#honeywine

[crftbeers]

Have tried #mead? @artivemmead #newatcrft #artivemmead #wamead #crftbeers #honeywine #auburnwa #bottleshop (at CRFT BEERS) https://www.instagram.com/p/CnVK6Z2ybNL/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[daeron-targs]

We had another reference to Daeron in episode 3!

I think Gwayne saying that Daeron enjoys a good battle is a subtle reference to him being a squire and training to be a knight by Hobert and Ormund (after Hobert dies). He's most likely grown up sparring with other people his age so he probably views battle as something completely different than the battles that other characters are going to/have experienced.

Now, I couldn't quite catch Alicent's line, but I think it will further serve as an excuse as to why Daeron's not in this season. He's young and relatively inexperienced, probably only 14 based on the timeline of the show, and Tessarion isn't fighting size yet (Ryan Condal has stated that he hasn't ridden her yet). The last thing she would want for him is to be sent into a situation where he could be hurt or even killed.

This next part is a bit more speculative since we don't know anything about season 3 yet, but I still think it could be interesting:

I think it would set up his entrance during the Battle of the Honeywine. Ormund doesn't want Daeron involved for the same reasons as Alicent's, but Daeron knows that the Hightower host is under attack and decides to join. This would be the moment that he mounts Tessarion for the first time and goes to save the day, earning his knigthood and being dubbed "The Daring".

[stromuprisahat]

A fortnight later, in the Reach, Ormund Hightower found himself caught between two armies. ... Defeat seemed imminent … until a shadow swept across the battlefield, and a terrible roar resounded overhead, slicing through the sound of steel on steel. A dragon had come. The dragon was Tessarion, the Blue Queen, cobalt and copper. On her back rode the youngest of Queen Alicent’s three sons, Daeron Targaryen, fifteen, Lord Ormund’s squire, that same gentle and soft-spoken lad who had once been milk brother to Prince Jacaerys. The arrival of Prince Daeron and his dragon reversed the tide of battle. ... As wolves and ravens fed upon the bodies of the slain, Lord Hightower feasted Prince Daeron on aurochs and strongwine, and dubbed him a knight with the storied Valryian longsword Vigilance, naming him “Ser Daeron the Daring”. The prince modestly replied, “My lord is kind to say so, but the victory belongs to Tessarion.”

Fire and Blood & The Princess and the Queen (George R. R. Martin)

[sacrosanctifiied]

Weird spooky Hylian dress up holiday? Sweet.

I'm dressing up as done with Hylian nonsense, suffer my apparent nakedness.

[imaginarianisms]

this is a v slight change from the books & the show but r.haenyra Has fought during the fall of king's landing on syrax against archers.

[spider-stark]

A CONVERSATION BETWEEN OLD FRIENDS

Gwayne Hightower x Septa!Reader

Summary - Devotion will never be enough to make the Gods forgive you for the sin of your existence. They will keep finding new ways to punish you.

Warnings - fem!reader, bastard!reader, septa!reader, mostly edited, heavy religious themes & guilt, angst, yearning, *slightly* ooc gwayne but mostly cause he's drunk and bitter lmao

Word Count - 1.3k

!MINORS DNI!

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

Dark obsidian walls glisten like the night sky as you enter the Starry Sept from the motherhouse. Towering statues stand sentinel around the round-altar, carved in the likeness of the Seven. Forever repenting for the sin of your existence, you often acknowledge them as you draw close—with a nod, a prayer, an offering. 

But not tonight. 

Even with his forehead pressed to the altar, you recognize Gwayne by his tawny hair, shimmering like bronze in the candlelight. His tunic is wrinkled, half-untucked from his trousers. The sharp scent of alcohol burns your nose, strong enough to smell it from across the Sept.

For a moment, a smile touches your lips. You think of lost nights spent by the Honeywine river. Skipping rocks on the water and drinking from a bottle of arbor gold, snagged from his uncle's cellar.

But nostalgia is all too fleeting, soon replaced by deep worry for an old friend. 

Cavernous and austere, the Sept echoes your every footfall. Consumed by a drunken haze, Gwayne remains oblivious to your presence, even as you sink to your knees beside him. 

It’s only when you speak that he looks up. 

“I’m reminded of a verse from The Warrior’s Edicts.” Armed with sword and helm, the God's stony eyes seem to peer down as you recite His wisdom: “Drink muddles the sensible mind. ‘Tis the duty of knights to remain sober-minded, to pave a path of rectitude so that all men might follow.” 

Gwayne’s voice is unusually hoarse, wavering slightly as he tells you, “You won’t find a sober knight in all of the Seven Kingdoms.” 

“Perhaps that’s why there are so many indecent men,” you turn your head to him with a soft smile, “because none are willing to pave a better way.” 

Altar candles flicker, bathing his features in dim warmth. You note the faint stubble along his jaw, the dull shine of sapphire eyes. When was the last time you sat this close? It feels like a lifetime ago, now. 

He swallows, looks down at his lap. “How did you know I was here?” 

“Septon Halleck saw you come in,” you tell him. “Thought you looked in need of a friend.” 

In the years since swearing your vows to the Faith, the aging Septon was your only blessing. Between services, he spins tales about his life before coming to Oldtown—of a youth spent north of the Neck, about a pale castle surrounded by frigid waters. 

You tell Halleck stories about your life, too. He pretends not to notice that Gwayne Hightower is at the center of them all. 

Softly, you tease, “Though if he had known you were drunk, he might’ve sooner tossed you onto the streets.” 

Gwayne scoffs. Starts fiddling with his fingers, picking at them. “If the Septon’s life was half as grueling,” he grumbles, “then he would understand my need for a drink.” 

“And what’s so grueling about the life of a trueborn son?” 

It’s not meant as a slight, though a certain bitterness seeps through. 

Raised in the shadow of trueborn siblings, you know well of the luxuries they’re afforded. Watched as your sisters were swathed in silk and coddled with gold, freely given all which you were made to claw for. 

You recall a quote on envy that Halleck recited during your novice years, when your blood still ran thick with resentment: He who sits at the head of the table will still covet crumbs off a beggar’s plate.

But what if you’re the beggar? If the Gods gave you nothing but crumbs. Would envy still be a sin? Or a sign of injustice. 

Gwayne shakes his head. Mutters under his breath, “You’ve never understood.” 

“Understood what?” 

“What it’s like to be shackled by your father’s name,” he answers, frustrated. 

His thoughtlessness is a fist around your heart, squeezed tight. 

If he was sober, he would apologize. If he was sober, he wouldn’t be here at all. 

You suck in a calming breath, interlacing your fingers and resting your elbows upon the altar. Heat from the flames caresses your forearms as you utter a wordless prayer to the Warrior, asking Him to keep your voice from wavering. 

“You’re right. I don’t understand.” Images flash in your mind. The hazy face of a father who didn’t want you. You clear your throat, say, “But I know it is to be nameless, and I can’t imagine the shackles of a noble-name hurt any worse.” 

“Better to be nameless and free,” he says, “than noble and in chains.” 

You fight the urge to laugh, instead citing a relevant phrase from The Book of Reflections. “Those bound in chains oft discover they were forged by thine own hands.” Gwayne’s head tips back, groaning. Your lips briefly twitch. “It’s not your fate to be nameless,” you tell him. “But, even if it were, the shackles are of your own making—you would bear them all the same.” 

Drunkenness exaggerates his expression. Pulls his brows together, tugs his wine-stained bottom lip into a deep frown. “If I had known you were just going to quote scripture at me,” his words slur slightly, “then I wouldn’t have come.” 

You don’t let yourself wonder at the implication there. That maybe he had come to see you. 

“Why come to a Sept if not to receive wisdom from the Gods?” You ask. 

Gwayne’s stare shifts upwards, settles on the scales of justice clutch in the Father’s stone fist. Sapphire eyes begin to blaze like searing flames. “For forgiveness,” he answers slowly, without inflection. 

Hesitant, you ask, “So that’s why you’re here tonight? To ask the Gods for their forgiveness?” 

His head shakes. His fingers never still, never stop tearing at his cuticles. 

He holds the Father’s stare and, with a voice like death, says, “I’m here so they can beg for mine.” 

The pressure in your chest grows tighter, his words resonating with a part of yourself long since buried by the Faith. The angry, bitter part of you—the nameless, the beggar, the bastard. 

Instinct tightens your fingers, still interlocked. You look to those stone Gods. Feel an old weight settle on your shoulders as they look back. 

Strained, you ask, “For what reason?” 

Gwayne doesn’t answer. Asks his own question, instead. “Why did you join the Faith?” 

You think of the Honeywine. Of the last time you sat this close. 

Of a boy born with such honor, cherished by his Gods. 

Of a girl born with such shame, scorned by them. 

You think of the Faith. Of the passage that led you away from his side. 

A Bastard's life is a testament to the reach of sin. 

Tainted and tarnished, all they touch will come to rot. 

Tears sting the back of your throat. Unsure of a better answer, you tell him, “Because we all bear our own shackles.” 

As if comparing wounds, Gwayne offers up his own answer, too. “There was a feast tonight,” he tells you. “My father announced that I am to be wed.” 

There’s such hollow silence. Obsidian walls wrap around you. Starlight burns your skin. 

“To who?” 

Something tells you that you won’t like his answer. A soundless voice, a whisper on a phantom wind. 

Quietly, voice wavering, he tells you, “One of Lord Mullendore’s daughters.” 

A stone drops in your stomach. 

“Lord Mullendore…” Your mind begins to reel. Images flash. A hazy face. Silk and gold and clawing clawing clawing. “One of his daughters…” 

All at once, the air is sucked from the room. As if oxygen is yet another thing denied to you in the name of repentance. As if all your devotion still isn’t enough to purge the rot from your existence. 

Both soft and resentful, he murmurs, “She has your eyes…” 

You keep your fingers interlocked. Gwayne picks his bloody. The Gods watch. 

The path of devotion is fraught with pain. But fear not! Trials endured in Faith shall always be rewarded with Light. The Seven are just. The Seven are wise. The Seven are merciful.

a/n - Honestly, I just wanted to explore the internal conflict that might come from a bastard going the Faith of the Seven considering that, while they're welcome to become Septons/Septas, they're still viewed as being sinful and treacherous by nature. Additionally, the idea of a bastard being so in love with a pious, honorable man that she turns to his religion just feeds something inside of me?? like, her turning to scripture to communicate with him?? him beginning to resent the gods that 'cherish' him?? neither of them ever getting what they want??

anyways--all thoughts/opinions/feedback are welcome and very very appreciated!

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Cannibals [Chapter 5: Sapphires and Cinnamon]

Series summary: You are his sister, his lover, his betrothed despite everyone else’s protests; you have always belonged to Aemond and believe you always will. But on the night he returns from Storm’s End with horrifying news, the trajectories of your lives are irrevocably changed. Will the war of succession make your bond permanent, or destroy the twisted and fanatical love you share?

Chapter warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), references to war-related violence, Targ chaos terrorizes poor innocent House Corbray, Red and Jace have a lovers' quarrel, interesting news arrives from the Riverlands, bats!!!

Word count: 7.4k

💙 All my writing can be found HERE! ❤️

Tagging: @themoonofthesun @chattylurker @moonfllowerr @ecstaticactus @mrs-starkgaryen, more in comments 🥰

🦇 Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🦇

Like game pieces on a board, he moves the coins he’s using as tokens around the ink-and-parchment Westeros that is rolled open across the table. He’s been underwater for weeks, but now he can breathe again. Aegon is starting to heal, through the worst of the danger and unlikely to die, and he has been tucked away someplace no enemy will find him: an unassuming farm in the countryside surrounding Rook’s Rest, under the protection of the knights of his Kingsguard and tended to by requisitioned maesters. Criston’s infantrymen and cavalry have rested and healed and reorganized to fill the gaps in their ranks following the battles to subdue the turncoat houses of the Crownlands. Yesterday, Aemond rode Vhagar to the stone gates of Claw Isle and accepted a tremulous, tearful surrender from Bartimos Celtigar’s lady wife, in whose care the castle was left. Rhaenyra will receive no further gold from the region, and she will find the treasury of King’s Landing empty, the wealth once stored there split and hidden at Tyland Lannister’s suggestion in Braavos, Casterly Rock, and Oldtown. She will try to tax the smallfolk to fund her war effort, and they will rise up and murder her. That, at least, is Aemond’s hope.

