#rhaenyra targaryen defence

[nogoodsheepstealing-greatgrandma]

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Because I like to be organised to an inane degree and I am procrastinating like hell

Essays and Long Posts

How to Simultaneously Whitewash and Demonise a Character

The Princess and Her White Knight - an analysis of Criston Cole's relationship with Rhaenyra and comparisons to Lolita

Why Jeyne Arryn and Cregan Stark don't have a grudge against Evil Colonialist Targs TM

"Where Are The Alicent Pregnancy Scenes" - Or, Why Rhaenyra having a Character Arc at all is apparently Pro-Rhaenyra Bias

On Rosby and Stokeworth - Why Rhaenyra isn't a Hypocrite

Aegon II vs Rhaenyra - A Comparison of Atrocities

Consequences of Driftmark for Alicent and Rhaenyra

Catelyn Stark and Rhaenyra Targaryen - Lady Stoneheart and the Black Queen

How HOTD Films Team Green vs How HOTD Films Team Black - Driftmark - Brothers Fighting

Why My Show-Only Little Sister Hates HOTD - Thesis, the show is just bad and book purism has fuck all to do with it

The Complex More Interesting Version of Fire & Blood: How Ignoring Half the Cast Made Them More Interesting Apparently

S1: How Ignoring Jace, Baela and Rhaena is Bad Writing

Why Rhaenys is the Rightful Queen by all laws and traditions

Understanding Genetics in Westeros

Book Sansa Defence - She is 12

Dany in Slavers Bay - She is 14 [part 2 - Sansa addition]

Why You Should Shit on Otto Hightower - Part 2: Rhaenyra's training and why you should shut up about the Grand Council

Other Rhaenyra Defence

The Story of a Mother vs The Story of a Cult Leader

How HOTD Whitewashed Rhaenyra by turning her into a lunatic

Driftmark Fight Book vs Show: A Study in How Context Matters

Handling Complex Female Characters

Rhaenyra and Alicent: A Cinderella Story

Vaemond Velaryon the Usurper

Rhaenyra and Crispy Break Up - Who Left Who?

Other Wee Posts

Why Dany isn't going to burn down King's Landing

War Crimes in the Riverlands

The Human Heart in Conflict With Itself VS Coin Flipping Genetic Insanity

The Missing Ladies of HOTD

Aegon the Coward vs Baela the Brave

Why Would Dany Do This?

Fuck Daeron I Want Nettles

Trust Fund Baby Hugh Hammer

Bad Parenting Championship Showdown: Daemon vs Laena

Harry Collett Being Adorable

Jace and the Dragonseeds (Fears Prior to S2)

Trident 2 - Cognitive Development

Arya Stark's Most Legendary Moment

Other Team Green Nonsense

Selective Approval of Character Assassination

Selective Book Purism

Aegon II Fans - Do You Care About The Small folk or Don't You?

Team Green Fans - Do You Care About Dead Children or Don't You?

Hypocrispy

A Series of Funny Misunderstandings

[immortalthunderstorm]

Criston Cole and Fandom Perception

There seems to be this idea that Criston's character and motivation solely revolves around Rhaenyra, which seems to be a fandom-wide belief. I won't deny that she plays a part on his development, but even that is more about who he is than what she means to him.

I'll provide my personal interpretation.

The overarching theme for Criston, something that was deeply explored by Jaime as well (who in the books refers to Criston as a man of duality), is that the idea of knightly valour in theory is rarely applicable in practice. A knight in theory is meant to be honour-bound, fearless, principled and chivalrous, obey each of their vows. Their name and the Ser they have earned is a badge of prowess and honour.

Especially the Kingsguard, having sworn off all "earthly" pleasures in order to serve their monarch for life, have a deep sense of focus on this as their duty is a singular one, while also having sworn their knightly vows before their Kingsguard ones. The Kingsguard is seen as this incorruptible, elite force of the very best of knights, a high office to have and the dream of even many of the highborn knights. The societal regard for this office is also very high.

Criston is not highborn. He's the son of a steward, Dornish, and unlike many highborn sons who are trained and fostered to rise the ranks and bring glory to their already established name at tourneys, he had to get there the hard way. The show makes this explicitly clear in the scene where Otto suggests choosing a knight with a good name to the Kingsguard, and Rhaenyra chooses Criston for his real experience (points can be made that she's also attracted to him, or impressed by his tourney feats, but she is not in the wrong here. Most knights at this time have never seen real battle, as Rhaenys says to Corlys)

His vows represent everything he has accomplished for himself "all that [he] has to [his] name" - his entire self worth.

Criston's speech on the boat is not about him being in love with Rhaenyra. He explicitly says he thinks it's the only way to wash the stain off his honour and name. He's desperate and of course it's a bad plan, but it's the only way out he sees with the prospect of death and torture now looming over his head in ever waking hour (see Ser Lucamore the Lusty). That's why he's so jumpy the whole episode and the next. He's paranoid about being exposed, and that's why he's so angry that Rhaenyra simply wants him to be her "whore". She's not in love with him either, it's all just about sex for her while it's a life or death situation for him. That's why he breaks down to Alicent so quickly and almost unprovoked, and confesses and asks for a swift death.

"I took an oath. As a knight of your Kingsguard. An oath of chastity. I've broken it. I've soiled my white cloak. And it's the only thing I have to my fսcking name! I thought if we were married, I might be able to restore it."

His devotion for Alicent also isn't primarily motivated by his dislike for Rhaenyra. To him, she's his second chance to live up to his ideals. She's his "Lady of Honour", the person he sees as the perfect example of a dutiful woman (as fostered by the society they live in) . Her he can chain his own sense of honour to, safely devote himself to without conflicting feelings, and be his idealistic version of what a white knight should be.

I'm not saying his behaviour is logical, knightly hypocrisy is one of the central themes across GRRM's work, but it's a lot more complex than what a lot of people make it out to be (everything is about Rhaenyra)

I'm also tired of this situation being simplified to "he's just an angry Incel" by this fandom. It's much deeper than that and I don't get the absolute demonisation of Criston who's a very complex character.

People just love to look for some ulterior reasons to justify their hatred for a him. It's absolutely fine to dislike Criston if they want, but applying these pseudo-psychological frameworks to him is getting old very quickly.

He is not an incel, he pretty much tells Rhaenyra he's been with at least a couple women before joining the Kingsguard, and it's not like he's angry at her because she doesn't want to sleep with him, on the contrary she pretty much offers him to be his 'paramour' and he gets upset because he doesn't want to be used for sex at the risk of his life. The whole point is his extreme sense of honour and paranoia of breaking his vows.

Similarly the Madonna-Whore complex doesn't check out because this only applies to his dislike for Rhaenyra, not sexually active women in general. Criston hates one (1) woman and that's more for personal reasons than religious extremism - he's very respectful and polite to the prostitute in ep 9, does not treat her as someone lesser or sullied or sinful despite being religious. He pretty much says to Aemond that all women should be treated with respect.

This man insults one woman (who he has personal beef with) once, and immediately apologises for it, yet the fandom seems hellbent on him being some raging misogynistic incel.

(If we want to start throwing stones, Daemon calls people bitches, whores and cunts in almost every episode lol.)

[viiisenyas]

I really liked your analysis on Rhaenyra and Laenor's dynamic for ep 6. Do you think that you could do one for ep 7? c:

Oh boy, you are trying to give me an aneurysm lol. Listen, I have a lot to say about this. So get some tea and have a seat, anon.

Let's start with the funeral.

Rhaenyra was looking for Laenor when she pulled Jacaerys aside, that much is certain, and I am painfully aware that they were both mourning their losses, as Jacaerys so tactfully put it /s

In response to Baela and Rhaena losing their mother:

[Jacaerys:] I have an equal claim to sympathy. We should be at Harrenhal, mourning Lord Lyonel and Ser Harwin.

Little fucking bastard.

If Rhaenyra and Laena were truly as close as some show watchers believe, do we truly think that Jacaerys would be so comfortable saying that openly? I think not.

Not to mention, that whole conversation between Rhaenyra and Jacaerys earns some iconic questionable looks from Alicent and Criston.

Moving on before I get off topic.

A few minutes later in the episode, you can actually hear Seasmoke crying out, which kind of alerts Daemon and Aemond that something is amiss, then the camera cuts to this.

A very distraught Laenor standing in the water (likely where his sister was buried) which brings up the question: If Rhaenyra was intent on keeping up appearances, why did she spend the last few minutes openly eye-fucking Daemon? Why didn't she continue her search for her husband who was prone to drinking? If they had such a close friendship as some of the fandom believes, her first thought would have been to ensure that he was all right. But... she didn't.

And it doesn't help the situation that Corlys has an outburst towards Ser Qarl to retrieve Laenor, but even when that does draw in attention, Rhaenyra doesn't even bother asking what happened. Instead, she continues eye-fucking Daemon while he's talking to Viserys.

And after Daemon leaves the balcony, she walks straight towards her children to send them to bed, and proceeds to follow Daemon. She didn't even bother waiting for Laenor to come back up and ask if he was okay or even offer him an ounce of comfort, which earns this look from Otto.

She... is a horrible and selfish friend.

Moving on, let's break down the conversation she had with Daemon about Laenor.

It begins with this:

[Rhaenyra]: Laenor has been restless for years, but now, he will be useless. Or worse. I know better than anyone that our marriage is a farce. But I at least make the effort to maintain appearances.

Did she? Clearly not, if Otto, Criston, and Alicent were all giving her the bombastic side eye. And that's not even mentioning the visible bastards she brought to Laena's funeral. Her lack of empathy towards Laenor was blatant during that entire funeral, and believe me, everyone fucking noticed.

[Rhaenyra:] We did try to conceive a child. We performed our duty as best we could. But to no avail.

Again, clearly not. Especially if we take into account the canonical age of Jacaerys and compare it to the date they wed. (Yes I am referencing book canon, but it still drives my point)

Rhaenyra and Laenor wed in 114 AC, and Jacaerys was born the same year.

I could understand if the boy was born like two, maybe three years after the wedding, but nope. In my opinion, I would have assumed that "performing your duty" would have meant being monogamous for at least a year to get it over with, but I digress. What's done is done.

And here is where we get to the root of the issue, and where she tells on herself a little bit.

[Rhaenyra:] There was no joy in it. I found that elsewhere. It felt good to be desired.

Well of course there wouldn't be any joy in it, he's a gay man, and you knew this when you agreed to marry him (mind you, when she had the full pick of the litter - a privilege that nobody else was granted.) However, there were several fucking ways that they could have attempted to conceive a child - hell, even Margaery had solutions to the situation with Renly. But clearly Rhaenyra wasn't as intelligent as she thought she was.

Now, glossing over the blatant disrespect towards her grieving husband and his dead sister by sleeping with Laena's widower, let's get to the aftermath of the shitshow between her and Alicent.

After she sends the children out to have a private word with Laenor the conversation goes like this:

[Laenor:] I should have been there. [Rhaenyra, begrudgingly:] Those should be our house words.

If you pay attention to Laenor's face after she says that, he looks like he doesn't want to deal with this, yet he stays, and proceeds to provide an explanation.

[Laenor:] I have fought dreadful enemies, but I could not defend my dear sister, far from home and in agony. I could not defend you... [Rhaenyra:] Sit down.

To me, this feels like he's attempting to gauge a semblance of understanding from Rhaenyra as to why he wasn't present during the climax of this episode. And believe it or not, it is VALID. As I have said in the previous analysis of episode 6, those children were NOT his obligation, and he was grieving his own flesh and blood.

However, Rhaenyra continued to act indifferent and dismissive to his loss, and proceeded to bring up her bastards as if that was the bigger problem. Not once did she ask how he was feeling this entire episode, which again, made me believe that they were never truly friends. (I'd wager IF they were, that friendship quickly crumbled after Joffrey Lonmouth was murdered, and I think it's safe to assume that Rhaenyra has behaved similarly to how she is behaving now.)

[Laenor:] I have failed you, Rhaenyra. Our marriage... I tried. Our boys... I do love them. Deeply. But I have not, mayhaps... loved them enough.

Now as Laenor is speaking, you can see the apathy she has so plainly displayed on her face while he is quite literally pleading with her yet again, so much that he has resorted to self-deprecating language in spite of the fact that he stayed by her side for ten straight years, playing his part as a loving husband and father, possibly being berated by other lords and ladies at court. He is not afforded the same protections that Rhaenyra has, and mind you, he was alone.

Laenor's entire family had been away from King's Landing, so he had to navigate this by himself, all while getting comments against his ability to sire children, and against his sexuality as so wonderfully displayed by Alicent. /s

[Alicent, Episode 6:] Do keep trying, Ser Laenor. Soon or late you'll have one that looks like you. [Alicent, Episode 7:] Where is Ser Laenor, I wonder? The boys' father? Perhaps he will have something to say in the matter... Entertaining his squires, I'll wager.

I fully believe if the Queen was comfortable saying this so openly, everyone else was more than comfortable with saying things like this to his face, too.

Now, back to the point, Rhaenyra continues the conversation with this:

[Rhaenyra:] I had hoped to bear your children. The few times we lay together. Things might've been different. [Laenor:] I hate the gods for making me as they did. [Rhaenyra:] I do not.

Hm. Are you sure about that, Rhaenyra? Because your dialogue with him in the previous episode had quite a few microaggressions against his homosexuality. But I digress.

[Rhaenyra:] You are an honourable man with a good heart. It's a rare thing.

Yet, she called him useless behind his back about twenty minutes ago, which tells me that she's being disingenuous, and Laenor seemed to catch it, too because he makes this face right after she says it.

[Laenor:] We made an arrangement all those years ago to do our duty, and yet explore happiness. [Rhaenyra:] *chuckles* [Laenor:] But there are times I think when these things cannot mutually exist.

Now I found that a bit interesting. She starts laughing at the little contract they drew up ten years ago. Now sure, this can be taken as a bit of levity, or it can be taken as her actually laughing at him in a condescending way. Pick your poison. However, given everything I've presented above, my opinion leans towards the latter.

Sure we can argue that he did smile with her, but is that a genuine smile, or is that a "I hope she's taking me seriously," smile? I'll let you decide.

Now to address his next statement, he was absolutely correct, and I'll wager that he probably had been thinking about this for a very long time. Maybe I'm reading into it, but his expression grows serious after he says it.

[Laenor:] Ser Qarl will return soon to the fighting in the Stepstones. But I recommit myself to you. And to strengthening our house as we prepare you for your ascension. I will raise our sons to be princes of the realm. You deserve better than what I have been. You deserve a husband. (emphasis mine)

And this is the final frame we have of Laenor before his death is staged. His entire expression is pleading.

This right here was a final cry for recognition in his longstanding efforts. His last words to her really drove the point home that he does want to try, despite the fact that he has been all along. Perhaps it's just me, but Laenor seems like he is actually on his last leg if he is going so far as to put himself down in an attempt to receive some semblance of acknowledgement from Rhaenyra in hopes that she wouldn't cast him aside like she has done these last few years.

[daenerystargaryen06]

I am totally convinced that GRRM requested that “Song of Ice and Fire dream” scene to totally destroy that bs book from D&D’s putrid final episode where they had that idiot Tarly’s book be called that

Oh, most definitely. But I also think it goes more into depth than just that. GRRM has already expressed his disagreement and disappointment in the way the show ended, and how D&D excluded him from the shows production to do things their own way after diverting from the books.

I think GRRM added in the scene to discount the battle against the WW. It was too 'easy' in the show. The so-called 'Long Night' only lasted one night, stupid decisions were made in that battle (such as Jon using Dany's men in the frontlines as mere human shields and causing a majority of deaths within Dany's army), and the final killing of the NK just felt so... bland in the end. Jon hardly did much throughout the battle as well, just either sitting on Rhaegal, fighting the NK for a little bit, then screaming at undead Viserion. I think GRRM wanted to add in the fact that the WW are the true evil of the series to be worried about, and that the battle against them won't be so easy.

I also think it was GRRM's own little tease towards Daenerys being Azor Ahai/Prince that was Promised. Dany fits the prophecy for the PTWP within the books and already has several factors into pointing its her (or her and two others who can ride Rhaegal and Viserion into battle with her). Dany's theme was the one that was playing during Viserys' conversation with Rhaenyra over the dream within HOTD. It can also serve as a small backhand to the trash that was the final season from GRRM himself due to what D&D did with his story and characters overall. It builds into a thematic point and underlying hints since Viserys tells Rhaenyra 'a Targaryen must sit the Iron Throne' in order to lead the battle against the WW, and I think it's Daenerys who GRRM wanted to hint at being that Targ.

It definitely was a serve to downplay and criticize the absolute garbage D&D did to incorporate A Song of Ice and Fire into the show through Sam's dumb book at the end after they destroyed the show and its characters, but I also think it was a hint towards the ASOIAF series as well by GRRM as to what the true evil of the series was supposed to be (not Dany or Cersei, the WW) and also the fact that it could very well be Daenerys as the one who must lead the people against the cold and the dark as Azor Ahai/PTWP.

[lemonhemlock]

dany and rhaenyra really couldn't be more different considering dany grew up in abject poverty and rhaenyra was constantly shielded by her status and name. for dany, her name was a death sentence, so they exist in totally different frameworks of what being a “targaryen” even means. it’s this vast difference in upbringing that informs how they rule as well with daenerys giving a lot of attention to how her actions/rule affect the oppressed while rhaenyra doesn’t particularly care about the common people at all!

i don't even disagree with this, but their differences don't negate them also having similarities (thematic especially) and having fan bases that almost entirely overlap

[gameofthronedd]

Daemyra: Archaic Vs Contemporary, Bias and Double-Standards

One thing that really ruffles my feathers in regards to support of Daemyra... is being all "Well, in medieval times..." but not applying that same logic to other aspects of the show and characters.

In the Daemyra situation, it's the logic of "no, he isn't a gr***er because at the time Rhaenyra is eligible for marriage and is a 'woman grown'". But there's a completely different attitude involved when it comes to the situation with Rhaenyra's bastards and premarital sex.

Warnings for: mentions of gr**ming minus the asterisks for brevity/accessibility/readability etc., long post, cursing/strong language

If we're using period/universe accurate logic, then, yes, perhaps Daemon's relationship with Rhaenyra isn't strange and it certainly isn't uncommon (see: Viserys and Aemma, Rhaenys and Corlys). However, I think that if you're using in-universe logic then you can't really maintain integrity whilst losing your shit when someone points out that Rhaenyra's actions are politically problematic and, daresay, inappropriate (using in-universe logic, of course!).

Based on contemporary morals, we know that premarital sex isn't inherently bad (except in the eyes of some religions, for example) and that having bastards is not a bad thing (obviously may be an issue for the aforementioned). We know that women can be sexual beings and find pleasure in that, that agency and autonomy are important for women just as it is for men. So on, so forth.

But with contemporary morals, we also know that Daemon's relationship with Rhaenyra when she is young is inappropriate. In the first episode, she is 14/15 and is involved in what may amount to grooming (such as gift-giving as seen via the necklace which is specifically crafted for her). We also see that Daemon provides and fulfills her desires for freedom and adventure, and he does pose as this "untouchable bad boy" figure.

When she's about 18 in Episode 4, Daemon takes her to the brothel and allows her to explore sexuality... before abandoning her and leaving her exposed, and consequently compromising her integrity. Whilst she is the "acceptable" age here, by contemporary morals I'd assume that we can all agree that it is inappropriate for Daemon to take Rhaenyra to a brothel and put her in a physically dangerous situation, away from the safety of the Kingsguard and her sworn protection, and to then leave her there in that situation.

It just appears strange to specifically rely on in-universe/period appropriate logic solely for the Daemyra situation yet other issues being addressed through this perspective are met with anger. Personally, I think both should be used and interrogated. But most Daemyra supporters I've seen tend to have a more contemporary stance on other issues yet only apply this in-universe logic to the Daemyra situation, and dislike it when such a perspective is applied to Rhaenyra's situation.

In regards to that, and as an example...

Based on archaic logic (I'm just going to call ASOIAF/in-universe/period-accurate logic "archaic logic" from now on lmao), Rhaenyra engaging in premarital sex, whether with Daemon or Criston, would be considered inappropriate. Women would be expected to remain a "maiden" until marriage and it would be highly dishonourable to engage in sexual activities before marriage. Rhaenyra's adventure to the brothel (and subsequent engagement with Criston - though the former is the extent of what the important figures become aware of, excepting Alicent) places her in a precarious decision in terms of her integrity as a woman & as heir.

From a contemporary perspective, we know that's bullshit. Men, Viserys and Daemon both included, frolick often in brothels and their sex lives are not as highly criticised as women. I can't name a male heir or ruler in the ASOIAF universe whose legitimacy and position was/would be called into question because he had sex. Yet Rhaenyra, being a woman, inherently faces prejudice if her engagement in premarital sex becomes widely known. We know, as a modern audience, that Rhaenyra's sex life shouldn't be everyone's business.

But why is it unacceptable to consider an archaic perspective when considering this... yet we can only use an archaic perspective to discuss Daemyra?

The obvious answer is bias, of course. I'm not into shitting on people's enjoyment. Like what you like, I won't stop you. But I'm going to critique because, uh, I can. And my personal bias is not for Daemyra, if you couldn't tell. So, anyway...

The HOTD fandom is a situation where lines are drawn and there is very transparent bias. I'm biased, you're biased, we're all biased. That's life. The situation with Daemyra definitely shows that.

Fans of Team Black, especially diehard Rhaenyra stans, tend to rely more heavily on contemporary/modern values and morals... except for Daemyra fans, whereby there's a noticeable shift towards archaic logic. This is noteworthy because it evidences that the subconscious bias recognises that sticking to contemporary values would result in having to make excuses for behaviours that are noticeably inappropriate aka grooming. So it's easier to rely on archaic logic to explain it away as being appropriate for the time. Ta da, no moral quandary!

The issue here isn't that they're using archaic logic because then I'd be a hypocrite. The issue is that those in this locus are transparently making an exception for themselves to avoid addressing the behaviours that are inappropriate based on contemporary values, whilst being critical of archaic logic being applied elsewhere. Obviously, the same can be said about other groups and situations.

My point is this:

Analysis of HOTD is interesting and media literacy of any entertainment content allows us to perceive the world in different ways and address a variety of issues in society, as well as understand the characters, ourselves, others and the world.

I think it's good to consider both archaic and contemporary attitudes towards different situations presented in HOTD. I also think it's good to be aware of and reflect upon personal biases, and perhaps scrutinise more closely why we instinctively shift towards one form of analysis, archaic or contemporary, over another.

Personally, I think that the show's narrative somewhat purposefully portrays Rhaenyra and Alicent's interactions with "romance" as both highlighting the damage patriarchy can inflict upon young girls, and the different ways it can manifest. Alicent is married off to an old man against her will and has his children whilst still being a child herself. Meanwhile, Rhaenyra is being drawn into sexuality and romance by Daemon, more or less being "lured" into what is expected of women as well as being lured into a precarious situation that places her wellbeing and position as heir at risk.

Both are women being manipulated as pawns of the patriarchy. Alicent evidently has no choice, devoid of her agency as a girl, whilst Rhaenyra has the illusion of choice, believing she is in control whilst being pulled left and right by Viserys, Otto, Daemon etc.

I could definitely go into more detail. But, anyway, those are just my thoughts on the double-standards of the Daemyra situation. Just a personal pet peeve. I feel like if you're supporting Daemyra then there's a necessity to acknowledge the contemporary/modern perspectives of it, especially if being critical of instances where archaic logic is applied elsewhere. Hope that makes sense 🙏🏻

[your-gracelyn]

Op is correct, but just to throw in my unnecessary opinion-

Is Alicent not also risking Criston’s life by sleeping with him? Alicent and Criston don’t speak of running away to get married, and he continues to break his oath multiple times with her. Why doesn’t he assume Alicent doesn’t care about him/his life? It’s only Rhaenyra he calls a whore/bitch/cunt/cunning spider. After Alicent and Criston have sex, they awkwardly talk about the weather, and Alicent says they “can’t again”, suggesting it’s probably not a deeply loving relationship, just sex, but Criston isn’t angry at Alicent for risking his life for her own pleasure, and for not being deeply in love with him.

“Have him break his oath” suggests he didn’t also make the choice to sleep with Rhaenyra (and Alicent), and risk his own life. I’ve seen the argument that because Rhaenyra is in a position of power over him, he was too scared to say no. However, he does say no to being her “whore” and he goes on to antagonise Rhaenyra, he encourages Aegon to flight jace, kills Joffrey at her wedding, doesn’t hesitate to follow Alicent’s order of removing Luke’s eyes etc, and becomes part of the greens, these don’t seem like the actions of a man in fear of displeasing Rhaenyra.(Rhaenyra being a teenager and Criston an adult when they have sex is usually left out by people making this argument). But, Alicent has this same power over Criston, she’s the Queen dowager, the kings mother, and the hands daughter (at the time). She uses this power over him in the scene where she says she didn’t give him permission to use her name.

When Lyonel is talking to Harwin about his relationship with Rhaenyra he says, “Your intimacy with Princess Rhaenyra is an offense that could mean exile and death for you, for her, for the children!" which suggests Rhaenyra and Alicent could have been jeopardising their own life, literal and/or metaphorical, by sleeping with Criston, too. But, to bring it back to the power imbalance argument, if Rhaenyra has so much power over Criston, she must also have to power to protect him (and herself) from being punished for sleeping with her if anyone found out, no?

Also, despite everything Criston does to Rhaenyra (tells Alicent immediately that they slept together, kills Joffrey at her wedding, has Aegon fight Jace even though it’s an unfair fight) she never tells anyone it was him she slept with, thus protecting him from punishment and reputation damage. Even though she could say it was Criston, once it’s found out she’s slept with someone, to also have him punished like she has been, but she doesn’t. She could stop Daemon from being exiled by saying it wasn’t him she slept with, but she doesn’t.

That’s why I don’t like Criston. He absolutely despises Rhaenyra, and her whole family, for her mistakes as a teenager, but doesn’t hold anyone else to the same standard, even in almost identical situations or when they do worse. (Aegon cheats on Haelena, has his bastard kids in fighting pits, rapes Dyana and frequents brothels etc but Criston says nothing about that.) He says “women are the vision of the Mother to be spoke of with reverence”, but calls Rhaenyra a cunning spider, a spoiled cunt, the whore on Dragonstone etc.

The people that hate Rhaenyra for what she did to Criston don’t seem to hate Alicent for the same thing and vice versa. Which is the most annoying part.

(Not shitting on Alicent here, her having sex with Criston isn’t a problem in of it’s self, I’m just using it to compare Criston’s treatment of different women in the same situation)

(Plz read this as me friendly giving my opinion, I’m not attacking op or anyone just explaining my position. :) Sorry it got a bit long. )

oooooh people really think criston was upset specifically abt getting rejected by rhaenyra. they think he's upset she didn't want to run away with him. ah I see. so THATS why you all hate him so much! no friends I'm afraid he's upset because he assumed if she cared about him enough that to have him to break his oath and risk possible death she would have to be totally in love with him and unable to stop herself. instead he realised she was reckless with his life and deduced (right or wrong) from the incident that she didn't give a shit about him even as a friend. hope this helps.

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

The Blood is Rare

Summary: Aemond has always loathed his niece, and the feeling is very much mutual | Words: 3.3k | Warnings below the cut!

Warnings: a lot of talk of illegitimacy, hatefucking, dubcon, choking, slight knife play, biting, bitta blood, incest (character is described with strong features), p in v sex, baby trapping?

There was no plate at his spot at the table. No knife to tempt him. He would not break bread with those he could not trust.

Like an animal atop high ground, he sits rigid at the head of the table, on the outside unnervingly calm. But he watches with a keen eye the prey that sits at the other end.

She shares many features with her mother. His whore-sister. Her stubbornness, her determined gaze and the nervous twisting of the rings on each of her fingers into the bargain. 

Had she not the dark brown, near-black shade of waved hair atop her head and bright, clear blue eyes of the former Commander of the City Watch, his niece and his sister would look nearly identical.

Unfortunately, they both shared his hatred for them as well.

He loathed the idea of them all. The birth of one mere brown-haired bastard was enough, and yet there were three of them, sat together in unification, as if to put up defences against the opposite side of the table, dotted with the moonlight-silver of Alicent Hightower’s children.

He smirked at the thought that she came mere hours after Jace. That she was unplanned. Unwanted. And yet here she existed, sitting with her eyes fixed on a flickering candle, trying to drown out the laughs, smiles and the oddity that was all of them all gathered together, enjoying one another’s company.

He knew as well as she did. It was the only thing they had in common. That they could see through this charade.

Aemond wondered if she had always seen it. Understood it. The strife that would happen between them. Perhaps she was a dreamer and could envisage the future before it had even happened.

She was a melancholic, hateful little thing. Born with fire and fury.

He supposed if anything, she was still the daughter of a Targaryen.

Aemond swore she was a witch of sorts. For she must have felt his gaze on her, and her clear eyes were illuminated by the dancing flame as they met him. Her expression unchanged.

His smirk grew that they felt the same about each other.

He was the cunt son of Alicent Hightower.

And she was the Strong bastard of his whore-sister.

Not breaking eye contact, she raised her chin, looking down at him over her nose, huffing as she turned away to sip from the cup on her small, delicate fingers.

Stuck up cunt.

The atmosphere shifted considerably as Viserys groaned, a frail hand raised to the injured portion of his face, to which Aemond felt a sick sense of delight. The guards swiftly carried him away by each corner of his chair.

And the gap between Rhaenyra and Alicent seemed to push each side away further. Irreparably so.

His niece did not appreciate his tribute to her and her brothers.

Throughout the evening, she had said few words apart from mumbled whispers to Daemon on her right and Luke on her left. But when Aemond stood to speak, he revelled in her undivided attention. In those angry eyes, he saw not only a loathing for him, but a loathing at the truth of what she was.

A loathing that he was right, and she knew it.

She seemed almost as disappointed as her mother when Jace struck him weakly.

And before Daemon could place himself between the warring factions of their family, he watched the Strong Princess march angrily away, her skirts in her hands, flashing a stern glare before she left.

Her eyes were all he could think about, with her face anchored in the firm grip of his fingers.

He thought she was so small and fragile, that he could just squeeze and break her little jaw, her bones clattering between his fingers like pebbles. And yet she still looked at him with such fire, that only one of Targaryen blood would be able to throw.

She looked at him like he was the most loathsome creature she had ever seen.

The passageway Aemond had her cornered into was stifling and suffocating, forcing them to breathe the same humid air in anger. He saw her face redden where he had her in his grasp, her glossy lips slightly parted to breathe.

“I will extend you the courtesy of assuming there is a very good reason why you have your hands on me like this, Uncle.”

He almost wants to laugh right in her face, despite what she said not meaning to be funny. She is so frail, and yet roars so loudly.

“There is.”

Her jaw muscles tighten in frustration, shuffling backwards though there is nowhere to go.

“Then, I dare say your reason will not be good enough.”

Aemond allows his gaze to roam over her face. Up close, she really and truly is the picture of her mother, with her father's unfortunate features to her disadvantage in her colouring.

“I merely wished to see the colour of your eyes, mandianna.”

“To make some cruel jape no less, I am sure.”

He grins at the way she takes a sharp breath when he tugs her face towards him slightly. And he swears he sees the pupils within the clear blue of her eyes widen as he does, and wonders if he is having the same effect swelling at the forbidden place between her thighs.

“You wound me, sweet niece. A man cannot simply appreciate the beauty of a woman? Does there always have to be some cruel intent?”

“With you, there must be.”

He somewhat loosens his grip on her face, fingers trailing down her neck, the glint of her earrings catching his eye. She visibly shivers at his touch there. 

The most venomous expression sits on her face, and she does not miss a beat. Too clever and witty for her own good.

“Do not insult my intelligence, Uncle. I know what depraved thoughts bat around inside your head, and they are not original. A family trait perhaps.”

He hums, more amused than curious, but perhaps with a smattering of both, “And what of you?”

Her perfect little lips part to speak before his thumb trails down the column of her throat, long fingers wrapped around her neck to her nape. The threat of what he could do making her go quiet.

“What depraved thoughts bat around in your head, sweet niece?”

Silence wraps around them like a rope, tightening with the fibres cracking against their skin. Hot and suffocating all at once. And all Aemond can hear is the steady rhythm of her breathing, his eye wandering down to the necklace perched on her chest as her lungs erratically suck in air.

“It is treason to question my virtue.”

She swallows as his thumb presses on the centre of her throat, as if testing if she is indeed real.

“It may be treason to question your virtue, but it is not treason to question your honesty,” he replies coolly. Aemond can feel her pulse fluttering beneath her skin, the barely-contained rage on her face hidden only by a blanket of courtesy, “a maiden does not allow herself to be alone like this with another man.”

Aemond found himself, a man who had sparred with Ser Criston Cole for a large portion of his life, a man who as a child had claimed the largest dragon in the world and a man who had dealt with the burning pain of losing his eye, and the shame that he carried alongside it, was shocked into brief silence when his niece’s small, delicate palm echoed off his cheek.

It was not the force of it that stunned him so, but rather the shock that she had chosen to do it, with his hand around her neck and his frame blocking her escape.

The little dragon had felt threatened and given him a warning clip.

Aemond felt the warmth bloom on his cheek and smirked. She had slapped him on his bad side, where she knew it would sting the most. For a split second, white, hot pain nipped at the temples of his head as he turned back to face her, and saw that look on her face.

That she knew she’d made a mistake, but was too angry or proud to admit it. 

Or perhaps she was both.

Excitement wriggled and rolled in his stomach at the whimper that escaped her lips, using the force of his grip around her tiny throat to force her back, muscles and bones rolling against the stone walls where she was trapped, and those clear, curious eyes darting back at him with distaste. And he was pleased to see, a sprinkling of horror and panic.

“That was a mistake,” he mused, pressing himself closer to her, his hand firm around her throat despite her own attempting to pry them off him. His other hand reached down, shifting her up the cold wall, and gathered her heavy skirts in his palm, and rucked them frustratingly up towards her hip.

He revelled in the terror that crossed her face, a smirk winding its way to his sharp features.

“How exhilarating,” he pondered, “to take something that you are not willing to give.”

“I will scream”.

“Then scream. I will say it was you who seduced me,” he bit back, watching her face and expressions that crossed them, “And who will they believe? The King’s second son or the bastard daughter of a whore?”

He could feel her breath against his face, soothing the spot where she had struck him not a moment before. Aemond blinked slowly at the woman in his grip, apparently attempting to decide for herself whether it was worth the fight.

