#oc!tyrell

[eurydycee]

Winter's Thorn: chapter 1 echoes of duty

⚘ cregan stark x tyrell!OC

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Synopsis: Caught in the political machinations of Westeros, Lady Euphemia Tyrell and her brother Adlyn, Lord Tyrell, Warden of the Reach navigate treacherous alliances to secure their house's future. Summoned to King's Landing, Adlyn strikes a desperate deal with Lord Cregan Stark, unknowingly sealing Euphemia's fate. As winter approaches, House Tyrell must balance duty, loyalty, and survival in a realm fraught with danger.

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format: series (ongoing) word count: ~ 2k warnings: hint of medieval sexism ( realistic ) a/n: hello! this is my very first fanfiction...i currently will only write these series but requests and criticism are always welcome if you want to be tagged comment!! I really hope you will enjoy it as much as I have (english is not even in my top 3 languages haha)

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“Lady Euphemia and her brother the Warden of the Reach, Lord Adlyn Tyrell”

The doors of the Small Council opened for the Tyrell siblings, who were summoned to justify their actions during the Dance of the Dragons.

“Good day to you, my lord, milady,” 

“Your Grace,” replied the pair, bowing with trembling hands. Both were on the cusp of adulthood, grieving their parents, now laid to rest.

“So, if I am correct, House Tyrell supported the claim of…”Cregan, The Hand started 

“Neither, my lord Hand,” interrupted Adlyn Tyrell. “We—”

“That’s all we needed. You forgot your oath to King Viserys and shall now stand trial, along with your sworn houses that also broke their oaths.”

Adlyn clutched his sister’s hand to encourage himself and addressed the young king.

“Your Grace, our father, and House Tyrell chose not to entangle themselves in the Great War out of fear for our lands being burned.”

“Your lands burned?” questioned a council member.

“Indeed, our lands that grow your food, feed the animals you feast upon, and produce the grapes for your wines,” Adlyn continued, his voice rising. “Our lands were kept safe to avoid devastation and ensure the kingdom’s sustenance-“The freshly orphaned young Lord with a heavily pregnant wife started, “-we command the largest population and most fertile ground, and with winter fast approaching, our neutrality was a necessity.”

“Your traitor papa did this for himself, foolish boy not for the harvest.” retorted a council member

“Your Grace, my lords, if I may,” Euphemia interjected softly, her voice melodic and calming. “While we did swear an oath to your late mother the Queen, we also swore a greater oath to The Conqueror when he made us Wardens of the Reach, which was not to interfere during such wars. My father’s decision was not out of selfishness but out of prospects. Winter is coming, my lords” she said, her gaze fixed on the Hand, her words sweet but her expression resolute.

“She is correct, my lord. The winter that is to come will be harsher than any we’ve faced before. Thanks to their neutrality, the Reach survived the Dance with minimal damage, and now we may endure this winter with less difficulty.” Confirmed the Maester 

“If you speak the truth, Lord Tyrell, then your king finds it in his heart to excuse you. However, I expect you to resolve the divisions among your houses. And what of the widows of Hightower?”

“We shall wed them, feed them, and care for them. As for the traitor houses, we will send the men in command to the Wall or they will face the death penalty. Their women will be wed to the opposing houses.”

The Hand leaned forward, eyes sharp

“Very well see that you fulfill these promises, Lord Tyrell. Neutrality in war is no excuse for negligence in peace. The king’s pardon is contingent upon your actions. Do not disappoint him again.

“Thank you, your Grace, my Lord Hand”

The siblings stood, hand in hand, bowed, and departed from the Tower of the Hand.

Outside the chamber, Adlyn stopped in his tracks and turned to his sister, gripping her face so tightly that he felt her earrings pierce his skin. After planting a firm kiss on her head, he said, “You did well, sister. Thank you. Without you, I fear that Lord Stark would have had my head on a spike decorating his very own chamber.”

“Brother, you know I wouldn’t allow such things to happen. Over my dead body would that barbarian touch a single lock of my pretty brother’s head,” Euphemia responded fiercely, twirling a golden curl around her finger.

She then grabbed her brother’s hands excitedly. “Now, shall we finally return home? How I miss Highgarden.”

“Not yet, Coral, we must stay for the king’s coronation and the festivals that follow. Besides a hasty departure might raise suspicion. In the meantime, keep your guard up,” he reminded her, giving her hand a firm squeeze back. “As the northerner said, the king’s pardon is contingent upon our actions.” He then turned and walked down the corridor.

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Cregan Stark’s cheek met the ground of the training field after being struck by a shield.

“Apologies, milord. Didn’t mean to hit ya that hard. Thought ya could dodge it,” his sparring partner said, extending a hand to help him up.

It wasn’t that Cregan couldn’t have avoided the blow. No, his mind was distracted by a sound—not the clang of metal or the cries of battle, but a sweet melody drifting down from the chambers above the training grounds.

“No worries… it’s just that all that singing is making me lose my concentration, friend,” Cregan grumbled as he took the offered hand and stood.

“Oh, you mean the Tyrell girl? Yeah, that pretty girl from the Reach with a pretty voice, pretty brother. She has been making many lose their minds lately,” his friend replied with a chuckle.

Cregan paused, brushing the dust from his clothes. “Lady Euphemia Tyrell, isn’t it? The one who sings?”

“Aye, that’s her. A voice like an angel, they say. She’s really got a way of making even the toughest men turn into fools,” his friend said, shaking his head with a grin.

Cregan frowned slightly, the melody still echoing in his mind. “What is she doing here in King’s Landing?”

“Probably still here with her brother, Lord Adlyn. They’ve been invited to the coronation, haven’t they? A lot of talk about them organizing a tourney in honor of the King,” the sparring partner replied.

Cregan nodded thoughtfully. “Of course, they’ll host the tourney… they come from the fairytale land with knights and pretty girls in sheer gowns. But that voice… it’s hard to stay focused with that drifting down.”

His friend laughed. “You sound smitten, my Lord. Maybe you should go introduce yourself.”

Cregan shook his head, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. “I have no time for such distractions. There are more pressing matters at hand.”

“Still, it wouldn't hurt to at least see her up close. You might catch a glimpse of what’s underneath that sheer gown ey,” his friend teased, clapping him on the shoulder.

Cregan shrugged his hand off and hung his spear on the rack before heading to his tower, ignoring his friend’s calls to stay and continue training.

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“My Lord Hand, Lord Tyrell wishes to speak with you,” announced a guard.

Cregan nodded, signaling the guard to let Lord Tyrell in.

“Lord Tyrell,” Cregan greeted him as the golden-blond youth entered the room.

“My Lord,” Adlyn Tyrell responded, both men acknowledging each other with a nod.

“I—I have come to ask a boon from you, my Lord,” Adlyn began, his voice tinged with nervousness.

“And what would that boon be?” Cregan inquired, leaning back in his chair, eyes sharp.

“Grant us forgiveness, and you shall have whatever you wish from me,” Adlyn offered, his words earnest but desperate.

“Forgiveness? So, you admit that you committed treason?” Cregan put down his pen, leaning back into his chair.

“Never, my Lord!… Let me rephrase,” Adlyn stammered. “Understand and sympathize with our actions, and you shall have whatever you want from me.”

Cregan considered this for a moment before replying, “I’ll grant your boon.”

“And… in return?” Adlyn asked, relief and anxiety mingling in his voice at how easily Cregan seemed to agree.

“The upcoming winter is harsh, as you said, and the North will endure one of the harshest winters in many years. I ask for more food from the Reach than is normally granted in exchange for this boon, and perhaps a little iron. The war has depleted your mines, has it not?” Cregan’s tone was matter-of-fact.

“Yes, it has,” Adlyn admitted.

“I have one last request… to close our deal,” Cregan continued.

“You mean a treaty?” Adlyn asked, eyebrows raised.

“Sort of. Tell me, is your sister’s maidenhead promised to anyone?” Cregan’s gaze was intense, piercing through Adlyn.

“Well… no, not officially, my Lord,” Adlyn replied hesitantly.

“Very well. All I ask is her hand. I will claim her for myself. Grant me Euphemia, and I’ll grant you your boon. I will treat her kindly and with honor. She’ll become Lady of Winterfell, and her children will be in line after my son, for Rickon, from my late wife, is already my heir,” Cregan stated, his voice firm.

“A hand for a head? Done,” Adlyn agreed, though his heart quivered for his sister. How would she feel being sold off to a man she did not choose, especially after being orphaned so recently? Would she see that her brother meant no harm to her?

Cregan watched Adlyn closely, noting the internal struggle. “You do what you must for your house. I understand that more than most. But rest assured, Euphemia will be treated with the respect she deserves,” he said, his voice softening slightly.

Adlyn nodded, his mind racing with thoughts of how to break the news to his sister. He hoped she would understand his intentions were for the survival and prosperity of their house.

———————————————————————------------------------- The twilight sky painted the gardens of the Red Keep in shades of purple and gold. Euphemia strolled along the flower-lined paths, her fingers lightly brushing the petals of blooming roses. Her brother, Adlyn, followed closely, his expression a mix of melancholy and determination.

“Adlyn, these gardens remind me so much of Highgarden,” Euphemia said, her voice tinged with wistfulness. “The way the flowers bloom, the scent of the roses... It feels like home.”

Adlyn nodded, his gaze distant. “Yes, it does. Highgarden’s beauty is unmatched, but this comes close.”

Euphemia turned to her brother, a soft smile on her lips. “Do you remember the summer festivals? Father would host grand feasts, and Mother would sing under the stars.”

Adlyn’s expression softened at the memory. “I do. Those were simpler times.”

They walked in silence for a moment, the evening air cool against their skin. Euphemia stopped by a fountain, watching the water trickle down the stone. “I miss it, Adlyn. I miss the laughter, the music, the sense of peace. I miss them,”

Adlyn swallowed hard, his heart heavy with the burden of what he had to say. He opened his mouth to speak but hesitated, the words catching in his throat. How could he tell her about the arrangement with Lord Stark? How could he look into her eyes and shatter her world?

Instead, he forced a smile and said, “Speaking of simpler times, are you looking forward to the tourney for the King’s coronation?”

Euphemia’s eyes lit up. “I do! I am sure it will be grander than any tourney in recent memory. Will we be presenting House Tyrell?”

Adlyn nodded, relieved by the change in topic. “Yes, we will. Our brother, Ser Crayn, will be participating. He’s been training tirelessly for a ’worthy’ tourney.”

Euphemia’s smile widened. “Crayn is a fine knight. He will do us proud.”

Adlyn couldn’t help but share in her enthusiasm. “And my wife wrote to me that she is due to give birth any day now. She wishes she could be here for the tourney, but she should remain in Highgarden.”

Euphemia’s eyes softened. “I’m sure she’s in good hands. And we’ll be back with her soon enough, with a new child to welcome.”

Adlyn nodded, though his heart ached with the weight of unspoken words when his sister mentioned their return… uninformed about her cruel fate“Yes, I hope so. The birth of our son will bring some much-needed joy to our house.”

Euphemia held his arm gently. “You’re going to be a wonderful father, Adlyn. Just like our father was to us.”

He looked at her, his heart full of love. “Thank you, Euphemia. That means a lot to me.”

As they continued their walk through the gardens, Adlyn’s thoughts drifted back to the conversation he couldn’t bring himself to have. He knew the moment would come when he would have to tell her, but for now, he cherished this moment of peace and the semblance of normalcy it brought. The serenity of the evening provided a temporary refuge from the storm that awaited them.

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don't repost, copy, or steal my work.

[sansaorgana]

— LADY OF THE ROSES (I)

PART TWO || PART THREE || PART FOUR

PAIRING — Ser Gwayne Hightower x fem!Reader // Tyrell!OC

SUMMARY — When Lord Tyrell organizes a huge tournament, the rumour has it that the winner might get his eldest daughter's hand in marriage. When she finds out that certain twins are not playing fair and are scheming together with her father to win, she finds herself a champion she wants to succeed instead – Ser Gwayne Hightower, who was sent by his father to win the tournament.

AUTHOR’S NOTE — It’s written as an usual x Reader fic without describing anything about the Reader’s looks but I still classified it as an OC as well since she is a Tyrell. Although I am not sure if we have even seen them in House of The Dragon, so they can literally look like anything...? 🤔 Thank you so much for reading my last fic with Gwayne and leaving lovely comments and messages! 🌹 It inspired me to write for him again and I already have more ideas for him and a Tyrell Lady Wife (although I don't think the fics will be connected, so they can be read separately). For some reason it makes SO MUCH SENSE to me for Gwayne to have a wife from Highgarden! Some sexual things are mentioned here but there is no actual smut, so I didn't put the warnings. 😉

WORD COUNT — 5,040

ENGLISH IS MY SECOND LANGUAGE.

LADY OF THE ROSES (I)

Beautiful courtyards of Highgarden were filled with tents and knights. The sound of horses and clinging armour reached your ears as you were taking a stroll between the tents – against your father’s wish. He didn’t want you to walk freely around all those knights but you had your own guards and your curiosity had no match because you knew perfectly well what that expensive and flashy tournament was about.

You were in the right age to marry – some would say the age was more than right, too right even. You were Lord Tyrell’s eldest daughter and out of all the three sisters, you were the only one who still remained unmarried. The reasons behind that were two. First of all, you were a picky and proud Lady. Second of all, you didn’t want to leave Highgarden and The Reach.

Your father hoped that your marriage would create a powerful alliance and as a daughter of The Lord Paramount of the Reach and The Warden of the South, you were quite a catch for your suitors. Walking amongst them, you saw them turning around and staring at you with smirks. You were the only Lady around and your pale green dress was showing off just enough of your virtues in a typical Highgarden fashion. There were golden roses in your hair and golden eyeshadow on your eyelids as you were all dolled up for the first day of the tournament.

You took a turn around the Lannister tent and you hissed at the sight of your father. Thankfully, he was not looking in your direction and you managed to hide behind your guards but you ordered them to stand still. You wondered why your father was even by the Lannister tent. Talking so openly to one of the knights participating in the tournament was a clear favouritism.

“Thank you, Lord Tyrell, your support means a lot,” Lord Lannister said and you tried to see him better from between your guards’ shoulders. You didn’t like him at all since arrogance was written all over his face.

“It is no secret for all the men here that I would like you to win. It is a formality,” your father lowered his voice. “An alliance between such big houses… It would make us both stronger,” he put his arm around The Lannister. “But I liked the idea of the tournament. It has splendour, don’t you think? I like to show off,” you father grinned.

“As I said before, I am no knight. My younger twin brother is,” Lord Lannister said and your father looked around before shushing him and they both entered the tent.

Curiously, with furrowed brow, you peeked inside the tent despite your guards’ protests. And you nearly gasped at the sight of another man inside who was being prepared for the tournament as a squire was putting his armour on. He looked identical to the man your father was talking to.

“My brother, Ser Tyland, will pretend to be me during the tournament. No one will know,” Lord Lannister told your father and your father nodded at that. “I will sit and watch, pretending to be him. I will be criticising his techniques out loud just like a real knight would criticise his foolish brother who takes part in a tournament without being a knight,” he explained, very proud of himself.

He wouldn’t be the only man who wanted to take part in this tournament without the title of the knight. After all, everyone was aware that the prize was your hand in marriage and you didn’t necessarily need a knight. There were lots of common Lords joining the tournament but they were all honest with their intentions. Not only Lord Jason Lannister had your father’s favouritism but he also was planning to obviously cheat by using his brother.

It made you angry as you carefully took a step back and nodded at your guards to follow you down the path. It seemed like the whole tournament was just a show and a theatre play – you were no longer excited since the end result seemed to be fixed. You would be sent to Lannisport to marry that annoying and arrogant Lord Jason Lannister. Tears filled your eyes and you didn’t even care about your makeup anymore since you no longer longed for the tournament to begin.

You walked past the greenest tent around and saw a man in auburn hair washing his face outside. He noticed your staring and looked up with a dashing smile. He recognised you immediately from the portraits and your clothes. Also, what other Lady would dare to take a walk here? Only the one for whom the tournament was taking place.

“Lady Tyrell,” he bowed his head but his blue eyes were still on you.

You sniffled your tears back and straightened yourself.

“Lord…?” You asked and turned your head to see the banner on the tent. “Lord Hightower? No, that cannot be. Lord Hightower is in King’s Landing, is he not? And he is much older. He is The Hand of The King Viserys,” you tilted your head a little.

“You mean Otto Hightower, my Lady,” the man nodded with a smile as he approached you. His armour wasn’t fully on yet and you could see his shirt slightly open. “I am his eldest son, Ser Gwayne Hightower,” he introduced himself and reached his hand out.

After a while of hesitation, you allowed him to kiss the palm of your hand.

“Ser Gwayne Hightower. You are a brother to our Queen Alicent! Are you to inherit Oldtown after your father’s death?” You asked.

“That is correct, My Lady,” he nodded and straightened his back.

You hummed to yourself. Oldtown was in The Reach and it was the second largest and most populated city in the Seven Kingdoms. To get there from Highgarden, a horse needed around ten days down the Roseroad. You had been there before a few times with your parents but you had never met Ser Gwayne before. 

You looked him up and down. He had a cocky grin on his face but there was something about him that you actually quite liked – especially compared to Lord Jason Lannister. Ser Gwayne seemed to be confident but in a different, less exasperating way.

“Did your father encourage you to take part in this tournament, Ser Gwayne?” You asked him as you raised an eyebrow at him. “I do believe he is known for being an ambitious man.”

“Yes, my father insisted on me taking part,” Ser Gwayne admitted. “But I do not mind it myself.”

You nodded at that. Well, a union between your houses seemed to be right. You were both from The Reach and perhaps The Tyrells were more significant but The Hightowers were a real power, especially now. Sadly, your father seemed to be fixated on that whole idea of you marrying a Lannister.

Unless… Unless you would interfere somehow.

Your silence was interpreted by Ser Gwayne as a sign of exhaustion or boredom, though. He nodded his head and took a step back.

“It was nice to meet you before the tournament, my Lady,” he bowed his head. “I know there are dozens of knights around but, please, do remember about me while choosing your champion, I humbly ask,” he gave you one more dashing smile before walking inside his tent.

As a Lady for whom the tournament was taking place, you had the right to choose your champion. A man you favoured. Although, since the unofficial prize was your hand in marriage, it would be very awkward for a man who was not your champion to win. You assumed that your father would try to force you to choose Lord Jason Lannister.

And you had been right. Now, when you were holding a golden rose prepared for this occasion as all the knights were standing in front of you and your family in the audience, your father squeezed you by your elbow. He leaned in to whisper into your ear:

“You shall give the rose to Lord Jason Lannister and name him your champion,” he said with a fake smile before moving away.

You swallowed thickly and took a step ahead to be able to reach the man you would choose. You glanced at The Lannister man on the horse – Tyland, pretending to be Jason. And in the audience nearby you there he sat – Jason, pretending to be Tyland. Your eyes met for a second and he grinned at you confidently although he had no idea you were aware of his plan.

You searched for a different pair of eyes now, amongst all the knights. And then you found them, the blue ones. His armour had beautiful ornaments and even his horse was armoured. It all looked so elegant and you smiled at the sight.

You bit on your lower lip. But was he a good knight? Did he actually stand a chance to win?

Well, you were about to find out.

“Ser Gwayne Hightower,” you took a few steps to the right to be closer to him as he commanded his horse to take a few steps ahead. “I choose you to be my champion,” you smiled at him and leaned in to hand him the golden rose.

“Lady (Y/N) Tyrell, it is an honour,” he bowed his head and you saw in his eyes that he was quite surprised that you had named him amongst all the men your champion. He took the rose from you carefully and pinned it to his armour before closing his helmet and returning to the other knights.

You took a deep breath in before walking away to take your seat. Your father’s burning gaze was nearly painful but your mother kept smiling, unaware of the schemings.

“That’s Otto Hightower’s eldest son. The Queen is his sister,” your mother babbled to your father. “Our daughter has chosen wisely,” she smiled at you. “And he’s handsome and quite young.”

Your father ignored her words and gave you a deadly glare instead but you only huffed and walked away, locking your eyes with Lord Jason again. The real one, sitting in the audience. He was not grinning anymore.

Thankfully, Ser Gwayne turned out to be an excellent knight. Sadly, so was Ser Tyland Lannister, pretending to be his brother Lord Jason.

On the second day of the tournament, they already got rid of most of their opponents as they defeated them in combat. Some of the knights were seriously wounded.

On the third day it was already known that the last duel would be between Ser Gwayne and Ser Tyland. Everyone was taking bets and your father was gritting his teeth.

All this time, you were carefully watched by him and you had no opportunity to speak to any of the men taking part in the tournament. But on the night before the last, fourth, day when the final duel would take place, your father had thrown a feast, during which you were approached by Ser Jason Lannister.

Or Ser Tyland. Were they pretending to be each other during feasts as well? You were tempted to ask but you had no courage to do so.

“Lady Tyrell, there should be songs about your beauty,” he bowed his head and you bowed down.

“Lord Lannister,” you mumbled out, uninterested. “Why aren’t you busy writing them then?”

Your mother looked at you with terror in her eyes but you ignored her.

“Oh, believe me, I do not have time for such frivolities although I wish I had. However, my duties in Lannisport are many. My treasure is full and I shall spoil you with my goods when you are my Lady Wife,” he grinned at you, luring you with his wealth.

“You sound so sure that you’re going to win, my Lord,” you pointed out.

“Oh, I am sure. Ever since you named that Hightower knight your champion, I am determined to show him his place. But I hold no resentment towards you for your choice. I do realise that you, women from The Reach, like to tease,” he winked at you and you had to pretend his words were not an insult. Even your mother gasped a little at his boldness.

“I cannot believe you would spoil me with your wealth for nothing in return, my Lord,” you raised an eyebrow, curious of the response.

“Well, of course not. Like every husband I want my wife to be obedient, easy on the eye and give me many, healthy children,” he informed you. “Sons, I mean,” he fixed himself. That arrogant smirk was still on his face.

“I think your father is calling us,” your mother saved the day as she quickly took you by the arm and excused you both to walk you away from Lord Jason. “Oh, what an insufferable man! Sadly, your father seems to be fixated on the idea of you marrying him. And you know, dear (Y/N), after all the matches you had dismissed in the past… You just can’t say no now. Especially at your age,” she looked at you sternly, but still worried.

You didn’t answer that. You simply nodded your head and walked away to go outside and catch a breath.

You kept walking ahead of you, leaving the noise of the party behind you. You wanted to be alone and despite the darkness, you knew where you were going because you knew this garden better than yourself.

You entered the maze to hide in your favourite spot but after a while you heard unfamiliar steps behind you. You gasped and turned around to see a male silhouette, which caused a shiver go down your spine. If something happened to you now, unguarded and with no one to rescue if you called for help… You didn’t even want to imagine the consequences.

“That is only me, my Lady,” you heard a familiar voice and the man took a few steps ahead. It was Ser Gwayne Hightower, smiling at you.

“Ser Gwayne!” You pretended to sigh with relief but the truth was that you didn’t trust him either. You trusted no man who was creeping up on a Lady like that. “We shouldn’t be left alone without a chaperone,” you pointed out.

“Forgive me, I saw you running away and quite upset. I wanted to make sure nothing bad would happen to you as you wandered off from the crowd without any guards following you,” he lowered his voice as he approached you.

You swallowed thickly. He was right in front of you and behind you there was a tall live-fence that was making it impossible to escape. As he leaned in, his auburn hair fell onto his face and you felt it tickling your cheeks. That close he was.

“How chivalrous of you,” you breathed out, starting to feel dizzy. You had never been so close with a man.

He looked down, his gaze fixated on your tight, revealing dress. Your breasts were squeezed under the silky golden fabric.

“What if I don’t win tomorrow?” He asked as he lifted his eyes up again to meet yours. “Lord Jason is surprisingly good, especially for a man who is not a knight.”

“It’s because it’s not him,” you confessed with a heavy sigh and Ser Gwayne furrowed his brow at you.

“Are you suggesting that…?”

“I am not suggesting, Ser. It is true. I know from the very beginning, I have overheard them talking to my father. My father wants me to marry Lord Jason Lannister and this tournament is nothing but a show-off. He was angry at me for choosing you as my champion,” you told him.

Ser Gwayne seemed to be confused as he took a step back and you surprised yourself because you wanted him close again.

“That is… Unhonourable and disrespectful,” he pointed out. “Do you wish for Lord Jason to win as well, my Lady?” He looked at you, intensely.

“No! Why would I choose you as my champion then, Ser?” You shook your head, desperate to make him believe you.

“To toy with me, perhaps. Or to tease Lord Lannister,” Ser Gwayne pointed out.

“I do not wish to have anything in common with that man,” you huffed.

“And me? You do not know me, do you, my Lady?” Ser Gwayne smirked as he leaned in again, his nose nearly brushing yours as he put his right hand on the live-fence above you. You felt so small underneath him suddenly.

“What do you expect from a wife, Ser Gwayne?” You asked, swallowing a lump in your throat and he looked confused at that question as if it was a stupid thing to ask.

“Loyalty, of course,” he answered.

“And that’s it?” Now you were the surprised one. “What about children?”

