#jacaerys velaryon x tyrell!reader

[queers-gambit]

The Black Dread part one

prompt: after word is sent for Dragonseeds to raise up, you shockingly claim The Black Dread. knowing your stance would all but determine the war, both Alicent and Rhaenyra send emissaries to persuade your allegiance through means of marriage. when tragedy strikes, you fly to war. -> in this part - you claim Balerion and emissaries are sent.

pairing: Jacaerys 'Jace' Velaryon x female!Tyrell!reader pairing: Aemond Targaryen x female!Tyrell!reader -> hair color specified reader -> technically Targaryen!reader -> ALL characters aged 18+

fandom masterlist: House of the Dragon

series masterlist: The Black Dread part two: read here

word count: 4.9k+

note: ALL characters are aged up - they are NOT minors

warnings: hair color specified reader but it's paramount to the story. Dance of the Dragons AU, Balerion lives AU - kinda heavy introduction. political manipulation, i guess no Baela, Rhaena or Alys romantic interests, ALL characters are aged 18 or older, Muses aren't in this part much, stolen Olenna Tyrell quote(s), Dylan Thomas quote.

though Balerion is not shown in the shows [HOTD or GOT], these are some of author's personal favorite fan art pieces: this this one, but maybe this color

Considering the climate, environment, elements, and location of each region with no true diverse distinction or transition between seasons, summers varied in each corner of the Seven Kingdoms. Notably, the mainland experienced vastly different summers in comparison to the constantly humid Westerosi islands.

This was expected.

Where the weather endured in King’s Landing is dry and stale - lacking cloud coverage, baking all forms of life under the unforgiving sun - Dorne was ideal: temperate, tropical, the temperature usually consistently comfortable.

Northwest of the continent, off the Westerlands coast in water of Ironman's Bay so dark, secrets remain hidden, summers on the ratified Iron Islands were cold due to the winds blowing from the North. The rocky region wet and slippery from rain; never humid, usually biting.

The Reach boasted pleasant summers; lush and green with fully bloomed gardens, perfectly balmy. The Stormlands lived up to its name and was plagued with frequent storms. These were usually warm rains - opposite the Iron Islands. The Crownland's annually hosted hordes of tourists at their ever popular summer attraction: temperate beaches. And why wouldn't they? The Crownlands's usually kept moderate temperatures and plenty of vast coastline to offer reprieve in the surf.

However, the only exception to sweltering, stereotypical climate that ransacks the Realm is the North - an expansive outlier. You see, in the North, summers are cold but winters are REALLY cold. From Bear Island to White Harbor, the dreary, overcast summer sky reflects on year-round, bright, pristine summer snow, making it glitter and blindingly glow. This results in the curation of a blue-grey filter naturally exclusive in the North.

However, tonight - You weren't ankle-deep in North summer snows. You weren't wheezing in King's Landing. You weren't vacationing in Dorne. You weren't sloshing through the Stormlands.

Tonight, you weren't on the mainland.

Tonight, you were on Dragonstone - ancestral home of your distant, estranged family.

Bullfrogs belted their croaky song, loud and incessant; as if trying to individually greet each twinkling star in the inky sky - the ever faithful audience; intrigued by this reckless and dangerous suicidal showdown you embarked on. Crickets chirped in a soprano choir; dotting around the maze of tide pools - cratered by the same porous, jagged, volcanic rock that defines the unpredictable, natural coastline. Frothing alto waves of dark navy, violent, salty sea brutally crashed against rock - the booming baseline of the frog's and cricket's private duet sang in perfect harmony.

All that was missing was a little red crab with a Jamaican accent encouraging you "kiss the girl".

Night had fallen. The winds were cold as a storm rumbled overhead. Rain fell sideways. Lightning streaked the skies.

You navigated through the dark - a slippery, dangerous feat.

Few windows of the castle gave a subtle, dim light; indicating the residents were more than likely turned in for the night. Still, despite the lack of patrolling guards and other witnesses, you remained in stealth mode. Only fools allowed themselves to feel cocky when their guards go down. When someone allowed their defenses to go down, mistakes are made, capture is imminent, the mission is a failure, and surrender to the enemy's mercy is forced.

Your presence on Dragonstone wasn't for romance - no girls (or boys) for you to kiss. This wasn't a social visit to recreationally mingle with the Velaryon Prince or Targaryen Princess Twins. You're not conducting research curriculum - no time to study flora, fauna, volcanic activity.

To the winged terrors, Dragonstone Island is a recognizable safe haven that promotes healing - the one place these miraculous beasts could relax, ease their defenses; be vulnerable with lowered guards. This sense of safety gives freedom away from the confines of Dragon Riders - simply allowed to be true, authentic, and animalistic.

Currently, a couple dragons sought refuge on the island, nesting, minding their own business; others sought rest, retirement, peaceful isolation. Several took advantage of the heat and loitered around the volcano, the Dragonmont.

They weren't just any dragons, some were rogue, wild; some released after captivity; all unclaimed, riderless. This tempted several persons to rely on arrogant luck and try their hand at harnessing the terrible beasties - but they never returned.

Summer days stretched long, giving limited time to move under the cover of darkness, and the nights progressively shortened each day leading up to the solstice. Your journey was miraculous, having never navigated open water before yet somehow arriving at Dragonstone after setting sail from King's Landing by yourself. Perhaps you had a hidden talent, a subconscious sailor mentality; maybe you were just lucky, or maybe your boiling emotions made you defiantly determined - running on pure spite to stay alive, unharmed, and without capsizing in an effort to complete your mission.

Most of the time, you relied more on logic than emotion, something that helped keep you balanced, grateful, rational. Leading with logic arguably "made" someone intelligent; solution oriented, stubborn, hardheaded, unwilling to compromise (a common foundation when leading with emotion).

Yet logic made you very black and white - no grey area. Logic is cut and dry. Logic is sometimes sophisticated. Logic is also stubborn. Logic abandoned empathy. Logic could be explained. Logic identified applicable reasonings and explanations. Logic is hard to argue against. Logic sustained battles of wit. Logic is sometimes discriminatory. Logic always tells the truth. Logic has limited loopholes.

Logic is fact driven, and when paired with your own rooted moral and religious beliefs, made you subconsciously judgmental.

There's a well-known proverb, quote, "it's not the destination, but the journey." Yet some philosophers think the destination is mundane, anticlimactic, boring, sometimes disappointing and unfulfilling while the journey is much more fulfilling. The journey is what's worth; an adventure, where development inflates, where a story worth telling lies.

Logic is the destination. Leading with emotion is the journey.

Leading with emotion develops thoughtful decisions. Emotions sharpen empathetic abilities. Emotions sometimes changes perspectives, broadens horizons. Emotions allow for differences in opinions. Emotions curates safety. Emotions heightens generosity. Emotions expands willingness to help. Emotions softens situations with compassion. Emotions often strides towards peace. Emotions structures harmony. Emotions accepts all. Emotions could be overwhelming. Emotions don't always have one, single, clear victor.

Leading with emotion makes you easily reactive, being why you made a conscious effort to engage logic; keeping yourself in check.

You often never lost your cool; always having a handle on things, but sometimes, it was a challenge. Emotions demand to be felt, and no matter how hard you train yourself and practice relying on logic, you were still human.

Both leading with logic and emotion made you passionate, sometimes synonymous with stubborn. Either way, you ended up here - on Dragonstone - slinking around in the dead of night as if a criminal on the run, trying to avoid the Rogue Prince's nefarious, outlandishly violent City Watch.

You were dedicated to the truth, hence your willingness to embark on this suicide mission. You know it's out there, becoming desperate to find it; never settling, fed the fuck up of mindless gossip the court whispered and hissed about. Enduring years of scrutiny and unfiltered rudeness made you confident, wanting, and energized to justify your claims, prove self-worth, assign relief, terminate turmoil, tension, and assumption.

Yeah, yeah, yeah - but what truth are you dedicated to? Your family's lineage and heritage, your birthrights, your position in society. Your contributing livelihood. They only thought you a young lady boasting the Tyrell surname - a broodmare to sell off. After Queen Rhaenyra proclaimed herself, you became incessant to prove you were so much more than a pretty fragile rose to be set in a vase.

Truth became your Eighth God; being a dedicated, loyal, trusting, worshipping follower. And the truth was, you're a Targaryen as much as a Tyrell, and by all means, had as much of a right to claim a dragon as any of the rest of them.

You refuse to take detours, cut corners, violate, or cheat to obtain your goal(s); arriving at your desired end result with integrity, completing your mission by barreling through obstacles with laser focus - like a predator stalking prey.

Boots slapped and clicked on wet rock, splashing in puddles, splattering mud up your legs to soak into your breeches. Heavy humidity - thick and muggy air - coated lungs and stuck in nostrils, being suffocatingly stuffy; breathing becoming difficult. You could physically feel the condensation in the air - hair adopting a mind of its own; beaded, clammy skin becoming uncomfortably sticky, palms slick with sweat. You missed the dry heat of the capital.

Dark hood of your cloak hid your vibrant hair; the material swishing, swirling airy fog low to the ground around your creeping form, creating an ominous energy. You half expected a ghost to appear at your flank.

The clanking of the night patrol's armor was heard first, alerting you to a diminishing window; sliding into the mouth of one of the dragon caves in time for the White Cloaks to stalk around the castle's perimeter walkway.

Even with thick rock cocooning your form, the rumbling of the nested dragon's slumber was heard; loose pebbles, dust and other debris showered from the cave ceiling. Despite the heat of the Dragonmont, you heard the slow echo of dripping water.

Your choice to come to Dragonstone, was it a logical decision? Or driven by emotions - fed up with the rumors, sneers, disrespect, critical judgement from everyone in King's Landing? ...yes.

Navigating a dragon lair was dangerous, but navigating a dragon lair with ZERO experience was an anticipated disaster. Surely, you must've lost your mind because no mentally stable person would dare step foot in this cave - let alone scale the depths in search of an ancient beast that could (and possibly wound) treat your charred body as a BBQ appetizer. With a gasp, you slipped on the rocks, hissing when the heels of your palms took the brunt end of impact and slit open; tiny pebbles sticking to your open flesh. You whimpered gently, jagged rocks digging into your knees as you cleared your hands and slowly found your feet.

Even with knowledge of your heritage, you hadn't grown around the scaly Targaryen counterparts like any and every other legitimate offspring. You were long divided from that side of your family, missing out on fascinating Valyrian traditional customs. It made you a slightly bitter.

No dragon egg in your crib. No hours-long practice in the Dragon Pit. No reptilian anatomy studies. No personalized leather saddle embellished with a three-headed dragon. No claim to ancestral privilege or birthright. No unique morality, nor holier than thou complex. No generational beast to inherit.

Skin free from the lingering, invasive, embedded stench of dragon hide.

You used to think learning Ancient Valyrian was a redundant waste of time, education, and resources. You were raised in the ancestral keep in the Reach's capital, Highgarden, under your father, Lord Tyrell, and his beloved wife - the Vanished Princess - which made this secret sleuthing harder to rationalize or explain, given no Targaryen ever lived in Highgarden. Never before were dragons hosted in The Reach, and therefor, a Dragon Pit was never erected.

So, you know how when you're a kid and see something at the store that you really want but your parent says no because you already have too much shit? They might've made their point by saying something, like, "Where do you think you're gonna put all that?"

Well, Highgarden is the toy box and you intend on bringing home one of those enormous stuffed animals won at a carnival / festival.

If anyone knew of this plan, they might've sent you to the medical institute the Citadel in Oldtown operates; involuntarily commit you to the structured research program that studies different mental and physical medical phenomenons.

Truth was, this wasn't even your idea. Your grandmother, who definitely either spent time in one of the Citadel's cells or should, encouraged you. Perhaps that should've been a red flag, but it was too late now, her words echoing in your mind ―

Be a dragon.

The gardens you walked through were in fragrant, full bloom; providing a sweet air to combat the foul words you admitted with your arm looped in your grandmother's. You paced evenly through the overgrown foliage, the bees buzzing to drown your words.

"Perhaps, something is wrong with me," you sulked, "because surely, it cannot be this difficult to find a match. It seems I need to lower my standards, I could not attract a decent man if I were covered in honey and he were a fly."

"Perhaps try covering yourself in shit, then," she advised with a knowing smirk.

"Grandmother."

"Well, it's curious, isn't it?" Celia asked.

"What is?"

"All your life, you've always been more Targaryen than Tyrell; fierce, loyal, impulsive, strong, enduring. Yet now, you return nothing more than a rose wilted from King's Landing's stench, moping about failed relations. Have you ever considered that simple men are incapable of supporting the love and marriage of a dragon?"

"Half blooded does not make me a dragon."

"No, but the spirit, wit, intelligence, spunk, ferocity, cunningness, and determination you display proves it." She paused your stroll, secluded canopy shroud by foliage to provide a moment of privacy.

"Not all would think so," you let your eyes roll.

"Who do you speak of?"

"Those who think I am lying about my own Targaryen parentage, citing the color of my hair as evidence. You would think I'm one of the Queen's sons, the way they whisper."

"Do not listen to busy mouths, sweet child, hair cannot be a sole indication of parentage. I know it's easy to cite, but not all descendants of Valyria have silver locks, and should anyone have anything to say, know they are merely bitter and jealous for your hair is the perfect blend of Tyrell auburn and Targaryen silver. A color that is hard to ignore."

"Yet it's not enough to prove myself to them, Grandmother."

Now Celia sounded determined but angry, "You are every bit Tyrell as you are Targaryen. While you might not appear to their biased eye, there's never been denial that you are made in your mother's fire. Pure blooded or not, you're a dragon, my sweet petal."

"So?"

"Oh, for the love of the Gods - so, be a dragon! Dragons do not fret because men don't blink twice at them, they eat those men! Don't beg for approval; maintain your dignity, instill a new opinion, demand respect! Prove your strength, skill, and capabilities - everything the courts would deliberately overlook. Prove everyone wrong, offer contribution to this war, become a valuable asset who would be foolish to send away. Establish your seat at the table and never let anyone talk down on you again," your grandmother snarled with passion. "There's more than one way to prove you have the blood of the dragon."

"Such as? What would you have me do?"

"I hear rumor there remains a host of unclaimed dragons on Dragonstone. The Queen's son and heir, Prince Jacaerys, has called for dragonseeds to try their hand - they need more dragonriders for their war. Claiming your birthright might be the fastest, easiest way to earn the Realm's approval; doubling as undisputed evidence of who you are."

"What a terrifying thought."

"But what a statement it would make," Celia's lips pulled in a smirk, wrinkles deeper, more prominent on sun-soaked, wrinkled skin. "Tyrells might be flowery, we might sigil a rose - but we are resilient and refuse to wilt; even in the heat of dragon fire. The Realm thinks Tyrells are only pretty faces; pretty flowers meant to be seen and never heard, whose sole purpose is to be left on display. Preconceived as uselessly inexperienced during wartimes; criminally green, pure, innocent - judgement that makes them shockingly unprepared for how deep our thorns prick." Both of Celia's hands grabbed yours, squeezing, advising, "Do not go quietly, my petal, make those who doubted you be haunted by their foolish choice to challenge the wrong woman. Let them seep in humiliation and regret their judgement. Allow your successful conquest to be the biggest 'fuck you' to prejudice, the final nail in any coffin of doubt. Toss your wilted rose of fear aside, petal, embrace the fire that burns in your veins; you are Lady Y/N Tyrell of Highgarden, daughter of The Forgotten Princess, and you will not go gentle into that good night. You will be a dragon."

You were ensuring passage by morning light, intent to deliver yourself to Dragonstone.

Parts of the cave glittered with unharvested gems; a lost collection of rarities nobody dared pursue out of fear of the ancient, terrible Valyrian beasties that dwell in those caves. The walls sweat from combined dragon and volcanic heat, tunnels jagged and uneven; zero holes, cracks, or slits the sun could leak through (if it were up); everything terribly dark. At least there was a scattered pile of preprepared torches to light the way. A permanent odor of limestone and fractioned corpses assaulted your sinuses, dried puddles of blood seeped into rock, the scurrying critters who used dragons as hosts echoed with a twinkling charm - the least menacing reminder that you were not alone.

Claimed dragon chambers varied in size; pitstops along the winding pathways that ended at the largest chamber - a dead end. While other chambers were large enough for sometimes several dragons, this final stop could only be described as a jarring, stomach churning, hauntingly pitched ebony abyss of incalculable depth that played tricks on the mind. An abyss. It was like you were staring Death in the face and anxiety was dredged forth from white hot fear.

With a flickering torch alight in a trembling hand, you slowly stalked down the chiseled causeway that ended several lengths into the expansive, bleak nothingness. Pitch black shadows danced; the air felt electric, seemingly vibrating - alive and judgmental.

The glaring cavern besmirched your family name, hauntingly reminding that your disinheritance resulted in your late dragon bloom. The ebony airy sea identifies and heightens fearful insecurity about your estranged family's rejection, their lack of interest and care for your side of the family stinging; their rejection of familial relationships. The darkness predicted your failure, inability, and humiliation.

The cavern challenged your confidence and determination, your staked ownership and proclaimed lineage; labeling your bravery, beliefs and ambition as arrogant. It sneered about your stupidity, weakness, fear, and anxiety; belittled applied effort and desired goals; questioned your true desires and needs; tested your loyalty.

The cavern rejects any and all attempts before you could even try; unraveling your logic, shunning your emotions; proclaims reactive decisions as immature and lacking control, crowning you as dangerously naïve.

The cavern mocked your desperately pathetic need for station and acceptance; revoking and nullifying public (and private) ladyship, dubbing you unladylike - which, in itself, was insulting to your womanhood. Why do men get all the exciting adventure, but when a woman tries, she's crucified for being irresponsible? Smooth ebony waves reflected your maddening, constant effort and want for acknowledged contributions.

To the naked eye, the cavern appeared uninhabited, assuming the habitat was abandoned. The silence was eery; air buzzing with alarm, deceiving humans that attempted to see through the waves of darkness.

To a "true" Targaryen, this was just a sheet of camouflage the fire breathers wield for their privacy.

No wonder the Red Sowing was so... Bloody and devastating.

A growl was heard, something gravely and deep, intimidating and impressive. You frozen, eyes wide as if it would give you night vision, torch flickering, hands starting to shake. Then you saw prominent movement, lungs stalling and heart hammering. Slowly, a large, scaly, stained snout emerged at a sail's pace.

The more the beast stepped into your sight, your mind could only scream one thing - was coming face to face with a dragon logical or emotional? Because whether logical or emotional, this was a dumb fucking idea there was no turning back from.

So, you steeled yourself in position, dewy sweat lining your forehead to soak your hairline.

112 years After Conquest, dragons flew to war at the behest of the Targaryen family over Rhaenyra and her half-brother's claim to Aegon the Conqueror's Iron Throne. Sister-wife, Queen Visenya, rode Vhagar - said to have been the smallest dragon with bronze hide, yet, as rumor had it, still large enough that a horse could ride down her gullet. Sister-wife, Queen Rhaenys, rode Meraxes - who was larger; big enough to swallow horses whole with silver scales and golden eyes.

Then, The Conqueror, King Aegon Targaryen I, rode Balerion - the fiercest and largest, who’s wingspan could shadow entire towns, swords-long teeth assisting his ability to swallow mammoths whole, and who’s scales, wings, and fire were pitch black. Balerion was called the Black Dread and was so powerful, he could melt steel, stone, and fuse sand into glass. He never lost a battle - against human or dragon.

Balerion was also the dragon responsible for the Burning of Harrenhal, largest castle in Westeros.

In the year 2 BC, Aegon began his Conquest and engaged King Harren Hoare the Black in his keep, Harrenhal, who refused the Conqueror and was met with Balerion’s flames. In fire so hot, it melts stone like candles, the entire House Hoare was extinguished when Harren and his sons perished in the largest tower - later named Kingspyre Tower - though it’s said they haunt the Wailing Tower.

Since then, of Aegon's Three Dragons, only Meraxes boasted a single rider, but to be fair, in 10 AC, during the First Dornish War, allegedly, both Queen Rhaenys and Meraxes met their demise. Vhagar knew Prince Baelon Targaryen, Lady Laena Velaryon, and Prince Aemond as riders. Balerion knew Maegor the Cruel, Princess Aerea, and King Viserys, who, in the year 94, retired The Black Dread - thinking the beast was nearing his end. The dragon outlived every single rider.

In the year 129, Viserys died and The Black Dread stared you in the eye; curating a vibrating rumble deep within his chest that made the darkness dance. It'd been decades since anyone dared face this terrible beastie, thinking he wasn't long for this world; the pair of you curious about the other, no moves made yet.

There was no backing down, there was no turning away. This is what you wanted, for Aegon the Conqueror's mount to see you as you are - worthy of your of blood. You refused to be told you did not deserve your lineage, the Targaryen name, you would not endure disrespect any longer! You would earn your place in this Godsforsaken family, earn station in this Godsforsaken world, or die trying...

That night, Balerion took to the skies again, doing several laps in the air, soaring over King's Landing to let the residents of the Realm know - he flew again.

Your father's family hailed from The Reach, specifically Highgarden; colorful, temperate, lush, bountiful, and abundant. Your family oversaw 75% of the country's sole wheat, barley, grain, and corn production, even germinating the country's most grand gardens - which decorated a rather generous estate.

Despite the vast, open lands, there had never been need for a dragonpit before, so, when you landed your mount, he was left exposed on the outskirts of the Keep. Considering he was the largest thing, you know, ever, Balerion seemed content out there - so, you didn't worry.

It was strange, however, to see anyone without white hair on dragonback. Even stranger to the Realm to learn of your accomplishment; adding fuel to several fires.

The Green King Aegon asked lazily, a hand waving in the air, "Who?"

His mother, Dowager Queen Alicent Hightower, reminded, "She is of Targaryen seed on her mother's side, but was raised under the Tyrells. She sits to inherit all of The Reach, she will be Lady of Highgarden - "

"Until," Grand Maester Orwyle interjected softly, "her young brother, the Young Lord Tyrell, comes of age."

Aegon waved their words off, complaining, "Yes, yes, but why do we caaaaare about some red headed bitch?"

See, where the Targaryens had trademark white locks, the Lannisters had golden strands. The Starks had deep umber brunette color hair, and while both the Tully's and Tyrell's erred more on the reddish side, the Tully's had darker overtones, like an auburn, and the Tyrell's had lighter, coppery-amber waves. North of the Wall, they say "kissed by fire".

"Because Lady Tyrell has laid successful claim to The Black Dread! To Balerion!" Alicent snapped, quickly adding the snarky punctuation, "Your Grace."

"Well, we have Vhagar - "

"With respect, Your Grace, Balerion could give a singular chomp to any living dragon as Vhagar did Arrax and it would prove fatal," Otto Hightower, the King's grandfather and Hand, quickly stepped in to save his daughter from losing her temper.

"Well, she doesn't even speak High Valyrian," Aegon scoffed, rolling his eyes; lip curled, slouched in his chair.

"Neither do you," Aemond quipped in his Father's Tongue.

Otto continued loudly to prevent Aegon's response, "With The Black Dread now officially out of retirement and in play, the only choice we have is risk facing him in open battle, or..." His eyes shifted to Alicent, pausing, sighing and revealing, "Send an emissary to negotiate terms of an alliance."

"Meaning...?" Aegon drawled.

"Meaning a marriage pact, Your Grace," Otto supplied sternly.

"With respect?" Larys Strong spoke up, "But the Crown is lacking in their eligible bachelors for such terms."

"Or perhaps, what of someone outside the family? Marry two strong allies of the Crowns? Alliances henceforth might not have to include Targaryen marriages," Jason Lannister threw in quickly, but every Small Council member denied him just as swift.

It was reminded, "There's Prince Daeron."

"Lady Tyrell is actually the same age as Prince Aemond, I do not think she is looking for a husband so many years younger than her."

"Didn't Prince Aemond already secure the Baratheons through a marriage alliance?"

"Technically," Otto agreed slowly, "but given the circumstances and turning of tides, Lord Borros can be treated with in other ways should we need to offer Aemond for Lady Tyrell's willing support."

"Rhaenyra will send terms, as well," Alicent reminded. "Lady Tyrell is Prince Jacaerys' age, she might consider breaking his engagement, too."

The Small Council continued their plotting. Prince Aemond remained silent. Nobody so much as threw him a glance.

When the Black Queen Rhaenyra was informed of your heroics and your identity was questioned, her uncle-husband, Daemon, informed, "Daughter of the Forgotten Princess."

And Rhaenys affirmed, "My sister's daughter... Do not mistake her lineage for guaranteed alliance; her mother and I are long estranged, she's lived in The Reach her whole life - she does not know us. Nor owes us any loyalty."

"Perhaps she could be persuaded," Corlys wondered. "The Lady Tyrell is unwed, is she not?"

"As far as accounts go, yes," his wife reported.

"Perhaps a marriage alliance?" Corlys glanced around the table.

"To whom would you propose?" Queen Rhaenyra asked, all sat around the Painted Table.

"If I may be so bold...?"

"Please."

"Given your marriage to Daemon and his daughter's are shared with our own daughter, Laena... Is there truly need for a marriage pact between the children?"

Rhaenyra cocked her head, "You mean to... Disengage my son from his intended, and engage him again...? Like a pawn in chess? My son, Heir to the Iron Throne, married to Lady Tyrell?"

"Why do you sound displeased by the prospect, Your Grace?" Corlys wondered. "I hear the Lady Tyrell is most beautiful, and we need the Tyrell's wealth like we need their dragon, Balerion. If used properly, he can melt castles alone, Your Grace; burn towns, extinguish entire bloodlines, torch this country, melt the bloody Wall. No living dragon rivals him in size, in ferocity, in age nor experience. He's been at rest for decades now... Something tells me there's a reason he's come out of his nest."

"An omen," Rhaenyra agreed, straightening her spine.

"Precisely - the portents are cast, Your Grace."

"Lord Corlys makes a point," Daemon chimed in, "if by marriage, we secure The Reach and take back the Iron Throne with little to no carnage. Should the Greens fight, not even Vhagar could stand against Balerion."

"Prince Jacaerys is a handsome match to offer," another lord agreed, "which should help sway Lady Tyrell to our side."

"Which also frees both Lady Baela and Rhaena for other pacts - if need be."

"But if we have had this thought, I promise so has Alicent," Rhaenyra stood from the table, staring at the triangle of King's Landing, Dragonstone, and Highgarden. "Who would they offer? Who do they have, unwed, unpromised?"

"Well," Rhaenys stood to meet her Queen, "if we had the thought of a marriage alliance, and the thought to break off one engagement in favor of another, who is to say the Greens would not consider the same?"

It was quiet, a shiver shooting down the Queen's spine. "Vhagar and Balerion are familiar with one another," she grit her teeth, "and Aemond is the False King's brother. He's an attractive match, too."

"I think it's worth making the Tyrell's an offer," Corlys sat back in his seat. "They will receive us both and decide their allegiance - just as the Baratheons did, just as the rest of the Realm has or must do as well."

"Let it be done - if Prince Jacaerys agrees," Rhaenyra nodded, looking to her son - wanting his consent and participation in his own fate. Jace proudly lifted his chin and puffed his chest, nodding while nobody noted the looks of near relief on Lady Baela and Rhaena's faces. In a moment, they had been engaged to Jace and Luke without their thought, input, nor consent. In another moment, they were single young women with the tantalizing prospect to marry outside the family.

