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kckt88 · 2 months

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Perzys se ānogar II

Summary:

In the aftemath of Rooks Rest, Aemond arrives on Dragonstone to bend the knee but tensions soon erupt when Vaeda stands against her family to defend her husbands life.

Warnings - Angst, Drama, Langauage, Disagreements, Vulnerability, Confessions, Death Threats, Imprisonment, Physical Violence, Uncle/Niece Incest, Kissing, Smut, Oral Sex (M & F Recieving), P in V, Breeding Kink, Referenced Character Death,

AEMOND TARGARYEN x O.C NIECE

Perzys se ānogar - Fire and Blood.

Word Count: 7800

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated.

Tag List - @jasminecosmic99 @kaelatargaryen @yesterdayfeelings-blog @immyowndefender @0eessirk8

"Aemond Targaryen, you stand before me charged with high treason and murder. How do you plead?" said Rhaenyra, her voice firm and commanding.

Aemond lifted his head, meeting Rhaenyra's gaze. "Guilty, Your Grace-" he replied, his voice steady but laced with sorrow.

Rhaenyra's eyes narrowed slightly as she leaned forward. "Do you have anything to say in your defence?"

Aemond took a deep breath, his eyes flickering to Vaeda for a moment before returning to Rhaenyra. "There is nothing I can say to excuse my treason. I helped to steal our father’s throne-as for what happened to Luke-” His voice broke slightly, but he continued, "-It was an accident. I never meant to kill him, I lost control and I-I’m sorry."

“Lost control?” asked Rhaenyra.

“All I wanted was his eye-in payment for the one that he took from me, but he refused. After he left, I chased after him. I just wanted to scare him, to make him feel as helpless as he made me feel that night on Driftmark. I lost sight of him and was about to turn back when Arrax attacked Vhagar, I could hear Luke shouting, but Arrax wouldn’t listen. Vhagar was angry and she lashed out-I tried to stop her but she wouldn’t listen”

The room fell silent, the weight of his confession hanging heavy in the air. Vaeda's eyes were filled with a mixture of sorrow and hope, her hands clenched at her sides. Jace's face was a mask of barely controlled anger, while Baela, Rhaenys, and Corlys watched with guarded expressions.

Rhaenyra's gaze bore into Aemond, assessing him. "You claim it was an accident," she said slowly, "-Yet my son is dead, and your actions have plunged this realm into chaos and war."

Aemond nodded, his expression pained. "I know that, and I am prepared to face the consequences of my actions. But I ask, Your Grace, to consider my regret and my willingness to stand here before you, confessing my guilt."

Rhaenyra's eyes flickered to Vaeda, who stepped forward, her voice steady. "Mother, Aemond is willing to bend the knee, to swear his loyalty to you and to your cause. He came here knowing the risk, but he did so because he wanted to make things right."

Rhaenyra's gaze softened slightly as she looked at her daughter, then back at Aemond. The tension in the room was palpable as everyone awaited her decision.

Finally, she spoke. "-You have confessed to your crimes and expressed your regret and while I cannot bring back my son, I can choose to show mercy. Your fate will be decided by myself and my counsel, until then you will be held as my prisoner-take him to the cells."

As the guards moved to take Aemond away, Vaeda watched, her heart heavy. The sound of the chains echoed around the throne room, a haunting melody of loss and regret. Aemond's eye found hers one last time, and he whispered, "Avy jorrāelan ābrazȳrys" (I love you, wife).

Once Aemond had disappeared and the doors were firmly shut, Rhaenyra turned her attention to Vaeda. "What exactly happened at Rook's Rest?" she demanded, her eyes narrowing.

Vaeda took a deep breath, steadying herself. "Lord Staunton was under siege by the Greens' forces, led by Criston Cole. I had Cannibal burn as many of them as I could. But then Aegon arrived with Sunfyre, and we engaged each other in aerial combat."

The council members exchanged concerned glances, the tension in the room palpable.

Vaeda continued, "Then Aemond arrived with Vhagar, and he directed her towards Aegon and attacked him."

Gasps of shock rippled through the council. Rhaenyra's eyes widened in disbelief. "Aemond attacked his own brother?"

Vaeda nodded. "Yes, Sunfyre fell from the sky and whilst I could have fled, I knew that getting rid of Vhagar was a chance I could not pass up. So, I had Cannibal attack. The two dragons fought and were evenly matched. They crashed into the ground, and I was thrown from the saddle."

Rhaenyra, still seated on her rock-carved throne, leaned forward. "Then what happened?" she asked, her voice firm but laced with curiosity.

Vaeda took a deep breath before continuing. "I regained consciousness and discovered Aemond injured. I could have left him to die, but I didn't."

Jace scoffed loudly, "You should have left him to die."

Rhaenyra shot him a silencing glare. "Continue-"

"I saved Aemond's life," Vaeda said. "We talked—he told me what happened that night in the skies above Storm's End, and why he attacked Aegon. He also killed Cole to protect me."

Jace's eyes narrowed. "That's not all he did, given the love bite on your neck."

Vaeda blushed deeply, but she held her ground. She turned back to her mother, who shook her head in disbelief. Jace wasn't finished, though, his anger bubbling over. "So Aemond tries to kill his own brother, then sets his dragon upon his own wife, and she not only saves his life but fucks him in the forest like some animal."

"It wasn't like that," Vaeda protested, her voice rising. "Aemond thought that by coming here, he would be executed. We thought it might be the last time-”

“Vaeda-” muttered Rhaenyra, her voice soft yet firm.

“Muña kostilus, ziry emagon issa prūmia, ziry iksos issa idañnykeā perzys” (Mother please, he has my heart, he is my twin flame).

“Jāhor bona lua zirȳla pazavor?” asked Rhaenyra (Will that keep him loyal).

“Ziry jāhor, nyke kivio” exclaimed Vaeda (It will, I promise).

Jace sniggered angrily, but Baela elbowed him in the ribs, silencing him.

Rhaenyra looked at her daughter with a mix of emotions. "Vaeda, your loyalty to Aemond complicates things. His actions have caused great pain to our family, and yet you speak on his behalf."

Vaeda's eyes welled with tears. "Mother, I know what he has done is unforgivable, but he is still my husband and the father of my child. He came here to make things right. He deserves a chance to atone."

Rhaenyra sighed deeply, the weight of her crown pressing heavily on her. "Vaeda, this war has torn us apart, and every decision we make carries immense consequences. Aemond must remain in the cells until we decide his fate. But I will consider what you’ve said”

Vaeda nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. "Thank you, Mother."

Rhaenyra looked to her council. "We will meet in the council chambers on the morrow to discuss our next steps. Vaeda, you may return to your chambers and bathe-I will send Maester Gerardys to check on your injuries”

Freshly bathed, Vaeda sat quietly in her chambers as Maester Gerardys examined her injuries. Rhaegar sat on a blanket at her feet, playing with his toys.

Gerardys’ experienced hands moved carefully over her bruised ribs, noting the few minor scrapes.

"You've a small but deep wound on your forehead, Princess," Gerardys said gently, his fingers probing the area with care. "It will require stitches; I can prescribe milk of-"

"-No" replied Vaeda, her voice steady despite the pain.

"As you wish." Gerardys prepared his needle and thread, his movements precise and practiced. He began stitching the wound, his touch delicate yet firm. Vaeda winced but bore the pain silently, her gaze fixed on a distant point, the sounds of Rhaegar happily playing filtered through the air.

As he worked, Gerardys noticed the love bites on her neck. He paused briefly, then continued stitching. "Princess, do you require moon tea?" he asked, his tone respectful.

"No, thank you," Vaeda replied softly as she placed a hand on her stomach.

After a moment of silence, Vaeda's thoughts spilled forth. "Do you think I'm crazy for defending Aemond after everything he's done?"

Gerardys paused in his work, meeting her eyes with a kind and thoughtful expression. "Princess, I have known you since you were a small child. Not once have I ever thought you were crazy. Stubborn, yes, but never crazy."

His words brought a small, grateful smile to her lips. He finished stitching the wound and carefully tied off the thread, ensuring the stitches were secure. "There, all done," he said, stepping back to admire his work. "Do you require anything else?"

Vaeda shook her head. "No, thank you".

He nodded and gathered his supplies. "Rest well, Princess. Call on me if you need anything."

As Gerardys left the room, Vaeda leaned back in her chair watching as Rhaegar still played contentedly with his toys on the floor, his silver hair shimmering in the candlelight.

Suddenly, a distant, deep grumbling roar echoed through the air, causing Rhaegar to look up, his bright eyes wide with recognition. "Vhagar," he said, pointing towards the window.

Vaeda nodded, her smile bittersweet. "Yes, darling."

Rhaegar's face lit up with excitement. "Daddy here?" he asked eagerly.

Vaeda took a deep breath, her heart heavy. "Yes, he is."

"I want see daddy," Rhaegar said, pulling himself to his feet. He toddled towards the door; his small hands outstretched. "Daddy!"

“Rhaegar-we can’t” whispered Vaeda as she quickly scooped him up, holding him close as he buried his face in her neck.

"Pease, mummy—want see daddy," pleaded Rhaegar, his voice muffled and tearful.

Vaeda stroked his silver hair, her resolve wavering. "Alright, my sweet. I will take you to see your daddy, but you must be very quiet. Can you do that for me?"

Rhaegar sniffled but nodded, his tiny hands clutching his stuffed dragon teddy tightly. "Yes, mummy. Quiet."

With a deep breath, Vaeda adjusted Rhaegar in her arms and headed out the door. She moved silently through the dimly lit corridors of Dragonstone, her heart pounding with each step. The castle was eerily quiet, the shadows long and foreboding.

Vaeda held Rhaegar close as she descended the winding staircase towards the cells. The stone walls emitting a soft warmth as she passed.

Rhaegar clung to her, his small fingers gripping the fabric of her dress. His amethyst eyes looked around curiously, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings with a mix of wonder and apprehension.

As they approached the cell, Vaeda saw two guards standing watch. She walked towards them, her heart pounding. The guards stepped forward, blocking her path.

"You are not allowed to be here by order of the Queen," one of them said sternly.

Vaeda took a deep breath, her eyes pleading. "Please, just for a few minutes. Rhaegar wants to see his father."

The guards exchanged uncertain glances, clearly torn between their orders and the heartfelt request. After a moment, one of them spoke. "You have five minutes. No more."

