#silver Dragon Charm

[possamble]

what if we gave marcille a slutty little anklet to wear with the rest of her elfy loungewear. what then

[black-salt-cage]

ଘ(੭*ˊᵕˋ)੭* ੈ♡‧₊˚

[sugarpopparty]

Moonlight 🌙

[thormanick]

Oh god, these Archon Quests had me STRESSED-

[true-blue-sonic]

What could Silver, Espio and Blaze's favorite gemstones be? Would Blaze have any bias towards beryl due to how important emeralds are to her world?

I'm not that well-versed on gemstones, I'm afraid, but I did some research! I can see Espio lean towards gemstones that are said to enhance focus, strengthen wisdom, and bring balance, without looking too exaggerative. I don't think he'd like very flashy or interestingly-patterned stones like tiger eyes or unakites. While doing research I had a stone in mind, just a shiny black, and it turns out that is a haematite! It's apparently a stone of energy. I can see him like that one; down-to-earth but having something shiny and pretty over it as well. As for Silver, I think he'd be interested in something like a lapis lazuli for its beautiful blue-and-gold colourations. I figure he'd be more intrigued in the alleged meanings behind the various gemstones, so he might also like amethysts, rose quartzes, and jaspers (which I saw noted as the stone of heart, friendship, and heart again respectively). And an unpolished amethyst apparently is the stone of patience; we know he needs it! And regarding Blaze, I figure she leans more towards Espio in not really believing in the meanings behind it, so the only gems she has place for in her life are the Sol Emeralds, haha. But apparently aquamarines were used as a talisman against misfortunes at sea by sailors, so she might just have one of those on her person all the same. You never know, after all.

[querulousartisan]

I got my Metallic Dragon Art series made into charms finally and they just came in this week just in time for Youmacon! I am so excited to have these there!

[broochiton]

Personalized Rings for Men and Women

Personalized rings for men and women can make them wear some affectionate and valuable jewelry that holds high value. The Personalized rings are the most effortless gifts that you can choose for loved ones.

[moonpascaltoo]

theodore nott

MASTERLIST • SLYTHERIN BOYS • 07/24/24

˚‧⁺ ･ ˖ · ୨ৎ recs

theodore nott two

𑣲 the way i loved you I @angelfic

in which theodore nott will do anything to get you to go out with him, but you’re just as stubborn rejecting him

𑣲 lessons in love I @obsessedwithceleste

Ft. Enzo being bad at potions, the Ravenclaw common room door, and more than one accidental love confession.

𑣲 all’s fair in love and quidditch I @/obsessedwithceleste

All’s fair in love and quidditch. At least until Matteo’s poorly aimed bludger knocks you off of your broom.

𑣲 theodore nott and the fortress of trust issues I @/obsessedwithceleste

Theodore Nott had never been able to cast a patronus. In third year, when dementors were swarming the castle, of course he tried, but was never able to manage more than a whisp of soft silver. Come seventh year, he was painfully unsurprised when his efforts were once again lack luster. Turns out, with the right tutor, casting the formidable charm might not be as impossible as he thought.

𑣲 til it’s gone I @/obsessedwithceleste

It seemed like they’d always been there. An ever-growing thorn in Theodore’s side. He really didn’t realize what he’d had until it was gone.

𑣲 mother brother knows best I @/obsessedwithceleste

In which Theodore is no match for the sheer determination of a twelve year old fueled by sugar, pumpkin juice, and spite.

𑣲 fighting fate I @/obsessedwithceleste

soulmate!au in which everyone sees in black and white until they meet their soulmate. Bold of fate to assume it can tell you what to do.

𑣲 jealously I @ahqkas

an unexpected situation catches you off guard in the heart of florence and your boyfriend reveals a side of him you’ve never seen before

𑣲 practice makes it better I @/ahqkas

struggling with the local slang, you feel out of place until you meet theodore nott, the silent slytherin

𑣲 dealer I @/ahqkas

smoking had never interested you before but when the local dealer catches your eye, you might get the experience of a professional

𑣲 the odds of affection I deactivated account

where theodore is grumpy and quiet and when the slytherin’s take note of how he always gives reader forehead kisses, they’re rather shocked.

𑣲 fools I @luv4freddie

in which the only Hufflepuff friend in the group of slytherins develops a crush on Theodore Nott— something only fools do.

𑣲 shut up kiss me I @theostrophywife

𑣲 written in the stars I @/theostrophywife

𑣲 kiss with a fist I @/theostrophywife

𑣲 lovebites and potions I @caramelcal

𑣲 not even the addressee I @kaciebello

When Theodore's name gets misspelled he's not happy about it.

𑣲 the sirens task I @frost-queen

𑣲 the letter I @spectorgram

you get a letter from a secret admirer who wants to confess. your best friend is none too pleased.

𑣲 eyes wide open I @/spectorgram

you discover that there is so much more to theodore nott than you thought. 

𑣲 flustered and blushing I @amourane

in which you're a flustered mess around theo nott and he absolutely adores it.

𑣲 why can’t we love freely I @/amourane

you're tired of being a secret and it was time to let theo know.

𑣲 so this is love I @/amourane

there's a weird feeling that erupts in theo's chest whenever he looks at you and for the first time in his life his mind goes silent.

𑣲 down the rabbit hole I @/amourane

in which it's blatantly obvious that theodore nott has fallen down the rabbit hole of love.

𑣲 little dragon I @retrobutterflies

You are not a fan of one of his admirers and he thinks you are a pretty idiot.

𑣲 i think he knows I @dreamcubed

you had fancied the mysteriously quiet slytherin boy for as long as you could remember (since first year), and, quite frankly, your best friend was sick of you going on about it without ever making a move

𑣲 you need to calm down I @/dreamcubed

after returning to hogwarts for a subsidiary 8th year to make up for the loss of 7th year due to the war, you are a completely different person, and muggle-born-hating theo finds himself obsessed with you

𑣲 tired I @mrsmikaelsxn

you were theo's childhood best friend and he waits for a time when you will love him back

𑣲 try that again I @distantdarlings

Pansy finds out that a group of Gryffindor girls has had a lot to say about you and your relationship with Theodore Nott. They think you won’t do anything about it, but you prove them wrong.

𑣲 house pride I @/distantdarlings

Theo is pissed that you seem to be interested in other guys. The two of you are not officially dating so you find it ridiculous that you can't talk to whomever you want. You have feelings for Theo, though, and think it might be interesting to put his jealousy to the test.

𑣲 by the fireplace I @/distantdarlings

You have been an Animagus for around a year now. You have quite a knack for learning everything you need to know about it quickly and Professor McGonagall really likes you. However, a fellow classmate, Theodore Nott, does not like you. And you couldn't care less. Both of you are in for a surprise when you accidentally meet in the library.

𑣲 one star rating of dirty talking I @darkmagic-s

Sexting through note passing, one of Theodore's favourite ways to bother you.

𑣲 you understand I @lexamiele

Hogwarts students aren't exactly known for minding their own business. Thankfully, you and Theo speak a language they don't.

𑣲 august I @cassiopeiasdaughter

Theo asks you to be his fake-girlfriend but you understand the assignment a little too well.

𑣲 gold rush I @/cassiopeiasdaughter

loving Theo in secret was not something you had ever planned

𑣲 invisible string I @/cassiopeiasdaughter

you get married in the middle of the night during the war

𑣲 i could never not love you I @battinscn

theodore nott is a self sabotaging selfish bastard. he jumps to conclusions too quickly and is too hot headed for his own good. you never thought you would ever be one to experience it first hand. yet, despite it all, you could never find it in you to truly hate him.

𑣲 i hate you I @/battinscn

tate has a very special lucky broom he relies on for every match. when you accidentally step on it, he loses his temper.

𑣲 trust me I @/battinscn

theodore’s always had a hard time trusting other. but you would think being his girlfriend that he would have some faith in you. turns out you were terrible wrong and one day, you had finally reached your limit.

𑣲 missing you I @/battinscn

theodore’s job takes him away from you a lot and hi here understanding for the most part. but after countless broken promises, you had enough.

𑣲 his hufflepuff I @yoursecrett

You were known as the sweetest Hufflepuff at Hogwarts, from tutoring students to being Madam Pomfrey's helper, you were constantly busy you liked it that way... Theodore Nott - The Slytherin Prefect, you had caught his attention, and everyone knows Theodore Nott never gives up on something or someone he wants.

𑣲 sugar rose I @0luv9

Fool in love, bright like silver, shinning for everyone to see. Life has never been this good for Theo and he'll go out of his way to keep it that way. Or Theodore being utterly and unapologetically in love with you.

𑣲 between the shelves I @weasleyreidstyles

𑣲 blind date I @magiclostinfantasy

Y/N and Theo's friends set them up on a blind date, not knowing they've secretly been dating.

𑣲 karma I @wordsarelife

karma is the way you wear his jersey, making sure his team will lose the game

𑣲 moonlight and masks I @gemissleeping

Newly turned Death Eater Theodore Nott is tasked with hunting down Harry Potter and the Order Operative protecting him. Only to discover the person he hunts happens to be the one he loves.

𑣲 anything for you I @aemondsi

in a universe where voldemort won, you and theo risk everything.

𑣲 nonsense I @writingsbychlo

you got that holiday glee from your true love.

𑣲 secret notes I @sunshinelollipopsicle

theodore and you begin leaving notes for each other, you knowing it's him but him unaware it's you, and eventually, you agree to meet in person

𑣲 dreaming of saturn I @thestarsarebrightertonight

theodore nott seems so out of reach to most people yet you have him right in your arms

𑣲 cinnamon girl I @/thestarsarebrightertonight

everyone knows you have a crush on theo , even he knows! so when you randomly start avoiding him one day , theodore cant help but go crazy.

𑣲 seeker I @crimsntwlip

𑣲 clandestine I @puffleyia

Mattheo can not seem to place his finger on what exactly you have been keeping from him. He confides in his best friend, Theo, though he ends up cutting the conversation short due to some urgent matters. (aka, you)

𑣲 for the first time I @vintagebishx

in which, the usual womaniser finds himself in love with a girl who doesn’t even know his name…

𑣲 no smoke, only love in the air I @papercorgiworld

When the guys notice that you don’t like their smoking habit they quit, but dealing with the withdrawal has your boyfriend constantly needy for a kiss.

𑣲 pansys interrogation I @/papercorgiworld

Weird behaviour and rumours have Pansy asking questions and figuring out who the guys are crushing on.

𑣲 theo I @/papercorgiworld

The things Theodore Nott does for love.

𑣲 babysitting I @rainyreading

𑣲 the only heaven i’ll be sent to (is when i’m alone with you) I deactivated account

Best friends get dared to play seven minutes in heaven but they just sit and talk the whole time and somehow manage to admit their feelings for each other

𑣲 our secrets are buried I deactivated account

where they go on a double date with separate dates but they spend the whole time flirting with each other

[hometoursandotherstuff]

I stumbled on this article about 29 Western Gothic Nursery Ideas and I'm so impressed. These ideas can be used for baby, but why not for inspiration for older children's room and adult decor? You gotta see these. This one is called "Mythical Creatures." According to the article, it introduces fantastic beasts like griffins and unicorns into a nursery. Deep jewel tones mixed with soft pastels create a magical yet calming space, perfect for stimulating imagination.

Moonlit Haven brings the peaceful charm of a moonlit meadow indoors. Soft blues and silvers mimic the glow of the moon, while plush moon-shaped pillows and serene meadow-themed wall art enhance the tranquil atmosphere.

Twilight Magic captures the whimsical charm of twilight. Deep purples and blues set a mystical tone, while twinkling fairy lights and mythical creature toys spark curiosity. 

Starry Enchantment brings celestial wonder, combining deep navy hues and silver accents. Star-patterned walls and a night sky ceiling inspire dreams of galactic adventures, while plush star-shaped cushions add comfort and charm.

Mystic Moonlight creates a dreamy nursery, using pale colors and silvery moonbeam motifs. Delicate, floating fabrics and lunar landscapes inspire a sense of wonder and calm.

Gothic Grove brings the charm of an ancient garden indoors. Rich greens and earth tones, paired with floral and vine patterns, create a lush, calming atmosphere. Dark wood furniture and soft lighting enhance the theme’s historic feel.

Eclipse Dreams features a theme inspired by the mystery of an eclipse. Dark colors contrasted with gold accents mimic the sun’s corona, while celestial patterns create a cozy, restful space.

Nightshade Nursery embraces deep purples and soft blacks, creating a secret garden vibe. Subtle botanical prints and shadowy decor inspire storytelling and imagination, while plush rugs ensure a cozy, magical space.

Willow Whispers brings the gentle grace of willow trees. Soft greens and earth tones create a serene atmosphere, while willow branch wall decals sway peacefully, making it the perfect setting for a soothing nursery.

Windy Whispers captures the gentle flow of the wind. Airy fabrics and soft, flowing designs bring a dynamic element to the room, while soft blues and grays create a serene space.

Celestial Dreams brings the night sky indoors. Starry patterns and glow-in-the-dark ceiling stars create a soothing, cosmic environment.

Fairytale Dungeon offers a playful twist, transforming the space into a whimsical medieval fantasy. Castle-like furniture, dragon toys, and soft, ambient lighting create a space full of adventure and charm.

Gargoyle’s Lair incorporates mythical Gothic elements with gargoyle figurines and rugged textures. Stone-gray tones and plush gargoyle toys create a unique space. 

