#rhaenyra Targaryen | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

spicy30 · 2 days ago

Text

Modernness of 1400s 010

Pairing: HOTD x Fem!Modern!Reader

Extra: The reader is noted to be bilingual (Spanish speaking) and is familiar with the majority of Latin-based languages, No use of Y/N

Rating: 18+ (domestic abuse)

Tags: @fan-goddess @meowmeowmothermeower @bunxia @your-favorite-god @coolalienstatesmansports @georgiatesulitsyeykite @qwerrtsworld @wegottastayfocus @dakota-rain666 @talilosha @the-deep-dark-abyss @101crows @agustdeeyaa @ggglich-exe @illjhhlisa @deepeststarlightmoon @cluelessteam @a-fruity-snack @i-zenin @justablondeeee @feyresqueen @yduimobsessed @pinkluv29 @xmenteria @itwaszzmoon @powllito @xadaboo @magdalenacarmila

WC: 12.4k

21st day of the 7th moon of 129 AC

To Jacaerys of the House Velaryon, I urge you to end all communications with me. No longer do I wish to be in contact with you.

…

Jacaerys furrowed his brows looking over the letter. “To Jacaerys of the House Velaryon, I urge you to end all communications with me. No longer do I wish to be in contact with you.” Again.

“To Jacaerys of the House Velaryon, I urge you to end all communications with me. No longer do I wish to be in contact with you.” Again.

“To Jacaerys of the House Velaryon, I urge you to end all communications with me. No longer do I wish to be in contact with you.” One more time.

“To Jacaerys of the House Velaryon, I urge you to end all communications with me. No longer do I wish to be in contact with you.” Your name was signed at the bottom. He darted up from his chair going over to his night stand to read your last letter. Had he missed something in your last letter? They were sent only three days apart. What changed?

…

7th day of the 7th moon of 129 AC

Today is a holy day—the holiest of days. The seventh day of the seventh month, when the Seven smile down upon their faithful.

There are few things in this world that can truly be called holy.

Today is one of them.

But you are not. Not in the eyes of the High Septon.

You are new. Different. Unexplainable. You are magic—a force beyond his comprehension. Like the dragons, like the Targaryens, who, despite their sins and misdeeds, remain inexplicably closer to the gods than he, the High Septon, ever will.

Today, the bells of the Great Sept toll in solemn rhythm, calling all to attend the sacred ceremony of the Seven. The air is thick with incense, the sweet and smoky fragrance curling through the stone corridors like a prayer whispered to the heavens. Worshipers flood the Sept, their voices a low hum of reverence, heads bowed, hands clasped.

You are there among them, standing apart yet undeniably present. Dressed in white, gold glinting at your wrists, the light streaming through the stained-glass windows dances over you like a blessing from the gods themselves. To many, you appear a vision—a living relic touched by divine hands.

But to the High Septon, seated at the heart of the sanctum beneath the seven-pointed star, you are an annoyance. A disruption.

As he leads the prayers, he does not meet your gaze. When his eyes sweep across the congregation, they glide past you as though you are invisible. Yet in his chest, a familiar irritation brews, sharper with every passing moment.

You are too still, too composed, as if you do not carry the weight of your sins. The others kneel with trembling hands and tearful eyes, pleading for forgiveness, but you remain poised, serene, as though you have no need to beg the Seven for their mercy. It is as though you think you are already favored—already holy.

The High Septon’s words rise and fall in practiced cadence, his voice steady and commanding. He preaches of humility, of repentance, of knowing one’s place beneath the gods. But his thoughts stray, circling back to you, unbidden.

He recalls the whispers about you. The miracles you claim, the illnesses you’ve healed, the strange knowledge you wield. He remembers the way the sun cast its colors over you that day, a spectacle he had never seen before, and how even now the faithful murmur your name in the Sept as if it is a hymn.

It infuriates him.

You are not holy. You are not chosen. You are not ordained by the gods to serve their will.

You are no better than the Targeyens dancing on their dragons, breathing fire and destruction in their arrogance. Magic, power, miracles—they are tools of chaos, not proof of divinity.

As the ceremony draws to a close, he stands beneath the great star, arms outstretched, his voice booming with finality. “May the Seven guide us in their wisdom. May we walk humbly in their light, never straying, never claiming what is not ours to take. For pride is the path of ruin, and only through devotion may we find salvation.”

His gaze lingers on you for the first time, sharp and pointed, his unspoken condemnation clear.

And yet, as the worshipers rise and disperse, heads bowed and voices hushed, you remain unmoved. You lift your chin ever so slightly, meeting his stare with an expression he cannot place—neither defiance nor submission, but something more elusive.

If he is waiting for you to falter, to shrink beneath his judgment, he will be left wanting. You do not need his validation. You have come not for his approval but for answers.

As the High Septon turns away, his robes trailing behind him, he mutters a quiet prayer under his breath. Not for you, but for the realm. For he is certain now: you are not holy. You are dangerous.

…

10th day of the 7th moon of 129 AC

Aemond Targeyen had seen many things in his life, despite the lack of an eye. How could he not? He can see through Vhagar. Flying through the skies, seeing through the eyes of the gods. Aemond had seen more than those with two eyes ever will.

An unfortunate side-effect to seeing through the Gods (Vhagar) is that not many things interest him any longer. He has grown bored of looking through the eyes of man.

Yet by many, Aemond was considered no mere man—how could he be, as a Targaryen? Born of fire and blood, chosen by Vhagar, the queen of dragons. The gods had marked him. And though his Valyrian blood deemed him superior, Aemond’s sights were set higher still. To him, the eyes of a King—perched atop the Iron Throne, looking down on the realm—were the only vision worthy of comparison to the gods. The Iron Throne was the apex, the sole seat that could match his ambitions and cure his ennui.

But this sight in front of him might be enough to satisfy him, if only for a bit.

Here and now as he lies on your bed bare as the day he was born, his gaze lingers on you—a sight that, for once, stirred his restless mind.

You sat by the window, your lips slightly parted in concentration as you painted your lashes a dark, striking black. Your eyes, already piercing, became more prominent with each careful stroke. You held a mirror in your hand, one he hadn’t seen before. Encased in what looked to be silver or perhaps fine steel, it bore delicate engravings partially obscured by your fingers, which were adorned with rings. Your nails, long and polished, gleamed like tiny blades. (How you seem to glisten down to even your nails he will never know)

The mirror’s quality was far better than his own—his, with rusted edges and dim reflection, felt crude in comparison. Yours was pristine, untouched by decay, much like yourself. You seemed impervious to the filth and shadows of King’s Landing, as if you had stepped out of another world.

The light pouring through the window illuminated your exposed collarbone and the soft swell of your cleavage, making your skin glow. Your cheeks held a perfect flush, a rosy hue that mimicked the warmth of sunlight caressing your skin.

He watched, transfixed, as you set the mirror down and reached for a bag embroidered with golden letters that spelled DIOR—a name he did not recognize but found intriguing nonetheless. From the bag, you pulled a silver-encrusted tube, sleek and foreign.

Aemond’s sharp eye followed your every movement as you opened the tube and lifted the mirror once more, applying a glossy sheen to your lips with precision. For a fleeting moment, he believed that perhaps you could fulfill his longing for something—anything—worth observing through the eyes of man.

In this moment, you were more than a curiosity; you were a masterpiece, a picture of regality and otherworldly elegance. Aemond’s boredom, for once, began to waver.