"I consider Her Grace's offer an honor."

part two: read here

requesting rules and masterlist

HOTD masterlist

The Black Dread masterlist

i'm already writing it, but, poll for the end ―

[chloe-petrichors]

seething, blooming // jace x reader

your father has always been something of an opportunist, but trying to marry you off to the blacks while he courts the greens? this is taking playing the game to a whole new level.

the rose discovers she is an instrument of war. —victor hugo.

fandom; house of the dragon pairing; jacaerys velaryon x f!tyrell!reader (no use of y/n) warnings; canon au (set after aegon takes the crown but before luke's death bc luke will never die in my eyes), altered timeline (jace and reader are in their 20s), arranged marriage, mention parental death/death in childbed (reader's mother), love at first sight vibes, jace is a flirtatious little shit with his betrothed, tooth rotting fluff, love confessions. word count; 6k+ notes; one day i might write for another man. but that day is not today. jace velaryon u have my heart. i'm not majorly pleased w this fic but it's given me enough trouble and it's as good as it's gonna get! this was longer originally, and was meant to be a bit more political at first hence the blurb/quote choice, but i haaated some of the scenes so ended up scrapping 'em. she's not as long as predicted as a result but still an ok length i think. some of the scenes i scrapped were tragically the smut ones, so have this fairly pg one-shot with the promise of the smut-shot sitting in my drafts coming ur way soon. fair warning that the scrapping of scenes has fudged with the pacing a bit but honestly i can't take this fic sitting in my drafts any longer so here u go!! i have a taglist now, mostly cos eldrith keeps telling me i have to tag her in everything, so lmk if you'd like to be added to it! requests; are open !

the rising sun paints highgarden in shades of pink and gold.

you stand upon your balcony, finger curled loosely over the pale marble as you stare distantly out over the rolling green fields and blooming gardens. the faint bubbling of the river mander in the distance adds to the peaceful morning, the early wash of sunlight coaxing the sleeping world into life. a cool breeze carries the sweet smell of roses and you take a steadying breath, eyes fluttering shut as you tilt your face up to the sun.

it's a morning that starts like many others. you’ve always risen from bed early, the slow blooming of morning stirring you from slumber more often than not. birds chirp and bees buzz and the river flows and you rise with it, like part of you calls to the breaking dawn.

if not for the thick sheaf of parchment discarded on your father’s desk, it could be a morning like any other. but the parchment is there, and this day will be like no other before it.

today, a dragon is expected at highgarden.

a targaryen has not stepped foot in the reach since before you were born. you don’t think even the princess rhaenyra – queen, now, according to some – had come this far on her marriage tour years ago. but your father has taken it upon himself to invite a prince to your home.

you love your father deeply, but in this you think he must be a fool. as lord paramount of the reach he is, in theory, the power of this kingdom. but anyone with a lick of sense knows that it’s the hightowers that the people look to; oldtown is home to the starry sept, the citadel and, perhaps more importantly, the dowager queen’s family line.

the tyrells have only been in power for a few generations, and people’s memories are long. too many know the truth of how house tyrell had been only a steward when the gardener kings had ruled before the conquest. and so too many see tyrell as a house grasping for power that should be beyond their fingers, and your father is apparently determined to prove them all right.

he’s been careful about his neutrality as war threatens to break out between the targaryen kin, brother and sister both claiming their right to the throne and the realm splitting down the middle. your father has not officially allied with either side, walking a careful tightrope to appease both. up until now you had assumed he sided more with the greens, but he’d sent your assumptions crumbling with only a few sheets of parchment.

your father has always been too ambitious for his own good.

gods, how you miss your mother. when she’d been alive, she’d tempered the worst of your father’s foolishness. she’d been a stark before she’d married, steadfast and sensible in the face of your father’s folly. she’d been a woman unlike any other you’ve known; ferocious and a little wild, but with a good heart and a warm smile for any she’d met.

she’d taught you how to be a lady, but so much more than that – she’d taught you to know your own mind. to know when to mind your tongue and when to speak, how to grow your roots so deep you will always stand tall, flourishing and growing like the most determined of flowers. she’d taught you a little of that northern ice, too, reminding you oft that for as much as you were a rose of highgarden you were equally a wolf of the north, and the wolf’s blood has always run thick in your veins. 

she’d called you her little winter rose; delicate and steely and a rare bloom, indeed. she had loved you so fiercely you’d flourished with her tender care, just as the patch of winter roses she’d brought from the glass gardens of winterfell had bloomed ‘neath her careful ministrations. a piece of the north she’d brought south with her, a tiny bit of her home that she’d cradled and cared for until the day you’d lost her to the birthing bed.

your little brother is nearing six, now, and many moons have passed since the sudden grief of your mother had overwhelmed you. but, in recent days you have ached with her loss more often, wondering what she would think of your father’s plans, what she would say to soothe your storm of anxiety. with your looming marriage you find yourself missing your mother acutely, the grief a reopened wound in your chest.

because you are a betrothed woman, now, to be married to a stranger, a prince who is sure to be fighting a war against his kin in the moons to come.

the velaryon prince arrives on dragon back as the sun reaches its peak in the sky.

he dismounts his winged steed in an empty stretch of land a distance from the keep itself, and your father greets him there with a host of staff to accompany him back to the entrance courtyard.

your brother leo bounces in place beside you where you stand with the rest of the household in the courtyard, fairly vibrating with energy at the prospect of seeing a real-life dragon. since the news of the prince’s arrival was announced a sennight ago, leo has done little else but babble about dragons and magic and targaryens. you wish you could share his excitement, his sheer uncomplicated joy, but this visit comes with too many conflicting emotions for you to enjoy it at all.

you’ve always known you would not marry for love. you are the eldest child and only daughter of the lord of the reach – love has never been a factor you could afford to consider. you would do your duty and marry for your house, to seal whatever alliance your father deemed important enough. you’d resigned yourself to this fate as a young girl when your mother had told you in slow, halting words the fear she had felt coming south to marry your father.

but you’d not expected to marry a total stranger. you’d thought your father would at least do you the courtesy of allowing you to meet a suitor before betrothing you to them, but in his feverish ambition to sit his blood on the iron throne he’d promised you to a man you’ve never laid eyes upon.

you don’t want to be queen.

frankly, you think yourself a touch unsuited for it. your father has many times bemoaned your wildness, the wolfs blood that drives you to stubborn recklessness. though you’ve mellowed a little with age and experience, you think you’re still a bit too prone to chaos to be queen of the seven kingdoms one day. never mind the complexities added by the fact that queen rhaenyra’s claim is so fiercely contested, and her half-brother is the one currently physically sitting the iron throne.

thinking about the mess you’re marrying into too much makes your head ache, and the blazing noon sun does little to ease it. leo beside you continues to whisper rapidly about everything he knows about dragons, which is actually quite a lot considering his young age. you think absently you might need to have a word with the maester’s again; leo has wrapped most of the household around his finger, and the elderly maester is prone to indulging your brother when he fixates on a new topic of interest instead of sticking to his lessons.

the sound of hooves on cobble stones startles you from your meandering thoughts, and you straighten your spine as your eyes take in the unfamiliar man riding into the courtyard beside your father while your brother finally falls silent.

he’s handsome, at least; a tumble of dark curls brushing his shoulders, a sharp jaw and a strong nose. though you like to think yourself more than superficial, it eases at least some of your worries to know the prince is attractive to you. your mother had done you the courtesy of explaining what was expected of you on your wedding night after your first moons blood, and in secret since you’d perused the library for books detailing more lustful acts in an effort to satiate your unending curiosity.

you’re worried enough about completing your wifely duties without having to worry about finding the man lying with you repulsive, and so you allow yourself a few moments of relief at his pretty face.

your father dismounts first, gesturing for you to step forward as the prince gets down from his own horse. leo moves forward with you, eyes wide and shining with something akin to hero worship as he gazes at jacaerys. you have a wry thought that perhaps he should marry him since he is so clearly already enamoured, but you brush that aside as your father and the prince approach.

“i am most pleased to introduce my daughter, your grace, as well as my son and heir, leo,” your father says as they reach you, his satisfaction in his successful planning clear as he smiles smugly.

you dip into a perfect curtsey as leo bows a touch clumsily at your side. as heir it would traditionally be leo’s job to greet the prince, but when you send him a sidelong glance you see he is too busy making moon eyes at the darkhaired man to say anything, and so you take it upon yourself to speak.

“welcome to highgarden, my prince. we are honoured to host you,” you greet, finally meeting jacaerys’s eyes. they’re a warm amber shade, the noon sun turning them to liquid honey as he looks at you, and you feel your cheeks flush with the appreciation you can see in his gaze as he drinks you in. it seems he does not find you repulsive either, at least.

he sketches a quick bow, eyes never leaving yours, and you feel your heart start to race in your chest at his attention. “it is an honour to be here, my lady, and to finally make your acquaintance.” he smiles at you then, small and a little crooked but there, and your flush deepens. “i look forward to getting to know you better in the coming days.”

you swallow, hoping your budding attraction is not as obvious as you fear it is. your father is looking increasingly smug as he watches the interaction, though it seems to war with some paternal annoyance as jacaerys lightly flirts with you.

“and i you,” you return softly, a smile quirking on your lips.

“—can i meet your dragon?” leo bursts out, seemingly unable to contain himself any longer, and jacaerys blinks down at him in surprise as you resist the urge to press your palm to your face.

“leo,” you scold immediately as your father chortles at his heir’s enthusiasm for dragons. “the prince has had a long journey. you should give him a chance to settle in before demanding anything of him.”

“right you are, my dear.” your father waves to the household steward before turning to the prince. “alyn will show you to your rooms, your grace, so that you might freshen up, and then we have a feast prepared for this evening to welcome you to highgarden.”

jacaerys nods easily as the greeting crowd begins to disperse, the maester corralling leo to take him for his lessons with fond exasperation even as the boy loudly protests. you mean to go walk the gardens, and so you stay standing in place as the prince trails after your father and steward alyn.

he pauses beside you, though, a slight smile on his face as you look up at him questioningly. your eyes catch on the smattering of freckles on his face, and it takes a moment for you to process his words. “i look forward to speaking to you further at the feast, my lady.”

you smile back at him, cheeks flushing once again as his eyes linger on your mouth for a breathless moment. “i shall save you a dance, my prince,” you return a touch coyly, tucking your hair behind your ear.

“only one dance?” he teases, eyebrow arching.

you hum, head tilting to the side in mock consideration as something like satisfaction gleams in jacaerys’s eyes. “i shall have to use the first dance to judge your dancing skills, your grace, before i risk promising you another.”

he laughs then, a little surprised but no doubt pleased as his eyes crinkle with his wide smile. “then i shall do my best to meet your standards, my lady.” he dips into a quick bow of farewell, then, as you finally take note of your father lingering on the steps to the keep with raised eyebrows.

“we shall see,” you return as you curtsey.

you allow yourself a moment to watch his retreating back, eyes dragging over the strong line of his shoulders before you internally shake yourself and head to the gardens, thoughts swimming with honey brown eyes and tanned, freckled skin and a slow dawning certainty that while this betrothal may be unexpected, you doubt it will leave you unsatisfied.

the feast is in full swing by the time the prince arrives at the hall.

the minstrels are playing a jaunty tune as couples twirl on the dance floor. you sit at the head table with leo and your father, watching with a careful eye as your brother cuts up his food. he’s only just mastered the art of eating his food without spilling half if it down his doublet, but as distracted as he is by the festivities and the prospect of seeing a dragon close up, you worry he’s at risk of making a mess of himself regardless.

so absorbed in your task you are, it takes a long moment for you to realise jacaerys has arrived. it’s only when your skin prickles with awareness that you look up from leo and catch sight of the prince winding his way across the floor to the head table, eyes fixed on you. your head tilts to the side slightly as you watch him move, graceful and controlled, through the crowd.

he’s in black and red again, just as he had been when he’d arrived. it seems your father had been right when he’d stated that jacaerys favours his mother’s house colours. you smooth your hand over the skirts of your dress, the deep wine-red of the material feeling less out of place now, before standing with your father to greet the prince.

you all exchange pleasantries quickly as the noise in the hall dims, people realising the prince has arrived. your father ushers jacaerys into the empty seat between you and your father as he raises his goblet to the hall before speaking in his booming voice.

you don’t pay attention to your father’s speech, too aware of the warmth radiating from jacaerys who stands only inches from you to focus. you risk a glance at him from the corner of your eyes only to find his dark honey eyes fixed on you, and you cannot help but smile to yourself even as you flush, turning your eyes back to the crowd.

rousing applause and cheers draw you back to the moment, and you catch yourself in time to raise your wine in toast with your father. you go to sit back down as the crowd returns to its revelries, but the soft brush of a hand on your arm halts your movement. you turn expectingly to the prince, a soft smile on your lips.

“yes, your grace?”

���would you do me the honour of a dance, my lady?”

your lips quirk into a sly smile even as you bob your head in a nod. “i suppose i did promise you one, did i not?”

“that you did, my lady, and i have thought of nothing else since.” dark honey eyes sparkle with mirth as he offers you his hand, and with a quiet giggle you take it and allow him to lead you to the dance floor.

you feel the heat of his hand on your waist like a brand even through the layers of your dress, and it makes your breath catch in your throat. you inhale deeply in an effort to steady yourself as you rest your palm on his strong shoulder, and are immediately overwhelmed by the woodsy scent of him as he claps your hand in his and begins to dance.

you start the dance in comfortable silence, both of you taking a few moments to get a feel for the other and settle into the steps, and when you feel comfortable enough you speak.

“how are you finding highgarden, prince jacaerys?”

“jace, please,” he entreats, and elaborates only when you blink at him in confusion. “my friends and family call me jace, not jacaerys. we are to be married, my lady. it would please me a great deal for my future wife to refer to me as such.”

you nod in acceptance, butterflies erupting in your stomach at his eager expression. “jace it is, then,” you say, and try not to feel the way your heart flutters at his radiant smile in response. “although you have not answered my question. how are you finding highgarden?”

he hums, twirling you as the dance requires and then pulling you closer before responding. “your father has been very hospitable, and it is certainly beautiful here. the grounds especially, though i’m afraid i’ve not had the opportunity to see much of them as yet.”

“a shame we shall have to rectify, i think.” you offer him a small smile as you press just an inch closer, finding yourself wanting to be nearer him. “perhaps i could show you the gardens on the morrow?”

“yes,” he agrees a touch too quickly, and you giggle as his cheeks turn pink. “that is to say— i should like that very much, my lady. very much indeed.”

you lapse into silence once more as the dance reaches its crescendo, and you find yourself reluctant to leave the comfort of his hands as the music pauses while the minstrels ready their next song.

jace seems to share the sentiment, it seems, as his eyes linger on your entwined hands for a long moment before returning to your face. “have i met your standards enough for another dance, then?”

you take a moment to pretend to consider it, eyes narrowing slightly as you hum. he shuffles on his feet as he waits for your response, and you find the nervous motion far too endearing.

“i suppose so,” you concede after a moment, grinning at his smugly pleased smile as he tugs you closer.

“and what about the dance after that?” he asks lightly, something cheeky in his eyes as the music starts up again and he sweeps you along the floor.

“you should not press your luck, jace,” you say imperiously, although the effect is rather ruined by the silly smile on your face as he laughs with you.

jacaerys smirks. “my lady, since meeting you, i have felt nothing but a lucky man.”

you smother a snort, shaking your head at his unrepentant expression. “you are incorrigible.” it comes out a touch exasperated and yet far too fond.

“yes,” the prince agrees readily, a sly twinkle in his eyes. “but i think you rather enjoy it.”

your startled laugh is loud, though thankfully not so loud as to be heard over the minstrels. “perhaps.”

after that, the night is lost to flirtatious banter and dance after dance in your betrothed’s arms as a seed of affection is planted deep in your heart. and when you wake in the morning after dreaming of nothing but jace’s lips and eyes and words, you can think only one thought;

gods, i am in so much trouble.

time passes in a slow trickle of syrupy summer heat.

as the days go by, you find yourself spending more and more time in jace’s company. you’re always chaperoned, of course, a household guard following at a respectful distance wherever the two of you choose to roam. you find the whole thing a touch ridiculous; jace is to be your husband. it’s hardly like spending time together alone would be a significant scandal in light of your impending marriage, but your father insists there will be no doubts about your honour before the marriage actually takes place and so ser dickon is assigned as your reluctant shadow.

the date of the wedding itself remains unset as you and jace start to know one another. your father wishes for the marriage to wait until the war is done – a last-ditch chance to keep his options open, perhaps. Or, if you are feeling generous, a way to try and keep you safe from the greens when war inevitably rages. jace’s mother wishes the marriage to happen as soon as can be arranged – a way to try and ensure further heirs with the uncertainty of war looming, you assume.

you find yourself hoping the queen’s will wins the day as time creeps on. jace becomes ever dearer to you the more you learn about him, and soon you think of your impending marriage with nothing but hope and warm desire.

because oh, how you want him. from the first moment you’d laid eyes upon him you’d been attracted to him, but the more you get to know him, the more your heart opens to him – the more you ache for him. for his mouth on yours, his fingertips on your skin, his voice in your ear. if you were a less reckless woman, a little less shameless, you’d be embarrassed of how easily you think of him in your moments apart.

but late at night when the candles burn low and you are alone in your bed, there is no shame to be found, only the wildness of your wolfs blood and liquid heat as your hand drifts between your legs and you find completion with your betrothed’s name on your lips.

beyond the desire, though, is a slow blooming affection. it feels like every time you learn something new about him or share a new experience together, another petal of tenderness unfurls in your chest. when your father had first told you about your betrothal, you’d not dared to hope for more than civility with your husband-to-be, but now you find yourself harbouring deep fondness on top of steadily burning desire, and you look to your future as his wife with little else but excitement.

you’re not sure if jace feels the same. you don’t doubt he desires you; his flirtation and the weight of his gaze on your form is too frequent a thing for you to think otherwise. but desire is not the same as affection, and though you hope desperately that the way he always seeks your presence whenever he steps into a room means what you want it to mean, you can’t be sure.

after a week passes, you both start to chafe at the relentless presence of ser dickon. it feels like every time you so much as think about inching closer to jacaerys, ser dickon is there with his stern glare of disapproval. and so, when one morning jace suggests taking you to meet his dragon, alone, you are quick to agree.

you leave your guard long behind at jace’s instruction; he doesn’t want vermax crowded with strangers, he explains, but you personally think he seems a little too gleeful at the idea of being alone with you for that to be sole reason behind his insistence ser dickon stays far away. you don’t say anything since you’re equally pleased to finally be spending some time with your betrothed without feeling others curious eyes on you.

your excitement starts to waver, however, as you and jace get closer to his dragon. you’ve only seen vermax from a distance before this, and though it perhaps shouldn’t the size of him startles you. he’s just so large and fierce looking, the sharp spines on his back catching your eye. the beast yawns as you slow to a stop, jace sending you a quick smile before he continues on to greet his dragon with fondness, and the glimpse into vermax’s open maw – gods, there as so many teeth – has your palms starting to sweat.

jace stands beside his dragon, murmuring soothing words in high valyrian that you don’t understand as his hand smooths along his snout. your heart races in your chest, nerves making your hands shake when faced with this great beast. you curse your reckless curiosity, your northern stubbornness that makes it impossible for you to refuse a challenge. you have no idea how jace can look so at ease, the line of his shoulders relaxed and the slightest smile on his face as he talks to his winged steed, but there he stands.

“you can come closer now.” he turns to you, brown eyes shining with excitement and, yes, a hint of challenge.

he expects you to back out, you think, and that realisation has you straightening your spine and pressing your lips together. you twist your fingers in your skirts to hide the way they tremble as you step cautiously forward, eyes darting from jace to vermax and back. when you’re within touching distance of the velaryon prince, he reaches for your hand. the shock of his bare skin against yours arrests you for a moment, the slide of calloused fingers around your wrist startling in how easily it sparks desire in you.

you’re so distracted by the feel of him that you don’t realise until it’s too late that jace has tugged you closer, guiding your hand until it’s pressed to vermax’s scales, and then you’re too busy being surprised by how soft they feel to be annoyed that he’s so easily coaxed you into this position.

you still as the dragon rumbles, swallowing thickly as your fingers twitch against green scales. he blinks lazily at you, an alien intellect gleaming there as he seems to consider you for a long moment, and as you blink back at him some of the fear in your chest shakes loose.

because this is not just some beast, you realise. this is fire and blood and magic made flesh. there is life and intelligence in vermax’s eyes, not one you recognise but one you immediately respect. being this close to the dragon is a heady rush of awe and adrenaline; the knowledge that vermax could so easily harm you at any moment but is choosing not to because he trusts his rider. it’s staggering and wonderful and beside you jace is beaming, eyes shining with happiness at seeing you greet his draconic companion, and you are helplessly, hopelessly, wholly overwhelmed by your affection, your desire, by jace.

you kiss him.

it’s barely a kiss, more a breathless press of your mouth against his, and he startles at the sensation even as his arm loops around your waist. you break apart for the barest moment, nose sliding against his as you tilt your head, and jacaerys sighs out your name with heavy relief before he captures your mouth once more.

you’ve been kissed before, so you know the mechanics of it, but it’s never been like this. his lips move smoothly against yours as his hand flexes on your waist, drawing you closer until your chest is pressed against his. your hand tangles in his hair, fingers twisting in the soft curls and he moans with it, hand dragging up your back to cradle the back of your head tenderly as his tongue sweeps over your lips.

the gentle pressure of it has you gasping and he takes the opportunity immediately, tongue sliding against yours as heat pools in your core. your thoughts tumble wildly, incoherent as you can think of nothing but of how desperately you want more. the taste – the smell – the feel of him is drowning everything out that isn’t jace and you cannot resist it, do not even want to.

you want to kiss him forever, want his hand in your hair and his tongue in your mouth for always. you think he might even let you with how relentless he is, barely giving you a moments pause to catch your breath before consuming you in another desperate kiss.

you finally part only when vermax grumbles, cheeks blazing with heat as you step out of jace’s arms. jace murmurs lowly to his dragon in valyrian, and he nudges his great snout against jace’s shoulder in response before stepping away and curling down into the long grass to sleep. you take the moment to properly catch your breath again, hand pressing to your heaving chest in an effort to soothe your racing heart.

when you peek up at jace from beneath your lashes, you flush deeply at the sight of him. his curls are a mess, his lips swollen and cheeks pink beneath his tan. he looks almost debauched, and it sends a rush of desire through you. you suddenly can think of nothing other than him looking like this only flusher and skin glistening with sweat and in your bed.

the thought startles you into dropping your gaze to your feet, and you shuffle uncertainly. you feel – unsettled. you don’t think there’s anything wrong with sharing a kiss with your betrothed, and yet something like guilt curdles in your stomach as you worry at your bottom lip. you had kissed him. for all that he’d kissed you back, you worry that now he will think differently of you. think worse of you.

a knuckle tucks under your chin, then, lifting your face so that you meet jace’s eyes. you feel small and strangely vulnerable in the aftermath of your kiss, like you have somehow shown him something you never intended to, and the urge to shy away remains. but you are not a winter rose for nothing and so you tuck the doubt away as jace runs his thumb soothingly along the line of your jaw.

“i have been thinking of doing that since the moment you first smiled at me,” he confesses, a hint of shyness in the quirk of his lips even as he stares steadily into your eyes.

“oh.” you blink at him once in surprise, the uneasiness in you finally settling at the fondness in his gaze. “oh. that’s— good.” you curse yourself for your lack of wit in this moment as jace snickers.  “i-i mean, i’m glad that it was not… unwelcome.”

your betrothed looks at you with deep affection, then, cupping your cheek and ducking down to press a fleeting, butterfly-soft kiss to your mouth before reluctantly parting from you. “it was most welcome, my lady. most welcome, indeed.” his eyes sparkle with mirth. “i find myself looking forward to the next time you greet vermax, if this is the kind of response such a thing garners.”

“jace!” you narrow your eyes at him in pretend annoyance, even as you smother a giggle with your fingers. “you should not expect me to indulge in such desires again, then, if you persist in being so smug about it.”

his laugh warms you as the two of you fall into easy banter, leaving vermax to his rest and returning to the ever-watchful ser dickon, and all the while all you can think of is how much you cannot wait to kiss him again.

as the air cools with the dying light of day, you lead jace to the gardens.

in the week since your first kiss, jace has oft tugged you into shadowy corners for more kisses any chance he’s had. his desire for you is matched only by your own for him, and as your confidence in your mutual attraction has grown, you have been equally as likely to pull him into a dark alcove to trade sweet words and sweet kisses in secret.

it’s thrilling and exciting and wonderful, but as the week passes you find a growing doubt whispering in the back of your mind.

while you cannot doubt jace desires you, not when he is so relentless in chasing after your smiling mouth, neither of you breathe a word of any feeling between you beyond attraction. perhaps it is reckless of you, foolhardy to fall for him so quickly – but then you are your parent’s daughter, all wolfs blood and deep roots, and you know no other way of being than this.

so you take him to the gardens as the moon rises in the sky, sneak past the night guards and out into the fresh air. you guide him through the blooming flowers and swaying trees, stopping along the while when the fancy takes one of you to stop and examine an interesting bloom or inhale a sweet scent. at least three times he stops you to slot his mouth against yours, to swallow your breathless giggling with feverish kisses, and each time he does it takes longer and longer for you to disentangle yourselves from each other.

eventually, with swollen lips and mussed hair, the two of you reach the winter roses. your effervescent mood becomes sombre as the moon shines on the blue flowers, turning the petals almost silver, and jace seems to recognise the change in atmosphere, a seriousness overtaking him as he watches you approach the flowers.

“my mother planted the first of these roses,” you tell jace as you kneel at the edge of the flowerbed, uncaring of the risk of dirt on your dress as you brush fingers over the pale blue petals tenderly. “winter roses, they are, from the north. from winterfell. she was born a stark, you see, and when she was betrothed to my father the only thing she asked was to be able to bring a few blooms from the glass gardens. she used to call me her little winter rose when i was a child, and she would bring me here and show me how to tend to them.”

jace kneels beside you, glancing at the side of your face before turning to look curiously at the blue flowers. “they’re beautiful,” he tells you sincerely.

“i’ve always thought so, too,” you agree almost absently, stroking the petals in an effort to calm your racing heart. “everyone told my mother she’d never be able to get them to grow so far south. they’re very rare, you see, and need very particular conditions.” your lips quirk up into a fond smile. “but my mother, for all that she became a tyrell, was always a stark at heart. stubborn, you know. and now look at them, thriving.”

you gesture out at the carefully tended rows of roses. “nobody else comes here, now, other than the gardeners and me. i think… i think my father finds it too hard, being here. it makes him miss her too much. so i come here when i need to be alone. or when i wish to be reminded of her. it's the one place in the world where i feel i can be wholly myself, without any pretence or worry.”

jace’s gaze is fixed on you, now, eyes almost black in the faint moonlight as understanding dawns on him. “thank you for bringing me here.”

you nod once, climbing back to your feet, and jace follows you. he watches you so intently, like he’s afraid that you might disappear if he dares to look away. you feel a little like you might, feel tenuous and vulnerable and a breath away from cracking your chest open.

“i’ve never brought anyone else here,” you confess quietly, flexing your fingers with nerves as jace’s lips part in surprise. “i wished… i wished to share this with you. to share who i am, myself, with you, i suppose.” you laugh a little self-deprecatingly. “however pretentious that sounds.”

“it doesn’t,” jace denies immediately. you sense he wants to say more, but he seems to understand that you’re building to saying something yourself, and so he stays quiet, expression earnest and open and fond as he gazes down at you.

“i know it’s perhaps too soon – we have only known each other a few weeks. but i… when i first found out we were betrothed, i was so scared. i worried you would be some arrogant princeling, and i dared not hope for anything more than civility between us. i’ve always known i would not marry for love, but i did not ever consider i would marry a man i had never met.”

you pause for long enough to suck in a breath, feeling a little like the floodgates have opened and you simply can’t stop speaking, can’t stop the feeling pouring freely from you. “and then i met you, and you were so unlike anything i’d expected. i know we still have so much more to learn about each other, and i know that things are— complicated, with the war, and that our marriage may be a ways off yet, but still— i find myself feeling for you, and i cannot hide it anymore. i don’t wish to hide it from you anymore.”

you let the open affection in his face buoy you as you steel yourself, pressing your shoulders back in a mimicry of confidence. “i wanted to show you this part of me, this place, because i….” you hesitate for a breathless moment, biting your lip, before gathering every scrap of courage you possess and diving in headfirst. “i am falling in love with you, jacaerys.”

you inhale the sweet scent of the pale blue petals deeply, let the familiar scent soothe you as jace stares at you with wide eyes. the winter roses are something that, until now, have been so uniquely yours. as you’d told jace, none other than you and the gardeners comes to this corner of the gardens now. the staff that tend so carefully to the flowers know to leave you well enough alone if they stumble across you, skirts splayed on the ground and fingers diligently caring for the roses. you’ve never even brought your sweet little brother, though you can admit that’s for practicality as much as anything else – his childish energy is a bit too boisterous for these delicate blooms.

bringing jace here, bringing him here to confess the deepening affection you harbour for him, feels raw. feels like you’re tearing your heart out of your chest and offering it up to him for perusal, hands bloody and soul bare. feels like saying ‘this is all that i am and all that i have been and all i will ever be and i hope, i hope, i hope it’s enough.’

jace finally, finally speaks, sighs your name, soft and sweet and tender, and hope blooms in your chest.

