#rhaegar x cersei

[witchqueenvisenya]

one of my top fave asoiaf crackships is rhaegar x cersei actually and i will not be accepting criticism

[annoyinglysparklygalaxy]

[j-morgan-fly]

Update on my Cersei and Rhaegar sketch.

I present you King Rhaegar and Queen Cersei of the Seven Kingdoms with their son, the prince of Dragonstone, Joffrey Targaryen.

This is a companion portrait to the fic I am writing, though it stars Ned Stark and Shaena, Rhaegar and Cersei or an important couple in the story.

[teapartywithmadhatter]

Love to read such a story.

Cersei x Rhaegar - After Rhaegar crowns Cersei his Queen of Love and Beauty, he spirits her away and secretly weds her even as the Seven Kingdoms descend into war over her abduction. She bears him a child, and LIVES...

Added to our prompt page!

[novaursa]

https://youtu.be/qillYsPzEs0?si=zWRzrkWUSQ-jRaTA

Can you do this just with the Targaryens and Lannister? Sister!reader Targaryen vs Cersie Lannister 🫣🙏🏼

Fire and Gold

- Summary: Rhaegar chooses you over her. And Ceresi never forgives you for it.

- Paring: sister!reader/Rhaegar Targaryen

- Note: In this AU Robert's Rebellion never happened. Rhaegar marries the reader, Ceresi still marries Robert after Lyanna dies in childbirth along with their child.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Next part: 2

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

- A/N: I hope this was what you had in mind, dear anon. The story is fresh from the oven.

You and Rhaegar have always known how to draw a crowd. The smallfolk line the roads, banners flapping in the breeze as cheers follow your every step. Rhaegar’s hand rests at the small of your back, his touch familiar and comforting. The two of you move through the throng with practiced grace, your smiles reflecting the adoration in the eyes of those gathered. The royal tour has been a triumphant journey so far, a celebration of unity and strength. Yet, beneath the surface, tensions simmer, particularly when it comes to the Lannisters.

It’s no surprise that Cersei Lannister would try to disrupt your journey. Tywin’s golden daughter has never hidden her disdain for you. You, the sister who Rhaegar chose over her, who embodies all that she desired but could never possess. Her presence is almost expected as you approach the encampment set up for the royal party. When you step inside the tent, the air is thick with unspoken tension. Rhaegar’s jaw tightens beside you, and you can feel the shift in the atmosphere like a gathering storm.

Inside, Robert Baratheon looms, his massive form imposing even in stillness. Cersei stands at his side, her face twisted in fury, her eyes burning with a hatred you’ve known since you were both young girls at court. The very air seems to crackle between you. But your attention is drawn to your children and theirs, lined up in a tense, volatile standoff. Your eldest son, Aelor, stands tall, his eyes a mirror of Rhaegar’s determination. Blood stains the edge of his blade, and a long, angry gash mars Joffrey’s cheek. The boy’s face is contorted with pain and rage, his hand pressed against the wound.

“What in the name of the gods happened here?” Rhaegar’s voice is a sharp, commanding presence in the room. The knights and guards around you tense, sensing the gravity of the situation.

Robert spits, his voice dripping with contempt. “Your damn spawn attacked my son. Maimed him, Targaryen. That’s what happened.”

Aelor’s voice rings out, clear and unwavering. “He insulted us first. He insulted me, my brothers and sisters. He insulted you, Father, and you, Mother. When he drew his blade, I defended us.”

Joffrey, clutching his wounded cheek, shrieks in a high, grating voice. “Lies! He called me a Lannister bastard, and then he—”

You narrow your eyes, your gaze locking onto Cersei. It is an open secret in the court that her children bear none of the Baratheon traits, their golden hair and green eyes a reflection of the Lannister line. You’ve never spoken of it openly, but now, the accusation lingers in the air, unspoken but heavy. Cersei’s lips press into a thin line, her fury palpable.

“How dare you,” she hisses, her voice trembling with barely contained rage. “Your vile little whelps—”

“Enough.” Rhaegar’s voice cuts through the tumult like a blade. “They are children, Cersei. This matter is settled.”

“Settled?” Cersei’s face flushes crimson. She turns to Robert, desperation sharpening her tone. “You will let this stand, my lord? He has harmed our son!”

Robert’s eyes flicker between Rhaegar, your children, and his wife. His face is flushed, whether from drink or anger, you cannot tell. For a moment, the entire tent holds its breath, waiting for the King’s decree.

But Rhaegar steps forward, his presence filling the space. “This is over. Children quarrel. It will not be escalated further.”

Cersei’s expression is a mask of fury, her body taut with indignation. Her eyes meet yours across the tent, and for a heartbeat, it’s as if the world narrows to just the two of you. There, in her gaze, you see the depth of her resentment, the wound to her pride that will never heal. You hold her stare, your silence as cutting as any word you could utter.

Cersei’s movements that soon follow are a blur, her hand snatching the dagger from Robert’s belt with a ferocity that sends a jolt of shock through the tent. She lunges at you, the blade aimed with a deadly precision that could only be born from hate. Instinct takes over, and you reach out, catching the weapon with your bare hand before it can pierce your heart.

The sharp steel bites deep into your palm, the pain immediate and excruciating. Blood wells up, spilling over your fingers and dripping onto the ground. Gasps echo through the tent, but no one dares to intervene. Robert’s roar reverberates around you, filled with anger and disbelief. “Cersei, what are you doing?!”

Your children’s cries pierce the air, frantic and terrified. Their small voices, shrill with fear, tear at your heart. The sight of their mother locked in a deadly struggle, blood pouring from your hand, is too much for them to bear. But you can’t look away from Cersei, can’t afford a single moment of distraction.

Her face is contorted with fury, a rage so intense it seems to consume her. “You ruined everything!” she screams, her voice raw. “You were supposed to be nothing more than a bargaining chip, another mad Targaryen girl! But instead, you took him—took the life that should have been mine! And now I’m shackled to this brute, trapped in a prison of my own making because of you!”

“You chose this,” you retort, your voice low, steady, despite the pain searing through your arm. “You and your father wanted too much. You thought you could seize the crown, twist the realm to your liking. But it was never yours to take.”

Her eyes flash, and with a snarl, she presses down, driving the blade further into your grip. The pain is blinding, but you refuse to let go, even as the dagger slices across your forearm in a brutal arc. You cry out, the sound sharp and involuntary, as the blade carves a deep, angry line from wrist to elbow. Warm blood streams down your arm, pooling at your feet.

The lords and ladies around you recoil, horrified, but none move to intervene. Fear holds them frozen in place, their eyes wide, their faces pale. The tent, filled with the sound of your children’s desperate sobs, seems to close in around you.

“Look at you,” Cersei hisses, her voice dripping with venom. “Bleeding for a throne you think you’re owed, just like your father. You’re no different from him. Mad, arrogant, and dangerous.”

“And you,” you bite back, your voice shaking with pain and fury, “are nothing but a bitter, power-hungry fool. You think you can cut me down? You think you can break me? I am not my father, and I will not be cowed by you.”

With a furious cry, she shoves the blade again, but you twist, forcing the weapon away. The dagger slips from her grasp, falling to the ground with a dull thud. You stumble back, clutching your bleeding arm, your breaths coming in ragged gasps. Pain throbs through every nerve, but you stand your ground, refusing to show weakness.

Rhaegar is at your side in an instant, his face ashen with worry. “Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice tight with concern, his hands gentle as he examines your injured arm. “Gods, what has she done to you?”

Robert steps forward, his face a mask of barely restrained fury. “Have you lost your senses, woman?” he growls, rounding on Cersei. “You draw a blade on the Princess of the Realm, on your king’s daughter? Are you so eager to invite Aerys’ wrath upon us all?”

Cersei glares back at him, her chest heaving, her hands shaking. “I don’t care!” she cries, her voice breaking. “All my life, I’ve been promised things that were taken away. I was promised Rhaegar, promised a crown, and now I’m nothing! Stuck here, with you, and this—this farce of a marriage. I’m trapped, and it’s all her fault!”

“Enough.” Robert’s voice is like a hammer striking stone, his eyes blazing with anger. “You’ve gone too far. This is beyond foolish, beyond dangerous. You think Aerys will turn a blind eye when he hears of this? His daughter bleeding at your hands?”

The name of your father seems to cut through her fury, a flicker of fear passing over her face. The threat is real—everyone knows the Mad King’s unpredictable wrath, his unquenchable thirst for vengeance. And you, his beloved daughter, lying wounded at her feet? The consequences could be catastrophic.

Rhaegar’s arms wrap around you, his touch gentle as he guides you away from the scene. “We need to get you to the maester,” he says softly, his voice tight with worry.

You nod, the pain throbbing with each heartbeat, but you keep your gaze on Cersei, refusing to look away. “Remember this, Cersei,” you say, your voice steady despite the agony. “You brought this on yourself. You chose your path, just as I chose mine. And you’ll find that you’ve made an enemy you can’t afford to have.”

With that, Rhaegar leads you out of the tent, your children trailing behind, their faces pale and tear-streaked. The lords and ladies part before you, their whispers already spreading like wildfire through the camp.

This skirmish is over, but the repercussions are only beginning.

[msmorningstaarr]

let me fill you up | Jaime Lannister x F!Targaryen reader

ao3 | masterlist

Pairing: Jaime Lannister x F!Targaryen reader

Summary: You, a Targaryen princess were married into the Lannister fold to ensure the alliance between the two houses, ensuring your eldest brother’s claim to the Iron Throne. Now, Lord Jaime makes your days filled with happiness and makes you eager to present him babies.

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: rhaegar wins AU, no targcest, smuff, fluff, breeding kink, praising kink, a lot of pet names (sweet girl, princess, love), reader has no physical description besides the silvery white targaryen hair, creampie, oral (f receiving), a very devoted husband commited to your pleasure, smut, sex;

a/n: Happy new year! I had posted I wanted to write something like that and it's been a while since I want to write something other than holy and heathen because I must admit I'm not very satisfied with what I've been writing lately. Some validation kudos, comments and reblogs would be very important to me, seriously :') I’ve been thinking in turning this into a small series but I’m not so sure. Could you give me your thoughts on this too? please, enjoy your reading!

Taglist: @princessanglophile @hiroikegawa @hiraethrhapsody

You are sitting surrounded by your maids and children on a breezy night, covered with a fur coat and a crimson silk dress under it. Attentively, you go stitch by stitch and slowly form a lion, sigil of your husband’s house. Ever since Robert’s Rebellion ended and your brother, King Rhaegar Targaryen won, you became promised to the former knight of the Kingsguard, now Lord Jaime Lannister. Life in the lion’s den was not difficult, once Lord Tywin treated her with the most kindness and Jaime was still coming out of his shell. At first, he was your sworn sword in King’s Landing and spent plenty of time together in an unbalanced relationship. Now, you two are sharing a bed after a tumultuous year of war and destruction, as equals. In the beginning, you were sceptical about marrying into the Lannister household, but as the months went by, you found yourself drowned at him. Jaime is careful, gentle and kind. He brings you a small dandelion every morning once he knows it reminds you of home.

His only quirk was the strange attachment to his sister, Lady Cersei. But after being sent to Dorne to marry Prince Oberyn of House Martell and getting distant from each other, your relationship with your husband seemed to finally thrive.

“It appears to be beautiful, my lady.” Said one of her maids, taking care of your youngest son, a small silvery blonde figure of two years of age.

“A bright lion handkerchief for Jaime to carry with him.” You reply, admiring your piece of work. “Do you believe your father will like it, sweetling?” You then ask your eldest daughter, an adorable child of four. Your daughter eagerly nods her head and wraps her hands around one of your fingers to pull the fabric closer to her eyes.

“Dada will love it, mama!” The little one exclaimed, spinning around with the kerchief on her tiny hands.

“What will I love, if I’m allowed to ask?” A tall, blonde figure shows up in your private bedchambers, wearing a classic Westerland attire with a crimson fabric and intricate strings of gold shaped into the sleeves and collar. You smile sweetly to Jaime as he approaches you and grabs your middle child to hold in his arms.

“Papa!” The blonde little girl runs towards her father to embrace his legs and your maids stand up to bow to their lord.

“Have you missed me, dear?” Jaime asked and the fussy children eagerly nodded at him, embracing their father even more. Sometimes, seeing Jaime being so loving and kind towards your children simply melted your heart. You felt the urgency to kiss him and dig your fingers onto his bright hair, begging him for another child. Your cunt ached in pleasure to the thought of Jaime pumping his seed inside of you. You were still young and could bear many more children.

“Mm-rrhm…” You scoffed. “I have missed you too, husband.”

