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prettyundeadgirl · 9 months ago

Text

Crave The Rose

1st and 3rd gifs made by me :)

Summary: Throughout your time in King's Landing, you and the carelessly attractive Kingsguard grew fond of each other. Your sister Margaery believes you both suit each other exceedingly well, soon setting you two up, and beneath the moonlight, love unfurls.

Pairing: Jaime Lannister x Tyrell Female Reader

Wordcount: 1.9k

Tags: Fluff, Smut, 18+ MDNI

AO3 Link

From the moment he set foot into the lush gardens of King’s Landing, his pair of viridescent eyes, shot with gold, set themselves onto you with an untold and profound intrigue.

He’d go to the gardens whenever the chance arose, knowing you frequented there. He first enjoyed admiring you from afar, and it soon led him down a luring path where he’d do anything possible to get closer to you. Whether it was a simple, “Pardon me,” to brush past your skin and hear your gentle voice apologize for ‘being in his way,’ or to simply greet you.

Engaging conversations soon blossomed, and you grew rather fond of him, leaving your grandmother and sister early to catch up with him and walk through the endless greenery, scented with vibrant inflorescences.

–

The day was up early, new and fresh, yet the torrid heat remained the same. You strolled beside the pond’s stone borders, taking a seat on the edge and basking in the generous and unyielding rays of sunlight that brightened the strands of your hair and complemented certain aspects of your features.

Jaime had arrived only moments after and spotted you in an instant. He gathered in the picturesque view—the delicate movement of your leg crossing over the other, the intricate, floral trim of your dress, and the way you hovered over the pond to see the fish swimming beneath the lily pads that lay afloat, graced with pearlescent water lilies.

When you looked at him, lashes lifting slowly with that smile you always gave him, everything in his peripheral vision was meaningless as he stared at you—the electric, captivating focal point. And like the white, casting moon, you had a gravitational pull on the ocean tides of his attention, distant yet somehow influential, tugging him along. It wasn’t until you broke the contact to face your approaching sister Margaery that he was then dragged onto the mundane shores of reality.

Margaery was undoubtedly graceful, with her lustrous, long brown hair and soft doe-like stare.

“Grandmother wants to speak with us.” She stated, and as you stood up from your spot, she acknowledged Jaime with an inquisitive glint before interlacing her arm with yours. You asked her what she wanted as you both withdrew from the area, leaving Jaime with an indescribable and strange sense of longing.

Gone from his view, a smirk appeared on her face, and etched in her creases was a curiosity one couldn’t possibly deny, and it had been there for some time.

“He’s rather handsome, isn’t he?”

“Very.” You answered noticeably quickly.

“He likes you, I’ve seen it. I think you’d make a beautiful couple.”

Disbelief flashed across your features and you expelled a scoff, “You’re all wrong, he’s a Kingsgaurd. Forbidden to love. And he swore an oath to the king, your king.”

She giggled at your reaction, “Dear sister, you have much to learn. Most men never keep their oath, and what I saw today, his mind was clearly breaking that oath.” She drawled the last few words, wanting you to hear every syllable.

She was right.

Out of his sight, involuntary images and thoughts of you embedded themselves into the crevices of his mind—some pure, most not. It lingered in the back throughout his day and grew in the night before he went to sleep, and when he awakened, the hazy memory would come to a clear. He spent many mornings and nights this way—starting and ending with you, and he almost felt himself go mad, but he never knew one to love it as much as he did.

–

Beneath the heavens, you were situated on a long stone bench surrounded by verdant bushes and flourished plants, gazing out to where the sky and sea touched. The golden hours of the afternoon drained into the horizon; the sun, already gone, succumbing to its own inevitable demise. Darkness swept away the remnants of daylight that lingered, until the night prevailed, and myriad pinpricks of white sparkling light, softer than satin, adorned it graciously.

The glistening, tranquil waters lapped against the stone structure, its song melding with your blissful hums. It reflected the prideful moon hung above which watched as you held a flower you plucked from a nearby bush, stripping it of its petals until all that remained of it was the stem. You placed the petals into your hands, sending them off into the night where they swayed down for the vast expanse of water to claim, flowing away until they were no longer visible.

Before long, your attention is drawn to the familiar clattering sound of armor approaching your direction.

“Ser Jaime.” You greeted, rising from your seat.

“Lady (name).”

“What did you wish to speak to me about?”

His brows slightly furrowed at your question, “I was told you had wished to speak with me. Did you not?”

“No,” You admitted with pure honesty, taking a few steps forward. “My sister told me you wanted to meet me here, said you had something you’ve been wishing to tell me for a while.”

A spark of realization pervaded you after you finished your sentence, and as if by magic, the realization traveled to him as he smiled and you let out a small laugh, a sound he never tired of.

Inches away from him with that gentle gaze that sent his heart to cease, you raised your arm and traced the indentations of his shiny, aureate armor. The world was quiet—just the two of you, surrounded by nothing but plants and gleaming stars.

“Do you have something you wish to tell me, Ser?” The sudden shift in your tone and closeness sent an unbidden tightness to his throat.

“Yes.” He admitted. “I’ve wanted you since the moment I laid my eyes on you.”

Pulling him closer, your lips grazed and you kissed him, the rose of your mouth blooming against him. His hands, by nature, encompassed the curves of your hips, and the cool gilded fingertips of his false hand contrasted with the warmth of your exposed skin and sent shivers through you.

He sought the answer to a question that plagued his unsettled mind, rendering him incapable of thinking about anything else for the duration of your time here, and at the base of your tongue, the answer evades him: Your lips were as soft and divine as he conceived, and you tasted sweeter than any honey he’s ever had, making him smile against the orient pearl bone of your teeth.

You pulled away, and his lips grew cold at your abrupt absence, “It’s late. Could you escort me back to my chambers?” You said against his mouth, words coated with a heavy implication.

His lips curled into another grin, “Of course.”

Arm looped around his as you were led into the Keep, where shadows draped against the narrow halls and slowly fell onto you. The silence was a symphony until your footfalls quick and sure echoed the halls akin to the beating of one’s heart.

When you reached the door, he wasted no time, drawing you close, the warmth of his body enveloping you as he reconnected his lips to yours with a fierce intensity. In that moment of pure, unbridled passion, you both shared the same thought: I don’t want this to end.

You craved each other, he was doubtless of it as you pulled him into your chambers with deafening haste, and once the door had shut, his hands moved with purpose, and your dress descended to the floor. You clumsily fiddled with his armor, removing the burdensome weight of his duties.

With your bare bodies exposed to the night’s air, he propped you against the wall, and you wrapped your legs tightly around his waist, never breaking the burning, sinful kiss. Your fingers entwined with his flaxen hair, and a carnal desire had curled its way through his veins, clogging his marrow and taking over him entirely. His kisses were rough and possessive as he moved to your neck, and you sighed those pretty, sensuous moans he tended to find himself imagining, yet they could never compare to how you sounded now.

He carried you with ease, and the gentle river of bed sheets, brightened by the pale moonlight, creased as he lay you upon the bed and gazed at your flushed cheeks and half-lidded eyes, with your legs parted for him and him only. You were utterly remarkable, sculpted by The Seven themselves; and he briefly wondered if he was even worthy of your love, for his perceived flaws over the years tainted him, and the gold hand fitted on his arm reminded him of it.

Your eyes gleamed up at him with sincerity and love, not a trace of judgment or distaste. It was louder than his doubts and beckoned him.

He pressed his weight on you and planted seeds of sloppy kisses, starting from your mouth, and down to the cleft between your thighs. Your sighs were heavenly when his mouth met where you wanted him most, and he relished in your taste as his generous tongue performed a rhythmic undulation. You lifted your hips, pushing into his mouth, and further parting your legs to provide him better access, and when he heard whispers of his name fall from your lips like it was the only word you’ve ever known, it swept over him, defeating any worries he harbored.

His name floated in the air, and he felt you tremble and wither as he licked your sensitive flesh. A blissful wave had overcome you, your chest rising and lowering. It was nothing you had ever experienced, and you desperately wanted to feel it repeatedly.

He returns to your mouth once more, allowing you to taste yourself on his lips. His fingers traced over your thighs before lifting your leg from your knee, leaving you completely accessible to him. You hummed when he placed himself inside you with much need, movements starting slow and soon quickening, desperate to let out the build-up of his release in you. Your hands clutched at his back, nails ever so slightly indenting crescents into his skin as you felt his cock grazing the spot that ached for him. He moved away to stare into your eyes, admiring you for a moment your eyes brimming with love and lips parted, trying your best to stay silent and not draw attention to your chambers if anyone walked by. Still, the effort was futile as your moans fluttered out of your throat.

He moved to your ear languidly and spoke breathless words. “Tell me… Tell me I’m yours and only yours.” The tension in your abdomen tightened at his gentle demand, and a weak smile pressed against your ear as you did as you were told.

You couldn’t contain it any longer, and you came hard and sweet beneath him. He soon followed, a soft, low groan escaping his chest, and his thrusts slowed as your breaths intermingled in the room of meager light, slowly coming back to awareness. You and him never wanted the Gods to let it be forgotten, and you remained in each others’ arms until the night turned day.

–

In the early morning, sunlight swept away the dust of stars, and you were awakened by a lightness in the bed and a chill to your body that wasn’t there during the night. A sullenness burdened your heart when you twisted to an empty side, but soon diminished and was replaced by a warmness at what had been placed on the pillow, leading you to replay the unforgettable event that occurred in the night.

A single rose.

#jaime lannister #jaime lannister x reader #jaime lannister x you #jaime lannister imagine #jaime lannister oneshot #got fanfiction #jaime lannister fanfiction #jaime lannister fic #jaime lannister smut #game of thrones #game of thrones x reader #got imagine #jaime lannister imagines #asoiaf fanfic #my writing

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catsteeth · 10 months ago

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Sugar & Violence

Podrick Payne x reader

+:✿ Chapter 1 ✿:+ : Lucky Boy

chapter 2

Summary: You’re a Mormont being held hostage by House Lannister. You are acting now as the Handmaiden for Margery Tyrell, whom you’ve grown quite close with. But it seems that a squire has caught your attention as you have caught his.

CW: afab reader, slow burn, mention violence, blood, mention of harassment, mention of NSFW themes.

A/N: I am not giving up on the leashed dog series yall I promise I have just been PINING for pod the rod recently… and tbh we need a little sweetness with everything happening in the other series okay. He is a rom com boy trapped in a medieval fantasy war and I feel so bad for him.