Aemond remained silent, his sharp gaze unwavering as you tilted your head, inspecting your reflection in the mirror. The sunlight seemed to cling to you, as if it, too, were captivated. You pressed your lips together lightly, spreading the gloss evenly, and then set the tube down beside your mirror.

The motion was simple, yet deliberate, exuding a calm self-assurance he found rare in others. The people of King’s Landing always seemed to wear their unease plainly, their movements erratic, their gazes nervous. You, however, moved as if you had all the time in the world, as though nothing could rush or disturb you.

“You stare,” you said suddenly, breaking the silence without glancing his way.

Aemond’s lips curled into the faintest smirk, unrepentant. “Should I not?”

You finally turned your head toward him, an arched brow accompanying your unimpressed expression. “It’s rude, you know. People tend to find it unsettling.”

“Do they?” he asked, voice laced with amusement. “I wonder if anyone’s ever dared tell me that to my face.”

“First time for everything.” You leaned back in your chair, crossing one leg over the other. The hem of your dress shifted slightly, revealing the shimmer of gold-threaded embroidery along its edge.

Aemond’s eye flicked briefly to the fabric before returning to your face. “And yet, you don’t seem unsettled. Only... irked.”

“Maybe I’m just used to people staring,” you replied, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “Or maybe I’ve decided it’s easier to let you stare and get bored than to tell you to stop and risk making it worse.”

Aemond chuckled softly, low and resonant. “You think I bore so easily?”

“I think you bore quicker than most.” You rested your elbow on the arm of your chair, propping your chin on your hand as you studied him. “Which begs the question—why are you still here?”

“So you are irate today.” Aemond’s smirk widened, a rare spark of genuine intrigue lighting his expression, yet it never seemed rare with you. It only fueled his amusement when your lips pursed, the gloss on them gleaming in the sunlight. Tugging at the robe that hung loosely off his frame, he stood, his eyepatch resting untouched on the nearby counter.

“Tell me,” he said smoothly, his tone baiting, “I figured it would’ve passed by now. What has you cross today? Did you not enjoy the ceremony of the Seven.”

You didn’t respond, your silence an act of defiance that only seemed to amuse him further. Aemond stepped closer, the faint rustle of the bedsheets as he moved towards you breaks the stillness.“Still upset that my mother hasn’t introduced you to the High Septon?” he murmured, his voice low, deliberate. “Everything is easier with a name to stand behind you.”

He leaned down slightly, and the sweet, almost otherworldly scent that seemed to belong only to you enveloped him. It was both maddening and intoxicating.

“I don’t understand why he refuses to meet with me,” you said, frustration softening your usually steady voice. “It has been a whole month yet he seems to despise me, but I haven’t done anything wrong, have I?”

Your wide eyes—framed by lashes that seemed longer and darker in the sunlight—looked up at him with an innocence he knew better than to trust. His hand moved before he thought, fingers brushing against your cheek, but when you tilted your head, it was your hair that became ensnared in his grasp, soft and impossibly sweet smelling.

“Good deeds are not enough for the High Septon,” he said, his voice quieter now, as if sharing a secret.

“Is that not what the Faith preaches?” you murmured, though your eyes weren’t on his. They lingered on his lips instead, and he knew you were aware of the power you wielded in that moment. “I don’t do it for recognition, though. Perhaps I did at first, but... it feels good simply to do good.”

Your gaze drifted from his lone eye to the sapphire, then back again, studying him in a way that made him feel both exposed and intrigued. Before he could respond, you leaned in, your lips brushing his cheek in a chaste kiss, the gloss leaving a faint shimmer against his skin.

For a moment, he was still, caught between the warmth of your touch and the unfamiliar sensation of vulnerability it brought. But when he straightened, the corner of his lips curved, though his eye remained calculating.

You were dangerous, he thought, but perhaps... that was what made you so interesting.

He leaned into your cupping your face and brought it closer to him as he kissed you. A practiced motion between the two of you. He felt as you wrapped your arms around him and pulled him down. He obliged to your wishes. His hands drop and inside hold your waist as he lifts you up from your chair. You both break and he can look at you admiring as the sun hits your eyes illuminating them.

“Otto fights me on everything,” you murmured, your voice soft, as though you feared the walls might hear. To Aemond, it sounded almost like a whispered heresy, something that should never be spoken aloud in a place like the Red Keep.

“He sees you as a disruption,” He replied evenly, though there was a flicker of something in his tone. Amusement, perhaps? Or curiosity? “You challenge the natural order of things—his order.”

“Challenge? All I’m doing is suggesting progress,” you scoffed, leaning against him as your arms continue to hold him close to you. “Do you not see the benefit of what I’ve proposed? Patents would encourage innovation. Imagine what could be built—what could be created—if inventors and scholars felt protected, if their work wasn’t stolen by those with power but no imagination.” You speak into his chest.

Aemond’s lips twitched slightly, the barest hint of a smirk. “And yet, you expect my grandsire, the very embodiment of power and tradition, to willingly hand over control of such matters? You’re either bold or naïve.”

“Why not both?” You gave a sweet smile looking up towards him.

The corner of his mouth lifted further at that, though his eye remained sharp, assessing. “Adding a new position to the council is no small request. It threatens the balance of power.”

“Does it?” you countered. “Or does it merely challenge the age-old idea that men like Otto cling to with all their might?”

Aemond tilted his head slightly, studying you. “And who, pray tell, would you recommend for this new position?”

You hesitated, Aemond could almost see your thoughts turning. You hadn’t yet settled on a name, but you knew what you needed—someone older, someone with experience, yet not so entrenched in tradition that they would resist progress.

“I’m still considering,” you admitted, though your tone was firm. “But it would need to be someone who understands innovation, someone who values intellect over influence.”

“Someone you could control,” Aemond clarified while looking down towards you, his hand firmly on your hips

He watched you give a wide grin. “Control? No. Persuade? Perhaps. Influence? Certainly.” You gave Aemond another chaste kiss before turning around preparing your papers. “In any case…this needs to be passed.” He heard you hum out before turning around.

Aemond gave a low hum, his tone distant, as he began dressing himself. He heard your soft farewell before the door clicked shut behind you, leaving him alone in your chambers. It was unusual. In the past month since your peculiar routine together had begun, Aemond had never lingered in your room for long. You always seemed particular about your things, shooing him out with a sense of urgency that he attributed to your underlying fear of his mother. It irritated him, though he wouldn’t admit it aloud.

You should not fear his mother—not when he stands between the two of you.

(But even as the thought passed through his mind, a quieter, less comforting truth lingered: what is a Prince to a Queen? And worse still, Aemond could not deny that it was his father’s favor, not his own protection, that truly shielded you from his family’s ire.)

He reached for his eyepatch, which lay discarded on the desk. As his fingers brushed it, the leather slipped from his grasp and fell to the floor. His irritation flared for a moment, a small crack in his otherwise stoic demeanor. He knelt to retrieve it when something caught his eye—a faint glint of metal, hidden beneath your bed.

Aemond stilled, his hand hovering over the eyepatch.

“California love” Aemond turned around to his brother in…well Aemond didn’t know what it was. “California knows how to party. California knows how to party.” His brother sang as he threw back a drink. “What do you think brother?” Aegon grinned. “A wife beater.”

Aemond furrowed his brows. “You would strike your sister-wife!? Our future Queen!” Aemond hissed out marching towards his foolish older brother.