Or perhaps something else.

Aemond grinned, “like mother like daughter.”

And he enjoyed the fire it stoked in her eyes.

“You will let me go-”

He shook her neck in his grip, as if to make her be quiet. And it seemed to shock and scare her, for she closed her eyes to steel herself, “And then what will you do? Run? Scream? Or will you do something stupid enough to give me an excuse to make everything you’ve ever said about me, truth?”

Her jaw tightened looking at him, feeling cornered, but a strange ache between her thighs.

“You threaten me, Uncle?”

His dagger sliced the very air between them, pressing the tip to the column of her throat where his thumb had branded her not moments before, tracing the shape of her skin. His niece froze, her breath trembling and her head pressed to the wall, as if to try and pull herself feebly away from threat. 

This very dagger was an extension of Aemond himself. As if his hand were still touching her but with a pointed edge. And he wondered if he sliced her skin, even just a little, would she bleed like him?

There was something there in her eyes as he looked between them. Her breath came in shallow gasps. And Aemond was willing to bet that deep down, beneath the demure veil she hides herself behind, peeking through, that she is wet and ready for him between her silky thighs.

“You are clever, dear niece,” he all but whispers, trailing the blade down to the neckline of her dress, the rich fabric yielding to it, “but not as clever as you think you are.”

She swallowed thickly as his blade teased the tied bindings to her dress, playing with the double-tied knots as if they were strings of a lute, and he was playing her easily. He plucked one, and then two, watching her face the entire time.

“You believe yourself a proper little Princess, do you not?” he asks, his voice low, almost feline in nature, his face so close to hers she can make out the stitchings of his eyepatch, “hair decorated with gold. Fingers adorned with rubies. Wrapped in lavish dresses.”

She flinched as he flicked his wrist, severing the second to last tie holding two sides of her gown together.

“But pull one little thread, and you unravel -” his tone deepens, forcing her to listen to every little syllable, his gaze boring into hers, “-and all you are…is a wanton, bastard, whore.”

She attempted to push his body away, but his dagger clattered to the floor, holding her easily by her wrists, near-painfully pressing them to the stone wall behind her. It happened so quickly. Lips, teeth and tongue fought as if in battle, and Aemond held her there for him, pressing his rapidly hardening length against her clothed womanhood, rolling his hips against hers to search for that delicious, forbidden friction.

It did not seem to him that she was fighting him, but rather fighting how he made her feel.

Her lips were velvety, moist and soft as his anchored hers apart to taste her, once having a split second’s worth it was never enough. Every little breath and whimper and he wanted to make them louder, make her submit, a part of him intoxicated by her when  her teeth grazed his bottom lip, and bit on him, only for her tongue to soothe the area afterwards.

Aemond thought of what would happen, if he devoured her wholly, pressed so hard against her that it was difficult to fathom where either of them began and ended.

His lips moved along her jaw. She smelled of whatever oils were combed through her hair. Camomile and something sweet perhaps. Quickly his hand left her wrist to ruck her heavy skirts up to her waist, feeling her shiver at the touch he left behind with the brief touch of his fingertips where no man had touched before. 

“Fight back,” Aemond dared, a mere whisper against her neck where he left his bruise-like mark.

He met her gaze, looking into her bright eyes and allowed his grip on her to slowly relax, waiting to see if she would push away. Scream and run, as she had previously promised. And while her jaw was still tense and eyes aflame with hostility, he swore he saw her pupils dilate.

“Just get on with it.”

The surging heat in his stomach distracted him briefly from acting cocky, his fingers fumbling to untie his breeches while keeping her elevated. And it felt as if his body was thinking before his mind when he looked between them to see her hefty skirts bunched at her hip, and one smooth leg on display, pulling his achingly hard cock free and tucking himself between the soft haven between her thighs. 

She could pretend she desired him not all she liked, but when their gazes met in fire and fury, finding that in all of their fighting and struggling she was soaking wet, Aemond pushed against her entrance until she welcomed him, sliding within her tight, choking walls with a low groan batted against her neck.

She whined at both the intrusion and his tight grip on her thigh, one hand elevating it so that he could begin pushing up brutally into her. Shame rose to her cheeks as she closed her eyes tightly, finding the wet smack of their skin rousing that tightness in her belly.

It was both embarrassing and hateful that she found herself enjoying this, and that she let him first of all. 

And all she could see above her when she opened her eyes was him, his lips parted to breath as if he was holding some beastly form of himself back, his hair spilling like rays of moonlight over his shoulders with every thrust into her weeping cunt and the way his lone eye never strayed from her expression, not for a second.

That is until Aemond felt as if not only he wanted to own her shame and her body, but wanted to show it too, and leaned forward to graze his teeth on the skin that was now exposed by the ever loosening shoulders of her dress, and sink his teeth in to mark her.

The sound that came from her was between a grunt and a moan, as his position changed the angle of his hips and the blunt head of his cock sparking pleasure deep inside her.

“Fucking…hate you…” is all she managed, feeling the top of his canine break the skin just slightly. Her voice clung to that flat, stoic hatred, and she hated that it sounded as if she were about to fall apart.

If it were possible, he increased the intensity of his movements, pushing up into her mercilessly and drawing feminine, soft whines from her mouth. Sounds he wasn't even sure before his niece was capable of making.

“I adore your fire, sweet niece,” he muses lowly, tracing her jaw with his lips, “I adore how much you think you hate me.”

She does hate him, she tries to think. But every thought that appears is swiftly batted away by the incessant rhythm of his cock pistoning in and out of her, the depraved sounds betraying how she truly feels. An internal war Aemond can clearly see.

“Do you like this? Do you like how much I hate you? How much I want to hurt you?”

Yes.

A thought rung in her mind that she wanted him to hurt her more, so that she could just feel something from him aside from the way he stretched her walls around him so deliciously.

The soreness of his girth is something she had not expected to be a problem, a lapse of thought that she will no doubt be paying for the next morning.

But this, this was a core lapse of morals, surely. Allowing him to do this to her.

His fingers dug into the flesh of her thigh, as if pulling her to meet his cock halfway, feeling the way his body shuddered at the closeness of completion evident on his face.

Aemond grinned wolfishly, “You like this. We both know it.”

He thrusted into her so forcefully that she had no choice but to hold onto him, clinging to his leather-clad shoulder tightly when he met her fleshy end, her insides involuntarily squeezing around him in both pain and pleasure.

His hand came to her neck, clamping down experimentally on her windpipe, and groaning deeply at the way her cunt sucked him in as he did. Forcing her chin up so those traitorous blue eyes met his, he grinned.

Hateful little cunt.

Her peak crept up her spine first, feeling as if the sensation was melting her muscles where they sat inside her body. And then her lips parted in a soundless scream, pitifully moving her hips towards his to encourage the feeling to crest until it rushed out of her with a feeble whine, “uncle…”

Not only was the feeling of her quivering, velvety walls enough to convince him, but the way she called him that while he was so deep inside her, threatening for relief, was so erotic it did not feel depraved in the slightest.

But nothing was better than that wide-eyed, colourful expression of panic, distaste, hate and anxiety when he deliberately planted his seed inside of her. Aemond was sure there was no better feeling, bad intentions or no, her blood felt good on him, his teeth and cock alike.

All he could imagine was what dynasty could be created from such a house of revulsion. To watch this hateful little creature swell with his child, a true Targaryen. Only to put on the same stoic, flat expression which he knew was untrue when he'd fuck her again, and again, and again.

What flame flickered under that expression of hers, he wondered. What stone was hidden in the centre of her peachy, soft exterior. A heart, perhaps.

She didn't have to like it, this dance between them. But when he put her down and watched his spend trickle down her thighs, he would have her come to love it.

She existed for this. Whatever it was. He was sure of that.

“Well, little dragon,” he whispered, “the bastard daughter of a whore, with another growing within her?”

She swallowed around his hand as he tugged her face closer to his.

“Or burn with me.”

General Taglist: @aemondsfavouritebastard @bellstwd @blairfox04 @buckybarnesb-tch@castellomargot @hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @mochi-rose @natty2017 @nenelysian @randomdragonfires @risefallrise @thelittleswanao3 @theoneeyedprince @thetrueblackheart @tsujifreya @urmomsgirlfriend1 @valeskafics @valleyof-goldenlilies @virtualsweetsqueen @watercolorskyy

[kitkatscabinet]

an eye for an eye, a child for a child

Aemond Targaryen x fem reader

Summary: Lost to her rage and grief at the loss of her beloved Lucerys Rhaenyra orders the capture of Aemond's pregnant lady wife. Only to find that maybe the two women could come to understand each other more than she thought possible.

Word count: 2k

Warnings: idk characters and their shitty canon behaviour, birth

A/N: Blood and Cheese didn't kill Jahaerys and Rhaenyra was close with Helaena. First Aemond request baby! keep em coming. This turned into a somewhat of a feminist rant lol

Although the circumstances of your occupation on the island weren't pleasant, you could still admit to yourself that Dragonstone held a beauty you readily admired. Your husband had always described the place as incredibly droll and dreary which you could easily see. But truthfully you found it peaceful, beautiful in a way King's Landing could never be. Even if you were confined to your room with Rhaenyra your only point of contact.

Hopelessly alone, terrified of what the blacks had planned for you, you wondered if what you felt was even a fraction of Lucerys's terror when he had been forced to flee from your husband. Tears burned in the corners of your eyes as one of your hands came to rest upon your protruding belly. Lucerys had been a child, and as a soon-to-be mother yourself a large part of you couldn't begrudge Rhaenyra for taking you in an act of revenge.

The creak indicating the opening of the door to your makeshift prison interrupted your thoughts. Turning you were met with the sight of a haggard-looking Rhaenyra. Her hands were empty, causing you to tilt your head in confusion as you watched her cross the space to sit across from you.

Immediately you noticed the darkened bruise decorating her neck, a mark you had often seen left behind on Aegon's victims as they tearfully tried to scurry out of sight. You didn't speak, waiting for Rhaenyra to start, but you knew she had noticed your sympathetic look. Surprisingly, she didn't say anything, just continued to stare at you with a faraway look in her eyes.

"I know my words will offer you no comfort, but I truly am so sorry for your recent losses. I can't even imagine..." you trailed off, wincing as a sharp glare was thrown your way.

"No you cannot" Rhaenyra's voice is filled with all the fury of a mother that has just lost two children.

"I just... I wanted you to know that through all of this, that you had someone on your side" you replied, struggling to find the correct words to truly convey your meaning.

"My side? Your husband killed my son" she yelled, fists balling so tightly you worried she would draw blood.

"He didn't want to" you hoarsely whispered, "he lost control of Vhagar. He is a boy playing at a war he cannot possibly understand. It's a weak defence and doesn't nearly justify anything but... He lost himself to his rage. A rage that we all let fester for years with no consequence. So while my words mean nothing I still wanted you to know that I am sorry, that Aemond is sorry, even if his stupid Targaryen pride will never let him admit it."

"Sorry doesn't bring back my son!" Rhaenyra's chest was shaking with rage that was waylaid into tears. Slowly you raised yourself from your seat, stepping towards the mourning woman to gently bring her into your arms. To your surprise, she didn't fight your actions, instead snaking her arms around to clutch at your back as she finally allowed herself to sob.

"I never wanted any of this" she admitted against your chest, "I had hoped to find a peaceful solution, but now I fear that will be impossible." Her voice was so small, so fragile that it took you a few seconds to reconcile it with the strong woman you had admired for so long.

"We might still be able to," you said, dropping to your knees and taking her hands in your own. "I want Aegon on the throne as much as you do. Aemond doesn't want him either, and I know you and Helaena care for each other. Hells, Aegon himself doesn't want the throne" you rambled a small spark of hope filling you suddenly.

Seeing Rhaenyra begin to pull away from you, you hurried to try and rectify your position. "He tried to run away you know? Aegon. He was going to escape to Essos but Ser Criston found him first on Otto's orders. Please, reach out to Alicent, you loved her once, that must count for something!"

"How?" is all the Queen manages to choke out at your declaration, grief still colouring her features.

"Because I know Alicent still loves you, loves you the same as you loved her in your youth." Though you loved Aemond now, you had not always done so. And as such, you had spent a great amount of time with the Dowager Queen in the early months of your marriage. While all the men in your lives seemed to be blind fools, you were not.

"It was her father that poisoned her against you. A poison that festered due to her bitterness. The men in our lives could never understand how we feel, but you can. You, Alicent, me. We've all been burdened with the task of womanhood, scorned and dismissed on the whims of men."

"Then why? Why has she been so persistent in my torment, in the torment of my sons. I have sued for peace more times than I can count only to be rebuffed at every turn" she scoffed, pulling her hands from yours as she moved to pace around the small room.

"I can't speak wholly for Alicent's reasons" you admitted, taking a deep breath. "But truthfully, I think she was jealous. She never loved your father. Her father has manipulated and trampled on her for her entire life, her children all ignored by their father. She has given her whole to duty, done what was expected of her whilst you trampled all over yours. I cannot excuse all of her actions, but try to see her point of view. Try for the woman that still loves you very much."

Rhaenyra is silent for some time, but you can see your words have had an effect. When she finally does reply it is with a question that takes you by surprise.

"And you?"

"I'm sorry, I don't quite understand the question your Grace" you frowned.

"You counted yourself amongst the women scorned at the hands of men."

"I didn't always love my husband, but Aemond demanded my hand" you admit, the truth tasting incredibly sour on your tongue. "Although I love him dearly now, he sometimes makes it very hard to. I suspect you may feel the same." One of the Queen's hands reached up to absentmindedly caress the bruised skin of her neck at your words as she simply hummed in agreement.

A sigh leaves her lips as she turned to face you once more, "Daemon wanted to have Helaena's children killed. In retaliation for Lucerys," you are left reeling at the confession, bile working its way up your throat as you collapsed back into the chair.

"I wouldn't allow it, wouldn't allow sweet Helaena to undergo that sort of pain. But Daemon was persistent, so in order to save her I chose you as the target instead."

You are prevented from replying to her admission by the sudden rush of cramps in your lower belly and back, the pain drawing a gasp and catching Rhaenyra's attention. The woman was at your side immediately, eyes widened as she watched your waters break.

"Fuck!" you screamed, hunching over as a new wave of pain assaulted your body.

"Quickly" Rhaenyra called, pulling you up and supporting your weight as she led you from the room and out into the corridor. Your pained groans were quick to catch the attention of the servants and lords alike as Rhaenyra screamed for a maester.

Daemon, who had arrived to investigate the source of all the fuss was quick to stand in your way, "this is what we wanted" he hissed to his wife, glaring at you. Both you and Daemon are then taken aback by Rhaenyra's fierce reply

"No, this is what you wanted! I am the queen, and I'll have no more of your schemes now move!" There was a power in her voice that you could only admire with a gaping mouth before you were forced on the move again.

To your great surprise Rhaenyra refused to leave your side, only slipping out once when you had begged for your husband through tears.

It was nearing the end of the night, the pain had made it impossible to continue your pacing and as you lay sweating in the birthing bed there was only one though on your mind.

"Aemond. Where is Aemond?" you choked out through cries and gritted teeth, squeezing Rhaenyra's hand as another contraction rocked your body.

"He's on his way sweetling" she promised, "Jace will be leading him back very soon." You couldn't find the strength to reply, head falling back limply against the pile of pillows as you tried to tune out the pain. According to the midwife it was still not yet time to push and you weren't sure how much longer you could hold out.

So lost in the haze of pain as Rhaenyra dabbed at your forehead you didn't notice as the chamber doors were violently thrown open, your furious husband stalking in. His feet quickly came to a stop as his good eye was met with the horrific sight of your pain.

Where you hadn't noticed the interruption Rhaenyra had, and was quick to yell at her younger brother.

"My lord!" one of the maesters interjected in abject horror, "you must wait outside-" Aemond however, was having none of his nonsense and for a second Rhaenyra feared the man's mouth had just cost him his life. Another pained groan from you was his saving grace though, and in record time Aemond was at your side, taking your hand from his sisters'.

"I'm here love, I'm here" he assured, throwing a quick glare at his sister before turning back to attend to you.

"Aemond?" you opened your exhausted eyes, desperately hoping you weren't hallucinating. A sob of relief leaving you once you realised he was really in front of you.

"My lady, you must start to push" your reunion is cut short by the midwife.

"I can't" you sobbed, shaking your head in denial.

"You must!" she insisted, even as you continued to refuse.

"Please love, you must listen to the midwife" Aemond urged, wiping your hair back from your face as he squeezed your hand. Groaning you attempted to sit up, only to immediately fall back as your muscles refused to cooperate.

"Aemond I can't" you protested once more, tears blurring your vision. It is Rhaenyra that ultimately comes to your side.

"Yes you can sweet girl. You must, your Queen demands it so." Her words managed to get a slight laugh from you as you remove your hand from your husband's to clutch at hers once more. "Aemond, sit behind her and support her weight" she demanded, and to your great shock he moved to comply with a complaint.

The hours blur together as you lay with your back against your husband's sturdy chest, Rhaenyra clutching one of your hands in her own as you screamed in pain. You are sobbing and heaving but with the support of your family, you push through. And eventually, you are rewarded with a shrill cry.

Tears of relief pour from your eyes as you demand to hold your child. You hear the hitch in your husband's breath as both of you lay eyes on your child for the first time.

"A girl" you whisper, voice choking with love. Looking back at your husband you can only watch in adoration as his eye refuses to leave your little girl's face, his arms wrapping around you to stroke at the small tuft of white hair.

A silent consensus seemed to be reached for the inhabitants of the room in that moment. The war could wait, the crown could wait. For now you would simply bask in the wonder of new life.

Taglist (crosses indicate an unavailable tag): @targeryenmoony @thelittleswanao3 @thenovelcarnival @yourlittlehoe @chattylurker @etherily @psychwardsiren @mihrimahsultan03 @bbyaemond @krispold @hyperfixated-freak @eudximoniakr @deadstarkblacksoul @weepingwitchofthewest

[damneddamsy]

second sight | modern!cregan stark x fem!oc ONESHOT

a/n: on this exciting version of 'second sight', it's the modern day, folks! Phones, fast cars, college, apartments, tabloids, money! (@justdazzling - I LOVE YOU, thank you, little genius)

summary: Cregan Stark, old-money, a grounded hockey star on scholarship, and Claere Velaryon, the botany-loving black sheep of a powerful dynasty, share a secret romance that teeters on the edge of scandal. Between the clash of their worlds, a gilded gala, and looming chaos, love either blossoms—or explodes.

warnings: I write this from beyond the Tumblr grave. too much fluff can kill you and this fic is proof. mild smut 16+. language. alcohol.

words: 20,000+, 1 hr read (full-time job + sleepless nights = ?)

This was it.

Final period. Tie game.

One shot could win it, and the puck was his to take. With every second, that little flat cylinder started to appear as a bomb.

The air in the arena was electric, thick with the howl of the crowd and the sharp scrape of blades against ice. Cregan Stark crouched low at the centre of the rink, the number on his jersey stretching, his stick planted, grey eyes locked on the puck. Around him, his teammates circled like wolves closing in for the kill, their jerseys streaked with sweat and ice shavings.

He could feel the pulse of the game in his veins, as natural as breathing, as wild as his home. His ears tuned out the deafening cheers and jeers of the crowd, the taunts from the opposing team, and even the PA announcer hyping up the stakes. Everything narrowed to a razor-sharp focus on the puck and the players around him.

He caught a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye—a man in a sharp suit stepping into the bleachers, clipboard in hand, right behind his coach. That was him. The scout. He didn’t need to hear the whispers from the bench to confirm it. The guy had been making the rounds in the college leagues for weeks, cherry-picking talent for a shot at the pros.

And Cregan was under his microscope.

Not for the first time, he felt the significance of his family’s name burning a brand at the back of his neck. The Stark boy. He wasn’t here because he was a Stark; he was here because he had fought like hell, clawed his way in, and earned every inch on this rink through blood and sweat. His scholarship wasn’t a handout. His leadership wasn't for the welfare of his parents. It was proof that he belonged.

To his left, Jacaerys Velaryon skated up beside him, his usual cocky grin flashing behind his mouthguard. Jace was different—here on his mother’s dime, her political sway. Rhaenyra Targaryen was a storm in a blazer, a powerhouse who could buy her son the world. Not that Jace ever let anyone forget it.

"Feeling the pressure, Cap?" Jace said, just loud enough for Cregan to hear over the din.

Cregan didn’t look at him, keeping his gaze on the puck. “Yeah, you should feel it some time, Velaryon. Builds character.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Jace blow him a dramatic kiss, mouthguard and all. Cregan rolled his eyes.

Gods, it was impossible to hate the guy. Annoying as hell, sure, but Jace had turned out to be the kind of teammate Cregan couldn’t help but respect. A love-hate friendship: hate off the rink, love on it. When the chips were down, he was the first one in the fray, throwing elbows and taking hits like his life depended on it. More than that, he was someone Cregan could trust, on and off the ice. He could think of one, sweet thing Jace had shut the hell up about...

“Eyes on the puck, Romeo,” Cregan said, smirking as the ref blew the whistle.

The faceoff was clean. Cregan exploded into motion, stick snapping the puck toward the boards, his legs pumping with the rhythm of the game. He barked out orders to his wingers, cutting through the defense like they’d choreographed it in practice. The crowd surged to its feet as the opposing team scrambled to keep up.

“Jace! Far post!” he shouted, spotting the gap in the defence.

Jace was already there, skating into position like he’d read Cregan’s mind. A quick pass, a deflection, and the puck was back in Cregan’s control. He faked left, cutting around the defender, his body moving on instinct.

The goal was in sight.

He barely registered the crunch of skates behind him, but he heard Jace’s voice, sharp and clear. “Take it, Cap!”

Cregan planted his skates, leaned into the shot, and let it fly.

The puck sliced through the air like an arrow, slamming into the back of the net with a satisfying clang.

The arena erupted.

Cregan’s teammates swarmed him, whooping and pounding his back as the scoreboard flashed their victory like a glitching billboard. His name was a chant through the crowds, as he yanked off his helmet, sweat dripping into his eyes, and grinned like a madman. The praise, the noise, his name—this was his addiction. He ran a hand into his mussed hair; this was a victory, ten times over.

“Not bad, Stark,” Jace said, slapping his shoulder as they skated toward the bench.

“Coming from you? I’ll take it as a compliment,” Cregan shot back, ruffling Jace’s hair just to annoy him.

As they lined up to shake hands with the opposing team, Cregan glanced toward the stands. The scout was gone, but that didn’t matter. Tonight, he’d proved himself. To the crowd, to the team, and to the name Stark.

And maybe, just maybe, to himself.

X

The locker room was alive with noise—players laughing, hooting, the showers roaring in the background. The air was thick with the sharp tang of sweat, soap, and the lingering charge of victory. Cregan stood apart from the chaos, leaning against the cold metal of his locker. His towel hung low around his hips, and his focus was locked on the ivory card in his hand. The embossed letters shimmered under the fluorescent lights like they knew they were about to ruin his day.

“A charity gala invite,” he read aloud, voice flat, unimpressed.

Across the room, Jace was busy toweling off his hair. The ends of his grin peeked from beneath the towel, smug as hell.

“You’re welcome,” Jace said, his tone soaked in self-satisfaction.

Cregan squinted at him, holding the card like it might bite. “It’s not for me, is it?”

Jace shrugged, yanking off his shirt. “Technically, it’s a family thing.”

Cregan’s brow furrowed as suspicion settled in. “So, what—you’re trying to set me up with a scout?”

Jace snorted, tossing his towel into the laundry bin. “I'm not that nice. It’s just an invite.”

“To your family’s gala,” Cregan shot back, the card feeling heavier in his hand. “Where your dad’s gonna be. The one who made that Tyrell boy piss his trousers.”

Jace smirked as Cregan tossed the card into his bag. “Daemon. And, yeah, he’s gonna be there. That’s kind of the point.”

Cregan sighed, crushing a palm into his eye, already regretting where this was headed. “Gah, why me? Why can't you?”

“Because you’re the team captain,” Jace said, leaning casually against his locker. “You’re the guy who gets shit done. And, oh yeah." He tapped his chin, pretending to think. "You need him. Talk about sponsorships for the playoffs, Stark. You know, things that could keep our asses out of the red.”

Cregan let out a bitter laugh, dragging on a pair of pants. “Oh, I see. So I’m supposed to waltz in, make nice with your dad, and beg for his money? Like none of the hard work I’ve done to get here matters?”

“It’s not begging,” Jace said, rolling his eyes. “It’s strategy. And it’s not just for you—it’s for the team. C'mon, man. Play the game.”

Cregan scowled, staring at the card again. “I worked my ass off to get here. You really think I’m gonna throw that away by showing up to some—”

“Claere’s going to be there, too,” Jace said, cutting him off.

That stopped Cregan cold. His head snapped up, his wide-eyed stare meeting Jace’s infuriatingly smug grin. “Shut the fuck up.”

Jace took a step closer, lowering his voice just enough to make Cregan’s stomach tighten with dread. “Maybe you’d like to explain to Daemon why you’ve been sneaking around with his darling daughter?”

Cregan’s pulse kicked up. His eyes darted around the room, checking if anyone was listening. Most of the guys were too busy horsing around to pay attention, but he still stepped closer to Jace, his voice a harsh whisper. “Don’t even joke about that.”

“Oh, I’m dead serious,” Jace said, his grin widening. “You’re going out with my sister. Daemon’s dear daughter. So unless you want to make that public knowledge—”

“You’re such a dick,” Cregan muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Absolutely,” Jace said cheerfully. “But hey, I’m trying to help.”

Cregan tilted his head. “Sounds like you're threatening to out the one good thing in my life.”

“H-E-L-P.”

“Ah, what ironic last words.”

Jace chuckled. “You show up, be the good guy, make a solid impression on my dad, and maybe—just maybe—you don’t end up on his shitlist. Hell, you might even get that sponsorship. Everybody wins.”

Cregan stared at him, torn between strangling him and walking out the door. “Or maybe this just guarantees I’m on his shitlist for life.”

Jace shrugged. “Guess you’ll have to find out.” He smacked Cregan on the shoulder and turned toward the showers. “Clock’s ticking, Stark. Better get that new suit pressed.”

Cregan glared at Jace’s retreating back, his jaw tightening as his fingers curled around the stiff card. The edges dug into his palm, a sharp contrast to the suffocating load settling in his chest. Anger was easy to name—it simmered just under his skin, directed squarely at Jace’s smug, grinning face. Dread, too, made its home in the pit of his stomach, twisting with every thought of the Targaryens’ judging stares. But there was something else, something hotter and heavier that sat in his chest like a stone.

He hated how well Jace knew him, hated the way he could be backed into a corner with nothing more than a pointed nudge and a knowing smirk. Hated, even more, the flicker of anticipation threading through his frustration—the thought of Claere, her silver hair catching the light, her sharp wit softened only for him. It made his stomach churn and his heart beat just a little too fast.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, stuffing the invite into his bag like it might disappear if he just crumpled it hard enough. “You fuckin' owe me, Velaryon. Big time.”

The room felt too small, the laughter and banter of his teammates grating against his ears. He wanted to slam his locker door, but it wouldn’t help. Nothing would, not when he was stuck between two impossible choices: walking into that dragon's den of a gala or giving Jace the satisfaction of seeing him squirm.

From across the room, Jace’s voice echoed as he sauntered toward the showers. “You’re gonna thank me for this someday! Right on my mouth!”

Cregan flipped him the bird without turning around, his scowl deepening as the other guys burst into laughter.

He should’ve ripped the card in two. Should’ve tossed it in the trash and called it a day. But he didn’t. Instead, he zipped up his bag, the crisp corner of the invitation peeking out from between the seams. He slung the strap over his shoulder and headed for the door.

X

Secrets had a way of thriving in the dark, and tonight, Cregan Stark was stepping straight into the shadows of his own.

The greenhouse was like something out of a fairytale or nightmare, depending on the beholder—old, forgotten, swallowed by ivy and moss. Glass panels speckled with dirt softened the moonlight, casting the place in a hazy glow. Somewhere in the back, the faint sound of water dripped, rhythmic as a heartbeat. The air hung heavy with the scent of damp soil and blooming flowers, the kind of stillness that made it feel like the world outside didn’t exist.

Cregan stood just inside the glass doorway, gold medal in hand, his breath still uneven from the game. He should be out with his teammates, sharing victory beers and soaking in their roaring laughter. He should be walking into a party, medal clinking against his chest, grinning like he owned the world. Instead, he was here, surrounded by shadows and greenery, drawn by a force he couldn’t name but didn’t dare fight.

And there she was. Claere.

She sat hunched over a parapet slab near the back of the greenhouse, her silhouette framed by an unruly braid that escaped the tie meant to tame them. Her fingers moved deftly over a sketchbook, shading lines with the tip of a pencil, her rings catching the low light as her hand darted across the page. She hummed to herself, her head bobbing lightly, earphones tucked in. She hadn’t noticed him yet, completely absorbed in her work.

His heart twisted at the sight of her. Gods, this girl. She was every rumour, every ridiculous story spun about her by the campus vultures: the weirdo who talked to squirrels, who fed crows in the quad, who disappeared into forgotten corners like this greenhouse for hours on end. But to him, she was so much more. She was warmth and chaos, the perfect motley of sharp wit and shy smile. His enigma. His Claere.

He could barely believe his luck every time he laid eyes on this girl. He should be dragging her out of there, into his car, kissing her breathless in the parking lot where his teammates could see just how fortunate he was. Instead, he was standing here like she was some impermissible jewel. A dirty secret. Something precious, hidden, just for him.

Cregan shook his head and took a quiet step forward. Then another. He stopped just behind her, close enough to see the faint blue smudge of ink on her cheek, the way her lips pressed together in concentration. Without a word, he reached out and poked her waist.

Claere yelped, her legs jerking against the parapet. Papers and pencils flew everywhere, her phone clattering to the stone floor as she twisted around.

“Don’t do that!” she hissed, smacking his chest with a feeble fist.

Cregan laughed, catching her wrist before she could hit him again. “Couldn’t resist,” he said, leaning down to pepper dramatic, open-mouthed kisses along her cheeks and temple, one after another, until she gave up trying to squirm away.

“Cregan, enough,” she muttered, though her voice had softened, her hands busy gathering her scattered papers of botanical drawings. She was so good at it, weirdly good. He envied how detailed she was when it came to her diagrams.

He grinned against her temple and pulled back just enough to look at her.

“How did the game go?” she asked, pulling her notebook onto her lap and brushing a curl out of her face.

Wordlessly, he raised the gold medal before his winning smirk, letting it swing from his finger.

Her face lit up, that radiant smile of hers robbing him of a breath. It was one of those rare moments, a prize earned every time she graced that smile.

“Go Wolves,” she cheered, clapping her hands together before her gaze darted to the flowers nearby. Her eyes gleamed as she reached out, plucking a feathery blue orchid.

“Congratulations, my lord,” she said, presenting it to him with a dramatic little flourish.

Cregan laughed, twirling the orchid between his fingers. “Thank you, princess.” He winked, dropping his hockey stick and bag to the ground before climbing onto the parapet beside her.

On instinct, he nudged her papers, notebooks, and pencils aside and laid his head on his favourite spot in the world, letting out a long, contented sigh. The cool skim of her skirt and the warm scent of her combined was a balm, soothing every ache from the game.

“This,” he murmured, his eyes falling shut, “this is the best feeling in the world. Victory and you.”

Claere smiled down at him, her hand finding its way to his hair, fingers threading gently through the strands, scratching at his scalp.

“You look tired,” she said softly, full of affection. The sound of music itself.

He caught her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing her palm. “Not anymore.”

For a moment, there was only silence, the kind that made the world shrink to just the two of them. But even in this moment of calm, Cregan’s thoughts tugged at the edges of his peace. He thought about the whispers that followed her everywhere. He thought about Daemon, her father, and what he’d do if he found out.

But mostly, he thought about how none of it mattered. Not when she smiled at him like that. Not when he was in love with the campus, but moreover the city's so-called weirdo.

Claere leaned down, her lips grazing his forehead, soft and warm, the kind of touch that lingered even after it was gone. “You’re not going to tell me how many goals you scored, are you?”

Her voice, light as spun silk, carried an almost playful accusation, and Cregan couldn’t stop the smirk from curling on his lips.

“Only if you promise not to fall even more in love with me,” he teased.

Her laughter that followed was like a bell, ringing and airy, and when he opened his eyes, there she was again. Alarmingly violet eyes framed by lashes that cast soft shadows against her pale skin. Her silver hair tumbled around her ears and forehead, catching faint glimmers of moonlight filtering through the greenhouse glass. She was this arcane entity, spun from the fabric of a half-forgotten dream, so far removed from mundane that it made people uneasy.

This exotic little thing. Put there, it seemed, just to spite the ordinary.

“Jace asked me to drop by at the gala this weekend,” he murmured, letting the words fall softly between them like a test.

Her fingers paused mid-stroke in his hair, the stillness giving way to a small, almost imperceptible exhale. “Oh.” Her lips parted briefly, pressing together in thought before she nodded, the gesture light but resolute. “I’ll stay back then. You should have fun.”

“You don't have to do that, baby,” he murmured, guilt pooling in his chest. He hated this with all his heart, hated that he was making her feel worthless.

She scrunched her nose in that way she always did when he called her that, like it embarrassed her and pleased her all at once. “I never wanted to be there anyway,” she dismissed, though her eyes gave away more.

“It’s for the team,” he admitted, holding her gaze. “Daemon’s support could mean playoffs. And Jace…” He trailed off, frustration simmering beneath the surface.

“You don’t need to explain, Cregan. This must be hard enough for you,” she said gently, her lips curving into a small, knowing smile. “ I can’t imagine what sort of nonsense my brother pulled to make you go.”

“For one, he lacks imagination,” Cregan muttered, a dry laugh escaping him.

Her laughter joined his, light and melodic, but it faded just as quickly, a small smile tugging at her lips. “You’re the one who wanted to tell him.”

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face in despair. “You can break my jaw for that, really. What was I thinking?” But he knew the answer. He needed someone who had their back—both of them—if things went wrong.

Her fingers resumed their slow, soothing path, sliding down the slope of his nose, and it was almost enough to coax his eyelids shut. Almost.

“How long do we…” she trailed off, her voice dipping into a murmur.

“Claere,” he started, his voice gentle but firm, and her name tasted sacred on his tongue.

“It’s fine,” she answered quickly, brushing off the hesitation with a smile that refused to reach her eyes.

