#kingdom of kingsland

[girlwiththoughts13]

The Blackest Green

Aemond Targaryen x F!reader/ Daemon Targaryen x F!reader

Warnings: Incest/ P in V /infidelity/ Age-gap/Minor breeding kink/

Word count: 4k

~~~~~

Aemond Targaryen was an intellectual. The cost of being the object of his elder brother and young nephews jests, was that there was no place he could turn to. With no dragon, no companions, no love, his studies of the histories, his mother tongue and his extensive training with the sword, soothed the ache of his inadequacy.

As well as the shameful lusting of his half-sister Rhaenrya's child. He couldn't recall when he developed these feelings for the girl but he knew he resented himself for it. She was the only one of Rhaenrya's children that inherited valyrian features. Sliver hair that you always wore in a simple braid in order to allow the rest of your locks to flow long down your back, striking violet eyes that looked straight through anyone who gazed into them. You were a mystery to him. He couldn't tell whether you were a bastard or the true born daughter of Laenor, as it seemed Rhaenyra had made you all on her own. However, your beauty went beyond your mother's, it was fact in his mind that no one would ever be able to compare. When you smiled or your eyes met his, his chest burned, his heart attempting to free itself from the confines of his chest and jump into your hands. Regardless, you were the enemy to Aemond and he would not allow himself to fully indulge in these sinful thoughts, your brothers were menaces and although you never participated in his humiliation he had no doubt you were just as savage as the rest of them.

After his eye was taken his hatred grew for Rhaenrya and her bastard children, but as much as he tried, this hatred did not extend to you. To compensate for the immeasurable loss and to eliminate any strife between the families a marriage pact between Aemond and Rhaenrya's daughter was made. Although deep down they all knew that this would not uphold the weight of the growing divide.

You were allowed to journey back to Dragonstone with the rest of your family, only being 10 summers old, it was agreed that you would not wed until you flowered.

That day came at the age of 5 and 10. On the dock leading to your ship, Your mother, the crowned heir stood tall in front of you, looking to you as the great leader you knew she'd be. But you could tell by her misty eyes and the slight tremble in her movements, sending you away to the greens was breaking her heart as it was yours. It was not your desire to leave and be thrown to the wolves who would surely tear you apart for the blood that ran through your veins.

"You must be strong, my girl, you are my heir, the future queen of the seven kingdoms, don't forget that and don't let them forget it either" You nodded hastily as she brought you into a tight embrace. Over her shoulder you locked eyes with your step-father Daemon who had fought very hard to break this betrothal but to no avail. His hand rested on the pommel of Dark sister knuckles white with tension. Daemon had spent these many years on Dragonstone teaching you.. about everything. He said it was to prepare you for the land you would one day rule. He gave you a curt nod which you knew was his way of saying goodbye without all the sentiments. Rhaenrya slowly detached herself from you in a way that let you know she didn't want to. She brought her hand to your check and softly stroked the skin there, staring deeply into your eyes to commit you to memory. There was a very real possibility she would not be seeing you for years to come.

"We won't be there for the ceremony but I'll be in here every step of the way, I promise" She rested her free hand on your heart as a tear slid down your face.

"Goodbye mother"

Being married to the one-eyed prince was not at all the death sentence your brothers had made you to believe it was. It was simply fine. Your arrival to kingslanding was well received and your wedding celebrations were beautiful. No expense was spared for the favorite child of Queen Alicent, no matter how insignificant his station was as a second son. Somewhere along the lines you and Aemond found a way to coexist in peace..in a semblance of care. You would break your fast together, watch him train, ride your dragons and perform your martial duties. Marriage had at last allowed Aemond's heart to open the door to the room that was always meant for you. He knew that you cared for him but it was your love he was after and he had no doubt he'd successfully receive it one day. In the one year you were married your womb did not bare the evidence of his seed, however, he had much fun with the process of conceiving a babe, therefore there were no complaints from him. He instead took this time without children to learn about you as you were. Your favorite color, flower, time of day. You would humor him only when you felt like It; you were greedy with your time and attention, mainly spending that with your grandsire. When he died it broke your heart you had much love for the man and would visit him regularly. But there was an eagerness to ride and alert your mother yourself of her new title of Queen.

One tug at the locked doors of your chamber and you knew what you tried so hard to ignore. Mere hours later Aemond entered your chambers, you wasted no time rushing over to him before he even fully closed the door, grabbing his lapels and pulling him close.

"Tell me what has happened and don't lie to me" Tears were already pressing against the back of your eyes.

"Viserys is dead" Aemond turned into the fearsome man that everyone knew him as, cold and unyielding. "Aegon will be his successor" The moment the words left his lips you released your hold and let out a sharp gasp as if someone had knocked the air from your lungs. "He will be crowned before the masses as his family stands behind him-loyally" You look up at his insinuation that you'd ever support that drunken fool. A scoff escapes you.

"Do you think I will stand behind a usurper? My mother is the rightful Queen and I her heir" Your voice gaining more volume as you spew the proclamations.

He hand reaches out for your arm, pulling you harshly to him "You're my wife, you will stand beside me, without argument" Though you give no further fight, you rip your arm away and turn toward the bed. Aemond lets you go, granting you some reprieve.

Unlike Princess Rhaenys you were not able to escape. Aemond was highly paranoid and had kept you with him at all times. Going as far as moving you into his chambers; Although he was gone for most of the day with you locked within the room with nothing but the walls and your own thoughts as company. Alicent visited you once, attempting to coax you to see things from her point of view. You told her that her and her false king could go fuck themselves.. she never returned.

Night fell and with it came harsh winds that rattled your windows. You regularly added more wood to the hearth to keep yourself warm. It was there you found yourself when Aemond entered the chamber. His steps were erratic and his breaths uneven. "Has anyone been in here?!" Gone was his usually calm and quiet voice replaced with a manic tone. "The door only opens by your hand husband" you answered sarcastically. Your humor vanished at once when he hasty made his way to Maegors tunnels ensuring they were still sealed. You stared into his back remaining seated. "Has something happened?" It was as if he forgot you were there with the way he jumped to you.

He walked quickly and kneeled before you. Hands resting on your hips. "You must know it was not my intention... Vhagar she just.. she wouldn't listen to me anymore..you see" He whispered his eye trained on your stomach. You placed one hand on top of his. "Okay, okay, I hear you, tell me" you were gentle with your voice and touch, understanding this was what he needed from you. Aemond inhaled deeply and finally looked up.

"I killed Lucerys"

The world turned early quiet which then gave way to a ringing so loud it drowned out whatever he was saying. You saw his lips moving fast before your eyes began to blur. His hands beneath yours suddenly burned, so you pulled away from him all together, standing. Your weight was too much for your shaking legs, you made it all of two steps before collapsing, forehead pressed into the ground, mouth beginning to let out pained wails. Your little brother, too kind, too gentle, dead and in such a violent way. Aemond crouched beside you and put his hand on your back wanting nothing more than to comfort his wife. You crawled away from him, screaming all the while. "Get away from me!!"

You made it to your vanity using it as a crutch to lift yourself from the floor. You made quick work of grabbing the small dagger hidden beneath the furniture, the one Daemon had gifted you on your 2 and 10th nameday. You pointed the dagger at him. "I'll kill you". Lunging for Aemond with the intent to kill but no real power behind it. He grabbed your arms and held them high above both of you. "I'm so sorry, my love, stop" Retraining you was no real struggle for him. The dagger dropped to the floor as the fight continued. When he released your hands your palms opened flat against his chest as you pushed him, then again, then a slap across his cheek "Kinslayer" push, slap, "Fight back!" you yelled straining your voice. Wrestling a bit to lower your arms he crushed you into an embrace holding you there as you cried and squirmed. His head rested on the top of your own, whispering apologies.

Since then you scarcely saw Aemond. He avoided you like the plague not wishing to see the anger and hatred in your eyes. You were at abed when your doors were thrown open. You sat up immediately knowing Ameond would never enter your rooms in such a way. The stench of wine and debauchery that was Aegon's signature scent invaded your nostrils. He stumbled his way over to you, calling your name, laughing all the while.

Aegon took a seat at the end of your bed and extended his upper body to you. "Sweet sister, are you not so lonely without your dear husband?"

"What is it that you want Aegon?" In no mood to entertain his idiotic tendencies.

Ever the jester on a mission to embarrass his little brother at every turn, Aegon retold the accounts of his late night adventure in the city. How he went into a brothel and found Aemond curled up in the arms of the madame of the establishment like a new born-babe. It was nice he said how Aemond still found himself with his first woman. It was at times difficult to understand with the crude words and his growing laughter. By the time he was done he had gotten drowsy enough to lay his head down. The soft snores that emitted from his mouth let you know he was down for the night. Aemond the kinslayer, Aemond the unfaithful husband. How much could you take of the shame he forced upon you. With a new determination you knew the fool had left the door unlocked and as Aemond assured the kingsguard there was no way for you to exit, it was unguarded.

Cannibal wouldn't have been tamed into the dragonpit. There was no point attempting to find him there. He wouldn't be to far either, not without his rider. In the long hallways, you pulled your common looking cloak around your self tighter, paying special care to hide your sliver locks. Sending a quick prayer to your gods you pushed open the chamber and it gave way without fuss. Entering you made swift strides to the tunnels in Daemon's old chambers. Once again opening with just a shove.

Somehow you made it to water, a little off from the docks to avoid being seen. When you bring your pointer and middle fingers into your mouth you ready yourself to make it worth it, you let out a loud whistle. There won't be a second chance until people come looking for the source. A beat of silence passes than another. Suddenly you hear the distinct flapping of wings and the wind blowing harsher in your face. Thank the gods cannibal does not let out a roar, as if he's aware of the delicacy of the situation. When he lands at your feet, lightly as he can, you break for his back to climb atop him. Once properly situated he flys high above in the sky, no commands leave your lips but you know where he's taking you, home.

Rhaenrya was restless. The loss of her son and the enslavement of her only daughter. The taking of her throne, her inheritance. The greens had taken so much from her. And yet she still hoped foolishly to avoid war. It was a tiring thing keeping Daemon at bay. He smelled blood. As if he didn't already want Aemond Targaryen's head on a stick for taking you from him, now he has murdered Luke and Rhaenrya was doing nothing about it. He was fully prepared to fly to the red keep and bring you home. It's this same argument he brings to the war room, hovering over the painted table.

"I can go personally. No one will expect my arrival" Daemon is determined facing his new Queen. Jace stands between Baela and Rhaena believing no one to be as affected by your absence than his step-father. "Yes because no one would do something this rash Daemon" Rhaenrya counters. "If we send anyone at all it should not be someone of your high station Prince Daemon" Rhaenys wisely counseled. This meeting was one for those who shared blood, no other lord was present in the room which Rhaenrya was glad of.

"She's the heir to iron throne the longer we wait the faster they''ll kill her" His words were rough to convey the urgency. "Alicent will not kill my daughter" There was still faith in her heart that their friendship during youth held importance to Alicent. "Oh just like she wouldn't take your birthright Rhaenrya? Or kill your son?!" A feign chuckle followed by a huff of bitter words

"Enough! She's my daughter Daemon, Mine and I have decided there's nought to be done for the time being" Rhaenrya commanded the room as now was her right, Rhaenys let the corner of her lip curl forward at the prince's reprimanding. Daemon gives the Queen a cold stare before stomping out of the room.

Rhaenrya sighs while turning to her son walking toward him. "I will bring your sister home, I have not abandoned her, but there are right and wrong paths to go about it and Daemon's way is the wrong one" Jace always thought that all of Daemons 'ways' were the wrong way, he gave a nod to his mother "I know mother, I know"

"DRAGON!!" Knights scurried around the fortress attempting to arrange the scorpion with haste. "Alert the Queen now!"

Grateful that she had not gone to bed after her spat with Daemon, The Queen made her way to the top of the watch towers to oversee the scorpions. They were in position and awaiting her command. Her violet eyes scanned the skies when she spotted the dragon and their rider. A strangled cry escaped her "Stop! It's my daughter!", The knights made quick work to dismantle the weapon "Stand down it's the princess"

Rhaenrya practically ran down the steps. She felt as if her eyes were deceiving her and you'd vanish once again. She stopped a foot away from you as you climbed down your dragon. There was a pause when you hit the sand, taking each other in before you both ran into each others arm. She pressed your head into the top of her breast holding you there, rocking you gently back and forth. "Oh my girl, my sweet girl" She grabbed the sides of your face with both hands looking you all over "Are you hurt?"

"No mother, I'm okay, I'm home" You cried, tears falling.

Rhaenrya and her daughter made their way back into the castle, hand in hand. The queen leading them back to the war room, where she instructed a guard to alert her family to gather. The weight in your chest disappeared when the door gave way and you knew you were in the presence of your true family. Jace spotted you first and stepped forward to wrap you in his arms. He stepped aside to allow your cousins Baela and Rhaena to give you quick embraces followed by "I'm glad you're safe cousin".

Your mother tugged you to her side once again to assure herself you were safe.

A moment passes, all cries and laughs, when the door crashes open. Daemon wordlessly moves forward into the room making a beeline for you. He brings his arms around you when your within reach and stares into the eyes of Rhaenrya over you shoulder while having you in his hold, still upset you had to make your escape all on your own which could have resulted in your death. He turned his head so that his words would only reach your ears.

"Gōntan pōnta renigon ao" Did they touch you? Daemon does not know what he would do if he hears of any wrongdoings brought upon you, his sweet dragon, his purest little girl. "Daor kepus" No uncle.

He steps back and allows you to be swept back into Rhaenryas arms.

It had taken a while to convince your mother that you would be okay in your chambers alone. There was no greater desire than to sleep in the safety of your acestral home and forget the war to come. You sat at your vanity in nothing but your shift combing your hair after a much needed bath. The warmth and weight of a palm fell on your shoulder, you shuddered.

"Kepus" you turned head and he moved his hand to catch your chin and tilt it up. Daemon had never seen such a beautiful sight. A siren if he ever knew one. He was convinced that you had bewitched him. His gentle niece, so eager to learn from her uncle.

"Skorkydoso gōntan ao jiōragon hen, gōntan aōha valzȳrys jikagon ao kesīr?" how did you get out, did your husband send you here? As much as he believed in your strength, he was surprised to see you escape on your own unscathed too. "Daorys iksin jurnegēre, nyke geptot" No one was looking, I left, you shrugged, there really was nothing more to it and It didn't matter now.

You stood to your full height but your uncle towered over you nonetheless. Daemon stared down at you with the same lust he did those few years ago. His hand came up to your shoulder once more this time dragging your sleeve down, freeing one of your breast. he repeated this action to the other, never breaking eye contact as your shift pooled around your feet. His big hand came around your jaw and his thumb stroked your lips softly, barely there. Hand falling down to your neck which he grasped tightly, jealously had a hold on him at the thought of the one-eyed bastard laying his filthy hands on your soft skin. Skin that belonged to him, that was made by him.

You came up on your tip toes in attempt to catch his mouth with yours but he pulled back slightly, a smirk gracing his face. He leans down and you turn your face so his lips meet your cheek which he delivers gentle kisses onto. When you face each other your noses brush together, not being to wait any longer you both press your lips together. His tongue invades your mouth reacquainting himself with your taste. His fingers lace into your moonlight hair, puling you more deeply into him, his other hand falls to your lower back, he lifts you and walks toward your bed where he drops you at the edge of it. You fall back on your elbows and watch as he kneels and brings his hands to the back of your thighs spreading your legs wide for him. He pounces at your center, like a man starved, eyes closing at your sweet essence swirling on his tongue. You throw your head back and let out a quiet moan. Daemon slowly brings one finger to your entrance teasing you before it slips in easily from your wetness and his salvia. He adds another as he sucks at your clit. A shriek rushes out with your building release. Just as you're about to jump off the edge he pulls aways and presses kisses to your skin as he works his way up. From the top of your mound, to your belly, collarbone, neck, jaw, cheek, and when his bulky body that covers yours entirely rests between your legs he smashing his lips on yours once more.

Your fingers rush out to undo his laces of his breeches and the ties on his loose shirt which he shrugs off promptly. Daemon lays atop you bare, his length gliding across your glistening cunt. "Aōha valzȳrys gaomas daor qogralbar ao sȳrī gaomas ziry?" Your husband does not fuck you well does he?

Thoughts of the whore he is coddled by invades your mind. Ever since you were girl you craved a man. You would not find Daemon in the arms of anyone much less a whore play-acting as a babe. No this man above you was all fire and blood in its truest form-and nothing made you more wet than the thought. He taps your cheek "Answer me" switching to common tongue.

"No Kepus, when he laid above me, I'd imagine it was you. I'd remember all the times you were inside me, how good it felt" You pant out. Daemon groaned at your words, pushing inside you. On instinct you wrapped your legs around his waist, letting out a sharp gasp. Long has your shame gone of lying with your mother's husband; Especially when he thrusts hard instantly hitting the spot deep inside you that only he has ever reached. Daemon grunts when he removes himself from your warmth bringing his hands to your waist and flipping you around, dragging your hips up and smoothing a hand down your back, he puts his cock back inside you and begins rutting into you like an animal. You push back against him and he brings one hand around you to furiously rub at you clit. "Uh kepus I'm coming" You cry out. The wave of your orgasm is so intense you feel your cunt clench tightly in an attempt to squeeze him out of you. Daemon stuffs himself back in and chases his own release. "Iksan jāre naejot dīnagon ñuha rūs isse ao" I'm going to put my babe in you. "Everyone can see who you spread your legs open for".

"Yes! Kepus please finish inside me, I want your seed" With that and the tightening of your pussy, Daemon releases with a shout, his cock twitching inside you, seed coating your walls. When he pulls free you feel his seed run down your thighs and onto your fresh sheets.

Daemon moves to lay on his back and pulls you to his side so your head rest across his chest. His hand caresses your arm up and down, it's a nice comfortable silence, and in this moment you can both pretend that it is each other you are married too and there's no threat of war.

"Your soon to become a widow" He promises

"Good"

[madamabelladonna]

𝐎𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐧 𝐈𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐀𝐰𝐚𝐲

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Young Lady Dayne knew survival in the Red Keep required more than caution—it demanded influence. After keeping her distance from Jacaerys, she finally accepted his apology, truly forgiving him. But as he left, she realized it might be long before she saw him again. In his place, a prince in green awaited. 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: Rumors, Blood, Fighting, Doubt, Childbirth, Abuse (from Alicent) 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The Red Keep had grown colder with every passing day, as though the very stone absorbed the chill in the air. Each morning, you found yourself adding another layer to your attire, cloaking yourself in wool and velvet, though it did little to chase away the creeping frost.

Soon, winter would truly set in, and you wondered if snow would come to Kingslanding. You had never seen it before. The maesters described it in books as being soft and delicate, like sand, but cold—bitingly cold.

You sat perched on the windowsill, a heavy tome balanced on your knees, its worn pages brittle beneath your fingers. Outside, the sky was a dull grey, the sea of clouds casting a pale light into your chamber. The fire crackled weakly in the hearth, its warmth failing to reach the stone walls.

Isla entered quietly, her footsteps barely a whisper on the cold floor. “I’ve informed Prince Jacaerys that you were not feeling well,” Her words stirred the stillness of the room. You hadn’t spoken to Jacaerys since his eighth name day. Not out of anger, not even resentment, though there was a heaviness to it all.

Ever since that day, you had distanced yourself from him and his family—not because of Jacaerys, nor Rhaenyra, nor the persistent whispers of a potential marriage between you and the prince. It wasn’t even the fact that he had donned House Dayne’s colors at the feast, a gesture meant to honor you, but one that felt like a chain tightening around your neck.

No, what bothered you was the feeling of being maneuvered like a piece on a cyvasse board. Rhaenyra had planted Sienna, to watch over you, to report back every detail of your life. You knew it. Everyone knew it. And that knowledge gnawed at you, made your every step feel heavy, your every action scrutinized.

You had no doubt that by the next feast, both you and Merek would be dressed in purple. You were a pawn, and the nobles were watching, eyes glinting with judgment, already speculating which side you favored—Black or Green.

But you were not here to choose sides. You were an emissary of Dorne. You were here to maintain neutrality, to ensure that Dorne did not get caught in the bloody conflict to come.

The Seven Kingdoms may burn in the fires of civil war, but Dorne would not.

Peering over the edge of the book, you gave Isla a curt nod. “Thank you.” This wasn’t done out of anger, but out of necessity. You had to remain detached.

“May I get you anything else, my lady?” Isla asked, her tone laced with quiet concern. You glanced at her, noting the pity in her eyes, a softness you had once appreciated but now found suffocating. She had been in your service since your birth, but even she could see the change in you.

The Red Keep had already begun to erode the warmth of the Lady Dayne she once knew, leaving in its place someone colder, someone more guarded. You sighed. “Yes, you can start by wiping that expression off your face.” The words slipped out sharper than you intended, a bitter edge that caught you by surprise.

You hadn’t meant to be cruel, but you could not bear the pity—not from Isla, not from anyone. Isla lowered her head quickly, bowing once again. “Of course, my lady.” She moved to stand at her usual post, silent but ready, should you change your mind.

The fire cracked again, spitting sparks, but its warmth felt distant, as did everything else in this cold, foreign place.

‘Influence: the capacity to have an effect on the character, development, or behavior of someone or something, or the effect itself.’

You stared at the word, etched in bold on the worn page of the book, fingers gripping the spine tightly as if holding on to some hidden truth. The furrow in your brow deepened, teeth gnawing at your lower gum as you tried to comprehend what you had always known deep down.

It was a simple word, but in the Red Keep, it meant everything. Influence was the key to survival here. Without it, you were nothing.

Outside, the wind howled against the thick walls, rattling the iron window frames. The cold air seeped in despite the heavy drapes, reminding you of how vulnerable you truly were in this place. You pulled the book closer to your chest as if it could shield you from the political storm swirling around you.

The Red Keep was a battlefield in its own right, but not the kind fought with swords and shields. Men may dominate the courts and council chambers for now, but you knew the winds were changing. Soon, Princess Rhaenyra would ascend the throne and challenge the patriarchal grip on power. But standing in her way was Queen Alicent Hightower and her Green faction, poised and ready to strike.

The true power in the realm rested between these two women. Rhaenyra, the heir, and Alicent, the Queen Consort, both wielding influence over the men who fancied themselves rulers.

While the lords squabbled over titles and fought bloody wars, the real battle was being waged in the subtle smiles, the whispered promises, and the veiled threats exchanged between the highborn women. The weapons here weren’t made of steel but of charm and cunning.

You were young, far younger than most in this court, but you understood one thing clearly: if you were to survive, you needed influence. You couldn’t afford to be seen as a pawn to be played by either the Greens or the Blacks. Neutrality was your goal, but neutrality without power was a dangerous stance.

And so, your mind raced. How could you, a mere emissary of Dorne, so young and inexperienced, gain what these women had in abundance? You could ally yourself with another neutral house, but the reality of the Red Keep hit hard—there were no neutral houses left. Everyone had picked a side, whether openly or in whispers, and trust was a rare currency here.

No, you needed to do something bold, something that would force the hand of those in power to notice you. You needed to carve your own path in this treacherous court, and soon enough, the opportunity would come.

It was only a few days later when fate, as if hearing your silent plea, knocked at your door.

Literally.

The sound of knuckles rapping on the wood startled you from your reverie. It had been a week since you last spoke to Jacaerys or helped Lucerys with his studies, and the silence had been blissful. In that time, you and Merek had kept mostly to yourselves, enjoying quiet moments of respite amidst the storm.

This afternoon, the two of you were seated by the fire, a tray of freshly baked sweets between you. The warm scent of pastries filled the room, mingling with the faint smell of the crackling firewood. You savored the strawberry tart, its sweetness melting on your tongue, the perfect balance to the delicate white tea you sipped slowly.

Merek sat across from you, smirking as he picked at a slice of fruit pie. “Careful, sister. Should you keep at it, you’ll lose a tooth,” he teased, his blue eyes glinting with amusement.

You shot him a pointed look, wiping your mouth with a napkin. “Not before another knight plants a facer on you,” you retorted with a sly grin, recalling the last brawl he had found himself in. Your words hung between you like a challenge, but the warmth in the room softened the edge of your banter.

Before he could reply, the knock at the door came again, louder this time, and both of you turned your heads toward the sound. Merek raised an eyebrow, a question forming on his lips, but you were already rising from your seat, curiosity pulling you forward.

The door creaked open, revealing a messenger, his breath clouding in the cold air. He bowed, not meeting your gaze, as he handed you a sealed parchment.

You glanced at Merek, a silent understanding passing between you, “What brings you here?” inquired Merek, he held a scrutinizing gaze at the messenger. The man, likely intimidated by Merek's standing tensed for a brief moment, “There is a visitor for the Lady Dayne…”

Believing it to be Jacaerys or Lucerys, “If it is either one of the princes, please do tell them that I’m feeling unwell.” you instructed, but the man shook his head. He rose up, “It is neither the princes, my lady. But rather a…” he trailed off looking back at the door.

“A woman of… peculiar standing…” he finished. 

You frowned, already scrutinizing his choice of words. It couldn’t be Rhaenyra; those who might describe her as peculiar—Alicent, or perhaps Ser Criston—would have chosen sharper words, laced with venom, not this tepid uncertainty.

“Send her in,” you ordered.

Merek’s brow furrowed in disbelief. “Sister, are you certain?” he asked, his voice edged with concern. He’d seen you fooled before, seen you lower your guard, and it had cost you. The scars of that lesson were as much his burden as yours.

You met his gaze with a firm nod. “I am.” Still doubtful, he hesitated, then gave a resigned sigh. Stepping aside, he gestured to the guards. The heavy door groaned on its hinges, letting in a gust of cool air—and a figure cloaked in twilight hues.

The woman entered with a deliberate stride, her auburn hair streaked with gray and her face weathered but commanding. She paused just within the threshold, brushing the dust from her travel-worn cloak and straightening her skirts. Her hands, you noticed, bore the marks of labor—calluses and scars hidden beneath jeweled rings.

Merek’s hand hovered near Dawn’s pommel, the greatsword resting against his chair. Its polished edge caught the light, a subtle warning. The woman’s sharp eyes darted toward the blade, her lips twitching in acknowledgment.

“Lady Dayne,” she greeted, her voice a curious blend of cheer and steel. She stepped forward, only for Merek to rise, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. His grip on Dawn tightened.

The woman stopped, palms raised in mock surrender. “Peace, ser. I come unarmed.” Her smile, thin, turned to you. “Lady Dayne, I thank you for this audience.”

You studied her closely. The lines of her face, the way she held herself—this was a woman shaped by survival. She had the look of someone who bartered in shadows, dealing truths and lies in equal measure.

“What brings a woman of your ilk here?” you asked, your voice cool and unyielding.

The woman’s smile deepened, her eyes gleaming with something almost playful. “Ah, straight to the heart of it. I admire that.” She clasped her hands before her, the motion practiced, almost theatrical.

“I am but a humble tailor from the Westerlands,” she began, her tone light, almost flippant. “Entrusted by the Lannisters themselves to craft their finest garments.”

At the mention of Lannisters, your jaw tightened. The West’s intrigues were an unending web, and you had no desire to tangle yourself in them.

“It was at Prince Jacaerys’ nameday,” she continued, her voice gaining momentum, “amidst the grandeur and gilded halls, that I beheld your dress. Her gaze grew fervent, her words charged with reverence.

“A work of art, my lady. The fabric, the cut, the embroidery— Inspirational!”

You said nothing, letting her reveal her true aim. “Speak plainly,” you said at last. “What is it you truly want?”

She stopped short, blinking, then nodded hastily. “Of course, my lady. Forgive my ramblings. I’ve come to offer my services.” She covered her mouth to stifle a cough, then cleared her throat. “Never have I seen such silks, and I dare say none in the Seven Kingdoms could rival them.”

Her voice grew more impassioned, her gestures sweeping. “With your beauty and my craft, we could create garments to rival the stars themselves. I have a roof of girls—nimble fingers and eager minds—ready to bring our vision to life. Dornish fabrics, embroidery fit for queens. Imagine the court, my lady, whispering your name—not for your lineage, but your radiance.”

The room fell silent, her words hanging heavy in the still air. Merek’s stance stiffened beside you, his grip firm on Dawn’s hilt. His eyes spoke the warning he didn’t voice: A trap? A scheme? The woman’s fervor could be genuine, but deception often wore the mask of sincerity.

You leaned forward slightly, “And what would you ask in return?” fingers steepling beneath your chin.

“That you become my muse!”

She declared, the words bursting from her like a caged bird set free.

Both you and Merek exchanged startled glances, caught off-guard by the audacity of her proposition. She pressed on before either of you could respond.

“All I ask is that you consider my offer, my lady,” she said, taking a deep, steadying breath. “Should you agree, my greatest works—my life’s masterpiece—shall be yours and yours alone.”

Merek’s grimace deepened, his skepticism evident. “How are we to trust the word of a seamstress who serves the Lannisters?” His tone was sharp, probing for weakness.

The woman turned to face him fully, her posture unfaltering despite the blade’s looming presence. “Because,” she said, her voice cool but edged with a peculiar fire, “for all the riches the Lannisters possess, for all their gold and splendor, their hair gleaming like the veins of their mines, they fail in one regard.”