Vaeda thanked them with a relieved nod as they unlocked the heavy door and moved aside. She stepped into the dimly lit cell, her heart aching at the sight before her.

Aemond was chained to the wall, his face turned towards the small window, the faint light casting shadows across his sharp features.

"Daddy!" Rhaegar's voice broke the silence, filled with pure joy.

Aemond turned at the sound, a smile breaking across his weary face. "Byka zaldrīzes" he breathed; his voice choked with emotion (Little dragon).

Vaeda set Rhaegar down, and the little boy ran to his father, throwing his small arms around Aemond's neck as best as he could.

"Miss you, Daddy," he said, his voice muffled against Aemond's tunic.

Aemond struggled against the chains, the metal clinking as he tried to move his arms. But the chains were too short, preventing him from fully embracing his son.

"I miss you too" he said, his voice thick with emotion. He managed to lower his head and press a kiss to Rhaegar's hair, his eye shining with unshed tears.

Vaeda stood by the door, watching the scene with a heavy heart. She knew their time was limited, and every second felt precious. Rhaegar looked up at his father, his small face full of concern. "Daddy, why you here?"

Aemond sighed, his gaze shifting to Vaeda for a moment before returning to his son. "Daddy made some bad choices-”

Rhaegar nodded solemnly, not fully understanding. He nestled closer to Aemond, his little hands clutching at his father's tunic.

Vaeda stepped forward, her voice soft. "We have to go soon, Rhaegar."

Rhaegar looked up, his eyes pleading. "No, mummy. Stay with daddy."

Vaeda's heart broke a little more at his words. She knelt beside them, placing a gentle hand on Rhaegar's back. "We can't stay, but we'll see daddy again soon”.

Rhaegar nodded and then quickly pressed his stuffed dragon teddy into Aemond’s hands, the soft fabric contrasting sharply with the cold metal of the chains.

“Keep, daddy. Safe,” said Rhaegar.

Aemond’s eye widened, as he clutched the stuffed dragon close a single tear slid down his cheek, glistening in the dim light.

Rhaegar reached up and wiped the tear away with his tiny hand. “No cry, Daddy,” he said softly, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to Aemond’s cheek.

Aemond looked at Vaeda, his eye filled with gratitude and sorrow. "Thank you," he whispered.

Vaeda nodded, her own eyes glistening with tears. She stood and lifted Rhaegar into her arms, the little boy protesting weakly. "We have to go now, my love."

As they turned to leave, Aemond's voice stopped them. "Rhaegar, be a good boy for your mother? I love you both so very much."

Rhaegar nodded; his face buried in Vaeda's shoulder. “Love you daddy”

Vaeda carried Rhaegar out of the cell, the door closing behind them with a heavy thud.

Later that night, Vaeda woke with a start. She could have sworn she heard Aemond's voice calling out to her in the darkness. As she sat up, straining to listen, her attention was captured by the sound of Vhagar roaring in the distance, followed by the unmistakable high-pitched whistle of her father's dragon, Caraxes. A cold dread settled in her chest. Something was wrong.

Pulling on a robe, Vaeda ran down the halls towards the cells. As she approached, she noticed the guards were conspicuously absent, replaced by the sounds of pained groans. Her heart pounded as she flung open the door to Aemond's cell.

Inside, she found her father, Daemon, his fist connecting brutally with Aemond's face. Blood spattered the cold stone floor.

"Stop!" Vaeda screamed, rushing between them. She placed herself protectively in front of Aemond, who was slumped against the wall, blood trickling from his nose and mouth.

Daemon's eyes blazed with fury. "Move, Vaeda. Let me deal with the kinslayer. This boy killed your brother. He deserves to pay for his crimes."

Vaeda stood her ground, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and determination. "If that is the case, then you should pay for yours. You may not have taken the blade to young Jaehaerys' neck, but you paid the men who did."

Daemon's face contorted with rage. "That was a mistake"

"Leave Aemond alone," Vaeda insisted, her voice steadying. "It is for the Queen to decide his fate."

Daemon snarled, his eyes narrowing at his daughter. After a tense moment, he stormed out of the cell, his heavy footsteps echoing in the corridor. Vaeda exhaled shakily, turning to see the guards had returned, their expressions conflicted.

"Unlock his chains," she demanded. When they hesitated, she added, "By order of the princess, or I will have you fed to Cannibal."

The threat worked. The guards moved quickly, freeing Aemond from his bonds. He slumped forward, barely able to stand. Vaeda reached out, helping him to his feet.

"Lean on me," she whispered, her voice soft but firm. "I'm taking you to my chambers."

Aemond nodded weakly, his body trembling with pain and exhaustion. As they made their way out of the cell, Vaeda cast a final, defiant glance at the guards, who quickly averted their eyes. If they wouldn’t do their job and guard Aemond then she would do it for them.

They moved slowly through the darkened corridors, Aemond leaning heavily on Vaeda. She could feel the tension in his muscles, the unspoken gratitude and vulnerability. When they finally reached her chambers, Vaeda helped him to the bed, gently easing him down.

"Thank you," Aemond whispered, his voice rough.

Vaeda sat beside him, her hand resting on his. "You're safe now," she said softly. "I won't let anyone hurt you."

The next day, Vaeda left Aemond in her chambers, having summoned Maester Gerardys to assess his injuries. The maester had cleaned and dressed the previously cauterized wound on Aemond's stomach and reset his broken nose, whilst administering a dose of milk of the poppy to ease his pain.

Now, Aemond slept soundly, his breathing even and steady. Vaeda took a deep breath, steeling herself for the council meeting that would decide Aemond's fate.

As she entered the council chamber, the room fell silent. Rhaenyra sat at the head of the table, her face stern and regal. Daemon, Jace, Baela, Rhaenys, Corlys, and the other lords were present, their expressions a mix of concern and determination.

Rhaenyra's eyes softened for a moment as she gazed upon her daughter "Vaeda, I have talked extensively with my council, and we all agree that it's too much of a risk to allow Aemond to live”

“Are you being serious?” exclaimed Vaeda.

“I’m sorry-but his past actions have proven that he can't be trusted” explained Rhaenyra.

Vaeda scoffed, her frustration boiling over. "Like you can stand there and talk about trust after all the lies you've told. The consequences of which stand before you, in the form of your children."

A shocked silence fell over the room. Rhaenyra's eyes widened in disbelief. Daemon's face darkened as he commanded, "Be mindful of how you speak to your Queen"

“Or else what?” challenged Vaeda.

“I shall have you punished” threatened Daemon.

“Wonderful-” mocked Vaeda clapping her hands together.

“Carry on and you will suffer the consequences-or your kinslayer husband will” snarled Daemon.

Vaeda's eyes flashed with defiance. "You dare after all the trouble you've caused over the years, and yet you dare to label Aemond a kinslayer when you're guilty of the exact same thing?"

Daemon slammed his fist down on the table, rising from his seat with fury. He charged toward Vaeda, his hand wrapping around her throat. "You know nothing of what I'm truly capable of” he hissed.

Vaeda smirked, her voice steady despite the pressure on her throat. "Oh, I know exactly what you're capable of."

Daemon felt a pinching sensation in his side, and he looked down to see the dagger Vaeda had pressed into his side.

“A bold move daughter-” said Daemon smiling, almost as if he was impressed.

"Stand down, both of you. NOW!" Rhaenyra's voice cut through the tension, commanding and firm.

Vaeda put the dagger back inside her sleeve as she stood before her mother, the anger still seething within her. "-This is all your fault," she began, her voice shaking with emotion. "Maybe if you had remained in King's Landing and actually spent time solidifying your position as heir instead of hiding away on Dragonstone, it wouldn't have been so easy to usurp you and maybe if you had bonded with your siblings instead of scorning them, our house wouldn't be so divided."

Rhaenyra's eyes widened in shock, but Vaeda didn't stop there. "And maybe if you had made Luke apologize for slashing out Aemond's eye, he might still be alive. You’ve helped to sow the seeds of discord, and now we’re the one’s dealing the consequences. But I will not stand by and let you sentence Aemond to death-"

"Vaeda," Rhaenyra started, her voice strained, but Vaeda cut her off.

"No! There has to be another way”

The room fell silent, the tension palpable. Rhaenyra's face was a mask of pain and regret. "Vaeda, I never wanted any of this," she said softly. "But we have to think of the realm. Aemond's actions have threatened our cause and the lives of our people."

Vaeda's eyes filled with tears, but she stood firm. "And what about my family? What about Rhaegar growing up without his father? What about me, losing the man I love? There has to be another way. Because if you give that order, then I swear you will never see me or Rhaegar again"

“You are heir to the Iron Throne” muttered Jace.

“FUCK THE IRON THRONE!” declared Vaeda savagely.

Rhaenyra looked at her daughter, the weight of her words sinking in. She saw the determination and pain in Vaeda's eyes, and it broke her heart. "I don't want to lose you," she whispered.

"Then don't make me choose-because it will be him. It will always be him" Vaeda replied, her voice trembling.

Rhaenyra took a deep breath, her expression firm yet sorrowful. "I cannot trust Aemond, this you know" she began, her voice steady. "But I will not lose my only daughter." She paused, searching Vaeda's eyes for understanding. “Aemond may keep his life, but he is to remain on Dragonstone for the rest of his days."

Vaeda's breath caught in her throat, but she said nothing, waiting for her mother to continue.

"And when the time comes for you to be crowned Queen," Rhaenyra continued, her tone resolute, "Aemond will not sit beside you as your Consort King. You will rule the Seven Kingdoms on your own, until your son ascends the throne after your natural passing"

Vaeda stood before her mother, heart pounding. She knew how much was at stake. The fate of her husband and the future of her family rested on her next words. She took a deep, shuddering breath, her decision weighing heavily on her.

"Alright," she said, her voice barely above a whisper at first, but then she found her strength. "I agree to your conditions”

Rhaenyra nodded, her eyes filled with a mix of sorrow and relief. "I know this isn't easy, but it's the only way."

Vaeda's mind was a whirlwind of thoughts as she made her way back to her chambers. How would Aemond react? Would he understand the necessity of this compromise? Her heart ached at the thought of telling him, but she knew it was either this or see him executed and she couldn't bear the latter.

Entering her chambers, she found Aemond still resting, his face peaceful in sleep. She approached quietly, not wanting to startle him. Sitting beside him, she gently took his hand in hers, waiting for him to wake.