Criston walks into the room. He’s just come from the rookery, where ravens arrive carrying news from Green spies and allies throughout the Seven Kingdoms: the Triarchy will send ships to combat the Sea Snake’s fleet; the Hightower army in the Reach has won battles at the Honeywine, Tumbleton, and Bitterbridge; the Lannister army in the Riverlands triumphed at the Red Fork and Acorn Hall; Cregan Stark is marching south from Winterfell with ten thousand men to fight for Rhaenyra, and they will need to be dealt with.

This will all be over soon, and I can go home. Home to my family, home to her.

“Daemon is restless,” Aemond says, repositioning his coins. “He will tire of enduring Rhaenyra’s orders in the capital, and he will fly elsewhere on Caraxes. He yearns for battle, I know him. A hero’s glory, perhaps even a hero’s death. When he leaves King’s Landing, I will go there on Vhagar and kill Syrax, Vermax, and this new dragon Sheepstealer. I will retake the capital and then leave Daeron as its protector in my stead while I hunt Daemon. Daeron has proven himself in the Reach. He’s growing up.”

Faintly, fondly, Aemond smiles. But Criston appears stricken.

“Bad news,” Aemond says for him. “From where?”

“The Red Keep.”

“Mother?” He fears that Rhaenyra will have her executed like Grandsire, though this would be a grievous mistake. The people love the queen dowager, who has lived among them nearly all her life and selflessly nursed King Viserys while Rhaenyra seduced her uncle, plotted Laenor Velaryon’s death, and secluded herself and her vile nest of bastards and villains on Dragonstone.

Criston is hesitant to begin. Perhaps he isn’t sure if Aemond should know this. “No, your mother and Helaena are still held in the dungeon, captive but in relative safety. Jaehaera and Maelor are wards of Rhaenyra. I would assume she’s trying to win their affection and then arrange politically advantageous betrothals.”

There has been a name left out. Aemond stares up from his map, waiting.

“She’s been taken out of the city,” Criston says.

An impossibility, an irrationality. “What?”

“I don’t know where to, or for what purpose. But she’s not in King’s Landing.”

Aemond says nothing for long, cold, grey minutes. The sky outside beckons in the coming winter like a nefarious houseguest, one who shares your dinner table and then slits your throat while you’re asleep. When he finally speaks, his voice is low but fierce. “She’s no threat to them.”

“She isn’t.”

“She can’t travel by dragon.”

“No,” Criston agrees. “So they must have transported her by land or sea.”

Aemond shakes his head. “Why would Rhaenyra do that?”

Criston’s dark eyes are afraid. “I don’t know.”

“Where might they have sent her? Where could she be?”

“Anywhere, Aemond,” Criston says helplessly. “Anywhere.”

And it rises in him like magma through the earth: a scorching venom that pools in the capillary beds of his lungs, a fatal heat that burns away flesh and bones and reason.

~~~~~~~~~~

Rain falls from the sky, sea spray erupts from the waves, stinging eyes and the abrasions on your skin from falling on the rocks over and over again. You are a child, and you are tracking Vermithor on Dragonstone. The mist is so thick that Criston and the guards have lost sight of you, and you can hear them shouting for you to wait for them, but you can’t, you can’t, you’ve wanted this for years and now it’s about to happen. You can feel the volcanic stones, black and serrated, quaking as the Bronze Fury stomps in his hovel. The cave is shrouded in fog, but you know he’s in there. He is growling, a sound like thunder. You can see the glinting gold of his eyes.

“Vermithor!”you command him in High Valyrian, holding out your hands, your maroon gown billowing around you in the vicious wind. Strands of long silver hair are torn from your braid. Blood runs in thin rivulets from your ravaged palms down your wrists and forearms. Saltwater burns like fire in the gashes on your feet; you’ve lost your shoes while scrambling over the rocks. “All my life I’ve dreamed of you, and now we will fly together at last. We will be bonded to one another until death. We will preserve the realm and burn our enemies. Serve me, Vermithor! Serve me!”

He emerges from his cave: a colossal skull covered in scales and spines, steam rising from his nostrils, jagged fangs bared, eyes that are at once reptilian and mindless and wrathful and sage. He is a century old and unfathomably mighty; he is an inheritor of the sacred magic of Old Valyria. He judges you with eyes like kindling flames.

“Red, step back!” Aemond yells from where he watches, his black cloak like a banner in the wind, closed at the neck with a silver chain and with a constellation of silver buttons in the shape of Vhagar’s wings across his shoulders. He is the only person who has kept pace with you. “Give him room! Let him approach you!”

But Vermithor is yours, there is no other possibility, in your heart he has always been yours, he has been the beast you claimed in your soul when you first heard his legends as Aemond read them aloud to you, Aegon, Helaena, Daeron under the heart tree in the Godswood of the Red Keep, and now you will climb onto his back and fly with him and meet Aemond and Vhagar in the mist-grey sky. From deep in his throat, the Bronze Fury snarls.

“Vermithor, be calm! Don’t you recognize me? We are meant for each other. We belong to each other. The dragon egg I was given in the cradle didn’t hatch so I could come here and find you instead. I am not afraid of you. I will not flee from you. Serve me! Serve me!”

“It’s not working,” Aemond tells you with dawning horror. “Get away from him! Red, get away!”

“Serve me, Vermithor!” you scream, and now you’re terrified, because his jaws are opening and dragonfire is boiling up into his mouth, crimson and glowing. “No, no!”

You try to run but the heat is already everywhere, and the air is suddenly too hot to breathe, and when you touch your face with your bloody hands you can feel your cheeks blistering. And then something collides with you like a lance striking a jousting knight, and you are thrown to the ground. It’s Aemond, and he is shoving you down into a crevice between two slabs of black basalt, and when instinctively you try to push him away—you’re always fighting him, something wild to be tamed—Aemond pins your wrists to your chest and shields your body with his, shrinking from the lethal heat of the world outside and burying his face in the velvet of your gown.

Then Criston and the guards and the Dragonkeepers are here, and with their ancient spells the Dragonkeepers convince Vermithor to retreat into his cave. When Aemond helps you out of the crevice, you see that the buttons on the back of his cloak have melted, and if the attack had lasted even a moment longer he’d be dead.

~~~~~~~~~~

When you wake in your bedchamber at the top of a tower of Heart’s Home, Jace is already gone. You peer through the window and see him strolling in the castle courtyard with Lord Leowyn Corbray, both of them bundled up in heavy furs; there is a layer of powdery snow on the ground, just as high as the ankles. The pine trees of the surrounding forest sway in the cold mountain wind. Servants lead horses in and out of the stable. And you wonder randomly: Do they have bats in the Vale?

Maids hear you walking around and file into the room to show you the clothes your closet has been stocked with through House Corbray’s generosity and help you dress. They try to distract you, but you notice anyway: one of them strips the bed and takes the sheets away, blotted with a watery, pale pink stain of blood. You’re sore, but not terribly so, just enough pain to remind you—when you move in certain ways—that you are wed to Jace, and that he took you last night as any husband would, and that now you could be carrying his dark-haired heir. The thought stuns you; you’ve never been more than ambivalent to the prospect of bearing children. Your dreams were of Vermithor, and marrying Aemond, and being possessed by him in every sense possible. Motherhood would come later, and you had always assumed you would one day begin to dream of that too.

Do I dream of it now?

No, you feel in your bones. Not now. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

The colors of the Vale are chilly and weak like the sky. The maids show you velvet gowns of dusky rose, icy blue, moss green, dove grey. After some consideration, you choose the blue. Then you wander the castle, your drafty stone prison, your new home. There are no tapestries of the Hightower or wrathful dragons or lovers ensnared like knotted threads, no familiar faces. Heart’s Home is austere, its primary embellishments being candlelit chandeliers and rugs made from dead animals, and the loudest sound you hear is the whistling of wind through cracks in the walls, frigid air that howls in from the Mountains of the Moon.

After much exploration you find the rookery, where ravens squawk in their cages and bed down in mounds of straw, and through the window is a view of snowcapped mountains that stretch on endlessly like a sea. There is no table to write on, and you see no parchment or ink or quills, and you don’t know which raven (if any of them) is trained to fly to Rook’s Rest. It doesn’t matter; you can’t write to Aemond without endangering your family held hostage in King’s Landing. And even if you could, what would you say to him?

Aemond, I’ve married Jace and I did it to save you. But don’t fear for my safety. I am protected here, I am content enough. I have no dragon, but I can help fight the war in my own way. Jace seems to like me. I might even be beginning to like him too.

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” someone says, and you whirl to see Lord Corbray’s wife filling up the doorway.

You do not bow or curtsey. As a princess, you outrank her. “Lady Caroline.” No. Not quite. “Lady Carolyn. Lady Carolina.” Then you remember. “I am so sorry, Lady Carolei. Forgive me.”

She laughs boisterously. “Carolei is a common name in the Vale, but not elsewhere, I’ve been told. My closest friends here call me Lady Caro, you can feel welcome to do the same.”

“Lady Caro. Please allow me to apologize again.”

“Oh no, that won’t be necessary. I’m sure you had a late night.” Her eyes—large and round, almost bulging, and a very pale blue—sweep from your feet to your face. “But you didn’t have too bad of a time with it, I think.”

“The maids took the sheets,” you say like an accusation.

She smiles, perhaps a little guiltily. “As High As Honor,” she replies. “They are the words of House Arryn, but all the great families of the Vale aspire to be above reproach.”

“And you are a great family.” It’s more of a question.

“We are not grand or wealthy, that’s true,” Lady Caro concedes. “And I can imagine our little castle cannot compare to King’s Landing or the Hightower of your Mother’s house. But we are dependable and honest. What Queen Rhaenyra has entrusted us with is a tremendous privilege. We will abide by her instructions, and endeavor to satisfy her every request.”

“So she wanted to know that I bled.”

Lady Caro shrugs—I can’t tell you that—and then signals for you to follow her. “Join me in the Great Hall. We’ll have some cinnamon tea.”

The Great Hall of Heart’s Home is about the same size as your bedchamber in the Red Keep, with two rows of wooden tables and a crackling fire in the hearth. When you look into the glowing embers, you are reminded of Vermithor’s flames. Cool overcast light falls like snow in through the windows. Lady Caro gestures for you to sit with her at the table closest to the fire, and maids bring you fried eggs and bacon, fresh bread, butter, blackberry jam, and cinnamon tea, milky and aromatic and very sweet.

“It must be difficult for you,” Lady Caro says thoughtfully as she slurps her tea, steam wafting into the air. “Being so very far from your family. Even if they are traitors.”

She seems to be testing you for a reaction. You gaze into your tea and try not to let tears well up in your eyes as you think of them: Mother and Helaena in a dungeon, Jaehaera and Maelor with strangers, Jaehaerys and Grandsire dead, Daeron at war, Aegon burned, Aemond hating me once he learns of my betrayal. None of us are in the same place. That’s not how it’s supposed to be. “But you must be far from home too. Women get married off and sent across the world, it’s nothing new.”

“This is true,” Lady Caro muses. “I am originally of House Coldwater, and if you think Heart’s Home is plain and remote, I hope you never see Coldwater Burn. You’ve probably never even heard of it.”

“It’s up near the Fingers,” you say softly, remembering Aemond showing you dots littering the Vale on one of his maps, warm firelight, teasing hands, his lips murmuring against the shell of your ear. “The colors of its banner are blue, red, and white.”

She gasps and presses a palm to her chest, delighted. Her already ruddy cheeks flush pinker. “Mother have mercy, they teach that in the capital?”

“I have an interest in geography.” No, you don’t; but Aemond does.

“Do you embroider or sing?”

“Neither. Not well, anyway. Helaena works miracles with a needle and thread.” Absently, you touch your gown where beneath the pale blue velvet a scar runs from your left collarbone down to the top of your breast. So does Aemond.

Lady Caro observes this curiously, peering at you over the rim of her mug. “How did you occupy yourself before you came here? I do want to make you feel as comfortable as possible.”

Because you are kind? Because Rhaenyra told you to? Or because I might be the queen myself someday? “I spent a lot of time with my brothers and sister,” you answer honestly, dolefully. And I kept bats. You decide to omit this. “We all had our crafts. I made mosaics out of seashells.”

Lady Caro titters. “Seashells? Well, they aren’t exactly abundant, but there are some out near where the river meets the Narrow Sea. I’ll see if I can have a bucketful brought to you.”

