#poc!asoiaf

[daensaism]

— AGOT, Sansa V

[arabellasleopardcoat]

The girl with the pearl necklace (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: You marry Daemon to secure an alliance. But surprisingly, you find a haven in him.

Warnings: Fluff. Smut. Oral (F receiving) Talks of race, colorism, racism, and self-esteem issues.

A/N: This has to be my most personal fic. It might not be as universal because it is part of my personal experience with race as a mixed person living in what is essentially a mixed region. I hope I do not get a bad response, but I will remind you what the title of my blog says.

“YOUR HAIR IS ugly.” The girl says, displeased. She is trying to comb through your hair with some coconut oil, but instead of curling prettily, your hair just falls flat. She has been at it for at least half an hour, her tugs to your hair getting increasingly more painful.

This time, you cannot hide the flinch. Pain, you had excused with being her first day. Making a mess, with her being unused to your hair. But calling you ugly? She was but a serving girl, she had no right.

The girl looks horrified at what she has just said. She is barely fourteen. But yet again, you are too. You have never called anyone ugly to their faces. You keep those kinds of thoughts to yourself.

“She is young, milady.” The older maid, the one that is supposed to supervise her, says. She smooths your hair back, trying to fix it. Her touch gets more and more desperate the more she tries. Your hair will simply not obey. The younger one has put so much product on your hair, it looks greasy and unwashed.

You stare at your features in the mirror. The lighter skin, the shock of unruly hair, not quite a wave, not quite a coil, but rather something in the middle. Bad hair, your previous maids called it. You wonder why you bothered trying with maids again.

It is your cousin’s wedding. A lovely young woman, with beautiful dark hair that you bet never reacts this way.

“I am sorry, milady.” The younger maid offers.

Your eyes are still fixated on your mirror. You wonder if your mother ever has these troubles too. With her sleek hair, and foreign features, you doubt anyone dares call her ugly. She may not have a title, as you do, but she was once regarded as the most beautiful woman in Lys.

But you. Oh, you. With your too wide nose, but too upturned to be a dornish one. With your high cheekbones in a short face. With dark eyelashes, purple eyes, and hair that is not quite right.

It screams outsider. It screams, not here, not there. Not a famed beauty in Lys, not quite the Sword of the Morning.

“Get out.” You say, to the serving girl. “Get out, both of you.”

You need to wash your hair three times for all the product to come out. You are late to the wedding.

The serving girl is relocated to the kitchens, where no one needs to talk to her. The older one is sent to tend to your father. You pass her sometimes, in the hallways of Starfall, and wonder if she is thinking your hair is ugly too.

You wonder the same thing on the day your fate changes. You are getting dressed when you see her, an ill omen in the middle of Starfall. Prince Qoren has summoned all the unwed noble ladies of Dorne to Sunspear, wishing to announce something. You think it can’t be anything good, considering he has refused to use a royal proclamation to do so.

The travel to Sunspear is taxing. You travel to the capital accompanied by your mother, a day before the actual meeting is set to take place. It allows the two of you to spend the night in a manse before having to meet the royal family.

She doesn’t know how to fix your hair. Your mother’s hair is pale silver, easy to manage and twist in the ways women up north prefer. She had tried hard to tame yours as a child, spraying it with water and stretching the curls with a brush so it laid flat. It never seemed to work as it did in hers.

You pin your hair up, a clip made of pearls and amethysts keeping it up. You do not have the same texture most women here have, that ensures gorgeous volume, so you play to your strengths, showcasing the deep color you have and using it as a backdrop for gorgeous accessories.

Your dress is chosen with great care. A deep lavender, with a tasteful cleavage, held at your shoulders by twin brooches of falling stars. Not even hearing your mother say you look beautiful eases your anxiety. You had seen her, the servant. She only appeared in your life when something was about to happen.

You are not the superstitious kind, but when you stand in a line in front of Prince Qoren’s throne with all the noble maidens of Dorne, you know you were right. That woman was a bad omen.

Prince Qoren smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I am glad all of you chose to accept my invitation.” He stands. All the women in the room drop into a curtsy. “When I look at you, I see the best this Kingdom has to offer. It makes me proud. And it makes me confident enough to know I can ask this of you.”

You tense. Whatever he is going to ask is something bad, you can already tell. Some of the more clueless girls in the room look flattered by the delicate compliment, but it is a tactic you know well. You have been mocked enough to know that when someone compliments you so elaborately, a but usually follows. And it tends to be devastating.

His kind demeanor isn’t fooling you. Not in the least.

“We have never coddled our women, as the other Kingdoms do. War is coming for us, and we need strong allies. The Iron Throne offers us their support, but as always, it comes with a price.”

War. Of course it comes down to it. You have heard your parents whispering about it when they think you cannot hear. How Prince Qoren is thinking of sending his troops, instead of his money. How he expects your brother or father to lead them, sometimes against the Triarchy, sometimes against the Iron Throne.

It seems he has made his choice. Against the Triarchy. Your heart is seized by the sudden terror of the thought of your father going to war and not coming home. His sword, Prince Qoren called him.

Your house has been Dorne’s sword for decades. Ever since the first Dayne picked up their sword from the heart of a flaming star, you have defended the Kingdom against their enemies. Your very home once burned because of it.

Amongst the tales of flaming swords and fallen stars, you had never thought war would touch your home. Your brother was the current wielder of Dawn. Your father the head of your house. They would have to fight.

“A marriage pact. From a daughter of Dorne, to a Targaryen Prince. To bind our kingdoms, to ensure peace in this new alliance we embark. Dorne must remain unbowed, unbent, unbroken. House Martell has no daughters of their own to offer, so we ask one of you to go on our stead. It’s us who will pay your dowry, and you shall always have a home here.”

His words barely register as you brood about the upcoming war. You have heard of the Crabfeeder, and his brutality. You think of your kind, kind brother, and his sweet smile. He is a few years younger than you, untested in battle yet.

Some girls cheer. You look at your mother and notice she has the same stricken look you must be sporting. Some of the other parents talk animatedly between themselves, calculating the potential such a match offers their daughters. None seem to realize what it means.

War. War will come for Dorne, and the situation might turn out so bad, proud Prince Qoren will need the dragons’ help. The once unbowed man is being made to bow so low his forehead is touching the floor.

Prince Qoren raises a hand, quieting the hall.

“I am not asking for volunteers. I simply wished to gaze upon you myself, and decide who will marry Daemon Targaryen.”

Mumbles start again, some girls sounding disgruntled. Others preen and titter, trying to attract the Prince’s gaze. You keep your eyes firmly trained on the wall in front of you.

You would rather not marry this Daemon Targaryen. The politics in the other kingdoms are not your forte, but you have a vague notion of him being the brother to the current King. He must have a dragon, of course. And you think he is the one who has been in the conflict at the Stepstones, so he must be some sort of warrior.

No matter how much of a catch he might be, you wish to stay. If war is truly coming, you cannot bear to think of being separated from your family. Your mother will need you, when your father and brother are called away. And you don’t imagine yourself in a foreign land, waiting for news about them on your own.

Prince Qoren makes his way down the line of maidens. You barely spare him a glance, your mind thousands of miles away. But he pauses in front of you, looking at the shooting stars in your shoulders, the deep lavender of your dress.

“I hear Daemon Targaryen likes his women fair.” He comments. “And you are the fairest of us all.”

You swallow, throat suddenly dry. It takes all of your willpower not to fidget under his gaze. You give him an awkward smile.

Prince Qoren reaches to touch the brooch. His hands are elegant, fingers long and lean. He is about your mother’s age, and wears it just as well.

“Lady Dayne, is it?”

“Yes, my Prince.” You say, meeting his eyes. You may not be a classic dornish beauty, but you were still raised by the most charming woman in Lys. There are hardly any other women with manners as refined as yours, and you know all about the games men in power enjoy playing.

You cannot fawn over him. You cannot show him weakness. Because if you do, you will be common in his eyes, unespecial. It is not about beauty. It never is. That thought has given you great comfort during the years.

“How fitting. My dearest sword will be the one to defend her kingdom.”

Your hands begin to sweat. His choice is predictable. It is the same thing you had been thinking about your father and brother, House Dayne is the sword of Dorne. And swords, even more feminine ones, are only useful when war comes.

It doesn’t make it easier, that you should have expected it. It only makes your chest hurt. You do not dare look at your mother.

Instead, you drop into a curtsy and look at Qoren Martell as if he has made you the happiest woman in the world.

“I will be honored, my Prince.”

He smiles.

“Please, call me Qoren. We are to be family now.”

You look at your mother, insides turning to ice. You wonder how long until he takes you away from her.

In the end, it only takes a month. Qoren had been eager to depart and fix the realm’s issues. You now know plenty about the war in the Stepstones. Apparently, your future husband had secured the victory, giving the killing blow to the leader of the opposing army. But while won, the threat to your Kingdom remains. The Triarchy shall always reform, and not even the death of the Crabfeeder can stop them. Like one of those awful serpents from myth, you cut off its head and two more appear.

Pulling your support as the Triarchy was losing had been a bad move. They blamed Dorne for their defeat, and the Iron Throne thought the dornish were cowardly, only making their choice when it was clear who would lose. To avoid petty revenges and more bloodshed, Dorne needed new allies. And you needed them fast.

“We negotiated a new title for you.” Qoren tells you, as the carriage takes you from the docks and towards the Red Keep. “When you marry, you will become a Princess too, instead of remaining a Lady.”

“That sounds exciting.” You give him a bright smile. It's a very genuine one. Hearing yourself announced in such a manner would please you. “It will be strange, of course, changing it.”

“Nonsense.” Qoren laughs. “Only the best for my daughter.”

You falter, and decide to peer out of the window to hide your expression from him. You do not want him to think you are ungrateful.

The night is awfully cold, but you barely feel it. You are dressed in a purple velvet dress, still amazed by the material. You had never worn something so expensive, or made of such a warm fabric. It has the traditional dornish cut, with a plunging cleavage, but you find the added long sleeves fascinating.

The royal family had spared no expense in preparing your trousseau. As a daughter of House Martell, only the best would do. Obviously, all in their colors. This purple velvet gown was one of the few purple items you had been allowed to bring. It saddened you, having to forsake the color. You had always felt pretty in purple, since it matched your eyes.

You weren’t too sure how you felt about everything. Being sent to protect your kingdom and, by extension, your family from war was a great thing. But you were also being asked to leave your identity behind.

Never having left Dorne before, the journey had excited you, but also made you feel acutely lonely. And the thought of having to let behind your family, your colors, and even your name, only served to make you feel worse.

Your father would not be the one giving you away during your wedding, nor would your maiden cloak be the one of House Dayne. Instead, you would wear the sun and spear of House Martell.

But at this moment, as Qoren gets out of the carriage and extends you a hand, you are a Dayne. The purple dress acts a beacon, attracting the gaze of every servant in the vicinity. You stand tall, a star pendant hanging between your breasts.

You will enter decked on your colors. You will greet your future husband as you are, dressed in royal purple. Be a Dayne one last time, before war takes even that from you.

You breathe in and out, the polluted night sky so different from the beautiful stars in Dorne. This is it, you think, a chance to start over. To be whoever you wish to be. These people do not know what a dornishwoman should look like, or how she should behave. They do not know your hair is odd, and so are your eyes. They will only know what you want them to know.

“Go change, my sword. Your maids have selected a dress.” Qoren places his hand between your shoulder blades, pushing you towards the Red Keep. Your smile falls. For a second, you had thought you could attend the feast as you were, draped in your familiar purple and silver. “Make us all proud.”

You should have known better. But it is no matter now. A new life awaits you. Not even Qoren can sour your mood. You square your shoulders and smile.

So focused you are on your inner motivational speech, you do not notice the man watching you, his features covered by a black hood.

The day of your marriage, Daemon presents you with a beautiful pearl necklace. It is made of the purest pearls, with the biggest one you have ever seen right in the middle. It is bigger than the fingertip of your thumb, a perfect circle, roughly the size of a gold dragon.

“My cousin helped me commission this.” He says, during the wedding feast. He presents it to you in a small box, insides lined with velvet. As you reach for it, Daemon closes it, nearly catching your fingers with it. You laugh, startled. He grins at you. “Ah, I want to help you put it on.”

Your fingers fiddle with the simple silver chain you wear, star pendant hanging between your breasts. The hesitation must show on your face because Qoren, at your side, answers for you.

“She is honored, I am sure. Such a gorgeous jewel, to sit in the neck of the greatest beauty Dorne has to offer.”

You smile, trying not to let the sudden flare up of bad memories the words bring you. You remember a young girl, calling your hair ugly. Your grandmother’s face, sneering as you passed her in the hallways. Half-breed, she says, after having too much wine. Not quite right.

The subtle, more hidden, cruelties of girlhood that made your heart ache. When you did not make the list of the most beautiful girls some page was making. How much of a late bloomer you were, by dornish standards. How you had to wait so long for your first kiss, when it seemed like all the other girls were having them already.

Will this be all your life will ever be? Looking for the poison dripping from each word? Doubting every compliment?

You give Daemon what you hope is a seductive look, from beneath dark lashes. You are not good at seduction, having been an observer most of your life. But you are good at pretending.

It has worked, so far. Your arrival, on Qoren’s arm and with an honor guard fit for a Queen, had made people look at you differently. Men, specially, look at you as something exotic. They whisper about your Lyseni mother, and the tricks you must know how to perform. It fills you with dread because once again your looks set you apart, and you don’t quite feel like a person. You had hoped things would be different here.

