#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

[romanteacism]

A Butterfly and A Dragon’s Flight mood board Prince Aemond x Elinora Tyrell

Summary: They were polar opposites. She was light, and he was the darkness that followed. She had kindness exuding from her whole being, and he was cruelty personified. She was a butterfly, and he was her dragon— two beings that have nothing in common only because one had never encountered the other… not until Lady Elinora Tyrell met Prince Aemond Targaryen.

Warnings: Grumpy x Sunshine Trope, Forbbiden Romance, Posseivness, Jealousy, Bullying, Violence, Mature (18+)

Masterlist: Chapter 1 ; Chapter 2 ; Chapter 3 ; Chapter 4

A/N: New story alert! This story has been in my drafts for a while, and I just had the sudden urge to share it, so... here we are! This story is more cannon-oriented and possibly darker (idk not sure) than the previous stories I've written, and I think it would have fewer chapters because I intend for it to be a novella, but even though it's shorter in chapters, it's quite lengthy when it comes to each upload. I hope you guys will like it!

[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 ―

[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.

Part two

“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

[sehaedazokla]

he that dares

part four

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

tags: slowburn, tension, angst, comfort, eventual smut, court politics

chapter warnings: canon-typical violence, blood, assault, attempted sexual assault, grief mention

word count: 8.2k

previous part | next part | series masterlist

Cregan Stark grows restless as the days pass. In the late afternoon he finds himself sat in his chambers, taking a moment to organize his thoughts. 

The castle is abuzz with a low hum of anxious rumor and bated breath, given the increasing number of arrests as more and more turncoats are revealed. To round them up and sentence them is his duty, and a task he does not take lightly. It is impossible to, when he sees the young Prince Aegon. A boy of one and ten whose situation dances about like the familiar ghost of Cregan’s own past. 

Yet the vultures circle high above his head, close enough to hear the flapping of wings, only kept at bay by the army of Northern wolves. The Southern nobles bide their time, allowing him to retain power for now. But the more men that are arrested, the more fear begins to spread. Festering in the castle like an open wound. The glares he receives when he walks the halls are more venomous than ever. 

His informational network has been firmly set into place. Sooner rather than late, the scorpions will be dealt with and justice brought to both Aegon II’s poisoners and the final remnants of those who might wish to see the young prince dead instead of upon the Iron Throne.

As Cregan sits in front of the hearth in his room, his jaw tenses. The storms of his eyes stare down into the flames as they splutter and dance atop the thick logs they burn upon. A poisoned leader and a young heir. Is it fate that has him once again in this circumstance? Only this time, he is not child. Justice will be carried out properly, and swiftly. One of his fists clench tightly, his expression growing darker. 

How deeply he longs to return north, to smell the pine and feel the crunch of snow beneath his boots. To breath freely, in clear air, rid of the stuffiness of the Red Keep and the general oppressiveness of the capital. The Lord of Winterfell is quite glad to have spent his time far from here, away from the choking toxicity that seeps through the walls and penetrates minds and bodies alike.

He rubs a hand over his chin as her visage flickers through his mind.

Perhaps it is no surprise to Cregan that Lady Tyrell is as she is when she has spent so much time here. She has roots planted firmly within the weeds and she blooms beautifully in the muddy and trampled wreckage left from the war. So much so that even when presenting with lies and deception, two things Cregan has little taste for, she has ensnared his attention beyond what he can excuse as primal attraction.

It would be a lie to say that he does not find his eyes trailing her figure, absorbed by her lips and their fullness. Any man with eyes and a cock would do the same, Cregan thinks. No, it is the little flicker of truth that he sees from time to time, beneath the honeyed words. He cannot help his own curiosity, and the desire to see more burns in his chest brighter than the fire in front of him. 

One of his arms comes to rest on the side of the plush armchair. Everything in the castle is so ornate that it is almost nauseating. Longing for the simplicity of Winterfell echoes about his body.

Lady Tyrell remains the sole noble who consistently seeks out his presence, regardless of rumor or what she sees. The woman is frighteningly persistent and quite smart; if she were not so determined to manipulate him to her whims, Cregan might want her as an ally. It would be a relief, to have one amongst the vipers who is not trying to sink their fangs into him with the intention of poisoning him. Lady Tyrell certainly wants something from Cregan Stark, but at least she does not want him dead.

He believes it so, anyways. 

With the twisting of a wry smile onto his lips, Cregan finds himself with the distinct thought that if the lady wished him dead, he might just be so already considering how much food and wine he has consumed in her presence. Still, the lack of clarity regarding her true intentions claws at the back of the lord’s mind. His hand comes to rest under his chin as he considers what he might do to shed light on the truth of the matter.

It is not an impossible task. While Lady Tyrell has forced their repeated proximity for her own interest, Cregan has learned more of her just as she has learned more of him. And she is not the only one who is accustomed to the intricacies of political power dynamics. Cregan’s eyes narrow, pupils reflecting the glowing firelight.

The hour draws rather late as Lady Tyrell flips through the pages of a thick tome within the castle library. Hair falls carelessly into her face but she cannot find herself bothered enough to brush it aside, her bottom lip bitten slightly as she focuses on the words. A single lantern rests on the long wooden table, illuminating the pages as she lifts her hand to turn yet another. Her brows draw together as she continues.

The library has remained rather empty since the war began. The delicious irony of this is far from lost on her. Yet it serves as a relatively untouched sanctuary in which one can gather their thoughts or simply have a moment of peace. The tall walls of books extend out in a vast hall of knowledge, the shelves turning into each other at different points to create soft pools of shadow one might easily hide themselves within to escape the world around. The long wooden tables are dotted with carefully covered candles, many of which remain unlit. The large windows have the thick fabric of their curtains drawn closed, as the sun has recently set. 

Reading serves her in more ways than one; much is to be learned from the pages of history and so much of it is wholly ignored. Lessons that have already been learned throughout time, forgotten. Only to be learned again a hundred years later, and the same price paid. She is cautious to consume as many historical texts as might be possible, lest she fail to find valuable insight that might change her fortune. With a sigh, she lowers her chin onto her hand as her elbow rests on the cool wood of the table. There is no need to be proper when the only other visitors to the library are aging maesters who pay her little mind as they shuffle through books as thick as the one before her now.

This is why her back stiffens at the sound of approaching footsteps. Heavy boots and a pressure to each intentional step that has her holding the edge of the cream page in her hand so tight it wrinkles beneath her fingers. The library does not seem so sacred any longer.

She need not turn to know whose presence has interrupted her solitude. The steps come to a stop behind her chair and the lady is met with the scent of pine and the faintest hint of woodsmoke. With delicate fingers she releases the page crinkling in her grasp as the man behind her walks around to the other side of the table. He lacks hurriedness, languidly making his way to the chair across from her and pulling it out, a soft scraping sound echoing as he does.

Her face remains innocently neutral as he sinks down, all heavy limbs and a low tilt to his chin, into the chair like molten lava in the blacksmith’s workshop. With a gentle touch, she brings together the worn pages of the wide book to close it, and one hand lingers delicately atop the cover. A sweet surprise catches in her eyes as her eyebrows raise.

“I cannot say I was expecting you, Lord Stark.” Slowly, Lady Tyrell opens the conversation with an amiable cadence and tender softness about her face. She wonders briefly how he knows where to find her, but before the thought can fully take form in her mind, Cregan dips his head.

“I was told by your handmaiden that I might find you here if I wished to speak with you, Lady Tyrell.” The Northern depth and slowness to his tone still sends chills down her spine. The library is far from cold. At his words, she blinks slowly, lashes brushing against the top of her cheeks. Her pause is not performative, but genuine surprise at the revelation that he was purposefully seeking her out – going so far as to knock on her chamber door to call upon her. 

Adelin has been smart to send Cregan directly to the lady, even without warning. This is hardly an opportunity she will pass up upon.

“And found me you have.” Delicately sweet words fall between them with the parting of her lips. Her hands reach up to push lose hair from her face, before she takes a deep breath and settles further into her chair. She does attempt to keep the intrigued glimmer from the depths of her eyes; it is only that she has been pursuing him with such ardent fervor that it delights her to see this take a more interesting turn. How repetitive it can get, her faux gentle smiles and his polite northern reservation. The heated looks down each other’s bodies go poignantly ignored in her head.

Cregan beholds her wordlessly, head tilted back and chin lifted to observe her coolly.  There is a simplicity to her gown today as well, as it had been during their private dinner. The gentle swell of her breasts can be seen more prominently in this dress, even if the lord has found the other ones dangerous enough. “Aye, I have.” 

She knows well when something is wanted from her. And here sits the Lord of Winterfell, who she knows for certain has not sought her out for the darling pleasure of her company. Taking a breath through her nose, her shoulders rise, the low neckline of her gown drooping slightly further with the movement. “Might I be of some assistance, Lord Stark?”

Cregan’s grey eyes glimmer at the quickness of her saccharine reply, the direct yet demure way she demands his cards on the table immediately. There is no sound from the rest of the library, the castle’s inhabitants seem more occupied with other matters for the evening. His hands come together on the surface of the table and her eyes drift down, catching a glimpse of the veins on the back of them. “I have a matter with which I would very much like your thoughts upon, my lady.”

Taking another slow breath, she nods thoughtfully and her gaze falls to the single candle upon the library table. A sheepish hesitance flutters across her face as if brought about by butterfly wings, and she presents him a tiny smile. “It would be my honor to offer my opinions, my lord, but I fear I know little of warfare or the ending of it.”

Round doe eyes cast themselves upon his face, decorated with the gentle glow of humility.

“It is you of all people who might offer insight,” Cregan’s hands tighten against each other slightly as they rest between them. His broad shoulders lower, his stern expression folding to become impossibly more serious. A moment of leisurely anticipation stretches between them in the pause he takes, his gaze seemingly searching hers. It is with utmost delicacy that she maintains her passive, pastel pleasantness. “It is a matter of a proposal, my lady.”

Her blood pounds in her ears. Tension spikes through her head, sharp behind her eyes and heavy on her shoulders. Cregan opens his mouth to explain his reasoning further, his eyes gazing slowly about the library as he speaks. But the Lady Tyrell pays his following words little mind, frozen like a doll left out in the cold by a little girl who had been called in for supper. All slow blinks and that eerie, easy smile upon her lips.

