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sehaedazokla · 5 months ago

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he that dares

part one

premise: Cregan Stark's arrival in King's Landing has brought a new type of chaos to the capital. Lady Tyrell is determined to use the Northern lord to her advantage, but the task might not be as straightforward as it seems.

warnings: grief mention

word count: 4k

a/n: here is the idea that has been plaguing my brain since i started this blog. more installments to follow. any comments, feedback, thoughts are always appreciated, especially since this is my first longer piece on here. thank you to whomever requested this. it is not exactly what you asked for, but rest assured the story shall eventually give you what you desire.

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The Tyrell girl finds herself with the distinct thought that there is absolutely nothing special about Cregan Stark after all.

She decides upon this in her quarters at King’s Landing, which are modest in size, almost befitting a young lady from a family as opulent as House Tyrell. The sheer silks of the curtains blow inwards gently in the face of the afternoon wind that drifts in from the open window, the slight smell of seawater and the remnants of a cooler day.

The girl in the vanity mirror gazes back at her with a delicately downturned chin and round doe eyes that look up underneath delicate wisps of long lashes. She gives the look another attempt, pressing her lips together slightly to give her a darling pout as she opens a small pot of rouge. The color comes from an ornate box that is covered in gilded roses and twisting thorns. Her fingernails tap gently on the edge of the metal as she opens the rouge with a soft click. With one of her fingers, she presses into the coloring only the slightest bit to pull some onto her skin.

Her plump lips are parted carefully as she raises her hand to dab the color to her mouth, leaning forward slightly. Some of her loose curls sway softly with the motion, and she rests her elbow against the edge of the vanity’s table. Once she has finished, she reaches down to open a drawer and produces a white lace handkerchief that is embroidered with the sigil of House Tyrell – a beautiful rose in shimmering golden silk. When she wipes her finger against the fabric, a light stain of pink is left behind.

She returns to her earlier judgement, regarding the young lord she is set to meet with shortly. Cregan Stark is heavy on her mind that day.

It was not too long ago that the Northern men had arrived in King’s Landing. Soon after followed their liege lord, the Lord of Winterfell, the man who holds the court at present. With him had come an even larger force and with that army he had seized control of the entire city in a very short manner of time. It would seem the young lord had every intention of continuing the war that had consumed the noble houses, much to the concern of House Tyrell.

The House is ran by a woman at present. The Tyrell girl thought of her mother briefly, and of her little brother Lyonel who was only two years of age. She knew her mother did not wish for the war to continue. That very mother had then told the girl that while this Northern lord maintained a firm hold on King’s Landing it was her responsibility to do what she did best: win him over.

There was little to complain about when the request was delivered to her. On the contrary, she had already predicted the wishes of her mother and had ensured she was in the throne room the moment Cregan Stark had first pushed those large doors open, blue eyes sharp and sword still in his hand as he led his bannermen in. It is with perfect clarity that she can recall the moment his head lifted to the balcony of the grand room, meeting her gaze for the first time.

She could additionally recall each and every following occurrence of the prolonged gaze they exchanged whenever they happened to cross paths. After a few instances of this, heavy looks where the Northern lord would hold her stare as if he had no intention of ever looking elsewhere again, she found his eyes began to wander. To the lady’s lace she occasionally wove into her elaborate hairstyles, to the small freshwater pearls that spilled over of her collarbones, and then down further to the way the embroidery at the top of her gowns would sweep across her breasts that were pushed upward by the tightness of her whalebone corsets.

And once an adequate trap had been laid, the Rose of the Court had swept in with angelic grace and poise to introduce herself to him. It had gone as smoothly as she could have expected – save for the way she had found Cregan Stark was smarter than she expected. The shine in his eyes when she’d spoken let her know that this Northern lord would not fall prey to her so easily.

Nevertheless, he has called upon her that afternoon. Which is why she is spending a rather grey day dabbing the subtlest of color onto her lips before smoothing her delicately arranged hair into place and informing her maid she is ready to depart.

They are to meet in the castle’s gardens, as per her own request. She had spent quite some time in the gardens during her time in King’s Landing, and found men were much more likely to deem a conservation there pleasant as it would reflect her scents of rose water and lavender oil and honey.

She catches sight of him as she makes her way down one of the pathways made of little rocks, her elegant heels tapping on the small, pearl-colored pebbles as she approaches. Lord Stark is facing away from her, his hands clasped behind his back. He is still dressed in dark colors but has opted against the heavy furs that had adorned his broad shoulders the first time she had seen him. His hair is a striking shade of red that when caught by sunlight shines almost golden about the edges. But this day, the sky is overcast and gloomy with a few gusts of wind and the faint smell of rain that perhaps foretold an incoming summer storm.

Cregan Stark turns as he hears her drawing nearer, his chin raising slightly as his stern gaze falls upon the Tyrell girl.

She has settled for a hurried step, the heavy skirts of her elaborate dress clutched in her petite hands as she rushes up to him rather quickly, bringing a natural red flush to her cheeks. As if she had been quite fretful over the idea of making him wait for even a moment. Her maid trails behind, grasping at the fluttering of her headdress that the wind plucks at in gusts. The maid is providing the girl with a small amount of distance as she stops to catch her breath in front of Cregan.

“I do hope I have not kept you waiting, Lord Stark,” The Tyrell girl begins, her shoulders rolling back elegantly as she speaks. The action draws further attention to the prominence of her collarbone, over which a thin necklace of gold lays. Her eyebrows raise and draw closer as she gives Cregan a honeyed and apologetic smile. The color of her lips is that of a blooming rose.

Cregan finds there are no shortages of places to look when it comes to her. And yet there is no safe place to rest his eyes upon, no part of her that has not been subtly enhanced or maneuvered to make her look as comely as might be possible. It is no wonder that she has enchanted half of his bannermen as if by some sort of spell, leaving longing eyes and craning necks in her wake as she glides about the court.

And Cregan cannot truthfully declare he is immune to her beauty. The only reason he has noticed so much regarding her is that he had been staring, all dry swallows and heavy-lidded eyes, at her since arriving. The way she made his blood rush hot in his veins, her face and figure more than pleasing. Cregan will not imagine – he is a gentleman, and she a highborn lady -but he could imagine, if he allows himself to, and he could imagine much whenever she enters his line of sight. She needn’t say a word to draw his eye.

He settles for looking into her eyes, although they are perhaps the most disarming feature on her dollish face.

“No, you have not Lady Tyrell.” There is a depth to his tone that she is not used to, even after a week of hearing Northern accents echoing down the halls of King’s Landing. He pronounces both her name and title by enunciating both syllables with a low timbre. She notices the way he intentionally kept his gaze to her eyes, his brows neutral and his features even. A proper Northern lord, perhaps. The girl will figure him out for herself soon enough.

“Oh, thank goodness,” She breathes the first word as a sigh of sweet relief, pausing for a moment to catch her breath since she had hurried so worriedly over to him. A hand comes to her chest, sliding over the top of her full breasts as she presses down to soothe her aching lungs.

Cregan’s eyes flick down.

“I would hate to be late. I know how busy you must be, what with all of your responsibilities here at King’s Landing,” There is that sweet smile again, breaking across her face like the sun through the sky in the early hours of the morning. When she folds her hands gracefully across her front, her cleavage comes together impossibly tighter as her arms press to her sides.

Cregan looks back up to her face, hand clenching lightly.

“Aye, I have been quite busy. Handling the remnants of Aegon’s supporters has proved a heavy task.” His eyes are light, reflective of the overcast sky above their heads. They narrow a bit as he speaks, his expression stern and his voice gruff. She wonders for a moment over how seriously he must take himself.

“A difficult yet vital task, verily.” The Tyrell girl’s eyelashes flutter lightly. She dips her head as if to acknowledge the severity and importance of his work at the capital.

He beholds her for a heartbeat, the slightest twitch of his heavy brows when she speaks with a tone that implies the most agreeable and sweet countenance. It is the perfect thing to reply with, a simple sentence that does not ally herself with either side of the war. An easy compliment given to him like candy. Here is a girl who has learned to play the game of court.

And before Cregan can push the subject further to see if he might glimpse a hint of her true opinion on the matter, the girl is already turning towards the path. He waits a moment while she begins to walk, observing the way she steps with effortless grace. Letting out a small sigh, his wide shoulders drop and he takes a few heavy steps to catch up with her.

The maid trails behind them, and Cregan wonders for a moment if she needs anything from the girl. As he glances over his shoulder, the girl catches notice and smiles, sugary and pleasant.

“How has the capital treated you, my lord? Aside from your important work, that is,” Her chin raises as she looks at him sideways. It is a fair way she has to look up, with the obvious height he has on her. She has never been considered tall, but even so, Cregan’s stature is quite imposing.

Cregan considers her words for a moment. The gardens are quiet, most of the lords and ladies inside to avoid the low clouds that hang precariously above them.

“The South is not much like the North,” He meets her eyes with a heavy gaze as he speaks. There is a heaviness about him in general – stern and disciplined. “I came for the war and find there’s one in every corner of your court.”

She keeps her eyes to the ground for a moment, her expression cool and pleasing. So it would seem Cregan Stark was not altogether empty-headed and boorish.

“Life at court can be quite turbulent at times, it is true,” A honey-tongued and cool concession, smooth as river water over rocks. “But your steadfast devotion to bringing justice is a refreshing presence. Others of your idealism have long since left these walls.”

At first glance, it is a compliment of the softest praise. But Cregan is not foolish enough to take her words for their immediate meaning. No, what Cregan hears instead is an unimpressed warning of what happens to those who come to King’s Landing with good intentions.

“I swore an oath and intend to keep it,” His brow creases in a serious frown. “Even should those I made that oath to no longer draw breath.”

“How very honorable,” Swift and candied, the words fall from her rosy lips as she walks gracefully at his side, finding herself with a flash of annoyance as she has to increase her pace to keep up with his wide steps. This is supposed to be a leisurely stroll, why is it that every step he takes has the length and intent of someone walking towards a particular destination? “It is good to know that the stories of Northern loyalty ring true.”

Cregan feels his jaw tighten slightly, his eyes on her face as she upturns her chin to meet his gaze once more. The look on her face implies she is impressed, but the Lord of Winterfell has an eye for falsehoods and this girl is covered in them, no matter how coquettishly smoothed they are.

A frown of contemplation folds onto his stern face. “It is our nature, my lady.”

“So it is.” A saccharine smile and the glitter of wide eyes. The garden’s flowers are in full bloom, upturned to the sky to catch the possible rain that would occur in the later evening. The petals facing the clouds, waiting, watching. Leaning towards the water they wish for. A small flutter of wings can be heard as a butterfly brushes past. “To be true to one’s nature, you will find, is not a common occurrence here at court. If it is Northern custom to be honest and straightforward, it is Southern custom to be prudent and waiting.”