Aemond stirred, his eye fluttering open. He looked up at her, confusion and concern evident in his gaze. "Vaeda?" he murmured.

"Aemond," she said softly, squeezing his hand.

He sat up slowly, wincing slightly at the pain from his injuries. "What is it?"

Vaeda took another deep breath, steeling herself for the conversation. "My mother has made her decision-”

“Am I to meet the stranger?” asked Aemond quietly.

“That was to be your fate, but I managed to convince my mother otherwise-” replied Vaeda as she reached forward and tucked a lose strand of Aemond’s long silver hair behind his ear.

“How?”

“I told her that if she ordered your execution then she would never see me or Rhaegar ever again. Plus, I may have told her a few home truths whilst I was at it, and I might have gone slightly overboard-” said Vaeda smiling sheepishly.

“Hmmm”

“A compromise was reached. You will be allowed to live, but you must stay on Dragonstone for the remainder of your days and when I become Queen, you will not be my Consort King. I will rule alone."

Aemond's eye widened slightly, processing her words. Silence stretched between them as he absorbed the news.

Finally, he nodded, his expression a mixture of relief and resignation. "I understand," he said quietly. "If it means that I can stay with you and Rhaegar, then it doesn’t matter”

“No matter what-you will always be Issa dārys” (My King).

“Issa dāria-” muttered Aemond (My Queen).

"Sounds like someone is hungry," teased Vaeda at the sound of Aemond’s stomach growling.

“Little bit” replied Aemond.

“I'll go request some food for you” said Vaeda as she started to move from the bed.

But before she could get far, Aemond's hand shot out, gently taking hold of her wrist. "I'm not hungry for food," he said, his voice low and filled with intent.

Vaeda's cheeks flushed a delicate pink as she realized what he meant. Her heartbeat quickened, as she allowed Aemond to pull her back onto the bed.

"Aemond," she whispered, her voice trembling with a mix of anticipation and affection.

He moved closer, his eye locking onto hers with an intensity that made her breath catch. "Vaeda," he murmured, his voice soft but filled with longing. "I need you."

She nodded, feeling a wave of love and desire wash over her as Aemond's hand moved to cup her cheek, his thumb gently brushing over her skin. "I love you," he said, his voice rough with emotion.

"I love you too," Vaeda replied, her voice filled with sincerity. She leaned in, capturing his lips in a quick tender kiss.

Aemond watched with a hooded gaze as Vaeda moved off the bed and began to untie the laces of her gown, letting it fall to the floor, with the material pooling at her feet.

Whilst she removed her shift, Aemond hastily pulled off his breeches and small clothes, he sighed in relief as his already hard cock was free from its confines.

Vaeda smiled slightly as she hooked her fingers around her own small clothes and slowly pulled them down, Aemond could feel himself salivating as he stared at her cunny.

“Come here-” growled Aemond, as he reached out and tugged Vaeda back on the bed.

“Let me take care of you” muttered Vaeda as she placed kisses along Aemond jaw and then down his neck, making sure to gently nip and suck his skin as she went.

She carried on moving down, pausing as she reached his chest, she grinned as she took one of his nipples into her mouth, her tongue teasing it before she bit down gently.

“FUCK” moaned Aemond.

“Does issa dārys like that?” asked Vaeda as she moved across and gave his other nipple the same attention, (My King).

“Oh. Gods” whimpered Aemond as she moved further down his body, her tongue and teeth grazing his pale skin.

When she reached the trail of hair from his belly button down to his cock, she pressed her nose against him and giggled when she felt the hair tickle her skin.

“Kostilus issa jorrāelagon” begged Aemond (Please my love).

“Ao līs umbagon issa zaldrīzes” replied Vaeda (You must wait, my dragon).

Aemond stared down at his naughty wife, his mouth hanging open as Vaeda’s warm, wet mouth quickly wrapped around the head of his cock.

Her tongue gently moving around the tip – tracing the ridges and licking off that drops of pre-cum that had started to leak out.

“Fuck, Vaeda!” groaned Aemond as he threaded his fingers through his wife’s silver hair.

Vaeda ran the flat of her tongue along Aemond’s length, tracing every hard inch of him.

Aemond’s heart almost stopped when she sucked his stones into her mouth, one at a time.

Her hand moving slowly over the hard length of him.

When Vaeda moved and engulfed Aemond’s cock in her mouth again, he squeezed his eye shut. She was driving him crazy.

But Aemond forced himself to open his eye, he needed to watch as his wife sucked his cock.

“Your taking me so well. Such a good girl” moaned Aemond.

Aemond knew it would push the limits of his control, but he did not care. He just had to watch his cock disappear into Vaeda’s mouth and see it come back out, shining with her spit.

Her head moving back and forth, her perfect pink lips stretched around him.

“I’m not going to last if you carry on” Aemond admitted, though it pained him to do so.

Vaeda smiled slightly and began moving faster, also using one of her hands in rhythm with her mouth.

“It feels so good-that’s it” groaned Aemond.

Vaeda responded to his statement by relaxing the back of her throat, and swallowing as much of her husband’s cock as she could, whilst her other hand cupped his stones.

“Shit-Vaeda. I’m going to come. Oh, fuck, I’m coming!” shouted Aemond as he exploded.

His wife took every last drop, swallowing his warm seed and licking him clean.

When he recovered, Aemond saw Vaeda’s self-satisfied smile.

“Was that to your liking husband?” asked Vaeda.

“Y-Yes. Now get up here and ride my face until I’m ready again” gasped Aemond.

“But your nose” whispered Vaeda concerned.

“I don’t care-get up here and sit on my fucking face” ordered Aemond, his cock already twitching with interest.

Vaeda hovered above Aemond’s face; her knees splayed on either side of his head.

“Such a pretty cock sleeve" breathed Aemond as he ran the flat of his tongue along Vaeda’s soaked slit, from bottom to the top, tasting her.

“Oh, my god” moaned Vaeda her eyes rolling into the back of her head.

“That’s it Issa dōna. Let me hear you” (My sweet).

“YES. It feels so good. Don’t stop. Aemond. Please” begged Vaeda.

“FUCK” growled Aemond.

“Ooooh A-Aemond” shrieked Vaeda.

"Delicious" purred Aemond as he began lapping at Vaeda, running his tongue along every fold.

"More" panted Vaeda "Please. I need more”.

Aemond inserted two fingers, sliding them in and out of her slick wet folds.

“Oh" whimpered Vaeda; her chest heaving as she began to gently roll her hips against him.

“That’s it baby, ride my fucking face” groaned Aemond, his cock was so hard that it was boarding on painful.

Vaeda was giving off a slew of loud swear words, moans, and pleas, that anyone passing her chambers would surely hear.

Aemond’s fingers were soaking wet as they continued to pump in and out of her tight heat.

“I can’t wait to get my cock inside you. I don’t want to wait any longer, come for me baby, come for daddy” moaned Aemond.

Finally, he felt Vaeda’s inner walls start to flutter around his fingers, squeezing them. Vaeda’s back arched taut as a bow and she screamed her release.

Aemond pumped slowly and lapped at his wife’s centre as she came.

After a few minutes, Aemond gently urged his wife to move down, so she was hovering above his cock.

Her hand wrapped around him, running the head of his cock along her warm wet folds.

“Your such a tease” moaned Aemond as his hips jerked involuntarily.

But it feels so good” replied Vaeda as she slowly sunk down on his cock, so only the tip of him was inside her.

“P-Please” whimpered Aemond.

“Uh-uh” said Vaeda shaking her head from side to side.

After a few torturous minutes Aemond couldn’t take it anymore and seized his wife’s hips, before surging up and ploughing his hard cock into her soaked cunt.

"AEMOND!" screamed Vaeda.

"Gods. You feel so good" rasped Aemond.

"Fuck me, Aemond" urged Vaeda, her tone bordering on desperate as she rolled her hips against his.

Aemond started to thrust slowly, trying to prolong the feel of his wife squeezing his cock.

“P-Please. Husband” whined Vaeda as Aemond began teasing her pearl with his thumb.

“That’s it-take all of me”

“OH-MY-“ shrieked Vaeda Aemond began to move.

"Faster, please" begged Vaeda.

“Like this?” replied Aemond as he gave a quick deep thrust.

“Yes, Aemond, just like that-" panted Vaeda.

Her hands ran along his arms, over his shoulders and down his chest, digging her nails into his pale skin.

“Gods, Vaeda" grunted Aemond, speeding up slightly.

"Fuck me, Aemond" whispered Vaeda "Fuck me with that big, cock of yours. You feel so good inside me, filling me up. Give me what I need. Give me your seed. I want it”.

Aemond knew exactly what Vaeda was doing, and he couldn’t help himself.

Vaeda wanted faster and he was going much faster now, his feet planted on the bed to give him more leverage and his pace increased with every filthy word that dropped from his wife’s luscious lips as he pounded into her.

“Aemond-I’m going to come. Oh, fuck!” screamed Vaeda; not caring if anyone could hear them.

Vaeda always looked amazing when she came. Her head thrown back in pleasure, her amethyst eyes alive with lust, and her pale skin shining with sweat.

“I’m going to put another babe in you-See you full of milk-”

“Y-Yes A-Aemond-I want another. Give it to me” whined Vaeda as she clamped down around his cock so hard he could hardly move.

That, combined with how glorious Vaeda looked, pushed Aemond over the edge, the heat shooting across his abdomen.

“God. Vaeda” groaned Aemond as he exploded. His cock throbbing and twitching as he spilled his seed inside his wife’s wet heat.

Afterwards, as they lay together, tangled in each other’s arms, the door to Vaeda’s chambers suddenly opened.

Aemond instinctively moved to cover himself and Vaeda with a sheet, but the sudden movement caused a sharp pain to shoot through his stomach, and he hissed in discomfort.

"Easy," Vaeda murmured, her fingers brushing against his cheek, concern etched in her eyes.

Jace stood in the doorway, his gaze fixed on his sister and Aemond, watching as Vaeda fussed over Aemond, the tenderness in her actions surprising him.

He had always known his sister to be fierce and unyielding, and seeing her reduced to a cock struck woman made his stomach churn. He hated the hold Aemond had over her.

Aemond caught Jace staring at Vaeda, and his lips curled into a slight sneer. "It is not appropriate to covet another man's wife, especially in the presence of her husband," he said, his voice dripping with condescension.

