#house targaryen

[stelliumh3arts]

Where's little visenya? my shayla <3

my first post omg?!?

[novaursa]

The Golden Oath

- Summary: The lion falls in love with the daughter of the Mad King, which starts a domino effect that eventually collapses the realm onto itself.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Jaime Lannister

- Note: So, here is the first chapter. Let me know what you think and if you want to be tagged in future chapters.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial

The Red Keep was not what it once had been in Tywin Lannister’s youth. In his early years, he had walked these halls with the knowledge that the seat of kings was an extension of his will, where lords whispered his name in awe and deference. Yet now, as he strode through the familiar corridors, the air itself felt different—stifling, thick with the scent of incense and perfumed oils meant to mask the creeping decay of a court in decline. The torches burned high, but the shadows stretched long, and for all the banners of black and red draped across the stone walls, there was something sinister lurking beneath the surface, something just beyond his grasp.

Jaime could feel it, too. His father’s stride was unyielding, his presence commanding, but there was a tension in his shoulders that had not been there when they had last left King’s Landing. Tywin had never been a man given to weakness, yet even he could not conceal the way his gaze sharpened with every turn, watching, waiting. Aerys II sat the throne still, and though he remained clothed in all the splendor of his office, there were whispers of his growing instability. They were only rumors, but rumors had a way of rotting the foundations of power.

Still, they had come at his command. Aerys had summoned them, and so here they were, Jaime and Cersei walking side by side through the grand hall that led to the throne room, the towering doors of oak and iron looming before them. It had been years since their last visit, and though Jaime had been but a boy when they had left court, his memories of this place had not faded. He remembered the way the light caught on the polished marble floors, the way the banners rippled in the drafts that crept through the halls. And he remembered the Targaryens.

He had not seen Rhaegar since the prince had been a young man barely out of boyhood, and now the crown prince stood as a vision of Valyrian majesty, his silver hair glinting in the dim light, his indigo gaze steady and unreadable. He was every inch the figure of a legend, and yet it was not Rhaegar who made Jaime pause mid-step, a strange tightness winding in his chest.

It was you.

You stood beside your brother in a gown of deep violet, the color rich against the porcelain glow of your skin. The candlelight flickered over the curve of your cheek, casting shifting patterns along the soft slope of your jaw, the delicate bridge of your nose. Your pale lashes swept downward, the color so light that they nearly disappeared against your skin, but your eyes—those were unmistakable. Indigo, like Rhaegar’s, yet softer, deeper, like the sky at the cusp of twilight, full of something that was neither innocence nor mischief, but a quiet, knowing sort of serenity.

Jaime had not seen you since you had been a girl of six, a slip of a thing with wide, wondering eyes and a voice that carried like a songbird’s call through the halls of the Red Keep. He had almost forgotten you in the years that passed, the memory of you tucked away among all the others that had faded into the background of his childhood. Yet now, standing in the presence of the royal family once more, he found himself staring, his pulse beating just a little too quickly.

You were beautiful.

Not in the way that Cersei was beautiful, all golden fire and biting, smoldering edges, but in a way that was unreal, almost dreamlike. There was something about you that made him feel as if he were gazing upon a vision, a creature not meant for the world of men, but for the old stories whispered in the dark, of dragon princesses and ethereal queens who could steal the breath from a man’s lips with nothing more than a glance.

And it was just a glance.

Your gaze flickered over him only briefly before moving past, as though you had not even noticed his presence at all. Jaime felt his stomach twist, something uncomfortably close to disappointment gnawing at his ribs, but he forced it down. He was not a boy any longer, not some lovesick fool to be undone by the sight of a girl, even if that girl was—

"Lord Tywin."

The king's voice cut through the silence like the edge of a blade, drawing all eyes toward the Iron Throne. Aerys sat slouched upon the blackened steel, his long fingers drumming lazily against the armrest. His hair was the same shade of silver as Rhaegar’s, but where the prince’s bore the luster of molten light, the king’s was thin, brittle, hanging in wisps about his face. His violet eyes burned too brightly, wide and restless, darting between Tywin and the twins at his side with a sharpness that set Jaime on edge.

"You have returned," Aerys mused, his lips curling slightly, though there was no humor in it. "It has been far too long since I have seen your children." His gaze flickered to Cersei, lingering, then shifted to Jaime. "And my, how they have grown. How fine a pair they make, do they not, Rhaella?"

Queen Rhaella sat rigid beside him, her expression unreadable, but she nodded. "Yes, Your Grace."

Aerys hummed, leaning forward. "You must forgive me, Lord Tywin. It has been too long since I last laid eyes upon them. They are nearly as fair as my own brood." His lips curled again, and for the briefest moment, Jaime thought he saw something dark in his gaze. "Your daughter, Tywin—she is the very image of her mother. A pity Joanna is not here to see her."

Cersei’s jaw tensed, but she did not speak. Tywin inclined his head. "Your Grace is too kind."

"And your son," Aerys went on, his gaze turning to Jaime now, the weight of it pressing against him like something tangible. "Jaime Lannister." He let the name roll over his tongue as if savoring the taste. "You wish to be accepted into Kingsguard one day, are you not?"

Jaime swallowed, straightening. "If it pleases Your Grace."

The king laughed. It was a sharp, grating sound, like steel scraping over stone. "Oh, it would please me greatly," he said, his eyes glinting. "A Lannister in white—how it would wound you, would it not, Tywin? To see your son sworn to me, his sword mine alone?"

Tywin did not flinch. "If that is what Your Grace desires."

Aerys smiled, but there was no warmth in it. He leaned back against the throne, his fingers drumming once more. "Yes," he murmured. "Yes, I think I would like that very much."

Jaime felt Cersei stiffen beside him, her fingers curling at her sides. He did not dare glance at her, nor at his father, though he could feel the weight of Tywin’s fury like a storm gathering in the distance. Instead, he let his gaze wander once more—past the throne, past the lords and courtiers watching the exchange with veiled interest—until it found you again.

You had not moved from Rhaegar’s side, your hands folded neatly before you, your posture poised, serene. You were not watching him, nor his father, nor even the king. Your gaze was cast downward, your expression unreadable. But as the torches flickered and the shadows shifted, Jaime could not help but think that for the briefest moment, you had been watching him, too.

The great hall of the Red Keep was alive with the murmurs of courtiers and the flickering of torchlight, yet none of it seemed to touch Tywin Lannister. He moved through the gathered nobility with the assurance of a man who commanded the world with a glance, his golden cloak trailing behind him like the banners of House Lannister itself. Jaime and Cersei followed closely, their expressions schooled into careful neutrality, though Jaime could feel the lingering weight of Aerys’s words pressing against his thoughts. The king’s laughter, cutting and cruel, still echoed in his mind, but it was not the promise of the Kingsguard that unsettled him—it was the way Aerys had looked at his father, at Cersei, at him. There had been something dangerous in his gaze, something that made Jaime’s stomach twist in a way he did not like.

They did not go far—only to a quiet alcove tucked away from the main chamber, where the marble walls dampened the sound of the court’s endless hum. Tywin turned on his heel, his stern green eyes sweeping over his children, his expression unreadable save for the ever-present weight of expectation. A silence settled between them, thick with something unspoken, before he finally spoke.

"You have seen them now," he said, his voice low but firm. "Rhaegar and his sister."

Jaime swallowed. He had seen them. He had seen her.

Cersei tilted her chin upward, her golden hair catching in the dim light. "Rhaegar is handsome," she said, the words carefully measured, as though already crafting how she would speak of him to others. "More than that, he carries himself like a true prince should. He will be king one day."

Tywin gave a short nod. "And he will need a queen." His gaze lingered on her, sharp with meaning. "You are to conduct yourself accordingly."

"I will," Cersei promised, her voice smooth, her eyes gleaming. There was something hungry in her expression—Jaime had seen it before, though never quite like this. It was not just ambition; it was desire. Cersei had always spoken of queenship as though it was her birthright, but there was something new in the way she spoke of Rhaegar, something that made Jaime uneasy.

Tywin turned his gaze to him then, and Jaime straightened under his scrutiny. "And you," his father continued, voice steady as stone, "will do the same with his sister."

Jaime felt something in his chest tighten. His sister. He had barely even spoken to you, had only caught fleeting glances, and yet his mind had already conjured a thousand versions of you in those few moments—the way the candlelight glowed against your pale skin, the way your indigo eyes seemed to hold entire worlds within them, the way your very presence had made the air around him feel heavier, richer.

"You mean to wed us to them," Jaime said, though it was not truly a question.

Tywin's lips pressed together. "That has been my intent since you were children."

Jaime exhaled slowly. It had not been a secret, of course. He had known, even as a boy, that his father had always wanted a Targaryen match. But knowing something and standing face to face with the reality of it were two different things entirely. It was one thing to imagine a political union, to think of a Targaryen princess as a distant concept, a title without a face. But you were no concept. You were real, standing in that great hall beside Rhaegar, as unattainable as a dream and yet suddenly within his reach.

"And the king?" Cersei asked, her voice carefully neutral. "Will he agree?"

Tywin’s expression did not shift, but there was something colder in his gaze now, something calculating. "Aerys is a fool," he said bluntly. "And a fool’s whims can be unpredictable. I will speak with him in time, but it would serve us well if you both make yourselves… indispensable to his children."

Jaime understood the meaning behind his words instantly. He did not simply want them to be agreeable matches—he wanted them to be wanted. If Rhaegar and you favored them, if the royal children themselves expressed desire for the matches, Aerys would have little reason to refuse. Aerys had always been possessive over his family, jealous of their affections, but he was also vain. If Rhaegar wished for Cersei, if you wished for him—Jaime’s stomach tightened at the thought—then even the king’s paranoia might not be enough to stand in the way.

Cersei smiled then, the expression small but satisfied. "That will not be difficult."

Tywin’s gaze flickered toward her, measuring her confidence, but he did not contradict her. He turned back to Jaime. "You will conduct yourself as a man of your station. You will speak when it is necessary and hold your tongue when it is not. You will not grovel, nor will you posture. You will be clever. You will be interesting."

Jaime let out a slow breath. "And if I fail to be those things?"

His father’s eyes narrowed slightly. "You will not."

Jaime met his gaze for a moment longer before looking away. He was fourteen, still a boy in many ways, but never had he felt the weight of expectation so acutely. The thought of winning a girl’s favor was not foreign to him—he had seen how the ladies at Casterly Rock and Lannisport whispered and giggled when he passed. But you were not some noble girl, nor a lady of his father’s court. You were a Targaryen. You were her. And suddenly, the idea of winning you felt not like a challenge, but an impossibility.

Still, Tywin Lannister did not believe in impossibilities.

Jaime swallowed whatever doubts lingered in his throat and nodded.

Cersei exhaled through her nose, the hint of a smirk playing at her lips. "And what of Aerys? Will he let Rhaegar have a wife that is not of his choosing?"

Tywin’s expression did not change, but Jaime thought he saw a flicker of something dark in his father’s gaze. "The king’s favor is not what it once was. His mind rots with each passing year." He straightened. "It is Rhaegar who will rule, and when he does, he will need loyal hands around him. If he favors you, Cersei, then that is what matters. And if his sister favors Jaime—"

Jaime’s pulse quickened.

"—then all the better."

A silence stretched between them. The hall beyond the alcove was still alive with murmurs and laughter, the ever-present hum of politics and ambition that never truly faded in King’s Landing. But in that quiet space, Jaime felt the weight of his father’s will settle over him like a mantle.

You had barely even seen him, had barely even looked at him. And yet, before the night was through, before he even truly knew you, he had been given a task he was not certain he could fulfill.

He had to make you want him.

And the thought alone sent something cold and unfamiliar through his veins.

The gardens of the Red Keep were bathed in the golden light of morning, the first warmth of the sun spilling through the carved archways and casting dappled shadows across the stone paths. The scent of myrtle and orange blossoms hung in the air, sweet and thick, mingling with the salt of the distant sea. Jaime had always thought King’s Landing smelled of too many things at once—sweat, smoke, rot��but here, in this secluded part of the castle, the stench of the city did not reach. Here, the air was still. Quiet.

