#prince Edric | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

darknight3904 · 8 months ago

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𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕽𝖆𝖈𝖊

ᴀᴇᴍᴏɴᴅ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ x ꜰᴇᴍ!ᴏᴄ! ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ

ᴘʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ / ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ /ᴍʏ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ɴᴇᴀʀʟʏ ᴀ ʏᴇᴀʀ ʜᴀꜱ ᴘᴀꜱꜱᴇᴅ ꜱɪɴᴄᴇ ʟᴀᴅʏ ʀʜᴀᴇʟʟᴀ ᴀʀʀɪᴠᴇᴅ ᴀᴛ ᴄᴏᴜʀᴛ. ᴀꜱ ʜᴇʀ 11ᴛʜ ɴᴀᴍᴇ ᴅᴀʏ ᴀᴘᴘʀᴏᴀᴄʜᴇꜱ ꜱʜᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ʏᴏᴜɴɢ ᴘʀɪɴᴄᴇ ᴀᴇᴍᴏɴᴅ ᴀꜱ ᴡᴇʟʟ ᴀꜱ ᴘʀɪɴᴄᴇꜱ ᴊᴀᴄᴀᴇʀʏꜱ, ʟᴜᴄᴇʀʏꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴘʀɪɴᴄᴇꜱꜱ ʀʜᴀᴇɴʀʏᴀ. ᴛʜᴇɴ, ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀ ɴᴀᴍᴇ-ᴅᴀʏ ᴄᴇʟᴇʙʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴀ ᴍʏꜱᴛᴇʀɪᴏᴜꜱ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟʏ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴀɴ ᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀʀᴀɴᴄᴇ ɪɴ ᴋɪɴɢꜱ ʟᴀɴᴅɪɴɢ.

This story will follow canon events of HOTD and Fire and Blood. However, I am changing some of the years when things took place so I can build my story's plot better.

126 AC

Rhaella peers down at the baby whose big brown eyes captivate her. She decides that Joffery Velaryon is Westeros' cutest baby when he smiles at her.

"Does he cry a lot?" She asks

"Sometimes. Mostly when he is hungry." Rhaenrya says

"Aren't babies always hungry though?" She asks

"I suppose they are..." Rhaenrya replies "I guess that means he cries a lot then."

Rhaella smirks at her cousin's admission. Even if he did cry a lot he was still cute.

"Rhaella what are you doing in here? You rarely visit without Jace and Luke." Rhaenrya asks

"I am hiding from the Septa. She insists that I learn about history with Heleana." Rhaella sighs "If she had half a brain she'd know Maester Edric has taught me it all already."

Rhaenrya lets out a snort of laughter at her half-a-brain comment.

"Our histories are important." She says "I will agree with you though, Septas can be a bore."

"I'd much rather be in the training yard with Jace and Luke." Rhaella admits "I don't understand why I must learn to sew while they get to fight with a sword."

"That is the way of the world," Rhaenrya says

"The way of the world can go fuck its-"

Rhaella stops her speech when her cousin's eyebrows shoot up.

"I mean to say it is idiotic that I cannot train with them."

Soft silence settles as baby Joffery coos in his crib, laughing when Rhaella sticks her tongue out at him.

"Do you truly wish to be outside with them?" Rhaenrya asks

"Of course. I want to be like Visenya in the books that line the shelves in my room." Rhaella says looking up at her cousin, "Since I do not have a dragon I wish to have another way to fight."

Rhaella watches Rhaenrya's face and doesn't miss the way the corner of her mouth twitches into a slight smile.

"Come with me." She says

As if it's magic, a wet nurse is there to watch over Westeros' cutest baby and Rhaella is following Rhaenrya through the maze of halls and stairways that lead the the training yard.

"Ser Harwin!" Rhaenrya calls

They waltz past Ser Criston Cole who is working with Aegon, Aemond, Jace, and Luke. Aemond's eyes widen when he sees her out of the castle and standing in the muddy yard.

A monstrous-looking man answers Rhaenrya's call. His mess of curly dark hair has been tied back neatly and he bows as they approach.

"Princess. My Lady." He greets

"This is Ser Harwin Strong, Rhaella. He is Lord Commander of the City Watch." Rhaenrya says "Lady Rhaella wishes to train, the way the Princes do."

Rhaella isn't entirely sure about this Ser Harwin. She expects him to turn her away, mutter something about her being a girl, and for Rhaenrya to tell her to go back to her sewing.

"I'll teach her." He says

Rhaella nearly falls over at his acceptance.

"You will?" She gasps

"It is a request from Princess Rhaenrya herself. I'd be foolish not to accept." He smiles at Rhaella and then Rhaenrya. "Tomorrow we will begin. I expect you to be dressed in something worthy of a great sword fighter."

Rhaella looks down at the silk dress she had been dressed in just hours ago.

"Of course." She smiles

"For today, I want you to go back to the Septa. Sit and do your lessons and tomorrow you can spend as much time as you want with Ser Harwin." Rhaenrya says

Training is harder than she had expected, and a lot dirtier too. The practice swords are so heavy they make her arms ache. It had been three months since Rhaenrya had introduced them and Rhaella was sure she was disappointing Ser Harwin.

"Straighten your arms, plant your feet. Having a strong stance keeps you from being knocked over." Harwin's voice commands as she swings at a straw-filled man, "Jacaerys, you too. You look like a gust of wind might blow you over."

Ser Harwin was tough, Rhaella could tell that he was an experienced fighter. She wanted to do her best under his tutelage but she found herself failing. Perhaps it was because the sword was too heavy, or maybe she didn't like the feel of mud between her fingers. What she did know though was that the sharp eyes of Criston Cole were not helping things. It felt like he was watching her every step whenever she arrived to train. She swore he was also watching Jace and Luke who often were beside her in training.

"Perhaps they cannot carry your orders out simply because they are too weak, Strong," Cole says

"Ignore them, boys, Rhaella. One day you will all be stronger than him." Harwin says

Every bone in her body was aching by the time she got back to her chamber. After working with the swords Harwin had taught them hand-to-hand combat, something he claimed was just as important as working with a sword. The only plus of today was that she had been able to overpower Jace and land a good hit on his side. He'd probably get her back for that one in a few days.

The sound of her door opening had her groaning. She loved Heleana but she did not wish to talk about bugs at this moment

"Heleana might I bathe and then come to visit you I am dirty from training still." She said not bothering to look at the door from her seat at her desk.

"Not only are you dirty but you smell awful."

"Aemond!" She exclaimed and shot up.

She had found herself becoming a bit more self-conscious around the prince in the past few months. She'd often make sure to her hair til it was perfectly silky or spray a bit of sweet-smelling perfume before going to see him. Maester Edric said it was a part of getting older and becoming a woman. Rhaella believed it was because she didn't want him to make fun of her. How could she become a great warrior if she was made fun of by her closest friend?

"We have not spent much time together recently. I thought you might be upset with me." Aemond said walking over to her.

"I am not upset with you." She affirms "After training I am often too tired to move. Not to mention Heleana and I have been spending time together as well."

"Heleana and her bugs can wait, you were my friend first," Aemond declares, sitting down on the end of the bed.

Rhaella lets out a small laugh of amusement at Aemond's possessive tone.

"Your name day is soon right?" He asks

"In a fortnight. I will be 11." She smiles

"You're getting old." Aemond teases

"You'll have your own name day eventually as well. 10 years is a very serious age." She says, trying to sound like an adult

"You're 10 now and you laughed when Luke drank his water too quickly and water spurted out his nose just a week ago." Aemond reminds

"Anyone would've laughed at that!" She defends

Her eyes widen when she sees how her Uncle Viserys has planned to celebrate her name day.