There is an eloquent way of describing the venomous snake pit that was the capital. Most of the men there came for their own personal interest or gain, clawing to the top of the food chain through underhanded tactics and broken oaths and lies. Most men worked their entire lives for a fragment of what Cregan Stark had come to King’s Landing and taken in one day.

“Therefore, you must imagine why you are so fascinating to many of us here at court.” She explains in a tone of light and airy amiableness, meeting his gaze as if admitting why she had been staring after him so often since his arrival at King’s Landing. This is not exclusively a lie – she was sizing him up, same as every other noble who cared enough to keep an eye on the larger game at play. But some of her staring had been purely self-indulgent, much to her own irritation.

“And you have lived here at court long?” Cregan’s question is reserved and polite.

“A couple of years now,” The Tyrell girl looks out in front of her again while they walk, surveying the gardens around them thoughtfully as if she had not seen them a thousand times. “I served as a lady in waiting to Queen Helaena. The Hightowers are bannermen of House Tyrell and I had been betrothed to her younger brother Daeron from his birth. We had been set to marry this year, however…”

She could not care less about her betrothal to Daeron. It had served her well, allowing her more time to live unmarried as Daeron was much younger than her and the two had never met. And then he had died, and she found herself lacking the safety and security of a royal and wealthy betrothed who was miles away. She wishes she could say she had mourned him, but she had not known him at all.

“I am sorry for your loss, Lady Tyrell.” There is an almost warm quality in his voice as Cregan offers his sincere condolences. She looks down, as she knows she should. Many had given her similar sentiments in regard to the loss of her betrothed, but she did not find herself shedding a single tear for the fallen prince. It is not that there had been no love between them: it is that there had been nothing between them at all. Daeron had never so much as written her a single letter in an attempt to know her. But his sister plagues her thoughts.

Helaena had been a dear friend, a companion, a confidant. It was Helaena who had offered the girl company in that first frightening year at court, who had been unfaltering honest and direct with her. There were no court games or schemes at play with Helaena, no power struggles or competition or backstabbing. The Tyrell girl had been devastated to lose the Queen. Much more so than a stranger she had never even laid eyes upon. Daeron was a figment of imagination from the mind of her childhood self; Helaena had been flesh and blood and dreams and understanding.

She is glad her eyes are downcast; she can feel the glassy haze falling over them and the way her smile lacks any warmth. After a moment, she forces a happier smile back upon her lips and dips her head slightly.

“I thank you, Lord Stark. It has been difficult in the face of such a loss, but I do hope to persevere.” The brightness of her voice lowers to a softer tone. She is well used to pretending to mourn her late betrothed. It is not hard when she simply examines her feelings over Helaena, but such raw and angry grief is not befitting of a lady. No one wishes to see her scream and tear at her hair over the pain that rakes carved, hollow cavities into her chest. They wish for a light dab at a stray tear, a quiet, palatable sadness they can soothe with promises of future love and happiness.

Cregan does not know what to make of her reaction, unable to see her face as it is turned away. Her words are even, practiced.

“I have only spent my time between the capital and Highgarden. There is much of the world I have yet to see,” The Tyrell girl guides the conversation back to Cregan’s original question with ease and experience. She catches his stormy eyes gazing intensely at her once more, sucking in a gentle breath that she wishes she could say is done on purpose to feign interest.

“I imagine I might fair poorly in the North,” She continues hurriedly, eyelashes fluttering as she regains control over her composure, eyes cast to the sky as she presents a sheepish breath of laughter. “With the cold and what not.”

Cregan’s lips twitch faintly at her admission, his head tilting a little as he gazes down at her. It is an amusing thought, this delicate rose in her pastel fabrics and shining jewelry among the ice and snow. He rather wishes to see it, he finds.

“Aye, I fear even our summers would prove challenging for those raised in such fair climate.” The amusement reaches his eyes and she finds herself watching as Cregan looks down, doing his best to remain a gentleman and fighting off the smile that seems to be threatening to break out at the corners of his lips. She hears what his words truthfully mean: he views the Southerners as weaker, used to sunshine and easy days.

Does he fancy himself better because he spent all his time in nightmarish weather, buried under pelts and furs and smelling of sweat and snow? She is eager to see how he’d fare in court without the large army he had brought with him.

“Oh, I simply could not bear it,” She sighs deeply, as if even the thought of such bitter cold was too worrying a predicament to bear in her delicate mind. “I am afraid you shall not be seeing me in the North anytime soon, Lord Stark.”

“A pity, my lady,” There is still a measure of serious composure in his face, but Cregan’s eyes shimmer with something else as he watches her bring her hand to her chest again, smoothing down the expensive fabrics and then up over the soft flesh of her breasts. An action that feigns worry and concern and draws his attention. She has a way of leading the eye about in a subtle manner. Her figure gives him pause. “The North offers a great beauty for those who choose to brave it.”

Her eyes flick to his and there is a moment where Cregan can almost see her sharp mind discerning whether his comment is a challenge or a jab or merely an observation. It fascinates him, yet his face betrays nothing of the thought.

“Perhaps I should amend my previous statement,” The soft laugh that escapes her lips and the sweetness of her expression makes Cregan wonder if he has imagined something. “If my lord was so kind as to offer me an invitation to Winterfell, I would, of course, be honored beyond words.”

Cregan wonders for a moment if he can discern her true intentions. She intrigues him, much more than she should. It was her alone of all the Southern ladies who had approached him directly, introducing herself and offering welcome. Cregan knows it is not from the goodness of her heart. She could fool his bannerman with her wide eyes and friendly smiles, but Cregan was attuned to lies, no matter how beautifully they were spun. Attuned, yet perhaps not immune to their crafter.

It is likely she seeks marriage, now that her betrothed has fallen in battle. Cregan is a perfect candidate. But he cannot be sure, not when she’s blinking up at him with such sweet and thoughtful eyes. Her weapons are great and her skill with them is more so. Before Cregan can open his mouth to mention that he would in fact, wish to see her with rosy cheeks bitten from the cold and snowflakes in her soft hair, she casts her eyes to the sky, frowning thoughtfully.

“It would seem that the evening storm is rolling in sooner that anticipated,” She muses, sighing a little, as if she is truly saddened their stroll is coming to an end. They have almost walked to the end of the gardens anyhow. “I shall excuse myself, if you do not mind, Lord Stark.”

Cregan lowers his head in understanding, his eyes meeting hers as he lifts his chin. He holds the stare for longer than needed. “Go ahead, my lady. I would hate to see you caught in the rain. You might melt.”

She blinks, that sweet smile on her lips but not quite reaching her eyes as she feels her jaw tighten slightly. How utterly charming. As if to subtly let her know he has not fallen for a single thing she has said or done in the last hour. She imagines he finds that amusing.

“How kind of you, my lord.” She offers him through a mildly forced grace, her right eye twitching a little as she gives a deep curtsy that once again showcases just how fortunately she is blessed in the bosom. Cregan finds his mouth dry, his shoulders rolling back slightly. “Do not hesitate to call upon me should you need anything at court. I hear it can be quite challenging for those raised in such fair company.”

When she draws herself up, she gives him one last smile before she turns to collect her maid and disappears.

Cregan hears his own words shot back at him with the most amiable and honeyed cadence but realizes a moment too late. He runs a hand through his red hair and then over his face as he sighs. But as he does so, he feels the ghost of a smile on his lips. Cregan finds himself shaking his head, gazing in the direction she has vanished into for a long moment in silence.

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hivemuthur · 6 days ago

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A Deer and a Man - Ch.2.

viktorxfemale!reader mature (overall explicit)

Ch.1. | Ch.3. | Ch.4. | Ch.5.

word count: 5,9K

tag: #d&m

summary: You are the eldest daughter of a noble family, soon to be married to one of the most eligible bachelors in the region—Viktor, the adopted son of House Talis. The arrangement is simple: a marriage that secures your family’s wealth in exchange for access to Hextech. What could possibly go wrong?

author’s note: This fic has some special hold on me, it made me sit down by the piano this week. Also, I've committed a playlist, you can check it out on Spotify. Super thanks as usual to @mithrava for consulting on regency historical accuracy and to @rennethen who beta reads!

also the artist behind art is here!

Cross-posted on AO3

—

You hate to admit it, but you do anticipate. The last time you had awaited something with such feeling was when your mother departed to tend to your ailing aunt—or rather, to command her staff when she could no longer do so—and you and your sisters had run barefoot through the house, singing The Unfortunate Rake at the top of your lungs, much to your father’s amusement.

Now, dressed and polished from head to toe by your ever-diligent Peggy—though not without a spirited debate regarding the appropriate amount of rouge upon your cheeks—you allow yourself to drift into thought, chin propped upon your hand as you gaze wistfully at the passing landscape through the carriage window.

"Why do you look as though you are being led to the gallows?" comes the voice of your sister—the middle one. You glance up to find her brows lifted almost to her hairline and your mother wearing a look of mild reproach. "Should you not be overjoyed?"

"I am quite overjoyed, Kitty, but I thank you for your concern," you reply flatly, rolling your eyes.

Kitty is, in every way, the daughter your mother wishes you to be. Her sole ambition in life is to marry well and raise a brood of children. You find it all terribly dull, though you suspect something within her will change when she encounters her first true disappointment.

Tess, the youngest, is far more like you. She has never betrayed your confidences to Mother. She sneaks you sweetmeats from the kitchen at bedtime, insists you look lovelier with your hair unpinned, and entrusts you with her dearest secrets, knowing they are safe in your keeping. It is for this very reason that she remained behind today, occupied with the practice of her calligraphy under her lady’s maid’s supervision.

"It would not pain you to smile, my dear," your mother remarks, her tone uncharacteristically gentle. A deception, you suspect.

Nevertheless, you indulge her. You summon your most winsome smile and compose yourself in your seat, all the while wondering—anticipating—what it is that Viktor wishes to say to you in private.

When the carriage draws to a halt, he is already there. Viktor stands waiting with his weight shifted to one side, the tip of his cane pressed lightly against the ground. The early afternoon light casts a warm glow over him, accentuating the deep brown of his coat—a fine, if somewhat modest piece, its cut more practical than fashionable. A dark waistcoat lies beneath, fitted neatly over his frame, with a cravat tied in a manner that suggests efficiency rather than vanity. His hair resists perfect order, a few loose strands falling across his forehead despite his apparent effort to tame them.

There is something almost careless about his appearance, yet not in a way that suggests a lack of pride. Rather, it is as if he simply does not concern himself with the rigid expectations of refinement. His gloves are well-worn, the leather of his cane handle bears the mark of frequent use, and yet—despite all this—he cuts a striking figure. Perhaps it is the way he carries himself, or the sharp focus of his gaze as he watches your approach. Handsome, undeniably so, but with a presence that unsettles as much as it intrigues.