Castle Dreams transforms a nursery into a storybook castle with royal murals, plush thrones, and regal fabrics. Purple and gold accents add a touch of nobility.

Midnight Meadows features calming nocturnal murals. Large wall art depicting moonlit scenes sets a peaceful tone, while indirect lighting enhances the magical nighttime atmosphere.

Gothic Spires draws on cathedral architecture, incorporating pointed arches and soft gray tones for a serene, collected space. Angelic motifs and stained glass details add to the calming environment.

Enchanted Sanctuary creates a magical nursery filled with mystical books and lantern-like lighting. Soft, muted colors and luxurious textures make the space feel warm and enchanting.

Ghostly Playroom introduces playful ghost motifs that create a fun, cozy atmosphere. Soft, pale colors and plush ghost-shaped pillows add whimsy without being spooky.

Lavender Maze brings intricate patterns and soft purples. Labyrinthine designs on wallpaper or rugs add a touch of charm, while simple furniture keeps the room calm and soothing.

Wraith’s Playground is a whimsical take using light, ethereal fabrics to create an airy, magical space. Pale colors and ghostly motifs make the room playful and calming.

Shaded Comfort focuses on muted grays and soft blacks, creating a subtle, shadowy atmosphere that’s perfect for quiet comfort. Soft, plush materials provide both coziness and sophistication.

Cheerful Spirits brings friendly, playful ghost motifs. Bright accents and ghost-shaped pillows add fun to the room, creating a stimulating yet cozy environment.

Twilight Cuddles captures the soft light of dusk. Dusky purples and shimmering fabrics evoke a peaceful, twilight sky, perfect for soothing before bed.

Storybook Charm brings classic fairy tale elements. Deep colors, ornate frames, and vintage toys create an enchanting, adventure-filled space.

Peaceful Tombs embraces the serenity of Gothic architecture. Arched doorways, soft lighting, and muted earth tones create a tranquil, retreat-like environment.

Mystical Reflections uses mirrors to create a sense of depth and magic. Reflective surfaces paired with enchanted forest-themed decor add an element of surprise and wonder.

Raven’s Haven brings the mysterious beauty of ravens into the room with dark, rich colors and plush raven toys. Artwork of ravens in moonlit trees adds a touch of Gothic elegance.

Sapphire Dreams creates a Gothic nursery with deep, calming sapphire hues and silver accents. Dark wood furniture with Gothic detailing completes the serene, magical space.

Gentle Guardians softens the traditional gargoyle motif into playful, friendly figures. Stone-gray tones and whimsical gargoyle toys create a balanced, inviting space.

https://learncalifornia.org/western-gothic-nursery/

[solxamber]

Good morning/evening/ whenever you're reading this.

May I request Silver, Malleus, and Ace with someone who's like a sheep in wolfs clothing? Basically someone who seems intimidating and scary but is actually nice if that makes sense. Romantic or platonic is fine.

Malleus, Silver, Ace with a Sheep in Wolf's Clothing

hi! thank you for waiting, i hope this is what you wanted <3

Malleus Draconia

At first, Malleus is absolutely enchanted by the way you carry yourself. Your cool exterior, fierce glances, and aura of danger? He’s genuinely impressed. In his eyes, you’re practically royalty, strolling through campus with an air of mysterious authority that rivals his own.

But one evening, when the two of you are alone, he watches as you carefully kneel down to help a tiny creature—a shivering, injured bird, fallen from its nest. He’s speechless as you whisper gently to it, cooing softly as you tuck it into a makeshift cradle from your scarf.

“Ah, so even the fiercest can be kind,” he says, thoroughly charmed.

You look up, cheeks red. “What? No, I mean— I wasn’t… fierce,” you mutter, trying to explain away your rough side.

Malleus lets out a low chuckle, genuinely amused. “There’s no need to pretend with me, Child of Man. I find this side of you… endearing.” And with that, he offers his arm, as if escorting the most dignified person he’s ever met—like of course you’d be kind.

And every time he sees you after, he watches you just a little bit closer, hoping to catch more glimpses of the sweet, gentle heart beneath your “terrifying” façade.

Silver

Silver’s first impression? Oh, you were fierce, alright. With that intense stare and sharp wit, he thought you were the kind of person who could take on a horde of fire-breathing dragons without blinking.

But it doesn’t take him long to notice the little things: how you’re the first to offer help in a quiet, unassuming way. Or how you gave Grim half your lunch when he wouldn’t stop whining about his empty plate.

One day, he finally works up the courage to ask. “You’re… not like most people expect, are you?”

You blink, caught off guard. “Uh… how do you mean?”

He tilts his head thoughtfully. “You seem… gentle. Like someone who cares more than they show.” He says it simply, but with a warm smile.

“Oh! I—well, I guess…” You clear your throat, trying not to look too pleased. “Yeah, I try to be. Is that… weird?”

Silver chuckles softly, shaking his head. “Not at all. I think it’s admirable.” And with that, he goes back to his usual quiet self, though you notice he hangs around a bit more often, maybe just to keep an eye on you—or to be near you, enjoying the company of the sweetest “wolf” he’s ever met.

Ace Trappola

Ace was 100% convinced you were bad news when he first saw you. The way you stood, arms crossed and serious, maybe even a little cold, he thought for sure you were a total menace. So when he finds you one day, crouched down and helping a stray cat drink from a cup you’d brought, he actually does a double-take.

“You… feed stray animals?”

You look up, blushing furiously. “Uh… yeah? Why wouldn’t I?”

He bursts out laughing, clapping his hands. “Oh man, and here I thought you’d, like, fight a cat if it came too close!”

You roll your eyes, trying to act annoyed, but you can’t help but laugh, too. “Yeah, yeah, real funny.”

After that, Ace doesn’t let you live it down. He’ll pull you along when he sees a lost animal just to watch you fuss over it, teasing you the whole time. “Oh no, don’t let the fearsome ‘tough guy’ break out the baby voice again!”

But despite the endless teasing, he genuinely loves seeing you drop the act and show your soft side. And even if he won’t say it out loud, he thinks it’s pretty awesome having a friend as kind—and surprisingly tender—as you.

Masterlist

[nyrasvoid]

A Knight’s Prize pt.2

Gwayne Hightower x Fem!Reader

Summary: you overhear a scheming conversation between Otto and Alicent Hightower, leading you to doubt Ser Gwayne’s true intentions.

Warnings: none i think?? if you find any let me know

A/N: this second part was written based on one of the comments of part one

- Word count: ≈3.5k

Part 1

The day after your encounter with Ser Gwayne, you find yourself wandering the corridors of the Red Keep. You wore a teal dress, a perfect blend of Velaryon blue and Hightower green, with gold embroidery down the fabric. A simple gold tiara adorned with tiny pearls rests on your head, while a silver pendant shaped like a dragon, its eyes gleaming with emeralds, hangs around your neck. Your heart flutters with a mix of hope and anxiety as you walk, your thoughts consumed by the image of Ser Gwayne. You can’t help but wonder if your paths will cross today, if perhaps he might seek you out again, this time not as a competitor but as a suitor.

As you turn a corner, the sound of voices pulls you out of your imagination. You recognize them instantly, calculating tone of Lord Otto Hightower and the softer voice of Queen Alicent. You pause, turning around and hiding behind the column where they could not see you.

From your position, you peeked around the corner and saw them standing near the entrance to the library. You feel your pulse quicken as you lean closer, trying your best to hear their conversation.

"Father," Alicent begins, her voice filled with worry. "This match between Gwayne and the Princess... it troubles me."

Otto watches her calmly, his expression unreadable. "And why should it trouble you, my daughter? The girl is a Princess of the realm, of Velaryon and Targaryen blood, and a potential queen one day. A union between our houses would solidify our influence over the Iron Throne."

"But she is a bastard," Alicent argues quietly. "The rumors about her parentage... they are known throughout the court. If Gwayne marries her, it could stain our house, taint the Hightower name with whispers and scandal."

You feel a chill run down your spine, your fingers tightening around the fabric of your dress. The word 'bastard' feels to you like a knife, a painful reminder of the whispers and glances that have haunted you all your life.

Otto remains calm, his tone firm and decisive. "Alicent, you must understand the greater game we are playing. Whether she is a trueborn daughter of Ser Laenor Velaryon or not, she is still the granddaughter of King Viserys and the heir to the throne after Rhaenyra. To have her as a daughter-in-law would elevate our house beyond any stain that her lineage might bear."

Alicent hesitates, her gaze fixated towards the ground. "But what of Gwayne? Does he know of these ambitions? Has he agreed to be a pawn in your game?” she paused and took a deep breath. “If he is to marry a bastard and stain our name, he must at least have a say in this.”

Otto smiles, a cold, calculating smile that sends a shiver down your spine. "Gwayne knows his duty, as we all do. His personal feelings are of little to no matter, compared to the power our house could gain. He will do as he is told."

You feel as though you have been betrayed. Could it be true? Is Ser Gwayne merely a pawn in his father’s game? Have his charming words and tender touches been nothing more than a farce, a way to secure your hand and, with it, the power that comes with your name?

You take a step back, tip-toeing slow and carefully to avoid being discovered. Your thoughts becoming a storm of confusion and hurt. Is this the true nature of the man who seeks your favor? Does he see you as nothing more than a prize to be won?

Just as you’re about to leave, you hear Alicent speak once more, her voice filled with doubt. "But what if she learns of this? What if she refuses him? The Princess has her mother’s spirit and the blood of the dragon. She will not be easily controlled if she feels betrayed."

Otto simply responds - "Then we must ensure she does not learn of it. The Princess is young, and like any young woman, she is vulnerable to the charms of a skilled and handsome knight. Gwayne will win her over with affection."

You finally decide to retreat, wanting to hear no more words of their scheming. As you walk through the halls of the Red Keep, you can’t stop thinking about Gwayne. How could you have been so blind? Could Ser Gwayne be part of this plan, or is he a victim of his father’s ambition too?

The sounds of the tournament grow louder as you approach the field, but you no longer feel the same excitement. You watch as Ser Gwayne enters the field, facing the famous Ser Loras Tyrell. Ser Gwayne’s armor gleams in the sunlight, a shining steel plate adorned with the green fabrics of House Hightower. His cloak, bearing the Hightower sigil. A plume of green feathers decorates his helmet, making him stand out against the other knights. He carries his lance with confidence.

Ser Loras, wearing an armour decorated with the golden roses of House Tyrell, sits on his horse, his gaze fixed on Gwayne with a look of superiority. The two knights lower their lances, and at the signal from the herald, they charge.

The first clash is brutal, their lances meeting with a deafening impact, both knights remain mounted. The crowd roars in excitement, eager for more. Again, they charge, and again their lances crash together, breaking into pieces. But neither man yields.

On the third pass, Ser Loras leans slightly into Gwayne’s track, his lance striking against Gwayne’s shield. With the force of the blow, Ser Gwayne is knocked from his horse. He hits the ground hard, and you feel a shiver run down your spine.

You rise from your seat, your heart pounding in your chest as you lean on the gallery’s fence to see what is happening on the field. Rhaenyra and Daemon exchange looks, as they notice your concern. They have not forgotten the disrespects and insults of the Hightowers towards your family, and your growing interest in Ser Gwayne is not something they view favorably.

From behind your seat, Otto Hightower watches with a smirk, his eyes catching the worry on your face. He seems almost pleased by your reaction, his mind already thinking about your betrothal to his son.

As you slowly sit back down, your brother Jacaerys, seated beside you, leans in and whispers, “Do you have any interest in that Hightower cunt?”

You glare at him, your voice low as you reply, “It is of no interest to you, Jace.”

He frowns but says nothing more, his gaze returning to the field as the match continues.

Ser Gwayne, rises from the ground and calls out to Ser Loras, his voice carrying across the field, “Dismount, Ser Loras, and face me with steel if you dare!”

The crowd murmurs in excitement as Ser Loras hesitates for only a moment before dismounting. The two knights draw their swords, the clash of steel ringing across the field.

Ser Loras is fast and agile, but Ser Gwayne fights with a relentless ferocity that soon begins to wear his opponent down. You watch in distress, worrying for Gwayne, your earlier doubts momentarily forgotten in the heat of the moment.

Finally, with a powerful strike, Ser Gwayne forces Ser Loras’s sword from his hand, sending it to the ground. Loras stumbles back and Gwayne presses the tip of his blade against the Tyrell knight’s throat.

“Yield,” Ser Gwayne commands, his voice firm.

Ser Loras meets his gaze for a long moment before finally lowering his head in surrender. “I yield,” he says.

As the day’s events draw to a close, you retreat to the gardens of the Red Keep, seeking solace in the cool evening air.

You reach a secluded corner of the garden, where the scent of blooming roses fills the air, and there, waiting for you, stands Ser Gwayne. His armor has been removed, he smiles as you approach, but the warmth you once felt in his presence is now overshadowed by the coldness in your heart.

"Princess," he says gently, "I've been looking for you. Is something the matter?"

You hesitate, your mind racing with the memory of what you overheard in the library. The scheming of his father and sister, the way they spoke of you as if you were nothing more than a pawn in their game. You swallow hard, unable to meet his gaze fully.

"Nothing is the matter, Ser Gwayne," you reply, your voice cold and distant.

His brow furrows, sensing the change in your behaviour. "We are betrothed now," he says, "Should we not start spending more time together? I want us to know each other, to trust each other."