“oh, my sweet lady,” he murmurs, crowding into your space as he cups your cheek, and the smell of woodsmoke and dragon and jace floods your senses. “i am falling so unbelievably in love with you. only, it does not feel so much like falling as it is like choosing it, like walking into love with you with my eyes wide open and seeing nothing but you.”

it's almost unbearable, the blazing heat of his gaze as he presses his forehead against yours, and it makes you tremble as your hands clutch as his elbows in an effort to ground yourself to this moment, to him. “our betrothal was decided for us without care or consideration for our own desires,” he says, lips brushing against your own with every whispered word. “i know that as well as you, but i need you to know that if i had the choice i would choose this. i would choose you, your stubborn heart, your fierce spirit, your gracious soul.”

his hand slides from your cheek to your hair, holds you so tenderly like you are something precious, and it steals your breath from your lungs as you revel in his unbridled affection. “i care not when we marry, if we marry, in truth, because in my heart you are already mine just as i am already yours.”

he kisses you, then, a desperate and greedy thing, as if he can no longer restrain himself from devouring you whole. and you are just as needy, hands fisting in his doublet as you press yourself against him and somehow finding yourself wishing to be closer still. the world narrows down to him and him only; his mouth, his hands, his hair. you can think of nothing else, and do not wish to, because in this moment you are wholly yourself and he is wholly himself and it’s enough, it’s wonderful and delicate and it’s enough.

and, there beneath the moonlight and amongst the winter roses, deep and enduring affection, the kind of love the bards sing songs about, takes root.

taglist; @eldrith

[howyouloveyourdragon]

dividers by hitobaby

ﾟ☁︎｡ alpha!rhaenyra claims sister ﾟ☁︎｡ alpha!rhaenyra claims sister part 2 ﾟ☁︎｡ Yandere alpha!rhaenyra x omega half-sister betrothal ﾟ☁︎｡ Yandere Rhaenyra takes half-sister from greens power play* ﾟ☁︎｡ Yandere Rhaenyra punishes omega reader after lords flirt with her* ﾟ☁︎｡ Alpha!rhaenyra x soft shy omega!sister x alpha!daemon* ﾟ☁︎｡ Yandere Rhaenyra x Lady-in-waiting ﾟ☁︎｡ Yandere Rhaenyra takes half-sister from greens* ﾟ☁︎｡ Yandere Rhaenyra x female dragonseed* ﾟ☁︎｡ Yandere Rhaenyra x female dragonseed* part 2 ﾟ☁︎｡ Yandere Daemon joins Rhaenyra x half-sister ﾟ☁︎｡ Dragonseed reader saves Rhaenyra from execution & Aegon the young ﾟ☁︎｡ Yandere Rhaenyra x Valyrian sorceress reader* ﾟ☁︎｡ Alpha Rhaenyra and omega Aegon headcanons

🇼​​🇮​​🇵​​🇸​

ﾟ☁︎｡ alpha rhaenyra x omega sister with child together fluffy ﾟ☁︎｡ rhaenyra and laenor x aemond (platonic) headcanons ﾟ☁︎｡ rhaenyra and laenor parenting her siblings ﾟ☁︎｡ headcanons of alpha rhaenyra x omega half sister parenting their kids ﾟ☁︎｡ alpha rhaenyra x omega aegon x alpha daemon (romance) ﾟ☁︎｡ yandere rhaenyra x aegon (romantic) headcanons ﾟ☁︎｡ alpha rhaenyra x omega alicent x omega leana headcanons ﾟ☁︎｡ daemon & rhaenyra x fem!reader in charge ﾟ☁︎｡ rhaenyra targaryen x dragonseed!reader claiming her dragon for the first time ﾟ☁︎｡ yandere rhaenyra x yandere daemon x half sister (blacks win au) ﾟ☁︎｡ rhaenyra targaryen x velaryon male!reader ﾟ☁︎｡ yandere rhaenyra x daemons bastard daughter (platonic) ﾟ☁︎｡ rhaenyra x royce-targ!reader ﾟ☁︎｡ headcanons of alpha rhaenyra x omega half sister parenting their kids ﾟ☁︎｡ alpha rhaenyra x omega alicent x omega laena headcanons ﾟ☁︎｡ alpha rhaenyra x omega aegon x alpha daemon (romance) ﾟ☁︎｡ yandere rhaenyra x aegon (romantic) headcanons ﾟ☁︎｡ yandere rhaenyra x son cole!reader x yandere laenor headcanons ﾟ☁︎｡ rhaenyra x twin!reader soulmate au ﾟ☁︎｡ yandere rhaenyra and velaryon!son with laenor headcanons ﾟ☁︎｡ yandere rhaenyra x helaena ﾟ☁︎｡ yandere rhaenyra x handmaiden ﾟ☁︎｡ yandere rhaenyra x female dragonkeeper headcanons ﾟ☁︎｡ yandere mom rhaenyra x orphan reader headcanons ﾟ☁︎｡ alpha rhaenyra x omega velaryion reader headcanons ﾟ☁︎｡ alpha rhaenyra x omega hightower reader headcanons ﾟ☁︎｡ alpha rhaenyra x omega daenerys headcanons ﾟ☁︎｡ rhaenyra x omega!hightower alt ﾟ☁︎｡ alpha rhaenyra x omega!sister part 2 ﾟ☁︎｡ alpha rhaenyra x omega velaryon reader headcanons  ﾟ☁︎｡ alpha rhaenyra x omega hightower reader headcanons  ﾟ☁︎｡ politically smart hightower x rhaenyra (part 2)  ﾟ☁︎｡ alpha rhaenyra x omega male velaryon!reader  ﾟ☁︎｡ alpha rhaenyra x tyrell omega reader  ﾟ☁︎｡ alpha rhaenyra x omega alicent (arranged marriage)  ﾟ☁︎｡alpha rhaenyra x omega alicent x alpha daemon headcanons  ﾟ☁︎｡yandere rhaenyra and haelena (platonic) headcanons

🇼​​🇮​​🇵​​🇸​

ﾟ☁︎｡ alpha rhaenyra x omega alicent x omega leana headcanons  ﾟ☁︎｡ alpha rhaenyra x omega alicent (arranged marriage)  ﾟ☁︎｡ alpha rhaenyra x omega alicent x alpha daemon headcanons  ﾟ☁︎｡ rhaenyra x alicent open marriage w/ laenor headcanons  ﾟ☁︎｡ yandere alpha rhaenyra x omega alicent headcanons  ﾟ☁︎｡ yandere rhaenyra x alicent (blacks win au) ﾟ☁︎｡ alpha rhaenyra x alpha laena x omega alicent headcanons

ﾟ☁︎｡No Rest For The Dragons ﾟ☁︎｡The Softest Love

🇼​​🇮​​🇵​​🇸​

ﾟ☁︎｡ jacaerys overstim smut, 'Too Much, Too Little' ﾟ☁︎｡ baela & jacaerys x reader ﾟ☁︎｡ helaena x jace headcanons  ﾟ☁︎｡ jace x reader confession prompt 11 ﾟ☁︎｡ jace x reader prompt 30 ﾟ☁︎｡ jace x reader flustered prompts

ﾟ☁︎｡ Alpha Rhaenyra and omega Aegon platonic headcanons

🇼​​🇮​​🇵​​🇸​

ﾟ☁︎｡ alpha rhaenyra x omega aegon x alpha daemon (romance)  ﾟ☁︎｡ yandere rhaenyra x aegon (romantic) headcanons

🇼​​🇮​​🇵​​🇸​

ﾟ☁︎｡ yandere rhaenyra x helaena  ﾟ☁︎｡ helaena x jace headcanons  ﾟ☁︎｡ helaena has peace for herself

ﾟ☁︎｡ alpha!rhaenyra x soft shy omega!sister x alpha!daemon* ﾟ☁︎｡ Yandere Daemon joins Rhaenyra x half-sister

🇼​​🇮​​🇵​​🇸​

ﾟ☁︎｡ daemon x fem!reader steamy bath smut ﾟ☁︎｡ daemon & rhaenyra x fem!reader in charge ﾟ☁︎｡ alpha rhaenyra x omega aegon x alpha daemon (romance)  ﾟ☁︎｡ alpha rhaenyra x omega aegon x alpha daemon (romance)  ﾟ☁︎｡ yandere rhaenyra x yandere daemon x half sister (blacks win au) ﾟ☁︎｡ yandere rhaenyra x daemons bastard daughter (platonic)  ﾟ☁︎｡ daemon x reader comfort  ﾟ☁︎｡ daemon x hightower fem!reader ﾟ☁︎｡ alpha rhaenyra x omega alicent x alpha daemon headcanons

[scielitobonito]

Painting The Roses Red

Jacaerys Velaryon/Targaryen x Tyrell!Reader

canon divergent, mentions of war/ptsd, a lot! of fluff, yearning, forbidden love, mentions of death and infidelity, dragonrider!reader

summary: HEAVILY INSP by this HC from @enviedear Reader is restless from nightmares of the war and Jace soothes her back to sleep by reading stories of Targaryen History while reminiscing on their past. Jace wonders how their story will fit into the future of Targaryen History.

word count: 1,566

a/n: It started off short because I was inspired by @enviedear 's head cannon (THIS ONE IS FOR YOU BABE) about Jace reading you to sleep with Targaryen History but then it became a whole thing of its own since I crave fluffy Jace and I love forbidden love. I want to write the wedding so pls let me know if a part 2 with memories of their wedding or any other of their war adventures would be interesting.

You threw off your sweat-drenched sheets and found solace in the cold breeze through the window. Your sleep had been restless all through the war, and you thought once it was over, you would finally have some peaceful rest, but the fear had settled into your bones, and you would never be the same again. Tears welled in your eyes as the memories of the past two years replayed in your mind. You didn't even realize that soft sobs had begun to leave your body as you stared out at the sea; however, Jacearys did notice. His coarse hand wrapped around your wrist, startling you out of your trance as he pulled you into his chest. "We're safe, you're safe," he whispered into your hair, rubbing soft circles on your back. This had become a routine for both of you since you found yourselves back at Kings Landing, and both of you constantly had to pull one another out of the distant memories of war. "I know," you murmured, "but that still doesn't change the chill in my bones and the fear in my heart as I watch you die over and over again." you whimpered as he tightened his grip on you. "Jacearys, you almost died. I fished you out of the water and watched you come and go from consciousness. The maesters believed you dead." He sighed. "But I am alive, and our victories will be written in the histories. The greens will only grow to be a stain, but a footnote in the rich Targaryen history." He pulled away from you to grab a large leather-bound book containing the tales of Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters wives before settling back on your bed. "Come," he beckoned you over softly, "we shall be the rulers our descendants look upon with admiration and seek guidance from just as we look to our ancestors."

You shook your head, offering him a sad smile as you climbed alongside him, adjusting yourself in his chest. His voice was a lullaby that warded off the fear that threatened to destroy your peace, and with the vibrato that escaped his chest, you could feel yourself being pulled by sleep. Your eyes are heavy as you cling to every word of the stories of Rhaenys and Aegon. As Jace looks down to see you opposing your rest, he aids the sleep process by entwining his hand in your hair, softly running his fingers along your scalp. 

You can feel yourself losing your battle, and Jace knows he's won as he hears your soft snores in his embrace. He looks down at your peaceful face in admiration and sadness. It was rare to find you so calm. It had been years since he had seen you so happy and carefree. 

The war had taken so much from you, your home, your family, and most importantly, it shook your lineage. You were a firstborn daughter, a lady created for more domestic pursuits, the beauty of Highgarden. You weren't fire and blood, or so you thought. However, when the war made you a dragonrider, the garden's secrets became revealed as your mother had to uncover the truth of an affair your great-grandmother had with a Targaryen prince during the rule of King Jaehaerys. The gods were merciful, and this child bore only a tiny resemblance to the Targaryen prince who fathered him, and your grandfather, the heir of House Tyrell, would pass his Targaryen blood to you. Amongst learning to ride dragons and fight for the rightful Queen, you learned the news that your home and your family had been taken and slain. You were now the Lady of Highgarden, thrust into a position you were not born for and fighting to make your place in the world while also trying to preserve whatever you had left of the life before the war. 

Jacearys wasn't supposed to fall in love with you, and you weren't supposed to fall in love with him, but you two were drawn to one another, bound together by some invisible string. He thought that he knew what love was supposed to feel like. After all, he and Baela were affectionate and devoted to one another, but with you, it was different. He felt electric when you accidentally brushed your hands against his while adjusting your riding gear. Or the way that it felt that the air had been sucked out of him when you gazed into his beautiful ember eyes. The way that your laughter filled the room and made his heart sing. Being with you made Jaecarys feel like the world had stopped and only you two were transceding through time.

It was only a short time before Rhaenyra noticed her son became fond of roses and would always request them no matter how difficult the import may be to Dragonstone. She also noticed how their newest dragon rider began to shed the colors of her house in favor of the colors of House Targaryen. It was hard not to notice the late hours you spent with Jace in the library, desperate to learn the language and customs of old Valyria as you both filled the castle with laughter into the hours of the night. You and Jacearys trained together, constantly pushing each other to your limits as you both developed a dance, a routine where your motions almost mirrored the other and your fierce devotion to one another became unmistakable, as when one of you was assigned to a mission, the other was desperate to go along to protect the other. This devotion would make you the woman who saved the heir to the iron throne, Prince Jacearys Targaryen.  

Once you became the Lady of Highgarden, Baela came to Queen Rhaenyra requesting to end the betrothal between herself and Jacearys. "He loves her, Your Grace," she stated, "and I do not believe he will ever stop loving her nor she. As we have witnessed, they would give their lives for one another if necessary. It would not be fair to Jacearys to watch the woman he loves marry another man; he is far too honorable to take her as a lover. Instead, he will be trapped with me, always longing for someone he can't have. Wondering of a future that could have been."

Rhaenyra sighed, knowing all too well what comes from loveless and forced marriages. She knew her son's behavior, and Baela was right. Unlike herself, Jacearys was far too honorable to lie with another woman, but he may never bring himself to love Baela. Instead, the two young rulers would be forced to be yearning gazes at court with Baela caught in the middle of an unspoken desire. Rhaenyra sighed. "I will grant your request." 

Queen Rhaenyra announced the end of the betrothal that same night, causing mixed uproar from the lords and ladies at court. Jacearys looked at his mother and Baela in horror and confusion as one of the lords called out, "Who shall be the bride of the prince now, Your Grace!?" "Shall we all present our daughters?" "I have a girl of marrying age!" Jacearys eyes searched for you and found you staring back at him, hopeful. He felt guilt as he looked back to Baela, who only nodded at him. A small smile crept on her face, and her eyes gestured at you. "Go to her," she mouthed. Jacearys blinked in confusion as his emotions raged inside him, and he felt his body begin walking toward you as his mother tried to quiet the unruly crowd. 

The crowd hushed as they noticed the prince making his way to you, the court, holding their breath as the realization dawned on them. The prince had fallen in love with the most beautiful but thorniest rose in the Highgarden. "My prince," you whispered, "they are watching." 

Jacearys only hummed in response as he lifted your hand to his lips, placing a soft kiss on the back. Hushed whispers rang through the crowd. "The Highgarden girl?" "There are rumors that they are a love match, but the Prince was promised to the princess." "She saved the prince's life; I, too, would fall in love with any woman of the sort." Jacearys chuckled as he caught some of the whispers and looked at his mother, who gave him a permissive nod.

"I have decided to marry Lady Tyrell, the Lady of Highgarden, if she will have me." Tears welled in your eyes as Jacearys publicly declared for you. "I will accept your proposal, Prince Jacearys." You nodded, a smile covering your face. Your heart overflowed with your love for Jacearys; you had spent so much time holding back due to duty and scrutiny. He laughed heartily as he kissed your forehead, pulling you in for a hug. "A love match!" someone shouted out, causing the court to erupt in applause and cheers. This union would promise peace amongst Westeros, for the people would know that the dragon prince and his thorny rose would furiously protect each other and their people. 

Jace shook himself from the memories and kissed your head, closing his eyes to breathe you in. "I love you," he whispered before shutting the book and drifting off to sleep. He staved off the nightmares from both of you for just another night and dreamed of what tales they would write for you both. 

[jacaeryssworld]

masterlist ೃ⁀➷

this is the masterlist for this blog! it will contain x oc works & x reader works! i will make sure to label which is which to make it easier <3

request guidelines!

♡ = fluff | ☹︎ = angst / no comfort | ✧ = comfort | ♢ = suggestive content | ♠︎ = other | ❦ = requested | ❀ = popular

JACAERYS VELARYON

( x oc works! )

Of Flame and Flesh ➡︎ Published, In Progress ♡ | ☹︎ | ♢ | ♠︎

jacaerys velaryon x elaenya targaryen

trope(s): childhood friends to strangers to lovers, arranged marriage, he fell first & she fell harder, misunderstanding

warning(s): typical targaryen incest (nephew x aunt dynamic), main character(s) death, angst, family drama, blood & violence mentions, mentions of teen pregnancy

Heavy is the Head ➡︎ Draft ♡ | ☹︎ | ♢ | ♠︎ | ✧

jacaerys velaryon x viserra targaryen

trope(s): childhood friends to lovers, arranged marriage, extroverted boy x introverted girl, he fell first & harder, jace won’t have a good day unless viserra smiles at him, angst, tooth rooting fluff

warning(s): typical targaryen incest (nephew x aunt dynamic), main character(s) death, violence & blood mentions, mentions of teen pregnancy

( x reader works! )

As If!

jacaerys strong x fem!reader, modern au!

under construction…

CREGAN STARK

( x oc works! )

Skyfall ➡︎ Published, In Progress ♡ | ☹︎ | ♢ | ♠︎ | ✧

cregan stark x alysanne ii targaryen

trope(s): arranged marriage, they both fell first, love at first sight, “enemies” to lovers, happily ever after (of sorts), golden retriever in disguise x openly orange tabby, one step forward & two steps back

warning(s): otto hightower being a scumbag & a little bitch, bennard stark, angst, alicent is a bit obsessed with aly, violence & blood mentions, mentions of pregnancy

( x reader works! )

Sea Salt and Snow ➡︎ ♡

cregan stark x fem!manderly!reader

trope(s): childhood friends-to-lovers, arranged marriage

warning(s): short but sweet!

AEMOND TARGARYEN

( x oc works! )

Spool of Flame, Spool of Sea ➡︎ Published, In Progress ♡ | ☹︎ | ♢ | ♠︎

aemond targaryen x saera velaryon

trope(s): childhood friends to enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, caged bird

warning(s): typical targaryen incest (uncle x niece dynamic), aemond is very ooc in this, very angsty, blood & violence mentions

( x reader works! )

Rosey Eyed

aemond targaryen x fem!tyrell!reader

under construction…

BENJICOT BLACKWOOD / DAVOS BLACKWOOD

( x oc works! )

None yet!

( x reader works! )

Friends Don’t Look At Each Other Like That

benjicot blackwood x fem!reader, modern au!

under construction…

Fic Recommendations! <3

— None yet!

[theforgottenmcrmy]

Second Sons (Ser Harwin Strong x Reader)

᯽ Please note that this is an overall Part 25 to the series Growing Strong. The masterlist, and part 1, can be found HERE ᯽

Pairing: Ser Harwin Strong x Tyrell! Female Reader

Warnings: GOT typical sexism, canon divergence, a couple curses, canon typical violence, canonical character death, a couple people rip off Olenna Tyrell's lines because she's an icon

Summary:

A short flight, and he would return to his mother. To his siblings, except for Jace, who was hopefully safe and probably still in the Vale. To his cousins, and his betrothed. To his friends. And to the man who had offered him more fatherly guidance than probably any other had in his life, regardless of the personal cost to himself.

A/N: I hope you guys enjoy reading this one as much as I did writing it. I have one more tentative part planned to connect the events of s1 to s2, but depending on how episode 1 on Sunday plays out, I may tie it into the plot of that episode. I'm not sure yet if I'll keep writing this story into s2 while its airing, or wait until after it's out. But if I do end up waiting until it's out in its entirety, I can almost guarantee I'll at least have one shots or related hand canons posted since those are fairly easier to whip up.

Prince Daemon Targaryen was well on his way to speak with the dragonkeepers to ensure Caraxes was adequately prepared for a flight to Riverlands.

The queen had yet to grant him her permission to depart Dragonstone- as Maester Gerardys had so kindly informed him the day prior - but her lack of approval would not change the inevitable. The Riverlands were essential territory to the war that was all but upon them, and Prince Daemon was of the belief that the arrival of a dragon upon his doorstep would be most efficient in swaying Lord Grover Tully to remember his oath.

The same notion had sent the eldest Velaryon princes, Crown Prince Jacaerys and Prince Lucerys, to the Eerie, then the North, and to Storms End respectively. The princes, and their dragons, had left Dragonstone the evening prior. As Daemon strode through the halls of his family’s ancestral keep, shadows from the rising sun filtered in from windows throughout. It was near midday, and not a word had been received yet from either prince.

Fortunately, not enough time had passed for such a fact to become a concern, even for Rhaenyra. Jacaerys, if he’d been wise, would have flown on Vermax to Claw Isle, where the loyal Lord Bartimos Celtigar’s household would have offered him shelter for the evening, before braving the rest of the flight to the Eerie the next day. Any raven he might have sent the evening prior would not have been received so soon. The same could be said for Lucerys, who had most likely been taken in by Lord Borros Baratheon and treated to a feast that would have lasted well into the night.

Prince Daemon - or was he Prince Consort now? - did not know exactly what compelled him to travel through Dragonstone’s training yard on his way to speak with the dragonkeepers. Perhaps it was the dreadful reminder in the back of his mind that once his business was finished with them, he was expected to return to the Chamber of the Painted Table, to the grueling politics that did not cease despite the Velaryon princes’ departure.

But what Prince Consort Daemon Targaryen did know was that Dark Sister hung heavy at his side with every step he took. The blade sang to him, even now, calling for the spilling of blood. Green blood. It had been quite some time since Daemon felt drawn to the alluring chaos and thrill of battle. The past few years on Dragonstone had been some of the most peaceful years of his life. Perhaps he might have grown content with such tranquility, given his rather tumultuous youth. But all thoughts of that had been swiftly set aside upon the slaying of his brother - most likely by the efforts of that scheming Hightower bitch of a queen - and the loss of another daughter.

The precious life lost was the first casualty of the Green’s treason, and was not likely to be the last. But for their Visenya, for Viserys, Prince Daemon would see all of the Hightowers to a just end. And, if said ends occurred between Caraxes’ maw, or by the sweep of Dark Sister, all the better.

Given the time of day, Prince Daemon had not expected the Dragonstone’s training yard to be occupied. If he had, he might have chosen another route to achieve his means. But as he entered the cavernous room, the familiar sound of a blade meeting a stiff bag of hay filled his ears. The usual guards, a pair each, posted by the entrances on either side of the room watched in silence as a lone figure sparred with a training dummy in the middle of the yard.

The young Lord Selwin Tyrell-Strong wielded not a wooden practice sword, but a real one. Each slice that tore through the air resulted in straw leaking from the dummy and drifting slowly to the floor.

Prince Daemon knew he ought to have ignored the boy and continued on his way, but something gave him pause. He watched with scrutiny as the young lord, who was so focused he had yet to become aware of the prince’s arrival, went through his motions. The confident, smooth movements, a varying but ultimately repeating set of strikes and blocking imaginary blows, were clearly more muscle memory than any conscious thought. The preciseness of the strikes, despite the target being stationary, were decently placed and well informed, the lordling having aimed for weak spots that would exist in an opponent's armor, and, of course, the heart. It was apparent that Lord Strong and whatever various masters at arms had instructed the boy thoroughly.

Though there was still room for improvement, even Prince Daemon was forced to admit the boy held decent promise, particularly for his age. Perhaps the bold show at dinner two nights past was not merely an isolated spectacle at all, but rather an indication of something more.

But Prince Daemon was wise enough not to always speak the thoughts that came to his mind. He had no duty to compliment the boy’s form, and certainly no desire to inflate a young lord’s ego.

So instead, Prince Daemon called out, “You seem to be in the wrong place, My Lord.”

With a small jump, Selwin halted his movements at once. To his credit, his grip on the blade remained firm as he slowly brought it down to his side. “My Prince?”

Daemon walked towards him slowly. His gaze was appraising as the young lord turned to him as he approached.

“I am told many of our guests are in the Chamber of the Painted Table, undoubtedly eager to take advantage of every moment they can obtain with our new queen,” Daemon explained simply.

Selwin took a steadying breath, visibly regaining composure from the exercise. “I shall leave them to it, then.”

Daemon’s brows raised. “You are not one for politics?”

“If I need to be,” the boy answered carefully, his focus flitting back to the training dummy.

“But it is not what compels you to rise for the day.”

It was not a question, but still, Selwin answered.

“That has always been my mother’s area of expertise. And my brother Derrik is a far better student of hers in that subject than I could ever hope to be.”

Daemon did not fail to notice how Harwin Strong went unmentioned. The Lord of Harrenhal might have been born to inherit it, but Daemon knew Harwin had little desire for ruling and even less patience for courtly designs. Harwin Strong was Lord of Harrenhal solely because his honor and sense of duty bound him to be. Daemon Targaryen enjoyed the luxuries his title and residence at court had brought him, but even he could not deny that, at some level, he and Lord Harwin Strong were cut of the same cloth. They were men both far more at ease in the training yard, if not the battlefield, then in a ballroom gallivanting about solely for society’s amusement.

And as Prince Daemon sized up the Lord of Harrenhal’s youngest son before him, he surmised that perhaps the apple had not fallen far from the tree.

“Ah yes, Derrik Strong- your late uncle’s namesake.” However, Daemon had spoken his truth at the dinner two evenings past: it truly was younger, not the older, of the Tyrell-Strong boys that resembled their late uncle, Ser Derron Tyrell. Unable to refuse the urge, Daemon gently goaded, “Our queen, on the word of your mother Lady Tyrell, I am sure, has told me he is quite intelligent for his age.”

Selwin said nothing.

“It must be heard, living in his shadow,” Prince Daemon prodded.

Lifting his sword, as though to inspect the blade, Selwin refused to take the bait. “I do not believe that I do. We are merely… different. We possess different strengths. He is more knowledgeable about court and politics, and I am more comfortable here, training.”

“But it is said that you are to inherit either Higharden or Harrenhal someday- and your brother is to inherit the other. You will rule somewhere, someday.” They might not have been the Iron Throne, but neither of the boy’s potential inheritances were anything to scoff at.

“Then I shall. It is my duty, and I will endure it, as my father does.”

Daemon did not doubt that. The Strong sense of stubbornness runs true. “And what if your brother challenges your succession?” he posed then. “He could, as you well know. Regardless of what Lady Tyrell and Lord Strong have decided, he is the eldest. When your mother and father are gone, by all laws of the land, he could pursue both seats of power, and the realm at large would not find fault in him for doing so.”

“I do not believe Derrik would go against our parents wishes,” the young lord asserted calmly. He lowered his blade once more, and fully turned to the prince. As Selwin met the Rogue Prince’s critical eye, his jaw tightened. “But even so, if that is what my brother desires, I would not stand in his way.”

“You would truly stand aside?”

“He is my brother, Your Highness. I would sooner fall on my own sword than willingly spill his blood.”

“You care for him.”

Selwin repeated, “He is my brother, Your Highness.”

They were seemingly at an impasse in the conversation, and yet, Prince Daemon felt surprisingly satisfied with the boy’s response. A few moments of silence passed between them, the Rogue Prince looking upon the youngest Tyrell-Strpng boy thoughtfully.

Eventually, Prince Daemon recalled what he had originally set out to do. The dragonkeepers would start to wonder where he was, even if they didn’t dare to ask after him.

So Daemon conceded, “Very well then, My Lord. I shall leave you to your practice now.”

Selwin bowed his head, but said nothing in response to his departure.

Prince Daemon turned to continue on his way, but hesitated. Quietly, so as not to be overheard by the guards dutifully keeping watch, he advised, “Mind your stature while blocking. Your left flank is a bit too exposed- you might stave off your opponent's blade, but anyone with merely half their wits about them will take advantage of it and deal you a nasty blow to the ribs.”

Selwin nodded appreciatively.

Prince Daemon finally did as he had announced, and continued across the yard. Not bothering to turn his head entirely, he called back to the young lord some final parting advice.

“Do keep practicing though, Lordling. One never knows when they may be called upon to lift a sword for their queen."

Lord Larys Strong, recently reaffirmed Master of Whisperers to King Aegon, Second of His Name, unrolled his most recently received correspondence with care.

Faint screaming echoed off the stone halls and walls surrounding him. Such was the consequence of having his office in dungeons of the Red Keep. All prisoners who ended up on this particular floor, the one just below the Black Cells, never rose above it again, but Larys was able to come and go as he pleased. And he would be lying if he denied that he derived a bit of pleasure from the fact.

Of course, he had his living quarters elsewhere, in a more socially acceptable part of the Red Keep. But for his official workspace, he had chosen this.

The King - both Viserys, and then Aegon, thought Larys’s choice of office, which was little more than a rooted out cell with a desk and chair, was rather peculiar. But Larys had been quick to remind each of them that such a location was extremely practical for his profession. And the convenience of being so close to those he was entrusted with wringing out information from, no matter the cost, could not be overstated when considering his physical limitations.

Larys scanned the letter briefly. It was from Harrenhal. Ser Simon Strong was more than happy to heed Larys’s request to provide him information from within the keep’s walls, and to relay information Larys provided to him back to others in return. Slowly, but surely, doubt was being sewed into Harrenhal’s soil. Doubts of its lord, who had been physically absent for years, and doubts of the credibility of the Targaryen princess who the Lord of Harrenhal would undoubtedly support in the upcoming war of succession.

Not too much longer now, and his brother’s steward, Lord Dannis Chambers, might have a mutiny on his hands.

Just as Larys had intended.

Larys smiled to himself as he retrieved some parchment and a fresh quill from the desk drawer. As he penned his response to his uncle’s letter, the candle’s throughout the room flickered.

He could not afford another failure. Not now, with the Hand of the King watching and scrutinizing his every move. 

To say that Lord Otto Hightower had been more than displeased with Larys after Lady Tyrell had failed to be eliminated from the political landscape would be a severe understatement. Not only had Lady Tyrell reunited with Larys’s insufferable brother, her husband Harwin, but the pair had already reached Dragonstone with their children. And from Dragonstone, they had begun to communicate with Harrenhal, Highgarden, and other reliable allies, Larys assumed, to begin coordinating aid for Rhaenyra’s cause.

But now that the cow had been milked, there was no squirting the cream back up its udders. And all Larys could do, and what he had been moderately successful in doing thus far, was mitigating the situation he had found himself in. Controlling what he could control.

That was not a new mantra to him, having been born a crippled second son. He owed the life he currently enjoyed entirely to his particular talent of making the most of what he was given, and using it to his advantage.

Larys faintly heard himself idly humming along as he finished his letter, rolled it up, and sealed it. He set it aside to be sent out by raven the next morning. Then, he reached into the desk drawer and withdrew another piece of parchment.

There were so many relations Larys had to tend to these days. But tend to, he would. The Dowager Queen, the Hand, the new King... It did not matter that Larys was not truly loyal to any one of them, so long as they each believed him to be.

Their belief in him directly correlated to more power. More power meant more control. And what had Larys always exceeded at?

Controlling what he could control.

Sewing seeds of doubt. Cultivating the crops of chaos.

And watching as the realm in the name of Hightower Greens, in the name of the Targaryen Blacks, in the name of whoever found themselves in power- burned.

The humming continued as Larys penned his next correspondence.

To My Dear Cousin, Alys…

“Tell me, Your Highness, what exactly does Vhagar eat?”

Prince Aemond Targaryen credited the countless etiquette lessons his mother subjected him to throughout his youth for his strength in resisting snapping back a sarcastic response.

This one- was it Ella? Elle? …Either way, she was polite with her questioning at least. Shy, almost.

“Whatever she likes,” Aemond replied, giving her a small smile that made the poor girl flush as red as the tomato on her plate. Ellyn, that was her name. “She still enjoys hunting for her own food, on occasion. However, most of the time, I ensure she is provided with only the most exquisite quality of pork and beef.”

For almost three full days, Aemond had been hosted at Storm’s End. He’d allowed himself to be swooned over by the majority of Lord Borros Baratheon’s daughters, all while assuring the Lord of Storm’s End of the heaping rewards he was to receive should he pledge himself to Aegon’s cause. Privately, Aemond was a bit cross at having such a large part of his future- his godsdamned wife- decided for him, but when his mother put the proposal before the small council, he knew he could not, would not, voice his disapproval.

For Aemond was nothing if not a dutiful son. His mother’s lack of empathy for his position, the infuriating care she still held for Rhaenyra, and her insulting unwavering loyalty to his oaf of an older brother aside.