“I can collect them.”

“The water is very cold, and the current powerful.”

“I like to choose my own shells. You can send knights to watch over me, I’m not hoping to drown myself or anything.”

Now Lady Caro laughs loudly. “Drown yourself! The things you say, princess…”

You decide to try to make conversation to encourage her affection, as Mother would want you to. “Do you have children, Lady Caro?”

“Oh yes, five of them. Four died though. Awful luck, isn’t it?” She goes somber, staring blankly out the nearest window for a long while, leaving you unsure of what to do or say. Eventually, she returns to the Great Hall and is cheerful again. “My daughter Jessamyn was married into House Mallister of Seagard. I get to see her and the children once every few years. And she’s nothing like you.”

You smirk cautiously. “What does that mean?”

“It means she’s very sweet and agreeable and naïve.” And then Lady Caro winks at you, and you realize you might be becoming friends. “Not like a Targaryen.”

You drink your cinnamon tea and think of last night, feeling a strange brew of fondness and shame and relief and loss. “Sounds a bit like Jace though.”

“Yes, well,” Lady Caro says, then wisely leaves the rest unspoken. He’s more of a Strong, isn’t he?

One of the Great Hall’s heavy wooden doors creaks open and Jace strides inside, wearing black accented with red and a bear fur coat overtop, speckled with snowflakes. More flurries are melting in his hair. You stand to meet him and he takes both of your hands. You smile uneasily, not knowing what to expect; then Jace playfully kisses the knuckles of your right hand, and after that your left, and he beams at you.

Instead of a greeting, he says: “We have a few more days together, then I have to go away.”

It’s the second time a man has told you this. “Go where?”

Jace shrugs evasively. No one is allowed to tell you anything. “Do you like horses?”

“Sure.” Aemond used to take you to visit his war horses, all towering and temperamental: Rusty, Apple, Fox, Ladybug, Pomegranate. Then he would watch as you stroked their forelocks and their downy muzzles, his remaining eye fixed on you, imagining sins that never felt like damnation but rather searing, tumultuous waves like an ocean of blood.

“Good. I’ll show you the stable.” Jace kisses you, a quick peck for modesty’s sake since you aren’t alone. He grins and licks his lips. “Mm. You taste like cinnamon.” Something warm, something red. He turns to Lady Caro. “Thank you for making us feel so welcome. The queen will be pleased to hear of your devoted service to the crown. We know that this is an imposition, and we appreciate your generous sacrifice.”

“Nonsense,” Lady Caro replies, and she seems to mean it. “It’s no imposition. It’s an honor.” Then she rises to her feet. “Let me find some boots and a fur coat for the princess.”

Once you are properly guarded against the cold—wrapped in a thick coat of fox pelts—Jace links his arm through yours and leads you outside, and you tread together through the shallow snowfall toward the stable.

“You’ve probably never even seen snow before,” Jace says, and you agree even though this isn’t true. You saw snow here in the Vale when you were very young—you don’t even remember which castle Mother and Father had been visiting on their royal progress—and that was the trip when Aemond pushed you into a frozen river and you caught a chill that almost killed you.

“Jace?” you ask, cutting him off mid-sentence. You hadn’t meant to interrupt him; your mind had been wandering.

He looks at you with some trepidation, as if he’s worried you might have a complaint. “Yes?”

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

He blinks at you, then exhales in a relieved chuckle. “You’re asking why I’m nice?”

“You never liked me before. And you had no reason to.” In your eyes, I was a traitor. If you could tell what I’m feeling, you’d know I still am.

He ponders how to answer as you walk. Now his expression is serious. “I always knew that when I married—to whoever it was, although for most of my life I believed it would be someone else—that would be it for me, and I would never be estranged from her or take another lover. There are so many families with…” He pauses, and you watch him closely. “There are so many children who suffer from the indiscretions of their parents.” There is a bloom of ashamed, gory pink in his cheeks, and you know he is speaking of himself, and of all the bastards anywhere in the world who have ever been made to feel lied to, less than, disgraced, disavowed. “I swore to myself that I would be a good husband and father, and that my own household would be…wholly uncomplicated.”

“So you would act this way with anyone. With whoever you were wed to.”

“Well…” He smiles softly. “As it turns out, there are things I like about you.”

“Really?” you tease, grinning, and when you reach the stable you shove the door open and step inside onto a straw-strewn floor. There’s no biting mountain breeze here in the shadows, and the body heat radiating off the horses makes the air more hospitable. Jace seems surprised you didn’t wait for him to open the door for you. “What things?”

“Several things,” Jace says, then—now that you are alone aside from the horses nickering and chomping on hay in their stalls—wraps his arms around your waist and holds you from behind, kissing the side of your neck. You have to resist the reflex to fight him off so he can overpower you, pin you to the floor, fuck you as you hiss and claw at him and tell him to stop. Jace wouldn’t understand it. Jace would be horrified by it. “Here,” Jace whispers, skimming a hand over your gown where he made you bleed last night. Then his palms travel up to your breasts. “And here.” Then he nuzzles your silver hair as he gently unfastens your braid and inhales deeply. “And I like this too. Although I’d be interested to see you wear it in a style that is a little…softer.”

“Softer?” you echo doubtfully.

“You’re not a warrior,” Jace says as if he thinks you will want to hear this, as if it will comfort you. It doesn’t. “And that’s alright. You can be soft. You can be ladylike.”

You don’t feel very much like a lady. You feel like a kettle full of boiling water, like lava bursting up through the cracks in the earth, like dragonfire hemorrhaging from a beast’s gaping throat. Now you and Jace are on the wooden floor of the stable, displacing straw as you kiss hungrily and pull off each other’s coats. Jace climbs on top of you, and you think: I can’t do this again, not like last night. I want to be fed too.

Jace stops to marvel at your face, his thumb skating over the curve of your cheekbone. “I want to make it as good for you as it is for me,” he says solemnly. “Last night it was over so quickly, and…I didn’t…I feel like I could have done more, but I don’t know…I’m not sure if…”

You grab his right hand and lace your fingers through his. “Can I show you how I touch myself?”

Jace’s eyebrows go up. “You touch yourself?”

“Don’t you?”

“Well, yes,” he admits bashfully, blushing. He does this a lot, you are learning. “But I’m a man.”

You smile. “Women experience longing too, Jace.”

“Yes,” he says, and now he’s breathing quickly and it sounds less like he’s merely intrigued and more like he’s begging for it. “Show me. Please show me.”

You take his hand and guide it beneath your gown, up the length of your legs, stopping where you are slick and needful, an ache so deep it hurts like the cramps when your blood arrives each month. You place two of Jace’s fingers on the right spot—he keeps inadvertently moving his hand just off the mark, and each time you put it back where it belongs—and lead him into a rhythm, a tight swift circling and pressure that makes your thighs open wider for him and your spine arch.

Jace murmurs as you pant on the stable floor, shadows on your face and straw in your hair: “Is this okay, am I hurting you at all?”

“You can press down pretty hard,” you assure him. “You won’t break me. I’m not glass.”

He’s trying not to lose his focus. “Okay…okay…”

“Jace,” you gasp as you sling your arms around the back of his neck and cling to him, your hips rocking, and he moans and kisses you—deeply, passionately, gluttonously—and under your dress his hand suddenly strokes you so forcefully it’s almost painful and then it’s on you, that feeling better than anything else on earth, being opened, being dragged under, being ignited, being devoured until you go weak and limp and boneless, aftershocks throbbing and your lips smiling drowsily. “Jace, Jace, Jace,” you breathe dizzily, still holding him.

He is gazing down at you, awestruck. “When can I watch you do that again?”

“Soon,” you purr through Jace’s dark curls. “Now…your turn.”

You are barely aware of it as he pushes the hem of your gown up to your waist and frees himself from his trousers, and you only come back to Jace when he enters you—your flesh still tender from last night, but wet and wanting him—and he is careful as he slowly pushes himself all the way inside, trying not to hurt you again. Then he thrusts and you are stunned by how good it feels, like your climax made everything more sensitive, more ready, more flawlessly tailored to fit with him. Jace doesn’t last much longer than the first night, and yet just before it’s over there is the ghost of something, a vague desire that is building, and you think next time (or the time after that, or the time after that) you will be able to finish again, and you will be drained like a slaughtered animal with its throat cut and its body hung by the feet, every last blood drop purged and collected in a bucket to be used for fertilizer or pig feed.

Lying together exhausted on the stable floor, you twirl one of Jace’s curls around your finger and—purely by instinct, because it’s what you and Aemond used to do—whisper to him in High Valyrian: “I love how you touch me, thank you, I needed this, I needed you.” But you can tell by the way Jace turns to you, startled and a little self-conscious, that he doesn’t understand what you said.

“I know some High Valyrian, of course,” he explains quickly. “But I’m…I’m still learning.”

“Oh.” It doesn’t come easily to him. Because he’s a Strong, and the Strongs have nothing to do with Old Valyria. And then, to temper the blow: “I can help you practice.”

“Who taught it to you?” Jace asks. He is suspicious, then hopeful. “Helaena?”

You should lie to him, but you don’t. At some point you have to start letting raindrops of the truth seep in. You are going to share a household with Jace, your bodies, your futures, your children. You want him to understand who you really are. You can’t pretend forever; already, it is stifling, a constant and trudging effort, a vanishing until you are transluscent like clear water. You are reminded of all the times when you’ve tried to hide pieces of yourself to please Mother, whose Hightower blood was washed away by the grim, intoxicating magic of the Targaryens. “No, Helaena doesn’t speak High Valyrian except when giving commands to Dreamfyre. She can understand it fairly well, though.”

Jace nods, studying you, but he doesn’t say anything else. The phantom of Aemond stands in the far corner of the stable. You think: I am a traitor to both of them, I am a house of no banners. After a moment, you ask Jace for your very first favor.

“I want Helaena freed from the dungeon in the Red Keep,” you say. “I understand Rhaenyra’s distrust of Mother, but Helaena is innocent. She should be confined to her chambers and permitted to see her children. And allowed to walk in the garden sometimes too.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Jace says distractedly.

“You know Helaena. She is gentle, she is fragile. She deserves compassionate treatment.”

“So did Luke,” Jace replies; and though he takes your hands and helps you to your feet as horses snort and paw at the straw-covered floors of their stalls, he averts his dark gaze—an inheritance from his bloodline, the indomitable lineage of the First Men—and doesn’t meet your eyes.

Two days later he departs Heart’s Home for a destination that Lord and Lady Corbray know, surely, but you don’t. Jace bids you farewell at the edge of the field beyond the castle walls as Vermax waits impatiently for him across the clearing, not liking the mountain cold, not liking you. Jace wears black and red as he almost always does, the colors of his mother’s house. His curls are ruffled by the breeze, his red cloak flowing down from his shoulders like a trail of blood.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Jace touches your cheek, then your chin. “I’ll miss you and all those things I’ve discovered I like so much.”

You smile back. You have the beginning of a headache—a throbbing above your left eye, a fuzziness in your thoughts—but you’re trying not to show it. “I’ll be here.” Where else could I go?

“I love you,” Jace says, and then looks at you expectantly. It takes you a minute to realize he’s waiting for you to say it too.

You open your mouth, but your pulsing skull is clamoring with prayers you cannot voice. Please protect the family I have left. Please don’t find a way to kill Aemond. At last you manage: “I love you,” but it sounds hollow and unnatural and cold, like stark snowcapped peaks and the gales that shriek through them.

Nonetheless, Jace is satisfied. He tilts up your face to bring his lips to yours and then treks across the field towards Vermax, leaving footprints in the fresh snow. His sword hangs from his belt. He practices with knights in the castle courtyard each day, and he’s not bad, you’ve observed anxiously. Not as good as Aemond, but not bad.

That night you see the shadow of something interrupting the moonlight that floods in through the window of your bedchamber, and when you push open the glass a bat lands clumsily on the sill and then scrabbles inside. You squeal with delight and scoop it into your arms. It’s a male and a different sort of bat than the ones in King’s Landing, larger in size, black and white in color and with long fanlike ears. He sniffs at you and gazes up with small but intelligent inky eyes. Then, as a mark of friendship, he begins to lick at your fingertips.

