#not to mention the way rhaenyra looks at alicent's face before she leaves

[multiverse-of-multifandoms]

ALICENT HIGHTOWER & RHAENYRA TARGARYEN HOUSE OF THE DRAGON "The Lord of the Tides"

[just-some-random-blogger]

Tormented Spirit | 1

Part 2

"Is it such a sin to stand up for yourself?" you mutter as tears blur your vision. The way he reacted was visceral, instinctive even. "You never have to stand up for yourself ever again," says Daemon, reaching a hand to you, "come."

Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!Reader | 4k+ | cw: fem!reader, reader has brown hair, wife!reader, twin!Gwayne, arranged/forced marriage, canon divergence, alternate universe, eventual smut, DD:DNE, panic/anxiety attacks, daddy issues/child abuse/family problems, mentions/depictions of mental/physical/psychosomatic illness, mentions/depictions of death/suicidal ideation, ye old misogyny, angst, typos, etc.

A/N: i nearly decided on nuking this because it feels so fucking bad and aimless guess in the end I'M really the tormented spirit huh anyway if I'm glad i didnt and decided to wait it out. if you enjoy this please think of leaving a comment and/or reblog because i need the reassurance. | cross posted on ao3

Tagging: @arabellasleopardcoat

"Father," Alicent pleads, "she needs to see you."

Otto's jaw clenches as he lifts his gaze from his desk. He looks upon his youngest child's features. You were one in the same, his first daughter and last. He thanks the gods that she did not inherit the curse you bear.

Alicent picks at her fingers while awaiting a response. Though she draws blood, no sound leaves her lips. She did not know it, but her father catches this anxious tick. He mentally corrects himself: at least she did not inherit it at equal intensity.

"A man has no place in the dressing room of a bride-to-be," the Lord Hand dismisses.

Alicent knew about as much would be said, yet she still tries, "please. She is having a-"

"And when has my presence ever soothed her?" Otto interrupts, raising his voice to make his point clear.

It was enough. Alicent understood.

He turns back to his papers. He reads them but none of the words register. He says, "I am sure your brother is already there, coddling her as he does."

Alicent does not respond.

Otto lifts his gaze, "go," he speaks as though his daughter missed the obvious, "if she needs someone so badly, coddle her with Gwayne."

Alicent returns to your chambers. Her heart pinched in every which way at the sight of you. Here you stood, clothed in one of the few precious dresses that belonged to your mother— a bride. Dark blue satin and gold jewelry embellished your form. Your brown hair was curled and plaited and pinned. Your face had a glow, only because it was stained with tears. It was terrible and magnificent all at once.

Rhaenyra goes to her best friend, and the two girls clutched hands before walking towards you. Gwayne spots them and gives your hands a tight squeeze. Because of this, you turn from your older brother to your younger sister. Your eyes are pink with melancholy.

"Lord Hand," Alicent mutters, "is deep in his work."

On his daughter's wedding day, thinks Gwayne.

Rhaenyra clenches her jaw, loathing your father more than normal in this moment.

More than your own, you cannot stomach your sister's duress. You stroke her cheek, "I am well now. Worry no more."

Alicent catches Gwayne's expression and knows that is a lie. Still, she smiles and nods, "I am glad," she looks you once over, "you are an exquisite bride, sister."

Rhaenyra offers a smile, "I agree, dear aunt."

Your face twists at the young princess's words, though you knew she meant well. You will away the dreadful sensation in your stomach and manage a smile, "thank you... sweet niece."

You relish their company for as long as you can in this moment. You gather strength from Rhaenyra's smile, from Alicent's touch, and Gwayne's words. Then, all at once, you were alone, walking towards Daemon Targaryen.

In truth, he was not curious of you. He despised you, for after all, you were the spawn of that Cunttower. But, gods, what could possibly be the reason you were taking so long to walk down the aisle? It was not like this room was that big. And so, he turns over his shoulder to inspect you. His hand remains on Dark Sister and his weight still rested mostly on one leg.

He squints at the sight of you, moving like a snail. He is about to roll his eyes, but then he catches a glimpse of your countenance.

Tis strange.

You were not nearly as repulsive as he remembered you, and not nearly as similar in likeness to your rotten twin. How could that be, when it was not only- what, a season since he had pummeled Ser Cuntface to the ground? He will never forget your screaming face in the audience, and how deliciously distressed your father had been from hauling you away.

Even now, as Daemon's lilac eyes appraised your distant silhouette, gliding towards him like a phantom intent on haunting, he second guessed if that weeping woman from the tourney was you. But then he turned to your brother and saw his jaw harden. It was unmistakable then you were the weeping woman, and now, you were his weeping bride.

Gwayne, could not help the way his hands tightened into a fist as he helplessly watched you inch towards his most ardent foe. Beside him, unmoving, stood the very man who allowed such madness to ensue: your father.

You pass the pew that seated your family. Your twin's expression softens. He nods, and you know he means take heart. Your sister does the same. But your father, who stood between his children, does not spare you a glance.

Daemon notices the coldness. He would feel bad, but then again, he has been proclaiming his ill-guided brother's Lord Hand was the biggest cunt in the realm for so long, so he doesn't. Oh, but then you look at him with those beady eyes, and he did not know why his thorax felt uneasy.

Twas strange indeed.

Soon you stood in front of your promised, and, finally, Otto lays his eyes upon you. He does not see you though. He does not see the woman dressed in the garments that once belonged to his wife. He does not see your trembling hand and glassy cheeks. He sees his timid, tremoring, little daughter that he had to leave a moon's length for work. He sees her frail body that shook on her tiny bed and found no comfort in the way he held her tiny hand when he returned.

As the septon begins this damning rite, all he could hear was the voice of the maester that promised the new medicine he procured would heal his girl. As tears rolled down your eyes, he remembers how he nearly killed the maester for feeding you herbs that caused you to retch the little food you had eaten.

Has my child not suffered enough?

Has my child not suffered enough?

ᴴⁱˢ ᶜʰⁱˡᵈ ⁱˢ ᵐᵃʳʳʸⁱⁿᵍ ᵃ ᵐᵒⁿˢᵗᵉʳ

Daemon turns to the pew beside the Hightowers' and finds his brother's face. Viserys seemed pleased to witness this wretched affair, as did Aemma, who clutched her pregnant belly. Rhaenyra beside her seemed more interested in you however, or at least the dress that she and Alicent helped dressed you in.

The septon blabbers and tells you both to speak your vows. You do, one as reluctant as the other. Then, as instructed, Daemon cloaks you and presses a kiss on your salty lips.

Twas bittersweet. On one hand, as he takes your clammy one, the image of Otto's face when Daemon told the King that he wanted to marry you comes to mind.

Oh, how excited he was to see the old fool look as though he was a breath away from lunging at him across the table, and how utterly horrendous that he hadn't. He would have simply, and justifiably, killed him. Then all this bother would not have ensued. The look upon the said man's face this moment, now that he's sullied what he so dearly protected, made his stomach giddy.

As the same time, as he held that same clammy hand of yours and felt it tremble, he remembers that you and he were bound. Though not in the manner of his house, he knew he could escape only so much of his wretched duties. Otto's vexation would only last so long, and deep down the cunt must enjoy that his daughter was now a princess. He knew soon Viserys would also begin nagging him again.

But then out of nowhere, he laughs. It was so abrupt that a few guests looked at him in confusion.

How could he forget? There was the matter of your... affliction. Perhaps he can frighten you to death on your wedding bed.

He chuckles once more.

The idea is so delicious, he is in good spirits the whole wedding feast. He does nothing but embarrass and shame you by entertaining literally every other lady save yourself.

What makes matters worse, at least on your end, is that your father refuses to go to your side and forbids not only your brother but as well as your sister from leaving their spots to come to your aid. There was no need to make the matter bigger than it was. You are left alone at your seat at the table, looking nothing but pathetic and weepy.

You sustain such temperament until you're in your marriage chambers, but then you do a funny thing and down two glasses of wine. Daemon laughs at how it spills from your lips, down your neck.

He, who had already much more than a measly two cups, comes behind you and takes the one you loudly prop on the table. You squeak and bolt away when Daemon's arm sneaks up from underneath your own; it only further amuses him.

"V'you a change of heart?" he pours himself a glass, "ready for debauchery, yes?"

You turn unbelievably pale, and it merits the fondest of laughs from your sadistic groom. Daemon drinks and licks the wine off his lips.

You gulp, reaching out a trembling hand.

He raises a brow at it. Suddenly, he's annoyed— twice was much because he has absolutely no idea what the gesture means.

That is, until you speak, "may I have some more?"

One of his faint silver brows raises. Suddenly, he is greedy with the wine he thought tasted too sour on his tongue. However, a curiosity within him urged to hand over the cheap drink, for why did his shivering wife have the nerve for this to be her first words to him?

He watched you throw your head back as you down the wine just as quick as you did the previous ones. He chuckles and crosses his arms. When you turn to Daemon, he tilts his head, "thirsty?"

You inhale deeply, though it is strangled, "for my anxiousness."

It takes a moment for him to realize what you mean, and when he does, his nostrils flare. Had he breathed fire, surely smoke would have come out his nose at this moment. Daemon releases an airy, unamused chuckle and averts his gaze, "eager to bed me, harlot?"

Your throat tightens, for that was not what you meant at all.

You forcibly swallow a lump that forms when he comes to your side. Your throat only further constricts when he grabs and yanks you into his chest. You whimper as he presses his nose against your ear. Goosebumps form when his hot breath hits your ear, "on the bed then."

Your heart thunders as he shoves you towards the bed. You nearly miss it. Actually, only your head and arms touch the cushion, and the rest of your body collides with the floor and the hard bed frame. Your tailbone throbs at the impact, but it doesn't hurt nearly as much as your chest that tightened, and tightened, and tightened and—

You barely manage to gasp. You are hard of breathing when Daemon crouches and grabs your thighs, pulling your skirts up. He feels your flesh tremble beneath his palm. His fingers touch your skin, and it brings him to hiss; you are ice against his burning hands.

He looks up at you. A line forms between his brows. You gasped for air that seemed unwilling to enter your lungs. Not only was your face stained with tears, but as well as your neck now

He mutters, "nyke pendagon jaelā naejot sagon ipradāri," I thought you wanted to get eaten, "I do so find fear delectable."

You continue to slump into the floor until you're a melted mess. You can do nothing but clutch your chest, not that it helps one bit.

Daemon is satisfied at this point. He stands and dusts his hands off. He looks at the pitiful Hightower, your dark locks spilled on the ground as if blood from a crime scene.

"Is that your affliction then, wife?" he tilts his head, "do you seize up when you're nervous?"

You look at him, but do not respond.

"S'rather inconvenient, no?" he sighs, as though he actually cared.

You shut your eyes and curl into a ball.

"Mmm, well, I suppose I will have to claim the womanhood owed of me some other time," he said, uninterested. With that, he exits the room with a skip in his step, pleased to know he had such a tremendous effect on you.

You remain in this turmoil for what felt like hours.

By the time you peel yourself up from the floor, your body is encased in sweat. You command yourself to calm; you cannot afford to slip into another bout of insanity. Your tears cannot be contained as you struggle to undo the ties of your dress; at least tremendous relief comes after you do. You struggle to your feet and remove the pins in your hair while making for the vanity table.

You sit before yourself; your horrid face reflects on the mirror that was far too clear for your liking. As you free your hair from its bounds, you think, perhaps it was fortunate that your husband did not lay with you. At least not tonight.

But then, comes to mind, the argument you with your father. Your chest threatens to tighten again as the severity of his voice replays in your head.

It was no secret, Otto despised Daemon. How then could he be so shocked at your horror of learning he had approved your marriage to him. His raging voice still rings in your head: "you ungrateful fool!"

You fall apart in your palms and nearly succumb to yourself again. Thankfully, you manage to take deep breaths and pick yourself up before you fall apart.

You always knew you were the spare in your father's eyes, but you thought that merited indifference. You did not think he hated you so deeply. How could anyone hand their child to their enemy? Perhaps this was his way of finally having use of you.

A spare. A pawn. Will it ever end?

You go to bed and wrap yourself tightly under the sheets. You stare at the ceiling, praying the same prayer you've prayed since you were eight: Seven, let this be my final slumber.

You nearly choke when you are awoken by such violent shaking. You jolt up, or at least as much as you can from the blankets you were so tightly bound in.

Daemon grins and brings the hands he had shaken you with behind his back, "I would say good morn, but it is apparently opposite to you, wife."

The name makes your skin crawl. You push yourself out of the sheets and sit up. You wipe your face and tell yourself; you must get used to this, "good morrow, husband."

Your brown curls spill down your shoulder as you sigh to yourself. Daemon thinks you look much more palatable this way, unlike yesterday, when your hair was jailed so tightly. He motions with his head, "ta. We make haste to the dragon pit."

Your eyes are suddenly devoid of any trace of sleepiness as you look at him.

His lips remain curled, "it would only be proper to do so, no?" He does not let you retort, as he is already making his way out, "tis Caraxes' right to know who his master has been shackled to," he opens the door, "at least momentarily."

If he was self-satisfied with how you shook under his grasp last night, one can only imagine his exhilaration over your severe disinterest in meeting his mount this morning. What's more, Caraxes could smell your anxiety, and it made him chuff and snap his jaws.

Of course, Daemon chastised his dragon, telling him to obey, even though he very much did not want him to. He eagerly fantasizes: oh, a shame my bride died the day I introduced him to my ride.

A true shame.

"Calm yourself," Daemon sniggers as he forcefully pushes you towards the blood wyrm, "the harder you make this for yourself, the harder it will be."

You found no encouragement in that, for no part of it meant to encourage. You continue to writhe against him, pushing yourself back, only to be pressed against the prince's chest and urged forward. It didn't help that he shackled his hands on both of your wrists, preventing you from elbowing him away.

Though your hair was braided to the side, you still manage to whip it to Daemon's face in your attempt to free yourself, only causing him to be more impatient. You could not help the harrowing shriek that left you when he ultimately brought you to the beast's maw, and the said creature pressed himself against your chest to sniff you.

Caraxes rips away and shakes his head at your piercing reaction. He shrieks in like, as if disapproving, or showing offence. He must exact appropriate retaliation. He draws a deep breath, readying to set you ablaze. Daemon would have let him, had he not been a direct target of his mount's wrath, "keligon, Caraxes!"

Caraxes hisses.

"Keligon!" Stop!

He does not enjoy the order, exemplified by the way he licked his teeth, but obeys, nonetheless. He roars one last time, spit sputtering onto your face as he does. It's enough to make you finally lose your resolve.

You cease your wrangling and find yourself going limp in his arms. Daemon is pleased. He can finally drag you on dragon-back and torment you even more mid-air. What he did not know, however, was that your stomach was tingling; it was not that of the usual dread so familiar to you, but twas familiar still.

Daemon takes you by the arm and tries to make you climb up to the saddle, but then he stills when he hears the sound you make. He pulls away just before the acid from your stomach rushes out of your mouth. You retch so much it comes out of your nose, and you feel yourself grow lightheaded.

"Fucking gods," Daemon recoils in disgust. He turns to one of the dragon keepers and orders you away.

The dragon keeper, who looked far older than your father, spoke to you in a language you could not make out. You understand the part where he says maester as he leads you out of the pit. You manage to convey you no longer needed his assistance once you were out and walked off by yourself. You flinch and shriek when Daemon takes off on Caraxes.

You do not go to the maester's, instead, you have your servants draw you a warm bath and stay in it until it is cold. Only then do you scrub your skin until it is tender.

Once you were clean, you looked for the only person in the world that did not use your name interchangeably with hysteria: your twin.

"That uliginous blinkard," Gwayne slashes the dummy before him. You watch him pace from the bench you were sat upon. "He is incapable of procuring a morsel of dignity out of his wretched existence."

You clench you jaw when he chucks his sword to the ground.

"I should smother him in his sleep."

The thought chills you.

"But then I would be no better than he, would I not?" he seethes as he walks to your side, grabbing the towel beside you.

He wipes his face. You look up at him, a line forming between your brows, "remember you are my confidant, not my vindicator."

"If not I," he chucks his towel back beside you, "then who?" His forehead wrinkles, "an affront to my twin is worse than one to myself."

"Then you would know better than anyone that I share your sentiment," you grab his arm, hoping to calm him down.

His face is hard. He pushes your hand away.

You sigh, "and you know well that I suffer more in circumstances where you've acted on my behalf."

He clenches his jaw. He draws a deep breath and denies the thought with the shake of his head, "father will not hold it against-"

"Father holds everything against me," your eyes instantly water, "he would not be our father if he did not."

Your twin has never spoken your name any other way but in gentleness, yet it is precisely why it chips you apart. Gwayne continues, "be it as it may, but I do not believe that he gave to the prince— certainly not willingly."

You laugh and lift your countenance to the sky. Tears fall from the corner of your eyes, down your ears and neck, "does it matter?"

"It does," he urges, "he fought for you."

"He does not fight for me," you turn back to him, "allow yourself to come to terms with it as I have. It will hurt you less."

Gwayne does not manage a response as someone else speaks in that moment. The way you both tense at the sound is that of instinct.

"You vomited in the dragon pit?"

You turn over your shoulder and shoot up from where you sat. You watch as your father walks towards you. He places a hand on your neck and looks you up and down, "did the prince jostle you so on his ride?"

His touch is like a searing rod against your skin, his eyes, even worse. The raised hairs on your neck remain even as he pulls away. You quietly retort, "I did not even touch his saddle."

"Oh," Otto raises his brows, "then perhaps your affliction is that of you carrying."

Carrying?

Both you and Gwayne are mortified by the idea. You stutter, "s-surely it is not that quick."

"The blood of the dragon runs hot," he sighs, "as he would so boldly proclaim."

Your face burns upon hearing this.

Your father looks past you, "take your sister to the maester at once."

"No, I-"

"Make sure that she is good condition and take note of what will be instructed of her."

"That is not-"

"I am sure she will be required to take further precautions because of her affli-"

"We did not!" you blurt, finally regaining the attention of your father.

Your heart races as Otto looks at you. Suddenly, you are like a deer shot by an arrow, pained and powerless. He is annoyed that you interrupted him, only to say nothing. He presses, "we did not what?"

You take a strangled breath before reply, "we... did not consummate ou-"

"You what?!" he steps forward.

Gwayne immediately takes your arm, eager to get between you two, "father-"

But Otto does the same and pulls you toward him, "you did not consummate, or you did not want to consummate your marriage?"

Gwayne's hold on you falters. Your saliva lumps in your throat, "I-"

"You do understand the consequences if you do not bear your husband heirs, correct?"

You turn to your feet, unable to hold his heated glare, "I-"

"Look at me when I speak to you," he shakes you.

You lift your eyes, and hot tears begin to rush down your face.

"You've proven your point, father," Gwayne blurts, "release her."

"Release her?" Otto redirects his ire. Though he does just that, release you, it feels as though an iron clamp around your neck replaces your father's hold. "Even if I were to release her, boy, your dearest twin sister will not be free of the truth," he turns back to you, "nor my point. Your failure to do what is necessary will lead you straight into the dragon's belly."

You clench your jaw tighter than anyone should.

"Do you understand, girl?"

You nod before you allow yourself to breathe. You blurt, "yes, my lord."

Otto looks you once over before turning and walking away. The moment he is out of sight, you fold like a deck of cards, and Gwayne must keep you upright.

He hushes you and sits you back down. He kneels in front of you, observing if you were about to collapse into another episode. You do not, for he was with you, but you do weep until tears could no longer fall. He leads you to your room after this and urges you to rest.

You repeat the prayer you prayed on your wedding night before you sleep.

[vaokses]

How long this love can hold its breath

Series Masterlist / General Masterlist

Pairing: Aegon x Rhaenyra's Daughter!Reader

Summary: It has been years since your mother took you from King's Landing to join her in Dragonstone. Years since you and Aegon have seen one another. Years in which he has refused, time and time again, to marry, even as you tour Westeros meeting suitors in search of a husband of your choosing. That refusal can easily be undone with a few words: it was you she chose, Aegon.

Word Count: 3.1k 

Warnings: Alicent's abuse of Aegon. Alcohol/drunkenness. Mentions of sex/prostitution. Usual Targaryen incest stuff. Arranged marriage stuff. Angst. Hurt and kind of no comfort for now.

Some AU/Setting stuff: Reader is a bastard of Daemyra (claimed by Laenor of course), firstborn child of Rhaenyra and heir to her mother's claim. She rides Vermithor. As you'll figure out thorugh this one shot, she and Aegon had a thing when she was still in King's Landing. How relevant or impactful that 'thing' was depends on who of the two you ask. I've stretched the timeline a bit. Rhaenyra spent a few years more in King's Landing (making Aegon around 16/7 when she leaves, and the Reader, the eldest of the Velaryons, around 14/5). Instead of six years in Dragonstone, the Blacks have spent around three there in this story. Viserys still lives (and is rotting slightly slower), Aegon and Helaena did not marry.

A/N: My first work in this fandom, so i'm a bit nervous. This is a bit of a prologue/alternate PoV for a series I have in the works, but I wanted to share it as a one shot since I think it also works as one. I hope you like this!

Title is from the quote "I've hoarded your name in my mouth for months. My throat is a beehive pitched in the river. Look! Look how long this love can hold its breath." - Sierra DeMulder

It feels as if he has just rested his head on his pillow when he hears the heavy doors being pushed open, and the familiar hurried steps of his mother as she enters his apartments. 

He isn’t sure why he bothers by now in telling the guards not to let her in, since she insists on overruling his orders whenever she wishes. 

Still half-asleep, Aegon reaches for the bedsheet covering his body, wary of any attempt she might make in her anger to pull it off him. Surprisingly, his mother stops a few steps away from the foot of the bed. 

Aegon feels her piercing gaze on him, and aware the choice is between caving and chasing after her, asking her what it is she wants; or waiting for the anger at his unwillingness to follow the unspoken command -and the thrown object, or the stinging hit, that comes after said anger-; he drags his hands over his face in an effort to wake himself further and asks,  

“What is it, mother?” 

“Where in the Father’s name were you? Three days, Aegon,” He winces at the reprimand. In his defense, he truly didn’t think they’d notice. Helaena would, perhaps, but she wouldn’t seek him out either way. “You were gone for three days.” 

“I wasn’t…far. I didn’t even leave King’s Landing.” 

She starts letting out a sigh, laced with disappointment and annoyance, but stops herself short, instead turning her back to him and pacing a few steps away. 

“I know where it is you go to…to satiate your vices, caring not for the shame it brings to your name and mine, behaving most unlike your station.” 

“Then why did you ask?” 

His mother won’t turn to look at him, her back turned to him and her hands joined in front of her. 

“Your sister was here.” 

His brow furrows in confusion. 

“My sister is always here.” 

“Rhaenyra was here, Aegon.” 

“Oh. What for?” 

Alicent turns on her side, considers him with eyes widened in afront and mouth curled in disgust. The question leaves her lips slowly, a threat and a dare all at once. 

“Are you still drunk?” 

He mulls over the question for a few moments, and realizes his thoughts are entirely too calm for him to be already sober. The numb haziness of the night before remains, a comfort. 

“I think I might be,” He admits, eyes darting to the side and lingering on the pitcher of wine on a nearby table. He wonders if it is empty. “Slightly.” 

When it seems his mother is intent on merely staring at him in disappointment, he motions for her to turn away and gets dressed. 

He can’t help but feel unseemly, standing before his mother in rumpled clothes and disheveled hair, while she stands tall with not a strand of hair out of order, not a speck of dust on her dress. Then again, even at his best he hasn’t managed not to feel small, unsuited, by comparison. 

Instead of letting those thoughts linger, aided by the comfortable haze the wine from the previous night -or nights, rather- provides him with, Aegon moves to sit on a table in one of the darker parts of the room. 

Alicent follows quietly, but she doesn’t sit. 

“I come here with news. You are to be married, n-…” 

He shakes his head with a mocking laugh, the defiance as easy as breathing, after four years of holding the same stance. He might not have a say in much, but he does in this. 

“No, I’m not.” 

“Your father has approved of this union. As have I.” 

He shrugs his shoulders. 

“Then you are welcome to marry her yourselves. I shall hope for a long and happy marriage for you three.” 

Sometimes, perhaps in foolish hope, in some hollow fantasy, he thinks his impertinence amuses his mother. He might imagine it, he’s quite certain he does, but sometimes he swears she furrows her lips to hide the faintest of smiles. 