"I do not think a feast is necessary, Uncle." She said

"Of course it is, it is your first name day with family. Tell me have you ever had a grand celebration for your name day?" He asks

Rhaella's mind combs through the name days she can remember. Most of them were spent with cousin Gerold teaching her to hunt or Edric gifting her new perfumes.

"I have not..." She trails off

"Then a true celebration is in order. I have invited many lords and ladies of the kingdom. Even your cousin Gerold has sent word he will be here." Viserys says

"Are you excited for tonight?" Maester Edric asks

Rhaella catches his gaze through the mirror as a handmaid braids her hair.

"I am nervous. I do not know most of the people who will be at this party." She sighs

"You don't need to worry, they are here for you. You should focus on having a good time, this is your first proper name day celebration." He says, "I wish I would have been able to give you a celebration like this when you were younger."

"I don't. Every name day I have spent with you, Gerold, and the staff of Runestone has been perfect." Rhaella admits

The party is as lavish as Viserys had described. Numerous plates of food are piled high with dishes she couldn't even name. Music played as they ate and Rhaella hoped she wouldn't get anything on her dress.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" Viserys asks

"I am, Uncle, thank you." She smiles truthfully

"I used to have feasts like this for Rhaenrya every year on her name day. She asked me to stop after she was married." Viserys reminisced

"I am sure they were wonderful." She says

Supper goes by smoothly as the many guests talk and feast. It is after the food has been devoured that Rhaella can feel herself beginning to sweat. She is sure they expect her to dance or make some big speech, anything that will have all eyes on her.

A sharp tap interrupts her train of thought.

"Do you want one of these? There weren't any on your side of the table." Aemond asks, his hand is out stretched with a delicate-looking pastry in it.

Her glance drops to the table where a large plate full of them rests just within arms reach of her.

Laenor nudges Rhaenrya who sits by his side. His wife had been scolding Luke for eating too quickly and making himself sick.

"I believe Prince Aemond is blushing." He whispers

Rhaenrya follows his gaze to the young children who are staring into each other's eyes.

"He is handing her a pastry," Rhaenrya observes, " He looks....rather foolish."

"His face is red, look at his cheeks and ears." Laenor laughs

Suddenly the young prince's eyes fall on Laenor and he immediately switches his attention to the intricate hairstyle Rhaenrya has donned for the evening.

"Yes, very uh well done, the braids." He mumbles

"Don't tell me you're afraid of a child." Rhaenrya laughs

"Little boys don't like it when people know their crushes. Aemond won't want me knowing his." Laenor says, thinking back to how embarrassed he was when Laena first found out about his crush on his father's cupbearer.

A moment passes and before he knows it, Rhaenrya grabs his arm.

"Looks like you were right." She says

Laenor's eyes follow his wife's and he is surprised when he sees Aemond leading Rhaella, the same nervous little girl who nearly combusted when she tripped in front of him once to the center of the room for a dance.

"Maybe he'll step on her feet." Aegon's disinterested voice carries across the table.

A lively beat starts up and all eyes are on the two children who clumsily try to recall all the dance skills they've learned in their lessons over the years.

"They shouldn't be the only ones down there. Rhaella looks like she's going to faint and Aemond...well he clearly isn't doing well either." Laenor says

He's about to ask his wife to dance for the first time in years when the doors to the hall open wide.

"Gods help us." He hears Alicent murmur.

Rhaella can feel the sweat trickle down her back as Aemond tries to lead her in a dance. She hasn't had many dance lessons but she swore she did better in those than she was now.

The sound of opening doors makes her and Aemond pause. A man and woman, with two young girls behind them, enter the room. Each of them had valyrian features but the man stood out the most.

"Daemon." Her Uncle calls from behind her "I did not think you were coming."

Daemon? As in...

"And miss the first feast thrown in my daughter's honor, on her name day?" His foreign voice fills her ears for the first time ever.

Daemon Targaryen. Her father has shown his face to her for the first time ever.

"Let's go back to the table," Aemond whispers as he grabs her hand to lead her back towards their family.

"Daughter." Daemon calls "You have grown up."

Rhaella feels like someone has stuffed cotton into her mind. She does not know what to do, or how to reply to this man.

Aemond leads her back to the table and she stiffly sits back down.

"Someone bring chairs. Lady Laena must sit down." Ser Lanor's voice makes its way into her mind.

At some point, the pregnant wife of Daemon's sits down, most likely near her brother. Her daughter, those half-sisters Rhaella had heard about many times were in her peripheral vision, as was her father.

"Wonderful party, brother. Truly a worthy display for my eldest." Daemon praises

The room is silent and Rhaella watches as Daemon takes a long sip of wine from the cup a servant brings.

"So, daughter. I'm glad to see you take after me in looks. You look a bit like my mother, Alyssa." He says with a playful smile "Either way I am glad you don't look like that bronzed bitch. If that had happened I'd remained in Pentos."

Brozed bitch? Did he mean your mother? He was speaking ill of your deceased mother?

"Daemon. Enough. This is a night of celebration. You are not here to torment anyone." Viserys speaks up

Daemon shakes his head a bit and laughs before his attention is drawn to Laena.

The music begins again and Rhaella feels like her heart has lept into her throat. So many times she had imagined what it would be like to meet her father. She was told that he was a fierce warrior with a blood-red dragon named Caraxes. Instead of the gallant dragon rider she had expected, she was met with a crude man who clearly shared no love for her mother.

Her eyes were bleary with tears when Edric approached the high table to retrieve her.

"Your Grace, might I take Lady Rhaella back to her chamber. I think tonight's events have been a bit too much for her." He asks

"Yes, I think that is for the best." Visery's words bounce around in her mind as Edric helps her stand.

She locks eyes with Aemond one more time before leaving. His eyes seemed like they were full of pity as he disappeared from her view.

"I'm sorry, my lady. I've spent years filling your head with tales of his heroics. I failed to teach you what a crass man he truly is." Edric softly said

"It is not your fault. It is not anyone's but his own." Rhaella whispered back.

Ewww, cancel Daemon!!

Jk. I love Daemon. He's just going to be a bitch for now. (In true Daemon fashion I guess.)

Anyway sorry if some people seemed a little ooc. I like to Imagine Rhaenrya, Laenor, and Viserys as pretty jolly people, especially towards kids.

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half-of-a-gay · 6 days ago

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Armor Between Us

(NSFW kinda... a little smutty, but not super explicit. I'm not great at writing smut, this is my first time. Just a heads up 😘)

Knight!Sevika x princess!reader

When political corruption, forbidden love, and an old enemy threaten the realm, Sevika must navigate her loyalties, her growing feelings for the princess, and the ghosts of her past to protect everything she holds dear.

Masterlist

Chaper 9

The Weight of Duty and Sin

While the kingdom rejoices while the future queen finds solace in the arms of her knight—not in duty, but in devotion.

---

The great hall had been prepared for his arrival—golden banners draped from the towering pillars, the royal crest shining proudly in the candlelight, tables laden with the finest offerings of the kingdom. The court was alight with eager whispers, nobles craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the man who would soon stand as their king.

The princess stood at the head of it all, poised, unreadable, untouchable. The weight of the crown she did not yet wear pressed against her like iron shackles. She had not wanted this. But she had no choice. For a brief moment, she turned, just enough to meet those familiar grey eyes. Sevika, her anchor in a storm she could not escape. But there was nothing either of them could do now.