“I have grown so keenly aware of my lack of allies at court…” His voice is a distant drone, she pays no attention to the heavy raise of his brows and the weary sigh that droops his figure. While he speaks, she finds herself lost in the maze of her own thoughts, spinning around lost and confused. The walls of her fears loom over her, draped in thorns and ivy, at the prospect. 

It should not be as shocking as it is. They are the same age, both young and unmarried, both in need of something from the other. And yet – is this not the physical manifestation of all that she has been dreading since the passing of her betrothed? To be married off to some lord she barely knows, subjected to a life at the hands of a husband who is just as likely to treat her callously and cruelly as he is to respect her, no matter how handsome he might be? Her mother told her to win his favor, not marry him. But in truth, if this is what is takes for peace to be achieved then she is wickedly selfish for considering a mad dash for the door.

Her mouth has gone dry and her fingernails dig so sharply into the fragile skin of her hand that she fears she will draw blood and stain the book cover below it. She continues to smile. 

“Would it not serve our houses well?” Cregan’s voice drives a swift dagger through her turbulent thoughts, and she readjusts herself in her seat. Her hands fall to her lap and she agrees demurely, forcing her smile wider when she dips her chin.

“I cannot say it is not…a kind offer, Lord Stark,” Lady Tyrell murmurs with delicate, plucking cadence. She swallows, hoping to rid her tongue of its dry heaviness. The library, its calming atmosphere of scrolls and books and candles, has suddenly lost all of its usual comfort. The shelves about the hall loom ominously above her, trapping her beneath their massive structures. Cornering her here with this man and his propositions. “House Tyrell is honored by your consideration.” 

Cregan watches her carefully. Studying her for a glimpse of masked pride and pleased simpering. This is what she wishes, is it not? Power and wealth through an ambitious match.

She reaches up to twist a strand of hair out of her way with a purposeful breath, wisps of lashes aflutter once more. Her beating heart is a weighty stone inside of her chest. “If it is what you wish, I would hardly feel the need to present my opinion upon the matter, my lord.” 

“It is only that you know your sister so much better than I,” Cregan tells her with a raise of his thick brows, a hand coming to rest on his chin as he leans back in his chair. His gaze remains cast to a bookshelf, as if lost deeply in thought. “Perhaps you might have some insight upon the nature of such a union.” 

There is a heartbeat where not a single thought occupies her mind. Lady Tyrell merely looks upon the man in front of her with empty, unblinking eyes. Her smile twitches at the corners, the edges of her cheeks rounding at the movement. It feels as if her hands are beginning to grow numb, as if an hour has passed before her dry lips part with disturbed slowness. ��I beg your pardon?”

It is all that she can manage to breath, giving her a moment to collect the wild frenzy of thoughts. Where there had been silence only a moment ago, floodgates have been shattered to splinters as the torrent of words spill into her brain like the ocean itself has descended upon her mind. If she could sound alarms, she would. Their blares would better suit the panic in her heart than the silence of the castle library. The nonchalance of Cregan’s tone is not lost upon her.

“Your sister – the Lady Cassia. I have been told she is quite beautiful, and of a very agreeable countenance,” The Lord of Winterfell talks as if he is simply commenting upon the shade of blue in the sky or the taste of red wine at dinner. It has been some time since she has been this shellshocked. This utterly thrown by anyone, this completely caught vulnerable and off guard. She knows her smile no longer reaches her eyes; it barely remains upon her face at all.

The obvious question is to ask him why he would not simply wish to marry her – she knows well she has not imagined the way Cregan Stark rakes his eyes down her figure and about her face. Like a man starved. But far be it from her to understand the whims of men, Northern men even less so. She gives another slow blink. He is waiting for her to say something, she realizes. With a swallow, she does at least attempt to carve something resembling pleasance onto her features.

“She is but five and ten, my lord.” Her lips hesitant around the words, betraying a slight nervousness that makes her blood spike with irritation and worry. Rapidly, she attempts to pull for excuses she can offer to prevent him from marrying Cassia. The task proves rather difficult given the quickness with which she must accomplish it. She can feel fear dulling her senses, which only sets the feeling alight further. The jumping of the candleflame between them nearly makes her draw back.

“The age of marriage, is it not?” Cregan easily provides an answer with a heavy shrug of his shoulders. Lady Tyrell knows his words to be true, but it does not stop her eyes from darting about. She lowers her chin, trying to bring a semblance of composure to herself. There is too much to think of at once; she needs time to consider.

But in her head, she knows with a sinking feeling what her mother would say. Her eyes grow dull as she realizes that if Cregan follows through with this proposal, her mother will happily send Cassia off with this stranger if it means securing peace and the future of their House. His words cannot leave this room. The realization rises with a crushing swell in her chest. 

“I do not believe she would be a suitable match, in truth.” There is a sharper edge to her saccharine tone than has ever been present, and she does not meet his eyes as she usually does. She imagines her sweet sister, who adores flowers and the fields of Highgarden and the sunshine, whisked away to a castle surrounded by snow and ice and dying trees. “Cassia is a delicate girl. I cannot imagine she would fare well in the North.”

Cregan finds it a refreshing change of pace to see her squirm for once, the delicate balance of her performance shattered by his words. Yet he still has not found the answer he is looking for.

“She would adjust, in time,” Cregan offers politely, his red hair shifting slightly to frame his face. She takes no note. “If it is for the sake of peace. Especially if she is as agreeable as is suggested.” A slight smile spreads to his face.

Her eyes flick to his with the sharpness and severity of a sword.

And she holds his gaze for quite some time. For the first time since their meeting, she looks at him without performance. Lady Tyrell meets him upon the battlefield of their game free of armor and weapons and nauseatingly sweet illustration.

Her eyes are piercingly jagged, wider as they bore into his own, and her lips are parted. A loose strand of hair falls into her face, catching stray candlelight in a haunting glow. She is just as beautiful, Cregan realizes with a start, when she is staring him down as if she intends to have his head on a spike by the end of this conversation. 

Lady Tyrell will have just that before Cregan Stark lays a hand on her sister. He will spend his final moments in agony if he believes he will take Cassia anywhere, if he thinks he can demand her. She will not be threatened by the prospect of war or the destruction of her House. The Lord of Winterfell would soon see just how many men she would let burn before she sacrifices her sister to be taken by a man who wants a quiet and submissive bride to use as he wishes. 

“It would seem I misread you, Lord Stark,” It is chilling to hear her true voice after Cregan has grown so accustomed to the gentle manner in which she presents even the few biting words she has allowed pass her lips in his presence. There is a haunting emptiness to the phrase and in her eyes that takes him aback. “It does not happen often.”

Her brows lower darkly, a shadow passing over her gentle features.  There is a barbarous sting in her tone that pulls to mind images of snakes, still yet poised to strike. Disgust curls at her lip, the look she gives Cregan as her eyes rinse over his figure dripping with poisonous distaste. “Here come the carrion birds, whispering of frost-bitten savages who will wet our gardens with blood. I watched and I waited and foolishly drew the conclusion that as great of an irritation as you are, you are not a conqueror. Not a man who would seek a young girl as a spoil of war.”

She does not blink one time as she speaks. Eyes wide as saucers, thinly veiled anger simmering beneath her skin. “Do you think I will allow you to sit across from me and demand I hand my only sister to you because it will bring about peace? Because it will ensure the enduring security of my great House? I imagine you did.”

A huff of cold laughter quite nearly twists its way past her lips. The pumping of her beating heart feels akin to nails being hammered into her chest. Anything else she would gladly sacrifice to fulfill her mother’s wishes and win Cregan Stark’s favor. But never this. “No, my lord. You shall not have my sister, nor peace.”

With the screech of a chair scraping against wooden paneling, Lady Tyrell pushes her chair back and draws herself upright, body as tight a strung bow. She glares down at Cregan with such ferocity that he briefly wonders if she might try to fight him then and there in the castle library. But she merely glowers at him, scoffing with disgust as she lowers her voice to a whisper. “Find your submissive bride among the many Houses that will happily offer up their daughters as lambs to slaughter. You will not lay a hand on my sister in this lifetime.”

His eyes catch sight of the way her hands are trembling. 

She spins with such a violence that her skirts billow out in an angry storm cloud about her, the heels of her shoes echoing in the silent library. Never in her life has she been so utterly fucked, so desperatelystupid and brash. Her shaking hands ball into fists as she stalks towards the library door. Fear prickles at every nerve in her body, the immediate regret washing over her in a chilling wave. 

The sound of a chair tipping over makes her jump, her shoulders jerking and her hand hesitating on the gold doorhandle of the grand library. She does not know whether to freeze or run, unsure if Cregan is getting up to strike her for her insolence, or to simply leave. It was idiocy to speak to him as she did, she of all people knows this painfully. She turns her head over her shoulder, palms shining with sweat, catching a glimpse of him as he approaches.

Anxious helplessness claws its way up her throat, stifling her breath at the sight of his imposing figure drawing nearer. She does not have enough time to open the door, he will reach her before she leaves. Neither can she imagine she has much time to scream. As breath evades her further, she parts her lips to murmur a shaky apology against the thrumming of her rapid heartbeat. But his voice carries out into the space between them first.

“Please, my lady, a moment.” Cregan speaks the words quietly, his rich Northern tone softer than she has ever heard it. Her back presses into the great oak door as he draws nearer, stopping in front of her. She does little to hide the worry upon her face, her brows drawn together warily. There is a horrible guilt that has begun to spread in Cregan’s chest.

Confusion stirs in her gut as she looks up to find only a stoic concern in his eyes, his lips parted slightly as he searches for the words he wishes to say. A part of him wants to reach out, to try and comfort her, but he imagines it would do little but set her off. “Lady Tyrell, I did not wish to frighten you.”

His voice is scarcely above a hum in his deep tone, the quiet and tender manner in which he presents it only serves to deepen her misunderstanding. She gazes up at him with suspicious concern, searching for some sort of ploy or deception. A heavy sigh lowers Cregan’s shoulders, drooping his figure slightly. This is why he despises these ridiculous court games. “I have no intention to marry your sister, in truth. She shall be perfectly safe, I assure you.”

