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wholoveseggs · 5 months ago

Note

I’m so upset with the lack of Daemon requests so I wanted to give you a challenge.

Reader x Daemon on a dragon. That is all :)

Ride the Sky

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}

{Daemon Targaryen X Hightower!Reader} As the eldest daughter of Otto Hightower, your own life feels completely out of your control. But a chance encounter with Prince Daemon gives you the opportunity to step out of your cage and touch the sky.

♡♡ ahhhh I love you @elijahstwink, this was such a fun idea & I 100% believe Daemon would do this... ♡♡

4.8k words - Warnings: smut, hightower!reader, fingering, sex on dragon back, daemon being a flirt & hating Otto, kinda mentions of marital rape? tyland lannister {ew} && caraxes being the best noodle boi...

♡♡ Tag-List ♡♡

{Daemon Targaryen Tag-List}

@elijahstwink @starshipcookie @absolutemarveltrash @odairtrqsh @darkened-writer @cheneyq @fallout-girl219

The tower of the hand was always such a foreboding place for you. It never meant good news when you were summoned and this time was no different. You stood there, shifting from foot to foot, and finally, the man you were supposed to call father, turned around from the window. He had been watching the city below, and now his gaze was on you.

"I've heard rumors," he said and you flinched. This wasn't the first time he had accused you of doing something inappropriate. In his mind, a lady was a lady, and she should act accordingly. But it seemed no matter how hard you tried to please him, nothing you ever did was good enough.

You opened your mouth to respond, but he waved you away. "I don't want to hear your excu-”

"I wish to know what I've been accused of, then," you snapped back, your own temper getting the better of you. You knew you would pay for that later, but right now, you wanted to hear what it was.

"That you've been imbibing in too much wine and games, not focusing on your duties as a lady of the court," he said sharply, looking back down at his papers. He began writing and you stood there, seething.

"So?" you finally asked, and he looked back up at you.

"It's unbecoming," he replied, his tone laced with condescension, "Especially when you are here at court, looking for a husband. Any potential suitors do not wish to have a drunken wife. It will not look good for him."

You sighed. It was always about men, what would please them, what would make them happy. Never you. And the way Otto looked at you, the disdain in his eyes, you knew what was coming. He had been making the same noises for a while, that he needed to find a match for you, and it seemed as if he had finally found one.

"Lord Lannister is a powerful ally," he began, and you immediately felt your temper rise again. You bit back the urge to yell at him.

"And you think I'll be a perfect wife for him? A boring drunkard whose bed I'll have to warm?" you asked, and you could feel the tears welling up.

Otto's expression was hard. "I would think him being a drunkard would be something you have in common," he replied.

He could see the distress on your face and his voice softened just a little. "We must look to the future of House Hightower, and Lord Tyland would make a fine match for you."

You shook your head, tears spilling over. "I don't want him-”

"And what is it that you want?" Otto snapped.

You stared at him. You wanted so much, and none of it was the life he would choose for you. You couldn't stand it anymore, and you spun on your heel, heading for the door.

He didn't try to stop you, and you didn't care.

You didn't want to go back to your chambers, because Alicent would be there, and you couldn't face her either. So, instead, you went outside to the garden, trying to find a quiet spot where you could cry and hopefully not be found.

You found a stone bench, tucked away in a quiet corner and sat down. The tears flowed freely, and you cried and cried, wondering what would happen now, what would become of your life.

You felt as if it had been planned out without any input from you, and now you were going to have to marry a man who was full and passionless. All because it was what was good for the family, and what was best for House Hightower.

It wasn't fair.

You let out a sob and stood up, looking for something to throw, to break, just to let out the anger and frustration that was coursing through you.

Your eyes fell on a statue.

It was one of the Kings, long dead, but you couldn't remember which one. You glared at it and then, without a second thought, gave it a shove.

It didn't fall over, but it teetered a little, and then settled back.

"Is that how we honor our kings now, by toppling their statues?" "A voice said, and you whirled around. Prince Daemon was standing there, looking at the statue, and then you, a small smirk on his face.

"I-I didn't mean," you stammered, wiping your tears, but he held up his hand.

He didn't say a word, just walked over to the bench. He motioned for you to sit, and you did. The two of you sat in silence for a moment, and you tried to control your tears.

Your father loathed the prince, and therefore you were expected to avoid him. You had seen him only once or twice, and the first time you had seen him, you were a girl of ten, and he had just turned seventeen.

You remembered seeing him, and being amazed by the beauty of him. He was the most handsome man you had ever seen, and the fact that he was a prince just made him all the more alluring.

You remembered asking your father if you could marry the prince. Your father had laughed, and told you no, he was not suited for you.

Of course, that hadn't stopped you from having the occasional daydream about the two of you, and here he was, sitting next to you, while you were crying over the thought of your father giving you to an old man.

"What is it like," you asked him, sniffling slightly, "To have the freedom to do what you wish?"

He gave a slight chuckle. "Freedom is an illusion," he replied, his voice quiet, "We are all prisoners in one way or another, even kings,"

"Then I wish for my prison to have a dragon," you muttered bitterly, immediately regretting the words. It wasn't proper to speak to him like that, but he only laughed.

"Perhaps one day," he said, his gaze settling on your face. You could feel his eyes on you, and you blushed, ducking your head.

"Why do you ask about freedom, Lady Hightower," he said in an almost teasing tone, "Is your life not everything a lady could want?"

You didn't meet his gaze, and he observed you thoughtfully, you were a mystery to him as much as he was to you.

"Or perhaps, it is not," he said, his eyes narrowing, "Perhaps you want more than what your father will allow,"

There was a bitterness in his tone when he mentioned your father, the disdain they had for each other was no secret. You didn't wish to add to it, but you couldn't stop the words from spilling out.

"My father is marrying me off to Tyland Lannister," you said, and his lips curved into a small smile.

"And I assume that is why you're here, hiding in the garden," he replied, and you nodded.

He was still watching you, and his gaze made you feel uncomfortable, but in a good way. "I don't want some dull drunkard in my bed, I want..."

You trailed off. It was an improper thing to say, he was the prince, your better. You shouldn't be speaking this way.

"Say it," he said, his voice soft, yet commanding.

"I want my husband to be able to bring me pleasure," you said, the words falling from your lips.

He chuckled, a deep rumble that came from within his chest. You felt even more ashamed by his response, here was the prince laughing at you, thinking you foolish and stupid.

You stood, trying to hide the fresh tears threatening to spill. "I should return to the keep," you said, "Thank you for the company, your grace,"

You took a step, and then suddenly his hand was around your wrist. His touch made your skin feel hot and a strange sensation spread between your legs. You gasped softly, and he stood up, stepping closer.

He towered over you, his blonde hair gleaming in the sun, and his violet eyes were dark and intense, his lips were still curved in a smile, and he was close enough for you to smell him, the scent of smoke, leather and musk.

"Would you like a taste of freedom?" he asked, his voice low. "Before your cage closes,"

"I-I-Yes," you stammered.

He pulled you with him, and you followed.

He led you down the paths and out the gate, along the long stone road to the dragon pit. The guards bowed, and let him pass, and then, to your amazement, he led you into the pit itself.

"My Prince-” you gasped, but he held up his hand again, silencing you.

In the dark of the cave, you could hear them stirring, the great beasts of his house. There was a deep rumble, a sound that felt ancient and primal, and a shadow fell over the both of you.

You stepped back, fear making your heart race. He turned, and you saw the amusement in his face. "Don't worry," he said, "He won't hurt you, unless I tell him to,"

You heard the sounds of his dragon moving forward, and a large snout appeared from the darkness.

"Lady Hightower, meet Caraxes," Daemon said, gesturing to the beast with a wide smile on his face.

You could only stare as the dragon came forward. His body was covered in red scales, and the wings were enormous, his claws scraped against the stone floor, his neck long like that of a snake, and he had a crown of horns on his head.

You have never seen one up close before, only ever far away and up high in the sky. But now, here, in front of you, he was a sight to behold.

Daemon reached out his hand and the dragon nuzzled it, his large, golden eyes fixing on you. He whispered something to the beast, in the language of Valyria, and then turned to you, beckoning you closer.

You hesitated, and he smiled. "It's alright," he said, holding out his hand.

Tentatively, you reached out and touched his palm, letting him take your hand in his. It was soft and warm, and his long fingers curled around yours. He raised it, and pressed it to the dragon's snout.

His scales were smooth and hot to the touch, and the dragon exhaled a deep breath, the sound like a purr. You could feel his breath on your face, and it smelled of sulfur and heat, and underneath that, the metallic scent of blood.

He nuzzled you, his eyes half closing. Daemon smiled and let go of your hand, and you stroked the dragon, amazed.

"He's beautiful," you said softly, admiring the red of his scales and the gold of his eyes.

"Yes," Daemon replied, his gaze fixed on you.

Caraxes pulled away and then, to your astonishment, the dragon lay down on the ground. You looked at Daemon, not understanding, and his smile grew.

"I promised you a taste of freedom, didn't I," he said, and suddenly you realized what he meant.

You watched, amazed as he climbed onto the dragon's back, and held out his hand to you. "Come," he said.

You stared up at him. His hand outstretched, waiting for you to take it. You didn't know what to do. Your father would be furious if he found out. But this was an opportunity you might not get again.

Without hesitation, you put your hand in his, and let him pull you up, settling you in front of him. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you tightly. Your skirts were in the way, and you struggled to find a comfortable position. You were suddenly very aware of the heat of his body behind you.

"Here," he said softly, his hands moving up your thighs, and then, you felt his hands bunching up your skirt, until the material was up around your hips.

The dragon raised his head, and stretched his wings, a deafening screech filling the air. You could feel him move, the muscles in his shoulders shifting, his body flexing.

With one last scream, he began to move forward, at a speed faster than anything you had ever seen, and suddenly, with a running leap, his body was rising. Daemon had his arms wrapped around you, holding on to the reins as Caraxes' wings beat against the air.

He rose, higher and higher, and suddenly the ground was falling away below you, and the sky opened up before you. You could feel the dragon's strength as he climbed, the power in his body, and the heat and the wind and the roar of his wings.

The sky was a beautiful mix of reds, oranges and pinks as the sun began to set. You could see the Red Keep and the city below, the winding streets and the river and the ocean beyond. It was a breathtaking sight.

Daemon said something in Valyrian, and the dragon gave a cry and suddenly he was moving forward, gliding along the air, his wings spread.

The horizon was endless, the clouds were around you, and the world seemed small and insignificant, all your problems forgotten, at least for a moment.

"Does it feel like freedom, lady Hightower," he murmured, his lips against your ear.

You flushed at his closeness, the warmth of his body and his voice. "Yes," you whispered.

He took your hands, placing them on the reins. You held tight, feeling the dragon move beneath you, the muscles and tendons rippling, the scales smooth and hot.

"Hold them tightly, and pull on them, to turn him," he said.

You did as he instructed, and Caraxes changed course, heading north. The dragon rumbled and roared, a loud squeaking sound that made you laugh.

You felt Daemon smile against your neck, his hands winded around your waist, one hand pressing into your stomach, and the other resting on your thigh, his long fingers curling around the hem of your skirt, the fabric flapping in the wind.

He held you like that, his grip strong and steady. You didn't want it to end, this freedom, the feeling of his arms around you and the dragon flying beneath you.

The hand that was pressed against your stomach moved lower, his fingertips brushing the inside of your thigh. You wanted him to continue, but you also wanted him to stop. It was not appropriate, and you were unsure of what to do.

"My Prince," you said softly, a hot flush coming over you. He was touching you in a way no one ever had, and the feeling was overwhelming.

"You are far too beautiful to marry some dull Lannister cunt," he said, his voice low, his lips grazing your neck. His hand slid up your thigh, pushing the hem of your dress with it. Your breath hitched as his fingers moved underneath the linen shift you wore, brushing the soft, wet flesh between your legs.

"This isn't proper, my Prince," you said, trying to focus on the reins and not the way his hand was making you feel.

"And who is here to see? Or to hear?" he murmured, his breath hot against your skin, "Only my dragon, and I don't think he'll care,"

He pressed a kiss to the spot where your neck met your shoulder, his teeth grazing your skin, and you inhaled sharply, your body arching into his. He smiled, his fingers finding the small nub of pleasure between your legs, brushing over it softly. Your hips jerked and you gasped, your head falling back against his chest.

"A woman like you should be in control of who she gives her maidenhead to," he whispered, sucking little marks onto the delicate skin of your neck, "Who gives you that pleasure you crave."

The wind was cool on your skin, but inside you burned. He was igniting a fire deep within you and you were powerless to stop it.

His fingers moved faster, circling the little bud and then stroking it. He knew exactly how to touch you, and you were helpless under his hands.

You knew that you were being indecent, letting him fuck you with his hand, your skirts shoved up, the dragon soaring through the sky. Your father would kill you if he knew. But the thought of it made you only wetter, and you began to push harder against his hand.

"That's it, chase the feeling," he breathed, his fingers moving faster, his other hand gripping your waist, pulling you back against him. You could feel the hardness of his cock, pressing against your back, and the knowledge that he was aroused by you, only made the sensation stronger.

Your hands let go of the reins and Daemon quickly grabbed them with his free hand, keeping the dragon steady. You clutched his arm, your body shaking, the pressure building inside you, your legs trembling.

You let out a cry, and then stars were exploding behind your eyes and he was whispering to you, soft and low, encouraging you as you felt yourself fall apart, coming undone.

You slumped against him, the tension leaving your body, and he was there, holding you. You felt his chest rumble with a laugh and you managed to get yourself upright.

You looked at him, his violet eyes, the smirk on his face. You reached out and touched his cheek, and then pulled him towards you, kissing him.

His lips were soft and warm, and he kissed you back, his tongue parting your lips and entering your mouth. It was a deep, passionate kiss, and when he finally pulled away, you were breathing hard.

He smiled, his eyes darting from your lips down your chest. "Perhaps we should return to the keep, my Lady," he said, his tone amused, "before we get carried away,"

You looked down, and saw the sprawling countryside, a sea of green dotted with little villages and the faint outlines of crops and farmland.

"Where are we?" you asked.

"Near Duskendale," he said, his eyes boring into you. He gave you a smile, and in that moment, you lost yourself completely, mesmerized by him and everything that had just happened.

Daemon pulled on the reins, yelling something in Valyrian. The dragon gave a loud screech, and began to descend. He guided Caraxes lower, heading for a field near a small village.

The dragon landed gracefully, his wings folding against his body. The trees and grass bent in the wind from his wings, and the few animals nearby scattered. You could feel the rumble as his belly hit the ground, and then he was still, his breathing deep and steady.

Daemon hopped off the dragon and held his arms out to you. You let him help you down, his hands sliding around your waist. As your feet touched the ground you stumbled, your legs were weak and shaky, and you had to cling to his arm to keep from falling.

His eyes met yours and he leaned in and kissed you. His lips were soft and firm, and you melted into the kiss, your fingers reaching up to tangle in his hair. He pressed you into Caraxes side, the dragon curled around the two of you protectively, his tail flicking lazily.

The beast was warm against your back, you could feel its chest expand with each deep breath, a gentle rattling sound coming from it.

Daemon broke the kiss, nuzzling into your neck. Your whole body was on fire, and you could feel the heat of him pressed against you.

"Would you like me to make you come again, lady Hightower," he whispered, his teeth grazing your skin.

"My Prince... I've never...," you managed to get out, looking up at him with wide eyes.

"Better me than a Lannister, yes?" he said, a smirk on his face.

You blushed furiously, unable to respond. He was right. You didn't want to give your maidenhead to some Lannister bore. You wanted it to be him.

Caraxes curled tighter around the two of you, warm and surprisingly still, his long neck and head outstretched, surveying the area around you. His eyes were lazy, and he was making a strange rumbling sound, almost content, like a big cat.

Daemon looked up at him, smiling at the beast, then back to you, his hands moving up to cradle your face. He leaned in and captured your lips in a hot, searing kiss that had you clinging to him.

His hands dropped to your hips, pulling you closer. You could feel the hard length of him against your belly, and a hot ache settled between your legs. You had never felt like this before, so hungry, so desperate.

He broke the kiss, his lips trailing down your neck. His hands moved down, pushing the skirt of your dress up and bunching the fabric around your waist. He lifted your thigh, hooking it around his hip.

With his other hand he unlaced his trousers, freeing his hard cock. You had never seen a man's cock before, and the sight of his had you blushing even deeper. It was thick and long, the tip pink and leaking a clear fluid.

He smiled, seeing the look on your face, "go on, touch it," he said, his voice low.

Tentatively, you reached out, your hand wrapping around his shaft. He was hot and hard in your palm, the skin smooth and velvety. You moved your hand up and down, marveling at the way he grew harder and thicker.

Your eyes flickered back up to his face. He had a satisfied smile on his lips, his violet eyes dark and intense.

"Like this," he said, placing his hand over yours and guiding you. He showed you how to stroke him, the pressure and speed. When he let go, you continued, enjoying the way his eyes closed and his head tilted back, his lips parting as he breathed heavily.

You watched him, entranced by the sight of him, his pleasure growing. He placed his hand back over yours, stilling you.

He took your other thigh and hoisted you up. You clung to him, your arms wrapping around his neck. His hard cock rubbed against the soft flesh of your cunt, and you moaned softly, the ache inside you growing.

You wrapped your legs around his waist and he thrust against you. You gasped at the feeling of his hard cock sliding against your clit, the head bumping against your entrance.

You looked up at him, pleading. He was looking down at you, his eyes dark, his hair falling across his forehead. He was so handsome, so strong.

"Please, my prince," you breathed, desperate.

He smirked, his eyes flashing, and then he was guiding himself inside you, the tip of his cock parting the soft, wet flesh.

He pushed slowly into you, and you felt a sharp pain as his cock tore through your maidenhead. You cried out, and he kissed you, swallowing your gasp.

He hummed against your lips, a soothing, comforting sound. His hands squeezed your bottom, holding you steady. He moved slowly, rocking his hips, pulling you into him with each thrust.

"I've got you," he said, his voice rough, his breath hot against your skin.

The pain slowly subsided, replaced by a delicious, aching pleasure. You clung to him, your eyes closing, lost in the sensation of him filling you.

You could hear the sound of the wind, and the rustle of the trees. The deep gentle sounds of Caraxes' breathing. And the sound of your heart pounding, and Daemon's labored breaths.

He slowed his thrusts, drawing it out, pushing hard and deep, slamming your body back against the beast with each motion. You clutched at his shirt, nails digging into the soft material, gasps and sighs and half-formed moans fell from your lips. He picked up the pace, faster now, and you both lost yourselves in it, your pleasure was all that mattered.

His face was a picture, pleasure and devotion and tension and complete and total ecstasy. Your name was on his lips, a litany of beautiful profanities fell from them, a mix of Valerian and common that made the redness in your face grow deeper. You began to grind your hips against him, rolling them as he moved with you, his movements becoming erratic. His hand came down to cup the back of your neck, holding you steady as he leaned in and captured your lips in a messy kiss.

He stilled, letting out a low groan as he pressed himself deep, holding your hips in place as he filled you with his seed. Your body shuddered and twitched and you whimpered against his mouth, clenching down on him. It was too much, and you followed him over the edge, a bright burst of light going off behind your eyes as you succumbed to the feeling.

He rested his forehead against yours as you both caught your breath, his eyes closed and a look of pure bliss on his face. You giggled, running your hands through his hair, and he managed a lazy smile.

"Think of me when Tyland is trying to stick his cock in you on your wedding night," he said, his words warm and breathy against your lips.

You chuckled, then turned sad, remembering that your wedding would take place soon, and you would never see Daemon again.