Word Count: 3348

It had been many days now being held by the Lannisters. You’d no real duties on Bear Island as it was such a small house. Your Aunt was a fierce leader and needed no guidance. You had chosen to venture off of Bear Island to celebrate your coming of age. You decided to travel all over the realm, you wished to see the world and experience all of it. However at a tavern near Kings Landing a man decided to grab at you. You hated it when men did that, so you took your cup of ale and smashed the whole cup into his nose.

It broke of course, and of course, like a child he wept. If a man had done such to another man no one would have batted an eye. But because it was a gold cloak you “assaulted”, and because you were you, a Mormont. An enemy house, you were arrested and brought to the Lannisters. They thought of killing you but instead decided to make use of you.

And they did make good use of you. With you there, Bear Island would be swayed away from ever siding with Stannis against them with you in your custody. Not only that but you were trained in healing, and not nearly as hardened looking as the other women of Bear Island. You were made Handmaiden for Margery Tyrell while she was inhabiting the city.

Margery had done her part in helping you fit in. She showed you how to style your hair, how to pick a dress that suited your figure, how to manipulate the men around you, keeping you out of any more unnecessary trouble. When she dressed you up, no one would be able to tell you could swing a sword just as well as any Kingsgaurd or sellsword could.

You see Margery had to pretend in front of everyone else, but with you, you weren’t loyal to the Lannisters and she knew this. Besides you two had bonded after many nights drinking wine late at night in her bedchambers. Like two little girls who had stolen their fathers ale. You’d spend the nights talking of your lives and your wishes.

Margery was the same again and again, to be the queen. And yours was always the same, to live life and experience all you could.

You and she also talked of men. You’d had experience, and so had she. Not many women would admit it but you two were close enough that you felt you could.

You and she attended many festive celebrations with one another, and to anyone else it would seem you were enjoying your time there. That was good, you did not want to attract any attention.

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Your station as a handmaiden made it easy to overhear and eavesdrop on many high born conversations. One that caught your attention the most was that Janos Slynt, the commander of the gold cloaks, the man who arrested you, was going to be dismissed from his duty.

You weren’t above pettiness. You wanted to hear him be dismissed with your own ears. You found a small room within the castle. Tyrion was hosting a small dinner with Slynt. This was going to be the dinner where he was going to be dismissed. You pressed your back against the wall beside the door listening in. The majority of the dinner was mindless small talk, until

“Damn it boy!” Slynt said loudly.

The shout was so loud you couldn’t help but turn and peer into the room, catching a glimpse of the man who arrested you, Lord Tyrion Lannister, and a squire. You saw that the squire had spilt wine all over the hand of Slynt. It made you smile, holding in amusement.

“My apologies my Lord.” The shorter brown haired squire said.

“You can pour your own wine.” Tyrion said in defense of the squire.

You looked back to Slynt and saw that you had been seen, Slynt raised a brow at you.

“You girl! You the Mormont?" Slynt said loudly,

‘Fuck’ you thought to yourself. Knowing you’d been caught.

“Indeed, My Lord.” You said, putting on a meek and sweet demeanor.

“Come in here,” Slynt commanded.

“What are you doing here, My Lady?” Tyrion questioned you gently.

“Looking for my Lady Tyrell, I seem to have lost my way, My Lord.” You said bowing your head. A convincing enough lie.

“I was responsible for your arrest, do you remember that, girl.” His face was confident and irritating.

“I do, Ser.” You said still attempting to keep a sweet and calm demeanor.

“I thought she was to be punished?” Slynt said to Tyrion.

“She is HandMaiden to Lady Margery Tyrell, and as I am told, a very skilled healer. She has proven to be quite useful.” Lord Tyrion said with a smile looking at you, you smiled back.

“A girl assaults a member of the gold cloaks and is given a position in your Kingdom?”

“A decision made by the King. If you wish to disagree with his decision-”

“Course not.” Slynt interrupted, “Wine,” he commanded, holding up his empty cup.

The same squire began to walk towards the man with the pitcher of wine.

“Not you, boy, the bear girl.” Slynt said looking at you, the irritation boiled inside of you. But you did your best to keep your cool.

You took the pitcher from the squires hands, you looked at him for a moment, his worried expression changed into a smile. It was a smile of total innocence you thought to yourself.

You took the pitcher and walked your way towards the table, as you began to pour wine into his cup he started to speak again.

“Tell me girl, are you enjoying the city?” His tone was one of an interrogator.

“Yes, My Lord.” You said pouring, with a cherubic smile.

“You don’t look like the women of Bear Island.” He said biting his lip, it made you feel ill.

“Indeed, My Lord.” Agree blindly, that’s what Margery taught you anyway

“Women there are beasts,” He said to Tyrion.

“Like you I assume?” Tyrion teased him, it made you smile.

“No, no, like her aunt Maege.” He said and your smile dwindled, but you kept it on.

You didn’t respond this time, biting your tongue, you felt the anger in you rising but said nothing. You wanted to pour the wine on his balding head, but still, did nothing.

“Tell me is it true, is it true she fucked a bear?”

“Lord Slyn-” Tyrion began

“What do you wish for me to say, my Lord?” You felt your temper slipping from between your fingertips. Your smile now gone.

“Do you think I wish for you to lie girl?” Slynt’s tone was harsh,

You stared at him for a moment, your smile snapping back into place.

“Whatever you’d command, my Lord.”

“Enough.” Tyrion tried to stop it.

“You’d do anything I commanded?”

“I said enough. Lady Mormont, you may see to your lady.” Tyrion commanded, saving you from whatever was to come next.

You smiled and curtseyed as you walked back to place the pitcher back on the table. With your back turned to the men your face dropped and you made eye contact with the same squire. He looked at you with pity in his eyes. You couldn’t stand it. You spit into the pitcher and smiled at the squire, he tried hard to hold back his amusement, only giving it away with a smirk as he looked down at his feet.

As you walked out of the room you made sure not to make the same mistake as before. You hid better, committed to hearing this man be removed from his position. And you did, and it was just as satisfying as you thought it would be. Especially when he was escorted by his own gold cloaks out of the tower, kicking and whining like a child.

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During the Battle of Blackwater you attended to many mens wounds.

It had taken most of the night, you were not concerned with the war that waged outside the castle walls. If they won, nothing changed for you. If they lost, you’d either be set free, or once again, nothing would change. Most likely it would be the latter.

You among a few other ladies attended to wounds and dying men while the Maester did as much as he could for those who were far gone.

Things had slowed down, beds were nearly full, but then knights rushed in holding Lord Tyrion. His face had been cut deeply. The cut had crossed his entire face. You could tell at first glance that it would scar, but he would live. It would have been extremely painful but thankfully he was unconscious.

They were all shouting at the Maester. To halt what he was doing and to attend to their lord. As he did a tall man, Bronn, the man who replaced Slynt. Dragged a shorter man with short dark hair towards the Maester.

“Lads hand is cut deep, needs help.” Bronn said

“I can’t attend to every cut and scrape when there's a dying lord in my presence.” The old Maester said, quite dramatically you thought. Tyrion was badly wounded but he would live. “Mormont, girl, you attend to the lad!” He shouted to you.

“Is she any good?” Bronn said, the other shorter man looked at you with what looked like embarrassment, “This lad saved that Lord's life.” You huffed at his comment, it annoyed you how he didn’t ask you but the Maester.

“If I’d a cock they’d call me a Maester.” You said walking closer to him til you were inches apart, it made him take a gasp of air puffing up his chest, and his lips formed a line. “Show me,” You said, much softer this time. He relaxed a bit and as you presented your hand, palm facing him. He placed his hand in yours. “Not so bad,” you said as you examined it.

“Hear that Podrick, not bad-” Bronn said to the shorter man.

“Not so bad. It is still bad.” You noticed his expression change to a more worried one. You, for some reason, felt the need to let your cold and hardened attitude slip for a moment. “But you won’t lose it. I’ll clean it, stitch it, and bandage it.” You placed your other hand over his, trying to comfort him. “Sit.”

He nodded and did so, laying his hand on the table. You began to clean it. Your eyes snapped from his wound to his face as he winced. “Is it true?” he looked at you and his eyes made your stomach feel like there were butterflies in it, so you looked back to his wound as you tended to it, “You saved him? Lord Tyrion?”

“I- I helped him, My Lady.” He said, stammering. Though you weren’t looking at him you could tell his eyes were on your face.

“You’re quite brave, Ser.” You said as you finished cleaning his wound.

“Thank you, My Lady, but I’m not-”

“He’s no Ser, that lads a squire.” Bronn interrupted, “I tell you what though Lass, you want a knight I’ll be happy to oblige.” He said stepping closer to you, your eyes returned to your work on the squires hand.

“Men like you amuse me, Ser. They believe they are still young, handsome, and desirable. No matter what they look like.” You said attempting to fain genuine amusement as if he’d told a joke.

As Bronn attempted to begin a retort, you heard a small laugh leave the unconscious Lord’s lips, still not fully conscious.

“See? I am a good healer.” You said as everyone looked at Tyrion's subtle laugh as you continued to work.

The squire looked back at you with a slight grin, as if he were trying to hide his amusement.

“Much braver for a squire to do such a thing.” You said softly just so he’d hear it.

He smiled at you in response, He was pretty you thought. Men on Bear Island were fearsome, rigid, and gruff. This one wasn’t, the opposite in fact. He’d had a natural goodness about him, a sweetness.

That's when you realized he was the same squire from the dinner between Ser Slynt and Lord Tyrion.

“I know you.” You said with narrow eyes and furrowed brows, finally realizing.

“Yes, my Lady.” His smile and innocent response made you smile involuntarily, you tried to hide it to no avail. You were flattered that he’d even remembered you. The feeling of flattery didn’t come naturally to you at all either.

“This part is going to hurt.” You said pulling the curved needle through his flesh, he winced and hissed. Your eyes went towards him, normally you never cared. A man should learn to handle pain, you always thought. But you hated to see him in any discomfort. “Bring him wine.” You called out to Bronn. Your words towards Bronn were no near as gentle and sweet sounding as they were towards Podrick.

He began to drink it, only sipping a little at first, but you pushed the cup up making him down more. “You’ll want to be numb to this.” You explained.

As he continued to drink you continued with your work. By the end of it you bandaged his hand, “Finished,” You said standing up, and he followed your actions.

“I can’t thank you enough, my lady.” He said clearly a little drunk from the wine.