But of course, she shows no give, betrays not a flicker of amusement, of softness, of anything. Try as he might to earn any of them. 

“I did not come here to entertain insolence.” 

“Why did you come here, mother?” He asks, not able to reign in the restless movements of his hands, fingers tapping an irregular rhythm on the table. “My stance hasn’t changed. And it won’t.” 

The restlessness building within her is betrayed in the small movements of her hands that increase in intensity the longer she looks at him. With a sudden movement, she slams a hand on the table between them and leans closer. 

“You cannot go on like this, Aegon, shrinking your duty because of the denial of a caprice of your youth.” 

“It was the one thing I asked for. I haven’t asked for anything since, nor did I ask for anything before.” 

His mother scoffs in response, looking away. 

“And that is reason enough for your wish to be granted?” She asks, derisive, almost jeering. Alicent leans back, straightens her stance again. Not too unlike Aemond adjusting his posture to strike with his sword during training, he supposes. “You have gone through your entire life doing as you please, not considering the cost to your family, to your House, to me, and you expected to be rewarded?” 

But he has considered the cost, has had no choice but to consider it, when every choice, every action, it seems almost every thought, is heavy with the impact it might have on his name, on his family. He has considered the cost, but try as he might no choice, no action, has been enough. 

“It would have…It would have changed things. If you had said yes,” He argues, an argument repeated, in his head if not aloud, a thousand times over in these passing years. And yet restlessness builds within him regardless, and he finds himself grasping at the table to keep his hands from fidgeting. “It was the smart choice. You know father would have been for it. You could have kept Vermithor on our side, and given them no choice but to play by our rules with their daughter here. We might have won this war you want so b-…” 

“All I have wanted is to make sure your lives are not forfeit when your father dies. It is not war I want.” 

“Then why did you say no?” 

She shakes her head as she looks away again. 

“The matter is settled. Long settled.” 

“Yet you never told me why.” 

He wants to hear it. More than an apology for denying him a chance at happiness, more than an admission that beyond the feelings of any involved it was the smartest choice, more than anything, he wants to hear her tell him why. 

She didn’t even hear his reasons, she didn’t even consider proposing the union to your mother, or Viserys. She dismissed him, and denied him, without even a second thought. 

He wants to know the reason why. If it was because she knew of you something he didn’t, and was certain you would have rejected him even at the cost of your home and life as you knew it, he wants to know. If it was because she believes him so monstrous that she wished to protect even the daughter of her lifelong adversary from him, he wants to know. 

If it was because in his weakness and his failings he has made himself into something even his own mother wishes to see punished, or because there was something he did -because it had to be something he did, there cannot be so many that were supposed to love him and refuse to for it not to be something he is doing wrong, something about him that is wrong- that not only managed to make his mother’s love for him vanish, but also earned him her scorn, he wants to know. He thinks knowing that to be the truth would splinter him in a way he isn’t sure he’d be able to recover from, but he is tired, and alone, and he wants to know why. 

He searches his mother’s gaze, desperate for an answer, any answer. She looks back, and yet all that is reflected back at him is contempt, disappointment, and what he fears is disgust. 

“It has been years, Aegon. You are being senselessly stubborn, holding onto this…this grudge against me.” 

He makes a face at her words, and grabs the pitcher in the table before him only to find it empty, the only wine remaining being that still in the half-filled cup. 

“It is not a grudge, I-..”  

“Weakness, then,” She sentences, and he doesn’t bother hiding the flinch at her words. His gaze lowers to the table before him. “You’re being a fool, if you think after all this t-…” 

His eyes are set on the half-full cup of wine before him, and he doesn’t dare move his gaze as he interrupts, “I am not marrying, mother.” 

She considers him in silence, and though for a moment he thinks a hit is to come -he doesn’t usually get away with interrupting her-, followed by her footsteps leaving the room, his mother takes a deep breath and insists, 

“It is not me or your father who request this of you. It is your King who commands it.” 

“The King, or his Hand?” He retorts. He grabs at the cup and downs the remaining liquid, making a face at the taste of stale wine, and presses on, “I’m guessing a Baratheon, to earn Borros’ support? Or a Tully, to secure the Riverlands?” 

For the briefest of moments, when his mother’s lips press into a thin line, hands fidgeting where they rest joined before her, he thinks he finally got the upper hand. That he proved he isn’t as blind to their plots and their increasing panic at Rhaenyra’s influence as he may appear. That he proved her wrong, that he showed he isn’t as incompetent as they’d like to think, that he… 

“A Velaryon,” Alicent admits, and any pride, any satisfaction, die out like flames in a room without air. His lips part, he knows not for what since all that leaves them is a choked breath, the beginning of a question, of a name. Aegon searches his mother’s gaze, attempts to find any truth, any certainty, but Alicent looks away. Her next words sound as if heard from underwater. “To keep you from certain execution when your sister ascends the Iron Throne.” 

“Do not toy with me, mother,” He means for it to sound like an accusation, like a demand, like anything but a plea, and yet that is what leaves his lips. Betrayed by the waver in his voice, by the iron grip on the glass, he goes on, “She’s touring the whole of fucking Westeros in search of a husband as we speak.”  

“She has made her choice, Aegon. It was you she chose,” She promises, and her voice is low and warm and almost comforting, so why does it feel wrong? Why does it make him want to crawl out of his own skin? “As for the tour, it will continue as scheduled. Rhaenyra deserted her own tour before time was due, she knows better than to repeat her mother’s mistake.” 

Breathable air is lacking by this chair, in this room, and he stands up, wincing at the too-loud sound of the chair scraping against the ground. 

He eyes a pitcher of wine in another table, and crosses the distance with quick strides, refilling his cup and draining half of it before turning to his mother again. 

“Why tell me now? I-If the tour is to continue,” If she can still change her mind, “Why tell me now?” 

“Your grandsire and I believed you might take this opportunity to amend your behaviors,” Alicent tells him, “So you might save your future wife the embarrassment, so you might protect her honor, seeing as you do not care for ours or your own.” 

She hasn’t said your name yet, he notices.  

Neither has he, but he has forgotten when it was the last time that he said it aloud. Intentionally, that is, he doesn’t count any time he let it slip past his lips when deep in his cups or buried inside some whore with the wrong shade of silver in her hair -and the wrong eyes, and the wrong voice, and the wrong smile, and the wrong touch-. 

Aegon can’t even remember when it was that he decided he wouldn’t utter your name again, all he knows is that through the years what started out of spite, as a way to deny the wound and the absence; has become something else. It has become to him something like a secret, something to be hoarded, to be kept his alone. 

Because there’s pride, and satisfaction, and something rotten but his, in having known you in ways no other did. In remembering you how he is certain -he has to be, it is of the few things he has left- no one has known you. 

And so he doesn’t speak your name. Lest in sharing any of the warmth of a bond long gone he loses it, dying embers to a strong wind; lest in admitting old truths he is left behind also by the part of you that he keeps safe, a secret only his. 

But now in his head resonate so loudly that they drown anything else -like thunder, like the beat of Vermithor’s wings taking you far up into the sky- his mother’s words.  

It was you she chose. 

Thinking of you has always meant the resurgence of the memory of the goodbye you refused to grant him, of waking to the reverberating cry of Vermithor as he took to the skies with you on his back and flew you away to Dragonstone; or the memory of your disappointment and your sorrow as he avoided your gaze and your words when you met again in Driftmark.  

Yet now the memory that comes forth in his mind is another. 

You smiled at him, daring and entirely too proud. But how could you not be, when you both knew he would oblige? How could you not be, when he hadn’t been able to tear his gaze from your lips since you had asked him for something as simple as a kiss? And your voice was softer than he’d expected -or perhaps he remembers it softer than it was, perhaps he sees something else when desire was all there was-, warmer than it had ever been, when you whispered, I want it to be you. 

And what harm can your name do that his own mind hasn’t inflicted upon him already? What ruin can the uttering of such a familiar word bring that the memories haven’t wrought already? 

So he says your name. Willingly, rationally, for the first time in years.  

He thought the foolish refusal to utter your name aloud kept you distant, kept the memory of you, the idea of you, as something far from him, gone from him. But he realizes now, with the shape of your name parting his lips and the taste of memories staining his tongue like ash; that you have been a distant memory, a distant dream, for a very long time. 

And the knowledge that you chose him, the helpless hope that blooms somewhere in his chest, they cannot do a thing against the horrifying certainty that the future he wanted, the future he mourned, is lost to him regardless of your choices now. 

What can he give you now, that that Tyrell knight the rumors say you were so enamored with cannot? How can he not fail whatever expectations you have of him, as he has failed all others? How could you want him now, as what he has made out of himself in these years you’ve spent apart? 

It was a comfort, he realizes now, thinking you lost. The comfort of knowing he couldn’t fail you, couldn’t earn your scorn when he had merely your indifference. 

A bitter, wretched little laugh leaves his lips then, and he turns his head -to hide, perhaps, the tears brimming in his eyes, the weakness his mother so loathes to see from him- and looks out the window towards the distant skies. 

Alicent doesn’t move, merely stands taller, prouder, and presses, 

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” 

Of course, this is what he fucking wanted, but nearly four years have gone by since he asked to be allowed to marry you and was refused. Even if some part of him wants it, wants you, still, it matters not. 

It is what he wanted, before. Before everything got worse, before everything got louder, harder. Before he got worse. Before you forgot about him. 

His mother approaches him then, and though he jumps when he sees her reach for him out of the corner of his eye, she grabs onto his forearm and speaks again, forceful, determined, 

“Listen to me, Aegon. Your sister has secured her hold on the Seven Kingdoms, both through the strength of her dragons and through her eldest children’s diplomacy with the noble Houses,” His mother tells him, but he cannot hear her, not over the warring thoughts of finally, finally, finally, and too late, too late, too late. “Rhaenyra has allowed for this to happen because she wishes to extend an offer of peace, and you cannot squander this opportunity.” 

He turns to her and asks, quietly, forlorning, “Why now?” 

“What?” 

“Why now?”

Why now, that everything is worse? Why now, that he has become this? 

For a moment, a flickering moment gone in the blink of an eye, he thinks he sees sadness, sympathy, in his mother’s warm gaze. For a moment, he believes she will offer words or touch in the way she hasn’t before, in comfort or in reassurance. 

But her gaze falls from his, and her grip on his arm -too tight, almost bruising, yet wanted, needed, if it is all he can get- loosens as she lets go of him. 

“The betrothal will be announced when the tour is over. The wedding in a week’s time from then.” She tells him, detached, not unlike a messenger delivering a missive. 

And with that she leaves his apartments. The door closing echoes in his mind, and he is left behind with a loneliness he doesn’t know where to put, and a hope he doesn’t know how not to fear. 

Thank you for reading! I hope you liked it, and I would love to hear your thoughts!

I am endlessly fascinated by the greens and their deeply weird dynamics, and I hope I did them a modicum of justice, even when changed in this AU and despite the influence of fanon in my interpretations of them.

[novaursa]

The Dragon's Right (6)

- Summary: It was by grace of the gods that firstborn child of Viserys I and Aemma was born a boy and he lived. And all of the rest, scholars will later say, is by power of something more malevolent in kind.

- Paring: male!reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen

- Note: For all the parts of this story, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 7 000+

- Previous part: 5

- Next part: 7

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

The hour was late, the Red Keep quiet as the court had retired for the night. You sat awake in your chambers, the faint light of a candle flickering beside you. The endless routine of court life had left you restless, your mind too heavy with thoughts to find sleep. You had become accustomed to the dull rhythm of politics and responsibility since your return to King’s Landing, but the weight of it all still gnawed at you.

You ran a hand through your hair, trying to shake the weariness that had settled deep in your bones. Just as you considered whether to rise and take another walk around the room, the door to your chambers creaked open without warning or announcement.

Expecting your uncle Daemon, as was often the case, you sighed inwardly, preparing yourself for another round of complaints about Otto Hightower’s growing influence or another suggestion to join him in the lower city for some ill-advised adventure. But when you turned, you were surprised to see Rhaenyra standing in the doorway instead.

Her presence filled the room instantly, her usual quiet grace now tinged with something more urgent. Her violet eyes met yours, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. There was something in her gaze that was both familiar and unsettling, a mixture of affection and determination.

"I needed to see you once more today," she said softly, closing the door behind her as she stepped into the room.

You frowned slightly, worried by the intensity in her voice. "Rhaenyra, it’s late. If someone sees you—"

She shook her head, cutting you off as she approached. "I don’t care," she replied, her voice firm. "I spoke with Alicent."

At the mention of her friend, your frown deepened. "What did you say to her?"

"I told her to stay away from you," Rhaenyra said bluntly, her tone laced with a mixture of frustration and jealousy.You sighed, running a hand through your hair again. "Rhaenyra… you and Alicent are close. You shouldn’t—"

"I know," she interrupted, a flicker of regret crossing her face. "But I couldn’t stand it anymore. The way she tries to get close to you, the way she looks at you... It drives me mad."

Her confession hit you like a blow, and you could see the turmoil in her eyes, the battle between her loyalty to her friend and the possessive jealousy she couldn’t suppress. You stood, taking a step toward her, unsure of how to navigate the storm of emotions that now swirled between you.

"Rhaenyra," you began carefully, "I don’t want you getting into trouble because of this. Whatever the situation is between us, it doesn’t need to affect your friendship with Alicent."

She crossed the distance between you, her eyes never leaving yours. "I thought about it all day," she whispered, her voice softer now. "About what we talked about earlier. About us."

Your breath caught in your throat as she stepped closer, her presence overwhelming your senses. "I thought about it too," you admitted, your voice low. "But we have to be careful."

"Do we?" Rhaenyra asked, her tone challenging. "We’re Targaryens. It’s in our blood. Why should we deny what we feel?"

Before you could answer, she closed the final gap between you and, without hesitation, climbed into your lap. Her fingers brushed lightly against your neck as she leaned in, her lips finding yours with a fierce determination that sent a shiver through your entire body.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative, but quickly deepened as you gave in to the emotions you had been trying to suppress. Your hands instinctively moved to her hips, holding her in place as she pressed herself against you. The warmth of her body, the scent of her hair, the feel of her lips—it was intoxicating, and before you knew it, you were trailing your hands up her back, pulling her closer still.

Her lips parted under yours, and the kiss became something more—more urgent, more desperate, as if the floodgates you had feared had finally broken open. Every touch, every movement was an exploration of the complex feelings that had been building between you both for so long. You could feel her fingers tangling in your hair, her breath quickening as the kiss deepened further.

The world outside disappeared as you lost yourself in her—your sister, your blood, your equal. The lines between love, desire, and duty blurred until they were indistinguishable, leaving only the two of you, caught in a moment that felt inevitable.

Eventually, you both pulled back, breathless, your foreheads resting against one another as you caught your breath. Rhaenyra’s fingers traced along your jaw, her touch gentle yet possessive. There was a softness in her eyes now, an affection that spoke of something deeper than mere attraction.

"How can we stop this?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

You closed your eyes for a moment, trying to steady your thoughts, but when you opened them again, all you could see was her—Rhaenyra, your sister, your equal, the one person who understood you in ways no one else ever could. You reached up, brushing a strand of her silver hair behind her ear, your thumb grazing her cheek.

"I don’t know if we can," you admitted softly, your voice filled with the weight of your confession. "But we have to be careful. Father would never allow it. The court, the Faith… they would try to tear us apart."

Rhaenyra’s eyes darkened with defiance as she leaned in closer, her lips brushing against your ear. "Then let them try."

The fire in her words ignited something in you, something that had been smoldering for so long but now burned brightly. You kissed her again, softer this time, more deliberate, as if savoring every moment.

When you pulled away, you smiled down at her, your fingers tracing along her arm. "You’re dangerous, Rhaenyra."

A smirk tugged at the corners of her lips as she met your gaze, her eyes gleaming with a mixture of mischief and affection. "I learned from the best."

You chuckled softly, shaking your head. "We need to be smart about this."

"I know," she whispered, her tone more serious now. "But I can’t help what I feel. And neither can you."

You held her gaze, the weight of the truth settling between you. There was no going back now. Whatever lay ahead—whether it was the ire of the court, the disapproval of your father, or the dangers that came with your newfound connection—you both knew that this was a path you had chosen.

The atmosphere in the small council chamber was tense the next morning. King Viserys sat at the head of the table, his brow furrowed in thought as his advisors gathered to discuss the ongoing matters of the realm. Corlys Velaryon, ever the advocate for action in the Stepstones, was the first to speak, his deep voice cutting through the quiet murmurs of the room.

“The situation in the Stepstones cannot be ignored any longer, Your Grace,” Corlys began, leaning forward in his seat. “The Free Cities are growing bolder by the day, and their pirates choke the trade routes we depend on. If we do not act soon, it will become more than a mere annoyance—it will be a full-scale war, one we are not prepared for.”

Viserys sighed heavily, his eyes weary. This had been a topic of constant debate for months now, and the pressures of dealing with the Stepstones weighed heavily on his shoulders. “I understand your concerns, Lord Corlys,” Viserys said, his voice tired but steady. “But sending men and ships to the Stepstones will require resources we cannot easily spare. And with the situation at home—”

“We cannot afford not to act,” Corlys interjected, his tone more urgent now. “The crown’s strength is being tested on multiple fronts. If we do nothing, we will be seen as weak, and those who oppose us will seize that opportunity.”

Viserys leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples as the weight of the council’s concerns pressed down on him. He knew Corlys was right in many ways, but the thought of yet another conflict on the horizon was one he dreaded. Before he could respond, Tayland Lannister spoke up hesitantly, his voice carrying a note of caution.

“Your Grace… there’s another matter that requires your attention,” Tayland began, glancing nervously around the table before continuing. “Dorne… it seems there have been reports along the borders again. They’ve been unusually quiet since Prince Y/N returned to the capital with his dragon, but now there are whispers of movement once more. It’s… concerning.”

Viserys’s expression darkened as he turned to Tayland, the mention of Dorne stirring up memories of the years-long skirmishes his son had just returned from. “Are you suggesting,” Viserys said slowly, his voice tight with barely restrained frustration, “that my only son should be sent back to wage another campaign against Dorne? After everything he has already sacrificed?”

The room fell into an uneasy silence. Tayland shifted uncomfortably in his seat, clearly regretting his words. “No, Your Grace, I… I only meant to say that the situation is escalating again. But I agree, it would be unwise to send Prince Y/N back into that… turmoil so soon after his return.”

Viserys’s hands tightened on the arms of his chair, his frustration evident. “He has just returned to us, to his family. I will not send him back to fight a war that may never truly end. There must be another solution.”

Lord Lyonel Strong, always the voice of reason, spoke up after a brief pause. “Your Grace, I understand your desire to protect your son, as do we all. But we must acknowledge the importance of securing our borders. Dorne is unpredictable, and if they sense weakness, they will strike. However, sending the prince to face them again is not a long-term solution. We cannot afford to jeopardize the king’s only male heir every time a threat arises.”

Lyonel’s words hung heavy in the air, and the other council members nodded in agreement. The stakes were high, and while Y/N had proven himself a capable warrior, his constant involvement in these dangerous conflicts was not sustainable for the future of the realm.

Grand Maester Mellos, who had been quietly observing the conversation, cleared his throat and added his voice to the discussion. “Lord Lyonel speaks wisely. Prince Y/N has more than proven his worth on the battlefield, but his place is here, at court, preparing to take on the responsibilities of the crown. We cannot risk his life in prolonged skirmishes. It is the duty of the crown to ensure stability for the future.”

Viserys exhaled slowly, nodding as he absorbed the council’s words. “You’re right, all of you. My son has done more than enough for the realm, and I will not send him to fight these endless battles again. We must find a way to secure our borders without sacrificing my heir.”

Corlys, though still eager for action, seemed to understand the king’s concern. He leaned back slightly, his tone more measured now. “If we do not wish to send Prince Y/N back into the fray, then we must consider strengthening our defenses along the Dornish border. More men, perhaps. More fortifications. A show of force to deter any further incursions.”

Lyonel nodded in agreement. “A strong presence on the border may be enough to keep Dorne in check, at least for the time being. It would send a message without committing the prince to another campaign.”

Viserys seemed to take comfort in that suggestion, though the weight of his decisions still sat heavily on his shoulders. “Very well,” he said quietly. “Begin preparations to reinforce our forces along the border. We will not provoke Dorne, but we will not be caught unprepared.”

The council members murmured their agreement, and the conversation turned to the practicalities of mobilizing the necessary men and resources. But as the discussion continued, Viserys’s mind remained elsewhere—on his son, on the future of the realm, and on the difficult choices that lay ahead.

After the meeting adjourned and the council members began to filter out of the room, Viserys sat in silence for a long moment, his thoughts troubled. The kingdom was constantly in a state of unrest, with threats both near and far, and though he longed for peace, it seemed ever elusive.

The days in the capital had begun to stretch into a monotonous blur of courtly duties and council meetings. You found yourself restless, confined by the expectations of your role as the king's heir. The small council had agreed to a strategy to secure the borders of Dorne and strengthen the Stepstones, but to your growing frustration, it was Daemon, not you, who was being sent to deliver the message and oversee its execution alongside Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake.

You had spent years on the battlefield, earning your place as a warrior and a leader, and now, to be told that you were needed in the capital rather than on the front lines gnawed at you. Duty was one thing, but to be sidelined while others carried out the work you were more than capable of handling left you feeling as though you were trapped in a gilded cage.

It was on one of those restless days that you found yourself walking through the Dragonpit, the familiar scent of dragon leather and smoke filling the air. Your feet carried you forward instinctively, until you rounded the corner and saw your uncle, Daemon, preparing for his departure. Caraxes, his blood-red dragon, loomed behind him, stretching his wings as if eager to take flight.

Daemon, as always, looked at ease, his armor gleaming under the dim light of the pit. He was speaking with a handful of his men, issuing last-minute orders before mounting his dragon. His casual confidence only seemed to stoke the fire of your frustration further.

“Off to war again, are you, Uncle?” you called, your tone sharper than you intended as you approached.

Daemon turned, a knowing smirk already forming on his lips when he saw you. “Aye, someone has to keep things interesting while you play the dutiful prince in King’s Landing,” he said, his voice laced with that familiar mix of teasing and challenge.

You frowned, coming to a stop in front of him. “I should be going with you,” you said bluntly, your hands flexing at your sides. “This strategy was mine as much as anyone's. Yet here I am, stuck in the capital while you fly off to handle things.”

Daemon raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by your frustration. “Don’t tell me you’re starting to enjoy the council meetings, nephew. Perhaps court life is growing on you after all.”

You shot him a glare, but Daemon only laughed, clearly enjoying your irritation. “It’s not a matter of enjoying it. I’ve fought in Dorne, I know the terrain, the people. I should be there with you.”

Daemon’s smirk faded slightly as he regarded you more seriously. “You’ve already done your duty in Dorne, Y/N. The realm can’t afford to lose its heir over another skirmish. That’s why Viserys wants you here. Someone has to keep the peace while I make sure the Stepstones don’t fall into chaos.”

You clenched your jaw, unwilling to let the matter rest. “I’m not made for sitting idly by, Daemon. I should be out there, doing what I do best.”

Daemon’s expression shifted, and for a moment, there was a flicker of something close to understanding in his eyes. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Believe me, I know how it feels to be sidelined, to be told that you’re too valuable to risk. But you have something bigger to worry about. You’re the heir to the Iron Throne. If you fall, if something happens to you, Viserys loses everything.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but Daemon cut you off with a knowing look. “I’ve fought in more wars than I care to count, and I’ve seen men die for less. But this—what you and I are dealing with now—this is about the long game. You’ll get your chance to fight again, trust me. But for now, the capital needs you. Viserys needs you.”

You sighed, the weight of his words sinking in. As much as you hated to admit it, Daemon was right. Your place, as frustrating as it was, was here in King’s Landing, keeping the peace and preparing for the future. The realm needed stability, and as much as you longed to be out in the field, your father had made it clear that your role as heir took precedence.

Daemon clapped a hand on your shoulder, his usual cocky grin returning. “Besides, someone has to keep an eye on Otto while I’m gone. Can’t trust him to keep his hands clean without us watching.”

You smirked despite yourself, shaking your head. “You’d rather see me fight in council chambers than on the battlefield?”

“If you can survive a meeting with Hightower without strangling him, I’d say you’ve already won a battle,” Daemon quipped. He moved past you toward Caraxes, his dragon shifting eagerly as his rider approached.