It was not difficult to find them.

He and Cersei moved through the garden paths with practiced ease, the rustle of their fine silks barely disturbing the morning peace. The sounds of the court had not yet spilled into the open spaces, leaving only the soft trill of birds and the murmur of voices beyond the flowering hedges. And then, as they rounded a curve in the path, the voices became clearer.

You were with Rhaegar.

The prince stood beneath the shade of a slender lemon tree, his silver hair catching the early light, his posture at ease in a way Jaime had rarely seen in men of his station. He was dressed in dark violet, the fine weave of his tunic unmistakable even from a distance, and though his face was unreadable, his voice—soft, thoughtful—held something close. Something warm.

You stood beside him, only inches away.

Jaime felt it first—the quick, sharp pulse at his throat, the sudden tension in his shoulders—as he watched the way Rhaegar touched you.

It was nothing improper, nothing that would scandalize the court, and yet it was… intimate. A brief brush of his fingers against your sleeve as he spoke, a slight tilt of his head in your direction, as if drawn to you as naturally as the tide is drawn to shore. And you—

You were looking up at him, your indigo eyes catching the morning light like polished gems, and you were smiling. A small, secret thing, the kind of smile that seemed meant for him alone.

Jaime had never seen her smile before.

For a fleeting moment, something inside him tightened, an unfamiliar weight settling in his chest. Was this how it was always to be? He had barely spoken to you, and already Rhaegar stood at your side, silver in the morning light, his presence enough to make you soften. To make you laugh.

He almost hated him for it.

Cersei, ever attuned to the smallest shifts in a room, must have noticed as well. Her pace slowed beside him, her green eyes narrowing slightly as she took in the scene before them. Then, as if shaking off whatever thoughts lingered in her mind, she lifted her chin and strode forward.

"Your Grace," she said smoothly, her voice carrying through the garden with the practiced ease of a woman who had spent her entire life perfecting her presence. "Princess."

The moment shattered.

Rhaegar turned first, his gaze settling on them, the warmth that had lingered in his face cooling into something more composed. His hand fell back to his side, slipping away from the fabric of your sleeve as though the touch had never been there at all. You followed his motion, turning to face them fully, and Jaime had only a moment to truly look at you—to see you.

You were dressed in the softest shades of lilac, the color subtle against the pale glow of your skin. The embroidery along your sleeves shimmered faintly, Valyrian patterns woven into the silk with a hand so delicate it was nearly invisible unless one looked closely. Your hair, silver as starlight, had been loosely pinned, allowing strands to slip free in the breeze.

Jaime had spent years imagining what you would look like grown—if you would still have the wide, wondering eyes of the girl he had once known, if you would still hold that same unearthly presence that seemed to belong more to a dream than to the waking world.

You were nothing like he remembered.

And yet, somehow, you were exactly as he had imagined.

"Lady Cersei. Lord Jaime," Rhaegar greeted them with a nod, his voice polite but absent of the warmth it had held only moments ago. "It has been some time."

"Too long," Cersei agreed, stepping forward with the ease of a woman born to this kind of encounter. "We were children when we last saw each other, but I am pleased to see time has only been kind to you, Your Grace."

A flicker of amusement passed through Rhaegar’s eyes, brief but present. "Time is not always so kind. But I thank you for the sentiment."

Jaime barely heard them.

His attention was fixed on you.

You had not spoken, not yet, but your gaze had settled on him now, studying him in a way that was both careful and unhurried. There was no immediate recognition in your expression, but neither was there indifference. Curiosity, perhaps. Or something softer.

"You do not remember us, do you?" Cersei’s voice was lighter now, teasing. "Or at least not well."

Your lips parted slightly, as if tasting the words before speaking them. "I remember you," you said at last, your voice quiet but smooth, like the lilt of a song yet to be sung. Then, after a small pause, your gaze flickered to Jaime. "And you as well."

Jaime felt his breath catch, though he did not let it show.

Cersei let out a soft laugh. "I hope your memories are fond ones."

Your head tilted slightly, as if considering the question, and then—a smile.

"They are," you said simply.

Jaime did not know what he had expected. He had imagined your voice a thousand times, had thought of what it might sound like when spoken to him. He had thought he was prepared.

He had not been.

A movement at the edge of his vision drew his attention, and he turned slightly to see Ser Barristan Selmy standing a short distance away, his face unreadable as he observed the exchange. A quiet, constant presence, watching.

Protecting.

Jaime knew, then, that this moment—this conversation, this fleeting breath of time—was not truly his. It belonged to Rhaegar, to you, to the threads of fate already weaving their pattern around them. He was an intruder in something far greater than himself, a pawn in a game he had not yet learned to play.

And yet—you had remembered him.

A small, insignificant thing. But Jaime was not sure why it suddenly meant so much.

The small council had been dismissed, the great doors of the chamber closing behind the last of the departing lords, leaving only Tywin Lannister and King Aerys II within. The room was bathed in the dim glow of the torches along the walls, their flames flickering against the polished wood of the long table, casting shifting specters that stretched toward the gilded seat where Aerys lounged.

Tywin stood before him, every inch the composed and calculating Hand of the King, his expression schooled into perfect neutrality. The scent of parchment and ink still lingered in the air, mingling with the faintest trace of the oils and perfumes that had been used to mask the sickly-sweet scent of rot that seemed to cling to the Red Keep more and more with each passing year.

Aerys had not yet spoken.

The king sat reclined in his chair, his long fingers drumming idly against the carved armrests, his violet eyes half-lidded in something that might have been boredom or amusement—or something darker. His silver hair, once immaculate, had begun to thin, the strands hanging limp against the gaunt hollows of his cheeks. He had not always looked like this.

Tywin knew that well enough.

But the years had changed him. The whispers had changed him. The paranoia had settled into his bones like a sickness, creeping into his thoughts, turning his once-sharp mind into something that wavered between brilliance and madness.

And yet, this was still Aerys. Still the man he had served since youth. Still the king of the Seven Kingdoms.

Tywin had waited patiently, knowing better than to rush him. And at last, after a long silence, Aerys spoke.

"You linger, my old friend," he murmured, his lips curling slightly as his gaze flickered to Tywin. "What is it that you wish from me? I doubt you remained behind simply to enjoy my company."

Tywin did not smile. "I wished to discuss the future of your royal children, Your Grace."

Aerys let out a soft hm, his fingers stilling against the chair. "Ah, yes," he mused. "The lion always has something to offer."

Tywin inclined his head. "It is no secret that Rhaegar will need a queen," he said, his voice measured, careful. "And your daughter, a husband of suitable station."

Aerys exhaled through his nose, a sound that might have been a laugh if not for the sharpness beneath it. "Come now, Tywin," he drawled, his violet gaze gleaming. "Do you truly think me so simple? I expected this." His fingers twitched slightly. "You seek to offer Cersei to Rhaegar, just as you did before."

Tywin gave nothing away, neither at the reminder of Aerys’s earlier refusal nor at the amusement that danced behind the king’s words. "It would be a union of benefit to the realm," he stated, his voice calm. "Cersei is beautiful, well-bred, and clever. She would be a queen worthy of him."

Aerys’s smile was sharp. "You mean she would be a queen worthy of you."

Tywin held his gaze steadily. "I mean she would be a queen who would bring strength to the realm—and to House Targaryen."

Aerys chuckled then, leaning forward slightly. "And what of the girl?" His head tilted just so, the light catching in his irises, making them gleam like polished amethysts. "What of my daughter? You would see her married off to your cub?"

Tywin did not allow himself to hesitate. "Jaime is young, but he is my heir," he said evenly. "He will one day rule Casterly Rock, and there is no greater seat for your daughter than the Westerlands."

Aerys made a small noise in his throat, something between interest and disdain. "So eager you are, Tywin. But tell me—does Jaime himself share your ambitions?"

Tywin did not react outwardly, but something in Aerys’s tone made the air between them grow heavier, the words laced with something unspoken.

"He is young," Tywin said, his voice cool. "He dreams of knighthood, of glory, as boys do. But he will learn that true power does not lie in tourneys or oaths. His duty is to his house, to his legacy. And in time, he will see that his place is not as some wandering knight, but as the Lord of the Rock."

Aerys was quiet for a long moment.

Too quiet.

And Tywin knew this silence.

It was the silence that came before Aerys’s moods shifted—the silence that had begun appearing more and more over the last year, the precursor to his unpredictability, his paranoia.

When he finally spoke, Aerys’s voice was softer, but there was something sinister beneath it, something almost dangerous.

"You overstep, Tywin."

Tywin remained still. "I seek only what is best for the realm, Your Grace."

Aerys let out a breath—a slow, measured breath. And then he laughed. It was not a true laugh, not one of mirth, but something hollow, something edged. He shook his head slightly, as if amused by some private joke.

"The lion reaches, always reaching," he mused, the flicker of a smile on his lips. "You would love that, wouldn’t you? To see your golden children bound to mine. To see them rise, to see them elevated." His voice lowered, his fingers curling against the chair’s armrest. "To make your daughter queen. To make your son the husband of a Targaryen princess."

Tywin did not move, but he could feel the weight of Aerys’s gaze pressing against him.

"You have always been a proud man, Tywin," Aerys murmured, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Proud enough to think you are owed such things. But do not forget—you serve me."

A pause.

"And I am not yet so old that I have forgotten what happens to men who reach too far."

The words hung between them like a blade, the meaning clear.

Tywin’s jaw tightened slightly, but his expression did not waver. He had seen Aerys’s temper before, had endured his outbursts, his jests laced with venom, his sudden shifts from affection to suspicion. He knew how to navigate him.

He would not push—not now.

Instead, he inclined his head. "I serve at your pleasure, Your Grace."

Aerys studied him for a long moment, his fingers still curled, his eyes still bright with something unreadable.

Then, as suddenly as it had come, the tension in his posture eased. His lips curved upward, though the smile did not reach his eyes.

"Yes," he murmured. "You do."

And with that, the audience was over.

Tywin turned and strode from the chamber, his steps measured, his expression impassive.

But beneath it all, something had shifted.

And he knew—he had seen it in Aerys’s eyes.

The king had already decided something.

And Tywin would be damned if he did not uncover what.

The scent of myrtle and citrus lingered in the air as Jaime and Cersei moved away from the Targaryen royals, their departure marked only by the soft rustling of silks and the fading sound of Cersei’s carefully measured farewell. It had been a successful meeting—at least in her eyes.

As they stepped further down the stone path, passing through the arching trellises heavy with climbing roses, Cersei released a slow breath, a small, pleased smile tugging at her lips.

"That went well," she murmured, her voice rich with satisfaction.

Jaime barely heard her.

His mind was still there, lingering in the gardens, where the dappled light had painted shifting patterns across the silk of your gown, where your indigo eyes had met his and held. He had thought about what you might look like for years, about what kind of woman you had become, but no amount of imagining had prepared him for the reality of you.

You were beautiful in the way that the dawn was beautiful—something soft, untouched, and entirely out of reach.

His chest felt tight.

Cersei turned to him, her green eyes gleaming with barely contained excitement. "Rhaegar is everything I thought he would be," she continued, a touch of hunger in her voice. "He is—" she exhaled, her lips curling, "—perfect."

Jaime forced himself to listen, his jaw tightening.

"He was polite," he said simply.

Cersei let out a soft laugh. "Polite? Jaime, he was more than that." She stopped, turning fully to face him, golden hair catching in the morning light. "You saw how he looked at me. He noticed me."

Jaime hesitated.

Had he?

Rhaegar had been courteous. That was his nature. His words had been pleasant, his gaze steady, his posture measured. He had not been cold, but neither had he been anything more. Jaime had watched him closely, searching for some sign of interest, some flicker of intrigue in the prince’s indigo gaze—but he had found nothing that could not be dismissed as simple courtly manners.

And yet—Cersei believed it.

"He was polite," Jaime repeated.