The three children giggled and the child on his arms hid his face on the crook of Jaime’s neck. The eldest covered her laugh with her tiny hands and the youngest beamed along their siblings. Jaime came closer to you and caressed your cheeks with his free hand. Then, a single and gentle kiss he places over your forehead, making your heart flutters with love and passion.

“I have missed you too, my love.” Jaime said, passing his fingertips on your chin and smiling at you.

Your maids quickly stood up and bowed at their overlord as a sign of respect. “Excuse me, my lord, my lady,” Said the servant girl. “Let us take the children so you can rest.”

“But I want to stay with papa!” Said the elder daughter, pouting and crossing her arms. The other two children whined and complained along, but you lowered into their level whilst Jaime talked to the youngest on his arm.

“Sweetlings,” She said, caressing their cheeks. “Your father is rather tired after riding for so long. Go with her, I promise you, your siblings, me and your father will have plenty of time together on the morrow. Is that understood, my loves?”

“I can take you to ride a horse tomorrow and even let you eat lemon cakes before super. What do you think?” Jaime asked, delivering the fussy child from his arms to the other maid. In unison, the three infants agreed and left disappointed. Once you and your husband were alone in your bedchambers, Jaime smiled at you gallantly. You embrace him intimately and are finally able to feel the warmth of his muscular body and feel the softness of his golden hair. His lips reach yours and in a whirlwind of sensations, your cunt is already dripping in anticipation just by a simple touch coming from him. Once he breaks the kiss, he keeps holding you by your waist and gazing at you with admiration.

“You have been gone for too long, love.” You say, passing your fingertips on his lips. He smiles and gives you a peck on the lips before speaking.

“I had duties with your brother, Our Grace King Rhaegar, sweet girl.” Jaime replies, pulling her out gently and grabbing the fabric she embroidered for him.

“I hope you like it, I made it just for you.” You point out, joining your hands to follow him. He keeps smiling as he observes attentively the intricate work you did.

“I shall cherish it and take it wherever I go, dragon princess.” He replied, folding and putting the kerchief in one of his pockets. You giggle as you hear him calling you ‘dragon princess’, a custom he chose to never abandon as a form to remember the late days of their relationship “I wish I had more time to be around and play with the children, I have been missing them and you.”

“They made drawings every day and left it on your desk at your office.” You reply, walking to the window and being followed by him.

“I will make sure to have them guarded in our chambers. Safe as our gold.” He says, hugging you from behind and kissing your neck lightly. You beam in ecstasy feeling his body smother you into a comforting embrace and full missing him.

“Sometimes I still cannot believe we are wedded to each other. You were my sworn shield in King’s Landing!” You exclaim as his hand caresses your empty belly and it tingles by his touch. He grins at your words and says.

“Most people are not so lucky to know your spouse before the wedding day. I consider myself the most lucky man in the world because I could be in your acquaintance from so long ago.” He replies, falling his head on the crook of your neck.

You turn around to be face to face with Jaime, feeling the cold breeze of the rock hitting your back and giving you small shocks as Jaime caresses your back, making you experience a thermal shock and shudder to his touch.

“I feel very lucky to be your wife, Jaime. Most women are not so fortunate to have such a kind, loving and handsome husband.” You mutter as he strokes your hair, in awe with your beauty.

“I guess we are fortunate to be together after so many troubles in war. We even brought new lives into this world to paint a new, brightful history.” He replies, caressing your womb. You stare at his fingers passing up and down your belly and glances at him with a sweet smile.

“And we could have more, love. I must admit I feel empty for so long and I want to give you more children… I know I can give you an entire army of your own. Half lion, half dragon. Unstoppable creatures.”

“You feel empty, love?” He asks, smirking and you eagerly agree with him. “Then allow me to fill you up…” Jaime finished, slowly undoing the intricate laces of your dress to reveal your bare skin under the crimson fabric. In response, you open his attire slowly and little by little his white tunic appears to her eyes.

By this point, your cunt is already sore in anticipation for the moment about to happen and clenches around nothing once he pushes the last section of string holding your garment, releasing you from the pressure tightening your upper body. Jaime pushes down your dress and your underwear is now on display for him, which makes him bite his lip and eagerly take down your white camisole to show him your bare body. You moan as he squeezes your breast and pinches your nipples whilst kissing you. You quickly take off his own undershirt to show off his chest.

“So eager is my dragon princess.” He playfully says, leading you to bed and carefully laying you down. With devotion, he starts to kiss your feet, legs and knees, his hands roaming through your thighs and hips. “Spread your legs for me, little dragon.”

You part your legs, obeying his soft command. “So wet… I can see you truly missed me, my love.” He says, kissing your inner thighs as your body squirms in pleasure before he reaches your intimacy.

“Oh… I have missed you so much, my lion.” You moan your words as he kisses your groyne and passes his fingers lightly over your clit, making your womb tremble and convulse to his touch.

“I can see that, just as I missed you, my dragon princess. Do I have permission to give you a lord’s kiss?” He asks and you only nod in response, making Jaime wet his lips with his own saliva before diving into your dripping core and you to scream involuntarily as his tongue and lips eat you up with full desire. Jaime circles his tongue around your clit and roam around your entire intimacy, making your hips bounce onto his direction. It was his costume to make you come every time before he would be inside of you, now could not be different.

You feel your body explode as if someone threw you into dragon fire as Jaime relentlessly pleases you, making magic with his tongue. Skillfully, he explores your intimate area inch by inch with eagerness, making you dig your fingers on his golden curls, pulling him closer to your cunt and you contorses your body urging for more. Tears of pleasure fall off as you feel goosebumps once you realise you are close to your climax.

As the intensity builds, Jaime's movements become more deliberate, pushing you closer to the edge of bliss. Your breath hitches, and your fingers entwine in his golden locks, urging him on. The world narrows down to the pleasure he provides, the connection between you deepening with every passing moment.

When the climax finally crashes over you, Jaime doesn't relent. He continues to caress your sensitive core with his tongue, prolonging the sweet release. Your body shudders with pleasure, and you feel the bond between you and Jaime reaching new heights.

“Husband…” You try to stop him and give yourself some time to take a breath, but Jaime does not back off and part your legs once more, holding it as he keeps licking, kissing and sucking your pussy.

“No no, wife… let me please you and bring you to climax once more…” He cuts your words and gently goes back, but now he plays with his fingers on your clit, with far less pressure and slowly draws circles around it, taking soft moans from you. Jaime rises to hover over you, a wicked glint in his eyes. His fingers trace patterns on your flushed skin as he leans in for a heated kiss, allowing you to taste the remnants of your own pleasure on his lips. “Taste yourself, love.”

And not so long after, you scream his name as you feel waves of pleasure hitting your body as a lightning bolt hits the ground in a storm. Your body is trembling and your legs seem to be two wooden sticks, barely able to stand.

“Please… inside of me, Jaime… I need you…” You plead with him, pulling his body to be on top of yours.

“Your wish is my command, princess.” He replies, kissing you passionately once more and positioning between your legs. Jaime's eyes meet yours, filled with a mixture of desire and adoration. The anticipation was hanging heavy in the air, your bodies aligned perfectly, and as he slowly entered you, a shared moan escaped both of your lips.

The sensation is electrifying, the culmination of the pleasure he bestowed upon you and the intimate connection between your bodies. Jaime moves with a rhythmic precision, each thrust deepening the bond that exists only between you two.

“My perfect princess takes me so well…” He grows as thrusts into you going back and forth nonstop. You lock him by involving your legs around his waist and feeling his hard cock entering your cunt in full force, reaching your cervix and making you beg for more in his ear.

The room echoes with the sounds of your shared ecstasy, a symphony of pleasure that reverberates through the stone walls. The flickering candlelight casts shadows that dance across your entwined bodies, creating a tapestry of love and passion.

“Put another babe on my belly Ser, please…” You beg him as moans leave your mouth and the sound of crashing bodies fill the room quickly.

“With pleasure, love…” He says once more. Jaime moves with a rhythmic precision, each thrust deeper inside of your pussy in farfetched positions. He missed you too much after months away from you and it shows by the way he kisses you as he moves desperately to have more of mounting his dragon. The room echoes with the sounds of your shared passion, a symphony of pleasure that reverberates through the stone walls. The flickering candlelight casts shadows that dance across your entwined bodies. As Jaime's movements become faster, the pleasure intensifies, and you find yourself on the verge of another climax. The pleasure is overwhelming, and your bodies move in perfect harmony.

With a final, fervent thrust, Jaime succumbs to the ecstasy and releases his seed deep inside of your womb, growling and grunting with relief and utter bliss. You hit your own orgasm as you feel the warm jets of his seed invading your walls and your body squirm and you scream his name, crying out.

Your bodies tremble in the aftermath, and he collapses beside you, pulling you into his arms. The room is filled with a comforting silence as you both catch your breath. Jaime's fingers gently trace patterns on your skin as you bask in the warmth of the afterglow. “Do you think we created one more life for our household, love?” You ask him, laying your head on his chest. The world outside your chambers seems distant, and for a moment, it's just the two of you, lost in the serenity of each other's embrace.

“Depending on your fertile womb, my love, I have no doubts you are.” He replies, caressing your silvery white hair. “But we must endure in our pursuit on a daily routine. Just to make sure our fourth babe is on the way.” He playfully replies, smirking at you, who mischievously smiles back at him and kisses his lips, wiping some strings of sweat from his face.

Jaime presses a tender kiss to your forehead, his voice a soothing murmur, "I love you, my dragon princess."

And you, wrapped in the arms of the man you love, whisper back, "And I love you, my lion shield."

[aelenavelaryon]

Robert Baratheon x Reader (pt.2)

Summary: in which the Queen gets her revenge on her husband

The return of dragons came to a surprise for the realm. It was unexpected yet a blessing, especially for Rhaenyra. Finally, dragons returned to the world. Robert was not on board with having them in King's Landing at first but after watching Rhaenyra be happy after the loss of their child he agreed. Robert, despite marrying her without love came to enjoy her company as the two enjoyed making children.

Rhaenyra choose to let her dragons roamed free in a place where they were all away from people, to avoid harming innocent people. Prince Daemon was born in the year 283, near the end of the year. His brother Orys came days after his first name day in 284. In the year 286 came the twins, Aemon and Aemond. Just a year later in 287 she lost a child, it was then that Dragons were reborn.

By 290, Rhaenyra's dragons had grown a lot. The year prior they disappeared and when they returned they were the size of an adult dragon. So, for the first time in centuries a Targaryen finally took to the skies on dragonback. Balerion, the dragon she rode flew her to a part of the Keep that was abandoned and where he kept dragons eggs.

Rhaenyra brought Dragon Keepers to the Keep to help with the dragons and their eggs. The eggs, which were enough to give to each one of her children and brother, were kept warm and ready in the children's room. Finally, after five years of trying for a daughter, a girl finally came. Well, more like two. Rhaena and Helaena came during the summers of 290. By then, her children all had dragons eggs. Prince Daemon had claimed Caraxes, while his brother's hatched their eggs. Orys named his Eros. Aemon named his Moonfyre and Aemond named his Meraxes. Princess Rhaena and Helaena's dragon eggs hatched the same day of their birth.

King Robert threw a feast in honor of their first name day. By then, queen Rhaenyra had given him four sons and two daughters. Princess Rhaena was said to be as wild and defiant as her mother in her youth. Rhaena had the Targaryen hair and eyes, while her twin, princess Helaena had black hair and blue eyes like his father but she was as quiet and calm as her late grandmothers, queen Rhaella and Lady Cassana Baratheon. Robert was a decent king who took the input of his queen. They had a quiet a decent marriage.

Since the day they married Robert kept to his wife's and his own chambers. He slept with no other woman that was not his wife. Some had said he changed for the better and Eddard Stark could attest to that. Rhaenyra's life was good. She had no worries. Everything was just perfect.

The news reached her a few weeks later. Robert Baratheon had slept with Cersei Lannister or so she claimed. Cersei was a girl of three and twenty. She was yet to be married as her father hadn't found her a good match yet. Rhaenyra when she heard said nothing. Robert even thought she hadn't heard but she had. She knew, thanks to her little birds that Jaime was Cersei's lover. So, her plan was to take Jaime from Cersei. It was her goal to make him loyal to her.

Her plan began the very next day. She had asked Robert for a new guard. Stating that with six children it was better for them and her to have extra security. The king agreed. She smiled and acted as if nothing was happening. When Cersei was forced to move the keep by her father's order, Rhaenyra was forced to confront her husband.