“Well, it would be nice to have them, don’t you think, my Lady?” Ser Gwayne chuckled and rubbed your nose with his.

“What if I am flawed like my mother and I can give you only daughters?” You bit on your lower lip, slowly getting drunk at the feeling of having him so close.

“Then we shall make them all great ladies of great houses. My sister is The Queen. Us, Hightowers, we are ambitious,” he told you. “And I have many younger brothers who can produce their male heirs. The future of my family is safe whatever I do,” he assured you and raised his other hand to caress your cheek with his fingertips.

At first, you got startled at his touch as if it was causing you pain because you were not used to being touched like this by a male hand. But then, after a short while, you gave in and hummed to yourself, making him smirk.

You leaned back onto the live-fence and arched your back, connecting your crotch with his. You had no idea what made you do that… It was as if your instincts were telling you what to do. And it felt good.

“Don’t,” Gwayne scolded you and took a step back as you whined.

“Aren’t you here to claim me just in case you lose the duel tomorrow?” You asked, feeling your cheeks heating up. You couldn’t believe the boldness of your own words.

Lord Lannister had been right about the women from The Reach, apparently.

“Perhaps you should have not made me your champion, Lady Tyrell, if you think so lowly of me,” Ser Gwayne bowed his head and turned around to walk away, leaving you alone; confused and full of embarrassment.

One thing was certain – he was messing with your head. You couldn’t stop thinking of him all night long, touching yourself to the thoughts of him standing so close, to the memory of his touch and his voice.

You would rather die than marry Lord Jason Lannister. Any attempt to imagine anyone else other than Ser Gwayne touching you, was making you physically sick.

You watched with fear, clenching your fists on the railing and leaning down to see better although, at the same time, you didn’t want to see; you were that scared.

You knew that people had been betting on who would win this combat. And more people had bet on The Lannister. Your eyes followed the golden rose attached to Ser Gwayne’s armour, though. You only wanted to keep looking at him as you prayed to the gods old and new for his victory.

The combat was fierce and long. Both of the horses got hurt and taken away and the two opponents were standing face-to-face now, having to duel with their swords on the ground.

Lord Jason Lannister – the real one, the one in the audience – stood up and clenched his fists on the railing, too, as he watched his twin brother.

“Come on!” He yelled and that was when the other Lannister struck Ser Gwayne down. “Yes! That’s right!” He cheered alongside the audience. Then, he looked at you with a smirk.

“Ser Gwayne!” You exclaimed in a high-pitched, scared voice.

To your relief, your champion stood up after taking the blow and you clenched your fists even tiger around the railing. You wouldn’t be surprised if you broke the wood with your hands.

After a few more attempts to strike each other down, both opponents were roaring with frustration. And then you spotted Ser Gwayne taking his helmet off and throwing it aside as people gasped.

Was he insane? You had been thinking that he was a rational man but apparently much less than you expected.

He looked up at you and nodded his head as the wind ruffled his auburn hair a little. You had to admit that he was presenting himself very handsome and you were aware that the helmet was limiting his view during combat but it was still very risky.

When you nodded back, he went back to the fight. His strikes and blows were fast and determined as if the fight was to death. You held your breath whenever he would get a punch or a strike since he was wearing no helmet. However, he seemed to be doing much better now.

Eventually, The Lannister was laying down and not standing up for quite a long time now as Ser Gwayne spat some blood out and looked up again – his face covered in blood and a few bruises but other than that, he was fine.

Your father stood up, carefully, before walking up to you to see with his own eyes. He hesitated and froze instead of announcing the winner and the whole audience was now looking at him.

“You shall announce my champion the winner,” you reminded him and he swallowed thickly.

“I… I announce Ser Gwayne Hightower the winner of this tournament. Congratulations!” He exclaimed and turned around this very instant to sit back down on his chair.

“You fought bravely, Ser Tyland,” Ser Gwayne helped his opponent to stand up as everyone froze at his words. “Oh, Lord Jason, do forgive me,” he nodded at him with a smirk before leaving the field.

Your heart picked up its pace and you couldn’t help a big grin. You glanced at The Lannister in the audience and he gave you a very unpleasant look this time. You couldn’t blame him, really. Ser Gwayne’s little mistake would make people gossip about The Lannisters cheating in the tournament. It was bringing you lots of satisfaction.

You were about to excitedly leave your parents’ side, when your father grabbed your wrist and stopped you.

“Where are you going?” He asked, harshly.

“To see my champion!” You answered him.

“Absolutely not,” your father shook his head. “You are coming with me to meet with The Lannister brothers,” he told you and both you and your mother widened your eyes at him.

“Father… Ser Gwayne has won the tournament… Fairly,” you pointed out.

“You said that the winner would have (Y/N)’ hand in marriage,” your mother reminded him.

“It was never officially announced, was it?” He barked at the both of you. “It was just a rumour.”

“Do you want to enrage The Hand of The King by disrespecting his son? Do you want to enrage The Queen herself by disrespecting her brother?” You asked him.

Your father let go of your wrist but he kept staring at you with anger and resentment in his eyes.

“Why did you want The Lannisters to win so badly?” You asked him. “To the point of letting them play it dirty and cheat?” You continued as your mother’s eyes were widening. “I have overheard your conversation on the first day while taking a stroll between the tents like you had forbidden me to,” you admitted. “Why, father?”

“My Lord Husband?” Your mother asked him, enraged by what she had just heard.

“Perhaps you have also overheard the part where I was saying that the tournament is a nice show-off,” he explained.

“I do understand why you threw the tournament. The question was not about that,” you raised an eyebrow at him and crossed your arms.

“Wealth,” was all he said after a short silence.

“And… that’s it?” You asked, disappointed.

Your father nodded and looked away.

“Wealth and splendour. An alliance between The Tyrells and The Lannisters would be a powerful one. And their treasure is big,” he added.

You opened your mouth to say something but you had no words.

“Your foolish sisters!” He continued as he raised his voice suddenly. “One married some Dornish lesser Lord and the other went up North to marry a knight in The Vale! The Ladies of House Tyrell! I should have been creating powerful alliances with you, foolish girls, but, no, all of you know better! All of you!” He yelled at you as your mother began to calm him down.

“I would never marry a man without an honour like Lord Jason Lannister,” you only said. “A cheater who plays dirty by using his brother because he knows very well that he would lose his very first combat if it was him down there,” you finished.

Without any other word, you hurried downstairs to run up to Ser Gwayne’s tent. His squire was working on removing his armour off of his body and you approached him to cup his bruised face splashed with blood.

“Ser Gwayne…” You started and then you swallowed thickly and looked down, remembering your encounter with him from the previous evening and the things you had been thinking of at night.

“Lady Tyrell,” he nodded at you with a smile.

“Are you alright, Ser? What has gotten into you to take the helmet off?” You asked as you dared to look up again, right into his blue eyes.

“It was limiting my view,” he answered. “I am alright, my Lady, no need to worry about me.”

“Are you always that irresponsible, Ser?” You asked yet another question. After all, it was important to know if he was supposed to be your Lord Husband.

“Never, my Lady. But it was rather an important combat, was it not?” He raised an eyebrow at you and you smiled widely at him.

You let go of his face as you took a few steps back to let his squire continue his work with the armour.

“I shall leave you now,” you nodded. “Thank you.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Lady Tyrell,” Ser Gwayne bowed his head slightly as he watched you walking out of his tent.

There was a feast again on that evening but instead of being with the guests, your father was locked in the library with Ser Gwayne, discussing the unofficial prize of the tournament – your hand in marriage.

You were pacing around the corridor, all dolled up for the party in a pastel pink dress but with no interest to walk down and participate in the celebrations. You were afraid that your father would be rude to Ser Gwayne or scare him off, so you wanted to be around just in case you needed to put out some fire.

At first, you had chosen Ser Gwayne Hightower to be your champion simply to annoy your father and to avoid showing any favours to Lord Jason Lannister. But as the time progressed – especially after last night… – you just wanted to become Ser Gwayne’s wife. You would still live in The Reach and have your mother quite close but at the same time you’d be away from your father and his constant remarks of remaining unmarried despite your age.

Oldtown was an important place on the map of Westeros and you would be The Queen’s sister-in-law. Your father would be foolish to choose Lannister's gold over that honour.

The doors opened finally and you saw your father who was visibly surprised at the sight of you nervously pacing outside the library.

“Are you curious or nosy, dear daughter?” He asked you with his eyebrow raised.

“Perhaps both,” you answered.

“Either way,” your father shrugged, taking a step aside and revealing Ser Gwayne standing behind him, “that is not a problem of mine to deal with anymore,” he finished. “Disciplining her might be a challenge,” he chuckled at Ser Gwayne.

“With all respect, Lord Tyrell, I am not Lady (Y/N)’s father to discipline her,” Ser Gwayne nodded at him and approached you to hold your hands in his as he looked at your face. “We are going to get married, my Lady,” he announced to you and you smiled widely at him, feeling a huge wave of relief washing all over you. Relief, happiness and… excitement.

“When?!” Was all you asked before looking at your father’s face. He seemed to watch you carefully but wasn’t as displeased as before, right after the tournament.

“Ser Gwayne is running Oldtown in the name of his father so he must return there immediately tomorrow morning,” your father answered. “We will escort you to him for the wedding once all the preparations are finished. It shouldn’t take more than a few weeks.”

“A few weeks?!” You whined. “How am I supposed to wait for so long?”

Ser Gwayne chuckled at that and so did your father as you felt your cheeks heating up.

“You have been waiting for so long to get married, my dear, you can surely hold off a few weeks more,” your father pointed out.

But he didn’t understand. Now, when you actually wanted to become a wife and found a man worthy enough to be called your Lord Husband, you didn’t want to wait a day longer. However, being whiny about it would only make you look childish and desperate.

“I shall wait then,” you sighed and looked down in defeat.

“And I shall prepare The Hightower for your arrival, my Lady,” Ser Gwayne nodded at you. “What is your favourite colour, may I ask, my Lady, just so I know how to tell my people to decorate your new chambers?”

“It’s green, Ser Gwayne,” you answered with a soft smile. “Green and yellow like the colours of my house.”

“Something tells me we are going to be an excellent match,” Ser Gwayne smirked at your answer with a wink.

MASTERLIST

[queers-gambit]

The Black Dread part one

prompt: after word is sent for Dragonseeds to raise up, you shockingly claim The Black Dread. knowing your stance would all but determine the war, both Alicent and Rhaenyra send emissaries to persuade your allegiance through means of marriage. when tragedy strikes, you fly to war. -> in this part - you claim Balerion and emissaries are sent.

pairing: Jacaerys 'Jace' Velaryon x female!Tyrell!reader pairing: Aemond Targaryen x female!Tyrell!reader -> hair color specified reader -> technically Targaryen!reader -> ALL characters aged 18+

fandom masterlist: House of the Dragon

series masterlist: The Black Dread > > > next part, part two: read here

word count: 4.9k+

note: ALL characters are aged up - they are NOT minors

warnings: hair color specified reader but it's paramount to the story. Dance of the Dragons AU, Balerion lives AU - kinda heavy introduction. political manipulation, i guess no Baela, Rhaena or Alys romantic interests, ALL characters are aged 18 or older, Muses aren't in this part much, stolen Olenna Tyrell quote(s), Dylan Thomas quote.

though Balerion is not shown in the shows [HOTD or GOT], these are some of author's personal favorite fan art pieces: this this one, but maybe this color

Considering the climate, environment, elements, and location of each region with no true diverse distinction or transition between seasons, summers varied in each corner of the Seven Kingdoms. Notably, the mainland experienced vastly different summers in comparison to the constantly humid Westerosi islands.

This was expected.

Where the weather endured in King’s Landing is dry and stale - lacking cloud coverage, baking all forms of life under the unforgiving sun - Dorne was ideal: temperate, tropical, the temperature usually consistently comfortable.

Northwest of the continent, off the Westerlands coast in water of Ironman's Bay so dark, secrets remain hidden, summers on the ratified Iron Islands were cold due to the winds blowing from the North. The rocky region wet and slippery from rain; never humid, usually biting.

The Reach boasted pleasant summers; lush and green with fully bloomed gardens, perfectly balmy. The Stormlands lived up to its name and was plagued with frequent storms. These were usually warm rains - opposite the Iron Islands. The Crownland's annually hosted hordes of tourists at their ever popular summer attraction: temperate beaches. And why wouldn't they? The Crownlands's usually kept moderate temperatures and plenty of vast coastline to offer reprieve in the surf.

However, the only exception to sweltering, stereotypical climate that ransacks the Realm is the North - an expansive outlier. You see, in the North, summers are cold but winters are REALLY cold. From Bear Island to White Harbor, the dreary, overcast summer sky reflects on year-round, bright, pristine summer snow, making it glitter and blindingly glow. This results in the curation of a blue-grey filter naturally exclusive in the North.

However, tonight - You weren't ankle-deep in North summer snows. You weren't wheezing in King's Landing. You weren't vacationing in Dorne. You weren't sloshing through the Stormlands.

Tonight, you weren't on the mainland.

Tonight, you were on Dragonstone - ancestral home of your distant, estranged family.

Bullfrogs belted their croaky song, loud and incessant; as if trying to individually greet each twinkling star in the inky sky - the ever faithful audience; intrigued by this reckless and dangerous suicidal showdown you embarked on. Crickets chirped in a soprano choir; dotting around the maze of tide pools - cratered by the same porous, jagged, volcanic rock that defines the unpredictable, natural coastline. Frothing alto waves of dark navy, violent, salty sea brutally crashed against rock - the booming baseline of the frog's and cricket's private duet sang in perfect harmony.

All that was missing was a little red crab with a Jamaican accent encouraging you "kiss the girl".

Night had fallen. The winds were cold as a storm rumbled overhead. Rain fell sideways. Lightning streaked the skies.

You navigated through the dark - a slippery, dangerous feat.

Few windows of the castle gave a subtle, dim light; indicating the residents were more than likely turned in for the night. Still, despite the lack of patrolling guards and other witnesses, you remained in stealth mode. Only fools allowed themselves to feel cocky when their guards go down. When someone allowed their defenses to go down, mistakes are made, capture is imminent, the mission is a failure, and surrender to the enemy's mercy is forced.

Your presence on Dragonstone wasn't for romance - no girls (or boys) for you to kiss. This wasn't a social visit to recreationally mingle with the Velaryon Prince or Targaryen Princess Twins. You're not conducting research curriculum - no time to study flora, fauna, volcanic activity.

To the winged terrors, Dragonstone Island is a recognizable safe haven that promotes healing - the one place these miraculous beasts could relax, ease their defenses; be vulnerable with lowered guards. This sense of safety gives freedom away from the confines of Dragon Riders - simply allowed to be true, authentic, and animalistic.

Currently, a couple dragons sought refuge on the island, nesting, minding their own business; others sought rest, retirement, peaceful isolation. Several took advantage of the heat and loitered around the volcano, the Dragonmont.

They weren't just any dragons, some were rogue, wild; some released after captivity; all unclaimed, riderless. This tempted several persons to rely on arrogant luck and try their hand at harnessing the terrible beasties - but they never returned.

Summer days stretched long, giving limited time to move under the cover of darkness, and the nights progressively shortened each day leading up to the solstice. Your journey was miraculous, having never navigated open water before yet somehow arriving at Dragonstone after setting sail from King's Landing by yourself. Perhaps you had a hidden talent, a subconscious sailor mentality; maybe you were just lucky, or maybe your boiling emotions made you defiantly determined - running on pure spite to stay alive, unharmed, and without capsizing in an effort to complete your mission.

Most of the time, you relied more on logic than emotion, something that helped keep you balanced, grateful, rational. Leading with logic arguably "made" someone intelligent; solution oriented, stubborn, hardheaded, unwilling to compromise (a common foundation when leading with emotion).

Yet logic made you very black and white - no grey area. Logic is cut and dry. Logic is sometimes sophisticated. Logic is also stubborn. Logic abandoned empathy. Logic could be explained. Logic identified applicable reasonings and explanations. Logic is hard to argue against. Logic sustained battles of wit. Logic is sometimes discriminatory. Logic always tells the truth. Logic has limited loopholes.

Logic is fact driven, and when paired with your own rooted moral and religious beliefs, made you subconsciously judgmental.

There's a well-known proverb, quote, "it's not the destination, but the journey." Yet some philosophers think the destination is mundane, anticlimactic, boring, sometimes disappointing and unfulfilling while the journey is much more fulfilling. The journey is what's worth; an adventure, where development inflates, where a story worth telling lies.

Logic is the destination. Leading with emotion is the journey.

Leading with emotion develops thoughtful decisions. Emotions sharpen empathetic abilities. Emotions sometimes changes perspectives, broadens horizons. Emotions allow for differences in opinions. Emotions curates safety. Emotions heightens generosity. Emotions expands willingness to help. Emotions softens situations with compassion. Emotions often strides towards peace. Emotions structures harmony. Emotions accepts all. Emotions could be overwhelming. Emotions don't always have one, single, clear victor.

Leading with emotion makes you easily reactive, being why you made a conscious effort to engage logic; keeping yourself in check.

You often never lost your cool; always having a handle on things, but sometimes, it was a challenge. Emotions demand to be felt, and no matter how hard you train yourself and practice relying on logic, you were still human.

Both leading with logic and emotion made you passionate, sometimes synonymous with stubborn. Either way, you ended up here - on Dragonstone - slinking around in the dead of night as if a criminal on the run, trying to avoid the Rogue Prince's nefarious, outlandishly violent City Watch.

You were dedicated to the truth, hence your willingness to embark on this suicide mission. You know it's out there, becoming desperate to find it; never settling, fed the fuck up of mindless gossip the court whispered and hissed about. Enduring years of scrutiny and unfiltered rudeness made you confident, wanting, and energized to justify your claims, prove self-worth, assign relief, terminate turmoil, tension, and assumption.

Yeah, yeah, yeah - but what truth are you dedicated to? Your family's lineage and heritage, your birthrights, your position in society. Your contributing livelihood. They only thought you a young lady boasting the Tyrell surname - a broodmare to sell off. After Queen Rhaenyra proclaimed herself, you became incessant to prove you were so much more than a pretty fragile rose to be set in a vase.

Truth became your Eighth God; being a dedicated, loyal, trusting, worshipping follower. And the truth was, you're a Targaryen as much as a Tyrell, and by all means, had as much of a right to claim a dragon as any of the rest of them.

You refuse to take detours, cut corners, violate, or cheat to obtain your goal(s); arriving at your desired end result with integrity, completing your mission by barreling through obstacles with laser focus - like a predator stalking prey.

Boots slapped and clicked on wet rock, splashing in puddles, splattering mud up your legs to soak into your breeches. Heavy humidity - thick and muggy air - coated lungs and stuck in nostrils, being suffocatingly stuffy; breathing becoming difficult. You could physically feel the condensation in the air - hair adopting a mind of its own; beaded, clammy skin becoming uncomfortably sticky, palms slick with sweat. You missed the dry heat of the capital.

Dark hood of your cloak hid your vibrant hair; the material swishing, swirling airy fog low to the ground around your creeping form, creating an ominous energy. You half expected a ghost to appear at your flank.

The clanking of the night patrol's armor was heard first, alerting you to a diminishing window; sliding into the mouth of one of the dragon caves in time for the White Cloaks to stalk around the castle's perimeter walkway.

Even with thick rock cocooning your form, the rumbling of the nested dragon's slumber was heard; loose pebbles, dust and other debris showered from the cave ceiling. Despite the heat of the Dragonmont, you heard the slow echo of dripping water.

Your choice to come to Dragonstone, was it a logical decision? Or driven by emotions - fed up with the rumors, sneers, disrespect, critical judgement from everyone in King's Landing? ...yes.

Navigating a dragon lair was dangerous, but navigating a dragon lair with ZERO experience was an anticipated disaster. Surely, you must've lost your mind because no mentally stable person would dare step foot in this cave - let alone scale the depths in search of an ancient beast that could (and possibly wound) treat your charred body as a BBQ appetizer. With a gasp, you slipped on the rocks, hissing when the heels of your palms took the brunt end of impact and slit open; tiny pebbles sticking to your open flesh. You whimpered gently, jagged rocks digging into your knees as you cleared your hands and slowly found your feet.

Even with knowledge of your heritage, you hadn't grown around the scaly Targaryen counterparts like any and every other legitimate offspring. You were long divided from that side of your family, missing out on fascinating Valyrian traditional customs. It made you a slightly bitter.

No dragon egg in your crib. No hours-long practice in the Dragon Pit. No reptilian anatomy studies. No personalized leather saddle embellished with a three-headed dragon. No claim to ancestral privilege or birthright. No unique morality, nor holier than thou complex. No generational beast to inherit.

Skin free from the lingering, invasive, embedded stench of dragon hide.

You used to think learning Ancient Valyrian was a redundant waste of time, education, and resources. You were raised in the ancestral keep in the Reach's capital, Highgarden, under your father, Lord Tyrell, and his beloved wife - the Vanished Princess - which made this secret sleuthing harder to rationalize or explain, given no Targaryen ever lived in Highgarden. Never before were dragons hosted in The Reach, and therefor, a Dragon Pit was never erected.

So, you know how when you're a kid and see something at the store that you really want but your parent says no because you already have too much shit? They might've made their point by saying something, like, "Where do you think you're gonna put all that?"

Well, Highgarden is the toy box and you intend on bringing home one of those enormous stuffed animals won at a carnival / festival.

If anyone knew of this plan, they might've sent you to the medical institute the Citadel in Oldtown operates; involuntarily commit you to the structured research program that studies different mental and physical medical phenomenons.

Truth was, this wasn't even your idea. Your grandmother, who definitely either spent time in one of the Citadel's cells or should, encouraged you. Perhaps that should've been a red flag, but it was too late now, her words echoing in your mind ―

Be a dragon.

The gardens you walked through were in fragrant, full bloom; providing a sweet air to combat the foul words you admitted with your arm looped in your grandmother's. You paced evenly through the overgrown foliage, the bees buzzing to drown your words.

"Perhaps, something is wrong with me," you sulked, "because surely, it cannot be this difficult to find a match. It seems I need to lower my standards, I could not attract a decent man if I were covered in honey and he were a fly."

"Perhaps try covering yourself in shit, then," she advised with a knowing smirk.

"Grandmother."

"Well, it's curious, isn't it?" Celia asked.

"What is?"

"All your life, you've always been more Targaryen than Tyrell; fierce, loyal, impulsive, strong, enduring. Yet now, you return nothing more than a rose wilted from King's Landing's stench, moping about failed relations. Have you ever considered that simple men are incapable of supporting the love and marriage of a dragon?"

"Half blooded does not make me a dragon."

"No, but the spirit, wit, intelligence, spunk, ferocity, cunningness, and determination you display proves it." She paused your stroll, secluded canopy shroud by foliage to provide a moment of privacy.

"Not all would think so," you let your eyes roll.

"Who do you speak of?"

"Those who think I am lying about my own Targaryen parentage, citing the color of my hair as evidence. You would think I'm one of the Queen's sons, the way they whisper."

"Do not listen to busy mouths, sweet child, hair cannot be a sole indication of parentage. I know it's easy to cite, but not all descendants of Valyria have silver locks, and should anyone have anything to say, know they are merely bitter and jealous for your hair is the perfect blend of Tyrell auburn and Targaryen silver. A color that is hard to ignore."

"Yet it's not enough to prove myself to them, Grandmother."

Now Celia sounded determined but angry, "You are every bit Tyrell as you are Targaryen. While you might not appear to their biased eye, there's never been denial that you are made in your mother's fire. Pure blooded or not, you're a dragon, my sweet petal."

"So?"

"Oh, for the love of the Gods - so, be a dragon! Dragons do not fret because men don't blink twice at them, they eat those men! Don't beg for approval; maintain your dignity, instill a new opinion, demand respect! Prove your strength, skill, and capabilities - everything the courts would deliberately overlook. Prove everyone wrong, offer contribution to this war, become a valuable asset who would be foolish to send away. Establish your seat at the table and never let anyone talk down on you again," your grandmother snarled with passion. "There's more than one way to prove you have the blood of the dragon."

"Such as? What would you have me do?"

"I hear rumor there remains a host of unclaimed dragons on Dragonstone. The Queen's son and heir, Prince Jacaerys, has called for dragonseeds to try their hand - they need more dragonriders for their war. Claiming your birthright might be the fastest, easiest way to earn the Realm's approval; doubling as undisputed evidence of who you are."

"What a terrifying thought."

"But what a statement it would make," Celia's lips pulled in a smirk, wrinkles deeper, more prominent on sun-soaked, wrinkled skin. "Tyrells might be flowery, we might sigil a rose - but we are resilient and refuse to wilt; even in the heat of dragon fire. The Realm thinks Tyrells are only pretty faces; pretty flowers meant to be seen and never heard, whose sole purpose is to be left on display. Preconceived as uselessly inexperienced during wartimes; criminally green, pure, innocent - judgement that makes them shockingly unprepared for how deep our thorns prick." Both of Celia's hands grabbed yours, squeezing, advising, "Do not go quietly, my petal, make those who doubted you be haunted by their foolish choice to challenge the wrong woman. Let them seep in humiliation and regret their judgement. Allow your successful conquest to be the biggest 'fuck you' to prejudice, the final nail in any coffin of doubt. Toss your wilted rose of fear aside, petal, embrace the fire that burns in your veins; you are Lady Y/N Tyrell of Highgarden, daughter of The Forgotten Princess, and you will not go gentle into that good night. You will be a dragon."