And you find yourself grateful for the abhorrent amount of blush Peggy has pressed into your cheeks—at least you can blame the warmth rising there on that. Even more so when he grants you a fleeting glance and smiles to himself before turning to your mother.

“My Lady, it is a pleasure to see you again,” he says, bowing his head with practiced grace.

She responds with a measured nod, her expression unreadable. “Mister Viktor.”

Next, he turns to Kitty, who is already smiling prettily, her hands clasped before her. “Miss Catherine,” he greets, offering a slight bow.

Kitty dips into a shallow curtsey, her tone light. “Mister Viktor, I trust you are well?”

“As well as one can be, Miss,” he replies smoothly before his gaze finally lands on you. It is fleeting—just a moment longer than propriety demands—yet enough to send a thrill through you.

“Miss,” he murmurs at last, bowing once more.

You respond with a curtsy, keeping your chin high despite the quickened beat of your pulse. Acutely aware of how desperately the two halves of you claw at each other within your chest you clench your jaw and force yourself to blink.

Your mother clears her throat. “Shall we proceed?”

Viktor is silent for a moment, his gaze flickers between you and the path ahead, considering something. Then, with measured care, he speaks. “Ladies, might I request a moment alone with my future wife? I should like the opportunity to better acquaint myself with her.”

Your mother’s expression does not shift at once. Instead, she regards him with a pensive air, weighing the request. Then, just as swiftly, her features settle into the familiar, practiced smile of social grace.

“I see no objection, sir.” She turns to you, levelling you with an unreadable look. “I trust you will conduct yourself with decorum.”

You incline your head. “Of course, Maman.”

Viktor nods in gratitude before turning his attention back to you. With an ease that seems entirely natural to him—but utterly foreign to you—he extends his arm. You hesitate only for a heartbeat before slipping your hand through, the warmth of his sleeve pressing against your palm.

At once, your mind replays the moment in the music room—the ghost of his touch at your forearms as he steadied you when you stumbled. The surprise of it. The quiet strength in his grasp. The way you had looked at one another for a long time before pulling away.

Now, as your fingers rest against his sleeve, you are keenly aware of the space between you, and the fact that—however slight—he has just closed it once more.

You march forward leisurely and even though you can’t see your mother and sister trotting behind you, you wait for a long moment before coming up with something to say. You wait for so long, in fact, that Viktor beats you to it.

“How have you been?” he asks softly, your name following the question with an intimacy that startles you.

Your fingers twitch against the fabric of your glove, and you glance at him sidelong. “Well enough,” you reply, though your voice is not as steady as you wish it to be.

“Any new rebellious music you have come across?”

“Ah, that,” you chuckle, though you scowl inwardly at how flustered the sound is. “Sadly, I have had no opportunity to evade my mother’s hound-like hearing abilities. So, only little dancing tunes for my sisters—nothing of true note.”

“A pity,” he muses. “I quite enjoyed the Sonata.” His tone is contemplative, but there is in intention hidden not that too well underneath it. “And yet,” he continues after a beat, “it is for that very reason I asked to meet you.”

You arch a brow, affecting nonchalance despite the way your heartbeat betrays you. “Oh? Are you also a great admirer of music deemed unsuitable for proper ladies?”

“Absolutely,” he answers, the humour in his tone fleeting. “But I do have another, more pressing motive—if you do not mind me speaking plainly.”

“By all means,” you say, tilting your head towards him. “Do tell, Viktor.”

He gestures with his cane, the subtle drawing your attention to the promenade before you. Couples walk in neat little pairs, each shadowed by their requisite chaperone, the ritual of courtship unfolding before you like a well-rehearsed performance.

“The endless hunt,” he murmurs. “Men trailing after their prey under the pretence of romance.”

You huff a small laugh. “Why do you presume it is only men who do the hunting? Perhaps you are the deer, and simply unaware of it.”

Viktor glances at you then, his lips curving in an intrigued smile. “An interesting proposition.” His gaze lingers, thoughtful, before flickering back ahead. “I am, however, quite aware that this—” he inclines his head towards the scene before you—“is not the future I would have chosen for myself.”

His fingers tighten briefly on the handle of his cane. “Which is why I come to you with an offer of compromise.”

Your brows lift. “A compromise?”

“A contract,” he corrects. “Between us, and no one else.”

Your stomach tightens, though with what, you are uncertain. “And what, pray, would this contract entail?”

“Freedom,” he answers simply. “As much as may be found within the gilded cage we are about to share—for better or for worse.”

You glance up at him, studying the sharp lines of his profile, but say nothing.

Viktor exhales through his nose, as if steeling himself. “I would not ask you to be anything other than what you are. You may conduct yourself as you wish—the clothes you wear, the music you play, the company you keep…” He pauses, and you feel, rather than see, his eyes on you. “So long as I am afforded the same courtesy.”

A curious sensation unfurls within you, slow and uncertain. A flutter—a fervour, almost—on one hand. Yet on the other, something sinks deep and remains suspended in an inertia for which you cannot place the cause.

Your fingers, still lightly curled around his arm, shift almost imperceptibly, your gloved fingertips brushing against the bare skin of his wrist where his cuff has shifted ever so slightly.

Viktor stills.

His step does not falter, nor does he pull away, but for the smallest fraction of a moment, you feel it—a sharp, fleeting pause, as though you have startled him.

You tilt your chin slightly, affecting an air of curiosity. “And why,” you murmur, voice quieter now, “would you offer such a thing to me?”

He hums, the sound low. “You play your part very well,” he admits. “Colour me impressed. But I see that you are not wholly content, and I do not wish to make you miserable.”

His eyes flick once more to the couples ahead, his expression unreadable. “This,” he says, his voice measured, “has never been my desire. And I suspect it has never been yours.”

“You did not jest about speaking plainly,” you remark, though there is a note of something in your voice—something faintly wistful coming from an unknown place you are not certain you wish to explore.

You suppose you ought to be offended—particularly by such a frank allowance for debauchery (and the expectation of reciprocation on his part). Yet what strikes you most is not the proposition itself, but rather his own unwillingness to partake in this experiment, despite claiming the title of a man of science.

He turns to you at once, his brow drawing together. “Forgive me. Have I offended? That was not my intent.”

You shake your head, exhaling softly before tilting your gaze up at him. Unable to give him the answer just yet. Unable to lock that part away. “Which one are you?” you ask, fixing your gaze on promenading couples.

Viktor only looks at you, his head tilts slightly in your direction and you can feel his breath ghosting around your temple.

“A deer,” you continue, “or a man?”

His lips curve, though his expression remains thoughtful. “A man, undoubtedly,” he says. “But my deer is not a woman to be conquered, nor wealth to be obtained. Progress only—science.”

You consider that for a moment before asking, “And which one do you think I am?”

Viktor studies you then, a searching sort of scrutiny in his gaze. “I think,” he begins, then pauses, as if weighing his words. “A man, as well. You simply do not yet know what it is you are hunting.”

You swallow and let your face display honesty for a flicker of a second. A tremendous feeling of being watched and seen by someone who barely knows you makes you both grow and shrink—one part of you laps at it, eager and hungry, the other, shy and defeated, steps back cradling her heart in her hands.

A pause, then—

“I accept your offer, Viktor.”

***

Days pass as you mull over the new terms of your arrangement, the weight of it settling upon you like an ill-fitted gown. The household is abuzz with the nonsensical pressures of wedding preparations—your mother and sisters significantly more enthused than you.

You find yourself torn between the promise of freedom and the threat of imprisonment, for what Viktor has proposed holds both in equal measure—a double-edged sword poised to cut you both.

Each of his conditions is something you never dared to dream of, having long resigned yourself to the certainty that you would never marry, certainly not for love. That naïve conviction held firm until your mother—ever pragmatic—brought you back to earth. In time, you had learned to accept your fate, to dream, however cautiously, of a husband who might tolerate your eccentricities, just as your father does. And perhaps, if fortune were kind, one who might even grow to love you, as your father so clearly loves your mother.

But with Viktor’s proposition, such hopes dwindle by the day. The reality that awaits you is one in which you must learn to be content with the love you can provide for yourself.

He comes and goes, paying you little visits, bringing flowers for your mother and, on occasion, Jayce for your father. And once, Jayce brings his mother, and the meeting nearly rends you in two—to witness what mothers can be. How gentle they can be, how kind. Even to a child not their own. Ximena Talis holds only love for Viktor in her heart; it seeps through her eyes, through the tenderness of her hands when she pats his back and smooths his cheek, telling him how proud she is.

A fraction of this kindness reaches you when she takes your hand and tells you what a good boy he is. How sensitive and clever. And it wounds you deeply to see how enraptured she is by the idea of Viktor finding someone who will love him as she and Jayce do—blissfully unaware of the pusillanimous little mercy he has devised to ensure the success of your sham.

Yet you do find excitement, somewhere within you. At the thought of the music you will play freely, at the great fire you will make to burn the tighter half of your short stays (you must keep some for when your mother visits), at the hairpins that will go conveniently missing on the way to your new house, and the books you will read lying in the grass. It is not all so miserable.

It comes and fades, just as Viktor drifts in and out of your thoughts, lingering in the late evening hours when your night-bound self cannot cease conjuring visions of what your life will be in mere days. After many nights spent ruminating, you resolve at last that such sentiments are not worth troubling your heart over. You must stand by your acceptance of Viktor’s offer.

So you endure the dress fittings, the flower selections, and the cake tastings that your mother drags you to, a sad smile fixed upon your face, telling yourself it will all be over soon. And indeed, when the day of your imprisonment— which is also the day of your release—arrives, you find the skin of your face intolerably tight with powder and a smile affixed there, despite the wetness lingering beneath your eyelids.

You regard yourself in the mirror, refusing to let nerves take hold of you. It is only last-minute jitters, you tell yourself, even as the ultimate version of your daylight self stares back—her hands clasped into fists, her hair arranged into the most meticulous bun you have ever seen, her breasts bound by the most vile short stay you have ever had the misfortune to wear. All of it wrapped in a blue dress, a fabric of your choosing—the only compromise your mother allowed in the preparations.

Your mother has left the room to inform your father that you will soon depart for the church, while your sisters flit about you, giggling and teasing about how you will step before the altar a child and leave a woman grown. The words tighten your chest, and you wave them off with a sharp breath.

"Please, it is hard enough to breathe without all of you crowding me."

"Are you going to bring shame upon Maman now? See, Tess? We should have placed our wager while there was still time," Kitty jests, but you find no laughter within you. Tess only frowns, visibly troubled, as a child might be when confronted with emotions beyond her understanding—or perhaps because she understands them all too well.