He seemed to sense your sadness, his hands cupping your face, his eyes full of promises he could not keep. He said nothing, just kissed you again and held you, pressing you back against the dragon.

Caraxes purred, you could hear a faint rattling, like old armor, and the dragon's chest expanded and deflated slowly, the rhythm soothing.

You stayed there for what seemed like an eternity, Daemon wrapped around you, his hand tracing gentle circles on the exposed skin of your thigh.

You sighed, content and warm and happy, but knowing that the spell was soon to be broken, and you would have to return to the reality of the life that had been laid out before you.

"We should be getting back," you said, frowning. You didn't want the moment to end, but you had been gone for far too long, and your maids would be wondering where you were.

Daemon nodded, reluctantly pulling away. He laced up his pants and then helped you straighten your dress. You tried to flatten the wrinkles with your hands, but there was no helping it. You had been flying, and then you had been fucked, thoroughly, by the heir to the throne, and there was no hiding that.

He grabbed your hand and brought it to his lips, his eyes full of promise and heat. You blushed, and he grinned, pulling you back to the dragon.

The ride back was slower, the dragon gliding gently through the sky, and you had the urge to cry. You wanted this feeling, of freedom and warmth and safety, to last forever.

You sat back against Daemon's chest, his arms tight around you, the wind whipping through your hair.

Caraxes flew lazily through the sky, and you could see the Red Keep getting closer, the massive walls looming large. The dragon descended, the air rushing around you, and then the beast landed in the center of the courtyard near the dragon pit, his wings beating wildly, sending clouds of dust and dirt swirling around him.

He roared, a great and terrible sound, his long neck twisting and his wings stretching. The beast was restless, and he seemed unhappy to be back in the confines of the castle.

Daemon leapt off the dragon, landing gracefully, and then turned and helped you down, his hands lingering on your waist. He gave you a wicked smile, and you blushed, unable to meet his eyes.

"I swear," he said, lifting your hand and pressing another kiss to your knuckles, "I'll burn down Casterly Rock just to get a taste of you again."

You chuckled, a blush coloring your cheeks, then you looked him in the eyes.

"And I will gladly watch it burn," you said, grinning.

He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your cheek, and then he was gone, climbing back onto Caraxes and taking to the sky. You watched them disappear, the great, crimson beast disappearing into the clouds.

You stood there, alone in the courtyard, watching the sky long after he had disappeared. Your heart was heavy, despite his promises, you knew that you would never see him again.

You turned and walked back to the keep, your mind filled with memories of your time together. It was a small moment, a stolen moment, but you knew you would hold on to it…

And be reminded of it every time you looked to the sky.

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solkara · 6 months ago

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❛ 𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐒 , when princess rhaenyra's younger twin was born. many did not think you would survive. as when you came into the world you was as quiet as a mouse. while your older sister roared. though you were a fit and healthy babe. it was clear to everyone that you were the calm and rhaenyra was the storm. and as the two grew older they were deemed inseparable. often making mischief in the red keep. though everyone knew it was rhaenyra's schemes. ❜

❛ 𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐒 , and that you just went along with it. the two of you were also very close with alicent hightower. and the trio were rarely seen apart from each other. that was until their mother died. everything seemed to change in the blink of an eye. alicent married their father. causing rhaenyra to resent her. and while you were angry with alicent. you didn't hate her and still to be kind to her and her children. which she appreciated. but as you would come to realise. you unknowingly placed yourself in the middle of a war of dragons. with both sides unwilling to give you up. ❜

house of the dragon masterlist

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swordgrace · 6 months ago

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𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋𝐘 — 𝐈.

⠀ཾ༵ 𑁍┆ daemon targaryen x otto’s wife!reader x otto hightower.

synopsis: as the young wife of otto hightower, your joy is threadbare, and your husband is absent. when you have a chance encounter with the rogue prince at the heir’s tournament, you become entangled in a web of desire that you cannot get out of.

SERIES — 1/?

༺ FORMAT: one-shot — not requested, part of a series.

༺ WORD COUNT: 11.5K.

༺ WARNINGS: SMUT!, dubious consent / mild coercion, infidelity, cheating (on otto), legal age gap (for reader/otto and reader/daemon), inexperienced reader, otto is an absent husband, seduction, sexual tension & yearning, reader is sexually repressed, loss of virginity, risk of getting caught, choking, biting / marking, begging, groping, scratching, oral sex (f!receiving), fingering, finger-fucking, p in v sex (unprotected), multiple positions, possessive daemon, mention of child death.

༺ AUTHOR’S NOTE: I am so incredibly excited for this fic series, I feel like it could be a good one! I really appreciate all of the support I’ve been getting on the Aemond fic, another one will be coming up soon! Hello to all of my new followers, I am so excited to have you all here! Please enjoy this part, it’s a big one, but it sets the stage for future parts!

𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 — you often saw inklings of it in Alicent’s eyes whenever you held her gaze, and noticed the subtle twitch of her mouth with any attempt at conversation. It always fell short, a relationship that had no ounce of potential, nothing to kindle it.

Sometimes, you wished that you could hold her hands, cuticles raw, and tell her that you were one and the same. It always made you uncomfortable to contemplate the closeness in age between you and Alicent, and the longer you dwelled on it, the more bitter you felt.

You were only three years her senior — one-and-twenty, married to her father, Otto Hightower — the hand of the King. Marriage was a concept that you were groomed for, and to be wed to a man of such stature and importance was a great victory for your house.

Otto was an absent husband, at best. His proceedings as Hand left him occupied, and whenever he did return to you, he was often burying himself in whatever business the King had assigned him to. Otto often took much of it on himself, with little time left for you.

You were nothing more than an accessory — a beautiful accessory, at that.

Otto had little desire for another child, and for that, you were eternally grateful to the Gods for allowing such a thing. It was a rarity for a man of his station to take up a wife with no intention of children. In all actuality, he simply missed his wife and yearned for her presence.

Whatever you were, you partially filled the void, but it would never be the same.

There was an emptiness within you that intensified as each day passed, a gaping hole in your body that simply collected dust. You were nothing more than a shimmering jewel for Otto to reveal in the public eye, but put away when it was all said and done.

It wasn’t a horrible existence, but you were unfulfilled. Life felt mundane, and despite the lavish and privileged setting you dwelled within, everything seemed gray, as if you were simply gazing out of a window, seeing the happiness of everyone else.

The more time you spent toiling over your woes and steeping yourself into self-resentment and hopelessness, the more restless you became. You didn’t want to keep pushing yourself into that fray of unhappiness, not when it weighed upon you so heavily already.

Appearances were sacred to Otto, who insisted you join him at the Heir’s Tournament, a celebration to usher in King Viserys and Queen Aemma’s newborn child. A joust and seven days of feasting and revelry were upon you, a routine affair whenever royal children were born.

In the Tower of the Hand, surrounded by a flock of fussing handmaidens, you smoothed your palms across the deep emerald gown, silk soft underneath your fingertips. Your beauty was unmatched — the rare jewel from the North that Otto Hightower had stolen for himself.

It would be a long day, yet the sun shimmered down upon King’s Landing and the Red Keep — a good sign of the festivities to come. You were the picture of a true maiden, not an imperfection in-sight, thanks to the handiwork of your numerous handmaidens.

A knock at your chamber door alerted you to your husband’s presence — it was always stern and rigid.

“Come!” You called, peering at yourself through the large mirror of an upright vanity. The only thing that happened to be missing was a stone around your neck, but you had an impressive array to choose from.

Otto stood within your doorway, always so formal and calculating. He was a difficult man to read — you had been wed for a handful of months, and he was still that way after all this time. “Hm.” He appraised you with a stoic gaze, unwavering and indiscernible.

Sheepishly, you turned for him to see, folding your hands together. “Is this suitable for the Tournament?” You inquired, the colors of your regalia that of House Hightower — emerald with gold embellishments.

In Otto Hightower’s eyes, you would never measure up to his first wife, his true love — but you were perfectly adequate, and that was all you needed to be. He stepped forward, staring down at you with an inkling of warmth within his eyes, tracing a finger across the soft slope of your jaw. “You look resplendent.”

That singular grain of warmth was something you would hold onto, and you mustered up enough of a smile to press a chaste kiss against Otto’s cheek. The gesture was brief, yet even the Hand himself seemed perplexed by it. You wanted to show affection, but Otto never seemed interested in reciprocating.

His kind words were enough to appease you, prompting you to smile as you bowed your head. “Thank you, husband.” Pleased by this, you made sure to string a necklace of peridot around your neck before Otto offered you his arm. It was a courtly procedure — nothing inherently affectionate about it, as you expected.

The walk to the tournament grounds was a lengthy one, but it gave you time to admire the buzz of the Red Keep. The excitement for the birth of a new Targaryen heir was palpable, felt by all you passed. Otto was always stalwart, with a pensive and unreadable expression.

Both you and Otto joined Alicent and Rhaenyra in the stands above the jousting grounds, with crowds of common folk and nobles alike joining in the rancor. Alicent seemed less than thrilled to see you, but you weren’t met with her usual icy indifference.

“Lady Hightower,” King Viserys greeted you with a kindly smile, prompting you to drop into a curtsy. “I am surprised to see that Otto brought you along. It is good to have you here.”

“It is a beautiful day, my King — I certainly hope this favor shines down upon you and your family.” You replied, offering the King a pleasant smile. Admittedly, you were rather excited to see a joust — it was good to be outside amongst your peers, not hidden away within the Tower of the Hand.

Your manners and pleasantries, the eloquent way in which you spoke to others, was a quality that Otto did admire about you. You were soft and kindhearted, possessing all of the gentle traits of a young maiden, a Lady in the making. If it weren’t for such qualities, he might’ve favored you a little less.

As you sat beside Otto, he remained rigid, gazing down upon the field. His eldest son, Gwayne, was amongst the many competitors preparing for the Joust. You had met Gwayne on a handful of occasions, and whilst he did not harbor as much bitterness as Alicent might’ve, he was still rather obtuse about your presence.

You had learned to develop a thick skin — as much as you desired to be friends to both Alicent and Gwayne, you were not their mother. You never wanted that role, either. Motherhood, especially at your young age, sounded most undesirable.

Admittedly, you were enamored with the horses, too — the beautiful beasts that carried their riders to glory, or otherwise. Your love of animals was well-known, something that Otto occasionally treated you to.

Prince Daemon Targaryen, brother to the King, rode out upon a steed as black as the dusk, bearing the Targaryen crest upon his shield. The draconic motif of his armor and helmet had made him appear fierce — a most intimidating competitor.

Otto seemed less than pleased — you knew that your husband despised the Prince, and the feeling was mutual. In your brief encounters with Daemon, often in Otto’s presence, their disdain was palpable. It was all vitriol and hatred, a constant battle for who could obtain the upper hand.

Knowing that Daemon chose Gwayne to joust to spite your husband made you somewhat apprehensive, but admittedly, sometimes you felt that Otto deserved to have his skin crawl at times. You didn’t like it for Alicent’s sake, her brother in harm’s way, but you had to stake in it.

The Prince rode forward, parading around the length of the field before he approached the royal stand, jousting lance held high. His lips curled into a lopsided smirk, and suddenly, you found that he was looking directly at you — those violet hues of his held your bashful stare.

“Lady Hightower,” He called, loud enough for those to hear it. Alicent began to stand, but Daemon shook his head. “Not you, my Lady.” He gestured toward you with his lance, sneer subtle and his eyes full of intrigue and the desire to make Otto Hightower squirm.

Visibly surprised, you looked to Otto, who seemed entirely displeased — but he wasn’t one to make his weakness known. “Otto, should I …” You trailed off, glancing toward the small table with your favor sitting atop it.

“I am fairly certain that I can win these games with ease, by having your favor, Lady Hightower.” Daemon spoke loud enough for all around to hear, inviting an audience — in all actuality, he simply wanted Otto to bear witness to charming you. “Would you do me the great pleasure of granting me your favor?”

Otto grimaced, countenance beginning to simmer with anger, deep below the surface. He bristled, jaw unnaturally tight. His fingers curled into a fist, yet he had no intention of denying you such an act, if you so desired. This was a tournament, after all — and any reaction that he gave, Daemon would indulge himself in.

Startled, you looked to Otto for approval, yet he offered you none. Reluctantly, you rose to your feet, retrieving a wreath of beautiful blossoms — gold, ochre, and shades of pink. You stepped toward the terrace’s edge, meeting the handsome visage of Daemon Targaryen, with his lance ready to receive your favor.

“Where has your husband been keeping you all this time, my Lady?” Daemon questioned, loud enough for only you to hear. Your breath hitched within your throat at his brashness, lips parting slightly as you cradled your favor between your hands.

Instead, you dipped down, offering the Prince a sheepish smile, wrought with some confusion as you tossed it onto his lance. “Good luck, my Prince. I hope to see your victory in this joust.” You nodded, keeping your formalities intact before you curtsied, swiftly clamoring to find your place beside Otto.

Daemon smirked, his gaze hot enough to melt right through you, if you let it. It never left you, even when you ascended the steps to sit beside your husband, the Rogue Prince ensured that you writhed beneath his watchful eyes.

Swallowing the growing lump within your throat, Daemon’s incendiary stare was something that you were so unaccustomed to — Otto never looked at you that way, as if you were a treasure, something to be coveted. It left you to mull over your thoughts for the entirety of the tournament.

The carnage that ensued was typical for a joust, especially one with so many warring factions. Men tore one another from their horses, dueled in the dirt, bashed skulls in. The tangy scent of copper filled the air, one that had unfortunately become ingrained in you.

It brought you back to your youth, as you recalled your sister falling from her steed, head crushed to nothingness upon the rocks. The scent of blood would always loom over you like a black cloud for as long as you lived.

Otto glanced toward you, reaching for your hand as he gave it a subtle squeeze. He did not offer any words of reassurance, lips a thin, pensive line before one of the Maesters stepped in behind him, whispering news into his ear. His expression changed instantaneously.

Something was wrong — you could feel it in your marrow.

Alicent looked to you and Otto, and you saw her fingers, picked bloody and raw, and you felt nothing but sympathy. When Otto immediately stood, letting go of your hand, you watched with a furrowed brow as he momentarily disappeared — King Viserys was long gone, absent for a majority of the Tournament.

It was only when Daemon Targaryen and Criston Cole began to duel, that your attention went elsewhere. You watched in subtle awe as Daemon fought, clad in black armor and crimson scales, the colors of House Targaryen. Dark Sister in his right hand, thrusting at the Dornish Knight with an unholy vengeance.

At last, when it ended with Daemon haughtily retreating from the field, you wondered where your husband had gone, disappearing altogether. He had left behind guards to escort you back to the Red Keep, but his absence left you feeling more afraid of the walk back.

Nonetheless, you gathered your skirts, knowing that Alicent had long since left with Rhaenyra. You didn’t worry for her safety — as long as she was with the Princess, no harm would befall her.

“The Hand advised that we take you back to the Keep at once, Lady Hightower.” One of your guards prompted, ushering you towards the stands as the pair assisted you in getting back down. There was a sense of urgency in their steps, but you were confused by it. Had something happened that required Otto’s immediate attention?

You descended the steps from the stand, finding yourself in a sea of nobles and commoners alike, attempting to return to their homes and daily lives. Your guards remained vigilant, assisting you in pushing through towards the stables. There was a quieter path there, a shorter way to the Red Keep.

“This way, my Lady.” One guard made way, allowing you to go first as you made it to the tournament stables. Many of the Knights, those that still drew breath, were collecting their coin and saddling their horses, preparing to make an exit. There was one horse in particular that caught your eye — Daemon’s steed, as black as night.

The Prince himself appeared from the obscured view of the tent, and you nearly scuttled away at the insistence of your protectors, but Daemon saw you first.

“Lady Hightower,” Daemon greeted you, voice often tinged with something sly, a hint of arrogance. Those violet eyes of his bore down upon you as he approached, still clad in his armor. There were smears of dirt upon his face, flecks of crimson, yet it did not detract from his beauty. “Have you come to praise my victory?”

The guards who stood at your flank seemed less than thrilled with this interaction that was forming. They seemed to dislike Daemon as much as Otto did — and you wondered if there was an influence present.

“We are merely passing through, to return to the Red Keep,” Your soft gaze flickered toward Daemon’s horse, admiring its flawless dark coat. “Your horse is beautiful. It served you well through the tournament.”

Daemon noticed that flicker of admiration and happiness within your eyes, coaxing the stallion closer with a mere tug of the reins. He brought it close, close enough for you to touch. “He is yours, if you want him.” His words might’ve struck you as sardonic, but Daemon appeared to be genuine in such an action.

As much as you wanted to, you couldn’t accept such a gift — and when would you have time to ride, anyway? Otto would never let you past the Keep’s gates, let alone into the forests beyond. “That is too kind of you, my Prince. I am afraid that I must decline — it would be unfair to have a horse that I cannot give any attention to.” You sighed, your features somewhat melancholy.

Fascinating — quite the ironic parallel to your own situation. If you did not see the amusement in it, Daemon most certainly did. “How thoughtful of you, Lady Hightower.” He hesitated, lips twitching into a rather mocking smirk at his next words. “Where is that charming husband of yours?”

You should’ve been offended on Otto’s behalf, especially with the Prince’s contemptuous tone, but you felt nothing. You couldn’t retort, mouth becoming dry as you cleared your throat. “My husband found himself preoccupied with duties as Hand, my Prince. He needed to leave.”

Daemon scoffed, lip curling slightly as he glanced toward your guards. “So he left you with this pathetic display of protection?” The Prince immediately drew the ire of the guards, who seemed less than pleased with Daemon’s remarks. “I could gut them before they could draw their swords.”

“Is that a threat, Commander?” One of your guards hissed, grip tightening upon the pommel of his shortsword. The weight of the scenario made you nervous, prompting you to direct your gaze toward Daemon, whose mouth was upturned in an amused smirk.

“Hardly. It is a promise.” Daemon retorted, hands interlocked atop the pommel of Dark Sister — a legendary blade of Valyrian Steel. You knew that your feeble guards were no match to a swordsman of Daemon’s caliber.

Before steel could be brandished, you immediately extended your hand, anxiousness welling within your heart. It frightened you to be so close to potential violence, but you had some station. “Enough — all of you!” You quipped, hands beginning to quiver.

Daemon chuckled, seemingly perplexed by your sudden display of authority. He did not dispute your call for peace, staring at your guards with a narrowed gaze. “If you are seeking better company than these fucking imbeciles, I will gladly escort you to the Red Keep, Lady Hightower.”

You shouldn’t — Otto would be so displeased.

Every fiber of your body screamed at you to turn away Prince Daemon’s proposal. It was improper, and you knew that your Lord husband would become cantankerous if he were to find out that Daemon was near you, let alone providing passage back to the Red Keep.

He could sense your hesitation, born out of loyalty to your withering husband, Daemon assumed. The conflict that danced within your eyes was one that he wholly intended on manipulating — you were much too sweet. The Prince clicked his tongue, awaiting your response.

“It isn’t a difficult question, my Lady.” Perhaps, his tone might’ve put you off just a little bit, but he was confident that you would accept. Daemon regarded you with those lilac hues of his, calculating and sly.

“Yes,” You interjected, much to the disdain of your guards, “but my guards will stay with me.” It was the smartest option — if you were left alone with Daemon, you feared what rumors could be spun from such an action. You were naive at times, but not completely stupid.

Daemon knew this — he knew your intentions, but he also knew his own. With a sardonic laugh, he readied his belongings, gesturing to take your leave onto the cobblestone streets. “Do you have such little trust in your Prince?”

A ripple of heat fluttered over your features, subsiding just as quickly as it came. You twisted your hands together, fingers interlocked as you fell quiet. Daemon’s salacious reputation followed him like a shadow — violent, promiscuous, and arrogant. It was common knowledge that the Prince possessed crude interests.