"Trust?" you echo, your tone filled with sarcasm. "Trust is a rare luxury in a place like this, wouldn’t you agree?"

He looks taken aback by your sharpness but remains calm. "Princess, I understand your apprehension. But we are to be married. We must find common ground, if not for our sake, then for the sake of our houses."

The mention of your marriage—the idea of leaving your family, your mother, your brothers—. You glance away, "It’s not so simple, Ser Gwayne.”

He steps closer, his voice softer. "Should I come to your chambers before the dinner to accompany you? We could speak more... openly."

You nod, though your enthusiasm is lacking. "Very well, Ser Gwayne. If it pleases you."

You return to your chambers, there, you prepare for the dinner. The thought of marriage, the thought of leaving behind everything you’ve ever known to go to Oldtown, fills you with sadness. And then, of course, there’s the matter of children—something that makes you sick to your stomach just thinking about it.

As you finish dressing, you hear a light knock on your door. You take a deep breath and open it to find Ser Gwayne waiting for you, dressed in elegant dark green attire.

"You look beautiful, Princess," he says with a small smile, his eyes tracing the lines of your gown as he extends his arm offering you to hold onto it.

"Thank you, Ser Gwayne," you reply, your voice polite but distant as you accept his arm.

As you walk together through the corridors of the Red Keep, he tries to make conversation. "I’ve been thinking about Oldtown," he begins, his voice calm. "It’s a beautiful city, with a rich history. I think you will grow to love it there, as its Lady."

You nod, but your thoughts are elsewhere. "Perhaps," you say, not wanting to engage in the conversation.

He senses your hesitance and changes the subject. "And what of children?" he asks gently, "I imagine we will have many, strong and healthy. You will be a wonderful mother, I am sure."

The thought of children—of bearing his children—unnerves you. "We shall see, Ser Gwayne" you reply coolly.

As you enter the grand dining hall, you take your seats beside each other. The hall is filled with the noble houses of the realm, and King Viserys announces your betrothal with a smile. There are cheers and applause.

Ser Gwayne turns to you, "Would you honor me with a dance, Princess?" he asks, his voice soft.

But the last thing you want is to dance with him, not after everything. "I’m afraid I do not wish to dance," you reply, turning away from him.

Moments later, Ser Loras approaches and asks for the honor of a dance. Despite your earlier refusal, you accept his offer, rising from your seat and allowing him to lead you to the dance floor. You can feel Ser Gwayne’s eyes on you, a mixture of hurt and confusion in his gaze, but you ignore it.

When the dinner finally ends, Ser Gwayne is there to escort you back to your chambers. The walk is silent, tension in the air. As you reach the door, he stops, his hand gently grabbing yours.

"Princess," he begins, his voice low and strained, "why have you been so distant with me? And why did you dance with another when I asked you first?"

You pull your hand away, feeling the anger within you begin to boil. "I am not distant," you say, though the lie is evident in your voice.

He steps closer, his eyes searching yours. "We should not start our marriage based on lies, Princess. If something is troubling you, tell me. We are to be husband and wife. We must trust each other."

The pressure of his words, finally breaks you. "You want to know what’s wrong, Ser Gwayne?" you snap. "I overheard your father and sister speaking in the library. They spoke of using me, of marrying me off to you to gain power, to strengthen their hold on the realm. How can I trust anything you say?"

Ser Gwayne’s eyes widen in shock. "I had no idea," he says, "I swear to you, Princess, I was not aware of any of this. My feelings for you—my desire to marry you—are my own, not theirs. You must believe me."

You turn away, tears threatening to spill over. "How can I? How can I believe anything when everyone around me is filled with ambition?"

He reaches out, gently turning you back to face him. "Because I will prove it to you," he vows. "I will confront my father and sister. I will not allow them to manipulate us, to use you as a tool for their own gain. I promise you that, Princess."

You stare at him, a storm of emotions going through your mind. Without thinking, you reach up, grabbing his face in your hands. The softness of his skin under your fingers sends a shiver down your spine, leaning in to press your lips against his.

The kiss is desperate, filled with all the confusion you’ve been holding back. His lips are warm and firm against yours, and for a moment, you lose yourself in the sensation. His hands come up to your waist, pulling you closer as he deepens the kiss.

When you finally pull away, your breathing is uneven, your heart pounding in your chest. He looks at you, his hands still resting on your waist.

"We must wait," he says gently, his voice tinged with both desire and restraint. "I do not wish to dishonor you, Princess. We should save this for our wedding night, as it should be." He takes your hand, lifting it to his lips and placing a soft kiss on your knuckles.

You nod, unable to say anything, but before you can even try to speak, Ser Gwayne steps back, “Goodnight, my lady," he murmurs, "I will see you tomorrow."

He turns and walks away, leaving you standing at the doors of your chambers, your heart pounding in your chest.

Slowly, you retreat into your chambers, closing the door behind you. You move toward the vanity, removing the silver pendant from your neck and placing it carefully on the table. Your hands are trembling. You slip out of your dress, replacing it with a simple nightgown. As you slide into bed, pulling the covers up to your chin, your thoughts race.

You try to push the events of the evening from your mind, but it’s impossible. Ser Gwayne’s words echo through your mind, his touch still lingering on your skin. He seemed sincere.

Your thoughts go to the future, to what it means to be Lady of Oldtown, to be married to a man whose family you cannot fully trust. The idea of leaving your mother and brothers fills you with a deep sadness. Perhaps, despite everything, Ser Gwayne might be different. He could be a good husband, a good father. He could make this marriage something more than just a political arrangement.

Pt 3???

[humanpurposes]

August

Part 1: Possibilities and Peace Offerings

Your family has been invited to spend August at Dragonstone, where things get a little tense after an unfortunate first encounter with Aemond Targaryen, one he's determined to put right.

Aemond Targaryen x Reader // Modern AU

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist // Read on AO3

Warnings: 18+, nothing too bad here, eventual smut, slight enemies to lovers, mutual pining

Words: 7k

A/n: Summer romance is here!! hope you likeeee. This is going to be three parts in total.

The impending summer exists beyond time, beyond the rest of the world. Exams are over and you’ve already received a mark for your dissertation. The dorm room you called home for three years is packed up and returned to its prison-like appearance, just as it was when you were an eager and excitable fresher. Suddenly the world is an endless sea of possibilities and you’re standing on the water’s edge with nothing to lose.

You spend a few weeks with your friends, drinking in pub gardens and driving down to the rammed beaches along the coast near King’s Landing, but this summer of possibility takes an unexpected turn when your father receives an invitation to spend the month of August at Dragonstone, as a guest of Viserys Targaryen. Viserys and your father have been business partners for just under a decade, but to be welcomed into his inner circle, to the ancestral home of the Targaryen family, is another honour altogether. 

Your parents are beside themselves with excitement. You’re a little more sceptical but you won’t let them know it. So once your uni friends have gone back to their hometowns, you pack an array of swimsuits and summer dresses into a suitcase, and bundle into the backseat of your father’s car. 

The aircon is on full blast. You sip on the last of your water as an 80s playlist blares through your headphones to block out the conversation of investments, clients, lawsuits and legal fees from the front seats.

Dragonstone is three things; an island, a town, and a castle. You drive out of the city, red and grey buildings blurring into greenery and vast spaces of blue, the sky and the sea. A ferry takes you from the mainland to the island’s port. The song you were listening to fades away as you slip your headphones off your ears. The town is utterly charming, from the rows of fishing boats in the harbour to the cobbled streets and obscure little buildings, bookshops, bakeries and butchers. The sun shines brightly, heat pulses through the window even with the blast of cool air.

A few more miles and you reach a gatehouse, ancient stone walls smothered with ivy, guarded by two stone creatures with their jaws wide open— dragons with spikes and sharp teeth. The driveway is lined with thick trees and foliage. Suddenly you turn a corner and there it is, towers and turrets reaching up into the summer sky, hundreds of windows, more carvings of dragons looming proudly over where Blackwater Bay becomes the Narrow Sea. 

The man who greets you by the doors is not a Targaryen. He has dark hair, dark eyes, a crisp white shirt and a radio on his belt. Your father seems to know him already. He greets him as “Cole,” and introduces him to you and your mother.

Cole offers his hand to you. “Criston,” he insists, “I’m the head of Mr Targaryen’s security.”

Two identical butlers take your bags from the car while Criston shows you into the entrance hall. He comments on the antiques and the 14th century timbers, leading you through to the room he calls “the waiting chamber”. It has high ceilings, wood panelled walls, an enormous fireplace and aged but comfortable looking leather sofas at the edges of the room. You note the portraits on the walls, the more recent photographs on the mantle, but before you can get a proper look, someone announces their own arrival into the room.

Viserys Targaryen has his arms open, dressed far more casually than you’ve seen him at various galas and events, he even has a pair of aviators keeping his silver hair out of his face. He greets your father with a smile and a firm handshake, his eyes sharp but somewhat hollow. 

“Sorry for keeping you waiting,” he says, moving onto your mother and then to you. “We’re having drinks on the patio, enjoying the sun. Why don’t you join us?” He chuckles and you don’t really understand why. You’re not sure how any of this works.

Viserys leads you through the house, stopping by the great hall and the library, pointing out details like Criston did. His home is devoted to family and every furnishing carries some sentimental value. The curtains and the sofas in the library are Arryn blue for his first wife, the shelves are laden with books that belonged to his grandfather. There are items here which have belonged to the Targaryens for generations and their house’s sigil is carved into the walls and wooden beams. 

At last you come to a hall with tall windows, glass chandeliers and marble floors. Viserys calls this “the west gallery”, a more modern addition to the castle, built in the 17th century. He opens a double glass door and you can already see the sprawling green gardens, the unnatural blue of a swimming pool somewhere in the distance. Before all that is the raised patio, an array of chairs and the people sitting in them.

You step into the heat of the garden, into cigarette smoke and the sounds of laughter, loud and seemingly rehearsed. Your father knows most of these people, other associates of Targ Corp, Corlys Velaryon and his wife Rhaenys Tagraryen, Jason Lannister and his wife Joanna, Lyonel Strong and his son Larys. Even Otto Hightower is lounging back in his chair, sunglasses over his eyes, a pale pink cocktail in a crystal glass. 

Your parents smile graciously, your mother clutching her handbag over her shoulder, your father wiping the sweat from his brow, trying to air out the damp patches in his shirt. They’ll want to make a good impression. Each person staying at Dragonstone this summer is another opportunity for your father.

You glance down at your denim shorts and your sandals— an outfit for comfort, not for networking.

Viserys directs the three of you to a cushioned wooden bench and you squeeze in beside your mother. Another butler appears and offers you all a drink. Your parents both ask for a gin and tonic. You’re thinking that you’d like to dunk yourself in the pool, so you ask for a large glass of water. 

“With ice and lemon, miss?”

“Yeah, please, if you have it?”

Your mother nudges you with her elbow and whispers in your ear. “This is Dragonstone, if you want it they probably have it.”

“If I asked for the Prince of Pentos’ phone number, do you think they’d bring it out on a silver tray?” You return with a grin.

The minutes drag by. Lyonel Strong asks your father about his law practice. Corlys Velaryon and Jason Lannister enter a heated discussion about yachts. Otto Hightower mentions the name “Daemon” and the other voices go quiet. You take large gulps of your water, occasionally sharing silent looks with your mother.

The heat is sweltering. You feel your head pulsing, your skin becoming damp and you worry you may end up as a puddle on the patio if you don’t find a reason to escape soon.

The glass doors open and two women enter the garden, one with auburn hair, dressed in a floral dress and high heels. The other, younger, blonde hair cut into a fashionably short fringe, barefoot, dressed in denim shorts and baggy t-shirt, goes straight to Otto. She doesn’t look at anyone else. She stands behind Otto and leans down to wrap her arms around his neck. This must be Alicent Hightower and her daughter.

Alicent makes her rounds elegantly. She’s familiar with all the people present, except for the three of you, the outsiders, piled onto a single piece of garden furniture. Her eyes are wide and brown, her lips full and fallen slightly even when she smiles. She asks about the journey from King’s Landing, if you’ve had a chance to explore the town.

She asks you a lot of questions too, what you do, where you studied, what your plans are for the Autumn. And once she’s found out what she wants from you, she starts telling you everything about her children, unprompted.

“Helaena’s starting a PhD in a few weeks, staying in King’s Landing– King’s college, of course, not KLU, seven heavens. We didn’t want her to be too far away from home,” she says, looking back at her daughter and her father. “Etymology. Well, she’s always had a thing for insects, I could never understand it, but it’s easier to let her follow her interests, she’s that sort of girl.

“Now Aegon is like that too, he likes a lot of things, would be nice if he could be interested in something that makes him money. Oh well, he’s into the arts, fancies himself a photographer, directed a few plays at university– Oldtown. He wrote a screenplay, you must remind me to show you, it’s really quite clever. It’s about injustice or something like that.

“Daeron is at Oldtown too, at Citadel Boys. He’s the only child I sent to board, I just felt he might be happy with a bit of space from all of us. He wants to go to Oldtown like his brothers. His father wants him to do economics, but he’s very good at history.

“Aemond did history, but then he trained in accountancy. He’s worked all over, Oldtown, Storm’s End, Harrenhal, but he’s looking to stay in King’s Landing now–”

“Mum, you’ll bore her to tears,” Helaena says and it’s only now you notice that she’s moved to stand in front of you. 

Alicent frowns.

You stifle a smile and raise your brows hopefully.