She turned back to you, her eyes bright and unyielding, her words deliberate. “They fail to inspire the greatest of flames.”

The room seemed to darken, the shadows lengthening with the weight of her statement. Her gaze locked with yours, her meaning sharp as a dagger. The challenge she posed was clear: to light a fire so brilliant it could blind even the lions of Casterly Rock.

‘Influence: the capacity to have an effect on the character, development, or behavior of someone or something, or the effect itself.’

In Kingslanding, influence was not merely a tool; it was the lifeblood of survival, the unseen force driving every whisper, every subtle nod, and every blade thrust in the dark. To endure the unrelenting tug-of-war between Green and Black, you would need it in abundance.

As an emissary of Dorne and the daughter of Lord Julius Dayne, you could not afford to openly align yourself with either faction—at least, not yet. The sands of time had to shift before that decision could be made.

Here, neutrality was an illusion. No house stood untouched by the tides of war. Yet, who was to say that influence could only flow from the highborn?

The common folk were a vast and often overlooked reservoir of power. Their whispers could build legends or tear them apart. If you accepted this woman’s offer, you could weave a web of connections that stretched far beyond the halls of the Red Keep.

You might be eight, but even a child could recognize the value of a golden goose flying within reach. Dorne’s legacy rested on your small shoulders, and if this woman could aid you in building something greater, why not seize the opportunity?

“What name shall I call my partner?” you asked, your voice calm yet commanding. She hadn’t introduced herself, skipping straight to her breathless ramblings about that fateful night and the dress your father had sent.

The woman paused, then dipped into a bow so deep her shoulder nearly met the height of your head. “Alora,” she said, her voice soft but unwavering.

“Just Alora.”

You turned the hair comb over in your hands, its delicate craftsmanship catching the light. Alora had chosen silver inlaid with small, polished stones of varying hues—amber, onyx, and a pale blue that reminded you of the Dornish skies before a storm.

Her note accompanying it had been brief, as always, but the message was clear: For the Lady Dayne, a star that outshines the rest.

Alora had returned to the Westerlands to gather her girls and materials, promising to establish her work in King’s Landing within a moon’s turn. True to her word, she sent a stream of accessories—hairpins, necklaces, even small embroidered ribbons—to expand your already burgeoning wardrobe.

To call it growth was an understatement; your collection had transformed into a display of opulence rivaling that of the Queen herself. Each piece was another string added to the web of influence you quietly wove.

The plan was simple, if ambitious: Alora would come to the capital, her girls in tow, and set up a boutique. Yet her insistence on working within the city walls puzzled you. It wasn’t as though Kingslanding held any particular charm beyond its political gravity.

The reek of unwashed bodies, rotting refuse, and stagnant water greeted all who approached long before the city gates came into view. For a seat of power, the stench was almost a warning—a reminder of what rot often festered beneath Red Keep’s facades.

You placed the comb on the polished surface of your vanity and rose, stepping to the window. The midday sun bathed the city in a harsh, revealing light. Smoke curled lazily from countless chimneys, mingling with the haze of life below.

Somewhere out there, Alora and her caravan would arrive, bringing with them not just fabrics and needles, but the means to shift your standing in a court fraught with deadly alliances and dangerous ambitions.

You didn’t fully trust her, of course. Trust was a luxury few could afford in King’s Landing. But you didn’t need trust to see the value of what she offered. Influence was sewn into every stitch of silk she brought, every jewel she set into gold.

Perhaps one day you would come to trust her fully. Alora had already proven herself a visionary in ways few could understand. She had made her own mark, and in time, she might do the same for you.

To guide you in this, you sought counsel from Rupert, who had been your mentor since your arrival in King's Landing. Though he was far away, in Starfall, the letters exchanged between you were frequent and full of wisdom.

Every word he sent was calculated, advising patience, caution, and occasionally urging you to strike when the moment felt right. And despite the distance, he was always watching, always providing direction, a guiding hand from afar.

You had also written to your father, requesting not only his advice but his support—funds for Alora and her girls to secure a place in the capital swiftly. House Dayne may not have possessed the deep coffers of the Yronwoods, but that did not mean the coffers on your island were shallow.

The Dayne wealth, though less public, ran deep, and your father, ever proud of your initiative, had sent you more gold than you had actually requested. His reply had been quick, with a note of approval tucked between the coins.

He was pleased that his daughter had taken the initiative to reach out, considering you rarely wrote to him compared to your mother and Rupert—especially after sending you and Merek off to the capital.

And then there was Merek. His silent support had been invaluable. He had kept his watch over you, allowing Alora to come and go without interference, though he or Ser Cassian had never been far.

Merek, ever the shadow to your light, understood the ways of protection. He knew, as well as anyone, that not all shields were made of steel. If this was your way of safeguarding yourself, he would stand by it.

The thought of your brother, your father, and your own careful maneuvering brought a sharp sense of pride—and yet, a deeper understanding of the politics you were now wading through. King’s Landing was a city of wolves, and you were learning to dance among them.

You handed the bejeweled hair comb to Isla, watching as her face lit up with the sight of the intricate piece. "Could you please put this in my hair?" you requested.

She nodded, her smile soft and respectful. "Of course, my lady." She guided you to the stool before her, and you sat down, feeling the cool touch of her hands as she worked over your tresses.

Isla was gentle but skilled, each movement precise as she set the comb delicately in place, arranging your hair in a way that both highlighted the beauty of the comb and kept the look dignified.

The comb gleamed against your locks, the jewels catching the light, a reminder of the alliances you were carefully nurturing. You studied your reflection in the mirror, seeing not just the girl you were, but the woman you were becoming.

You still weren’t speaking to Jace or Luke, and their attempts to reconnect with you had dwindled to near nothing. The strain between you and them felt like an aching wound you couldn't quite heal.

You missed them, truly, but after Jacaerys’ nameday—the implied marriage—it had all become too much to bear. The casual gestures of friendship from them now seemed tainted by something darker, something that made every interaction feel suffocating.

You had noticed how both Queen Alicent and Princess Rhaenyra regarded you, their eyes sharper when you danced with the former’s sons, the smiles forced or thin-lipped. It wasn’t subtle—the undercurrent of tension, the unspoken judgment in their glances.

You were aware of the game being played, and though you weren’t about to start a war, you certainly weren’t going to make it any easier for them. This was not your fight—not yet.

With your avoidance of Rhaenyra’s sons, your presence in the capital had become increasingly solitary. The walls of your chambers felt more like a prison than a place of rest, and it was growing more difficult to find solace in the same monotonous routine.

Days bled into nights, and the only thing that changed was the flicker of candlelight. You could no longer ignore the dull ache of confinement.

‘A visit to the royal library.’ you thought. There, you could lose yourself in texts, perhaps find a distraction—anything to escape the growing sense of stagnation. It was a place of knowledge, where words could silence the rest of the world, if only for a while.

Once Isla had finished pinning the comb into your hair—her fingers gentle and steady, the delicate ornament resting in place as though it had always belonged there—you stood, shaking off the lingering weariness that seemed to settle in your bones.

You had no time to waste on it. You needed a change of scenery, even if it meant facing the sprawling halls of the Red Keep once more.

With a nod to Isla, who followed dutifully behind you, you exited your chambers. The cool stone floors beneath your feet were familiar, but today they felt different—less confining, more like a path leading you away from the staleness of your isolation.

As you walked through the corridors, your mind continued to whirl with the thought of the royal library, an oasis of knowledge that might offer you a brief respite from the tension that had settled over the capital.

You needed a moment to breathe, to think outside the confines of your chambers and the invisible walls of the court's incessant drama. The library, you told yourself, would be the perfect escape—away from the watchful eyes and the heavy silence that clung to your every move.

But the world had other plans.

As you moved through the grand hall, something shifted in the air. The usual murmur of court chatter began to fade, and the people around you seemed to press themselves against the stone walls, creating a narrow path down the middle of the corridor. The movement was subtle, but unmistakable.

“My lady–.”

Isla’s hands were suddenly on your shoulders, pulling you back, snapping you out of your reverie. You stumbled, the interruption jarring as you looked up, confusion clouding your expression.

A trail of blood lay ahead, dark and stark against the pale stone. Your gaze followed it, heart quickening as you realized it led up the stairs.

Staggering with difficulty, Rhaenyra ascended, her breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. Ser Laenor was at her side, his arm around her waist, helping her move with hesitant steps.

But it was the blood—rich, crimson—that stole your breath. It pooled at her feet and trickled down beneath her dress, the fabric stained, telling a story you didn’t yet understand. A story that made your stomach tighten with unease.

You took a step back, your instincts pulling you closer to Isla, your protector in this sea of uncertainty. “Isla… w-what’s happening?” Your voice barely rose above a whisper, a soft tremor betraying your youth.

Isla’s grip on your shoulders softened, her fingers beginning to rub small, soothing circles against the tense muscles there. Her eyes, filled with an empathy that was almost too deep for someone so young, met yours.

She didn’t offer answers, only understanding—a quiet acknowledgment of your confusion. “We women have our own battles to endure.” Her words were heavy, pregnant with meaning.

You didn’t fully understand them yet, but there was a knowing in her voice, a wisdom borne from experience. The bloodied trail that led to Rhaenyra spoke of something that you could not name, not yet, but something that every woman in the room recognized instinctively.

Childbirth, some say it is the greatest joy and the greatest loss. You were still too young to know the full depth of what Isla meant, but the reality of what you had just witnessed began to sink in.

A woman’s worth in the eyes of the world, of the court, was often determined by her ability to bear children. A working womb was a currency in the marriage market, and yet, it was also a battleground—one where victory could bring joy, but defeat could claim everything.

You took a shaky breath, the lingering tension from what you had just witnessed still prickling at the back of your mind.

Isla’s hands, gentle and reassuring, massaged the tightness from your shoulders, but it wasn’t enough to calm the storm of emotions swirling inside you. “Let us make haste.” It was time to get away, to think—to regain some semblance of control.

Turning on your heel, you decided to take the longer route. Perhaps it would give you more time to collect your thoughts, to sort through the whirlwind of guilt, confusion, and fear that had crept into your chest.

But fate, it seemed, had other plans.

As you moved through the corridor, your heart skipped a beat. Ahead of you, walking with casual ease, were the very two princes you had been avoiding for weeks: Jacaerys and Lucerys.

They were talking animatedly, one of them holding a dragon egg in hand, its delicate shell gleaming in the light. Ser Harwin, ever the vigilant protector, accompanied them.

Lucerys, the younger of the two, reached out eagerly toward the egg. “Let me hold it, Jace!” His hands made a grabbing motion, the excitement clear on his face.

Jacaerys, ever the responsible elder brother, shook his head, clutching the egg closer to his chest. “No! You’ll drop it,” he replied with a teasing but firm tone.

He had already allowed Lucerys the honor of choosing the egg for their younger brother, but the responsibility of holding it seemed to remain with him.

Then, just as you were trying to gather your composure, Jacaerys’ gaze shifted from his younger brother and landed squarely on you. His steps faltered.

The quiet stillness between you seemed to stretch for an eternity, the air thick with unspoken words. Lucerys and Ser Harwin halted behind him, both sensing the sudden shift in the atmosphere.

It had been weeks since Jacaerys had last seen you, and now, in the empty corridor, the world seemed to pause around the two of you. Ser Harwin stood motionless by their side, his gaze flicking between you and Jacaerys with a knowing look, though he said nothing.

Lucerys, always quick to react, followed his brother’s gaze. When his eyes landed on you, they lit up with recognition, and his face brightened with a childlike excitement.

“Wren!” he exclaimed, the name falling from his lips with such warmth that it made your chest tighten. His desire to hold the dragon egg seemed to vanish in an instant as he turned toward you, eager to close the distance.

You froze, panic surging through you. Your heart raced as you heard the unmistakable sound of Lucerys’ footsteps starting toward you.

‘No,’ you thought desperately, your mind screaming at you to escape, to turn away. ‘I can’t look at them.’

Not after what you had seen—after witnessing their mother in such a fragile state, bleeding and broken, a reminder of the pain that came with bearing children, with being a woman in a world that demanded so much of you.

You could not bear the thought of facing them now, of seeing their faces after your silence, after the distance you had placed between yourself and them.

You gulped audibly, your breath catching in your throat. It felt like you were suffocating in that moment, the weight of guilt pressing down on your chest.

The distance you had put between yourself and them—was it right?

You had been avoiding them, avoiding this connection, but for what?

For your own safety?

For your peace of mind?

Or had it been something more selfish?

Just as Lucerys was about to rush forward, his eyes wide with hope, you took a small, deliberate step back. Your heart ached as you looked at him, and then at Jacaerys, who stood frozen, staring at you with a mixture of longing and confusion in his gaze.

You felt torn in that instant—torn between the desire to turn toward them and the overwhelming urge to run, to escape the uncertainty and pain of reconnecting. But you could not allow yourself to be swept away by emotions now.

Not yet.

Without a word, you turned abruptly, forcing yourself to push forward. Your steps quickened as you distanced yourself from them, your mind spinning with guilt and frustration. You couldn’t bring yourself to face them—not like this. Not after what had happened.

And yet, in the silence that followed your hasty retreat, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something inside you had broken just a little more.

You turned the corner without thinking, your steps quickening into a near-run, driven by the frantic need to escape, to outrun the ghosts of what you had just left behind.

Isla’s voice called out behind you, “M-My Lady?” but you didn’t slow down. The sound of her footsteps grew fainter as you pushed forward, focusing only on putting distance between you and the princes who had been chasing you down.

But then, just as you thought you might have lost them, you heard it—the unmistakable pounding of feet from the hall behind. Jacaerys and Lucerys were running after you, their voices just audible above the noise of your pulse thundering in your ears.

They weren’t giving up. You could feel the dread crawling under your skin, making it impossible to move with any sort of calm.

What would you do if they caught up to you? What could you say? Your throat tightened, and you forced yourself to push harder.

Your thoughts became a blur, consumed by guilt, fear, and confusion, until suddenly, you collided with someone.

“Oof!”

You both stumbled, the impact shocking your body and forcing you to steady yourself. You blinked in a daze, your breath coming quick as your eyes tried to focus on the person before you. When they cleared, your gaze was met with cold violet eyes.

Prince Aemond.

Of course it had to be him.

Aemond’s posture remained stiff, his presence like a wall in the narrow corridor. His expression was unreadable, a carefully composed mask, but there was something in the way his violet eyes softened just enough to cut through the fog of your panic.

It was an odd mixture of frustration and something else—something you couldn’t quite place.

His silver hair, so much like his siblings', was neatly slicked back, his sharp features accentuated by the tension that clung to him. For a moment, his gaze held steady on you, but then it flickered briefly toward the hall from which you’d come.

His eyes narrowed ever so slightly as he took in the sight of Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Ser Harwin still standing just behind you and your maid. The princes were closing in, and Aemond noticed it—perhaps more keenly than anyone else.

The brief silence that followed was heavy, but Aemond was the first to break it, his voice cutting through the stillness with a quiet, almost bored tone. “Off to go to the library?” his gaze shifting back to you with an odd sort of intensity.

You didn’t respond with words, only offering him a small, quick nod. It was enough. He didn’t need to hear your voice, for it was clear that you were attempting to flee the very strain that had hung in the air for too long. Your movement was telling him everything he needed to know.

Aemond seemed satisfied with the silence between you both, a subtle tension in his shoulders easing as he nodded once. "Good," his words clipped but steady. "I was just heading there as well."

It was odd to hear that, coming from him. Aemond, had been visiting the library frequently—though, in truth, it was less about books and more about finding you, about catching a glimpse of you.

Since Jacaerys' nameday, you had become something of a shadow in the halls, evading both the princes and the whispers that followed you like a second skin.

His mother had mentioned something in passing, a careless remark about Rhaenyra's actions, and how your retreat was tied to that infamous day—the one where Jacaerys had dared to wear your house colors in front of the lords and ladies of Westeros, a blatant challenge to the status quo.

Rhaenyra’s brazen display of defiance hadn’t helped matters, and perhaps it had scared you off, just as his mother had suspected.

Aemond shot a smug glance over his shoulder at his nephews, his lips twitching into a barely-there smirk as he subtly asserted his presence. He had seen his mother use this particular tactic when she wanted something—a mix of charm and cold politeness that was as smooth as it was calculated.

He extended his arm toward you with a hint of courteousness, his voice carrying an air of unexpected warmth. “Let’s go together?” he offered, a polite suggestion, his manner like a polished blade, sharp but dressed in velvet.

You hesitated only a heartbeat, then accepted his offer with a stiff nod. “Thank you, Prince Aemond,” You placed your hand on his arm. You didn’t look back, not once, at Jacaerys or Lucerys, though you could feel their gazes on your back.

Aemond glanced over his shoulder, his eyes catching Jacaerys’ fiery gaze. There was a darkness in it, a simmering intensity that made it clear this was no idle glance—it was a challenge.

The storm in Jacaerys' eyes was something raw, something dangerous, and it set Aemond's lips curling in satisfaction. Jacaerys' expression revealed everything—a storm of confusion, frustration, and hurt.

Unlike a Velaryon, unlike a Targaryen, his gaze was deep and brooding, as if his heart had been cracked open and left exposed to the world. It wasn’t the look of someone who had simply been ignored; it was the look of someone whose very soul had been put to the test, and failed.

As you walked away, Aemond’s gaze lingered on the princes for a moment longer, relishing in the silent tension that had built between you and them. He could almost hear Jacaerys’ thoughts—a cacophony of silent pleas to explain, to make sense of your sudden coldness.

The boy didn't understand, and perhaps he never would.

Jacaerys, still rooted to the spot, clenched his fists at his sides. All he wanted was to talk to you, to ask why, to beg you to tell him what had happened. He wasn’t the one who had betrayed you, wasn’t the one who had caused you to shut him out.

He couldn’t understand what had changed between the two of you,  “Wren… why are you doing this?” His voice was barely a whisper, as if speaking any louder would make the entire thing too real to bear. He thought back to that night—the night of Jacaerys' nameday, when everything seemed so clear.

What had he done wrong?

Had something happened between you and Aemond when they had danced?

Was that the moment you had decided to turn away from him?

No, he told himself. This wasn't supposed to be how things ended. You two were supposed to be friends.

Lucerys, who had been watching his brother with growing concern, tugged at Jacaerys' sleeve, his small frown deepening. “Is Wren mad at us?” he asked innocently, the nickname he had given you rolling off his tongue with childlike confusion.

“No…”

Aemond sat across from you in the quiet expanse of the royal library, his long fingers wrapped around the spine of a thick tome. The silence between you was broken only by the occasional rustle of parchment as he turned a page.

His eye scanned the High Valyrian text before him with ease, a faint frown of concentration etched onto his sharp features. The brazier at the far corner of the room cast flickering shadows across the carved wooden shelves, the dim light making the spines of the books glimmer faintly.

You, on the other hand, had been painstakingly working your way through a slim Dothraki text. Your brow furrowed as you traced a finger along the lines of unfamiliar script, quietly murmuring phrases to yourself.

Though your grasp of the language was progressing, your teacher had repeatedly urged you to slow down, to let each word settle before moving on.

Aemond had dismissed Isla earlier with a curt wave, a decision that still grated on you. “She doesn’t have permission to be here,” Aemond had said, leaving no room for protest.

Isla had hesitated, glancing at you for guidance, but you could do nothing but nod, Aemond’s status dwarfed your own. Reluctantly, she had left, her concern evident in the way her steps lingered before the heavy doors closed behind her.

Now, as you adjusted your seating on the cushioned bench, you couldn’t help but glance at Aemond from time to time. He seemed entirely absorbed in his book, but you knew better.

His stillness wasn’t a sign of distraction—it was a calculated presence, deliberate and ever-watchful. His eyes often flicked to you when he thought you weren’t looking.

“Dothraki is an interesting choice,” Aemond said suddenly, breaking the silence.

He didn’t look up from his book, “A tongue of raiders and savages, some would say. What drew you to it?” his tone measured as if commenting on the weather.

You paused, setting the text aside. “It’s not just the language of savages,” meeting his gaze briefly before looking away. “The Dothraki have their own poetry, their own songs. Their way of life is different, yes, but not without meaning.”

You gestured lightly to the book in front of you. “Understanding them means understanding another part of this world.”

Aemond closed his book with a quiet thud, leaning back slightly as he studied you. “Most in Kingslanding wouldn’t bother,” he said. “They see only what they wish to see—barbarians on horseback. But you… you look beyond that.” He tilted his head, his expression inscrutable.

“Interesting.”

The compliment, if it could be called that, made you shift uncomfortably. “It’s just a language,” you muttered, returning your focus to the text.

But you couldn’t help the warmth creeping up your neck at the intensity of his regard. “Prince Aemond—”

“Aemond,” he interrupted, his eye fixed on yours.

There was no hesitation in his tone, no trace of formality. The sharpness that usually laced his words seemed softened, almost inviting.

You blinked, taken aback. “What?”

“Please,” he said, leaning slightly forward, his hand resting atop yours on the table. His grip was light, yet firm enough to keep your attention. “Just call me Aemond.”

This wasn’t the first time a prince had asked you to dispense with titles. Jacaerys had said the same, not long after your arrival at court, his boyish grin making the request seem harmless. Lucerys had followed suit shortly after.

But Aemond was different. There was no playfulness in his request, no jesting smirk. His expression was serious, almost vulnerable, as though he were pleading for you to address him just as familiarly you did with his nephews.

You hesitated, studying his face. His features were sharp, his jaw set. And yet, there was a flicker of something in his gaze—a longing, a need for connection that you hadn’t expected.

It was a look you had seen before, fleetingly. Aemond, for all his icy composure, wore that same look now.

“Aemond,” you said, testing the name.

It felt strange on your tongue, like trying on a new garment, but you saw the way his posture eased, how a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

He nodded, “Better.��� satisfied.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, but rather heavy. Aemond didn’t remove his hand from yours immediately, and you didn’t pull away. The touch, fleeting as it was, seemed to seal an unspoken understanding between you.

“You must be lonely,” you said quietly, breaking the stillness. Your words caught him off guard. His grip on your hand tensed momentarily, but he didn’t pull away.

Lonely.

Aemond had no doubt you saw right through him. He was surrounded by his family yet isolated by their indifference or outright hostility.

His older brother, Aegon, was a disgrace—lacking both the discipline and the intelligence to wield power effectively. Aegon could barely string together a full sentence in High Valyrian, let alone inspire loyalty or fear.

Helaena, his sister, was sweet but distant, lost in her own world of dreams and murmured madness. And Daeron, the youngest, had been sent to Oldtown before Aemond even had the chance to know him.

He scoffed softly. “What gave me away?”

You tilted your head, meeting his gaze. “The way you watch,” you said. “You observe everything, but you rarely speak unless it’s necessary. People who are content don’t do that.”

Aemond allowed himself a bitter smile. “Contentment is a luxury in this castle.” His eye flicked down to where your hands still touched. “Especially for second sons.” You saw a flicker of something deeper in him then—a yearning not for power but for recognition.

If only he had been born first. He would’ve been the ideal heir, the perfect prince to carry the weight of the crown. Instead, he was overshadowed by a sister he barely knew and a father who looked past him as though he didn’t exist.

He didn’t even have a dragon.

He was intelligent, disciplined, and watchful, traits honed not through indulgence but through necessity. In the Red Keep, survival was a game of shadows, and Aemond had mastered the art of moving unseen, his every word and action carefully thought out.

Much like his mother and grandfather, Otto Hightower, Aemond’s quiet demeanor masked a sharp mind and an even sharper sense of purpose.

The Hightowers were a family who preferred subtlety to brute force, preferring whispered plans over open conflict. They understood that power was best wielded from the shadows, where it could be neither anticipated nor countered.

And if there was one truth about a quiet Hightower, it was this: silence did not mean weakness. It meant calculation. It meant patience.

And, above all, it meant danger.

When Aemond first saw you stumble into the library, he was struck by a curiosity that bordered on fascination. You moved with a grace unfamiliar to him, your presence like a whisper of desert winds in a castle of cold stone.

You were Dornish, a rarity in the Red Keep, and in every way different from the rigid courtiers who filled its halls. While most moved like stiff wooden boards, you and your brother flowed like swaying curtains in a gentle breeze—fluid, unguarded, and, to Aemond’s eyes, utterly captivating.

He had watched you from the shadows at first, observing the way you poured over ancient tomes with a furrowed brow, your lips moving silently as you traced unfamiliar words.

There was a hunger for knowledge in you, a spark of inspiration that reminded him of his own long nights spent mastering High Valyrian or deciphering the histories of old Valyria.

But there was also a warmth, an openness, that he found foreign and intriguing. Unlike the courtiers who flattered and schemed, your intentions seemed unclouded.

You sought neither his favor nor his downfall. You were simply… you. And that, Aemond realized, was a rarity in the Red Keep—a place where even a child could wield a dagger with a smile.

You leaned back in your chair, a soft hum escaping your lips as you turned the page. Your eyes lingered on the words, but your mind was elsewhere, on the figure seated across from you.

There was something about Aemond, something deeper than the silvery sheen of his hair or the sharpness in his gaze.

"I suppose I’m quite lucky then," you mused, your voice low as you continued to study your book, though your thoughts were elsewhere. "I got to notice you before you become something great."

You didn’t look up immediately, but you could feel Aemond’s gaze shift towards you. His silence was telling, he had not anticipated such a response—no one ever had.

People saw him for his lineage, his title, his lack of dragon. But you? You saw something else, something he was still trying to decipher.

The room around you felt suddenly small, as if the weight of his presence was growing, expanding in the space between you. He leaned forward slightly, the soft rustle of pages the only sound breaking the stillness.

His fingers twitched at the edge of the book he was reading, but he didn’t turn it back. Instead, he regarded you, as though searching for any trace of jest, any hint of irony in your words.

But you were not smiling, not mocking him. Your words were simple, almost tender, and it unsettled him. How could someone like you—so young, so full of life—see anything in him?

He, who had spent his years buried in the shadows of his siblings, in the quiet corners of this vast, cold castle. He, who had no true allies, only enemies veiled in silken smiles.

Aemond’s hand lingered on the edge of his book, his fingers curling ever so slightly, and for the briefest of moments, the distance between you and him seemed to shrink. He could almost hear the thrum of his heartbeat in his chest, heavy and steady like the distant sound of war drums.

His eyes flickered to yours, a sharpness behind them that seemed to pierce through the layers of the conversation. "You have a strange way of looking at people.” Aemond murmured, though his words were not unkind.

You finally looked up, meeting his gaze directly. There was something different in the way he watched you now—something more than the distant prince, something that might have resembled… curiosity?

"Perhaps," you said with a slight tilt of your head. "Or perhaps I just see what others refuse to." Your voice softened.

Aemond said nothing at first, his lips pressed into a thin line. He wanted to argue, to dismiss the notion with a cold retort, but something in the air—something in the way you held his gaze—made him reconsider.

For a moment, he felt as though the very air around him had thickened, and he could not find a way to breathe through it. The words that once came easily to him now seemed distant, trapped somewhere deep in his chest.

Instead, he let out a small sigh and leaned back in his chair, looking away for the first time since your conversation began. His fingers drummed lightly against the surface of the table, as if trying to find some rhythm to settle his racing thoughts.

"You have a gift," he said after a long pause.

"To see things so clearly." He wasn’t sure what prompted the admission—whether it was the anomaly that was you or something else—but it slipped out before he could stop it.

You raised an eyebrow, "A gift? I thought that’s what you were going to say," a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. "I suppose you’ll be the one to teach me how to use it, then?"

Aemond didn’t respond immediately, but the slight shift in his posture—his body relaxing, just a touch—spoke volumes. He didn’t have the answers, but there was something in you that intrigued him, something that felt both familiar and foreign, like an old riddle begging to be solved.

The silence between you two was no longer heavy, but rather companionable, as if each of you had made some unspoken agreement to just be in that moment.

No titles. No expectations. Just two children, alone in a room, sharing a space for reasons neither fully understood.

Aemond's brow arched, a flicker of curiosity crossing his sharp features. "Are you suggesting a friendship?" His voice held a hint of amusement.

You leaned back in your chair, a light giggle escaping your lips as you looked at him with something akin to fondness. “If you are seeking for a friend,” you replied, your words teasing but not without a measure of truth. "I could certainly offer you one."

“Very well then.”

You hadn’t quite understood what had compelled you to extend that offer of friendship to Aemond, but somehow, it felt right.

Aemond, the second son, sharp-eyed and distant, had a way about him that made the walls around him feel thicker, yet at the same time, he wore an almost imperceptible loneliness.

Friendship, with him? It had been an impulse—an instinct. And, perhaps, deep down, you knew he needed it.

Days passed, and what had begun as a small, uncertain conversation in the library turned into something more. You found yourself seeking the quiet comfort of the library with greater frequency, long after your lessons had ended.

Aemond was there, as he had been before, engrossed in his books, though now he was waiting for you too. In some strange way, the days seemed to slow when he was there, the two of you quietly reading or discussing matters in the peace of the rows upon rows of dusty tomes.

And, of course, there was Dothraki. Your lessons with your mentor had progressed steadily, much to your satisfaction. Conversations with your mentor now seemed like something natural, effortless even, as though you’d been speaking Dothraki for years.