Cersei’s expression darkened slightly, but she let out a breath and shook her head. "You have no sense for these things," she muttered, turning away and beginning to walk again, her skirts swaying with each step. "I have spent my life preparing for this moment, Jaime. He will see me. He will come to want me."

Jaime did not reply.

Because his thoughts were not on Rhaegar.

His thoughts were on you.

As they walked further from the gardens, he could not stop himself from glancing back, just once, to the spot where you and Rhaegar had stood beneath the shade of the lemon tree.

You were still there.

Jaime’s steps faltered.

Rhaegar had turned back to you, his attention fully yours once more, and it was different now—warmer. More natural. The kind of ease that had not been present when he spoke to Cersei.

Jaime watched as the prince murmured something, his voice low, the words meant only for you. He saw the way your lips parted in response, the way your eyes flickered with something soft, something genuine. You did not laugh the way the ladies of court did when they wished to charm a man, did not tilt your head coyly or lower your lashes in feigned modesty. You simply smiled.

And Rhaegar smiled back.

Something hot and unfamiliar curled in Jaime’s stomach.

It was an ugly feeling, one he did not know how to name.

He did not know what he had expected—he was not foolish enough to think he could step into your life after all these years and suddenly become the focus of your gaze, the recipient of your affections. You had known Rhaegar your entire life. He was your brother, your closest confidant. It was only natural that you would smile for him, that you would look at him with something gentle in your eyes.

And yet—why did it unsettle him so?

Cersei was still speaking beside him, but her words had become nothing more than a distant hum, drowned out by the pounding of his own pulse in his ears.

He had never felt this before.

Never.

The women at court whispered about him, admired him for his looks, for his name. They smiled too easily, touched his arm too often. But it had never mattered. He had never looked at them the way he had looked at you in that moment, standing beneath the lemon tree, bathed in morning light.

You had only spoken a handful of words to him.

And yet, he felt as if something inside him had shifted.

Something he could not push away.

Something he was not sure he wanted to push away.

The Lannisters were gone, their presence nothing more than a lingering whisper in the air, yet the garden still felt touched by them—by their ambitions, their careful words, the weight of what they had left unspoken. The gentle rustling of leaves and the faint trickle of the fountain filled the silence they left behind, the scent of citrus still clinging to the breeze.

Rhaegar did not move at first. He stood beside you, watching the path where Jaime and Cersei had disappeared, his expression contemplative, though his eyes held no surprise. There had been nothing unexpected in what had just transpired. It had been, as he might say, well placed.

You exhaled softly, tilting your head to look up at him. "That was… predictable."

His lips curled slightly, though there was little amusement in it. "It was well-placed conversation," he murmured, his voice calm, always calm.

"You mean it was orchestrated," you countered, your indigo gaze searching his, the meaning of your words lingering in the air. "We both knew what they wanted before a single word was spoken."

He let out a breath, slow and measured. "Yes," he admitted. "We did."

You lowered your gaze, fingers brushing lightly over the smooth bark of the lemon tree beside you. "Cersei was no surprise," you murmured, thoughtful. "Her eyes have been set on you since she was old enough to understand what a queen is."

Rhaegar hummed, though he did not confirm or deny the statement. He had always known. The weight of expectation pressed against his shoulders like a crown he had not yet worn, and Cersei Lannister had long envisioned herself at his side, her golden hair intertwined with the legacy of House Targaryen.

But that was not what lingered most in your thoughts.

"It is Jaime that surprises me," you said, your voice quieter now. "I thought he had ambitions for the Kingsguard."

Rhaegar turned to you fully then, his gaze softening, though there was something knowing in his expression. "He is still young," he reminded you. "And his father’s ambitions have never been a secret." He tilted his head slightly, studying you. "Besides…"

You glanced up at him as he trailed off. "Besides?"

Rhaegar was silent for a moment, as if weighing his words. Then, slowly, he smiled.

"I saw the way he looked at you," he said simply.

Your brows lifted slightly, but you did not immediately respond.

He continued, his voice light but knowing. "Jaime Lannister may still dream of glory and knighthood, but there is something else there now. He has spent his youth training with steel and chasing the glories of men, but today, for the first time, he looked at something he was not prepared for."

You blinked, your fingers stilling against the bark of the tree. "And what was that?"

Rhaegar’s gaze did not waver. "You."

There was no teasing in his voice, no jest. It was merely truth, spoken as plainly as the sky was blue.

You exhaled slowly, your gaze dropping for a brief moment before returning to his. "And if that is so?"

He smiled again, but this time there was something fond in it, something affectionate.

"Then I wonder if he even realizes it yet," he murmured.

A soft breath of laughter escaped you, and Rhaegar reached out then, his fingers brushing lightly against your sleeve, a familiar gesture, one you had known all your life. His touch was always gentle, never demanding, always warm.

"He is not like the others," he continued, his voice quieter now. "His father has sharpened him into something harder, something that should be unfeeling. But even steel has its weaknesses."

You tilted your head. "And you think I am one?"

Rhaegar’s lips curled slightly, though there was nothing mocking in it. "I think you are something unexpected. And men like Jaime Lannister are rarely prepared for things they do not expect."

The air between you was calm, steady, untouched by the weight of expectation that had followed the Lannisters into this space. With Rhaegar, there was never pretense. He had been your brother, your closest companion, your shield against the world since you were small, and even now—when duty loomed ever closer, when the future threatened to shape you both into something neither of you had chosen—he was still this.

Soft.

Steady.

Yours.

"You think too much," you murmured, tilting your chin slightly in mock accusation.

Rhaegar let out a soft chuckle, his long fingers lingering against the fabric of your sleeve for just a moment longer before falling away. "And you think too little," he countered, though there was no reprimand in it, only fondness.

You sighed, shaking your head with a small smile. "Perhaps we balance each other."

He did not deny it.

Instead, he reached up, gently tucking a stray silver strand behind your ear, his fingers brushing the warmth of your skin for only a heartbeat. The gesture was absent of hesitation, absent of thought, as natural as breathing.

And though Ser Barristan stood a short distance away, ever watchful, ever loyal, he said nothing.

Because this was not new.

This was Rhaegar.

This was you.

And the world—its expectations, its demands, its whispers of Lannisters and alliances and duty—could wait.

For now.

[moonlight-joy]

Forged in Flames

MASTERLIST

Fandom: House of Dragon

Summary: You are a highborn lady forced to marry Daemon after the Targaryens crush your family's rebellion. Resentment simmers between you, but when Daemon takes you dragon-riding for the first time, sparks ignite in more ways than one.

Pairing: Reader/Daemon Targaryen

The halls of the Red Keep were colder than you had expected. Despite its grandeur and the famed heat of the dragonlords, the stone walls carried a chill that no fire could chase away. You trailed behind Daemon Targaryen, your new husband, as he led you through the castle. The marriage was a political necessity—a punishment, really. Your family had dared to defy the might of the Targaryens, and this union was the price of your house’s survival.

You hated him.

And yet, here you were, bound to him by fire and blood.

Daemon stopped abruptly, turning to face you with a smirk that set your teeth on edge. His silver hair gleamed in the torchlight, his violet eyes sharp and assessing. “You’re scowling again,” he said. “Careful, my dear wife. Your face might freeze that way.”

“Better a frozen scowl than whatever expression you call that,” you shot back, lifting your chin defiantly.

His smirk widened, and he stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. “Ah, there it is. The fire. I was beginning to think the rumors about your family were exaggerated.”

You clenched your fists, forcing yourself to stand your ground. “I don’t need a dragon to burn you, Prince Daemon.”

He chuckled, the sound low and dangerous. “And yet you’re still standing here, unscathed.”

The tension between you crackled like a storm on the horizon, unspoken resentment and unacknowledged attraction swirling in equal measure. But before you could muster a retort, Daemon stepped back and gestured for you to follow him once more.

“Come,” he said. “It’s time you met Caraxes.”

The dragonpit loomed before you, a massive structure that reeked of fire and sulfur. Your steps faltered as you approached, the sheer magnitude of what lay ahead sinking in. You had never seen a dragon up close, let alone ridden one. The thought of it sent a shiver down your spine, though you refused to let Daemon see your fear.

Caraxes was already waiting, his elongated, serpentine form coiled like a predator ready to strike. The Blood Wyrm’s crimson scales gleamed in the sunlight, and his eyes… his eyes burned with an intelligence that was almost human.

“He’s magnificent,” you admitted reluctantly.

Daemon’s expression softened, just for a moment. “He is,” he agreed, his voice tinged with pride. “And he’s the closest thing to a friend I’ve ever had.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the honesty in his tone. Before you could dwell on it, Daemon turned to you, his usual smirk returning. “Well? Are you going to stand there gawking, or are you ready to ride?”

“I…” You hesitated, your confidence faltering. “I’ve never ridden a dragon before.”

“Good,” he said, striding toward Caraxes and motioning for you to follow. “It’s about time you learned.”

With a mixture of trepidation and defiance, you allowed him to help you onto the saddle. His hands lingered on your waist as he adjusted the straps, his touch sending an unwelcome warmth through you. Once he was satisfied, he climbed up behind you, his arms caging you in as he took the reins.

“Hold on,” he murmured, his breath warm against your ear. “And try not to scream.”

Before you could reply, Caraxes launched into the sky, his powerful wings propelling you upward. The ground fell away beneath you, and a gasp escaped your lips as the wind whipped through your hair. The sensation was both terrifying and exhilarating, a rush of adrenaline unlike anything you had ever experienced.

Daemon’s laughter rang out behind you, and despite yourself, you felt a small smile tug at your lips. For a moment, the weight of your resentment and duty lifted, replaced by the sheer wonder of flight.

“Not so bad, is it?” he called over the wind.

“It’s… incredible,” you admitted, your voice carried away by the breeze.

The flight ended all too soon, Caraxes landing gracefully on a cliff overlooking the sea. You dismounted with Daemon’s help, your legs unsteady but your heart racing with exhilaration.

“You did well,” he said, his tone unusually sincere.

“You sound surprised,” you replied, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face.

“Maybe I am,” he admitted, his gaze lingering on you. “There’s more to you than I expected.”

You frowned, unsure whether to take his words as a compliment or an insult. “And there’s less to you than I expected,” you said, your tone laced with sarcasm.

Instead of taking offense, Daemon laughed, a genuine, unrestrained sound that took you by surprise. “You might actually survive in this family,” he said, his violet eyes gleaming with amusement.

The moment stretched between you, the tension from earlier shifting into something different—something warmer, more uncertain. For the first time, you saw a glimpse of the man beneath the bravado, and it left you both intrigued and unsettled.

Daemon stepped closer, his expression softening. “You may hate me now,” he said quietly, “but one day, you’ll understand. We’re bound by fire, you and I. And fire always burns brightest when it’s shared.”

His words left you breathless, your heart pounding as he held your gaze. For a moment, the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you and the unspoken possibilities between you.

Perhaps this union wasn’t a punishment after all. Perhaps, against all odds, it was the beginning of something new.

Something forged in fire.

Please support my work with like and comment

[ildraws]

prince rhaegar and his sweet wife elia (portrait taken in the water gardens of dorne)

[noybusiness]

My own thoughts exactly. Even most of the other 'good guys' in ASoIaF would have been sad but let it continue instead of actually changing the world.

I think a lot about how Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Realm, the Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains, Mhysa, saw a system that oppressed and dehumanized and ground people to dust and she decided “I’m going to smash that system because I know what it’s like to be less than human and no one should ever have to feel that.” 

It’s so refreshing and beautiful to read because it really hammers in that idea that any battle against the wrong in the world is a worthy battle, because there is always inherent worth in fighting back against the idea that any human being can ever be regarded as an object to be owned. The fact that Dany takes it upon herself to fight that fight? The fact that she does it out of compassion, out of understanding and empathy for those people who have been enslaved and have no power, no voice, no possible hope of defending themselves? Unmatched. “I would sooner perish fighting than return my children to bondage.” That line? UNMATCHED.

