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lady-phasma · 1 month ago

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Armand x Benji x Sybelle x gn!reader (vampire reader)

No warnings or summary other than this is really, really fluffy. 1.2k words of the fluffiest fluff.

a/n: aged up Benji to about 25 before he was turned because I think the show would do that if they include him, Sybelle was around 25 when she was turned.

Sybelle’s fingers flew lightly over the piano keys. You loved listening to her play, especially while reading. You could read faster as a vampire, but sometimes you enjoyed reading slowly and savoring the experience. Sybelle had recently been composing her own music, rarely writing it down, often improvising. Tonight’s music seemed heavily influenced by Max Richter and was lively yet somehow somber.

She was playing something slower now, mellow. The city lights flickering through the windows and the night sky through the skylight created an ethereal, disconnected atmosphere. You turned the page of your book. Soft footsteps approached and you looked up to see Armand. He sat down on the sofa after you pulled your feet up to make room for him.

“Everything okay?” you asked, placing your finger in your book as you closed it, holding your spot.

Armand didn’t answer, just watched Sybelle. His fingers slid against each other, the only outward sign that his thoughts were overwhelming tonight. You looked away from him to snag your bookmark from the arm of the couch. You dropped your book on the floor and turned to rest your back against the arm.

“Hey. You.” Armand turned to look at you. “Come’ere,” you patted the pillow you had placed in your lap. Years with this group had given you the ability to bypass unnecessary words. You knew from previous experience with Armand that he would decline an offer, but would likely accept an invitation if you seemed to not give him an option, not exactly an order.

He moved slowly, not like a vampire at all. He lay on his side between your legs, one of which was curled under the pillow, the other leaning against the back of the couch behind Armand.

He gracefully tucked one hand under his head and laid the other on your thigh. A human could not have heard the sigh he let out, but you did. Sybelle may have as well, but it was a nearly silent sound. Very gently, almost cautiously, you moved his hair back from his face and traced his ear with your fingertips. His eyes closed as he let himself focus on your touch. You stroked his hair and sent soothing, non-verbal thoughts to him telepathically as he laid perfectly still.

Benji came into the room, shoes clicking lightly as he walked across the hardwood. He kissed Sybelle on the top of her head before walking over to where you sat on the sofa with Armand.

“What’s up kiddo?” Benji pressed a lovely kiss to the top of your head as well.

“Not much old man.” You glanced up at him, no less enamored with his beautiful face than the first time you met. You saw him every night, yet Benji remained one of the most unsettlingly gorgeous people in your sphere. His round, youthful features looked so out of place against his vampiric presence. Damn near unsettling and very sexy.

“How was the podcast?” You were genuinely interested. You loved listening to every episode even if the topic wasn’t always new to you.

“It went well,” he answered as he placed his fedora upside down on the coffee table and sat next to Armand’s feet. “A shorter episode than normal, but Lestat and the ancients have been behaving recently, so…” his voice trailed off as he looked at us. “It seems all the excitement is in this living room anyway.” He smiled and stroked Armand’s shin.

“I’m the life of the party,” you smiled back at him. You gently ran your hand down Armand’s shoulder, resting it on his bicep. “I’ll feed before dawn, but I wanted a chill night in tonight.” You glanced down at Armand’s head in your lap and then back to Benji, catching his gaze. “We all needed some down time, but we’re fine.”

He smiled gently again and shifted at his end of the couch. Armand moved his feet next to Benji’s thigh and Benji rested his hand on one calf.

You made quite the tableau: Armand curled on his side, between your legs, his head in your lap, both of you in comfortable clothing, Benji sitting comparatively stiffly in his suit vest, shirt, and slacks.

“You know,” Sybelle’s voice rose just above the volume of her music. “I think we may need a larger sofa.” She giggled and the sound was as musical as the piano. She finished the last few notes of the song and turned to face the three of you.

“I do feel ever so left out!” Her tone was sweet and jovial.

“Pile on, sis!” Benji laughed as he spoke. Sybelle glided across to you, but instead of ‘piling on’ she knelt in front of Armand and placed her arms on the cushion. She tilted her head and laid it on her forearms. Their faces were mere centimeters apart and the gaze they shared was almost as intimate as if they were speaking telepathically. A tiny smile lifted the corner of Armand’s mouth. Perhaps something had passed between them.

Sybelle slid one hand out and interlaced her fingers with Armand’s on your thigh. You stroked the top of her head then let your hand rest back of the arm of the couch. Benji moved his hand from Armand’s leg to yours, absently rubbing circles on your pants with his thumb. You didn’t look up from watching Sybelle and Armand when you heard Benji’s voice in your mind.

What’s wrong? he asked.

He didn’t say. He came in like this, you answered. You gently smoothed Armand’s hair back. Sybelle looked up at you, her face full of kindness.

“I have an idea,” she beamed up at you as she spoke. “Come. All of you.” She popped up from where she knelt. You looked over at Benji and smiled. He returned your look of bemusement and love. Sybelle was sweet and slightly peculiar.