As Daemon mounted the blood-red dragon, he cast one last glance over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, nephew. I’ll make sure the Stepstones stay under control. You just keep things from falling apart here.”

With that, Daemon urged Caraxes into the air, the dragon’s powerful wings beating against the wind as they lifted into the sky. You watched them go, the weight of your frustration still heavy in your chest, though tempered by the reminder of your responsibility. You knew Daemon was right, but the desire to join him still burned in your veins.

As Caraxes disappeared into the clouds, you turned away, your mind already shifting back to the politics of the capital. There was no escaping the duties that awaited you, no matter how much you longed for the freedom of the battlefield. For now, the capital would be your battleground, and courtly intrigue your sword.

You could only hope it was enough to keep you sane until you could fly into battle again.

The afternoon sun bathed the gardens of the Red Keep in a soft, golden glow. The air was warm, and a gentle breeze rustled through the leaves of the trees, bringing with it the faint scent of roses and lavender. Rhaenyra sat on a cushioned bench beneath one of the larger trees, surrounded by her handmaidens, who were engaged in quiet conversation. Beside her, Alicent sat with her usual poise, though the tension between them was palpable despite the pleasant setting.

Since their argument a few days ago, the two friends had yet to fully resolve the unspoken rift between them. They had, for now, put their differences aside, but there was an underlying awkwardness that neither seemed eager to address directly. Rhaenyra, for her part, felt torn between her loyalty to Alicent and the possessive protectiveness she now felt toward her brother. Every time she looked at Alicent, she could feel the jealousy simmering beneath the surface, though she did her best to hide it.

Still, today, Rhaenyra felt lighter, happier. It had been a few days since her last encounter with her brother, and the memory of their shared kiss, their stolen moments of intimacy, filled her with a warmth she hadn’t felt in a long time. She had missed him terribly in the years he had spent in Dorne, but now that he was back, she felt whole again—more than whole, even. There was a secret between them now, something precious and exhilarating that only they shared. It was a feeling that made her heart race and her thoughts drift to places she dared not speak aloud.

Alicent, always attuned to her friend’s moods, noticed the change in Rhaenyra almost immediately. She had observed over the past few days how Rhaenyra seemed… different. There was a lightness in her demeanor, a quiet joy that hadn’t been there before. Despite their recent argument, Alicent couldn’t help but feel a mix of curiosity and concern.

“You seem happier these days, Rhaenyra,” Alicent remarked, her tone casual, though her eyes searched Rhaenyra’s face for any hint of what might have caused this change. “More at ease than you were a week ago.”

Rhaenyra glanced at Alicent, her expression neutral for a moment before a small smile tugged at her lips. “I suppose I am,” she admitted, leaning back against the bench, her fingers absentmindedly playing with the hem of her gown. “It’s good to have my brother home again. I had forgotten how much I missed him.”

Alicent smiled, though there was a flicker of something behind her eyes—something Rhaenyra didn’t miss. “He has been a calming presence for all of us, I think,” Alicent said softly. “The court feels… steadier with him back.”

Rhaenyra nodded, though her mind wandered to thoughts that had little to do with the politics of the court. Her happiness, her newfound sense of ease, had little to do with the stability of King’s Landing and everything to do with the intimate moments she had shared with her brother. The kiss they had stolen, the way his hands had moved over her body, the way they had whispered to each other in the quiet of the night—it filled her with a secret kind of joy that made her pulse quicken just thinking about it.

But she couldn’t tell Alicent that, of course. She couldn’t tell anyone. It was a secret she held close to her heart, something that belonged to her and her brother alone. And yet, as she sat there in the garden, surrounded by her handmaidens and her friend, Rhaenyra felt the weight of that secret pressing down on her, urging her to protect it at all costs.

Alicent’s voice broke through her thoughts. “It’s good to see you like this,” she said, her tone soft, almost wistful. “You’ve always been so strong, Rhaenyra, but… there’s a lightness about you now that I haven’t seen in a long time.”

Rhaenyra glanced at Alicent, her smile widening slightly. “Perhaps it’s because I’m no longer alone,” she replied, though her words held a double meaning that Alicent could not have understood. “It’s been… good to have him near. To be reminded of how much he means to me.”

Alicent nodded, though Rhaenyra could sense the unspoken tension between them. The argument they had about her brother still lingered in the background, and while they had put it aside for now, Rhaenyra knew that it had changed something between them. Alicent had always been loyal, always supportive, but there was no denying that her interest in [Your Name] had stoked Rhaenyra’s possessiveness.

“I spoke to my father recently,” Alicent said after a moment, her tone more subdued now. “He mentioned how important it is for your brother to find a suitable match. I imagine the court will soon begin pressuring him.”

Rhaenyra’s smile faltered slightly at that, her heart tightening at the thought of her brother being married off to some noble lady for the sake of alliances. She knew his duty as heir, just as she knew her own, but the idea of sharing him with anyone else made her blood run cold.

“I’m sure the court has its plans,” Rhaenyra replied carefully, her tone measured. “But my brother has never been one to let others decide his fate for him.”

Alicent glanced at Rhaenyra, a knowing look in her eyes. “Perhaps not. But you know as well as I do that duty often outweighs personal desires in our world. Your brother will have to marry eventually.”

Rhaenyra clenched her jaw slightly, trying to keep her voice calm. “Perhaps. But that doesn’t mean he will let them choose for him.”

A silence fell between them, the tension from their previous argument rearing its head once more. Alicent, ever observant, seemed to sense the shift in Rhaenyra’s mood and quickly changed the subject, offering a soft smile. “Regardless, it’s good to see you happy, Rhaenyra. You deserve it.”

Rhaenyra returned the smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. Internally, she was still reeling from the conversation, her mind racing with thoughts of her brother and the future that seemed so uncertain. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing him, not after everything they had shared. And though she knew the court would try to force his hand, she was determined to protect what they had.

As the afternoon wore on and the sun began to dip lower in the sky, the handmaidens began to gather their things, preparing to leave the gardens. Rhaenyra stood, her mind still swirling with the weight of her secret and the unspoken tension between her and Alicent. She couldn’t shake the feeling that her brother’s return had changed everything—not just for her, but for the future of the realm.

The darkness surrounded you, thick and suffocating. You knew you were dreaming, yet the world felt all too real, pulling you back to the brutal, violent past you had tried so hard to leave behind. The scent of blood and smoke filled your nostrils, the familiar roar of battle echoing in your ears.

You were back on the Dornish border, where the sun beat down mercilessly on the rocky landscape, turning the sand beneath your feet into a blinding sea of heat. But the heat wasn’t what bothered you. It was the blood, the endless blood that stained the ground, your armor, your hands.

Before you, Silverwing loomed, her massive form casting a shadow over the battlefield. Her scales glimmered in the sunlight, a majestic and terrifying sight as she snarled, her jaws open wide, ready to unleash hell upon your enemies.

The clash of swords, the cries of dying men, and the acrid scent of burning flesh assaulted your senses as you gripped the reins, your heart pounding in your chest. You had been here before, so many times. Leading men into battle, commanding them, killing for the crown. But this time, it felt different. More vivid. More terrifying.

Dornish soldiers surged forward, their spears glinting in the sun, their faces twisted with rage and desperation. You shouted orders to your men, your voice hoarse from the strain of command, but your words seemed to be lost in the chaos around you. The Dornish were relentless, their numbers overwhelming, and despite the strength of your forces, you could feel the tide turning.

With a roar, Silverwing reared up, her wings beating against the air with enough force to send men stumbling backward. You felt the bond between you and your dragon pulse through your veins as you urged her forward. With a deafening screech, Silverwing descended upon the enemy, her massive jaws snapping shut around a group of Dornish soldiers.

Blood sprayed across the battlefield as Silverwing bit down, her powerful teeth tearing through armor, flesh, and bone with sickening ease. The sound of the men’s screams was lost beneath the thunderous roar of the dragonfire that erupted from her mouth, incinerating everything in its path. Soldiers who had been advancing toward you moments before were now nothing more than charred corpses, their bodies reduced to ash.

You watched, horrified, as Silverwing tore into another group of soldiers, her claws ripping them apart with savage efficiency. Blood splattered across the sand, pooling in thick, dark puddles that soaked into the earth. Limbs were torn from bodies, men reduced to nothing more than broken pieces of flesh and bone, and still, the Dornish kept coming.

The heat of the dragonfire was unbearable, searing your skin even from where you sat atop Silverwing. The stench of burning flesh filled your lungs, choking you, but there was no time to think, no time to feel anything but the cold, brutal instinct to survive. You spurred Silverwing forward, her massive body plowing through the enemy lines, scattering men like leaves in the wind.

But it wasn’t enough. No matter how many men Silverwing killed, no matter how many bodies littered the ground, the Dornish soldiers kept coming, their faces twisted with hatred, their eyes filled with the desire to see you dead. You felt the familiar knot of fear tighten in your chest as the enemy began to close in around you.

Suddenly, one of the Dornish soldiers broke through the chaos, his spear aimed directly at you. You had only a split second to react, but it wasn’t fast enough. The spear pierced your side, the sharp pain exploding through your body as the world spun around you. Blood poured from the wound, hot and sticky against your skin, but you barely had time to register the pain before another soldier was upon you, his sword raised high.

Silverwing roared in fury, her massive jaws snapping shut around the soldier, crushing him with a sickening crunch. Blood sprayed across your face as the man’s body was ripped apart in Silverwing’s teeth, his screams cut short as his skull was crushed like an eggshell.

The battlefield was a nightmare of blood, fire, and death. Everywhere you looked, there were bodies—some charred beyond recognition, others torn apart by dragonfire and claws. The ground was slick with blood, the air thick with the stench of death. You felt the weight of it pressing down on you, suffocating you.

You tried to command Silverwing, to take control of the chaos, but your voice wouldn’t come. The pain from the spear wound throbbed in time with your heartbeat, making it hard to breathe. Your vision blurred, the world around you spinning as you fought to stay conscious. But even through the haze of pain, you could still see the carnage—Silverwing tearing through men like they were nothing more than playthings, their bodies breaking and burning beneath her fury.

You were losing control, and you knew it. The battle was slipping away from you, and there was nothing you could do to stop it.

And then, suddenly, you were falling. The reins slipped from your fingers, your body tipping forward as the ground rushed up to meet you. You hit the sand with a bone-jarring thud, the impact driving the air from your lungs. The world went black for a moment, the sounds of the battlefield fading into nothing.

When you opened your eyes again, the first thing you saw was blood—so much blood, pooling around you, soaking into the sand. Your own blood. You tried to move, to push yourself up, but your body wouldn’t respond. You were trapped, helpless, watching as the battle raged on around you.

Silverwing roared somewhere in the distance, her voice filled with rage and pain. You could feel her, feel her fury, her desperation to protect you. But you were powerless to help her, powerless to stop the nightmare unfolding before your eyes.

The last thing you saw before the darkness claimed you was the sight of Silverwing, her jaws clamped down on another group of Dornish soldiers, their bodies breaking apart like twigs beneath her crushing teeth. The blood sprayed across the battlefield, the screams of the dying filling your ears.

And then, there was nothing.

You woke with a start, your heart pounding in your chest, your body drenched in sweat. The room around you was quiet, the familiar walls of your chambers in the Red Keep reassuring you that you were no longer on the battlefield. But the images of the nightmare lingered—Silverwing’s fury, the blood, the death.

You ran a hand through your hair, trying to shake the feeling of dread that clung to you. It was just a dream, you reminded yourself. Just a dream. But deep down, you knew that it was more than that. It was a memory—a memory of the horrors you had witnessed, the lives you had taken, and the toll it had taken on your soul.

No matter how far you ran from it, the blood and fire of Dorne would always haunt you.

The sun was high in the sky, casting a warm glow over the Red Keep as you walked alongside your father through the expansive gardens of the palace. King Viserys had been spending more time with you in the past months since your return from Dorne, and today was no different. He seemed eager, almost desperate at times, to enjoy moments of quiet between the demands of his reign. 

You had always admired your father’s ability to maintain a sense of peace amidst the political storms that often raged around him. But lately, something had shifted. As the days passed, you found yourself becoming more aware of the subtle signs of wear and tear that the Iron Throne had wrought upon him.

As you walked, you couldn’t help but notice the slight tremble in your father’s hand. It was barely perceptible, but you had spent enough time in his company recently to know that it wasn’t just a passing weakness. Your brows furrowed in concern, and you finally spoke up, your voice quiet but laced with worry.

“Father,” you began, glancing at his hand, “are you feeling well?”

Viserys looked at you, startled by the question at first, but then smiled in that familiar way of his, as if trying to reassure you of something he could no longer be certain of himself. He flexed his hand slightly, noticing your gaze.

“I’m fine, truly,” he said, though his tone was too quick, too eager to dismiss your concerns. “It’s nothing but an old man’s ache. The last cut I suffered from sitting the throne seemed to have gone deeper than usual… into the muscle, I think. It must have caused the tremble.”

You frowned, stopping for a moment to face him fully. “The Iron Throne should not wound the king, Father. I fear it has done more harm than you’re letting on.”

Viserys waved a hand, brushing off your concern. “The throne is sharp and unforgiving, yes, but I’ve sat upon it for years. It’s nothing more than an old man’s ailment. Nothing for you to worry about.”

But you couldn’t let go of the unease that gnawed at you. You had heard the stories, how the throne only cut those who were unworthy, how its jagged edges served as a constant reminder of the heavy price of rule. And now, seeing your father—the once strong, vibrant man who had ruled the realm with a steady hand—reduced to such a state, it made you wonder if the cost of the throne was truly worth it.

You glanced down at your father’s hand again, the faint tremor still there. Silent for a moment, you felt a heaviness settle in your chest as you considered the prospect that one day, the Iron Throne would be yours. It was a thought you had pushed aside for years, choosing instead to focus on your duties as a warrior, a protector of the realm. But now, standing here beside your father, the reality of it felt closer than ever.

“Is it worth it, Father?” you asked quietly, almost to yourself, though the question lingered in the air between you.

Viserys looked at you sharply, his expression softening after a beat as he realized the weight behind your words. He sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly as if burdened by more than just the crown. “Is it worth it…” he repeated softly, his gaze distant as he looked out at the gardens. “The Iron Throne… it is a heavy burden, my son. There is no denying that. But we don’t take the throne because it is easy, or because it is what we wish for ourselves.”

He turned to face you, his eyes tired but full of the wisdom of years spent ruling. “We take the throne because it is our duty. Our legacy. We are Targaryens, and the realm looks to us for leadership, for stability. That is worth more than the cost.”

You remained silent for a moment, pondering his words. The duty of being heir to the throne had always been something you accepted but never truly embraced. You had spent years on the battlefield, finding comfort in the clarity of combat, where there were no endless whispers of court intrigue or delicate balance of politics. But ruling… ruling was something different. It required sacrifice, constant vigilance, and endless compromise. And it required you to sit upon that cursed throne, the one that had already begun to cut into your father’s flesh.

“I understand the duty,” you said after a moment, your voice measured, “but I can’t help but feel that ruling is more than just doing what is expected of us. You’ve always been able to manage the demands of the crown, but I fear I lack your patience. I don’t know if I can find that balance.”

Viserys smiled gently, placing a hand on your shoulder. “You’re more like me than you think, Y/N, though I know you’ve never desired court life. You’ve always been happiest on the battlefield, away from the games of politics. But ruling is its own kind of battle. And, just like on the battlefield, you must find the right strategy.”

You chuckled lightly, though the weight of his words didn’t escape you. “I’ve always preferred the battlefield, where at least I know who my enemies are.”

“That’s the trick,” Viserys said, his smile widening. “In court, they may not hold swords, but the battles are just as dangerous. And the price of losing is far greater.”

You nodded, understanding what he was saying. The thought of navigating the intricacies of the court, of having to make decisions that could affect the entire realm, filled you with a sense of dread. But this was the reality of your position. One day, the crown would pass to you, whether you were ready for it or not.

Viserys seemed to sense your unease and gently changed the subject, steering the conversation away from the future you both knew was inevitable. “Have you been adjusting well since your return? I know the transition from the battlefield to the court isn’t an easy one.”

You sighed, glancing around the garden before looking back at your father. “It’s… an adjustment. I’ve managed, somehow, though it’s been difficult to find my footing. Everything here feels slower, more drawn out. There’s no sense of urgency like there is in battle.”

Viserys nodded thoughtfully. “Court life can feel stifling at times, I’ll admit. It isn’t what you imagined for yourself, I’m sure.”

You gave a small, humorless laugh. “No, it isn’t. But I’ve accepted my place. I know what’s expected of me.”

Viserys squeezed your shoulder gently, his expression softening with affection. “I know, my son. And I also know that this is not the life you would have chosen for yourself. You’ve always been a warrior, someone who thrives in action. But a good king finds balance. He learns to fight the battles that can’t be won with a sword.”

You glanced at your father, seeing the weight of years of rule etched into his face. His words, though meant to reassure you, only served to remind you of the impossible burden that awaited you. You couldn’t help but wonder if you would ever find that balance he spoke of—if you could ever be the ruler your father believed you could be.

As you walked together in the garden, your mind drifted back to the Iron Throne, to the cuts it had already inflicted on your father. The price of rule was steep, and as much as you tried to push the thought aside, you knew that one day, that same burden would fall upon you.

But for now, you would follow your father’s guidance, learn what you could, and prepare for the day when the realm would look to you to sit upon the throne that demanded blood as its price.

The evening was late, and the Red Keep had settled into a quiet stillness, with only the occasional flicker of torchlight and the distant echo of footsteps from the night’s watchmen to break the silence. It was during these hours that you found your way to Rhaenyra’s chambers, as had become your clandestine routine. Your secret meetings, hidden from the prying eyes of the court, were the only times you both could truly be together—free from the weight of duty and expectation.

The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of candles casting long shadows across the walls. You could hear the gentle rustling of the curtains as the evening breeze slipped through the cracks of the window. But none of that mattered. The moment you entered, your attention was solely on her—Rhaenyra, lying in wait on the bed, her eyes bright with the same fire that had been between you since your first kiss.

Without a word, you crossed the room and claimed her lips in a feverish kiss, your hands cradling her face as you pressed her down into the softness of the mattress. The world outside, the pressures of the throne, the burdens you carried as the heir to the realm—all of it disappeared in her presence. Here, in the dark, it was just the two of you, and nothing else mattered.

Your body moved instinctively, pressing closer to hers, the thin layers of clothing between you both doing little to contain the heat of your shared desire. Rhaenyra responded eagerly, her fingers tangling in your hair as she pulled you closer, her breath coming faster with each kiss. You could feel her heart beating in time with your own, the intensity of the moment building as your hands roamed over her body.

She broke the kiss for a moment, her eyes locked onto yours, filled with the same fierce affection and need that mirrored your own. "I missed you," she whispered, her voice soft but filled with the weight of truth.

You smiled, brushing a strand of silver hair from her face. "I’m here now," you whispered back before capturing her lips once more, your kisses growing deeper, more urgent.

As you pressed her further into the bed, her hands moved down, her fingers grazing the waistband of your trousers before slipping inside. The sensation made you groan into the kiss, your body reacting instantly to her touch. She worked with practiced ease, her hand moving slowly as she freed your manhood from the confines of your clothing.

The moment her fingers wrapped around you, the world seemed to narrow to the sensation alone. Your groan deepened, your forehead resting against hers as you allowed yourself to get lost in the moment. The heat between you both was nearly unbearable, the need to be closer, to feel her entirely, overwhelming every other thought in your mind.

"Rhaenyra," you breathed against her lips, your voice hoarse with desire.

She smiled, a soft, knowing smile, and kissed you again, her hand continuing its slow, deliberate work. The pressure built quickly, your body responding to her touch with an intensity you couldn’t control. Her thumb brushed against you in just the right way, and with a final shudder, you felt the release you had been so desperately chasing.

You groaned against her lips, your body trembling as you spilled yourself onto her thigh, the tension that had been building finally giving way to sweet relief. Your breath came in ragged gasps, your forehead still pressed to hers as you tried to regain your composure.

Rhaenyra smiled at you, her expression one of both satisfaction and tenderness. She brought your face back to hers for another kiss, soft and slow, as though savoring the moment. Her fingers trailed through your hair as she pressed closer to you, the warmth of her body a comfort in the quiet aftermath.

You opened your eyes, your heart still racing, and kissed her forehead gently. "It’s my turn," you whispered against her skin, your voice filled with both affection and desire. "To return the favor."

Rhaenyra’s eyes gleamed with anticipation as you began trailing kisses down her jawline, your lips brushing against her neck, lingering there as you felt the pulse of her heartbeat beneath your lips. She sighed softly, her hands gently pulling at your shoulders as you moved lower, your mouth tracing a path along her collarbone, then down her chest.

Your kisses grew slower, more deliberate, as you moved further down her body, your lips brushing against her stomach, feeling the soft curve of her skin beneath your fingertips. Every touch seemed to draw out a deeper sigh from her, her body relaxing beneath you as she surrendered to the sensations you were creating.

When your kisses reached her womanhood, her breath hitched, and a low moan escaped her lips, her fingers tangling in your hair as she arched slightly beneath you. You felt the heat of her, tasted the subtle sweetness of her skin, and your only thought was to please her, to give her the same release she had given you.

Rhaenyra’s soft moans filled the room, her fingers tightening in your hair as you continued your ministrations, her body trembling with every kiss, every touch. The sounds of her pleasure only spurred you on, the bond between you deepening with each passing second, each shared breath.

As you looked up at her, seeing the way her eyes fluttered closed in pure satisfaction, you couldn’t help but smile to yourself. There was no one else in the world who could make you feel the way she did—no one else who could understand the depth of your connection. And in that moment, you knew that nothing, not even the demands of the court, could take this from you.

This was yours. She was yours. And for now, in the quiet intimacy of the night, that was all that mattered.

[drgnmnts]

knuckles bruised (like violets) │ jacaerys velaryon x targaryen!OC

Title: knuckles bruised (like violets)

Pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x Targaryen!OC (Daenys Targaryen, daughter of Viserys I Targaryen and Alicent Hightower)

Summary: There is no war so hateful to the gods as a war between kin, especially for those caught in between, longing only for peace as they're met with fire and blood.

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Chapter 6 - Second of His Name

Conten warning: mentions of su1cide (not explicit)

Word count: 3k

Ser Criston Cole gave Daenys a fright when he woke her up, as the hour of the wolf slipped away and gave way to the nightingale. His rich brown eyes, who had always looked at her with fatherly fondness, were now dark as a raven, and the look on his face was one of concern.

“What’s the matter?” Daenys asked, sitting up on what once had been her childhood bed.

“You must come with me at once, Princess,” he said, “Her Grace the Queen has summoned you in the Hand’s Tower.”

____________________________________

Daenys could barely remember the last time she had visited her grandsire’s chamber, but she was sure she had never seen the place so crowded: Ser Otto was standing by the fire, his clothes pristine and poised as he stared at the flames; Queen Alicent, also dressed in her day garments, was sitting on one of the chairs by his desk, the other one taken by Helaena who, just like Daenys, was still wearing her nightgown. By the window, Aemond stood tall as he watched the moon set outside.

“Did something happen to Aegon?” she asked as soon as she noticed her eldest brother’s absence. Alicent stood then and walked to meet her daughter at the door.

“No, sweetling, Aegon is—”

“The King is dead,” informed Ser Otto before Daenys’ mother could deliver the news. Alicent let out a heavy sigh, and Daenys heard Helaena whimper.

As she felt all the blood in her head rush to her feet, ridding her face from any color, Daenys let out a soft “oh”. Alicent grabbed her hands and rubbed at them, her attempt at comforting her youngest daughter.

“How?” Daenys asked. Her eyes were brimmed with unshed tears, but somehow she felt unable to cry.

“In his sleep,” explained the queen, voice thick from all the crying. “A servant boy was changing the incense in his chamber when he saw him.”

Daenys sighed heavily, trying to process such grim news. 

“I must write to Rhaenyra, I think she’d prefer to hear it from me,” she said. As she turned back towards the door, however, Ser Criston blocked her path, his eyes looking straight ahead.

“What are you doing?” she asked, and once again it was Ser Otto who answered.

“No one is to leave this room until we decide what our next step will be,” the man declared.

A knot set in the pit of Daenys’ stomach.

