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arcielee · 7 months ago

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Devotion

Summary: You are a Targaryen princess with an infatuation on a certain White Cloak. Paring: Ser Erryk Cargyll x Targaryen!Reader Word Count: 5.7k+ Warnings: AFAB Reader, neglect, angst, unrequited love?, kissing, fingering, unprotected p in v, more angst, oral sex (m and f receiving), a mother's reprimand, lots of blood, death, more angst Author’s Note: Thank you my beloved beta reader @zaldritzosrose for looking this over and helping me this story. I Mushroom-tweaked it to fit the angsty plot. This started as an anon request and unfolded into so much more. It is dedicated to my darling @opheliax98 who encouraged "all the drama" of this piece. I hope it you enjoy it. 💜 You can also read it on ao3.

Your mother decided that you would return to the Red Keep as an envoy, because of your ability to hide in plain sight despite the poisoned word that first followed your steps–ilībōños, bastard. It was the same that was thrown towards your half-brothers, but with a tone as bold as their brown curls and brown eyes; they did not have the fortune of their Valyrian roots to hide under, their features often speculated as too Strong.

You, however, were the first, albeit illegitimate, born of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen, conceived the same night that her virtue was called into question.

There was a bitter speculation of your origins that faded away with your birth; you were another nameless Targaryen princess that would decorate the family tapestry, another egg that turned to stone in the crib. Life in the capitol was lonely for you; your father was away in Pentos with his new family, while your mother remained preoccupied with her White Cloak, and then her Gold Cloak and new husband. There was an age gap between you and your brothers, your nephews and your niece, and it was an isolating chasm that placed you as an outsider, a spectator, with the unfocused eyes of the court looking through you.

Your only company was your handmaiden, Elinda, but her loyalties reported back to your mother, and then your Septa, but her complaints were ceaseless, especially as you learned the pathways that Maegor the Cruel had carved into the Keep; they became your escape from her lessons.

It was then your mother requested a knight from the Kingsguard to watch over you, and you mourned the little bit of independence acquired, assuming you would be assigned someone old, doddy, who served as another set of eyes that would only look through you.

You were not expecting Ser Erryk Cargyll.

To begin, he was only three years older than you–it was said his swordsmanship so impressed the Lord Commander that he also recruited his twin brother, bringing them both to King's Landing to serve in the Kingsguard. He was handsome, standing tall behind your mother, long and lithe. His ruddy complexion brought out the blue-gray of his eyes that showed unsure, almost shy with the introductions.

You smiled at him and his lips curled upwards in response, a rose dusting to his cheeks.

You liked him at once.

He was devoted to your shadow, almost rapt to your beck and call. The attention fed your girlish infatuation with the young knight, and you were always teasing him in a way that teetered on the edge of his duty and his oath with your coy questions and smirk. Ser Erryk was rarely rattled by you, but seemed more amused–he would answer you with a frank tone, a welcomed honesty, that ended with your title: it was always, “Yes, princess,” or “I shall see to it, princess.”

It continued on for months until one evening, as he escorted you to your room, you asked him to call you by your name, to set aside the formality. You saw the brilliant blue of his eyes, bright amongst the flush of his features; his tongue wet his lips, searching for his voice. “I could never do that, princess,” he started slowly, his eyes flickering up again to look at you as if for the first time. You saw the dust of his freckles that burned bright against his skin. “My purpose is to keep you safe.”

His voice was low, so serious, and it made your blood rise to the surface. You tried to laugh it off. “My purpose is to wait around until I am able to marry the highest bidder.” It was something that weighed heavy on your heart; your eyes fell away and your fingers grasped into the fabric of your skirts. “I know I will not be missed within these walls once I am gone.”

“That’s not true, princess.”

It startled you, and you peered back up from underneath your lashes, your heart vibrating against your skin. You watched Ser Erryk choke on his boldness, his regret knotting into his face before he settled on silence. You watched him go, the muted ensemble of his armor as he returned to the barracks below.

That moment created something palpable that pressed overhead. You were too young, too rash to even know how to tactfully touch the subject again. The forced return to your norm left your bones aching; Ser Erryk doted on your steps, and you rambled on to drown out the incessant screaming of your heart within your chest.

It spilled over at Driftmark. Your family went for the Velaryon funeral procession for Daemon’s wife, feeding further into the resentment that rifted within the house of the dragon. You slipped away and found Aegon in his cups, deciding to steal some of the liquid courage. When Ser Erryk found you, your eyes were glassy and your cheeks flushed.

He sighed, shaking his head, reaching to help you stand, but you swore you saw the hint of a smile touching his lips. Ser Erryk said nothing, but wrapped his arm around your waist and matched his gait with your staggered steps to your room. You rested your head on his shoulders, enjoyed his smell of olive oil used on his sword and how it mixed with his perspiration.

At the door, you felt his breath tickle your ear, “I will not speak of this to the crowned princess, but you should get some rest–”

You spun to face him, your hands pushing on his breastplate to steady yourself on your tiptoes and pressing your lips to meet with his. Ser Erryk froze with your kiss, his White Cloak tightening like a vice. His palms were rough, but he was gentle to wrap your elbows and pull you back, his gaze rooting you to cobblestone.

Moments ticked away with your beating heart that was now bruising against your bones before he finally said, “I cannot give you what you truly deserve, princess.”

He said nothing else and your embarrassment fed the fire in your blood. You pulled away from him and slipped into your room, careful to close your door. Your back pressed against the carvings of sea creatures into the oak and you melted to the floor, your tears spilling to ease your girlish heartache.

Elsewhere on the island, a dragon was claimed and bloodshed followed. The walls rattled as the king proclaimed his true loyalty and it ended with you being whisked away to Dragonstone. It was for the best, you decided, to leave your broken heart behind. You felt the tinge of hope when you learned that your mother and your father were finally together, and decided to set aside your infatuation of the White Cloak, but instead focus to aid your mother, to help solidify what your grandsire, King Viserys, had proclaimed to the Seven Realms.

That she was to be queen.

It had been six years since you last been at King’s Landing. It was now a place both familiar and strange. The same architecture rose above, shadowing over Blackwater Bay, though inside your ancestry of Old Valyria had been replaced, the Keep becoming a shrine to the new gods who had not yet paid their dues for such a show of devotion.

As you entered through the Barbican, you smirked at the memory of the girl you were before, only ten and five, on the cusp of womanhood that required your gowns to be stitched to fit your slender frame. Now your figure filled your dresses, your curves pressing to the seams and your hair twisted and styled to showcase the dragonblood in your veins, that shined in the amethyst of your eyes.

The queen was first to come and greet you. The handmaidens selected were controlled by Elinda, who watched their flurry to unpack. You looked up to see her lips pursed, her dark brown eyes washed over like you were a specter coming to haunt, like she wished for the earth to swallow you whole.

“It has been requested–” her tone was queenly, but you noted that she would not mention how it was your mother that penned her a letter, “–for you to have a knight assigned. I was advised that Ser Erryk has served this role before.”

His name caused your blood to roar in your head as you turned to watch him enter the room. Ser Erryk seemed taller, or perhaps that was how he now held himself, his pride set on his shoulders and onto his features that sharpened. He was still sinewy, though he seemed to fill out the armor hammered to fit his frame, polished and gleaming in the sun that streaked through; it burned bright in his copper hair that was brushed back to show his beard trimmed to fit his jaw.

The coloring brought out his blue-gray eyes that shined almost unsure, almost shy.

It kindled something within you that you believed to be gone, a feeling that washed away on the shores of Dragonstone and swept to the depths of the bay, buried in the sand.

Ser Erryk looked at you and you could not help your smile. His lips ticked upwards and you felt your pulse flutter anew, seizing your heart again.

Your iron-clad shadow followed after your steps, a devotion renewed, and it returned the muscle memory of his constant and comforting presence as you reacquainted with the old castle. Ser Erryk accompanied your rounds to visit with Helaena and her children, watching your brief exchange with each prince, and even briefer with the king who smiled when he called you Rhaenyra. Your knight then escorted you back to your room without a word, just the chink of his armor with his steps, echoing off the stone.

You paused in the doorway, looking back to see his stance. As he watched you, your mind flittered with words but none could knit together. “Sleep well, princess,” he finally spoke with a small bow, excusing himself.

The room had also been stripped of your Targaryen history, almost unfamiliar despite your chests unpacked. Elinda and the other handmaidens helped prepare you for bed, and a cup of wine was poured but your stomach would not hold it down. They left you alone and your quarters were now a gilded cage to contain you; you pulled on your pale, silk robe and finished half of the goblet, summoning your old courage to slip away.

The same panel opened with ease, but inside, basked in the amber light of torch set in a sconce, stood Ser Erryk with his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Your mouth fell open and he grinned at you. “I take my oath with my heart, princess,” he reminded you.

“How did you know–?” You stammered, licking the wine from your lips.

He only shrugged, his eyes glittering in the fire. “You seem so very different, but also are still the same.”

You pulled the panel closed to silence his chuckle. You finished the rest of the wine poured and returned to your bed.

Your days at Kings Landing were idly filled. Your old Septa returned with her scrutiny of the woman you had become, her brow furrowing to find fault as you showcased your refinement of a lady mastered over the last half decade. Your afternoons were spent in the company of Helaena and her children, the only ones welcoming your return, with the littlest one, Maelor, especially taken with you.

The time was spent in the gardens with a blanket sprawled out. Helaena would hum songs while the twins played their games. Maelor was content to sit in your lap, his eyes wide to discover whatever came within his chubby grasp.

And Ser Erryk, your shadow, would stay close by, always.

“He will draw his own blood to protect you.” The princess spoke suddenly, jarringly–it was a common happenstance with Helaena, you learned. Her every impertinent thought spilled off her tongue in riddles.

Maelor’s eyes widened with his beginning grasp of the spoken word. You blew a raspberry onto his cheek to distract him, and he fell into a fit of giggles. “He would draw blood, but only if it was needed,” you corrected her, your voice low.

Helaena only hummed in response, falling back into whatever song as she looked over the flowers that surrounded you both, watching the insects that lived amongst them. Her words remained with you, echoing in your head long after the moon began its silver stretch overhead. It guided your steps back to the panel in your room and you pushed it open.

Ser Erryk straightened at once, his hand back on his pommel. “Princess? Why are you still–”

You stopped him with a gentle touch on his breastplate, steadying yourself to rise on the balls of your feet until your lips pressed to his once again. But this time he responded, melting against–his lips were soft and warm, and his beard tickled your skin.

You fell flat-footed to the floor with a smile spreading across your face; he was enraptured to watch the words that spilled from your lips. “I thought I had forgotten that night at Driftmark, but it seems what you said has embedded into my bones.” You felt light-headed, but also embolden by his gaze and the black that swallowed his murky cobalt eyes. “You once said that you could not give me what I deserved, but did you ever think you could give me what I want, what I desire?”

It was a dam broken and he surged against you, pressing until your back touched the other side of the corridor. He reclaimed your mouth with a honeyed fervor that warmed your blood. Your fingers pull away the tie that held back his hair and combed through his silky copper spill. His fingers bruised into your hips, holding on as if you would slip away.

You broke the kiss, breathless, your fingers knitting with his own and pulling him back into your room. It was a quiet exchange, littered with soft kisses, as you helped him remove his iron armor piece-by-piece, stacking the plates aside.

He draped the white cape over a chair and looked to you. Underneath he wore a pale tunic and cream slacks, his outline pressing to the seams in a way that made your thighs clench. He stepped closer, his desperation more controlled, and pulled you into his chest, his thumb pressed to tilt your chin for a slow and searching kiss.

You sighed and his tongue curled to taste, his fingers peeling away the bedtime silk that covered your skin. He worshiped every inch shown with his mouth, blooms of color decorating your skin.

You helped him pull his shirt over his head, wanting to feel the heat of his skin, to feel the golden hair across his chest. His heart was vibrating beneath, and his arms wrapped around your waist with another kiss that pulled the air from your lungs. Ser Erryk tightened his hold to lift you and walk you backwards until you felt the edge of the bed touching the back of your knees; you sat down, your thighs plush and pink.

His hands cradled your jaw, tilting your head back to look at you. “Beautiful,” he whispered before leaning to capture your lips again.

Your fingers curled at the nape of his neck to pull him towards you, moving back against the mattress. He followed, his skin flushed red and his eyes wide as you laid back into the pillows. He moved on top of you, gentle to touch you with soft caresses and lingering kisses, following your guide as you led his hand lower towards the intimacy between your thighs, wet and wanting.

He trembled with his exhale as his fingertips split apart your velvet folds, his calloused touch careful to map the bloom of nerves above. You gasped with his testing touch and his smile curled into his blood stained cheeks; he moved softer, but quicker, until it elicited a sweet sigh.

Ser Erryk was responsive, attentive to you. He was aware of your breathing and soft sounds, matching his ministration to pull something deeper within you, sparking at the base of your spine. It felt different from your own touch, this passion he pulled without your control, and you squirmed from the pressure building in your core.

“Erryk,” you whined, your hips lifting against his hand.

He grinned, shifting to press a kiss underneath your jaw, and your skin rippled over in response to the contrast of his lips and his beard. “That’s it princess,” his husky tone was hot against your skin; your hands moved to hold him close, another pitiful mewl spilling. He shifted his hand, moving to curl two fingers within your cunt while his thumb pressed to your swollen pearl.

“Erryk–!” you gasped, and your nails pressed red crescents into his shoulders.

His brow was knitted with his concentration, moving to litter kisses along the column of your neck and to your collarbones–a gentle nip that bolted the length of your spine. He does not stop, his fingers coated with your slick with his rhythm that curled upwards into you, sparking a euphoria that poured white-hot into your blood, your heart bruising until you feel it rattling your bones.

His other hand touched to return you back to your body; his palms rough but kind, following the curve of your stomach and resting to feel the rise and fall with your bated breath. You felt dizzy, blushing, and you blinked, looking down to see him watching you. He moved to give you another searing kiss that rekindled the same warmth pooling between your thighs.

You kissed him back and spread your legs for his slender waist to slot in-between. He pulled his slacks lower, allowing the underside of his cock to spread your velvet folds, a heady but delicious pressure against your cunt. You pulled him in for a kiss and he groaned into your mouth as you canted your hips, your heart pulsing against his heavy cock.

He was flushed. “I will be gentle, princess…”

You swallowed his words with another kiss, your legs knotting around to rut your hips against him. He panted into your mouth, his arm dipping to line himself with your entrance, and you clenched with your anticipation.

Erryk pressed into you with a trembled control as your heat enveloped him fully. You were split apart with the most delicious fill; you mewled, pitiful, and his head fell forward, tucking into the curve of your neck. “Gods be good…” he rasped.

Your fingers dimpled into his waist, encouraging his thrusts. His pace filled you sinfully, a slow roll of his hips that spurred a pleasure coiling within. You gasped against his chest, your nails biting into his skin as he quickened, going deeper, almost bruising. You felt your walls flutter around him, pulling another guttural groan from the back of his throat, his rasped whisper of your name buried into your hair.

The euphony trilled your spine and you clenched with your second release. It pulled him over that precipice of pleasure, crashing like a tidal wave. Erryk melted against you, hot, pulsing deep within you, and you breathed in his skin, the same intoxicating scent mixed with olive oil and wax.

He pulled away, the tender moment passing as duty resurfaced.

You made a noise, pushing to sit upright and your head tilting to watch his heavy sway between his thighs as he walked back from the basin with a clean cloth in hand. Your eyes met with his and his brow arched in return, teasing; you caught his wrist and pulled him back into the bed, against your heart.

Erryk twisted his face until it pressed into your skin, licking and kissing whatever his mouth could touch. You giggled, squirming until you could rest your head on his chest. His arms wrapped around you.

You did not want this night to end. “Do not leave me, Erryk.”

“I am sworn to you, princess.” He reminded you, pressing his lips to your hairline.

It was not what you wished to hear, but it was all you would get at this moment. You hummed, burying your face until his chest hair tickled, listening to the low thrum of his heartbeat.

That night changed the monotony of the Red Keep. You thought of any reason to pull Erryk away from prying eyes; stolen kisses and touches that lingered, heating your skin. Your eyes now would flit to find him and see that he was always standing close, his gaze piercing through, settled onto you.

When the sun tucked away into the horizon, he would slip through the passageway and back into your embrace, the intimate tangle of bare limbs abed with breathless kisses and secrets shared. He learned your body, an instrument to be mastered and a passion to taste you on his lips, staining his beard. He became your confidant, sharing the mutterings of the court; he was the one to warn you about the claimant for Driftmark.

You wrote your mother at once.

It had been months since you left Dragonstone and you were excited to see her, your father and your siblings again. You were deciding on what gown to wear while Elinda was cleaning up, pulling your sheets away with a scowl on her face.

You laughed at her expression. “What is it?”

She was perplexed. “I cannot recall your last moonsblood, princess,” she admitted, her lips pursed. “I feel that time seems to run itself together within these walls.”

Her words ripped through you, but you said nothing, your expression as solid as the stones stacked to create the walls she referred to. Elinda finished tucking the corners before she noticed. “Princess! Are you okay–?”

“I am fine,” you lied. “Help me with my dress.”

Underneath you were rattled, frightened with the revelation of life within you. Your disquiet settled away, disappearing once your mother arrived. You rushed to greet her, seeing her swollen with another heir in the making. Her silver brows knitted as she looked over the state of the Red Keep, and you wrapped an arm around your side, pulling you close to whisper: “It is even worse than what you described!”

There was comfort in your mother’s arms and you pressed a kiss to her cheek. She looked at you a moment before her gaze fell back to Erryk, your ever dutiful-shadow noted. “Good ser, you have my eternal gratitude for keeping her safe.”

He was pink with her words. “Thank you, princess.”

Her focus remained on him another moment before she looked back to you, her eyes now careful to comb over. You swallowed, unsure, and she said nothing as her attention was whisked away to her purposeful return to the Keep.

The days that followed were tumultuous in the least, with a tension that spilled crimson on the floor of the Throne Room. Your stomach dropped from the wet sound of the two halves of Ser Vaemond hitting the stone floor, the smell of iron thick around you; Erryk moved in front of you to shield you away.

King Viserys called for a supper that evening to mend the ever-growing rift, but instead emotions imploded, splitting the room in half.

Erryk moved to wrap his hand around your arm at your mother’s command. Your father escorted your siblings and their betrotheds back to their rooms, his silver brow furrowing at you and your knight.

Your footfalls echoed to keep with his pace, a numbed process of what had just happened. “I will have to return to Dragonstone,” you whispered when you felt certain it was just the two of you. “Wait for me.”

Erryk looked at you before he stepped closer, cupping your jaw. It rooted you as he leaned to give you a chaste kiss, the warmth of his mouth searing through you. You stifled a sob when he pulled back to place another kiss to your hairline, another secret whispered against your skin. “I always have, princess.”

Dragonstone was gray and dreary as you remembered, becoming a beacon for awful when the news came that the king was dead and that Prince Aegon II Targaryen now sat upon the throne.

It wrenched through your mother and her hands pressed to her abdomen. The day waned with your father plotting at the very table the Conqueror laid plans, while your mother’s screams echoed throughout. You waited in the shadows, your hands pressing to protect your stomach; you prayed fervently to the gods, the old ones and the new, but they did not answer.

A pyre was stacked for the bloody swaddle and you watched the flames swallow it, the heat licking your skin. Your mother was pale, her eyes empty as she watched the curl of smoke rise above, her morbid farewell to her child unborn.

It was the swords unsheathed that pulled your attention, your heart pounding at the sound of his voice: “I mean no harm, brothers.”

You swallowed your tears, watching as Erryk kneeled to the earth with his vow renewed. The setting sun gave an amber aura that reflected off the crown he pulled from his satchel, the same as King Jaehaerys’ and your grandsire after, the same that was placed on top of your mother’s head that commanded a rippled bow of respect from everyone around.

Back inside, any unease was settled once Princess Rhaenys spoke of how he helped her escape from the Red Keep. Your mother forced a smile, her pain still haunting her features. “Your vow is to me, and to my family. You are to keep them safe, like before, like always.”

And he nodded.

With war burning on the horizon, its imminent threat that would swallow the Seven Realms, there was no moment spared where you could speak of the life created. You kept it cradled to your chest when you saw how war-wearied Erryk was already. His heart had been cleaved in two and one-half remained in charge of the usurper.

It allowed a new desperation in the passion shared, a clash of teeth and tongues to taste whatever intimacy could be spared amidst the bloodshed. This ever-threat of life so fleeting is what pushed you to be bolder, which was why you were waiting for him outside the bathhouse one evening.

You reached as he moved past you, your fingers tucking into his waistband to pull him into the shadows. Your royal apartment had a path that weaved as an escape, and tonight you used it to bring him back with you, to allow a moment to forget the inevitable that was coming.

“Princess…” he started, but you stopped him with a kiss.

“I missed you,” you confessed against his lips. “I need to feel you.”

Your room was basked in candlelight and you pulled him through the passageway, turning to dip your hand below his waistband, your hand pressed on his half-hard cock. It pulsed against your palm and you moved closer to place a kiss on his neck.

He sighed his pleasure and his torment. “Princess,” he tried again, but you would not let him.

You nipped at his skin, halting his words, and he smothered a groan while your other hand pulled at his drawstrings. “Let me,” you breathed, and his skin rose in response.

He felt heavy in your hands that wrapped around him. You stole another kiss before your chin dropped to your chest, your spit falling from your tongue and onto his cock.

Erryk hissed as you stroked his length, watching as he jerked with another low moan. Your hand held onto his hip to lower to your knees, your other wrapping around the base and bringing his flushed cockhead against your tongue. You pressed a kiss and were rewarded with a groan that rumbled through him; your tongue trailed the side of his cock, feeling every vein and ridge, and you placed another kiss on the underside.

His fingers combed through your hair, watching as you pulled back to watch you take him inch-by-inch, with your hand holding onto what could not fit. His hips bucked into your mouth, bruising the back of your throat, and you groaned, a heat pooling between your thighs.

Your mouth and hand worked in tandem, working his cock until you felt it twitch with his pearly spend, his briny taste against your tongue. He shuddered, pulling back to sink to his knees, cupping your face and pulling you close for a messy kiss.

“My turn,” he whispered, standing and pulling you to follow, his eyes lust-blown.

You sank into the mattress and Erryk kneeled before you, an altar to be worshiped. His palm pressed to your cunt and his fingers spread your folds, allowing his tongue to run along your slit. You shivered as he pressed further, his tongue now carving into you with a well-known intimacy that made your toes curl.

Afterwards, Erryk curled into you and your fingers ran through his still damp hair, the occasional pause to press another kiss to his scalp. “I am sworn to you,” he was quiet, his voice barely above your heart beat. “But you are so much more to me.”

Your heart swelled in your chest. “I know,” you kissed your knight again. “I… love you too, Erryk.”

He hummed against you, burrowing into the softness of your skin. His words replayed in your mind, giving you the courage that you needed, but your mother already called you to her chambers the next night.

When you entered, she dismissed Ser Lorent, who locked the door behind him. Her eyes settled on you and your throat tightened. Her face was drawn, thinner, a woman shattered by all the blood spilled and plagued by the fact that more was yet to come.

You remained standing, waiting as her eyes poured over you. She took a breath before she said, “I already know.”

It was a relief, it was terror. Your stomach dropped and you looked to see Elinda busying herself with whatever her hands could find. Damn her. “I wished to tell you myself,” you admitted, your fists balled at your sides until your nails pierced through to the bones.

Her eyes steeled in return, her jaw set. “Who is he?”

Instead, you answer with, “I love him.”

“That was not what I asked,” she snapped in a way that both you and Elinda flinched with her words that were scalding with her anger. “Your queen asked who is the father of the child that you carry.”

But you saw her tears were threatening to spill, her face blotched with her anger. You pressed your hands to your stomach, the new habit formed over the last few weeks. “It is Ser Erryk Cargyll.”

She closed her eyes, a fury now thrumming. “I should have fucking known…”

“And how is it any different from what you shared with Ser Harwin?” You could not stop your tongue, her temperament reflecting.

“You truly wish to repeat the follies of my heart, you daft girl?” She hissed, her tears spilling. “We are on the cusp of a civil war because… I allowed my heart to choose instead committing to the duty that I am bound to by my blood, the very same within your veins.” Her hand pressed to her chest, a sob caught in her throat. “And that choice is the consequence that I now suffer every day.”

You wanted to glare, to fight back, but you saw her torment. Her tears spilling called to you and you moved to her bedside, melting into her. She fell into your arms with sobs that wracked her body. She held onto you and you remained, allowing her grief to pour over.

Behind, you heard the other door opening. Your mother looked up from your chest, wiping her face. “Ser Erryk?”

A cold-fire twisted into your stomach when you saw him, knowing at once that he was not the man you were in love with. The imposter knight stepped closer, unsheathing his sword. He sounded pained. “Believe me, I had no choice.”

“Brother!”

Over his shoulder, you saw Erryk, his sword drawn and his eyes wild. “Do not do this. I beg you.”

There was a clash of steel, of heartbreak and betrayal. Your mother screamed at Elinda, but she remained cemented to the cobblestone, stricken with her fear. She grabbed your hand to pull you from the bed, your legs buckling and your heart screaming to stay. You followed after your mother, remembering too late that the door was locked, and you looked over the room for a weapon, an escape.

Erryk yelled when the sword cut through his thigh.

Your fear pulled you outside of your body to see your hands resting to shield your stomach, the smell of blood rich in the night air. You prayed to the gods, a cursed habit, and again, they ignored you.