You watched Benji stand and extend his hand to him. Armand sat up and took Benji’s hand in one movement. They followed Sybelle out of the living room. You rose and followed as well. The four of you went into the bedroom, Sybelle nearly floating, Benji holding Armand’s hand.

The bed was a king size and swamped with pillows. Sybelle tossed a few on the floor. She grabbed Armand’s free hand and led him to the bed. As she did so she kissed his cheek. You stood next to Benji while they lay down. Benji guided you forward with his hand on your back. You slipped onto the bed, facing Armand, while Benji stepped out of his shoes and laid down behind you.

Armand looked at you with large, grateful eyes and you snaked your forearm between his arms and interlaced your fingers with his. He held your arm against his chest. Your knees touched gently. Sybelle wrapped her arm Armand’s waist and snuggled close behind him. Benji reached over you, laying his arm on you and his hand on Armand’s bicep. This wasn’t the first time and it wouldn’t be the last time you all piled into this bed, but it was one of the more chaste times.

Armand still hadn’t spoken. His face was softer now, his shoulders less tense. He closed his eyes and relished being in your arms, surrounded by his family.

Masterlist

#armand x reader #armand x gn!reader #x inclusive!reader #iwtv #amc iwtv #amc interview with the vampire #interview with the vampire #the vampire armand #the vampire sybelle #benji mahmoud #benjamin mahmoud #the vampire chronicles #iwtv fic #benji x reader #sybelle x reader #armand x benji x sybelle #Armand fluff #assad zaman

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exitpursuedbyavulcan · 3 months ago

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A Companion (Otto Hightower x Young Widow!Reader) Chapter 2

Lord Otto Hightower invites a young widow and her family to his study early the next morning to discuss a personal matter.

Series Masterlist Here

Pairing: Otto Hightower x Young Widow!Reader (No use of Y/N)

Warnings: discussion of spousal death

Author's note: This definitely took me a year RIP

Chapter 2: A Proposal

“Get up, lazy girl,” a grating voice spat as your blanket was ripped away, shocking you awake. You scrambled to cover yourself before looking to see who had woken you so rudely – though you had suspicions.

It was Sybelle, as expected. Your good sister and quite possibly the meanest woman you’d ever met, though some of the older ladies you’d met in the capital had nearly claimed that title for themselves when they learned you hailed from the swamps of the Neck.

You shook away the memory and focused your gaze again on Sybelle. She sneered at you with disdain and amusement. But there was something in her eyes, something more sinister than the usual glimmer of cruelty. You hardly had any time to ponder what it was before she grabbed your arm and pulled you from your bed, shoving you roughly toward the dressing screen in the corner of the room. “Do try and find something that doesn’t make you look like a specter of death, won’t you?”

With that, she left—thankfully. You leaned against the top of your trunk as you caught your breath, trying to rationalize the last few moments. The sun had not yet fully risen, so you hadn’t overslept. Then why had Sybelle been awake before you? She had never done so before. What had stoked her hatred of you so? What caused that new malice you saw glittering in her eyes?

After the feast the night prior, you returned to the apartments Gryff, Sybelle, and you had been granted for your stay in the capital and had not left since, so she couldn’t be angry that you’d gone anywhere unchaperoned. Other than a few muttered comments, you had not said anything that would cause this kind of anger.

You thought that they would be quite pleased with you after your conversation with Lord Hightower at the wedding feast. Although, it was probably foolish to ever think they could be anything but dissatisfied with your very existence. They would be until you were finally married and no longer their responsibility.

Oh. The answer was painfully clear now.

A suitor must have asked to meet you. That’s why Sybelle had been so demanding about what you wore.

Who was it? Some licentious old man looking for a final conquest before the Stranger takes him away? A younger man so unpleasant that no father would dare give his daughter to him? Or, as Gryff had threatened the night before, a mere boy, to whom you would be more mother than wife?

Anticipating the worst, you chose to style yourself carefully. A simple, modest dress in rough-spun purple silk – several shades darker than the Whitehill crest but just bright enough that they could not scold you for wearing black. You braided your hair back in a way that indicated neither maidenhood nor marriage, but something in between. And as always, you wore the silver pin Locke had given you on your breast, right over your heart.

Sybelle was waiting when you emerged from your room – still scowling. Gryff was beside her, looking at once miserable and thrilled. Whoever they were to sell you to, he must be wealthy beyond imagining.

His scowl grew even deeper as Gryff looked you over than his wife’s. “You are fortunate we don’t have time for you to change.”

You refrained from mentioning that he had neglected to shave his stubble while he turned toward the door and stomped out, Sybelle closely behind.

For a moment, you briefly considered staying where you were. They were so angry they likely wouldn’t know you weren’t following them until they reached their destination. But as horrible as it may be to be married – sold, really– to whatever man they chose, it would at least offer an escape from them.