And they are. Their attention is different, but it’s still wrong and you don’t quite believe them. They only want you because of the novelty, because of rumors about dornishwomen, about how your mother trapped your father. Not because you are beautiful or desirable. It’s sickening.

“Come, husband. Take my necklace off.” And Daemon obeys you, coming to stand behind you. Before he can begin to fumble with your hair, you reach for your hair on your own and lift it to expose your nape. You twist it into a pretend up do, holding it up with your hand.

The gesture is as languid as you can make it, highlighting the curve of your arm, and the elegance of your movements. The cold air hits your neck, making the hairs there stand up.

You both feel and hear Daemon’s sigh. He blows a soft puff of air against your hair, the noise very loud in the small table that seats only Qoren, Daemon, and you. The Queen has already retired, her sickly husband in tow. The Princess and her husband are dancing merrily between the tables.

When you had met Daemon, your first impression of him had been that he was very Valyrian looking and surprisingly whole for someone fresh out of war. And then, he had looked at Princess Rhaenyra and you had understood what Qoren meant when he said he liked his women fair.

Your stomach had turned, back then. Valyrian indeed. Rhaenyra was all milk white skin, light lashes and soft features. You couldn’t compete, you had thought. But then, you had noticed how his eyes followed little Laena Velaryon and you had known there was a chance for you to succeed too. It wasn’t skin color, but Valyrian heritage.

You have been trying to seduce him, with various degrees of success. The attention men pay you is helping you, and so are your purple eyes. You hope tonight goes well. You think you have just about enough Lyseni blood in you to keep him hooked.

His hands gently unclasp your pendant. He pockets it, you think. A memento or because he intends to give it back to you? You feel as his fingers whisper against your collarbones, and this time it’s you who sighs.

You are dramatic about it. Your lips part, as if about to be kissed. Your head tilts back.

“Beautiful.” Daemon whispers, in your ear. He kisses the shell of it.

“It is a gorgeous necklace.” You reply, feeling your face heating up. You feel drunk already, and you have not drank a single goblet of wine yet.

“No. You.” And the kiss against your ear becomes open-mouthed, his heavy breath filling your hearing. His hips brush against the backrest of the chair, searching for closeness. This is something that cannot be faked, you think. Not this kind of desire.

He wants you. He wants you, and you only wish to close your eyes and let him take you right here at this table. You are no blushing maiden, for sure, but you still are new to intimacy. Too many hang-ups about your body and not quite pleasing attempts have not contributed to building a vast knowledge of it. The fact that he wants you so badly makes you wild.

“I think that is my cue.” Qoren says, breaking you out of your stupor. He drains his cup, clearly in preparation for leaving. You had never felt such a connection with someone, not even in Dorne, where pleasure was loud and open. You press your hands to your face, ashamed of having forgotten he was there. Daemon simply chuckles.

“You don’t have…”

“Dearest sword.” He says, as he plants a kiss to your forehead. “You are as tempting as your husband is selfish. He doesn’t seem in the mood to share you.”

“I am not.” Daemon agrees, squeezing your shoulder. He exchanges a look with Qoren over your head. You can only see Qoren’s answering smirk.

“I think I should call for the mummers early.”

You and Daemon slip away as a company of puppet masters from Dorne make their grand entrance, throwing colorful powders in the air.

Later that night, as he sleeps in your shared rooms, you slip on a robe and stand in front of the mirror. Daemon has a massive one, right at the foot of the bed. Mirrors have always scared you, and sleeping so comfortably as he does with one reflecting him is unfathomable. You only intend to cover it.

Mirrors are supposed to be portals to other worlds, your mother used to say. The thought is stuck in your head, so you have grabbed a linen and are ready to place it over it when something catches your attention.

Your reflection. She is glowing, barefoot and in a simple robe, but still wearing the necklace your husband has given you. It should look gauche. It should look too much. But somehow, the necklace looks just right in your neck. You remember Daemon’s eyes, filled with desire when you had bared your neck to him. The sensual way he had touched you tonight, cradling you in his arms, rolling around in his bed. The necklace on the nightstand.

You look at the way the pearls light up your face. For the first time, you feel beautiful.

You make your first mistake a few days after.

It’s the first day of the week, and the Queen has asked you to have tea with her. You go, happily. After Qoren’s and the guards left, you began to feel lonely. There is not much to do here, either. Most of your usual entertainments are considered too sinful or crass. You can not even go for a walk around the city because they deem it too dangerous.

The meeting with the Queen is sour. She is trying, you can tell, but you still hear the disdain in her voice when she talks about your customs, or your people. She eyes the necklace you wear with distaste.

You get the feeling she buys the tales about you. That you are some dornish beauty, exotic and trained in the arts of seducing men. She comments on your mother, on her luck for marrying up, and you have to remember yourself to bite your tongue.

From what Daemon tells you, she is very lucky herself. Going from Lady to Queen is almost as impressive as going from merchant’s daughter to Lady, and you know which one of them did not need to spread her legs for it, and it’s not her. Not if you judge by her plain face.

You look at her, scandalized and pious as she is, ranting about acceptance of bastards of all things, and you surprise yourself at your own cruelty. You should not have thought that. But you are just so angry…

You take a deep breath and look away, trying to calm down. It is then you notice. In the door of the solar, standing to attention, is a man who looks like you.

He has inky dark hair, and olive skin. His eyes are dark, and he has a light stubble, probably because when you have hair as dark as he does, it is difficult to hide body hair. He wears armor and a white cloak. Kingsguard, you think. Why hasn’t anyone told you there was someone else from Dorne here, too? How could you not know?

Queen Alicent follows your eyes, suddenly noticing you are not paying attention. Your eyes are glued to the knight. She frowns in disapproval.

“That’s Ser Criston Cole. My sworn shield.” She stresses the word my. You grab your teacup and take a sip, to hide your smile. Is the pious Queen in love with her knight? “And a member of the Kingsguard.”

She is reminding you of his vow of celibacy. You almost laugh. If she wasn’t so repressed, she would realize she is the one who wants to jump his bones. The only interest you have in him is the fact that he might become a friend.

“Do your guards always stand inside your rooms?” You ask her, doing your best to sound puzzled. “The King’s guards stand outside his, and so does the sworn shield of the Princess.”

“…” Queen Alicent blushes, and averts her gaze. There are no further invitations to have tea with her.

You spend a lot of time staring at Ser Criston. He never returns your gaze. You seek him at mealtimes, you greet him in the corridors, but he always manages to evade you before you can properly start a conversation.

Daemon notices. He always does. He is finely attuned to you, his perfect wife. His prize after the war, his star. A study in contradictions, brazen and bold one moment, shy the next. He seems to like you even more for it. What he doesn’t seem to like is your sudden fixation on Criston Cole.

“You should stay away from him, star.” Daemon whispers, when he catches you staring at him once more. His voice sounds irritated. Accusing. As if you have done something wrong. It makes you bristle immediately.

“I am doing nothing wrong.”

“No one said you are. But Cole is….” Daemon shakes his head. “It is unwise. That’s all I mean to say.”

“What is unwise?” You scowl. You are glad that the table is long enough that no one else overhears you. Knowing Daemon, things are about to get nasty. He will throw in so many insults, Ser Criston would beat him into a pulp if he heard. No matter how competent your husband is, you still worry. “Trying to talk to him?”

“He is a cunt.” He says, cutting your meat for you as if you were a child. From your place in the dais, you seek him once more. Ser Criston is standing on the entrance of the hall, watching carefully as his Queen dines with the King and the two of you.

As if sensing your gaze, he looks towards you. Then, he quickly averts his eyes.

“I merely wish to speak with him.” You say. “He is like me. Dornish.”

“Ser Crispin will only disappoint you. Both in personality and in prowess.” Daemon warns. He pushes his goblet closer to you. “Here, try this. Arbor gold. How does it compare to the swill you like to drink?”

You take a sip of his goblet. You scrunch up your nose, The wine is cloyingly sweet, lacking the strong notes Dornish Reds always have.

“Ugh.” Your lips pucker up in disgust. Daemon laughs, and steals a kiss from you, licking into your mouth for good measure. But before you can begin to properly enjoy it, Queen Alicent coughs. You push Daemon away, even though you are doing nothing scandalous. “You taste like it too.”

“And you taste of that swill you dornish call wine. Yet, I am not complaining.” He takes a sip of his goblet.

“Are you jealous of him?” You ask, suddenly. You have heard about the rivalry between the two of them. Everyone knew of how Cole had obtained his position. He had been a simple knight, until Daemon had lost to him during a tourney. The act had caught Princess Rhaenyra’s attention, and secured him a white cloak. “Ser Criston?”

The thought of Daemon thinking you want to invite Cole to your bed is enough to amuse you. While in Dorne, paramours are more common than here, you are finding monogamy pleasant. You had never been much for sex without love, after all. Only one taste had been enough to satiate your curiosity.

“You shouldn’t toy with fire.” He growls, perhaps confusing your amusement with a deliberate attempt to tease him. It only makes your smile widen.

“Did you know…?” You begin, with an airy tone. Daemon sets down his cutlery. He turns to look at you, licking his lips. “My ancestor, Ser Joffrey Dayne, crossed paths with Queen Visenya. She burned Starfall, after he attacked Oldtown.”

“House Targaryen has always defended the Highcunts, it seems.” Daemon’s brows furrow together. It is no surprise he knows about it. One of the things that have bonded the two of you together is the fact that both of you are obsessed with family history. What he doesn’t know is why you are referencing it now.

You smile. One of your hands goes to toy with the necklace he has given you and that has become your constant accessory, bringing attention to your neck. It is a deliberate move. You intend to be ravished tonight

“I do not fear fire. We Daynes got Dawn from the heart of a falling star. “

Daemon kisses your temple.

“Oh? And I cannot wait to see you burn.” And he is pulling you to your feet, and you are slipping outside with a hurried curtsy.

Despite Daemon’s warnings, you still decide to approach Criston Cole. It takes you almost a week to build up the courage to do it, and another more to mention it to Daemon.

You do not want him to feel blindsided, so you include him in your planning. It is only when he shows up at the Sept that you realize Daemon intends to go with you.

Even the Septon pauses when he sees the two of you enter the Sept. Considering the court thinks you a temptress, and him a rogue, you are not surprised.

You are not particularly pious. While you had been educated on the Faith of the Seven, Dorne practiced a much diluted version. You had not attended a service in quite some time, but you try to focus on it to keep your nervousness at bay.

The plan is to intercept Ser Criston when the service ends. Daemon is under strict instruction to remain sitting, as to not unnerve the other man. But of course, things do not go according to plan.

As soon as the Septon gives his last blessing, you sprung up and step closer to the knight.

“Ser Criston, a word?” You ask him, your voice soft and nonthreatening. It is not as if you want to impose your presence on him, but you are unsure of why he flees rooms when he sees you. Perhaps he is shy, or perhaps you have offended him, but you will never know if he doesn’t speak to you.

“Do not talk to me!” He snarls, getting up from the bench. You try to reach for his arm, but Cole is quicker than you, grabbing your wrist tightly. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Daemon getting up from the bench where he was waiting for you.

“Ser… I only wished you to invite you to have tea with me.”

“I will not get into your bed, Lady Targaryen.” The man snarls at you. “Perhaps it is allowed in Dorne, but I assure you, here we do things differently than your people. Propositioning a man is…”

“I am not propositioning you!” You say, hotly. The words he is spewing at you leave you bewildered. You have never heard another dornishman speak so. “What do you even mean by that? Your people! You are dornish too.”

“I am not.” But before he can give you an explanation, Daemon is stepping in, and unsheathing his sword. He places his body between Ser Criston and you.

“I would suggest you unhand my wife.” His voice is cold. “Or you will lose the hand.”

“And you! You support her… Her… She should be sent back to Dorne, but she doesn’t even belong there, does she?” And Ser Criston stomps off, clearly unwilling to engage Daemon in what would probably end up as a fight to death.

Daemon looks willing to go after him, but you make a pitiful noise that is a cross between a sob and a whine. The rejection hurt more than usual, having grown unused to cruelness during your stay on King’s Landing. And the remark about you not belonging in Dorne?

It stung. You had not heard that insult in ages. It made you think of the serving girl, and your grandmother muttering you had bad hair, of your odd little features and strange coloring. Not quite Andal, not quite Rhoynar, not quite Lyseni.

Ser Criston looked like you. Of everyone, you would have expected him to understand. To see you.

You had only wanted a reminder of home. Careful with what you wish for, indeed. Your eyes feel suspiciously wet.

“Oh, that cunt. I’ll cut off his dick and feed him to Caraxes…” Daemon mutters, a thunderous look in his purple eyes. He then presses his forehead to yours, giving you an impish grin. “Not that it would be much food, would it? Like a worm, I bet.”

It makes you laugh, despite yourself.

“There you are.” Daemon smiles, brushing your tears away. “Come. I need you to see something.”

He takes your hand and leads you towards your shared rooms. You frown, slightly. Does he have some sort of present to give you? It’s unusual to be going there so early in the morning.

When Daemon opens the door, a maid is still sweeping the room. He barely spares her a glance, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. The girl looks disgruntled. You offer her a silver dragon for her troubles as she leaves, noticeably cheering her up.

The bed is freshly made, and the room smells of lavender. Outside the windows, the birds chirp. You see nothing unusual.

