#honeyholt

[chic-beyond-the-wall]

What a lady of house beesbury would wear

[jaenaravelaryon]

Pamela of Houses Beesbury and Velaryon

Daughter of Lord Moren Beesbury of Honeyholt

Wife of Addam Velaryon

Mother to Jaena and Nerissa Velaryon.

Though she was not the Lady of Driftmark and was merely wife to the second son, Lady Pamela held great influence, having served the Tyrells and then House Targaryen with her daughters. Nerissa would become the Lady of Driftmark as wife to her cousin Lord Monterys and Jaena would one day become Queen of the Seven Kingdoms as wife to King Rhaegar I. Pamela served Queen Daenerys I until the end of her days, and helped in raising their shared royal grandchildren. She outlived her own son in law, overseeing the coronation of her grandson King Baelon I and Queen Jaenara. She died on the ninth day of the ninth moon of 352 AC whilst visiting with her daughter Nerissa on Driftmark.

[tropes-and-tales]

The Coolness of the Shade

(Oberyn Martell x F!Reader)

CW:  Fluff, non-smutty smooching, references to past smutty times, language, mention of pregnancy, a mention of Ellaria. 18+ to be safe.

Word Count:  1312

AN:  This was originally requested from a "gentle prompt list" ("lazy kisses that don't even count as kisses but you could live in that moment forever because LOVE") by @elegantmusicdragon!

Tales of Prince Oberyn Martell precede him through Westeros, into Essos, and likely beyond.  You wonder sometimes if there’s some giant in his cave in the Frostfangs, swaddled in fur and coated in a rime of ice that has heard of the Red Viper and his prodigious appetites in love.

If that’s so, the giant would likely miss the hidden truth of your prince and lover:  that yes, of course many of the stories are true because Oberyn is without shame and without prejudice in who he loves…but that his outsized love extends beyond the salacious moments in the bedchamber or brothel. 

To put it crudely (which Oberyn would love, because he so loves to hear the filthiest words falling from your ladylike mouth):  the Red Viper’s cock may be large, but his heart is larger.

To put it more delicately (which your dearly departed septa would love, because she toiled so tirelessly to mold your wild person into a semblance of a lady):  Oberyn may love a person with his body, but the love he grants them from his heart is a far more precious thing.

-----

It is the custom of the Dornish to retire during the noon hour, when the sun is at its peak and the heat shimmers across the city and desert.  They laze by fountains or in the shade of the lemon or olive groves, they drowse in their beds with the curtains drawn.  They take a small meal, then relax behind the thick stone walls of their homes, the shutters fast across their windows to keep the sun and heat from penetrating.

You and Oberyn retire too; his rooms at Sunspear are cool, and even the balcony that overlooks the royal garden is deep and shaded.  The two of you lie across a wide divan heaped with silken pillows on his balcony, and a nearby table holds an ewer of water infused with lemon and mint.  There are little bowls of snacks—dates, berries, almonds dusted with ginger—but you work at a ruby-red pomegranate, separating the juicy arils from the bitter white flesh.

“You look like someone out of a myth,” Oberyn says from where he’s sprawled against the divan.  “Some temptress with her fruit, ready to cause an innocent boy to sin.”

You laugh lightly.  “I’m less a temptress and more the tempted.”

“Is that so?”

“I seem to recall a certain feast in Honeyholt.  A certain celebration of a Beesbury daughter’s betrothal to a Karstark.  There was wine, jousting, mummers—”

“Sounds festive.”

You nod, and you free another aril to pop it in your mouth, the tart juice bursting on your tongue as you bite down.  “I also seem to recall a certain man, temptation himself, slipping between the silk panels of the Beesbury daughter’s tent, slipping past her dozing septa, and offering her a glimpse of what her married life might hold.”

“Temptation himself,” Oberyn muses.  “Sounds wicked.”

Another nod.  “Oh, he was.  Wicked with his tongue and his fingers and then finally his cock.  Before the sun rose over Honeyholt the next morning, both the Beesbury daughter and Temptation were long gone, leaving only a broken betrothal and a furious father behind.”

Oberyn hums at that, and he reaches out and grasps your wrist lightly, tugs you down to where he lays. 

“And a shattered reputation,” he adds.  “And more pleasure and love than the Beesbury daughter could have ever received from dour old Karstark.”  He pauses, then adds, “and I love it when you say cock, my love.  Such a blunt word in such a pretty mouth.”

You dip your head and kiss him gently.  “I think, on the balance, the Beesbury daughter is quite happy with her choice.”

“And Temptation is glad to hear it, because he is quite happy with her choice too.”  He waits until you start to draw away from him, then tugs you back, kisses you again.  He opens your mouth with his, but his tongue slips against yours lazily, like he’s tasting you but happy to do little else.

“Come, my disgraced Lady Beesbury.  Lie down with me.”  He pulls you down, helps you stretch alongside him, but he doesn’t press his advantage in the heavy noon heat.  In the coolness of the shade of his balcony, he only kisses you:  gentle presses of his lips on yours, the sweet, slow slide of his mouth on your jaw, your neck. 

You kiss him back:  the crown of his head, his forehead, the slope of his nose.  His temples, the rough stubble on his cheeks.  You don’t press your advantage either; you still are not used to the heat of Dorne, the necessity of pausing a productive workday.  In Honeyholt, your noon hour was when the commoners would petition your Lord Father, when Cook began preparing for the evening meal, when the servants hung wet linen to dry in the breeze.  You often took strolls through the gardens, the heavy buzzing of the hives an accompanying melody.

This is different, but it’s not unwelcome.  A daily moment to spend time with Oberyn, to relish each other’s company, to wrap yourself in each other’s arms and exchange kisses without heat but with plenty of love.

Oberyn kisses you again on your mouth, then breaks away.  He lays a gentle palm on the back of your head and guides you to lie against his chest.  He’s in a light linen robe, but it’s open, and your cheek brushes against the smattering of hair there.  You can hear his heart, strong and steady, under your ear. 

The two of you lay in silence for a long moment.  There’s little sound other than a breeze stirring the leaves in the lemon trees below, a bird chirruping nearby. 

“I may have been Temptation,” Oberyn finally says, his voice a low rumble.  “But who could resist you?  The sweetest flower about to be torn out at the root and taken to the cold North.  You would have never flourished there.”

You feel the tiniest stab of loyalty for your would-be husband, now dead since the past year.  “Lord Karstark was a kind enough man.  Only gruff.”

“Northern men never treat their women well.  Little more than broodmares to continue their paltry bloodlines.”

You laugh, turn your head enough to press a kiss to his bare chest.  “Ah, so says Prince Oberyn, father to…how many is it, now?”

“Eight.  Eight daughters.”   His arm that holds you tightens around your shoulders, but his free hand reaches up and cups your breast lightly, then slides lower, under the edge of your gown.  He lays his palm gently against your belly that has only begun to round with his child.  “And perhaps a ninth daughter.”

You smile.  It is too early, but you imagine the child turning towards Oberyn’s hand, sensing him, feeling the love the Red Viper already has for this unknown child—the same love he bears all his children.

“Or perhaps a son,” you reply.

“And then afterwards, perhaps a tenth child…and an eleventh…”  His palm caresses you.  You know he loves the making of his children, but he also loves watching them grow in their mothers.  Ellaria had warned you with a knowing smile, but you had not quite believed her until you experienced it for yourself.  The moment you told Oberyn that you had missed your monthly courses, he was insatiable:  keeping you abed for days, as if he hadn’t already planted his seed, as if more love-making could somehow fix the growing babe firmer into you.

But he doesn’t press his luck now.  He only holds you in the cool shade, drowses with you, kisses you from time to time.  Just you, the Beesbury daughter and your tempting prince, and the child you made together…all three resting in the noon hour in Dorne.

[hereforthehitsbaby]

I'm Not Interested | Oberyn Martell x F!Reader

Synopsis: Being a handmaiden meant you lived to serve, to make sure you were keeping the young queen safe. But when a certain golden fellow makes his way in from the South, he cannot help but to become infatuated with your aura. So many stories you have heard about the Prince of Dorne, how uninterested it made you. But would he be able to woo you?

Warnings: Language, Angst, M/F Sexual Situations, The Hatred the Reader Has For Oberyn is A S T R O N O M I C A L, Reader has the last name of Flowers since they are a bastard from The Reach,

Rating: M

Word Count: 7.3K

What is it with those who we cannot have that make life most difficult? Was it the fact that every time you lay your eyes upon them, you knew you cannot be with them? Or was it the fact that you have convinced yourself you should not care for this person, should not be with them, because they will not feel the same way? The constant back and forth can be very tiresome; What was the point of harboring such emotions if they could not be acted upon? Why must life be so damn complicated? Why must two different social classes not interact even though they can bring the greatest of pleasures and happiness? The gods from above were out to get us all, to make sure we cannot act upon such feelings in order to restore balance, power, and integrity within the seven kingdoms. But what would they think about those who did not harbor such feelings for the irresistible? The greatest challenge they would ever have to face, started with you.

Urges were something you had never given into, no matter how bad you needed to. You never really saw the necessity in pining after them if all they could bring would be heartache, fear and anger. It had to do with your upbringing, you attributed it to. Fearing the worst of all situations forced you to become cautious in your day to day - why live in multiple strides when you could comfortably follow one linear path? There would be no disruptions, you could predict everyday and know it would/could play out the same way. After all, was what fun about surprises? Knowing what to expect everyday had a better feel; You go to work, do your tasks and go home - simple enough at the end of the day. No big occurrences that could knock you off track, no distractions that could cause you to be beheaded - everything worked out perfectly in hindsight. What more out of life could you possible have asked for? Why did he need to be brought into the picture? Why was the world out to get you?

Growing up was not simple for you; Then again, neither was life. Westeros was suppose to be the land of opportunity, the country of new allegiances and fresh life - it was not suppose to be the end all, be all. Surely you didn't pick up on the evil and the carnage until you were much older, but growing up in Honeyholt was your solace - your home away from home. Though you had only spent a short amount of time there, it was nothing like you ever new before. Lush greenery and sweetened air flowed through your nostrils every time you woke up; Softened gaze of the sun rippling over your body like it was a kiss from the gods themselves. The Reach was one of the least problematic provinces of Westeros but, somehow there would always be evil that followed. Maybe it was just you after all, maybe the evil followed because you provoked it? Your first lick of the bad was when one of the river boys decided to kill your lovely hummingbirds by pelting them with rocks; Weirdo was a phrase they tossed at you like stale bread. But it was the rocks being pelted back at their heads that helped solidify the family you would have, love and cherish forever.

Margaery Tyrell was your saving grace that dreadful summer day, her brother Loras standing directly next to her. It was their sharp aim of the glistening rocks that caused your tears and sadness to turn to smiles and laughter - protecting you from the bullshit being thrown your way. The reason you were tormented in The Reach was due to being a bastard - born to a mother and father who were merely fifteen. They could not care for you, so they ushered you off to the nearest orphanage, leaving you without a house name but one that would be burned into your cranium. Flowers was a beautiful last name, elegant and soft but - when it revolved around those born out of lust, no one appreciated it. Still Margaery and Loras let you become one of their own, promising to bring you love and joy like you never knew before. It they had not saved you that day - you would have been stoned to death by those measly boys. But you never expected your life to take such a turn, shifting from anger and sadness to peace and serenity. The Tyrells were one of the only welcoming families in all of the Seven Kingdoms, well besides the Martells.

Due to how close you had gotten with Margaery over the course of sixty two nights, Mace Tyrell had appointed you the handmaiden for his young daughter. It came naturally being best friends with Margaery with her loving, sympathetic and feisty nature; You felt like a Tyrell one most days. Both of you were around the same age of 12 when you had been given the role, doing that even up into this very day. It came naturally to be in the princesses care, though she was not royalty at that age just yet. It was an ongoing dream you both had, being whisked away far away from Highgarden to enjoy the scenery of the world - hoping a loving Prince would make you his one day. Though it was a pipedream, it was one you chose to reminisce in. Those small daydreams started to diminish when Margaery was being whisked away to Renly Baratheon - promising to make her a Queen. You were so happy your best friend got to see the world, being in charge and love every minute of it - but deep down you wished it was you. Mace told you the second she was sauntered off to another realm, you would not longer be of service but, Lady Olenna and Margaery were always going to need you as the handmaiden.

You had been through it all with Queen Margaery, Renly's death - Joffery's death and now her marriage to Tommen. Poor girl had endured so much in so little time you were starting to feel for her, maybe it was the course of the Baratheon's everyone droned on about at times. Still being the one to comfort her through it all meant the world; You needed each other like fish needed water - two halves of a whole. She could not function without you and vice versa; No one could function without a great support system in King's Landing. With Cersei always making her rounds to check in on the both of you, always making quips about you being a bastard - both you and Margaery talked the biggest load of shit about her once she left. Then again that is what sister's do, they talk shit and laugh together. A gift from the gods above, a curse in the seven kingdoms. The optimism that Margaery held was one of the reasons that you became narrow to the world, living as a realist instead of in your sweetened fantasies. There was too much death shrouding for one to endure; You took the baggage on for her.

A stormy night in King's Landing was rare, only sunshine had made its way through the golden city. Standing on the balcony of the castle you watched how the rain trickled down softly in your chambers, how it rippled amongst blackwater bay in the most beautiful of ways. You were meant to be drawing a bath up for Margaery but, decided to let the water boil a bit more before letting her slip in. She loved a hot bath with her favorite citrus and clove oils, and on colder nights like this - it was heavily needed. Pulling your shawl tightly around your body you took a deep breath, letting the different spicy scents take over your senses. Warmth of the water and the cold from the rain were in heavy contrast - the one week you spent up in Winterfell with the Tyrells brought back so many memories like this - but at least Winterfell was welcoming and warm, not sticky and hateful like King's Landing. Hearing the gentle patters of feet on the cobblestone, you rushed over to the fireplace with your mitts, prancing the last of the boiling water over to the metal tub. As the final wash fell over you added the best part, fresh lilac and rose petals from the garden below - fresh cut by the Queen herself.

Standing back towards the fireplace, you watched the chamber door open but - reveal total darkness. Chewing on your bottom lip you felt the warmed presence of something else enter, causing your heart to shift into a flutter. There was a moment of total silence; The rain being drowned out by the racing in your ears, how your body shifted so quickly into fight mode. Candlelight could only take you so far to see - you were never particular on having more than a handful of candles lit at once, a hazard in itself plus the minimal lighting was better for you to sleep in. Slipping in through the open door was someone you never expected to see up this way, thinking he was down in the lower chambers, with six other companions. A black, almost black shawl draped over his shoulders was accompanied by brown pants; The strings pulled loose to show an incredible clean tuft of curls sitting at the base of his pelvis. Wandering eyes made their way up his lean torso, falling right onto his face - one you hated to admit was gorgeous. Generous auburn eyes glowed in the pale moonlight, his facial hair soft enough to scratch, making him purr. His hair, god that fucking short mane on top - how you were tempted to curl your fingers around every inch.

Ever since those from all Seven Kingdoms came to rejoice in the Purple Wedding, there had been one set of eyes permanently locking themselves onto you - watching your every move like it was the best entertainment yet. It all started when you first accompanied Margaery to the great hall for the ceremony, taking your place on her side in front. You stood facing your best friend with a wide smile, giving her some hope though she was to marry such a monster. Everyone in all of Westeros knew how much of a psychopath Joffery Baratheon was, if you could give Margaery a sliver of hope then you were going to. Distraction was prevalent during the ceremony when a warmed presence made its way behind you - boring into your soul. The bareness of your back in the lilac dress you wore had you able to feel every small lick of heat from dead set eyes. Before you could spin around to see the gaze wanting your attention so badly, a thick accented voice, low in nature appeared right in your ear, a heavy breath of wine and berries falling over your senses; "How long have you known the new Queen?" He asked, it was a genuine question from what you could tell. The urge to spin around and see exactly who you were talking to was high but, it would be frowned upon. Plus if your gaze was shifted elsewhere, Margaery would begin to panic.

"About ten years; Give or take," It was true, now that you both were close to your mid twenties now. When meeting at 12 years old you never expected your life to take such a turn like this, to now be standing only a few mere feet from the iron throne where your best friend was. In a way you only thought you were going to have tragedy and horrible memories to grow up with but, the Tyrell's changed your entire outlook on life. "Always her handmaiden, or more?" The same voice asked, goosebumps prickling your bare arms. His calloused, strong fingers began to stroke their way up your skin - reveling in how you gently shook at his touch. For this mystery man to have such an effect on you already was a sign of submission, something you were never going to give up easily. "She's my best friend," You sighed out, wanting to focus on the ceremony rather than another drunken fool who would try and have his way with you. Shrugging his touch off you held your hands together right in front of you, tilting your chin high with a sophisticated smile to your Queen. Deep down you did not want this man's touches to stop, or his sweetened words - you were hating how much you craved a total stranger; What spell did he cast on you?