You were ensuring passage by morning light, intent to deliver yourself to Dragonstone.

Parts of the cave glittered with unharvested gems; a lost collection of rarities nobody dared pursue out of fear of the ancient, terrible Valyrian beasties that dwell in those caves. The walls sweat from combined dragon and volcanic heat, tunnels jagged and uneven; zero holes, cracks, or slits the sun could leak through (if it were up); everything terribly dark. At least there was a scattered pile of preprepared torches to light the way. A permanent odor of limestone and fractioned corpses assaulted your sinuses, dried puddles of blood seeped into rock, the scurrying critters who used dragons as hosts echoed with a twinkling charm - the least menacing reminder that you were not alone.

Claimed dragon chambers varied in size; pitstops along the winding pathways that ended at the largest chamber - a dead end. While other chambers were large enough for sometimes several dragons, this final stop could only be described as a jarring, stomach churning, hauntingly pitched ebony abyss of incalculable depth that played tricks on the mind. An abyss. It was like you were staring Death in the face and anxiety was dredged forth from white hot fear.

With a flickering torch alight in a trembling hand, you slowly stalked down the chiseled causeway that ended several lengths into the expansive, bleak nothingness. Pitch black shadows danced; the air felt electric, seemingly vibrating - alive and judgmental.

The glaring cavern besmirched your family name, hauntingly reminding that your disinheritance resulted in your late dragon bloom. The ebony airy sea identifies and heightens fearful insecurity about your estranged family's rejection, their lack of interest and care for your side of the family stinging; their rejection of familial relationships. The darkness predicted your failure, inability, and humiliation.

The cavern challenged your confidence and determination, your staked ownership and proclaimed lineage; labeling your bravery, beliefs and ambition as arrogant. It sneered about your stupidity, weakness, fear, and anxiety; belittled applied effort and desired goals; questioned your true desires and needs; tested your loyalty.

The cavern rejects any and all attempts before you could even try; unraveling your logic, shunning your emotions; proclaims reactive decisions as immature and lacking control, crowning you as dangerously naïve.

The cavern mocked your desperately pathetic need for station and acceptance; revoking and nullifying public (and private) ladyship, dubbing you unladylike - which, in itself, was insulting to your womanhood. Why do men get all the exciting adventure, but when a woman tries, she's crucified for being irresponsible? Smooth ebony waves reflected your maddening, constant effort and want for acknowledged contributions.

To the naked eye, the cavern appeared uninhabited, assuming the habitat was abandoned. The silence was eery; air buzzing with alarm, deceiving humans that attempted to see through the waves of darkness.

To a "true" Targaryen, this was just a sheet of camouflage the fire breathers wield for their privacy.

No wonder the Red Sowing was so... Bloody and devastating.

A growl was heard, something gravely and deep, intimidating and impressive. You frozen, eyes wide as if it would give you night vision, torch flickering, hands starting to shake. Then you saw prominent movement, lungs stalling and heart hammering. Slowly, a large, scaly, stained snout emerged at a sail's pace.

The more the beast stepped into your sight, your mind could only scream one thing - was coming face to face with a dragon logical or emotional? Because whether logical or emotional, this was a dumb fucking idea there was no turning back from.

So, you steeled yourself in position, dewy sweat lining your forehead to soak your hairline.

112 years After Conquest, dragons flew to war at the behest of the Targaryen family over Rhaenyra and her half-brother's claim to Aegon the Conqueror's Iron Throne. Sister-wife, Queen Visenya, rode Vhagar - said to have been the smallest dragon with bronze hide, yet, as rumor had it, still large enough that a horse could ride down her gullet. Sister-wife, Queen Rhaenys, rode Meraxes - who was larger; big enough to swallow horses whole with silver scales and golden eyes.

Then, The Conqueror, King Aegon Targaryen I, rode Balerion - the fiercest and largest, who’s wingspan could shadow entire towns, swords-long teeth assisting his ability to swallow mammoths whole, and who’s scales, wings, and fire were pitch black. Balerion was called the Black Dread and was so powerful, he could melt steel, stone, and fuse sand into glass. He never lost a battle - against human or dragon.

Balerion was also the dragon responsible for the Burning of Harrenhal, largest castle in Westeros.

In the year 2 BC, Aegon began his Conquest and engaged King Harren Hoare the Black in his keep, Harrenhal, who refused the Conqueror and was met with Balerion’s flames. In fire so hot, it melts stone like candles, the entire House Hoare was extinguished when Harren and his sons perished in the largest tower - later named Kingspyre Tower - though it’s said they haunt the Wailing Tower.

Since then, of Aegon's Three Dragons, only Meraxes boasted a single rider, but to be fair, in 10 AC, during the First Dornish War, allegedly, both Queen Rhaenys and Meraxes met their demise. Vhagar knew Prince Baelon Targaryen, Lady Laena Velaryon, and Prince Aemond as riders. Balerion knew Maegor the Cruel, Princess Aerea, and King Viserys, who, in the year 94, retired The Black Dread - thinking the beast was nearing his end. The dragon outlived every single rider.

In the year 129, Viserys died and The Black Dread stared you in the eye; curating a vibrating rumble deep within his chest that made the darkness dance. It'd been decades since anyone dared face this terrible beastie, thinking he wasn't long for this world; the pair of you curious about the other, no moves made yet.

There was no backing down, there was no turning away. This is what you wanted, for Aegon the Conqueror's mount to see you as you are - worthy of your of blood. You refused to be told you did not deserve your lineage, the Targaryen name, you would not endure disrespect any longer! You would earn your place in this Godsforsaken family, earn station in this Godsforsaken world, or die trying...

That night, Balerion took to the skies again, doing several laps in the air, soaring over King's Landing to let the residents of the Realm know - he flew again.

Your father's family hailed from The Reach, specifically Highgarden; colorful, temperate, lush, bountiful, and abundant. Your family oversaw 75% of the country's sole wheat, barley, grain, and corn production, even germinating the country's most grand gardens - which decorated a rather generous estate.

Despite the vast, open lands, there had never been need for a dragonpit before, so, when you landed your mount, he was left exposed on the outskirts of the Keep. Considering he was the largest thing, you know, ever, Balerion seemed content out there - so, you didn't worry.

It was strange, however, to see anyone without white hair on dragonback. Even stranger to the Realm to learn of your accomplishment; adding fuel to several fires.

The Green King Aegon asked lazily, a hand waving in the air, "Who?"

His mother, Dowager Queen Alicent Hightower, reminded, "She is of Targaryen seed on her mother's side, but was raised under the Tyrells. She sits to inherit all of The Reach, she will be Lady of Highgarden - "

"Until," Grand Maester Orwyle interjected softly, "her young brother, the Young Lord Tyrell, comes of age."

Aegon waved their words off, complaining, "Yes, yes, but why do we caaaaare about some red headed bitch?"

See, where the Targaryens had trademark white locks, the Lannisters had golden strands. The Starks had deep umber brunette color hair, and while both the Tully's and Tyrell's erred more on the reddish side, the Tully's had darker overtones, like an auburn, and the Tyrell's had lighter, coppery-amber waves. North of the Wall, they say "kissed by fire".

"Because Lady Tyrell has laid successful claim to The Black Dread! To Balerion!" Alicent snapped, quickly adding the snarky punctuation, "Your Grace."

"Well, we have Vhagar - "

"With respect, Your Grace, Balerion could give a singular chomp to any living dragon as Vhagar did Arrax and it would prove fatal," Otto Hightower, the King's grandfather and Hand, quickly stepped in to save his daughter from losing her temper.

"Well, she doesn't even speak High Valyrian," Aegon scoffed, rolling his eyes; lip curled, slouched in his chair.

"Neither do you," Aemond quipped in his Father's Tongue.

Otto continued loudly to prevent Aegon's response, "With The Black Dread now officially out of retirement and in play, the only choice we have is risk facing him in open battle, or..." His eyes shifted to Alicent, pausing, sighing and revealing, "Send an emissary to negotiate terms of an alliance."

"Meaning...?" Aegon drawled.

"Meaning a marriage pact, Your Grace," Otto supplied sternly.

"With respect?" Larys Strong spoke up, "But the Crown is lacking in their eligible bachelors for such terms."

"Or perhaps, what of someone outside the family? Marry two strong allies of the Crowns? Alliances henceforth might not have to include Targaryen marriages," Jason Lannister threw in quickly, but every Small Council member denied him just as swift.

It was reminded, "There's Prince Daeron."

"Lady Tyrell is actually the same age as Prince Aemond, I do not think she is looking for a husband so many years younger than her."

"Didn't Prince Aemond already secure the Baratheons through a marriage alliance?"

"Technically," Otto agreed slowly, "but given the circumstances and turning of tides, Lord Borros can be treated with in other ways should we need to offer Aemond for Lady Tyrell's willing support."

"Rhaenyra will send terms, as well," Alicent reminded. "Lady Tyrell is Prince Jacaerys' age, she might consider breaking his engagement, too."

The Small Council continued their plotting. Prince Aemond remained silent. Nobody so much as threw him a glance.

When the Black Queen Rhaenyra was informed of your heroics and your identity was questioned, her uncle-husband, Daemon, informed, "Daughter of the Forgotten Princess."

And Rhaenys affirmed, "My sister's daughter... Do not mistake her lineage for guaranteed alliance; her mother and I are long estranged, she's lived in The Reach her whole life - she does not know us. Nor owes us any loyalty."

"Perhaps she could be persuaded," Corlys wondered. "The Lady Tyrell is unwed, is she not?"

"As far as accounts go, yes," his wife reported.

"Perhaps a marriage alliance?" Corlys glanced around the table.

"To whom would you propose?" Queen Rhaenyra asked, all sat around the Painted Table.

"If I may be so bold...?"

"Please."

"Given your marriage to Daemon and his daughter's are shared with our own daughter, Laena... Is there truly need for a marriage pact between the children?"

Rhaenyra cocked her head, "You mean to... Disengage my son from his intended, and engage him again...? Like a pawn in chess? My son, Heir to the Iron Throne, married to Lady Tyrell?"

"Why do you sound displeased by the prospect, Your Grace?" Corlys wondered. "I hear the Lady Tyrell is most beautiful, and we need the Tyrell's wealth like we need their dragon, Balerion. If used properly, he can melt castles alone, Your Grace; burn towns, extinguish entire bloodlines, torch this country, melt the bloody Wall. No living dragon rivals him in size, in ferocity, in age nor experience. He's been at rest for decades now... Something tells me there's a reason he's come out of his nest."

"An omen," Rhaenyra agreed, straightening her spine.

"Precisely - the portents are cast, Your Grace."

"Lord Corlys makes a point," Daemon chimed in, "if by marriage, we secure The Reach and take back the Iron Throne with little to no carnage. Should the Greens fight, not even Vhagar could stand against Balerion."

"Prince Jacaerys is a handsome match to offer," another lord agreed, "which should help sway Lady Tyrell to our side."

"Which also frees both Lady Baela and Rhaena for other pacts - if need be."

"But if we have had this thought, I promise so has Alicent," Rhaenyra stood from the table, staring at the triangle of King's Landing, Dragonstone, and Highgarden. "Who would they offer? Who do they have, unwed, unpromised?"

"Well," Rhaenys stood to meet her Queen, "if we had the thought of a marriage alliance, and the thought to break off one engagement in favor of another, who is to say the Greens would not consider the same?"

It was quiet, a shiver shooting down the Queen's spine. "Vhagar and Balerion are familiar with one another," she grit her teeth, "and Aemond is the False King's brother. He's an attractive match, too."

"I think it's worth making the Tyrell's an offer," Corlys sat back in his seat. "They will receive us both and decide their allegiance - just as the Baratheons did, just as the rest of the Realm has or must do as well."

"Let it be done - if Prince Jacaerys agrees," Rhaenyra nodded, looking to her son - wanting his consent and participation in his own fate. Jace proudly lifted his chin and puffed his chest, nodding while nobody noted the looks of near relief on Lady Baela and Rhaena's faces. In a moment, they had been engaged to Jace and Luke without their thought, input, nor consent. In another moment, they were single young women with the tantalizing prospect to marry outside the family.

"I consider Her Grace's offer an honor."

> > > next part, part two: read here

requesting rules and masterlist

HOTD masterlist

The Black Dread masterlist

i'm already writing it, but, poll for the end ―

[sailor-tri]

[wweskywalker]

Summer Commissions: Batch 1 ❤️

1. Daemon Blackfyre commissioned by nevaehh_355

2. Aemon and Jocelyn Valyrian wedding commissioned by mabeylauren

3. Garon and Lanelle (OCs) commissioned by cendrillmons

4. Kate and Yelena in Westeros commissioned by chundrchld

5. Lady Lannister-Hightower (OC) commissioned by velarycn

6. Maegor presenting Dowager Queen Visenya with a heart commissioned by @jaehaeryshater

7. Targaryen-Tyrell princess (OC) commissioned by Sarah

8. Alyssa Targaryen (OC) commissioned by jacaerys_

9. Aerea (OC) commissioned by @moldysims

—- BATCH 2 COMMISSIONS NOW OPEN ‼️

[missswritesalot]

Winter’s thorn

Summary: Lady Y/N Tyrell, the rose of Highgarden, had no intentions of marriage when she visited Winterfell. But with her honor on the line, she might have to reconsider.

“What about Lady Y/N Tyrell, the younger sister of Lady Margery Tyrell,” the maester suggested. “She is young and Lady Olenna is seeking an alliance. Her raven comes with certain peculiar ideas that need careful execution.”

Catelyn was delighted. After hours of pouring over letters from all the heads of the houses, she found Robb his ideal match. She ordered a feast to be held, and invited Lady Y/N Tyrell under the pretense of trade.

“Almost here, Y/N,” said your cousin Taena. You shivered and wrapped your cloak around you tighter. “You are aware this visit is not purely of trade?”

“Now, Taena, that’s enough.” The septa chided.

“Even Queen Daenerys wishes to see you married, cousin. Perhaps to-“

“No more, cousin. I tire of this, although you mean it in jest.” You said, exhausted by these rumors.

“It would mean strengthening our loyalty to the Targaryens. He is Jon Snow’s brother,” Taena said.

“Cousin,” you corrected. She took it as though you were chiding her, and unexpectedly fell silent.

You took two steps out of the carriage, unassisted. You tried holding your head high, like the wind wasn’t cutting into your skin.

You were astonished to find the people of House Stark assembled in the courtyard, waiting for your arrival.

Catelyn was the first to greet you.

“My son, the Lord of Winterfell, Robb Stark.” She said, motioning to him. You’d heard of him, they called him the young wolf. Honorable. Gentle and strong.

Robb had the most gorgeous blue eyes you’d ever seen, framed by thick auburn lashes. His hair was a signature Tully red, just like Sansa’s. You’d once thought she was the most comely maiden at court, and her brother had all of her good looks in his ruggedly handsome way.

You courtesied in greeting. He took your gloved hand in his bare one and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. Your heart raced. He was so beautiful. You didn’t look up, and affixed your eyes on your boots instead.

“Lady Tyrell, we thank you for making the long journey up north. I hope it was not too difficult.” His voice could’ve melted the snow around you.

You nodded curtly: he should not see the blush on your face.

In your haste, you tripped on a stone hidden in the snow. A strong, leather clad arm wrapped around your waist to pull you up. You felt him stand you upright and the fingers of his other hand dug into your arm to steady you.

You gasped at the close contact, and turned to face him. He might be the lord of Winter but his arm felt like it might burn you. His fingers, where they touched the smallest silver of skin at your shoulder, were equally scalding. You didn’t want to step away from him into the cold.

“Forgive me, Lady Tyrell,” Robb said, his blue eyes still peering into yours. There was an instinct to lean into him, to step into his arms. But you resisted.

You turned your face away, and looked as angry as you could.

“Unhand me at once,” you said slowly. The Septa behind you gasped at your lack of courtesy.

“Lady Tyrell-“ Catelyn began, but you cut her off.

“Pardon me, Lady Stark, but the carriage journey was long and tiring. My companions and I would be obliged for a warm room.” You asked.

The walls of Winterfell were bare, the tapestries grey with little or no embroidery. The heat you had longed for suffocated you. Your mind still harbored thoughts of Robb and only Robb. No, you corrected, Lord Stark. You touched your shoulder where his fingers had rested, and giggles burst out of you. Thankfully, your cousins weren’t around to witness your shame.

You thought of how this was where Robb grew up, his childhood home that was now his.

You tugged on a new dress, one that stood out against the drab castle walls, with its golden roses and green leaves on a background of ivory and pale green.

You heard a loud sound outside. You opened the chamber door at once, and Robb Stark tumbled in.

“My lord, what does this mean?” You asked, horrified he was in your chambers.

“I only meant to escort you to the great hall, my Lady. But there has been an invasion into Winterfell and as my guest I must see to your safety myself.”

You only just noticed his armor. He bolted the doors and you backed away from him.

“My cousins?” You asked.

“They are safe, in the library. Do not fret, my Lady. You will be reunited as soon as the threat is stopped.”

You trusted Robb, you realized. It was a fool’s idea to put your trust in a strange man who you didn’t know, just because you found him attractive. But you trusted him.

“My Lord, it is most improper for a Lady to be in the presence of a man without companions.” You protested, just to save face.

“Proprietary will not restore your life when it has been taken by a criminal’s blade.” Robb said. You closed your eyes.

“I apologize you have not yet supped, my Lady.” Rob said softly. His concern endeared him to you even more.

“I’m not hungry,” you said. You went to sit on the edge of your bed.

“Do not mind me, Lady Tyrell. I cannot express the depth of my displeasure that Winterfell is inadequate on your first night here. Please rest until my men finish the task.” Robb said courteously.

You laid on the bed, the dress too uncomfortable to sleep in but fitful sleep did come.

It was in the early hours of the morn when the Septa found you curled on the furs in the chamber room. Robb was resting against your bed, his head lying on furs with his legs sprawled out across the floor.

“Taena,” you said, going into her embrace.

“Oh cousin,” she said, crying. More of your companions rushed in and fussed over you. You broke your fast with them, your voices and laughter could be heard across the hallways.

Your septa walked in just as soon as the servants cleared the room.

“Y/N, do not tell untruths when I ask you this,” she said. “And I place no blame on you. Was Lord Stark in your chambers during the attack?”

“Why, yes,” you confirmed, head nodding. “He was the most noble.”

“And you did not think of your honor?” The septa asked gently.

“Even the most noble ladies laid next to their knights with nay but a sword between them.” You protested.

“Robb Stark is neither your sworn protector nor a knight.” She said. “Lady Catelyn has written an apology to your grandmother, and suggested a proposal.”

“A proposal for what, septa?”

“A marriage between two great houses. You’ll be betrothed to Lord Stark.”

[blxkstar]

POV: You're in Game of Thrones

I made this playlist by mixing all of my game of thrones playlists into one (with some edits). Please check it out!

If you like this one, please check out my other playlists for specific houses and house of the dragon.

"I'm not going to stop the wheel, I'm going to break the wheel"

Winter is coming. We know what’s coming with it

[antlerqueer]

Mr. Robot (2015-2019). Tyrell + Bonsoir, Elliot.

@lgbtqcreators bingo - free space

[andromedaco]

Sometimes you have to think about Gregory Edgeworth and his channeling and how devastating it must have been for him to go from probably seeing his son throw a gun in his direction and then waking up in a body that isn't your own only to be asked about who killed you. Imagine the pain he must have been in learning in quick succession that:

you're dead!! Oops :[ . but hey, don't worry! we're channeling you to ask about your death! btw we don't know who killed you and this ls is a last resort to figure this out, so were asking you if you know who did this! and the last thing you remember is your son throwing a gun at you

how are you supposed to process that? he's already panicking about what's going on with Miles (I really like the scene in the anime where he's asking about him its such a good addition it hurts,,,) and then knowing its possible he did kill him by accident it and LYING to protect him!!!! This guy who clearly believes in justice being done and finding the true killer based on evidence just fully ignores all of that, all of his work, the thing Miles looks up to him for, to protect him. he just withholds a true testimony commits perjury, to protect his son and it just. And this happens basically just after he got MVK his first, and only penalty that he fought for for a year to prove and, unknown to him, that penalty is what got him killed and hes witholding evidence liKE MVK FOR THE SAKE OF MILES EVEN THOUGH IT OPPOSES HIS MORALS AND ITS JUST. HE LOVES HIS SON SO MUCH,,,,

God I love Gregory Edgeworth, he haunts the narrative so so well

and from all of that you have to think about who was there when he was channeled to interview him and I just like to throw Tyrell Badd in there for fun. Someone had to find them in the elevator and who better then him? he was probably already in the courthouse to testify for Masters trial and he's a Detective he's on scene he probably jumped on the DL-6 case immediately. He knew Gregory and worked with him for the year the trial was waiting to happen, gathering evidence and helping prove that mvk forged evidence and just. He had to have heard the gunshot and scream from wherever he was and he isnt scared of being shot, look at his coat, so he would run in and just find them after looking for whatever the gunshot was and not knowing who was hurt and finding that. like the door was open too from when MVK walked in and. just inagine him finding his friend (or romantic partner, let me live in my rairpar hell) dead against the wall, with his son who is was his pride and joy on the floor unconscious but still breathing, and another unknown person who is in the same boat as Miles in the elevator and just needing to process everything in that room immediately and move on to help who he can and. I'm normal about these guys i'm so normal about DL-6 and how you can interpret what happened with the investigation between what we do know and and and it hurts. i love Ace Attorney so much <3

[the-golden-comet]

In The Realm Of Giants

Gustav: So, the trip to Urðarbrunnr SHOULD take a few months….Plenty of time to hunt and replenish all the food you stole, you fucking gnat.

Tyr: EXCUSE you?! I didn’t even take THAT much!

Gustav: The fact you went back and stole from me a SECOND time tells me you’re either greedy, gutsy, or a dumbass.

Tyr: FUCK YOU!! My people were STARVING—

Gustav: —What was that? Can’t hear you over the sound of me not giving a single fuck.

Tyr: You’re insufferable.

Gustav: Big words for you, little man. You’re acting miiiiighty tough for someone looking so tasty~

Tyr: !!

Tyr is just not having a good time.

Mood.

👇Tag list for story tidbits below cut👇

Tag List for story/art tidbits (lmk if you want + or -)

@autism-purgatory , @jev-urisk , @sunglasses-in-the-bentley , @wyked-ao3 , @glasshouses-and-stones , @alinacapellabooks , @illarian-rambling , @gioiaalbanoart , @talesofsorrowandofruin , @fortunatetragedy , @deanwax , @dyrewrites , @honeybewrites , @drchenquill , @paeliae-occasionally , @lychhiker-writes , @thatuselesshuman , @kaylinalexanderbooks , @katenewmanwrites , @zackprincebooks , @fantasy-things-and-such , @finickyfelix , @billybatsonmylove , @madi-konrad , @houseplantblank , @far-cry-from-finality , @froggy-pposto , @fractured-shield , @avaseofpeonies , @topazadine , @thecoolerlucky , @theaistired , @willtheweaver , @rivenantiqnerd @somethingclevermahogony , @noxxytocin , @mysticstarlightduck

[eurydycee]

Winter’s Thorn: chapter II amidst chivalry and rivalry

⚘ cregan stark x tyrell!OC

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Synopsis: Caught in the political machinations of Westeros, Lady Euphemia Tyrell and her brother Adlyn, Lord Tyrell, Warden of the Reach navigate treacherous alliances to secure their house's future. Summoned to King's Landing, Adlyn strikes a desperate deal with Lord Cregan Stark, unknowingly sealing Euphemia's fate. As winter approaches, House Tyrell must balance duty, loyalty, and survival in a realm fraught with danger.

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format: series (ongoing) word count: ~ 3k warnings: hint of violence, not reread a/n: hello! this is my very first fanfiction...requests and criticism are always welcome if you want to be tagged comment!! I really hope you will enjoy it as much as I have (english is not even in my top 3 languages haha). omg I did not expect any interaction I'm truly grateful ( don't be shy to comment!)

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The sun had already reached its culmination, casting a quiet hot, golden glow over the tourney grounds. Vibrant banners fluttered in the breeze each bearing a colour and sigil to represent a house. The triumphant notes of the trumpets blared through the arena, signalling the beginning of the festivities. The crowd erupted in cheers, the excitement palpable as they anticipated the day's events. The clattering of armour and the clinking of weapons only added to the din, creating a symphony of sounds that spoke of celebration and impending competition.

Knights paraded before the stands, their armour shining brilliantly, reflecting the sunlight in dazzling displays. Horses, draped in rich, embroidered caparisons, pranced and snorted, their riders guiding them with expert hands. The knights saluted their lances to the gathered nobility, drawing more cheers and applause from the enthusiastic crowd.

Children darted between the stalls, their laughter and shouts of joy echoing as they played games and admired the brightly coloured ribbons and trinkets for sale. Merchants hawking their wares, voices competing to draw attention to their exotic goods and delicious treats. Jugglers and minstrels entertained onlookers with their skills, adding to the festive atmosphere.