“What was I supposed to see? You interrupting the maid? Poor girl.” You mutter, kicking off your shoes. “Do try to make her life easier.”

But he doesn’t answer, choosing instead to pull out the chair in your vanity. It is a rarity, the whole set a gift from Qoren to furnish your new rooms. It has a beautiful mirror attached that reflects you from the waist up when you sit in front of it.

“Come.” Daemon says, simply. So you do. You know better by now than to disagree with him when he is in one of his moods.

You sit in the chair, dutifully. Your reflection looks a fright, so you try to avoid looking at yourself too much. He stands behind you, hands caressing your shoulders lighty, prompting you to look up.

“I have noticed.” Daemon starts, meeting your eyes in the mirror. “That you are always self-conscious when I look at you for too long. Or when I take your clothes off.”

You avert your eyes. It is true. You feel strange when Daemon looks at your body. The awe he holds in his gaze is both exciting and humbling. You never feel worthy of such worship.

“I would say we are past the maiden’s modesty.” He chuckles. “We made sure of that, didn’t we?”

“I…”

Daemon begins to unlace your gown. The presence of the mirror is making you self-conscious, so you reach for your bodice, and hold it up with one hand.

He pauses. He studies your expression, before dropping a kiss to your curls.

“Don’t cover yourself, wife. I love looking at you.”

You take a deep breath. You want to tell him the truth, for once. Daemon has started to suspect that despite how much you enjoy intercourse with him, something is wrong with your self-esteem. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have staged this intervention.

“I just don’t like how I look much.” You keep your voice low. Shame begins to freeze you up, making you tense and unable to speak. Your heart beats loudly in your ears.

“Madness.” Daemon laughs. He kisses you, slow and sweet. His lips move tenderly against yours, coaxing you out of your shell. You wonder how such an impatient man can have such infinite patience when it comes to you.

The thought makes you melt. Daemon smiles against your mouth and pulls back. He comes back to standing behind you.

“Look.” He orders. And you, helpless under his spell, cannot disobey.

You look at your reflection. Your hair is in even more disarray than before. Your lips are red and kiss swollen. And your eyes… You look dazed.

“We are just getting started.” Daemon promises, his hand coming to caress your collarbones. This time, when he pulls down the bodice, you do not fight it.

He kisses your head.

“You asked me once, if I was jealous.” You turn towards him, confused at the sudden change of topic. Daemon shushes you, squeezing the back of your neck as if you were a misbehaving pup. You look at yourself again, knowing there is no point in disobeying. Daemon always gets his way.

“I am jealous.” His voice is firm. He leans in, and kisses the top of your hair. His talented, skilled hands, take the pins off from it, so it frames your face once more. You fight the urge to fix it, to give more volume to your roots. You don’t like how limp it falls sometimes. Daemon presses a kiss to your earlobe, and whispers. “Of the very breeze against your hair.

Your eyes widen. You do not dare take them away from the mirror. On it, you watch as he presses a kiss behind your ear, as he mouths at your neck, just barely reaching the necklace that sits there.

“Of the pearls you wear, for holding on to your neck. “ You feel his words against your skin, making you shiver. He wraps it around one of his fingers, the pearls tensing just so to feel more restrictive against your neck.

Your lips part in a sigh. The tension of the pearls makes you think of a collar, and his deft handling of them a leash. Ownership.

“Sometimes, when I see you around court, I imagine this.” He tugs the pearls upwards, placing them between your lips. You watch, in a daze, as your reflection parts her lips more, welcoming him in.

He places the biggest pearl between your teeth. You find yourself mesmerized by this stranger you are watching, being turned into an artwork in front of your very eyes.

“You are exquisite.” Daemon gives the pearls a tug, pulling them slightly up. They catch on your hair, contrasting beautifully with the dark curls. There is something haunting about the image, something that tugs at you and makes you see yourself from his eyes.

Like this, with him calling you exquisite, pearls adorning your face and hair, you can almost believe it.

“Do you know what I think of more, when I see these pearls?” Daemon chuckles. It’s a dark, masculine sound. You are unable to form a word. “Hm. Perhaps I should show you.”

He finishes pulling the necklace from you. Over your head and out they go. Suddenly able to speak, you find yourself at a loss for words.

Daemon kneels behind you. He meets your eyes in the mirror, again.

“I am jealous of the moon, and the sky, and this damn mirror even.” It sounds like nonsense. It should sound like nonsense, but somehow, it is disarming, this newfound honesty of his. The one where he stumbles over words in his eagerness, in his need to call you beautiful, to call you his. “Because you want to gaze at them. Your eyes should be only for me.”

He cradles your face in his palm, forcing you to keep eye contact with your reflection. His thumb brushes over your lips. You just stare.

“And even of the wine you drink, when you wet your lips.”

You kiss his thumb. Your eyes sting. This is quickly turning unbearable.

“Daemon… Please…”

“Oh, but your eyes.” He praises, sounding almost drunk. He begins to kiss a path down your collarbones and towards your breasts. “I love your eyes. They are maddening to me.”

He continues to kiss your skin, inhaling deeply. The closer he gets to your breasts, the hungrier he becomes. Daemon is gorging himself on you, biting and nipping at your bosom, sucking at your nipples until you cannot help the moans coming out from your mouth.

Liquid, molten pleasure, begins accumulating at the base of your spine. Warming up your body, making you sweat with the exertion of keeping still.

“You are so beautiful, I fear anyone will want to steal you away.” Daemon whispers, grabbing your hips in an almost bruising grip. “And I fear if I don’t hold tight, it will be my fault.”

You look at yourself. At the half lidded eyes, the softness of your chest. At the attitude of surrender, as your thighs part, and you feel him bury his nose on the roses of your mound. As he inhales, trying to memorize your touch, your smell, your sounds. As he decides to drink from you, making your face go slack, brows pinched together, eyes glassy and absent.

Beautiful, you think, as you reach your peak with a scream so loud you fear the rest of the Red Keep might have heard.

Daemon laughs, doing his best attempt to suck a bruise on your thigh.

“And you haven’t even seen what I plan on doing with the pearls.”

[fromtheseventhhell]

Arya being masculinized, adultified, and having her trauma ignored because people think she's "too strong" to be a victim is such a core experience for young girls of color

[mydearviserra]

hey! I saw that you want some kinks for hotd and got, and so can I get Dacryphilia with Daemon x poc fem reader (or ambiguous appearance if it's easier for you) where he makes her feel so, so, so good that she has no other reaction left but to cry, please?

HII! Yay I’m so happy you ask, of course I’ll do it! To be a bit easier I’d write it with ambiguous appearance, though I’ll try my best!

I’ll probably fixate on this tonight SO ILL WRITE IT SOON. I’ll write the story in here

Warning:Darcyphilla, breeding kink, overstimulation. P n v, fingering, oral

I tried my best! Please leave any feedback I’d love to improve for my readers!

As Daemon and his wife retreated to the privacy of their chambers, the stress and turmoil of the day began to melt away. He turned to face you, his violet eyes drinking in your beauty, the way your had your hair braided and the dress that hugged perfectly, left a hunger stirring within him. Unable to resist, he reached out and gently caressed your cheek, tilting your chin up to meet his intense gaze.

"You've had a long day, my dear," Daemon murmured, his husky voice sending shivers down her spine. "Let me take care of you now."

He leaned in, capturing your lips in a searing kiss that demanded a response. His hands roamed your curves, mapping out the tantalizing lines of your body through the fabric of the gown. The kiss deepened, growing more urgent and passionate by the second.

Deft fingers made quick work of the fastenings of your dress, baring more of your soft skin to his greedy touch. Your giggle left unheard as the bit onto your lip. You felt your cheeks heat up as The garment slipped off her shoulders and pooled at your feet, leaving you clad in only a thin shift. Daemon broke the kiss to trail his lips down the column of her throat, his breath hot against your racing pulse.

"Exquisite," he rasped, pushing the flimsy shift off her body to reveal your was bare beneath. "As beautiful as I remember."

“Let me help you my husband” you muttered, you bit onto your lip as he lifted up to meet your gaze. Your hands meet to his shirt, taking off every button. Then lifting off the shirt you leaned towards his ear and whispered “don’t hold back” you nibble on the shell of his ear, he shuttered against you with a groan

Lifting your legs around his waist he rushed towards the bed, they tumbled onto the plush mattress together. Daemon settled his weight over you , his muscular form pinning you the bed as he claimed your mouth once more.

Lost in a haze of desire, they tangled in the sheets, their naked bodies pressing against each other. Daemon's touch left a trail of fire in its wake, stoking the flames of your arousal higher and higher. He knew every way to touch your cunt, every secret spot that would make you gasp and writhe beneath him.

"Mine," he growled against your skin, his voice rough with want. "All mine."

Daemon took his time, savoring every inch of his wife's newly exposed skin. His lips blazed a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses down the elegant column of your neck, across her collarbone, and lower still. He paused to lave attention on the sensitive peaks of your breasts, swirling his tongue around each nipple until they pebbled and strained beneath his ministrations.

He could feel your pulse racing, your breath coming in increasingly shallow gasps as he map out your body with lips and tongue and teeth. The taste of you was intoxicating, the scent of your arousal perfuming the air. It exquisite, a feast for the senses, and Daemon was determined to show you the depths of his appreciation.

He settled himself between your thighs, pushing your legs up and over his broad shoulders. The sight of your glistening folds, swollen and ready, made his painfully hard cock throb against the sheets. But he would make you scream his name first before he took his own pleasure.

"Beautiful," Daemon breathed against your slick flesh. "So beautiful, so perfect."

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your sensitive flesh, and placed a single, open-mouthed kiss just above your aching clit. The taste of your arousal, combined with the feeling of daemon’s lips brushing against your most intimate place, made you gasp and shudder beneath him. Her fingers tangled in his white locks, urging him closer, silently begging him to give you the pleasure you so desperately craved.

Daemon chuckled darkly at your eager response, the sound vibrating against your slick, heated skin. "Patience, my love," he murmured, his words a wicked promise. "I will give you the release you seek, but first, I intend to savor every moment of tasting your delectable cunt ."

With that, daemon delved forward, his tongue parting your glistening folds in one long, slow lick. He groaned in appreciation at the ambrosial flavor of her essence, his eyes fluttering closed as he lapped at your dripping cunt like a man starved. He could feel your walls fluttering and clenching around his invading muscle, your body responding instinctively to his touch.

"Mmm, seven hells" daemon growled, his voice muffled against your slick flesh.

He sealed his lips around your clit, suckling the sensitive bundle of nerves as his tongue flicked and circled, flicking the sensitive bundle of nerves with the tip of his tongue. At the same time, he pushed two long fingers deep inside your tight heat, curling them just so to hit that secret spot that made her see stars.

He could hear your cries of pleasure, the way you gasped his name like a prayer. He worked harder, faster, his fingers pumping in and out of your clenching channel as his tongue circled your clit.

He could feel her climbing higher and higher, her body tensing as she raced towards her peak. He wanted to taste her release, to feel her come undone against his mouth. He wanted to hear her scream his name as she shattered.

Your back arched off the bed, your fingers curling tighter in Daemon's silvery hair as the intense pleasure built to a crescendo. "Ahhh, Daemon!" she cried out, her voice echoing off the chamber walls. "Yes, yes, don't stop! Ohhh god, your mouth feels so good!"

Her hips bucked and writhed against his face, grinding her dripping sex against his lips and tongue as he devoured her. The obscene sounds of his suckling and slurping filled the room, punctuated by your escalating moans and whimpers.

He doubled his efforts, sucking her clit hard as he pumped his fingers faster, curling them just right to rub that spongey spot inside her that made her see stars.

"Yes, yes, YES!" You keened, your head thrashing against the pillow as your climax built to a peak. "I'm...I'm going to...AHHHH!"

Your scream of ecstasy pierced the air as you came undone, your cunt clenching vice-tight around Daemon's invading fingers as she gushed her release. Wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you, your body shaking and shuddering as Daemon worked her through it. Daemon Growling in approval against your slick flesh, daemon plunged his tongue deep into her clenching channel, fucking you with the slick, muscular invasion. At the same time, he brought a hand up to join his mouth, his fingers finding your aching clit and rubbing the sensitive nub in tight, rapid circles. He could feel you throbbing and pulsing against his fingertips.

With a final, hard suck on your clit and a particularly deep thrust of his tongue, daemon sent you hurtling over the edge. He could feel your cunt clamping down around his invading muscle, could hear you scream of his name echoing off the chamber walls as your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave. Your juices flooded his mouth and chin, and he drank down your release greedily, relishing the way your essence coated his tongue

Daemon surfaced from between your thighs, his chin and mouth glistening with your essence. He crawled up your quivering body, capturing your lips in a searing, demanding kiss. You could taste yourself on his lips and tongue, the musky flavor of your pleasure mingling with the lingering sweetness of daemon 's own mouth. You moaned into the kiss, your arms coming up to wind around his neck as you returned the passion with equal fervor.

Not allowing you a moment to catch your breath or come down from the heights of your climax, daemon reached down and roughly tugged his pants off his throbbing, aching cock. It sprang free, hard and heavy and pulsing with need. He settled himself between your spread thighs, the head of his member nudging against your slick, dripping entrance.