[vhaenaera]

Queen Vhaena Targaryen

Vhaena Targaryen, the only daughter of Queen Visenya and King Aegon the Conqueror, was born just a year after Queen Rhaenys’ death. Inheriting her mother’s stern features—the sharp cheekbones, silver-gold hair, and piercing violet eyes—she bore little resemblance to her aunt, Queen Rhaenys, yet it was her temperament that most recalled the late sister-queen. Where Visenya was cold and unyielding, Vhaena was warm and wistful, her mind often adrift in fancies. Unlike her mother, who wielded Dark Sister and commanded armies, Vhaena was a creature of gentler pursuits, preferring poetry, needlework, and song. Yet there was another gift—one far rarer, and more troubling—that set her apart: the sight.

Vhaena was among the first Targaryens in settled Westeros known to possess the power of prophetic Dragon-Dreaming, a gift both feared and misunderstood. It was said she spoke in riddles and saw things no one else could, glimpses of futures yet to come and pasts long forgotten. Though some in court dismissed her mutterings as the prattle of an idle woman, others whispered of madness. None were louder in their condemnation than Tyanna of the Tower, who openly derided the queen’s visions and worked to ostracise her from court. Maegor’s other wives paid her little mind, preoccupied with their own suffering in the Black Bridegroom’s grip.

Her frailty only worsened her standing. An ailment unknown among the Targaryens before her birth plagued her from youth; her skin was pale, her body thin, and oft she grew weak and lightheaded, forced to retreat to her chambers. Some maesters sought to cure her with leechings and tinctures, but none could explain the bloodless pallor of her face or why, at times, she struggled even to mount her dragon. Whatever the cause, it left her at the uncommon mercy of Maegor, who tolerated her presence but offered no great affection in public; behind closed doors however, he assured her comfort.

At court, she was often a silent, spectral figure, her body present but her mind far away. When Maegor grew impatient with her distant stares, he would recall her to the moment with a hard squeeze upon her wrist. She flinched, but never spoke against him. Yet one thing she would not abide was the presence of Tyanna. Whenever the Pentoshi witch was seated at the council table or among Maegor’s wives, Vhaena would press herself as far away as she could, her hands turning the rings upon her fingers, her gaze averted. The sight of Tyanna made her shudder, and it was said that in her presence, the Queen’s blood pounded in her ears like a war drum.

Few sought her company. When Maegor’s other brides or the ladies of the court attempted to speak with her, they found themselves unnerved by her ways. She answered questions with riddles or fell into silence altogether, too absorbed in her embroidery to respond. In her solitude, she stitched dragons, flames, and winged figures upon cloth—symbols whose meaning only she seemed to understand.

Some cuter facts about her, is that she has a love for butterflies. Oft does she leave her windows open so they can flutter in and enjoy the floral arrangements within the princess’s chambers. One time, Maegor had visited her under good will. He found his sister at her balcony with the delicate insect perched upon her pale finger. He fed his curiosity about her fascination, asking her why she bothers with such weak, fragile bugs. In response, Vhaena responded with a smile and proclaimed that they spoke to her. The butterflies batted their wings ever so softly to communicate, the words translated by the wind into a soft breeze in which she can understand. Maegor just scoffed and decided to quell any protest that lingered on his tongue.

Vhaena also struggled to share a bed with anyone, as nightmares plagued her youth so she took to hiding within another’s bed for comfort. The peaceful moments never lasted long, as she often sought out warmth in her sleep and in turn woke anyone who she touched with her icy hands or feet. So rules were set for her to don stockings and gloves before sharing a bed.

She would hate sherpa.

[lovelyonism]

"You should keep your eyes more focused on your feet and less on my face, my pet," Daemon said. "I fear it is now the third time you have stomped on me. I am in luck you are a light thing, or I would limp my way to the sept in a few days." Rhaenyra giggled. "How you love to tease me, uncle. I wonder if you will continue to do so after we are wed." -The Blacks & the Greens by @sweetestpopcorn Chapter 26 Rhaenyra XII

Can't resist drawing the favs dancing, they're in their "Yay we're finally engaged!!" little love bubble. Keeping up with 1 scene per month for 2025.

Click for Best quality as always.

[gulnarsultan]

Can i request something about the Future something like teacher teaching their students about us Reader. Example like we were force to marry the King (like Maegor and Aegon i) and we got pregnant at a young age and they didn't stop getting the reader pregnant and it only stop until we died of child birth (just like the history of like Anne Boleyn or other women, etc.) or just someone talking about her, her impact on the history, about her children, about how she gave birth so young and how she didn't deserve all of that or whatever

(btw I'm so sorry if this is confusing, English is really not my first language)

Hello dear. English is not my native language either. You have written your curiosity in an explanatory way. I hope you like it.

⛔(Warning : Pregnancy, birth and death.)⛔

》Scenario《

Septa was standing in the middle of her room. She was waiting for the students to take their seats. After everyone sat down, Septa took the book in her hand and opened it quickly.

"Today we will learn about Queen Y/N."

Some of the female students held their breath.

"The wife of the cruel Maegor? The only person who managed to stop that tyrant?"

"Yes dear. Today we will read about the fourth wife of the cruel Maegor and his true Queen."

All of the students gave Septa their full attention.

"Shortly after Maegor the Cruel usurped the throne, he went to Oldtown. He stayed there for six months. This is when fate intervened. Lady Y/N was there. Some say it was love at first sight, some say it was obsession, some say it was the possessive nature of the dragon. But we will never know which is true. Maegor returned to the Red Keep with       Lady Y/N, whom he had married in Oldtown. Some say that Lady Y/N was forced into this marriage. Lady Y/N was pregnant at the time. Maegor was very possessive and protective of his new wife. There were rules that the lady had to follow. Rules set by kings. The King and Queen's first child and future King, Prince Baelon, was born in 43 AC King's City. The prince's birth was celebrated with great festivities. The Queen was truly the lifeline of Westeros. She fought for the people and the nobility. She soon earned the titles of Queen of the Kingdom and Mother of the Realm. Everyone thought that the King would get his precious Queen pregnant again without wasting any time.  Maegor, however, chose to wait, against all odds. He gave the Queen time to heal between the births of her first few children. But soon the dragon's greed overtook Maegor. His pride and ego had been bruised by years of living with his barren nag. Each time his Queen became pregnant, Maegor felt like eating a meal he had always enjoyed. This is the order in which Maegor and Lady Y/'s children were born."

Prince Baelon 43 AC Prince Aegon 45 AC Princess Visenya 47 AC Prince Aerion and Princess Daenerys 49 AC Prince Rhaegel 51 AC Prince Aelora and Prince Daeron 53 AC Prince Maelor 54 AC Prince Gaemon 55 AC

"After Prince Gaemon's birth, the Queen said she could not bear any more births. She pleaded and begged the King. She had had enough and could not bear another. The Maesters told her how dangerous another pregnancy would be for the Queen. But King Maegor believed that these were just excuses. The Queen had become pregnant once more. The first three months were normal. But the second trimester was difficult. The Queen was thin and looked pale and tired. Maegor began to worry, but it was too late to have an abortion. After two more months, the Queen's labor began. A month early. All the midwives and Maesters were mobilized. The hours passed, but the baby was not being born. The Grand Maester left the delivery room and went hesitantly to the King who was waiting in the hallway. He told her that she had to choose between the baby or the Queen. Maegor angrily grabbed the Maester by the collar and lifted him into the air. He shouted that they must save his Queen. But chaos soon broke out in the delivery room. The Maester ran back into the room.  Maegor could not wait any longer, so he entered the room. His Queen lay motionless on the bed, her eyes open and her face stained with tears. The bed was completely covered in blood. Maegor had seen much blood in his life, and it was stained with blood. But this sight startled and horrified Maegor. He approached the bed slowly. He held his Queen to his chest carefully. He shooed everyone out of the room. He did not leave the room for hours. The next days were a blur for the King and the children. After King Maegor burned his Queen's body, he lay there motionless for hours. The Queen's ashes were buried. The realm was in a period of mourning for months. Prince Baelon had taken on the role of a parent figure for his younger siblings. And now he was distant from his father. Until the day the Queen died, Prince Baelon and King Maegor had a true father and son relationship. King Maegor loved all of his children. But he had a deeper fondness for his firstborn.  After this, it became Prince Baelon's duty to stop the King's anger. Many years later, King Maegor was confined to bed due to old age. On the day he drew his last breath, he was surrounded by his children and grandchildren. On that day, Prince Baelon was reconciled with his dying father. For the first time in years, he addressed King Maegor as father. King Maegor closed his eyes for eternity that day with a genuine smile on his face. A mourning ceremony was held for King Maegor. Prince Baelon ascended the throne and became King. House Targaryen continued under the title of King Baelon, the true King, born of Maegor the Cruel's worthy Queen."

[twelvebooksstuff]

Awww 🥺

Rhaella Targaryen with baby Daenerys

requested by @FyreandBlood on kofi

[naomimakesart]

A very belated Valentine’s Day drawing of Egg and Betha, circa 220AC, voted for by my patrons 💕

[novaursa]

The Flames We Loved (to birth a fire)

This is one of my darker works. If it's not your cup of tea, skip it.

- Summary: You give birth to something far more terrible than legacy.

- Pairing: daughter!reader/father!Aerys II Targaryen

- Note: This is a standalone AU chapter for this series. In this scenario, Aerys takes the reader as his second wife in Valyrian tradition. It can be read as its own separate piece.

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (all warnings are up for this one)

- Original series: the flames we loved

The Great Hall was alive with the murmurs of courtiers, the clinking of goblets, and the low hum of conversation between lords and ladies draped in silks and velvets. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats, honeyed wine, and spiced fruit, the mingling aromas enough to turn the stomach of anyone unaccustomed to such decadence. Yet, as you sat at the high table beside your husband and king, your father, your gaze was fixed upon the steaming platter of roast before you, your fingers tightening around the handle of your knife as you carved another thick slice onto your plate.

The taste of the meat was rich, heavy with juices that coated your tongue in a way that made your stomach clench with want. You had always enjoyed a fine meal, but of late, there was something… different. A hunger gnawed at you, deep and insatiable, unlike anything you had ever known. No matter how much you ate, it was as though your body demanded more, craved more, needed more. Your hands moved with an almost frantic purpose, slicing through the crisped skin of the roast, the scent of the rendered fat filling your nose and making your mouth water as you took another bite, and then another.

Aerys sat beside you, his crown gleaming in the candlelight as he spoke in biting, clipped tones to Lord Qarlton Chelsted, his Master of Coin. Though his attention was supposedly on matters of treasury and expenditure, you knew him too well to believe he was unaware of you. His gaze flicked to you between words, his fingers curling against the wooden armrest of his throne-like chair, a twitch in his jaw betraying his distraction.

"She eats as if she were starved," he mused suddenly, his voice sharp yet carrying an undertone of something deeper, something possessive. "Have the kitchens been neglecting my queen?" His eyes, bright and fevered, slid toward you as a smirk curved his lips. "Or have you developed an insatiable hunger, my flame?"

Your knife paused mid-cut, hovering over the glistening meat. The question sent a slow, crawling heat through your skin, though you did not look away from your plate. You had suspected for weeks now that something was amiss, yet you had spoken of it to no one, not even Aerys. Especially not Aerys.

Your mother’s sorrowful fate lingered in your mind, the stillbirths, the frailty, the hushed whispers of maesters who spoke of a womb too damaged to carry life. You had seen the way your father had raged each time Rhaella had failed to give him a strong son, how his temper flared and his cruelty deepened with each loss. To tell him of your suspicions now, when your own body was a battlefield of aching limbs, clenching stomach, and an unnatural hunger… it would be to invite something you were not yet ready to face.

“I only find the roast to my liking,” you replied smoothly, taking another bite as if to prove the point. The juices dripped onto your fingers, warm and slick, but you did not wipe them away. You relished the taste too much.

Aerys leaned closer, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear as he whispered, “You have never been one for gluttony, my love.” His hand, long-fingered and hot to the touch, trailed down your arm, his nails lightly scraping against your skin. “Tell me what it is you crave so desperately.”