"Hm, I am so sure of it. From the look you're giving her I can tell it's more than that," Honeyed words caused you to spin around effortlessly - cocking a wary eyebrow at the patron behind you. To not avail did you find him, just cautious eyes from each section of Westeros shooting you a glare. The heat on your face rose as you sighed out, turning back to the ceremony - now having Cersei Lannister shoot daggers in your direction. The familiar scent of wine and berries came back effortlessly once your eyes faced forward, sending a wave of heat through your nerves. "I'm sorry, who are you?" Your words barely came out above a whisper as you jaunted on, trying to put as much space as you could between yourself and this mystery man. Placing his body directly behind yours, he ghosted his hand over your waist - the heat causing your eyes to flutter shut for a split second, "Little canary, allow me to introduce mysel-"

"Sir, there is a wedding going on and I am not going to get in trouble due to you. Introductions can wait," You did not intend for the words to come in such a harsh manner as they did, it was the fact that Cersei and Jamie were staring at you as if they wanted you dead, you couldn't deal with that on what was suppose to be such a happy day. Before you could shuffle off towards the opposite side of the Great Hall, the hand ghosting over your body finally came into contact, a breathy moan escaping his lips before he began to speak; "Prince Oberyn Martell," He whispered into your ear, placing his hand flush against your waist - pulling you back to his chest. Resting your head against his forehead, you tried to keep your concentration focused primarily on the boring ceremony, the draping of cloth going forth now. But it was difficult when Oberyn's hands roamed your body like you were the last meal in all of the country, starving for your affection, your body, and soul. "Why don't we skip the dreadful event going on and, let me worship you. My paramour would take a quick liking to such a beauty as yourself."

His lips nipped at the soft spot behind your ear, causing a silent whimper to release from your lips. Fighting to keep your eyes opened Oberyn took the opportunity to slip his hand through the opening just below your breast, trailing his hot fingertips across your stomach - dipping lower, and lower until his reached the juncture of where your thigh met your pelvis. Shuttering at the feeling you could not help but think about his words, how he explicitly used the word paramour over wife. The Prince of Dorne; One who fucked everything and anything that could walk. Oberyn Martell was here, right behind you, touching you in such intimate ways as his lips trailed down to your neck. Biting at the supple flesh near your jaw, you felt the anger boil up in you that you were allowing this out in the open, for everyone to see; "Do I look like I'm from the pleasure houses?" The quip was quick, causing the Prince to laugh right into your ear - the assault his lips were having on your neck and jaw never stopped, trailing over to your shoulder instead. "No, you're more sophisticated than that; Feisty. You have a fire and spark I am dying to ravish."

Twirling around in his grasp, you pushed back a bit more to head towards the middle of the crowd. One of your hand was fixed on the back of his neck whilst the other was pressed firmly against his toned chest - both set of eyes peering in to one another. One of the most cocky smirks you have ever seen fell upon his Prince's lips - kissing the side of your mouth as he hiked your leg up around his waist, rolling his hips up into you. The broken moan leaving your lips made you flush, not wanting to give into his advances already. Moving your lips to press against the shell of his ear, you bite down harshly on his lobe, spitting your words out, "If you touch me again, I will break your fucking hand - Martell."

Tightening your hands into fists, you rolled your eyes as you sauntered back to the fireplace, using the poker to move around some of the burnt logs, "You're a long way from the brothels, Prince Oberyn." Shooting a glare at the man standing before you, you groaned as you focused on the amber flames - hoping they would take you away from this entire moment. In a way you were pleased to see Prince Oberyn again, but another was cursing you for feeling this type of way. Oberyn had a huge reputation across all of Westeros and Essos for being an intimate man; One who finds pleasure in all people. Nothing wrong with being sexually active, it was the fact that he could flirt with one and fuck another that made you feel sleazy, as if you were working around the corner at Little fingers establishments. There was a pride you had for not using sex to get to where you are, or what you wanted. Every now and again you did dabble but, it was nothing too exciting. A royal guard member here, a squire there - basic as men could come. "Ah but little canary, I am exactly where I need to be," The thick Dornish tang of Oberyn's accent caused goosebumps to rise on your skin - though you were fanning the flames. Silently you cursed yourself for having a wave of arousal pool in your heated center.

"No, you're not. Why have you come to my chambers?" It was a bit unethical to say the least for Margaery to bathe in your chambers, then again any chance she could get away from Joffrey she was taking. But she would never tell anyone that, she would never let out that she comes to your room for solace in the darkest hours on the mornings. Sucking your teeth whilst refusing to look at Oberyn, you put the fire poker down to add two more logs - breathing out in a ragged manner, "The Queen insisted I become acquainted with her lovely handmaiden." The words shot through your body like ice, freezing you from the inside out. There was no way Margaery would, even if she saw what Oberyn was doing to you earlier. Shaking your head you pounced to your feet, staring daggers into the man before you, silently cursing how you eyes ran up and down his beautiful physique. The urge to strike on him like a viper was strong, wanting to take the name for yourself. "Margaery would never, get lost," You sighed, rubbing the heel of your hand against tired eyes - setting the plush towels down to the side of the tub. Oberyn wasted no time rubbing the small of your back through your baby blue dress - letting the soft chiffon run over his fingertips.

"Aw, are you not enveloped by my charm?" You were, that was the sad part. A side of you wanted to submit in his grasp, let him pull anything he wanted from your body - but you could give him that pleasure. Straightening your back out, you shoved the Prince away from your body - making your way across the room to focus in on your desk chair, pulling your papers closer; Your quill only a few inches away. "Charm? You?" You spat in the direction of the Dornish Prince, watching how his mouth quirked into a hefty smirk. Following your steps over in front of your desk, he watched how you intricately started to write across the creased parchment, the story you had been working on for many moons now. It was one full of tradition revolving around Samhain; A foreign concept you were not well versed in but, it did not stop you from telling the spooky tale. Rolling your eyes as Oberyn comes to your side, you pushed your chair further to the left, cricking your neck to ease the ever-lasting tension; "Please." Oberyn was loving just how playfully snappy you are, loving to tease but hating to give him any/all satisfaction. With you it was like pulling teeth; Men like this never deserved your attention as Mace always said.

Breaking your concentration from writing was the feeling of his warm touch pulling at the strap of your dress, dipping it down enough to show the skin of your shoulder. Oberyn was quick on his feet, you had to give him that. Almost instantly his lips attached to your neck over the back of the chair, biting down on the pillowy skin. There was something so pleasurable about his plush lips but you could not give in, your hands tightening into fists whilst trying to contemplate your next move. "Such a delicate little thing, I wonder how wild you could be without your restraints," Oberyn hummed deeply, letting it ripple from his broad chest. Trailing his strong fingers down the front of your dress he wound up slinking his fingers across the swell of your breast, watching ever so gently for your reaction. He was a man of many passions but, he would never force you into anything you were not comfortable with. He was not going to let anything like that come about, killing anyone who dared do that to those he cared for. Whimpering at his words you managed to sling a sentence together, but not before he chuckled at your broken state, "I-I don't know what you mean - I do not have any restraints."

You did, and you knew that you did. It wasn't all of your fault, King's Landing made everyone stressed and tensed. Constantly dealing with the brutality and the bullshit being thrown your way caused you to develop thick skin; Beautiful personality lost in the brazen attitude of the Capital. Lamb to slaughter was the best way to describe how it felt to oppose the Baratheon's, the Lannister's and any house that was prevalent within the Red Keep. Leaning forth into Oberyn's touch, he hummed pleasantly against your neck, giving you the tentative stirs of his fingers against your nipples, "Oh but my little canary, you do. You carry the burden of life around with you like it was a badge of honor - that has made you so uptight." Hearing the truth fall from his lips caused your body to go rigid - the pleasure and sweet satisfaction he laced your body with just from a single touch dissipated. Slowly you craned your neck to stare up at him, trying to threaten him with only your eyes; Oh how bright they shone against the wet moonlight. Only a mere few inches from your face was the Prince, his eyes blackened due to bodily intoxication; "If looks could kill, I would have an honorable death," He winked, pushing himself away from you.

"Prince Oberyn, please leave my chambers immediately." It was getting out of hand this small game of cat and mouse, how he was chasing you with a pining sensation rather than fear. In those beautiful pants giving you little to imagine, you could see his taut backside pounding softly with every small step he took. Of course he noticed, it would be unlike him if he didn't. Slamming your open palms against the fresh oak desk, you rose quickly enough to show how serious you were. Daggers in your eyes and huffed breaths releasing in your wake made Oberyn's cock twitch - wanting to see you submit to him, release that hidden tension you were so adamant about not having. Waving off your excuse of madness, he let the hottest water of the bath ripple against his open palm - moaning at the sensation, "You need to relax, dear canary - sing for me. Come, join my bath," Oberyn pouted right in your direction - catching you with a meek smile. He waited, and waited, and waited for your loving response, knowing you were only moments away from fully cracking. But alas he was wrong, you would not submit without a fight; "No."

Shrugging your one word off as nothing, Oberyn began to hum as he let his shawl fall to the floor - pooling right behind him. His gaze never left yours as he pulled at the leather ties to his slacks, the softened leather outlining his thick cock deliciously. He was teasing you with every movement, not pulling his pants down right away but instead lowering them slowly. Each inch that he released caused the pool of arousal to grow between your legs - his shaft of his girthy length coming into full view. Under candlelight it was so tan, mostly from the nude bathing on the beach he loved to do, but his purple tip - begging to be sucked called your name; Your breath hitching in your throat. Winking at your shocked state, he finally let the pants pool on the floor with a loud groan - the colder air nipping at his bare skin. It did not take the Prince long to slip into the bath, sighing out heavily at the amazing feeling of the hot water on his skin. "Mmm, you made this perfect for me," his moan of appreciation opened the floodgates in your core, causing your legs to part slightly. What would he think if you dropped your dress and joined him? Would he welcome you with opened arms, or would he criticize you? Many thoughts of what you wanted this man to do to you flew through your mind, the dilemma was whether to act on them.

"You're an absolute nuisance, I will have the King's Guard escort you out," with the slam of your hands they came in contact with the wood again, causing Oberyn to jolt slightly in the water. Laughing at your remark he nodded, agreeing that he was a nuisance. He took great pride in knowing how much he pushed people beyond their limits, wanting them to see what life truly had to offer - what they should not be afraid of in hindsight. Life is all about adventure and new opportunity; Oberyn's mission was to make sure you felt the love and want that you deserve, that you craved from a young age. He knew what it was like to be unwanted, but never let that define him. Dorne is for lovers - he wanted every part of Westeros to see, feel, and hear it. Sinking further into the water of the golden tub, he deeply inhaled the beautiful clove scent, reminding him of Sunspear as he spoke, "When was the last time you were properly given the bounty of pleasure?" His face did not falter in the slightest, remaining strong and curious with a tightly pulled lip. Pondering your own expression wasn't hard to do in this lighting, but he could see the heat rising across your skin.

"Shut up-" you stopped yourself quick, not wanting to elaborate on what your mind was thinking. It had been a long, long time - before you even got to the Red Keep when you last experienced pleasure. The last person you ever let touch you in such an intimate setting was Podrick Payne, a chance encounter one night while Tyrion and Sansa were on some kind of retreat. Though it was one of the best sexual experiences, it was innocent with only fingers and mouths being of use. Nothing in between to really get your fancy going. Multiple nights you lulled yourself to sleep with the delicate touch of your own fingers inside your aching core - not thick or long enough to truly graze that one spongy spot. Now with Oberyn, you know that man could find that spot within seconds to have you see stars, to give yourself the beautiful release you were so desperately seeking. He would pull ripple upon ripple of your orgasm from you effortlessly, still begging you for more at the end of the day. That is all you have been craving since he touched you on the wedding day; "Ah, we must have a virgin in our midst."

It was a vicious slap back to reality, hearing such a skilled man call you a virgin. You were nowhere near that pure, losing yours within the last of your teenage years. The anger boiling over in your bloodstream was making you nervous at how badly you were going to snap at Oberyn. You didn't want to lose your cool with him, especially since you were starting to warm up to the idea of him pleasing you. But everyone in King's Landing made fun of you for being pure, uptight and a bitch - so it was like he was adding it the bullying deep within your mind. Pinpricks of tears latched themselves to your lashes as you tried to get them away, not wanting to cry in front of the Prince of Dorne. Rounding your desk you were like a bat out of hell, rushing over to the side of Oberyn as he laid in the tub, comfortable and at peace. Lowering your gaze to stare right at eye level, you let your vision go red before lashing out the harshest words you could muster, wanting them to burn, and sting; "I fucking hate you, Martell. You are one of those most bat shit fuckers I have ever laid my eyes upon, and one that is too slow on the dr-"

Before you could finish your sentence, Oberyn's wet hand came up quick from the hot water, slamming right against the juncture of your throat. Your knees buckled as they came into contact with the cold stone floor, your breath caught in his tight grasp. Bringing your hands up to grip at his wrist you saw the amused grin on his pouty lips, how his eyes slanted slightly to engage in your retort. Bringing your face closer to his, he let his fingers press down on your pulse point to cut the blood flow off - pounding of blood in your ears became deafening when he fanned his hot breath of your parted lips, "I'm what?" The words were calm, too calm for your liking. The fact that Oberyn did not bat an eye at what he was doing spoke measures; How he man handled you without a single thought to accompany it. Gods what you would give to slam yourself down onto his lap right now, but of course that would be too easy, you wanted him to submit. "T-Too slow on th-he dr-r-raw!" You managed to croak the words out with a playful smirk, but Oberyn was not having it. He moved so quickly to pin your face down against the side of the tub, letting some of the water splash against your chin and neck. Under your dress your thighs were trembling at the sudden surge of dominance; Your teeth putting your lip tightly.

"You grab a woman like a bitch in heat; Pathetic." This was not helping your case at all, with Oberyn tightening his grip around your neck as the harsh curl of the metal edge dug into your warm cheek. Wriggling against his restraint had you seeing stars, his warm hand in contrast with your cool skin - how you could feel every inch of his callouses from years and years of sparring. To be man handled by someone as experienced as Oberyn was what you needed - to give up control and order for a little bit just to feel, to embrace, and enjoy. Maybe it wouldn't be so difficult to call a quits now, let this man reign over you and let everything be where it needed. He has had decades upon decades of practice, why would you be any different to the first timers he had? "You know what I think?" Oberyn's words were almost distant when he spoke, though his lips were pressed right against your temple. Gulping down the pool of saliva making itself known within your mouth you tried to keep your focus, but could only imagine how that gorgeous chin strap and moustache would feel between your legs, against your bare thighs - rubbing that sweet bundle of nerves right at the top of your sex. If his hold wasn't so tight, you would be a moaning mess.

You had not realized that Oberyn was not liking your quietness, or how lost in thought you truly were to his advances. The only thing you could think of in this moment was how good you would look bouncing on his cock, dragging your nails down his chest on your bed - letting the Prince have his way with you. A harsh crack against your backside caused you to silently yelp, bringing your gaze back up to him as the devilish grin grew - seeing the pleasure building within your eyes; "I think because you have never known the touch of someone so skilled in their craft, one who will not be a disappointment, it has caused you to have a Lannister stick lodged so far up this beautiful ass, you cannot let yourself enjoy the smaller things life has to offer." Each word he let out was given new purpose, causing your chest to ignite. He was not wrong, it was invisible but to those who paid close attention to detail could see how far it was truly lodged up there. There was a glint in his eyes that showed he wanted to remove it, to let those barbed edges slid out of the deepened gashes they created. You did not deserve to be afraid, or scared to take advantage of life; You deserved happiness and freedom - Oberyn wanted to give you that though you were a tough nut to crack. "Flowers; A bastard, are you not?" The quick change in subject caused your heart to plummet, his hand to release small off of your neck.

"That has-" You began, shaking your head as far as he would allow. Oberyn was not having it though, knowing you were going to do what you did best - deny. Pushing your throat down harder against the metal rim he cut your words off quickly, not wanting you to put more negativity out when he was trying to give you some goodness - the greatness you deserved to have. "In Dorne we welcome bastards; Sand is not a name to be ashamed of but one to take great reward in. Hell, I have eight bastard girls myself." That was always a part of the Southern part of Westeros you loved, how the Dornish took pride in bastards rather than shut them away like they were garbage. Deep down you always pondered what it would be like to grow up in Dorne, to be appreciated and loved in a multitude of ways, rather than bullied and tormented. Hearing Oberyn mention his daughters caused your heart to explode with admiration; Just by simple words you could tell how proud he was of them. Though you hardened and sarcastic nature would not let you praise that man for it, instead your retort would be one that Oberyn would not shy away from - especially if it meant punishing you; "Good for you, old man."