So, you raised your chin and followed. You would decide what picture to paint for the man when you saw him. If he were acceptable, you would do your part to appear sweet and demure to help secure the betrothal. If he was not… well, you had become quite good at portraying the undesirable widow.

Your heart began to race as the distance between you and your apartments grew. Gryff and the guard he followed led you out of the guest wing of the Red Keep and toward the Royal Sept. Had negotiations already been settled? A deal already struck? Were you being led not to meet the man you may marry but to marry him at first sight?

The guard turned, and you were so thankful you would have agreed to marry him then and there. He led you into a narrow stairway and began climbing without a word. You were so relieved that the question of where you were going never occurred to you until you reached the top of the tower, and a guard opened a large, oaken door.

Lord Otto Hightower stood from his desk. He wore the same clothes he had at the feast, now thoroughly rumpled, as was his hair. The tips of his long fingers were stained with ink, likely from the large stack of parchment now at the center of his desk. He did not smile, but his eyes lightened as they fell upon you, and he inclined his head. You returned the gesture.

“Lady Whitehill, it is a pleasure to see you again.” His voice seemed lower than it had the night before – rougher. Had he not slept? He looked at Gryff and Sybelle as if he hardly noticed them. “Lord Whitehill, thank you for agreeing to meet with me so swiftly.”

“My Lord Hand.” Gryff’s smile wavered nervously as he bowed far deeper than necessary. “My dearest and most sincere congratulations on the felicitous marriage of your dau–”

Lord Hightower held up a hand, silencing him. “Take a seat. We have much to discuss.”

Gryff and Sybelle quickly claimed the chairs at the table by the window, leaving you to stand. Lord Hightower’s diplomatic smile fell, and he glared at your good brother.

“At last night's feast, I had the great pleasure of speaking to Lady Whitehill.” He smiled only when he said your name. “You are very fortunate to have such a fine young woman representing your house.”

Sybelle looked as if she might protest his statement. Gryff looked like he was about to faint as he stammered. “Yes, well, I – ”

“Would be remiss to see her leave, I am sure. Nevertheless,” he grabbed the tall stack of papers, “I have called you here to ask for her hand.”

Some juvenile sound of shock escaped your lips. Every eye in the room turned toward you. You covered your mouth and ducked your head. “Forgive me, my lord.”

When he said he would help you, you never imagined this.

Why would the second most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms want to marry you? You offered no wealth nor alliance. You were no great beauty whose smile inspired songs. You had nothing that would earn you a place anywhere near the Red Keep.

Was it a dream? After Sybelle stormed into your room, had you fallen asleep again? It must be a dream. You would surely be woken again soon. Well, there was no harm in enjoying the dream before it ended, right?

Gryff’s nervous pallor faded into a bright blush. “You wish to marry her?”

Lord Hightower glanced at you, then smiled. “I do.”

“This is most generous, my lord,” Sybelle leaned in to speak for her flabbergasted husband, who only sat there with his mouth open. “We may be amenable to the union. However, we must first negotiate an agreement to ensure the match benefits both our houses.”

Neither your father nor Gryff possessed anything that Lord Hightower could not get for himself. You laughed at Sybelle’s ridiculous notion, drawing all eyes to you. Muttered an apology, but only half-heartedly – it didn’t really matter if you behaved badly in your dream.

“Naturally. I have already drawn up an agreement.” Lord Hightower dropped the papers on the table. He hummed slightly, looking at Sybelle like he might admire her cunning if circumstances differed. Gryff, he regarded with a flat smile and eyes filled with disdain. “It is quite thorough, so I will grant you an hour or two to familiarize yourself with the details before we begin negotiations.”

Gryff was still too dazed by the proposal itself to realize the hidden insult in the words. He only nodded dumbly. You stifled another laugh. It was strange that you had not woken up yet. You were sure someone would have stormed back into your room by now.

You flushed slightly as the Hand’s eyes met yours, feeling the prickling warmth in your cheeks. It felt so real, more so than any other dream you’d ever had. Your stomach sank. Was this real? How could it be?

Yet, when you reached up to touch your face, you found it warm. And when you subtly pinched your palm, it hurt.

Gods, this was real.

Lord Hightower smiled at you before continuing, “If you would prefer privacy while you read, you are more than welcome to remain here. I only ask that you allow Lady Whitehill to accompany me on a walk through the gardens so we may become better acquainted.”

While Gryff watched the papers before him as if they would come alive and attack him, Sybelle quirked her head suspiciously. “Unchaperoned?” She gave the Hand a sickeningly innocent smile. “I know she is no maiden, but surely we must maintain her decency.”

Any trace of courtesy faded from Lord Hightower’s face. “Are you implying that I have dishonorable intentions?”

The threat was clear. Sybelle shrank back in her chair. “Of course not, my Lord Hand. I simply –”

“Two of my guards will be with us,” he interrupted curtly. “You have nothing to fear. I shall give Lady Whitehill all the respect she is due.”