You swallowed thickly, your appetite momentarily wavering under the weight of his scrutiny. He was always watching you, always seeking to unravel your mysteries, as though the very essence of your being belonged to him and him alone. And in many ways, it did. You were his flame, his most cherished, the only one who could soothe his tempestuous moods, the only one whose voice could draw him back from the brink of madness.

“Perhaps it is nothing,” you murmured, lifting your goblet of wine to your lips. The liquid was sweet, but it tasted wrong today. Too thick. Too cloying. You placed it back down, untouched.

Aerys tilted his head, his silver hair falling in disheveled waves about his face, his violet eyes narrowing with suspicion. His fingers ghosted over your wrist, his grip tightening just enough to make you feel the heat of his skin, the demand behind his touch. “You are keeping secrets from me,” he mused, his voice dangerously soft. “I do not like secrets, sweetling.”

Your stomach churned—not from fear, but from something else entirely. A deep, rolling sensation beneath your ribs, a tightness in your chest that made your breath hitch. Your fingers curled around the edge of your plate, your pulse quickening.

“I would never keep secrets from you,” you lied, offering him a small, placating smile.

Across the table, Rhaegar sat quietly, his silver-gold hair falling like a curtain as he plucked the strings of the small harp in his lap. He did not meet your gaze, but you knew he was listening. He always listened. Your twin, your other half, bound to you by the tragedy of your birth. If anyone had noticed the changes in you, it would have been him.

Aerys exhaled sharply, his fingers tracing the pulse at your wrist before he withdrew, turning his attention back to Lord Chelsted. Yet the tension did not leave him. You felt it, humming between you like a live wire, an unspoken demand waiting to be answered.

You forced yourself to take another bite, though the meat now tasted different. Richer. Heavier. Almost metallic.

A flicker of something deep within your belly made you pause.

You pressed a hand against your abdomen, fingers splaying across the fabric of your gown. There it was again, a sensation both foreign and familiar, something stirring beneath your skin.

Aerys noticed.

His voice broke through the murmurs of the hall, cold and commanding. “Leave us.”

The room fell into immediate silence. Lords and ladies hesitated, uncertain, but when the king snapped his fingers, the guards moved to usher them out without hesitation. Even Rhaegar rose, though his gaze lingered on you before he turned and strode from the hall.

Within moments, it was only the two of you.

Aerys stood, his long robes rustling as he moved to stand before you. His fingers caught your chin, tilting your face upward until your eyes met his.

“What are you hiding from me, my love?” His voice was almost gentle now, but you knew better than to mistake it for kindness. His thumb traced the corner of your lips, smearing the remnants of the roast across your skin. “Tell me.”

You swallowed, your throat dry. The words hovered on the tip of your tongue, unspoken.

And deep within you, something stirred again.

Your pulse drummed in your ears as Aerys loomed over you, his fingers still cradling your chin, his thumb gliding over the curve of your jaw with deceptive tenderness. His violet eyes burned with something feverish, something insatiable—obsessive curiosity and an impatience that coiled tightly beneath his skin like a snake poised to strike. He had never been a man of patience, least of all with you, his beloved, his flame.

You exhaled slowly, the weight of his scrutiny pressing against you like a smothering hand, but you did not allow your composure to break. You forced yourself to remain still, pliant beneath his touch, even as that strange sensation curled in your belly again—a flicker of something deep and unknown, something that felt too much like movement, like the shifting of embers in a great fire.

But you could not tell him. Not yet.

Instead, you lifted your hand and covered his where it rested upon your cheek, allowing your fingers to stroke over his knuckles in a way you knew would soothe him, distract him. You had always been able to calm him when no one else could. You had learned long ago that Aerys Targaryen was a wildfire contained within flesh, and it was only your voice, your touch, that could ease him when he threatened to spill over into madness.

“I am only hungry,” you murmured, letting your lips curve into a small, wry smile. “It seems I am never full these days.”

Aerys tilted his head, his gaze sharpening. “Hungry,” he echoed, his fingers tightening ever so slightly against your chin before trailing down, brushing the hollow of your throat. “And what else, my love? I see something in your eyes. You are troubled.”

You hesitated, knowing that denying it outright would only pique his interest further. Aerys had always been perceptive when it came to you. He could see through lies like smoke, could sniff out hesitation like a dragon scents blood in the air.

So you did not deny it. Instead, you gave him something else.

“I have been having dreams,” you admitted, lowering your lashes just enough to make it seem as though you were reluctant to share. It was not untrue—your sleep had been restless, your dreams strange and vivid, filled with the crackling of fire and the rush of wind against your skin. Shadows moved behind your closed eyelids, wings unfurling against an endless sky, and you woke with your heart hammering in your chest, the ghost of heat licking up your spine.

Aerys’s expression shifted, his interest deepening, darkening. “Dreams?” he prompted, his fingers drifting lower, his palm pressing against your stomach through the silk of your gown. “Tell me.”

You swallowed, willing yourself to keep steady. “They are strange dreams,” you said carefully, weaving truth with misdirection. “I see fire, always fire. It burns so bright, but it does not consume me. It surrounds me, but I do not fear it.” You paused, letting the words settle, letting him drink them in before adding, “And wings. Great wings, dark as shadow. They beat against the sky, and I feel them as though they are my own.”

Aerys inhaled sharply, his grip upon you tightening. “A dragon’s dreams,” he murmured, his voice laced with something reverent, something hungry. His other hand lifted to tangle in your hair, his grip possessive, almost fevered. “You were always meant to be greater than all of them, my love. My perfect flame.” His lips curved into something triumphant, something nearly delirious. “A sign. It is a sign.”

You did not ask what he believed it was a sign of. You did not need to. You knew the way his mind worked, the labyrinth of his thoughts twisting and curling in directions only he could see. Aerys saw omens where others saw coincidence, and he would take your dreams and shape them into whatever truth best suited his desires.

But, for now, it had worked.

His suspicion had been deterred, his fixation shifted. He would not press you further, not tonight.

You exhaled softly, feigning a small, weary smile as you reached up and traced the curve of his jaw. “Perhaps it is only my mind playing tricks on me,” you murmured, letting your voice take on a teasing lilt. “Or perhaps I have simply been indulging in too much roast.”

Aerys chuckled, the sound low and pleased, and for the first time that evening, his tension began to ease. His hand slid from your stomach, though not before he lingered, pressing his palm flat against you one last time, as though hoping to feel something beneath.

“Eat your fill, sweetling,” he murmured, brushing a kiss against your temple. “You will need your strength.”

You smiled, tilting your head slightly, allowing the touch, though your fingers curled tightly around the stem of your goblet to keep yourself steady.

Deep inside, something shifted once more. A slow, molten flicker beneath your skin.

And you did not know whether to fear it—or embrace it.

The room was bathed in the flickering glow of the hearthfire, its light licking over the blackened stones and casting long shadows across the vast chamber. The scent of burning cedar mingled with something heavier, muskier—the remnants of sweat and desire, of tangled limbs and whispered promises, of the fevered possession that Aerys had always claimed over you. The great bed, draped in crimson and black silks embroidered with the sigil of your house, was an altar upon which you had been worshipped, upon which you had been taken, upon which you lay now, your breath coming in shallow gasps as your husband’s weight pressed down upon you.

Aerys had always been relentless. Even before your marriage, before the day he had placed the Valyrian steel circlet upon your brow, he had been devoted to you in a way that bordered on madness. His flame, his treasure, his perfect, unmarred creation—his alone, always his.

Tonight, he had claimed you with that same fervor, his hands clutching at your hips, his lips dragging over your throat with the desperation of a man who feared losing what he already possessed. You had grown used to his intensity, to the way he muttered your name like a prayer, to the way his fingers dug into your flesh as though he feared you might vanish if he did not hold you tight enough.

But tonight, something felt different.

You had ignored the discomfort at first, writing it off as exhaustion, as the lingering hunger that never seemed to leave you, as the strain of your new place at Aerys’s side. But as his body moved against yours, as his breath grew ragged in your ear, you felt it—something shifting deep within you, something curling and twisting in a way that made your stomach clench. A sharp heat flared beneath your ribs, not pain, but pressure, pulsing in time with the racing of your heart.

And then it happened.

A flicker of something foreign, something beyond your control. It unfurled within you, deep in the cradle of your womb, a slow and deliberate stretch, as though something inside you was waking, adjusting, pushing against the walls of your body as if testing its own strength.

Your breath hitched, your fingers digging into Aerys’s back as you fought against the urge to cry out. Not from pleasure, not from pain, but from something else entirely—something unnatural, something impossible.

Aerys did not seem to notice. He was lost in his own frenzy, his lips ghosting over your jaw as he murmured your name, his fingers tightening around your wrists where he held them above your head. You forced yourself to relax beneath him, to stifle the instinctive urge to press a hand to your stomach, to reassure yourself that this was normal, that this was merely a sign of new life within you.

Your first pregnancy. Of course, you would feel things you had never felt before. Of course, your body would behave in ways unknown to you. Rhaella had never spoken of this—never told you what it was meant to feel like, what the signs of early life stirring within the womb truly were. She had only spoken of the pain, of the losses, of the sorrow that came with failure. But you were not her. This would not be the same.

You swallowed hard, closing your eyes against the strange sensation as it rolled through you again, something pressing outward, something shifting just beneath the surface of your skin. Heat pulsed in your veins, a slow burn that curled up your spine, pooling at the base of your skull in a way that left you momentarily dizzy. You forced yourself to breathe, to steady the frantic beating of your heart.

Aerys’s grip loosened, his body relaxing against yours as he let out a long, satisfied exhale. He buried his face against the curve of your shoulder, his silver hair damp with sweat, his lips grazing your skin as he murmured, “My beautiful queen… mine.” His breath was warm, his voice laced with something possessive, something reverent. “You were made for me.”

Your fingers twitched against his back, the phantom sensation of movement within you still lingering, but you did not let it show. You merely turned your head, pressing a kiss against his temple, soothing him as you always had.

“Always,” you whispered, your voice steady, unwavering.

He sighed, sated, before shifting to lay beside you, his arm draped possessively across your waist. You felt his fingers trace lazy patterns over your hip, his touch absentminded yet claiming, as though he feared you might slip away into the night if he did not keep you anchored to him.

For a long while, silence stretched between you, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the slow, measured rise and fall of Aerys’s breathing.

Then, his fingers drifted lower, skimming over your stomach, lingering there.

“You will give me a son,” he murmured, his voice thick with certainty. “A strong, perfect son, a true dragon.” His fingers pressed slightly, as if seeking proof of the life growing within you. “I can feel it already, Y/N.”

Your breath caught, but you forced a soft laugh, shifting slightly beneath his touch, careful not to let the unease show on your face. “You say that as though it is already decided.”

“It is.” Aerys’s grip tightened slightly, his thumb stroking idly over your skin. “The gods would not dare deny me what is mine.”

You said nothing, merely resting your hand over his, feigning ease as you traced the ridges of his knuckles. He could not know the truth. Not yet.

This was normal.

You were simply inexperienced.

And the warmth beneath your skin, the sensation of something unfurling within you like a creature waking from slumber, the hunger that never seemed to fade, the flickers of heat that sometimes left your skin fevered—all of it could be explained.

You told yourself it was nothing. You told yourself it was only the stirrings of life, of new blood, of a child born of dragon’s flame.

But still, as Aerys drifted into slumber beside you, his fingers still curled possessively around your waist, you stared at the canopy above, your heart thudding a little too fast, your breath a little too shallow.

Because deep within you, something was awake.

The halls of Maegor’s Holdfast were dark at this hour, illuminated only by the flickering torches set along the stone corridors. Aerys moved with long, purposeful strides, his robes sweeping the floor, his crown glinting in the dim light. His mind was ablaze with thoughts, restless and clearer as ever, though his impatience to return to you outweighed all else. He had been gone too long—held up by the feeble squabbling of his small council, the whispers of cautious men who did not understand the weight of his rule, the demands of a king of dragons.