“Alright,” Bronn said grabbing Podrick by the back of his neck and dragged him out of the chamber. You could hear Bronn outside say “You can fuck the she-bear later.” followed by some distant protesting by Podrick.

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A day had passed since the battle. You were in your chambers with Margery. You’d told her about all the handsome knights you’d seen that night.

She’d teased you about how lucky you were to have gotten your hands on so many. You had begun to describe the squire you’d met. How strange it was to have met a man so pleasant in such an awful place.

As the two of you laughed there was a knock at your door. Margery took it upon herself to answer it.

“Lady Tyrell, apologies for the interruption. I came to thank Lady Mormont.” You heard his voice and knew who it was immediately.

“Ah! I take it you were a knight she tended to during the battle?” Margery asked him, you wanted to laugh, but held it in.

“A squire, my Lady.” He said, his tone was somewhat sullen. As if he were embarrassed to say it.

“A squire…” Margery said with her signature smile as she turned to look at you, raising her eyebrows, then turning back to him “Well I shall leave you to express your gratitude.” She said as she left.

You stood from your chair and stepped forward.

“Lady Mormont?” He said walking towards you, as he did he pulled out a small but beautiful delicate yellow flower. It had only recently bloomed.

“A flower?” You asked, raising an eyebrow. On Bear Island people hardly said the word thank you much less showed appreciation through gifts, especially not such sweet ones as this.

“I don’t have much, my lady. But I- I wanted to show my gratitude.” He said with his token innocent wide eyed look. You took the flower and smiled slightly, which made him smile back.

“It was my duty, you don’t need to give me flowers for it.” He looked down, as if he was disappointed in himself. You smelt the flower, to show your hidden appreciation of the gesture. “Show me your hand.” You held your hands out, he hesitated not expecting you to command such a thing, but he did it as you asked. “Hurting at all?” You asked softly examining the cut.

“No, my lady.” His voice was gentle as always.

“It’s healing well.” You said running your finger tip along the length of the stitches, the sensation made him take his hand away, rubbing it against the side of his pants.

He grunted a little and cleared his throat, “All your doing, my Lady.”

You looked at him with a smirk, “How long have you been squiring for Lord Tyrion?”

“For a short time,”

“Well, you’ll need to learn to pour wine. You spill wine on every Lord in Westeros, sooner or later you’ll spill it on the wrong one.” You said walking towards a table, you grabbed a glass and a pitcher of wine.

“Pour me wine.” You said handing him a pitcher of wine.

You stepped closer towards him, making his swallow hard. But he took the pitcher nonetheless.

“hold the pitcher like this-“ You said moving his hands position with your own, “from the handle, and the bottom” You looked up into his eyes, noticing he was looking right at you “Keep your eyes on the glass.” You said, snapping him out of whatever trance he was in and going back to the task at hand.

“Like this?” He asked, his voice somewhat more confident.

“Mhmm.” The hum of your voice too close to him made him close his eyes for just a moment. He finished filling your cup, without spilling a drop, “Very good.” As you said it he and you looked at one another, his eyes were wide once again.

“What were you doing there, my lady?” He asked, with a genuine curiosity. “You said you were looking for your Lady, and forgive me for suspecting otherwise-”

“Eavesdropping.” You interrupted “I had heard they were sending Slynt away, and I wanted to hear it myself.”

“How did you hear of that?”

“Again, eavesdropping.” You smirked

“A-and what are you doing here, in Westeros? You were arrested?”

“It seems you were also eavesdropping.” You teased him.

“Uh well we were in the same room-” You ignored him,

“I left Bear Island to travel, during my travels a Gold cloak tried to force himself on me, so I defended myself.” You said in a matter of fact, you’d no regrets, and no pain towards the matter. However his big brown eyes looked saddened for you, pity, you couldn’t stand pity, “It’s alright, really.” You said trying to reassure him.

“Do you miss your home?” He asked, sweetly.

“I do,” You responded softly, strange how this man was able to gentle your harsh demeanor.

“What was it like?” When he asked it you were thrown off, no one had asked you anything about your home in a genuine way. No one had any interest in it beyond the same constant boring insults.

“Cold. Not just the temperature, the people. But it was beautiful there. Green, rivers, waterfalls.” You smiled softly thinking of it, and found yourself wondering about him, “What of you? You miss your home?”

“I didn’t have much of one, my Lady.” He lowered his head,

“How’d you get here?” Your eyes narrowed wanting to know more of him. Genuinely.

“I was the squire for a Ser Lorimer of the Westerlands army. One night he was drunk, and he stole a ham, he shared it with me. We were caught, and he was sentenced to hang for his crime but I was spared for my name.”

“Lucky boy.” You said with a smirk. One that made his stomach flip.

“You are different, with the men at the tables. You’re sweet and… simple- but you're not that.” He said, stammering, trying his best not to offend you.

Your smirk faded, “Men want sweet and simple. Men don’t beat things that are sweet and simple.”

“You’ve been beaten?” He asked as if it were a horrific discovery.

“Most girls have.” You said calmly in contrast

“I-I am sorry, My Lady.”

“That’s alright. "

“No, it’s not.”

“No, it’s not.” You smiled softly at him. “You’re a good man, for a southern man. Or just for a man.”

“Thank you, my lady.” He said with a slight grin.

“You don’t have to call me that. (Y/N), will do.”

“(Y/N)” he smiled to himself “(Y/N) Mormont… it is a pretty name.” His grin grew

“You never told me yours.”

“Ser Bronn told you-“

“But you never told me.” You interrupted.

“Podrick Payne, my- (Y/N)” He stumbled remembering to call you by your name.

“Well, goodnight then, my Podrick.” You said teasingly with a smirk.

Hearing you say those words, “my” followed by his name made a heat rush his face, a visible one. He licked his lips and bowed his head as he responded “Goodnight, (Y/N)” He said as he left you.

You smelt the flower once more before Margery barged in,

“A squire?”

NOTE: There is a serious drought of Podrick Payne fan fiction series on this app so I had to. And yes… as always my babygirls, we will be fucking. JUST HOLD ON… I don’t know dick about Slynt so his dialogue is probably off so i apologize if you love him or smth lmao. TAG LIST: This is a new series so if you want to be included comment or message me!

#podrick #podrick payne #podrick x reader #podrick x you #podrick x y/n #podrick payne x reader #podrick payne x you #podrick payne x y/n #game of thrones x reader #game of thrones fic #game of thrones fanfic #game of thrones #got fanfic #got fic #got #podrick headcanons

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seancekitsch · 3 months ago

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The Sword and the Quill: Chapter One

Pairing: Gwayne Hightower x Reader

In the weeks leading up to little Daeron's departure to Oldtown, Queen Alicent finds herself trying to entertain the unmarried ladies of court. As one of her ladies in waiting, you agree to an anonymous penpal in one of the men at court, and end up spilling your heart to him. He is your perfect match, your equal. The only issue? The Queen's brother Gwayne Hightower will not stop teasing you as you try to uncover who responds to your letters.

“Do you really have to give him to that brute?” you ask Alicent, bouncing the toddler Daeron on your knee. He’s much too old to be amused by a game this simple, yet he plays along, giggling and grabbing at your sleeves. You scrunch your nose at him, prompting even more laughter

“Now I’ve heard my brother called many names, but a brute is not one of them,” The Queen quips, sipping her tea as she wiggles her fingers for Daeron to take, “besides, Oldtown is beautiful.”

“Well I may be selfish,” you admit, “I want another of your little blonde angels to spoil.”

Alicent has to laugh at that, covering her mouth with her teacup. Angel was not the word most would use for her children. Aegon, while beautiful, is already an outspoken handful, a child of eight and already flirting with grown women; Helaena, sweet Helaena, is shy and gentle, seldom seen; Aemond barely can read yet, but is more studious than half the kingdom, already strong willed and stoic for a child; and Daeron, well, mayhaps Daeron can be raised without the proverbial crown and sword dangled above his pretty head. Despite this, you love to take them on walks and read to them and give them sweets or breads that their parents do not allow them regularly.

“The boy will be plenty spoiled in Oldtown, I assure you.”

Alicent lays a hand on your arm gently, and you stop bouncing the toddler. He looks up at you, mumbling in protest. She looks down at him, and then you, her face betraying a deep worry and sadness.

“I want to give him something other than what we have, and the other children are already in too deep,” she says, and you understand her perfectly. The Red Keep is beautiful, decadent and indulgent, yet at the same time dreary and often times suffocating. You’d been here for almost a decade now, chosen as one of Alicent’s ladies in waiting when Rhaenyra and the young queen fell out with one another. The Hand had told you that his daughter needed a friend as a young queen, and that it would be your duty to be that for her. Luckily, when Alicent is not praying, she is easy to love and converse with. You care not for the devout practices in the keep, but understand her efforts to cling to something to believe in. Your lord father had even sent your dowry here with you, knowing the crown would probably arrange a match for you instead of himself. There is every wine you could taste, every book you could read, every hue you could paint; and yet you are kept out of reach of anything beyond this place. Daeron is getting an opportunity not to be trapped here, like his siblings and his mother and you are.

“Yes, My Queen.”

Alicent pushes a tea cup towards you, leaning down to the window. It overlooks the training yards, where young knights take up sword and young ladies of the court watch if they’ve nothing else to attend to.

You lean over as well, bringing Daeron up to view the training yards too. You see most of the kingsgaurd and gold cloaks there, as well as the queen’s brother. He flips auburn hair arrogantly as he beckons another man over. Careless bravado, if one were to ask you. Women fawn over the sight, pointing and cheering for various men and their swords and skills. You don’t care to join them, not one for tourneys or sport or even the hunt that’s held for each of Alicent’s little ones. Travel, however, is something you’ve always cared for. The travel to and from a hunt, the travel that brought you here; cherished memories you’d yearn for more of. It’s something the men, even the tiny princes, take for granted. You suppose, one day, you’ll travel when you are finally betrothed, however you’re comfortable by Alicent’s side for now.

“How are you with written word?” She asks you suddenly, as if the thought just occurred to her.

“Had I been born a man, I could have been a writer,” you jest, looking down at Daeron thoughtfully. His hair already curls at the ends, like Aegon and their mother. He could be a writer, or a poet, or anything he wants. You cast a suspicious glance at the Queen, however, as she knows this. The Queen has been in your chambers, has seen the writing desk and extensive journals filled with poems and stories and notes.