Robert entered their shared chambers. "Nyra" she looked away. Rhaenyra was two and twenty. She had given her husband six children. She never complained nor did she cause him any problems. She simply did her duty, ever the dutiful her mother used to say. "I have never asked anything of you, nor have I ever caused you trouble or any problems. I have stood by you for the last seven years. I married you despite everything. I am no saint, nor have I ever been. I brought a son into a marriage that was not yours. You loved him and took care of him as if he was your own. And in return I gave your four sons with your blood and two daughters with your blood" there was a brief silence. "Where our children not enough?" she asked. "Was I not enough?" she asked.

Rhaenyra had never been insecure. How could she? She was a Targaryen, their beauty seemed to be god like and now, with her dragon being a god seemed far more possible than before. "I love you, Robert. But I will not be the person you treat like a common whore. If Cersei gives you a bastard child I will give you one too. And if she gives you another so will I" she said. Robert was too stunned to speak. She gave him on chance to speak before she left their shared chambers, Arthur and Jaime following behind.

Rhaenyra knew Cersei's greatest love was Jaime, and she rarely even allowed him to wonder far from her. Jaime didn't mind, watching over her gave him some sort of relief as he felt guilty for killing her father years back. He also wanted to keep her safe as he could not keep Elia and her children. Jaime was also avoiding his sister, as much as she would try to find him but he would walk the other way or ignore her pleas to talk. Over the months the good relationship between the queen and king perished in the blink of an eye. King Robert returned to his drunken and whoring ways.

Cersei Lannister gave birth to a son who she named Joffrey Baratheon, a boy with black hair and green eyes, he seemed to be all his father but the eyes. A year later, in the year 292, queen Rhaenyra gave birth to a son, a boy she named Rhaegar Targaryen and a daughter who she named Rhaella. The boy had blonde white hair. His eyes were the same eyes of princess Alyssa Targaryen, wife of Baelon Targaryen. One green eye and purple. Her daughter, princess Rhaella had a her grandmother's looks. Ser Jaime Lannister was the first one to hold his two children. A little princeling he used to call him and his little baby girl. Jaime and Rhaenyra were the ones who picked the names.

Robert knew but he said nothing as the guilt of returning to his old habits returned. Prince Jacaerys came four years after his sisters, then, a year after him came Lucerys. Princess Rhaenyra had always loved those names and had always wanted to name one of her sons like them. Prince Jacaerys had dark brown hair and purple eyes, his brother Lucerys was just like his brother. Queen Rhaenyra bore thirteen children at the short age of thirty. Her last two children were girls. Daughters. Visenya and Daenerys, daughters of Ser Arthur Dayne.

Eddard Stark never married, instead he served his queen Rhaenyra his entire life. And of course he took care of their two sons. Ned had became her closest companion alongside Arthur and Jaime Lannister. She had no other allies at court but them. At least, she didn't trust anyone else but them. Cersei gave Robert three more children. Tommen, Myrcella and Joanna but they were known as bastards since they were not married.

On the queen's name day, a thirtieth name day celebration was made in her honor. Every house in the realm attended, including Dorne, Driftmark and the North. By then, Prince Jaehaerys was nearly six and ten, Daemon was five and ten, Orys three and ten, Aemon and Aemond were one and ten, Helaena and Rhaena were eight, Rhaegar and Rhaella were nearly six, Jacaerys was four, prince Lucerys three and his sisters had just turned one.

Queen Rhaenyra, despite birthing thirteen children looked far better than most, she was grateful, she also took care great of her figure, she wanted to preserve herself as much as she could. Robert knew that seven of those children where not his. Jaehaerys had been claimed as a Targaryen despite Tywin's insistence to keep him as a bastard. Rhaenyra did not wish for her son to bear the name Baratheon or Stark. Brandon had written to her often wanting to know about his son but he not once had asked for the boy to visit him nor to be claimed as a Stark. She knew Catelyn did not like the idea of Brandon's bastard sons being in their home and possible taking Robb's birthright.

During the Queen's name day celebration things are said and revenge is plotted. They say when you play the game of thrones you win or you die, there is no middle ground. Queen Rhaenyra is going to win, no matter what. The question is, will she succeed or will she fail?

[elainarcheronstotebag]

saddest part of elia’s story is that she didn’t even get to haunt the narrative. her death literally meant nothing to no one except for dorne/house martell. no, instead show!lyanna, the woman who ran away with her husband gets the sympathy and her legacy lives on. her ghost haunts robert/cersei/ned, but barely anyone even mentions elia’s name except for oberyn. elia died is such a tragic and cruel way with her children, and will never receive justice because to do so would harm lyanna’s memory.

and i don’t blame book!lyanna, because she was young and most likely a victim herself, i would like to think she’d be angry that elia died like that “for her.” i literally fall to my knees and sob anytime i think of my poor sweet beautiful angel elia and her babies:(

[queen-morgana91]

"By night the prince played his silver harp and made her weep. When she had been presented to him, Cersei had almost drowned in the depths of his sad purple eyes. He has been wounded, she recalled thinking, but I will mend his hurt when we are wed. Next to Rhaegar, even her beautiful Jaime had seemed no more than a callow boy.” - Cersei

Wtf she was like "I can fix him"

.........says the woman who is WORSE

I love her, she's an ICON 😂 😂

[faeporcelain]

One-sided rivalry

[starryharps]

the veil of love

pairing: rhaegar targaryen/ arryn! reader

summary: rhaegar visits an old flame at the eyrie, determined to do things right this time.

word count: 2,741

part of: heartlines series

tags: angst with a happy ending (smut, fluff in later parts)

a/n: prefacing this by saying that this is a nonlinear series titled "heartlines", many questions about the reader and the nature of her relationship with rhaegar will be subsequently answered. but I will say, the next chapter is smut. haha.

read on ao3 | masterlist |

there was a storm picking up, the prince noted as he cursed his way into the journey across the narrow bridges that connected the formidable fortress of the vale.

you were situated in the last tower of the eyrie, according to jon arryn. the most isolated one of it all. rhaegar grimaced at its height as he entered the reception hall, nodding to the ladies in waiting. the climb towards the top of the tower proved to be endless, but he found himself in front of a grand door of mahogany regardless.

how will you react? will you smile kindly on him, eyes sparkling upon seeing your lover after four years? or would you throw a shoe at him, cursing whatever is left of his scant bloodline and hoping he falls through the moon door? or would you do nothing, ignoring his presence like you always did when he teased your inability to play the harp or when he read a couple of chapters of the romance novel you shared in advance?

his cheeks flushed slightly at the memory, remembering how you once asked him to act out a few scenes with him. oh, the things you had teased out of him.

rhaegar shook his head.

he knocked.

the door creaked on its own, almost inviting him in. he could swear he heard the sounds of pages turning. you were most likely reading, he inferred. the ivory light crept in his vision as he opened the door fully, taking in the blue chambers cloistered at the top of the tower, and gasped at the regality of it.

blue so dark, it was indigo. everywhere. constellations drawn on every bit of the ceiling stretching up and up and up, to the cosmic hand-painted tapestries and scattered paintings, a few left to dry. there were instruments of all types scattered in an organized manner: telescopes, vials, maps, and books. gods above, so many books were pouring out of the shelves. by the glowing white canopy bed was a giant glass-stained window that refracted a rainbow of lights. rhaegar could hear the echoes of the strong wind howling. he marveled at the strength of the glass to hold up at such an altitude.

his eyes shifted to the corner of the room, where a window lay open, and there, in all your glory, alive and breathing, you sat. clad in arryn blue, reading a book, the wind kissing your cheeks as you leaned by the window.

he looks at you. you’ve paled a bit in these unforgiving heights, there’s a certain sense of unease in him as he notes your figure hidden by the loose robes. you’ve thinned out, there’s a lack of something in you that he can’t quite pinpoint.

you raise your eyes at him and quietly lock in a staring contest with the prince regent of the seven kingdoms.

the winds howled louder.

neither of you speaks, rhaegar stands by the door. gripping it like a terrified child, he wants to run to you, do ablutions, prostate, and beg. but your aura is one of quiet lethality. he could do angry, he could do sad, he could do hysterical….but he couldn’t do….whatever this was…an air of nothingness that seemed to emanate from you.

“your grace.” he winced. it was always rhae.

he held back his tongue. watching you put a bookmark and close what you were reading.

“what brings his grace to the eyrie?” he hates this. he hates the tone. the lack of musicality and mirth in your voice. how you would harmonize with his vocals and run around, laughing as he took in the happy tones he wanted to drown in, those memories being one of the few things he remembered from his otherwise somber childhood.

he calls out your name, unable to stop the wavering in his mouth, and takes a shy step forward, boots clacking against the smooth marble. gods, you were so close, just within his reach.

you depart from the reading nest, shuffling towards the solar of the room, and put your hands in front of yourself, almost protective.

“i came…to see you.” rhaegar exhaled.

“there was no need to your grace. i am well. a letter would’ve done. you needn’t climb the eyrie for me.”

he quietly put his sword to the table in front of him, and walked closer. “i had to. letters wouldn’t be able to do justice to what i wished to say.”

he met her questioning gaze, restraining himself from slipping further into them, but the task seemed more and more so arduous.

“you…you fled. that night.” he watched as you took interest in the sword at your table.

“my family had to return sooner or later.”

“lord arryn and his retinue were to embark within a month, yet you rode out on horseback weeks in advance, vanished into the vale…left the palace within hours.”

“the vale cannot be left alone for long.”

rhaegar pressed on, frustrated. “no,” “the royce and lord arryn’s fostered wards were present at the eyrie. you fled. you ran away.” you left me.

he watched you watch the window.

“there was nothing left for me there, in that palace.”

“i was there.”

“the prince of dragonstone was there. but rhaegar wasn’t. to be wed to elia of dorne. for political purposes. with zero fight from the groom-to-be. despite the court knowing he had a lover of three years lurking right next to him as the deal was finalized by the king.”

rhaegar recoiled at the jab, it was as if dragonglass pierced him straight into his heart. the iron tones of your voice hammering him, wounding his chest at the cruel remark.

“n-no.”

“you promised me. underneath the star showers to be mine. you told me over and over in the kingswood, by the waterfalls that i am yours. that we would run hand in hand by the grasslands together, plucking fruit and making play endlessly. rule the realm with peace and prosperity, rebuild the peace your father had ruined brick by brick with me by your side. our song of sky and the dragon.

there is no emotion but a hollowed loss in your voice as you continued, “for years. you promised me. for years of this endless winter, i thought a spring of our love would bloom and i would vow myself to you till the end of my days. you said you were mine. i thought you were mine.”

rhaegar felt tears prick his eyes, he breathed deeply.

“i…” he took your name again. “politics..”

then, rage seethed in your icy gaze.

“politics?” you scoff. “you wish to lecture me on politics? your match was political, yes. but let me remind you dorne is already on good terms with westeros. the alliances with house dayne, yronwood and martells were strong regardless and were stable. viserys showed an interest in doran’s daughter from a young age itself when she had visited. what does the vale lack that the dorne has for us to be cast aside over and over in alliances? your king demands of our warriors but won’t wed one of his kin despite openly knowing that his son has been besotted with jon arryn’s niece for years!”

“you know the girl is weak, you know she is frail! i doubt she’ll be able to handle a child, leave the poor girl alone, let her be in dorne. grant her this mercy. you rejected the tyrell match, the dayne match, the blackwood match, yet you accepted the martell match. but why couldn’t you for once in your life grow a spine and run after the one thing you have claimed to love more than your god forsaken prophecy for once? let me suffer in her place, I am begging you, let me burn with you."

“my father will murder you!” he spoke out, frantic.

“and you’ll let somebody else take in my place?” i gasp out. “are you that cruel your grace?”

“i was trying to protect you.”

“you’re shit at protecting things.”

“from him.” his voice cracked “from myself.”

“..what?”

“the prophecy.”

“shut the fuck up.”

his eyes blazed. “listen to me!”

“no!”

“i didn’t want you to be part of my suffering!”

you gawked at him.

“tread carefully.”

rhaegar put his hands up, breathing deeply before he continued. 

“i didn’t want to hurt you.” rhaegar was on his knees by now, holding your blue robes.

“i know how i can get. i know it. i know i would’ve forced you into a life you didn’t want.”

“so just scurry me to the side under the garb of care, an awfully easy excuse.”

a flash of irritation crossed rhaegar’s face. “you do not understand, the prophecy-“

“your ego is as magnanimous as the oily black stones that make the citadel. your entire sense of self is trapped within the five lines you read when you were a boy and made to believe it was for you and only you. the only time you feel ease with the shadows of your mind is when you take points of your life and bend them to fit the narrative of the eight thousand year old prophecy in a language you don’t even speak properly. did you ever stop to think how many in the past have tried the same? how many of them believe themselves to be azor ahai?”

your chest was rising up and down like a madman as you seethed. “the only time you stood up for yourself and not the identity of the prince who was promised was when you kissed me for the first time near the godswood. i threw a wrench in your plans by existing. and you were frightened by the way we completed each other. perhaps you loved me for a bit, but ultimately you kept me to bide your time with me for three years until you found a suitable match for yourself and sire three heads of a dragon who will save the world and be this all powerful messiah while you overthrow your father.”