For his mother, Aemond would give up his own choice of a wife. And though he knew in his heart that he deserved nothing less than a true Targaryen for a bride, being a true Targaryen himself, he would settle for a Baratheon girl. For his mother, Aemond would play envoy, remain polite, mind his tongue, and secure Baratheon’s allegiance. For his mother, Aemond might have been willing to give up all semblance of himself, if only to save her and their family.

“Hm,” another of Lord Borros’s daughters, Maris, chimed in, and most unwelcomed at that. “It would seem the dragons eat better than some of the small folk these days.”

Aemond only remembered her name due to the alarmingly large number of times the young woman had managed to vex him thus far.

He bit his tongue. Again. “A sad reality King Aegon wishes to rectify, My Lady.”

Maris’s attention fell back down to her plate. But under her breath, she muttered, “Doubtful.”

Another sister- whose name also escaped Aemond, but he knew her to be the eldest- gave Maris a stern look from across the table. “Maris!” she reprimanded in a hushed voice.

Maris did not look apologetic in the slightest. Instead, she looked rather determined. It was a small wonder where her stubbornness came from, given her sire. “What? ‘Tis true. You know the small folk are always the ones who suffer the greatest when the realm goes to war. Nobility may suffer financial losses, or political standing. But it won’t be us out there, going hungry. Spilling our own blood in the name of others.”

“I will not assume that you plan to grace any battlefield with your presence, My Lady,” Aemond replied, his tone clipped. “But you may rest assured that should my half-sister refuse to acknowledge Aegon as our king, I will meet any army she may gather head on.”

Maris’s eyes hardened. “The odds would be in your favor though, wouldn’t they? Why, what is a thousand men versus the likes of Vhagar?”

“Maris, please,” Ellyn begged her. To Aemond, she inquired sweetly, “All of this talk is futile, is it not, My Prince? Surely there will be no war. Princess Rhaenyra will see reason.”

“We can only hope,” Aemond said placatingly.

Perhaps his half-sister would see reason. But Aemond doubted Rhaenyra to come to terms with her situation whilst Daemon was beside her, filling her head with incendiary thoughts. Even if Rhaenyra yielded to Aegon, Daemon would need to be dealt with.

It was a good thing Aemond was more than up to the task.

“I do hope you are engaging in appropriate topics of conversation with His Highness,” Lord Borros said from the opposite end of the table.

His lordship had been distant, seldom engaging in conversation throughout Aemond’s stay. Nay, it was mostly his daughters and wife that had attempted to get within his good graces. Not to say that Lord Borros had been rude in a sense- but he had not been very welcoming, either. But that was just as well with Aemond; he was not in Storm’s End to make new friendships. He was simply to sway Lord Borros to support Aegon, and to ensure his continued loyalty to the crown, select one of his daughters to be his bride.

“Of course, Father,” the youngest daughter replied quietly.

Aemond did a double take. The girl had said no more than five words in his presence the entire stay thus far. Seldom had she even made eye contact with him.

Her name was Floris, Aemond recalled. Of the four, Lord Borros’s youngest daughter was indisputably the most attractive, a fact of which was obviously a source of pride for Lord Borros. But she was the youngest, not yet flowered. She was rather soft spoken, too. The girl was still innocent to the true nature of the world in which she would be expected to thrive. In a peculiar way, the youngest Baratheon girl reminded Aemond of his sister, Helaena.

Aemond had yet to formally choose which one of the girls was to be his future bride. But he knew he would not be choosing Floris.

“His Highness was merely enlightening us of the many ways King Aegon intends to help the less fortunate in the realm,” Maris shared with her father, smiling sweetly at the man whilst sarcasm dripped with her every word. Once Lord Borros looked appeased, Maris dared to shoot Aemond a challenging smirk.

Aemond would most certainly not be choosing Maris as his bride, either.

Before he could contemplate a witty response, the doors to the dining hall were thrown open hastily. A visibly fatigued servant rushed in.

Lord Borros rose from his seat at once, his dark brows furrowed deeply. He bellowed, “What is the meaning of this?”

“My Lord,” the servant boy bowed. “A visitor just arrived. He is in the courtyard now.”

“A visitor?” Lord Borros echoed, still frowning. “At this hour? Well, who in the Seven Hells is it?”

Though the messenger did not address him, Aemond did not miss the wary glance the boy threw in his direction before he answered his lord.

“Prince Lucerys Velaryon, My Lord. He comes bearing a message from Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen.”

…

For his mother, Aemond had agreed to be civil.

But as for himself, Aemond knew he could not let the opportunity before him slip through his fingers. And as the intoxicatingly wicked ideas filled his head as to how he might turn this chain of events in his favor, all thoughts of the Dowager Queen, his sweet sister Helaena, and her young, vulnerable children faded far into the recesses of his mind.

Prince Lucerys Velaryon, newly reaffirmed heir to Driftmark, and future Lord of the Tides, followed the soldiers escorting him though Storm’s End with his back straight, and his head held high.

He knew very well what- who- was waiting for him when he would arrive in whatever hall Lord Borros welcomed him in. The mountain of a dragon lurking beyond Storm’s End upon his arrival with Arrax was enough of an indication of who awaited him inside.

But his mother had sent him to Storm’s End with a purpose, and a message to deliver. He would not let nerves break his composure, nor deter him from his task.

The guards finally parted before him, opening the doors to the hall within. Lucerys clung to his resolve as he stepped forward. Thoughts of his purpose gave him courage, despite his daring to wonder whether Aemond would be the only Targaryen he would soon come face to face with.

Lord Borros Baratheon sat upon the Storm’s End throne up ahead. Various soldiers and nobles lined the room. Closest to Lord Borros were three younger women, who Lucerys assumed could only be his daughters. Amongst them, with long pale hair that contrasted against the waves of dark hair so similar to Lucerys’s own, was his uncle, Aemond.

Aemond, who looked far too smug with Lucerys’s current predicament. It was such a shame that Lucerys did not plan to grant him any further satisfaction from it.

Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled from the windows and ceiling above. But Lucerys pushed onwards, and forced himself to take a few more steps into the room.

“Lord Borros,” Lucerys called to him, “I’ve brought you a message from my mother, the queen.”

Lord Borros’s expression as he beheld him was a rather peculiar one. The lighting was a bit poor in the hall, but Lucerys could have sworn the Lord of Storm’s End looked particularly pale.

However, the words that came out of Lord Borros’s mouth were anything but meek.

“Yet a few days ago, I received an envoy from the king. Which is it? King, or queen? The House of the Dragon does not seem to know who rules it.”

The Lord of Storm’s End found his own joke rather funny. The shoulders of one of his daughters, the fourth one standing beside Aemond, shook with silent laughter. Lucerys did not deem the observation worthy of a response.

“What is your mother’s message?” Lord Borros eventually bid him.

Aemond still smirked at him, but Lucerys refused to meet his eye. Instead, he wordlessly held out his hand. One of the guards who had escorted him stepped forward, grabbed the sealed parchment from his gloved hand, and walked forward towards the throne. He deposited the scroll in Lord Borros’s awaiting hand, but despite the message finally being within his grasp, the recipient still looked frustrated.

“Where’s the bloody maester?!”

An awkward silence filled the air as the maester in question shuffled through the crowd. As he did so, Lucerys took a moment to properly assess Lord Borros Baratheon. He wasn’t quite sure what he’d hoped to find in such an angry face- perhaps a trace of his grandmother, Princess Rhaenys. A familial resemblance was plainly evident in their shared shade of dark brown hair, at the very least. However, there certainly was no shared similarity between Lord Borros and that of his father, Ser Laenor Velaryon. His father had always taken after the Velaryon complexion, and Lucerys could not recall his father frowning enough times for him to deduce whether it resembled Lord Borros’s currently gruff expression.

All the while, he felt Aemond’s eye boring into the side of his face.

The maester had finally appeared and taken the scroll from his lord’s hand. While the maester read over his mother’s message, and subsequently relayed the contents to Lord Borros, Lucerys took the moment to calm his gradually rising nerves.

Lucerys tightened his jaw. What precisely was Aemond hoping to accomplish by staring at him so? He would not be goaded into engaging with him, for nothing beneficial could possibly result from that. Not but a little over a week ago, Jace and his uncles had been unable to make it through a mere family dinner without blows being exchanged.

Lucerys gripped the pommel of his sword with a tightly clenched fist. Granted, it was the same sword that Selwin and Lord Harwin had determined was not the most suitable for him, but it was a sword nonetheless. Lucerys could only pray to the Seven that he would not have cause to draw it- he had promised his mother as much, after all.

The maester excused himself, and it was as though all eyes, even Aemond’s, fell upon the Lord of Storm’s end as they eagerly awaited his reaction.

“Remind me of my father’s oath?” Lord Borros scoffed. “King Aegon at least came with an offer: my swords and banners for a marriage pact.”

That was news to Lucerys, and information he planned to pass on to his mother when he returned to Dragonstone. But he would not let his surprise show.

“My Uncle Aegon has cause to want to buy your allegiance with such a promise, My Lord,” Lucerys replied carefully. “The price of honor is high, but it is always one worth paying.”

Lord Borros scoffed. “Honor… I do not know if your mother can define such a word, boy.”

Lucerys fought the immediate urge to rise to her defense. But Lord Borros’s comment was a peculiar one. Aemond must have thought so too, as he finally tore his eye off of him and looked towards the Lord of Storm’s End inquisitively instead.

“Nevertheless,” Lord Borros continued on, his increasing irritation evident with each word, “Let’s say I do as your mother bids… Which one of my daughters will you marry, boy?”

Lucerys could not bring himself to even steal a glance at the daughters in question as Lord Borros gestured to them. “My Lord, I am not free to marry. I am already betrothed to my cousin Rhaena Velaryon.”

Lord Borros looked over at Aemond. “I’d heard as much… So you come with empty hands?”

Was upholding an oath and maintaining honor not enough motivation to support the realm’s rightful queen? Was loyalty so easily able to be bought?

Lucerys’s gut sank, but he refused to let it show. He might have been young, with plenty still to learn, but he knew a lost cause when he saw one. The atmosphere of the room shifted, churning faster and steadily brewing into a storm.

“Go home, pup. And tell the bitch your mother that the Lord of Storm’s End is not some dog that she can whistle up at need to set against her foes.”

Lucerys’s jaw tightened once more. He managed to ease up on the tension just enough to get out, “I shall take your answer to the queen, My Lord.”

He had turned and taken two steps when another voice called out.

“Wait!”

Lucerys let out a small sigh, but forced himself to turn back around.

“My Lord Strong,” Aemond crooned mockingly at him.

Nearly all rational thoughts fled from him as the insult hit his ears. Lucerys took several steps forward back into the room, but instead of Lord Borros, it was Aemond that he approached.

“The lighting in here is poor, Uncle,” he said to him. “So I will forgive the mistake your remaining good eye has made. But Lord Harwin Strong is far from here, and both of his sons as well.”

One side of Aemond’s lip threatened to curl up into an angry snarl. Unfortunately, he did not yet take the bait. “Did you really think that you could just fly about the realm, trying to steal my brother’s throne at no cost?”

“Your brother’s throne?” Lucerys echoed with disbelief. At that moment, he was unsure of whether he held anger or pity for Aemond, who sounded so certain of his brother’s claim to the Iron Throne. “I will not discuss such gross accusations with the likes of you, Uncle, for you can hardly be considered an unbiased party. And I will not fight you. I came as a messenger, not a warrior.”

“A fight would be little challenge. I’d rather you pay the debt you owe me.”

Aemond reached upwards and removed the patch that covered what remained of his left eye. Even with the poor lighting, Lucerys could see the blue gleam of the sapphire that had taken the injured eye's place some years ago. Lowering his hand, Aemond threw his overcoat aside, and unsheathed a dagger from his hip.

“Here is a knife, just as the one you had that night. Put out your eye, and I will let you leave.”

Aemond threw the dagger downwards, and it skittered across the stone floor. It came to a still at the halfway point between him and Lucerys.

“One eye will do,” Aemond prattled on. “I would not blind you. I plan to make a gift of it to my mother, actually.”

Lucerys wasn’t entirely sure whether the Dowager Queen would be pleased with such a gruesome gift. Regardless, his answer to his uncle would have been the same.

“No.”

Aemond’s smirk faltered. “Then you are craven as well as a traitor.”

“Not here,” Lord Borros warned.

Instinct alone forced Lucerys to retreat a few steps backwards when Aemond suddenly stalked towards him.

“Give me your eye, or I will take it, bastard!”

Aemond scooped up the knife he had thrown onto the floor with an obviously practiced ease. With similar swiftness, Lucerys unsheathed the sword at his side, holding it out before him defensively.

“Not in my hall!” Lord Borros roared, rising to his feet. “I want no blood shed beneath my roof. The boy came as an envoy, and he shall leave as one.”

Aemond’s nostril twitched.

To the men who had escorted Lucerys into Storm’s End, Lord Borros commanded, “Take Prince Lucerys back to his dragon. Now.”

As the guards moved about him, Lucerys held Aemond’s eye as long as he dared. Eventually, he relented, sheathing his sword and following the escort out of the hall.

By the time he was returned to the yard, the rain had begun to pour. Arrax, spotting him despite the sheets of water, cried out to him. Lucerys approached him with a determined pace. Once he had reached the dragon, he looked over his shoulder.

Vhagar was nowhere to be seen.

Lucerys closed his eyes and took a deep breath as he turned back to Arrax. As he commanded his mount to remain calm, to focus, and to listen to him, he allowed himself to think of their destination.

It was a short flight back to Dragonstone, just as it had been to Storm’s End. The poor weather, which was not ideal, would most likely add some additional delay to the flight. But if Lucerys remained centered, and if Arrax obeyed him, they would make it back safely.

Lucerys would return back to Dragonstone. He did not know what Lord Borros’s refusal meant for the queen’s cause, but he knew beyond a doubt that his mother would not be angry with him for his failure. If he knew anything at all in those harrowing moments, he at least knew that.

His heart pounded madly, betraying everything he had just asked of Arrax, as he saddled up, and the pair ascended into the stormy sky.

Steam filled Aemond’s eye and ears as he watched Lucerys be escorted out of the hall.

He might have taken the moment to allow himself to recompose, and excuse himself to his guest chambers to clear his head before he did something foolish. He might have taken the high road and walked away, had he not been incensed beyond the brink of sanity by a single childish remark.

A snicker came from beside him.

“Was it one of your eyes he took, or one of your balls?” Maris taunted, raising a mocking brow at him. She shrugged nonchalantly. “I suppose I should be glad you shall be choosing one of my sisters to wed. I want a husband with all his parts.”

A blood red haze carried Aemond out of the hall and into the stormy night.

With a careful hand, and an even more cautious step forward, Selwin opened the door to the library at Dragonstone.

He stuck his head inside the chamber, just past the doorway. He did not dare to breathe as he patiently waited a moment and listened. Nothing but the sounds of the softly flickering flames and the cracking of wood met his ears, until-

A faint crinkle of a page, as a page was turned.

“My Lord?”

Selwin stood up straight, and his eyes were wide as they landed upon the source of the noise.

Lady Rhaena Targaryen, who was seated in a red plush chair beside the flames contained in a rather grand stone-carved fireplace, beheld him with a befuddled expression.

“Lady Rhaena,” Selwin all but blubbered, his cheeks feeling a bit warm from being caught in such a poor state of decorum. “Forgive me, My Lady. The queen granted me permission to peruse the library earlier this afternoon, but I did not anticipate it already being occupied.”

Lady Rhaena’s expression shifted seamlessly from curiosity to one of slight amusement. She gestured vaguely around the room. “No trouble at all, My Lord. ‘Tis hardly as though there is not plenty enough room for the both of us.”

With her blessing, Selwin took another step into the room and allowed himself to fully take it in. It was far grander than he had imagined it to be. Although, that ought not to have been  too surprising. The Tagaryens weren’t exactly known for doing anything on less than a grand scale.  Rows and rows of books and scrolls comprised many aisles, with each aisle running the length of the room on either side. Beyond the shelves, the warm orange rays of the setting sun bled into the room.

In the very center of the room, to his immediate left, was a large stone table. Various books and scrolls were piled atop of it, as though they had been recently browsed, or perhaps were awaiting the return to their respective places upon the surrounding shelves.

Lady Rhaena, who had been watching Selwin with a keen eye, had an open book resting on her palms. Still a few paces away, Selwin could not make out exactly what the contents of the pages pertained to, but he did not believe the words to be of the common tongue.

 “Are you particularly fond of reading, Lord Selwin?” she inquired politely, rising to her feet.

As she moved to approach the table beside him, Selwin suddenly found his boots to be alarmingly intriguing. “Not particularly,” he mumbled. “My older brother is far more inclined to take to scholarly pursuits than I.”

Lady Rhaena placed her book, the pages still open to where she had paused in her reading, upon the stone table. “...But?”

“I must admit, I do enjoy a bit of history, My Lady.”

“Truly?”

At the sound of her genuine surprise, Selwin mustered enough courage to meet Lady Rhaena’s eyes once more and nodded. “Our maester in Highgarden used to tell me all about the histories recorded and housed in the Citadel. And while those sound fascinating, I was always far more interested to hear about the accounts kept here, in Dragonstone. Is it true there are texts here from Old Valyria?”

“A few,” Lady Rhaena confirmed. Her fingers absentmindedly brushed the pages of the open book before her. “Since the queen has given you her permission, you would be more than welcome to read some of them, as well as whatever else you are able to find in here…. However, might I make a recommendation for you to start with?”

“Please do.”

Selwin watched as Lady Rhaena disappeared momentarily down an aisle of shelves on the right hand side of the room. She returned a moment later with another book in her hands. As she resumed her place before the stone table, Selwin turned to mirror her stance.

Lady Rhaena carefully opened the book. Her eyes skimmed the text rather quickly as she turned its pages. Then, she abruptly stopped. As she looked back up at Selwin, she offered him a smile. “Perhaps this may satiate your interest. For a little while, at least.”

Selwin read over the first couple of lines.

… In the year 73 AC, Harrenhal was without a master once more. Queen Rhaena Targaryen, who had resided within its walls for many years, had finally passed, and King Jaehaerys found himself tasked with appointing its new lord. The task proved to be challenging, as the rumors surrounding Harrenhal had only grown in number and validity over time…

“It’s an account from the Old King’s reign, and the events that led to your ancestor, Ser Bywin Strong, being named as the Lord of Harrenhal,” Lady Rhaena explained helpfully.

Selwin tore his eyes away from the page. “Thank you, My Lady. This was a very thoughtful recommendation.”

“I hope you enjoy it. When you are through, you shall have to let me know what you made of it. It was written by Grand Maester Elysar during King Jahaerys’s reign.”

“And it recounts the king’s actions,” Selwin repeated plainly as another thought struck him. “Should this not be kept in the library within the Red Keep?”

Lady Rhaena tilted her head as she glanced back down at the book with a pensive look. “Mayhaps. But the maesters keep so many texts, it would not be possible to keep them all on hand for the king- or queen.”

“A point I did not consider,” Selwin admitted sheepishly. “Besides, ‘tis hard to imagine this accounting holds any particular weight when compared to others of more import.”

Lady Rhaena paused. “I respect your opinion my lord, but I cannot agree with it. House Strong may be young when compared to some of the other houses in Westeros, but there is no foretelling of what may yet come to pass. Perhaps Ser Bywin’s inheritance of Harrenhal is only the first part of what will be the larger history of House Strong… Why, it is said that Lord Harwin is the strongest man in all the Seven Kingdoms. Surely that would at least be of a small note?”

Selwin did not bother to stop his chuckle. Maybe that still rang true. But his father, while still relatively young, had begun to pass what most men considered to be their prime. However, so as to not insult the lady beside him, Selwin acquiesced, “A small note, perhaps.”

“And what of you? Do you not think yourself likely to do anything of note? You are to be the next Lord Strong, or even the next Lord Tyrell, are you not?”

“I do not know.”

Lady Rhaena was particularly perceptive, Selwin would later deduce. “You would let your brother claim the lordships of both your parents’ houses?”

Selwin managed to hold in his chuckle this time. Hadn’t Prince Daemon inquired about exactly the same topic not but a day before? Now that he thought about it, Lady Rhaena, though said to physically resemble her late mother, emulated her father in more ways than one might initially suspect. Selwin believed as much, particularly at that moment; both Rhaena and Daemon had managed to pry thoughts from him he had not been comfortable enough to share with even his own family.

“I do not know,” he repeated once more, feeling a bit foolish and more like his age than he could recall in recent memory.

Most mercifully, Lady Rhaena was not one to take joy in his discomfort. It was not difficult at all for Selwin to believe Lucerys found himself a bit ‘smitten’- as his mother often put it- with his betrothed. Any young man would be, would they be so fortunate to be betrothed to the kind-hearted Rhaena Targaryen.

“What do you know?” she gently prodded.

Selwin refused to meet her eyes. Had he not been so conflicted within himself, he might have been concerned with burning a hole through the text before him with the sheer focus he placed upon it.

“I know that Aegon’s treachery means war is likely to ensue. I have read enough history to know that usurping a throne does not tend to end in peaceful terms, let alone terms in which no blood was spilled at all. I know war is coming, and I know my family is in danger because of it. But I have nothing to offer. My father, as you put it, may be the strongest man in all the Seven Kingdoms. My mother is the Lady of Highgarden. My brother is intelligent beyond his years, and when the time comes, there is no doubt in my mind that he will make a fine lord- of whatever inheritance that may be. But as for myself? I am…”

He felt Lady Rhaena’s intense gaze upon him as he searched for his next words.

“I am naught but a second son. I am nothing. I can do nothing. My family could be in peril, and I am powerless to help them.”

It was silent for a long while.

Lady Rhaena confessed, “I believe I might be able to sympathize with you. I know what it is like to feel like nothing I do truly matters. I know what it is like to be able to do nothing, to feel powerless.”

Disbelief had Selwin snapping his head up in her direction. “With the utmost respect, Lady Rhaena, that is a bit difficult to fathom.”

She gave him a challenging look. “Really? Tell me then, My Lord, what would I do if the Greens surrounded Dragonstone on the morrow? Would I rally our sparse number of men to battle? Would I lead my grandfather’s fleet, engaging the enemy upon the waters of Blackwater Bay? Would I mount a dragon, and meet Vhagar and Sunfyre head on in the skies?”

Selwin mulled over her words. “Forgive me, My Lady. I did not mean to give insult.”

“No forgiveness is needed, My Lord, for no insult was taken.”

The text before him still laid open, and despite the heavy topic of conversation, the words seemed to call to him.

“I will not sell myself short just yet,” Selwin vowed then. “But if there is still room in the histories for my story, then there shall be plenty of room in them for your own.”

Lady Rhaena frowned. “I am not certain I follow your meaning.”

Selwin’s attention shifted towards the book to his right, the one Lady Rhaena had been reading. Valyrian, he realized, now close enough to plainly see the words on the page. He did not know the language, but he could deduce the topic based on the page’s illustration. Scales of various colors bordered the yellowing parchment.

“You are no less a Targaryen because you have yet to claim a dragon of your own. And those who harbor that opinion of you are of no consequence. What good do the opinions of sheep serve a dragon? Because that is what you are- a dragon.”

Lady Rhaena merely looked at him for a long while, her expression plain. Just when Selwin began to fear he may overstepped, she suddenly grinned.

“Prince Lucerys is most fortunate to have a friend like you, Lord Selwin. And any friend of Prince Lucerys can consider themselves a friend of mine.”

Selwin’s face warmed, but he could not pinpoint precisely why. “I shall strive to remain worthy of your friendship then, My Lady.”

Lady Rhaena plucked the book up from the stone table and closed it gently. She then offered it to him. “I have no doubt that you will.”

To what end did Aemond pursue him?

Lucerys wracked his brain for all logical explanations as to why Aemond stalked him. This was not merely the exchanging blows in the training yard, or coming to an impasse during a family dinner. His damn uncle was using Vhagar to actively hunt him, and Arrax, sizeable though he was for his age, was no match in size.

Finally, up ahead- there was a break in the clouds. As Arrax emerged through the cover, they were both freed from the storms roaring below. The sun kissed Lucerys’s face, providing a bit of warmth that offset the coolness of his drenched clothes and cloak.

Lucerys looked around, and attempted to gather his bearings. Vhaegar was nowhere to be seen.

In that moment, he thanked every single one of the Seven; they had finally gotten Aemond off their trail.

Lucerys urged Arrax forward at a more relaxed pace. Once he was able to find a landmark, he could determine which way was home. And once he knew where Dragonstone lay, nothing but a short flight home remained.

A short flight, and he would return to his mother. To his siblings, except for Jace, who was hopefully safe and probably still in the Vale. To his cousins, and his betrothed. To his friends. And to the man who had offered him more fatherly guidance than probably any other had in his life, regardless of the personal cost to himself.

The war may yet come, but Lucerys would be there to witness it. He would be a squire, he would learn anything and everything he would need to be a lord that Driftmark’s people could respect, a lord that they could trust. And he would continue doing everything in his power to make his mother, the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, proud.

The thought of what was yet to come gave Lucerys hope.

So much hope, he had not realized the sun had abruptly disappeared.

  …

  ……

  …

Lord Otto Hightower had been roused by a frantic messenger. Thankfully, he’d already been dressed, having fallen asleep at his desk. Still, the trek from the Tower of the Hand to the small council chambers, where he’d been summoned to by the king, felt far too long.

He entered the room without delay and made sure the doors were closed tightly behind him before he turned to face those within. Quite an assortment of the king’s council and advisors were present already.

As was his second eldest grandson, who stood a few paces away, dripping water from his clothes and long hair.

Alicent sat at the table, her head in her hands. Even from a distance, Otto could tell her complexion was far paler than it should have been. Ser Criston stood closely behind her, his focus shifting between her, the king, and Aemond.

“Grandsire, you’re here at last,” Aegon said by way of greeting. “We have news.”

Otto knew he would regret asking, but he did so nonetheless. “And what news might that be, Your Grace?”

“Lucerys Verlayron has been slain!”

Though it was Aegon who had answered, and eerily cheerfully at that, Otto was quickly able to deduce the true source of the news. He whirled to Aemond, gripping the young man by his overcoat in his fists. The fabric was still damp. “What have you done, boy?”

Aemond’s eyes were void of emotion. He did not even make an attempt to remove himself from Otto’s firm grasp.

His daughter pleaded, from beneath her fingers, “Mother have mercy on us all.”

At her proclamation, some semblance of life finally returned to Aemond’s eyes. He turned his head, still in Otto’s hold, and looked over towards his mother. The look he gave her was one of shock, and- rather surprisingly, Otto noted- betrayal.

“You only lost one eye,” Otto beseeched him, shaking him mildly to garner his attention. “How could you be so blind?”

“Release him at once, Grandsire,” Aegon commanded with a firm tone, an authority to his voice that Otto did not know he possessed.

Otto had little choice but to heed a command given by the king. He released Aemond’s overcoat, but still, Aemond did not step away. Instead, his focus remained on his mother.

“Prince Aemond is the true blood of the dragon,” Aegon praised him with a grin, sounding more proud of his brother than Otto had ever recalled him to be. “He has made a good beginning of things. He returns from Storm’s End a betrothed man, and he has demonstrated to Rhaenyra what will happen if she continues this senseless pursuit of a throne that is not hers for the taking.”

“Your Grace, do you truly believe the death of her son will dissuade Rhaenyra from her pursuit of the Iron Throne?” Otto demanded of him. “Do you think Daemon will be dissuaded?!”

Aegon waved him off nonchalantly, and it took every ounce of control in Otto’s being to stop himself from grabbing his eldest grandson in the matter he had just handled his young brother.

“Those are matters to be dealt with on the morrow. As is the planning of a feast.”

“A feast?”

“Aye, a feast,” Aegon confirmed. “We shall have a feast in Aemond’s name. But, as I said, that can wait til the morrow. But there is another matter that cannot. Will someone fetch me a quill and parchment? I wish to write to my dear sister and inform her of the news myself.”

...

......

…

Prince Daemon Targaryen had been the one to intercept the messenger. The queen was lucky to have been spared reading the filth of a message herself. Aegon, whose provoking words were permanently embedded in Daemon’s mind, would not be so lucky in the end.

His oaf of a nephew and his kinslayer of a brother could enjoy their feast while it lasted. They would not be the only ones to enjoy splendors in the days to come, Daemon would make certain of that.

Still, Daemon did not doubt his nephew’s vile message to be anything less than the truth. After all, he had been the one called down to the shore. Lady Tyrell, after calling her children back inside the castle walls, had directed him towards what had washed up. It had been an immediate recognition, and was unmistakable for any other beast.

Daemon knew the reality of what the day's harsh developments meant. He knew the reality of what was yet to come had been set in stone the moment his brother Viserys had gasped his last breath. But he anguished to know that this would be the event that would cement the severity of the situation for Rhaenyra.

She looked at him curiously as he approached. That was no surprise; they had not spoken to one another since their latest disagreement.

He pulled her aside, away from her advisors, and he gave her the truth as plainly and honestly as she was owed. When she pulled away from him, processing the devastation his news had wrought upon her, he fought the urge to look away, if not leave outright.

And as Daemon stood there, something resonated within him.

To many within the realm, second born sons might have been considered to be little more than a spare. But to have described Prince Lucerys Velaryon as such in the eyes of his mother… that would have been more egregious a crime than the manner of the young lord’s demise itself.

A/N: 🖤

[lady-ashfade]

🫧🦋Characters i wrote for 🦋🫧

—£ All characters are open for yandere, platonic and romantic.

Here for the concert event? Backstage fandoms are endless!! Percy Jackson is not available tho! Just look at all my masterlist fandoms.