“Pardon me for speaking out of turn, but what are you up to?” you ask. The Queen allows you frank words the King would probably have you sent away for, but there is always a chance that goodwill will run out. You aren’t exactly sure why Alicent allows you to speak so freely, but if you had to guess you’d think it would have something to do with her personal loss of the princess as her previous confidant.

Alicent sighs again, and looks away from you. You do not like the look of that.

“The King has requested I entertain the ladies of court in some way,” she reveals, and you have to wonder where her apprehension comes from.

“Like the ladies court Alysanne created?” you ask. She picks at her thumb, and it takes everything in you not to swat her nails away from her hand. It hurts, to think that she causes herself pain to relieve whatever concerns her.

“No,” she frowns, “Nothing serious, I was told. I think…”

She pauses, and looks down at the courtyard again before continuing.

“Have you noticed what’s taken place the last few feasts Viserys held?” she asks, her eyes no doubt following her brother’s sparring. A lot of nothing, if you were being honest. The same three dances, the same cliques talking in hushed voices. You would not consider the recent feasts to be an entertaining occasion.

“You mean nothing?” you snort as you lean back in your chair.

“Exactly.”

“Are you planning on playing children’s games to get people out of their seats? Or line dancing lessons so the lords stop stepping on my feet?” you are only half jesting when you say this, your poor pinky toe bruised and stiff for a week after the last feast.

“No, darling,” Alicent lets a rare laugh slip through her voice as she speaks.

You look between the side of her head, and towards the training yard below. Suddenly, you have an odd feeling about this.

“I have devised a letter writing system. I think it would be nice if people could speak freely without their pretenses, so the letters will all be anonymous,” she pauses thoughtfully, chewing on her bottom lip, “I hope that if the lords and ladies know there is someone else at court with something in common with them, they will be more willing to be open. Maybe… I don’t know.”

Alicent falters, unsure of herself. You can tell this is the first time she’s talked through this plan with another person, completely unsure of it. But, it’s not a bad idea.

“Maybe…” you pick up where she left off, “Maybe it will help us find entertainment within these walls.”

Alicent beams at your words, nodding. There is truth in her idea, you realize. That perhaps even you are part of the problem. So easily had you just now even dismissed the women watching the men spar in the courtyard. It is important to have a queen who thinks of these kinds of things.

“Exactly right,” she continues, “I fear that I will be seen as a bad queen if I do not try to bring some life to this place.”

You try to comfort her, to reach out and clasp her hand in yours in a silent reassurance, but sweet little Daeron beats you to it, giggling as he yanks on one of her auburn curls.

“Will you help me?” she asks, and it is a double sided question, both with her plan and with the immense strength of a toddlers fist when they have something they want.

“Yes, My Queen,” you huff out a laugh as you give Daeron your index finger to grab instead, “I’ll write my first letter tonight.”

News spreads quickly of Queen Alicent’s idea, and already the Red Keep seemed more lively than it had since before Aemond’s birth. Everyone’s eyes seemed to be searching, every other unmarried person of the court their potential penpal. Who was yours? Alicent was already working on having Larys Strong organize each match. You could only hope it wasn’t someone like dull Jason Lannister or contemptible Gwayne Hightower; maybe it would be someone who likes travel and could show you maps and take you away from here at least periodically to see the rest of Westeros. Though truly, you know that you will make a puzzle out of this. To be surprised is not your favorite feeling. Maybe, you think with a small sigh of laughter, you will try to trick the men of court to show you a writing sample so you can compare it to the letters you will receive.

Your eyes shift as you hear loud voices from around the corner, men’s laughter carrying and bouncing off the walls. Immediately, you know it’s the men from the training yard. Already cringing internally, you attempt to steel yourself and ignore the banter.

The men boast of the women watching in on the training, pointing out how the lady of House Something would want to give favor to the Knight of So-and-So. They joke about the blush upon women’s cheeks, about the way they speak in hushed tones. What a joke, you think, that they can freely jape at the way that women express themselves. You’d read as a child how knights are supposed to be the most gentlemanly and gallant men in all the lands, about their deeds and generosity and kindness. Now as a woman you realize why those stories were considered a fantasy. You look down at your hands, twisting your rings as you attempt to pass the men without their attention or greeting, but then a voice cuts through the noise. Gwayne Hightower himself.

“Is cream the color of a maiden’s underdress or her sheets?” He laughs, gloved had pushing his auburn hair back.

“Neither, if you are skilled, I say.”

You balk at his words, loud enough that the knights do not care that a passing lady can hear. Your shock turns to a scowl quickly, ready to burst the bubble of chauvinistic confidence the green knight displays. Surely, you’re not unaware of the way that the knights and lords speak of women, King Viserys himself has said wildly offensive things even about Alicent while she is in the room while she must grin and bear it. But the fact that it is him, so handsome and confident and seemingly flawless, him who paints himself as the picture of chivalry and the epitome of a gentleman knight; him that says it so flippantly as if women- maidens- are but another tourney game to him that has your blood boiling.

“Ser Gwayne!” you call, not hiding the anger that seems like ichor from your tone. For a quick moment, you realize that as one of Alicent’s ladies, you should not be shouting at men in public, but you must follow through with what you started, you cannot bring yourself to back down. Gwayne, surprised, break away from the other men and turns, taking a few curious steps towards you as the other knights continue down the hall. You know what they must think, and blood rushes beneath your skin. Though the sun has gone down, it is still too hot.

“Does it not disgust you?” you exclaim as you cross the hallway towards him, unable to keep the thought to yourself, “The way you speak of women? And what if your sister were to hear?”

You stop as you land in front of him, not at all hiding the anger in your face.

Gwayne smirks, face twisting arrogantly, and leans in close. Not too close that it’s improper, but close enough that the conversation does not walk.

“Then it is good it is not my pious sister, yes? Just her pretty, aggravating little shadow with a free tongue.”

He leans back, as if to mark a victory against you. The sunlight wanes, its setting orange casting a glow that seems to make the sweat upon his brow shimmer. You do not scoff at his words, for in truth the jester has said far worse. To scoff or show anger would be to let him win. But he is wrong perhaps, as his sister

“Aye, and I’m sure everyone would be the better if yours were sewn in place, Ser.”

He winks, and starts to walk back towards his fellow knights.

“I am sure you would do it for me!” he calls over his shoulder, a far enough distance that you cannot respond. Effectively, gaining the last word. You cannot believe that Alicent would send her youngest son to live with… that.

You curse under your breath, your smile not at all reaching your eyes as you keep walking. Anything to put space between you and over confident knights. The stone floors clack under your low heels, echoing in now silent halls as you reach your chamber. They are not far from the royal chambers, so in case that Alicent would like to call upon you easier. This was also the doing of her father The Hand. You look to the ornate doors down the hall from your own, and sigh deeply. Perhaps it is the young queen’s loneliness that makes your desire to leave all the more remarkable. You do not envy her, you think, despite her children you love dearly; And you push open your own door, to the lovely apartments you’ve been given. For a cage, you do like the way this one’s been gilded. Lush velvets and fresh flowers and bookshelves full of knick knacks and lots of natural light to ordain your space.

You debate throwing yourself down upon your bed, collapsing into the plush down and drifting off to dreams that do not include Gwayne Hightower under the same roof as you. But, you had made a promise. Instead you kick your shoes off and change into something comfy before settling down to your writing desk.

Dear Ser Lord

Dear Lord

Dear

You crumple the paper under your fist, not even letting the ink fully dry. The paper gets tossed carelessly behind you, another piece of parchment ready to go. You think to yourself, how to start this without knowing it’s intended? You tap the quill against your chin, staring out the window at the city below. You get an idea.

My Unfamiliar,

You begin, and yes, that feels right. You don’t know if he’s a Ser or a Lord, and you’d hate to miscategorize. You’d hate to sound too affectionate, or too cold. Him on the other end being your stranger feels a bit more… playful, a bit more unserious without insulting anyone.

How does the summer treat you? I would ask how you are spending it, though I fear that maybe that would be too forward. I understand these letters to be anonymous, and I would hate to ask you for clues as to your identity too quickly. Though, if you offer, I will accept them gladly.

I feel that this is an odd pretense to meet, or meet again, in this way. However, I cannot help but find the idea thrilling. I must introduce myself to you in a way that I have not before, in a way that does not immediately give away my identity. Perhaps, you may know me even better than

Your hand hovers for a moment, your hand having been ready to write ‘My Queen’ next.

my closest companions. I am a maiden of noble birth, as you already know. Yet, that is hardly all I am. I love my studies, reading and charting courses on maps. My hearts truest desire is to see the world I read about, to see more than the Red Keep, my homeland, and the site of a hunt. I wish to ride horseback through mountain ranges and by ship to Pentos or Essos. I wish to experience the food I read about in historical journals, even see some of the more exotic and unseemly experiences there are to travel. Amongst all this beauty, it almost feels wrong to want to see the world warts and all, but I feel I need to. I hope that you are a man that understands this desire, or possibly has seen some of this world and can tell me about it. Have you traveled? Do you travel often? Is the world as vibrant as I imagine?

I am a woman who enjoys the arts, tapestry weaving and writing of my own, though I will admit I find myself quite terrible at making music. I may dance to it, but I cannot create it.

And what of you, My Stranger? What are the things within you that you are able to share with me?

I apologize for the haste of this letter, however this concept is new of me. I am certain that within more time, my letters will grow in length as we get to know one another.

Sincerely,

Your Unfamiliar

You look over the letter, once, twice, three times, four; Finally, you decide that it will not be better written than this. Just the right amount of information, interest in your receiver, and you seal it.

You walk to your door, almost shaking, nervous as you peek your head out into the hallway. Luckily, Keely, one of Alicent’s dressers is in the hall. She accepts the letter easily, though you gift her an extra few silver anyway to ensure it gets to its destination safely.

Now, you wait.

#gwayne x reader #gwayne hightower x reader #house of the dragon x reader

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chloe-skywalker · 1 year ago

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For You - Robb Stark

Robb x fem!reader Baratheon/Lannister

Warnings: GOT, incest mentioned

Word count: 718

Summary: Y/n’s uncle has been captured in the war between her blood family and her family by law. The one person that really cared about her growing up. Will her husband kill the one person closest to his wife?

Authors Note: I know Jaime did a lot of crap to the Starks but I like this story and I’m not sorry.