"I will fetch Maman," she says, watching the colour drain from your face despite the rouge upon your cheeks.

"No—" you snap, grasping her shoulder firmly. "I need Peggy. Tess, I beg of you."

Tess nods solemnly, throwing Kitty a warning look as severe as a seven-year-old can muster. Kitty huffs but follows her out, leaving you alone with your trembling hands and a heart that pounds so furiously it makes your chest feel even tighter. Before you can give in to the swooning sensation creeping up your spine, the door creaks open once more, and Peggy peeks inside, brow furrowed in concern.

"Everything all right, Miss?"

"No. Peggy, no," you cry, barely managing to keep your voice from breaking. Your eyes burn, but you force them wide, desperate to keep the tears from spilling and ruining the painstaking work of rouge and powder. "Why do I feel so wretched? It is as though something inside me has died."

Peggy steps further in, hands hovering uncertainly at her sides. "Oh, Miss, whatever has happened?"

You shake your head, pressing your fingers to your temples as if you might will away the frantic mess of thoughts swarming inside it. "I am such a fool. I was so certain I could go through with this, and I know there is no undoing it, but—" A shuddering breath, a helpless glance at your reflection. "I was ready to simply be a wife, to accept my place, but then he came along, and I, like a simpleton, began to hope. I let myself want."

Peggy's face softens, though hesitation lingers in her posture. "Oh, my dear child… but you shall be a wife, and I daresay you shall be happy."

You let out a brittle laugh, one that holds no mirth. "I shall not. I shall not be loved, nor truly known. I shall live in a grand house beside a husband who has no wish to understand me. I shall grow old in loneliness, without affection, without companionship."

Peggy presses her lips together, as if choosing her words with great care. "And how, pray, can you be so certain?"

You inhale sharply, fingers curling into the folds of your skirts. "Because he told me so. He offered me terms, a bargain. I—foolishly proud—accepted." The confession tumbles from your lips in a rush, bitter and breathless. "A life in which I may do as I please, so long as he is granted the same. No expectations, no obligations. Not in our conduct, nor our company, nor even the way we dress. And you—" Your voice falters, the words lodging in your throat. "You will not even be there to comfort me."

For a moment, Peggy says nothing, only watching you with an unreadable expression. Then, gently, she reaches for your hands, pressing them between her own. When she speaks again, it is not with formality, but with quiet insistence. She speaks your name.

"He would be a fool not to see you for what you are. And trust me when I say this—" She squeezes your hands, warmth and certainty in her grasp. "To fall in love with you takes mere seconds."

"It has already been seconds since we met," you mutter helplessly, sniffing as your brows furrow.

"People make strange decisions when they are afraid," she says with a soft, knowing smile. "And in my experience, men are the easiest creatures to spook."

A tear escapes the prison of your lashes, and before Peggy can react, you startle her with an embrace. She hesitates for only a moment before wrapping her arms around you, and you cannot remember the last time you were held with such tenderness.

Then, with gentle hands, she tilts your chin up and says, "Come now, let us put you back to rights before your lady mother starts to sulk, hmm?"

Peggy sets to work with quiet efficiency, dabbing away stray tears with the gentlest touch, mindful not to smudge the careful artistry upon your face. She smooths her thumbs over your cheeks, fixing the powdered rouge, then reaches for a fresh handkerchief to blot any lingering dampness. With delicate hands, she adjusts the loosened strands of your hair, tucking them back into place with a precision that belies her station. The soft murmurs of reassurance she offers are meant to soothe, yet they do little to quell the tight knot in your chest. You watch her through the mirror, unblinking, as she works—fast, methodical—restoring you to the poised young lady your mother expects to see walk down the aisle. When she finally steps back, her eyes sweep over you with a quiet sort of pride, as if she has mended something far greater than a few ruined curls and a streak of moisture on your cheek.

The remainder of the time slips past in a haze, your body moving through each step as though it belongs to someone else. Your sisters return, chattering brightly, their excitement so stark against the hush in your own mind that it feels almost deafening. Your mother arrives moments later, beaming, and claps her hands together at the sight of you, exclaiming over your appearance without noticing the effort it took to make you look so flawless. You offer her a small, obedient smile, a perfect replica of the one you have worn for weeks now and allow yourself to be ushered out the door. The carriage ride is a blur of voices and silk rustling around you, the weight of expectation pressing against your skin like the stay laced too tightly around your ribs. By the time you arrive at the church, you are exactly as you ought to be—composed, lovely, and utterly unreadable.

The heavy church doors are pulled open before you, and a hush falls over the gathered assembly. The murmur of conversation, the rustle of clothing, even the faintest shifting of feet upon stone—everything stills as you step into the dim, vaulted space. The scent of aged wood and melting wax mingles with the perfume of fresh flowers lining the pews, a sickly-sweet contrast to the sharp awareness tightening your chest.

Light filters through the tall, stained-glass windows, dappling the aisle in shifting colours as you take your first step forward. Your father’s arm is steady beneath your fingertips, a firm anchor, but it does little to ease the weight pressing against your ribs. Your gaze lifts, drawn forward, past the unfamiliar sea of faces, past the faint blur of expectation, to the one person who matters in this moment.

Viktor stands at the altar, rigid as a statue, his hands clasped before him. He is dressed finely—your mother’s doing, no doubt—but the cut of his coat, the carefully pressed folds of his cravat, feel like a costume rather than something truly belonging to him. His face is unreadable at first, his expression schooled into an impassive mask, but then—then his eyes meet yours.

Something flickers there. A hesitation, barely perceptible. The faintest parting of his lips, as if he might speak if the weight of the room did not demand silence. His gaze drags over you, slow and searching, taking in the meticulous artistry of your appearance, the delicate lace framing your face, the blue silk wrapped about you like a second skin. You expect nothing from him, and yet—his fingers twitch at his side, as if resisting some impulse even he does not understand.

And then, just as quickly, it is gone. He schools his features once more, his posture remains stiff, and whatever moment had passed between you vanishes into the hush of the church.

The priest turns to Viktor first.

“Wilt thou have this Woman to thy wedded Wife, to live together after God’s ordinance, in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

A silence, brief yet all-encompassing, stretches across the nave. Viktor’s gaze remains steady, locked upon yours as he answers, his voice even, assured and the words strike you with reverence you did not suspect him to have.

“I will.”

A breath catches in your throat.

“Wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded Husband, to live together after God’s ordinance, in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?” The priest turns to you.

You part your lips, but for a moment, no sound emerges. It is not hesitation, not truly—it is the finality of it, the weight of a thousand expectations pressing down upon your ribcage. You feel Viktor’s gaze on you, unwavering and waiting.

Your fingers tighten at your sides, nails digging into your palm.

“I will.”

The words leave you quieter than intended, but they are spoken. A shift of movement behind you—a sigh, perhaps your mother’s—reaches your ears, but it is distant, inconsequential now.

The priest nods, satisfied, and gestures for your hand.

Viktor steps forward, extending his hand to you, palm open. Your fingers feel unsteady as you place them in his, the warmth of his skin seeping through your glove into the coldness of your skin. He holds your hand with gentle firmness, neither possessive nor hesitant—simply assured.

He speaks first, his voice steady, the words carried by the hush of the chapel.

“I, Viktor, take thee to my wedded Wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

His thumb brushes over your knuckles, a fleeting motion, barely noticeable.

It is your turn. You inhale, the breath unsteady, and repeat the vow, your voice carrying a note of quiet conviction.

“I,” you start, then speak your name quietly, “take thee, Viktor, to my wedded Husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and obey, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

As the final words leave your lips, Viktor’s grip remains unwavering and warm. The rector nods and Jayce steps forward, placing a golden band into Viktor’s open palm, while his eyes remain fixed strictly on yours.

He slides it onto your finger slowly, its weight featherlight and yet impossibly heavy. There is finality in it, a truth that cannot be undone, and when you lift your gaze, Viktor is still watching you, his lids hooded. His mouth parts, and he speaks the finals words softly, almost intimately and for a moment you feel like it’s only you and him, holding hands in this vast, echoing space.

“With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship,” he recites between breaths, the honesty beneath it rips through your chest. You wonder if it’s at all possible for this man to be so rehearsed that he can proclaim his worship to you in such a tone, while feeling none of it. “And with all my worldly goods I thee endow: In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

Before you can breathe, the priest proclaims, “Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.”

And so it is, final and done, when your heart hammers in your ears as you sign yet another contract—the Register—to bind you not only in the holy matrimony, but also in the legal one. The rest is a blur, as people outside the church whistle and clap upon your emergence and the carriage takes you all back to your house for the reception.

And you brace through it as your day self—bright, charming, and polite. Thanking your guests and being the picture-perfect bride, making your mother and father proud. You smile until your cheeks ache, laugh when it is expected, and accept well-wishes with a gracious nod.

Ximena Talis is among the many to take your hands in hers, her warmth enveloping you like the motherly embrace you once yearned for. “My dear, you are radiant,” she says, pressing your fingers gently. “Viktor is fortunate beyond measure. I have always known he would find someone exceptional.”

The words settle in your chest like lead. You murmur a soft “Thank you, my lady,” but the sentiment stings. Fortunate? Perhaps, but not in the way she imagines. You wish you could believe in the same happiness she does.

Across the room, Viktor lingers at the edge of the gathering, ever the observer. His gaze flickers towards you, assessing. He sees the perfect illusion—the grace, the charm—but does he notice the way your hands tighten in your lap when no one is watching? The way your laughter sounds hollow?

At last, he steps close enough that only you can hear him. “You do not seem out of place,” he remarks idly, reaching for a cup of tea.

You do not look at him as you reply. “Neither do you.”

He hums, tilting cup as if he were looking for an answer within it. “I expected you to be more resistant.”

“I have learnt when resistance is futile,” you answer smoothly, placing your empty cup on a passing tray. “And you?”

He glances at you, just once, before bringing his glass to his lips. “I have always known how to adapt.”

A small smile curls at the edge of your mouth, just enough to be seen by those watching, just enough to be mistaken for joy. “Then we are well-matched indeed.”

His lips quirk, as if in amusement. But he says nothing more. Instead, he lingers close enough so that the heat of his body transmits to yours, and unlike you, Viktor cannot blame his reddened cheeks on powder blush.

You try to read anything within his expression, but the only thing that gives him away is the almost imperceptible tightness of his jaw.

Before you decide what to make of it, you are pulled back to your bridal duties—an obligatory dance with your father comes first.

He observes you all the way through it, as if trying to decipher how unhappy you are. “Know, that I have never been more proud of you,” he says, holding your hands firmly.