A shudder of a skeletal breath rattles its way out past her lips. Her eyes flicker, crinkling with confusion, as she regards him with wary unease. But there is nothing but seemingly genuine worry for her wellbeing as the Northern lord hovers hesitantly in front of her. 

“I do not understand.”  There is an almost petulant softness to her words as she looks up at him, clawing for an explanation so that she might regain a semblance of control as she remains pressed to the oak door, Cregan only a step in front of her. Gazing down with such eyes. 

The man opens his mouth to speak but finds any explanation he can provide for his actions will only seem cruel. Cregan has been so blinded by the toxicity of the Red Keep and the politics played by the nobles that he had acted with prejudice against her, assuming her some power-hungry bird of prey, trying to sink her talons into him to raise her own status. But here in front of him is a girl who loves her sister, who would risk incurring his wrath to tell him directly that she would do anything to protect the girl. He does not consider himself someone who toys with people’s feelings. Perhaps the capital has had worse influence on him than he realizes.

“I only wished to determine your intentions with me,” The man quite nearly winces from how stiffly aware he is of the callousness of his actions, and how terribly he is excusing them. He tilts his head, a pained expression flickering across his face like the lighting of a tea candle. “I had believed you wished to marry me yourself. I could not determine whether it was for your own gain or your House so I…”

Lady Tyrell sees it quite clearly now, even through the dense fog of her anxiety. It is a good plan; she can give him that compliment at the very least. Had he used anything aside from her sister, she might have caught on. It is Cassia above all that is her weakness, especially after the death of Helaena. She is foolishly and vulnerably blindsided when the girl is brought up. Cregan Stark likely does not even know to the full extent. Truly, a masterful scheme. 

But the anger burns hot in her chest, fueled by her fear, the flames wildly licking and spitting about in her lungs. 

Her wide eyes look up into his as the realization settles upon her face like an unforgiving dawn. A heavy silence falls between them and Cregan finds himself longing to fill it, to apologize further for behaving in a manner unbecoming of his character. 

“You must think yourself very smart, Lord Stark.” The lady’s tone is dangerously low and airy. That sickly sweet smile peels its way onto her face, an eerie ghost of the look she has given him time and time again. 

Cregan’s heart plummets in his chest. All he had wanted was to know the truth. He has seen it, clear as day, the depth of the love she has for her sister. The bravery and ferocity with which she will meet him with in order to defend the girl, even in the face of the lady’s own fear. His head tilts, his brows drawing together in gentle apology. 

“Lady Tyrell, if you would please let me-.” But Cregan Stark is not given the chance to do anything nor say anything. She turns quickly, hand gripping the golden doorhandle to yank the library door open with such force that Cregan steps back. Her body slips through the partially open door. It closes with a violent slam and Cregan is left staring at the wood, alone in the vast and silent library.

When she hears the muffled sound of a man’s footsteps behind her as she walks down the hall, she does not bother to turn around. The hour has grown late and most of the castle has drawn away to their bed chambers or to skulk in shadowy corners. She parts her lips to snap something rather barbarous about not wishing to be followed, but the words are lost in her mouth as she feels a hand grab her wrist.

After much heavy pacing, Cregan Stark finds his boots carrying him to Lady Tyrell’s bedchambers. He simply cannot allow the night to pass without the deliverance of proper apology. Despite getting the answer he had been seeking, the truth behind the nature of her character, there is no satisfaction in his chest. Far be it from him to engage in such deceptions, and yet he has offended and frightened her in a manner that is so deeply against that for which he stands. The capital will not turn his heart rotten nor dispel the sacrosanct honor he strives to uphold. 

Guards are stationed outside of her door as the lord rounds the corner, the Tyrell rose blooming in vibrant gold against the silver of their breastplates. Her personal guards, whom had not been stationed there when Cregan had knocked upon her door earlier that evening. A deep unsettling wariness finds its way into his mind, and it only increases when the guards move to intercept him as he draws nearer. The flicker of torchlight upon the walls ripples across the shining armor as Cregan’s narrowed eyes flick between the two men.

Lady Tyrell can hear the muffled exchange of words through her thick door, her eyes jumping sharply to stare at the oak.  Sharp anxiety shoots through her frayed nerves, but simmers to a hum at the deep rumble of a Northern tone. The fire in her hearth crackles as she sits on the floor in front of it, the plush rug beneath her partially balled up in one tightly closed fist. With an eerie stillness, she rises from her place upon the ground and steps slowly towards the echoes of voices, her bare feet soft against the cold wood. 

When she draws the door inwards, opening it, all parties involved in the exchange turn their heads to meet her. She hovers at the edge of the frame, one hand curling delicately against the thick wood as the remainder of her body remains obscured. Her guards turn and the taller one, Leo, gives her a deep and apologetic dip of his head.

“I apologize for the disturbance, my lady, we were sending him away at once.” Leo assures her firmly, one hand resting atop the shining hilt of his golden sword. But her tired eyes fall upon Cregan Stark’s face instead. He is beholding her with faint surprise, his lips parted and brows low, his red hair loose about his face and falling down to brush the tops of his shoulders. His eyes rest on her lips – far from the first time such a thing has occurred, but it is not through half-lidded desire with which he stares now. It is shock.

A ripening cut pulls at her lower lip, ruby against reddening and swollen skin. Her eyes reveal nothing as he finds a stern and questioning expression twisting its way onto his face as he takes a slow step back. One of the guards moves to further push Cregan away, but with an unreadable neutrality, she shakes her head, loose hair spilling down about her face and over what little can be seen of her ivory nightgown.

“It is alright,” Her voice is hoarse, as if the act of speaking is foreign in her throat. Her grip tightens on the edge of the door before she draws it open further. “If Lord Stark wishes to speak with me, he may.” 

There is no need to acquiesce to his wants, nor to prevent her guards from running him off. Performance is no longer required as she has already destroyed all of the time spent crafting a sweet disposition to charm him with. But now that her heartrate is steady and exhausted, the veins connecting to her heart too tired to thrum with the rush of adrenaline and anxiety, she can see Cregan quite clearly. There is nothing false about the firm worry he extends silently to her, a demanding question barely bitten back upon his tongue.

“But my lady--.” Leo begins with a start, concern in the man’s eyes for his lady. She shakes her head again, stepping back in an unspoken invitation for the Lord of Winterfell.

“I shall scream if need be. Do not go far.” It is a quiet order, a bitter amusement bubbling in her throat but stifled down by a rush of exhaustion yet again. The guards exchange a worried look but know better than to argue with her. Cregan stands as still as a stone statue, as she turns her back to him to walk further into her room. His stormy eyes trail after her, uncertain if he should ask her if she truly wants him to follow her inside. Yet his feet carry him forward before his mouth can form words, the closing of the door behind him. The sound echoes with a quiet tolling of finality that Cregan cannot identify.

Lady Tyrell’s chambers are expansive and comfortable, the large bed on the far side covered in satin and silk blankets and a mountain of fluffed pillows at its head. The warm oak posters of the bed spiral upwards, a sheer canopy of pink fabric shimmering softly in the firelight of the hearth. Two plush chairs stand before the hearth, before a thick rug that the Lady Tyrell stands upon. There are shards of glass at the base of her bedside table, shining like small knives as they catch light, and interwoven into puddles. A bunch of dried roses rests upon the floor, scattered haphazardly, their crisp petals soaking up the water that had once been in their vase.

Cregan’s eyes cannot be torn from her figure, and he imagines that would be the case even if the castle around them began to collapse in that very moment. Her hair is completely loose, messy strands falling in front of her face and down her back, and her eyes are dull and red-rimmed from the remnants of shed tears. There is a gaunt look to her skin, only strengthened by the small wound on her soft lips.

Even though it was her own decision to invite him into her quarters, she has to resist the urge to squirm under the heaviness of the Northern lord’s stare. It is too steady, too intense, and her eyes narrow in challenging response despite herself. When her lips open into with a callous twist, her voice comes out dry and rather cold. “Have you come simply to stare at me, my lord?”

“What has happened?” The heavy lowness of the phrase morphs it into a demand, rather than a question. Cregan’s hands are gripped in tight fists, his shoulders raised. The man is always serious, but the severity of his tone has her remembering just who this man is – the Lord of Winterfell, the Wolf from the North who has forced King’s Landing into submission and rules in all but title. Towering within her chambers, mandate weighty upon his lips. The storm clouds upon his face darken as she does not answer immediately. “I have only just seen you, but hours ago. Can I not take my eyes off of you for a moment?”

The growl in his normally politely resigned tone sends a chill down her spine. She does not understand the rough urgency of his voice.

If she asks after it, she will discover he does not understand it either.

Unconsciously, her fingers reach for her reddening wrists, her eyes lowering and gazing about the room while a syrupy swallow makes it way down her throat. Cregan’s eyes flick down, taking sharp note of the marks that blossom upon the skin of her arms. His anger burns hotter, and when he meets her avoidant gaze, it is clear that he wants an answer immediately.

Letting out a huff of breath, stopping just short of muttering something about brutish Northern impatience, she turns elegantly. Wrists wringing in her hands, she lowers her eyes and opens her mouth, shoulders drawn back gracefully even in the disheveled state of her appearance. “I do not know, to be perfectly honest, my lord.”

Her eyes find their way to the fireplace, willing herself to still her hands and folding them over top of her stomach. She smooths a wrinkled portion of her nightgown before continuing, her back partially turned to him. “I was not paying much mind to where I was going, the hour was late. A hand came upon my wrist and when I pulled towards someone, I screamed. He smelled of wine and strong spirits and my shouting must have made him panic.”

A slight wobble of her damaged lower lip makes Cregan’s heart plummet further. This is not how he wishes to see her, eyes dim and thinly veiled anxiety covered with a cloak of indifference. He has grown used to the pleased glimmers in her pupils when she believes him to not be looking, that bright intelligence reading his every move and word. The sound of the crackling fire fills the pause.