That, Gryff caught. The subtle jab that they had not done so and the threat in the Hand knowing it. He grumbled an apology and turned his head down at the papers. His wife merely seethed.

Lord Hightower barely acknowledged them before approaching you, an arm held out for you to take. “My Lady, I am glad to see you again so soon.”

When you laced your arms through yours, it was warm and strong and steady. This was real – he was real. And at this moment, he was your favorite person in the world.

You beamed at him, your savior. “The feeling is mutual, I assure you.”

Otto commanded his guards to follow further than usual, wanting to give Lady Whitehill privacy to process his proposal. He’d seen her surprise – and heard the small, disbelieving giggle she’d let out – when he declared his intentions. For a moment, he had worried she would refuse, that he had been too presumptuous in offering his own hand rather than that of a younger man.

But as he glanced down at her when they reached the base of the tower, she looked content – her cheeks rosy and eyes bright, maybe even a hint of a smile on her lips.

Yes, there was silence between them, but it was comfortable. He felt the need to speak not because of any awkwardness or restlessness between them, but because of their situation. After all, a man should talk to the woman he had just proposed marriage to, should he not?

As they entered the gardens, he finally broke the silence. “Is there a garden at your home?”

She furrowed her brow. “My father’s keep in the Neck or Highpoint?”

Her having to ask indicated that she considered either both or neither her home. He sincerely hoped it was the former. Otto cleared his throat. “Forgive me for being unclear. Why not tell me about both?”

She looked away as her smile grew. “Highpoint is so far north that very little will grow, though there are several winter rose bushes around the Heart Tree. But there are very large gardens at Lily Glen. In the Neck, flowers don’t only grow from the ground but upon trees and in the water. They are strange to some, but I find them beautiful. It is much wilder than the gardens here.”

Otto stopped beneath one of the trellises leading to the butterfly garden. “You have already seen the gardens.”

“Yes,” she confirmed, ducking her head slightly. “The morning of the wedding, with all the other women.”

“I apologize, Lady.” He should have known, but he had barely slept that night, too consumed with drawing up the marriage contract. Foolish. Hasty and foolish.

“There is no need for apology, my Lord Hand. It is still a pleasant sight.”

“You are very gracious.” He sighed. This was not how he wanted to begin their companionship, with her thinking him disinterested in her desires and needs. “Is there another place in the Keep you would prefer to see?”

She thought for a moment, turning back to face the castle as though she could see what lay beneath the red stone. When a raven’s caw echoed within the keep’s outer walls, she gasped, eyes searching. “Could we see the Rookery?”

Otto started, nearly dropping her arm in his surprise. “An unusual request. Why there, if I may ask?”

“I have a fondness for birds,” she said shyly, her cheeks flushing darker.

“Really?” Birds, of all things. He had certainly found himself a… unique woman to wife.

“Yes!” She was as excited as a little girl, yet Otto somehow found it endearing, and could not help but smile as she spoke. “There are so many birds at Lily Glen, with many different colors and songs. Not in the North, but… even the ravens fascinate me. And they are quite easy to befriend, if you know how.”

Smiling, Otto tightened his grip on her arm and turned, leading them back to the Keep. She was unusual, but there was a keen intelligence beneath this odd interest. Besides, he would much rather have a strange but interesting companion for a wife than a woman who was ordinary and entirely dull. “That is a skill I do not possess myself, I’m afraid. But perhaps you could teach me, my lady?”

“Gods, there’s hundreds of them.” You had only just caught your breath after climbing all the many stairs leading to the Rookery at the top of the Maester’s tower when the glorious sight of the birds stole the air from your lungs. Lily Glen had only a dozen ravens in residence, Highpoint only twenty, but this…

Lord Hightower stood beside you, the bag of dried berries one of the young maesters gave you when you arrived still in his hand. If you weren’t mistaken, you could hear more than a hint of smugness in his voice. “The second-largest in the realm.”

There was a place with even more ravens than this? Such a thing was unimaginable – a fantasy. “What is the largest, if not the capital?”

“The Isle of Ravens in Oldtown.”

Of course, you should have realized. But any embarrassment faded the moment you glanced back and noticed his clothing. All green but for the gold symbols of his office – his chain and the pin on his right lapel. Oldtown was the seat of his house. His home. “Have you been there before?”

“Once, when I was a boy,” his eyes grew distant, at once nostalgic and remorseful. My father took my brother and me to see the white ravens when I was young. I don’t remember it well.”

“I’ve always wanted to see a white raven.” The rarest and most important birds in Westeros, or perhaps the world. Only dispatched from the Citadel to announce the changing of the seasons. You had never seen one, having been but ten years old the last time the season changed, not that one was sent to Lily Glen. Only a few were sent to the swamps, leaving most houses to learn the news days or weeks later when a messenger finally arrived.

Lord Hightower hummed thoughtfully, drawing your attention back to him. He was smiling gently. “Perhaps I can arrange for you to see them, as I will soon have cause to bring you to Oldtown.”