You blinked to focus. Arryk fell first, a sword splayed through his stomach, and you looked to Erryk, your relief fleeting when you saw the dagger buried between his ribs. He looked at you, his knees buckling, collapsing to the floor with the clatter of iron.

Your mother ran for the door, screaming for the maesters, for anyone to come and aid. You rushed to his side, your slippers slick in the blood that was pouring out on the stone, staining the pale silk of your nightgown. You lifted his head to rest on your lap, your trembling touch unsure if you could even staunch the scarlett flow.

“I cannot do this without you,” you pleaded, your hands pressing around the hilt; his blood bubbled between your fingers. “I need you, Erryk. Our babe needs you!”

Erryk looked at you as if you were the sun itself, a dawning realization that washed over with your words. Your heart wrenched from your chest when you looked at him, a choked sob when you saw the red that stained his smile.

His lips parted, but no words would come. Instead you watched as the blue of his eyes faded to gray with his last breath.

You leaned over him, your tears spilling, and you pressed a kiss to his brow, your blood-stained fingers gentle to cradle the head of your devoted knight.

hotd masterlist || arcie's navi

#house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfic #hotd fanfic #hotd fanfiction #ser erryk x you #ser erryk x reader #ser erryk cargyll #ser erryk #erryk cargyll #erryk cargyll x you #erryk cargyll x reader

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oneeyedlove · 6 months ago

Text

Peace.

summary | you find yourself striding towards Aemond’s chambers to confront him about his behavior at dinner, things take a turn.

pairing | Aemond Targaryen x Strong niece!reader

tags | 18+, MINORS DNI! Unprotected sex. PinV, arguing, mentions of violence, chocking, incest, creampie, cockwarming (?).

wordcount | 4.6 k

note | this is my first time writing smut so cut me some slack plss, english is not my first language and I don’t know if i like this.

The pounding of determined steps echoed through the secret tunnels of Maegor’s holdfast as you made your way towards a certain prince’s chambers. Surprised as you were that your family whistood dinner without altercations as far as they did, the feeling of hope for a truce between the opposite sides of House Targaryen died the moment that word escaped Aemond’s lips. Spiteful litte things he and Aegon were, endlessly searching for a wound to poke at— that was usually found in your brother’s tempers.

Your and your siblings’ bastardy was no secret to any soul who paid attention although it didn’t bother you in the least. Having known fatherly love from three different men as your mother’s only daughter made your upbringing eventul, but it did not stop you from becomig a bright and optmistic young woman. Said optimism being the reason why tonight’s sudden quarrel left such anguish in your heart.

Placed between Jacaerys and Aegon at the dinner table, your finger tracing the rim of the wine cup by your side, you could not help but daydream about the pleasantness of this evening extending itself into daily life. The muffled laughter Lucerys emitted pulled you back into reality and the smile faded from your face at the sight of a pig stowed before the one eyed prince. Your brown eyes met his lilac one as he stood, your pleading gaze exchanged in vain for he said the dreadful phrase regardless.

You blamed him as you paced before the hidden entrance of the silver prince’s chambers, pondering whether it would be wise to burst in unannounced— it most likely was not. Aemond was never one to display his thoughts without an ulterior motive, so invading his personal lounge would be an open attempt at understanding him, a desire you had hoped would remain silent in your heart. Against better judgment, you stepped through the stone wall by his bed. Shivering at the frigidness in your stomach, you took in the room. It looked uneasily tidy as you touched the soft linens on the bed with the tip of your fingers, thinking it was obvious the stoic prince would have an obnoxiously clean chamber. The moment your eyes found the back of his head a breath stuck in your lungs, fearing he would sense your presence.

Seated in the armchair before the fireplace, he twirled a golden coin between his knuckles, watching it’s mesmerizing choreography. Aemond had noted your presence long before you entered his apartments, the sounds of your nervous marching thundered in his ears. However, the hour of the wolf was an unexpected moment for you to come to him. He reckoned you would confront him after the events of dinner, but never would have thought to meet your scolding outside the security of daylight.

You crept further into the chamber, standing a mere five paces behind him as your heartbeat roared in your chest. If the prince had not heard you before, he certainly had now. A smirk hid from your gaze as he placed the coin on the armrest’s leather, Aemond amusingly waited your words.

“Uncle.” Your voice escaped your lips, sounding more hesitant than you intended to.

His body rigid as a pillar, the silver haired man slowly rose to his feet, his shoulders broad and muscular. He took a deep breath as he caught your eyes with his good one, his penetrating gaze watching your every move. When he finally spoke, a familiar, biting tone filled your ears.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, dear niece?”

“I wish to speak about your behavior at dinner.” As much as you tried not to sound as a wounded child, the tartness in your mouth was filled with youthful resentment.

“Are you here to yell at me, then?” He cocked his head, your eyes gleaming under the candlelight as his gaze traveled from your face to your feet, taking in your features.

The prince would never consider himself a foolish man. Every piece of him sculpted through years of exhaustive dedication, he had scraped each flawed aspect of his mind and body until it reached perfection. Aemond had disciplined his thoughts and actions towards any living creature ever since claiming Vhagar, with all but one exception: you. It was pathetic, really, how his tamed heart turned moronic in your presence. Your laughter had welded itself into his soul from the moment he first heard it as a boy, his secret devotion never surrendering to the test of time.

As if a plague crawling inside him, the yearning for your affection clouded his judgment, forcing his dutifulness out of reach. It was easy to hate Rhaenyra and her progeny, his mother had taught him their mere existence was a disgrace to the realm, a sin that tarnished the mighty House Targaryen. Nevertheless, your impertinence in addressing him this way could only lengthen his doubts — the narrative that someone withholding of such kindness and loyalty could be unholy was ludicrous in the least.

"Why must you be insufferable at all times?" You gave in to the infantile urges that plagued you, rolling your eyes at him — being almost a woman grown, it was shameful how he managed to get underneath your skin, even if you did not show it as much as your brothers.

Aemond chuckled darkly, his lips curving up in a twisted smile as he watched you. He took a step closer, his stride slow, calm, much like a hunter stalking his prey. You knew he could hide his boyish petulance far better than yourself and yet a glimmer of irritation from your words could be seen in his lilac eye.

“Did I strike a nerve?” He asked, taking another step closer, his eyes never leaving your face.

“Or are you just sore from me speaking the truth?

"Your jab at my bastardy brings me no pain, Aemond. I have never denied the truth." The boiling in your blood had not come from his insults, you were already used to them.

"The insufferableness I refer to is your need to ruin everything."

“And you expect me to believe that you’re here simply because I ‘ruined dinner?’” Aemond chuckled again, his smirk widening at your insolent stare.

"You ruined the chance our family had to start anew, to forget about all the resentment and rage. I am aware of your hate towards Lucerys for maiming you that night at Driftmark, but can't you find it in yourself to forget? We were children." Even as your pleads traveled across the room, your newfound confidence maintained a stern tone in your voice.

His expression changed, a flicker of something grim passing through his eye. His jaw clenched and the smirk disappeared, though he took another step further, his figure looming over yours. He reached a hand out, grabbing your chin and forcing you to look up at him.

“Forget?” He asked, his voice quiet and deadly.

“How do you expect me to forget, when it was your bastard brother who stole me my eye?”

"You lost an eye but you gained a dragon, as you said so yourself.“ You pushed his hand away, releasing yourself from his grasp as you took a step back.

“None of us mourn your eye anymore Aemond, not even your childish self."

Your touch in his hand lingered in his skin, even if it had been brief— to push him away. His thoughts raced through his mind, how could you expect him to forgive it? The incident at Driftmark surely won him Vhagar, but it earned him humiliation and disgust all the same. He could not bear the glares bestowed upon his scar, some filled with pity, others with repulse and fear. Her brother had left him crippled, a prince that would never be whole. In one swift motion, Aemond grabbed your throat, forcing you to stumble backwards until your back hit the pillar beside the chamber’s sitting room. The cold stone pressed against your body as his fingers dug into your skin.

“Do not speak of matters you know nothing of.” He hissed through clenched teeth.

Even as stings of pain cut into the muscles of your neck, you had not flinched, the ire you suppressed for so long consuming you entirely. Your eyes seeing nothing but red, a hand met his face as a loud thud vibrated through the chamber. You had punched him. He recoiled from the hit, his cheek stinging and his face shocked. He brought a free hand up to his face to touch his now bruised cheek. It stung, but something about the feeling made him hungry for more.

“You shouldn’t have done tha—.” He spat his words before you interrupted him.

“Take my eye.” You brought your hands to hold his wrist, hoping it would make him soften his grip.

“Take it. Have your revenge and be done with all this bother.” Your gaze never flickered, staring at him with determination in your eyes.

He was surprised, to say the least. He didn’t expect you to say something like that, and for a moment he just held you in place, his breath coming out in ragged breaths as he looked down at you. The prince studied your face, looking for a sign of deceit, for a hint of fear, but all he found was defiant eyes looking back at him. He grunted, a deep, guttural sound from the back of his throat.

“Is that what you want?” He raised an eyebrow at her.

"I will do what I must to protect my blood. If this will help in mending our family it is a price I'll gladly pay."

“You would do that for your bastard brothers?” He asked quietly, a hint of disbelief in his voice as pressed closer to you, his body trapping you against the wall as he moved his hand from your neck to gently place his fingers on your jawline.

"I would do it for anyone in this family if it gave us peace.“ You said, feeling your skin tingle at his soft touch.

“Even you.”

Truer words had never been said. You had no desire to lose an eye, naturally, but if it was the needed punishment you would receive it without hesitation. If it had to be you, you would do it for your relatives, for yourself, for him. For the boy you loved so dearly, the sweet version of Aemond that was shy and gentle — he deserved better. You knew he was trapped inside of the villainous mask the prince wore but was still there. And you would love him eternally, all of him, all the dark fragments of who he now was. Although, he could never let you. So you would allow your adoration succumb to violence if it would succeed in attaining peace.

The words cut him like an arrow through the heart. He felt his muscles tense and for a moment he was sure he would squeeze your throat and end it right there. But something stopped him, whether it was your words or the fact that having your face so close, gleaming in the soft light of the fireplace, made something inside him soften. He finally found it in your eyes, what he searched for so long — the same cherishing ardor he hid inside himself. His eye flickered desperately in its socket, he had to be sure it wasn’t a dream, a cruel jest his subconscious was playing on him. But it was real. Aemond knew, right then and there, that he could have the whole world at his feet and he would still beg on his knees for you.

He watched your eyes gazing over his face, taking in your expression as his change took place. He saw the way your eyes became hazy, the way your lips parted slightly as if to say something but then closed shut again. He could feel the heat pooling in his lower abdomen, a wave of burning hunger flowing through his veins. Relishing in the feel of your small frame, your breath hitching as your chest rose and fell against his, so innocent and yet calling to him like a siren.

Before you could fathom what provoked his sudden change in demeanor, he clashed his lips into yours. The kiss was rough and desperate, a collision of teeth and tongue as he pressed your body into the wall. You moved your hands to his chest, tiny and soft against the hard muscle. He felt something tighten in his groin and he groaned into the kiss, his tongue desperately searching for more of yours. He tasted you — sweet, like sugarcane and vanilla, and he couldn’t get enough. If he had known how intoxicating your touch would be, he would have indulged in it until he made himself a drunkard.

He pushed his body closer to yours, pinning you completely against the wall, his knee coming between your legs automatically as he continued the hungry assault on your mouth. You weren’t unholy, he could see it now. But if loving you was a sin, he would gladly worship your wickedness.

He placed his hand on the side of your face, his thumb caressing your cheek as he parted his lips from yours. Your foreheads touching as he opened his eye to look for your reaction, your face was flushed, your lips bruised and swollen from his rough kisses — he found the sight unbelievably arousing. You had not expected him to ignore your demand to gauge out your eye, thinking his hatred was everything you could ever have, much less kiss you. The longing and passion emanating from his touch made it clear he had been hiding from you for this long, but there was still a piece of you that needed to be sure.

Your eyes looked up at him, his lips red from friction and his luscious hair messier than usual. You could feel his hardened length on your upper thigh, the feeling sending chills through your body. You wanted him, the gods know you did, but he needed to show you his feelings were honest.

“Tell me this is real.” You said as your fingers traced soft patterns over his black tunic.

He stared at you in confusion for a brief moment, then realizing you had the same doubts he had. A loving smile made its way into his face as he spoke, the once familiar anger that filled his voice was now replaced with pure adoration.

“I need you. I have always needed you.” He whispered, the words twirling out of his lips.

“Then have me.” You said, a new sense of confidence washing over you alongside a heat that pooled in your belly.

Aemond’s eye widened as you kissed him, the action catching him off guard. It took him a moment to process that was you were asking, but when he did; he grabbed your waist and pushed you further into the stone wall. He leaned down, towering over you as he did, and kissed you back. Hard. As a soft moan hit his ear, a wave a desire washed over him. He felt an instinct, a burning need to hear more of those sounds escape your mouth. He wanted to hear you cry and moan and gasp for breath, and he wanted to be the only one to hear it.

Your hands found the back of his head, your fingers interwoven in his silver hair as you pulled him closer. His leg pressed itself again into your core, the heat stemming from your cunt could surely be felt through the fabric of your dress. His fingers digging almost painfully into your hips, he moved his other hand down, grabbing your leg and pulling it over his hip, pressing his body against yours and pinning you there.

He broke the kiss, panting, as he buried his head in the crook of your neck. He nipped and kissed your skin as if he were a starved man. Aemond had treasured you in secret for so long, the feeling of being held in the same regard by you made his head spin — you would be his forever, he had to make sure of that.

The sensitive skin of your neck reddened at each teasing action he bestowed upon it, your body aching in desire. He relished the small gasps and mewls that the simple action of his mouth against your flesh caused you to make. The soft, reddening mark he was leaving on your skin, from his lips and teeth as he marked you as his own, making him more and more possessive with every soft bite. His grip on your hip became more firmer, his hand on your waist digging in, no doubt leaving his mark there too.

You had never been touched like this before and it felt good, the thought of giving yourself to Aemond felt right somehow. Your hands found the metal buckles of his tunic, hastening to undo them and reveal his pale chest. He shivered at the feeling of your fingernails running over his bare abdomen, trails of yearning left behind. The prince could feel himself coming undone at the simple action. He was like a young boy again, his inexperience showing through how he reacted so readily to being touched. He grabbed your wrists with one hand, pinning them above your head against the wall, to stop you from exploring any further. His other hand began to roam over your body, gripping your thigh and moving higher until his hand disappeared under your skirts.

You let out a loud whine as his finger slipped over your drenched slit, waves of pleasure sent through your being. You felt yourself melting as he explored your folds at an ungodly slow pace, the tip of his long finger pressing against your pearl. He let out a soft snicker into your ear as he heard the sound that escaped your lips, a smirk of satisfaction appearing on his own. He nipped at your earlobe as he slowly pushed a long, lean finger into you. He let out a soft huff of air, as he felt how warm and tight you were. He slowly began to move inside you, at the same painfully slow pace. As his thumb began to slowly rub your clit, you were sure your cries had been heard from outside his chamber — and yet you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

Aemond watched as you closed your eyes and opened your mouth, and he smiled at the sight of your pleasure. He watched as your hips slightly bucked to meet his touch, and he took it as a sign to be rougher, and to give you even more. He moved faster and harder as he touched you, his thumb rubbing against you in a circular motion. The prince felt his breathing get shaky as sounds of your whimpers and moans filled his ears. The feel of your body trembling in pleasure, your arms wrapping around him and you scratching the back of his neck brought him nothing but complete ecstasy. He felt your body shuddering as your release washed over you, and he couldn’t help but let out a quiet moan of his own in response, relishing the sounds and the feeling of you being so overwhelmed under his touch.

You let out a cry at the loss of his finger, but he left you no time to argue as he grabbed your shoulders and turned you so your back was pressed onto his chest. The prince found the lacings of your corset, undoing them and revealing your bare skin. He turned you to face him again, the lace that had been covering your chest, was now on the floor and you were only left with your thin shift. He could see your figure through the translucent fabric, could see the rise and fall of your chest as you breathed faster and harder.

He led you, by the hips, over to the bed and slowly pushed you down until you were on your back. Aemond loomed over you, taking a moment to look down, eyes roaming over your body as he admired the sight of you on his bed, flushed, half naked and panting. You looked magnificent, he was sure you were the most beautiful woman in the seven kingdoms — and he reveled in the fact that you were his.

You never took your eyes off him, as embarrassed as you were to have his eyes scan your body like a madman. Watching as he undid the laces of his breeches, you let out a soft gasp as he kicked the fabric alongside his small clothes to the floor, kneeling over you completely bare. He was lean, strong and pale, covered in a fine layer of small white scars — surely obtained through sword fighting. There was a small dusting of silver hair that started at his pelvis and traveled up his abdomen. Your eyes found his cock, long and hard, pulsating with desire.

You furrowed your brows and sat up in the bed, grabbing the end of your shift and pulling it over your head. You saw Aemond’s pupil dilate at the sight of your naked body, feeling a small satisfaction in knowing he wanted you this much. He was mesmerizing, a true Valyrian beauty, and it delighted you to know he was yours.

“I want to see all of you.” You whispered, staring at his eyepatch.

Aemond’s good eye widened as he understood what you meant. He was used to aversion and horror being directed towards his deformity and never thought someone would ever want to see it in such a moment. He hesitated before moving his arm up and seizing the black leather in his hand, letting it fall to the bed. A sapphire eye cut through with a reddened scar stares back at you, the candlelight shining in the deep blue of the gem. You moved your hand to the side of his face and admired him, feeling his uneasiness at being vulnerable before you.

“It is beautiful.” You say as tenderness fills your heart.

The prince wasted no time as he pulled you into a deep kiss. He felt unconditionally happy at your response, the need he held growing stronger as he laid you back into the mattress. His hand cupped your breast, fondling the peak in devotion as the other found your waist. He let out a groan at the touch of his cockhead against your bare cunt, pleasure ripping through his body.

“I cannot wait any longer.” He said in ragged breaths.

You nodded in response and that was all he needed for order for him to give in to the craving he felt for you. He moved his hands and placed them instead on your hips, holding your body down on the bed as he positioned himself on top of you. He looked down at your frame, his heart racing with need and anticipation, as he looked into your eyes.

"Tell me if I need to stop." He said gently, before slowly pushing his hips forward against your body.

You gasped alongside him as you felt his cock stretch your walls, the foreign sensation striking painfully. He kissed you gently as he could feel how your body was adjusting to him, how tight you were around his length, and it made him feel completely overwhelmed. He pulled away from the kiss for just a moment, looking down at you as he slowly pushed deeper inside. You stayed like that for a moment, letting yourself get used to accommodating him.

After what Aemond felt like were hours, he noticed you bucking your hips forward, pleasuring yourself. He smirked at the sight and your hips moving against him made the silver prince feel an insane wave of desire wash over him. He knew you were enjoying it, and it only made him feel hungrier for you. He began to move his hips back and forth, in a slow, gentle back and forth motion at first. Feeling himself almost losing control as he looked down at you, your expression filled with nothing but pleasure and satisfaction.

“Aemond.” You let out.

He could feel the desire within him become almost uncontrollable as he heard your lustful words. He felt a rush of adrenaline running through him as he looked down at you, your body underneath him, and all he could think about was how good you felt. He pulled his hips back and pushed forward again, this time with a little more force and speed than before. And again, and again, until he was completely lost in the sensation of you and the feeling of having you underneath him.

You were in pure ecstasy, lost in the feeling of being with him. The sound of his heavy breaths and the pleasure filled sounds leaving his mouth made your body shiver in response. He continued to move his hips, back and forth in a rougher and faster pace, holding you closer to him as you felt the tightening in your belly grow more and more intense. You wrapped your arms over his shoulders, scratching his back to mark him as he did you.

The memories of your childhood together filled his mind. How you would read together in the library, how you defended him from his brother and yours and especially how you laughed so easily in his presence. He loved how you were filled with so much joy, a true beam of sunlight inside the Red Keep. He knew then how you would intertwine yourself into his heart and take it for yourself — and he let you.

Aemond could feel his climax growing closer, the feeling of your full breasts against him and your body shaking in response becoming too much to hold back. He felt like he had died and found himself in the greatest of heavens, all he wanted to do was surrender himself completely to the moment.

"I’m close." He said faintly, his breathing ragged and his heart beating faster with every passing second.

Your tightened your grip on his back, your nails digging into his skin, filling him with a mixture of pleasure and pain. It was just the right thing to send him over the edge, to make his body give in completely. He let out a low, guttural moan as he felt himself reach his peak, and he felt both your bodies shake in response to the overwhelming euphoria that washed over them. He sent a few more thrusts inside you, your walls clenching as you took his seed.

You two stayed that way, a mess of sweat and disheveled breaths as you rode out of your trance. His hand drew patterns on your outer tight while you ran your fingers through his silver locks, both hearts brimming with love. You longed for each other in secret for years, miserable at the thought of having the other’s hatred to call their own. But now, caged in a chaos of limbs over the soft linens of his bed, it all felt far away, for he was yours and you were his.

“I love you.” He mumbled against your skin.

“I love you as well.” You answered, a soft smile on your lips.

There could never be a truce over the divide that wedged itself between the sides of mighty House Targaryen, but you would be each other’s peace.

From now until death parts you.

#aemond targaryen imagines #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond one eye #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen #hotd x reader #hotd #house of the dragon #ewan mitchell

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humanpurposes · 11 months ago

Text

You Want This, You Need This

The only daughter of Rhaneyra Targaryen is firmly devoted to her mother's cause, and yet she finds her way through the passages of the Holdfast, to the bedchamber of a Prince she should hate // Main Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x nameless female character (daughter of Rhaenyra)

Warnings: 18+, smut, enemies with benefits, hate sex, degrading, angst, Targcest (uncle and niece)

Words: 3.7k

A/n: Me making a poll then doing whatever I want 🫶

There’s no use in waiting for sleep to come to her, she’s too restless for sleep.

Her bedroom is full of alcoves and adjacent chambers, good for hiding and keeping the room cool during the summers. In one of the alcoves is a mural. If she presses a particular space on the wall with much force, she can push it to reveal an entrance into the hidden passageways of Maegor’s Holdfast.

Light is lost beyond the threshold. A gentle but piercing breeze washes over her, through the thin and billowing fabric of her night shift. There’s always this lingering excitement when she opens the doorway. She equates it to the thrill of flying, cutting through the wind on dragonback. Only she’s not in the sky, she’s staring into darkness, daring herself to take a single step.

As children she and her brothers had found many of these hidden doors throughout the castle, the perfect sort of places to hide in when they were in trouble, the perfect place to eavesdrop and move through the keep undetected. When their mother found out she had discouraged them from venturing too far, lest they end up like the piles of bones left by rats and other rodents that had never found their way out.

The paths within the walls are treacherous, but she knows some of the routes by heart. She knows how to head down to the kitchens, she even knows a way which leads past the dungeons, to a chamber which houses the skull of Blaerion, the Black Dread, out to a beach along the shore of the bay, out of reach by any other means.

There is one particular room she has in mind tonight.

She treads carefully, tracing her fingertips against the wall so that she does not lose her way. When she comes to a series of steps she takes even more caution. She counts twenty steps, then turns another corner and keeps walking until the stone underneath her fingers turns to wood. It is a door, one which appears as part of a panelled wall on the other side. She pushes it open, hoping he has left the latch undone, and he has.

The room’s warmth is a welcome sensation. She makes as little noise as possible as she enters and closes the door behind her.

He’s sitting by the fire, turned away from where she stands, head lowered slightly and his silver hair spilling down the back of his chair. She almost always finds him like this, practising one of his self righteous rituals. He reads until the hearth and the candles have burned out because it enforces his own belief that he is a more dedicated son than Aegon, more intelligent and more worthy than the Velaryons– than her and her ilk.

His shoulders stiffen as the soles of her slippers tap delicately against the floor, moving towards his bed. She imagines him frowning, or perhaps smiling to himself as he closes the book in his lap.

She perches at the edge of the mattress, pushing her shoes off and letting them fall to the floor. “That was quite the display in the training yard this morning,” she says in a clear voice.

Everything he does is agonisingly slow. He grips the arms of his chair as he rises, slots the book back onto a shelf, and finally turns to face her. He is dressed in a simple black shirt and the breeches he usually sleeps in. His hair is half tied, his leather patch secured around his head, over the space where his left eye should be, sliced out by her own brother’s hand.

The low light of the hearth casts shadows in the sharp edges of his face, the lines around his mouth, the curve of his lips, proud but restrained. His remaining eye is trained on her, glaring at her like a hunter approaches prey.

“You were there to watch your brother, I thought,” he says in that softly threatening voice of his. He comes close enough to loom over her, though just far enough that their legs do not touch. “Or did you find your eye wandering?”

Jace’s first mistake had been to go down to the yard early. Aemond was always there in the mornings after flying Vhagar, to train with Ser Criston Cole until noon. His next mistake had been to succumb to Aemond’s goading. Their uncle is never one to use violence at first, not like Aegon who would brawl with a gull if he thought it offensive enough. Aemond likes to use his words to tease and probe, to lure an opponent to action, and Jace almost always falls for it. The moment her brother had challenged Aemond to a sparring match she knew what the outcome would be. Jace was a promising fighter, but he simply could not match Aemond’s height, strength, speed or skill.

Her heart sank for her brother, but it couldn’t force her attention away from Aemond. He moved like a dancer, all fluidity and control, like he already had the entire performance planned out in his head. He toyed with Jace, kept his defence up, only to knock his sword from his hands and place his own blade at his throat in a sudden flash of silver and steel.