Daemon broke the kiss to gaze down at you with eyes that burned with lust and a hunger for more. "I’m not letting you rest now " he growled, his voice a deep, approving rumble. “You’re going to take it like a good fucking girl”

With that, daemon thrust his hips forward, burying his thick, hard cock deep into your still fluttering cunt in one powerful stroke. He groaned at the exquisite feeling of your tight, wet heat enveloping him, your walls stretching to accommodate his impressive girth. You cried out, your back arching off the bed as daemon hilted inside you, his heavy balls nestling against the curve of your ass.

"Oh, gods, my love!" You gasped, your nails digging into daemon shoulders as you adjusted to the sudden, intense intrusion. "P-please I cant"

Daemon began to move, withdrawing until just the tip of his member remained inside you, before slamming back in, burying himself to the hilt once more. He set a hard, driving rhythm. The obscene sound of flesh slapping against flesh filled the room, mingling with their mutual moans and cries of rapture.

"No, no, no," you whimpered, trying to push weakly at his shoulders. "Too much, Daemon! I can't...I can't take anymore!"

"Nonsense," Daemon growled, easily overpowering her feeble attempts to push him away. "You can take everything I give you, and more. I'm going to make you come on my cock until you forget your own name."

Your body was overwhelmed by the intense sensation of daemon 's thick cock pounding into you, stretching your walls beyond what she thought possible. Each powerful thrust sent shockwaves of pleasure-pain radiating through you, the overstimulation almost too much for you to bear. Your cunt was still sensitive from your previous climax, and the added stimulation of daemon's relentless fucking pushed you to the brink of overstimulation.

You let out a strangled cry, your body bowing off the bed as jolts of overstimulated pleasure ripped through her. "AH! Daemon, please! It's too...too intense!"

"D-Daemon...I can't...I can't believe...ahh...you're going to be the d-death of me..."you babbled, Your body trembled and jerked with the aftershocks, your cunt still fluttering around Daemon's fingers as he slowly pumped them in and out, drawing out her pleasure.

Her nails raked down daemons back, leaving red lines in their wake as she clung to him, desperate for an anchor in the storm of sensation. tears of overwhelming sensation leaking from the corners of your eyes, spilling down your cheeks as the overwhelming pleasure bordered on agonizing. "Don't stop" you gasped out between ragged moans and cries. "Please don't stop" The tears flowed freely now, dripping down onto the pillow beneath her head.

Daemon growled in approval, the sight of your tears only spurring on his lust and desire. He loved seeing you like this a crying mess lost in a haze of overstimulation, your body pushed to its limits by his relentless fucking. He leaned down to capture a tear on his tongue, lapping at the salty essence as it rolled down your cheek. The taste of your tears, combined with the exquisite feeling of your tight, fluttering cunt gripping his cock like a vice, only inflamed daemon passion.

"That's it, my dear," daemon purred darkly, his hips never faltering in their punishing rhythm. "Cry for me, let me feel your tears on your skin as I take you, claim you, fill you with my seed. I want to see you shatter, want to feel your pleasure pushing you to the brink of madness."

Your was lost, drowning in a sea of sensation that threatened to consume you entirely. Each brutal thrust of daemon’s hips, each slam of his cock into your aching, overstimulated core, pushed you further towards the precipice of something terrifying and incredible. Your body was no longer your own, but a playground for daemon

's pleasure

You felt like you was drowning, consumed by a maelstrom of sensation that threatened to tear you apart at the seams. Daemon relentless thrusts, the feeling of his thick cock stretching you impossibly wide, the obscene sounds of flesh slapping against flesh, and the burning sting of your own tears all combined to push you to the very precipice of madness.

"Daemon!" You screamed, your voice raw and ragged with the force of her pleasure. "Oh gods, Tywin, it's too much! I can't... I can't take anymore." But even as you sobbed out the words, you found yourself arching into daemons 's thrusts, meeting him halfway as he pounded into you. Your nails raked down his back, leaving angry red welts in their wake as you clung to him, desperate to anchor yourself against the tempest of sensation.

“No- you can take it pretty girl almost there- almost there baby” he gasped out, his hands on the side of your head. He raised a hand just enough to push the hair away from your face.

Then rested his forehead against yours, his eyes fluttered open. He was utterly mesmerized by your features. So beautiful, the way your eyes glimmered against the candlelight and how everything about you from head to toe you made the Targeryen features a joke. At this moment daemon felt how he did on his wedding night, like a lovesick boy.

The pressure building in your core reached a fever pitch, your impending climax threatening to engulf you at any moment. You could feel daemons's pelvis grinding against yours clit with each thrust, the added stimulation pushing you closer and closer to the edge. Tears flowed freely down your face, dripping onto the sweat-slicked sheets beneath as you gazed up at daemon with hazy, adoring eyes.

"I... I'm so close," you gasped out between hiccuping sobs and desperate moans. "Please, my love., please don't stop. I need... I need to come. I need you to fill me, to make me yours." Your body trembled and quaked, her walls fluttering wildly around daemon's pistoning cock. "I'm yours, all yours. I give myself to you, completely and utterly. Please, daemon, let me come!"

You could feel the first flutters of your release building, your cunt clenching and unclenching around daemons thick length. You was teetering on the precipice, ready to come undone at the slightest provocation. The tears flowed freely down your face now, your cries of ecstasy punctuated by choked sobs of pleasure. Your completely at daemons's mercy, ready to shatter into a million glittering pieces if he commanded it.

Daemon could feel the power surging through him as he witnessed your complete and utter surrender to the pleasure he was inflicting upon you. . The sight of your tears, the sound of your desperate, sobbing pleas, the way your body trembled and shook beneath his as he drove into you again and again - it was the headiest aphrodisiac imaginable. His ego swelled with the knowledge that he could reduce this strong, proud woman to a babbling, pleading mess with his cock alone.

"Look at you," daemon purred, his voice a deep, rumbling growl of dark satisfaction. "Tears streaming down your face as you beg so sweetly for release. It's exquisite." He leaned down, his tongue lapping at the salty trails of your tears, tasting your anguished bliss. Daemon took his time, meticulously wiping away each glistening tear with the flat of his tongue, savoring the flavor of his lover's overwhelmed ecstasy.

"I will fill you," he promised darkly, punctuating his words with a particularly sharp thrust of his hips, grinding his pelvis against your aching clit. "I will flood your womb with my seed until it takes root" daemon could feel his own climax building, his heavy balls tightening as his release approached. But he held back, determined to push you over the edge first, to hear your scream his name as you shattered around his cock.

"That's it, my dear," daemon encouraged, his voice a low, approving rumble. "Let go, my love. Come undone for me, come screaming my name as I claim you, as I make you mine." He reached down between their sweat-slicked bodies, his fingers finding your clit. He rubbed the sensitive nub in tight, merciless circles, pushing you ruthlessly towards her peak.

"Do it, Y/n ," Tywin commanded, his eyes blazing into you with a ferocity that made her tremble. "Come for me now. Scream my name as you shatter, as your pleasure consumes you. Give yourself to me, completely and absolutely. NOW!"

You shattered. With a scream that echoed off the chamber walls, you came undone, her body convulsing violently as the most intense orgasm of your life crashed over you like a tidal wave. "DAEMON!" You screamed, your voice hoarse and raw from the force of you release. "Oh gods, Daemon, yes! I'm coming!"

Your cunt clamped down around daemon pistoning cock like a vice, the walls rippling and spasming as they milked his length for all it was worth. Your back arched clean off the bed, your nails digging into daemons’s shoulders hard enough to draw blood as you clung to him, anchoring herself against the overwhelming pleasure that threatened to sweep you away.

Tears streamed freely down your face, your sobs of ecstasy punctuated by choked, gasping moans as you rode out the waves of your climax. You could feel daemons’s pelvis grinding against her clit with each thrust, the added stimulation pushing you to even greater heights of rapture. Your womb clenched and fluttered, aching to be filled, desperate to be bred.

"Fill me, my love!" You begged, your voice breaking on a particularly sharp cry of pleasure. "Please, I need to feel your seed flooding my womb, marking me, claiming me as yours!"

Your body continued to shake and tremble, your orgasm seeming to go on forever as daemon fucked you through it with single-minded intensity. You could feel every inch of his thick, hard cock stretching you, filling you, pushing you beyond anything you had ever experienced before. The pleasure was almost too much to bear, the ecstasy edging into pain as daemon drove her ruthlessly towards another peak

Daemon slowed his thrusts, feeling your flutter and clench around him as the aftershocks of your intense climax rolled through you. He gazed down at you face, memorizing every exquisite detail, every flush of pleasure and every glistening tear. You was a vision of debauched beauty, your hair splayed out around your head a goddess, your lips kiss-swollen and parted slightly as your panted for breath. The sight of you like this, marked and claimed and utterly satisfied by his cock, sent a surge of masculine pride and possessiveness coursing through daemons’s veins.

With a low, approving growl, daemon rolled to the side, pulling you with him so that you were draped across his chest. He could feel your heart racing, could see the sheen of sweat cooling on your skin as you struggled to catch your breath. Gentling his touch, daemon reached up to cup your face in his large hand, his thumb brushing away the lingering tears from your cheek. He marveled at the way your skin flushed beneath his touch, at the way your eyes fluttered open to meet his gaze with a look of sated, adoring affection.

"Look at you," daemon murmured, his voice a deep, satisfied rumble. "You took me so well, my dear. Took every inch of my cock like you were made for it." He leaned in, pressing a soft, almost tender kiss to your forehead, then another to the tip of your nose, before capturing your lips in a slow, deep kiss that spoke of his approval and his desire. "I've never seen a more beautiful sight than you, coming apart in my arms," he purred against her lips.

Daemon let you catch your breath for a moment, stroking your hair and running his hands along the curve of your back as you trembled and shivered against him. He knew the afterglow of such intense pleasure could leave a person feeling sensitive, almost painfully so. So he took his time, lavishing you with gentle caresses and soft, approving murmurs as he held you close

[gracielikegrapes]

Used heavy ref of Nanna Blondell to doodle Laena; I havent drawn characters in days (only pudgy dragons lol) word vomit in tags

[cosmic-walkers]

Queen of the North -

[jackoshadows]

Jon Snow appearance descriptions from the text of the books with references to Arya, Ned (and Lyanna) because they have the house Stark look and he is often times described as looking similar to them by characters who know of all of them.

Jon's eyes were a grey so dark they seemed almost black, but there was little they did not see. He was of an age with Robb, but they did not look alike. Jon was slender where Robb was muscular, dark where Robb was fair, graceful and quick where his half brother was strong and fast. - Bran, AGoT

Arya took after their lord father. Her hair was a lusterless brown, and her face was long and solemn. - Arya, AGoT

The boy absorbed that all in silence. He had the Stark face if not the name: long, solemn, guarded, a face that gave nothing away. Whoever his mother had been, she had left little of herself in her son. - Tyrion, AGoT

Jon had their father's face, as she did. They were the only ones. Robb and Sansa and Bran and even little Rickon all took after the Tullys, with easy smiles and fire in their hair. - Arya, AGoT

“She might have overlooked a dozen bastards for Ned’s sake, so long as they were out of sight. Jon was never out of sight, and as he grew, he looked more like Ned than any of the trueborn sons she bore him. Somehow, that made it worse.” – Catelyn, AGoT

Her (Arya's) face was dirty, and her tears left pink tracks down her cheeks. – Eddard, AGOT

Sansa could never understand how two sisters, born only two years apart, could be so different. It would have been easier if Arya had been a bastard, like their half brother Jon. She even looked like Jon, with the long face and brown hair of the Starks, and nothing of their lady mother in her face or her coloring. And Jon's mother had been common, or so people whispered. - Sansa, AGoT

"Lyanna might have carried a sword, if my lord father had allowed it. You remind me of her sometimes. You even look like her." - Arya, AGoT

Riding through the rainy night, Ned saw Jon Snow's face in front of him, so like a younger version of his own. - Eddard, AGoT

They felt good. She (Arya) wished she could take off her clothes and swim, gliding through the warm water like an skinny pink otter. Maybe she could swim all the way to Winterfell. – Arya, ACOK

All in black, he was a shadow among shadows, dark of hair, long of face, grey of eye. - Jon, ACoK

A gust of wind sent icy tendrils wending through his long brown hair. - Jon, ASoS

Jon, he'd said, but Jon was gone. It was Lord Snow who faced him now, grey eyes as hard as ice - Sam, AFfC

She stood on the end of the dock, pale and goosefleshed and shivering in the fog. - Arya, AFfC

The flames crackled softly, and in their crackling she heard the whispered name Jon Snow. His long face floated before her, limned in tongues of red and orange, appearing and disappearing again, a shadow half-seen behind a fluttering curtain. Now he was a man, now a wolf, now a man again - Melisandre, ADwD

He looked at her face for a long moment with those cold grey eyes of his. His right hand closed, opened, closed again. "As you wish. Edd, take Ghost back to my chambers." - Melisandre, ADwD

Note: The 'Dark' and 'Fair' comparisons refers to hair/eye colour. As in Jon's dark brown hair and dark grey eyes and Robb's comparatively lighter auburn hair and blue eyes as is commonly used in English literature when describing/comparing white people.

Also Note: The First Men - the OG colonizers of Westeros and ancestors of the Starks - are white. Ygritte, Tormund, Val, Mance etc. are not poc in the books

[brienneevenstar]

over at twitter dany/targ stans are pretending barristan selmy is a better character than jaime instead of just giving in to the triumphs and defeats, the highs and lows of being a jaime enjoyer

[summergildedsongs]

It always saddened me that there's so very little love for the Summer isles in the fandom aside from a few snide remarks about their openess to sexuality with little to no thoughts about their various princesses and princes, orange speculation about their highborn and nobles.