“you are a selfish, spineless, cowardly prick of-“ rhaegar didn’t let you finish the sentence, grappling your knees and knocking you down to the myrish carpets, holding you close to him. he smelled like lilac and gooseberries.

“you weren’t a wrench,” he muttered, refusing to let go.

“and i never used you to bide my time until a, so you say, better match came up.” you sighed.

“i swear on my honor. i love you. i didn’t use you. we learned to walk together, played together, i watched you lose teeth and you saw mine, we studied together. hunted together. played as king and queen in the godswood. can a seven-year-old plot that early?”

“i know i hurt you. i know it was stupid of me to agree to that arrangement in front of you. i humiliated you. i should’ve said something. but i had plans.” he shuddered. “we…we were planning on rallying dornish support to remove the king. i intended to…take over.”

“and what does dorne have the vale doesn’t? one word from you and uncle would’ve descended our knights.”

“i didn’t have a choice…the king was set on a dornish alliance, i was merely trying to make the best of a situation. i would’ve joined the vale’s support had..had the match not been forced on me.”

putting the palm to your head. “and then?”

“i…i turned to you, only to see your face, you, you were so distraught, i….followed you, but you were gone. and i didn’t hear from you for months.” his voice broke.

“everybody told me you accepted the match happily and chatted with her.”

rhaegar had tears in his eyes. “poor elia. the…the emotions she’s seen of me. i ..i cried to her. pleaded to her and oberyn. please. to do something. they know about you. they were uncomfortable with aerys as elia’s father in law too. they convinced doran to withdraw the offer but aerys was resolute in watching the match go forth.”

rhaegar continued, “so i….i did the unthinkable.”

your heart dropped. this idiot.

“...what did you do?” 

“i broke it off.” he murmured to the floor. “i couldn’t do it. wrote to all the lords. citing my intentions for the throne. many responded…then, i ran.”

you stilled, aghast.

“did you…don’t tell me…did you start a rebellion against the crown?”

he nodded slowly.

you felt the earth shift under your feet.

what in the seven fucking hells is wrong with you? you wanted to scream.

“why?” you asked instead.

he responded, feverishly. “he burns people to death. he upsets century-long relations. he hurts my mother. he exiles my guard. he sabotages my relationships. the lords are stewing, ready to overthrow, i can’t keep seeing this. i can’t keep watching this.”

“please. besides this, i did for you. i do not want to live out my life without you by my side.”

“-but your prophecy.”

he shut his eyes, as if in pain.

“i,” he takes a deep breath, as if his lungs are shattered with glass. “heeded. to what you said. i lulled on it…when you were gone. i heard your ballads and songs…i….realised that in the quest for a future that may or may not exist, i failed to see the beauty that surrounded me in the very present moment.”

he gathers himself as he continues, “prophecies…may be true, and they mostly come true when one steers clears of them. i remembered this as i recalled everything that i’ve chased at the end has run away from me..unlike things that hold onto me for far too long when i haven’t been paying attention.” he looks at you, smiling softly.

he breathes, burying his face into your lap, “i came to the realization, after years of being away from you that, even if the prophecy doesn’t come true, i won’t base my existence off it anymore, i would, do what the realm needs me to, be a good ruler, and assure happiness..make song and love, and hope of being loved in return by the one i want.”

rhaegar notices you take his hand, and he quivers, as he continues.

he kisses your hand.

“i have come to ask you for your hand in marriage. not just as the future king of the seven kingdoms who would have the privilege of a lifetime to have you as his queen. but as the rhaegar you grew up with and made flower crowns with. who watched me play the harp over and over till my fingers bled, carved stars within the wood of the same. who snuck in food in my satchel when i disappeared to summerhall. who dreamed of running away to lys or pentos with you when all of this is over for a long vacation.”

silence. silence greets him. you seem frozen to him, looking at him with pensive eyes and a neutral face.

he softly calls out the name he had given you, indigo eyes wide, and sad, yet tinged with hope, of longing.

slowly, your face broke. it began with the eyes, slowly melting like a glacier, joining the sea of emotions that colored your face red with tears as you shook. rhaegar couldn’t help himself, his tears followed as you grabbed your robe your free hand, sobbing into your other.

he put his head in your lap, feeling your hands run across his silver-white hair, remembering how often you used to do it those nights in his chambers. and he let himself cry.

he called out your name weakly, “…please.”

you kicked him slightly, muttering a “of course i would, you fool.” before taking him in your embrace, the two of you crying within each others arms as the storm picked up.

“of course i will. i have loved you since for as long as i could remember. how could i deny you? how could i ever say no to you?”

rhaegar chuckled wetly. his dourness subsided a little as he relished in your warmth.

“i don’t have much of good memories, and despite them being only a handful, i know that, my happiness begins and ends in the shape of your face, written in the tongue of your soul.”

the winds rattle the eyrie once more.

[swee26oy]

I swear every time I say rhaelya stans won't get any more stupid, Until they surprise me.

Comparing Cersei and Robert's marriage to Rhaegar and Elia. Cersei was raped, beaten and called her by his love name. I can understand her resorting to Jaime. (Plus we all know this relationship existed before she married Robert so the question is even if Robert didn't treat her that badly I can tell she's still cheating on him) But Rhaelya's defense team focuses on turning traitors and dishonorable into victims. so I'd consider Cersei acting this way out of spite.

But when you glorify Rhaegar's actions towards Elia, and compare her to Robert, this is the height of iirrational it. What wrong did Elia do to Rhaegar besides doing her duty?

Oh and I know how much these people hate that phrase, and the bitter truth that no one of rhaelya stans will ever admit is that they would never like to be betrayed or abandoned. And the ridiculous argument that they don't worship House Targaryen because they hate the Greens, and Aegon II and Aemond, but they love Maegor and adore Rhaenyra and worship Daemon, and worst of all they hate Helaena,Jaehaera and Jaehaerys who did nothing.

If you think that betrayal is a good thing and there is nothing wrong with doing it. if it is for the sake of achieving your happiness. Please just get some therapy fast this is bad and dangerous. Haven't any of you watched a crime documentaries? there are a lot of crimes that happened for this stupid reason because one of these couple was feeling miserable so he decided to destroy everything, this is a selfish and unacceptable act on all levels and will never be acceptable, neither in a novel, nor historically, nor socially.

[countrymusiclover]

6 - Here's to Aerys Targaryen

Part 7

The Lion Knight and Dragon Princess

Tags- just send an ask to be added @cdragons @kmc1989 @starkleila @noirrose21-blog @lover-of-books-and-tea

Hearing the chamber door open behind me where I turned my head around seeing a young girl who looked to be the right age of 15 or 16 with auburn hair tied up in a bun and gray Stark eyes staring directly at me with confusion written on her face. “Who are you? This is my chamber, not yours.” 

“I'm your new lady in waiting, my lady.  My name is Clarrise Arther.” I curtsied before her with a weak smile hoping she would find me alright. 

She clasped her hands together in front of her stomach. “How long have you been a lady in waiting?” 

“I actually just started today. But I am a quick learner.” I said with confidence in my voice. 

The Stark girl paused walking towards me. “Who hired you?’ 

“Tyrion Lannister, Lady Stark.” 

Sansa clicked her tongue sitting down in the chair by her vanity. “Alright. Could you brush my hair?” 

“Of course.” I replied doing as she asked and I found myself thinking about Amber when doing so.  I wish my father hadn't sent her off to another area of the castle to work rather than be able to hang out with me. 

Hours later it was daytime when I began to stroll the hallways on my own. I could make note of how much everything had changed inside my former home.  The family portraits and Targaryen flags had been torn down and burned leaving no existence of my family's rule.  Somehow with the swaying of my dress I could see the bits of fire ash on the stone floor on the now clean floor before me.  This wasn’t anything like my home growing up was. 

“You monster. Myrcella is my only daughter. Do you really think I'll let you sell her like a common whore?” I heard the Queen's voice coming from the shut chamber door that I had passed. 

I backed up pressing my ear against the wooden door to listen. “Myrcella's a princess. Some would say she was born for this.” 

“I will not let you ship her off to Dorne like I was shipped off to Robert Baratheon.” Cersei growled in his face. 

Tyrion responded back. “Dorne is the safest place for her.” 

“Are you mad the Marvel's loathe us.” 

He said back. “That’s why we need to seduce them.  We're going to need their support in the war your son started.” 

“She'll be a hostage.” 

He corrected her. “A guest.” 

“You think the piece of paper father gave you keeps you safe.  Ned Stark had a piece of paper too.” She bared her teeth. 

Tyrion replied softly. “It's done, Cersei.” 

“No.” 

His voice moved away from the door. “You cannot stop it.” 

“No!” Cersei must have knocked over things on the table because I heard glass shattering. 

“Just how safe do you think she will be if the city is sacked. Do you want to see raped, butchard like the Targaryen children. Make no mistake they'll mount her pretty little head on a spike right beside yours.” Tyrion warned her and I shook in fear when he mentioned the death of my siblings. 

Cersei shouted at him. “Get out!. Get out!” 

“Vaella.  I didn't expect to see you out here.  What's wrong?” Tyrion bumped into me when he rushed out of the room. 

I responded by rubbing the back of my neck not meaning to spy on the young lion and his sister. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to spy.” 

“Don’t apologize for spying. That is one of the key things you must learn when you play the game.” 

Knitting my brows at him I asked. “The game. What do you mean?” 

“The game that is surviving this world of politics and fending for yourself.” Tyrion responded looking up at me. “Always know as many people as you can.  You have to be one step ahead of everyone you encounter.” 

My father had taught me that lesson the night he died. 

“You wanted to see me, father.” I slowly walked forward with Jaime standing near the bottom stairs, hand resting on his sword handle.  

My father sat on his throne scratching at his bleeding hand that he had cut on the metal chair when he say down. “You will be Wed off to Tywin Lannister.” 

“What! No, I won't.” I sharply snapped back at him. 

My father raised his voice. “You dare defy my orders, child.  I have already claimed your brother Rhaegar a traitor but I never expected you. Guards, seize her!” 

“Your Grace, surely you can spare her. She's your daughter.” Jaime softly spoke to him. 

My father sent him a glare. “Be quiet, Lannister!” 

“Father, please don't do this.” I winced when two guards grabbed my arms and held me tightly in their grips. 

Aerys Targaryen rose from his chair shouting down to me with such furry in his voice. “You have betrayed me, daughter. You are no longer loyal to me and for that I sentence you to die.” 

“My king, she's your daughter.” Jaime attempted a second time doing his best to not let too much emotion cross his facial expression. 

He didn't care not change his mind. “Shut up! Vaella Targaryen I sentence you to die. Burn her like the others.” 

“Your Grace, Robert Baratheon has reached the gates.” Another guard entered the throne room. 

My father sat back down on his throne waving his hand. “Let her go.  We have other traitors to attend to.” 

“How do you plan on doing that?” 

Horrifying words that would haunt me for the rest of my life came from his mouth. “Burn them all - burn them all!” 

“Vaella! You need to get out of here right now.”  Jaime helped me up from the ground and I gripped his forearm for balance. “There’s an escape hole under the tunnels. Go to the tunnel and my brother Tyrion will be there. Look for blonde hair and he's short.” 

“What about you?” I asked feeling my heart trying to beat out of my chest. 

He holds my shoulders in his hands. “I'll make sure he doesn’t send the guards after you. But I just want you to be safe.  You are one of the only people I care about.” Nodding my head I ran up the stairs and around the corner yet I halted in my tracks hearing my father utter those words over and over. 

“Burn them all!” 

Hiding behind the nearest pillar I peaked my head around watching Jaime slowly stalk behind my father who had risen from the throne shouting those three words over and over repeatedly. “Oh my god!” I shrieked, clutching my eyes closed after Jaime’s sword was stabbed into the back of his back and his body collapsed to the steps after he drew his sword out. 

A few other guards and Ned Stark entered the room quickly with Robert Baratheon all stunned at the sight before them. “Crown who you damn well like.” Jaime grumbled sitting on the throne with his half stained in blood sword.  Holding my hands over my mouth I couldn't form words knowing the realm would never be the same. 

[dalekofchaos]

GRRM's original outline

Other what if scenarios that I ran out of space for. Add your own if it didn't make the cut

What if Lyanna lived and became Robert's Queen?

What if Myrcella was born first and was betrothed to Robb

What if Robb and Margaery are betrothed?