“And what do you eat, huh?” you coo as you pet him. “Probably not honey or fruit if you live way up here in the mountains. Probably just bugs. Should I try to catch you some spiders tomorrow? This decrepit old castle must be full of them.”

You have to name him. And this is an opportunity to break all your old patterns. You could call him Seahorse for Jace’s false house, or Dragon for his true one. You could call him the High Valyrian word for bat or wings. You could name him after something black, the color that Jace favors. And yet as you hold him, old memories come screaming back to you, Aemond helping you tend to your bats, Aemond protecting them, moments of kindness and understanding that you now fear were illusions.

He never said he loves me. Not once in eighteen years.

You keep waiting for a glimpse into Aemond’s mind, a stabbing pang of loss and longing when he realizes you’ve been taken away, but it never happens. You keep waiting for him to find you and descend upon House Corbray with fire and blood.

Aemond, where are you? Aemond, have you forgotten me?

“Sapphire,” you whisper to your new bat—your only bat—and he looks up at you as if he knows his name.

~~~~~~~~~~

Jace is gone for weeks, and in his absence you try to learn how to be his wife. You ask Lady Caro to teach you how to wear your hair like the ladies of the Vale: soft waves, sedate buns knotted at the nape of the neck, delicate wisps that frame the face and blow in the harsh mountain wind. You attempt to cultivate an affinity for pale impassionate colors. You distract yourself so you don’t think of Aemond. You catch spiders and moths in secret to feed to Sapphire when he visits you each night. You spend days practicing quiet, feminine embroidery—ruining yarn scenes, piercing your fingertips with needles—until you give it up and fling the cursed tangle of threads away and return to your strange fixations that once confounded Mother.

Lady Caro sends knights to accompany you to the mouth of the river, and you wade up to your knees in the icy water plucking rare shells out of the silt and the pebbles. You are not permitted to collect bones from the forest—there are bears and wolves and shadowcats—but you arrange for the hunters to give you what’s left of the carcasses once they’ve been skinned and butchered. The carpenters give you boards of wood and the blacksmiths forge you a small iron mallet. Sometimes Lady Caro stands in the castle kitchen watching you boil animal bones in a caldron or in your bedchamber as you shatter shells and paint the shards with glue, and she shakes her head, surely thinking: What is wrong with these Targaryens?

You don’t dare to make any mosaics of Aemond. It’s too dangerous, and too painful, and too revealing of what you’re truly feeling. So instead you piece together visions of the rest of them: Aegon smirking over a goblet of red wine, butterflies landing on Helaena’s outstretched palm, Daeron riding Tessarion, Mother smiling at Criston, Jaehaera and Maelor playing together in the garden of the Red Keep. You hang them on the walls of your bedchamber and at night you sleep better.

When Jace and Vermax return to Heart’s Home, you and Lady Caro are in the inaptly named Great Hall sipping cinnamon tea and nibbling blackberry oatcakes, and Lady Caro is telling you about her flock of grandchildren who reside at Seagard on the shore of the Sunset Sea. “Jasper is clever but terribly loud, and then Joy won’t talk to humans at all but loves her cats…” She trails off as your husband rushes into the room, his steps buoyant, his red cloak flying behind him.

“Welcome back, Prince Jacaerys,” Lady Caro says as she stands to greet him. “I hope your travels were comfortable and all your ventures went well.”

“Very well,” he says, grinning, alight with victories that are yet unspoken. Lady Caro dismisses herself to give the two of you privacy, promising to bring cinnamon tea for Jace. As soon as she is gone, Jace bolts to the table.

“What happened?” you ask he sits opposite of you. The hearth throws off rage-colored heat.

Please let this be peace and not violence. Please don’t have harmed anyone I love.

He is beaming as he takes a messy bite of a blackberry oatcake, crumbs falling down onto the table. And he must have decided that he can begin telling you his secrets now. Perhaps he trusts you; perhaps he knows there’s nothing you can do to sabotage him anyway, no ravens to send, nobody to inform. “I found someone to ride Vermithor.”

The realization sinks inside you, dark and heavy, an anchor, a sickness. You murmur, knowing it is pointless: “He was supposed to be mine.”

“Well…he didn’t agree.”

This hurts you; Jace doesn’t seem to notice. You think of the tiny wooden Vermithor that Aegon once carved for you, and you wonder if it’s still on your dresser in Maegor’s Holdfast or if Rhaenyra has burned or broken it, or mistaken it for something of no value.

“Corlys’ bastard Addam has claimed Seasmoke,” Jace continues, as if this could not possibly be anything to you but good news. “Vermithor and Seasmoke are now helping Mother to safeguard the capital. Daemon and Nettles…” Jace gestures awkwardly. There was a falling out with Rhaenyra. “They’ve taken Harrenhal as a base in the Riverlands. So we needed more help in King’s Landing, and we found it.”

We have two battleworthy dragons. Now they have six. No wonder Jace is so pleased.

“And there are still other unclaimed dragons,” you say dully, nauseous with dread.

“Yes,” Jace agrees. “But unfortunately, Aemond realized what we were doing. So he took possession of Dragonstone, and he and Vhagar are always back and forth from there, and no one can approach the island and risk him happening upon them.” Another bite of his blackberry oatcake, more crumbs, more casual chewing. “Which brings me to my question for you.”

“For me?”

Jace nods. “I need you to tell me what he’s going to do next.”

You stare at your husband inanely. “What?”

“Aemond is the problem,” Jace says, more agitated now. He devours the last of his blackberry oatcake. “Even with all the dragons we have, it’s going to be difficult to destroy Vhagar. Our new dragonriders are inexperienced, and Daemon, he’s…” Jace waves a hand. “Unreliable. Self-serving. But you were there at the Red Keep with Aemond when he and Criston were drawing up their plans, and therefore you can help us.”

You lie immediately. “I don’t know anything.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Another lie. “Really. He didn’t discuss it with me.”

“Then tell me about him,” Jace says impatiently. “I know he’s good with a sword, but he must have weaknesses. Does he have lasting pain from his maiming, does he have vices that distract him?”

I’m not convinced I knew Aemond at all. “I’m not going to help you kill him.”

Jace glares at you incredulously. “How do you think this ends?”

“Rhaenyra promised Mother that Aemond would be spared, and you were a part of that bargain—”

“We said we would let him live if he’s still alive when the war is over, but we can’t win the war if he and Vhagar are seizing castles and territory and burning our men and supplies and nobody can stop him!”

“Does he know that…” You swallow, your throat burning. “Did Rhaenyra send him a raven to tell him about our marriage?” About my treason, about my ruining?

“No. Why would we provoke him like that? Why would we put a target on my back? The realm will be told when the battles are past and the surviving Green loyalists must be convinced to bend the knee.”

You close your eyes and you can’t picture Aemond as a warrior; you can only see him as a child with stitches and agony, as a man who gave you forbidden, bewitching pleasure. “I don’t know anything. I can’t help you.”

“I did as you asked,” Jace snaps. “I persuaded Mother to give Helaena more freedom, I ensured that Alicent is healthy and that Jaehaera and Maelor are well cared for and never lonely. I can probably even save Daeron. But Aemond must be stopped.”

“He’s my family too—”

“I am your family now!” Jace roars, jolting to his feet and pounding on his own heart. “Me and my siblings, and my parents, and my children, not them!”

One of the doors of the Great Hall swings open and Lady Caro is there with a tray of cinnamon tea and fresh blackberry oatcakes. She gapes at you and Jace, too shocked to remember to be polite. It’s too late for her to pretend she hasn’t heard. She stalls, trying to think of something to say.

“I believe we’re having venison for dinner,” she announces with feigned cheerfulness.

Jace looks at you one last time—with disappointment, with fury—and storms out of the room.

~~~~~~~~~~

He doesn’t come to bed all night, and you leave the window wide open so Sapphire can glide in and visit you: hanging from your bedposts, scrambling over your blankets, and then vanishing shortly before daylight. You have a headache that worsens until you are half-blind and sick to your stomach, and the maids hear you retching and bring you toasted bread and ginger tea and a bucket and wet cloths to cool your face.

Lady Caro wanders in and sits down beside you, her weight shifting the feather mattress, and pats your shoulder sympathetically. “I think you should tell the prince that his efforts have been successful.” To produce an heir, she means, and you’re convinced she’s wrong.

“That’s not what it is,” you moan, burrowing under the blankets. “I’m sick all the time.”

“You haven’t had your monthly blood since you’ve been here,” Lady Caro says gently, and of course she knows this because of her maids, her spies. You stare up at her vacuously, unable to comprehend it.

Pregnant with Jace’s child?

And this feels like a final severing of any possibility that Aemond will ever want you back. No other man was allowed to lie with you. Now Jace has wed you, bedded you, bred with you, turned your coat.

You force yourself out of bed and let the maids dress you and comb your hair, nursing the ginger tea—unappetizing, but good for nausea—as you gather your courage. You aren’t sure how to tell Jace. You aren’t sure that you want to see him at all.

Your skull still throbbing and your bare feet unsteady, you stumble through the cold stony corridors of the castle until you hear men arguing spiritedly in the Great Hall, their voices rumbling like thunder. Inside you find Lord Corbray, a number of lords and knights, and the maester of the castle. Jace is bent over one of the tables and reading, then rereading, a letter that the maester must have brought from the rookery.

Lord Corbray is saying: “They write that he has already razed Darry, Blackbuckle, Claypool, Swynford, and Spiderwood. The noble houses are constructing scorpions, but even with them, how many bolts would be needed to kill Vhagar? She’s massive, she’s monstrous. The Northmen are marching south, but now they’re saying they won’t go beyond the Twins without Caraxes and Sheepstealer as escorts, and can we count on Daemon for anything…?”

Jace looks up and sees you standing in the threshold. His dark curls hang over his bloodless face; his eyes are staggered and fearful. And twistedly, horribly, there is a flash of light that burns radiantly through the murky gloom of your skull and your ribcage, a forbidden vindication, a rapture you can never reveal.

Aemond remembers me? Aemond longs for me?

Jace says: “He thinks you’re in the Riverlands.”

[indeterminategroundmeat]

"hi my name is baller evilguy and this is my boyfriend honeywine hotcock. he cut off my arm once. crazy story. anyway we're here to petition for adoption. we found her in the trash & we're pretty sure our entire society was structured around fearing & hating her specifically for 1000 years"

[velvette-creations]

Fettered

House of the Dragon: Gwayne Hightower x Targ!reader (mentions of eye color and hair color)

Rating: Explicit (Minors DNI)

WC: 2.1 k 

Prompt: “You make me wanna do something outside of my nature” -Making a Move by TWRP for @sweetspicybingo (Lyrical Bingo Collection)

Warnings: DUB-CON, captivity, spanking, cock warming, manipulation, misogyny, anal, humiliation, bondage, forced nudity

Summary: At the Battle of Honeywine, Gwayne takes you as a prisoner of war

It is war’s prize to take all vantage ~ William Shakespeare

Your hand gripped the hilt of your sword as you swung your blade. The battle waged around you, the smell of blood heavy in the air. Victory tasted sweet on your tongue as Rhaenyra’s supporters began to diminish Ormund Hightower’s army. Your foe proved worthy, blocking your blow with his sword and shoving you back. With feet planted firmly in the ground, he failed to break you down. The two of you continued your dance. You were unaware that you were fighting against the Dowager Queen’s brother, and he was unaware that he squared off with Queen Rhaenyra’s own sister.

Dread bubbled under your skin when you heard the dragon’s roar then saw the great blue beast fill the sky. Daeron the Daring. The distraction was enough to gain Gwayne Hightower the upper hand, swiftly knocking you to your feet and pressing the sharp tip of his blade against the delicate sliver of your exposed throat. The putrid stench of burned flesh filled the air, and Rhaenyra’s men fell as dragon fire claimed them. Gwayne removed his helmet and smirked down at you as the recognition of his identity seeped through your veins. 

“Do you wish to bend the knee to the rightful King Aegon, or do you wish to have your head removed from your body?” he asked, his brown eyes filled with darkness.

“I will never bend the knee to the usurper,” you spat.

“Many say that in the beginning, but the fear of death changes their mind,” Gwayne tutted, gently shaking his head and flicking an errant lock of auburn hair out of his eyes.

“A dragon doesn’t fear death,” you said, reading to meet the Stranger.

“A dragon?” Gwayne questioned, his lips twisting into a frown, reaching down to pull your helmet off your head.