Aemond had been intrigued when you first mentioned the progress you’d made. He had, without hesitation, offered his own assistance, his interest piqued by your desire to learn languages that spanned beyond the borders of Westeros.

He insisted that once you had fully mastered Dothraki, he would teach you High Valyrian. Aemond had shown you a few words already, though they were nothing too difficult—a few basic terms, such as Muña, Kepa, Hontes.

One day your lessons had ended early, leaving you with a few hours of unexpected freedom. As you gathered your things, Aemond approached you.

He didn’t waste time with pleasantries, instead simply extending an invitation. "Would you like to watch me train with Aegon and Ser Criston?" he asked, his tone casua.

You hesitated. The idea of seeing him wield a sword was new to you. Swordsmanship, after all, was a world that belonged to others—your brothers, men of honor and skill—but not you.

And not Aemond, not like this. Yet there was something about the invitation, the way he worded it, that made you pause.

"I don’t know..." You shifted on your feet, eyes flickering towards the window. "You train with Jacaerys and Lucerys, don’t you?" You were apprehensive at first, the thought of stepping into the training yard where Aemond, Jacaerys, and Lucerys practiced was daunting.

He nodded, his expression unreadable. "They do. But today, I wanted to invite you to watch. Aegon and I are sparring, and Ser Criston is overseeing."

There was an underlying tension in his words, something you didn’t quite understand. Perhaps it was a challenge—an invitation to see something personal, something only the few close to him would witness.

The clashing swords, the gruff commands of Criston Cole, and the intensity of their movements seemed worlds apart from the more tranquil, controlled environment you were accustomed to back in Starfall.

Still, Aemond had insisted, his quiet insistence leaving little room for argument. Perhaps it was his unspoken need for your company, or perhaps it was the thought of Merek that finally convinced you.

Merek would be there, sparring with Ser Cassian. He could neve go without sharpening his skill with the sword.

Back home in Starfall, you were no stranger to the sounds of the training grounds. You had grown up with the constant clink of swords, the clash of metal against metal, and the shouts of warriors practicing their craft.

But it had always been your brother, Merek, leading the charge. He was the Sword of the Morning, and you had often visited him on the training fields, watching as he sparred with his men.

You'd bring refreshments for the weary fighters, serving them cool water or wine after their training sessions. Those moments had been a quiet comfort, a reprieve from the often tense atmosphere of the castle.

When you finally arrived at the training yard, your eyes immediately scanned the area. Aemond was already there, sword in hand, his gaze focused and intense. His brother Aegon leaning against a training dummy, clearly intoxicated.

Jacaerys and Lucerys, stood a few paces away, the younger ones already sparring under the watchful eye of Ser Criston. You took a seat on one of the balconies overlooking the yard, the height offering you a perfect view of the scene below.

A small table had been set beside you, with tea and biscuits neatly arranged, though you found little interest in them now. Isla stood behind you, her watchful eyes scanning the yard with a quiet, almost maternal air.

It didn’t take long for Aemond to notice you. His gaze flicked toward the balcony, his eyes narrowing slightly as if appraising your presence.

Jacaerys, too, seemed to notice you almost immediately. He paused mid-strike, his wooden sword hanging loosely in his grip as his eyes sought yours.

For a brief moment, you saw the soft expression that had once been so familiar between you two—a connection that, in the last few weeks, had frayed at the edges.

Lucerys, followed his brother’s gaze and found you sitting on the balcony. He smiled, the warmth of his expression breaking through the intensity of the training.

"Look," Lucerys said, nudging Jacaerys with a grin. "It’s Wren."

Jacaerys blinked, and though he didn’t smile, his eyes softened. He hadn’t seen you in weeks, not since that fateful day. The distance between you was clear, yet the connection remained.

You didn’t move, your hands folded quietly in your lap. You could have waved back, smiled, or even called out to them, but something held you in place.

A part of you longed to reach out, to break through the walls that had been built between you, but you knew it was too late for that. Too much had changed since the day you were whisked away to King’s Landing, since the day your path had diverged from theirs.

And so you watched, silent and still, as the brothers continued their sparring. Aemond was focused, his every movement calculated and precise. There was an intensity in his demeanor, a stark contrast to the brashness of Aegon or younger two.

Yet, even in his calm, there was something unsettled about him—something that you had come to understand in the time you had spent together.

The training session continued, the sound of wood striking wood filling the air. You couldn’t help but notice how the focus seemed to shift. While Criston watched over Aemond and Aegon, his attention seemed to wane as it came to Jacaerys and Lucerys.

It wasn’t that their training lacked skill—it was just that it was clear they weren’t the ones being groomed for the throne. The unspoken favoritism was hard to ignore, and though you didn’t show it, it left a sour taste in your mouth.

Jacaerys, ever the eager student, practiced diligently. You could tell he was trying harder than ever to prove himself, though it was clear that the lack of attention from Criston stung.

Lucerys, more playful than his older brother, tried to match Jacaerys’s pace, but the lightheartedness in his movements belied the strain that simmered beneath.

Aemond, on the other hand, was a study in focus. His strikes were deliberate, each one calculated and sharp, and you could see in the way he moved that he was already thinking beyond the training grounds.

There was something about him, something that made it impossible to look away. You remained seated, caught in the moment, your mind drifting between the princes.

"My lady." Isla’s voice was a soft murmur, her breath barely making a sound against the backdrop of the clashing swords below.

You blinked in surprise, shifting your gaze toward her as you adjusted the lace of your sleeve. Her eyes were wide with a mix of concern and something else—perhaps an unspoken warning.

When your eyes followed the line of her gaze, you saw the servant standing a few feet away, waiting with the silent patience of someone used to being disregarded.

“The King has requested that you sit with him as you watch the princes,” Isla relayed, her tone still hushed as if speaking too loudly would disrupt the flow of events already in motion.

You hesitated, a slight fluttering in your chest, unease pulling at you like a tightening cord. Your eyes drifted across the training yard, where the princes continued their sparring, their wooden swords ringing out in sharp, staccato beats, only to fall upon the figure of King Viserys, seated at a distance with Lord Lyonel Strong by his side.

The King’s tired, weathered face was lined with years of responsibility, and the shadows of time seemed to burden him more heavily than any of his children could comprehend.

His gaze shifted toward you. A subtle acknowledgment, a soft smile that reached his eyes as he nodded in your direction. The small gesture was enough to remind you that his words were not to be denied.

You straightened, preparing yourself to comply with his request. There was little space left for refusal, and you knew that even if you wanted to, the King’s wishes were not easily ignored. "Very well," the words feeling almost foreign in your mouth.

Isla’s presence behind you was like a tether, her hands brushing over the folds of your gown in a small, comforting motion as you rose to your feet. It was as though her touch steadied you, anchoring you to this place.

You straightened the bodice of your dress and adjusted the fabric, the gown suddenly feeling more constricting than usual, as if the very fabric was aware of the expectations that came with being near royalty.

Taking one last glance over your shoulder at the princes, their blades flashing in the air as they dueled beneath the warm sunlight, you moved toward the King’s spot.

The air felt thicker here, the distance between the lively training grounds and the King’s place of observation laden with unspoken weight. The princes’ movements seemed more labored now, less like playful training and more like carefully controlled performances—no doubt part of the unspoken spectacle for the King’s eyes.

Aemond’s focus never wavered, his strikes sharp and deliberate, while Jacaerys and Lucerys tried their best to keep pace, though there was a strange energy in the air—a shifting current that set them apart, as though some silent tension had crept in.

As for Aegon… we won’t get into much detail about him.

As you neared, the unmistakable feeling of being watched clung to you. It wasn’t just the princes now, but the eyes of the entire courtyard, flicking to you and then just as quickly returning to their business.

King Viserys remained in his seat, the air around him one of reluctant authority, tinged with the exhaustion of a man who had long carried the burden of ruling and, in his heart, and his fractured family.

His frail body seemed as though it might crumble at any moment, but the strength in his eyes—sad, weary, yet still holding onto something precious—refused to bend.

Lyonel Strong stood beside him, his sharp eyes ever watchful, scanning the courtyard with the measured calm of someone who had seen far more than most could fathom. He was a man of integrity, and his presence beside the King spoke volumes.

His gaze turned to you as you neared, softening for just a moment before a nod of respectful acknowledgment followed. The briefest flicker of something—admiration or perhaps simple courtesy—passed between you, but there was a tension in the air even here, one that you couldn't shake.

As you came to stand before the King and Lord Lyonel, your gaze briefly met Viserys’s. His eyes were tired, but they searched yours with a quiet understanding, as if he could see the storm inside you.

For a brief second, the clamor of the training yard and the heavy gaze of the princes faded into the background, and it was just you and the King, the weight of years pressing down on him and a promise of something—perhaps even something close to care—hovering between the two of you.

Dipping into a low, respectful curtsy, you greeted them, "Your Grace, Lord Hand," your words polite, the formality of them hanging in the air with a softness that felt both familiar and distant.

The King’s smile faltered, the edges of his lips twitching in an almost painful motion, a sign of the effort it took for him to form any expression at all. His hands rested on the armrests, knuckles slightly pale from their grip. The shadows beneath his eyes were deeper than you had noticed before, and his breathing seemed a little more labored, though he held himself with the poise expected of a monarch.

"Lady Dayne," he said with a voice that cracked only slightly, "I thank you for humoring this old man with your presence." His gaze lingered on you for a moment, and the warmth that touched his words seemed to almost mask the weight of his sorrow.

It was as though every simple action required a great deal of fortitude on his part, and yet, here he was, attempting to ease the burden in small ways, by offering a kind smile, by speaking with you.

Lord Lyonel Strong gave a curt nod, his manner unchanged. He rarely revealed much of what passed behind his eyes, and today was no different.

His gaze remained firmly fixed on the training yard, observing the sparring princes with the practiced neutrality of a man who had long since learned the art of not letting his emotions govern his actions.

There was no favoritism in his look, no hint of preferential treatment for any of the boys. He was a Hand, first and foremost—dutiful, stoic, unshakable.

You returned the King’s gesture, sitting up a little straighter, feeling the weight of the occasion pressing down on your shoulders. "It is an honor, Your Majesty," your words are sincere but tempered by the soft melancholy that always accompanied moments like these.

Viserys’ gaze shifted to his sons and grandsons, eyes flickering between their movements, watching the way they clashed in the training yard.

His expression softened as he observed them, the line of his mouth tightening momentarily as if battling some private thought, some aching regret.

"How do you find them?" the question carried more than just curiosity. It was as if he were speaking not only to you, but perhaps to himself as well—seeking meaning, or perhaps confirmation, in the small moments, the fleeting displays of skill or rivalry that played out before him.

He spoke with the tiredness of a father who had seen too much, yet held on to whatever small hope remained.

You looked at the princes, the graceful yet brutal choreography of their movements—sword against sword, strength against strength.

Aemond’s precision was undeniable, each strike controlled, but there was a simmering anger behind it that you couldn’t ignore. Jacaerys, in contrast, was more passionate, his strikes less refined but brimming with raw energy.

As you watched, something caught your attention—a subtle bump of shoulders between Aemond and Jacaerys as they passed each other.

Your brows furrowed, uncertainty flashing across your face. ‘Had they had a fight?’

You turned to Viserys, the weight of your thoughts pressing down on you. "They are skilled," but your gaze darted between the princes. You could feel the undercurrent of something deeper, something unsaid, between them. "You must be so proud, Your Majesty."

You spoke carefully, the words laced with respect, but also with the knowledge of the quiet rift that seemed to be growing between the brothers. The King’s eyes softened further as he watched them, though his expression remained carefully neutral.

It was clear he had seen more than you could know. "Very," he replied quietly, his voice holding a weight of its own. It was a simple response, but it carried the sorrow of a man who had seen his family, his legacy, fray at the edges.

"They are my legacy."

There was a pause Viserys shifted slightly in his chair, and his gaze turned distant, as though he were looking back through the years at moments he could never change.

Criston Cole, donned his gloves, he lifted his wooden sword, his stance firm as Aegon and Aemond charged at him.

Neither prince's strikes even seemed to faze him, his reactions swift, his blocks firm. He thwarted their attacks effortlessly, never once breaking a sweat, his eyes sharp and calculating.

The sons of Rhaenyra watched from the sidelines, a mixture of frustration and resentment coloring their expressions. Jacaerys and Lucerys exchanged a look, their brows furrowed in disappointment.

Another training session, another dismissal. They were benched, once again, pushed aside in favor of Aegon and Aemond, who basked in Criston’s praise.

But then, as if the very ground beneath their feet had shifted, a new presence entered the yard. The strong, imposing figure of Ser Harwin Strong, the might of House Strong, strode onto the training ground with purpose.

His broad shoulders were squared, and his every movement exuded a quiet strength. The moment he donned his gloves, the younger princes lit up like fires catching the wind.

There was hope in their eyes—hope that they might finally be taken seriously. “Weapons up, boys,” Harwin instructed with a smirk, his voice filled with a quiet command that the younger princes obeyed without hesitation.

They adjusted their stances, ready to face any challenge, especially when it came from the most respected warrior in the realm. “Give your enemies no quarter.” His words carried an intensity that made them eager to learn, to prove themselves.

Criston Cole, still watching from the sidelines, couldn’t hide the grimace that spread across his face as he saw the two boys come to life under Harwin's watchful eye.

There was a sneer on his lips, a disdain that couldn’t be concealed. With a few strides, he approached the group, his posture stiff and challenging.

His eyes flickered between Harwin and the young princes. “It seems the younger boys could do better with a bit of your attention... Ser Criston,” Harwin’s voice was calm but laden with an underlying challenge.

His gaze met Criston’s. “Perhaps you could share your method of instruction with all your pupils.”

Criston’s lips twitched in amusement, “You question my method of instruction, ser?” his eyes narrowing with disdain. He had no love for Rhaenyra’s children, and certainly none for Harwin.

Harwin shook his head slowly, his expression calm but firm. “Oh, I merely suggest that method be applied to all your pupils,” he said, his words direct and resolute.

There was no mistaking his intent—he was calling Criston out for his lack of professionalism, for his bias. For ignoring the boys who, by blood and birthright, deserved the same attention as their older cousins.

There was a subtle shift in the air, a thickening of the space between them. Harwin wasn’t just standing up for the boys; he was standing up for his own, and everyone knew it.

His secret was an open one—his sons, Jacaerys and Lucerys, were the product of his union with the woman who had once been his lover, and no one dared to speak ill of the Commander of the City Watch and Heir to the Throne without consequences.

Jacaerys stood a little taller, his eyes narrowing in quiet pride. He wasn’t going to let this moment pass without proving himself. He couldn’t afford to be seen as weak, not when his very future was on the line. His gaze flickered toward you, a silent exchange passing between you both.

You sat perched on the balcony, eyes focused on the sparring princes. Your expression, though calm, held a flicker of worry. Jacaerys saw it, the concern in your eyes, and it made something shift within him.

The past weeks seemed to lift, if only slightly, as he caught your gaze. You offered him a slight smile, a small gesture, but to Jacaerys, it was like a lifeline. It was the first real interaction he’d had with you in weeks, and it filled him with hope.

Aemond’s gloating about spending time with you had gnawed at his insides, but now, perhaps, he was starting to believe that you weren’t angry with him. That you might finally forgive him for what had transpired.

But before he could dwell on the thought, his attention was pulled away with a force he hadn’t anticipated. Criston Cole, with a look of impatience, seized Jacaerys by the collar, his fingers digging into the fabric of his tunic.

“Jacaerys... come here.” His voice was tight, the command heavy with authority. He dragged the young prince toward the center of the yard, where Aegon awaited.

Aegon’s grin was wide, his eyes gleaming with a mischief that matched Aemond’s. They had no love for each other, but they found great joy in tormenting their nephews, if only for the thrill of seeing their discomfort.

Aegon’s smirk grew wider, a mix of challenge and amusement on his face as he readied his wooden sword. “You’ll spar with Aegon,”

Jacaerys’ heart sank. This wasn’t the fight he had expected, not the kind that would prove his worth. But he had no choice. He couldn’t back down now, not when his pride—and his mother’s legacy—was at stake.

“Eldest son against eldest son.”

The yard fell silent for a moment as he prepared himself, hands gripping the wooden sword. This would be another test of strength, but it wasn’t just about the battle. It was about proving, once and for all, that he could hold his own among the sons of the Queen Consort.

And, perhaps, to prove something to you too.

Harwin’s grunt echoed in the yard as he watched the sparring match with a growing sense of frustration. “It’s hardly a fair match,” he muttered, his voice low but filled with clear disapproval.

He knew better than anyone the kind of fighter Aegon was, despite the prince's lack of form. Aegon fought with a savage brutality that could strip the soul of a man, and Harwin knew that kind of ferocity would not be held back.

Criston Cole, as always, had no patience for Harwin’s objections. He tilted his head with a condescending air, eyes never leaving the sparring princes.

“I know you've never seen true battle, ser,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain, “but when steel is drawn, a fair match isn’t something anyone should expect.”

His gaze remained fixed on the boys, utterly unconcerned with Harwin’s comments. It was as if the very notion of fairness in combat was beneath him. "Blades up," Criston commanded, the words clipped and firm.

The princes, fueled by their egos and the cruel teachings of their trainer, raised their wooden blades in unison. The air seemed to grow thick with the sound of their footsteps as they charged forward.

Aegon, without hesitation, launched himself at Jacaerys with all the ferocity of a wild animal, attacking with reckless abandon. There was no room for mercy in his strikes, each one a clear message: he would not allow the boy to stand in his way.

Jacaerys struggled beneath Aegon’s relentless assault. He barely managed to block each blow, his arms shaking with the strain. Aegon’s strength was overpowering, and it wasn’t long before Jacaerys was pushed to the ground, unable to defend himself.

For a moment, it seemed as if Aegon might gloat, as if he would bask in his victory. But it was in that arrogance, that moment of carelessness, that Jacaerys found his opening.

Jacaerys rose to his feet, fury and pride fueling him as he struck back. His blows were harsh and precise, a mirror of Aegon’s own savage attacks. For a moment, there was a shift—a balance, however brief, between the two.

But Aegon, never one to accept anything less than dominance, came at him again. This time, he kicked Jacaerys to the ground with an almost practiced cruelty, and Criston Cole did nothing to stop it. 

He merely stood to the side, watching, his face impassive as Aegon continued his assault. Jacaerys was pinned once again, struggling beneath Aegon’s weight as the older prince swung down at him with renewed force.

“Stay on the attack!” Criston’s voice rang out, his words dripping with contempt.

You, sitting at the edge of your seat, clenched your fists tightly, the fabric of your dress now feeling like it might tear under the pressure. The helplessness in Jacaerys’ eyes made your heart ache, and you couldn’t help but feel the bile rise in your throat.

Harwin, his patience finally breaking, stormed across the yard, his massive frame cutting through the tension like a ship through a storm. He reached Aegon in an instant, grabbing him roughly by the shoulder and pushing him aside.

Aegon yelped in surprise, stumbling back, his face contorted in indignation. “You dare put hands on me?” Aegon screeched, his voice high and petulant. He was not accustomed to being treated so.

For a moment, it seemed as though his anger might reach a boiling point, but then Viserys’ voice rang out across the yard, causing everyone to pause in their tracks.

“Aegon!” The King’s voice, though weak with age, cut through the tension like a knife.

It was a command, not a suggestion, and it immediately caused Aegon to flinch. The prince fell silent, his chest heaving with the remnants of his tantrum as he glanced up at his father in surprise. The reality of his father’s presence seemed to settle in all at once, and for a brief moment, Aegon’s arrogance faltered.

Criston, ever the defender of the royal blood, stepped forward and shielded Aegon from Harwin’s wrath, his body a barrier between the two men.

“You forget yourself, Strong,” Criston sneered, his eyes narrowing. “That is the Prince.” His words were sharp, an attempt to remind everyone of the hierarchy that had been in place since birth.

Yet, the irony of his claim—coming from the same man who had allowed Aegon to pin his nephew to the ground—was not lost on anyone watching.

Harwin stood tall, his gaze unwavering as he glared at Criston. “This is what you teach, Cole?” He motioned toward the discarded wooden swords that lay forgotten in the dirt.

His voice was like ice as he spoke, filled with a quiet, simmering fury. “Cruelty to the weaker opponent?”

Criston’s eyes flicked over the fallen swords before he rolled his eyes, brushing off Harwin’s challenge as though it were nothing. “Our interest in the princeling’s training is quite unusual, Commander,” he remarked, his tone dripping with condescension.

“Most men would only have that kind of devotion toward a cousin...” His words hung in the air, a challenge in themselves. “Or a brother...” he continued, the smirk never leaving his lips.

“Or a son,”

Harwin surged forward, his hand cracking across Criston’s face with a force that made the crowd flinch. Criston staggered back, the shock of the blow registering on his face for a brief second before the smirk returned, though this time, it was tinged with something darker.

The sound of the slap echoed through the training yard, silencing the movements of the others. Even Aegon, his mouth agape in disbelief, fell still. The crowd stood frozen, their eyes wide, unsure of what to do next.

The chaos in the training yard spun out of control, the brutal violence between Harwin and Criston unfolding in front of your eyes like a scene of madness.

Jacaerys had rushed to his brother's side, wrapping his arms around Lucerys to shield him from the violence. His younger brother’s face was pale, his eyes wide with fear and confusion. The sight of blood streaming from Criston’s face was enough to make your stomach twist in horror.

sla, quick on her feet, reached for you, but you were already rising from your chair. Your breath caught in your throat as the crimson stain of Criston’s blood spread across the stone beneath him.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away from the horrific scene, and before Isla could protest, you leaned over the stone barrier of the balcony, calling out for your brother in a panic.

“Merek!” Your voice rang out across the training yard, a mixture of panic and urgency.

Merek, who had been sparring on the other side of the yard, heard your voice break through the tension. His head snapped up, eyes searching for you before landing on your frantic gestures.

The horror in your expression was enough to make him drop Dawn, his sword, and race toward the center of the chaos.

The ground trembled under his quick steps, his focus solely on the fight. “Harwin!” Merek shouted as he reached your Harwin’s side, grabbing hold of the furious commander.

Harwin was a force of nature, the rage inside him impossible to tame, but Merek was determined. “Say it again! Say it again!” Harwin roared, throwing himself against Merek’s grip as if he could fight his own fury.

His chest heaved with the strain of his anger, blood still dripping from the bloodied fist he had landed on Criston.

Merek, his voice firm and controlled, tried his best to reason with the man. “Calm yourself, the prick is not worth it!” he said through gritted teeth, his voice barely audible over the noise of the surrounding knights.

The look in Merek’s eyes was one of cold intensity, as though he would not hesitate to take down any who dared cross him. “Step back!” Merek barked at the White Cloaks who had begun to approach.

“If you wish to suffer the same fate as Cole, I suggest you step back!” His words carried the weight of authority, of the Sword of the Morning commanding them to stand down. It was a standoff.

You stood frozen, your hands trembling as you clutched the edge of the balcony. The sight of blood, of the brawl unfolding below, made your stomach churn. You couldn’t stand to watch any longer, yet you couldn’t tear your eyes away.

“...Enough... enough!” You turned away, desperate to escape the chaos, only to find your eyes landing on the King, Viserys, sitting hunched over on the stone bench.

His breathing was erratic, his face pale and drawn, and his hands shook with visible strain. Lyonel was beside him, attempting to calm him, but it was clear that the King’s condition was deteriorating rapidly.

Viserys attempted to rise, his body trembling as he tried to stop the madness unfolding below. But he didn’t make it far. With a weak groan, he collapsed back onto the stone.

You quickly sprang into action, rushing toward him, your knees hitting the ground as you knelt beside him. “Your Grace!” you reached for his frail body, helping him sit upright as best you could.

His hand, shaking with age, gripped your wrist desperately, his eyes wide with confusion. His breath was shallow, his words disjointed and incoherent.

Lyonel, kneeling beside him, was just as alarmed. “Your Grace, are you alright?” His voice trembled, but the King did not answer. Instead, only the soft, unintelligible murmurs of his name escaped his lips.

“...Rhaenyra...” Viserys whispered, the name of his firstborn daughter slipping from his lips like a prayer, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Lord Hand, we mustn’t let the King lie down until the Maester comes,” you instructed, your words firm despite the panic flooding your chest.

You swiftly shed your coat, draping it over Viserys’ frail shoulders in an attempt to warm him. “The cold has seemed to affect him,” you added, noting how his breathing grew even more erratic.

Lyonel didn’t argue. He simply nodded and helped you keep the King upright, though he was clearly struggling with the weight of the moment.

Viserys continued to murmur incoherently, “Rhaenyra...” over and over again, the name echoing in the air like a painful reminder of everything that had been lost.

“Isla, quickly! Get the Maesters,” you ordered, your voice sharp with urgency. You turned to the guards who had been standing idly by, still watching the scene below, their expressions blank as if none of them had the courage to step forward.

“What are you all doing?!” you shouted at them. “Help your King to his chambers! Now!” Your words were a command, a fierce plea that echoed across the yard.

How you ended up at the bedside of the sickly king was beyond you.

One moment you were watching the princes sparring, the next you found yourself seated on a worn stool beside King Viserys’ bed. His labored breaths filled the dimly lit chamber, each one a reminder of how fragile his body had become.

Now, swathed in thick blankets, he slept soundly, his pale face softened in slumber. Despite his rest, his hand remained tightly clasped around your wrist.

In his delirium, he had mistaken you for Rhaenyra and refused to let you leave. You’d tried to explain, gently whispering that you were not his daughter, but the king’s fevered mind was deaf to reason.

He wouldn’t settle until your presence eased him, and so you stayed, his frail hand never faltering from his grip, even in sleep. You were only meant to remain until the true Princess arrived.

Rhaenyra, no doubt, was occupied with matters of the realm—likely filling her father’s absence in the Small Council, or so her maid had said when she brought word of the delay. You could hardly blame her; ruling even a single kingdom seemed a daunting task, let alone seven.

The room was suffused with the faint scent of medicinal herbs and the lingering warmth of the brazier by the bedside. You glanced around, noting the intricate carvings of the oak bedposts and the faded tapestries depicting scenes of conquest and unity—ironic, given the fractured state of the Targaryen family.

In the center was a miniature hand carved model, so detailed and pristine. A life’s work, one might say. Never in your wildest imaginings had you thought you’d set foot in the chambers of the king.

You’d only seen Viserys from afar in court, his crown gleaming under power and duty. He had conversed with a handful of times, often hinting at a prospect in marriage with Jacaerys.

Now, stripped of his royal regalia, he was just a man—frail, weary, and burdened by years of ruling a kingdom constantly at odds with itself.

Your gaze softened as you watched him shift in his sleep, murmuring unintelligible words that occasionally formed fragments of names. It was impossible not to feel sympathy for the man.

The Iron Throne had withered him, forcing him to bear the impossible burden of uniting a family that seemed destined to fall apart. He was a bridge between two factions, one that seemed ready to collapse under its own strain.

You exhaled softly, your free hand brushing over the linen draped over your lap. ‘What if he dies right now?’ The morbid thought seized you, and your stomach twisted.

If Viserys drew his last breath here, alone with you, the court would surely whisper of poison or treachery. They would say a Dornish snake struck in the dead of night.

The idea was absurd, truly. You were but a child, barely past your eighth nameday. Yet in Westeros, suspicion clung to the Dornish like the desert’s heat to a sunbaked stone. The highborn loved nothing more than tearing down those who stood apart.

And here you were—foreign, far from home, and unprotected by familiar faces. You swallowed hard, glancing at Viserys’ sunken face. His chest rose and fell in shallow but steady breaths, the only sign that life still clung to him.

Surely no one would think a child capable of such a crime. Surely.

And yet, the court was a den of vipers, ever eager to weave tales of betrayal. Your mind conjured the cruel sneers of Lady Redwyne, the cutting remarks of Lord Beesbury, and the veiled disdain of Alicent Hightower.

The Queen would not hesitate to seize upon such a scandal, not when her sons’ claims might be bolstered by it. You shook your head, banishing the thought. It was foolish, paranoid even.

Your mother and father would be deeply disappointed in you for entertaining such nonsense. They had raised you to hold your head high, to carry the honor of House Dayne like a blade at your side.

Still, being a foreigner in this place—a fragile bridge between two worlds—pressed heavily on your chest. Your gaze flicked back to the door, hoping to see the Princess stride in and relieve you of this strange vigil. But the corridor beyond was empty, and the only sound was the crackle of the brazier and the faint murmurs of the sleeping king.

You tightened your grip on the linen, forcing yourself to breathe evenly. You would stay until Rhaenyra came. That was your duty, no matter how uneasy you felt in the presence of the dying dragon.

His pale eyelids fluttered, and his grip on your wrist tightened, fragile but insistent. “Rhaenyra…” Viserys groaned, his voice a rasping whisper in the stillness of the chamber.

You hesitated before placing your free hand over his, a gesture meant to soothe. His skin was cold, paper-thin, the veins beneath a pale map of his frailty. “She’ll be here soon, Your Grace,” it felt as though speaking to a restless child. “Please, you must have patience.”