He sat up slightly, the sorrow behind her words tugging at his chest. “You know why,” he said, his voice low, almost pleading. “Just until I’m done. A few more months, we're almost there. Then we can do whatever you want. Hell, we can stage a whole make-out session outside the rink. Kiss before a thousand cameras. You can even put my nudes on a T-shirt. Let the whole world know I'm all yours.”

Her palm pressed against his chest, her touch so steady it was almost enough to convince him. Almost. “I'm just tired of pretending like we don't exist,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.

His hand found hers, pulling it to his lips. “You know it kills me too, right?” he whispered against her skin, an edge of desperation slipping through.

“I know, I know,” she mumbled, her lips twitching into a rueful smile.

Her violet eyes softened, and for a moment, they stayed like that—caught in each other’s orbit, as if the world outside didn’t exist.

“You worked so hard to get here,” she said finally, her voice trembling just slightly. “Me and my family name cannot be the reason anyone questions that.”

“You’re not,” he said fiercely, his eyes locked on hers. “You’re the reason I get through it.”

She exhaled, her fingers brushing against his cheek. “Then don’t make me wait too long, Stark,” she murmured, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “I’m not a patient girl.”

He couldn’t help the grin that broke across his face, a lopsided thing she always teased him about. “I’ll make it worth it,” he promised, and he meant it. Every word.

“You better,” she replied, her tone playful but laced with that steady, quiet assurance she always carried.

And then, with a swift motion, she shoved his head off her lap, laughing softly as he sprawled onto the greenhouse floor. “Come on,” she said, already searching for the greenhouse keys in the mess of notebooks and pencils scattered around her. “It’s getting late.”

Cregan groaned, propping himself up on one elbow. “You could at least kiss me for bringing home hardware,” he complained, watching her stack up her papers and zip up her sling bag.

“I already kissed you, and you’re not helping,” she retorted, her tone half-scolding, half-amused. He groaned with exaggerated effort as he rose up on his feet, cracking the tension on his shoulders.

“Not true,” he argued as he walked over to her, looping his arms around her waist as she tried to pull away. “I’m providing all the moral support.”

She huffed but didn’t resist when he pressed a lingering kiss to the curve of her neck, his lips brushing against her skin in a way that made her pause mid-zip.

“Cregan,” she murmured, though it lacked any real bite.

“Baby?” he asked, his voice muffled as he trailed more kisses along her shoulder, content to bury himself in her warmth.

“Don't call me that. Let me go,” she said, twisting around to face him, though the small smile tugging at her lips betrayed her sternness.

“Never,” he replied simply, his mischievous eyes gleaming as he tightened his grip for a moment before finally releasing her.

Claere shook her head, muttering something about sportsmen and their stubbornness, but the pink in her cheeks betrayed her. Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she led the way out of the greenhouse. Her steps were light, but her shoulders were tense, as though she knew what was coming next.

They walked hand in hand, their fingers entwined, their conversation bubbling with the kind of playful ease that felt too private for the quiet campus night. Cregan exaggeratedly held the greenhouse door open for her as she locked up, bowing like an old-fashioned knight.

“After you, my lady,” he said, his grin boyish and crooked.

She rolled her eyes, though the corners of her mouth twitched upward. “Oh, such chivalry,” she muttered, but the teasing lilt in her voice made his grin widen.

Outside, the dim campus lights caught the sleek white of her electric Vespa. The thing gleamed as if it were her proudest possession, standing defiant against a world of roaring engines and gleaming sports cars. She clipped on her helmet, the scuffed and slightly dented thing perched atop her silvery hair like some bizarre crown. She'd even named her noble, janky steed—Luna.

“You know,” Cregan began, leaning lazily against his truck just behind her, “in a world of racecars and motorbikes, you ride this thing. It’s like a moving punchline.”

“Luna saves the environment, you disrespecting neanderthal,” she shot back without missing a beat, her tone so matter-of-fact he burst out laughing.

“And you never learned to drive a car,” he teased, his grin taking on a mischievous edge.

Her violet eyes narrowed at him, but before she could counter, he was already in front of her. His hand caught hers, pulling her close, his arm circling her waist with a practised ease that made her breath hitch.

“Cregan,” she warned, her voice low, but her wide, startled eyes darted around. “We’re still on campus.”

“It's too late for anyone to hang about,” he murmured, his voice soft but rough around the edges, filled with something she couldn’t name but always felt in her bones. “Kiss me. Make it big.”

She scoffed, her cheeks flaming. “Unbelievable,” she muttered, her palm pressed against his chest as if to hold him back, but the pressure was light, hesitant.

“Please, you like me unbelievable,” he countered, his grin tilting into something downright sinful as he leaned in again, trying to capture her lips.

This time, her helmet came between them with a soft, comedic thud, and she stepped back, shaking her head with an excessive sigh. “See you later,” she said, her voice airy as she mounted the Vespa, flipping the visor down with an air of finality.

He stepped back, arms spread, watching her like the lovestruck fool he was as she revved the little engine to life.

“I love you!” he hollered after her, his voice ringing out over the hum of her Vespa.

Her hands froze on the handlebars, and she turned, her cheeks redder than ever, her expression somewhere between scandalized and flustered.

“I thought you said low-key!”

“I said I love you, Claere!” he repeated, louder this time, laughter bubbling out of him.

“Shh!” she hissed, her violet eyes darting around like she expected the entire student body to emerge from the shadows.

He waved her off with a theatrical air kiss, his smile wide and utterly unshakable as her Vespa’s hum faded into the quiet of the night. For a moment, he just stood there, watching the tail light grow smaller and smaller until it vanished entirely.

Leaning back against his truck, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, the grin still tugging at his lips. It wasn’t just the way she made him laugh or the way she said his name like it was her favourite secret. It was everything—her quirks, her sharp tongue, her fierce independence wrapped up in a frame so delicate he sometimes felt like just touching her would leave a mark.

Yeah, he was a goner. Completely and utterly.

And for her? For the girl who rode a funny scooter like it was a chariot, the girl who made the world feel small and vast all at once? He’d fall over and over again. And not regret a single fucking thing.

X

The lecture theatre was stifling. Not because it was warm—the air conditioning hummed overhead, doing its job—but because Cregan could think of a hundred better places to be than in this impractical "Philosophy of Human Civilization" module. Yes, because business administration called for the incredible knowledge of metaphysics.

He slouched in his seat, one leg stretched out beneath the fold-up desk, his pen twirling aimlessly between his fingers. The professor’s droning voice blended into white noise, accompanied by the faint clatter of keyboards and the occasional rustle of papers. The only reason he was putting up with this shit was that it was the only class Claere and he shared together. Who—surprise, surprise—was running late.

Cregan’s mind wandered. There was the game footage he still needed to review. A term paper he'd barely started. The extra drills Coach had suggested for tomorrow. And Claere. Always Claere. What was she doing right now? Probably something strange—like drawing the new dandelions around the quad. Or finding another crow to befriend. He smirked to himself, the thought warming him, even as he toyed with the pen between his knuckles.

And then it happened. The door at the base of the lecture theatre burst open, and all the simmering thoughts in his head vanished.

Claere Velaryon rushed in like a summer storm. The clicking of her sandals echoed off the walls as heads turned, the low hum of the room snapping into silence. Her long, thin brown dress clung to her frame as if she'd run halfway across campus, the loose sleeves slipping scandalously down her shoulders. She was red-faced, her silver hair a wild, untamed halo around her, strands sticking to her flushed skin. She clutched a tote bag like it might tumble out of her hands at any moment, panting as if she'd just completed a marathon.

Cregan straightened in his seat, pen forgotten in his palm.

Gods, she was a mess. A beautiful, heart-wrenching, completely irresistible mess.

The whispers started immediately. Of course, they did. This was Claere. She could walk into a room and turn every head, for better or worse. Cregan could already hear the vicious murmurs—the snide comments about her tardiness, her flushed cheeks, her dishevelled hair. He clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to glare at everyone around him.

“Miss Velaryon,” the professor’s voice cut through the tension, dry and unimpressed. “Late as usual. Do I even bother to ask for—”

“I’m sorry,” Claere gasped, her voice trembling but polite as ever. She clutched her tote tighter, her eyes darting to the professor. “I—I lost track of time.”

The professor sighed heavily, clearly debating whether to continue chastising her. Thankfully, he waved her off with an irritated gesture. “Sit down. I've got much to cover.”

Cregan watched as she nodded quickly, eyes wide, before hurrying up the steps. She climbed the rows with an elegance no one seemed to notice, her dress swaying with each step. Their eyes met for a fleeting second—just a heartbeat—but it was enough to send a jolt through him. Then she slipped into an empty seat a few rows ahead of him, pulling out her laptop in a flurry of quiet, frantic movements.

He fished out his phone from his pocket, sliding it under the desk deftly. His fingers flew across the screen.

Good morning, sunshine. That dress is tempting fate with me. Feeling okay?

She didn’t look at her phone, too busy digging through her bag. He frowned and texted again.

Hey. Overworked already?

Still nothing. Her computer whirred to life, and she tapped furiously at the keys. Cregan’s fingers hovered over his phone, his frustration bubbling over.

Baby.

Right behind you.

Answer me.

CLAERE.

The fourth ding caught her attention—and the professor’s.

“Miss Velaryon,” the man snapped, his irritation palpable. “I trust you can figure out how to silence your phone without further disrupting the class?”

“Sorry.” Claere’s cheeks burned as she scrambled to mute it, shooting a disconcerted glance around the room. The whispers flared up again, though most students had their eyes glued to the professor.

Cregan smothered a laugh, setting his phone face down on his desk. He stared at the back of her head, watching how her hair cascaded past her elbows, still slightly mussed from her rush. He wanted to close the distance, to sit beside her, to hold her hand, give her a sip from his water bottle, and dab away her sweat.

But he stayed put, grinding his teeth, the itch to be near her gnawing at him.

The lecture dragged on, and Cregan’s focus was entirely on her. It wasn’t fair, he thought, the way her presence could pull him out of his own head so completely. He couldn’t stop watching her—the delicate tilt of her head, the way her fingers flew over her keyboard, the little sigh she let out when she finally settled. He wanted to reach out, touch her, reassure her. He wanted—

A spark of mischief lit in his chest. He slid his phone back into his hand, shielding the screen between his chest.

Turn around if you love me.

He hit send, his smirk growing as he propped his elbow on the desk, feigning disinterest. He ran a hand over his face, trying to rub away the grin threatening to split his face.

Claere glanced at her phone, lips parting in alarm. She barely turned, eyes peeking through the curtain of her hair, shooting him a look that was equal parts caution and exasperation.

Cregan met her gaze with an unabashed wink, biting back a laugh. Her eyes narrowed, and her fingers tightened on the edge of her laptop, but she didn’t reply. Instead, she whipped her head back around and refocused on the presentation slides ahead.

Up ahead, Claere’s phone buzzed once, then again. She glanced at it, her lips parting in alarm as her shoulders stiffened. Her fingers twitched on the keyboard, clearly debating whether to check it. She gave in, the faint glow of the screen illuminating her frown.

Cregan had already sent a follow-up.

Panting into class like that. What’d you do, chase another mouse?

She rolled her eyes, typing a quick response.

Good morning, Cregan. I dropped Viserys off at school because he wanted to ride the scooter with me instead of the car. Now, please focus on class.

Undeterred, he sent another.

Oh, so, your little brother gets a free ticket, but I'm considered too big. Where's the justice?

When she didn't bother to respond, he scowled at her head and typed again.

You didn’t even look at me before. I love you so much that I shampooed my hair, especially for you.

Her phone buzzed audibly, and her head shot up, violet eyes darting around the room. When no one seemed to notice, she let out a small breath and typed furiously.

I will throw this phone at you, Cregan. Stop distracting me.

Cregan grinned at her threat.

With your aim, you might just get the professor instead.

He saw her shake her head, obviously masking a smile. Gods, how he wished he could see it. He leaned forward and typed.

Turn around before I come down there.

That one must have hit a nerve, because her shoulders straightened, and her fingers paused mid-hover over her keyboard. Slowly, she turned her head just enough to shoot him a glare that could've melted steel, her silver hair framing her face like a storm cloud.

He touched his chest, impersonating a broken heart. You're killing me, baby, he wanted to say. A side of her twitched up before it smoothed back into the same glare.

He tipped his chin to his phone, gesturing at her to text. She rolled her eyes and retrieved her phone, beginning to type again.

I love you very much. Could you shut up?

Time stopped. The grip on his phone tightened, heart racing. He looked both ways, seeing if someone caught sight of the irredeemably giant smile on his face. He typed through trembling fingers.

That's more like it. You chose a dress for tomorrow? May I kindly suggest red? Very short? Easy access and all. Also, stockings.

He saw her pause before she began typing again.

I'm not coming. Let's not risk it.

He nearly stood off his seat in irritation. Instead, he typed so hard, that he feared denting the screen.

We aren't risking shit. You're coming, Claere. I will throw you over my shoulder and lug you there if I have to.

When she didn't type back, he sighed and then followed up calmly. This had to work.

Please come, baby? For me? Please.

She turned around, sneaking a look at him again, thinking for a long moment. She gave him an infinitesimal nod before shifting away. He controlled every urge that made him want to punch the air in victory.

He puckered his lips, blowing a small kiss to the back of her head, thoroughly pleased with himself, but the professor’s sharp voice cut through the moment.

“Stark.”

Cregan straightened in his seat, leisurely lifting his gaze to the dais in the front of the room. The professor’s eyes were fixed on him, brows raised in expectation.

“Perhaps you’d like to share with the class what's so interesting on your phone or how Plato’s Allegory of the Cave applies to modern societal hierarchies?”

A ripple of amused murmurs spread through the lecture hall. Claere’s shoulders went rigid, and she sank lower in her seat, clearly praying she could disappear into the floor.

Cregan, however, leaned back with an air of calm confidence, resting one arm along the back of his chair. He could handle a little heat.

“I'll take option two,” he drawled, his tone smooth, “it’s about perception versus reality, isn’t it? How people are trapped by their limited perspectives, thinking shadows are the truth when there’s a whole world they’re not seeing.” He let the words hang for a moment, then added with a lazy grin, “Kind of like how people in this class assume they know everything about others when they really don’t have a single clue.”

The murmurs turned into a few low laughs, though the professor’s unimpressed glare remained.

“That’s… a creative interpretation,” the professor replied, his tone clipped. “Perhaps next time, you could demonstrate your engagement by listening, rather than texting.”

The class chuckled again, and Cregan shrugged nonchalantly.

“Noted,” he said, flashing a quick, disarming smile.

The professor sighed and returned to the lecture, but Cregan could feel Claere’s mortified glare burning between his head. He glanced down at his phone, considering sending her another message, but thought better of it.

Instead, he settled back in his seat, smug and unbothered, stealing one last glance at the silver hair a few rows ahead of him. Definitely pushing his luck.

The low hum of the lecture was interrupted by a series of sporadic buzzes and chimes from phones around the room. At first, Cregan ignored them, tapping his pen idly against his notebook, his mind wandering back to Claere. But when the faint murmurs started—those hushed, vindictive whispers that only grew louder—his focus sharpened.

Furrowing his brows, he slipped his phone from the desk, angling it over his thigh. One notification stood out in bold:

Breaking: Rhaenyra Targaryen Sparks Debate as "Unfit Parent" in These Latest Photos.

His stomach dropped. He clicked on it, and there it was—Claere.

The image was grainy, clearly taken from across the street, invasive but unmistakable: Claere leaning down to kiss little Viserys on the cheek from her scooter, waving as he ran toward the school doors. The headline was grotesque, spinning the scene into some damning evidence against her mother.

Cregan clenched his jaw, swiping at the screen to close the article. The pit in his stomach wasn’t just anger; it was fear. This—this circus—was what waited for Claere at every corner. They didn’t care about her life, her compassion, her unfailing talent. All they saw was scandal, drama, and an easy target. And if their relationship ever got out?

His chest tightened. He could take the scrutiny. They could call him a joke, a flash-in-the-pan athlete, whatever they wanted. But Claere? They’d shred her apart, drag her name through the mud, and no matter how much she pretended she didn’t care, he knew it would crush her.

He glanced up at her. She sat a few rows ahead, her back stiff, head bowed low, silver hair falling in curtains around her face. One hand was curled around the edge of her desk, the other fidgeting at her neck, rubbing the skin like she was trying to soothe herself.

Cregan’s fingers hovered over his phone for a second before he typed out a quick text.

Ignore them. It's not worth your time.

Her phone buzzed on her desk, and he saw her shoulders tense. She glanced at it briefly but didn’t respond. He frowned, tapping out another.

You're incredible, Claere. Viserys is lucky to have you.

Still nothing. She didn’t even look this time, just kept her head down, pretending to take notes.

Cregan sighed, setting his phone face down on his desk. His frustration wasn’t with her—it never was. It was with the world they lived in, the world that refused to leave her alone.

He glanced at her again, biting the inside of his cheek. She looked so small, so... tired. He couldn’t fix this, couldn’t shield her from all of it, but maybe he could remind her of one thing: she wasn’t alone.

He picked up his phone again, typing deliberately.

Rink tonight ;) After practice? I love you.

The response came quickly this time.

Okay.

He allowed himself a small smile, relief flooding his chest. His fingers itched to send something else—something cheeky, playful—but he stopped himself. For now, that one word was enough. Cregan leaned back in his seat, ignoring the professor’s droning voice, ignoring the whispers still circulating the room. His eyes lingered on the silver head a few rows ahead of him.

She'll be okay. He'll make sure of it.

X

The ice rink was silent now, save for the scrape of Cregan’s skates and the dull thwack of his stick against the puck. The overhead lights cast an icy glow on the smooth, untouched surface, the air was crisp and faintly metallic. One by one, the last of his teammates had filtered out, offering casual goodbyes that he barely registered, too focused on the rhythm of his movements.

He practised shooting goals, each slap of the puck echoing in the empty space. One. Two. Three. Each strike was sharp and precise, but his focus wavered as the minutes ticked by. He glanced at the clock mounted on the far wall. Twenty minutes late. Was she even coming?

He tried not to let the disappointment settle in. She’d been off all day—he’d noticed it in the way she fidgeted, her avoidance of his texts during class, and the weariness in her posture. Maybe she needed space. Or maybe…

No. He didn’t let himself finish the thought.

Just as he bent down to retrieve the puck again, the sound of the swinging doors creaking open cut through the silence. He straightened, his breath catching as he turned toward the sound.

There she was. Of course, she'd never disappoint him.

Through the plexiglass, he caught sight of Claere, her silhouette bright and out of place against the stark white of the rink. Her bag hung lazily over her shoulder, bracelets and sandals jangling as she made her way to him. She moved with an easy grace, that grin he loved lighting up her face as she spotted him. She leapt over the players' bench with a playful bounce, landing softly and leaning casually against the barricade.

“You finally made it,” he called, skating toward her, his voice teasing. “Thought you forgot about me.”

Her grin widened, and she propped her chin on her hand, her violet eyes sparkling. “You can hunt me down if I ever do. I was caught up in labwork.”

He laughed, pulling out his mouthguard and letting it dangle from his fingers. “You're never that hard to find.”

She tilted her head toward the doors, thumbing the direction. “What’s Jace doing out there? Don't you usually lock the front door?”

Cregan shrugged, smirking as he glided closer to the plexiglass, wishing it wasn’t in the way. “Your shitty brother owed me.”

Claere’s giggle was like a bell, light and melodic. “So he’s chaperoning us now?”

“Standing guard,” he corrected, his grin sharp. “Until I say we’re done. Son a bitch deserves it.”

She threw her head back in a full laugh, the kind that made her whole body move. “Our personal bouncer, huh?”

Cregan had threatened to dump estrogen into his daily intake of protein shakes one way or another following his lousy uptake to make him come to the gala. He was getting his revenge and this was the perfect out. Cut to Jacaerys, sitting on the curb outside the rink, grateful it wasn't the winter time. A cigarette dangled between his fingers, smoke curling lazily into the air. He flicked ash onto the pavement and leaned back, whistling at a couple of students who wandered too close.

“Oi! It’s closed, lads!” he called, waving them off with farfetched authority. “Run along, nothing to see here!”

One of them raised a brow but turned around with a shrug, clearly not in the mood to argue. Jace smirked, taking another drag.

“What a racket,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. ��Little asshole.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the rink doors, his whistle turning into a lazy hum. The things he did for his little sister and her lovesick puppy.

Inside the enclosure, Cregan skated off the rink with a dexterity that came with years of practice, his blades cutting a sharp curve across the ice as he made his way to where Claere leaned against the barrier. Her arms were crossed, her nose red from the cold, but she still managed to look every bit like the faerie she was, completely out of place and somehow owning it anyway.

“Your turn,” he said, tugging her bag from her shoulder and setting it down. He pulled out a pair of skates from under the bench, holding them up like an offering.

She groaned, already shaking her head. “No way. It’s freezing, and I’m not wearing pants.”

He crouched in front of her, tapping the skates against the ice. “Freezing? You live in cardigans, baby. Come on, the ice is lonely without you. Lace up.”

Her protest was half-hearted, and within minutes, he’d coaxed her into the skates, inching them up her feet himself. She sat on the bench, her dress pooling around her knees, muttering complaints, pushing at his shoulders as she tied the laces.

“Do you always bully girls into skating?” she asked, huffing.

“Only you,” he replied, grinning. He stood and held out a hand, steadying her as she wobbled on the thin blades. “Let's go, chief. Just skate it all off.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was a smile tugging at her lips as she stepped onto the rink. It took a few hesitant glides before she found her balance, her movements rusty yet elegant.

Cregan hung back, leaning lazily against the barrier, his weight on one skate as he watched her begin to move more freely across the ice. Her arms swung naturally at her sides, the fabric of her skirt flaring with each gliding step. She spun slowly, deliberately, as though caught in the rhythm of some invisible melody, her hair catching the rink’s cool light like strands of molten silver.

She'd always found a way to draw him in, mesmerize him. Cregan felt his chest swell, warmth spreading despite the rink’s chill. There was something magnetic about the way she moved—not perfect, not trained, but alive and so unmistakably her. It was like she carried her own song wherever she went, a tune only she could hear.

Then she waved, breaking his trance. He blinked, startled, caught like a deer in headlights.

“You coming, or are you just going to stare all night?” she called, her voice carrying a teasing lilt.

He chuckled, pushing off the wall with ease, his movements smooth and rehearsed. He skated toward her, the faint sound of his blades slicing through the ice contrasting with her lighter, more playful strides. She stood waiting for him, hands on her hips, her smirk laced with challenges.

“Can I help you practice?” she asked, tilting her head, her hair falling like a curtain over one shoulder.

He shook his head, smirking. “What might you do for me, Claere?”

She tapped her chin, feigning deep thought. “Hmm... I can throw the puck?”

“Oh, excellent,” he replied, biting back a laugh. “What do you think I do on this rink besides 'throwing the puck'?”

She ticked off her fingers, her expression deadpan. “Elbow poor guys. Score goals. Make pretty girls flash you.”

Cregan snorted. “Not wrong,” he admitted, grinning wide.

Not moments later, a tenacious Claere stood at the net, a pair of oversized goalie gloves engulfing her hands and a spare hockey stick. She looked absolutely foolish—and yet, she carried herself with all the determination of someone about to win a championship. And gods, did she look fucking hot.

“I’m ready,” she declared, crouching low.

“You sure about this?” Cregan called a few metres across from her, his puck resting against the blade of his stick.

“Bring it on, Stark,” she challenged, knocking her gloved hands together like a boxer.

He smirked, took a few strides back, and lined up his shot. The puck zipped toward the net with a controlled flick of his wrist. Claere lunged—if you could call it that—sprawling onto the ice in a dramatic heap, her hockey stick missing the puck by a mile as it hit the post.

“Damn it,” she groused under her breath, shuffling awkwardly on all fours to retrieve the puck. “Go again.”

Cregan was bent over laughing, barely able to stay upright on his skates. “Baby, you didn’t even come close!”

She scowled at him, but there was no hiding the smile tugging at her lips. “You’re supposed to be coaching me, not laughing at me!”

He skated over, crouching beside her to help her up onto her feet. She skidded a little, and he caught her waist to steady her. “You’re hopeless,” he teased, brushing the dusting of snow off her skirt. “But sure, let’s try again.”

Many a failed tries, many bruises and complaints later, Cregan rested his stick between his knees, barely breaking a sweat, grinning down at Claere as she shuffled awkwardly back into position at the net, her oversized gloves flopping like the paws of some defeated cartoon character. The sight of her, sweating, sleeves slumping, so determined despite her absolute lack of technique, had him smiling ear to ear.

“You really think you’ve got this, don’t you? You don't even have knee pads,” he teased, his voice rich with amusement.

Claere narrowed her eyes, her lips pulling into a stubborn pout. “I know I’ve got this,” she shot back, her tone defiant despite the fact she’d barely managed to touch the puck all night.

He cocked his head, an idea forming, his grin sharpening with mischief. “Alright, let’s make this interesting,” he said, skating a slow circle around her. His voice dipped low, teasing. “You block one goal, just one, and you can sit out the gala.”

Her eyes widened, and her head snapped up, following him as he circled her. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” he replied, stopping in front of her and leaning on his stick like it was a crutch. “One clean block. No cheating.”

Claere’s brows furrowed in thought before her smirk returned, victorious before the battle even began. “Deal,” she said, pointing a glove at him. “If you lose, I can use this as my trump card and say that I'm better than you at this.”

“Oh, don’t worry, baby,” he said, his voice low, deliberately playful. “I'm never going to let that happen. But if you lose...” He skated closer, so close their breath mingled in the cold air. “You’re coming back home with me after the gala, and you better be wearing red.”

Her smirk faltered, just barely, and Cregan caught the flicker of hesitation in her eyes. But she straightened, squaring her shoulders like she was heading into a war. “Fine. You’re going to rue this day.”

He chuckled, skating backwards and giving her space. “We’ll see about that.”

After that, it was game time. He let the first few shots skim past her, fast but not too fast, watching her dive, stretch, groan, whine and lunge in increasingly absurd ways, forgetting she even had a stick to block it. He didn't have to try, she was terrible at this. The puck hit the back of the net every time, but her determination was relentless, her lips pressed tight as she shuffled back into place after every failure.

On the fourth attempt, she swiped too early, sprawling onto her back with a dramatic groan. Cregan skated over, crouching beside her and offering her a hand. “You okay down there, champ?”

“Shut up,” she muttered, glaring up at him as she took his hand. But her cheeks were pink, and not just from the cold.

He pulled her to her feet effortlessly, his hands sliding to her waist to steady her. She pushed the hair out of her face, blowing a breath into the curls over her forehead.

“You’re making it too easy for me,” he said, his voice dropping into a low murmur.

Her breath hitched, just for a second, her hands landing on his chest to balance herself. “Maybe I’m lulling you into a false sense of security,” she quipped, her voice softer now.

“Mm, is that it?” He let his fingers linger, brushing against the fabric of her dress before he finally stepped back, grinning. “Alright, let’s see your dumb strategy in action.”

Honestly, he should've given up trying to smack the puck and just hit it with his foot. By the sixth attempt, Claere was all but crawling across the ice, clumsily batting at the puck as it glided lazily toward the goal. She managed to stop it—barely—her triumphant shout ringing out as she waved her arms in victory.

“Oh, I did it! I caught it!” she celebrated, her grin splitting her face.

Cregan skated over, stopping just short of her, shaking his head in mock disbelief. He clucked his tongue in disapproval.

“That doesn’t count,” he said. “You didn’t stop it clean.”

“It does count,” she argued, more in desperation than anger, jabbing her glove at his chest.

“Nope,” he said, popping his lips. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping. “But I’ll give you one more shot. One last chance. Otherwise, I win.”

She swallowed hard, her breath hitching again as his hand found her waist, steadying her. “Fine,” she whispered, her bravado cracking just a little.

He let her go, giving her space as he lined up his final shot. He skated forward, slow and deliberate, the puck gliding along with him. Her focus was unwavering, her determination fierce. He sent the puck toward the net—not too fast, not too slow.

Claere lunged, stick outstretched—and miraculously, it stopped just short of the line.

Her triumphant laugh filled the rink as she scrambled to her feet, throwing her gloves into the air like confetti.

“I did it!” she squealed, spinning in place. “Ha, ha! I’m free!”

Cregan skated over, catching her by the waist mid-spin and lifting her off the ice. “You’re still coming tomorrow,” he murmured, his breath warm against her ear.

“Deal’s a deal,” she laughed, leaning into him.

“Unfortunately for you, I don't give a shit,” he said, his voice low and soft.

Claere leaned into him, her laughter softening into something gentler. “I know you let me win,” she accused, her violet eyes narrowing as she looked up at him.

“Maybe,” he admitted, his grin turning sly. “But only because I’m nice like that.”

Her response was a roll of her eyes, but the playful tilt of her lips betrayed her. “Nice doesn't involve having your girlfriend pant after you like that.”

“I like you panting.” He winked.

Before she could retort, he moved. A sudden shift of his weight sent them tumbling onto the ice, Cregan's hand protectively going around her head and back, Claere yelping as he pinned her beneath him, careful to keep his skates and hers positioned safely.

“Victory tackle?” he declared, smug, straddling her as she wriggled beneath him.

“Cregan!” she hissed, her cheeks flushed from the cold—or maybe from being caught so off guard. “Get off me! It's freezing!”

“Here, I'll keep you warm,” he said, his grin softening as he leaned in. His lips grazed her cheek, then the tip of her nose, lingering as though the moment might slip away if he let it.

Claere stilled beneath him, her breaths coming slow and even, her gaze locked on his. Her hands lifted, her cold fingers finding the nape of his neck, slipping into his hair. The chill of her touch made him shiver, but it wasn’t unwelcome. It was his anchor.

He exhaled, letting his forehead rest against hers, closing his eyes briefly as her fingers tangled deeper into his hair. God, this was everything—she was everything. He didn't care that his arm was going numb from bearing his weight up and the freezing ice. His lips found hers, urging them apart, vying for more, too starved, a little too much until his head spun and his breaths came up in pants. A heady daze had him sneak his fingers under her skirt, feeling the softness of her thigh, fingers leaving impressions on her skin. He'd done this too many times to know, especially when her hips lifted up to his, his hand sliding onto her ass.

Her voice broke the quiet, coming out as a gasp. “You’re too big.”

He laughed softly, pressing one last kiss to her temple. “That's never been a problem for you.”

“That was before you tackled me,” Claere shot back, though her fingers threading lazily through his hair betrayed her amusement, her contentment. Her laugh was soft, breathless, and it warmed the cold air around them, sinking into him like the best kind of ache.

Cregan opened his mouth to tease the soft skin on her neck, maybe even pull her closer—but the sharp crash of the rink doors cut through the quiet, echoing across the ice. The sound shattered the little world they’d built for themselves, the fragile intimacy dissolving in an instant.

Neither of them moved at first, too wrapped in each other to care—until a familiar voice broke through.

“Guys, I'm getting bored. Seriously?” Jace’s tone carried across the rink, equal parts incredulous and exasperated. “Claere—what the fuck! Not on the fucking ice! Get off my sister!”

Cregan groaned loudly, burying his face into the curve of Claere’s neck like a child avoiding a scolding. “C’mon,” he muttered against her skin, voice muffled, his shoulders slumping dramatically.

Claere tilted her head, her laugh soft against his ear. “Should we let him think this was all spontaneous?”

“Let’s not,” Cregan grumbled, his lips brushing her collarbone as he spoke. “He’s already halfway to murdering me.”

Jace’s footsteps echoed closer, leaching with frustration. “I mean it, Stark!” he barked. “Get off her!”

Reluctantly, Cregan lifted his head, his dark eyes meeting Claere’s. There was something unspoken between them—a shared defiance, a quiet kind of rebellion. Still, he eased off her, careful and deliberate, and offered his hand to help her stand. She accepted it without hesitation, and when he caught her waist to steady her, he took his time guiding her to a slow glide toward the rink’s edge.

“You ruin everything, Jace,” Claere called over her shoulder.

Jace stood at the edge of the rink, arms crossed and expression thunderous. A cigarette dangled from his fingers, the smoke curling upward into the dim light. “I ruin everything?” he repeated, incredulous. “You’re lucky I’m not scraping either of you off the ice right now. What were you even thinking, Claere?”

Claere shrugged, leaning casually against the barricade. “That I’m twenty-one and don’t need a babysitter?”

“You’re not twenty-one in my book,” Jace shot back, stabbing the air with his cigarette for emphasis. “And you—” He turned his glare on Cregan. “What’s your excuse, Stark?”

Cregan raised his hands in mock surrender, his smirk utterly unapologetic. “I'm a sucker for your sister, I guess.”

“You shameless fuckin' bastard,” Jace bit out, his voice rising.

“Jace,” Claere cut in sharply, her tone enough to make her brother pause. Her gaze was steady, unwavering. “Take it easy.”

Jace hesitated, his shoulders tense as he looked between them. Finally, he threw his hands up in exasperation. “Fine. But if you two keep pulling shit like this, don’t expect me to cover for you.” He turned toward the exit, muttering under his breath, “Goddamn idiots…”

As the doors slammed shut behind him, the rink fell quiet again. Claere turned to Cregan, her smirk gentling to a sincere smile.

“So,” she said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “thank you for tonight, Captain. Consider it a success. Spirits lifted, smiles wide.”

Cregan stepped closer, his hands finding her waist, his touch lingering. He grinned as he leaned in, kissing her cheek, long and deep. “I am at your fingertips, my lady.”

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, everything else faded. But just as he was about to kiss her again, the sound of distant voices drifted into the rink, the faint shuffle of footsteps approaching.

Cregan glanced toward the doors, his jaw tightening. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, his voice firm but tinged with urgency.

Claere arched a brow. “What’s the rush?”

He gave her a crooked grin, skating backwards toward the exit as he held out his hand to her. “Call it a hunch. Trust me. Besides, I ought to warm you up with some cocoa this time.”

She hesitated, then took his hand, her grin matching his. As they left the rink, neither of them noticed the shadow lingering near the edge—a figure stepping into the dim light, watching them laugh and discard their skates with sharp, calculating eyes.

X

The chandelier above glimmered like a constellation, casting warm golden light over the Targaryen mansion’s sprawling, opulent hall. Every detail of the place spoke to its ancient grandeur—the polished marble floors, towering arches, and gilded frames enclosing weathered tapestries that told forgotten stories. Yet despite the atmosphere of high elegance, the purpose of the evening felt hollow, as if the mansion’s walls echoed with feigned cheer instead of sincerity.