She’d had to bite the inside of her lip to stop herself from smirking.

“You humiliated him, before spectators,” she says.

Aemond frowns in mock sympathy, taking her chin between his finger and his thumb to tilt her gaze up. “I would do it a hundred times over, for my own pleasure if not for anything else.”

She tilts her head. “And what of my pleasure?”

He hums cryptically. The corners of his mouth flicker upwards. “Your pleasure is only my concern within the confines of this room.”

He’s looking at her like that again, like he wants to devour her.

He traces his fingers down her throat, her collar, the neckline of her shift. His touch is sparse but familiar, exploring the curves of her body through the fabric, patterns she’s felt before, spaces he already knows and seems to have mapped in his head.

He leans in closer, his other hand pressing into the bed, invading her space, infiltrating her senses with the scent of smoke and lavender. She could drown in it, the scent of him.

She shudders as he runs his nose over her neck, following the heat of his breath with a lingering kiss against the sensitive spot of her skin. “What is it you want from me tonight?”

She has an idea in her mind, one she’s been toying with since she had seen the look of pride in his face in the yard.

“Lie down, on your back.”

He stands straight. Eye still fixed on her, he does as she says, making himself comfortable against the pillows.

She draws out every movement, just as he likes to do to her. She straddles him, settling her hips against the growing hardness in his breeches. She rests her hands against his chest, runs her fingers over his skin and the patch of silver hair revealed when she pulls on his shirt.

His hands are on her immediately, running up her thighs, gripping at her waist, bringing up the hem of her shift and tutting as though it has caused him some personal insult in hiding her body from him. He pulls it over her head and surges up to kiss her, capturing her lips with the desperation of a man starved. His kisses are always like this, slow and consuming, pulling her in closer and closer like he expects her to try to escape, like the only air he wants exists in her lungs.

It’s fast and overwhelming, and at first she’s content to just let it happen, to let herself be carried away in the currents of his wants and not her own, but once she’s a little more settled, she pushes him back against the bed.

He stares up at her, blood rushing to his cheeks, lips parted and panting. For all the times she’s seen his stoic exterior at court, she thinks he looks best like this.

“I thought you were concerning yourself with my pleasure?” she says, not bothering to contain her smile.

“I thought you liked it when I take what I want,” he retorts.

“I want you to do as you’re told.”

He huffs a laugh, but his gaze softens and his tongue wets his lips, his eye roaming appreciatively over her bare body, until he stops at her small clothes. All it takes is a few gentle rocks of her hips before his jaw tightens and his fingers dig deeper into the flesh of her waist. She swears she feels his hips twitch beneath her, but he makes no move to take what he wants.

She leans back on her haunches as she drags his breeches below his hips. By the sight of him, hard and reddened at the tip, she knows he at least finds something about this arrangement appealing.

She discards the rest of their clothing, his shirt, her small clothes, the leather eyepatch on his head. She pauses when she reaches for it, waiting for him to protest, but he doesn’t. He gives her a small nod and she slides it up to reveal the true extent of his scar, the twisted red flesh around the sapphire wedged in his socket.

She has seen it countless times before. She needs the reminder of who he is, how much he must hate her.

Now that they are both bare she resumes her position, pleasure like a flame licking up her spine as she traces circles over her centre. Aemond grinds himself against her, breathing with a strain in the back of his throat. The sound only makes the wanting feeling in her gut tighten. She can feel herself clenching over nothing, her body begging for more friction and the release it promises.

She feels she is wet enough to take him now, and her stomach drops in anticipation.

When he whispers her name, she knows she has him exactly where she wants him.

She closes her hand around his cock, giving it a few half-hearted strokes and lining it up to her entrance, only to hesitate. “I hear your mother is intending to invite Borros Baratheon to court,” she says.

Aemond catches his lip between his teeth, staring at the space where their bodies almost meet if she would only lower her hips.

“Might he bring one of his comely daughters? He has four, doesn’t he?”

Aemond huffs and meets her eye. His hands are still on her waist, his thumbs tracing circles over her belly. “Where did you hear this?”

She tries to pretend such a simple touch from him does not excite her or tempt her to relent.

Daemon has spies in the Queen’s household, not that she knows the specifics. Her mother had discussed the matter with her, expressing concern for the Hightowers’ intentions. It has been decades since a Lord of Storm’s End has stepped foot in the Red Keep, and Daemon believes their rivals are trying to close ranks, amass allies outside of the capital. Perhaps such a deal may be sealed with a marriage pact.

“What,” she breathes, trying to smile, “that his daughters are comely? I can only assume, for I’ve never met them you see–”

In the blink of an eye she’s beneath him.

Aemond brings a single finger to her lips. “I thought we had agreed not to discuss political matters in private,” he says.

“I did not realise the matter was political–”

He cuts her off when he snakes his hand down her body and pushes his thumb against her pearl. She hisses, her hips bucking to meet his touch.

“Are you trying to bait me, niece? Hmm? Is that what you came here for?”

She shakes her head as he circles over her. For such minimal effort on his part, it sparks something frustratingly bright in her, back arching, warmth settling between her legs and beneath her skin.

“Is that really what you want me to be thinking about? Wondering which one of the Baratheon girls is the prettiest?”

His fingertips tease over her entrance, but he doesn’t push them inside, instead they’re replaced by the head of his cock. She presses her lips together, determined not to make any kind of noise he could take for weakness, for wanting, but she feels it all the same.

“Presently, I’m only thinking about what I can see, and what I see is a spoiled little Princess, laid out beneath me. Poor thing, she’s trying to look smug, but I’m not sure I’m convinced, not when I’m about to fuck her tight, little cunt.”

Her pleading is mindless, falling from her lips as effortlessly as her breath. “Please… please… please…”

She wonders if it is her want or his own he eventually succumbs to. He pushes in slowly, delighted at the slight moan he elicits from her, sharing her air as she gasps at the pleasurable ache of being stretched out around him.

“I’ve heard rumours too, that Rhaenyra has been sending ravens to Highgarden,” he says as he starts to snap his hips against hers. “What business would your mother have with the Tyrells, I wonder?”

Rhaenyra has her own plans for a marriage pact, plans she’s known about for months. “What indeed?” she says, trying to smile as he ruts into her.

Aemond almost growls, burying his face into her neck. As his voice is harsher so are his thrusts. “My sister will sell you to a sickly little boy, is that it? Why would Rhaenyra want an alliance with the Reach?”

Because the King is little more than a breathing corpse and who knows how much life he has left in him. Because eventually, he will die, and they both know what will come next.

She’s always known her part in this, the only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen. Her brothers may well fight in battles to defend their mother’s claim, but wars cannot be won without the necessary support. The Reach, The Riverlands, The Vale, The North, they must all be secured one way or another.

With his face hidden from hers she allows herself to admire the way his muscles move and flex under the smooth, pale skin of his arm. Since leaving childhood behind, he seems to have this idea of efficiency, with no tolerance for excess. His arms are slight, but defined where he trains with his sword each day, where he hauls himself onto Vhagar’s saddle and steers her around Blackwater Bay.

“It’s always been expected of me,” she says, tracing her hand over his skin, almost perfect, save for a few marks: a burn after an unfortunate encounter with Vermax when he was just a hatchling, a scar above his elbow where he fell from an apple tree, and crescent shaped indents from their last tryst. “I will do my duty.”

“Duty?” He stops, grabbing her by the neck so her breath hitches in her throat. He leans into her, pressing his forehead against hers, caging her between his body and the bed. She sees nothing but a single eye and a sapphire, nothing but contempt. “You’re the antithesis of it, crawling to your uncle’s bedchamber every night, begging to be fucked.”

Anger flares in her blood. She clamps her hand around his wrist and digs her nails into his skin, hoping it will mark him. “I have never begged for you,” she spits, teeth bared, lips grazing over his, “and I never shall…”

Her words fade on her tongue when he resumes a punishing pace, urging her closer to oblivion with every thrust.

“Oh there you go,” he coos, “that feels good, doesn’t it?” He’s on his knees now, one hand still on her throat, the other on her thigh, forcing her legs further apart, fingertips pressing painfully into her flesh.

She tries to pull away from his grip, pushing herself further into the bed amongst the pillows, but Aemond has always been stubborn and does not relent. She has nowhere to go, no other option but to take it.

“You’ll be sent off to some castle in a miserable corner of the world, live the dull life of a Lady. Your Lord husband will trade swords and shields for you like a brood mare and fuck his children into your belly each night.”

She feels her peak building within her, the weightlessness rising and rising, she can hardly take much more. “Do you believe I will think of you?” she says with a grin, “as he touches me, as he spills inside me…��

Aemond grunts, folding his chest over hers, brushing his lips over her cheek as he hisses, “wanton little whore. I am the one you seek out, and as long as you do, you are mine.”

It tears through her quickly, a spark that turns to flame, a piece of kindling caught alight, pleasure that reduces her simply to feeling, warmth and the absence of his weight on her body. She claws her nails into nothing, empty space where she expects to find his skin.

Aemond has pulled away from her, groaning as he comes, spilling over her stomach and thighs. She watches him, jaw slack, brows angled like he’s in agony.

She basks in the numbness her peak leaves behind as he drags his shirt over her skin to clean the mess he’s made with a touch that is soft and slow. His eye trails along her body to her face. She sees nothing in him, not amusement or satisfaction, not hatred or remorse, and yet he comes to lay beside her, turning her onto her side, settling against her back and putting his arms around her.

She allows it, too used to the feeling of lying in his bed, too used to the scent of sweat and smoke and lavender.

Aemond’s chambers are ruled by order, every book has its place on a shelf, he does not leave papers, clothes or used cups of wine lying around. The bedchamber lies on the south side of the castle, with a balcony overlooking the bay where two of them used to watch the ships leaving the harbour. She likes the intricate tapestries, scenes of Valryian mythology, and his fondness for the colour blue. Even if she cannot see most of it in the dark of night, the silence and stillness is comforting.

“Lord Corlys’ ship was attacked,” she mutters, placing her hand over his, where his palm against her stomach. “We cannot be sure if he even survived.”

“So I’ve heard,” Aemond says, “I’ve also heard Vaemond Velaryon intends to challenge the succession of Driftmark, should the unthinkable be true.

“And I assume the Queen and the Hand will support him in this endeavour.”

Aemond’s chest stills. “They will hear the petitions and pass their judgement,” he says, quietly but finally.

“Then the decision has already been made.”

Aemond’s breathing is deep, her hair fluttering against her cheek as he exhales. Her mother has a similar way of scolding her without uttering a single word, as if to say the answer should be obvious.

With a scoff she pushes his hand away and drags herself out of the bed. The cold air stings her skin and she makes short work of finding her night shift, discarded on the floor, and dressing herself.

“Lucerys has no claim to Driftmark,” Aemond says from the bed.

“And why is that?” she says shortly, grabbing her shoes from the foot of the bed.

He won’t say it, but the word is there, in the way he teases Jace, the way his family watch her and her brothers and stare at them across the throne room with nothing but disgust. It’s there in his indifference towards her beyond the walls of his bedchamber, avoiding eye contact, muttering under his breath, insults and backhanded compliments. But the last time he said it, it cost him his eye.

She turns to face him, a defiant glare through the darkness now that some of the candles have started to burn out.

“Coward,” she whispers.

He does claim to disagree.

With her shoes on, she moves towards the hidden door without sparing him another glance.

But she hears a ruffle of fabric, his feet against the floor as he follows her. His hand closes around her arm, hard enough it feels as though it might leave a bruise. He turns her into him, placing her back and his palm against the panelled wall.

“Stay,” he says.

“Surely you would not want to sully yourself, sharing your bed with a bastard.”

“But it’s different with you.”

“How? How is it different?”

He cups her face in his hands, begging her for something but never saying it. He leans in gradually, kissing her firmly. It’s easy to follow his lead, to let him slip his tongue between her lips, let him pull and tug at her delicate flesh, to feel him and lose herself to him. It makes her weightless all over again.

Once it was easy to love Aemond. They found friendship easily as children, even when they bickered and argued, because they could always forgive each other.

Some time ago she realised that love has always been destined to fade away, like summer changing into autumn, winter snows melting away with the spring. There is no place for it amongst the animosity between their families, causes they were born to, that neither of them will ever forsake.

Aemond pulls away but stays close to her, a hand on her waist, the other on her cheek. “I want you to stay.”

“And what then? What do you think could ever become of us?” The one-eyed Prince and the bastard Princess.

Suddenly she hates the stillness of this room, the weight of his silence in her chest.

Aemond’s hand slips from her cheek, his expression falling from pleading to indifference.

She leaves him standing there, bare chested and breathless, with no light to catch in the cut edges of his sapphire. She fades back into the shadows of the passageway, amongst the cold and the dark and the bones.

The rot has set in. The King will die, and both the Blacks and the Greens will seek to claim his throne. The empty space between her and Aemond can only ever grow.

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arabellasleopardcoat · 6 months ago

Text

Doom of Ghis (Rhaenyra Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: You decide to trick a Queen. It doesn’t quite go according to plan.

Warnings: Smut. Corruption kink. Twisting of religious rituals. Dubious consent? Fingering. Playing doctor.

A/N: I am tired of writing older man x younger woman. Meet older woman x younger woman. Palate cleanser in the middle of writing a new character. Also, I miss writing girls.

“THIS IS NOT a task fit for a Queen.” Rhaenyra looks at Corlys with narrowed eyes. Her annoyance at her own council has begun to build like a sore, and threatens to explode at any given moment.

Presently, it can’t. It would be in poor taste to do during dinner. Lord Corlys has asked her if they could sup in her quarters, to discuss a private matter. She had been expecting war preparations, not this.

“Yet it is a task we require of you.” Her Hand answers, unintimidated by her glare. Rhaenyra reminds herself it is a good thing, not to be feared. She wishes to be a wise Queen, one who is remembered as a champion of peace and not as the next Maegor the Cruel. She wants to be exactly like her father. Viserys the Peaceful.

Viserys the Peaceful never throttled his Hand. And his was much more irritating than hers.

“Why can’t we just… Forgone the custom?” She asks him, crossing her arms over her chest.

“The House of Pahl is already offended by the offer we made them. Marrying one of their daughters, even if it is one of the ones from the second son, to a bastard is an insult. Not having Graces present for the ritual is, too. We cannot afford to offend them any further.”

“Can’t Baela do it?” It sounds childish even to her ears. Rhaenyra isn’t quite sure why she feels so awkward about the ritual, it’s hardly as if she will see something she is unfamiliar with herself. She bets the girl will be more awkward than her, and the thought of having to soothe her seems unappealing. “Or Lady Mysaria?”

“Both of them are quite busy with their duties.” Lord Corlys takes a second to drink from his goblet. It stings, the unspoken fact that Rhaenyra is not. “The Lady Mysaria would provide greater offense, considering her… Previous occupation and lack of relationship to me. As for Baela, I do not feel prudent to recall her from her patrols.”

“My own kinship to you is fairly removed.” Rhaenyra cuts a piece of venison and takes her time chewing. When a Queen wishes to speak, men wait. And it is important to remember her Hand of that fact, especially since he is asking favors. “I am, what? Your second niece? And only through marriage.”

“They feel honored that a Queen will perform the ritual for their daughter. And we need their coin.”

“Slaver’s coin.”

“Coin that will win us the war.” Lord Corlys interjects. “That will buy men. Armor. Weapons. Food.”

Rhaenyra doesn’t answer. She simply cuts another piece of venison.

YOU SIT ON the table, legs hanging off the edge. A fire is lit, and a tea set is already prepared on another low table, along with cushions. A small, dragonglass dome, covers the cakes the Queen and you will share. The message is clear. Your family expects the ritual to go without a hitch.

You aren’t too sure. This Queen you will meet, who will take the place of your elder because your betrothed has no suitable relative to do so, isn’t Ghiscari like you. She is Valyrian. You hate Valyrians.

Cloaked in your pink veil, and wearing your simplest white shift, you await her arrival. You remember your mother’s words. Befriend her. Let her use you and touch you as she pleases. Do not try to instruct her to perform the ritual the right way.

What your mother suggests, simply put, is to see if she can be seduced while being convinced she is the one doing the seducing. Her friendship could give House of Pahl an even greater advantage that you will be getting after you become Lady of the Tides.

Not only control over a fleet that can block trade routes by marrying a Valyrian bastard. Friendship to a Queen. Lover to one. A whispered word in her ear and your wishes shall be law if you play your cards right.

There is no shame in it, your father had said, when they had instructed you as to how to behave. The Red Graces and White Graces do the same and their blood is as noble as yours. They serve the Gods of Old Ghis by providing pleasure to many men. What is asked of you is to only pleasure a single woman.

A single woman who is Valyrian. Whose ancestors burned Old Ghis, and forced yours to flee to Mereen.

It’s not that you object to the fact that it is a woman. You object to Valyrians. They are ugly little things, with queer facial features and skin and hair too pale.

But the woman who enters the room is anything but. She is beautiful, dressed in a black gown that makes her look regal. She has a sweet face, and her distasteful colorless hair is pulled back. It looks less offensive that way, you suppose.

“Your radiance.” You address, lowering yourself from the table you sit in and curtsying. The title has never felt more apt. Her face is beautiful despite her age, and her body shapely.

“Good morrow.” The Queen says. Her voice is delightful too, strong and commanding, with a feminine quality to it. Seducing her now doesn’t seem like much of a chore. “We use the title of Your Grace here.”

“Your Grace.” You rectify, and give her another curtsy. Underneath your veil, you are giving her an apologetic smile. She cannot see it.

You wonder what she thinks of you, cloaked in a soft pink veil that covers both your hair and face. Thanks to the artfully draped pleats, she cannot see you, but you can see her.

She probably thinks you look like a strawberry dipped in clotted cream. You cannot wait to marry and use the Velaryon colors. They look much more dignified than yours.

“I was explained by your Lord Father that I will become your elder after this ritual.” She says, voice full of gravitas. “So there is no need for you to curtsy so much. I hope to become a mother to you.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” You are thankful she cannot see your face, or you would burst out laughing. It’s what is supposed to happen, yet you are not counting on it. “I am sure you are a busy woman. We should begin soon.”

You sit yourself on the table again, feet dangling. The table is the perfect height for bending you over it, but you do not comment on it.

“…I… Of course.” The Queen seems taken aback by how straightforward you are, which makes you smile.

You wait for her to come to you. She hesitates, as if unsure of herself, before coming to stand between your parted legs.

Slowly, her hands pull your veil back. You school your expression into one of quiet dutifulness.

Rhaenyra gasps slightly when she sees your face. You do not allow your face to change, but internally, you are dancing a gig. The veil had been a stroke of brilliance on your father’s part. He always said the best part of worshiping a Red Grace was the reveal.

“You are a beautiful young woman.” She says, starting to map out your features with her fingertips. Her touch is soft, as if scared of hurting you. You play the part of the blushing maiden, letting out a gasp of your own when she traces your lips. Her eyes darken. “Alyn is a very lucky man.”

This Alyn is an accomplished sailor, you hear, and on the fast track to become a Captain. His recent acknowledging by Lord Corlys only propels him higher. You have heard the men admired him from starting from below, unlike other Lord’s bastards.

It’s not a bad prospect. Any man can give you children, you know. It’s not a difficult task. Not every man can give you a fleet.

“And I am very lucky to be marrying him.” You say, after a while. Rhaenyra’s hands have stayed where they are, lingering on your jaw. She doesn’t dare move further down. Her eyes are focused on your lips, as if noticing how intimate the embrace the two of you are in.

Her hands, holding your jaw. Her hips, nestled in the space made by your spread legs.

She goes back to tracing your lips with her thumb, a storm brewing in her eyes. She is confused, this Queen of yours. The intimacy is getting to her, but her morals are holding her back. Rhaenyra is not supposed to take advantage of a maiden she is supposed to welcome as her daughter.

You decide to push her a bit. You take her thumb inside your mouth, cradling it softly in your tongue. Her eyes dart to yours, but you close them, as if delighted by what you are savoring.

Rhaenyra pulls back.

“What are you doing?” She snaps at you. Your eyes open, but your lips remain tantalizingly parted still.

“You are meant to inspect me wholly.” You try your best to sound shy. “Even inside. My mother said…”

Guilt passes once again over her features. You are a poor naive girl, who doesn’t feel anything like arousal. She is the one getting a sick satisfaction over a sacred ritual.

It’s not the truth, of course. But it is what she believes.

She slips her thumb inside your mouth again. You close your eyes, scrunching them tightly. Feigning embarrassment once more. Her thumb presses down on your tongue, drawing a line. It makes drool begin to gather at the corners of your mouth.

As Rhaenyra checks your molars with a careful press of her fingers, warmth begins to accumulate in your core. You open your eyes, looking at her.

She seems absorbed by the task. The Queen barely notices you are holding her gaze, fascinated by your warm mouth. She removes her thumb, wiping it on your chin.

Her hands trail lower. Down your jaw, and to your neck. She keeps her touch light, making you squirm. Everywhere she touches, a trail of goosebumps follows.

“Shh, sweet girl. You are doing so well.” She rubs your shoulder, probably thinking you shake from nervousness and not from pure, sheer want. “So well for your Queen.”

You feel your flower growing slick with her words. You worry if that will give you away when she reaches that part of the examination. Rhaenyra might yet discover that you are not as innocent as you pretend to be. It only makes you wetter.

Would she punish you if she found out? Pinch your little pearl until you cried? Spank your rear?

Her hands slip the straps of your shift down your shoulders. You are left bare in front of her.

Your nipples are pebbled. They have been since she started touching you.

The Queen doesn’t touch you there at first. Not where you need her the most. Instead, her hands trail over your shoulders, teasing you with promises of what is to come. She traces imaginary patterns, all the way to your forearms.

You fight the urge to whine. You just sit there, eyes on your lap, not attempting to cover yourself nor to help her, the picture of dutifulness.

She runs one of her fingers over a taut nipple. You hiss. She gives it a pinch, carefully observing your face. Perhaps wondering how far you will let her go.

You say nothing. She pinches the other one, gently. Then, she cups your breasts in her hands.

“A pretty pair, these.” Rhaenyra licks her lips. You wish she would wrap them around your nipples instead. She continues to give your breast soft caresses, squeezing from time to time. An amused smile appears on her face, when she sees how you twitch when she accidentally brushes your nipples.

“Lay down, love.” She orders you, pushing your stomach. You obey her, laying flat on the table. A feast spread for a dragon.

Her hand lowers your shift even more, exposing your belly button. She touches under it, over your womb. She presses down on it, and you gasp.

The pressure feels odd. It feels good, too. It’s not something you would have thought to do to yourself when playing on your own, but her hand feels scorching hot over your skin.

“Hurts?” She asks you, softly.

“Feels strange.” You reply. “Good.”

Rhaenyra hums. Her hands pull your shift down fully, and take it from you. You close your legs tightly, embarrassed at how wet you are. Your father had ordered you to remove all your body hair before the ritual, so you are bare for her to observe. Completely.

“Spread your legs, sweet girl.” It’s said with a frown. Her hand grazes your bare mound, puzzled by it.

You spread your legs. Your folds unstick with the motion, slick shining between your legs.

“It’s customary. To facilitate the checking of the womanly parts.” You offer her, suddenly embarrassed.

“I see.” Rhaenyra says, spreading your folds. It only makes your cunt leak more. She presses on your pearl with her thumb, almost playing with it. Her face is dark, eyes almost all pupils. No longer a queen, but a dragon.

She doesn’t comment on your wetness, but swirls one of her fingers on it, before dragging it all the way to your pearl. Then, she presses a finger into your hole, checking your maidenhead.

You barely muffle your squeal.

“Tell me.” She says, tone almost conversational, starting to rub circles on your pearl. “Is this customary, too?”

Your mind blanks. Your famous ability to talk your way out of almost everything fails you. She keeps rubbing maddening circles on your pearl, and when you do not answer, she slaps your flower.

You yowl like a kitten.

“Answer your Queen.” She orders.

“No, Your Grace. It’s not.” You have your answer, you suppose. What would she do? Spank your flower. She does so again, making you tense. The pain feels strangely good, forcing blood to rush to the area, warming it. When Rhaenyra runs her fingers over your hole after, everything feels much more heightened.

“Naughty girl.” She scolds. “Get down from the table, and bend over it.”

You obey her, a bit breathless. Rhaenyra remains fully dressed, with a stern look in her face that makes you tremble. Your naked body is now on display, but under her heated gaze, you feel no shame.

You let your upper body hover slightly over the table, hips bent, your backside and flower on display. She pushes down on your shoulder, until your face and chest are squashed against the rough wood of the table.

The wood grains feel interesting against your nipples, making you squirm. You are not sure if the rough scrape is pleasant or not.

“Don’t move.” Rhaenyra says, and spreads your cheeks open. You can feel your other hole winking at her, and she makes a pleased sound. She pushes a finger inside, and quickly retreats it when you tense.

“You have such a sloppy cunt, sweet girl.” She says, voice almost impressed. “It betrays your intentions so easily.”

She begins to torture your pearl once more. She presses inside, rubbing at something that makes your cunt gush.

Rhaenyra is relentless. You try to squirm, but her other hand is firm between your shoulder blades, keeping you pinned down and spread for her. Her motions get faster, touching you in the way you like best. Your peak comes fast and unannounced, making you let out a muffled yelp.

“I think I have to examine you again.” She says, coyly. “Only to make sure.”

You cannot wait.