The old king’s head shifted slightly on the pillow, a faint wince creasing his brow. His breathing came in shallow gasps, but he clung to consciousness, as if his very being refused to surrender to the darkness creeping ever closer. 

“Patience,” he murmured, the word barely audible. “A cruel virtue… in this house of strife.”

You frowned, unsure whether he spoke to you or to some phantom of memory. His body was here, but his mind seemed adrift, carried by tides of grief and regret. The Targaryen legacy was etched into his every breath, a heavy burden made heavier still by the fractures within his family.

You wondered if, in his haze, he saw the throne he’d spent a lifetime defending or the ghosts of those who had already been lost to its cruel game.

“She’ll come,” you repeated firmly, as much for yourself as for him. You shifted slightly on the stool, careful not to disturb the frail king. “She loves you, Your Grace. You know she won’t tarry.”

Viserys’ lips trembled with a faint, humorless smile. “Love…” he muttered, his voice trailing into a cough. “A word… bent and broken… under the crowns.”

You glanced nervously at the door again, wishing Rhaenyra would appear and take your place. The room felt suffocating, heavy with the unspoken truths that lingered between the lines of his delirious murmurings.

Yet, for all your unease, you couldn’t help but feel pity for the man before you—a king whose strength had faded long before his time, and a father whose love could not bridge the chasm that divided his blood.

“Rest now,” shifting your hand to smooth the linen over his chest. “Save your strength for her.” Viserys’ breathing slowed, and his grip on your wrist loosened ever so slightly. Though he did not respond, his frail frame seemed to lax, as if your presence offered him some fleeting measure of comfort.

Still, the shadow of death loomed ever near, and you could only hope that Rhaenyra would arrive before the Stranger made his decision.

The doors creaked open, the sound echoing in the quiet chamber. You turned sharply, relief flooding your features as you saw Rhaenyra stride in, her silver hair gleaming even in the dim light.

“Your Highness…” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

She crossed the room in a few quick steps, her gaze sharp as it flicked from you to her father’s gaunt form on the bed. “How is he?” One hand rested lightly atop your head, smoothing back stray strands of hair, a gesture so tender it nearly undid you.

You swallowed thickly, trying to steady yourself. “The maester says his grace is stable… The cold has taken a toll on him, and—” Your voice faltered, words choked by the sudden onrush of tears. Your vision began to cloud, and you cursed yourself for their betrayal.

Why were you crying?

You shouldn’t be crying at all.

You were a terrible girl!

Making this about yourself while Jace and Luke—sweet, eager boys—were likely still shaken. You had ignored them, failed them, and yet here you were, wallowing in your own misery.

Ungrateful.

That’s what you were. After all that Rhaenyra had done for you—offering you her hospitality, treating you like family, ensuring you were safe and cared for since your arrival at King’s Landing—you had the audacity to cry?

You didn’t get to be sad.

You clenched your jaw, willing yourself to stop, but the tears kept coming, hot and silent. The ache in your chest grew heavier with each passing second.

It wasn’t just because of guilt; it was the longing, the homesickness, the feeling of being unmoored in a place that wasn’t truly yours. You felt lost, a wayward star drifting far from its constellation.

But the tears refused to be stopped, spilling over and blurring your vision. You tried to blink them away, but they kept falling, a silent betrayal of your emotions.

Rhaenyra crouched to your level, her hands firm but gentle as they settled on your shoulders. “Shh…” she soothed, drawing you into a warm embrace.

“All is well, sweetling.” Her voice was soft, carrying a maternal warmth that felt foreign yet comforting. You clung to her, trembling, the weight of homesickness and fear pressing heavily on your chest.

You wanted to be back at Starfall, where the summers were endless and the stars felt close enough to touch. You wanted your family—your mother, your father, your brothers, Isla.

Rhaenyra held you tighter, as though she could shield you from your turmoil. Her thoughts, however, drifted. She had longed for a daughter, a child she could cherish in ways the world wouldn’t allow for sons.

You buried your head into the crook of her shoulder, clinging to her as though she could shield you from the fears swirling in your chest. “I don’t want his grace to die,” you murmured, your words muffled but heavy with grief. 

The tears spilled freely now, soaking into her gown. For all the moments you had spent with King Viserys—the way he smiled through his weariness, how his humor laced even the gravest of conversations—you could never wish such a fate upon him.

Rhaenyra’s hand moved gently over your back, her touch steady as she drew small circles meant to soothe. “Nor do I, sweet girl,” her gaze fixed on her father’s frail form as he lay in his bed, his labored breaths filling the silence between you.

For a long while, neither of you spoke. The fire crackled in its hearth, casting flickering shadows across the room, the only sound to accompany the rhythmic rise and fall of Viserys’ chest.

Rhaenyra’s thoughts, were far from calm. How many times had she watched her father cling to life by the thinnest of threads? How many nights had she braced herself for the inevitable?

You clung to her more tightly, your tears dampening her gown. “He always smiled when he saw me,” you whispered between shaky breaths. “He’s kind, even when he’s in pain.”

Rhaenyra’s lips pressed into a thin line. “That’s his way,” she said softly, brushing a strand of hair from your damp cheek. “He bears his burdens quietly, so others don’t have to. But it weighs on him, more than he’d ever admit.”

You sniffled, “He is so frail. It feels like he could break.” wiping at your face.

Rhaenyra sighed, her gaze flicking to the sleeping king, his labored breaths filling the chamber. “The years have not been kind to him,” she admitted, her tone heavy. “But he is stronger than he seems. He has endured more than most men could bear.”

You followed her gaze, the sight of him stirring a pang of guilt. “I shouldn’t be here,” you mumbled, looking down. “This is your place, not mine.”

Rhaenyra gently tilted your chin up, her violet eyes meeting yours. “You were here when he needed comfort, and for that, I am grateful.” She pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. “You have done more than most would in your place.”

Her words offered little comfort, but you nodded, “Will he get better?” swallowing the lump in your throat.

Rhaenyra pressed her lips into a thin line. “He will fare just fine,” she replied softly, her thumb brushing against your cheek, wiping away the remnants of your tears.

You sniffled, hurriedly wiping your face. “I’m sorry, your highness. I shouldn’t have acted so crass,” lowering your gaze in shame.

Rhaenyra gently cupped your face, “You’ve done something few in this court could even comprehend,” lifting your chin so your eyes met hers. “You showed compassion. In King’s Landing, that is as rare as rain in the desert.”

Her words caught you off guard. You blinked up at her, unsure of how to respond. The court was a world of sharp smiles and veiled barbs, where vulnerability was a weapon waiting to be exploited.

Yet here she was, offering not rebuke but understanding. “The capital is full of men and women who mistake cruelty for strength,” she continued, her gaze unwavering. “They see kindness as weakness, and ignorance as virtue. But not you. Never you.”

Your lip trembled, but you bit down on it to steady yourself. “I only want to do what’s right,” you whispered.

Rhaenyra smiled, a small, almost wistful curve of her lips. “Then you’re already leagues ahead of most.” She pulled you close again, holding you in a way that reminded you of your mother’s embrace—a rare moment of warmth in a city so cold.

Long after Isla had tucked you into bed, the weight of the day’s events kept you awake, tossing and turning beneath the heavy covers. The chill of the stone beneath the bed crept into your bones, but it wasn’t enough to quiet the thoughts racing through your mind.

The events from earlier felt like a fever dream, spinning out of control, and you couldn’t shake the image of Viserys’s weak, trembling form or the cruel play between the knights.

From Merek, you had heard the news—Ser Lyonel and Ser Harwin had been dismissed from their positions as Hand of the King and Commander of the City Watch, their fates sealed with a return to Harrenhal.

The news struck you like a slap. It was too sudden, too sharp to be real. But that was the nature of this court, wasn’t it? A place where the strongest thrived and the most loyal were discarded without a second thought.

You stared up at the ceiling, the flickering light of the few candles in your room casting fleeting shadows across the stone. Despite the exhaustion, sleep evaded you. Your thoughts was too heavy, too consuming.

You thought of Jacaerys—his quiet gaze, the spark of hope in his eyes when you had caught his look across the training yard. You had wanted to give him the favor, the small token you had kept for him since the tourney.

It had been his wish, despite not being a part of the competition. But now, you were unsure. Had your coldness pushed him away? Your own actions had driven a wedge, hadn’t they? You had chosen silence over reconciliation.

Isla would no doubt scold you for this—if she knew what you planned. But the thought of facing her scolding felt like a trivial concern in comparison to the knot in your chest. With a resigned sigh, you threw off the covers and swung your legs over the side of the bed.

The cold stone beneath your bare feet sent a shiver up your spine as you slowly stood, eyes immediately drawn to the small bundle resting on the edge of your mattress.

The favor—made of purple larkspurs and ribbons, a delicate thing in the dim candlelight.

Without hesitation, you bent down and scooped it up, feeling its weight in your hand, as if it carried the weight of all your unsaid words and unmade decisions.

You slipped on your slippers and grabbed your cloak, the cool fabric swirling around your form as you made your way to the door. The halls of the Red Keep loomed dark and silent around you. The occasional flicker of candlelight from sconces mounted on the walls offered little warmth.

The castle, once familiar, now felt imposing in the quiet darkness. Every sound—every thud of through the stone your feet—seemed louder in the silence of the night. There was an unsettling quality to it all, as if the walls themselves whispered secrets and threats just beyond your reach.

Your steps echoed faintly as you moved through the corridors, careful not to wake anyone. The Red Keep felt like a labyrinth in the dark, twisting and sprawling with hallways that seemed to shift when you weren’t looking.

You passed the royal guard posted at the corners of the hall, their stony expressions unmoved by your passing. No one spoke, no one stirred. It was as if you were moving through a ghostly world of your own making.

Your destination was clear, though your heart beat faster with every step. Would he even want it now? Would he accept it? The question gnawed at you. You could turn back, you could return to your chambers and pretend this was a foolish thought you’d soon forget.

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

The sound of your knuckles against the heavy wood echoed in the quiet corridor, too loud for your liking. You glanced behind you again, heart pounding, the shadows of the Red Keep making the space feel smaller and more suffocating with each second that passed.

You could hear the faint shuffle of distant footsteps, and you held your breath, praying they wouldn’t come any closer. "Jace!" Your hand tightened around the fabric of your cloak, the cool night air prickling against your skin.

You needed to see him, to explain, to do something, anything to erase the cold distance that had settled between you two.

After a long moment of silence, the sound of movement came from within the room, followed by the soft creak of the door. You exhaled in relief, though your heart still raced.

As the door swung open, Jacaerys stood in the doorway, his expression caught somewhere between surprise and wariness. 

“Wren?”

You swallowed hard. "I... I needed to see you," the words tumbling out before you could stop them. "I couldn’t wait until morning. I couldn’t—"

You stopped yourself, realizing that you had no clear explanation for what had driven you to come to him now, in the middle of the night.

It felt impulsive, reckless, but it was too late to turn back. Jacaerys stepped aside, the door opening wider. "Come in," he muttered, though there was still something in his tone that held him back, a wariness that made your chest tighten.

You hesitated for a heartbeat before stepping over the threshold, your slippered feet quiet on the stone floor. The room felt too large, too filled with silent tension as you moved toward the bed where Jacaerys had been resting not long ago.

He closed the door softly behind you. For a moment, neither of you spoke. You stood there in the center of the room, unsure what to say or where to start. 

he favor you had carried so carefully was still hidden within your cloak, clutched tightly in your hand.

Finally, Jacaerys broke the silence, his voice softer now, though his gaze remained steady. "What’s going on, really? Why are you here?" His eyes flicked down to your hand, where the favor was still clenched tightly in your grip.

You glanced down at the favor in your hands, fingers trembling slightly as you loosened your grip. The purple larkspurs and soft ribbons unraveled before his eyes, delicate in their simplicity.

It was small, fragile, but to you, it was everything—a fragile peace offering, a wordless apology. Something to span the gulf between you, a rift that had widened without either of you fully realizing it.

"I—" You stopped again, the words thick on your tongue, reluctant to leave your mouth. "I didn’t mean to shut you out," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

"I... I thought maybe you were using me." The confession hit you harder than you expected, a raw, bitter thing, but you couldn’t stop it now. "But I’ve been thinking, and I realized I was wrong. I was so wrong, Jace."

His gaze never wavered. Jacaerys stood unmoving, his eyes boring into you, trying to decipher the truth in your voice, in your every flinch.

Every flicker of your expression seemed to unravel something deep within him. His silence was a thing of its own, a quiet kind of understanding that stilled your breath.

Finally, Jacaerys exhaled, his shoulders sagging slightly, the sharp tension easing. His gaze softened, just enough to show you a sliver of something tender beneath the veneer of caution.

"I didn’t want you to shut me out," stepping forward, his arms coming around you in a tight embrace. "I just wanted... to not feel like you were slipping away."

You closed your eyes at his words, guilt rushing over you like an unforgiving tide, cold and unrelenting. "I didn’t mean to make you feel that way," you whispered into his shoulder, the words tasting like ashes. "The court, the politics, the pressure... I’m not used to this, Jace. I’m just not."

His arms tightened around you, his warmth seeping into your skin. He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you, his gaze steady, unwavering. "I understand," But beneath the calm, there was something, a hint of something deeper in his voice. "But shutting me out only makes it worse."

You nodded, a sob rising in your chest, the lump there thick and suffocating. "I know. I’m sorry," you choked out, your voice breaking. The silence stretched between you, thick with all the things you hadn’t said—hadn’t had the courage to voice until now.

Finally, Jacaerys reached out, his hand brushing over yours as he took the favor from your palm, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

His touch was warm, gentle, a silent apology of his own. "It’s a beautiful thing," he murmured, his voice soft as he examined the larkspurs and ribbons. "I thought you might have forgotten about it."

"I never did," you replied, your voice barely audible, as fragile as the flowers in his hands. "I just... didn’t know how to give it to you after everything that happened."

He smiled then, a soft, fleeting thing, a smile that held so much more than it seemed—comfort, reassurance, and a kind of promise. It was the smile that soothed the ache inside you, melting the last of the tension that had gripped your heart. "You don’t have to explain everything all at once," he said quietly.

His words settled over you like a balm, soothing the rawness between you, and for the first time in what felt like ages, you allowed yourself to believe it.

You could almost feel the distance between you shrinking, no longer an insurmountable wall but a gap that could be bridged. It wasn’t gone—no, not yet—but it was smaller now, more manageable.

Jacaerys turned toward the window, his gaze drifting out toward the sea. "Let’s go to the beach," The soft, endless dark of the horizon seemed to call to him, pulling at something deep within. 

You frowned, caught off guard by the suggestion. "But it’s still night," you protested, the very thought of leaving the warmth of the room for the cold, dark shore feeling absurd in the stillness of the moment.

Jacaerys’s smile widened, “The night doesn’t stop the waves, Wren," the corners of his lips tugging upward just slightly.

The castle seemed to breathe a quiet sigh as you and Jacaerys slipped through the shadows of the courtyard, the heavy wooden door closing softly behind you.

You moved swiftly, your cloaks drawn tight around you, the chill of the night still hanging in the air as you made your way down the familiar path leading toward Blackwater Bay.

The guards were oblivious, their attention elsewhere as you darted past them, feet light on the cobblestone streets. No words were exchanged between you.

The path to the beach was etched into memory—the same one you had taken when you became friends, the day that felt both like a lifetime ago and just yesterday.

The salt of the sea filled the air, the sound of distant waves crashing softly against the shore mingling with the quiet of the pre-dawn hours. The first light of morning began to creep across the sky, painting it in shades of purple and gold, the sun still just a glimmering promise on the horizon.

As you walked in step with Jacaerys, the cool sand slipping beneath your feet, the silhouettes of a few fishermen dotted the shoreline, their boats gently bobbing in the water.

They paid you no mind, as if two figures cloaked in the night were nothing unusual in these parts. The world seemed still, frozen in time, as though holding its breath in anticipation of the day to come.

"Mother has decided that we leave for Dragonstone," Jacaerys’s voice cut through the silence, soft but steady, as though he were testing the words himself.

You blinked, taken aback by his sudden revelation. The words seemed to reverberate through the quiet of the morning, “You’re leaving?” filling the empty space between you.

Jacaerys didn’t answer immediately, his gaze fixed ahead, watching the waves as they rolled in and out, each one steady and rhythmic, much like his own thoughts. His expression was guarded, the lines of his face set in a way you couldn’t read.

He nodded—you could feel the distance growing, stretching out like the horizon before you, just as unreachable, just as uncertain. The thought of him leaving, of the absence that would follow, hit you in ways you hadn’t anticipated.

Your chest tightened, and for a moment, you forgot the steady rhythm of your own steps, caught in the sudden shift of the world around you.

“You’ll go?” you asked again, as if the question might somehow change the answer. You hadn’t expected it—hadn't prepared for it, not like this. The words tasted bitter, as though asking them would unravel something inside you.

Jacaerys’s gaze flickered briefly toward you, his eyes a little softer now, though still heavy with something unspoken. “I must,” he replied, his voice firm but laced with something quieter, something more fragile.

"It is what is expected." The words were familiar, the weight of duty pressing down on him with each one. He said nothing more for a long while, the world around you both feeling larger and more distant with every passing second.

You nodded slowly, the thoughts swirling in your mind faster than you could grasp them. Each one tangled with the next, a knot of uncertainty and emotion that refused to unravel.

The shoreline stretched out before you, the vastness of the sea mirroring the distance that would soon lie between you. The cool sand beneath your feet felt oddly grounding, yet you couldn't shake the sense that it would soon slip away, leaving you adrift.

Then, without warning, Jacaerys’s hand brushed against yours, warm and steady, as he came to a halt. His fingers wrapped around your wrist, pulling you gently to a stop as well. You looked at him, his gaze meeting yours, serious but soft, as though trying to find some truth within the moment.

He didn’t need to say it, not aloud, but the weight of it hung in the air—the ache of a parting that neither of you had anticipated but both knew was inevitable.

“I’ll miss you,” Jacaerys’ other hand found yours, both of them cupping your palm with a warmth that spoke volumes, a warmth that felt like the last embers of a fire soon to be extinguished.

You swallowed, the lump in your throat growing, and for a fleeting moment, you couldn’t speak. The vulnerability in his eyes, the rawness of his words, left you struggling to find the right ones.  “I’ll miss you too,” you whispered, the words barely more than a breath, but they held everything.

Jacaerys, needing something—anything—that could tether you both to this moment. "Promise to send ravens?" The words left your lips before you could even think about it, the hope in your voice clear as you looked up at 

Jacaerys’s lips curled into a small, teasing smile, and with a quick nod, he replied, “Only if you promise not to ignore them.”

Without missing a beat, you tangled your pinky with his, the simple gesture a pact between the two of you. A way of sealing what might be forgotten in the passing of time, but something you both needed now.

“Promise,”

As if the air between you could no longer contain the tension of unspoken words, you both broke into laughter. It was a sound that felt foreign and real all at once, something pure amid the complications of everything else.

But just as quickly as the laughter came, it seemed, a spark of mischief flickered in Jacaerys’s eyes. In an instant, he was pulling at the ties of your cloak, his hands quick and determined.

Before you could protest, his fingers tugged at your cloak, and with a quick yank, it was gone, leaving you only in your nightgown, the cool night air suddenly sharper against your skin.

The sound of his laughter mixed with yours as he dragged you toward the edge of the water, your feet stumbling against the uneven sand. “Jace? No!” you gasped, caught off guard, but your words were lost in the sudden burst of giggles that followed.

You tried to pull away, but his grip was steady, and in a flash, you were both closer to the sea than you ever thought you would be in the middle of the night.

The waves crashed against the shore with relentless force, their cold touch sending a sharp chill up your spine. Your nightgown, now soaked through with saltwater, clung to your skin, heavy and uncomfortable, but the laughter that bubbled between you and Jacaerys kept you light.

The sound of the waves, the crisp air, and his playful presence filled the space around you like a song. “Come on, Wren!” Jacaerys called, as he released your hand, stepping back just enough to splash you with the frothy sea water.

You squealed, shocked by the sudden coldness, but the surprise melted into laughter as you kicked your own splash back toward him. “Take this!” you shouted, your words barely audible over the crashing waves. His wet nightshirt clung to his skin, clinging to his every movement like a second layer.

Jacaerys grinned, unbothered by the soaked fabric sticking to him, but his playful demeanor faltered just slightly when you noticed something unusual—something you hadn’t seen before. As he turned his back toward you, you caught sight of a scattering of small freckles across his shoulders and down the length of his back.

“You have freckles on your back?” you asked, your voice filled with surprise and amusement, the playful tone in your words only adding to the moment’s warmth.

The small, sun-kissed dots were scattered like stardust, almost imperceptible unless you were looking for them, but they were there, peppered across his skin in a way that made him seem a little less like the prince you knew and more like someone far more familiar, far more human.

Jacaerys stiffened for a brief moment, a flush creeping up his neck before he turned to face you, a hint of a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I’ve had them for as long as I can remember,” he said with a teasing glint in his eyes, his voice shifting to one of playful defensiveness. “I didn’t think they were something worth mentioning.”

You grinned, suddenly filled with a new kind of warmth—one that wasn’t just from the laughter, but from the realization that there were so many things about him you still hadn’t fully seen.

Things you hadn’t noticed before, like the way the sunlight caught in his hair, or the way his freckles dotted his skin like little secrets he’d never shared.

“Well,” you teased, stepping closer, “I think they’re cute.”

Jacaerys rolled his eyes dramatically, his smile never fading. It was as if the world had shifted just slightly. As if he had learned something new about himself, something that had quietly taken root within him without him even realizing it.

No matter what the future held, no matter how far away you would be from him, his heart would always yearn for you. Because no matter how long it took for him to see you again.

He was only an island away.

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[the20thangel]

As My Queen Commands

Summary: This was a request: The war has ended, leaving a few survivors for the Targaryen family. As the oldest living child of Queen Rhaenyra and King-Consort Daemon, you have been crowned as Queen. Your council worries this is insufficient to stabilize the realm and urge you to marry. So, a ball is hosted to find a potential husband. There, you happen to meet again a certain lord from Raventree Hall.

Targaryen!reader X Benjicot Blackwood

Tags: no use of y/n

Word Count: 1.9k

masterlist

It has been five moons since the war officially ended, with only a few survivors left: Your sisters, Baela and  Rhaena, You, and your brothers Aegon and Visery. In contrast, poor little Jaehaera was the only survivor of the greens. They wanted to marry the little princess to your brother Aegon to show peace to the realm, but you fought tooth and nail against it. Luckily, it worked, with the princess warding in Driftmark with Baela. Rhaena decided to stay in Kingslanding to continue helping in looking after Aegon and Viserys. You were forever grateful to her, not knowing how you would have juggled caring for two small princes and bringing peace to a kingdom on your own. 

You sighed as your maid finished braiding your platinum hair into beautiful Valyrian braids. Lord Corlys Velayron, one of your advisors, decided that if Aegon did not marry Jaehaera, a ball needed to happen; you required an heir. You needed to marry someone to strengthen your reign and have said heir. You grew upset at the news, stating that Aegon and Viserys were your heirs. You did not need to marry so soon but to focus on the realm. But the lords opposed it, stating that an alliance would help strengthen prosperity for your reign. After countless arguments, it started to weigh on you. You surrendered yourself to finding a husband to ease the tensions. You knew that, realistically, you should have been married already, but with a war, nobody besides Cregan Stark would have the luck to find a spouse. So it was decided the ball was a host to find lords who would gladly become king consort. 

“Thank you, Diana. That will be all tonight,” you dismissed your maid as you finished placing your red ruby jewelry on your body: a necklace, earrings, and rings. 

As you rose, making sure you seemed presentable, you heard a knock on your chamber doors, calling for them to enter; came in little Viserys, wearing a red and black doublet and a black cape. Smiling, you went to your brother, kissing him on the forehead, asking him what brought him to your room. 

“Aegon and I decided to escort you and Rhaena to the ball. I wanted to escort you!” Viserys excitedly explained, his purple eyes glowing. 

You smiled at him, your heart growing fond of his childish excitement at a party in his own words. You gladly extended your hand to him as you both walked to the ballroom. Servants, knights, lords, and ladies smiled at the scene of the young prince escorting his queenly sister. As you grew closer to the ballroom, your heart started racing. You needed to find a husband, a husband who would defend you without hindering your rule. A Husband who will love you and not stray in lovers. A husband who would be okay with not being the center of attention or being unable to spend time entirely at his keep. More importantly, you need a husband who would love your brothers as sons as you have grown to love them as your sons. These two boys suffered so much that they needed parental figures. You gladly took on that role, and you knew other lords would instead ship them off to the ward and focus on their children from your union. You would not allow that to happen; your brothers would be raised together with any potential children. 

As your royal titles were introduced, you entered the ballroom; the once somber room brought back to life like the times of King Viserys I. Numerous houses' colors and banners hang from the gilded walls. You walked with your head held high, noticing how every male in the room turned to you, looking at you like a piece of meat or prize to be won. Disgusted, you knew this night was going to be a long one. 

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

After two hours of mindless chatter and many toes sore from lords clumsy stepping on your feet, you felt like you would burst. If one more lord came up to you talking about their “accomplishments” or your hand for a dance, you were considering feeding them to your dragon.

 Rhaena, noticing her sister’s mood, quickly went to her side. 

“Sister, why don’t you step outside for a while? I will distract the lords… tease them that I also might be willing to marry one,” advised Rhaena, squeezing your hand. 

You smiled gratefully at her; she knew you well as you nodded and sneakily walked out of the ballroom. You decided to go into the courtyard, where there was silence; walking alone, you sighed in relief. Away from the court’s hungry eyes, you felt like you could finally breathe; you heard the chirps of crickets and the noises of the small folk outside the walls. At least your people had the chance to have fun and eat after suffering for so long due to the war. If people were happy, then you would be willing to suffer through 100 more balls. Walking further to the training yards, eyes filled with tears. Remembering when you secretly train with Jace and Luke here once, you pick up a bow. You were more of an archer than a sword fighter. Feeling the need to release some stress, you notched your bow, aiming at the targets, letting it go. With glee, you smiled, seeing how it hit the center of the target. Notching another, you continue your meditation of aim, notch, release, and hit. You forgot about the outside world, silly lords, and their silly ideas. Let yourself forget the constraints of marriage that will soon find you one way or another. As you notched your bow again, you heard footsteps close to you; you aimed at the intruder, who quickly froze, raising his hands in peace. 

Seeing the familiar red and black clothing, you sighed, lowering your bow, “I would think you knew better than to sneak up on a dragon princess, Lord Blackwood.” 

“Dragon Queen, you mean? And I did not mean to; I was just walking around when I heard the sound of arrows, and my curiosity peaked, not expecting to find the queen here.” teased Benjicot, smirking at you. 

You snorted with an unamused brow raised. You tended to forget that you were now the queen, not a princess. 

“Hmm, what about you… Does the Bloody Ben not do ballroom dances?” you ask, not letting yourself falter from his teasing. You grin as you see him flush red and look down at the floor. 

“ I’m sorry, my queen, but I fear, no, dancing is not one of my skills, and after stepping on a few toes, I thought it best to save more maiden’s poor feet.” embarrassedly explained Benjicot, his eyes still to the ground. 

As you began to giggle at the mental image, he raised his head sharply, his eyes widening as he heard your soft giggles. He hoped you would not notice his cheeks flushing red even more, but he thought seeing you laughing was beautiful. He always admired you from afar during the war, but he was so busy leading the armies and you with the stress of your mother’s state. Neither had a chance to speak to one another properly. Then, after the war, he had to return to his lands and tend to them, and you were crowned the queen. 

After your giggles, you smiled at him, noticing how he stared at you like you were the moon, blushing you asked him to walk with you. Walking in serene silence, your fingers brushed against one another. You smiled at the feeling as you wondered how his lands were doing. 

Benji smiled at you, “It's going well; we are recuperating from the war; it helps that since my lady aunt Alysanne has married lord Stark, the Brakens haven’t tried to enter our lands…forgive me, I should…” Falter Benji worried you would become upset hearing about his house's feud with the Brakens. 

Seeing this, you turned to him, grasping his hands, “ Benjicot… we fought a war together. I saw how the Brakens treated your family. I do not mind hearing your worries, my lord. On the contrary, I wanted to ask why there hasn’t been an official border separating your lands from theirs?” 

Benji smiled wry at you, “We have in the past, but… no offense to your grandsire, but he did not deem it essential to discuss.” 

You sighed, knowing your grandsire had made many mistakes, including allowing Otto Hightower free reign in his kingdom. You will not make the same foolish mistakes. 

Smiling, you replied, “How about a moon after the ball? I invite houses Blackwood and Bracken to set a clear border separating your lands finally. Hopefully, this will stop the bloodshed between the two houses.” 

Benji gaped at you. He couldn’t believe you would do that for him and his family after many years and losses. He quickly thanked you, kissing your hand as you graced him with a pearly smile. You noticed you had been gone for a while, and Rhaena would probably start worrying. You two walked back towards the ballroom, taking your time, not wanting to leave each other's company, as Benji asked how he could repay your generosity. 