Masterlist

Game Of Thrones Masterlist

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Robb stood there in their shared tent staring at his wife. He knew she was hurting but was bottling it up. She didn’t want to look weak or like a traitor to their men but Robb knew it wasn’t healthy. He could see it taking a toll on her and that was starting to hurt him as well. Once the last person had left the tent and they were alone Robb decided it was time to talk about it. “I am sorry my love.”

“For what your Grace?” Y/n asked confused on what he had to be sorry for.

“I know it hurts you to see him typed up out there.” Robb stated, cutting straight to the chase but still wanting to be considerate of her feelings.

It was silent for a few minutes. Y/n had a feeling that he had been wanting to bring this up for awhile. But Y/n didn’t know how exactly to explain how she felt about the situation.

“He is my uncle. He’s the only person that’s always been there for me and supported all my decisions.” Y/n couldn’t even begin to explain all that Jaime had done for her in her life. “My father could give a crap about us kids and my mother only cares about power. Jaime, he actually cares.”

Robb had seen first hand when they visited Winterfell how her parents were. And he saw how close she was with her Kingsgaurd uncle. “I’m sorry.”

Robb knew they had good parents growing up, one’s that cared. His wife didn’t have that.

“And if the rumors are true than I guess, he’s my blood father.” Y/n feared saying it out loud. Not anything against her ‘Uncle’, but the fact why would anyone want to be around or love the child of incest. She had a hard enough time finding love just having Lannister blood run through her veins. “That makes me someone you shouldn’t be with.”

Y/n dropped her head trying to hide her tears and defeated expression. She had truly come to fall in love with her husband and now because of her family's mistakes she could lose him.

Robb rushed over to her cupping her cheeks and pulled her inot a passionate kiss. “I love you, I do not care about who your parents are. My love for you will never change. That I promise.”

Y/n gave him a watery smile. “I love you to my wolf.”

“I won’t kill him.” Robb spoke up after some time.

Y/n pulled back to look at her husband, giving him a sad but appreciative smile. The fact that he wants to spare Jaime for her is heartwarming, but she knew he couldn't. “You can’t promise me that. As much as you’d like to, you can’t. If your men-”

“Fuck what my men want.” He cut her off. He was King of the North now he could do what he wanted.

“He injured your father.” Y/n continued back with sad eyes.

“He’s not the one that killed him.” Robb pulled her closer by the hips. Yes she had a point with both things. But so did he.

“I’m sorry-”

“You have nothing to apologize for.” Robb cut her off again. She was not to blame for anything that had happened.

“They’re my family, and they're tormenting yours. Their the ones doing all this.” Y/n hated that she was put into the middle of everything just because of blood and marriage.

“You’ve been with me the whole time. You have had no part in it. In any of it, so none of it is your fault. You are not to blame. They’re tormenting you as well by putting you in the middle of all this.” Robb pulled her against his chest with an arm around her waist holding her to him, while the other rested on the back of her neck. Looking her in the eye’s to prove his seriousness. “I won’t kill Jaime. For you I won’t. But the other Lannisters. . .”

Y/n nodded knowing what he meant. “I know. . . Thank you.”

“You are my wife, my Queen. You do not need to thank me.” Robb shook his head. With him she’d always have a voice. He would never dictate her life.

Taglist: @gruffle1 @padawancat97 @misspendragonsworld

@starkleila

#robb stark #robb stark imagine #robb stark imagines #robb stark x reader #robb stark x lannister reader #robb stark x lannister!reader #robb stark x baratheon reader #robb stark x baratheon!reader #x reader #imagine #imagines #y/n #north #winterfell #kingslanding #got #game of thrones #game of thrones imagine #game of thrones imagines

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crimsonbastard · 8 months ago

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Rhaenyra and Criston:

Dubious Consent at best as Criston tries to walk away from her advances. Clearly tells her to "Stop" when she seductively disrobes herself and then tries removing his armour.

Rhaenyra is unmarried, she's the crown princess and heir to the iron throne. As anachronistic as it sounds, Westeros operates under patriarchy where a woman's worth, especially one of noble birth is weighed on her maidenhead being despoiled before marriage. Rhaenyra was the most sought after Bachelorette at the time and her being seen in the brothel with her Uncle (the most reviled man in westeros) doesn't help her reputation.

Criston gets disillusioned and the man of honor that he aspired to be is now dead upon realising that he was nothing but a plaything for the princess.

Alicent and Criston:

At this point of time, Alicent is the Widowed Dowager Queen who has done her duty. She was married to Viserys without her Consent and was forced to be his broodmare and bore him Three Healthy Children. She then looked after the ailing Viserys without any gratitude in return. She's no longer obligated to her marriage vows as Viserys is dead. Her Children are full grown adults and her son is King.

When Criston Confesses his sin of breaking his Kingsgaurd Vows by sleeping with Rhaenyra she pardons him. Later on she also saves him from committing suicide. Criston, out of gratitude and respect serves her out of loyalty and admiration. He sees her as someone who gave him a second chance.

Throughout Season 1 we see both of them being comfortable with eachother, with their walls down around eachother. They keep eachother in check and their tension was also hinted throughout.

Them having casual, consensual sex with eachother should be no surprise. Alicent has done her duty. Her vows died with Viserys. Criston is no longer the naive man he was in the beginning of the show. Is it hypocritical of both of them? Yes, it's also beyond that. But the above situations are not the same.

#pro criston cole #pro alicent hightower #anti rhaenys targaryen #anti rhaenyra stans #anti team black stans #anti team black #pro team green

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i-am-traveling-the-multifandom · 1 year ago

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Anti-Rhaenyra

So, this is just what I would like to say to Rhaenyra supporters.

Rhaenyra isn't told by her father that he is secretly seeing her best friend and plans to marry her. When Rhaenyra found out that her father was going to marry her best friend Alicent, she insults her. She lies to her best friend about something she knows Alicent cares about. She sleeps with her uncle Daemon, who has by the way just killed her wife. She sleeps with Cristin Cole, a kingsgaurd who by the way has sworn:

I swear to ward the Queen with all my strength and give my blood for hers. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children.

This makes him feel like a sinner and he attempts suicide (I won't justify his actions since he should of course be held accountable for his actions as well). Then proceeds to sleep with Harwin strong and have kids with him. And expects to have them crowned after her death? She goes off to Dragonstone while her father is sick instead of taking care of him. Leaves Kings landing to her stepmother and half-siblings. Knowing very well that her oldest half-sibling Aegon ii is a boy with a legitimate heir and men are seen better fit for ruling. Because she wants everyone else to take care of her problems and then just enter kings landing and be crowned queen. Then when she finds out that her stepmother has crowned her half-brother after 24 hours which just shows how disconnected she is from kings landing, has a dramatic mental breakdown. 🙄

Summary: Rhaenyra is a spoiled brat and a daddy's girl and can't handle her problems.

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zeciex · 7 months ago

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A Vow of Blood - 87

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 87: The Sworn Shield or The Boy

AO3 - Masterlist

That morning, Mertha had taken it upon herself to attend to Daenera, much to her displeasure. Daenera found herself dressed in a deep emerald green dress, its fabric thick and enveloping her heavily in the style favored by the Queen Mother–a long dress that fell modestly around her, its sleeves split and sweeping the floor, with a light underdress that added to the volume, it’s sleeves ending around her wrists. Daenera never disliked green; she appreciated all its shades, from the soft hues of meadow greens to the rich depths of forest greens, and she had always found gems like emeralds and jade particularly appealing. Green had once seemed flattering to her, but now, it constricted her chest with apprehension. The color now represented yet another tether, another filament in the web the Hightowers were weaving around her, another bare in the cage that confined her.

Nevertheless, she donned the dress, suppressing her growing disdain for it as Mertha arranged the thick fabric around her. She had other battles to fight than that of the color of her dress.

Daenera’s mind had been set on the task at hand, fully prepared to make the sacrifices that were needed for it. As Mertha had attended to her, she had worn a deep scowl, her lips moving slightly as she muttered prayers below her breath until Daenera was fully dressed and ready for the day.

“We should visit the sept today,” Mertha had suggested then, her hands carefully picking up her weathered book of prayers. The leather was worn, its pages yellowed and frayed from frequent use, and the golden seven-pointed star embossed on its surface had nearly faded away–a testament to its constant handling.

And Daenera had agreed with a measured, “Very well,” betraying none of her inner turmoil.

The Royal Sept nestled within the towering walls of the Red Keep was smaller that the Great Sept but no less splendid. Yet, Daenera’s attention was not on the sept as she walked away from Maegor’s Holdfast. With Mertha and Ser Oliver Norrey close behind, she turned towards the Red Keep, ascending the steps with a determined stride that led her not to the sept but towards the Council Chambers.

Mertha, taken aback by the sudden change in direction, tried to grasp Daenera’s arm without drawing attention. Her efforts were in vain as Daenera deftly avoided her touch. Her steps quickened, her focus fixed on the door of the Council Chambers.

“Princess,” Ser Arryk Cargyll called out in greeting, stepping firmly in front of her and effectively blocking the entrance to the Council Chambers. His brow was lightly furrowed in unease, though his eyes remained sharp and serious–the difference that told her which twin he was.

Daenera lifted her gaze to meet his, looking past the gleaming white armor of the Kingsguard. “Ser Arryk, has the Council gathered?”

“They have, Princess,” Ser Arryk replied, his tone careful, a query beneath his words.

“Good,” Daenera responded, her posture resolute, her head held high. At that moment, Mertha’s hand clamped down on the soft flesh just above Daenera’s elbow. Her thin fingers pressed into Daenera’s skin with a bruising force as she tugged slightly on her arm, whispering with a venomous undertone, “And what do you think you’re doing?”

With a rough pull, Daenera extricated her arm from Mertha’s grip, meeting her gaze with a cool, unflinching expression before redirecting her attention back to the Kingsgaurd. “Inform the Hand that I wish to speak with him and the Council.”

“The Council has more pressing matters to attend to than the complaints of a princess,” Mertha interjected tersely. Her remark, however, was blatantly ignored by Daenera, whose eyes remained locked on Ser Arryk, waiting for his response.

“Forgive me, Princess,” Ser Arryk replied with a respectful tone, “The Council in session is to remain undisturbed.”

“Then I shall wait until they’ve concluded.”

“You will not,” Mertha retorted sharply, her scowl deepening the wrinkles on her face and aging her beyond her years. Had it not been for her persistent scorn, she might have aged with some semblance of grace. But the venom seemed to flow freely through her veins. She would have made a proficient Septa.