It surprised you how quickly and clearly you managed to let that seep out, how the best insult you could come up with is age. Though your words were small they did have a greater impact on the man, though he would not show it properly. One of the things he had been most worried about recently was the small patch of grey hair that littered his temple, along with the softening of his belly, showing his age off a bit more than normal. You did not mean it in such a horrid way, no, it was meant as a teasing tactic to see what he would do to you. Seeing the slight hurt in his eyes made you feel tiny, small and childlike whimpering for help, the cool burst across your body was fear inducing. "You think 42 is old, little canary?" Though you couldn't tell now how much your words offended the Prince when he was beaming down at you, his body half in and half out of the water - the gorgeous outline of his length barely breaking the surface. How you wanted to just reach down and grab hold onto it, suck on the tip until you could taste his salty essence. "No, I think you're old," you meant for it to sound intimidating, but with the way you sated at his cock, your eyes told another story.

"Have you met such an old man who can pull such pleasure from your body in only two minutes?" Oberyn smirked at your expression, flicking his tongue out in a way to mock, and mimic what he could do to your aching mound. When his hand released off of your neck you let out an embarrassingly loud moan at the thought of Oberyn eating you out, clamping your eyes shut - but not moving your head. Perching himself up on his knees, Oberyn pulled you to your feet, letting his eyes wander across your beautiful dress-clad form. Roaming hands found the luscious ribbon holding the entire thing together, slowly tugging on each one to let your dress shed. You could not deny him this pleasure of seeing you in the nude - fuck you didn't want him to stop. The first set came undone easily, leaving only the next two as your life support almost. This was a teasing tactic he was doing, seeing how much you really wanted him and how much you actually played into his games; How much he played into yours. "Just let go, for one dear y/n. Let me take care of you-"

"I'd rather die," you cursed yourself silently at your words, sighing out. It was becoming tiring for you to keep this charade up - draining you of your happy essence to a man who wanted to worship you. Sucking in a deep breath, you let your eyes meet his finally, after so long of pondering what could be. Instinctively you placed your hands right on his shoulders to brace yourself, feeling the last of your straps become undone. Though your words felt like acid in your mouth, Oberyn smirked at your boldness - telling off a part of the royal family, which in some cases, would get you killed. The only was you wanted to die at the hands of Oberyn was by his mouth, his fingers and his cock. You'd want to die by the pleasure and overstimulation, rather than his perfected craft of poison. "I can have that arranged, you know," Oberyn challenged as he released the last of your bindings, letting your nude body stand before him as the soft fabric of your dress pooled at your feet. Instantly to the cool room your nipples pebbled for Oberyn, which caused him to latch his lips onto the tightened bud. Suckling gently to give you that new found pleasure, he held your hand as he lowered you to him in the tub - wanting you to relax. You were finally giving into him.

Oberyn held your thighs as you lowered, wanting to let your legs cradle his waist while holding you close, letting you feel the skin to skin contact you have lacked. You had to admit the water was perfect, how hot it was against the cold room made your body shiver with delight. Hot baths like this were reserved for the Queen only, you had to deal with lukewarm; This changed everything. Every inch of stress and bullshit you have had to deal with over the last few years simply melted away to the scent of citrus and clove; The warm hands holding your thigh and back released positive endorphins to cloud that dull mind. In a way, under Oberyn's grasp, you felt like you again - not the distant memory of you that was locked away. The wet hand that laid against your back trailed wet touches up your spine, leading to the back of your neck. But this time when he held you, it wasn't out of anger - but love. Pulling your face towards him easily, Oberyn braced himself against your body as you did the same, knowing exactly what was going to happen next.

Gently Oberyn lurched forward to press his plush lips to yours with passion; Not enough to be marked as lust but, affection. The kiss was slow, and sweet - no real sign of sexual tension. How perfectly his lips molded to yours only amplified the slick between your legs, dribbling onto Oberyn's exposed cock. Your hand came to wrap around Oberyn's neck, pulling slightly at the tuft of curls he had flowing down the back of his head. The whimper escaping your lips was immediately swallowed by the Prince, his hold on your thigh becoming harsh. Pulling back slightly Oberyn turned breathless with a smile, pushing some of the dampened hair out of your face with ease; "See? Now was that so difficult?" Oberyn's chuckle was like music to your ears, the soft and pillowy nature felt like the home you never knew before. Returning his beautiful smile with such ease, you pressed your forehead against his with a sigh, loving how everything you have been harboring was slipping away, not threatening to come back as long as you were in Oberyn's arms. "Little canary, can I make you sing for me?" Oberyn's voice dipped lower, a seductive stance coming out as he laced his fingers in your hair, tugging your gentle locks. Breathlessly you responded, grinding your molten center against his aching length, earning a harsh slap against your ass, "Yes, release my body of the impurity the Lannister's have put on me."

"Don't you worry, my gorgeous sun, let me take care of you. Let me show you how we relieve tension in Dorne."

[endless-ineffabilities]

sapphire-hearted (part two)

Aemond Targaryen x f!reader

After his betrayal, the reader is determined to forget about Aemond. But her attempts at entertaining a potential suitor seem to be thwarted at every turn, by none other than... who else?

themes/warnings: jealous!Aemond, angst, third (and fourth) parties involved but not really

series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist

a/n: the title changed, yes! Also, can you believe I actually thought this would remain a mere oneshot? But no, I got hungry for more angst and jealousy and all the good stuff. Much love to all my fellow angst lovers for breathing new life into this fic!

When the whispers started, you knew they would eventually reach Aemond.

You were rumoured to be entertaining Lord Ramsay Beesbury, the youngest son of the late Lord Lyman Beesbury.

His older brother, Braxton, was your initial suitor many moons ago. But you refused him, of course. For a certain one-eyed prince.

Lord Braxton had been the one who became Lord of Honeyholt after his father and he has just recently taken a wife. Unlike his father, however, he opted to side with the Greens and to back Aegon's claim.

Ramsay began to seek you out himself, not long after finding out that you are now more receptive to marriage proposals.

Everyone knew. Well, it seems that way, at least. It is common knowledge that you and Aemond were closer than to be expected of mere friends. Any Lord who might ask for your hand knew not to expect to be met with warmth and eagerness. They tried anyway, and failed.

Because each time, and without even needing to say so, they knew that you were choosing Aemond.

"I don't know why you would think that," you lie with a sweet smile, when Ramsay presents his concern about you and Aemond. "Prince Aemond and I are acquaintances, and that is all there is to it."

"Oh." Ramsay smiles, evidently pleased with your response. "My lady, I am glad to be spending this afternoon with you here in the gardens. After some time, I would hope that we can join our Houses, as humble as mine might be." He averts his eyes shyly. Ramsay is surely a gentle lad, as far as you have seen.

"You need not be concerned, my lord. My House is just as humble. But we make do, don't we? At the very least, we do not have to busy ourselves with all the politicking the more nobler Houses seem to get into."

"That is true, my lady." He grins, and you notice lines burst around his eyes, though he is merely five and twenty. Ramsay has spent a life imparting and partaking in laughter.

Unlike a certain sullen, brooding Targaryen. Could you get used to Ramsay? Surely. Could you love him? Perhaps so.

"So what shall we do on the morrow?" Ramsay closes the distance between the two of you on the bench, and his knees brush against yours under your skirts. He takes your hands in his, "I propose - "

He stops, his head whipping to the side, looking toward the treeline.

"What is it, my lord?" you ask, looking in the same direction. But you see nothing.

"I thought I heard something." He whispers, then looks again to you. "Where were we - "

"Fine weather we're having." You nearly jump out of your skin in surprise, as Ramsay is interrupted yet again. Aemond stands about a foot away from your bench, hands clasped behind him in usual commanding stance.

"My prince." Ramsay stiffens, your hands still held in his. You see that Aemond's attention has been drawn to this, his lips curling in distaste.

You both rise from the bench. Ramsay is no longer touching you, but still stands close.

Closer than Aemond would like. His hand clenches into a fist behind his back. He muses about whether it is unbecoming for a Targaryen prince to sock a young Lord in the jaw unprovoked.

He does not much care either way.

"It is, indeed," Ramsay says. "Which is why I thought to take the Lady out for a walk in the gardens."

"And a fine idea it was," you add, purposefully looping your arm around Ramsay's. "It's best that Lord Ramsay and I get to know each other well, if we are to wed soon."

Aemond decides not to punch the young Lord Beesbury. Not just yet. Clearly you're provoking him and he is not going to give you the satisfaction.

"A wedding in the middle of war?" Aemond hums. "Do you not think such a union foreshadows plenty of discontent and strife, my lady?"

You scoff, "Oh, what does it matter? When will we ever not be in a war, in some form or another? That should not stop us from marrying whom we please. From loving whom we please."

Loving. Love. Aemond's heart sinks. You mention love in front of him, when you have yourself wrapped around another man. One whom you plan to wed.

How can you speak of love, when you are planning to sacrifice it? Aemond might transgress with Alys, but at least he is doing it for the realm. For you.

Is he not? Then why does it seem like he is losing you?

Ramsay beams to Aemond, "My lady is truly clever, is she not, my prince?"

"She is." Aemond genuinely agrees. He only has eyes on you, running over the planes of your face which he has committed to memory, all those nights of watching you sleep next to him. He looks upon you with longing.

With love.

For a moment, everything feels right. You and your love gaze upon each other, all else forgotten. Your arm slides down from Ramsay's in your brief reverie.

Then Ramsay clears his throat. "What are you doing here, Prince Aemond? Can we help you with anything?"

"Oh, I don't think you can," Aemond says pointedly, clearly pleased with himself.

"P-pardon me?"

You interrupt the exchange, your voice icy, "Not busy today, my prince? No plans of battle to discuss? Grand spells to concoct?"

"No." Aemond merely shakes his head. "I've no use for those at the moment."

"What a surprise," you sneer.

Ramsay glazes over your mention of spells, thinking he misheard things. He then addresses Aemond, "It seems that the tides have turned toward our favour, my prince. The Greens' favour. I can only hope that the aid my House provides has played a part, albeit small."

Aemond does not mince his words, disdain clear in his voice when he says, "Surely the barrels of honeyed wine that your great House provides has been crucial in advancing our cause, my Lord. If you yourself possessed any mettle, then you would be out there in the battlefield. Instead you sit here in the gardens, wasting your days trying to covet something of mine. "

Unbelievable. Your mouth nearly falls open in shock at his demeanour. "Aemond..."

"I need to speak with you, my lady."

"I am occupied at the moment, my prince." You respond through gritted teeth.

"It's alright," Ramsay nods to you, clearly disheartened. But he holds his ground, and bravely takes your hand in his. Completely aware that Aemond watches, he leans down and plants a kiss on the back of your hand, eyes on yours the entire time.

Aemond feels his restraint dissipating, hanging on by the flimsiest of threads.

"Come with me," Aemond takes your hand, the very same which Ramsay just kissed, and begins pulling you away and walking towards the tall hedges.

You can feel his thumb brushing against your knuckles, as if trying to eliminate any trace of Lord Ramsay.

"Stop - " you say, but to no avail.

When Ramsay is no longer in your line of sight, you pull your hand from Aemond's grip. "What is wrong with you? Ramsay did nothing to deserve that."

"Ramsay," Aemond rolls his eye. His shoulders are stiff, and you can easily tell he is angry.

"I should go find him, and apologize for your behaviour. Clearly you will not."

"I do not need to apologize for anything to that weak-willed, little - "

"Then apologize to me," you interject, voice breaking.

"Whatever for?" He reaches for you, but you stand still. Doing nothing as his hand cradles your face.

"For everything... for being with someone else... for not choosing me."

"But I choose you. I always - "

"You chose Alys."

His face scrunches at that. Aemond thinks that he did not choose Alys, he merely chose to use her powers for his gain. But it will never be her over you.

"Just apologize to me," you shrug. "Or don't. It does not change anything. We can soon set all of this behind us."

You watch him intently, drinking in every slight change in his expression. The curve of his lips. The way his eyelashes brush against his skin when he looks down.

If you have to let him go, you will always want to remember him. To remember everything.

He says nothing for the longest time, just holding your face in his hands.

Until you step away. His arms fall to his sides.

"I have to choose Ramsay, Aemond. I have to do this for myself," you say.

Still, nothing. His gaze is trained downward, and he feels helpless as he can feel you slipping away from him.

You finally muster up the strength to say goodbye, "I'll be seeing you, my love."

Your feet feel heavy as you walk away, crunching against the small rocks on the path.

"What if we were to wed? What then, hmm?" He suddenly says, making you stop in your tracks.

He continues, "Will you choose me?"

Will Aemond finally give up Alys? Will he marry the reader even if it will be frowned upon and seen as an unfit union? *shrugs* you tell me

Will Aegon make an appearance in part three? *nods* yes. Yes, he will.

In my mind, Ramsay is played by Callum Turner or Jonah Hauer-King. Just a thought. Aemond's got some competition *laughs evilly*

I hope I managed to include everyone in the taglist!! If not, just let me know 🖤

taglist: @immyowndefender @bellameshipper @aemondswifeisme @bash1018 @fuck-the-reaper @shessthunderstoms @aemondsbabygirl @melsunshine @youtoldalie @snh96 @noxytopy @ellooo0ooo @brianochka @not-a-glad-gladiator @mac95650 @whitejuliana1204 @midnightmystic @saminalloxo @oh-no-tia @magnificentsapphiresoul @clara-geekhime @mariaelizabeth21-blog1

[viperixsworld]

Born to die

━━ Benjicot Blackwood x oc

Chapther one : the riverwoman

Year 126 A.C.

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Sometimes, Lucrezcia thought to herself how easy it would be to escape. The Arbor was an island wonderfully connected to practically the entire world known to man. Volantis seemed like a good destination, all she needed was a ship, of which she had thousands at her disposal.

But there were several factors that deprived her of such a plan. First, her father was as tenacious as she was, and would find her and drag her back so that he could marry her off to whomever he offered.

The second, and at that moment more important, Lucreczia was sitting in a carriage, on her way to her first audience with her possible future husband. Her father, sitting opposite her, seemed to be trying to ignore her by any means possible. Lucrezcia, for her part, tried to annoy him, making noises with her rings.

"Could you, my child, stop being a nuisance for a few moments?"

The girls stopped her movements, to offer a sarcastic smile to her father.

"Oh, excuse me dearest father, it must be pre-marital nerves".

"Are you always so unbearable?"

I have someone to look like

But she preferred to swallow her words. Lunch with Lord Tarly's niece had been most victorious for her lord father. Julianna Tarly was a slender and tremendously young girl, no older than Lucrezcia herself. The young Redwyne found her stepmother-to-be irritating and exceedingly sordid. A childish girl who could compete in immaturity with her nearly five-year-old sister.

The irony of the gods, he was getting rid of a daughter to return to a wife who might be confused by one of his offspring.

Luckily for her, she would not have to put up with the new Lady of the Arbor, as she would be married by then in any corner of the fucking continent.

Honeyholt was the home of the Beesbury house, sworn to the Hightowers. With their lord at King's Landing as part of King Viserys Targaryen's council, it was Lady Beesbury, who had kindly offered to host the court. Not out of charity, of course, but out of business with one of the richest houses in all of Westeros. Lucrezcia was just a pawn, just like in her father's chessboard.

The Reach was undoubtedly a beautiful place, filled with flowers of all kinds and palaces that looked like something out of a book about knights in shining armour. Lady Beesbury greeted them at the entrance, an elderly, petite woman with an unbridled taste for pie and tartlets. Lucrezcia tried to smile and look delighted at the auction of her person to a bunch of usurious lords, as the old woman led her into the garden where the tea was to be held.

They say that you are not aware of your destiny until it is staring you in the face.

That's how Lucrezcia felt when she set foot in the garden, becoming the centre of everyone's attention. It seemed that they had deliberately arrived early, to make her entrance more conspicuous. Pairs of eyes scrutinised her as if she were one of the cakes on the table.

So far, the trip had served to psych her up, but the possibility that her future husband might be among these men made her want to vomit horribly.

"Cheer up, dear, they're watching you," her father's voice echoed behind her.

Fuck off

A strange tingling settled in her spine. She approached the small table with the cakes, while her father stood talking to some men in pompous clothes.

Lucrezcia contemplated that apart from herself, the only other woman at the soiree was the elderly Lady Beesbury (except for the maids who went to and fro). The rest were men. Tall, thin, short, fat, ornately dressed, full of jewels. With the balance on the side of men of her father's generation rather than her own.

She wondered if her mother suffered such a thing, being from the Iron Islands, they probably put her on a ship straight to the Arbor in a wedding dress and called it a day.

She didn't know if it was worse than what she was going through at that moment.

"My lady"

Lucrezcia gobbled down the raspberry pastry in her hand before turning to the person who spoke to her.

A short, chubby man with a terrible grey moustache and little hair in the centre of his head, he took the hand that previously held a pastry and planted a kiss on the back of her hand.

"My name is Lord Daryl Florent"

She watched him wordlessly, chewing the pastry exaggeratedly. Lord Florent began to talk about his life, still holding her hand. When the man stopped talking, seeing that the girl did not answer, he said to her.

"You would be prettier if you smiled."

A spark lit up the girl's eyes. She tugged at the corners of her mouth, preparing a flamboyant smile. A smile that showed all her teeth covered in the raspberry filling of the pastry.

Lord Florent made no secret of his displeasure as he let go of the young woman's hand and walked indignantly towards another group of men watching the interaction.