“It is not that, my Prince. My Lord Husband will wonder why the guards are at the Keep before I am. I do not want him to worry — he has enough to attend to as it is as Hand of the King.” A threadbare excuse, at best, but much to your relief, Daemon let the matter rest, for now.

The violet-eyed Prince let out a scoff at that, yet he elected not to fluster you further. Your announcement of Otto’s station was most amusing, as if he needed reminding. He joined you, walking side-by-side as you made it onto the noble path back to the Red Keep. It was a safer trek than taking the commoner’s route.

Silence filled the gap between you both, with your guards tailing you and Daemon, ensuring that no one interfered with such royal affairs. He was growing quite bored with the lack of conversation — especially with someone like you. You were interesting and new, something to be inspected.

“Isn’t it the duty of a husband to attend to his wife?” Daemon questioned, attempting to toy with you. He thoroughly enjoyed getting under Otto Hightower’s skin, but admittedly, he did want to know more about you. You were beautiful — a pretty maiden hanging upon the Hand’s arm; he wondered how that came to be.

Your jaw tightened, causing your frustration to brew as you held your skirts within one hand, continuing to make your way up the steps. “Why are you not in the Vale with Lady Royce, if that is what you truly think?” You quipped, somewhat unnerved with how he picked apart your marriage.

Otto wasn’t attentive — if anything, he only became attentive when appearances mattered most. There was no desire nor genuine interaction outside of that. You lived a very lonely life, even if it seemed so wonderful and lavish on the outside.

Daemon chuckled, bemused by your fiery retort. You became so flustered whenever he successfully managed to poke and prod at you. “I’ve no interest in my Bronze Bitch,” He replied, his tone dripping with an underlying venom, “The sheep in the Vale are prettier.”

You huffed, brows furrowing together. This seemed like a horrible idea, allowing Daemon to escort you back to the Keep. He was crass and unpredictable, yet you couldn’t help but find some merit in his examination of your relationship with Otto.

“I am sure that there are plenty of worthwhile subjects in your City to keep you satisfied, my Prince. This isn’t the Vale.” You exhaled, exasperated and agitated that Otto had simply left you at the Tournament grounds.

He could sense it — your repression, the twinge of desperation laced within your voice. Daemon didn’t expect any wife of Otto Hightower to be truly sated and satisfied, but you were the true picture of a jewel locked away in a chest, or hidden beneath mounds of soot. No one had bothered to truly see you as you were.

Emboldened, Daemon knew that tempting you with pretty words could have consequences — fortunately for him, he didn’t care in the slightest. “The only worthwhile subject is standing before me.” He countered, lips twitching into the ghost of a smirk.

A shiver ran down the length of your spine, heart galloping just a little faster when Daemon brazenly showered you in his silver-tongued sayings. You hadn’t been spoken to in such a manner before, and as much as you should’ve countered it, you didn’t.

Heat crept through your features as you kept your head down, chewing at the inside of your cheek. “I do not know what you speak of, my Prince.” Your reply was weak, soft spoken as you continued on your path back to the Red Keep. You didn’t want to reveal just how warm it made you feel.

“I believe you do,” Daemon mused, stepping close enough to you to ensure that the guards wouldn’t eavesdrop. “Surely, your Lord Husband has offered you such pleasure before, has he not?” His Valyrian timbre made your breath hitch within your throat.

“Prince Daemon,” You were in disbelief at his brashness, at how forward he was being with you. You didn’t want to indulge him — yet part of you did. “You must stop.” Your voice was barely above a whisper, strained and throaty. The silence became overwhelming as you made it toward the gates of the Red Keep.

When his name rolled from your tongue, Daemon’s lilac hues glistened with something indiscernible. He enjoyed the way you said his name — trembling and uncertain, as if he had revealed some horrible truth to you. Instead, the Prince stared at you, looking toward the gates.

“As you wish,” Daemon’s arrogance wafted from him like a thick haze, enough to permeate your immediate space. The Prince opted to shift the subject matter to something more appropriate — for your own sake, of course. “I suspect that I will have a nephew, soon enough.”

Daemon sounded indifferent, as if the prospect of a nephew wasn’t at all a pleasant idea. It would make him lower in the ranking of succession, you knew this. Otto had made multiple campaigns against Daemon to keep him from reaching the Iron Throne. Their rivalry was petty, as far as you were concerned.

Your steps slowed, keeping pace with Daemon as you made your way to the gates of the Red Keep. “You don’t sound very jovial, for an uncle.” You replied, and your observation seemed to catch his attention. “King Viserys is your brother. Are you not excited?”

A scoff escaped him as he stared at you, violet hues narrowing at your perceptiveness. “Is that how I seem to you, Lady Hightower? Devoid of joy?” Daemon smiled disparagingly, perching a palm atop the pommel of his blade.

Swallowing the slight lump within your throat, you detected his shackled fury, and you did not want to provoke the dragon any further. “My apologies, your Grace. I did not mean to be presumptuous.” You replied, fingers curling into your skirts.

“Of course you didn’t,” Daemon mused, lips twitching into a sardonic smirk. He seemed to believe you — though, part of your line of questioning felt personal, in retaliation for his jabs about your Lord Husband. “Have you been permitted to see the Dragonpit?”

Of the many places in King’s Landing, Daemon often longed to be on the back of Caraxes — or with his blade driven into any that crossed his path. You hadn’t been to see the Dragonpit yourself, considering that a lady of your station could never go many places unaccompanied.

“No, my Prince.” Disappointment danced within your voice, pace slowing again to keep in-step with Daemon. “I would love to see it, if allowed. Dragons are gorgeous creatures, symbols of your strength.” With a soft sigh, you looked to the Red Keep, looming overhead.

Daemon stepped closer, in close quarters as he looked down at you, noticing the subtle hitch within your throat. “Hm,” He glanced at your stalwart escorts, lilac eyes flickering over your pretty countenance. He dipped closer, lips ghosting near the shell of your ear. “Should your husband release you from your shackles, I could show you.”

A strange wave of gooseflesh crawled along the length of your spine, brows furrowing together as you recoiled, as if being scorched. You looked to Daemon with bewilderment, lip curling slightly as you regained your composure. “Your offer is a gracious one, your Grace.” You murmured.

It often shocked you how reckless Daemon was — abrasive and careless with his position. He could bed whomever he wanted, fuck and fight whenever it best suited him. It wasn’t a possibility for you, a noblewoman married to the Hand of the King. Part of you wished you could be afforded the liberties of a man like Daemon, but it was merely a fantasy.

Silence drifted between the both of you, enough to bring you some discomfort as you heard the doors to the Red Keep creak open. Daemon’s incendiary stare never wavered, never faltered as he kept his eyes on you. Your guardsmen were less than thrilled, but kept quiet as the two of you stepped into the hall.

“This is where I bid you farewell, my Prince.” Your voice was shrewd, nothing more than the soft lull of a mouse. Daemon regarded you with the ghost of a smirk, bowing before you as any gentleman would.

“I look forward to our next meeting, Lady Hightower.” Daemon replied, glancing toward a group of Targaryen guards that made their way to him. Your own escorts were happy to take advantage of the gap in attention, whisking you away into the depths of the Red Keep.

The atmosphere had shifted, from jovial and celebratory to eerie and desolate, somber — servants and nobles alike seemed riddled with melancholy, their heads hung low. Whispers of a fallen heir touched your ears, and then you understood why Otto had left in such a hurry.

Queen Aemma and her newborn son were dead.

You remembered what the air smelled like, the day of your sister’s funeral — you recalled the swaying of golden grass against stone, those in-mourning unable to stifle their tears. It was your mother that had wailed the most, draped across the terrace where her body lay, cloaked by a funerary shroud.

Now, the memories seemed to dance along the fringes of your mind, standing within the open plain far from King’s Landing, along the coastline of Blackwater Bay. Salty air peppered your flesh in soft kisses, eyes stinging with the onslaught of tears.

The despondent look on King Viserys’s face had harkened back to your youth, moments that still haunted your steps. You stood beside Otto, who appeared resolute despite the tragedy, but even you could see the wisps of empathy that flickered across his countenance. Stoicism was his forte, but even death could break the strongest man apart.

Daemon appeared somber, violet hues occasionally drifting toward his brother, the King, who let out a muffled sob as Rhaenyra set the funeral pyre ablaze. Dragon’s fire would return dragons to ash, to the great beyond. You admired the strength of the Princess, even through dour moments like this.

Once the burning of Queen Aemma and Baelon had ended, what nobles were left gathered amongst themselves to pay their respects, to the deceased and to the King. Viserys seemed indifferent, so far removed from the moment as his subjects offered their condolences.

Otto’s hand pressed into the small of your back, the first comforting gesture that he’d offered, completely unprovoked. He dipped down, enough to murmur words reserved for you and him. “The King will need my council during these dark times,” He uttered, “Now more than ever.”

You nodded, knowing that it implied Otto would be less present than he already was. His lips briefly graced the crown of your head before he slipped past, stepping towards King Viserys and Rhaenyra.

Standing alone, you opted to wander, venturing away from the melancholy gathering and toward the sea of wheatgrass that danced with the saltwater breeze. The scent of the ocean filled your lungs, made them whole — it was far better than that of King’s Landing.

Rays of a dying sun sparkled down upon you, licking your flesh with a comforting warmth that you savored. It was enough to make you exhale, eyes fluttering shut as you imagined yourself worlds away, or perhaps sailing out to sea, where it was only your hands that guided you.

The evening breeze jostled your tresses, blanketing your face with its softness. The tears that had prickled your eyes no longer made residence there as you hastily wiped them aside, hands wringing together before you.

Footsteps reverberated from your left side, as the shape of Prince Daemon came into your view. Despite the whirlwind of emotions he’d left you with earlier that day, you were inclined to place them aside. His dark tunic, lined in dragonscales, glittered beneath the waning sunlight.

“I am deeply sorry for your loss, Prince Daemon. I cannot imagine the pain of losing two of your family in one day,” You murmured, lips forming a pensive line as you looked at the Targaryen. He was unusually quiet for a spell, which prompted you to fill in the void. “I hope that your brother will recover.”

“He is the Dragon,” Daemon echoed, hands folded in front of him. “He will endure.” As for the Prince, there was some discomfort knowing that such a bloody fate had befallen Aemma. His sister-by-law had always been a devoted wife and good mother, and such a loving woman was difficult to come by. “My sister was a good woman.”

You had met Queen Aemma on multiple occasions, and she was pure — softhearted and kind, with a gentle visage that was sure to put anyone at ease. “She was,” You lamented, echoing Daemon’s sentiments with a threadbare smile. “And a good Queen.”

That was something Daemon could not argue with, violet hues finally shifting away from the horizon and onto you, a picture of beauty. Even in black tapestries, the color of mourning, you were still rather enchanting. Tenderness blossomed from within you, a soft heart — it was enough to temper Daemon, for just a moment.

He searched your visage, able to detect the growing dolour that became etched into your features. Your eyes glistened with unshed tears, many that threatened to spill over as you twisted your fingers together. “The last funeral that I attended was that of my sister,” You uttered, facing Daemon with a bitter smile. “I hoped that I would not have to attend another.”

A sister — Daemon was somewhat inquisitive regarding the finer details of your life, but he did not want to pry at the present. “Unfortunately, you will find that death is constant and unyielding,” He offered little consolation, but it was the hard truth. “Though, I trust that you will endure, just as my brother will.”

Daemon was often harsh and crass, always a realist with little desire to pull the wool over another’s eyes unless it was for personal gain. He knew that you were sweet, too malleable for this world — he hoped to see you blossom into something strong. With Otto Hightower for a husband, any woman would become as tough as steel.

Part of you wished for flowery words of reassurance from Daemon, but you found none — just a stoicism with an inkling of empathy. Though, you weren’t expecting much, and Otto would be of little comfort, too.

“You are more than just a wife, if you choose it. Do not allow yourself to sit underneath his boot forever.” Daemon murmured, boldly stepping inward to get a better look at you. Your subdued nature was partially Otto’s fault — he blamed the Hand for your sheltered demeanor, for your loneliness.

A brief stirring sensation erupted within your chest, and you looked to Daemon, a singular tear spilling across your forlorn features. “I do not have your luxuries, my Prince — I cannot bed whom I want, go wherever I please, abandon my husband — duty is everything. It may not mean anything to you, but it means something to me.” You quipped, your voice hushed yet strained.

Daemon huffed, lips curling slightly, as if to express disdain. Part of him understood your deep-rooted frustration, but perhaps he simply wanted to pass on his recklessness to you. “Quite presumptuous of you to assume that I care little for duty,” He replied, easily crawling beneath your skin. “You can do whatever you please, once you stop being so afraid.”

You nearly recoiled from him, clearly stung by the attack on your character. His assumption of your fear made you bristle, nostrils flaring as you turned your face away to mask the swell of anger. “This is where I leave you, Prince Daemon.” You hissed between gritted teeth, hands curled into fistfuls within your skirts.

He found your irritation to be somewhat perplexing — you were so repressed, tangled within your devotion to Otto and constant desolation. Daemon said nothing, merely watching as you retreated into the shadow of your Lord Husband.

You wouldn’t dare look back at Daemon — even as you felt those lilac hues pierce your defenses, you refused him, and made your way back with Otto.

If it were up to you, you would never see Daemon Targaryen again.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐊𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰, 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 — there was no joy to be found anywhere. With the King’s son and wife deceased, the idea of succession was called into question by the small Council. Part of you felt disgusted by the suddenness of such a meeting, especially while the King was in mourning.

Otto cared little for such things. It was imperative that an heir be chosen — or produced yet again, by means of a new betrothal for the King.

Despite the melancholy atmosphere of the Keep, your thoughts remained disorganized and scattered, preoccupied with Daemon Targaryen — and that was a dangerous thing. After his whispered inquiry of pleasure, his berating of you at the funeral, you could not rid him from your mind no matter how much you tried.

Any attempt to flush the Prince’s brazen advances out of your mind were met with a powerful resistance — the other half of you that had little desire to forget. In all honesty, you wanted to know what it was like to be coveted and sought-after, to feel true pleasure, understand its intricacies.

The other half demanded that you reject him, unleash your shackled wrath upon him. He vexed you like no other had before — he far exceeded that of Otto. Daemon had crawled beneath your flesh and taken up permanent residency there, and he would continue to do so unless you plucked up the courage to put a stop to it.

That night, you couldn’t sleep — Otto was nowhere to be found, meeting within the dead of night with the rest of the small Council. Even if he weren’t caught within a meeting, he seldom came to bed with you. He was often in his study, mulling over books, writing letters, attending to matters that didn’t involve you.

You were never involved in much of anything.

Frustration festered within you, rising like the swell of an encroaching tide. Clad in your evening gown, you retrieved a candlestick, slipping out of the Tower of the Hand and into the corridors of the Red Keep. Midnight strolls were not an uncommon thing for you, but this one proved to be more than just elusive sleep.

Your path led you dangerously close to the Small Council chambers, but as you approached, a figure stood outside of one wall, leering in through the tiny gaps. Light slipped through, providing faint illumination onto the face of Daemon Targaryen.

The Prince had been eavesdropping, curious to know about their intentions for succession. Should Viserys pass, the Iron Throne would fall to Daemon — but they wouldn’t allow it. Otto, in particular, was rather vocal in the push against Daemon as the rightful heir.

Daemon turned, craning to peer over his shoulder. Those shadowed, lilac hues drifted across you, your supple form glad in some lace-laden nightgown. Your hair had been pinned-up when he saw you last, and now, it was freed from its confines. He found you to be a visual feast for the eyes — beautiful beyond compare.

In the background, you listened to the squabbling from the Council members, the infighting over who would become heir. It disgusted you, the manner in which they conducted themselves — the Queen and her son were deceased, and the only thing that preoccupied them were the rights of succession.

The silence that lingered between you and Daemon was necessary, necessary enough for you to hear the numerous slanders that your Lord Husband hurled at the Prince. Their hatred continued to fester, and for as long as Otto Hightower lived and thrived in a position of power, he would plague Daemon’s every step.

At last, Daemon stepped away from his eavesdropping, moving towards you instead. “Looking for your husband, Lady Hightower?” He questioned, his voice rich as it dipped lower, hushed and soft enough for only you to hear. The narrow corridor you stood within was as silent as a crypt, not a guard in-sight.

You shook your head, lowering the candle toward your chest. Warmth brushed across your exposed collarbone, and you glanced at Daemon, lips parting slightly. “I could not sleep,” You confessed, teeth gnawing at your lower lip. “I suspect that you are here for a different reason.”

Concealed within the listless shadows of the corridor, Daemon took a step closer, nearly within arm’s reach. His mouth curled into that familiar, cheshire smirk — and it worried you. “What reason would that be, my Lady?” He questioned, head canting slightly.

The calculated way in which he stalked towards you left you feeling somewhat unnerved, hand cupped around the flickering light of the candle. Whatever look he had in his eyes, it mirrored the one he’d given you at the Tournament earlier that day — incendiary and lascivious.

“To see if you will ascend the Throne.” Daemon’s ambition was well-known — and sometimes, his ambition drove him to recklessness and ruthlessness. You knew about his displays of violence as Commander of the City Watch, his prowess with a blade.

Daemon scoffed, continuing to press closer to you, looming above you. The candlelight flickered across his sharp visage, basking him in an orange glow that touched his violet hues. His lips remained permanently fixed into a perplexed smirk, his hand reaching to grab your chin.

As if scorched, you jerked away, brows furrowing together as you glowered at him. “I do not want to see you anymore,” You mumbled, shaking your head with an air of defiance. “You’ve angered me.”

A sardonic chuckle escaped him, enough to further your agitation. It pricked away at your flesh, giving way to a layer of perspiration as it crept along your spine. “Angered you, is that it?” Daemon questioned, attempting to make you writhe. “If you truly wish to be rid of me, walk away — go back to the Hand’s bed.” He challenged.

Your heart slammed within your sternum, lip curling in disdain as you shook your head. The tension crackled between the two of you, one charged with a dangerous desire and anger — two overpowering emotions. “All you care for is the throne.” You whispered, yet your words held no merit at all.

It was something Otto would’ve hurled at him, and you were not your husband — you were far from it.

It was a feeble attempt to bait Daemon into anger just as he had so easily baited you. He was not quick to fall to your ploy, and instead, he happened to stare at you as if you were everything he’d ever wanted. It made you shiver — no one had looked at you like that before.

“You think me so singleminded, Lady Hightower,” He uttered, thumb tracing along your jawline. “I have little interest in the Throne.” In an unexpected move, he dipped forward, lips ghosting around the shell of your ear. “I am far more interested in you.”

Goosebumps cascaded down the length of your spine, and fear rippled through you at Daemon’s close quarters. You were terrified of someone seeing you with the Prince, and you stepped back, wrenching yourself free from his grasp. “This is inappropriate, my Prince. I am afraid you are experiencing a severe lapse in judgment.”

As you began to retreat away from the Council chambers and into the darkness of the corridor, Daemon followed, a predator trailing after prey. He cornered you into an alcove, his chuckle bemused and sardonic.

“My judgment is sound — the only judgment that will be called into question is your own,” He challenged, pinning you against the smooth stone of the wall. His hand cupped your hip, keeping you locked into place. “My poor, sweet Lady Hightower, left untouched and without a lick of attention from your dutiful husband.” Daemon clicked his tongue.

You shuddered, attempting to squirm and ward Daemon away, but he simply kept up his pursuit. “Please,” You whispered, fright filling your startled heart. The Prince’s lust had grown astronomically — all for you, this hidden jewel now within his grasp. “We can’t, Prince Daemon. Someone might see.” You urged.