“He struck me when footsteps could be heard, and then ran. He did not say what he wanted from me. He did not need to.” The vacancy that occupies her stare is ghostly, and the burdening truth hangs between them weightily. Neither of them are fools. Her chin lowers, lashes against the tips of her cheeks when she pulls her gaze to the floorboards. The rug atop them is soft upon her feet. 

Cregan takes in her bruising wrists and the cut upon her mouth, before his attention turns to the fallen roses and shattered vase. When she catches this, a bitter smile cuts through her thoughts and she lifts her shoulders slightly, hands clasped together as she walks towards him.

“That was my own doing. Perhaps not very ladylike of me.” Lady Tyrell muses with tiredly cool sarcasm, her brows raising. Cregan turns as she draws near, looking down at her with a cross between concern and frustration at her breezy nonchalance. 

There is a dimple between his brows due to the severity with which he is furrowing them. With little effort to conceal his anger, he shakes his head slowly. “Who did this?”

“I did not get a clear look at his face.” A rush of an answer, a breath she lets out while she begins pacing in small steps, the wood panels creaking slightly as she glides to and from. 

The fists at his sides tighten, pressure squeezing his fingers as he stares at her, looking every ounce the fearsome Northern lord that he is rumored to be. “Then I shall drag the men of this castle before you so that you might point him out.” 

“There is no need for theatrics, Lord Stark.” She fixes him with a dry look, seemingly unimpressed by the severity upon his face and the intensity with which he speaks. His visage darkens thunderously at her easy dismissal of his words and he has to force back a sharper retort, attempting to be gentler with her instead.

“It is a matter of justice–.” He begins, but she is quick to interrupt with a wave of her hand. A gust of cool air blows in through her open balcony, sending the sheer curtains blowing about.

“Oh, spare me your monologue on justice and duty and honor for one night,” The words drip from a curled lip with soft irritation as she casts him a rather scornful glance, drawing her arms across her chest protectively. The fabric of her nightgown is soft against her skin. “If I wished to be lectured upon righteousness I would summon a priest instead.”

In exasperation, she gazes to the balcony with a huff, eyes falling upon the moon and stars that dazzle brilliantly in the dark night. The sound of leaves can be heard outside of her window, plants growing on the outside wall blown about in the wind. A foghorn blares in echoed low tones, drifting in from the harbor.

Cregan’s jaw clenches, tightening as he wrestles back the desire to meet her stubbornness with equal force. But as his eyes drop to her lip again, he remembers with a tightening chest that he had come here to apologize to her, not to bicker like children. Before he expresses this to her, his eyes soften. “I had come to apologize, my lady. For my actions in the library earlier that were callous and frightened you.”

Although she had been quick to direct her ire at him, the start of the quiet apology draws her pacing to a pause. It is the reason she had allowed him into her chambers in the first place, that genuine concern that he displays so openly upon his face, as he had in the library once he had seen the truth of her fear. 

“I had believed you to be seeking power, to marry into my House for your own gain. Hoping to determine your intentions, I wished to know whether your loyalty was stronger to yourself or the strength of your own House.”  Cregan does his utmost to explain himself in a quiet yet quick tone, lest she might decide to interrupt and throw him out at her whim. The look on his face captivates her attention. “But I was wrong to level your sister as a weapon against you. I did not know – how much you love her. I am truly sorry.”

Lady Tyrell’s eyes lose some of their harsh edge as she watches the rugged Northern lord express his regret so genuinely. Rare is it that she has been apologized to, rarer still that the apology is of such a truthful and straightforward nature. Cregan stands quite still as he anticipates her reply, the seriousness upon his face giving him the appearance of a man awaiting sentencing. 

“Do you think I enjoy playing darling here at court?” It is a softly posed question, her hands tightening as she keeps them together in front of her. “That this is a hobby I do for my own amusement?”

Her voice is laced with a weary exhaustion that does not quite fit her age. Cregan has heard a similar tone leave his own lips many times before. 

“The safety and security of my House – a house whom has no male leader at present – rests on my ability to hold my own in this twisted, toxic den of vipers. I am weak, I cannot fight. But what I can do, I have honed my skills in. I will not claim to be a saint, but I am not scheming for the sake of seizing power if that Is what you think.” Her voice quivers slightly but her eyes remain firm as she holds his gaze steadily. 

“Yet you would risk the safety of your House for the safety of your sister.” Cregan points out quietly, his hand extending out as he speaks. Lady Tyrell gives a frustrated shrug, keenly aware of her own foolishness, and shoots him a withering gaze.

“We all have something we would sacrifice the world to protect. What your suffocating honor is for you, my sister is to me.” She has always been protective of the girl, who had been her only sibling until the recent birth of her younger brother. But since Helaena’s death, the paranoia and anxiety that gather her mind in their clutches are persistent and cruel. She fears, perhaps irrationally so, of all manner of terrible fates that might befall the girl. Waking from nightmares, clothes and blankets soaked in sweat and lungs burning as she gasps for ragged breath.

Cregan keeps his gaze upon her, a heavy sigh falling from his lips. For a lady which such a delicate frame, she seems to love with a strength rivaling any warrior and a determination that is as clear as the moon in the sky outside her balcony. It is obvious to him that she is willingly to do whatever it might take to defend those in her heart, at the risk of her own safety or peace of mind. 

She stalks across the room, returning to the plush armchair by the hearth. Sinking into the soft red seat, she picks up the bandages that she had been attempting to wrap around her bruising wrist. The last thing she wishes for is for someone to see and ask questions. Adelin normally assisted in such manners, but Lady Tyrell had been in such a state that she had demanded to be left alone.

“Your apology has been heard, Lord Stark. You may leave.” She murmurs quietly, the fireplace casting a warm light upon her face and her messy hair. Stretching the bandages in front of her, the lady bites back a curse as she fumbles with the ivory cloth. Cregan watches her for a moment before a heaving sigh moves his broad chest, and he crosses the room to her with large steps. Her eyes jump up to him, slight worry and fear flickering like fireflies, but when he drops to one knee before her chair, she finds there are no words upon her mouth.

“Allow me, my lady.” The sternness to his rumbling tone makes it seem more like an order than an offer, but it is said with such politeness that despite the way suspicion swims in her eyes, she pauses. There they remain, the Lord of Winterfell on his knee in front of her armchair, the golden light from the fire bathing his features. As he looks up at her, she realizes that despite the gruff, masculine stature of his imposing figure, the brightness of his eyes and the soft nature of his red hair give him a fairness that she hesitantly describes as beauty.

The sound of a clock fills the darkness of her chambers, tick after tick reverberating into the silence.

Wordlessly, she hands him the roll of bandages. Cregan takes no time to gingerly reach for her wrist, taking it into his much larger hand. He holds it tenderly, intentionally drawing his mind away from the softness of her skin and the way his hand can wrap around her entire arm. The faint smell of vanilla fills his nose, and he feels his stomach jolt at the imperceptible breath she takes as his thumb ghosts over the pressure point on her wrist. He reminds himself to breath.

The ivory bandages are wrapped around her reddened wrist slowly, glowing in front of the firelight, the warmth carrying over to both of them. Yet Cregan’s body has already grown hot. Neither of them breathe a word, eyes cast down to the simmering points where their skin meets. When he finishes his work, Cregan’s hands jerk back slightly, as if he has been burned. Lady Tyrell’s lashes flutter slightly at the motion, and she draws her wrists to her with a small frown. He remains on his knee a moment longer, before rising to his feet and breaking the spell that has fallen between them. Cregan swallows thickly, his eyes cast to her wrist as she stares into the fire with an unreadable expression.

“Rest well, my lady.” He murmurs to her, before his heavy boots carry him with unnecessary quickness across the wooden floor panels and out of her door.

a/n: this was supposed to be a short chapter, but it is another monstruous piece and half of it was written on an airplane so please bear with me. i know the ‘who did this’ trope is low-hanging fruit, but i fall for it every time so here it is. i cannot believe i have written so much of this work so quickly, and i am even more surprised at the lovely interactions it has had. thank you for every like, reblog, and comment on this little story that i love.

[xeno1queen]

Growing Strong With The Dragon - Part I

Aemond Targareyen x Tyrell!Reader Summary: A lonely princess finds herself betrothed to a cold prince. Warnings: No warnings, just a chill introduction. No character description. Afab. Authors Note: First time writing a fanfic so I’m just putting into words the things I’ve been thinking. Don't really care about "historical" inaccuracies. English is not my first language so the grammar might be a bit janked.

You have been alone most of your life, your only company being your ladies in waiting and your mother. You had a brother and a dad, but both of them seemed to have no interest in you.

You much prefer the company of books and nature in the Highgarden gardens.

You've heard the news in the capital and you're wondering which side your father will choose as the lord of Highgarden. You don't really care which side he picks, as you are not told much about the war because "Ladies should not worry their heads about unfit matters," said your father, but you do indeed worry.

A couple of days had passed since you first heard the news of the war, and the Greens were already looking for allies. They placed that task on the shoulders of their only unmarried heir. A bold choice, but no one would dare touch the prince in the presence of his dragon. The prince has already gone to Storm's End in search of a betrothed, but the exchange ended badly with the killing of Prince Lucerys Valaryon.

His second option was going to Highgarden. Your father hasn't chosen a side yet, so a marriage proposal to such an important family could help in his decision.

Within two days, the prince arrived at your doorstep. Your lavish father decided that he was to be welcomed with a feast, even though it was just meant to be a quick trip to ask for your hand in marriage. Your father spared no expense at the visit of such an important prince. He wasn't afraid to show the power of House Tyrell, owning the most fertile fields in Westeros means lots of money for your family.

During the feast, the prince was not really impressed by the food, as during the reign of his father, the banquets were not few. However, he sure was impressed by how you behaved yourself.

You’ve always been shy. During the whole banquet, you could mostly only look at your plate and, the few times you looked at him, you noticed he was already looking at you, which made you flinch and blush.

While feasting, your father and the prince talked about war and his marriage proposal, which of course your father accepted swiftly. Having his daughter marry the most powerful family in Westeros was a blessing to him, even if it came with the condition of having to send his men to die in a war they shouldn’t be participating in.