Amidst the celebration, Adlyn sat in his designated seat, fiddling with his cufflinks. His nerves were a storm at sea.

The sounds of the fanfare continued to swell, the music and cheers blending into a harmonious celebration of the kingdom’s unity and the start of the festivities. Yet, Euphemia was nowhere to be found.

 "Where is my sister? The games will start any moment. It isn't like her to disappear just like that.” Adlyn whisper-shouted his emotions at bursting point

"Why don't I go look for her to ease your nerves, my lord?" his guard whispered reassuringly.

“Yes but make haste” Adlyn waved him off and went back to drowning himself in his worries

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"I present thee the gallant knight of the Northern lands, Ser Cregan!" snickered Lord Mormont pushing and pulling the armour of his Lord.

"Tell me, friend, why did you choose to participate in the one battle a Northman wouldn't partake in, even when promised gold?"

"Because if this lad wishes to be the underwing of my dear Coral, he’ll need to prove his wings to be steady--to me and her. Isn’t that right, future brother of mine?" interrupted Crayn, raising his lance and poking Cregan’s side affectionately.

Out of a sudden, a voice called out Crayn, and the knight found himself enveloped in a sudden, tight embrace.

“Sister, how you’ve grown! Last I saw you, you were what, five?”

“Eight,” Coral corrected with a playful grin. “And look at you now, a dashing knight!

Coral turned to the Lord's Hand, her confusion evident. “Oh my, will you be participating too? I didn’t know you could, you know not being knighted. “Indeed, I am no true knight,” he said, emphasising the word true while simultaneously gesturing his arms at her brother”, but the King insisted on my presence today.”

“Lady Euphemia,” interjected a guard gently, “you shouldn’t be here. Let’s return to your tribune. You’ll speak after the games.”

----------

Euphemia pouted but relented. She pulled out a delicate hairpin adorned with a small gemstone and handed it to her brother. After Adjusting a stray strand of hair that had escaped her intricate braids, she said, “Here, my blessing to you, good Ser.” With a final glance, she turned and made her way back to her seat.

Euphemia entered the tribune just as her brother began his speech, his voice resonating across the crowd, welcoming the attendees and toasting in the name of Their Majesties, the King and Queen.

-------

“Lords and Ladies, honored guests, and noble knights, today is a day of immense celebration and historical significance. I stand before you, filled with the pride and honor of our great kingdom, to mark this momentous occasion.

I recall vividly the day when we all emerged from our homes, hearts alight with hope, upon hearing the news that the usurper Aegon had been defeated, and our rightful King Aegon had ascended to the throne. That day signified not just the end of a tyrant’s reign, but the dawn of a new era--an era of justice, peace, and prosperity.

Today, we gather to welcome a new sovereign, a beacon of hope for our future. We stand on the precipice of a golden age, one free from the shackles of war, where our children and their children may know only the blessings of peace.

Let us raise our goblets high and toast to the health and glory of our magnificent King and gracious Queen. May their reign be long and prosperous, may their wisdom guide us, and may their hearts remain ever compassionate towards their people.

Seven blessings upon our King and Queen, seven blessings upon you all, dear friends. Let us celebrate this glorious day with joy, honor, and unwavering loyalty to our sovereigns and our realm. Together, we shall usher in a time of unparalleled peace and unity. Seven blessings to the realm!

Trumpets blared triumphantly after his last words, and knights began to enter the arena one by one. Euphemia's eyes scanned the field until she found her brother, sitting tall on a beautiful mare. His armour gleamed in the sunlight, and his lance stood tall and mighty. Beside him was Cregan for a man who always wore his ancestral fur cloak, suited the polished armour  him well, giving him an imposing and regal appearance,  thought Euphemia.

“First, we have Ser Gorrath from house Codd against Ser Rivan from house Clegane!” the announcer's voice echoed through the grounds.

The games began with fervour. Knights clashed, displaying their skills and courage. Men won, some got injured, and tragedy struck when a young boy from the Vale was killed, his life brutally cut short in his first tourney. Euphemia placed a hand on her stomach, hoping to calm the nausea rising within her. She watched in horror as the knight bound the boy's heels to his horse and paraded the lifeless body around the grounds for the crowd to see.

After the gruesome scene was cleared, the entrance of Cregan and her brother was announced. Cregan rode in with an air of calm authority on his horse, followed closely by her brother. Cregan marched forward towards the tribune, his gaze locking with Euphemia’s. Her thoughts swirled in a storm of emotions. Was he coming to ask for her favor, to thank them for the tourney, or was he looking at someone else? As he lifted his helmet, their eyes remained fixed on each other. A slow, confident smirk spread across his face as he spoke.

“May I have the honour of your favour, my lady? For only you can guide me to victory?”

His words cut through her swirling thoughts, creating a path where there had been none. Had he always been so eloquent, so cunning with his words? It wasn’t the request that flustered her, but the lips from which it came. In Highgarden, she had heard many sweet words, but none had affected her like this. She then decided to act for her tongue had been tied in knots. Leaning over the balcony with a poised intimacy, she tied her favor to his lance. Their eyes followed the fabric sliding down the weapon. He then pivoted his horse as she did, both turning away. She returned to her seat, her composure intact, though a hot flush ran down her body, coloring her cheeks with a mix of excitement and embarrassment.

“Hahaha, he knows how to ignite the flame for the fight,” Crayn exploded in laughter.l

“Huh?” Euphemia replied, snapping out her recent encounter.

“Asking for your favor before facing Crayn,” her brother explained. “Either he wants a true challenge or to at least take away part of his victory.”

As her brother's words drifted into her ears, a cocoon of silence enveloped her, shielding her from the chaos around her. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, trying to protect herself from the embarrassment swelling inside. How could she have thought it meant something more? He was just trying to spite her brother. Foolish girl.

Her eyes wandered aimlessly, her mind vacant, until the crowd's gasp jolted her back to reality. Crayn had pushed Cregan off his horse, but before falling, Cregan managed to pull Crayn down with him. Euphemia and Adlyn sprang from their seats, rushing to the edge of the tribune to witness the unfolding battle on the ground. Her brother grabbed a spear, while Cregan armed himself with a massive hammer. Crayn, lighter on his feet and armed with his spear, seemed to have the advantage, deftly avoiding Cregan's heavy and slow strikes.

The two opponents charged at each other, their weapons clashing with a resounding crash. But the spear couldn't withstand the hammer's power and snapped in two, leaving Crayn with only a splintered shaft. Cregan seized the opportunity, swinging his hammer with brutal force, striking Crayn under the chin, and sending him flying backward into the arena wall.

The crowd's roar was deafening, a mix of cheers and gasps. Euphemia felt her heart seize in her chest as she watched her brother fall. Blood pounded in her ears, and she clutched the balcony rail, her knuckles white with tension. She sensed a hand reaching out from somewhere and grabbing hers. Adlyn did not look at her, his eyes were glued to the tourney, but his fingers were wrapped around her palm as he gave her a firm squeeze reminding her... Tourneys were not just a spectacle; they were a harsh reminder of the brutal reality of their world, where honour and chivalry could be overshadowed by violence and rivalry.

The scene had been cleared, and Cregan marched triumphantly, the cheers of the crowd still echoing in the air. New players were announced, and the tourney continued unabated, yet Euphemia’s mind was far from the festivities. Her thoughts were consumed by Crayn, his pained expression etched into her memory. Desperation clawed at her as she sought a way to reach him, to comfort and aid him.

“Get some time off,” her lady-in-waiting suggested softly, sensing her turmoil. Euphemia didn’t need to be told twice. Without a moment’s hesitation, she lifted her skirts and ran, heart pounding, to the chambers where her brother lay.

Bursting into the bedchamber, she was struck by the sight of Crayn. His once proud and confident form was now a mere shadow, slumped and defeated. The sight tore at her heart. Emerging from behind the door, the servants eyes widened in relief upon seeing her.

“My lady, you truly mustn’t be here. Come, let us return to the games. Your brother, if he were to--” a maester began, his voice tinged with concern.

“Leave us. All of you,” Euphemia commanded, her voice steely with determination.

The maesters and maids hurriedly collected their things, scurrying out of the room. Alone with her brother, Euphemia approached him gingerly, as if one wrong movement might shatter him completely.

“Brother,” she whispered, her voice breaking as she sank to her knees beside his bed. Her gaze fell upon the hairpin she had given him, now tucked into his belt. With trembling hands, she cradled it, her eyes closing as she devoted all her hopes and energy to her prayers. She prayed to the Father for justice, to the Mother for mercy, and to the Warrior for strength and courage.

Hours passed, and the pain in her knees grew unbearable, yet she remained, her resolve unwavering. Finally, she struggled to her feet, every movement a battle. She heard footsteps approaching the chamber--Cregan, holding a single winter rose.

“I see that you have won, but do not enter this chamber if you truly believe for one moment I wish to share your victory,” she spat, her voice dripping with disdain.

“How is he?” Cregan asked, his tone softer, almost hesitant.

“Why do you care? Weren’t you the one who caused him to be in this state?,” she retorted, fury blazin in her eyes.

“Like you assumed. I have won, and here I crown you Queen of beauty and love,” he said, ignoring her insults and extending a pink rose toward her.

“Very well,” she said, her voice laced with both defiance and hurt, as she jerked the rose out of his hand. Her fingers trembled slightly with the intensity of her emotions. "And now what? Am I to offer myself to you, to court you, to marry you?! I might have indulged the man who asked so sweetly for my favor, but not the one who knocked my brother into a sleep of death."

Euphemia stepped closer, her gaze unwavering as she locked eyes with Cregan. His breath caught in his throat, his heart pounding with anger, and a hint of undeniable attraction that he struggled to suppress. The air crackled with tension, charged with unspoken words and raw emotions.

Their faces were now mere inches apart, the warmth of their breaths mingling in the confined space between them. Euphemia could feel the heat of his presence, his eyes searching hers for forgiveness, for understanding, for absolution.

“My deepest apologies, my lady, but it was he--”

“Don’t you dare finish your words, my lord. You have done nothing but belittle and mock my family. If you are truly a man of honour, then go and swing your sword at our heads instead of playing this pathetic game of yours, for I refuse to partake in it.”

She stepped back, her expression one of cold fury. “Now, do me the honour and take your leave.”

Cregan hesitated, a strange look crossing his face. "Very well," he said, turning to leave. But as he reached the door, he paused. "If there is something you need you should know that I'll be always available for you, my lady," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

---------------------------

For three days and nights, the world around Euphemia had seemed a dark and desolate place. She had sat by Crayn’s side, holding vigil in the dimly lit chamber as he lay unmoving, his breath shallow and his skin cool to the touch. Her prayers had become a whispered mantra, a desperate plea for mercy, her hope a fragile thread that threatened to snap at any moment.

The chamber was a place of shadows and whispers, the air thick with the scent of herbs and the faint flicker of candlelight casting long, wavering shadows on the walls. The maesters had done all they could, leaving Euphemia to her silent vigil, a constant, unwavering presence beside her brother.

But as the first light of dawn crept into the room, casting its gentle glow upon his still form, something stirred. The golden rays of the sun danced across Crayn’s face, highlighting the contours of his features and bringing a touch of warmth to his pallor. Euphemia’s heart skipped a beat, daring to hope for the first time in what felt like an eternity. She leaned in closer, scarcely breathing, her eyes fixed intently on any sign of life.

Then, like the softest whisper, his eyelids fluttered. It was a tiny, almost imperceptible movement, but to Euphemia, it was everything. Her breath caught in her throat, her hands trembling as she reached out to touch his hand, her fingers brushing against his cool skin.

“Crayn?” she whispered, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and longing. The sound of her voice seemed to penetrate the silence of the room, hanging in the air like a fragile thread of hope.

Slowly, impossibly, his eyes opened, revealing the familiar depths of his gaze. His eyes, once full of life and mischief, now held a weary awareness, as if he was emerging from a deep, dark abyss. Tears sprang to Euphemia’s eyes, blurring her vision as she saw the spark of recognition in his eyes.

“You’ve awakened. It has been three days. Thank the Seven,” Euphemia murmured, joy and gratitude flooding her heart as she gazed at her brother’s now-open eyes.

Crayn’s response was a low, pained groan. Hearing her mention the period of his absence brought a surge of frustration to his still-weary mind. “Allow me to apologize in advance for the words I am about to use, but that fucking barbarian cunt.”

“You are forgiven because I can’t help but agree with you,” Euphemia replied, a faint smile touching her lips despite the gravity of the situation. The relief of seeing him awake overshadowed any shock she might have felt at his harsh words.

Crayn’s face contorted with the effort of speaking, his voice a raspy whisper. “I--I did this bet with him. If he knocked me out for three days, he could have my blessing for the two of you .”

“U-us?” Euphemia stuttered, eyes widening in confusion. She had no idea a pact had been made, let alone that it involved her so directly.

Crayn realized at that moment that she was completely oblivious to the plans that had been made above her head. The weight of this knowledge settled heavily on his chest. He stared at her, seeing the innocence and confusion in her eyes, and took a deep breath, steeling himself to explain the situation. He had to set this right, for he was an honest man.

[sansaorgana]

— LADY OF THE ROSES (III)

PART ONE || PART TWO || PART FOUR

PAIRING — Ser Gwayne Hightower x fem!Reader // Tyrell!OC

SUMMARY — Six moons of marriage have passed and an unexpected visit of Lord Jason Lannister causes Ser Gwayne and the new Lady Hightower to have their very first disagreement. Not long after, she gets pregnant with their first child.

AUTHOR’S NOTE — It’s written as an usual x Reader fic without describing anything about the Reader’s looks but I still classified it as an OC as well since she is a Tyrell. + You don’t have to know the previous chapters to understand this one. I wanted to include Gwayne and Reader having their first child in the previous part already but it was too long and the time skip would be too big so I decided to turn it into yet another chapter of the story. Since the pregnancy and birth would be quite boring, I added some drama with Lord Jason aka Reader's previous suitor from the first chapter (but the details are not required to be known if you haven't read the first part!). There will be one more part to this story for which I am very excited! 😊 Thank you for all the nice comments. 💚

WARNINGS — Lord Jason being himself, pregnancy, birth

WORD COUNT — 6,130

ENGLISH IS MY SECOND LANGUAGE.

LADY OF THE ROSES (III)

First six moons of your marriage had passed by quickly and peacefully. You couldn’t believe it was half a year already and you were very pleased with how everything you had been so scared about turned out to be not so bad – performing marital duties was nothing but pleasure and fun, meanwhile running Oldtown could be exhausting sometimes but you still enjoyed it most of the time and you proudly held your head high while helping your husband with all his obligations around the city and the castle.

Having your own property with your own servants to order around was a good feeling, too. Not that you wanted to abuse the power that had been given to you but it was simply nice not to be someone’s daughter but your own Lady. Well, your husband’s – but he had never made you feel like that. Ser Gwayne Hightower was a chivalrous knight who was treating his duties and honour very seriously. He knew that being a husband did not only mean getting but it also meant giving. He was your protector and a shoulder to cry on, a strong hand to hold you and lead you and fight for you. You trusted him with your life and you would never doubt his loyalty to you.

Sometimes you wondered why had gods blessed you with such a good husband as you doubted if you had deserved him. Not that you were a bad person but you had your flaws – your pride, your stubbornness. Yet, you had not fought even once yet with your Lord Husband.

Well, once, nearly. Gwayne had suggested that perhaps you should start wearing more modest clothing because The Highgarden fashion was a bit too revealing for Oldtown. You had scoffed at that and he had not brought that up ever again.

You knew that The Highgarden fashion was considered too exposing for lots of regions of Westeros. Only Dornish women liked even riskier gowns but Oldtown was a part of The Reach so its people were not shocked to see a Tyrell Lady in a revealing dress. You had a feeling it was your Lord Husband’s personal preference because his own sister was known as a woman of strong faith and modesty like her mother before her.

Despite being Lady Hightower now, you still felt a very strong bond with The Tyrells. You always wore a golden ring with a rose on it and you loved all sorts of ornaments and decorations in the shapes of roses. You were corresponding with your Lady Mother and sisters every week and sometimes you were still signing the letters as Lady (Y/N) Tyrell – out of habit that was visibly saddening your husband whenever he’d catch you doing that.

Just like right now as you were sitting by your desk and Gwayne was handing out letters for you to sign them. Those were some official matters that he was supposed to send out to his vassals but ever since he was married and Oldtown had a Lady, he insisted on you both signing them even though it was not a popular custom for husbands to insist on such things.

You didn’t even read those letters since you trusted him as you mindlessly kept signing a letter after a letter. You gave him back the last one and he sighed, which made you look up and raise an eyebrow at him.

“What is it?” You asked.

“Lady (Y/N) Tyrell,” he read out loud and you felt bad at the sight of his sad expression.

“I am sorry,” you reached out to squeeze his wrist. “I was not focused enough,” you admitted.

“I shall rewrite this one,” Gwayne waved the letter in the air.

“No, I shall do it,” you took it from him gently. “Or will it be seen as something inappropriate when they realise it was the wife’s handwriting?”

“No, it won’t be,” Gwayne smiled at you and allowed you to take the letter. “Can I stay here and watch you work?”

“What kind of husband asks such a thing?” You chuckled at him. “Of course, my love,” you leaned into his hand as he caressed your cheek and you placed a soft kiss upon his fingers.

Gwayne sat in the armchair by the window inside your chambers. You would spend some of your days here but all nights so far you had slept with him. However, the chambers he had prepared for you were so beautiful that it would be a waste to never spend your time inside them.

You rewrote the letter and handed it for him to sign and then you could start working on answering the letters that were addressed to you specifically. Gwayne kept sitting in the armchair and looking at you, occasionally staring out of the window. It was peaceful and quiet and you wished that moment could last forever.

The next envelope on the pile of letters made you furrow your brows. It was red and the golden wax seal had The Lannister lion on it. You checked twice if it was really addressed to you and not to your Lord Husband but no, it was very clearly addressed to “Lady (Y/N) Hightower of Oldtown”.

“Weird,” you hummed to yourself when you opened the envelope with a small dagger, without breaking the seal.

“What is it, my darling?” Gwayne turned his head around to look at you since he had been gazing out of the window and staring at the water.

“It is from Lord Jason Lannister and it is addressed to me instead of you,” you told him. It felt quite inappropriate so you wanted your husband to know for you would never hide anything of such a matter from him.

Perhaps you would not be so suspicious about it if you didn’t have a history with Lord Jason. He had been one of your suitors and your father’s favourite. In fact, he had been plotting with your father behind everybody’s back to win the tournament for your hand and he had been playing dirty by using his knight brother to pretend to be him.

“And what does he want?” Gwayne crossed his arms.

“Well, allow me to read the letter first,” you rolled your eyes playfully as you began reading.

Gwayne was trying to be very patient but from the corner of your eye you could see that he was tapping his arms with his fingers and you found it pretty amusing so you read the letter three times before putting it down and taking a deep breath in as you laid your eyes on your husband.

“He wishes to visit us. He claims he was around for his friend’s wedding and he wishes to stay at The Hightower for the night on his way back home,” you explained.

“What friend, I’m wondering?” Gwayne snorted. “Oldtown is never on anyone’s way. It is usually a destination, not a stop.”

“He says his friend is Lord Bulwer, they are our vassals from Blackcrown. He must reach Oldtown to get on the Rose Road. It is a faster way to get back to Casterly Rock than to travel alongside the shore,” you explained because, sadly, Lord Jannister’s excuse sounded very realistic. “Well?” You asked Gwayne. “We must give him an answer.”

“We are not in a state of war with The Lannisters, are we? We shall let him stay for the night,” your husband sighed and stood up to read the letter himself as if he wanted to make sure there was nothing inappropriate in it.

In the meantime, you began working on a reply letter to Lord Jason Lannister. Your husband kept standing behind you and examining every word you were writing down. He had never done that before, even when you had been writing letters of much bigger importance.

“I don’t mind you being in the same room as me while I work but this is a little uncomfortable, my love,” you tried to make him realise calmly when you were about to sign the letter.

“Do not forget your surname this time,” Gwayne reminded you and you furrowed your brows at the tone of his voice. It was not rude but certainly harsher than usual.

“Lady (Y/N) Hightower,” you signed silently, “of House Tyrell,” you added, just to spite Gwayne and you didn’t have to look up to know that he rolled his eyes. However, he did not say anything.

Lord Jason was supposed to come three days later in the evening, right in time for the supper. You wore a green dress for that occasion but you had a rose-shaped jewellery that your husband usually did not mind but on that day he seemed to be bothered by it.

“This jewellery is beautiful, dear wife, but are you sure it goes well with the dress?” He asked during breakfast as you froze.

“Since when are you an expert?” You turned your head around with widened eyes. Well, Gwayne knew quite a lot about fashion but his comment had irritated you.

“Since I am a married man,” he cracked a nervous smile at you.

“Yellow roses always go well with green for those are the Tyrell symbols,” you reminded him with a forced, ironic smile.

“Is this how you wish to greet Lord Jason in Oldtown? As Lady Tyrell?” Gwayne raised an eyebrow at you.

“I have been walking around this city in this very dress and jewellery many times before and you have never said anything!” You protested and Gwayne blushed a bit because he had no idea what else to say.

You went back to eating because you didn’t want to torment him more by pointing out the flaws of his argumentation, however he did not choose silence at all.

“The dress is also quite low-cut,” he mumbled.

“Yes, it is, my beloved Lord, and what about it?” You clenched your fist around the fork you were holding.

“I suspect not many Lord Husbands would want their wives to greet their previous suitors in such a dress,” he commented.

“I have never treated Lord Jason as my suitor,” you scoffed. “And what is wrong with the dress?”

“Nothing,” Gwayne quickly fixed himself. “Nothing is wrong with the dress, my beautiful Lady,” he assured you and went back to eating.

“Are you perhaps jealous of Lord Jason? Do you wish to impress him or show me off as your property?” You asked after the sudden realisation as you laid your eyes on him again.

“Property? No. My wife,” Gwayne clenched his jaw as he explained. “I want to show you off as my Lady Wife.”

“My darling,” you smiled and shook your head as your anger subdued. You leaned in to kiss his cheek. “I would have chosen you as my champion during that tournament even if you were a beggar knight from a peasant family. I would love you even if you were a miller, a carpenter, a fisherman. And no amount of Lannister gold would convince me to go with Lord Jason anywhere,” you assured your husband and fixed his hair gently. “I want to show you off as my Lord Husband in front of him just as much.”

That seemed to calm Gwayne down for now as he nodded with a small smile and even stole a little kiss from your lips. You were alone by the table and the few servants walking around would not scold you for that anyway.

The sun was slowly setting down when you were standing by Gwayne’s side in the courtyard of The Hightower and awaiting Lord Jason Lannister. Your arms were brushing and you kept looking at each other once in a while as if you were giving each other courage. Not that you needed it but Lord Jason was rather insufferable and you knew that losing temper around him would not be good for your relations with The Lannisters. The relations were pretty fragile already anyway.

Finally, you heard the horses and saw a big, elegant carriage with the Lannister lion ornamented on its doors.

“I thought he would travel on a horseback,” Gwayne mumbled.

“Well, he is not a knight. He is used to certain comfort,” you whispered and wore a fake smile that very moment when one of your servants opened the door of the carriage and you saw Lord Jason walking out.

He looked around as if he could not see you nor your husband at first. Then, he faked a smile as well and approached you.

“Lord and Lady Hightower,” he looked you up and down and kissed the palm of your hand when you bowed your head down.

“Lord Lannister,” you greeted him.

“Ser Gwayne,” he nodded at your husband.

“Lord Jason,” Gwayne nodded back. “You must be tired after the journey. Come, the supper is ready and your chambers have been prepared.”

“Thank you. I have never been to The Hightower, I must admit,” Lord Jason followed you inside. He kept looking around like a curious cat.

“How did you get to Blackcrown, my Lord?” You asked him curiously since you and Gwayne had been wondering about it earlier – why was he asking you for a room to stay on his way back only.

“I went there by a ship, Lady Hightower, but the ship was the wedding gift for my friend,” Lord Jason answered and you nodded.

“Your wedding gifts are very generous, my Lord,” Gwayne pointed out.

“Well, I can afford such,” Lord Jason grinned at him as you reached the dining hall. “You must forgive me for not sending one to you, Ser, but in my position of a failed suitor, it would have been pretty humiliating,” he explained and you pretended to understand his point of view.

And it was not like you cared about any gifts from him anyway.

“Please, let us not dwell on the past,” you showed Lord Jason an empty chair by your husband’s side and he took it after you and Gwayne had sat down as well.

“I am not meaning to, my Lady,” Lord Jason informed you proudly. “I am a married man myself now.”

“Oh, are you? Congratulations, my Lord,” you smiled at him even though he had never congratulated you on your union. “To whom?”

“Lady Johanna of House Westerling,” Lord Jason answered and you hummed to yourself.

“Well, she is a lucky Lady,” you tried to be kind.