˚⋆𓇼˚⋆ 𝗚𝗮𝗺𝗲 𝗢𝗳 𝗧𝗵𝗿𝗼𝗻𝗲𝘀

Cersei Lannister

Daenerys Targaryen

Margaery Tyrell

Ned Stark

Jon Snow

Sansa Stark

Arya Stark

Robb Stark

House Stark

House Lannister

*Most other characters I can do for Dabbles or HC’S.* [House stark & Lannister is aloud as a whole! And also if you want Yan!GOT meaning all, I can do it*

˚⋆𓇼˚⋆ Lockwoo & Co

Anthony Lockwood

George Karim

Lucy Carlyle

Lockwood & Lucy [+reader]

Poly!Trio x reader.

˚⋆𓇼˚⋆ 𝗠𝘆 𝗛𝗲𝗿𝗼 𝗔𝗰𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗺𝘆

Izuku Midoriya

Katsuki Bakugo

Shoto Todoroki

Bakusquad/Dekusquad

Yan!class 1A

Most characters honestly

˚⋆𓇼˚⋆ 𝗣𝗲𝗿𝗰𝘆 𝗝𝗮𝗰𝗸𝘀𝗼n

Percy Jackson

Annabeth Chase

Luke Castellan

Grover Underwood

Yan!Half blood camp

˚⋆𓇼˚⋆ House Of The Dragon

Rhaenrya Targaryen

Jacaerys Velaryon

Lucerys Velaryon

Baela Targaryen

Baela & Jace

Alicent Hightower

*All characters can be platonic, romantic unless stated other wise, yandere! platonic/Rom, Poly ships × reader allowed*

[dipperscavern]

Do you have suggestions for longer fics? I’m lookin to get into some deep fics and stay up late reading! Any character from asoiaf or got!

absolutely!!

a golden cage, by @eldrith

a jacaerys velaryon x reader fic, still ongoing & currently standing at three parts, very lore heavy!! the writing is heavenly though, eldrith never disappoints, and she also has some other stand alone jace & cregan works :3

he that dares, by @sehaedazokla

a cregan stark x tyrell!reader fic, still ongoing & currently standing at 5 parts, i haven’t had the chance to read all of it yet but from the glimpses i’ve seen it’s sooo interesting — they also have some other stand alone stark works!

heart of the great wolf, by @rise-my-angel

a jon snow x reader slowburn & previous robb stark x reader (you’ll see what i mean), this big boy is still ongoing and currently standing at a whopping 70 parts (holy shit) (go mimi), very much lore centered and a mix of show + book material! also has a modern!au spin off, and a nsfw alphabet for both robb and jon (if i’m not mistaken

flames of deceit, by @cregan-starks

an aemond targaryen & cregan stark x oc (it’s complicated), still ongoing (i believe?) and currently standing at one part (tori i’m going to beat you) (affectionately), i usually don’t read x ocs but visenya is so funny and it’s set up so well i couldn’t help myself

& quite literally everything on @swordgrace — click and scroll my lovely <3

[blueberrypancakesworld]

House of the dragon - Masterlist

Info : All my works for hotd and more characters are added

--------------------------------

Request

°Green Flames->Son of Daemon and Mysaria, angst, hurt/comfort

°The bewitched->Blind son of Aemma Arryn, angst, hurt/comfort

°Cohesion of blood->Twin sister of Aemma Aryyn, hurt/comfort, angst, fluff

°The true heir->Daughter of Rhaenyra and Laenor, hurt/comfort, emotional, angst, fluff

°The other daughter->Adoptive daughter of Aemma, emotional, hurt/comfort, angst

°By the gods->Rhaenyras cousin, fluff, comfort

°Loss of the wrong blood->Daughter of Rhaenyra and Laenor, emotional, fluff/comfort, angst

°The river and the flame ->Oscar x wife!reader, fluff, kiss

°The king's blood and shadow -> Maegor x servant!reader , yandere, obsession, dark

°The dragon's own chain ->Viserys iii x wife!reader, kiss, hurt/comfort

°Our own blood ->Viserys I x wife!reader , kiss, yandere, fluff

°Golden mane and rose ->Willas Tyrell x fem!reader, fluff, kiss

-------------------

Aemond

°The promise->aemonds wife, hurt, angst, emotional, death

°Little flower->female tyrell reader, obsession, dark, death, one sided feelings

°My flowers->fem reader, obsession, dark themes, one sided relationship, pregnancy, sequel to Little flower

°I was your flower->fem reader, obsession, death, angst, hurt

°Shattering sapphires tear under love ->+18, smut, mommy issues, implied dom/sub, hurt/comfort

°Aemond in a relationship (younger/older reader)->comfort, fluff, smut

°The farm princess and the rough sapphire -> Aemond x adoptive!princess, fluff, kiss, comfort

°Surprise visit with needs ->Aemond x servant!reader , modern au, +18, smut, mommy issues, breast play

-------------------------

Daemon

°A present->fem reader, daemon is obssed with the reader, angst

°I have always accepted you (Daemyra) -> emotional, hurt/comfort, kiss, mentioned war/blood/death, children death, mentioned implied aggression, crying, fear

°Restless and chaotic loving (Daemyra x fem!reader) ->obsession, kissing, emotional

-------------------------

Rhaenyra

°I have always accepted you (Daemyra) -> emotional, hurt/comfort, kiss, mentioned war/blood/death, children death, mentioned implied aggression, crying, fear

°Restless and chaotic loving (Daemyra x fem!reader) ->obsession, kissing, emotional

------------------------

Alicent

°My side was always by yours -> Rhaenicent , hurt/comfort, kiss, dysfunctional family

------------------------

Aegon the second

°The farewell before the war ->fem reader , targaryen incest, fluff, kissing

°The dragon couple and the servant->Aegon/Heleana x servant!male reader->fluff, comfort

-----------------------

Jacaerys

Coming soon

----------------------

Helaena

°Don't become a dream to me->fem reader, angst, comfort, character death

°The dragon couple and the servant->Aegon/Heleana x servant!male reader->fluff, comfort

----------------------

Edit

°Lucemond

°Lucerys Velaryon

--------------------

Other/multiple/non listed characters

°Advent Calendar Door.3

°Advent Calendar Door.15

°My Treasure - Lucemond

°Never wake a sleeping Dragon->fem reader, yandere viserys, hurt/comfort, obsession, dark

°hotd characters comforting you before the war->fem reader, fluff, comfort

°types of hotd men as yandere ->fem reader, yandere, dark themes

°Risen under false dragons ->Viserys iii x fem!reader , hurt/comfort, falling in love, hurt viserys

°Your are ours - Greens x fem!reader (hostage)->fluff, obsession, angst, fluff, kissing

°Framed by saphire and crown - Aemond x maid!reader x Alicent -> yandere, obsession, kissing

°Your are ours - Blacks x fem!reader (hostage) -> fluff, comfort

°The lads and their Lady (Oscar/Davos/Willem/Aeron x fem!reader)->fluff, comfort, kiss

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Targaryen Tuesday

°I will protect you in the time to come - Aegon Targaryen (Son of Aenys I) x fem!reader -> fluff, comfort

°Between the books is love - Vaegon Targaryen x fem!reader -> fluff, comfort, tiny angst

°Shadow, Shield, Snake and Sword - Jonquil Darke x fem!reader ->fluff, comfort, swordtraining, kinda flirting if you look closely

°Beauty on cold eyes and scarred skin - Merris x fem!reader ->fluff, hurt/comfort, kiss

°Arrows of love - Satin x fem!redaer -> fluff, comfort, angst, kissing

°Vaegon in a relationship SFW/NSFW

°Green eyes a star and affection ->Marei x fem!reader, fluff, kissing, comfort

°A gift of pearls and amethysts ->Lysono Maar x wife!reader, fluff, comfort, courting with gifts

°Sun dragon prince of goodnes and beauty -> Baelor Breakspear x fem!reader , fluff, comfort, kissing

°Promising love in flames -> Daeron x wife!reader, angst, character death, kiss, comfort

°The heir and his star ->Willas x betrothed!reader , fluff, comfort, kiss

°Water, ships and a pearl -> Aurane Waters x wife!reader, fluff, kissing

°Seeing eyes of the future and love -> Daenys x lady!reader ,fluff, kissing, comfort

°First dragon siblings->Daenys/Gaemond x sister!reader, fluff, comfort

°Former heirs of the house->Domeric Bolton x betrothed!reader , fluff, hurt/comfort

°Sworn love and loyality->Harrold Hardyng x wife!reader, hurt/comfort, angst, kiss

°Two towers for a dragon->Forrest Frey x princess!reader, fluff, kiss, hug

---------------------

[legitalicat]

Out of Time

Chapter 6 - "I'll Beg You Nice from my Knees"

AN: I am so sorry this took so long, I have had some medical testing done and had some health episodes so I couldn't dedicate as much time as I wanted to with this chapter. I hope you like it! This dedication has been removed. Also the title is a line from "All I Wanted" by Paramore cause that song went through my mind a lot during this chapter. In another life, reader would be with Erryk.

If you love this header go check out zaldritzosrose for more amazing work! She is tagged on the series masterlist and on my welcome post!

Please feel free to leave any thoughts below! Definitely not required but so appreciated.

Find the series masterlist here!

Summary: Three weeks. That is how long it took Y/N to get any of the men back in her company after the horrific dinner. She didn't spend the entire time angry, though. She just didn't understand what she did to make them avoid her. All she wanted was to have them.

TW: A lot of reflection on the Driftmark incident, a lot of anger, vaginal fingering, mentions of substance use, mentions of violence, angst, talks of injury, character death of sorts but in the past and not anyone major, profanity, Aemond being dirty af

Relationship: Aemond Targaryen x Velaryon!Reader, talks of Jacaerys Velaryon x Twin!Reader, talks of Aegon Targaryen ii x Velaryon!Reader, Alicent Hightower x Rhaenyra Targaryen (not explicit but realized it's a thing)

Word Count: 4.8k

Mother and Alicent had come to help escort me back to my room after the dinner. Ser Erryk provided the physical support I needed while they were providing me some emotional. It was nice to be with them and not be expected to say anything about the dinner.

Time began to pass in a blur in a way that made me unable to distinguish the days from one another. I was aware of Mother and Alicent both agreeing, given how hurt I still was, that the homecoming feast should wait a few weeks. It was fine with me, as I did not want to even have a feast to begin with. The mornings were spent in the dragon pit with the children.

The five of them loved that I went with them. The keepers helped me to bring Vhaela out so that the two of us could get reacquainted while the kids learned with an adult dragon. It was always nice to spend time with her. Feeding her was one of my favorite things. She was so proud of herself when she blew fire to cook the meat provided she always looked to me for approval.

And in the evenings, I soothed my aches with a warm bath and biscuit. That part was nice too. Something about feeling the water wash over me as the fuzziness took over my brain allowed me to truly relax.

Well, as relaxed as I could be when neither of the men that declared my hand was theirs came to speak with me. At first, I would’ve only accepted them talking to me to apology for making a scene. Aemond and Jacaerys truly could not get past the stupid competition they alone create, and that had caused such a fuss so many times.

Then morning came and I just hoped one of them would at least come to check on me. Hours passed by that day and still neither came to find me. Even after sending my new handmaid, a young girl named Elayna Tyrell, to bring them to me, they did not come. Why were they avoiding me?

Though what made less sense was how Aegon avoided me. Correction. How he avoided me during my conscious hours was what didn’t make sense. I could tell by the way my pillow smelled of him that he would lay beside me as I slept. Knowing him he probably held me.

After it became several days without sight of any of them, I began to deflate. And then it became nearly three weeks. What did I do wrong?

Mother and Alicent were with me as the Maester were doing their daily examination. It was how I started most of my days. Mother and Alicent would bring breakfast to me and they sat with me until the exam was finished.

“Any pain the last few days?” he asked as he ran his fingers along my ribs.

“No. I have not needed to use the biscuits for physical pain, only at night to ease me to sleep,” I said to him. It no longer felt painful or inconvenient to move. My busted lip had healed. Finally I felt like myself.

“Any memories or visions further than what we’ve discussed?” he asked me quietly, so low that Mother and Alicent would not hear.

That was a more complicated matter. Every night I dreamt of being in complete darkness, only for the small red vial to turn up and be the only light source. I would walk towards it. Hours could pass and I would only be just approaching it, when a woman would appear just as it had.

This woman was devastatingly beautiful. Her hair and eyes looked to be made of flames, contrasting greatly against her pale skin. If one could imagine the ideal woman’s body, I believe they would imagine this woman. Full breasts yet an otherwise slender figure, the way any man preferred his whores. She constantly wore robes that matched the red of her hair and eyes. And around her neck laid a golden choker embedded with rubies.

This was not a woman I had memory of ever seeing. Believe me when I say she was so beautiful I know I would remember her. Her haunting my dreams every night was enough to make me certain of that.

None of that was new. What was, however, was her speaking. She would reach out, taking the vial in her hand, only to offer it to me while saying the words, “Gūrogon bisa skori ao jaelagon naejot sagon lenton.” It was Valyrian, and roughly translated to, “Take this when you want to go home.”

Only telling the Maester of this woman felt the best way to go about it. If Mother knew, she would tear the whole Kingdom brick from brick until she found this woman. I could not predict anyone else’s response nor did I really want to think about it.

“Nothing I am certain of,” I responded, which only garnered a nod.

He stepped away from my body and turned to Mother. “She is as healed as she can be. The damage done to her bones may always be there. You can feel an indent in the fifth and sixth ribs, where I suspect the bones ended together.”

“That will not affect her further?” Alicent asked him, speaking for Mother.

My jaw tightened. While I was not entirely sure what was going on between them, I was not a huge fan. Alicent speaking for Mother, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, as though she still had any right. How was it fair or possible that Alicent got to sit at the side of the Iron Throne for so long?

“No, Your Grace,” he said to Alicent before turning to look to me. “Though I would recommend caution. Bones once broken could be easier to break.”

“Luckily I have no plans of being further beaten or tortured,” I muttered, earning a sharp look from Mother. “Sorry.”

I thought it was hilarious. Though I always thought I was funnier than those around me. Jace found me funny.

“And what is your opinion on me flying?” I asked him. I was aware how eager I sounded.

“I see no reason to restrict you further,” he said.

Whatever else was said between Mother, Alicent, and the Maester was lost on me. Slipping behind the partition, I pulled on my riding dress.

It belonged to Mother when she was young, before the way her body changed with pregnancy. It was a simple black with grey fastenings. A slit ran up the middle of the skirt so that while standing it appeared to be a normal skirt, yet it parted when I would be mounted on Vhaela. Black scale accents adorned the shoulders and the lower quarter of the sleeves. The fabric was heavy, helping avoid any chill.

I did not do anything particularly special with my hair. The front section on either side, less than an inch, got pulled back away from my face into a small braid. With that, I was ready.

When I stepped out from behind the partition, the Maester was gone. Thank the gods.

“I do not think you should go flying yet,” Mother told me as she stood from her chair.

“You cannot stop me,” I said firmly.

“Y/N” she said, beginning to explain her reasoning.

“No. No. I have been reasonable and compliant this entire time. You two want to play house and pretend the past did not happen, and I have not spoken a word. You both prepare a grand feast that will happen in two days time and I accept it without argument despite not wanting it. Being poked and prodded by the Maester every morning before I even have finished my breakfast has been irritating to no end but still I stayed silent,” I said, feeling a fire build up inside of me. “I went eighteen years, waiting for a dragon while all my brothers’ eggs hatched! Aegon and Helaena had a dragon before I could even form a thought! Even Aemond had Vhagar by the time he was ten! And yet I only had weeks with Vhaela before five years was stolen from me!”

“Rhaenyra, she has a point,” Alicent said to her, taking her hand. The way Mother relaxed made me freeze.

That was what it was. Why Mother allowed Alicent a seat, even still. Why Mother had clung to the idea of the Alicent of their girlhood, even when Alicent was a nightmare. They were in love.

“You would need to chain me in the black cells to keep from her,” I whispered, stepping forward to take her hands in my own. “I am not leaving. I am not disappearing. But Vhaela more than anything is my birthright as a Targaryen.”

She looked between me and Alicent. I could see the thoughts brewing in her mind, trying to find a way to convince both of us to keep me here. Yet, I was my mother’s daughter, blood of the dragon. There was nothing keeping me where I did not want to be.

“Take Aemond or Jace with you,” she instructed me.

Despite not wanting to give them more opportunity to ignore me, I did not want to keep arguing with Mother. Any fight between Targaryens could turn explosive rather quickly. It is why I am grateful that there was no war for Mother’s crown. Had there been, I imagine our entire family would be gone, if not the entire kingdom.

Without another word, I left the room. Erryk was immediately by my side. His presence was comforting, as I found in recent weeks he was my greatest company. And in truth, he wasn’t a bad looking man either. If he hadn’t taken the oath preventing him from taking a wife, I may have said screw the other three and just chosen him.

“Where are we headed, Princess? I assume the Dragon Pit?” he asked as we walked. He looked me up and down, giving a small smile at my attire.

“First we need to find either Jace or Aemond,” I muttered.

“You have not desired to see them for a while now. What’s changed?” he asked me.

“I have been permitted to fly again. Mother, however, insists I take one of the two of them,” I explained. He said nothing else.

As we walked, I knew where both men would be. Aemond would most likely be in the training yard. Despite having been a very accomplished swordsman by his sixteenth nameday, he continued training just as obsessively as before. And Jace? On days like today, where the sun was hidden just enough to avoid hurting one’s eyes but glimmered through the clouds like a treasure waiting to be found, he liked to go down to the shoreline and watch the boats.

My heart pulled me in two different directions. Jace was who my head told me I should want. He truly had been my other half. There was no way I could ever exist without him. Yet still he stayed away. He was the type of person to use the silent treatment as a punishment. Whenever I had made him angry, he would go long bouts of time without saying a thing to me. The longest he went was three months.

Yet Aemond felt like who I wanted to spend time with the most. He was who I wanted to make see my side of things. These last few weeks had driven me crazy because he had refused to come to me. He had never stayed far from my side for more than a few hours if we were in the same place.

My heart decided I needed Aemond. I needed him like one needs to breathe. It felt as though without him life did not make sense.

Instead of turning right at the end of the corridor to leave through the main doors of the Keep, I turned left. It was the fastest way to the training yard. Well, actually, from my room there was a secret corridor hidden behind this dragon statue that lead directly to the training yard, with a few offshoots to get to other rooms around the Keep. But given the fact I don’t want many people knowing about it, including Erryk, it was smarter for me to take this way.

“You look well, Princess,” Erryk commented as we passed several members of Court.

Members of Court were lords and ladies who came from houses that felt they deserved to live among us, yet were evidently unimportant enough that they could abandon their holdings to play dress up with royals. In truth they disgusted me as a general rule. What bothered me was not that they were not royalty, I truthfully couldn’t care less about birth status. No, it bothered me that they would so carelessly abandon their duties at their own homes to come and live in mine.

Perhaps if they just were happy to live here it would not be so terrible. Yet, they would eat the food we had and take the benefits of being a member of court to live lavish lifestyles, all while spreading rumors of our lives. I did not like liars. I did not like people who benefit from lies they spread.

That’s not to say all members of Court were bad. When I was little I had a handmaid named Tarla Greyjoy who was absolutely lovely. She was kind to me, got along with the rest of my family without trying to insert herself into relationships. She didn’t try to get Jacaerys to marry her instead of me like some girls did. And most importantly, she was a very good secret keeper.

She had died when she was thirteen and I was fourteen. We had been sailing to Driftmark so that Jace and I could visit our grandparents, and naturally I had her with me. I didn’t know how scared she was of storms. We sailed right into one and in a panic, she slipped on the deck. To this day I don’t really understand, but she fell in such a way that her neck broke and she died instantly. I was inconsolable for days. She had been my friend for nearly ten years, stood by my side every day during that time. I missed her dearly, but if I gave her too much thought it resulted in a crippling panic attack.

When we stepped out into the training yard, it was not a surprise to see Aemond. He moved gracefully with every swing of his sword. It was like watching Caraxes do his mating dance for Syrax in a way. Which if I were honest sounds a lot dorkier than it was.

He didn’t notice me at first, I don’t think. He was solely focused on his opponent, who I vaguely recognized as another member of Court. The opponent came from a lesser house, I think House Redwyne, and those types of men always liked the chance to get close as possible to us. They also always liked to flirt with Helaena and I to try to make us fall in love and get all gooey when we see them so they can improve their station.

With a swift jab of the sword’s pommel into the shoulder from Aemond, the Redwyne lordling stumbled. In mere seconds, Aemond swept his legs out from under him then held the tip of the sword to his throat. I couldn’t help but to smirk.

Aemond hadn’t used wooden swords to train since about a year after he lost his eye. He said there was no joy for him in it if there was no danger in it. To me, it always sounded like he secretly wished to be injured again.

Mother allowed me to stay by his side for a month after the incident in Driftmark. That month was the worst time of his life, I think. He had to begin to relearn everything before he had even stopped feeling pained from his injury. His depth perception was completely off which hindered his ability to feed himself, to traverse the Keep by himself, or really do much of anything.

He was angry, too, angrier than I had ever seen him. He was angry at my brothers, my mother, his mother, even the gods could’ve feared his wrath. Yet, I was the one person spared his anger, and all he wanted was for me to stay by his side. His reasoning?

That night on Driftmark, I told the truth. That Aemond had woken me up to share with me the chance to claim Vhagar. That when he got back from his inaugural flight, Rhaena was angered by his claim on Vhagar. That her and Baela’s anger caused them to attack Aemond. That he pushed me out of the way before defending himself. Then my brothers jumped in, and eventually it became all of them beating Aemond.

I think what really sealed it that night, at least for Aemond and especially for Alicent, was that I confirmed it was Jace who had brought the knife. He was the one to introduce it.

Jace filled in the words. How Aemond was vicious and violent in his words. That Aemond had called my brothers bastards. Which Jace made sure to glare at me that night as he said that, as to remind me that meant Aemond called me a bastard. And he made sure to point out that Luke only did that to protect his family. Completely ignoring the fact that Aemond was family.

I want to be very clear that I do not believe Luke should have lost his eye as punishment. Alicent suggesting that made my stomach twist and turn back then, and still does to this day. I do, however, believe that my brothers never received punishment for anything they did.

Like why did it matter more to Mother the words that Aemond said rather than the fact her sons were among the attackers? Why did Jace continue to get to carry a knife while I returned home and was forbidden from Jace’s side for three months? When it was I who saw that the actions of those four weighed just as heavily as the words of Aemond? Why did Mother completely forget that Jace made Aemond’s life hell for not having a dragon, making him feel lesser than, while I sat there and listened to him belittle someone in the same position I was in?

And to be honest, it wasn’t as though Aemond was wrong. Yes, it was technically treasonous of him to say it out loud. But again, he wasn’t wrong. Vaemond Velaryon was not wrong. We are bastards. Our blood is Harwin Strong. Not a drop of Velaryon blood resides in our veins. Though, they could’ve said it less disgustedly.

It was doubtful anyone could understand how frustrating these thoughts are. They made me feel as though I betray Mother and my brothers by acknowledging the circumstances of our birth. But, if I denounce Aemond for speaking that, it is like I am calling him a liar, which he isn’t. Truly, it feels like no matter what I feel about that situation, I am screwed.

Aemond noticed me at that point. Given the way his head snapped up in my direction, I imagine I let out a grunt of frustration. He looked almost ashamed when he saw me.

Good.

“Prince Aemond, a word if you will,” I said loudly to him. We were about five feet apart, so I did not have to practically yell it to him. But I spoke louder than needed so that he would have no choice.

Wordlessly, he put his sword in its scabbard and walked over to me. Just having him within arms reach again was enough to make me feel my heart rate increase. Fucking Seven Hells, I love him so much.

“Princess,” he said quietly, giving me a subtle nod of his head.

“You are to accompany me in flight, as requested by Her Grace the Queen,” I told him firmly.

Sometimes, I really liked pulling rank. It was truly the only thing he would listen to at times. He was annoyingly stubborn. Not in the way that most anyone with a cock was, but in a special and overwhelming way.

“And where are you wishing to go, Princess?” he asked me.

“I think perhaps Felwood. A short flight from here, three hours tops,” I said, shrugging a bit.

He nodded and motioned for me lead the way. I tried to relax my jaw as it tightened in annoyance. He was still wanting to put a distance between us.

“Ser Erryk, you are dismissed for the time being. I shall seek you out when I return,” I said to Erryk. The sweet knight nodded and took his leave.

Now there was no buffer between Aemond and I. He could not feign interest in anyone else’s life. He could not ignore me.

We walked in silence from the training yard, though he did still give me his arm to hold. The walk from the Keep to the Dragon Pit typically talk about an hour and a half. They were about five miles apart. When I went there with the children, we always took a carriage. When I was with Aemond, though, he preferred the walk.

Passing by several shops on the streets of city, several shopkeepers and their patrons stared at us. I wasn’t entirely sure why but they had never approached us. Mother always feared they would mob me. Though they didn’t seem to care most of the time. Maybe it was because I had spent so much time among them they saw me more as a person.

“It wasn’t just us that missed you,” Aemond said quietly. I looked to him immediately, my heart speeding up as he pulled me closer. “The people of the city missed you as well.”

He was probably right. Before my disappearance, I worked hard to gain the love and respect of the citizens of King’s Landing. It wasn’t that I needed everyone in the world to like me. But I knew, more than anything, that one day these people would be my people. One day I would be their Queen. And it is easier to rule people that love you.

“You hurt me,” I told him as we kept walking.

He sighed rather loudly. “I know.”

“I’m not speaking of the dinner, Aemond. Which, by the way, was a dick move for a lot of reasons. But I’m talking about the fact that today is the first time since that you’ve spoken to me,” I said.

I was trying desperately to hold my voice steady. Every part of me wanted to scream at him. It wasn’t even necessarily anger that made me feel this way. It was just there was so much crap in my head and in my heart, and he didn’t seem to get it.

“I was embarrassed,” he admitted.

“Gods, I can’t imagine why you would be,” I muttered rather harshly.

Immediately, he went back to being quiet. I wanted to kick myself in the head. Why did I have to say that?

This was not the first time in my life I had said something that caused instant regret. Hells, it was not even the first time since I’ve returned that I’ve done it. I tended to speak before I thought at times when I really should just be quiet.

The rest of our walk was in silence. In the near hour and a half it takes to walk from the Red Keep to the Dragon Pit, he only said maybe twenty words to me. I longed for his voice, his declarations of love. Yet, because of who I am I could not receive them.

Aemond discussed with the keepers that we wish to fly. He spoke quietly with them, so quietly it was obvious he did not want me to hear, telling them they only need bring Vhaela. They had nodded in understanding near immediately before shuffling off to bring Vhaela to me.

“You do understand the rules are I have to take you with me, yes?” I asked him, raising an eyebrow.

“I shall fly on Vhaela with you,” he said simply.

My face heated up as blood rushed to my cheeks. Aemond had always told me that I needed to fly on a dragon before I had my own. So we went weekly into the skies, grateful to Vhagar that she was so good. The last time we rode on the same dragon was before I had Vhaela. It was not the feeling of flying that I remembered from that trip. No, it was the feeling of his cock buried inside me that was the only thing I could remember.

I caught him looking at me and smirking. That caused my cheeks to heat up even more. My breath caught in the space between my lungs and my throat and a fire burned inside me, nestled in the svalley between my thighs.

“You remember,” he said quietly. We were all alone in this moment.

“How could I not?” I whispered. Feeling emboldened by his obvious or perhaps just stupid, I changed our position. Now I stood chest to chest with him.

“Which part do you remember most, my love?” he whispered to me. His hands found my waist to hold me close. Though they didn’t stay there, slowly working their way back and down.

I took a deep breath. He was looking at me with such an intensity it felt like he could burn a hole in my soul. All I could think was how the ache between my thighs was becoming overwhelming. If he could hear my heart, he would hear it thudding against my chest harder with every passing second.

“Or how about you tell me your memories of it?” I whispered, smirking up at him. “After all, you’re the one who needs to make up for your behavior.”

He chuckled as his hands worked their way over my ass and around to my front. “Always been a brat, haven’t you? Can’t do as you are told?” he asked. His voice was quiet and deep.

“I listen to those who deserve it,” I said to him. My breath caught in my throat as his fingers moved past the parting of my skirt. They brushed against my clit through the thin material of the shift I wore underneath. The touch was so light one could miss it.

“And if I beg you for forgiveness?” he whispered, watching my face intently as he increased the pressure of his touch. There was no denying the pleasure of it.

“Get to begging,” I practically commanded him. I couldn’t help but to inch my hips forward.

Gods if I had any ounce of self respect I would push him away. I wouldn’t allow him to touch me like this without a proper apology. In fact, I perhaps should’ve championed for Aegon to accompany me just to prove my point to Aemond. That it was not fair of him to ignore me when I had done nothing wrong.

But as he rubbed my clit through the flimsy skirt of my shift, I couldn’t help but lean against him. My forehead was pressed against his chest, my breathing becoming ragged. I gripped his wrist tightly as I felt that all too familiar band tightening behind my navel.

“That’s my girl,” he whispered when I finally let out a breathy moan. “Should’ve been doing this for you the entire time. I promise, baby, I won’t be so stupid ever again.”

With his free hand, he lifted the shift up enough to where he could touch my clit directly. I let out a loud moan, one that caused him to chuckle. His thumb stayed firmly pressed against my clit, moving in tight little circles, as he moved his other fingers to my entrance.

“So wet for me, baby,” he whispered in my ear before pushing his fingers inside. Right off the bat he started with two. His fingers were long and slender, feeling heavenly inside me. “You deserve the world you know that?”

“Fuck, Aemond,” I moaned as he pumped his fingers in and out.

He eagerly worked my cunt as he continued to rub my clit. My grip on his wrist tightened as I began seeing stars.

“That’s it, such a good girl,” he praised me as the band behind my navel finally snapped. Orgasmic bliss washed over me. “Such a perfect girl. Do you forgive, princess?”

I only just managed to pull myself away as the Keeper surfaced with Vhaela in tow. Aemond was smirking at me. He maintained eye contact with me as he brought his fingers to his lips and licked them clean. I swear to the gods he moaned.

“Perhaps,” I told him quietly, smirking a bit before walking over to Vhaela.