So here's a few moodboards featuring my own oc families just to get the ball rolling, also I will share some recently comssioned fanart of some summer isles ocs!

Family of Princess Sandana Dora, deals mainly in gold, copper, and tin and very involved with trade to and from the Free Cities, however within the Isles themselves they're only a moderate and mid status family and it's mostly because of their willingness to deal with Free Cities while circumventing pirates and talents in metallurgy that gives them any meaningful influence

Family of Princess Tollasa Qhaal, her family is bound less by blood and more by ritual and spirituality. While the many breasted goddess is widely known even in Westeros, Tollasa's family are major patrons of the island's sea gods and goddesses often adorning themselves in shells and sea glass as opposed to the traditional styling of feathered cloaks. They are the sole producers of a unique wine that's been "Moon kissed" and is said to shimmer silver

Family of Princess Zhados Daam, polar opposites to the typical image jovial and warm islander, the Daam work with corpse preparation and the afterlife. They aren't shunned by society per say, but their somber and quiet nature often cause folk to give wide berth. Ironically they're said to be some of the wittiest and humorous of the bunch, if you can get past all the corpse jokes

And lastly (as of now), the family of Prince Sabhodhol Chara, the youngest, had only recently come into power due to the tragic loss of his family. That said, his was and still is among the wealthiest and most influential within the Summer isles because of how much weaving and cloth making is venerated. It was among his ancestors who learned to make bark cloth and spin and weave it till it was softer than satin silk and the ones who first fashioned the iconic feathered capes the Summer Isles are so known for.

[gojuo]

[daensaism]

“Her son was looking down at her, Catelyn realized. Was it war that made him grow so fast, she wondered, or the crown they had put on his head?” — ACOK, Catelyn I

[arabellasleopardcoat]

The Brave (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: A collection of first times with Daemon.

Warnings: Bastard! Reader. Daddy issues. Corruption kink. Innocence kink. Age difference, power imbalance. Poorly translated HV. Angst. Enemies to lovers (Sort of?) Happy ending. Usual warnings for Daemon (Sexual thoughts, mature language, violence)

Requested: Yes! My first after Halloween, life has been crazy.

THE FISHERMEN SAIL too early for your liking. You know it has little to do with their personal preference, and more to do with the tides. It doesn’t mean you are happy about it, though.

Your job is to ensure all your ships are in good condition and ready to transport whatever those men bring home. Your mother had made a small fortune by expanding her father’s fleet, and after her passing, it was your turn to handle it. You preferred to oversee things personally, knowing that only an owner’s touch could ensure the quality of service you prided yourself in.

No one loved these ships more than you. Small and old they were, but they tied you to your mother. You lacked her knowledge, and sometimes, they made you far less money than you hoped for, but you insisted on keeping them. Your siblings had not shown such an interest, choosing other pursuits.

Allyn, much more practical, had preferred to learn the trade of a shipwright. He now worked under Lord Corlys. It embarrassed you to say it, but it was him and not you who was the breadwinner of your family. Some months, if not most, it was far more lucrative than your business with the ships.

Addam worked occasionally as a shipwright too, but he didn’t have a steady source of income. He was far too young to be hired anywhere, lacking the experience most lords wanted from those building their ships. Sometimes, he also helped you.

Today wasn’t one of those days. Otherwise, you would have forced him to come here in your stead. With a grumble, you jumped from the ship to the dock. Everything was as it should, so you had to move to the next one.

The sunrise makes Hull look even more beautiful, the city slowly beginning to rise under Driftmark’s watchful eyes. The white marble and ivory of the castle provide a backdrop for the goldens and pinks that color the scene. It would make you smile, were it not for the fact that the peaceful morning is ruined by every damn bell in the city tolling.

Visitors. Noble ones. By the amount of noise, they are announcing the visit of someone very high ranking.

The splash of cold water against your ankle makes you grumble more. You hated getting your shoes wet. Or your ankles. You fix your hair scarf, worried that the sea breeze will make it come loose.

You shouldn’t have bothered. A harsh gust of wind takes it fully off and nearly sends you caroling into the water. The dock shakes underneath you, the ships and water agitated by the same thing. You scream, as do the rest of the sailors who are near.

As you look up, you see him. A man, with silver hair and a smug look on his face, riding atop a dragon. He is showing off, ducking low, the dragon’s tail dipping in the water before springing back up again. It is what is causing the breeze. You marvel for a second, wondering how such a gigantic beast can be so nimble.

You had never seen a dragon up close before. You are not allowed to go near Driftmark, where the Princess and the Lord and Lady keep theirs.

The few captains and sailors that were on the docks alongside you have fled. But not you. Alone, silver hair in full display, you stand frozen in the same spot you had been before seeing him pass.

The man smiles. He winks at you.

You lower your eyes and do not stop running until you are safe at home.

DAEMON SEES YOU again when he least expects it. He has looked for you in every pleasure house on this island and has not been able to find you. The brave little maiden with silver hair, who had screamed bloody murder but stood her ground on the docks when she saw him approach.

You must be of Valyrian descent. There is no other explanation for your lack of fear. You were young and comely, so he had guessed that you must be a whore. It was what happened to girls who looked like you. Men loved pretending they were either a Princess or the daughter of some lord. And so close to Driftmark? They probably asked you to pretend you were little Laena Velaryon.

Daemon would have so enjoyed to play such a game himself. His future bride was far too young to do little more than court under her parents’ watchful eyes. If he could sneak a bit of a taste in advance, you wouldn’t catch him complaining about it.

When he had agreed to accompany Corlys to oversee the progress being made on the news ships for his fleet, the last thing he expected to encounter was you.

Your laughter was the first thing that caught his attention, a sound so girlish it seemed improper among the men carrying saws and woods for the ships. His head had turned instinctively towards the sound, and it was then that he saw you.

The dress you had on was a plain gray, as it was the headscarf you wore. But Daemon would know that face anywhere. He had sought everywhere for it. You were holding a small basket, next to some shipwright. The man looked older than you, already bald. You were all smiles and animated gestures, seemingly taken by him.

The man tickled your side, and you laughed again. You handed him the basket and kissed him on the cheek.

Daemon seethed. He hated sharing. With whores, it was to be expected, yet it didn’t make it anymore palatable. It was why he enjoyed taking maidenheads so much. Yet, he could ignore it if the woman was pretty or well-trained enough, like he did with Mysaria. To watch a whore with her lover, though, it was intolerable.

Whores were professional liars. You paid them to pretend to be someone they were not. But watching you with a man you truly loved would forever break the fantasy. There was no way he could believe the sweetest lies on your tongue, not when he knew what you looked like when truly in love.

Is it in bad taste to approach you when his future father-in-law is distracted by his sailors? Probably. But he cannot stop himself. Because the only thing Daemon can think of, the only thing that would make him feel better, is to bring you as low as he. Ruin your little fantasy as you had ruined his.

He marches towards where the man and you are, and gently cups your chin in his hand. The sudden interruption startles you, and you try taking a step back, but his sweet hold has turned into Valyrian Steel. There is no escape for little whores.

“I looked for you in the brothel, but you were not there.”

“I… Excuse me?” Your voice is shrill, more angered than panicked. “Do I know you?”

And oh, the nerve on you. The nerve to question him, as if he were just a passing man on the street and not a Prince of House Targaryen. The same nerve that drove you to stand your ground against Caraxes.

Begrudgingly, Daemon has to name the strange feeling taking place in his stomach. Awe. Admiration. You had fire in your belly, and steel on your spine. You were a truer Valyrian than many of his own family members.

They were weak. Soft. You were not. But you were still a mere peasant, and he couldn’t allow you to disrespect him such.

“You should be more careful on how you address your betters.”

You shove him, hard. And Daemon feels his rage bubbling up, and raises a hand to do something he will most likely regret… But before he can strike you, the man you had been smiling at steps in.

“Unhand her.” He says, voice firm. His expression doesn’t waver, the same steel you have mirrored in his brown eyes. Up close, he is much younger than Daemon expected, tall and muscular from what seems like a life of hard work. He tugs you behind him.

“And who are you? The husband? The brothel owner?” Daemon sneers, getting in his face. Your hand comes up in between them, fragile and unadorned. Yet, you hit with strength, palm flat against his chest. Daemon laughs and grabs it between his. You attempt to pull back, but his grip is much firmer. “Ah, cupping a feeling, sweetheart?”

“Daemon.” And really, things were just turning interesting. Why does Corlys have to interrupt at the worst time possible? “Unhand her immediately.”

At his appearance, both you and the boy turn an awful gray shade that matches your dress and headscarf. Fear of their liege, perhaps?

But the boy’s jaw ticks, and your dark eyes lower in a manner that they hadn’t when facing him. Something else is at play here.

“I was just…” Daemon slowly retracts his hand, studying the surrounding faces carefully. You, sullen, the boy enraged. Corlys’ cold as ice. Neither of you speak, yet it is clear you are not strangers.

“I do not care. Unhand her. We do things different in Driftmark.”

And the tone Corlys uses is strange, for a man unbothered by the costs of power. What are two peasants to the favor of a Prince? Why does he know them? He had never struck Daemon as someone concerned by his subjects.

And then, a piece of your hair falls out of your headscarf. Silver against a dark background. And it is then he knows it. You are no dragonseed. Nor is the boy with the shaved head.

“YOU DO THINGS different here, for certain.” Prince Daemon says, appearing at your window while you knead bread. His presence is as unexpected as it is unwelcome. It is the first time you are home alone after the incident, not Addam nor Allyn willing to risk this stranger attempting anything worse than he already has. Three days had passed, and they had considered it enough. If the man had not approached you during that time, it meant he wouldn’t, right? Clearly no. He had just been bidding his time, waiting for both of your brothers to go. “Corlys's little secret.”

Your hands shake. You wished Allyn wasn’t so set on teaching Addam his craft, and hadn’t gone out today. Being home alone with a strange man around didn’t spell anything good for you.

A quick glance at the door reassures you that it is still barred. You take a not so subtle step back from the window.

The prince lip’s quirk upwards, not quite a smile, but betraying his amusement. Does he find your fear funny?

“I won’t hurt you, my lady. I didn’t mean to scare you, either.” His voice is gentle, as if dealing with a spooked animal. The title makes you scoff. No one has ever called you a lady, much less a Prince.

As a child, you used to watch Laena Velaryon and pretend you were her. Wondering what life would have been like if you didn’t have to hide, if your father acknowledged you. Wondering what it would feel, to be a Lady and never go to bed hungry, to be surrounded by beauty all day.

You are no lady. You are a bastard girl, and you have gone to bed nearly starving more times than you could count.

As if sensing your thoughts, Prince Daemon lifts one of his hands. He holds up a package, wrapped in bright white silk. Both he and his gift look deeply out of place here, near your window. In his fine clothes, in brighter colors than you can afford, he sticks out like a sore thumb.

“Any child of mine, even if natural-born, would never have to go hungry. Your father should be doing more for you, not hiding you three like a shameful secret.”

You do not take the parcel. You merely look at him and fight an overwhelming urge to cry.

“Here.” Prince Daemon pushes the parcel through the window. “Consider this my apology for my behavior. Rather uncouth, huh?”

You open it carefully. Two smaller parcels fall from it, both as carefully wrapped.

“You can wear the silk.” He tells you, gesturing to your hair. “And the rest…”

Curious, you peer into one of the parcels. It’s full of cured meat.it would have cost him a pretty penny, having it already preserved for you. It is a luxury Addam, Allyn and you never get to have. Not since your mother passed.

With rushed hands, you open the other parcel. A small sack of flour, lemons, and pages torn from a book. They are all expensive things, nothing like the flour you buy at the market to make bread or the bruised fruit you get when Addam craves something sweet. You squint at the pages, puzzled by their presence.

“Mix one cup of flour with… Is this..?” You ask him, astonished. A small smile begins to form on your face.

“The recipe for lemon cakes. For your baking.” He smiles back. He then gestures to your hands, still covered in flour. “I hear you enjoy it. Just… Save me a piece.”

“Thank you.” You beam at him. He gives you a bow, and leaves. You find yourself smiling like a fool the rest of the afternoon.

You cannot believe it. Prince Daemon has just given you the recipe for lemon cakes. As far apologies go, this is a great one.

Addam and Allyn go to bed with full stomachs. You go to bed with yours full of butterflies. No one has ever ensured such for the three of you.

“IS IT CLOSE enough?” You bite your lower lip, watching Daemon chew a piece of cake. His brows furrow a bit, and he lets out a small, throaty moan.

“Close enough. A tad more lemony than the one at Driftmark, but I like it.” He smiles. You fight the urge to beam. He has been coming almost daily after bringing you the lemons, but it is the first time you allow him to taste your creation.

He says it is because he enjoys the walk. You are not entirely sold, but thinking it is to see you seems a bit conceited.

“I got excited.” You scratch the back of your neck, sheepish. The batter had smelt and tasted so heavenly, you had just kept adding more.

Daemon laughs. He uses his now free hand to tug you towards his side. You love when he does that. The gesture feels very protective. He never lets you walk too far from him, or on the side next to the ocean, so you never stumble or get soaked by an errant wave.

It’s peaceful here. He often says he cares not for the ocean, but the two of you always walk the same route. From your home, towards your ships, then back.