Daemon seemed unconvinced, lips hovering above your own, tempting you in the most unholy way imaginable. That strong hand that held your hip began to knead into the flesh there, desiring to feel your bare skin. “Fuck everyone else.” He uttered, hot breath fanning across your countenance.

A soft whimper escaped you, and every fiber of your being cried out for him — you wanted this, wanted him to show you what true pleasure felt like. You watched as he inclined his head, blowing the candle out with a faint grin, leaving the both of you in darkness, save for the moonlight that pooled within the halls.

“I can’t, I don’t …” You whispered, voice mousy and meek, yet your resolve was crumbling away, revealing your soul, bare and angry. Part of you loathed Otto for never showing you affection, never indulging in desire, yet the other half of you yearned for the Rogue Prince to steal your virtue. “Daemon.”

It was guilt that had consumed you, initially — the guilt of betraying your husband, despite his lack of desire towards you. You never had anything for yourself — perhaps this could be the one thing. A clenched fist pushed against his chest, but you were weak.

“Why continue to wait for something that will never come, hm? Toil over a man that doesn’t want you?” Daemon questioned, his voice dropping to a sultry octave, a purr that raked across your spine. His hand began to gather your gown, bunching it up to allow him easier access.

“You — You vex me,” You whimpered, knowing that you were simply a rabbit trapped within the maw of a dragon, and perhaps, that was where you wanted to be. “You don’t want me.” It was a valiant attempt to talk yourself out of it, to convince yourself that you were unwanted.

Daemon peppered a string of hot kisses along your jaw, grabbing at your chin to tip your head back. “You don’t know what I want.” He murmured, his stare shadowed with lust. He kissed the side of your face, forehead briefly resting against yours as you considered the sin that you were about to commit.

It was liberating when you no longer thought of sin, and simply thought of your own needs and wants.

His unspoken pressure finally broke your carefully-constructed barrier, and you leaned upwards, rocking forward until you crashed into him. You dropped the candlestick, yet it made little noise. Your lips, soft and compliant, melded with his own — domineering and triumphant. Need blistered through, and he kissed you with such blazing passion.

You felt his other hand shamelessly move toward your neck, flexing underneath your jaw as he kissed you over and over again. You hadn’t experienced such passion before — and you never wanted it to end.

Daemon coaxed you closer, countenance one of sheer lust and possessiveness. His thumb traced across your lower lip, hand snug around your throat before he looked elsewhere. “Fucking is a pleasure, for a woman as it is a man,” He uttered, noticing the hitch in your throat. “I am certain your Lord Husband never bothered with it.”

Abashed, you shook your head, reveling in the sensation of his hand firmly kneading into your hip. “No, my Prince. He did not,” You paused, your hand finding its way to his chest, fingers curling into his tunic. “Would you show me?” It was a fine line, a perilous one — but you did not care, not anymore.

You hadn’t felt desire quite like this in your life — but you wanted it, more than anything else. The void within you, repression tangled up into a ball wound so tightly that it might explode — Daemon stoked the fire, and he seemed eager to let you come undone. You wanted Daemon.

In High Valyrian, he spoke one word. “Māzigon.” Come — Daemon’s hand slipped around yours, urging you away from the small Council chambers and into the depths of the Red Keep. Your trek led you to unfamiliar parts of the castle, some left untouched and unused.

The dust-laden doors led you to a small study, sparsely furnished, yet all Daemon truly needed was a surface wide enough to bear your body. There was a chaise lounge, with a thick direwolf’s hide serving as the rug in front of the darkened hearth. The remnants of an old, four-post bed sat off within the room somewhere, just as dour as the rest of the room.

No one would find you here.

Moonlight pooled through the two large windows, enough for you to see his porcelain, perfect features, tinged with silver. His platinum tresses turned to white, violet hues drinking you in with a ravenous hunger. Rapture and lust, a smoldering desire to make you give into him.

Daemon’s hands cupped either side of your neck, thumb pressing into the underside of your jaw at the other flicked against your lower lip. “Tepagon ezīmagon nyke,” He purred, towering over you as he dipped down, kissing along your jaw. “Take off your clothes.” His command was stern yet dripping with carnality.

If it weren’t for the sheer intensity of the moment, you might’ve become flustered, but instead, your hands flew toward the ribbons and ties of your gown. You shrugged the lace-laden shawl aside, allowing the garment to simply drop around your feet.

Your body was perfect — Daemon wanted it all for himself. If the Hand would not indulge in you, then he would. The Prince let out a low hum, admiring your silky flesh and delicate curves, hand skimming from the hollow of your throat to your breasts.

“For this to be hidden away for so long,” Daemon uttered, hand moving to greedily cup your breast. It elicited a sweet gasp from you, unexpected yet exhilarating. “Is a fucking crime.” He growled, and without another word, he moved to kiss you, like fire washing over you, all-consuming and devouring.

Instinct drove you as your hands clamored to the nape of his neck, tugging at the silken crown of pale tresses there. Daemon seemed pleased by this, teeth grazing along your lower lip before he bit down, eliciting a whine from you. He thoroughly enjoyed the feeling of you underneath his palm — as soft as velvet.

His tongue lapped across your lower lip, soothing the ache brought about by the sharp bite of his teeth. He kissed you hard, lips parted, the action warm and wet — he imagined tasting something else, head clouded with the unshakable haze of lust.

“Daemon,” You whimpered, abandoning all titles and formalities. He no longer referred to you as Lady Hightower — that wasn’t who you were anymore, not to him. One of your palms dropped to his chest, hesitantly fiddling with the ties of his tunic. “I want to see you.”

Perplexed, the Prince kissed your throat, head canting to one side. “Have you seen a man before, jorrāelagon?” He questioned, partially bemused yet curious to hear your answer. His affectionate High Valyrian caught your attention, causing a small tremor to roll along the base of your spine.

Sheepishly, you shook your head. Otto had never bothered to bear himself at all, and to some extent, you could understand — he was aging, and the attraction was most certainly slim. “No, I haven’t — but I’d like to.” You shivered when Daemon pulled you close, palm cupping your hip before it brazenly traveled to your haunch.

Any sliver of space between the two of you became nonexistent, replaced with heat and tension, bodies entangled into one. Your digits danced along the collar of his dragonscale tunic, imagining what strength and prowess rested beneath.

Instead, he peered at your wandering fingers, brows briefly lifting as if to encourage you. “Go on, then.” Daemon coaxed, his voice somewhat gravelly and pitched lower, interlaced with a burning desire. He watched with rapture as you slowly unfastened the ties and buckles of his tunic.

Daemon thought about being rough — grabbing your throat and fucking you into the lounge without a second thought, but he wanted to explore you. Your repression wasn’t your fault, and he felt some sense of triumph in fucking the wife of the Hand.

He shrugged his tunic aside, letting the garment fall to join the pool of lace and silk upon the floor. He was pale and well-muscled, a vision of perfection. Your hands began to glide across his broad shoulders, and then to his chest and abdomen.

Admittedly, Daemon savored the sensation of you touching him, exploring him — something about it was sickly sweet. “Have you touched yourself before, my Lady?” Daemon asked, pointed and unwilling to go without a direct answer.

Flustered, you nodded, seemingly embarrassed in regards to such actions. “Yes,” You exhaled, skin hot to the touch. “I know I shouldn’t have, but —“ Daemon stopped you with a kiss, hungry and needy, teeth nipping at your mouth with a subtle growl.

“Afraid that your Lord Husband will admonish you for it?” The Prince smirked, violet eyes glinting with a twinge of humor. Your expression reflected a whirlwind of emotions — from desire, lust, and embarrassment to a flicker of sadness and frustration. Daemon decided to leave it all alone and focus on you.

He coaxed you toward the plush velvet of the chaise lounge, sitting down with an unceremonious thud. Daemon was quick to collect you into his lap, all perfect and spread for him. A lustful silence filled the void between you both as he kissed your neck, calloused hands gripping the swell of your hips.

“Allow me to rectify your husband’s wrongs,” Daemon chided, kissing along the hollow of your throat, teeth sinking into your sensitive flesh. You moaned and whined, writhing atop him, chest pressed against his. “You are beautiful.” He said with such assurance, causing you to shudder.

Daemon’s ring-adorned hand snaked along the length of your body, finding the apex between your thighs, warm and slick with arousal. As soon as his thumb and forefinger slipped past your folds, you lurched forward, letting out a gasp of surprise.

The sensation was foreign yet pleasurable, like an electrifying jolt rolling down your spine. His mouth relentlessly assaulted your sweet flesh, leaving behind a myriad of bites and less than desirable markings. Your scent — a concoction of lavish perfumes and oils — invaded his senses like a thick haze.

His digits deliberately explored your cunt, every touch eliciting some strangled sound from you. You felt his fingers tease your entrance before sliding back towards your clit, flicking across that sensitive clutch of nerves. Your heart pounded within your chest, slamming against your breastbone like a drum.

“Daemon,” You moaned, back arching as you absentmindedly leaned into the Prince’s embrace. One of your palms molded itself to his bicep, the other continued to clutch at the nape of his neck. “Please, don’t stop!” With a needy whine, your hips rolled forward, attempting to gain a lick of friction. You wanted him to keep touching you there — forever, if he could.

His thumb languidly circled your clit, other digits sliding against your cunt. You squirmed and careened forward, insides hot as liquid warmth pooled between your thighs. It felt incredible — it was everything you’d ever wanted and more. Nothing could compare to the bliss that rolled through you.

The Prince continued with assailing your flesh, kissing his way across your collarbone, dipping low enough to find the perfect swell of your breasts. A low rumble resonated through Daemon’s chest, one of clear approval as he took one of your nipples into his mouth, kissing and sucking on the hardened peak.

A strangled whimper escaped you, one of clear delight. You hadn’t experienced any of this before — you wanted more, as much as Daemon was willing to give you. You gasped when his teeth dragged across your breast, causing you to jolt forward.

Ensuring that you would be well tended-to, Daemon sank his fingers forward, vigorously tracing across your cunt as his thumb did a majority of the work. Ripples of bliss rolled across your body in waves, and you rocked forward enough to ride his hand.

“Daemon!” You moaned, feeling his mouth drift away from your chest to the hollow of your throat. His teeth were sudden and sharp, nipping and biting wherever he pleased, one hand steadying you atop his lap. The other began to snake towards your neck, calloused digits able to feel the pounding of your heartbeat.

You whimpered his name as if it were the only word you knew — and for as sinful as it felt, you found yourself abandoning all sense of care and propriety. Daemon made you feel incredible, in ways that you had merely dreamed of.

As Daemon traced two digits along your slick entrance, his lilac hues fell across your visage, searching for any signs of hesitation. You felt the brief pressure, one hand comfortably sitting at the nape of his neck, the other gripping at his shoulder.

Deliberately, he began to sink two fingers inside of you, watching as your countenance blossomed into a look of bliss and startlement. Daemon soothed your worry with a kiss, head canting to one side as to deepen it, and you followed, flesh crawling with warmth.

A soft, smothered moan escaped you as he gingerly eased both digits in and out of your tight cunt, enough to make you gasp. The sensation was foreign yet incredible, enough for you to rock forward, brow furrowed in concentration. Daemon continued to litter your neck in kisses and bites, hand groping the swell of your plush hips.

“There she is,” Daemon growled against the hollow of your throat, lips traveling upward until they collided against yours. It was a messy, hot kiss, one that made your stomach slosh with molten heat. “A woman deprived of pleasure.” He murmured, prompting you to kiss him again, needy and desperate.

Some sliver of you knew how wrong this was — the infidelity, the disloyalty to your Lord husband, the selfishness that weighed upon you — you should’ve been aghast. Yet, in the heat of the moment, you thought little of it, content to let Daemon Targaryen finger-fuck you into a blissful oblivion.

You were lost to your own ecstasy, thoroughly reveling in the myriad of sensations you were now getting to experience. “Daemon,” You sighed against his mouth, feeling his teeth briefly scrape across your lower lip. “I want more.” A groan escaped you as his digits began to still, thumb circling your clit.

As he slowly removed his fingers from your tight heat, Daemon brazenly groped at your breast, pale brows furrowing together as he began to untie the laces of his trousers. You steeled yourself, feeling a brief pang of anxiousness strike at your gut. You knew that it was supposed to hurt, and the very thought frightened you.

“More?” Daemon echoed, the shadow of lust dancing within his eyes as he deposited you onto the lounge, hands seizing your ankles as he dragged you to the precipice. Without pause, he sank to his knees, broad and beautiful between your legs as he kissed your thigh. “You’ll have to beg me for it.”

You exhaled, sharp and excitable as your hand fell to the edge of the chaise lounge, nails digging into the wood and velvet. “Please,” You whispered, shifting atop the cushion as Daemon bit at your soft flesh. “Please, Daemon!” The sound that left you was pathetic — simpering, even.

He enjoyed hearing you whine — it was a stark reminder of what Otto Hightower could never have. Daemon’s mouth maintained the barest hint of a smirk, pressing a string of kisses toward the warmth between your legs. You were silk and saccharine beneath his fingertips, feverishly warm.

The first stroke of his tongue raked hot embers across your cunt, a sensation that set you ablaze. Whimpers turned to ash within your throat, flesh unnaturally hot — you melted beneath Daemon, and that was exactly what he wanted.

A shiver coursed down your spine, hips canting forward toward Daemon’s mouth. His breath was hot, warm wisps of air fanning out across your slit. It was heavenly — you nearly forgot yourself, moaning his name as you fisted the cushions on either side of you.

His hum was satisfactory, tongue dancing along your weeping core, drinking you in like a fine wine. The cool, silver bite of his ring dug into your hips, his grip ironclad, enough to leave bruises behind.

If Daemon had it his way, he would bruise you again — in the light of day, able to see his marks etched into your flesh, knowing that they were his creation. Possessiveness swelled within him, an ugly and festering thing — he wanted you terribly.

Pleasure rippled through you, consuming every fiber of your being. Daemon’s mouth found your clit, suckling at the clutch of fiery nerves. You gasped, nails digging into your palm, thighs attempting to rub together, kept apart by the Prince’s broad shoulders.

“Daemon,” You moaned, your jaw falling slack as you rolled forward into his maw. A soft huff escaped you as his tongue caressed your cunt, returning to assail your clit again. It was bliss overwhelming, prompting you to reach for his shoulders. “Daemon!”

Tension furled within the pit of your stomach, a familiar knot of ecstasy that brought you closer to the edge. Daemon’s mouth sluggishly receded, peppering kisses and love bites along your inner thighs. He licked his lower lip, violet hues threatening to burn through you.

Your chest rose and fell with the throes of excitement, skin prickling with anticipation. Daemon kissed your hip, moving to stand between your legs. He loomed over you, physique eclipsing all inklings of firelight — a shadow of desire.

He stepped back toward the mound of furs, silently gesturing for you to follow. “Lie down.” Daemon purred, his voice more of a lascivious command instead of a question. With a simple pull, he loosened the strings of his smallclothes, gaze hooded.

A whimper nearly erupted from your throat, never coming to fruition as you stood from the lounge, following Daemon’s lead. You slipped down onto the furs, with only the moonlight as your guide. Your legs parted for him, expectant and waiting.

The loss of one’s maidenhead was often rumored to be an intense and bloody affair — it no longer frightened you like it used to. Daemon stepped out of his leather trousers, bare and statuesque before you, a porcelain god come to claim you.

Moonlight bathed his flesh in a sea of silver, pale rays dancing across his ivory complexion. There was something calculating and predatory in the way he moved, a confidence that few possessed. He sank down, crawling between your legs as he reached your mouth.

Lips clashed again, a dance of desire as the head of his cock brazenly brushed along your slick cunt. Daemon was sizable, to be sure, a man with a plethora of experience. You shuddered when he planted a hand beside your head, the other gripping your hip.

Again, the head of his length threatened to split past your folds, oozing with tendrils of precum as he kissed you once more. It was ravenous, with all the ferocity and vigor of a dragon as he prepared to rock his hips forward. His broad physique kept you spread apart, molten heat churning within your belly.

Daemon finally snapped his hips forward, cock sheathing itself inside of you with little resistance. You gasped, the intrusion somewhat painful and discomforting at first, but he made sure to distract you, pressing hot kisses along your neck. He wasn’t gentle, leaving behind evidence of his affections in the form of flourishing marks.

His cock bullied its way into your cunt, stretching you in new ways, a different sensation from his fingers or yours. Daemon grunted, a huff escaping him as he allowed you a moment to adjust, grow used to the feeling.

Your countenance blossomed with pleasure, gaze a touch smoldering as you found Daemon’s visage. Those violet hues continued to devour you, a visual delight to the Rogue Prince as he fucked you. It wasn’t as rough as he typically was, opting to spare you from the brunt of his usual debauchery.

He found a rhythm, each movement succinct and sharp, hips driving forward as his cock buried itself within you with each thrust. You moaned, feeling the occasional dull ache of pain as you surrendered your virtue to Daemon, nails digging haplessly into the muscle of his shoulders.

Part of you forgot about decency and honor, trampling it into the dirt as Daemon speared you with his length. Friction grew between the both of you, flesh against flesh, perspiration building along your brow. Heat openly oozed between you, cunt slick with arousal.

The angry lines of your eager nails raked over Daemon’s shoulders, the remnants of your sin. He seemed to be savoring your roughness, throat reverberating with a myriad of grunts and softer, subtle groans.

“Turn over.” Daemon huffed, able to detect a flicker of confusion within your gaze. Admittedly, seeing your pretty face contort into one of bliss as he fucked you was rather enticing, but he was chasing after his release.

Silent, you did as he asked, turning over onto your stomach. Something about the newfound position made you shiver with anticipation, and you gasped as Daemon grabbed your hips. He lifted half of you from the furs, hips pressing into the swell of your backside.

He guided his cock back to your slit, thrusting inside of you as he assumed a quick, needy pace. Daemon’s palms squeezed at your hips, layering over the already-formed bruises from earlier endeavors. He split you asunder; a clash of lewd noises filled the room, accompanied by your intermingled sighs of passion.

You moaned, hands scraping across the direwolf hide beneath you, gripping at the furs as Daemon plunged himself into you. His motions were repetitive, intensifying in their erratic pace as he grunted. You were perfect — the noises that emerged from you only served to encourage him, unbeknownst to you.

Liquid heat oozed between your thighs, arousal spilling onto Daemon’s cock. You were teetering along the brink of a blissful oblivion, feeling your pleasure mount. Daemon’s hand slithered between your legs, thumb rolling over your clit to give you some stimulation.

It was as if the dam had shattered, consumed by the squall of lust as you whimpered. A myriad of wanton sounds escaped you, followed by a rush of warmth that surged to your cunt. Daemon growled, feeling your slit tighten around him, your release an incredible one.

Daemon followed suit, painting your insides with his milt — a dangerous game, but one that he enjoyed playing. He removed himself halfway through, coating your thighs and cunt in ropes of his seed, enough for you to feel the heat of it.

He huffed, noticing the faint trembling of your thighs, rattling like leaves as you attempted to recuperate. You had little time for composure, knowing that you needed to return to the Tower of the Hand before your Lord husband emerged from his council meeting.

The Prince did not adopt your swiftness, watching with a tempestuous stare as you retrieved your clothing, flesh sparkling with perspiration. You did not want to leave, but you feared discovery — you feared what would happen if Otto were to find out about such nocturnal proclivities.

“Going somewhere?” Daemon questioned, knowing fully well what the answer would be. He happened to redress himself in his smallclothes, observing you with the ghost of a smirk.

“I must return to the Tower of the Hand,” You mumbled, slick between your legs. The combination of Daemon’s spent and your arousal proved to be sticky and uncomfortable, but you would endure the walk and clean yourself up as soon as you could. “I cannot be seen.”