Your silver hair had been braided tightly and wound around your head, but there was no mistaking you for anything other than a Targaryen. Your violet eyes narrowed as you flexed your knee, aiming your foot toward his ankle to catch him off guard. An amused chuckle fell from his lips as your force merely rattled his armor.

“My, a princess playing a warrior,” he mused, pressing his boot firmly against your chest.

“I can assure you…traitor, that I do not play at anything,” you hissed.

“We shall see,” he hummed, calling over some men from his cousin’s army to bind you and place you across the back of his horse. Humiliation burned your cheeks, but at least you were alive. An alive person stood a chance, while the dead poised none. You would not give Gwayne Hightower the satisfaction of your tears, so you remained silent during the most uncomfortable ride toward Oldtown.

Unbeknownst to you, a certain thrill surged through the Hightower man, awakening urges he thought long buried deep down. You were his now, and new desires bloomed through him. A darker nature seeped in, chasing away the chivalrous knight who obeyed the rules. Times of war called for a sterner nature.

You expected to be placed in the underground vault of Hightower when you finally arrived at the gloomy place. The flame shone bright and emerald on top of the beacon. The bannerman called to war to fight for their king. Bitterness filled your mouth as you were roughly pulled off Gwayne’s horse and dragged inside.

“Secure her in my chambers and arrange for a bath,” Gwayen instructed.

You raised a pale brow but said nothing.

“After all, a princess must be kept in a gilded cage,” Gwayne called after you, a smirk curling across his lips.

You were freed from the ropes biting into your skin, and the men stripped you of your armor, leaving you in a thin tunic and breeches as handmaids came in one after another with buckets of warm water to fill the stone tub placed in the room. You shivered, wrapping your arms around yourself. The fire crackled in the hearth, and you hated yourself for feeling thankful for the warmth.

“Thank you, ladies, you are dismissed,” Gwayne announced as he entered the room.

Steam rose from the bath, the sweet scent of lavender tickling beneath your nose.

“Come and remove my armor,” Gwayne ordered.

“I am not your servant,” you seethed.

“No, you are my prisoner,” he corrected with a haughty look.

A scowl remained permanently etched across your face as you willed your bare feet to move. You unhooked his green cape before removing the rest of his armor. You gasped when he grabbed you, tugging you free of your remaining clothing until you stood bare before him. He said naught as he freed your silver hair from the tightly woven braids and guided you toward the steaming bath.

“In you go,” he cooed in a tone as if one were placating a child and patted your bare rump.

Your fingers curled into fists as you spun around on your heels, hand poised to slap him across the face. He grabbed hold of your wrists, keeping you in place as he chuckled.

“My, you dragons certainly do have fire,” he mused, his dark eyes boring into yours, “You might think to mind your manners, or I could arrange for you to be thrown into one of the empty vaults without a stitch of clothing to keep you warm.”

You growled. His threat should have subdued you, but instead, it only fueled the hot flames licking deep in your belly. If only you could wrap your fingers around a blade. You could slit his throat and be done with it.

“Mayhaps I ought to teach you a lesson in how a delicate princess ought to behave,” he hummed.

You fought him every step of the way as he dragged you over to the bed and across one knee. Your feet dangled, the tips of your toes brushing against the floor before his palm cracked down hard against your bare skin, making you roar.

“Unhand me!” you demanded.

“You are in no position to be making such demands,” Gwayne pointed out as his hand slapped down repeatedly against your vulnerable rump.

You gritted your teeth as his palm painted your skin crimson red. The burn itched, and you hated that your resolve was breaking. One could only take so much.

“Please,” you wailed, hoping for mercy.

None came as he swatted your upper thighs, setting your tender skin aflame. He did not stop until he was satisfied with the chastisement, and your skin bloomed fiery red with his handprints.

“I shall repeat this lesson as many times as needed,” he warned before allowing you to slip down your feet.

Tears blurred your vision as pain throbbed through you. He waited for no more argument before scooping you into his arms and placing you in the bath. You whined as the water further irritated your abused skin. The smirk never left Gwayne’s face as he began to scrub you clean. You were surprised as he washed your hair, his hands pleasantly kneading your scalp and ensuring all the grime was stripped away.

“Now you appear to be a proper princess,” he smiled. He helped you out of the bath, dried you off with a linen towel, and wrapped you in a green robe embroidered with golden threading. His hand took hold of your chin, tilting your gaze towards his. “You are mine, princess. This room will be heavily guarded at all times, and there will be consequences if you dare to attempt an escape.”

His words made heat bloom in your nether regions. You had not expected that the man your Uncle bested at the tourney all those years ago possessed such a nature. You had expected him to behave as a pompous imbecile. How mistaken you were.

~~

The days passed in your opulent prison. Despite the comfortable bed, the sumptuous food, and warm baths, the obvious deceptions and distractions, you were well aware of your position. A Targaryen Princess trapped in the Hightower flame. You passed the time by playing the game, allowing Gwayne to believe he held the upper hand and you were the pathetic prisoner at his mercy. You allowed your body to bear the burden while your mind remained sharp as the blade you wished to drive into his neck. 

Gwayne’s belt bound your wrists, and you squealed as his hand cracked down repeatedly. You were naked, squirming over his lap as he thoroughly punished you for attempting to escape. You did your best to hide the smug smile at slicing one of the guard’s faces. Your marks would heal, while his would serve as a reminder of what happens when one tussled with a dragon.

“And to think I had come to reward you with a pretty gown only to discover what a naughty girl you’ve been,” he scolded as he slapped your rump. You cursed yourself for finding this tête-à-tête so arousing, but you had grown to enjoy his rough treatment, followed by the tenderness. Or so you convinced yourself.

“I’m sorry,” you sobbed, but you weren’t sorry in the least. You had learned to accept your fate in order to survive.

“Hush now. I shall make you well-behaved yet, even if it kills me,” he lectured, smoothing his palm over your heated skin. The irony of his words was not lost on you. One day, it will. He pressed his thumb between his lips, sucking on the appendage until it grew slick with his salvia. He spread your cheeks, placing his wet thumb against your hole, and massaged the muscle. “Perhaps further humiliation is in order.”

The tip of his thumb slipped inside, and you mewled. Allow him to hear it, let him believe he is breaking me.

“That’s what I thought,” he chuckled darkly as he claimed your most intimate area.

~~

His cock warmed your mouth as he sat at the desk, slowly working on his correspondence.

“Your sister is eager for your safe return,” he chuckled, patting your head. “Should I write to tell her that you enjoy being my pup? Eager to serve her master.” A dragon serves no one, especially not a Hightower.

Shame palpated in your belly. You hated how right he was, how you craved the carrot over the stick. How he would fill your arse with the perfectly fitted stone before he bent you over and fucked you, rutting you like one would a bitch in heat. You loved when he spanked you or bent your knees back to your ears as he slapped your cunt furiously. Sometimes, he would make you kneel at his feet while he fed you morsels of food. Most of the time, you were kept naked, but there were times he would gift you a beautiful emerald gown and allow you to dine with him like a lady. You craved all he gave.

Or you convinced yourself of such. One must do many distasteful things to survive.

You merely hummed around his cock in response, and as the ink dried on the parchment, he fucked your mouth and spilled down your throat. He didn’t notice as the letter opener clattered to the floor, a detail that did not escape you.

That evening, you crawled onto his chest, kissing his mouth and cheeks sweetly.

“Allow me to please you, my lord,” you purred, voice dripping with honey.

“Go on then,” he grinned, hands stroking your hips.

You pulled the blanket away, inching the sleep clothes up his waist and nuzzling his cock to stir him to life. It did not take long to make him stiff for you, and you slipped onto him with ease. His large hands cupped your bare breasts as you rode him. You moaned wantonly, tossing your head back as you waited for the precise moment. Just as he entered the throes of passion, his eyes closed as his back arched. One hand slipped around his throat while your other slipped under your pillow and wrapped around the letter opener.

He sputtered as your grip tightened around his throat, and his eyes flew open just in time to see you drive the item deep into his neck. You willed your strength to make sure it buried deep in his flesh.

“I do hope I’ve become the lady you taught me to be,” you cooed, placing a kiss on his cold lips as the light drained from his eyes. Syrax’s roar filled the air, followed by the screams of men as your sister, the rightful queen, came to your rescue. You could not wait to scrub your skin clean of this place and of his touch.

A dragon cannot be tamed by one who is not worthy.

[thewriterthatghostedyou]

New Series Release Starting on Oct. 31st

Here is something that I have been working on for a bit and I am far enough ahead in writing it so I decided to start posting! I also plan on releasing a chapter a week on Fridays after this week so that I actually keep up on updating it. We’ll see if my adhd brain will be able to stick to the plan lol.

This is an AU where the Greens win and all of the Blacks are dead except for Aegon III and Viserys II. (Baela, Rheana, and Corlys are also alive after Corlys switches sides as he did in the books).

Also, this is heavily inspired by the Selection series since I just reread it lol but obviously in Westeros and a lot darker and more adult. There are no warnings for this prologue besides canon typical violence.

Divider by @zaldritzosrose

Westeros’ history was a bloody one. Starting when the Six Kingdoms became one under the rule of Aegon the Conqueror, blood had seeped through the very pages of its existence. More blood was spilled with the coming of Meagor the Cruel, a cunning and ambitious man that was only stopped by his mysterious death on the throne itself. And finally now, the Dance of the Dragons. A war that pitted family against family and ripped the realm apart in the process.

Blood and violence always seemed to follow the Targaryens and yet you found yourself drawn to them all the same. You were on Dragonstone when the news of King Viserys’ death reached the realm.

Your hands trembled as your future mother by law gripped her stomach in pain before being rushed out of the war room by the maesters. “Lady Caswell.” Princess Rhaenys’ voice brought you back to her as she placed a sympathetic hand on your shoulder. “There is news that I must tell you as well.”

“What’s wrong? What else has happened?” Jacaerys gripped your hand tightly as Baela rushed over.

“After my cousin’s death the Green Council found your father trying to escape the Red Keep.” Your blood had run cold as she continued. “He was trying to warn the Queen of what was happening, of the treason that was occurring.” You prayed to any god, old or new that this was all a dream. “When I was able to finally leave my own chambers he was hung from the outer walls of the Keep along with any others who refused to bend the knee to Aegon. I’m very sorry-”

The princess’ words seemed to rise to a searing pitch as she continued and you felt Baela reach out to steady you as you wobbled forward. Your father couldn’t be dead. He had finalized your betrothal to Jace and Baela yesterday. He had just embraced you warmly yesterday. He had promised to visit you on Dragonstone some time yesterday. He was alive yesterday.

You had watched from the sidelines as the war began. Lost in grief as death after death seemed to occur in quick succession. Your father, Luke, Princess Rhaenys, and Jace. Your sweet Jace. You were inconsolable when the news reached you of Jace’s death, unable to accept that the man that you loved, the kind man who held you when you cried and made you smile in the face of tragedy, had been killed. You found yourself clinging to Baela after his death, aching for your shared love and finding comfort in your shared losses.

When King’s Landing Fell, you followed Rhaenyra to the capital, hoping to be reunited with your mother or even one of your brothers, Tom Flowers, your bastard sibling who had been leading your family’s forces as your youngest brother, Edric, was only five and now Lord of Bitterbridge. There were no tearful reunions as you had hoped as Tom was leading an armored battalion to Honeywine and your mother and two younger brothers remained at Bitterbridge.

A fortnight after the taking of King’s landing, a young squire, coated in soot and blood was brought before the Queen, his eyes in another place as he recalled the losses at Honeywine and the deaths of Owen Costayne and Tom. You didn’t remember much from that day, only Rhaenyra’s pitying expression as she sat with you after that report. Her once close relationship with you dimmed as it was tainted by grief and the Queen visited you less and less.

The next piece of your life to fall was when Baela was captured in the loss of Dragonstone. You felt numb as the death of Moondancer sank in. Although not a Targaryen yourself, your fondest memories had been of your two loves taking you on their dragons and flying around the bay. Both Vermax and Moondancer were dead now and you didn’t know if you wanted Baela to survive to experience whatever hell her cousin would inflict upon her for burning him before her defeat.

Barely a week after the capture of Baela, you and the court were surprised to see the head of the young prince Maelor sent from your own mother who had written you a letter with a frantic scribbled explanation.