“And why is that? I have achieved nothing today, Papa, I merely got married,” you jest, but your father sees right through you. He breaks the rhythm of the dance to pull you into an embrace and whispers into your ear, “It’s not that you got married. It’s how you’ve done it. Of that I am proud.”

You gasp quietly and let yourself be held. It helps you to get through the rest of the rituals—dancing with uncles and other relatives, until a brief reprieve comes in a shape of Jayce. He grins down at you with a lopsided ease. “Look at you,” he teases, his voice light despite the tension that flickers beneath. “The perfect bride, the perfect wedding. You’ve even got the perfect brother-in-law.”

You let out a quiet huff, only half amused. “Are you fishing for a compliment, Jayce?”

“Wouldn’t need to if you’d just admit I’m your favourite already.”

You move through the dance with ease, though his hand tightens slightly on yours as he lowers his voice. “You’re all right?”

A pause. You should lie, as you have been all morning, but Jayce is not so easily fooled. “I will be,” you answer, quiet but honest. It is the best you can offer.

He nods once, accepting that for what it is. “If he ever gives you trouble, you know where to find me.”

It is an unnecessary promise—Viktor is not cruel—but you do not dismiss it.

As the dance concludes, you step away, your role in the festivities almost complete. Before the hour grows too late, you press a ribbon into Kitty’s palm, her eyes lighting with delight as she fastens it to her wrist. Tess is more reserved when you pull her aside, brows knit in deep thought before you even place the pearl in her hand.

“You’ll be back soon, won’t you?” she asks. Her fingers curl around the gift, her frown pressing deeper.

You smooth back a stray lock of her hair, forcing a smile. “Of course.” Even you are not certain how much truth sits in those words.

At last, it is time to take your leave. The final goodbyes begin, your family gathering around, and just as you think the moment has passed without incident, your uncle—already too deep in his indulgences—lifts his glass with a booming voice.

“Well then! Since they will not dance together, they must at least seal the night with a kiss!”

Laughter ripples through the guests, some echoing their agreement, others clapping their hands in delight. A glance at your mother tells you she will not intervene—this is not so improper a request that it can be denied. Your father only sighs, while Jayce grins at Viktor, clearly entertained.

There is no way out of this. You glance at Viktor, only to find him already watching you.

He does not speak, but his gaze is searching, flicking over your expression with unreadable intent. A flicker of hesitation—barely a breath—before he shifts closer.

The moment stretches unbearably thin.

Then, Viktor leans in.

The kiss is light, brief, barely more than the press of his lips against yours. It is proper in every sense, exactly what is expected. And yet—something in it snags deep within you. The warmth of him, the feather-light brush, the way his breath lingers against your skin a second too long.

Then, so soft only you can hear, Viktor murmurs against your lips—

"It’s all right."

You do not know why the words unsettle you so.

By the time you pull apart, the guests are clapping, laughing, toasting the moment as if it were nothing at all. You school your expression back into place, accept the briefest of bows from Viktor before he steps aside, and let yourself be guided forward, toward the carriage that will take you away.

#viktor arcane #viktor x reader #viktor fanfic #viktor x reader smut #viktor x f!reader #arcane #viktor smut #arcane fanfic #my writing #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #viktor x oc #viktor nation #requests #d&m

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catsteeth · 10 months ago

Text

Sugar & Violence

Podrick Payne x reader

+:✿ Chapter 2 ✿:+ : Beautiful Girl

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

CW: afab reader, SMUT, MDNI, Fingering, P in V sex, mention of alcohol consumption, mention of harassment, mention of NSFW themes.

Word Count: 5125

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

As you’d just finished getting Margery ready for the day she sat you down and began to ready you as well. It wasn’t custom for a Lady to dress and pretty her Hand Maiden but Margery had taken the responsibility voluntarily and happily.

“Podrick was seen where?” You asked wide eyes, holding in a laugh.

“Little Finger’s brothel,” Margery replied with a smirk as she brushed your hair.

You shook your head with a smile “I will not believe such rumors.”

“I hear the whores did not receive a payment.” Her fingers twisting the front sections of your hair and braiding them together at the back of your head.

“You’re suggesting he didn’t pay them?” You asked with disbelief. He didn’t seem like the type of man to pay for a whore, much less the type of man to steal their time and effort.

“I am suggesting they did not want a payment. I hear that he was so skilled, they wouldn’t accept his payment.” She said as she finished your hair and she sat in front of you, beginning to do your makeup.

“Now that I can’t believe it.” You said holding back laughter,

“You never know for sure with men like him. Quiet, and sweet, they can be sensitive to a woman's needs.” She said putting

“I’ve been pinned against enough trees on Bear Island by enough men to know, no tongue, fingers, cock, or even nose is good enough to turn down gold.”

“Perhaps you’re right. But perhaps you’re wrong, there is only one way to find out.”

“Oh please, he can hardly hold his gaze to mine.”

“Some would say that means he likes you, besides the poor boy gave you a flower. One of the sweetest, and pathetic things I have ever seen.” She jested.

“He doesn’t want me, not like that.” You always found it hard to believe that any man would be interested in you beyond bedding.

she rolled her eyes as she finished applying a rouge to your lips. She fixed your hair slightly and half a small compact mirror to your face.

“if i were a man i would ravish you.” she smiled as you looked at yourself in the mirror.

Margery had done your makeup and hair countless times. Every morning after you’d done hers, but each time always made sure to tell you how beautiful you were. even if you didn’t believe it.

“a man would ravish a horse if desperate enough.” you pushed the compact away, you got up and began to select the gowns you’d both wear to the celebratory feast tonight.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

That evening was a celebration of the victory of Tywin Lannister. Nothing for you to feel celebratory for, but it gave you an opportunity to dance and drink.

Most of the night you and Margrey had danced with one another, made quite jokes about the other men there. But once the celebration began to wind down Margrey had found an excuse to speak to Joffrey, part of her plan to seduce him. So naturally you made yourself scarce. Finding a corner of the room to stand in while you drank.

It would have been perfect to end your night in peace if a tall man didn’t approach you.

He could have been some noble man or a knight, kings guard, even city watch, you didn’t know and more importantly did not care.

“My, who might you be, my Lady.” He asked, his voice was low and attempting to sound seductive.

“(Y/N) Mormont.” You said as you drank from your cup, your eyes wandered the room, paying little attention to the attractive man in front of you. As your eyes searched the large room, they landed on a pair of eyes already looking at you, Podrick’s. He looked at you with the eyes of a sad dog.

It caught you so off guard you didn’t hear whatever the man had just said, only the mumbling of words. You tore your eyes from his and looked at the man, “What?” burrowed furrowed in frustration.

“I said, then you are not much of a Lady.” He said with a twisted grin

“Is that so?” You said emotionlessly, unwilling to show any kind of offense that might have been taken. Fearing it would give him too much power. Besides, you did not care about the opinions of southerners.

“Hand Maidens are not Ladies of any land, are they not?”

“Perhaps.” You said your eyes returned to scanning the room, trying to find Podrick again, but having no luck.

“I could make you feel like one for tonight.” He held out his hand to you,

You held your cup to your lips as you spoke, “I’ve no wish to dance with you, Ser”.

“I cannot dance with a handmaiden,” The man smirked, his hand snaking around your waist. “I can enjoy one though.” He whispered in your ear.

You smirked back, and then you leaned in, making him think you were about to kiss him when you kicked him in the shin. “Oh!” You fained shock as he grunted in pain “My apologies Ser, I have always been quite clumsy.” Your concerned and shock demeanor dropped as you began to walk away. He began to spit some curse your way when you stomped on his foot. “If you’ll excuse me, my Lord.”

As you walked forward a few steps before the man grabbed ahold of your wrist.

“You northern who-” He was interrupted by Podrick’s voice.

“My Lady, the Queen wishes to have a word with you.” He spoke louder than usual. His eyes were wide and looked almost angry.

You ripped your hand away from the man's grasp and walked with Podrick out of the room.

“What does she want?” You asked, rubbing your wrist.

“Nothing, I made that up.” He said avoiding your gaze as you both walked down the hall.

“You made that up?” You looked at him with wide eyes, he nodded still avoiding your gaze. “Well, thank you.” You said softly.

He’d walked you all the way to your chambers with no other words were exchanged between the two of you, other than the occasional glance at one another. You had reached your chambers door, you looked over at him as you began to open the door.

He was ready to nod and walk away when you said, “Podrick,” To which his eyes went directly to yours. You didn’t say another word, just walked into your chambers leaving the door open.

He hesitated for a moment, but walked in after you.

He stood there, showing just how intimidated he was.

As you kicked your shoes off, and removed the necklace Margery allowed you to barrow for the night, you looked over your shoulder to him “Close the door.” You said softly, and so he did.

As you turned to him and began to walk towards him, his eyes subconsciously went from your eyes to your cleavage. Now more exposed now that you’d removed your necklace. He couldn’t help it really. Your corset and gown were truly putting them on display, and the candle light from your room made your skin glow beautifully. You smirked when you noticed, making him swallow hard and return his gaze to your eyes. He was going to apologize but you reached for his hand making him choke back any words he had.

You held his hand, looking at his now healed cut, now formed scar across the palm of his hand.

You trailed the scar with your finger tip.

“You’re seducing me-” He finally found some courage to spit out some words.

“You feel seduced?” You still held his hand, still admiring your work on his hand.

“Yes- I mean, it is intentional isn’t it?” He stammered, somehow a little out of breath.

“Do you want it to be?” You looked at him with a grin and mischievous grin.

“I don’t want to offend you-” He said softly, looking away.

“So you don’t?” You let go of his hand,

“No- no,” His eyes went wide as he stammered, “I want you to, want to seduce me.” He winced at his own words, not knowing how to phrase it.

“Why would that offend me?” You smiled softly, holding back a giggle.

“I am just a squire, my Lady.” He shook his head looking down

“And here in King's Landing, I am just a handmaiden they send to patch up knights and Lords.” You said softly

“You are Lady Mormont.” He said, it made you smile. No one had given such respect to your name in so long.

“You’re sweet.” You brushed his short hair around his ear with your fingertips “Have you ever seduced a woman?” You asked sweetly, you knew the rumors of the whore house, but didn’t know if you could believe it.

“No, no, not really.” He said like we were being honest… maybe he was.

“Show me how you would.” You said looking up at him with sleepy eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“How do you think I was seducing you?”

“You, made me… feel-” he stammered.

“Mhmm, so try to make me feel…”

He stepped closer to you, meekly, his head lowered. He reached out and lightly ran his hand over your hair. Taking a strand of it and looking at it, admiring the color of it, and its texture. He looked into your eyes, his head still lowered.

“You are beautiful.” His hand then went from your hair, to trailing his hand gently down your arm and grabbing your hand softly. He played with your fingers, again, gently.