“Wouldn’t you like to go somewhere else?” You ask him, watching the waves lap at the shore. Then, feeling stupid for asking, you lower your eyes. As much as you feign blindness, you are not blind. He is probably ashamed to be seen with the likes of you. Even your father is. Why wouldn’t a Prince?

Your eyes feel warm, and your vision blurs. Gods, you hate crying. You try to focus on something else. Your scuffed shoes. His boots. The sand under your feet. The urge to run away, and scream, and die from the humiliation of even asking.

Daemon sighs. He sits down on the sand, patting the space on his side. His clothes, despite their simple design, are very fine.

“Your clothes…” You mumble, without sitting.

“Bah, I have three other cloaks like this one.” As if proving a point, he takes it off, laying it down for you to sit. You feel even sillier at his patience. “Come. Sit down, jorrāeliarzys.”

You obey him because there is little else to do. You have already messed up, you don’t wish to make any other mistake. His company has become precious to you, a welcome respite from your brothers. Living with two boys, you are never alone. But every so often, you wish for more engaging conversation.

“I am not ashamed of being seen in your company. I just… I thought you preferred it here.” Daemon explains, softly tucking a stray curl behind your ear. “Would you like for us to meet in the city, instead?”

You think of meeting him in the city’s market. Of the rumors that would sure follow, of the names you would be called. Of your father finding out. You know what it would look like to him. That you are making the same mistake as your mother did.

You are not dumb. Daemon is not here to simply plan an alliance. Alliances are always sealed in blood, and your half sister is barely old enough to be considered.

Your mother and you are different. She didn’t know your father was using her. You know Daemon is using you. And you intend to use him right back, milk him for all of his worth.

So why does it hurt like this, why does it feel like something inside you is breaking?

You take the parcels he gives you without any shame. That night, as the three of you are eating a generous serving of venison, Allyn scowls.

“I don’t like it. Can’t you see what he wants?”

Addam’s fork freezes midway to his mouth. He looks down at his plate, as if he is truly seeing the meat he is being served for the first time.

“I am not mother.” You say, icily. The venison tastes bitter on your tongue, but stubbornly, you keep eating. Allyn is just angry that it is not longer him who is putting the meals on the table. “I know what highborn men are like.”

What your father is like, too. How they use women as if they were little more than things, how they produce children and leave them to their fates.

“All the more reason not to allow him to take your maidenhead.”

“Do you listen to yourself?” You scoff, getting up. “Maidenheads, as if I were some great lady. I can handle it. Handle him.”

Allyn looks at you, eyes full of pity. You cannot bear it. Your eyes sting again. You hurry out of the table.

“Where are you going?” Addam reaches forward, as if to grab you.

“To my room. The two of you have ruined my appetite.” But it wasn’t the two of them, not really. Daemon is ashamed of you, the voice in your head whispers. Ashamed of you, just like your father was. He only wants to use you, and once he has had his fill, he will discard you. Just like your father did to your mother.

Alone, in your room, you tear the headscarf he had given you to shreds. You squeeze the rests on your palm, you make a ball, you throw it against the wall.

The next morning, you have sobbed your throat raw. You still go to meet him in the afternoon.

SOMETHING IS WRONG. Daemon can tell when he picks you up that day. Your eyes are swollen and bloodshot, and your complexion an awful gray. The headscarf he had given you is nowhere to be seen, and you are back to your severe gray one.

Like a bad case of heartburn, the lie he had told you comes back to him, leaving an acrid taste in his mouth.

Daemon is not ashamed of you, but doesn't want to be seen with you either. The consequences for you would be too great. He had learned his lesson with Mysaria. The double stain would have made you a pariah, both because of your birth and because of whom you were bedding.

Because it was all that people would think about when they found out. No one would believe Daemon had yet to touch you.

He was unsure if he ever would.

You were an extraordinary girl, yet still a bastard. There was nothing to be done about it. All you could be was friends and lovers, and nothing more.

Yet, your dark eyes were so kind, your face full of such happiness, Daemon dared not to sully you. Something in you screamed at his instincts to protect, something tugged at his heartstrings when he saw your face scrunched up towards the sun, and told him to gather you in his arms and never let anything touch you.

Daemon had been like you, once. When younger. He, too, felt a lack of acknowledgement by those around you, and an urge to prove himself. His father had passed when he was still young, and Viserys had received all laurels. It would have never bothered him because he loved his brother, but Viserys had left him behind. Married Aemma. Had children. Gained the love of his people, found new friends.

Never once Viserys had looked at Daemon. No matter how hard he tried to reach for him, his brother always evaded his hand. Daemon had been left there. He, too, had stood on the shadows and feigned indifference, burning up with secret resentment.

The idea of you growing up to be like him was both appealing and horrifying. There was a sweetness to you, a naïveté that he had lacked even in his younger years. He wanted to preserve it. Shield you from the world.

Bedding you would ruin you. Daemon enjoyed playing the role of mentor, teaching you new things, helping you gain experiences you would never get as a bastard girl. Yet, you had such a tempting figure, with a mouth made for sin, and a body that begged for worship. You were a little girl, but you had all the self-possession and looks of a grown woman.

You would taste exquisite on his tongue, crumbling from his caresses. Your cunt would feel like wet velvet around him, and you would sound your sweetest when he was spearing you open on his cock.

And how would you smile, joyous and fierce, his brave girl. Some maidens cried, but not you. You were made of sterner stuff, a heart that burned brighter and stronger than the Fourteen Flames. You had stood your ground, terrified but unbowed, in front of Caraxes himself.

Such a face you had, all Valyrian empress. A sovereign nose, the fleeting shadow of your eyelashes, and a slippery laugh that always gave you an air of mischief. A face not made for sadness. It is what prompts him to do what will become either the greatest mistake of his life, or his greatest triumph.

“I was thinking…” Daemon says, watching your expression closely. “We could go to a tavern tonight.”

“A tavern?” The surprising offering shakes you out of your sadness. Your face changes from a sad little frown into a curious one.

“Have you ever gone to one?” Daemon tugs the hair scarf from your hair, softly. The silver curls fall free, in a lovely mess. You scowl, trying to get it back, but he holds it just out of your reach. It’s a lovely thing, to watch you give little jumps on your tiptoes, curls bouncing with the motion. “Ah! None of that, now. Answer my question first.”

“No, I haven’t. Addam and Allyn go from time to time, but it sounds too rowdy for my liking.” You cross your arms over your chest.

“It’s rowdy, but in a good sense.” Daemon cannot help it. Your curls are a bit mussed, from wearing the ugly headscarf for too long. He fixes them, fluffing them up slightly at the roots in the way he has seen handmaidens do for Laena. He then tosses the damn thing into the sea, for good measure, ignoring your outraged cry. “Drinks, music, people, greasy food. You will love it.”

“I hate drinking.” You wrinkle your nose, cutely. He fights the urge to bite you. The face you make is too sweet, too tempting.

“Because you have only drunk swill. I’ll teach you to drink real wine.” He tugs you into his side, and begins walking back into the city.

The walk to the city is awkward. Not because the two of you have nothing to talk about, but rather, because of the stares. Your silver hair, despite your simple clothing, commands attention. So does Daemon’s presence, and the arm he has around your shoulders.

He had not been wrong. This would cost you. A cost too steep for someone he sought to keep safe.

Still, you face it all bravely, as you had that morning at the docks. The two of you manage to get a cozy table in one tavern that Daemon had visited before. He calls for wine to be served, an expensive barrel from the Arbor he is sure they had kept around for years before anyone had the coin to buy it.

It’s delicious. But when he serves you a goblet, you take a big sip and begin to splutter.

“Mittys hunes iksā.” Daemon tuts. His silly bunny. “You are not meant to drink it such. You ought to savor it.”

“Savor?” You arch an eyebrow. “Tastes like dragonfire.”

And perhaps it's the choice of words, or the glint of your silver hair under the low light emanating from the torches, but something about you reminds him of the way he had loved Rhaenyra and admired Laena, the other Valyrian beauties in his life. They are not here, he cannot reach them. But you are.

“Come here, hunes.” His own voice sounds strange to him, low and demanding. When he calls you bunny, he is not exaggerating. Does the fox feel as wrong as he feels when becoming over his prey? Does his gums ache like Daemon’s do, with the urge to bite, to tear apart, to wound? Does he mourn the little bunny whose innocence he is about to shatter? “There is something I wish to show you.”

You eye him warily, but get up from your chair and move until you are standing in front of him. It's not enough for Daemon. It never is. He always wants you closer, closer to hold, to protect, to own.

He tugs you between his parted legs.

“Do you trust me?”

There is a slight furrow of your brow. The barest hint of hesitation. Yet, your voice is firm when you answer him.

“Yes.”

His girl. His precious girl. If you had been his, he would have never hurt you like Corlys had. Never allowed to become easy prey for men like him. You shouldn’t trust him.

Daemon shouldn’t be doing this, either. It is a good thing he has never claimed to be a good man.

He takes a sip of his wine, and leans towards you, capturing your mouth in his. At first, you fight him, the suddenness startling you. It’s only when he gives your lower lip a sharp nip, that you melt into the kiss. When your mouth parts slightly, he passes you the wine.

You splutter, but Daemon holds you down, arms held by your side. He forces you to take and take some more, chasing the tart taste of the wine into the honeyed one of your mouth.

Your obedience and compliance only makes him wilder, drives him to grasp at your hips, pull you closer. Just when you begin to lean into Daemon, dutifully swallowing the wine, someone jerks you out of his grip.

“I did not think it to be true.” A woman’s voice, one he knows too well, says. Rhaenys. Her face is a mask of absolute rage. She gives you a shove that sends you stumbling before Daemon can even get out of his chair. “You have much nerve.”

Your face turns ashen. You look like you are about to cry, or worse, flee. Daemon jumps up, and gets between Rhaenys and you.

“You were always a whore!” She screams, her index finger digging into his chest. You let out a sob, quietly. Daemon’s heart feels like it is being wrenched from his chest. At this point, the screams have attracted all the tavern's attention. Daemon doesn’t doubt that by this time tomorrow, the whole island will know.

You will be shunned. Just as he had feared.

“I am talking to you!” Rhaenys insists. You cower behind him. It only makes Rhaenys angrier. “No, not you, you stupid girl. You, Daemon.”

Daemon feels utterly stunned. Never in a million years he would have thought Rhaenys was referring to him.

“Are you calling me a whore?”

He feels the slap before he even sees her move. His head gets forcefully turned to the side, and he hears you whimper. His cheek stings. Daemon has to blink back tears, Rhaenys has hit him that hard.

He wasn’t even aware that a woman could land such a blow.

“You dare! You toyed with my daughter and this girl as you saw fit.” And Daemon cannot even get a word in because she is too angry. He feels his cheeks reddening, and its unsure if he is feeling embarrassment at being scolded like a child, or rage at her words. “But worry not. I will make this right.”

Rhaenys has a manic gleam in her eyes. For a frightening second, Daemon thinks he sees in her the famous Targaryen madness.

Instead of setting you both on fire, she lunges, avoiding Daemon, and grabbing you hands in hers.

“I shall not allow you to make the same mistake your mother did.” Rhaenys says, and she is gone before Daemon can answer anything.

THIS IS YOUR greatest triumph. Why, then, does it taste like ashes on your tongue?

You are wearing the finest dress you have ever owned, gifted to you by Daemon. Princess Rhaenys has forced both him and your father into complacency, and even forced King Viserys to allow your betrothal. Still, you feel adrift. Even betrayed.

What Daemon had done to you had seemed purposeful. You had not realized when he had stolen the kiss from you, giving you your first taste of fine wine, but you understood it now. Had Princess Rhaenys not been there, or had she been any less merciful, a much different fate would have awaited you.

The stink of shame that followed you around, the whispers of dishonor and the looks of distaste, would have been even more intense. You would have been ruined, known as little more than a whore. And your family no longer had the money that had shielded your mother during her pregnancies.

You had not known it. But Daemon must have. He had a reputation for taking maidenheads as he saw fit, Addam had informed you. You were a fool for not knowing, and a fool for believing he wanted something else from you.

The royal decree is read by a Maester, in front of all the Lords of near castles, the smallfolk of Driftmark and the Velaryons. Even in the first beautiful dress you own, you feel small. Out of place. The looks your half siblings are shooting you do not help you feel better.

Once the bill is read, Lord Corlys steps forward.

“Daughter.” He says, grasping your hands in his. He is cold. He is cold, and it makes your skin crawl, even when it is all you wanted as a little girl. It’s the first time he acknowledges you, and he is not at all like the man you imagined, when dreaming as a child of what it would be like for him to look at you. Because even a glance would have been enough back then. “It’s a pleasure to finally have you join the family.”

Addam and Allyn are still in the crowd, unacknowledged. They are your family, not this man who is grasping your hands with a calculating gleam in his eyes. Wondering, as all highborn do, how he might use you. How you might serve to further his own ends.

Your brothers could not be recognized as you were. You had shyly asked Princess Rhaenys, and if she thought you dimwitted before, she had probably confirmed her suspicions. They were men, she had explained, and a threat to Laenor’s rights once your father passed. You, instead, were nothing but a girl who had sullied herself, whose honor had been compromised so thoroughly you had turned even less important in the great scheme of things.

She was helping you because you had been taken advantage of by Daemon, Princess Rhaenys had said, but also to spare her daughter from your fate. Wife to a husband that would most likely betray you and sire bastards.