What if Rhaella survived childbirth with Daenerys?

What if Joanna Lannister didn't die in childbirth?

What if Arthur took Lyanna/Jon to Dragonstone and fled with Rhaella, Viserys and Dany and regrouped with Jon Connington?

Jamie took the throne for himself after killing Aerys?

What if Elia and her children escaped to Dorne?

What if Balon died instead of his sons?

What if Jon Arryn had a son and was raised with Ned and Robert?

What if Theon did what Asha recommended and kidnapped Bran and RIckon and burned Winterfell to the ground and this leads to Theon becoming the Iron Prince and a strong contender for the Kingsmoot.

What if Rhaegar and Robert died in the Trident and Ned became King?

What if Viserys met and married Arianne Martell?

What if Domeric Bolton lived and never met Ramsay?

What if Rhaenyra won The Dance Of The Dragons

What if Arya revealed herself to Roose Bolton

What if Rhaegar married Cersei instead of Elia?

What if Ned and his brothers talked sense into Robert and he swore off his ways to be good for Lyanna and Lyanna fought in the rebellion because Aerys kills her father and brother(because Southern Ambitions)

[thelandswemadeofpaper]

As much I hate Forced or Unwilling Marriages, the power imbalance between the wife and the husband should be considered

Even if the man didn't agree with the wedding, in a patriarchal society, he does have far more power than his bride

To judge things like cheating, treating his/her spouse badly depends on other factors like a previous consensual agreement (Laenor/Rhaenyra) or abuse (Robert/Cersei)

Respect is the minimum in the relationship

[novaursa]

The Price of Fire (3)

- Summary: In the shadows of the Red Keep, the daughter of the Mad King, Princess Y/N Targaryen, finds herself caught between duty, love, and survival. As her father’s madness deepens and political intrigue swirls, she seeks solace in a forbidden romance with her sworn protector, Ser Arthur Dayne. With King Aerys plotting to use her as a pawn and her brother Rhaegar maneuvering to shield her from their father’s grasp, Y/N must navigate a web of deceit and desire. As tensions rise, secrets ignite into fierce passion and dangerous alliances, where the wrong move could mean the end of them all.

- Paring: targ!reader/Arthur Dayne

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is younger sister of Rhaegar, has silver hair and violet eyes. For previous parts and more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mature 16+ (Aerys is warning on his own)

- Word count: 9 000+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @lightdragonrayne @onlyrealjoy

- Previous part: 2

- Next part: 4

The corridors of the Red Keep feel colder today, as if the stone walls themselves have absorbed the chill of all the cruelty and madness they’ve witnessed over the years. You walk beside Ser Arthur, his presence a reassuring constant, though even he can do little to quiet the dread pooling in your stomach. It’s been too long since you’ve seen your mother—since you’ve held her hand and offered what little comfort you could in the midst of this living nightmare. You know the risks of approaching your father, but the need to see her, to make sure she’s still holding on, outweighs the fear gnawing at you.

Arthur walks close but maintains a careful distance, ever the vigilant protector. You steal a glance at him, seeing the tension in his jaw, the tightness around his eyes. He is usually a fortress of calm, but even he cannot hide the unease that creeps over him at the thought of facing the Mad King. There’s something about these visits that tests even the strongest of wills.

When you reach the throne room, the doors creak open to reveal Aerys seated on the Iron Throne, his thin frame dwarfed by the mass of twisted swords. His long silver hair hangs in tangled strands around his face, and his eyes gleam with a manic intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. The room is near-empty, save for a few courtiers hovering in the shadows and a pair of guards standing stiffly by the doors. The air is heavy with the metallic tang of old blood and burning oils.

You force yourself to take a breath, squaring your shoulders as you step forward. Arthur remains a few paces behind you, every muscle in his body coiled with readiness, though his expression remains unreadable. 

As you approach the throne, Aerys’s gaze snaps to you, his eyes narrowing with suspicion and something darker—possessiveness. He regards you like one of his treasures, something he owns and controls. The twisted smile that spreads across his lips makes your stomach turn.

“My daughter,” he croons, his voice thin and grating. “To what do I owe the honor of your presence? Come closer, let me see you.”

You swallow your revulsion and step forward, keeping your expression neutral despite the fear clawing at your insides. “Father,” you begin carefully, your voice steady though your heart races. “I’ve come to ask a favor.”

Aerys tilts his head, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “A favor? From me?” His laughter is sharp, mocking. “You presume much, child. But go on, amuse me.”

You keep your tone gentle, non-threatening. “It has been some time since I last saw Mother. I only wish to visit her, to spend a moment with her.”

The shift in Aerys’s expression is sudden and terrifying. The light in his eyes turns cold, his smile twisting into something cruel. “Your mother,” he spits, his voice dripping with contempt. “That weak, sniveling creature. She is exactly where she belongs—locked away, useless and broken. Why would you waste your time on her?”

The disdain in his voice is like a knife to your heart. You force yourself to hold his gaze, refusing to let him see your fear. “She is still my mother, Your Grace. It would ease my mind to see her, even if only briefly.”

Aerys’s eyes narrow, his fingers tapping against the armrest of the Iron Throne, a sharp, erratic rhythm. “Ease your mind, you say? And why should I care about the concerns of a child? Perhaps you’re becoming soft like her—weak, unfit to carry the blood of dragons.”

Behind you, Arthur tenses, the restraint it takes to remain silent and still almost palpable. His instincts scream to shield you, to pull you away from the venomous words of the Mad King, but he knows better than to interfere. One wrong move could spell disaster.

You take a deep breath, summoning every ounce of courage you possess. “I am not weak, Father. I know what it means to be Targaryen, to uphold the strength of our House. But even dragons need respite. Let me see her, if only to show her that her family still cares for her.”

For a long moment, Aerys just stares at you, his eyes burning with a fire that’s equal parts madness and malice. Then, with a sickening grin, he leans back in his seat. “Very well,” he says, his voice a cold, dangerous purr. “You may visit your mother—but only for a short time. And remember this, child: her weakness is a disease. Do not let it infect you.”

You bow your head, grateful that he’s granted you the permission you sought, though his words fill you with dread. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

As you turn to leave, you catch a glimpse of Arthur’s face. His expression is still impassive, but his eyes—those normally calm, steady eyes—are clouded with concern. He falls into step behind you, and the two of you walk in silence until you’re far enough from the throne room to let out the breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Arthur’s voice is low and tense when he finally speaks. “You shouldn’t have had to endure that. You know he’s only looking for cracks to exploit, for any sign of defiance.”

You stop, turning to face him. “I had to, Arthur. I need to see her. She’s been alone in that dark chamber for so long… I just need to make sure she’s still holding on.”

His gaze softens, the concern giving way to something warmer, more protective. “I understand. But I wish there were another way—some way to keep you out of his reach.”

You smile faintly, though it doesn’t reach your eyes. “We both know there’s no escaping his shadow, not while he still holds power. All we can do is navigate it as best we can.”

Arthur’s expression hardens with resolve, and he steps closer, his presence a wall of strength between you and the dangers lurking within these cursed halls. “Then let me escort you to her. We’ll keep this visit brief.”

You nod, grateful beyond words for his unwavering support. “Thank you, Arthur.”

Together, you continue down the winding corridors, each step bringing you closer to the wing where your mother is kept. The Red Keep’s gloom deepens the farther you go, the air heavy with the weight of years of sorrow and forgotten dreams. The guards stationed near the entrance recognize you and step aside, allowing you and Arthur to pass without question.

When you reach the door to your mother’s chambers, you hesitate for a moment, your hand hovering over the latch. You can’t help but wonder what state you’ll find her in this time—if she’s weaker, more faded, a shadow of the queen she once was.

Arthur’s hand rests lightly on your shoulder, grounding you. “I’ll be right here,” he says softly, his eyes full of understanding.

You nod, steeling yourself, and push open the door.

The room is dimly lit, the curtains drawn to block out most of the daylight. The air is thick with the scent of herbs meant to soothe, but they do little to mask the underlying scent of decay. And there, seated by the window, is Queen Rhaella. Her once-glorious silver hair has dulled and thinned, her skin pale and fragile like parchment. But when she turns to look at you, her eyes—still the same Targaryen violet—light up with recognition.

“My child,” she whispers, her voice trembling with emotion. “You’ve come to see me.”

You rush forward, kneeling beside her and taking her frail hands in yours. “Yes, Mother. I’m here.”

Tears well up in her eyes as she cups your face, her touch featherlight. “I feared… I feared you might have forgotten me.”

“Never,” you assure her, your own voice breaking with the weight of everything unsaid. “I could never forget you.”

Arthur remains at the door, his eyes softening as he watches the tender moment between mother and daughter. But even as he allows you this brief respite, his senses remain sharp, his instincts on high alert. He knows that in this castle, every moment of peace is fleeting, and he is prepared for whatever shadows might lurk beyond the door.

For now, though, he lets you have this—this precious, stolen moment with the woman who brought you into this world, even as the walls of the Red Keep close in around you.

The moon hangs low in the sky, casting pale beams through the narrow windows of your chambers. The flickering light from a single candle barely holds back the encroaching darkness as you sit slumped by the edge of your bed, your heart weighed down by the memory of your mother’s broken form. Queen Rhaella had once been a figure of quiet strength, a beacon of grace even in the midst of your father’s growing madness. But now, she is but a shadow, hollow and distant, her eyes reflecting only the ghosts of the past.

You had expected to find sorrow in her presence, but nothing could have prepared you for the frailty, the emptiness that clings to her like a second skin. She barely recognized you, her words disjointed, muttered prayers and half-formed thoughts that held no coherence. Her grip on your hand had been weak, trembling, as if the very act of holding on was too much for her. You had tried to comfort her, tried to remind her of who you were, of who she was—but it felt as though she was already gone, a living ghost in a castle of nightmares.

Now, back in your chambers, the tears come quietly, slipping down your cheeks as the crushing weight of it all settles onto your chest. The grief is a sharp, twisting blade, cutting deeper with each breath. You’re not sure how long you sit there, lost in the echoes of your mother’s vacant gaze, but the quiet knock at your door startles you out of your despair.

You hastily wipe your eyes, forcing yourself to stand as the door creaks open. Rhaegar steps inside, his presence filling the room with a mixture of calm and tension. He’s dressed in his usual somber attire, silver hair falling loose around his shoulders. But tonight, his expression is strained, his eyes clouded with the same burdens that have been gnawing at you.

As he enters, his gaze flicks briefly to Arthur, who stands near the door, ever watchful. For a moment, Rhaegar’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly, as if he’s seen something in Arthur’s expression—something unspoken that lingers like a shadow. But he says nothing, merely inclining his head in acknowledgment before turning his full attention to you.

“Sister,” Rhaegar greets softly, his voice gentle, though it carries the weight of unspoken grief.

You try to smile, but it falters, and instead, you meet his gaze with red-rimmed eyes. “Rhaegar… Mother, she’s—”

“I know.” He crosses the room in a few swift steps and pulls you into a tight embrace. For a moment, the façade of strength you’ve held onto crumbles, and you cling to him, letting the tears flow freely against his chest. He says nothing, simply holding you, his hand cradling the back of your head as if shielding you from the world.

When you finally pull back, you wipe your tears with the back of your hand, feeling slightly more composed but no less broken. Rhaegar’s eyes are heavy with sympathy, but there’s also a deep weariness in them, as if the weight of the world rests on his shoulders alone. The tension from the small council lingers in the lines etched across his brow, and you can see that the discussion of your fate is still gnawing at him.

“She’s slipping away, Rhaegar,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “I thought… I thought maybe she’d still have something left, some piece of the mother I remember, but she’s… gone.”

Rhaegar’s expression tightens, and for a moment, you see a flash of anger behind his eyes—anger not at you, but at the cruelty of the world you both inhabit. “Father’s madness has destroyed so much already,” he murmurs, his voice laced with bitterness. “She’s a prisoner in all but name, just like we are. It’s a tragedy that her strength was consumed by a man who only sees people as tools to fuel his delusions.”

You nod, fighting back another wave of tears. “And now he wants to take everything from me, too. My choices, my freedom… even my future. He spoke of me like a prize to be claimed—like he could twist our lives to suit his whims.”

Rhaegar’s jaw clenches. “He did, and that’s why I intervened at the council. Marrying you to me was the only way I could think of to protect you from whatever vile schemes he has in mind.”

You search his face, seeing the sincerity there, the determination that has always defined him. “But that’s not what you want, is it?” you ask, your voice trembling. “To be bound to me in such a way… We both know it’s not a real solution, just another chain to bind us.”