My Dearest Daughter,

I fear what our people have begun. News of the queen’s bounty on the young Prince’s head has spread throughout the realm. And the young boy- gods- he was torn apart by a mob that had gathered. Never has such horrific violence been brought before me and yet I fear that this is only the beginning. The men responsible were executed for this horrific act but Lord Ormund Hightower marches towards us with Prince Daeron on his Tessaron. I sent them the young prince’s egg in an effort to make this wrong right in a way, but I fear that it is not enough. We have no dragon to meet theirs and barely enough men to keep the garrison.

I find myself glad that you are safe my sweet daughter as I fear that we may soon join your father in whatever life there is after death. The gods will curse us all for this but I pray endlessly that they spare you whatever fate we face.

Be strong my daughter and know that your brothers and I will love you to our dying breaths and beyond.

True to what your mother had written, Bitterbridge fell that very night. As reports came in from the many refugees you felt sick to your stomach, puking for what felt like hours before returning to hear the rest of their stories. Your mother had yielded to the stronger force immediately and begged Prince Daeron for mercy to be shown to her sons, your brothers. Apparently he had only scoffed before and replied that he would grant them the same terms that had been given to his nephew before beheading Edric and Kelyn. They were only five and two. At that moment any grief you had was burnt away as anger raged through your body. You were the last Caswell alive.

Hatred for Daeron coursed through your every vein as you listened to a seamstress who had escaped the slaughter tearfully recount the rape and abuse that happened. Even septas, old women, and children were not spared from the cruelty of the Hightower army. Tales of how your home’s men, women, and children were slaughtered turned your once happy heart to one of stone and contempt for the Greens. You had trashed part of your chambers after hearing the news that Daeron had escaped death from a burning tent and lived to fight another day.

Rhaenyra had grown ever paranoid about impending betrayals that may never come, keeping her surviving sons under close watch and even pushing away her husband. A fact that she later regretted deeply as she wept into your arms after hearing about his death. Daemon had risen up to meet his nephew Aemond Targaryen in what was already being heralded as the Battle Above God’s Eye. The actual battle itself was unable to be witnessed as flames had filled the sky and dragon silhouettes were all that was seen. All that was known was that Aemond emerged victorious on Vhagar and Daemon and Caraxes were lost to the lake below.

In what would be the final nail in the coffin for Queen Rhaenyra was the taking of King’s Landing. Surrounded by Hightower and other Green Hosts, along with Tessaron and Vhagar, the retaking of King’s Landing was laughable. Rhaenyra’s own men turned on her as they saw the enemy approaching and she and her remaining sons were imprisoned in Rhaenyra’s chambers until the arrival of King Aegon.

You were thankfully not important enough to be forced to watch your Queen’s death, only hearing of how she was viciously eaten by Sunfyre, with Joffery and Aegon III watched.

You were instead kept with the other Lords and Ladies, only being released from a large dining hall to be brought before Aegon and asked to bend the knee. Your father had died for refusing to do this very action, your mother and brothers had followed, and yet you refused to be another casualty in this war. Your house had suffered enough and if you were not careful the Caswell line would end with you. It could not all be for nothing. So you bent the knee with every other lord and lady in attendance, feeling as if you were selling your soul to the stranger themself.

[aemondmybbg]

four new bots 💌

as usual @ illumielle on character ai ᡣ𐭩

daemon x sister!user (alicent wants to see their newborn son, and daemon is angry!)(request)

daeron x sister!user (after the battle of honeywine, he meets his sister riding her dragon after a long separation!) (request)

aemond x niece!user (they are just welcoming their first child!)

jacaerys x bastard!user (she's one of the dragon seeds that rode silverwing and he's just still grumbling about it!)

thank you so much for using my bots!! requests are still open for anyone who wants to see a bot with your story 🫶🏻

[bri-sonat]

Captain and the Mate - Part One

Pairing: Pirate!Captain!Brienne of Tarth x Fem!Reader

Warnings: mentions of alcohol & blood, brief death mention, sapphic yearning, the usual warnings when writing in the GoT universe.

Synopsis: When the infamous Captain Bri makes port to recruit members to her crew, you don't waste the opportunity. To your relief and pleasure, she accepts you, and the time spent aboard her ship and among her crew leads to many things. One of them being a relationship developing between you and the Captain herself.

A/N: Happy Pride Month!! This has been sitting uncompleted in my word since like, February? March? I am not sure. Either way, a very long time. The fact that I finished this during Pride Month was only coincidental, though I am glad it ended like this because Pirate Captain Brienne is the hottest thing I have ever seen in a long time and I hope you all think the same! The sea shanty referenced is this one, but I have modified it a little bit, of course. Either way, it's good. Listen to it if you wish. :) English is not my first language and so on. Enjoy!

Thank you to bae, wifey, co-brainrotter, sharer of brain cells, and co-writer, @daydream-cement for unknowingly giving me this idea by sending a picture to the GC all those months ago.

The summer evening sun set over Oldtown as you followed the Honeywine down to the nearby inn and tavern. The Hightower's fading shadow informs you of the late hours - confirming that you were right on time for your destination and its event. 

Word had spread fast when she had arrived. Whispers enthusiastically gossiped about why she was here, and what her business was. Eventually, the information reached your spiked ears: she was recruiting members for her crew.  

This was something you had dreamt of ever since you heard about her: sailing with her. Someone who struck fear in people with the same name she was praised with, her actions earning her a nickname traders rued to hear. Her sails and flag striking terror and fright across all nine seas whenever spotted, and rightfully so. 

She had quite a reputation. The pirate Captain who only raided, robbed, pillaged, boarded, and stole from the large, and wealthy trading companies. No one knew why she does what she does, why she only attacks the ships she does, only she knew. It was one of the largest mysteries surrounding her, she was an enigma, and she intrigued, and fascinated you at the same time. 

The glowing braze of the Hightower danced in the Honeywine along with the nearby torches of the various stone houses that stood along the river. Every step you took brought you closer to the tavern, and effectively closer to her, and it was only when the tall and wooden Quill and Tankard Inn came into vision that you realized just how stupid this was. 

What did you think was going to happen? That you’d just be able to waltz straight in, and that she’d accept you to her crew? No, that was wishful thinking. She would have many men on their knees in front of her, begging to sail with her, if they knew what was good for them. To even have an audience with someone with her renown was a privilege, and you were just satisfied with being in her presence. 

Yet, you couldn’t shake the feeling that she might be looking for more than just work power. You had heard whispers that she had lost her Quartermaster and that she was in need of a new one, but this was just hearsay, and gossip, and you decided not to trust any of the two. 

Opening the door to the wooden tavern, you quickly laid notice of the fact that it was quieter than you were used to, surely had to do with the looming presence in the room.  

In the back of it - in front of the hearth and under the slanted roof - an intimidating, short-haired blonde woman sat by a table. A goblet in one hand, the other fiddling with a dagger. Her booted feet were slung up on the wooden surface as she gently rocked on her chair.  

She looked bored, apathetic. The dimly light tavern only cast a shadow over her face, meaning you couldn’t quite see what she looked like from where you stood. 

The tavern was empty, well, emptier than you had expected and you wondered if she had turned any men away because they failed to live up to her standards, or if you were the first one to arrive. Judging from the fuming men who sat in a corner you could see as you approached the bar, you guessed the former. 

“Good evening. Do you want your usual?” The barkeep approached you as you stopped at the bar, her hands wiping themselves on the apron around her waist before they came up to help her lean against the bar top. You and she had formed an interesting friendship after your regular visits, and you had spent many evenings ranting to her about your long-time wish to sail with Captain Bri. 

Unbeknownst to you, the uninterested blonde’s eyes had found you the second your back was turned. She raised her goblet to her lips, taking a sip of the strong cider the tavern was known for. The movement in her other hand never stilled, the dagger constantly moving in her scarred hand. 

The reason for her eyes finding you was unknown to her, maybe it was because you had been the only non-man to come into the tavern that evening, the bartender excluded. Or maybe it was because she found you, a complete stranger to her, intriguing and magnetic, even if it was subconsciously.  

Either way, her gaze was fixed on your back for a few seconds as you interacted with the barkeep, only redirecting her attention somewhere else once one of the men from her crew exclaimed how ‘slim the pickings’ were from beside her. 

“No. I am here to meet the captain. However, now that I am here, it all seems like a most terrible idea.” You gave your answer to the barkeep, voicing your concerns. You were sure the nervosity was easy to hear in your voice when you spoke. The excitement of meeting Captain Bri had completely overshadowed the reality of the situation, but you couldn’t just turn around and leave. You had to at least try. 

“I was wondering when you’d show up,” the barkeep chuckled slightly. “She has yet to accept a single bloke. I’d say your chances are high.” 

“Well... I am here. I might as well go try.” You released a shaky sigh. Realizing you had to at least act somewhat confidently so that Bri would consider recruiting you, you pushed down your anxiousness to the best of your abilities. “She’s the woman at the table. Right?” 

“Mhmm,” the bartender hummed in confirmation. “Go wow her.” She gave you a thumbs up and a smile before she departed to help a customer who was waiting further down the bar. You turned around and approached the intimidating presence by the table with determined steps. 

When you stopped in front of the table, you could, by the help of the glow of the fire behind her, finally see her face. Her face. Many things were told about Bri the Righteous Beast, but none of the stories mentioned her immense beauty.  

She was incredibly handsome, her disheveled blonde hair framing her intense blue eyes as they raked you up and down. And her lips. Good Gods, her lips. The small, accented scar on her upper lip scrunched as she smirked, and you wondered how she had been bestowed such a stunning ‘flaw.’ 

She was a vision, there was no other way to put it and you could spend so many hours just staring at her. There would not be enough time to take in her entirety, but your life would have to suffice. 

Eventually, your gaze wandered to her hands. Her hands. They looked so strong, and her fingers were so long. Small, long, and deep, scars were visible on most of her fingers, her palms, and the backs of her hands, surely from learning to master dagger fidgeting and sword fighting. 

The hand that had previously been playing with a dagger had stopped, and the noise of sharp metal being stabbed into wood ripped you out of your observation. 

“Well. Look here. The Lady here wants to join our crew.” If Bri’s face was attractive, her voice only matched it. It was velvety smooth, so deep and so extremely intruding. Her accent only made it even more delicious, and you were sure you would never get used to it. Even if the captain’s voice and words sounded cocky, there was a mighty insecurity swimming in her eyes and her soul that did not match her outwardly persona. “I’m no knight, but I’m sure pretty ladies such as yourself should be in their castle... not down here with us peasants.” 

The smirk plastered on her face was infuriating, but you couldn’t deny that it was thought-provoking and so, so attractive. Her words didn’t have the effect on you that she might’ve liked them to have, not even the comment on your appearance, as the constant eye contact only reminded you of the self-consciousness inside of her. At the same time as you wanted to tuck your tail and run, you wanted to stand your ground. Show your grit. So, you did. “I’m no Lady. But I’m sure you knew that. You were right about one thing, however. I want to join your crew, Captain. I want to sail under your command.” 

The blonde raised a brow and her smirk fell. She threw her feet off the table to place them on the ground so she could lean forward in her chair. She placed her goblet on the table next to the wood-impaling dagger, her eyes scanning your face imperceptibly. “...Very well. Have you sailed before?” 

“Yes, Captain.” The intense eye contact was burning you up from the inside and you wanted nothing more than to break it - if only just to breathe, but you knew you couldn’t do that if you wanted Bri to believe your words. Because of this, you remained strong. “I was Quartermaster on my last ship before the captain got drunk and sunk it during a supposed boast. I wasn’t present.” 

The captain cocked her head to the side as she watched you, trying to assess whether you were telling the truth. In the years of being a pirate captain, Bri had learnt quite fast how to tell if a person was lying. From what she could tell, you weren’t.  

She was silent for a long while before she finally spoke. “Well, as luck would have it, I need a new Quartermaster. My last one had to be... let go. But I say that we should get you started as a crew member first. Just to see how you work. And to build trust. And gain respect from the rest of the crew. We just met, after all.” Suddenly, the blonde woman stood up from her chair to reach out a hand to shake, and oh, was she tall. At least six feet, you guessed. There was seemingly nothing about this woman that was unattractive. 

Her intimidating height and appearance made it hard to resist staring at her open-mouthed but that would be considered rude, and frankly unprofessional, so you abstained. Even if it was tempting. Instead, you grabbed hold of her incredibly soft, outreached hand and shook it, your eyes never leaving hers, even when you had to change from gazing down at her to up at her.  