Aegon shook his head while grinning. “No brother, that is what this-” Aegon pointed towards his white…shift? (Aemond refuses to call it a wife beater) “It’s called a wife beater.” Your name came from Aegon’s mouth of how you had introduced him to ‘slangs,’ ‘gang wars’ and ‘the west coast vs the east coast’ (Aegon said that he much preferred the West coast)

“In the city of LA, in the city of good ‘ol Watts. In the city, city of Compton. We keep it rockin', we keep it rockin' Now let me welcome everybody to the Wild Wild West. A state that's untouchable like Eliot Ness….thats all I know. Love that song. Sunshine state. Sunfyre and I would thrive in California.” As Aegon sang Aemond simply stood there.

California?

Aemond Targeyen knows nothing.

Your homeland, your past, the strange words that spilled from your lips when he pressed you beneath him—these were all mysteries wrapped in the enigma that was you.

This lack of knowledge gnawed at him, and in that moment, he justified his curiosity as natural. Expected.

Reaching beneath the bed, his hand found the metal handles of an oddly shaped bag. He hesitated for only a moment before pulling it into the light. Inside the bag were an assortment of objects: a neatly folded set of unfamiliar clothing, patterned bags, soft leather pouches, and a pair of sandals—the very ones you had worn when he first saw you. But one item in particular drew his attention.

It was green, with dark, rounded glass encased in what appeared to be a semi-translucent frame. Light and delicate, the object felt strange in his hands. Aemond furrowed his brow as he examined it, noting the fine, intricate metalwork at its hinges.

He carefully unfolded the arms of the object, marveling at the tiny mechanisms that allowed it to move with such precision. The craftsmanship was like nothing he had ever seen. What sort of blacksmith could forge such delicate pieces?

Curiosity overcame him, and he brought the dark glass to his eye. The world darkened instantly, and he frowned. He adjusted the arms until they rested over his ears, the glass sitting snugly on his face. He blinked, the dimmed view unnerving him.

Why would anyone wear such a thing? What purpose could it serve?

He removed the object abruptly, and the brightness of the room returned with a sharpness that made him wince, a faint ache forming between his brows. Looking deeper into the bag, Aemond found a small booklet with a box on its cover—a strange contraption with a glass eye at its center. Opening the booklet, he discovered what appeared to be miniature portraits. But they weren’t paintings; no brushstrokes marred their surfaces. They were impossibly detailed, lifelike beyond comprehension. They were reflections frozen in time.

One of the portraits featured you with another girl, her appearance as foreign as yours. The two of you wore what could only be described as scandalous—she in a strapless dress, while the both of you held food between your mouths, connected in a playful pose. Another showed the two of you in what he could only interpret as smallclothes, laughing as you stood knee-deep in the sea. In yet another, you were seated in a contraption he could only compare to a carriage, though it bore no wheels or horses. You wore trousers and a small white top that looked more like undergarments to his eyes.

Aemond continues to look through the small portraits. Countless photos of you in what seem like another lifetime. There you were, standing before a tower that soared higher than the Red Keep itself. Another portrait depicted you before an awe-inspiring Sept, the girl from earlier by your side. He turned the page to find you with a woman he assumed was your mother, standing before what appeared to be a glass pyramid. Each image offered a glimpse into a life so foreign, it might as well have been from another world.

One portrait caught his attention: you dressed in a long coat with an undershirt that covered your neck, dark trousers, and those same green-framed dark glasses perched atop your head. A strong wind seemed to whip your hair across your face as you stood before a grand landscape with a mighty river snaking behind you. In another, you were bundled in heavy clothing, yellow mirrors covering your eyes, and a rounded hat atop your head as you held two metal objects, white snow blanketing the scene behind you. Another showed you and a man he presumed to be your father, standing before a tower that leans precariously to one side. More portraits followed, featuring great statues, vast cities, and you with your family in settings so extraordinary they hardly seemed real.

Some of the portraits appeared to be breathtaking works of art, though most were self-portraits of you with the girl and others. One, in particular, showed you and a group of girls clad in tunics bearing numbers—outfits far too improper by Westerosi standards. Another featured a large gathering of people, all young, their attire beyond Aemond's comprehension. In that image, you were smiling brightly, your arm wrapped around a boy who stood close to you.

He turned another page and paused, his brow furrowing. The next portrait showed you standing beneath a floating banner that read “Happy Birthday.” A brightly colored cake sat before you, and your family stood gathered around you. You looked impossibly young, your smile radiant and unguarded.

Aemond thought the booklet had ended, but as he went to close it, he noticed a small folder tucked into the back. Pulling it out, he found more portraits—these ones more intimate. They showed you and the same boy from earlier, but now, you were kissing him. Each portrait captured moments of affection and closeness that felt invasive to witness.

His hand tightened around the booklet, and a strange feeling curled in his chest—part curiosity, part irritation, and something else he couldn’t quite name. Who was this boy? What life had you lived before this one? Aemond stared at the portraits, his mind swirling with questions he doubted you would answer willingly.

…

12th day of the 7th moon of 129 AC

Daemon is not fond of you. That much is clear to everyone. To him, you are another green snake slithering in his path, another head to be severed when the time comes. It’s no matter; he’s already counting the days until your venom meets its antidote.

Yet, you don’t act like the other snakes. You bite the hand that feeds you, snapping at those who should be your allies. The whispers about you echo through the halls of the Red Keep, growing louder with each passing day. You sow chaos among the greens—retaliations and sharp words delivered like daggers—and though Daemon despises you, he finds himself lingering just long enough to see where the trail of destruction leads.

To Daemon, you’re not a player in this game; you’re a spectacle. A fire sparking in the middle of a powder keg. He doesn’t watch to see you succeed or to root for your cause—Daemon Targaryen watches to see who will fall first. Whether your bite sends the entire tower of greens crumbling or whether you’ll meet your own demise from their retribution, it doesn’t matter to him.

What does matter to him is his daughters. Daughters who now seem to be collateral damage to your venom. Daemon's loyalists, carefully reassembled during his prolonged stay in King’s Landing, begin to whisper of sour fruits. Letters—you’ve been sending them. Letters to someone caught in your vice, someone who ties himself to his eldest daughter. It gnaws at him, deep and persistent. You gnaw at him.

You shouldn’t have the reach to wrap yourself around a prince across the bay, to slither into places you don’t belong. You shouldn’t even be here, in this castle, weaving yourself into the threads of his family’s tapestry. To him, you are a mutt—a mongrel clawing at the edges of a world far above you, and yet, somehow, here you are.

It is that persistence, that audacity, that irks him most. He watches as you charm your way into rooms you should never enter, as you plant seeds in soil that should remain barren to you. And now, with every letter sent, every whispered scheme, it feels as though your shadow stretches closer to what he holds dear.

For all his hatred, Daemon couldn’t help but watch you, the way you slithered towards the council room with a grace that could captivate even the most hardened heart. Your hips swayed almost hypnotically, drawing his attention to the very room he had always longed to be in, only to be cast away from. "Well, if it isn’t the prattling bitch. Come to talk their ears off again?" he sneered, his voice dripping with disdain.

Daemon relished the way you stiffened, knowing full well that there was no one here to save you from his words. His gaze sharpened as he watched your brows furrow. "Jealous that you can’t?" you retorted, the challenge clear in your voice. "Let's try to remember, I’m in the room and—" You let your eyes trail over him, a deliberate move, “—you’re not.”

A small, defiant smile curved your lips as you began to walk away from him, the sound of your footsteps echoing in the stillness of the hall.