A hush fell over the hall as the great doors swung open. He stepped inside, and the world seemed to still.

Lord Edric Vale.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, with golden hair that fell just past his collar in waves, his face sculpted into the very image of nobility. He carried himself with a confidence that was neither arrogant nor humble, but something precisely balanced between.

And his eyes—sharp, assessing, knowing—locked onto hers the moment he entered the room.

He smiled.

The court swooned immediately.

The princess held her ground as he approached, his stride even, unhurried, deliberate. He bowed low, one knee nearly touching the ground, and when he rose, he reached for her hand with the practiced grace of a man who had charmed a thousand women before her.

"My lady," he murmured, his voice smooth as silk, brushing his lips lightly over her knuckles. "It is an honor to stand before you again."

The princess did not tremble, did not pull away. She only watched him, unblinking, unreadable. "The honor is mine, my lord," she answered coolly.

The court watched them with rapture. The perfect match. A golden prince and a future queen, standing before them like figures in a fabled painting.

Sevika, standing just behind her, did not move. Did not blink. But her hands curled into fists behind her back.

Over the following days, Lord Edric played his part to perfection. He never pushed. Never overstepped.

Where other noblemen might have seized her waist or whispered sweet nothings with the assumption that they were owed something, Edric only watched her carefully, offering only as much as she would take.

He was polite, intelligent, and charming. He spoke of the kingdom, of its people, of his admiration for her mind, her strength, the stories he had heard of her. He let her speak first, let her dictate the pace of their conversations.

And yet—she hated every second of it.

She hated the way he looked at her like he was studying her, like she was something to be unraveled. She hated the way his voice was always smooth, his words always measured. There was no warmth there. No real care. Just patience. Calculating, endless patience.

And patience was what set him apart from the rest.

The princess, despite herself, felt a strange sense of relief. He was not repulsive, not a brute who would demand things of her. If she had to wed, if she had to submit to this future, at least it was to a man who appeared to be reasonable.

But Edric was not a fool.

He watched everything. Not just her—but the people around her.

He saw how she steeled herself before every meeting with him. He saw how her shoulders only ever relaxed in the presence of one person.

Sevika.

At first, he thought nothing of it. The princess’s knight was fiercely loyal—that much was obvious. She stood closer than she should, watched too carefully, tensed every time he moved near the princess. But he had seen this before. A well-trained hound, protective of its master.

It was nothing overt. Nothing he could name outright. But it was there—a familiarity, a quiet intensity that did not belong in courtly formality. At first, he dismissed it. Perhaps it was just loyalty. Perhaps the princess simply trusted her knight more than others.

But the longer he watched, the more it began to gnaw at him.

Too many glances. Too many silences charged with something unspoken. Too much… closeness. And while he couldn’t yet put his finger on it, Edric was beginning to suspect that Sir Sevika was not merely a guard. She was something else entirely.

Still, he said nothing. He kept playing his part and he kept watching.

And as the palace bustled with preparations for the wedding, and courtiers whispered of blooming affection between princess and suitor, Edric simply smiled—charming, polite, patient—while quietly, his eyes never left the knight and the princess.

And behind closed doors, far from prying eyes, Sevika and the princess were unraveling entirely, while silk was being measured, gold thread stitched into ceremonial gowns and nobles whispered behind fans about the most anticipated royal wedding in decades. But in the center of it all stood the princess—distant, and utterly disinterested. She had not spoken much of the wedding preparations. She let the seamstresses take her measurements and the court advisors drone on, but her eyes often drifted toward the door. Toward Sevika.

Sevika, who lingered just outside the threshold more often these days, half-shadow and half-ghost.

That evening, the princess retreated early to her chambers, exhausted by the weight of everyone else's expectations. The air in her room was still, quiet, and blessedly empty—until a quiet knock broke the silence.

She already knew who it would be.

“Come in,” she said softly.

The heavy door swung open. She had expected a servant there to discuss more plans for the wedding.

But it was the king. Clad in his deep crimson court robes, his golden signet rings catching the candlelight, he walked in with the slow, deliberate gait of someone who came not to speak, but to gloat. The princess didn’t bow. She stood tall, chin high, even as her stomach turned with unease.

“My dear,” he said, voice slick with mock affection, “I thought I’d find you here, brooding in the shadows while the servants string garlands and the kitchens roast for your celebration.”

She said nothing.

He took another step inside, surveying the room, the gown laid carefully across the dressing screen, the bouquet on the table—a quiet reminder of everything that was being taken from her.

“You should be smiling,” he continued smoothly. “After all, you’ve secured such a promising match. Edric is strong, well-bred, admired by the court… and patient, from what I hear.” He turned, eyes narrowing slightly. “A rare virtue, given how difficult you’ve made things.”

The king stepped closer, his gaze cold despite the polite curl of his lips. “You should be grateful, daughter. Some women would kill for such a match. And here you are, sulking like a child denied her favorite toy.”

“I didn’t ask for this match,” she said quietly.

“And yet you’ll have it.” His smile sharpened. “Your duty is not to ask—it is to serve the crown and your people.”

She turned her face away, afraid of what might escape her tongue if she kept looking at him. The king’s voice dropped, the steel beneath the velvet now unmistakable. “Play your part well, daughter. Smile. Obey. Breed heirs. Keep the people entertained with your kindness while Edric handles the rest. That is what queens are for.”

He looked around the room once more, then turned back to the door. “Your groom awaits.”

And then he was gone.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence that followed was deafening. The princess didn’t move. Her throat burned, her fists trembling at her sides. She had held her composure, but now the anger clawed at her chest, raw and choking.

She didn’t hear the second set of footsteps until the door opened again—more urgent this time.

“Your Highness,” came the low, familiar voice. Sevika stepped in frantically. “I know I shouldn’t have—” she started, her voice tight with restraint, “Did he hurt you?”

The princess didn’t answer at first. She turned to Sevika slowly, her eyes distant, defeated. “No. He just said what he always says. That I should smile, open my legs, breed an heir, and pretend it’s a privilege.” The words sat bitter on her tongue, and her voice cracked with the weight of them.

Sevika’s expression twisted—rage simmering beneath the surface. She stepped forward, reaching up with her gloved hand, cupping the princess’s face. Her thumb brushed along her cheek, as if to smooth away the filth of those words.

“He’s vile,” Sevika muttered, almost growling. “He doesn’t deserve to speak your name, let alone decide your future.”

The princess leaned into her touch, her breathing shallow. Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment. “You truly are the only thing keeping me sane,” she whispered. “I swear, Sevika… without you, I would have lost my mind.”

Sevika swallowed hard, her hand still cradling the side of her face, her fingers slipping slightly into her hair. She was so close now—so impossibly close. The princess tilted her head, eyes finding Sevika’s again. Their lips met without hesitation this time. The kiss was hot, hungry—fueled by the fresh sting of another man daring to claim what Sevika had never truly allowed herself to reach for. The princess melted into her, fingers curling around Sevika’s collar, dragging her closer, chasing more.

“You’re mine,” Sevika murmured before she could stop herself—more breath than words, but the truth was there, stripped bare in her voice. “You’re not his. You never will be.”

Sevika’s other hand found the princess’s waist, gripping hard—possessive, desperate. She kissed her like she was trying to erase Edric’s touch from her skin, to stake a claim she could never say aloud. She kissed her like it was the last time she’d ever get the chance.