“Our next step?” she repeated with a humorless scoff. “Rhaenyra is to be our queen now, we must send word to Dragonstone and start with the preparations for her coronation. That is our next step, what is there to decide?”

The silence that followed her question was deafening, and realization fell upon Daenys’ shoulders like a stone.

“You wouldn’t dare,” she muttered in disbelief. “That is treason.”

“It was your father’s wish,” intervened Alicent, her white handkerchief clutched in her hand. “Last night, when I visited him, he told me he wished for Aegon to succeed him.”

“Beware the beast beneath the boards…” muttered Helaena, although no one seemed to pay her any mind.

Daenys shook her head in confusion. “You lie,” she uttered, and this made Aemond turn to face her immediately. 

“Mind your tongue, sister,” he said, and his words felt like a slap on the face.

Alicent put her hands up in a conciliating manner. “It is the truth, Daenys,” she said, “I would never lie about something of this importance.”

Daenys crossed her arms over her chest, defensive. After a moment of silence that felt like a decade, she spoke again. “They won’t accept this. Daemon won’t accept this.”

“They will be offered generous terms,” said the Hand. 

“If you think that will suffice, then I’m afraid your delusions of grandeur might have gotten the best of your intelligence, Grandsire.”

Otto Hightower’s anger used to scare Daenys as a child, but not anymore, and she held his cold gaze with defiance. 

“Aemond,” he said, “escort Helaena back to her chamber. And do me the favor of finding your brother.”

With a curt nod, Aemond took Helaena’s arm with a gentleness he seemed incapable of, and the two left the room without uttering another word. The idea of staying there with her mother and grandsire sounded worse than torture, but as Daenys made her way to follow her siblings out, Ser Otto called her name again.

“I am afraid your lack of cooperation has led me to make a radical decision,” he began, as he closed the distance between them with slow steps, like a predator circling its prey. “You’ll remain in your bedchamber until Aegon’s coronation—”

“You’ll imprison me?” she inquired, utterly taken aback. “Mother!”

“You can’t be a prisoner in your own home, Daenys,” the queen said, but both of them knew that wasn’t true.

“The Queen and I cannot trust you,” he continued. “You’ve proven yourself more loyal to Rhaenyra than to your own family. I cannot have that kind of insurgence taking place in my own household, so from now on you will obey. You’ll remain in your bedchamber until Aegon’s coronation,” he repeated, “and after that you will stay here, at King’s Landing, where you should’ve been the last six years. There is no need for that marriage pact anymore.”

Daenys’ face paled, and she blinked rapidly as if trying to clear her vision and make sense of what her grandsire had said. There is no need for that marriage pact anymore. Jace’s beautiful face flashed before her eyes, and an involuntary sob escaped her lips.

“You cannot do that,” she choked out while she took a step back, as if she was being pushed by an invisible force that made her behave like a scared animal.

Alicent sighed. “Royal marriages are politics, Daenys—”

“I do not give a fuck about your bloody politics,” she snapped, and Alicent clutched her chest at her daughter’s improprieties. 

“Careful,” warned Ser Otto.

“I am a woman grown,” she continued. “You might still be my grandsire, but you’ve long lost any right to tell me what I can or cannot do. I will go back to Dragonstone.”

“You shall not,” he insisted.

Daenys’ lower lip trembled as she felt like a little girl again, restrained and powerless in a house that was ever unable to show her love. “I would sooner throw myself out my window than stay here.”

Ser Otto took a step closer. “Do not threaten me, child,” he warned again.

She knew in her bones that this battle was lost. It didn’t matter what she said, or how much she pleaded with them to let her go. This decision was clearly long in the making and not an ounce of it was improvised or prompted by her father’s sudden death: Ser Otto Hightower never did anything unpremeditated. 

Alicent tried to approach her daughter again, but Daenys was quick to remove her arm from her grasp as she took a step back. “I would like to return to my chamber, please,” she said, her voice quavering from holding back her need to cry.

Ser Otto gestured for Ser Criston to walk Daenys back to her impromptu prison cell. It was only when the heavy wooden doors were closed behind her that she allowed herself to collapse on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably as she was overcome by a sorrow she had never felt before.

______________________________

The day had dawned and turned to dusk again, and Daenys had not been allowed to leave her bedchamber. She had been served food twice, but of course she had rejected it, fearing the Hand might try to poison her to get her out of his way. She was now sitting by the bay window (which had been closed shut with locks to prevent her from escaping— or jumping to her death), leaning on the stone frame as she watched the specks of dust dance around the room with the setting sun.

Her face was puffy and red from crying, and her hair was now a disheveled mess after freeing it from her braids. She did not move when she heard someone opening the door.

“I heard you had quite the meltdown last night,” her visitor said. It was Aegon.

This made Daenys stand up immediately, defensive. However, what she saw in her brother’s face caught her completely off guard: Aegon’s face was as blotchy as hers, with dark circles under his eyes, and his sky-blue orbs now bloodshot red. 

Since his sister did not respond, he spoke again as he sat down in one of the chairs by the fireplace. “They have me walking around to sober up so I can get some rest for tomorrow.”

Daenys wondered if he even remembered the awful things he had said to her during dinner. Her expression tensed. “They’re crowning you tomorrow?”

Aegon nodded, eyes glued to the dancing flames. “At dawn. In the Sept.”

“Gods…” Daenys whispered, covering her face with her hands. That meant the ceremony would take place before the smallfolk. There was no going back after that. Rhaenyra would be devastated.

As she sat next to her brother, he spoke once more.

“I know you probably won’t believe me… but I’m as much a prisoner as you are, dear.”

Daenys turned to look at him. He certainly didn’t look happy about becoming king; in fact, she couldn’t recall ever seeing him so miserable.

“Then refuse the crown, Aegon” she said. “Say you don’t want it. Bend the knee to Rhaenyra and this whole misfortune will end before it even starts.”

Aegon laughed bitterly. 

“I begged Aemond and Cole to let me go. I would gladly get some gold, buy a myself a passage on whatever ship takes me as far away from here as possible and never set foot in this fucking shithole of a city again— sorry.”

Daenys shook her head; the least of her concerns was her brother’s profanities.

“This doesn’t feel real,” Daenys murmured. Aegon patted her knee in an attempt to give her some consolation. “What happens now, then?”

Aegon let out a heavy sigh. He looked tired, and much older than he actually was.

“I wish I knew.”

“Did they say anything about me?”

Aegon furrowed his brow in thought, as if trying to come up with the best way to word the information he was about to share with his little sister.

“They want you to bend the knee to me, of course. I suppose they intend to use you as some sort of messenger to speak to Rhaenyra, perhaps expecting her reaction to be softer if it’s you. And… well, you already know about the betrothal.”

The mere mention of her betrothal to Jace made her jaw clench, eyes cast down. Aegon noticed.

“You really love him?”

Daenys met his eyes again, and this time hers were brimmed with unshed tears. She nodded, lower lip trembling.

Aegon’s expression was a mixture of curiosity and genuine wonder. He nodded his head as he turned his gaze back to the fire. “Lucky,” he murmured.

Daenys wanted to agree, but she felt anything but. 

Both siblings remained seated by the fire until the hour grew late and someone came to fetch Aegon. They were mostly quiet, but Daenys would occasionally put her head on his shoulder, and Aegon held her hand twice. Despite Aegon’s many flaws, the eldest son and youngest daughter had more in common than they had ever realized: both ignored by their father and constantly sermonized by their mother, knowing painfully well that they were not what she had expected them to be. Aemond was loyal and upright. Helaena, kind and soft. Even Daeron, who had spent most of his life away, was said to be stalwart and chivalrous. 

Daenys and Aegon existed solely in the margins of their family, only brought to the spotlight when necessary, always to the benefit of others. Just like Daenys had been sent away in her youth to unite their family, Aegon was now being brought forward to secure the crown.

Before he left, Aegon hugged Daenys for the first time in many years. Then, she was alone again.

_________________________________

She hadn’t been able to sleep the whole night and, when the handmaids came into her chamber at dawn to help her prepare, Daenys was sure her ghost-like state gave them a fright. The women bathed her and clothed her in a simple pearl-white dress, very similar to the ones she used to wear as a little girl, and she was certain it had been her mother’s idea. The handmaids braided her hair in such an intricate and beautiful way that Daenys would’ve thanked them, had it not been for the lump in her throat every time she caught sight of herself in the mirror.

She was escorted to the Sept of Baelor by four members of the Kingsguard, and she knew Daemon would’ve found it amusing, for they were treating her as if she was some sort of criminal instead of just a girl without her dragon. 

Upon their arrival, Daenys took her place next to Aemond, but didn’t utter a word to him. She watched the small-folk enter the Sept until it was full to the brim. 

“People of King’s Landing,” began Ser Otto, his voice powerful as he addressed the crowd, “today is the saddest of days. Our beloved king, Viserys the Peaceful, is dead.”

The people audibly gasped and spoke amongst themselves, and Daenys wondered if they really felt the loss of their king, or didn’t care at all.

“But it is also the most joyous of days,” he continued, “for as his spirit left us, he whispered his final wish that his first-born son, Aegon, should succeed him.”

After a moment of confusion, the crowd applauded, as knights and musicians alike entered the premises, ready to receive their soon-to-be king. Daenys felt sick to her stomach as she watched Aegon march through the crowd, visibly upset and insecure, but anger was also starting to bubble up inside her: you shouldn’t be here. None of us should be here.

“It is your great good fortune and privilege to be here to witness this. A new day for our city. A new day for our realm. A new king to lead us.”

After Aegon had knelt before the Septon to receive his blessings in the name of the Seven, Ser Criston took the Conqueror’s crown and put it on Aegon’s head.

“The crown of the Conqueror, passed down through generations. Let the Seven bear witness: Aegon Targaryen is the true heir to the Iron Throne.”

Ser Criston was the first one to bow his head to his new king; he was followed by Alicent, Helaena, and Aemond. When Aegon’s eyes fell on Daenys, they were pleading. She could feel her mother’s gaze, and the Hand’s, and the hundreds of people waiting for her to acknowledge her brother as her King. Whatever I do, I am a traitor, she thought.

Flexing her knees ever so slightly, Daenys curtsied to King Aegon II.

“All hail His Grace, Aegon, Second of His Name, King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”

Each toll of the bell felt like a dagger through the heart; an ominous warning of the wars to come, a reminder that the situation wasn’t a dream, but real life, and so would be the consequences.

As the crowd erupted in cheers for their new king, however, Daenys felt the floor beneath her vibrate as if they were standing on a volcanic crater. Before she could even turn towards her siblings, a giant dragon, scarlet as the blood that ran through her veins, emerged through the wooden floors: Meleys.

The Red Queen screeched as she came completely into view, and amidst smoke and cries of help, Daenys felt Aemond grab her wrist as he stood in front of her and Helaena.

Princess Rhaenys looked majestic on her dragon, and Daenys’ heart leapt in anticipation when she saw her eyes scanning the family until they fell on her. Rhaenys gave her a barely-there smile.

“I am not here to shed blood,” the woman said, her voice resonating in the now quiet sept. “This war isn’t mine to begin, and I am no kinslayer. However, I cannot return to Dragonstone without Princess Daenys.”

Daenys’ eyebrows shot up as she drew a breath, her heart beating with such intensity that she could hear its thumping echoing in her ears. Aemond’s grip tightened around her wrist.

“Aemond,” she said, eyes wide in agitation, “let me go.”

Aemond’s brows furrowed in something akin to affliction, and Daenys had to peel his fingers off her so he would finally release her. Daenys looked at her family one last time: Helaena seemed miles away, while Ser Criston kept his eyes glued to the dragon. Alicent and Aegon stood together: her, with eyes wide and glassy; him, with a faint smile. From the other end of the altar, Ser Otto watched her intently. 

When Daenys made her way down the stone stairs, the dragon’s enormous head turned towards her, her threatening jaws opening to let out a warning sound.

“Vēttan se, Meleys,” said Rhaenys, and the she-dragon lowered her head. Allow it. 

Daenys lifted her skirts and grabbed onto the rope ladder that connected directly with Rhaenys’ saddle. She climbed as fast as she could, aware that the more time they spent there, the more likely it would be for someone to try and attack Meleys. 

As she settled herself behind Princess Rhaenys, Meleys taking flight shortly after and thus getting them out of the Sept, there was only one thought in Daenys’ mind, which repeated itself over and over again: 

I’m going home.

______________________________________________

If you liked this, let me know in any way! <3

Don't worry, we'll see Jace again next chapter, and I think you'll like it hehe.

Also, just a reminder that I'm open to requests if you have any! :)

And once again, thank you for your patience and all the kind comments!

_______________________________________________

Series Taglist: @void21, @burningwitchobject, @hellish-idiot, @inf4ntdeath, @klutzylaena, @swimmjacket, @helo1281917, @cat-winter, @deltamoon666, @strawberrymangoes, @lenadoerrer, @lenasdmns, @parkyurri, @groovycass, @yagbookstand02, @jacaeryslover, @moonshine147, @neocity-mel, @pleasebell, @blupblupfish , @izzzzzzzzylove , @alexandra-001 , @treblebeth, @esposadomd , @pixiemoony , @alessiaparigim

[insomniakisses]

Could you write about how aemond would act if he found out that the person he's been sneaking around with got pregnant

Pleasant Surprises

Character: Aemond Targaryen (HOTD)

Reader type: g/n, AFAB

Warnings/notes: swear words, mentions of sex, hinted sex, pregnancy, aegon being an ass, your rhaenyras daughter u can choose adopted or not.

Taglist: @introverbatim, @neobanguniverse,

Part 2

The obnoxious sound of Aegon’s drunken cheering and stumbling disrupted the prince from his late night reading. Rolling his eye he went in search of his brother hoping to spare a maid or two from him.

Opening the door of his chambers he was met with a very disgruntled Alicent trying and failing to get Aegon to bed. Seeing the pleading look on his mother’s face he nods grabbing his brothers arm and helping drag him away.

“Its.. amazing… news… tru-ly won…derful” his brother snickers.

Confused, Aemond takes a look to his mother who seems disinterested rolling her eyes and shaking her head in response to her eldest sons mutterings.

“What is wonderful, dear brother?” He forces out, attempting niceties hoping it will help in his brother granting him an answer.

“Y/N, our dearest older sisters slut of a daughter,” Aegon snarks out, smirking when his mother inhales sharply and he feels a low rumble get stuck in his brother’s throat. “She’s pregnant, I heard her discussing it with the maesters. “

Aemond’s body freezes his mind going straight to the countless nights he had spent in your chambers, the night when it seemed the only comfort he could find was in you. And how a few weeks ago that meeting turned into something a little more intimate. Both of you needing a little more comfort, something more. He found himself flushing at the thought.

——————— T H A T N I G H T ———————

“I can practically hear you thinking” he muses, turning the page of the book in his hand.

He was not expecting the pillow that made contact with his face a moment later. A shocked chuckle escaping he grasped the pillow making an effort to move slow as he git closer and closer to where you sat on the bed. Enjoying the stifled giggles you let out in response.

He knew how easily he could spook you waiting for you to get used to his slow movements then in a swift motion he had pounced playfully hitting ur face with the pillow. Relaxing in the happy laughter you release.

“My prince! How unbecoming of you to attack a lady!” You remark at him he smirks and rolls his eyes as he pauses his assault for you both to catch your breaths.

Only now does he realise how close you are, his body pining yours down softly noses almost touching. A blush escapes on his face, matching yours that he had failed to realise.

“My lady…” he trails off feeling your hands undo his jacket, pushing it off of his shoulders. “Y/N, if you don’t stop-“ you don’t let him finish pulling him closer by his belt.

He lets out a deep groan, reaching down to unbuckle his pants and reaching to pull your night dress up and out of the way.

“Your sure?” He asks almost unsure that you really want to be with him in such way but you simply nod pulling him into a soft kiss as he lines himself up pushing into you softly.

———— E N D O F F L A S H B A C K ————

“Mother, arrange a meeting with my father the king and Princess Rhaenyra” he rushes out, dropping his brother without a care as he runs off to your chambers.

Entering without knocking freezing when he sees your mother and daemon talking to you. The former confused at his rude entry and the later with his hand on his sword ready to escort him out.

But he stands there frozen looking at you in a way he has never seen before, politely he nods his head at your mother and step father informing them there is a meeting with the king and queen consort. He steps to the side to let them leave.

The second he hears the door shut he moves yo you wrapping his arms around you and nosing at your head.

“Aemond!” You exclaim, “what are you doing?”

“Is it true? Are you with child, my child?” He asks his eye full of hope causing your gaze to soften as you nod softly. Smiling when he falls to his knees kissing your clothed stomach.

“Marry me.” Its more of a demand than a question, while you know he’d never make you do so you also know that you haven’t a choice in the matter really. Your heart swells at the idea of marrying the man you love. Your mind forgetting just how much your families dislike each other even if just for a moment.

Part 2? 👀

7/5/23 - part 2 coming soon!

[flowerandblood]

The Fall from the Heavens (15)

[ canon • Aemond x Strong • niece female ]

[ warnings: angst, mention of sex, violence, swearing ]

[ description: A cool distance turns into friendship and more when two children see that they can find refuge and understanding in each other. However, naïve dreams collide with the reality in which every event has consequences and what once could have been love becomes a dark, newly painful obsession. Angst, sexual tension, obsession, violence, madness, very dark Aemond. ]

The story in this series is an alternate reality from the oneshot Stay and love, leave and die, in which Aemond reads the letters his niece has sent to him over the years. They are the same characters and it shows what would have happened between them − I have changed the background story from their childhood slightly for the sake of the plot.

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

For a long time after her uncle had left her chamber she could not recover; she sat on the table top exactly where he had left her, staring dully at the floor where the rolled up parchment lay, feeling his warm spend running down her buttocks. She thought about what was written inside, about what her stepfather really wanted.

I wish to speak alone with you and my daughter, nephew, tonight at the former Vhagar liege. You know the place. Come, if you dare.

She closed her eyes, swallowing loudly, calming herself slowly, feeling that her body was still trembling with terror. Never before in her life had she seen him in such a state, so distraught and broken, and she had no idea what she should do, what she could say to make him believe her – it seemed to her that although he had finally stopped crying, he didn't trust her.

She herself wasn't sure if meeting Daemon was a hope or a trap.

She finally slid off the table, settled on the floor and hissed quietly, clenching her eyelids, feeling the discomfort between her thighs after how brutal their approach had been immediately after their nuptials and now. She sighed quietly, moving slowly ahead and lay back on her bed, staring blankly at her door, recalling in her mind the conversation between her and his mother.

When she and Haleana walked into her chamber, she was already waiting for her.

Dressed as usual in emerald green, she stood up, her hands folded over her womb, the cuticles around her nails plucked and reddened. She looked at her with her big dark eyes, in her gaze pain, regret, remorse, but she wasn't sure what they were caused by.

"So it's true." She whispered in disbelief, looking at her cut lips, at her hand wrapped in a light cloth. She lifted her chin higher, not answering; Helaena stood behind her, silent.

"Gods, what have you done." She sighed, falling helplessly into the chair, covering her face with her hand, as if all that was happening was overwhelming her.

"There's no turning back now, then." She said at last, more to herself than to her, lowering her hand, looking ahead of her with empty, tired eyes. Seeing her bent, thoughtful figure, she lowered her gaze, unsure of what she should say.

After her guards poured the moon tea down her throat, she had nothing more to convey to her.

She was only her husband's mother to her, nothing more.

"He forced you to do this?" She asked at last, and she looked at her surprised, wrinkling her eyebrows and grunted loudly.

"No."

Silence fell again, longer this time. Alicent looked down at her knees, shaking a fleck of dust from her gown, sniffing quietly.

"When Viserys announced your betrothal, I was heartbroken. When Aemond agreed, I thought he did it so that his father would finally notice him. So that he would finally hear any kind word from him. Then Rhaenyra took you away and Aemond declared that he didn't want to see you. I thought it would be better that way. I was sure you had both moved on during those eight years." She said in a trembling voice and looked at her, shaking her head.

"I shouldn't have made you do this. I shouldn't have made you drink moon tea."

She sighed quietly, twisting to the other side, thinking about his mother telling her that he really didn't know anything about what she was going to do, that he was furious when he found out, yet that they had made a mistake by marrying each other that would cost them everything.

For some reason her words did not move her.

She was not afraid of Lord Baratheon's wrath or his daughter's disappointment when they finally found out what had happened.

The truth was that some part of her had been eagerly awaiting it.

Now, however, she couldn't think of anyone but her father, and although she knew it was Harwin Strong who had brought her into this world, Daemon was the one who had truly raised her.

She knew his unpredictable nature and was afraid of what he might do.

She became concerned when her uncle did not return for a long time, guessing that he was now discussing about the letter with his family. She was sure that his mother, grandfather and Criston Cole would be convincing him that it was a trap and suggesting that he let go of the idea that their marriage was in force – that she was a spy and if he backed out of it now, things could still be put right.

For some reason she felt that even if he had doubts about her loyalty, he would not disavow their marriage.

She shuddered when he finally stepped into her chamber – the sun was leaning lazily towards the horizon, if they were going to make it, they had to leave now. The door closed behind him and he stopped in the middle of the room, looking at her with a empty gaze, tired and pale.

"My brother has given his consent for us to negotiate with Daemon on his behalf."

She asked nothing more; her husband ordered them to bring their riding attire, which they changed into quickly. They left the keep in a hurry – she felt a hit of adrenaline and joy when she smelt the pleasant, fresh air around her.

For the first time in long days she was back outside, stepping on the soft grass, hearing the sound of the trees; she felt her uncle walking beside her glance at her once in a while, pondering for sure if she would try to escape. She stopped, surprised when he turned in a different direction than he should have, not understanding where he was going.

"We need to get Larax first." She said to him, turning her head towards Dragon's Pit, which she could see in the distance.

"No. You will fly with me on Vhagar." He replied coolly, without stopping; she looked at his silhouette in pain and moved after him with her heart beating fast, disappointed, for some reason naively believing that he would allow her to ride her own dragon.

However, her whole body was quivering in anticipation, for she had never seen Vhagar with her own eyes before.

She spotted her from afar; she seemed to her as big as a fortress, coiled, sleeping a sound sleep, her scales grey and brown, hot steam gushing from her nostrils once in a while, which dissolved into the air. She stood still for a moment, stunned, wanting to look at her from a distance; her uncle snorted at the sight, amused.

"Are you speechless?" He scoffed with some kind of pride and satisfaction, as if he had dreamed of this moment all his life; he, the second son, with no dragon and no heritage, could finally show her the great beast he had ridden in all its glory.

He furrowed his brow, surprised when she approached him; she tightened her hands on his leather coat, rose on her toes and kissed him, just as she had when they were children, merely pressing her lips against his. She pulled away from him with a quiet click of her saliva.

H looked at her with big eyes – it seemed to her that he had completely not expected this, still angry with her for what had happened.

She heard his shuddering sigh as she snuggled into him, embracing him at the waist, the setting sun and a pleasant warm breeze all around them; his hands cuddled her into himself, his forehead pressed against the top of her head.

"Am I flying towards my own doom?" He asked in a whisper, and she shook her head.

"No."

He sighed heavily, pale, frightened and uncertain, knowing that he was facing the destiny he feared, surely wishing he could now look deep into her heart and know her thoughts.

Whether betrayal lurked behind them.

He let her go, moving towards his dragoness, who raised her head sensing their scent – the ground trembled around them as she caught sight of her, rising restlessly on one of her paws, anxious.

"Lykiri, Vhagar. Ziry iksos ñuha ābrazȳrys, ñuha ānogar (Easy, Vhagar. It's my wife, my blood)." She heard his loud, deep, calm voice and felt a squeeze in her heart at the thought that just a month ago, when she was just a bastard to him, these words would not have passed his lips.

Ñuha ānogar.

My blood.

She was more than his wife, and he was more than her husband.

She dared to come closer when he nodded at her, watching vigilantly the behaviour of the giant beast lying in front of her, its lizard-like, dark eyes watching her with curiosity.

She thought that her uncle had not allowed anyone but himself to approach her for years.

Her husband explained to her that she had to climb up the ropes to her back and sit in the big saddle, belaying her from below, a task that proved difficult and required great strength in her arms. He grasped her buttock several times with his hand when he saw that she was losing strength, and she wondered if he was watching over her safety and that she should not fall, or if he was simply taking satisfaction from it.