“But…” You nearly protested that women were rarely allowed entry to the Citadel, but then his words sank in, and you looked away again.

‘I will soon have cause to bring you to Oldtown.’

Because he had asked for your hand only an hour ago. You, alone, could never dare to hope to see the Isle of Ravens. But it would be simple for the brother of the Lord of Oldtown to arrange to visit with his new bride.

You looked back up at Lord Hightower to find his eyes already fixed on you. “I thought you may have questions for me. You do, don’t you?”

“I… yes, I do.” You stepped away to hide your blushing, reaching into the little velvet bag for a handful of dry berries, which you spread onto a ledge before stepping away. Several birds examined the berries, then you, then the berries again.

“Why me?”

The Hand chucked slightly, gently. “Yes, I anticipated that being your first question.” His eyes softened as he looked upon you. “The answer is simple: you asked me for my help, and this is the best way I can think to give it.”

A single raven flew onto the ledge, carefully inspecting the berries you laid out.

“But…” Your heart was pounding, and you found it difficult to face him fully. “Forgive me, I am grateful for your help, but I do not understand what you gain from this.”

He sighed. “The King… has commanded that I take a new wife.” The tone of his voice suggested there was more behind those words, but it felt impolite to inquire further – even if he was currently proposing marriage. “But I have no need to marry for advantage. I already possess my own wealth. I have three adult sons, so I do not want for an heir. I have position as both Hand of the King and now, as father to the Queen.” He looked at you and paused. “I am free to marry whomever I please.”

The way he looked at you as he said that was almost… boastful? No. Lustful? Not that, either. The closest you could think of was righteous, but that couldn’t be it. Whatever it was, you could not decipher its meaning nor how it made you feel.

“And I please you?” You asked. “We have known each other for less than a day, my lord.”

“I loved my late wife dearly.” His pain – pain you yourself felt acutely – was evident in the softening of his voice. “As I believe you loved your husband.” There was an odd twinkle in his eyes. “I have no desire to replace her, but if I must wed, I wish it to be with someone who will understand me. Someone I believe will be a good… companion to me.”

Having eaten all of what you laid out, the raven flew back to his nest to rummage around before returning to its perch before you, chirping curiously as it held out a bent sliver of metal. You held out your palm, and it dropped the metal, immediately clicking its beak in the hope that you were hiding more food to offer it.

“What is that?” Lord Hightower asked, his gaze locked on the scrap of metal now in your hand.

“Brass, I think.” It was well-tarnished, but there were still parts where its shine peeked through—a valuable thing for a raven. You immediately laid out more berries, and several more ravens descended, now convinced of your trustworthiness.

Lord Hightower stepped closer to you. Gods, he was tall. He held out a hand. “May I?” You smiled and tipped some of the berries into his hand. He laughed, a low, rumbling sound like distant thunder. “I meant the brass, my lady.”

Nevertheless, he still laid out the berries, mimicking your movements to ensure they were well distributed. He flinched slightly when one of the ravens flew over his shoulder, close enough for its wings to brush his cheek.

“Apologies, my lord,” you half-laughed as you placed the brass in his hand. Your fingers brushed against his as you withdrew, and despite the warmth of the Rookery, you could not stifle the shiver that ran through you.

He brought the sliver of brass closer to his face, eyes narrowing as he examined it closely. How could a person look so wise? You had never before thought that wisdom could be seen, yet it was there, on his face and in his eyes.

After a moment, he smiled. “I believe that this is the clapper of a bell,” he declared. “Most likely from a crier’s bell.”

You looked from him to the bell, then back again. “How do you know that?”

“I know many things, my dear.” He went on as if he hadn’t noticed what he’d called you. “Sometimes I can’t recall how or why I know them; I simply do.”

Of course, he must have learned much in his years as Hand, first to the Old King Jaehaerys and now to King Viserys. When you were born, he was already a man grown, a married man, an important man. And you were simply a girl from the swamps. What would people think when they saw you by his side?

Would you ever be by his side? He said he did not wish to marry for love, or lust, or advantage. So, what would your purpose be as his ‘companion?’ Only to sit in his rooms and entertain him with moderately diverting conversation? He might as well purchase one of the exotic birds from Essos you had once read of – birds capable of speech.

Lord Hightower had looked away when you raised your gaze, watching intently as several more ravens flew down to the ledge, some with more trinkets. More shiny bits of metal, a few dried flowers, one even brought the nib of a pen.

Better to ask him now rather than after you unknowingly agreed to be his caged little bird. “If you would not require advantage, heirs, or love, what would you require of me, my Lord Hand?”

He sighed as he straightened. Had you disappointed him?

“There are some requirements of the wife of the Hand.” His brows tightened, and he folded his hands over each other. Elegant. Thoughtful. “Attendance at formal events. Frequent socialization amongst the highborn of King’s Landing. I also… I would encourage you to take up some charitable works, as well.”