The princess moaned softly into her mouth as Sevika pushed her back gently against the nearest wall, her hands wandering now—sliding down her waist, over her hips and lower still.. Her fingers pressed through layers of fabric, not delicate, but needing. The princess gasped, arching into her, fingers tugging at the leather straps of Sevika’s chest plate like she needed to feel more of her, to have something solid under her hands.

Sevika kissed along her jaw, her hand sliding up again to palm the curve of her breast through her gown—rough, reverent, hungry. “He looks at you like you already belong to him,” she muttered against her throat, lips brushing her pulse. “Like he’s already won.”

“He hasn’t,” the princess whispered. “Neither of them will.”

Sevika’s teeth scraped gently against her skin at that, and her grip tightened. She hated herself for how good it felt to hear that—how much she needed it. She kissed her again, like the taste of her was the only way to quiet the riot in her mind. And the princess gave back everything—matching her pace, chasing her breath. Her hands roamed with more confidence now, like she had decided if the world was going to end, she’d go out worshiping the woman she loved.

The princess’s hands tangled themself in Sevika’s hair as if afraid she’d vanish and this had all been a figment of her imagination.

But Sevika didn’t vanish. She sank to her knees instead.

The princess froze, her breath hitching as Sevika looked up at her from where she knelt, her hands reverent on the fabric of her skirts. There was something wild in her eyes—hungry, desperate, but above all, devoted. It wasn’t lust alone—it was worship, adoration and need. “Let me,” Sevika rasped, voice ragged, her hands gripping the fabric tighter. “Please. Let me have you, my darling.”

The princess’s heart stuttered at the name—so soft, on Sevika’s tongue—and she nodded without a word, her hand reaching for her, fingers brushing through her hair again.

Sevika wasted no time. Her hands were steady as they bunched the princess’s gown higher, inch by inch, revealing more of the soft skin she had only ever dared to touch in her dreams. She moved like someone handling something sacred, her breath catching each time another inch of skin was bared.

She didn’t rush.

She leaned in slowly, pressing a kiss just above the princess’s knee—a soft, reverent thing that made the princess’s breath stutter. Then another, higher this time. Sevika’s lips moved in a trail up her inner thigh, slow and deliberate, as though she were memorizing her with every brush of her mouth. Her calloused hands held her gently, thumbs stroking against delicate skin, grounding them both.

Each kiss was a vow—tender, possessive, worshipful.

She tasted her like she was something holy, her lips dragging slowly along every inch of newly exposed flesh, as if she were imprinting her devotion there. The princess’s hands twisted in the sheets, her body trembling beneath the weight of that worship.

When Sevika reached the soft curve where thigh met hip, she paused—looking up at the princess one last time, her breath warm against her skin.

And then she gave in completely.

The princess gasped, as Sevika lowered her mouth onto her—hot, unrelenting, reverent. Her head fell back against the stone wall as pleasure surged through her, unfamiliar and overwhelming. Her hands flew to Sevika’s shoulders, holding on like she might come apart. Sevika worked with relentless focus and worshipful hunger, like she was trying to carve her name into the princess’s body with her mouth alone.

It was all too much. And not nearly enough. She whispered Sevika’s name like a prayer, again and again, until the world blurred at the edges. Her breath came faster now—ragged and shallow, her fingers clenching in the fabric of her dress as Sevika continued her slow, worshipful work. Her thighs trembled, drawn taut around Sevika’s shoulders, the heat building so sharply it was nearly unbearable.

Sevika held her steady, strong hands gripping her hips with just enough pressure to anchor her. Her mouth moved with purpose now, each stroke of her tongue deliberate, coaxing rather than demanding, relentless in its reverence. She worked with aching precision—reading the tremors in the princess’s body, chasing every sigh, every gasp, every shift of her hips like she was following sacred instructions.

The princess’s head tipped back, lips parted, a soft moan escaping her—breathless and broken. Her pulse thundered in her ears, the world blurring at the edges, nothing real except the sensation of Sevika’s mouth between her legs, the cold press of metal from Sevika’s armor against her thighs heightening every brush of tongue and breath.

Her hands flew to Sevika’s hair, fingers tangling there, not to guide but to hold on—to ground herself in something solid as the wave built higher, sharper. She was unraveling beneath her knight’s touch, every nerve pulled taut with an aching need.

Sevika had found that perfect rhythm to make the princess shatter. Her breath caught, body arching, a cry escaping her lips—raw, helpless. Her thighs clenched, trembling around Sevika’s head, her hands tightening in her hair as pleasure surged through her, sharp and molten and all-consuming. She rode the wave with a desperate gasp, her body pulsing in Sevika’s hands, in her mouth, every thought drowned in the white-hot bloom of release.

She didn’t come down gently. She sank into it, trembling and breathless, every inch of her boneless with satisfaction. Sevika held her through the aftershocks—gentle now, kissing her through the slow ebb of sensation, the soft press of her lips a balm to the fire she had kindled.

When the princess’s body finally stilled, Sevika eased back, her breath unsteady, her lips still tinged with her devotion. Their eyes met—something silent passing between them in that moment.

Then Sevika leaned up, kissed the inside of her mound once more tenderly, before finally standing up. Carefully, she helped the princess out of the heavy layers of her gown, trailing kisses along her collarbone and shoulder. She gathered her into her arms and carried her to the bed like something fragile and precious. She laid her down gently, pressing one last kiss to her forehead.

“My little Swallow,” she murmured, her voice rough with emotion, “what have you done to me?”

The princess barely stirred—eyes half-lidded, a dazed, blissful smile on her lips.

Sevika stood, her movements reluctant. “Sleep,” Sevika said softly, voice low and thick. “I’ll be just outside.”

Before slipping out the door to take up her post, she paused at the threshold, stealing one last glance at the woman sleeping soundly in the golden spill of candlelight.

She would guard her always. Even if she could never truly have her.

—

The next morning, as she slowly roused from sleep, she lay still for a moment—wrapped in warmth and in memory. The space beside her was empty, as she had known it would be. But her body still tingled with the ghost of Sevika’s hands, her lips, the feeling of her between her thighs, the heat of her mouth and the cool press of armor against her skin. She turned onto her side, burying her face into the pillow with a breathless sound—half sigh, half muffled laughter. A foolish little smile pulled at her lips. Her cheeks were warm with remembered pleasure, her body still humming with it. She pressed her legs together, savoring the slow ache that bloomed between them.

It had been real. Every kiss. Every moan. Every whispered word against her skin.

She curled a little tighter into herself, as if trying to keep the memory close, to press it deeper into her bones. Gods, she hadn’t known it could feel like that—with Sevika, everything had felt like worship, like surrender, like something just shy of holy.

Her hand slipped beneath her pillow, searching. Her fingers closed around smooth wood.

She pulled it out slowly, the carved swallow warm from where it had slept beside her. She rolled it in her palm, smiling as her thumb traced the shape of its wings, the delicate lines of its tiny body. Sevika’s handiwork—rough, imperfect, beloved. She clutched it to her chest, exhaling softly. For one beautiful moment, she let herself believe it was hers to keep. That Sevika was hers to keep.

But then her gaze shifted—to the far side of the room, where her wedding gown had been laid out across the chaise. Ivory silk and heavy brocade, laced with gold thread and pearl beading. The weight of a kingdom stitched into its seams. The dress looked more like a shroud than anything else.

The warmth in her chest curdled.