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targaryen-dynasty · 6 months ago

Text

WORSHIP ME INSTEAD.

Maegor Targaryen x Niece!Septa!Reader

The Gods have been unhappy with your uncle for some time now, but perhaps he's just needed to give them an offering… a sacrifice in return for a healthy heir all along. And what makes a better sacrifice than a septa?

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT - MDNI; very dubious consent, canon typical incest/targcest (uncle/niece), blasphemy, corruption, corruption kink, size difference, semi public sex, female reader (mentions long, silver hair as appearance)

WORDS: 3K

NOTES: you're all getting some big tiddy daddy as a special treat and to officially end my 3k celebration! thanks to everyone that has participated by asking questions, by writing their own fics, and by just supporting me. also a special thanks to @zaldritzosrose and @arcielee for betaing this. <3

The atmosphere in the newly completed Red Keep is strange. It never was comfortable or calm, not even when your father sat the throne, but it feels as though a dark veil is hanging low over the castle and its staff, not even sparing the king and your uncle, Maegor Targaryen.

You’ve been gone from court for quite a while, being sent to Oldtown to become a septa by the very hands of the man you’re serving now, which has made the change in atmosphere even more apparent to you.

Several deaths haunt the castle — Ceryse Hightower’s being the most recent one — and you can only fathom the pressure your uncle holds on his shoulders at this very moment. He does not have an heir, one wife after the other perishes, and the boy that poses the biggest threat to his claim to the throne, your brother Jaehaerys, has fled the castle of Dragonstone with your mother after the passing of the Dowager Queen Visenya.

You were not mad at being sent to the Starry Sept, for it allowed you to leave the insanity of your own House for an unknown amount of time. It was when you’d been called back to King’s Landing that you could feel your mood sour. You were brought there with no real task for you at hand which forced you to take over some duties Grand Maester Benifer assigned you with.

Your whole day has been spent in the Keep’s library, making you forgo your hood at one point and therefore allowing your silver tresses to cascade down your back freely. Wearing the hood is no necessity, hence your lack of concern should someone walk into the library and catch you without it.

With several books in hand, you sort some of the scrolls and books that had been brought to the royal chambers before, putting them back to where they belong.

You are too engrossed in your task to notice that you’ve been alone for the longest of time, only aware of that other presence the moment the raspy voice fills the room. “Septa,” he almost says it in a mocking manner, and you immediately know who it is that has joined you.

Turning on your heels, you crane your neck to meet your uncle’s eyes for a moment. “Y-Your Grace.” You dip into a slight curtsy, placing the books in an empty place on the shelf.

Heat warms your cheeks in his presence. Even during your childhood, you have always found a liking for your uncle and enjoyed the way he allowed you to leave the boredom of your princessly duties to take you flying on Balerion or let you watch him train with the sword.

“At ease, Septa,” he replies, flicking his hand as if he means to dismiss your stiff posture. The library is not well lit, a few candles sparsely placed here and there granting for most of the light, and yet you still notice the way his eyes rove over your form slowly and deliberately. “I trust that all is well in the Keep?”

Your heart races in your chest underneath his gaze, as if he contemplates eating you, and it makes you swallow thickly. “Oh, yes, of course. Everything is well, Your Grace,” you say, trying to keep your voice as calm and polite as possible, though you can not help but feel your pulse quickening at the hunger in his eyes.

His lips curve into a smile, clearly taking pleasure in the way you’re squirming beneath his gaze. “And your duties? All going smoothly?” He takes a step towards you, looming over your small frame.

You have to bite the inside of your cheeks to keep your composure, more so as his pleasant scent fills your nostrils in a way you can’t describe. Taking in a shaky breath, a shiver runs down your spine. It’s been easier being close to him when you were all but a child he’s bounced on his knee, not a woman grown.

“Well enough,” you reply a beat later. “The new midwives are coming along wonderfully. The Queen can know herself in good hands should she be with child soon.”

Maegor just hums in response, reaching out a hand to drag his knuckles over your cheek, his calloused fingers rough against your soft skin. Even from this little contact he can feel how warm your flesh is, and a heat grows in his loins at the thought of how warm and sensitive your skin would be if it was no longer covered by your septa robes.

“That is good then… Septa ,” he says, hesitating to use your title. His voice has dropped lower as his hand travels to your jaw, his thumb caressing your chin.

Your eyes widen, but you don’t dare to step away from him for fear of the consequences. “... Your Grace?” You eventually find the courage to whisper.

His fingers graze your jaw, gently tracing your features. A low hum rumbles in the depth of his chest. You don’t know that he’s always found you beautiful, much more than your younger sister Rhaena, and even more now that you’ve become a woman grown. You’re so unlike the women he usually entertains himself with. “Yes, Septa?” With these words leaving his lips, his hand travels down to your neck, gently wrapping around your throat, grasp firmly but not enough to hurt you.

Drawing in a deep breath, that is the moment you decide to bring some space between you again, taking a step back. But much to your surprise, his grip does not falter, hand still around your throat with his arm just outstretched. “I–” you swallow thickly, not able to keep your gazes locked. “This… This is highly inappropriate, Your Grace.”

Maegor merely scoffs, and although his hand follows your movements, it’s clear it’s meant to stop you from getting away from him. His thumb gently runs along the sensitive skin of your throat, feeling your pulse quicken beneath the pad of it. “Inappropriate?” he murmurs, his dark blown eyes drinking in the sight of your slightly parted lips. “When have I ever cared for what was appropriate, Septa?”

It feels as though the gentle brush of his thumb coaxes another shiver to run down your spine, and you catch your mind straying to the thoughts of what it would feel like if his fingers were anywhere else but your neck.

“Must… Must I remind His Grace that it was him sending me to Oldtown to become a septa? I–I have vowed–” you trail off, your voice shaking slightly. “It is not very proper for a septa to be touched in… this way.”

Moving forward again and closing the gap that has formed, his hand around your throat stops you from backing away. “It’s not proper, no…” he murmurs, leaning forwards to bring his lips on level with your ear. “But then again, I’ve never been a proper man.”

You suppress an involuntary gasp as you feel his hot breath fanning over your skin, enough to nearly melt you here and now. Perhaps his grip leaves you more as a willing prisoner to his mercy rather than his prey. A part of you wants to pull away, yet the other part is afraid of angering him by doing so.

“Y–Your Grace…” you whisper, the sound of your voice almost breathless as his domineering presence makes it difficult to think straight, “... please.”

The wicked smirk on his lips grows wider at your pleading. He can feel himself getting lost in your voice, so soft yet sounding so helpless in his presence. If it hasn’t been obvious before, he takes immense pleasure in the way he towers over your frame, making you appear so small and fragile clad in your septa robes.

“Please what, niece ?” he says, leaning in even more to brush his lips against the shell of your ear.

You try to tilt your head to get away from him, squirming in his grasp, but to no avail. “Īlon kessa daor,” you try to reason with him in the tongue of your ancestors, a small flicker of hope that this brings some sort of clarity back to him. We should not.

But Maegor just chuckles lowly, the grip around your throat tightening slightly. Your breathing is uneven, shaky even, with your body pressed against his, and he relishes in the feeling of your vulnerability. “Kostilus īlon kessa daor,” he replies, a dangerous lilt in his tone. “Yn gaoman sīr jorrāelagon raqagon ra nyke kessa daor.” Perhaps we should not. But I do so love to indulge in things I shouldn’t.

Before you can answer, you’re spun around by him, the movement unusually fluid and graceful, as if he’s done it plenty of times before. Your back presses against his sturdy chest, pinning you between him and the bookshelf with no way to escape. The hand from your throat rests on your waist instead, the fabric of your robe pinched between his fingers.

“That’s much better, is it not?” he teases in a murmur.

The vow of chastity you’ve sworn plays over and over again in your mind, but does little to stop your knees from growing weak at the proximity.

“This is not a good idea… uncle ,” you protest quietly. It’s completely out of place for you to address him as such, he is the king and you’re a mere septa that has set aside her last name, but neither the Mother Above nor the Maiden can stop him from getting under your skin.

“Perhaps, but where is the fun in a good idea, huh?”

You’re a septa, and you’re supposed to be a pious and celibate woman, but at this moment all you can think of is how good it feels to have him this close to you, so very close to giving you more – something you’ve craved for a long time.

Both your hands are captured by his paw, pinning them behind your back and making you unable to move. While his lips explore the side of your neck, leaving a trail of open mouthed kisses, his other hand rucks up the skirt of your robe, bunching it around your waist. It’s pinched by the fingers of his other hand, held high and allowing him to pay more attention to your undergarments.

If you weren’t so distracted by the coarse hairs of his beard scratching the sensitive skin of your neck with each kiss he pressed to it, you would have attempted to squeeze your thighs together, making it more difficult for him to tug down your smallclothes. But alas, your mind and body are too far gone from all the summers you have spent untouched and unsatisfied, addicted to the rush his touch sends through your body.

He is hard and heavy behind you, the outline of his thick cock pressing against the curve of your arse. You're too desperate for something you have only imagined at night, making you arch your back as though you mean to make him hurry up. You can feel him fumble with the laces of his breeches, undoing them one by one.

“We’ll just have to be good at not getting caught,” he rasps against your neck. The robe you wear offers almost no liberty to push it down to reveal more of your soft skin and the curve where your neck meets your shoulder to him, and so he has to make do with your neck alone.

Your uncle is met with little resistance as he sheaths his hard cock inside of your warm cunt, filling you up at once. Not even the sharp pain of his teeth sinking into the skin at the curve of your neck grants you enough distraction from the stinging that comes with accommodating his size, your cunt struggling to take him completely.

“By the Seven,” you whimper, your hands clenching to fists in his grasp while your walls flutter around him.

Your soft whimpers are enough to drive him further into his need for you already, and the gentle rolls of his hips make your knees slacken, caught by him bringing his free hand to your chin to pull your body against his. “There is no need for the Gods here, my sweet Septa,” Maegor rasps into your ear, emphasizing his words with a particularly harsh thrust of his hips that makes you choke on a whine. “You may worship me instead.”

His grip on your chin forces you to tilt your head back and arch your back against him to hold up with the slowly increasing pace of his thrusts, and your teeth digging into your bottom lip is a fruitless attempt of yours to stifle a moan coaxed past them by that.

The sound of your moans and whimpers sparks something in him, prompting him to growl against your skin. It tightens the grip he has on your chin to the point it becomes borderline painful with how much he has tilted it back.

“Don’t hold back,” he grunts, resting his forehead against the crown of your head. “Let me hear you, sweetling.”

Although your mouth is agape, no more sounds than breathy whimpers and whines leave your lips, despite the reckless pounding of him. But when another moan manages to escape your chest, it strains your throat to the point you have to cough once.

Sensing your discomfort, he eases the grip just slightly, shifting it to your throat and allowing your head to tip forward again. You’re desperate to fill your lungs with air, yet each breath is knocked out of them by the merciless snaps of his hips.

“That’s it,” he groans, nudging your legs further apart with his foot. “The Gods have been unhappy with me for some time now, but perhaps I’ve just needed to give them an offering… a sacrifice.” He’s just rambling into your hair at this point, and your mind is too hazy to really process anything he says.

You’ve been so inexperienced and have spent so much time completely untouched that even the slapping of his heavy sac of stones against your pearl brings you a pleasure beyond imagination.

He towers over you, your small frame completely hidden by his significantly taller one. It’s such an easy game for him to keep you where he wants, to use you however he pleases, and at this point you’d let him do whatever he desires with you for as long as you get to relive the sensations you feel over and over again.

Your peak washes over you in an ambush, the pleasure all but soaring through your veins. But his assault on your cunt doesn’t stop, and when the urge overcomes you to squeeze your thighs together, it doesn’t seize.

“Perhaps the Gods haven’t been giving me a healthy heir because they need me to fill you up,” he growls as if he’s been waiting for this since the moment he’d sent you to Oldtown, his voice raspy and thick with need. “Perhaps the Seven will bless me with a son if my seed quickens within you.”

His words nearly send you to your knees if it wasn’t for his muscular arm wrapped around your frame. A renewed wave of your arousal oozes out of your cunt at the thoughts of you carrying his child, yet it also makes you shudder, a feeling of guilt lingering in the pit of your belly. “By… By the Gods… T-The Seven would not–” you protest weakly, your voice a little more than a gasp. But even to your own ears your protest sounds more like a pleading than denial.

Pulling you even closer against him, Maegor nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, teeth grazing the exposed flesh of your shoulder gently. “My little Septa,” he murmurs, the nickname almost sounding like an insult and a taunt. “You say we can not, yet you press yourself against me… are you so desperate for my cock?”

That is the moment you lose any resemblance of restraint you’ve held before, your mind becoming blank, his merciless pounding, and words forcing every thought right out of your brain. You whine a string of incoherent words, rambling one ‘yes’ after the other.

It’s as if he’s just as desperate, because you can feel his thrusts becoming more and more erratic, a sign that lets you know he is about to topple over the edge. With a few more thrusts, he forces his thick cock into you, until a strained groan heralds his peak. His twitching cock spills his seed deep inside of your quivering cunt, and you squeeze him ever so tightly in response, all but milking him for every drop.

He squeezes your flesh and trails both his hands over your body, mapping out the curves hiding beneath the robe. His thrusts grow leisurely, the feeling of pure bliss subsiding rather quickly for him.

Shame and guilt for what just has happened overcomes you, growing stronger the moment he pulls out and you feel the remnants of his spend idly trickle down your thighs.

You don’t dare pull around. You don’t want to meet his gaze, to see the smugness and satisfaction written over his features at having convinced you to give in to him.

“I suppose I have kept you away from your duties for long enough,” he says, his voice dripping with irony. “You’re a septa, and I believe you have some more duties to tend to.”

Nodding weakly in agreement, you can’t shake off the feelings of being exposed and vulnerable under his piercing gaze. It takes a moment for your brain to function again, the fog of need and pleasure only slowly clearing from your mind.

“You’re right, Your Grace,” you say, voice weak and shaky. “I should… I should get going…” Dipping your head in a nod, you’re quick to scurry off, hastily looking around on your way out of the library in hope of no one having seen you in your moment of indiscretion.

Maegor Taglist: @hypocritic-trash-baby @k4marina @foxyanon @peachysunrize @nats-whore

@palmer-hjp @sinarainbows @luvdella

General Taglist: @arcielee @userhotd @multyfangirl @zaldritzosrose @black-dread

@wintrr13 @winter-soldier-101 @thought--bubble @dixie-elocin @beautbuck

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iamyourdailydoseofbi · 6 months ago

Text

LIKE REAL PEOPLE DO. ( HOTD x READER ) [ FINAL PART ]

AUTHOR NOTE! Thanks for all the love. <3 pairing: King Aegon ii Targaryen x Niece! Targ! ( Strong ) Reader suggest song to listen to whilst reading: Like Real People Do by Hozier or Never Love an Anchor by The Crane Wives prompt : would you be open to writing a part3 for like real people do where they both find out that y/n's pregnant so aegon genuinely wants to be a better person for her and their kid, and wants to prove it to her. she still hasn't forgiven him and she's pregnant and moody so one day they have a similar fight like in part 1 but this time its her who's telling him to stay away from her. they stop talking to each other and during that time aegon realizes how he made her feel when he said all those things. her pregnancy gets harder for her and one day she faints and is put on bed rest so aegon slowly starts befriending her and falls for her but on the other hand she's still cautious of him. he's by her side when she gives birth and through raising their child together they finally start having a normal relationship and on a feast held for their baby they finally patch up and make love afterwards??? ty ❤️❤️❤️ word count: 1, 000+ words

It was now Aegon that looked for you when he entered a room. It was now Aegon that was patient. It was now Aegon that was met with sneers and glares. It was now Aegon would dote on you, no matter how many times you snapped at him to leave you be. A bitter twist of fate. It killed him. It was worse than dagger or dragonfire. You, the one person who had treated him with so much kindness, had finally run up. But, it was a fate he had created himself.

He gave you your time. He slept in separate bed chambers. He ate alone in his chambers. He avoided small council meetings when you sat in. He was just alone. His Mother was livid at him for his treatment towards you. His Grandsire was even more livid, condemning him for ruining years of planning and plotting with his foolishness. His siblings had been distant, Aemond purposely bumping shoulders with him or tripping him when they passed by each other.

Then a Maester came to him. Four simple words that made him want to fling himself from Maegor’s Holdfast. She is with child. She is with child. She is with child. She is with child. She is with child. She is with child. She is with child. She is with child. She is with child. She is with child. She is with child. She is with child. She is with child. She is with child. She is with child. She is with child. She is with child. She is with child. She is with child. She is with child. She is with child.

You were with child. His child. Exactly two moons, not long enough for anything to show. It all made sense. It all made fucking sense now, on why were you so keen on tending to him. On why you attempted to mend the distance. On why you tried so hard with him. It was all for the sake of the babe that was growing in your belly. It killed him. You were trying so hard to not repeat history. And he had gone out, fucking it all up.

Tucking his hand behind his back, he stares at the door of your bedchambers, attempting to muster up some courage. You were four moons along now in your pregnancy. He could only imagine what you looked like now. Would you have a tiny bump now? Would you have that glow that many pregnant women had? Would you be miserable? Would you detest him and the babe? Would you damn him to the seven hells for having to carry a babe made from hate and duty?

“Come on, come on, stop being a coward.” He murmurs, attempting to hype myself up.

You ruined her. You fucking ruined her. It was all your doing, the voice in his head says.

“Come on, come on..” He fusses with his hair and doublet, attempting to fix his appearance.

She hates you. She hates you just as everyone else does. Just leave her be. Leave her alone. You’ll only just worsen things. You’ll break her just as you do to everyone else, the voice taunts.

Flattening out the wrinkles in his doublet, he fidgets with the gold livery collar chain, fixing the gold and emerald dragon pendant. Looking over at a polished mirror on the wall, he looks at his reflection with wide eyes, sharply turning around to face it. Swallowing the thick lump in his throat, he anxiously smoothes out his hair, the strands of white hair all greasy and a mess.

Gods, damn it! Why did no one tell him how bad his hair looked?! Had he been walking around the Red Keep like this the whole damn time?! Desperately attempting to tame his hair, the loud creaking of a door opening fills the air, making him freeze. Looking towards the door in dread, there you stood, eyes racking him up and down like a provoked dragon.

“Why are you standing at my door like a fool?” You ask, only keeping the door open a crack.

“Um, I…I missed you?” He blubbers out, sounding like a complete and utter fool.

“You. Missed. Me?” You ask agonizingly slow.

“Yes..?” He sheepishly smiles, the words coming out as more of a question.

“Why?”

Watching you open the door just a inch more, he can see the soft periwinkle of your maternity gown, soft silk with gold embroidery on the neckline and hem. It was the same one that your Mother had worn a few years ago after giving birth to your youngest brother Joffrey.

Gods, that shade of blue looked beautiful on you. Slowly taking in the parts of you he could see, he chews on his bottom lip, fiddling with his wedding ring. You were beautiful, strong willed, stubborn, and as fierce as a dragon. He felt like the wee lamb that had been given to you to eat.

“I..Um, why would I not? You are my wife and I..”

“Oh, really? Now, I am your wife? I thought I was just the burden, the thing you crawled to when you needed your cock wet..” You mock, repeating the same insults he had sneered at you over the years.

“It was a mistake, me saying all of that to you.” He looks down shamefully, “I am, truly, sorry for what I have done.”

“I take it the Maester’s have told you already. Tis’ quite pathetic that only now you wish to rekindle, all because I am with child. You would still be gorging yourself fat on wine if it was not for that.” You snip back, unimpressed.

Opening his mouth to argue back, he stops himself at the last second, a cruel insult on the tip of his tongue that threatened to come out. No. No. No. He would not do that. He would just sit there and take it. It took weeks to get you to even look at him, he would not ruin this now. He could not allow it. Gulping as his heart skips a beat, his hands grow clammy, watching as you open the door a little more to reveal the tiny baby bump. It was small, just noticeable.

A clear sign you were still in your early months of pregnancy. But, it was all he could see. You were with his child. His heir. A tiny part of him wanted to reach out and touch it, to see if he could feel the tiniest of kicks yet. He had seen so many couples in Court doing things like that, touching the baby bump and then giggling at the feeling of kicks. He wanted to do that. He wanted to do that with you.

“No, I..I, um, have been wanting to give you your time.”

“Then, why did you come here today?” You ask, face softening even so slightly.

“I..I suppose I had hoped that we could speak, and I could ask you how you fared so far. If there is anything, absolutely anything, that I can do to ease any pain you feel. I can even have a raven sent to your Mother if that would please you⎯” He rambles on, the words spilling out like vomit.

“Stop talking. Just, stop talking, Aegon.”

“I can stop talking. I can stop talking for the rest of my life is that is what you⎯” He rambles on, unable to stop the words from spilling out.

“Aegon!” You repeat, a little louder.

Watching your nose softly wrinkle up in irritation, you reach out for him, covering his mouth with your hand. The words instantly die on his tongue. His heart skips a beat, his breathing growing ragged. You were touching him. For the first time in weeks, or was it months, you were touching him. Finding himself melting into your touch, he stares up at you like an obedient dog.

“If not for my sake, then for the babe, let us..” You look like you were dreading saying it aloud, “Let us try again. No more fighting. No more silence.”

“I..I would love that.” He stutters, cheek heating up.

“I do not wish for this babe to grow up with the same tension we had⎯”

“It won’t, you have my word. I will do as you ask of me.” He vows, a dead serious expression on his face.

He meant it. He meant every word. Watching you shake your head with a sigh, you open the door a little more, sauntering inside of your bedchambers. He resists the urge to frown. What happened? You two were on seemingly good terms. Standing in the doorway like a kicked puppy, you turn to look at him, hand resting atop of your tiny pregnant belly. Had he done something wrong?

“Stop standing there like a fool and come inside.” You crack the tiniest of smiles, “My feet are aching from standing for so long.”

“Coming, coming.”

“Now, what dull names did you come up with for the babe? Or are you going to name him 'boy' just as you do all of your squires?” You ask, a flicker of your old self returning back.

"Oi! It was one time!"

---

this little series is done done, no more, and i love it soooooo much..

#house of the dragon #house of dragons #house of dragons x reader #house of the dragon x reader #aegon ii targaryen #hotd x reader #aegon targaryen x reader #hotd #aegon x reader #aegon ii targaryen x reader #hotd aegon #king aegon #hotd imagine #hotd imagines

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 1 month ago

Text

Fool's Gold

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x OFC (Melessa Tyrell) Warnings: Smut, mild angst, mentions of pregnancy. Word count: ~2.5k

Summary: Daemon returns from the Stepstones to a welcome he was not expecting. Part of the Perzys se Rūkla universe, but can be read as a standalone.

Author's note: Day two of Smuffmas - presents and praise kink. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

It had been three months since Daemon last set foot in King’s Landing. The Triarchy had been causing trouble in the Stepstones once again, and Corlys Velaryon’s fleet had begun to struggle to defend the ships requiring passage across the Narrow Sea. With trade between Westeros and the Free Cities slowing as a result, the Crown had been forced to intervene. Rhaenyra had dispatched her husband, Laenor, and his dragon, Seasmoke, to help his father’s cause, and Daemon had insisted upon accompanying him on the back of Caraxes, not trusting the King Consort to get the job done without the aid of him and his blood wyrm.

Having burned the pirates’ forces to cinders and with the shipping lanes clear once more, Daemon had returned with haste to the capital, eager to be reunited with his wife after so many nights spent apart from her.

As Hand of the Queen, it would be proper for Daemon to report directly to his niece, to deliver the news of their victory, however, he has never been one for propriety. Melessa is his first priority, and if Laenor can tarry with his squires in the wake of the battle, with no sense of urgency, then he does not see why he should be held to a higher standard.

The metallic clanking of his armour echoes off of the stone walls of Maegor’s Holdfast, as he advances towards the apartments he shares with Melessa and their son, Viserys. He holds his dragon shaped helm tucked beneath one arm, and carries a heavy linen sack in the other. A slight smirk tugs at the corners of his lips as he imagines the way Melessa’s delicate features will light up once she sees its contents.

Throwing open the heavy wooden doors, Daemon strides purposefully through the space, making his way towards the solar. Melessa is exactly where he expects her to be. He does not announce his presence straight away, taking a moment to appreciate her in silent contemplation.

She has had the chaise moved to sit by the balcony doors, which are both open, allowing a light breeze to rustle the gossamer fabric of the ivory coloured curtains and cool the room. She reclines upon the crimson velvet with her eyes closed, though he knows she is not asleep. The afternoon sunlight that filters through the windows shines upon her flaxen hair, making it look like spun gold. She has left it loose today, the soft waves falling almost to her waist, against the loose fitting green robe she wears, pinned closed with a golden rose brooch.

Daemon has always adored that, despite being married to a Targaryen prince, she has never forfeited the colours of House Tyrell. In his mind, it is her way of clinging to some of her youthful innocence, a reminder of why she had initially captured his attention.

His eyes fall upon the swell of her stomach, where her hands rest. She is bigger than when he left, of course she is. She had been three turns of the moon into her pregnancy when he had departed, barely noticeable. Another three had passed, and the evidence of their second child growing within her was now irrefutable. It makes his heart swell with pride and his pulse race with possessiveness.

Finally, Daemon clears his throat, and her eyes flutter open, her blue eyes widening in surprise as she sees him, struggling to rise into a sitting position as her hand cradles her distended belly.

“Don’t strain yourself, petal,” he tells her, placing his helmet down upon a side table and striding towards her. He sets the canvas bag down by the foot of the chaise, glad to be rid of its weight as its contents tinkle loudly against each other.