[pyschosoda]

- dividers by @dollywons -

Requests are open!!

I mostly want to write x reader fics for these fandoms but i am open to character x character fics ^-^

- The last kingdom (Osferth, Sihtric, Finan, Uhtred, Brida, Aldhelm, Aethelstan)

- Game of thrones (Jon Snow, Podrick Payne, Sansa Stark, Daenerys Targaryen, Sandor Clegane, Theon Greyjoy, Robb Stark, Margaery Tyrell, Brienne of Tarth)

- House of the dragon (Helaena Targaryen, Aegon Targaryen, Aemond Targaryen, Rhaenyra Targaryen, Alicent Hightower, Cregan Stark, Jacaerys Velaryon)

I’m mostly trying to do three characters from each fandom for now if you couldn’t tell…I’m sure I’ll create a bigger list of fandoms and characters later on but for right now I’m still trying to get the hang of things and don’t want to get overwhelmed!! feel free to sent me any requests please and thank you!! ╰(*´︶`*)╯♡

p.s. I’m totally open to just chatting too if you just want to send an ask ^-^

edit: I ADDED MORE CHARACTERS!! :3

[simp-aholic]

thank you my beloved father

(also the reason i'm not tagging people in these games atm is so that i don't spam everyone with stuff they've already done because most of these are from a long while ago now also i have many wips rn so i've shortened the list to the ones i think will be most waited for according the old polls and etc)

RULES: Reveal the titles of the documents in your wip folder and tag as many people as there are documents.

for this i'm gonna type some up from my asoiaf account and some from another account if that's alright

diamond castle au reader x margaery tyrell that you my lovie requested, im getting there i promise,

vampire!regulus x reader

moulin rouge satine!aegon x poet!reader

peter parker x reader soulmate au

ex-bf!james potter x reader

bran stark x mermaid!reader

remus lupin x reader - forbidden romance

a heated smutty daemon request from my lovely @dreamsofoldvalyria

jacaerys velaryon x best-friend!reader x cregan stark

peter parker x spy!reader

Thank you @elegantsplendour I legit love tag games like this 💜 I am also so excited for whatever you have planned.

So my WIPs are dwindling down a bit and I only have 4 right now, with 2 living in my brain. Anyway, feel free to ask or comment away.

RULES: Reveal the titles of the documents in your wip folder and tag as many people as there are documents.

Let others ask questions about the ones that interest them and post snippets or explain the contents as you see fit!

My current WIPs:

This does not end well [Aemond x Stark]

But you came over me like some holy rite [dark!Aemond x Reader]

My twisted passion to be your world [modern Aegon x Reader]

Darling, I would do it again. [Osferth x Reader]

no pressure tags for my Tumblr kindred spirits: @sylasthegrim @annikin-annotates @assortedseaglass @lovelykhaleesiii @ilikeitbetterangsty @theoneeyedprince @lauraneedstochill @helaelaemond @dcmnatio @storiumemporium

If you see this on your dash, consider yourself tagged. Share if you want to and please tag me cause I want to know. 💜

[howyouloveyourdragon]

The Heart Bestowed 

pronouns: she/her warnings: none that i am aware of, feel free to correct me in dms :) summary: Jacaerys loves nothing more than a duty fulfilled. Y/n has other impressions. Ever since they were young, they presumed that they would some day find one another in the Sept amongst family and reciting practiced vows to one another. However, they could not be more different nor more infuriated in their joined presence. Neither of them have any greater desires than to quell the other...So why do they feel so disappointed when they are both betrothed to another? disclaimer: this is fanfiction for asoiaf/house of the dragon, i do not give permission for my writing to be translated or copied whatsoever pairing/s: Jacaerys Velaryon x Tyrell!Reader dividers by: firefly-graphics wordcount: 8,144

120 AC. When Two Foes Begin

Y/n tilts her head as her eyes take in the strange boy’s dishevelled appearance. Her lids turn her eyes to slits. “You have a leaf in your hair.” She comments. Usually this would be a compliment–the girl probably loved nature more than a Targaryen, their dragon. She threads the court girls’ hair with flowers every morrow, which she is doing at this sensitive moment as her fingers peel through pale strands and embed larkspur into the crevices. Her own locks are braided with daisies though he cannot comprehend how she managed to fit them all in with the sheer density of it. The boy with brown hair rolls his lips into his mouth, bites down and frowns at her. Hair had been a topic he had been criticised upon often. He should not be surprised that the little Tyrell girl thought the same. “Better a leaf than a spider.” He snaps briskly, all too used to defending the castle of stone in where his insecurity lies. The girl gasps and shoots her hands into her own locks as quick as an arrow flies. Perhaps if she were not here then he would be able to occupy his time flying arrows instead of pretending not to be as bored as a dormouse. Her wide eyes turn on Helaena as Jacaerys begins cackling. “Hela, you promised!” She exclaims, the Targaryen princess returning her shock. “You told me they were still in your room!” “They are sleeping.” Helaena’s soft voice melodies no louder than that of the very dormouse skittering through Jacaerys’ very soul. The boy sighs.

“Are you a child? You are acting as if you are one. How fearless.” Jacaerys snickers then smirks slyly. “I am willing to bet five dragon coins that you are the younger, aren’t you? Posing as the elder to attract my aunt’s attention.” The way her eyes narrow and settle their attention back onto him only heightens his entertainment. He intends to quip once more but a familiar supercilious voice drifts closer and he rolls his eyes. “And had I not known you, I would have presumed you to be the youngest of your line and yet the Lady seems all too aware of her status. Something that you clearly lack, nephew.” Either child turns to look at the Targaryen picking at his nails to pretend the conflict is not anxiety-ridden. That jumps an idea into the almost-heir’s mind. “Perhaps it is genetics then, seeing as Daeron’s sword can strike thrice the battle yours would. I could presume that–” “You are both foolish.” Y/n interrupts and her hand dips to take Helaena’s. Squeezing. “We are leaving. Helaena is to show me the library. Good day.” It is swift that she leaves, Jacaerys’ aunt trailing behind her slightly as she giggles. The boys however seem unable to dispel the attention she directs, staring long after she is gone. “A shame that your wife and yourself are not yet accustomed to one another.” Aemond smirks with only the slightest twitch of his lip. Jacaerys wrinkles his nose. “Gross, what are you saying? She is not my wife, she is an insufferable girl who makes my eyes sore.” Jacaerys mutters then grimaces at the mere thought. His uncle doesn’t utter a noise but they both understand the growing gleam in his eyes. “Perhaps not yet but she will be. You should know how quickly alliances are forged. Brother of mine own is to marry our sister in the growing years, perhaps you can share together your day of nuptials and all that comes alongside it. I am sure that he would delight in this revelation himself.” “You speak as though you are excused from this fate.” “That is because I am. You forget I am a second-son.” The Targaryen prince ignores the Velaryon’s grumbles.

132 AC.

A dahlia is strapped to her wrist, he notes, watching her. He thought she didn’t like dahlias. It is an off cream colour, not quite possessing the purity of white. It is rare that she would wear such colours, teal gowns usually consume her and yet today she is not wearing one at all, she is wearing a colour reminiscent of the peaches bundle in her arms. She cradles them like they are her own kin. She looks beautiful. More beautiful than he has ever seen her despite the splotches of dirt and vibrant grass stain painting her dress. Jace questions himself why the urge to bow possesses him. She has grown into her Tyrell roots it seems, her steps elegant and handing the small fruits to the children of the city. Jace hides behind a pillar as he gazes, it has been just a year since he last saw her. Just a year and she looks exactly the same and different all at once. He should have prepared for that, he thinks as his stomach tumbles about obscenely and taunts his gut for choosing wrong. He shushes his brother who talks raucously with one of the common folk. His wishes are fruitless. His eyes longing. His feet locked to the floor in order to prevent their unreasoned desires. Her hand reaches into the small basket and squeezes one of the fluorescent yet pale fruits before handing it to a small child, perhaps no bigger than a direwolf pup. Her…

He can’t bring himself to speak her name even silently in his head; it feels far too scandalous. Perhaps it is. Jace likes that word because it sounds like them. Perhaps. Perhaps he will visit her, perhaps he will speak with her, perhaps he will be happy at her side. Perhaps… He wonders why her hair is in those intricate tangles, well not tangles but he cannot summon the phrase, it always looks pretty much like the rose of her name but something feels different this time. Jace wonders if she would too think him pretty. As the thought surfaces he cannot help but feel guilty as he imagines the sweeping swirl that his tongue would gladly deliver around her finger. The one where juices flow freely down her forearm. He swallows. Gods be good. Jace looks back at the once girl now woman. He looks at the odd twig in her hair, the way her dress doesn’t quite reach her feet. Intentional–he’s sure. She knew that she would be walking around although as he hears her laughing, her hair dipping to catch in one of the children’s eyes (to which they swat), he assumes that she did not intend to stay as long as she has. It was been just thirty minutes since he started peeking over at her but it is unknown how she has been skipping and circling the children. One of their small hands dart out at her back and she squeals, the sound more like a birdsong. It looks like a game but once Jace is unfamiliar in. He wonders if she is always this way with children…He wonders if this would be what she would look like amongst their own. Their own. Not her own. Their own. A deepening blush creeps up his veins until blossoming up his face. He wants to brush them away with his hands but that would be foolish.

He glances down at his frozen feet and curses him. He knows they will not move. He refuses to let them and yet he still curses them. His hand dips into his pocket to feel the long-crinkled petals that lie there.

120 AC. The Dragon Incident.

“He stole Vhagar!” Jacaerys seethes, anger steaming on his young face. “He called us bastards–!” “So you carved out his eye?” Y/n yells back, horror filling her face. Her brows are knitted and her lips are twisted downward. Jacaerys’ stomach attempts to devour itself, sharp teeth suddenly becoming unleashed and ripping at his insides like a morbid beast. Bile sews up his throat before hitting his tongue. “Look at him!” Her hands cradle his uncle by his hair and stroke it gently. Jacaerys’ jaw locks and a huff leaves his nose. His uncle looks down, clenching his fists. “You need not fight my battles.” Aemond hisses. “You need not, truly.” “We are children, you are family! Nobody should be fighting anybody.” The girl roars, every inch a beast as powerful as Vhagar in that moment but neither boy changes their stance. Jacaerys huffs and lets his eyes latch onto her hand, running through Aemond’s white curls. A fire burns up his spine. “You seem all too pleased with that fact, if only you could keep your tongue as still as your mind.” The words taste too bitter on his tongue but he chews them out anyway. Her fierce eyes narrow. Her hair sways at the velocity in which she turns her head, the yellow hyacinths in her hair on the verge of falling once her attention returns to him. “I think you both are in far more need of that ability than I.” It is the first time he has felt ashamed. Her eyes drop to Aemond, fingers still carting through his hair. “Aemond, your sisters, name them.” he glares ahead petulantly.

“I have but only one.” He grumbles but her fingers yank sharply and he yelps. “H-Helaena!” She tugs again. “Helaena and Rhaenyra!” He sputters and the Tyrell girl does look far too pleased as she stands to grasp one hand into Jacaerys’ tunic who gulps with wide eyes. “And your mother? Her name.” “R-Rhaenyra!” He sounds out quickly, not wishing for the same sore locks as his uncle. Y/n smiles. She actually smiles. “Good. A common meaning.” Jacaerys winces as she lets go of her rough hold. “You are neither sweet hearted nor graceful.” Jacaerys whines and winces as she lets go of her rough hold. “I am not sure that you are Tyrell at all.” “Perhaps we have been lied to.” His uncle grumbles in agreement. Despite their sentiments against her, the girl beams at their shared discussion. “I hope you enjoy yourselves, my princes.” She curtsy though mock hangs like a banner over them. She snickers to herself as she glides away swiftly. Jacaerys sighs once more and rolls his dark eyes. Aemond folds his arms and they sit down in silence until… “Did you like it?” Aemond asks hesitantly. Jacaerys’ eyes narrow again. “Did I like what?” He snaps. “When she tugged you.” Any retort already built dies on his tongue. A deep flush floods his face. “Of course not.” He denies with haste but his eyes resemble a doe’s as he watches after her.

132 AC.

They are in a large hall, so distant yet so close, as their eyes lock on the other. He smiles at the sight of her hair–no longer so untidy as just hours before. A circlet is delicate upon her brow and loops in the crown of her head and even further back across it. Pink rose petals, real or fake he cannot discern, line it beautifully. Gold compliments her well, he decides and especially in contrast to the soft blue of her gown. Briefly he wonders what she would look like in yellow. Vibrancy. Her colours seem pale as of late, almost unsure. Another thought severs his mind. She is smiling back–no–she is smiling at him. His smile trips for only a moment before it returns taller than ever, he raises his cup and only drinks from it after she reciprocates the motion. Y/n’s eyes wander across the room, sweeping every lord, lady, maid, stray chef, even his drunken uncle. They darken, her eyes, as they explore. Does she like the gem-encrusted candles his mother likes to harbour? Why would she like the candles? Well, what of the cups then? Are they to her liking or shall he replace them all after they are wed. He bites his lip but then she is looking at him again. Warmth waves across the table with a flick of her wrist. He loves it. He loves it dearly. Beautiful, he thinks. Jace thinks a lot of things. He even thinks about how easily he could sneak them both out and into the gardens. Jace could even request one of the lute players to join them, perhaps they could talk freely as he plays. He realises that he does not merely want to talk with her, he wants to murmur in her ear and wrap flowers between the strands of her hair the way she loves it. He wants to inspire each new colour she wears and accept every argument or praise she would bestow onto him. For the dagger of her quick tongue can feel like both the sweetest and only release a man should need. 

He sips once more from his cup, the Dornish delight tickling his own tongue. He wonders if hers should feel the same. A glow echoes from her feet to her hair. It blooms her face, nutritious light dancing across her smile. The grin atop her lips is like golden dust both fleeting and familiar but beautiful nonetheless. Something he would later imprint into his memories. He likes to think of them that way, two dancing dusts of gold moving in tandem despite the wind around them. The firelight cannot distract him from her no matter how flirtatious. His eyes dip to glance at her wrist, he grins when he sees the pale dahlia. Then they meet hers again and he tilts his head to the side. A gesture known between them all too well. So, as they stand and their chairs scrape back. The dancing bodies envelop them enough to shield their bodies from the Queen’s prying eyes.

121 AC. The ‘Strong’ Incident.

She looks as though she has sucked a lemon dry. Jacaerys grimaces, nose wrinkled and brow furrowed. To say that Y/n Tyrell is a petulant Lady of the Reach would be too kind. He has detested her since the moment she clung to his uncle Aemond like a coddling mother. How she wiped the mud off his face and stroked back his hair. He scoffs at the memory. At the ever flowing memories that thread along his mind, stitching it in place as tight as a royal noose. A huff pushes through his nostrils as he stands opposite her at a mere five namesdays. His eyes narrow. “It’s ugly.” He sneers, referring to the rhododendron braided through her hair. She glares back. “You would know, would you not, mittys, afterall you are much further known in that field?” At her sharp utterance, his head snaps up and his eyes blow wide. “Where did you learn that?” He snaps. For the love of the Gods he hates the ill-inducing smile that twists her lips like an insipid snail. She is far too proud of herself, he decides whilst folding his arms. Her grin doubles. “Your uncle taught me.” The Tyrell teases, smirking with those prudish pink lips. He wants to slap away the smug glimmer in her eye but that would not be befitting of his station. Jacaerys clenches his fist to recall that. Instead he breathes. “Well he cannot even summon the correct grammar so he is hardly one to listen to.” The boy is proud when he sees irritation flash over  Y/n’s face. He almost chortles at the sight. “At least he can string together a proper sentence!” She bites back. He scowls and turns his head to the side to pretend the creeping blush is from anger rather than embarrassment. She snickers as her eyes roam every birthmark or dot that lines the crevices of his face. He glances at his mother, already engaging with a strangely familiar looking woman. Oh. Your mother. Oh. 

Jacaerys trains his gaze back on yours and stiffens his posture, arms folding behind his back like Aegon taught him, chin raised. “I do not want to marry you.” He tells her plainly. His words are firm and rehearsed but they take no offence. He is almost insulted when she lets out the most unladylike snort he has ever heard. “Then marry my sister.” She retorts, something playful dancing across her smile. Jacaerys drops his jaw in horror. “Your sister is four!” “Then do not whine to me of what you do or do not wish to do!” As they speak–or rather–argue, Y/n is hoisting up the skirts of her dress and adjusting her shoes. He ignores it. “I merely want us to understand one another.” He attempts, resurging his confidence. She ignores him now, fussing with her hair and wrenching it away from her face. He grimaces once more and glances at their mothers who embrace each other, not in the least concerned of their children’s enjoyment. “And if we are to understand each other then we shall-oh for the heavens, what are you doing?” The prince watches as her hand glides upon a tree branch and latches to it snug into her palm. Her snickers emit as she slings a leg around another. “Escaping!” He gapes at the strange girl. “Escaping? Escaping from what?” “You. You bore me like no other and I find myself in dire need of entertainment.” “I do not bore, you bore me!” Jacaerys continues to twitter even as she clambers through the intense leaves and ducks between branches. “Is this what Tyrells do? Climb trees and allow their smallclothes to the public eye? Be careful you ought to fall.” His voice extracts another yelp of amusement.

“Why? So that your Strong arms oughten to catch me? You are of your namesake, yes, Prince Strong?” Y/n rolls her eyes but before she has the time to argue further, she yelps and falls through the various greenery until falling flat on her back and winces. A groan parts her lips and wrinkles her brows. A gasp calls from the opposing side as the Lady Tyrell and Realm’s Delight skitter toward the fallen child. He bites his lip to quieten a laugh while they drop to her side. “Are you quite alright, my sweet?” Your mother asks, wispy voice wittering. She catches your arm and cheek, eyes scanning over every inch. “Jacaerys,” His mother hisses but conveniently his sights are elsewhere. He grasps a pile of amaryllis flower petals. He doesn’t know how they got there but they are pretty regardless.

132 AC.

The night glimmers with sparkling light, each one more beautiful than the last. “I had almost thought to request a dance of you,” Jace chuckles. “Though that might have been unseemly, as we are not yet betrothed, officially at least.” “I had almost asked, myself.” Y/n retorts back, grinning impishly. She looks down at their feet as they walk, she almost laughs when he performs a little skip. He nods, eyes glazed as they roam his sight across her face. In a sudden move he flicks her nose. Her face flinches and parts her lips. She blinks back to see his smirking face. “What are you–” Jace pretends his eyes are skimming over her in nothing but thought, nose suddenly wrinkling. “Ah yes, I had thought that no such beauty such as your own could be true. I wonder what altered my sights so,” He is grinning wildly but she does not find the comment amusing. A huff bubbles in her and she hoists up her skirts. “How dare you!” She bellows. Jace laughs with greedy entertainment as he begins to skip backward. She runs after him, attempting to hide her delight. “You best apologise for scorning me, Velaryon!” She has to call as she chases him, ducking under branches and attempting not to slip in the thick mud. He glances back at her and cackles at the otherworldly display. She scoffs. His laughter takes control until he is doubling over in amusement which gives Y/n the perfect opportunity to strike a stiff arm across his body and send him crashing to the floor with her body atop his. She pins his wrists above his head and smirks as he wriggles. She beams proudly down at him. “Apologise.” She demands. He grimaces, laughter not yet stopped. “As if!” He dispels.

And all too suddenly, he stops. Jace stops and he looks up at her and his breath stutters. “Do you intend to keep me here? At your mercy?” “I did so when we were children.” She teases to which he quickly rolls his eyes. “When we threw mud and ducked beneath trees.” He interrupts her speech with a chuckle. Her palms soften and slide onto the ground instead. “Do not laugh at me,” “I am not laughing!” He defends. His fingers glide around her wrist. Y/n’s breath hitches. Her eyes flit down at him. As her grip loosens she plummets until their chests touch. Never one to back down from a challenge and yet she fumbles with wide eyes and shallow breath. The prince grins and chuckles as he laces two hands along her waist. His eyes glitter with excitement. “Your lineage was correct at least once.” He murmurs. He spots a row of rogue daisies dotting her hair. “You are so alluring that you have me utterly captivated.” A lump clogs her throat, her breath turns almost so shallow that it hides from her. “And you are as headstrong as the dragon demands.” She breathes out. “We are unchaperoned.” He purrs, a finger raising to stroke his cheek. She swallows and lets her irises track it. “We are.” Crickets dance around them, unseen but their noise unrelenting. His lids lower as the flower leans closer. “It is pretty.” He whispers below his breath. “What is?” “In your hair,” he gestures with a pink hue. She doesn’t have to hear him to know what he is speaking of. “Perhaps…our marriage could be like your hair.” Her brow furrows. “Wild…ever-changing…beautiful…a garden.” A soft smile caresses her face. “I would like to grow our…garden together.” The stars glow above them. As if the fates design it themselves, Jace feels his own smile beginning to warm. “I too...” He breathes. “I too.”

122 AC.

Glares are often exchanged over the dining hall but instead they appear beside a dreary river. It looks utterly soiled and murky. The prince wrinkles his nose. “I’m not going in.” He denies to which the little girl at his left snickers. “I did not ask it of you.” The flower unlaces her boots, huffing as she discards the knotted tangles. “Then what are you doing?” He shifts in discomfort. “I am swimming.” She snickers in retort, “Do not be foolish, that water is freezing.” “But it has water lilies!” Y/n argues tugging at her bodice. She huffs at the trickiness. His hand reaches out to grasp her wrist as she shuffles out of her large skirt. “If our mothers knew that I had let you, they would string me up by my cloak!” “So do not tell them! They will never discover it!” With a twist of her hands she tosses him in the lake below with great ease.

The two highly esteemed most certainly did discover it when their two squabbling children returned to them soaked from head to toe. “Your fault.” Jacaerys hissed at her but she merely stuck her tongue out, as if it had been her intention all along.

132 AC.

The prince stands before the painter, sighing as time whittles away. It is already noon, morning past and yet he cannot escape preening hands or bothersome hands. The excessive garments weigh heavily on him. They feel more like vines than fabrics. His eyes cast to look at the cloudy sky as the gentle blues expose themselves. He is glad that they are not in a shade as spritely as his clothes. It is an odd wonder that he used to love blue so deeply and yet now it shackles him. “And how many more strokes should I be expecting?” Jacaerys asks. The artist before him chokes–presumably on his own saliva–then clears his throat. “Apologies, my lord, what is it that you–?” “Brush strokes, friend. Brush strokes,” A glimmer of enjoyment twinkles in his brown irises. “Ah.” The painter croaks with a flush up his neck. A snicker parts the prince’s lips but an abrupt snap of the doors halts his short entertainment. Jace’s eyes quicken to find a grey dress and solemn face. His grin slips. “My dear, I was not expecting you but it is welcome.” He almost stutters, wanting for nothing but to take a step closer to her. He curses his feet for disobeying his desires. Jace quickly sews back his smile but perhaps too tightly. 

“I thought it best for us to confer in discretion.” The words leave her lips stiffly and as he watches her move he sees a similar firmness in her posture, her stance, her stuck limbs. Jace glances at the painter. “Yes, you are quite right. Ser, would you–?” “No, that is quite alright.” She interrupts, trying to smile but it looks as frozen as the force of her smile. Tensity grapples the air, squeezing it tight. Something is wrong. Something is very wrong.  "I didn't know what it meant." She utters quietly, refusing to raise her eyes to meet his. Jacaerys watches as she swallows slowly and takes a deep breath, holding it in her lungs as though it would flee from her the moment she spoke once again. "When I...When I called you that word." Tensity rattles him, locking his bones. "I'm sorry. It was cruel and unbefitting and you did not deserve it." Silence holds them stiff like the portrait itself yet the artist himself holds little hesitancy. "You were a child." He speaks. She finally looks at him and everything inside him goes soft at her gaze. "So were you." And suddenly everything feels different and the same all at once. He does not know whether what he has gained is what he has lost. He wants to move, walk or run toward her, it matters little. Anything his body would allow but it does not. He stays frozen. Watching as she slowly steps back, the slightest dip in her mouth as she regains her composure. Her head dips, eyes fleeting.

Jacaerys has not screamed since he was a child but suddenly he wants a change of heart. Regardless of duty. Regardless of honour. The two things he holds most dear behind his family. “I have news.” “Oh?” He tries not to let his voice shake despite surrendering to the quietness. “An announcement has been made–two in fact.” His brows furrow. “And what have we to do with them? Have our mothers’ meddling persisted?” Jacaerys’ smile returns but something flickers beneath his eyes. “Your flowers…Where have they gone?” She doesn’t answer. Lady Y/n Tyrell merely takes a deep breath. “We are to be wed.” The spark lights up again and he claps, startling the artist. “Oh, Y/n, I have–” “To other people.” Her Ladyship corrects, eyes flitting up at him from the floor. “Yourself and Baela shall live happily in Dragonstone and I will live at Lord Stokeworth’s side. We are finally free. My congratulations, my prince. I have enjoyed our short time together.” “My lady, I–” “I am not your lady anymore, your highness. Now if you would excuse me…” She walks away and he swears he cannot stop himself from counting each quiet step. He does not feel like Jace anymore. He feels like Jacaerys, prince and future heir to the Iron throne.

126 AC.

‘And then you throw a cloak over her which I still do not comprehend.’ Aegon’s handwriting explains in rough scribbles so filled with the ever increasing bubbles of rage that only a sixteen year old forced to marry his own kin can muster. Jacaerys chuckles quietly at the tear in paper at the centre where a convenient ink splotch lays. A farce of a marriage his uncle and aunt possess and yet there is something bitter in Jacaerys’ snickering. This will be his own fate soon, he is merely lucky that his mother has not been hounding him with it, not forcing him to kiss the weird Tyrell girl’s hand or invite her to dance. He sighs in thought as he thinks of her and the stupid petals that are no doubt swaying in her hair. He can see it, even when he tries not to, he can see her nose wrinkle and scrunch, he can see her eyes cloud with childish amazement as another boy asks her to dance instead–one of the Lords old enough to be his uncle and strange enough to want her grimy hands on them. He bets that they are caked in dirt–they always are–and he can see the oddly shaped and unfitting rings that she adorns, all in the patterns of thorns or flowers. He is tired of listening to her babble to them whenever he sits beside her at feasts. He wishes frequently that he would take the seat beside one of his brothers or cousins.

He continues reading the crumpled letter and reluctant recount of the royal wedding. A princess and a prince destined to tear the other at the seams, he muses to himself. He wonders what Y/n will look like at their own wedding, she always has her hair twisted funny and her dresses are ridiculously large. He does not understand why she bothers with them when she throws them off to jump into the lake every chance she can reach. Surely she would not wear green like Helaena did although that is the prioritised colour of her house. He supposes that would bother him not though with the sage colour she wears so often. But should a wedding not be an excessive expression? Had Helaena looked as miserable as she felt walking up to her new husband or had she braced herself enough to don a reluctant stone mask? Will Y/n look miserable too? Will she throw things at him like she had when she last visited and pommel him again with the force of her fists? To her respect, he had been at fault for taunting her and snatching the lavender flowers from her hair. Would they mind that they would marry in a Sept or beside fire? Will it bother her or would she like it? His thoughts swirl as the parchment’s words grow less intense. The ink starts to fade, replaced by insufferable girls and insufferable promises. Will it be warm or cold? She hates the cold but she hates a lot of things. Will she have to stop climbing trees when she’s Queen? He supposes she will but he’s not quite sure why he hates that idea. There’s something he likes about her calloused hands. He rubs a thumb over his palm as he remembers the last time they danced, it must have been the year before but it threads in his memory with the sound of a well-strung lute. Jacaerys loves music, which is why it is so irritating that he can recall the shade of her eyes with ease and yet not a single note plays in his ears. He cannot even remember whether he had liked it or not.

132 AC.

The door almost snaps from its hinges when the young prince bursts through. “What did you do?” He asks his mother immediately, watching as her eyes widen and she chokes on her wine. The princess takes her time to collect herself and slowly lowers the glass. Blood pumps in his ears so loudly that he almost doesn’t notice his own trembling fingers.“Whatever do you mean, Jacaerys?” “You are betrothing me to Baela?” His mother sighs and looks down, lips parting to respond. “Why should she not? You turn aside every other girl that your mother suggests.” Daemon utters, gliding through the door. He takes his regular brisk and composed steps until settling his hands on Rhaenyra’s chair from behind her. He raises his eyebrows. “Or have you finally made up your mind on who shall be not only your Queen but the Kingdom’s one day.” Rhaenyra turns the rings on her fingers quickly. The prince scoffs. “I know that arranged marriages are not your preferred method but your grandsire is growing very ill, Jacaerys, he should be able to see you wed. It will be the first ceremony he could witness since his own.” The irritation grapples him and squeezes like a vice. “Then do not betroth me to Baela, betroth me to Y/n like you were supposed to!” Jacaerys shouts. A silence rings through the air, a ticking clock quirks at the top of his mother’s head, slowly working her mind to understand his words. She blinks. “The Tyrell girl?” She finally asks, face screwed up and eyes clocking back and forth aimlessly. “I never intended for such a match, I thought you hated her.” Daemon’s face tenses and so does his posture as he folds his arms. Jacaerys’ face becomes even more flushed as the hour passes. “I-I, well, I had but she–I don’t…” His breath grows haggard and huffs.