Daemon scoffed, dismissive of your concerns, though he allowed you the courtesy of dressing and preparing to depart. “Still worried for your husband,” He mused, stepping forward to caress your cheek. “How sweet.” It was cajoling, but you cared little.

“Daemon,” You began, but he stopped you with a kiss, eyes twinkling with a semblance of mirth. He held your face between his calloused palms, thumbs gingerly gliding along your cheekbones. “I do not … I do not know when I can see you again.”

A bemused hum escaped him as he cocked his head to one side, feeling your palm press flat atop his muscled chest. “Already thinking of the next time, my Lady?” He purred, pressing a kiss against your jaw. “Perhaps, when next we meet, it will be at the Dragonpit.”

It was far away from prying eyes — what better place to let feelings run hot than the seat of dragonkind at King’s Landing? Even then, Daemon knew that any future trysts would be difficult to achieve, if they were to continue.

You kissed him — a sweet gesture, one that was chaste and ladylike. Daemon could not allow something so brief, seizing your chin to kiss you again. Your head was spinning with so many things, to the point of feeling so very overwhelmed.

“I have to go.” You whispered, squeezing Daemon’s forearm as you passed. Your state of dress was somewhat uncouth, but you had no time. You made sure to keep quiet as you slipped into the gap between doors, stealing another look back at the Rogue Prince.

Violet hues remained indiscernible, though his expression was telling — the very same incendiary look he’d given you at the Tournament. “Until next we meet, Lady Hightower.”

@ copyright — all works belong to swordgrace, please do not copy or translate this work onto any other platforms or accounts.

#house of the dragon #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen x you #otto hightower x reader #otto hightower x you #hotd x reader #daemon targaryen #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd fanfic #daemon targaryen fanfic #hotd smut

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daemonsdarksister · 9 months ago

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Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen are back in

HOUSE OF THE DRAGON SEASON 2 (2024)

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rottenfyre · 1 month ago

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⸻ ᴛ ʜ ᴇ ᴛ ʏ ʀ ᴀ ɴ ᴛ ⸻

Pairing: Yandere HOTD x Targaryen Reader Part 2

Summary: After your mother's death, your life wasn't the same anymore. Everything was changing so fast and you were just watching.

Warning: Y/n herself is a warning.

Notes: English is not my first language. Gifs don't belong to me, credit to the owner. Hope you enjoy!

The air felt cool against her damp skin as she stood in front of the window, watching the distant glow of King's Landing beneath the night sky. Her body was still warm from the bath, the steam lingering in the room as it slowly dissipated, leaving behind the soft scent of lavender and rosewater.

She let her fingers trace the edges of the windowpane, feeling the cold, hard glass beneath her fingertips. It was quiet tonight—eerily so. The usual sounds of the city seemed muted, as if the world outside had gone still, holding its breath.

Her handmaid, Elira, stood behind her, gently brushing through her wet hair. The familiar rhythm of the bristles moving through her locks was soothing, almost meditative. Elira had always been there. Since the very beginning. They were the same age, but Elira had always known her place—quiet, loyal, obedient. Always there, always in the background, never faltering.

"It still hurts, you know... losing her." She spoke softly, her voice almost a whisper, more to herself than to Elira. She stared out into the dark horizon, her eyes distant. "Mother was... everything. The only person who truly knew me."

Elira didn't respond—she never did when it came to such things. She just kept brushing her hair, silent, attentive, like the shadow she had always been.

The ache in her chest intensified, a dull, ever-present throb that threatened to consume her. Who’s going to love me now? Her mother had been everything. The one person who had always been kind, always been gentle. And now, she was gone. The gods, if they even existed, had taken her away. Not just her mother, but her newborn brother as well.

Y/n blinked slowly, her eyes burning. Why did they take them? What kind of gods would do this? Why leave me behind with nothing? She couldn’t understand it, couldn’t process the emptiness that had swallowed her whole since that day. The pain was constant, gnawing at her insides like a beast that wouldn’t stop.

She hadn’t left this room since they told her. She hadn’t gone to the funeral. What would be the point? Rhaenyra had been the one to carry their mother’s body. She could have done that too. She could have honored her mother, but what was the point when she wasn’t even here? She was dead. Dead.

Y/n closed her eyes for a moment, letting herself sink into the sensation of the brush moving through her hair. "I loved her. I always did... I was kind to her, wasn't I?" The words felt heavy on her tongue, as if she were asking herself more than Elira. She knew the answer already. She had been kind. She had been gentle.

She sighed softly, her breath fogging the glass in front of her as her thoughts drifted. It was supposed to be a boy. A brother. I would’ve been kind to him too. She had already chosen the Dreamfyre egg for him, already imagined what he would look like with his silver hair and violet eyes.

But now... there was no brother. No mother. Just silence.

Suddenly, a sharp tug at her scalp broke through her thoughts, jolting her back to the present. She flinched slightly, her eyes narrowing as she turned her head just enough to glance at Elira.

"I'm so sorry, princess! Please forgive me!" Elira’s voice trembled, her hands shaking as she quickly let go of the brush, dropping it to the floor. She fell to her knees, her head bowed low, not daring to look up at Y/n. "Please, forgive me, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t... please, please, forgive me..."

Y/n stared down at her, unblinking, her mind oddly blank. Elira had always been loyal. She had always done what she was told. And now here she was, groveling on the floor, begging for forgiveness over a simple tug of hair. It was... pathetic.

But she didn’t feel angry. She didn’t feel anything.

"It's alright," she said calmly, her voice soft but devoid of emotion. "You can continue."

Elira hesitated for a moment, her hands still trembling as she slowly picked up the brush again, standing on shaky legs. She resumed her task, this time more careful, her movements slower, more deliberate.

Y/n turned back to the window, her gaze distant once more, her mind drifting in and out of the haze that had settled over her ever since her mother’s death. She could still hear Elira sniffling softly behind her, no doubt still terrified of making another mistake.

It’s fine, she told herself. She’s always been like this. Always afraid. Always apologizing. But it didn’t matter. None of it mattered.

She closed her eyes again, her fingers tracing the cool glass once more, feeling the chill seep into her skin.

“I made a decision,” Viserys looked between his daughters. “I have chosen to name Rhaenyra as my heir.”

The words hit her like a wave of ice-cold water, freezing her smile in place. Wait… what? Her mind stumbled, struggling to make sense of the words. Rhaenyra? She blinked, willing herself to understand, to hear something else, but the reality pressed on her, unyielding.

“That’s… great, Father!” she managed, her voice tight and bright. Her lips twitched, and somehow, she forced them into a smile. She clasped her hands in front of her, feeling them shake, the tremors threatening to give her away. Hold it together, she thought desperately, teeth gritted behind her smile. Don’t let them see. Don’t let them see.

A cacophony of voices began to rise within her, whispering, hissing, each word cutting into her like a thousand small blades. Weak… pathetic… that’s what you are.

Her nails dug into her palms as she continued to hold her smile. No, I’m not weak… he just doesn’t see my worth yet. He doesn’t understand. But he will, he will…

That’s why Father chose her, isn’t it? Because you’re useless. Because you’re nothing.

She swallowed hard, her throat dry, and glanced sideways at Rhaenyra, who was watching her with a mixture of pride and hesitance. Rhaenyra, the golden girl. Rhaenyra, the heir. Rhaenyra… the one Father loves. Her stomach twisted painfully, but she forced herself to keep smiling, her jaw aching from the strain.

Of course he doesn’t love you, they continued. Why would he? You’re not what he wanted. You’re just a mistake, a failure, a useless little girl who couldn’t be more than a shadow.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, each beat like a drum in her ears. She felt hollow, as if she were disappearing from within, crumbling like ash. I’m not useless, I’m not… But they laughed, drowning her, making it impossible to think.

Look at him. Look at how he looks at her. Do you see that warmth in his eyes? He has never looked at you like that. He never will.

Her hands were trembling openly now, and she clasped them tighter, willing herself to stop, to silence the whirlwind inside her. I am more than this, she thought, but the words felt empty, like something fragile that could shatter with a single breath. She lifted her gaze to her father, but his expression was unchanged, his eyes full of pride—for Rhaenyra.

That’s all you are, isn’t it? A disappointment. A shadow, unwanted and unloved.

Her head swam, and she could barely hear anything beyond the mocking laughter echoing in her mind. But she kept smiling, the mask she wore cracking at the edges, her heart sinking with each passing second. You're wrong. You're wrong about me. Father does love me… he has to…

“Are you all right?” Viserys asked, frowning slightly.

The words jolted her back to the room, and she forced herself to nod, ignoring the way her throat tightened. “Yes, Father,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. She wanted to scream, to cry, to tear down everything around her, but instead, she turned to leave, her face carefully blank.

As she walked away, the voices clawed at her, unrelenting, ruthless.

Useless. Unwanted. Weak. That’s why he chose her. That’s why he’ll always choose her. Because you will never be enough.

It's finally over. It had been a long day, a day that had dragged on for what seemed like an eternity. Today Rhaenyra had been named heir to the Iron Throne and she had to bow before her.

As she walked, Elira, kept a respectful distance behind her, her soft footsteps barely audible. The quiet murmur of the castle, usually so comforting to Y/n, only seemed to intensify the ache in her chest. She quickened her pace, her heels clicking sharply against the stone floor as the thoughts spiraled deeper. Why her? Why not me?

"Thanks the gods it's Princess Rhaenyra,"

Y/n froze, her entire body stiffening as she heard the words. Her mind raced, and her steps slowed, her breath catching. She looked around the corner, and saw a small group of servants standing near a doorway, talking among themselves. Her gaze narrowed as she caught the full statement.

"Ah, yes, I'm really thankful the King didn’t choose that mad cunt," one of them laughed, a harsh, ugly sound that made her skin crawl.

"What did you say?"

They immediately froze when they heard her, their faces draining of color. She could hear their frantic whispers, the way their voices faltered in fear. One of them, took a hesitant step backward.

The servants' eyes widened, and they all started stammering apologies, their words tangled together in a rush of panic.

"Please, my lady, we meant no harm, we were just—"

"We were just talking, milady. Please forgive us—"

"Please don’t—"

Her eyes locked onto the boy who had spoken the words. He looked terrified now, his face pale, his eyes wide with fear. She took a step forward, the rage bubbling over, her movements fluid and quick as she closed the distance between them. The boy shrank back, but it was too late.

“What the fuck did you just say to me?” Y/n half-yelled, her voice a venomous hiss. Everything that had been building inside her—the anger, the hurt, the rejection—came flooding out in a violent, unstoppable wave.

The servants froze, some of them taking instinctive steps back, but they couldn’t escape.

Before the boy could even react, Y/n was on him, her hands grabbing his hair. With a sickening crack, she slammed his skull against the stone wall. She didn’t even register the impact at first, her vision turning red as the anger clouded her thoughts. She did it again. And again. And again.

The sound of his skull crashing against the stone echoed in her ears, drowning out everything else. She didn’t hear the cries, the pleading, the desperate sobs. She didn’t hear Elira begging her to stop, her voice barely cutting through the haze of fury.

"Stop! Please! Stop!" Elira cried, her voice high with fear, but Y/n was beyond reason now. She could feel the boy’s head break beneath her hands, could feel the blood running down her fingers. The sound of his sobs, his frantic begging, only drove her further into madness.

And then, after what felt like an eternity, it was over. She stood there, panting, her breath ragged as she stared down at the boy’s lifeless body. His head was a mangled mess, blood seeping out from the cracks in his skull. Her hands were slick with it, the red staining her fingers, her palms.

She blinked, coming back to herself slowly. The haze began to clear. She looked down at the body, her heart still racing, the adrenaline still coursing through her veins. Her chest heaved, and for a moment, she could barely comprehend what had just happened. She didn’t even remember how she’d gotten here, or how many times she’d struck him.

He’s dead.

The thought hit her like a punch to the gut. Her heart sank, but the anger still simmered beneath the surface, still clawing at her insides. She turned to look around at the others—the servants were trembling, staring at her in horror, their faces pale and filled with fear.

Why... Why they are looking at me like this?

Y/n glanced down at her dress, now soaked in blood. It was one of her favorites. She frowned as she looked at the deep red stains, the fabric ruined. What a pity.

With a deep sigh, she straightened up, her anger beginning to ebb, leaving a hollow emptiness behind. Her voice was calm, too calm, as she turned to the servants. “Clean this mess up,” she ordered, her voice flat. “And make sure no one finds out about it.”

She didn’t care how they did it, just as long as it was done. She turned to Elira, her voice still controlled, though her emotions were a mess inside her. “Prepare the bath for me,” she said softly, almost pitiful. “I need to wash.”

As she walked away, Elira hesitated for a moment before following her. The others remained rooted to the spot, too afraid to move. Y/n walked through the hallways, the blood drying on her hands, her mind drifting in a haze of confusion and sadness.

I’m so tired. The thought came suddenly, washing over her like a wave. She let out a breath, shaking her head slightly.

But as she entered her chambers, she start thinking about the scene she left behind. The servants would clean it. They always did. But they would never forget. And neither would she.

With that, she closed the door behind her, her thoughts already shifting again, the sadness creeping back in.

"The realm will never accept a woman as their ruler," Rhaenys muttered, her voice laced with the bitterness that always seemed to cloud her words when the topic of succession arose.

Y/n tilted her head and nodded, the movement slow, almost sympathetic. Oh, how tragic, she thought, her lips curling into a faint smirk. All this whining and hand-wringing. Pathetic.

She softened her features, arranging her face into what she imagined looked like mild concern. "Tragic, isn’t it?" she said, her voice dripping with a smooth, honeyed sarcasm that neither of them seemed to catch.

"When I am queen I will create a new order," Rhaenyra said, her tone defiant, her chin lifted as though challenging the world to disagree.

Yes, yes, Rhaenyra, I’m sure you would be a shining example of wisdom and honor, Y/n thought, fighting back a laugh. Keep dreaming.

"Of course you would, dear sister," Y/n replied smoothly, giving a slight, dismissive nod. "The realm would be lucky to have you."

Rhaenys glanced at her, as if sizing her up, before letting out a low, sardonic chuckle. "Men would sooner burn the kingdom than let a woman sit on the throne," she said, a bitter truth in her words that, for some reason, still failed to resonate with Y/n. Power wasn’t something one was given—it was taken. And anyone too weak to seize it had no right to it in the first place.

She hid her thoughts behind a sip of wine, watching them both with a half-lidded gaze, letting their words drift over her like idle gossip. What a pair they are—one too proud to realize her limitations, the other too bitter to let go of her grievances.

"Oh, yes, a kingdom ablaze," Y/n murmured, feigning a wistful tone. "How poetic. Such a tragic tale, isn’t it?" She held out her glass, staring into the dark red liquid as if pondering something deeply moving, though in truth, she was only admiring the way the light caught the wine.

Rhaenyra sighed heavily. "They underestimate us. They see us as delicate things, fit only to be wives and mothers."

"Do they?" Y/n’s smile widened, an amused glint in her eyes. Oh, the endless suffering. Boo-hoo.

Rhaenys was watching her with an arched brow, clearly picking up on the subtle mockery in her tone. "You don’t seem very troubled by any of this, Y/n," she observed, almost as if accusing her.

Y/n shrugged, a slow, lazy movement that exuded indifference. "Oh, I am devastated, truly," she replied, the sarcasm practically dripping from her words. "What a tragic world we live in, where women like us must endure such indignities. Really, it’s heartbreaking."

Rhaenyra shot her a sharp look. "This isn’t a joke, Y/n."

"Of course not," Y/n replied, her voice smooth as silk, unfazed by her sister’s disapproval. "Nothing about any of this is funny." She took another sip, savoring the wine and the absurdity of it all. I should be the one that wear the crown, not you.

Then, as though the thought had only just occurred to her, she sighed and placed her empty goblet aside. "Ah, but I must take my leave, unfortunately." She glanced over at them, feigning a regretful expression. "I’ve a fitting to attend for my dress, you know, for Father’s wedding. It simply wouldn’t do to be unprepared for such an occasion."

The slight in her tone was subtle, but it was there, veiled in a pleasant smile. The wedding going to happen sooner or later. What a spectacle it would be. Their dear father, so desperate to secure his legacy that he’d wed a mere girl, and all to produce another heir—a boy, if the gods were willing, and if not… well, it hardly mattered to her.

"How dutiful of you," Rhaenys remarked, a hint of mockery in her voice. It was clear she saw through Y/n’s thin veneer of civility.

"Indeed." Y/n inclined her head, lips quirking in a smug smile. "After all, it’s so important to play our parts well, isn’t it?"

She glanced back at them one last time, giving them both a pointed look, her smile widening as she took in their earnest, troubled faces. "Farewell, then. Do enjoy your discussion. Such deep, meaningful words, truly," she said, voice dripping with false admiration as she turned on her heel, sauntering away without a second glance.

Y/n strode toward her father’s chambers, Ser Criston trailing like a shadow at her side. She had a perfectly charming smile painted on her lips until she came up short, blocked by two guards standing in front of the doors. Their hands gripped their spears, glancing at each other nervously before looking back at her.

“Step aside,” she said, voice a silky command.

The guards didn’t budge.

One of them, foolishly brave or utterly clueless, raised a hand. “I’m sorry, my lady, but the King has asked to not be disturbed.”

Her smile faltered, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “You’re saying I can’t see my father?” Her voice was calm, almost amused. She tilted her head, letting her gaze drift over their faces with cold scrutiny. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

The guard stiffened, clearly feeling her gaze like a blade. “We have orders.”

She chuckled, the sound smooth as honey but laced with venom. “And do you have any idea what I could do to you for disobeying me?” She leaned in, voice dropping low. “I could have your tongues ripped out, have you hanging from the city walls by your intestines, all while you beg for mercy.” She smiled, sickly sweet. “Or I could just tell my father you disrespected his daughter.”

The guards flinched, glancing at each other but standing firm.

She clicked her tongue, gaze sharpening. “Perhaps I should have Ser Criston here peel the skin from your faces, inch by inch? How does that sound?”

Criston’s hand drifted to his sword, his eyes darkening in anger at their defiance. Before he could make a move, Otto appeared around the corner, striding toward them with his usual calm authority.

“Ah, my lord Hand,” Y/n said, smile widening as she turned toward Otto. She cast the guards one last look before redirecting her attention.

Otto looked at her and then at the guards, clearly sensing the tension in the air. “Is there a problem here, princess?” His voice was calm, as if he hadn’t just walked into a potential bloodbath.

She tilted her head, letting out a soft, exasperated sigh. “Oh, nothing major, Lord Hand,” she purred. “Just a minor misunderstanding. These men seem to think they have the right to keep me from my father’s chambers. Quite peculiar, don’t you think?” She cast a smug glance at the guards, watching as they shifted uncomfortably.

The guards started to speak up, but Y/n shot them a warning glare, silencing them immediately. “In fact, I’d say it was downright insulting.”

Otto nodded thoughtfully, his expression neutral. “Well, princess, your father is about to attend the small council meeting. I’ve come to fetch him myself.”

She clenched her jaw, an annoyed sigh slipping from her lips as she finally gave a small nod. Fucking cock suckers. But she kept her expression calm, respectful even. Otto had always been fond of her—treated her like one of his own, in a way. No need to break that little bond just yet.

“Very well,” she murmured, stepping back as she allowed Otto to enter. She watched him disappear into the chamber, then turned her gaze back toward the guards, her expression a warning that needed no words. They quickly looked away, pretending to be more interested in the floor.

Moments later, Otto returned with her father. Viserys offered her a faint, apologetic smile, but his focus seemed elsewhere, a bit distracted. Odd. Otto, too, seemed unusually composed, almost as if there was something else on his mind.