She settles back against the plushness of the pillows. “You did not send word that you would be returning,” she says softly, as he leans down to press his lips tenderly to her forehead, before pulling back to stare affectionately at her, his calloused thumb stroking a lingering path along the peachy softness of her jawline.

Her eyes do not hold the joyful sparkle he so adores, instead she looks upon him with concern and apprehension, she visibly stiffens at his touch and he cannot understand why. Perhaps it is an unfortunate consequence of her being pregnant – he knows that being in such a condition takes a toll on women and their bodies.

“I wanted to surprise you,” he murmurs, kneeling down with difficulty under the cumbersome weight of his armour, resting his forehead gently against her abdomen. She moves her hands, placing them either side of her to give him space as he cradles her belly. “Rytsas, zaldrītsos,” he whispers to the babe that grows within, “rōvyktys issa.” Hello, little dragon. You are bigger.

“Have you been to see Rhaenyra?” She asks, her tone lacking the warmth and excitement that Daemon had been longing to hear.

“She can wait,” Daemon says, lifting his head to look at her.

“She will be cross with you,” Melessa tells him matter of factly.

He sighs, her coolness disquieting him. He stands, walking over to the settee in the corner of the room, and begins to unstrap his armour, placing each heavy piece upon the wooden surface, until he is left in only his breeches and undershirt. The relief of the burden upon his body is welcome, though the tension in the room serves as a further uninvited weight that he is keen to be rid of.

“I sense that you are also cross with me,” he says, finally turning to face her, eyeing her curiously as she stares off out of the open balcony doors, her hands idly stroking her belly.

She turns slowly back to look at him, her shoulders sagging as she sighs, and he sees a defeated tiredness within her features that he had not noticed before. Her mouth is downturned, there is a darkness beneath her eyes.

“Have you been to see Viserys?” She asks, looking listlessly at him.

“There will be time enough for his sticky hands and shrill voice later. I want to spend time with my wife,” he says exasperatedly, walking towards the small, round table that is positioned next to the chaise that Melessa rests upon. He lifts the pewter wine jug, giving the golden liquid inside a sniff – cloves, cinnamon and ginger invade his nostrils, making him grimace - spiced honey wine from Lannisport. Horrible swill that is far too weak for Daemon’s liking, but he supposes Melessa cannot stomach anything stronger due to her pregnancy. He pours himself a cup and takes a generous gulp, his nose wrinkling in disgust as he swallows thickly and sets the cup back down, before continuing; “the boy likely won’t even have realised I was gone.”

Melessa scowls, positioning herself to sit up straighter. “He is three, Daemon, of course he notices when you aren’t here!”

Daemon scoffs, growing irritated. He had climbed onto Caraxes’ back and flown straight here once the battle was won, it now seems it was hardly worth bothering, considering the frosty reception he’s received.

“I brought you gifts, both of you,” he argues, moving to the foot of the chaise and lifting the heavy canvas bag, “one for every day that I was gone, look–”

He begins to pull treasures from the bag; bracelets of solid gold, sapphire encrusted necklaces, silver chalices, each item crashes loudly against the flagstone floor as he drops it. Corlys had allowed his men to loot what was left of the Triarchy’s ships, and Daemon had ensured he took what he considered to be his fair share.

Melessa’s brow furrows further as she watches him, before she holds up a hand, halting his actions. “A few pretty baubles do not make up for your absence.”

“Then what would you have me do?!” He snarls, dropping the sack. It hits the floor with a mighty crash, as he stares at her wide eyed, his fragile patience worn down to the quick as his chest heaves with anger.

She doesn't even flinch at his outburst, and for the briefest of moments he wonders what happened to the timid little thing he had approached by the tapestries all those years ago. He supposes it would be foolish of him to marry a woman and not expect her to be influenced by his fire. His delicate Highgarden rose has grown a spine.

“You should not have gone!” she shouts back, leaning forward slightly, her face twisted in an anger that he has never seen in her before. Her eyes are so wide they border on wildness.

Her response shocks him into silence and he exhales heavily, bowing his head as he pinches the bridge of his nose. The anger has fizzled from the both of them as he comes to sit by her feet upon the chase, wrapping a hand around the shin of one of her outstretched legs through the silk fabric of her robe and stroking softly – a gesture intended to ground himself as much as it is to soothe her.

“I had to go,” he insists, “Rhaenyra commanded it.”

“She did not. She sent Laenor. You invited yourself along and she knew she could not refuse you. You left her without a Hand for three months, Daemon.”

Deep down, Daemon knows that Melessa is right, but he cannot bear to allow himself to admit that. He knows that the battle was won more swiftly because of his efforts, so he had done the right thing in going, whether he had been asked to or not. He watches as her hands rub slow circles over her stomach. Though her previous anger has left her, her expression is still sullen, a slight pout to her rosy lips.

“The battle would still be ongoing and the shipping lanes still blocked were it not for my presence,” he explains, “I did my duty as Hand by speeding things along.”

“You could have done your duty as Hand by staying here. Aemond rides the largest dragon in Westeros, Rhaenyra could have sent him if she felt that the Velaryons required further aid.”

Daemon feels his fingers squeeze reflexively upon Melessa’s leg and quickly draws his hand away, lest he unintentionally hurt her due to such a ridiculous suggestion. He laughs, though it is a bitter sound with no genuine humour, and he looks away, averting his gaze to the ceiling at the far corner of the room.

Melessa tuts, pushing at his thigh with the heel of her bare foot, to draw his attention back to her. “I know you feel that Alicent’s children are not trustworthy, but if Aemond harboured ill intent that he intended to act upon, he would have done so by now. He could burn us all in our beds, if he wanted to. If he was intent upon treachery then he would not wait for a war in the Stepstones to act upon it.”

“Why should I remain idle while that impulsive wretch plays the hero atop his dragon?” He mutters, grasping the foot she had nudged him with and placing it in his lap.

“Ah, and there it is,” she smiles triumphantly, a hint of playfulness in her voice, “you didn’t want to help, you wanted to fly to battle and glory.”

He purses his lips, rubbing his thumb up and down the delicate arch of her foot. “And what is the alternative? I remain here and grow soft as I sit on my arse around the small council table?”

“You could never grow soft,” she reassures him, her head tilting slightly in sympathetic understanding, “and you are needed here, I need you, your children need you.”

“It was not because I wished to be parted from you,” he tells her gently, his face softening as he moves closer to her on the chaise, reaching out to sink his fingers into the softness of her pale hair. The familiar scent of rosewater and almond oil envelopes him as he pulls her close, comforting him with the feeling of home, while also making his cock stir within his breeches.

“I have missed you,” she whispers, clutching at the fabric of his undershirt as she nuzzles her face into the scarred flesh of his neck.

“Even though you are cross with me?” He asks quietly, smirking as he feels her smile against his skin.

“I am cross because I want you here with me,” she responds, pulling away to look up at him through her lashes as her hands move downwards from his chest to his abdomen. “You do not need to fight wars and bring home treasures for me to think you are worthy, you already are.”

He watches intently, feeling himself rouse to life as she plucks open the lacings of his breaches.

“You are Daemon Targaryen,” she coos, leaning in once more to press a kiss to his neck, as she slips her hand inside the opening and wraps her fingers around his shaft, “blood of Old Valyria, closer to gods than men, you need not prove yourself to anyone.”

He groans, his head falling back as she begins to pump her hand, and he feels himself grow fully erect, fighting against the aching sensation that tempts him to buck his hips like an untamed beast.

She continues to stroke him from base to tip, before swiping her thumb across the head of him, using his arousal to help ease the glide of her hand upon him. “There is no one that I am prouder to call my husband, no one whose children I would rather carry. Just you. Only you.”

“Fuck!” he hisses, his fingers tightening in her hair, as he leans forward, pressing his forehead against hers as he begins to pant. He can feel the telltale pressure building at the base of his spine, knowing he will reach his end with embarrassing swiftness if she does not stop, yet he cannot bring himself to make her.

“I am so proud of you, and all you do for our family. It is why I cannot bear to be parted from you,” she whispers hotly against the juncture between his neck and shoulder.

His balls tighten, her words are his unravelling as warmth spreads throughout his body, causing his hips to jerk and his mind to go blank as he pulsates against the strokes of her palm, coating her fingers with his pearly spend, as his focus narrows upon the exquisite torture of the throbbing that overtakes him.

“Gods…” he utters breathlessly, once he is lucid again to speak. His lips part in disbelief as he watches her clean his release from her fingers with delicate kitten licks. “...I did not bring you back enough gifts.”

Chapter six || Series masterlist

#daemon targaryen x ofc #daemon targaryen x oc #daemon x ofc #daemon x oc #daemon targaryen #the rogue prince #daemon targaryen fan fiction #daemon targaryen fanfiction #daemon targaryen fanfic #daemon targaryen fan fic #house of the dragon #hotd fan fiction #hotd fanfic #hotd fanfiction #hotd fan fic #daemon targaryen smut #daemon targaryen imagine

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cherryclitgirl · 2 months ago

Text

The Gods

Maegor x reader

*No use of y/n

Warnings: Child loss, Targaryen incest, mature content, young pregnancy.

Note: This has been sitting in my drafts since the b&c episode, sorry for some mistakes I made:)

Anyone who had a mouth would always say the gods did not favor the king. Although the four pregnancies his niece wife had been blessed with said other wise. It raised a large concern among the Maesters since the girl had been young when she bore Maegor’s first child, and within months, she was pregnant once more with his second. This happened two more times, ultimately she bore three boys and one girl, yet, the king was but satisfied. Despite obviously favoring their oldest son Aegon, Maegor wanted more children. Wanting for his legacy to carry on, he pressed his wife for one more child.

His wife refused having just given birth to their daughter, Rhaella . She had been warned by the midwife and the grand maester that she would not be able to birth another child. King Maegor however, did not take this lightly. He reminded her once more about her position. She was there to provide him with children.

Being the youngest of his wife’s, the princess was often sheltered by Ceryse Hightower. The oldest of the queens. Having seen Alys tortured and killed by Tyanna , Ceryse was more protective of the young girl. Suggesting the young girl to spend her each of the four pregnancies at Dragonstone with the queen mother Visenya. The princess agreed after all, her mother Dowager queen Alyssa and two youngest siblings were wards of queen Visenya.

Upon her return to the almost finished Redkeep, the princess was greeted by Ceryse. Aegon the oldest came running to his mother, his brother Baelon by his side. They adored their mother, more than anything, always following her around.Their youngest son Rheanor who was still a babe was brought in by his wet nurse. “They’ve missed you” Ceryse smiled to the princess, helping her take a seat on the sofa. Ceryse cradled Rhaella in her arms, a beautiful baby girl with light purple eyes and small silver curls “She’s beautiful “ Ceryse whispered more to herself than the princess. “My only girl” the young girl smiled at the tiny girl “she’s so quiet”. As Ceryse held Rhaella, the princess paid her attention to her three boys. Aegon she had when she just five and ten, Baelon came next in that very same year. Maegor believed he had defied the gods who failed to grant him a child. When she was six and ten she gave birth to Rhaenor, following his previous act, Maegor got his wife pregnant again.

“I’m afraid” The princess voice took Ceryse out of her thoughts. Ceryse looked up bewildered not entirely sure what the princess meant. She stayed silent for a moment, then spoke “Don’t be” Ceryse reassured her “Tyanna would be foolish to harm your children “. The princess shook her head “not Tyannna” she paused looking away from Aegon for a second “The gods” she said softly, placing a soft kiss on Aegon’s head.

Ceryse did not know what to say, she simply looked back at Rhaella “Tonight I’ll tell the guards to stand by your door” she told the young girl.

That night, the wind blew hard, the whistling of the air was heard like hushing voices. The rest of the royal apartments had yet to be finished and with Rhaella still being a new born babe, the princess moved her bed to a single room. Where she could be closer to her precious children.

After her sons were fast asleep, the princess turned her attention to her daughter, but as she was about to pick her up from the cradle ; two figures emerged from the shadows. The princess let out a small gasp, but before she could do anything a man grabbed her and pointed a sharp dagger to her throat. His voice raspy and deep “Stay still” he commanded, his spit getting on her frighten face.

The other figure stepped out, he wore the robes of the Faith of the seven and held a small sack in his hand. The man holding the dagger laughed, a wicked and bloody laugh “we’ve got the queen!” he sneered his sharp blade tightening deeper into her throat. The man with robes spoke with a stoic face “they asked for son”. The man with the dagger scoffed “pick one” he said nudging his head to three beds in the room. Aegon, Baelon and Rhaenor slept, unaware of the immense danger they were in.

“Please-“ the young girl begged softly, tears swelling up in her eyes. She did not want to wake up the children, but she needed to be a bit louder so the guards could hear her. “Shush” the man with the dagger hissed “we need to get at it and get out” . She tried to speak louder but the man covered her mouth muffling her sounds while he pulled her closer. The man with the robes looked at then three sleeping boys “Which one is the oldest” he spoke coldy to the young girl. “I-“ she tried to speak but no words came out her mouth. She looked at the man with her dagger who held her with a firm grip.

“I have a necklace” she spoke softly reaching for her neck “It’s of great value-“ she was cut off by the man with the dagger who he snatched the necklace right off her neck. “That’s not a son” he sneered shoving it into his pocket.

“Please” she begged her tears falling down her terrified eyes “kill me” she sobbed “not my boys” she pleaded in desperation. But her pleads were to no avail. She looked back at the door hoping for a guard to hear her, come bursting through the doors and put an end to this madness.

The man with the dagger followed her gaze and mockingly spoke “There’s no one out there”. The young girl’s heart dropped even more. The air had left her stomach, her mouth had gone dry, for a second her tears had stopped. Simply standing there in a paralyzed state, her mind had gone blanked.

“Pick the oldest” the man with the robes spoke . “Or we’ll kill them all” his harsh words snapped her out the shock, like a fish out a water she gasped and pointed at Aegon’s bed.

Her first born, her first babe. The child that had made her a mother.

“She could be lying” the man with dagger said skeptically to which the man with the robes corrected upon seeing the young girl’s expression “No” he spoke solemnly “she’s telling true.”

The man with the dagger pushed the young girl away from him “Hold him down” he said moving to Aegon. The young girl watched in horror as the man with the robes covered Aegon’s mouth “mommy-“ was the last thing she heard as they began to cut his throat.

She moved quickly, picking her baby girl from the cradle, she moved to Rhaenor’s bed pulling up to her. The sleeping child woke up confused, the room was filled with the Aegon’s muffled cries. She reached in for for Baelon but she could not carry three kids at once. She was in despair and unsure what to do, “run” she told Baelon who was still woozy from his sleep. She had a one year old in one her arm and her girl in the other. She hurried after Baelon whose small foot steps were barely heard.

The man with the dagger was right, there was no one guarding her door. She ran, catching up to Baelon making sure not to drop the children, her arms trembling and her voice soft and frighten she begged “please …. please “. Her soft rapid breathing was filled with anguish and terror. She stopped in the middle of the hall, then turned to rushing. The castle was dead silent, the only thing she could hear was the whispering of the hair.

Making her way through the unfinished halls she hurried to Maegor’s chambers. Surely he would protect her, he would understand. He could keep his three children safe from the men’s harm. “Mommy” Baelon’s tiny voice spoke trying to hold on to her. It only made the young girl more desperate, as she had no free arms left. She placed Rhaenor down close to Baelon as she ushered them forward to keep on walking.

She pushed though the doors of Maegor’s chamber to see Ceryse’s naked back on top on Maegor , her back moving on him while their moans filled the chamber. The young girl moved forward crouching down on the far end of the room.

Maegor pushed Ceryse off quickly sitting up, looking at his wife with a horrid expression Ceryse gasped “Your grace-“ she tried to speak but was cut off by Maegor who noticed his young wife pulling the two boys closer while still holding her daughter. “What’s happened “ he demanded loudly.

She didn’t say anything simply stared into the ground still clutching her children “The killed my boy” she spoke solemnly a single burning tear falling down her cheek. The child held her children closely wishing for it to be a nightmare, a nightmare her mother would soon wake her up from.

#maegor targaryen #maegor x reader #maegor the cruel #king maegor #blood and cheese #house of the dragon #x reader #a song of ice and fire #asoif/got #maegor with teats

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novaursa · 4 months ago

Note

Hi! Would you like to write another part of Maegor x niece (Fire and blood)? Maybe their marriage and the start of their new life together, learning about the first pregnancy? Or maybe them having more children, anything is fine. I love your writing and this is my most beloved story of yours

Fragile Hope

- Summary: Maegor learned long ago not to put much hope into legacy, but with you, he hoped.

- Pairing: niece!reader/Maegor I Targaryen

- Note: This is part of Fire and Blood series.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

Maegor sat on the Iron Throne, his armored fingers drumming against the cold metal of Blackfyre's pommel as he scanned the hall. The courtiers shifted nervously under his gaze, their whispers dying down as they awaited his judgment. His eyes, like violet steel, swept across the gathered throng. He ruled by fear, and the air was thick with it. It pleased him, but there was something else beneath his iron exterior, a dark current roiling within him.

For months now, he had awaited a different kind of news—a delicate hope buried beneath layers of anger and pain. You were his, finally, after years of being denied, stolen from him by every hand save his own. But even as you lay in his bed, the fear persisted. He had wanted you since you were both children, a desire fostered and sharpened like a blade, and now, after everything, he feared losing you in a way that no battle or rebellion could ever compare to.

The great doors of the throne room swung open, and Dowager Queen Visenya entered, flanked by two Kingsguard. Maegor's eyes narrowed. His mother’s presence in the throne room was rare; she ruled from the shadows, a viper’s whisper behind his every decision. The hall grew silent, courtiers bowing their heads as she approached, her gaze fixed on her son.

"Leave us," Maegor commanded, his voice a low growl. The courtiers and guards filed out, the vast chamber echoing with the sound of retreating footsteps. Only Visenya and her handpicked guards remained. He leaned forward, his grip on Blackfyre tightening. "What is it?"

Visenya’s face was calm, almost serene, as she stepped closer. "It is Y/N," she said, and the words were like a knife to his chest. He rose from the throne, the great metal chair creaking as he did. She lifted a hand, a gesture to calm him. "She fell as she tried to mount her dragon."

His heart stopped. He took a step forward, his mouth opening to demand more, but Visenya’s calm was unshaken. She was close enough now that she spoke softly, her words for his ears alone. "She is being tended to in your chambers. She is unharmed, Maegor."

He released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, but his brow furrowed. "Then why are you here, Mother? If she is unharmed, why are you telling me this?"

Visenya’s lips curved into the slightest of smiles. She stepped even closer, so that her words were barely a breath. "The maester believes she is with child."

Maegor went still. The words were almost incomprehensible, a secret hope made real and tangible. He had dared to dream of this, but in the quiet of his own mind, where he could keep it safe from the world’s cruelty. He had seen his first wife barren, his hopes crushed beneath the weight of an empty cradle. And now, you. His blood, his kin, carrying his child.

"You are certain?" His voice was a rasp, barely recognizable even to himself.

Visenya nodded, her hand resting briefly on his arm, a rare gesture of tenderness. "I would not have come to you if I were not." Her eyes, so like his own, shone with something he had rarely seen in her—pride.

He sank back onto the Iron Throne, the weight of the news settling over him like a mantle. You, carrying his child. A child of fire and blood, a Targaryen of true lineage. He could see it now, a son, a daughter—strong, fierce, ruling at his side. Everything he had fought for, everything he had killed for, it all led to this.

Visenya’s hand remained on his arm, a steadying presence. "Rest now, my son. She needs you calm, needs you steady. Do not let this news be a burden. She must not see your fear."

Maegor nodded, his thoughts racing. "She will be protected," he said, his voice hardening. "No one will touch her, no one will harm her. I will burn the Seven Kingdoms to ash again before I let anything happen to her or our child."

Visenya smiled then, a true smile, one that made her look younger, fiercer. "Of course you will, my son." She stepped back, her eyes never leaving his. "But for now, go to her. She needs her husband, not her king."

Maegor rose, the weight of Blackfyre forgotten at his side. He strode past his mother, past the Kingsguard, his heart a drumbeat in his ears. You were carrying his child. He had dared to hope, but hope was a fragile, dangerous thing.

He reached your chambers, his hand shaking only slightly as he pushed open the door. The maester bowed low as he entered, murmuring reassurances that you were resting, that the fall had been minor, that all was well. Maegor barely heard him, his eyes fixed on the bed where you lay, your face pale but serene.

"Leave us," he commanded, and the maester hurried out, closing the door behind him. He approached the bed slowly, his heart still a hammer in his chest. You opened your eyes, and they were the same eyes he had known his entire life, the eyes that had haunted his dreams and his nightmares.

"Maegor," you whispered, and the sound of your voice was a balm, a tether pulling him back from the brink.

He knelt beside you, his hand reaching out to brush against your cheek. "They told me you fell."

You smiled, a faint, weary smile. "A slip, nothing more. I am not so fragile."

"No," he agreed, his voice low. "You are not." He hesitated, the words caught in his throat. How could he tell you what this meant, what you meant? How could he explain the fear that had gripped him, the relief that now threatened to overwhelm him?

But you seemed to know, your hand reaching out to cover his. "I am here, Maegor. I am here."

He swallowed, nodding. "And you carry my child."

Your smile widened, a soft, radiant thing. "Yes, I do."

He bowed his head, his forehead resting against your hand. For the first time in as long as he could remember, Maegor Targaryen, King of the Seven Kingdoms, felt something almost like peace.

#fire and blood #fire and blood x reader #maegor x reader #maegor targaryen #maegor the cruel #maegor x you #maegor x y/n #maegor i targaryen #house of the dragon #game of thrones #asoiaf

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fairysluna · 2 years ago

Text

SINNERS — Chapter 3

After Maegor finds out his beloved niece is to be wed with her own brother, he absolutely loses his mind. He can't just let her go.

MASTERLIST

Pairing: Maegor I Targaryen x Fem!OC.

Summary: Aenelys' inner dragon finally comes to light in the shape of jealousy and pettiness, and Maegor desperately tries to regain the power he once held over her.

Tags/TW: incest, age gap, profanity, cursing, manipulation, description of sexual activities, typical sexism of the time, nudity, tyanna makes an appearance. If something's missing let me know!!

Author's Note: guess who finally updated!!! so, i decided to fancast Ser Draqos too bc that's how i am and i always get obsessed w my own fics. This is Draqos, the actor name is Santiago Cabrera (a chilean babe bc ofc). thank you for reading!! ily all and pls enjoy♡

Word Count: 5.7k

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As Aenelys walked in the room and found her seat on her table, Ser Vyros found himself growing curious at the tension that rapidly developed between her and her uncle, who did not even spare a glance to the girl.

She sat there, as far as possible from Maegor, followed by who had been her only company that week; Ser Draqos. The prince went silent after the presence of the girl was noticeable, interrupting and finishing any conversation he might have been having with his friend. The old man stared at both of them, as if that would give him an answer of what was going on; Maegor had his hands clenched in two fists against the table, and Aenelys had swollen eyes which was enough proof that she had been crying the prior night.

"Aenelys, my princess, it is such a blessing that you have joined us this morning," he greeted her, trying to make all this tension go away. "We have been missing you these last few days. I suppose you were starting to make acquaintances with the palace?"

"I am indeed, Ser," she politely replied as she waited for the maid to prepare her tea as other was collecting small bits of the pastries that were on the long, wooden table. "Ser Draqos has been an excellent guide, the gardens might be my favorite place to read."

"Draqos knows this palace like the back of his hand!" he commented, joyfully laughing as he stuffed his mouth with a piece of bread and butter. "That boy always wandered around this place when he was a child, you couldn't have chosen a better person to show you around."

"I see that now," she gently nods, feeling now the burning stare of her uncle on her face. She forced herself not to look back at him. "You have raised a true gentleman, Draqos is such a good man." she took a pause, blinking a few times before convincing herself to continue. "Loyal… and kind."

Maegor let out a small, mocking chuckle as he shifted his position in the chair. His legs spreaded as he leaned back and took a sip of the ale in his cup. Aenelys tensed with the mere sound, but decided to simply ignore it as her shaky hands gripped the cup that was in front of her.

She bit her lip once she noticed how it trembled, and she quickly changed the pout on her face for a small, fake smile.

"You flatter me, my princess," he chuckles cheerfully as he wipes his fingers with a napkin. "Now that I'm thinking about it, there might be a place close to the palace that I'm sure you would love."

"Is it?”

"Yes," He replied, looking swiftly at his son before returning his haze upon her little frame. "You see, there's this lake following our gardens, just a few minutes on a horse ride, and Draqos can take you there for you to read."

"A lake?" The princess repeated.

Vyros nodded, "People say that the Westerosi singers had come to that place in order to write their ballads about the brave man and beautiful maidens. You will love it."

For the first time since she arrived at the dining hall, she dared to look at her uncle who was sitting on the other side, right in front of her. Even after fighting, she was seeking his permission –and approval–, but he did not look back at her at all, he was just too busy whispering to a maid that had come close to him. Aenelys felt lost for a minute.

The growing feeling of emptiness inside her chest only became more unbearable once Maegor put his hand on the woman’s hip. Aenelys wanted to sink on her chair, or to stand up and run away from that table; away from him.

Though she had convinced herself to think that Maegor loved her as much as she loved him, she was starting to think otherwise… and that only made her replace the sadness within her with anger, jealousy and pettiness; she was the King’s daughter, the Heart of the Realm, and the only thing that she could not possess was the heart of the man she so dearly loved.