“Thank you, that is very flattering, Lady Tyrell,” Lord Jason bowed his head and Gwayne shot him a deadly glance. “Oh, do forgive me, Lady Hightower. The colours you are wearing have misled me,” he explained with a grin and you faked a smile but you began to feel guilty for not listening to your husband earlier.

“Green is the colour of House Hightower,” your husband reminded Lord Jason.

“Indeed but the roses…”

“My wife is not forbidden from wearing the emblems of her father’s house,” Gwayne interrupted Lord Jason and it was rude enough to make all of you sit in silence for a moment after that.

“Lord Jason,” you started quickly to change the subject, “why isn’t your Lady Wife with you?”

“It was not recommended in her fragile state. Lady Lannister is expecting,” Lord Jason straightened himself and you could see pride and smugness about him.

“Congratulations, my Lord,” you nodded at him.

“Aren’t you afraid of leaving your pregnant Lady Wife alone for so long when it is no matter of life and death keeping you apart from her, my Lord?” Gwayne asked and you clenched your jaw before kicking him slightly under the table.

“Ser Gwayne, there is nothing in this world women do better than give birth. She does not need my assistance,” Lord Jason found it quite funny, though, as he laughed but he was the only one doing so. “Speaking of, I’ve expected to see Lady Hightower being swollen already. How long has it been now since the wedding? Six moons?”

You froze at his question. It was incredibly rude to be up in other people’s business like that.

You had been discussing the matter of children with Gwayne in the very beginning of your marriage and you both had decided you wanted some time for yourselves before having children and to enjoy each other’s company first. You were regularly drinking teas prepared by The Hightower’s maester to prevent you from getting pregnant and so far it had been working. But if it had failed, you wouldn’t be sad about it either, for you couldn’t wait to have your babes soon anyway.

You exchanged a meaningful look with your husband, not knowing what to say. If you told Lord Jason the truth – that you wanted to wait and enjoy each other’s company – he would only scoff at that and find it hilarious.

“And who has told you that I am not swelling, my Lord?” You answered swiftly before Gwayne opened his mouth.

Lord Jason looked you up and down before humming to himself.

“Well, congratulations, Ser,” he patted Gwayne on his back.

“Thank you,” Gwayne gritted through his teeth and gave you a scolding look. “It is still very early news, though,” he added.

“May the Gods bless Lady Hightower and her offspring,” Lord Jason nodded at you and it somehow felt very sincere.

“Thank you, Lord Jason,” you gave him the very first genuine smile that evening.

The rest of the supper went pretty boringly and you said goodnight to Lord Lannister before the servants took him to his chambers. You and Gwayne went upstairs in awkward silence.

On your way to your husband’s room, you passed the door to your chambers. They were a floor below Gwayne’s chambers that were located at the highest level of The Hightower.

“I shall join you later,” you only mumbled out and he nodded, watching you disappear inside your room.

Your maids were already waiting there to help you into your nighttime attire. You kept sighing and they were exchanging looks.

“How was it, my Lady?” One of them asked. She knew your backstory with Lord Jason because she was one of the girls you had taken with you from The Highgarden.

“Lord Jason is insufferable as always and even though he is married now himself, he finds great enjoyment in tormenting my Lord Husband,” you told her.

“Well, my Lady, I doubt Ser Gwayne is angry at you,” her eyes widened.

“I do not know anymore. I have worn a dress he did not approve of and it indeed caused trouble. I have also said something… Something I should have not said and I have said it to defend his honour but he might not see it this way,” you confessed.

“Ser Gwayne is a very understanding Lord Husband,” the girl assured you and smiled while she brushed your hair.

You kept looking at yourself in the mirror’s reflection but you weren’t sure of her words. That supper had gone worse in the beginning than you had even imagined.

You thanked your maids and they left you alone but you kept sitting in the armchair and staring at yourself and at the candles slowly burning out instead of moving up and joining your husband as you had promised.

For the first time during your marriage, you simply blew out the candles and went inside your own bed. It even felt weird to lay there since you were not used to it but it just felt like the right thing to do on that night.

You couldn’t fall asleep though. And after a while of tossing and turning, you heard the doors open as the wooden floor squeaked under someone’s feet.

“Who is it?” You sat up immediately.

“And who do you think, my Lady?” A familiar voice made you sigh out of relief.

You reached your hand out in the darkness and Gwayne grabbed it as you led him into your bed.

“Why didn’t you bring a candle with you?” You asked.

“I felt a little adventurous,” he chuckled. “And I know my way to you by heart, my beloved Lady,” he added. “Why haven’t you joined me?”

“I thought you didn’t want me to, my Lord,” you admitted when he laid next to you under the cover. You cuddled him immediately by curling up next to him and putting your arm around his waist. “I thought you were cross with me.”

“I am not cross. I simply do not understand why you lied,” he confessed and kissed the top of your head.

“Is it the lie that you’re upset about?” You furrowed your brow. “I do value your honour but…”

“Not the lie itself,” Gwayne interrupted you. “Why didn’t you allow me to inform Lord Jason that we do not wish for children yet?”

“Because he would not understand and find you weak or assume you are unable to produce an heir and it is nothing but an excuse. I wanted to spare you further embarrassments,” you explained. “And… I am sorry for the dress…” You added, looking down.

“Do not be. I am sorry for insisting,” Gwayne rubbed your back. “And thank you for wanting to spare me embarrassments but now we are facing quite a challenge, aren’t we, my love?”

“What do you mean, my Lord?” You looked up, finding his blue eyes in the darkness of your chambers.

“I mean that Lord Jason now believes that you are expecting, my darling,” Gwayne smirked a little and you furrowed your brows.

“Oh no,” you gasped, faking the dramatic aspect of it. “And what shall we do about it now?” You wondered theatrically.

“Well, I have quite a few ideas,” Gwayne leaned in to join your lips together in a kiss as his hands pulled you even closer by your waist.

“Are you sure?” You breathed out between one hasty kiss and another.

“Only if you are,” he assured you.

“I am,” you nodded. “I am, I am, I am…” You kept repeating, suddenly realising how eager you indeed were to have your own little babe before you allowed your husband’s lips to devour yours with yet another passionate kiss.

Thankfully, Lord Jason was supposed to leave Oldtown after breakfast. You greeted him in the morning in another green dress and even though this one was pretty low-cut, too, you decided not to wear any roses on that day. Instead, you wore a necklace with The Hightower that had once belonged to Gwayne’s late Lady Mother.

Lord Jason kept staring at your chest and the necklace until it became a little uncomfortable and he cleared his throat before looking up to meet your cold gaze that you were gracing him with.

“I must admit I have not expected The Hightower to be that grand. It really is as tall as they say,” he bowed his head at you.

“We Light The Way, Lord Lannister,” you reminded him with a forced smile.

“Of course, Casterly Rock remains taller,” he added and you put the cutlery down, irritated. Gwayne gave you a look to remind you to stay polite.

“My Lord, why the remark? Is it a contest?” You asked him, trying not to sound too angry. “It is not the size of the castle that proves manhood. I do believe that you have already shown yours during the tournament for my hand in marriage,” you reminded him of his shameful behaviour and cheating. “The tournament which my husband has won fairly and justly,” you added.

Lord Jason did not say anything. He looked down and went back to eating while his cheeks' colour started to resemble The Lannister emblem.

You squeezed Gwayne’s hand under the table and the rest of the breakfast went pretty smoothly. You went outside to the courtyard to watch Lord Jason ride away. His farewell was pretty short and official. He was not trying to make any jokes anymore.

“My darling, you have acted as if you were a knight and I was a lady in distress,” Gwayne chuckled at you once you were finally free of Lord Lannister.

“Sometimes you are, my Gwayne,” you smiled at him sweetly and leaned in to steal a kiss from his cheek.

“Shall I get you a sword, my sweet?” He teased you and you rolled your eyes at him.

“Perhaps another time, Lord Husband,” you chuckled at that.

Two moons later you were watching Gwayne training with his sword as he was teaching a young squire on the courtyard. The day was quite hot but you had nothing else to do and you loved to watch him train anyway so you were sitting on a wooden bench, trying to remain in the shadow but you felt awful nevertheless. The sun felt too warm, the corset seemed to be too tight no matter how many times you had asked your maids to loosen it and you were hungry but too nauseous to eat. You blamed your condition on the weather and your upcoming monthly bleeding, which was late already but the soreness of your breasts could only mean that it would come very soon.

Gwayne kept looking at you from the corner of his eye with a worried expression because he could see that something was not right – you looked exhausted and your skin was a shade paler than normally. There were bags under your eyes and your voice sounded weak whenever you cheered for him or his squire.

He knew he was most likely overreacting but he was panicking deep inside that you could be seriously ill like his mother had been. The beginnings of each illness looked the same and losing you so fast after marrying you would surely kill him, too.

You were too exhausted to even notice the worried look on his face. You raised your head to shield your face from the sun and you felt a sudden dizziness that made you flutter your eyelids as your head grew heavy before losing consciousness for a short while.

When you opened your eyes again, the very first thing you saw was Gwayne’s furrowed brows and blue eyes filled with worry and fear. His cheeks were so pale that his freckles were more visible than ever and the strands of his auburn hair were tickling your face. His squire was standing behind him with widened eyes.

“Wh-what happened?” You asked and looked around while your vision was slowly coming back.

“You have fainted, my love,” Gwayne swallowed thickly.

“It must be due to the heat,” you tried to explain.

“Mayhaps. But I shall not underestimate your condition,” he picked you up the bridal style, carefully.

“What are you doing, my Lord?” You chuckled weakly at him.

“I am taking you to the maester,” your husband answered with all seriousness.

You didn’t protest because you knew he was worried and to be honest so were you. You only hoped that the maester would confirm that it was nothing serious.

Gwayne’s squire opened the door leading to maester’s chambers in front of you both and The Hightower’s maester stood up to bow his head. He had been sitting by his desk and working on something before you came inside.

“My Lord, My Lady,” he greeted you. “Is everything alright?”

“No, maester. My Lady Wife has fainted,” Gwayne laid you down gently on a bed.

“It is because of the heat!” You protested.

“Mayhaps,” the maester hummed to himself and approached you to examine you with his hands as Gwayne stood above him and watched worryingly. “Have you slept well, my Lady?”

“Oh, I can’t sleep for about two weeks now,” you admitted and yawned a little at the mention.

“I understand. What have you had for breakfast, my Lady?” The maester furrowed his brows.

“I was too nauseous to eat,” you confessed.

“May I ask you when was your last bleeding?” The maester raised an eyebrow.

“It should come any day now for it was more than a moon ago… I am sure it is going to come, though. My breasts are sore,” you lowered your voice a little, feeling uncomfortable with the way he was looking at you and Gwayne’s presence hovering above the both of you.

“May I?” The maester lifted his hands and you opened your mouth to answer but you noticed that he was looking at your husband and not at you.

“I mean, if you must…” Gwayne cleared his throat. “And if the Lady agrees,” he added and only then the maester laid his eyes on you.

“Go on,” you nodded and your heart skipped a beat when he grabbed your breasts gently through the fabric of the dress and squeezed them carefully. You hissed at the feeling.

The maester hummed to himself and moved his hands away before looking up at Gwayne again. Your husband shook his head out of anticipation.

“And?!” He asked.

“Lady Hightower is expecting. Congratulations, my Lord,” the maester informed and you opened your mouth slightly at that revelation.

“I… I am with child?” You inquired and sat up, feeling the sudden outburst of energy.

“I am quite certain of it. Too many symptoms confirming,” the maester nodded. “And when was it that my Lady stopped drinking the tea? Two moons ago, right?”

“That is quite right,” Gwayne answered and took you by your hand. He squeezed your fingers gently and sat on the edge of your bed. He placed a gentle kiss upon the palm of your hand and looked deep into your eyes with such a loving expression that you felt butterflies all over your body even though you had been married for more than half a year now.

The maester walked away and sat back by his desk to give you some space but you completely forgot about his presence anyway for all that mattered was your husband and his child you were apparently carrying under your heart.

“Oh, Gwayne…” You stuttered out as your eyes filled with happy tears. “So it is happening… And to think we have Lord Jason Lannister to thank…”

“My Lady!” Gwayne frowned and chuckled. “Do not say such things. Some people might get ideas…��

“That is true, I guess,” you laughed at his comment. “Are you still certain that you will not mind a daughter if it is a girl?”

“All I care for is your safety. And the child’s. In that exact order,” he answered and you gave him a faint smile.

“Whether they’re a boy or a girl, I just wish for them to be like their father,” you squeezed Gwayne’s hand lovingly. “That is my greatest wish.”

A slight blush covered his cheeks and you smiled at his reaction. It was quite easy to make him flustered with such compliments for he had not been getting many in his childhood. He had been left alone at eight years old, raised by all the septas and maesters of The Hightower alongside older knights teaching him the craft and chivalry. His life had been quite a lonely one but it no longer would be for you would fill the corridors and courtyards with tiny little Hightowers running around.

Your screams could be heard on every floor of The Hightower – a monument taller than The Wall itself – at least that was what your husband had claimed with a chuckle when you nearly crushed his hand while squeezing it tightly. You gave him a deadly look and he lovingly wiped your sweaty face, pushing away all the hair strands that got stuck to your forehead.

You knew that Gwayne was trying to distract you with his jokes here and there but overall he was very worried – perhaps even more than you were since your pain was too overwhelming to focus on anything else. The septas were busy around you, wiping your sweat away, helping you to drink water and telling you when to push as they monitored the birthing process.

You had not expected your Lord Husband to actually be there for you but he had not disappointed you. You had been conflicted at first for you had been told once that wives should not allow their husbands inside during labour. But you were too scared to go through this alone and the pain was much greater than what you had imagined as well. Gwayne’s presence was bringing you great comfort even if sometimes he was annoying you.

The birth had started after breakfast and the sun was slowly going down already but the septas were assuring you that it would not take long from now on. Gwayne had not left your side even for a moment throughout the whole day.

“I did not mean to upset you, my love,” he explained, caressing your hand as if it was the most delicate thing in the world and not a deadly machine that had nearly crushed his hand on several occasions that day. “You are the bravest woman in the Realm to me. In all the Realms of this world, in fact,” he assured you and you just couldn’t be angry at him any longer.

You smiled and wished to tell him something equally sweet when a sharp pain distracted you and you turned your head around while wincing and squeezing your husband’s hand tightly again.

“I can see the head!” One of the septas screamed. “Go, fetch the maester!” She ordered the young girl who was only getting her training but seeing her pale face and terrified expression, you wondered if she regretted her decision to become a septa.

On the other hand, as a septa she would never have to go through what you were going through at the moment.

The girl ran out of the room and you kept taking deep breaths in and pushing like the eldest septa was instructing you. Gwayne kept holding your hand throughout that but seeing his face, he needed the breathing instructions as well.

The maester entered the chambers in a hurry with the scared young septa after him and in that very moment the child’s screams and crying filled the room. The sound was so loud and determined that you immediately knew that there was nothing to worry about for only a healthy and strong child could make such a fuss.

The maester hurried to the newborn baby and Gwayne was trying to see as much as possible through all the septas swarming up around you to clean you up a little and wipe your face from all the sweat.

“It is a boy,” the maester informed and you couldn’t help but sigh with relief.

You knew your Lord Husband could not care less about it but you did care – you loved him and you wanted to give him an heir.

“Is he alright?” Gwayne asked with a raspy voice.

“See for yourself, my Lord. He is a perfectly healthy babe,” the maester approached you two and handed Gwayne his firstborn son. He showed your husband how to hold the little head up and you watched with a loving smile the little bundle of joy staining your husband’s clothes with blood as he was screaming his lungs out.

“He is beautiful,” Gwayne mumbled and moved closer to you as you reached out your weak hands to hold your own babe as well. He placed him gently on your chest but his eyes were fixated on the boy. “Thank you for him, my love.”

“I thank you, my Lord,” you answered but you did not look up at him either since you kept staring at the screaming child. But when he felt your skin and your heartbeat, he stopped crying immediately and just kept staring at you with huge eyes. You chuckled at that and cried happy tears. “How do you want to name him?”

“Lord Edmund Hightower?” Gwayne suggested. It was no surprise to you that he did not propose his father’s name and you liked the sound of Edmund Hightower, so you nodded. You could not care less about the name, you were just glad to have a son and you thought it was only fair for the father to choose his heir’s name anyway.

“I like the sound of that,” you assured your husband as you looked up to meet his gaze.

“So do I,” Gwayne nodded. “And the sight, my Lady,” he added and you felt your cheeks heating up.

Only Gwayne knew how to make you flustered still, after over a year of marriage and right after giving birth to a child, dirty with blood and sweat but to him you were nothing but a victorious warrior that had just survived a battlefield and he admired you now more than ever before.

MASTERLIST

[thesongoflorelei]

Reintroducing my HOTD OC Alerie Tyrell to those who have not met her yet. I had a lot of fun experimenting with my colouring for this piece. I hope you like her (Aegon certainly does lol)💚.

[sailor-tri]

[valleyof-goldenlilies]

Se Zaldrizoti' Prumia - Chapter 9: The Ticking of Time

Chapter 9: The Ticking of Time

The primal urge to survive oft drives decisions made in haste.

Se Zaldrīzoti' Prūmia Masterlist | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 |

HOTD Masterlist | Main Masterlist | 

Warnings: Slight angst, Otto Hightower, flashbacksssss

Word Count: 8k words

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire and Blood characters, save for Y/N Tyrell, although I did expand on their characterisation, which might deviate from canon. All credit for the characters goes to George RR Martin and the showrunners of HOTD. The GIF above is also not mine, original credit to the creator is stated above. Go check them out! 

A/N: Happy Christmas Eve to all who celebrate! Finally, the long awaited chapter 9. I hope you enjoy! (and psst, a small Christmas surprise coming soon! Unfortunately, it's not chapter 10, but hopefully you'll be as happy ;)

lovely dividers by @firefly-graphics !

The smell of rose oil permeated the air of Queen Alicent’s chambers, and the sounds of Aegon smashing his wooden dragon toy against his wooden tower toy could be heard, as the boy made roaring noises. Alicent watched the scene with slight amusement, as Helaena sat on her lap, docile, a rare moment of serenity. It was much needed, especially after the recent scandal that rocked the Red Keep and her contentious conversation with Rhaenyra a week prior.

Speaking of serenity…

Alicent trailed her gaze to a forlorn looking figure, sitting next to Aegon on the lushly woven Myrish carpet, her skirts splayed as she absentmindedly fiddled with a wooden dragon toy. 

“You’ve been quiet,” Alicent noted, trying to breach your diminished figure. She hesitated on whether to verbalise what she knew your mind was occupied with, “Are…are you still angry at Prince Daemon’s latest transgressions?” 

Once again, the tranquillity of nightfall had descended upon the Red Keep. The King’s solar was empty after the boisterous dinner that Viserys was lording over, elated to have his brother by his side again. Viserys and Rhaenyra had long since retired to bed, and now, there was only you and Daemon. 

Daemon lay sprawled on the large settee, looking bored as he twirled a newly forged dagger in his hands, gifted by his ever generous brother to celebrate his return. The firelight glinted off the large ruby set in the pommel, and he weighed it between his hands. Not Valyrian steel, like Dark Sister was, but he tended to cherish any gifts his brother gave that were not disappointment or frustration. Which was a rarity. 

Daemon’s bored gaze trailed to your figure, looking far too relaxed as you sat on the other end of the settee, face burrowed in a heavy tome. Daemon groaned, trying to get your attention and stop reading that godsforsaken book, but you only hummed, nonchalant, flipping to the next page. Daemon narrowed his eyes. 

Your attention was fully invested in a chapter about the medicinal properties of hemlock in the newest tome you had successfully bribed the maesters for, when a sudden poke at your cheek caused an indignant noise to be elicited from your throat. “What in the Seven Hells,” you snapped your tome shut to glare at Daemon’s smug face, resting so close to your lap it made your heart thud in your chest. “Are you doing?” 

“Trying to get your attention,” he said simply, putting his dagger down onto the tea table. 

You levelled an unimpressed look at him. “And that required you to poke me in the cheek? What are you, five?” 

“Perhaps.” 

You huffed, vexed, picking up your tome again. “Byka zaldrizes, I gave up precious time that could be spent doing something else just to spend it with you. Surely, you can spare this forlorn prince of yours some of your attention.” 

“Well, no one asked you to,” you said drily, your eyes flickering as they darted between the lines. “And we all know that your time will be spent mucking about in the Street of Silk, in some unlucky whore’s bed or getting drunk in your cups like some undignified ruffian.” 

“Anyone who has the good fortune of bedding me is touched by the gods themselves,” Daemon’s snarky tone made you roll your eyes. Him and his overinflated ego. “And your assumptions wound me, byka zaldrizes. Do you not trust that my time in the Stepstones have made me more mature?” 

Daemon was delighted by you putting your book down again, only to be greeted by your deadpan stare. “...are you still in possess of a cock?” 

Daemon cocked a brow, eyes shifting down as if pretending to check. “I do believe so, yes. It would be a tragedy if I wasn’t.” You flashed him a sweetly sardonic smile, “Then I do believe no more needs to be said.” 

Daemon groaned when you returned to reading your book, debating on the merits of just slapping it out of your hand. It would result in some very colourful language bursting from your lips, but it would be fun. 

“Truly, your faith in me is awe-inspiring,” Daemon remarked sarcastically. “And what if I said that this time I promise to stay for the foreseeable future?” 

You tilted your head to the side, detracted from your book once more. “Somehow I do not believe that. Trouble always seems to find you one way or another.” 

Daemon rolled his eyes, flashing you a devastatingly handsome grin that you had to fight a strange squirming sensation in your stomach. “Then I swear to the Seven Gods that I will stay out of trouble. I won’t curb my excursions to Flea Bottom of course,” Daemon added, seeing your incredulous look. “A man does have his urges. And you know of my nature.” Daemon smirked. “But I think I’m capable enough not to commit another act that would warrant exile. Don’t you think?” 

Your answering laugh echoed throughout the solar. But for a brief moment, you had believed him. After all, what more trouble could Daemon possibly incur? 

You finally broke out of your empty daze, letting out a low, slightly hoarse laugh. “I am. But he is not the only object of my ire,” you admitted, sighing as you lowered your eyes to where Aegon was banging his wooden dragon against the carpet. Thank the Seven it was soft or he would’ve dented the dragon by now. 

Confusion wrinkled Alicent’s features, but then her eyes shone with comprehension. “...are you perhaps feeling some anger towards Rhaenyra?” 

Your head snapped up, a slightly horrified look painted on your face. “No, of course not. Daemon is fully to blame for this situation.” 

You took a deep breath, feeling shame course through you like boiling water through your veins. You had known, that in some awful way, your conversation with Rhaenyra had indirectly led to the explosion of this scandal. Now, Daemon was exiled again - though you couldn't care less about that - Rhaenyra’s virtue had been called into question, and she was forced to hastily wed Ser Laenor. And the guilt had been eating you alive ever since. But you had not known your harmless words would lead to such a catastrophic end. ‘I am not cut out for this,’ you thought glumly to yourself. ‘That wise paragon of advice I was trying to emulate. I never was any of that.’ 

‘How foolish of me to play at a role I lack the foresight for.’ 

Nonetheless, your thoughts returned to the person who is mainly to blame for this situation.  

‘Stupid, stupid Daemon,’ you cursed in your head, fingers tightening around the wooden dragon toy. ‘How stupid of me to believe that he could’ve changed, that he couldn’t sink any lower. Stupid, stupid, stupid.’ 

At least one somewhat good thing had arisen out of this mess. The ‘resignation’ of Otto Hightower. 

Though many knew it was just a term meant to preserve the dignity of the former Lord Hand. 

You were not sorry to see the man go - you had disliked him ever since his orchestration of the debacle with Alicent and Viserys years ago. However, you were sorry to see Alicent’s distraught state for the past few days. You understood her - she was all alone now, this was almost as great of a loss to her as Aemma’s loss to you was. Being bereft of a figure of comfort and support. 

You studied Alicent, noting the slight eye bags under her eyes. You made a mental note to brew her a stronger chamomile tea - both to alleviate her stresses after pregnancy and to improve her quality of sleep. 

A sudden knock sounded at the door, and Alicent’s older cousin and one of her ladies-in-waiting, Malena Hightower, entered the room, curtsying. “Your Grace,” you were surprised when Malena turned to you instead. 

“Lady Y/N…a messenger came by earlier. He wished for me to convey the Hand…I mean, Ser Otto’s,” Malena recovered from her bluster with a slight flush, but you noticed Alicent’s face briefly crumple when she heard her father’s title reversion back to Ser. You felt a twinge of sympathy. “He wished for me to convey that Ser Otto wishes to have a discussion with you.” 

The clattering of a teacup on the floor startled the both of us. Alicent looked embarrassed at her clumsiness, as a servant rushed in upon hearing the noise. “Pardon me. Malena, did my father disclose the reason why he wishes for an audience with my chief lady-in-waiting?” You were unnerved by Alicent’s uncharacteristic sharp tone. It was like…she was angry at her father. 

Malena looked similarly unnerved. “Your Grace, I apologise. I do not know. The messenger just said that Ser Otto requested for Lady Y/N’s presence in his study whenever she was available.” 