Rhaegar sighs deeply, running a hand through his hair. “No, it’s not what I want—for either of us. But it might be the only way to keep you safe, Y/N. If I can keep you close, keep you under my protection, then maybe… just maybe, we can outmaneuver him long enough to find another way.”

You nod slowly, understanding the terrible logic behind his plan. It’s not love or affection driving him to this choice—it’s desperation, the need to keep you out of your father’s grasp. But even as you accept his reasoning, the bitterness of it sits heavy in your chest.

“And what if Father doesn’t relent?” you ask, your voice small. “What if he insists on his… twisted desires?”

Rhaegar’s gaze hardens, and there’s a cold, dangerous resolve in his eyes. “If he forces our hand, then I’ll do what needs to be done. I won’t let him have you, Y/N. No matter the cost.”

The words hang in the air like a vow, heavy and unbreakable. For a moment, the room is thick with the unspoken knowledge that you both stand on the precipice of something dark and inevitable. The shadows outside grow longer, and you know that whatever happens next, you won’t be able to simply wait and hope for a resolution. You’ll need to play your part in the game, to survive in a court where even family ties are dangerous.

Rhaegar reaches out and squeezes your hand gently. “Rest tonight, sister. We’ll face tomorrow’s trials as they come. You’re not alone in this.”

You nod, grateful for his presence, but also aware that he cannot protect you from everything. As Rhaegar turns to leave, his gaze lingers on Arthur once more, something unreadable passing between them—an unspoken understanding, perhaps. Rhaegar finally gives a curt nod to Arthur, a signal of trust, though laced with the expectation that his sister’s safety is now even more crucial.

Arthur watches Rhaegar leave before turning his attention back to you, concern etched into the lines of his face. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

You look up at him, finding solace in his unwavering presence, and manage a small, sad smile. “No,” you admit softly, “but with you here, I’m not completely lost.”

Arthur’s expression softens, and he moves closer, as if silently vowing that he’ll be your shield against whatever darkness threatens. For now, the night offers a brief respite—a moment of stillness before the storm that is undoubtedly gathering on the horizon.

You both know that things are shifting, that the delicate balance of power is growing more fragile by the day. But tonight, you hold onto the comfort of his presence, even as the shadows of the Red Keep loom ever closer, waiting for their chance to strike.

The clatter of silverware on porcelain fills the dimly lit hall, the rich scent of spiced meats and roasted vegetables mingling with the tension thick in the air. You sit stiffly beside your brother, the heat of his presence a strange comfort as unease churns in your belly. King Aerys sits at the head of the table, eyes gleaming with something far too wild, the last vestiges of sanity hanging by a thread. You try not to stare at him for too long, yet it’s impossible to forget the father he used to be—the man who would lift you onto his lap, whispering stories of Old Valyria, back before the darkness took him, before Duskendale shattered his mind.

Ser Arthur Dayne stands behind you, vigilant and silent, his presence like a phantom blade pressed close to your back. Even without looking, you know how his eyes occasionally stray from his watch to linger on you, a subtle brush of warmth in the cold grandeur of the hall. You’re painfully aware of him—the man who knows you in ways no one else does, whose hands have traced paths of devotion across your skin in secret, when night wrapped the world in shadow and only the moon bore witness to your stolen moments. Yet, here, you are nothing more than a princess, a toy in a game woven by men with ambitions and schemes.

Tywin Lannister’s voice cuts through your musings, smooth and measured as he addresses your brother. “My daughter, Cersei, is soon to arrive at the capital. I hope you’ll find her company agreeable, Your Grace. She’s been raised to be the ideal lady—a fitting match for a prince of your stature.”

Rhaegar barely offers him a glance, his hand slipping beneath the table to find yours, his fingers intertwining with yours in a silent reassurance. “I’m certain she’s every bit as accomplished as you claim, Lord Tywin,” Rhaegar replies, the politeness in his tone thin as autumn frost. It’s clear he’s uninterested, his mind far removed from the Lannisters and their ambitions. Tywin’s eyes flicker in irritation, though he masks it well behind the practiced elegance of a politician.

You sit there, caught between worlds, between duty and desire. Why were you summoned here? Aerys’ erratic whims have grown more unpredictable, and tonight is no different. His gaze shifts between you and Rhaegar, a sly smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he watches your joined hands, though it’s Qarlton Chelsted’s hawkish gaze that lingers on you most. His eyes rove over you with a thinly veiled hunger that makes your skin crawl. He leans forward, raising a goblet to you in what he imagines is a gesture of gallant admiration.

“Princess, you truly bring the beauty of old Valyria to life. The realm is fortunate to bask in your grace.”

You force a smile, the words thick and sweet like poisoned honey on your tongue. “You are kind, Lord Chelsted.”

Aerys’ gaze sharpens at the exchange, a flicker of something possessive in the depths of his eyes. “Yes, my daughter is the very flower of our house, is she not?” he says, his voice low and sickly sweet, laced with something darker beneath. “Her blood is pure, untainted by lesser men’s ambitions.” His eyes cut to Rhaegar, daring him to speak. A tension coils in your stomach as Rhaegar’s hand tightens around yours under the table.

Ser Arthur’s eyes harden from where he stands behind you, though he remains silent, a silent knight sworn to protect, yet burning with quiet fury for all that he cannot say. You know him—he’s thinking of how to get you out of here, away from the prying eyes and twisted desires of those who see you as nothing more than a prize to be won or controlled.

“I have no desire for flattery or empty courtesies, Lord Chelsted,” Rhaegar cuts in, his voice colder now. “If you wish to admire something, turn your gaze to the honor of the realm and your sworn duties.” His meaning is clear—a dismissal of Chelsted’s attempts to ingratiate himself through you.

Tywin Lannister’s eyes narrow, catching the undercurrent of defiance in Rhaegar’s tone. “One must consider the future, Prince Rhaegar. The alliances we forge now will shape the realm for generations. There is power in unity—power that could secure the stability we all desire.”

But Rhaegar isn’t listening to Tywin. His focus is entirely on you, his thumb brushing over your knuckles as if reminding you of the vow he made—a silent promise to shield you from the madness that festers in the heart of the Iron Throne.

Aerys’ laugh shatters the tension, high and brittle, the sound scraping against your nerves. “Stability? Yes, of course, we must discuss such matters. But tonight… tonight is for family. And those who would seek to join it, perhaps.” His gaze flicks to Tywin, a twisted smile curling his lips.

Before anyone can respond, you feel a sudden shift in the air—a dark, volatile energy crackling beneath the surface. Aerys’ hand slams down on the table, rattling the goblets and plates. “But I see how you look at her,” he snarls, his eyes blazing with madness as he turns his gaze to Chelsted. “Do you think I am blind? Do you think I do not know what men see when they look at my blood?”

“Your Grace, I meant no—” Chelsted begins, his voice trembling.

“Silence!” Aerys hisses, rising from his chair. His eyes flick to you, and for a moment, you see nothing of the father you once knew—only a man lost in his own twisted desires. “She is mine, as much as any dragon’s daughter belongs to its rider. She is not for the likes of you!”

Rhaegar rises as well, the calm dignity of a prince masking the storm brewing beneath his gaze. “Father,” he says, his voice firm but respectful, “you summoned us here as family, not to indulge in this spectacle.”

But Aerys isn’t listening. His gaze sharpens on your brother, a wild gleam in his eyes. “Ah, but family has its own… peculiarities, doesn’t it, my son?” His words are laced with a twisted insinuation, and you feel the blood drain from your face. The walls feel as though they’re closing in, the shadows growing darker, more oppressive.

Ser Arthur steps forward, his presence a silent challenge to the madness unfolding before him. But before anyone can act, Aerys’ laughter rings out once more, the sound echoing off the stone walls, chilling you to the bone. He waves a dismissive hand. “Enough of this. We shall see where loyalty truly lies soon enough.”

The dinner ends in a shroud of tension, the storm only barely held at bay. As you rise, Rhaegar’s hand never leaves yours, his grip a lifeline in the swirling chaos of the court. Ser Arthur is at your side in an instant, his eyes meeting yours with a wordless promise—a vow to protect, to stand between you and the horrors that haunt the shadows.

And for now, all you can do is cling to those who love you, those who see you as more than just another piece on the board—a sister, a lover, a princess who might yet carve her own path in a world of fire and blood.

The doors of the chamber groan as they swing shut behind you, sealing away the venomous atmosphere left in the wake of Aerys' outburst. The cool corridors of the Red Keep feel like a relief after the suffocating tension of the dinner. Yet, even in the relative quiet, you can’t shake the tight knot of anxiety in your chest, the echo of your father’s laughter still ringing in your ears. 

Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Lewyn Martell flank you and Rhaegar, their silent presence a shield against the unseen dangers that lurk within the walls of the keep. You can feel Arthur’s eyes on you, a fleeting glance meant to reassure, but also to check for any sign of distress. He’s always like that—cautious, ever the protector. You walk in silence for several steps, the only sound the click of boots against stone and the flutter of your robes trailing behind.

Finally, the words you’ve been holding in since that wretched meal spill out. “Rhaegar… what was all that?” you ask, your voice soft, barely above a whisper. You turn to him, searching his face for answers. “Why was I even summoned? What did Father want with me there?”

Rhaegar’s expression is tight, his jaw clenched as if he’s been grinding his teeth. He keeps his eyes forward as he speaks, his voice laced with bitterness. “It was less about you and more about the power plays at work. Father knows the eyes of the court are on you—on us. He wanted you there to showcase his grip on his family, to remind everyone that no matter what is whispered in dark corners, you’re still under his thumb.”

Your brows knit together in confusion. “But why summon those men, why have us all sit through that farce?”

Rhaegar slows his steps, turning to face you fully now. Arthur and Lewyn fall back slightly, giving you a semblance of privacy while maintaining their vigil. “Tywin wants to tie House Lannister to the crown through marriage—he thinks his daughter, Cersei, is the answer. He’s vying for an alliance that would give him a foothold in the royal family. But what he doesn’t realize is that Father’s madness is deeper than political games. You saw how he reacted tonight. He has no intention of letting you go, Y/N. Not to Tywin’s machinations, not to anyone.”

Your breath catches in your throat. The implications of Rhaegar’s words settle over you like a shroud. You’ve always sensed Aerys’ twisted possessiveness, but hearing it put so bluntly makes your skin crawl. You remember the whispers in the council, the way Rhaegar had intervened before your father’s darker desires could be made into reality, the way he’d claimed your hand in a bid to protect you. Even now, Aerys’ obsession festers like a wound that refuses to heal.

Before you can respond, Ser Arthur steps closer, his voice low and laced with concern. “We should not linger in the open corridors. The walls of the Red Keep have too many ears.” His gaze softens as it rests on you, an unspoken promise of safety in his eyes. “There’s a place nearby where we can speak more freely.”

You nod, grateful for his presence, though your mind remains a whirl of unease. Rhaegar leads the way to a smaller, more secluded antechamber. The room is sparsely furnished, with only a few chairs and a simple table, the flickering light of torches casting wavering shadows across the stone walls.

Once inside, Rhaegar shuts the door, leaning against it as though he’s holding back the weight of the world. Ser Lewyn stands guard by the entrance, but Arthur approaches you, his gaze questioning. “Are you alright?” he asks, his voice just for you.

You give a faint nod, but the weariness shows in your eyes. “I still don’t understand,” you murmur, looking between Rhaegar and Arthur. “If Father is aware of Tywin’s intentions, why allow him to bring it up at all? Why put me through that?”

Rhaegar sighs, his tone filled with frustration. “Because Father delights in chaos. He wanted to see Tywin fail, to watch him squirm when I rejected his offer without needing to say the words outright. But more than that… it was a test. Aerys knows there are others watching—he wanted to see if I would openly protect you, if I’d let slip that our bond is more than just that of siblings.”

Arthur’s hand brushes against yours, grounding you. “You did well to keep your composure, Y/N. Aerys is searching for cracks, but you gave him none to exploit.”

You shiver slightly, the gravity of what could have been weighing on you. “But what happens next?” you ask, looking to Rhaegar. “Tywin won’t take kindly to being spurned, and Father’s moods grow darker by the day.”

Rhaegar’s gaze hardens, the fire of determination flickering in his violet eyes. “I won’t let him touch you. Whatever his plans are, I’ll keep you safe from him, from all of them. He can play his games, but you are not a piece on his board.”

Arthur nods in agreement, stepping closer until he’s just beside you. “We’ll protect you, Y/N. Your brother and I have both made that vow.” There’s a flicker of something deeper in his eyes, a warmth that contrasts with the cold, unforgiving world outside this room.

For a moment, it feels like the three of you are united against a tide of madness—a fortress of trust and loyalty in the heart of a crumbling dynasty. But the world outside is still filled with threats, and you know this peace is only temporary.