Only the Gods know how mad that would make her. She was a dragon after all.

“I would be delighted to visit the lake, Ser,” she said as she swiftly stood up from the table. The chair behind her rattled as it was dragged backwards, which caused Maegor’s attention to finally fall upon his niece.

Their eyes connected for a few seconds; he might have been acting as if he had not listened to the conversation, but Aenelys knew he did. The darkness in his eyes was one she knew very well, the jealousy evidently written in his face as the princess dared him in silence to stop her, to do anything that could show his interest in her. But as the stubborn and proud man he was, he did not even move at all.

“I will go and take a bath, then we shall go, Ser Draqos,” she informed, looking at the table for one last time before turning around and leaving the hall.

The ache on her chest was quite hard to ignore, but she forced herself to endure the pain just to appear stronger. Aenelys needed Maegor's touch, she longed for it and suffered whenever it was forcefully taken away from her. But now she was angry at his indifference, and if he wanted to make her heart ache, then she convinced herself to do the same thing with him.

It was rather childish the way they were behaving, avoiding confrontation in order to keep teasing each other and desperately trying to push aside the need they had to be together once more. While Aenelys left the room, Maegor's mind started to scheme once again, as if he was finding excuses to talk to her without risking his tough pride. He knew he was starting to lose control over her, and he knew very well that, no matter how innocent she would look like, Aenelys was still a spoiled Targaryen princess who always got what she desired.

So he gave her just that.

Aenelys walked in her chambers being followed by a maid who ran to prepare her a bath as she ripped her dress out of her body until her naked form was seen. The anger on her face was visible to anyone who could see her, she was getting drunk on jealousy and the mere thought of her uncle touching, and being touched, by another woman made her want to throw up. It made her sick the fact that someone else could freely have him while she was forced to wait for something that might never come.

While she got inside of the bathtub, she could not help but to remember that Maegor was already married. It was a loveless marriage, merely out of duty, but a marriage nevertheless. Aenelys was far from being dumb, she knew exactly how things worked back in Westeros, and she was certain that her father would never approve an union between her and her uncle, so he will never get the annulment they need to be wed.

Pathetic tears of sadness and rage fell down her face, being quickly wiped by her own hands. Aenelys took a deep breath and leaned back in the tub.

The water was burning hot, but Aenelys liked it that way. The comfort that brought her was helpful to make her calm down, and she let herself rest in the bath as her head fell backwards and a sigh left her lips. Her eyes closed as she emptied her mind just for a second, only focusing on her own relaxation before letting herself think about Maegor again.

But it was impossible.

Maegor was carved in her mind and there was no way to get him out of it. Every thought of her was dedicated to him. Every breath, every heartbeat. Aenelys felt the curse that it was to have feelings for a man like him, and no matter how hard she would try, there was no escape from it. And, deep inside of her, she did not want to escape either way.

Aenelys was addicted to him, so used to always having him by her side that the mere thought of being apart from him seemed painful enough to even try it. That is why she was still there, waiting for him to show some signal of his love for her. Silently begging and longing for bits of his care.

But then, while a maid was preparing her clothes for later, the door was smacked open, suddenly interrupting her peace. Aenelys quickly sat back as she opened her eyes and saw the tall frame of her uncle standing a few inches away from her. Unconsciously, she bent her knees and wrapped her arms around her legs as an attempt to hide her nudity from him.

Maegor seemed to be visibly mad; red face, almost fuming. His eyes were covered by a layer of anger that made them look darker, it was a penetrating stare that made her skin burn as he approached her in a slow but steady step. He looked intimidating, the shadows and the sunlight made him seem bigger than he already was, especially after he finally reached her side and she had to look up at him with that pretty, doe eyed stare which was so characteristic of her.

Aenelys followed the trace his tongue did on his lower lip as he licked it when he laid eyes upon her delicate body. Her milky skin appeared so soft, and fragile. She seemed so easy to break. The exposure of her skin made him feel the overwhelming urge to touch her, to feel the softness of her under his fingertips, but he looked away before his willpower would give in to temptation.

"Henujagon īlva," Leave us, he had told the maid who left the room in the blink of an eye. The poor girl was shaking; Aenelys was certain she saw her legs shaking as she left the room.

Then, there was a silence, and afterwards, Maegor dared to lock his gaze with hers. They remained that way for a few seconds, trying to express their feelings through them without using words that could just not explain their real situation. Maegor then expected to see some sign of fear in her eyes after what he had done to her; he was able to see a thousand emotions being reflected on those lilac jewels of hers, but fear was none of them. It never was.

“You will not be left alone with that man,” he spoke harshly, almost in a grunt.

“His name is Draqos.”

He chuckled, a mocking one similar to the one she had heard before in the dining hall. His hands went to the border of the tub, as he slowly leaned down towards her face. Suddenly, she felt small, clenching her jaw and swallowing hard as his breath smacked against her lips. Something changed inside of her due to his proximity, and as her heart started to beat fast and unsteady, her mouth watered at the instant urge to kiss him… to taste his lips.

“I don’t care about that cunt’s name,” he murmured, rubbing his nose against hers in a delicate touch. “And neither should you.”

Aenelys knew she should not be folding so fast, but Maegor always managed to turn her into clay for him to manipulate as he wished.

Soon, his right hand touched her chin, his thumb caressing her lower lip as he kept his stare fixed on hers. At this point, all their troubles were forgotten by her, and the anger and sadness that she once felt was not there anymore; Maegor had bewitched her once again.

He gently pressed his fingers against her skin in order to lift her face, and he continued that action until she stood up. He barely tried, and she submissively obeyed, standing in front of him as the droplets were running down her naked body.

“You will stay here,” he commanded as his fingers gave in and started to slide down her, going from her neck, to her cleavage and all the way down to her navel until he rested it on her hip. “And… since you’re so eager to learn new things,” he mentioned as he repeated the same trace with his other hand. “I will take you somewhere tonight, and I will teach you.”

She nodded, obediently as she closed her eyes when he leaned closer to kiss the tip of her nose. Once he took a step back, she fluttered her eyelashes until her eyes found him again. This time, however, he took no shame in roaming her body with his hungry eyes, checking every bit of her and trying to carve her shapes and curves into his mind. Aenelys wanted to cover, but instead she just stood still, letting him watch for as long as he pleased.

Maegor smirked, clicking his tongue before he noticed the chain around her neck. He stretched his arm to reach for the small, black pendant with the ruby on it. A content, smug grin appeared on his visage before he sighed and said,

“You are mine, sweet dove,” he reminded her, “never forget who owns you.”

And just like that he walked away, leaving the room and Aenelys behind. Only then, she was able to react, but the joyful illusion growing in her heart made her smile for the first time in weeks. She was his.

Aenelys spent the rest of the day trying to ignore that feeling of anticipation growing inside her gut. She would try to keep herself busy in order to make the hours pass faster, but it was not enough; she was not able to focus on a book, and every time she would pick a needle to make an embroidery she would puncture her fingertips because her mind was somewhere else.

Then, once she realized none of these activities would work, she started to look for a dress to wear. She did not know where he was going to take her, so she struggled to pick one. In the end, she managed to choose a white dress with silver ornaments; it was thin, comfortable and simple, but at the same time it was elegant and sophisticated, worthy of a Targaryen princess like her.

Once the moon appeared in the sky with the company of the shiny stars, Aenelys was standing in front of the mirror, gazing upon her reflection as a maid tied the laces of the dress. Her long, wavy, platinum hair had been braided in a half updo hairstyle that made her delicate features stand out.

She smiled at her reflection, hoping that her uncle would acknowledge her undeniable beauty with some sweet, kind whispers against her ear.

The door was open without warning, Maegor walked into the room being more at ease than the last time; he was wearing his normal clothing, with the exception of the scabbard around his hips holding Dark Sister. Aenelys looked at him through the mirror and she almost sighed at the view. He looked so deadly handsome.

As he started to approach her, she could not help but to notice the roll up sleeves that left his veiny forearms exposed to her eye. A warmth sensation was positioned on her lower belly after the unholy thoughts came back to his mind; once again, the images on the tapestries that decorated the palace were placed on her memories, and a rouge blush invaded her cheeks once she started to think about him in unforgivable ways.

“What a sight you are, my beautiful dove,” he murmured, using the soft tone that he reserved only for her, and then a satisfied smile appeared on her face.

She turned around, facing him directly as the maid that was helping her quickly left the room to leave them alone. Maegor had not even acknowledged her presence, for all he could see was his little princess in front of him, staring back at him those pretty, doe eyes; filled with that innocence that he desired to take so badly.

“You will make me the most fortunate man once I take you as my wife,” he whispered as he stepped closer enough to reach her cheek. As his thumb started to caress her skin, she leaned towards his touch, longing for it, all while her eyes sparkled with illusion once again. Maegor could only grin at her reaction. “The horse is ready for us to go,” he informed, “shall we leave now?”

He grabbed her hand before she could reply with a gesture, and he guided through the dark hallways of the palace until they reached the front gates. A big horse was waiting for them, as black as coal. Maegor was chivalrous enough to help her mount it, grabbing her waist and picking her up without major effort. Then, he mounted the horse, holding Aenelys’ body as close to his as possible. The princess felt her legs go weak after feeling his chest pressed against her back.

Soon, both were riding slowly through the night life of Braavos, Aenelys was looking everywhere, trying to ignore the closeness between them both, trying to ignore his warmth breath against her ear and how he would accidently rub himself in her. Her cheeks were red as strawberries at this point, and her heart was pounding hard against her chest.

Whilst they were riding through the markets and the dark alleys, Aenelys took the time to observe her surroundings; how they were getting darker and dirtier. The people started to pay more attention to them, causing Aenelys to look for some kind of protection in her uncle’s safe arms.

She was scared, but she knew that as long as she remained by his side nothing bad would happen to her. After all, Maegor had always been her knight in shining armor.

When the horse stopped, indicating that the journey had come to an end, they were in front of a yellow door with a knocker made with gold. That small detail caught the princess’ attention, for it was rather unusual to see such an expensive object in a place like this; but once the door was opened, Aenelys noticed the reason behind it.

Her mouth went dry, and her eyes widened as they stepped inside of the building. She looked everywhere, trying to capture every moment within seconds; curiosity growing inside her just as the blush on her cheeks. There were a lot of people, all in nude; kissing, touching, and pleasuring each other as she walked through them. Moans and sounds that expressed pleasure and lust was all she heard, and the blush on her cheeks was impossible to hide.

Maegor's grip on her hip tightened after people noticed their presence in that place, and soon they started to whisper, mumbling secrecies as they saw them pass through the crowds. And, as Aenelys followed Maegor's pace, she noticed a man sitting in the corner who widened his eyes after he saw her, that is when a feeling of discomfort grew inside of her and told her that there was something wrong. She did not listen to it.

Soon, they were approached by a woman who seemed to be the exact opposite of Aenelys. Her skin was white, but her hair was black as coal and she had dark eyes that reflected pure lust and mischief; emotions that, somehow, intensified once she laid eyes upon Maegor imponent figure. There was something about her that the princess did not like; perhaps she had felt threatened by the way she was looking at Maegor, or by the way she touched his arm with so much trust and confidence. Those were small gestures that proved to her that it was not the first time Maegor was in that place.

She was wearing a thin, light blue dress. Aenelys found herself unconsciously looking at her cleavage as the woman got closer to them and politely smiled at her. The Targaryen princess tried to return the gesture, but the jealousy growing inside of her made it impossible. She wanted to know who that woman was.

"My prince," she greeted him, her voice was seductive, deep. "It's been a while."

"Indeed," he replied with a nod.

"I see you finally brought your beautiful princess with you," she pointed out, stepping close enough to reach for a strand of her platinum hair and wrap it around her finger with a smirk. "She is as gorgeous as you described her."

Her heart jumped inside her chest after hearing those words. The fact that he had spoken about her, describing her in such a tender way, made her feel better than ever. She had to hold back an enormous smile, looking at the floor in order to make the blush in her cheeks go unnoticed.

"Tell me your name, sweet doe,” she commanded in a soft voice that was far from being comforting.

"Aenelys, my lady," she replied a bit shy, using her uncle's arm to subtly hide from her.

The woman laughed, not too loudly but mockingly enough to make her feel bad and slightly embarrassed.

"Oh, I'm no lady," she said between chuckles. "I'm Tyanna, one of your uncle's loyal companions here in Braavos."

Aenelys felt her smile trembling at the edges, almost disappearing completely. And then the jealousy returned as soon as it had left. Narroweyed, she looked at the woman in front of her with no signs of the charming smile that used to be on her face, no signs of sympathy for her either. Aenelys was quick to understand the double meaning of what she had just said, and a disliking expression appeared in her visage. Maegor dug his fingertips deeper into Aenelys' waist, tightening his grip and keeping her by his side. Only then, the princess looked away and let her tensed body relax.

"Is the room ready for us?" Maegor asked with no sentiment in his voice.

"It is, my prince," she nodded. Tyanna gave her a last look before smirking and saying, "follow the usual path, I know you will not get lost."

It seemed to the princess that the courtesan in front of her was blatantly mocking her. The malicious intent in her eyes was obviously showing along with a wicked smile. Aenelys was smart, she was able to read through her and noticing that she would bring nothing but trouble in her life. She immediately knew Tyanna was going to be an obstacle that she needed to get rid of.

Maegor ignored Tyanna’s words, and he took his niece towards the room, walking her through a dark hallway illuminated with only candles and some torches, and where there were doors from which lustful sounds were heard.

Once they found the last door, Maegor let her walk in. Aenelys was shaking with expectation at this point, confused on why they were really here and anxious to know whether the time for his uncle to claim her had finally arrived or not, and her questioning only grew when she noticed the lascivious atmosphere that was trapped within those four, burgundy walls.

The smell of cinnamon was the first thing she perceived, along with the heat of the warm summer wind that sneaked through the thin, golden curtains. Then, her eyes went to the big, round bed in the center of the room, right under a very explicit paint that reminded her of Ser Varys’ tapestries back in the palace. There was also a table with two cups, a bottle of fine wine, and a lot of weird shaped objects laying on a silver, freshly polished, platter.

Maegor closed the door behind him, and the loud noise made her wake up from the trance she was in. At that moment, she came to realize where she was – and whom she was with.

She sighed, hearing his steps getting closer to her until she managed to recognize his scent. Aenelys closed her eyes as she took a deep breath, drowning in that manly perfume of his that made her feel chills.

“Why are we here?” she dared to ask, refusing to lay eyes on him merely out of shyness.

“You told me you wanted to learn,” he reminded her, standing behind her and grabbing her waist with his hand. He leaned towards her ear before whispering, “Now you will learn.”

His chest was pressed against her back, his chin resting on the top of her head as his hands started to play with the thin fabric of her dress. A sharp breath left her lips as Maegor started to brush his lips against the skin of her nape, causing shivers down her spine and butterflies on her belly. Her knees felt weak, and her legs trembled; Maegor placed both of his hands on each side of her tiny body with a firm grip that provided her with stability, all whilst he buried his nose on her neck to inhale her sweet scent.

Aenelys moved her head to the side, giving him more space to do with her as he pleased. Her eyes closed and her mouth slightly parted to catch a deep breath. Millions of sensations were running down her body as Maegor teased her, tempting her with his touch.

“So soft,” he murmured, “so pretty.”

“Maegor-”

“You think I haven’t thought about it?” He interrupted, almost grunting as he now pressed his lower body against her. Aenelys frowned confused, being too flushed and distracted to even process his words. “... About you laying in our marital bed, completely bare?”

His lips reached her neck, tasting and savoring her soft skin as she let a soft moan escape from her plump lips. It was the first time he ever dared to do such an intimate thing with her, to touch her in that way. Aenelys bit her lower lip, and once Maegor noticed it he took his hand toward her mouth, pulling her lip away from her teeth and forcing her to let out those beautiful sounds.

“I keep dreaming about it, my sweet dove,” he groaned, “How sweet you would sound whispering my name as I take your precious body, claiming you as mine.”

His hands soon found their way to her belly, one of them remaining there while the other started to slip down her frame, heading towards her heated core. He was slowly approaching that spot that was desperately aching for his attention at this point. It was a tortuous thing; teasing her until she breaks.

“I cannot stop thinking about my child growing inside of you, my little princess,” she whines as a response and Maegor teasingly chuckles. “Would you like that, huh? Giving me an heir? Having my seed inside of you?-”

Maegor was interrupted by a sudden action made by her. She turned around and he was able to see the lust growing inside those doe eyes of hers. She seemed desperate, longing for some kind of relief for the heat between her thighs. His words had visibly caused an effect on her, for her cheeks were burning red and her breathing had quickened. She stared at him with pleading eyes, as if he was begging him to fulfill his dreams with her, right there. She was asking him to make his desires come true on the spot.

She placed her hands on his chest, feeling the shape of his muscles under her fingertips. Maegor grabbed her by the neck, his thumb rubbing against her lips. Aenelys took a deep breath, getting ready to stand on her tiptoes to finally reach for his lips.

But a loud, thunderous noise was heard, and Maegor turned his head away from her. Aenelys quickly tried to find safety in the arms of the man she loved, but he stood back, already being on guard and collecting the sword he brought with him. The princess stood right where he left her, frozen and waiting for his indications, for him to tell her what to do.

“Stay here,” he commanded, and Aenelys did not dare to disobey.

She saw how Maegor left the room and abandoned her there; in a place she did not know, completely alone.

Of course the fear was quick to take over her body; she hugged herself as if she was trying to protect herself from anything that may come her way at the same time she was carefully staring at the door in front of her. A few more sounds were heard, along with shouting and curses from men and women, which only made her beg for Maegor to come back.

A crack was heard inside of the room and the princess was frightened to turn around and search for the source of that sound. However, a sudden breeze entered the area, and she forced herself to do so. As soon as she did, a hand went to her mouth.

Her screams were muffled as her eyes went wide with panic and terror, soon covered in a layer of blurriness which announced the upcoming tears. Her legs shook as she stared at the man in front of her, whom she quickly recognised as the one who was looking at her when she walked in that place.

“Princess, I need you to be quiet,” he warned her, whispering as he constantly checked the door. “My name is Ser Greg Forrester, I was sent by your mother, Queen Alyssa… I’ve come to rescue you.”

Mumbles were heard as her confusion only grew. The mention of her mother made her feel some kind of guilt and anguish inside of her chest, but the whole situation was taking her by surprise. At that point she knew her disappearance might have caused some kind of trouble, for there was certainly a reason why that man was sent for her; and yet, she had no intention to move nor follow his orders.

Not when things were about to change between her and Maegor.

“I need you to come with me,” he continued. “I have already localized your dragon, and I have a horse outside waiting for us.”

The princess seemed to have calmed down; the hysterical expression on her face had vanished as soon as the man explained who he was. He slowly removed his hand from her mouth, and the princess instantly took a step back.

“I need to take you home safely,” he insisted.

“No,” she quickly answered. Ser Greg frowned. “I’m safe here.”

“I’m afraid the queen believes otherwise,” he explained, “she thinks your uncle is dangerous, she thinks he might put you at risk.”

“Nonsense!” She stopped him, raising her voice. “He will protect me better than any guard or knight… He loves me, he will never do something to hurt me.”

“He forced you to be away from your family-”

“He did not force me to do anything,” the princess interrupted him, getting mad at such accusations.

“The King and Queen miss you terribly, princess,” he replied, and a silence was formed. He was smart enough to try and bring sentimalism to the matter. Aenelys was quick to notice such thing, not being affected by his empty words. He only did it to save his head from a spike once he returned to King’s Landing.

“I will not leave him here alone,” she spoke harshly, determined. “I’m sorry.”

“But princess-”

“It is best for you to leave before my uncle returns” Aenelys advised, “we both know what will happen if he finds you here.”

The man pressed his lips in a thin line as his eyes looked at her with pity and sorrow. Aenelys ignored that, simply looking away from his face and onto the ground. Ser Greg had no choice but to escape from the same window he entered, leaving the princess with a hardened expression on her soft features.

Soon, the door behind her was opened once again, and she turned around only to find Maegor’s imposing figure in the doorframe. Her eyes shifted with worry as she saw stains of blood on her body; her heart sank on her chest after thinking he might have been hurted.

“Maegor-”

“I thought you wanted to go,” he interrupted her.

A silence then appeared, filling the space between them as their eyes connected from each side of the room. Maegor’s jaw was clenched, while Aenelys nervously played with the pendant of her necklace, feeling small under his dominant haze.

“What?” She softly asked.

Maegor walked inside the room, closing the door behind him. The signs of a growing smile could be seen on his handsome face as he approached her.

“You told me,” he reminded her as he tried to hide his victory smile, “I should’ve stayed...”

“I-”

“I had to make sure that was just a lie,” he quickly said.

Aenelys frowned as Maegor’s touch reached her soft cheek. The realization of what he had just said arrived like a bucket of cold water being poured all over her.

“You called them…”

“How else was I supposed to know if your love for me was real or not?” His tone tried to be sweet, caring, but it still came out as controlling and dominant. “At least now I know that my future wife will always remain loyal to me.”

Aenelys’ heart beated faster, for she saw these actions as a reflection of his devotion to her, as the eagerness to keep her always by his side. She was supposed to be mad for playing with her like this, but instead, she just fell harder for him.

“Now, since you have proven where your loyalties lie, I think it is time for me to give you a reward for always being such a good little princess…” He mumbled, getting rid of his shirt. Aenelys held her breath at the sight. “Go and take off your clothes, dove, it’s time for you to learn.”

And she obeyed.

BOLD MEANS I COULDN'T TAG YOU

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#sinners #maegor the cruel #maegor x oc #maegor targaryen #maegor targaryen x original character #maegor targaryen x niece #house of the dragon #hotd smut #hotd #hotd fanfic #maegor targaryen fanfic #maegor targaryen smut #maegor targaryen x you #maegor targaryen x reader #maegor x reader #fire and blood fanfic #fire and blood #house targaryen

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valaenatargaryensdragon · 2 years ago

Note

Could you please write Maegor getting upset when his wife, who was forced to marry him, refuses to hand over their new son, after his birth.

A/N: I hope you like this!

pairing: Dark!Maegor Targaryen x Reader

summary: Maegor getting upset when his wife, who was forced to marry him, refuses to hand over their new son, after his birth.

Word count: 1,1K

Warnings: Angst, forced marriage, childbirth

Masterlist 1

Masterlist 2

"You're not the first or last woman he will marry" Tyanna of the tower hissed in your ear the night of your wedding. You were only ten and five namedays old when your father married you to Maegor in hopes of an alliance and to get on the good graces of the cruel king.

"Why is he doing this?" You had sobbed as she herself braided your hair for the bedding. Your mother had explained what it entailed but Tyanna had made Maegor sound like a monster in the bed, that you will probably perish in between his arms as he fucked you.

"He needs a son, an heir" Tyanna answered. She secured the last braid and moved away from you. The sorceress provided a vail from her waist band and held it out to you. "For fertility" She had promised so you would not have to bed Maegor for long. You gulped it down without a second thought wanting to get rid of him.

That night Maegor and you performed your duties, he was gentler than Tyanna explained but with no mercy unlike what your mother had explained. You were in pain after and could barely move but the more he came to you the easier it became.

When you fell pregnant Maegor rejoiced and threw feasts and tourneys claiming his heir was coming. Tyanna's true face came out then, she had doubled her visits unlike Maegor's other wives, Ceryse and Alys of Harroway. The two women sympathised with you because with your pregnancy came Maegor's attention as well.

It was Alys who had stopped you from drinking a tea Tyanna brought you, it was a tea to help you with the birth, to make it easier and faster but Alys was suspicious already and called in a maester and alerted Maegor of the incident. Alys was right, the tea was meant to turn your child into a monster, sorcery, Maegor killed Tyanna in front of your eyes. Terrible mistake of his now you feared him more than ever, he was ready to kill anyone and everyone.

He had presented her heart to you muttering that it was for the sake of your son. The sight of her heart in his hands sent you into labour, you were terrified. Alys had stayed with you during the labour, trying to calm you down, trying to remind you that you were bringing a new life into the world.

Ceryse however stayed outside of the chamber with Maegor, she saw herself above being by your side during your labour, she was of higher statues, she was the niece of the high septon after all. Other than that she was of much older age than you two combined probably, she you had never truly asked for her age.

"Good job, your grace" The maester praised from between your legs. You panted leaning back against the pillows. Alys dabbed a soaking rag against your overheated skin.

"Again, your grace, you're almost done" The maester encouraged. You took a deep breath and pushed when the next contraction began. A scream came out involuntarily, it was just very painful. The pressure slipped out of you after almost seven hours of labour.

"A son!" The maester rejoiced pulling the bloodied child out. He squealed out, crying for warmth. The maester placed the crying child over your stomach so he can cut the cord connecting you to your child and deliver the after birth.

Maegor was unable to wait anymore but what broke him was the sound of a child crying from inside. Ceryse's face dropped at the sound, she had failed her duty, another woman had presented him with a son, a living heir. Maegor brushed passed her to walk into the room.

Midwives were running around the room with bloody rags and pots filled with bloodied water. You were laying on the bed with a pile of pillows keeping you upright, your hair was wet from sweat and face red, your breathing was ragged but your eyes were focused on the baby crying in your arms. Even Alys was crying beside you, relieved that maybe the birth of this baby would lessen the weight on her shoulders.

"Oh my baby" You whispered, unaware that Maegor had stepped into the room. The white haired baby tried looking up at you but was unable to raise his head. You moved him to lay in your arms at an angel that let you look at each other.