“I believe you are the most beautiful woman I have ever known.” He didn’t stammer, his voice was earnest, and gentle.

“This is wooing, not seducing.” You smiled and corrected him as if he were acting, genuinely thinking he were making it up.

“I’m not trying to do either, my Lady.” Your smile dropped, “I just wish to be near you.”

“You shouldn’t.” You said pulling your hand away. “How we first met, tell me that.”

“Lord Slynt ordered you to pour him wine-”

“And I spit in it.”

“He deserved it.”

“I lied to him, and your lord.”

“Not to me.”

Your hardened gaze softened “No, no not to you” You lowered your head avoiding his eyes. afraid you’d melt in his sweetness. found yourself feeling that warm feeling in your chest again. You reached for his fingers with your own. interlocking your index finger with his.

“You are- different.” He stammered a bit “Special.” He corrected, thinking it sounded more flattering.

“You really are sweet. I don’t believe I've met a man so sweet as you.” He smiled, and in turn you smiled back, “You are shy, more so normally than you are now.”

He let out a small chuckle “I still feel shy.” He said as he looked down smiling

“Are you too shy for me to kiss you?”

Instead of responding to you he cupped your face in his hands. So gently it was as if you were made of the finest porcelain in the realm. He leaned in and kissed your lips. Soft and again, gentle. but also passionate and almost lustful. You were surprised how well he kissed. No, he didn’t kiss well, his kiss was intoxicating somehow. Maybe it was the wine on his lips or just skill. you couldn’t help but let out the smallest whimper into his mouth. It made him pull away and go wide eyed.

“You’re quite good at that.” You said wide eyes, catching your breath a bit.

“I apologize-“ He said, still holding your head in his hands.

“For what?”

“I should have asked you first,”

“Too late for that now,” you said, slinging your arms around his neck and pulling him into another kiss. Your lips fell into a perfect rhythm as his hands moved to your ribs, careful not to touch your breasts. his thumbs moved against your ribs slowly and gently.

You’d never felt this way with a man before. Normally it was sweaty, sloppy, and you ended it burnt out and covered in spit. This was like a dance, like you and he had kissed in every life.

You felt terrified. An emotion you rarely ever felt.

What if he was like every other man. They whisper sweet things in your ears, promises, and compliments. Then once they lifted your skirts and humped into you a few times they’d leave. You felt hurt the first time, maybe the second time too. But after that it was expected. So you never let yourself become invested in a man again. You used them as they used you.

But this was different, this wasn’t only lust, there was something more. But was this feeling only yours, or did you share it? You needed to test him, only you didn’t know quite how.

“Stop” You whispered in his mouth as you kissed, it made him stop immediately, and he stepped away from you, breathless.

“I- I’m sorry” He said about to go for the door before you stopped him grabbing his arm.

“No,”

“But you said-”

“I can’t bed you like this.” You said running your hands on the tight fabric of your gown.

“Bed me?” He asked as if he had choked, it made you smile.

“Will you wait here for me?” You asked, petting his cheek, and he nodded slightly confused.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

You had gone into the bathing room that was attached between your room and Margery’s. You bathed quickly, washed your hair, washed your face of its makeup, and slipped into your night dress. The only thing you wore to cover your nakedness.

As you opened the door you saw Podrick lighting the fireplace in your room. He stood as he heard you open the door and looked in your direction as he said, “I thought you might be cold-” He was cut off by the sight of you. His eyes were enamored by the sight of you.

You hadn’t shown him this side of you. Totally free of glamor and shine. “Thank you,” You said as you walked towards him.

As you stood in front of him he still couldn’t let out any words. “Do you… not like it?”

He shook his head quickly, “This is the most I have ever seen of you.” he placed a hand on your cheek. “You are truly the most beautiful woman I have ever known.”

You searched his eyes for a hint of deceit and found none. You took the hand he placed on your cheek and sat down on the fur carpet that laid in front of the fireplace, pulling him down with you. You looked at the scar on his hand again, this time placing a kiss on the scar.

“Thank you for what you did tonight.” He looked slightly confused, “The lie you told.” You explained.

“I didn’t want to interrupt, but then I saw how he grabbed you.” He looked down, now beginning to simmer, “No one should grab you like that.” He said in a lower tone. “If I’d a sword, I wouldn’t have to tell a lie.” He became angered thinking of it.

You moved closer to him, beginning to undo the clasps on the front of his top. He looked intimidated again suddenly, “A sword hm?” He nodded, “What would you have told him?”

“To unhand you, or I’d remove his hand.” He said, with a darker tone of voice, it made you smile as you pulled his red leather top off, leaving him in his tunic.

“One day you’re going to be the only honorable knight in all of Westeros.” You saw heat rush to his cheeks when you said those words. “A big strong shining warrior.” You said crawling closer to him.

“You’re seducing me again.” He said staring at your lips, his eyes drifted downwards again to your cleavage again now further exposed by the thin fabric and the angle you were in from crawling to him.

“Do you want me to stop?” You asked in a whisper,

He shook his head “No,” He said, grasping your face in his hands kissing you so deeply you let out a small moan into his lips, only making him kiss you deeper.

His hands roamed your sides, as yours gripped the back of his neck and roamed his chest down to his stomach.

When your hand reached his stomach you felt his muscles twitch and he let out a small groan. The sound of his groan made you clench your thighs together.

Mixed with the sounds of your breathless whimpers he felt himself stiffening, “Can I touch you?” He whispered in your ear, you nodded and he whispered back “Thank you,” As his hands cupped your breasts. He let out a moan into your mouth as he groped you, feeling the plumpness of your breasts. You couldn’t take it anymore and began to lift your night dress. You stopped yourself however, not wanting to push him,

“Is this okay?” You asked, and he nodded frantically. To which you smiled and lifted the rest of it off. His hands gripped your breasts tighter, and his mouth moved from yours to your neck and shoulder.

“You’re beautiful.” He whispered against your hot skin, repeating it over and over again.

One of your hands petted his hair, while the other went over his stomach to his now tenting trousers. You heard him moan into your neck and his hands gripped you tighter, making you moan in return.

“You sound beautiful too,” He whispered

“Take this off” You said much less elegantly as you pulled at the fabric of his shirt. As he did you laid down on the fur carpet under you. Looking up at him as he removed his tunic. You smiled up at him, “You’re quite pretty too.”

He shook his head in awe of you, “Not like you… You could be a painting,” He said, dropping to his knees. He leaned down and kissed your lips. Both your lips at this point were slightly swollen, but that didn’t stop either of you from continuing. Kissing with a new kind of passion.

You felt, for a moment, this might be much more. And if it was, you didn’t want to hide from him at all. You pulled away from his lips as you blurted out,

“I’ve been with men before you.” breathlessly, “I feel I should be honest with you.” You felt even more naked revealing that, you felt heat spread across your face.

“That’s alright.” He nodded, trying to reassure you. “And I- I have- I’ve been with women before you.”

Your eyes went wide, you thought back to the rumors you’d heard. “You have?” You shook your head to yourself trying to shake those thoughts out of your head. “That’s alright.” You said looking back at him, you smiled softly “It is, it’s alright.” You felt a hint of excitement, pulling him back into your body and to your lips.

You two kissed for a moment until his mouth ran down to your neck, covering your body in as many kisses as he could, making you giggle. Giggle until you feel his thumb run down the slit of your folds. Which made you gasp slightly and then smile at him, and he smiled back.

He leaned down and began to kiss and suck on your breasts.

You felt yourself becoming a wet and sticky mess and his thumb continued to roll up and down the slit of your folds, masterfully avoiding your clit, teasing you.

Finally his index and middle finger parted you, while his thumb gently teased your clit.

“Mmmmmm” you let out as you closed your eyes.

“Do you like that?” he asked softly into your breasts, all you could do was nod as he applied more pressure.

his teeth grazed your nipple with expertise. As though he knew just the right amount to use, how much you liked.

He continued to kiss, suck on, and sometimes lightly bite your breasts. You felt yourself clenching around nothing as he moaned soft praises into your skin. while he kept circling your clit.

It was beginning to be too much and not enough. “More,” you whined, “Your fingers.” you said.

He nodded, “Show me, show me what you like.”

you reached your hand below, rubbing your clit only a little, then you pushed a finger in. He watched as your eyes closed from the pleasure

He inserted his finger alongside yours, feeling how you moved your own finger inside you.

The extra digit in you stretched you so nicely, you let out a small sigh as you smiled at him and he smiled back at you.

You inserted a second finger, and he followed suit. The stretch burned slightly, it had been a while since you had been with a man, and now already you’d four fingers inside you. Albeit two were smaller than the other two but still. You whined a little as you winced slightly. It made him lean down and kiss your lips.

“You’re wonderful” he said as he kissed your jaw and your neck, pumping his fingers in you with your own guiding him. You then removed your fingers, content to let him take control.

His fingers knew when to curl and when to relax, when to push against the soft spot in you, and knew just the right speed. No man had ever known how to draw out such pleasure from simply his fingers with you.

“Podrick-“ you gasped at certain curl of his fingers,

“My lady?” he said into your lips,

“Call me my name,” you said into his,

“(Y/N)…(Y/N)..(Y/N)…(Y/N)..” he repeated softly as he kissed your cheek, then your other cheek, then your forehead, then your eyelids, nose, and finally your lips.

You took his face into your hands, as gently as he took yours in his. You kissed him sweetly, as you pulled away you whispered “I want to make you feel good,”

He smiled and let out a small chuckle “I feel very good,”

You shook your head and rubbed your palm onto his tenting trousers, making him close his eyes tightly, “I want you to feel even better.”

Your touching continued until he was grunting and bucking into your hand, “I- I have to take these off.” He said with a bit of shame as he fumbled with the strings of his trousers. You gladly helped him with a smile on your flushed face.

As he was freed from his pants, you took him in your hand, looking at his cock. It was bigger than you had expected, and by far the prettiest one you’d seen. Most were crooked, too thin, or too wide but his was perfect.

“Pretty thing you’ve got there,” You said with a smile as you pulled him into another kiss.

As you did you pushed him onto his back and climbed on top of him, slinging your leg over his body.

He looked flustered with your boldness but pleased. “Thank you,” he responded.

“You’re welcome,” You said as you lined his cock, slick with precum against your entrance. His hands gripped your hips as you lowered yourself, pushing him inside of you.

You let out the prettiest of moans from your lips as did he.

His eyes rolled to the back of his head as you grinded him into you, in and out. The way his cock twitched inside of you hit the soft spot in you so deliciously each time, making you moan even louder.

You looked down at him, you ran your hand against his cheek as he looked back at you with a soft smile while moans left his lips.

The look in his eyes as he watched you squirm and whimper was a look you were not accustomed to.