Alicent kept a calm facade, but inside, her heart was thumping like a surge of wild animals. ‘Is what I have been fearing about to come true? Y/N-’ Alicent swung her gaze to yours, where you were conversing discreetly with Malena. 

“Thank you, Malena. If the messenger is still there, tell him I will be with him momentarily.” Alarm surged through Alicent’s body. She quickly handed Helaena over to the startled servant who had just finished picking up the shattered cup and disposed of it, stepping towards you. 

“Y/N, I do not think you should go.” The words were out of her mouth before she could suppress them. Perplexed, you stared at the younger girl, noticing her panic. It unsettled you. 

You tried to shoot her a reassuring smile. “Alicent, Your Grace-” Alicent immediately motioned for Malena and the servant holding Helaena to retreat out of the room when she noticed you addressing her by her title. They evacuated the room with haste. 

Alicent seized both of your hands in hers, a gesture that startled you with its intensity and urgency. “No, do not go. Please,” she begged, her eyes flickering with a violent storm of conflicting emotions. She knew she should be obedient to her father, and that the meeting could be harmless, but a wrenching gut feeling told her it was not so. 

You looked worried: what exactly had gotten into Alicent? It was unlike her to break her composure, and by such a simple request. Alarm bells began tolling in your head, and just as you were about to tell her that you wouldn’t go, a knock sounded at the door, and you and Alicent promptly broke apart from your intimate stance. 

Malena re-entered the room, along with a man you recognised as one of Otto’s household knights, Ser Garrick Pommingham. This was bad. Alicent made a strangled noise in her throat as she beheld Ser Garrick. It was serious enough that her father had sent a household knight to deliver the message, but Ser Garrick? He was one of her father’s oldest household knights, and fiercely loyal and trusted by Otto. It was clear that the invitation was not one that both you nor Alicent had any say in. 

“My Queen.” Ser Garrick bowed reverently to Alicent, before turning to you and giving you a smaller bow. “Lady Y/N. Shall I escort you to my liege?” 

Any of Alicent’s protests were immediately silenced, as she wrung her hands helplessly. There was no fighting against Ser Garrick, who was an extension of her father, and a bull-headed man at that - always priding himself on completing all his tasks to perfection. 

You knew as well, so you could only give Alicent a small, reassuring smile, trying to comfort her. Steeling yourself, you turned to Ser Garrick with a composed smile.

“Lead the way, Ser.” 

The Tower of the Hand had been the site of a flurry of activity over the past few days, as various servants and household knights bustled in and out of the rooms, carrying and loading up boxes of belongings into carriages to be transported back to Oldtown. 

Otto watched his servants move his things out of his nearly vacant study with an oddly impassive look, as he stewed in his own thoughts at his dismissal. He never thought that he would take up residence in Oldtown ever again, but how quickly the tide could be changed here in King’s Landing. 

The sound of a knock at the door roused him from his thoughts, and soon enough, his loyal household knight, Ser Garrick, showed in the guest he had been expecting. 

“Ah, Lady Y/N. I thank you for coming on such short notice.” 

You entered the room, the skirts of your rose pink gown swishing as you moved into the study. Wariness was woven in every bone of your body, your muscles taut with tension. “Ser Otto,” you nodded at him, not missing how the former Hand’s frame turned stiff at the reversion of his title back to Ser. 

“What matter has caused you to ask me to your study at such a busy time?” 

Otto took a seat at the lavishly appointed chair at his desk. The same desk where he had spent so many nights toiling for King Viserys. Though the chair could no longer be called rightfully his, he leaned into it, gesturing for you to take a seat. Which you did so, though not without reluctance.

"I do not wish to take up too much of your time, as my own time is precious too," Otto stated, his voice blunt as he leaned forward and drummed his fingers on the oak of the desk.

"I have a proposal for you." 

A frown furrowed your eyebrows, but you tried not to show it, smoothing out your skirts instead. “And what is that proposal? I am most interested to hear it.” 

Otto smirked slightly at the small note of sarcasm he detected in your voice. Normally, he would be irked at such disrespect, but it was evident from this that you wished not to play any games. ‘A woman who cuts straight to the chase,’ he thought to himself. ‘No wonder Prince Daemon was drawn to her.’ 

It made things much simpler anyway. 

“I’d like to ask for your hand in marriage,” Otto stated bluntly as he waited for your reaction. 

Meanwhile, you were frozen, as if roots had suddenly sprung from the ground and trapped you in the chair. ‘My hand in marriage?’ The words echoed through your brain. You suddenly recalled Alicent’s guilt stricken expression as she watched you leave her apartments. 

“Ser Otto,” you said quietly. “Surely you are jesting.” 

Otto looked unruffled at that. “I do not jest about such matters, Lady Y/N.” You let some of the incredulity you were feeling slip into your expression. “Allow me to explain the merits of our match,” Otto said calmly, leaning back into his chair. 

“Though I am ashamed of having done so, I had overheard your shouting match with your father at the Kingswood many moons ago.” This made you wince. You did not blame the man, the both of you probably shouted loud enough that those at the Wall could hear you. 

“I understand you are seeking a match, by the end of this year in fact. Which is less than two moons away,” Otto observed you as you tried not to squirm under his intense gaze. “Quite a pressing predicament.” 

Otto sighed. “I know, my dismissal has not made me the most…appealing of matches. What with my status as a second son, standing to inherit nothing short of some wealth and meagre land holdings. However, as you well know, you are not the most appealing of matches as well.” 

When you looked offended, Otto only went on blandly, “Please, do not take offence, Lady Y/N. My words do not come from a place of malice. It is true though, is it not? While you are lovely, your age is not one to be overlooked. You are turning- twenty six? Twenty seven this year? Many lords in Westeros consider this to be well past your prime.” Otto’s eyes glinted. “And the reputation of your…ah, headstrongness, is well known across the Seven Kingdom. As well as your long string of marriage rejections.” 

Otto shrugged, “That aside, think pragmatically. I am moving back to take up residence in Oldtown once more. Should you go with me, you would be much closer to home than here in King’s Landing.” Otto could still see the dubiousness in your eyes, and he knew he had to sweeten the deal up a little more. “And besides, I would not require any children of you.” He knew he had you again when your gaze shot up from looking down fixedly at the wood of his desk. “I am already a widower, with a daughter as Queen and four other strong sons. You would be under no pressure to produce heirs for me. And as a second son, my children stand to inherit next to nothing anyway. Moreover, if you are worried of any mistreatment, fret not. You are my daughter’s dearest companion, and a mother figure to her too. I will treat you with utmost respect” 

You eyed him warily, finally speaking up. “You’ve stated many demerits of this match as well, Ser Otto. Do you truly think it worth it for the both of us to pursue such a match?” 

Otto’s eyes glinted. She was more crafty than he thought. He would have to hammer down the point a little. “Though my inheritance is not rich in titles, I can assure you, it is not something to be overlooked. You would live comfortably, and be free to pursue any of your interests. I heard from the Maesters that you have an interest in healing and scholarly affairs. What better place to expand your knowledge than in Oldtown, home of the Citadel and some of the finest minds in Westeros?” 

Your gaze sharpened at that, he clearly had been keeping tabs on you for a while now. Though his offer was not without temptation of its own. “But why me?” you pressed. “As you have said, I am past my prime and have a wild temper at that. The only merits I possess are my lineage and heirship to Highgarden, and my father has already taken a new wife, so that hangs in the balance as well.” 

Otto smiled, “And that alone is enough.” Otto stood up, slowly walking over to your chair. He took your hand gently, and kissed the back of your hand softly. A frown was etched on your lips, and Otto knew it was best to let the matter go. For now. 

“I shall give you some time to consider it,” Otto rumbled softly, helping you out of your chair. “But the clock is ticking, Lady Y/N. Both for you and I. Once I depart for Oldtown in a few days, the offer shall be rescinded.” His expression was one of faux concern. “And do you truly believe that you would be able to find any other man of suitable standing to court you before your father’s deadline?” 

‘Even now he was not telling the truth, and trying to use wily means to stoke your deepest insecurities to his own gain,’ you thought, regarding the man before you in disdain. The both of you knew the truth of why he sought your hand, not out of compassion or sympathy, but to climb his way back up the political ranks. All of court knew how close you were with the members of House Targaryen, and that you were an ear of the King. otto was clearly trying to use you for his own designs, the same way he had used Alicent, and foist Aegon up onto the Iron Throne, whilst gaining more influence over Viserys - as if he hadn’t have enough already. Disgust pulsed through you. 

You shot Otto a haughty look, brushing off his hand. “This is still a personal matter, Ser Otto, and I mislike the tone of your voice. As a stranger, you would do well to refrain from making comments on my personal life.” 

Otto nodded stiffly. “Of course. I apologise. I overstepped. Shall I escort you back to my daughter’s chambers then?” 

“No need, thank you.” You were eager to put as much distance between you and Otto as soon as possible. And you couldn’t possibly see Alicent with your mind in such a jumbled state. You bowed your head stiffly, “I bid you farewell, Ser. I will…consider your proposal.” He nodded, but you could see his gaze was filled with calculation as you turned your back on him and walked away. 

“Lady Y/N.” Otto’s voice halted you just as your hand was on the door handle. “Just a question.” 

“Do you really think that staking your bets on Prince Daemon would result in a good end?” You stilled, turning around to face him yet again. Your eyes met his cool green ones. “I do not understand what you mean, Ser Otto.” 

“What I meant was,” Otto’s voice was blunt. “I do not think marrying Prince Daemon would bode well for you, if you wish to be closer to the centre of power.” 

You stared incredulously at him, swivelling around to face him fully once again. “I’m afraid you have it all wrong, Ser. I never had that sort of intention.” 

“Ask yourself, do you really believe that?” Otto’s voice was challenging. “Because I do not think you know your heart well enough..”

Astonished and angered by his boldness, you took a step back closer to the door. “Forgive me, Ser Otto, but I do not think you would know my heart better than I do.” You turned to leave, pulling open the door. 

“Search your heart deeply, Lady Y/N,” Otto called out. “You will find my words will ring true.” You didn’t respond, instead choosing to shut the door firmly behind you, leaving Otto Hightower and his delusions of grandeur behind. 

The Red Keep was blessed with a particularly pleasant chill this day, in the midst of a harsh autumn and an impending harsher winter. But you couldn’t bring yourself to admire the red and russet leaves as you normally did, instead wandering aimlessly around the Red Keep like a wraith. 

It was completely absurd for Otto Hightower to think that you got close to Daemon for ulterior motives. Marriage? With that insufferable punk? You snorted. You could barely stand his presence most of the time, let alone marriage. 

It was strange, however. Daemon had always been handsome, dangerously so, and charming, and that had never had an effect on you in the least. But ever since Aemma’s death…ever since his return from the Stepstones. You couldn’t lie, there was something there. The first stirrings of a fire. 

Well, that fire would never burn on damp logs anyway, and that was all thanks to Daemon’s stupidity. You grumbled to yourself, shuddering that you might have carried a torch for Daemon fucking Targaryen. 

You decided to venture into one of the courtyards found in the Red Keep. Perhaps some greenery would restore your senses, and provide a balm for your dilemma. Whatever were you supposed to do? There was no escaping the fact that it was nigh impossible to find a good match within two moons, one that would satisfy both you and your father’s expectations. But was marrying Otto Hightower really your only option? In all your worst nightmares, you never imagined that it could get so bad. While you did not share Daemon’s intense hatred for the man, the man made your skin crawl, with his pleasantries disguising a shrewd mind of warped traditional beliefs. 

‘Could I really be happy with a man like that?’ 

Lost in thought, you didn’t realise you had company until you caught sight of a tall figure with blonde hair, sitting under the shade of a huge willow tree, an intent expression on his face as he sketched away on a piece of parchment. Curious, you approached the lone figure to get a closer look. As you stepped closer however, your heel crunched on a branch, causing the mysterious stranger’s head to snap up. Your eyes snagged onto the sigil pinned to his tunic. 

A Beesbury. 

You inclined your head apologetically, “Beg your pardon, I did not mean to disturb you.” The young man from House Beesbury laughed, scooping up his parchment before walking towards you and bowing. “Lady Y/N. Do not apologise, my day has been made infinitely better by your presence.” 

You let out a small chuckle at his flattering, giving him a discrete once over. Exactly who was this man? Clearly you were not subtle enough, given the fact that he bowed once more, placing a hand to his chest as he did. “You must forgive my rudeness, my lady. My name is Alan Beesbury. My father, Lord Lyman Beesbury, serves on the Small Council as Master of Coin.” You let out a surprise “Oh!” before dipping your head politely. “Ser Alan. You must forgive me, I did not recognise you.” 

Ser Alan smiled brightly, unbothered. “Tis alright, my lady. Granted, I have never been introduced to you in a formal setting, so it is understandable you do not know me.” “How did you recognise me then, ser?” you inquired. “I visited Highgarden with my father a few years ago, and caught sight of you with your lord father. I deeply regret that I was not able to make your acquaintance then. Although it seems,” Alan grinned, his eyes dancing with mischief, “That I am lucky enough to behold your beautiful visage once more, my lady. You have only grown lovelier throughout the years.” You couldn’t refrain from snorting lightly, “You have quite the honeyed tongue, ser.” “Well, it is a useful skill at court. And to charm the ladies I have taken a fancy to.” he winked. “Would you grant me the honour of your company, my lady? It has been naught but two days since my arrival, and I find that I am in need of a guide to this vast keep.” An amused smile graced your lips, as you thought about his offer. He might be a flirt, and awfully forward, but he seemed a jolly enough fellow, and it would be rude to reject his company. And…it would be a good distraction. 

“I am at your disposal, ser.” He gallantly offered you his arm, and you took it. As you strolled through the hallways of the Red Keep, passing servants shot you strange looks, but you ignored them. “So, what brings you to the Red Keep, ser?” “Ah, my lord father summoned me to court to attend the upcoming nuptials for Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor Velaryon.” Alan made a face that was so offended you couldn’t help but let out a laugh. “He also thought it a good window of opportunity for me to find a lady wife.” 

“Oh,” was all you could say, your mind going back to your unpleasant conversation with Otto Hightower. Not wanting to seem impolite, you quickly added, “I wish you luck in your search, ser.” He smiled, although the joy did not reach his eyes. “Thank you, my lady. You are too kind.” 

 Ser Alan halted abruptly, startling you when you noticed you had stopped next to a flowering bush. Carefully, he plucked a gorgeous, striking yellow rose, moving to tuck it behind your ear. “A magnificent rose, befitting a charming lady as yourself, my lady.” You couldn’t help but laugh a little at his spontaneous show of chivalry. “I have to admit, ser, that you are the first man who has shown me this courtesy. I thank you most humbly.” 

“My father has always educated me about the importance of courtesy, especially to a lady.” Ser Alan shrugged, a sheepish grin painted on his features. “So long as it makes you happy, milady.” You strolled through the garden, chatting as he inquired about your life at court, which you happily indulged. Gradually, you forgot about Otto Hightower and Rhaenyra and Alicent as you conversed with him, too lost in trading anecdotes and playful jabs with each other about some rather insufferable personalities at court. You realised you found his company rather pleasing: he was attentive, and clearly a gentleman, but not to the extent where it was ridiculously cheesy. He wasn’t dreadful company either, he seemed sincere to get to know his talking companion, instead of endlessly bragging about himself or his long list of achievements. And behind his sweet words, he also hid a sharp sense of wit and humour. He was an ideal husband, the thought struck you like lightning. You could feel the cogs in your head begin to turn. You might have just found a way to escape Otto Hightower’s offer after all. 

“May I confess something, my lady?” Ser Alan’s voice interrupted your thoughts. “You may speak freely with me, ser.” you hesitated, before asking him, “Is it alright if I call you Alan, instead?” 

Ser Alan’s eyes widened, and you were a little afraid you had pushed your boundaries a little too far, but he soon broke out in a genuine smile. “If only I can call you Y/N in return, my lady.” You found yourself returning his smile with one of your own. “Then it is settled then. What were you going to say, Alan?” “To be honest, Y/N, I was extremely elated to run into you today.” Catching sight of your puzzled face, he hurriedly rushed to explain, “You see, I had sent a few marriage proposals to you before. Well at least my father has. I thought you quite brilliant despite my brief encounter with you at Highgarden. You radiate warmth, even at first glance, and I was rather drawn to you. Which was why I was so happy to have been able to have the fortune to bump into you here today. The Seven have truly blessed me.” 

“I see…” you murmured. “You are rather forward, aren’t you, Alan?” Alan looked unashamed of that. “I am a firm believer that being coy often robs us of opportunities in life, Y/N.” An amused smile twitched at your lips, “A bold philosophy, though certainly a wise one.” You took some deep breaths, debating on the gamble you were about to take. It was risky as hell. You barely knew anything about the man. It could end in disaster. But then again, your recent track record of decisions had led to bigger disasters than this. 

‘And do you truly believe that you would be able to find any other man of suitable standing to court you before your father’s deadline?‘

How life could change with just one decision. 

“Alan.” you began slowly, swallowing as you braced myself. 

“Yes, Y/N?”

“...does your marriage proposal still stand, by any chance?” 

Throughout your time at court, you had not been well acquainted with Lord Lyman Beesbury. A jolly enough man, and sharp of wit and tongue despite his old age was all that you knew of him. 

What you did not expect was how excited the man could be. 

“Oh, this is fantastic, wonderful news,” Lord Lyman exclaimed, grabbing your hands and shaking them vigorously. You looked over to Alan with a bewildered expression, and he simply smiled and mouthed, ‘He’s always like this. Don’t mind it.’ 

“To think my son would finally settle down, and to Lady Tyrell at that,” Lyman continued to ramble on, and you were a little worried that the old man might collapse from the joy. “A fine, fine choice you’ve made, son. A fine choice. I couldn’t be prouder…” 

You were mortified at how eager Lord Lyman seemed to be at the prospect of your marriage, but inside, you were secretly relieved. Otto Hightower had not sent word after news of your engagement with Ser Alan had disseminated through the castle, in no part thanks to the gossips who sniped at how the two of you barely had a courtship before your engagement. You had heard many whispers and murmurings of how desperate you must be to be driven to this point, but you didn’t care. You would take marrying Ser Alan any day over Otto Hightower.

No one was, of course, happier than Lord Matthos Tyrell at the word of his daughter’s engagement. From the way the reply to your letter had a few suspicious stains here and there, it seems a few tears had been shed. You could only muster a small smile at that, however. 

Alan had been the perfect gentleman over the past two weeks, showering you with gifts such as flowers or jewels - as fitting a suitor does to a lady - spending time with you, taking strolls with you, oftentimes visiting you while you were carrying out your duties as lady-in-waiting to Alicent and the like. Time after time, you would find Alicent’s gaze trailing across Alan doubtfully, like she was trying to scrutinise him for any signs of ill will, but you had reassured her in private that he was wonderful. But all she had to say was: 

“It is in human nature not to show who they truly are until later on, Y/N. I am just concerned.” 

Alicent’s words made you a little ill at ease, as you knew as much. You’ve heard so many horror stories over the years from ladies whose husband’s affections for them evaporated like morning dew upon their marriage after all, and seen enough examples. 

But you had made your gamble, and you must live with the consequences. No matter how dire they may be. 

The candles in the King’s private bed chambers and living space flickered as the doors opened with a loud creak, and you stepped in quietly. The room looked empty, and so you decided to walk around for a bit. 

And that’s when your heart nearly stopped. 

There she was. 

Rendered in vivid oils, the likeness of Aemma stared out at you with that gentle, comforting smile. Her visage encased within an intricately carved gold frame with dragons, and a makeshift shrine with candles decorated her portrait. Your heart was suddenly gripped with unbearable pain. 

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Viserys’ voice rang out from behind you, as he walked slowly to stand next to you, staring almost reverently up at her portrait. You couldn’t speak, your throat was closing up at the threat of tears that threatened to overwhelm and spill out from your eyes. You tilted your head down, unable to look anymore at that familiar, haunting smile. 

The press of a small white candle into your hand startled you. Viserys regarded you with a knowing sadness. “I thought you might like to honour her. We haven’t…done so in a while. Together as a family.” 

You nodded, not trusting your voice right now. Gingerly, you reached over and lit the candle, placing it on the shrine. You bowed your head, thinking of how much things have changed ever since her passing. How much you have had to change. 

“She would be so pleased to know that you were getting married,” Viserys lamented, gently touching oil-painting-Aemma’s hand. “From what I can recall, it had always been one of her greatest wishes to see you happily married.” 

You offered him a hollow smile at that. The joys of marriage had not yet made itself known to you, if you were even capable of it. And now, your head was too occupied with memories. 

“You’re in a terribly grumpy mood,” Aemma commented, as she reached for a roll of warm buttered bread to go with her third cup of tea. Her light blue eyes were filled with amusement as she watched you prop your head up from where you had lain it on the table, a disgruntled expression on your features. “Dare I inquire for the reason?” 

“Father has sent me another list of eligible bachelors,” you grumbled, helping Aemma refill her teacup, which she sighed exasperatedly at that. When it was just the two of you alone, she preferred for you not to serve her as lady-in-waiting, instead being more at ease and natural with her as her friend. But despite your attempts at overturning this habit, you found yourself unable to. Touch and small gestures were how you expressed your feelings after all. 

“From which kingdom is it for this time?” Aemma asked in a joking tone, putting a strawberry tart in her mouth as she stroked her small baby bump that had begun to show after four moons. 

“The Stormlands this time,” you sighed, dispiritedly popping a tart with an unknown yellow fruit in your mouth. The tangy sweetness, yet slight sourness of the fruit made you cheer up a little. 

“That’s a mango tart. Some merchants from the Summer Isles exported it to us,” Aemma explained, carefully noting your expression. 

“I wish I could live in the Summer Isles,” you sighed, popping another one of those tarts into your mouth. “And be done with all this bother. For Seven’s sake, I’m only twenty one. There’s still plenty of time.” 

“Yes, for you to develop wrinkles,” Aemma jested, letting out a laugh at your mortally offended face. “My queen, is it customary for you to insult your subjects in their time of distress?” You asked with faux hurt in your voice. 

“Perhaps I am a secret tyrant,” Aemma smirked slightly, lifting her teacup to her lips. “I am serious though, Y/N. You've been by my side as my lady-in-waiting for nearly two years, and we have known each other since we were children. You watched me get married to Viserys, be crowned as Queen, and giving birth to Rhaenyra. When will I get to witness some of your happy moments?” 

You gave her a deadpan look. “Aemma. I truly see no joy in getting married now. I’m still too young.” Aemma tried to hold in a sigh. “”And when will that be? Moons later? Years? A decade? When you’re old and grey?” 

“When I am ready, Aemma.” You stated, voice tinged with determination. “But when?” Aemma pressed. “Not to fear, I will definitely get married sometime during your lifetime,” you reassured her in a joking tone. “Perhaps when you’ve lived to seventy years…” 

Aemma threw the throw cushion she was holding in her lap at you, and you caught it, laughing, as Aemma shook her head in fond exasperation. “You’re insufferable.” 

Aemma looked at you, laughter dancing in your eyes as you changed the topic back to how you were going to answer your father’s newest letter. A wistful smile tugged at the corner of her lips. 

Do whatever you want, Y/N. I just hope that you will never sacrifice your happiness for the sake of something else. 

A small tear plopped to the weathered ground of the King’s chambers as you managed to choke out, “She would be. I just wish…she could be here to see it.” 

Viserys had a slightly guilty look on his face as you turned your gaze back to the portrait, confronting all the painful, bittersweet memories in all their blazing intensity. 

It was time to stop running. 

“When did you get this portrait commissioned?” The small semblance of a smile appeared on Viserys’ face again. “It is a story in itself, actually. Back when Aemma was…” Viserys’ voice hitched. “Pregnant…with Baelon, I had commissioned an artist from Volantis to paint it, as a gift to Aemma. Honouring her for giving us our-” Viserys choked up, his voice cracking. “For giving us our son.” 

Your fists clenched slightly. “And then when Aemma…I was so lost. I couldn’t bring myself to look at any portraits of her, so I stopped work on the painting.” Viserys looked like he wanted to pull portrait Aemma out of the frame she was trapped in, by sheer will of anguish. 

“But I had a change of heart. Three months after I named Rhaenyra as heir, I had moved on. I finally felt…peace. Like I have taken a step to atonement. So I gave word for the artist to continue, wanting to place it in the Gallery of Dragons after it was done.” The Gallery of Dragons was an art gallery in the Red Keep which honoured previous Targaryen rulers and royals who had passed. “But then he died when Alicent and I married.” 

“Oh dear,” you murmured softly under your breath, and Viserys let out a ragged laugh, before bursting into a fit of coughing. You moved to help him to a chair, but he held out a hand, his focus on Aemma. 

“I thought it a sign from the ancestors, from the Gods, that I should let go,” Viserys voiced out tiredly. “And so the painting remained untouched, and I thought I’d never see it to its finish. That the chapter would remain closed forever.” 

“Then when Helaena was born, the head royal artist decided to take on the job.” “Why?” You asked. You knew that the head royal artist, an old kindly man, had deeply revered Queen Aemma, for he was of the Vale and Aemma had brought him to court as part of her entourage, where he quickly rose up in the ranks. His previous occupation as a woodworker apparently served his artistic abilities well. 