The smile she offered was much softer than her previous demeanor had been, and it caught you off-guard. It matched her more than her earlier expression. Matched the emotions that you could see deep in her eyes and soul. 

You could only hope to get to know her on a level that would allow you the pleasure of seeing and meeting the real her. Until then, you’d be the best crewmate she had ever seen. 

“Welcome to the crew.” And just like it never left, the captain’s overconfident behavior had made its return. She let go of your hand and motioned with her head towards the men sitting in a booth diagonally behind her before sitting down in her chair. “Go socialize with the rest of the crew. Get to know them well. You will be spending a lot of time together. Don’t be scared... they don’t bite. But I might.” That cursed smirk again. Why did it have to look so good on her luscious lips? It was plain torture, that much was clear. 

The only thing you could do was nod and go sit down with the crew, the rejected men in the other booth groaning in anger as you did. When it reached your ears, you couldn’t help but feel the tiniest bit smug that you had been chosen and they hadn’t. Maybe this wasn’t the most terrible idea you had built it up to be when you entered the tavern. This had been the best idea it had originally posed itself to be in your mind. 

The men conversed around you, and even if you were sitting amongst them, you wouldn’t say that you were paying attention to anything they were saying. You were more focused on the woman who sat mere meters away from you with her back toward you. With the new point of view, you could observe her without her knowing it.  

Her booted feet had found their way up onto the table again and the dagger was back in her hands. Her trousers were dark, in this light you couldn’t be sure but either a dark grey or dark blue. The shirt she wore was loose on her upper body, it was off-white due to years of wear and slightly unbuttoned at the top which you had registered when you gazed down at her. 

There was a piece of cloth tied around her waist to ensure that her shirt didn’t blow up in the intense ocean winds. It was blue, close to the color of sapphire, but considering the sun was ruthless and had bleached it significantly, it was hard to tell.  

The sword that hung by her hip was broad but seemed light enough to offer one-handed handling. A broadsword if you had to take a guess.  

The rest of the evening was not as eventful as you had hoped. Bri turned away every single person that approached her except for one man.

When the tavern began closing for the night, the captain approached the table you and the rest of the crew were sitting at.

As the hours had gone on, you had grown more comfortable than you thought you would and had even had a cider or two. 

The rugged exteriors of the men did not match their insides and you found them to be quite charming and funny, which was rare for most men in Westeros, but especially for pirates. You could see why Bri had recruited them to her crew. 

Your chatter was cut short when Bri stopped by the table, her eyes roving over all the people who were sitting by it. When her eyes got to you, they lingered for a few seconds longer before they resumed their journey. You noticed this and you wondered if it was intentional or not. When she finished her scan, she spoke with that deep voice that made a shiver run down your spine. “The haul was scarcer than I had expected...” After she had uttered her first few words, she made direct eye contact with you and smirked, again. “But it will have to do. I’m sure our two new recruits will pull their weight.” It seemed like forever before she broke the contact, moving her gaze to the only other recruit. 

The sound of a voice coming from behind Bri made her turn around and the rest of you direct your attention to the person behind the captain. “If you don’t have a room rented, it’s time to leave. We close in five minutes.” The voice came from the barkeep who was holding back the largest smile when she saw you sitting amongst the men. She had her arms crossed over her chest as she addressed Bri and the rest of her crew. 

The captain nodded toward the bartender before turning to face you and the men once again. “It seems like we have reached the end of the line, gentlemen... and gentlewomen. Let us trot back to the ship and our respective beds, shall we?” Bri turned back to the bartender once again to offer words of gratitude. “Thank you for your hospitality.” 

The barkeep in turn responded with a curt nod and a ‘anytime.’ She then stood to the side so Bri and her crew could leave, only giving you the largest grin when you passed her by to leave the tavern. She whispered some encouraging words, well, they were short considering you had to keep moving to not fall behind. 

Bri led you and the crew out into the chill night air, and it was needed because the second you had stood up you had felt the tipsiness from the strong cider. The cool air would help in sobering you up, and if it didn’t, you were sure the salty ocean air would when you departed out to sea the next day. 

The walk along the docked boats in the Honeywine was longer than you had expected it to be, but when you finally reached the ship at the far end, you were more than ready to call it a day.  

The captain stopped right before the docked ship and let the rest of the crew board but stopped you and the other recruit. “This is The Bloody Sapphire. She will be your home for the rest of your life until you die or desert. You better not because if you do desert, I will hunt you down and kill you. If you treat her well and with respect, she will return the favor. Your beds are below deck, make yourselves comfortable. Tomorrow, we make way to Lannisport to resupply. They are not very friendly so put your best innocent face on for our visit. If you need me, my cabin is underneath the quarterdeck, but do not wake me unless there is a fire, we are sinking, someone is attacking us, or if someone is dying. Savvy?” 

You and the man looked at each other before you looked at Bri again and nodded. Both of you responded in unison, making the captain laugh slightly. “Savvy.” 

“Good. Then you may board.” The captain stepped aside to allow you both to step aboard, but before you could step a single foot on the wooden deck, Bri stopped you with a hand hovering in front of your sternum whilst she allowed the other recruit to step aboard and you watched him disappear below deck. 

You looked at her with a puzzled expression as your mind ran through the possible reasons for her stopping you. What could she possibly say that the other guy couldn’t hear? Then again, she had her reasons, and you shouldn’t question her. So, instead of voicing your confusion, you remained silent as you waited for her to speak. 

“I never caught your name. I suppose my mind was distracted and I completely forgot to ask.” Bri dropped the hand that had been hovering in front of your sternum and it came to rest on the pommel of her sword. Her voice was much softer than it had previously been when she had addressed you and your fellow recruit, and you wondered why that was.  

What you didn’t know was that against her better judgement, the captain’s brain had somehow convinced itself that you were a safe space. Even if she had only met you a handful of hours ago. She was drawn towards you. 

When you told her your name, she repeated it and the way it sounded rolling of her tongue with her accent was orgasmic. Never had it sounded so beautiful as it did when spoken by her. In return, she introduced herself to you, not that she needed to, you already knew her name. But you guessed that it was an act of honor. “Bri of Tarth.” 

“The Sapphire Isle? Is that where the name for your ship comes from... and your waist fabric?” Learning where she came from spiked your curiosity, and you asked more questions than you probably should have, considering she enjoyed her privacy. What you weren’t expecting, and that was a pleasant surprise, was that she answered. 

“Indeed. The ship's name is... a long story.” Bri looked down at the fabric around her waist and smiled before she looked back up at you again. “Well spotted. It is indeed sapphire blue... or it used to be, at least. It is from Tarth, I wanted to have something on me that would remind me of my old home. This piece of fabric has been with me since the beginning of my seafarer career. I’m surprised it hasn’t ripped yet.” 

You observed the fabric tied around her waist, excluding dirt stains from years of usage, the occasional blood spatter from seeing many battles, and the bleach from the sun, it looked strong. “I’d say it won’t rip for a while... looks like good material was used. Whatever it was intended for must’ve been important, the fabric looks expensive.” You looked up at Bri again and met her eyes. A flash of what looked like sorrow was briefly displayed in her eyes and you realized that your nice, late-night, alone chat was over. 

Her demeanor changed in the blink of an eye - as if she had mastered switching her expression and behavior. Her tone switched from gentle and tender to overweening, but her eyes never left the previous persona. “Sorry for holding you up. Off you go.” 

You wanted nothing more than to stay, to protest, to say that you wanted nothing more than to stay here all night and converse with her, but your feet worked against the will of your brain and before you knew it you had stepped aboard the ship and was climbing down the stairs that led below deck, leaving Bri standing behind.  

She boarded the ship after a few seconds and retired back to her quarters where she proceeded to think of you until she fell asleep. You fell asleep thinking about her, her intense blue eyes and her blonde hair stayed on your mind until you fell into slumber next to the rest of the crew.  

------ 

The weeks that passed after you were integrated into Captain Bri’s crew went by lightning fast. You and the recruit, who you had learnt was named Will, had worked hard and had earned both the respect of the rest of the crew and your captain.  

After your conversation on the dock, you had managed to get a private chat with the tall blonde five times. The interactions were cut short by various interruptions or her withdrawing from the discussion.

It was like there was some sort of conflict inside of her and she couldn’t decide which side to listen to. It was heartbreaking to watch. 

After a month of sailing with Bri and her crew, you began climbing the ranks. It started with a simple suggestion that ended up working well in everyone’s favor and before you knew it, you had been voted for and promoted to first mate. The new title didn’t do much in terms of giving you more one on one time with the captain, but it was a step towards it.  

After three months of being aboard The Bloody Sapphire, a chaotic boarding made it clear that the ship clearly needed a Quartermaster and the crew voted for you, considering your experience. Bri could not complain because it meant she would be able to see you more often. You were always standing by her side when she was standing by the wheel, after all. 

This new rank did earn you the privilege of having many alone talks with Bri as she steered the ship. Until she, of course, left for her chambers and left you to take over for her. The shortness of the interactions meant you didn’t learn that much about her that you didn’t already know, and it was starting to gnaw.  

That was until you were standing by her side by the wheel on a very sunny fall afternoon and the men started singing. The song was about some scorned woman killing a man who betrayed her and the woman by his side.

It took you until the middle of the shanty to realize that it matched some of the things you knew about Bri. You turned your head to look at her where she stood, her gaze fixed dead ahead. “Is this shanty about you?” 

The captain sighed and the noise of it disappeared into the chilly early Autumn air. She was silent for a few moments until she nodded. “It is. The story went down quite differently, however.” Bri’s gaze never wavered, her eyes never leaving the blue water. “I didn’t sneak aboard a ship for revenge. I snuck aboard a ship because I wanted to get away. The fact that the person who betrayed me was on the ship as well was only a bonus. She just disappeared, and I found out why when I saw her walk with her new lover. I didn’t kill them. Just to make that clear.” 

You listened to Bri’s story but completely stopped breathing once she so casually mentioned that the woman was her former somewhat lover. Even if it caught you completely off-guard, you were able to listen to the rest of her retelling.  

This was the most you had learnt about her in one single conversation, and it made you mightily happy. You so desperately wanted to ask more questions, about why she wanted to get away, who did kill the two lovebirds, but you didn’t want her to escape back to her quarters again. 

Even if you wanted to get to know her even more when the opportunity had presented itself and she seemed to be open to sharing, you would rather enjoy her presence in silence over not being in her proximity at all. Meaning you only said something to let her know that you had listened and acknowledged her sharing but kept your mouth shut to not let anything slip out. “I see.” 

You stood in silence for a while until Bri opened her mouth to say something but was inevitably disrupted by Will who had shown up at the captain’s side in the blink of an eye to explain that they needed to dock somewhere to resupply.

After the blonde woman had dismissed him, she looked over to you and within seconds you had moved to the sea map to lay a new course towards a pirate-friendly port. 

When you returned to the helm, Bri left for her quarters again. Your absence had surely led to her conflicting with herself again and had probably concluded that she had shared too much with you. You had no idea what she did in her quarters all those hours, but you didn’t want to ask because you wanted to offer her privacy. At least there was some progress. 

------ 

Six months after learning that Bri had a shanty written about her, you had been able to snag her for many more chats and each one lasted longer than the one before.  

You learnt more and more about her in every day that passed and even if you didn’t want to admit it, you were so in love with her. You had known it about one month after sailing with her, but now, you were sure. Her looks combined with her gentle and loving personality made it so easy to fall for her. You just had to make sure that you did not hurt yourself on the way down, but it was a bit too late for that. 

You were more than certain that she didn’t feel the same way, even if she behaved so differently around you than she did around the rest of the crew. However, what you didn’t know, was that Bri was very much attracted to and interested in you and all that you were. Having you next to her every day was one of her greatest privileges and she reveled in your proximity. 

Seeing your face every single morning made her happier than any loot ever could, and she quickly found herself stumbling before she eventually fell for you. Yet, she couldn’t see how anyone could ever find her attractive, less love her. So, she didn’t allow herself to hope that you would feel the same about her and subjected herself to a life of yearning. 

It would have remained hidden until the day you both died - if it weren’t for a cold winter evening.  

The Bloody Sapphire had dropped anchor not that far away from Tarth, and the Sapphire Isle was visible from the deck. The ship was cleverly hidden with its sails and flag lowered to avoid a surprise attack should it be stumbled upon. 