Preach the word, fatty.

The afternoon was summed up in a series of frustrated attempts by different men to approach her in an attempt to woo her. When the man was old to begin with, her tactic was to be disgusting, play with food and make comments that implied she was a woman with ideas.

When they tried to elicit information about her interests, Lucrezcia didn't bother to lie. She liked to hunt, enjoyed wine and ale (no surprise, being the daughter of the leading exporter of ale in all of Westeros), could barely do needlework, and was very interested in the political situation in the realm.

Most did not endure up to that point in the conversation, but the few who did, asked the golden question.

"And you are an avid reader from what your father says. What is the last book you read, my lady?"

"A caution for young girls, my lord"

That used to be the final strike.

Who wants a wife who reads about sex with the intention of self-pleasure rather than to give heirs?

With the many horrified looks from the gentlemen, Luther could only resist the urge to slap his daughter in the middle of the garden.

Night fell upon them, and Lady Beesbury invited them into Honeyholt's great hall. Lucrezcia watched as less than half of the large crowd of men who had been there at the beginning of the evening remained. It was clear that the great hall table was almost empty, apart from Lady Beesbury, her father, herself and some nine suitors.

The food was extremely sweet for her taste. The girl chewed in silence as her lord father spoke to the few remaining men.

Unfortunately for her, most of them were old men who had not succumbed to her tactics. She was very bored. The dress of salmon-coloured fabric was particularly itchy, the belt of thick golden thread cut off her circulation. The hairstyle that Nyssa had done for her this morning was pulling at her brain cells.

The kingdom was in the springtime, according to the maesters. The Reach's crops were thriving, but Lucrezcia wished at the moment that everything would freeze over. At the very least, for a breeze to blow. She felt like she was in the middle of Dorne's Red Desert.

In those moments of desperation, she considered faking a fainting spell. She could pour some wine over herself, lie on the floor and hope that her father would get fed up with this fanfare and decide to return to his island.

Oh, her island. Lucrezcia had always dreamed of leaving it, but now she missed it more than anything. The walks through the vineyards, going to the Ryamsport harbour market to watch the seafarers' festivals, skinny-dipping on the beach with Nyssa at an hour her father hadn't allowed.

Even her palace on the cliffs of the Arbor, right by Starfish Harbor. The library's stained glass windows, its chambers overlooking the sea, the passageways to the kitchens and stables where she could go out with her pack of hounds.

How she missed her puppies.

She hoped to transport them to wherever she was getting married.

The last litter had been of 8 puppies, 5 of which survived. Now with the perfect age and training for a good hunt. They were fast and strong, they could tear a fox apart in a few seconds.

Surely their dogs were more loyal than all these men sitting at the table. She wondered if she could use them as bait for her little puppies. As a form of training.

Nah, they'd be too easy prey.

In her reverie, Lucrezcia ignored the doors to the great hall and it was not until Lady Beesbury rose from her seat at the end of the table to greet the new visitors.

"My Lady Blackwood, what a surprise, I was not expecting you yet."

That made the Redwyne girl look up from her plate of gooseberry duck. The sight stunned her.

A tall, slender but athletic woman with a cascade of obsidian-black hair curling like tornadoes. Behind her, six men, all somewhat rough-looking, dressed in the same clothes as her. Riding clothes, black and crimson.

The men looked hungry, staring at the bloody roast duck as if they hadn't eaten in days. They reminded her of her dogs, waiting attentively at the woman's command.

"I hope I have not interrupted with our entry" said the woman "We have a long drive to Oldtown and Lord Beesbury had offered us accommodation for the night".

Lady Beesbury did not look very pleased, but she could do nothing against her husband's orders.

"Well... I guess you may sit down, please, please, you must be starving" said the old lady.

Lucrezcia sent an amused glance at her father, who looked tense but intrigued as Lady Blackwood's men swept through the feast.

"And tell me, Lady Blackwood. What is your business so far from the Riverlands?" asked her father, sipping from his wine glass.

"Our maester fell ill a couple of moons ago. We were travelling to the Citadel to request reinforcements at Raventree Hall. My Lord Brother sent me on his behalf".

"I understand" said her father.

As the rivermen gulped, Alyssane looked at her father.

"And what are you doing, Lord...?"

"Lord Redwyne" interrupted Lady Beesbury "Lord Redwyne of the Arbor and his daughter, Lady Lucrezcia, are here as my guests, as are all these distinguished gentlemen".

Black Aly surveyed the table, the distinguished gentlemen looking rather uncomfortable at the presence of her men. She then looked at the girl in the salmon-coloured dress. Lucrezcia felt a little self-conscious, but smiled at the new guest. She smiled back.

The woman from the Riverlands could not be more than ten years older than her. And she was not stupid. The picture was so obvious that asking the question was totally unnecessary.

The dinner went as smoothly as possible. With the suitors gradually withdrawing as Lucrezcia's father and Lady Alyssane had an arduous conversation about the politics and succession of the realm, with the recent birth of Prince Joffrey.

Lucrezcia learned there that the Blackwoods were a Riverlands family of considerable prestige, the only one in their lands to practice the religion of the Old Gods. Lord Luther had long sought to expand into the interior of the continent, exporting mostly to coastal cities.

Any occasion is good for business, Lucrezcia supposed.

Her maid, Nyssa, was quick to come and fetch her as the hour of the wolf approached. As did Lady Beesbury.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Lady Lucrezcia," Alyssane said goodbye. "I had hoped that tomorrow we might be able to breakfast together in the gardens, if Lady Beesbury sees fit for your... matchmaking".

The old woman didn't seem to agree, but after the disaster with her first twenty suitors, she figured that giving the girl the morning off would be a good idea.

"The pleasure was all mine, Lady Alyssane," said the girl before following Lady Beesbury and Nyssa to her chambers.

Once the girl was out, only Lord Luther, Black Aly and an empty jug of wine were left in the hall.

"She is a beautiful girl, you are very lucky, Lord Redwyne," congratulated the woman.

Luther wanted to laugh in her face. Yes, his third daughter was beautiful, a light brown-haired beauty with huge green eyes, a fine face and a pretty composition.

"She'd make an ideal wife, if she wasn't a problem with legs." The man began as Lady Alyssane listened " The girl is the smartest of my four daughters, and the most ambitious. Nine septas she has cost me in less than four years, they say she is incorrigible" the man massaged his temple "I had hoped a husband would soothe her spirit" he lamented.

In his deepest dreams, Luther regretted that Lucrezcia was not a man. She would have been the perfect heir, but sadly the laws and her own opinions deprived her of that status.

Luther had to marry off his daughter. That was the custom and the law.

Black Aly listened with attention, scheming in her own mind.

Lucrezcia reminded her of herself, a young woman who just wanted her place in the world. Though Aly had been luckier in the family, from what she was hearing. While her father described his third with a mixture of resentment and pride, as she noticed, the girl did not remind him only of her.

A highly intelligent, cool-headed young noble who enjoyed risk but knew how to keep her composure. She couldn't help but compare her to her own nephew.

Benjicot Blackwood had just turned six and ten, a year younger than Lucrezcia. The boy was proper and somewhat shy among his own kind, but lately quarrels with the Brackens had him in a mess, hanging out with his grooms at the tavern, brawling and neglecting his lessons.

He needed to wise up.

He needed a new goal.

He needed a wife. Her brother, and father of the boy, Lord Samwell Blackwood, had tried to bring up the subject several times, perhaps this was the right occasion.

"I believe, my lord, that I can offer clarity on our problems," the woman commented. "My own nephew, Benjicot Blackwood, future Lord Blackwood and heir to Raventree Hall, may stand as a suitor for your daughter," she explained.

Luther seemed to sober up suddenly. It was a good way to make contacts with the Riverlands, as well as sending his daughter far away.

"How much do you want for her?"

He knew it wasn't smart to send it to the first person who would offer. But she had been on the marriage market for years and nothing. It was a golden opportunity, both for him and for Blackwood.

"I shall write to my brother first thing tomorrow morning. He will discuss with you the details of the dowry, the wedding and so on".

"As tempting as it sounds, I know my daughter, she is capable of galloping away if I promise her to a complete stranger who has never seen her life".

"And for that, my lord" Black Aly leaned her elbows on the table to approach the lord in front of her and say "She'll think it's her idea".

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tag list: @erysione @asteria33 @shifter-101 @drwho-ess

[marthawrites]

Congrats Martha!! 🎉🎉

Could I request Rhaenyra x reader with the prompt “Spread your legs for me, I want to see all of you” pretty please?

Thank you 😍

Absolutely, Fae my darling! I hope I brought your prompt to life and gave it justice! 💖

Honeyed Promises

Rhaenyra Targaryen x fem reader

Word count: 2.8k+

About: While visiting your great uncle, Lyman Beesbury, at King's Landing, you weren't expecting secondhand stress to affect your lord husband so. Princess Rhaenyra takes notice and is happy to steal moments away with you.

Includes: Unhappy political marriage, mentions of verbal fighting, and smut. Featuring reader's first sexual experience with a woman, oral sex, vaginal fingering, and scissoring

Note: Hello lovely reader ❤️ This is my very first time writing a wlw fic - ahh! It's a complete honor to do it as a request for Fae! Story takes place during Rhaenyra's marriage to Laenor. It is implied she hasn't had children yet. Reader is nondescript. As always, I hope you enjoy this story!

Cross posted on ao3 too!

-

Little had changed since your last visit to King’s Landing when you were a young girl. The Red Keep, in all its sprawling glory, loomed just as large as you remembered. A rarity, you were beginning to understand ��� for things you thought grand as a child were all but normal to you, now. The Keep was a being of its own, however. Almost a living, breathing, sentient thing. For an outsider its walls seemed to morph into the dark; changing, shifting… holding onto its secrets like the dragons its Kings bonded with.

You weren’t a stranger to politics. But, you were a stranger to the volume of aristocrats which surrounded the Targaryen dynasty. Lyman Beesbury, your great uncle, served as master of coin on King Viserys’ small council, and before him, King Jaehaerys, and was as deep into politics as a man of a smaller House could be.

A great honor.

-

Uncle Beesbury extended an invasion to his nephew, your lord husband, to attend a royal affair at the capital. He gladly accepted. Using it for not only an excuse to get out of Honeyholt for a while, but also to catch up with family, the long journey felt worth it.

Your marriage had yet to bear fruit. Little love bloomed between you and your husband. It was a marriage of duty rather than love, and it showed it more ways than you two cared to admit. If only you could swell with his child to put an end to all the talk of furthering the bloodline.

Each passing day at King’s Landing showed you a different side to your husband. Whatever he and his uncle conversed about in private soured his mood, and his harsh tongue somehow grew harsher towards you. No matter how you tried to soften him with gentle touches, tender words, and initiating marital affections, he was unsatisfied and dour.

“Your lord husband seems quite the ray of sunshine, my lady,” princess Rhaenyra whispered to you one night during dinner. Her voice lilted with sarcasm and her violet eyes dazzled with amusement when she met your gaze. She held it with confidence. With a softness. Knowing.

“Is it that obvious, princess?” You asked with some of her same amusement. “He was so excited to come here. I thought he’d be happier than…,” you waved your hand in a sweeping gesture, adding, “this.”

She smiled softly. “Have you had the chance to explore? There are many wonderful things here to distract you from tetchy husbands,” she said and tipped her goblet towards you, sipping to hide her smirk.

“Perhaps on the morrow I will,” you said, heat and butterflies filling your blood at her tone and implication. Could the princess be… flirting? Your heart quickened a tick. Surely you’re mistaken. Your bedtime stories of suave knights must be getting to you.

“I’ll gladly show you around. I too could use a distraction from the small council.”

She didn’t touch you, but the way her gaze lingered from your neck, up to your lips, and down to the exposed swath of your chest, made gooseflesh pebble your skin as if she had.

-

Nearly a week went by and unfortunately Rhaenyra had yet to keep true to her word. You couldn’t blame her, but you’d be lying if you said it didn’t hurt. Each day passed with a sting. The only thing that made it better was the conversations you were able to steal at dinner. The lingering looks, the briefest of touches, Rhaenyra reaching to brush away dust from your gowns… you thought your heart might truly leap from your throat when she wetted the corner of her napkin with her mouth to clean a drop of sauce from your chest. 

And, all the while, she sat by her husband, Laenor Velaryon, and you sat by your lord husband; the men either uncaring or none the wiser to the simmering attraction and tension between you and the princess.

The following day, after a particularly curt argument in hissed voices, you stomped away from your lord husband and left him in one of the numerous corridors. You didn’t stop your angry pace until you were standing in the gardens. Unchaperoned, unguarded, and completely alone. Just how you wanted to be. Heavy gray clouds began to gather over the castle. It didn’t deter you from wanting to make the most out of the remaining blue sky.

Your mood lightened by the minute. Flowers, shrubs, and trees bloomed everywhere. Heady scents filled your nose and it made you yearn for home. King’s Landing was lovely. But, to you, there truly was no place like home. 

Akin to your married name, you quietly followed a trail of honeybees until you found their hive. Deep and hidden in the gardens, you wanted nothing more than to simply stay there for the remainder of the day. Perhaps even the rest of your stay. Honeybees were busy and gentle creatures. As long as you didn’t disturb them or their hive, the working girls were unbothered by your presence.

Finally, with one final whisper of goodbye to the bees, you left the secret spot and began to make your way back to the Keep. Raindrops started to fall and you knew a full on downpour wasn’t far behind.

Then, right there in your path, stood Rhaenyra. Her head was tipped back, her eyes were closed, and her palms were open up towards the sky as if in prayer. You felt like you were interrupting something sacred. Excitement jumped to your throat and before you could stop yourself, you asked, “princess…?” 

She turned to look at you with partially lidded eyes. “What ever are you doing out here right now?” She asked with genuine confusion.

“I needed a breath of air. My husband, he…” 

Before you could finish she held a hand up and offered a small shake of her head. “Needn’t worry to explain, then,” she said, appearing to come back to herself. “If the storm didn’t brew out of nowhere, and if I knew I’d run into you, I’d insist on taking you astride Syrax with me,” she said as she stepped into your space, eyes bright and dark alike. She freely reached for your hands and grabbed both of them. “There’s nothing quite as thrilling as dragon flying.”

This is more thrill than I’ve felt in a long time, you wanted to say. You wondered if the words flashed across your face. Briefly flustered, you smiled. “I, uhm… thank you, truly, princess. But I much prefer the ground.”

“That’s because you’ve never tried being in the sky,” she said, voice soft, so soft, as she leaned into you. “You cannot deny something so quickly if you haven’t tried it…”

Desire, excitement, and wonder filled her pretty eyes. Violet, and silver, and always donned in the loveliest gowns, you understood how the rumors of Targaryens being closer to Gods than men traveled all over the Seven Kingdoms. She was close enough that you felt her breath tickle your face. Smelled the oils of her skin. Something electric pulsed between your almost pressing bodies. “This is the closest I’ve been to a dragon and I am positively thrilled,” you whispered in reply, gently squeezing her hands.

“Sweet girl…,” she cooed as she tilted her head and pressed a delicate kiss to your waiting lips. Whatever pulsed between you before thrummed to life like a wardrum, now. You returned her kiss and that’s all she needed. Both her hands cupped your face as she deepened the affection, savoring the smoothness of your lips. Your tongue.

Just then the sky opened and emptied warm rain on the city. Within moments you were both soaked. Shock led to laughter as you both ran to find cover. Rain water dripped from your nose as you looked at Rhaenyra with renewed delight. “It came out of nowhere!” You said once in the dry safety of the Red Keep’s walls.

“Which part?” Asked the princess, mischievousness alighting all her features. She pulled you along, now, looking over her shoulder and daring you to keep pace with her. 

Challenge accepted.

Arm in arm, you kept pace with Rhaenyra and paid little mind to any onlookers who might be giving you curious glances. She was light and quick on her feet and you were beginning to have a hard time keeping up with her. Still, the light air of playfulness danced around both of you.

An ornate door was guarded by a single man and the princess was quick to say, “you may be relieved from your post for now, ser.” He offered a bow before turning to leave. She opened the door and latched it once you were both inside. Locking it, she turned to face you with a smirk that had you giddy.

“What of your husband, princess? And mine?” Despite it only being the two of you in her private bedchamber, you whispered.

“Laenor and I have… we have found common ground with a pact, you see. He would be happy that I found joy and thrill in chasing you. No one will know of our kiss. That, I promise,” she said, mirroring your tone, as she traced the backs of her fingers along your jaw. Your neck. Whispering them over your collarbone. “As for your husband? Well… I haven’t even seen him kiss your cheek since you’ve been here. Such a shame.”

Your heart was doing flips in your belly. Your lord husband never made you feel like this. Not even on your wedding night. “Th-this–,” you started, uncharacteristically stammering, “–I’ve never done anything like this before. I’ve only ever been with my husband.” Heat warmed your cheeks and you hoped she didn’t see it.