Lord Corlys was just happy to have another pawn to marry off and forge alliances. Freeing his daughter from a disloyal husband was an added bonus.

Every time you heard them, your hands turned into fist, and you could barely fight the rage from clouding your expression. You had not done the thing everyone was accusing you of, and yet were being judged for it all the same. Daemon, too, did nothing to correct them. Not even when the most scandalous rumors surfaced, saying you would wed him with a child already in your belly.

You had not let him touch you like that. You were not as stupid as everyone thought. As a daughter to a single mother, you knew all about scorn and loneliness. You would never doom a child to your same fate.

The day doesn’t pick up from there. The feast to follow feels just as empty, and you turn down an insincere offer from your father to be housed here. You cannot wait to run back to your brothers.

It would be impolite to leave so soon, though. Lord Corlys has thrown this feast in your honor and is making the lords and members of his household present you with gifts. You admit it is a clever strategy, to avoid having to spend money in your trousseau. Hence, you need to stay a little bit longer.

You get handed new quills and parchments, alongside a new seal for your correspondence by Laena.

“I figured you wouldn’t have one of these.” Her smile is strained as she reaches for your hands. “Since you weren’t raised the proper way.” It says a lot about the company you are in that it is the most polite greeting you receive all afternoon.

When it all begins to become a bit much, and your eyes are stinging after a lady said you had no grace and no manners, you decide you need to run. But when you are stepping a foot outside the hall, Daemon appears by your side.

“Rather improper, isn’t it?” He asks, grabbing your hand in his. You try to jerk away, but he merely interlaces your fingers together. “A lady cannot quite run around unescorted as you used to.”

“Leave me alone, Daemon.” You say, still trying to free yourself. The last thing you want today is to deal with him.

“I do not think I will.” Daemon cups your cheek in his hand, hands gentle despite the calluses on them. It was one of the things you had first liked about him. His hands were artisan’s hands, like the ones of your brothers, despite being highborn. He had seemed so different from the rest of the men you knew, back then. “Not when my betrothed is nearly weeping in her own feast.”

“You heard all those people. I do not belong here.” You look up at him, fighting your tears. You feel like such a whiny child. What happened to you is something that only happens in fairytales, it's the stuff songs are written about. No bastard girl gets acknowledged by her father and marries a Prince.

“Who cares what those cunts think?” Daemon scoffs. “You are above them. You always were.”

You bloom under his praise. There is no other word for it. It warms you, from head to toe, and your stomach fills with butterflies. A small smile forms, even through the tears that threaten to fall.

“There she is.” Daemon brushes his thumb over your cheek. “That’s my girl.”

His girl. There is nothing you would like more.

“I never wanted to be a Lady.” You lower your eyes, embarrassed at the admission. You feel ungrateful for saying it, but it’s the truth. You had never imagined a home away from your siblings. The marriage will mean you will be taken away from them, and only see them if Daemon feels like it.

You do not own a dragon, after all. And you aren’t too sure Allyn and him will be the best good brothers.

He grabs you by the waist and gives a little tug.

“Be mine instead.” Daemon whispers, and when you nod, he kisses your forehead.

MARRYING YOU HAD never been in his plans. Yet, when he saw you walk down the aisle, dressed in Velaryon blue and looking awkward, Daemon was sure you were the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

You were not a lady or a princess, yet you and him were alike. Birds of the same feather. For the first time, Daemon could say there was someone who understood him.

Daemon had never been poor, nor had he been born a bastard, but he too, had lost his parents while young. He, too, was considered too wild by his brother. And he knew all about of trying to fulfill an impossible task while honoring the legacy of his ancestors.

Laena was a mere child by your side. Her innocence and Valyrian looks had appealed to him once, but after meeting you, Daemon knew no other woman could compare. There was an edge to you, beneath all the innocence and beauty. A fire that burned bright in your belly, and could not be quenched. An anger that both amazed him and scared him, and drew him in like a moth to a flame.

You would have been great if you had been born into his house. Great but terrible.

Or perhaps you wouldn’t have. Perhaps, if you had grown acknowledged by your father, you would have not been the lost little girl who dreamed of recognition and slept lulled by the sea. You wouldn’t have grown into the woman who got the recognition and understood she did not need it at all.

A shame that recognition had come at a price so steep. Recognition in exchange for rumors of dishonor, whispers of the shame of your existence and the shame you had brought on yourself. These cunts did not see you for what you were. Not some malicious creature, some silver tongued temptress. No. You were determined and fierce, brave and true. You honored your house’s words. Your ancestors would have been proud.

Yes, Daemon decided. He would marry you and take you away from here, from this horrible little island where people behaved like they were above you. The cunts should be honored that you were even looking their way.

The distance might even help those stubborn brothers of yours to forget all about the way Daemon had become part of their family. When the grudge was forgotten, he would bring you back, less the eldest skewered him alive.

Not because Daemon feared Allyn. Of course not. But because killing him would be such a nuisance, and you would cry, and… Ugh. He couldn’t stand to see you cry.

You were about to burst into tears right now. He could tell. Daemon grabbed your hands in his, uncaring he was breaking protocol, and pressed his forehead against yours.

“We can still marry on the beach, with only Caraxes as witness.” He whispers, gently. “Hells, I would prefer it. We can run still. The Septon has not spoken.”

You laugh, a bit watery.

“Addam and Allyn would drop dead, thinking we will not be wed.”

“Allyn looks like he would attempt murder.”

“Attempt?”

“I doubt he would succeed.”

“I would protect you.” You say, and it warms something inside Daemon he wasn’t even aware that he had. “If only because killing a Prince is a crime worthy of the ax, and I wish to have nephews.”

Daemon's mouth opens and closes.

“You little..!”

You laugh, but before he can lunge and throw you over his shoulder, the Septon clears his throat.

“If the two of you are done..?”

“Just get to the part where you handfast us.” Daemon says, giving him his best lecherous expression. “I have many things I wish to show my new bride.”

And there were. He had taken many of your firsts already, he wasn’t about to stop now.

[gothgleek]

I like to imagine Elia has a “Revenge Dress’ moment after the Tourney at Harrenhal, coming dressed in a backless gown, save for the golden spine symbolizing how she will not be broken by her husband’s humiliation nor bow to his family.

(Inspo: the Roberto Cavalli dress Zendaya wore to the Spiderman premiere)

[nerajaana]

What part of “racebending is not the issue, it’s the fact that so-called plainer characters that are drawn to look unappealing on purpose by the artist are the only ones shown in darker tones- now that’s a problematic af trend that needs to immediately stop” does this fandom have problems with comprehending?

[whateverthedragonswant]

Being a fan of Game of Thrones and House of the Dragon on here is a real challenge at times. Simply because an alarming number of people don't understand what the word adaptation means.

[cdragons]

Like a Wave, She Broke; But Like the Sea, She Persevered

A Robb Stark x Yi Ti fem!OC/Reader & GOT AU Fic

Chapter One: Farewell/Goodbye

Next Chapter

Author's Note: Hello, so I am very new to writing fanfiction, and also I have never read any of the books, but I have done a lot of research. This fic will be mostly based on the show Game of Thrones, but it will take elements from the books (especially for the characters Euron Greyjoy and Stannis Baratheon). Also there is practically no information of the language/culture of Yi Ti according to GRRM. So taking in mind that it is supposed to be inspired by "Imperial China," I used simplified Mandarin because while I do think Cantonese would be better considering how the geography is inspired by southeastern China, I need pinyin and can only speak Mandarin. I will offer translations at the bottom. Also for the names, I am not perfectly clear how they work so I basically tried to make a name using characters that I felt would have a lot of impact together.

Warning(s): This fanfiction will include dark themes of the following: sexual content, sexual abuse, violence and violent themes, child trafficking, depression, angst (so much angst), and dark/yandere attitudes. (Please comment if I had missed anything)

“I made it… I actually made it.” I thought to myself as I slumped onto the deck, relief flooding my body as my legs start to give out in exhaustion. I managed to get onto the ship just before it left the dock. I close my eyes and try to breath as waves rock me back and forth like a never-ending pendulum. The last time I had been on a ship felt like several lifetimes ago, although I supposed that it was true in more ways than one. For as I had so fervently sworn to never step foot onto another ship, I could not deny that a part of my heart was soothed by the familiar cries of gulls, the thundering orders of those and command, and the waves crashing against the wood of a vessel completely at its mercy. Still, I felt myself turning green, and soon 黛玉 (Dài yù) is curling up next to me, offering much needed comfort. I curl myself around her, and breathe in her fur. Her fur, whether dry from a nearby fire or soaked in red life, smells of cypress, smoked sandalwood, and spices. It reminds me of Winterfell, of the North, of my second home. Once again, I thank Lord Stark in allowing me to keep my sweet shadowcat when I found her as an orphaned kitten from a band of poachers that had already killed her family and intended to skin them for profit. As I continued to stroke her luscious black and white striped fur, I felt 黛玉's (Dài yù) deep purrs turn to breathing becoming deeper and more consistent to signal she was about to sleep. And just when I was about to do the same, hoping for sleep to be dreamless, I heard my name being shouted out in pure agony.

“龙力 (Lóng lì)!” My head shot up while 黛玉 (Dài yù) immediately became alert and ready to strike any figures that posed a danger to us. I turned my head to look at the dock we just left, and to my horror I found a figure so far that he might have been a trick of light. But I remember those eyes, those clear blue eyes. Eyes despite their clarity, were filled with more fury than any storm I had witnessed out in the seas. Eyes belonging to a figure that once stood tall looked broken and defeated, as if their shoulders had been burdened by the gods themselves, although I supposed in a way they had. Next to him was direwolf the size of a small horse holding his head high, and howled so forlornly as if the ship was a floating pyre.

“Robb.” I croak out, my voice sounded so unfamiliar to me. I tried to look away, but I knew if I did, I would never forgive myself. So, I gazed into his eyes trying to shout out every apology I could think of, begging for his forgiveness. When his figure disappeared, I turned around and let out a sob I didn’t realize was there. I curled into myself, reach to my necklace and grasp on the black pendant and pray to any god that would listen. 黛玉 (Dài yù) mewled softly before laying her head on top of mine, even wrapping her arms around me, as if she were a mother soothing a weeping child. I could not bear to see her blue eyes, so frozen yet alive with winter fire. I knew that sleep would never come for me tonight. So instead, I prayed that Robb would not let his impulsiveness cloud his judgement, that he will only focus on the war and freeing the North. I prayed that he will forget me and move on to find happiness of his own and to grow old and happy with a good woman by his side and his siblings all together. But above all, I prayed that he would let me go and let me be free. I do this until my mind blacks out, and a memory had played out as if I was a spectator to moment that did not belong to me.

~Flashback of 7 ago~

“龙力 (Lóng lì),” I decided, gazing at the stone turned dragon pendant handed to me, knowing the confusion that must be filling Robb Stark’s eyes, “my family name is 王 (Wáng), but my first name will be 龙力.” My parents’ sweet “小玉 (Xiao Yu)” no longer existed, she her lullabies were gone forever, but she will never forgotten, not her nor her parents, never again. But “龙 (Lóng)” had taken her place, it was born from the anguish of the small jade in order to a dragon that clawed out of anguish.  “龙 (Lóng)” was a dragon, and dragons carried a magic within them that could never die, not even when the world demanded it. My grandmother was partly right, I was not born a dragon, I was but I was made into one. As for “力 (Lì)”, that would be something of my own. “力 (Lì)” was a testament to my strength. Even before being a dragon, I was strong. I had a strength of my own that belonged to no one but me. And although it had been cracked and broken down repeatedly, it remained. The events forced upon me to realize that strength, however unfortunate, will not go unrewarded.  This pendent was evidence of that, that if a piece of jade can transform and be molded into a strong dragon, then so can I.

I turn and face Robb Stark, the boy I thought was a spoiled and obnoxious brat that had everything handed to him while so many others claw for just a scrap of his fortune, and give him the first hug that I have given anyone since my parents died. I hold for so long and tight that he has to push me away for air. I smiled with tears almost spilling from my eyes, happiness overtaking me for the first time in what felt like a lifetime ago. I kissed both his cheeks, and he turned so red that he tried to sputter out a response, but I beat him to do it.

“王龙力 (Wang Long Li),” I beamed so brightly, “that will be my name. I finally have decided on my name, it is the only thing that was not given to me but what I gave to myself. It is important, too important, but you deserve to be the first to know. I will wear this forever, thank you so much. Thank you so much.” I hugged him once more, and felt his arms wrap around me before tightening and even saw the tips of his ears turning bright red before Maester Luwin came upon us and I showed him my pendent and told him my name. I didn’t have to tell him the meaning of a name, his smile told me enough.

~Flashback Ends~

Waking up I realized that I was still grasping on the black pendant as if it was the only thing that kept me from falling completely apart. I should have left it behind, but I knew it wasn’t a possibility. If I had to take only one thing that could possibly link me to my past, from the youthful joy and spilled blood in Yi Ti, to the beautiful hope and horrendous tragedies in Winterfell, I couldn’t leave it. This pendent meant far too much, for it alone was the sole witness to my life (past, present, and soon-to-be future). It had seen every moment in the life of that once naïve and sweet 小玉 (Xiǎoyù) that played along the warm breezes of the Jade Seas, the 小玉 (Xiǎoyù) that laughed to her parent’s singing songs of the Jade Emperor, the same one that witnessed her family’s slaughter and was stolen away until she no longer laughed, no longer smiled, and eventually forgotten her own voice. The precious and rare black jade that was eventually picked from the pockets of tattered rags to be used as a paperweight by Euron Greyjoy, forgotten by the shadow of a girl who was robbed of every joy and security that should have been her right from birth. A girl who became so broken, who’s soul became so lost, she carved through men with her knifes with such masterful and impassioned fervor and searched through the gashes with such sober and languid eyes to see if she could find hers in their bodies.