All of the sudden, he pulled you down and rolled you onto your back. You were face to face, his arms wrapped around your body and yours around his. Your legs around his waist as he bucked into you, again and again. The way he did it, was as if he had done it a thousand times before.

He moved his hands to hold your face, and his other to hold your hand.

His thumb rubbed against your cheek, sweetly. Just before it left your cheek and trailed down your body to your cunt. Rubbing your clit in circles.

He could feel you clenching around him, his speed picked up and his mouth returned to your nipples. But his hand never left yours.

“I’m cuming, Podrick, I- mmhmm” You whined, only making him speed up even more.

You felt your legs shake, your toes curl, and the pressure in your stomach snap and the warmth in your core spread around his cock. You let out the prettiest of moans as you came. You gripped his hand tightly. And he peppered your chest and your neck in kisses. “I want you to cum,” You whispered as he continued to fuck into you.

“So warm… so wet.” He whimpered against your neck, “Gods, I need you.”

His thrusts in you became more and more erratic, you anticipated his cum filling you, you anticipated the heat that would fill you. You wanted it, badly. You smiled as you saw his face contort knowing it was coming, but he pulled out and came on the ground next to you.

You whined a little, “I wanted it,” You said in a whisper.

“You?-” He looked confused “You wanted it?”

You nodded, pouting a little.

“Why?” He asked, not being able to understand it, “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to- to sully your body.” He said, sweet sentiment.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈꒱꒱

After he cleaned it up, you had gotten in bed.

He dressed himself back in his tunic and walked over to you where you pulled him into your bed.

He held you against his body, and you held him back. He just stared into your eyes, as he pet your cheek. He admired the way you looked against the light of the fire. His eyes trailed down your body and he saw the bruises he left from his kisses on your breasts. His thumb grazed over them as he said “I’m sorry, I-’

“You did nothing wrong,” You said as you gripped his face and pulled him down to kiss his lips. “Do you think your Lord misses you?” You asked jokingly.

“I think he is too drunk to notice.” He said smiling at you, “What about your Lady?”

“I think she was too involved in Joffrey to notice.” You said with a giggle.

“Sleep with me tonight?” You asked softly,

He nodded and he wrapped his arms around you and nuzzled his face into your neck.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

When you woke up, you were alone.

You felt a little betrayed but you knew he had duties.

Later that day you were ordered to check on Lord Tyrion’s injuries as the Maester was too busy to see to it himself.

When you knocked on the door to Tyrion's chambers Bronn answered the door, he eyed you up and down, making you roll your eyes.

“My Lord,” You said walking into Tyrion’s chambers, brushing past Bronn and avoiding his gaze.

“Ah, the bear girl.” Tyrion said,

“(Y/N) Mormont, my Lord.” Podrick attempted to correct him, which made Bronn huff and roll his eyes. But you smiled at him, and he smiled back.

“Yes, Podrick, I know her name. My family is holding her captive after all.”

You smirked at his admission, ‘How’re you feeling?” You asked as you sat a leather bag of medicines and supplies on a table.

“Oh quite pleasurable.” Tyrion said sarcastically,

You turned towards him, dropping your concerned demeanor “I need to know if it stings or itches, if it’s infected, it could spread to your eyes, you’ll go blind, it could spread to your sinuses which could make you go deaf, and if it spreads to your brain you’ll die."

“You’re a gentle flower aren’t you?”

“Always have been. The Flower of Bear Island they called me.” You said sarcastically with crossed arms, making Tyrion huff a chuckle, “Yes and now they call me bear girl and whore, so if you could be so kind and cooperate I can see to it that you don’t die.”

Podrick held back a smile at your strength.

“Alright, no burning, itching, or stinging. Satisfied?” Tyrion said as you sat beside him.

“Somewhat…” You said while examining the cut.

Podricks eyes were entranced by the way your eyes darted around the Lord's scar, how you examined it with such expertise. How your eyebrows narrowed and your lips pouted slightly when you focused intensely on something. How when you wrapped a new bandage around the Lord's face you bit on your bottom lip. As he stared at your lips he thought of your first kiss, how warm and soft your lips were, he thought of your sweet taste. He wanted to grab your face and do it all over again. He was so deep into his fantasy he hadn’t even noticed Tyrion had called his name twice.

Bronn smacked Podricks head, making him snap out of it as Tyrion repeated himself again.

“Pod, see Lady Mormont to her chambers.”

“Yes, my Lord.” Podrick nodded

“Oh I'm sure the lad would love that.” Bronn said as you and Podrick left the room.

Once the door to Tyrion's chamber was closed you turned to Podrick with narrowed eyes.

“You told them?” You asked with venom.

“No, no, no I wouldn’t.” He stammered, not wanting you to believe he would do such a thing to you, “I wouldn’t. I believe I am just not very good at concealing my… interest in you.” He said softly so no one would hear.

It made you smile.

“I am sorry I couldn’t stay, My Lady. This morning, I couldn’t stay, Lord Tyrion would have sent someone for me.” He said softly again.

“I told you, you can call me by my name.” You said not willing to say it was alright but not willing to say it wasn’t. “Did you forget it, Podrick?” You teased him

“No, no (Y/N)” He said your name with a smile.

“Good, I thought your interest in me had finally subsided.”

“I don’t think it could.”

It made you smile again, 'seven hells' you thought, falling for such things.

You looked around and saw no one in the hall, you pulled him into another kiss.

NOTE:sowwy this took so long, i wuv you!

TAG LIST: @ryn-away @boojaynaqueen @holierthancunt @symonedoesart

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endless-ineffabilities · 9 months ago

Text

But Daddy, I Love Him (chapter one)

Daemon Targaryen x f!reader

synopsis : the reader is a daughter of the Lord of House Arwen - ever so dutiful and mild-mannered. Slated to be the lady wife of some highborn Lord, someone who is noble and decent. Not the volatile Rogue Prince. Not Daemon Targaryen.

in this chapter : The Rogue Prince and the reader meet. Their fates entwine. A fool is made out of a Lady.

themes/warnings : Daemon being Daemon is a warning in itself, Daemon has a superiority complex, highborn!reader, House Arwen is my own creation (name inspired by lotr!)

series list : chapter one - chapter two - chapter three

word count : 2k ▪︎ masterlist

a/n : the title and the series concept inspired by the TS song ofc <3

Dutiful daughter, all my plans were laid. Tendrils tucked into a woven braid...

Your chambers. The Godswood. The library.

Every day is the same. The mornings start with your ladies in waiting helping you prepare for the day. Running your bath, carefully pressing your frocks, lacing you up in your bodice. Making sure each lock of hair is in place, the right amount of rouge dabbed against the apples of your cheeks.

You were once a perfect little girl, now a perfect little lady.

Soon a perfect little lady wife.

This is your story, already woven, already told time and time again. The same story for all ladies of your standing.

All you have to do is to be good. And so you are.

Thank the gods for the stories you read, enabling you jump into different lives. Adventures and romances you know you will never have, not truly. But you are happy to play the fool with every page turned.

The library has become your safe haven, your home within your home. Nestled high in the sprawling castle of House Arwen. Nothing can disturb you here. No one.

Or so you thought.

The very first words you hear Daemon Targaryen say to you come across as rather rude. You will find in time that he does not mean to be rude. Not all the time, that is. This is just how he is.

"I have always found that story rather dull. Amusing how you seem to be so engrossed in it, my lady."

"Excuse me, but I will you have you know - " you raise your head, taking in the visitor. Or intruder.

"Prince Daemon," you rise from your seat, offering a well-practiced curtsy. An instinctive move of obeisance for a lady like you.

He barely acknowledges your gesture, his face flat and impassive. "That book. I was forced to read it in my youth. Our Maester all but shoved it down my throat."

You immediately do not take to his approach. That book is one of the most famous tales from Old Valyria. He should know, being of Valyrian blood and all.

"I believe there is much to like about this book, my Prince."

"Such as?"

"Well, it depicts a warrior knight of Old - "

"Some warrior knight," Daemon scoffs, not even letting you finish your statement. "He gave up his powers for the love of a wench he knew for just a fortnight. He had every chance at glory but he squandered all of it away. For what?"

"For... for love?" comes your response, though you know he did not really want one.

For someone who claims to dislike this story so much, he sure knows it well.

He mindlessly taps his fingers on a nearby shelf, eyes lazily reading the titles. Drifting through the room with the unmistakeable disdain of someone who is used to having so much, the world practically by his feet, but is disinterested with it all.

You think that you could fall dead right then and Daemon wouldn't care. Wouldn't even bat an eyelash. He rolls his eyes at your mention of love, and it does not help your impression of him.

"There are only two things worthy of love in my eyes, my lady, and that is power and blood."

"Blood? Well, my prince, family is one of the most important - "

"Blood is not the same for me as it is for you. My blood carries a legacy of fire and magic, being of Old Valyria. You would not possibly understand how I hold my blood in high regard."

Oh may the gods strike him down now.

Your hands clench into fists, pressing against your skirts, but you don't have it in you to notice the unladylike gesture. All you can think of is letting him have a piece of your mind. "A family can have a flock of sheep or a horde of dragons, my prince, and it makes no difference to me. Your family is your family, your blood is your blood. But whether you choose to love them does not solely depend on blood."

It is as if he sees for you for the first time then, the moment you show that you have your own voice, and that you will not simply cater to his whims.

He turns eager to press you further, make you break, make you cave in. "What of you, my lady? What is it that you find worthy of love? Family, I presume, from your poorly formed argument? What about a lord husband?"

"I do love my family," you nod. "And when I do wed, I am sure I will love my lord husband just as dearly."

He walks closer, but does not stop in front of you as is the polite thing to do in conversation. He circles you, and you feel exposed by the way he openly takes you in. "Oh, but how will you know? You do not have a choice, do you? How can that be love?"

You do not answer right away, for the prince has just voiced one of your biggest fears. What if you do not find love in your lord husband? What sort of life would that entail? One which you have been preparing for since you entered womanhood, one you always thought you would be willing to accept. It is your duty, after all.

So you say just that. "It is my duty, and if I am able to fulfil my duty, then I am certain that will bring me happiness."

Daemon scoffs, his lips forming a self-righteous sneer. "In the story, do you then think that the warrior knight would have been better off fulfilling his duty and abandoning his love?"

"It is not the same."

"It is exactly the same."

"No," you emphasize, "because he had a choice. I do not."

He had stopped right in front of you, a bit too close for comfort, almost as if he needs to lean in to scrutinize you fully. "Love is the death of duty, my lady. Take my word for it, you would be far better off playing your role. If you truly wish to honour your family, you would not fall in love at all."