Cregan Stark leaned against a polished column near the edge of the room, a champagne flute balanced in his fingers. He didn’t even like champagne. He hated this kind of thing—his kind of people didn’t belong in gilded halls. But Jace, Luke, and Joffrey made tolerating the event slightly easier.

“Tell me why we need an ‘art restoration fund’ when every artist they’d actually pay is on the brink of starvation,” Jace mused, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.

“Oh, Jace, for fuck's sake.” Joffrey snorted, brushing imaginary lint off his lapel. “It’s not about the art. This is just networking in a shiny costume. Daemon calls it charity, but really, it’s just a more expensive way to sell lies.”

Luke smirked, raising his glass lazily toward the crowd. “Take a good look, boys. Every handshake tonight equals at least three new yachts and an unspoken promise to backstab someone in six months.”

Cregan chuckled despite himself, shaking his head. “You’re all so cynical for a family raking in the benefits of this circus.”

“Yeah, well.” Jace grinned at him. “We grew up knowing exactly what it is. Don’t act like your world doesn’t have its share of political games.”

“True,” Cregan admitted. “But at least I don’t pretend it’s for charity. I just fight it out on the ice.”

They all laughed at that, and for a moment, Cregan allowed himself to relax, but his attention kept darting across the gilded room, scanning for the one person who mattered. The air felt heavy, too hot, the collar of his tailored suit suddenly too tight. He tugged at it with one hand, the other gripping his glass as though it might shatter.

Until his gaze strayed to the far end of the hall.

The glint of velvet red at the far end of the hall pulled Cregan’s attention like a shot of adrenaline straight to his chest. His breath caught, his pulse quickening before his brain had fully registered what—or rather, who—he was looking at.

Claere.

Her dress was every bit as bold as he’d imagined when he’d teasingly suggested she wear red, and yet it managed to surpass his wildest expectations. The fabric hugged her body in all the right ways, short enough to make his stomach tighten and billow around her legs like the petals of a rose flower. The neckline dipped just low enough to be tantalizing, thin sleeves baring her shoulders, and her silver hair, swept into a loose updo, left her neck exposed—a detail he was entirely too aware of.

She was on Daemon’s arm, the man laughing with the effortless arrogance of someone who knew he held the room in his grip. Cregan barely noticed. His focus was consumed by her, by the way her gaze flicked through the crowd. Searching. Until her eyes found his. And then she fucking smiled.

It wasn’t a coy smile or a subtle one. It was full and toothy, innocent in a way that made his blood burn hotter. She knew. She had to know. That smile unravelled him like a spool of thread tossed down a flight of stairs.

Cregan’s hand brushed over his lip, his thoughts growing dark and unreasonably wicked. She must’ve sensed it—her gaze dropped to the floor, a faint blush dusting her cheeks, and she looked shy. Shy. As if she wasn’t fully aware she had just upended his entire sense of self-control.

He swallowed thickly, forcing himself to break the spell before it completely destroyed him. His gaze snapped to Jace, who was busy swiping hors d’oeuvres off a passing tray with all the subtlety of a thief in broad daylight.

“Come on,” Cregan muttered, grabbing Jace by the arm and shoving him forward.

“Hey! Easy, Cap,” Jace grumbled around a mouthful of croquettes, stumbling into step. “What’s the rush—oh. Oh, no. Are we seriously—”

“Yes,” Cregan bit out. “We are.”

Claere’s back went visibly stiff as the two of them approached. She must’ve seen him coming, but she didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge him. Not yet. Her posture was perfectly poised, her smile serene as Daemon continued to regale someone with his booming charm.

When Jace cleared his throat, Daemon turned, his sharp eyes sweeping over the two newcomers with an appraising gleam. Cregan felt that gaze like a predator sizing up a potential threat.

“Ah, Jacaerys, my boy,” Daemon said, his voice cutting through the din of the room with an authority that demanded attention. His smile was cordial but didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You’ve brought a friend.”

Jace, to his credit, didn’t miss a beat. “Daemon, this is Cregan Stark. You’ve probably seen him on the ice. Our captain. He’s one of the best defensemen we’ve got.”

Daemon’s attention shifted fully to Cregan, undeniably calculating. “Cregan,” he repeated, rolling the name over his tongue like he was testing it. “Perhaps you've seen my daughter around campus? I don’t suppose you have. Claere’s rather modest.”

“Daemon,” she mumbled up at him.

“Yes, I've seen her around,” Cregan drawled out.

Cregan felt Claere’s gaze flick toward him, a subtle shift he doubted anyone else caught. She was playing along, just as she always did, her face the picture of passive disinterest. Meanwhile, every inch of his body was hyper-aware of her presence, her scent, and the way her fingers tightened on Daemon’s arm.

He cleared his throat, carefully schooling his expression into something neutral. “We've not officially met. Cregan,” he said, extending his hand. “Your brother’s teammate.”

Jace coughed suspiciously beside him, earning a sharp, sidelong glare from Cregan.

Daemon took his hand instead, his grip too firm, his eyes narrowing just slightly as if he could sense something unspoken hanging in the air. Claere let her waiting hand move to her hair, twirling a curl behind her ear.

“Teammate, huh?” he said, releasing Cregan’s hand and giving him another once-over. “Well, I imagine you’ve got plenty of stories about Jace. Unlike his sister, Jace could talk the hind legs off a donkey.”

“Agreed,” Cregan said dryly, casting Jace a sideways glance.

Claere’s lips twitched, just barely, but her gaze remained fixed ahead. She wasn’t going to make this easy for him.

“Yes, we're all proud of me. Anyways,” Jace sang out, clapping a hand on Cregan’s shoulder with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball. “My buddy's also here to discuss some team business. You know, funding and stuff.”

Daemon’s attention shifted back to Cregan, his expression hardening ever so slightly. “The politics of sport,” he said smoothly. “I assume this means you’re here to make a pitch?”

Cregan nodded, forcing himself to focus on the moment, on the task. “That’s right. But I’d also like a word with... Claere. If you don’t mind. Later.”

Daemon’s brow arched, his gaze flicking between the two of them for a fraction of a second too long. Claere sucked in a soft breath. Then he smiled—a thin, knowing smile.

“I believe Claere has a bit more introductions to make around the room before that. Her mother expects her to keep up with appearances before the gala starts. She's quite adamant about it.”

The most cavalier and haughty a father could say to keep Cregan away. He needed no other hints. Cregan only shifted his cuffs, clearing his throat. “Yeah, that tracks.”

Daemon nodded at him. “Business first, Stark. Let’s see if you’ve got the skills to convince me.”

Cregan’s jaw clenched, but he nodded at him, his gaze darting to Claere one last time. She still wasn’t looking at him, but he caught the faintest twitch of her fingers at her side. A silent message. Wait.

“I'll see you at the table,” Claere said to Daemon, standing on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. She smacked Jace's chest and took him away from them. Before she left, her shoulder vaguely brushed against Cregan's forearm, and he swore that the whole portion caught on fire. It took everything in him to not glance at her back as she left.

Cregan accepted the champagne glass Daemon offered him, only to set it down on the table nearby, shaking his head.

“Sorry. I’m driving tonight.”

Daemon smirked, swirling the amber liquid in his glass before taking a sip. “Call a cab then,” he said, his tone light but edged with challenge. “Break some rules, Captain. The youth aren’t entirely fucked yet.”

Cregan forced a smile, keeping his words and tone professional. “Some of us prefer to stay on the right side of the line.”

Daemon chuckled, leaning back slightly, his sharp gaze never quite leaving Cregan’s face. “So, what is it you wanted to discuss? Something about funding, wasn’t it?”

Cregan seized the opportunity and maintained it, measured but precise. He tucked his loose hands into his pockets. “Yessir. The playoffs are coming up, and our team’s resources are... stretched thin. We’ve been looking for sponsors who can—”

Daemon raised a hand while taking a sip, cutting him off. He wasn’t brusque about it, but his disinterest was palpable. “Mm, first off,” he murmured, tipping his glass toward a man across the room. “Do you know who that is?”

Cregan followed his line of sight to a golden-haired, middle-aged man in a sharp suit, standing at the centre of a small group that seemed to hang on his every word.

Cregan shook his head. “No, sir. Someone in your trade?”

Daemon smirked, as though amused by the guess. “Yes, in a manner of speaking. That is Tyland Lannister. One of the richest men on the continent.”

Cregan’s brow furrowed, unsure where this tangent was going, but he remained polite. “Impressive.”

Daemon continued as if he hadn’t heard him. “My wife—Rhaenyra. You’ve heard of her, of course. She holds the title. She's got queen's blood in her veins.” He gestured vaguely toward the man as if Tyland were nothing more than a mildly entertaining threat.

Cregan inclined his head slightly, not wanting to show his confusion. “Of course.”

Daemon finally turned his gaze back to him, sharp and assessing. “I can’t have anyone coming for my wife’s crown, you see. Not Tyland Lannister. Not the fucking Martells. Not anyone.”

Cregan nodded, though his mind churned, trying to parse Daemon’s meaning. “Understandable.”

Then, abruptly, Daemon’s smirk deepened. “Claere.”

Cregan’s nod faltered, his jaw hardening just enough to give himself away.

Daemon chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You see, Claere would martyr me if she found out what I had in mind for her. She’s got this... aggressive sense of autonomy, my soft little girl. She knows what she wants, very much like her mother.”

He took another sip of champagne, savouring it. “But here’s the thing—Tyland Lannister’s been circling. Do you know what Claere would say if I suggested she spend some time with him this weekend?”

Cregan’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond, sensing the trap.

Daemon leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “She’d say not to whore her out, that he’s twice her age, smells like barrel whiskey, and probably has a harem tucked away somewhere. And you know what? She’d not be wrong.”

Cregan’s gaze darkened, his fists clenching at his sides. He didn’t trust himself to speak yet, and Daemon noticed, his smirk widening.

“But you,” Daemon said smoothly, neatening an invisible crease on Cregan's jacket. “You’re an honourable one, aren’t you? Loyal. Dependable. Steady as they come. Stark in name and spirit,” He held the back of his hand to his lips as if speaking libel, “moneyed, too.”

Cregan’s voice came out firm, collected. “I do my best.”

“Mm,” Daemon hummed, clearly entertained. “So tell me, Cregan. Where do you stand when it comes to my daughter? Hypothetically, of course.”

Cregan’s lips pressed into a thin line. Oh, he was fucked. He thought of Claere—her soft smile, the brush of her shoulder against his arm, the unspoken connection that hummed between them like a live wire. But this wasn’t about him, or even her. It was a test, a game Daemon was playing, and Cregan wouldn’t fall into the trap. If he wanted a reaction, he would very much like this one.

“We've never really talked, sir. That being said I stand where she needs me to stand,” he said simply, holding Daemon’s gaze. “With respect.”

Daemon’s smile turned sharp, a predator recognizing another who refused to back down. “Great answer.”

Cregan took a careful breath, steering the conversation back on course. “About the team funding, sir,” he said, his tone firm but respectful. “I believe investing in us isn’t just about hockey—it’s about legacy. The team represents something bigger than just a game. Community. Resilience. And with your support, we’d be unstoppable.”

Daemon’s expression didn’t betray much, but the amusement lingered. He swirled his glass again, considering. “Legacy, you say.”

“Yes,” Cregan said, meeting his gaze head-on. “Something worth standing for.”

After a moment’s pause, Daemon’s tone shifted, quieter but no less intentional. “I knew your parents.”

Cregan froze, the words hitting him like a sudden gust of wind, but he didn’t drop Daemon’s gaze.

“They were good people. Devoted to legacy, just like you,” Daemon continued, his voice carrying a surprising sincerity. “It’s a shame what happened. Truly. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Cregan hesitated, his chest tightening at Daemon’s words. He hadn’t expected that shift—the quiet acknowledgement of his loss. He nodded once, his voice steady. “Thank you. It was a long time ago.”

Daemon studied him for a moment, a glint of something inscrutable in his sharp eyes. “Yes. Loneliness can be quite suffocating. Something I find myself... thankfully lacking.”

His gaze drifted across the room, settling on Claere. She stood near her brothers, radiant, unconcerned as ever, quietly laughing at something Joff had said. She had an ease about her, but her fingers still played idly with the hors d’oeuvre stick, twirling it in an anxious rhythm only he could tell. Cregan’s breaths constricted further, watching her. She was magnetic, utterly herself, and it was impossible not to be drawn to her.

Daemon’s voice cut through his thoughts like a blade. “She’s beautiful, is she not?”

Cregan exhaled slowly, his composure slipping just enough to betray the impact of the question. “She is.”

Daemon chuckled softly, as though he’d expected the response. He swirled the champagne in his glass before taking a conscious sip, his gaze returning to Cregan.

“A thing like her is a blessing—and a curse. It draws attention. Finds flaws. Makes her untouchable. Spins lies. Envenoms the mind. Fools lads to think they’re worthy of even standing beside her.”

Cregan’s fists clenched at his sides, but he kept his expression neutral. “I'm sure she's smart enough to tell between worth and lack.”

“Oh, I’m sure she does,” Daemon said, a note of pride threading through his voice. “But even the strongest need someone to stand with them, don’t they? And the world has plenty of Tyland Lannisters to offer up.”

Cregan’s jaw tightened. “Then you've certainly not prospected the world as well as you have, sir.”

Daemon tilted his head, his smirk returning. “Hm. You’ve given me a lot to think about, Stark. Not just about funding your team, but... other things.” His eyes flicked toward Claere again, then back to Cregan, his meaning unmistakable.

Cregan’s heart pounded in his chest, but he forced himself to stay calm, to keep his tone level. “I’ll leave you to your deliberations.”

Daemon chuckled again, a low, knowing sound, and extended his hand.

“Good luck, Captain. You’ll need it.”

Cregan clasped his hand firmly, their gazes locking for a brief, loaded moment. This wasn’t just a handshake—it was a battlefield. And as Daemon’s gaze flicked once more to Claere, Cregan realized that this wasn’t just about funding or hockey. It was about something far more personal.

His heart thudded with a rhythm that refused to calm as he ascended the staircase on the far side, each step graver than the last. He grabbed a flute of champagne from a passing tray, adjusting his cuffs with snaps. The drink fizzed against his tongue, but it did little to quiet the storm brewing in his chest.

Daemon suspects something. He knows.

The thought circled like a vulture, preying on his moment of vulnerability. For all his control, all his precision, Daemon had chipped away at his armour with a few pointed words and a too-sharp smile. Now, Cregan felt raw, exposed, like a pawn being manoeuvred on a board he wasn’t fully prepared for.

When he reached the landing, he paused, leaning on the railing. The champagne flute was cold in his hand, a poor contrast to the heat in his chest. He tilted his head back, rolling his shoulders in a futile attempt to release the tension coiled within him.

Then he heard it—the faint, feverish clack of heels against the marble staircase. His gaze flicked down to the source, and his breath hitched.

Claere moved through the crowd with the kind of grace that seemed almost involuntary, her red dress clinging to her like it had been painted on. She was excusing herself from someone, her smile polite but distant, and the sight of her—all of her—made Cregan’s pulse quicken.

When her gaze lifted and met his, it hit him like a freight train. Her eyes softened: a silent question lingering in them.

He tilted his head toward the corridor at the top of the stairs—a subtle invitation.

She didn’t hesitate, her pace quickening as she made her way to him.

The sound of her heels followed him as he slipped into the corridor, each step echoing like a countdown. He didn’t turn, didn’t dare to look back, even as his senses flared with her presence drawing closer. By the time her hand caught his, warm and grounding, he felt like he’d been holding his breath for hours.

“Hi,” she whispered, with a touch of her fingers on his wrist.

Cregan exhaled, allowing himself the smallest smile as she gently tugged him further down the corridor. They stopped in front of a gilded white door, its handle gleaming like polished gold and she unlocked it with a soft click.

The room was as extravagant as he’d expected. It was hard to imagine Claere growing up like this. Marble floors gleamed under the warm light of an ornate chandelier, and every piece of furniture seemed designed for display rather than comfort. A heavy desk stood at the centre, flanked by bookshelves filled with untouched tomes, their gilded spines catching the light.

Claere shut the door behind them, the lock clicking softly into place. The world outside faded, leaving just the two of them.

Cregan shrugged off his jacket like it had been a harness, draping it over a chair as he loosened his tie with a sharp tug. He ran both hands over his face, pressing his fingers into his eyes like he could erase the exhaustion clawing at him.

“I like your suit,” she remarked. “You look so handsome. And smart.”

He mumbled a quiet, “Thanks,” from behind his fingers.

“Do you like my dress?” Claere’s voice was soft, tentative. She stepped closer, her hands brushing his chest as she settled them there, her warmth seeping into him. “I hate it, really. It's too tight. I wore it for you. I much prefer your jerseys.”

He peeked through his fingers, groaning softly at the sight of her. She was standing so close, her lips painted with that damned red lipstick, her hair tumbling in soft strands from its updo. Her hips swayed slightly as she shifted, the dress clinging to her curves in a way that made it impossible to think straight.

“Terrible timing for you to be acting cute,” he muttered, his voice rough. “Really, really terrible timing. I suppose that runs in the family.”

Her smile faltered, concern flickering in her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

He sighed, his hands sliding into his hair, fisting it tightly. “I don’t know. It feels like Daemon suspects us.”

Claere tilted her head, a soft laugh escaping her. “Why would he—” She stopped abruptly, realization dawning. “Unless you said something. Please tell me you didn't.”

“I had to say something, Claere,” he shot back, his frustration slipping through. “I spoke up for you. He was practically making a case for whoremongering.”

“You’re an idiot,” she said, but her voice was laced with affection. She cupped his cheek, her palm warm against his skin. “And so sweet.”

Cregan closed his eyes for a moment, leaning into her touch. Everything about her—her perfume, warmth, the peace she offered—was an anchor. She felt like a reprieve, the only thing in his chaotic world that made sense, even as she drove him to the edge of his restraint.

After a moment, she tilted her head, studying him. “Are you going to take me to your place now?”

His eyes flickered open, amusement curving his lips. He cocked a brow. “Oh?”

She nodded eagerly, her excitement bubbling just under the surface. “I miss your place. It’s cushy. Not like this.” She motioned to the gilded office, a faint wrinkle of distaste creasing her brow.

Cregan couldn’t help the laugh that rumbled from his chest. “Cushy, huh?”

He slid his hands to her waist, the fabric of her dress soft under his palms. Slowly, deliberately, he let them drift lower, settling at her backside. He gave a firm but teasing push, drawing her body flush against him, her stomach pressed to his hip. Heat flared between them, sparking in her widening eyes.

“If I said, come away for the whole weekend, what would you say?” His voice was low, almost a growl, his forehead brushing hers.

Her grin was instant, lighting up her face. “I'd say yes,” she breathed, her hands sliding against his chest.

He dipped his head, the tip of his nose grazing hers in a gentle, intimate caress. “That’s my girl,” he murmured, his lips just a whisper away from hers.

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, the rest of the world disappeared—the marble floors, the gilded edges, Daemon’s shadow looming somewhere outside.

X

The party faded behind them, the hum of the gala replaced by the buzz of their escape. Cregan walked a pace ahead, his hand clenched into a fist at his side as they turned the corner. Claere followed, her soft laugh bubbling under her breath as she swiped at her phone. Her one-day worth of supplies hung in a poofy bag off her shoulder, and she hadn't even changed out of that gorgeous dress. Good, he wanted some fun with it.

“Jace says he’s got it covered,” she murmured, slipping her phone back into her purse. She glanced up at Cregan, her silver hair glinting under the fountain lights. “Something about you ‘owing him again.’”

Cregan snorted but didn’t slow his stride. “Remind me to get him a six-pack. Or an actual job, so he stops eating off trays.”

Her phone buzzed again, and she glanced at it. “Oh, a follow-up: ‘Be safe. Use protection.’”

“And also to strangle him.”

Claere giggled, quickening her pace to catch up. “He cares, in his own way.”

“I care, in my own way,” Cregan replied, waving his hand toward the street corner where two cabs idled. “Like making sure we don’t end up as tabloid fodder. Separate rides, Claere.”

Her nose scrunched, that playful wrinkle that never failed to tug at something deep in his chest. She sighed, clearly unimpressed with his plan, but without protest, she slid into the first cab. Her dress glinted in the dim light as the door shut, and Cregan let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

He climbed into his own cab, shutting the door with more force than necessary. The driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror, realization flashing, but Cregan ignored it, staring out at the blur of city lights. His knee bounced involuntarily, a jittery rhythm to match the thundering in his chest.

He hated this. Not her—never her. It was the situation, the secrecy, the creeping unease that came with living half in shadows. She deserved better than that, better than slinking into a cab alone because he was too afraid of what people would say, of how her family would look at her if they knew. His fingers drummed against his thigh, restless. What if someone did see? What if Jace slipped up? What if this—whatever this was—crumbled under the weight of all his fears?

But then the cab pulled up in front of his building, and there she was, leaning against the wall, arms folded, eyes gleaming, a soft smirk playing on her lips. All the noise in his head went quiet.

“I thought you'd forgotten me,” she said as he approached. There was a glint of good mischief in her eyes.

“You can hunt me down if I do,” he replied with a grin, his voice quieter than he intended.

She smiled back, the kind of smile that made his chest ache, and he led her into the building.

Inside the elevator, the air between them felt charged, electric. Cregan pressed the button for his floor and stepped back, his hands sliding into his pockets. He tried to keep his distance, to focus on the dim numbers counting upward, counting down the seconds. But then she moved, just the smallest shift, and her perfume wrapped around him like a thread, pulling tight.

He broke.

In an instant, he was on her, his hands finding the curve of her waist and drawing her close. His lips found her neck, the warmth of her skin sparking something wild in him.

“Cregan, no. We're almost there,” she moaned, her voice high and startled, though it melted quickly into a laugh. Her hands pressed against his chest in a half-hearted attempt to push him away.

“Almost isn’t here,” he murmured, the words low and gravelly against her skin. He nipped lightly at her jaw, grinning when she groaned in mock exasperation.

“Control,” she managed between giggles, but her arms were winding around his shoulders, holding him close even as she protested.

The elevator chimed, and he pulled back reluctantly, his breath unsteady as he smoothed his shirt. She was grinning up at him, cheeks flushed, and he could feel his heart pounding against his ribs.

“For now,” he muttered, his voice rough.

The doors slid open, and they stepped out together, the tension between them buzzing like static. As they approached his door, he stole a glance at her, taking in the way she skipped forward, that gentle spirit always seemed to undo him. She glanced up at him, catching his gaze, and her lips curved into an excited, knowing smile.

She reached for the keypad, keyed in the code and welcomed herself inside.

“Home sweet home,” she sang out, violet eyes glowing in the track lighting overhead. She kicked her heels off and let them clatter untidily. “You know, you should get a dog. To greet you at the door. A teeny little Maltese. No, wait—a Saint Bernard. Something drooly and... where's that mat I put down here? See, I...”

Cregan shut the door and followed her inside, letting her voice fill the space. He liked the sound of it here, the way it softened the edges of his stark, contemporary apartment.

The place was quintessentially him: sleek black and white, all sharp angles and clean lines. The walls were bare except for a few geometric art pieces, and the furniture was minimalist and masculine, with steel and leather dominating the furnishings. The only bursts of colour or life in the entire apartment were hers, scattered like breadcrumbs from her many visits.

The dried flower petals in the shallow glass bowl on the coffee table—lavender and pale pink, her handiwork. The stitching art that hung above his dining table, a whimsical, colourful thing she had given him as a joke but insisted he put up. The row of herb pots lining the kitchen windowsill, the faint scent of rosemary and basil lingering even now. And her favourite plants—towering palms and fiddle-leaf figs—clustered by the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the glistening city.

“Oh, no!” She gasped, her hands flying to her cheeks. “What did you do! Cregan, you completely destroyed them!”

Cregan raised a brow as she hurried over to the plants, her expression one of pure heartbreak. “They’re still alive. I’d know—I waste fifty bucks a week on that girl to take care of them.”

Claere crouched by the nearest pot, inspecting a browning leaf with despair. “Poor babies,” she mumbled, stroking one of the stems as though it could sense her concern. “Oh, it's okay. I'm going to make this better.”

Cregan leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching her with a faint smile tugging at his lips. Her outrage over the plants was genuine—he could see it in the little furrow of her brow and the way she pouted at the wilted leaves—but it was endearing, too. There was something deeply comforting about seeing her here, in his space, moving through it as if she belonged. She wasn’t trying to impress anyone or hide behind politeness. She simply was.

The thought settled in his chest, warm and steady: this was his future. The sight of her scolding him over plants she’d insisted on, her voice filling the silence of his apartment, wasn’t just familiar—it felt right, like the missing piece to something he hadn’t realized was incomplete.

With an amused shake of her head, he let her be and turned for his room.

Cregan loosened his tie as he stepped into his bedroom, the tension of the night finally starting to unravel from his shoulders. His room was a sea of muted blacks—dark wood furniture, a sleek grey comforter on the bed, and soft lighting that made the space feel calm and uncluttered. A large window dominated one wall, the city lights glittering beyond it, while a shelf in the corner held a surprising touch of life: books Claere had picked out for him, a framed photo of his late parents, and a small succulent she’d insisted he wouldn’t kill. It was thriving. Barely.

He tugged the tie free and draped it over a chair, then rolled back his sleeves, popping the cufflinks off. His phone buzzed in his pocket as he unbuttoned his shirt, and he pulled it out, unlocking it with one hand. Jace had texted him.

Told Mom that Claere's staying with Helaena for the weekend. Ask her to run with it when she calls.

Cregan smirked, his thumb tapping out a quick reply.

So I shouldn’t do my best Helaena impression this time?

The response was instant.

Only if you want to get skinned alive by Daemon.

Cregan’s grin widened.

Thanks, Jace. I owe you.

He vanished for a moment before he responded.

Six-pack Bud Light and Milk Duds, and we’re even.

He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. Typical Jace.

The familiar jangle of bracelets caught his attention, and he glanced toward the door. Claere stood there, leaning against the frame with one hand, her other clutching the edge of the door as though debating whether to come in. Her silver hair spilt over her shoulders, slightly mussed from the cab ride, and the warm golden light from the bedside lamp kissed her skin, underscoring the faint pink that crept up her neck as her eyes raked over him.

He knew that look. That wide-eyed, half-bitten-lip, soft-breathing look. She didn’t even try to hide it.

His shirt hung open, exposing the expanse of his chest, and he reached up to scratch the back of his neck, feigning obliviousness to the way her gaze lingered. His lips quirked in a lazy, teasing smile as he leaned against the edge of the dresser.

His gaze sharpened on her. He crooked a finger toward her, the gesture commanding yet playful.

“C’mere,” he murmured, low and rough.

For a second, she hesitated, and then, like a puppy being summoned—she crossed the room with small, slothful steps, her feet barely making a sound on the plush rug. Her velveteen red glowed with her every movement, the billowing skirt teasing just enough leg to make his head spin. By the time she stood before him, looking up with those wide, expectant eyes, Cregan was holding onto his composure by a thread.

Gods, he’d been dreaming of this moment all night. Dreaming of her in that dress, torturing him with how devastating she looked. And now here she was, close enough to touch, her scent wrapping around him like a spell.

“You remember,” he said, his voice a husky drawl, “how you asked me if I liked your dress?”

Her grin bloomed instantly, nodding. “Yeah?”

He crossed the distance between them in two long strides, towering over her now. His lips twitched into something wicked as he tilted his head. “I love it so fucking much... I'm actually starting to hate it.”

Her smile faltered, confusion flashing in her eyes. “You do?”

“I do.” He made a face, feigning distaste as he let his gaze sweep over her again, slower this time, savouring the way she shifted under the intensity of it. “It makes me want to rip it right off you.”

Her breath hitched, a faint gasp trembling out of her as her cheeks turned an even darker shade of pink. She bit her lip, the beginnings of a shy, flustered smile twisting at the corners.

“Oh,” she managed softly.

Cregan’s smirk deepened. “Yeah. Oh.”

Without another word, he reached out and took her by the waist, guiding her backwards until the backs of her legs hit the edge of the bed. Gently, he eased her to sit, her dress pooling around her like liquid fire. He sank to his knees before her, the movement fluid, reverent.

For a moment, he just looked at her. All flushed and breathless, her chest rising and falling with anticipation. His hands settled on her knees, his thumbs brushing back the fabric of her dress, tracing lazy circles as he fought the urge to give in too quickly. She was his, yes—but this moment felt sacred, and he wanted to make it last.

“I’ve been dreaming of this all night,” he confessed, his voice low and almost raw. “You. In this damn dress. Driving me insane. And now...” He let his hands slide up her thighs, slow and careful, his calloused palms grazing her soft skin where the rippling skirt of her dress exposed her. “Now you’re here, looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” she whispered, her voice barely audible, her gaze locked on his.

“Like you know exactly what you’re doing to me.” He leaned forward, his forehead brushing against hers for a moment before his lips found her cheek, his stubble scraping lightly against her skin. “Like you're enjoying this.”

Her hands found his shoulders, her fingers digging into his bare skin where his shirt hung open. “I am,” she whispered, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “I like seeing you like this.”

He laughed softly, kissing a trail down her neck, whispering, “Good. Because I’m not letting you go tonight, Claere. Not until you understand exactly how much I hate this dress.”

Her breath hitched as his lips brushed against her collarbone, lingering like a promise. The warmth of his mouth sent shivers rippling through her, tender and insistent. She felt the tension in his hands as they tightened on her thighs, stopping her in place as though he feared she might drift away.

Cregan’s kisses moved lower, intent dark, his stubble grazing her skin in a way that left her tingling. She gasped softly, her fingers slipping from his shoulders into his hair, tangling in the thick, dark strands.

“Cregan, please,” she whispered, her voice trembling with need, each syllable a plea she barely recognized as her own.

He paused just long enough to murmur against her skin, his voice rough and heady, “Beg all you want, Claere. You’re not going anywhere.”

Her heartbeat pounded in her ears as his hands slid upward, skimming the silky fabric of her dress with an unbearable slowness that made her tremble. His thumbs brushed her bare skin, igniting sparks that danced along her nerves, and with one smooth, practised motion, he lifted her legs over his shoulders. The shift brought her even closer to him, and when his eyes met hers, the intensity in his gaze sent a chill up her spine.

“You ready?” he murmured, his voice a quiet confession that made her breath catch.

Her lips parted to respond, but the words dissolved as he pressed his lips to the inside of her knee. The kiss was soft, almost reverent, but it sent heat rushing through her veins. He moved slowly, teasingly, his lips trailing higher with each kiss, each touch deliberate and unhurried.

“Dreamy girl,” he whispered again, his breath hot against her skin, the nickname carrying a kind of reverence that left her lightheaded. His hands held her firm, his grip strong but careful, as if he was both claiming and protecting her.

When he finally ducked his head beneath the fluttering fabric of her dress, her gasp was immediate, one hand flying to his hair, the other clutching the edge of the bed for support. His lips found her where she needed him most, warm and insistent, and her head tipped back as her body arched into him, the tension in her muscles snapping like a taut wire.

Cregan moved with precision, a man starved but savouring every moment, his mouth pressing kisses that felt like vows against her most sensitive skin. The graze of his teeth, the willful flick of his tongue—it all worked in tandem, unravelling her in ways she couldn’t control.

She bit her lip hard, desperate to stifle the sound rising in her throat, but he wasn’t making it easy. He hummed against her, a low, resonant sound that sent shockwaves through her body.

“Cregan—” she whimpered, her voice breaking, her hand tightening in his hair.

He glanced up, his lips glistening, his pupils dark and wide with hunger. The look on his face—possessive, devoted, and utterly captivated—made her throat go dry. He looked at her as though she was a gift he’d spent his whole life waiting to unwrap.

“Everything okay up there?” he teased, his voice low and gravelly, but the smirk tugging at his lips couldn’t mask the affection in his eyes.

She could barely nod, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. He chuckled, his thumb brushing a soothing circle against that needy space of hers, a small gesture of care amidst the chaos he was creating.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his tone softening as he kissed her thigh. “Because I’m not even close to done with you.”

And then he bent his head again, this time undoing the zip and bow at the back of her dress, his hands sliding up to carefully lay her down, his focus entirely on her. The rest of the world faded away as he pulled her deeper into his orbit, leaving her no room for anything else but him.

X

Claere stretched languidly, her limbs reaching toward the edges of the bed before she rolled onto her stomach, her hair a tangled mess. Cregan let his head tilt toward her, unable to keep his eyes from tracing every curve of her body as she moved. She was entirely bare, her skin kissed by the soft glow of the bedside lamp, and for a moment, he couldn’t believe she was real. That she was his.

Without a word, she slipped off the bed and padded toward his closet, effortless and confident. It had taken her some time to be so bold and bare-skinned before him. Cregan propped himself up on his elbows, his grin softening as he watched her braid her hair back loosely. She pulled open the closet doors, running her fingers over the rows of neatly hung clothes before plucking out a jersey—his name and number proudly emblazoned on the back.

She turned toward him, slipping it on over her head, the fabric swallowing her frame and skimming the tops of her thighs. Bare legs. His jersey. Gods. He ran a hand down his face, dragging out a groan. He didn’t stand a chance against her.

Claere twirled once, holding her arms out with a grin that could have powered a city. “Huh?”

“A billion bucks, Claere,” he said, his voice low, his gaze darkening as he took her in.

“Make that one-hundred-and-thirty,” she teased, hugging herself and letting out a dramatic sigh. “Finally comfy.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Fuckin' hell. Why can’t you sponsor my team instead?”

“What can I say? I’m a trust fund baby.” She climbed back onto the bed, all elegance and mischief, the hem of the jersey riding up to reveal the curve of her hips as she sprawled beside him. She flashed him a wicked smile from the pillow’s edge, her chin propped on her crossed arms.

“You’d get all of it if you married me.”

He snorted, rolling his eyes. “Like I care.”

“I’ll sponsor your team if you marry me?”

“No, thanks.”

“Please marry me?”

He snickered. “Wait for me to ask.”

Claere’s smile faltered slightly, softening into something more thoughtful as she studied his face. “When’s your next game?”

“Friday,” he answered, leaning back against the headboard. “Last one before the season starts. Coach has already pulled out all the stops.”

Her brows knitted slightly, though she tried to keep her tone casual. “So this might be the last time I’m coming over for a while.”