More dressing up. More being stared at by women who considered you little more than a curiosity. At least the charitable works were enticing.

The corners of his lips twitched upward slightly. Had he noticed your hesitance? “But beyond that, you would be free to pursue your own interests. I would provide any funds you need to do so. And, if you wished to travel, I would not dissuade you. I want to grant you as much freedom as I can.”

‘Travel.’ You could go home. See your father and brothers for the first time in over two years. Go to places you’d only ever dreamed of. You could have a freedom that most women in the realm – in the world – would never have. And Lord Hightower… he would be kind. So very kind, you knew. For only a kind man would offer you so much for very little in return.

“Very well.” You emptied the bag of berries onto the ledge and tucked it back into your sleeve.

When you turned to face the Hand fully, he was watching you curiously. There was something akin to nervousness in his eyes. Such a strange expression for such a severe and powerful man. He held his hands behind him. “Very well?”

You stepped closer. “Very well, Lord Hightower. I will marry you.”

He smiled wider than you had ever seen, drawing a hand up to cautiously cup your cheek before looping your arm through his. “I am very pleased to hear it, Lady Whitehill. But please, if we are to be wed, I would prefer if you call me simply, ‘Otto.’”

#A Companion #otto hightower #otto hightower fanfiction #otto hightower finfic #otto hightower x reader #otto hightower x you #house of the dragon #hotd #house of the dragon fanfic #hotd fanfic #hotd otto #house of the dragon otto #rhys ifans

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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 2 years ago

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A second queen Part 2- Discovery

Pairing: Daemon x Reader (Summer Isles) x Ashara Martel (OC character. Will appear in the parts 3 & 4)

Themes :Ansgt | Kinda sorta fluffy ending

Word count: 2.7k words

Summary: Life in Volantis is not all that bad, and the family you work for is good for you. But then, you see a familiar face, someone you though you would never see again.

Want to be tagged? Want to know the rules? Read all here.

If you like this, please consider giving it a reblog.

Six years had passed since that fateful day.

You heard of Daemon’s wedding and the Dornish princess he took to wife. You heard he had settled into the role of a happy family man, that he had grown content with his lot in life. You found out no children had been born into the marriage, and already there was talk of a grand council. A decision on who would succeed the ailing king should his brother not produce an heir had to be made.

You put such news out of your mind. Daemon never searched for you, never inquired after the child you birthed, and why should he? He made it plain he never wanted to marry you. He had destroyed all your letters, so why should he look for a child he never cared to learn about in the first place?

And Gods, how it hurt. Being lied to and used hurt. Being made to feel less than hurt. Having to give birth in a strange home, frightened and alone, without your child’s sire by your side, hurt. Why it was enough to leave you weeping into your pillows every night.

And tonight, you stood by Jace's bed, watching his chest rise and fall with each breath. His arms had wrapped tight around the toy ship Talisa’s mother had given him on his fifth name day. When she asked who the father was, you only said he was a Lyseni sailor, a man of no consequence. The lie came easily as your son possessed the same silver-gold hair, chiseled features, and violet eyes most Lysene were famed for. Lady Sybell, an observant woman, did not believe you but accepted your answer. Jacaerys, or Jace, as everyone called him, was allowed to study with Lady Sybell’s grandchildren. He had everything save for the one thing that mattered. A father.

Oh, how your hands turned into angry fists at the thought.

Still, you learned to be content with your son and new home. It still stung whenever you looked at your child and wondered what might have been had Daemon fought for you. Jace could have claimed a dragon by now. He and his father could have driven you to distraction with their antics. You would have spent every night in Daemon's bed, being loved by him, instead of sleeping in a cold room every night.

And your days were filled with the same routine.

You would wake up before dawn, eat a quick meal with the rest of the servants and go about your duties. You would then bring Talisa’s breakfast to her, lay out her clothes and arrange her bath. You would help her dress, then fix her hair. Sometimes, you would tend to Lady Sybell herself, and you did not mind. Talisa was a sweet and considerate young woman. Her mother was a fair and generous mistress. It was not bad, this new life you lived, but sometimes, you would find your mind wandering back to Westeros and its future king and the life the three of you could have lived.

Then at night, you could weep into your pillows again.

✧༝┉┉┉┉┉˚*❋ ❋ ❋*˚┉┉┉┉┉༝✧

"Three pieces of silver, madam."

The shopkeeper and their outstretched hand brought you out of your usual daydreaming. "My apologies," you said, and you gave her the money. After accepting your bags, you sighed and looked around, at odds with your time.

Lady Sybell had taken Talisa out for the day, giving you plenty of free time. You walked around the marketplace, nibbling on exotic fruits and buying trinkets Jace would have liked. Finally, you came to the mummer’s square, where dancers, mages, and mummers performed in the hope of patronage and coin.

There were fire mages today, performing wondrous acts for a growing crowd. They made flames rise and dance, created creatures that could only be found in fairy tales, and whipped thin coils of flames about, making them whirl over and around stunned onlookers.