Daemon’s amusement flickered, and he couldn't resist a final jab. "And let’s not forget, you’re nothing but a mutt with nothing to your name."

"Me? The mutt?" You turned back toward him with a tilt of your head, a playful glint in your eyes. "But I’m not the one patiently waiting outside for my wife to come back and collect me, like a good stray who’s been fed. I’ll make a suggestion to the Princess to toss you a bone."

“My Lady.” Daemon’s eyes were drawn to the dornish knight who called after you.

“Ser Criston!”

Daemon gave a scoff as you pranced over towards the Knight. “A bitch and a whore. Tell me when we will be expecting a litter of mutts?” That made you stop in your tracks and Daemon couldn't be bothered to acknowledge the look on Crispin’s face.

“No,” you said sharply, turning to face him. "I am a woman who knows exactly what I want and how to get it." You took a deliberate step closer, your expression mocking. “You, on the other hand…” Your brows furrowed in feigned pity, “I almost feel sorry for you. Always last to be chosen, not even second, always third. I imagine it grates the most that your niece was chosen for the throne before you. How sad that must be, to have your bloodline suffer so.”

Daemon’s fists clenched as you continued. “First, Rhaenyra, then her younger brother—may he rest in peace—and finally, you. The third choice. That was of course before the birth of the King’s other four children. Even your son is nothing but a third choice, trailing behind Princes Lucerys and Joffrey. How truly tragic it must be, to know that the only way you can achieve anything as a second son is to marry your own niece.”

Your words rang in the air like a cruel melody, and Daemon gritted his teeth, anger rising in him.

You gave a high-pitched hum, shrugging your shoulders. "But I suppose you’ve always known your place, haven’t you? Best to start acting like it. I suggest getting yourself a seat while you wait outside for your wife, sitting down.”

Daemon’s gaze sharpened as you walked toward the door to the small council. He did not miss the small, self-satisfied smirk on the Dornish knight’s face.

With a slow, deliberate motion, Daemon’s hand hovered near Dark Sister, a dangerous glint in his eye, but he refrained. The small council awaited, and for now, he would bide his time. But this… this humiliation would not be forgotten.

…

12th day of 7th moon of 129 AC

You were strange. Very strange to Ser Criston Cole. He had thought you a simple girl—fearful, fragile, like any other who came to King’s Landing with nothing to their name. (Like him all those years ago.) He remembered the day you prayed outside Queen Alicent’s chambers, trembling as though the gods themselves might descend to save you. If he was commanded to, Ser Criston Cole would strike you down. He would’ve struck you down that day had Alicent asked it of him, but she didn’t, only to observe.

So he has. He watched that day as he heard sounds from your room. He watches as Aemond seems to leave their training sessions earlier, as Aegon sings songs no one has ever heard under his breath, and how Helaena speaks in more riddles since going to the Riverlands.

“Beneath the dawn of gilded skies, a great age shall rise,” Helaena hums as she sows whilst her children play elsewhere. “Born of unity and splendor, a golden bond sworn.”

Alicent is right. You pollute and Ser Criston thinks that you are polluting a Prince's honor. (But should he go throwing stones from his glass house? If the Queen demands it of him, he will.)

However, until anything more is demanded of Ser Criston Cole he will not act, he will simply watch and now he watches you as you spit your words towards Prince Daemon. It brings him deep satisfaction. (Why? Criston likes to think that it is because Daemon has always been a thorn in his side but he knows better than that. Or does he?)

No he doesn’t because in this moment Criston feels as though he is living vicariously through you. It is as though your words are his, as though he himself is insulting the Prince without consequence.

“But I suppose you’ve always known your place, haven’t you? Best to start acting like it. I suggest getting yourself a seat while you wait outside for your wife, sitting down.”

You pollute things around you, never caring who else ingests your pollution. You are selfish beyond belief and Criston will live through you if only for a moment because he was denied when he wanted to be selfish.

Criston was denied a life that he wanted when his white coat was stepped on. He was denied the only life he could live honorably. Criston is forced now to live a life he cannot help but detest. He lives as Ser Criston Cole, as an honorable knight who has taken an oath of celibacy, Criston lives as a knight who broke his sacred vows, but what else does he have? Nothing but the favor of a Queen, for he lost his honor long ago.

So Criston watches you, watches as he sees you earn the ire of the Queen who he is sworn to, watches as you earn the annoyance of the hand, yet you earn the favor of a King. Ser Criston knows the danger that comes with earning the favor of a royal, much more of a King. You are beautiful woman, he cannot deny, he doubts anyone else can deny putting aside your peculiarity, but if King Viserys continues on the track of health you have launched him to, Ser Criston knows you have failed to see the chain on your ankle that ties you to the King and soon you too will be launched with the King and thus sealing your fate.

And like him, you will be forced to live a life you did not mean for.

But Ser Criston has not been told to act yet, so he simply watches you. Watch as for hours you stand in front of the council speaking as if you have all the answers in life, as you speak with knowledge beyond your years. You speak as though you have all the answers, as though the path forward is as clear to you as the sun in the sky. You speak of radical ideas to launch Westeros forward. You talk so much and so loud for someone with no name and no bloodline to shield you, it almost irritates him, but why? Ser Criston cannot say why.

You speak with everything. Everything is conveyed with every single part of your being. As if you truly believe the words you speak. But in his eyes you cannot be so sure of yourself. You cannot truly be putting your whole faith and trust into your ideas. You cannot hope to be so selfish and so self assured because when he was like you, he was not. You have nothing to shield you but the favor of a King and Ser Criston Cole knows that is not enough.

Ser Criston continues to watch you. Watch as once more the council is adjourned once more and there is a displeased look in your face. He watches as you all walk out, yet you walk alongside the King as he asks for you and you politely agree to meet him later in the evening. There's a disgust that arises in him as he hears you agree. A disgust that the Queen shares as they both walk away.

He can hear the Queen muttering beside him, her voice low but brittle with frustration. “The King grows too lenient. Too… infatuated with her nonsense.”

Ser Criston nods, a dutiful echo of her sentiment. “The council grows restless, Your Grace. Her influence spreads unchecked.”

Alicent pauses mid-step, turning to glance back down the hall where you have disappeared with Viserys. Her expression is tight, her lips pressed thin. “Unchecked, yes,” she murmurs. “But not for much longer.”

Ser Criston catches the cold edge in her voice, the glint of steel behind her calm façade. He has served Alicent long enough to recognize the slow, deliberate way she moves when she is planning something. His chest tightens, and though he knows it is not his place, he cannot stop himself from speaking.

“Your Grace,” he says carefully. He had danced with Alicent countless times. She never could admit what she wanted so it was up to him to decipher her. He watches her eyes, her body, her mouth, everything about her he watches. He gives a nod. Ser Criston is sworn to Queen, Ser Criston Cole always knows what is expected of him.

…

14th day of the 7th moon of 129 AC

His lone eye looked over the letters you had received from his nephew on Dragonstone. Aemond crumpled the edges of the paper as his jaw tightened, his grip on the fragile parchment growing tauter by the moment. The words were innocuous enough on the surface—gracious, polite, and steeped in an almost boyish sincerity. But to Aemond, they were nothing short of treachery.

He read them again, his sharp gaze slicing through each sentence like a blade. "Your apology is well received." Aemond sneered, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. What sort of relationship could the two of you possibly have that warrants such a familiar exchange? And why, by all the gods, had you accepted it?