Humming, you finally clicked that he was here at the ball; he was an eligible suitor, and House Blackwood was loyal and fierce. What better match than them than him? 

“Lord Blackwood, I just remembered you are here tonight. Were you going to try for my hand like the other lords?” you asked, hoping he said yes. It would be easier to explain your decision to him. 

Benjicot froze as he tensed his shoulders. He hoped you had forgotten the purpose of so many houses here. He decided to tell you a white lie so your rejection would not hurt. 

“I came to celebrate you, my queen, but yes, I came to look for a potential wife… so many houses came that my advisors are pushing me to try and…charm a lady to want a marriage alliance with my house…but-” 

You frowned, a lady? “Not a queen?” you interrupted as you watched his face; he seemed shocked by your question.

Gulping, Benji noticed your eyes sharpened. “No, my queen, I could never insult you like that. What could my house ever bring to you in a marriage?” 

Your eyes softened at his humble words; all these lords came flocking their houses and praising what a potential marriage would bring to the realm and the crown. Yet here was one lord who truly enjoyed her company, not looking for marriage because he believed he was not worthy of such a thought. 

As you walked closer, you stroked his cheek before moving your hand to his lips, your thumb caressing his lips as you whispered. 

“House Blackwood stood by my mother throughout the war; you fought bravely in battles for my family, reclaiming Kingslanding and all without thinking of any sort of payment. Even today, while every lord flocked to me like peacocks showing off their ‘qualities,’ you humbly state how you feel you are not worthy. You still expected nothing from me, even once I said I would build a border to keep your lands safe from the Brakens. What more could I ever ask for a future king consort? You, my lord, are different, and I cannot help but ask for you at least think of marriage with me.” 

Benji smiled, leaning closer to you, “Is that a command from you, my queen?” 

Grinning, seeing how he never rejected your confession, you leaned closer, your lips nearly touching, “If it is, would you accept my lord?” 

Huffing in a quiet laugh, “As my queen commands of me,” he replied, kissing you sweetly. 

Melting into his embrace, you smiled at his kiss, feeling the future in his arms seemed brighter. 

[ashblooddragons]

My Heart, My Ruin (Prolouge/?)

22 ac Kingslanding

Maegors pov

I could hear my good-sister's screams well into the night. I finally gave up trying to fid sleep once the hour of the owl came, I climbed out of my bed and went to where I knew my brother would be waiting until his wife had given birth to their child. She’s been in labor since yesterday at the hour of the wolf, surely she should have had the babe by now.

When I walked in I saw mother and father standing next to each other whispering as my brother sat in a chair sobbing.

“What’s wrong, she’s been in labor since yesterday, shouldn’t the babe be here?” I ask as I rub the drowsiness from my eyes. 

I watch mother and father look at each other silently having a conversation with only their eyes. Probably deciding if I should know or not. But it is not them who answers but my sniffling brother.

“The babe won’t come, the Maesters think Alyssa’s contractions are too weak.” Aenys sobs out.

“These are just guesses my son, they are giving her a concoction now to strengthen them.” Father says rubbing Aenys back as he sobs into his hands. 

I look at Mother and see a scowl on her face, she never liked how Father treats Aenys compared to me says he “treats him like some infant looking for their Mother’s teat.” and in this moment of watching his brother sob so openly, he wonders if his mother is right.

“What would happen if the concoction doesn’t work?” I ask looking from my brother to my Mother.

“Then we will have to choose who lives, the babe or the Mother.” Mother responds in a cold calculating tone. This only makes Aenys sob more.

“But it will not come to that, we have the greatest Maesters in all of the seven Kingdoms we have nothing to fear.” Father says trying to reassure Aenys again as he glares at Mother.

Mother scoffs and takes a sip of her amber gold wine, she doesn’t like it as much as Dornish red but ever since Rhaenys death she won’t touch anything to do with the Dornish. She often says. “They took my sister with that scorpion arrow, I suppose I am glad they had horrible aim and Meraxes did not perish either. If this, me not drinking their wine is the only way I can show how I hate them, then I will.” 

Mother and Father say Meraxes had seen the arrow coming, she had tried to dive so it wouldn’t his either her or Aunt Rhaenys, but she hadn’t noticed quick enough, and the arrow had split her in two. Meraxes has been inconsolable since her rider’s death, but Father has said he swears he sees her flying above Kingslanding over the last moon, as if looking, searching for something. This is odd as she much prefers the sulfur rocks and salty air of Dragonstone compared to Kingslandings stench and filth. 

I can not blame the dragon though, I do as well, I’d much rather be on our ancestral home instead of this filth-ridden city.

We all flinched, well besides Mother, when we hear a bone-chilling scream from Alyssa, and then it all went quiet. I hear Aenys sob more thinking his wife as perished until we hear the cries that only a healthy babe could make. 

Aenys bolts out of his chair and rushes to his wife, Mother, and Father not far behind them. I sigh in relief knowing I can finally get some much-needed sleep. 

The next morning I go to visit my new niece, when I enter I see my good-sister asleep on the birthing bed with new sheets dorning it so the stench of blood isn’t as pungent in the air. I turn and look at my brother who is smiling down at a bundle in his arms.

Are babes truly that small, Alyssa was huge and the bundle doesn’t even reach the length of my brother's forearm.

I’m cut out of my musing when Aenys looks at me smiling waving me over trying to keep quiet as to not wake his wife or the babe.

“Come meet your niece, Rhaella.” He says as he rests the babe into my arms making sure I hold her right.

When I look down I see her looking up at me with the most gorgeous lavender eyes I’ve ever seen, they take my take my breath away. I shake my head trying to gain my bearings again. 

“She’s so small, is she supposed to be this small?” I ask as I move some of the blanket to see a swarm of silver-white curls atop her little head.

“I had asked the Maesters the same thing, they said it’s normal for the first to be small.” He responds touching the tufts of hair upon her head. 

I nod not taking my eyes off hers, I couldn’t look away even if I wanted to. I sit on a plush armchair staring at her, staring at the very being who seems to keep my heart pumping now, the very thing I will always adore and cherish, the one thing, one person I could never hurt. I knew in this moment she would be the very focal point of my heart, but she would also be my very ruin.

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Special thanks to my bestie @sugutoad for making the Header for this fic!!! I swear I'd be lost without you Girly!

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[my-heart-beat-for-anime]

HEIRESS OF FIRE AND BLOOD

Pt.1

I hope you like it

In 131 AC, a bloody war was fought between the divided Targaryen house, at the end of the war, the daughter of the previous queen Rheanyra took the throne, the girl tried to return the whole kingdom to peace and tranquility. Unfortunately, the peace that the new queen tried to establish did not last long, as the greedy eyes of a powerful man focused on this very planet. And Harkonnen always got what he wanted.

The kingdom was recovering from a bloody dragon war, and all eyes were on the new dragon queen, Learys Targaryen. The young, barely nine and ten -year-old girl has already proven herself as a strong leader of armies, but also as a protector of the innocent in the cities, which were attacked by the green armies. Although she was a beloved ruler and wanted queen, she did not smile unless she was in the presence of the rest of her family. She kept her brother and cousin close by her side, refusing to let them out of her sight. Many servants recall how the young Prince Aegon sought comfort in her arms when the night terrors seemed all too real, or when the queen was found braiding little Jeaheara's hair into an intricate hairdo which she then decorated with flowers, it was also a rare case, when even the little princess smiled. Although many advisors recommended that Jeaheara be taken away from Kingslanding, the queen retorted firmly that the house of the dragon would no longer be divided according to the past war and that she would not send a daughter to suffer for the sins of her father.,, Jeaheara is of my blood and will therefore remain by my side where she will be granted shelter and welcome.” announced the queen to settle the issue once and for all.

 The peace that the kingdom needed was disturbed by the arrival of three harkonnen warships, which like shooting stars fell to the surface of the planet, which the ruthless na-baron was tasked to conquering and adding to his uncle's empire.

"My queen," the guard rushed into the gardens and called for the queen, who was trying to convince her little listeners that she had really flown to the sun on her dragon. "What's the rush?" asked the queen with tension in her voice.,, Three harkonnen warships are approaching, lord hand wishes to discuss strategy in the throne room.",,Take the children to one of their rooms and keep them inside." she ordered in a commanding tone as she made her way to the throne room with her guards.

 Once seated on her throne, the Queen was presented with information that Harkonnens are about to land near Storms End, and that from the equipment they were carrying, it looked like they were ready for war.,, When will they land Grandsire” she asked her grandfather and the lord hand, Corlys Velaryon.,, Over the next three hours." the girl just nodded and then shouted at the guard.,, "Prepare my dragon." The guard just bowed down and rushed to fulfill his order.,, Your Grace you can't be serious, you can't..” began one of the lords but was immediately silenced.,,I am the queen, and as queen I will protect this kingdom with my life. My dragon is the fastest and strongest in the kingdom. We will end it with the Harkonnen as quickly as possible so that they do the least amount of damage and there is no one to change that because if they try to take this planet they will meet nothing but fire and blood.” the queen finished her battle speech.,, Now if excuse me my lords, I must go prepare for battle.” All the men in unison bowed to the departing woman and lowered their eyes to the floor in respect to her.

Learysa was fitting the last piece of her war riding armor when there was a knock on her chamber door. Thinking that it is her servant, the queen gives permission to come inside. What she didn't expect, however, was her brother with tears in his eyes. "What happened my sweet boy?" his sister asked him. Instead of words the young prince ran into her arms where he nestled like a little bird. "I don't want you to go, I don't want to lose you like the rest of our family ." Aegon cried. Learysa gently stroked his hair and whispered to him,, You will never lose me my little dragon, I will always come back to you, but right now I really need you to stay with Jeaheara and take care of her, would, you do this for me my brave knight.” The prince just snorts and nods. The siblings share a last moment before a servant comes in to say the dragon is ready.

 Feyd-rautha had just been informed that contact would be made with the planet's surface in ten minutes. He couldn't wait for his new blade to taste new blood. He looked forward to the conquest, war and bloodshed as he planned. There was no way the little princess who called herself queen would manage to get an army together. This planet was theirs. Just as his planning was peaking the ship landed and the na-baron rushed forward to start the whole thing. However, he did not expect that when the door of the ship opened, that the only one figure would be waiting for him. He didn't even count on the fact that he wouldn't be fighting against a princess or a queen, but against a fucking dragon.

[snowprincesa1]

{A Fool of A Brother (2/2)}

//Grown!Daemon x Grown!F!Arryn!Reader//

Summary: Daemon just cannot bring himself to let you go

[Trigger warnings‼️ contains NSFW and Daemon]

Daemon insisted that your presence was necessary in kingslanding, stating that it would be good for the Queen’s health.

“It would be excellent for her marriage prospects as well” Daemon said to king Viserys in the comfort of his bedchamber where he sculpted listening to his brother trying to convince him to keep you in the red keep them send you back.

“Daemon, Do you like the girl?” He asked aiming straight for the head. Daemon stayed quiet not knowing what to say or admit

“No. She’s far too different from me, we clash at every corner” he sighed. He later said it would be best to keep you by the queen’s side instead of rotting in the Vale with the painfully dry Vale men. Daemon had somehow managed to stall his marriage to Rhea Royce for even longer keeping the ‘bronze bitch’ in the vale single and unwed.

Daemon had grown much more taller whereas you remained the same height, he grew from a lean teenager to a muscled prince, now when Daemon takes you on walks with your hand resting on his arm you swear you feel muscle and it sends a shameful shiver of lust down your spine. Were you so easily swayed by a man who was both lean and had some muscle? You shook away thoughts of him. You remained relatively the same, gaining more of a womanly figure if anything. You still wore a light veil over the back of your hair with a jewelled headband at the front. You grew quite popular amongst the lords and ladies being unwed you had many eyes on you. You spent your days reading, praying, embroidering and talking with the ladies and being in the company of your sister. The red keep felt like home.

You were praying in a Sept finding a minute of peace when you heard familiar foot steps, you didn’t have to look back to tell who it is “Daemon, go away” You said your hands still clasped together as you tried to concentrate on your prayer. “Are you praying again?” He asked, Was it not obvious? You opened your eyes to send him a glare to which he responded with a cheeky smile. Her sat beside you watching you pray “are you done now?” He asked impatiently. You couldn’t pray with daemon breathing down your neck.

“What is it?” You snapped in irritation, Daemon remained unphased. “I have something for you” you groaned in response “If it is a toad again I will kill you”

“Threatening to murder the commander of the city watch and the prince of the seven kingdoms. You could never change” He smirked “You’re like a tree forever stuck in one spot until someone uproots you”

“If i am not mistaken a tree symbolises qualities like wisdom and stability” You retorted

“None of which you have” he quickly added before smiling smugly “turn around for me” He instructed. You hesitantly turned your back to him when you heard the sound of metal and suddenly felt cold steel at the base of your neck. “Valyrian steel” you gasped looking at the necklace “where did you get this—“

“I had it made for you. I cannot bear to see your neck so bare” he sighed dramatically. Oh yes, another aspect of daemon which came unexpectedly was his protectiveness over you. If your wore anything revealing he would keep an eye out for the lords, the guards, everyone! “You are the pervert, Daemon” You would laugh. He would accompany you everywhere if possible much to your annoyance. If you headed out? He would send his finest guard’s or accompany you himself to the seamstress,,, he said it was his duty as he was the one who took you from the sulking weather of the Vale, which you so happened to miss fondly.

You stayed in kingslanding for about six whole years, now a woman of twenty two and you somehow missed the Vale like a child, you missed your half brother Elys and the rest of your friends there. Your sister Aemma was going through hell losing babies over and over and giving birth to stillborns. You begged Viserys to let Aemma be but he said having a male heir is the duty of the king. Rhaenyra was growing up nicely, she being absolutely fond of you. The hand’s daughter Alicent visited the red keep as well, the two girls often following your trail and copying your mannerisms. Especially Alicent, who was also a devout follower of the faith.

Daemon was..Daemon, he carried out his commander duties brutally maiming almost half the city in a span of single night. Of course it was only the ones deserving of punishment who were tortured, Daemon had single-handedly lessened the crimes in Kings landing. He preferred to spend his night sleeping around with whores in the streets of silk. Daemon’s taste was peculiar, before he had met you he always preferred women with silver Valyrian hair. One night he saw a consort who had the same colour of your hair, not quite the same texture but the thought of you as bare as her sent blood rushing to his lower half. He shamelessly ended up fucking the woman from the back imagining your moans and cries instead of hers. He came with your name on his lips. It wasn’t the same, he wanted to know what you felt like, whether you would be a brat or submissive. Mysaria ended up dying her hair the same colour as yours for Daemon but nothing worked she could never get the prince to look away from you.

Daemon tried so hard to seduce you. His failed attempts were pitiful, you were dead set on following the proper traditions that is sharing a bed with a husband. Daemon could not understand how you managed to push him away? When thoughts of you had stayed in his mind throughout all his days and it was driving him mad. For some reason one day he ended up ‘hugging’ you from behind, in all honesty it was a tackle to annoy you. His head buried in your neck as he tried to keep you still and stop you from whatever the hell you were doing. The scent of you was too much for him, too sweet, now he knew what you smelt like upclose and he wanted more. The prince practically rushed out of the room to deal with his growing ‘problem’ that would keep him occupied for the rest of the day. Your relationship with Daemon was weird, you fought like cats and dogs but yet there’s no one else you would rather spend your time with. Hell you even missed him when he went away. Whenever Viserys was mad at Daemon you would put in a word and calm him down, it was very odd how soft you had grown for Daemon. And Aemma and viserys were not blind to it. Daemon would attend dinners you did and sit by your side, ‘accidentally’ grazing your hands reaching for a dish or passing you the wine. It was driving you insane, these little touches his rough hand gently touching yours, you were not blind to how handsome he had grown. The Gods would have to forgive you for lusting over a betrothed man.

The temptation Daemon posed over you, like a hanging fruit in sight but out of reach for you. He was doing it on purpose you knew, you weren’t daft but God did it work. You started growing jealous about the fact that Daemon spent his nights in brothels, complaining about how it wasn’t right and princely but deep down you were just bitter with jealousy.

Daemon always believed that he was immune to jealousy delusional but that was proved wrong for Rhaenyra’s seventh name day. It was decided that a tourney be held for the Realm’s Delight. Rhaenyra was a mischievous one, often teasing her uncle with you regardless of the lords and ladies in her presence and that set off even more rumours about the two of you, but no one dare say anything to you fearing the rage of Daemon and Caraxes.

You knew daemon was to participate for the tourney so you didn’t bother searching for him in the morning. He was undoubtedly practicing and you didn’t want to disturb him. You were to sit next to your sister Aemma but you suddenly saw a familiar face from the Vale, lords of the Vale had come to participate and bet on the winners. You looked at your sister in delight, it was she who planned this for you because she knew how much you had missed the Vale. You took your seat next to a minor Vale lord talking to him and catching up on all that had happened.

Daemon was watching from the stands as the squire put on his night black Targaryen armour. He looked to see you looking so beautiful in a light purple gown, looking so radiant in the sunlight and then he saw the disgusting man next to you and he saw red. Rhaenyra didn’t help either, she was visibly mocking Daemon motioning kissing signs between you and the lord enraging him even more. He knew you were unwed, he hoped you would not fall for some unknown lord of the Vale.

“You should come back to the Vale, you have spent far too much time here in kingslanding” your friend Gerald said

“I suppose that is true..almost seven years” you muttered “but I’ve been happy” you said looking at Daemon who was getting on his horse.

“You are a maiden of twenty two and still unwed, you should start living for yourself instead of just tending to the Royal family, I’m not saying it’s necessary to marry to be happy..but think of the long run” he said, Gerald cared for you and did not wish for you to be a spinster.

“I know Gerald” you sighed

“You have been waiting for him..but he is betrothed, to another” he said “come back to the Vale perhaps then you could come back to your senses” he said.

“What— prince Daemon? For the last time there is absolutely nothing going on—”

“That I know, and that is the problem. He’s not yours and you’re here all doe eyed waiting for him” you felt all the fire in your soul dampen at his words, the hopes and delusions you had been clinging onto desperately being pulled from beneath you “I did not mean to upset you”

“I’m not upset” you said blinking away tears. Perhaps Gerald was right..you certainly didn’t want him to be. You missed the Vale, a quick trip wouldn’t hurt. It would be rid of Daemon and you can think for yourself and come to your senses just like Gerald said.

“Gerald can I ask you for a favour?” You asked leaning in to tell him something to which he willingly agreed to.

Rhaenyra yelled something in high Valyrian mocking Daemon that made ser Harold have to gently escort her away from the stands. Away from the already fuming prince. What were you saying to that lord? He was upset with the lord and he was upset with you. He decided to get revenge he knew you would expect him to ask you for your favour like he did in the other tourneys but he decided to play with you a little. When riding his horse his lance stopped before you almost as though asking you for your favour, you were about to stand to give him it— when he suddenly tilted the lance towards another woman. The woman blushing gave him her favour willingly. Daemon’s looked at you smirking all the while as he felt as though he had the upper hand. Your face was a mixture of shock and jealousy.

Gerald leaned in “I told you” he said before your face completely fell in sadness. You looked away from daemon. Daemon should have relished seeing you upset like he did at that moment, but instead it tore him up in the inside. It was too late now, he would have to apologise for this he knew. Lord Gerald spent the rest of the tourney cheering you up and you even ended up giving your favour to a lord from the Vale itself, but of course he was upstaged by daemon’s battle skill. Daemon felt like he had lost seeing as to how you ignored him. When the tourney ended Daemon had won. He raised his lance in the air listening to the claps of the audience. He turned to look at you but saw that your seat was empty. You were now sitting back next to your sister telling her something, Aemma looked upset but seemed to agree nonetheless. The feast would be a perfect opportunity to try and make up for what he’d done, perhaps he could kiss your hurt better, he fantasised for himself as the squire took off his armour. How would your lips feel on his?. God forbid he sees you with that lord, he’d probably pull you away there and then and take you somewhere more private where just the two of you could spend time..but then again you’d never allow it. Daemon was surprisingly introverted, only ever trusting a few of his guards and his family and never bothered to converse with anyone else. You on the other hand though reserved, loved making conversation and talking to all the people. He thought more about you, a part of him felt smug over the fact that you were upset that he didn’t ask for your favour. Perhaps instead of apologising…he should tease you. Yes that would be much more preferable.

Daemon arrived late to the banquet, nothing unusual making his way into the hall stealing the attention from Viserys as usual. Rhaenyra was busy eating the lemon cakes, Daemon looked around he didn’t see you— anywhere for that matter? Were you so upset you were crying in your bedchambers? He should go see you and kiss your tears away if you let him of course.

He didn’t want to ask Viserys where you were, as the king already had doubts that he bore affections for you and he wanted to avoid providing his older brother more information on how he feels for you. Daemon slid his way to the dessert section where little Rhaenyra was, Rhaenyra looked up at her uncle with a smirk.

“Where is she?” He asked folding his arms

“With lord Gerar- Gerarld” she completely destroyed his name as she put a spoonful of cake in her mouth. Daemon couldn’t believe what this had come to, getting teased and mocked by his niece. He sends her a glare before taking the plate from little Rhaenyra as his pitiful sort of revenge. “That’s mine!” Rhaenyra yelled as he walked away.

He looked around to see Aemma and Viserys give him a look for taking a plate of cake from their seven year old daughter. She deserved it, he thought. He took a piece of cake eating it as he walked to his brother.

“Where’s the lady Arryn, she’s late” he said “I think you should let me discipline her for her tardiness..it’s unfitting for a lady like her” he said pulling a chair next to the married couple who he third wheeled. The Gods, Viserys and Aemma just wanted him to marry and go away at this point.

“Lady Arryn? I have no idea” Viserys said “and no you will assort no punishment of any sort” he said

Daemon looked to Queen Aemma who averted her gaze somewhere else “you know something regarding this, my queen?” He asked leaning on the table to intimidate her and get a response

“Don’t bother my wife..” Viserys sighed smoothening his scrunched up forehead.

“Does nobody in this fucking hall know where she is?!” He yelled causing the lords and ladies to look at his outburst. “Excuse me brother” he said leaving the banquet hall. He stormed out essentially. He was going to march up in your room but for some reason he had a bad feeling in his gut..why were you late? You were never late? The headache you caused him. He pushed open your bedchamber doors wide.

“You! Where have you been!” He asked “you didn’t congratulate me on my win or tend to me when I fell off my horse” he scolded you “what are you doing?” He asked with wide eyes, bags, packed bags. Your room was being emptied. “What is all this?” A handmaiden entered the room to take another bag wherever.

“I’m leaving Daemon” you said “is it not obvious?”

“No. No I will not allow it”

“I do not need YOUR PERMISSION and it’s already decided”

“What of your sister? What if she becomes with child again? She would need you by her side?”

“Daemon— she has maesters and—”

“What of Rhaenyra? The girl looks up to you! And you are just leaving like that!” Daemon sighed exasperated waking closer to you but still a distance apart

“I’m going to the Vale. I’m going home. You would not understand because you’ve lived here all your life! I miss home. I cannot be here any longer” Lie. You were running away because you could no longer wait around hoping that one day Daemon might cancel his betrothal and somehow marry you instead. Stupid dreams and fantasies.

‘Your home is here with us, with me’ is what Daemon wanted to say “you want to go to the Vale? Let us go on Caraxes!” He yelled

“I don’t want to!”

Daemon’s anger morphed into realisation.

“You don’t want to be around me” he said chuckling why else would you reject his excellent idea, who would give up a ride on a dragon? “Have I bothered you to the point you have to run away from me? When have you been such a craven!”

“Why shouldn’t I go!”

“I just told you the reasons!” Daemon yelled back “your sister! The queen! Your niece! Viserys!” His name being stuck at the back of his throat “maybe even me” he finally choked out as his hand went to reach for the valyrian necklace encircled around your neck. “You cannot even get rid of me entirely, you still wear my necklace like a collar”

“Maybe is not enough for me to stay!”

“Very well then, you want a reason to stay?” He asked now towering over your figure his nose almost touching yours “let me give you one”

He tilted your head upwards giving you a breath stealing kiss, his arms wrapping around your body holding you close to him. You kissed back with all the anger all the love you feel. “I cannot let you leave” he said in between kisses, the two of you barely parting for air. Daemon pushed you towards the bed “you and your stupid morals” he insulted kissing you deeply “you and your stubbornness” he said pressing his face in the crook of your neck. “You never know what’s best for you” his hands grabbing a hold of your thighs slapping the fat of it.

“And what is best for me?” You asked looking at him

“Staying here with me” he said his hand thumb sliding into your mouth your soft lips wrapping around his thick finger “suck” he ordered before switching his thumb for his index and ring finger. His fingers gagged you shutting you up, your mouth drooling from the intrusion. “I suppose a holy maiden such as yourself has never experienced pleasure? Tell me have you ever touched yourself?” You refused to answer the question “I suppose that is a no” Daemon smirked “Do you know what that means?” he asked pushing his hand under your skirts. You shook your head anticipating his next action

“It means that will be the first and last person to touch you here” he said his thumb pressing at your weeping entrance, your cunt clenching around nothing begging for more of his touch. His fingers spread the wetness around teasingly almost entering you making you gasp “Take off your gown for me and make it slow” he ordered taking his hand away from your needy parts. With shaky legs you stood unclasping your light purple gown letting it drop to the floor. Your mind filled with lust, what was one time? One time with the man you loved? Surely the Gods can find it in themselves to forgive you for your wanton nature.

“I said take it all off” he said motioning for you to take off your last small clothes leaving you bare and exposed in your bedchambers. The only thing that rested on your neck was the necklace he gifted you. Daemon rested on the bed with his legs spread his eyes looked at every part of you. Your neck, your chest, your tits, your ass, your legs, your cunny. It send jolts of pleasure down his body his dick hardened and a bulge forming in his breeches “Gevie” he muttered, this was better than what he had imagined. His hand reached out for you pulling you by the hips as he placed kisses on every part of your body in sight. He made sit on the bed, making you spread your legs for him showing him your leaking cunny. Before you knew it his hands were wrapped around your thighs and his head in your centre licking a strike of your entire cunt with his tongue. You tried to push yourself away at the foreign sensation but Daemon wasn’t having it. His hands preventing you from going any further away from him. He sucked on your clit watching you squirm and arch your back “Daemon” you moaned. You were in literal heaven. Why had you denied yourself of such pleasure. Daemon licked, sucked and kissed your cunt making you come twice on his tongue, your legs were shaking around his head as you begged saying you couldn’t any more. Daemon licked up all of your release before he pushed a finger inside your cunny, you gasped at the stretch, seeing you were adjusting to the feeling he added another finger, telling you to relax and enjoy the feel his tongue went back to work licking your poor little overstimulated pearl over and over your hole clenched tightly around his fingers he knew you were going to come again, his movements were fast and hard making you roll your eyes at the back of your head as you came hard all over his fingers. The bed soaked with your juices. Daemon’s face wet, he wore a devilish grin on his face. He climbed onto the bed pulling off his benches to show his recent thick length. Hell would that even fit inside you?

“Lie on your back” He ordered and you followed obediently Daemon hovered over you, you finally got what you wanted the sinful proximity between the two of you. His hands intertwined with yours as he distracted you by kissing your lips passionately. You felt him enter, he was so much bigger and he pushed himself in slowly “breathe, my love” he said before pinching your tits hard causing you to gasp. He slid in fully. You couldn’t keep your eyes open, your arms still being held by daemon who now pinned them over your head. The stretch of his full cock in your walls, breaking your maidenhead he let you experience the burn, the pain, the pleasure all together. Daemon let out a moan as he felt you clench around him tightly. This was what he always dreamt about. What he always wanted. You.

Daemon had been patient enough, his slow and firm thrusts quickening. Every thrust hammering your insides as your tits bounced, Daemon was enchanted. He help your hips tightly pounding into you even reaching further, making your back arch and you begged Daemon to let you touch him. Daemon, Daemon, Daemon. The only thoughts that ran in your head as he kissed you his tongue finding it’s way into your mouth as he pounded into you. He let out little moans as he pressed his forehead against yours. As he made love to you. The moment he saw your jaw go slack, he knew you were close. He kept his rhythm steady feeling your orgasm release all over him and the sheets. He left you whimpering underwing him from the overstimulation “good girl” he said plopping on the bed his cock still erect and heavy “can you ride a dragon?” He said leaning on the headboard. You wanted to please him nodding as you straddled his hips pressing the head of his cock into your entrance as you lowered yourself onto him. The position made your toes curl, the way you sunk onto him and lifted yourself over and over. Daemon couldn’t help but watch how your slick pussy gushed all over his cock. His moans increased as he felt his eyebrows press together, he held your hips tightly thrusting harshly into you, it was too much for Daemon, he could no longer hold back he released his hot seed in the walls of your tight cunny, your cum from your fifth orgasm oozed out. White sticky fluids from your puffy folds. Daemon had seen no better art piece, you would be a muse for any artist.

You lay on top of daemon who stroked the back of your hair “you were perfect. You are perfect.” he smiled his dimples showing. You were breathless, tired, exhausted passing into unconsciousness. Daemon chuckled wrapping his arms around you. You were his. And he was going to go to hell and back if he was denied you.

Daemon had ordered for all your clothes to be moved into his bedchamber, he told lord Gerald that you had no intention to leave kingslanding as you were to marry him. The whispers between the servants reached the ears of Viserys thanks to his hand Otto Hightower.