You know you were only getting married to the prince for political reasons, yet you wondered if such a beautiful man could eventually fall for you. You weren’t ugly yourself, just a bit “socially awkward,” yet he didn’t look at you with disgust. He looked at you with intrigue.

Once the banquet was finished, Prince Aemond locked eyes with you and returned to King's Landing. You felt like stone after that intense eye contact, as if his only eye had turned you into a statue.

That night, you felt all the anxiety from the feast hit you, and the anticipation of a long journey to marry the most beautiful man in Westeros made you lay sleepless all night. Would he be kind? Or would he be a cold monster who would only use you to make heirs? Those questions did not leave your mind all night. You just hoped he wouldn’t treat you badly.

[salialenart]

Emely Tyrell

OC commission for @valentinopastine

[perfinn]

"The realm may never see a queen of love and beauty more deserving of the title."

such a privilege to have commissioned @lonelymagpies for this gorgeous piece of cecily and aemond 🥹 thank you so so much. i'm going to stare at this for the rest of my life

[series masterlist]

[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.

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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

[romanteacism]

A Butterfly and A Dragon’s Flight Chapter One

Chapter Summary: New friends, foes, and feelings Word Count: 8,413 Warnings: Protective Aemond, Unwanted Advances From Aegon, Bullying

Life is an odd thing, isn’t it? No matter how hard you try to pave the path you wish for, no matter the best-laid plans, there will always be something beyond your control. Neither your stubbornness nor your will can undo what is set as destiny, and you can either accept what is meant to be or deny it with all your might until the fateful day comes when all your resistance will turn moot. 

Elinora’s life had been made for her. From the moment of her birth, she was simply waiting for instructions on how to proceed. Her actions were always premeditated; her will was basically non-existent. It sounds tragic, yes, but she never had complaints. How could she? It was all she knew. A puppet cannot complain about their puppeteer. 

You really shouldn’t be that concerned about her. Those strings were the only thing that had kept her upright— if it weren't for them, she wouldn’t be her.

As the only daughter of House Tyrell, a multitude of things are expected of Elinora. She may not be royalty, but with her father being the lord of one of the great houses, she was close enough. Many eyes were upon her, the prayed-for daughter of her lord father— the miracle babe, for her mother was well in her years, and all doubted her ability to conceive once more. On the day of Elinora’s birth, a feast that could battle the royals was made in her honor. As they celebrated, she cried in her father’s arms as they paved her life and sealed her fate, bounding Elinora to a son of House Velaryon, a promise for which she will never understand the reason. 

Elinora grew up well-loved by her family, however restricted she was. They locked her in the high walls of Highgarden, forbidding her to see a prolonged view of the outside world. Forever sheltered and secured in her father’s house. With such restrictions, it was expected that she would grow up naive and clueless about how life truly works; perhaps she was, but she had gone to great lengths to at least know something about how the world works, preparing the best she could for the day when she would eventually be let out of her cage. 

That day came sooner than she expected. The day just after her sixteenth birthday, it was revealed to her that her family was expected at court. Elinora tried her best to reign in her excitement, to keep her decorum and not dance around her chambers in glee, for she would finally see a glimpse of the world beyond the stained glass windows of their home. 

“Contain yourself, sister,” Elinora’s brother smiled as she practically bounced on her seat in the wheelhouse. They finally left the city gates of Highgarden; she had never gone beyond them before. “I’ve never been this far away from home,” Elinora said in great excitement as she peeked through the holes of the wheelhouse, finally seeing life beyond the walls that had kept her enclosed. Her brother, Edward, breathed out a laugh in amusement, a sliver of guilt in him at how sheltered they had kept her, but as they often said, it was all for the best. 

“Why are we called to court?” She questioned as she placed a pillow on her lap. “I’m not entirely certain as well,” Her brother lied, protecting her from the actual matter of urgency. They had done well to censor all violence from Elinora, and the looming threat of an upcoming war was another matter they had shielded her from. “Is Ser Gwayne to come as well?” Elinora could not help but question about the knight. They had seen him only a fortnight ago, Ser Gwayne usually venturing to Highgarden for leisure to ride his noble steed, and at those occurrences, Elinora would be waiting by the window for him— running down the stairs of her home to greet the knight from Old Town. However shielded she was from the world, her family indulged her with a fair few trusted people around her, one of them being Ser Gwayne, one of the most chivalrous and noble knights in the Reach. 

Edward smiled sadly, “I’m afraid not; I’ve spoken to Prince Daeron only two days before, and they had no plans to venture to the capitol.” Elinora nodded slowly; a tad saddened as she expected to see familiar faces as they came to King’s Landing, but the prospect of seeing something new overpowered whatever disappointment she felt. 

After five days of travel through the King’s Road, House Tyrell arrived at the Red Keep, the Hand of the King and his daughter, the Queen, welcoming them. “Lord and Lady Tyrell, welcome to King’s Landing,” The Lord Hand greeted with a nod of his head. Elinora readily curtsied before the two, along with her brother, who bowed before their host. 

Elinora could not help but stare at the queen, especially at her hair. Ser Gwayne had always told her that her hair reminded him of his sister’s, only that hers was a tad darker, and the curls were looser. “Lady Elinora, it would seem my brother was not at all lying when he sang praises of your beauty,” A blush was quick to creep up the girl’s cheek; unable to reply, she could only curtsy once more— entirely flattered by their words. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” she said quietly, turning to her brother, who only rolled his eyes in tease. 

As they escorted Elinora to her chambers, she felt a sense of independence as her brother did not trail her to the East wing of the keep, nor were her chambers set near her parent’s, unlike in High Garden. She was completely out of their watch for the time. It was new, and it was thrilling. As she set her gaze on her assigned chambers, Elinora found it quite modest and simple… perhaps a bit bare, but she did not wish to dwell on such matters because, for the first time in her life, she was without immediate supervision. The lack of fine furniture was a small price to pay for independence. 

Elinora stepped forward towards the balcony of her chambers, looking upon the view of the city, which was entirely different from Highgarden. Absent were the overwhelming green and empty lands; instead, what was before her was the faded reds of clay roofs and the differing heights of houses and buildings. Everything was different! And for now, she quite liked that. 

“How are your chambers?” Her father asked as they had an intimate family dinner in their chambers. “It quite… quaint,” She answered, not wanting to be seen as ungrateful as she was presented with a practically bare chamber; it shouldn’t really matter; it was only meant for sleeping; she has the Red Keep to explore! Her brother, however, scoffed. “I had always thought the Red Keep would be this extravagant place, but why are the guest rooms dressed so drab? For gods’ sake, they cannot even provide fur! Do they expect wool to keep us warm at night?” Edward complained, but Elinora bit back her tongue as she was taught that a proper young lady should never utter such criticism, especially when it comes to their hosts. 

“Well, it’s a good thing we came prepared. I’ll have your squires and maids make up your rooms more comfortably.” Their mother decided. Elinora pursed her lips as she waited for the end of her mother and father’s conversation to speak, and when there was a pause, she hesitated to utter her question. “Father… how long are we to stay here?” She questioned quietly. “No more than two moons, I would think,” He replied as he took a chalice into his hands. Elinora nodded, another question leaving her lips. “But why are we here?” 

Looks between her brother and their parents were exchanged, still not wanting to reveal the true reason for their coming to the capitol. Because to reveal it would mean they would break the bubble of protection and innocence that had kept Elinora in. “Just… business, my darling, the matter of trade.” Elinora’s brow was slightly furrowed, confused as to why it was they who managed the mere business of trade when another trusted subject of theirs could see the matter. Instead of questioning it, she merely nodded. Ladies should never ask questions upon questions, she reminded herself.

When the next day came, Elinora walked along the garden arm in arm with her brother. They were the the newest additions to the court, capturing the curious gazes of the seasoned members. 

“Who are they?” Elinora heard a lady dressed in a dark blue gown question her friends as Elinora and Edward passed them. “Son and daughter of Lord and Lady Tyrell,” she heard the faint whisper of another highborn. As the two Tyrells passed, the fluttering hair filled with flowers and the comely face of a girl caught the attention of a silver prince. 

Even through his drunken state, Prince Aegon was sober enough to realize that a new pretty prey had come to the dragon’s den. “Who is that?” He questioned with great intrigue, his head turning in another direction just to catch another glimpse of the girl who practically floated about the gardens, butterflies trailing her as the flowers in her hair attracted the pretty insects. “I… I am not quite certain, my prince,” one of his lickspittles that he made knight replied, curious as well about who the girl was. Prince Aegon hummed as his eyes lost view of the girl who turned about a corner and was removed from the prying, curious gazes. 

“Why must I go back to my chambers?” Elinora questioned as she paused in the halls, reluctant as her brother began to escort her to the east wing of the Red Keep. “Because I must attend a meeting with Mother and Father, and no one could watch over you,” Elinora felt a pout come to her lips, but she quickly prevented it, knowing it would lead to her being chastised. She wanted to protest, but she knew better than to do so; as always, she only complied and did what she was told. 

“What time can I go out then?” She asked, looking at the sun that was barely at its peak, mourning the fine day that would be wasted as she made to stay in her chambers. “When we return from our meeting— come now, you’ll make me late.” 

Elinora stood by the balcony of her chambers, looking upon the world she foolishly thought she would come to know. She sighed heavily and was ready to return inside and sleep the day away, for she could never do what she truly wanted to. 

Just as she was about to enter her chambers, a great roar caught her attention. Frightened and curious, she peered down below to see what beast had the capacity to roar with such great volume. But the gust of strong wind that had managed to remove some of the flowers in her hair made her head snap upwards just to see the belly of a great beast flying above her. 

Elinora was mystified. She had completely forgotten about the dragons that House Targaryen possessed, even though a dragon resided somewhere near Highgarden. As the beast eclipsed the sun, Elinora knew right away who the dragon was; it was Vhagar. “Gods…” She breathed out, unnerved at the sheer size of the dragon that flew above. Elinora squinted her eyes as the dragon managed to disappear within the clouds. She waited a few moments to catch another glimpse of it, but as the clouds began to dissolve and the sun began to shine upon her eyes, Elinora pouted freely and sighed in disappointment as she lost sight of the great beast.