He had left you in his chambers, bidding you to wait for him, his flame, his most beloved, his only true queen. Aerys did not like to be kept from you for long, for only in your presence did his mind still, only in your arms did the world make sense.

The heavy oak door to his chambers stood ajar, a strange thing, for his guards knew better than to leave it so. Aerys stepped forward, fingers brushing the carved wood as he pushed it open, stepping into the dimly lit room.

At first, he saw nothing amiss. The hearth burned low, casting long shadows across the chamber. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn, enclosing the space in a thick, heavy warmth. The scent of incense and myrrh still lingered from the morning, mingling with something deeper, something… metallic.

Aerys’s eyes flicked to the floor, and only then did he see it.

The body of a servant.

The girl lay sprawled upon the cold stone, her silken skirts torn and bloodied, her throat a gaping ruin. Her glassy eyes stared up, unseeing, her pale skin marred with ragged wounds—teeth marks. Pieces of flesh missing, her limbs twisted unnaturally, her hands still curled as if in the final throes of agony. Blood pooled beneath her, thick and glistening in the low light, soaking into the cracks between the stones.

Aerys did not move. Did not startle. Did not recoil.

He took it in, slow and measured, his breath steady, his pulse a slow, rhythmic drum in his ears. The sight of blood had never disturbed him, not since he was a boy.

And then his gaze lifted—to you.

You sat upon the edge of the great bed, bathed in the dim firelight, your silver hair unbound and cascading over your shoulders, your nightgown rumpled, the fabric stained dark at the edges. But it was not the gown that held his attention.

It was your eyes.

There was something different in them, something distant yet sharp, something hollow yet impossibly full. Your pupils were wide, swallowing the violet of your irises, and your lips—glistening, stained red—were slightly parted, as though you had been caught mid-thought.

Aerys stepped closer, slow and deliberate, his boots clicking against the stone, the scent of blood thick in his nostrils.

You blinked, tilting your head ever so slightly as if only now noticing him. Your breath came in slow, measured pulls, your fingers twitching in your lap.

Then, barely more than a whisper—soft, like silk tearing—

“I was hungry.”

The words hung in the air between you, thick and cloying, and Aerys felt something deep within him tighten, something ancient and knowing, something electric.

He exhaled slowly, carefully. “My love…”

Your fingers traced absently along your wrist, over the pale skin, smudged faintly with red. You did not look away from him. “So hungry,” you murmured, as if speaking more to yourself than to him. “I couldn’t stop. It was…” Your lashes fluttered, a slow, deliberate blink, your voice dipping into something breathless, something reverent. “…warm.”

Aerys reached you then, his fingers curling beneath your chin, tilting your face up to meet his fully. He did not flinch from the sight of you, did not recoil from the blood staining your lips, the raw, animalistic hunger that still lingered in your expression. No, if anything, he was captivated. Enchanted. His beautiful queen, his perfect flame—untouched by the chains of mortal restraint, something more, something greater.

His thumb swiped against your lower lip, collecting a smear of crimson, and he brought it to his own mouth, tasting it, the copper tang sharp upon his tongue.

His lips curved into a slow, breathless smile. “How magnificent you are,” he murmured, his voice thick with something between awe and desire.

You shuddered at his touch, your breath hitching slightly, though not in fear. Never in fear. You had never feared Aerys, not when you were a girl clinging to his robes, not when you became a woman beneath his gaze.

“I…” Your breath trembled, your fingers curling into the sheets beneath you. “Aerys, I—”

His hands were on you now, possessive and firm, drawing you to him, his lips trailing over the curve of your jaw, the shell of your ear. “Tell me, my love.”

Your hands lifted, pressing flat against his chest, not to push him away but to anchor yourself. Your fingers curled into the rich fabric of his robes, gripping tightly. And then, at last, you spoke, your voice barely more than a whisper between you.

“I am with child.”

Aerys stilled.

The words pressed into his skin, into his very bones, like a brand, searing through the fog of madness that always lingered at the edges of his mind. His hands tightened around you, his breath hitching, his heart pounding like the drums of war.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his violet eyes wide, gleaming in the firelight, searching your face for any sign of falsehood. But there was none.

You swallowed, your gaze flickering with something raw, something fragile, something more than words could name.

“I can feel it,” you whispered, pressing a hand to your stomach. “It moves. It stirs.” Your voice trembled slightly, but not in fear. “Aerys, it is strong.”

Aerys let out a breath, a slow, shuddering exhale, and then he was gripping your face between his hands, his lips crashing against yours, unrelenting, fevered, as though he might consume you whole.

“You will give me a son,” he whispered against your lips, between kisses that were more teeth than tenderness, more claiming than caress. “A true dragon.”

Your fingers tangled in his hair, holding him to you, and for a moment, the world around you did not matter—not the blood cooling upon the stone floor, not the hunger that still coiled deep within you, not the fire that flickered beneath your skin.

Only this. Only him.

And deep inside you, something stirred again.

The moon waxed and waned, and with it, your body changed. The weight of your growing child settled within you like an ember nestled in the coals, stirring with a presence more forceful than any unborn babe had the right to be. You could feel it always—not just the faint flutters of early life but the shifting, stretching, the pulse of something strong and unrelenting beneath your skin. It did not feel like a child alone. It felt like something more.

The palace whispered, as it always did. Servants bowed their heads lower as you passed, their lips pressed into thin, bloodless lines, their hands trembling ever so slightly when they poured your wine or set your plate before you at feasts. They never spoke of the girl who had been found in Aerys’s chambers, her throat torn, her body ravaged, her blood pooled like spilled ink upon the stone. There had been no accusations, no inquiries. No one dared.

Instead, they watched. They observed in silence as the moon cycles passed and your belly swelled, as your appetite never waned, as your hunger became a thing near insatiable. You craved meats richer than before, barely cooked, dripping with juice and blood. The scent of roasted fowl and seared venison stirred something deep in your gut, something primal, something that made you grip the edges of your goblet with white-knuckled restraint. Wine, too, had lost its taste, its sweetness cloying, its sharpness wrong. It was water you wanted—cold, endless water to quench the strange heat in your veins. And yet you did not sweat, did not grow weary under the strain of carrying life.

Your health remained more than well—it flourished.

Much to Pycelle’s astonishment.

The old maester had been wary from the moment he first pressed his withered hands to your belly, his watery eyes searching your face for any sign of frailty, of fever, of the slow, inevitable decline that had plagued your mother before you. He had treated Rhaella through every tragic pregnancy, every stillbirth, every moment of quiet agony behind the Red Keep’s closed doors. He had seen her grow weaker with each failed attempt at bringing a living child into the world, and so he had expected much the same of you.

But there was no decline. No sickness. No fainting spells or swollen ankles, no difficulty rising from bed or walking the length of Maegor’s Holdfast. There was no pallor to your skin, no dark shadows beneath your eyes. If anything, you seemed stronger than ever.

Pycelle had spent many long moments staring at you in silent contemplation, his mouth drawn into a thin, thoughtful line, his fingers stroking the length of his beard.

“It is most unusual,” he had murmured one afternoon, as he watched you finish a meal meant for three men.

Aerys had not taken kindly to those words.

“You think my queen weak?” he had hissed, his fingers tightening around the stem of his goblet. “You think she will wither like Rhaella? Do not insult my wife with your foolish concerns, old man.” His voice had wavered between amusement and venom, that unpredictable edge sharpening his tone as he leaned forward. “She carries a true dragon in her womb. Do you doubt it?”

“N-no, Your Grace,” Pycelle had stammered, lowering his head.

You had said nothing, merely placed a hand upon your belly, feeling the slow, deliberate roll of movement beneath your palm.

Aerys had been right, after all. This was no ordinary babe. You could feel it in the way your body did not weaken but strengthen. You could sense it in the way your blood burned hot, in the way your skin was untouched by the ailments that plagued other pregnant women. You saw it in the way even Rhaella’s gaze lingered upon you with something between awe and uncertainty.

She had watched you for weeks, her eyes lingering on the curve of your stomach, on the unnatural flush to your skin, on the way your steps did not falter even as you carried the weight of the child within you.

One evening, as the two of you sat together in the Queen’s solar, she had reached out, tentative and hesitant, her cool fingers brushing over your belly. The moment she touched you, the child within shifted, pressing outward, the force of it making your gown ripple as though something swam just beneath the surface.

Rhaella gasped, pulling her hand back sharply, her lips parting.

You only smiled.

“It is strong,” you murmured, running your own fingers over your belly. “It does not rest. It moves as though it is restless.”

Rhaella did not respond immediately. Her gaze flickered downward, lingering upon you with something unreadable. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet. “That is… good,” she said carefully. “A strong child will be a blessing.”

You had nodded, but you had seen the doubt in her eyes. You had seen the way she glanced at your hands, at the way your fingers curled unconsciously against your gown, at the way you had been idly tracing circles in the fabric without realizing it.

She had not touched you again after that.

But Aerys never wavered.

To him, you were perfection itself. His beloved queen, his flame, his living proof that the blood of old Valyria ran true. He worshipped you with fevered reverence, his hands never straying far from your belly, his lips never far from your skin.

He had told you more than once that he could feel it too.

At night, when the torches burned low and the rest of the world lay silent, he would pull you into his arms, his fingers splaying over your stomach, his breath warm against your ear. “It will be a son,” he would murmur, his voice low and possessive. “A true dragon, born in fire, stronger than all those who came before him.”

You never corrected him.

Because deep down, you knew the truth.

You could feel it, even now, as you lay in his bed, Aerys’s hand resting over your swollen belly, his breath steady beside you. The child stirred again, not the gentle shifting of a babe but something deeper, something stranger, something that made your skin prickle and your breath catch.

You did not fear it.

No.

You only wondered how much longer it would remain within you before the fire demanded release.

The pain struck like a bolt of lightning, searing through your lower belly and clawing up your spine, stealing the breath from your lungs. It came suddenly, violently, forcing a ragged gasp from your lips as you clutched at the sheets beneath you, your fingers twisting in the silk. Your body went rigid, the muscles in your abdomen locking like iron, a terrible pressure blooming deep within your womb, deeper than anything you had imagined possible.

Something was happening.

The chamber was dark, the only light was coming from the hearthfire. The scent of smoke and lavender lingered in the air, thick and suffocating, mixing with the coppery tang of sweat upon your skin. Aerys lay beside you, his arm draped possessively over your swollen belly, his breath even in sleep.

Then another wave of pain ripped through you, a violent shudder wracking your body, and you could not stifle the choked sob that tore from your throat. Your fingers spasmed, gripping at Aerys’s wrist where it rested upon your stomach. His breath hitched, and then his eyes snapped open.

“What is it?” His voice was thick with sleep, groggy and hoarse, but then he saw you—your face twisted with pain, your body trembling beneath the weight of it. He sat up abruptly, his hand immediately pressing against your belly. “Is it time?”

You could not answer. You could only gasp as another contraction tore through you, and suddenly, there was warmth between your legs—fluid, hot and wet, pooling beneath you.

Aerys’s eyes flickered down, and for a moment, he was utterly still. Then, realization dawned.

“You are laboring,” he whispered, and the gleam in his violet eyes was not fear, but exhilaration. “It comes now.” His hands gripped your shoulders, his fingers digging in just enough for you to feel the heat of them, his breath unsteady but full of something close to triumph. “A dragon is coming.”

Your breath hitched as another wave of pain wracked your body, your entire form seizing with it, and you cried out. It was different than what you had expected—sharper, deeper, as though something was not merely pushing but tearing its way free from you. Your body felt impossibly tight, stretched beyond its limits, as though something inside was pressing outward with unbearable force.

Aerys moved quickly, throwing aside the heavy sheets, his hands firm yet almost gentle as he settled between your legs. His expression was one of absolute focus, his mouth slightly parted, his breath quick.

“It is coming,” he murmured, his eyes fixed upon you with an intensity that sent a shiver up your spine even through the pain. “I see it.”