“He was in his final days, and he wished for that to be the last painting he ever did.” Viserys smiled, his head drooping. “And I am glad he did.” 

Silence fell over the room as you two continued admiring the painting of your beloved Aemma. “Her eyes seem imbued with life, don’t you think?” You mentioned in a soft voice. “It’s like she is about to start talking any second now.” Viserys let out a hoarse sounding laugh, coughing again. This time it sounded more serious, but he waved away your concern all the same. “They are. The artists did a good job.” 

You were surprised when Viserys shuffled away to a chest on a table, rummaging through it before taking something out. It turned out to be some strange looking thin red sticks. 

“In Old Valyria, while there were many gods that people worshipped, the way they honoured their dead were the same,” Viserys explained quietly, handing you a stick, which you took, bewildered. “They would light it, then bow three times before the deceased’s portrait. It was said that a soul connection would then be forged between you and the person you were mourning, and you could convey a message to them.” 

“It sounds…” you tried to find the words to describe it. “...poetic.” 

“I thought so too. Shall we?” 

The two of you lit up the sticks, and a sweetly smoky smell emitted from them as they were lit. you followed Viserys’ lead, bowing your head three times, before closing your eyes. 

You hesitated on what to say, but eventually settled on, ‘I’m getting married, Aemma. I wish you were alive to witness it…but I know you would be delighted in the afterlife. I hope you are doing well.’ 

‘I hope you’ve seen how much I’ve grown. I hope you’re proud of me.’ 

“Are you happy, Y/N?” Viserys’ voice broke you out of your thoughts. For a moment, you look lost at what to respond. Were you happy? Though you didn’t feel the typical, dizzy excitement that the poets talked about when getting married, you felt something steady, something reassuring. Contentment. 

“I am.” 

“Truly?” Viserys’ pressing made you hesitate a little, but you pulled a smile on your face and answered. “I am. Really. Alan is a good man, and I am ready to begin a new chapter in my life.” 

Viserys finally began to relax, the tension visibly seeping out of his muscles. “Then I am most pleased for you. Though I never envisioned you to marry, and a selfish part of me wishes you would not have to leave this court, I am happy for you.” 

You bowed, a gesture of gratitude. “Thank you, Viserys. It means a lot to me.” 

His next words made you temporarily stunned into silence however. “Of course, I have also prepared your dowry. I have made sure that while it is lacking compared to Rhaenyra’s, that it is not to be underestimated. A ransom of jewels and gold as well as some antiques - Lord Beesbury does love his antiques. Some of those diamonds and sapphires are the finest I have ever seen.” 

Your mouth was agape. “Viserys, there is no need for you to-” Viserys talked over you, taking your hand. “But there is.” He looked at you with heartfelt gratitude and affection. “You are family to me, Y/N. It is the least I can do for you, for such a momentous occasion.” 

Your gaze softened as you began tearing up. “I cannot accept this. My father is already-” “I know, Y/N,” Viserys silenced you again. “But it’s not just for your dowry. Majority of the jewels and gold are for you.” 

You were now even more horrified and confused than before. “For me?” Viserys regarded you with a fond exasperation that almost made you weep at his similarity to Aemma’s. “For you, you silly goose. In the event…you are unhappy with your match, those jewels and gold should be sufficient for you to start a sizeable fund of your own. And of course, I will welcome you back to court with open arms at any time.” 

You couldn’t see past the blurry haze of tears and the painful throbbing of your heart, but the next thing you knew, Viserys was hugging you tightly back as you embraced him, choking with quiet sobs. He was crying himself a little too. “I only hope that you will be happy for the rest of your days, Y/N,” Viserys murmured, gently patting your back. Your body shook with violent sobs. “I…will. I promise. I thank you most gratefully for your generosity.” 

The two of you stayed like this for a while, before you awkwardly broke apart when the tears had stopped flowing. “The hour is quite late,” Viserys noted, feeling a little fatigued. You smiled weakly, still reeling from the shock. “That it is. I should be returning to my chambers then.” 

Viserys nodded, looking at you with fondness in his gaze. “Of course. You must still help me plan for Rhaenyra’s upcoming nuptials. And for your own. I would not want to impose on you any further.” 

You curtsied slightly, “Then I shall retire for the night then.” You hesitated, looking at Aemma’s portrait one last time, many thoughts running through your head. A final goodbye. “Good night, Viserys.” 

Viserys watched her leave, and the world suddenly seemed darker, much heavier. Like it had been since Aemma died. Coughs shook Viserys’ body, and he wearily took out a handkerchief to cover his mouth, careful not to let his spittle fly. A crimson stain slowly pooling at the white cloth was all he saw when he removed the handkerchief from his mouth. 

‘And now, I am alone once more.’ Viserys thought grimly, looking back at Aemma. ‘My last reminder of you is gone, and only Rhaenyra remains now. My strength, and my consolation. And my regret.’ 

Somewhere far away in Pentos, the squawks of a raven could be heard as first light broke across the city. Daemon Targaryen awoke, hair tousled and a disgruntled expression on his face, despite last night’s pleasures. He had dreamed of her. Again. It seemed she was a wraith plaguing his mind ever since that fateful day in Flea Bottom. 

His annoyance rose tenfold when he stalked up from his bed to receive the messenger raven. Unfolding the parchment, he took note of the familiar, rather wonky scrawl of someone who had only learnt to write recently. His eyes trailed over the words ‘the Hand has fallen from his high horse’, and he scoffed, smugness lining his features. The next two lines gave him pause, however.

‘The Princess has been betrothed to Ser Laenor.’ 

‘Lady Y/N Tyrell has been betrothed to Ser Alan Beesbury.’ 

‘From your loyal companion, Mysaria.’ 

Se Zaldrizoti' Prumia Taglist: @drwho-ess @graniairish @urmomsgirlfriend1 @thelittleswanao3 @animelover18 @llovinjoonie @gracielikegrapes @salembridger @itszzmoon @kmmg98 @travelingmypassion @zae5 @norestfortheshelbywicked @soleilgrec @anehkael @midnightprincess18 @lilith--666 @saay-karani @dumbhxeredrose @syviiss @nyenye @ahristata​ @hiraethrhapsody @babypink224221 @mckenziewhite2005 @justrybca @omgsuperstarg

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those who are bolded are those who couldn’t be tagged! let me know if you wish to be added to the taglist in the comments or through this form! 

A/N: One more chapter until the end of Act I!!! AAAHHHHHH. I deeply apologise for my repeated promises to publish only to chicken out at the end, so I shall now refrain from making promises that I cannot make 😭 I hope to get Chapter 10 out before 2024 officially hits (new year new me lol), but no promises there. I'll do my best, however!

As always, thank you for reading this far! Let me know what you thought about this chapter in the comments 💕

[wardenparker]

The Viper's Bride - Epilogue

Oberyn Martell x female reader x Ellaria Sand x OC Co-written with @absurdthirst

The second Prince of Dorne has lived under the illusion that he would not be forced to wed for his entire life. He has enough lovers and illegitimate children to make him a legend across Westeros, and the love of his soulmate Ellaria Sand to content him. But a contract between his brother and a lord from the north will catapult him into a match that may prove to be as complicated as it is intriguing. Especially when he learns that you already have a soulmate of your own.

Rating: T, but this blog is always 18+ Word Count: 9.5k Warnings: *Blanket warnings for this series: terrible parents, age gap 10+ years, arranged marriage, classicism, cursing, food and alcohol, internalized homophobia. Reader is described as having hair long enough to braid. This is a MMFFF polycule, folx. Get on board or don't click to keep reading. Pregnancy!* Childhood illness, vague descriptions of surgery, child in pain, pregnancy. Epilogue time is fluff time. Summary: In the years after returning to Dorne, your family grows exponentially. Notes: I'm just utterly heartbroken to say farewell to our favourite Dornish prince this week, but hopefully you all enjoyed the ride and were as glad to see this family grow as we were to tell the story 🧡🧡

Ch 1 ~ Ch 2 ~ Ch 3 ~ Ch 4 ~ Ch 5 ~ Ch 6 ~ Ch 7 ~ Ch 8 ~ Ch 9 ~ Ch 10 ~ Ch 11 ~ Ch 12 ~ Ch 13 ~ Ch 14 ~ Ch 15 ~ Ch 16

The sun is not up yet when the door to your chambers pushes open, and small feet pad across the smooth floor. You had been up late last night, celebrating another pregnancy with your husband although you have long since stopped keeping track of who the father actually is. Having now born two children that deeply resemble Oberyn and two that distinctly carry Raeden’s features, it no longer matters whose offspring you bear next. This beloved little girl, though, at nine years old, is the first of your children and very definitely resembles her Sand Snake sisters. Antonia Martell, Princess of Dorne.

There is more gray in Oberyn's hair than black, his body slower to recover from nights of excess, but his eyes open as soon as a little hand touches his arm. "Princess." He rasps, opening his arms to allow her to climb into the large bed. She knows that there might be times when others are there as well and has never questioned it yet. "Did you have a nightmare?"

Antonia shakes her head fiercely and her lip trembles as she snuggles in next to her father. “I can’t sleep,” she whispers, round eyes wide with tears as she tries not to wake her mother.

"What is wrong, my little date cake?" His eyes are brighter, clear and focused on his daughter as she grimaces. He had nicknamed her that after all the date cakes you had stuffed yourself with, lovingly provided by your half brother.

The sound of one of your children will always wake you, and even if you are a bit groggy you make sure to be able to focus on them. Right now, Antonia pulls that focus. “Did Kira keep you up, sweetheart?” At only six years old, little Kira often crawls into her older sister’s bed in the nursery, wondering out loud until all hours of the night or begging Antonia to tell her a story even though you and Oberyn take turns reading to them every night.

“No, Mama.” Even if she had, Antonia wouldn’t tattle on her sister. Her pout grows fiercer and she points to her side with a great sob. “It hurts.”

"What hurts?" Oberyn is sitting up instantly, reaching for his little girl to pull onto his lap. "Star, light the candles." Even though it could just be a stomach ache from too many sweets, Antonia isn't one to complain too much.

In a flash you are out of bed, grabbing a candelabra from the nearby table and bringing it close to the bed with care once it is lit. “Show us, sweetheart.”

Antonia is careful, pointing to her side without touching herself at all, and for the first time you notice her nose is a bit runny and her skin is damp with a thin sheen of sweat. “My tummy hurts,” she tells you both, chin trembling terribly.

“My poor little date cake.” Oberyn keeps his voice soothing, wanting to comfort her as he slowly presses his hand to her side, hating that she cries out in pain. “We need the maester.” He grunts, pulling his hand away and stroking her hair. “Sorry my love, I didn’t mean to cause you more pain. Papa would never want to cause you pain.” Instead of calling for Cal or Leyth, knowing they are still abed, Oberyn stands with his daughter in his arms. “Come, sweetheart.”

"Go, my love. I will look in on the others." If Antonia has gotten sick there is a chance that she will spread it to the others or even their nurse. If you are going to have four sick children, you would rather know sooner than later. You wrap yourself in a thin robe and pick up a single candle to walk with, moving swiftly down the hall toward the nursery.

He doesn’t hesitate. Striding naked through the halls of the Water Gardens since the family had moved there after the death of his brother, Doran. Once he gets out of the family wing, he starts to bellow for the maester to get his ass out of the bed and ready his tonics and cures.

Maester Strode is a relatively young man with a jolly disposition and warm countenance, but when he hears the prince shouting he leaps from his bed and lights the nearest lamp. "What is wrong, your Grace?" He asks, appearing at the end of the hallway with the light held high.

“The Princess is feverish and she is complaining about her side hurting.” Oberyn is grateful for the younger maester, eager to learn and he had taken well to the atmosphere of Dorne.

"Bring her inside at once." Strode knows that the Prince and Princess take the welfare of their children very seriously and moves to follow Prince Oberyn as he carries his heir through to the main room of his chamber. There is an examination table there, for the sick, and he lays Princess Antonia on it with a pillow for her head. "Does anything hurt other than your side, princess?" He asks, moving to a stand against the wall where he can wash off his hands before examining the child.

“No.” She sobs out, a pitiful sound. “It just really hurts.” She’s not sure what she’s done to cause this pain but she never wants to feel it again. Squirming slightly as she lays on the cool table with her little chin trembling.

“Alright, princess…” The Maester soothes, drying his hands before he returns to her side. “Your Grace, if you would hold the light over her?” He motions for Oberyn to stay close during the examination. “Do you feel sick, princess? Warm? Or dizzy, perhaps?”

“I’m cold.” She pouts, even though she is covered in sweat. “And my head feels yucky. Like I drank too much of Papa’s wine again.”

Bracing himself so he does not frown and upset the little girl, the Maester nods and holds up his hand. “May I touch your side, princess? So I can feel where exactly you are hurting?” There are any number of things that could cause these symptoms in the child, but if the pain is specific - if it is one precise thing that he fears - then time is of the essence.

“Careful.” Oberyn warns. “She screamed when I touched her skin.” He tells the maester, his own mind racing with what kind of poison could have possibly caused this. He has kept the younger children away from the chamber where they are stored; but children, especially his, are curious.

“Of course, your Grace.” When the little girl sets her face in a fierce imitation of her father and nods, only then does Strode gently prod the lower right side of her abdomen. When she screams outright he backs away immediately and nods. “How long have you felt this pain, princess?” If the pain is moving quickly, he will have to act fast.

“Just when I woke up.” She complains. “I didn’t sneak sweets, Papa, I swear.” She promises her father. She and her siblings have been known to raid the kitchens for treats. Especially the special tarts that Salin makes.

“Sweets would not cause this.” The maester tells Oberyn with certainty. While it is good that the little girl has only felt pain for a short time, the fact that it is so intense does not bode well. “Your daughter’s side is swollen, your Grace. It is possible that she will worsen quickly.”

“What kind of poison would cause this?” Oberyn demands. “I did not see a bite wound from a viper.”

"It was no poison. She was not attacked." The younger man shakes his head solemnly as he moves to the shelf that holds his most potent remedies. The princess will need something for her pain, and then he will talk to her father. "Could you drink something, princess? If I gave you something to help soothe the pain?" He asks, already reaching for the bottles that will help her temporarily.

Oberyn watches the maester carefully, not because he does not trust the man, he has delivered the last three of your babies, but because he wants to know what he gives her. “Drink up, my little date cake.” Oberyn urges.

The princess bravely manages the small amount of liquid that the maester administers and whimpers but stops cradling her side within just a few minutes. Reassured that his theory is correct, the maester brushes Antonia's curls from her face and assures her that she will start to feel better quickly before he nods for Prince Oberyn to step aside with him. "She is ill, but I believe I can help her," Strode tells him.

"What is wrong with my daughter?" Oberyn demands, now wearing a pair of breeches that a servant had thoughtfully slipped into his hands as he had watched his daughter carefully. "What illness does she have? Will it affect the other children?" Beyond the younger three, there are also Margarey and Raeden's children to worry about. Their third child was Oberyn's for certain and it was questionable if the fourth was Raeden's or Cal's.

“No, your Grace. The others are safe.” It would be far too painful to think of all the babes he had delivered for Houses Martell and Sunstone being gravely ill, and the maester shakes that idea from his head. “There is an organ, just here, in a person’s side,” he explains quietly, trying to let the young princess rest. “As far as I have studied, maesters and doctors have never been able to divine its purpose, but it is always there. Sometimes it swells, causing great pain and other discomforts, and in the worst of these cases it sometimes bursts. When it bursts, it nearly always claims the life of the ill party.”

His heart stops the moment he hears he could lose his daughter. He's fought, he's killed, he's loved and lost, but he would not survive the loss of any of his children - let alone his precious Antonia. She might be the most like him of all of his daughters and his jaw clenches. "Is there anything to be done?" He demands. "Tell me you can save her."

"It is...not often done." Strode admits, wondering how insistent the prince would be about attempting a rarely tried treatment. "Removing the organ before it bursts will keep her safe. But a child recovering from such a wound is still in danger in other ways. She would be in bed for weeks afterward."

"Re–removing the organ." Oberyn repeats. "Cut her open? Can she live without it?"

"Yes. And yes, she can." The younger man nods. "If you wish to consult with her mother before a decision is made, I advise you to speak to your wife quickly. She is already in immense pain and the tonic that I gave her will not outlast a burst."

Oberyn nods seriously and frowns as he looks back at his daughter as her eyes slip closed now that the pain is gone. Drifting off to sleep. He doesn't want to leave her, but he doesn't want her to be in danger of this organ bursting and causing even more problems. "I will bring the Princess back for you to explain to her." He decides. "I will be back in moments."

"I will stay by her side." Strode promises, nodding as the prince hurries back out of his chambers and down the hall.

Oberyn finds you closing the door on the nursery chambers. All the other children are fast asleep and comfortable. He rushes up to you and takes your arm. "Come." He grunts, tugging you away from the door. "Strode needs to talk to you. Now."

"What is wrong?" The only thing you know is that your oldest child is in pain and your husband looks terrified, and those two facts do not combine well so you run swiftly after him.

"She is ill. There's something Strode needs to cut out of our daughter, Star." Oberyn explains as the two of you race back towards the Maester's chambers.

"Cut out?" The panic rises in your voice and you cling to his hand all the harder as terror twists in your belly.

"He can explain it better than I can." There had been a moment when he had stopped listening, he couldn't. Not when he could hear the blood rushinging in his ears and his heart was pounding in fear so loudly that he couldn't think over the sound.

The maester is standing by his examination table when the prince and princess appear in his doorway and he motions for them to be quiet when it looks as though you might explode with concern. "This way," he insists, motioning for you to join him on the other side of the room despite never taking his eyes off of the sick little girl that was brought to him. "She is sleeping, thank the gods. I do not want to disturb her while it lasts."

"Tell my wife what you told me." Oberyn demands, his eyes don't move from his daughter, foolishly afraid that she might disappear if he stopped watching her. Your breathing is shallow and rapid, both from the run and from fear. "Remember the babe," he reminds you, squeezing your hand.

Maester Strode recounts everything he had told Oberyn previously, stressing that there is danger in waiting and that if all goes well with the - admittedly unconventional - procedure, the little princess will be just fine afterward. "Have you done it before?" You ask, running one soothing hand over the side of your belly to remind yourself that panic will not help you or your unborn child, let alone Antonia.

Strode shakes his head regretfully, but puts out his hands to reassure the couple while the prince looks ready to mutiny. "I have been present for it. I assisted. So I am far better prepared than any other maester in Dorne."

"You haven't done this before!" Oberyn hisses angrily. Feeling helpless because he cannot fix this. There is nothing that he can do.

"I assisted Maester Rhodestone with a nearly identical situation while I was still at the Citadel," Strode tells you, hoping the mention of his mentor's name will help to soothe the prince. He knows that Prince Oberyn had also studied under the recently passed maester's tutelage. "He was the first to theorize that it would work, and he was correct. The little boy recovered completely with only a scar to remember the pain by."

Wiping his hand over his eyes, the prince sighs before he looks at you. “Star?” He asks softly. There’s not a choice, but he wants to be sure that you agree with the risks.

"What choice do we have?" As scared as you may be for your daughter, the path is obvious. If you do nothing, the risk is losing Antonia altogether. And that is a risk you are absolutely not willing to take.

“Leave it to the gods.” Oberyn isn’t happy with that idea at all, but that is the choice if he does not agree to this. “And I do not want to do that.”

“I will not stand by and do nothing while my baby suffers,” you insist firmly, although the idea of having to cut her open is terrifying.

“How soon can you do this?” Oberyn demands. “Will she be awake? Feel anything?”

“There is a way I can induce sleep in her. Keep her from feeling the pain outright.” Strode nods. “It will be preferable for this. So she does not move while the organ is being removed.”

“That would be preferable.” Oberyn knows that she could do a lot of damage if she was awake and moving. He’s attended enough battlefield wounds to understand that. “You will use my healing mix for her as well, yes?”

“Yes, your Grace.” The Maester can agree to that easily, considering the prince’s proclivity for herbal work rivaled his abilities with poison.

“Do we need to do anything? Fetch you anything?” Oberyn demands, striding back over to Antonia to check her forehead. “Anything you need, you will have it.” Despite his words to the maester, his eyes are fixed on his precious daughter.

“Fortunately, I have everything I need.” The younger man glances out the large windows in his chambers though, and frowns. “I will keep a watchful eye on her until sunrise. The light will be better than if I worked by candlelight.”

“We will dress and return.” If you do not wish to stay, he won’t make you, but he won’t leave his daughter’s side while she goes through such a thing.

“You go first, my love.” Looking to where Antonia is sleeping, you bite your lip and almost quake with the effort not to cry. “I would hate for her to wake in pain and one of us not be here. You go and change, and I will go when you return.”

"I will be back before you can blink." He promises, pulling you in and crushing his lips to yours in a desperate attempt to calm you both down. "Tell her Papa will be back if she wakes before I can return."

Thankfully, it is past sunrise when Antonia wakes again. The maester has had time to prepare his tonics and treatments, and you have sat up with Oberyn for a few hours discussing how to handle her healing time and how to explain to her siblings that she needs to be allowed to rest and cannot play for at least a few weeks. When her little eyes open again she winces and whimpers in pain but you are both right there beside her.

"Princess." Oberyn leans down and coos as he brushes his daughter's hair back. "I know you are still in pain but Maester Strode is going to make you sleepy and then he is going to make the pain go away." He explains gently. "Will you be brave for me? You will have to be lazy for a little while, I know how much you like snuggling with Ellaria on the chaise. And you will have a scar where your stomach hurts."

“He can make it go away?” She asks warily, as if she thought that would never happen, and yet if anyone had asked her the question she would have said that her Papa could make it better.

"Yes," He leans over and kisses her little forehead softly. "I want you to be brave, my little date cake."

“It won’t h—hurt anymore?” The question falters when she wails in pain again and tears form in her eyes immediately.

"You will be sore, Princess." The maester does not believe in concealing possibilities from those seeking treatment from him, not even the younglings. "You will be stitched up and will have to be very careful how you play. But the sharp pain you have now will be gone."

Antonia is afraid, you can tell that easily, but you stroke her forehead and offer her the most maternal smile of support you possibly can. "It will be alright, sweetheart. Maester Strode is going to help you, and we will be here the entire time."

"You promise?" She asks, her voice small and scared, reaching for and clinging to your hand as she looks between you and her father.

"I promise, darling. Papa and I are going to be right here, and afterward I will carry you back to bed myself." Pregnant or otherwise, you could be on death's door and you would still insist on being the one to carry Antonia back to her rest. "Can you be a good girl for the maester now, and let him help you?"

She nods solemnly, even as she pouts when the cup of tonic that will make her sleep is brought over. "You will need to drink this, Princess." Strode urges.

The smell makes her nose wrinkle but the pain is far worse than a little bad smell, so Antonia swallows the tonic and grimaces only slightly while still keeping your hand in her tight little grip. "I hope it works fast," she mumbles with a fierce pout.

If there is a moment of lightness, this is it. Oberyn chuckles and nods in agreement. “Us too, my sweet girl.” He pets her hair as she drinks the concoction down, making an unhappy noise when it’s done.

It takes only minutes, thankfully, and the maester is satisfied that the little princess will sleep soundly through her treatment. "I will ask you both to let me work," he insists in the most polite way possible. "It will be very distressing to watch your daughter be treated in this way, so I will ask you now to consider whether or not you can remain in the room without interfering. The more swiftly I can see to her illness, the sooner I can stitch her wound and return her to her bed to heal."

Oberyn turns to you and puts his hands on your shoulders. “Star?” He asks quietly. He knows that you are fiercely protective of your children, and he wonders if you can stay.

"I will hold my tongue, but I cannot possibly leave her." Of the two of you, you know that you are the more likely to protest. But the fact is? You promised her that you would be here and you would not break that promise for all the gold and jewels in the world.

“I understand.” Cal has slipped into the room behind Ellaria, ready and willing to take any and all news back to the others. Raeden, Leyth and Margaery are watching all the other small children and keeping them safe.

"Work swiftly and true, maester." You tell Strode, not knowing what else you can do but let the man do his job. His job of saving your child.

Oberyn pulls you away from the table as he readies his tools. “It will be well.” He murmurs against your ear, holding you close. Ellaria comes closer and she wraps her arms around you and presses against your back.

"I thought it was difficult when Lina broke her arm last year." Sniffly quietly against Oberyn's chest, your hand winds around Ellaria to hold her closer to both of you. Admittedly, you had panicked last summer when your second daughter - the first you share with Raeden - had fallen from a tree and broken her arm while playing. This somehow seems worse than that. "This is unbearable. She did nothing wrong. Nothing to cause this."

“Things happen.” Oberyn reminds you gently. He rubs your arms and pushes down his own fear. You need him to be strong for you and he can almost guarantee his oldest eight had come with Ellaria and are waiting out in the hall.

"That is not a comfort, my love." You sigh deeply, knowing that it is not his fault, and wipe tears from your eyes before they can fall and cause you to sniffle. Antonia may be asleep but the sound of her mother crying should never happen near her unless it is weeping for joy. "Thank you for coming, El."