The girl began to settle herself into her bed once more and sleep the day away, but the sound of frantic footsteps in the halls made her do otherwise. Elinora battled with herself for a moment. She was strictly told that she may not leave her chambers until her brother retrieved her, but curiosity and boredom were gnawing at her. Surely, they would not know if she stepped foot into the halls, yes? Elinora chewed on her lower lip, her fingers itching to take hold of the door’s handle. She took a deep breath, took a risk, slowly opened the door, and peeked out into the halls. 

She caught the sight of green skirts pacing around. She raised her gaze and saw silver hair. She needed no introduction; by the color of the dress alone, she knew it was Princess Helaena. Elinora hesitated for a moment about whether she should open her door wider, but as she caught sight of the frantic face of the princess, she knew she could not leave her in the halls alone. 

“Hello,” Elinora said quietly in order not to startle the princess, but however dulcet her tone was, Princess Helaena still flinched. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Elinora said in fear, clutching the frame of her door, reluctant to step out. Princess Helaena only looked upon the girl, swallowing thickly and giving a hesitant nod. When Elinora heard no reply from the princess, she dared to speak once more. “Is anything the matter?” 

Helaena hesitated at first; the girl before her was unfamiliar, and she did not do well with strangers— or anyone, really. “Oh, forgive me, Princess. I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Elinora Tyrell. My family and I only arrived yesterday.” The girl curtsied lowly. 

“I lost my spider.” Princess Helaena revealed, and Elinora slowly stood straight. “It slipped out of my chambers,” The princess added, her violet eyes glancing towards the door next to Elinora’s chambers. “What did it look like, princess? Perhaps I can help you to find it.” Elinora offered, disregarding her fear of disobedience as she finally stepped foot out of her chambers. 

Princess Helaena looked before the girl in surprise, doubting her offer, but as Elinora began to pace around the halls, her eyes searching for a spider, Princess Helaena realized she was sincere. “It has a pattern… its body is yellow and black,” Princess Helaena responded. “Oh… is it a garden spider, princess?” Elinora questioned, tucking a stray lock of her hair behind her ears as she knelt on the ground and looked under a stone bench located near a wall. 

“Y-yes… I— how do you know that?” Princess Helaena questioned, astonished as Elinora already knew what kind of spider she was referring to. “I often spend my time in the gardens of our home, and I would encounter all kinds of bugs and insects during my hours spent there,” Elinora explained with a small smile. “They’re fascinating creatures,  spiders, but many misunderstand and are frightened of them just because of their appearance,” Elinora mumbled as she caught sight of greenery by the end of the hall. 

Princess Helaena felt a twitch come to her lips as she heard Elinora’s words. “You’re quite right,” she said quietly, following in Elinora’s footsteps. Elinora’s brows furrowed in focus as she spotted the spider perched on the leaf of a potted plant, laying out her palm and gently blowing onto the leaf to urge the spider to move into her hand. “Do you have a box for it, princess?” She questioned. Princess Helaena was too amazed as she finally met someone who was not disturbed by her crawling critters. “Oh, yes, of course— right through here.” 

As Elinora entered the princess’ chambers, she refrained to let her eyes curiously go about the room. Princess Helaena led her to a table under a shelf with multiple dividers displaying her collection of insects and bugs. “I had more before, but some died, and some I needed to set free because it frightened my children.” Princess Helaena said sadly as she closed the lid of her garden spider’s box. “Do you have children of your own, Lady Elinora?” The princess questioned. “I am not yet married, your highness.” 

“Oh, I apologize for assuming,” Princess Helaena said with an embarrassed blush creeping up her cheeks. “No need to apologize, princess,” Elinora said sincerely. A silence befell the two girls, both timid and shy to speak first. A princess picked at the skin of her fingertips, and a girl fiddled with the ends of her hair. “I— would you like to join me for tea in the gardens?” The princess asked nervously, not accustomed to inviting others in her custom. But as a smile crept up to Elinora’s lips and she nodded her head almost a bit too eagerly, the nerves in Princess Helaena settled, and she walked side by side to the gardens with her new acquaintance.

 “Brother, there you are!” Aegon greeted as he spotted his younger brother in the halls, newly arrived from his morning dragon ride. “What do you want, Aegon,” Aemond asked, already exasperated. “I always take you for someone who is well versed about the going ons in court, as well as the courtiers…” Aemond raised a brow at his brother, who circled around him, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Well, all I’m trying to say is, could you tell me who she is,” Aemond frowned as he turned to where his brother pointed, seeing his sister in the gardens seated across from a girl who he, too, did not know. 

He observed as two girls quietly laughed between themselves. The unknown girl wore a pale turquoise dress with delicate flower embroidery. Her hair was the color of fallen leaves when the weather was starting to grow cold, and her loose curls reached her waist. Her face was soft, her lips were plump, her nose in a snub, and her eyes… her eyes were the color of jade; eyes that contained lightness and naivety. 

“Do you know her?” Aegon asked, growing greatly impatient as the mystery surrounding the girl who had butterflies flying over her head was consuming him. “I— I do not know her.” Prince Aemond finally answered, disappointing his brother. 

Elinora felt a stare burning through her, and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She tried her best to listen to what the princess was speaking of, but as she lifted her gaze, she locked eyes with a lilac one that stared at her from above the gardens. Elinora needed no introduction to know who was the man who held her gaze so intently and coldly. She was uncertain what to do, so she offered him a small, kind smile, just as she was told to do whenever she was to lock eyes with anyone. However, the smile on her lips quickly disappeared as Prince Aemond only blinked at her and looked away, his movements cold and dismissive. 

“Do they always follow you around?” The princess questioned, which brought the girl out of her reprieve. Elinora blinked a few times, “Pardon, princess?” She asked, not certain what the princess was referring to. “The butterflies,” Princess Helaena smiled as she reached out her finger for one of the pretty insects to land upon it. That brought back the smile on Elinora’s lips. “Quite often, princess… they seem to be attracted to the flowers in my hair.” She smiled fondly. Butterflies had always followed her ever since she was young. At first, she was petrified of them, unaccustomed to the feeling of their tiny legs landing on her skin. But as time passed, she learned to appreciate her little companions. 

“Sister?” The familiar voice of her brother drained the color on the girl’s face as she was caught disobeying clear orders from her family. “B-brother, I—“ She greeted with panic in her eyes. “Oh, Princess,” Edward suddenly realized that he and his sister were in the presence of royalty. “Princess Helaena, this is my older brother, Edward,” Elinora smiled through her nerves and introduced her brother. 

“A pleasure, princess,” Edwar bowed, and Elinora twiddled with the ends of her hair as there was a stern tone in her brother’s voice that only she could detect. “But if you would excuse us, our parents are searching for my sister,” Edward smiled charmingly and assisted his sister in the direction of their parents' chambers. “Good day, princess,” Elinora smiled and curtsied, and before Princess Helaena could bid farewell, Elinora was already ushered inside the castle walls. 

“Did we or did we not give clear orders that you must stay inside your chambers with the door bared until your brother came to retrieve you?” Her mother questioned as Elinora sat on a settee, chastised for her actions. “You have, mother,” She said lowly, eyes staring at the rug beneath her feet. “Why then did you disobey us?” She questioned harshly, and Elinora fiddled further with the ends of her hair. 

“I— it was just that I heard shuffling outside my chambers, and I peeked out only to see Princess Helaena distressed because she had lost something of hers, so I offered her help to find it— and when we found what she lost, she invited me for tea; I couldn't decline because she might grow offended,” Elinora reasoned, eyes pleading at her mother and father for them to no longer grow cross at her. 

Her family exchanged looks, quietly deciding how to proceed. “There are multitudes of dangers here, Elinora… we are not insisting you stay in your chambers just because we wish it; it is for your protection,” Her father sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “But I thought it would be safer here…” She whispered but quickly regretted it as her mother raised a brow at her for speaking out of turn. 

“This is the last time you do something such as this, understood?” She was asked sternly, and she mechanically nodded, knowing that no other response from her would be taken kindly. “Now, if Princess Helaena invites you to tea once more or any other outing, you must always tell us first. Agreed?” Her father questioned, his tone more mellow than her mother’s, and she nodded once more. “Good. Now, let your brother escort you to your chambers. Your maids shall come in a while to ready for the banquet.” 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Edward sighed heavily as his sister was rendered sullen. “We just wish to keep you safe,” He added and took hold of his sister’s hands. “But it is safe here… look at the other ladies of the court; they are not made to stay in their chambers— they go about freely; why can I not do the same?” She asked the same question she had been asking them for the past ten years but was never given a direct answer. 

“Even so, you never know when danger will come. We cannot risk it— we cannot risk you.” Edward said softly, “You are my dearest sister— the prayed-for daughter of our father, the miracle child of our mother… you cannot blame us if we are too cautious when it comes to you.” Guilt was fast to grow in Elinora’s heart. This happened all the time. As she began to hold animosity toward the suffocating treatment bestowed upon her, just a small reminder of their love for her made her forget that she was caged. 

“I’m sorry, brother. I was just… excited,” She said, and Edward nodded in understanding, quietly ushering his sister into her chambers without another word said about her transgression that morning. 

Elinora felt her mother place her hand on her arm, her little signal to indicate that Elinora was slouching and she must straighten her posture. The girl mechanically did it, readjusting the small, fictitious smile on her lips as well. On her other side was where she sat, Lord Edward sitting across from Princess Helaena; however, the seat next to the princess was empty. Elinora stared blankly upon the feast, starved, but they were still waiting on the arrival of the king. 

The girl had the urge to speak, to join in on a conversation that was exchanged by those who attended the small banquet, but since none spoke to her and she was trained to not speak unless spoken to, she said naught a word and her opinions and thoughts were often left unsaid and unheard by anyone; just as always.

When the grating sound of a chair being scraped across the stone floors echoed in the room, Elinora raised her gaze only for her eyes to be captured by lilac. Elinora blinked but did not have the strength to look away as the cold gaze of Prince Aemond pierced through her. She remembered how she offered him a smile in the gardens, and he simply dismissed it, a small blow to her pride. She wanted to look away and give him the same dismissal he had bestowed upon her, but her manners could not let her do so. Instead, she gave him another small, friendly smile, hoping he would acknowledge it. He did not. Instead, the prince simply broke their gazes and shifted his gaze to the others present at the long table. 