She looked down at the swallow in her hand, suddenly trembling. It felt fragile now—too fragile to protect her from what waited just beyond these doors.

Her fingers curled tighter around it. She would carry it with her. Hidden in the folds of her dress or clutched tightly in her hand, somewhere no one could take it from her.

A reminder.

Of who she was before this day. Of who she still was beneath the crown they would force onto her head.

There was a knock at the chamber doors.

“Your Highness,” came a muffled voice, one of her ladies-in-waiting. “Preparations have begun. The dressers are waiting.”

She stared at the door for a long, heavy moment. Then she stood. It was time.

—

It was the wedding day and the palace buzzed like a hive. A celebration and Sevika could feel the weight of it crushing her from the inside out. She had stood guard in silence for years—unseen, unnoticed. But never had it felt so suffocating. She stood near the great stairwell, just close enough to hear the tolling of preparations from the ballroom, far enough to be forgotten. Her armor was polished to a shine, her sword belted at her hip, her posture perfect. Just another guard on duty.

But inside, she was unraveling.

Her throat ached with words she could not speak. Every step someone took toward the chapel was a drumbeat counting down the final moments before Sevika lost her for good.

She thought of last night—the way the princess had tasted, the way she’d gasped against her mouth, how she'd clung to her like she was the only thing in the world anchoring her to it. And now, she would be married to someone else before the day’s light faded.

She didn’t regret what they had done—gods, she couldn’t. But it made everything worse. It made the ache sharper, the jealousy colder, the guilt heavier. She had touched something she could never truly keep, and now it was being handed to someone else.

Lord Edric.

Sevika’s stomach turned at the name.

Polished, charming, clever. The perfect suitor. The perfect husband.

He had played his part well—Sevika would give him that. He had gained the court’s favor, spoken of duty and legacy as though he gave a damn about either. But Sevika had seen the gleam in his eyes when he looked at the princess. Not reverence, not love. It was possession.

And still—still—he would win. Because Sevika had nothing to offer her but devotion whispered in the dark and the calluses of war-worn hands.

She shifted her weight, rolling her shoulders under the tension locked there. Her gaze turned toward the far corridor—the one that led to the princess’s chambers.

Was she dressed by now? Was she looking in the mirror, forced into silk and pearls, thinking of Sevika’s mouth on her skin the night before?

Or was the world already pulling her away?

Sevika couldn’t breathe. She wanted to run to her. To fall at her feet and tell her to stop this, to run away, to damn the throne and every cursed tradition that came with it.

But she didn’t. She stayed where she was.

Because this wasn’t a story where the knight got the princess. It never was. Not for someone like her. Not when the entire kingdom stood watching.

And still—

Her heart beat only for her. Even now as the bells began to ring.

The deep, echoing toll vibrated through the stone walls of the palace, a call that summoned every noble tongue and titled head to the grand chapel. The doors were thrown open, and the scent of lilies and incense wafted through the air like smoke from a pyre.

The princess stood in the antechamber, just behind the heavy chapel doors, flanked by handmaidens in pale satin and attendants adjusting the long, ornate train of her gown. The silk shimmered with every breath she took. Gold embroidery curled like ivy along the hem and bodice, stitched in the likeness of the royal crest. Her hair was woven with delicate pearls, twisted into a crown of delicate white flowers. But she barely felt any of it. Her hands, hidden beneath the folds of the gown’s wide sleeves, were clenched around the small wooden swallow. Rough wood, worn smooth at the wings from how often she had held it. Sevika’s carving—her gift. Her promise.

Now, as the music began, as the doors opened and a thousand eyes turned toward her—she held onto it like a lifeline. She didn’t look at the guests. She looked only ahead, past the gilded archway at the end of the aisle, past the towering altar draped in banners.

She looked for her.

Sevika stood at the side of the chapel, clad in her polished armor, stationed precisely where the king had placed her—close enough to be seen, far enough to keep her in her place. She stood rigid, but her eyes found the princess the moment the doors opened.

And the princess saw it—that flicker of something, just beneath the surface. Pain. Admiration. Longing.

The princess took her first step forward. Every movement of her feet down the aisle felt heavier than the last. Like her body knew it was walking toward something final. Something that would take everything from her and call it duty.

She gripped the wooden swallow tighter. Its edges bit into her palm, grounding her.

She didn’t look at Edric. She didn’t want to see the satisfaction on his face, the polished smile he wore so easily now that the crown was nearly in reach. She didn’t want to see the man who would soon have the right to touch her, to claim her, to stand beside her in public while Sevika was forced to stand in the shadows.

No.

Her eyes stayed on Sevika.

And Sevika’s stayed on her.

The moment stretched unbearably as she approached the altar, her hand trembling slightly beneath the weight of her gown and the hidden token she refused to part with. She held the carved swallow even as she took her place beside Edric. She kept it in her fingers even as the priest began to speak.

Even as vows were exchanged, and golden rings brought forward on velvet cushions.

She didn’t let go.

And when she said “I do,” her voice rang clear not for Edric, not for the crown—but for the woman watching her from the shadows.

The woman she loved. The woman who carved her birds from wood and kissed her like she was something holy.

The ceremony ended in cheers and applause, petals thrown like blessings, the throne’s future secured. The kingdom rejoiced.

And the princess smiled through her tears, as she was expected to. But beneath her silk sleeves, her fingers still curled around the wooden bird. She held it like a promise she refused to let the world take from her.

—

After the wedding, the feast had stretched late into the night. The laughter still echoed in the grand halls.

But the princess could barely breathe.

She sat alone in her chambers now, the last of her attendants dismissed, her wedding gown exchanged for a lighter nightdress, her hair loosed and falling in gentle waves. And still, she felt trapped.

Her heart thundered in her chest.

Any moment now, she expected the door to open. For Edric to arrive or to summon her to him. To claim what was now “his,” as if her body had become part of his dowry.

Her palms were sweating. Her throat tight.

She couldn't do it. She didn’t want his hands on her. She didn’t want his lips. She didn’t want to pretend. Her body didn’t belong to him—it never had.

Without thinking, she rose, slipping her feet into soft shoes and wrapping herself in a cloak. Every movement was quick, quiet, instinctual.

She had no destination in mind at first. Only the unbearable urge to escape. But her feet knew where to take her. Down the servants’ stairwell, through the quiet stone corridors of the east wing, past the flickering torches. Until she reached the place she had no right to be—the wing where the guards and knights resided.

It was a miracle she remained unseen. It had seemed Sevika was the only other person in the castle not occupied by the wedding feast.

Her heart was pounding by the time she reached Sevika’s door. Her hand trembled as she raised it. She knocked.

Then, the door opened.

Sevika stood there, eyes shadowed with surprise and concern. She was in a linen shirt and loose trousers, half-dressed for rest, her armor nowhere in sight. Her hair was down for once, slightly tousled from the day’s duties.

The princess’s voice cracked. “I couldn’t stay there.”

Sevika’s brows drew together. “Did he—?”

“No,” she interrupted softly. “Not yet. But he will. I just… I couldn’t. I didn’t want him to touch me.”

Sevika’s shoulders dropped slightly, her jaw tense, her body already moving aside to let her in. The door clicked shut behind her. Sevika pulled her into her embrace instantly, holding her close, steadying her trembling form. Her hands curled around the princess’s waist, one rising instinctively to cradle the back of her head. She said nothing, just anchored her there, letting the princess press her face into her chest.

“I couldn’t stay,” the princess whispered after a long moment. “I couldn’t bear it.”