“Where else would I be?” Your lover and Oberyn’s soulmate huffs, knowing you need everyone you can have right now. “Rae and Margaery would be here, but they are keeping the little ones from storming the castle.”

"This family is blessed to have all of you." Swallowing a deep breath before you lean in to kiss her softly, you know this morning is going to be more difficult than any of your births - or even Margaery's and hers had been far more treacherous than yours. "I think we could all take turns with Antonia as she is healing? It will help her to not be so restless if she has different faces each day."

“That is an excellent idea, my love.” Oberyn leans across you and presses his lips to hers. “Unless Lord Sunstone has pressing matters to attend to.” The clinking of tools makes him want to look over, but if he does, you will and he wants to distract you for as long as possible.

“I think not.” Ellaria shakes her head but does not let her expression grow concerned or melancholy. “They spoke of only the children last night. Not business.”

“Then I am sure that they will have no problem with the idea.” All five adults, really seven if you include Cal and Leyth, were adored by the younger children and could be seen as a beloved aunt or uncle if they were not the parents. It really was a village of children and adults in the Water Gardens these days.

“She will be fine.” Ellaria soothes, running one hand up and down your back when she feels you tighten with nerves again. “It is natural to be scared, but remember how Maester Strode helped Margaery when Martine was born. He is skilled and earned your trust well.”

“I know.” You cannot help it, though, and have to stand with your back to the table so you do not look. “This fear has nothing to do with not trusting him. It is only because she is my little girl.”

“Of course, my love.” Oberyn hums softly, his eagle eyes fixed on the maester’s movements and his body tenses the moment the sharp knife cuts into his daughter’s small body.

“Is he doing it?” When Oberyn tenses you can only guess why.

“Yes.” He squeezes you quickly, making sure that each one of the moves the maester makes is not one that hurts his baby. At the thought of that, his hand slides down to your stomach. “Don’t fret too much, you will make yourself sick.”

“I am honestly surprised not to have been overtaken by it already,” you admit with a sigh. “Perhaps this babe is finally going to be calm, if only for her mother’s sake.”

Oberyn snorts, about to make a joke but he bites his lip on it. “Let us hope.” Ellaria strokes your back and sighs. “The girls are outside. They wanted to be here.”

“All of them?” The only surprising thing is that you are surprised by it, and it actually brings the nearest thing to a smile to your lips that you can manage. “Eight older sisters and they do nothing but dote on the little ones. They’re such sweet girls.”

“They would do anything for them.” She is proud of them, all wanting to come and wait. Understanding the risky procedure might not have a happy outcome and believing guarding the maester’s door might keep Antonia safe.

“I’m grateful for them.” You tense when Oberyn’s breath hitches slightly, and swallow down the fear that will surely lead to tears if you allow it to surface. “And for you, El.”

“My love, there is nowhere else I would rather be.” Ellaria leans in and kisses your shoulder and hugs your back.

The process takes more than an hour. And though the Maester is quick, quiet, and sure of himself, you do nothing but quake with fear the entire time. It is only when he is inspecting her stitches in the bright morning light that you feel like you can finally breathe again.

“It is done.” The Maester sighs, straightening up and moving to clean his hands again. The procedure had been a success and he is relieved that it had gone so smoothly.

“And our daughter?” She is still sleeping, lying on that table, but she is breathing and she is not quite so pale anymore.

“She will be perfectly fine.” He tells you with confidence. “She should wake up soon and she will be sore, but she will make a full recovery, your highness.”

"Can we move her before that?" You ask immediately, stepping quickly up to the side of the table and wincing at the sight of cleaned blood around her stitched wound. Your poor darling... "Let her wake up in her own bed, I mean?"

“It might make her feel better.” Strode nods. “Although I have a feeling that she might wish to be close to her parents for the next day, and have you close to her. So I would put her in your bed, your highness.”

"Just so." With Oberyn's help, you keep Antonia steady in your arms as you pick up her little body and look to the maester with deep gratitude. "I will forever be in your debt for keeping her safe, Strode," you declare quietly, almost as if being too loud might wake your oldest child. "If Maester Rhodestone were with us, I know that he would be proud to see you carry on his work."

“It is my pleasure that I can continue his work.” Strode reaches for Ellaria and presses a bottle into her hand. “Just a drop into some juice will keep her comfortable while she recovers.”

"Just one." Ellaria acknowledges, understanding that with medicine as with poisons - dosing is everything.

Maester Strode nods and quickly moves to the table to start cleaning up from the surgery and to examine the organ he has removed from the princess. Much could be learned by studying it.

******

The maester was correct that Antonia's recovery would take some time. It is entire weeks in bed with the tonic for pain deposited in her juice, until she is strong enough to be sitting up and playing cards or other games with her siblings. In the next few weeks Antonia spends a few hours at a time at the Water Gardens with all of her sisters and her few brothers. But the thing that truly delights every single one of you once you see that she is healing well? Antonia will soon have her very first scar. And that is a very exciting thing to happen when the adults all around you have found their soulmates - and then earned more on top of the first.

“Your father and stepmother are here, Star.” Oberyn tells you as he walks out into the gardens with the couple trailing behind him. Your father had decided when he had been reunited with Marlee, finding her alive and well, that he did not wish to spend another minute apart from her. Taking her and her children back to the Vale so he could relinquish his titles to your eldest brother and let your brothers meet the soulmate that should have been their mother. Surprisingly? They had quickly accepted the kind hearted Dornish woman and her children as part of the family. Even accepting that their father wished to return to Dorne to live out his days. Leaving the cold of the Vale behind as well as the painful memories of time lost.

There is little to no formality within your family despite the high titles, and you pop up from dangling your bare feet in the water to give your parents tight hugs. Your father’s hair is completely white now, and the cane he walks with is not just for show, but he has been more lively in the almost ten years since reuniting with his soulmate than ever before. “I am so very glad to see you both,” you hum. The sentiment is true no matter how often you see them.

"Princess." Despite the fact that you have asked Marlee to just call you by your name for years, she cannot help but use your title. Her arms still open to embrace you warmly. "We wanted to come see the grandchildren and to check on you." She is not a grandmother by blood to the children, but it does not matter and she dotes on each one of the children and spoils them as if they were her own.

“We are always happy to see you.” Your children have known no other grandmother and for that you are immensely grateful. They adore their Uncle Salin as well, who keeps them well supplied with sweets and stories of the world outside of Dorne.

“We thought that perhaps we could care for the children tonight.” Marlee explains. “To give the five of you a break?”

“That is so very kind of you.” It has been obvious, in the years since your father has remarried, that he had lost his spirit and his happiness to your mother’s cruelty. Now that he is reunited with his soulmate and living his life on his own terms, a happier man does not exist. “We could all have our midday meal together before we slip away? I know the little ones will be so glad to see you that they will not even notice we have gone.”

“We would be delighted.” Your father answers with a smile. “I can share the raven I received from your brothers.”

“I am not sure if that is exciting or ominous,” you tease with a grin. Your brothers have been thriving in the Vale, grown men living their lives happily with their wives and children all growing into bright young people with their futures sprawled out in front of them. “Oh my dears!” You call out, turning back to where the kids are splashing in the water and Antonia is playing dominoes with Raeden to keep her from getting too rambunctious. “Look who will be spending the afternoon with us!”

“Nonnie! Poppie!” Antonia screeches, her face lighting up and the other children, including Margaery and Raeden’s, all start screeching the nicknames that the eldest had bestowed on their grandparents. Margaery stands from where she was wading with her smallest toddler and waves happily. Delighted to see the parents she had adopted as her own since her father had never spoken to her again before his death when King’s Landing had been burned by the Targaryen queen.

“How is my little warrior feeling today?” He might not be walking as fast as he once did, but your father is still just as determined as ever to have his grandchildren in his life. He bends down now with great care, not wanting little Antonia to over extend herself. “I hear you are healing better than the Maester predicted.”

“I am almost ready to play like normal.” She had been patient with your caution, but she was eager to run and play with her siblings, even picking up the toy spear her Papa had given her to practice with. “I have missed you and nonnie.” She hugs his neck tight and kisses his leathery cheek with a loud smack.

“We have missed you too, little one.” He smiles so dotingly and bops the tip of her nose playfully with one finger. “That is why we are going to spend all day and night with you and your siblings. Because we have been away far too long.” In truth, they have only been traveling a little while, but Marlee’s younger daughter had just given birth and they wished to meet the new babe.

“That is the best gift ever!” She cries out happily and grins. While the servants will still be there, all the children adore time spent with their grandparents. Their soulmate story was a favorite bedtime story as well.

“Come, little one.” He puts out both his hands to her to help her stand. “Let us wash, and we will see what your Uncle Salin has made for lunch, hm?”

“He will have made tarts.” Antonia declares with a grin. “He’s made them every day along with the date cakes Mama loves.”

“Tarts, you say?” That is his favorite, of course, but he wonders if you have a specific craving this time, with his next grandchild already squirming and kicking in your belly. “Well, we know why there must be date cakes, don’t we?” He asks her, taking her hand so they can walk together while the other young children scramble out of the water and into the palace for their lunch.

“Mama’s going to have another baby.” She tells you happily. “They have been talking about celebrating because Aunt Margarey is having a baby too.”

“We always enjoy having a few pregnancies at once,” you agree, taking Antonia’s basket from her so she can walk with her grandfather — her flower crown weaving has come along beautifully during her recovery. “Do you know why else we want to celebrate, sweetheart?”

“Because you and Papa have been married for a long time? Your– your ani– ani–birthday?” Antonia asks, frowning slightly because she knows that’s not the word she wants to use.

“Anniversary.” Her substitution works very well, though, and you grin. “Not quite yet, pumpkin. It’s for you! Because you have been such a brave girl and so patient while you’re healing, we’re going to celebrate you getting your very first scar.”

Her eyes widen once you say that out loud. “A scar?” She asks quietly. “Like– like a soulmate one?” She knows that soulmates are special and you and papa are extra special. “Do you think we know mine? Or will I be like Aunt Margaery?”

“We don’t know yet, sweetheart.” Aunt Margaery, though she never gained another set of marks over her life, has been immensely happy in her romantic life. “We might know yours already, or we might wait many years before we meet them. Both are perfectly okay.”

“Okay.” It’s something fun but it’s not overly concerning to her right now. “I’m hungry.”

That draws an amused chuckle from both you and your father. Truthfully? It is probably good that your nine year old is not too excited about growing up. Let her be a child for as long as she is willing.

“Do soulmate scars hurt?” She asks after a few moments, biting her lip and frowning slightly. If she’s got to have a soulmate, she doesn't want to cause them any pain.

"Only for a moment, precious." Her concern is commendable, and a point of pride as you and Oberyn have always tried to teach your children empathy. "You had pain for weeks to earn it, but they will only have pain for just a moment. And after that, they will know that you are out there somewhere."

“Okay, good.” The pout clears up and she smiles happily. “I don’t want to cause them pain for too long.” She tells you. “Papa said you always weep when he gets scratches.”

"That is because I worry too much." You tell her, giving your father the stink eye when he chuckles in agreement. "I don't like it when Papa gets hurt, just like you don't want your soulmate to hurt, either. But there's no need to cry. I just worry."

“It’s okay Mama. Papa is the strongest, fiercest man alive.” She boasts, with the sense of confidence of a child that worships her father can have.

"Yes he is, sweetheart. He defeated an entire Mountain while you were still in my belly." Brushing some curls from her eyes, the smile on your face bolsters into something equally proud. "But just because someone can withstand hurt, does not mean they should have to."

“I know.” She rolls her eyes. “It’s just good that he can because I always want Papa here.” She tells you quietly. “He’s the best papa in the world. He even promised me a dragon.” Her eyes widen happily. “That’s better than a pony.”

“Oh he did, did he?” Though you all but roll your eyes, it does make you smile. Oberyn’s devotion to children is complete and no one could ever doubt that. “That does sound like the best papa in the world.”

“He is.” She insists happily. “He told me that first I have to make sure that I can keep the little lizard he let me keep alive. Because he says dragons are like giant lizards.”

"That is what they say." Never having seen one, you cannot say for sure, but if there is anyone whose readings you would trust it is Oberyn. As the group of you walk into the dining room at the Water Gardens, you are met with a whole group of other people waiting. A group which includes Raeden and Margarey who are beaming with excitement as they stand on either side of their oldest son by the windows. The young boy is only a few months younger than Antonia and looks every inch his father's son, but with his mother's quick wit and sense of humor. "Oh, dear," you hum in amusement, seeing the way Margaery looks as if she is about to burst at the seams. "What have you been up to, my dear? You like the cat that got the cream."

“It is– we have news.” Margaery nearly vibrates with happiness. The life she has had here, the life so willingly shared with the most surprisingly wonderful people, is one that she never could have imagined so many years ago. Despite the fact that she does not share marks with her husband, she does share love with Lord Sunstone. Love that is equally shared with you and Ellaria and Oberyn. The outlandish and improper request she had made so long ago had been her salvation and she is forever grateful for it. Which is why she now hopes this news will be celebrated with the people she loves most. “Bryer has gained a mark!” She cries out happily.

The room seems to freeze, all occupants at once have their eyes on either Bryer Sunstone or Antonia Martell — and all of these eyes are wide. Your hand grabs Oberyn's arm tightly beside you on instinct and you almost choke in surprise as you stare down at your little girl and then immediately force your eyes up to the little boy she has been steadfast friends with for her entire life. "Is– Margaery, is it–" The words will not even come, but many tears do instead. "Is it a funny shape?" Antonia bursts out with an entirely different question, obviously not having made the instant connection that every adult in the room already has. "Where is it, Bry? Can you show me? I bet it's more fun than mine."

“Nia.” Bryer huffs and rushes towards his best friend and now his soulmate. He had seen her mark when she was wearing stitches and knew what it looked like. It was good he’s always felt really good around the older girl, like she was the best part of a tart. He bites his lip and lifts his shirt to show the matching mark on his skin to hers. “It’s your scar.”

The sound of her mother's broken sob of joy seems to go right over Antonia's head at the moment as she stares at her best friend's stomach and her already wide eyes grow three sizes as her mind races to understand what has happened. One of her fingers comes out to poke the mark as though it were made by coal and she could smudge it, but no. No. It is there as deeply and truly as her own, and she lets out an equally overwhelmed squeak before finding Bryer's eyes. "So...we're...soulmates?" She breathes out, clearly astonished by the very idea.

“I–I think so.” He’s always felt so close to the Princess. But he shrugs. “Unless– unless you don’t want to be.” He offers, knowing that sometimes people aren’t soulmates and love each other. His parents are like that. So why couldn’t people be soulmates and not love each other?

“I don’t think we get to pick.” Antonia reminds him, but within seconds the little girl is smiling broadly. “But…” Mischievous by nature, Antonia Martell has always been the most like her father of any of his children and delights in making adventures out of everyday life. “But that means we can be best friends for everything, Bry!”

The breath Bryer had been holding whooshes out of his chest and his own grin lights up his face. “I know!” He drops his shirt and grabs her hand. “Let’s go pick out what we are going to do first!”

“Nuh-uh, you two. Not quite yet.” You barely manage to stop them as they try to bolt past you, and you shake your head the way only a mother can. “Best friends still need to eat lunch, and Nia still shouldn’t be running.”

“Maaammmmmaaaaaaaaaaa.” Antonia whines, pouting fiercely. “I’m not hungry.” She complains, even though she had just been say she was hungry. “I want to figure out what to do with my soulmate.”

“And you can.” Oberyn interjects, reaching out and taking his daughter’s should to turn her slightly. “You have the rest of your lives to plan, but now…” he tell her. “I want you to plan to eat lunch with your family and your soulmate.”

******

“Nia?” Still half asleep, Bryer stretches in bed and frowns to not find his soulmate beside him. After arriving at the Water Gardens late last night he had slipped into her chamber and curled around her for his first good night’s sleep in a month — four weeks at his father’s side traveling their lands and tending to their people was important but he had missed Antonia desperately.

Antonia groans, wiping her mouth and grimacing as she looks down into the chamber pot. “I’m here.” She tells him, standing back and reaching for a cup of water. Wine has been turning her stomach lately.

“Are you alright, love?” In the ten years since discovering they were soulmates, Bryer and Antonia have become bonded entirely. They are each other’s constant companion even more than when they were children and the occasional joke about their inevitable marriage had started well before that was even a possibility.

The fact that her father was the first to recognize the symptoms will forever be a source of embarrassment to Antonia. Not because she is ashamed of sex, she never would be because of the relationship her parents share with Ellaria and Bryer’s parents. She was embarrassed because she should have figured it out herself. “I have a confession.” She admits, shamelessly moving towards him as naked as the day she had been brought into this world.

“That sounds terribly ominous,” Bryer teases, trying to lighten the mood from the serious look on his beloved’s face. “Lover, you know you can tell me anything.”

“I know.” Setting the cup down, she sits on the edge of the bed as her soulmate and lover moves closer to her. His hand automatically reaching for hers. “I didn’t want to send a raven, I wanted to tell you in person.” She bites her lip as she looks down at their joined hands. She knows Bryer loves her, but she’s unsure of how he will feel about her announcement. “I am expecting your first child.” She tells him, looking up to stare into his eyes.

The way the air gets sucked out of the room for a moment should have had both of their heads spinning, but when Bryer’s mouth finally catches up with his mind he nearly loses his jaw to the ground. “You—we—a child?” He gasps, looking down at her belly as though a bump has formed there instantly.

She nods, hoping the shock is just that and not disappointment. “Papa recognized the symptoms and asked mama to take me to Maester Strode. He confirmed it. I am two months gone with your child.”

When he can find it in himself to move again, Bryer lunges forward and kisses Antonia with the most earnest, heartfelt honesty that he can muster. “Marry me.” He breathes out, practically laughing with how light he feels. “They cannot possibly tell us we are still too young if we will soon be parents.”

The girl deflates in relief and nearly barks out a laugh as she throws her arms around her lover’s neck. “Papa is already plotting it.” She promises. “He knows you must secure your heir properly. And he knows how much you love me.” In reality, you had no issue with them marrying young, Oberyn had just wanted to give the boy an opportunity to sow wild oats before marrying, if needed.

“I do love you,” he insists, cradling her in his arms and tugging her impossibly closer. “I always have. Since the moment I knew what love was.”

“I love you.” She promises, pressing her lips to his softly and smiling. “We have always been meant to share this life.”

“What do you think of trying some breakfast?” He asks, pressing kissing along her neck and shoulder and holding her as close as can be in his arms. “Or do you feel too sick for it?” He knows that he has heard his own mother, and hers, and Ellaria bemoan the way an uneasy stomach gets in the way of being hungry, and he wants to do everything he can to take care of her.

Humming softly, she leans into his embrace. “I think that I can stomach some date cakes.” She admits with a small giggle, reminded of her own mother’s eating habits while you were carrying her siblings. “And some of the fruit that your mother loves.”

“Whatever you want, my love. Anything.” Resisting the urge to tease, Bryer nuzzles against her again and kissing her shoulder. “Should we go down to breakfast and let our parents know that you have told me?”

“Mama and Papa already know.” She reminds him. “There’s a good chance they have told your parents. Papa had said that they were all going to be together, since they had all been missing your father in the big bed.”

“Well…” Bryer laughs softly. “The least they can do then is tell us what they have planned for our wedding.”

“Of course.” She rolls her eyes but she knows that her parents and his would want them both to have everything they ever wanted. “Let me dress.”

“If you must,” he pouts, always preferring her bare when he can get it. Even more so now that something primal and territorial is creeping into his mind with a baby in her womb.

“While our parents might parade around the Gardens nude when they think we are asleep, I don’t know if I could.” She teases. Many nights when Bryer had come to her chambers, they had heard their parents frolicking in the waters well after dark.

Nodding, Bryer climbs from the bed and begins to dress himself in turn. “I know that they have found their happiness in the freedom to share love with so many, but…I want only you,” he admits with burning cheeks. “You are all I want and all I need, Nia.”

“Bry–” She shakes her head. “I have only been with you and that’s perfectly fine with me.” She rolls her eyes and walks over to throw herself in his arms. “Mama says that if we choose many or just each other, all that matters is that we are happy.”

“Your mama is a very wise woman.” He murmurs, pressing a kiss to her hair.

“Yes she is.” That point, Antonia would never argue. “Let’s go tell your parents they are going to be grandparents.”

“My mother is going to cry,” he predicts with a grin before scooping Antonia against his side and heading off with her down the hall.

Of that, she has no doubt. Lady Sunstone, or her Aunt Margaery, had developed a habit of crying when she was happy. She explained it one day, telling Antonia that when she was younger, she could never show her true feelings so they just kind of bubbled up as tears now.

“I half suspected the two of you might sleep through breakfast,” you tease when your oldest child appears in the doorway of the dining room with her soulmate wrapped around her as young people in love so often do. “Or even have trays brought to you in bed. Welcome home, Bryer. You were dearly missed.”

“Thank you, your highness.” Despite being his soulmate’s mother, Bryer still uses your title despite you telling him not too many times. His father, your soulmate, still called you princess and he was his father’s son. “It is very good to be home.”

“Very good indeed.” You agree, trying very hard not to smirk in your daughter’s direction. “Come. Join us. We were all catching up on the news.”

The news. Antonia eyeballs her mother and wonders if she had told everyone. “Apologies. It has been a slow morning for me.”

“Of course, sweetheart. Do not worry about that.” The table is full this morning — with more than a dozen children and five adults seated around it — and you all take from plates piled high with fruits, cakes, cheeses, and last night’s leftovers from the banquet. Salin had outdone himself with two whole roast boar and pot upon pot of spicy stewed lamb along with all the other elegant dishes he had provided. It was sure to be just as delicious this morning. “Lord Sunstone was bringing us up to speed on the prosperity of the farms in his region, and how well Bryer’s second tour with his people went.”

“Oh?” Antonia beams proudly at Bryer. “I know he will be a very good lord when the time comes, just like his father.” She has the utmost respect for Lord Raeden, and thinks of him as a second father.

"He has compassion and intelligence." Raeden commends his son from across the table, even with his youngest child sitting in his lap. "Two things which will be necessary for him to harness when things are bad or good with our people."

“The Sunstones are an asset to Dorne.” Oberyn agrees. “Every one of them.”

"And the next generation will be, too." Bryer declares, chest puffed and drink held aloft, proud to be a part of this conversation but also to usher in the next as he beams at Antonia beside him.

“To the next generations.” Margaery agrees, beaming at her eldest son and her husband’s heir. Proud of the son she had birthed and raised here in Dorne. “We have created enough of them.” She jokes.

"It is high time our children took over, I could not agree more," you hold up your own glass, but push a glass of juice toward your daughter. "I could not take wine when I was pregnant with any of you, pumpkin. It only makes sense that you cannot, either."

It is fitting that her mother be the one to announce it and Antonia’s eyes dart towards Bryer parents. No shock on their faces, only excitement and pride. “Mama!” She cries, pouting at you. “You told them!” She’s not angry, but she is going to see how sheepish you are over it.

"I could not resist," you admit, laughing and covering your face for just a moment to show embarrassment even though you barely feel absolutely any. Being excited for your first grandchild is your motherly right. "Forgive me, sweetheart? It is such good news to be shared."

“She could not keep it in, and I am so happy she could not.” Her future mother by marriage leaps up and rushes around to hug Antonia. “I could weep last night so you do not think I am anything but thrilled.”

"It brings our families as close together as they could possibly be." You are on your feet as well, hugging Bryer while Margaery squeezes Antonia to pieces. "And we are so very excited for both of you."

“Bryer is excited.” Antonia announces, looking over at her father. “Shocked. I thought he was going to choke on his own tongue.”

"That is about how I reacted when I found out that his mother was expecting him," Raeden chuckles. He, too, has joined the press of parents embracing their children and he hugs Antonia tightly. "His mother could have knocked me over with a feather. He is more like me than even he knows, sometimes."

“Thank you.” She whispers to him. “For making him a man I am proud to love.” She smiles up at the older version of him. While there are glimpses of his mother in him, he is far closer to his father in resemblance.

"Loving you has made him a good man." Raeden promises her. Just as love had made him a good man so many years ago - in so many different ways.

Leaning in, she kisses his cheek and then hugs her papa after he embraces Bryer. “I can’t believe it papa.” She tells him. “I’m going to have a baby.” Oberyn chuckles, folding his daughter into his arms and kisses her hair. “I believe it. Boy was sneaking into your bed every night.” He tells her. “Now he can just go through the door, rather than climbing through the window.”

Antonia puts on a performatively guilty face, but does not feel bad about it for a moment. "Do you not always say that love should be celebrated, Papa? We are only following your principles."

“I do say that. And I’m proud that you have found your love, my little date cake.” He kisses her cheek. “I love you Princess, all I want is for you to be happy and healthy.”

"I am happy, Papa." Antonia promises him, tears welling behind her eyes. "So incredibly happy."

“That’s all that matters, my love.” He promises her. “You were created in love, raised in it and you will carry that love to your own children and the people under your Lord husband’s protection.” Oberyn predicts. “Dorne is strong and you are a Martell.” He caresses her cheek. “You have lived up to our motto and I am so proud. Unbowed, Unbent,” he winks at the daughter conceived in King’s Landing so many years ago. “Unbroken.”

______

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