Both, she thought, sighing with relief as she finally got to the top and sat comfortably in the large leather saddle; her uncle sat behind her, breathing loudly. She felt him hesitate, his hand embracing her waist, the other gripping the ropes, his face melting into her soft cheek.

"Iksā ñuha vējes (You are my doom)." He whispered, clearly thinking she wouldn't understand; she, however, had spent hours with Daemon reading the same books he'd flicked through then, in the library, before he'd taken her for the first time.

"Hae iksā ñuhon (As you are mine)." She answered him quietly, felt him draw in the air loudly, surprised, his hand involuntarily tightening on her leather coat.

"You were mocking me. Then, when you told me to teach you." He said lowly, disappointed as if he were a small child who had been fooled.

She knew he was saying this because he wanted to put off as much as possible what was about to happen.

She sighed quietly at his words, tilting her head back, resting it on his shoulder, the pleasant, warm evening breeze enveloping her face.

"I imagined you sitting next to me when Daemon teached me. That we were children again. I was trying to get back what I had lost." She said finally, placing her hand on his, large and cold. She sighed as he pulled her tighter to him, his hand from her stomach rose to her neck, clamping around her – she felt his manhood throbb behind her, pressing against her buttocks.

"If you try to escape, if you betray me, I will kill you with my own hands." He hissed into her ear, but she felt no fear or discomfort, expecting those words for some reason.

His desperate attempt to threaten her, to stop her from whatever he was accusing her of in his head.

"I know."

Flying with him into the dark skies, feeling the wind in her hair again and that wonderful freedom, she felt some kind of relief. She pressed her body against the front of the saddle and he embraced her tightly from behind, his cold cheek pressed against hers, his hands holding the ropes embraced her waist.

They both shuddered as they caught a glimpse from below of the fortress they both remembered so well, and on a hill not far away the figure of a red, long-necked dragon – beside it a lone, white-haired figure was strolling along the edge of a cliff.

Her uncle commanded Vhagar to land; the ground around them shook from her weight as her great paws hit the ground, sand and dust rising high around them.

Her husband slid down the ropes first and she followed him, squealing loudly as he caught her before she fell to the ground, putting her safely on her feet.

"Don't try anything." He growled, checking her body quickly with his hands to make sure she didn't have a sharp tool hidden anywhere, which she allowed him to do without a word despite the fact that he had already done so before they even left the Red Keep. "Come."

She moved a few steps behind him towards her father, sighing loudly at the sight of him with emotion – she felt her whole body tremble, her lips parted in an involuntary smile.

She thought she would never see him again.

Her husband stopped, and she stood behind him. Daemon looked at her as he unsheathed his sword and dagger from his leather belt, laying it slowly on the ground. She heard her uncle swallow hard, distrustful, and after a moment he did the same, tense, letting the air out loudly as he straightened back up, looking at him expectantly.

"Speak, uncle." He ordered, however, Daemon wasn't looking at him but at her.

She realised he had noticed what was clearly visible on her lower lip.

"You married him." He said offhandedly, looking at her with a gaze that made her shudder, the one that always recognised when she was lying or trying to hide something from him. She nodded.

"He forced you?"

"That's enough. Did you summon me to mock me, uncle?"

"He forced you?"

"No." She heard her own trembling voice, looking at him pleadingly, unsure if he would understand why she had done this, or if he would see it as a betrayal.

Daemon looked to the side, pressing his lips together, and sighed heavily, as if he was very tired, a light breeze blowing his white hair partly tied back as he finally turned to her husband.

"So you know what duty is. What family is. And yet you support your brother who stole his sister's throne." He said coldly; she looked uncertainly at her uncle-husband, who clenched his eyelids and chuckled under his breath, as if something in his words amused him.

"Why should I support my sister, the same one who, when I lost my eye, wanted to interrogate me thoroughly because I told the truth out loud? Why should I support her children, who have no claim to the throne?" He hissed; he and Daemon looked at each other warily, fighting for glances, for dominance, for who would have the last word.

"You married a woman you think is worthless? Like her brothers?" He asked dryly, Aemond snorted loudly, shaking his head in disbelief.

"She is my wife. Who her father was no longer matters, for she belongs now to my family, for our children will bear my name." He growled loudly, hitting his index finger against his chest, as if he could finally get out what he really felt.

She looked at him in disbelief, surprised that he wasn't holding back, that he wasn't limiting himself to conveying his brother's will, whatever it might be, but saying what he himself was thinking.

Daemon stared at him for a moment and snorted under his breath, shaking his head, looking at him again.

"What does your drunken brother-cunt have to convey to my wife as his justification? I lost my daughter because of him." He said coldly and she looked at him in disbelief, feeling cold sweat on her back, her husband gave her a quick, horrified look.

"What?" She muttered, looking at her father, then at him. She furrowed her brow, feeling that she was having trouble breathing, taking a step back. "You knew?"

"Calm down. You were suffering. I didn't want to add to your pain." Her uncle said quickly, looking at her pale, Daemon laughed out loud, burying his face in his hands.

"Look at you two. The future of the kingdom." He sneered, his nephew's lips tightening, throwing him a sharp, warning look.

"My brother has agreed to relinquish his rights to the crown, in favour of my and my wife's future heirs. He knows, exactly as you do, that both his rights in light of previous Lords' oaths, and your wife's in light of her being a woman, will always be challenged, and by extension the rights to the throne of their children and grandchildren. No one, however, will challenge the rights to the crown of my and my wife's offspring." He said in one exhale, trying to remain calm; she looked at him in disbelief, her heart pounding like mad.

Grief, hope, disappointment and relief mixed in her heart making her herself not know what she felt.

"My wife is to pass on her rights to the throne to a child that does not yet exist? What if a girl is born? What if you have no children?" He asked with disapproval and mockery, as if he had never heard a greater foolishness before.

"Then second to the throne will be your and my sister's children. Children from the rightful bed, pure Targaryen blood. If my wife and I do not beget a son."

"That is not enough. I want the head of your mother and your grandfather."

"Then I want Luke's head. I will gouge out his eyes with my own hands."

"Enough." She said, clutching her stomach, feeling everything around her start to spin – her husband taking a step towards her, frightened, seeing the look in her eyes, blank and furious.

"Enough, or I swear I'll throw myself right off this cliff." She mumbled, burying her face in her hands, shaking her head. She felt her uncle's hand embrace her neck, cuddling her into his chest, trying to calm her, Daemon watching them from afar.

"You will release my daughter as an act of goodwill. She will return with me to Dragonstone, and perhaps I will consider passing on your proposal to my wife. A daughter for a daughter." He said impassively; she felt her husband's hand clamp painfully tight on the nape of her neck, felt his heart pounding like mad under her cheek.

"Never."

Her father looked at her, certainty and impatience in his eyes.

"Tala (Daugther)." He said in an unobjectionable tone, wanting her to choose rightly, to choose her family, her kin.

"Don't you fucking dare." She heard him hiss, his free hand clenched helplessly in her hair, his forehead pressed against the top of her head, his breathing loud, shaky, terrified. "You promised me."

Part of her longed to stay with him, and part of her craved to be free, to go home, to see her mother, her brothers and sisters, to lie in her bed in her chamber.

However, Larax would stay in King's Landing, and with her her husband, who would never again trust her, who would never again look at her as he did then, the day he took her as his wife.

Kill me or marry me.

"Tell my mother that I will always be faithful to her, father." She said quietly, lifting her head, looking at her husband, his wide-open eye red with despair and horror; her hand rose to his cheek, her thumb stroked his clearly defined jaw. "Take me home, uncle."

She didn't appear to have time to finish her sentence, and his swollen, full lips pressed against hers in a passionate, greedy kiss – she felt tears of relief, grief, anger, joy and pain run down her cheeks as she reciprocated his caresses, his hands clenched tightly on her body.

"My sweet Rhaenys." He whispered in a trembling voice into her mouth, placing a quick, hot, wet kiss on her forehead before turning towards her father, the satisfaction and confidence on his face from which her heart beat harder.

"She is mine."

[asumofwords]

Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death, forced marriage, and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. Mentions of gore and blood. Smut.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: Hello my babies, thank you so much for your patience! I really needed a day or two or three to rest and relax! I was just doing the maths, and since I have combined some of my chapters to make them longer (and tbh might do it again) there is 110 chapters of SFA! So we have 10 left!! ( I do have plans for an epilogue planned after as well) HOLY SMOKES! Thank you all so much for your love and support and kind words AS ALWAYS! I fucking adore you guys. Anyway, enjoy! <3

Chapter 100: The One-Eyed King 

King Aemond, First of his Name, took you atop the Iron Throne more times than you could count, plunging into your wet heat whilst the body of his brother lay cold on the stones behind you.

By the end of your passionate embrace, you knew that you would be aching for days to come, and when you finally removed yourselves from the throne of melted swords, it was done with a gentle hand on the small of your back and a passionate kiss. 

You made your way down the steps, eyes locked onto the corpse of Aegon, the blood around him soaked through the stones. You paused as you looked at him, at his body, at the way the blood had trickled from his gaping mouth.

You thought of how he had raped you.

How he had mocked you.

Hit you. 

Usurped the throne from your mother, and been the catalyst for your brothers death.

You thought, in that moment, of everything he had done to you and to Aemond.

How he caused you to lose your child. 

Anger rolled through you, rage simmered, chest feeling impossibly tight.

But Aegon was gone.

And he could hurt you no longer. 

He could touch you no longer. 

You reared your head back, swirling your tongue and for the final time, spat onto his corpse, leg shooting out to kick the head that lay on its side forcefully with the toe of your boot, Aegon's skull skidding across the stones, wet sticky blood leaving a trail behind.

The hand on your back pushed you forward, a soft, 'that’s enough' whispered into the shell of your ear. You heaved angry broken breaths, inhaling deeply once to calm yourself before you moved forward, head held high as the King, your King, walked you towards the Small Council chambers.

The walk was swift, and it still felt as though your mind had not fully caught up to everything that had happened. But you would have to deal with that later. Right now you needed to be present.

Or as present as you could be.

As you came up the stairs, you could hear the voices of those inside, bickering amongst each other as they waited for you to arrive. The doors were opened by the guards stationed at the doors, and a hush fell across the room. 

You walked in together, and all bowed towards you. 

All except Alicent, who hissed from across the room, eyes red and tear tracks staining her cheeks, as she raced across the room, all fury, towards her son.

It reminded you of the night Aemond lost his eye.

“You have killed your own brother!” Her eyes darted back and forth across his face, horror, and anger, and disgust on her features. But what was more, beneath it all, there was fear.

Alicent was afraid.

Aemond simply looked down at his mother and hummed, lips pursing forward in thought. 

The hand moved through the space faster than anyone could have reacted, striking Aemond across the cheek with a loud slap. Alicent’s chest heaved, and Otto came behind her to drag her backwards, whispering into her ear to try and calm his daughter.

Aemond’s head had barely moved, not a hair was out of place, nor had he flinched when she struck him. As though he had been expecting it to come. As though he expected nothing less of his mother. As though it had happened, once, twice, three times before. 

And it had. 

Your husband chose to ignore his mothers rage filled glare, and moved towards the head of the table, your own feet slowly trailing after him. Aemond held open a hand to the table, ordering the men to be seated, and then he looked to you. 

You were still standing beside him, and with a shift of his palm, and an almost imperceptible nod of his head, you were directed to the seat beside him.

A seat at the Small Council. 

Before you on the table was your council stone, round and seated within its dish.

You had a place in the council.

Alicent Hightower however, did not sit, her seat now filled by you, and her fury rolled off of her in waves that crashed against the dark oak of the table. Her hands shook, and as you watched her, you could see that she was merely holding on by a thread.

It was the first time since the night of Aemond’s eye where you had seen her so shaken.

The King's cold gaze lifted to his mother, and with a soft and careful voice, he told her to sit.

The Dowager Queen’s hands shook at her side, clenching and unclenching, hair wild and out of place, and it wasn’t until that moment as you watched her did you noticed the small stains of blood against the green of her gown. The dried coppery substance had stained her fingertips and hands as she had held the corpse of her son.

Alicent did not sit, lifting a hand to her mouth, pressing it roughly into her skin with worry as she looked to all the Lords who followed Aemond’s command without question.

It was hard to not feel some sort of pity towards her, some sort of empathy, because despite everything, she was still a woman who had lost so much. Three of her children to be exact. And you knew there to be no greater loss in the world than a mother who mourns their child.

The King sat straight in his chair, and addressed the men at the table, "As you were all aware, Aegon was to set the realm to ruins. Rebellions had begun in Riverrun, and more and more of our support had begun to turncloak. His lack of action has made us quick enemies.”

Lord Jasper Wylde nodded in agreement from across the table.

Aemond continued, “He was to bring the realm to war again. Aegon's inability to listen to the council’s recommendations for Flea Bottom had caused uprisings from the small folk down in the slums. Our Kings Guards and Gold Cloaks have been working day and night to keep them at bay.”

You shifted in your seat at the mention of war and the rebellions.

“My time in Harrenhal proved to be an enlightening one. Our men who reside there were ready to erupt into battle with Rhaenyra’s allies. But hers are larger in numbers, and with the North at her side, she is a formidable foe. My uncle Daemon would torch the realm, allies or not. He has no care for the lives lost if that meant crumbling our power.” The Maester played with his council stone before him in thought, the chain of his tunic shifting, “This disruption to the dust that we had once settled, caused trade from the Golden Tooth to halt, and thus our reserves and coin have dwindled.”

Their coin has dwindled.

They’re losing power.

Gods be good, the tides are shifting.

The old Maester leant forward on the table, holding his sphere, “I had received word from the Red Fork that the Blacks, after the commandeering of their small folks trading ships, have doubled their fleet power with Lord Corlys’ warships to block any exit or entrance for our men.”

Your eyes skimmed over the table, and landed on a pair of dark brown eyes. 

Larys Strong was watching you. 

And he was smiling.

Lord Jasper Wylde, Master of Law, picked up his sphere to speak, “Perhaps if we make a distinction that our purpose at the Red Fork is mere-“

“-Have you gone to madness?!” Alicent shrieked, charging towards the table on the opposite side of Aemond, hands slamming onto the wood as she sneered at her son, “You have slain your brother, the King, and now you move forward with business and trade?!”

“Aemond is King.” Your voice floated across the table, looking up at the woman through your eyelashes.

The Hightower woman’s face darkened, “You have willed him into slaying his brother. A manipulation most foul! How much more must we all fall prey to your-“

“Quiet.” Aemond’s voice cut across the room, and Alicent’s lips snapped closed, “For years you have defended Aegon and his actions, and it has become our ruin.”

His voice became deeper, louder, and more grating, “Tis I the younger brother who studied history, philosophy, and is trained with the sword, who rides the largest dragon in the world. It is I who should have been put forth for the crown, not that useless wastrel I called my brother."

Aemond shifted, leaning forward towards his mother as he looked up at her, "Aegon never took interest in his birthright and duty, whoring and drinking and serving his own interests which set ours back for miles. I have done what needed to be done. What should have been done. I wear the Conquerors Crown. I ride upon Vhagar, the oldest and largest of dragons, Queen Visenya once rode. I am the King.” His eye did not blink once, staring down his mother, who’s anger bled from her face, and fear resurfaced in its place.

Aemond turned to look out at his Councilmen, meeting each and every eye, “If anyone dare question my authority, I shall have you removed from these chambers and the council.”

You blinked.

And the world came crashing back towards you, as though you had been plucked from the sky once more, and tumbled down to earth. Because the reality was far more than what you had realised. Far more than what you had even had a chance to feel.

Aemond was King.

King.

And what did that mean for the treaty?

A small piece of anxiety began to worm its way through your bones, nipping at the tips of your fingers, down to the heels of your feet, burrowing under your skin with an insistence that you could not ignore or push down. Your mouth felt dry as you looked out at the table, looking at all the Lords, who gazed back, before you finally turned to face your husband. 

His eye was already on you.

With hands that shook, you lifted your sphere from its place, the weight of it stopping the uneven movement. It was heavy and smooth, and as you look down at it and turned your hand, you found the courage to speak, placing it gently back into its spot, rolling it within its small bed.

“What does this mean for the treaty?” You questioned, fingers pressing into the sphere far harder than needed.

Aemond’s eye flickered in recognition, but settled quickly, grazing over your face and down to your hand. The rest of the Lords at the table waited with bated breath.

It was clear that all wondered what was to come now after the death of Aegon.

What would become of the treaty? 

The treaty had been made with Aegon, not Aemond. 

Aemond’s jaw clenched, holding your gaze for a moment more whilst your stomach spun and flipped. Blinking, he looked away, turning to his Small Council, “You are dismissed. We shall reconvene on the morrow.”

You frowned, continuing to stare at him as the men shuffled out of the room silently, Alicent being all but dragged out by her father Otto Hightower.

It was then, that anxiety truly settled in your bones. 

“Go to our chambers, I will be there with you shortly.” Aemond spoke to you softly.

“But-“

“-Now.” Aemond commanded, tone clipped.

His word was final.

And after today, you did not wish to push his luck. The blood of his brother was still dried upon his face, having not been washed away. Evidence and proof of just how far he was willing to go. And if anyone knew the extent of his wrath, it would be you.

You swallowed thickly and stood on shaky legs, bowing your head to your husband as you left the Small Council chambers, and headed for your own. 

The walk was swift, nervous energy carrying you quickly to your shared quarters, where you paced before the fire place in wait. 

What did this mean for the treaty now?

What would Aemond do?

Was your family in danger?

Would he renew the terms?

Was war to come?

You spent the better part of what felt like an hour, walking back and fourth, thoughts tumbling through your mind like jagged rocks, scraping against the sides sharply. Your fingers coming to your mouth where you bit the nails down until they bled.

When the doors finally opened, you spun on your heel, facing Aemond as he entered, crown still atop his head. His fathers blade was now at his side, which he leant against the chaise, and he moved quickly towards you, one hand coming to cup your cheek.

His movements were sharp, and at first you had been frightened, but as you leant into the warmth of his palm as he stroked your skin, you looked into his gaze and saw it. 

Lust. 

Swallowing your anxiety, and pushing all your questions to the back of your mind, you dropped to your knees for a second time that day, willingly, the skin bruised and protesting, but hands that shook making quick work of his breeches as he looked down at you, eye half half lidded with desire.

For it would be better to broach these questions when he was disarmed.

When you pulled him from his pants, he was half erect, and so you worked him with your hand, and the tip of your tongue until he was hard and heavy in your own palm. Your fingers wrapped around him as you took him into your mouth, the muskiness of his own taste spreading across your tongue, as well as the subtle tang of your own release on his length from earlier. 

Aemond groaned from above, hand smoothing your hair from your face as you bobbed your head along his length, hollowing your cheeks and feeling his tip press against the back of your throat. The King gripped your hair and pulled you down his length, the hairs at the base of his cock tickling your nose as you gagged.

Your husband guided you up and down his length, before pulling you off of him with a pop. 

Lifting you up towards him, Aemond crashed his lips against yours, tongue forcing its way into your mouth as you gasped in his grip, his hands spinning you around to push you forward over the table. Your hands splayed out, knocking over an ink pot that sat on the surface, its dark ink spreading across the wood and parchment. 

The skirts of your dress were hiked up your thighs and pushed onto your back, revealing your wet, and leaking centre to the room. Aemond knelt behind you as anticipation swept through you.

You felt his sharp nose press into the flesh of your ass as he gently bit the skin causing you to whimper, before moving down to part your folds with one long swipe of his tongue. 

You moaned loudly, pushing your hips backwards to meet him as he continued, lapping at your wetness, and his seed which leaked from you from your coupling on the Iron Throne. Pleasure wound its way through you, bud and folds overestimated and sensitive from the day of fucking, and before no time at all, Aemond brought you to your peak. 

You cried out against the wood, hands digging into it as he stood, lining himself up with your entrance and pushing into you with a harsh grunt. Your breasts were pressed against the wooden surface, sensitive and aching as they rubbed against the hard table top.

Your body jolted against the table with every thrust, hip bones pressing painfully against the edge of the wood, which only added to your pleasure. Aemond rutted into you in a frenzy, grunts and curses coming from behind you as he gripped your hips roughly, each stroke brushing against the spongey spot within you. 

You cried out, watching as the ink seeped into the wood of the table, nails digging into the surface. 

It looked like the stones did.

How Aegon looked.

How his blood seeped across the floor before you.

Thick and inky-

“Fuck.” Aemond grunted, “Squeezing my cock so tightly.”

You moaned loudly, hand reaching beneath your skirts so that you could press your fingers to your pearl. You rubbed neat circles into the sensitive nerves, sighing as you did, your release rapidly climbing once more. 

“Killed that fucking cunt for you. Killed my brother for this fucking perfect cunt. Fuck. Going to give you an heir.”

Each clap of his hips was bruising, and soon the both of you tumbled over the edge together, the King pushing himself to the hilt inside of you, cock throbbing as it spurted his seed deep within.

You collapsed, face resting against the wood, small strands of your hair having gotten wet by the ink that had been spilt. No doubt joining the blood that stained your hair too. You breathed heavily, letting your release to spread through you warmly.

Aemond rested his cheek against your back, hot breath fanning across your skin as he came down from his high, before he slowly pulled out of you with a groan.

In a tangle of limbs, the two of you stripped each other, the crown sitting beside the bed, as you crawled beneath the sheets facing him, spent from the days events, spent from his cock, and spent from the anxiety that continued to linger in the back of your mind. 

The both of you lay on your sides, looking at one another as he smoothed a hand over your shoulder and down your arm in a repetitive motion. Up, down, pause. Up, down, pause.

Up, down, pause.

His eye danced over your face, a finger coming to brush against your cheek where you felt a dry flake fall away. 

A dry flake of blood. 

Aegon’s blood.

Aemond was lost in his thoughts.

“Skoros issi ao otāpagon, ñuha jorrāelagon?” What are you thinking, my love? You whispered to him quietly, watching as his eye flicked back and forth on yours.

“Olvie hen mirre.” Most and all, Came his quiet reply.

You shifted, moving closer to him, hand pressed against his chest, “Gaomagon daor ōregon ziry isse. Ȳdragon ziry” Do not hold it in. Speak it.

You watched as your husbands chest rose and fell, a static quiet around the both of you. He leant forward, pressing a kiss against your forehead, and then another against your cheek.

“Ānogar kessa ropagon naejot nūmo se rūklun, se mazilībagon se vējes hembar." Blood will be spilt to seed the garden, and set the future sway, “Iā pāletilla vēttan hen ānogar.” A crown forged of blood, Aemond whispered, “Issa hae vestas.” It is as she said.

“Issa.” It is, You agreed, pausing before you spoke again, “Aemond?”

Your uncle’s gaze was locked on a strand of your hair that he brushed gently with his fingers. He hummed, raising his eye to you.

“Sir bona iksā Dārys, kostagon jān naejot ūndegon ñuha lentor?” Now that you are King, can I go to see my family?

Aemond watched your face closely, hand stilling in your hair before it dropped to your shoulder heavily. 

You breathed in, and out. 

One.

Two.

Three.

Four. 

His hand started to move again. Up, down, pause. Up, down, pause. 

Up, down, pause.

“Valzȳrys?” Husband, You questioned again, “Kessa ao ivestragī nyke ūndegon ñuha muña?” Will you let me see my mother?

Up, down.

Pause.

“Kesi jorrāelagon naejot ȳdragon nūmāzma se treaty ēlī.” We will need to speak about the treaty first.

But there was no treaty now following the death of Aegon.

Now the prospect of war returning was a real one.

Swallowing the lump that had formed in your throat, you lifted a hand, brushing your fingers against his cheek and scar, fingers delicately tracing it.

It was jagged and not as smooth as you would have thought when you first saw it. The closer you were, the more you could see the small little dotted scars that lined it, courtesy of the Maester’s stitches.

“Kostilus, gaomagon daor ōdrikagon zirȳ.  Gaomagon daor ōdrikagon ñuha lentor.  Hae aōha ābrazȳrys, aōha jorrāelagon, nyke epagon ao, kostilus.” Please, do not harm them. Do not hurt my family. As your wife, your love, I ask you, please. 

Aemond hummed and leant forward to press another kiss to your forehead. 

He did not answer your plea.

Up, down, pause.

Up, down, pause.

Where Aegon had anger, Aemond had wrath. 

Where Aegon stewed, Aemond seethed.

Where Aegon saw reason, Aemond saw vengeance.