The words hit him harder than he wanted to admit, his chest tightening. She wasn’t wrong. Once the season started, it was a relentless grind—early mornings at the rink, punishing hours of practice, travel, classes, and social obligations he couldn’t ignore. And as much as he hated it, fitting her in would become a challenge. It always did. But the thought of her not being here, of nights without her easy laughter, her sly remarks, or just the quiet comfort of her presence—it unsettled him in ways he couldn’t quite name.

He forced a smile, trying to sound more confident than he felt. “We’ve still got Sundays.”

She barely nodded. “Yeah. Sundays.”

But even as he said it, the words felt thin, like they couldn’t hold up against his growing unease. What if Sundays weren’t enough? What if the distance stretched too far, the gaps between their moments together becoming too wide to bridge?

His mind ran ahead of him, racing through possibilities he didn’t want to entertain. This was their rhythm every season—he disappeared into hockey, and she stayed back, quietly supporting him from the sidelines. But what if this time was different? What if she got tired of waiting? What if the secrecy, the stolen moments, became too much?

He glanced at her, trying to gauge her expression, but Claere only shifted closer to him. She didn’t look upset—just thoughtful, her gaze distant as she toyed with the hem of his jersey.

He wanted to reach for her, to hold her, to ask her to stay. To promise her that he’d make time, that they wouldn’t drift, that this—they—would still be okay. But the words stuck in his throat, tangled with his pride and the knowledge that he couldn’t keep her tethered to him, not when she deserved more.

Claere seemed to sense his turmoil because she leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. Her lips lingered there for a moment, warm and reassuring, brushing his hair, before she pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes.

“I can wait,” she said gently, her voice calm in a way that made his chest ache. “It’s just a few more months. What’s that compared to everything else?”

He stared at her, the knot in his chest loosening just enough to let him breathe. “Are you sure?” he asked quietly, hating how uncertain he sounded.

Her smile returned, small but unwavering. “It’s your last season in college, right? We just have to keep this private a little longer. And then…” She trailed off, her gaze mellowing as she stroked his jaw. “Then it’ll be easier. It'll be date nights, dinner at schmancy restaurants, weekend jet to St. Kitts.”

He nodded, her words sinking in like a balm, though the lingering doubt in the back of his mind refused to quiet completely.

Claere shifted again, resting her head against his shoulder, her fingers idly tracing patterns on his arm. “You’re worth it, you know,” she murmured, almost to herself.

His throat tightened, and he tilted his head to rest against hers, the faint scent of her shampoo quirking a smile on his lips. “I don’t deserve you,” he admitted, his voice rough.

She laughed softly. “Probably not. But you’ve got me anyway.”

Cregan closed his eyes, letting Claere’s words settle into the cracks of his uncertainty. She was right—what were a few months? They’d made it this far. They could make it further. And yet, that lingering fear, the whisper in the back of his mind that someday even her patience might run out, refused to fade entirely.

He exhaled deeply, shifting to press a lingering kiss to the top of her head. “You deserve a big breakfast, baby,” he murmured against her hair. “Fit for a queen.”

Claere hummed, the sound soft and content as she leaned into him. “Aw,” she teased. “Please don’t. I don’t have the number for poison control saved.”

He tossed the covers over her head, muffling her delighted giggles. “Smartass,” he said as he fumbled for his pants over the bed. Dragging them on, he hefted himself off the bed and stretched. “I’m going to make it for you anyway.”

“Poison control's toll-free!” she called after him, the smile evident in her voice.

Cregan shook his head, grinning as he padded into the hallway. The apartment was still, the faint hum of the city outside the only sound. He rolled his shoulders, the warmth of Claere’s words lingering in his chest. Gods, he loved her. Even with the challenges, even with the secrecy, she made everything feel worth it.

His smile was still tugging at his lips as he stepped into the living room—until he saw her. He froze the second his gaze landed on the figure in his living room.

Rhaenyra.

She sat on the edge of his sofa, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, her gown from the gala still immaculate like she’d stepped out of some high society painting and decided to grace his apartment with her presence. Her intricate braid was sleek and perfect, not a strand out of place, and the faint glint of a diamond bracelet caught the dim morning light as she reached for her purse on the coffee table.

She looked at him; calm, composed, unreadable. It was the kind of look that commanded attention and gave away nothing in return.

Cregan stood rooted in place, his heart thundering in his chest as his mind scrambled for answers. How did she get in? How did she find out? His panic clawed at him, wild and unrelenting. Fucking Daemon. Fucking Jace. But despite the storm raging inside him, he couldn’t move—Rhaenyra’s unflinching gaze pinned him like a predator locking onto its prey. She didn’t even need to speak. Her silence was louder than any confrontation.

Soft, cheerful footfalls approached from behind, jolting him like a slap to the back of his head.

Completely unaware of the brewing disaster, Claere leapt up, hanging off his shoulder, laughing. She nipped at his ear, her voice playful. “I’ll make us breakfast, okay? Peanut butter sandwich. No? How about eggs? Preferably not fertilized.”

Cregan’s heart sank to his stomach. Gods-fucking-damnit. He shut his eyes for a long, steadying breath, hoping against hope she would take notice—and she did. He felt her freeze against him as her gaze followed his, landing on the figure sitting serenely in the living room.

“Mom!” she squeaked, her voice a pitch higher than usual, betraying her shock.

Claere slowly dropped, her bare feet hitting the floor with a soft thud. Her hands smoothed down the oversized jersey she wore—the jersey with his fucking name in white letters—as if it could somehow erase the evidence of everything.

Rhaenyra inclined her head slightly. Placid, regal. “Claere,” she replied as though this were nothing more than a routine check-in rather than the powder keg it clearly was.

“What are you—?” Claere’s words tumbled out in a rush, her hands flitting nervously as she glanced at Cregan, then back to her mother. “We were just—I mean, I—”

“Put on some pants, darling,” Rhaenyra said with a faint wave toward Claere's jersey. “Then we can talk. I’ll make us some coffee, hm?”

Cregan blinked, his mouth opening to say something, but nothing came out. His throat was dry, his thoughts a chaotic mess. All he could do was stand there, shirtless, feeling like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar—except this time, the stakes were infinitely higher. He chanced a glance at Claere.

Her face was flushed, her lips parted like she was trying to catch up with what was happening. “Right,” she mumbled, tugging at the hem of the jersey as if it might magically grow longer. “I’ll… just go. Um, change.”

She darted out of the room, not a single glance in his direction, her footsteps hurried, leaving Cregan standing alone in the eye of the storm. His gaze flicked back to Rhaenyra, who had already risen from the couch. She adjusted the bracelet on her wrist, her expression still maddeningly composed, giving away nothing.

Cregan swallowed hard, his pulse pounding in his ears. He felt like a deer staring down a wolf, but there was no running from this.

“I—uh—” he started, but the words died in his throat.

Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow, her lips curving faintly—not quite a smile, but something close. “Sit down, Cregan,” she said, her tone even. “We’ll talk when Claere’s ready.”

She turned, walking toward the kitchen without so much as a glance back.

He rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. How in the fuck was he going to survive this?

X

Cregan sat stiffly on the stool, his hands clasped on the island counter as though he might steady himself against the tension in the air. Claere was beside him, separated by a single stool, and he couldn’t stop himself from glancing her way. His stomach churned at how comfortable she looked, perched there in teeny shorts and a camisole, her hair pulled back lazily. She might as well have been at her own apartment, not sitting across from her mother, who looked as though she was deciding whether to disown her on the spot.

He wanted to slam his head against the table. Why, Claere? Of all the things to wear, why this? As if that drawer full of her clothes was going to make anything better. She could've just put on a pair of pants and he could've salvaged the situation as an unrepeatable situation. Her bare legs swung idly, her toes occasionally brushing his shin under the counter, oblivious to the silent chaos in his head.

Across from them, Rhaenyra stirred her spoon in the mug in front of her. The ceramic was decorated with Claere’s initials and a dainty painting of peonies. Cregan hadn’t even noticed her bring it over, which somehow made it worse. She moved with a terrifyingly calm authority like she was the only one in control of this room, of him.

"Two years," Rhaenyra said suddenly, her voice cutting through the silence like a whip. She didn’t look up from her mug, as if she’d simply plucked the number from his mind.

Cregan gritted his teeth, but before he could respond, she tilted her head, her brow furrowing in mock deliberation.

"Four?" she guessed. Her eyes finally lifted to meet theirs, sharp and unyielding. "Five? Longer? Are my grandchildren in preschool?"

Cregan flinched.

"Three," Claere muttered, her voice barely audible.

"Three years." Rhaenyra’s lips twisted into a humourless laugh, and she shook her head. "Amazing. You looked me in the eye for three years, darling, and strung me along. I must say, that's got to be some sort of record." Her voice was light, almost conversational, but there was a razor-sharp edge to it that made Cregan’s palms sweat.

Cregan cleared his throat, forcing himself to speak. "It's not her fault," he said quickly, his voice steady but tense. "I was the one who wanted to keep it hush—"

"I don’t care," Rhaenyra interrupted, her tone icy as she pointed at Claere. "I am your mother, Claere. I am responsible for you, even if you're well into being an adult. Believe me, I want to end this here and tear you two apart right now, but you've already taken every liberty."

"Mom, I'm—" Claere began, her voice trembling, but Rhaenyra cut her off with a sharp gesture.

"Don’t apologize, don't you dare," Rhaenyra snapped, her eyes narrowing as she turned her mug slowly in her hands. She let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. For the first time, she looked genuinely tired, as if this immense confrontation had finally caught up to her.

"Let me ask you something," she said softly, fixing them both with a piercing stare. "Are you pregnant? Is that something I need to—"

"No!"

The denial burst from both of them in unison, their voices overlapping in their panic.

Cregan’s heart pounded so loudly it was a miracle he could still hear the conversation. His throat felt like sandpaper, and his body screamed at him to move, to stand or pace or anything to break the suffocating stillness of the moment. But he remained rooted in place as if Rhaenyra’s unflinching gaze had nailed him to the stool.

He glanced at Claere, hoping to ground himself, but the sight of her only made his chest tighten. Her cheeks were flushed, her hands twisting in her lap as though she were trying to wring the tension out of them. It made his stomach churn to see her like this, and the urge to shield her from her mother’s scrutiny was nearly unbearable. But what could he do against her?

Rhaenyra leaned back in her seat, finally breaking the tension as she took a sip from her mug. "Good." She set the mug down with a soft clink, her eyes darting between them. "That simplifies things."

Claere hesitated, her voice trembling slightly when she finally spoke. “Who told you?”

Rhaenyra’s gaze shifted to her daughter, her expression betraying nothing. "Why?"

Cregan could see where this was heading, and his instincts flared. He nudged Claere’s ankle under the table—a quiet warning to tread carefully—but Claere either didn’t notice or chose to ignore him.

"Was it Daemon?" she pressed, her voice stronger now, though it wavered at the edges. "How did he know?"

Rhaenyra set her spoon down. "Daemon has known for some time now. As have I. Tonight simply confirmed our suspicions." Her lips curled into something between a smirk and a scoff. "I took a little drive down to Helaena's myself and when I didn't find you there... that's when I decided I had had enough."

Cregan’s stomach twisted further. Helaena. Of course. Always so sweet, so guileless. He could almost picture her accidental slip, the quiet unravelling of a lie they’d spent years perfecting. He forced himself to sit straighter, trying to shake the knot in his gut, but Rhaenyra’s eyes pinned him again, sharp and unyielding.

“Then why didn’t you just ask me?” he said eventually, his voice firmer than he expected. He locked eyes with her, refusing to look away. “You knew. Why wait until now?”

Rhaenyra tilted her head, studying him as if he were a particularly perplexing puzzle. “Oh, I wanted to,” she admitted, her tone as cool and cutting as ever. “Believe me, I wanted to drag Claere home and ship her off to the Arctic if it meant getting her away from you.” She let out a soft sigh, the first crack in her carefully composed demeanour. “But Daemon convinced me…” She turned her gaze back to Claere, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Of some things.”

The intensity of her stare made Claere visibly shrink, her shoulders curling inward as though she could physically shield herself. The red flush on her cheeks deepened, and she looked down at her hands as if they might offer her some kind of escape.

Cregan’s chest burned with equal parts frustration and guilt. He could feel the unspoken accusations hanging in the air, the disappointment Rhaenyra didn’t need to voice. This was his idea—keeping things quiet, hiding their relationship from her family, from everything that mattered to her world. She didn’t deserve this.

“I pushed for this,” he said, his voice steady but low, like a dam holding back a flood. “She didn’t. I wanted to keep it quiet because… because I didn’t want people saying I wasn’t here on my own merit.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze flicked back to him, sharp and scrutinizing, as though she were weighing his every word. “So, this wasn’t about protecting her from the world. It was about protecting yourself. Your career. Your reputation. Tell me, Cregan, was that your plan all along? To make a mess out of my daughter's life?”

Her question struck like a blow, but he refused to back down. “There was no plan. I saw her, we talked, I fell. We just—” He broke off, running a hand through his hair, his frustration spilling over. “We just fell in love. I didn't want to lose it.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed, a dangerous edge creeping into her tone as she shifted her gaze back to Cregan. "You’re good at this, aren’t you? Taking the blame, making it seem noble. But let’s be honest here. The real reason you kept this hush isn’t about you, is it?”

Cregan was caught off guard by the accusation. “That’s not true.”

“No?” Rhaenyra tilted her head, her voice was as sharp as a blade. “You thought they’d see you as the boy who rode her coattails. The hockey player who only got his shot because he’s tied to the girl from the headlines. No. You kept it quiet because you didn’t want to be seen with her. Because my daughter—this beautiful, extraordinary girl—is also the woman the tabloids love to shred to pieces. Because her family is a circus, and my name is a spectacle.”

“Mom—” Claere tried to interject, but her voice wavered.

“Hush, darling,” Rhaenyra dismissed, not even glancing at her daughter. Her focus remained locked on Cregan. “You can sit there and tell me this was all about protecting her, about keeping her out of the spotlight, but the truth is, you didn’t want the world to see you with her. Did you?”

“That’s not fair,” Cregan shot back, his voice rising despite his effort to stay calm. “I worked my ass off to get to where I am. And I’ve never once been ashamed of her.”

“Then why the secrecy?” Rhaenyra countered, her voice growing colder. “Why hide her if you’re so proud? You’ve been out with your friends, your teammates, your fans—but Claere? She’s been stuck in the shadows.”

“I am not about to—”

“Stop,” Claere’s voice cut through, trembling but loud enough to silence them both. She looked between them, her cheeks flushed, her hands gripping the edge of the counter as if to stabilize herself. “Just stop.”

Her wide, tear-brimmed eyes turned to Cregan, and he felt his chest tighten. “Is that true?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “Is that why you wanted to keep us quiet? Because you were embarrassed to be with me?”

“That’s not what this is,” he said, desperation lacing his tone. “I love you, Claere. I’ve always loved you. This was never about hiding you. It was about keeping what we have safe.”

“Safe?” Rhaenyra’s voice sliced through the moment, cool and unforgiving. “Or convenient? Let’s call this what it is: fear. You’ve let your fear and insecurity of how the world sees you dictate how you treat my daughter.”

“That’s enough!” Cregan snapped, slamming his hand on the counter. He turned to Claere, his face softening even as his voice stayed resolute. “I was afraid of what they’d think of us,” he said, his voice tight. “Afraid they’d turn something real into just another news article. I didn’t want to risk people saying I didn’t deserve what I worked for, or that you were some kind of shortcut. I didn’t want them tearing us apart before we even had a chance.”

Claere’s lip quivered, her eyes searching his face for truth. “I thought we were in this together,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “All of it. Not just the good parts.”

“Baby,” he tried.

Cregan reached for her hand, but she pulled away, shaking her head. His stomach sank, the ache in his ribs almost unbearable. He looked back at Rhaenyra, whose face remained impassive, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of something—regret, perhaps, or vindication.

“This isn’t about how we started,” Cregan told Rhaenyra, his voice quieter now, but no less determined. “It’s about where we are. I love her. I’m not perfect, but I’m here, and I’m willing to fight for her. Can you say the same for anyone else who’s ever come into her life?”

Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by his outburst, but she didn’t respond immediately. She leaned back, crossing her arms as she studied him.

“Prove it to me. Step out of the shadows, Cregan. If you love her as much as you say, stop hiding. Own it.”

The challenge hung in the air, heavy and impossible to ignore. Cregan looked at Claere again, her expression still hurt but softening as his words sank in. He nodded slowly, a decision settling over him like a weight he was finally ready to carry.

“I will,” he said, his voice steady. “If she’ll have me, I’ll do whatever it takes to prove it.”

Cregan reached for her hand, desperate, and this time, Claere’s fingers slipped into his, anchoring him, and she looked up at her mother, meeting her piercing gaze with surprising steel.

“Mom,” she began, her voice calm but unyielding, “I’m sorry I lied to you. I should have told you sooner, and I regret the secrecy, but I don’t regret falling in love with him. Not for a second.”

Rhaenyra’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes sharpened, flicking to their intertwined hands before returning to her daughter’s face. “You can say that now,” she said evenly, “but what about when this—” she gestured to the space between Claere and Cregan, “—inevitably complicates everything? The headlines? The scrutiny? Do you really think you can keep his world and ours from colliding forever?”

Claere squared her shoulders, the flicker of doubt in her eyes extinguished by a quiet, steady resolve. “We’re not trying to live in two separate worlds, Mom. We’re building one of our own. We knew this wouldn’t be easy—we’ve known that from the start—but we’re... handling it.”

Cregan felt a little lighter, her words a balm to the storm of emotions raging inside him.

“And if it becomes too much? If his career takes him somewhere you can’t follow, or if the media turns on you?” Rhaenyra pressed, her tone deceptively soft. “Are you prepared for that kind of fallout?”

“We’ll figure it out,” Claere said firmly, her voice rising with conviction. “We’ve already figured out so much, and I trust myself. And him. Whatever comes our way, we can handle it.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed, her features still impassive, but there was a flicker of something—approval?—beneath the surface. “And what about me, Claere? Do you trust me?”

Claere hesitated for only a moment, then nodded. “I always do. I know you’re trying to protect me, and I love you for it. But I’m not a child anymore, Mom. I can do this on my own.”

Rhaenyra leaned back, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. “Strong words,” she murmured, almost to herself. Then, after a long moment of silence, she sighed, setting down her mug with deliberate care.

“Very well,” she said finally, her voice measured. “You’ve made your choice, my love. And it seems you’re determined to see it through.” Her gaze shifted to Cregan, sharp as a blade. “But make no mistake, Stark. If you break her—if you make me regret giving you this chance—you won’t have to worry about the press. You’ll answer to me.”

Cregan swallowed hard, but he didn’t flinch. “Understood.”

Rhaenyra exhaled deeply, her gaze resting on Claere with a quiet intensity that seemed to fill the room. She straightened, smoothing her dress with a deliberate gesture before speaking, her voice low but unyielding.

“Get your things, darling,” she decided. “I’m taking you back home.”

Claere sighed, her breath catching as her mother’s words settled over her. She opened her mouth as if to argue, but Rhaenyra’s firm tone silenced her before she could begin.

“Now, please,” Rhaenyra added, her voice softening slightly but still brooking no resistance. “Don’t fight me on this. Say your goodbyes. You can talk to him later.”

Cregan felt the air leave his lungs, his chest tightening as the meaning of her words sank in. He glanced at Claere, whose wide eyes darted to him in silent pleading. She looked torn, her hands fidgeting at her sides as if searching for something to hold onto.

For a moment, the urge to speak rose in him—to push back, to argue, to demand—but as his eyes locked with Rhaenyra’s unrelenting gaze, he stopped himself. He could see it there: not malice, but a mother’s determination, a fierce desire to protect her child. As much as it pained him, he understood.

He turned to Claere and gave her a small nod despite the ache beneath it. The message was clear. It’s fine. I understand. Go with her.

Claere’s lips trembled, her eyes shining with unshed tears as she searched his face. Her shoulders sagged slightly, but she nodded back, acknowledging his silent reassurance.

Rhaenyra stepped back, her company filling the space between them as she waited. Claere hesitated, then reached for her overnight bag on the counter. She moved with reluctance, and when she turned back to Cregan, her eyes were full of longing. She did not want to leave. Not like this.

Cregan forced a small smile, hoping it would be enough to hold them together for now. “Go,” he murmured, the word more breath than sound, though he knew she understood.

As Claere followed her mother out of the room, the sound of the door closing behind them left an aching silence. Cregan stood frozen for a moment, his eyes fixed on the spot where Claere had been. The pang in his chest surged until it was unbearable.

Rage and despair blinded him to control, and he grabbed the nearest object—his water bottle—and hurled it against the fridge. The loud clang echoed through the kitchen, reverberating off the walls and doing little to ease the frustration coursing through him.

Cregan braced his hands on the counter, his head hanging low as he tried to steady his breathing. The fight with Rhaenyra replayed in his mind, her sharp words, Claere’s indefinite voice, the way her hand slipped from his without hesitation. Every detail twisted in his gut.

He wanted to scream, to chase after them, to promise Claere he’d fix this. But he couldn’t. Not yet.

This isn’t over, he thought fiercely, his jaw tightening. Not by a long shot.

X

The days without Claere passed like months. Cregan had tried to push through it, burying himself in practice, but it was like skating on dead ice. Every empty glance at his phone added fuel to the frustration simmering under his skin. Practice was a disaster—his passes were off, and his shots lacked precision. His coach had barked at him twice during drills, and even his teammates—guys who usually let him brood in peace—started asking if he was okay. He wasn’t. Not even close.

The worst part wasn’t even the uncertainty; it was the silence. No texts, no calls. He’d tried reaching out to Claere and Jace both, but his messages hung in limbo, unanswered. Every attempt ended in static like they’d been wiped off the map. The hollow ring of her number before the dreaded voicemail beep made his stomach twist every time.

He hated not knowing. Was this it? Was she done with him? Or worse—had her family made the decision for her?

By Thursday, he was running on fumes. His body ached from overworking himself on the ice, and his mind was a mess. The Targaryen mansion wasn’t far from his practice rink, and he’d driven past it so many times that the guards were starting to eye him like he was some kind of stalker.

Four days. Four days without a word from her, and he was losing it.

Then Friday came, game day, and it hit him like a slap. He didn’t have time for this. If he didn’t get his head in the game, he’d tank the team. But just as he was about to haul himself to the locker room, he saw someone jogging toward him near the player’s bench like some divine intervention. Cregan, mid-drill, tossed his stick aside, and practically stormed to meet him, relief and frustration competing for dominance.

“About fucking time!” he said, his voice incredulous. Cregan muttered, half-tempted to hug the guy and half-tempted to shove him, “Where the hell have you been?”

Jace, dressed down in jeans and a hoodie, stopped short, hands on his hips as he caught his breath. “Man, I am so sorry. Look, I really tried. I stalled her as much as I could that night, but you know my mom. And Daemon was her accomplice—”

“Not your fault,” Cregan interrupted quickly, shaking his head. “You tried. Thanks for coming.”

Jace gave a sheepish grin. “It wasn’t just me. Daemon went full dictator. Took all our phones, and said we needed a ‘digital cleanse.’ Packed us off to fuckin' Croatia. Ancestral home or some shit. Total lockdown. No phones, no Wi-Fi, just… swimming, food, and lectures about how we’ve all failed our parents somehow and forgotten our history.”

Cregan exhaled sharply. That explained a lot. “So, you’re just getting back now?”

“This morning,” Jace confirmed. He shifted awkwardly, as if unsure of what to say next, before finally adding, “Claere’s still at home. She’s okay, though. She was miserable the first day, but… y’know. We made her come around and have fun.”

Hearing her name felt like both a balm and a wound. Cregan let out a half-laugh, half-sigh. “That sounds about right.”

“Yeah,” Jace agreed. He hesitated, studying Cregan for a moment. “Mom and Daemon? Still pissed. Claere… I don’t think she gives two shits.”

Cregan’s lips twitched into a weak smile. That was Claere all right. “When’s she coming back to class? Or… anything?” His voice trailed off, unsure how much more he could ask.

Jace shrugged. “Don’t know. She’s kind of in this holding pattern right now. Guess she’s waiting for something.”

Cregan’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Thanks, Jace. Really.”

“Look, man…” Jace scratched the back of his neck, his usual easy demeanour clouded with worry. “She’ll come around. Just… give her time.”

Cregan gave a tight nod, though the frustration bubbling inside him was threatening to boil over. Time. He’d already spent four days in limbo, and he didn’t know how much longer he could take it.

Later, after practice, he called her again. The line rang twice before going straight to voicemail. That greeting looped in his mind like a cruel joke.

“Hi, it’s Claere! I can’t come to the phone right now, probably because I’m doing something infinitely more interesting. Leave a message! Or not. Up to you.”

He clenched his jaw at the teasing tone in her pre-recorded message, so familiar yet so distant. The beep sounded, and he hesitated before speaking, his voice gruff with tension.

“Baby, it’s me. Look, I—” He stopped, dragging a hand down his face. What could he even say? “I miss you. I don’t know what you're feeling, what you're thinking, or if you’re just… done, but I need to talk to you. Please. I'm losing my mind. Call me back. Or find me on campus. Just—please, Claere... I love you. So much.”

He hung up, his chest heaving like he’d run a marathon. It felt futile. Every unanswered call, every unreturned message, chipped away at the hope he’d been clinging to.

What was he supposed to do? Wait? Move on? Fight harder? He didn’t even know if she wanted him to. All he knew was that every day without her was stretching him thinner, and he didn’t know how much more he could take.

His teammates had practically dragged him to the coffeeshop on campus grounds after the brutal loss that afternoon, insisting he “needed to get out of his head.” He appreciated the effort, even if their chatter washed over him like static. This whole place was crowded and loud, a stark contrast to Cregan’s own hollow mood. He gave them a smile or two and answered a few vague questions, but his responses always had a way of circling back to her.

“Man, this chick must’ve really done a number on you,” one of the guys joked, nudging him.

Cregan huffed a laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Something like that.”

It wasn’t just her. It was everything—what she represented, what he felt for her, and how much he’d probably screwed up everything, right from the start. He missed her more than he could explain, more than he was even comfortable admitting to himself. And now? He didn’t even know where they stood.

He was nursing his coffee, trying to shake off the tension pressing on his chest, when the door jingled. Normally, he wouldn’t have noticed, but the sudden shift in the room's energy was unmistakable. Conversations dimmed, and heads turned.

Cregan looked up—and the air left his lungs.

Had it been weeks? No, just one. Claere stepped inside, her sun-tanned skin glowing against the blue eyelet blouse and shorts she wore, sandals clicking softly on the tile floor. Silvern hair was in a loose braid, a few strands framing her face, and a scattering of thin silver rings glinted on her fingers as she adjusted the strap of her sling bag. She looked like she’d walked straight out of some sun-drenched dream.

And all he could do was sit there. Frozen. Thinking. She hadn't bothered to call him. Was she angry? Was she done with him? Didn't he deserve an explanation? Had her parents changed her mind?

His stomach twisted with longing, with a desperation that felt almost painful. She was the one thing he wanted most, and yet here he was—rooted to a chair, surrounded by people who had no idea what she meant to him. She glanced around the room, her gaze sweeping over the crowd. When her eyes met him, there was not a muscle in his body that did not clench.

She hesitated, just for a moment. He could see it in her face—the effort it took to act like she didn’t know him. Like she hadn’t been his everything all these years. He felt it too, that same instinct to pretend, to keep up the lie, even as it killed him inside.

Her gaze flicked to the guys at his table, then back to the door. His heart sank, thinking she might leave, but instead, she turned and walked to the counter. Ordered something—juice, by the sound of it—and then settled at a corner table by herself.

Cregan couldn’t help it. His eyes followed her, drawn to her like gravity. He'd been conditioned to be aware of her, near or far. Even when she pulled out a book and rolled a few pencils onto the table, so calm and indifferent, he knew her too well. There was tension in her posture, a stiffness in the way she held herself. She wasn’t as unaffected as she seemed.

“Hot damn,” one of his teammates said, cutting into his thoughts. “You saw that fine ass? Those shorts just—oomph.”

“I want a piece of that,” another chimed in, smirking. “Last week's news? That little red dress at the gala? Fuuuuckable.”

Cregan’s jaw tightened, his coffee forgotten in his hand.

“And a whole lot of crazy bitch,” the first one added, laughing, and something in Cregan snapped. His grip on the cup tightened, but he forced himself to stay still. He wanted to put their heads through the nearest wall.

“Crazy bitch is my speciality,” the other said, clearly feeling lucky today.

One of them leaned closer, lowering his voice like he was sharing some great secret. “She's still screwed in the head, bro. Last semester, someone saw her—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Cregan said sharply, his tone cutting through the noise.

The guys turned to him, surprised. “Hey, what’s your problem?”

“Just drop it, okay?”

But they shrugged him off with a burst of laughter. One of them, clearly feeling bold, got up and crossed the room toward Claere, sharing an encouraging fist bump and shoulder slap. Cregan’s pulse spiked as he watched the guy tap her on the shoulder. She looked up, calm and polite as always, even when she shouldn’t have to be. Pulling out her earphones, she flashed a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

"Yeah?" she said, her voice as sweet as it was distant.

The guy’s grin widened as he pulled the chair out, his audacity a palpable stink in the air. “Claere, right? Mind if I join you? Name's Wil.”

For a fleeting moment, she looked at Cregan. It wasn’t just a glance—it was sharp, pointed, expectant. It wasn’t a plea for help—it was a challenge. Are you going to sit there and let some dickhead hit on your girlfriend?

But Cregan stayed rigid. His hand gripped the edge of the table so tightly that his knuckles turned white, his jaw locked. He wanted to move, to stop this, but something held him back—his frustration, his guilt, his need to keep up with appearances.

Claere’s gaze lingered on him for a beat too long, and when he didn’t act, she let out a soft, bitter breath and turned back to Wil.

“Sure,” she said lightly, gesturing to the seat.

Cregan’s stomach churned. He dropped his gaze, staring at the scratched surface of the table, as if ignoring it would make it stop.

Wil slid into the seat across from her like he owned the place, leaning forward on his elbows. “So, what’s it like being you?” he started, his tone dripping with fake charm. “Must be hectic. Fancy trips, photographers hounding you everywhere, that kind of thing.”

Claere raised an eyebrow, somewhat bored. “It’s not all that exhilarating, I suppose.”

“Really? Come on, you don’t have to be modest with me.” His eyes swept over her, lingering just long enough to make Cregan’s stomach tighten further. “I mean, someone like you? Hot, famous, loaded—what’s not to love?”

“Hmm.” Her response was flat and dismissive, but Wil wasn’t taking the hint.

“You know, I’ve always wondered...” he started, his voice dipping conspiratorially. “What’s it like growing up with a mom like Rhaenyra Targaryen? Must’ve been wild. All those scandals, all those headlines. Does she, like, give you tips? On how to work the cameras, pose just right? Or is that all-natural?”

Her grip on her glass cup tightened, but her face remained composed. “Are you always this curious about other people’s families?”

“I’m just trying to get to know you better.” He leaned back, smirking. “I mean, everyone’s already seen so much of you, right? All those little ‘oops’ moments with the paparazzi? Those dresses, those photos—”

Cregan tensed like a coiled spring. Wil, oblivious, kept going. “Honestly, it’s impressive. Takes guts to pull off some of those pretty skirts. Or lack of them.”

The small, tense smile on Claere’s face vanished, replaced by a cold, hard stare.

“But hey,” he said, his voice dropping, as if her silence was encouraging, “if you ever wanted to, I don’t know, lean into that a little more... I’ve got a camera. Real discreet. No one even has to know.”

The table went silent. Cregan’s head snapped up, his blood boiling. The words didn’t fully register—he didn’t want them to. His chair screeched against the floor as he shifted, his vision narrowing on Wil's smug face.

Claere beat him to it. The slap echoed through the coffee shop like a gunshot. Conversations halted. Heads turned. Even the barista at the counter stopped mid-pour.

Wil stared at her, stunned, his cheek flaming red. Claere’s hand trembled as she dropped it to her side, her chest heaving. Tears gathered in her eyes, but her voice was steady, cutting. “I hope you get run over by a car and go brain-dead, you pervert.”

She grabbed her bag with sharp, jerky movements, her poise splintering as she shoved her things inside. “Can't believe this,” she muttered, more to herself than anyone, her voice thick with anger and humiliation. Without another glance at Wil—or at Cregan—she stormed out, shoving the door open so hard the bell jingled violently behind her.

Cregan moved before he could think, his chair tipping as he stood and grabbed the guy by the front of his shirt. He saw red for a moment, teeth grounding to dust.

“What the hell, Cap?” Wil sputtered, raising his hands.

Cregan shoved him back against the wall, hard enough to rattle the shelves and cups nearby. Wil's grin had vanished, replaced by wide, panicked eyes.

“You think that was funny?” Cregan hissed, his voice low and shaking with rage.

“I—it was just a joke—”

“Here’s the zinger,” Cregan snapped, leaning in close. “You’re benched. Next game, next practice, next season. I don’t care. You’re done. You so much as look at her again, and you’ll be picking your fucking teeth off the floor.”

He shoved the guy back against the wall one more time for good measure before letting go, his chest heaving.

Cregan didn’t wait to see the reaction. Grabbing his gear, he strode out of the coffee shop, his heart racing, his mind spinning. The quad was alive with students, but Cregan didn’t care about any of them. His focus locked onto Claere, halfway across the lawn, her head down and her steps hurried. He sprinted to catch up.

He spotted her halfway across the lawn, her distinctive figure unmistakable even with her head bowed and her shoulders hunched. She moved quickly, as if she could escape the humiliation still clinging to the air around her.

“Cregan! That was sick, man!” A friend clapped him on the back as he passed, but the praise barely registered. Another student waved, calling his name, grinning like the drama was just a show for their entertainment. Cregan brushed past them, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. Not now. Not now. Just get to her.

But then he stopped dead in his tracks. Claere had turned to look at him, her face pale except for the flush high on her cheeks. Her red-rimmed eyes locked onto his, and the sight gutted him. She wiped a tear from her cheek with the back of her wrist, her hand trembling, almost frantic.

The breeze carried the faint sound of a sob, and he saw the way she glanced around her, the way her gaze caught on the groups of students whispering, watching. He knew what they were saying. He could feel their eyes on her, hear the speculative laughter just out of earshot. The exasperation on her face made his breaths falter, her helplessness a mirror to his own.

He took a step forward, but her head snapped to the side, and she spun on her heel, heading toward the scooter parked by the curb.