Had you played the same game with Jacaerys that you had played with him? The same coy smile, the same allure that had drawn him into your chambers that first night? Had you ensnared his nephew as you had ensnared him? Opened your legs so obedient as you do for him? And what of that man in those strange, vivid paintings you kept so carefully hidden?

Aemond’s jaw clenched as his lone eye narrowed, scanning the lines once more, his ire growing with each passing sentence.

"You have shown me things that never in my life I would ever see, and for that I am grateful."

Just what had you shown him? Aemond cannot say because he does not know you—not truly—and it seems more apparent with every passing day. The inside jests you share with Aegon, the peculiar games you invent for Jaehaera and Jaehaerys while Aegon plays alongside you, the strange foods you bring to Helaena—why do his siblings seem to know you better than he does when it is Aemond who shares your bed?

"I truly do hope to see you once more here in Dragonstone."

He will not. Aemond will make sure of it.

But it is the most recent letter that cuts the deepest, the one that feels the most intimate.

"I would much rather share your burdens than have you face them alone."

Words you speak to a wife. Words meant for a partner, not a stranger. And yet his nephew has written them to you, without shame, without pretense.

There is no subtlety. None. What right does his nephew have to you? What claim?

And yet, for the first time, Aemond felt the foundations of his certainty falter. His hands trembled faintly as he set the letters aside, the crumpled edges a testament to the storm raging within him.

Pacing the length of the room, his mind churned. Were his fears unfounded? No, they couldn’t be. Not when Jacaerys's words were so plain, so brazen. Yet, deep in his chest, a whisper of doubt gnawed at him. Did he truly know you as well as he believed?

The thought clawed at his pride. Aemond paused, his fingers curling into fists as he wrestled with his frustration, his jealousy, and the painful shadow of uncertainty now cast over his mind.

The Valeyrons. To you they even feel entitled to. To his eye they felt entitled to you. It was clear in the arrogant tone he can hear as if Jacaerys himself was reading the letter aloud. The lofty prose his nephew promises you, the offer of refuge, the veiled promises of protection—all laid bare in the ink of a boy who thought himself noble, thought himself better. "Here I can assure you that your head will not be on a spike..."

If Jacaerys were to ever be King, he should be deemed Jacaerys the Hubris. (But he will not, Aemond knows this, for it is his foolish older brother who will sit the Iron Throne rather than his half-sister.) The conceited words seemed to burn Aemond. Did Jacaerys believe you were so weak, so naïve, that his words would sweep you away to Dragonstone?

(Maybe you were, it is why you have Aemond. It is how you look at him, with big innocent eyes that beg for your life and Aemond indulges in them.)

Aemond’s lip curled. It wasn’t just the content of the letters but their frequency—the familiarity they implied. The way Jacaerys wrote of shared moments, of private conversations, of flying on Vermax together. Aemond could practically hear the smugness in his nephew’s tone, feel the audacity of his offer to take you to the North or the Isle of Faces as though he had the right to show you the world.

…

15th day of the 7th moon of 129 AC

“Tell me what other stories can you tell?” Viserys felt like a child asking you for such trivial things as you sitting and watching him while he sits in a mixture of lukewarm water and breast milk, just as you instructed. Yes, Viserys wishes you had come along much sooner.

Perhaps you would’ve been able to save him from this terrible fate he now must endure, though why the gods curse him as such, he knows naught. (But Viserys does know. He knows it must be some punishment for his dear wife Aemma. How he misses his wife.)

“What stories would you like to hear?” Viserys thinks. When was the last time he had someone tell him stories, or even read them to him. Not since Alicent all those years ago he supposes.

“Tell me stories of your youth, or anything about yourself.” He settles. You are so very different and it almost feels refreshing to hear you. Yes, Viserys wishes you had come sooner. A calm yet determined soul you had. A soul perfect for his daughter, a soul perfect to stabilize the realm. Yes, Viserys knows he is much your senior but for a moment as you tell your stories as Alicent did to him all those years ago, he can imagine the Queen you would’ve been.

A Queen that would have never let him rot like this.

Or mayhaps even sooner, to save Aemma.

“Sometimes, my dreams come true. Small trivial things though. I dream a memory, and days later I will be in the memory, but as it plays out in the present.” You speak and Viserys' lone eye widens.

“Tell me more.” Viserys leaned against the tub, the cool metal pressing against his sensitive skin. “Do you dream of things to come, or only what was?” Were you a dreamer? A dreamer that was not a Targeyen, or mayhaps you were a dragonseed.

He watches you closely, his gaze lingering a moment longer than it should. The way your skin always seems to gleam in whatever light surrounds you, and whenever you move, it’s as though the very rainbow of the Seven is ingrained within you. Something about you is different, something that makes him feel as if you might be more than just a woman in his presence.“Both, I think. But it’s hard to say. Most are trivial moments. Other times, especially in times of sorrow, a feeling of déjà vu occurs.”

Viserys did not know what ‘déjà vu’ meant, so he ignored it. “The Targaryens…most think our power lies in controlling the dragons,” You are no Targaryen. He should not tell you. You are not heir to the Iron Throne. “It is a lie. We do not control dragons. Our power lies in the dreamers of our family.”

“Daenys the Dreamer.” He heard you murmur and he smiled nodding.

“Yes, you know the story?”

“Prince Aemond has told it to me.”

“My boy? I suppose he has always been one for the books. It seems only natural for two intellectuals to speak to one another.” Viserys smiled, but his mind wandered. If you were a dreamer, perhaps it would be best to unite such a soul into the family. Have a stronger line of dreamers. He glanced at you once more, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face.

“I had wished to be a dreamer, but alas,” he continued, his tone tinged with a quiet sadness. “Perhaps it was never meant for me... a king’s burden is not one for dreamers, after all.”

His thoughts began to drift, the weight of the crown and legacy pressing down on him. A dreamer. Could you be the one to change the course of this house? To alter the doom that was always foretold for the Targaryens? Viserys’s gaze fixed on you as if searching for something deeper, something more than the surface of your words.

Perhaps if you were a dreamer, a true one, you could save this house from the doom that waits. The dreamers had always foretold it, but could you be the one to change it?

Viserys's mind wandered, as it often did in these days of fading strength. The weight of his crown, the weight of the Targaryen legacy, felt like too much to bear, and yet he still clung to it, clinging to whatever semblance of control he could grasp. Perhaps this dreamer, this person who was so unlike him, could offer a spark of hope in a world that felt so very dim.

“Sometimes, the burden of a crown is not in the weight of the gold, but in the dreams that shape the future.”

“Kind words.” Viserys smiled. “Yet I feel as if I had no true trial nor tribulations. I find myself wishing that I had. After all, smooth seas never made a skilled sailor. Tis’ the favorite saying of the Sea Snake. A saying that I can understand. I do not think I am a skilled sailor and I am not fit to start trying now.”

“Sometimes, Your Grace, it is not the storms we endure that define us, but the quiet strength to rise again after the calm. Courage is not always found in great battles—it is in the small, quiet choices we make, day by day, to try again, even when the seas are still.” Yes, a fine Queen you could’ve made. A fine Queen you still could make if you were betrothed to his oldest grandson, but he had slighted the sea snake enough Viserys supposes.

“Have you ever given marriage a thought? What will you do once your act is passed?” He asked as he laid back into the warm waters.

“Briefly. In times of…weakness. In times when I find myself overwhelmed.” He heard you admit. The silence that followed was deafening. “Sometimes I imagine marrying a lord and living far from King’s Landing. Living in luxury that my lord husband will indulge me in. Living life never thinking of anyone else. It is a simple path, an easy path.”