Still, in this moment, with Rhaegar’s determination and Arthur’s silent support anchoring you, you feel a measure of strength returning.

The streets of King’s Landing are awash in colors, banners snapping in the warm breeze as the people celebrate the Feast of the Mother’s Grace—a festival honoring the Mother’s blessings with grand tournaments, feasts, and dances. For a few fleeting days, the city’s residents forget the shadow of Aerys’ rule, basking instead in merriment and revelry. The sky above is clear and bright, a perfect blue that stands in stark contrast to the simmering tensions within the Red Keep.

You walk at Rhaegar’s side, a vision of ethereal grace, clad in flowing robes of deep indigo and silver, the colors catching the sunlight and shimmering like starlight as you move. The gown is intricately embroidered with dragons in flight, a nod to your Targaryen heritage, and it clings to your form in a way that enhances the effortless elegance you carry. Your hair, as silver as moonlight, cascades down your back in soft waves, adorned with delicate braids and pearls. You hold your beauty like a weapon, a shield of calm grace and serenity—a true daughter of Valyria, untouched by the madness that grips your bloodline.

Beside you, Rhaegar is dressed in his princely finery, the regal reds and blacks of House Targaryen standing out against the celebratory hues all around. Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan Selmy trail behind, vigilant and dutiful. Arthur’s lilac-grey eyes never stray far from you, a silent guardian who takes pride in walking beside you, even as his heart wrestles with what he cannot show in public. Each time you glance back at him, offering a small, almost playful smile, you see the faintest flush of color rise to his cheeks. Ser Barristan, ever watchful and wise, catches these moments, his eyes twinkling with restrained amusement.

“You make a fine knight blush with just a look,” Barristan murmurs softly to Arthur, who clears his throat in an attempt to regain his composure. You catch the exchange, and despite the tumultuous undercurrents of courtly life, a genuine warmth blooms in your chest.

Rhaegar’s voice draws you back to the present, his tone low as he discusses the day’s events. “The festival is a rare respite,” he says, his gaze sweeping over the people gathered to watch the tourney grounds being prepared. “Yet I cannot help but wonder what darkness these smiles are meant to hide.”

You nod thoughtfully. “They’re fleeting, like all joy in this place. But perhaps it is in these fleeting moments that we find a reason to endure.”

Arthur’s voice, measured and reassuring, adds quietly, “Hope can be found in the smallest of things, Princess. Even in fleeting smiles.”

The easy rhythm of your conversation is disrupted as a presence sweeps across the courtyard. Golden-haired and clad in Lannister crimson, Cersei Lannister approaches with a practiced grace, her every step deliberate. Her gaze is fixed firmly on Rhaegar, her smile calculated, though there’s a hint of irritation as her eyes briefly flicker toward you. It’s subtle, but the tightening of her jaw speaks volumes—your presence is an unwanted intrusion on what she clearly sees as her opportunity.

“Your Grace,” Cersei greets Rhaegar with a low curtsy, her voice dripping with charm. “It is an honor to be in your company on such a joyous day.”

Rhaegar offers her a courteous nod, though there’s a touch of distance in his eyes. “Lady Cersei. I hope your journey to King’s Landing was a comfortable one.”

Cersei’s smile widens, though there’s something predatory about it. “It was, thanks to my father’s preparations. The city is quite beautiful during the festival. One can only imagine how much more splendid it would be with the right queen by your side.”

She doesn’t even glance your way, her entire focus directed at Rhaegar. Her words are a thinly veiled suggestion, an attempt to draw him into the game Tywin Lannister has been playing from the shadows.

But Rhaegar remains unmoved, his gaze steady and cool. “Perhaps,” he muses lightly, “but I believe the realm already holds its most beautiful maiden in my sister, Y/N. There is no one more radiant.”

The words hang in the air like a challenge. You see the flicker of annoyance in Cersei’s eyes, the subtle tightening of her smile as her confidence wavers. The compliment was half-serious at best, but you know your brother well enough to recognize the deliberate jab beneath his praise. He knows exactly what he’s doing—putting distance between himself and Cersei while keeping you at the center of his attention, where no Lannister could hope to encroach.

You stifle a laugh behind a delicate hand, the corner of your mouth twitching in amusement. “My brother is overly kind,” you say, your voice smooth as silk. “I’m but one among many fair ladies gathered here today.”

Cersei’s gaze finally lands on you, the forced politeness in her smile barely masking her irritation. “Your beauty is indeed spoken of widely, Princess,” she says, though the words come out brittle, as if each one is an effort. “But beauty alone cannot rule a realm.”

You return her smile with one equally sharp, but far more practiced. “No, it cannot. Yet, I find it often reveals what is truly in a person’s heart.”

The tension between you and Cersei crackles beneath the surface, thinly veiled by the courtly pleasantries exchanged. But before it can escalate further, Rhaegar smoothly intervenes, steering the conversation away from the subtle barbs. “The tourney is about to begin,” he says, gesturing toward the grounds. “Perhaps we should all find our seats.”

Cersei, realizing that any further attempt to monopolize Rhaegar’s attention would be futile with you standing so close, inclines her head graciously. “Of course, Your Grace. I look forward to seeing you claim the victor’s wreath for House Targaryen.”

She retreats with a swirl of crimson skirts, leaving behind a lingering tension. You exchange a glance with Rhaegar, who looks more relieved than anything else. He leans closer, his voice a low murmur meant only for you. “If I must suffer through more of her company, I fear I may take vows to the Warrior and seek refuge in a temple.”

You stifle another laugh, shaking your head at his exaggerated misery. “Be kind, brother. She has set her ambitions high, even if they are misguided.”

Rhaegar’s expression softens as he looks at you. “Ambitions are dangerous things, Y/N. They lead men—and women—to seek more than they can grasp. But you, my sweet sister, you hold something greater than ambition: wisdom.”

You don’t miss the way Arthur’s gaze lingers on you as Rhaegar speaks, a hint of pride flickering in his eyes. The warmth of their presence—Rhaegar’s unwavering protection, Arthur’s silent devotion—anchors you in the shifting sea of courtly games. You’re reminded that in this world of treachery and deceit, the bonds you share with them remain unbreakable.

As you continue toward the tourney grounds, you catch Ser Barristan’s wry grin out of the corner of your eye. “It seems the Lady Cersei has found herself up against more formidable opponents than she anticipated,” he murmurs.

Arthur, walking beside you, allows himself a small, private smile, though he says nothing. His silence is reassurance enough—no matter what games the Lannisters play, no matter what schemes Aerys weaves, you are not alone.

The festive buzz fills the air as lords and ladies take their places in the stands. The crowd is lively, the common folk eager to see the spectacle of the tourney, while nobles exchange whispers and wagers. The sun hangs high, casting a golden glow over the lists. Rhaegar’s presence beside you draws countless eyes, but you are accustomed to the attention. You wear it like the fine silk of your gown.

As you, Rhaegar, Ser Arthur, and Ser Barristan approach the royal stands, you feel the eyes of the court on you—especially Cersei Lannister’s. She watches from her father’s side, her expression carefully composed, though you can see the tension in her features. Her green eyes are sharp, darting between you and Rhaegar as if calculating how best to regain control of the situation.

Before you part ways with your brother, he turns to you, a hint of mischief glinting in his violet eyes. “You’ll save a smile for me when I take the victor’s wreath, won’t you?” he asks lightly, though his voice carries a deeper undercurrent. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

With a graceful incline of your head, you reply, “Only if you make it through without taking a lance to the chest, brother.”

Rhaegar chuckles softly, then, for all to see, takes your hand and presses a lingering kiss to your knuckles. It is a public display, one meant not only to irk Cersei but to remind the realm where his affections truly lie. You feel his lips brush your skin, cool and gentle, yet there is strength in the gesture—a silent declaration to the court. You can almost feel the daggers in Cersei’s gaze as the crowd murmurs in reaction.

Tywin Lannister’s expression is more controlled, but a flicker of annoyance betrays his thoughts. You can almost hear the whispers forming among the gathered nobles: So it’s true. Rhaegar favors his sister more than any golden lion.

As you part ways, Rhaegar and Ser Barristan head toward the lists to prepare for the jousts, while you and Ser Arthur make your way to the royal stand. Arthur walks close to you, offering his arm, which you take, feeling the warmth and strength beneath the cold steel of his armor. The crowd parts for you as you pass, and though many bow or curtsy, their eyes are drawn to Arthur’s ever-watchful presence at your side. There is an unmistakable pride in his step, as though being your protector is more than just duty—it is something he holds dear.

When you reach the royal stands, you take your seat just below the king’s dais, where your father sits, flanked by notable members of the court. Aerys looks every bit the ghost he’s become—a thin figure draped in dark robes, his long silver hair tangled and unkempt. His eyes, once sharp and full of life, now seem hollow, gazing out at the festivities with little interest. Yet you know better than to trust this calm; his moods change like the winds over Blackwater Bay, unpredictable and deadly.

Aerys drums his fingers on the armrest of his chair, a nervous tick that you recognize well. His gaze flits restlessly over the knights and the crowds, as if searching for something—or someone—to spark his twisted delight. You can see the unease in those seated closest to him, even Tywin Lannister, who tries to keep a neutral expression while ever so subtly edging his chair away from the king’s reach.

Ser Arthur stands close by, his hand resting on the pommel of Dawn, his eyes scanning the crowds and the lists with a keen focus. You know that while he is here to protect you, his attention is also torn—he must watch both you and the king, aware that one misstep from Aerys could spell disaster.

The knights begin to tilt, their lances gleaming in the sunlight as they charge across the field. The sound of hooves thundering on packed earth reverberates through the air, accompanied by the cheers and gasps of the audience as each lance shatters upon impact. You watch with measured interest, though your thoughts linger on Rhaegar, wondering how he will fare when his turn comes. His skill is unmatched, but you know there is more at stake today than a victor’s wreath.

Aerys shifts suddenly in his seat, leaning forward as if finally catching sight of something that intrigues him. “Fools,” he mutters under his breath, though you hear the word clearly. His eyes glitter with that familiar madness, a flash of interest ignited by the clash of steel and the sight of knights unseating one another. The thrill of violence is one of the few things that still stirs him from his dark reveries.

Eventually, the moment arrives—Rhaegar’s turn to face none other than Robert Baratheon. The crowd’s anticipation is palpable; these are the two most talked-about knights in the realm, both destined to shape the future in ways even they cannot fully grasp. Robert, clad in armor black as night with a golden stag emblazoned on his chest, grins with the reckless confidence of a warrior born for battle. His blue eyes are fierce, yet there’s a hint of mischief there as well, as if he relishes the chance to test his strength against the prince.

Rhaegar’s armor gleams like polished obsidian, his helm adorned with the three-headed dragon. He sits tall in the saddle, the picture of regal composure, but you know him well enough to sense the tension beneath the surface. This is not just a match of skill; it’s a battle of wills, a clash between two men who represent entirely different paths for the realm.

You glance up at your father, but Aerys’ expression is unreadable. For now, he is content to watch, but you can feel the malice simmering beneath his thin veneer of indifference.

The two knights lower their lances, the world seeming to hold its breath as they spur their horses forward. The thundering hooves, the rush of wind as they charge, the impact of lance against shield—it all happens in a blur. The clash is fierce, but neither man is unseated. They circle back, readying for another pass.

You feel the tension winding tight in your chest, and you find yourself holding your breath. Even Ser Arthur tenses beside you, his hand unconsciously tightening around the hilt of his sword.

“They’re evenly matched,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

Rhaegar and Robert charge again, their lances striking true. The force of the impact sends splinters flying through the air, and this time, Robert wobbles in the saddle but stays upright. The crowd roars its approval, excitement and nervous energy thrumming in the air. Aerys’ fingers tap faster against his armrest, his smile twisting into something cruel and eager, as if he hopes for blood.

On the third pass, both knights are clearly giving it their all. Rhaegar’s focus is absolute, his lance aimed with precision, while Robert’s raw power and aggression seem boundless. The crowd’s cheers grow louder, their excitement feeding the knights’ determination.

The lances splinter once more, and this time, Robert loses his balance entirely. With a mighty crash, he is unseated, falling heavily to the ground. The crowd erupts in a thunderous cheer, and even the nobles stand, clapping for the skill and bravery displayed. Rhaegar reigns in his horse, lifting his visor to acknowledge the applause with a graceful nod.

You feel a surge of pride, a warmth that spreads through your chest as you watch him ride past the stands. His victory is more than just a win in the lists—it is a message, a reminder that despite the shadows encroaching on the realm, the Targaryen legacy is still strong.