He wanted to call out to her, to tell her to wait, but his throat felt like it had closed up. He watched her as she fumbled with her keys, all jerky and rushed.

Say something, his mind screamed but held too still. The whispers around him grew louder, and he could feel the eyes of the crowd shifting from her to him. Rumours hinted at, fingers pointing. For once, he just wanted to let it happen.

Her head lifted briefly, and their eyes met again—just for a heartbeat. In that glance, he saw everything. The pain, the frustration, the feeling that she was completely, utterly alone. The tears, the tremor in her shoulders, the way her chin tilted up defiantly—it was all too much.

She climbed onto her scooter, the engine sputtered to life, and she didn’t look back as she pulled out onto the campus path.

X

The gravel crunched under Cregan’s tires as his truck rolled to a stop in front of the towering iron gates. For a moment, he just stared. The Targaryen estate loomed ahead, its opulence stark against the dusk-painted sky. The tree-lined path that curved out of sight behind the gates was shadowed by towering oaks, their branches interlocking above like a cathedral ceiling.

He lowered his window, leaning out to nod at the guard.

The man stepped closer, narrowing his eyes. “You again? I told you, kid, unless you’ve got an invite—”

Cregan sighed, gripping the wheel tighter. “Just let me talk to her. Please. I'm dying out here, pal.”

The guard studied him for a beat longer before letting out a reluctant huff. “Fine. Don’t make me regret this.” He pressed a button, and the gates creaked open slowly.

“Legend,” Cregan muttered, easing the truck forward.

The path was even more imposing than it looked from the outside, even for the second time he was here. The oaks stretched endlessly ahead, casting long shadows that danced across his windshield. The air felt cooler here, quieter, the outside world muffled by the wealth and history that clung to this place.

When the house finally came into view, it hit him like a punch to the chest. The mansion was massive, every detail of its gleaming white facade a testament to money and power. Towering pillars lined the entrance, their bases flanked by intricately carved dragons. The sheer scale of it made him feel small, like a kid crashing a royal ball. Focus, Stark.

He parked near the grand staircase and climbed out, his boots feeling too loud on the polished gravel. The enormous doors loomed ahead, but before he could even knock, one swung open. A man in a crisp black suit appeared, giving him a sharp, disapproving glance.

Cregan stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. He grabbed the man’s arm fiercely. “Claere?”

The man looked at him like he’d just insulted his ancestors. “You can’t just—”

“Where is she?” His voice cracked slightly, and the man froze, clearly taken aback. With a shake of his head, the man yanked his arm free and scurried off.

“The fu—” Before Cregan could follow, a small, clear voice echoed from above.

“Captain Stark!”

Cregan looked up to see Viserys poking his head through the railing of the first landing, his pale silver hair gleaming in the chandelier light nearby. The boy grinned, his face lighting up.

“Jace went out to see a girl,” Viserys sang out.

“Hey, little man,” Cregan called back, managing a strained smile. “Nah, not Jace. You seen your sister around?”

Viserys twisted his arms around the railing, tilting his head in thought. “Mhmm. Claerie’s in... oh, the back! She's with Auntie Hel. They're talking about big girl stuff.”

“Thanks, superstar!” Cregan called, already heading toward the back of the house as directed.

As he stepped outside, the evening air wrapped around him, cool and fragrant with the scent of freshly cut grass and blooming jasmine. The gardens stretched endlessly, but his eyes locked onto the little pagoda near the edge of the reflective pond. Its white pillars gleamed faintly under the fading light, and beneath its domed roof, from a distance, he spotted them—Claere and her aunt Helaena.

They hadn’t noticed him yet. Claere sat on the bench, her head bent over something in her lap. She was working with a needle and thread, stitching a button onto a shirt that looked about two sizes too big for her. Beside her, Helaena was lounging with the lazy grace of someone who never seemed hurried, one leg tucked beneath her as she picked at a flower on the vine

“Boys are idiots,” Helaena said lazily, flicking a petal away. “Especially Stark. That guy couldn’t comfort his way out of a paper bag.”

Claere’s fingers stilled for a moment on the button she was sewing onto Jace's shirt, the needle poised mid-air. She didn’t look up, but her lips pressed into a thin line. “It wasn’t like that.”

“What was it like, then?” Helaena sat up straighter, arching a sceptical brow. “Because from where I’m sitting, it sounds like he panicked and left you hanging. Again.”

The words struck deep, even though Claere tried not to let it show. She didn’t respond, instead knotting the thread with quick, precise movements.

From his vantage point just outside the pagoda, Cregan heard every word. He’d been rooted there for the last minute, unable to bring himself to interrupt, even as Helaena’s words sank into him like daggers. His fists clenched at his sides, his nails biting into his palms.

“Hel, please,” Claere said softly, tying off the thread and setting the shirt aside. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

Helaena snorted. “Of course you don’t. Because you’re too nice to admit he’s a hurtful jerk.” She leaned forward, her gaze narrowing. “Do you know how many guys would’ve killed to defend you in that café? To put that pervert in his place and walk out with you? But no, you had to fall for the one guy who can’t figure out how to use his own damn spine.”

Cregan felt his breath hitch, a sharp pang hitting him square in the chest. He wanted to storm in, to defend himself, to tell her she was wrong—that he had tried to defend Claere in his own way, even if it hadn’t been enough. But the truth was, Helaena was right. He’d left Claere when she needed him most. He’d failed her.

Claere shook her head, her voice quiet but firm. “It's unfortunate circumstances. That does not make Cregan a bad person. Or a jerk.”

“No, just a scared one,” Helaena countered, her tone biting. “And scared people hurt others because they’re too caught up in their own head to think about what anyone else needs.”

That was it. Cregan couldn’t take another second of listening. He stepped into the pagoda, the gravel crunching under his boots loud enough to draw their attention.

Helaena’s sharp eyes snapped to him immediately. Her pale brows shot up, and she leaned back with an amused smirk. “Well, well. Speak of the devil. Loverboy’s here,” she announced, loud enough to pull Claere’s attention from the shirt in her lap.

“Breaking my heart, Hel,” Cregan remarked.

Claere’s head whipped around, her eyes widening as they met his. Her lips parted, but no words came out, and she looked as though she wasn’t sure whether to be angry, relieved, or both.

He stepped forward, trying to look more confident than he felt. “I just need five minutes with her,” he said quickly, his voice steady but low, almost pleading.

Helaena tilted her head, studying him like he was some curious artefact. Then, with her signature mischievous grin, she said, “You can get five hours, Cap. Do you think you can talk with your shirt off?”

Cregan made an impressed face, some of the tension easing from his chest. “I can be persuaded.”

Helaena turned to Claere, deadpan. “I’m down.” He glanced back at Cregan's abdomen, biting her lip. “Look at him—you've got to reap your benefits. Is it a six-pack or eight, big guy?”

“Wanna count together?” Cregan suggested with a wry smile.

Claere shook her head as she muttered, “Really, Hel.”

Helaena stood, brushing her hands on her skirt. “Alright, alright. No fun. I’ll leave you two to… whatever this is. Five minutes.” She passed by Cregan, leaning in just enough to whisper, “When in doubt, take your shirt off. Don’t mess it up.”

And then she was gone, leaving Cregan and Claere alone in the pagoda.

He stepped closer, his gaze locked on Claere as she sat, her expression caught somewhere between guarded and curious. Her hands were still clutching the shirt, the needle and thread dangling loosely between her fingers.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Cregan didn’t trust himself to, not with the way she was looking at him. He took in every detail—the faint flush on her cheeks, the way her braid curled at the ends, the soft rise and fall of her chest as she breathed.

When he finally broke the silence, his voice was rough, unsteady. “Gods, I missed you.”

Before she could react, he was moving. His hands cupped her face, his thumbs brushing the delicate planes of her cheekbones as he pulled her close. Her body stiffened for half a heartbeat before melting into his, as if unable to help herself. He cradled her head against his chest with one hand, the other pressing into the small of her back. His fingers trembled slightly as they traced the length of her spine, grounding him in the reality that she was here, that she was real.

He kissed her forehead, then her temple, then her hair, his lips moving as if to memorize her all over again. His hands slid down to her back, pressing into the curve of her spine as he held her. The scent of her shampoo—floral and sweet—was almost overwhelming.

“Before you kick me, punch me, or ask me to fuck off to the world’s end,” he murmured against her hair, “I just needed to do that.”

She let out a soft, breathy laugh against his chest. “I think I stabbed you.”

Cregan blinked, pulling back slightly to look down at his chest.

She gestured to the needle, which had pricked his side at some point during the hug. He glanced down, lifting his shirt just enough to see the faintest dot of blood beading up near his abdomen. How had he not noticed?

“Fuck. Ow.” He laughed, shaking his head as he tugged the hem back down. “You trying to finish me off, baby?”

Her lips twitched, but her brows furrowed as she reached out, brushing her fingers lightly against his side. “Sorry. Does it hurt?”

“Not as much as being without you,” he said, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Her hand stilled, and for a moment, she just looked at him. Her eyes searched his face, her lips pressing into a thin line as though she was weighing what to say next. She stepped back and turned away, pushing her fingers into her hair.

“Cregan...” she sighed. “Don’t make this harder.”

Her words hit him like a slap, and his stomach twisted into a knot. Harder? Harder than what? He took a step toward her, his brows knitting together in confusion and a flicker of hurt.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, his tone sharp with a desperation he couldn’t hide. “So, what… you’re done with me? Is that it? I'm not allowed a clean break after three fucking years of being yours?”

She hesitated, her back still to him, her shoulders rising and falling with each measured breath. He could see the tension in her posture, the way she held herself so rigidly as if bracing for something.

“I guess…” she started, then stopped, lips thinning to a straight line. When she finally spoke again, her voice was quieter, and it nearly crushed him. “I guess Mom finding out about us was a wake-up call.”

“From what, Claere?” he shot back, the anger bubbling beneath the surface, anger born of confusion, guilt, and the unbearable ache of losing her. “She’s fine with us. All this is excessive. You’re blowing this way out of proportion.”

Claere turned to face him then, and the look in her eyes stopped him cold. It wasn’t anger, not entirely—it was something deeper, rawer, an exhaustion that made his chest tighten.

“Not the part where you treat me like some dirty secret,” she said, each word cutting like glass. Her voice was steady, but her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “Trust me, today made me realize that. And also, you're only mine when it's reasonable for you.”

Cregan staggered back a step as if the force of her words had physically struck him.

“So fucking unfair,” he snapped, his voice hoarse. “You knew what this was from the start. From day one, you agreed—we agreed—it wasn’t going to be public. You knew what I had to lose. My whole credibility.”

Her brows shot up, her mouth parting in disbelief before she laughed, bitter and sharp. “Oh, is that right? What you had to lose?” She jabbed a finger at his chest. “What about me? Do you have any idea what it’s like to only be worth something to you in the shadows?”

“You don’t think I’ve sacrificed?” he growled, his fists clenching at his sides. “I’m trying to balance all of this—the team, the pressure, the press and us. It’s not that simple.”

She threw her hands up in the air. “It is simple, Cregan! You care more about what everyone else thinks than what I feel. You make me feel so difficult. Like I'm this vexed question. And for so long, I convinced myself that was okay. That we were okay. But it’s not. It’s not okay anymore.”

Her voice cracked on the last word, and Cregan’s anger faltered, replaced by a wave of guilt so heavy it nearly knocked him over. She was right, wasn’t she? He’d asked her to carry their secrecy for him, put her in this tight corner because of him, and he hadn’t even realized how much it had crushed her.

“Claere,” he said, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “I'm so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel that way. I never wanted to hurt you. I thought—” He stopped, his hands falling uselessly to his sides. “I thought we were alright. I didn’t know.”

“Because you didn’t care to see it,” she said, her tone quieter now, but no less sharp. “You thought that I’d keep accepting scraps, keep lying low because I…” She trailed off, looking away, her arms crossing over her chest. “Because I love you.”

His heart clenched. “I love you too,” he said quickly, taking a step toward her. “I love you so much, it hurts. You know I do.”

She shook her head, letting out a shaky breath. “Sometimes love isn’t enough, Cregan.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. Then, as if he couldn’t bear the distance any longer, he stepped forward and reached for her. His hands found her waist, pulling her closer, and before she could push him away, he buried his head into the curve of her neck. Her scent, that faint floral sweetness, flooded his senses, grounding him even as the world seemed to tilt beneath his feet.

“I brought you something,” he murmured, his voice thick.

She stiffened slightly, her confusion clear, but he stepped back and reached into his jacket. Pulling out the jersey, he unfurled it carefully, holding it out to her. His name was stitched on the back in bold, unmistakable letters. STARK 01.

“Come to my game,” he whispered, his voice breaking under the strain of hope and fear. “Please.”

Claere’s eyes flicked to the jersey, her expression unreadable. For a moment, he thought—hoped—that maybe she would take it, that this small gesture could bridge the impossible distance between them. But then she shook her head, slowly, deliberately.

“I think we should meet after you’re done with…” she gestured toward the jersey, her voice faltering for the first time, “everything. Give us both some time to figure things out.”

The rejection hit like a fist to the gut. Cregan’s jaw tightened as his shoulders stiffened, his fingers curling tightly around the fabric.

“That’s months,” he burst out, his voice tinged with desperation.

“Good,” she replied, her tone clipped and firm. “Then this will all be over, and we can talk.”

For a long moment, they just stood there, breathing hard, staring at each other like they were on opposite sides of a battlefield. Then Cregan let out a hollow laugh, the bitterness spilling out before he could stop it. He tossed the jersey aside.

“Fuck you, Claere.”

Her head snapped up, her eyes flashing. “Well, fuck you too, you pathetic jerk!” she shouted back, her voice trembling with both anger and something far more fragile. She shoved at his chest, her palms pushing against him hard enough to make him stumble back a step. “Get out. Get the fuck out of my house!”

“No!” he snapped, his voice low and rough, filled with all the things he couldn’t seem to say. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying here. I’m trying to fix this—”

“Yeah? You want to?” Her voice cracked as she stepped closer, her body trembling with the force of her emotions. “You want to?” She shoved him again, her hands pressing against his chest, her voice rising with every word. “You want to fix this? Then kiss me, and—”

He didn’t let her finish. He didn’t let himself think. He surged forward, ducking his head, his hands finding her waist and pulling her close as his lips crashed into hers. The kiss was fierce, raw, filled with everything he didn’t know how to say—his frustration, his fear, his longing, and the overwhelming need to not lose her.

She gasped against him, fingers clawing at his shoulders as though she didn’t know whether to push him away or pull him closer. He pressed forward, guiding her back until she hit the pillar behind her, her body arching against his. One of her legs hooked instinctively around his waist, and he gripped her tighter, his fingers digging into her hips as though he were afraid she might disappear.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead pressed against hers, they were both gasping for air. Her lips were swollen, violet eyes wide and shining, her chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths.

“You…” she started, her voice barely above a whisper. “You didn’t let me finish.”

“I’m trying,” he hissed. His hands trembled as they slid up her sides, searching. “I’m trying, baby. Just… don’t make me leave. Don’t—”

She reached up, her fingers brushing against his cheek, silencing him. “Then stop running,” she whispered. “Prove it, Cregan. Prove you’re here. Prove this is real.”

Cregan’s breath came ragged, his body still pressed against hers, his heart hammering like a drum in his chest. He stared down at Claere, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted. She was breathtaking, defiant and vulnerable all at once, and her whispered challenge—Prove it—rang in his ears like a dare he couldn’t refuse.

Her hand on his cheek was warm, grounding him. The fire in her eyes, the flush on her cheeks—she was everything at once: defiant, vulnerable, and heartbreakingly beautiful. And she was right. He had spent too long running, avoiding, second-guessing. It was time to stop.

His breath hitched as he cupped her face gently, his thumb grazing her temple. The rush of emotion—fear, love, determination—swept over him, but this time, he didn’t let it drown him. He let it anchor him.

“Fine,” he said, his voice steady despite the pounding in his chest. “Come to the game next week.”

Her brows knitted in confusion, her lips parting to speak, but he pressed on.

“Just come.”

The words were a promise, and they felt like a leap off a cliff. But he didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away. His gaze stayed locked on hers, searching for something—doubt, hope, anything—that could guide him.

Her silence stretched between them, and he wasn’t sure if it was acceptance or uncertainty, but it didn’t matter. He had made his choice.

Slowly, he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek, lingering just long enough to feel her inhale sharply. It wasn’t desperation or passion—it was quiet, a gesture of faith. When he pulled back, he gave her hand a firm squeeze, his fingers brushing against hers like an unspoken vow.

“I’ll be waiting for you,” he said softly, his lips quirking into the faintest of smiles. Then he let go, stepping back, his hand slipping away from hers reluctantly.

X

The rink was electric, the roar of the crowd pulsing through the air like a living thing. The energy was infectious—chants, clapping, the rhythmic pounding of drumbeats echoing through the arena. The smell of ice and the distinct tang of adrenaline filled the air, and Cregan stood at the edge of the player’s bench, helmet tucked under his arm, a storm of exhilaration coursing through his veins.

This was it. Game season was here. And for all the noise and excitement around him, his focus was entirely on one thing—or rather, one person. Players milled around the bench, adjusting pads, stretching, and hyping each other up. Cregan, though, was glued to the boards, scanning the stands with the intensity of a hawk.

"Is she coming?" he asked, his voice low but insistent as he nudged Jace, who was lacing up his skates beside him. "You’re sure she’s coming?"

Jace groaned, yanking his laces tight. "Dude, chill the fuck out. She’ll be here."

Cregan’s jaw tightened as he scanned the stands again. It was stupid, how his chest felt like it might crack open if he didn’t see her soon. “I just need to know, Jace.”

Jace slapped his shoulder, grinning despite the tension in Cregan’s voice. "You’ll know, Cap. Now quit looking like a lovesick puppy and get your head in the game."

Cregan muttered something under his breath and turned his attention back to the stands, his stomach doing flips. She wouldn't sit too far, would she? What if she was too late? What if she changed her mind? All this would be a big dud.

Then, like the universe finally decided to cut him a break, he saw her.

Claere stood just behind the barrier, like another face in the crowd, a figure of calm amidst the chaos, her silver hair braided in two, the faintest smile gracing her lips as their eyes met. She wasn’t wearing just any jersey. She was wearing his—his name, his number proudly displayed on her back. And for a moment, everything else fell away: the noise, the crowd, the game ahead. It was just her, and the unshakable certainty he felt when he looked at her.

“Stark, get your ass on the ice!” the coach yelled, but Cregan didn't find it in himself to look away. Couldn’t.

He caught Jace’s smirk out of the corner of his eye. “Toldja,” Jace muttered, nudging him again. "Now quit gawking and do something about it."

And that’s exactly what Cregan intended to do.

The tension in his chest, the coil of uncertainty and hope that had wound tighter and tighter all week, snapped into motion. Without thinking, without hesitation, he closed the distance. His gloves hit the bench with a soft thud as he reached over the boards, his hands finding her waist like they belonged there.

“What,” she mouthed to him, amazed.

“Proof,” he mouthed back with a grin.

Her eyes widened, startled, as he pulled her closer, the warmth of her body against his enough to set his pulse racing. For a moment, he thought she might push him away, and the doubt—the fear of rejection—flared hot in his chest. But then her expression softened, and all the noise around him dulled to a hum.

He bent his head, his lips finding hers in a kiss that was everything he felt and more. It was slow and hurried, soft and desperate, deep and tender. It was everything he hadn’t said but needed her to know: that he was here, that she mattered, that he couldn’t stop thinking about her no matter how hard he’d tried.

For a second, time seemed to freeze. The roar of the crowd became a distant echo as Claere responded, her hands sliding up to cup his cheeks. Then, as her fingers tangled in his hair, the tension in his chest unraveled entirely. She was here. She wasn’t pushing him away. She was real.

The arena erupted. Cheers, whistles, and applause surged like a tidal wave, crashing into him with the force of a thousand voices. His teammates banged their sticks against the boards, shouting and hollering. The noise was deafening, but for once, he didn’t care. This moment was his—and hers. The world around them could burn for all he cared.

When they broke apart, her cheeks were flushed, her violet eyes bright and alive. She looked at him like he was the only person in the room, and his chest tightened with something dangerously close to gratitude. She didn’t shy away from the commotion or the hundreds of eyes on them. Instead, she leaned in, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered, “Go get ’em, Stark.”

Her words lit something fierce in him. He leaned his forehead against hers, his voice low but steady. “Always do, baby.”

He pulled back reluctantly and winked at her, squeezing her hand once before letting go. As he turned back to the bench, the adrenaline coursing through him had nothing to do with the game ahead. His blood was pumping, his heart pounding, but it wasn’t nerves—it was her. The knowledge that she was there, that she’d chosen to be there, wearing his name and looking at him like that.

The crowd’s energy was his, the ice was his stage, and the world now knew she was his.

As he slid his helmet on, the chants and shouts of his teammates met him with even more fervour than before. Cregan Stark stepped onto the ice, the rush of the competition pulling him forward.

It's game time.

X

wooo!! LONGEST, TRYING ONESHOT EVER! @justdazzling this one's for you, my love! Thank you such a wonderful idea, and I couldn't get it out of my head, so here it is! I hope you love it, caught the little references, the banter, the love and just them as a whole :)

[ taglist: @pearldaisy , @thatkindofgurl , @theadharablack , @cherryheairt , @beingalive1 , @oxymakestheworldgoround , @tigolebittiez , @cosmosnkaz , @lv7867 , @piper570 , @danikasthings , @acsc8 , @justdazzling ] -> thank you for your endless support everyone!

[libraryoffandomsuniverse]

Being Rhaenyra Targaryen's husband would include:

Masterlist

Okay this is my 3rd time uploading this, because tumblr was being a whiny bitch. This turned out much longer than I expected and I'm already planning on writing more in this au. I combined book and show canon, although I kept the Velaryons as black. I also renamed some of Rhaenyra's children and gave her 1 more.

This is not team green friendly or kind to Alicent. At all. Reader is a petty bitch who adores his wife and whose love language is murdering their enemies in various secret ways.

Warnings include murder, forced infertility (Viserys), Rhaenyra and Reader scheming for the throne.

You're the oldest son of Rhaenys Targaryen and Corlys Velaryon. Greatness is in your blood.

You're proud - how can you not be? You're the oldest son of the Sea Snake and The Queen Who Never Was, the heir to High Tide and the next Lord of Driftmark. You're the second rider of Silverwing, after Queen Alysanne. You are cunning and clever - everything your parents could wish for in a son. You have a lot to be proud of.

After fighting in the Stepstones and being knighted, you emerge as one of the chief candidates for Rhaenyra's hand.

The brothel incident still happens in this au and Rhaenyra still sleeps with Criston.

When your betrothal is announced, you both agree to do your duty. And although you aren't Daemon or Criston, you are still handsome and a warrior. Doing her duty will not be difficult for Rhaenyra.

You quickly fall in love, much to both your surprise. Rhaenyra falls first, your loyalty and ferocity in defending her sneaks past her defences.

You fall harder, her wit and hidden darkness, the type that matches yours, pulls you in. Her soul speaks to yours and feels familiar on some level.

By the time Jacaerys is born, you're incredibly happy and in love with each other.

Your darling boy is quickly followed by Lucerys, Baelon, Aegon, Gaemon and eventually (after a few years) your twin daughters Visenya and Aemma.

Your royal apartments are rarely quiet because of your children. They adore their mother's hugs, love to hang off your shoulders and follow you both around the Red Keep like little ducklings.

Being the best dressed couple in Westeros. Rhaenyra likes it when you match and often coordinates your outfits to do so. Sometimes it's matching her dress to your doublet, other times it's more subtle like you wearing ruby beads in your locs to match the precious stones in her bodice. It makes her feel like you're on a team and she knows you feel the same way, judging from the little smirk and raised eyebrow you give her when you see her and the maids going through your wardrobes.

You and Rhaenyra love to gossip together. It mainly happens in bed after you make love. She tells you the latest rumours her ladies in waiting told her and you reveal the scandals you heard from your manservant and squires.

You encourage her to be more visible to the common folk. You know that if she has their love, then any attempts to usurp her will fail. Your little family becomes regular fixtures in King's Landing as you explore the city and restart Queen Alysanne's charitable ventures. Rhaenyra starts heading sessions for women to raise any issues.

You know it's working when you hear people talking about the Realm's Delight and the Sea Dragon and praising your efforts in improving their lives.

The sight of you both racing your dragons high in the sky is a frequent occurrence. It started as a way to unwind after the small council meetings. As your family grew, your children joined in, strapped into yours or Rhaenyra's saddles. When they grew old enough and their dragons were big enough, they followed you on theirs.

Dividing your time between Dragonstone and the Red Keep, although visits to Driftmark are also regular events.

Laenor frequently pops in to visit and spoil your children.

Corlys and Viserys both compete to be the favourite grandparent, but you and Rhaenyra know that Rhaenys is the real favourite. For the sake of peace, you won't reveal it.

Despite Daemon and Laena staying in Pentos, you keep up a regular correspondence with them. You even arrange to meet in Driftmark with your children a few years into your marriage. Your children bond quickly, while the adults watch on and tell stories.

Being married to the heir to the Iron Throne isn't easy and there are many people who would see that Rhaenyra never becomes Queen.

As her consort, you consider it your duty to make the path easier for her.

Your first victim is Criston Cole. After murdering Joffrey Lonmouth, you expect him to get punished. The news of Queen Alicent accepting him as her sworn sword leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, particularly when you have to break the news to Laenor.

Along with your pride, one of your greatest attributes is how protective you are of your loved ones. Joffrey was Laenor's lover as well as one of your good friends.

It takes a little while to plan, but one day gossip erupts about Criston being found drunk in a brothel that's particularly debauched, even by the standards of King's Landing.

You seize your chance and tell your goodfather that perception is important, that such a knight like that cannot be allowed to guard the royal family, especially the Queen. Viserys ignores Alicent's protests and Criston is gelded and sent to the Wall.

Speaking of Viserys, you know that any sons he has will be pitted against your wife.

You also know that his health isn't very good.

You decide to help him by giving him a tonic that your mother swears by, along with some lotions and creams. "Two drops of this with your morning meal every day and you'll soon feel better, Your Grace," you persuade him. "And wouldn't it be wonderful if you could meet your future grandchildren?"

Your father told you once you could sell water to a fish, such was the power of your silver tongue.

Viserys' health does improve after taking the tonic and the lotions that are massaged into his skin fix most of his pains.

However you failed to mention that the tonic and lotion both have herbs which cause infertility if used over long periods of time. Your mother only uses the tonic, and does so sparingly.

Viserys and Alicent only have Aegon and Helaena as a result of your actions.

You and Rhaenyra work hard to charm lords and ladies to support your cause.

You go on progress across the realm, flattering and courting all the noble families you meet.

It quickly becomes known that to be one of Princess Rhaenyra's ladies in waiting is a boon for attaining a fortunate marriage. In turn, you surround yourself with ambitious lords and their sons who want to advance their own interests.

It's a delicate dance, but you were taught how to make alliances by your parents, plus your charisma and ability to speak to anyone makes you one of the most popular members of the royal family.

Any attempts Alicent makes to gain allies for her son are countered by you and she can't stand you.

She tried to make Rhaenyra bring Lucerys to her when he was born, but you shut that down. "I wasn't aware that the Queen was in such poor health that she couldn't come herself to meet the newest member of our family," you say with a mocking smile. "The King is already coming to meet his grandson and I'm sure he would wish for Her Grace to join him." The sour look on the Queen's face when she finally arrives, only to find Viserys holding your baby boy, is a sight you'll remember for weeks to come.

You're Rhaenyra's greatest weapon and she despises how popular you are. You weren't supposed to be this politically adept, your children weren't supposed to be that lovely and polite and Rhaenyra was not supposed to be the heir when Viserys already has a son.

She says so to Larys Strong, who decides to do something about it without telling her.

You survive the pathetic assassination attempt because of a loyal servant.

Rhaenyra finds out what happened and she is furious. When she finds out Larys did it? He's a dead man walking.

His body is found in a secluded corridor at the bottom of the stairs. It's fairly obvious that he slipped and fell in a tragic accident - the servants had only finished cleaning and polishing those stairs the day before.

You thank your wife for avenging you with a sapphire necklace and several rounds of insatiable sex that eventually results in your son Aegon being conceived.

Unfortunately Lyonel Strong takes this as his chance to resign as Hand and return to Harrenhall, something you and your wife are unhappy about. You will miss him and his unwavering loyalty and fairness.

You miss him even more when you find out Otto Hightower is returning to King's Landing to be Viserys' Hand again.

The return of her father emboldens the Queen, although you and Rhaenyra are more than a match for them, both during the Small Council meetings (which you are Master of Ships) and outside them.

Eventually though, you decide to take care of the problem, although your wife cautions you to be careful.

A year after becoming Hand again, Otto Hightower is dead. His health had been declining for some time, even before he returned to King's Landing, but the poison you'd had your spies slip into his furniture and clothing certainly made his end quicker.

You knew he had a food taster, so you had to be careful to make it appear natural. A quiet conversation with Daemon had pointed you in the right direction.

Although it appeared to be natural, you knew that Otto's last days were a living hell. A fitting end for such a man.

With his death, you recommended Viserys make Lyonel Strong Hand again or even name Rhaenyra to be the Hand, as preparation for her future role.

His decision to name Rhaenyra as Hand is one of the only good decisions he's made.

It gives her more experience in governing the realm, particularly when he starts to become more frail.

After several years of this, she is confident in her role. She will be a magnificent Queen and you're truly honoured to be her consort.

[starogeorgina]

𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐤𝐲

Pairing: Aegon ii Targaryen × reader

Warnings: Swearing, violence

1.04

Your heart was still racing from witnessing Alicent slap Aegon across the face. The paleness of the skin on his cheek was now red and slightly swollen. Your heart bled for him; he was drunk and confused. Nothing that had transpired within the past few hours was his fault.

The queen’s handmaiden, Talya, had subtly moved you and Helaena further back from everyone else in the room as more people arrived.

The knight who escorted you to the great hall in Driftmark only said there was an incident; he never let on who was involved or what happened. Your younger brother, Aemond, had bonded with Vhagar, the queen of all dragons. Upsetting the late Lady Laena’s daughters Baela and Rhaena, which somehow resulted in an altercation involving the two girls, Jacaerys and Lucerys.

As a result of whatever transpired, Aemond lost his eye, and Lucerys was being blamed. Luke was a sweet child; you doubted any act of violence was unprompted, but then Aemond didn’t deserve the pain he was suffering.

You tilt your head closer to Helaena, who was almost the same height as you. “If ābri sia taught bona ziry iksos daor possible naejot laodigon iā zaldrīzes, bisa could emagon issare avoided.” (If ladies were taught that it's not possible to steal a dragon, this could have been avoided.)

“Skoros gaomagon ao nūmāzma?” (What do you mean?)

“If Vhagar didn't jaelagon naejot sagon ridden ondoso īlva lēkia, ziry would emagon zaltan iā iprattan zirȳla.” (If Vhagar didn't wish to be ridden by our brother, she would have burned or ate him.)

“He had to close an eye.”

You examine your nephews from afar; you wanted to comfort them but would not cross the room to stand with Rhaenyra. Your heart clenches. You felt torn and stayed standing in the middle of the room, not wanting to pick a side. Part of you felt ashamed, not rushing to Jace and Luke’s defence, but each time your mouth would form the shape of words, Talya would give you a look that would then silence you.

You notice Aegon’s hand trembling as Maester Mellos tends to the wound on Aemond’s face that stretches from his cheekbone to his forehead.

“Bro-”

It was hard to hear with various voices yelling their version of events, yet it was your oldest nephew's whisper that was heard by all. “He called us bastards.”

A look appears in Rhaenyra’s eyes that you’ve never seen before: fear. She claps hold of Jacaerys hand. “My sons are in line to inherit the Iron Throne, Your Grace. This is the highest of treasons. Prince Aemond must be sharply questioned so we might learn where he heard such slanders.”

“Over an insult?” Alicent’s eyes gloss over. “My son has lost an eye.”

“You tell me, boy. Where did you hear this lie?” The king's cain thumps against the floor as he storms towards Aemond, “Tell me who spoke these lies so I can cut their tongue from their mouth.”

You catch Aegon’s eye, and he slowly shakes his head. He may have called Rhaenyra a whore and her sons bastards in front of you, but you believed from the look on his face that he never said it to anyone else.

“Aemond!” Your father slams his stick into the ground. “I am your king, and I demand you tell me at once!”

Aemond glances up at his mother, who is standing beside him Alicent gives him a pleading look. Gulping down, Aemond looks directly at his older brother, putting the blame on him. Quietly he mumbles, “It was Aegon.”

Aegon looks hurt, “me?”

Your father has a murderous glare in his eyes as he goes towards Aegon. “And you, boy? Where did you hear such calumnies? Aegon!” Frustrated, he yells in his face. “Tell me the truth of it!”

“The insult was first said in the training yard, your grace. I’ve heard different lords sons saying it.” You weren’t lying; of course it was obvious to everyone aside from the king himself that the ‘rumours’ originally came from the queen herself. “Those boys who are the ones that should be sharply questioned, not your own sons.”

“You, girl,” the king now stands directly in front of you, his rotten-smelling breath warm in your face. “You should be standing beside Rhaenyra, your sister, my heir. Aemma would be ashamed of you.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Even the king's own brother, Prince Daemon, looks stunned by his brothers harsh words. You take a deep breath when your lips start to tremble. The blood of the dragon does not weep. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how deep his words had cut.

Alicent places her hand on top of the pendant, her fingers tracing the seven-pointed star, the symbol of her faith. She gasps, “Viserys.”

Aegon steps forward and looks directly at your nephews and sister. “We know, Father. Everyone knows. Just look at them.”

—

“I’m glad you left when you did, Princess, before the violence started. The maester who stitched Princess Rhaenyra's wound said it would heal.”

Knowing you were humiliated by your father's words, the queen ordered Ser Criston to escort you back to the bedchambers you were staying in, and during that time a struggle broke out between Alicent and Rhaenyra. Alicent tried to cut Lucerys eye out with the king's own dagger as an act of revenge, and Rhaenyra put herself between her son and the blade. Although Alicent’s actions were wrong, you blamed your father for not taking Aemond’s injury seriously in the first place.

“Thank you, Flora,” you say, stepping away from your handmaiden as she finished unclasping your hair from the braids you slept in. “I do not wish to speak of what happened anymore.”

“Very well, princess. Which dress would you like to wear while returning home?”

“The ivory dress.”