“I know,” Sevika murmured, her voice low, rough with tenderness. “I know.”

The princess didn’t need to say anything about the marriage, or of what the court would expect of her tonight.

What mattered had already passed between them the night before—quiet and sacred.Not just the claiming of a body, but something far deeper. Her choice. Her trust. Her heart. That truth lingered between them like a secret vow.

“I just needed you,” she said quietly, lifting her face to meet Sevika’s gaze. “Only you.”

Sevika exhaled shakily, her forehead resting briefly against hers. “You have me.”

Sevika cupped her face in her hands, their lips meeting softly at first—a slow, searching kiss that carried none of the heat from the night before, but something deeper. Something sweeter. Something sure. Sevika’s thumbs brushed just beneath her eyes, grounding them both. And the princess melted into her.

Her hands moved instinctively, gliding over Sevika’s broad shoulders. She'd touched her before but not like this. Never with Sevika so bare to her, without layers of steel and duty between them.

The fabric beneath her palms was soft, worn thin in places, and it clung to the muscle beneath it. Her fingers traced the curve of her shoulders, the heat of her skin seeping through the shirt. She wanted more.

Her hands slipped lower, tentative at first, memorizing the shape of her, the way her chest rose and fell beneath her fingers. The kiss deepened, slow and molten, and the princess felt Sevika’s breath catch when her fingertips brushed over her sensitive brests.

She moved without thinking, hands dipping beneath the hem of the shirt, seeking more. But the fabric was in the way, keeping her from her goal. Frustrated by the barrier, her hands fumbled at the laces blindly between kisses, tugging them loose with a quiet urgency.

Sevika broke the kiss to help her, chuckling low in her throat as the princess grew impatient. “Easy, little bird,” she murmured, her voice warm and hoarse.

“I want you,” the princess breathed, her fingers still working. “Now.”

Sevika let her take the shirt, lifting her arms slightly so the fabric could be pulled over her head and tossed aside. And then she stood before her—bare from the waist up, the firelight painting golden shadows across skin and scars.

The princess stared, breath caught in her throat.

This was the first time she had truly seen Sevika. Her gaze swept across her full chest, her shoulders, the scattered marks and faded wounds carved by years of battle. She noticed the way one arm held far more muscle than the other, how the injured side was leaner, the muscle faded from disuse and pain. But she didn’t see weakness. She saw survival. She saw the story etched into her skin—the price of devotion, the burden of loyalty, the life Sevika had lived in service to everyone but herself.

Her fingers reached forward, slow and reverent, brushing over a long scar across Sevika’s ribs. Then another, near her collarbone. She traced the difference between both arms with gentle care, her lips parting like she wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words.

“You’re beautiful,” she said softly instead.

Sevika flinched, almost imperceptibly. Her eyes dropped, jaw tight. “Don’t say that,” she murmured. “Not when you’re looking at this.”

The princess leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the center of Sevika’s chest—just over her heart. She tilted her head back up, looking into her gray eyes “Especially when I’m looking at this.”

Sevika swallowed hard.

“You carry every mark with dignity,” the princess said. “You’ve never hidden them from me. Don’t start now. Let me see all of you, Sevika.”

And then she leaned in again, lips brushing over the curve of her shoulder, then lower, kissing a faded scar with reverence. A trail of affection and acceptance. She didn’t shy away from the asymmetry, didn’t flinch at the worn muscle or the jagged lines. If anything, she loved her more for it.

Sevika closed her eyes, breath trembling. She let out a slow breath, as if trying to steady herself, but each time the princess kissed her—slow and sure, lips brushing softly against her jaw, her neck—she crumbled just a little more.

The princess pressed close, her hands still resting on Sevika’s bare waist, her thumbs brushing slow, lazy circles into her skin. She kissed her way down the column of Sevika’s throat, pausing to feel the way her pulse quickened beneath her lips. Sevika’s hands flexed at her sides, uncertain, overwhelmed. But she didn’t pull away.

When the princess reached her chest, she paused, looking up. Her eyes met Sevika’s—dark and stormy, vulnerable in a way they rarely were.

Sevika nodded, as if reading the princess's question from her mind.

The princess dipped her head again, kissing slowly across the curve of her breast, her mouth gentle, reverent. Her hands followed, gliding along the taut lines of Sevika’s torso, her ribs, the subtle curve of her waist. She took her time—worshiping with lips and touch, savoring every reaction Sevika gave her. Every hitch of breath. Every tremble of muscle.

Her lips trailed lower, her hands sliding to cup the back of Sevika’s thighs and pull her trousers down to let her step out of them. She pressed a kiss just below her navel, and Sevika let out a quiet, shaky sound—a sound that made the princess's heart tighten with want. The princess wanted Sevika to feel how deeply she was wanted. Not in spite of her scars. Because of them. Because every mark told the story of how fiercely she had lived, how fiercely she had protected—and now, how fiercely she was loved.

The princess kissed her way back up slowly, trailing her mouth along the knight’s side, her ribs, her collarbone, before reaching her mouth again. When she finally pushed Sevika back into the bed, easing her down with a tenderness that made her heart ache, she climbed over her, straddling her hips and taking in the sight of her—flushed, breathless, bare.

It was the first time Sevika had ever looked so undone beneath her.

Sevika’s breath was trembling now, her head tipped back, fingers buried in the sheets behind her for something to hold onto.

Their lips met once more, deeper now. The princess’s hands roam freely over Sevika’s body, exploring every inch with reverence and growing hunger. She shifted, letting her thigh press between Sevika’s legs, drawing a sharp gasp from the older woman. Sevika clutched at her waist, trembling.

“You’re shaking,” the princess whispered between kisses.

“You’re cruel,” Sevika rasped back, her voice low, thick with emotion and arousal.

The princess only smiled—bold and wicked and adoring all at once. And she kissed her—again and again, until Sevika was gasping her name against her lips, until every inch of her skin felt claimed and cherished.

Sevika had never felt so bare. Never felt so wanted. Not like this.

They moved together slowly at first, a rhythm of reverence and aching tenderness.. The princess guided Sevika down with her, their bodies pressed close beneath the dim light, warm skin against skin.

The princess shifted, rising slightly to tug the nightgown over her head. She bared herself without hesitation, like offering a gift meant only for Sevika to see.

Sevika stared for a heartbeat, breath caught in her throat, as if the sight had undone something deep inside her. Her hands trembled slightly as they reached for the princess, tracing the slope of her collarbone, the softness of her curves, the steady rise and fall of her breath.

“You’re beautiful,” she murmured hoarsely, almost reverent.

Their mouths met again, hungrier this time, lips parting with gasps and sighs. The princess moved against her, slow at first, letting her body find Sevika’s. The warmth of her pressed down, and Sevika’s hands found her hips instinctively, gripping her tight as she guided their rhythm—rocking, grinding, rolling together in a breathless wave of tension and want.

Their bodies found a rhythm, hips moving in tandem, breath tangling in the small space between their mouths. The princess whimpered softly, her forehead pressed to Sevika’s, her nails dragging down her back, needing more, needing all of her. Sevika groaned low and deep, hands trailing the princess’s waist, fingers splayed wide against her skin.

The friction built with each movement—slow, steady, devastating. Sevika’s composure unraveled thread by thread, until there was nothing left but the feel of the princess’s body rocking against hers, the wet heat of her pressed close, the overwhelming pleasure winding tighter and tighter in her core.