“I will,” Daenera countered firmly, her tone resolute. “Unless you wish to create another spectacle here, in front of the court,” she added, her words underscored by the bustling noise of the court, “and add to the spectacle I made yesterday…”

Mertha clenched her teeth. “I could have you dragged from here–”

“You could,” Daenera interrupted sharply, leaning slightly into Mertha’s space, her voice cutting. “But it wouldn’t serve the Hightowers.”

It was a challenge–a dare for Mertha to command Ser Oliver to seize her and drag her through the Red Keep, kicking and screaming, turning the scene into a true spectacle that would be whispered about within and beyond the walls. Such an act would unequivocally confirm her status as a hostage, one treated with marked harshness. It would lend credence to the true reason she had appeared at the feast the previous evening, clad in her mother’s color of red, a bold stand of defiance.

“You insolent, cursed child,” Mertha seethed, clutching her book of prayers so tightly that it seemed on the verge of tearing.

Daenera shifted her focus back to Ser Arryk, who stood resolutely before her, guarding the entrance to the Council Chambers like a steadfast sentinel. His hand rested casually on the pommel of his sword, his posture embodying the calm readiness of the Kingsguard. Consciously dismissing Mertha’s exasperated huff, Daenera maintained her stance before the doors of the Council Chambers, her gaze fixed on the knight in front of her.

After a prolonged moment of stillness, Daenera broke the silence with a question, “Where is your prettier half?”

Her gaze briefly flicked towards Ser Ricard Thorne, who stood stoically beside the doors, his stern expression unwavering as he observed the interaction. Typically the twins were stationed together outside the Council Chambers, each flanking a side of the entrance, their presence almost symmetrical, reflecting one another. But today, the usual balance was disrupted, emphasizing Ser Ricard’s distinct features–dark eyes and hair, a thick, neatly trimmed beard, and brows bushy and furrowed together in seriousness.

Something flickered across Ser Arryk’s face, a slight hardening of his blue eyes betraying a change in his demeanor. After a brief pause, his voice emerged cold and terse, “Gone, Princess.”

Daenera’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Gone?”

Her gaze dropped momentarily to where Ser Arryk’s hand clutched the pommel of his sword, his grip so tight that the skin over his knuckles was stretched taut and pale. Raising her eyes to meet his again, she observed him closely, noting the rigid set of his features and the tense muscles of his face. The muscle in his jaw twitched visibly as he gritted his teeth in anger. It took her a moment to understand the shift, then realized that it was betrayal that flickered in his eyes.

Ser Erryk Cargyll, it seemed, had parted ways with his brother and, by extension, his duties in the Kingsguard. The tightness of Ser Arryk’s expression and the betrayal in his gaze led her to surmise that Erryk had not just left his post but had chosen to align himself with her mother–declaring Rhaenyra Targaryen as his rightful queen. At least one of the twins had kept his honor intact.

“Ah,” Daenera remarked, a faint, knowing smile playing at her lips, “the prettier and better half, it would seem. Your brother seems to be the only one whose honor remains. You should have gone with him.”

Ser Arryk’s gaze fixed on her, cold and unforgiving. “I swore an oath to protect and defend the royal family. I have worn this cloak since I was eight and ten, Princess, and have served the King since that day. I will continue to serve the King now…” A brief flicker of agony crossed his features, deeping the furrows in his brow as he continued in a muted tone, “My brother has lost his way… And we both suffer for it.”

The pain was evident in his expression revealed the conflict within him–a man torn between his duty to the crown and the love he held for his brother. His commitment to his oath remained unwavering, that was why he stood here after all, yet the personal cost of such fidelity was clearly etched across his face.

There was a time when Daenera might have felt sympathy for Ser Arryk, but those reserves of compassion had long since been depleted. Now, all that remained was a familiar kindling of anger–a seed of cruelty that had taken root within her, growing stronger as she endured and endured.

“Hmm… It seems your brother has his honor, and you have yours,” Daenera mused softly, her voice laced with irony. “A shame yours makes you a traitor.”

“My brother is the one who abandoned his honor with his vows, not I,” Ser Arryk retorted, his voice as firm as the stone floors underfoot. His armor whispered with the soft sound of moment as he took a deliberate step back, distancing himself. “You may wait here a while, the Council is not soon to conclude.”

Resuming his original stance, Ser Arryk became once again the sentinel outside the Council doors–an imperfect mirror in the absence of his twin, his face no longer reflected at the other side of the doors.

With a quiet sigh, Daenera resigned herself to waiting outside the Council doors. She stood there, her gaze fixed intently on the wooden barrier that separated her from the chambers she sought to enter. Around her, the castle life murmured on; the air was filled with the low buzz of conversations as nobles chatted along the path of the Grand Stairwell behind her, and the soft scurrying sounds of the servants bustling about their duties echoed subtly in the background.

As the first hour passed, Daenera had become intimately familiar with every curve and groove of the Council Chamber doors. She noted each detail: the deep grooves of the elaborate carvings, where dark wood swirled into lighter shades, etched by gilded edges that caught the light from the windows and the nearby torches. How many secrets had those doors held from the realm? How many dirty deeds did they protect now? And how long was she going to stand there, willing them open?

As another half hour slowly dragged by, discomfort began to grow at the base of her spine. Her lower back ached, muscles stiffening due to the prolonged standing. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other in an attempt to ease the discomfort in her weary muscles. As she moved, she felt her hips creak, protesting the movement. And as time wore on, this discomfort spread to her knees and feet. Each throb seemed to anchor her more firmly to the spot. The heavy sensation in her stomach grew into a tangible knot of tension as she stared at the doors.

The restlessness that began as a mere prickle in her fingertips grew into a tingling urge to move, to pace, to do anything but standidly. Boredom, too, crept into her consciousness, an unwelcome yet persistent guest that muddled her thoughts as she began to ponder how she could get into the Council Chambers. She contemplated a sudden outburst, a loud demand to open the doors and allow her entry. However, she quickly dismissed the idea, knowing it would likely prompt Ser Oliver–who was casually leaning against the wall, idly picking at the calluses on his palm–to intervene. Similarly, any attempt to force her way through would be thwarted by Ser Arryk Cargyll, and not his twin, Ser Ricard Thorne, who would surely step in before she could even reach the door, resulting in her being forcibly removed and locked away somewhere.

Her thoughts then ventured towards a more theatrical solution: scaling the exterior walls to access the chamber through the balcony. Yet, the risk of plummeting to her death loomed far too great for it to be an option. The desperation of it was almost laughable. Perhaps it wasn’t necessary to scale the walls if she managed to find a long, sturdy plank of wood. She could then make a bridge from one balcony to another. This too, while less perilous than scaling the walls, presented it’s own challenges. Where would she even find such a plank? How would she transport it unnoticed? And even if she could manage these feats, the ever-watchful eyes of Mertha followed her closely, making such a plan practically impossible.

Each plan Daenera considered quickly unraveled under scrutiny, revealing its inherent flaws. Thus, she found herself resigned to standing and waiting, outwardly exuding an air of patience while a current of impatience prickled beneath her skin.

After what seemed like ages, the doors to the Council Chambers finally swung open, releasing the members of the Council one by one. Ser Tyland Lannister, Master of Ships, emerged first, his gaze briefly meeting Daenera’s. His eyes, weary yet acknowledging, offered her a respectful nod as he passed. Following him was Lord Jasper Wylde, the Master of Laws, who seemed to dismiss her presence entirely with a curt shake of his head, as if she were merely an inconvenient part of the scenery.

Grand Maester Orwyle came next, the distinctive clinking of his maester’s chains announcing his approach before he even appeared. As he walked past Daenera, his eyes gave her a quick once-over–a fleeting glance that carried a hint of curiosity before he too moved on, absorbed in his own thoughts

Daenera stepped forward, ignoring the displeasured sputter of Mertha who reached out for her in a futile attempt to restrain her. Now that the doors were open, Daenera refused to be held back. Standing poised at the threshold, her eyes immediately found Otto Hightower, whose gaze was as cold and discernible as ever. “I wish to speak with the Council.”

“This council meeting has adjourned,” Otto declared with a sense of finality, closing the leather-bound book with a definitive snap. He straightened to his full height, the sigil of The Hand of the King pinned prominently to his chest, marking his authority in the King’s absence. Notably, the King’s chair remained empty–Aegon was absent from this meeting. The absence of even a goblet of wine on the table hinted that he had never attended at all.

“I wish to discuss my betrothal,” Daenera asserted, her voice steady as she stood her ground. She could feel his gaze on her–chilling like a cold draft along her spine, a sensation that brushed against her skin almost like a caress, one she adamantly refused to acknowledge further. He moved through the shadows, his attention sharp and invasive–pressed against her like a blade at her neck. Yet, Daenera refused to meet his one-eyed gaze, focusing her attention on the Lord Hand.

Otto regarded her with a weary scrutiny. “What is there to discuss? Your betrothal has been decided. The wedding is set.”

“Perhaps, but my compliance is not,” Daenera retorted, her resolve steely as she crossed the threshold and ascended the steps leading to the Council Chambers. With measured strides, she climbed to the level where the chamber’s table stood, positioning herself to confront those who remained. There was a challenge in her words, pointed and jeering–a promise.

The Queen Mother, who had been standing by the balcony, turned to face Daenera, her expression marked by a deep frown. One hand absentmindedly traced her lips, betraying her concern. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, the round shudders creating circular patches of light onto the floor, where dust motes danced in the gentle breeze wafting through the open windows and balcony doors. Despite the abundance of light, the peripheries of the room remained dim, shadows lingering among the columns, adding a somber tone to the setting. “You’re in no position to negotiate.”

The long table dominated the center of the room, bathed in light that framed the King’s chair, which itself was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, ornately carved and edged with silver and gold. Above the door to the balcony, a seven-pointed star was prominently mounted–a symbol courtesy of the Hightowers, no doubt intended as a reminder for the Council and the King of the higher power that would judge them upon their deaths. Yet, the presence of this symbol did little to deter the actions that had let to usurpation and kinslaying.

Daenera deliberately ignored Aemond as he emerged from the shadows. Though she avoided looking directly at him, she acutely felt his presence, much like one senses a looming shadow. Her chest tightened.

“You said it yourself, Lord Hand–the entirety of Maegor’s Holdfast, the realm, knows of my grief,” Daenera asserted, fixing her gaze on Otto Hightower, whose cold eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of annoyance passing through them. “Your standing with the realm is already precarious–the act of kinslaying is unlikely to endear the lords of the realm, or inspire them to rally to your cause. After all, there are none so accursed as the kinslayer.”