But it also witnessed the gaining of her strength, starting at the glimmer of remembrance in hearing an old lullaby sung by a mother with features similar to her own. Every time she snuck away to hear the woman sing, her eyes daring to show wistfulness as opposed to chilling apathy, the black jade could feel the little girl that was constantly struck down finally begin to stand and walk again. Every step that the girl took, the black jade that lost its luster from being forgotten had slowly regained its shine. Even when the kind woman that sung so sweetly was broken in, taken by the wicked pirate’s men and himself, her face with warm eyes and tender smiles, was mutilated beyond recognition, the girl did not fall again. Instead, her eyes held righteous fury and body was fueled by liquid lightning. Quick were her hands in drugging those men, meticulous and masterful were her fingers in slicing through their facial nerves, cruel glee dancing in her eyes as they could make no sound but knowing they felt everything, the sheer intensity and determination of her strength in hoisting their bodies underneath the sail’s pole. So easily could the black jade remain forgotten, once more losing its luster and shine, but the girl had decided that she would no longer forget the little girl in Yi Ti. Because although that girl was gone, dying the day she was sold in Qarth, she knew that the girl still deserved to be remembered, as did the people she loved that died with that girl.

With that decision, this new girl took only a blanket and the jade before changing into a pair of breeches and tunic that sagged over her body to prevent any suspicion of her sex, left Euron Greyjoy to venture to a new place. A place where she would meet a kind and good man, one who she would gladly devote her life in serving and protecting. She would meet his family, his wife and children. A wife that would take one look at the girl, and think her too savage and wild. But knowing in her heart that the girl was someone who would torture herself before letting any harm befalling her family. Children, all so different yet each one had a foundation of wildness, and were raised with so much unconditional love and loyalty that witnessing it had quickly thawed the suspicious girl’s icy walls. A place where she would meet another Greyjoy, but a different Greyjoy, a better one. A Greyjoy whose blood was Ironborn, but his heart would be northern. A northern boy whose blood carried the salt of the sea, but whose heart and soul were strengthened and bathed by the snow, the trees, and the winds of northern land. A boy who she distrusted before slowly and surely becoming her found brother, and she becoming his found sister. A place where she who had sea water in her veins, was not born in the biting inland North but the tropical breezes from the Jade Seas, slowly rebuilt herself from the ground up and fortified her soul with new memories, new happiness, and most of all, a new name. A name she gave herself, with the help of a boy with auburn curls and blue crystalline eyes that shimmered with wide smiles as he gave her the greatest gift that she vowed to carry with her so long as she breathed.

I let out a shaky breath as I once more closed my eyes and began to pray. I never prayed so much in my life before now. I was never one to pray, never one to truly believe in higher beings despite the stories of ancient and powerful magic I heard as a girl that I once believed in, the same stories I told to Bran and Rickon when they entered my rooms to protect them from nightmares. But my grandmother told me that there is usually no point in praying to the gods, because the gods never listen, and if they do, they will often do the opposite just to spite you. She said they had already laid out plans, and we were at their mercy without hope to change it. But maybe just this once, she was wrong. But maybe there are gods that listen, that will hear this unworthy girl’s prayer, that might grant her this one thing. I always thought I was a good granddaughter, always following and listening to my grandmother’s words.

I should have listened better.

*Switching POV’s to Robb*

As the Young Wolf stood there on the port, watching as the ship that carried his love farther and farther away from his arms, looking more and more like the broken boy that cried his heart out when his father died and less and less like the shapeshifting King that tore apart his enemies in the battlefield sung amongst smallfolk across Westeros.

“Your grace, do you want us to commandeer that ship in order to search for the fugitive? It isn’t too late; we can still hope to catch up to it if we use a galley with our strongest men.” Smalljon Umber tried listing off other ways to get to the ship, and was more than ready to do it himself. But Robb knew that doing so would be of no help to him. He knew what game his lady was playing, and he will let her think she had the upper hand for now.

“No.” Robb steeled himself into his full height and once more became the Young Wolf feared in the South. His eyes no longer full of sorrow as they just moments before, now they were filled with ice and a cold fire that looked it would burn you as horribly as it would freeze you in an instant should you be so unfortunate as to touch it. “Now we continue with our goal, marching to King’s Landing and littering the South with Lannister dead until they acknowledge the North’s independence and free my sister Sansa.” Gone was the naïve lovestruck boy, and in his place had risen a hardened leader that had a blade hungry for blood and screams. “But first we gather up the Frey’s and Bolton’s and call for their execution immediately. When Walder Frey’s and Roose Bolton’s heads are separated from their necks, I intend to make them gifts to Tywin Lannister.”

“Fly, fly, fly little dragon,” Robb’s mind hiding the dark whispers swirling in his head. “Fly as far as you can, but know that you will never escape the wolf you cheated.” Anger and fury had further cemented in his bones with each step he took to his steed. He realized long ago his feeling for his cruel lady love. He was enchanted by Talisa’s warmth and kindness, believing that she could be enough to thaw away your bitter chill. But it was all for naught, for nothing could replace you. He should have known this the moment he set his eyes on you when his father first brought you to Winterfell all sullen and feral but strong and determined. When bitterness and jealousy filled him as he heard you laughing at Theon’s stories and saw you two sitting together at dinner. When he caught you gazing at your black rock that you protected so fiercely and he longed to have you feel that way towards him.

“Ah yes, her precious stone,” Robb almost smiled as he remembered one of his most treasured memories, as it was the first time you truly smiled and it was the day you decided your name, “how could possibly forget that day?”

~Flashback to 7 years ago~

“My grandmother gave it to me,” your accent still a little thick when talking in Common Tongue, but you were making extremely good progress according to Maester Luwin, “she said that I would need it one day in order to protect me.”

“Why? Father won’t let anything happen to you while in Winterfell.” Robb thought this obvious, for his father was the strongest and most powerful man in all of the North, and it filled him immense pride and joy in being his son. His father was good and honorable man, one who always kept his promises to each and every one of his people as the Lord of Winterfell. “He promised you when you got here that no one would ever harm you so long you lived under the protection of the Starks.”

“I know all that,” you stated as you rolled your eyes. Of course, you knew that Lord Stark would keep his promise in keeping you safe, as Ned Stark was likely the best man in the world. “But I think it’s for something different, something bigger.”

“What do you mean by ‘bigger’?”

“I am not sure, but all I know is that my grandmother said that this stone would protect me when I would need it most. She said that this particular form of jade was only precious for those who needed it for its magic.”

“Magic?” Robb now rolled his eyes; you were trying to trick him. “That’s what old people tell kids in order for them to behave and not run in passageways and not track mud into the keep.”

“She said that it would lead me to my fate, to a place full of snow and ice and water with little green in the North.” Your eyes had a far-off look; your eyes only looked like that when you were remembering something. Robb hoped it was something good. “She told me that there was a role I had to play in this place, and that the jade would lead me to it.”

“But how will it protect you?” Robb was quickly growing irate. How could a measly stone protect you better than his father, the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North? A role that he will take over as his heir, making you also under his protection.

“She said that jade protects your spirit and mind from harmful forces, but I must carry it with me and never forget it. Otherwise, it will lose its power.”

“But why does it need to be black? Can’t it do its job if it were white or grey?”

You shook your head. “She told me that it had to be black. In Yi Ti, black is the color of the North, and the North’s element is water, so that means black is the color for water in the North. I think…I’m not sure what she meant, 妈妈爸爸说她喜欢...” you paused as you realized you were speaking in your native tongue; your cheeks grew flushed in embarrassment. Robb pretended that the rosy hue didn’t look the least bit adorable, “I mean, my mama and papa said she liked to…babble I think you call it? But what I do know that it is too important and I need to carry it with me.” Your voice quieted down as faint footsteps crunch the snow behind you only to find Maester Luwin. Deciding that you were done speaking, you stood up and ran to him to see if he could spend some extra time with you how to read and write out Common Tongue.

In that moment, Robb had the most brilliant idea in the world. Truth be told, the preparations alone were remarkably tedious and was probably more trouble than it was worth for a girl Robb had known for a fairly short period of time. It took weeks of searching the castle town to see if any of the jewelers had even heard of “black jade,” let alone worked with it. It was by some miracle only performed by the gods that he half stumbled upon an elderly near blind carver that once apprenticed under a master jeweler who dedicated his life in studying the different practices across the world in the slums. However, Robb was not so young and green to life to expect such luck to spring in his path without something else in demand. But the old man simply asked the chance to meet the wearer of the finished product so that he may see the face of the person who captured the young heir’s heart.

“Though my eyes have almost lost their sight, make no mistake that this old man had lived long enough to know that those in your position would not go so far for someone that did not mean a great deal to you.” He spoke so softly as if witnessing a memory unraveling before him. “And if I had the fortune of my sight, I am sure that your eyes would betray what you deny.”

It took great efforts separating the stone from you, and Robb truly feared for his life if you found out it was him that took it before the product was completed. Thankfully, the old man was a master craftsman, with tools made of bone and fingers so nimble and quick you would never think the man blind at all. When Robb had presented the dragon pendent to you, you first lashed at him something fierce, but in seeing the work had your words failed you. When your eyes lit up and you hugged him so tightly that he thought all the wind had left him, Robb found himself unable to speak. When you had been pushed so that he could breathe, but kissed his cheeks with tears in your eyes, did Robb hear his heart beat at an ungodly pace. Finally, when you had gifted him your name with happiness in your voice, when you chose him to be the first to know your name, did Robb realize that from that day forward, he loved you. He knew you to be the keeper of his heart and soul since he was a lad to when he would become a man.

~End of Flashback~

When he had first awoken from his injuries, barely able to breathe, and you were sitting next to him. Your eyes were filled with glee as you reached for his waterskin and tipped it so gently and carefully to not spill on his wounds. As laid on his cot, cursing himself for falling for such a trap and endangering his men and causing the death of his wife and unborn child. You said no words, only when you so lovingly placed your arms around his neck, allowing his head to rest on your shoulder, did he fall silent. He sat up and held you against him with both arms as you laid tender kisses in his hair. When he looked into your eyes, and begged you to kiss him as he wanted you to for as so long, and though your eyes were uncertain you laid him down on his back, and placed your lips upon his. In that moment Robb’s world felt so whole and happiness had filled so completely that tears escaped and a sob of pure joy was choked out. He knew that he was yours, he always had been, but finally you were his. How happy he was when you pulled away and smiled down at him so sweetly, and you told him to rest so that he can gain strength to fight for his kingdom, his people, his family. How deliriously in love was he in doing exactly as you asked.

And imagine the confusion he felt when he had awoken expecting you by side, only to be met with his lost little sister Arya and his mother. Imagine the fear in hearing how you had left the camp as part of a deal to save him and his men. Imagine the betrayal coursing through him learning that you drugged the water you placed on his lips with a powerful drug that would put him in a heavy sleep that was meant to last a week rather than only 3 days. Imagine the unadulterated fury filling his body as he quickly dressed and called for his steed and Grey Wind to track your scent. And imagine how his heart broke watching the ship being released from its dock, and in a final act of desperation to see your face, he called out your name as Grey Wind let out an ear-shattering howl. Imagine the joy he felt seeing your body turn and your eyes gazed into one another, knowing you hadn’t expected to find you so quickly.

“You will run, you will hide, you can do whatever it takes to be away from me. It will not matter, for in the end I will find you.” Robb’s vow was further his cemented as he rode closer to his camp, ready were the words to carry out the traitors’ executions. “You thought you could escape your wolf, when really all you did was prolong your inevitable fate as his future queen.” Robb’s teeth clenched as he thought this, how stupid you were indeed. To think he would ever let you go now that he tasted your lips, felt your body pressed against his chest, saw your sweet smile as you laid him down to rest. Oh, what he planned to do to you the moment you were in his arms, his cock grew strained and he could feel it leaking at just the thought of him claiming you. He relished at the thought of gazing upon your naked body, laying kisses and bites upon your collarbone and neck for the world to see. He was desperate to suck and nip your breasts as he plays with your soaked cunt with his thick fingers. He could see it so perfectly, you begging for him to mate with you like the bitch in heat you are, begging for his thick cock to ruin you for anyone who even thinks to look at you. How you mewl so obscenely as he slowly slides his throbbing member into your tight heat. Once he is fully sheathed into your wet cunt, and his tip kisses the entrance of your womb, as he intends to go at an ungodly pace with you at his mercy begging to be filled by his pups. How happy you are when he releases load into your womb and praying to the gods old and new that you can be blessed with a child immediately. And how he intends to do so over and over and over until his name is the only thing you can remember.

Translations:

黛玉 (Dài yù): Black Jade

龙力 (Lóng lì): Dragon Force

王 (Wáng): king, but in this context of the story, it just serves as a very common surname

小玉 (Xiǎoyù): Little Jade

妈妈爸爸说她喜欢... (Māmā bàba shuō tā xǐhuān...): Mom and Dad say she likes to...

Please be kind as this is the first fanfic and smut I have even written, but still please like, comment, and reblog!!!

Hope you all have a wonderful day!