“That’s okay,” she purred. “Let me show you, my lady.” Her eyes searched yours. As soon as consent passed between you, she began to help you out of your wet gown. You helped her out of hers, too, and before too long you stood in front of each other in only your chemises; thin material doing little to hide your bodies.

Now on her bed, your curious fingers trembled over her skin as you explored her body. Your lips shuddered atop her flesh as you grazed tentative kisses along her. Your breath caught in your throat when she did all the same, and more, to you. She was so soft, and so warm, and so unlike anything you’d experienced before. Her hands on any and every part of your body had you melting further into her mattress. “Can you.. Can I…,” you said dreamily. “Can I feel your skin on mine?”

Grinning like a cat, Rhaenyra pulled your chemise over your head. She tugged hers off too. Leaning down, she balanced her weight atop you as she crashed her mouth to yours in the neediest hungriest kiss you’d ever experienced. Your breasts squished together, and your bellies, too, and it was the single most exciting thing you’d ever felt. “Can I finish taking all your clothes off?” She asked, half breathless, one hand snaking down to the ribbons of your smallclothes.

“Yes,” you panted. “Please,” you begged.

Having neither the will nor the want to keep you waiting, she obliged. She tugged the ribbons open before sliding the final garment down your legs. Kneeling on the edge of the bed she looked from the center of your body to your face, violet eyes dark with desire. “Spread your legs for me. I want to see all of you.”

A wave of shyness washed over you. Now, you were praying doubly that she didn’t see the blush of your face. Your legs parted with hesitation; butterflies roared from your scalp to your toes. It shouldn’t be embarrassing. It shouldn’t make you timid. But the intimacy, the lewdness, made your teeth sink into your bottom lip.

Rhaenyra watched all the while. Despite the clawing arousal in the pit of her own belly she let you go at your own pace and made no move to hasten or startle you. “Men often don’t appreciate the true beauty of a woman,” she said, low and gentle. “But I am no man and you are beautiful. Be a good girl and open them further. It will be worth it, I promise.”

Her words struck a chord in you. Before you fully realized what you were doing, your legs spilled open to expose the fullness of your eager cunt. It glistened with your arousal. The pink at your very center begged to be touched. To be spread. To welcome whatever Rhaenyra might bless you with. “Will you also take yours off?”

“Soon,” she answered all too quickly, already leaning forward between your parted thighs. “But first I want to kiss this pretty cunny.” And she did. She kissed the tender flesh at the inside of your thighs, your mound, your budded pearl. Her smooth mouth kissed again and again until you were squirming beneath her, and it was then, and only then, that she traced her warm tongue up your slit.

Your breathy gasps turned into a choking mewl at the sensation of her tongue. “Gods…!” You looked down at her and burned even hotter at the sight. “Please don’t stop, princess. Please don’t stop.”

Rhaenyra licked and lapped again and again, making no move to stop even as you shuddered beneath her. You were too warm, too lovely, and too responsive for her to even consider stopping. When she eventually ceased her licking, she instead sucked on your clit until she felt your entire cunt convulse and throb. Your sounds of pleasure were everything she imagined and more. As soon as you relaxed from your first peak she slid two fingers into your empty cunny. Working her tongue and digits in tandem, she gave you another climax. The natural tang of your body gave way to the sweetness of orgasm, and with that taste on her tongue she finally crashed her mouth to yours once again.

You whimpered into the affection, smiling and purring like a spoiled cat. “You’ve got a magical mouth, princess,” you said dreamily.

“How do you like your taste?” She asked, kissing you again, slower, deeper.

“Like I want more,” you said. “Let me taste you. You can guide me along. Show me how to make you feel good like you just did me.”

She giggled into your neck. “I know a way to make both of us feel good at the same time. Do you trust me?”

You nodded, the darkness of your eyes glittering with desire.

Rhaenyra discarded her smallclothes and positioned herself between your legs. “Relax and let me show you how to hold your legs, yes?” She spread yours a little wider while moving one of her own beneath your leg. She spread her other one wider and hooked it over your waist. 

It was an odd position, one you’d never been in before, but one that immediately sent your blood soaring. She rolled her hips once. Once. And that’s all it took for you to feel the slickness of her cunt slide against your own. If you thought her mouth was magical it was only because you hadn’t yet felt her cunny against yours. You gasped sharply. “More,” you croaked, eyes black with lust.

“Move your pelvis with me,” she said thickly, lust darkening her features just as much as yours. 

You happily obeyed. Your pleasure was her pleasure, and hers, yours, as you both rolled and ground your hips and pelvis in a delightfully obscene rhythm. Moans and whimpers were accented by the slick echoes of your centers. Your breasts started to bounce with the effort; both of your hands pressing and digging into any soft flesh it could find. You felt drunk. High. Buzzed on the saccharine scents of her skin and your combined arousal. 

The shared pace grew firmer, quicker, sloppier. Sweat sheened your bodies. You both chased your high on the other’s cunt. You tumbled into orgasm first, white hot fire exploding out from your belly to every nerve of your body. Rhaenyra quickly followed.

You both rode it out slowly. Intensely. Savoring every second that passed between you.

When your limbs finally managed to untangle, she collapsed beside you and smiled. After a few moments of breath catching, she asked, “which was your favorite, my lady?” Her words breathless, her tone playful.

You hummed in thought. “I don’t quite know… I think I’ll need a reminder again, just to be sure.”

“I think we can arrange that,” she said with a laugh.

“Can we do this again?”

“As many times as we can sneak away together, I am happy to explore with you.”

You laid together for as long as you could, until the golden hour summoned you to the day’s final meal where you both said next to your husbands; relaxed and sated.

-

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider a follow, and/or reblog, and/or letting me know as it all makes me vvvery happy! ♥

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[arabellasleopardcoat]

MAD (Aemond Targaryen x Reader)

Chapter summary: Aemond makes his move. You change the game.

Warnings: Non consensual kiss. Rough grabbing. Mature language. Manipulation. Accidental knife kink. Toxic dynamics.

A/N: It's a wrap, folks!

Previous parts here.

7

It’s not like you have been playing Aemond. Or at least, not on purpose. It’s much easier to forget that you are not meant to love him when you don’t have him right in front of you. Through letters, it’s easier to detach the calculating prince from the young man who’s interesting and witty.

Without him in front of you, you do not feel as defensive. It’s easier to let slip tiny details about your daily life. He is not winning any awards for the most devout knight or something, but he is both entertaining and thoughtful.

After the fast-paced weeks of life at court, you find yourself missing the hurry that came with it. There was always something to do, a bug to catch, a Prince to hide from. While you love Honeyholt and thrive among the good weather and your family, you do miss the constant stimulation of life at the Red Keep.

Aemond proves himself to be a master of distraction. He has a great memory, never forgetting any of the things you tell him. You wonder if he saves your letters as you do his. In your mind’s eye, you see him hunched over his desk, rereading your letters, searching for a passing remark to make a note of.

You are not in love. But you certainly are struck with love’s arrows. It is a wonderful feeling. One that makes your days more entertaining, and it’s only that why you allow it. It warms your body inside out, fills your stomach with nerves each time a messenger reaches you, has you hurrying out of dinner to read his letters.

In time, he gets bolder. Begging you to be his mistress, for an evening only. Begging to be able to hold you to him. Those sorts of letters anger you. You like pretending you are friends, or perhaps something more. But all the allusions to bedding you are like being drenched in cold water.

Aemond doesn’t want you. He just wants to ruin you, that’s all. When confronted with the fact that you are no more than a piece on a Cyvasse board, being played by him and Otto Hightower, you feel dirty. Used and discarded.

It hurts more than it should. His attention is flattering, but your rational mind knows that this is a bad idea. It’s a confusing feeling. The things he speaks about in his letters, even the more crude ones, hold a certain appeal. After all, you are a young, unmarried woman. Just like anyone else, you do feel desire. How could you not? Aemond is handsome and smart, and always paying attention to you.

One week, the letters stop. You do not hear of him for a few days, and while you should be relieved, you can’t help but worry. Has he simply grown tired of this game and decided to give up? Are you worth so little to him? Or are they planning something?

Bad luck, for you, always comes in threes. And three unusual things happened in Honeyholt that day. One, a letter from King's Landing arrives, and it’s not from him. It’s from your grandfather. Two, Lord Hightower appears on your doorstep and prevents your father from reading the letter, imposing his presence on your hall. Three, it’s raining.

The whole ordeal, in all, it’s very dramatic. It’s an unusual choice for a liege lord to decide to hold court in one of his vassals' halls. But Lord Hightower does. That ensures Honeyholt’s hall is filled with people that come to petition him. The perfect public for what it’s to come.

Unable to go out in the grounds due to the rain, you find yourself drawn to the hall. Your father says it’s good for your education or something, to watch him and Lord Hightower pass judgment.

It’s around mid-morning when a great commotion is heard outside. You get up from your chair, and walk towards a window. Dread fills your stomach when you realize what lies outside.

A dragon. And not just any dragon. Vhagar. Aemond’s.

“My lord!” One of the servants rushes inside. Both your father and Lord Hightower stand. Not even the servant knows whom to address, his eyes moving panicked between the two men. “There is a dragon outside!”

More and more people rush towards the windows, looking outside. Most of your tenants have never seen a dragon before, but have heard of them. The sight scares them as much as it fascinates them.

Your father’s face morphs in a second. From benevolent lord, to utter rage. He has known of your correspondence with the prince. It’s sort of hard to miss, considering there is a new letter for you each week. Safe to say, he doesn’t approve.

“Stay here!” He barks. “Do not go outside.”

You nod, helplessly. One part of you wants to rush outside and greet him. You weren’t aware of how much you missed him until you had him in front of you and found yourself unable to go to him. Another part of you knows, though, that your father is right. It’s not in your best interests to go to him.

Lord Hightower gives him a polite smile. He looks uncannily like his brother when he does so.

“Is there something wrong, Beesbury?”

“Just an unexpected guest.” But stopping to answer him has slowed him down, and soon, another startled servant appears.

“Prince Aemond Targaryen.” He announces, wide-eyed. Your father looks like he is sucking a lemon.

Butterflies flutter in your stomach. Your heart beats harder in your chest. Impulsively, you smooth your hair down and fix the bodice of your dress. Then, you feel silly for doing it and fix it again, so it lays just as it did before.

Aemond enters the room, barely acknowledging your father or his great uncle. He is in his usual leather attire, even with the pouring rain. Some things never change, you think fondly.

He crosses the room in two large strides, standing right in front of you. The look in his eye makes your smile falter. Pure, cold determination. Nothing else. Aemond grabs you by the arms, pulling you to him.

Your hopes are crushed. You know that whatever it’s about to happen, it’s going to hurt. And the worst thing? All your tenants and the minor houses from The Reach are going to watch it happen.

“How long has my heart longed for you.” His voice is loud, yet flat. As if he doesn’t really men the words he is speaking. You raise your hands, trying to push him away. You only make contact with his shoulders before he is kissing you.

His mouth. On yours. Hungrily, demandingly. Trying to coax you into melting into it. Your shock buys him a few precious seconds that he doesn’t let go to waste, even taking the chance to grope your rear.

It’s that, more than the horrified sound from everyone in the room, what shakes you out of it. You push him away and slap him, uncaring of the consequences. The crunch your hand makes when it hits his cheek is as satisfying as you had hoped for.

Aemond takes the hit with pursed lips. He stares at you, darkly.

“Forgive me, my Lady. For I could not contain my passion for you. Your letters have awakened…” The words, again, are spoken loudly. It’s very well executed. It would be impressive if it weren’t for the way you have just been thoroughly ruined.

Mutters break around the crowd. You can barely make out your father’s voice, calling your name. You gather your skirts and run out of the castle.

The first drops of rain against your skin feel cold and disorienting. Your vision is blurred, eyelashes wet. You are uncertain if it is from the tears or the rain.

“Are you insane?” Aemond is hot on your heels. His tone is one of concern. Bitterly, you wonder how much of it is for your audience and how much it’s for his own selfish desire to remain dry. “You are going to catch your death out here.”

“Leave me alone.” You shriek, turning towards him. Surprisingly, he is alone. Not even your father has gone after you. It only makes you feel worse. Does your father think less of you now? Does he think you are ruined, too?

You didn’t know it then. And you are hurting too much to think of it on your own. But Lord Hightower has advised your father to “Let the youngsters fix it on their own.” And being his vassal, he hasn’t been able to refuse.

Aemond steps closer, gently placing a hand on your shoulder. He seems remorseful. His eye is full of compassion for you. It does nothing to appease your anger. If anything, it only makes you want to slap him again. You lift your hand, ready to strike.

His fingers curl around your wrist. His grip is strong enough to stop you, yet not enough to hurt.

“Please.”

“How could you!” You scream, fingers twitching with the urge to slap at him and tear him apart. You want him to hurt. Hurt as much as you do.

Aemond’s grip on your wrist tightens. A warning. It betrays his real feelings. His face, instead, depicts only confusion. The gall.

“I thought… I thought…”

“Save it! I have known what game you're playing since the start, but I thought… Oh, more the fool to me, I guess.” Despite starting out angry, your tone quickly turns pitiful. You pinch the bridge of your nose.

“Game? What are you talking about?” Aemond keeps playing dumb. It makes your insides burn with fury. He could come clean now. There is no point in denying, the deed is already done. The Hightowers have their revenge. There is no point on stretching it further.

Unless… Unless he wants to salvage what he had with you. The hope that blooms in your heart makes you feel stupid. Oh, what a fool, what a fool you were. Thinking you had control over this, you were not in love.

If you were not, would it have hurt this much?

“I know this is a political ploy against my grandfather.” You answer, bitterly. How you long for him to deny it, yet you know it’s not coming. He is either going to lie or admit it, without any feelings of guilt. You wonder what’s that like. To be so self possessed, so convinced of your importance, you do not mind toying with other people to get what you want. “What’s next, then? How else will you two corner him so Princess Rhaenyra doesn’t become Queen?”

“I… You will marry me.” Aemond looks flabbergasted at being caught. The words are uttered in complete shock. For once, he is wordless. As if the thought of anyone discovering his plan was an unusual one. Good gods, how much of a fool did he think you were? He would have never even looked your way were it not for your grandfather’s position at court.

“No!” Because whatever this is, you won't allow him to ruin your life further. Marriage is too big of a commitment to enter with someone like him.

The rejection seems to finally break his patience because Aemond grabs your jaw, roughly.

“You sure seemed to want it, the past few weeks.” His eye glints dangerously. He leans in, trying to use his height to intimidate you. “You will marry me, make no mistake.”

“No! What is this, even?” You try to squirm out of his grasp, but Aemond refuses to budge. Your jaw throbs, slightly. He is starting to hurt you. You give a small yelp, trying to get Aemond to stop. “I thought we were friends.”

Aemond's grip on your jaw softens at the sound of pain. His shoulders drop, and his face turns apologetic.

“We were. We still are. But you need to understand, I am not playing. I want you.” His other hand comes up to gently brush your cheek. You do your best not to startle. “I love you.” His voice is sincere. He presses his forehead to yours, looking into your eyes. “I love you.” He repeats, pleadingly.

The words you so wanted to hear. But not like this, never like this. You start to tear up.

“You are playing me, again.”

“I am not.” Aemond kisses your cheek, your eyes, your temples. “Come. Give in. You can't say you don't want me. You need me. I know you do.”

He kisses your jaw, so tenderly you think you might start crying. It's a tempting offer. It would fix your now ruined reputation. Aemond would protect you from others. And you can tell, by the anger at your rejection, he does care about you.

But you can't trust him. Not now. How to know you are not being deceived again?

“I will never marry you.” You push him away, roughly. “I could never want someone like you.”

The words hurt him. You can see it in the way his face drops before his shoulders square up again. His hands grab at your arms, lips curling into a dangerous smile. When he speaks again, his voice is full of venom.

“We will see about that.” Aemond glares, and kisses you on the lips. It's a closed mouthed, cold thing. Then, glancing towards the path. You do too. Seems like your father has freed himself from Lord Hightower. “It seems I have overstayed my welcome. But worry not, betrothed. You will hear from me very soon.”

You do. Not even an hour later, a messenger gets there, carrying a letter from Otto Hightower, authorized by King Viserys. You are to marry Prince Aemond.

You are pretty sure your screams of rage would be heard even in the Red Keep.

8

“… She let him kiss her, though.” The voice carries through the walls, unmistakably feminine. Aemond lays his head on the arm of the loveseat he is on, groaning.

Why was it that every time he wanted a quiet moment to himself, someone decided to scream in the hallways? It was as if no one had heard about inside’s voices.

“More than kiss her, a lover’s embrace if cousin Oakheart is to be believed. She wrote to me as soon as she saw it.”

The mention of House Oakheart grabs his attention. Once he hears it, his annoyance vanishes, replaced by curiosity. Are these two gossiping about you?

Aemond closes his eye. He has found when he does, his sense of hearing gets more acute.

“No!” One of the women says, in mock shock. “You know, I always thought she was a bit… Wide.”

They can’t be insinuating what he thinks they are insinuating. He would never.