Elinora fiddled with her hair once more, not accustomed to being so blatantly ignored. In other instances, her smile would always be returned with either a smile as well or a nod of acknowledgment; Prince Aemond offered her nothing. 

“Lady Elinora, I hear you are acquainted with our youngest brother.” At the mention of her name, Elinora looked up and was faced with another set of violet eyes that held a look of something unbeknownst to her. “We are, my prince. We would often encounter Prince Daeron during banquets in the Reach— and he often joins your uncle, Ser Gwayne, for a ride on the hill next to Highgarden,” Elinora replied with a small smile. 

“So you know him quite well?” Prince Aegon questioned further, leaning closer to the table to be somewhat nearer to the girl, who had been his main point of interest since the morning. Elinora did not know what to reply; her lips parted as she thought of an appropriate response. “Well, you know him better than we do, at least,” Prince Aegon added with a laugh, and Elinora could only smile and took hold of her chalice to drink the wine that they provided to clear the block in her throat. 

Aemond turned to his brother, a furrow forming on his brows as Aegon shamelessly eyed the girl before them with lust and intrigue in his eyes. Ever since he had laid his eye on the girl in the gardens with butterflies flying over her head. Aemond was intrigued as to how quickly she was earning their sister Helaena’s trust. Helaena rarely, or if ever, had let anyone join her in her midday tea. So, who was this girl who was starting to nestle her way in? Aemond had doubts in him when regards to her— he found her smiles fictitious, forced… deceiving. He was already certain she was infiltrating them; that could not be. 

Elinora always gave everyone the benefit of the doubt. She always tends to give others a second chance, so for her, first impressions never truly mattered. This is why, even after Prince Aemond’s boorish regard for her, she never took it to heart, only thinking he was having a difficult day, which caused his blatant disregard. Even the tightest and toughest of seeds could open and bloom into flowers, right? So when Prince Aemond passed the girl who sat with his sister, Elinora once again offered him a friendly smile that she gave to everyone she passed; it was ignored again. 

“How long are you and your family to stay here, Lady Elinora?” Princess Helaena asked as she refilled the girl’s cup. Elinora removed her gaze from the departing figure of the prince, who never gave her a sparing glance. “Please, call me Elinora, princess,” She smiled and stirred the tea in her cup. Helaena smiled and gave a small nod, “Then I would insist you to call me just Helaena,” It was an odd occurrence. She had never met a lady or perhaps anyone who did not agitate her— that did not make her nervous or anxious. There was something in Elinora’s constitution that was unlike anything that she had encountered in anyone in court before. 

“My father said we are to say two moons princess, though I am not certain if it is accustomed to any changes,” Elinora responded and took a sip of her tea, raising her hand to gently nudge away one of the butterflies that flocked around her once more. Princess Helaena nodded, her mind partially distracted by the fluttering creatures that found Elinora once more. 

When noon came, Elinora was left alone once again. The princess had matters to tend to, leaving Elinora alone in the gardens with her only constant companions, the butterflies. She sat on a bench, flowers surrounding her as she read a book. When she was a child, she never liked reading. It was difficult for her to imagine the imagery they possessed. People always say how vivid it was for them when they read books, but for Elinora, it was simply words on a page, unmoving and static. But as she was often restricted to the walls of her home, there was not much to do but read. With that reasoning, she learned to enjoy the written word. 

However, now, she was in a new territory. A new place to explore and discover. With that thought, a smile rose to Elinora’s lips. She placed an iris between the bounded paper to mark her page and quickly stood to venture around the Red Keep. She swore to her parents that she would not venture beyond the gardens, but luckily, the gardens of the Red Keep were quite vast. Even though she was still restricted, she felt an odd sense of freedom. 

Elinora walked the cobblestoned path and observed the passersby, always presenting them with a kind smile when they met her gaze. Others were taken aback, but most of them returned her smile. Elinora went along the path and past a group of ladies who looked about her age. She gave them a smile, and she felt elated as all of them returned it. However, as she passed them and when they thought she was an earshot away, she heard their sinister and mocking laughs. 

“What a freak! Who even is she?” She overheard one of the ladies as her friend. “Did you see how the bugs were swarming her?” Another scoffed. “Now I understand why she was with Princess Helaena— freaks do tend to flock together, don’t they?” That managed to completly wipe away the constant smile on Elinora’s lips. 

She was not the only one to hear such snide remarks. Prince Aemond was passing along the gardens as well when he heard such words spewed. As he passed the group of ladies he had gotten used to ignoring, he stared them down with his cold gaze, which effectively cut off their malicious merriment. Aemond walked onwards, catching sight of the girl who left a scent trail of iris and bergamot as well as butterflies. Prince Aemond shook his head to be rid of his thoughts and urge to follow the girl who had warmed her way to his sister’s side; instead, he only turned in another direction and placed greater distance between him and what he saw as an interloper. 

“I see Princess Helaena and Lady Elinora are growing acquainted; I am glad.” Ser Criston Cole suddenly said as he padded himself for his and Aemond’s training. Aemond frowned as he twisted his sword. “And why is that?” His tone was cold and harsh. Cole shrugged, “Your sister finally has a friend. Is that not something to be glad about? Even your mother is worried about Helaena’s lonesomeness.” The knight answered as he moved to his attack stance. Aemond rolled his eyes, “You clearly do not feel the same. Why?” Cole questioned. “She an intruder,” Aemond answered, and Cole breathed out a laugh. 

“An intruder? She and her family were invited here,” He said, amused at the prince, who was clearly irritated. “Do you not find it odd how quickly she made her way to my sister’s side? She is using her!” He revealed his great concern and genuinely thought Cole would agree with his weak theory. The knight simply let out another laugh. “You do not even know who she is!” 

“And you do?” Aemond gritted, and Cole shrugged, “Certainly more than you,” He smirked. “Lady Elinora is not conniving or cunning as you would think. She’s pure— perhaps even naive,” Aemond scoffed and rolled his eyes once more. “I tell the truth. Her family has quite literally encaged her in their home— censored everything cruel and violent from the girl. She had never even ventured outside the wall of the Reach until they went here. For gods’ sake, I hear she’s only restricted in the gardens here as well! She is no threat, Aemond.” The prince did not believe such folly; he instead vowed to himself to reveal to all the true and deceiving nature of the girl that had bothered his thoughts since she had arrived. 

Prince Aemond was convinced that no one could be as pure as they say Lady Elinora was, not in this state of this world. All were corrupt and cruel, and he was certain Lady Elinora was as well, and her kind smiles were just a facade to hide the maliciousness in her. 

“You’re glum,” Edward observed as he accompanied his sister back to her chambers. He had noticed at dinner that she was too quiet and barely touched her plate, a melancholy in her eyes that was rarely there. Elinora raised her gaze and quickly readjusted her expression to deny her brother’s true statement, but a look on her older brother’s face made her sigh as she knew she could not lie to him. “Am I a… freak?” She lowly and questioned in shame. The snide remarks of the ladies of the court loomed over her thoughts. 

Edward frowned at his sister’s question and saw the tell-tale sign in her that if he did not thread carefully, Elinora would burst into tears. “What?” He asked delicately. “Earlier in the gardens, I heard a group of ladies call me a freak because of the butterflies that followed me… but I cannot control it! Am I a freak, brother?” She asked in fear. Edward blinked and pursed his lips. This is what they feared: Elinora being overexposed to the world's cruelties. 

“You’re not a freak, sister… those ladies— they were just jesting!” Edward lied, but that didn’t lessen the offense Elinora felt. “It’s not a very nice jest…” She mumbled and twiddled with her hair. “I agree, but you must not take it to heart— that is just the way they are in court… none of their words are true.” Edward sighed, and Elinora chewed on the insides of her cheeks. “Very well…” She sighed and kissed her brother’s cheek before retiring to her chambers. 

Prince Aemond sat in the library as usual in the afternoon. He quietly and peacefully read his book and added to his scholarly knowledge. He always liked the library; it was rare for anyone to visit there— it was his sanctuary in the walls of the Red Keep. However, the still silence he relished upon was disturbed by the faint sound of humming. Aemond frowned severely, looking at his surroundings to discover who dared disrupt his peace. 

As the humming did not cease, the prince stood from his place and sought out the source. In any other case, the humming would not truly aggravate him, but he had a sense that the humming came from the lips of an intruder. Prince Aemond found her by the back, her fingers trailing the dusted spines of books as she leisurely walked between the towering shelves. Aemond frowned and trailed closer, waiting for her to realize that she was not alone, but he was already an arm’s length away from her, and she still did not realize it. 

There was a dead end. Before the two of them, there was another shelf, and the only way out was to return from where one had come. Aemond believed that was where his presence would finally be known, but the girl simply stopped in her tracks and angled her head to observe the high shelf. The prince was not entirely certain what he was doing. He had a very strict schedule that he imposed on himself. He only had a few moments in the day to read at his leisure, and he wasted that time trailing Lady Elinora. 

All of a sudden, the prince watched as the girl stood on the tip of her toes and reached her arm up as high as she could to reach the fifth shelf of the bookcase. Elinora breathed in deeply and reached her arm higher as the book she wanted was out of reach. She then had the idea to jump and reach for it, carelessly bouncing and clutching a lower shelf to give herself leverage. 

“What are you doing?” A cold and velvet voice asked. Elinora let out a startled squeal and quickly turned, only to be faced with Prince Aemond. She breathed heavily, her cheeks scarlet in fright and embarrassment and her jade eyes wide in fear. “M—my prince, I—“ Elinora breathed out as she battled through her shock and curtsied. “What are you doing?” The prince questioned once more, uncaring that he had frightened the girl. 

“I was trying to reach a book,” She explained, her hands cold, reflecting the prince’s attitude towards her. Prince Aemond hummed, “Use a ladder; this is a silent room— you are disturbing the others who are trying to read.” The prince commented, Elinora’s cheeks further turning red in embarrassment. “I… I did not know where the ladder was,” She reasoned; if it were any other case, she would just agree and apologize, but she could not help but defend herself from the prince. She chewed on her cheeks as she watched his lone lilac eye roll at her in ridicule, and a quiet scoff left his thin, pink lips. 