He strikes a harsh hand through his hair and grips it painfully. The boy bites his lip, suddenly falling small again. “I wanted to. I wanted to marry her, I just…No, I want to marry her. Either I did not know yet for being too foolish and youthful that I thought her to be a trap or I did not want to admit it but now I do and I just want her. I want all of her. Every inch she will give unto me. I want her thorns and her petals, of every season I want to keep her in summer and love. I will travel anywhere to keep her warm, I will command flight, I will command ships, I will even command the stars and sun if she wishes so to force the day to stretch as long as she wishes. I want to give her summer. I want to be her summer. I want to give her myself in every way possible. She has more beauty than I have ever seen and more beauty than I deserve.” His throat tightens even more. “Mother, please let me be her summer, I will do anything you request of me just as I have always done but I will marry no other woman, I swear to the heavens high and low.” He stares into his mother’s eyes, Daemon long forgotten as her fingers stop their flickering of rings. The light catches on the one of gold and amethyst. The shade of his worry and the shade of Baela’s eyes. He knows that he cannot walk onto the stones and before the fires only curated to worship the Gods of Old Valyria and lie to them. It would not only seek him damnation but a life of agony. He knows he cannot willingly look in her eyes and gaze like he does the only beauty he has ever truly known because it is not she. It will never be she. There is but one dream in his heart and he will not let the rebounding tricks and lights of amethyst save him.

“Rather odd that you have had such an enthralling change of heart but I see no reason for such extremities.” Daemon almost growls, the insult burning hot in his ears. “My daughter is beautiful and of pure blood I commend you for your childish songs, I am sure the bards would be proud but I am not. There is no reason for you to deny her of being Queen. It is a title we both know her blood and nature is worthy of.” “Rhaena is betrothed to Luke.” He starts again shakily and glaring into his stepfather’s eyes hard as steel. “If it is your bloodline you wish to prosper then I shall abdicate without fight.” Just as quickly as the words slip past his lips, Rhaenyra’s ring falls. A memory flashes through both the adults’ minds. One in which a man was just as quick to toss his crown. Just as quick to deny himself the power he had always craved just to marry a woman with silver hair and a sharp tongue. And while he was desperate to marry a Queen, the boy before them now was willing to marry nothing more than a flower. Both their eyes tread curiously on him. “Abdicate?” Rhaenyra tests the word on her tongue, an unfamiliar one, it slips across her taste buds–too quick yet too thick. Too heavy and yet he says it with ease. As though it is the only passing thought in his head. Daemon’s own invasive sights are unrelenting. They strike through him as threatening as a sword to his neck, if he moves it will do more than nick him. Something twists in his gut when Daemon’s lips part. “That will not be necessary, will it, doñus ābrazȳrys?” He cuts into the thick cake but it is unclear whether it is filled with stone or honey. His violet eyes slowly track up to Jacaerys’. “I believe a wedding is in order…” The silence weighs heavily while a scream begs to claw up the boys’ throat. “Let us hope the thorns are gentle with us.” A sigh passes Daemon’s lips and his shoulders soften as he leaves.

128 AC.

“Oh.” He murmurs quietly, back straight and eyes darting. “Oh?” Lucerys hisses, brows raised and fiddling with his fingers. Anyone looking at him could tell he looks utterly drenched in a sea of nerves that rise slowly to attempt and drown him. “Oh is not what you say your betrothed is dancing with our uncle. ‘Oh’ is when someone tells you they have lost their toad or-or their cat ate a mouse.” Jace rolls his eyes. “Unlike you I do not care who she dances with, she can enjoy herself as she pleases.” Lucerys huffs and turns to glance at Rhaena at his side. She snickers. Jacaerys continues watching Y/n, watching as she twirls and joins hands with Aemond and then clapping them. He watches the shimmer that the candlelight shines on her necklace. He watches. He always watches but he never does anything. “Why should I care? If anything I should be encouraging it, maybe he can keep her attention long enough that she stops following me to my High Valyrian lessons, stops squawking in my ear.” “She doesn't squawk.” Baela defends with a chuckle.His eyes narrow, still locked on her. “Besides she is rather helpful, you ought to listen to her if she is to be your wife.” The tease is light on her tongue but it squeezes his chest. He nods stiffly and folds his hands together behind his back. He glances down. “Perhaps…” He agrees begrudgingly.Baela slaps his back. “Good.” “You know, she wouldn’t be dancing with him if you had asked her.” “Yes she would, she would do it to spite me.” His lip twitches like the tail of a smirk.

“Truly you are not going to marry him?” Aemond asks, the back of his hand caressing hers although it strikes little attention. The Tyrell does not have to look to know who he is speaking of, her answer is as swift as the flick in her wrist. “I have not yet decided, my friend.” Aemond grins wolfishly and lets his chuckle last. “A shame for the masses, I suppose for you to be shackled by the bonds of marriage, you were not made for it. That I am certain of.” “Then you must not know me well.” She smirks, eyes glinting with mischief. “Not that that would surprise me, you have horrendous taste in brides.” He wrinkles his nose. “And how have you decided that?” The length of her skirts twist around her, the patterns raucous. “Go on, tell me. I have not yet taken a bride of my own.” “Which is precisely why you have horrendous taste in brides.” The music grows louder, hiding his scoff from the fellow noble people. “I am the same age as you, why should I have taken a bride?” “Because they seem to either run from you and flock like a series of swans.” She grimaces. “It is rather irritating the way they stare.” “Yes well I am sure you do the same,” He teases. Her gaze turns hard on him but it only encourages his long for mischief. “I think I would rather find Luke and gouge my own eye out.” Aemond huffs but does not react in malice. He catches her sleeve in retort, resulting in a stumble. “Funny.” “Hm,” He agrees, his sly smile returning. “He would not be horrible, I suppose and especially not compared to the other men at court.” Aemond pulls a disagreeable expression and glances at his petulant nephew whose stare is as deep as an embedded knife. Aemond almost feels him twisting the hilt into his chest. He also so happens to pretend he cannot see her growing blush. “You are entitled to an opinion…even if that opinion is as incorrect as a worm flutters its wings.”

132 AC.

It is not an odd place to find a Tyrell Lady seated in the gardens admiring the vegetation but it still manages to halt the prince’s steps. Jacaerys feels himself freeze. She is just sitting there, a few other ladies and lords about courting but she is there…and for the first time since he was fourteen he watches her, truly watches her. As her hand dips to pluck a white rose between lithe fingers, her eyes dart around her to make sure no one has seen but he is behind her, hidden within the eyes of an observer. He runs honeysuckle between his fingers, unsure whether time is restraining him or prompting him because she looks so peaceful. He almost does not want to disturb her. Would she be happy with him, Lord Stokeworth, if he left her at her peace? He had not thought to ask. For the first time he wants to know what she wants for he has only brought about her sense of dread and bubbled anger. His breath hitches. He loves her. He can feel it growing and blossoming as fresh as the flowers in his hand. It calls to him, begs him to stare one moment longer. He watches her. He wants to cherish her, hold the skies for her, he wants to do any and everything and yet he has not the courage to ask her the same. The blossoming flower of his hope wilts in fear between her hands.

He watches her hair, so vibrant with youth and the last effects of their childhood. The bleach of sun is warm in her locks. She likes the sun, would Lord Stokeworth give her that? Or would he keep her locked away like so many men would dream just to keep her to himself. So stiff, she had been, when she had spoken with him. Was this not what she wanted? To be rid of him? Perhaps she could escape Lord Stokeworth but she could never escape a prince. Should he leave her this freedom? It is selfish that he wants her to stay, to stay with him, at his side but he cannot help wanting it so. He should be hoisting her over the wall instead of watching her in the gardens. Y/n needs freedom not him. She will never need him…Not like he needs her. And so Prince Jacaerys takes a step back. It is painful to look at her, Jacaerys gathers, his heart wrapped in thorns. His breath is shaky as he watches her soft fingers stroke the gentle petals. He has honour but he does not have the grace to leave her just yet. Not when she looks so beautiful.

Her dress is a pale teal, he always liked that colour on her, it is her favourite because it reminds her of seafoam. She wore it to a ball once, with a masquerade mask settled on her nose. Her eyes flit through the garden, he can sense that she feels him. She always knows when he’s there–even when he doesn’t want her to–and yet she doesn’t turn around. She does not turn to him, she does not call out to him. There are no flowers in her hair again, no remains of her desires. She is left utterly open to the world and yet hidden from him, he has nothing to analyse, no colours to discern her mood except the seafoam. The questions rebound in the inside of his mind, bouncing across like skittish rabbits. Jacarys’ hand lessens on the honeysuckle. He can almost hear its taunts ringing in his ear. He takes back another step, eyes still watching her as she turns the rose in her hand. His body twists before he can command it not to, slow steps making the choice for him but just as he is about to let the honeysuckle fall–

“Stop.” Her gentle voice calls and it is the only command he needs to stop but he cannot summon the strength to look at her. Not with those pretty doe eyes. The girl of Tyrell however stands up, her breath shallow as she watches him. The sun envelopes her like a sea of familiarity–her family seal sewn into her dress and yet the gold is belonging to a fool. She is to shine, not to sink into expectation. Jacaerys does not turn around but his hand stutters. Silence lingers in the cracks of their polished floorboards–their quick retorts lost and malnourished. Yet it is as familiar as the creaking wood it resembles, it matches the ignorance of caring for it. It is forever present and yet forever neglected. If you asked them to map it on a sketch, they could not tell you the rough edges or the spaces in where it shines but they could tell you where every last board of it leads. They belong to it as much as it belongs to them and perhaps it has been neglecting them too. Leaving them both curious and unsure without even taking the thoughts in stride. “Don’t go.” Jace’s ears prick up. That may have been the most vulnerable sound to ever grace her lips. He still does not turn his head. He cannot surrender to the hope but he will acknowledge it, letting his head turn softly to the side, his shoulders tensing with the desperation to look at her again. He swallows and he hears her own breath pause. “Do you want me to beg?” At that he quirks his lips and turns to her, slowly, tentative, nervous. “I…do not think that necessary.” He whispers, eyes slowly rising from the floor to meet her own and it is that moment that breaks. His restraint. He takes a step forward and so does she. For the first time…they are working in tandem. Together. Because that is all they needed. No honour. No quick wit. They only needed to release their hearts. To let them free.

Their eyes meet. “I brought you this.” He utters as her thoughts pace then halt. His fingers shake gently as he raises the bundle of honeysuckle. Y/n’s eyes don’t leave his own for even a mere moment, she only nods. Both their feet attract to each other like magnets until they are mere inches apart. With wilting trepidation, Jace lifts the flowers before settling the ring on her head. “A crown for my Queen.” He whispers. Their breath mingles, entwines. They join, holding one another. As Jace’s fingers let it become with her, her own rise to entangle in his. Her eyes flicker across his face. “I rather like that idea.” She responds, just as quietly. A sphere of gentleness immerses them. It holds them like the rarest of jewels. Like starlight itself. His breath hitches. “Will you...be my queen?” He murmurs. Her right hand cups his face and pulls it closer until their foreheads meet. Their noses brush. “If you will be my King.” His lips broaden into a grin and he nods–just softly. “I would be your anything.” He responds then leans in to finally after the years of triumph and battle and silent love connect their lips. Her own smile warms. “Then start with my everything.” A spark dances across as they press together, the line between them finally breaking. They have been bestowed the finest honour one could find. They have been bestowed a heart–not two but the old threaded into one. A new heart. The heart bestowed is a garden to rest in each of them. One for them to nurture together.

Valyrian Translations: mittys - fool

Flower Translations: daisies - innocence, new beginnings larkspur - lightheartedness, youth dahlias - commitment, kindness rhododendron - danger, caution amaryllis - pride, strength, determination pink roses - gentle love water lillies - majesty white rose - a new beginning, fresh start honey suckle - everlasting love

(feel free to ask me in my inbox/askbox if there is anything i have forgotten :))

The Heart Bestowed Taglist: (if your name is in italics and bold, that means i couldn't tag you, you will need to check your settings) @beaconofthehightower @buglyberry

HOTD Taglist: (if your name is in italics and bold, that means i couldn't tag you, you will need to check your settings) @wrendermedone @hopelesswritergall @its-actually-minicika @gettheetoanunneryimmediatly @adelusionalwriter @cookielovesbook-akie @maximofftwinsbitch @ughhthisbitch

Jacaerys Taglist: (if your name is in italics and bold, that means i couldn't tag you, you will need to check your settings) @fairysluna @mrsgrwy

[lulu-bin]

Okay, I want a list of characters in your opinion from loudest to quietest during sex 💖

Loud, and shameless: Aegon, Margaery, Tyrion, Theon

Loud and embarrassed: Podrick, Jon, Sansa, Helaena

Moans, but isn't crazy about it: Daenerys, Rhaenyra, Robb, Jace, Alicent

Sighs, and groans: Aemond, Ramsey, Daemon

[theforgottenmcrmy]

The Children (Ser Harwin Strong x Reader)

᯽ Please note that this is an overall Part 24 to the series Growing Strong. The masterlist, and part 1, can be found HERE ᯽

Pairing: Ser Harwin Strong x Tyrell! Female Reader

Warnings: GOT typical sexism, canon divergence, a couple of curses here and there. (this one's relatively mild)

Summary:

Arrax would have little trouble making the flight to Storm’s End. But what, exactly, awaited Lucerys when he arrived there? Lord Borros Baratheon should be honored to receive a prince of the realm in his halls, as would any lord and lady in the kingdoms. But the fiery temperament of the Lord of Storm’s End was infamous, and for good reason.

A/N: the next part, "second sons", will be up this Thursday 6/13. I hope you enjoy. thank you for anyone who has stuck with me for this story still, and welcome to anyone new🖤

The sun had begun its descent in the sky by the time Harwin’s boots fell upon the sands of Dragonstone’s shores.

The soft growls of beasts not native from this land rang throughout the air. The creatures had been roused from their normal holdings, and were being readied for the impending flights.

Further on up ahead, two dragons rested upon the beach, accompanied by a number of much smaller creatures. Among the several dragonkeepers, who stood out by their matching cloth attires and wooden staffs, were four other figures. He knew two of them to be his sons. The other two might have been as well.

In another life, Harwin was quick to remind himself. The younger of the Velaryon princes had been relatively quick to forgive his considerable absence in their lives over the past seven years. But the eldest- now the immediate heir to the Iron Throne- had not been so quick to forget. Rectifying the situation and making amends with Prince Jacaerys remained one of Harwin’s top priorities, but he struggled with how to even begin broach the subject. Explaining the true root of his and his family’s withdrawal from King’s Landing all those years ago was impossible to reveal, for Jacaerys’s own safety and many others.

“Lykiri, Arrax,” Lucerys bid his dragon firmly as Harwin approached cautiously.

Arrax, the smaller of the two beasts currently occupying the shore, was no less formidable up close. Harwin slowed his steps as the beast, with scales mostly colored a pearlescent white, shook its neck, as if willing itself to focus and heed its rider’s command.

The setting sun was momentarily blocked as Arrax stretched out one of its wings. The red membranes between them, and the spikes adorning its head and running length of its body, appeared nearly pink under the sun’s rays.

Although he could not see his face, Harwin could tell his youngest son was in awe of the dragon before him. Selwin’s neck was craned up high, as was necessary to take in the creature in its entirety. Selwin had been but a boy when he had last seen the dragon he currently admired, Harwin remembered. In fact, all of them, young men and dragons alike, had once been considerably smaller in size.

Even all those years ago, Harwin had been wary- if not outright reluctant- to allow either of his sons to be any closer to the Targaryen beasts then what would satiate their natural curiosity.

His boys were brave, Harwin would admit. But neither Derrik or Selwin were of the blood of the dragon. Whatever safety the tethers of a bond between a dragon and its rider guaranteed, such protection would certainly not be extended to his sons.

Despite Harwin’s wariness, at the present, Lucerys did not look too concerned with Selwin’s proximity to his dragon. He laid a gentle hand upon Arrax’s neck, which visibility soothed the beast. After a brief pause, Lucerys wordlessly encouraged Selwin to do the same with a small nod of his head.

Selwin, not without a reasonable sense of care, reached out a hand towards the creature before him. When his youngest son’s fingers brushed against the white scales, Arrax bristled.

Harwin stiffened, and his instincts kicked in as he prepared himself to grab his son out of harm’s way. Fortunately, the dragon settled himself once more, earning another approving pat from his master.

“He’s grown,” Harwin mused, gently announcing his presence.

Lucerys glanced over at him, his smile unwavering. “Aye, though not as much as Vermax has.”

“Vermax has an advantage of almost two years,” Harwin recalled. “Give him some more time, and he’ll be large enough.”

Harwin’s focus briefly drifted down the shore, to where Vermax casually laid between the damp sand and the softly crashing waves. The dragon looked more like a hound lounging about then a descendant of one of the fearsome creatures that once conquered the Seven Kingdoms. Jacaerys and Derrik were engaged in deep conversation beside the beast. Though it made Harwin curious, he knew better than to interfere in the business of the young men.

“Arrax is still mature enough to ride,” Selwin added optimistically.

“And appears to be more than capable of a quick flight to Storm’s End,” Harwin agreed readily.

In truth, he knew very little of such matters. But Storm’s End was close. If Lord Borros Baratheon declared for the Usurper and was able to quickly muster up some men and ships, it would not be folly to be concerned about a possible attempt to seize Dragonstone in Aegon’s name.

Arrax would have little trouble making the flight to Storm’s End. But what, exactly, awaited Lucerys when he arrived there? Lord Borros Baratheon should be honored to receive a prince of the realm in his halls, as would any lord and lady in the kingdoms. But the fiery temperament of the Lord of Storm’s End was infamous, and for good reason.

Harwin looked at Lucerys thoughtfully. If he were being tactful, he would note how many of the Baratheon features Lucerys Velaryon had inherited from his grandmother, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen. But Harwin had little will to be anything less than honest with himself.

Jacaerys had inherited Rhaenyra’s sharper features, while Lucerys’s visage might as well have been the ghost of the late Lord Royce Baratheon himself. The second eldest prince resembled his late father greatly. But the young man’s true parentage was a fact that he, Jacaerys, and Joffrey, for their own protection, would never truly know.

Harwin dared to wonder if Queen Rhaenyra had erred in her decision to send Lucerys- or any of the Velaryon princes, for that matter- to Storm’s End on her behalf. Would Lord Borros Baratheon see the visible truth, as Harwin so plainly could? And if he did, would Lord Borros even be willing to take the chance to silently pay tribute to his fallen son? Would he support Rhaenyra’s claim to the throne, and eventually, her sons’? … Or would seeing the ghost that was before Harwin now merely torment Lord Borros, and possibly ignite something darker in him than any one of them might have been able to foresee?

“Your Highnesses.”

Harwin had not heard the approach of Ser Joran, Dragonstone’s Master of Arms. The knight stood tall, speaking in a deep bellow as to be heard above the waves.

“The queen wishes to speak with you both before you depart.”

“Thank you, Ser Joran,” Jacaerys acknowledged.

He then turned to Derrik, and gave him a firm handshake. The look the two young men exchanged was a peculiar one- almost as though the two had reached some sort of accord. Despite his increasing curiosity, Harwin still chose to mind himself. The pair then made to follow Ser Joran, who had already turned and begun his return to the castle. Two of the four nearby dragonkeepers stepped forward, and gently took control of Vermax’s reigns.

Jacaerys suddenly seemed to notice that his brother had continued to linger. He paused, Derrik stopping mid step as well, and looked over his shoulder. “Luke?”

“Go on, I will be along in a moment,” Lucerys replied to him, glancing up at Harwin hesitantly.

Harwin immediately picked up on the unspoken request. To Selwin, he said, “Go on, lad. Why don’t you and your brother see if Prince Joffrey is in need of some companions for a little while, hm?”

The youngest Velaryon prince had been rather disappointed upon learning his older brothers were leaving Dragonstone, even if it was to only be for a short while.

Selwin, more intelligent than he often gave himself credit for, understood what was being asked of him. Nodding dutifully to Harwin, his younger son then turned back to Lucerys with a smile. “Good luck, and safe travels, Your Highness. In a few days, I’ll expect to see you back in the training yard, whether you are weary from your travels or not.”

“Is that a threat?” Lucerys quipped back with a small smile.

“I consider it to be more of a warning,” Selwin shrugged. “Heir to Driftmark or no, I am also an apparent heir to a title of my own, and as such, we shall spar as equals… After all, everyone’s arse is capable of hitting the dirt the same, titled or not.”

“Selwin,” Harwin warned him, though his tone severely lacked actual sternness. “On with you now, lad.”

Lucerys let out a chuckle at Selwin’s attempt at humor. But he said nothing further as Selwin hastily turned on his heels to follow the small group returning to the castle.

The remaining dragonkeepers, patiently waiting to take Arrax’s reigns when Lucerys released them, took a few steps back, as if they too understood the young prince’s unspoken request for a moment of privacy.

Once they were out of earshot, Harwin inquired, “Does something ail you, My Prince?”

Lucerys shook his head. “Not particularly, Lord Strong... But there is a matter that I wished to speak with you about. I wanted to ask you, away from the others, so that you may speak freely about it.”

“Well, in that case, you have my ear, Your Highness.”

“I have asked my mother- the queen,” the prince corrected himself hastily, “if she would grant me her permission to become your squire.”

All words escaped Harwin.

Lucerys, as though unable to withstand the silence, quickly continued on. “She plans to formally ask you when I return from Storm’s End. But she has given her permission.”

The honor- both Lucerys’s desire for such an arrangement, and Queen Rhaenyra’s blessing of it- humbled Harwin more than he could properly convey in that moment. So instead, he found himself asking, “But what of Daemon?”

“What of him?” Lucerys countered. “He is my mother’s husband, and prince consort. I know he is a legendary warrior in his own right, but…”

Prince Daemon Targaryen and Lucerys Velaryon, though bound by marriage and blood, were about as different as two men could be. Perhaps one of the few things they had in common was their steadfast loyalty to the queen.

Harwin spared Lucerys from having to elaborate further. “If you wish to become my squire, then the honor would be mine, Your Highness.”

“Truly?” Lucerys practically beamed in relief. “I know I have plenty to learn, My Lord. But I will learn. If I am to be the future Lord of the Tides, I want to have earned it. I want to be a leader Driftmark’s people can be proud of. They say Ser Laenor was a great knight, and brought great honor to House Velaryon. But as my sire now rests with the Stranger, I could not hope for a better mentor than a man who has always treated me as though I was one of his own. Even if such treatment of me and my brother came at such great personal cost.”

Prince Lucerys was well aware of the rumors, then. He knew of the whispers that perhaps Harwin had sired more children than Derrik and Selwin in the early years of Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor’s marriage. The very same rumors that had caused Harwin, you, and your young family to flee to Harrenhal, where one of the greatest tragedies in Harwin’s life had transpired very shortly after.

But, gods damn him, Lucerys did not look disgusted, or even remotely upset, at all. No, the young man looked upon Harwin with… pride? It was overwhelming. The bloody gods knew the truth of the matter; he had never laid with Rhaenya, let alone sired any children upon her.

… But would it make Harwin that much of a lesser man, if he let Lucerys believe what he so subtly hinted towards? Would breathing life into the lie still stain his soul the same, should he choose not dissuade Lucerys- but let him believe the falsehood, if in doing so brought the young man a small morsel of peace?

“Well then,” Harwin replied after several moments, before clearing his throat. Was that mist from the waves gathering in his eyes? “If you are to become my squire, it sounds as though you are to fly to Storm’s End and speak with Lord Borros Baratheon first. When you return, we can formally begin your training- threats from my youngest son aside.” 

Lucerys laughed. “Yes, My Lord.”

“To Storm’s End with you, then,” Harwin dismissed him lightly, letting out a laugh himself.

The young prince looked to the dragonkeepers, who once again stepped forward at their silent summon. With one more appreciative pat to Arrax’s neck, Lucerys handed over his reins.

Side by side, Lord Harwin Strong and Prince Lucerys Velaryon departed from the beach, the castle looming just up ahead beyond a daunting flight of stairs.

“Best not keep your mother waiting any longer,” Harwin told him conspiringly. “Gods be kind, our queen has a long reign ahead of her. You would not want to start off on the wrong foot.”

As if that would ever be possible, with the dutiful son Lucerys Velaryon was, and had always been.

Still, the young prince merely smiled, and said, “Yes, Lord Strong.”

You were sitting at a table and frowning at the parchment in your hands when the door to your temporary chambers suddenly opened without so much as a knock.

But upon seeing who entered, you relaxed. “Ah, it’s you. Hello, Dearest.”

“Hello My Love.” Harwin greeted warmly as he strode across the room towards you. He came to a stop just behind your chair, and placed his hands upon your shoulders as he pressed a kiss upon the top of your head.

You let the letter slip from your hands, forcing a smile as Harwin stepped around and claimed the chair across the small table. However, as he was most often able to, your husband saw right through your charade immediately. His pleasant expression faltered slightly as he settled in his seat.

“You look troubled. What ails you?”

You looked over at him, weighing your thoughts. Sighing lightly, you placed a hand on the small stack of letters beside the one you had been in the midst of reading. “I have been going through some correspondence I received today.”

Harwin hummed thoughtfully. “Any good news to report?”

You let out another soft sigh. “Some,” you admitted, thankful for the reminder that not all of the news you had received bore ill tidings. You ran your index finger over the letter in front of you absentmindedly. “My uncle wrote to inform me that a few more houses in the Reach have declared for Rhaenyra- should war arise, of course.”

With all the preparation and planning, it had become far too easy to forget that any war had yet to be formally declared.

“I see. Are you surprised by any of those who he named?”

“Not particularly. Most of the Houses Lord Elwood received declarations from have always been among House Tyrell’s most loyal bannermen. On the other hand, House Florent, just as I suspected they would, has yet to send any word… Although, House Costayne was among those to send their assurance that House Tyrell, and Queen Rhaenyra, have their full support.”

“House Costayne?” Harwin echoed. “Their courage and conviction to uphold their oaths is commendable, but I do not envy their predicament.”

House Costyane’s seat, Three Towers, was located in the southeastern part of the Reach. Unfortunately for them, it was positioned right between the Arbor of House Redwyne and the House Hightower’s familial seat of Oldtown.

“My uncle insists that Lord Owen was very adamant. Naturally, House Costayne’s loyalty to their liege and our queen will be rewarded with whatever support House Tyrell is able to provide.”

Harwin nodded understandingly. “I do not doubt that… But there is something else, is there not? Something gnaws at you, I can tell.”

You managed a smile, a genuine one this time. Your husband’s ability to read you so plainly never failed to touch you, even after years of marriage.

“Unfortunately, not all the letters received were so pleasant.” You wordlessly scooted a second pile of letters- the ones opposite of the pile you had already opened- across the table, and over towards Harwin. “You have received several letters of your own as well. If I may, I suggest you begin with the one from your sister Lilyan.”

Harwin’s brows furrowed as he secured the pile before him, but he did as you bid. The letter was addressed to Harwin, and had thus remained sealed. But you had surmised the sender based on the Strong family crest seal, which you knew the eldest of Harwin’s two sisters still used for her personal letters. As Harwin broke the seal and proceeded to read, the crestfallen look on his face confirmed your suspicion.

“I do not understand,” Harwin exclaimed when he had finished. He extended the letter towards you, a silent request.

You took the letter from him gingerly and read the contents for yourself. It did not take long.

To my dearest brother Harwin,

I am sorry. Please give Lady Y/N and the children my love.

Strength from Honor,

Lady Lilyan Leygood 

To enlighten him further, you gave your own letter to Harwin. As he read the letter that had been addressed to you, you began to explain. “Lord Cerran Leygood has written to me personally. He informed me, in no uncertain terms, that House Leygood acknowledges Aegon as King Viserys’s heir, and as the now rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. Should House Tyrell stand against Aegon, we should not expect House Leygood’s support.”

Something akin to grief began to flood Harwin’s face as he finished scrutinizing your letter and placed it back upon the table. “I am afraid I still do not understand. You are on good terms with Lord Cerran, are you not?”

“I had believed we were.”

Lord Cerran was your goodbrother my marriage. He had sworn fealty to you as his liege. Lord Cerran, Harwin’s sister Lilyan, and their son had visited your family in Highgarden several times over the past seven years. Your sons had taken their cousin under their wing, even though the boy was considerably younger than either of them. In truth, all parties had gotten along rather well. Perhaps that was why Lord Cerran’s declaration felt like a personal betrayal.

“Then why has he chosen this path?” Harwin questioned, frustration evident in his tone.

“It could not have been easy to go against House Tyrell, particularly in light of the familial ties we share,” you acknowledged. “Lord Cerran must truly believe what he claims. He must believe Aegon should be king.”

“And what of my sister? What of what she believes? She was a lady for our queen once, just as you were. Why would she not wish to see Rhaenyra ascend the Iron Throne? … And for gods’ sake, her letter does not even make mention of Larys’s betrayal.”

“Do not lose hope, Dearest,” you pleaded calmly, reaching across the table for his hand. Harwin did not fight the gesture, instead entangling his fingers with your own. “Lilyan still uses the Strong family crest for a seal. She writes, ‘Strength from Honor’. It could very well be a sign, meant for you alone. Is it not possible that she still remains loyal to the Strong family- and therefore, loyal to whomever they support? Her circumstances are not the same as mine; she is not a lady in her own right, free to stand on her own. To ask her to make a stand against her husband, especially in a matter as serious as this, would be unfair. Even if she does not personally agree with Lord Cerran’s decision, her hands may be tied.”

Harwin grasped your hand a bit tighter, as if trying to comfort himself. “But will Rhaenyra see this matter as you do? If we ride to war, and Aegon, the Hightowers, and all their supporters are defeated, what will become of my sister? Of my nephew, Lucas? Will they be subjected to the same treatment all other traitors are to receive?”

“I am sure the queen remembers Lady Lilyan’s loyalty from all those years ago. And I am sure she understands, as a woman, what it feels like to have your voice silenced by the opinion of men. She will spare Lilyan, and your nephew, I am certain of it.” You had no choice anymore but to believe in the queen’s mercy.

“And Lord Cerran?”

You did not deign to answer Harwin’s redundant question. Lord Cerran’s fate had been sealed the moment he had denounced Rhaneyra.

“Regardless, Lilyan did not make any mention of Larys’s betrayal,” Harwin repeated somberly.

“I do not think she would have taken time to write you back if she did not believe you. But she did write you back. She had the opportunity to deny your allegations about Larys, and yet, she did not take it.”

Harwin did not look entirely convinced.