“Do you think..?” The other woman giggles.

Annoyed, Aemond rips out his eye patch and steps out of the sitting room. He looms by the door with crossed arms. It proves very satisfying, seeing them squeal in fear, bow and trip all over themselves in their haste to get away.

Aemond remains leaning against the door frame, giving a satisfied hum. A shame he can’t reprimand them. They didn’t even apologize for the slander they are spreading about you.

Currently, his feelings towards you are complicated. Your rejection stung, but he cannot help but be glad he gets to marry you anyway. It means he has a chance to win you over, again.

Aemond did it once already. How hard can it be to do it a second time? This time, his chances are much better. You are permanently stuck to him, after all. If necessary, he will ask for you two to share chambers after the marriage.

You were sent back to the capital. Aemond saw you arrive this morning, wearing a dark cloak that covered you from head to toe. Your shoulders were tense, and you kept glancing at your grandfather for reassurance, as if hoping that any time now, he was going to tell you it had all been a misunderstanding.

Next to you, Lord Beesbury was the picture of defeat. Never had your star risen so high, never has he been more powerless.

Aemond has heard all about his attempts to get you out of it. He has begged Rhaenyra to help you, but his sister has not. Lord Hightower, as the good overlord he is, refuses to let you out of the contract unless a better match is proposed. It’s an impossible task. There is no way for Rhaenyra to help you, short of betrothing Jacaerys to you.

His sister won’t do that. Not only are you already ruined by Aemond’s touch, but you are also no one in the great scheme of things. You will not help secure his claim to the Iron Throne, nor will you help to make him look less like a bastard.

As for you finding a better match than him, to Aemond seems like a highly unlikely possibility. What were you going to do, if not marry Jacaerys? The only other Prince he was aware of was Qoran Martell, and he was both too old and too proud for you.

Yes, things had fallen into place quite nicely. Aemond would even call himself happy, were it not for the fact that you are avoiding him and haunting the halls of the Red Keep as if a little ghost. Perhaps it’s a bit premature to say, but you seem eager on avoiding him.

Why were you so upset, really? You wanted him. He wanted you. It was a win-win situation. Most people didn’t get the luxury of marrying someone they loved or even liked. You should be ecstatic. Not only did you get to marry the man you loved, but he was also a prince, capable of protecting you. Talk of marrying up.

Even if you weren’t in love, it was an easy thing. Giving yourself to him in exchange for protection and care. A better life, and companionship. He wasn’t asking for anything more.

While the kiss in public might have been embarrassing for you, it had been a much kinder thing than what his grandsire had planned. You weren’t actually ruined, that was just what he had made everyone believe. Your maidenhead was intact.

If you had known since the start, as you claimed, there was no reason for you to be upset. Unless, of course, it was out of loyalty.

Loyalty is a motivation Aemond understands well. He is steadfast in defense of those he loves, like any dutiful man should be. But unlike you, he doesn’t let it cloud his judgment.

Aemond understands what it is like, not wanting to betray someone you love. He would never, no matter how much he and Aegon fight, let his brother be dealt with by Rhaenyra. He would protect Aegon until the last consequences. The same was true for Helaena and Daeron, even his mother and grandfather.

But the thing about his loyalty? It was corresponded. Aegon would fight for him, Aemond knew. The same for his mother and Helaena. Your grandfather had barely even fought for you. Were it his daughter, Aemond would have been knocking on the Martell’s door himself or trying to smuggle you out of Westeros.

Why be loyal to a man that couldn’t protect you? That wasn’t loyal to you? Aemond, as your future husband, would keep you safe until his dying day, and would make provisions for you even after his death. He would kill for you. Your grandfather, instead, had proven himself completely lacking in that department.

Aemond needs to mend things. He liked how you were before, witty and carefree. This woman who haunts the Red Keep, a shy thing, afraid of her own shadow, it’s not you. Unfortunately, there is no manual on regaining your lady’s favor. If that knowledge was in a book, Aemond would have acquired it already.

He goes for the next best thing. Advice.

“May I ask you something?”

Aegon sets down his cup. While the bedroom is not the ideal place for such a discussion, beggars can’t be choosers. Aemond deftly avoids the wrinkled sheets, and sits on his brother’s bed. On the clean side, of course.

“Yes? Since when do you ask permission?” Aegon leans back on his pillows, scratching his belly. “You didn’t even do that when entering my rooms. I could have been busy.”

Aemond fights off the urge to snort. Busy. Bedding a maid, perhaps. He doesn’t say it out loud, too worried Aegon might withhold whatever wisdom he has to spare.

“How do you get your paramours to stop being cross with you?” He says, instead. If anyone knew, it would be him. Women, mysterious as they were, never proved to be a hardship for his brother.

Aegon smiles.

“This is about your bee.” His tone rises a bit at the end of the sentence, teasingly. Aemond frowns, heats starting to heat up. He doesn’t like admitting weakness, but it isn't as if he has another choice here.

“Of course it is.” Aemond scoffs. “Now answer the damn question.”

“Aren’t you meant to disapprove of my paramours?” Aegon lays down on his side. “Pass me another blanket.”

Aemond rolls his eye, but obeys regardless. The more time he spends in Aegon’s presence, the harder it is for him to take his advice seriously. Perhaps this was not his best idea.

But who else to go to? His grandsire was already exhausted by the topic. His mother was angry, and so, Aemond had taken to skillfully avoiding her. He didn’t want a lecture. Even sweet Helaena had taken the time to reprimand him.

The only two people who were not angry at him were his uncle and Aegon. Daemon had even patted him on the back for it, saying that perhaps he was not as much of a cunt as his brothers were. Not exactly a glowing endorsement, but Aemond would take it.

Despite it, it was not like he could ask Daemon. First, he didn’t appreciate hearing Aegon and Daeron were cunts. Aegon sort of was, but it was not allowed for Daemon to say it. Second, Daemon thought what he had done was the right thing. Grab a woman you like and take what you want. It clearly showed the way the older generation thought.

A more modern approach was needed. One that came with an open mind and a bit more understanding of carnal urges. If any, Aegon wasn’t going to judge him. He had done much worse.

“Well, yes. Of course, I disapprove.” He mutters, half-heartedly. In truth, he doesn’t give a shit. It’s not like Aegon is ruining his reputation more than it already is, and the girls are all lowborns. No one cares about what happens to them.

“Yet you want the juicy details.” Aegon laughs. “Worry not, little brother. I will teach you all you need to know to please your little bee.”

Aemond, remembering quite traumatically what had happened the last time Aegon tried to teach him something in that area, shook his head.

“I don’t want the details of your bedroom activities. I just want my betrothed to stop being cross with me.”

Aegon cleared his throat, awkwardly. Whatever he had expected of this conversation, it was not this. He was clearly uncomfortable at the thought of regaining his lady’s favor. Perhaps, Aemond should have reminded earlier that his lady was his sister wife. It was a bit late to backtrack now, though.

Aegon’s cherub face started to turn red. “I do not have paramours, Aemond. I have whores. Money and gifts tend to do the trick. Give it a try.”

“She is not a whore!” Aemond protested, urged to defend your honor. Aegon gave him a pointed look, as if saying it was his fault. Which, fair. If all Westeros thought you were a whore, it was probably Aemond’s fault.

“Of course not.” Aegon squeezed his arm, trying to apologize for his harshness. “But she is a girl. Girls like shiny things, right?”

Without nothing to lose, Aemond decided to follow his brother’s advice. He started by sending you flowers. They were returned to his rooms, after you allegedly said the smell gave you headaches and made you sneeze.

Next, he tries with a slice of lemocake. You leave it on the tray, for the servants to take away back to the kitchens, with no explanations. Starting to get impatient, Aemond sends you a compliment filled letter and a pearl necklace that once belonged to his grandmother, on the Hightower side.

It’s then you make your own, belligerent little move. It happens late at night, after receiving the necklace.

“Prince Aemond.” A servant knocks on his door, meekly. While they are usually frightened of him, it’s highly unusual that it is to this degree.

“Yes?”

“Lady Beesbury sent you this.” The man places a tray near the foot of his bed and scurries out of the room.

“Wait!” Aemond calls out, but it’s too late. The servant is gone.

Aemond approaches the tray. On it, rests a pile of ashes. Among them, there is the pearl necklace. There is a note to go with it.

“Prince Aemond.” He reads, trying to understand your hurried writing. “Please kindly take the ashes of your letter and shove them right up… Oh!”

Your words anger him more than you could have hoped to. He marches out of his rooms, so angry, Aemond fears that if he catches you, he might strangle you. This constant rejection hurts. He is trying to mend things, but you don’t seem to want to mend the bridge between the two of you.

Lucky for you, you are not in your chambers. Or so the guard outside them says. Aemond storms towards the library and finds you there.

It's the first time in weeks he gets to gaze upon you. You hold yourself different, like a hurt animal. Your hair has lost a bit of its shine. No longer are you the happy and carefree girl you once were, rambling incessantly about bees. Instead, you sedately pour over a book on some insect or another, clearly preparing for Helaena’s lessons tomorrow.

You see him. You close the book. He crosses the distance between the two of you, and grabs your arm. Aemond is too angry to know what he is hoping to achieve. Perhaps, shake some sense into you?

But you flinch, and get a panicked look in your eyes. It’s then Aemond realizes exactly how badly he has gone wrong. Your sense of safety, your trust in him, it’s all shattered. No longer your eyes gaze upon him as if he is the greatest man in the world, but instead, they are fearful. As if waiting for him to pounce on you and force you, right here.

You slip out of his grip. Helpless, he lets you go, in absolute mutism. Aemond wants to grab you and force you to stay. He is angrier than he has ever been. Do not leave, he wants to scream. Do not leave and force me to make you stay.

Yet, even with your back turned, as you disappear into the hallway, Aemond can see the heartbroken look in your eyes. It plays again and again in his mind. So, instead of following, he goes to the only person who warned him that he was playing with fire and was about to get burned.

“Mother.” Aemond steps inside her chambers, the picture of defeat. He has not felt this humiliated since he was a child, being presented with the pink dread. “I fear have muddled everything up and have no idea how to fix it.”

His mother looks up from her prayer book. She closes it.

“Aemond. You utter fool.” Alicent places her book down. Despite her harsh words, she taps the space next to her invitingly.

Aemond sits next to her and allows her to gently embrace him. Just like when he was a child, he needs it. Too often in these past weeks, he has felt adrift, but was too proud to come ask for her help.

“I know.” Aemond didn't want to hear his mother tell him I told you so. Because she had, repeatedly. Besides, there was the fact of how terrible, how beastly the whole thing must seem to her.

Alicent is not dumb, after all. She is the daughter of Otto Hightower. She knows something is amiss. And his mother has a weakness for young ladies in tough spots, especially for ones from the Reach.

The care you had shown for Helaena had been enough to win her over. The longing you had shown for him, enough to make her pity you.

Knowing both Aemond and her father, she had not taken long to understand this was a multi-layered plot.

“I will not pity you, Aemond. You knew tricking her would hurt her. And now you trapped her into a marriage she doesn’t want.” His mother rubs his back, soothingly. Her tone remains scolding, which is precisely what Aemond deserves. By the Seven, how could he be so blind? Not only has he disappointed you, but also his mother.

Still, it is not like it is so terrible. We are not talking here of an old man forcing a young woman to marry him, or of a cruel act of coercion and abuse. You had been in love with him, after all. Aemond had just… Hurried things along.

“She does!”

“Does she?” His mother arches an eyebrow. Suddenly, Aemond's resolve and security wavers. Did you truly not want to marry him? His mother, unaware of how much turmoil she is causing, keeps speaking. “You did something terrible.”

“You got married like that.” Aemond half says, half pleads. It's the wrong thing to do. Alicent's face turns gray. “What would you have wanted father to do?”

“I wish someone had apologized to me.” His mother looks away. “A real apology. A nice one.”

And Aemond gets the sense they are no longer talking about Viserys.

“I am so sorry, mother.” Aemond says, softly. “For everything.”

9

It’s late. You are sitting inside your chambers, the door wide open. To prevent any more rumors from swirling around. You feel miserable. Your wedding has been moved up by Lord Hightower.

You try to focus on your reading, but the words all seem blurred away. Your eyes are full of tears. Despite having the door open, you are not ashamed of your crying. You deserve to feel sorry for yourself.

It is in that state that Aemond finds you. He enters without knocking, and awkwardly clears his throat.

“You weren’t announced.” You say, dumbly. You wish you could do more. Insult him, perhaps. Yet, you can’t because now your destiny is tied to him. Your grandfather has made it very clear, that while you are allowed to make your displeasure known, you can’t enrage Aemond. Not only would it be bad for your health, now that you are little more than property, but it would hurt the rest of your family.

The stunt with the burned letters had earned you a thorough scolding. “Make the best of a bad situation.” Your grandfather had said. “The boy loves you, but he won’t wait forever.”

And he was right. Whatever you had with Aemond could turn even worse if you drove him to resentment. There was no way out of this. Being angry wouldn’t help. You had decided to forgive him. It didn’t mean you weren’t going to make him work for it, though.

“I thought it would be worse.” Aemond speaks again, pulling you out of your musings. What was he talking about, again? Ah. Being announced.

“Perhaps.” You keep reading your book, uninterested.

“Won’t you even look at me, Lady Beesbury?”

You pass another page in your book. Childish, but effective. Aemond sighs. Then, he kneels in front of you. The dull thud of his knees against the rock floor makes you look up. His face is pained.

“Are you alright?” You ask, slowly. You close your book. By the sound of it, it must have hurt.

“Just fine.” But his face is pained.

“Should I get you a rug? Or fetch a Maester?” You get up, intent on exiting the room. It’s as good an excuse as any. You can’t bear to look at him. Not now. Not ever.

You are too afraid of snapping at him. Or starting to cry.

“Stop trying to run from me, dammit.” His voice is raised. Angry. Loud. The guards on your door peer inside, curiously.

Aemond’s eye is narrowed in annoyance. He stays on his knees. It’s that, perhaps, what makes you stop and linger inside the room. As you close the door, your hands shake.

“I beg you forgive me, my Lady. For I have been the biggest of fools.” The words come out in a tumble, rehearsed. Almost as if they were word vomit, more than something he sincerely means. You eye him warily.

“What are you doing?”

“I have broken something sacred, but I hope I can mend it still. If you were so gracious as to allow me to court you again.” Aemond keeps at it, tone flat. You frown even more. It sits wrong with you, as if this apology it’s just part of his plan. It doesn’t feel genuine.

“What use is it? We have to get married anyway. Your grandfather won’t stand for anything else. Nor will the Queen.” You spit out, between clenched teeth. You want to slap him so bad your palms itch for it. Yet, you can’t. Not if you intend to survive this.

“I… I know.” And in that pause, that small stumble in his words, you finally find what you need. A hint of sincerity, of the fragile human that hides behind his armor. “But you flinched when I touched you.”

His voice is pleading. The flinch it’s not something you remember doing. It was a reflex. A passing gesture. You guess it must have been when you met at the library. But no matter that you can’t pinpoint when it happened, it clearly was significant to him. Your fear had rattled him deeply.

Aemond bows his head. His posture is slouched down, so supplicant on his knees, his forehead would touch the ground if he were to lean down any further. It’s a sad sight. Much like a kicked puppy. If puppies were murderous, dishonorable beasts, of course.

No. You have to resist. Aemond certainly didn’t show you any compassion when you were suffering. He just expected you to bounce right back, plaster a smile on your face and pretend nothing happened. Pretend you were honored that he tricked you into marriage.

“Another trick? What for?” You start to pace. “How else will you trap my grandfather?”

“Not to trap your grandfather, my Lady.” Aemond reaches a hand to touch the skirts of your dress. The image remembers you of something, deep and jarring. The way dirty children in the slums of King’s Landing would reach towards Lords and Ladies, begging for a coin. It turns your anger into sadness. You stop your pacing and face him.

“It would still trap him.” It’s said in a subdued tone. Just facts, nothing else.

“I would keep you safe.” He hugs your legs and in truth, it shows how much Aemond doesn’t understand you. Here he is, pleading for you to stay, thinking guaranteeing your safety will be enough. As if when his father dies, it will be enough to whisk you away from the front lines, as if it’s not going to be two of the people you love the most on opposing sides.

Because you love him. Only now you are willing to admit it, but it’s undeniable.

“It’s not enough.” You start to tear up, much to your dismay. “Not enough. Aemond, for the Seven’s sake. No… I can’t.”

Aemond stays quiet for a few seconds, still hugging your legs. His head leans against your thigh. You stay there, frozen.

“I know I do not deserve your forgiveness. But I intend to earn it regardless.” He pulls away and takes his dagger out of his belt. He offers it to you by the handle. “Take it.”

You stare at him, jaw slack. What does he want you to do with the dagger?

“Take it, little bee.” His face is determined. His eye meets yours without any hint of fear.

You take the dagger with a shaky hand. Since the pommel it’s what’s offered to you, as soon as you take it, it’s as if you are holding Aemond at dagger point.