You were just about to retire to bed when you spotted Bri standing by the railing, looking out over the ocean in the direction of Tarth.  

Slowly, you approached her and stopped next to her, looking out over the Sapphire Isle yourself. After so many of your conversations and her sharing so much, you felt confident enough to pose a query after you had stood in stillness for a few minutes. “Do you miss it? Tarth, I mean.” 

Bri leaned against the railing of the ship as she stared at the silhouette of Tarth. Her silences before her answers had become commonplace and you had gotten used to them at this point.

As you patiently awaited her response, you shifted your gaze from the darkened Sapphire Isle to the woman standing next to you. You really couldn’t help yourself when she looked so pretty in the glow of the torch.  

The fire cast a shadow over her face - her side profile looked even more angelic in this light, and you could only wish that you would be able to see her this close and like this so many more times in your life.  

When she finally replied, she ripped you out of your appreciation for her features and you began focusing your attention on her voice as well. “Sometimes. Though it’s very rare. The people I have met on my journey and my crew have treated me so much better than anyone on that island ever did. They have never insulted me. Not once. Not even when they learnt that I was a woman. I never wish to go back there. This is my new family.” 

She was so... vulnerable and it made you shocked. Sure, she had shared small things about herself in your talks but never something this deep. You couldn’t let the opportunity go to waste again. “When they learnt you were a woman? May I inquire in what it is that you mean, Captain?” 

Bri gazed at the Isle where she had grown up and eventually left as she told her story. It almost felt ironic in a way. Like it was coming full circle. Speaking about something she had never uttered out loud as she was close to and looking at Tarth. The island where the anecdote began.  

“When I first snuck aboard a ship that docked by Tarth, I told everyone that my name was Bri, and I even darkened my voice so they would believe that I was a man. When they eventually learnt I was a woman, they welcomed me with open arms instead of shunning me and calling me names. It was such a new approach and reaction. I’ve never been so happy.” Towards the end of her story, the blonde was smiling fondly as she thought back to how welcomed she had felt by a band of outlaws when she couldn’t even get the smallest amount of kindness on Tarth. 

Your gaze never left the captain’s pretty face. You could never get used to how beautiful she looked, and you simply could not believe how other people could not find her as attractive as you did. She was the most gorgeous person you had ever laid your eyes on in your entire life. 

Despite your mind coming up with all sorts of scenarios that would surely be deemed inappropriate should someone hear them, you still managed to ask a follow-up question to Bri’s tale without slipping anything that would let the blonde woman know that something completely different was going on in your head. “So... Bri is not your real name?” 

The captain shook her head before she responded. “No. No one knows my real name. The old band I joined and my current crew stated that to them, my old name does not matter. To them, my name is Bri. Though, I have nothing against my real name. I just prefer to have the rest of the world know me as it, so they get confused when they see that I am a woman.” Bri let out a small chuckle at the end of her explanation. Almost like she was thinking back to the different reactions she had gotten from various captain’s ships that she had boarded. “Except you seem to have known that I was not a man from the beginning based on your reaction when you first saw me...” 

“You are a legend... I had to know more about you. There was not a lot to learn about you from the people I managed to find. I only found out about your womanhood through a friend who works somewhere where tight lips go to blab. She also sees many things. Though, finding out that you were a woman only made me want to sail with you even more... I... May I pry?” Even if Bri seemed to be more comfortable with sharing and answering your queries, you knew that she had a habit of removing herself from the discussion when it was too much, and you did not wish to take her openness for granted. She had done nothing but treat you with respect, so you did the obvious thing and returned the favor. You had no interest in upsetting her when she was so exposed. 

“I see... Yes.” Her answer to your question was fast and equally as quick as she had responded, she turned her head to look at you who was intently admiring her. With her now facing you, you could see her breathtaking blue eyes that sparkled so bewitchingly in the light from the torch just meters away from you both. 

“What is your real name?” The inquiry was a whisper as your eyes scanned her face for any sign of the overweening personality you had gotten used to usually signaling the end of your conversations. It never came. The gentle and careful personality remained. The personality you assumed was the real her. 

Bri opened her mouth to answer your query but stopped when a noise sounded from below deck signaling that one of the crewmates was still awake. The captain turned her head to look at the hatch leading down and waited for someone to pop their head up, but that never happened.  

Even if it was still quiet below deck, she couldn’t risk someone eavesdropping on the conversation considering her behavior was completely opposite from how she usually acted. Before she spoke, she turned her head back to look at you. “We shouldn’t do this here. Join me in my quarters?” 

The question caught you by surprise. Never had you been inside of her quarters before and it was something you could never have dreamt of and now she was extending an invitation. At first, you were unsure if you had heard her correctly but as she looked at you expectantly, you knew you had heard her right. 

You almost screamed your answer, ‘Gods, yes please!’ but that might be seen as a little bit too enthusiastic and would surely weird Bri out. What came out was more composed and calmer - not a single trace of the previous excitement. You were surprised that your voice came out without a single shake, tremor, or stutter considering the storm that was going on inside of your head. “Sure, Captain. If you’d have me.” 

Your answer made Bri smile the smallest bit. She found it endearing. She found you endearing. She spun on her heels and started for the door that led to her cabin, and you followed close behind. 

------

Part two can be found here!

taglist: @na-shoba, @pastanest, @the-fuck-do-i-know, @christies-fleur, @idontlikepexple, @lord6-6fandom, @sapphicmitski

[daeronsdaringarchive]

We don't have Daeron's exact birth date but we do know Jacaerys is born in late 114 AC and Daeron right after.

Then Jacaerys dies on the fifth day of 130 AC and the Battle of the Honeywine happens roughly three weeks into the new year 130 AC

So Daeron was fresh from his 15th name day when the Battle at Honeywine happens. In the books at least.

Tv show-wise, I suppose you could use gwayne's lines to alicent to infer that he might have recently turned 16 as well. I dont think the show really goes that deep but I'll take a hc when I can get one.

[witchofhimring]

Loyalty timeline (life 1#)

This is just to put things in order so everyone can follow along (including me😫). This only counts for the first timeline.

Disclamer: The events of "Loyalty" change the years so Viserys dies in 132 AC instead of 129 AC.

132 AC

-King Viserys dies

-The Dance starts

-Jaecerys, Lucerys and Vaeron Velaryion begin negotiations. Jaecerys goes north, Lucerys to Storms End and Vaeron goes the the Vale.

-Lucerys is killed by Aemond

-Aemond marries Ellyn Baratheon

-Jaehaerys is killed by Blood and Cheese, Lenita Lannister is killed

-Daemon takes Harrenhall

-Vale and the North fight for Rhaenyra

-Y/n Tyrell is married, becoming a Lannister

-Otto Hightower is demoted and Criston becomes hand of the King

-Rhaenys dies, Aegon is injured. Rhaenyra sends youngest sons overseas.

-Aemond becomes regent

-Battle of the Gullet, Viserys (son of Rhaenyra) is captured and Aegon (son of Rhaenyra) gets back to Dragonstone.

-Jaecerys Velaryon dies/Vaeron Velaryon is executed

-Battle of the Honeywine

-Y/n falls pregnant and is sent to Kings Landing

-Aemond takes Harrenhall

-Battle of the Red Fork, Jason Lannister dies

-Aemond has Y/n taken to Harrenhal

-Kings Landing falls

-Y/n gives birth to her son Owen/Ellyn dies

-Y/n leaves for Highgarden

-Sacking of Lannisport

-Maelor Targaryen is killed along with his uncle Jaecerion

-Dragonstone falls

-Battle above the Godseye, Daemon is killed

-Storming of the dragon pit

-Rhaenyra flees Kings landing and heads to Dragonstone

-Rhaenyra arrives on Dragonstone and is killed

-Y/n arrested for murder

-Y/n imprisoned

-Owen Lannister dies

-Y/n dies

[daeron-targs]

This Variety interview with Ryan after episode two has some interesting insights about Daeron and Nettles

My thoughts:

The part about Daeron is very interesting. Ryan seemingly confirms that Tessarion was a cradle egg or at least hatched some time after Daeron was born. The part about him not having ridden her yet is also interesting, it could play into his role at the Battle of the Honeywine as speculated by fans from where I found it on Reddit. The comment below that made by the OP is speculating that it would play into why Daeron wasn’t initially involved in the fight. Ormund’s worried Tessarion is too small, only to lead into her and Daeron’s grand entrance where they save the day.

As for Nettles, I don’t know how to feel. It’s not an explicit denial or confirmation of her existence. I will note that in interviews prior to the season he was far more forthcoming about Daeron than he was about Nettles. Could this change later on? Absolutely! But this is more of a “wait and see” sort of situation.

[darilarostarg]

HOTD Predictions for Season 3  

I honestly cannot tell with all the changes they have made so far where the fuck they are going with this, and I have no idea how they are going to fit this entire story into four seasons, 16 episodes, but here are of my some thoughts/ideas, feel free to leave yours below (please be careful of future plot spoilers below);

I can see season opening one of two ways. I don't think we have time for a ease in episode, given the news of four seasons, so it may be either of the following;

The Gullet

To me this makes the most sense as it happens first in the book. All the Dragonriders that partake are currently on Dragonstone. I also think it would be great tension and drama, that when Rhaenyra does take Kings Landing, she has now lost two sons, a complete an utter betrayal (on purpose or not) when she arrives to see Alicents son, who's head she was promised, is in fact missing.

I also think Baela may partake in the Gullet, replacing Nettles.

2. Fall of Kings Landing

Just as it was set up at the end of S2. I can see the gullet happening while Rhaenyra and Daemon are taking/have already taken Kings Landing (that is why they are not there etc.), but I cannot at this point see Rhaenyra leaving all her dragon riders on Dragonstone if the gullet had not happened yet but CGI budget tells me it will just be Rhaenyra and Daemon lol.

Again the climax of the Fall will be the fact Aegon is not in the capital and Alicent will not know where he is. Alicent and Haelena will finally be taken captive at this point. I also think this needs to happen a little later in the show, as at a minimum we need Otto to return to be executed.

Other plot points throughout season three;

Rhaena claiming Sheepstealer - more a fact than prediction? However completely unsure where it leads to, if i'm being honest. No something I have really seen the vision on yet, as I do not believe Daemon will go to Maidenpool anymore etc. and have that whole part of the nettles arc. Also the blacks will still have a large ridable dragon at the end of the dance which is a little messy for the plot? I maybe Daemon does send her way? Or she leaves herself (the abandoned becomes the abandoner?)

I can see them combining elements of Honeywine/Red Fork/Lakeshore and possibly Butcher's Ball into one single battle. Deaths of Jason Lannister, and Cole (maybe Gwyane if they do not find a way to get him back to the capital before the fall).

Alys fucking with Aemond (maybe visions, I don't think we have the time though?) cause she misses her bestie girl Daemon

Haelena's death :(

Fall of Dragonstone - death of Moondancer :(

Season three ends with Tumbleton - Hugh and Ulf betray the blacks

I also think it is entirely possible they combine elements of Honeywine, Red Fork, Lakeshore, Butcher's Ball and Tumbleton all in one!

Season four possibilities

Gods Eye either episode one or two - Deaths of Daemon, Caraxes, Aemond and Vhagar rip daemon, FREE MATT!!!

However, I could also see them pushing this event out to keep Matt around for longer. God's Eye is an event most people are looking forward to, and they may be scared that people will check out after they lose their biggest name - I hope I am painfully incorrect about this.

Rhaenyra really unravels as she has been betrayed and lost her biggest ally - possibly Corlys turns on her at this point if it doesn't already happen in season three (or at all...)

Storming of the Dragonpit - orchestrated by Mysaria? - deaths of Joffery, Dreamfyre and Syrax

Tumbleton 2.0 - Death of Addam, Daeron, Ulf, Hugh and the remaining dragons (Vermithor, Silverwing, Seasmoke, Tessarion)

Rhaenyra flees to Dragonstone - her death

Aegon is poisoned at this point I think Alicent will be the one to do it lol

Hour of the Wolf - Deaths of Larys and Mysaria

Series ends with Aegon being crowned

So basically three very large CGI and battle sequences each season (with smaller set pieces with the dragons in between) to make it somewhat work, hitting the key points from the book.

Let’s hope and pray HBO have upped that budget lol