She sensed the shift in the air, as tangible as the scent of rain carried on the breeze just before a storm–it was thick and heavy and solemn, and it made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle as she felt his gaze intensify. Calmly, she folded her hand in front of her, her thumb absently brushing over the bandaged wounds on her palm, a subtle gesture that belied the tension she felt under his scrutiny. “Moreover, the realm would find the celebration of a kinslayer in poor taste–grossly so. Worse yet, to have the grieving sister of the boy that was murdered attend such a celebration, to have her sit beside her brother’s murderer and endure the king’s taunts…”

Daenera’s head tilted slightly as she pondered aloud, “The realm will think you cruel.”

Alicent’s voice snapped through the air, tinged with a harsh edge as she addressed Daenera. “You are fortunate we did not imprison you alongside your men for the spectacle you made yesterday.”

“You cannot,” Daenera stated, her voice carrying a simple, unwavering challenge, undisturbed by the threat. “It wouldn’t suit the narrative you’re attempting to weave.”

The lines of Otto Hightower’s forehead deepened as the usual stern expression carved itself more firmly into his features. With a begrudging silence, the Lord Hand sank into his chair at the right-hand side of where the King’s empty seat loomed. “What is it you want?”

“You cannot seriously be considering this,” Alicent interjected sharply, her voice laden with exasperation. She strode away from the balcony, her green skirts whispering across the stone floor with a soft rustle. Approaching the King’s chair, she clutched the top of it, as though to steady herself as her gaze settled more firmly on her father.

“I wish for the remainder of my men to be released from the dungeons and seen safely out of the city,” Daenera stated firmly, her request clear and unwavering.

Alicent huffed in disbelief–the sound bordering on a scoff–as her head shook. “Releasing your men would only embolden you to defy us further. The very reason we hold them is to ensure your compliance.”

“If you do not release my men and continue to threaten their lives, I might as well consider them dead already,” Daenera countered sharply, her voice tinged with cold resolve. The weight of her words settled heavily in her stomach. The images of her fallen men–Joyce, Sithric, Kevan, Darvin, and Edam–hung limply in her memory, their lifeless bodies haunting the presence in the inner courtyard of Maegor’s Holdfast. Now, only Fenrick, Eddin, and Patrick remained.

If the threats to their lives persisted as a means to control her actions, she would have to resign herself to the likelihood of their deaths. And if they were to die anyway, she might as well consider them as such.

“If you desire for me to agree to this mockery of a wedding, then you will release my men,” Daenera asserted, her tone resolute. She sensed his movement–like the ripples made when moving through water–felt the shift of his presence as he stepped into the light. From the periphery of her vision, she saw him take the position to the left of his mother, opposite the Lord Hand, his hand resting atop the back of a chair, clenched tightly. His stare sharpened, felt like a blade’s caress–threatening yet intimate in a way that made her skin tingle and her heart twist. She despised the sensation–wished that his presence didn’t have an effect on her. “Should you decide not to release my men, then I swear to you, I will show you a true spectacle–one that will not be forgotten. Force me to the altar and know that I will resist every step, every inch; you will have to drag me, kicking and screaming. And I will ensure that every lord, lady, and commoner in the realm knows that this marriage is without my consent.”

Her heart pounded, the thick silence engulfing the room feeling nearly suffocating as she faced them. The Lord Hand appeared visibly annoyed, his brows knitted together in contemplation, his eyes sharp with cold calculation. Beside him, the Queen Mother’s expression was one of exasperated disbelief, her fingers twitching nervously. Though Daenera avoided looking directly at Aemond, his presence was palpable, pressing against her senses.

The threat seemed to thrive in the silence only to be cut short by Aemond’s low, gentle murmur. “Ñuha ābrazȳrys iksā.”

You are my wife.

Their eyes locked, and in his gaze, she saw the same gentleness and terrible sharpness of the dragonglass that had once cut into her palm–a distant, now painful memory. Her look was steely, her heart bludgeoning itself against the composed, icy facade he presented–was it even a facade? She could no longer be sure. The sting of betrayal was acute, and she felt the prickle of tears burn behind her eyes.

“I’ve had your consent.” The sharp etch of his lips remained curved, but there was cruel gentleness to it, his voice low and soft. “You’ve already given your consent when we wed in the tradition of our house.”

Daenera’s heart constricted painfully, as if a dagger twisted between her ribs, accompanied by the haunting sensation of his lips betraying her once more–she could almost feel his breath ghost against the exposed flesh of her neck, even at this distance.

“You are my wife,” Aemond stated, his focus solely on her.

“It is your word against mine, Kinslayer,” Daemera retorted sharply, her voice laced with venom. She pressed her thumb against the stitched wound on her hand, the familiar pain anchoring her–a preferable agony to the chaotic beating of her heart. She pressed harder into the wound, the one that had traced the damned scar halfway through, each wound a vow. The memory of that night haunted her; two fools, mistaken in their love, unwilling to admit that that was what it was, sealing their fate with vows neither of them understood, oblivious to the consequences they wrought and the doom for which they were heading. If they had known the destruction their love would bring, would they have ever uttered those vows? Would they still find themselves standing amid the ruins of what they had once cherished?

The boy she had once loved seemed to have vanished into the sea along with her brother, only his body had returned, cold and cruel–a specter in the form of a living man. How strange it was to be haunted by someone who still drew breath, and stranger still, to be tormented by the fragments of a shattered heart–there should be nothing remaining, just emptiness, but there wasn’t. It would have been simpler to feel nothing at all. Yet, since indifference was an impossibility, she grasped at the hatred she knew intimately, the only sentiment that felt unequivocally real.

With her gaze locked on his, Daenera’s voice was icy, her words slicing through the air as she suppressed the quiver threatening to betray her emotions, “There was no Maester or priest to bless the ceremony, no witnesses to attest to its validity. In the eyes of the Faith and the court, the union lacks recognition.”

The edges of his mouth tightened, as she noted the flash of anger in his eyes, the muscle in his jaw ticking as he clenched his teeth. With her chin lifted, Daenera delivered her words like a dagger, aimed straight for his core, twisting with a calculated cruelty. “It is as though it never really happened.”

Aemond moved towards her, his movements predatory. With lithe fingers, he seized her wrist with his fingers, raising her hand between them for emphasis. His grasp was firm, his hold assertive, but not bruising–the touch startled her, her heart shuddering in her chest. He hissed, inches from her face, his anger palpable. “Do we not bear the same scars, ābrazȳrys?”

As Daenera fought to steady her heartbeat, he pressed on, his voice a menacing murmur, so awfully soft, “Do we not bear the evidence upon our palms?” He paused, his breath mingling with hers, his demand for acknowledgement sharp and clear, “Did we not seal our vows in blood?”

Daenera wrenched her wrist from his grip, shooting him a scathing look. Her skin still burned where his fingers had clutched her. “What is one scar from another? That is no evidence.”

His fury enveloped him like flames, the unmistakable scent of dragon–smoke and fire–clinging to him. She sensed his desperate need to possess her, to mark her as his own with ferocious intensity, regardless of her own desires. But she knew too well that her resistance gnawed at him, burrowing deep into his vulnerabilities. Holding his fierce gaze a moment longer, she steeled herself against the tide of his rage before finally turning her attention to the Hand of the King and the Queen Mother, steadfast in her defiance.

Daenera watched as Alicent gripped the back of the king’s chair tightly, eyes wide with fury and fear, voice filled with shocked reproach, “Aemond…”

From the periphery, Daenera observed Aemond grit his teeth, his features tightening in visible frustration. For a fleeting moment, he averted his gaze, his expression wounded–the mask then settled upon his features, smoothing out the vulnerability into something more steely. He took a deliberate step back, his eye settling upon Daenera with a cold, detached intensity, the space between them expanding yet she felt his presence lingering like a ghost in the shattered hallways of her heart.

“Tell me it isn’t true,” Alicent pressed, her voice climbing as she rounded the table, her skirts whispering urgently across the stone floor. She reached Aemond and grasped his arms, seeking the truth in a plea that vibrated with desperation. “Tell me it isn’t true. Tell me you aren’t this–this foolish!”

Aemond remained silent, the truth suspended between them like the dust motes caught in the beams of light.

Alicent’s voice pitched higher, almost shrill with despair, “Tell me it isn’t true! Tell me you didn’t marry that cursed girl!”

“Alicent,” Otto chided with a restrained firmness, though his admonishment seemed to evaporate in the heated air, unnoticed as Alicent clasped Aemond’s arms, her grip seeming to tighten with a mother’s urgency. Her voice rose, edged with a trembling fierceness, “Do you grasp the gravity of your actions–whom you’ve bound yourself to? She will see you cursed–she will see you suffer for what you did to her brother! She will doom us all–”

“Mother, enough!” Aemond’s voice broke through, commanding and sharp as he pulled away from her grasp, the sound of her nails dragging against his doublet audible in the tense silence. He fixed a stern gaze upon her, his annoyance palpable. “It is done–”

“It is not,” Alicent interjected insistently, her voice laced with desperation. “There’s still a chance to undo this. As she herself declared, it’s merely your word against hers. No witnesses, no priest, nothing to consecrate the vows. The gods do not recognize it.”

“Compose yourself, daughter,” Otto commanded with unwavering firmness, his presence imposing even as he remained seated. His fingers tapped rhythmically on the aged leather of his ledger, which was stuffed with haphazardly arranged parchments. A weary resignation permeated his voice as he continued, “What’s done is done. It is of no consequence now.”

“‘Of no consequence?’” Alicent’s voice echoed sharply, eyes aflame with a mother’s fierce protectiveness and brimming with disbelief. She turned towards her father, her head shaking as if to dispel his words.

Otto’s voice was steady and dismissive of his daughter’s distress, “The legitimacy of their union matters little at this juncture. Our priority is the forthcoming wedding–” his eyes settled reproachfully on Aemond, “one that aligns with our faith and is witnessed by the eyes of the court.”

“You’re condemning him with this marriage,” Alicent charged, her voice thick with emotion as she advanced towards the table, pressing a hand against her abdomen as if to quell her inner turmoil. She met her father’s gaze with a blend of disbelief and quiet desperation, silently imploring him to reconsider his decision, but Otto Hightower was not moved by his daughter's plea.

“The wedding is set.”

Alicent shook her head in dismay, turning her gaze out the windows as she stepped away from the table, wrapping her arms around herself. Otto then fixed his eyes on Aemond, “How long have you kept this from us?”