“But?”

“But if not me, then who? If not now, then when? Sometimes you have to be the one to step up, even if others believe it’s not your place to begin with.” How noble you are. The embodiment of the ballads he hears of the strong and noble knights. Viserys does not doubt there will be a song written in your name. A song that will be sung throughout time.

There is a prickle of jealousy when he looks towards you, but it is damning to him. How could he hold such prejudice to you, one so noble and brave.

…

18th day of the 7th moon of 129 AC

Dear Jacaerys Velaryon,

I thank you for your concern for me, truly. It is comforting to know that I have someone who cares for me as you do. In truth I find myself everyday more willing to take your offer, but alas I cannot allow myself to. There is much to be done. I do not doubt the validity of your words and truthfully your kindness is ever humbling. However, to leave now, tempting as it may be, would be to abandon a game in which I have yet to place my final pieces. However, I will admit, the thought of retreating to a quiet life with you—watching movies, sharing stories, and even introducing your younger brothers to the oddities of my world—is a dream I would gladly entertain when the time is right.

Continuing on, I must ask for forgiveness for my imprudence but you promised me something before you left. I wish to make good use of it now. I would like you to commission portraits of the photos. You see, I find myself being homesick and I long to look at my family, but my phone has limited time, and I plan to have it for a lifetime. If I can be so shameless as to ask this of you, I would be eternally grateful.

(P.S-I have gone to see the weirwood tree. I am not a fan. It’s creepy. Why is it always staring at me!?)

…

20th day of the 7th moon of 129 AC

You are not from here. Aemond knows that much. You are not from here, but Aemond knows naught of where your origins lay. You are not from here and you seem as if you have always lived an eternity away from him which is strange, because he feels you against him yet you stare off.

You always stare off. Always traveling to a place where he cannot follow and it is starting to grate on him. It is starting to grate against Aemond that you have lived an eternity away from him, it is starting to grate on him that you cannot seem to let go of your past when he is here.

Why can you not let go when he has decided that your past is no longer relevant. The boy in the portraits that you hide under your bed is no longer relevant, your letter to Jacaerys will no longer be relevant.

Across the sea of time, you seem to forever drift, and it grates on Aemond because he offers you land—solid ground to anchor yourself—but you seem content to float endlessly in the unknown.

“I have to go,” you murmur, your gaze finally meeting him. Why is it that you only truly return to him when you must leave?

“Why?” he asks, his voice low but laced with frustration.

“Because your father demands my presence,” you reply, your tone quiet but resolute.

“Why?” he pressed, his eyes narrowing, as if demanding an answer beyond your words.

“I don’t know,” you admit, the faintest edge of exasperation creeping into your voice.

“Why?” His question lingers in the air, heavy and unrelenting, and for a moment, neither of you moves, suspended in the fragile silence.

Aemond watches as you break it, rising gracefully to dress yourself in the silks that his protection affords you. The fabric clings to your form, a subtle reminder of the safety he has provided, yet you seem distant, as if you’ve already drifted away.

“In any case, all is well,” you say, smoothing the fabric over your skin. “A recent turn of events has granted me favor with the High Septon.”

“How?” His voice is sharp, suspicious.

“A series of coincidences has deemed me a blessing from the Seven themselves.” That smile crosses your face again—the one that first drew him to you all those months ago. But this time, it’s different. There’s no bloodied lip, no evidence of your vulnerability. It’s a polished smile, practiced and untouchable, and it infuriates him in ways he cannot express.

“We will ride Vhagar tomorrow when you return,” he says, his tone firm, almost commanding.

“Why?” you echo, tilting your head as you fasten the clasp of your gown, curiosity flickering in your eyes.

“There are things that need resolving.” His gaze hardens, his meaning clear, though unspoken. There is a weight in his words, one that promises that whatever "resolving" he has in mind, it will not be gentle.

“Alright then.” With a final glance, you turned and left, leaving Aemond alone in your chambers once again. The sound of the door closing echoed in the quiet room, and for a moment, he simply stood there, staring at the space you’d vacated, his jaw tight.

After a moment, he moved. His steps were deliberate, his gaze sharp as he rounded the bed and knelt beside your strange bag. The remnants of your past—your secrets—were hidden here, carefully tucked away as if they could be forgotten. But Aemond would not let them linger in the shadows any longer.

Pulling the bag closer, he began to sort through its contents. The odd garments, the mysterious tools, the painted portraits on strange paper—they all spoke of a life he could not fathom, a world entirely separate from his own. His fingers brushed over one of the small, glossy portraits, his gaze narrowing as he studied it. It was you, smiling, carefree, standing beside a man he didn’t recognize.

The past needed to be resolved. It tethered you to something beyond him, something he could not control, and that grated against every fiber of his being. Aemond was not a man to share, not a man to be content with half-measures. If you would not let go of the past, then he would tear it away for you.

Gathering the items, he placed them back into the bag with methodical precision. His mind worked as swiftly as his hands, formulating the steps he would take. He would unravel this mystery, strip away the parts of you that resisted him, and ensure that you could no longer float aimlessly across that endless sea of time.

By the time you returned, there would be no past to haunt you. Only the future he had carved out—a future where you had no choice but to anchor yourself to him.

Standing, Aemond slung the bag over his shoulder. He turned to leave, his steps purposeful as he strode toward his chambers. The items in this bag held answers, and he intended to find them, no matter how deep he had to dig.

The door shut behind him with a soft click, and the faint scent of your perfume lingered in the air.

…

“I have been thinking of you, Your Grace,” you began, your voice calm and measured as Viserys watched you carefully mix your concoction. “About how you once said you wished for trials and tribulations to make your reign truly memorable.”

“Indeed,” he murmured, leaning back, intrigued by your words.

“Well… history is not only written by the Citadel,” you continued, glancing up briefly to meet his gaze. “The smallfolk remember too. ‘The axe forgets, but the tree remembers.’ Have you heard the saying?”

“I have not,” he admitted, tilting his head curiously.

“It’s a reminder, Your Grace, to be kind. Those who have been wronged will never forget it, even if the one who wronged them does. And right now, those who feel wronged are the smallfolk. I’ve visited them often. Their living conditions are abhorrent. If you could alleviate even some of their suffering, they would be forever grateful—and you would be remembered, not just in scrolls but in their hearts. The smallfolk are the foundation of a lasting dynasty.”

Viserys’s brows furrowed as he considered your words. “What would you have me do? They are lawless. I appointed Daemon once, and he managed to bring order, but when he left, they returned to their primordial state.”

“They lack even the most basic resources,” you explained, your tone firm yet respectful. “Even a lamb, content in its pasture, can turn into a hunter when cornered. Or, as you might see them, savages. But provide the lambs with proper protection, extend their pasture, and they will have no reason to act out of desperation. They will remain what they are meant to be—peaceful, grateful subjects. And in their eyes, you will be the shepherd who kept them safe.”

Viserys’s eyes softened, though uncertainty lingered. “And you believe this is achievable?”

“With the right measures, yes,” you said with a small nod, your voice steady yet laced with conviction. “The smallfolk need more than punishment for their perceived lawlessness. They need a reason to trust their king—to see him not as a distant figure in a tower, but as their protector. If you provide that, Your Grace, they will speak of you for generations.”

Viserys leaned back in his chair, your words lingering in the air. Protector. The notion struck a chord deep within him, stirring memories of his youth when he’d dreamt of ruling not just with power, but with compassion. He had envisioned himself as a unifier, a king beloved by his people, yet here he was, years later, presiding over a fractured realm with smallfolk who cursed his name more often than they praised it.