Their bodies slid and tangled, slick with sweat and need, the princess riding the edge of her own pleasure. Their moans grew softer, breathier—Sevika’s hands splayed at her hips, guiding her as she moved, as their mouths met in frantic kisses and the world narrowed to the ache between them.

And when it finally crashed through her like a storm Sevika’s back arched, her breath caught in her throat, her fingers digging into the princess’s skin as her release hit. The princess followed her over the edge, trembling and gasping in Sevika’s arms, her lips parted in a quiet cry, her whole body clinging to her like she was the only solid thing in the world.

They stayed like that, chests rising and falling in ragged unison, foreheads pressed together, lips brushing gently in the afterglow.

Sevika reached up, brushing damp hair from the princess’s cheek, her voice barely audible. “You ruin me,” she whispered.

The princess only smiled, eyes soft and heavy-lidded with affection. “Good,” she breathed, kissing her again—slow and lingering.

For a long time, they simply lay like that—quiet, hearts still racing, libs tangled together beneath the soft flicker of candlelight.

The princess reached toward the nightstand absentmindedly, intending to grab the water pitcher—and paused.

Her hand froze mid-reach.

Because there, neatly folded and placed within reach, was the handkerchief. The one she’d given Sevika all those months ago.

Her heart clenched. “You still have this?”

Sevika turned her head, the tips of her ears flushed. “Of course I do.”

The princess lifted it gently, running her fingers across the stitching. “You left it out.”

Sevika hesitated. “I… was thinking of you. Of you and him. I couldn’t stand it.”

The princess looked down at her, a soft smile curving her lips. “Do you… hold it? When you think of me?”

Sevika looked away, flustered. “Sometimes.”

The princess's heart melted. She leaned down, kissed her shoulder, and whispered, “I do the same with the swallow.”

Sevika looked back at her, startled.

“I kept it with me,” the princess murmured. “I held it when I walked down the aisle. … Because it was you I wanted,” the princess said softly, cupping her face again. “It’s always been you.”

Sevika closed her eyes, holding her tighter. The candlelight flickered gently in the silence between them.

And for a moment, despite the crown she wore and the vows she’d been forced to make—she was free.

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

Taglist: @imheadintothemountains @meow8119273 @theflyingforklift @Boom58 @kittyk-14 @theuclid @lovesickdreamer @thesevi0lentsdelights @furrytaesss @Jiungmcvv @clydethesnake

#arcane sevika #sevika #sevika x reader #sevika x y/n #sevika x you #sevika arcane #knight sevika

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queenofcats17 · 14 days ago

Note

either of the Eds: 💥 COLLISON, 🎂 BIRTHDAY CAKE, 🌌 MILKY WAY, 👑 CROWN

I will do both!

💥 COLLISON - what emotions do they have trouble dealing with?

I feel like the emotion Edith struggles with the most is anger. Fear is the emotion that's taken over most of her life, but it's her anger that she's afraid of. She knows she directed her anger towards people who didn't deserve it prior to the whole doll thing and thus tries not to get angry because she doesn't want to go back to being the person she was before.

I feel like Edric might also struggle with anger. He doesn't view his potential anger as a positive thing and tries very hard not to feel or express it because he doesn't want to hurt anyone.

🎂 BIRTHDAY CAKE - when is their birthday? do they like celebrating it?

I haven't decided on a birthday for Edith. I think she loved celebrating it before the whole doll thing, but... well... not so much anymore. Maybe once she feels safe again she can get back to celebrating it.

Given the nature of his "birth", Edric doesn't really know his birthday or really have one.

🌌 MILKY WAY - what was the inspiration behind your oc? what was the first thing you decided about them?

I can't entirely remember other than I thought it would be fun to have a girl turned into a guy doll. And then I kinda worked backward from there. I wanted to justify the whole prince-theming so I came up with the throwaway comment at the ball thing.

I remember deciding almost immediately that Edith was kind of spoiled and haughty, which morphed into a distrust of others.

And I decided pretty quickly that Edric would be more boisterous and outgoing, but also much kinder and more open to helping others.

👑 CROWN - what does your oc want to be remembered as? why?

I think Edric wants to be remembered as a good and kind protector who did everything he could to help others. His whole purpose is to protect and help, after all. And he wants very badly to do a good job at it.

Edith just wants to be remembered fondly... She knows she was kind of awful prior to the whole doll thing and just... hopes there are people out there who have some kind of happy memories of her.

#ask meme #edith gray #prince edric

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starogeorgina · 8 months ago

Text

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐮𝐬

Pairing: Criston Cole x reader

Warnings: Swearing

1.05

The air had an uneasy atmosphere to it. Raya, who usually spoke in length about anything she found interesting, from a book she read to the sudden change in weather, was uncharacteristically quiet while braiding your hair.

“Is something wrong?”

She slows her actions down but doesn’t say anything. The dark hair hanging in front of her face did little to hide the worried expression she held.

“We’ve been by each other’s side for some time; you can tell me if something is displeasing you. If someone has upset you, I’ll not think twice about feeding them to Lady.”

Raya chuckles softly before shaking her head. Sighing, she says, “As you know, I take no part in idle gossip, but while breaking fast, I overheard some things I wish to share with you, so you are prepared.”

“Prepared?” You glance over your shoulder at Raya. “Prepared for what?”

“The Hightowers. As you know, Otto Hightower's brother Hobert and his wife Lynesse have traveled from old town, and Lady Lynesse has brought her own handmaidens. They were gossiping this morning about you and Prince Daemon.”

“What about my uncle?” You gasp, “I don’t understand why mine or Daemon’s name would be coming out of their mouths.”

“The Hightowers in old town are implying Prince Daemon was inappropriate with you,” Raya lowers her head. “Forgive me if I’ve overstepped, princess.”

Gently, you take her hand in yours and say, “You haven’t; what did they say?”

“They were saying the two of you have been seen walking together alone in the gardens of the keep. They also mentioned how suspicious it is that you aren’t with child yet.”

“Gods,” you scoff. “I spoke to my uncle once in the garden, with Ser Criston and Meera there. They are trying to slander me the same way they did Rhaenyra.”

“In the north, they would be punished for saying such slanderous things. I didn’t want to upset you, princess; I know how sad you’ve been since Lord Edric’s passing.”

“Thank you for telling me,” you say sincerely. “As for not being with child… I have questioned it myself. I have started to worry that myself and Gwayne aren’t compatible. I spoke with the maester the other day, and he had the audacity to suggest the issue lay with me.”

Raya motions for you to spin back around so she can continue the braid. “Well, we know you can bear children; what if it’s Ser Gwayne that cannot?”

“Regardless, it would be my fault, as I’m the woman. How would it be possible for me to know?”

“Men like your husband, who favors women from pillow houses, often have bastards.”

“How would I find out? I don’t imagine he would tell me if he knew.”

“Do you know anyone you trust who frequents there?” She laughs. “Perhaps one of Otto’s spies could tell you.”

You smile at hearing the playful tone return to her voice. However, Raya’s words had started to grow roots, and a bad idea springs to mind.”

—

“You seem lost in thought.”

“Hm,” you suddenly snap out of your daydream and see Rhaenyra looking up at you, concerned. “Sorry, I was somewhere else. What were you saying?”

“Jacaerys hasn’t been sleeping well, but it seems he’s rather settled now,” she smiles.

You continue rubbing soothing circles on the young boy's back while gently rocking him. Lucerys sits on a fur rug by Rhaenyra’s side, playing with his toys. “Meera was the same at his age; she went through a phase of not sleeping, and it lasted until the last of her teeth grew in.”