Nodding, she picks up the soft material with scale-like patterns embroidered into it and helps you step into the dress before fastening it at the back. “May I ask you something, princess?”

You look at Flora over your shoulder and say, “Yes.”

“Forgive me if this is out of turn, but what do you think will happen now? Will you remain in the keep, or do you think the king will force you to go Dragonstone?”

“I—” taking a shuddering breath, you stare at the tapestry hanging above the fireplace of a ship sailing through a storm. “I am unsure. I’m presuming the king will act fast to find me another husband. Preferably one far enough away that he will not need to see me again.”

Flora finishes lacing the dress and steps back to admire it. She wasn’t much older than yourself and seemed just as lonely as you did at court. “If you do go somewhere else, I hope the king allows me to serve you there.”

Her kind words push the tears that were already threatening to spill from your eyes out. How was it possible your handmaiden would want to be near you when your own father could not? You reach for Flora’s hand, and she says nothing as you sob.

—

While most of the royal party go aboard the ship near ready to set sail for the red keep, you look up at the rocks behind you and see Sunfyre resting his head next to Aegon, who lovingly caresses his golden scales. The only time you saw a true smile on your brother's face was when he was with his dragon.

“Would you like to touch him?”

“What?”

“Would you like to touch him?” Aegon’s asks, and he turns his head in your direction with a hopeful look on his face. “He won’t bite you in half.”

It was always a risk approaching a dragon that wasn’t your own. Most dragons had handlers beside their riders, and you doubted Aegon would risk your life. As you walk over to them, Ghost tilts their head to the side, observing you, and makes an almost purring sound, “Ao sagon iēdrosa ñuha favorite.” (You're still my favorite.)

When you reach them Aegon sees you hesitate and grabs your hand, pulling you closer, then places your hand on top of Sunfyre’s scales.

“He is truly beautiful.”

“The most beautiful in the world,” Aegon says proudly. “My golden boy.”

You remove your hand from the dragon's scales, and Sunfyre nudges Aegon in the chest with his snout. It was amusing to watch them be so playful together.

Sighing, you glance down at the ship, and your eyes land directly on your father. “I’m not looking forward to the journey home.”

“I’m not going with them.”

“No? Have you found another family to join instead?”

“The gods aren’t kind enough to grant me another family,” he tuts. “I’m flying on dragon back. Care to join me?”

Now that he suggested it, you wanted nothing more. “Let’s go then; even better, let’s make it a race!”

—

Dinner was awkward; it was mainly in silence. Your father had spoken a few times but not once had you, the queen, or any of your siblings responded. The mood was much lighter until he suddenly appeared.

Though you had worn the pale gold dress Alicent gifted you, the material wasn’t as thick as your other gowns. Feel a slight chill as you straighten your legs out and rub your ankles together, trying to get some heat.

“Are you cold?” Aegon asks, in a low voice.

You open your mouth to reply, but noticing your father looking in your direction, you say nothing and nod in response to Aegon’s question.

When the table is cleared, Helaena speaks up, “Can I return to my chambers?”

“No yet,” Alicent smiles at her before looking to her father. Otto mouths something you cannot hear. Clearing her throat, the queen stands up and holds up her cup. “The last few days have been difficult, but we now have something to celebrate. A betrothal between Prince Aegon and princess y/n has been purposed, and both myself and the king are in agreement that it would be a perfect match.”

The rest of her words disappear as everything becomes a blur. Was this real? Both Aemond and Helaena seem pleased for you, but when you turn to look at Aegon, he’s gone.

—

You find you’re betrothed in the cellars of the keep, standing in front of the skull of Balerion, the black dread. You always wondered if the largest and most fierce dragon that ever lived, that was once ridden by Aegon the Conqueror himself, dying not long after your father bonded with him, could be considered a bad omen.

In the glow of the flames, Aegon looks breathtaking—a true Targaryen.

“How did you know I was here?”

“I didn’t. I come here sometimes to find comfort.”

Aegon continues to stare straight ahead as he asks, “Do you want to marry me?”

Under different circumstances, you would have laughed because what a woman wanted in a society ruled by men didn’t matter. You gulp down, “I’ve always accepted that I’ll most likely die in the birthing bed as my mother did. Death by duty. And when I was betrothed to Ser Harwin, I assumed that my fate would be giving him heirs until I no longer could. But now it’s different.”

Aegon’s eyes are clouded with uncertainty when he finally looks at you. “How?”

“I think a life with you would be worth the risk.”

[kckt88]

Perzys se ānogar II

Summary:

In the aftemath of Rooks Rest, Aemond arrives on Dragonstone to bend the knee but tensions soon erupt when Vaeda stands against her family to defend her husbands life.

Warnings - Angst, Drama, Langauage, Disagreements, Vulnerability, Confessions, Death Threats, Imprisonment, Physical Violence, Uncle/Niece Incest, Kissing, Smut, Oral Sex (M & F Recieving), P in V, Breeding Kink, Referenced Character Death,

AEMOND TARGARYEN x O.C NIECE

Perzys se ānogar - Fire and Blood.

Word Count: 7800

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated.

Tag List - @jasminecosmic99 @kaelatargaryen @yesterdayfeelings-blog @immyowndefender @0eessirk8

"Aemond Targaryen, you stand before me charged with high treason and murder. How do you plead?" said Rhaenyra, her voice firm and commanding.

Aemond lifted his head, meeting Rhaenyra's gaze. "Guilty, Your Grace-" he replied, his voice steady but laced with sorrow.

Rhaenyra's eyes narrowed slightly as she leaned forward. "Do you have anything to say in your defence?"

Aemond took a deep breath, his eyes flickering to Vaeda for a moment before returning to Rhaenyra. "There is nothing I can say to excuse my treason. I helped to steal our father’s throne-as for what happened to Luke-” His voice broke slightly, but he continued, "-It was an accident. I never meant to kill him, I lost control and I-I’m sorry."

“Lost control?” asked Rhaenyra.

“All I wanted was his eye-in payment for the one that he took from me, but he refused. After he left, I chased after him. I just wanted to scare him, to make him feel as helpless as he made me feel that night on Driftmark. I lost sight of him and was about to turn back when Arrax attacked Vhagar, I could hear Luke shouting, but Arrax wouldn’t listen. Vhagar was angry and she lashed out-I tried to stop her but she wouldn’t listen”

The room fell silent, the weight of his confession hanging heavy in the air. Vaeda's eyes were filled with a mixture of sorrow and hope, her hands clenched at her sides. Jace's face was a mask of barely controlled anger, while Baela, Rhaenys, and Corlys watched with guarded expressions.

Rhaenyra's gaze bore into Aemond, assessing him. "You claim it was an accident," she said slowly, "-Yet my son is dead, and your actions have plunged this realm into chaos and war."

Aemond nodded, his expression pained. "I know that, and I am prepared to face the consequences of my actions. But I ask, Your Grace, to consider my regret and my willingness to stand here before you, confessing my guilt."

Rhaenyra's eyes flickered to Vaeda, who stepped forward, her voice steady. "Mother, Aemond is willing to bend the knee, to swear his loyalty to you and to your cause. He came here knowing the risk, but he did so because he wanted to make things right."

Rhaenyra's gaze softened slightly as she looked at her daughter, then back at Aemond. The tension in the room was palpable as everyone awaited her decision.

Finally, she spoke. "-You have confessed to your crimes and expressed your regret and while I cannot bring back my son, I can choose to show mercy. Your fate will be decided by myself and my counsel, until then you will be held as my prisoner-take him to the cells."

As the guards moved to take Aemond away, Vaeda watched, her heart heavy. The sound of the chains echoed around the throne room, a haunting melody of loss and regret. Aemond's eye found hers one last time, and he whispered, "Avy jorrāelan ābrazȳrys" (I love you, wife).

Once Aemond had disappeared and the doors were firmly shut, Rhaenyra turned her attention to Vaeda. "What exactly happened at Rook's Rest?" she demanded, her eyes narrowing.

Vaeda took a deep breath, steadying herself. "Lord Staunton was under siege by the Greens' forces, led by Criston Cole. I had Cannibal burn as many of them as I could. But then Aegon arrived with Sunfyre, and we engaged each other in aerial combat."

The council members exchanged concerned glances, the tension in the room palpable.

Vaeda continued, "Then Aemond arrived with Vhagar, and he directed her towards Aegon and attacked him."

Gasps of shock rippled through the council. Rhaenyra's eyes widened in disbelief. "Aemond attacked his own brother?"

Vaeda nodded. "Yes, Sunfyre fell from the sky and whilst I could have fled, I knew that getting rid of Vhagar was a chance I could not pass up. So, I had Cannibal attack. The two dragons fought and were evenly matched. They crashed into the ground, and I was thrown from the saddle."

Rhaenyra, still seated on her rock-carved throne, leaned forward. "Then what happened?" she asked, her voice firm but laced with curiosity.

Vaeda took a deep breath before continuing. "I regained consciousness and discovered Aemond injured. I could have left him to die, but I didn't."

Jace scoffed loudly, "You should have left him to die."

Rhaenyra shot him a silencing glare. "Continue-"

"I saved Aemond's life," Vaeda said. "We talked—he told me what happened that night in the skies above Storm's End, and why he attacked Aegon. He also killed Cole to protect me."

Jace's eyes narrowed. "That's not all he did, given the love bite on your neck."

Vaeda blushed deeply, but she held her ground. She turned back to her mother, who shook her head in disbelief. Jace wasn't finished, though, his anger bubbling over. "So Aemond tries to kill his own brother, then sets his dragon upon his own wife, and she not only saves his life but fucks him in the forest like some animal."

"It wasn't like that," Vaeda protested, her voice rising. "Aemond thought that by coming here, he would be executed. We thought it might be the last time-”

“Vaeda-” muttered Rhaenyra, her voice soft yet firm.

“Muña kostilus, ziry emagon issa prūmia, ziry iksos issa idañnykeā perzys” (Mother please, he has my heart, he is my twin flame).

“Jāhor bona lua zirȳla pazavor?” asked Rhaenyra (Will that keep him loyal).

“Ziry jāhor, nyke kivio” exclaimed Vaeda (It will, I promise).

Jace sniggered angrily, but Baela elbowed him in the ribs, silencing him.

Rhaenyra looked at her daughter with a mix of emotions. "Vaeda, your loyalty to Aemond complicates things. His actions have caused great pain to our family, and yet you speak on his behalf."

Vaeda's eyes welled with tears. "Mother, I know what he has done is unforgivable, but he is still my husband and the father of my child. He came here to make things right. He deserves a chance to atone."

Rhaenyra sighed deeply, the weight of her crown pressing heavily on her. "Vaeda, this war has torn us apart, and every decision we make carries immense consequences. Aemond must remain in the cells until we decide his fate. But I will consider what you’ve said”

Vaeda nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. "Thank you, Mother."

Rhaenyra looked to her council. "We will meet in the council chambers on the morrow to discuss our next steps. Vaeda, you may return to your chambers and bathe-I will send Maester Gerardys to check on your injuries”

Freshly bathed, Vaeda sat quietly in her chambers as Maester Gerardys examined her injuries. Rhaegar sat on a blanket at her feet, playing with his toys.

Gerardys’ experienced hands moved carefully over her bruised ribs, noting the few minor scrapes.

"You've a small but deep wound on your forehead, Princess," Gerardys said gently, his fingers probing the area with care. "It will require stitches; I can prescribe milk of-"

"-No" replied Vaeda, her voice steady despite the pain.

"As you wish." Gerardys prepared his needle and thread, his movements precise and practiced. He began stitching the wound, his touch delicate yet firm. Vaeda winced but bore the pain silently, her gaze fixed on a distant point, the sounds of Rhaegar happily playing filtered through the air.

As he worked, Gerardys noticed the love bites on her neck. He paused briefly, then continued stitching. "Princess, do you require moon tea?" he asked, his tone respectful.

"No, thank you," Vaeda replied softly as she placed a hand on her stomach.

After a moment of silence, Vaeda's thoughts spilled forth. "Do you think I'm crazy for defending Aemond after everything he's done?"

Gerardys paused in his work, meeting her eyes with a kind and thoughtful expression. "Princess, I have known you since you were a small child. Not once have I ever thought you were crazy. Stubborn, yes, but never crazy."

His words brought a small, grateful smile to her lips. He finished stitching the wound and carefully tied off the thread, ensuring the stitches were secure. "There, all done," he said, stepping back to admire his work. "Do you require anything else?"

Vaeda shook her head. "No, thank you".

He nodded and gathered his supplies. "Rest well, Princess. Call on me if you need anything."

As Gerardys left the room, Vaeda leaned back in her chair watching as Rhaegar still played contentedly with his toys on the floor, his silver hair shimmering in the candlelight.

Suddenly, a distant, deep grumbling roar echoed through the air, causing Rhaegar to look up, his bright eyes wide with recognition. "Vhagar," he said, pointing towards the window.

Vaeda nodded, her smile bittersweet. "Yes, darling."

Rhaegar's face lit up with excitement. "Daddy here?" he asked eagerly.

Vaeda took a deep breath, her heart heavy. "Yes, he is."

"I want see daddy," Rhaegar said, pulling himself to his feet. He toddled towards the door; his small hands outstretched. "Daddy!"

“Rhaegar-we can’t” whispered Vaeda as she quickly scooped him up, holding him close as he buried his face in her neck.

"Pease, mummy—want see daddy," pleaded Rhaegar, his voice muffled and tearful.

Vaeda stroked his silver hair, her resolve wavering. "Alright, my sweet. I will take you to see your daddy, but you must be very quiet. Can you do that for me?"

Rhaegar sniffled but nodded, his tiny hands clutching his stuffed dragon teddy tightly. "Yes, mummy. Quiet."

With a deep breath, Vaeda adjusted Rhaegar in her arms and headed out the door. She moved silently through the dimly lit corridors of Dragonstone, her heart pounding with each step. The castle was eerily quiet, the shadows long and foreboding.

Vaeda held Rhaegar close as she descended the winding staircase towards the cells. The stone walls emitting a soft warmth as she passed.

Rhaegar clung to her, his small fingers gripping the fabric of her dress. His amethyst eyes looked around curiously, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings with a mix of wonder and apprehension.

As they approached the cell, Vaeda saw two guards standing watch. She walked towards them, her heart pounding. The guards stepped forward, blocking her path.

"You are not allowed to be here by order of the Queen," one of them said sternly.

Vaeda took a deep breath, her eyes pleading. "Please, just for a few minutes. Rhaegar wants to see his father."

The guards exchanged uncertain glances, clearly torn between their orders and the heartfelt request. After a moment, one of them spoke. "You have five minutes. No more."

Vaeda thanked them with a relieved nod as they unlocked the heavy door and moved aside. She stepped into the dimly lit cell, her heart aching at the sight before her.

Aemond was chained to the wall, his face turned towards the small window, the faint light casting shadows across his sharp features.

"Daddy!" Rhaegar's voice broke the silence, filled with pure joy.

Aemond turned at the sound, a smile breaking across his weary face. "Byka zaldrīzes" he breathed; his voice choked with emotion (Little dragon).

Vaeda set Rhaegar down, and the little boy ran to his father, throwing his small arms around Aemond's neck as best as he could.

"Miss you, Daddy," he said, his voice muffled against Aemond's tunic.

Aemond struggled against the chains, the metal clinking as he tried to move his arms. But the chains were too short, preventing him from fully embracing his son.

"I miss you too" he said, his voice thick with emotion. He managed to lower his head and press a kiss to Rhaegar's hair, his eye shining with unshed tears.

Vaeda stood by the door, watching the scene with a heavy heart. She knew their time was limited, and every second felt precious. Rhaegar looked up at his father, his small face full of concern. "Daddy, why you here?"

Aemond sighed, his gaze shifting to Vaeda for a moment before returning to his son. "Daddy made some bad choices-”

Rhaegar nodded solemnly, not fully understanding. He nestled closer to Aemond, his little hands clutching at his father's tunic.

Vaeda stepped forward, her voice soft. "We have to go soon, Rhaegar."

Rhaegar looked up, his eyes pleading. "No, mummy. Stay with daddy."

Vaeda's heart broke a little more at his words. She knelt beside them, placing a gentle hand on Rhaegar's back. "We can't stay, but we'll see daddy again soon”.

Rhaegar nodded and then quickly pressed his stuffed dragon teddy into Aemond’s hands, the soft fabric contrasting sharply with the cold metal of the chains.

“Keep, daddy. Safe,” said Rhaegar.

Aemond’s eye widened, as he clutched the stuffed dragon close a single tear slid down his cheek, glistening in the dim light.

Rhaegar reached up and wiped the tear away with his tiny hand. “No cry, Daddy,” he said softly, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to Aemond’s cheek.

Aemond looked at Vaeda, his eye filled with gratitude and sorrow. "Thank you," he whispered.

Vaeda nodded, her own eyes glistening with tears. She stood and lifted Rhaegar into her arms, the little boy protesting weakly. "We have to go now, my love."

As they turned to leave, Aemond's voice stopped them. "Rhaegar, be a good boy for your mother? I love you both so very much."

Rhaegar nodded; his face buried in Vaeda's shoulder. “Love you daddy”

Vaeda carried Rhaegar out of the cell, the door closing behind them with a heavy thud.

Later that night, Vaeda woke with a start. She could have sworn she heard Aemond's voice calling out to her in the darkness. As she sat up, straining to listen, her attention was captured by the sound of Vhagar roaring in the distance, followed by the unmistakable high-pitched whistle of her father's dragon, Caraxes. A cold dread settled in her chest. Something was wrong.

Pulling on a robe, Vaeda ran down the halls towards the cells. As she approached, she noticed the guards were conspicuously absent, replaced by the sounds of pained groans. Her heart pounded as she flung open the door to Aemond's cell.

Inside, she found her father, Daemon, his fist connecting brutally with Aemond's face. Blood spattered the cold stone floor.

"Stop!" Vaeda screamed, rushing between them. She placed herself protectively in front of Aemond, who was slumped against the wall, blood trickling from his nose and mouth.

Daemon's eyes blazed with fury. "Move, Vaeda. Let me deal with the kinslayer. This boy killed your brother. He deserves to pay for his crimes."

Vaeda stood her ground, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and determination. "If that is the case, then you should pay for yours. You may not have taken the blade to young Jaehaerys' neck, but you paid the men who did."

Daemon's face contorted with rage. "That was a mistake"

"Leave Aemond alone," Vaeda insisted, her voice steadying. "It is for the Queen to decide his fate."

Daemon snarled, his eyes narrowing at his daughter. After a tense moment, he stormed out of the cell, his heavy footsteps echoing in the corridor. Vaeda exhaled shakily, turning to see the guards had returned, their expressions conflicted.

"Unlock his chains," she demanded. When they hesitated, she added, "By order of the princess, or I will have you fed to Cannibal."

The threat worked. The guards moved quickly, freeing Aemond from his bonds. He slumped forward, barely able to stand. Vaeda reached out, helping him to his feet.

"Lean on me," she whispered, her voice soft but firm. "I'm taking you to my chambers."

Aemond nodded weakly, his body trembling with pain and exhaustion. As they made their way out of the cell, Vaeda cast a final, defiant glance at the guards, who quickly averted their eyes. If they wouldn’t do their job and guard Aemond then she would do it for them.

They moved slowly through the darkened corridors, Aemond leaning heavily on Vaeda. She could feel the tension in his muscles, the unspoken gratitude and vulnerability. When they finally reached her chambers, Vaeda helped him to the bed, gently easing him down.

"Thank you," Aemond whispered, his voice rough.

Vaeda sat beside him, her hand resting on his. "You're safe now," she said softly. "I won't let anyone hurt you."

The next day, Vaeda left Aemond in her chambers, having summoned Maester Gerardys to assess his injuries. The maester had cleaned and dressed the previously cauterized wound on Aemond's stomach and reset his broken nose, whilst administering a dose of milk of the poppy to ease his pain.

Now, Aemond slept soundly, his breathing even and steady. Vaeda took a deep breath, steeling herself for the council meeting that would decide Aemond's fate.

As she entered the council chamber, the room fell silent. Rhaenyra sat at the head of the table, her face stern and regal. Daemon, Jace, Baela, Rhaenys, Corlys, and the other lords were present, their expressions a mix of concern and determination.

Rhaenyra's eyes softened for a moment as she gazed upon her daughter "Vaeda, I have talked extensively with my council, and we all agree that it's too much of a risk to allow Aemond to live”

“Are you being serious?” exclaimed Vaeda.

“I’m sorry-but his past actions have proven that he can't be trusted” explained Rhaenyra.

Vaeda scoffed, her frustration boiling over. "Like you can stand there and talk about trust after all the lies you've told. The consequences of which stand before you, in the form of your children."

A shocked silence fell over the room. Rhaenyra's eyes widened in disbelief. Daemon's face darkened as he commanded, "Be mindful of how you speak to your Queen"

“Or else what?” challenged Vaeda.

“I shall have you punished” threatened Daemon.

“Wonderful-” mocked Vaeda clapping her hands together.

“Carry on and you will suffer the consequences-or your kinslayer husband will” snarled Daemon.

Vaeda's eyes flashed with defiance. "You dare after all the trouble you've caused over the years, and yet you dare to label Aemond a kinslayer when you're guilty of the exact same thing?"

Daemon slammed his fist down on the table, rising from his seat with fury. He charged toward Vaeda, his hand wrapping around her throat. "You know nothing of what I'm truly capable of” he hissed.

Vaeda smirked, her voice steady despite the pressure on her throat. "Oh, I know exactly what you're capable of."

Daemon felt a pinching sensation in his side, and he looked down to see the dagger Vaeda had pressed into his side.

“A bold move daughter-” said Daemon smiling, almost as if he was impressed.

"Stand down, both of you. NOW!" Rhaenyra's voice cut through the tension, commanding and firm.

Vaeda put the dagger back inside her sleeve as she stood before her mother, the anger still seething within her. "-This is all your fault," she began, her voice shaking with emotion. "Maybe if you had remained in King's Landing and actually spent time solidifying your position as heir instead of hiding away on Dragonstone, it wouldn't have been so easy to usurp you and maybe if you had bonded with your siblings instead of scorning them, our house wouldn't be so divided."

Rhaenyra's eyes widened in shock, but Vaeda didn't stop there. "And maybe if you had made Luke apologize for slashing out Aemond's eye, he might still be alive. You’ve helped to sow the seeds of discord, and now we’re the one’s dealing the consequences. But I will not stand by and let you sentence Aemond to death-"

"Vaeda," Rhaenyra started, her voice strained, but Vaeda cut her off.

"No! There has to be another way”

The room fell silent, the tension palpable. Rhaenyra's face was a mask of pain and regret. "Vaeda, I never wanted any of this," she said softly. "But we have to think of the realm. Aemond's actions have threatened our cause and the lives of our people."

Vaeda's eyes filled with tears, but she stood firm. "And what about my family? What about Rhaegar growing up without his father? What about me, losing the man I love? There has to be another way. Because if you give that order, then I swear you will never see me or Rhaegar again"

“You are heir to the Iron Throne” muttered Jace.

“FUCK THE IRON THRONE!” declared Vaeda savagely.

Rhaenyra looked at her daughter, the weight of her words sinking in. She saw the determination and pain in Vaeda's eyes, and it broke her heart. "I don't want to lose you," she whispered.

"Then don't make me choose-because it will be him. It will always be him" Vaeda replied, her voice trembling.

Rhaenyra took a deep breath, her expression firm yet sorrowful. "I cannot trust Aemond, this you know" she began, her voice steady. "But I will not lose my only daughter." She paused, searching Vaeda's eyes for understanding. “Aemond may keep his life, but he is to remain on Dragonstone for the rest of his days."

Vaeda's breath caught in her throat, but she said nothing, waiting for her mother to continue.

"And when the time comes for you to be crowned Queen," Rhaenyra continued, her tone resolute, "Aemond will not sit beside you as your Consort King. You will rule the Seven Kingdoms on your own, until your son ascends the throne after your natural passing"

Vaeda stood before her mother, heart pounding. She knew how much was at stake. The fate of her husband and the future of her family rested on her next words. She took a deep, shuddering breath, her decision weighing heavily on her.

"Alright," she said, her voice barely above a whisper at first, but then she found her strength. "I agree to your conditions”

Rhaenyra nodded, her eyes filled with a mix of sorrow and relief. "I know this isn't easy, but it's the only way."

Vaeda's mind was a whirlwind of thoughts as she made her way back to her chambers. How would Aemond react? Would he understand the necessity of this compromise? Her heart ached at the thought of telling him, but she knew it was either this or see him executed and she couldn't bear the latter.

Entering her chambers, she found Aemond still resting, his face peaceful in sleep. She approached quietly, not wanting to startle him. Sitting beside him, she gently took his hand in hers, waiting for him to wake.

Aemond stirred, his eye fluttering open. He looked up at her, confusion and concern evident in his gaze. "Vaeda?" he murmured.

"Aemond," she said softly, squeezing his hand.

He sat up slowly, wincing slightly at the pain from his injuries. "What is it?"

Vaeda took another deep breath, steeling herself for the conversation. "My mother has made her decision-”

“Am I to meet the stranger?” asked Aemond quietly.

“That was to be your fate, but I managed to convince my mother otherwise-” replied Vaeda as she reached forward and tucked a lose strand of Aemond’s long silver hair behind his ear.

“How?”

“I told her that if she ordered your execution then she would never see me or Rhaegar ever again. Plus, I may have told her a few home truths whilst I was at it, and I might have gone slightly overboard-” said Vaeda smiling sheepishly.

“Hmmm”

“A compromise was reached. You will be allowed to live, but you must stay on Dragonstone for the remainder of your days and when I become Queen, you will not be my Consort King. I will rule alone."

Aemond's eye widened slightly, processing her words. Silence stretched between them as he absorbed the news.

Finally, he nodded, his expression a mixture of relief and resignation. "I understand," he said quietly. "If it means that I can stay with you and Rhaegar, then it doesn’t matter”

 “No matter what-you will always be Issa dārys” (My King).

“Issa dāria-” muttered Aemond (My Queen).

"Sounds like someone is hungry," teased Vaeda at the sound of Aemond’s stomach growling.

“Little bit” replied Aemond.

“I'll go request some food for you” said Vaeda as she started to move from the bed.

But before she could get far, Aemond's hand shot out, gently taking hold of her wrist. "I'm not hungry for food," he said, his voice low and filled with intent.

Vaeda's cheeks flushed a delicate pink as she realized what he meant. Her heartbeat quickened, as she allowed Aemond to pull her back onto the bed.

"Aemond," she whispered, her voice trembling with a mix of anticipation and affection.

He moved closer, his eye locking onto hers with an intensity that made her breath catch. "Vaeda," he murmured, his voice soft but filled with longing. "I need you."

She nodded, feeling a wave of love and desire wash over her as Aemond's hand moved to cup her cheek, his thumb gently brushing over her skin. "I love you," he said, his voice rough with emotion.

"I love you too," Vaeda replied, her voice filled with sincerity. She leaned in, capturing his lips in a quick tender kiss.

Aemond watched with a hooded gaze as Vaeda moved off the bed and began to untie the laces of her gown, letting it fall to the floor, with the material pooling at her feet.

Whilst she removed her shift, Aemond hastily pulled off his breeches and small clothes, he sighed in relief as his already hard cock was free from its confines.

Vaeda smiled slightly as she hooked her fingers around her own small clothes and slowly pulled them down, Aemond could feel himself salivating as he stared at her cunny.

“Come here-” growled Aemond, as he reached out and tugged Vaeda back on the bed.

“Let me take care of you” muttered Vaeda as she placed kisses along Aemond jaw and then down his neck, making sure to gently nip and suck his skin as she went.

She carried on moving down, pausing as she reached his chest, she grinned as she took one of his nipples into her mouth, her tongue teasing it before she bit down gently.

“FUCK” moaned Aemond.

“Does issa dārys like that?” asked Vaeda as she moved across and gave his other nipple the same attention, (My King).

“Oh. Gods” whimpered Aemond as she moved further down his body, her tongue and teeth grazing his pale skin.

When she reached the trail of hair from his belly button down to his cock, she pressed her nose against him and giggled when she felt the hair tickle her skin.

“Kostilus issa jorrāelagon” begged Aemond (Please my love).

“Ao līs umbagon issa zaldrīzes” replied Vaeda (You must wait, my dragon).

Aemond stared down at his naughty wife, his mouth hanging open as Vaeda’s warm, wet mouth quickly wrapped around the head of his cock.

Her tongue gently moving around the tip – tracing the ridges and licking off that drops of pre-cum that had started to leak out.

“Fuck, Vaeda!” groaned Aemond as he threaded his fingers through his wife’s silver hair.

Vaeda ran the flat of her tongue along Aemond’s length, tracing every hard inch of him.

Aemond’s heart almost stopped when she sucked his stones into her mouth, one at a time.

Her hand moving slowly over the hard length of him.

When Vaeda moved and engulfed Aemond’s cock in her mouth again, he squeezed his eye shut. She was driving him crazy.

But Aemond forced himself to open his eye, he needed to watch as his wife sucked his cock. 

“Your taking me so well. Such a good girl” moaned Aemond.

Aemond knew it would push the limits of his control, but he did not care. He just had to watch his cock disappear into Vaeda’s mouth and see it come back out, shining with her spit.

Her head moving back and forth, her perfect pink lips stretched around him.

“I’m not going to last if you carry on” Aemond admitted, though it pained him to do so.

Vaeda smiled slightly and began moving faster, also using one of her hands in rhythm with her mouth. 

“It feels so good-that’s it” groaned Aemond.

Vaeda responded to his statement by relaxing the back of her throat, and swallowing as much of her husband’s cock as she could, whilst her other hand cupped his stones.

“Shit-Vaeda. I’m going to come. Oh, fuck, I’m coming!” shouted Aemond as he exploded.

His wife took every last drop, swallowing his warm seed and licking him clean.

When he recovered, Aemond saw Vaeda’s self-satisfied smile.

“Was that to your liking husband?” asked Vaeda.

“Y-Yes. Now get up here and ride my face until I’m ready again” gasped Aemond.

“But your nose” whispered Vaeda concerned.

“I don’t care-get up here and sit on my fucking face” ordered Aemond, his cock already twitching with interest.

Vaeda hovered above Aemond’s face; her knees splayed on either side of his head.

“Such a pretty cock sleeve" breathed Aemond as he ran the flat of his tongue along Vaeda’s soaked slit, from bottom to the top, tasting her.

“Oh, my god” moaned Vaeda her eyes rolling into the back of her head.

“That’s it Issa dōna. Let me hear you” (My sweet).

“YES. It feels so good. Don’t stop. Aemond. Please” begged Vaeda.

“FUCK” growled Aemond.

“Ooooh A-Aemond” shrieked Vaeda.

"Delicious" purred Aemond as he began lapping at Vaeda, running his tongue along every fold.

"More" panted Vaeda "Please. I need more”.

Aemond inserted two fingers, sliding them in and out of her slick wet folds.

“Oh" whimpered Vaeda; her chest heaving as she began to gently roll her hips against him.

“That’s it baby, ride my fucking face” groaned Aemond, his cock was so hard that it was boarding on painful.

Vaeda was giving off a slew of loud swear words, moans, and pleas, that anyone passing her chambers would surely hear.

 Aemond’s fingers were soaking wet as they continued to pump in and out of her tight heat.

“I can’t wait to get my cock inside you. I don’t want to wait any longer, come for me baby, come for daddy” moaned Aemond.

Finally, he felt Vaeda’s inner walls start to flutter around his fingers, squeezing them. Vaeda’s back arched taut as a bow and she screamed her release.

Aemond pumped slowly and lapped at his wife’s centre as she came.

After a few minutes, Aemond gently urged his wife to move down, so she was hovering above his cock.

Her hand wrapped around him, running the head of his cock along her warm wet folds.

“Your such a tease” moaned Aemond as his hips jerked involuntarily.

But it feels so good” replied Vaeda as she slowly sunk down on his cock, so only the tip of him was inside her.

“P-Please” whimpered Aemond.

“Uh-uh” said Vaeda shaking her head from side to side.

After a few torturous minutes Aemond couldn’t take it anymore and seized his wife’s hips, before surging up and ploughing his hard cock into her soaked cunt.

"AEMOND!" screamed Vaeda.

"Gods. You feel so good" rasped Aemond.

"Fuck me, Aemond" urged Vaeda, her tone bordering on desperate as she rolled her hips against his.

Aemond started to thrust slowly, trying to prolong the feel of his wife squeezing his cock.

“P-Please. Husband” whined Vaeda as Aemond began teasing her pearl with his thumb.

“That’s it-take all of me”

“OH-MY-“ shrieked Vaeda Aemond began to move.

"Faster, please" begged Vaeda.

“Like this?” replied Aemond as he gave a quick deep thrust.

“Yes, Aemond, just like that-" panted Vaeda.

Her hands ran along his arms, over his shoulders and down his chest, digging her nails into his pale skin.

“Gods, Vaeda" grunted Aemond, speeding up slightly.

"Fuck me, Aemond" whispered Vaeda "Fuck me with that big, cock of yours. You feel so good inside me, filling me up. Give me what I need. Give me your seed. I want it”.

Aemond knew exactly what Vaeda was doing, and he couldn’t help himself.

Vaeda wanted faster and he was going much faster now, his feet planted on the bed to give him more leverage and his pace increased with every filthy word that dropped from his wife’s luscious lips as he pounded into her.

“Aemond-I’m going to come. Oh, fuck!” screamed Vaeda; not caring if anyone could hear them.

Vaeda always looked amazing when she came. Her head thrown back in pleasure, her amethyst eyes alive with lust, and her pale skin shining with sweat.

“I’m going to put another babe in you-See you full of milk-”

“Y-Yes A-Aemond-I want another. Give it to me” whined Vaeda as she clamped down around his cock so hard he could hardly move.

That, combined with how glorious Vaeda looked, pushed Aemond over the edge, the heat shooting across his abdomen.

“God. Vaeda” groaned Aemond as he exploded. His cock throbbing and twitching as he spilled his seed inside his wife’s wet heat.

Afterwards, as they lay together, tangled in each other’s arms, the door to Vaeda’s chambers suddenly opened.

Aemond instinctively moved to cover himself and Vaeda with a sheet, but the sudden movement caused a sharp pain to shoot through his stomach, and he hissed in discomfort.

"Easy," Vaeda murmured, her fingers brushing against his cheek, concern etched in her eyes.

Jace stood in the doorway, his gaze fixed on his sister and Aemond, watching as Vaeda fussed over Aemond, the tenderness in her actions surprising him.