"Shhh baby, mommy's here" You swayed him slightly in your arms. He calmed down, opening his eyes finally to show the most beautiful shade of purple eyes ever.

"A son your grace, congratulations" The maester was the first to notice Maegor. He stood up straight with the after birth still in his hands. Your gaze moved to look at him stood by the door, eyes stuck on the child in your arms. You pulled your son closer to your chest.

"My son" It was like he was in a trance. He stepped closer the bed slowly. Alys moved off the bed and to the side to help some of the maids choose a dress to put you in after they bathe you.

"Give me my son" Maegor opened his arms, a grin decorated his face. You feared him now more than when he would glare at you.

"No" You squeaked, shaking your head from side to side. The room fell deathly quiet at your words. Alys closed her eyes fearing for your safety.

"Give me my son" Maegor ordered, eyes glaring down at you, his smile slipping slowly off his face. Alys scrambled to the other side of the bed and took a seat beside you. She reached to touch your arm but you flinched away from her touch.

"No, don't take him away from me" You cried, holding him tighter, closer to you. The maester could notice the anger in Maegor's eyes growing closer and closer to craziness at being refused to hold his first child.

"Your grace, if I may" The maester handed the after birth to one of the midwives and moved to stand by Maegor's other side. Maegor side eyed him giving him permission to speak before turning to glare at you, you glared right back with tearful eyes.

"Some mothers grow overprotective of their children when their first born, maybe we should give the queen some time to adjust to the child, it is like an instinct, not her fault or choice your grace" The maester spoke lowly. If you could you would growl at him like some animal. To Maegor you looked like a dragon protecting her eggs.

"Get her snapped out of it fast, I want my son" Maegor hissed. He pushed the old maester to the side and stormed out of the room to begin preparations of the celebrations in his heir's honour.

#house of the dragon #house targaryen #hotd #house of the dragon imagine #hotd imagine #maegor the cruel #maegor targaryen #maegor imagine #maegor x reader #maegor targaryen x reader #maegor #tyanna of the tower #tyanna of pentos #alys harroway

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lynette-m-roses · 1 year ago

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𝔈𝔫𝔳𝔦𝔬𝔲𝔰 ℌ𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔱

𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤: Jealous Rhaenyra, Daemon x niece reader, Incest, reader's pregnant with Daemon's baby.

The sun was setting over the Red Keep, casting a warm glow on the city of King's Landing. Inside the castle, the royal family was gathering for dinner. Daemon, the handsome and charismatic prince, sat at the head of the table, his wife and niece, Y/N, by his side. They had been married for just over a year, and Y/N was now pregnant with their first child.

As the feast began, Rhaenyra Y/N's mother, entered the room. She was known for her beauty and her fierce love for her family. But tonight, there was a darkness in her eyes that sent shivers down Y/N's spine. Rhaenyra took her seat at the opposite end of the table, her gaze never leaving Y/N.

As the evening went on, Y/N couldn't shake off the feeling of unease that had settled in her stomach. Rhaenyra's behavior was becoming more and more erratic, and she seemed to be glaring at Y/N with hatred and jealousy. Y/N knew that Rhaenyra had always been fiercely protective of her husband, but she never expected her own mother to turn against her.

When the feast ended, Y/N excused herself and made her way to her chambers. She could feel Rhaenyra's eyes following her, and she couldn't help but feel a sense of dread. As she entered her room, she found Rhaenyra waiting for her, a wicked smile on her lips.

'Mother, what is the matter?' Y/N asked, trying to hide the fear in her voice.

Rhaenyra's smile widened. 'You, my dear. You are the matter. How dare you steal my uncle's love and bear his child? You are nothing but a pawn in his game.'

Y/N was taken aback by Rhaenyra's words. She had always known that her marriage to Daemon was unconventional, but she never imagined her own mother would see her as a threat. But before she could respond, Rhaenyra's hand shot out and grabbed Y/N's wrist tightly.

'You will not bear his child. I will not let you,' Rhaenyra hissed, her grip tightening.

Y/N's eyes widened in horror as she realized what Rhaenyra was planning. She was going to harm Y/N and her unborn child. Without thinking, Y/N pushed Rhaenyra away and ran to her chambers, locking the door behind her. She could hear Rhaenyra banging on the door, demanding to be let in.

Y/N's heart was racing as she looked around her room, trying to come up with a plan. She knew she couldn't stay in her chambers, but she also couldn't leave the safety of the castle. Suddenly, she remembered the secret passage that led to Daemon's chambers.

With trembling hands, Y/N opened the hidden door and made her way through the dark tunnels. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and she could feel the baby kicking inside her. She prayed that Daemon would be in his chambers and that he would protect her and their child.

As Y/N entered Daemon's chambers, she was greeted by the sight of her husband, sitting by the fireplace, lost in thought. She ran to him and collapsed into his arms, tears streaming down her face.

'Y/N, what is the matter?' Daemon asked, concern etched on his face as he held her tight.

'It's mother. She...she wants to harm our child,' Y/N sobbed, her body shaking with fear.

Daemon's face hardened as he pulled away from Y/N and looked into her eyes. 'I will not let anyone harm you or our child. I swear it on my life,' he said, determination in his voice.

Y/N couldn't help but feel a surge of love for her husband. She knew that he would protect them no matter what. But she also knew that they couldn't stay in the castle any longer. Rhaenyra would not stop until she got what she wanted.

Together, Y/N and Daemon made their escape from the Red Keep, leaving behind the treacherous world of the Targaryen's. They found a new home in Dragonstone, far away from the chaos and danger of King's Landing. And there, surrounded by love and safety, Y/N gave birth to a healthy baby boy, their firstborn. He was named Maegor, after Maegor the first.

As they looked at their child, Y/N couldn't help but feel grateful for Daemon's love and protection. And as for Rhaenyra, she was never seen or heard from again. But Y/N knew that her mother's love for Daemon would always burn bright, and she couldn't help but feel a twinge of pity for the woman who had lost everything to her own jealousy.

#x reader #reader insert #daemon targaryen x reader #pregnant reader #Daemon Targaryen x pregnant reader #Daemon Targaryen x niece reader #HOTD #one shot #imagine #Jealousy #rhaenyra targaryen #Jealous Rhaenyra Targaryen

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blueberrypancakesworld · 7 months ago

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You are ours - Blacks

Blacks x fem!reader (hostage)

characters : Daemon, Rhaenyra, Jacaerys, Rhaenys

Warning : hostage (trapped), hurt/comfort, implied possession, emotional, kiss, war, fear, implied death, filth (slightly implied), Targaryen incest, f/f, m/f, no use of y/n

Summary : Held hostage after the Black's escape, the princess of the realm could do nothing but hope for rescue at last, while the color black shrouded her more and more in emotions far beyond hate and love.

info : so now the counterpart to the green ones yes yes i would like to be trapped on both sides but well let's see…i hope you enjoy reading and thanks for the support :)

masterlist

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He was the rough prince he was the ete pirnz of the realm the brother of the king he was feared by all he was unpredictable maybe he was just like his great-great-uncle Maegor. He was the wielder of Darksister and flew on Caraxes the blood worm.

He had always had a right to the throne and even if he had children with his wife, even if he had two daughters with his second wife, in the end he was only the prince regent of the realm, subordinate to his queen and niece Rhaenyra.

But in the end, he still had her, ,,The green sister-in-law was a little mouse at court and couldn't do anything to prevent the rise of this false cunt king," he continued to talk to her as he stood in front of her cell.

He was grateful to his cousin Rhaenys that the queen had brought the widow queen's sister with her on her escape with Meleys, it was one more thing they had in hand against the leeches.

But perhaps it was because the prince had taken a fancy to the sweet mouse since he arrived in King's Landing more than ten years ago that he was amused by her.

She wasn't like her younger sister Alicent she was a wanderer she stood up for herself didn't let herself be manipulated by her father or at least less than the dowager queen and had an opinion. ,,The mouse that will survive the dragon…mice breed quickly and what family doesn't back its own blood?" she replied and rose from the simple bed, exchanging the dress that was once green on her for a black one and leaning lightly against the bars.

She saw the hatred for her, for her sister and nephews and her niece and twins. He hated her and hated all her blood, but above all he realized that the mouse was dancing around his nose, ,,Hiding in plain sight with the prince, what does your father say?" he asked, coming closer to the bars and seeing how she tensed up even though she showed no fear.

In all other cases he was stronger, he was always stronger and he realized this with a grin as her eyes lingered on his violet eyes and his center for a moment too long. The mouse had a fascination for dragons, ,,What would he say if his daughter came home with a bastard child? The star of Oldtown desecrated by me mhhh?" he came closer to her and saw her looking at him uncertainly as the dragon wallowed in her fear.

Daemon grabbed her wrist hastily before she could move into the cell and pulled her back so that he could see her body pressing against the bars, a little unsteadily and yet the fear in her eyes mingled with the daring smile on her lips. ,,Then my nephew the king will kill you-" she began, sure that the green ones would hound her, but his lips were quicker. He wrapped her in a kiss, making her fall silent and his hands held her.

It was one kiss of many they threatened each other keeping her limited position in mind and yet she couldn't help but wear more and more black and red the blood red as perhaps in the lost texts of the books she did give birth to a child but whether it was the dragon's no one knew in the centuries that passed. But who could say what was clear was that she was a prisoner of the black under the control of Daemon Targaryen the Rough Prince.

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Rhaenyra : The Queen of the Blacks the Queen who was the first child of King Viserys was her step niece a woman of power. A queen who should not be lait the green according to her nephew, according to the Widow Queen's sister.

However, it was not in her position to say the contrary, it was completely different since she was taken as a hostage as revenge for the death of Lucerys, she was the bargaining chip in a war that was about to break out. A war that could have been prevented, but things had happened that had led to this.

The queen had chosen a new one in her circle of ladies-in-waiting. The Lady Hightower of Oldtwon the star of the house elder sister of her former friend Alicent.

Maybe it was because she had the look of the living Hightower, maybe it was because she was Alicent's sister or her voice was similar to Alicent's…maybe she was just looking for someone who was like her friend.

But it didn't matter because she had made her her lady in waiting, of course, with guards who were with her so that no attack could be made. But the color of the dress was black with red, the conversations went on about the past and Rhaenyra found herself looking for her former friend's company when she was alone in the evening, ,,You wanted to see me Rhaenyra?" she asked and came into the room and saw the queen standing at the balcony.

One of the Queen's Guard was in the room watching the two of them and was about to kill the star if they lost leverage, but they accepted that. But perhaps she herself liked the position she was in, ,,Stand by me, I want to watch the stars with you," the Targaryen ordered her old friend, who came striding towards her.

It was a position in which she felt like a beautiful thought back then, ,,They are beautiful like you," she replied and saw Rhaenyra's smiling face and the violet eyes on her.

There was a kind of back and forth between them, a teasing and a hatred that lay between them. ,,Flattery will get us no further dear," she reminded the star of Oldtwon before they both looked up at the sky again, looking at the star constellations they had already seen when the three of them sat in the garden or on the balcony and looked up at the sky.

But Rhaenyra was right, she was only here as a prisoner for information, if it went near Daemond she would be tortured but Rhaenyra hoped for other ways, ,,Even if it would be nice to have it like back then," the older one admitted and saw the sad expression on the violet eyes lips that seemed to tremble for a moment and hands that held on to the railing.

Rhaenyra looked away for a moment, seeming to want to gather herself, only to see her hand raised in a wave of her eye and her nostrils turned to panic. With a hasty movement she had her former friend against the railing of the balcony, ,,Is this what you want? Or do you want to hurt me?" asked the queen, pushing her further and letting her go, while the two women saw the tears in each other's eyes. They held each other tightly, seeing the pain, knowing that in the end there was a way out, a war that ended in death.

Before she could slowly break away, Rhaenyra allowed her to do so, leaning her head against hers and stroking the queen's cheek. It was silent tears that they exchanged, they just held each other and she knew that the black thread had been in her heart for years.

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Jacaerys :

Jacaerys : The first prince of the realm to succeed his mother on the throne, the brave young prince with a duty to serve his mother.

A young boy born into a crige who tries to kill him because of his blood but before that he was a young man with a gentle nature who after the death of his brother wants to see an end to the war the sooner the better but whether his decision was right when his family fled King's Landing on his dragon to take his great aunt with him he did not know.

It was a thought, a feeling that he could not otherwise protect his family, a shield that would protect them all, but for them for long? But now after weeks of being on Dragonstone with his family and her still being here made him realize that his decision was wrong.

He had taken his own aunt hostage what prince does that or was he too lost in grief? Questions he couldn't answer and walked helplessly through the castle, his thoughts diminishing as he trained, when he was with his fiancée and her sister it was bearable but as soon as he saw them the feeling of guilt returned.

A feeling that consumed him and he didn't dare to speak out, she on the other hand always had a knowing look in her eyes when she brought the wine to the war table, cleaned the rooms or stood by the cliffs she was a green dragon in a cage of black fabric which was actually her family.

But the least he would do was apologize when his boots echoed in the corridors and he was on his way to the cliffs that pointed towards Driftmark where the dragons flew over their heads and he could call Vermax if he needed his dragon. But in fact she was there as she usually was in her free time he never knew why and the rest of the family and their vassals seemed uninterested.

His hand loosely on the hilt of his sword, his cloak blew gently back and forth with her dress as the winds on the cliffs were always stronger than in the castle where it was like a breeze.

Winds he felt whenever he flew over the castle on Vermax it was one of the few places of peace where he could talk, cry, laugh it was a place he hoped to stay forever. ,,You are always here, dear aunt," he said and saw how she did not turn her gaze away from the sea but a slight smile came to her lips, a sad smile.

He tried to follow her gaze to find out where she was looking until he saw her nod, ,,Two families Jace from here on a good day you can see King's Landing a bit I feel closest to them…but please can I do something for you?" she asked back and turned to him e saw the tears in her eyes she seemed to have weighed another stone of guilt inside him.

He felt his heart beat faster with nervousness as he looked away from her at the sea and breathed shakily, ,,I…I apologize for what I did I thought it would help us…help my mother the queen but now I see it was wrong" he admitted lowering his own gaze and smacking the lump in his throat and wiping away the tears as the memories came back, memories of his brother, of the short happy time until it all went down.

But suddenly he felt her hand on his, a gentle squeeze and a look that told him she didn't blame him, ,,A prince who wants to protect his family is nothing to condemn believe me I don't approve of what my nephew did either and yet I tried not to do the same to you the pain is the same" she reminded him and gave him a moment before pulling him into a brief embrace the sniffling of both of them lost from the winds as they knew they had to forgive and resent everything at the same time in this uncertain time as family and as enemies.

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Rhaenys : The queen who never was was a title she had accepted for a long time since her birth, her beloved mother and father had perhaps hoped or wished that she could become queen. She was older, had a dragon and was of the blood of the heir to the throne but she was a woman and a woman would be dropped by the council in the face of her cousin Viserys.

It was hard, the beginnings were truly hard but the longer she watched the game with Viserys the more relieved she became as she realized the dangers and her beloved husband Corlys let her know that even if she was robbed of her throne he was there for her. Until she saw herself in another woman "the queen that was meant to be" a title that belonged to Alicent's elder sister.

A woman younger than Rhaenys and yet a fate that Alicent shared, being queen was a false choice her older sister more fit for the throne than a young woman.

But it had happened and after retreating from the castle they had simply taken her away, not that she was to blame, it was a decision of the Prince Consort and she would follow her Queen.

But now whenever the two crossed paths there was a caution and understanding between them, a "My Lady" and a "My Princess" as a formal and polite form of address, even though they were enemies, they came together again and again, it was a meeting of conversation and curiosity about how to deal with such a title. A title that Rhaenys gave up and a title that she wanted to have.

A fact they both did not deny but with another meeting that evening in Rhaenys' chamber while Corlys was away showed how they fit together. ,,I ask you now as the title of a woman who never received a crown…do you believe your nephew has truly inherited the throne?" came the question as the two women sat in a chair in front of the fireplace, the light making their shadows dance and the amused smiles appear as they took a sip.

The Lady shook her head, ,,I was there when my father proclaimed the title of King…but I think we both know that was not your cousin's wish," she admitted and took a long sip. Everyone in the black party knew that Viserys had appointed his daughter, that he had given his son to a ram but not to the throne.

Rhaenys sat up slightly in the chair and leaned slowly towards the younger woman, ,,I know that, but you deserve the crown, don't you? Being passed over for a queen because of your own younger sister's looks makes you sorry, doesn't it?" she asked and saw exactly how the wariness appeared in her lady's eyes, her gaze lowered for a moment only to want to retreat, which Rhaenys didn't allow.

She had it where she wanted it and knew that even if she never got the crown, any ally in green could be used to put the black on her and create the illusion of a crown.

She knew when their eyes met she saw the determination in the Hightower's eyes she knew there was something between them, always had been, that they would use.the Lady was not a dragon but when Rhaenys placed her hand on the younger one's the fire crackled in the hearth the green seemed as hot as the dragon's blood flowing through the black.

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#hotd #hotd fanfic #daemon targaryen #rhaenyra targaryen #jacaerys velaryon #rhaenys targaryen #daemon x reader #rhaenyra x reader #jacaerys x reader #rhaenys x reader #house of the dragon #male x female #female x female

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humanpurposes · 1 year ago

Text

We're Born At Night

Chapter 2

Lady Rhaelle Targaryen of Runestone travels to King's Landing to plead for her sister's life, though the King she must bow to is a kinslayer three times over, and the very man who slaughtered her father

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x Rhaelle Targaryen (OFC)

Warnings: 18+, eventual smut, politics, mentions of death and war, Aemond is a bit of a dick but that's his job

Words: 5.9k

A/n: I was aiming to post this on Sunday (but a pretty girl said I was cute and I went a bit insane 😌)

“Cheat!”

Rhaelle conceals her delight as she claims the ivory King piece from the cyvasse board. “It is not cheating, dear sister, it is strategy.”

Sunset is not long away. Rhaelle and Daena have spent most of the day in their chambers, waiting, flicking through the small collection of books from the shelf, playing cards and games of cyvasse which all end in the same way, a decisive victory for Rhaelle.

She cannot stomach the thought of food or sweets, cider or wine. She just feels her heart drumming in her chest, pulsing through the blood that runs under her skin. Aemond’s voice is still a whisper in her head and the other faces in the throne room are a blur, like trying to remember details from a dream. She should have been more attentive. The number of potential allies at court might be few but they will be invaluable if they are to advance here.

So they wait. Wait for Lord Corlys to give them some indication that the King has acknowledged their cause, that he has even heard it.

She glances down at her fingers wrapped around the King piece, at the hand he kissed a matter of hours ago. Aemond had been rather welcoming in the throne room, she supposes, at least publicly.

“But you tricked me!” Daena protests, looking in despair over the few pieces she has left on the board.

“I acted within the rules of the game,” Rhaelle says simply.

Daena makes a disheartened but determined huffing sound and starts to set the pieces out again, when there is a knock at the door. Morra answers and returns with Ser Willis, donned in his white cloak, with his helm under his arm and a broadsword proudly by his side.

Rhaelle taps her fingers on the table in front of Daena to get her attention and rises. “Lord Commander,” she says, “to what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Lady Rhaelle,” he greets with a small bow of his head. “I have a request from the King.”

Her heart leaps. Finally the waiting is at an end, but she contains herself. “Which is?”

“His Grace often takes his niece and nephew for a walk about the gardens in the evening, before the Prince and Princess are put to bed. He is unable to fulfil this duty tonight and asked if yourself and Lady Daena would like to take his place?”

She catches Daena’s eye for a moment and sees the same brightness in her gaze, the same hopefulness.

Aegon, her heart whispers to her. Aemond has invited them to meet with their brother.

Ser Willis leads the way, Morra following behind as they head towards the courtyard, to the lowered drawbridge of Maegor’s Holdfast. The halls here are closer than inside the rest of the castle and the windows are smaller so the light is lower. Ser Willis leads them through locked doors and flights of stairs, until they come to a series of apartments that are bright and grand, with wide open rooms and paler stone walls that reflect the light.

At last they come to a room where pale blue is the most prominent colour. The stonework is adorned with images of flowers and dragons alike, and a fire crackles pleasantly in the hearth.

There are two settees in the centre of the room. On the one facing the door, a little girl with silver hair in a light blue gown stares intently at the book on her governess’ lap. Her lavender eyes follow the words as the woman reads to her.

And perched on the windowsill is a boy, a little older, with a wooden knight in his hands. He turns his head when he hears the door open and stares right at them, with his lips downturned and his violet eyes wide and unblinking. He looks like Daena did when she was small, with neatly combed silver hair instead of her dark brown curls.

The governess closes the book and gathers the children to stand before their visitors. “Forgive us, my Ladies, we have been waiting patiently for you, haven’t we children?”

The girl clings to the woman’s hand, staring up at them like she is holding back tears, while the boy stands straight with his hands behind his back.

“Princess,” the governess says, ushering the girl forward, “these are your cousins, the Lady Rhaelle, and the Lady Daena.”

Jaehaera, the orphan Princess, the last of her family save for her uncle Aemond. She had a twin once, and a baby brother. Prince Jaehearys was beheaded only a short walk away from this room, before the eyes of his mother, his grandmother, and his siblings. It was in the early days of the war, a son for a son, at the order of Daemon Targaryen.

The little Princess takes a tentative step forwards, clinging to the sides of her gown as she curtsies steadily and gracefully.

Rhaelle curties low and rises to offer the girl a sympathetic smile, because losing a mother is a terrible thing, a lonely thing, which she knows all too well.

“Prince Aegon,” the governess says next, ushering him forward, “these are your sisters.” There is no warmth to her voice like she has for Jaeheara, but no contempt either, just an unsure sort of bluntness.

Aegon looks between them. “My father’s daughters,” he says softly.

Rhaelle extends a hand to him. Those eyes are so precious, she thinks, the eyes that had to see his own mother burned and devoured by his uncle’s dragon. Her heart shatters for him, for both of them, that they have had to witness so much horror.

“We have wanted to meet you for some time,” she says.

Aegon nods and holds her hand tightly. In the corner of her eye she sees the governess watching them.

Ser Willis and another Kingsguard, Ser Gyles Belgrave, accompany them to the gardens. When the governess goes to follow, Rhaelle holds up her hand. “No need,” she says, “my sister and I should like to acquaint ourselves with her family. We will be no longer than an hour.”

Neither the governess nor the guards protest.

The gardens are nothing like the countryside around Runestone, gravel paths and fountains, rows of carefully trimmed hedges, walkways covered in red ivy and trees that have begun to shed their golden leaves. They stay in sight of the castle, and Ser Willis and Ser Gyles are never far behind them.

Daena is delighted with young Aegon. She runs her hands over his hair, kisses his cheek, asks him about his favourite books and if he has held a sword yet.

Jaeheara was quiet at first but has warmed up, letting Rhaelle take one hand and Morra take the other. Her hand is small, soft and delicate, so much that Rhaelle worries she might break her if she holds her too tightly. She babbles on about the things children do. She says her favourite colour is blue, like her gown and like the sky. She says her governess is teaching her how to read, count and dance, but she wants to learn to sew.

“What would you sew?” Rhaelle asks.

Jaeheara knits her brow in thought. “Butterflies,” she says, “and spiders, and ladybirds.”

“You like insects?” Morra says.

“I can’t decide,” says Jaehaera, “but mother liked them very much.”

Rhaelle so desperately wants to bring her into her arms and hold her close to her chest. “Did your mother sew too?” she asks.

“Oh yes, she had a gift for us every day.” She keeps her eyes on the gravel shifting beneath her feet. “That means she was kind, doesn’t it?”

Rhaelle stops and turns to Jaehaera, bending her knees a little so their eyes meet. A flash of silver catches her attention instead, back towards the castle. She looks past Jaehaera’s shoulder, to a balcony overlooking the gardens. She knows it’s him, if the hair doesn’t give him away the black eyepatch against his pale skin does.

“Your mother was kind to me, when I knew her,” she says, gently.

Jaehaera’s eyes widen. Rhaelle worries she might start to cry but instead she smiles. “Uncle Aemond says she was kind.”

Her heart is humming again and her hands are starting to tremble. He must be watching them, watching her.

A little further down the path, Aegon and Daena are picking blackberries from a bramble bush, giggling as they place them in their mouths.

Rhaelle can hardly help herself but cup one of Jaehaera’s plump little cheeks. “We might find some insects in the bushes, what do you think, little Princess?”

“I often see ladybirds on the bramble bushes,” Jaehaera says. “I think they must like blackberries.”

Aegon calls his cousin’s name and waves at her with one hand, while cupping something in the other. He has found a caterpillar and shows it to Jaehaera. She stares down at its little green body with an endearing wonder, before deciding she wants to hold it too and show Morra.

While the children are distaced, Rhaelle steps close enough to Daena that they can speak softly to each other, without having to lean in too obviously.

“He said he knows all about us from Alyssa,” Daena says, “she used to tell him about us, about Runestone. Then he asked me if she was dead too.”

Rhaelle almost flinches.

“He is not yet seven years old and he has watched most of his family die,” Daena whispers bitterly, glancing towards the guards, out of earshot.

Rhaelle watches them too, far too busy with their own conversation to be listening to them and only sparing occasional glances towards the children. Then she looks back to the castle, hoping Aemond is still there, and he is.

When Ser Willis says it is time for the children to be taken back to the Holdfast, Rhaelle and Daena oblige. Jaehaera’s hands and mouth are covered in purple fruit juice and she is delighted with herself.