“Do you know where you’re sleeping yet?” Helaena asks, looking at her mother.

“I’ve put her in the moat room,” Alicent says. She turns back to you, “I’m sorry, darling, you’re probably tired, aren’t you? Helaena can show you your room.”

You kiss your mother's cheek and agree to reconvene for dinner in the evening.

“Sorry about mum, she just jumps at the chance to talk about her kids,” Helaena says as you walk back through the west gallery.

“It’s sort of cute,” you say, staring up at the gold detailing on the ceiling. “Very informative.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” she says with a wicked smile.

When Helaena laughs she scrunches up her eyes and her nose. She sways her arms by her sides as she walks and trails her fingertips on the walls. Unlike Criston or Viserys, she doesn’t have little anecdotes about any of the vases or paintings on display. She’s a juxtaposition of her family’s ancestral home, airy and lighthearted, earthy and inexplicably real.

“Your parents are probably in the west wing,” she explains as you come to a winding stairwell. “That’s where everyone else will be too. The moat room is on the other side of the house.”

You nod along, stealing glances out the windows, at the gardens, and from higher up, you can see the sea.

“Don’t be too disheartened though,” Helaena says, “that means you’re with us.”

She shows you your room first. It sits at the very corner of the castle with windows to the north and the east. The moat in question isn’t a moat, it’s more of a well kept ditch. By the rest of the house you were half expecting the room to be medieval, but to your surprise it’s bright, carpeted, sans priceless antiques and heirlooms. A queen-sized bed waits for you piled with pillows. 

“I’m down the hall, and the boys are in the next corridor,” Helaena explains. “If you smell something suspicious, it’s Aegon.”

She helps you unpack your suitcase, admiring your swimsuits and looking through the small collection of books you’ve brought to pass the time.

She shows you her room which is further down the corridor. It’s much larger than yours, far more personal. She has worn patterned rugs over the wooden floors, dark blue wallpaper and accents of gold everywhere, the mirror over her vanity, the handles on the drawers and the wardrobe. You’re most intrigued by the framed taxidermies on the walls, butterflies with the most beautiful wings you’ve ever seen, moths, beetles, even a scorpion.

You’re a little relieved when you see a cat curled up on her bed, with a thick white coat, brown ears. 

“Dreamfyre,” Helaena says, scooping the cat up in her arms. “She’s named after the Valryian god of prophecy and wisdom.”

You hold your hand out for Dreamfyre to sniff. She considers you for a moment, and runs her head against your fingers. “So can she tell me my future?” you ask.

Helaena stares at you. “Don’t be ridiculous, she’s a cat. Why, hoping for something in particular?”

“I like to see where life takes me,” you say.

After exchanging phone numbers and scrolling through each other’s Spotify playlists, Helaena tells you that she thinks the two of you are going to be friends.

Dinner is surprisingly more pleasant, where you all eat around a table on the patio. Being outside is far more bearable once the sun starts to set and a breeze sweeps in from the sea. You’re served white fish, potato salad coated in herbs which Alicent says she grows herself, summer vegetables, grilled courgettes, red and yellow peppers, sweet and tangy tomatoes, washed down with white wine.

You sit beside Helaena, opposite two of her brothers, Aegon and Daeron. Daeron is far taller than his older brother but his face is clearly younger. His pale blond hair is slightly overgrown, his nose a little pink and his skin freckled from being in the sun. “Aemond managed to beat me at tennis today,” he says.

Aegon rolls his eyes, far more concerned with scratching the ears of a golden labrador perched on the floor beside him.

You look to Helaena for an explanation.

“Daeron’s looking to go pro. Aemond can’t stand that he’s not the best at something.”

There’s an empty space at the head of the table, between Aegon and Helaena. You’ve yet to see any other evidence that the elusive middle brother exists.

“There’s a tennis court here?” You ask.

��Towards the water garden, you should be able to see it from the moat room.” Helaena says. “You should have a look.”

Dessert is pistachio ice-cream, then everyone starts to disperse. Aegon grabs a bottle of wine and he and Daeron traipse over to a firepit at the edge of the patio, followed by the labrador. Your parents follow Viserys and the others into the house. Corlys and Rhaenys linger at the table, staring up at the sky and taking long drags from their cigarettes.

You trail Helaena to a neatly kept kitchen. Some of the staff pass through, into a far larger back room with metal surfaces, where the real cooking is done. Criston sits at the kitchen island on a stool, eating a pasta salad from a glass bowl. Helaena pats his head as she passes him. He doesn’t seem surprised by it, perhaps it’s a common occurrence.

“Feel free to grab anything you want, by the way. There’s all sorts of snacks and stuff, and if you want more of something give Criston a shout,” Helaena says, picking out bags of chocolate buttons and sour sweets from a cupboard.

“That’s kind,” you say, twisting your fingers over each other in front of you. “I’m quite tired, I think I might just have a shower and go to bed.”

“Darling, it’s summer, you can do whatever you want,” Helaena says. “See you at breakfast, yeah?” She pulls you into a quick hug and disappears out into the garden.

Not wanting to linger when Criston’s phone starts to ring, you decide to brave it and find your way back to your bedroom. Aegon and Daeron seem like fun, maybe too much fun for tonight, you just need to sleep off the fatigue from the sun.

This place is far too big for you to feel settled just yet. It amazes you how everyone can navigate the castle so easily, it’s like a maze. Eventually you find your way back to the entrance hall. You think you might know the way to the east wing from here, but when you see the sky beyond the windows, lilac and orange, dotted with grey clouds and the first few stars of the evening, you want to make the most of the dying light. Maybe you could head towards the water garden and find the tennis court.

Your sandals crunch against the gravel which stretches out into paths leading in three directions. The central one leads to the driveway and the gatehouse. To the left is the gardens past the edge of the moat, and to the right is an outlook and a downhill path which disappears from sight, which you assume leads down to the sea. You can hear the waves in the distance.

The sunlight is fading fast. You cross your arms over yourself, shivering and regretting the lack of a cardigan. You tell yourself you might warm up with a bit of a walk.

You take a few paces down the path towards the gardens– a dog’s bark has your heart leaping out of your chest. It’s deep and loud, coming from behind you. Your head darts around. An enormous dog has emerged from the downhill path and is bounding towards you, covering ground quickly.

You keep your feet planted on the ground, out of fear

The dog, a great dane, stops before you— it truly is huge, its head would come up to your torso if you were close enough, and you don’t really want to find out– barking viciously. Its teeth flash, flecks of saliva dripping from its mouth.

“Back off! Come, Vhagar!”

You look back along the path. A man in a black t-shirt and black shorts is walking quickly towards you and the dog. He grabs it by its collar and yanks it back, fastening it on a leash.

His eyes dart up— eye, you realise. The right side is a bright blue, the left is clouded, framed by a scar slicing down from his brow to his cheek.

“Who are you?” He asks like an accusation.

You hesitate, your heart still racing in panic.

You say your first name, then your family name, at that the man tuts and raises himself to full height, keeping the great dane on a short leash. “Right. What are you doing out here?”

“Just… looking around.”

“Just looking around someone else’s house?”

Gods now you’re really starting to panic. He’s glaring at you as if it’s your fault his dog just made a break for you.

He huffs irritably through his nose. “Look, Vhagar’s not always friendly and especially not around strangers. Be careful, yeah?” 

Vhagar now seems content enough sitting by her owner’s side, wagging her tail and panting with her tongue out. Her grey coat is covered in sand, especially her paws and her nose.

“If your dog’s not always friendly why wasn’t she on a leash?” 

His face hardens. Frowning suits his sharp features and the intensity of his eye. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this is my fucking house.”

That explains the blond hair, and you suppose now he has the same lanky look as Daeron and the same gauntness in his face as Aegon.

“Right, your dog could have just mauled me but thanks for the friendly reminder.” You turn towards the house and mutter loud enough for him to overhear, “prick.”

You can’t shake the frustration. Nothing takes the edge off, not the hot stream of water from the shower, the routine of your skincare or the feeling of sinking into an impossibly soft mattress. Dragonstone is perfect… and all you want to do is scream, just a little.

Breakfast is served in the morning room, next to the kitchen, according to the text you got from Helaena. You put a swimsuit on, a patterned one piece and pull on some shorts. Before you head downstairs you grab a pair of sunglasses, a bottle of suncream and a book, determined that your morning will be peaceful and idyllic.

People flitter into the morning room as they please. Helaena is still in her pyjamas, tucking into a bowl of yoghurt and fruit. Daeron comes in and starts eating toast off Alicent’s plate, having already run a casual 5k about the grounds.

The man from last night is hovering by a side table, placing sausages and bacon onto a small plate. He glances sideways at you as you enter. 

You keep your teeth pressed together as you reach for a plate and go for the platter of pastries, reaching for an almond croissant.

His elbow must be a few inches from yours. “Morning,” he mutters.

You were half expecting him to act like you don’t exist. “Morning,” you mumble back.

“Have you two already met?” Helaena asks loudly from the table.

“Briefly,” he says.

“And you didn’t actually tell me your name,” you say, adding some strawberries to your plate for good measure.

“The boy has no manners,” Daeron says in a mocking voice, earning him an exasperated chide from his mother. Helaena giggles to herself.

He faces you fully. “Aemond,” he says.

“Good for you,” you say, and go to take a seat beside Helaena.

“Tea or coffee?” she asks you, reaching towards the two silver pots in the middle of the table.

“Coffee, please.”

Helaena makes a shocked expression. “Blasphemy. I’m a tea girl.” 

As Helaena pours some coffee into a china cup, Aemond takes the free seat opposite you. Your heart races a little, infuriated at the sight of him, somewhat guilty that your time at Dragonstone has already soured and his entire family is there to see it.

You add just a dash of milk to your coffee. In the corner of your eye you see him watching you, fork hovering in front of his face. You muster the confidence to look up and he averts his eye.

After you’ve finished your breakfast you head out to the patio, down the stone steps and to the pool, settling on one of the lounge chairs. Helaena has gone back up to her room to change and bring you both down a towel.

You lather suncream on your limbs, face and neck, and open your book. This is a nice kind of heat, one that you’re more prepared for. You can almost feel it permeating your skin, breathing new life into your blood. 

You get a few moments of bliss until a silhouette appears beside you.

You raise your eyes from the page, over the edges of your sunglasses, staring ahead at the surface of the pool. You can smell a man’s aftershave, and you can tell he’s too tall to be Aegon.

Ice clinks against glass. He leans down to place something on the small table beside you. “Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

You don’t want to turn your head, that might be misinterpreted as you actually caring.

But then Aemond’s voice takes on a lighter tone and he says, “Are you reading Crime and Punishment?” 

You scrunch your brows in bewilderment as you look up at him.

His eye moves between your face and the book in your lap

“Yeah,” you say, shifting your legs and drawing your knees closer to your torso, “I’m finding it a bit boring to be honest.”

His lips are parted ever so slightly and you can see the tips of his teeth. “It’s one of my favourite books.”

“I think that might explain a lot,” you say.

The corner of his mouth flickers like he might smile. He holds it back. 

“What’s this?” You ask, looking down at the glass of iced coffee he’s placed on the table. 

“A peace offering,” Aemond says. “I really am sorry about yesterday evening. I just… panicked. Vhagar isn’t always good around people she doesn’t trust. She bit my nephew once actually.”

“Oh, not good.”

“It was years ago, and to be fair to her—” he doesn’t finish that sentence. He presses his lips together. “I just thought I should apologise to you.”

Even when apologising he sounds smug.

“Thanks, I appreciate it,” you say.

He hums, it’s cryptic and it throws you off a little. He looks at you like he has a secret, like he’s managed to spot something that you haven’t. 

You feel aware of yourself and now you can’t breathe without doing it consciously. You feel beads of sweat forming at the back of your neck, the warmth of your own skin with your thighs pressed together, the pulse in your chest, the restless feeling in your stomach. You’re worried you might do something stupid, but how could you? You’re only sitting in a swimsuit and sunglasses, while Aemond is doing nothing to hide the fact that he’s looking at you– studying you with a hint of excitement in his eye.

And after about a minute of this he says, “enjoy your morning,” turning and strolling towards the patio. 

You clench your jaw, determined that you won’t look back at him, but you listen to his footsteps as they move away. 

With each line you read, you can only think of Aemond pouring over every word and making this book his bible. You imagine his hands holding the cover, his fingertip dragging over the page, his lips parted in concentration. It feels intrusive, it feels too involved. You couldn’t possibly put this book down now.

Aemond is an understated presence amongst his own family. He often lurks in the library or in a corner of the sitting room with a book. He wanders the gardens with his headphones on. He takes Vhagar down to the beach every evening and some nights you steal glances of them from a window at the front of the house. He gets these headaches, something to do with the scar over his eye, and when he does he likes to retreat to his room. When he is around for dinner he sits at the head of the table, opposite his father but miles away from him. He’s not a big talker but when he does have something to add to the conversation he commandeers it. Everyone stops to listen when he speaks.

You like watching him, the way he fiddles with anything within his reach, how he strokes his fingertips over his hands, the edge of his jaw. You look for his microexpressions, the twitches of his brow and the quirk of his lips when he finds something amusing, and how at the mentions of sensitive subjects or certain names, his eye widens. 

He smirks when he sees you looking, you don’t mind that he knows that you are.