Jace's face reddened, and he looked at the floor, muttering, "The Queen has asked that you both attend dinner." Without waiting for a response, he hastily left the room, shutting the door behind him.

Aemond scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "She expects me to break bread with—"

Vaeda placed a gentle finger over his lips, silencing him. "She has allowed you to keep your life. Let's not give her cause to change her mind," she said softly, her eyes pleading with him to understand.

Aemond sighed, his hand covering hers. "Very well," he relented, though the resentment in his voice was unmistakable. "For you, I will endure this."

Vaeda smiled, pressing a tender kiss to his forehead. "Thank you,"

Vaeda and Aemond walked into the dining room, with Rhaegar nestled securely in his father’s arms. The air was thick with tension as they took their seats at the long table. The faces around it—Rhaenyra, Daemon, Jace, Baela, Rhaenys, and Corlys—were a mix of curiosity, suspicion, and barely concealed animosity.

Even though he was hungry Aemond hesitated to eat, his eye flicking to each dish with apprehension.

Daemon noticed and couldn’t resist a jab. “Fear not, nephew. It would not serve to poison you now, not after your wife fought so valiantly for your life.”

Vaeda’s eyes flashed with anger as she scowled at her father. “Enough,” she said through gritted teeth.

Aemond reached for Vaeda’s hand under the table and gave it a gentle squeeze before he reached for some bread and meat.

The entire table of guests were silent, the only noise was the sound of cutlery on the plates, and as the awkwardness progressed, Rhaenyra found herself watching Aemond as he interacted with Rhaegar. Despite the tension, he appeared to be a very attentive and loving father.

Rhaegar openly vied for his father’s attention, and even when the boy threw a tantrum and refused to eat his peas, Aemond remained patient and calm, and Rhaegar eventually gave in and ate his food, much to the quiet amazement of those watching.

Daemon, never one to let an opportunity for a snide remark pass, said, “Surprised to see that you’re actually a decent father.”

Aemond’s expression hardened. “I simply wish for my son to know he is loved, something Viserys never managed to show all of his children. That right was exclusively reserved for his favourite child”

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed, but before she could respond, Daemon openly declared, “We set out for King’s Landing on the morrow. Do you wish to beg for the lives of your traitorous kin?”

Vaeda’s patience snapped. “Father, stop.”

Aemond’s voice was steady but filled with restrained anger. “Aegon will pose no threat, as he will more than likely succumb to his injuries, Daeron is but a boy in Oldtown. As for my mother and Helaena, they are innocent of any wrongdoing. Perhaps that’s something you should’ve remembered when you ordered the execution of Jaehaerys.”

Vaeda slammed her hands down on the table, her frustration boiling over. “ENOUGH!”

She took Rhaegar from Aemond’s arms and stormed out of the dining room, her movements swift and determined.

Aemond rose to follow, his eye burning with a mix of anger and sorrow as Daemon sniggered into his cup of wine, clearly enjoying the chaos he had sown.

The next evening, Aemond was pacing around Vaeda's chambers, his steps echoing in the dimly lit room. The heavy burden of uncertainty pressed down on him as he thought of Rhaenyra and Daemon taking King’s Landing.

Vaeda had been reluctant to take Cannibal, as he was still tired from the battle at Rook’s Rest, but her mother’s insistence that she needed her daughter by her side had ultimately swayed her, and Vaeda had spent many hours making sure Cannibal gorged himself on as much food as he could in preparation for the journey to Kings Landing.

Aemond had asked to accompany them, but Rhaenyra had refused.

Now, he found himself left on Dragonstone with Rhaegar under heavy guard. Throughout the day, he made sure his son was fed and entertained.

They played dragons, and he read to him, but no distraction could keep his mind from wandering back to thoughts of his mother, Helaena, and the children. He had faith in Vaeda’s advocacy for their safety, but Daemon was such an unpredictable wildcard that not even the gods would know of his plans.

He did not mourn his grandsire or the others on the council—the seeds of their treason had been sown long before he ever existed. Yet, the uncertainty of their fates gnawed at him.

As night fell, Aemond found himself unwilling to part from Rhaegar. He lay in bed with his son cuddled up to him, the child’s soft breaths a soothing rhythm in the dark room.

Watching Rhaegar sleep, Aemond couldn’t help but notice how much he resembled Vaeda. A fond smile touched his lips as he remembered how she drooled in her sleep too, a detail he would never dare to mention to her of course.

The moonlight filtered through the window, casting a gentle glow over the room. Aemond’s thoughts drifted to the precarious future ahead. He whispered a silent prayer for Vaeda’s safety, hoping that her presence would be enough to sway any harsh decisions made against his family.

Aemond stirred awake, the feeling of a soft touch on his face bringing him out of his slumber. He opened his eye and saw Vaeda sitting on the bed, her hair windswept and falling free from its braid. She looked weary but determined.

"Are you okay?" he asked, concern lacing his voice.

Vaeda nodded quietly, then whispered, "Follow me."

Gently detaching himself from Rhaegar, he carefully rose from the bed. Elana, the handmaid had entered the room to look after the still-sleeping boy.

Aemond followed Vaeda through the dimly lit corridors, his heart pounding with every step.

"Is everything okay? What about my mother? Helaena and the children?" he asked repeatedly, but Vaeda remained silent, her expression unreadable.

They reached the throne room, its vast space cloaked in darkness. Vaeda led him to the centre of the room and stopped.

Aemond looked around, confused and anxious, when he heard a voice that made his heart skip a beat.

"Brother."

He turned swiftly to see Helaena standing there, her face illuminated by the faint moonlight filtering through the windows. Overwhelmed, he walked toward her, his voice trembling.

"May I?"

Helaena nodded, and they embraced, the weight of their separation melting away in that moment. Tears welled up in his eye as he held her close.

"Uncle!" came a chorus of little voices.

Aemond looked up to see Jaehaera and Maelor running toward him, their faces lit with joy. He knelt down, opening his arms wide to gather them in a tight embrace.

He looked over their heads at Vaeda, stunned and grateful. She stood watching them, a tender smile on her lips.

"Thank you," whispered Aemond, his voice thick with emotion.

Vaeda walked over to join them, her hand gently resting on his shoulder. "They are to reside here with us-I hope this is pleasing to you husband"

Aemond, still holding his niece and nephew close, looked at Vaeda with an intense gaze. "What happened in King's Landing?"

Vaeda took a deep breath. "My mother has successfully claimed the Iron Throne. The traitors have been culled, with much enthusiasm from my father and your mother has been confined to her chambers, but she is safe."

Aemond's jaw tightened, and he nodded slowly, processing the information. "And Aegon?" he asked, his voice strained.

Vaeda hesitated, glancing at Helaena. Aemond noticed the exchange and felt a knot form in his stomach. Helaena stepped forward; her eyes filled with sorrow.

"Aegon is dead," she said quietly. "He was in much pain. It was kinder to let him slip away while he was sleeping."

Aemond's eye widened, and he looked at his sister in shock. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"The feathers in the cotton took his breath” whispered Helaena.

Aemond’s breath caught in his throat as he realized what she meant. He stared at her, as the weight of her words began to sink in.

He didn't say anything. Because he had no right. Aegon's injuries had been his fault, and now his brother was dead. The realization left him hollow, a deep ache settling in his chest.

“The seed will bear many fruits-the dragon’s line is long; the unburnt mother will fight the ice and fire song” muttered Helaena softly.

“What?” asked Aemond.

“The stories’ in the steel” uttered Helaena as she reached into her long overcoat and pulled out the Valyrian steel dagger that once belonged to Viserys and then Aegon.

“Helaena, how did you-” exclaimed Aemond his singular eye widening.

“The heir knows, passed down from one to the other” said Helaena as she handed the dagger to Vaeda.

“What do you mean?” asked Aemond.

"I'm quite tired. It’s been a long day. Might I go to bed?" asked Helaena, her voice soft and almost childlike.

Vaeda nodded. She turned to a nearby guard. "Please escort Princess Helaena and the children to the guest chambers," she instructed.

“I do not fear my dreams this night-”

As a guard appeared and gestured for Helaena to follow. She picked up Maelor, his small arms wrapping around her neck, and took Jaehaera's hand.

Aemond watched them go, a mixture of curiosity and relief washing over him. He turned back to Vaeda, his expression softening.

“What was all that about?”

“As me again sometime and I will tell you” replied Vaeda.

Aemond simply smiled as he pulled her close and kissed her, pouring every ounce of love and gratitude he felt into that kiss.

Vaeda melted into his embrace, her own emotions swirling. When they finally broke apart, “I love you," Aemond whispered, his voice full of resolve.

"I love you too," Vaeda replied softly, her fingers gently tracing his scarred cheek.

Many moons had passed since Rhaenyra had reclaimed the Iron Throne and establishing her rule as Queen was not an easy task. While she had her supporters, others still rallied behind Aegon. Rumours of his demise had sparked calls for Aemond to press his own claim, but he steadfastly refused.

Confined to Dragonstone, Aemond found solace in the ancestral seat of House Targaryen. The vast library, filled with ancient scrolls and Valyrian texts, captivated his mind, satisfying his thirst for the knowledge of his forebears.

His days were filled with training and sparring with the guards of Dragonstone, honing his skills. He also took to teaching Rhaegar High Valyrian, cherishing every moment spent with his son.

Helaena, Jaehaera, and Maelor were thriving on Dragonstone, and to Vaeda’s horror so was the spider colony that Helaena had cheerfully installed in her chambers.

Vaeda of course made sure to actively avoid that part of the castle, fearful of what she might encounter.

Another thing that was flourishing was the babe currently nestled within Vaeda. Aemond had been ecstatic when she informed him that his seed had taken root once more and he was by her side as she birthed their daughter, a tiny little dragon who lungs were well in working order as she announced her arrival into the world very loudly.

As he cradled his sweet Elaena in his arms, any doubts over the decisions he had made in the past just melted away, for he knew this was where he was supposed to be.

Especially when Vaeda gave him the news not even eight moons later, she was carrying another child, that pregnancy was quite hard on her and she spend many weeks abed with aches and sickness, but in the end, they were blessed with another son named Aerys.

Given Vaeda had suffered during her term, Aemond vowed not to get her child again, at least not for a while, but the gods obviously had other ideas as when Aerys was but a child of one name day old, she gave him the news of another expected babe.

Helaena found the whole thing hilarious and was quick to remind Aemond that ‘the seed would bear many fruits’.