Rhaenyra brushes strands of Lucerys dark hair out of his face, saying, “There’s nothing worse than seeing your children in pain and not being able to help them.”

“I know; it truly is a helpless feeling.”

“It's much like not being able to help your sister when she’s unhappy.” She watches proudly as Luke stacks blocks on top of one another before knocking them down with his hand. Motherhood has truly changed her; you’d never seen your sister so happy when with her sons.

You hesitate for a moment. “You could possibly help me, but I don’t think you’ll like it.”

“Name it, and whatever it is shall be done.”

Quietly, you say, “I need you to draw me a map of how to reach the street of silk.”

The look she gives you... Rhaenyra looks beautiful and terrifying. A fearful mother about to scorn her child for being so reckless—the look your own mother used to give her. “And why on earth would you need that?”

“I need to speak with the madam of the brothel Gwayne frequently visits,” you say in a tone that’s barely above a whisper. “I need to know if he’s fathered any children.”

“Sister, I must—”

“Please, Nyra, you told me you’ve been before. I can’t trust anyone to do it for me, and I need to know if he can have children.” You sniffle a little before saying, “There is gossip that I cannot bear another child. I just need to know what I’m dealing with.”

She lets out a long sigh, “Fine. But only because I know you’re going to do it regardless of what I say.”

—

Tucking Meera into bed, you brush strands of hair out of her face. “Goodnight, sweetling.”

She pulls the blanket up closer to her face; her pale cheeks have a red tint to them, as they always did when she fought sleep. “Why aren’t you going to sleep?”

“I need to go see your aunt Rhaenyra, but I won’t be gone too long.”

“I’ll stay up.”

“No, you will not,” you chuckle before placing a soft kiss on her forehead. “I don’t want you to fall asleep during your lessons in the morrow, Raya will be here until I return. I love you, sweetling. Now go to sleep.”

Meera closes her eyes, and you quietly walk over to the door to leave. Rhaenyra had already drawn you a map and left clothes for you to change into in the hidden passage you’d be leaving through. It was reckless venturing out alone, but you needed to do it. Not because you really cared about Gwayne’s having bastards or not, but for your daughter. If the Hightowers thought you were barren, you wouldn’t put it past them to try and replace you. The Hightowers were closely linked with members of the faith of the seven, who were known for their disdain for House Targaryen. You didn’t trust a single one of them.

Just as you reach the door, you hear a mumble, “I love you, mummy.”

—

Heat radiates inside you, bubbling away in your stomach, leaving your mouth with a sour taste and the urge to barf. After visiting two pleasure houses, you eventually found the one your husband visits most, and you paid Madame handsomely for her time. At first, she was reluctant until you dropped a heavy bag of coins in front of her.

“Many of my girls have traveled from Old Town to the street of silk for more customers. Let’s say they are very familiar with many of the Hightower men, including Ser Gwayne, and, best to my knowledge, none have birthed any bastards fathered by him.”

“Would any of the girls lie or drink moon tea?”

The sympathetic looks she gives you make you feel like a fool. “Many girls in our line of work won’t drink the tea because it’s known to upset the gut, and if they are ill, they won’t get paid.” She leans in and whispers, “Some say they prefer laying with Ser Gwayne because they believe he cannot father children.”

You drag your feet as you approach the gates to the keep while staying hidden within the trees. Your mind was frazzled; if what Madame said was true, then you wouldn’t be having anymore children.

“Princess.”

You’re completely startled when your sworn shield grabs you by the shoulder and pins you against the wall. His lips parted ever so slightly when he stepped closer to you; it took you a moment to register the two knights walking by. You were dressed like a boy, and the knight was in his own clothes.

You swallow thickly, “Ser Criston.”

He tucks the hair that has fallen out of your hat back underneath it; his jaw is clenched. He places his hand on your wrist and says, “Keep your head low and follow me.”

—

Ser Criston leads you down a dark hallway in the white sword tower that is almost empty, aside from a few off-duty knights who were accompanied by what appeared to be ladies from pillow houses. When you reach the knight's own quarters, he quickly ushers you inside and locks the door behind him.

“Ser Criston…”

The look on his face was very telling; his dark eyes were hazy. Criston gave a low, guttural growl. “What in God's name were you thinking? Anything could have happened to you. Your reputation would have been destroyed if anyone spotted you.”

“You followed me?”

His nostrils flare. “Do you know how many dark alleys you walked down? How dangerous those places are?”

It feels as if your heart is swelling in your chest. How could you even begin to explain? You feel so small and weak. Fragile in a way that was unacceptable for a Targaryen princess to be. You pull the thick hat off your head, letting your now messy and sweaty hair fall around your face, and sit on the edge of the knight's bed.

“You followed me.” It wasn’t a question, but a fact. Ser Criston wouldn’t have known where you were unless he did. As a princess, you most certainly didn’t need to defend your actions to anyone other than the king, but the thought of your sworn shield possibly losing faith in the trust you had built did bother you. Gulping down, you toy with a thread on the sleeve of the worn out shirt, “I wasn’t going to visit those places for pleasure. How did you know? I had dismissed you for the evening.”

“I overheard the knights changing shifts mentioning that your lady-in-waiting was watching over Princess Meera. And put the pieces of you being somewhere you shouldn't be together.” Seeing tears swell in your eyes, the knight crouches down so he’s eye level with you, his expression softening. “If her grace found out you had visited the streets of Silk, I’m afraid history would repeat itself.”

“What do you mean?”

He sighs, “I was the knight on duty to protect Princess Rhaenyra the night she snuck into the city with Prince Daemon. Word got out that she had been spotted in the bowels of a brother with her uncle, and her life became miserable. I do not wish to overstep, but the princess gave those who seek to destroy her reputation the means to do so.”

“Daemon and Rhaenyra are twin flames; they are both restless. I don’t believe anything you could have done would have changed the actions they take,” you say softly. “My actions might have seemed headless, but I had my reasons.”

“I’ve told you before, princess, I cannot do my duty and protect you if I’m unaware of where you are.”

“Are you trying to say you would have accompanied me to a brothel, Ser Criston?” You joke, “I imagine that would have been more scandalous.”

The knight says nothing. No words leave his mouth, but he’s silently waiting for you to explain.

“As of late, it’s been noted by many that I’ve yet to do my duty and give Gwayne a child. I went to see if he has any bastards, and he has not fathered any children.”

A look of understanding passes through his features.

“Ser Gwayne’s is no Maegor the cruel; they won’t allow him to keep adding on wives until he finally has an heir. I will be blamed, and then I will be replaced by another after my sudden and tragic death.”

“Princess, I don’t believe you would be blamed—”

You cut him off with a look. “Ser Criston, do you know how many Targaryen women die at a young age? Do not believe they are all linked to childbirth, like the maesters say. The maesters and the faith hate us because they believe our dragons make us closer to gods than men; the power we hold is a threat. With one word, we could destroy houses, which is why the Hightowers have been trying to latch onto House Targaryen for years. It’s why I’m not letting Meera marry anyone other than a Stark.” A moment of silence passes, and you chuckle to yourself, “You must now think I’m crazy.”

He shakes his head and says, “I don’t. I think you’re a mother wanting to keep her child safe.”

“If I was able to perform my duty, I would be able to keep Meera safe, but now... I’m unsure what to do.” You meet Criston’s gaze and are surprised to see a fearsome look in his eyes.

“I would do anything to protect you, princess.”

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