“And I suppose you are the one to bring me this solution?” he asked, a faint edge of skepticism in his tone.

“If you wish to hear it,” you replied without hesitation, your composure unyielding in the face of his doubt.

“Go on then,” he said, leaning forward despite himself, curiosity breaking through his habitual weariness.

“Where there is life, there is water. Clean water is invaluable—far more than gold or any riches you could offer. It is the foundation of health, of order, of life itself,” you began, your words precise, almost rehearsed.

Viserys arched his brow. “And?”

“I can give them that,” you stated plainly, your confidence unsettling in its certainty.

“How?” he asked, his fingers brushing the armrest of his chair as he studied you.

“A water system,” you explained. “I can design one. But I need help. I need to study everything that could possibly hold relevance to constructing it.”

Viserys frowned. A water system. It was such a simple idea, yet the implications of such a feat were monumental. Clean water in King’s Landing? In the city that had plagued him with its stench and disease? He had lived with its squalor for so long that the very thought of change seemed almost… foreign. Could it truly be done?

“Do you have a place in mind for such a study?” he asked after a pause, his voice laced with both intrigue and caution.

“I do, Your Grace,” you said.

“Where?”

“Winterfell,” you replied, your voice calm yet resolute.

Viserys blinked. Winterfell? Of all the places, why there? The North was distant, cold, and far removed from the politics of the capital.

“Winterfell?” he repeated, his tone laced with doubt. “You wish to travel to Winterfell?”

“I do,” You affirmed.

Viserys’s gaze drifted toward the fire crackling in the hearth. Winterfell. The seat of the Starks, the First Men. He had not set foot in the North since his tour when he was crowned King, but the memories of its ancient halls, its vast godswood, and its stoic people were vivid in his mind. The North had always seemed so unyielding, so untouched by the decay that plagued King’s Landing.

“And what do you hope to find there?” he asked, his voice quieter now, as if seeking reassurance.

“Winterfell was built atop a spring. I may be able to draw inspiration from Bran the Builder.” Viserys studied you. So much you have changed here, yet you ask for more, more and he has not been able to meet your first request. Despite it all, you too promise much. Could you truly deliver on such a promise? You stand here in front of him applying your remedy onto his skin standing with so much life, so much promise that it stirs a faint glimmer of hope within him—a dangerous thing for a man like him to feel.

“You ask for much,” he said finally, his voice heavier now, tinged with the weariness of a ruler who had seen too many grand promises crumble.

“Only what is necessary,” You countered, your gaze unwavering. “If you wish to be remembered as a king who cared for his people, who built something greater than himself, then this is the first step. The choice, as always, is yours.”

Viserys remained silent, her words sinking deep into the crevices of his mind. You offer to give him the reign he had wanted.

Could he afford to gamble on her vision?

Could he afford not to?

…

21st day of the 7th moon of 129 AC

“A fucking hill.” Your voice was sharp, laced with frustration as you gestured wildly at the map spread across your desk. Aemond barely spared you a glance as he disrobed, the soft rustle of fabric barely audible over your rant. “And it’s fucking tall. How the fuck am I supposed to get around that!?”

“Cease your theatrics, woman,” Aemond muttered, his tone low and clipped as he sank onto your bed. The room was suffocatingly sweet, the cloying scent you carried clinging to every surface. It made his head ache. It wasn’t natural. You weren’t natural. Nothing about you ever was.

“Woman?” You turned toward him, your hands still planted on the edge of the desk. “I have a name.”

Aemond’s single eye flicked to you, unamused, as if daring you to continue. He said nothing, his gaze steady, and he watched as you rolled your eyes in exasperation. Without hesitation, you pushed away from the desk and strode over to him, your movements deliberate, your presence impossible to ignore.

“You’ve been so mad recently. What's wrong?” Aemond felt your hands linger on his shoulders. You looked smelled so sweet that it was nauseating. The soft hands you had reflecting you’ve never once been put through hard labor. Those soft hands that cradled his face as you looked down on him. It wasn’t long before he felt your lips on the side of his. Lips that were coercing him to turn and meet you, hands that held him so lovingly, your body slowly encompassing his own. Everything about you was so sweet. “I know I’ve been doing nothing but complaining about the topography of the land. M’sorry.”

Aemond’s brows knit together at the unfamiliar word. Topography. It felt foreign, unnatural, like so many of the things you said. His frustration flared, and with a sharp exhale, he pried your hands from his face and unceremoniously pushed you back onto the bed.

Without sparing you a glance, he strode to your desk, his gaze falling on the map you had been fussing over. “What nonsense are you rambling about now?” he muttered, scanning the intricate lines and markings with narrowed eyes.

Topography?” Your tone grated against Aemond’s ears, piercing and condescending. It was a tone he knew all too well, one that haunted him before he claimed Vhagar. It was the tone the Strong bastards used, the tone his drunken brother wielded against him. And now you—someone with no title, no standing—dared to use it on him.

“It’s like… like, I don’t know. You just have to know?” You giggled, the sound light and careless, yet it landed on him like an insult. His jaw tightened, the muscle ticking with restrained anger. Have you always spoken to him like this? Him? A Prince of the Realm. A Targaryen.

“But basically,” you continued, oblivious to the storm brewing behind his eye, “it’s just… like… a map that shows the physical features of the land. Hills, mountains. The closer the lines are together, the steeper the slope of the hill. Stuff like that.”

Like. Basically. Stuff. The words felt beneath him, spoken with a lack of care or refinement he’d never tolerate from anyone else. His anger coiled tighter with every syllable. How dare you speak so unconcernedly before a prince, as if he were some common fool? A girl without rank, without even the most basic manners, speaking to him like this?

And yet, despite your audacity, you had humiliated him. The realization burned hotter than the fire in his chest.

Aemond’s fingers curled tightly at his sides as he stared at you, the map still spread out before him. You were completely unbothered, oblivious—or perhaps deliberately dismissive—of the offense you caused. Your casual demeanor only stoked the embers of his frustration, his pride demanding a response to put you in your place.

“How quaint,” he finally said, voice low and cutting, each word dripping with disdain. “Do you always explain things with such eloquence? Or is this condescension reserved only for me?”

You blinked, turning toward him with a frown that bordered on amused disbelief. “Condescension? I was explaining it to you.”

“Explaining?” he echoed, his tone sharpening. “No, you were speaking to me as though I were a child. A simpleton in need of your scraps of wisdom.” He stepped closer, towering over you as his single eye bore down into yours. “Do you forget who I am?”

You didn’t shrink under his gaze, which only added fuel to his growing ire. Instead, you tilted your head, defiance glinting in your eyes as a grin stretched across your lips—infuriatingly bold, maddeningly insolent.

“What in the mother—" You dragged the word out, the mocking lilt in your tone sending a fresh wave of heat coursing through Aemond’s veins. His hand twitched at his side, itching to silence you as your laughter spilled into the air, light and taunting.

“Fuck are you—”

“Hold your fucking tongue,” Aemond snarled, his patience snapping. His hand shot out, gripping your face with unrelenting force. His fingers pressed into the soft curves of your cheeks, silencing the laughter that grated against his ears.

Your wide eyes stared back at him, startled but not frightened—not yet. Aemond's grip tightened, his frustration boiling over into something darker, more dangerous. “You forget yourself,” he hissed, his breath warm against your skin. “You speak to a prince of the realm, and yet you behave as though you are untouchable.”