And well she wasn’t wrong, as in the end Vaeda and Aemond were blessed with six sons and six daughters.

It was just as well that Dragonstone was big enough to accommodate such a large family, but in the chaos of squabbling children and the endless headaches that came with convincing them that their lessons were useful for the future, he knew he wouldn’t change it for the world.

All his children were treated equally, and as often as his sons trained with the sword so did his daughters.

He wanted things to be different, he wanted to be different.

The children, would always know of his love, his attention and they would know how wanted they were.

As would Vaeda, she was his heart, his soul and his greatest love, and everyday he made sure to tell her that he loved her.

Aemond had everything he had ever wanted, he was happy and more importantly he was loved.

And if Vaeda changed the previous Queen’s ruling and installed Aemond as her consort King the moment she was crowned in the Dragon pit well that was just fine with him.

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #aemond fanfiction #hotd fanfic #aemond fic #aemond x oc #hotd fic #aemond one eye #aemond x original female character #aemond #prince aemond #aemond smut #aemond targaryen smut #prince aemond targaryen

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novaursa · 26 days

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The Price of Fire (6)

- Summary: In the shadows of the Red Keep, the daughter of the Mad King, Princess Y/N Targaryen, finds herself caught between duty, love, and survival. As her father’s madness deepens and political intrigue swirls, she seeks solace in a forbidden romance with her sworn protector, Ser Arthur Dayne. With King Aerys plotting to use her as a pawn and her brother Rhaegar maneuvering to shield her from their father’s grasp, Y/N must navigate a web of deceit and desire. As tensions rise, secrets ignite into fierce passion and dangerous alliances, where the wrong move could mean the end of them all.

- Paring: targ!reader/Arthur Dayne

- Note: If you wish to read all the parts of this story, or more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

-Rating: Explicit 18+ (Aerys is warning on his own)

- Word count: 8 000+

- Previous part: 5

- Next part: 7

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @lightdragonrayne @onlyrealjoy

The flickering light from the torches casts ominous shadows across the walls of the Red Keep’s council chamber. The air is filled with dread and the metallic scent of incense mingles with the faint aroma of wine. The small council is seated around the long oak table, faces stern and expectant, as they await the king’s arrival. Whispers of conversations linger, drowned by the soft rustle of parchment and the distant clatter of steel as Ser Jaime and Ser Barristan stand vigil at the door.

The heavy doors swing open, and King Aerys enters, a brooding figure wrapped in the darkness of his own madness. His unkempt silver hair spills over his shoulders like a tarnished crown, and his violet eyes, once regal, now gleam with a feverish edge. He sweeps into his seat with a manic energy, the meeting commencing with a tension that hums in the room like a taut bowstring.

Tywin Lannister, seated with that practiced air of authority, eyes the king with the precision of a predator measuring its prey. His voice, cold and clipped, is the first to break the silence. “Your Grace, marriage proposals for Prince Rhaegar continue to flood in. There are those who still favor the union with House Lannister—”

Before Tywin can finish, Symond Staunton, a wisp of a man with thin, graying hair and a face like old parchment, interjects. “It is true, Lord Tywin, but there is greater wisdom in forging a bond with Dorne. Lady Elia Martell has strong connections in the south, and the Prince would be well-matched with her. The Dornish are fiercely loyal, and—”

“Loyalty from those who would do nothing but sully the prince’s blood with their lesser lineages,” Tywin cuts in, a sneer curling his lips. “The Martells are beneath what House Targaryen deserves.”

Before another word is spoken, Lord Lucerys Velaryon’s voice rings out, measured and full of conviction. “The Dornish alliance has its merits, Lord Tywin. But you are blind if you dismiss them so easily. Elia Martell’s bloodline may not match the legacy of House Velaryon or House Targaryen, but they are allies who know when to stand with strength. We cannot ignore the balance of power the marriage would bring.”

The discussion spirals into back-and-forth bickering, each lord trying to sway the king’s attention. All the while, Prince Rhaegar sits silently, his eyes cast downward, hands clasped in front of him as though praying for the gods to deliver him from this madness. The only flicker of emotion in his gaze is when your name drifts into the conversation, slipping in like a viper’s hiss.

It is Varys who speaks your name, his voice a smooth whisper that glides through the chamber. “Your Grace, might I suggest a proposal that has already been placed before the council in times past, one that Prince Rhaegar himself once hinted at? A union within the royal family, as it has been tradition, might ensure not only the purity of the bloodline but also strengthen the ties between your daughter, Princess Y/N, and the Crown.”

The effect is immediate. Aerys’ eyes snap toward the eunuch, a crazed, gleaming interest dancing in his gaze. He leans forward, almost conspiratorial. “Y/N… Yes, yes. My own daughter, kept close. Bound to the throne, where she belongs. No lesser lord is worthy of her.”

Rhaegar stiffens ever so slightly, a subtle tightening of his grip on his hands as he dares to glance at his father. But he says nothing, his face a practiced mask of calm, though those who know him well would recognize the torment simmering beneath. His mind is likely already racing—thoughts of the promises he made to you and Arthur, the private words exchanged in moonlit gardens where the walls had ears and love was a fragile, dangerous thing.

Tywin scoffs, loud and derisive, shattering the king’s moment of reflection. “You would have your son wed his sister when alliances with the wealthiest and most powerful lords are at your feet, Your Grace? It is madness.”

The room falls deadly silent at Tywin’s audacity. Even Ser Jaime’s eyes flicker with uncertainty, though his face remains impassive. Aerys’ expression darkens, fingers drumming against the wood as he glares at the Hand of the King. “Madness, you say?” he hisses, voice laced with venom. “It is you who would see my bloodline sullied with your golden-haired brood, Tywin. I will not allow it. My daughter—my jewel—will not be squandered.”

Varys, ever the shadow, interjects softly. “It is not madness, my lord. It is strength. The realm respects power, and what greater power than a dragon bound to another dragon? Y/N would not need to leave the Keep. She could remain under your protection, Your Grace, where no one would dare conspire against you through her.”

Pycelle, a toad-like presence at the table, nods sagely. “The history of the Targaryens is built upon such unions. The legacy of Old Valyria… it endures through such bonds.”

Rhaegar finally raises his eyes, and when he speaks, his voice is calm but edged with steel. “Father, I have always held that Y/N is deserving of more than to be used as a mere tool in the games of men. If it is your wish to keep her close, then let it be done, but let her also choose her path with dignity.”

Aerys’ gaze narrows, his thoughts a chaotic storm, but he is clearly intrigued by the idea. “You speak as if you would protect her, Rhaegar. Is this what you desire? To marry your sister as it was done in ages past? To have her by your side?”

Rhaegar’s pause is deliberate, calculated. He meets his father’s gaze, voice steady. “If it means she is kept from harm, then yes, Father, it is what I desire.”

The king’s laughter is a cruel, crackling sound, his mood volatile and unpredictable. “Then it may yet be. I will decide what is best for my daughter.” His voice lowers to a near whisper, eyes glittering with dark intent. “She is mine to give, as I see fit.”

As the meeting draws to a close, the lords exchange wary glances, knowing the king’s whims are as fickle as the flames he so loves to watch consume his enemies. But in this chamber, you are the invisible thread that pulls at the edges of ambition, loyalty, and madness. Rhaegar remains seated, eyes fixed on the table, a man who walks a razor’s edge between duty and brother’s love that drives him to protect you—at any cost.

And somewhere within the Red Keep, in the silence of a hidden alcove or the shadows of a quiet garden, you wait, unaware of the storm your name has stirred among the powerful and the damned alike.

The echo of boots striking stone reverberates through the dimly lit corridors of the Red Keep as Rhaegar moves with determined purpose. His mind is a tempest of conflicting emotions—anger, anxiety, and a deep-seated fear that gnaws at him like a starving wolf. Ser Barristan Selmy walks a respectful step behind him, silent and vigilant as always. The knight’s sharp eyes flicker between the darkened alcoves and shadowed corners, but it is not an assassin they fear in this moment—it is a whisper, a rumor, the delicate thread of secrets that could unravel everything.

Rhaegar’s silver hair shimmers under the torchlight as he rounds a corner, his steps quickening. He knows where to find Varys; the spymaster is as predictable as he is cunning, often retreating to the hidden chambers beneath the Keep after council meetings. Rhaegar’s fists clench at his sides as he spots the familiar figure slipping down a narrow stairwell.

“Varys,” Rhaegar’s voice rings out, clear and commanding, echoing off the cold stone walls. The spymaster pauses, then turns with that same eerie calm that always unsettles those who face him. His expression is one of mild curiosity, as if he has been expecting this conversation.

“Your Grace,” Varys says smoothly, inclining his head with a hint of mock deference. “What an unexpected honor to be sought out by the Prince himself.”

Rhaegar’s eyes narrow, every word he speaks measured and deliberate. “You mentioned my sister’s name during the council meeting. Why? What is your true intent in drawing attention to her in such a dangerous way?”

Varys’s expression remains inscrutable, his hands tucked into the voluminous sleeves of his robes as he offers a serene smile. “I have no intent but the safety and wellbeing of the Princess, Your Grace. You care for her deeply, as do I. Surely we both seek to protect her from the treacherous currents that swirl through this court.”

Rhaegar’s jaw tightens as he steps closer, his voice lowering to a cold whisper. “Do not play coy with me, Varys. You know exactly what you’re doing. My sister’s safety should not be bartered as a piece in this game. What do you stand to gain by placing her at the center of these discussions?”

Varys’s eyes glitter, and though his tone remains light, there is an edge of something darker beneath. “I gain nothing, my prince. But it is not I who endangers her. The whispers in court, the hungry eyes of those who would use her for their own advantage—they are the threat. By suggesting a union between you and the Princess, I merely shield her from more nefarious designs.”

Rhaegar scoffs, frustration seeping into his tone. “Shield her? You bring more attention to her, and you know how volatile our father is. He already watches her too closely. What do you hope to achieve by binding her fate to mine?”

Varys tilts his head, as if weighing his words carefully before responding. “Forgive me if I overstep, but I believe you already know the answer to that question, Your Grace. The king’s mind is... unpredictable, but his possessiveness over his daughter is unwavering. Keeping her close in a manner that both secures her honor and the Crown’s interests is, perhaps, the only way to prevent any... unfortunate rumors from spreading.”

Rhaegar’s gaze hardens, a storm brewing in his violet eyes. “Rumors? Speak plainly, Varys.”