As Rhaegar makes his way back toward you, his eyes seek yours in the crowd, and when he finds you, he gives the smallest of smiles—a gesture just for you. You respond with a subtle nod, allowing the corner of your lips to curve upward in acknowledgment. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Cersei’s expression harden, her fingers clutching the armrest of her seat as she watches the scene unfold.

The tourney continues, the sound of steel clashing and cheers rising in waves as knight after knight takes to the lists. Rhaegar rides as if born for the tilt, each victory as effortless as the last. You watch with growing amusement, aware of the eyes upon you—some admiring, others envious, but most tinged with curiosity. The court whispers its judgments as Rhaegar proves once again why he is the realm’s most esteemed warrior.

After his latest win, he wheels his horse around and, to your surprise, begins to guide his stallion directly toward the royal stands. The crowd buzzes with speculation as he approaches, his expression calm but with a hint of mischief playing at the corner of his lips. You know this look well—it’s the look Rhaegar wears when he’s about to make a spectacle, and today, you suspect it’s as much for his own amusement as it is for yours.

He reins in his horse just beneath where you sit, violet eyes gleaming as they meet yours. His voice carries clearly over the noise of the crowd, pitched to ensure every noble within earshot hears him. “Sweet sister, I am in need of a favor,” he declares, his tone light yet deliberate. “Might I be so bold as to request a token from the most beautiful maiden in all the realm?”

A murmur ripples through the crowd. You can feel the eyes of everyone in the royal stand—especially Cersei’s—burning into you. The golden-haired Lannister’s face is a mask of forced composure, but her tightly clenched fists and the faint redness coloring her cheeks betray her irritation. Tywin’s expression is carved from stone, but there’s a flicker of displeasure in his cold green eyes.

Suppressing the urge to laugh outright, you rise gracefully, every movement measured, knowing full well that all eyes are on you. “Bold indeed, brother,” you reply with a teasing lilt, your voice honeyed but firm. You remove a delicate ribbon from your hair—a deep red, embroidered with silver dragons—and lean forward, allowing it to drift into his outstretched hand.

Rhaegar accepts the favor with a courtly bow from the saddle, his expression one of pure delight. “I shall carry it proudly into the lists, sweet sister,” he says, before turning his horse and galloping away with a flourish. The crowd’s applause follows him, but it is the undercurrent of murmured discontent and scandalized whispers that tell you Rhaegar’s ploy has had its intended effect.

As he rides off, triumphant in his subtle defiance, the atmosphere in the royal stands shifts. The tension, once simmering beneath the surface, begins to bubble to the forefront. King Aerys, who until now seemed barely interested in the events unfolding below, suddenly leans forward, his eyes narrowing in on you. There is something unsettling in the way his gaze lingers—curiosity, suspicion, and a glimmer of the madness that festers within him.

Tywin seizes the moment, leaning closer to the king, his voice low and smooth, meant for Aerys’ ears alone. “Your Grace,” Tywin begins, his tone laden with carefully veiled displeasure, “it would seem Prince Rhaegar’s conduct today is… unseemly. A knight should honor the realm and its alliances, yet it appears he favors family over duty.”

The implication is clear: Rhaegar’s actions, his blatant preference for you over any potential political match, are a deliberate affront to Tywin’s ambitions. He wraps his criticism in the guise of concern for the realm, but his true intention is as sharp as any blade—he wishes to remind Aerys that Rhaegar’s independence threatens the carefully laid plans of those who seek to influence the Iron Throne.

Aerys’ expression darkens, his lips curling into a sneer. “Rhaegar forgets himself,” he mutters, his voice low and venomous. “He thinks to flaunt his insolence before me? Before my court?” His gaze shifts back to you, suspicion deepening as he regards you with a mixture of disdain and twisted fascination. “Perhaps it is not just the prince who requires reminding of their place.”

You keep your expression serene, but beneath the surface, a chill runs down your spine. Aerys’ attention is like a poisonous serpent coiling around you, its grip tightening with each passing moment. The man who once protected and cherished you has long since been replaced by a creature of paranoia and cruelty. You can sense the change in him—the flicker of interest that is less about paternal concern and more about control.

Ser Arthur, sensing the shift in the air, subtly steps closer. His presence is steadying, a silent reminder that you are not entirely alone in this den of vipers. His posture straightens, not in overt aggression, but in readiness, a subtle declaration that he will not stand idly by if things take a darker turn.

“Your Grace,” Arthur says with quiet respect, his voice cutting through the tension. “The prince’s actions are merely in the spirit of the festival. It is a time of celebration, of joy shared among family and kin.”

Aerys turns his gaze on Arthur, his eyes narrowing dangerously. “Do you speak for him, Ser Arthur? Or for her?” His tone drips with accusation, the edge of madness gleaming in his eyes.

Before Arthur can respond, you step forward slightly, meeting your father’s gaze with calm poise. “Father,” you say softly, “Rhaegar only wished to honor our house. The people love to see such displays of familial affection. It strengthens their faith in the crown.” Your words are carefully chosen, an appeal to his vanity and to the perception of control that Aerys clings to so desperately.

For a moment, Aerys’ eyes flicker with uncertainty. Then, just as quickly, his suspicion retreats, replaced by that cruel smile you’ve come to dread. “Yes… yes, let them see their dragon princes,” he mutters, almost to himself. “But do not forget, daughter, that the fire burns hottest in those closest to the flame.” His gaze lingers on you a moment longer, a silent warning that leaves no doubt—Aerys may allow this display, but his temper is a volatile thing, and you tread on perilous ground.

Satisfied, or at least distracted for the moment, Aerys shifts back in his chair, though his mood remains precarious. Tywin’s expression is unreadable, but there’s a tightness in his features that betrays his frustration. The Lannister lord has been outmaneuvered for now, but you know this is only one skirmish in a much larger battle.

As the next rounds of the tourney proceed, you settle back into your seat, your outward composure intact, but your thoughts racing. Ser Arthur remains near, a comforting presence at your side. “You handled that well,” he murmurs, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

You glance at him, catching the faintest hint of pride in his eyes. “I’m learning,” you reply with a soft smile, your voice laced with both gratitude and weariness.

Arthur’s gaze holds yours for a moment longer, a silent exchange that speaks of trust, of unspoken promises in a world where little is certain. He may be a knight sworn to protect, but beneath that duty is a bond forged in something deeper—loyalty, perhaps even love, in a court where such sentiments are rare and precious.

The crowd cheers once more as the knights continue their tilts, but you remain focused, ever aware that the game is far from over. Aerys may have been placated for now, and Tywin momentarily thwarted, but the stakes are only rising. You grip the edge of your seat, ready to face whatever comes next with the strength of those who stand by your side, even as the shadows deepen around you.

The sun begins its descent, casting shadows across the tournament grounds as the final jousts draw to a close. The crowd’s energy peaks as Rhaegar emerges victorious, his stallion galloping across the field as he holds the victor’s wreath aloft. The wreath itself is woven with white roses and silver leaves, a beautiful contrast against the red and black of House Targaryen. The crowd erupts in cheers, the sound rolling like thunder through the stands. It’s a sight to behold—the Dragon Prince, regal and composed, yet with a spark of mischief that gleams in his violet eyes once more.

You remain seated just below the royal dais, watching with a mixture of pride and amusement as Rhaegar slows his horse and turns once more toward the royal stands. The murmurs of the court rise like a low tide as they speculate on his next move, and it becomes evident that the spectacle isn’t quite over. With the wreath in hand, Rhaegar directs his mount toward you, his gaze fixed on yours with undeniable intent.

He reins in his stallion directly before your seat, lifting the wreath high before lowering it with a flourish. “For the fairest maiden in the realm,” he declares, his voice carrying clearly over the excited whispers. “No victory is complete without her blessing.”

A collective gasp sweeps through the gathered nobles. Some are delighted by the show of familial affection, while others—like the Lannisters—are less than pleased. You catch a glimpse of Cersei’s face, her green eyes narrowing ever so slightly as her lips press into a thin line. Tywin remains still as a statue beside her, his expression unreadable, though his displeasure is as palpable as a chill wind.

You rise gracefully, accepting the wreath from Rhaegar with a smile that is equal parts fondness and understanding. “You honor me, brother,” you say, your voice sweet and lilting. “The favor you carry is returned tenfold.”

As you lift the wreath to your head and place it among your silver hair, the crowd erupts once more in applause. The nobles cheer and clap, but underneath the surface, you can sense the ripples of discontent spreading through those who have pinned their ambitions on other alliances. Rhaegar’s deliberate show of favor, both before and now, has sent a clear message that no one can mistake: Blood before ambition, family before political maneuvering. You and Rhaegar are a united front in a court filled with serpents.

Rhaegar dips his head to you in a final gesture before riding off, his victory sealed both in the lists and in the subtle game of courtly intrigue. As the applause begins to wane and the other lords and ladies settle back into their seats, you catch a flash of crimson and gold moving toward you. Cersei Lannister, ever poised and graceful, makes her approach with measured steps, her golden curls bouncing as she weaves through the crowd.

“Princess,” she greets you with a deep curtsy, her voice laced with honeyed politeness. But you can see it in her eyes—the simmering distaste, the irritation masked by a carefully practiced smile. “It seems the day belongs to House Targaryen,” she continues, her words smooth yet dripping with a barely concealed edge. “Prince Rhaegar’s skill in the lists is truly unmatched. You must be very proud.”

You return her smile with one of your own, equally sweet but no less calculated. “Indeed, Lady Cersei, I am proud. Rhaegar’s victories are the victories of House Targaryen, and it brings me joy to see our house so well represented.”

Cersei’s gaze flickers momentarily to the wreath in your hair, the symbol of Rhaegar’s favor, before returning to meet your eyes. “How fortunate that you are so favored, Princess. It must be comforting to know that your brother is so… devoted.” The words are wrapped in civility, but the underlying message is clear: Cersei is irked by the closeness you share with Rhaegar, a closeness that undermines the carefully laid plans of her father.

You tilt your head slightly, feigning innocence. “Devotion to one’s family is paramount, is it not? A brother’s affection should be celebrated, especially when it brings the realm such glory.”

Cersei’s smile tightens, but she doesn’t miss a beat. “Of course, Princess. Family is everything. Though I do wonder,” she continues, her voice lowering just enough for the words to carry a private sting, “if such affection blinds one to the needs of the realm. The crown requires alliances that reach beyond blood.”

There it is—the thinly veiled criticism, the reminder that in the eyes of the Lannisters, the throne is not just a seat of power, but a prize that should be secured through strategic marriages and advantageous unions. But you know the game she’s playing, and you have no intention of letting her have the last word.

“Perhaps,” you reply, your voice as smooth as silk, “but alliances are strengthened when they are built on trust and loyalty. Without those, any marriage is but a gilded cage. Don’t you agree, Lady Cersei?”

For a moment, the tension between you crackles, both of you smiling politely while the unspoken battle of words continues. You can see the flicker of annoyance in her eyes, the subtle tightening of her posture as she realizes she’s met her match. But ever the perfect courtier, she recovers quickly.

“Indeed, Princess. Loyalty is invaluable,” she says, her tone crisp. “I look forward to seeing how such loyalty continues to shape the future of the realm.”

Before you can respond, Ser Arthur steps closer, his presence a subtle yet effective shield between you and Cersei. The tension eases as he offers a slight bow. “Princess, the festivities continue, but it would be wise to return to the royal pavilion. The day’s events are drawing to a close.”

Cersei’s eyes flick briefly to Arthur, and you notice the way she regards him—a blend of recognition and perhaps even disdain, knowing that he is as much a symbol of your standing as your brother’s favor. She offers you one last smile, though it’s laced with a hint of sharpness. “I wouldn’t want to keep you from your duties, Ser Arthur,” she says sweetly before turning her attention back to you. “Princess, may the gods continue to bless House Targaryen.” With a final, overly formal curtsy, she withdraws, leaving you in the company of your sworn knight.

As you watch her walk away, you can’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction. The subtle exchange may have been masked by courtesy, but you know you’ve held your ground—and more importantly, you’ve reminded Cersei that no amount of ambition will pry you and Rhaegar apart.

Arthur’s voice draws you from your thoughts. “She plays the game well, but she doesn’t know you as I do,” he murmurs, his tone carrying both admiration and concern.

You turn to him, giving a soft smile. “Let her scheme. We both know that family comes first—no matter what plots are spun in the shadows.”

Arthur nods, his gaze lingering on you with a quiet intensity. “As long as I’m at your side, no one will harm you.”

There’s a comfort in his words, a reassurance that no matter how tangled the web of courtly intrigue becomes, you are not alone in it. With a final glance toward the departing Lannisters, you allow Arthur to guide you back toward the royal pavilion, where the next chapter in this endless game awaits.