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

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[hotdaemondtargaryen]

EWAN MITCHELL INTERVIEWED BY DECIDER MAGAZINE.

SO KNOWING HOW HE'S SO STUDIOUS AND THOUGHTFUL, WHAT DO YOU THINK THE CHANCES ARE, IF HE STILL HAS THE DANGER, HE CAN FIGURE OUT THERE'S A HIDDEN MESSAGE THERE?

"Yeah, I think I could imagine that."

"I could imagine Aemond reading a book by the fire and he just puts it over the fireplace and then he’s privy to the information of Aegon’s dream."

"But I can’t confirm nor deny it."

ALICENT MENTIONS TO RHAENYRA IN THE FINALE THAT AEMOND PLANS TO FLY TO HARRENHAL. DAEMON HAS HAD QUITE THE SEASON THERE, BEING AFFECTED BY THE MAGIC THERE. DO YOU HAVE A SENSE OF HOW THAT MAGIC COULD AFFECT AEMOND?

"I think that’s a good question."

"I think if he was to go to Harrenhal, I think, I don’t know."

"It’s similar to what we were saying with Helaena."

"Like, if there was some sort of way that he would be able to harness that power and to use it to his advantage, he could be quite dangerous."

SO, ARE YOU EXCITED TO SORT OF DELVE INTO WHAT COULD POTENTIALLY MOTIVATE AEMONE TO OPEN UP TO SOMEONE? WHAT DO YOU THINK WOULD MAKE HIM SO VULNERABLE?

"I think just finding all of that multifaceted nuance in Aemond, and really exploring that shadow side even more…"

"You know, just constantly keeping the audience on their toes and presenting an angle of Aemond that we hadn’t really seen before."

"He always kind of looked for surrogates for his mother."

"He found it in Vhagar, so to speak."

"An old she-dragon parallel."

"And he found it in the madame."

"But is that enough? So he’s always looking for his match, so to speak."

"Whether or not he finds it is another thing."

"Maybe there’s no one good enough for Aemond."

"Maybe he’s not good enough for anyone either."

HE'S SO RUTHLESS IN TERMS OF THE WAY HE WANTS TO APPROACH THE BATTLES AHEAD. IS HIS MINDSET FOR HIS OWN GLORY AND POWER, OR IS HE ACTUALLY JUST TRYING TO SAVE HIS FAMILY AS QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE AND SECURE TEAM GREEN'S CLAIM?

"I think it’s interesting."

I think when he approaches Alicent and Helaena in Episode 8, he kind of says, 'Like, look, it’s either them or us and I’m choosing. It’s gonna be them.'

"We can’t go down without a fight."

"Because if the Blacks were to come into power, it would be the Greens heads who would be on the chopping block."

"And Aemond especially."

"So it is a fight for self preservation."

"But whether or not he has his family’s interests at heart or whether or not he’s just thinking for himself?"

"I want to leave that out there."

"I want to let people make their own judgment on that."

"I think he definitely loves his mum and he wants his mum at the end."

ONE OF MY FAVORITE SCENES IS THE ONE WHERE YOU BASICALLY DRESS DOWN AEGON IN HIGH VALYRIAN. WHAT WAS IT LIKE PREPARING FOR THAT? WAS IT AS DELICIOUS TO DO AS IT LOOKED OR WAS IT JUST ANOTHER EXTRA CHALLENGE THAT YOU JUST DID NOT WANT TO FACE IN TERMS OF MASTERING A FOREIGN LENGUAJE?

"I mean I remember doing it a few different ways, but I always kind of settled on the idea that Aemond, throughout those first four episodes, he’s just so composed."

"We see other players around the council table and they raise their voices, and Aemond is the kid who’s just acting from the peripheries."

"He’s waiting for his moment."

"He never raises his voice too much."

So in that moment, when he very much seizes a chance to attack Rook’s Rest and work with Criston Cole, he very much says, 'I’m taking over now.'

"It is a public humiliation, but he does it in such a way that Aegon is able to save face because only him and Aegon can understand it (and maybe Grand Maester Orwyle can, as well)."

"It’s something quite merciful in a way.

BEFORE THE SEASON STARTED, I TALKED TO YOU ABOUT HOW YOU STAYED AWAY FROM MATT SMITH ON SET IN SEASON 1 SO THAT WHEN THEY STARE EACH OTHER DOWN DURING DINNER, IT WOULD BE MORE IMPACTFUL. SO I'M CURIOUS, HAVE YOU MET GAYLE RANKIN YET?

"I – I have not."

OH, OKAY. IS THAT INTENTIONAL OR?

"I mean, I’ve obviously seen Gayle Rankin’s phenomenal performance in the show, but also like the Harrenhal set itself is in a different studio to the studio of the Red Keep."

"So I never really brushed shoulders with Gayle Rankin or Matt Smith this season, other than that moment when Daemon sees the vision of Aemond in Harrenal."

"I think — I think I briefly [met Gayle] at the read through."

"Briefly."

OK, COOL. I WAS JUST CURIOUS, BUT THANK YOU SO MUCH. I REALLY APPRECIATE IT AND I'M REALLY EXCITED TO SEE ALYS AND AEMOND MEET BECAUSE THAT IS A RELATIONSHIP I HAVE SO MUCH CURIOSITY ABOUT.

"No comment."

[starogeorgina]

𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐬

Pairing: Harwin Strong × Targ oc

Warning: Childbirth, mentions of violence, swearing, blood, character death

3.09

“If he wasn’t my kin, I’d have his head on a fucking spike!”

Harwin gently tilts your chin up so you’re facing him. His fingers are coated in your blood from your nose, but it seems insignificant in comparison to what your son has suffered. “You need to have a maester check you over, Vaella.”

“And take them away from our sons?” Feeling overwhelmed with his hand on you, you brush it off and start pacing again, using the movements as a way to not only cope with the adrenaline of anger bubbling inside you but also the pain slowly seeping across your body. You felt as if a sudden fever was coming on, but you refused to let up. “I don’t understand why he would do such a thing to his own flesh and blood.”

“Some people are just inherently bad.”

“But he’s my brother,” you weep. “That should mean something.”

Tears sting your eyes as you look at your sons through the doorway as they speak with the maesters. Aerion's eyes were red and puffy from crying, and when you excused yourself to go clean up your nose, which had started bleeding again, distressing Aerion further Harwin asked Elinda, your sister's handmaiden, to stay by your side. The young woman was coddling him as if your eldest son were her own. Vaegon was lying flat on his stomach in a deep slumber due to the high volume of milk from the poppy he had consumed, with maesters surrounding him. Each of them is trying to figure out the best way to treat injuries to his lower back.

“Oh, my baby, my baby.”

Harwin chokes back a sob. You had expected him to be full of rage, but instead he looked defeated. Exhausted from the worry and frustrated from not being able to help. The palms of Harwin’s hands had small crescent-shaped cuts on them from him clenching his hand so tight.

When you feel your nosebleed has stopped, you go and sit beside Aerion again, holding him close to you as he sobs, “It’s my fault. I couldn’t stop him; I couldn’t protect my brother.”

“Shh, none of this is your fault.”

“He called us bastards,” Aerion sobs. “And Jace, Luke, and Joff. He said I was the only one who didn’t know.”

You look up at Harwin; his eyes are glimmering with what you suspect is fear. Harwin crouched down to be level with him and spoke softly, “Listen, lad, I will tell you the truth. This isn’t about bastardy, the greens... They don’t want a woman sitting on the throne. They will say anything to discreet princess Rhaenyra and her sons, so the king's firstborn son sits on the throne.”

Aerion looks from Harwin to you, confused. “But if anything happened to Princess Rhaenyra and her sons, the throne would go to my mother before it did to my uncle; she’s the second-born child of the king.”

The sweet innocence in his voice breaks your heart.

“They would just do the same to your mother, lad. The Hightowers want the firstborn of Alicent to rule.”

“Will they kill us so Aegon will be the heir?"

You kiss the crown of his head multiple times and say, “No, SweetPea, it won’t come to that.”

—

You let out a sharp breath as the maester explained the extent of damage your son was suffering. Vaegon had snuck out to confront his uncle after overhearing Aemond say Aegon would be king one day. When Vaegon told him he was wrong, Aemond called your son’s bastards, then pushed Vaegon down the concrete steps.

Aerion squeezed your hand; your poor boy blamed himself. He saw his brother leaving and chased after him, but Vaegon inherited your stubbornness and refused to go back to their rooms.

“Unfortunately, it’s too early to tell if the price will ever walk again.”

Tears sting your eyes, making your vision slightly blurred. “Is he able to travel, or will it cause him more pain?”

“I’d advise a high dose of milk from the poppy for the boat ride back to avoid any distress... but in truth, Princess Prince has lost feeling below the waist.”

You grip tightly onto Harwin’s arm; none of it seems real. You glance at the door when Elinda enters the room; she reminds you of a frightened mouse with how she trembles as she walks over to you. The handmaiden had been sent to bring your daughter and to inform your sister and father that they needed to come as a matter of urgency.

“Where is Ada?” Harwin is alarmed.

“Ser Harwin, Princess... She is with Princess Rhaenyra in the great hall. There has been another incident involving Prince Aemond.”

—

All eyes are on you when you burst through the Great Hall’s main door. The handmaiden who informed you of the incident was running not far behind; she had briefly filled you and Harwin in on the conflict that transpired between the children and the adults. The first thing you notice are the drops of blood on the floor and Rhaenyra holding her bleeding arm while your father's dagger lies by Alicent’s feet. There was a clear divide in the room, with your family standing on one side and Greens standing on the other.

“Ada?” You call for your daughter, and panic sets in when you can’t see her among the various bodies in the room. “Ada!”

“I’m sorry!” She comes out from behind Lord Lyonel and runs to you, her cheeks flushed from crying. She clings to your growl and sobs, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

You brush her hair out of her face and say, “It’s alright, my sweet, it’s alright.”

You clap your hand over hers, keeping her firmly by your side; she grabs ahold of Harwin’s hand as well. You look to your father for any kind of indication of what he was planning to do, but he seems lost in his own thoughts, so you turn to Alicent.

“Did he tell you what he did to—”

“The king already knows about the slander hurled towards my sons,” Rhaenyra says.

You feel blood dribble from your nose onto your lip as you stare at Rhaenyra, speechless. You quickly wipe it away with the sleeve of your dress. An insult was the least of your worries. But she didn’t know; none of them did. One son suffers in agony, while the other's heart fills with guilt. All the while, your brother went off and happily claimed a dragon. You glance at your Aemond, feeling void of sympathy that he’d lost an eye. He was smiling beneath his bandage; he was proud of what he’d done.

“Do you have any remorse for what you did to my son?”

Your father finally finds his voice. “Vaella, what happened to my grandson?”

Aemond looks down at his feet, the smugness on his face fading, which only infuriates you further. Your voice cracks as you speak, “I’ll give you one last chance; tell them what you did.”

Alicent looks at you stunned; it’s clear she has no idea what you’re referring to. She waits a beat, then speaks thickly, “My son was attacked by Prince Lucerys. He lost an eye.”

“An eye? Prince Aemond said the Hightowers were planning to usurp my sister's throne, and then he almost killed my son. ” You turn to face your father and say, "Your grace, your grandson has been maimed and may never walk again! And his brother is traumatized from witnessing such a horrendous act.”

Madness and rage were spreading inside you like poison; perhaps you should have listened to your husband and stayed with your sons.

“Vaella…”

Harwin tries to say something to you, but you storm over to the king, who looks just as defeated as the rest of you. “Father,” you speak in High Valyrian. “This is them; this is the greens. I’ve told you again and again about the agenda that they have been pushing. That a woman isn’t fit to rule and your grandsons are bastards, and now the lies have run so deep that her son thinks it’s okay to physically attack mine and Rhaenyra’s children.”

“Vaella,” he sighs. “I cannot change what has been done; I cannot mend the wounded.”

“Do something.” Tears roll down your cheek. “Aemond is just a boy repeating what his mother and grandsire said. Alicent has just assaulted the heir to the throne and attempted to harm Lucerys. Arrest her, and I’ll feed that traitor who dare calls himself your hand to Varos!”

“Alicent is my wife.”

“Your wife?” You scoff. “The Hightowers are parasites feeding off dragon's blood. My love for her children is the only reason I’m not bringing fire and blood down upon their entire house.”

Harwin places his hand over your chest, urging you to step back. Harwin wasn’t fluent in High Valyrian, but he knew it well enough to recognise the threats you were making. “The king wishes to do nothing.” He picks Ada up with one arm and takes your hand with the other. “The best thing we can do is get our family back to Dragonstone.”

“I’ll have a ship prepared immediately,” Lord Corlys says. “It will be ready within the hour.”

Harwin nods and says, “Thank you.”

You felt your heat tearing itself apart; not only were your sons suffering, but your father had become so weak he was no longer able to defend your house. Shaking your head, you go to leave the great hall with your daughter and husband but stop when you reach the doorway. You thought you could handle the pain in your lower abdomen, but a sudden sharpness causes you to claw at the fabric of your dress. You sway on your feet slightly, and Harwin wraps his arm around you, keeping you up right.

“Send for a maester!” Daemon calls out.

“Fuck,” you grit your teeth and squeeze his arm tightly, feeling blood trickling down your thighs. “The babe is coming.”

—

“You need to push, princess.”

“I am fucking pushing!” You bark. “This shouldn’t be happening; it’s too soon.”

You grit your teeth and try to focus on the warmth of your sister's hand on your back, grounding you in the present moment. Harwin was waiting in the next room with your children; you were glad. You couldn’t bear to look at him, not when this was your fault. You should have made sure the knights posted outside the room your children were supposed to be sleeping in were capable of stopping them from sneaking out. You shouldn’t have allowed yourself to become so upset. If anything happened to your baby, it was your fault.

Rhaenyra’s eyes were focused on the bloodstained sheets below. You had been pushing for hours with no results. “Don’t let them do it to me,” you sob. “I don’t want to die like our mother.”

Tears roll down her cheeks, but she forces a smile. “You will have a baby in your arms soon, and the pain will be over.”

The contractions come hard and fast now, like waves crashing against rocks. Sweat trickles down your forehead; the pain intensifies, but you know it's nature's way of telling you to start pushing again. You bear down with each passing moment, feeling the muscles in your abdomen tense and release as if they were being pulled apart.

A few more moments of agonizing pain pass, and then the room is filled with a baby’s cries. The midwife cuts the cord and then places the baby on your chest. “It’s a girl.”

“Cassandra, her name is Cassandra.” Tears of happiness streamed from your eyes. Your beautiful girl had thick, dark hair and eyes to match her fathers. “She’s perfect—oh fuck, I think another one is coming.”

One of the midwives pushes your legs open and says, “The princess is crowning.”

The room fills with the sound of people rushing around, and blood starts spilling onto the ground. The bleeding was heavier than before. One of the handmaids gives you an apologetic look as she lifts the baby from your chest and says, “I’ll clean her up, princess.”

“Take her to Harwin.”

Rhaenyra wipes a cloth over your forehead. “Sister, are you sure?”

“I don’t want her in the room when I die.” You let out an agonizing scream. “Just take her and go!”

Your eyes become heavy, and your vision fades as you watch the handmaid wrap your daughter in a blanket. Rhaenyra shakes your shoulder, yelling for you to stay awake, but your sight is locked firmly on your newborn. Before she disappears from sight, your vision goes black.

—

Feeling his wife’s absence, Harwin opens his eyes and sits up in the bed, squinting. He looks around the room, hoping to see her, but Vaella is nowhere to be seen. He looks down into the crib next to him and sees Cassandra scrunching her face up while sleeping. His little girl was smaller and sickly-looking, but she has fed well from the wet nurse and is now sleeping soundly. Getting to his feet, Harwin goes straight to the door and is about to order the knights on the opposite side to search for her, but hearing a humming noise, he stops.

He follows the noise to the balcony and finds Vaella sitting on the ground, rocking, and Rhea in her arms, as if the dead baby would take comfort in being in her mother's arms. When the handmaid brought Cassandra through to the other room, he knew something was wrong and went to be beside his wife. The maester and midwife tried to force him out of the room, insisting it was no place for a man to be.

“And which one of you is going to make me leave my wife’s side?”

Rhaenyra interjects before anyone else can respond, “Ser Harwin will be staying by my sisters side.”

Harwin had felt so helpless when he first saw her laying on the birthing bed, with him unable to do anything to help his wife, who no longer had the energy to scream. Aerion, Vaegon, and Ada needed their mother's strength and courage, something no amount of love from him could provide them. Vaella was covered in sweat and blood; he was so sure he’d lose her. But his princess was a fighter and pulled through, yet the second girl she gave birth to did not.

Harwin was conflicted; he didn’t want to disturb her, but he didn’t want his wife to feel alone.

His decision is made when Vaella looks up at the sky, watching the dragons flying above, and begins talking out loud. “The golden dragon is Sunfyre; he’s bonded with your uncle Aegon. The blue one flying beside him is Dreamfyre, your auntie Helaena’s dragon. The largest one is your brother Vaegon’s dragon, Nightmare.”

Harwin fights back at Sob when Vaella’s voice breaks when she mentions Vaegon. He backs off slowly. She needed the time with Rhea as their daughter's funeral would be held once they arrived on Dragston. Ser Laenor and Rhaenyra had left on Dragonback, so arrangements would be made for their arrival. The maesters advised waiting until Vaella was fully healed before traveling home due to her blood loss, but she was desperate to return home. So did he. Harwin didn’t doubt the masters of Driftmark’s capabilities since they worked miracles to save his wife, but he also didn’t trust any maesters he didn’t know to care for his children.

Hearing a soft knock at the door, Harwin goes over and answers. His mouth goes dry. “Brother.”

“I hope I haven’t woken the princess.”

Harwin steps into the hallway, closing the door behind him. Without being asked, the knight on duty goes and stands at the bottom of the hallway, giving them privacy. From the way the sun peeked through the clouds, Harwin guessed it was roughly five in the morning. “Is this an urgent matter?”

“Yes.” Larys puts his weight against his stick and whispers, “My bees have been busy. And I’ve heard whispers.”

“I’m not interested in gossip.”

Hints of a smirk appear on the clubfoot’s face. “It involves Princess Vaella and the unfortunate events that took place last night.”

Rage burns inside of him, and Harwin fits a clench at his side. “What do you know?”

“Do you remember what type of tea the princess was drinking?”

The question throws him off. “It was red and had a horrid smell to it. Vaella said it was her first time tasting it.”

“Hmm, that’s what I feared. One of the ladies cleaning the room said the smell reminded her of barberry.”

“A fruit tea?”

Larys nods, as if the answer were obvious. “For you and me, it’s perfectly safe, but not for pregnant women, as it can trigger miscarriages. Tell me, did the princess suffer from any vomiting or nosebleeds prior to going into labor?”

Harwin gulps down. “She spat the tea out.”

“But she may have ingested it in small doses without knowing,” Larys leans in again. “Between us, brother, I find it rather particular that princess Vaella was perfectly fine on Dragonstone, but as soon as she arrived on Driftmark, she’s poisoned.”

“My daughter is dead. We will speak of this another time.”

Harwin enters the room and presses his back against the door. If what Larys said was true, then this was... He couldn’t even begin to process what it all meant. Not now, not when he needed to grieve.

[ludwig-holy-blade]

The Eyes of the Beholder

Rhaenyra Targaryen x Male Dayne Reader

Rhaenyra Targaryen, the realm’s delight, did not feel beautiful today. It was the early morning on the isle of Starfall and Rhaenyra was sat upon the beach as she was oft to do every morning. Her gown had been soaked around her ankles and bum for the better part of an hour now, though she had hardly noticed. 

Her thoughts were awash with doubts as she stared out towards the Torrentine. It was only eight days ago that she had given birth to her fourth son and it had become strangely apparent to her that she was not the beauty she once was. After ten years of marriage Rhaenyra and Y/N had produced no less than eight children together. The thought brought a smile to her face. She and her husband had been rather over eager in their passions. 

The truth was however that those births had added weight to her once slender form. While Rhaenyra and her husband enjoyed the new size her breasts and bottom she had quickly become quite frustrated with the weight around her middle. This frustration was often made worse whenever she saw Alicent, still slender and slim despite having birthed four children of her own. She often feared that in time her husband would grow disgusted with her and in time would seek out others. There were so many after all in Dorne alone not to mention across the Narrow Sea and in Westeros itself. 

These thoughts liked to creep into her mind in the early morning and late into the evening. They would often leave her quiet and staring into the mirror, reminiscing on her once beauty. 

The sound of splashing dragged her out of her thoughts.

The reason for Rhaenyra’s love of watching the waves in the early morning was twofold. On one hand the sound of the waves and the cool air were calming and brought her a sense of peace. On the other, was her husbands love of swimming. Lord Y/N Dayne loved to swim around the entire length and breadth of his Island Castle and Rhaenyra loved to watch him. 

Y/N had also gotten bigger over the last ten years except unlike Rhaenyra Y/N had turned said weight into muscle. This was made easy due to her husband’s love of swimming and many other forms of exercise, he often spends hours training with his houses ancestral blade Dawn and loved wrestling and grappling. Rhaenyra loved to watch him train, not only was it incredibly attractive to watch Y/N’s muscle flex and move but it also made Rhaenyra more comfortable, it was a comfort to know just how well her husband could and in fact would protect her if needs be.

The sight before her was one she had seen many a time but still never grew tired of witnessing. Her husband came out of the water in naught but his small clothes and while a grin broke out across her face at the sight of him and thoughts of more amorous activities flooded her mind she couldn’t stop herself from covering her stomach. 

Y/N approached sluggishly, as there was no way possible to exit the water attractively. A smile broke out across his face as soon as he saw her, his true smile, the one that reached his eyes. The slow walk turned to a quick stride as he got closer. The sight of his approach made Rhaenyra’s heart beat faster and heavier, made her smile almost painfully wide and made a blush spread across her face and ears. 

He came and sat before her folding his knees under him. He looked nearly boyish in that moment, smiling like a fool without saying a word. The two of them simply sat there gazing at each other simply smiling. 

“Hello gorgeous.” Were the first words spoken, quietly, as if he was speaking reverently of her. Rhaenyra merely took him by the face brought his lips to hers. joy flood into her as it often did when they kissed. 

They parted for a mere moment and Y/N stopped to look at her. “What’s wrong Rhaenyra.” She averted her eyes though she knew she couldn’t hide her upset. She never could, not from Y/N. “It’s too early in the morning to be so distressed.” Rhaenyra had turned her face into her shoulder, a vain attempt to hide herself but Y/N had followed her turning his face with her. No longer desiring to hide from her husband, it was to want to she knew, Rhaenyra steeled herself. Taking a deep breath she spoke. 

“Do you still find me beautiful Y/N?” The shock that over took his face would have been funny if Rhaenyra was in a joking mood but she remained stoic. Y/N appeared almost offended by the very question when he answered. “Why wouldn’t I Rhaenyra, your as beautiful now as you’ve ever been.” His response was earnest and yet still Rhaenyra’s face was still downcast. “Who would call you anything but lovely Rhaenyra, tell me they’re name, I'll strike them down with a god’s wrath.” A laugh bubbled up from Rhaenyra. “No one Y/N I swear no one had offended me so.” A laugh interrupted her and she brought her hand to his cheek once again. “Though thank you for caring so much as to kill someone for my pleasure.” The two of them laughed quietly. 

“I will be honest with you then my love but please try not to judge me,” Rhaenyra breathed deeply again. “Over the past I have begun to notice, after the children have been born, I have kept more weight on my stomach than I should have been.” Y/N once again began to speak but Rhaenyra’s raised hand stopped him. “I simply do not feel as beautiful as I once did, I know you love me but it does worry me that perhaps one day you will decide to seek out another younger woman.” She wove her hand through his long dark hair, Y/N closed his eyes and took her hand. 

“Rhaenyra I want you to listen to me and hear everything I say.” She nodded. “I have loved you since the moment I first saw you as a boy. You are as beautiful as you could possibly be.” Y/N came forward, making Rhaenyra lie on her back. He settled his hands in her splayed out hair, as he loved to play with her silver locks. Y/N locked eyes with his wife before he spoke again. “There may younger women, prettier women, women with larger tits, tighter asses and the like.” He brought his hand down to stroke her cheek. “There will never be a woman more beautiful than you in my eyes, no one. And there shall never be another woman as beautiful as you to come.” 