You watched and watched, losing track of time and oblivious to everything around you. A nearby bell struck the hour. You had to go back. The family would return soon, and you had to help Talisa prepare for a feast tonight. You held onto your bags and looked around again, not stopping until your gaze rested on a pair of familiar lilac eyes. You swallowed and stared when wisps of silver-gold hair whipped about in the breeze. You pinched yourself to make sure you were not dreaming.

The sting in your arm convinced you that this was no dream. Daemon was here. He was actually here. And the way he looked at you, like he could not believe his eyes.

You wanted nothing to do with him. When he made his way over, you ran, ignoring his pleas for you to stop. You ran and ran, not stopping until you reached the safety of the Maegyr manse. You held onto the wrought iron gate and panted, your heart pounding away in your chest. You tried to grapple with the enormity of what just took place.

He was here. Daemon was here, behind the black walls of Volantis. And he had seen you. Oh, this was not good at all.

"Mama?"

The sudden greeting startled you. "Oh, sweetheart." You pressed a hand to your chest and smiled while your son opened the gate. "You scared me."

Jace raised his head and smirked, flashing the same wide grin as his father. "Who is he, mama?" he said, pointing to someone behind you.

That someone came forward and introduced themselves. "I am prince Daemon Targaryen of Westeros."

You closed your eyes and sighed. Daemon had followed you back to the manse, and he had seen his son.

Daemon came over and crouched in front of Jace, taking in his soft, pale hair, chiseled jaw, and vivid purple eyes. Why, the child was exact in many ways. "And you are?"

"Jace," Your son replied. "Everyone calls me Jace."

“Short for Jacaerys,” you said, when Daemon turned to you.

Jacaerys. It was the name he had always wanted to give his first son. Daemon repeated it silently, as if he were tasting it. "And how old are you, Jace?"

He did not have to ask for an age, did not have to ask for anything, really. Daemon already knew, but wanted to hear it all the same.

"Almost six," you said and sent Jace back inside as that familiar sharp pang of rage and heartache took hold in your heart. "And why are you here?"

Daemon stood up, unable to look you in the eye. Shame and guilt had been eating at him for years, and now he didn’t know what to say to you. He knew he had to say something, but what? What could he say to the love he had abandoned all those years ago?

"Well?" you demanded.

He swallowed, looked at the house, then at you. "That day. The day you were sent away. You wanted to tell me you were with child, didn’t you?"

You refused to answer. You thought he did not deserve one, not after everything that happened.

Daemon took a step forward, forcing you to step back. "I'm so sorry," he said, taking another step towards you and only stopping when you flinched and backed away.

Your eyes stung when memories of that awful day came flooding back. "Why are you here?"

Daemon swallowed and looked at the house, at a very specifc window, where a specific little boy could be seen looking at the two of them. A stab of guilt tore at his gut. "I found out what really happened. Otto slipped up and I made him tell me everything."

Daemon went on to explain how there had been no manse, how Otto made sure you did not get a cent of what Daemon put aside for you. He found out how you never made it to Bear Island and that Otto put you on a ship for Volantis after snooping through your letters and finding out you were pregnant.

"I've come to take you and our child with me," he added, hoping and praying that it was not too late and that you still had not closed your heart to him. "I plan on making you my second wife."

"Why?" you sneered. "So your brother can avoid a succession crisis? Is that it?"

"No!" Daemon tried to reach out and touch you like he used to. When you flinched, he forced himself to stay his hands, thinking he had lost all right to do so. "Not because of the succession crisis! I…” his shoulders drooped a little. “I just want you back." You flung back every word Daemon and Otto threw at you. "I am a bastard with no name or title. I am a low-born woman of little consequence. Someone who has no connections. Marrying me will bring no advantage to the crown. That is what you and Otto told me, yes?"

Daemon sank to his knees then, not caring that passersby gaped at the sight of a clearly high-born man kneeling before a servant. "And I offer no excuse for any of it," he said, his eyes filling with tears. "You had no one at court save for me, and I... I broke my vows and abandoned you. Y/n..." he pleaded when you pulled away from him. "Sweetheart, I am so sorry... For everything that happened. Please, let me make amends for failing you in every possible way."

"By marrying me?" Tears strained at the corners of your eyes before falling down and staining your cheeks. "Why do you want to marry me?"

"Because I want to do right by you and our child." Daemon swallowed before speaking again. "Because I still love you, that’s why."

You gasped and took a deep breath to compose yourself. Daemon claimed to still love you, but was that the truth? "More of your lies?" you hissed through your teeth. "More fanciful tales to get me on my back?"

Daemon flinched, like you had just slapped him. "Of course not!" He rose as his anger bubbled and he took a deep, steadying breath to compose himself. You had every right not to trust him, he reasoned. "Of course not. I do love you. I will do anything to get you back. Please," he said, his eyes filled with silent pleading. "Tell me what I must do to get you back?"