They pass under the balcony where Aemond stands as they reenter the castle. Daena and Morra are walking arm in arm. Aegon and Jaeheara are excitedly talking about caterpillars and butterflies and all the places they would fly to if they could grow wings.

Rhaelle sees him though, and catches his lone eye. His face is unreadable, stern and soft, dark and light.

Instinct, a reckless urge that she justifies as a risk, drives her towards a doorway leading off from the entrance hall. Daena and Morra will wait for her in their chambers once the children have been seen back to the nursery. The doorway leads to a hall, then a small winding staircase. She hitches her skirts and climbs it quickly, ensuring not to lose her footing in haste. She feels like she is chasing something intangible and follows it along a gallery, then to the balcony beyond that.

Aemond is still standing there with his hands behind his back and his head tall, looking south, over the gardens and Blackwater Bay beyond that. The noise of the castle does not reach her ears here, only the sound of the wind and the waves rolling over the shore beneath the Keep. In the west the sky burns like fire and in the east it is already getting dark.

She approaches him slowly, her shoes making enough of a noise against the flagstone floor to alert him of her presence, but softly enough so as not to disturb him. She comes to stand beside him on his seeing side, keeping her head straight but watching him, always watching him. “Your Grace,” she says quietly.

The corner of his mouth is curled. Is he smirking? Or is he irritated by her presence? “My Lady,” he returns.

Her hands are shaking. She brings them before her, clasping them together so she cannot fidget. “I had assumed you had other business this evening.”

“You assumed,” he says without looking at her.

“Ser Willis said you invited us to see the children.”

“I thought you might like to.”

“I did,” she insists, turning her head to face him. “I did. I am grateful. Daena and I are both grateful.”

Aemond hums, low and cryptic. It makes her feel weightless for a moment. He finally turns his head towards her. “The boy has mentioned you before, his Royce sisters, each of you.”

Coming from any other’s lips she might have taken her mother’s name as a compliment, and it could almost be that given the softness of his voice as he says it. But something else is written in the way he holds himself, the intensity in his eye, the striking gleam of silver hair falling over black leather: he is a true Targaryen, and she is an outsider.

Perhaps if she looks into his eye for long enough she’ll be able to read his thoughts. She finds nothing, save for an unsettled feeling in her chest and stomach. So she looks away, back out over the gardens. “I am glad my brother is being treated so well,” she says.

“Why should that surprise you?”

She tilts her head and gives him a rather pointed look. She asks herself if she would dare answer that question seriously. He still has the knife on him, maybe he’ll draw it and cut her throat for treason if she presses him hard enough.

Instead he hums a small laugh. “Prince Aegon is my heir until I have sons of my own. You needn’t fear if your brother is being mistreated.”

For now.

Then he adds in a quieter voice, “he is good with Jaehaera.”

Aegon was an older brother after all, and meant to have a younger sister of his own until the outbreak of war.

“The Princess is a delight,” Rhaelle says, “she is easy to love.”

Aemond’s eye lights up and he almost smiles. “She’s a sweet little thing, just like her mother was. Jaehaerys was the same…” he seems to regret this train of thought when he takes a slow breath and frowns to himself.

Rhaelle watches his chest rise and fall, this formidable man, a King forged in a time of war, determined not to crumble in the face of his own grief. She can almost pity him, and perhaps she does when she feels a gnawing sort of feeling knotting and twisting inside of her. She aches for him, for his losses and for her own.

“I see my own mother in many ways,” she says, taking a step into him. Aemond looks to her again, darkly but patiently. “I see her in my sister when she is stubborn. I see her in myself sometimes, all the times I thought she was being overbearing. I see her when I ride through the hills at Runestone. I feel her hovering over my shoulder when I draw a bow.”

Aemond has turned his body to face her now, not completely, just a little. One of his hands rests on the balustrade brought into a gentle fist, and he’s standing close to her, enough that she can hear each breath he takes and smell the leather of his jerkin.

“Because we don’t truly lose them,” she says, “at least I hope not. I can scarcely remember my mother’s face but I still know her love.”

“And that gives you comfort?” Aemond says.

“It does.”

“And what of your father, what love do you have for him?”

His question steals the air from her lungs. What love does she have for him, the man she hardly knew? The man her mother hated. The man who gave her his name and the burden of his legacy. Daemon’s blood runs through her veins as much as Rhea Royce’s does, life beyond death, enduring and damning.

Aemond is watching her intently, waiting for her answer, searching her face for a sign of weakness, but always with that gleam of amusement. Did he look for weakness in Daemon before they mounted their dragons at the God’s Eye? Did he find the fear he seems to feed off?

“The same all girls have for their fathers, I suppose,” is her answer.

“And do all girls love their fathers?”

“As best we can.”

“How diplomatic of you,” he says, smirking. He’s toying with her, testing her like a hunting trap.

“You distrust me,” she says.

He tuts. “I would very much like to trust you.”

“Yet you do not.”

“Do you trust me, cousin?”

It’s like asking if she would trust a snarling beast with a taste for her blood. “You are my King,” she says.

“And as King, it is my duty to identify threats, to my rule and to the realm.”

His gaze does not falter, and so she will not allow hers to either.

“Am I a threat, Your Grace?”

He considers her for a few moments, like he did in the throne room, studying her as closely and thoroughly as a scholar studies an ancient tome. All the while he curls his lips like he has a secret. “My brother was King before me,” he says in a low voice, taking another small step into her. “You are aware of the end he met?”

“Poison,” she says.

“And I took Larys Strong’s head for it, a man who served my mother for many years, who saw Jaeheara to safety during the war, who helped Aegon return to King’s Landing when it was taken from him. I could have all manner of enemies in these very walls, those who might seek to replace me with a child, more easily controlled than I am. Wearing a crown did not spare my brother from death and it will not spare me.”

He can trust no one, he means. A crown has become comparable to a death sentence as of late, and Kings and Queens are perhaps not as invincible as they once seemed.

“You are not your brother,” she says.

“No. What am I then?”

She parts her lips to respond, but she cannot give him an answer. In truth, the thought of being face to face with him, to ask for his mercy had terrified her when she first left Runestone. Aemond Targaryen, the man who started a war when he killed his nephew, who burned armies and put innocent men, women and children to the sword, who killed her father.

She has often wondered how he did it, if the battle was quick, or if it was long and bitter. She has wondered if the dragons tore each other to pieces, or if Aemond had been able to look his uncle in the eye as he claimed his life.

Before all of that he was a child with a gruesome gash in his face, who had tried so hard to hide his pain from her.

He hums cryptically and she feels him lean in closer to her, coming close enough that she can see the imperfections and the details in his face, the lines around his mouth and the texture of his skin. The edges of his scar appear as thin lines now. It is a striking element to his appearance, but other than that, she supposes he is merely a man.

“I have asked you once but I shall ask again: have you come to ask something of me, Lady Rhaelle?”

Lord Corlys would warn her to be patient. There is a strategy that must be employed, a set order in place for making a request of the King. She must be delicate, for Alyssa’s sake.

She spots his hand on the balustrade and places her own over it, barely tracing her fingers over his. She feels his gaze on her all the while. “Our house has been divided for too long. Shouldn’t we seek to heal this rift between our families?”

He watches where their hands meet and lifts them until their palms are against one another. Rhaelle’s fingertips press into the grooves of his fingers, against his warmth and the rough calluses of his skin.

“Hmm,” he says, threading his fingers through hers, closing over her knuckles. “You have a way with choosing your words carefully.”

Naturally. Her survival depends on it. “As must we all, Your Grace,” she says.

He mutters under his breath, like she’s played a winning move in a game of cyvasse, “very good.”

She can still feel him when she returns to her chambers, the gentlest brush of his fingertips and the heat of his hand against hers. She can mistake a gentle draft or breeze for his breath ghosting over her face, the sound of the wind beyond the window as the sound of his voice.

Lord Corlys visits them after dinner. She offers him some of the leftover roast beef but she shakes his head and instead asks for a cup of wine as he makes himself comfortable in an armchair before the hearth.

Rhaelle joins him, bringing two cups with her while Morra carries the decanter of wine. Daena gathers a fur throw, a pillow and a book, and settles on a chaise by the window. She doesn’t usually like to read, especially not at night when she can scarcely see the words.

Rhaelle smiles at her, sceptically. Daena shrugs her shoulders and lowers her eyes to the page.

“I have news from Driftmark,” Lord Coryls says, “Baela and Rhaena have accepted their invitation to the King’s Tournament and will set sail for King’s Landing in three days time.”

This is supposed to make her happy. From what she remembers at their mother’s funeral and the wedding feast, her half-sisters were agreeable enough but still unfamiliar. Baela, the older twin, was a little more forward than her sister, a dragonrider from a young age and it showed. Rhaena was far quieter and more cautious. They must be changed now, being right in the heart of Rhaenyra’s war.

“The King’s Tournament?” Daena’s voice calls from the window.

“Tourneys, feasts, dancing; a celebration to mark the betrothal of the King to Lady Floris Baratheon,” Corlys says, raising his glass.

A romance for the ages: he barged into Storm’s End looking for an army to support his brother’s claim, and she was the most agreeable of four sisters.

“The eyes of the realm will be on the two of you,” Lord Corlys says.

“I do not see why we would attract such interest,” Daena says.

“Aemond still needs to secure his rule. His heir is a child and the son of his brother’s rival. After that his closest competitors for the throne are his uncle’s daughters.”

“My sisters and I have no desire for a crown, Lord Corlys,” Rhaelle says.

“You are Targaryens and you have a claim to the throne whether you desire it or not. That invites challenge. Half the country has been devastated by war and the rest will struggle through winter. I’m afraid your matter will take time.”

“How much time?”

He gestures vaguely with his hands. “You will appear before the King tomorrow. You will renounce your father, your step-mother and your late betrothed. The King will accept, and you will ask only that Lady Alyssa be spared from the headsman.”

“He would have her killed?”

“It is a matter of contention amongst the members of the Small Council, but as I understand it, His Grace has little desire to spill any more blood than is necessary.”

Daena chuckles quietly to herself.

Lord Corlys’ brow raises, but he does not comment on it. “In return for your loyalty, I expect the King to welcome you wholeheartedly into his court. When Aemond and Floris are wed you may be given positions in the Queen’s Household. You’ll be able to stay here permanently, you’ll get to see your brother and sisters often, and eventually you’ll make good matches to rich and powerful husbands, as befitting your royal blood.”

She wouldn’t have her mother’s cousins pestering her about the absence of the Lady of Runestone, eyeing the seat that belongs to her sister. Hers and Daena’s futures would be secured.

“And what of Alyssa?” she asks.

“I will ensure she is kept alive and well, and in time, we may convince the King to release her.”

May convince. The thought does not feel particularly assuring, but what else can she do?

She wakes at dawn the next morning, dresses and readies herself for court as she had done the previous day, taking her sister’s arm as they walk into the throne room. There is no grand entrance this time, they are led to an adjacent chamber and enter through a small doorway that leads them to the far end of the hall.

She and Daena stand to the right, below the steps that lead to the throne, behind the members of the Small Council, Lord Corlys, Lord Tyland, Maester Orwyle, Lord Unwin Peake, Martyn Hightower and his brother, Garmund. These men have no doubt argued over the matter of her sister’s imprisonment. “A matter of contention,” as Lord Corlys had said.

Aemond sits upon the throne again, comfortably poised, and she is amongst the first to lobby him.

Lord Corlys steps forward to announce her as she approaches the Iron Throne. She comes to her knees before him and allows herself to look up. She half expects to find him smiling, but his lips are in a thin line, not amused or prideful, but curious, his eye fixed upon her face.

“Your Grace,” she says, mustering all the courage she can to give her voice a clear demand without pushing too far. “I come before you once again as your loyal subject, to speak for myself and for my sister, Lady Daena.”

Aemond crosses one of his legs over the other, with his arm resting upon the throne, amongst the sharp edges of the blades. He brings his fingers to his chin and tilts his head, a command to continue.

She feels her pulse quicken, the words threatening to catch in her throat as they had done before, but she forces herself through it. “I renounce my late father, the traitor, Daemon Targaryen. I renounce my late step-mother, Princess Rhaenyra and her attempt to supplant the true line of succession. I renounce my former betrothed, the late Prince Joffrey. I–” she catches Lord Corlys’ eye and he nods to her.

She thinks of Alyssa, her brave, beautiful sister, who held her and soothed her when Ser Gerold explained that their mother would never return to them, whose wisdom she worshipped and whose arms she sought comfort in until the day Daemon took her to Dragonstone. Once the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, now condemned to death if Rhaelle does not save her.

“I come before you again, to pledge my loyalty to you, and to our house,” she says, keeping her head down, waiting for the sound of Aemond’s voice or his footsteps.

“Come to me,” he says.

It’s like her body is set alight, heat, fury and excitement rising in her belly, her blood running hot beneath her skin. There is anger too, because she cannot read him, because she cannot tell if this is a show of favour or if he means to insult her somehow. She resents his incessant staring. She resents his cold, impassive nature. She resents the light feeling in her limbs as she climbs the steps to stand before him.

He rises to meet her, his hand outstretched and his lips threatening to break into a smirk.

Most of what she had heard of her father was that he was a jealous and ambitious man. He coveted this seat, held by his brother, promised to his niece, ultimately claimed by his nephew. Daemon killed for it, he died for it, and now she is close enough that she could reach out and touch it.

She places her hand in his and he holds her gently, stroking his thumb over her knuckles. She clenches her jaw as she tries not to shudder.

“I accept your pledge,” he says, then loudly, so the others in the room may hear him. “It is not my wish to punish you for the sins of your family.”

The room hums with curious murmurs, nods of approval and whispers.

“Forgive me,” Rhaelle says quietly, as if this were a private exchange, as if they were not on display before the court. “You asked me yesterday if I had something to ask of you, and the truth is I do.”

Aemond’s brow raises, but the rest of his face is solemn. “Go on,” he says.

“My sister, Alyssa, is currently your prisoner, declared to be a traitor by your brother’s order. Spare her life, cousin, I beg you.”

Suddenly the silence in the hall is tangible. What must they be thinking, the Lords and Ladies before them, the men of the Small Council, Lord Corlys?

She does not spare a glance for any of them. She tightens her grip on Aemond’s hand and when she looks into his eye she does not plead for pity or sympathy. She is a Targaryen just as much as he is, with fire in her blood and pride in her heart.

“Lady Rhaelle,” Aemond says, “you are the acting Lady of Runestone.”

“I am, Your Grace.”

“You do a fine job of it, so I understand?”

She hesitates. She ensures the castle, its lands and people are kept well. She advises Lady Arryn when it is required of her. “As best I can, Your Grace.”

He leans in closer to her, close enough that she feels his breath on the shell of her ear and her neck. “Do away with modesty, it is a waste of my time,” he mutters. When he pulls away the corner of his mouth is curled so that it could almost be a joke. “Lady Rhaelle,” he announces, addressing the room, “in return for your loyalty to the crown, I hereby grant you the title of Lady of Runestone and all its inheritance.”

The room applauds this decision but Rhaelle is struck by dread. She looks to Daena, equally surprised, equally powerless. She looks to Lord Corlys, who seems to accept this too. The faces of Lord Tyland, Lord Unwin, and the Hightowers are less pleased.

She turns back to Aemond and keeps her voice low, “Your Grace, I cannot accept–”

His grip on her hand becomes a painful one as he turns his face in towards her. “You will accept,” he says with a cold fury. “While I am moved by your devotion to your sister, she must remain a prisoner and forfeit any and all claims she was previously entitled to.”

His face is dark and severe and her stomach drops like she is standing at the edge of some great height, one step away from a fall. She might be wise to fear this side of him, she thinks, but she is tempted to refuse him, to take that final step from the edge if only to see what anger he can truly unleash. She’d take pride in it, and maybe it’s her Targaryen nature, but suddenly something in the back of her mind thirsts for chaos.

It is her choice to make, but her life and the lives of her family will be at risk if she makes the wrong one.

And so she must choose her words carefully, unsure if it will bring her closer to her goal or drag her further from it.

“It would be an honour, Your Grace.”

Rhaelle and Daena dine alone that night. She is starving, but then the meat is brought out, a cut of roasted lamb, rare meat still on the bone that bleeds when Morra starts to carve it for them. It repulses her. She cannot even look at it. She downs a cup of apple cider instead and manages a mouthful of bread.

Daena can see that something is wrong, but does not question her.

Morra, on the other hand, offers her more cider and something that might be softer on her stomach. “Blackberries?” she suggests with a kind smile.

“Please,” Rhaelle mutters.

Morra brings her a small bowl of them, dusted with sugar. At first she is thankful for how refreshing the taste is on her tongue, until she looks down at her fingertips and sees them stained red.

She forces her hand away from her lips in a sudden jolt of movement, and in her haste knocks her fork to the floor with a jarring clatter of metal against stone.

It doesn’t matter, she thinks, starting to wipe her fingers against her napkin, but the red will not fade. She tries harder, dragging the fabric against her skin until it almost burns, but it won’t come out, it will not–

“Lady Rhaelle?”

She throws her napkin down on the table and covers her mouth, fighting the urge to gag. “I’m fine,” she tries to whisper, “I feel unwell is all.”

“I’ll draw you a bath,” Morra says.

Rhaelle shakes her head. “No, I just…” but she cannot find the words. She cannot decide what she needs.

“Come, sister,” Daena says, having risen from her seat and come to place her hand on her shoulder. “I think you need to rest.”

Rhaelle lets herself be led away into her bedchamber. Daena helps her to remove her jewellery and lays out a night shift on the bed for her. Once Rhaelle has undressed, she reaches for the pins in her hair.

“Let me,” Daena says softly, and Rhaelle’s hands fall away. Daena’s touch is unsure but gentle. She would never have had as much practice at doing another’s hair, not as the youngest sister, but it is a welcome comfort.

Rhaelle stares at her reflection in the mirror as Daena brings a brush through her hair. She watches candlelight and shadows flicker over her face, over both of their faces. Their eyes look dark in the lowlight, almost black, like their mother’s, not the striking violet that makes them their father’s daughters.

“Do you think the Gods will punish me for this?” she utters.

“Punish you? Whatever for?”

She swallows thickly, her vision starting to blur. “I offered a hundred men at arms to Lady Jeyne to fight in the war. I could have offered more. I could have mounted a horse myself and met our father at Harrenhal. I could have written to Rhaenyra and asked her to send Alyssa back to Runestone. I could have offered men to defend King’s Landing, or to hold Dragonstone. There is so much I could have done, and now I have forsaken our family, our own blood because I was too weak to do anything before–” she gasps to catch her breath. The tears have spilled from her eyes now, they sting against her cheeks and taste salty and bitter on her lips.

Daena’s hands vanish from her hair. Rhaelle instead finds herself cradled in her sister’s arms.

“Alyssa is our family,” Daena says. “It was not Daemon Targaryen who protected us when mother died, it was our sister, it was our cousins, it was House Royce. We remember, you taught me what that means.”

Daena presses a kiss to her head and strokes her hand over her hair, like Alyssa used to when they were girls, like the way she has always imagined her mother would. “Aemond will favour our cause,” she whispers. “He has to. He has to.”

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aelenavelaryon · 5 months ago

Text

JACAERYS VELARYON X REINA TARGARYEN

REINA TARGARYEN

The war had been waged, everyone had picked a side, and others had yet to decide who truly was worthy of the throne. In the time of war, alliances were necessary. A means to an end. Every soldier counted. They were needed. War was no easy task nor lightly taken. They knew only one of the king's children could come out on top and in order for the peace to remain, one would have to be put to the sword.

Rhaenyra's first course of action was peace. Despite what many believed she loved her brothers and sweet sister Helaena. She wanted nothing more than to be united as a family once more, or rather once and for all. Yet alas, nothing truly goes according to plan. It all started with two deaths. The death of Rhaenyra's second son, the Prince Lucerys Velaryon and the death of Aegon's firstborn son, Jaehaerys Targaryen.

Once the two boys were murdered by their kin, war became an inevitable consequence of the actions of Aemond Targaryen and Daemon Targaryen. After the deaths of the two Targaryen children what came afterward was pure chaos, death, and destruction. Not only for the lords and ladies, or the common folk but for the Targaryen's as well.

Rhaenyra knew every sword counted and she needed all the ones she could have. Her son, the Prince Jacaerys had proven himself worthy of being the next king, gathering allies and armies for his mother. From the Vale, the Frey's and the Stark's. Daemon was gathering armies from Harrenhal as well. And, they also had Dragonseeds. Targaryen bastards who claimed two dragons. Silverwing and Vermithor.

During a council meeting, a guard rushed into the room, everyone stood, thinking perhaps Aegon and his brother had come to burn down Dragonstone. Yet, they were told something else. "Ships, my queen. Hundreds of them it seems and three dragons" Rhaenyra and her council made their way to see if what the man had said was true. And as he told it, it was true. The ships held the Targaryen sigil and the dragons, they could swear they were the size of Vhagar.

Rhaenyra awaited to see. Who was this person leading this army? The dragons land and some guards escort whoever it might be that has arrived. When they finally reach Rhaenyra, a woman walks from behind them. She was a Targaryen or at least a descendant of Valyria. She was wearing Targaryen Armor. A few scars were noticeable but she was a warrior, that much they could see. "My queen" she begins. "Who are you?" Rhaenyra asks. "I'm Reina Targaryen" the people stand in shock. A Targaryen. "My mother is Saera Targaryen and my father is Vaelor Targaryen, grandson of Maegor and Rhaena Targaryen" a shocking turn of events, that's what it was at that moment.

Rhaenyra was shocked, she knew Saera had children of her own, a family of her own. Sons. Hugh Hammer was one of them. Hugh didn't know he had a sister. "Had you stayed with your family you would've known mother married. But alas, you were always ashamed of our mother. Were you not?" she asked her brother without looking at him. "I have come here to help you win the war. Per my mother's request," she told Rhaenyra. "Why did she want to help me" Reina pulled out two letters. "This one is for you" she tells Rhaenyra as she hands her the letter before turning to Rhaenys. "And this for you" Rhaenys took the letter.

Both women read the letters. Saera loved her brothers despite everything. She loved her niece and nephews. She had watched them grow up for a while before leaving. "Although my mother rarely got involved in the matter of the crown while she was still in King's Landing, she knew one day, a time like this would come. She hopes that House Targaryen will be much better under the watchful eye of a queen. Men have always been too closed minded" she said as she looked around the men. "In those boats are thousands of men, the Unsullied and the Dothraki" they had heard the tales of the Dothraki, skilled and precise, the Unsullied too, strong men.

"I am the queen of the Free Cities, I have taken over, made sure there is peace. I know for a fact a Lannister has made allies with the triarchy, they do not like me. I am sure they offered them gold to take what is mine after they win, or the war they believe they will win" she smiled. "Change is good and I hope your people can see that. If they do not, well, I can assure you, they will not live to see another day, my queen" she said with a smile. For once, Rhaenyra felt like there was someone who understood her. Someone like her but much stronger. She would see Reina's strength and bravery. She saw Visenya born again, and she could not help to truly see it knowing that she was a close descendant of her.

Rhaenyra welcomed Reina into her arms. She would never admit it out loud but she felt safe in her arms. Reina was as stated before strong and brave, but she was also kind and good. Hugh saw that she was nothing like her mother although he was ashamed to admit that he thought she might be like her. She was given a room, near Rhaenyra's and Jacaerys' room. During her time there, she noticed that Jace and Baela were closed. She knew about her family, she knew she was Daemon's daughter with Laena, Rhaenys's daughter. She knew they were to marry, to strengthen the bond between the Targaryens and Velaryons. She thought they were good together. Baela seemed brave and straight-headed.

Rhaenyra had taken a liking to her, she was like the daughter she never had. The two would break their fast together and speak of the war and the many ways it could be avoided but deep down, Reina and Rhaenyra knew it could not be avoided no matter how hard they tried. "My mother misses King's Landing at times. Or rather her family more than the place. Her brothers. Aemon and Baelon. Her mother, the good queen" she smiled sadly. "Sometimes she reminisces of a time when House Targaryen was strong and united. When her brothers were alive when her sisters were alive. Even her parents, and despite her complex relationship with her father she loved and he loved her in his own twisted way" Rhaenyra nodded. "She said he wrote to her many times before he passed. Her mother did as well, but she was too proud, even now she still is" both women laughed.

Reina looked at Rhaenyra. "When we win this war, I need to ask something of you. You may not like it but it needs to be done" Rhaenyra listened to her words. "The faith is more involved in the royal family and all more than you think. My mother believes that the Targaryen women fail to give birth because of it. Because they want to make sure we do not have children. They do not like what we represent and stand for" she nodded. She felt it too, she gave birth to her children without the Maesters from the Citadel. She had her own trusted ones. "House Hightower must end with them. Not all, as some stay follow the Faith of the Seven but they cannot hold the power they hold now. It must be reduced" Rhaenyra nodded.

At that moment, Rhaenyra knew she needed someone like Reina in King's Landing. Someone who could rule with Jacaerys by his side. Baela was a good match for her son, but Reina was a far better one. Three dragons, gold, an army, and ships, matching House Velaryon. Perhaps a marriage alliance was much needed. And with Reina by her side, nothing would dare to come her way. Not even the Dragonseeds.

#jacaerys velaryon x reina targaryen #house targaryen #house of the dragon #saera targaryen #maegor targaryen #vaelor targaryen #rhaena targaryen #rhaenyra targaryen #rhaenys targaryen #jacaerys velaryon x reader

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