You don’t want to seek him out, but you don’t try to avoid him either. He’s always somewhere in your periphery, his hand brushing against yours at the dinner table, the smell of his Marlboros wafting from the patio when you’re sitting by the pool which makes you wonder if he’s watching you. In the evenings after dinner, you and the Targaryen siblings hang around the firepit late into the night. Helaena and Daeron talk about constellations and roast marshmallows, Aegon plucks on a guitar, and you and Aemond fall into a game of pretending like you’re not looking at each other. 

Some nights you sit across from him, your view distorted by the heat and the flames. Other nights he dares to sit beside you, close enough that his leg will rest against yours. He keeps his voice soft until you’re leaning in closer to catch every word he says, this insufferable man who bings you a coffee every morning and asks you about the books you read.

One night Aemond is sat beside you. Helaena sings along to Aegon’s guitar, Daeron drums his fingers against his legs, gazing in wonder at his siblings because moments like this are a rarity for him.

“Do you forgive me yet?” Aemond asks, his arm draped along the back of the bench you sit on. Maybe he can read your mind because you’ve been silently begging for him to come closer… closer…

Your senses are hazy, the smoke of the fire, the scent of cigarettes and aftershave lingering on Aemond’s shirt, the glasses of wine you had with dinner, the clear, cold night air piercing the backs of your arms. He notices you shivering and slips his arm around your shoulders, slowly, so you have a chance to tell him to stop. His heat is white hot. Your chest feels hollow and weightless.

Everything about him is hypnotising, the curve of his mouth, his self-assuredness, the look in his eye that’s gentle and intense all at once.

Your body feels heavy; you should probably go to bed soon. “Do you care if I forgive you?”

He frowns, less disappointed, more intrigued and lifts his hand to brush your hair from your neck, fingertips grazing over your skin. Your body stiffens in his wake, like electricity coursing through your shoulders, down your spine.

“I’d hate to have it hanging over my head,” he mutters.

You turn your head and now your faces are inches apart. His nose twitches as he breathes, you notice.

His palm comes to rest on your bare thigh, below the hem of your shorts. In the corner of your eye you see heads of silver hair glancing across the firepit. Aegon chuckles. You’re content to let the distractions fade away. “Keep bringing me coffees and I’ll consider it.”

The next day you’re laying on your bed, enjoying the cool of the early evening against your damp skin and hair after a shower. How you can be so exhausted after a day of reading by the pool makes you despair a little. It’s the heat, it messes with your brain.

The music through your headphones is interrupted by a notification.

Helaena Targaryen: Aemond said he’s off to walk the dogs if you want to join him.

You frown at the screen. Did he want Helaena to ask you? You specifically?

Surprisingly, you were getting on rather well with Aemond today, not enough for him to text you himself, or ask for your number for that matter. At the very least, things have been less hostile since your first encounter. You saw him at breakfast and he asked you how you were getting on with Crime and Punishment, if you had finally realised that it’s the best piece of literature put to the world (his words). You said you were not convinced, only because it was fun to argue about it with him. While you were sitting by the pool he came down in a pair of black trunks and no shirt, swam twenty laps in twenty minutes, then dried off in the lounge chair next to yours. Later, while Helaena was sitting with you, he appeared from the kitchen with two bowls of strawberries with the stems cut off. And then at lunch he sat between Aegon and Daeron, and hardly looked at you.

Your thumbs hover over the keyboard, painfully conscious that Helaena will be able to see that you’re typing.

Helaena Targaryen: I think it’s part of him ‘making amends’ with you.

Helaena Targaryen: He probably still feels bad about it.

Helaena Targaryen: Loser.

You smile to yourself and type out your reply: Yeah, why not. Where does he want me?

While Helaena starts to type you quickly pull on some shorts and a clean t-shirt. Your phone dings while you’re in front of the mirror, dabbing concealer under your eyes.

Helaena Targaryen: Front door. Five mins. Have fun :) 

It will probably take you five minutes to find your way down to the entrance hall anyway. You finish your face off with some blush on the apples of your cheeks and a thin amount of mascara on your lashes. There’s not much you can do about your wet hair, but other than that you’re mostly satisfied with yourself, so you pull on a pair of trainers, slip your phone into your back pocket and hurry through the corridors of Dragonstone.

He’s waiting for you in the entrance hall by the door, Vhagar, the great dane on one leash, Sunfyre, the golden labrador on another. He gives you a half smile as you approach them.

“Who am I walking?” you say.

“My girl stays with me,” he says, offering you Sunfyre’s leash, which you take, ruffling his ears.

“Vhagar is your girl then, is she?” you ask as Aemond leads you out the door and down the front steps, past the spot where she scared you half to death. The dogs are eager to storm ahead but Aemond keeps Vhagar on a tight lead, so you do the same.

“I suppose. We’ve had great danes forever, my father’s very fond of them. We got Vhagar when I was sixteen and well, we just like each other a lot I guess.” 

“What about Sunfyre?”

“He’s Aegon’s really, but mostly he stays at the Keep with mum and dad. Aegon doesn’t really stay in the same place long enough.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“Yeah well, he does what he wants. This way,” Aemond says, nodding towards the downhill path to the beach. You’ve been down here with Helaena already, a winding gravel path lined with bushes and brambles down the cliff face. Vhagar plods along leisurely, Sunfyre can’t get down fast enough. When you stumble, Aemond steadies you, a large hand wrapped around your forearm. “He can run off now anyway,” he mutters, undoing the leash, and Sunfyre darts along the path in a golden flash.

Low in the sky, you see the sun dancing along the surface of the sea, waves rolling orange and blue into white foam as they meet the shore.

“What about you?”

Aemond looks at you with a brief look of bewilderment.

“Are you not doing what you want?”

He tries to conceal a frown, pouting his lips slightly. “Maybe I did for a bit, wound up working for Targ Corp, so I don’t see what difference any of it made.”

Once you reach the sand and Sunfyre is sniffing at some rocks along the base of the cliff, Aemond looks at you. “Are you alright if I take her off the leash?”

Vhagar looks pleadingly up at her owner, her tail thrumming against the ground.

“Yeah, of course,” you say.

“I just didn't know if you’d be comfortable after…”

“Oh,” you say, “thanks for considering it, but yes, it’s more than fine.”

Aemond grins as he undoes the clasp connecting the lead to Vhagar’s collar.

“What?” you ask.

“Does that mean you forgive me now?”

You fold your arms, your cheeks straining as you try to withhold the extent of your smile. “You do make a good coffee, I’ll give you that.”

Sunfyre and Vhagar entertain themselves, chasing each other, running to the edge of the water where the waves rush over the sand and retreat again. You and Aemond walk along the shore where the sand is damp and stable. Aemond says the tide will be coming in within the hour.

“So why work for Targ Corp if you don’t want to?” you ask him. 

Aemond contemplates this for a moment, making a low humming noise in his throat. “If I really didn’t want to, I wouldn't.”

“But if Aegon gets to do what he wants, why don’t you?”

He looks down at his shoes, white sneakers, and digs his hands into the pocket of his joggers. “I remember thinking when I finished my bachelor’s, there were lots of things I was good at.”

You make a teasing face.

“No, I just mean there’s lots of things I could have done. I thought about being a curator, or something, you know? I did my dissertation on that actually, how museums and exhibitions can distort the past as well as preserve it–” he interrupts himself with a short tut. “Sorry, I don’t need to bore you.”

Your eyes trail along the curve of his jaw and his chin in the fading light. The wind is gentle, whispering over the bare skin of your cheeks, your arms, your legs. The smell of sea salt lingers in your nose and on your tongue. “I’m not bored,” you say.

With a shy sort of smile he tells you more, how he used to spend hours in the museums in Oldtown, looking at exhibits on Dorne, Essos and Valyria, the papers he read, the cultural memory and the dissonance. “History and heritage, when you think about them, are inherently vague concepts,” he says, “because they’re all based on claims and narratives that are difficult to determine and if they are clear cut, they’re biased. So how do we find the truth? How do we know that what we’re claiming is the right story is actually accurate?” You find yourself watching the parts of him you usually do. He speaks with his hands, indicating and gesturing and moving them randomly when he’s trying to think of a word or explain himself. Occasionally he runs his fingers through his hair or rubs his chin. And his single eye is wide, looking up as he pieces together a thought, looking back to you so he knows you’re still listening. 

“But after all that, you went and trained to be an accountant?” you ask.

“You should have seen the look on my father’s face when I told him I wanted to do a masters in museum studies. So yeah, accounting it was.”

It makes you sad, but you don’t want to tell him that. The entire time you’ve been here you’ve never seen Aemond so animated, talking about something he seems to love.

“What about you? What are your big life plans?” he says.

“Anything but accounting.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, I bet.”

“I’ll do a masters eventually, but I want to work for a little bit. I’ll start applying for jobs when I’m home.”

“In King’s Landing?”

“Yeah.” You look back up at the dark stone of the cliff, the layers and straight lines, the tops of the castle’s turrets just visible from the shore. “Yeah, yeah I think there’s so much pressure to find something to do. I mean, I was trying to focus on my dissertation and my exams, and I kept having these weird moments where I’d think, what’s the point? I don’t have a job ready to go. I don’t have a place on a masters course. I don’t have any plans to travel or volunteer at an orphanage in Meereen. It was like there was a timer going off in my brain and if I didn’t make something of my life before my exams were over, well it was all going to be a waste.” Now you’re the one moving your hands mindlessly, and you don’t know why but saying it all out loud makes you nervous. “Sometimes I feel like I’m running out of time.”

You look back at Aemond and realise you’ve stopped walking. Somewhere along the beach the dogs bark and splash in the shallowest part of the water. Aemond is watching you. He still has his hands in his pockets, his lips curled into a vague smile. “You have plenty of time, don’t worry,” he says. 

It suddenly strikes you what Alicent had mentioned, about him moving back to King’s Landing.

Without stepping away from him you take a mental note of him, your eyes glancing up and down. You want to remember his silhouette, his posture and how he stands, the way he angles his chin, the way he likes to hold his hands behind his back, the joggers and the shape of his torso though his t-shirt. You think you could recognise him at a brief glance, a single body in a crowded city. You think you’d find him.

Aemond meets your eye and raises his brow. 

You smile slightly to fein innocent interest. “We’ll be neighbours, we might see each other wandering around the city.”

But you realise you’ve made a mistake. His amusement starts to fade from his face, his shoulders stiffening. He turns and puts his middle finger and thumb in his mouth to whistle the dogs. They both freeze and bound back towards you. “Tide will be coming in soon,” he says to you.

He has Vhagar and Sunfyre on their leads again. By the time you come back to the path on the cliff the sky is a dull shade of dark blue. The castle looms in darkness and the light comes from within, golden through all of its windows.

“I’m sorry if I was a bit of a downer,” you say.

“You’re fine,” Aemond says. Your steps sound in perfect time along the gravel, up to the front steps. Vhagar and Sunfyre huff and pant, pulling on their leads and eager for a rest.

You reach the door and Aemond opens it. Down the hall one of the butlers is waiting to take the dogs.

“It’s just, I thought we were getting on.”

“We are,” Aemond mutters. “Do you think we are?”

It’s hard to tell with Aemond. He’s polite when he needs to be, easily irritated around his siblings. He’s so calm and composed, but you can see it in his eye when he’s thinking– you just don’t know what. But then there are moments like this, when you think you’ve scratched the surface, when his gaze lingers on you and his eye is soft but intent. When he brings you a coffee in the morning, when he tells you about his favourite book and the things he wishes he’d done with his life.

You’re standing in the entrance hall. Dragonstone is alive, filled with people and distant sounds. Beyond the ancient walls the wind picks up and the tide is coming in. If you took one step closer to Aemond, your navel would be pressed against his.

“I want us to get on,” you say.

“Me too.”

“And I thought we were getting somewhere.”

“Maybe we are,” he says. “I liked this, you’re a good listener.”

“I don’t get that a lot.”

“Do you not?”

“Well I suppose it helps if the person speaking has something interesting to say.”

“Oh,” he says with a little nod, “I thought you were going to say you just liked me that much.”

“That helps too.”