Another contraction. You screamed this time, your back arching against the bed, your hands flying to your belly as a deep, unnatural pressure built within you, something clawing, something moving, something pushing against the walls of your flesh.

And then you felt it.

Not the head of a babe.

Something sharper.

Something harder.

Something that scraped against the inside of you with the unmistakable sensation of scale.

Your scream broke into a strangled gasp, your entire body seizing as a terrible heat flooded your core, spreading outward like wildfire, like molten gold pouring through your veins. Aerys’s breathing turned ragged, his hands steady upon you as he coaxed you through it, his fingers tracing patterns over your thighs as though soothing a frightened animal.

“You are birthing a dragon,” he whispered, reverent, as though the gods themselves had bestowed upon him the greatest gift. “My love, you are delivering fire made flesh.”

Tears blurred your vision, sweat slicked your skin, and still the thing within you fought to be free. Your legs trembled violently as the pressure intensified, as something far too large forced its way down, stretching you to the brink of agony.

Aerys’s hands moved, guiding, coaxing, his voice a steady murmur of encouragement as he watched with eyes wide and fevered.

Then, with one final, searing pain, something slid free of you in a rush of heat and liquid. A sharp, keening cry—shrill, piercing, inhuman—filled the chamber, echoing off the stone walls.

Your chest heaved, your body trembling violently, your hands clutching weakly at the sheets as you gasped for breath.

Aerys did not move. He was frozen, his gaze locked upon the thing in his hands.

Not a babe.

A dragon.

Small, slick with the remnants of birth, its body coiled and trembling, but alive.

Scales the color of gold shimmered in the firelight, damp and glistening, its delicate wings still folded against its serpentine body. Tiny, razor-sharp claws twitched, testing the air, and its thin, whip-like tail curled slightly as it let out another shrill cry.

Aerys’s breath shuddered out of him, his hands cradling the tiny creature as though it were the most precious thing in the world. His eyes flickered to you, and the madness within them was bright, feverish, consuming.

“You have done it,” he whispered, his voice breaking with something between awe and sheer delirium. “You have given me fire. A true dragon.”

Your entire body was trembling, spent, raw from the labor, yet you could not tear your gaze away from the creature in his hands. The weight in your belly was gone, replaced by a strange hollowness, an ache that was more than physical.

The tiny dragon let out a softer sound, something closer to a whimper, and nestled itself into the warmth of Aerys’s arms, its golden scales catching the firelight as it shivered.

Then, before either of you could speak, there was a sudden commotion beyond the door—hurried footsteps, muffled voices, the sound of hands slamming against wood.

“Your Grace!” A frantic voice called from beyond the chamber. “We heard—”

The door burst open, and Pycelle stumbled in first, followed closely by two midwives, their faces pale, their hands full of linens and tinctures. They had expected to see the birth of a prince. A child.

Instead, they saw Aerys standing over you, his hands cradling the writhing, golden-scaled creature, its tiny wings fluttering weakly, its ember-like eyes flickering open for the first time.

A stunned silence filled the room.

Pycelle’s breath left him in a strangled sound, his eyes bulging, his face draining of all color.

The midwives did not move. One clutched at her apron, her fingers digging into the fabric as though she might tear it apart with the sheer force of her disbelief.

Aerys, oblivious to their horror, lifted the tiny dragon, his expression one of unbridled triumph. His laughter rang out, high and unhinged, echoing off the stone walls.

“Behold!” he declared, his voice exultant, his violet eyes burning with wild joy. “The blood of the dragon, made flesh once more!”

You lay there, still trembling, still hollow, your chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths.

The silence stretched long and thick, suffocating the chamber in its weight. The fire crackled in the hearth, the only sound in the vast room, save for the wet, trembling breath that still rattled in your chest. The metallic tang of birth and blood clung to the air, mingling with the remnants of sweat. The midwives stood frozen near the door, their hands still clutching linens and ointments they no longer knew how to use.

Pycelle was the first to move. The old maester staggered forward, his robes rustling as he took a tentative step closer, his beady eyes darting between the newborn dragon cradled in Aerys’s hands and your still-trembling form upon the bed. His throat worked, a strangled noise escaping him, and for the first time in all his years, the maester seemed truly at a loss.

“This… this is…” He swallowed, his face ashen, his aged fingers trembling at his sides. “This is impossible.”

Aerys turned suddenly, his violet eyes gleaming with something dangerous, something fevered. “Impossible?” he echoed, his voice lilting with amusement, madness curling at the edges of his words. “Did I not tell you, Pycelle? Did I not say she carried fire in her womb? That the gods had blessed my beloved with a true dragon?” His grin stretched wide, baring teeth. “And you doubted.”

The newborn dragon shifted in his grasp, its small body wriggling, damp scales with remnants of birth gleamed like polished gold in the candlelight. Its wings, still soft and untested, twitched, and then, with a weak, clumsy struggle, it clambered from Aerys’s hands and onto the bed beside you.

The midwives gasped, one of them stepping back, pressing herself against the wall as though she could disappear into the stone. Pycelle’s mouth opened and closed uselessly, his mind desperately searching for logic where none could be found.

The dragon—your child—moved with newborn awkwardness, its small claws catching against the silken sheets, its fragile body trembling with exertion. Its ember-bright eyes blinked slowly, struggling to focus, and then, instinct guiding it, it turned toward you. Its scaled belly pressing against the soft fabric, its weak wings twitching as it crawled toward you.

A strange, warm sensation filled your chest as you watched it clamber forward, its delicate frame shaking with the effort. It moved purely on instinct, small nostrils flaring as it took in your scent, as if drawn by something it did not understand but knew was safe. It pressed itself against your side, its soft-scaled snout nudging at the curve of your breast, seeking warmth, seeking sustenance.

A mother’s duty.

Your hands moved before you could think, your fingers sliding over the creature’s warm, damp body, tracing the ridges of its tiny spine, feeling the heartbeat fluttering beneath your palm. Aerys watched, rapt, his lips parting slightly as he took in the sight.

The dragon nuzzled against you, its small, sharp teeth grazing your skin as it latched, suckling weakly. A strange, electric pulse traveled through your body, something deep, something primal, something unexplainable.

And yet, you did not recoil.

You did not hesitate.

Your arms cradled the dragon closer, your fingers stroking along its scales, soothing it as it fed, as though this were the most natural thing in the world.

Because to you, it was.

It did not matter that it did not have a child’s soft flesh, that it did not cry with a babe’s human wail. It did not matter that its tiny claws flexed against your skin, or that its tail curled instinctively around your wrist.

Its form was something no midwife could ever swaddle in linen. But it was yours.

It was your child.

Aerys let out a slow, trembling breath, something reverent in his gaze as he knelt beside the bed, his hands hovering over you both. “A mother of dragons,” he murmured, his voice full of something beyond madness, something almost sacred. “My love, my fire… you are divine.”

The midwives remained pressed to the far wall, their faces pale, their eyes wide with a fear they could not put into words. Pycelle, for all his knowledge, for all his years of service to the crown, had no words for what he was witnessing.

Still, the old maester swallowed his horror, steadying himself before he dared to speak again. “Your Grace,” he said, his voice rasping, but his gaze was not on Aerys. It was on you. “At least… at least allow me to examine the queen.”

Aerys’s expression darkened instantly, his body tensing as he turned his head, his silver hair falling over his shoulder like a shimmering veil. His fingers twitched, his jaw tightening.

“She has just given birth to a dragon,” he said, his voice dangerously soft. “She has fulfilled a prophecy older than this wretched kingdom. And you wish to poke at her with your frail, withered hands?” His lips curled in disgust. “No. You will not touch her.”

Pycelle hesitated, clearly torn between duty and terror. “But… but Your Grace—”

“Enough.”

Aerys rose from his kneeling position, the loose folds of his robe rustling as he towered over the maester, his violet eyes blazing. “She is strong. She is more than strong. Do you not see? Look at her.” His arm swept toward you, toward where you lay with the golden creature curled against you, feeding from you as if it had been born to do so. “Does she look weak? Does she look as Rhaella did? As Elia does? No.” His breath hitched, his hands twitching at his sides. “She is fire made flesh.”

Pycelle flinched under the force of Aerys’s voice, but still, he did not yield entirely. “Please, Your Grace. The queen—her body—she may be well now, but… but this has never been seen before. We do not know what it may do to her.”

Aerys laughed then, sharp and grating, his head tilting back as the sound echoed off the chamber walls. It was a laugh full of amusement and condescension, full of the absolute certainty that he knew something Pycelle never could.

“She has already been remade,” Aerys declared, his gaze falling back to you with utter devotion. “She is no mortal queen.”

Pycelle hesitated.

You could feel his gaze burning into you, searching for any sign of the exhaustion, the strain, the sickness that had plagued so many women before you. But there was none.

You were tired, yes. Spent, yes. But your body still thrummed with unnatural heat, your blood still sang in your veins, your breath was still steady. And as the tiny dragon suckled at your breast, its warmth pulsing against your skin, you felt no pain. No sickness.

Only the certainty of what you had always known.

This was your child.

No matter how it looked, no matter how the world saw it. It had grown within you, stirred within you, burned within you for moons uncounted.

And now, it lived.

Aerys’s fingers traced down your arm, his touch reverent, his breath warm against your skin as he whispered, “My queen of fire… you have given birth to the future. You made me a god.”

You let out a slow breath, your arms curling protectively around the tiny dragon, your child.

“I know,” you murmured. “I can feel it.”

[asongofstarkandtargaryen]

The number of male asoiaf fans I've seen being offended over the years bc Dany rejected ser Jorah and/or Quentyn Martell. Because how dare a woman not like every "good guy"* who is interested at her. How dare she, having personal preferences in what she likes and was she doesn't in her partners. Never mind, that male characters also have their own preferences. It's only offending when a woman does it /s.

* ser Jorah is anything but a good guy lol.

[venusbyline]

i'll NEVER forgive HBO for not showing Aemond's kisses with the Baratheon girls.

probably i would be jealous as hell? ofc. but it would be sooooo fucking hot

THE HAND ON HER NECK-

THE HAND ON THE CAMION-

[vesna7s]

DAENERYS WANTS EQUALITY FOR EVERYONE On the cover of ADWD for Brazil, I placed Daenerys at the top of the Meyering Pyramid ladder. Undoubtedly, I was unconsciously influenced by the series. And George told me that DAENERYS WANTS EQUALITY FOR EVERYONE, SHE WANTS TO BE ON THE SAME LEVEL AS HER PEOPLE, so I made her come down to maintain consistency" — Mark Simonetti https://www.lagardedenuit.com/interview-de-marc-simonetti-2018/

And there's a reason this is important, because thrones and what they symbolize are a cross—cutting theme in the Daenerys books. Even when it's "unbecoming of a queen," Daenerys prefers a simple bench to a fantasy throne. She does not act in accordance with what is accepted and what is not accepted in society, but strives for equality and simplicity. She sincerely wants equality for everyone, even if it diminishes her own greatness. Even when others believe that a queen should put herself above her subjects, she doesn't.

There's a reason the books keep mentioning her thrones.:

Her waiting room was on the lower level, an echoing room with high ceilings and walls of purple marble. For all its splendor, it was a cool place. There once stood a throne, a fantastic thing made of carved and gilded wood in the shape of a ferocious harpy. She looked at it for a long time and ordered it to be broken into firewood. “I'm not going to sit on a harpy's lap,” she told them. Instead, she sat down on a simple ebony bench. It was convenient, though she could hear the maesters whispering that it was unbecoming of a queen. ― ASOS

Daenerys Targaryen preferred to conduct court sitting on a bench of polished ebony, smooth and simple, covered with cushions that Ser Barristan had found to make her more comfortable. King Hizdahr replaced the bench with two imposing thrones made of gilded wood, the high backs of which were carved in the shape of dragons. The king sat on the right throne with a golden crown on his head and a jeweled scepter in his pale hand. The second throne remained vacant. ― ADWD

Hizdahr's grotesque dragon thrones were removed on Ser Barristan's orders, but he did not return the simple bench with cushions that the queen preferred. Instead, a large round table with high chairs around it was set up in the center of the hall, where men could sit and talk as equals. https://rainhadaenerys.tumblr.com/post/188088487857/love-deejay-eldritch-crone#notes

[idkyetxoxo]

Criston Cole - I Love You, I'm Sorry

Summary - A love torn apart by duty and regret, where time becomes a tormentor. As he returns to seek redemption, his apologies fall on broken hearts, unable to undo the past. In the shadows of what once was, two souls are left to grapple with the irreparable damage of their love.

