often, here at Driftmark.”

You anxiously swallowed, trying to hold back a dumbfounded toothy grin from suddenly appearing in your lips. “I would truly be delighted to show you around, and you could get to know about House Velaryon more personally.” at least, that sounded like the perfect excuse to him to be around you more often, talk to you, and get to know you better. His Grandsire seemed to be getting well enough with your father despite having exclusively met to discuss shipping business, so Luke was certain he would get to see you more often. “And perhaps, you could teach me more about sailing and shipping. Don’t you think so?”

His little grin was alluring enough for you to agree to his proposal in the blink of an eye. Not that you would deny it either way, of course. Without allowing silence to take room between the two of you, you snickered, and immediatly nodded. Your cheeks were entirely heated from the shy, yet excited nerves you had from being around him. And unbeknownst to you, he was truly doing the greatest effort to not shy away from you right there, or simply die from nerves.

“You’re tempting enough for me to accept your proposal, Prince Lucerys.” you retorted, “I agree, and I would be delighted to teach each other.” his smile grew wider, releasing a soft sigh that hinted at how a huge relief overwhelmed him, having been previously tense in case you would deny to see him more often. Playfully, he offered you his hand for you to shake, and you immediatly understood, chuckling lightly. Taking his hand, you gently shook it, fixing your gaze into his eyes, just like he was doing.

“We have a deal, then.”

The idea of lurking you to visit him at Driftmark with your family more often and having the opportunity to talk to you was thrilling. Your charmingly sweet way of being, your lovely company, and the knowledge you had about the traditions and values of his House were enough for you to have easily made your way into his heart without a doubt. And perhaps, you could be perfect to fit for the currently empty spot of being his future Lady of Driftmark.

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