Y/N began to kiss Rhaenyra’s neck, long deep kisses which pulled moans deep from within her throat. He descended slowly kissing a trail down her body. He opened her night gown, revealing her breasts to the early morning air, he kissed both of them for some time before moving on. He made his way downwards to her belly and stopped. He kissed it once, twice, thrice then over and over and over again. It was obvious what he was doing but Rhaenyra had not married him for his wits but rather for his honesty and frankness. It was not to say his kisses were ineffective either. Rhaenyra became hot once again, warmth flooding through her chest as Y/N’s kisses continued. 

After much time and many more kisses Y/N finally stopped. Crawling back upwards he sat between her legs, Rhaenyra wrapped them around his waist almost instinctively, and he kissed her lips again. “You may grow as big a house if you so desire Rhaenyra Targaryen and should any man call you anything less than beautiful I’ll kill them and the next generation of their families. No man or woman will demean you in my presence, not even yourself.” 

He brought his lips to hers once again, passion colliding as they embraced. Rhaenyra knew in that moment that no more words need pass between them, Y/N intended to prove his loyalty the best he could. It was long into the morning that they loved each other and Rhaenyra in that moment, could not have felt more magnificent. 

[sunnyie-eve]

6. Forget Her

Fandom: House of the Dragon

Series: Devious Opportunity

Pairing: (Aegon II Targaryen x Cousin! OFC Targaryen!)

Word Count: 1.6k

Notes: Incest, feeling alone, mention of drinking

| MASTERLIST |

At the moment, Celeste was watching Luke play with twins and their toys on the floor. Luke was the second person Dahlia loved to go to for attention while Astraea went to Jace . They both loved to spoil them since they never had a baby sister growing up.

The twins weren't exactly 100% identical but for first timers seeing them you could confuse them, and then sometimes people who knew them could confuse them if they didn't pay attention. One of the dead giveaways was their hair.  Dahlia had had curly hair while Astraea had straight hair.

"I swear she's going to love you more than her own mother." She laughs as Dahlia stood up to throw herself at Luke wanting to be held.

"She constantly says mama... I'm sure you have nothing to worry about." He looks over at her as he kisses the side of Dahlia's head.

"Dally, come to mama." Celeste holds her arms out so she leaves Luke rushing over to her mama giggling. "That's my baby girl." She showers her in kisses making Astraea jealous rushing over wanting kisses too.

"See, they love you more than us." Luke laughs at her as Jace enters the room.

"I feel like bad news has arrived... The look on your father's face walking in to give our mother a letter." He tells the two.

"Long as it's not about me... I'm not stressing."

A bit of time passes and both Rhaenyra and Daemon walk into the room to give them the news that they received, "We have to make a trip to Kings Landing. It's about Luke's legitimacy. Vaemond want's it questioned." She tells the group.

"You can stay here if you want to." Daemon tells his daughter.

"We know you probably don't want everyone there, mainly the Hightowers, knowing about Dahlia." Rhaenyra adds.

"That's very true but I want to be there for Luke." Celeste tells them so they all agree they will head out soon.

On the ship heading back to Kings Landing, Jace could see Celeste was in deep thoughts, "Only if they didn't hate being with the handmaids you wouldn't have to worry. Everyone is going to assume they're our sisters most likely."

She looks at him away from the water, "Dahlia can only be with them a good amount of time before screaming for me or one of you boys. Astraea is different because she just likes the attention."

"That's because you actually raise them and don't pass them off." He rests on the side with her looking out at the water, "And like you said Astraea loves attention from anyone." He laughs, "You're a good mother to them."

"Thank you, Jace." She takes his hand to squeeze.

"Are you going to tell him or not?"

"I want to but I told him to move on. I just know Otto and Alicent are harder on him as he gets older. They want him to inherit the throne so badly." She sighs, "I just hope he's okay."

"I'm sure you'll know what to do whenever you see him."

She chuckles a bit, "Yeah, run away and swim back home."

Once they arrive getting out of the carriages they all stand together feeling odd being back. Celeste asks Dahlia to be good for the handmaids but she didn't want to go with them. "Fine, stay with mama then." She takes her and Astraea as well, "If you need me, I'll be in my room." She tells the boys heading off.

At the same time, Alicent was leaving the council meeting to go see Rhaenyra and Daemon but Ser Erryk tells her Aegon was acting up again in his room earlier. "What now?" She huffs.

"He won't leave his apartments, he screamed at one of the serving girls for more cups to drown himself in but they ran out of what he wanted. He startled her and she fell backwards hurting herself. She told me to tell you she left and wasn't coming back."

Alicent groans heading off to go to his room to tell him off and on the way she saw Celeste with her daughters giggling as the two year old hoppeds around, "Okay, Dahlia. Let's go take a nap."

"Nap nap!" She puts her arms up to be carried.

"Astraea, wanna nap too?" Celeste bends down to pick both girls up.

Watching the three, Alicent didn't know what to make of it. Was it Rhaenyra's daughters? Or were they hers with maybe Jace? Alicent had no knowledge of when Aegon snuck away to see Celeste so that wasn't a thought for her.

Finally carrying on her way she finally makes it to Aegon's room trying to wake him up. "Get up!" She shouts tossing the sheet off him so covers himself back up asking what. "What? What is it? The serving girl. You scared her so badly that she hurt herself and left."

"I didn't touch her. She fell on her own." He mumbles with his eyes closed.

"That's not the point, Aegon! How can you keep carrying on like this especially on a day like today?"

"Why? What is it today?" He sits up and she slaps him across the face.

"You are no son of mine." She speaks after a moment of silence before turning to leave.

Aegon gets up from his bed holding his sheet up to keep himself covered, "I did not ask for this. I've done everything you've asked me to, and I try so... I try so hard, but it will never be enough."

"You drink till you pass out. You keep yourself in your room sleeping all day unless you are drinking. You do not try, Aegon. You are childish!" She points her finger at him trying to keep it together but can't.

"I drink to forget about her!" He snaps as well.

"Well get over her because you have a wife and child with her. And I'm sure she moved on from you from what I saw on the way here." Alicent says as Helaena walks in.

"Have you seen Dyana? She's supposed to dress Jaehaera." She asked her mother, "As well, I didn't know Rhaenyra and everyone was coming today. What's today?" She asks, getting Aegon's attention hoping Celeste came along.

"Yes, they are here to settle things for Drifmark. Umm, Dyana had to leave, She hurt herself. I'll find another to help." Alicent leaves with her daughter.

Meanwhile with Celeste, she got the girls to take a nap so a handmaid stayed to watch over them while Celeste left the room to find Jace and Luke. Having an idea where they went, she heads out to the yard to find them watching Aemond with Ser Criston practicing.

"Are they sleeping?" Jace asks as she joins his side.

"How else would I be out here?" She laughs.

"Nephews, have you come to train?" He looks over at them and they were lucky to be interrupted with Vaemond entering the gates.

Both Jace and Luke take off going back in while Celeste walks over to Aemond, "The eye patch is a nice touch." She tells him with a smile and sees the look on his face, "You still upset about the whole thing?"

"I lost an eye."

"And you stole my sister's dragon, attacked my sisters and the boys, if I recall." She follows him as he puts the weapons away, "As you said at least you got a dragon so forget about it. You have one of the biggest dragons now. Plus you scared Luke and he stood up to you."

"Shouldn't you be wondering off to see my brother?" He turns to face.

Celeste takes a breath shaking her head, "No, I shouldn't be. If I remember correctly Otto told him to stay away from me so that goes for me as well." She tells him.

"That didn't stop him from going to see you a couple of years ago." He says so she stays quiet, "Whatever happened upset him when he got back." He tells her.

As the two talk, Aegon was carefully rushing around the Red Keep trying to find Celeste. He didn't want to check her room right away just having a feeling she wasn't in there. As he finally made his way to the yard, he just barely missed her as she left.

"Brother, you just missed her." Aemond tells him.

"Are you kidding me?!" He rushes back in to find her.

Sprinting up the stairs he finally sees her taking her time walking down the hall. His heart starts to beat even faster as he runs after her but quickly makes a turn seeing his Grandfather turn the corner to stop Celeste.

"How you've grown into a beautiful young woman." Otto eyes her.

"Thank you." She says politely not wanting to talk to him.

"Have you seen my grandson?" He asks her.

"If you mean Aegon, no. I just left Aemond though heading to my room." She tells him the truth, "I'm sorry but I must be going. I have to get back."

"What's so important?"

"I'd like to get back before my daughters wake up. One doesn't like being alone with the handmaids for too long." She tells him not seeing why not since he would just guess it was with Jace.

"You have two daughters? Congratulations my lady." He smiles thinking she was finally over Aegon, "Maybe they could play with Aegon's and Helaena's daughter." He adds.

"Maybe." She smiles heading off.

Sadly Aegon didn't hear any of that conversation since he left to take the back pathways to get to her room without being seen.

In the room, Celeste sees Jace and Luke with the girls, who were awake. "Do you mind if we take them around?" Luke asks her.

"No," She tells him so they leave with them to go play.

As she takes a seat on the sofa she hears a noise turning to see the secret door to the back ways carefully opening. She stands up walking over having an idea who it was. "Still taking the back ways to sneak in here like you used to at late hours when we were younger?" She laughs as he opens the door all the way looking at her.

[crimxonwrites]

Blood-painted kisses | Aemond Targaryen x female!OC | Chapter 6 ❝A small victory❞

☽➛ Summary: Nothing satietes Maehrys Velaryon's hunger as well as revenge. Growing up at the Red Keep as the bastard of Rhaenyra Targaryen did not come trouble-free. Her childhood consisted of bitter words and repulsive looks from nearly everybody in the castle. As she grew older, Maehrys grew meaner. Once the Velaryons return to King's Landing to defend Luke's claim as Lord of Driftmark, Maehrys decides that it is time for the people who hurt her in the past to pay.

☽➛ Warnings: swearing, bullying, mentions of blood, overall 18+!!!!

☽➛ Pairings: Aemond Targaryen x female!OC ( enemies to lovers to enemies to lovers again?? romance is a subplot)

Masterlist

Chapter 7

The fire's cracking echoes in my head as I watch my mother break down. I have seen my mother cry before; she has suffered enough heartache. But this time is different. This time, I feel she shares my anger. My heart races, and tears start falling down my hot cheeks. Luke is dead. My innocent, dearest little brother is dead at the hands of my one-eyed uncle. I was a fool to think he would ever change, even now, after he has... reduced his cruelties toward me.

A crushing weight settles on my chest, squeezing the breath out of me. The pain is unbearable, a deep, gnawing ache that refuses to relent. Luke, my sweet Luke, with his bright eyes and infectious laughter, is gone. The memories flood my mind: his mischievous grin when he played pranks, the way he would cling to me when he was scared, his boundless energy and curiosity. How can the world continue to turn without him in it?

My uncle's face flashes in my mind, his single eye cold and unfeeling. The rage burns through my grief, a scorching fire that threatens to consume me. He took Luke from me, from us, and for that, I will never forgive him. But even my fury cannot mask the overwhelming sense of loss. Luke's absence is a gaping void, an abyss that swallows everything in its path.

I start running towards my chambers, my feet moving without thought. I must do something; I am tired of sitting and watching the Hightowers and my silver-haired uncles plot to destroy us. I cannot allow myself to grief.

"Princess, is everything—"

"Luke is dead, Alisha." I bend my knees in front of the scorching hot chest that holds my three dragon eggs. Thunder roars outside the palace’s windows, and I know a storm is coming. Suddenly, I am struck by panic. Arms shaking, I lift the chest and place the cloak over my head.

"Whatever do you think you are doing?" Alisha's voice rises, and I jump. I turn around, hands burning.

"I cannot bear to be purposeless to my mother..." I choke on my own tears. "To my family anymore." Suddenly, everything goes quiet, and a ringing sound makes my ears ache.

Before Alisha can speak again, I take the chest and sprint through the door. I dodge the knights and household folk with ease, as they are also distracted by my sweet brother’s death. The palace of Dragonstone is buzzing with panic, sorrow, and derangement, making it trouble-free for me to leave. I hear dragons' cries and roars coming from the dragon pit, and my body acts on its own. I grip the chest tighter.

My grandsire passed just a few days after we returned to Dragonstone, and Alicent has already planned to usurp my mother by putting Aegon on the throne. My drunk, good-for-nothing, and irresponsible uncle. My heartbeat quickens when I think about Aemond. Before we left King’s Landing, we shared a kiss. I have tried not to think about it, about how my stomach turns, and my heart skips a beat when it comes to Aemond. I was a fool.

He murdered my baby brother.

The cold air sends a chill down my spine, and I am reminded of the weight of the chest I am holding. My arms start burning. Even if my dragons hatched, they would be useless to me. There is no guarantee they will accept me, and they will be too small to fly if it comes to war. When it comes to war. I do not have the luxury of waiting; time is not on my side. I start climbing a hill, my body throbbing with pain. I do not know where I am going, and I do not know if I am returning alive. When I arrive at the top of the hill, my palms are burning. I feel the first drops of rain on my hot cheeks as I look up at the jet-black sky. The winds are strong, and the moon peeks from behind a cloud.

“Ouch.” I drop the chest on the wet grass as steam starts rising out of it, and my heart drops. Could it be? My dragon eggs are hatching.

I open the chest, my hands trembling, and I see the first crack on the middle egg. The shell splits further, revealing a small, horned hatchling. Its scales are the colour of deep, rich mud, glistening with a sheen of newborn moisture. Its eyes, a striking shade of honey, peer up at me with a mixture of curiosity and confusion. It lets out a high-pitched screech, its tiny wings unfurling slightly as it takes in its surroundings.

Shortly after, the second egg begins to fracture. The pieces fall away, revealing a hatchling that is the spitting image of Syrax, with gleaming, pale gold scales that shimmer in the dim light. This dragon’s eyes are a fierce, bright yellow, filled with an innate sense of pride and defiance. It growls, a surprisingly deep sound for such a small creature, and stretches its delicate wings, testing their strength.

Before I can fully process the first two, the final egg starts to crack open. A long-necked hatchling emerges, its scales a soft, buttery yellow. Its wings are larger in proportion to its body, giving it an almost ethereal appearance. This one is quieter, its cries softer, more like chirps. It lifts its tiny wings, attempting to fly, but only managing to flutter slightly before settling down.

The three of them are no bigger than small dogs, yet their presence is monumental. They wobble towards me on unsteady legs, their honey-coloured eyes filled with a babe-like curiosity and a glimmer of recognition. I wonder if they hatched because they felt the sorrow in my heart, the burning need for purpose and revenge.

This is all I have ever wanted.

I am overwhelmed with a rush of emotions, watching the three warm-coloured hatchlings. They are beautiful, each unique, each a miracle. The muddy-scaled hatchling with its piercing honey eyes, the golden Syrax lookalike with its proud yellow gaze, and the delicate yellow dragon with its ethereal wings. Their cries fill the air, hot steam rising from their tiny bodies as they nuzzle against me.

They have all chosen me, I think, and I hope that I am right. I smile, feeling a strange mixture of maternal pride and fierce determination. I may not have a war dragon, but I have dragon blood, and they know it. The hatchlings' shrieks become more alarmed and nervous as the moonlight is stolen by a black shadow, and all three of them jump into my arms. Holding the hatchlings, I swiftly turn around, and my eyes are met with a pair of gigantic, emerald-coloured dragon eyes staring at me from above.

At first, I mistakenly thought that the huge dragon before me was Vermithor, who had decided to take a stroll into the night, but I soon realize that this dragon has black scales and is much bigger than Vermithor. I squint my eyes, attempting to figure out who this dragon is, but before I come to any conclusion, a low grumble shakes the ground beneath me. My hatchlings grow restless, and suddenly, I am hit with a realization. I let the hatchlings go, putting them back on the ground, and they wail, frightened. The coal-black dragon lowers its head and squints its eyes at my hatchlings. With a sharp snarl, the dragon swallows my three hatchlings, the earth shaking under its weight.

“Sȳrje.” Very well. I speak, and in a second, my hatchlings are gone, but I do not feel sad. The dragon keeps his emerald gaze on me, and I study him further, noticing the two massive horns sticking out of his forehead like obsidian towers.

This must be Cannibal, the largest and oldest of the three wild dragons roaming Dragonstone. He has never had a rider and is often depicted as a wild, violent beast. I feel the ground shake once again as the gigantic dragon lowers its wing before me. I lift my arm up, reaching for its head. His growls become louder, and I watch his two long horns reach for me as his neck stretches out. His abyssal black scales absorb all the moonlight, giving him a shadowy presence.

“Dohaeres, Cannibal.” Serve, Cannibal. I waste no time and take my first step forward towards his shoulder. The dragon growls, but I do not feel menace in its voice. “Dohaeres.” Serve. I take another step towards him and look up. His body is immense, and with no dragon saddle, the chances of me mounting him and not perishing are low, but not non-existent. Cannibal lowers his body even more, puffing hot steam out of his nostrils. I make contact, touching the side of his shoulder, and I tremble when I touch his freezing scales. He shifts again, and I take a step back, almost falling to the ground.

“Lykiri.” Calm down. I say in a comforting voice. With haste, I use the side of his wing, his tilted horn, and his scales to climb on his back. Before I can process that I am on dragon back, Cannibal suddenly gets up, startling me. I grab onto him and pray to the gods that I will not fall. His scales are rough under my body, my thighs already aching, but I brace and tighten my grip.

The dragon takes off with a growl, and I lower myself, hugging his back tightly. He was starving. He was starving, and he claimed me. My heart beats faster and faster, and I feel the dragon’s blood run through my veins. I am reminded of my grandsire’s words: The idea that we control dragons is an illusion. I was completely helpless before him, and he made his decision. I am not in control.

His long wings cut through the thick clouds as we make our way above them. Cannibal rumbles, sending vibrations through my whole body. The air cuts my skin, and he picks up the pace, flying above the clouds. I straighten my back, looking around, trying to decipher where we are headed. My cloak flies off, followed by the bow that was holding my long hair together.

I cannot help but hold tight and admire this majestic dragon. His huge, black scales shine in the faint moonlight, each one like a perfect shield. His wings, vast and powerful, cut through the night air gracefully, despite his massive size. The beat of those wings sends vibrations through my entire body, a reminder of the incredible power beneath me. My heart is full of sorrow and pride, each emotion battling within me. The sorrow for Luke, my beloved brother taken too soon, feels overwhelming. Yet, pride swells within me, for in this moment, I am connected to a creature of legend, a dragon few have seen, and none have tamed. I wonder if Luke sent Cannibal to me from beyond the grave. The thought is both comforting and haunting. Could Luke, with his gentle soul, have reached out from the afterlife to guide this magnificent beast to me? I imagine his face, his innocent eyes filled with curiosity, now watching over me with a wisdom beyond his years. Perhaps it is his spirit that stirs within Cannibal, a final act of brotherly love to protect me in my darkest hour. As we continue to soar through the night, the stars above us and the world far below, I allow myself to believe that Luke’s spirit is guiding me. His presence feels real, and I whisper a silent promise to him. I will be strong. I will carry on. And I will make sure that his death is not in vain. With Cannibal beneath me and Luke’s spirit within me, I am no longer just a grieving sister. I am a rider of the largest dragon that has ever lived, a symbol of hope and defiance against Aemond and the others who seek to destroy my family.

I must have lost track of time, and we must have been flying for a while because I look at the horizon and notice the first sun rays peeking above the sea. All around me, we are surrounded by sea and salt.

"Where are we going, boy?" I whisper, and my body starts to shiver. Without my cloak, I am left with my evening dress, not suited for flying and absolutely not suited for dragon back. I tighten my grip and dare to look past his head. My eyes widen as I realize where we are. King’s Landing. He has flown me to King’s Landing. Panic rushes through my whole body, and my stomach rumbles. Does he know I am angry at my uncle? Does he feel my anger and my hunger for revenge? Will he burn down the palace?

" Daor, Cannibal." No, Cannibal. I say, lowering myself again, attempting to be as close to him as possible. I cannot show the greens that I have claimed a dragon, not yet.

Cannibal lowers himself, and I almost slip and fall. He begins his descent upon King’s Landing. I start climbing his back, grabbing onto every scale I can get my hands on, and slowly making my way up to his head. I thank the gods he does not have a long neck like Caraxes, and I continue my climb. I am close to his head when I hear the first scream and look down. A sailor on King’s Landing beach has spotted us. Soon, more folk start screaming as Cannibal reduces altitude.

"Lykiri." Calm down. I say, grabbing his horns. Cannibal growls again, and soon enough, he makes his way to the Red Keep, the castle’s towers shining dimly in the morning sun. I drown in panic. I do not know what to do.

"Dragon!" I hear the guards shout.

The dragon screeches, a deep and frightening growl, and I feel we are hit by arrows. None of them pierce him, though. Cannibal does not stop, and he circles around one of the castle’s towers, ignoring the White Cloak’s countless arrows that are being thrown in his direction. I recognize the tower we are circling because I’ve been inside the chambers not long ago. Aemond’s chambers. I lower myself and pray that nobody sees that Cannibal has a rider.

“Daor!” No! Feeling powerless, I yell. “Dohaeres.” Serve.

-

Before I can process what happened, Cannibal takes off and I am left on Aemond’s balcony. Cannibal has taken off as swiftly as he landed, disappearing above the clouds. I am unsure if I was spotted, or if the guards saw that Cannibal has a rider. One thing I know for sure is that Aemond has not noticed my arrival.

Thankfully, I do not leave anywhere without a dagger. I take it out of my grater and make my way to the door. The sun has not yet risen, and it is difficult for me to see through the window. But I can hear.

“Maehrys, Maehrys, Maehrys.” Aemond’s voice is trembling, filled with something that makes my heartbeat quicken. Does he know I am here? 

I look back, hoping to see Cannibal in my proximity, but it is hopeless. There is no going back. I hold my breath and open the balcony door as quietly as I can. I thank the Gods that Aemond has his back turned on me and is sitting in front of the fireplace on a chair. The first thing I notice is his eyepatch, slanted on the small table beside him. The second thing I noticed is an empty flask of wine next to the eyepatch. He mutters under his breath, words I cannot understand, and puts his head in his hands. I slowly and swiftly make my way to him, holding my breath and hoping he does not hear my heartbeat.

Suddenly, I cannot hear again. Suddenly, my heart tells me to pierce my dagger through the back of his skull. Suddenly, I am two and ten again, relentlessly harassed by my uncle.

I grab the chair he is sitting on and turn it around, my muscles aching and my heart pounding. With a swift kick, Aemond falls on his back, startled. Before he has time to react, I put all my body weight onto his, placing his left wrist under my right knee. I grab his right hand with my free hand and place my dagger underneath his chin.

“Maehrys?” He asks. Aemond’s cheeks are flushed and wet, his good eye is wide open, and his sapphire eye is reflecting the fireplace’s fire. I waste no time and apply pressure onto his throat with my dagger.

“Why?” I ask, swallowing hard. For the first time in my life, I do not act out on my anger, and decide that before I kill my uncle, I want to get as much information about the greens as I can.

“I did not mean to kill him!” he exclaims. The desperation in his voice gives me a rush and I loosen the pressure on my dagger. “I just-“ he chokes. “I just wanted to scare him, get revenge because he took my eye.” I apply pressure again. He does not react. “I lost control of Vhagar.” I can smell the alcohol in his breath and the regret in his voice.

“He was but a child.” Once again, I feel tears run down my cheeks.

“I was a child too.” He speaks. “When he took my eye, when Jace and Aegon laughed at me because I did not have a dragon.”

“And now you do.” I cut a bit deeper, a small river of blood ran down his neck.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, and my tears fall onto his face. “I’m sorry, Maehrys.” I feel his long leg kick my back and I wince in pain, loosening the grip on my dagger. In a heartbeat, he knocks it out of my hand and throws me on the floor, his body now on mine, holding me with great strength. My heart beats faster than before and I squirm, hopelessly trying to get him off of me. My mind is foggy, and I lose control of my body, kicking the floor, attempting to grab anything in my proximity, but all my efforts are for nothing.

Aemond’s grip tightens, his breath hot and ragged against my ear. “Please, Maehrys,” he whispers, his voice a mix of desperation and regret. “I never wanted any of this.”

But his words do little to soothe the storm inside me. My heart is a cauldron of rage and grief, each beat echoing the loss of my brother, the betrayal, and the pain. I look into Aemond’s eyes, searching for any sign of the boy I once knew, the uncle who could have been different. But all I see is the man who took Luke from me, and I cannot forgive that.