They stood there for a moment, neither speaking nor moving until the prince finally decided to return to his spot, but as he moved, Elinora spoke once more. “Might you help me, my prince… you could perhaps reach the book?” She asked delicately at the prince whose back was turned to her. But as he turned, there was an irritated look in his eye, which made her quickly regret her request. “Never mind— I apologize for interrupting you,” She quickly said and curtsied once more, bowing her head. 

The prince gritted his jaw, his feet carrying him closer to the girl and his arm reaching upward to the fifth shelf. He took hold of a book and begrudgingly handed it to the girl who peered up at him. “I… It’s actually the one by the right,” She said sheepishly, offering an apologetic smile. 

Aemond felt his eye twitch and felt further irritation as he saw her smile once more. He sighed, returned the book, and took the one she was pertaining to. Elinora took it from the prince’s hold, their fingers brushing. One’s hand was cold and calloused, the other warm and gentle. “Thank you,” Elinora smiled gratefully, and the prince only stared upon her with his hard and piercing gaze. The girl did not expect him to give her a verbal response, but perhaps a grunt of acknowledgment, but the prince stayed silent. Only turned and left the library, disregarding the book he was reading before Elinora came. 

What gull she has! Instructing the prince to retrieve her book as if he were some squire! Aemond stomped through the hall of his home, his skin ablaze with irritation. Aemond looked toward his fingers that touched hers, disgust in his eye. As he reached his chambers, he sought out his water basin to wash away any reminder of the girl on his skin. But before his hand could touch the water, the prince halted, realizing how ridiculous he was being. 

The prince groaned and pushed away the basin in frustration, letting it fall and break on the floor, the fragments of porcelain scattering along his feet. How could this girl get under his skin so quickly? This was the first actual encounter they had besides her giving the prince her smile as he passed by. Why, then, did she unnerve him so? Aemond doubted all; he was never one to trust anyone. It was expected of him to be wary of all who come to court, but never once had he reacted such as this.

Was kindness truly so foreign to him? Had he never truly seen it for him to doubt and distrust those who have even just an ounce of it? The prince shook his head, running his hand through his face as he slumped on his chair, rethinking and trying to find an answer as to why the girl truly bothered him. He found none. 

Elinora sat in the gardens with the book acquired by the prince. Her legs swayed as she sat on the bench, and the butterflies flew over her head. “All alone, Lady Elinora?” As she heard her name called, she looked up to see another prince in her presence. “Good day, Prince Aegon,” She greeted and stood, curtsying before the eldest prince of the realm. “Where are your companions? A lady such as yourself should not be here all alone,” The prince smirked as he stepped closer to the girl, but Elinora slyly moved away. 

She gave an awkward smile, but the prince was none the wiser, only taking it as an encouragement to step closer to the girl. “I am still yet to make acquaintances in this court, my prince.” She said, glanced behind her, and stepped away further. “Well… I could be your friend,” The prince maliciously smiled, further advancing on the girl who was intent on moving away from him. “That is very kind of you, my prince,” Elinora felt the back of her knees hit the bench she once sat upon; there was no room for her to slyly step away from the prince. 

Aegon smirked at that. He used it to his advantage and almost flushed his frame against the girl’s, but Elinora was taken aback and landed atop the bench. “My prince… I— uh,” the girl looked around her surroundings for anyone to intervene as Prince Aegon’s proximity to hers was certainly growing inappropriate. 

“Aegon!” A loud voice then boomed and saved Elinora from further distress. The girl looked up, lips parted as she was shocked by the seething sound and thunderous voice. She locked eyes with someone who stood above the gardens. A lilac eye that seethed viciously. Elinora was shocked; she had heard Prince Aemond’s voice only earlier, and it was so… calm. It was cold and calculated, but it was serene and quiet. 

Elinora blinked as the younger prince turned to his brother, speaking to him in a language she could not understand. She glanced toward Prince Aegon, irritation evident on his face as he begrudgingly stepped back from Elinora’s personal space. He did not give a reply to his younger brother. 

Prince Aegon’s gaze flickered back to the girl, reaching for her hand. “Until then… friend,” he muttered and placed an uncomfortable, wet kiss upon her knuckles that made the girl inwardly cringe. Elinora could not even smile anymore. She held her breath and waited for Prince Aegon to leave so she could wipe away his kiss on her skin. 

She returned her gaze upward to where she last saw Prince Aemond, and to her surprise, he was still there, making certain that his brother had truly left. When their eyes met again, the smile returned to Elinora’s lips to show her thanks to the prince who had saved her from such a compromising situation. Just as always, the prince gave no acknowledgment and simply walked off. 

“That was kind of you,” Aemond stopped in his tracks as he heard the voice of their family’s most trusted knight behind him. He faced Ser Criston, who glanced towards the girl who was once again reading peacefully in the gardens, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “I was not being kind— as you’ve said, Helaena finally found herself a friend. It would be cruel to let our brother make her his new conquest and bereft Helaena of her companion… I was not being kind.” Aemond gritted, overly defensive. 

Ser Criston Cole hummed and nodded but did not believe the prince’s words. “Very well then, there is no kindness in you. Now, come, the hand had tasked me to take you to him.”

A few days passed, and Elinora had not encountered Prince Aegon once again, much to her relief. But she did have numerous encounters with Prince Aemond, often passing by the halls or catching him in the gardens. He did not say a single word; he was just there, but Elinora always acknowledged his presence. 

The Prince had no reason to be in the places where Lady Elinora was, but what motivated him to trail around the girl was the sole purpose of scaring away his brother. Again, he did not do it out of kindness or any regard towards the girl but rather to save his sister from embarrassment or anguish, as Aegon had decided to make Helaena’s new friend his prey. 

Aemond stood in the gardens, pretending to observe shrubbery before him even if he had no care. When a butterfly flew past him, that was how he knew that Lady Elinora was near. He would never admit it, but he grew rather curious about the girl. Two questions pestered him: why do butterflies always surround her, and why does she always smile at him?

Before, if anyone would smile at Aemond, it was either because of cruelty as they were playing a jest on him or through pity as they felt sorry for his lost eye. But with Lady Elinora, it was neither. She simply smiled at him because she wanted to— but why?! Aemond huffed as a butterfly flew closer to his face, raising his arm to effectively swat away the flying insect. It fell to the ground. 

“Oh,” he then heard the voice of the girl he was just thinking about. The prince turned, and he expected her to curtsy before him as she always did, but she unexpectedly went to his side and crouched to take the fallen butterfly into her hands. Aemond met her jade eyes, disbelief in her orbs at what he had done. 

“My prince… I know they might irritate you, but you did not need to harm them,” She muttered as she inspected closer that flailing butterfly in her hands. Aemond rolled his eye, irritation quickly growing in him. He wanted to scoff at her in ridicule, but he refrained. “It’s just a butterfly,” Aemond said but was taken aback by the small scowl that was on the girl’s face. He had never seen her scowl before; he had gotten used to only receiving her smiles. Elinora could find no appropriate reply to the prince’s words; all she could do was walk away. 

Aemond raised a brow as the girl turned her back to him, his feet carrying him to follow her wherever she may go. He followed her to the table where she and Helaena had their tea earlier that day, a squire at the ready. “Could you please get me a jar for this butterfly? And… and could you poke holes at the lid?” She requested, and the squire was quick to nod and carry out her request. 

Aemond watched as she placed a sugar cube on a teacup and poured a small amount of water to make a concentrate. The prince once again rolled his eye as he realized what she was to do. She dipped her finger in the sweet water and delicately brought it towards the butterfly, who weakly clung to her sugar-coated digit. “Just let it be; it would have died by the end of the week anyway.” The prince sighed and stepped closer to the girl, her frown never leaving her face. 

Elinora took in a deep breath. “That is precisely the point, my prince. They’ve only have a week to live, and you further took that short time away from them,” She said quietly, partly in disbelief of herself as she uttered the words. She had gotten used to always staying silent and letting such comments go about— never defending herself or the things she loved. Aemond was surprised once more; he half expected her to be passive. To let his comment be and not give him a reply. 

The squire returned with haste with the jar Elinora had requested. The girl thanked him as he handed her the jar. Prince Aemond sighed in aggravation again as Elinora moved to pick the heads of cornflowers to make a bed made out of their petals in the jar. “You need not follow me, my prince… especially if you are only here to pass judgment on my actions,” She whispered the second part. Elinora rarely felt irritation— and anger even more rare, but as of now, she could feel it simmering inside her. 

“I only pass judgment because what you are doing is quite… ridiculous.” Elinora froze; her eye twitched as she felt the simmering anger in her come to a full boil that was to spill over. She bit back her tongue, gently placed the butterfly in the jar, and closed it. Her back was turned to the prince, and she took a deep, calming breath before facing him. When she did, there was a cruel, teasing smirk on his lips. The first time she actually saw him without his usual scowl. “Good day, Prince Aemond.” She gritted and quickly walked away, leaving the prince to smirk to himself as he found great amusement at the girl who initially thought was only capable of smiling, scowling at him, and stomping away.

[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

[selfproclaimedunicorn]

Prince Daemon did not want children with Lady Rhea Royce, but the only thing resentment and anger create when mixed with wine is regret and problems to be ignored when they cannot suit a need. Unfortunately for him, problems cannot be ignored forever, and all three heads of the dragon he created will turn back to bite their father. Prev | Fic Art | Family Tree | Pinterest | Next Taglist below the cut, ask or DM to be added or removed

Words On Raven's Wings

Lord Larys, We are leaving Thorn Hall on the morrow, and will be on the road again by the time this letter has reached you. Aegon has claimed a dragon that he has named Sunfyre. The kitling will not be parted from him, and Ella has assured me that it is safe to keep indoors with him for the time being, but it still worries me. I suppose this is at least proof enough that the bond is true. If there are any doubts at court that my son is as Targaryen as Rhaenyra and her boy, this will surely banish them.

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