The spymaster’s smile widens, but there’s a knowing look beneath his carefully cultivated mask of servility. “You care for your sister. So does Ser Arthur Dayne, does he not?”

The name lingers in the air like a drawn blade. Rhaegar’s heart pounds, his hand flexing unconsciously as if reaching for a sword he doesn’t carry. The implication is clear, the unspoken truth hanging heavy between them.

“You’re suggesting that my sister’s honor is in jeopardy,” Rhaegar says, his voice barely above a whisper, yet each word drips with a cold warning.

Varys’s eyes gleam with satisfaction, though his tone remains innocent, almost regretful. “I would never be so bold as to make such an accusation, Your Grace. But this court has eyes in every shadow and ears in every corner. Your sister is precious to many, and the attention she garners... can be misconstrued. Ensuring that she is wedded to a man who values her, who understands the importance of her standing, would silence those whispers before they take root. And who better to protect her than you, the brother who has always shielded her?”

Rhaegar’s mind reels, the weight of Varys’s words crashing down on him. He thinks of you—his only sister, and the nights when you had confided your fears to him in whispers. And then there is Arthur, the man Rhaegar respects more than any other, who has been by his side through every battle and who, Rhaegar knows, loves you with a passion that is both fierce and dangerous.

The prince’s voice is rough as he responds. “You’re using her to manipulate me. Do not think I don’t see it. But know this—if you push too far, if any harm comes to her because of your machinations, no one will be able to protect you. Not even the shadows you hide in.”

Varys’s smile never falters, but there is a flicker of something in his eyes—a glimpse of fear or perhaps admiration. “I live to serve the realm, Your Grace. And if keeping your sister safe also ensures your own security, then I will consider it a worthy endeavor. But heed this: Ser Arthur may be loyal, but the world is not kind to those whose love defies what is expected. A marriage to you would silence any talk of impropriety. It is a solution that benefits all, would you not agree?”

Rhaegar turns away, fists clenched as he struggles with the turmoil inside him. He knows Varys is right in a way that makes his blood boil. Marrying you would be the only way to keep your honor intact, to shield you from the ravenous wolves of the court. But it is a solution that comes at a cost—one that would bind you both to a life neither of you chose.

Without another word, Rhaegar strides down the corridor, Ser Barristan close behind. He needs time to think, to plan. But one thing is clear: he will not allow Varys, or anyone else, to dictate your fate. You are his sister, his responsibility, and he will protect you—no matter the cost. Even if it means sacrificing the love you share with another, a love that burns bright in the shadows where only the most dangerous of secrets dare to tread.

The gardens of the Red Keep are alive with the soft hum of bees flitting between blossoms and the gentle rustle of leaves in the summer breeze. Sunlight spills through the high branches, dappling the ground with patches of gold. You walk along the gravel paths with your handmaidens trailing behind, their laughter a light melody that mingles with the song of the distant fountains. It should be a serene moment, a reprieve from the suffocating intrigues of the court, but your thoughts are restless.

You stoop by a patch of flowers—delicate blue petals fringed with silver—and pluck one carefully. You roll it between your fingers, its softness reminding you of something more precious, more fleeting than even these quiet moments. From the corner of your eye, you catch a glimpse of polished steel reflecting the sun. Arthur stands near the edge of the garden, half-hidden in the shadows beneath a tree, his attention supposedly focused on his duty. But you know him better than that.

The handmaidens’ chatter grows more animated, distracted by some trivial gossip, and you seize the opportunity. With practiced grace, you drift closer to Arthur, your movements casual and unhurried. He watches you from beneath the rim of his helmet, his expression impassive to anyone else who might be watching. But there’s a flicker of warmth in his gray-lilac eyes—eyes that mirror your own violet ones, save for the quiet fire that only you can coax into a blaze.

You stop just within reach, turning slightly so the handmaidens don’t notice your proximity to him. As though admiring the flowers around you, you reach up with the small bloom still in your fingers and tuck it into a gap in his armor, just above his heart. His lips twitch into a faint smile, amusement dancing in his gaze. “A gift, my lady?” he murmurs, his voice barely more than a breath.

You glance at him, your own smile hidden behind the practiced serenity you wear like a veil. “It suits you, Ser Arthur. Perhaps it will remind you of the softness behind the steel,” you reply, equally soft, the words layered with more than their surface meaning.

His smile lingers, a rare thing for him in a place like this. “I have never needed reminding, Y/N,” he says, the sincerity of his words settling between you like a secret oath.

Before you can respond, your handmaidens call out, dragging your attention away with giggles and questions about the flowers and the latest court gossip. You cast a quick, regretful glance back at Arthur, and he offers you a small, almost imperceptible nod—a silent acknowledgment of the connection that binds you, even in these brief moments stolen from the world.

The garden soon returns to its usual rhythm, the clatter of distant hooves and the laughter of courtiers echoing from the nearby corridors. You try to immerse yourself in the conversation, nodding and responding as required, but your thoughts remain with Arthur and the unspoken words that passed between you.

It’s then that you hear the measured footsteps of someone else entering the garden, the swish of rich fabric announcing their presence before they even speak. You don’t need to turn around to know who it is. Cersei Lannister’s arrival is always accompanied by that distinct air of arrogance, thinly veiled beneath a pleasant smile. You force your own expression into one of polite welcome as you turn to greet her.

“Princess Y/N,” Cersei says with an almost saccharine sweetness, inclining her head in greeting. “I hope I’m not intruding. I thought I might join you for a walk, if you would have me.”

You smile, though it barely reaches your eyes. “Lady Cersei, you are always welcome,” you say, the words smooth but hollow. You’ve long since learned to play this game.

Cersei steps closer, her gown trailing elegantly behind her as she links her arm with yours. She makes a show of admiring the flowers, but you can feel the calculation behind every move she makes. She’s here for one reason, and you both know it.

“I hear the gardens are Rhaegar’s favorite place for reflection,” she says, her tone light but laced with an unmistakable intent. “It must be lovely to have such serene surroundings for your family. Perhaps I might see him here one day.”

You keep your expression composed, but inside, your irritation simmers. You know exactly what Cersei is doing—every word, every feigned smile is a step toward getting closer to your brother. She’s as ambitious as her father, and her desire to secure Rhaegar as her husband is no secret since she arrived during the festival. And now she’s using you to further that goal.

“Rhaegar finds peace wherever he can,” you reply diplomatically. “The burdens of the crown weigh heavily on him. I doubt he has time to simply stroll through gardens.” Your words are a subtle warning, one you know she’ll choose to ignore.

Cersei’s smile tightens ever so slightly. “A pity. I imagine the right company might lift his spirits.”

You glance at her from the corner of your eye, your mind racing as you consider how best to deflect her without giving away too much. “He finds solace in music and books more than idle conversation, I’m afraid. But should I see him, I’ll be sure to mention your interest in sharing his company.”

Her green eyes flash, catching the subtle barbs beneath your words, but she doesn’t let it show. Instead, she laughs lightly, a sound that feels rehearsed. “You’re too kind, Princess. I’m sure you understand what it’s like to carry the hopes of your family on your shoulders.”

Before you can respond, your handmaidens, oblivious to the undercurrents of tension, pull you away to show you something among the flowers. You excuse yourself from Cersei with a practiced curtsy and a gracious smile, but inside you’re relieved to have a moment away from her scheming presence.

As you walk away, you can feel her eyes on you, sharp and calculating. Cersei Lannister may wear the mask of a courteous lady, but you see the ambition beneath—the hunger to be queen, to wield power, and to use any means necessary to get what she wants. You know she sees you as a mere stepping stone to her goal, and while you might be willing to play along for now, you will not be used in her game.

Your thoughts drift back to Arthur, to the fleeting moment of warmth in the midst of all this cold calculation.

The sun begins its descent, casting shadows across the stone walls as you make your way back into the Keep. Your handmaidens chat animatedly behind you, oblivious to the tension that knots in your stomach. Ser Arthur walks beside you, his presence, as always, a silent anchor in the growing unease you feel with every step closer to the heart of the castle. The closer you get, the more the familiar scent of smoke and something acrid begins to fill the air—a smell that turns your blood cold.

Your footsteps slow as you near the throne room’s vast, looming doors, the heavy sound of voices carrying from within. The torchlight flickers, casting eerie siluethes as you hear the distinct crackle of fire and the low murmurs of the crowd inside. The doors are open just wide enough for you to glimpse the grand chamber filled with courtiers, their eyes fixed on the spectacle unfolding near the Iron Throne.

You recognize the scene at once, and dread pools in your gut like ice water. King Aerys stands before the Iron Throne, flanked by pyromancers dressed in their dark robes, their hands outstretched toward a brazier where several dragon eggs, turned to stone over the ages, rest on beds of smoldering coals. The flames dance wildly, manipulated by the green-tinted powders the pyromancers cast into the fire. The court is packed, hundreds of nobles watching with bated breath, some in eager fascination, others in thinly veiled horror.

Ser Arthur moves slightly in front of you, as if to block your path, his voice low and urgent. “We should find another way, my lady. This is not something you need to witness.”

But it’s too late. Aerys’s head snaps up, and those fever-bright violet eyes find you across the room. His face twists into something that might be a smile—or a grimace. “There she is, my precious jewel! Come, daughter. Witness history in the making.”

The words hang in the air, and every eye in the throne room turns toward you. You feel the weight of their stares—curious, expectant, and some even pitying. The courtiers part like the sea as you step forward, masking your hesitation with a graceful bow of your head. Inside, every muscle tenses as you try to gauge what mood your father is in. You’ve seen this spectacle before—each attempt more desperate than the last, each failure driving him deeper into his madness.

“Father,” you greet him softly, your voice steady, though your heart races. You approach the throne, your steps light and deliberate. Each pace forward is a dance on the edge of a precipice. You feel Arthur’s presence just behind you, his every move like a shadow to your own, though you know he must hold his position near the Kingsguard—Ser Jaime and Ser Gerold Hightower already standing sentinel near the throne.

“Closer, closer!” Aerys beckons, his voice a sharp bark as he extends an arm toward you. “See how the fires burn brighter in your presence, child. Perhaps you will be the key, the one to awaken the dragons of old!”

You force a tight smile, hoping it appears genuine, as you step to his side. The heat from the brazier is intense, waves of it rolling over you, making your skin prickle with discomfort. The pyromancers chant softly, adding more powders to the flames, causing the fire to flare with green and yellow sparks. The dragon eggs, blackened and cracked from countless attempts, remain cold and lifeless.