No taglist, follow @ficsbygee and turn on post notifs for updates <3

[pomefioredove]

Hi uh—I would like to request platonic hcs for Diasomnia and any of your favorites with a very young Yuu? Like, not a child, but not college age either (so like 13-15 maybe). The reader is very quiet and gets overstimulated easily, but they can be very sweet—they just show their affection through actions rather than words (like giving someone a pretty rock because it reminded them of that person, without really thinking about it). Recently, my older brother passed away, and your writing has helped me lots! I hope this request wasn’t too much—apologies if it was!

thank you so much for doing what you do, it genuinely makes me happier :)

hi anon, I'm very sorry to hear about your loss, take care <3 I hope this helps

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ brotherly

summary: young yuu type of post: headcanons characters: diasomnia (malleus, sebek, silver, lilia) additional info: platonic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu

Malleus just absolutely treasures you

(dragon pun intended)

it's not strange for him to feel protective of his loved ones, but even so...

call it what you will, paternal, brotherly, either way he sees you as family

and he doesn't take such labels lightly!

he definitely has a little space in his room where he keeps everything you give him

and he's quite reciprocal, too

be it the finest jewels from Briar Valley or a glass bead he found on a walk

he quite likes spending time with you, too

let him into Ramshackle and he'll never leave

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Sebek is, as always, a little distant at first

...he can be a little hard to get close to, that's all

but once he's deemed you worthy of his friendship, you will never get rid of him

he's loyal to the core

the kind of guy to start crying because he loves his friends so much

so, you're definitely safe with him

he teaches himself how to recognize sensory overload so he can get you out of uncomfortable situations faster

he keeps the things you give him on his person as good luck charms!

actually a sweetie, 10/10 no notes

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

though, out of the four, I see you and Silver being the closest

he can be a little... awkward at times

but he's got a soft spot for the meek and quiet

and he knows how overwhelming a place like this can be, especially for you

he knows what it's like to feel out of place

his friendship is full of comfortable silences and moments of peace

any time you feel overstimulated, or sad, or even just feel icky, he's got somewhere quiet you can hide away in

he's a sweetheart <3

he's just as protective as Malleus is, in a way

though he's more likely to teach you how to wield a sword and defend yourself

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

the creaky old man himself!

much like Malleus, Lilia keeps everything you give him

unlike Malleus, it's... everywhere

all over his room, hidden in his pockets, he swears Grim ate one of the pretty rocks you gave him...

he cherishes the little gifts no less, though

and he'll often pass down some of his own old knick-knacks to you

(half of them have some kind of curse he forgot about. Silver deals with it)

he's basically adopted you at this point

Lilia has a soft spot for children, after all

and he's been getting oh-so nostalgic over Silver's youth, lately...

he probably makes everyone take terrible embarrassing photos together now that the family is complete

[novaursa]

Chasing the Inferno

- Summary:  It was during Rhaenyra’s and Laenor’s wedding feast, that the king noticed something he was blind to for far too long.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Harwin Strong

This whole work is inspired by this brilliant anonymous ask:

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, has striking resemblance to her late grandmother Alyssa and is younger sister of Rhaenyra. These events happen after The Flames We Hide. To read all the chapters in chronological order, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 3 532

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

The evening air carries the scents of roasted meats, spiced wine, and fresh flowers into the grand hall, mingling with the vibrant sounds of revelry. The hall is a living tapestry of silks, banners, and candlelight, casting everything in hues of crimson and gold. A sea of finely dressed lords and ladies flows beneath the arched ceiling, the thrumming heart of the grand wedding feast of Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon.

You arrive with the grace and splendor expected of a Targaryen princess, a vision that commands the attention of every eye that lands on you. The dress you wear is a rich deep plum, the color of ripened plums at dusk, lined with golden thread that shimmers in the light. The sleeves are long and bell-shaped, flowing with each movement, while the bodice is tightly laced with intricate embroidery of dragons in flight. Around your neck, a delicate chain bears a pendant of a dragon curled around a glittering ruby—a gift from your father. Your silver hair is braided in intricate patterns, falling down your back with hints of shimmering ribbons intertwined through each strand. 

You sit beside Rhaenyra at the high table, your twin sister glowing with happiness under her finely woven veil. She leans toward you with a playful smirk. “I see you’ve decided to steal the attention for yourself tonight, Y/N. Not even the newlywed princess is safe from your charms.”

You laugh softly, returning her smirk. “It’s not stealing, dearest sister, merely borrowing for the evening.” Your eyes flick toward the bustling crowd, scanning the faces, seeking a particular one even as you engage in idle conversation.

You find him across the hall—Ser Harwin Strong, the Breakbones, the man who has captured your heart in ways you would never openly admit. His broad shoulders and easy smile cut a striking figure amidst the revelers. He leans against a pillar, eyes fixed on you with a heat that makes your pulse quicken. Even from here, you can feel the intensity of his gaze, the unspoken challenge in those dark eyes. A smirk pulls at your lips. Tonight is not just about celebrating your sister’s marriage—it is a dance, a game of fire and shadow that you and Harwin have played many times before.

As the feast progresses, the lords and ladies rise from their seats, drawn to the center of the hall where the dancing begins. You stand, gracefully gliding down the steps, the train of your gown trailing like liquid night behind you. Many lords vie for your attention, each more eager than the last to have the honor of a dance with the daughter of the King.

You indulge them—one by one, offering your hand with a practiced smile that promises nothing but amusement. Lord Beesbury twirls you first, his steps light but unremarkable. Lord Tyrell is next, his flattery sweet yet forgettable. Each time the music swells, you shift, gliding seamlessly into the arms of another suitor, all while casting sly glances over your shoulder to see if Harwin is watching.

And he is. His eyes never leave you, following every step, every spin, the set of his jaw tightening each time you turn away just as he moves closer. You can feel his impatience building like a storm, the tension of the game heightening with every dance.

Finally, after what feels like endless teasing, you find yourself caught in a whirl of movement, spinning until you are only steps away from him. Harwin’s expression is a mix of hunger and frustration as he makes his move to claim you at last.

But just as his hand reaches for yours, you slip away, turning instead into the arms of a young knight from the Westerlands, offering him a dazzling smile that is only for show. “My, Ser Harwin, are you growing weary of this dance already?” you tease, your voice lilting as you catch his gaze. You can see the fire in his eyes, a silent vow that he will not let you slip away so easily next time.

When the dance ends, the Westerlander knight bows low, eyes filled with admiration as he releases you. And as you turn, Harwin is there—closer than before, a step ahead of any other. This time, you do not pull away when his hand grasps yours, his grip firm and warm, sending a shiver down your spine. His voice is low, rough with suppressed desire, as he murmurs into your ear. “Do you truly believe you can keep running from me, Y/N?”

You tilt your head, lips curving into a smirk as you meet his gaze fully, violet and brown heat clashing. “Run, Ser Harwin? I am only leading the chase.”

Without giving him the satisfaction of a response, you spin away from him, the hem of your dress sweeping across the floor as you are swallowed back into the crowd. You glance back over your shoulder just long enough to catch the frustration in his expression before disappearing into the throng of lords and ladies once more. Harwin will catch you like he always does—of that you have no doubt. The thrill is in making him work for it.

But for now, the game continues, and you savor every moment of it.

The night is young, and so are you—dragon-blooded and bold, playing with fire and reveling in the heat that comes with it.

The music swells, a lively tune that fills the hall with mirth and energy, but it does little to settle the unease that creeps into King Viserys’ chest. Seated at the high table, he holds a goblet of wine, though he has barely touched it. His gaze drifts from one side of the room to the other, watching the mingling guests, the lords and ladies spinning in intricate dances. Yet his eyes keep returning to the center of the hall, where Rhaenyra and Daemon move together with a fluid grace that borders on impropriety.

His brow furrows as he watches them—his daughter and his brother. The distance between them is too narrow, the smiles exchanged too familiar. Even now, after all these years, Viserys cannot fully discern what lies behind those shared glances. His hand tightens on the armrest of his seat, his knuckles whitening with the effort to maintain composure. The court is watching; he cannot afford to let his concerns show. Not here. Not tonight.

But then, from the corner of his eye, something else catches his attention—a flash of deep plum silk, a braid of silver hair glinting in the candlelight. His eyes shift, narrowing as he tracks the movement, and there you are, his younger daughter, Y/N, weaving through the crowd with that same effortless grace, the very image of your late mother Alyssa in her youth.

Viserys watches as you glide from one partner to the next, a playful smile ever present on your lips. Each lord who steps forward is charmed, entranced even, but there is one figure whose presence never strays far from your orbit—Ser Harwin Strong. The son of his current Hand, a man known for his strength and loyalty, but also for the intensity of his gaze, a gaze that now rests solely on you. 

Viserys leans forward slightly, frowning as he observes the exchange unfolding before him. Harwin moves closer, clearly intent on catching you, and you—ever the playful one—tease him with fleeting glances, spinning just out of his reach each time he draws near. The way your eyes gleam with mischief, the way you turn your back only to glance over your shoulder at him, invites more than just a dance. It’s a game, and one that is all too familiar to Viserys, who remembers his own youth, and the thrill of such pursuits.

But then Harwin catches you. His large hand wraps around your waist, pulling you closer, closer than what is proper for a dance in front of the entire court. Your laughter rings out like silver bells, light and teasing as you push back against him, yet the way Harwin’s hand lingers—fingers splayed possessively against the silk of your gown—does not escape your father’s notice. The look on Harwin’s face is far too unguarded, a mixture of admiration and longing that sends a jolt of concern racing through Viserys.

Viserys’ chest tightens as he watches you lean in, saying something that makes Harwin’s smile sharpen, though the words are lost to the music and laughter that fills the hall. Then, just as quickly as he caught you, you slip away again, your skirts swirling as you twirl out of his grasp, leaving Harwin standing in the middle of the floor with a look of mingled frustration and desire. The scene plays out before Viserys like a vivid memory, like something he should have noticed sooner, something he should have acted upon long before tonight.

His eyes narrow as he follows the thread of events with growing unease. You laugh and dance your way out of the hall, light-footed and swift, and though Harwin remains behind for a few moments, his gaze tracks you with the keen eye of a falcon. Then, as discreetly as he can manage, Harwin moves toward the exit, following you.

Viserys’ grip on his goblet tightens until he fears it might shatter in his hand. He remains rooted to his seat, unwilling to cause a scene, yet the implications churn in his mind like a dark tide. The daughter who bears his blood, a Targaryen of pure lineage, slipping away with the son of his Hand? It is unthinkable—and yet, Viserys cannot ignore the undeniable connection between the two of you. The way you moved in tandem, how easily you played off one another as if you were two parts of a whole. It stirs something in Viserys, a deep-seated dread that this could lead to something more—something he has not prepared for.

His gaze shifts, and he meets the eyes of Lord Lyonel Strong. The Hand is seated farther down the table, looking distinctly uncomfortable, as though he too is aware of the precarious position his son is placing him in. When their eyes lock, Viserys does not miss the brief flash of unease in Lyonel’s expression, followed quickly by a nod of acknowledgment, as if to say he understands what Viserys is thinking. And, undoubtedly, he does.

The memory rushes back, clear as day—months ago, when Lyonel Strong came to him with a proposition a second time. “Your Grace,” Lyonel had said, his voice steady and filled with the gravity of a man who understood the weight of his words, “there are many fine matches to be made for your daughter, Y/N, from prominent houses across the realm. But I would humbly suggest that what my son Harwin offers may be worth more than mere lineage. His devotion to the princess is unwavering, and his love is without question. He would be a husband who honors her above all else, a union built on something deeper than mere alliances.”

At the time, Viserys had dismissed the notion—politely, but firmly. His daughter was a Targaryen, and surely she deserved a match that would strengthen their house politically, not merely satisfy matters of the heart. Yet now, watching the scene unfold before him, Viserys finds himself second-guessing his decision. Could there be merit in such a match after all? Could Lyonel’s words hold more truth than Viserys had been willing to see? But then again, to allow such a thing would be to acknowledge a love affair that has clearly grown far beyond simple courtly affection.

Viserys’ thoughts whirl, torn between the duty of a king and the love of a father. He knows that if he raises the matter now, it could cast a shadow over the entire evening, drawing unwelcome attention to something that should remain hidden, if only for the sake of peace. And yet, can he afford to remain silent, knowing the path that such unchecked desire could lead his daughter down? His gaze flicks back to the entrance where you vanished, and a part of him itches to rise from his seat, to go after you and demand answers.

But he stays rooted in place, forced into inaction by the eyes of the court and the weight of his crown. Instead, his gaze returns to Lyonel, and he sees the older man swallow nervously before looking away, clearly wishing to be anywhere else. The tension between them is palpable, unspoken yet undeniable.

Viserys takes a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm. The decision he makes next could have lasting consequences, for both you and the realm. As the music swells and the laughter of the court continues around him, the king’s mind churns, trapped in a web of duty, love, and fear.

For now, he decides to wait—he will watch, and if Harwin oversteps again, then the matter will be brought to light. But the seed of doubt has already taken root in Viserys’ heart, and it will not be easily dismissed.

The night is long, but Viserys’ thoughts are longer still.

You slip through the winding corridors of the Red Keep, your heart thrumming in your chest as you make your way deeper into its shadowed recesses. The sound of music and laughter fades behind you as you reach a secluded passage, hidden away from the eyes of the court. This path is familiar, a secret shared only between the two of you. You’ve met here before, during stolen moments when the weight of duty and the eyes of others became too much to bear. The flickering torchlight casts long shadows along the stone walls, giving the space an almost dreamlike quality. Yet there is nothing dreamlike about the tension that crackles in the air as you wait, anticipation coiling like a serpent beneath your skin.

Footsteps echo faintly down the passage, the heavy tread unmistakable. A smirk tugs at your lips as you press your back against the cool stone, the thrill of the chase still buzzing in your veins. He always catches you in the end; it’s a part of the game, a part of the dance you both know so well. You hear him approach, his steps purposeful, a hunter closing in on his prey. You hold your breath, relishing the thrill of being caught, knowing what comes next.

And then he’s there—Ser Harwin Strong, towering and fierce, the firelight casting sharp angles across his rugged features. He looks at you with that smoldering gaze, dark and intense, his chest heaving as he closes the distance between you. “You run from me as if you ever wanted to get away,” he says, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine.

You don’t reply with words, only a wicked smile that dares him to come closer. And he does, with a predatory grace, until his body is pressed against yours, trapping you between the stone wall and his broad chest. “Caught you,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear, one hand sliding up to cradle your jaw while the other grips your waist possessively.

Before you can retort, his lips crash against yours in a kiss that’s anything but gentle. It’s all fire and hunger, the pent-up tension of the night spilling over as he devours you with a need that’s impossible to hide. You kiss him back with equal fervor, fingers tangling in his dark curls as you pull him closer, desperate to close the distance that’s been kept between you all night. Every touch, every bite and nip, is laced with the emotions you can’t express openly—a love too dangerous to voice in the light of day, but undeniable in moments like this.