As they walked away, Y/n glanced toward the chamber doors, half-distracted, until she caught a flash of red hair in the corner of her vision. A woman’s figure seated on the edge of the bed—her father’s bed.

Her heart skipped a beat, eyes widening. She had to suppress a sudden laugh, biting her nails as her excitement bubbled up. Oh, now that’s just… delicious.

There’s no way… Is that…? Did Otto really…? Oh, you sly, clever old fox. So that’s why Father’s been so preoccupied. And here I thought he was just mourning my poor Mother.

“Are you all right, my lady?” Criston’s voice brought her back to the present. He glanced at her with concern.

She smiled at him, a flash of brightness that was all teeth. “I’m perfectly fine, Ser Criston,” she murmured, her gaze still lingering on that red hair. Alicent. The Hand’s sweet little daughter, warming dear Father’s bed where Mother once lay. Oh, it was almost poetic.

Without another word, she wrapped her arm around Criston’s, a little too tight, leading him away, her smile widening as her mind danced with happiness. The thrill of it all simmered under her skin, making her eyes glint with a mad sort of glee.

Oh, Rhaenyra… if only you knew. Your dear friend is right here, warming our father’s bed. Such a pity you don’t see it yet. Poor, poor little sister.

Criston glanced at her, brow furrowed in confusion. “Is something the matter, my lady?”

“Nothing at all,” she purred, letting out a small laugh. “I’m just… happy, that’s all.”

As the small council convened, Viserys rose to his feet, his expression serious yet strained. She cast a brief glance at Rhaenyra beside her, who watched their father with rapt attention, completely unaware.

Don’t tell me Father’s actually going to—

“I have decided… I am to marry Lady Alicent Hightower.”

The silence that followed was exquisite. Y/n’s smirk widened as she glanced sideways at Rhaenyra, whose face had turned from shock to disbelief. Rhaenyra’s eyes met Y/n’s, wide and wounded, and in that brief exchange, Y/n’s smirk told her everything. Yes, dear sister, I knew. I knew before you did. And now… so do you.

Y/n’s gaze turned cold as she looked across the room at Corlys. He sat motionless for a moment, disbelief and anger barely concealed in his face as he processed what the King had just announced. She barely held back her sneer of disgust.

This pathetic man… offering up his child to this decrepit old fool just to worm his way closer to the throne. What a spineless little weasel. Tried to sell sweet Leana to Father… You’re nothing but a cock-sucking snake, Corlys.

Corlys’ face hardened. Offended, he shot Viserys a withering look before standing abruptly and leaving the room in silence. Y/n’s eyes followed him, the smirk still tugging at her lips. Good riddance, you worm.

Next to her, Rhaenyra had gone pale. She shot a look of absolute betrayal at Alicent, whose face was touched with guilt, as if she’d known this moment was coming yet hadn’t prepared for the sight of her friend’s hurt. Then turning on her heel and storming out.

Poor, naive Rhaenyra… How perfect, to have this all crumble around you while you stood unaware.

But Y/n stayed, savoring the stunned silence that filled the room, and then, without missing a beat, she plastered on her most sincere smile.

“Congratulations, Father!” she chimed, her voice warm as she moved toward Viserys.

Viserys let out a sigh, though a relieved one, as she embraced him, patting her arm gently. “Thank you, my dear,” he replied, clearly grateful for her support.

She released him, turning to Alicent, who was still wide-eyed, not quite sure what to make of the sudden affection Y/n was showing. She shifted uncomfortably as Y/n opened her arms to her.

“Alicent,” Y/n murmured, drawing her in with a tight embrace, voice sweet as honey. She leaned close to her ear, her words just barely audible to anyone but Alicent.

“Oh, Alicent,” she murmured into her ear, “I always knew you were a little whore.” She felt Alicent’s body stiffen, but she continued, undeterred. “You shouldn’t be so pleased with yourself—you’ve married my rotting father, after all.” She let out a mocking laugh, barely a whisper. “I can only imagine… his ‘crown jewels’ are as decrepit as the rest of him. But lucky you, you’re the perfect breeding mare, aren’t you? A nice, wet hole to keep his cock warm,” she added, voice dripping with contempt, “Every night you’ll lay with him, his decaying hands on you, his disgusting, rotting body. I’ll bet even his—” she sneered, “—cock is rotting.”

Alicent’s face flushed, her breath catching as she stood, stunned and trembling in Y/n’s arms. Y/n only smiled, tilting her head to kiss her on the cheek.

“I’m so happy for you, Mother,” she cooed, her voice dripping with sweetness.

Alicent, visibly shaken, managed a faltering smile, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Thank you… daughter.”

Part 1 Part 3 Part 4

@ʀᴏᴛᴛᴇɴꜰʏʀᴇ 2024. ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ, ᴛʀᴀɴꜱʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴏʀ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡᴇʙꜱɪᴛᴇꜱ

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wh0reforcoriolanussnow · 1 year ago

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Stay with me || D. Targaryen x Hightower!reader

GIF by @beaconofthehightower DIVIDERS by @straywords

summary: In which you have been forced into marriage with the Rogue Prince by the King. However, it has been well over a year and the two of you yet to see eye to eye, mostly because of Daemon's dislike towards your father. When you find out that you're expecting, things seem to take a drastic turn.

a/n: no way this was sitting in my drafts since i first opened this acc end of last year🥹

“The bath is ready for you, my Lady.” The handmaiden bowed at your direction as you finish taking off your jewellery. “Thank you, you may go,” You bid her off, “But my Lady-“ She protested, “I am quite capable of bathing myself, thank you.” Meeting the maidens eyes through the mirror, you didn’t mean to sound rude and snap at the poor women—your pent up emotions needed releasing, hence why you called for a bath.

Without uttering another word, you watch as she closes the door with a loud thud. Throwing your necklace across the room to release the built up tension, you inhale deeply whilst leaning your hand against the bed post. Tears threatening to escape, you look up towards the ceiling so that they would not fall.

Finding out that you were with child was a rollercoaster of emotions. You were saddened at the thought of bringing a child into this cruel word. How could you try to make your child’s life happy when both of his/her parents were not with each other?

You thought that you could some how find times in your marriage that you would be happy, but you didn’t, the past 12 months were a nightmare. You barely got to see Daemon, and when you did, he’d be drunk and fall asleep without saying a word to you.

And the whispers and talks of people seeing him visit brothels in silk street were unbearable. You tried ignoring the best you could, but how could you when people didn’t even put any effort into quietening down when walking past you?

Brushing your lingering thoughts away, you walk to the bath that was bearably hot. Removing your thin night gown and letting it pile in a corner, you couldn’t help but stare at your still-flat stomach in the mirror. The thought of a babe growing inside was both amazing and terrifying.

Slipping your body in, a sigh leaves your mouth at the sensation of the hot water against your skin. After nearly 30 minutes, the door to your chambers opened.

There was only ever one person to open that door without bothering to knock, and that was your Husband. Eyes closed, you heard his footsteps until it came to a halt, slowly opening your eyes and sitting up, you turn your head to find Daemon watching you from outside the door that led to the bathroom.

“Husband.” You greeted turning your head back and closing them once again. “Wife.” He replied, taking off his clothes and changing. You were surprised he did not sound drunk like he usually did most nights. The two of you not uttering a single word until you got out of the bath.

You flinch once you realised Daemon was sat on a one of the sofas that faced your bath tub, not that the two of you were foreign to seeing each other naked. After drying up, you slip your night gown on once again before making your way to your dresser.

“Ao nektogon aōha ōghar, nyke ūndegon” His voice made you pause your actions, looking at his sat figure through the mirror. “2 two months ago Daemon.” You reply annoyed as you brush through your hair. “But you would know if you saw me more often.” Muttering under your breath, Daemon replied, “ȳdragon plainly.”(You cut your hair, I see) (Speak plainly)

Closing you eyes and taking a sharp inhale, you turn your body towards him, a cup with what you presume was alcohol in his hand. “What I mean, husband, is if you were here more often instead of spending your nights at the brothel, that you would notice the little things!” Your voice escalates in volume. Daemon throws his head back with a loud sigh. “Are we really doing this?”

“Where do your loyalties reside, husband? It is most certainly not with me! Whom you swore under the seven Gods that you would be there for me!” You were now standing up as you watch Daemon with an unreadable face.

“Ivestragon mirros!”You yell, “Skoro syt issi ao sir mentioning bisa?” He calmly asked. With furrowed eyebrows, you study his face, his gaze set to candles on the table. “Skoros?”(Say something) (Why are you now mentioning this) (What)

“Don’t act stupid y/n,” He scoffed, finally meeting your eyes, “Emi issare married syt mirri jēda, sir ao decide naejot elēni aōha concerns?” (We have been married for some time, now you decide to voice your concerns)

“Ivestragon nyke, skoro syt?” His deep voice questioned. Searching his eyes, and opening your mouth, no words seemed to come out. (Tell me, why)

“Cat got your tongue, my love?” Daemon smirked as you gulped, tears slowly but surely welling up. You found yourself pathetic, truth being the fact that you couldn’t even tell your own husband you were carrying his child.

Without saying another word, you turned around, blowed out all the candles except for the ones beside Daemon’s side of the bed, and slipped under the covers of your bed.

A loud sigh leaves the Prince’s mouth. Deep down, you wanted him to come to bed and engulf you in a hug. Instead, you hear the sound of the doors opening and closing, he left. You cried yourself to sleep that night.

Waking up to a cold and empty bed, you felt it slowly but surely making its way up your throat as you place the back of your hand to your mouth. Luckily, Eva, your closest handmaiden, had walked in just in time as you puked into the bucket.

“Perhaps having breakfast will be good for you, my Lady” She kindly smiles at you as you look up at her with a disgusted face at the thought of food at that moment. “I think not” You grumbled before getting up and getting ready.

“Has my husband returned yet?” Your eyes meet with the handmaidens’ through the mirror as you put earrings on. “No, my Lady” She looks down. “Should I even tell him?” You contemplate, fidgeting with your rings.

Before you could get a response, a loud knock comes from your door as you give a confused look to Eva as she quickly opens the door. “My lady, it’s your father.” She calls out before curtsying and leaving the room.

“Father,” You kiss his cheek to greet him. “I think it is best you go to the throne room now” He gives you a blank look. An awkward chuckle leaves your lips, “But why? What’s happening?” Concern spread through your body as Otto doesn’t say anything.

You quickly brush past him and make a beeline to the throne room. Upon entering, you were stopped by a kingsguard. “Who is in there” You question. “I cannot tell you that Lady-“ “I’m only going to ask you once, brother, who is in there?” You send daggers to your younger brother’s way.

“His Grace, Daemon, and-“ Before he could finish his sentence, you push past him and open the door. There sat Viserys on the iron throne with Daemon standing e of him, his back to you. What perplexed you even more was the women on her knees beside Daemon. A handmaiden to be precise. Viserys gives you a pitiful look, It was only when both Daemon and the handmaiden look back to you when you realise.

“I-“ You couldn’t even properly speak as you choked back tears. You felt like screaming at that moment. “Y/n-“ You didn’t even let Daemon utter another word before you closed the door—Gwayne giving you a concerned look—and sped off back to your room.

“Pack my things. I am leaving” You order your handmaidens as tears continuously roll down your cheeks. You were shaking, you felt like you were suffocating. “Are you all right my lady?” Eva places ger hand on your shoulder as you breathe heavily. “I-I need to get out of this dress- a-and breathe for gods sake!” You shout angrily as hands were already untying your dress.

You had about enough of Daemon’s behaviour. You needed to leave. After being dressed in something more comfortable, the doors open as your father walks in. “I assume you’re going back to Old town?” Your father places his hands behind his back as he watches you gather your jewelry.

“I am. If you expect me to stay here any longer with that-that horrid man then-“ “I don’t expect you to, daughter. He was caught in bed with her this morning. I assure you, that handmaiden will get what she deserves. Sleeping with her Lady’s husband, what was she thinking” Otto scoffs as tears blur your eyes.

“Have you even told him yet?” His question catches you off-guard. “No. After what I just found out I don’t think I will. He can find out later on after I’ve left” You say through greeted teeth as the last of your things were packed up.

“The carriage is already out there waiting for you, my Lady” Eva mentions as you nod at her. “Goodbye father, I hope you do come visit” You sadly smile before embracing him in a hug, his hands caressing your hair before you pull back and walk off.

It was pouring outside. You held your skirt up so it wouldn’t get dirty. “Y/n!” His voice booms over the rain as you pause. You quicken your pace but before you could even fully step into the carriage, a rough hand pulls you back.

Before you know it, your hand makes contact with his cheek with a loud slap. The few handmaidens gasp before they look down. He rolls his tongue against his cheek before chuckling, “I deserve that, don’t I?” “Oh you deserve so much worse Daemon.” You darkly chuckle at the man.

“I can’t believed you stooped that low- and with one of my handmaidens? How pathetic can you get, Husband. I have done nothing but been patient with you every day but this? That was the final straw. I’m leaving and you cannot stop me” You say the last bit through greeted teeth. “Were you going to tell me?”

You stop dead in your tracks. You breathe out from your nose, “Tell you what exactly?” Your head turns to him. “That you’re carrying my child. Was I ever going to find out? Or was I going to when I’m on my deathbed.” He shouts angrily as you keep your composure.

“And bring him up with a father who can’t even keep his loyalties to his wife? You’re delusional, truly.” A loud scoff emits your mouth. Not a second later, Daemon drops to his knees infront of you. People around whispering to each other at the sight of the Rogue Prince on his knees to his wife. You gulp as he looked so vulnerable. He looks up to you as he takes ahold of your hands. “Stay with me. Please. That is all I ask of you y/n” He pleads.

“Stay with you? I have stayed with you every day Daemon while you fucked your way through the brothels. I’ve had enough of hoping that you would finally see me as your wife!” Tears were once again pouring down your cheeks as you sniffle. “I can’t stay with you.” Your voice cracks before you pull away from Daemon’s touch and enter the carriage without looking back.

The carriage starts to move as you start sobbing harder. Daemon was still there kneeling as he watched his wife leave. He watched his entire future leave.

#daemon targaryen #house of the dragon #house targaryen #fanfiction #matt smith #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon x reader #daemon targaryen smut #daemon targaryen fanfic #otto hightower #house of the dragon fanfiction #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire

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mysticalcatpeanut · 6 months ago

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Just wanted to point out, Arrax (Lucerys' dragon) is also son of Syrax (Rhaenyra's dragon)... so both mothers are mourning in this scene

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novaursa · 4 months ago

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Where Dragons Dare (1/3)

- Summary: After you are left greatly injured by a dragon riding accident, the small council puts pressure on your father, King Viserys I, to have another male heir.

- Paring: (male!targ) reader/Alicent Hightower

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is twin brother of Rhaenyra and is bonded with a dragon. For more of my works visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mild 13+ (rating will go all the way up for the last two parts)

- Word count: 9 000+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @literaturedog

- A/N: This was requested by @witch-of-letters. ❤️ I hope you enjoy the first part. I've tried to fit into this one most of the information you've given me. The rest will be in the next two parts.

- Next part: 2

The council chamber buzzes with tension, thick as smoke, as the lords gathered around the long table cast uneasy glances at King Viserys. The king, grey hairs creeping into his Targaryen silver, wears the weight of the realm across his brow. His gaze is distant, fixed on the empty chair at the end of the table where you, his only son, should be sitting, were it not for the incident that left you bed-ridden, your ribs shattered and your leg mangled. The air is tight, a storm brewing beneath the grand stone arches and tapestries that adorn the walls.

Viserys lets out a weary sigh as Grand Maester Mellos, hunched and robed in the dull grays of his order, speaks. “Your Grace, the Prince’s injuries are… severe. His recovery remains uncertain, particularly with the damage sustained to his leg. There is concern that even if he does survive this ordeal, he may never ride Dallax again.” Mellos’ tone is cautious, as if picking each word with tweezers.

At that, Otto Hightower, ever poised and calculated, leans forward with his usual practiced air of concern. “It is regrettable, Your Grace, but these events could have been avoided had the young prince exercised more restraint. Dragonriding is no sport to be taken lightly, yet Prince Y/N chose to put himself and others at risk with those… dangerous maneuvers during Maiden’s Day celebrations.”

The jab is subtle, but the intent is sharp. Otto’s words are always carefully weighted, his voice smooth as oil yet edged like a blade. There’s a flicker of something behind Viserys’ eyes at the mention of your name, but it’s Corlys Velaryon who rises to your defense before your father can respond.

“Dangerous, you say, Lord Hightower? A dragonrider’s bond with his mount is not something to be dictated by the whims of others,” Corlys counters, his voice deep and resonant. “The Prince, young as he is, shares a bond with Dallax that most dragonriders would envy. To stifle that connection for fear of injury would be to deny what it means to be Targaryen.”

Tyland Lannister, ever opportunistic and sharp-eyed, cuts in with a smooth smile, “While that may be true, Lord Corlys, we cannot ignore the situation at hand. The heir is gravely injured, and we do not yet know the extent of his recovery. The Crown’s stability must be maintained, especially with Queen Aemma carrying another child. We all pray for a healthy son this time, as it would ensure—”

Viserys’ eyes narrow, cutting off Tyland mid-sentence. “You would dare place my son’s potential death before the birth of another heir?” There’s a warning in the king’s tone, though it lacks the sharpness it might have once had. He looks tired, older somehow, as if the weight of his crown presses down harder with each passing year. “Y/N will recover. He is strong, like his mother.”

Otto’s voice slices through the tension again, softer but no less cutting. “No one doubts the Prince’s strength, Your Grace. However, we must be practical. The realm must always have a clear line of succession. Given the uncertainty surrounding Prince Y/N’s condition, ensuring that the Crown is secure with another male heir is not an option to be taken lightly.”

Corlys shoots Otto a disdainful glance, his irritation evident. “It seems some here are quick to forget that Prince Y/N is still very much alive. Would you so easily cast him aside, Hightower?”

Otto doesn’t flinch. “I speak only of the reality we must face. The Prince’s injuries are a reminder of the dangers inherent to our lineage. Daemon Targaryen was much the same in his youth, reckless and bold. Look where that has led him. The realm cannot afford another… unsteady Targaryen to destabilize it.”

Viserys’ face hardens at the mention of Daemon, but there’s a flicker of recognition in his eyes. It’s no secret that Otto sees you as another Daemon-in-the-making—bold, fiery, and likely to cause as much chaos as your uncle once did. But Corlys, undeterred, presses forward.

“The Prince is no Daemon, and it is folly to compare the two. Y/N is his father’s son, and he carries his mother’s heart in him as well. You speak of him as though he were already lost, yet he fights even now to return to us.”

Mellos interjects, his voice soft yet firm. “We must consider all possibilities. Should the worst happen, the realm would be thrown into disarray if another male heir is not secured. Queen Aemma’s pregnancy provides an opportunity to ensure stability. No one wishes harm upon Prince Y/N, but the Crown must prepare for all outcomes.”

The chamber falls silent as Viserys leans back in his chair, his fingers drumming against the armrest. His eyes flicker from one lord to the next, the weight of their words heavy upon him. It is clear that this is not just about your health, but about the fear that haunts every Targaryen king—the fragility of power, and the burden of legacy.

At last, Viserys speaks, his voice measured but lined with steel. “Y/N is my son, my heir. He will recover. We will not speak of replacing him while he yet breathes and fights. The Queen’s child—should it be a boy—will not supplant my son’s birthright.”

The lords exchange uneasy glances, but none dare press the matter further. Otto’s lips press into a thin line, his eyes calculating, already plotting his next move. Corlys gives a satisfied nod, as if some silent victory has been won in this battle of words.

“Let us end this meeting,” Viserys declares, standing abruptly. “My son needs me at his side, not in this chamber, bickering over shadows.” With that, the King strides from the room, leaving the lords in tense silence.