“WHAT WERE YOU THINKING DAEMON!” He yelled at his younger brother who was making arrangements for you in his room “you have dishonoured her! And you take no effort to even hide the fact!”

“I have every intention to wed her, brother” Daemon said rolling his eyes at the king.

“you are betrothed to ANOTHER” Viserys’ blood boiled. How could he have done such a thing to his own family to you! When he knew damn well he was meant to wed another.

“Another who is not of my choosing!” Daemon said to his brother losing his patience.

“The marriage pact with Rhea was settled years ago! We cannot go against our word” he argued

“You are the king, the blood of the dragon runs in you. You do not need anyone’s permission! Your word is the law, the truth”

“Daemon, I have spent a life time defending you! But your heart is even blacker than I thought”

“Wed her to me..I want to marry Lady Arryn”

“You think I don’t know that, you fool?! But you have wronged lady Rhea! Kept her waiting for years!”

“I have bedded her already brother. It is done. It is decided” Daemon said

Viserys slapped him across the face for his insolent behaviour.

“Tell me brother..” Daemon said holding his cheek pressing on the hurt part of his face. It didn’t hurt at all he just wanted to get some sympathy from Viserys “what of how you wronged y/n” he chuckled “when you passed her over for her younger sister”

“That was different!” He thundered at the accusation thrown by Daemon

“Make it right, wed her to me. I’ll take her as she is and wed her in the tradition of our house. Give me Y/n to take to wife and we will return the house of the dragon to its proper glory” he said almost begging his brother.

It was no secret that Daemon and you had strong chemistry, Viserys and his wife Aemma often joking about making a mistake betrothing Rhea to him instead of you. He supposed he always expected his younger brother to pull this sort of move. And he unfortunately had a very good point, you were passed off for your younger sister which was an insult by itself, being rejected by the king.

“Fine, I will allow this marriage to take place, but just know that it is not for you but instead Lady Arryn” he sighed. “And I don’t want to hear any complaint from now onwards? You will obey my every command henceforth if you are to marry lady Arryn” daemon would definitely do as he pleases, but he nods hugging his brother “you were always weak when it comes to me, brother” he smirked looking at his brother. “Showing empathy is weak now?” Viserys smiled patting Daemon’s shoulders. “Are you sure marriage is what you desire?”

“Marriage matters to me when it is with her..” he smiled “I am serious about her brother.”

“I will talk to the Royce’s and make it up to them somehow” he said “how excited was she when you proposed?”

“Oh I didn’t propose” Viserys wanted to chuck Daemon out of the window. This whole argument when you hadn’t even consented to the marriage “DAEMON!”

“She’s asleep brother. You cannot expect me to disturb her!” Viserys at that moment wanted to put down his crown and run away to Essos. How much more of his brother’s idiocy could he handle? Well anyways he’s your problem now.

Needless to say the marriage took place swiftly thanks to Daemon’s groomzilla tendencies. The man wanted the wedding to be private between only the families. You were more than happy to comply. Daemon and you still didn’t cease your nonsensical arguments, now finding new ways of letting out that anger and love in bed together.

Daemon wasn’t a perfect husband, he was irrational, emotional, pessimistic, but he stayed the loyalest of all the husbands in Westeros stopping all his trips to the streets of silk rather spending them with you, the woman he loved so dearly. With each passing year Daemon grew even more mature with the birth of your first child a baby girl who you both named Baela who inherited that fire and passion of your husband who was also spoiled rotten by him with gifts.

Daemon proved to be the best husband you could have ever asked. You would always remember to tell him that when he took you for rides on his dragon Caraxes and whispered sweet promises to you. You had no doubt about it, marrying him was the best decision he had ever made for you. You knew he would put his life on the line for you or Baela if need be, he was your fiercest protector.

“Did I ever mention I love you?” You asked looking to your husband as you both flew on Caraxes. Daemon knew you often felt like you under appreciated him when you really did love him.

“More times than I can count” he chuckled kissing your cheek

“Perhaps I should stop then, I can’t have you growing indifferent to my love”

“If you do anything of the sort, just know that I cannot promise you that I will not exact revenge” he smiled kissing the top of your head.

“And what revenge would you take against me, your wife?” You asked smiling back

“I will teach Baela cuss words” he said smirking triumphantly.

“DAEMON DON’T YOU DARE!”

[awinterrosesstuff]

I don't think we talk enough about the complexity of Eddard Stark.

Ned is the second son of the powerful house of the North. He wasn't supposed to rule, but to fight. He was raised to lead battles, to second his brother, Brandon. Then, his sister Lyanna got kidnapped, Brandon went to the capital to ask for the return of his sister, Rickard went also to the South to help his eldest and they both died there, killed by the king himself. Then Aerys asked for his head and Jon Arryn refused and declared war.

(Kinda ironic that the rebellion is called Robert's rebellion when in truth, it was Jon Arryn who made the first act of rebellion by refusing his king and calling the banners. I know in the end, it got that name because Robert became king and I've always found it interesting.)

Imagine how Ned felt when he learnt that the king Aerys was ready to erase House Stark, by ordering the head of one of the last heirs. Lyanna was lost in the south, with the prince. Probably Aerys would have asked for Benjen's head too...

But Ned did his duty, he called the banners and married Catelyn to unite the North and Riverrun. Then he fought alongside Robert and went to Kingslanding, discovering the sack of the capital and then his first disappointment with Robert... Robert wasn't horrified at the sack and the killing of Elia's child. Duty and honor are important to Ned (interesting that Ned fits so well the words of Tully's house). After other disagreements, he left to find Lyanna... and his sister was dying when he found her.

There is lots of trauma in Ned because of that war. He lost almost all of his family. When he returned to Catelyn, he came back with Jon (a child he decided to take with him because of love) and found his heir, Robb. Catelyn and him didn't have a great relationship then (Catelyn quite liked Brandon), and the presence of Jon made it worse. A few words after his return, Benjen left for the Night's watch.

Ned only started to rule Winterfell and already had lof of grief and trauma.

I'm not going to describe the rest of his background, it's quite developed and detailed. But I think GRR Martin did a great job with Ned. You can see his trauma, his doubts and his inferiority complex. He's torn apart between his family, his love for Robert, his duty and most importantly his honor. Everything is quickly translated in the way he talks about his brother :

Brandon. Yes. Brandon would know what to do. He always did. It was all meant from Brandon. You, Winterfell, everything. He was born to be a King's Hand and a father to queens. I never asked for this cup to pass to me.

Even after years of leading Winterfell, he still doesn't feel he's right for the role. Or at least, he thinks his brother would have made a better job. He's probably bitter too and has the survivor's guilt. In my humble opinion, for all we know, I'm not sure I agree with this "statement". Brandon was impulsive, hot-tempered and quite arrogant. He's said, by Catelyn, to be charismatic. But he doesn't sound like someone who would be good at ruling, at fighting definitely, but ruling ?

And when Cersei told him he should have taken the throne, instead of Robert, he answered that :

I have made more mistakes than you can possibly imagine, but that was not one of them.

It's true he made mistakes (he's human after all), but are they worse than Robert's mistakes ? Ned doesn't have this belief he's fit to rule neither the North or the seven kingdoms. He ruled the North and accepted to be the Hand's king not because he likes it, but because of his duty and honor. And even when he's in conflict with Cersei, he stills cares about it. He offers Cersei to leave with her children - because he refuses to harm a child - tells Stannis of him being the natural heir to Robert and refuses Renly's aid to take the Lannister's children as hostage. The only time he firmly goes against Robert is when he's plotting to kill Daenerys, a child.

(Note that Robert also thinks Ned should have ruled the kingdom instead of him. At least, he's aware of his flaws.)

He doesn't want to see the horrors of the past repeating themselves. Horrors he had witnessed. And he has a lot on his shoulders : ruling the kingdom (because Robert doesn't care about it and doesn't have the decency to do his duty), searching for informations about Jon Arryn, raising his daughters etc. You can see his trauma in the way he never planned for betrothals for his children (Robb was 14 at the beginning of the story). None of his children were fostered. Seems like he wants to keep his family around him as much he can. You also see it in the way he named his children (Jon for Jon Arryn, Bran for his brother and Rickon for his father). But when Robert, the only person he loves as much as his family, comes to him, he can't refuse. Even when his family was grieving, his wife crying for Bran, he still took his daughters with him and left with Robert. Plus he feels "obligated" to search the truth about Jon's death. Or the way he loves both of his daughters, but can talk to Arya and can't talk to Sansa only because of his trauma concerning Lyanna.

I'd like to add many people noticed Ned's honor, from Robert, Baelish, Stannis to Jorah. My favourite is probably this one from Robert

You never could lie for love nor honor, Ned Stark.

When Ned told Robert didn't know Lyanna, he's right. But it seems Robert didn't know Ned that much either. Because Ned lied twice for love, to protect Jon from Robert's wrath (if we consider Jon is indeed Rhaegar's son) and to protect Sansa from the Lannister. His honor was more important than his life, but less important than his daughter's life. He isn't afraid of death, but cares more about his family. Yeah I think Family, duty & honor fits him quite well, maybe even better than the words of his own house...

[mememachine132]

@syndrossi

So, I made some Jon and Rhaegar designs, for future fanart purposes. As a prerequisite I'm going to need everyone here to agree that these look like 8 year olds. We're making this an AU where this is what 8 year olds look like. An AU where I can draw 8 year olds, even. Look I tried my best, they look youngish. Tweens, teens, close enough yeah? How does one draw a child. help

Give a big props to Costumes/Seven Kingdoms | Wiki of Westeros | Fandom for helping me give them region accurate clothes.

Some notes:

Neither of them being in their favorite colors because they pretty much just got given hand me downs.

Jon gets more bird motif - wing shaped cloak, bird embroidery - since Rhea saw more of her house in him/he looks more vale like. Rhaegar gets some, with the long flowy cloak, but it's half-assed. There is not a single way to pretend that boy is not a Targaryen.

Jon still dresses like its winter - you will not see him in shorts ever. No human alive has ever seen his legs. Rhaegar on the other hand wears lighter stuff, since he grew up in Kingslanding and that would be what he's used to.

I was going to do the dragon headed tunics for this, but then I realized that would require drawing tiny little Targaryen emblems and I thought I wouldn't survive that.

Jon looking very knightly + everything but the cloak would be very easy to fight in. Easy to rip that off and get to killin for his brother.

Rhaegar having the open sleeves of the vale still, like how he still feels Raymar in there/is still grieving while Jon has moved entirely on with no more vale fashion.

Long hair!! Whipee!!

Both of them wearing a more modern Targ style - based off of Viserys (Dany's viserys not old man viserys) in s1 to reflect some of their modern sensibilities.

Jon wears a lot, and I mean a lot of leather. The vest? Leather. The undershirt? Leather. Cloak is heavy wool. He wouldn't feel like himself if he wasn't lugging around a mountain of heavy, winter worthy fabrics. Rhaegar on the other hand has much lighter clothes, more flowy. Some jewelry too. So pretty much Jon is roasting in Kingslanding heat and Rhaegar is living his very best ventilated silk life.

(Rhaegar's outfit is probably gonna get tweaked as it feels too simple. Not nearly enough pizzaz thrusted upon him by Daemon trying to make up for the years spent in the 'simple' clothing of the vale.)

I'll probably make some more outfits for them eventually - definitely if they go other places! I really enjoyed analyzing different regional styles and incorporating that. Someday I might even make those dreaded dragon headed tunics.

[spacelatinoluvr]

blood runs thicker than water (1/?) - aemond targaryen

series masterlist, chapter 2, chapter 3, chapter 4, chapter 5, chapter 6

summary: To dance with dragons is to play with wolves. After surviving her own assassination attempt, Alarra Stark endured a large scar across her face, slicing her face in half. For years after Alarra was now known as "Alarra The Fierce" due to her ferocity at the young age, defending herself valiantly at merely thirteen-years-old. After then, she spent years training with her older brother, Cregan Stark, so that one day she could avoid the pain and suffering of anyone in her family; including herself. But, after those years spent training with men much larger than her, she is sent away and betrothed to Joffrey Velaryon for alliance towards the rightful heir to the Iron Throne: Rhaenyra Targaryen. Accompanying the family to Kingslanding, Alarra realized maybe marrying the young Velaryon boy wasn't so awful. But that was until she met a peculiar "one-eyed" prince. pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Stark!OC word count: 5.3k tags: slow burn, forbidden love, canon Aemond, enemies to lovers, long fic, original characters, war, arranged marriage warnings: blood and gore, extreme violence rating: 18+, !MDNI!

LITTLE FLAME

Alarra Stark was truly the most elegant in all of the North.

As a girl, Alarra was known for her beauty. Even amongst the seven kingdoms, her beauty was spoken of in hushed whispers amongst all that witnessed her: as if she were a myth or story to be proven false. Those who encountered her never second guessed her alluring blue eyes, like staring into the deep blue of The Narrow Sea. Her long red hair, always braided away from her face, displaying her breathtaking features. Freckles adorned her youthful face, like a painter had splattered brown specs across her face. Even though Alarra’s beauty was now a fact, not a myth among the inhabitants of Westeros, the people of the North had always remained in awe at the princess’s beauty. And through the years, her hair was the thing they remembered the most. Her long, thick red curly hair, that always blew in the wind as if the God’s were doing it with purpose. And when winter came, Alarra’s beauty flourished.

In all her years, the Seven had only blessed her with one winter. It lasted two years of Alarra’s youth, and she always remembered the feeling of her nose turning into a frozen nub, her cheeks pink and rosy as the air grew colder and bit at her skin. She remembered her and her brother playing in the harsh winter cold, throwing snow and laughing as their father yelled at them to get inside before they caught a cold. She remembered the good.

Winter is coming, she remembered her father spewing as he drank the sweetest wine of the Arbor.

Winter is coming, she remembered Cregan saying as he groomed the horses with her.

Winter is coming, she would repeat, as she held her head high and proud. Like a true Stark.

When winter did come, and the days got longer, it was brutal. But, Alarra found it tranquil; she found the beauty in the most unearthly things.

And that would ensue to be her downfall.

“Give it back!” Eight-year-old Alarra screamed as her older brother, Cregan, stole her knife made of wood hanging it teasingly above her head.

“Do you even know how to hold one of these properly?” Cregan tilted his head to the side, the question hanging in the air.

Silence.

And that was all Cregan needed before he smirked and waved the knife around once more. Alarra resumed her jumping, unable to grab the knife from her brother. Cregan had freshly turned one and three, and was now much much taller than Alarra. He seemed to like flaunting it.

“Cregan!” Alarra yelled, stopping her continuous jumping. Cregan paused his waving to let out a laugh.

“Here, let me show you…” Cregan motioned for Alarra to get closer and she did, a sour expression still on her face. Cregan paused, crouching down on her level.

“Now this here is the blade… see?” Cregan traced the pointy part of the wooden knife. Alarra’s expression then changed from glum to one of immense interest.

“And this… is the handle, you put your hand here- and don't hold it like you're holding a firefly-” Cregan then held Alarra’s hands guiding her to how to properly hold a real dagger. Alarra held the wooden dagger, stealing it from Cregan’s hands with a triumphant hum.

“And now my prince I must defend myself…” Alarra said, holding her head high, the dagger above her head. She slowly let the dagger fall, reaching the heart of Cregan Stark, twisting and making squelching noises as she went. Cregan groaned, falling to the ground, a tongue out of his mouth for great measure. Alarra giggled lightly, still clutching the dagger in her hand. But, as Alarra looked at Cregan, he had stopped moving, his eyes closed in bliss as he laid on the ground.

“Cregan?” Alarra got down on his level, sitting by his head, worry etched on her features. Cregan was always there for Alarra and she couldn't remember a time when they were not together. Being apart from him was like stealing the moon from the sun. She could not bear it. But, then all of a sudden, Cregan let out a roar, making Alarra squawk and jump backwards.

“Cregan! That’s not funny. I truly thought I had pierced your heart!” Cregan laughed loudly at this. How could his kind little sister hurt him?

“Oh.. with that?” Cregan questioned, still laughing. Alarra reached towards him, hitting him on the arm, making him let out a loud noise in protest.

“I'm telling father!” Alarra exclaimed, standing quickly and running out of the room. The large doors closed behind her as she ran out, through the garden outside and up the large stairs towards her fathers chambers. But, when she arrived, guards and servants were frantically running around, in and out of his chambers. A guard ran past Alarra almost running her over and she gasped, clutching her chest. A hand was then placed on her shoulder, making her turn around quickly.

“My lady…” Alarra’s handmaiden, Eyla, was staring at her with concern.

“You should not be here- where is your brother?” Alarra glanced behind the handmaiden to see Cregan, face grim and hard, approaching her.

“Cregan, what's going on?” Cregan ignored her, continuing his path towards their father’s chambers. Alarra followed closely behind, ignoring the protests of her handmaiden.

Two guards were posted outside of the chambers, frantically scanning Cregan, proud and tall and Alarra’s frame, meek and small. Cregan had said something to the guard but Alarra was not listening because only the worst scenarios had started to display in her mind. Then suddenly, Cregan barged past the two guards, opening the chamber doors with immense force. Alarra followed shortly behind him, her hands clutched tightly in front of her.

Cregan seemed to have a mind of his own, walking towards the large bed across the room. The maester stood by the bed, seeming to be speaking to their father. At the sight of that, Cregan’s shoulders visibly lowered tension leaving his back.

The room smelled old; like dusty books or an old library. Alarra paused her movements when she got to the edge of the bed, and Cregan walked towards the maester.

“What's happened, Maester?” Cregan asked, standing next to him. The maester’s expression dropped, turning to face Cregan.

“Please sit, my lord.” Cregan paused, looking behind his shoulder at Alarra.

“Leave us.”

“But, my lord-”

“I said: leave us.” Cregan bellowed, staring at his father lying on the bed, unmoving.

The maester bowed silently, shuffling out of the room, his quiet footsteps echoing around them.

A cough, sounding like the last gasp of a ghoul, carried through the room and Cregan instantly moved to sit beside their father. Alarra stayed at the edge of the bed, now able to see her fathers deathly pale face. Her father was an alabaster statue, as if he was frozen in time and breath. Another cough rang, and Alarra could visibly see the strain it left on her father.

“My boy…” He whispered, turning to Cregan.

“Father what-”

“No, Cregan you mustn't speak. Listen to me.”

Cregan stopped, like he was holding his breath waiting for father to speak.

“You are my heir. The Lord of Winterfell in a moon’s set-”

“Father-” Cregan protested, his voice cracking.

“Let me finish, please,” Their father started, breathing heavily. Cregan swallowed down his words, nodding.

“You are my boy. My heir, my only boy,” He paused to take a breath.

“You will be the Lord of Winterfell. You will be the King of the North, do you hear me?” Father said, more sternly this time. Cregan had become quiet and still before he spoke again.

“Yes, Father. I-”

“Protect her. Always. I will be right beside you.”

“Always.”

“You will see me again. Whether it’s in the wind whistling the trees before bed or under the dirt, you will see me again, my son.” Their father grasped Cregan’s hand, tightly holding it as best as he could in his weak grip.

“Alarra,” Cregan whispered, turning his head to meet her eyes.

Alarra was standing quietly at the edge of the bed still, her eyes red and she was gasping quietly as she cried. Her father put his hand out, calling her to him. Alarra ran to her father’s side of the bed, getting on her knees beside Cregan.

“Father…” She weeped, eyes wet and cheeks red.

“My firecracker…” Her father said, reaching a hand to her face, using his thumb to wipe a tear away. His hand shook as he rose it, using all of his remaining power. Alarra sniffled her nose running now as she let her tears flow. Cregan put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing lightly.

“Alarra Stark, you will always be a firecracker. Don’t you ever let anyone stop you. No boy, no prince, no scary spider wanting to bite you!” Her father smiled, as Alarra laughed through her sob. Her father started to cough again, this time into a white rag. The cough was more violent, and the lord’s eyes were red and bloodshot. But, it was not from crying.

“When you were still a babe, your mother would say you had not cried once when you came into this world. Into our arms. A babe, silent as the night sky but the stars could not compare to your beauty, my love.” Alarra smiled as best as she could manage through the tears.

“My flourishing flower,” He whispered, grasping her cheek. “You are a true vision of your mother.”

“But, promise me one thing,” He started to say, coughing as he spoke. Alarra’s eyes were glued to her father, as he smiled with love for his children.

“Promise me that you will be true.” He spoke in a hushed tone, eyes glossed over with endearment.

“I promise.” She said, her head held high, lip quivering. I promise that I will always remain a true Stark. And no one, not a boy, a man, or a creature will stop me.

Rickon Stark smiled, glancing at both of his children, a Stark’s visionary.

“You must shine bright my little flame…no matter how small you feel, always shine bright.”

And that is exactly what Alarra did.

On Alarra’s one and three name day, she had begun her path to womanhood. And that path to womanhood had skewed into a path of knighthood.

Alarra had awoken early that morning, before the birds were chirping and the sun began to stream into her room. She was ecstatic. Today she was to be a woman.

“Eyla?” Alarra was standing in front of the mirror, adjusting her dress. She was wearing something new, something that she wasn’t used to. She didn’t realize how much her…chest had seemed to grow overnight. Or at least it felt like that to her.

“Yes, my lady?” Eyla was bent down on the ground, fanning Alarra’s dark blue dress around her.

“How do you know you're truly a woman?” She asked meekly, as Eyla stood wiping her hands on her legs.

“Well that’s up to you, my lady. You choose what makes you feel like a woman.” Eyla stated.

“How did you know?” Alarra questioned, playing with her fingers. Eyla smiled, still looking at the ground.

“When I was ten, I bled in the night. And my mother threw me out, telling me I was a woman and I could fend for myself. But, I didn't feel like a woman. I was still a child. It wasn't until I was one and five that I knew that women have power. More than a man ever will.”

“I haven't bled yet and-”

“My lady, enjoy it. Bleeding is not a celebration.” Eyla wrapped an arm around Alarra, stroking her arm.

“Then why do people rejoice at the sight of it?”

“Because men’s heads are hollow, my lady.” Eyla clasped her hands together.

“Now, let me see your dress! How beautiful you look.” Eyla looked Alarra up and down, scanning her. Alarra’s cheeks turned red and she laughed, rolling her eyes.

“Thank you, Eyla.” Alarra whispered, smiling at the ground, putting her hands on her cheeks. Bashful as a rabbit.

“Since you are one and three, let me teach you a lesson.” Alarra groaned, dropping her hands from her face.

“A lesson. It’s my name day!”

“It’s fun, trust me my lady.” Eyla smirked at Alarra, and turned her so she was facing the mirror again, Eyla behind her.

“Women have something men don’t…” Elya started, stopping behind Alarra, looking at her through the mirror.

“We can speak with our very eyes.” She whispered, clutching Alarra between her hands, grasping at her shoulders.

“How so?” Alarra questioned, eyebrows furrowed into a line.

“Men cannot help but express their emotions,” Eyla said, her eyebrows furrowed in thought. “It is in their blood.”

Alarra’s eyes watched her handmaiden through the mirror, waiting for her to speak again. Eyla stepped next to Alarra, still looking at her through the mirror.

“Watch my eyes…” Alarra nodded quickly. Eyla’s eyes were wide and doe-like at first; like large brown deer pupils. But, just as fast her eyes darkened, a seductive look on her face. Eyla then returned her gaze back to a more tame and blissful look. Eyla smiled at Alarra through the mirror, moving to stand behind her again, before speaking.

“As women we must use our… assets to our advantage.” Eyla pushed her hand between Alarra’s shoulder blades, and Alarra subconsciously bound her chest out.

“Assets?” Alarra blurted out, uncertainty in her voice.

“Our bosoms of course!” Eyla then chuckled at Alarra’s red face.

“You know what a breast is-”

“Yes, I know,” Alarra huffed, slightly annoyed. “I'm not a child anymore. I am one and three!”

“And what a special age that is, my lady.” Eyla grinned at Alarra through the mirror again, putting both her hands on her shoulders and squeezing.

“I trust the Gods will treat you well this year.” But, Eyla had been wrong. And the Gods’ had punished her that year.

Throughout the day, Alarra had been rained with compliments on her new attire. How grown she looked in blue. How her eyes popped, the blue more prominent, in this dress. Her brother had gotten her a gift, and sat with her in the garden, as the sun was starting to set.

Cregan pulled the gift from behind his back. It was long and pointy and covered in a white cloth.

“Open it.” He said handing it to her. Alarra slowly slid the cloth off to reveal a long slender dagger. Alarra gasped, feeling its hilt and tracing her fingers along the dull side of the blade.

“This is Valyrian steel- how did you-”

“The Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch gave it to me… I feel better acquainted with a sword than a tiny knife.” Cregan’s eyes had creased as he flashes Alarra a thin-lipped smile. He seemed nervous and he was visibly fidgeting with his hands; something Alarra regularly did when she was uncertain.

Then, Alarra jumped pulling Cregan into a tight hug. Cregan let out a groan at the harshness (his shoulders were sore from training maliciously), but wrapped his arms around her small frame regardless .

“Thank you.” She whispered, as he tightened his grip on his little sister, his arms almost engulfing her whole.

“I'll teach you how to use it properly, now that this one isn't wooden.” He said teasingly, as she pulled away from him her hands still on his shoulders.

“I promise not to pierce your heart.” She giggled after her statement, taking her hands away from Cregan’s broad frame.

“Now that is true Valyrian steel. Keep it wrapped in the cloth until tomorrow. I don’t want you to cut yourself.”

That night, while Alarra lay in bed, still awake deep into the Castle’s slumber, she laid next to her new friend: the dagger of Valyrian steel. The dagger was sitting next to her, on the thin white bed sheets and Alarra couldn't help but admire its craftsmanship-

Wind blew through the window, the white curtains waving in the soft breeze, and she held her breath. But Alarra had not left the window open. In fact, she specifically remembered closing them. Alarra briskly sat up, looking around the room, scanning for something out of place.

“You're supposed to be asleep.” A low, deep voice rang through her quiet room and Alarra jumped, opening her lips to scream. But, a hand wrapped around her mouth, shoveling her cries down her throat. She wept and wept, kicking and waving her hands above her head as a man, whose face she couldn't see masked by a black cloth, put a knife to her throat. She squirmed, but stopped when the cool metal of the dagger was at her throat.

“Stop. Moving.” He gritted out. Alarra could feel the shake of his hand, a sign he was either nervous or very close to slitting her throat. Alarra screamed loudly in his sweaty palm, as she slashed with her fingers at his face. Her fingers caught his skin, and he let out a groan, covering his left eye.

“You bitch-” He grumbled moving towards her again, but she put her arms out in front of her, speaking for the first time.

“You have about five seconds to kill me before the guards find you… 5, 4-” The man yelled as he slashed at her but she moved slightly, so he'd miss his dagger going into her feather pillow. Alarra rolled off the bed, grabbing her own dagger as she did, staring at the man across from her. Then, her vision got blurry and- red? Alarra groaned as she lifted her hand to her face, red blood covered her sight and hand, smelling the metallic. She laughed, looking up at the man that was now staring at her. His dagger tightly clutched in his hand.

“You nicked me…” Alarra huffed in disbelief, staring at the blood on her hand. Suddenly, the man launched forward across the bed, yelling as he crawled across the bed reaching her. Alarra gasped, dropping the dagger as he pushed her against the wall, choking her throat with his hand. Alarra coughed, hitting his hand, over and over again but he didn't budge. He was strong, stronger than a thirteen-year-old girl, but not skilled. He was messy, and seemed to be running on his anger and not his strategy. Alarra had noticed how he was still shaking, and he breathed heavily squeezing tightly on her throat. Now, Alarra could no longer breathe and she let out short gasps of air.

The man had made a mistake. He was facing her, his lower area facing her in the perfect position- and she kicked, hard, at his prized jewels. He released her, falling to his knees in agony, groaning and moaning. Alarra fell to the ground, coughing violently. She held her chest, looking around for the dagger- her dagger. The dagger was still on the ground and she grabbed it quickly.

“Cunt!” He screamed, and he opened his mouth again to yell but before he could, a dagger positioned itself between his eyes, and blood curdled slowly, covering both his eyes like tears. He was crying blood. She pulled the dagger out, letting a sob fall out from her pink lips. Alarra screamed as she let the dagger hit his skull again, cracking through skin and bone. And she slashed down again and again and again until his body was limp against the bed frame. Alarra straddled his unmoving waist, letting her dagger fall on his face again until his eyes were red holes and his face was spotted in cuts. And now, it wasn't only her own blood that covered her but one of the armed man.

I will always remain a true Stark. And no one, not a boy, a man, or a creature will stop me.

And she kept hitting until hands reached around hers, and she screamed, fighting the person behind her. Her brother had to pull her off of the man, his face now mutilated and unrecognizable.

“It’s me, Alarra.” Her brother whispered, and she dropped to her knees on the ground as he swept her into a hug. Alarra let out a cry of relief as she smelled the musk of her older brother. And she was safe. Cregan held her that night, until morning came, as she cried and the guards took away the disfigured body of the unknown man.