Harwin’s hands roam over your body with a familiarity that sends heat pooling in your core. He tugs at the laces of your gown, his fingers rough but practiced, until the fabric loosens and falls away, exposing the soft skin of your neck and shoulders. You gasp against his lips as he nips at your throat, the scrape of his teeth drawing a moan from your lips. His own garments follow suit—his tunic and belt discarded hastily, the sound of cloth hitting stone echoing faintly in the small space.

The air between you crackles with a desperate need, the kind that’s built up over countless stolen moments, secret touches, and longing glances. There’s no pretense here, no titles or duties—only the raw, unfiltered connection between you. Harwin’s hands slide down your waist, gripping your hips firmly as he lifts you, pressing you harder against the wall. You wrap your legs around him instinctively, gasping as you feel him against you, hard and ready. The anticipation coils tightly in your belly, every nerve alive with want.

His eyes meet yours for a fleeting moment, and in them, you see everything he can’t say aloud—devotion, desire, and the promise that he would burn the world for you if you asked. But words are unnecessary now. You reach down, guiding him until he’s pressed right where you need him most. There’s a brief, charged pause—a moment where everything hangs on the edge—and then he pushes into you in one smooth, powerful motion.

The world tilts, pleasure and need blurring everything else as he sets a rhythm, hard and fast, the way he knows you both like it. It’s familiar and yet never loses its edge—each thrust, each gasp, sending sparks of electricity through you. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, biting down on the rough skin to muffle your cries, while his own growls of pleasure vibrate against your ear. His hands grip you tightly, fingers digging into your flesh as he moves, driving into you with a force that leaves you breathless.

But it’s not just the physical pleasure that binds you in this moment. It’s the intimacy, the shared understanding that this is where you both belong—together, hidden away from the prying eyes of the world. Here, you are not a princess, and he is not merely the son of the Hand. Here, you are simply two people who have found something rare and precious, something that defies the rules of the world you live in.

He kisses you again, slower this time, a searing heat beneath the tenderness as he deepens the connection between you. Your bodies move in sync, finding that perfect rhythm that drives you both higher, closer to the edge. You can feel it building, a tightening coil of pleasure that threatens to snap at any moment. His name falls from your lips like a prayer, a desperate plea, and he responds with your name in kind, low and reverent.

The world narrows to just the two of you—the heat of his body, the rough press of stone at your back, the intoxicating scent of sweat and desire. And then, with one final thrust, the tension breaks, pleasure crashing over you like a wave, drowning you in bliss. Harwin follows a heartbeat later, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as he buries himself deep, his body trembling with the force of his release.

For a long moment, neither of you move, the air thick with the aftermath of your passion. You stay entwined, foreheads pressed together as you catch your breath, your heartbeats slowing in tandem. His hands are still on you, holding you as if he’s afraid you might slip away even now. And for a moment, the world is quiet, all worries and responsibilities forgotten in the haze of sated desire.

But reality is never far away. Slowly, you both come back to yourselves, and he reluctantly pulls back, letting you slide down until your feet touch the ground once more. There’s a flicker of regret in his eyes, a wish that this moment could last longer, but he says nothing as he helps you adjust your gown, his touch gentle now.

You smooth down your skirts, fixing your hair with a practiced ease, though the flush of your skin and the brightness in your eyes would give you away to anyone who looked closely enough. Harwin lingers, his fingers brushing against your cheek in a soft, almost reverent caress. “You always make me chase you,” he murmurs, his voice laced with fondness.“

And you always catch me,” you reply, the smile on your lips tinged with affection. “Perhaps I simply enjoy the chase.”

He chuckles, but there’s a seriousness in his gaze as he cups your face in his hands, holding you still for a moment longer. “One day, I won’t let you run again,” he says quietly, the promise heavy in the air.

You don’t answer, not with words. Instead, you lean up to kiss him one last time, slow and lingering, tasting the bittersweet mix of what you have and what you cannot yet fully claim. When you pull away, you give him a final smile before slipping out of the shadows and back into the world where duty and decorum await.

Harwin remains behind, watching you go with a look that holds both longing and resolve. He knows this is far from over.

[daenysx]

Hey darling, I have a requests for Aemond if you still writing for him. I just want when he has so much pain because of anything(maybe he's tired of family pressure) and he just need his darling's arms.

thank you for requesting, i hope you enjoy! you can send requests for aemond or aegon now that the show is back <333

prince aemond targaryen x fem!reader

you can see vhagar's wings if you squint your eyes enough.

aemond is restless these days, he is angry and resentful. his anger has never been directed to you but the peace in your shared chambers decreases day by day. you frown, not knowing what to do to make it all better. vhagar flies closer to the keep and you watch her. you can almost imagine how aemond looks on top of her; sad, disappointed in himself, angry, vengeful. your husband is far from being okay.

you settle down on the bed, the thin fabric of your nightgown does nothing to protect you from the night air's chill. you prefer keeping windows open though. each breath of fresh air is needed in here.

almost half an hour later, aemond returns to you. he smells like dragon and something unique to him, you've grown fond of his scent long time ago since you got married to him. he closes the door, takes a few slow steps into the chamber. you leave the bed to greet him.

"husband." you say lowly. he looks calm. flying on vhagar works like a charm most of the time, he gets to relieve some of his tension to the clouds. he looks at you with a tired eye, a graceful hand of his extended to you.

you accept his touch almost greedily. it's always easier with him, to deal with everything. you've never imagined you'd be a part of a war one day but life is tricky. there are too many reasons to be afraid of each minute that goes by, but aemond makes them all bearable. he's protective, even more so now. you like how he stands tall and charming, like a statue to protect you from all the darkness. he wraps his hands around your waist to pull you closer, close enough to put his head on your shoulder.

your hand goes to his hair. the lovely silver strands messed up by wind. you fix them, fingertips touching his scalp. he breathes heavily, his hands on your waist are insistent. he begs silently. he begs for the pain to go away. only for one night.

aemond pulls himself back with a sigh. he takes off his eyepatch, starts opening the buttons of his riding clothes. his fingers are cruel on his own skin, he doesn't care if he hurts himself. you hold his hands when he roughly pulls the fabric. his hands slow down in your palms, staying still like he's done something wrong. you bring each hand on your lips. they are shaking with hate. you look at your husband to see his eye get all glossy under the light of fire. his arms stay on his sides.

"let me help." you say gently. he sits on bed as you take care of him. he will not bathe tonight, you know, he only wants to be free of the fabrics he carries on him. the eyepatch, the clothes. all of them pulls him down.

when he's finally bare, he gets into the bed. you adjust your pillows to see his face better. the little distance between you is too much for aemond to bear. he puts his head on your shoulder.

"they all say the same thing." he says. you wouldn't hear his silent words but his mouth is close to your ear. you hold his naked body as he keeps going. "same thing. every day. as if i'm a fool who forgot what he's done."

he made many mistakes. mistakes are the nature of a war; thinking back with regret and pain, wishing to take the time back, holding grudge to gods and faith for not stopping the unfair crimes. aemond is too self aware these days thanks to the people he has to call family. they are masters to answer each sentence of him with his war crime. he thinks it's fair sometimes, he has to be punished in a way. he pushes his head closer to your neck to settle down, it's too much for a man to deal with.

"i'm sorry." you say. there's nothing more to say, he knows you try your hardest to forgive him for his crimes each day. you're mostly successful, your love for aemond is blinding. he kisses your neck slowly, curved lips leave a mark on your skin.

"i never wanted this." he says, regret drips from his voice. "i never wanted a power i cannot control."

"it's a dragon, my love." you reason. "no matter what your intentions are, you cannot make her agree with you every time."

"i only wanted-" he takes a breath. "i don't even know what i wanted. i thought the bond between us was stronger, with vhagar."

he doubts himself. it's dangerous to doubt the bond between a dragon and her rider in the middle of a war. aemond is a reasonable man when he's not mad but even he's having hard time facing with the consequences of his actions. he used to brag fiercely, the rider of the largest dragon in the world. now, he questions his worth more often, like he's a boy hiding behind his mother's skirt.

you kiss his forehead, his head must be hurting under all this worry. what feels worse now, accidentally killing the nephew who took his eye years ago, or doubting everything that made him aemond targaryen? he knows there are things he should understand, he's just not brave enough to face them.

because now, he's in your arms. the only place besides the sky that gives him comfort. being in the same bed with you is better than flying sometimes, he's free here. you offer every bit of relieve you can to him, he takes what you're willing to give. every kiss, every touch, every valyrian word you learn to prove him you love him, every minute you spend with his wounds and his troubles. he can't lose you. he has nothing in this world if he loses you.

you kiss him again, for your sake more than aemond's. when you're together you don't have to worry about him. you know he's safe and secure, you know if anything happens he'll be your guard. kisses are a way of communication now, a way of comfort. he closes his eye when your lips connect with his skin. he could spent his life here if he wasn't be a man who's hungry for power and vengeance.

he thinks the fire is easy. it's so easy to burn everything when he has vhagar. he doesn't look back, he doesn't deal with the places he burned. he has the blood of a dragon, he becomes one with vhagar when he whispers words to her. he knows he'd burned down the city if he loses you. he wouldn't look back. there are too many people disappointed in him already. if he loses the only one who holds him together, he'd have nothing.

aemond kisses you softly. he stops breathing when his lips are pressed against yours. he feels like a tamed dragon if there's such a thing. you stroke his cheek, push his hair back from his face. he is hungry for touch and you give him what he craves until he falls asleep against your neck. he holds onto the one person who keeps him sane until the sun shows itself.

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Bestiary (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: Your husband and you do not speak the same language. During your wedding night, you find out that High Valyrian and the Common Tongue pale when compared to the way your bodies allow you to communicate.

Warnings: Heavy smut, not much dialogue. P in V sex. First time.

A/N: Who would have thought the most enthusiastic consent I have ever written with Daemon would be in a fic with nearly no dialogue?

Being coached through your wedding vows is not a good omen for your marriage. At least, that is what your husband must think, by the thunderous look on his face. You fight the urge to scream at him that you have practiced for this moment and that you do not need to be coached through the vows. It would be no use. The two of you do not understand each other.

Everything is strange to you in Westeros, from the language to the wedding ceremony. They make you cut your lips and hand, in a procedure you do not enjoy. Your husband does the same. Your blood flows into a goblet, from which you will have to drink later on.

It's barbaric. You suppose it must symbolize the joining of bloodlines in the crudest way.

At least Daemon kisses you at the end, a cold brush of his lips against yours that tells you he is still mad. He had probably felt betrayed, being forced into this arrangement you entered willingly.

If you had known he was that petty, you would have not shown your hand so fast. Your father had wanted dragons, which meant becoming part of House Targaryen. Daemon was the only one available for you to ensnare in your web.

As any good hunter, you had watched your prey first, taking notes of his behavior. Only an afternoon was needed to understand you started the race with a disadvantage. His eyes followed Princess Rhaenyra, Princess Rhaenys and her little daughter, but never lingered on other women.

While you might have lacked the silver hair, you did not lack the wits and charms necessary to be taken in consideration.

You had needed a few days to ready your song, but you had approached him not even a week later. He had been sitting in the library, so you had knocked on the table twice to draw his attention.

Daemon had lifted his eyes from the scroll he was reading, annoyed. He had a handsome face, decorated with age lines that only served to make him look more regal. He looked more the part of the King than his brother, a decaying corpse that you had heard had also acquired his own nubile bride.

Such was the fate of the daughters of powerful men. Sold to other powerful men, old enough to be their fathers, birthing them their own litter of sons and daughters. Sons that would grow up to become powerful men in their own right, daughters that would become pawns to establish dynasties. On and on it went.

Daemon had spoken then. His words were much harsher than those of the language you were used to, lacking the airy song of the languages similar to the one from the Rhoynar. You had not understood. You did not speak a lick of the Common Tongue.

No silver hair, no words, but plenty of resources. You had placed the book you had brought with you on the table, and looked at him.

His eyes had lit up with curiosity. He recognized the title. He spoke again, intrigued.

Despite his tone sounding much more auspicious, you had no other option than to shake your head and speak, with a tremulous voice.

“Bodmagho.” It's the only word you know, one that you have prepared especially for this. But just in case your pronunciation is not perfect, you open the book and mimic the gesture of passing the pages.

Daemon looks stunned. He says something else, still in the Common Tongue. You were able to tell from the intonation he was asking a question, but you didn't know what it was about.

“Bodmagho.” You repeated, stubbornly. You placed your book down and pointed to it.

Daemon sighed. He pointed to the chair. You sat, happy as a clam.

“Prince Daemon.” He pointed at himself. Then, to you. “Lady…?”

You told him your name. He nodded.

“Daor.” He shook his head. “No.”

You stared. He shook his head again. You understood that no, daor and shaking head meant the same.

“Daor. No.” You shook your head. Daemon squeezed your shoulder, a proud smile on his face.

Your father told you that afternoon that you were to be married to him. Just as you had made efforts to catch Daemon, your father had been setting his trap.

Daemon did not oppose, nor encourage the match, but he was angry at you. Angry that you knew before him and tried to charm him into doing your bidding.

Men like him, you learn, like to be the ones pulling the strings. They hate being treated like hounds, even if that is what they are.

You get no further lessons.