He's so close that you can feel his breath fanning your face. If you didn't know any better, you would believe that simply being so near Daemon Targaryen is the reason why your body feels like it is on fire. He gives off heat like a furnace, like a dragon.

Maybe he is a dragon. Is that not what they all say about Targaryens?

You open your mouth to take a breath, lest your throat also burns from the dry warmth, your stomach curling adding to your nerves. It prompts you to ask, "What about you, my prince? Has duty stolen every chance you have at love?"

His eyes draw downward to your lips, and his faint blonde lashes catch the light. The Rogue Prince does look otherwordly. Everything you have heard about him has been inadequate.

His violet eyes meet yours once more. "I would not bother with such frivolity. As I said, my lady, power and blood are all there is."

"Perhaps so. Perhaps true love only exists in the stories that I read."

"You are learning," he nods, and offers what might be his first genuine smile to you.

"Nevertheless," you step away from him, and carry your book back to the shelf. "I do not fault the warrior knight for choosing love over glory. I would choose as he had done, if that were a possibility."

His response is glib, but not meant to offend. "Then you are a fool, my lady."

"I wish I were a fool, my prince," you smile, lowering your gaze. "Aren't all fools happy?"

"You wish nothing more than to be mere mummer who has found happiness in love."

"If only," you say. It's surprising how easy you're finding it to engage in conversation with him. It feels like you have known him for many moons and not only for this moment.

The Rogue Prince, of all people. Which begs the question, what is he doing in the library of House Arwen?

"Pardon me, my prince, but why have you graced us with your presence this morning?"

He turns serious, almost bored, that he has to acknowledge the reason for his visit. "My brother, the King, has sent me to relay an official decree to your Lord father. He is to accept the position of Master of Coin for the small council."

"He... he is?" you swallow. This would mean that you have to go with him and live in the Red Keep. This also signals that your betrothal to Tyland Lannister is afoot. Your father had recently paid a visit to Casterly Rock to arrange for your marriage to Tyland or Jason Lannister. If it is to be with Jason, you would be sent to Casterly Rock. If Tyland, your father would take the offer to be part of the small council. You are to accompany him and begin courtship with the Master of Ships.

At least it will be Tyland and not Jason.

"Yes, I am supposed to meet your Maester here in the library to deliver the royal decree," Daemon replies, the task so insignificant to him, unaware that he has just delivered news that determines the course of your life.

Not that it makes any difference. Your father has always wanted to join houses with either the Lannisters or the Baratheons. Forge a true Westerosi alliance. It seems that he will finally get his wish.

Your thinking gets the better of you, and you stand unmoving, the weight of duty suddenly feeling too much to bear.

Daemon's face scrunches in what can misconstrued be concern. But surely he isn't. He must only be uncomfortable at your sudden silence and blank expression.

"Is something the matter? Are you not pleased that your father is graced with an opportunity such as this?"

"Of course. I am sure that he would be delighted."

"You do not seem to be."

No, you aren't. While you have met Tyland Lannister before, there was never any attraction there. From your side and his. Yours would be a marriage of convenience, for the benefit of both Houses.

How I wish I was the warrior knight.

"It matters not how I feel, my prince."

There is movement by the doors, and the old Maester rushes in all out of breath.

"My prince!" He calls out immediately. "My deepest apologies that I have kept you waiting."

Daemon pays him no mind. His attention is solely on you. Conscious that the Maester observes the exchange, you clear your throat. "I shall take my leave, my prince. The Maester will see to you now."

You tilt your head and curtsy in farewell. As you pass by Daemon, your hand brushes against his, the pads of his knuckes rough against your own. The first and likely the only time your skin will come into contact with his, you strangely think with regret. Still, it catches you off guard and you feel a sensation like needles pricking all the way up your arm.

"My lady," he greets, and under his breath, making sure the Maester cannot hear, he adds, "my lady fool."

Another smile is shared between the two of you.

Love is the death of duty, he had said. Sooner rather than late, you will find out just how it rings true.

Supper with your Lord father is but another constant. You have always been grateful for it, especially since the passing of your late mother.

He is the only family you have around, with your elder sister already married off to some Lord in the Riverlands. She has already done what was expected of her, securing an alliance for House Arwen and bearing children for her Lord Husband.

The mantle has been passed on to you. It was never something to ponder over, as it is not something in your control.

Do your duty. Play your role. Pray that you never fall in love at all, Daemon said.

But might I fall in love with Tyland? Should that not be what I aim for?

"I heard that you encountered Prince Daemon this morning," your father says. "I trust that you acted accordingly as befits his station."

"Of course, father."

"Though it matters little to me how that rogue prince fares." The derision in his tone cannot be contained. Your father has never held Prince Daemon in any regard, viewing him as a waste of his titles.

"The Prince was gracious enough to exchange pleasantries with me."

Pleasantries. Never mind how he mocked your story, your family, and by extension, you.

"Careful, daughter. Prince Daemon is never loathe to chase after the nearest skirt that catches his fancy. I feel for his newly betrothed, the Lady Laena Velaryon. Far too good for him, that one."

"Daemon is betrothed?" you ask, unable to hide your surprise. Last you heard, his wife Rhea Royce passed in a tragic hunting accident. You also heard the whispers that she perished by her husband's hand.

After finally meeting him, you would not count it as an impossibility. But some part of you does not want to believe that he could be capable of something so vile.

"Yes, Prince Daemon has been betrothed once more. No doubt the most fruitful union for their Houses," your father confirms. With all this talk of betrothals, you already know what is coming, but your stomach sinks all the same when he adds, "as will be the union of House Arwen and House Lannister, dear daughter. You should consider yourself highly fortunate. I have toiled considerably to bring about your betrothal to Tyland Lannister."

"Of course, father." The words are empty, worn through, forever echoing in your ears.

Of course. I will do my duty. What is love after all, but a passing fancy, mere fiction entombed in between pages?

The red scales of the infamous Blood Wyrm glisten under the bright sunlight.

Caraxes lets off an ear-splitting screech as Daemon guides him across the skies.

"Daor tolmiot sir." The Valyrian smoothly comes from Daemon like a song. Not far now.

Not far from the seat of House Arwen in the Westerlands. His destination, for some unknown reason.

Just the seventh day after he was sent to deliver the decree, he finds himself returning once more. It is the day that your Lord father, yourself, and the rest of your envoy are set to ride for King's Landing.

And Daemon has decided to extend an offer to you, the Lady Arwen, one that might infinitely expedite your travels.

There were a myriad of justifications floating around in his head. He found out that you are betrothed to Tyland Lannister and his actions on this day would no doubt ruffle the preening lion's mane.

Anything to needlessly anger a Lannister, Daemon would enjoy.

He would revel in the pleasure of bespoiling such a prim and strait-laced Lady such as yourself. It would be like sport to him.

It must also not be forgotten that this would rouse the ire of your Lord father, who has never held any love for Daemon and vice versa.

All these reasons make complete sense to Daemon. All but one which he does not allow himself to entertain.

That he wishes to see you.

Who are you, if not just another proper wench with your honour and your faith for the Seven Gods up your arse? Daemon has much more discerning tastes, from dragonrider to tavern whore, but never one with your disposition.

You are nothing to Daemon. No one.

But that does not mean he will refrain from indulging in the pleasure of causing chaos.

The clouds part as Caraxes dips lower, revealing the outline of your meagre castle.

"Sepār ilagon konīr." Daemon refers to the inner courtyard where a line of carriages await, precious possessions being lugged onto them by footsoldiers.

Caraxes dives down with precision, his wings casting a shadow over the courtyard as he suddenly descends, leaving everyone startled.

Daemon's boots heavily crunch against the gravel as he jumps down, and he scans the wary crowd for his prize.

Soldiers rising to attention, bowing their heads to their prince. Ladies-in-waiting openly ogling him as he draws nearer. The Maester and his apprentices approaching him with rushed greetings springing from their mouths.

And then, there you are.

Standing just behind the small crowd, whispering hurriedly to your companion. You shush when you spy Daemon heading right for you.

"My prince." You perform the usual curtsy. Daemon thinks the movement does not suit you. He much preferred it when you were getting riled up at his remarks back at your library.

"My lady," he greets. "Lovely weather we are having, is it not?"

You appear confused, your eyes narrowing and nose scrunching for but a brief moment, and Daemon relishes in prompting such an unguarded expression. But it reverts back into your polished smile.

"Yes, it... it is, my prince. Forgive me, but I was not aware that we were expecting you."

No. Of course not. "Let me rephrase that. It is lovely weather for dragonriding, and I am inclined to think that you would enjoy the journey to the Red Keep."

"I am afraid I do not follow."

Daemon gets right to the point and his next words ring true, leaving no room for doubt as to his intentions. "My lady, I would like for you to ride with me."

Your posture becomes slack, and you gape at him like he has grown a second head.

"That would be inappropriate, my prince."

"No," he sneers. "It would be inappropriate if I take you for myself right there on the dragonsaddle, my lady, but I merely wish to offer a ride."

Your companion blushes profusely at his words. Apparently the image affects her so much all she can do is stare at her feet.

You, on the other hand, are unyielding. Your eyes blazing right through his own violet. A nagging voice in Daemon's mind insists that this is what he came for. Nothing else.

You finally say, "It is unbecoming of me to even entertain that notion, Prince Daemon. My Lord father and my betrothed would surely not approve."

Daemon takes a step closer, and the two of you stand nearly toe to toe. "But do you not wish it? Do you not wish to fly on dragonback? Much like the heroes in your stories I would wager."

"Those are just stories. It would be foolish of me."

Daemon laughs dryly, "My lady, is that not what you are? A lady fool who dreams of adventure and love?"

You frown when he has you cornered, your thoughts whirring in that foolish head of yours. Daemon feels the need to run his thumb over your pursed lips.

Perhaps I am the foolish one.

The Maester interrupts, breaking the impasse, nervously looking between the two of you.

"My prince," he says, "if you came to speak to the Lord Arwen, he is still in his chambers. He should be on his way down shortly."

You glance at the Maester then back to Daemon, awaiting his response, but he has none to offer.

You tilt your head disapprovingly at his outright discourtesy until he extends his hand to you. "My lady," he says with sincerity, "you shall be made a good lady wife soon enough, but today I invite you to be foolish with your prince."

It is the Maester who speaks, "My prince, the Lady Arwen must not - "

But you rudely interrupt, a newfound fire blazing in your eyes. "Is it as exhilarating as the stories say?"

"Enough to please a fool," Daemon replies.

With a smile, you fit your hand right into his, consequences be damned.

I may not write for him as often, but Daemon just might be my favourite to characterize and the most fun to weave stories with 🖤

This is a fixed miniseries, with a more or less fixed story, so it will only a three-parter.

#daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen imagine #daemon targaryen #house of the dragon #matt smith #hotd

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