Did he truly want your forgiveness, another chance? Did he truly want to marry you? But what of his wife? What did she have to say about such a scheme? "Does Ashara know?"

Daemon replied with an immediate, "Ashara helped me find you. She wants me to do this. Please, sweetheart, there is no trickery here. I really do want to marry you and be a father to our son."

You swallowed, determined to say no. Daemon wounded you in a way you never thought possible. He let his brother’s knights lay hands on you and did nothing to find out if you were truly cared for or not. You should have told him no, that the damned could take him, and that he should suffer for the rest of his days.

You looked at him, your eyes spitting fire. He didn’t deserve your forgiveness. Then you turned back to the manse. Jace was by the window, looking at you both, his eyes filled with curiosity. It was the same look Daemon had, and you sighed.

Daemon was his father. No matter what happened, Daemon was Jace's father. And you knew all too well the pain of being born to a man who never claimed you, who wanted nothing to do with you. You knew all too well the struggles that came with being a bastard, and you did not want Jace to struggle the way you did. Your child deserved a better fate. You swallowed your pride and came to a decision, hoping you would not come to regret it in the future.

"I will marry you," you ground out, and Daemon's eyes lit up in joy.

"For Jace's sake," you continued. "But know this..."

Daemon nodded and encouraged you to go on.

"I will never lie with you. And I will never forgive you for what you did."

He swallowed but accepted your decision. The gods knew he had no right to argue your choice.

"And now I must depart," you said as you gathered your belongings and made your way back to the house. "Goodbye, prince Daemon."

Daemon could only rise and watch as the gate slammed behind you.

✧༝┉┉┉┉┉˚*❋ ❋ ❋*˚┉┉┉┉┉༝✧

You spoke to Jace that very evening, about how the prince was his father. Jace was overjoyed, and that joy grew when Daemon came over for dinner, much to the shock of everyone. Everyone except for Lady Sybell, that is.

Oh, she knew. She had met the prince years before, and she had long suspected he was the father. “The same dimpled cheeks,” she mused, “The same wide grin. If Jace had been born with his father’s colouring he would be Daemon’s exact in every way. Why did you not tell me?”

You swallowed, hoping she would not be angry with you. “I am sorry, my lady. But I had no choice.”

Sybell sighed and patted your hand. “I understand. But are you truly going to marry him?”

You looked on, as Daemon talked with his son. He kept Jace on his lap and regaled him with stories of Westeros and Kings Landing. “I must,” you huffed in frustration. There was no other way now, Daemon would follow you and Jace to the ends of the earth if he had to. “My son needs his father. I will not deny him that. As for me and the prince…” You shrugged, completely at a loss. That spark you felt for Daemon was there, buried deep within your heart, but you didn’t want to let it burn bright again. “I do not know.”

Jace had been staring at his father, completely wide-eyed. "You ride a dragon?" he said, his eyes filling with wonder. "A real dragon?"

Daemon grinned and pulled out a wooden carving of a dragon, all painted in deep red. "Caraxes. The blood wyrm." He held out the carving for his son to take. "He looks like this."

Purple eyes went wide with shock. "Can I have a dragon too?" Jace studied the carving, running his fingers over the wings and the unusually long neck.

Daemon smiled indulgently and ran a hand over his son's wavy, silver-gold hold hair. He cursed himself for what he did, thinking how he lost six years of his son’s life, and all because he did not have the strength to fight for his son’s mother. "Yes,” he said indulgently. “But we will have to go to the Stepstones, for that is where the dragons live."

Jace beamed, then hopped down to run around the dining room, carving in hand, pretending he was atop a great dragon. Talisa’s little brother chased him, the two of them pretending to fight a great battle, much to the amusement of others.

And Daemon watched while guilt tore at him. Had he taken better care of you, his son would have had a proper name right from the start and would have had a dragon's egg placed in his crib. You would have been crown princess, and Jace a prince. You would not have had to struggle as someone’s servant. But Daemon had a chance now, to make things right. He looked at you, his entire countenance softening when you looked back at him. You scowled and looked away again, even though your cheeks warmed a little. He would not see it. Not for a long while. Not until you were certain he was not playing you false. When you looked his way again, his lips tugged at the corners into a shy smile, his eyes never leaving yours.

And Daemon gave you your space. He made no attempt to approach you in a private corner, made no attempt to touch you.

He did the same during the long voyage back to Westeros. He made sure you and Jace had the best room, the best of what he could personally offer the two of you. He spent every possible moment with his son, to make up for those lost years. You would hide in the shadows and watch while he played with Jace, while he read him stories and put him to bed. And when it came to you?

Daemon kept away as much as he could when it came to you. Oh, you would catch him watching your every move, listening to your every word with rapt attention. He made sure you ate, made sure you were comfortable, but he went no further than that. It honestly felt like the early days, when he was trying to catch your attention and court you. It made you yearn, for a time from before.

And you felt the ice in your heart crack a little.

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