“The blood of the dragon flows strong in you,” Aerys continues, his voice lilting into that dangerous sing-song tone he adopts when he’s teetering on the edge. “Perhaps the fire in your veins will be enough to wake them. Yes, yes, place your hand near the flames, my daughter. Do you not feel the call of our ancestors?”

You swallow, pushing down the rising dread. Every eye in the room remains fixed on you, the silence suffocating. You can sense the unease in the courtiers, even those who hide their discomfort behind practiced smiles. But you know better than to refuse your father in this state. Slowly, you extend your hand, holding it near the brazier, feeling the scorching heat lick at your skin but never touching it. The air wavers with the intensity of the fire, but the eggs remain still, unyielding as stone.

Aerys’s eyes gleam with a wild hope, a manic anticipation that threatens to snap at any moment. You know this pattern well. You’ve seen how quickly that hope can twist into rage, how the king’s mood can darken like a gathering storm when reality does not bend to his delusions.

“Nothing… nothing…” he mutters under his breath as the flames sputter and die down to embers. His gaze shifts from the brazier to you, his expression tightening. “Why do they not stir? Why?” His voice grows sharp, accusatory.

You steel yourself, forcing calm into your voice. “Perhaps the dragons sleep still, Father. The fire may not be enough this time.”

His eyes narrow, suspicion flickering in their depths, but before his paranoia can take root, one of the pyromancers steps forward with trembling hands. “Your Grace, it may take more time, more heat… We must be patient.”

Aerys rounds on the man, fury twisting his features. “Patience? I have given them years! Centuries, it seems!” He raises a hand as if to strike the pyromancer, but then his gaze snaps back to you, and the gesture halts. The rage fades as quickly as it came, replaced with a grotesque affection. He reaches out to cup your cheek with a hand that feels cold and brittle despite the warmth of the room. “You are the key, my jewel. You will see the dragons rise again. You will see our family reborn in fire and blood.”

You nod, not daring to speak, not trusting your voice to remain steady. You can feel the tension in the room, the shared relief that the king’s anger has not turned fully on you, at least not yet. But that could change in a heartbeat. You bow your head slightly, signaling your submission, and he finally releases you, his attention turning back to the eggs as if willing them to crack open by sheer force of will.

Arthur steps forward, positioning himself near Ser Jaime and Ser Gerold. The three of them exchange brief, tense glances, ready to act should Aerys’s mood shift dangerously once again. You can sense Arthur’s worry even without looking at him, the way he watches you out of the corner of his eye, prepared to intervene if needed. But all he can do now is stand silent and vigilant, a loyal knight bound by duty even as his heart wars with it.

The tension in the room lingers, thick as smoke, as Aerys waves a dismissive hand. “Enough!” he snaps. “Take them away. They will hatch when they are ready—when the time is right!” His voice trembles on the edge of a delusion, but the court obeys swiftly. The pyromancers bow and retreat, gathering the eggs and disappearing through the back entrance.

The courtiers begin to murmur, the moment passed, but you remain where you are, your heart still pounding. Aerys leans back in his throne, muttering to himself about fire, dragons, and forgotten magic. You take a step back, ready to return to your chambers and escape this madness.

But before you can, Aerys calls out once more, softer this time, almost tender. “My daughter, stay close. We have much to discuss. The future of our house lies with you.”

The room feels even colder despite the lingering heat of the flames. You nod, your throat dry. “Of course, Father,” you manage, offering him a faint smile as you move to stand beside him once more.

In your mind, you send a silent prayer to whatever gods might listen that the king’s mood remains stable, that this day does not end in violence or terror. Arthur’s eyes never leave you, a silent reassurance that he is near, even as you step deeper into the shadow of your father’s ever-growing madness.

The Iron Throne looms above you like a monstrous beast, jagged swords twisted into a towering mass of cruelty and conquest. Its shadow swallows the chamber, deepening the gloom that clings to every corner of the room. You swallow hard, keeping your face carefully composed, masking the fear that prickles at your skin as your father’s voice rings out once more, sharper this time, insistent.

“Come closer, daughter. Do not be afraid,” Aerys commands, his tone a poisonous mixture of affection and madness. The courtiers fall silent, the air thick with anticipation, as all eyes turn to you once again.

You keep your steps measured and deliberate, focusing on each footfall as you ascend the steps toward the throne. The steel swords of fallen enemies, twisted and rusted, cut through the air like spectral hands reaching out to snatch at you. The closer you get, the more you notice the crimson stains on the edges, not from the wars of old, but fresh—your father’s blood. The sharp blades have left small gashes across his arms, his hands, even his face. His silver hair is matted against his temples, streaked with dried blood. But it’s his eyes that unnerve you most—the wild, feverish gleam of a man caught between dreams and nightmares.

You stop when you’re near enough that you can feel the chill of the iron radiating off the throne, every instinct telling you not to go closer. But Aerys leans forward, waving you in with a spindly hand that trembles with urgency. “Closer, my daughter, closer,” he croons, his fingers twitching as though he wants to reach out and seize you.

You bite the inside of your cheek, steeling yourself as you step closer, stopping just within arm’s reach of him. “Father, I’m here,” you say softly, your voice controlled, though your heart hammers in your chest. “What is it you wish to speak of?”

His eyes narrow, studying you as though searching for something in your face—something only he can see. “You are the brightest jewel in our crown,” he murmurs, his voice suddenly tender. “The blood of the dragon runs pure in your veins, and you will be the one to continue our line. You, not the usurpers who circle like vultures waiting for my fall.” He reaches out and grips your arm, his nails digging into your flesh, the force of it surprising you. “You will do as I command, won’t you? You will obey your king?”

You force yourself to nod, hiding the discomfort as his grip tightens. “Of course, Father. Always.”

From the corner of your eye, you catch the subtle shift of movement among the Kingsguard. Ser Jaime Lannister’s lips twitch into a smirk as he watches the exchange with barely contained amusement, as though the whole thing is nothing more than a farce for his entertainment. But his eyes flick briefly toward Arthur, who stands tense and stone-faced, his jaw clenched so tightly you can see the muscle jump beneath his skin. The sight of you so close to Aerys, within reach of those jagged swords and his unpredictable temper, clearly unnerves him.

Jaime’s whisper carries to Ser Gerold Hightower, the words laced with amusement. “It seems Ser Arthur doesn’t enjoy watching our little princess in the dragon’s den. He looks ready to leap forward at the slightest twitch from our good king.”

Gerold’s eyes remain forward, but there’s an unmistakable edge to his voice as he murmurs back, “Quiet, Jaime. Mind your tongue. This is no jest, and you would do well to remember that.”

Jaime’s smirk fades only slightly, but he falls silent, though his gaze remains fixed on Arthur, as if savoring the tension. The Dance of Dragons may have ended long ago, but Jaime seems keen to witness a different kind of dance—the one playing out between Arthur’s duty and his hidden emotions.

Aerys, oblivious to the whispers of his guards, pulls you even closer, his breath hot and acrid as he leans in, his eyes boring into yours. “They think they can take everything from me, but they cannot take you,” he hisses, his voice a low, venomous whisper. “You belong to me, just as the throne does. I’ll not let them tear us apart.” His grip slackens slightly, as though his mind drifts somewhere distant, before he snaps back to focus, eyes narrowing once again. “You will marry as I command. You will strengthen our house. You are the key to it all.”

Your stomach churns, the cold weight of dread settling deeper within you. His words, his tone, they carry the dangerous edge of a plan forming in his fractured mind—a plan that might involve you as a pawn, a sacrificial piece in the twisted game of power he plays. You’ve seen this look in his eyes before, the glint of obsession and control. The words he says are a riddle, but you know better than to question him now, not here, not with so many watching.

“Of course, Father,” you reply, keeping your voice soothing, placating. “I will always do what is best for our house.”

Aerys releases you suddenly, as though satisfied, and slumps back into his throne, muttering to himself once more about fire and blood, about dragons that refuse to wake. You take a careful step back, then another, relieved to put distance between you and the jagged blades that surround him.

Arthur moves discreetly closer as you descend the steps, his gaze locked on you with concern barely masked beneath the rigid stoicism of a knight. “Are you well, my lady?” he asks quietly, his voice just loud enough for you to hear.

You manage a nod, though your hands are trembling slightly. “I am,” you lie, offering him a faint, strained smile. But you can see in his eyes that he knows the truth. He always does.

Ser Jaime’s voice cuts through the murmurs in the hall, his tone laced with dry humor. “It’s a wonder the throne doesn’t consume him whole one day, with how he insists on bleeding over it like some offering to the gods.”

Arthur shoots Jaime a sharp look, his usual control slipping for just a moment. “Show respect, Lannister. You serve the king, as do we all.”

Jaime raises a brow, clearly enjoying the tension, but Ser Gerold steps in with a quiet command. “Enough. We have a duty, and it’s not to indulge in petty remarks.”

You draw in a steadying breath, regaining your composure as the court begins to disperse, the spectacle over for now. But even as the noise of the crowd grows, you can’t shake the unease that clings to you, the feeling that this encounter was merely a prelude to something far more dangerous. You can still feel the phantom grip of your father’s hand on your arm, the desperation in his eyes.

Arthur remains at your side as you leave the throne room, his presence a comfort in the midst of this madness. But even his silent support can’t chase away the dark thoughts that cloud your mind. Your father’s words echo within you—words that hold a promise and a threat all at once.

You only hope that whatever he plans, you’ll have the strength and the allies to survive it. And in the depths of your mind, you fear that the price of his plans might be higher than anyone is willing to pay.

Rhaegar’s footsteps echo ominously through the cold, winding halls of the Red Keep as he strides toward his father’s chambers. His usually calm demeanor is barely held in check, fury simmering beneath his pale skin like the fire that never truly sleeps within the blood of the dragon. He has lived his life balancing between duty and his own desires, but today, hearing of the spectacle in the throne room, something within him snaps.

When he reaches the chamber doors, they are flanked by two nervous guards who stiffen as he approaches. They share a glance, as if silently debating whether to announce him, but the intensity in Rhaegar’s violet eyes leaves no room for hesitation. They step aside immediately, pushing open the doors to allow him entry.