“Actions speak louder than words, right?” He laughs a little, but it sounds off. Too nervous. “You deserve a real apology.”

“And you intend to do so as I threaten you?”

“You hold all the power now. Was it not what you wanted?” And it sounds so damn cocky, coming from him. When he could have you flat on your back if he so wished. You had seen him train with Ser Criston. No matter if you hold the dagger, he has all the control.

You scoff.

“Let’s not delude ourselves. There is still a power dynamic between…”

“So?” Aemond interrupts, and it pushes you beyond your breaking point. You press the dagger to his throat, a hand on his hair, pulling back his head in an almost punishing grip.

“You are our overlords, Aemond.” He goes with the motion, not fighting your grip. It feels good, to have him kneeling and scared for once, even if it’s all pretense. You force his back to arch, almost cruelly.

“It concerns you. And it’s only right. It shows me that you are smart. I wouldn’t have fallen for a fool.” His voice sounds a bit breathless, his pale complexion rapidly coloring. His lips part, his pupil is blown wide. Aemond is not afraid, no. He is aroused.

“Yet you would have married her anyway.” You dig the dagger deeper into his skin, almost breaking it. He pants slightly, but looks at you in defiance.

“I am giving you a choice. I won’t marry you, if that’s not what you want.”

“Oh, if it were up to me, I would leave you standing alone on the Sept.” It’s cruel, you know it is. Your stomach twists at the change in his expression, and you feel filled with the urge to comfort him. From playful to absorbing the blow. Aemond’s eye closes. “I would rather not let your grandfather get the upper hand. But you ruined me already. It’s an impossible dilemma. You backed us into a corner.”

At that, Aemond perks up. You know him enough by now to know he is a problem solver. He delights in thinking himself the smartest in the room, the one that can figure out the ways out of a tricky situation, make the puzzle pieces fit.

Helaena has told you he has always been like this. Proud of his intellect. As a child, he had been brave, bold. But a childhood without a dragon had made for a lonely one, and so, he had delighted in games of wit and inventiveness. He excelled at Cyvasse, too. How much was him, you wondered? How much was the need to prove himself worthy?

“There is no way out of the labyrinth, you say?”

“Yes. I suppose.” You agree because you have spent hours thinking, praying, obsessing over this. There is no way out. Nothing can mend the rift between the two of you. Nothing that can make this a relationship of equals and not a relationship of Liege Lord and the daughter of a Vassal.

“There is”.

And then, he leans in and whispers something in your ear. A secret. Something so bad, it makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

“And does your grandfather..?”

“No. But I am willing to put it in writing.”

He has just given you the key to the ruin of Otto Hightower. The dagger drops out of your hand, falling to the floor with a dull thud. Neither of you pay it any mind, too engrossed with looking at each other’s eyes.

“You know hold the power of life and death over me, my Lady. It’s in my hope that this will keep you safe and that you will forgive me, one day. But even if you don’t, I will not force you to share my bed.”

“You did a terrible thing.” You brush a piece of hair behind his ear, softly. His eye closes, delighting in the touch.

“I was a fool.” He was. He is still. But there is a path out of this, you know it. The secret he shares is not enough to afford your family’s neutrality in the war to come, but it is enough to ensure that whatever sacrifice Otto Hightower asks of you is a minor one.

If you manage to earn Aemond’s loyalty, of course. If you do not, he will not protect you from his grandfather when you make your move.

“You were.” You drop to your knees too, legs spread over him. Straddling his lap. Overall, it’s not about love, but practicality. You do love him, and you do feel hurt and raw still, but you need to move forward if you want to keep your head. “I have not forgiven you, yet.”

“But it’s a start?”

“It is.” Aemond hugs you to him. He peppers your face and neck with kisses, before hiding his face on the soft curve where shoulder meets neck. As you melt against him, you cannot help but feel as if you are the one who is moving the Cyvasse’s pieces now.

[thehauntingofharrenhouse]

if you liked house beesbury of honeyholt you are going to LOVE house peasebury of poddingfield

[goodqueenaly]

In your opinion, would it have been a good option to solve Saera's scandal, for her parents to solve the problem by marrying her to Braxton Beesbury?

In the end, it seems to me that making her Lady of Bessbury was a better option for her so that her children could inherit Honeyholt.

Greetings

Good for whom?

As an aristocratic Westerosi daughter (and the daughter of Jaehaerys I - more on him in a moment), Saera had neither the agency nor the liberty to choose her romantic/sexual partners in the ordinary course of events. While she answered, somewhat blithely, that she would likely be married to one of her lovers once her parents discovered her relationships (we'll put aside her comment on marrying all three), it does not appear that Saera had a deep interest in marrying any of them, Beesbury included. Rather, what Saera seems to have wanted was the freedom to do as she liked with her sexuality - a choice fundamentally incompatible with Westerosi marriage, where not only would Saera be cut off from the possibility of any romantic/sexual relationships beyond that with her husband, but also where she would have been required to be available to that husband for sex whenever he decided.

Jaehaerys, for his part, was not simply a patriarchal Westerosi father, but a particularly violent misogynist, one whose love for his children (and his female relations generally) seems to have been not only limited but defined by those biases. If there is some precedent in Westeros for aristocratic fathers covering up their daughters' sexual scandals (as Westerosi society sees them, anyway) through quick marriages - see, say, Delena Florent's marriage to Hosman Norcross, or Amerei Frey's marriage to Ser Pate of the Blue Fork - I don't believe Jaehaerys had any interest in such a marriage for Saera following the revelation of the affair. To marry Saera to Braxton might imply, in the king's mind I think, that Jaehaerys almost post facto approved of their sexual relationship. To satisfy that violent misogyny, Jaehaerys would instead redefine both parties in a way which both absolved him of blame and allowed him to channel his fury: Braxton became the criminal knight who had "seduced and despoiled" a royal maiden - who had, in effect, taken from Jaehaerys the ownership of Saera's virginity and sexuality - while, simultaneously, Saera was retroactively defined as a "whore", to be punished and shamed as Westerosi society so often does sex workers.

And all of this is in the context of a king (and queen) who seem to have cared little if at all for the political advantages any of their children's marriages might have brought. Indeed, Jaehaerys' pleasure that "[t]hey would not need to scour the realm to find a match for Saera, when three such promising young men were here at hand" speaks to how little Jaehaerys contemplated the diplomatic alliance Saera's marriage might have represented: Braxton was the heir to an old but relatively minor family of Hightower vassal lords, hardly as high-ranking as Saera herself (and in fact, perhaps not even of the same rank as his two fellow suitors, both of whom were the lords or heirs to seats directly sworn to the crown's paramount vassals). Any good, in a purely geopolitical sense, that might have come from the marriage of Saera and Braxton Beesbury would have been at best speculative and limited by lack of power, ability, and influence on the parts of both House Beesbury and Braxton personally.

[bodega-catto]

People saying they “love bees” and “save the bees” but never:

-greet their guests with a jar of honey

-legally change the name of their land to Honeyholt

-yell beware of our sting before killing someone

-have bee armor

-name their house Beesbury

Try harder “bee lovers” 🫤

[isefyres-archive]

𝔑𝔢𝔴 𝔪𝔲𝔰𝔢𝔰 𝔞𝔡𝔡𝔢𝔡:

Lord Quenton Qoherys: was the first Lord of Harrenhal and the head of House Qoherys Ser Quenton was the master-at-arms at Dragonstone during Aegon's Conquest. He was named Lord of Harrenhal by King Aegon I Targaryen after Aegon had extinguished House Hoare during his conquest. Lord Quenton had two strong sons and a plump grandson to continue the family line, but as his first wife had died from spotted fever in 1 BC, he agreed to wed a daughter of his liege lord, Edmyn Tully of Riverrun. In 9 AC, he died from a fall from his horse and was succeeded by his grandson, Gargon. Conquest Era.

Prince Aemon Targaryen: was a member of House Targaryen. He was the third born child of King Jaehaerys I Targaryen and Queen Alysanne Targaryen. Aemon was married to Lady Jocelyn Baratheon. Together, they had a daughter, Princess Rhaenys. Aemon was a dragonrider whose mount was Caraxes. His mother Alysanne would often say, while laughing, that Aemon's first word had been, "Why?". In 62 AC, King Jaehaerys formally granted the seven-year-old Aemon the title of Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the throne. At the feast that followed Aemon's appointment, Queen Alysanne sat Aemon beside Lady Jocelyn Baratheon. The two children spent the entire evening talking and laughing together. He is the father of Princess Rhaenys. Jaeherys Era.

Princess Saera Targaryen: the ninthborn child and fifthborn daughter of King Jaehaerys I Targaryen and Queen Alysanne Targaryen. Saera was a courageous and clever, girl, in her own way as clever as her brother Vaegon. She was just as strong, quick and spirited as her sister Alyssa. Saera was tempestuous, demanding, and disobedient. Her first word was "no", which she said often and loudly. She quickly had three favorites of all the men who attended her: Jonah Mooton, the heir to Maidenpool, Roy Connington, the Lord of Griffin's Roost, and Ser Braxton Beesbury, the heir to Honeyholt. Instead of hiding within the Seven Kingdoms, however, Saera had found passage on a ship at Oldtown, which had brought her to Lys. Saera, infamous but wealthy, left Lys for Volantis a few years before 99 AC. In Volantis, she became the proprietor of a famous pleasure house. She had at least three bastard sons, who would be the dragonseeds of House Blackfyre in Essos. Jaeherys Era.

Princess Gael Targaryen: was the thirteenth and last child of King Jaehaerys I Targaryen and Queen Alysanne Targaryen. Born during winter, Gael was also called the Winter Child. After her sisters Alyssa, Daella, and Viserra had died within the span of five years (82–87 AC), Gael became a comfort for her mother Queen Alysanne, along with her older sister Maegelle. Gael became Alysanne's constant shadow, and even slept with her in her bed. In 99 AC, Gael disappeared from court. It was announced that she had died of a summer fever. After the deaths of King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne, it was revealed that Gael had been seduced and impregnated by a traveling singer. Gael had given birth to a stillborn son. Jaeherys Era.

Princess Viserra Targaryen: was the tenth-born child of King Jaehaerys I Targaryen and Queen Alysanne Targaryen. Viserra was the most beautiful of Queen Alysanne Targaryen's daughters. She had deep purple eyes and silver-gold hair, flawless white skin, and fine features. serra was a vain girl. Once, when a young squire called her a goddess, she simply agreed with him. The attention of great lords, famous knights, and callow boys fed her vanity until it "became a raging fire". Viserra delighted in playing one boy off against another and setting them on foolish quests or having them perform contests. According to Alysanne, Viserra desired to become a queen, and therefore aimed to marry her brother Baelon, not for love but for ambition. Viserra then turned to Baelon, hoping for him to rescue her according to court gossip. One night, she slipped past Baelon's guards and climbed naked into his bed. Jaeherys Era.

Lady Alarra Stark: Alarra Stark was the daughter of Lord Alaric Stark and his wife from House Mormont. According to her father, Lord Alaric Stark, Alarra was "as sweet to look upon as any southron lady. Despite her father's initial dislike for Queen Alysanne, Alarra had been kind and gentle to the queen, often reminding the Queen of her own daughters. Alarra did became aware of the affair of her father and the queen but kept the secret. When Queen Alysanne Targaryen visited Winterfell in 58 AC, Alarra and Alysanne became particularly close. Near the end of 58 AC, Alarra came to King's Landing with her two brothers to attend the tourney celebrating the tenth anniversary of King Jaehaerys I Targaryen's coronation. At this time, Alarra also became a lady-in-waiting to the Queen. Jaeherys Era.

Lady Megga Tyrell: is a member of a junior branch of House Tyrell. She is the granddaughter of Ser Quentin Tyrell, a cousin of Mace Tyrell, the Lord of Highgarden, and is the only daughter of Ser Olymer Tyrell and his wife, Lysa Meadows. Megga has two older brothers: Raymund and Rickard Tyrell. Megga likes to play kissing games with boys and sometimes her cousins. While not a great singer, Megga plays the lyra and piano wonderfully. Megga is one of Queen Margaery Tyrell's ladies-in-waiting. Almost all of the men named as Margaery's lovers have denied the accusation or recanted, so she and her cousins, including Megga, are handed over by the High Septon to the custody of Lord Randyll Tarly. Tarly swears a holy oath to return them for their trial. Song Era.

Sera Flowers: Sera tends to take things less seriously than Mira does, like casually playing with Margaery's seating plan for the Purple Wedding and stealing Queen Cersei's wine. Mira can confide in her, though Margaery seems to be in Sera's best interest rather than House Forrester's. Sera is revealed to be a bastard, she is Mance's bastard but the Tyrell covered that with the surname Durwell. She confesses that she is attracted to both Jaime Lannister and Oberyn Martell, and Mira has the option to agree, though she sounds unsure. Sera escaped before the cousins and Margaery ladies were taken and ran to the Reach, her biological father is unknown to everyone but Lady Olenna. Song Era.

King Stannis Baratheon: Stannis Baratheon was the younger brother of King Robert Baratheon and older brother of Renly Baratheon. On account of the revelation of Robert's supposed children's true parentage, Stannis declares himself the rightful king after Robert's death as his rightful heir, and begins a campaign to take the Iron Throne. After assassinating his younger brother Renly using bloodmagic, due to Renly also having claimed the throne despite being the youngest brother, Stannis almost succeeds in taking King's Landing at the Battle of the Blackwater, but is ultimately repelled by the armies of Tywin Lannister and House Tyrell. As his wars drag on, Stannis falls further and further under the sway of the red priestess Melisandre. After saving the Night's Watch from Mance Rayder's wildling army in the battle for the Wall, Stannis marches on Winterfell. Song Era.

Lady Shyra Errol: is the Lady of Haystack Hall and the head of House Errol, her unlike stormlander looks come from her father marrying a woman from the westerlands. Because of this, she sees no proof in the rumors regarding Princess Myrcella rumors, as she is a stormlander with unlike features, and golden hair. Lady Shyra supports Renly Baratheon during the War of the Five Kings. She has one son who she acts as Regent as well and after the death of Renly, she remains on the Stormlands. Currently, her castle is under the attack of the Golden Company. Song Era.

Lady Liane Vance: Liane Vance is a noblewoman of House Vance of Wayfarer's Rest. She is the eldest daughter of the heir of Wayfarer's Rest, Ser Karyl Vance. Liane's grandfather, Lord Vance, dies at the battle below the Golden Tooth. Ser Karyl Vance becomes the new Lord of Wayfarer's Rest, and Liane the heir of her house. Liane becomes a field nurse for everyone after the red wedding and travels to House Bracken and House Blackwood to tend to the injured, she is said to have magic in her as she carries a piece of weirwood tree in her, always. Song Era.

Laena Longwaters: Laena is the recognized bastard daughter of Thena Celtigar and Rennifer Longwaters, marking one of the few times Velaryon blood and Celtigar mix. Due to this, Laena has dragonrider blood as well access to the Celtigar cell with the secrets of Valyria and the keys of the long night as well the coming battle of the dawn. OC. Song Era.

Lord Kaento Qoehrys: The remains of House Qoehrys from Harrenhal, they had been in Lys and Volantis gathering their own forces and money and they are travelling with Prince Aegon and the Golden Company to reclaim Harrenhal as their ancestral home. Despite his refusal, his daughter would be travelling in the second command of the ships, however, she is delayed with the arrival of Queen Daenerys Targaryen in Lys. Kaento is known to be able to use a flaming sword and has stock of dragonglass. OC. Song Era.

Lady Merea Qoehrys: Daughter of Kaento. She wants to travel with her father in the Golden Company, which he promises he will send word once Aegon takes House Connington and a few Stormlanders Houses. When news arrives, it marks the arrival of Daenerys Targaryen to Lys and intrigued, Merea wants to talk to the woman, without her father's approval as she always had her doubts of Prince Aegon's real heritage. Merea only wishes for their family to return home. She takes kindly to sing some old Valyrian songs to Dany's dragons. OC. Song Era.

[daenystheedreamer]

2 & 3 for the asoiaf ask!

2 A minor (or extinct) house you need more lore on

HOUSE HOARE... we have the basics from TWOIAF but i love the evil vikings. also house durrandon. both of them and house gardener get basic "and after king legolas the legless it was king saruman the unsightly" like can we get some fun stuff pwease... also house fisher i want more riverlands lore. love u riverlands. speaking of riverlands house whent too i wanna now the tragedies they were marred by.

3 Favorite sigil/house words

for sigils a bunch cos i cant pick: house corbray and blackwood for the raven realness, toyne and staedmon beautiful hearts, house tarth stunning iconic gorgeous, house dondarrion and dayne cos i like purple. dorne has a bunch gargalen blackmont toland. drumm wynch saltcliffe iron islands slay... greyjoy is my favourite of the great houses i think... the black and gold with the kraken hello showstoppers. there's also this minor house, house hawthorne, which is: "A ring of black thorns and a ring of pink flowers, interlocked, on green" look it up its so good and for this minor house with no characters no mentions no nothing??? sorry i cant pick!!

for words. winter is coming iconic nothing can beat her. house swyft chicken house "awake awake" girl u dont need to commit to the bit so hard no one is laughing. come try me of house plumm okay frat boy. i always think its funny when they REALLY commit to a theme. house waxley of wickenden with candle sigil words "light in darkness". house beesbury of honeyholt with beehive sigil words "beware our sting". penrose of parchments quill sigil words "set down our deeds". this is just three there are so many...