Pairing - Criston Cole x reader

Warnings - None

Word count - 2492

Masterlist for Criston • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

You were the best but you were the worst as sick as it sounds, I loved you first.

I often thought of time as the cruellest of lords. The castle walls of King's Landing had always stood strong against invaders, but they offered no defence against time's erosion. 

The warmth of memories I cherished with Criston seemed to fade each day, the pain gnawing at my insides sharper with every breath.

He was no longer mine; he hadn't been for some time now. 

Yet, I found myself haunted by the echoes of his laughter, the flash of his eyes as he gazed at me across the training yard. Those memories became spectres haunting every corridor I walked. 

Time moved forward, but I remained trapped in the prison of what once was. 

And what I had lost.

I still remember the day we met as clearly as if it had been yesterday. 

I was hurrying through one of the narrow, winding passageways of the Keep, my arms burdened with scrolls and ledgers, the weight of my responsibilities pressing on me from all sides. 

The court was abuzz with schemes and alliances, and I was too distracted to notice the loose stone underfoot. 

My foot caught, and in an instant, I was falling, papers scattering like autumn leaves. I braced for impact but felt a strong arm catch me instead.

"Careful there, my lady," a voice said, gentle yet teasing. 

I looked up into a pair of deep brown eyes that seemed to hold both warmth and mischief. Ser Criston Cole. 

At the time, he was a newly named knight, his reputation already growing, but to me, he was simply the man who had stopped my graceless tumble.

Heat rose to my cheeks as I tried to gather myself. "I—thank you, Ser Criston," I managed, my voice catching. 

He released me once I was steady, his touch lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

"Allow me to help." Without waiting for permission, he bent down, gathering the scattered scrolls. 

I protested, insisting it wasn't necessary, but he only smiled—a disarming, genuine smile that softened the hard lines of his face.

"Knights are sworn to protect, even from the dangers of wayward parchment," he said, an amused glint in his eyes. I couldn't help but laugh, a brief, unguarded sound. 

In that moment, the weight I carried seemed to lift just a fraction.

From then on, our paths seemed to cross with increasing frequency. At first, it was mere coincidence—passing glances in the halls, polite exchanges in crowded chambers. 

But soon, I found myself seeking him out, inventing excuses to visit the training grounds or linger in places where he might be. 

He noticed, of course. Criston always noticed everything. 

He began to linger too, our conversations growing in depth, in warmth. Before long, what began as chance had become intention. 

We stole moments together, slipping away from the watchful eyes of the court, carving out our own fragile sanctuary.

Those were the days of stolen glances and whispered promises beneath the stars. I had never known love like that—fierce and consuming, but also impossibly fragile. 

Criston was the first to make me feel seen, truly seen, in a world where I often felt invisible behind masks of duty. 

He listened when I spoke of my dreams and fears, and when he spoke of his, I listened just as intently, storing each word like a precious gem.

But love, I would later learn, was not enough. 

Not when the weight of duty bore down on him with such crushing force. Not when we lived in a world that would not, could not, allow us to be together without consequence. 

When the end came, it came not as a sudden storm but as a slow unravelling. It was the small moments that broke me more than the final parting. 

The way he began to turn away instead of leaning in. The nights when the silence stretched longer than the words.

I stood by the window of my chambers, staring at the torches flickering against the stone walls below. The wind bit at my skin, but I didn't draw my shawl closer. 

Instead, I let the cold seep in, numbing the ache inside me. A knock sounded on the door, tentative and soft. My hand clenched involuntarily.

"Come in," I said, voice steady despite the tremor I felt within.

The door creaked open. "My lady," a servant announced quietly. "There is word from Ser Criston Cole. He awaits your audience in the courtyard."

My heart thudded once, hard and fast, against my ribs. Then it sank. I dismissed the servant with a wave of my hand, swallowing hard. 

I hadn't seen Criston since...since we had ended things. And now he was here? 

I hadn't been prepared for this. I had convinced myself I never would be.

The memory of our last conversation played through my mind. Words like jagged glass. I love you, Criston, I had said, tears streaking my cheeks. And he had looked at me, his face an unreadable mask, before telling me that it wasn't enough. 

That duty, honour, and oaths were heavier than love. That we could never continue.

I pressed a hand to my chest. Even now, it felt as if there were a blade lodged there.

Gathering myself, I left my chambers, descending the stairs with my head held high. I owed myself at least the strength of a composed appearance. 

Whatever had brought him here, it would not shatter me again. I refused to let him see that he still had that power.

The courtyard was quiet, shadows stretching long across the cobblestones. Criston stood in the centre, his back straight, the gleam of his armour catching the light. 

My eyes caught sight of a young maid and a stablehand whispering beneath the eaves. She laughed softly, and he leaned closer, their hands brushing in secret affection. 

The sight tightened a vice around my heart. It was a cruel echo of what Criston and I once were—the kind of stolen moments we once cherished but could never reclaim.

As I approached, he turned to face me, his expression unreadable but his eyes—those eyes betrayed him. They softened for just a heartbeat, and it made everything so much worse.

"Ser Criston," I greeted him, inclining my head. My voice felt hollow, distant.

"My lady," he replied, equally formal. I hated it—the distance between us was a yawning chasm. "Thank you for seeing me."

I nodded, waiting. I would not make this easier for him. He chose this. He ended us.

"I needed to speak with you," he said, hesitating. He was a man of strong conviction, unbending as steel in battle, but now he seemed almost unsure of himself. 

"To...make amends, if such a thing is possible."

Amends? I barely kept the bitter laugh from my lips. I forced myself to remain still, to listen. 

"Speak, then."

He took a breath. "I hurt you. I made choices that I can never undo, and I regret that more than you know. I was trying to be honourable, but in doing so, I wronged you. And for that, I am deeply sorry."

The words pierced through me, but I steeled myself. 

"Is this what you came to say? That you are sorry?" My voice wavered despite my best efforts. "Do you think that changes anything, Criston?"

His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek. "No," he admitted, eyes darkening with pain. "I know it does not change what I did."

"Then why are you here?" I stepped closer, the anger rising to the surface now, pushing past the sorrow. "Why come back to me with apologies after breaking everything between us?"

"Because I cannot let go," he said, voice low but fervent. "I tried. Gods, I tried to be the man I am supposed to be. But it haunts me, every day, knowing what I did to you. To us."

For a long moment, I said nothing. The courtyard felt too small, the air too thin. 

"You ended it," I said, my voice quieter now. "You told me love was not enough. You chose duty. Oaths."

He nodded, shame etched into every line of his face. "And I hate myself for it. I wanted to protect you from the ruin that would follow, to keep us from being dragged into scandal and destruction. I thought I was sparing you pain, but all I did was cause more."

I laughed bitterly, the sound harsh in the cold air. "You thought breaking me was better than fighting for us? You thought I would thank you for that?"

"No." His voice cracked, and for a moment, the proud knight looked like a broken man. "I only ask that you believe I loved you. That I still love you."

A moment of silence hung between us, heavy with the weight of everything unsaid. I could still remember the nights we spent beneath the stars on the shores, hidden away from prying eyes. 

We would talk until dawn about dreams that felt foolish now, dreams of a life where he wasn't bound by oath. 

"I would give you everything," he had whispered then. I had believed him, foolishly.

"I will protect you always," he had vowed. "Even from myself, if I must." 

That night, I had laughed and called him overdramatic. I had believed we were invincible. Fool that I was.

"I loved you," I said, bitterness and longing warring in my heart. "But what use is love in a world like ours, Criston? What use is it when you chose to bury it?" I stepped closer, and he did not flinch. 

"Was your honour worth it?"

His silence answered me. I saw his lips part as if to say something, but no words came. "There is no path for us," I continued, swallowing back tears. "There never was."

"It was the only way I could see to protect you," he said finally, his voice trembling. "And if it makes me a coward, then I will carry that shame. I know you may never forgive me, but I..." 

He reached for me, but I pulled back sharply. His hand dropped. "I would walk away if that is what you wish."

"It doesn't matter what I wish anymore," I said, exhaustion creeping in. "The past cannot be changed."

He opened his mouth to protest, but I shook my head. 

"What do you want, Criston?" I demanded, my voice rising with frustration. "To drown me in your regret? To make me relive this pain for you?"

His gaze dropped to the ground. "I want you to know you were worth more than I gave you. That I will spend every day regretting my choice. I do not ask for your forgiveness, only that you understand. I would take your pain and bear it if I could."

I wanted to hate him. Gods, it would be easier if I could. 

But his words struck at the deepest part of me—the part that still yearned for him, that had never stopped loving him even when it hurt the most. 

My fingers brushed against the small pendant hidden beneath my gown, the one Criston had gifted me when our love was still a fragile secret. I had tried to discard it many times, but my hands had always faltered. 

Now, its cold touch burned against my skin—a cruel reminder of everything lost.

"Love is not enough, you said," I whispered, echoing the words that had ended everything between us. "So what now? Do you want forgiveness? Do you want me to take your pain away when you left me drowning in it?"

He looked away, his shoulders sagging. "I would take it back if I could. I would give anything to undo the harm."

"Words," I spat. "They're only words now." I wanted to turn away, to leave him and the wreckage behind. But something stopped me. 

"Tell me, Ser Criston. If you were to choose again, what would you do differently?"

His head snapped up. "Everything." There was no hesitation in his voice. "I would break every oath. I would risk every consequence, damn the realm. I would not walk away from you again."

I wanted to believe him. But trust shattered so easily and took far more to rebuild. "But you can't change it," I said softly, a tear slipping down my cheek. "And I can't pretend it didn't happen."

The silence stretched, taut and brittle. I remembered the nights spent in his arms, the whispered promises, the stolen moments of joy. 

I had given him everything, and he had left me with nothing but shattered dreams. I took a shaky breath.

"You don't get to come back and say you're sorry," I said, my voice raw. "You don't get to love me only when it's convenient for you. You made your choice. Live with it."

I turned on my heel, intending to walk away. To leave him standing there with the weight of his regret. But his voice stopped me.

"I do live with it. Every day." There was no anger in his tone, only despair. "It is a torment I cannot escape. But if hearing my regret is a burden to you, then I will leave. I will not come back."

I hesitated, my chest aching. I wanted him gone; I wanted him to stay. I wanted to scream at him and hold him close. None of it made sense. I closed my eyes, feeling the weight of it all. 

"Why did you come here, Criston?" I asked quietly. "What did you hope would happen?"

"I don't know," he said, and I believed him. "I wanted to see you. To tell you the truth. Even if it changes nothing."

I opened my eyes and met his gaze. There was no armour, no mask. Just the man I had loved. The man I still loved. And it hurt so much that I almost couldn't breathe. 

My hand twitched at my side, and for one heart-stopping moment, I almost reached for him. Almost.

"Then let it change nothing," I said, swallowing back the tears. "We are not who we were."

He nodded slowly. "As you wish."

He turned to go, and I watched him walk away, each step widening the chasm between us. Part of me wanted to call out to him, to beg him to stay. But I stayed silent, my heart pounding in my chest.

"I loved you," I whispered to the empty courtyard. "I'm sorry."

The wind carried my words away, leaving me with nothing but the cold and the memory of what had been. 

Time would keep moving, but I remained behind, still trapped in the echoes of the past.

I love you, I'm sorry.

A/n - This was written same day as 'Atlantis' for Aemond and 'What Could Have Been' for Aegon (idk what order these will be posted so this might not make sense) but there is definitely a pattern here 👀