The echoes of that discussion linger, the council divided, the seeds of doubt planted. But in the end, it is your fate, your strength, that will determine the realm’s future. Whether you rise again or fall will shape the course of House Targaryen’s history, and those who doubt you now will soon see just how much fire runs in your veins.

Alicent Hightower’s fingers work restlessly, picking at the skin around her nails until they redden, a nervous habit she can never seem to fully break. Her eyes, tinged with worry, flicker toward Rhaenyra, who paces before the hearth, her face a storm of emotions. The princess is rarely still, her movements a reflection of her restless energy. But today, there’s an undercurrent of unease in her steps.

Rhaenyra finally pauses, catching Alicent’s gaze, her expression softening just slightly. “You’re worried about him too, aren’t you?” Rhaenyra’s voice carries a note of exasperation, though it’s more for her brother than for Alicent. “Everyone is,” she adds, her tone a mix of annoyance and affection.

Alicent nods, her fingers tightening around the fabric of her dress as she carefully forms her next words. “I heard the fall was… grave. My brother, Gwayne, he’s been beside himself with worry. He asked after Prince Y/N’s condition, but I haven’t had the heart to tell him much, as I didn’t know the truth of it myself.” Her eyes search Rhaenyra’s for any sign of reassurance.

Rhaenyra gives a small, mirthless laugh, though there’s fondness in her voice. “It was a bad fall, yes. Several broken ribs, a twisted leg… it was awful to see him like that, especially with all the blood. But you know my brother—his head’s still intact, and that’s all he seems to care about. He was already jesting the moment I rushed in to see him after it happened. Can you imagine?” She shakes her head, lips curving slightly. “The first thing he told me was that the dragon landing was all Dallax’s fault, as if the creature hadn’t been trying to save him mid-air.”

Alicent lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. The tension in her shoulders eases just a fraction, and despite herself, a soft smile graces her lips at Rhaenyra’s words. “That does sound like him,�� she says quietly, her voice warm with a touch of relief. “He’s always been kind to me, even when others were not. I thought I might visit him, to see how he fares. But I didn’t want to intrude… especially with everything happening.”

Rhaenyra’s sharp eyes catch the shift in Alicent’s tone, the nervous edge behind her request. Her smirk returns, a knowing look that dances in her violet eyes. “Is that all, Alicent? You simply wish to return a kindness?” There’s a teasing lilt to her voice, but it isn’t cruel—rather, it’s affectionate, as one might tease a younger sister.

Alicent’s cheeks flush a delicate shade of pink, and her fingers return to picking at the skin of her thumb. “I only thought it would be polite…” she trails off, clearly flustered under Rhaenyra’s knowing gaze.

“Polite,” Rhaenyra repeats, almost to herself, savoring the word like it’s some private joke. Then, with a mischievous glint, she steps closer and leans in as if sharing a secret. “Why don’t we visit him now, then?” she suggests, her voice both challenging and inviting. “I was planning to see him anyway, and I imagine he’s bored out of his mind. You’d be doing him a favor by distracting him from all the fussing Grand Maester Mellos has been doing.”

Alicent blinks, caught off guard by the sudden suggestion. “Now?” she echoes, her heart skipping a beat. She had been expecting to arrange a visit discreetly, perhaps later in the day, but to go now, with no time to compose herself or prepare… She hesitates, the butterflies in her stomach fluttering wildly. But then, she straightens her spine, smoothing out the folds of her dress. “Yes,” she replies with quiet resolve, the flush still faint on her cheeks. “Let’s go now.”

Rhaenyra’s smirk softens into a genuine smile. “Good. He’ll be glad to see you, I’m sure of it.” She turns and leads the way, her stride confident and purposeful, and for a moment, Alicent is struck by how effortlessly her friend carries herself, a blend of grace and fire that draws everyone’s eyes.

Alicent hurries to match Rhaenyra’s pace, her thoughts racing as they walk down the long corridors of the Red Keep. She’s already imagining what she’ll say when she sees you, how she’ll carefully choose her words to avoid showing too much concern, or worse, revealing the affection she’s kept hidden for so long. It’s no secret that she and you share a certain awkwardness in each other’s presence, a tension that dances between propriety and something unspoken. But perhaps this visit will be different, she tells herself. Perhaps today she’ll find the courage to speak more freely, to let you see the care that lingers behind her usually composed exterior.

The clang of armor and the soft murmurs of passing courtiers fade into the background as the two young women make their way toward your chambers. The air seems heavier the closer they get, anticipation thickening with each step. Rhaenyra glances at Alicent from the corner of her eye, noting the way her friend’s hands twist together nervously. “You know,” Rhaenyra says casually, breaking the silence, “he’s probably expecting me to bring news of the council meeting. But I think he’ll be more interested in who I’ve brought along.”

Alicent’s breath hitches, but she quickly composes herself, offering a light, practiced smile. “I only hope I don’t disturb him.”

Rhaenyra chuckles softly. “Disturb him? You’re more likely to brighten his day, Alicent. He’s been locked away in that chamber long enough. I’d say he could use the company of someone with a gentle touch.”

As they near your chamber doors, the conversation fades, leaving only the echo of their footsteps in the dimly lit hallway. Alicent’s heart pounds in her chest, nerves battling with the quiet thrill of finally seeing you after days of anxious waiting. She takes a deep breath, her hand resting briefly over her stomach as if to steady herself, before glancing at Rhaenyra, who gives her an encouraging nod.

The heavy oak door creaks open, and the first thing Rhaenyra and Alicent see is Queen Aemma, heavily pregnant, perched on the edge of your bed, fussing over you with the care only a mother can give. Her hand smooths the unruly strands of silver hair from your forehead, her gaze filled with a mixture of sternness and deep worry.

“You should be resting more,” Aemma chides softly, adjusting the pillows behind you for the third time. “It’s a miracle you survived that fall. You push yourself too hard, my sweet boy.”

You chuckle, though the sound is edged with the discomfort you try to hide. “Mother, I’m hardly on death’s door,” you say, your voice light despite the tightness in your chest from the bruised ribs. “You’re embarrassing me, fussing like this in front of my guests. I’ve survived worse—remember the time Dallax nearly knocked me off during that storm over Dragonstone?”

Aemma gives you a look of mock disapproval, though her eyes glisten with affection. “That’s no reason for you to go risking your life every time you’re in the saddle. But I suppose I’ll leave you to your visitors. If you need anything, send for me at once.” She leans in, ignoring your protest, and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Behave yourself, and don’t be too stubborn,” she adds with a small smile, before gracefully rising from the bed.

As she turns, Aemma’s gaze softens when she sees Rhaenyra and Alicent by the door. “He’s in good hands now,” she says warmly, giving Rhaenyra a brief but knowing smile, before excusing herself from the room.

Once Aemma is gone, Rhaenyra moves closer, her usual air of confidence returning as she grins down at you. “So, how is my brave brother faring today? Still planning to be back in the saddle by week’s end, or has the council convinced you to take up a life of courtly entertainment with Mushroom?”

You chuckle again, though it comes out more like a wince. “Well, if I can’t fly, I suppose I can stand in the throne room and juggle while Mushroom tells his bawdy tales. It might be just what the court needs to liven things up.” Your eyes gleam with amusement, though there’s a hint of frustration beneath your humor, the kind only Rhaenyra would notice. You’ve never been one to take well to being bedridden.

Rhaenyra snorts in amusement, shaking her head. “I’d pay good coin to see that. Though I doubt our dear father would find it as amusing as the rest of us.”

Your gaze drifts then, catching sight of Alicent standing just a little behind Rhaenyra, her hands clasped together nervously. She gives you a small, polite curtsy, her cheeks tinged with a soft flush. “Prince Y/N,” she greets, her voice gentle, almost tentative. “I heard about your fall, and… I was worried. I hope I’m not intruding by coming here. I—”

“Alicent,” you interrupt, your tone softening as your expression shifts into one of genuine warmth. The playful banter fades, replaced by something quieter, more sincere. “You could never be a bother. I’m glad you’re here, truly.” Your words seem to ease some of the tension from her shoulders, and the corner of your mouth lifts into a reassuring smile.

Rhaenyra looks between the two of you, her smirk deepening, though she wisely stays silent for the moment, letting the exchange unfold.

Alicent takes a hesitant step closer, her eyes briefly meeting yours before she looks down at her hands. “I… I wanted to bring you something,” she says, her voice nearly a whisper as she reaches into the pocket of her gown and retrieves a small, delicately woven ribbon in shades of deep crimson and gold. “It’s just a token, to wish you a swift recovery. I know it’s nothing much, but I thought…” She trails off, the blush deepening on her cheeks as she holds it out to you.

You reach out to take it, your fingers brushing against hers for the briefest moment—a touch so light it’s almost imperceptible, yet it sends a ripple of warmth through you. The contact lingers in both of your thoughts longer than it physically lasts, and you catch the way her breath hitches slightly, the same way yours does. “Thank you, Alicent,” you say, your voice softer than before. “It means more than you know. I’ll keep it close—perhaps it’ll speed along this recovery of mine.” Your thumb brushes against the fabric of the ribbon, savoring the thoughtfulness behind the gift.

Alicent’s lips curl into a shy smile, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of relief and something else—something tender that neither of you have the words for yet. “I’m glad… if it helps even a little,” she murmurs.

Rhaenyra, ever perceptive, clears her throat pointedly, though there’s a hint of mischief in her eyes. “Well, now that you have such a fine token to aid in your recovery, brother, you’ll be back on your feet in no time. And if you do decide to take up juggling, I’ll make sure it’s the talk of the court.”

You roll your eyes at Rhaenyra’s teasing, but there’s warmth in your gaze as you turn back to Alicent. “Next time, maybe you could bring Gwayne along. I’m sure he’s been worrying just as much as you have.”

Alicent nods, still holding that shy smile. “I’ll see if he can visit soon. He’s always asking after you.”

Rhaenyra steps back, giving Alicent a pointed look before quirking an eyebrow at you. “So, shall we sit and keep you company, or do you have other princely duties to attend to from your bed?”

You can’t help but laugh at that, wincing slightly as your ribs protest. “I think I’m due for a bit of entertainment. It’s been dreadfully dull in here with nothing but Mellos’ remedies and reports from the small council. Stay—both of you.”

With that invitation, Rhaenyra finally settles into a chair near your bed, while Alicent quietly takes the seat on your other side. For a moment, a comfortable silence settles in, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the quiet sounds of the Red Keep outside your window.

But beneath that surface calm, there’s a new feeling—not unpleasant, but charged with possibilities unspoken. You and Alicent exchange brief, sidelong glances, your minds both swirling with thoughts you’re not yet ready to give voice to. And though Rhaenyra pretends to be absorbed in adjusting her skirts, you know your twin far too well to miss the satisfied smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

The morning sun filters through the stone arches of the courtyard, casting crooked shadows as you make your way through the Red Keep. The steady thunk of your cane against the cobblestones marks each step, your gait still uneven from the injury. Though you’re no longer bedridden, the limp remains, a constant reminder of the fall that nearly cost you everything. Despite this, there’s a quiet determination in your stride—strength buried beneath the calm exterior. The deaths of your mother and brother cloak your soul and heart with grief, but you continue to go on as months drag on. Because your mother would wish for you to stay strong, you know this in your bones.

You’re just about to reach the library when you hear the low, familiar drawl of your uncle, Daemon Targaryen. “Another council meeting, and once again, your name was left unspoken,” he says, stepping out from the shadows of a nearby pillar. His silver hair gleams in the light, and there’s a sharp edge to his eyes that matches the curve of his smile—part amusement, part disdain.

You pause, turning to meet his gaze, though you remain composed, unbothered by the subtle provocation. “I’m used to it by now, uncle,” you reply, your voice even, almost indifferent. It’s not a complaint, merely a fact, a truth you’ve come to accept. The small council rarely considers your presence necessary these days, not when Otto Hightower holds sway over your father and lords like Tyland Lannister whisper about the need for more ‘stability’ in the line of succession.

Daemon’s expression darkens, his eyes narrowing. “Used to it?” he echoes, his voice dropping with barely contained irritation. “They push you aside as if you’re nothing more than an afterthought, a decoration. And you’ve grown comfortable with it?” He steps closer, the intensity in his gaze unmistakable. “You’re the king’s son, his heir, yet you let them treat you like some soft-spoken scribe, buried in books and songs while that leech Otto tightens his hold around your father’s neck.”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the cane, though your expression remains calm. You meet his eyes steadily, unflinching in the face of his scorn. “I prefer to choose my battles, uncle,” you say quietly. “Like Dallax, I know when to show my teeth. There’s no sense in snapping them at shadows.”

Daemon scoffs, a mix of exasperation and grudging respect in his tone. “Spoken like a poet, not a dragon. You should be making them fear you, not waiting for the perfect moment that may never come. They should see fire in you, boy, not this... apathy.” His frustration is clear—he’s never had patience for subtleties or caution, preferring the boldness of action over waiting in the wings.

But you don’t flinch. You’ve long learned that the fire in your blood doesn’t need to be on display at every moment. “And where did being feared get you, uncle?” you ask with a hint of amusement in your voice. “You’ve been exiled twice, alienated half the court, and have more enemies than friends. If that’s the path you think I should follow, then perhaps I should throw more reckless tournaments and provoke the lords with tales of misrule.”

Daemon’s eyes flash, though there’s a hint of grudging admiration beneath the irritation. “Perhaps I’ve made mistakes, but at least I act. I don’t hide behind patience while others pull the strings. You speak of showing your teeth when the time is right, but when will that time come? When Otto’s scheming has woven its webs so thick that there’s no air left to breathe?”

You give a small, knowing smile. “You mistake stillness for inaction. Even a dragon rests before it strikes.” Then, with a touch of humor, you add, “And besides, Dallax may have thrown me, but I landed well enough.”

That draws a snort from Daemon. “Landed, yes. With a leg that’ll remind you of it every day.” Despite his harsh words, there’s a glimmer of reluctant approval in his eyes. “But you’ve got a point—Dallax hasn’t eaten you yet, so perhaps you’ve earned a measure of respect. Just don’t think that quiet strategy will protect you forever. Sooner or later, you’ll need to show them who you are, nephew. And when you do, make sure they remember it.”

You nod slightly, letting the words hang between you for a moment before you turn away, your pace deliberate as you resume your walk. “I’ll keep that in mind, uncle,” you call over your shoulder, a hint of dry humor lacing your tone. “Perhaps one day, we’ll both show them our teeth together—when it truly matters.”

Daemon watches you go, his eyes lingering on your form as you disappear into the corridors. Despite the tension, there’s an unspoken understanding between you. You both know that fire is not always meant to be unleashed at every provocation—it can burn hotter when contained, waiting for the moment to strike with devastating precision.

But for now, you choose patience, aware that when the time comes, it will be all the more powerful for having been held in check. As you leave your uncle behind, a small, satisfied smile touches your lips. You know your strength, and you’ll reveal it when it’s most needed—not before.

The fire crackles quietly in the small chamber as Alicent sits across from her father, Otto Hightower. The room is dimly lit by the glow of the hearth, and the air feels heavy with unspoken tension. Otto’s eyes are fixed on his daughter, sharp and calculating, as he recounts the events of the recent small council meeting.

“The council remains divided,” he begins, his tone measured. “The matter of succession is still a delicate topic, but it’s clear that the King will not remain unmarried for long. The realm demands stability, and he knows it.”

Alicent’s brow furrows, her head snapping up at the implication in her father’s words. “Father, you can’t possibly be suggesting—”

Otto’s gaze remains steady, unyielding. “I’m not suggesting, Alicent. I’m stating a reality. The King is vulnerable, grieving, and the pressure of the realm weighs heavily on him. It’s only a matter of time before he considers remarriage, and when he does, you must be ready.”

Alicent’s expression hardens, a rare defiance flickering in her eyes. “I won’t do it,” she says firmly, though there’s a tremor beneath her voice. “I won’t be used like this.”

Otto’s patience visibly thins, a tightness forming around his mouth. “Is this about the Prince?” he asks, his voice edged with irritation. “You’ve grown fond of him, haven’t you? You think that because he’s been kind to you, that he’s somehow different, somehow worthy of your loyalty?”

Alicent shifts uncomfortably in her seat, her fingers twisting in her lap as she struggles to find the right words. “He is different,” she insists, though her voice is quieter now. “Y/N is the heir, Father. He’s kind, thoughtful, and gentle in ways that others aren’t. He doesn’t play these games like the rest of them do.”

Otto’s expression tightens, his frustration barely masked. “The boy is reckless,” he snaps, his tone cutting through her protest. “Too much like Daemon, whether you see it or not. He flies that dragon of his in dangerous stunts to impress the smallfolk, and he’s already alienated half the council with his indifference to their politics. You think kindness will make him a strong king? He’s more likely to lead the realm into chaos than rule it with a steady hand.”

Alicent’s chest tightens, anger flaring in her eyes. “He’s not Daemon!” she retorts, her voice stronger this time. “He’s nothing like him. Y/N has a heart that Daemon lacks, and he cares deeply for those close to him. You only see what you want to see because it fits your plans.”

Otto’s eyes narrow, his patience worn thin. “And you see him through the lens of a girl smitten by his gentle words and kind gestures. You think he’ll protect you from the harsh realities of court, but you’re wrong, Alicent. This isn’t about what you want—it’s about what the realm needs. The King’s decision must be guided carefully, and you will play your part.”

Alicent’s heart races, her throat tightening with a mixture of fear and resentment. She knows there’s little room for argument when her father takes this tone. “I won’t betray him,” she whispers, her resolve wavering under the weight of her father’s expectations.

Otto leans forward, his gaze intense. “You’re not betraying him, you’re securing your future—and the future of our house. You will do what’s necessary when the time comes. The King’s affections can be swayed, and when they are, you must be there. You’re a clever girl, Alicent. Don’t let emotions cloud your judgment. Remember, loyalty to your house comes first.”

She lowers her gaze, the firelight casting shadows across her face. The thought of maneuvering against someone she’s grown to care for—a young man who has only ever shown her kindness—makes her stomach twist with guilt. But Otto’s expectations press down like a vice, and she knows all too well the consequences of disobedience.

“Prepare yourself,” Otto says, his voice softer now but no less commanding. “When I give the word, you must be ready to act.”

Alicent swallows, her resolve crumbling beneath the weight of her father’s will. She nods, unable to muster more than that, her mind churning with conflicted thoughts as she tries to reconcile the path being laid out before her. Her heart aches with the burden of what she knows may come—sacrificing her desires for the sake of duty.

As the conversation falls into a tense silence, the crackling of the fire is the only sound that remains.

The Red Keep is quiet in the late afternoon, the golden light of the setting sun casting shadows through the stone corridors. You walk with only a slight hitch in your step now, the limp almost entirely gone after months of healing. It’s a small victory, but one that fills you with a new sense of freedom, a reminder that you’ve come through the worst of it. Yet, as you round the corner into one of the smaller courtyards, the sight that meets you sends a jolt of concern straight through your chest.

Alicent is seated on a stone bench beneath a tall tree, her shoulders trembling with barely contained sobs. Her hands cover her face, and even from a distance, you can hear the quiet, heart-wrenching sounds of her crying. It’s a rare thing to see her like this; Alicent is usually so composed, so careful in maintaining the image of poise that’s expected of her. But here, alone—or so she thought—she’s unraveling.

Without a second thought, you approach her, the concern plain in your eyes. “Alicent,” you call softly, your voice gentle, almost hesitant as you close the distance between you. She startles slightly at the sound of your voice, quickly wiping at her tears in a futile attempt to regain her composure. But it’s clear that the floodgates have already opened, and there’s no hiding the raw emotion in her eyes.