The next day, Alarra bathed until her fingers turned to prunes and the water was ice cold. Her handmaid told her that the water would leave her with a runny nose but she never felt clean. She scrubbed herself until she was raw, like a newborn babe. But she still saw the blood; the way his face felt soft and slick after stabbing it so many times, the way she felt him die beneath her, the way she had almost died, the way she had beat the clutches of death. She escaped the hands of the Seven.

Alarra demanded that her brother teach her how to protect herself, for there would be a time when he would not be there to keep her safe. Alarra was already learning hand-by-hand combat and archery, but decided to focus solely on her swordsmanship. Soon enough, Alarra was a growing prodigy. Courtesy of her older brother of course, but a prodigy nonetheless. Death from the Mother above taught Alarra how to preserve, how to push herself. After beating death, Alarra became a beautiful yet valiant knight with no title to claim.

The first time Alarra looked at her face she wept. She wept for hours. Her face was ruined. A princess with a scar. And it wasn't minuscule. It wasn't a small scar, it was a ginormous line running from the top of her forehead, to the bottom of her chin. Instead of whispers of her heavenly beauty or her hair, they were now filled with whispers of the girl that defeated death. Whispers of the princess with a slash. Whispers of a killer: a savage. Whispers now contained a new nickname, one Alarra was proud to coin.

They called her, Alarra the Fierce.

“Alarra you must not attack your opponent with your sword- lead with your legs- yes just like that!”

Alarra was now freshly one and five, and through two years her swordsmanship had increased and her level of fighting was, as Cregan liked to put it, incredible. The sound of their swords clashing against the other echoed through the training room, and the castle’s staff walked in and out and about the halls but not before glancing at the pair. Both were breathing heavily before Cregan laughed, losing his balance a little at Alarra’s push. Alarra let her guard down before she eventually fell backwards, the tip of Cregan’s sword at her neck.

“You lost focus. And when your life's on the line, will you lose focus then?” Alarra scoffed from the ground as Cregan held his hand out to her. She took it, begrudgingly, and stood next to him. Alarra bit her lip, taking her gloves off before throwing them harshly on the ground.

“I thought you were going to fall-”

“Excuses.” Alarra let out a loud sigh, shaking her head. Both of the siblings removed their armor, before exiting the training hall. One thing about Alarra was that she was stubborn. Whenever she messed up she vowed to never make the same mistake twice. They walked in silence, comfortable silence, until two servants passed them, whispering to each other, their heads low. Alarra caught the last bits of their conversation and realized they were talking about her.

“They whisper as I pass them, brother.”

“Let them. It means they are fearful. And fear will only take you far in this world.” Cregan’s strides were wide but Alarra was able to keep up with him, walking next to his now manly body.

“And what if I don't want people to fear me?”

“Would you rather them love you? Admire you?”

“Yes! I very much would.” Cregan stopped walking, and turned his head to look at Alarra. Her hair was loosely tied into a braid that had been falling out due to their training.

“I want people to love me like they did father. I want them to admire me not… “ Cregan stared at her as she looked beyond him at another passing servant, who hurriedly walked past them. “The first thing they see is this.” Alarra pointed at her scar.

“The first thing they see is your face.” Cregan smirked, crossing his arms.

“No I mean- I only mean that they think I'm some savage.”

“You are Alarra the Fierce, are you not?”

“Yes, but-”

“That name was given to you. You earned it. Don’t let the opinions of others dictate how you carry that name. Embrace it. You are Alarra the Fierce. You are The Princess that Lived. People respect you because of that, and fear is just the outcome of deep honor,” Cregan paused to gather his thoughts.

“Respect is something to be earned, and you earned it the day you were born. You have always been Alarra the Fierce…it was just a matter of when you would realize it.” Cregan then pulled Alarra into a deep hug, smelling like sweat and dirt. Alarra scrunched her nose, as Cregan pushed away from her.

“And Alarra the Fierce smells like she needs a bath.”

The raven had arrived in the morning, calling upon Cregan Stark to visit Dragonstone. The letter had no details that Alarra knew of, and she had remained curious until the day of his departure.

“Can I please come? I hear Jacaerys Velaryon is one of the most handsome in the realm.” Alarra started biting her lip, knowing she'd get a rise out of her older brother. Cregan stopped walking to turn to her, a piece of hair over his right eye.

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

Alarra sighed, kicking at the grass on the ground.

“And why not?” She asked quietly, still walking closely behind him.

“Because I said so, Alarra.” Cregan said sternly this time and Alarra huffed, rolling her blue eyes that contrasted from her brothers hazel ones. “You are not coming to Dragonstone with me. Have I made myself clear?”

“I am not a child.”

“Yet you act like one, no?”

Alarra bit her cheek, staring at the ground. She was now one and six, slightly annoyed that her older brother always teased her of her age.

“I have never left the North-.”

“Alarra you know why-”

“Yes, yes you vowed to protect me. But, you know damn well I can protect myself.” Alarra spat, walking towards Cregan.

“If I have the ability to protect you, I would do it over again if it means you are safe. I do not care how angry you are at me, as long as you are breathing.” Cregan stepped towards her, as much as he was annoyed, and left a kiss on the top of her head whilst pulling her into a half-hug.

“Cregan-” Cregan stepped away from her and started walking backwards.

“I will see you in two moons. Ser Wildrow will be with you when I am not.”

“Cregan-!”

And Cregan turned, stomping towards a carriage and disappearing beyond the wall.

Prick.

Two moons had come and gone, and all Alarra had done was train with Ser Wildrow. As much as Ser Wildrow didn't want to admit- he knew Alarra was just as skilled as her older brother. But, there was something different. Something in her eyes that shined. Everytime she had the upper hand her eyes gleamed, a frightening look overtaking her soft feminine features.

“I yield!” Ser Wildrow shouted, breathing heavily as his knees buckled under Alarra’s push.

“Your age is showing, Ser.” Alarra smirked as she started to take off her armor. Though Ser Wildrow wasn’t very old, not much older than her father would've been, she still enjoyed teasing the man.

Ser Wildrow was still on the ground, gradually standing.

“And you just seem to be getting better by the moon, Alarra the Fierce.” Alarra flinched at the nickname. Her alias had come from a night she wanted to forget. She lightly traced the scar with her hand, turning to face Ser Wildrow again.

“Will you bring me to the Wall?”

“Absolutely not, my lady.”

“But, I am Alarra the Fierce. And Alarra the Fierce should be able to visit the wall if she pleases.” Alarra declared, her nose pointed upwards.

Ser Wildrow stared at her for a moment, before he sighed.

“It’s as if you wish for my head on a stick, my lady.”

Ser Wildrow and Alarra were now thousands of feet in the air staring down at the deep, deep snowy landscape beneath her. Her breath fanned around her and she shivered at the cold, having not felt it since she was a child.

“Tis cold.” She murmured, shoving her hands beneath her fur coat.

Ser Wildrow laughed.

“I warned you, did I not my lady?” He smiled at her, burrowing further into his own fur coat.

“Mhm…” She grumbled, whispering profanities under her breath.

“Cregan will have your head if he finds out.”

“You worry too much.”

Silence ensued and the only sound was the wind blowing harshly against them.

“We are very high.”

“Exactly seven hundred feet that spans across three hundred miles from the Ban of Seals to the Gorge, my lady.”

Alarra stared at the fire next to them.

“Why has my brother gone to Dragonstone?”

“It is not my place to say.”

“The Heir to the Iron Throne must have a reason to summon my brother.”

Ser Wildrow remained silent, gazing at the sky that was darkening.

“It is getting dark, my lady-” Ser Wildrow started, looking back up at Alarra from the fire.

“- and your brother will be back in the morrow.”

Cregan stepped out of the carriage, his feet meeting the thick grass of Winterfell. Cregan’s eyes first met his sister’s. She encompassed a wide smile as she ran towards him, giving him a large hug. She pulled away, grinning widely.

“So, is Prince Jacaerys as handsome as they say?” She asked, laughing as her brother rolled his eyes pushing her away lightly.

“You will have to make that decision yourself.”

“Mhm… and you'll let me beyond these walls when I am merely dust and bone.”

Cregan remained silent, his eyebrows furrowed slightly. He’s hiding something.

“Alarra-” A smile graced Alarra’s face and her eyes widened, almost popping out of her skull.

“You’re letting me leave? I get to leave the North? After all these years?” Alarra stepped towards Cregan surveying his face, but he sighed putting two fingers on his temple.

“Alarra, let’s go inside-” Cregan reached a hand to pull her arm with him, towards the hall but Alarra shoved his arm away.

“No. Tell me now.” She ordered, tipping her chin upwards. A confident gesture. But, the next words that escaped his mouth were not something the Princess of the North were thinking she’d hear. She was hoping she could be free. Travel the country of Westeros with her elder brother by her side. Hence never leaving his side or the city of Winterfell, she yearned to escape. To leave. To see what lies beyond the clutches of an eerie landscape with nothing but trees and people like herself. But, she was now to be locked away in another castle, far away from her brother.

“I have given your hand to Joffrey Velaryon.”

A/N: Hi! Thank you so so much for reading! This is my first time ever posting or writing a fanfiction so please leave me some feedback. LMK if theres any corrections to be made or grammatical/spelling errors! This chapter is mainly to introduce you to the FMC (Alarra Stark, my OC) and to give you a glimpse into her past and future. Her and Aemond wont meet for two more chapters, so stay tuned!

PS I am NOT finished with Game of Thrones but I AM finished with House of the Dragon so let me know if i made any canon mistakes and if not it is now fanon! Lol and no spoilers please

[two-white-butterflies]

the gold of casterly (ii)

Description: You pass off Rhaenyra, an illegitimate daughter from Viserys' paramour, as your own while navigating the treacherous maze of the Red Keep. You enter a forbidden tryst with the Rogue Prince, which truly does prove that Lannisters are not as smart as they believe themselves to be.

Pairing/s: daemon-targaryen/reader, viserys-targaryen/reader

Part One |

True to your brother’s remarks, Rhaenyra became beautiful. Gone were the days of her wrinkly skin sagging across her newborn features, gone were her brittle nails and the sparse hair on her scalp. Her beauty grows each year, overflowing and reaching the point where you cannot deny her uncanny resemblance to Lady Aemma. Every time this daughter of yours turns to meet your eyes – her aquiline nose stands out, her pale purple eyes, and her gentle features. 

‘I wish you were born a boy, Rhaenyra,’ 

“Mother,” Rhaenyra greets with a smile, about to kiss your cheek, but you raise a finger to interrupt her. “- take a bath first. You smell of dragon.” You complained while rubbing lazy circles on your swollen stomach. 

‘Six and ten years and this is the first child after Rhaenyra.’  

“You have never been fond of the dragons,” Rhaenyra keeps her distance, sitting on the couch parallel to her mother. Your frown softens. “They simply are not mine to be fond of,” you breathed out – feeling the babe toss and turn inside your stomach. When you were younger, your father used to whisper stories about the great Balerion. In the dragon’s prime, he was able to help conquer the six kingdoms, uniting them under one king. 

When you were younger, you envisioned a dragon larger than Kingslanding, with black scales and eyes darker than crimson red. You envisioned his green fire, spewing as the entire world is torn asunder. You were five and ten when you married Prince Viserys – he was already thirty and eight. Balerion was long dead, but you were able to meet the dragon’s skull. Until now, you are not sure if Balerion looked like the dragon you thought him to be. 

“I have picked dragon eggs for the baby,” Rhaenyra breaks the silence. 

Rhaenyra glances at one of your handmaidens, signaling for them to bring out the dragon eggs she had previously chosen. Rhaenyra scoots a little closer, her eyes twinkling with light. “When will the babe arrive?” She inquires. 

“Within this moon, my sweet.” You answered. 

Your eyes could not take a second away from the young princess. Every day, she is a beating reminder of Aemma Arryn’s existence – a reminder that your husband looks at Rhaenyra and sees Aemma too, even though he is oblivious to the truth. “Father says that it shall be a daughter. He dreamed about it.” Rhaenyra continued, seemingly set with a sister in mind. 

“Well, I pray that it be a son.” You replied with a curt smile. 

‘For I will not be able to save a daughter, the same way that I am not able to save you, Rhaenyra.’  

Rhaenyra is silent for a few seconds. 

“Mother,” she begins. 

“Rhaenyra,” you answered while bearing through the summer heat. Your handmaiden continues to fan you with a makeshift cloth fan. “Did you ever pray to the gods that I’d be born a son?” Rhaenyra asks, her eyebrows merged, deep in her heart she knows the answer to her question. 

You see yourself behind her eyes, but you fight against that feeling. “No,” you answered truthfully. For even if you presented a cold exterior, you had no desire to murder an infant. Every night you prayed to the Seven Gods that Aemma’s child be born a daughter and not a son – I’ll raise it as my own, you can hear your voice echoing in the background. “I am firstborn too, and no matter how inadequate my brother is, I’d much prefer him as Lion of the Rock.” You sweetened the conversation. 

Truthfully, if you were given the chance – you’d kill your brother. 

‘ The only reason that I pray for this child to be a son is for him to be proclaimed heir and this charade be done with.’ 

“You would much rather be Queen Consort than Warden of your land?” Rhaenyra tilted her head, finding your response to be out of the ordinary. “If I had chosen the latter, then you would not have been whelped into this world. So, be thankful that I have not lusted for lands that the gods have not destined for me to have.” You answered rather quickly. 

Lusted for the lands that the gods have not destined for you to have …what utter bullshit. If the gods did not make it yours, then why did they whelp you first? Why did they whelp you with unimaginable intelligence and wit? This world is doomed for not allowing women to rule, as if a cock measures your ability to rule the realm. 

The handmaiden walks inside your chambers, holding the dragon eggs that Rhaenyra had previously requested. “Show me,” you commanded, cleverly shifting the conversation. 

— 

It was a fortnight later when you gave birth to your second daughter, Helaena, the shining light of Westeros. She was born with ten fingers and ten toes, her cheeks were plump, her skin was pale like the moon and her eyes – oh her eyes came from yours. Sea green, and shining against the dark moonlight. 

‘Helaena, my daughter, my blood.’

“It seems that father’s dream did come true,” Rhaenyra sat on your bedside, staring down at her little sister who barely looked anything like her. “Not a dream, a prophecy.” Viserys was quick to defend, entranced by the sight of Helaena – but not as much as he was entranced by Rhaenyra. 

“She is beautiful,” you found yourself whispering. 

All the pain, blood, and sweat had been worth it – for the gods have given you a beautiful baby girl, who is yours, who will always be yours. Unlike Rhaenyra who will forever belong to Aemma Arryn in your mind. Unlike all the other sons that you’ll have after Helaena, who will belong to the kingdom. Helaena is wholly yours – and you do not care for Viserys’ opinion of her. 

“She has your eyes,” Viserys cooes while the newborn babe gently smiles. “- and hopefully none of her mother’s temperament.” A mysterious voice says from behind Viserys, and they all turn around to see the source of the noise. 

Prince Daemon Targaryen. 

“Brother, what a pleasant surprise.” Viserys smiles. 

“I apologize for barging in such an intimate moment, but I have just arrived by dragonback and I surmised that greeting the King and the Queen should be my priority.” Daemon lowers his head, taking a cautious step forward. “Why don’t you greet the newborn princess,” Viserys commands and you nod. 

Daemon sits on your bedside, your shoulders touching. 

‘ Mother does not like the smell of dragon–’ Rhaenyra was about to say, but then Daemon placed a hand on Helaena’s head – and you did not seem to flinch from the sudden interaction. “What is her name?” Daemon asks. 

“Helaena,” you answered with a real smile on your lips. 

— 

It took only a year for the third babe to come; Maekar was his name. The first is not to be weighed down by the expectations to become like their namesake. Now, Maekar did not look anything like you – he was the direct copy of his father, with silver-gold hair, violet eyes, and a volatile nature. It was clear that he’d grow up to be a dashing young warrior. 

Rhaenyra takes a sharp turn down one of the hallways leading to your chambers. It has been three moons since she’s last seen you – everyone kept fussing about the newborn babe, and she didn’t want you to feel lonely. Everyone always cares about the babe and not the mother, she remembers your complaints from a few summers back. 

She halts in front of your door, surprised to see the door slightly ajar. 

“Dae,” you moaned, feeling his hands wrap around your thighs and push your legs further apart. “Shh,” Daemon silences you, his tongue swirling around your womanhood – sending pleasure up your entire body. Daemon's gaze trails upwards...meeting Rhaenyra's. 

Rhaenyra takes a step backward, silencing her gasp with her palm. 

Seven gods. 

— 

It was past dinner when Uncle Daemon showed himself around Rhaenyra. 

"Little dragon," Daemon begins, her favorite booklet tucked inside of his pockets. Rhaenyra turns to look the other way, refusing to acknowledge his presence. She could not help but think of a million different scenarios in the back of her mind - all regarding the paternity of her siblings. Should she tell her father or keep the secret to herself? Because, frankly, the entire realm's security relies on whether or not she keeps her tongue under control. "I know what you have seen, and I can explain." Daemon's voice is strangely gentle. 

"I don't think that you need to explain." Rhaenyra pales slightly, looking around to make sure that no one can listen to their conversation. "I won't tell anyone I promise, not because I tolerate your act, but because I love my mother," Rhaenyra says with absolute certainty. 

Daemon smirks, sitting cooly on the chair, and taking a leisurely sip of wine. "- and I thought you were a dragon." He rolls his eyes. 

If this had happened to Daemon, then he'd be screaming the truth from the tops of his lungs. 

"You do know that getting rid of Maekar increases the chances of you becoming heir." Daemon raises an eyebrow. "Getting rid of someone for your gain is dishonorable. It is not the act of a noblewoman." Rhaenyra shoots down. 

"So honorful, one might think that you're an Arryn." Daemon teases, a secret meaning behind his words. 

He stands up, "- but goodnight, my sweet niece." 

Part Three >>

[fakescenariosbeforesleepblog]

Not even for a second.

Aemond Targaryen x Fem Reader.

The one eye Prince believed if a man wants something he needs to create his own opportunities. He tried to forge his destiny by himself and you spoiled it.

Warning: mentions of death and suicide, spelling and grammatical errors. Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

You're the middle child of Rhaenyra Targaryen, her only daughter with Laenor Velaryon. You were betrothed to your young brother Lucerys since you were merely kids.

Aemond always felt life wasn't fair with him, you were meant to be with him, your true valyrian blood shouldn't be mixed with bastard's blood.

You never showed him affection or gave him any signs that you have the minimum interest or sympathy for him, but Aemond never cared about it, or at least that's what he said to himself all the time, he always said he would marry for duty, never for love. But in fact the boy secretly craved affection, he envied all the love you and your young brother shared for each other, as kids it was fraternal and innocent but while you were getting older and knowing that one day you would be more than siblings the affection developed in something else still innocent though, there wasn't darkness, Aemond was always observing your little interactions with your brother, always supporting and caring about him, he wanted that.

He wanted to hold your delicate and small hands, caress your skin or your hair, give you presents at any chance, hold you by the waist, walk side by side, dance even if he's not a big fan of it, he would do it for you, all the things he would do for you. He realized he wanted you not because of duty or alliances or just because he didn't want to see you with Luke, he wanted you because he was in love.

Your short stay in kingslanding made him realize it, you're a true Targaryen, always fighting for your convictions, smart, beauty, rage and pure fire inside you. But there's also your own and pure essence, you have a kind heart, you're not hard to love, people love and follow you easily. Everyone in the kingdom knows you for that, you're always looking for ways to help and interact with people, you won't be sitting on the iron throne but you certainly reign in people's hearts.

Aemond admires and loves you until Lucerys appears at your side, until he sees you kissing his cheek or forehead, until you squeeze his hand to secretly show him your support and reassure him everything will be fine.

Why? Why you have to be so kind and affectionate to that dark haired boy. Aemond can feel all his body tensed, his jaw hurts for all the strength his putting it on and as if it wasn't enough to increase his rage, his father, the king decided to leave his deathbed and come back to life just to support Lucerys claiming and announced happily about your wedding, Aemond will lost you without even had the chance to fight for you.

Then that damned family dinner, you looked gorgeous with that red wine dress, exposing your shoulders and long neck, laughing at your siblings jokes, dancing with Helaena, even drinking a little with Aegon, having fun with everyone except him, he's just a spectator, feeling miserable because you avoid him as if he was a plague, he was too angry and Luke's little laugh was the drop that spilled the glass, the dinner ended up in the worse possible way.

He couldn't sleep that night, you were in his mind, he couldn't handle it anymore, he took the secret hallways until he arrived at your chambers, surprisingly you were still awake, walking around and reading about ancient remedies and medicine, your nightgown was thin enough to reveal your curves and body shape, he's trying hard to be a gentleman and not observe but he can't, he's observing your hips, your breasts, he's devouring the image of you until you talk.

- If you don't come out now I will call my guards or my stepfather to take your other eye.

He stepped back, how did you discover him, he was pretty sure he had been silent, why is he feeling so anxious now? The nerves are eating him alive but he appears.

- There you are, spying on me is something I wasn't expecting from you, uncle.

You never looked at him, you were still in your book.

- My apologies dear niece, I swear my intentions weren't to spy on you.

- What are you doing here then?

He really didn't know what to answer, he actually didn't know why he did such stupidity, but perhaps this was his only chance to be alone with you and speak about what your presence has been causing to him.

- I honestly don't know why I came here tonight. Considering that we aren't really close, you barely talk to me.

- Perhaps because there's nothing we can talk about.

- I think I can be more interesting than my brother and still, you talked more with him than with me today.

- Again uncle, I don't have anything to say or talk about with you.

- Well, I have something, would you allow me?

He pointed at the chair in front of the smokestack, you left your book on the nightstand and took the other empty chair.

- So, go on.

- Y/n, I always had the feeling that my destiny it was to be married, mainly for duty, I always believed you and me would be a fitting couple, but destiny has twisted and funny ways to go against me all the time... having said that, I have to confess you have caught my heart and I would like to court you and show you I can be a better husband material for you.

You were shocked, you all this time thought you had been clear about your disdain and lack of affection for the man, you were wrong.

- Uncle, I fear I have to ask you to leave now.

You were trying to be kind, even if you hated this man, you didn't want to be rude and create more roughness in the family.

- Is that all you have to say?

Aemond is not good at showing up his feelings, but he tried his best to put in words his intentions and you didn't even try to pretend you cared.

- Yes.

- Why?

- I do not have intentions to give you a chance to court me, not even for a second. I have to let you clear that you're the last man on earth I would marry.

Just like that, Aemond didn't complain or discuss, he stood up and vanished in the darkness of the secret hallways. You thought you were free of him, the next morning a piece of lemon cake was sent to your chambers, before you leave the capital a beautiful dress was placed over your bed, of course you didn't touch them, you left the place.

Your refusal should be enough to show that your posture about his desires of courting you hasn't changed. But once you arrived home the presents and letters arrived too, your mother and Stepfather weren't happy, neither were your siblings, you never opened the letters, you sent back all the presents and every time you did it you asked him to the messengers the same thing.

«Tell him I don't want him, I prefer to be burned or devoured alive by the dragons before accepting him.»

Time passed, the present's arrival wasn't frequent anymore but still arrived, you still refuse to accept them. The news of your grandfather's death was hard, but the usurpation of your mother's throne was the flame you needed to keep you strong and with your head up. You and your brothers flew looking for allies, you went back in time, with good news, unfortunately your mother didn't have good ones, Luke didn't come back, no one knew where he was or what happened.

You were in tears, you became a widow before even being a wife. The rage inside you was like poison, you didn't lose only a brother, you lost your soulmate and if that was not enough you also lost a little sister, the little Visenya, the girl your mother and stepfather waited for so long.

Just like your mother, the kindness that once represented you, changed for anger and cruelty, your desire for revenge reigns in your heart. A Messenger with a Letter arrived.

You knew who sent it, for once you decided to open it.

«See me tonight outside of dragon stone, sincerely Aemond.»

And for once you would attend his request, you have a presentment. As soon as you arrived at the forest, far from dragon stone you see him in his horse. You don't leave yours in case you have to escape.

- Uncle. What's the meaning of your request?

- Merely to see you, you look beautiful tonight. Death suits you well, niece. I also wanted to give you my sincere condolences. I'm deeply sorry for your loss.

He smiled mockingly at you, his words gave you a strange feeling in your skin, you felt as if you were bathing in acid, your stomach is twisted and the air is burning your lungs, your hand is holding strongly the handle of your dagger.

- Pardon?

- I heard you're a young widow now... It's a shame, perhaps now you can reconsider my proposal.

He laughed, your pain is causing him happiness. Without thinking you left your horse and walked to him, he does the same.

- What have you done Aemond?

- I... Have to admit it wasn't my intention, I just wanted to play a little bit with the boy but Vhagar had different plans. Now tell me niece, will you think about our union?

You're heartbroken, your rage has been extinguished the thought of your Luke and his dragon escaping and then disappearing in the nowhere is enough to make you wish your own dead.

Before you could let Aemond see your tears, a last flame grew inside, the last sparkle of anger. You make a quick movement with the pure intention to cut his throat but he's faster, not enough for avoiding the cut but enough to have his neck untouched, instead another scar will paint his face, over his nose running up until his forehead, his eye patch ends on the ground.

- Not even in your deepest dream I will marry you!

- I Will have you! some way or another Y/N!

You went back to your horse and rode back home, Aemond couldn't follow you, he was bleeding he needed to clean his wound. You arrived at the castle and requested to see your parents and let them know what happened, they would certainly have their revenge.

In your chambers you were crying and sobbing unstoppable, the pain in your chest is growing more and more, you feel guilty for the death of your Brother, you can't handle it, Aemond's words are stuck in your head, he would come for you and take you by force, putting your family on risk again, unless...

As soon as the sun is starting to shine and light up your room you run to the secret door of your room, you will leave the safety of the castle and pay a last visit to your dragon. You decided, you really meant it when you said you preferred to be burned or devoured alive by dragons than being Aemond's wife, you wouldn't give him the satisfaction or the pleasure to have you.

Your dragon Riverflame sensed you, the beast is in pain as much as you, it knows what you will ask It to do.

- I'm not sure if I'm doing the right thing... I know I will hurt my family and my mother needs me, but I won't let him take me... I feel so guilty for Luke's death...

You started to cry again, your dragon put his big nose under your palm, giving you comfort and growling softly, you hug its big head.

- I will miss you my old friend, I love you, I love you, never forget that...

You stepped back and looked at it, you know your dragon is ready to fulfill your orders, even if that means to end with its own rider.

- Riverflame... DRACARYS!

The beast sends up a Growl full of pain that echoes around the place and then, the river of flames of your dragon is the last thing you see.

The ashes of your body were found hours later, your dragon didn't let the servants or somebody else get close to them, the protector of you until the end.

Aemond found out about your dead days later, the rage, the fury inside him, how could you do that, he tried to forge his destiny by himself and you spoiled it.

[mondstaub1]

Hotd fanfiction idea

Aemond/Lucerys

Viserys forces Lucerys and Aemond to marry but Alicent is so desperate to prevent the match that she and Larys Strong spread the rumor that Lucery is barren. The rumor catches on and Luke is put under a lot of pressure to have a child.

But his body doesn't do well under such pressure and after nearly 2 years there is no babe in sight. Otto pushes for the masters to declare Luke barren and for Viserys to divorce or annule the match. Viserys gives in and degrees that should there be no sighn of pregnency by the end of the year the marriage would be desolved.

What no one suspected however is that in the two years of marriage Aemond and Lucerys really do fall in love. After a visit to Kingslanding (they moved to Driftmark) Lucerys is once again sullen as he had once more been forced to listen to nasty rumors about himself and his marriage and had to watch as other women flirted with HIS husband.

Aemond finds him sobbing and something snapps. He tells Luke how much he loves him, adores him, that he will never love or accept another and that it doesn't matter that they don't have children as they have each other. Luke is overwhelmed by feelings or relive and love and the couple spends the night wiith the most passionate lovemaking imaginable.

9 moths later Lucerys gives bith to twins and the couple show their little once of every chance they get.

Years later the old rumors are a running joke against all those who spread them as Lucemonds 9 children turn the seven kingdomes into their personal playground

[the20thangel]

The Pearl of the Realm

Summary: This is a one-shot connected to my series, The Dragon and The Raven. Little Princess Aemma has been born, and many celebrate her entrance into the world. Calling her the Pearl of the Realm. Looking into a glance of a House receiving the news of the birth of the little princess.

Word Count: 1.4k

Masterlist

Ravens flew across the seven kingdoms. All brought the glorious news of the Heir to the Iron Throne, Princess Rhaenyra, giving birth to a new princess—a new realm’s delight to grace the whole of Westeros and the Houses Targargeyn and Velayron. The Princess named Aemma in honor of the Crown Princess’s late mother, Good Queen Aemma. Her mother and father eagerly greeted little Aemma. 

As one raven descended towards the Riverlands, it was met by a weirwood tree teeming with crows and ravens. The Blackbird found its way into an open window, greeted by the sight of a striking lady with raven hair and piercing grey eyes. She was a Northern beauty, her tall stature and profound cheekbones accentuating her grace and beauty. Her smile, more of a permanent smirk, hinted at her fierce nature, making her the epitome of a Northern woman. 