Inside, the room is shrouded in shadows despite the flickering candles and the low-burning hearth. King Aerys is seated near the far side of the chamber, hunched over as he murmurs to himself, his fingers tapping an erratic rhythm on the armrest of his chair like he always does. His figure is draped in black robes, the rich fabric stained with old wine and flecks of blood—his own, no doubt from where the Iron Throne bit into him yet again. Aerys doesn’t look up as Rhaegar enters; his attention is consumed by whatever mad thoughts are swirling in his fevered mind.

But Rhaegar’s presence cannot be ignored for long. “Father,” he says, his voice steely with restrained anger. “We need to speak.”

Aerys’s head snaps up, his eyes narrowing as they focus on his son. There is a flash of recognition, followed by suspicion. “Ah, Rhaegar,” he hisses, the name dripping with equal parts derision and warped affection. “Come to lecture me, have you? To question your king? Or perhaps you’re here to bow at the feet of greatness, knowing what I shall accomplish.”

Rhaegar takes a steadying breath, holding back the words that surge to his lips. He knows confronting his father is a delicate game, one where a single misstep could provoke a wrath as unpredictable as wildfire. But this is about you, and Rhaegar won’t be silent.

“What I’ve come to do, Father, is remind you that my sister—your daughter—is not a toy to be used in your mad attempts to hatch dead dragon eggs,” Rhaegar says, his tone measured but fierce. “What happened in the throne room was nothing short of cruelty.”

Aerys’s eyes blaze with sudden fury, and he rises from his chair with an unsteady lurch. “Cruelty? Cruelty is what they did to our ancestors when they tore dragons from the skies and butchered them! I am trying to restore what was lost, to awaken the power that rightfully belongs to us!” His voice cracks as it rises in pitch, his hands shaking with rage. “You call it madness, but it is you who are blind, Rhaegar! You cower behind your songs and your books while I reach for greatness!”

Rhaegar steps closer, refusing to back down. “You’re delusional, Father. These dragon eggs are nothing but stone, and no amount of pyromancers or desperate prayers will change that. But dragging Y/N into your obsessions—putting her at risk—cannot be allowed to continue.”

Aerys’s face twists into something grotesque, his lips peeling back into a mockery of a smile. “You think you can dictate terms to me? I am the king! I will decide who is sacrificed for the good of our house! And Y/N—she is mine to command, mine to wield as I see fit.”

“You speak of her as if she’s an object,” Rhaegar spits, his own temper slipping free, the cold rage in his eyes matching the heat in his voice. “She is your daughter, not some pawn to be used in your schemes. And I won’t stand by and let you ruin her with your madness.”

Aerys’s expression flickers, the fury giving way to something more insidious—calculating and dangerous. He steps closer, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “You forget your place, Rhaegar. You think you can save her? You think you can protect her from what I choose for her? Perhaps I should have taken her for myself, as was the way of our ancestors. Perhaps then you would understand what it means to preserve the bloodline.” His eyes glint with something unholy, a twisted hunger, and Rhaegar’s blood runs cold.

The air crackles with tension, and for a moment, Rhaegar considers the sword at his hip. But he knows that drawing steel here would only lead to bloodshed—bloodshed that would change nothing, except to plunge the realm into chaos.

Instead, Rhaegar speaks through gritted teeth, his voice laced with quiet defiance. “You will not have her. I won’t let you destroy what little humanity you have left by dragging her into your madness. She is more than just your daughter—she’s the only reason the court hasn’t torn itself apart.”

Aerys laughs, a shrill, grating sound that echoes off the stone walls. “She is mine, as are you. You think you can defy me? You think the lords will follow you if you move against me? They all cower and scrape before the throne, and so will you.”

Rhaegar meets his father’s gaze, unflinching. “I don’t need their approval, nor yours. I’ll protect Y/N, even if it means going against you, Father.”

Aerys’s eyes narrow, and his voice drops to a hiss. “You’ll protect her by doing exactly as I command. You’ll marry her if that is what I decide. And you’ll do so with a smile, just as you’ve smiled through every indignity this crown has laid upon you.”

Rhaegar’s breath catches in his throat. He expected this, but hearing it aloud sends a jolt of cold reality through him. His father’s madness is now bound to entangle you both, drawing you into a fate neither of you wanted but one that might be the only way to keep you safe. The bitter irony of it twists in his gut.

Before he can respond, Aerys leans back, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. “You think you’re clever, boy, but you’re as much a slave to this crown as the rest of us. You will do what’s required, or I’ll see to it that Y/N pays the price.”

Rhaegar’s fists tighten until his knuckles turn white. There is nothing left to say. He knows he cannot reason with a man so far gone, but he also knows he won’t let his father’s threats go unanswered. Without another word, he turns and leaves, the door slamming shut behind him with a resounding echo.

As he strides down the corridor, his mind races. He has to find a way to protect you, to shield you from the king’s madness, even if it means embracing a path he swore he would never take. But deep down, he knows that the storm gathering within the Red Keep is only just beginning—and you are at the heart of it.

In the hidden recesses of the Red Keep, deep within a forgotten corridor, a secluded chamber lies veiled by shadow and silence. The stones are cold beneath your bare feet, but the heat between you and Arthur makes the air crackle with a warmth that banishes the chill. You’ve slipped away from the prying eyes of court, finding a rare moment where neither of you is expected, your absence unnoticed for a fleeting hour. The heavy wooden door to the chamber creaks shut, closing off the world and leaving only the two of you in this sanctuary of stolen time.

Arthur’s hands are on you the moment the door is locked, his touch both tender and urgent as he draws you into his arms. His breath is warm against your neck, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just beneath your ear. The tension of the day melts away in the press of his body against yours, the familiar strength of his arms encircling your waist. There’s an unspoken need in the way he holds you, a hunger fueled by the uncertainty that haunts your every waking moment in this treacherous court.

“Y/N,” he murmurs, your name a prayer on his lips as he kisses a path from your jaw to your mouth. His voice is thick with desire, tinged with something deeper—fear, perhaps, or desperation. He knows as well as you do that each time you meet like this could be the last.

You respond without words, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pull him closer, your mouth capturing his in a kiss that is fierce and unyielding. There’s no space for hesitation, only the burning need to feel something real in a world that constantly threatens to strip you of everything. His hands move to your back, finding the laces of your gown and pulling them loose with practiced ease. The fabric slides down your shoulders, pooling at your feet, and you shiver, not from the cold, but from the thrill of being laid bare before him.

His eyes darken with hunger as they drink in the sight of you, and he steps back for just a heartbeat, as if to etch the image of you into his memory. “You are more beautiful than I deserve,” he whispers, his voice hoarse with emotion, his fingers grazing your skin as though you might vanish if he isn’t careful.

You shake your head, pulling him closer, your fingers working at the clasps of his armor. “Don’t say that, Arthur. We deserve this, even if the world would deny it to us.” The plates of his armor clatter softly as you remove them piece by piece, the task made more urgent by the racing of your heart. Beneath the steel and leather, you find the man who is yours—yours alone, in this chamber and in these moments where the rest of the world falls away.

When he is free of the armor, his tunic follows, and then there is nothing left between you. You let out a shuddering breath as his hands find your waist, lifting you effortlessly onto a low table, his body pressing flush against yours. The kiss that follows is slow, deep, a mingling of breath and desire that sends heat coursing through your veins. His hands roam over your skin, reverent and possessive all at once, mapping every curve, every scar, as if committing it all to memory.

“Tell me this isn’t a dream,” he murmurs against your lips, his forehead resting against yours, his voice trembling slightly. “Tell me we aren’t just imagining this—a stolen dream before the waking world tears us apart.”

You cup his face in your hands, pressing a soft kiss to his brow. “It’s real, Arthur. This is real. You and I… in this moment, nothing else matters.”

He kisses you again, more fiercely this time, his need for you driving him to claim every part of you with a desperation that matches your own. His hands slide down your sides, gripping your hips as he pulls you closer, fitting himself between your thighs. When he enters you, it’s with a slow, deliberate thrust, the motion drawing a gasp from your lips as you wrap your legs around him, urging him deeper.

The rhythm of your lovemaking is both gentle and wild—a dance of passion and affection, of longing and love. The world outside this chamber is a cruel place, full of shadows and deceit, but here, in this sanctuary, there is only the two of you and the fire that burns brighter with every touch, every whispered promise.

His movements quicken, each thrust drawing you closer to the edge, but he never loses that tenderness, that quiet reverence for the connection you share. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin as he whispers your name, over and over, like a vow. “Y/N… my love… my everything.”

Your fingers dig into his back, holding onto him as if he’s the only safe harbor in a storm that threatens to drown you both. “Arthur, don’t stop,” you plead, your voice breaking as pleasure coils tight in your belly, threatening to spill over. “Please… I need this. I need you.”

He lifts his head, meeting your gaze with eyes darkened by desire but softened by love. “You have me,” he breathes, his voice rough with emotion. “You’ve always had me, and you always will.”

The world narrows to this moment—his breath mingling with yours, the slide of skin against skin, the heat building between you until it’s almost unbearable. And when you finally shatter, it’s together, his name a broken cry on your lips as pleasure crashes over you both like a wave, pulling you under and washing everything else away.

For a few blissful moments, there is only the sound of your mingled breaths, the beating of two hearts trying to find their rhythm again. Arthur holds you close, pressing soft kisses to your temple, your cheek, your lips, as if grounding himself in the reality of your shared intimacy. He remains inside you, unwilling to let go just yet, as if this closeness is the only thing that can stave off the darkness that awaits beyond these walls.

But reality can’t be held at bay forever. Slowly, reluctantly, he withdraws, and you both dress in silence, the weight of what awaits you outside this chamber pressing heavily on your minds. Once fully clothed, he pulls you into his arms, cradling you against his chest, as if to shield you from the world. “I wish we could stay like this, just for a little longer,” he murmurs into your hair.

You nod against him, your heart aching with the same longing. “I know… but we’ll find another moment. We always do.” You pull back slightly, looking up at him, your fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from his face. “And until then, I’ll carry this with me. It’s enough to keep me strong.”

Arthur leans in and kisses you one last time, slow and lingering, before finally letting you go. “Remember, no matter what happens… you’re not alone.”

“I know,” you whisper, your voice filled with quiet determination. “Neither are you.”

With that, you both slip out of the chamber, returning to the world of shadows and intrigue where you must once again play your parts. But in the depths of your heart, the fire of this moment lingers, burning bright against the darkness that surrounds you.

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