“Y/N,” she manages, her voice catching as she forces a tremulous smile. “I didn’t think anyone would be here…”

You kneel down in front of her, ignoring the twinge of discomfort in your leg. “What’s happened?” you ask, your voice full of warmth and concern. “You’re crying, Alicent. Talk to me. What’s troubling you?”

For a moment, she can’t meet your eyes, her hands clenching in her lap as she struggles to hold back more tears. But when she finally looks at you, the anguish in her gaze cuts straight to your heart. “It’s my father,” she whispers, her voice trembling with the weight of her confession. “He’s… he’s been instructing me, pushing me to get close to the King. He… he wants me to…” Her words trail off as a fresh wave of tears spills down her cheeks. “I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to be a pawn in his games.”

Your expression softens even further as you take in the depth of her distress. Without hesitation, you reach out and gently cup her cheek, wiping away her tears with the pad of your thumb. “You’re not a pawn,” you murmur, your voice low and steady, infused with a tenderness that you reserve only for her. “You’re Alicent—kind, thoughtful, more than any of these schemes or plots.”

She closes her eyes at your touch, leaning into the comfort you offer, as if drawing strength from your presence. “But what choice do I have?” she whispers, her voice cracking. “He’s my father. If I don’t do as he asks, I’ll be seen as disobedient… or worse. I feel trapped, Y/N, and I hate it. I hate how helpless I feel.”

The fierce protectiveness that surges through you is almost overwhelming. You lean in closer, your other hand finding hers and holding it firmly, grounding her. “You’re not helpless,” you say with quiet determination. “I won’t let anything bad happen to you. You have my word, Alicent. No matter what schemes your father or anyone else tries to weave, I’ll be there. You’re not alone in this.”

Her eyes snap open at your words, searching your face for any hint of doubt, but all she finds is unwavering sincerity. There’s a softness in your gaze that she’s come to rely on, a steadiness that offers her a sense of safety she’s found nowhere else. “But how can you protect me from all of this?” she asks, her voice laced with desperation. “You can’t control what the King decides, or what my father pushes me to do.”

You smile, a gentle curve of your lips that holds both reassurance and quiet confidence. “Perhaps I can’t change everything,” you admit, your thumb still brushing away her tears. “But I can stand by you. I can make sure you don’t have to face any of this alone. And if they try to force your hand, they’ll have to deal with me first.”

Her breath catches at the intensity of your words, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you, the weight of courtly duties and schemes fading into the background. She clings to your hand, drawing strength from the way your fingers entwine with hers. “Thank you,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. “You don’t know how much it means to hear that.”

You squeeze her hand gently, offering a small but genuine smile. “You deserve to be happy, Alicent, not burdened with all these games. Whatever happens, you have a choice—and I’ll be here, no matter what.”

There’s a long pause as she looks at you, her heart in her eyes. It’s a look that speaks of more than just gratitude; it’s a mixture of emotions that neither of you can quite name yet, a deepening connection that lingers just beneath the surface. “I believe you,” she says softly, her voice steadying at last.

For a moment longer, you stay there, kneeling in front of her, your presence a quiet but steadfast comfort. The world outside the courtyard feels distant, irrelevant. Here, in this quiet corner of the Red Keep, the schemes and pressures of power seem to hold no sway.

As you help her rise to her feet, your hand still holding hers, you can see a spark of resolve returning to her eyes. “You are not alone,” you tell her, a promise wrapped in those simple words.

And for the first time in what feels like ages, Alicent allows herself to hope that she won’t be swallowed by the games of court—that, with you by her side, she might find a way to reclaim her own path amidst the chaos.

The council chamber is as it always is—filled with tension and the murmur of hushed conversations as lords and advisors deliberate the future of the realm. The lords gathered around the table speak in low voices, with Otto Hightower presiding over the meeting with his usual composed authority. Viserys, looking more weary than ever, listens half-heartedly as discussions about trade routes and tax levies dominate the conversation. Rhaenyra stands off to the side, holding the wine jug as she fulfills her role as cupbearer, her expression one of faint boredom—until the door suddenly creaks open.

All heads turn as you stride into the chamber, unannounced, your cane in hand though you walk with almost no noticeable limp. The lords freeze in surprise, the very air growing still as you make your way directly to your seat at the council table. Your presence is commanding, purposeful, as if you’ve planned this moment down to the finest detail. Rhaenyra’s eyes gleam with amusement as she watches from the sidelines, a smirk curling her lips—she’s the only one in the room not taken aback by your unexpected arrival.

The council members shift uncomfortably in their seats, unsure how to respond. Otto Hightower is the first to speak, his voice laced with thinly veiled irritation. “Your Grace, this is most inappropriate. You were not summoned—”

You cut him off sharply, your gaze piercing as it sweeps across the table. “And it is most inappropriate that I have not been summoned to these talks,” you say coolly, your tone brooking no argument. “I am the heir to the throne, yet it seems my presence is no longer deemed necessary while decisions are made that affect my future and that of this realm.”

Viserys opens his mouth to intercede, but you raise a hand, your eyes never leaving Otto’s. “Save your apologies, Father,” you continue, your voice growing firmer. “This is not a matter of oversight or courtesy. It’s a matter of respect—respect that has been slowly eroding while certain parties here conspire to keep me in the dark.”

Beesbury and Tyland exchange nervous glances, both lords visibly shifting in their seats. The weight of your accusation hangs in the air like a blade, unspoken but understood by all. Otto, however, remains collected, though there’s a glimmer of annoyance in his eyes. “No one seeks to replace you, Prince Y/N,” Viserys says, attempting to smooth over the tension. “You are my son, and my heir. There is no question about that.”

You scoff, your gaze now locked onto Otto with unyielding intensity. “Is that so?” you reply, your voice laced with challenge. “Forgive me if I find that hard to believe when whispers circulate through the court, and when my own seat at this table has been deliberately left empty.” Your gaze flickers briefly to Beesbury and Tyland, who both quickly avert their eyes, before returning to Otto. “I know about the talks. I know about the concerns for the continuation of the Targaryen bloodline. If that is what worries this council so deeply, then perhaps it is time I address it myself.”

The room goes utterly silent, every lord and advisor hanging onto your next words. Viserys looks puzzled, while Rhaenyra’s smirk widens, her eyes alight with curiosity and pride. “What are you saying?” Viserys asks, trying to understand where this is leading.

You straighten in your chair, your voice clear and decisive as you deliver your next statement. “I have decided that I will marry.”

The words drop like a stone into a still pond, sending ripples of shock through the room. Viserys’s eyes widen in surprise, while several of the lords exchange stunned looks. Even Rhaenyra, though aware of your intentions, seems momentarily caught off guard by how bluntly you’ve declared it. But the greatest reaction comes from Otto Hightower, who immediately tenses, his carefully constructed mask of composure slipping just slightly.

“Marry?” Otto repeats, disbelief tinging his voice. “Your Grace, this is a most sudden decision—”

“Sudden, perhaps,” you say, cutting him off again, “but necessary. If the continuation of the Targaryen line is such a concern, then I will see to it myself. And I already know who I intend to wed.”

The room waits with bated breath, every eye fixed on you as you pause for dramatic effect. Then, with absolute certainty, you deliver the bombshell: “I will marry Lady Alicent Hightower.”

A shocked silence follows, broken only by the sound of Otto’s breath catching in his throat. The lords gape, disbelief etched into their faces, and Viserys’s eyes widen in surprise, a mix of confusion and relief crossing his features. But it is Otto whose reaction is most striking—his face blanches, a rare display of genuine shock. “This is…” he begins, clearly scrambling for control, “This is not—”

You turn to him, your expression hardening, your voice cold and edged. “Are you offended, Lord Hand?” you ask pointedly. “That your daughter would one day be Queen? Is this not the very opportunity you’ve sought?”

Otto’s mouth opens, but no words come out as he searches for a response. You can see him weighing his options, assessing whether to push back or accept the twist of fate you’ve thrown at him. Before he can gather his wits, Corlys Velaryon’s deep voice rumbles through the chamber, breaking the silence.

“If Lord Hightower finds this match disagreeable, perhaps the Prince would consider my daughter, Laena, instead. The blood of Old Valyria would be preserved, and such a union would strengthen House Targaryen’s ties with the Velaryons.”

You hold back a smile at Corlys’s calculated offer, knowing full well that he’s taking advantage of Otto’s moment of hesitation. Otto’s eyes narrow at Corlys’s interjection, and you can practically see the gears turning in his head as he realizes he’s being cornered. Backing down would mean missing out on the very outcome he’s been subtly maneuvering toward, even if it wasn’t quite in the manner he’d intended.

After a long moment, Otto exhales slowly, carefully regaining his composure. “Of course, Your Grace,” he finally says, his tone clipped but respectful. “I… only wish for what is best for both you and the realm. If this is your decision, then I will see to it that the arrangements are made.”

You nod, satisfied, as you see the acceptance in his eyes. “Good,” you reply, your voice firm and unyielding. “Because I have no intention of letting anyone else dictate the future of this house. The realm needs strength, unity, and continuity, and I will see that it is achieved—on my terms.”

The council members exchange uneasy glances, realizing that they’ve just witnessed a pivotal shift in the dynamics of power within the Red Keep. Rhaenyra’s smirk remains, her eyes gleaming with admiration as she watches you assert your authority, while Viserys seems both relieved and unsettled by your newfound determination.

As the meeting continues, there’s no doubt left in anyone’s mind—you are no longer the sidelined prince. You are a force to be reckoned with, and the council now understands that you will not be ignored or underestimated.

The sun filters softly through the arched windows of the Red Keep, casting warm golden light over the ladies of the court as they gather in one of the sewing chambers. The room is filled with the gentle murmur of idle conversation, the sound of thread sliding through fabric, and the occasional soft laugh. Alicent sits among them, her focus on the delicate embroidery she’s working on. Her hands move with practiced grace, though her thoughts are distant, lingering on the conversation she had with her father and the weight of the expectations he’s placed on her.

She’s lost in her thoughts when a familiar figure bursts into the room with the energy of a brewing storm. Rhaenyra sweeps into the chamber, her eyes scanning the room until they land on Alicent. The princess’s expression is one of unbridled excitement, a grin wide and mischievous spreading across her face. “Alicent!” she calls out, her voice ringing with barely contained glee.

The ladies of the court look up from their work, startled by the princess’s sudden entrance. Alicent rises from her seat, her brow furrowing in confusion as she sets aside her embroidery. “Rhaenyra,” she says warmly, though with a hint of uncertainty. “What’s gotten into you? You look like a dragon who’s caught a sheep.”

Rhaenyra steps closer, her grin widening as she takes Alicent’s hands in her own. “I wanted to be the first to congratulate you,” she says, her eyes alight with barely restrained amusement.

Alicent blinks, bewilderment etched across her delicate features. “Congratulate me?” she repeats, glancing around at the other ladies, who are now watching the exchange with rapt attention. “I don’t understand—what are you talking about?”

Rhaenyra leans in, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, though loud enough for the other ladies to hear and exchange curious glances. “You don’t know? Oh, Alicent, you’re going to be married.”

The world seems to tilt for Alicent, her breath catching in her throat as her heart pounds wildly in her chest. “Married?” she stammers, her voice barely above a whisper. “What… what do you mean? To whom?”

Rhaenyra’s grin softens into something more sincere as she watches the realization dawn on Alicent’s face. “To my brother, of course. Y/N announced it himself in the council meeting not half an hour ago. He declared that he’s decided to marry you.”

For a moment, the room seems to spin, the words hitting Alicent like a physical blow. Her chest tightens, and she feels a flush rise up her neck as her mind races to catch up with what she’s just heard. “He… he said that?” she asks, her voice trembling with a mixture of shock, disbelief, and something else—something that makes her heart skip a beat.

Rhaenyra nods, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction as she squeezes Alicent’s hands. “He did. Right there in front of everyone. You should have seen the look on Father’s face—he was stunned, and Otto nearly choked on his own breath. And you know what’s even better? He said it with such certainty, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He’s chosen you, Alicent. You’re going to be a queen one day.”

Alicent’s legs feel weak beneath her as the gravity of the situation sinks in. Her mind flashes back to the conversation with her father, to the pressure and expectations, to the fear that she would be forced into a match she had no say in. But this—this is something entirely different. Y/N chose her. Not because of Otto’s schemes or because it was expected, but because he decided it. The thought is overwhelming, both terrifying and thrilling all at once.

She struggles to find her voice, her emotions swirling in a chaotic mix of disbelief, gratitude, and apprehension. “I… I never imagined…” she stammers, unable to form a coherent sentence as she tries to process what this means for her.

Rhaenyra’s expression softens as she sees the turmoil in Alicent’s eyes. “You’re shaking,” she says gently, releasing one of Alicent’s hands to brush a stray tear from her friend’s cheek. “I know it’s a lot to take in, but you should have seen the way he spoke about it. He was so resolute, so determined. And you—you deserve this happiness, Alicent. You deserve someone who sees you as more than just a tool in their schemes.”

Alicent’s breath shudders as she tries to regain control of her racing thoughts. “But what if… what if this is just another game? What if he’s being pushed into this?” she whispers, her voice laced with fear and doubt.

Rhaenyra shakes her head, her expression turning fierce. “No. This isn’t like that. My brother’s no fool, and he’s not one to be forced into anything he doesn’t want. This was his choice, and I think it’s about time someone reminded the court that he’s more than capable of making his own decisions.” Her grin returns, wry and full of pride. “And besides, I think you know him better than anyone else. You’ve seen how he looks at you.”

Alicent’s eyes widen, and a fresh flush colors her cheeks. She’s known for some time that there’s been an unspoken connection between her and Y/N, but she never dared to hope it would lead to something so monumental. The thought of being his wife, of standing beside him as queen—it’s as daunting as it is exhilarating.

“I… I don’t know what to say,” she finally manages, her voice thick with emotion.

Rhaenyra’s smile softens into something more tender as she pulls Alicent into a warm embrace. “Then don’t say anything yet. Let it sink in. But know this—you’re not alone, Alicent. You have me, and you have him. And now, you have a future that’s yours to shape.”

As they part, the ladies of the court begin whispering excitedly among themselves, the news spreading like wildfire through the chamber. But Alicent barely notices, her mind still spinning as she tries to grasp the enormity of what’s just been revealed. For better or worse, everything has changed in the span of a single afternoon.

And somewhere deep in her heart, beneath the fear and uncertainty, a flicker of hope begins to bloom.

The sound of your boots echoes as you step into the Dragonpit, each footfall deliberate and heavy against the ancient stone floor. The cavernous space looms around you, darkened by shadows cast by the great arches above, yet the air hums with the presence of power—dragons and their keepers. You wear a deep, crimson coat embroidered with silver thread in the pattern of coiling dragons, the rich fabric tailored perfectly to your frame. Beneath it, your tunic is a dark charcoal, cinched at the waist by a wide leather belt, and black riding gloves encase your hands. Your hair, a cascade of silver, is tied back in a loose knot, allowing a few strands to catch the breeze. The light armor you wear, adorned with the sigil of House Targaryen, adds an edge of battle-readiness to your regal attire. Today is not merely for show—it’s a declaration of your return to the skies.

The Dragonkeepers, clad in leather armor and bearing the scars of long service to the dragons, bow slightly as you approach. Their deference is not out of fear, but out of respect for what is to come. With a silent nod from their leader, they move aside to reveal the imposing silhouette of your dragon.

Dallax emerges from the shadows, his massive form a study in sleek, predatory grace. His scales are a deep, inky black that gleams like polished obsidian under the faint light. Unlike most dragons, his eyes are not the usual shade of fire-yellow; they are a striking, luminescent green, gleaming with intelligence and an almost unsettling awareness. His pupils narrow to slits as he focuses on you, a low rumble vibrating through his chest. His body is built for agility and speed, lean but powerful, every muscle coiled and ready to strike. But it’s his teeth that make him most unique—when he’s calm, they are hidden away, retracting into his jaw, giving him a deceptively benign appearance. But you know better; when agitated or in the heat of battle, those teeth emerge like rows of daggers, sharp and menacing. It’s no wonder Rhaenyra affectionately calls him “Toothless” when she’s in a playful mood.

You take in the sight of him, a thrill running through your veins. It’s been months since you last mounted him, but the bond between you remains unshaken, as if it were a living thing forged in fire and blood. Dallax’s eyes meet yours, and in that moment, the unspoken understanding passes between dragon and rider. He has waited, patient but eager, for this moment as much as you have.

The Dragonkeepers pull back as you stride forward, your limp almost unnoticeable now, a testament to the months of recovery you’ve endured. With a firm hand, you reach up and grasp the saddle harness, your fingers gripping the familiar leather. In one smooth motion, you pull yourself up and swing your leg over Dallax’s back. You settle into the saddle, feeling the comforting weight of the straps as you secure yourself. Dallax shifts beneath you, his wings unfurling slightly, the dark membrane stretching wide, catching the breeze as if testing the air.

You take a deep breath, the scent of leather, smoke, and ancient stone filling your senses. “Fly,” you whisper in High Valyrian, a command and a plea all at once.

With a growl that vibrates through his entire frame, Dallax lowers himself briefly before launching into the air with a powerful surge of muscle. The ground falls away beneath you as his wings beat with precision, each stroke lifting you higher until the walls of the Dragonpit are a blur. The rush of wind tears at your hair, your coat billowing behind you like a banner as Dallax ascends into the open sky.

As you break free into the sunlight, the city of King’s Landing sprawls out below, the rooftops and winding streets glinting in the late afternoon light. Dallax roars—a sound both thrilling and terrifying—as he soars above the Red Keep, his shadow sweeping across the stone battlements like a predator stalking its prey.

From her chambers, Alicent stands by the window, her eyes fixed on the sky as she watches you fly. Her hands are clasped in front of her, a mixture of awe and fondness in her expression as she traces your flight path. You cut through the clouds with an effortless grace, Dallax responding to every shift of your body as if you are one being. For the first time in what feels like ages, there’s no tension in Alicent’s shoulders, only the quiet joy of seeing you in your element—free and commanding, a true Targaryen heir.

Behind her, Otto Hightower steps forward, his expression a mix of calculation and displeasure. He watches silently for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he observes the ease with which you handle your dragon, the majesty of it undeniable. “He’s just like his uncle,” Otto mutters, more to himself than to Alicent. “All fire and pride—reckless.”

Alicent doesn’t turn to face her father, but her smile lingers, soft and secret. “Perhaps,” she replies, her voice distant, her gaze still following your every move. “But there is more to him than you see, Father.”

Otto’s mouth tightens into a thin line, but he says nothing more, turning away from the window. To him, dragons are dangerous, unpredictable forces that must be controlled. But to you, they are freedom itself—a reminder that no matter how thick the walls of the Red Keep or how intricate the webs of intrigue, you are a dragonrider first and foremost, and no one can cage that fire.

As you guide Dallax into a steep dive, pulling up at the last moment to skim over the rooftops of the city, you feel a deep, exhilarating rush. The wind in your face, the roar of your dragon, and the vast sky stretched out before you—it’s a sensation unmatched by anything else, a reminder that the world is yours to claim, one way or another.

You circle back toward the Red Keep, allowing Dallax to level out and glide effortlessly. From below, you see Alicent at the window, her face turned upward, her smile radiant and full of something unspoken—pride, affection, and hope. For a brief moment, you dip your wings in her direction, a silent acknowledgment that she sees you for who you are, beyond the politics and the expectations.

#house of the dragon #hotd alicent #hotd #alicent x y/n #alicent x you #alicent x reader #alicent hightower #hotd x y/n #hotd x reader #hotd x male reader #hotd x you #rhaenyra targaryen #viserys targaryen #daemon targaryen #otto hightower

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