The lady named Erena Reed, now Blackwood, was the Current Lady of House Blackwood; noticing the raven, she raised her arms to welcome the bird to land. Cooing at the creature dear to her family, she caressed its wings momentarily before taking the scroll from the raven’s legs. Erena thanked the raven before releasing it back to the outside, watching the raven circle twice before landing on the weriwood tree. Smiling, Erena walks back to her chair, asking for a maid to bring her husband, Samwell Blackwood, and to let him know that a raven had arrived from Kingslanding. 

Erena opened the letter, grinning at its contents. She chuckled as Samwell walked in tow with his younger sister, Alysanne Blackwood, and two maids carrying two babies. Samwell smiled at his wife. Walking towards her, he grasped her hands and kissed them. 

“My Love, what news does the Dragon King bring?” pondered Samwell. 

Erena smiled, greeting Alysanne before answering her husband, “There were two letters, one from King Viserys and the other from my cousin, who is part of the Golden Cloaks. Both bring marvelous news: Our Princess has safely given birth to her second child.” 

Samwell raised an eyebrow as Alysanne clapped in delight.

“Oh, what news indeed… perhaps the spare heir for the princess or the new heir for lord of tides?” Samwell pressed on as he took a seat, accepting a babe from the maid.

Erena hummed, allowing the second maid to place a twin in her arms. Smiling, Erena kissed the child’s chubby cheeks. Feeling his mother's kiss, little Benjicot opened his eyes, staring at his mother before yawning, snuggling into her embrace, and returning to sleep. 

“No, Sam, a little princess has been graced to the realm. A beauty from the accounts of her grandsire and my cousin. Kingslanding is celebrating the little pearl of the realm.” 

“Oh, another dragon princess, how wonderful. Do you think she will have a dragon?” asked Alysanne as she wiggled her finger to the babe in Samwell’s arms. 

Little Davos followed his aunt’s finger momentarily before growing bored and fussing. Samwell hushed his son, rocking him back to sleep.  Chuckling himself, Samwell thought Davos was always the fussiest twin. 

Erena shook her head, “No, according to my cousin, when the little Princess was born, she quickly bonded to Good Queen Alyssane Targaryen’s dragon, Sliverwing. The smallfolk have started praising the little Princess, claiming she will be like her grandmothers, Queens Alysanne and Aemma. Of course, not all are singing praises.” 

Samwell snorted, “Let me guess, The Green Hightower queen and her snakes of allies?” 

The Blackwoods did not love the Hightowers, for that family believed higher than others, especially those who still followed the Old gods. Blackwoods also had enough blood of the first men to follow the ways of the first men in fulfilling their pledges, and they swore loyalty to Princess Rhaenyra and her family. 

Erena laughed tauntingly, making little Benjicot jump in his sleep, “apparently, she was green like her horrid dresses, filled with envy that the little Princess is a beauty of actual Valyrian descent and bonding with a glorious dragon. Mainly because none of her four children have had a dragon as a babe.”

The Blackwood family laughed at the Green Queen’s jealousy. The childish act of being jealous of little children for being born into genetics made them bond to dragons. As the Blackwoods came down from their laughter, Alysanne remembered King Visery’s letter. 

“Good sister, was the letter from King Visery just the announcement of the birth of Princess Aemma?” 

“Ah, no, the King is also hosting a week-long celebration for Princess Aemma’s birth, causing more strife for the Hightower queen.”

“A week's worth? Are the celebrations soon?” inquired Samwell. 

Erena said, “In about two moons, rumors that the King wanted them to take place earlier, but Princess Rhaenyra expressed two moons of peace for her and her family before the realm comes to celebrate.” 

“That's perfect; two moons will allow enough time to prepare everything for the journey to Kingslanding,” explained Samwell, standing. 

The Lord of Raventree Hall kissed his Heir, Davos, and placed him back in the arms of the maid before leaving to call his council to prepare for the journey. 

Erena smiled at her husband’s excitement, glancing at Benjicot. Who knows, she thought, perhaps you both will meet the little Princess when you are older, Ben, maybe you can become a squire in her mother’s household. She smiled as she continued to rock the babe in her arms. 

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

Princess Rhaenyra collapsed in her birthing bed, tired, and she shed happy tears at hearing the sounds of her new baby’s cries. Allowing the midwife to place her child in her arms, the Princess began to sob as she stared at her daughter’s face. Her daughter, although tanner, had the same face as her late mother. She was beautiful; her hair was white like snow and curlier than hers. She was perfect, thought Rhaenyra, glancing up to see Leanor walk nervously into the room. Both were still awkward with each other in their marriage. 

Rhaenyra placed her daughter into Laenor’s awaiting arms. As the Sea Dragon stared at the little Princess, he began to cry, still not being used to the idea of ever having children. Laenor knew he would gladly double down and give his life for his daughter…and his son. Just then, Prince Jacaerys walked in with his grandparents, who all eagerly wanted to see the Princess. Queen Alicent sniffed dryly, staying towards the back and watching the family crowding the parents from a distance. 

Viserys took the little Princess into his arms, with Rhaenys and Corlys standing at either side, shedding tears at the little beauty, who briefly opened her eyes to show the same purple eyes as her mother. Laenor raised little Jace, who was awed by his little sister, and the family was all happy. 

Unfortunately, the happy moment was broken when Alicent walked forward and glanced at the Princess. 

“Interesting how the little princess doesn't share many similarities to her father or Grandsire?” questioned Alicent, staring cooly at Rhaenyra. 

Rhaenyra glared but did not need to speak because Princess Rhaenys spoke faster. 

“Nonsense, your grace. My granddaughter has a mix of her parents' skin tone and the famous white Velayron hair and curls, unlike us Targarygens' waves or straight hair. She happens to hold the face of her late grandmother Aemma,” explained Rhaenys, turning her purple eyes coolly to Alicent’s green, who flushed at being called out. 

Alicent’s face only grew redder when Visery’s cried out. 

“My Aemma has returned to me, daughter, if I may, no more tremendous honor you would grace me if you named our little princess after your late mother.” cried Viserys as he stared at his sweet daughter. 

Rhaenyra smiled tiredly, nodding in agreement that her daughter would be named after her beloved mother, the true queen of her father. 

Laenor praised, “Princess Aemma, the pearl of the realm!” 

Viserys cried more as he exclaimed, “A true pearl; as princess of the realm, we need a week of celebrations to welcome her…”

Alicent gasped, “My love, surely that is too extreme, a week for a princess; we should not need to be excessive-”

“Aemma is worthy of that and more Alicent; she is the realm's Princess and the daughter of the Lady of Dragonstone. All must come and celebrate our newest family member!” countered Viserys. 

Alicent grew green with envy as she hurriedly curtsied and walked out of the room, not wanting to spend another minute in the room. She was upset that everyone was swooning over a bastard princess when her daughter was only given a small feast. 

Rhaenyra followed the retreating green gown before returning to her family. She giggled as Jacaerys waved at his little sister, growing annoyed that little Aemma did not wave back. Yes, little Aemma was indeed a pearl in her mother’s eyes.

[dragonworshippersblog]

Can anyone explain to me why aegon ii is praised for not killing aegon iii? He did not spared him for the sake of his good heart, but because since his only claim was being a man, he could not name his daughter as heir, also considering that much of his body was burned and that he did not know if he was still able to have children. Aegon had about half of Rhaenyra's supporters, who supported him because they couldn't stand the idea of being commanded by a woman and NOT because they believe in his capacity to rule a kingdom, and in a situation where the armies of Cregan Stark and Lady Arryn were marching to Kingslanding, their support was crucial. In a situation where Jaehaera had died and Maelor had survived, Aegon ii would not have hesitated to kill Aegon III, he said himself "my sister's line must end" so please stop praise him as if he were a kind-hearted man

[rosemaryblossomworld]

First Blood (ch.1)

𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐: 𝚅𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚎!𝙹𝚊𝚌𝚊𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚜 𝚅𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚗 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛.

𝚂𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: 𝚈/𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚢 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚢𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚃𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚢𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢....𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚕𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚢 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚕?

𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐: 𝟷𝟾 , 𝙰𝚞!𝚅𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝙷𝚘𝚝𝙳, 𝚁𝚑𝚊𝚎𝚗𝚢𝚛𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚘𝚛 𝚟𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚎. 𝙸𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝙰𝚞, 𝚟𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚍!

𝙰/𝚗: 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚢 𝚋𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝙴𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚐𝚎! 𝙸 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝙸 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙸 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍...

Red Castle was the most dangerous place in the Kingslands. Why? For centuries, the land had been ruled by the most ancient and noble race of vampires! Nothing can break them. Strong...fast...immortal. And they have dragons to serve them.

Men feared and revered them. The Targaryen bloodline gave rise to many rumours and gossip. People whispered about them, their purity of blood and sacrifice.

Every three months, balls were organised for the Targaryen children to find partners.

But every time these partners "disappeared", everyone knew exactly how it happened, but were afraid to say it out loud. Servants, people from the upper classes, ordinary travellers disappeared.

Today was the 6th moon of the winter festival (Christmas). The weather was hot, uncharacteristic of the Kingslands. And on the 15th day of the sixth moon, the lords of the various houses began to receive an invitation from the Queen for a feast. Many considered this letter a "black mark".

This time the black mark fell on the house of Y/l/n, the lord's wife wept bitterly and clutched to her bosom, the youngest Lady of the house, who was beating hysterically. Lord Y/l/n looked gloomily at the letter and reread it over and over again.

"Daddy! Don't give me away, they'll kill me! Please!" young Sanda couldn't imagine that her comfortable days were coming to an end.

"Be quiet Sanda! You've been chosen, but that doesn't mean you can fall to the eyes of Jacaerys," the man muttered.

"Our Sanda is the most beautiful girl in the Kingdom Lands! She could match the Maiden herself! Everyone knows it, and the Queen and her children have found out. Of course she'll want the most beautiful girl in Westeros standing next to her son!" said Lady t/f hysterically.

"Don't get in the way Darlene! I'm thinking!" the man glanced sullenly at the letter again.

He threw a glance at his youngest daughter, now he saw before him a pathetic woman who thought everything would be decided at the wave of a hand. If it didn't involve the Targaryen family, then yes, Lord Y/l/n needed to wave his hand and all of his daughter's problems disappeared.

At that moment the eldest daughter of the family, Y/n, entered the room quietly, she was carrying a small cart with tea and cakes, a quiet and calm girl. She was a bastard. So in the house she was on the level of a servant. The girl was a little taken aback when she heard the pitiful howls of her sister and stepmother. But continued to arrange the cups on the table, pouring flavoured tea from the south.

The girl squinted at the letter in her father's hand and then looked at him, he was already looking at her.

"Interesting?" the gears in the lord's head began to move gradually.

"I dare not," Y/n answered hastily.

"Sanda has been chosen as a candidate to be the 'princess' of Jacaerys," the man sighed and threw a letter on the table.

Y/n looked at her younger sister, who was almost choking on her tears. The girl no longer saw the upstart she had been a few minutes ago when she bullied her. A nasty and caustic thought crept into Y/n's mind that made her want to chuckle. The lord felt it.

"Don't gloat! Lousy girl! Instead of Sanda, you're going to the ball. If Prince Jacaerys doesn't look at you, you're lucky, if he does, I'll give it to him," the lord smirked and looked at the shocked Y/n carefully. The cries of the stepmother and sister fell silent.

"What?" whispered the girl quietly, in that instant she was overcome with anger and sadness.

"Honey, you're a genius! How did we not guess it right away!?" immediately cheered the stepmother.

"Daddy! You're the best!" squealed Sanda and ran into her father's arms.

"The queen might get angry... "Y/n hurried to say.

"She won't be too angry if I tell her that the youngest daughter is seriously ill," the man sniggered.

"She can ask Sanda to attend the next ball, and the next, and the next, and so on ad infinitum!" raised her voice to the older mistress. The lord frowned.

"How dare you cross me!? You ignorant wench! You should be grateful that I took you in. It's time to repay our kindness. The ball will be in two days, so you will be moved to another room. Go!" shrieked the man, he knew perfectly well that his eldest daughter was right. But he didn't want to think about it in front of his wife and youngest daughter, lest he make a fool of himself.

The lord followed the girl's eyes as she looked at him with anger, once again those eyes were reminiscent of the eyes of the witch he had spent the night with. That woman had been beautiful. He had promised to make her his wife and take her out of this poverty. But he had not kept his promise, leaving that one in poverty. As he was packing up and leaving her decrepit home, the dark-haired woman whispered just one phrase: "My daughter will be the ruin of your family." The man laughed. He still laughs now because he looks at Y/n, at this unassuming and defenceless girl, and thinks: "And what can she do?"

Two days passed in preparation. For the first time, Y/n was treated like a queen, washed, fed, and dressed in her finest clothes. The stepmother and younger sister had gone to another estate to maintain the legend of the ailing younger mistress.

On the day of the festival a beautiful dress was sent to Y/n's room, it was red like blood, a black veil and gold jewellery completed the look. The maids carefully put the dress on her, did her hair and then left, leaving Y/n alone. The girl looked at herself and wanted to cry. To cry with happiness that she was wearing such expensive and nice clothes, and with grief that it was an unnecessary spectacle.

The girl wasn't allowed to be sad for long, she was called downstairs to go to the festival.

Y/n and her father stood opposite the queen, who towered majestically over them. Beside her stood her husband, Daemon Targaryen, a vicious prince and the most scandalous person in the kingdom. His two daughters stood beside him, Rhaena had only recently 'lost' her lover, while Baela still had a partner, but the betting was already underway as to when she would start looking for a groom.

Of course, there were rumours that Baela and Jacaerys were to be betrothed, but to this day, they remained free. Jacaerys stood proudly beside his mother, he didn't look at them, his head held high. Lucerys and Joffrey were nowhere to be seen. Everyone knew that Joffrey had not yet reached the age when the power of the ancient family was awakened. And Lucerys just didn't like the event, and the queen thought he was young in his choice of mate.

" I asked you, Lord Y/l/n, where is your youngest daughter?" the queen asked sternly, but every time she shifted her gaze to the young Y/n, her look softened.

"My youngest daughter is seriously ill! She came down with a fever a couple of days ago, the symptoms are terrible, and she's only getting worse," the man lied.

"But who is there with you?" she asked more calmly.

"Oh, it's my eldest daughter. She didn't want you to be angry, so she decided to personally volunteer to soothe your anger," the girl's father nudged her slightly.

"Your majesty," Y/n bowed.

Jacaerys, who had been standing bored when he heard the soft voice that roused his "dead" body, turned his attention to the sound. At the bottom of the steps stood the most beautiful girl he had ever seen at a ball. Soft facial features, a beautiful stance and a slight smile, he felt a hum in his ears, and before his gaze was only her. Was this what his mum had been talking about? "The eternal bond?" That's her, isn't it?

Sensing her son's change, Rhaenyra looked at her boy and then shifted her gaze to the girl. The woman smiled and hummed.

"Good, I see your point, that's very noble of you, enjoy the festival," the queen waved her hand and Lord Y/l/n hurriedly disappeared from the woman's gaze, fetching his eldest daughter.

"You can do whatever you want now. Dance, eat, drink, if any of the heirs come up to you to talk then speak, don't embarrass me," the lord walked away, leaving Y/n completely alone in an unknown environment.

After thinking for a while, Y/n skirted down the corridor and then onto one of the castle's balconies. The view was magnificent: the harbour, the ships, the sun setting on the horizon. This view was not comparable to what the girl saw at her place, in fact she had no windows in her room. It was always dark and cold.

She covered her eyes but immediately opened them as soon as she felt a strange smell, it was sweet and juicy, as if there was a sweet fruit in front of her eyes that she wanted to bite. She turned round and her heart stopped beating. Jackairis Velarion stood before her.

"May I join your silence, my lady?" he asked, slowly approaching.

" yes, of course," the girl said quietly.

She looked straight into the guy's eyes, they were brown, but...she could also see red reflections in them that appeared and disappeared.

"Why did you leave?" he enquired to get rid of the awkward silence.

"I'm not used to being at events like this. I'm nervous, to be honest," the girl grinned and leaned her hands relaxedly on the stone railing of the balcony.

"I understand, my lady, I get tired of them too. That's why my little brother rarely attends them. But my sisters just love the fun and the noise. They're dancing in the hall right now," he smiled, and Y/n was embarrassed.

"You...I... " Y/n tried to think of a topic of conversation, but nothing came to mind.

The prince chuckled. He couldn't look at the girl in red, in his head they had lived for several thousand years, they had five...no! seven...no! ten children.

"I didn't ask your name," the guy mentioned.

"My name is Y/n Y/l/n, Lord Y/l/n's eldest daughter," the girl bowed.

"Your little sister...she's not sick, is she?" he asked immediately and he could hear the girl's heart beating fast.

"She...no...she's just," the lady tried to come to her senses and think of something.

"Look at me," the prince reached out to Y/n and lifted her chin.

Y/n looked at the prince and froze, her ears popped, her breathing became quiet and steady, her eyes were covered by a bright veil from behind which she saw the prince's red eyes.

"Tell me the truth. Where is your sister?" he ran his hand gently down the girl's cheek.

"She has gone with her stepmother to the second estate. She is not ill, but shocked by the letter the queen sent. I am her replacement. I didn't want to come here, I was forced," the girl said in a cold tone, Y/n wanted to scream but couldn't, she didn't want to say it! What's going on!!!?

"Don't be afraid Y/n, I won't hurt you. You are under my spell, it's what our kind can do. We can make a person tell the truth or, we can command them to do an order, for example: my love, take my hand and press it to your chest," the prince uttered the last phrase, he didn't really mean to say 'to your chest', if his blood flowed like a normal person, his lady could see his red face.

Y/n felt the heat come up to her cheeks. This was exciting! She took the prince's other hand and pressed it against her chest, where her heart beat.

"Like this. Your heart is beating fast. Are you scared?" Jace lifted his hand higher.

"I'm excited... "the girl whispered softly.

"Are you afraid I'll bite you? I won't do that unless you ask me to," the prince moved closer.

"I don't want you to kill me," for a moment all feeling came back to the girl and she tried to break free, but the Prince's grip tightened and he soaked her again.

"What if I told you I don't want to kill you. I want you to be my partner, my princess and future queen," he whispered the words into the girl's lips.

"I don't believe you," just as monotonously.

"Then, I'll do my best to make you believe. Let me kiss you, just one kiss as proof," the pair's lips almost touched, but Y/n didn't respond.

He grinned and nestled his lips against the girl's soft lips. Immediately the buzzing in her ears disappeared, her vision and breathing normalised again, but Y/n didn't pull away, only pressed herself closer to the prince. Again that smell that was driving the girl crazy.

He touched the girl's lips gently and weightlessly, sucking on her upper and lower lips. Then, opening his mouth slightly, he ran his tongue along the girl's lower lip. Y/n immediately opened her mouth, letting the young man's hurried tongue in. The kiss constantly changed its pace, then slow, then fast, then careless. The girl knew the feeling for the first time, something warm in her lower belly and flowing down into her underwear.

He growled into the kiss, feeling the girl's wonderful ambrosia, that sweet smell starting to swirl around them. The Prince is afraid that his kin can smell it too, and they will try to steal his Maiden, out of his own hands. Jace clasped the girl tighter. He continued to entwine his tongue with his lady's, growling and whimpering slightly, the scent growing brighter and brighter. Now Jace's heat was centred down his stomach as well.

Y/n began to feel her head spinning, these emotions and this scent...where did it come from? So pleasant, sweet and spicy, wanting to inhale and inhale. The girl moaned at the prince's touch. Is it his charms? Or is it her true feelings? So shameful, but...she wants more, she wants what the maids whisper about in the manor, she wants what they teach in the Silk Streets. She pressed herself against the prince and...darkness fell.

The girl opened her eyes sharply and realised that she was in the room where she had been living for the last two days in her family estate. She jumped up from the bed and looked around. The sun was shining brightly and illuminating the room.

"Mistress, you woke up just in time," a maid named Martina, walked over to the elder mistress' bed and placed a few things on the chair next to it.

"What happened? Where is father?" her voice was slightly hoarse and the girl hurriedly drank a glass of water that was on a table nearby.

"Ser Jakor brought you in yesterday. You fainted at the ball. And your father is in his study now and wants to see you after breakfast," the maid said calmly.

Y/n was dressed in a light white dress with open shoulders. Breakfast was light, the way a girl likes it.

After breakfast, Ser Jakor escorted the girl to the lord's study. He knocked and announced the arrival of his daughter. There was a muffled sound, "let her in." And the knight opened the door.

"Why did you want to see me?" went straight to the subject Y/n.

"Did you communicate with the eldest prince yesterday?" asked the Lord, still staring at the papers in front of him.

Y/n felt her face begin to burn. Has he seen us? Does he know about this? What to do!!!

"Yes," the girl said quickly.

"Jakor, hand it over," the man pushed a black envelope towards the knight.

Once the envelope was handed over, Y/n looked at it closely. It was an unusual black envelope with drawings of flowers, the letter had been opened, most likely the lord had decided to see who it was from, because the envelope bore the name of the eldest lady of House Y/l/n, though it was barely visible. But the girl looked at the Targaryen family crest on the gold seal, the girl's heart sank, she pulled out the envelope and read a few lines. Queen Rhaenyra wrote and demanded a meeting with Y/n Y/l/n, at the end there was only one phrase: You are the perfect candidate.

"I don't know how long the queen will keep you, but I have ordered the maids to gather some of your wardrobe. You will be sent to Red Castle, we can't keep the Queen waiting!" the man finally looked at his daughter.

"Father..." the girl began.

"I don't care what happens to you. Your fate is essentially sealed. That's the way it should be, Y/n, you were a mistake and fate presented me with a chance to get rid of her," the man spoke coldly.

"What if they let me go?" the girl asked, looking angrily at her father again.

"This will be a great disappointment. But I'll take you back, you'll live here as before. Now get on your way. The queen wanted to share a meal with you," waved the lord and burrowed into the papers again.

Y/n sighed and left the room. She was filled with a thousand emotions. It was scary and exciting at the same time, she would meet the prince again, but...she already knew what she would be to him.

With heavy thoughts, the girl walked down to the ground floor. She watched her things being loaded. Y/n took one last look at Y/n's estate, smiled sadly, and got into the carriage. Her fate was now in someone else's hands.

Ps: I'm not good at writing intimate scenes...well...I think the second chapter will take a long time to come out because I want to write it right. In a way that's breathtaking.

[murmel-malt]

Hedaera Targaryen - 93 AC

Viserys Targaryen x Hedaera Targaryen (OFC) prev / next wordcount: 1.4k summery: my answer to the question: what if Viserys and Daemon had a little sister? canon divergent dance of the dragons au featuring canon and original characters.

chapter summery: It is time for a wedding in Kingslanding and the kingdoms have gathered in celebration. The little bride however is far from happy and would rather be anywhere else.

A/N: note that english is not my first language so there will probably be some grammar mistakes.

93 AC - Kingslanding

Daera feels numb. 

Faintly, there’s music playing, muffled, like her ears are stuffed with cotton. Beyond her unfocused gaze she knows is the Red Keep’s great hall, decked out in the banners of House Targaryen, festive decorations and flower arrangements. It is a wedding after all and the King has spared no expense in making it an affair sufficiently grande for his grandson and son’s heir. Hedaera is sure she was but an afterthought in the planning. At least they had remembered to get some cushions for her or she might not have been able to properly sit at the table and eat. Not that she has much of an appetite. The mere thought of food had made her sick the last few days and whatever Alysanne had coaxed into her barely stayed down. Grandmother had worried that she was getting sick but the Maester had assured her that it was just nerves. Surely the little Princess was just excited about her wedding.

Her wedding that despite all her protests, screaming and yelling and tearing of dresses she hadn’t been able to avoid. Two wedding dresses had been destroyed by Daera before the King had interfered. The first she had taken scissors to and cut it to ribbons, the second she had torn with her bare hands. Jaehaerys had been furious with her and Daera had never been more afraid of her grandfather than that day when he yelled at her to cease her childish behavior and that none of her nonsense would change her fate, so it would serve her best to come to terms with it. Afterwards she had been confined to her chambers for three days with no visitors allowed to think of her actions.

She hadn’t wanted to give up but it was already a losing battle and she was all alone in it. Nobody was on her side; except Aemma and Gael of course but her cousin and aunt had no power either. Those that did, didn’t seem to care that she was miserable or chose to ignore it to ease their own conscience. Like grandmother and her father. They were still trying to convince themselves that Daera would eventually embrace her role as her brother’s wife. But there was no way their marriage would ever be remotely like their parents’ and both Alysanna and Baelon knew it, yet they didn’t lift a finger to help her. Not then and not now as she sits next to her brother-husband at the foot of the Iron Throne.

Viserys sits to her right. He is happily chatting away with someone; it is grating on her nerves. Of course he is happy. He gets exactly what he wanted: a sister-wife. Just like their father, and grandfather. Like a true Targaryen. That Daera is far less willing than either Alysanne and Alyssa had been is conveniently ignored or it would ruin the pretty picture he has undoubtedly painted in his head.

On her left sits Aemma, who looks about as gloomy as Daera. Daemon has yet to pay any attention to her despite them being betrothed. Usually Daera would go over and make her brother regret making their cousin miserable, but she is too caught up in imagining herself somewhere - literally anywhere - else. If only she had a dragon, anyone that would try to make her do things she didn’t want to do would be faced with a maw of dragonfire. Or she could just fly away; far, far away. Maybe to Lys to aunt Saera. But there is no dragon for her, not to claim and not to hatch. So she remains shackled to the ground, to a future as her brother’s wife and mother of his children.

She feels like crying again - and then feels angry for feeling like crying -  but apparently all her tears have already been used up. Her red and puffy eyes attest to the hours she spent crying before she was pried from her chambers for her wedding.

Her unfocused gaze falls from the blurry shapes moving beyond the table to her plate and she moves to take a small bite of the food there. It doesn’t taste of anything as she chews, swallows and returns the fork to its place next to the plate. Her hand falls back to join the other in her lap and her gaze returns to stare emptily ahead. Until a shape moves into her view and doesn’t leave. She makes the effort to look and the shape is revealed to be a bard or musician of some sort. He is speaking to her, asking about some song he wishes to play for ‘the little bride’. Daera only nods mutely and the man scurries away again, probably joining the other musicians.

She distantly hears a new tune begin to play. It is one of her favorites; one of those she used to beg for at every feast and dance to with her father. She will not be dancing with her father today, nor with Viserys. Her brother does not care for dancing and for once in her life she is glad that he is so incredibly boring, because she would rather throw herself from the highest tower of the Red Keep than take to the dancefloor today or with him in general. 

Eventually the song ends and Aemma returns to her seat next to her. Daera hadn’t even noticed that she had been gone. Hopefully Daemon had finally decided to act like her betrothed and asked her to Dance. At least one of them should have a good time.

Tentatively a hand brushes against hers and Hedaera nearly flinches at the sudden contact. Aemma waits for her to open hers before carefully weaving her fingers through Daera’s and gives her cousin a small, sad smile. It is a bit awkward the way they sit with her hands intertwined - both of them being a bit too small to properly fit into the chairs - but Hedaera welcomes the small comfort her cousin offers. She doesn’t dwell on wishing she could do more. Like Rhaenys might have done. 

Her other cousin’s attendance would have lightened Hedaera’s mood considerably. Ever since she had been passed over in favor of Baelon, neither she nor her husband were particularly keen on the King. To have someone there who understood and shared Daera’ feelings and was not afraid to show them would have made things a little bit less terrible. And Daera was sure that, had she asked, Rhaenys might have carried her off on Meleys too. But sadly her father’s death had not been the only tragedy to befall her cousin. The babe everybody had been so excited about last year had not survived, leaving Rhaenys bed bound and mourning. 

Daera cannot fault her for not wanting to face their grandfather or court after that.

She doesn’t know what hour it is when her eyelids become heavy. Her eyes still itch and feel swollen despite not having cried since the morning and she fights the urge to rub at them. She has been sitting in her chair the entire evening yet feels tired down to her bones. Hedaera just wants this day to finally end; to go to bed and hope to forget about her life and future for a little bit. 

Grandmother had told her that the wedding is nothing but a formality, that she is not expected to fulfill any wifely duties just yet. After all, she hasn’t even flowered. She can go about her life as she always had until then. Daera had only scoffed. Except that she was now shackled to that bore of an older brother of hers and eventually expected to lay with him and give him children. The thought made her shudder.

But eventually she cannot stop her eyes from drooping or hide the yawns any longer. Viserys doesn’t notice, but not everybody is as inattentive as her brother. Grandmother must have noticed because not long after her yawning has become more frequent, a maid appears by her side telling her that it is time to retire for the evening. Daera doesn’t argue; she is too eager to get away and forget about this terrible, terrible day.

Aemma rises with her, insisting to accompany and help her get ready for the night as a lady-in-waiting ought to. But Daera knows her cousin is as eager to get away as she is. The novelty of the evening has worn off and they are tired. All she wishes to do is curl up under her blanket and sleep; and forget.

a/n: just 1.4k words of Daera disassociateing. ur welcome.