Daenera’s gaze met Aemond’s, her heart pounding furiously, eyes burning with angry tears. A silent plea passed between them–a desperate urge for him to keep their secret, to preserve the last shred of sanctity their vows once held. He had shared their vows, exposing them to the harsh light of day. What they shared should have stayed veiled by the night, cherished in the quiet spaces of their hearts, untouched and pure–a fond memory eroding by the touch of cruelty. How strange it was, to have kept it in the shadows of night, where it flourished in the quiet solitude they had once shared, untainted by the daylight–it had been wondrous, almost sacred. Now exposed, it seemed grotesque, marred by layers of betrayal so deep, that bitterness seemed its only essence. What was one more scar upon their already tainted bond?

As Aemond averted his eyes, Daenera knew he would concede to the truth. She had denied him the acknowledgement he desired–had denied their vows–and so, perhaps to punish her, he answered with the truth. With a soft yet resonant voice, he betrayed her again, “Four months.”

Daenera’s gaze drifted to the ornamental marble spheres arrayed at the center of the table, nestled within their holder like delicate eggs. A fleeting impulse prickled at her fingertips, an urge to seize those marble balls and fling them at Aemond in a fit of rage. Yet, the logistics of moving past the expansive table and push between the chairs deterred her–she would need to lean over its broad expanse, exposing herself further, and Aemond would likely stop her before she could even graze the balls. She briefly considered removing her shoes and flinging them at him, though they seemed too insubstantial to inflict the impact she desired. Her eyes then settled on the hefty, hardwood chair before her, lamenting the lack of strength required to wield it as a weapon against the betrayal she felt.

With no means to inflict the damage she desired, she remained still.

“Four months?” Alicent repeated, spinning back to face them, her arms wrapped tightly around her torso, her hand brushing at her lips as though attempting to soothe herself. Her brows knitted together in a mixture of surprise and displeasure. “Since her husband’s death?”

“We married soon after,” Aemond answered, giving Daenera the grace of not telling the full truth–that they had married the night her husband had died, that they had both had a hand in it.

Otto reclined in his chair, his gaze shifting between Aemond and Daenera, weighting the gravity of the situation in a prolonged, silent assessment. Daenera felt the tightening of invisible threads around her, woven by Otto’s scheming mind. These threads seemed to bind her wrists and ankles, constricting around her neck, making her into nothing more than a mere puppet. After a long pause, Otto finally broke the silence again. “This may be to our advantage.”

“How can this possibly serve our interests?!” Alicent countered, her voice rising with incredulity. “Lord Borros Baratheon will surely sever ties with us once he discovers his brother’s widow has remarried so swiftly after his death. He will suspect Aemond of having a hand in his brother’s demise and he will demand justice.”

“Lord Borros is a prideful man and has already pledged his loyalty to us. It would tarnish his honor to withdraw now,” Otto answered, his expression stern as he regarded his daughter. “He wants for a royal alliance and the power of a dragon at his command. He won’t risk losing that.” His gaze then shifted to Aemond and Daenera, voice lowering slightly, “However, we must censure that the nature of Boris Baratheons accident remains beyond reproach…”

Daenera gritted her teeth, her thumb pressing into the wound on her–the one that had traced the bottom of the scar once left by the dragonglass. She contemplated exposing Aemond’s involvement in the death of her husband, even if it meant revealing her own. It was mutually assured destruction, as she had always intended–and as she had always hoped wouldn’t be necessary. Yet, here she was, considering it. But if she truly desired his death above all else, she would have driven the blade into his neck when she had the chance.

“We announce that their union was sealed a few weeks ago, perhaps a month, in a small ceremony, meant to keep her mother’s wrath at bay,” Otto continued, weaving his web of schemes. “We’ll weave the narrative of forbidden love, and the coming nuptials will be a formal ceremony that aligns with both the Faith and tradition, presenting the union to the court.”

“That is if I comply…” Daenera stood her ground, her voice strong. “I have an inherent obstinance, Your Grace…” Her eyes flicked towards Alicent, watching the scowl grow, then settled her gaze back on Otto. “You may weave your narrative, Lord Hand, but if I resist, your schemes will unravel. You have shown your cruelty by having me attend the celebration of my brother’s death–how will your plans fare when I am to be dragged down the aisle, tears running down my face, resisting every step?”

Daenera’s gaze flickered to Aemond for a brief moment before returning to Otto, continuing, “How do you think the realm will respond to you forcing me to marry my brother’s murderer? How do you think my mother would react? And Daemon?”

Aemond scoffed, his eye flashing with intensity as he retorted, his tone sharp and biting, “And how will she respond when she learns you married me willingly? Daemon had his suspicions of our relationship–how do you think he would react? Would he see it as a betrayal?”

“Do you think they’ll believe the tale that we married weeks ago, when I am dragged, crying, to the altar?” Daenera snapped back, eyes narrowing.

Aemond regarded her with a measure of coldness, his voice lowering, “Do you think they won’t?”

Daenera’s heart pounded in her chest, a flush of heat creeping up her neck and into her cheeks as she fixed him with a glare. Each word he spoke seemed to bear down upon her, her resolve bending under the weight of it–like a branch bending under pressure, threatening to snap. It would have been kinder, she thought, if he had plunged the knife at his hip between her ribs rather than seek to unravel her certainties. She clung to the belief that her mother and Daemon would understand her intentions, but deep down, she knew such assurance was a fragile, fallible thing–and he knew it too.

Aemond possessed a disturbing ability for finding which thread of her’s to tug on. He pulled at these threads relentlessly, unraveling her, exposing her vulnerabilities and uncertainties without any regard for her desires. It seemed he derived a twisted form of pleasure from dissecting her composure, piece by piece, revealing her innermost fears to the world–fears he would exploit. Once the act of unraveling her had welcome, once she thought she could unravel him too. What a lie that was, and yet there was a strange intimacy in the way he sought to strike at her vulnerabilities–how he knew exactly how to unsettle her.

Daemon had been incensed when he had learned about their relationship–had warned her against it. He had known, had sensed her feelings even before she recognized or deigned to acknowledge them herself. He had feared she’d fallen in love with him–feared that she’d betray them for this newfound affection.

Her heart had betrayed them as much as it had her, and she despised herself for it.

The thought of her mother perceiving her actions as a betrayal twisted her stomach into knots. Her blood ran cold with dread at the idea that Daemon might see her as a traitor.

Daenera steeled herself against the gnawing doubt that threatened to overwhelm her–threatened to unravel her ploy. The doubt seemed to crawl down her spine like chill, burrowing beneath her skin and turning her bones to ice. Her heart thudded heavily, uneasily within her chest as she swallowed her fears, masking them beneath a veneer of confidence. She clung to the hope that they would see the truth–that she was merely a pawn in the Hightower’s game, that the marriage was nothing more than a farce, even as she smiled and played her part. They had to understand, she reassured herself, they would come to see it clearly.

With a deliberate effort, she tore her gaze away from Aemond’s.

Otto fixed her with a look that mingled appreciation with annoyance. After a moment, he declared firmly, “If we release your men, you will consent to the marriage.”

It was not a question but a statement. Daenera responded nevertheless, “Yes.”

Daenera was acutely aware of the implications. Her acquiescence to the wedding would only strengthen Otto’s narrative surrounding her presence at the celebration of her brother’s death. She knew well that word of it would soon be reaching Dragonstone, if it hadn’t already. And once they heard of her compliance in the wedding, they’d begin to doubt her loyalty. Yet, this was the sole leverage she possessed, her only means to secure the release of her men from the dark confines of the dungeons, away from the perpetual threat hanging over them like an executioner’s blade. Daenera clung to the hope that her mother and Daemon would recognize her actions for the desperate charade they were. And with her men freed, she trusted they would convey the truth.

However much this ploy may wound her–however much it may cost her, it was a sacrifice she was willing to make, and in truth, it was the only thing she could do.

The Lord Hand’s gaze hardened. “From this day forward, you will embody the perfect bride–beautiful, radiant–and subsequently, the role of a devoted and loving wife.”

Alicent interjected with a voice tight with scorn, “You surely cannot be considering her terms?”

Otto Hightower looked at his daughter, his expression unyielding as he dismissed her with a small, dismissive gesture. Turning his attention back to Daenera, he spoke, “We cannot release both of your men. You must choose between the Sworn Shield and the boy. Once you fulfill your part of the arrangement, we will release the one you have chosen.”

Daenera did not need time for consideration or give the situation undue thoughts–even though one of her men was ominously unmentioned. She stepped forward decisively, gripping the back of a chair, nails tracing over the grooves carved into the wood, declaring, “The Sworn Shield. Fenrick.”

Alicent’s eyebrows lifted in reproachful surprised before her expression hardened into something scornful. “You choose not to save the boy? How heartless of you to leave him languishing in captivity.”

The rest of the accusation hung quietly in the air–and under threat no less. A boy of three and ten now, with a noose tied around his neck, just waiting for you to misstep and have the stool kicked out from beneath him. The decision was out of pragmatism, not cruelty. She knew too well that Patrick’s chances of making it outside the city walls were bleak; he was more likely to be murdered and left in the gutter. Fenrick, on the other hand, had a chance of reaching Dragonstone, of escaping the city walls, despite the likelihood that the Hightowers would send men after him to ensure that he’d never leave the city gates.

“Release Fenrick.”

Responding with a slow nod, Otto straightened in his chair, “Upon your marriage to Aemond, your man will be released. The boy, however, will stay with us as insurance.”

Daenera’s voice was steady, masking the urgency she felt. “When is the wedding to be held?”

Her gaze fleetingly met Aemond’s; he lingered in the shadows of a column, his expression stoic as if hewn from the stone itself–sulking. The brief contact was enough to reignite the familiar heaviness in her chest, and she forced herself to avert her gaze.

“Seven days from now,” Otto declared, standing to signify the end of their discussion.

So, I am back! And I'm working really hard to get things down on paper. I haven't gotten as much done as I wanted because I always underestimate just how long things takes to write lol. That being said, this chapter may be shorter than expected, but I have updated chapter 84 with 6k words for a scene of Aemond with the council. Next chapter will come at the heels of this one: Alicent takes Daenera to the Sept for a 'chat' and let's just say that we get some reminiscing, some cruelty, some threats...

#a vow of blood #hotd #aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #aemond one eye #aemond x reader #aemond fanfiction #prince aemond #aemond x oc #aemond targaryen x oc #hotd fanfic

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