This is how you manage to get to your wedding feast only knowing two words. Teach and no. It makes you the most riveting company, and so, it's no wonder you are soon ushered into a chamber with your new husband.

You had not noticed before, but it is the first time you are alone with him since the morning at the library. To you, it had been a matter of no consequence. You had to marry a powerful man, one day. Your father decided it should be him because he wanted dragons. It was as simple as that.

As a rich man, your father had known rich men only get richer at times of unrest. And unrest was coming for the Seven Kingdoms. He could smell it in the air, hear it in the whispers of the common folk. Princess Rhaenyra wasn’t going to inherit without issue.

Your family moved here for that reason. An opportunity to get richer could not be dismissed. Your father had taken one look at the dragons and decided that they were the key to turning his legacy into an empire.

Giant war machines that could level castles in one afternoon. Raze a city to the ground in mere hours. Fire so hot it could melt stone. They could not be bought, you had to be a Targaryen to have them. It was only natural to turn into one, then.

Your children would get dragons. You would provide funds and as many children as you could, and House Targaryen the magic in their veins. Simple business transaction. But apparently, Daemon disagreed.

His face is thunderous. You can tell he is about to berate you. He starts talking, brows pinched together and an accusing finger pointed towards you.

Has he forgotten you do not speak his language? You step closer and poke his arm, hard.

It was the wrong choice. Daemon's face turns even more murderous. His lips twist into a snarl, teeth bared. His posture turns aggressive. He puffs up his chest, he advances on you. The Prince tries to intimidate you through his body language alone.

You are not a small woman. But you are young, and you do not train as much as he does. His looming over you feels menacing, and it reminds you once again of the fate his late wife was rumored to have suffered.

This was a bad idea. A terrible idea. Daemon is forcing you to walk backwards, pushing your forehead and nose with his. You either move, or get a broken nose and a concussion.

Daemon is terrifying. You will not cross him again, you think to yourself. Only a fool goes around poking dragons with a stick. You feel your palms starting to sweat, a knot forming in your throat. You fight the urge to cry.

The back of your knees hits the mattress, and you fall into the furs with a small noise of surprise. Your husband does not lose any time. He gets right into your face, trying to intimidate you even more.

But if you hope to survive this marriage, to make it work as your father has requested, you can't bend. Daemon will never respect you if you do. He will see you as no more than a frightened girl, who will not disagree with him and serve for little beyond warming his bed. You are not that. You will build an empire, a dynasty out of his dragons and your wealth. The only thing you can do is persevere or break trying.

Daemon scowls at you. He notices the change in your eyes, the fight coming back to you.

“Daor.” You say, staring him down with all your might. It doesn't matter if you are lying down, and he is hovering over you, pinning you under him. You will triumph.

Daemon doesn't heed the warning. He starts tugging at the buttons of your bodice, tiny pearls sent flying all over the room. The gesture is as brutal as it is calculated. It is meant to remind you of your place, always under him from now on. Daemon has a right to your body, and he intends to exercise it as he sees fit. You are no more than an object, and if you cry or scream, it is not relevant.

Despite knowing why he is doing it, you can't avoid grimacing. He looks more beast than a man, snarling over you, ripping your clothes. It's a sight that would scare any woman, no matter how cold.

You look up at him. You give him your own little snarl. Daemon pauses. It's not the reaction he was expecting. He wanted you to cry. You would never give him the satisfaction.

It's a balancing act. You will have to bring him to heel, but soothe his pride in the next act, less he turns on you. Push away a man too much, and he will think you are disrespecting him. He will call you names, thinking you are the problem. Daemon feels entitled to you. You need to show him he is not, but that you are giving yourself to him. He needs to value you. The treasure to his dragon.

“Daor!” You say, firmly. You push him away. Whatever he anticipated, you giving him a fight wasn't something he was prepared for. It shows in the way he folds, stunned by your behavior. You give him hard little slaps to the chest, until you manage to get him off you.

Daemon's scowl turns more confused than angry. He looks at you as if you are a particularly challenging riddle to crack. He rightens his clothes and starts to retreat.

“Daor.” You repeat, grabbing at his shirt to keep him in place. You do not want him to leave.

Daemon wretches free from your grip on his arm. He mutters something, angered.

“Daor.” You use his trick against him, stepping right into his path and forcing him to back off. You use your body to make him advance backwards, toward the bed.

He sits on the edge of it, still scowling. You giggle, making Daemon madder still. You look at him with what you hope is a seductive expression and pull your bodice down.

“Bodmagho?” You ask him, as your dress pools around your feet, leaving you in a sheer shift. Daemon's eyes darken. His expression changes into an amused smile, and he gestures for you to come to him.

You do. You step closer and get on his lap. His hands envelop your waist, warm and calloused.

Then, the unexpected. Daemon grabs your hair and pulls, forcing your head back. You moan, pain and arousal mixing into an unknown emotion that makes the place between your legs slick.

You can feel his breath against your neck, making you shiver. His face comes closer, and closer. Daemon stares into your eyes, lips slightly parted. You mirror his expression, feeling as if you are being consumed by your lust.

He arches an eyebrow. Never been one to shy away from a challenge, you brush his lower lip with his thumb. Daemon parts his lips and sucks it in his mouth.

The shock must have shown on your face because he laughs, giving your thumb a playful bite. You squirm, instinct overpowering modesty, and roll your hips against his.

The two of you stare at each other. Closer, and closer, until his features blur, until two purple eyes turn into one. A dragon turned cyclops by the mere force of lust. There is hunger and want, and confusion. Both of you are so close that you are sharing the same air, the same breath. And Daemon pulls, and you are kissing, and you shake in his arms, feeling like how you think the gods must have felt when the cyclopes formed the lighting.

His hands go to greedily knead at your thighs, slipping under your shift. His palms feel rough against your skin, impatient. The shift rides up, up, up. You mewl against his mouth, desperately reaching for something unknown to you but that you know Daemon will help you reach.

You are restless as he pets you, biting at your mouth, hands sinking in his hair. You tug him towards your neck, knowing his kisses, scorching hot, would burn even sweeter along your nape and ears.

Daemon, though, has other plans. He pulls away and pecks you on the lips. “Vūjigon ” He says. He touches his mouth. “Vūjigon”

You kiss him, softly. “Vūjigon”

He pets your hair.

“Vūjigon.” And he points to his collarbones. You frown in confusion, thinking perhaps the word doesn't mean what you think it does. He sighs and leans in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the space between your collarbones.

“Vūjigon.” You perk up, and start kissing his shoulders. Your hands pull his shirt more open, letting you bite and lick more of his flesh. The urge to consume and be consumed is overpowering, making you desperate to touch him.

Daemon laughs. He pulls you upwards. Can't he see you are starving?

“Daor.” He says, when you try to go back to it. You give him your fiercest pout. Daemon tuts at you.

He squeezes one of your breasts, making you moan, before cruelly twisting the bud. You gasp, your nails digging on his naked shoulders.

“Shhh.” Daemon soothes you, his hand going to squeeze your breast tenderly once more. “Daor?”

You don't know how to tell him what you want, so you grab his hand and make him pinch the tender bud again. Daemon smiles. He kisses you, muttering something fervently on your lips.

He lays you down on the bed, despite your attempts to sit up. Daemon pins you down with a growl, hand on your chest.

You can't help it. No matter the warning, you squirm as if you were in pain. It certainly feels like it. There is some sort of hunger in your belly, making you want to rub your core against him. You can feel your shift starting to become wet right above your tailbone. Daemon has you so bothered you are dripping into the shift and the bed.

Daemon gives you another growl and leans down to bite your breast over the fabric of your shift. It's meant to be punishment, but you arch into it, gasping.

He laughs. He takes as much of it as it can fit in his mouth, sucking greedily. The noises are obscene. The sight must be, too. Your mouth, open, moaning yourself into a frenzy. Daemon, nipping, biting, sucking, like a man starved. Your shift with two giant wet spots, one at the chest and the other by your arse.

You moan, surprised at the feeling. You had never thought bodies could be used in such a way before. Nor had you hoped for him to please you so eagerly.

His lips close around your bud. His tongue twirls around it, lavishing it with attention. You grab at his hair, his nape, desperately trying to hold onto something. Daemon just sucks harder on your breast. You moan, and moan, and moan some more. Desperate little sounds, gathering in the air around a desperate girl.

He switches to your other breast. Your shift feels sticky on your skin, so you start trying to take it off. The task distracts you enough for his hand to find its way to your core, and you squeak at the first sensation of his fingers against it.

Daemon smiles against your skin. He presses a finger inside you, and you squeal some more. He lets go of your breast to better gaze into your overwhelmed face, seemingly getting an enjoyment out of it.

Another finger joins the first. You cry out. It stings a bit. Daemon shushes you, kissing your cheek. He rubs at something above your opening that makes you squirm in delight.

His other hand comes into your sight. Daemon makes a gesture, two fingers together, separating. You stare. He nuzzles you, his cheek against yours, before repeating it.

You nod with a pout.

He starts prying you open slowly, this time. Despite enjoying causing pain, it appears your cooperation has granted you privileges with Daemon. He understood the distress on your face, and read you correctly enough to know it was not going to go well if he kept going as he was.

Daemon rubs at your shoulders, soothingly. You understand you need to relax, and force your body to do so. He kisses you in reward, slow and sweet, coaxing you to him.

You nod again. Daemon moves back, settling himself by your side. He takes your shift away, pressing soft little kisses to each new inch of skin revealed.

The sudden removal of your last layer makes you shiver a little. Your skin is wet from his previous ministrations and rapidly cooling. You plaster yourself to him, seeking warmth.

He chuckles, grabbing your arse to move you slightly out of the way. You scowl, not sure why Daemon is doing so, until you realize he is taking off his breeches.

“Daemon.” You whisper, softly. There is a part of you that is already cringing at the promise of pain the loss of your maidenhead will bring.

“Daor?” He asks you, one of his hands petting your cunt. It makes you shiver.

“Bodmagho.” You grasp at his shoulders, steadying yourself. Daemon lines the two of you. You feel his member at your entrance, holding you open and threatening to spear you apart. It feels scorching against your skin.

He helps you impale yourself on his member. It's not pleasant at first. Property dictates that you should not let him see your discomfort. You should just bear it like a good wife and allow him to chase his pleasure unbothered.

But you know Daemon enjoys causing pain. He thrives on it. So you let your eyes fill with tears, and your face goes slack and overwhelmed.

He smiles. He licks your tears away, and mumbles something. You squeal, and it only excites him more.

“Bodamagho.” Daemon pinches the flesh on your hip, clearly calling you to focus. His hands move your pelvis back and forth, back and forth, until you are hissing in pleasure, your hands on his chest, doing the movement yourself.

“Vūjigon.” You demand, moving your hips just like he taught you. Daemon is too focused on aiding you bounce by thrusting upwards to pay attention to you. When he doesn't obey, you give a tug to his hair.

He snarls at you. You snarl back. So he grabs your wrists and pushes sideways, and suddenly, you are under him and Daemon is still thrusting into you.

You are desperate for closeness. You scrunch up your face and wrap your legs around his back. Daemon looks down at you, and bites your shoulder. He is not pleased with your perceived attempt to take control.

Realizing your mistake, you shake your head.

“Daor.” You rub at his back with your foot, gently. You hold him close, and nuzzle his neck, delighting in his scent. Never you had thought before you would enjoy the smell of sweat and some sort of aromatic oil, yet here you are. “Vūjigon.”

Daemon's expressions softens. He leans in and gives you a kiss. You make pleased, chirping noises, trying to show him that was precisely what you wanted.

He complies, releasing your hands. You enthusiastically hug him. It helps you anchor yourself against the unrelenting waves of pleasure.

His hands, now freed from yours, are everywhere. Twisting your buds, rubbing at your pearl, squeezing your waist. Daemon whispers nonsense in your ears, takes the lobe between his teeth. He aids you, tilting your hips with his hands, reaching deeper.

You heard a story once, about Westeros. A white hart was said to come to the greatest Kings alive. A magnificent beast, tall as a man, with skin made of the purest snow and antlers as long and imposing as the branches of an ancient tree. If a King encountered it, it was a good omen for his rule. It would be just and prosperous, blessed by the Gods.

What did they do with the hart? Keep it in Kingswood, perhaps? You had made the mistake of asking, once. You had been told that they used the best spear they had. That men held the hart down, and they gutted it from head to belly.

The perfect, regal beast, fur as pale as snow. The pristine white sheets under you. Blood tainting the white. What a way to go.

You understood then why they called it a small death. You were sweating, squealing like a beast being gutted, thighs trembling under Daemon's hands. It was too much and too little, and you felt yourself reaching it, yearning for it.

You did not care if you burned, moth to a flame, maiden to a dragon. Daemon seemed to realize it because his hand went to rub at your pearl, and he leaned in.

“….” He was talking, but it was in that strange language of his, and your ears were ringing, you felt about to explode. Your body responded to his tone, though. Gentle, loving, coaxing you over the edge with a scream so fierce you might as well have been one of those weeping women that appeared far north.

Daemon grinned at you. A fierce, proud expression, eyes crinkling in the corners. You pulled him into a kiss, and raked your nails down his back, feeling the skin yield like butter under your fingers. It spurred him on, and with a gasp and a bite to your shoulder, Daemon was shattering inside you.

He collapsed on top of you with a laugh. You smiled. Daemon pulled you to rest, back flush against his chest, and you understood each other better than those who spoke the same, common tongue, did.