Your muffled words struggled against the hold of his hand, but Aemond didn’t loosen his grip. His teeth clenched as he leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a near-growl. “You will learn respect, even if I have to carve it into your tongue myself.”

His grip tightened as he shook your face, his fingers digging into your soft skin. He delivered almost taunting slaps to your cheek—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to remind you of his dominance. “That will be the first and last time you ever take such a tone with me. Do you understand?” His voice was a low, venomous hiss, each word dripping with restrained fury.

Aemond’s eye bore into yours, watching as tears welled along your waterline, threatening to spill over. Slowly, deliberately, he pushed against you, forcing you deeper into the bed. His mind was a chaotic void, his thoughts clouded by humiliation, betrayal, and the sharp sting of wounded pride. You had humiliated him—time and time again. You had fooled him, made him feel like a fool in front of himself and others. His patience had reached its breaking point.

Aemond wasn’t a bad person. He was a man who did what was necessary. A man who kept order, who upheld principles, even if it meant crossing lines others would not dare to approach. Aemond was merciful—he had given you time. A grace period. Time for you to explain yourself, to come clean about your secrets and lies. Time to confess why you wrote letters to his nephew, toyed with his older brother, and played coy with his father. But you had wasted that mercy, prancing around as if nothing mattered, as if your deceit would never catch up to you.

“Do you understand?” he repeated, his tone sharper, more insistent. He felt the warmth of your tears rolling down onto his hand as they spilled, unbidden, from your eyes. The sight stirred something he refused to acknowledge, something deep and unnerving.

You nodded, a trembling motion that seemed to sap the strength from your entire body. Aemond didn’t ease his grip immediately, his eye narrowing as if he needed to see the truth in your submission. Only when your tears fell freely, soaking into his palm, did he let go, pulling back with slow deliberation.

Standing up, Aemond towered over you, his gaze cold and calculating as he watched you shift away, retreating to the farthest wall as though distance alone could shield you from his wrath. Your tears began to fall freely now, silent but unrelenting, accompanied by soft sniffles that only seemed to echo in the room's stillness. He watched as you curled into yourself, shrinking into a protective shell, your arms wrapped tightly around your knees. The vulnerability you displayed should have stirred something in him, but Aemond forced himself to remain unmoved, even as the sight tugged faintly at the corners of his resolve.

He sighed heavily, brushing his hair back with one hand as his jaw tightened. He refused to meet your gaze, choosing instead to focus on the far wall as though it might grant him clarity. Your sobs were soft but persistent, and they grated against his composure. He felt them press against the edges of his self-control, an unwelcome reminder of how close he’d come to losing it entirely.

“Aemond, I am sorry,” you pleaded, your voice trembling as you struggled to regain your breath. “I didn’t mean it.”

He turned his head slightly, his single eye sharp as it cut back to you. His breathing was deliberate, measured, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm that contrasted starkly with your erratic, uneven sobs.

“Do not be coy with me,” he hissed, his tone laced with contempt. “I am not my father.”

“Look, I don’t know why you’re so mad, but I’m sorry,” you insisted, your voice cracking under the weight of desperation. “I promise I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Aemond’s expression darkened, his lips pressing into a thin line. He took a step closer, his boots heavy against the floor as he loomed over you. “Your love letters to my nephew will stop,” he declared, his words cutting through the room like a blade. “Should I hear of you sending letters to anyone without informing me, I will leave you.” He let the threat hang in the air for a moment, letting its weight settle over you before delivering the final blow. “And everyone will know of your misdemeanors.”

Your eyes widened at his words, a fresh wave of tears threatening to spill as you opened your mouth to protest, but no sound came out. Aemond felt a fleeting pang of satisfaction at your speechlessness, though it was buried beneath layers of frustration and mistrust. He straightened, his posture rigid and unyielding as he looked down at you with an air of finality.

…

1st day of the 8th moon of 129 AC

“I, King Viserys, First of my name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm hereby pass the Patent Act of 129 AC.”

The proclamation hangs heavy in the air. A decree so alien to Westeros, so far removed from its traditions, that it almost feels as if a foreign king has taken the throne. The weight of the King’s words settles across the council chamber like an oppressive fog.

There doesn’t seem to be a happy face in the council. Not even yours, or perhaps you have just gotten better at hiding it. Ser Criston Cole does not know. He watches you with his sharp, calculating eyes, searching for a crack in your mask. But there is none.

The Hightowers contingent looks as if they’ve swallowed something bitter. Otto’s knuckles are white against the polished wood of the council table. Alicent sits perfectly still, her expression unreadable save for the tight line of her mouth. Only the soft rise and fall of her chest betrays her agitation.

“My King,” Otto finally speaks, his tone carefully measured but laced with disapproval. “This act… it is unprecedented. To allow individuals to lay claim to ideas, to inventions, is to invite chaos. It disrupts the natural order. The crown may find itself overwhelmed by disputes.”

Viserys, though frail, raises a hand to silence his Hand. “Enough, Otto. I have heard these arguments. Time and time again, I have heard them.” He leans back in his chair, his tired eyes flickering to you. “But the Seven Kingdoms cannot linger in the past forever. Progress must be made.”

You incline your head, a faint shadow of a smile ghosting across your lips. Ser Criston notes how carefully you control it, how you refuse to gloat in the face of victory. He wonders if that’s for the King’s benefit—or the Queen’s.

“And yet,” Rhaenyra’s voice cuts through the tension, soft but firm, (It is a sound that annoys him. A wound that refuses to heal.) “progress must be tempered with care. This act grants power to individuals, but power without restraint can lead to ruin. Who will oversee these claims? Who will ensure they do not conflict with the crown’s interests?”

The silence after the King’s words lingers, thick and suffocating. Ser Criston watches you carefully, noting the faint twitch of your lips as you nod without a word. His gaze hardens, ever wary of what it is you are truly playing at. He knows that beneath the calm, beneath your composed exterior, there’s something simmering. He just can’t place it.

“His grace sends me to Old Town to find a candidate.” You had won, and perhaps you knew you would all along, but Criston still doesn’t quite understand the depths of your plan. You, with no name, no true claim, standing before the council as though the world itself had bent to your will. (It had. You had bent everything to your liking and Ser Criston cannot help but feel a prick on envy. Why must it bend for you? You who had his exact standing but yet when he wanted to bend the rules, they did not bend for him and instead he was the one broken.) But now, as he watches you closely, he wonders if the weight of your victory has already begun to settle on your shoulders.

Your confidence has shifted. It’s a small thing, but Criston is a man who watches every detail, and it’s that shift he can’t ignore. Your silence is deafening to him. You speak but you are still so quiet. Nothing like the woman who spoke out against Prince Daemon.

“Yes, you leave tomorrow with two of my Kingsgaurd.” King Viserys adds and Ser Criston’s eyes flicker over to you. Your face remains impassive, only a nod is given.

“I should accompany you.” Alicent’s voice rings out. “It has been some time since I have visited. I long to see my son.” Ser Criston knows better. He knows his Queen, the hand he is sworn to.

There have been talks recently, talks of your enlightenment, when only a month ago,the High Septon used to scorn your name, he now praises it. Old Town is a strong hold of the faith.

Alicent does not want your pollution. Alicent does not want your ‘enlightenment.’

Note: After like forever, Aemond is finally gathering the pieces that shes not from Essos 💔 Anyways pls leave me your thoughts.

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