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - Chapter 85: A Vow of Fire and Blood

Preview

“I have no influence,” Daenera interrupted him sharply, her voice trembling with bitterness and indignation. “I am powerless. The friends that I had won’t go near me in fear that any association with me might brand them traitors.” As they continued through the corridor, the flickering torches sputtering around them, Daenera’s mind turned to the faces of those she had once considered allies—friends, even. She recalled Trish Caswell’s averted gaze after her father had been hung, her eyes finding the floor or a sudden turn away whenever Daenera drew near—a clear sign of fear and caution she couldn’t blame her for. Lady Fell had suffered a harsher fate, thrown into the dungeons for her refusal to submit, alongside other defiant lords and ladies. Kaylys Merryweather had left the city to visit her mother, and Alan Beesbury had gone home to Honeyholt long before his grandsire’s death.  “I have no friends left, no allies, no influence,” Daenera’s voice broke through the silence of the hallway, tinged with a profound sense of isolation. “Too many of my men have been hanged. I am utterly trapped and alone. I have nothing…”

[star-girl69]

I Loved You Like the Sun

a/n: help!!!! what should i do abt baby visenya?? option one: she lives option two: she dies option three: i edit my previous chapters and remove her from the plot

it’s just a lot of characters to juggle and i already have plans for this fic and tbh… she would just get in the way IM SORRY. i’m leaning towards just pretending she never existed 😭

warnings: swearing, mentions of alcohol, violence, super long and boring speeches, mentions of death, tell me if i missed anything!!

Chapter Twenty One- Like You Mean It

—-

You have never wished more for Cannibal.

For the feel of his warm scales, his hot breath, he bright greens eyes boring into you. For his power, his majesty, his terrifying roars.

The king has not arrived, but you can feel the eyes of the Greens on you. You are the unknown variable, the wild card. They do not know you and you do not know them.

But the Hand’s eyes are the worst, you think. He digs into you, spiking through your skin, just enough to remind you he is there. Not outright threatening, but calculated, cold, observant.

Is he looking for a weakness, a low spot?

It is no secret that you have Daemon and Rhaenyra’s ear, that you are their treasure, their horde. And regardless of the dragon blood in you and the beast you ride, you weren’t raised to cultivate the fire in your blood. You were raised to tame it, to sweeten, to sweep away. To stick in people’s memory. You were a Honeyholt. That is how you were raised.

It would be wise for Otto to sway you to his plight, to convince you to whisper and Daemon and Rhaenyra’s ears. But your dragons know that truth as well. You are the weak spot.

They do not mean it in a cruel way, of course, it is just simply a fact. But the protection laden upon you- you do admit, it is nice to be the center of their attention again.

Finally, servants start to bring out the food.

Rhaenyra is silent next to you, only a place away from Alicent.

Before Rhaenyra had you, she had Alicent.

But Alicent had done cruel things to her- tension was thick in the air. You could tell Rhaenyra wanted to forgive her. But the scar on her arm stopped her, the memory of Alicent demanding Luke’s eye.

The tension eases, only slightly, when the door opens and Viserys is carried in on an ornate golden chair. You stand with the rest of the table, shoulder bumping with Daemon.

You sit again as he is placed down. The room is silent, all chatter ceased. Rhaenyra places a hand on your thigh, so much like her usual self now that Luke’s place is secure.

King Viserys let’s out a rasping breath.

“How good it is… to see you all tonight… together.” His voice is hoarse. He looks as he had every time you’ve seen him.

Like living is killing him.

“Prayer before we begin?” Alicent asks, and you look up from the empty plate before you.

“Yes,” Viserys rasps.

You do not know religious conventions. But, you do not want to cause ire, so your eyes flick around the room. Aemond, the boy with the eyepatch, keeps his hands out before him and his head bowed.

You copy him, hearing Daemon scoff. You close your eyes, no doubt he is not participating. you

“May the Mother smile down on this gathering with love. May the Smith mend the bonds that have been broken for so long. And to Vaemond Velaryon, may the Gods give him rest.”

You hear Daemon shift next to you, scoffing yet again.

“This is an occasion for celebration, it seems. My grandsons, Jace and Luke. Will marry their cousins, Baela and Rhaena.” The respective couples, each sitting next to each other, exchange small smiles.

Hope for them burns in your chest.

You shall even pray to the Seven, have Alicent herself teach you the ways, if it means they will be happy.

“A toast to the young Princes… and their betrothed.”

“Hear hear!” Daemon shouts, and the table lifts their glasses and drinks.

You see Aegon, the eldest Hightower, mumble something to Jace. But you are too far to hear. You see Baela shoot him a look, Jace set his glass on the table with perhaps more force than is necessary.

“Let us toast as well to Prince Lucerys… the future Lord of the Tides.”

“You’ll be great,” Rhaena assures him with a king smile, and he seems to relax. Everyone drinks, and you let out a pleased sigh of your own.

Mumbling rises throughout the table, Aegon, Baela and Jace keeping their voices just low enough.

But before your worry can grow, Viserys taps his cane onto the floor. He stands, with great effort, and you brace yourself for him to collapse. But, strenuously, he stands. The table is silent.

“It both… gladdens my heart and fills me with sorrow to see these faces around the table. The faces most fear to me in all the world… yet grown so distant from each other… in the years past.”

He sighs, dropping his head. You feel Rhaenyra’s fingers dig into your knee, although not painfully. She stiffens when she realizes what she had done, pulling back. It is the first time she has touched you so casually in days, and you would rather she hurt you then leave you yearning for her.

The table holds in a breath when Viserys takes off his golden mask, the one covering half of his face. You have heard only rumors. You do not know what lies in wait.

He straightens, and turns to you.

It is skeletal. A gaping hole, filled of mutualistes flesh. He looks as if he is already dead. You bite back repulsion in your stomach, imagine his pain.

“My own face… is no longer a handsome one… if indeed it ever was. But tonight… I wish you to see me… as I am. Not just a king, but your father. Your brother. Your husband. Your good-brother… and your grandsire. Who may not, it seems… walk for much longer among you.”

He throws the mask to the table, the heavy gold clanking against the wood.

“Let us no longer hold ill feelings in our hearts. The crown cannot stand strong if the House of the Dragon remains divided. But set aside your grievances.” He bangs his fist on the table, chest heaving, breaths fast. “If not for the sake of the crown… then for the sake of this old man who loves you all so dearly.”

He sits, again with great effort, but Alicent attempts to placate him with a soothing hand, helping him to fix his golden mask. Something so beautiful, to hide unpleasantness beneath.

Suddenly, Rhaenyra stands with her glass raised.

You look up, expectant, hopeful, desperate for a glance of the woman you fell in love with.

“I wish to raise my cup to Her Grace, the Queen. I love my father. But I must admit that no one has stood… more loyally by his side than his good wife. She has tended to him with… unfailing devotion, love, and honor. And for that, she has my gratitude… and my apology.”

Alicent stares off into the distance for a moment, swallowing heavily. You think you see the sheen of tears in her eyes, but she hides it just as quick as they appeared.

“Your graciousness moves me deeply, Princess.” They share a tense glance, and you feel something within you. Something ugly. “We are both mothers… and we love our children. We have more in common than we sometimes allow.”

I am a mother, you want to scream, I love my children. This past, these secrets and intimacy they have hurt you. Rhaenyra does not talk about Alicent, about her mother. So you do not know. But Daemon knows, because he was there. You are alone in this marriage, in only some ways, an outsider to memories you will never hold.

The Queen stands, but you cannot look at her. “I raise my cup to you and to your house.” You hear the room quiet, imagine her breaths heavy in her chest. “You will make a fine queen.” She inhales deeply before you hear her sit.

Everyone grabs their glass, and you do as well. You raise it to your lips. You let the liquid rest against you, but you cannot find it in yourself to swallow it.

You look down to your hands, hear conversation and movement. You take a few moments to breathe, to stifle your foolish jealousy.

Until Jace slams his hands onto the table, standing.

He meets your eyes, and you see the anger, the fire, rife within him.

“J-”

But Aemond stands, and his haloed blonde hair draws you to silence.

Jace grabs his glass, clenches his jaw and softly hits Aegon, as if they were friends. He inhales deeply, raising his glass.

“To Prince Aegon and Prince Aemond. We have not seen each other in years. But I have fond memories of our shared youth. And as men, I hope we may yet be friends and allies. To you and your family’s good health, dear uncles.” He sips, and you do as well, eyeing the brown-headed boy wearily.

“To you as well,” Aegon says, but his voice is forced.

Aemond looks around before sitting, and it is Helaena’s turn to stand.

You sigh, inwardly, sick of speeches.

“I would like to toast to Baela and Rhaena. They’ll be married soon. It isn’t so bad. Mostly he just ignores you… except sometimes when he’s drunk.” Daemon laughs, and your heart twists. You scold him with a look, and he mumbles something before his smile drops.

It reminds you all too well of your time with your first husband.

“Let us have some music,” Viserys proclaims, and you almost rejoice.

You take another sip of your drink, until Jace’s voice brings you out of your reverie- memories of Lord Chamber’s plaguing you.

“Excuse me,” he says to Baela, before standing and walking over to Helaena. He extends his arm, and she looks shocked.

But soon they are jumping across the floor, dancing and twirling. You do not know Helaena, but you think her smile is genuine.

“I…” Viserys starts, turning to your end of the table. “I suppose there is a new member of our family I must meet. Properly.” His eyes fix on you. “Lady Y/N.”

“Oh, Your Grace, I- you are most kind.”

Rhaenyra grabs your hand, softly, tenderly, and turns towards her father.

“We love her,” she says, simply. As if it is a fact, something as simple as gravity.

You feel your cheeks heat, and Daemon’s presence against your back.

“Yes. She’s lovely, the best mother to our children.”

Viserys nods, looking over the three of you with his eyes.

“I wish you much happiness, you three. I hope you can find a bit of what I have found with my wif-wives.”

Rhaenyra laughs at a joke Daemon makes, and you let yourself forget about the past and focus on the present. You let Alicent fade to the back of your mind, and laugh with her.

“You seem much happier,” you tell her, “I’m glad.”

“I know,” she sighs, “I’m sorry for being such a… well, you know. The stress, my father, I…”

“You should have come to us,” Daemon whispers. You nod, lean forward to grab Rhaenyra’s hand.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to burden you. I felt like I was sinking beneath the waves with the thought of what we might lose if I was not the queen. I couldn’t risk… I couldn’t live with myself if you or the children were hurt.” When she smiles, it is wobbly.

“I think we would much rather drown with you, yeah?” You say, and Daemon nods and agreement. He reaches forward, kisses his wife’s hand.

“What would I do without my handsome husband and my pretty wife?”

The three of you laugh, and the evening falls into joy.

This moment, this precious evening, feels like something precarious. Like tightroping over a spider web. Stitching pieces of glass together. It is beautiful, you think, and you never want it to end.

But it starts to crack when Viserys is lead off my by guards, groaning in pain.

The music steps and everyone stands as he is lead off, as the servants carry in a tray of pig.

You think the evening might continue on, smiling as Daemon insists you must kiss the wine out of his mouth, that it’s the best in these seven forsaken kingdoms.

Until Aemond slams his fist onto the table. You flinch, and you can feel Daemon’s mood immediately sour. You imagine him thinking, who is this boy to scare my wife? But don’t let the smile show on your face.

Aemond raises his glass.

“Final tribute. To the health of my nephews; Jace… Luke… and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise…” The room tenses as he pauses, Aemond working his jaw.

Do not say it, you think, bidding a fight not to start.

You know who the boy’s true father is. Rhaenyra told you in confidence, and you will take that truth to your grave. To question otherwise is… treason.

Your consider praying as Aemond opens his lips.

“Strong.”

“Aemond.” Alicent says, immediately. But he only turns to Jace and Helaena, still out on the open floor.

“Let us drain our cups to these three… Strong boys.”

“I dare you to say that again.” Jace tilts his jaw up, and you fix your skirts, ready to stand.

“Why? ‘Twas only a compliment. Do you not think yourself Strong?” The two stride forward, but instead of an answer, Aemond is met with a fist.

“Jace!” Luke shouts, standing up to help his brother, but Aegon slams him headfirst into the table.

You hear various screaming, but you are too wrapped up in instinct. You did not make these children, you did not make their fingers and toes, their hearts and brains. But you are their mother, and you are shaping them into the person they will be. That is equally important. That is what matters.

You gasp, evading Daemon’s hands, running towards Aegon and Luke. You stand next to them, hands out as if you wish to push the prince away. He looks at you, and eyebrow raised.

“Let him go!” You shout, not wished to be charged with treason today.

You hear the sound of a body hitting the floor, different from when Vaemond fell, and you turn around. Jace is getting to his knees, held back by a guard.

Aegon releases Luke, and you attempt to stop him as he reels to attack Aegon, but a guard runs forward to stop him. You see Rhaena holding Baela back, Alicent scolding Aemond.

“Though it seems my nephews are quite as proud of theirs.” Aemond suddenly raises his voice, and you do not know where your confidence comes from.

“You antagonized them! Do not play dumb, my prince. It does not suit you,” you hiss, imagining a snake drops from your lips and slithers over to bite him.

“But does it suit you, my Lady Chambers?” You gasp, fall back. It hurts more than you thought it would.

“Shut up!” Jace roars, breaking free from his captor and running at Aemond.

“Hey! Hey!” Daemon shouts, holding up a hand to stop Jace.

Rhaenyra grabs your arm, whispering into your ear.

But you do not hear her. You are rooted in place. Your eyes shut, filled with tears. You finally realize what Rhaenyra is saying.

“My love, my love, my love,” over and over, like a prayer, like a hymn. You wonder if Alicent would be proud.

“I- I am not that woman anymore-” You say, to no one and everyone.

“I know, I know. He does not know you. He does not know us. Don’t listen to him, my love, Y/N, don’t let him get into your head.” She presses a kiss to your temple. “Go to your quarters. All of you, know.”

“But-” You hear Luke starts.

“Your mother will be fine,” Rhaenyra says, and you hear footsteps fade.

You see Aemond walk off as well, after your tears and shock calm. You hadn’t been called that name in years. It was like someone had ripped out your heart. Reminded you of times you had blocked out, replaced with new memories.

You had ripped up that garden, replanted new seeds. You were a different flower, a different crop. No remnant of that past in your soil.

“Rhaenyra.” Alicent says, and you flinch at the emotion she pours into it.

“Come here,” Daemon says, and you latch onto his arm, throwing a look over your shoulder at Rhaenyra. Alicent walks close, and grab’s Rhaenyra’s arm. Your tears only fall all the much faster.

—-

Rhaenyra holds you in the quiet unfamiliar rooms. Daemon is elsewhere, finalizing plans for your departure.

“He does not know you,” she whispers, again. An echo.

“I know. It hurts the same.”

“Do not let it.” She noses into your hair, murmuring again. “My sweet girl, I’m so sorry.”

“You did not say it,” your assure her, but she only pulls you tighter to her. Your head on her chest, sure heartbeat beneath you. You want to fade into her, into the rhythm of her heart.

“When we get back to Dragonstone, I’ll buy you something pretty. Whatever you want. And I’ll get out of my duties, and we’ll fly. Syrax and I, you and Cannibal, Daemon on Caraxes. We can race, dance in the clouds.”

“I would love nothing more, Nyra.” You yawn, feel sleep come for you as quickly as Jace’s fists had to Aemond.

“You are our treasure.” She whispers, and you fade into her.

—-

In the darkness, through layers of cobweb and the thick smell of milk of the poppy; if you listen close enough, you can hear a man whisper. He says, “my love” with enough pain in his voice to make the stars cry. He does not speak again.

—-

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[writingsofwesteros]

I like the courtesan thought for her tbh! She may have been married off to Lord Beesbury, but that doesn't mean she forgot how she was living before. Maybe she has a special talent, like she's a VERY good singer and dancer? What if she was kinda like Saera Targaryen in a way, only instead of being a brothel whore she was more of an entertainment. That's what catches both the boys' respective attentions. Her Lord husband doesn't care much because, to him, she simply sings and dances with sensuality, men don't touch her, and if she doesn't feel shame in getting gifts and riches from men both high and low born in exchange for seeing her perform then that's her business, as long as its in KL and not Honeyholt he doesn't giva a fuck. That's what he thinks anyway, there are 2 men that she does in fact let do whatever they'd like to her after performing and shooing her other dancers/musicians out of the room oops.

Oh you know she has the most jewels ; and sometimes dances for her hands in only those sparkling gems .

THIS