“Read the rest of your letters,” you implored him instead. “Perhaps you received some more positive news as well.”

Harwin took a few moments to read through his own assortment of letters, and while he did so, you returned to combing through yours. However, your focus could not help but drift over towards your husband every now and again, trying to gauge his reactions.

“Thank the gods,” Harwin praised under his breath. “My sister Eyla, and her husband Lord Joseth, have pledged House Smallwood to Rhaenyra’s cause.”

You smiled in relief, feeling a bit of the weight upon your shoulders lessen. “That is splendid news! The Riverlands may be as divided as the Reach. Rhaenyra will welcome the support of any houses within the land as she can.”

You could tell by the lingering smile on his face that Harwin was thankful to not be at odds with both of his sisters. Gods only knew his relationship with his brother Larys was tumultuous enough. And considering the atrocities that that man had committed against you and your family, that was putting the matter rather mildly.

Harwin let out a small laugh. “It almost takes my mind off of this letter I received from Harrenhal.”

“What does Lord Dannis say?” you inquired, referring to Harwin’s steward. “Has Harrenhal begun taking precautionary measures?”

Harwin frowned at the letter in question. “It seems Lord Dannis’s orders have been met with some resistance by my great uncle Simon and some of his companions.”

“Surely Lord Dannis is more than capable of reigning in your uncle… is he not?”

“Ser Simon Strong is an unknown age, and of an unknown age,” Harwin jested in an effort to diffuse the tension. “The man’s beard was already gray when I was a lad. My father kept him on as Castellan to honor my grandsire’s memory, and I did not have the heart to strip him of the position when I became the Lord of Harrenhal myself. Ser Simon has always been stubborn and hard-headed, but I have not known him to go against Lord Dannis's will so vehemently before, let alone the will of the Lord of Harrenhal.”

“And you have had no personal quarrel with him? No disagreements that might be leading Ser Simon to act out of spite?”

“Not that I can recall. Though, he always did prefer Larys’s company over my own in our youth. Always grumbling about ‘second sons sticking together’, or some other folly like it.”

You straightened in your seat as an alarming thought struck you. “What are the chances your brother has decided to rekindle this affinity with your uncle?”

Harwin’s expression darkened. “If my brother’s venomous influence has spread all the way from King’s Landing to Harrenhal, securing it in the queen’s name will be more daunting than originally thought… But as Harrenhal is a vital stronghold in the riverlands, I have no choice but to do so.”

“You are Lord of Harrenhal, Harwin. Its people are under your command, and your protection.”

“I will write back to Lord Dannis. I’ll give him leave to apprehend my great uncle Simon until I arrive at Harrenhal and can deal with him myself, if he has to.” Harwin looked around. “Do you have any spare parchment?”

“I do. But, before you write back to Lord Chambers, I thought we might discuss one more matter.”

“Of course, My Love. What is it?”

“Rhaenyra has plans to write to some of Daemon’s contacts in Pentos.”

The queen had confided as much to you earlier that day. In fact, the queen had begun to confide a great many things to you, and you to her in turn. Despite the arguably dire circumstances the realm was in, it served you both personally well to rekindle your friendship of years past.

“To ask for support?” Harwin guessed.

“Amongst other things. First and foremost, I suspect, should the realm go to war, she plans to send her youngest children, Viserys, Aegon, and perhaps even Joffrey, to Pentos for their safety.” You hesitated, deliberating how to convey what had been occupying your mind for the better part of the afternoon. “It made me think about what we might do with our children, should the worst come to pass.”

You watched as Harwin processed your words. His hand came up to scratch his chin briefly, and as his eyes glazed over with thoughtfulness. You realized that, for all your collective planning, he too had not given much thought to the subject.

“If I am to go to Harrenhal, I suppose it would be best for them to remain with you,” Harwin suggested, though he did not sound entirely confident.

“I imagine I will need to return to the Reach soon,” you countered. “If Aegon will not see reason and heed Rhaenyra’s command to bend the knee, blood is likely to be drawn first in the South. When the Hightower army marches north, I plan to intercept them, meet them on the battlefield.”

Harwin did not miss your specific phrasing. “You will meet them?”

You did not cower nor yield from your husband’s question. “Yes. I cannot ask men to fight for me, in our queen’s name, whilst I cower away at Highgarden. I have no more experience with a blade other than what you have taught me, and I do not believe myself likely to be leading any charges- but I shall be there. The men deserve to see who it is they fight for. And I owe it to them to see them through it, regardless of how unbecoming the battles will be.”

Harwin half-smiled. “I do not suppose I could ask you to reconsider your decision, if only for the sake of my own sanity and peace of mind?”

You offered him a patient smile of your own. “It would be of little use; my mind is made up. My father led his own men into battle. My brother would have done the same, had he been given the chance.”

You had worried, though not necessarily feared, about Harwin’s reaction to your intentions. There was concern in his hazel eyes, that was beyond dispute, but they also shone with something you might have been tempted to deem as pride.

“It is decided then. Then Lady Tyrell shall personally rally her bannermen.”

Refusing to dwell on the sudden emotion that threatened to overcome you, you cleared your throat, and refocused. “That brings us again to the matter of the children. No matter where or with whom they may go, I feel more at ease knowing that both Derrik and Selwin have at least been trained to defend themselves.”

Not that you’d ever be truly prepared for either of your sons to throw themselves into the midst of an actual battle.

You sighed heavily. “But Luciya is another matter. As I am sure you will agree, having her near any of the fighting at all is simply out of the question. We need to make plans for her safety. I believe Rhaenyra could make accommodations for her journey to and safe harboring in Pentos, if need be.”

Harwin shook his head. “Pentos is so far away-”

“It would only be done if we had no other option,” you assured him hastily, reaching to take one of his hands in your own once again. “Aegon has not yet refused Rhaenyra’s offer of peace. All of our planning may be for naught. But, if we ride to war, I will not jeopardize our daughter’s safety. Even if it means sending her across the sea, she will be safer there than she would be here. Should Luciya fall into the Greens’ hands-”

Harwin frowned at the thought, and asserted, “I do not believe the Dowager Queen capable of allowing harm to befall a child, whether they are a child of ours or not.” He let out a sigh. “But the Dowager Queen is only a queen in name now. It remains to be seen how much power she yields over her son, over her father. I would not tempt fate, not with our daughter’s life. And I understand your concern. As much as I loathe the thought, I will not oppose you in this matter.”

You could not be entirely pleased with your victory due to the nature of the topic. But you were thankful to have Harwin’s support all the same.

“Perhaps all this talk is all for naught,” you suggested outlandishly, indulging in some humor to lighten the mood. “The Usurper could yet acquiesce to Rhaenyra’s demands. Who knows? We could be on our well on our way home back to Highgarden by the end of next week.

Harwin chucked, though it was notably joyless. “Aegon may yet kneel to our queen, but I feel as though it will be a long while before my eyes will fall upon the fields of the Reach once more.”

Borros Baratheon, the Lord of Storm’s End, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, only son of Boremund Baratheon, and the once proud father of Ser Royce Baratheon, knew, perhaps more so than any other man in the Storm Lands and Westeros alike, just how cruel the gods could be.

Forty years. For forty years he had walked by his father’s side. Lord Boremund Baratheon had been blessed with a particularly long life. Even in the end, it was not the clutches of time that had gripped him from this world, but the tusks of a boar that speared him into the next.

Forty years of watching, waiting for the day to claim his birthright and take up his family’s seat. A seat that had been occupied by fearsome warriors for many years before the Targaryens landed on this continent and stripped the Storm King’s of their blood-earned right to rule. The titles and names of the Storm Kingdom were no more, but the fierceness in Durran’s descendants had persisted through the generations who ruled the Stormlands to this day.

Once, Borros would have considered himself fierce. He was a well-seasoned warrier in his own right. He might not have been the Lord of Storm’s End, but he was a Baratheon, through and through.

But the man Borros had once been had died some time past. Now, that shell of man haunted him, lingering in the periphery of his mind, as the man whom he’d been forced to become scrambled to pick up whatever pieces remained. Almost seven years ago, in the very same boar attack that had claimed his father, the gods had also brutally stripped him of his son, Ser Royce Baratheon. Borros had never been the same. 

What had Storm’s End mourned more, he wondered? The loss of Lord Borros’ sole son and heir, or the loss of the man he had still been, before they’d brought his son’s broken body back to him?

Royce was unlike him in so many ways, and his son had always been the better for it. The fiery temper that had gripped Borros since his childhood had never claimed Royce, who had been notoriously patient and mild-mannered. Royce had shared many traits with Boremund, which was perhaps one of the many reasons the two sought each other’s company on the hunting trip to the Rainwood that fateful day.

Just as Lord Borros was about to curse the gods for the thousandth time for his cursed lot in life, a giggle broke him out of his internal brewing. He fought a sigh as his eyes drifted to his right, where his daughters stood beside a rather stoic Prince Aemond Targaryen.

Ah, yes, another form of cruelty Borros was to be subjected to. He’d been all but compelled to host the pale-haired prince since he’d landed on that ginormous beast of his two days past. Of course, the prince did not come empty handed: in exchange for Borros’s support of Aegon Targaryen ascension to the Iron Throne, Aemond was to take one of Borros’s daughters off of his hands. And gods knew Borros had plenty of those to spare- but alas, no more sons.

Borros glanced to his left, where his wife, the Lady Elenda Caron, stood tall. She was his second wife, and one of only a few years. Thank the gods his first wife, the mother of all his children, had already passed. Borros did not think the woman would have survived the loss of her son. Only the gods knew how he had survived so far.

Lady Elenda was a solid woman, and had been dutiful to him throughout their several years of marriage. She was notably younger than he, but still no fresh maiden. Every year that passed with no hint of additional children dwindled Borros’s hopes of one day having another son. Perhaps Borros would be forced to face the reality that one of his daughters, his rather tempestuous Storms, would be his heir.

What a notion!

It seemed that Aegon, or, more likely, the Dowager Queen Alicent and the Hand of the King Otto Hightower, suspected the likely outcome of House Baratheon’s succession as well. Why else would they send Prince Aemond to claim the hand of one of Borros’s daughters? Hells, in a few years time, the monster-riding princeling could very well be sitting in his seat, ruling Storm’s End and the Stormlands in all but name.

Still, the offer was perhaps the most appealing offer of marriage that Borros had received for any of his daughters- as Aemond had yet to choose one. One of his daughters would become a princess, and the Baratheon line would intertwine with the royal Targaryen line, the houses working in tandem as they had in the times of Aegon the Conqueror and Borros Baratheon.

Despite his loathing to play gracious host to the one-eyed prince, Borros had had little choice. Since the death of King Viserys, he’d heard not but a word from Dragonstone, no offer from Rhaenyra at all, let alone one that entailed a royal marriage alliance.

And so, Borros had played nicely, entertaining Prince Aemond Targaryen until he saw fit to make his choice of a bride and return to King’s Landing. The entire family, plus the prince, had been enjoying a bountiful dinner when a messenger stormed into the dining hall, informing Borros of another prince’s arrival.

That had brought them all here, gathered in the main hall as a storm brewed outside. The giggling of one of his daughters- Floris, if he had to guess- intermingled with the sound of distant rumbling thunder throughout the otherwise silent hall.

“Well?” Borros barked at no one in particular, feeling his anger and patience slipping beyond his reach of control. “Send him in!”

A guard by the large doors at the entry of the main hall scrambled to do as his lord instructed. Borros gripped the arm rests of his stone throne so tightly that his knuckles began to turn white.

Escorted by an array of his household guard, a young man entered the hall. He was pale, and black of hair- a shade Lord Borros Baratheon knew all too well. But as Lucerys Velaryon drew nearer, Borros felt all the air flee from his body. Shock seized him but for a moment, followed shortly thereafter by a raging internal storm he allowed himself to succumb to.

Yes, Lord Borros Baratheon knew very well of the gods’ cruelty.

But he knew, with the utmost certainty, that they had never been more cruel to him than the moment a ghost of a boy entered his hall, a nearly perfect mirror of the precious son he had lost.

“Helaena and the children have gone to bed.”

“Very well.”

Dowager Queen Alicent Hightower stopped the sigh that threatened to slip from her lips as she beheld her eldest son. Aegon, recently crowned King of the Seven Kingdoms, sat in his proper seat at the head of the table in the small council chamber. He’d taken up a temporary residence in the chamber immediately after dinner, which had been many hours ago. The chamber was dark, the candles spread throughout the room doing little to stave off the pitch black of the night that seeped in through the windows.

Aegon had claimed he needed privacy. His bedchamber would have been most private, of course, but the servants were still in the process of preparing King Viserys’ old rooms for Aegon’s use. In the meanwhile, Aegon continued to use the rooms that had been his since he was a boy. The only downside was that they were a fair-distanced trek across the Red Keep from the royal family’s private dining room. Even Aegon’s old rooms would have offered more privacy than the small council chamber, but Alicent doubted Aegon’s ability to make it across the Red Keep without causing a scene.

A goblet, filled most certainly with Aegon’s recent preference of wine, was clenched tightly in Aegon’s right first. As he eyed her warily, his left hand reached the short distance away to the nearby bottle. At least he had enough tact that evening to indulge himself away from prying eyes, she supposed.

“The hour is late, Your Grace,” Alicent said, pointedly, but not unkindly. “Your wife and children have already retired. Perhaps you might wish to do the same?”

Aegon snorted into his goblet as he drank in a considerable amount.

Ser Criston Cole, whom the king had appointed Commander of the Kingsguard shortly after his coronation, shifted uneasily beside her.

After another few moments of uncomfortable silence, the king deemed himself ready to respond.

“I do not need to be reminded of when I ought to retire,” he said disdainfully. “I am the king, Mother. Surely you could not have forgotten that already. I seem to recall that you relished in informing me the great lengths you, grandsire, and countless others went to install me in this position.”

“We did not install you in this position,” Alicent hissed. Though the door was closed behind her, she kept her voice down just the same. “The title and rights to the Iron Throne are yours. They always have been, since the day you were born.”

“It would seem my half-sister across Blackwater Bay is inclined to disagree.”

“Rhaenyra’s opinion is irrelevant.”

“And yet you’ve sent my brother to Storm’s End in the hope to earn the favor of Lord Borros Baratheon.” Aegon chuckled to himself, finding more amusement in his predicament than Alicent ever could. Suddenly, his amusement shifted to pensiveness. “Tell me, Mother, if I am truly the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms, why are you putting so much effort into earning Lord Baratheon’s favor? As his one true king, should I not expect unwavering loyalty from the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands?”

“I do not suspect Lord Borros’s loyalty to be in question, Your Grace. I merely wish to ensure that his allegiance cannot be tempted by other offers.”

“And how could he possibly consider an offer made by Rhaenyra, when refusing her earns him the brother of a king as his new son by law?” Aegon proposed rhetorically. He filled his goblet promptly. “Has Aemond decided which of the infamous Four Storms he is to marry yet?”

In truth, Alicent had yet to hear much news from Aemond at all- a fact that gave her concern. Besides an initial brief correspondence after his arrival at Storm’s End, she had yet to receive any further letters from him. There was no telling of when her second son might return to King's Landing, and whether or not he would be bringing a Baratheon lady with him.

“Aemond has been afforded so few choices in life,” Alicent answered carefully. “I would beseech you to allow him ample time to decide whom he shall take to wife.”

“I guess it does not truly matter whom he chooses. It is said that they are all as tempestuous as one other.” Aegon eyed her thoughtfully. “Besides, a woman is a woman- so long as the lady in question continues on the precious Targaryen bloodline, I’d say pick one and be done with it.”

Aegon was many things, but Alicent had never believed him to be a threat- at least not to her. But as her eldest son sat at the head of the table, goblet in one hand and bottle of wine in the other, the look upon his face was downright challenging.

Ser Criston must have sensed as much as well. He cleared his throat. “Your Grace, might I escort you back to your chambers?”

“You may not.” Aegon did not look him in the eye as he refilled his goblet once more. The bottle ran dry, and he frowned pitifully as he tilted the empty bottle upside down, as though trying to savor any last remaining drops.

Sensing an oncoming storm, Alicent quickly redirected, “Regardless of whom your brother chooses to marry, I would advise you treat her with respect. After all, she will be your sister by law.”

Aegon laughed joylessly. “You wound me, Mother. One would say I have treated all my sisters fairly well,” Aemond countered, slurring his words. “Why, I’ve married and bedded one- by your behest, as I am sure you recall. And as for the other, though a traitor to the crown she may be, I’ve decided to let Rhaenyra keep her head- for now.”

“If I may offer my opinion, Your Grace?” Ser Criston Cole interjected.

Aegon was positively beamed with delight. “Ah, Ser Criston Cole! Pray tell, what advice do you have to offer your young king?”

A weaker man might have bristled at Aegon’s insulting tone, but Ser Criston was wise enough to ignore it.

“Though Princess Rhaenyra is no true threat to your reign, you do oft speak of her. Perhaps continuing to speak her name in these halls grants her more power than she is warranted.”

It was an attempt to spare Alicent further talk of Rhaenyra, she suspected. And though Alicent was thankful for the attempt, Ser Criston’s suggestion visibly did not resonate well with her son.

“Perhaps that is precisely why I speak of her so frequently,” Aegon countered stubbornly, going so far as to release his hold on the goblet and bottle in favor of crossing his arms across his chest. “I am king. Speaking her name in my halls so freely only serves to prove how little of a threat she is. Hells- if I speak her name enough, perhaps everyone will get tired of hearing it.”

Alicent wished it would be so simple. But ladies and lords from all across the Seven Kingdoms had once sworn fealty to Princess Rhaenyra before King Viserys himself. Many would recognize Aegon’s birth as a change in King Viserys’s line of succession, but how many would not? Only time would tell.

“As you say, Your Grace,” Ser Criston relented.

The king heaved a rather dramatic sigh. “Is this what my reign is to be? ‘Yes, Your Grace. Of course, Your Grace. You are right, as always, Your Grace.’ Am I to be surrounded with advisors who do naught but agree with me complacently? Where is the challenge?”

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Ser Criston bowed his head. “As I am but recently appointed to be your Commander of the King’s Guard, I am afraid I lack the wisdom some of your other advisors may have. Though what I lack in experience, I vow to make up for in fervor.”

Aegon smirked to himself, finding amusement in Ser Criston’s words that the later man had clearly not intended. “Indeed you shall, Ser Criston…. What say you, Lord Larys?”

Alicent was startled when the man whose name had been spoken stepped out from the shadows around the periphery of the room. Based on Ser Criston’s quick jerk of the head in the newly reaffirmed Master of Whisperer’s direction, he had been thrown off guard as well.

Aegon had not been stewing away in the small council chamber by himself after all, it seemed.

Alicent tried to settle her heart as Lord Larys Strong stepped into the dim candlelight, hobbling on his cane as he did so. He came to a stop a few feet beside the king, and greeted her and Ser Criston with an unnervingly pleasant smile.

For one of his condition to be able to move about with such stealth- it was alarming. How many other dark corridors and rooms had Lord Larys veiled himself within throughout his many years of residence within the Red Keep? How many other private conversations had he’d unknowingly been privy to?

“Good evening, Lord Larys,” Alicent forced herself to greet him, tight lipped though she was.

“Good evening, Queen Mother,” Larys greeted back.

Larys’s head tilted, and his eyes narrowed slightly as he took in Alicent and Ser Criston, who still stood beside her. Ser Criston rested his hand on the pommel of the sword on his hip, and she saw his jaw tighten out of the corner of her eye.

Turning back towards Aegon, Larys stated tactfully, “I believe Ser Criston has strengths of his own to bring to the table, Your Grace.”

“Lord Larys speaks true,” Alicent added. “I believe the Hand’s suggestion to elevate him to Commander may have been his most sound advice to Your Grace yet.”

“I so do wish you would try to get along better with the Hand,” Aegon beseeched tiredly, dragging a slow hand across half of his face. Frowning at his now completely empty wine bottle and goblet, he despaired, “It is rather cumbersome when you two cannot get along.”

“The Hand and I simply… disagree, on your council, is all.”

“Then it is a good thing he, as the Hand, is my chief advisor.”

Ser Criston interceded, “With all do your respect, Your Grace, the Dowager Queen doubtlessly has plenty of wisdom to offer you in time. She ruled on your father’s behalf for many years, throughout his ailments.”

Aegon paused, suddenly going so still that a chill swept up Alicent’s spine. His eyes went to her, then to Ser Criston, and then back to her once more. “Ser Criston, your loyalty to my family cannot be disputed. You have been my mother’s sworn shield for many years. Now, you have sworn yourself to me, as my Commander of the King’s Guard… And yet, I wonder. Who is it that you truly serve? Me? … Or my mother?”

“Might we be spared any further attempts at a fruitless conversation?” Alicent pleaded, her patience wearing thinner by the hour. She looked at Larys pointedly, not bothering to hide the suspicion she knew shown in her eyes. “Your Master of Whisperers must have had some pressing issue to discuss with you, given the lateness of the hour, Your Grace.”

“Ah, yes,” Aegon affirmed, his mood now shifting into one of merriment. A far cry from the sinister look he bore but a moment before. “Lord Larys has been enlightening me about his efforts with Harrenhal.”

Alicent could barely keep a scoff from escaping her lips. “What efforts does he speak of? Lord Harwin Strong is Harrenhal’s lord, and we need not pretend to be uncertain of where his allegiances lie. Our king should not hope to find support from anyone within its walls.”

“Upon the surface, you make a convincing argument, Queen Mother,” Larys conceded. “However, I have a reliable confidant at Harrenhal- one who is loyal to the realm. One who will continue to renounce Rhaenyra, despite whatever my brother may decree. One who has already agreed to work against my brother covertly, if it means furthering the goals of the realm’s true ruler.”

If Lord Larys was telling the truth, such a confidant could become a massive boon in securing Harrenhal in Aegon’s name. Evenmoreso in light of the fact that Harrenhal’s current lord was away, isolated on Dragonstone.

Before Alicent could formulate a response, a commotion sounded from the other side of the closed door. Ser Criston turned, putting himself between Alicent and the door, and moved to withdraw his sword. A moment later, the doors swung open wide.

Aemond strode in, his riding leathers and hair soaked to the bone. He was flocked by a few guards, who, given their state as well, had followed him inside the Red Keep from one of their outdoor posts.

“Ah, look who it is!” Aegon beamed, rising to his feet and outstretching his arms broadly by way of greeting.

Aemond had never been a particularly joyful child, but the look on his face was void of any emotion at all.

His expressionless look was so unnerving, Alicent stepped forward to take one of his hands in her own. His hand was chilled from the rain. “Aemond, what’s happened? You did not write. Why have you returned so soon?”

Hearing his name evidently broke him out of the trance he had been in. Aemond’s eyes snapped to hers, though the blank look upon his face persisted.

Alicent looked over his shoulder. To the guards who had escorted him, she ordered, “Go and rouse the Hand at once.”

Another day had passed, and the sun had begun to set once more. The island and castle were painted in gorgeous hues of yellow, orange, and red.

Princess Rhaenys Targaryen strolled along the battlements of Dragonstone with ease. She had just returned from a patrol of the Gullet with Meleys. Though there was nothing to report, and had not been for several days, she was still adorned in her steel and copper armor, ever at the ready. No one dared stop her; she had grown up in Dragonstone, after all.

The mood in Dragonstone was particularly grim, in light of the losses of King Viserys and the new queen’s daughter, and the fact that word had yet to be sent from Prince Lucerys Velaryon at Storm’s End. But in a queer way, Rhaenys found her recent time here to be eerily familiar to how it had felt when she was young. Dragonstone had never been short of activity or visitors when she was a girl, and it seemed to have both of those in abundance still.

Her dark hair, while most of it remained braided atop her head and out of her face, swayed calmly in the breeze carried off the Blackwater Bay. She knew she ought to return to Rhaenyra, convey her lack of news, and reconvene with Corlys. Her husband had thrown himself full-heartedly into the role of advising their new queen and coordinating plans with his steward back at Driftmark, but Rhaenys would not cease to remind him that he had been at death’s door not but a few days before. After that, she would seek to speak with Baela and Rhaena. Both girls had taken the events of the past few days remarkably well, but Rhaenys could tell, with Rhaena especially, how much the lack of word about the second Velaryon prince gnawed away at her strong resolve.

But before Rhaenys tended to any of those matters, she was more than happy to take her time. Taking in fresh air and a few more moments of solace could do no harm.

Her solemn stroll came across a minor interruption a short while later, when she happened upon another figure along the path. Like Rhaenys, the woman in question seemed to be taking in the air, merely staring out into Blackwater Bay with a rather passive look.

“Lady Tyrell!” she called out to the woman by way of greeting.

Lady Y/N Tyrell turned to her with a small smile. The woman returned her greeting with a small curtsy. As Rhaenys came to a stop beside her, the Lady of Highgarden spoke. “Forgive me, Princess- I had meant to properly greet you several weeks past, back in King’s Landing.”

Rhaenys allowed herself a small chuckle. “‘Tis no matter. With everything that has transpired, where would you have found the time?”

Lady Tyrell did provide an answer, but nor was one required.

Rhaenys followed the other woman’s initial line of sight out towards the bay, and felt the other woman mirror her action beside her. However, Rhaenys eyes felt short of the water, her focus falling instead upon two figures upon the shore below. Rhaenys glanced at Lady Tyrell questioningly.

“My eldest, Derrik,” she answered, though she did not turn to look at Rhaenys. Instead, her eyes remained upon the shore, and the small smile upon her face turned wistful.

“You have another son, do you not?” Rhaenys inquired, not seeing any sign of the second young man as her focus returned to the shore as well.

“Selwin,” Lady Tyrell supplied. “Though he has spent the better part of his last few days in the training yard, I am told.”

Rhaenys smirked to himself fondly. Laenor had had similar stints throughout his own adolescence. She even recalled a time when she had to all but drag Laenor from the training yard to partake in his own name day feast one year. Although, perhaps that had had less to do with her son’s desire to perfect his swordsmanship than it did with the handsome young squire that his instructor had recently taken on.

Rhaenys looked upon the eldest, Derrik. As the young man in question walked along the shore, his focus was entirely captivated by the companion that accompanied him- a much smaller figure, with a head full of curls, and who was dressed in a blueish green gown that had begun to dampen from the incoming tide. The young girl reached her arms up towards him, and in turn, Derrik plucked her up from the ground, before teasingly dangling her over the slowly trickling waves. The young girl’s giggling and delighted squeals could be heard all the way up to where Lady Tyrell and Rhaneys stood, observing the merry scene in a comfortable silence.

“Your daughter?” Rhaenys presumed softly.

“Yes. Luciya.”

“A pretty name.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

Rhaenys could tell her questioning was perhaps starting to make Lady Tyrell a bit uneasy- if not by the other woman’s short responses, then by the way the woman’s face had suddenly fallen. It was understandable why the woman should feel the need to be extra careful in her responses, given the delicate subject. But Laena’s passing, like Laenor’s, had been some years ago. And, albeit very recently, Rhaenys had been starkly reminded how each of her children still lived on, in Baela, Rhaena, and yes, even in the three Velaryon princes.

“I hope you have a plan for her safety.”

Lady Tyrell tore her eyes away from her two children and gave her a curious look.

Rhaenys elaborated. “When Aegon realizes- if he has not already- that you and Lord Strong refuse to abandon Rhaenyra and her cause, the Hightowers and their allies will capitalize on any opportunity they may have to target your family. Your sons may be old enough to wield swords, but not all who may yet be entangled in this bloodshed will be so fortunate.”

Lady Tyrell looked down towards her fidgeting hands. A most unusual behavior, she noted, despite the limited passing moments Rhaenys had shared in her company over the years. It was as though she was deliberating. Although, whether it was to share what was on her mind, or whether to go through with what she had planned, Rhaenys could not be certain.

“We have discussed sending her to Pentos,” Lady Tyrell said finally, though she sounded conflicted.

The Queen Who Never Was chose her next words carefully. “If it is the right choice for her, and for your family, I do not doubt your strength to make such a choice, difficult though it may be.”

Rhaenys did not have the strength to torment the clearly struggling woman any further by recalling what happened when her own daughter had gone to Pentos.

A hastened scuffling of boots ceased their conversation. Both women turned to look down the battlement, where a messenger, who was clearly out of breath, ran in their direction.

“A message for the Queen!” the messenger called out as he passed. “A message from King’s Landing!”

Up ahead, guards who stood watch beside the nearest castle entrance stood to attention, opening the doors for the messenger without delay. The young man disappeared into the castle a moment later, and the guards looked to one another warily.

“I doubt that is anything but good news,” Rhaenys asserted under her breath. Turning back to Lady Tyrell, she said, a touch louder, “Perhaps we both ought to rejoin our Queen in the Chamber, so that we may hear this news ourselves.”

But Lady Tyrell did not acknowledge that Rhaenys had spoken. Her brows furrowed deeply. “What in the Seven Hells is that?”

Rhaenys looked back down to the shore. Derrik and Luciya were still upon the shoreline, but now, the young man had his sister held protectively in his arms as they both stared down towards the sand.

A scaled white wing, its edges torn in a crude fashion, had washed up upon the shore.

[chimerathewriter]

I have an urge to....

I have an urge to make a Barbie princess charmed school (without the barbie magic) House of the dragon with Aemond , Jace, Luke Baela and Rhaena  fanfic where there are other kingdoms all over the world, and for peace diplomacy the heirs of many houses go to the same school in one specific kingdom. And maybe to heal the kids relationship after two years after the accident. 

Just wholesome gangasta kids (because how they were all unhinged in that episode), healing, fluff, birth of long frienship and writer having the power to change literally anything because is a fanfiction

And I would like to put as many cultures but now I don’t have a lot of other ethnic names and surnames (male female), from south east asian, east asian, middle eat, balkan, West, East and Northern European, Arab, African (From North to South, East and West) Polyneasian, Latin America, Caribbean anything I will try to make some research from clothing, religion language and advice is always accepted.