With a final, desperate surge of strength, I try to push him off, my nails digging into his arms, but he is too strong. My movements grow weaker, and I feel the fight leaving my body. Tears of frustration and sorrow stream down my face as I lay there, pinned and powerless, the dagger just out of reach. The weight of my helplessness crushes me as Aemond’s face hovers inches from mine, his eyes filled with a torment that mirrors my own.

“Why?” I ask again, choking on my tears, my voice breaking under the weight of my sorrow and rage.

“I told you, I lost control of Vhagar,” he answers quickly, his voice tinged with desperation, but it isn't enough for me.

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Why were you saying my name before I attacked you?” I try to stall, needing to understand, needing something more from him.

His one good eye, filled with a mixture of pain and something I can’t quite place, locks onto mine. “Maehrys,” he begins, his voice trembling. “I was calling for you because… because I needed you. I needed to tell you how sorry I am, how much I regret everything.”

“Regret?” I spit out the word, feeling the hot sting of betrayal and grief. “You think regret will bring Luke back?”

“No,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “Nothing can bring him back. But I needed you to know that I am not the monster you think I am. I needed you to hear it from me, to see that I am suffering too.” His words hang in the air, a desperate plea for absolution that I am not sure I can give.

Then, without warning, he crashes his lips onto mine. It is not a kiss of love, but of desperation, anger, and regret. His lips are forceful, almost punishing, as if trying to convey all the emotions he cannot put into words. I try to resist, but the intensity of the kiss overwhelms me, drawing me into the storm of his feelings. Our tears mingle, the salt stinging the rawness of the kiss. His hands grip my arms tightly, almost painfully, as if afraid I will disappear if he lets go. The kiss deepens, a fierce battle of wills, a collision of our broken hearts. I taste the wine on his tongue. My own anger and sorrow surge to the surface, and I kiss him back with equal fervour, letting all my emotions pour into that single, heart-wrenching moment.

Our kiss is broken by Cannibal’s screeches, and I seize the moment. While Aemond is distracted, I push him off me and make a run for the balcony doors. I open both of them and sigh in relief when I see my dragon, the powerful wind wiping away my tears. I wait a few seconds before turning back to Aemond.

"Have you ever wondered how I managed to get up here?" I ask Aemond, a sadistic smile forming on my face.

"You—" he starts, but I do not let him finish. He has said and done enough for one night.

"I am no longer dragonless," I tell him, basking in the horrified expression that crosses his face.

Cannibal puffs hot air out of his nostrils, a sign he wants me to climb him. The sound of his wings flapping stops, and I hear one of the outer walls of the Red Keep almost giving way under his weight. The dragon lowers his wing, and I successfully climb it.

As I settle onto Cannibal's back, I take one last look at Aemond. His face is a mix of shock and fear, emotions I never thought I’d see in him. The satisfaction of seeing him so vulnerable fills me with a sense of triumph. But there is no time to dwell on it.

Cannibal takes off, and the rush of wind engulfs me, scattering my thoughts. The kiss, the fight, the fleeting moment of connection—they are all left behind in the chaos. My focus sharpens as the Red Keep becomes smaller beneath us.

In the sky, I find a small victory. I have my dragon, my escape, and for now, that is enough. The pain and confusion of tonight will have to wait. There is no time to process what just happened, no room for lingering on the emotions that battle within me. All that matters is the freedom of the open sky and the powerful beast beneath me, carrying me far away from the nightmares of the past.

With a final screech, we are vertical again, his wings fluttering with violence and speed, and I am almost thrown off him. My whole body jerks violently as the dragon ascends, and I lose my grip momentarily, my fingers slipping from the rough scales. The world tilts and spins, and I see the ground far below, a blur of grey stone and green foliage. My heart leaps into my throat, and a scream escapes my lips as I feel myself sliding, the wind tearing at my clothes and hair.

I claw desperately at Cannibal's scales, my nails scraping against the hard surface. My legs dangle precariously, and my body is aching as we gain altitude. The dragon's immense wings beat powerfully, each stroke sending a rush of air that threatens to dislodge me completely. I manage to catch hold of a small ridge on Cannibal's back, my fingers digging in with all my strength. My arms burn with the effort, muscles straining as I fight to pull myself back up.

"Cannibal, please!" I cry out, my voice barely audible over the roar of the wind and the dragon's growls. He seems oblivious to my struggle, focused entirely on his flight. The cold air bites at my skin, and I feel a sharp pain in my palms as they begin to bleed, the rough scales cutting into them.

I cannot die. Not now, when I am no longer dragon less. Not now, when I have a fair shot of defeating Aemond. Not now, when I finally do not feel powerless anymore.

I cannot die.

Also read on: AO3

Taglist: @watermel0nsugarhigh @ondereleutheromania@literishdegree99

[dirtytransmasc]

[mild tw for marital rape/forced 'consent' its only referenced a little, but it feels necessary to mention it]

imagine Alicent only standing up for herself when Aegon is in the picture. Imagine her talking her son to her chambers cause he's fussy and won't go down for bed and was asking for his mum, and she has him tucked close, blissfully asleep, and Viserys calls for her.

she knows she can't refuse, but she tells the servant he had sent to make him aware of Aegon's state. he still demands that she be brought to his chambers and that the babe go back to his nursemaid. she looks down at her baby, who's now woken due to the disturbance, who is staring up at her with soft tired eyes, a little yawn escaping him.

she doesn't want to go, she doesn't want to be forced to take her husband, to pleasure him at her own discomfort. she doesn't want to leave her son, to have him sent back to bed where he will remain restless and in the care of someone who is not his mother. she had never want to refuse more than she did in that moment.

she hesitates, her facade falters. Aegon is still looking up at her as tears well up in her eyes. he quirks his head at her, fingers reaching for her cheeks as if to comfort her. with a sudden conviction, she takes him in her arms, rising from the bed, requesting a robe and a blanket. when her servant looks at her in question, she clarifies that she will be taking Aegon with her and does not wish to rouse him in attempts to dress him. they look at her with shock, but don't voice the concern written on their faces.

they bring her Viserys's favorite robe. Alicent recognizes it from her time with Rhaenyra and Aemma. she's worn it before, Viserys has made sure the servants bring it to her every time he requests her. she hates the way it feels against her skin, knowing why he makes her wear it. she wraps aegon in his blanket, soft and royal blue, his hands beginning to play with its golden tassles as she tucks him inside her robe, pressed to her chest with care.

even as fear bites at her heels, anxiety churning her stomach, she walks to Viserys's chamber with her held high. she knows she is only asking for her husband's wrath; she knows she should just obey him, but she just can't. her son will not suffer a sleepless night and horrid following day all because her husband feels the need to use her body once more. he will not suffer at his father's hands tonight, even if she has to endure Viserys's anger for it.

she enters her husband's chambers, finding him in bed, in a white night gown, clearly ready to use her; he was never subtle when he asked for her, not even the first time.

she pauses in the doorway, pulling back the robe slightly, making him aware of Aegon's presence. she watches his face fall, barely muted anger. she holds onto Aegon tighter. part of her fears he may hurt her for this disturbance, but more of her fears he will hurt Aegon on her behalf.

"I told the damned servants to take him," his voice is warped and cruel, just an angry scowl of sorts.

"Aegon is not well, dear husband... I could not leave him," she admits before he can say anything else. she puts her foot forward as a mother, hoping to claim mercy from the man who made her one.

he mutters something in response, not quite loud enough for her to hear. she has a feeling she is grateful for that.

"what was it you needed, my dear?" she tries to sound sweet and kind, in attempts to abate his anger, "I'm sure I could still attend to it."

"you know what I wanted," he yelled. it had been the first time he'd truly raised his voice to her. she couldn't help but gasp, stepping back one step, than two, stopping when Aegon began to fuss, curling around him instead.

"Please Viserys, the baby." she ducks her head down to press her against his whispy white hair. her son his huffing, as if about to cry, and she's sure if she could see his face, his little cheeks would be red and his eyes would be crinkled and wet, his lip puckered. she begins to rock him slightly, still afraid to move.

"your'e dismissed," he grunts, but his tone gives it away. she knows he doesn't mean it, the if she leaves she will be in more trouble. she questions staying, calling a servant to take Aegon and giving him what he wants, but decides against it. he would not come before her son, not now, not ever.

"I'm sorry, my dear, another night, when I do not have Aegon to tend to," she forces some cheer into her tone, "he is still so young, so helpless. he needs his mother. I'm sure you understand?"

"he is not the only one in need of you." he had not lost his anger yet. not even for the sake of his son.

"yes, of course. forgive me. only he is not as understanding as you, my love." that wasn't the truth, Aegon was more kind and understanding at a year old, than viserys was in all of his years. "I will leave now. I am sorry for the disturbance."

she pauses for a moment, waiting for her husbands reaction. when he doesn't lash out at her, she breathes a quiet sigh of relief, feeling as though she has evaded a great beast. her heart calms in her chest, slowing from its fluttering and her stomachs stops its dizzing ache. she questions turning and running, fleeing from his presence before he can change his mind, but knows better.

she hurries to his side, eyeing him all the while, each step calculated, avoiding cracking any eggshells, until she is close enough to kiss his cheek. he allows it, and gives Aegon grace when he reaches out for him, letting him play with his finger a moment, before pulling it away, not even turning away fully before sneering. she takes that as her cue to leave, this one being much more genuine than the last.

"goodnight dear husband." he says nothing. she takes Aegon's little hand, waving it slightly, "say goodnight Aegon."

her son tries to imitate her, though unintelligible, as a toddler would. she continues to smile and coo at him even when his father ignores him, not letting him feel his father's scorn, quickly turning towards the door and back to her own chambers.

the second the door is close she feels herself sag, she would have fallen to the floor right then and there had there not been kingsgaurd watching. instead she holds her head high once more, walking calm and steady, like a queen should.

Aegon settles his forehead against her collar, giving a great yawn against her skin. she smiles at him fondly, kissing his brow, earning a tired little giggle from him. it hits her that he is unaware of the trouble he just saved her from. she feels equal parts relief as she does terror; she hopes he never knows, never understands, but is so so thankful for it none the less.

the second she steps into her chambers she pulls of the robe, setting it aside carefully despite the pain it brings her, respecting the memories it carried. she pulls back the covers before smothering her and her son amongst them. he's quick to curl against her, quite tuckered out after their harrowing adventure, even if he was unaware of its true weight. she herself still wanted to cry, but was similarly too tired to keep her eyes open for another moment. tomorrow, she tells herself, tomorrow will be difficult, but tonight you have your son, tonight you have a chance to rest.

so she does, she holds him close, tracing fingers over the gold threaded patterned of his blanket, feeling the shifting of his chest as he breathes and the tickle of his hair against her neck. all is well in that moment. she drifts to sleep at the thought.

[dedicatednotobsessed]

Bonded [Aemond Targaryen x Pregnant!Reader]

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Other HOTD stories [requests open]

Summary: You did not understand what marriage would entail at first with one of the Princes of the Seven Kingdoms. A part of you hoped it would be blissful, although it seemed to be the opposite. Being wed to the middle of son of King Viserys and Queen Alicent, it seemed as though he only wanted to perform his duties and ignore you as though you were not his wife. That was until you learned of the news being with child….

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You brought your cup up to your lips, letting out a sigh as the kitchen maids filled your marital table with food. It seemed to be the same routine every morning; waking up in a cold bed and eating alone. Your husband often avoided you for most of the day, either training or riding dragonback and he came back to perform his duties then the cycle repeated itself on the next morrow.

Being a naive girl when you first came to Kings Landing, under your father Ser Harwin’s care, everything seemed bright. He took you to the capital when you were the young age of five years young mentioning that the Queen had children around your age to play with. The marriage between your mother and father did not last long, your mother dying during child birth and he had not taken on another wife. It was a rumor though that he had taken on the Princess Rhaenyra as a lover and sired her three elder sons.

Everything was bright at first. That was until it was announced that you were to marry the King’s second son, Aemond. He was always nice to you up until then. He often made quips about your father being a bastard breeder and you could not understand until the night Aemond claimed his dragon. You still refused to believe though that your late father had bastard children. He never seemed that kind of man to you.

“Princess, you must eat,” A handmaiden spoke up.

You looked up at the young girl, no more than fourteen years of age. Her face was pudgy and she had loose strands of her blonde hair falling from her braid. “Where is my husband?” You questioned, ignoring her question as you took another sip of your morning wine.

The handmaiden stumbled a bit on her words. “H-he is training with Ser Criston, princess,” She stuttered out while fiddling with her hands.

You hummed in response. A part of you hoped that the answer would be different. Aemond has told you numerous times though that he would rather take his other eye out than spend time with those in blood relation to his nephews.

“Help me get dressed,” You instructed the girl quietly while standing.

“B-but the food, princess….”

You gave her a kind smile. “Go ahead and eat once I leave.”

"My princess, I can't—"

"I insist, please."

Your hands were clasped in front of you, your blue sapphire dress flowing elegantly around you while your personal handmaiden trailed a few steps behind you. The dress was one of your favorites with a dipping neckline and intricate beading along the sleeves. It was a gift from your husband shortly before you were to wed, Aemond having mentioned how it matched your eyes. It was indeed a surprise, but a pleasant surprise nonetheless.

You let out a small hum hearing the singing of steel against steel while you made your way into the training grounds, a rather large crowd gathering around the Prince and Ser Criston. You made your way to the front, a small smile finding your way on your lips while you watched your husband. You may not have always gotten along with Aemond, yet you can admire his swordsmanship. The way he danced around Criston before going for a strike was truly a beautiful sight.

You clapped with the crowd when Aemond easily disarmed the knight of his Morningstar before you walked closer after the crowd slowly dispersed. "Congratulations, my husband. You make it seem quite easy."

Aemond turned his attention to you, his eyes wandering over your body. He tried to hide it but you could see the slight admiration in his violet eye. He hummed in response and turned away from you to put his sword up.

"I missed you when I woke up," You said after a moment.

"Well, you have clearly found me."

You let out a sigh at the annoyed tone in Aemond's voice. You looked down at your hands, lightly fiddling with your fingers while furrowing your brows. "I was wondering if you would like to take a walk in the gardens."

Aemond chuckled as he turned his full attention to you. He always had that smug smirk on his lips, as though he was up to something. "I would rather die to Vhagar's flames, my love." He hooked his fingers under your chin lightly so you could meet his gaze. "I will see you in our marital chambers tonight."

You frowned a bit. "I would like to join you on Vhagar," You said suddenly, your mouth moving faster than your mind.

A loud laugh passed Aemond’s lips. “You would like to join me on Vhagar?” He repeated with a cocked brow. “A stroll in the gardens would be more suited for you, sweet one. You can take Helaena if you would like. Gods know why she enjoys your company.” He scoffed a bit.

You let out a sigh but nodded. “Perhaps another time then.” You only wanted to bond with your husband, yet he seemed to want none of it. Simply because of your parentage.

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“I am sure Aemond was only protecting you from Vhagar.”

You looked over at Helaena with a frown on your lips while you walked with her through the gardens. You had voiced your concerns to your sister-by-law, always finding comfort in her with her gentle aura.

“Perhaps it was for the best,” You said quietly. “I have not been feeling well as of late and I would be afraid to vomit in front of Vhagar,” You admitted with a small giggle.

“I suppose that is not a good introduction.” Helaena scrunched up her nose with a small smile. “Are you feeling better?” She asked after a moment.

You let out a sigh and nodded. “The sickness does not last long, although it comes back on the next morrow.”

She furrowed her brows. “When was the last time you bled?” She questioned.

You could not help the small laugh that passed your lips. “What does that have to do with my sickness?”

“Y/N,” Helaena said, her voice as soft as the grip on your arm. “When was the last time you bled?” She repeated. The Targaryen Princess herself had twin children with her brother husband Aegon the Second; a boy and a girl who were no older than two.

Your smile slowly turned into a small frown as you thought it over. You looked down, placing your hand lightly over hers. “It had been a couple of moons now,” You responded quietly, your face paling in realization.

Helaena hummed in response. “Perhaps you should pay the maesters a visit. I can take you there if you wish.”

“Hel—“

“It is just a precaution.” Helaena began to turn you and guide you back into the keep.

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You chewed on your bottom lip gently as you paced back and forth in your chambers, your shaky hands wrapped around a cup of wine. The maester had confirmed your worst fear; your swelling being a little over two moons now. You were not scared with the thought of swelling with child. You were scared of the thought on what Aemond would do if you gave birth to a daughter and not an heir. He had proven to not be the gentlest of husbands in your marriage.

You glanced up when the chamber doors opened, your grip tightening on your cup at the sight of Aemond. You swallowed a lump in your throat before turning away and finishing your wine.

“How was your ride with Vhagar?” You asked after a moment, clasping your hands together as you turned towards your husband.

“I did not have a chance to. Helaena instead on me having tea with her.” Aemond stood by the door, his eye lingering over your body and it did not go unnoticed when his gaze lingered on your stomach. “She wanted to discuss with me about something.”

“Oh?” You cocked a brow. “What did she want?”

Aemond shook his head. “It is not important,” He replied walking closer. “I thought I would grant your wish on coming with me for a ride.”

You furrowed your brows at the sudden kindness. “Would you really like me to join you?”

He nodded while walking behind you to grab your cloak for you. Aemond stood in front of you clasping it in the front, looking up at his face as he lightly fixed your dark curls. Your eyes wandered down when he grabbed onto your hand. The skin of his hands were rough and calloused from years of sword training, yet his grip was soft.

“Come,” He said softly while squeezing your hand gently before leading you out of your marital chambers and towards the old fighting pits.

Although you suggested to go dragon riding with your husband, the nerves were still running through your body. Vhagar was the largest dragon in all of Westeros and you were afraid that she would hurt you or worse, become her next meal. Of course that would never happen, unless Aemond grew bored of you that is.

A small smile curled onto Aemond’s lips feeling you lean into him and he chuckled. “She is not going to hurt you,” He assured you.

You looked up at him, having not heard a genuine laugh ever come out of his lips. “Are you certain?”

Aemond smiled down at you. “Kessa, issa jorrāelagon,” He said softly. (Yes, my love)

You furrowed your brows. “What does that mean?”

Aemond’s smile only widened before he turned towards Vhagar as she lifted her massive head. He took your hand gently and placed it on her neck lightly, chuckling at how you shook.

“You do not have to be scared,” He whispered in your ear.

Your eyes locked onto Vhagar though as she let out a huff while staring at you. Aemond lifted his hand off of yours slowly, his dragon moving her head forward. Your breath caught in your throat while she nudged her snout into your stomach.

You looked down in confusion as she continued to nuzzle into your stomach, feeling Aemond’s hands move to your waist. You couldn’t help the small yelp that passed your lips when he lifted you up.

“Relax,” Aemond told you with a chuckle as he climbed on behind you and held onto you tight, pulling you into his chest.

You closed your eyes while laying your head on his shoulder, laughing a nervous laugh when he chuckled at how scared you were. You felt his hands settle over your stomach, lightly placing a hand over his.

“How far along are you?” He whispered in your ear.

You bit your lip gently, realizing what Helaena wanted to discuss with Aemond. You took a deep breath and looked up at him. “A little over two moons now,” You replied quietly.

There seemed to be a sparkle in Aemond’s eye with a soft smile on his lips. You were scared for a moment as he leaned down, his lips brushing against yours. He reached up and placed a hand lightly on your cheek before closing the gap. His kiss was gentle, not like the other kisses before.

He slowly pulled back and leaned his head against yours, your hair whipping lightly in the wind. Aemond looked down at your stomach, his fingers splaying out.

“Issa byka zaldrīes,” He whispered out.

You scrunched your nose lightly. “What does that mean?” You asked curiously.

Aemond looked back at you and smiled more. “My little dragon,” He whispered out.

You felt tears prick your eyes before you leaned up to kiss him once more. It may have taken some time, but Aemond finally became the husband you dreamed of considering you were the daughter of the late Ser Harwin Strong. It only took you to swell with child and for his only friend to approve of you.

[horizon-verizon]

I’m not understanding where people are getting the fact that Mysaria and Rhaenyra had this buildup and chemistry when Mysaria‘s a dubious character who was previously allied to the Hightowers (paid generously with coin too) and just appears to be going along with the flow in order to survive. I took Mysaria’s decision to stay with Rhaenyra to show her she was grateful, but Rhaenyra trusting her right off the bat is definitely stupid. Trusting her enough to start making out with her levels of demented. I was completely fine with them writing Mysaria and Rhaenyra growing closer together like friends (but with Mysaria who knows if that would have been genuine anyway). Not to mention, the context of which the make out happened is disturbing asf. Mysaria wasn’t even actively seducing her. She literally opened up about the sexual abuse she endured at the hands of her father and then that happens ? Weird as fuck, and I don’t like people saying we’re out of whack for feeling put off. You can tell it was written for shock value. SMH.

So we're taking the show at face value for the moment...and yeah, I finally watched this one and not thru...yeah.

Rhaenyra has reason to "trust" Mysaria to at least not work against her bc she let her go when she asked to go AND Mysaria decided to pass up on her one moment to leave when she tried to warn them of Arryk. Mysaria didn't need to do that, but she did. Maybe as a quid pro quo or "You helped me out, I help you, we're even" sorta thing, but again, she didn't need to do it. She was going to be free. Also, the greens burned down any and most of al that Mysaria could've used to independently support herself even after she helped them out, so there's no way she'd think it'd be safe to work for them again totally of her own volition. IF we say she is always looking out for herself--which I can believe--than no, there's little reason to suspect she'd go back to the greens, again, of her own volition. They've shown how dangerously indifferent they are to her. Whereas Rhaenyra treated her as more a human being by allowing the thing she had asked for with no strings. Rhaenyra has far more reason to trust her than Aemond, Aegon, or Alicent to trust Larys, a far more dubious character.

I am also not totally sure it was written for shock value, or that there were no clues of their going this way. I remember maybe the episode before this one where Rhaenyra had stared at her for a little bit while they were in the library, and I felt that it was possible they'd sometime get closer bc Mysaria is giving Rhaenyra what she had been missing--assurance and ways to counteract the greens without making as if she is a disruptive force of "evil" (B&C, her argument w/Daemon). I didn't articulate it as Rhaenyra already having a pattern where she goes to others when Daemon seemingly abandons her, but I did feel that she'd feel close to Mysaria bc of what I already said. So there was a set up, but not a particularly long one.

Now, Mysaria's deciding to stay with Rhaenyra, I said in one post that it was a little weird since she previously asked to leave and wanted to leave so bad (since she was weary with dealing with selfish nobles whether it was to build a better and secure life for herself or to protect smallfolk). And it seems that the writers wish for us to feel that Mysaria feels Rhaenyra is worth staying for. For the sake of helping the smallfolk and assuring this particular ruler gets the throne and not a green.

So far we haven't heard her say to Rhaenyra or anyone on Dragonstone that she's more concerned with the smallfolk other than to present it as an angle for how Rhaenyra can strike against the greens. But we do know that she does genuinely care for how she passionately prioritized them to Otto back in 1x09. So it is also, so far, reasonable to believe that she stays for either "teaching" Rhaenyra--this person she may feel can be shown how to direct her focus a little more on smallfolk's lives generally--or to stay and make sure this war doesn't ravage or deprive the smallfolk of whatever succor they may have in its duration, as she stays beside Rhaenyra to ensure it. So yeah, gratefulness was definitely a start, but a small motivation.

Now, about the incestuous rape story, I don't think she was coldly calculating there. I truly think she was trying to allay R's frustrations and wanted to connect. I also still think that in the newness of this connection, she could be trying to assure she stays beside Rhaenyra by providing a "patron" what they desire.

In my last post that I wrote about this ship, I said:

The last few episodes, however, we saw her decide to leave it all behind and preserve her life and sanity after some green burned down her home and ruined her life. We are meant to judge that Mysaria stays despite her previous plans bc she sees Rhaenyra as worthy enough to serve or bc she feels the most "equal" she has ever felt. But I wonder is what Mysaria if Mysaria still feels like she has to cater towards another "patron" not necessarily for/with sex and she is more concerned with getting an angle than a relationship.

I think all this "could" happen/be real bc we, again, have not really seen characters in their own lives pre-war, so a lot of stuff could happen and you'll need to watch the next episodes to know for sure.