He had always known his sister to be fierce and unyielding, and seeing her reduced to a cock struck woman made his stomach churn. He hated the hold Aemond had over her.

Aemond caught Jace staring at Vaeda, and his lips curled into a slight sneer. "It is not appropriate to covet another man's wife, especially in the presence of her husband," he said, his voice dripping with condescension.

Jace's face reddened, and he looked at the floor, muttering, "The Queen has asked that you both attend dinner." Without waiting for a response, he hastily left the room, shutting the door behind him.

Aemond scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "She expects me to break bread with—"

Vaeda placed a gentle finger over his lips, silencing him. "She has allowed you to keep your life. Let's not give her cause to change her mind," she said softly, her eyes pleading with him to understand.

Aemond sighed, his hand covering hers. "Very well," he relented, though the resentment in his voice was unmistakable. "For you, I will endure this."

Vaeda smiled, pressing a tender kiss to his forehead. "Thank you,"

Vaeda and Aemond walked into the dining room, with Rhaegar nestled securely in his father’s arms. The air was thick with tension as they took their seats at the long table. The faces around it—Rhaenyra, Daemon, Jace, Baela, Rhaenys, and Corlys—were a mix of curiosity, suspicion, and barely concealed animosity.

Even though he was hungry Aemond hesitated to eat, his eye flicking to each dish with apprehension.

Daemon noticed and couldn’t resist a jab. “Fear not, nephew. It would not serve to poison you now, not after your wife fought so valiantly for your life.”

Vaeda’s eyes flashed with anger as she scowled at her father. “Enough,” she said through gritted teeth.

Aemond reached for Vaeda’s hand under the table and gave it a gentle squeeze before he reached for some bread and meat.

The entire table of guests were silent, the only noise was the sound of cutlery on the plates, and as the awkwardness progressed, Rhaenyra found herself watching Aemond as he interacted with Rhaegar. Despite the tension, he appeared to be a very attentive and loving father.

Rhaegar openly vied for his father’s attention, and even when the boy threw a tantrum and refused to eat his peas, Aemond remained patient and calm, and Rhaegar eventually gave in and ate his food, much to the quiet amazement of those watching.

Daemon, never one to let an opportunity for a snide remark pass, said, “Surprised to see that you’re actually a decent father.”

Aemond’s expression hardened. “I simply wish for my son to know he is loved, something Viserys never managed to show all of his children. That right was exclusively reserved for his favourite child”

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed, but before she could respond, Daemon openly declared, “We set out for King’s Landing on the morrow. Do you wish to beg for the lives of your traitorous kin?”

Vaeda’s patience snapped. “Father, stop.”

Aemond’s voice was steady but filled with restrained anger. “Aegon will pose no threat, as he will more than likely succumb to his injuries, Daeron is but a boy in Oldtown. As for my mother and Helaena, they are innocent of any wrongdoing. Perhaps that’s something you should’ve remembered when you ordered the execution of Jaehaerys.”

Vaeda slammed her hands down on the table, her frustration boiling over. “ENOUGH!”

She took Rhaegar from Aemond’s arms and stormed out of the dining room, her movements swift and determined.

Aemond rose to follow, his eye burning with a mix of anger and sorrow as Daemon sniggered into his cup of wine, clearly enjoying the chaos he had sown.

The next evening, Aemond was pacing around Vaeda's chambers, his steps echoing in the dimly lit room. The heavy burden of uncertainty pressed down on him as he thought of Rhaenyra and Daemon taking King’s Landing.

Vaeda had been reluctant to take Cannibal, as he was still tired from the battle at Rook’s Rest, but her mother’s insistence that she needed her daughter by her side had ultimately swayed her, and Vaeda had spent many hours making sure Cannibal gorged himself on as much food as he could in preparation for the journey to Kings Landing.

Aemond had asked to accompany them, but Rhaenyra had refused.

Now, he found himself left on Dragonstone with Rhaegar under heavy guard. Throughout the day, he made sure his son was fed and entertained.

They played dragons, and he read to him, but no distraction could keep his mind from wandering back to thoughts of his mother, Helaena, and the children. He had faith in Vaeda’s advocacy for their safety, but Daemon was such an unpredictable wildcard that not even the gods would know of his plans.

He did not mourn his grandsire or the others on the council—the seeds of their treason had been sown long before he ever existed. Yet, the uncertainty of their fates gnawed at him.

As night fell, Aemond found himself unwilling to part from Rhaegar. He lay in bed with his son cuddled up to him, the child’s soft breaths a soothing rhythm in the dark room.

Watching Rhaegar sleep, Aemond couldn’t help but notice how much he resembled Vaeda. A fond smile touched his lips as he remembered how she drooled in her sleep too, a detail he would never dare to mention to her of course.

The moonlight filtered through the window, casting a gentle glow over the room. Aemond’s thoughts drifted to the precarious future ahead. He whispered a silent prayer for Vaeda’s safety, hoping that her presence would be enough to sway any harsh decisions made against his family.

Aemond stirred awake, the feeling of a soft touch on his face bringing him out of his slumber. He opened his eye and saw Vaeda sitting on the bed, her hair windswept and falling free from its braid. She looked weary but determined.

"Are you okay?" he asked, concern lacing his voice.

Vaeda nodded quietly, then whispered, "Follow me."

Gently detaching himself from Rhaegar, he carefully rose from the bed. Elana, the handmaid had entered the room to look after the still-sleeping boy.

Aemond followed Vaeda through the dimly lit corridors, his heart pounding with every step.

"Is everything okay? What about my mother? Helaena and the children?" he asked repeatedly, but Vaeda remained silent, her expression unreadable.

They reached the throne room, its vast space cloaked in darkness. Vaeda led him to the centre of the room and stopped.

Aemond looked around, confused and anxious, when he heard a voice that made his heart skip a beat.

"Brother."

He turned swiftly to see Helaena standing there, her face illuminated by the faint moonlight filtering through the windows. Overwhelmed, he walked toward her, his voice trembling.

"May I?"

Helaena nodded, and they embraced, the weight of their separation melting away in that moment. Tears welled up in his eye as he held her close.

"Uncle!" came a chorus of little voices.

Aemond looked up to see Jaehaera and Maelor running toward him, their faces lit with joy. He knelt down, opening his arms wide to gather them in a tight embrace.

He looked over their heads at Vaeda, stunned and grateful. She stood watching them, a tender smile on her lips.

"Thank you," whispered Aemond, his voice thick with emotion.

Vaeda walked over to join them, her hand gently resting on his shoulder. "They are to reside here with us-I hope this is pleasing to you husband"

Aemond, still holding his niece and nephew close, looked at Vaeda with an intense gaze. "What happened in King's Landing?"

Vaeda took a deep breath. "My mother has successfully claimed the Iron Throne. The traitors have been culled, with much enthusiasm from my father and your mother has been confined to her chambers, but she is safe."

Aemond's jaw tightened, and he nodded slowly, processing the information. "And Aegon?" he asked, his voice strained.

Vaeda hesitated, glancing at Helaena. Aemond noticed the exchange and felt a knot form in his stomach. Helaena stepped forward; her eyes filled with sorrow.

"Aegon is dead," she said quietly. "He was in much pain. It was kinder to let him slip away while he was sleeping."

Aemond's eye widened, and he looked at his sister in shock. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"The feathers in the cotton took his breath” whispered Helaena.

Aemond’s breath caught in his throat as he realized what she meant. He stared at her, as the weight of her words began to sink in.

He didn't say anything. Because he had no right. Aegon's injuries had been his fault, and now his brother was dead. The realization left him hollow, a deep ache settling in his chest.

“The seed will bear many fruits-the dragon’s line is long; the unburnt mother will fight the ice and fire song”  muttered Helaena softly.

“What?” asked Aemond.

“The stories’ in the steel” uttered Helaena as she reached into her long overcoat and pulled out the Valyrian steel dagger that once belonged to Viserys and then Aegon.

“Helaena, how did you-” exclaimed Aemond his singular eye widening.

“The heir knows, passed down from one to the other” said Helaena as she handed the dagger to Vaeda.

“What do you mean?” asked Aemond.

"I'm quite tired. It’s been a long day. Might I go to bed?" asked Helaena, her voice soft and almost childlike.

Vaeda nodded. She turned to a nearby guard. "Please escort Princess Helaena and the children to the guest chambers," she instructed.

“I do not fear my dreams this night-”

As a guard appeared and gestured for Helaena to follow. She picked up Maelor, his small arms wrapping around her neck, and took Jaehaera's hand.

Aemond watched them go, a mixture of curiosity and relief washing over him. He turned back to Vaeda, his expression softening.

“What was all that about?”

“As me again sometime and I will tell you” replied Vaeda.

Aemond simply smiled as he pulled her close and kissed her, pouring every ounce of love and gratitude he felt into that kiss.

Vaeda melted into his embrace, her own emotions swirling. When they finally broke apart, “I love you," Aemond whispered, his voice full of resolve.

"I love you too," Vaeda replied softly, her fingers gently tracing his scarred cheek.

Many moons had passed since Rhaenyra had reclaimed the Iron Throne and establishing her rule as Queen was not an easy task. While she had her supporters, others still rallied behind Aegon. Rumours of his demise had sparked calls for Aemond to press his own claim, but he steadfastly refused.

Confined to Dragonstone, Aemond found solace in the ancestral seat of House Targaryen. The vast library, filled with ancient scrolls and Valyrian texts, captivated his mind, satisfying his thirst for the knowledge of his forebears.

His days were filled with training and sparring with the guards of Dragonstone, honing his skills. He also took to teaching Rhaegar High Valyrian, cherishing every moment spent with his son.

Helaena, Jaehaera, and Maelor were thriving on Dragonstone, and to Vaeda’s horror so was the spider colony that Helaena had cheerfully installed in her chambers.

Vaeda of course made sure to actively avoid that part of the castle, fearful of what she might encounter.

Another thing that was flourishing was the babe currently nestled within Vaeda. Aemond had been ecstatic when she informed him that his seed had taken root once more and he was by her side as she birthed their daughter, a tiny little dragon who lungs were well in working order as she announced her arrival into the world very loudly.

As he cradled his sweet Elaena in his arms, any doubts over the decisions he had made in the past just melted away, for he knew this was where he was supposed to be.

Especially when Vaeda gave him the news not even eight moons later, she was carrying another child, that pregnancy was quite hard on her and she spend many weeks abed with aches and sickness, but in the end, they were blessed with another son named Aerys.

Given Vaeda had suffered during her term, Aemond vowed not to get her child again, at least not for a while, but the gods obviously had other ideas as when Aerys was but a child of one name day old, she gave him the news of another expected babe.

Helaena found the whole thing hilarious and was quick to remind Aemond that ‘the seed would bear many fruits’.

And well she wasn’t wrong, as in the end Vaeda and Aemond were blessed with six sons and six daughters.

It was just as well that Dragonstone was big enough to accommodate such a large family, but in the chaos of squabbling children and the endless headaches that came with convincing them that their lessons were useful for the future, he knew he wouldn’t change it for the world.

All his children were treated equally, and as often as his sons trained with the sword so did his daughters.

He wanted things to be different, he wanted to be different.

The children, would always know of his love, his attention and they would know how wanted they were.

As would Vaeda, she was his heart, his soul and his greatest love, and everyday he made sure to tell her that he loved her.

Aemond had everything he had ever wanted, he was happy and more importantly he was loved.

And if Vaeda changed the previous Queen’s ruling and installed Aemond as her consort King the moment she was crowned in the Dragon pit well that was just fine with him.

[daenerystargaryen06]

I've made a discord server catering to Targ fanfics and Targ fanfic writers :) if anyone would like to join- add me on discord! My discord is Divi_Chan. The server is for both Daenerys, and Targs from HOTD!

[litchifaerie]

Guilty as Sin [Aemond Targaryen]

pairing: aemond targaryen x niece!reader (unspecified dad)

warnings: fluff, very little angst, not Daemon's daughter but she has silver hair, ooc!aemond (?), "i burn for you" typa confession. niece!reader strikes again.

word count: 3.3k

After the incident of Driftmark, it was a known fact that the family of the dragon has now broken into two factions, namely: The Hightower Greens and The Targaryen Blacks. Young Prince Lucerys had somehow managed to blind his uncle, Prince Aemond, in an act of what rumours say to be “self defence”. The family damaged beyond repair went on to live separately, no longer finding joy in maintaining the facade of a “happy joint family” to appease their king. Now years later, the question of inheritance of Driftmark is raised. Lord Corlys Velaryon is feared to be nearing his death and thus Vaemond Velaryon has raised a petition for himself to be declared the heir instead of its true heir, Lucerys Velaryon.

When the Blacks made their home in Dragonstone it took them quite a while to settle in with its rough seas and jagged cliffs. In a few months everyone seemed to settle in well. Everyone except for Rhaenyra’s eldest child, her only daughter, you. Back at King’s Landing you loved the court. You loved meeting the ambassadors of kingdoms you had read about in books with Aemond. You loved sneaking around the castle at midnight with Aemond. Your bare feet hurriedly rushing over the cold of the stone floors in search of some leftover lemon cakes in the kitchens. You loved sewing with Helaena and learning the names of her friendly little creatures. You and Aemond were perhaps the only companions she had growing up.

Yes, yes, you missed Aemond even more so. And now six years later, here you are, sitting in the carriage with your mother and step-father awaiting to reach the Red Keep soon. You’re busy gazing out the windows, looking at how much King’s Landing has changed. I wonder if that jeweller still has a shop in the city market. Lost in your thoughts you jump a little when you hear your mother speak. “Do keep an eye on your brothers there. Daemon and I have some matters to attend with the King the moment we reach. I do not want those two to pick a fight with your uncles.” Rhaenyra speaks calmly.

You nod with a polite “Of course mother”. And with a moment of hesitation, you ask “Is it alright if I invite Helaena for an afternoon tea, perhaps even a play date for her twins and little Viserys and Aegon? Please allow it mother! It has been ages since I last saw her! I wish to see my baby cousins and catch up with my dear aunt…” Rhaenyra can never say no to your pleading eyes. She only chuckles “yes my dear you may”.

It wasn’t a long while before the carriage came to a stop. A knight comes to open the door for you. “No one to greet us hmm” murmurs Daemon. His ability to remain stoic sometimes makes him seem invisible even in close proximity. He steps out first, helping you and your mother down next. Jace and Luce come rushing begging to go to the training grounds. “Boys”, you call out, “Mother and Father have some matter to attend to. Now if we may, lets see how the knights here train at King’s Landing.” With that you just turn around and they follow you like ducklings, ever the obedient little brothers.

You make your way to the training yard, looking around and seeing specks of your past. It all seemed like a far away dream now. How happily the boys played fight together, with you dabbling in some swordplay at times. Distant shouts of cheers catch your attention and you look their way. “Seems like there’s a fight going on” Jace remarks. And Luce replies energetically “Lets go see how the knights fare then” and drags you both towards the crowd.

A clash of swords and flurry of movements of men later you are able to catch a glimpse of long silver hair. A Targaryen. Long hair and a fine swordsman? Can’t be Aegon. That leaves the 2 others. And as you get closer you recognise his silhouette. It took you a little time but you can spot him anywhere still. It’s not your eyes that tell you of his identity but your heart. Its him. Yes, it is. Its Aemond.

“Well done my prince. In no time will you be participating in Tourneys.” Says the knight, who if your memory serves right must be Ser Criston Cole. “I don’t give a shit about tourneys” Aemond replies trying to gather himself after that tiring display of amazing swordsmanship. And then he spots you. At first Aemond believed it to be untrue. His mind had played many such games with him through the period of your absence. The Gods were cruel to not only rob him of his eye but also his dearest friend the same night. Maybe he stared at you a moment too long because that was enough for Jace to step in front of you and shield you from his uncle's view. At that Aemond seems to snap back to reality. “Nephews, come to train? Shall we see who has turned into a better swordsman these past 6 years.” He clearly is still looking to pick fights. You put your hand on Jace’s shoulder “Do not engage he just wants to rile you up”.

The crowd whispers amongst itself. Do you see that? The sons of the Queen and Princess do not get along. Are the whispers true then- You think you need to squash these whisperings now by a show of goodwill. You walk towards Aemond in the “dainty” manner a proper Lady should approach a Lord. “Uncle” you come to a halt just a bit away from Aemond, a few inches closer than it is deemed appropriate. “How have you been? I see the years have been kind to you. The tales of your growing talent of sparring has reached Dragonstone. And I am happy to say those words do no justice to your skill. You’re much better than what they lead us to believe.” Flattery. Heaps of it. So what if it’s a little backhanded. I need to patch things up even if it’s a little. “Dear niece” Aemond raises your hand to place a kiss on your knuckles “Ever the beauty. That must mean the tales of Lords and Knights fighting over a chance to court you must be true then?” and all you can do is chuckle. Oh so he will play this game then. “You flatter me too much my prince. I was wondering if you and Princess Helaena would have your afternoon tea with me. I’ve missed you incredibly. And I just can’t wait to meet little Jaehaera and Jaehaerys”

Ser Cole places his hand on the prince’s arm, “Perhaps some other day Princess. Prince Aemond has some mat-”. “Yes I will” Aemond butts in before Cole can finish. “Very well then” you fold your hands together. “I shall take my leave now. The journey here was rather long and tiring”. You look behind you to see the astonished faces of your brothers. You know what thy must be thinking. What the fuck is going on in her head? “Come Jace. Come Luce. Let us go freshen up. Mother is waiting for us” You wait for your brothers to take one of your arms each. And you leave just like that. Maintaining eye contact with Aemond for as long as it was societally acceptable of you to look his way without it spurring rumours.

Are her hips swaying? Is what Aemond notices as he watches you leave. With a smirk on his face his last thought is: You’re home now zaldrītsos.

You walk with your brothers to your room, both of them still silent, a little surprised at your actions that’s all. You’re at your door when you turn around “Brothers if you may. Please go to your respective rooms and tell your servants how you’ll like your rooms arranged. The long jouney has taken a toll on me and I wish to be alone.” They know that tone. They know what you say is less of a suggestion and is most definitely a command. And they know better than to cross you when you’re tired. Being short tempered is something you have learned from Daemon while growing up. He truly was your father in every way imaginable except biologically.

Once in the comforts of your room you let a deep beath out. And there it is on your bed. You hoped it would be. The letter with the blue wax seal on it. A sapphire blue.

“Welcome back dear niece.

 The crown jewel has finally returned to the court.

 See you in the evening.”

                              ~ A. T.

It’s evening now and in another part of the Keep, Aemond seems to overhear a very important conversation on his way to his sister. One about the matter of your betrothal. “Those Hightower cunts” Daemon seethes openly. Mother? Aemond hides behind a pillar in the seemingly deserted corridor while he heard his uncle openly badmouth his “kin” without any care of who might hear. The doors to the chamber were left ajar. “When you suggested y/n be betrothed to Aegon and Jace to Helaena. She refused the very moment it was suggested. Appalled that such a proposal can even be made. And now when we are here to have the king’s blessing to betroth Jace to y/n, the so called Hand has already made a suggestion for a match between that one eyed boy knight and our daughter!” Rhaenyra is just silent. Daemon seethes in his anger. But all Aemond focuses on is that he could have your hand if his mother finds a way. And also, a little angry that Jacaerys Velaryon, rather Strong, might covet what’s his.

Fuelled by what he refuses to call jealousy, the prince makes his way through the Keep. With only one destination in mind, he storms through the corridors paying no mind to the strange looks he receives. And its as if he is 10 again, knocking at the doors of his beloved friend. But now he is a man of 19, and she is more than his friend. She is his destiny and he will have her.

You’re busy taking your heavy necklace off, opting to wear long delicate crystal earring instead which matches the long flowy gown you changed into for the tea when you notice the knocks. Thinking its your ladies-in-waiting you yell out a “Come in.” Setting the necklace on top of the dresser, you’re surprised to find Aemond’s reflection staring at you through the mirror. “My prince” you turn to face him, still sitting at your vanity, “Aren’t you here a little early for the tea?”

“Hmm…” Aemond just hums in reply and sits on the settee nearby, “I’ve come to know of an interesting proposition regarding you my niece”. That was enough to have your attention, “And what that might be Aemond?” you cock an eyebrow at him. “You’re going to be betrothed by the time your stay here ends”. You’re a little stunned but you expected this coming. Your mother has given you the liberty to choose who you might marry but you won’t do so at the expense of her political foothold. Marriage cannot always be for love and you will follow your duty like the honorable Princess of the realm you are if that is what’s required of you. “Yes, I’m aware” you tell him plainly. “I think they have Jacaerys in mind.”

“And you have no issue regarding it” Aemond asks, finding himself to be a little unnerved at your calm demeanour. “No issue whatsoever?” And you can’t help but sigh “It is what is expected of me uncle. Targaryens are known to marry their siblings. Look at yours. I always knew that there might be a possibility of me marrying Jacaerys. I am my mother’s firstborn. Her heir. But I am not a son. She only seeks to squash any problem that might raise for when I ascend the throne by marrying me to her firstborn son.”

“He’s not worthy of you. None of those plain-featured boys. You’re more valyrian than they are with your silver hair.” Aemond speaks out. “If I were you, I would watch my tongue Aemond. Don’t want you to lose your other eye due to your idiocy.” You say casually while combing through your hair.

Aemond was a little sick of your nonchalant attitude. How can you agree to this match? Why do you seem so fine? Why are you willing to go through with this? All he can do is sit in silence, his eye refusing to watch your figure, his ego stopping him from expressing what he wants. But you know what he wants, and you want him to say it out loud.

You get up from the vanity, your silver hair in loose waves, the setting sun casting an ethereal glow around you. You look like the very picture of an angel to Aemond with a halo behind you. And suddenly all he can see is you, all he can breathe is you. You’re close, too close to him, his knees are touching your leg as you stand in front of him. The door to your room is only closed shut and not locked. One can just simply walk in and catch you.

Your fingers ghost over his cheek, trailing up to his eyepatch. “Does it hurt now?” he hears you say. There is no pity on your face, just curiosity. And your touch is so delicate, so soothing. “Not as much. Sometimes when I have worked myself too hard a sharp sensation shoots up but then subsides in a while”. And now its your turn to hum. Bringing your other hand to his other cheek you gently cup his face. And Aemond’s lone eye meets yours.

His eye seems so vacant. But if I look hard enough, I can catch a glimpse of the young boy who chased me through the gardens. “Can I see it. Your eye?” you rub your thumb against his cheek. Affection. Aemond bring his hand up to reach for yours, the one on the side of the maimed eye. “It is ugly. It might frighten a lady.” He hesitates. She will take one look at me in my hideous glory and never look my way again.

“Not to me. Especially when its you.” That sentence holds a lot more meaning and truth than what one might think and you only hope Aemond understands. And Aemond does what you ask of him. He gently removes his eyepatch waiting for you to let out a gasp. He wants to close his eyes for your inevitable disgusted expression but he cannot look away from you. He looks at every muscle you move on your face but he doesn’t see a grimace, instead could it be, is it awe?

A soft smile graces your face, wildly different from what he anticipated it to be. “The sapphire compliments your features nicely. I hope the gem isn’t uncomfortable?” He is dumbstruck for a minute. “No, it doesn’t, I always wanted to thank you in person for this gift.” When his eye healed, Aemond was surprised to find the city’s most famous jeweller with a chest full of his best gems waiting for him in his mother’s parlour. A reparation I suppose, the queen had said, the Velaryon girl wrote this letter saying how “sorry" she was for her brother’s action and expresses her regret for not being able to defend you against her brother. He wanted you to be there with him when he woke the next day, he remembered your crying face when the master said Aemond’s maimed eye can’t be repaired. It’s worth it y/n. I lost an eye but gained the biggest dragon that there is.

You resume rubbing your thumb gently over his scar and that’s what brings him back. “No man, no matter how noble he is, deserves you”. “Then who does my prince? Pray tell”, you say. You know his answer. Just say it Aemond. I beg you. “I have a duty to the crown Aemond”, dropping your hands from his face, you walk away from him. “And I will do it, even if I don’t wish to.”

Aemond was furious “How can you be so blind? Do you not see my pain?”. Your back was turned to him and you closed your eyes in frustration. You turn to look at him, with angry tears in your eyes, “I am tired of waiting for you!” you yell, “These past years have been agonising. It hurt not to be around you. But those letters kept me going. Our secret exchanges were what I kept looking forward to every week.” Aemond’s chest is just heaving. “And just when I thought that there’s a sliver of chance you feel the same-”

“I do.” Aemond interrupts you. He reaches forward to hold you but you back away. “Then why Aemond” there’s a slight tremble in your voice. “Thousands of lords and knights came to have my hand. And I rejected every single of them, hoping that you will present yourself in front of my parents and ask for me. You claim to have affection for me but I don’t see it.” You cut him off before he has a chance to explain.

“I’ll show my love for you” is all the silver haired prince says before tugging you to him harshly and planting his lips on yours. Its wild, full of passion and fury. The kiss seems to ignite something in you. Both your inner dragons coming to life and breathing out fire. He’s burning you with the force of the emotions the kiss conveys.

Although you feel breathless you still craved more of him. Your hand went at the base of his neck, tangling at his roots. You drag him even close if that’s possible. Aemond’s one hand is around your throat, controlling your movement, dominating you completely. His other strongly grips your waist keeping you in place. Your lips move together in perfect synchronisation although there seems to be a bite here and there.

The Targaryens are only gods because of their dragons. Right now, right here, were two young lord and lady lost in each other and were in dire need of air yet unwilling to be apart, fearing what comes next. You’re the first to break the kiss. The evidence of your passion is seen on Aemond’s swollen red wet lips and messy hair and you can only imagine yours to look the same.

Aemond leans his head against yours, your foreheads touching. His eyes are closed in pleasure and a rare smile graces his leeps but all you can do is admire him through your eyelashes. “Make me your wife” you call out softly. “Ask my mother for my hand. I do not wish to marry Jacaerys…he is too much of a brother. It is you I want. I’ll fight for you if needed be” Aemond opens his eyes at that. “Silly girl”, he says, “The Queen has asked the King for our match to be made.” Your brows furrow in confusion, “My mother agrees?” Aemond brings a hand to caress your face, “I think she does. Daemon on the other…” Even you become anxious at that statement. “My uncle is a challenge I welcome” he continues, “Nothing can keep me away from you. I’ve waited years for this, I can’t let go of you now.”

You can’t help but smile. You loved Aemond but marrying him meant going against what your mother had taught you. Knowing the distaste Daemon held for the members of green party, and thinking of your brothers’ action against Aemond made you feel immensely guilty. But you waited all these years, you were the exceptional daughter all this while, ever obedient, ever graceful. Never a hair out of place. Always the perfect princess. And if Aemond is the treason you commit against your family, then you will happily be guilty as sin.

[witchezandwonderz]

The Dragon's Empress- Part Two

Pairing: Aegon Targaryen x Female Reader

Word Count: 2096

Part one of this story is on my masterlist- go check it out pls x

Tagged (never done this before so tagging ppl who reblogged, let me know if you want me to remove your tag): @silentwhisper666 @loxbbg @slytherin-bissqueen @groundzerosuki @rosey1981

As the council meeting concluded, Y/N stayed seated while others filed out. When the room emptied, Aegon turned to her, raising an eyebrow. “So quiet today, my queen. I thought your sharp mind might have dulled after last night’s… events,” he teased, a grin on his lips.

Y/N looked up at him, wearing a small smile. “My utmost apologies, my King, I was pondering,” she replied, leaning closer as she spoke. Aegon hummed in response, encouraging her to elaborate.

“I feel as though I know how to overcome this problem, but I’m not sure if you will appreciate my plan,” she admitted, her eyes fixed on the table in front of her. Aegon, confused by her words, leant forward to touch her hand so that she would look at him once again. He did not like seeing his wife in a state of apprehension.

“Why don’t you tell me of your plan, and I can be the decider of whether it is appreciated or not,” Aegon stated, attempting a reassuring smile, though it looked far from genuine—kindness was still unfamiliar territory for him. Regardless, Y/N knew his intentions were good, and this encouraged her to speak further.

“This uprising among the people, these rumours—they’re born from fear and resentment, not mere rebellion. A show of force will only serve to drive them deeper into it,” she spoke with passion. Aegon listened carefully, taking a moment to truly process her words.

After pondering, he let out a small laugh. “I must be misinterpreting your meaning, my love; it sounds as though you wish me to negotiate with those who wish for my death,” he laughed, taking a big swig of his wine. Y/N did not return the laugh. “Not negotiate, husband—listen to them. Listen to their thoughts and feelings.”

Aegon’s smile disappeared, and he let out a quiet, “Oh, I see.”

“You needn’t make a decision now. Think about it, and if you wish to hear my thoughts further, then come and find me,” Y/N spoke softly but firmly. She stood gracefully, moved closer to Aegon, gently pushed a lock of his blonde hair from his face, and planted a kiss upon his forehead before turning and walking out, leaving him to sit and ponder her suggestion.

Aegon thought for a while. If there was anything that terrified him, it was vulnerability. Approaching those who wished him dead would leave him in the most vulnerable position he could imagine—surrounded by those who likely supported his half-sister, Rhaenyra. Initially, he felt slightly betrayed that his wife would suggest something so dangerous. But as he thought further, he began to consider its potential benefits. After what felt like hours, he decided to find Y/N so she could explain her idea in more detail.

Aegon searched most of the grounds for Y/N, but could not find her. The outside air was freezing cold, so he hesitated to check there. Finally, he begrudgingly pulled on more layers and ventured into the cold.

What was she doing to him, he thought. He had never gone out of his way to find someone before—he had never cared enough to do so.

Aegon wandered in the darkness with Criston Cole at his side, as always. Soon, he spotted Y/N in the distance, seated in front of a tree. His brows furrowed. Why would she sit in the cold when she could be warm in their chambers?

“Remain here, Cole,” he instructed. The Kingsguard nodded and stayed in place as Aegon approached Y/N.

She hadn’t noticed him; she was too engrossed in her own thoughts. Unbeknownst to the King, Y/N did this every night. She would dismiss her guard, sit under the tree, close her eyes, and get lost in daydreams.

Despite how peaceful she appeared, Aegon couldn’t help feeling anger toward her lack of defence. What if someone found her alone and harmed her? His heart wrenched at the thought.

“What are you doing?” he questioned, standing directly above her. Y/N’s eyes fluttered open, and she jumped slightly at his voice. Realising it was Aegon, she sighed in relief.

“Thank the gods it’s you; you gave me a fright!” she said, propping herself up on her elbows. Aegon tutted as he sat beside her.

“I thought someone of your intelligence would know not to sit out here, isolated,” he stated. Y/N looked at him with confusion, prompting him to continue. “You’re vulnerable here—no guards, no defence.” She smiled at his words, which wasn’t the reaction he expected. He had hoped for more of a “sorry, it won’t happen again.”

Unexpectedly, Y/N leaned forward, grabbed his collar, and pulled him toward her, crashing her lips onto his.

“You care about me,” she stated, breathless. Aegon laughed. “Of course I care about you?” His words came out more as a question than a statement.

“I thought about what you said, and I’ve decided I want to hear your plan in full. But,” he paused, looking at her, “I’m uncomfortable surrounding myself with rebels.”

“Rebels only when they’re left voiceless, my love,” Y/N said. “Show them a king willing to walk among his people, one who has confidence in his rule and strength enough to show understanding, not fear.”

Aegon felt a surge of resistance rise in him. Every instinct screamed against such vulnerability. But there was wisdom in Y/N’s words that he couldn’t ignore. She suggested something he’d never considered—a ruler’s strength wasn’t merely in intimidating his enemies, but also in reassuring his people.

After a long pause, Aegon sighed and nodded. “If this is your counsel, then I will hear it.”

Y/N nodded, pleased. She hadn’t expected him to seriously consider her suggestion. Yet she couldn’t shake a flicker of fear; she knew how much risk this entailed. If it went wrong, she would have many questions to answer, and her mother-in-law would eagerly seek revenge.

The next day, Aegon and Y/N left the Red Keep, accompanied by their guards. They had considered only taking Criston but deemed it too risky.

“Relax, my King. These people can smell fear,” Y/N whispered as they walked through the city. The bustling citizens paused to watch the couple stroll by, some with looks of apprehension, others smiling and waving. Aegon held Y/N’s hand tightly, and she squeezed his to reassure him.

“Good morrow,” Y/N smiled, bowing slightly to a group of people who had gathered nearby. To Aegon’s surprise, she walked closer to them. He tried to slow her down without drawing attention, but Y/N used all her strength to pull him along. Once close, she shook the hands of each person, looking at Aegon expectantly until he followed suit. The group, initially frowning, now wore broad smiles.

As they engaged in conversations, word of the king’s visit spread, filling the air with voices and questions. Some spoke with bitterness, others with worry, but all found Aegon’s ear.

For the first time, Aegon saw these people—his people—as voices rather than subjects. Voices with opinions that mattered, for they spoke about their own livelihoods. He had been so caught up in his family feuds that he’d forgotten not everyone cared about his family; many simply wanted a ruler who made decisions for them.

He knew his morals were flawed, and he wasn’t the kindest king Westeros had seen, but his wife was. That was power in itself.

They returned to the Red Keep an hour later, exhausted but purposeful. Aegon, particularly, was in high spirits, pleased with how the interaction had gone. Unfortunately, his council did not share his enthusiasm.

Alicent and Otto—mother and grandfather—greeted them with displeasure.

“How dare you take my son to be scrutinised by those people!” Alicent spat, her eyes like daggers on Y/N.

Aegon wanted to speak, but knew he’d be silenced by both women.

“Scrutinised? This was perhaps the best decision he’s made,” Y/N replied calmly, though her anger was evident.

“You stupid girl,” Otto muttered.

“Pardon?” Aegon said, moving closer to him.

“This should not have happened,” Otto muttered again.

“How dare you call my wife—your Queen—such insolent names. I should have you hanged for treason. My wife has been a better Hand than you ever were. Do better,” Aegon stated. He turned to his mother, raising a finger. “One week, Mother. In one week, you’ll hear the people’s thoughts, and I guarantee they’re in my favour.”

Aegon’s brother, Aemond, entered the room. Y/N hadn’t interacted much with him—she found him strange, intimidating, and untrustworthy.

He muttered something unintelligible, then swept out. Judging by everyone’s expressions, no one else understood him either.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go and fuck my beautiful, intelligent, and loyal wife,” Aegon declared, grabbing Y/N’s hand and whisking her away.

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